#Secret Town trestle

[demospectator]

Detail from stereoview no. 539 “Chinese at Laying Last Rail UPRR” May 10, 1869.  Photograph by A.J. Rusell (from the collection of the CPRR Museum).

Day of Days:  Chinese Drove the Last Spike

“At 7 o’clock the boarding train returned to Victory station, and, except a few business cars, two telegraph offices and some restaurant tents, the summit was deserted. As soon as the ceremony was over and the locomotives of the respective companies had met at the junction, the California tie was taken up again, and pine wood, with common spikes, substituted. That was immediately attacked by hundreds of jack-knives, and soon reduced to a mere stick. The ever-watchful Chinamen then took up the remains, sawed into small pieces and distributed it among them. The Chinese really laid the last tie and drove the last spike. When we last saw the spot, soldiers were hammering away at the flanges of the rails, and had carried off all the pieces they could break, so that a new rail will soon be necessary. One of the presentation spikes was afterwards, cut, and half of it given to Dillon for a memento.”

"HONORS TO JOHN CHINAMAN.

“Mr. Strowbridge, when work as all over, invited the Chinamen who had been brought over from Victory for the purpose, to dine in his boarding car. When they entered all the guests and officers present cheered them as the chosen representatives of the race which have greatly helped to build the road – a tribute they well deserved, and which evidently gave them much pleasure.”

-- Transcontinental Railroad Postscript to the San Francisco News Letter – California Advertiser, May 15, 1869.

#539. "Chinese at Laying Last Rail UPRR," May 10, 1869. (Stereoview and Caption Courtesy of the Phil Anderson Collection)

The stereograph on O.C. Smith's yellow mount may be the only photographic record of the Chinese role in the Last Rail ceremony; The view clearly shows at least one Chinese worker and a partner with rail-laying tools appearing to adjust the last rail laid (from the Central Pacific RR side), with a wooden track gauge stick still in place while two others look on -- showing the moment the last rails were actually laid. The image confirms eyewitness accounts.  A crowd stands behind and fans away on both sides. Union Pacific RR Locomotive "119" is prominent in the background. A couple of ladies are on shoulders to get a better look at the scene. Notice the textures in the clothing, a gentleman in the crowd wearing quite stylish sunglasses (the only one), and some tools, shovels and fishplates laying on the ground. 

Ging Cui, Wong Fook, and Lee Shao, three of the eight Chinese CPRR workers who brought up the last rail at Promontory Summit on May 10, 1869 also participated in the Ogden 1919 50th Anniversary Celebration.

CPRR foreman, Amos L. Bowsher, who wired the telegraphic connection at Promontory which sent the word out over the wires that the last spike had been driven later recalled: "It was certainly a cosmopolitan gathering. Irish and Chinese laborers who had set records in track laying that have never since been equalled joined with the cowboys, Mormons, miners and Indians in celebrating completion of the railroad."

A reporter for the San Francisco Newsletter, May 15, 1869, described the final moments of the celebration at Promontory:

“J.H. Strobridge, when the work was all over, invited the Chinese who had been brought over from Victory for that purpose, to dine at his boarding car. When they entered, all the guests and officers present cheered them as the chosen representatives of the race which have greatly helped to build the road ... a tribute they well deserved and which evidently gave them much pleasure.”

“While in Sacramento,” the CPRR history website writes, “CPRR Director, Judge Edwin Bryant Crocker in his speech also paid tribute to the Chinese: 

“I wish to call to your minds that the early completion of this railroad we have built has been in large measure due to that poor, despised class of laborers called the Chinese, to the fidelity and industry they have shown.”

Filling In Secret Town Trestle” c. 1869.  Photograph by Carleton Watkins (from the Northeastern California Historical Photograph Collection. Meriam Library. California State University, Chico).  After miners discovered gold in this area, miners wanted to keep the location a secret, and hence Secret Town was established. The transcontinental railroad ran near Secret Town as an impressive wooden trestle that stretched 1110 feet across and 95 feet above Secret Town ravine. But during those times, wooden trestles often caught fire from smokestack sparks as trains crossed. To solve this dilemma, Central Pacific Railroad hired Chinese laborers to fill-in Secret Town trestle with earth and rock after the railroad opened to traffic and could afford to send Chinese laborers back to improve the right-of-way.The filling-in of Secret Town ravine to accommodate I-80 and other features makes the Chinese laborers accomplishments less dramatic. Today, the trestle remains buried under the fill.

Each May, we pause to honor the Originals.

[theblob1958]

did you know that well they're still racing out at the trestles but that blood it never burned in her veins now I hear she's got a house up in fairview and a style she's trying to maintain well, if she wants to see me you can tell her that I'm easily found tell her there's a spot out 'neath Abram's Bridge and tell her there's a darkness on the edge of town there's a darkness on the edge of town well everybody's got a secret, son something that they just can't face some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it they carry it with them every step that they take till some day they just cut it loose cut it loose or let it drag 'em down where no one asks any questions or looks too long in your face in the darkness on the edge of town in the darkness on the edge of town some folks are born into a good life and other folks get it anyway, anyhow well then I lost my money and I lost my wife them things don't seem to matter much to me now tonight I'll be on that hill 'cause I can't stop i'll be on that hill with everything I got lives on the line where dreams are found and lost i'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost for wanting things that can only be found in the darkness on the edge of town in the darkness on the edge of town ?

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Feasts, Food and Drink

Picture yourself at a banquet held at the local Lord's castle. The music is playing, the people are chatting and rustling about in their best clothes. You sit at a table and what sits before you? Not chicken nuggets, my friend.

Food is always one of the staples of any world you build. You can get a feel of class, society and morality just by looking at the spread before you on the table.

Food for lower classes (Peasants)

Most peasants lived off the land, rearing flocks, tilling fields and tending orchards. If they lived near the sea, lakes, rivers or streams, they would fish. But since they lived on land owned by churches or lords, they would only be allowed a portion of what they grew. In cities, the peasants would buy food from one another at the market.

Peasants would make bread out of rye grain, that would make the bread very dark. In some communities they would make sourdough, which involves using a piece of dough you made the day before to make that day's bread.

Eggs were a source of food that was easy to come by as farmers kept chickens on hand.

Cheese and butter would be sold and used in the farm.

Jam would also be made as it was easy to preserve and sell.

Peasants would not eat much meat. Chickens made money by laying eggs, pigs could be fattened and sold for profit and cows and goats would be used for milk. By killing any of these animals for food they would loose a portion of money. Poaching (hunting on private land owned by the lord) would come with severe penalties.

Pottage and stew were a favourite of peasants as they could throw any vegetables or bit of meat or fish in a pot to cook for a few hours. It wasn't a difficult dish to make and often inexpensive.

Pies, pasties and pastries would be a favourite at inns and taverns in towns and cities most containing gravy, meat and vegetables.

With most villages and farms set close to forests, many peasants could find berries at the edge of fields. Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries would have all grown wild.

Food for Nobility & Royalty

Nobility and Royalty could always afford better food than the poor. However it might be a patch more unhealthy than the poor's fare. Nobility and Royalty weren't fans of vegetables.

The rich would eat a lot of meat, much of which they would hunt down themselves on their own land. Deer, wild boar, rabbits, turkey and other wild creatures would all be on the table.

Nobility and Royalty would be fond of fish as well. Lamprey eels was a delicacy only preserved for special occasions.

They could afford salt which was important for preserving meat and fish. This would allow the castle/manor/palace to be stocked in times of winter or famine.

They could also afford pepper and other spices, all of which could cost a fortune, to flavour their food.

During a feast, they would eat off of platters made of precious metals but only if you were seated at the high table. Other less important guests would eat off a trencher, a piece of hollowed out stale bread.

Sugar would be the height of dessert. The sugar would be shaped into fantastical formations to impress the noble guests. Tudor chefs would create edible sugar plates for Henry VIII to eat off of.

Swans and peacocks would be served in their plumage. Swans would be more royal diners as in England the monarch owns all the swans. In Ireland, it is illegal to kill a swan mainly because they could be children trapped in swan-bodies. Long story.

Feasts

At certain events, the noble/monarch might throw a party. Most parties would begin with a dinner.

The high table would seat the family throwing the party and the honoured guests. All the food would come to them first to be distributed to their favourites. They would drink the best wine and have the finest bread.

The rest of the hall would be seated together at trestle tables, eating off trenchers. They would be sent food by the thrower of the feast on account of their personal importance or social standing. The closer you were to the salt cellar, placed at the head of the table the more important you were. The further away you were, the lower your status.

Servants called cupbearers would serve wine and drink and move about the hall to carry jugs of wine to water the guests.

Dogs would often be found in the hall, to be fed scraps by the diners.

Drink

No world or party is complete without the booze. Since much of the water in Mediaeval times was putrid or dirty, the classes would avoid it.

Beer: was both a favourite of peasants and the nobility. It would be brewed in castles or in taverns and inns, each site having a different recipe and taste. It would be stored in barrels. Beer was widely available across the world and could be brewed at home. So therefore it was inexpensive.

The two main types of beer would be:

Ale: Ale in the middle ages referred to beer brewed without hops (a kind of flowering plant that gives beer its bitter taste). It is sweeter and would typically have a fruity aftertaste.

Stout: is a darker beer sometimes brewed from roasted malt, coming in a sweet version and dry version, the most famous stout being Guinness.

Wine: Wine would be made on site of vineyards and stored in cellars of large houses or castles. They would be expensive as they would have to be imported from regions capable of growing vines.

Port: Port wine or fortified wine would be made with distilled grape spirits. It is a sweet red wine, and also would be expensive to import from the counties able to grow the correct vines.

Whiskey: is a spirit made from distilled fermented grain mash in a device called a still (which would always be made of copper). The age of whiskey is determined by the length of time it has been sitting in a cask from the time it is made to the time its put in bottles. Whiskey was a favourite drink in colder climates and could be made any where in the world.

Rum: Rum is made by fermenting and distilling sugarcane molasses/juice. It is aged in oak barrels and would have to be imported as it could only be made in lands able to grow sugarcane.

Poitín: (pronounced as pot-cheen) is made from cereals, grain, whey, sugar beet, molasses and potatoes. It is a Dangerous Drink (honestly i still don't know how I ended up in that field with a traffic cone and a Shetland pony) and technically illegal. Country folk in Ireland used to brew it in secrets in stills hidden on their land.

[deducingcircumference]

Messy

*slips in on the last day of Emogust*

A DCMK Emogust 2020 entry for the prompt “messy.”

Shinran fans should probably give this one a miss!

Pairing: Shiho/Shinichi Rating: M Genre: Angst Other tags: loyal-to-the-Black-Organization!Shiho, no APTX 4869, meeting as adults AU, Miyano Atsushi is also alive in this AU Content warning: Infidelity

= = = = = =

Crying in those rumpled sheets like someone's 'bout to die, You just watch your mouth when talking 'bout the father of the bride.    — “Hold You Now,” Vampire Weekend

-

Seated at the bureau, Shiho opens a handwritten letter and doesn’t hear Kudo wake. The letter’s from her fiancé, precise brushstrokes on rich paper; he wants her to know how much he’s looking forward to their union, in these last anticipatory hours.

Kudo’s voice reaches her.

“Don’t do it.”

She glances at him, eyes lidded. He’s sitting up in the messy bed, torso bare, eyes bright, his own wedding band hidden by the disheveled sheets.

He keeps talking.

“We could run away. I know someone who’s got an empty apartment in Paris!” Desperation colors his voice. “In ancient Greece, the summer solstice would be a time for new beginnings. And it doesn’t have to be Paris. Shanghai would be equally viable. New York and Cape Town, too.”

A decrepit warehouse west of the city, demolished now. The dark of a river dividing the dark of a grassy field. Trains rattling past each other on a trestle bridge, windows glowing in the humid night.

“Kudo Shinichi, detective.”

“I know who you are.”

“We both have information the other wants. Why don’t we work together?”

Her fiancé is a member of the National Diet with long levers in business and politics alike, who’s risen meteorically in the last few years, thanks to his brilliance, charisma, and money, or so he thinks. So the media thinks. He is the Organization’s choice, but a choice that fits well into her ambitions.

And Kudo — Kudo is nobody. A handsome, penniless private eye.

“What is this world without love, without trust?”

“One in which you survive.”

Their sixth meeting. His tongue driving into her mouth, the alley’s brick wall rough and electrifying against her back, his wedding ring hard against the flesh of her arms.

A hotel room with scratchy sheets, smelling of smoke. The curtains open.

Shiho folds the letter and places it neatly back on the bureau. “If you want to help out before the ceremony, Chris Vineyard is in charge of everything. Make sure to speak to her,” she says, as if that is what they’ve been talking about.

“Shiho, listen to me!”

Fragments of classical poetry gasped into her ear, his mouth in every secret place.

She ignores the trespass of her name and goes over to sit on the bed, her red dressing gown wrapped around her and the mattress dipping under her weight, her eyes scraping over his naked torso, over his hips still under the loose sheets.

She leans forward so her lips are close to his ear. “This doesn’t have to stop.”

“But…”

She brings her mouth to his and feels his resistance crumbling, until saltwater runs down his face and mixes with their saliva. When she pulls away his eyes are cast down at the sheets bunched in his hands, his face wet.

“I hate them,” he whispers. “Your Organization.”

“Careful,” Shiho warns him, forbidding and sincere.

His eyes snap up, burn into hers. “I hate them. I’ll bring them down.”

“You try to, and I’ll bring you down,” she says coldly.

