#Nor Fork River fly fishing

[whiteriverflyfishing-blog]

Having a memorable vacation in Arkansas – Opt for white river fly fishing

If you are thinking of taking a vacation after a long time and rejuvenating your body and mind then plan a vacation in Arkansas away from all the hustle and bustle of the city. Trying out white river fly fishing gives a refreshing edge to your holidays.

Arkansas features numerous attractions that will fulfill each individual from your family. Mountain withdraws, lackadaisical cruises on a noteworthy steamboat, or hot spots in a current city can all be found in Arkansas.

Inside the area of Arkansas one can discover mountains, rivers, dense forests and miles of hiking trails. Cornerstone Mountain Retreat, close Hatfield, in the Ouachitas Mountain district features modern lodges and family activities. When you think of taking a trip to the white river fly fishing, you are simply getting ready to have a peaceful vacation with your loved ones.

At the Harmony Mountain Retreat, close Jasper, guests can stroll for miles in unblemished forests. Open air lovers can attempt their hand at Nor Fork River fly fishing, Little Red River or Buffalo National River, in the Ozark Mountains.

White River National Wildlife Refuge is one of only a handful couple of primordial forests in the nation. Crater of Diamonds State Park, close Murfreesboro offers guests an opportunity to burrow for genuine diamonds.

Family vacationers who favor relaxed strolls through museums won't be frustrated. Arkansas features social and authentic museums that incorporate the Arkansas Inland Maritime Museum, situated close Little Rock has maritime vessels on location. The Plantation Agriculture Museum close Little Rock is a piece of the National Park System. Blacksmithing showings, old fashioned cultivating shows and a historical center of farming apparatuses and displays give something to each relative.

You will find that Magic Springs and Crystal Falls will furnish them with the energy that they desire. The Arkansas Twister, one of the final wooden exciting rides, is certain to be a huge ride. Settled inside this carnival is a water park. Highlighting a best in class wave pool, a water raceway and family picnic range; Magic Springs will most likely please everybody.

Conclusion

With such a variety of things to see and do, an Arkansas family vacation may simply be what you are looking for! This is a place suitable for holidaying with family or taking fly fishing the white river in Arkansas. No matter what you are looking for you sure to have fun here.

[house-of-galathynius]

The Long Road Home

Chapter Nine

Chapter Eight - Chapter Ten

Word Count: 2.5k 

~

Cornwall, Early Spring 1779

Aelin had been in Cornwall two months now. Winter had given way to spring and she welcomed the new season warmly— basking in the early spring sunshine, letting it’s rays soak into her skin, rejuvenating her.

Arobynn had not let her go back to London. Not even to collect her belongings in their townhouse, nor to say goodbye to anyone she knew there. He had herded her into the carriage and despite the late hour, he had ordered the driver to take them straight to his house in Cornwall. Aelin had wanted to fight, had wanted to scream and shout at Arobynn to let her go, to let her make sure Rowan was fine; but she knew that it would be no use and that whatever wonderful thing had been happening between the two of them was over— she would likely never see him again.

The estate where Arobynn had sent her was settled just outside of a small fishing village, it’s grounds surrounded by rolling green hills and forests. The house itself was a large stone building with tall pillars and large windows that overlooked the perfectly kept gardens. Inside Arobynn had clearly spent a lot of money on decorating it with the finest furniture and fabrics that he could get his hands on. Although it occurred to Aelin that it may have been one of his ex-wives that had done the decorating. She shook that thought off pretty quickly.

She had slowly become accustomed to the way of life down here. It was vastly different to that of London or even Hampshire. There were no bustling streets full of people shouting, there weren’t constant parties to attend or dinners to be had. It was quiet in a way Aelin had never really experienced before. Though the quietness should have been soothing, not even the sound of the birds chirping, or the soft rush of water from the nearby river, or the long undisturbed walks she would go on, could dull the aching in her chest. None of it could quiet the torment inside her.

There had been no word on Rowan— no one knew what had happened to him and it was slowly killing her. Arobynn had only told her that he would remain alive for the time being— but it was never enough to contain her anxiousness about him. She desperately wanted news, but she could not ask anyone in the house. Phillipa had not been allowed to join her in Cornwall and her parents could certainly never know what had transpired either.

So Aelin spent the days that weren’t too cold or rainy, walking in the hills surrounding the house and village. Sometimes she would take a book with her and find a spot under a tree or by some rocks and sit there until the wind had frozen her fingers and she could barely turn the pages anymore. Sometimes she would just watch the waves as they crashed against the shore, she would focus on the seabirds that would glide and swoop in the breeze, disappearing into caves or perching on ledges. Aelin wished she could join them; she wished she could soar amongst them and feel the freedom in flying. But the best she could do was let the wind whip around her as she stood at the edge of the cliffs.

This morning was no different from her usual routine. She had risen with the sun and had bathed and dressed quickly before eating her breakfast alone in the dining room and then left through the back entrance, finding the worn path up to the hills.

The sun was shining today— the first proper warmth of spring was starting to appear and she welcomed it gladly. Crocus’ and the green shoots of daffodils were peeking through the grass and soil, bringing colour back into the countryside after what had felt like such a long winter. She breathed in the fresh air and let the sun warm her skin as she walked, stopping occasionally to pick a flower.

She halted when she came to a fork in the trail. She had usually taken the path to the right, it led down to her favourite spot; but today for some reason she felt the left calling her. It was strange, the pull she felt towards it. But the weather was good and she was happy to wander further. So she took the first step and began her climb.

The trail took her higher than before, fields of dirt or grass were the only things that she would pass by. Sometimes she would spot a sheep or horse and stop to try and stroke them; but mostly she just walked. She stopped to rest on a stone, her hand cradling her slightly swollen belly and she caught her breath slightly before continuing on.

The trail meandered the outskirts of a small woods and when Aelin finally reached the top she paused. There in front of her stood a small stone cottage, the stone was crumbling in places and the chimney was leaning to one side. Veins of ivy trailed up the sides of the walls and a large vegetable patch sat just in front. Aelin could see the flickering of a fire through the front window and then movement. She darted out of sight and watched on as an elderly woman crept out of her front door and surveyed the space around her.

“Come out, child. I know you’re there.” Her voice was gravelly and deep. But it held a soft element to it, a kindness that Aelin could not explain. She hesitated a moment behind the trees. She did not know this woman— and she had been essentially banned from talking to people other than those who lived or worked in the house— but still, that warm hand from before seemed to offer gentle encouragement. So Aelin stepped forward and smiled tentatively.

“Come child. It is cold outside, I have warm soup and fresh bread.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I must be going.” Aelin bowed her head respectively and started to walk away.

“We have much to talk about Aelin.”

She twirled around. “How do you know my name?”

“I know the names of everyone in this village. Even those long dead.” The woman smiled, beckoning Aelin inside.

If it wasn’t for that strange warmth Aelin could feel, she would have turned right around and walked back to her house as quickly as possible. But she couldn’t feel a threat here, and her curiosity was stronger than her will to leave.

She eventually took the steps towards the woman and the enticing smell of soup. The cottage was simple inside. Consisting of only one room; there was a bed tucked into one corner and then a large fireplace which had black soot covering it from years of use. On the other side of the room was a large worn wooden table, on top of it a simple cloth and an array of fabrics and books. The woman pulled out a chair for Aelin and she took it gratefully, her hands resting on her stomach again.

“A pregnant woman should not be out alone.”

Aelin shrugged, “I enjoy walking. The fresh air is nice.”

The old woman huffed and then placed a steaming mug of tea down beside Aelin. She took a sip and almost groaned at the delicious flavour. The woman gave her a knowing smirk and took a seat opposite Aelin.

“You look tired, child.”

“I suppose I am.” She studied the woman, noticing the lines across her forehead and the scars on her hands from what must have been years of hard work. “I did not realise being pregnant would drain me so much.”

The woman smiled, “the tea will help.”

Aelin took another sip and let the liquid warm her. The old woman sipped her own and they comfortably sat for a few minutes before Aelin set her cup on the table. “I never got your name.”

There was a slight hesitation before it seemed she could answer. “I have had many names, but you may call me Elena.”

Aelin thought it suited her.

“How did you really know my name?” Aelin asked. The village was small, but she found it hard to believe that one woman would know every single person. Especially with the constant comings and goings of seamen and businessmen from faraway lands.

Elena shook her head and took a sip of her drink before placing it back on the table. “I told you, I know everyone in this village. It is also hard to ignore the fact that someone had moved into that gigantic house again,” Elena glanced out the window, “it has been a long time since anyone has been there.”

Aelin followed Elena’s gaze, then looked to the woman. “So you know the man who owns it?”

Elena shook her head. “I know of him. I do not really converse with the townspeople… not anymore at least.”

Aelin was intrigued. The woman lived up here all by herself and she clearly didn’t have visitors often— if the state of the cottage was anything to go by.

“More tea?” Elena offered.

Aelin shook her head. “Why do you not talk with the people in the village?” She couldn’t help but ask it. Her mother would be outraged at the questioning, and would probably have scolded Aelin later. But her mother wasn’t here to scold her, so she asked anyway.

“They think I am a witch.” Elena cackled.

Aelin sat up straighter in her chair, her eyes widening. She had never heard of anyone being so blasé about being accused of being a witch. She had only heard rumours of witches— of women who had peculiar senses, who’s husbands would die mysterious deaths, children being cured of sicknesses. But Aelin had never encountered one… until now she supposed. Despite the revelation, she did not feel afraid. Unlike the stories that circulated in the cities; where the women were ugly and terrifying to look at, their eyes devoid of emotion and humanity— Elena did not look like that, her features were softer and kind.

“You do not have to worry, child.”

Aelin managed a half smile, pushing her tea away regardless of Elena’s kind nature. But there was that warmth again; as if it was telling Aelin it was fine, that Elena was good. So she sat there, letting any fear she might have had simmer away until she was relaxing back into the chair.

“I chose to leave the village after my husband died. I was not welcome anymore and I found that the isolation here was beneficial. I liked to be with the animals and wind.” Elena mused.

“How did your husband…” Aelin trailed off.

“He was lost at sea. He was a fisherman, you see. He would spend weeks out on the ocean, only coming back long enough to sell his catch and then he would be off again. It was a cold autumn day when he left and I could sense the storm brewing, but none listened to me. They never returned.”

Aelin shuddered. “But why did they think you were a witch?”

Elena mulled over her answer. “I had a way about me apparently. I was able to predict a famine, I cured a child of their sickness and I was fascinated with growing things and making concoctions from whatever I could grow. People did not like that I had no explanations for things, only trust in the earth and the elements around us.”

“You cured a child?”

Elena nodded. “It is not the miracle you may think it is, though. The child was living in squalor with his mother and all he truly needed was a hot meal and a good nights rest. I offered them my home as I had too much space for just me. After a few weeks the boy recovered.”

