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sheepwithspecs · 22 days ago

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F or Tune: Chapter 1 Preview

For #FirstDraftFall (one of the many answers to writers who do not want to participate in NaNo after seeing their pro-AI posts) I am working on an original story I've been wanting to write for years. I plan to release it as a serialized (weekly?) post once it's finished, and I wanted to share the first chapter with everyone. I'm open to CC and honest feedback, especially if this chapter piqued your interest in the rest! If not, what could be different? What is it missing? Reminder: it's still in the draft stage, so be kind!

Deirdre Forst was thirty-five years old to the day when she discovered a dryad in the family well.

On most days, the well was never high enough to see anything clearly, and certainly too deep to house something as flighty as a dryad. Dryads, impulsive little imps that they were, thrived best in the shallows. They loved nothing more than to lurk just beneath the water's surface, lying in wait for unsuspecting travelers. But the rains had been plentiful that spring, and this particular morning the water was close enough to the mouth of the well that Deirdre could see her features outlined in a perfect circle of fieldstone.

That was what gave her pause, when on any other day she might have dropped the wooden bucket and went about her business. For the most part, her reflection was normal enough: rounded cheeks, large ears, crooked nose, thin lips. Any discrepancies were subtle enough that, had she not been observant in nature, she might have overlooked it entirely. But her brown eyes were a pale blue, her white cap sat askew on her skull, and the corners of her mouth were quirked a little too high to be natural.

She leaned into the mouth of the well, squinting at her rippling reflection, and was instantly rewarded with a thorough drenching of icy water. She was left sputtering and choking, wiping fruitlessly at her face with sopping sleeves. The serene morning was broken at once by a grating, wooden sort of laughter. The dryad lifted its head from the water, shaking back tendrils of soggy hair to better view its victim.

"You should have seen the look on your face!" It practically squealed with mirth, tail slapping the water's surface. Bare arms draped over the stone wall as it continued to cackle, delighted at its own juvenile prank. Like all dryads, it resembled the wood of its mother tree; it was all gnarled limbs and spindly fingers, each sporting an extra jointed knuckle. Its small breasts were two knots of wood on an oaken torso, piercing eyes lined with white whorls of lichen. There was no nose or lips to speak of, only a gaping maw filled with jagged brown teeth.

"Yes, yes. Very funny." The dryad stuck out its tongue, forked end flicking in the open air. It was hideous to look at, but Deirdre knew better than to be frightened. Lesser fae were childlike, silly creatures, too preoccupied with making mischief to be of any real danger. When it came to the fae, everyone knew the prettiest ones posed the highest risk. They were far more likely to go about stealing unwatched babes from the cradle… or souls from the corpse.

“You’ve had your fun,” she coughed, wiping her nose on the sodden shoulder of her kirtle. She fished around for the bucket at her feet, lifting with an expression that demanded obedience. “Now get out of my way, lest I give you a taste of your own medicine.” She shooed the dryad from the mouth of the well, keeping one eye on it as she attached the bucket to the winch and let it drop into the water.

“You’re no fun at all!” The dryad slumped against the base of the well, plucking sullenly at the moss growing on the rough stones. “It was such a nice bit of fun, too. You might have at least pretended to laugh.”

“Some of us have work to do, you know.” Deirdre gently smacked aside its sinuous tail, shuddering at the texture of algae slime against her knuckles. “Off with you, now. With all these pools and puddles, you’ve no business in the wells of honest folk.”

“And where’s the fun in that? The lanes are too muddy for pilgrims, and you’re the only humans on this side of the forest.”

“Then you’ll have to go bother those on the other side,” she replied stoutly, beginning the laborious process of drawing the water back out of the well. Wasted breath, she scolded herself as she fought the winch. A dryad would no more stray from its mother tree than she would leave the clearing that housed her family’s cottage.

“They’re no fun, either. Most people don’t notice me until it’s too late,” the dryad preened. “I might’ve splashed the lot of them in the time it took me to trick you.”

“Is that so?” When no answer came, Deirdre glanced up to find herself being watched. The dryad’s eyes were large and wide-set, made for viewing things from beneath the water’s surface. It looked her over from head to toe and back again, tail flicking water onto the mossy earth. She held her tongue, knowing better than to ask what it was staring at. The chances of a straightforward answer were slim to none. Fae kept their own counsel, their thoughts strung together in ways that only served to befuddle mortal minds.

“I see!” it exclaimed at last. “You’re one of us, aren’t you?”

“Ought t’be,” Deirdre scoffed, swallowing back a trickle of unease. “I was raised in the forest all my life.”