He doesn’t answer, and she stands up. “I’ll be going, then. See you later, Kudo-kun.” She considers the broken tilt of his head, then bends down to kiss him again, long and lingering and full.

“It’s Shinichi,” he says hoarsely, as she straightens up.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, and leaves.

-

This ain't the end of nothing much — it's just another round.

[eirian-houpe]

The Library Beneath the Clock Tower - Chapter 42

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Widow Lucas | Granny, Grumpy | Leroy, Maurice | Moe French, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Merida (Once Upon a Time), Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Le Fou, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Gus | Billy, Huntsman | Sheriff Graham, Mother Trude (Fairytale Character)

Additional Tags: Bookshop On the Corner, slightly AU, Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Eventual Smut

Summary: Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community.

Read Previous Chapters on AO3

Chapter 42 - Secrets and Lies

She couldn’t have said when it was that her rapid footsteps became a jog, became a full out run, nor when she stopped. She leaned on her knees, breathless, her heart pounding and not just from the run. The thoughts and images she had seen, the things she had felt still swirled in her mind, making no sense, except perhaps that she really had imbibed too much of the local brew.

She shook her head. She didn’t feel drunk, she just couldn’t explain anything she’d seen the moment Gold took her hand.

She let herself sink to the ground, and wrapped her cloak around herself, taking deep breaths to try and get control of her rising emotions. After everything that had happened with Hunter, she didn’t need to be getting lost in another fantasy.

Find something real That’s what Ruby had said, and that was what she needed to do, but… she had always felt some kind of pull, some kind of connection between herself and Gold.

“No,” she told herself. “That doesn’t happen. That kind of thing only happens in fairy tales!”

She pursed her lips, realizing she was rambling to herself, to keep from repeating herself over and over again; made herself sit very still, taking deep breaths. The last thing she needed now was for her anxiety to return, not after all this time of being well.

She sat for what seemed like hours before the chill of the evening began to seep through her cloak, but at least her heart was beating more steadily, and her breathing was calm. She looked up at the sky, still peppered with stars, the only light for miles, besides the flickering orange and red of the bonfire, somehow still burning.

Standing, she looked back to the area, and saw the people of Storybrooke caught in their festival revelry next to, even around that bonfire, and somehow felt apart from the community again, as though what little inroad she had made as the librarian had been shattered in the moment that she ran from Gold. That apart from him she was apart from them.

It made no sense to her, and so she did what she would always do in such a time. She stood, wrapped her cloak around her, and began to walk.

When she arrived back at the field that was the festival ground, it was to pick her way carefully and quietly through the individuals and couples who, by then, lay wrapped in their blankets and coats, curled up on the ground that had been their dance floor, and their community hall - the invisible shelter still spread over them.

A few were still awake, sitting up in small groups, leaning against one another and murmuring softly among themselves, some still in their cups. One or two offered her a silent wave of greeting as she passed them, which she returned with as much half-hearted enthusiasm as she could.

Still further across the field, a little way down toward the road, away from the bonfire, she saw that long trestle tables had been set up, and a small troop of people were carrying dishes and platters to the table, some filled with steaming, hot, breakfast foods, others overflowing with fruit, and cheese and pastries. There was coffee too. Even across the narrowing distance between her and the table, she could smell the aroma beginning to fill her senses, catalyzing her approach to full wakefulness, although she was bone weary and heart-sore, and although she was still on rocky ground with her emotions, she had made a decision: until she could make sense of everything that had happened that evening, she would keep her distance from Mister Gold.

“Miss Belle!”

The soft voice calling to her as though trying to attract her attention without waking anyone else, drew her towards one end of the table, where Paige was frantically waving her way.

“Paige,” she exclaimed, worry filling her, “Are you still here, still awake?”

Paige giggled, shaking her head and pointing down to the parking lot, and a large van parked there close to the gate.  “I slept a little bit, and now I’m back. It’s my job to serve breakfast.  Why don’t you get some while it’s still hot?  Eggs and bacon is just not the same when it’s cold or luke warm.”

“No, you’re right. It really isn’t.” Belle said, eying the girl seriously in the dim, slow dawning light, to look for evidence of shadows beneath her eyes. They were there, of course, they always were, but not any more pronounced than usual. “Just a small plate then,” she said, as much to give the girl something to do as that she really wanted breakfast.

What she wanted was to go home, soak herself in a nice hot bath, fall into bed, and sleep until noon or later, that would do just as well. She doubted many businesses would be open the day after the festival, so she saw no reason why the library shouldn’t be the same.

She took the paper plate that Paige handed to her and smiled her thanks. It was not exactly piled high with food, but there was certainly more than she thought she could eat, at least, until she started. As soon as the first morsel passed her lips, her taste buds came to life, and reminded her, and her stomach, that she hadn’t eaten since long before dinner time the previous day.

“I watched you dancing. You looked very good, very pretty,” Paige said, “and I watched you standing with Mister Gold when they lit the bonfire and the fireworks went up.”

In spite of herself, Belle blushed.

“Jefferson dances very well,” she said in an attempt to steer Paige away from the subject of Mister Gold. “I wouldn’t have been half so good without his help.”

Paige made a face, and Belle raised an eyebrow in query. Paige looked away, biting her lip and mumbled, “My neighbor says he’s not all there.” She tapped her head. “Says I shouldn’t be around him and people like him.”

“Jefferson?” Belle asked in shock at the girl’s words. “No!”  She took several deep breaths to calm herself, to push away the shock, and then, hardly any less irritably, “And what does it have to do with Miss Trude anyway?”

Paige shrugged. “She looks out for me… sometimes,” she said.

Belle sighed, and already feeling drenched with concern over Paige’s words, decided to jump in the pool with both feet.

“Paige,” she began, “can I ask you…? Is everything all right at home?”

“Of course it is,” Paige answered, just a little bit too quickly for Belle’s liking. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Belle held up a placating hand, watching Paige’s eyes go from startled to hard and defensive. “It’s all right, I just wondered. You talk so much about your neighbor, and I see her so often that I thought—”

“Well you thought wrong,” Paige cut her off. “Everything is fine.”

Belle nodded once, and with a sigh said, “All right,” even more convinced now that there was something going on that she didn’t know about. “Just… If you ever need help, you know that you can come to me, right?”

“I..” Paige began with a sigh, and looked down at her foot that was excavating a small hole in the dirt with the toe of her sneakers, “I know,” she said at last, “and I will.”

An awkward silence ensued, so Belle tried to eat a little more of the breakfast, almost choking on a piece of bacon when Paige asked, “What about you and Mister Gold. He’s so old. Are you really going to try and be with him?”

“Oh, Paige, no… I…”

“But that’s what people do when they stand by the bonfire together,” Paige said, as if either confused or dismayed.

“Well, no, we’re just—” she broke off. What were they to one another? They argued more than they ever had pleasant conversations.

“Friends?” Paige suggested.

“More like, acquaintances,” Belle said, “Do you know that word?”

“Yeah,” Paige said with a frown. “It’s like someone you know, right? But aren’t friends with yet?”

Belle smiled. “That’s right,” she said. “You can be polite together, do things together, but you don’t know one another very well. Well, that’s me and Mister Gold.”

“No,” Paige argued. “That’s not what the Miner’s Festival Bonfire is for!”

“Paige…”

“It’s more!”

Belle was struck to silence by the girl’s outburst. She didn’t understand it, and from the expression that came to Paige’s face as Belle’s silence stretched out, neither did she… not for a long time, until her gaze dropped and she mumbled an apology.

“I think, perhaps, we’ve both been awake for far too long,” she said softly. “And need to get some sleep.”

As if Belle’s words held some kind of magic, Paige yawned.

“Maybe,” she said in agreement.

Belle nodded, and handed the now empty breakfast plate to Paige, who tossed it into the trash can behind her. Then with shame coloring her voice, Paige asked, “Can I still come to help in the library, Miss Belle?”

Belle wished that the table wasn’t between them because in that moment she wanted nothing more than to wrap Paige up in a huge hug and reassure her that there was no ill will between them.

“Of course you can,” she said instead, with as much feeling as she could. “I look forward to the days when you come.” Paige smiled at that, just a little, and then Belle added, “Just promise me you won’t stay here too late. You need some proper rest.”

“I promise,” Paige said, and then waved with a fondness that set Belle’s heart lurching as she walked away, and down the path toward where she could get a cab to take her home.

Unfortunately, when she reached the parking lot, she could see no such thing, and even though she had her phone with her, she had no idea as to a number to dial to summon one. She stood staring down the road wondering how far it was to town, when a voice behind her startled her so much that she almost stumbled.

A strong, warm hand closed around her arm to steady her as a matching voice said, “Do you need a ride home?”

“Jefferson,” she identified the speaker, “You scared me half to death!”

“Sorry,” he said, “That wasn’t my intention. I just saw you leaving in a hurry, and I worried.”

“That’s very good of you,” she told him, looking up at the half smile on his face, “But I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he told her, “but still, the offer of a ride home still stands.”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t want to drag you away from the festivities,” she said, but Jefferson shook his head.

“Nothing for me here,” he said with a sigh and added almost absently, “Not yet anyways.”

Belle frowned, but he offered nothing more, and she was tired and overdone with mystery for one night.

“Then thank you,” she said. “That would be kind.”

She followed Jefferson to his car, and he saw her safely into the passenger seat before rounding the car to take the driver’s side. They drove in silence for a while, each apparently lost in their own thoughts, until Jefferson cleared his throat and said, “Don’t worry too much about the things that Gr— Paige said.”

Belle turned her head to look at him, but he was staring straight ahead, and she could have sworn that she saw moisture gathered in his eyes.

“I’m sure she was just… caught up in the tradition of everything and doesn’t realize that sometimes… thing change.”

“It’s all right,” Belle said still frowning and trying to take in Jefferson’s expression, but the hard line of his lips and the concentration furrowing his brow as he watched the road gave little away. “I was just… surprised, I suppose, by her vehemence, her passion.”

Jefferson barked a laugh, though Belle detected little humor in it. “You’d be surprised,” was all he said.

They lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive, until they pulled up outside of the library, and Jefferson got out to help her from the car.

“Thank you,” she said, “I don’t know how I would have gotten home if you hadn’t come along.”

He smiled. “Go and get some rest,” he said. “It will all look better in the morning.”

Belle frowned. “Does it look bad now?”

“Goodnight, Belle,” he said, by way of the only answer Belle realized she was going to get. With a sigh she made her way up to the library apartment, and even the act of climbing the stairs made her rethink the idea to take a hot bath.

To hell with it, she thought as she all but fell into bed. She could take a bath when she woke up.

It wasn’t long before sleep took her, and pulled her into dreams of castles and enchanted forests, and a strangely impish little man spinning at a wheel.

[welcometoels]

Session Four - North

Night time in the still-nameless hub town, and the party have a few things they want to attend to before bed.

Oddsock opts to double-down on his desecration of the local chapel, in service to his patron.  Burning off the lock with a sloppily-applied Acid Splash, he sets about leaving a special gift on the altar.

The priest, awoken by the commotion, brandishes a broom at him, but is soothed by the hound’s friendly aura.  Sighing with resignation, he goes back to his lodgings to fetch cleaning supplies for once the cheeky dog is finished.

Over in the Jaunty Skinner, Talion (still under the guise of Tom the Bard) plays a selection of songs upon his lyre, for the delight of the townsfolk, while Julius carves some inexpert, but still identifiable, likenesses of X and Gyder into a couple of his best pebbles.  Kadis just takes in the vibes, enjoying a few moments of peace.

Sleep comes readily to the group. Oddsock dreams of his sister and her pithy column in the back pages of Chew’s News; Julius of running through the woods looking for something he can’t quite reach, and Talion of a song from his childhood. Kadis is revisited by the same old nightmare and the face of a compass - this time with the point of light from the south being in the very middle.

Morning rolls around, and with it, breakfast.  Barty offers porridge, but only Julius accepts, the others someone offput by the events in the southern farm.  They make do with an apple each, though Oddsock uses his canine charm and receives a couple of rashers of bacon that Barty had been keeping aside for himself.

While enjoying his steaming bowl of nourishment, Julius feels something scurrying around his feet.  Looking under the table, he finds a small weasel, which scampers up his body and settles on his shoulders.  Julius names the weasel Rupert, and the other team members bond with the little fellow using apple segments and vigorous petting.

Upon closer inspection, Talion discovers that the weasel shows signs of being a fey creature - mainly due to the tell-tale sparkle of magic in his fur.  He is also clearly bonded to Julius.

On the way out of town to investigate the rumours of undead in the north, the party hatches a plan.  In order to ascertain whether or not the glowing blue gem is the source of the light in Kadis’ dreams, they leave it with Barty, who promises to bury it in a special safe spot.

Julius gives the carved pebbles to his new friend X, who receives them with delight and promises to pass Gyder’s along to her.  Where the Half-Orc is, and what she is doing, is unknown at this time, but she is doubtless pursuing leads on the yellow-cloaked man who murdered her husband.

Just on the outskirts of town the adventurers encounter a mysterious robed figure, face unseen, standing before a trestle table and a sign reading “Jackie’s House Table Of Potions”.  Upon the table are four bottles, which Talion successfully identifies as minor healing potions.

The team discusses a fair trade for the bottles, but during negotiations, Oddsock peeks under the robe and comes face to face with a large raccoon.  The figure drops the pretence and admits to being a group of racoons posing as a person, as the locals seem unwilling to trade with animals - even those that can talk.  Julius and Oddsock’s experiences at the town shop certainly confirm this to be true.