Aelin didn’t think it was witchcraft. She believed that Elena was just good at using what she was given from the earth to provide solutions to problems. Aelin said as much.

“There are two things the Gods provide us with Aelin,” Elena gestured to the dried herbs and flowers hanging on the wall, “they provide us with the means to create, to nurture and heal. They give us trees and plants so that we can use them for good, for our health, to live long lives and survive.”

“And the second thing?”

Elena smiled. “Love.”

Aelin’s heart skipped a beat. She thought of Rowan, then. Of the man who had so easily taken her heart; the man who had cherished her and cared for her even though it was wrong and they could both be killed for it. She ached for him— longed for his sweet kisses and tender touches.

“Love is nothing if not strong. It perseveres. Hate can only survive so long, but love will continue until the end of time— even then it shall remain. It is what brings us together, it is what keeps our hearts beating and our souls pure. Love is more than just feeling, it is power.”

Aelin swallowed. “But love cannot always overcome.”

“How do you know?” Elena replied coyly.

Aelin glanced at her belly and thought of the moment Arobynn found them. She thought of Rowan kneeling on the floor beside her, protecting her even though he knew the cost would be his life. She remembered his figure getting further and further away, the sounds of his pain as Tern beat him.

“Because if it did I would not be here.”

Elena’s face softened. “Love will never give up on you, Aelin. Your story with him is not finished.”

Aelin wiped the stray tear from her cheek, “you don’t know what happened, Elena. There is no hope left in me, our love may have been true… but it was forbidden. Rowan is gone and I shall never see him again.”

Elena rose from her chair and came to kneel before Aelin. “The moment you give up, darkness has won. There is no universe, no world or place where your love with him will be gone. You breathe and live his love everyday. The words from your mouth, the tears from your eyes, the thoughts in your mind are all pieces of it and you will have those forever. The truest love will prosper even in the darkest of times and will survive even the harshest storms.” Elena put a hand on Aelin’s knee, “your story has not finished, I can feel it.”

Aelin cried. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she let the words settle in her. She could feel it too, could feel the love that she had shared with Rowan. And even if death separated them, she would find him.

“I can help you.’ Elena whispered.

Aelin sniffed and looked at Elena confused. “Help me? Get back to Rowan?” She asked hopefully.

Elena nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“How?”

“You will see, Aelin. In time.”

~

Tag List: 

@morganofthewildfire @tomtenadia @fredweasleyhasadhd @luckyrunawaycheesecake @live-the-fangirl-life  @fireheart-violet  @charlizeed @scarblx @xo-fangirl-xo  @wordsafterhours @jesstargaryenqueen @sailorsassley @sjmships @endlessdaydream @aflickeringsoul @tillyrubes10 @rowaelin-cressworth @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @rowaelinismyotp @rosegoldannie @maryberry @viajandosinalas @becarefuloflove @allthebooksunderthemoon @sheharahu @swankii-art-teacher @superspiritfestival @becarefuloflove @tanvee1231 @viajandosinalas @backtobl4ck @emily-gsh​ @whispers-in-the-darkest-heart​ @becarefuloflove​ @goddess-aelin @thegreyj​ @leiawritesstories​ @nerdperson524 @rowanaelinn

[thefamily]

Chapter 3: 1824 October 10th The Library

FUCKING FINALLY

Jack’s P.o.v

      I stare in shock as the field around me turn into a valley that Snow and I stood at a cliff and stared at the beauty before me. The valley was surrounded by four waterfalls pouring down into rivers and lakes into the valley bellow the wall surrounding covered in greenery and caves where god knows where what lives in there. On the floor of the valley there was miles upon miles of forest and fields all connected by rivers. If I looked hard enough I could even see some horses in one of the fields although I didn’t need to look hard to see the groups of birds flying everywhere. In the center of the valley was a huge and a beautiful castle made of some sort of of stone of maybe even marble, There where four Bridges one of which was painted in reds, browns and gold, all leading to the platform(?) that the castle sat upon from the tops of the valley with not to mention was also surrounded in forest for as far as the eye could see.

      Before I could look around more Snow had suddenly reared back onto his hide legs and quickly grabbed onto his mane shouting “Snow what are you doing!!” The horse obviously didn’t respond and he took a couple steps back on his hind legs before launching himself over the edge which resulted in a scream from me.  My heart was racing hundred miles a minute as I desperately clung to Snows back so I didn’t fly off. Before I could freak out more though we suddenly stopped and when I hesitantly sat up a bit as I realized that we were gliding towards the platform which I can now see is covered in flowers and fountains that looked like the stone or marble was natural and not done by people. I gasped slightly when I heard the sound of wings and the gust of air pull on my legs. When I carefully look back I see two large white feathered wings glistening like freshly fallen snow in the sun. I let out a small gasp in shock as I stare in awe wondering how this is possibly real and not a dream.

      As we descend I see some one rushing out of the castle entrance without running rushing to where Snow was landing. As he landed I could see that person was indeed Liru who for the first time since I met her, was not wearing her cloak and was wearing a wine red button up blouse with a ruffle and black dress pants and ‘god she looks gorgeous’. I quickly hopped of Snow before he was even fully knelt and before I could gain a proper footing she tackled me in a hug shouting, “Jack!” knocking us both to the floor.

      I let out an oof as I hit the floor with her landing on top of me with a small yipe. We look at each-other for a second and I can feel my cheeks heating up before she giggled and got up pulling me with her.

      “It’s good to see you again Πυγολαμπίς.” She says with a smile on her face as she walks in front of Snow who hand bowed his head down as she began to pet his snout.

      “I trust Snow treated you well?” She said running a hand along his snout looking just as comically small next to him as she does next to Stella.

      “Yeah, gave me quiet a scare a minute ago but other than that, he’s been great.” I see her smile and my heart stutters for a second with my cheeks turning pink.

      “Good.” Her voice held an amused tone and she held up a red apple that I remember being a Honey-crisp apple, that she seemingly pulled out of nowhere, which Snow happily ate. I cocked my head slightly wondering where she pulled it from because she didn’t have a sack on her nor were any of the pockets big enough to hold an apple that size. Before my mind could ponder on it anymore Liru’s voice brought me out of it.

      “Stella’s in the field, she’s waiting for you.” I look at her in confusion and before I can ask what she meant, Snow had let out a small whinny and had turned around and took off running before his ‘wings’ appeared and he took off into the air and made a sharp turn around towards the field before disappearing from view.

      “So,” I quickly turned to her and she had a kind smile on her face as she spoke, “I bet you have a lot of questions.” I just nod and she hooks one of her arms with one of mine and I can’t help but smile at the familiar action. “Well then we lets eat first. I’ll answer you questions.” She pulls me inside with a smile and I can’t help but look around at the architecture. The entrance was a large room with two staircases, one going up and the other, below the first, was going down. Around the large room, which might I add seemed to be larger than a house from the village, three doors that couldn’t possibly lead to anywhere and they were all made out of some sort of wood and they were all painted different colors mainly reds and browns. The ones I could see properly had gold symbols on them, one was painted a deep blood red with a stack of books in gold with the only spine with words on it said βιβλιοθήκη which if I remember correctly means ‘Library’ and the other was a dark brown with a plate that had Τραπεζαρία on it following the circle but I'm not sure what it means.

      “So would you like to go the long way or the short way?” I look at her confused before replying although it sounded more like a question, “The short way?” She just giggles and says, “Alrighty then, lets go.” She pulls me over to the dark brown door with the plate on it and opened revealing a large dinning room and to be honest I didn’t pay attention to the room I was more focused on the food that was covering the table. There were three different types of meats on the table, ham, fish and chicken along with bread and some greens and ham and potato soup along with a gravy for the ham and chicken, and last but not least was the chocolate cake in the center of it all. I could hear my stomach growling and Liru giggling at it which caused my face to heat up.

      “Well,” I hear her say from beside me, “eat up.” I feel myself get exited and rush over to the table immediately grabbing one of the bowls of soup and a plate to put some meat and sat down in one of the chairs before digging in. I ate pretty quickly before moving on to the next thing to eat and I noticed that Liru was sitting across from me with a smile on her face as she ate slowly while watching me. My face heated up as I tried to sink into the chair. “S-sorry.”

      “It’s no problem Jack, I know what it’s like being that hungry. Just try not to choke, Okay?” I nods slightly and dig into the food again eating as much as I can before finishing feeling fuller than I ever had in my life.

      “You fully finally?” Her tone is light but I can hear the laughter she’s hiding. I nod a bit leaning back into the comfy chair. “Yeah, thank you it was really good.”

      “It’s no problem my Πυγολαμπίς.” I blush at that and sink a little into the chair when she calls me that, feeling my heart flutter. She wipes her mouth with the napkin before standing up and grabbing two plates and putting slices of cake on them and a fork on each plate.

      “Now,” She says turning to me “Lets go to the library while we eat the cake and you can ask your questions there. Okay?” I nod dragging myself up and she hands me a plate. “No eating until we get our selves situated.” I pout but take the plate trying to ignore the rising blush at her small laugh. I follower her out the door and too the one that said ‘Library’ in Greek and pushed it open revealing the library to be lit only by candles and probably fifteen feet high book shelves going as far as the eye can see. One thing I noticed as I walked in was that there aren’t any ladders to reach the books on the higher shelves nor anything else to step on or climb up.

      “Why is it so dark in here?” I can’t help but ask as she leads me through what seems like a maze of book shelves that I noticed also had little trinkets on the shelves as well and I swear I saw something watching me and Liru from the upper shelves and I could feel a headache forming the longer I'm in the castle but seems to get worse in here like the thing was freaking out, afraid of the knowledge in these books.

      “What do you mean?

      “Well this place only seems to be lit by lanterns and candles, and there doesn’t seem to be any windows either. Why is that?” I ask as we get to one of the corners and I see that there is a ‘fireplace?’ that instead of a chimney there were just more books and bottles filled with softly glowing liquids of some sort. Along with the fireplace(?) there were two comfortable looking love seats both burgundy red and small dark brown wooden table in the middle of them as they’re both turned part way to the fireplace.

      “Oh I more often than not prefer to read like this but the upper level is all light, maybe I can show you soon.” She sets her plate down on the table sitting in one of the love seats sprawling her legs out as I sit in the other one also putting my plate on the table.

      “Now that we are both situated, lets hear those questions.”

Tag List:

@immabethehero

@antis-gauge

@therealtiger77

@nerdylampeclipseuniversity

@a-mad-tea-time

@i-maybe-exist

[wafflewarriors]

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

2. Drowning

The Thames River had always been a marvel of London to John. It mirrored the vibrancy of the city like a painting. At night, lit houses glittered like stars within the murky water. Cars zipping past sent streaks of white light rippling. Boats drifted along in serenity, blinking soft yellows and reds. John was no artist, but he appreciated Thames nonetheless.

