"The Wall" Chavi and My portal to the Relm of Fantasy
Welcome to "Tall Tales": This portion of the site contains several short stories which I have written with new stories coming out whenever I get around to writing more. Not every "Tale" that I write is available here as I'm holding back the good stuff for a potential book of short stories and other such writtings. Presently, I am focusing most of my writting time on a novel which has been in the works for two years now and is nearing completion. Be on the look out for "Wrong Place Wrong Time" [working title] which will be hitting book stores soon. Well, I soon as I finish it. In the meantime, enjoy a random selection of my stuff.
Late Nights Become Early Mornings
The troubled mind refuses to allow the oblivion of sleep to overcome it. While I lay awake on my slab, my body does not move and yet a journey of a thousand thoughts takes me from my rest to tramp through the widest wilderness that man knows and yet knows not. For how familiar is a mans thoughts to himself and at the same time how alien. The flights of fancy, the bowels of doubt, the peaks of past joys, the depths of future sorrow. Worries and hopes clash within a mental cloud, brought into being by a careless mind.
For of all the tools afforded the human creature, none is so potent as our ability to reason. Through our thought, wonders are built, battles fought, fears brought to life though these fears have no tie to reality just as our greatest hopes are but vapors else we perform miracles. No greater joy have we than which resides within the walls of our soul and no fouler sadness than within the prison of the same. Lest my worries consume me, I speak aloud to comfort fear. Lest my thoughts consume me, I rise to give thought motion and deter myself from dwelling solely within my own head.
Leaving my slab, I find a want to satisfy a base need. Where higher and lower things are the foremost concern, little else can regain control of the mind than physical need. Having such a need, I ventured from the darkness of my resting place into the outer darkness to seek nourishment for my body, as there is little for my mind. Being lost in time as in thought, I walked to the feeding place only to find that for the providers of my bread, the hour is past.
Troubled as I am, this loss is of little concern but some small disappointment. Those who guard the gates to the providers of food remain though the hour is late. These people are not my people. As I am white in flesh, they are dark. As my tongue wags left, there’s to the right and seldom left but with trouble. We share few things in common, our base natures being similar where most else is foreign to the other. Though this man is no brother to me so being removed from Adam about as far as may be, he treats me as a brother.
Where I would call him stranger and turn him away wanting, he calls me friend and though he must turn me away, he makes it so that I am less wanting. From his private store, for which he is intended, he retrieves what food he has and gives me. The simplest of things, only an apple, hardly a match for my physical wants and yet, a greater satisfier to my heart than the banquet of a king. For, because of my need and the love, which he has for a stranger, he calls me brother and gives what he may.
I accept his offering with humility and great thanks for it is no mean thing I realize for one to give another all that he has left no matter its size. His gift isn’t sweet to my mouth, nor filling for the belly but I am satisfied and have no further want of anything for it fills me with what I truly had need of, not what I wished. While I returned to my den, I spied in the dust, another apple. This one was trod upon and unfit for eating. Fabricating in my thoughts the manner by which this new apple appeared in my tale, it came to my reason that another had cast it aside without care and with no want of it.
I am reminded of the meaning of Irony but struck with a new meaning for the apple. For as the apple which I ate and the one on the ground were the same in every regard, the one given me meant more. Between them, mine was the greater and not for any cause of its own merit but by its journey. For both apples, will end the same way, in ruin, but the one given me touched a life, my life, while this one had been cast aside. While I pondered this, a new realization came to me, for this other apple in the dirt has touched my life as well, for I would not fully know what I had been given, if I could not see what had not been given. I would not know the difference between the two if not shown me.
Does it matter then what we have in our power. Does it matter then what tools are at hand. Does it only then matter what we choose to do with what we are given, whether we cast a thing aside because we ourselves have no further need of it or do we hold onto it and then give to one who has need of it. Even beyond that which is actually done is it not the greater for the reason and manner in which it is done. These things I knew of already, I had only forgotten and had need of remembering.
Malachi Rench- Ch. 1 “A Simple Mistake” 17 Sept 07
“Damn that old crone and damn my moment of foolishness,” Malachi Rench thought to himself as he stood on the up most balcony of his stone tower. “If only I’d been more careful…well too late now. No point in crying about dyeing.” Some time ago, Archmage Rench had fallen prey to a cunning spell cast upon him by an Old Swamp witch named “Brulian the Tainted.” He’d gone to her seeking a piece of an ancient legendary incantation. After speaking with her for only a few minutes, Malachi declared aloud, that she was little more than a dusty, crazy old bat with about as much magic as a chamber pot. The stories about her powers had to be ridiculously exaggerated.