Re-introducing themselves as Jackie Face, Jackie Left, Jackie Right, Jackie Middle and the poor unfortunate Jackie Bottom, they successfully entreat the party to purchase the potions and not tell of their deception.  They sweeten this deal by promising favourable rates on any future purchases.

Newly stocked with healing items, the group continues north, leaving the Jackies to wrestle with the folding table.

While walking through the forest path, the group begins to notice that the trees are changing.  Where once was verdant oak and elm, there is now dark pine, and some that appear dead and leafless.  Through this sinister foliage they hear sounds of animals in pain, and a weak cry for help.

Pressing onward to find the source, they stumble across an uneven, two-storey house with a quaint vegetable garden, and a woman dressed in a sari, and a veil over her mouth.  She looks panicked as the team arrives, and backs away slowly.

From the house emerges a portly, friendly Human, who introduces himself as Zeriah Fernbough, and his companion as Em.  When questioned, he denies hearing any pained sounds, and is unaware of anyone or anything in peril in the local area.  He invites the group inside for tea and, since night is drawing in, a bed.

The group are understandably suspicious - an over-friendly man and his as-yet silent friend, living in a creepy forest from which came sounds of peril is certainly a situation in which to maintain utmost caution.  They follow the duo inside and settle into the mis-matched furniture to begin their secret investigation.

Julius brings his attention to Em, to see if he can deduce the cause of her muteness.  Though the otter can find no medical cause, he does notice that her skin is quite unusual - unlike any flesh he’s touched before.  He also sends Rupert to check outside, but discovers nothing except for the fact that the side of the house has the same texture as Em’s skin.

When Zeriah brings out some cups of tea, Kadis sniffs it carefully.  He finds that it is simply a pleasant herbal brew, which Zeriah confirms is a mixture of his own invention.  It tastes good too.

Talion turns on the charm and engages in some friendly chat with Zeriah.  However, Zeriah confirms that he is not aware of any injured creatures.  Em remains silent.

Oddsock uses his cover as a friendly Golden Retriever to scour the location.  He follows Zeriah into the kitchen as he goes to fetch biscuits, and has a thorough sniff around, discovering nothing more unusual than a large number of shoes in the downstairs hall.  He picks one and attempts to instigate a game of fetch with Em, which she reluctantly agrees to.

Under the cover of this game, he uses Unseen Servant to create a loud noise upstairs. When Zeriah goes to investigate, Oddsock follows, after sending details of his plan via psychic Message to Talion - which startles the Half-Elf.  Sniffing about some more, Oddsock finds two bedrooms and another flight of stairs going up, at the top of which is a third bedroom with a sock behind the bed.

After a quick sock wrestle with Zeriah (who happens to be wearing the other sock), Oddsock retires to the topmost bedroom with the team, and immediately stretches diagonally across the bed.  On the way up, Kadis successfully palms his cursed idol into Zeriah’s dressing gown pocket, and hopes for a dreamless sleep.

At first, Kadis gets what he wants, and sleeps soundly for the first time in a long while.  However, just before he wakes, he sees the compass face again, with the bright light in the middle.  Touching his chest, he finds the idol back in place.

Talion also awakens to a surprise, but much further down his body.  Investigating an unpleasant sensation in his foot, he finds a piece of the mismatched furniture - a small ottoman - chewing on it.  Startled, he shoos it away, and it scampers across the floor to scratch at the door.

Zeriah opens the door to investigate the upstairs panic, and the ottoman skitters between his legs.  Truly apologetic, he invites the team down for an explanation and a confession of sorts.  On the way, a friendly end table nuzzles Kadis’ hand.

Before being dragged from his usual domain to this unusual place. Zeriah was a mimic farmer - their skins being useful in the creation of fine clothing, which can change colour at the wearer’s desire.  However, over the years he began to regard them as sweet, caring creatures - far removed from the carnivorous treasure chests of legend.  He befriended his livestock and now lives amongst them as their caretaker.

He also knows more about the strange noises in the forest than he initially let on.  Mimics are capable of psychic communication, and they are prone to trying to lure predators and, occasionally, bandits to the location when they are hungry, using the sounds of animals and people in pain.

He apologises profusely, and swears that he had no intention of allowing the mimics to feed on the party, but one of the younger ones had clearly become over-excited.  From the kitchen, the little ottoman peeks around the corner bashfully.

The team takes Zeriah at his word, and prepares to leave.  On the way out, Kadis asks how Zeriah slept.  Apparently, he had terrible dreams at first, of tentacles and terrible magic, but that gave way to images of a nice cupboard.  He certainly was unaware of any idols.

Just outside the door, the team is immediately confronted by a huge owlbear.  Seeing this, Zeriah claps his hands sharply, and the entire house collapses into a ravenous swarm that engulfs the creature.  Amongst the writhing mass, they briefly see Em, who drops her sari to reveal a figure that is almost entirely featureless, save for a huge mouth extending diagonally from her shoulder.  She falls neatly into two parts and joints the feeding frenzy.

Once the owlbear has been picked clean, the house slowly begins to re-form.  Zeriah waves cheerfully and invites the party to stay again should they come back the same way.  As they turn to leave, the party hears a woman’s voice telling them how pleasant it was get to know them.

Talion has, it is fair to say, become swiftly tired of people being inside his head.

After another day of travel, the party finds a large, stately building, with grey stone walls and a wrought iron gate.  Upon the gate, in faded gilt, are the words “Mansion de Mortesque”.  A brief flash of lightning illuminates the dark sky, and the twisted topiary beyond the walls.

Opening the gate causes a huge, green, Elven face to appear in the air.  It intones, “LEAVE THIS PLACE”, before slowly dissipating on the sickly breeze.

Undeterred, the party pushes onwards towards the mansion.  Inspecting the topiary, Julius finds that they are not ill in any way - they have merely grown in such as way as to resemble claws scratching at the sky.

A more pressing matter emerges, as Oddsock smells rotten meat and hears the sounds of scraping an moaning.  The party has become flanked by zombies, and are forced to retreat into the - thankfully unlocked - mansion.

Barricading the door with some heavy furniture, they take stock of their surroundings - a large, dim entryway with doors on either side, and a large organ flanked by stairs heading upwards.  An enormous chandelier hangs from the ceiling, but all of the candles have long since melted beyond usefulness.

Talion casts Light upon his obsidian necklace, and inspires his companions with a short song, leaving mandala-like motes of power circling each one.  The team investigates the immediate area, and they hear the sounds of further moans off to either side.

This mansion will clearly present further problems.  Will they defeat these undead forces and triumph, or will they be little more than a snack for shambling corpses?

Find out - NEXT TIME. 

[douxreviews]

Jessica Jones - ‘A.K.A. The Double Half-Wappinger’ Review

Jessica: "Road trip." Trish: "Exciting."

Publicity and truth, fairness and unfairness, definitely a theme. Jessica is a hero and Sallinger is a serial killer, but they aren't seen that way by the public.

It was clever of Jessica to realize that the way to bring down Sallinger was to visit his home town and research his past, and the way Jessica and Trish were so effective as a team suggested that maybe they're meant to work together after all. Keeping Trish a secret was a big plus for them again, even though Trish is tired of playing the vapid dumb blonde. But it is so much fun to watch! Trish's Patsy-like car alarm meltdown in front of the police station was priceless, one of the most enjoyable moments of the season so far. It made me think of Bruce Wayne as a flippant self-centered one-percenter. "I am psychologically shutting down! Oh, God, this is very triggering for me!"

It got them the dirt, too, pun intended. I liked how Jessica matter-of-factly tipped over the Silvas' back yard gazebo as if it weighed nothing. I also liked how she didn't find the body until the second time she dug, and that she did it all while Velasco the local cop kept pointing a gun at her while screaming threats. If Sallinger hadn't been so perverse with his "truth" photos, Nathan's body wouldn't have been discovered. It was satisfying, but did anyone else think it was a bit too convenient?

Back in high school, Sallinger targeted Nathan because Nathan was being scouted by colleges, and Sallinger sees any sort of artificial advantage as "cheating." By confronting Sallinger in public at the gym and making him look like a fool during their wrestling match, Jessica deliberately made Sallinger pay attention to her own "cheating." It was an impulse on Jessica's part (maybe she couldn't help it after seeing him interact with all those kids) but I think it was also a way of focusing Sallinger's attention on Jessica herself instead of his next victim, a courageous thing for Jessica to do. Especially after the getting stabbed thing that emphasized that Jessica isn't invulnerable.

I was so disappointed by Jeri's decision to defend Sallinger because her law firm needs the publicity… right up until Jessica said, "Looks like you finally found someone to put you out of your misery." That made me gasp. If this is true, it's incredibly sad. Jeri couldn't talk Jessica into killing her, but Sallinger might be happy to do it. And what if he decided on some accompanying torture? How could anyone choose to be the victim of a serial killer? There are so much pleasanter ways to die.

Malcolm might break up with Zaya because of her willingness to help Jeri defend a psycho serial killer. I liked how he barged into the meeting with Sallinger and that he protested, although I wanted him to outright quit. Oh, well. He'll probably be fired instead because, while reviewing security footage, Zaya stumbled over video of a masked Trish breaking into Malcolm's office, Malcolm discovering her, and the two of them talking like friends. That can't be good for Zaya and Malcolm's romantic relationship, Malcolm's career, or both.

Finally, I think I love Gillian. Her earlier scenes featured a militant adherence to break time that suggested she was less than engaged, but the efficient and delightfully sarcastic way she coped with the phone onslaught by reporters and the way she refused to give information to Malcolm showed why Jessica has kept her on. Not to mention that Gillian also knew Trish's identity, something every paper in New York wanted.

I also enjoyed the way she reported Malcolm's expressions to Trish during their phone conversation. Too funny.

Bits:

— Title musings: The "double half-Wappinger" was a wrestling move invented by Sallinger and his teenage victim/best friend. It could fancifully apply to what Jessica did to Sallinger at the gym.

— Jessica usually wears a white or black tee. This time she was wearing one that said "Interpol." Why?

— No Erik or Berry in this one. They're out of town and out of Sallinger's reach.

— Zaya let Jeri know that she accidentally sent her a text meant for Kith. Was that a result of Jeri's illness? I doubt a woman as carefully compartmentalized as Jeri would make a mistake like that unless she couldn't help it.

— "Tractor rollovers are totally a thing." Sallinger didn't kill his brother. He killed his best friend, instead.

— A photographer just caught a masked Trish jumping off a trestle down to the street below. Maybe "masked woman" news will be dominating the next news cycle?

Quotes:

Jessica: "How many superheroes does it take to lock up a psycho killer? More than two, apparently."

Sallinger: "Perhaps I'm an easy target, a single white male. And she's this… feminist vindicator. But there wasn't just one female vigilante. There are two of them. Maybe they're taking back the night or something."

Jessica: "This is what happens when you give a shit. The world flings it back at you."

Jeri: (to Sallinger) "If you have anything damaging in your history, Jessica will uncover it." Literally.

Jessica: (re: salad) "You know, you don't have to eat that shit anymore. You're powered now. Your body can process a Cheeto or two." Trish: "Yeah, I'm not a fan of anything that orange." That has to be a sideways political comment. I'm not a fan of the orange, either.

Malcolm: "I'm Malcolm Ducasse." Gillian: "The old me." Gillian, and Aneesh Sheth who plays her, are trans.

Nathan's mother: "You people come here and dig up pain." Again, literally.

Despite the lack of Sallinger denouement (I'm ready for Sallinger to go), I enjoyed this episode. Three out of four gazebos,

---

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

[silknscribbles]

WIP Prep Tag!

Another one @queenie-dragon tagged me in! I’m shook because I also have a protag named Silas (in a short story I wrote). Tbh it’s a killer name for a MC. Also, your entire WIP sounds amazing and I love all of your character names. 

And now, here we go! 

FIRST LOOK 

1. Describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch).

☾ A small town at the foot of the San Juan mountains, once a railroad and mining town but now a major tourist attraction and ski destination, is plagued by a series of suicides and murders. As more and more people on the outskirts of town turn up dead, deputy Mitch Baker begins to uncover the dark history of the town and is forced to question just what exactly is preying on its citizens. 

2. How long do you plan for your novel to be? (Is it a novella, single book, book series, etc.)

☾ I really think Ridgway fits best as a standalone novel. I have no idea what its word count might be! 

3. What is your novel’s aesthetic?

☾ bloody knuckles

☾ cigarette smoke

☾ police sirens

☾ watered-down whiskey

☾ the smell of leather & gunpowder

☾ foggy pine forests

☾ native folklore

☾ animal skulls with the flesh stripped of

☾ old ski lodge in the woods

☾ rusty trestle bridges

☾ coyotes screaming

☾ crime scene tape

4. What other stories inspire your novel?

☾ I have always loved Stephen King and many of his books contributed to my ideas about the feel for Ridgway, but there are no books that singlehandedly contributed to my ideas for it. 

5. Share 3+ images that give a good feel for your novel. 

MAIN CHARACTER

6. Who is your protagonist?

☾ Sheriff’s Deputy Mitch Baker. He’s 31 years old and has spent his entire life in the small town of Ridgway, Colorado. It’s where he met and married his childhood sweetheart, Charlotte, and where he buried her. He has a daughter, Ellie, who is eighteen months old at the time the novel begins. 

Mitch had a bit of a rough childhood with an absent father and a skittish mother, and found himself taken under the wing of the local sheriff, David Milton, after getting into one too many brush-ins with the local law. Eventually, Mitch became the deputy and now spends time keeping the peace in town. 