John jabbed at his noodles, twirling the fork until they wrapped upward around the silverware. He had chosen to get a bite at a humble restaurant with a gorgeous view of Thames.

This entire week, Sherlock had been oddly tolerant of John's ‘dull’ need for a fulfilling dinner and satisfying rest. It pushed his more drawn out cases to nightfall, and shortened their daylight drastically. Sherlock had been oddly compliant all day, with not one word of opposition. Although an antsy tap of the detective's hyper fingers told John that today was another chase. John didn't know how the man did it, but when Sherlock longed for a criminal to hunt, they would flee like flighty fowl in the sight of a fox.

The detective had yet to lift his fork, for his appetite was craving a heated pursuit rather than a heated meal. His eyes roamed past John, and his scrutiny fell upon busy pedestrians.

After several minutes of John dining peacefully, Sherlock sprung up, towering over the table in enthusiasm. “It’s them! The two criminals! Look! I cannot believe our luck.”

Sherlock pointed frantically out the window. “I've been observing each passerby for a solid twenty minutes. There was a 75% chance they would show. I may or may not have manipulated your choice of restaurant. Finally something worthwhile!” He was out of the booth, throwing open the glass doors dramatically, coat whipping in a new breeze. “John! Before they leave! Hurry!”

John Watson was already on his toes, of course. “What'd they do?” He panted as his feet pounded upon the cold cement.

Sherlock laughed genuinely as he huffed beside his friend, “They murdered someone, John. Obviously! The crime yesterday. Lestrade mentioned them, I deduced from there. There was a high probability, so I chanced it. I was mostly unimpressed this morning, really.”

John raced along the open streets, weaving through the crowd. “You weren't going to?”

“Of course I was. I’m just keeping them on their toes,” he said.

John accepted the comment with a smirk, noting such as he sprinted toward their culprit. He was at the heels of a proclaimed criminal and was ready to pounce. When John Watson was focused on something, his concentration narrowed in on the object he was after. He was a tabby on the trail of a slithering rat… or a criminal. It depended. Sometimes John couldn't tell the difference.

John didn't notice the bitter January breeze, the crunch of powdery snow, nor, most importantly, how soggy the ground now was. Perhaps he perceived it as melting ice, but that was far from correct.

He had cornered the criminal against a metal railing as they both tussled to gain the upper hand. The desperate fight over the gun forced John's wrist to maneuver in painful directions, but John held firm.

He pummeled the butt of the gun toward the criminal's brow, yet they managed to cleverly duck away. John staggered forward in unbalance and was elbowed strongly in the gut, which left him winded. As he wheezed for a full breath, his dexterity left him, and he wound up snug against the railing, leaning over the edge perilously.

The criminal pushed him backward by the throat, forcing John to lean farther out just to breathe. Water splashed at his heels and dampened his shoes with a soggy cold. The bridges were lower here, allowing the water to bite at his ankles. After a frozen moment of realization, John connected the dots to his situation. He was being choked over the railing of the Thames River, dangerously close to tumbling into its chilly depths.

John's eyes widened and attempted to swat away the criminal. Although as his breath left him, so did his strength. He grasped the edges of the railing, holding on for dear life as he was suffocated. His choice was either no air or a very cold swim. He couldn't find a way to subdue the man without dropping like a stone into the Thames with an ominous plink.

John growled, yanking away his arm and slamming it into the man’s nose while stepping on his shoe. The criminal grunted and forced John's shoulder back, so he was halfway over the bridge.

John was a great soldier; his morals were secure and rational, his sensibility was constantly overridden by courage, and his selflessness was endless. So John did what any soldier would do: sacrifice for the greater good. If he couldn't win his side of the battle, he would at least bring the enemy down with him.

Sherlock shouted at him whilst he fought the other criminal, thunderous and fearful. “John! Lestrade and officers should arrive in a matter of a minute! Do not do what I know you're going to!” His voice was frantic as he dodged the swift criminal’s blows to glance at John. He was nearly panicking, which was surreal; his eyes were widened and weren't restraining his fear to John's next deducted action. “John! You'll go into shock! Don’t! Wait! Don't!”

John let go of the railing to seize the arm of his attacker, and with all his might, he hurtled himself off the edge into Thames.

“John!”

John was no idiot. He knew what freezing water would do to him. He would need to regulate his breathing and his limbs so he wouldn't drown. If Sherlock was correct, Lestrade would rescue him soon anyway. John wouldn't have let himself tumble off the railing limply and allow Sherlock to take on both criminals. He wouldn't have that.

John’s vision was enveloped by the pale blue December sky, and then misery overtook him. His skin erupted in a frigid burning. He choked back his gasp reflex, waiting until he was above the surface to do so. It took great effort to wheeze in control and push his aching legs to tread upward. His lungs were near hyperventilation, but he swallowed and coughed in order to regulate this.

The continued scuffling above him was muted as John bobbed on the surface and currents splashed with a freezing sting at his numbing skin. Eventually, Sherlock had conquered his opponent. “Idiot!” Sherlock shouted down furiously. “Why didn't you wait?!” He was stationed above the railing, tense and watchful of John's activity. He was helpless.

The voices along the bridge began to gurgle as John submerged within the rapid depths. John had to wrestle to stay above as the waves crashed into his back and drenched him once again in a flood of polar-like water.

Sherlock turned away for a moment to bellow barely out of John's hearing, “Lestrade…!” “...I will have…” “...personally fired if…!” “...John is…” “...Thames.”

John only heard bits and pieces.

Suddenly, hands were hooking at his shoulders, plunging John underneath. He sputtered a heaving breath as he managed to struggle out of the locking grip. John placed his weight upon their shoulders and dunked them in. He wobbled and whacked his elbows atop the man's head and climbed his way to air. The criminal had attempted to drown him, now struggling and twisting. John no longer felt too guilty about launching him into the river anymore.

He panted and paddled stiffly; his limbs were nearly paralyzed and his muscles were frigid. He clawed at the concrete wall, clutching at the edge. His movements were weak, if present at all.

When a palm grasped firmly at his back, John twisted and slugged the arm, petrified of descending to the rocky bottom. But the hand pulled upward, despite the blows. An instructive voice yelled over the whirring of air around them, “John? I'm going to need you to relax.”

This was the first time John had acknowledged the helicopter flying above him. It was prepared to fish him out of the river, but if he continued to flop about like a panicked bass, that would become a more difficult mission. John stilled and allowed himself to be hauled. He to merely existed after the exhausting few minutes of nearly drowning.

Sherlock was there, too. He hovered as the paramedics tended to John.

John’s voice was hoarse. “Sh-sher...” He cleared his throat, and after a pause, he continued, shivering. “The man is… sti-still in... th-th-the river.”

The paramedic tending to John perked up at the new information, alarmed. “Still?”

Sherlock didn't seem fazed by the news. “He was a mass murderer, terrorist, and professionally trained serial killer. When we reached him, he had already drowned due to your blows at his head, neck, and abdomen. He likely would have faced a worse penalty for his crimes, regardless. His accomplice is currently in the hands of the Yard. Do not bother worrying about him, John.”

John pinched his lips, shuddering as the paramedics wrapped multiple blankets around his freezing self. “You n-need to st-st-start… f-filling me in on… your ob-observations, Sh-sh-sh-sherlock. I was really... t-take… taking ch-chances there.”

Sherlock frowned seriously. “That was idiotic. There were easier ways to weaken him, John. That was poor judgement. However, know that I don't blame you. Oxygen hadn't been entering your brain properly.” Sherlock explained, naturally.

John furrowed his brows, disagreeing, although he didn't argue. John had been perfectly aware of his decision, and Sherlock knew that as well. But if that was what Sherlock would excuse it as, John would leave it at that. No use digging a deeper hole.

Sherlock watched as police bustled about the scene in disinterest, “You're a soldier, John. Surrender will never become a survival instinct. You constantly push to have the control. That's what war did to you. Emphasis on the you.” Sherlock’s eyes glinted in fondness at the soldier's bravery. “You seem to have averted the nuisance of hypothermia, hm?”

“Yes, seems I have.” John replied thoughtfully.

Sherlock nodded. “And you're alright?”

John smiled warmly, despite his dipped body temperatures. He kept his teeth from chattering. “A bit chilly still, but yes. I'll be fine, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignored his gut demanding he call out the blatant lie, and accepted the fib without any further commenting. He wouldn't push it.

[alydiarackham]

(Cover by me)

Curse-Maker: The Tale of Gwiddon Crow by Alydia Rackham

Prologue

               There is great freedom in darkness.

               I wrap it around me like clothing. I move without sound. And even if my boot treads upon a twig, and it snaps through the silence…

Mortal eyes can only strain to find its source, and then, to no avail. I am already gone.

               I walk through Winterly Wood amongst the ghosts of dead trees and the spirits that haunt the hanging branches. Moving as a wraith. My eyes see more keenly than any cat, my ears catch the slightest whisper. My skin tingles with each breath of dank air, my heart beats in time with the deep, ancient mutterings of the wood.

               In darkness, I perch amidst the arms of the tangled oak trees, watching like the mire owl, but invisible, though I loom just above the traveler’s head. I creep along the banks of the river, watching the threads of moonshine ripple against its languid surface, spying the drifting fishes amongst the reeds, yet I am never touched by the fingers of silver light that grope weakly down into the black.

               I spin webs of spells, like twinkling nets, whose edges set fool-fires and will-o-wisps that lead wayfarers to their deaths. I press my palm to the cold surface of the water, and henceforth anyone who touches the river will fall asleep and drown. I lay illusions upon the trees—illusions of dreadful fiends that horrify villagers into abandoning the path. I breathe out a blanket of fog to stifle the remnants of old elvish spells.

I snatch at the ranger’s legs and send him tumbling into the arms of the bramble thorns. I loose false cries of children to lead the woodsman to the mouth of the bog. I crush blue fairies with stones and put out their light. I ensnare the noisy white deer, send pale phantoms wailing up and down the roads to terrorize encroaching gypsies. I lie down amongst a fellowship of wolves.

I am never seen.

I am not bound by borders or the commands of any king; I am not enslaved any longer to chains and hammers and toil; I bear my own name. I wield my own weapons. I rely upon no one.  

I can breathe with all the depth in my lungs, and no one hears anything but the rustle of the leaves. I fly, and they shrink from the shadow of a raven. I run faster than wind, leaves swirling around my feet and the edges of my cape, the night air tearing through my wild hair—and they recoil from a banshee. I scale trees in an instant, then leap down onto horsemen like a nightmare—and throw them from the saddle. I ride frightened beasts down paths unknown by men, with the hands of a herald of Hel. I appear and disappear at will, with the suddenness of death.