“You know what I mean.” The dryad graced her with a revolting smile. “Tell me, forest child: where did your human parents discover you? Were you nestled in a hollow stump, or on a bed of willow leaves? Did you blossom from a fruit, or a flower? Or perhaps you’re nothing more than a changeling, masquerading in human skin?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Deny it if you like.” The dryad cocked its head, weedlike hair falling across its knobby shoulders. “But you are of the forest, same as I.”

“If I am,” Deirdre grunted, turning the crank by degrees, “I don’t know it, and I don’t care to know. I’m myself, and naught else.”

“Tell me true, forest child.” It tucked its long fingers beneath its chin, peering over the mouth of the well to watch the bucket rise slowly from the depths. “Have you ever considered finding your fortune?”

“My—!” Startled, Deirdre’s hands slipped on the crank. The rope whistled as it unwound itself once more, the bucket falling back into the water with a mighty splash. She fought the urge to let out any number of oaths, hands balled into fists at her side. “What kind of foolish question is that?!” she managed, the words hissing out one by one between clenched teeth.

“Is it foolish?” the dryad replied simply. “How strange… you barely flinch when I accuse you of being fae, yet tremble like a newborn fawn when I mention leaving the forest. Why should that be? You’re no dryad, nor unicorn, nor fairie. There’s nothing tying you to this place.”

“Do I look like a plucky youth to you?” she huffed, narrowing her eyes at the brazen creature. “I’m no maiden, nor am I an old crone with nothing better to do than wander up and down the lane. Of course I’ve no intention of finding my fortune! I’m content with my life, and know better than to leave it behind on a whim.”

“But what of your dear mortal parents? Do you not wish for their comfort?”

“If you must know, they’ve comfort enough to last several lifetimes.” Deirdre hurriedly turned the crank, lest she be somehow forced to exert herself a third time. “My brother found his fortune and was back home by the time he was two and twenty.”

And ought to have, she added smartly to herself, seeing as he was the eldest son of a poor woodcutter. His fortune was practically laid out for the taking.

“I think you should go, too.” The dryad ran its long fingers through its hair, the extra joint curling the ends. They fell to its wooden skin with a wet slap. “If you were to venture out into the world, you would certainly find fortune.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” she replied dryly, filling her vessel with fresh, clean water. “Now, off with you!” She swung the empty bucket at the dryad’s head, purposefully falling short of her mark. It flicked its tail at her, falling backwards over the stones and back down the well shaft. “You’d best be gone by the time I get back!” she called down after it, her stern voice echoing back at her. Its wooden giggle faded into silence, dry and crackling as old lumber when put to the flame.

Finding my fortune. Shaking her head, Deirdre shouldered the vessel and turned to make the dreaded uphill climb back to the cottage in the clearing. What a notion! Me, a woman grown! Adventures are for knight-hungry maidens and… woodcutter’s sons, she thought again, her mind on her brother.

For all her posturing, the dryad had been right about one thing: Deirdre wasa forest child. It was Timothy who had discovered her in the forest all those years ago, playing by himself while her parents cut wood in the timber. Perhaps something had befallen her birth parents on the road. Perhaps they were on a pilgrimage and had lost their way. Or perhaps they had simply left an unwanted child to the mercy of the fairies. Such things often happened, in the forest.

In any case, there was no trace of family to be had, and so they raised her as their own. And, in her opinion, she was all the better for it. The life of a woodcutter suited her far better than that of a pilgrim, or a noble lady, or a merchant’s daughter. Why would she ever want to leave?

If you were to venture out into the world….

Had she been ten or fifteen years younger, she might have considered the dryad’s words a portent. To go into the world in search of fortune was one thing, but being certain of finding fortune was another. Many an adventurer would happily give their sword arm for that sort of luck. Yet here she was, throwing it away under the pretense of being too old.

“You’re not actually considering it, are you?” she mumbled to herself, struggling to climb the well-trodden footpath. The forest was her home, the only world she’d ever known. Even after Timothy’s triumphant return, she’d never cared to set foot beyond its leafy borders. He had been young, foolhardy, and resilient enough to face the dangers of the wider world head-on. Meanwhile, she was now older than her mother had been at the time of his leaving. To go running off in search of fortune was almost unthinkable.

And yet… if she was guaranteed success… would it not be foolish to ignore the call?

#noaiwrimo #firstdraftfall #it's hard for me to gauge my own writing sometimes #well... most of the time #f or tune #OC: Deirdre #original writing #my writing

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