7. Who is their closest ally?

☾ David Milton, the kindhearted sheriff who took a liking to Mitch and wanted to help him. The two are now like brothers, though Mitch also regards Dave as a father figure of sorts. 

8. Who is their enemy?

☾ Mitch doesn’t really have an enemy. At the start of the novel, he exists in a state of apathy towards most of the world. He butts heads with some of the money-makers in town (especially those seeking to buy the old ski lodge in the mountain) but doesn’t have a sworn enemy. 

9. What do they want more than anything?

☾ He wants his wife back, and he wants answers about her death.

10. Why can’t they have it?

☾ The truth is not the answer that he wants, and so he demands more.

11. What do they wrongly believe about themselves?

☾ That he won’t be able to raise Ellie without Charlotte. He would die for his daughter and he loves her more than his own life. He doubts his own ability to be a father to her as well as doing his job. 

12. Draw your protagonist (or share a description)!

☾ I can’t draw people for the life of me, but Mitch is of average build (a bit on the muscular side) and stands at 5′11″. He has brown eyes and brown, straight hair that he keeps short. He normally has a light beard and keeps himself well groomed. His hands are pretty scarred from taking (and giving) beatings throughout the years, and he has a scar on the outside of his left calf from taking a stray bullet a few years ago. 

PLOT POINTS

13. What is the internal conflict?

☾ Life v. Death - Man v. Self

14. What is the external conflict?

☾ Greed v. History

15. What is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist?

☾ The death of his daughter, Ellie. 

16. What secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story?

☾ Now why would I tell you this? ;)

17. Do you know how it ends?

☾ For the most part. I have to tie some loose ends.

BITS AND BOBS

18. What is the theme?

☾ The destruction caused by human greed. Nature does not belong to us.

19. What is a recurring symbol?

☾ Nature as a force, the dark of the woods.

20. Where is the story set? (Share a description!)

☾ Ridgway, Colorado in the mid ‘70s! The town is relatively small and many of its buildings are historical. It features lots of railroad tracks and a few old coal mines, as well as a quarry. It sits at the base of the San Juan mountains and an old ski lodge lies on the edge of town. 

21. Do you have any images or scenes in your mind already?

☾ A few, yes! I know how the first murder will play out, as well as the first time Mitch sees the being responsible for the murders. I also have a few more scenes kicking around up there that I don’t want to give away. 

22. What excites you about this story?

☾ The mystery and the challenge of it! I want to be scared of myself and scared for my characters. I want to play around with monsters and mythical forces and the idea that we as humans are only very small beings in a very big and very old wilderness. 

23. Tell us about your usual writing method. 

☾ I like to right either early in the morning or in the evening. I normally put on a chill playlist (usually instrumental only) and have a glass of Pepsi Zero with ice. Then I open up a google doc and marathon write or do sprints for as long as I can.

And I’m gonna tag (don’t feel pressured to respond!): @cogwrites @genderpunksap @juliawritesbooks @pens-swords-stuff @she-writes-love @honiewrites @kdaziz @theforgottencoolkid @adulting-n-writing @indievixen @telning @skyfootsteps

[lacuna707]

Bruce Springsteen -- Darkness on the Edge of Town

They're still racing out at the Trestles, But that blood it never burned in her veins, Now I hear she's got a house up in Fairview, And a style she's trying to maintain. Well, if she wants to see me, You can tell her that I'm easily found, Tell her there's a spot out 'neath Abram's Bridge, And tell her, there's a darkness on the edge of town. Everybody's got a secret, Sonny, Something that they just can't face, Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it, They carry it with them every step that they take. Till some day they just cut it loose Cut it loose or let it drag 'em down, Where no one asks any questions, or looks too long in your face, In the darkness on the edge of town. Some folks are born into a good life, Other folks get it anyway, anyhow, I lost my money and I lost my wife, Them things don't seem to matter much to me now. Tonight I'll be on that hill 'cause I can't stop, I'll be on that hill with everything I got, Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost, I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost, For wanting things that can only be found In the darkness on the edge of town.

[candlelightridge]

Second draft of Olive Fenn & the Dead Hen. I cleaned up some of the janky metaphors and gave it a solid ending.

 Thornton Farm sat far from the main town of Candlelight Ridge, out past the train tracks, past the trestle that laid over the river. It was as far as one could be from the busy main street of town while still being considered a Candlelight home, and that was the way that William Thornton had wanted it when he built it all on his own those many years ago. Tragedy had threatened the fields many times—there was the blizzard of ’77, the fire that had nearly taken their little, red home in ’85, and the fate strung deaths of little Olive and Ruth’s parents within days of each other in ’91. The eldest daughter, Olive, took to the farm as her mother had and married with children while keeping her sister close as a sort of housekeeper—a role that Ruth demanded for the sake of her guilt-ridden heart.

Then there was the most recent tragedy of Thornton Farm: The death of Noah Fenn. Olive--now Olive Fenn--had to bury her husband in a lonely funeral, and now stood as a single mother with her two children, Jill and Quincy. The farm had grown dusty and dead from prior years of neglect, and the two sisters took to working on the reaches of the fields for a potential income—something Noah had promised to do himself, but never had the chance before his vanishing. Many things needed to be picked up in the wake of his death, governed by a schedule of taking care of children and a tedious maid job, but the two sisters were nothing if not adaptable.            The farm was organized into specific plots for different crops. First there was the root field, meant for potatoes and such, then the corn field, and another half-acre for pumpkins in the fall, all of which refused to sprout much of anything... but then there was the apple orchard. Despite the neglect, the orchard grew hearty trees with plump yellow apples, but had been fed on by critters and mushrooms, thus thick with debris and briar. The orchard was the perfect place to start, Olive decided, and she could nearly hear her mama telling her to sell the fallen trees for timber, to use the mushrooms for fertilizer. She wasn’t as smart as her mama—she never had the chance to be—but Olive could learn, she could teach herself new tricks. She wasn’t the old dog she was thought to be, she told herself this all on her own. With a wheelbarrow in tow, she took to raking between the trunks of those overgrown trees—but after many hours of work, she hardly made a dent in the mess of it.

“Oh…? Oh? Hello?” a voice called to Olive just when she was about to call it a day. “Ooolive? Olive Thornton?”

“It’s been Olive Fenn a long while now,” Olive sniffed, turning every which way, but not finding the source,

“Has it?” the voice said, clucking incredulously.

It was then that a crack echoed beneath her boot, through the wide, lonely orchard, and she lifted her foot to reveal the empty eye socket of a chicken skull, halfway hidden beneath the dirt. There was a moment of stillness then, hesitation giving Olive a long pause. The voice did not speak again, but Olive stooped herself low to unearth the rest of the tiny skull, brushing her fingers along its fragile frame, fruitlessly battling ages of dirt.

“Oh, that feels much better,” the skull spoke suddenly, tiny beak clicking against itself, each oh like that of a happy, chittering hen. Ah. There was her newfound company. How long had she been out here…? Olive couldn’t even remember the last time they kept hens on the farm.

“I’m sorry,” the woman spoke, “I didn’t know you had been out here.”

“Do not worry your pretty, red feathers,” the hen said. “I was not alone.” Olive glanced around the orchard, feeling a lot less alone herself now.

“I have many friends,” the hen went on, “and we all know your secret.”

With heart beating cold, Olive stared down at her feet.

“What secret?” she asked. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“We all know your secret and we will tell everyone,” the chicken said. “That is, unless you do us four favors.”

Olive knew two things then—the very secret dangling over her, and the chilly sweat that formed from the mention of it. She knew them far too well. If Thornton Farm needed a final nail in its coffin, it would be this, and it would be Olive’s fault—her undoing would be the farm’s undoing. Olive felt there was a time in every woman’s life where she would need to make a choice she didn’t want to have to make—for the sake of not herself, but the people around her… or the people beneath her feet, dead and gone but not forgotten. Maybe this time wasn’t a singular time, but it was funny how it always came down to those moments when she was already at her wits end. Her secret was something she thought she’d never have to address again... so, of course it was coming back to haunt her.

“I’ll do anything,” Olive agreed, eyes squeezed shut. She was certain it was a fool’s errand to trust a stranger, but she had no choice. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Ohh! You must save the farm,” the hen said, chittering with excitement. “You must do as we say to save the farm, or we will tell everyone.”

“Okay…” Olive started, “and how will I do that?”

“Noah Fenn must be buried in each field,” it said, and Olive’s brow quivered.

“What?”

“Take Noah Fenn apart and bury him. Limb from limb. Bury Noah Fenn in the farm.”

Noah’s purple skin, torn apart, hacked apart, scattered in the garden like fertilizer. The mere thought of it was enough to make the woman gasp with fright.

“I… I can’t--” Olive stopped and shook her head, her gut twisting with sick.

“You can,” said the hen, “and you must.”

The skull began to cluck happily as it roosted on its plan, and Olive held her pounding heart with a tense hand. Bawk-bawk-BAWK. It was almost like the thing was laughing at her, taunting her; nothing nice ever came from delight in other people’s suffering. This wasn’t funny, it wasn’t simple. To unearth her late husband and disperse him… it was a cruel joke for an otherwise tragic situation.

“Let us go to the root field,” the hen finally chirped, “we can start there.”

Olive didn’t want to take the chicken anywhere close to the farmhouse, but she felt numb and spellbound as she carried it along the dirt path back. In the distance, Ruth had finished taking down the linens from the clothes line, and she called to the little ones to follow her inside, her handmade pinafore billowing with the breeze with delicacy only Ruth could embody. Two heads of copper came charging after her without question, too far away to see their mama in the distance with cupped hands to her chest. Olive knew they were much too young to understand their mama’s mistakes, but maybe someday they would. By then, would they be forgiven? Time could mend many wounds, and it could cure hatred and bitterness and hurt, but maybe her mistakes were like an apple orchard. Maybe her guilt was the fertilizer keeping it all alive. But now there was a skull of a hen in her hand, affectionately nipping her thumb nail like any other playful bird--living, or unliving, proof that what she did was real and that it had consequences. The critters were eating her apples and she was just handing them over.

The root field was overgrown and boggy, and Olive couldn’t help but sigh at the sight of it. The amount of work she would need to do to fix the rot and rain was daunting, almost too much for two sisters, and Olive really didn’t want to ask any townsfolk for help. The hen seemed to sigh along with her, trilling in disappointment.

“What a shame,” it said. Olive answered by kicking a clump of dirt into the silty mess.

“Mm.”

“There used to be potatoes larger than me here,” it went on. “Whatever happened to those large potatoes?”

Olive knew the answer, but she elected not to say it, instead pursing her lips together in silence.

“Bury Noah Fenn’s legs here. Take them off Noah Fenn, so we can have potatoes again,” the hen told her, “and carrots and onions, don’t forget!”

“Here?” Olive asked with a shutter, kicking another clump of dirt.

“Right here.”

There was an unspoken betrayal to disturbing her husband’s resting place, an act that Olive took to in the dead of the night, all on her lonesome. Her knees wobbled beneath the hem of her nightgown, sweat dripping from her cheeks despite the chill. She could never ask another soul to help her, as this was her dirty laundry and no one else’s. And… and, despite that, who would ever want to watch a widow--such as she, especially--bury her ax in her husband?

The deed was done before dawn, and the body was returned to its resting place. Olive found no sleep before her children needed to be fed. She spent hours staring at the empty spot beside her on the bed instead, mind numb and too loud to comprehend.

There was peace, if only for a little while, after Olive did as she was told. It was only a few days when they discovered the root field had cleaned itself up, and sprouts were growing in place of what was once an ugly, barren plot. No bog, no rot, no mess. The fence had even been fixed, to keep wandering deer away from the carrots--carrots that already smelled so sweet on the wind. Ruth squealed with delight upon waking up to the sight of it, and called to Olive in admiration.

“So fast!” she said, “you’re some sort of superwoman, aren’t ya’, Oli?”

Olive didn’t feel like she had anything to be praised about. A part of her wished she could have simply done this by her own merit, rather than her own folly. It felt, in a way, that this could be Noah’s way of given back to the family--finally getting to cleaning up the farm, just as he had once promised.

However, as the plants grew bigger and bigger, Olive lost any sense of relief. Their first harvest of potatoes and onions was large, and each vegetable was fat and healthy, just as they had been when the sisters were children. But something was wrong, and it wasn’t just Olive who noticed something deeply off with them.

“They look like feet!” Jill exclaimed with a giggle. “Eww! I don’t wanna eat feet!”

Her brother, younger than Jill and much more impressionable, followed her lead. “No feet!” he said. “No toes!”

When her children were outside playing, Olive skinned the potatoes quickly, removing each stubby toe, halving each arch. Her body was trembling by the time she had a pot full of them, and she boiled them so tender, the little ones would never know. Olive mashed the shape out of them, with butter and milk, and there was no talk about feet again. No more feet. No more toes. No more talk of eating them.

In the dark of the night, when her children finally drifted to sleep, Olive removed herself from the kitchen with her knuckles bloody from choring. It was so quiet, Olive couldn’t even hear the crickets outside, only the soft taps of her bare feet on the wood floor. It was only when she paused to turn off the hall light, blackening the house completely, that she heard footsteps from behind her.

“Ruth?” she whispered.

There was no answer, and no footsteps… until they started again. Shfft, shfft, shfft, shfft, like heavy calloused feet being dragged against the floorboards. A chill grasped Olive’s spine as she peeked out into the hallway from the threshold of her bedroom, trying to find any form in the pitch-black house. She knew that sound.

“Noah…?” she murmured, breath quavering. There was no answer, but the steps continued.