               I am the darkness.

 Chapter One

                  On the night of a full moon in late autumn, I sat in the arms of a knotted wych elm, my back to the trunk, one leg bent, the other hanging easily off the thick branch. My black cape tumbled all around me, its edges fluttering like feathers touched by a breeze. I crossed my arms, gazing out to my left at the narrow road that passed beneath me and wound away into vanishment like a dead river. I listened.

               The young night air hung heavy with frost. Silver foxes slipped through the underbrush, disturbing the leaves of the greying ferns. I could hear their careful, clever feet padding across the fallen leaves. An owl passed like a winged reaper overhead, the cloak of his wings eclipsing the cold gaze of the moon.

               As I watched below me, the fog slowly rolled in, hiding the roots of the trees. Dew beaded on my fitted, leather travel clothes and on the long, tangled, mane-like lengths of my white hair. I reached up with both hands and wound a strand around my slender, pale fingers, studying the way the crackled moonlight caught my hair’s coal-black flecks and shining silvers. The way it cast shadows across the scars on my knuckles, the black rune tattoos on my thumbs. How it sparkled in the jet stone in the silver ring on my right hand.  

               I released the tangled end of my hair and tapped the symbols on my thumbs, absently muttering their meanings under my breath like a chant, first one hand, then the other.

               “Cuir, neartu, freimhe,” I hummed. “Nimh, betha, cothaigh. Cuir, neartu, freimhe; Nimh, betha, cothaigh…”

               Plant. Strengthen. Root.

               Poison. Feed. Keep.

               I tilted my face back to the interwoven maze of branches above me, smiling as they swayed in time to the rhythm of the wood—the rhythm I had memorized since childhood, even before I knew the words to the song. I tapped my toe, tilting my head side to side. I drew in a deep breath.

“Man may think that he liveth long, But oft him belies my tricks. Fair weather often turns to rain And wondrously it makes its switch.”

 A lively, wicked wind suddenly cut through the branches, whirling and swirling like a tattered gown, catching up leaves in its skirts. Night birds began to hoot and call in time with me, and deep, guttural, creaking grunts issued from the marrow of the trees.

“Therefore, man, you do bethink, But all shall fail, your fields of green!

 Fair weather often turns to rain,

And wondrously it makes its switch!”

 The cold wind cackled now, throwing the leaves toward the skies and ripping delightfully through my cape and hair. I rapped my fingernails against the bark, raising my voice as the tune slithered rapidly every which way through the forest.

“Alas, there's neither king nor queen, That shall not drink of death's drink!

Man, ere thou fall off thy bench, Thy sins thou shalt quench!

 Man may think that he liveth long, But oft him belies my tricks.

Fair weather often turns to rain,

And wondrously it makes its switch!”

 As I let the last note ring out, warming and vibrating through my whole body, the autumn wood and its creatures roiled and rattled with the full strength of their merry voices. I grinned, appreciatively slapping the trunk of the tree, feeling it chuckle down within its wood.  

               Then—

               A screech.

               Far off, yet not so far that I couldn’t feel the ripple of it strike me in the side of the neck.

               I leaped to my feet, standing freely balanced on the branch, holding onto nothing. My cape went still. I faced the east, not breathing, my gaze wide.

               A deep, single-noted hum traveled through the earth, as if something in the roots of the mountains had cracked. For a moment, I stood, studying the vibrations that passed up through the roots, the trunk, and into my boots.

               Then, I launched myself up the tree. With swift, sure steps and firm handholds, I maneuvered my lean body between the limbs and toward the height of the canopy. At last, my head broke through the leaves, and moonlight spilled over my hair. I grasped the rough branches, and peered toward the east.

               Winterly Wood stretched on in every direction, its impenetrable tangle rolling far, far away from me toward Rye Valley, which now lay shrouded in blackness.

               But there, at the very edge of my sight, I glimpsed birds that had taken flight. All along the entire forest wall, they flapped frantically upward, toward the mountains, away from the valley.

               I frowned hard, my left-hand fingers closing tighter around the branch.

               Then, I let go, perched precariously on a limb that could not hold my weight.

               “Eitil,” I muttered—and clapped my hands together.

               The limb gave way beneath me—but that instant, my cape flung all around me like a python, swallowed my frame, and crushed it.

               A moment of blinding pain snapped all my bones—

And then…

               I flung out my arms—and they were wings. Great, black wings.

My face had changed to shining black with a long, gleaming beak. My body had covered with sleek ebony feathers, my feet to wiry claws. I sprang straight into the air with a hoarse “caw!”, beating my wings as I climbed heavenward. I reeled in midair, switching direction, and hurtled down over the face of the forest, my feathers spread wide.

Leaves flittered just below my breast as I skimmed over the beeches, oaks and elms. I dodged bare, protruding twigs; I fleetingly scanned ahead of me for owls. Though none would challenge me—I was thrice the size of any other crow in Edel.

Ahead of me, rising suddenly like black knives from the heart of the wood, this portion of the Eisenzahn Mountain Strand stood like the walls of a giant fortress. Black pines covered their faces, cloaking the shimmering white stone of their bones. I glanced down, and glimpsed the Sopor River glittering like a seam of silver weaving through the immovable wood—leading straight for the Flumen Split: the narrow gap in the mountains that provided the only passage between Albain and the vast Thornbind Wood beyond.

Canting my head, I spied a narrow track below me, and a familiar fork in it. With a breath, I folded my wings and dove straight down.

The wind whistled through my feathers, the stars flashed around me—

I plunged into the shadow of the wood.

I pulled up, brought my wings out with a loud flap—

Shook myself, and threw off my cape.

               Another howl of pain split my body—and my booted feet struck the dry dirt of the path.

               Pulling in a swift, measured breath and gritting my teeth, I lifted my human head and straightened my human shoulders, never breaking stride as my cape turned back into a garment, and roiled behind my steps.

               I took another deep breath, smelling the smoke of a familiar hearth. In a few paces, I spied flickering torches standing at odd angles, lining the crooked path. My boots left prints in the frost.

               I finally approached the first set of torches: human skulls upon tall pikes, their gaping mouths seething with crackling flames, their eyes enlivened by brilliant sparks. The flame blackened the teeth of their sagging jaws, and glowed through the cracks in their crowns. The light threw stark shadows against the figures of the trees to either side, making them look like they moved. I strode between the leering pairs, tipping my head back and forth as I had since I was a girl, silently reciting the names I’d given them: Arseny and Afanasy, Vadim and Vasily, Bogdam and Boris, Ivan and Ilia, Pavel and Pyotr. I glanced ahead of me at the familiar cottage.

               The cottage of bones.

               Instead of beams and bars and thatch, the mistress of this house had built with the bones of kings who defied her, women who went back on their promises to her, children who had been traded for spells. But the front door and the lintel above had been constructed of very special skeletons indeed: the bones of all the Caldic Curse-Breakers—except one.  

               I finally arrived at the front door of the cottage. For a moment I stopped, glancing toward the window to my left.

               Flickering orange light peered through a ragged cloth that hung over most of the opening. Quiet music wafted out: music from a stringed instrument, plucked by careful fingers. It was a swaying, tilting sort of tune—like treading gleefully toward some sort of mischief. I snickered.

               I reached out and put my hand on the forehead of Aleric Blackthorn’s well-polished skull, and shoved.

               The ancient door creaked crankily as I stepped up into the cottage. I immediately dodged a mobile of fingerbones and a set of dangling glass balls. My footsteps went silent as they met the worn-out bearskins on the floor.

               The scent of burning tallow candles filled my lungs—a mountain of them, all dripping onto each other, stood upon the mantel in the far corner, lighting up all the herbs, spices, bones, and trinkets hanging from that section of the ceiling.

I maneuvered around the towers of dusty books and locked trunks, aiming for the beaten armchair that sat near the fire—its legs so stacked with tattered papers and odds and ends that it looked as if it had grown out of the floor.

Enfolded in the arms of the chair sat a very old woman, wearing rags. Only if I peered closely—which I often had—could I detect the threads of gold and silver woven into her garments, and the faded silk patterns of flowers: patterns sewn by the finest weavers and tailors in Izborsk.

Hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

A scarf that had once been maroon bound around the top of her head, and her feathery white hair stuck out from beneath it. She had a face of leather, riddled with wrinkles; the end of her long, hooked nose nearly touching her protruding chin. In her lap she held the stringed instrument, a triangle-shaped balalaika, and her bony hands plucked the strings of the melancholy, mischievous melody that filled the house. The firelight bathed her gently-swaying form in rich light, and for a moment—as I always did when I first came inside—I felt like I was gazing back into the shadows of a lost world.

I paused, but she’d caught my movement. Her glinting silvery eyes found me, and narrowed as a low, sly smile carved her wrinkles even deeper.

“Crow,” she creaked, still playing at the strings with her skillful fingertips.

“Babushka,” I nodded to her.

“You have something to tell me,” Gwiddon Baba Yaga—called “Babushka” only by me—noted, turning back toward the fire, and I watched as the flames danced across her iridescent eyes. Eyes that had seen so much—so much more than I could ever imagine…

“Yes,” I said. “I saw something.”

“Sit down, eat,” she nodded to a space in front of her.

I frowned, and leaned around a particularly tall pile of books…

To see that a small table set with a bowl of food, in front of my chair, steamed readily, as if it had just been laid out. I eyed her, and lifted an eyebrow.

“You were expecting me to come back early.”

“Da,” she hummed.

I sighed, stepped around the pile of books, peeled off my cape and flung it across the back of my chair, then sat heavily down. I tugged the table closer so it stood between my knees, and I scanned the food. It was a bowl of shchi, filled with cabbage, chicken, mushrooms, carrots, onions, garlic, celery, pepper, apples and smetana. Three pieces of hot, buttered bread sat to the side, along with a wooden goblet of rich, heady red wine. I picked up the goblet and took a long swig of the wine, hoping it would dull the ache in my bones left over from my transforming.

“So,” I said, setting the goblet down and tearing into the bread with both hands. “What was it that I saw?”

The witch across from me diddled on the strings with her long nails, and pursed her lips.

“I suppose you saw a bit of a disturbance on the eastern border of Winterly,” she replied, with a thoughtful lilt to her tone. “And perhaps felt a touch of startlement from deep within the earth?”

I frowned hard at her, stopping my chewing.

Her eyes flicked to mine for a moment, and then she returned to her music. I finished chewing, watching her, then sat back in my chair.

“So what was it?”

“Mm,” she grunted. “I do not know.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What do you think it was?”

“Eat your shchi,” she said, jerking her chin toward it. “And put some slype on your hands.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“I see a spot.” She pointed with a gnarled finger at my left hand. I lifted it toward the light, and spied a dark blotch on the back of it.