Unfortunately for him, he had done something that he had never done before, not insulting someone, because he does that quite regularly but he underestimated the aged witch. When he turned to leave her run down swamp shack, she began what seemed to him to be a nonsense incantation. Rench was quite surprised to discover once she had finished the spell, that it was actually a powerful killing curse of some kind. He raised his magical shields reflexively just in time to spare his life.
In his outrage, Archmage Rench retaliated upon the witch with a spell of such ferocity, that it obliterated all signs of her and anything behind her for a quarter mile. That was when he noticed the first symptom of the dark magic the newly obliterated witch had somehow inflicted upon him. A sudden spasm in his chest brought on a short coughing fit. When he removed his gloved hand from his mouth, he noted the presence of slick wet lung blood on his palm.
Teleporting himself back to his “Tower of Power” as he sometimes jokingly called his black stone castle tower home, Malachi began a series of tests on himself to discover exactly what the old bitch had done to him. After pouring through his expansive library twice and several days of intense testing, Rench discovered that he was victim to an unknown killing enchantment that was slowly eating away at his body. By his reasoning, he had but a year and a day to find a cure.
None of the usual disenchantments that the Archmage tried served any use, so he moved on to some of the more impressive, complicated and expensive spells in his collection. One after the other failed. Beginning to feel a little worried that he may not be able to escape death so easily this time as he had done countless other times, Malachi asked an old companion of his for aid.
The great wizard Elmister was of course ridiculously busy but he could always spare a moment for Archmage Rench. After consulting several Tomes within Elmisters library, the Legendary Wizard suggested one of the simplest potions to make but requiring several incredibly obscure Ingredients. Pouring over the list Rench noted each component,” Basilisk tongue, ect. ect. Medusa Hair serpent blah blah blah. What the hell? Eye of newt. Who the hell uses eye of newt these days?”
Malachi Rench- Ch 2. "Ingredients" 17 Sept 07
The lasts rays of the setting sun cast their ruby glow through the tall pointed windows of Malachi Rench’s Alchemy lab. With a causal wave of his hand, hundreds of tallow candles flared alight, bathing the strange room in soft yellow glow. All along the north and east wall sections of this vaulted room, massive oak wood shelves bore thick leather bound tomes of varies size, shape and color. Arrayed along the other walls were instruments of odd design and use. These included every common alchemical tool from beakers and pestles, to the most obscure devices made of precious metals and gemstone.
Long ladders set into rolling grooves allowed access to items anywhere among the thirty feet high shelves. The ladders are mostly for appearances these days, for many years now the Archmage has been powerful enough to simply lift the item he wishes magically and levitate it to him. Thick wooden tables, which are usually bearing bubbling beakers and smoking vials, have been pushed to either side of the stone room to make a space for a massive arcane symbol which has been drawn onto the floor with carefully poured sand of various colors.
Near to where Malachi Rench is presently standing, there is a heavy black iron cauldron hung above a green flame fire held up by chains attached to a mystical rod which hangs suspended in mid air as though some unknown force where holding it steadily in place. A thick muddy potion bubbles at a simmer within the cauldron, sending a sour smell into the air which Rench has long since gotten used to. As per the directions on the antiquated recipe for this powerful disenchantment potion, the cauldron had been set over the flames to boil for well over a month already, while Malachi adds ingredients whenever he acquires them.
When it comes to simplicity of preparation, there are fewer potions easier to brew than old “Incanu” potions. The skill plays in with actually procuring the necessary components. Ancient Incanu shamans must have had thousands of jars filled with rare ingredients just lying around their grass huts back during the age of savagery. Today’s local alchemical shops usually didn’t carry Ilithid skin or even so much as a few sun bleached troll bones. Modern Alchemy has been diluted from the artistic pig entrails of our ancestors, to a wide assortment of ready to use spell powders. “Ah, how I do miss those pig entrails,” the Archmage thought wistfully.
Focusing back on the task at hand, Malachi Rench raised the protective barrier he’d emplaced earlier around the mystic summoning symbol. “Time to go shopping,” he joked before beginning his chant.
Los vact mord nerothos
Los vact mord nerothos
Los vact mord nerothos
Los vact mord nerothos!
Within the protective shielding spell, the summoning sands began to swirl violently. A tornado of colored sand whipped about within the barrier. The sands seemed to slow for a moment before Rench shouted,” Aw common you bastard, the northern hill land isn’t that far away. Los vact mord nerothos!” With renewed furry the sands spun violently on. Slowly a form began to take shape within the dust cloud. When at last Malachi could see the points of the creature’s horns, he let the summoning chant end. The sands dropped to the floor around the beast’s clawed feet. Standing within the protective barrier, was a monstrous humanoid creature standing eight feet high and covered with steel fiber like ginger colored fur.