Like peeling off a bandaid, Olive flicked the light on in the hallway, dark wood leading into the living room, the dining room on the far side with crafts still decorating its table… and nobody there.

Olive may have been alone when she laid down, but the pacing of her late husband’s feet echoed down the hallway and into her bedroom, she felt like he was there again. Noah was there, pacing the living room over and over and over in another sleepless night. Too restless to join her in bed, too stuck in his head to talk. Olive had read too many books to count to find the words that could bring him back into the bedroom and stop that endless circling. None of them had ever worked, and they wouldn’t work now.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Only a few more days had passed before the hen called to Olive again, this time from shed, where she had left it so the kids wouldn’t find it. The last thing she’d ever want was for her children to come across something dead. Death was common on farms. They’d probably poked a dead squirrel or two already, but it was a mama’s job to keep dead things away from her children.

“Oooolive.” It sounded very happy to see her again, clucking more than a chicken that laid an egg. Olive held the skull to her chest again, locking the shed tight behind her.

“Did you see what we did, Olive?” the hen asked. “Of course you did.”

“Of course I did, yes,” Olive repeated.

“You sound tired!”

“That’s ‘cause I am.”

“Well,” it clucked, “you’ll feel much better once we have some corn in you! Nothing better than corn.”

The corn field was the closest field to the road, and had been since dilapidated by litter and the family’s old truck, which was driven over it far too many times. It wasn’t so much a corn field anymore, as it was just a field. Overgrown grass, tire marks, and an embarrassing amount of beer cans. Olive cringed as they approached the edge, worn hand palming her forehead.

“It’s about time we threw away all this trash,” the hen said. “Right?”

“Right…” Olive muttered. It was nice in theory, but the task before her wasn’t. The family needed corn, however. Festival season was about to start, and corn paired all too well with lobster and butter. She could make a steal down in Bar Harbor if she wanted, and that could put enough cash in her hand to fix up the old tractor--or even simply keep the house afloat for a good year or so. She needed corn, just as she had needed potatoes.

Olive gave the hen a knowing nod.

“Take the arms of Noah Fenn, take them right off and bury them here,” it told her. “Bury them, so we can have lots and lots of corn!”

Olive could still hear her husband’s feet scraping across the floorboards. His pacing echoed throughout the empty farm, known to just the three of them: The hen, Olive, and Noah. Did she really want to do this? Was this worth the pain? She didn’t know what could come next, and she didn’t know what would happen once she was done for good. The bird nibbled happily at her, waiting for her acceptance. There was no other answer. She had to, for the sake of the farm.

Without sleep, Olive rose from her bed in a daze to complete the second task. She could feel the skull watch her as she procured her ax from the shed, and though it had no features, she felt a sick enjoyment radiate from its empty sockets. It was like chopping wood, Olive promised herself, it was nothing to feel so ill about. In the night, her husband was a tree, and his feet were but branches dragging against the paneling, and his arms were mere kindling for fire. And she completed it before she could know otherwise.

They were buried before a single soul could ever see her from the road. It was a secret between her and the morning birds.

A week passed before the corn field was in full bloom, to the absolute delight of the children. The two of them weaved in and out of the tall stalks, chasing each other mindlessly, giggling despite how the reaches whipped their pale faces red. They were thick crops, almost as thick as an arm, and they grew taller than any corn Olive ever saw herself.

“Your mama shoulda called you Jack, huh?” Ruth joked as she whisked Quincy up and into her arms. “Lookit all your beanstalks!”

“Magic beans!” Quincy answered, “but I don’t like beans!”

“Well,” Olive met her sister halfway and kissed her son on his red forehead. “It’s a good thing you’re Quincy, and this is corn. You like corn, right?” He gave her a sloppy kiss back, which seemed to be the funniest thing he had seen all day based on his laughter.

It started to grow dark by the time the sisters took to shucking the corn, the little ones in the living room as they sat in the dining room. For a moment, Olive thought to ask her sister if she had been hearing anything abnormal at night, but Ruth wasn’t the type to hide her fright from her sister. In fact, Ruth looked happy as could be, with her cheeks pinched back and dimpled as she started their chore. Olive decided to keep it to herself, and she focused on her own husk before her.

Olive’s eyes were away from her sister for just a moment before she heard Ruth gasp and drop the vegetable onto the table. “Oh, jiminy!” Ruth cried, “I- I thought…”

Olive stood quickly, leaning over the table to take a look. Ruth had peeled back just enough to reveal a thick, green grip on the corn, leaving indents like fingers around the kernels.

“It felt like it tried to grab me,” Ruth said. “Goodness, I must be tired.”

“Why don’t ya’ go to bed a lil’ earlier than usual, hun?” Olive asked, slowly sitting back down, eyes stuck on the corn.

“Maybe I should. I’m sorry.” Ruth’s eyes fell with shame, as if she were deadweight. Olive didn’t know how to reassure her otherwise.

Every stalk of corn was just like the first. Long, thick, and grasping the corn like hand. Olive tossed the rest back into the bucket. There would be no more corn on the table, not like that. No arms, no hands, no fingers. She’d sell it all. None in the house. None on the farm.

Olive was the last to bed once more, and she buried herself in her sheets. She suspected it’d be another night of pacing, in the very least, and she waited for it to come for so long, she hadn’t realized she had fallen asleep. The night was cold, and Olive woke to herself shivering above the covers. She lifted, glancing around the empty room, unsurprised that she knocked her sheets off, but irritated that she had. Snatching her blanket back from the other side of the bed, she covered herself once more. It was merciful to finally get some sleep, and to forget what she had done, and to forget her mistakes.

She was almost asleep once again, when the blanket was suddenly pulled from her shoulders, practically off of her once more.

Olive laid there, frozen, eyes focused on the wall across from her. The moon illuminated nothing but her form, and yet she knew there was no way she was alone.

“Quincy?” she whispered. Of course there was no answer.

Instead, she felt a rough sensation on her arm. Up and down, up and down. It was warm but made Olive’s stomach twist. Slowly, she turned her head, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was stroking her arm… only to find nothing there.

Olive ripped herself from her bed, grasping her arms in horror. Bile built up in her throat then, and there was a moment where she felt as though it would spill out onto the bed. There was nothing there, but Olive knew. She knew. Noah was in bed with her, with one too many drinks, and was waking her just like he always did. One too many drinks, a hand that wouldn’t leave her skin. Too rough, too noisy, too irresponsible.

Olive didn’t sleep that night, either. Or many nights after that.

The hen didn’t need to call to Olive this time, she spoke first, waking it from its slumber in the shed. She carried it to the orchard where she found it, upon its request, and she waited in jaded silence for its third task. Olive felt weak just looking at the work in front of her, having hardly slept in months now. How much worse could it possibly get, Olive thought? Was this the true punishment for her mistakes? Her betrayal? How she slept so soundly in their bed afterward, like nothing had happened, and that nothing was wrong.

She didn’t want to finish the hen’s request, but her legs had brought her here, her heart held the chicken’s head close, and she would bury her troubles with her husband’s body. A ghost in her walls would be the least of her worries if everyone knew why.

“Behead Noah Fenn! Bury his heart here, bury his chest. We need apples!” the hen cooed. “Ohh! Apples! Apples were my favorite.”

“We have apples,” Olive offered meekly,

“Do we?” the hen asked, “would you eat one of those?”

No, she supposed she wouldn’t.

Olive didn’t even bother to dress for bed that night, nor did she feel a shiver in her legs as she reared her ax back. It felt almost pointless to put what was left of her husband back in place, but she left it without second thought. She wanted the touching to stop, she needed it to stop. It wasn’t her husband, but a ghost of a bad memory, of something she couldn’t bear to think about or relive. She buried his heavy heart deep into the soil of the orchard, and she did not hesitate to wash the stench from her body once she followed the trail back to the house.

The orchard was much further from the house than the other fields, and so the family didn’t keep an eye on it normally. The days were going fast, despite how slow they otherwise felt to the woman. She was tired, and she found no rest in the house, only brief naps during the day when Ruth could watch the kids. Olive always woke with a start, always brushed her arm like a bug just crawled up her sleeve. Olive had never been an emotional woman, despite what others would say about her--no, what Noah would say about her. Mama would be so disappointed if she knew how blank Olive was now. Fear was all she could feel.

The woman took to choring throughout the day, despite her sister’s guilty grievances. There were only so many times Olive could hear her sister scold her for doing housework, so she finally broke from the house to take a walk to the orchard. The air was perfumed with apples, and Olive breathed in with a grin, giving herself a moment of peace before what would inevitably be another storm.

Every apple in the orchard had turned a vivid, blood red. Olive wasn’t a fool, however, she knew what a heart looked like versus a pretty, red apple. She missed the yellowy, orangey hues, but supposed this wasn’t so bad. She plucked one from the closest tree, admiring how it smelled, breathing it in with a loving sigh. And she took a bite.

Thick, red juice poured out from the apple, down her chin, onto her shirt. Olive removed it from her mouth curtly, eyes wide. She let it drop onto the ground, where its juice pooled beneath it like a puddle of blood. She thought, for a moment, she could hear the beating of her husband’s heart.

She ran from the orchard, wiping the blood from her lips as she went.

Olive was hesitant to go to bed that night. The only reasonable thing that could happen, she felt, was that the hand would stop, just as the footsteps had. Would she feel his pulse? Would she feel his heart? Would she hear it in her ear, like when they once laid together, happy and in love? Olive was a strong woman, she felt like she was strong. She could handle it, whatever this ghost threw at her. If she could handle Noah’s death, she could handle this.

But, as Olive laid down, she felt something lie down with her. She squeezed her eyes tight, hoping this would be the worst of it. Her husband’s presence in bed. There was a point where she no longer wanted it, she knew that, she held that with guilt for quite some time, but she could deal with it. She could deal with it. She could be fine, she promised herself that she would be fine.

Then the weight shifted, falling onto her small frame, heavy and cruel. Arms wrapped around her waist, rough and unwelcome. Warmth on her neck. A hand on her mouth.

It took everything in Olive not to scream, just like when Noah was alive.

Olive stood and broke the invisible hold, her small feet pattering against the floor as she whisked herself through the hall. Just like that night. Just like that night, her gown was silky and white and it felt like she stepped out into the darkness in nothing. Vulnerable and uncertain. She followed Noah’s path into the woods, where he would smoke before coming inside after a long day of avoiding his family. It was so dark, but he kept a lantern there, which was broken and dim by the time Olive retraced her steps.

Further into the woods, hen in hand, Olive continued with purpose. The hen chirped in confusion, begging her for answers: Why she was up now? Where she was taking it?

In a damp tarp down toward the abandoned sled track, she finally stopped.

“How do I know he won’t come back?” she demanded,

“What do you mean?” the hen asked. “Who?”

“How do I know that when I bury Noah’s fuckin’ head, that he won’t go talkin’ to me, too?” Olive said, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t want him back, I don’t.”

The skull didn’t answer, and Olive peeled back the tarp, revealing what was left of her husband’s remains. It was shattered, scattered even, not much to look at, nor much left to see. Mama’s gun made sure of that.

“I don’t want him talkin’ to me.”

“Olive…” the bird trilled, and its voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “That’s not our intention…”

“Ain’t it? Then why—?”

Something shined over Olive’s shoulder then, interrupting the two of them. Olive quickly turned to the source, fearing for the worst.

“Oli?” a delicate voice called. Olive breathed out in relief.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m here.”

“You ain’t supposed to be here,” Ruth replied, stepping down the slope, meeting Olive’s side with a little help from her sisters guiding hand.

“I know. You ain’t, either.”

“I heard you go out… you’ve been actin’ really weird, y’know?” Ruth said. “What are you doin’? We promised each other, we ain’t go out here…”

“I had to,” Olive said. “I think he’s been hauntin’ me—hauntin’ the farm.”

Ruth hesitantly cast her light over the tarp and flinched back. “Oh, jiminy, what happened to his body?”

With deliberation, the two sisters took Noah Fenn’s wrapped head up from the woods, to the pumpkin patch, and they buried him together with careful hands. This was the second time now that Ruth stood by her sister when she dealt with dirty deeds, though there was a sense of closure now—and much less questions that needed answering.

“You had to,” Ruth told her sister as they rose from the dirt. “If you didn’t, where would you be? Where would Jill be…?”

“You’ve done enough cleaning up my mistakes,” Olive told her. “I don’t know if this is the last of them, Rue.”

“Ain’t no mistake,” she said. “Don’t say you ever made a mistake. You had to.”

Olive laid down with Ruth beside her, back to back. Her sister’s heavy breaths were white noise in the darkness, but sleep would not come easy until Olive knew what would come next—if she would face her husband, as he was, or if she would hear his voice once again. The awful things he used to say to her, to their children—his cruelty toward whimsy, toward womanhood, things that a child could not understand, but feel. Olive shivered at the thought.

Time passed, and so did the seasons. Pumpkins began to grow in the patch, and they grew bigger and bigger, beyond the size of any pumpkin Olive had ever grown… and that was the only excitement Olive found in them. They looked like pumpkins, tasted like pumpkins, made lovely pumpkin pies and toasted seeds. Then, the potatoes were potatoes; the corn was corn; the apples were beautiful and yellow, sweet to the taste, juice like any other.

For once, Olive could sleep.

Olive retrieved the chicken skull from the shed, and she offered it a “hello.” She was answered with silence. Its jaw fell slack as she lifted it, loose and fragile, completely unlike its playful beak before. She buried it where she found it, with the apples it loved, deep and cozy like a proper grave, one that she had never given to anyone else. It never spoke to her again.