“I haven’t noticed that before,” I murmured.

“Mm,” she grunted again. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” I shook my head. “Just a strengthening spell on the fog.”

“Ah, but you haven’t put slype on yourself for weeks,” she noted, arching an eyebrow.

“It stinks,” I shot back. She snorted.

“Put it on,” she ordered. “Unless you’d like to look like me far earlier than you ought.” And she bared her pointed teeth in what was meant to be a ghastly grin. I rolled my eyes and reached up to snatch a little black bottle off the mantle.

“I don’t mind a little spot on my hand,” I muttered.

“Mm, you may not,” the witch sat back in her chair. “Not now, when you’re only four and twenty, with a body still strong and quick. But you will wish you had listened to your babushka,” she wagged a finger at me. “When you try to shake off that flying crow someday, and two of your bones stay broken. Mark me.”

I smirked, not replying, and popped the cork off the bottle. I dripped just a bit of the black, oily liquid into my right palm, put the cork back, and rubbed the slype onto the back of my left hand.

“Keep rubbing,” Baba Yaga ordered. “Until you cannot see the spot.”

“Yes, I know,” I glared at her, but kept doing it, until the oil rubbed in and the spot on my hand faded. I feigned a gag and shook my head, putting the bottle back on the mantle.

“Smells like dead fish.”

“Hehe,” the witch chuckled. “Not so bad.”

I said nothing, just picked up the wooden spoon and started stirring my steaming soup.

“So what was it?” I pressed, slurping a spoonful, then wincing at its heat. But I kept eating. The witch gazed at me, tapping her fingers on the face of her instrument.

“I said I do not know,” she repeated. “But someone is coming who will tell us.”

I stopped with my spoon halfway to my mouth.

“Who?” I asked in a low voice. But she didn’t respond—just smiled.

The fire in the hearth guttered.

My attention flashed to it.

Then, fingers of smoke began to creep out past the mantlepiece, as if something had blocked the chimney.

Slowly, I lowered my spoon back into the soup.

The smoke thickened, blackened. It trailed upward, past the candles, mingling with the flames and disappearing into the shadow of the ceiling.

Without a sound, I lifted the table in front of me and set it to the side. Then, I slowly settled back in my chair, draping my arms over the rests. With my jaw set, I waited.

The thick smoke pooled on the ceiling, and began slithering down amongst the witchly ornaments, dripping onto the floor beside Baba Yaga. It writhed out of the corners of the cottage, seething over the bearskin rugs, filling the air with the exotic musk of myrrh.

As Baba Yaga and I watched, the serpentine smoke began to twine around itself, crawling from the floor toward the ceiling again. Forming an ever-thickening pillar. All the lights in the cottage changed hue, taking on a pearly emerald—and sparks danced freely around the flames.

A figure formed within the shroud of smoke: tall and willowy, like an iron lance. Surrounded by sinister, cobweb draperies that stirred with their own wind. Ripples of clarity brought forth the shapes of strong, graceful arms bound round with silver bracers; long, white hands—the right one bearing a glittering ring. An elegant, figure-hugging black tunic with upward-sweeping shoulders, evoking the visage of a horned asp. A sundering cape dripping and slithering from the back of his shoulders and round his flowing skirts, hiding his feet. Jewels of jet and poison-red sparkling like scales across his chest. A tall collar guarding a graceful neck.

A raven head, with midnight hair spilling down to the front of his chest, crisp and feral as the feathers of a crow. A sharp, refined face with perfect features, and skin white as moonlight. Eyes like chips of silver, with an ethereal, shining distance. Coal black eyebrows, black lashes; grey, unsmiling lips. And across his face—upon his delicate cheekbones, brow and nose—lay deep red discolorations, like the sear of heat, or the welt of a deep bruise. But it did not mar his beauty—in truth, it accentuated it. And the ice-cold ferocity in his bearing added terrible power to his heavy glance.

A dark light swelled out from him, tightening my chest. I didn’t move. He lifted his chin, and looked directly at me. His bright, pupil-less gaze darted through me to my spine.

“Gwiddon Crow.” His musical voice like the surface of a lake at twilight.

“Crow,” Baba Yaga motioned to me, then to him. “This is Mordred.”

Chapter Two

   Mordred inclined his graceful head to me. I didn’t move—just narrowed my eyes.

“He is a draid,” Baba Yaga told me. “A dark elf.”

“I know what he is,” I answered quietly, not taking my eyes from him. “What is he doing here?”

Mordred almost smiled, and lifted his right eyebrow-slightly.

“He is also the king of Albain,” Baba Yaga added.

I slowly leaned back, stretched out my legs in front of me, and crossed them.

“Well, then,” I raised my eyebrows. “He should know right now what I think of kings.”

Mordred truly smiled now, and chuckled.

“I like her, Vedma,” he glanced at Baba Yaga. I gave him nothing but a cold look.

“Please, sit,” Baba Yaga waved a hand—and her guest chair appeared.

The bear skin near Mordred’s feet writhed and twisted, and rose off the floor, warping itself into the shape of a tall armchair, with the mighty, toothy head crowning the top. When at last it had stopped its transformation, Mordred stepped around it, swept his skirts out of the way, and sat down with the casual elegance of a cat, his right elbow propped on the armrest.

“Would you have something to drink or eat?” Baba Yaga asked him. He absently flicked his fingers.

“No, thank you, I’ve just eaten.”

Baba Yaga shrugged, and sat back in her own chair.

“What brings you here, Mordred?”

He looked at her for a moment.

“I’m certain you noticed the disturbance at the edge of Winterly Wood not long ago,” he said.

“I did,” Baba Yaga nodded. “But Crow was out in the wood at the time, and saw the birds take flight.”

Mordred glanced at me. The firelight glinted off his silvery eyes.

“What did you perceive?” he asked me.

“I am keeping my thoughts to myself, until I hear what you have to say.” I canted my head. “That’s the reason you’ve come, isn’t it?”

He peered at me, his brow furrowing, then leaned slightly toward me.

“Tell me,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Where did you get such an ugly and unusual scar? It covers the entirety of the left side of your face, all the way down to your neck, and looks like the white craters of the moon.”

I lifted my chin, unmoved.

“I was struck by a hot fire shovel when I was fourteen, by my father,” I said. “I killed him with it.” Then, I narrowed my own eyes to slits. “Where did you get yours?”

He grinned again, laughing softly.

“Child, I am older than you can imagine,” he said, looking over at me with something like warmth. “I honestly cannot remember when I first noticed these marks on my face. But I do know they’ve arisen from my struggles, my pain, my suffering…” He considered me again, his mirth fading, a sadness entering him. “Just as yours have.”

I blinked, and glanced down.

“Tell us, Mordred,” Baba Yaga urged. “What is this all about? I don’t like the feel of it.”

Mordred gazed at her long.

“What do you feel?”

She set her jaw crookedly, and leveled a look back at him. Her voice lowered to a deadly, rasping tone.

“That a curse has been broken.”

Mordred’s mouth tightened, and he gazed down at the hearthstones with a cold consideration.

“It may have been,” he murmured. “I fear that someone has pulled the Sword from the stone.”

Baba Yaga gasped.

The sound made me sit up—set my heart bashing into my ribs.

“The true sword Calesvol? How can that be?” Baba Yaga rasped. “It has been lost for centuries! Ever since you killed Merlin the Wild!”

               Mordred suddenly looked at her without moving his lowered head.

               A chill passed through me.

               “I…did not kill…Merlin,” he said, with painful and precise decision.

               “Whaaat?” Baba Yaga stared at him, her eyes wide and terrible. “Why did you lie to me?”

               “I lied to everyone,” Mordred answered icily. “After Merlin appeared to me and declared that he had laid Calesvol in a stone, and none but the true king of Albain could pull it loose—and that he had hidden it from all eyes but those of this true king—I hunted him more relentlessly than I had ever hunted anyone. But Merlin had vanished. I assumed that he had fled Albain, either across the sea or into the Eisenzahn Mountains. I cast hundreds of spells searching for him throughout Edel, but all came back to me empty. He was gone.” Mordred’s gaze grew distant, and he studied the dance of the flames. “So I made my own sword in the stone, my own Calesvol, and in the presence of ten thousand witnesses, I drew the sword from the stone. And I have been king this past age, questioned by none. And none have passed through my borders alive, either in or out.” He sent a flashing glance to Baba Yaga. “I will not have my throne threatened by some peasant who pulled a trinket from a rock.”

               Baba Yaga watched him for a moment.

               “What would you have us do?”

               Mordred took a deep breath, turning back to the fire.

               “The pulling of the sword has weakened the barriers around Albain. Strong Curse-Breakers will soon be able to cross, and the elves and rangers that have been enchanted in the woods will begin waking up.” He turned to me. “I require your help, Gwiddon Crow.”

               “Why?” I demanded quietly.

               “I wish to take your master with me, back to Camelot,” he said. “And I need you to destroy the Seal of Astrum.”

               “What?” I said, stunned. “Destroy the Seal? A great Seal?” I looked over at Baba Yaga, but she said nothing. I turned back to Mordred. “Why?”

               “To take back Thornbind,” he answered. “Once I put down this usurper who has found Calesvol, I will have the true sword in my hand. With it, I can breach the gap in the mountains and enter the Eorna Valley, which will bring us just steps from Maith. We will finally bring the fight to the doorstep of the Curse-Breakers. But we cannot do so if that Seal blocks our way.”

               I shook my head.

“Destroying a great Seal is impossible, and you know it.”

               “No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Anything made can be un-made.”

               “Yes, by a Curse-Breaker,” I shot back. “The nature of a seal itself is set against us. It was built to withstand just such an attack.”

               “Curse-Breakers are not infallible,” Mordred shook his head. “I have killed many.”

               “Well, be my guest, then,” I growled, waving my hand.

               “Crow,” Baba Yaga warned. I sat up, and leaned toward Mordred.

               “A Seal is not a Curse-Breaker,” I bit out. “You may have killed many Curse-Breakers, but the Seals have killed far more of us,” I said, and slapped my chest.

               “Yes, and many were my friends,” Mordred answered deliberately, looking right at me. “Which is why I spent half my lifetime searching for this.” He lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers.

               A bright light flashed in front of him—

               And a small book lay in his palms.

               I recoiled, sucking in a breath.

               I could feel tendrils of pure, sharp, untamed magic twisting and winding around its beaten leather binding, emanating from the dark red stone in the center of the cover.

               “What is that?” I hissed.

               “It is the Leabhar,” Mordred said quietly. “The Book.”

               “Where did you find it?” Baba Yaga whispered.

               “In Camelot, in Merlin’s vaults beneath the castle.” He glanced wryly at her. “Why do you think I was so eager to conquer Albain? It has nothing else to offer.”