From either side of the beast’s thick skull, long upsweeping horns jutted. The creature opened his spear point toothed maw and roared at the Black armor wearing Archmage. Raising his ebony staff topped with a fist sized ruby at the beast the Mage said,” Shut up your noise you hairy asshole, I just need one of your horns.” Whether the creature understood him or not, it began to rake at the magical protective shield fiercely with it’s clawed paws trying to get at the human it saw.
Stamping his staff down upon the ground hard enough to send an echoing metallic thump reverberating around the room, the eyes of the Archmage flared with an inner fire,” Behave yourself or else I might have to get rough with you.” The only response from the imprisoned monster was another deep rumbling roar followed by it’s renewed attempts of escape, this time using its deadly horns on the barrier. “Fine, have it your way.” Up rose the staff, this time with a piercing crimson light burning within it. The eyes of the Archmage flared as he shouted,”Inciendium Encatu!”
Terrible violet flames erupted within the magical barrier completely enveloping the beast in burning anguish. With an unexpected lurch, the magical barrier hopped forward a few short feet as the creature rammed it frantically trying to escape. Its roars of pain subsided quickly, leaving only the sound of crackling flesh in the room. When he was sure the beast had been slain, Rench allowed the protective barrier of fall.
Slashing toward the remains of the creature with his staff, Malachi sent a curved blast of green magical energy, which severed one on the beast’s horns. Stretching his empty hand in front of himself, the severed horn flew through the air into his waiting palm. Casually he tossed the horn into the cauldron,” Three down, three to go.” Moving to gather his summoning sands so that he could teleport the animals remains out of his tower, he stopped abruptly and wrinkled his nose,” Damn, now the place Stinks of Burning hair.”
To Be Continued?
Avatar Arena Story: "The Pant Less Viking"
Resting in his Long house, the weary Viking drinks from his goblet of mead while his most recently kidnapped village woman massages his battle tied shoulders. When, from outside, a great clamor arose. The village warning bell was frantically being sounded. Warriors rushed out from their homes hastily to answer the call.
From atop the watchtower, the cry of, "The Romans are coming! The Romans are coming," steeled the hearts of many combat veteran Nords. With little time to prepare for the fourth coming battle, I rose up, donned my helm, grasped my mighty war hammer and rushed to join my comrades. I felt not the chill of the winter day for my blood boiled with hate toward those who would attack us here. "By Odin let them come that we may earn our place among our fathers," I swore an Oath.
From the crest of the Southern Hillside we caught our first glimpse of the Advancing Roman Legion. Trails of fire and smoke streaked the sky as their archers and catapults let fly burning arrows and Greek fire pots. Straw thatched roofs soon were lighted, turning our village into a bonfire. " Hold," I shouted to my fellows, "First comes the fire, then the footmen and soon the horses. Stand your ground, soon enough Hel will drink Roman blood." They knew I spoke wisdom and we readied ourselves for the assault.
With the usual Roman predictability, the foot soldiers were soon marching down the hill in their tight formations. "Ready yourselves for their Javelins," I yelled. Carts were overturned, shields raised and barrels stacked to provide us protection from the deadly missiles. When at once the soldiers were within throwing range, they began hurling their javelins, all the while stepping forward as one.
A few of the foolish fell. "Just a bit closer, " I said peeking out from behind a horse cart. Three more steps and "Now! By the Beard of Thor," We yelled our battle cries as we charged the Roman line. Hammer, Axe and Sword rang upon tower shields with the sound of a hundred blacksmiths. Many of our strokes found Roman flesh and the ground was soon slick with the life water of Roman and Nord alike.
I was hard pressed by several attackers who pushed me into a burning armory. I stumbled upon the smithy's anvil and fell into a cauldron of smelted Iron. The pain was immeasurable and yet somehow I was not destroyed. With my skin burning as the melted Iron clung to it, I climbed from the cauldron and rejoined the battle.
The coldness of the snowy air was rapidly cooling the Iron upon my skin, hardening it like hammered plate mail armor. As I fought, the new metal skin I was encased in formed seams where my body moved preventing me from hardening solid.
Now in my impervious armor [so I thought] I rushed headlong into the fearful Romans. They believed that I must be a God to appear so and suffer no harm from their weapons. One among them, however, feared neither man nor God. The Legionnaire Octavos Gretcous saw the fearsome damage I was doing to his army. Kicking his heels into his Spanish Stallion, he galloped down into the battle with his spear held ready. I turned to face his charge, pulling my War hammer back, waiting to send the Brash young Officer to Hel. However, the Gods are fickle and though I was armored most everywhere, my eyes bore no such protection. When I began to swing my hammer upwards to crush his chest, the tip of his spear found my eye. I know not what happened with the battle next, for I awoke as from a dream to find myself standing within the halls of Valhalla.
Sitting at the great feast table before me were the God's themselves. Slowly they turned their heads to see this newly dead Viking and from Odin’s mouth erupted tremendous laughter, "HAHAHAHA he was killed without his pants on."