[livinginlandmarketing]

A train of a machine revved up and moved forward, pushing the water to grow on the flat, lake-like pool.

The fast-moving wave crumbled on the top as it approached. A surf guide gave me a gentle shove, ensuring I didn’t botch my take off on this tricky, wild wave.

RELATED: Man-made waves: The future of surfing is here and soon will be in Southern California’s desert

It was no ocean wave I was about to attempt to surf on, instead a freshwater playground in the middle of farmland, hours away from the coast.

And if I couldn’t catch waves here, I’d have driven five hours and blown a chance at riding one of the world’s most mysterious and coveted surf breaks.

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Matt Kolo/Surf Ranch)

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Video screengrab courtesy of Matt Kolo/Surf Ranch)

An inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a wave pool that produces artificial waves hours away from the coast. (Photo by Laylan Connelly/SCNG)

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Surf Ranch)

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Surf Ranch)

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Surf Ranch)

An inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a wave pool that produces artificial waves hours away from the coast. (Photo by Laylan Connelly/SCNG)

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Surf Ranch)

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Surf Ranch)

An inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a wave pool that produces artificial waves hours away from the coast. (Photo by Laylan Connelly/SCNG)

Show Caption

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A secret wave pool

There was excitement brewing in the sweltering, muggy air as the travelers arrived at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, a group of media and influencers gathered recently to experience first-hand what it was like to ride the man-made wave.

The Surf Ranch debuted to the public in 2018 for the “Founder’s Cup,” a surf contest that drove thousands of surf fans and curious people, including myself, to the town south of Fresno.

But the Surf Ranch’s existence goes back further than that event three years ago.

Brooke, one of several “surf guides” on site, gave a quick history lesson about how the Surf Ranch got its start.

It took about a decade for Kelly Slater, 11-time world champion, and his team to develop the technology under a veil of secrecy, she said. “They didn’t know if it was going to work.”

Had it not, they would have buried it under dirt and no one would ever know about the project, disguised at the time as a tilapia fishery.

In 2015, Slater released the first video showing what the wave was capable of – and the surf world went nuts.

Since then, mostly only pro surfers or surf industry insiders have had the chance to ride the wave. Then, when the coronavirus pandemic hit, even fewer people had access to the Surf Ranch.

But as pandemic restrictions ease, and with safeguards like coronavirus testing in place, more surfers are experiencing the wave, including the group I recently joined.

Most of what I had seen from footage of pro surfers flawlessly surfing the fast wave made me nervous – would an average surfer like myself be able to handle this strange wave?

Buffet of waves

Another surf guide, Pierce Flynn, gave the low down on what the machinery is capable of: three settings surfers can choose from, like ordering a tasty dessert off a menu.

Waikiki is a setting for a smaller, slower-paced wave good for beginners or longboarders who want to cruise. There’s the wave the pros ride, a mix of fast-moving walls and two hollow barrel sections, called CT 2 (CT is short for Championship Tour).

Then, there’s CT 3,  a bit more forgiving but still fast and high-performance focused with a hollow barrel section at the end. That’s the one myself and a group from Textured Waves, a community that promotes diversity in the water, opted to ride.

The machine needs to reset between waves, so surfers line up along the wall waiting for their turns, just like a ride at a theme park.

There’s a bit of torn emotion watching others surf –  genuine thrill for them as they catch the rides of their life, but also secretly and selfishly wanting them to fall so you can nab, or “poach” the wave for yourself.

Surf guides sit at each end of the pool, offering advice on how to paddle in and even a little shove to make sure you don’t miss your wave. Another on a personal watercraft whips surfers around to their place in line.

“We’ll be the voice in your ear,” Flynn said.

Wild rides

As the wave grew toward me, so did my nerves.

But the surf guide gave my board a nudge and suddenly I was propelled forward, my board moving with the power of the wave.

I popped up quickly and pivoted my board toward the open face of the wave. And then suddenly, I was flying.

My first thought was the wave was faster than I expected, but I also oddly felt like I was moving in slow motion as I raced across the wave’s face. The water moved slightly noticeably than the ocean, pushing up toward my board rather than from behind, a difference that took a few moments to get used to as I rode my first wave.

In the unpredictable ocean, you don’t know what the wave is going to do, when it’s going to close out or suddenly suck up. On this wave it was easier to see the canvas I was dancing on and what was going to happen as my board propelled forward.

At some sections, the wave became mellow and allowed me to weave my board up and down the face, at other times it got racy and fast, prompting an urgency to straighten out and speed up so the white wash wouldn’t gobble me up.

And the waves are long, by far the longest waves of my life. Half way through the first wave, my legs started to get shaky, but the adrenaline helped.

I was stiff, not wanting to risk moving my feet or trying big turns for fear the wave would buck me off. Each ride, if completed, lasts about 45 seconds. I prematurely pulled out of my first wave, thinking it was over at about 35 seconds, missing that steep barrel that forms.

As I waited for my next turn, watching the goddess surfers from Textured Waves dancing on the waves gave me a boost of confidence.

I had the chance at one of those “poached” waves (and gave others the same when I couldn’t paddle into my backside wave), quickly turning my board to scratch into the empty wave.

The wave was already halfway down the pool, but I got to enjoy that barreling end section I missed on my first wave – well, kind of.

I crouched my body down as the wave steepened, waiting for the wall of water to cascade over me, but unfortunately couldn’t slow down enough to actually tuck my way deep into it. A video review later showed I was just shy of the hollow cave – the “almost barrel” of my life.

Reporter Laylan Connelly gets an inside look at the Surf Ranch in Lemoore, near Fresno, a man-made wave that gives a glimpse at the future of surfing. (Photo courtesy of Surf Ranch)

The last wave of my session offered the same smooth ride, up until the end when that barrel section showed up quicker than expected, the lip of the wave smacking the back of my head for an epic belly flop wipeout, the perfect wave continuing without me on it. The force of the water held me down and washed me around, giving me a bit of a shock at the pool’s power.

After the sessions, a surf guide reviews video footage to relive the epic moments, give tips on how to improve and a chuckle at the wipeouts endured.

“One thing about the place,” the guide said. “It’s never enough, you always want more.”

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-on September 24, 2021 at 04:35AM by Laylan Connelly

[celmore-me]

"Darkness on the Edge of Town" by Bruce Springsteen

“Darkness on the Edge of Town” by Bruce Springsteen

Well, everybody’s got a secret, Sonny, something that they just can’t face. Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it. They carry it with them every step that they take.

Well, they’re still racing out at the Trestles, But that blood it never burned in her veins, Now I hear she’s got a house up in Fairview, I…

[dunmerofskyrim]

39

Forges and kilns squat in the clearing, stout as beehives built from clay. A dozen smiths, fletchers, armourers, and their prentices squabbled over the flames. Streams of sparks marked their words; blades thrust into coals or quenching vats. Half-drowning their arguments, the dinning strike of hammers and the offbeat grunt of anvils. Soldiers and sellers of food hustled through with clay pots and boxes, jars sealed with twine and layers of parchment, to set their food a-simmer amongst the hot and grey-white ashes. Smoke billowed, chasing itself, then fleeing before the wind.

But that was only the heart of things. A beat like iron and oil for blood — it dinned on, battling itself, but Simra reckoned it was faltering. The smiths were doing all they could to look and sound busy. Bothered over the same bits of haggard spare metal, rummaged with pokers at the coals, howled at their prentices for more air to the bellows. They fought amongst themselves for something to do. And all the while they scarce turned out an arrowhead. A waste of tar and charcoal and a waste of wasted time.

Whereas the clearing’s edges bristled and thronged. From mats and shacks and yawn-mouthed tents, people peddled boredom, and cures for it, and more pleasant ways to pass it by.

“Scents! Musks! I have hormones, pheromones, ambergris!”

“When were you last clean, sera? I tell you, I have soaps, water hot as any foyada you care to name! And the tub I have? Why, you could stretch your legs full out and still have room to wriggle with glee! One at a time, sers, one at a time — an orderly line, sera, one at a time if you please…”

“Poultices! Cures for callus you’d walk three days barefoot for..!”

“Faces mirrored, hair trimmed, beards cut! And if you have a tooth that pains you..?”

“Tea! Shein! What you will! Who are we to judge you either way? Who are we indeed to judge! Broths on the boil and straight to your bowl! Line the tables, warm the seats!”

“Pathetic…” Simra grunted under his breath.

“What?” said Tammunei.

They were quiet, huddling close as a cub to its mother, still yet to learn it too has claws. Marketplaces, voices, the crowd and clamour — like they thought Simra could shield them from it all. But that’s the way with crowds, Simra thought. You aren’t in the crowd; you are the crowd, unapart from it. Same for cities and battles and all. How do you save someone from your own self?

“Said it’s pathetic,” Simra answered. “Scrubbed clean, all of it. A camp full of soldiers and mercenaries, and not a glint of gambling in sight. Place like this ought to be red as Autumn with bedworkers’ tents and their caterwauling from inside… They’re not selling leisure here, they’re selling fucking prudence, moderation, temperance. If those were worth tuppence then they wouldn’t come for free.”

He cut himself short but the curse came all the same. Blighted Indoril; he thought it almost aloud. But in a place that forced bedworkers into silence, and dens for sujamma and skooma into hiding, no telling where muttering the wrong thing might get you. They were all still here – the gamblers and bedworkers and dealers of sharps and numbs – Suran had taught him that much. Only they’d be buried; their goods pricier, hawked in whispers. All it takes is for one stiff robe to call something sin and the whole underbelly of things changes. For every red tent taken down and every red lamp snuffed out, another goes up in secret, charging higher for the risk and the lacquer-black gleaming novelty of the forbidden.

“I thought we were here for provisions,” Noor said.

“We are,” said Simra.

“Yet you’re mourning pleasures you might’ve bought.”

“And where’re all these provisioners you’re seeing, hm? Could it be my license and love for the profligate have blinded me to them? What d’you see with your truer purer eyes, talsintushpi?” A sour pause as Simra waited for a response that never came. “Tsscht. Thought not. Nothing here but watery broth and sawdust dumplings and bug-musk by the jar-full, and I’d bet even that’s two-thirds fake.”

Long tables spilt out from the mouth of a wide yellow tent. Days of steam had left patches on the canopy, permanent damp, dark as mustard. A few handfuls of mercenaries slumped at the trestles. Pipesmoke; stale panbreads picked at with fingerless-mittened fingers; black crescent-moons under grubby nails. Men and women, Dunmer in the main, with hollow eyes and looks curdled with hunger.

Simra slouched down beside one. A Dunmer. He might’ve been stout once, but the flesh lay slack on him now. He wore a greasy red cloak, ill-darned in a half-dozen places. The strap of his belt hung in excess past his pad-armoured knees from all the times he’d tightened it, stabbing new holes through the leather. At his hip a wicked-wide shortsword, sling, and stone-pouch. A dished round shield of bonemould and a battered bronze helmet sat on the bench beside him.

“Using those soon, d’you reckon?” Simra tapped his fingernails against the helmet’s crest. It belled dull and quiet at his touch.

The mercenary turned a pouchy red eye on Simra. A spark of fury showed for a moment – the interruption, the gall of a stranger touching his armour maybe – and then went lax and left. “What’s it to you?” he said. “Looking to join the party, latecomer?”

“Me? No. Nah. Not me. Means more for you though, right? Me, I don’t even know who’s fighting who.”

“Hm.”  Something moved the mercenary’s mouth, like working up and holding back the urge to spit. “No news where you came from?”

There was a bite and bristle in that, Simra thought — rank hypocrisy from a mer whose accent was scarce a scratch more native than his own. “Not down the road to south and west, no,” Simra said, keeping his tongue, keeping sweet and bland. “So what’s the word? Heretics, I heard.”

“Almsivists,” the mercenary grunted. “Sprouted up in the town months back. Some priest, young and bright eyed, on the run from out east. He comes in Senie one day looking a mixer, a freak. Says he’s had some vision that the Tribunes ain’t gone, only hiding. Testing us, like. Says he had a vision from Saint Ayem herself to tell him so. And on the steps of the Temple he offs his robes and shows how he’s mottled like a piebald guar — starting to turn gold, he says. Chimer-gold in patches like some pox. They lock him up of course, the Templers, but a week goes by and the city’s set him free and they’ve thrown out or killed all the Templers instead. Calling themselves the Uncursed. Locked up in there, wanting nothing to do with what’s outside while they wait on the Tribunes’ return. Something like that…”

“Something like that?”

“What I said, innit? For all I know they’re all in there, turning gold in their own sweet time.” The mercenary’s mouth worked again. This time he did spit, whitefroth and thick on the ground.

“Why the siege then? If they’re just waiting, not fucking with anyone, why bother? Just let ‘em starve behind their walls.”

The mercenary rolled his shoulders. A shrug that clicked his back and tensed his thick slack neck. “Some of the folk they threw out? Lords, merchants, priests — them as ran Senie, or as good as ran it. ‘Spose they want their town back, and before Winter sets in proper. Impatient bastards, throwing out money like that. Going begging to the Indoril…” He looked over his shoulder and hurried to speak on. “Not like I’m making plaints, mind. It’s them pays my pocket, and them that’ll see us over the walls, innit? And ‘sides, killing heretics?” A hollow laugh, shrill with worry. “I’d do that for free, right?”

Simra drummed his fingertips again on the helmetcrest. His neck itched and his scalp crawled. He looked round slow, casual as he could. Masks and plumes and pale blue silk, caught in the corner of his eye before he turned back. Ordinators, walking the marketplace. Don’t run. Don’t flee or they’ll think you’ve got a reason. Same as the Quarter; the uptown watch with their dogs and their brutal boredom. He stayed seated.