               “I thought the Book was destroyed by dragon fire,” I muttered, still staring at it, feeling like it might leap up and sink teeth into me.

               “So did I,” Mordred nodded. “But, it appears that those on the other side can concoct their own share of clever lies.” He moved his white fingers to lift the cover.

               “Don’t open it!” I yelped, throwing out a hand—stopping just short of grabbing his wrist. He laughed.

               “You mustn’t be afraid, Crow,” he admonished. “You’ll be needing this.” And he held it out to me.

               “I am not touching that,” I said through my teeth, withdrawing from it to sink my fingernails into the armrests of my chair.

               “Why?” he asked simply. “Are you afraid?”

               I glared at him.

               “Only a fool is never afraid.”

               His expression shrugged.

               “True enough,” he acknowledged. “But the power in this book cannot harm you. You can only learn from it.”

               “And what am I supposed to learn?”

               A slow, mysterious smile touched his lips.

               “How the Caldic Curse-Breakers made the Seven Seals of Edel.”

               I narrowed my eyes at him.

               “You have the Book. Why don’t you learn it, and attack the seal yourself? I’m sure you’re powerful enough.”

               “I am,” he nodded. “But I cannot read it.”

               “Ha!” I barked. “You just told me how old you were, how experienced. How can you not read ancient Caldic?”

               “I cannot because it is enspelled, you impatient shrew,” he snapped—and his words knifed straight through my gut. My mouth clapped shut.

For an instant, Mordred’s eyes blazed at me with a fiendish light…

               Which diminished, turning to frost and snow.

               “It will not allow a draid to read its words,” he muttered, flinging open the cover, as he seemed to have done hundreds if not thousands of times. I flinched back…

               But the magic just kept winding round and round the book, penetrating its pages, in a steady, unbroken flow.

               “It rebels against my very blood, the way the light meets my eyes. It’s maddening,” he muttered. “I have tried many, many times to understand, but even if I untangle one phrase, the next moment, it is gone from my mind.” He shook his head. “I saw no pressing need to decipher it at the time I found it. It was enough to have the Book in my possession, and keep it away from the Curse-Breakers, who could do untold damage with it. But now…” he raised his eyebrows at Baba Yaga. “I need a Curse-Maker.”

               “Would you rather leave this task to me?” Baba Yaga asked him. “I am willing, if Crow is not.”

               Mordred was already shaking his head.

               “I need you in Camelot. You must re-lay the curses that are breaking, or replace them with others. The curses of Albain are old, and bone-deep in this realm, and as they snap they may lash back at Camelot itself. And I can already feel Curse-Breakers advancing on my borders. They will need to be waylaid. I cannot keep all of this at bay with only my two hands. This work is as complex as it is dangerous, and I need you at my side.”

               “But is this not equally complex?” I demanded, pointing to the book. Mordred looked at me.

               “No,” he said. “It is quite simple. As simple as untying a knot. You must simply undo what has been done. But first, you must see it clearly.” And he held the book out to me again.

               I didn’t move. Instead, I looked at Baba Yaga.

               “Do you think I ought to do this, Babushka?” I asked her.

               She tilted her head, and shrugged again.

               “I believe you are fully capable of doing it,” she finally said. “You are strong enough, and cunning enough. If you are willing enough.”

               I took the book from Mordred.

               My fingers hit the binding, and the magic hummed—

               But nothing bit me. It didn’t hurt at all.

               I studied it, turning my head to try to make out the runes imprinted on the cover. I set my finger to the opening edge of the cover…

               “Nocht,” I whispered.

               The magic flickered against my thumb. I lifted the cover…

               “Well?” Mordred asked, leaning even closer.

I stared down at the words.

               “I…” I started, then trailed off.

               “What?” he demanded. But I couldn’t speak. I could only read the words, over and over, written in an ancient, inky hand.

                 Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?            

  Chapter Three

                “What?” Baba Yaga demanded leaning forward, her chair squeaking.

               “It…” I tried. “It says ‘Greetings, Gwiddon Crow. What is it that you seek?’” I lifted my head, and stared at my teacher.

               Slowly, she grinned at me.

               “Fascinating,” Mordred whispered, watching me with a gleaming eye. “Answer it.”

               “Answer it?” I repeated. “How?”

               He gestured to the book.

               “Answer it. Tell it what you want to know.”

               I stared down at the weathered page and the cryptic writing. I narrowed my eyes at it.

               “I wish to know,” I said slowly. “…how to un-make a great Seal.”

               The writing melted away and disappeared. The next moment, it bled back up through the paper, forming different words.

                 You must first learn how the Seals were made. Do you wish to know?

                         “What is it?” Baba Yaga hissed.

               “It says I must know how they were made, and asks if I wish to know,” I answered.

               “Tell it yes,” Mordred told me—in a tone like he was instructing me to step out onto thin ice.

               “Yes,” I said.

               The words disappeared. Then, they melted back.

                 I will tell you. But I will not tell the other two.

                 My eyes flew to the others. They frowned at me.

               “What now?” Mordred wondered.

               “It says,” I answered carefully “That it won’t tell you or Baba Yaga.”

               Mordred laughed and slapped his thigh.

               “This magic,” he grinned. “Such splendid cleverness.”

               Baba Yaga ground her teeth.

               “Why would it say such a thing?”

               “Perhaps it knows us,” Mordred guessed.

               “Perhaps it can hear us,” Baba Yaga raised her eyebrows at him.

Mordred smiled and shrugged.

               “Perhaps it can. Leastways, this still serves our purpose.” He rose to his feet, his skirts rustling uneasily around his legs. “Vedma, will you come with me back to Camelot?”

               “I will,” she grunted, laboriously rising to her feet. “If food is provided.”

               “I shall have my kitchen prepare the finest meals for you, and you’ll sleep in the quarters designated for the queen, as I have no such partner yet.”

               “Oh, who would marry you?” Baba Yaga jibed.

               “Why, you would, if I asked you,” Mordred grinned at her.

                “You flatter me, draid,” she cackled. “What of Crow?”

               “Crow, you will remain here,” Mordred said, looking down at me. “And you will keep that book with you at all times until I come to retrieve it, or I will kill you where you stand.”

               I glared at him.

               “I’m not a fool,” I shot back. “I would have done that even without your threat.”

               “It isn’t a threat,” Mordred said simply. “It’s a promise.”

               I didn’t answer him. He turned toward the fireplace and straightened his coat.

               “Best get to work,” he advised. “The Seal must be broken by this time next week. Our spells should be in place by then. Keep in touch.”

               I still said nothing. Baba Yaga reached over and patted my head.

               “I have faith in you, vnuchka,” she smiled. “You will make me proud.”

               “Thank you, Babushka,” I said, keeping my eyes strictly away from Mordred.

               “Remember,” Baba Yaga held up a finger. “Do not forget the lineages. We hold them to no esteem—but our foes value them more than life.”

               I frowned, but nodded once.

               “Your hand, my lady,” Mordred said, holding his white palm out toward Baba Yaga.

               “Thank you, sir,” she said, and wrapped her gnarled fingers around his. Mordred glanced down at me, his silvery eyes flashing.

               “Goodbye,” he said.

               And he and Baba Yaga dissolved into black smoke.

               They swirled like a cyclone, writhing and twisting, then wound their way up the chimney, and disappeared.

                   I sat for a long time in the silence, watching the fireplace where they had vanished. Then, I set the book aside, pulled the table back in front of me, and finished my meal before it got cold.

After that, I performed a simple cleaning spell, put my dishes away, made the guest chair sink back onto the floor, came back and prodded the fire. The flames leaped high, and warmth spilled over my boots. I tossed another log in, then snapped my fingers and lit the hanging lamp by my armchair. Sighing, I sat back down, stretched my legs out in front of me, and took up the book again. I opened it to the first page.

               It was blank.

               My brow furrowed.

               “Hello?”

               Hello.

               I cleared my throat.

               “What is your name?”

               My name is Leabhar.I am The Book.

               “Who made you?”

               The Caldic Curse-Breakers.

               “How do you know me?” I wondered.

               I know all beings in this world, alive and dead.

               I bit the inside of my lip.

               “Tell me how the Great Seals were made.”

               Do you wish to know the truth?

               “Yes, of course I do,” I insisted. “Why else would I ask?”

               Very well. The realm of Edel had been swallowed by shadow. This time was called The Curtain. Curse-Breathers had arisen and overwhelmed the servants of light, binding them in curses and spells, ensnaring the borders of the kingdoms, causing wars to erupt amongst brothers. The Source Himself summoned the Curse-Breakers and sent them to stand upon the pulse points of Edel. Then, he journeyed Beneath, and gave his life in sacrifice to the Dragon. But his death fractured the Fountains of the Deep, and his blood mingled with the water. The water surged up through the Mountain of Maith and spilled down across the land. At the same moment, his power, channeled by his Curse-Breakers, pushed up through the earth where each of them stood, and each Curse-Breaker used this force to create a mighty Seal of protection. The breaking of the Fountains broke the Dragon’s curse, and the Source was restored to life. The Curse-Breakers then bound each Seal to the lifeblood of the royal family nearby, and charged each true ruler with the protection of that Seal, a task to be passed down through the bloodline.  

               I heaved a sigh and rolled my eyes.

               “I could have read this in a book of fairy tales,” I muttered. “Be more realistic.”

               What is it that you find doubtful?

               “The Source is dead. Everyone knows that,” I answered, gesturing vaguely. “The water is just latent magic from the days before the Curtain, and it power is fading.”

               The Book went blank.

               I thumped the page with my finger.

               “Be more realistic about the Seals,” I demanded. “And specific.”

               If you do not accept my premise, then what I tell you has no foundation. We have no frame of reference from which to understand each other.

               I released another sigh.

               “All right, I will acknowledge the death and resurrection of the Source as legend,” I said. “Now, tell me.”

               The previous ink bled away. And it returned in one word:

               No.

               “No?” I cried. “Why not?”

               The ink faded.

               And none replaced it.

               I shut the book and threw it on the ground. It bounced away from me across the bearskin rug.

               “That isn’t Leabhar,” I scoffed. “Mordred’s a fool.” I stood up, and kicked the book across the floor as I walked back toward my bedroom. “It’s just a stupid Answer-Back book. I could make another one just like it for him in two hours…”

                    I shut myself in my room and lit the candles and lamps, and glanced around. It wasn’t a large room: it had a single window hung with leather curtains, a narrow bed covered in skins, a woven rag-rug on the wooden floor, and the left and right-hand walls had been built in with bookshelves. Several battered trunks stood in the corner.

               I lit extra lamps beside the bookcases, peering at the spines as I passed the hundreds of packed volumes. I grabbed one book, jerked it out, and tossed it on the floor behind me. I grabbed another, and another, and another. Their covers slapped together as each one landed. Then, I went to the top trunk, flung open the lid, and dug out a piece of parchment, ink, and a pen. Then, I came back to the center of the room, sat down cross-legged, snatched up the first book, opened it and set to work.

                    It took me four days.

               With aching neck and back, I poured over the volumes, checking and checking again. The first volume was The Book of Common Curses; the second: The Foundations of Ancient Magic; the third: The Master’s Curse Book; the fourth: Natural Spells, the fifth: Blood Spells.  

               I carefully made lists on the parchment, drawing out steps one, two, three and so on. I counted ingredients, muttered words. Interchanged some, rejected others. Added more.

               I stopped working when the sun arose, ate, and slept. I performed refresher spells rather than sponging myself off or washing my clothes. I didn’t have time to dally. I gave myself a headache every night, and rejoiced when I could lie down amidst the bearskins and relax the muscles in my neck. But the dusk came all to quickly, and I forced myself to arise, eat again, and hunch over my work once more.

               Soon, I was able to confirm my initial conclusion: that any magic specifically found in the Book of Common Curses  or The Master’s Curse Book would not suffice against a Seal or any guardian, since the seals had been specifically designed to withstand them. In fact, casting one of them could prove deadly to me.

               I also concluded that many blood spells and natural could be executed to act like curses. It was the one weakness, the loophole that the Caldic Curse-Breakers had forgotten. Indeed, Baba Yaga often told me that the Curse-Breakers of this day and age bitterly regretted that their predecessors had not included spells that bore fatal consequences as curses, also.

               These would do nicely for me. And once I had the words aligned, the work would all be in the casting. I wouldn’t even have to set foot in Astrum.

                 I flew with the rolled parchment in my beak, over the jagged roof of the forest, toward the gap in the mountains where the river ran. I carried Mordred’s book in a pouch in my claws. If he wanted it later, fine. He’d find me with it and I would give it to him. I wasn’t about to die over something so silly.

Silvery moonlight poured down over the pines, glistening against the white stones that dotted the foothills. My feathers rustled through the chill air. Fog hung in the wooded paths, shrouding the tiny villages that stood in the narrow clearings. I beat my wings and picked up my speed, arching higher and higher, swooping beneath the low clouds.

               At last, I spotted the low, jagged foothill of Mount Stell, the craggy peak that wreathed Astrum in its arms. This foothill rose up to half the mountain’s height, and overlooked a small valley, on the other side of which, at a great height, stood the castle.

               I plunged down, cutting through the frosty wind, swooped between the trees, flung out my wings…

               Transformed back to a human with a furious rush, and my booted feet struck the frost-covered stone of the Maven Overlook. The pouch with Mordred’s book tumbled to a stop next to me.

               Silence fell all around me. I took the parchment from my mouth and drew in a deep breath, then let it out. It clouded around my head in vapor. I cast a look around. Behind me stood the ruins of the Maven Watchtower, used long ago in the War of the Gemstones. Now it lay dead, its stones asunder and covered over in brown ivy and moss, the bones of its slain watchmen picked clean by the birds.

               Unmoved, I turned my gaze away from it, and down into the valley before me.

               Far, far across, clouded by mist, the face of Mount Solem arose like a great wall. In the depths of the valley, between Solem and Stell, like a great crack in the earth, wove the Sopor River, its edges frozen, trees crowding its banks. I traced the upward slant of the foothills of Stell with my sharp gaze, watching the ripples in the forest and the protrusions of the stones, until I found the Castle Astrum.

               There it stood, as if it had grown from the living stone of the mountain. Dozens of piercing towers, like arrows poised to launch to the heavens, their caps blue as sapphire, their stone white as snow. Balconies and arched corridors adorned its walls like lace, colored windows decorated it like jewelry. But all those windows lay dark, for none inside were awake, save the watchman—and I could glimpse his single torch from one of the tower tops, winking like the faraway eye of an owl.

               I smiled to myself.

               He would be the first to be surprised, then.

               I unrolled the parchment, glancing across my careful writing by the light of the moon. As I did, a snowflake landed upon my glove. I glanced up. The sky was clear, but the low-hanging mist had begun to crystalize, filling the air with a deep and intimate silence.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Curse-Maker-Tale-Gwiddon-Crow-Curse-Breaker-ebook/dp/B07N7V3K4T/ref=pd_sbs_351_5/146-6363556-3395043?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B07N7V3K4T&pd_rd_r=51133e1c-5438-4cae-bec3-a817e25bb633&pd_rd_w=kiB1I&pd_rd_wg=f02WA&pf_rd_p=52b7592c-2dc9-4ac6-84d4-4bda6360045e&pf_rd_r=V09XKRH01FN9CDDVNS72&psc=1&refRID=V09XKRH01FN9CDDVNS72

[whiteriverflyanglers]

Know the Basics of Fly fishing & why it is necessary to be perfect

Are you searching for some beautiful as well as adventurous spots to spend your weekend? Then go for the White River in Arkansas which is very much popular on earth. Travelers gather here for the practice of catching trophy trout. Choose the most perfect White River Arkansas Fishing, Nor Fork River fly fishing fundamental session to be an expert in your fly fishing art. This is the best thing that you could do fishing everywhere you wish to if you have the basic experience of fishing.

What are Basics in Fly Fishing?

The rod and reel are very much important in learning the basics of fly fishing as the rod is different from regular rods. Each rod has a guaranteed weight and they are taller and leaner than others. There a lot many sizes of rods. Large size rods are used in ocean fishing. Choosing the rods perfectly will make your fishing enjoyable without any trouble.

Another basic thing in fly fishing is the reel. This reel is not similar to other reel types are. To hook up a huge amount of fish, there are much lesser things to do without loss of time and money.

Why Learning is Important?

To become a good fisherman, you have to catch more fish; so what you fish or the location is not a big thing. We only consider capability and resilience to fish in various circumstances and destinations for Fly fishing. But, the white river in Arkansas river & Norfork River is the appropriate location for fly fishing. Get the best White River Fishing Guides here at www.whiteriverflyanglers.com as perfections always matter for every individual in fly fishing. You can also take lessons at affordable prices here, and practice will make you a perfectionist.

In Arkansas, you can find fine and sterile rivers that make fishing training much entertaining! Fishing is the best family art, framed as the white river trout fishing.

[fishing-exposed]

@Arflyfishings: Some of the best fishing water will require a boat to reach. The Nor Fork River is also a very nice dry fly river, with a variety of notable hatches occurring throughout the season. Visit Our Website Now https://t.co/TMVhm4Vkr2 #NorForkRiverflyfishing https://t.co/EEB4bthMFm

[hooxfishing]

When Salmon Return to the Margaree, It’s All Fly Rods and Autumn Glory

The river is public and can get crowded, but anglers here on Cape Breton Island know it’s something special.

By MONTE BURKE

MARGAREE FORKS, Nova Scotia — Every October, two significant migrations take place on the Margaree River on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia.

The first consists of hundreds of Atlantic salmon, returning to their natal river to spawn after a year, or sometimes longer, spent in the ocean. Most of these salmon will traverse more than 1,000 miles on their journey home.

The other is made up of legions of anglers from all over the world who flock to the Margaree in the hopes of connecting with one of those Atlantic salmon.

Among them is Suzi Moore of Newburyport, Mass., effortlessly throwing taut loops of line from her 13-foot, double-handed fly rod.

On the first evening of my weeklong trip to the Margaree, I sat on the riverbank and watched Moore and five other anglers fish a stretch of water on the lower portion of the river. Atlantic salmon were playfully leaping and porpoising throughout the pool, but neither Moore, an accomplished angler and champion bird-dog trainer, nor her fellow fishermen could persuade one to take a fly.

MARGAREE FORKS, Nova Scotia — Every October, two significant migrations take place on the Margaree River on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia.

The first consists of hundreds of Atlantic salmon, returning to their natal river to spawn after a year, or sometimes longer, spent in the ocean. Most of these salmon will traverse more than 1,000 miles on their journey home.

The other is made up of legions of anglers from all over the world who flock to the Margaree in the hopes of connecting with one of those Atlantic salmon.

Among them is Suzi Moore of Newburyport, Mass., effortlessly throwing taut loops of line from her 13-foot, double-handed fly rod.

On the first evening of my weeklong trip to the Margaree, I sat on the riverbank and watched Moore and five other anglers fish a stretch of water on the lower portion of the river. Atlantic salmon were playfully leaping and porpoising throughout the pool, but neither Moore, an accomplished angler and champion bird-dog trainer, nor her fellow fishermen could persuade one to take a fly.

“That’s Atlantic salmon fishing,” Moore said with a smile.

Moore and her husband, Allen, a retired architect, fish all over the world each year. But every October since 1987, they have come back to the Margaree, staying at their cozy home on the river, where they each have a fly-tying desk. “The fishing on the Margaree is challenging but so interesting,” Moore said. “We love it up here.”

They are not alone.

I was here with my uncle, Charles Gaines, a writer from Birmingham, Ala., and his friend Chris Child, an investment real estate broker from Holladay, Utah, staying in a family cabin perched on a meadow above the river. Gaines first fished the Margaree in 1978, Child in 1987. Since the early 2000s, the two men have been the mainstays of a rotating cast of anglers who spend an October week on the Margaree.

Gaines and Child are part of a long line of “from-aways” who have come here to fish since the 1930s. Among the first was the Brooklyn-reared Lee Wulff, a fly-fishing legend who landed his first Atlantic salmon here in 1933 and proclaimed the Margaree “my first love among salmon rivers.”

To be sure, there are easier places in the world to catch an Atlantic salmon. In Europe, Iceland, Russia and most other provinces in Canada, most salmon rivers are private, and thus offer solitude and many more fish. Those luxuries come at a steep cost, though. A prime week at the Atlantic Salmon Reserve on Russia’s Kola Peninsula costs close to $20,000. A week at a good camp on New Brunswick’s Miramichi River goes for $4,000.

The Margaree, however, is public, like all salmon rivers in Nova Scotia. (The Margaree salmon season runs from June 1 to Oct. 31.) The river can get crowded, but anglers share the water by moving through the pools in an affable conga line — a cast, a swing of the fly and a step downstream — so that everyone gets a shot at the prime salmon lies. The pressure certainly makes the angling more difficult, but, like skiers in the eastern United States, Margaree salmon anglers work with what they’ve got.

The angling, though, is only part of the appeal of the area. Cape Breton Island, which is connected to mainland Nova Scotia by a causeway, has long been a popular tourist spot, hosting the summer homes of the likes of Alexander Graham Bell, Richard Serra and Philip Glass. Recently, the island has become a fantasy refuge. During last year’s United States presidential campaign, a Cape Breton radio host, on a lark, created a website that encouraged Americans to move here if a certain candidate won. The website received two million hits and 6,000 inquiries.