“Right you are… I’m travelling their way and all,” Simra said, sunny. “Sure someone’d thank me when I got to Daen Seeth if I came full of stories. Breaking the walls at Senie; taking back its streets. But time’s short, more’s the pity.”

The mercenary cast a measuring eye over Simra. Took in his travelling clothes, his armoured knees, sword and blades and all, then looked back to the table. His eyes wouldn’t answer the question so he had to put it in words. “Sellsword too then, are you?”

“Something like that, when it suits.”

“Not a soldier though,” the mercenary said. Something about his posture bristled.

Simra eased his hand away from the mer’s helmet. The threat hung thicker between them now — some posture or challenge in unspoken issue. “Not if I can help it, no,” Simra smiled; a closed twist of the lips. “I’m all sorts besides, but today I just wanted news. Grain too – provisions – if you know someone who’s selling..?”

The mercenary spoke after a curt pause. “Heading out east, you said? Hm. You’ll need it. Might be I know a man’s got some spare…”

Simra’s scarred hand slipped into his jacket. Found out a pocket in its stitched silk lining and fished two coins from its narrow mouth. Shils of tin and russeted iron, loose and stamped with holes; he laid them down on the tabletop. “For your help.”

“You’ll want to walk off that way.” The mercenary skimmed the coins off the table and into his palm to grease and grow warm there. He nodded a path through the tents. “Look for what’s left of the Black Lamps company. Reckon you can imagine what their standard looks like. Had a spill in the first try at the walls and now they’re supplied for more heads than they’ve got. They’ll not be raring to the breach again any time soon so they’re not counting on a good pillage. Been foraging hard instead. Might be they’ll see you right…”

“Grateful,” said Simra. Rising from the bench, his knees and hipjoints argued. Saddlesore, travelsore, aged before he’d grown old. A brief grimace pulled at his face before his muscles and bones fell silent.

“Same,” the other mer said with a backtip of his head, a jutting upnod of his chin.

“Good luck then. Y’know. When the time comes.”

You’ll need it, Simra thought. When the times comes, you’ll need helmet and shield and luck and more. Mole, mine, breach; the threat and promise that pushed comers forward and cowards back and turned one to the other in moments. The cold would keep the ground hard at least, and the footing better – no sea of hungry steaming mud here – but all the same… All the same, Simra wouldn’t have bet on the other mer’s chances. Wouldn’t have taken his place. He almost asked himself, what would his price be? But he pulled the thoughts up and threw them away. There are better ways to make coin.

[harmonicatabs]

Darkness On The Edge Of Town

New Post has been published on https://harmonicatabs.net/?post_type=lyrics&p=6011

Darkness On The Edge Of Town

VERSE 1: 4 -4 5 5 5 5 -4 4 -4 4 Well they’re still racing out at the trestles

4 -4 5 5 5 5 5 -4 4 4 But that blood it never burned in their veins

4 -4 5 5 5 5 5 -4 4 -4 4 Now I hear she’s got a house up in Fairview

4 -4 5 5 5 5 5 -4 4 And a style she’s trying to maintain

CHORUS: 7 7 7 7 -6 -6 6 Well if she wants to see me

7 7 7 -6 -6 -6 -6 6 5 5 -4 4 You can tell her that I’m easily found

7 7 7 7 7 7 7 -6-6 -6 Tell her there’s a spot out neath Abram’s Bridge

6 6 Tell her

-4 -4 -4 -4 -4 5 -4 4 4 There’s a darkness on the edge of town

-4 -4 -4 -4 -4 5 -55-45-4 4 4 There’s a darkness on the e-d-g-e of town

VERSE 2:

4 5 5 5 5 -4 4 -4 -4 4 4 Well everybody’s got a secret Sonny

5 5 5 5 5 -4 4 Something that they just can’t face

4 -4 5 5 5 5 Some folks spend their whole lives

5 -4 4 -4 4 Trying to keep it

4 -4-4 5 5 5 5 5 5 -4 -4 4 They carry it with them every step that they take

CHORUS: 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 Till someday they just cut it loose

7 7 7 -6 -6 -6 -6 6 6 Cut it loose or let it drag em down

7 7 7 7 7 7 7 Where no one asks any questions

7 7 7 -6 -6 6 6 Or looks too long in your face

-4 -4 -4 -4 -4 5 -4 4 4 In the darkness on the edge of town

-4 -4 -4 -4 -4 5 -55-45-4 4 4 In the darkness on the e-d-g-e of town

(Instrumental Solo)

VERSE 3: 5 5 5 5 -4 -4 -4 4 Some folks are born into a good life

5 5 5 5 5 5 -4-4-4 -4 4 4 And other folks get it anyway anyhow

4 -4 -4 5 5 5 -4 -4 -4 -4 4 4 Well now I lost my money and I lost my wife

4 4 -4 5 5 5 5 -4 -4 4 4 Them things don’t seem to matter much to me now

CHORUS: 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 -6 -6 6 6 Tonight I’ll be on that hill cause I can’t stop

7 7 7 7 7 -6 -6-6 -6 6 6 I’ll be on that hill with every thing I got

7 -6 -6 -6 6 6 -6 -6 6 6 Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost

7 7 7 7 7 -6-6 -6 -6 6 6 I’ll be there on time ready to pay the cost

7 7 -6 -6 6 6 5 5 5 5 For wanting things that can only be found

-4 -4 -4 -4 -4 5 -4 4 4 In the darkness on the edge of town

-4 -4 -4 -4 -4 5 -55-45-4 4 4 In the darkness on the e-d-g-e of town

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 6

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 3695 CW: None Chapter summary: In the middle of the night, word comes to Highever of an ambush Chapter pairings: None

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Third day of Guardian, Wintersend morning, 9:32 Dragon

The dog’s eyes shuddered in his sleep. He was splayed across the foot of the canopy bed – his designated spot since growing too large to cuddle against his mistress’ shoulder. Even in deepest slumber he guarded her against harm, his ears restless as he filtered the sounds of the castle about him, from his mistress’ deep, even breaths to the hiss of embers in the grate and the rattle of rain on the faraway roof. Everything was as it should be. A log in the fire sparked, jolting the dog from his doze, but when nothing came of the sound he allowed himself to settle back, stretching out his paws with a doggy sigh as his wide, blunt head found a convenient pillow on his mistress’ calves. By morning her feet would be numb from a lack of circulation, but she wouldn’t mind so long as he was comfortable.

A new sound alerted him. Voices, approaching the atrium that served the whole family; one, he had known since puppyhood, but the other was unfamiliar, rasping and urgent in its inflections. In one smooth wave the dog’s hackles stood on end along his back, and his war-rage stirred the air in the pit of his lungs, pushing it through his throat in a growl that could turn a charging horse. The warning reverberated in the night-time quiet, finally waking the woman whose poor senses had so far kept her oblivious to the danger. He growled again, louder, but it did not receive the attention he wanted.

“Cuno, go back t’ sleep. ‘s just Marcena lighting the fires.” And she rolled over with a grunt, intent only on ignoring him.

Cuno huffed. It was not the first time this had happened.

The voices stopped outside the chamber door, their argument muted by the early hour but no less venomous, and the potential threat in them could not be ignored. Stiff-legged, the dog hopped off the bed with a low wuff and marched to the door. A draught breathed through the crack, bringing a cloud of odours to his nose: cold, wet, hunting smells that had no business being inside the castle. It only made the growl rumble louder in his chest.

“Maker’s breath, Dog.”

Rosslyn had finally sat up in her nest of winter furs, rubbing one hand down the side of her face as she cursed and tried to locate her slippers in the dark. Cuno watched her fumble from his position by the door, wagging his stub of a tail in encouragement even as his muzzle twitched towards the intruders in the beginnings of a snarl.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled. One arm of her dressing gown still trailed on the floor from the struggle of putting it on and having to walk at the same time. “I swear, if this is about Oriana’s cat again, I’m going to -”

Her hand stilled on the doorknob, all traces of sleep drained away as she picked out the argument in the corridor.

“For the last time, my lady is sleeping. You are not to disturb her!”

“If she’s sleeping, wake her up.”

“Lower your voice, churl. Any news you have can wait until morning.”

“I will not be diverted by a mere house servant. I come from the Teyrn himself. Wake the lady up.”

Graela’s indignant retort was lost as Cuno chuffed, his nose keen against the crack in the door, bristling with offence at the alien smells in his domain.

“Easy there,” Rosslyn muttered, as much to calm her dog as her own racing mind. She pulled her dressing gown close around her shoulders and wound her fingers into the loose skin at his neck. “Let’s see what’s going on, first.”

The dog groaned in complaint but stepped back obediently.

“Good boy.”

As Rosslyn hauled open the door, the two arguers faltered, frozen mid-sentence with shock at being interrupted until decorum reasserted itself and the both dropped into hasty, repentant bows. Cuno padded officiously past her so he could sniff the stranger’s boots, his head held at an imperious angle as if the entire scene were beneath his dignity.

Graela recovered first and had already begun lilting apologies, but Rosslyn’s gaze never wavered from the messenger, who hadn’t changed out of her travel-stained surcoat or cleaned the mud from her boots – or waited until morning to deliver her news.

“You come from my father?”

The messenger’s cheeks, flushed with colour from the cold, darkened further at such direct scrutiny, so that her birch-blonde hair stood in starker contrast to her brown skin. Though she looked human, the woman had elven ancestry, judging by the unusual paleness of her eyes and the fine angle of her cheeks, which might explain Graela’s particular hostility.

“I – yes, my lady. Glenlough has been ransacked.”

Rosslyn felt the blood drain out of her face. “Ransacked?” She knew Glenlough from her studies, could picture it perfectly on the map of her family’s lands that she had been taught to know since infancy. It was a settlement in the teyrnir’s heartland, too large for a village but too small to properly be called a town, that owed its prosperity to the Culodhne Road, which transported raw materials from the wool industry and a smattering of open cast mines rich in volcanic aurum. Its wealth made a tempting target for raiders, but its size and fortifications should have discouraged any but the most reckless attack. For it to have been completely destroyed – without even a call for help…

“How long ago?”

“No more than a few days, my lady,” came the reply. “We found the Vale envoy station burned to the ground two days ago, so His Lordship asked us to scout the land ahead for the culprits. When we found armed men camped in the town, they attacked us. Only a few made it back. He sent three riders to seek the aid of Arl Howe, and me and two others back here while he went on ahead, so we could warn you.”

“Where are the other two riders now?” Rosslyn asked. She felt her nails dig into her palms and knew there would be crescent-shaped bruises there later.

The messenger squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to fend off a bright light. “They’re dead, my lady,” she croaked. “We were ambushed along the road and they… they held back to buy me the time to get to you.”

Rosslyn swallowed. She had always been taught to respect the soldiers under her command, the people who went out onto a battlefield and died on trust that it would be for a greater purpose, but until that moment it had always been an abstract concept. It hadn’t been real. Hesitantly, she stretched out her hand to clasp the messenger’s shoulder. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she let go and turned to Graela, who was trying to demurely conceal a yawn behind her hand.

“Wake my mother,” Rosslyn commanded.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then send for Aldous, Ser Gilmore, and Masters Tolly and Canavan. I wish to see them all in my father’s study without delay.”

“At once.”

“What is your name, Lieutenant?” she asked when her maid curtsied and slipped away.

“Morrence, my lady. Ada Morrence,” the messenger replied, still astounded that one so high-born had actually touched her, sodden armour and all.

Rosslyn nodded, already sweeping towards the stairs. “Come with me.”

Morrence shook herself out of her daze and jogged to catch up. The lady’s legs were longer than hers, and every so often she had to take a ridiculous hop forwards to avoid being left behind, but did not dare ask for a slower pace. Beneath the loose cotton sleep clothes, fur slippers, and embroidered robe of luxuriant Highever felt – materials costlier than any her father, a tailor, had ever been trusted with – the teyrn’s daughter walked with the powerful stride of a general in full armour, her eyes fixed rigidly ahead, black hair feathered back over her shoulders by the force of her march.

As they continued down into the public section of the castle, Morrence realised her mistake; the balled fists and straining neck weren’t the manifestation of a daughter’s anxiety for her father, but the opposite. Rosslyn’s was the alertness of a courser after a hare. She was excited.

They turned the final corner into the teyrn’s study, where a whirl of servants still in nightclothes busied themselves opening the room. Flames already blazed in the fireplace, throwing warmth and light onto the stacks of papers and books that had been moved off the desk to make way for a map of Highever so large it filled an entire druffalo hide. Two chamberlains held it flat while a third pressed bronze paperweights onto each corner to prevent it from rolling back up. Across the room, still others had set up a trestle table and were laying it with bread, butter, cold meats, and fruit in case anyone should get hungry.

Morrence stumbled to a halt in the doorway, mouth agape, until a page carrying a teak chest under his arm irritably told her to move. Not even professional soldiers achieved such a level of organised chaos, and certainly not without a staff sergeant barking orders, and yet these people, who had surely been fast asleep not half an hour before, seemed telepathic in the way they bustled about, almost but not quite colliding.

Rosslyn, who had cut through the mob with the grace of a swan through weeds, glanced over her shoulder and noticed the nonplussed expression on the messenger’s face, and beckoned her over.

“Can you mark our army’s position on this map?” she asked. “And that of the enemy?”