One can see the attraction, especially in the fall. In October, the leaves, which had smoldered on the trees for weeks, finally caught flame, and the sweet smell of newly fallen apples intermingled with the warming scent of wood smoke. The crisp evenings were spent by the fireplace, sharing meals and stories or tying flies.

And then, of course, there are the people you meet. One morning, I headed upriver, where the Margaree grows more sylvan and intimate, resembling an Adirondack trout stream. At Cemetery Pool, I ran into Todd Karnas and Blair Banton. Karnas is a professor of literature at Memorial University in Newfoundland. He had canceled a few classes to spend the week fishing with Banton, a member of the Canadian Coast Guard. As was the case downriver, the fish were showing but not biting. The duo did not seem disheartened. Banton, who has a tattoo of a salmon fly on his left forearm, intensely watched his line swing through the pool.

“We’ll keep at ’er,” he said.

In the middle section of the river, at Etheridge Pool, I watched Anita Coady make a series of graceful casts. Coady’s family has lived in the Margaree Valley for centuries. Though she travels a bit in other seasons, Coady is always sure to be home in the fall. “This place doesn’t ever change,” she said. “Why would you ever want it to?”

At the hub of much of the activity is Alex Breckenridge, the owner of the Tying Scotsman, the only full-service fly shop in the area. Breckenridge, with his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, ties flies to match the colors of the fall — deep red marabou streamers and bright orange shrimp patterns. He moved here from Ayrshire, Scotland, in 2003 and opened his shop two years ago. “This river is so accommodating,” he said. “All you need is a license and a place to stay.”

Like many, though, Breckenridge worries about the future of Atlantic salmon. A witches’ brew of maladies — including overharvest, habitat degradation and climate change — has caused a precipitous 30-year decline in worldwide Atlantic salmon populations. The species is now listed as endangered in the United States and is extinct on some rivers in southern Nova Scotia.

The Margaree has not been immune to the troubles. But angling organizations, like the international Atlantic Salmon Federation and the local Margaree Salmon Association, have taken steps to try to mitigate the decline. Recent measures on the Margaree include attempts at habitat restoration and a mandated catch-and-release policy on the river.

The declines in the runs have made some wistful for years past. But Gaines and Child shun the nostalgia. “Every week up here, and every day on the river, grants you a new chance,” Child said.

That optimism is a necessary trait for Atlantic salmon anglers. Its adherents are practiced in the art of rejection. The enigmatic species has been called “the fish of 1,000 casts” for good reason. (Atlantic salmon do not feed when they enter freshwater; many believe they strike flies out of some instinct developed as a juvenile in rivers.) Some anglers endure long stretches without catching a fish — I’d gone a full two weeks on the Margaree over the summer without even a strike.

It’s certainly not a sport for everyone, especially those with a steady iPhone habit. For others, though, the patient, repetitive process — and the ability to simultaneously daydream and pay close attention to your fly — is the entire point. Yvon Chouinard, the founder of Patagonia and an avid Atlantic salmon fisherman, has likened salmon fishing to being stoned.

I’m firmly in Chouinard’s camp: The process is more important than the result. Still, on the last evening of my October trip, I was going on three weeks without a fish. What I wanted more than anything was to feel the pull of an Atlantic salmon — a jolt, always unexpected, like shaking hands with an overeager Texan.

I walked down to the lower river, tied on one of Breckenridge’s red-and-yellow marabou flies and began to cast. On my third swing, my fly suddenly stopped. The water frothed as the salmon leapt twice, completely clearing the surface of the river. Eventually, I tailed her and held her steady in the current, up to my elbows in the water. Her back was lightly bronzed, her flanks silvery. It was getting dark quickly and the air had chilled. My ritual of the fall was at its end. The salmon, with a flick of her strong tail, shot upstream, continuing on with hers.

[talesfromaestria]

Na Bu River

“I believe this lost little desert temple may provide us with crucial information regarding the whereabouts of the legendary Prophet” Luktfer proclaimed, staring intently at an old dusted and slightly torn map in hand. Hood pulled down revealing ruff and sharp, ghost-like hair, while his goggles, slightly cracked from their prior brawl covering his eyes.

“You’re really following the mad ramblings of an old, decrepit monk looking homeless person roaming the desert?” Thylmiir responded, in a rather disbelieving manner. Gliding along an ice-bound river, frozen by a large translucent serpent. Hand outstretched

The serpent itself, a familiar summoned by Thylmiir, a sky blue hue with glistening yellow-tinted eyes, leaping in and out of the river leaving a trail of frosted aura in its wake, falling from its spectral scales. Feather-like fins protruding from its head down to halfway down its back leaving a long, slender and pointed tail stretching for about seven and a half foot. Creating an ice path for the two adventurous companions to walk along.

“Well it’s something, we’ve just been wandering the desert for days, even if we don’t make any progress at least we’ll get some spoils” Thylmiir simply responds with a dead-eyed, judgmental glare “And who knows, you can probably kill something to add to your collection”

A few moments of walking along the frozen river and a rally of slight banter commences until they reach a clearing in the oasis to a rather large body of water, too large to be a pond, however, not nowhere near large enough to be a lake.

The serpent leaps high, the sun shining through its clear body and diving through the centre of the water, freezing over the entire thing. Large palms surround the frigid oasis, leaning in towards the water, roots protected by large overgrown spiked bushes. Small huts of leaves and mud scatter the riverbed and around the water and further into the vegetation. The plant life was plentiful, however, animal life was oddly void... No small mammals to leap between fruit stash to fruit stash nor fish thriving within the river, eerie silence.

“I told you this was a waste of time!” Thylmiir roars at her friend, stomping and creating a crack in the dense ice.

Only this crack spread. The crack spread deep into the centre of the small lake, forming a small circle. The bright and clear ice turns a sickening red and shadowed in black. More cracks reach out from the centre circle...

With rapid speed, a large pillar of deep green and red smashes its way through the ice, possing in a swan neck stance, the top half of the creature covered in green overlapping scales and thick moss with the occasional needle-like spine protruding from its back. It's underside, however, a vibrant red and just as scaled; bones of its victims stuck and pointing out of the odd scale, a similar motif to its mouth which gapes open with a cruel and sadistic smile, with two rows of pointed and thin claw-like teeth, akin to that of a piranha only thinner and more bountiful with bones and both man and beast littering between them whilst a large forked tongue lays in wait. It’s head in general like that of a viper with a curved and pointed tip, lime venom drooling out from the edges of its mouth. Erect it stands forty foot tall, but that was only what was above the water.

“I thought it was awfully quiet...” Luktfer said jaw hung wide open.

The beast’s mouth peeled back, revealing a long array of jagged fangs and letting roar an echoing screech, firing luminous green venom at frightening speeds towards the pair.

“Well move!” Thylmiir cries, tackling her friend, sliding them both across the ice while the toxic substance eats away at the thick ice that had resisted the scorching ice of the desert.

“Stop staring and start fighting”

“Sorry” Luktfer says, leaning over Thylmiir’s shoulder firing a bolt into the beast’s thick scales, lodging into it and repeating with a second crossbow.

Unfazed by Thylmiir’s pitiful attack, the large creature lunges towards the duo, head first. Diving, either way, Luktfer barely manages to avoid the assault, diving to the left. Thylmiir was less fortunate, catching her leg and crashing into a large tree, a branch cutting open her knee, letting out a fierce scream and falling to the sloped grass.

Taking a second lung at Luktfer, brandishing its fangs once more, seeing an opening as its tongue is exposed Luktfer readies two daggers in his hand. He tosses the first into the beast’s mouth, only for its corrosive venom to melt the weapon in mere seconds upon entering its mouth. Ducking under the projectile substance he throws a second, slightly chipping a fang as it hurtles into its tongue, causing a diversion of course into the ice. Briefly dazed, the serpent hisses, reading into a pose once more.

Picking her self off the ground and looking severely pissed, Thylmiir with gritted teeth, she pulls back a punch, fist now engulfed in circling wind, dives off her undamaged leg into the beast’s chest as a large hawk-like familiar dives from the sky and through the serpent, driving it back through the ice. Raising her hands to the sky, creating s swirling vortex of flames, a fox falls through the fire, dragging it through the water down to the bottom of the lake, creating scalding hot water in the process, further weakening the ice.

“Well, that was fun...” Thylmiir turns to Luktfer, hunched and heavily breathing.

“... Yea” Luktfer hesitates and shrugging away. Freezing at the sight of two piercing ambers glow from under the ice “ Maybe not...”

Distracted by the lurking beast, it’s giant, pointed tail, resembling that of an arrow, crashes through the ice underneath Luktfer, sending him flying away across the lake, blood dripping across the ice from his arms and mouth.

A furious Thylmiir, freezes the water around the serpent’s tail as the familiar that had initially frozen the river dives up from the water, high into the air to disappear in the sun’s bright light. Brandishing a sword, and letting out a scream as they dash off their injured leg, now gushing with blood drives the sword down a scale, using the leverage to tear it off and plunge it through the now exposed tail and ou through the other side, popping off another scale at the other end. This time the beast bellowed in pain, flicking the top of its tail and sending Thylmiir across the ice towards her comrade, a rogue shard of ice now impaled into her damaged leg. Taking advantage of her momentary weakness, the beast lunged, fangs poised at Thylmiir, who bearly managed to roll out of the way, with a large fang catching her leg. The beast’s head slamming into the ice, further chipping its tooth previously damaged by Luktfer’s dagger.

Taking notice of the damaged tooth Luktfer pulls out one final dagger and swings at the loose fang, just about taking it off only to have their arm impaled by a thin spine on the back of the creature’s head as it rolls in pain, spewing venom in Thylmiir’s direction.

Enraged like never before, the creature makes one final lunge towards Thylmiir, who, summoning strength from some unknown source, whips the venom through the air, carried by a robin familiar as Luktfer coats the fang in, dashing and sliding across the ice and thrusting the venom coated fang, melting its way through the tough scales and tearing through the beast’s flesh, whose own momentum carries them across the fang, ripping straight through its abdomen, sending the carcas writhing and sprawled across the frozen lake.

“Everything intact?” Luktfer jokingly asks his friend, offering Thylmiir a hand.

“I’ve seen, worse, though a good nights rest wouldn’t hurt” She replies, laughing. “But let’s get some of those fangs for later use, and maybe a few vials of venom too might come in useful”

“The map says there’s a rather large village just north, we should probably patch up there,” Luktfer says, staring at his map, even further torn from the fight.

“That’s the first good suggestion you’ve made today... That and dragging us down this bloody river” Thylmiir remarks as the pair limp out of the oasis.