Morrence nodded. The same page who had been rude to her before stepped forward, offering the now-open chest, which contained a selection of small wooden blocks, almost like children’s toys. Half were blue, stamped with the Laurels, while the rest were dyed black and bore no mark at all. All too aware of the stern gazes on her back, she wasted no time arranging the tiles to reflect what she had seen on the road.

“I can’t be entirely sure about these units here,” she explained sheepishly. “And this information is a number of days old now.”

“Nevertheless, thank you,” Rosslyn replied, her arms folded as she surveyed the map. “There’s a few moments yet before the others arrive,” she added, nodding towards the trestle in the corner. “Rest, eat something.”

“Oh no, my lady, there’s no need, I -”

“The night is not yet over, and I may still have need of you,” the lady interrupted. “Besides which, there’s nothing more for you to do right now. Take the opportunity while it’s available.”

“But… uhm. Yes, my lady.”

As it turned out, there was little time to savour or even swallow the food. One by one the people Rosslyn had sent for arrived, in various states of dishevelment. First came the Teyrna, wrapped in furs to keep away the chill, her face drawn into deep lines of worry. She embraced her daughter, asking for details, but Rosslyn remained firm that she would wait until everyone had gathered to avoid repetition of the facts. And in they came, first the teyrn’s elderly chamberlain, already with quill to paper, followed by the castle’s horse and arms masters, their uniforms crisp despite the early hour. Last to arrive was Ser Gilmore, who flushed crimson at the sight of his liege’s daughter standing before him in nothing but her nightclothes.

“Oh don’t start that,” she snapped when he started to protest. “This is important.” She signalled to Morrence and the messenger stepped forward to relay everything she had seen.

“Seems to me Glenlough is nothing more than bait to a trap,” sniffed Canavan, the grizzled arms master, when she had finished. “There’s other places with more gold, that in’t along the main road.”

The rather portly Master Tolly grunted. “Bandits don’t destroy towns so utterly. Too much risk involved. They raid, they burn the odd farmhouse, but this – this was to send a message.”

“Indeed,” Eleanor replied darkly. “However, it would help to know who would go to such barbaric lengths to get my husband’s attention.”

“Th-they bore no standard, your ladyship,” Morrence stammered from her place at the end of the table. “Any who did get close enough to see got shot down.”

“They’re a threat. That’s all that matters.”

All eyes turned to Rosslyn. She had straightened, the set of her shoulders an exact, unconscious echo of her father’s.

“Whoever these men are, they have murdered innocents within our borders, and they tried very hard to make sure nobody here would know about it.” Her eyes blazed a challenge at each of them in turn. “Why?”

“An ambush,” Gilmore answered, his gaze on the map. “They want to make sure no reinforcements arrive.”

The arms master hummed her agreement. “This’d be Loghain’s doing, somehow, wanting to take his opponent’s biggest supporter off the board. No militia matches Highever’s for training or equipment.”

“Then we have to stop him.” Rosslyn’s tone was mild, but her hands had curled into fists on the edge of the table.

Of them all, Eleanor knew best what that meant, and her heart constricted. “Daughter…”

“These tiles show where Highever’s forces were early yesterday, still a good distance from Glenlough. I know my father – he would wait for a full day before launching an attack on a stronghold like this – which means as of now, he hasn’t made his move, and that means there’s still time for us to help him. But only if we move quickly.” Rosslyn forced a calming breath into her lungs and looked up expectantly.

“How?” Tolly eventually asked into the uneasy silence.

“The cavalry is still here,” Rosslyn reminded him. “Any other force would be too slow.”

“But – but they still lack training!” he spluttered in reply. “Most learned to ride barely three weeks ago! And who would lead them? Commander Anthras won’t be here until next week, and -”

Rosslyn drew herself up to her full, considerable height. “Master Tolly, as the highest ranking cavalry officer left in Highever, and the only one with battle experience, I am returning to you your old rank of Captain.” Her tone allowed no argument. “Have your troopers ready to leave in two hours, travelling light. We must reach Glenlough with all speed we can muster.”

The newly promoted captain opened his mouth to argue, his jowls quivering, but she cut across him before he could organise the pattern of his thoughts.

“They’re the only force that may stand in the way of our army being wiped out, my father and brother along with them.” She grinned. “I know you can do this, Tolly, I have faith in you, and your abilities. You taught me to ride, remember? If you can do that, you can do anything.”

Defeated, Tolly sighed. Over the hill he might be, his bones cracking with every movement, but he remembered how it felt to charge forth with his sword held high and his throat bursting with a battle cry. He raised his chin.

“It will take at least a day and a half to reach Glenlough if we are to pace ourselves ready to fight,” he informed her. “What if the battle is already lost?”

Rosslyn’s smile turned feral. “Then our enemy had better pray their injuries are not too grave to face a second one. Lieutenant Morrence, can I count on you to guide us?”

Morrence jumped at being directly addressed. “Uh, yes, my lady. Of course.”

“Thank you. Go with Tolly to see to oversee the preparations.”

“I’ll get going as well,” the arms master grumbled. “I’ll open the armoury for your lads, and call out the guard for drills. If some bugger wants to come and play Capture the Flag, we’ll be ready for them.”

“Good to hear.”

The door swung shut behind the arms master with a clap that seemed to take all other sound with it. Despite the cold seeping through the stone, the air in the teyrn’s study felt close, crackling like an August afternoon brewing with storm clouds on the horizon. Rosslyn’s gaze returned determinedly to the map before her, but not even she could fool herself that she was finalising strategy. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her.

“You’re not going,” Eleanor told her quietly.

Rosslyn ignored her. “Gilmore, I’m leaving you in charge of the garrison here. Have the city watch alerted, and whatever steps can be taken for a siege in the next few days, see that they are done. As soon as possible, send a message to Bann Teagan at West Hill and have him bring his forces east. We need to be prepared.”

Gilmore swallowed, his sight darting between the two women as he tried to work out whose side he should take in the coming argument.

The Teyrna’s patience snapped. “Rosslyn!”

“There’s no one else, Mother,” came the tired reply. “Tolly has no experience as a battle commander.”

“And you do?”

“Ross- my lady,” Gilmore interjected with nervous cough. “I beg you to listen to your lady mother. Let Captain Tolly and the lieutenant go.”

Scowling, Rosslyn shook her head. “We have few enough officers as it is. It must be me.” She turned to face her mother at last, only to quail under her long, hard look and the downward turn of her mouth.

“Leave us,” the Teyrna ordered Gilmore. “Go to your duties. Now,” she added, when the young knight stepped forward as if to argue.

He froze, halted by the icy tome of command, as his training had taught him. For an instant he struggled, but having been dismissed, he might as well fade into thin air for all the attention he would get. With reluctance, he bowed and turned smartly on his heel, casting one last look backwards at Rosslyn as he marched from the study. She stood with her hair tumbling over one shoulder, arms folded and feet planted, without any trace of the girl he used to play with, who joked with him in the sparring ring and told all her secrets; she had grown out of his reach, and he could no longer protect her.

“So,” Eleanor pressed when only the two of them remained. “It appears you’re getting your wish. You get to go to war after all.”

“Mother…” Rosslyn bit down on her argument. “I have to do this.”

“No you don’t,” came the weary reply. “And yet, there’s too much of both of us in you to ever think you would just sit quietly behind. I had hoped you wouldn’t be swept up in war.”

“You were, once.” Rosslyn took a step closer to her mother, hardly daring to breathe. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“Would you change your mind if I did?”

“No.”

A bittersweet smile touched Eleanor’s lips. “I wanted you all safe. But we each have our parts to play, and I won’t wail and tear my hair just because life isn’t to my liking.” She scoffed, drawing herself up. “We are Couslands, and we do what must be done.”

Rosslyn felt her eyes prickle. To her, the stories of the Seawolf’s exploits during the Occupation had always been a distant thing, a legend to add to all the others that was fundamentally disconnected from the soft, comforting presence known as ‘Mother’. The woman before her had grown wiry with age, and the stress of recent days had carved ever deeper lines into the high angles of her face, but she remained undaunted, and for the first time Rosslyn was truly able to see Eleanor Mac Eanraig as she had been, the commander of the pirate all Orlesian captains feared. In comparison, she herself was nothing but an eager child still playing with toy swords – a pup, just like her nickname.

She wanted to be more.

“I’ll bring them back. I swear it,” she said, moving to clasp her mother’s hands in reassurance.

“Time is wasting.” Eleanor returned her daughter’s grip, a tight smile hidden in the corners of her eyes. “You’d best go get dressed. Nobody goes to war in their nightwear.”

“I suppose armour would be more practical,” Rosslyn agreed with a smirk.

The two pulled briefly into a hug, and then there was no more room for softness. Rosslyn rolled her shoulders back, fully a head taller than her mother, and, whistling for Cuno to come to heel, marched into the hall, calling for her arms. She failed to notice how her dog paused in the doorway, his head cocked to the side as he looked back at the old woman and saw the pride on her features crumble into pain. He wagged his tail once, twice, but gained no answering relief, so with a whine he turned away and trotted to catch up to his mistress.

In what seemed like no time at all, the long line of cavalry was clattering across the Marl Plain, strung out under the torches they used to light their way, the fire reflected tenfold off harness and mail to create the monstrous illusion of a dragon twisting in the dark. The rain had eased in the preceding hour, rolling off to the south in surrender to the frost and the pinkish glow of Sevuna low on the horizon. Despite the cold and the early hour, the riders whooped and sang to stir themselves for battle, answered by whinnies from their horses. The noise rattled up and down the column and echoed with such force it sparked lights from curious city windows. On the battlements of Castle Cousland, the Teyrna closed her eyes to the clamour. Her head bowed against the wind, which tore at her cloak and the snapping Laurels flying from the gatehouse tower, whittling into her bones. My last child gone. Down beyond the river, bells began to ring as first one chantry tower then another tolled the first hour of Wintersend morning.

[eurotren]

Bologna

Having realised that we weren't going to make it to St. Mark's Square, The Doge's Palace or the Bridge of Sighs we decided to cut our trip to Venice even shorter and just managed to catch the 12:42 to Bologna before it left Santa Lucia station.

This was a Double Decker trainitalia vehicle from circa 2000. We sat upstairs in a busy compartment in uncomfortable blue vinyl seats. Once again a modern Italian train flattered to deceive, the on board information system didn't work properly, toilets were few and far between, and generally disgusting. It was an unremarkable journey south, initially west through Venice Mestre and the industrial town of Padova (Padua) and then turning south through largely flat Italian farmland stopping at:

Abano-Montegrotto

Monselice

Rovigo

Ferrara

San Pietro Incanzale

Bologna Centrale is a huge station. It is the 5th largest in Italy in terms of people transits, but holds, alongside Rome, 1st place for the number of train movements. We didn't take much notice of the station as we exited partly because the front elevation of the main building is a sterile 1920s oblong, but mainly because of the Piazza outside; I have never seen so many people in such close proximity to so many fast moving vehicles in my life. It looked as though some disorderly mass evacuation of Bologna was in full swing. I'm still not sure how we managed to get to the other side, but the adventure was well worth it.

If Venice was a little scruffy, then Bologna was definately the shabbiest chic! Jeff and I both loved the place though, mainly because it was a real working city. There's nothing plastic about Bologna, it's a bustling, vibrant, student town full of history and heritage with fantastic architecture everywhere you look. Some of the place is a little down at heel, but equally a great deal is being sympathetically renovated and rebuilt, and the finished work is awe inspiring.

Jeff had told me that Bologna was famous for its towers and, fair play, he was spot on! Beginning in the 1500s generations of rich merchants vied with each other over several centuries to build the tallest and most elaborate structures and consequently the city is now home to around 40 towers. There are also many really impressive colonnaded thoroughfares (we walked up one that had to be a mile long) in all sorts of states of repair. Some are uber chic with mainly italian designer clothes shops. Jeff performed his usual appraisal of these establishments by determining whether he could afford to buy a pair of shoes. He couldn't, by quite some margin! Other colonades housed newsagents, tobacconists and places selling household goods in shop fronts that would have been in vogue in the 1950s. Based on food and drink, Bologna was one of the cheapest places we've visited so far, and, most importantly of all, the coffee was excellent. I guess it's reasonable to expect the country that invented the 'Americano' to know how to make one. They now just need to tell the Belgians, Germans, Austrians, Czechs, Hungarians, Slovakians, Slovenians and Croats the secret.

There are some pictures of Bologna coming up, unfortunately these don't do the place any semblance of justice. Checkout the main square, statues and the Cathedral buildings; jaw dropping! We sat at a cafe in the square sipping coffee, not talking, just mesmerised!! Revived by caffeine we went in search of the Central Market building that Chris had seen on a Rick Stein prorgamme about Bologna. Apparently the building was home to some simple and cheap market stalls that sold excellent home made food served at sit down trestle tables. We found the place easily, but it proved to be quite a disappointment. It was small, fairly pompous and all it contained were places to eat; not the large multifaceted and multipurpose market that we'd envisaged. We then moved on into that sector of Bologna that is dominated by University buildings. We passed a bustling street market on route, walked through a well attended and noisy student demo and past hordes of street side bars and cafes where young people were putting the world to rights. There was a great vibe! The University Buildings were fantastic, with a lineage and architectural style that could rival Oxford and Cambridge, but with a patina that was truly its own. Bologna University hadn't had a wash for a while!

We took a circular route back to the station, with a brief stop at a cafe for another excellent coffee. Making our way through the station concourse we began to realise just how vast Bologna Centrale is. Our train left from platform 19, which is in a new part of the station, dedicated to the high speed AV trains. Construction on this section commenced in 2008 and is ongoing. It's ultra modern and is more like an airport than a railway station.