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dungeonmastersconsortium · 2 years

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Deeks: A Short Story of Eonera

Deeks sat on the park bench, wiping the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. It was not particularly warm, but he had been trying to complete his route early, and his final delivery for the day had been in one of a few production facilities on the outskirts of Druwa. He could still taste the acrid metal tang of the air that was ever-present in arcane production buildings. He coughed and spat on the ground before taking a swig of water from the bottle he kept slung over his shoulder, before pouring it over his face to scrub some of the gray soot away.

Looking up at the sky, he saw the beautiful blue that was interrupted almost imperceptibly by the shimmer of Druwa’s defenses. Most people in the city, when they saw that shimmer, felt safe… protected. It helped them feel better. Deeks, though, only saw a sign of how far the beautiful world he lived in had fallen. With the rise of existential threats all around them, the Matriarch had decided to put the barrier in place. Now the city’s arcane batteries, once only a precautionary measure in case of a major disruption, powered the rippling dome over the city.

Matters like this were no longer Deeks’ concern, though. He was a simple courier now, and he cherished the simple joy of the job. He picked up the rod containing the day’s deliveries with a list of corresponding locations, summoned the parcel, and moved on. He got to go home to his partner when he was done, something he had only been able to do every now and again before. On a day like today, that meant everything to him.

Deeks, you there? The voice in his head was dull, the unmistakable smoky tone of the goblin dispatcher who assigned routes with the courier service. She spoke to him through the band clipped to his upper left ear. How many stops do you have left?

Hey, Valya, he replied mentally. Wouldn’t you believe it? I’m all booked up for today. He looked down at the steel rod in his free hand, dull from the lack of illuminated runes.

Bullshit, came the reply. You do know I can tell which rods have empty spots, don’t you? He did know that, of course. He replied with a mental eye-roll, which couldn’t be send, but the idea was transmitted over the telepathic link.

Yeah. I meant that I’m done for the day, he thought, dully. I’ve got stuff to do tonight. He received the mental equivalent of a shrug in response.

Late arrival. Paid extra for same day delivery.

I said no.

It’s close by. Sort of. Just get it done, and you’ll get the usual same-day bonus.

Does Corna understand the meaning of no?

He does. He also understands how time works. And coin. No other couriers are in your area. It’s an hour, tops.

I have to go home and- His mental retort was cut short.

You’ve got a nameday party to prepare. We know. Corna says there’s something extra in the pocket for tonight. A token of his appreciation.

If it’s another “One free half day” token, you can tell Corna to shove it up- Valya cut him off, probably saving his job.

It’s a couple bottles of that Uakruth vintage you like.

Fine. Last delivery. Sighing, he activated the first of the two glowing runes on the rod. Out popped a tightly rolled scrap of paper with an address. He groaned and stood up, shaking his head to get rid of some of the water and sweat that remained. He pulled the hood on his cloak up and got moving. He regretted not riding a skimmer today, but his current route wasn’t friendly to the hovering vehicles, given the haphazard alignment of the buildings. He hustled through the roads, sidestepping the occasional pedestrian as he hurried about his business. On the outskirts this was much easier, but the occasional “merchant” tried to flag him down to browse their wares, and even a Vidarian broker, blue-skinned and four-armed, tried to get him to take a job. He didn’t stop moving, even as the amphibious humanoid tried to flag him down with reassurances that it was easy, quick money for a courier. He kept his mind focused on his task, driven by his need to get home. He barely noticed the sky darkening… If he had, it may have struck him as odd, given that it was still early in the afternoon.

After a half hour or so of walking at the brisk pace he insisted on maintaining, he arrived at the designated address. He knocked on the door absentmindedly, already thinking of the preparations he’d still have to take care of when he got back. He had already paid a few street cooks to prepare food for the party, but decorating and rearranging the furniture still needed doing. He was about to knock again when he noticed the signboard on the wall next to the door.

BYLLERA HAS LEFT THE CITY

IF YOU NEED HER, INQUIRE AT

THE SILVERHOLD IN LEWELLYRA

Deeks sighed. A waste of his time. He pulled his hood back as if he were about to speak to someone face-to-face, more out of habit than actual necessity. He hated telepathic communication.

Valya. I don’t know who paid you for same day delivery, but they’re late, it seems. Recipient is long gone.

Odd, came the reply.

You’re telling me, he replied, tilting his head back to scrub his face with his hands. Refinery soot itched like a bitch. He then saw the darkening sky, and he narrowed his eyes, as though trying to solve a complex equation.

Well, assuming you’re not about to track her down, just -

Deeks’ senses were immediately overloaded. The first thing he registered after losing his sight was an intense, high pitched whine followed shortly by a blinding white light that replaced the darkness. The air tasted like burning metal, but not like it had at the refinery. This was more pure… more sinister. He fell to his knees as his flesh felt like someone was slowly pressing needles into him all over. Was it the ground shaking beneath him, or was that his body, wracked and shaking with sobs?

He blinked repeatedly, only to see through the haze of spots in his vision what looked like huge, metallic debris falling over the city. Not a lot… but before he could figure out what it was, the barrier that surrounded most of the city sparked and became opaque. The barrier that he, now, was outside. He was still paralyzed with pain, blinded by the sparkling lights that plagued his eyes. He gasped for breath, but the air tasted foul. He felt odd, something he hadn’t felt… Then he realized that he had subconsciously engaged a personal, transparent barrier around himself. As he gasped, looking around he saw the pedestrians around him. It was a scene straight out of his nightmares.As if in slow motion, he saw people dissolving around him… Their flesh turning to dust, followed by muscles… then bone. He screamed in pain and horror, unsure what was happening around him.

Looking toward the city, Deeks saw that people inside the barrier were looking just as horrified, but seemed unharmed. Then, with increasing dread, he realized that the shuddering he thought was his own body was, in fact, the ground beneath him. As the ringing subsided, he heard what sounded like the earth being torn apart. When he saw the city within the barrier list slightly, he stood up and tried to sprint toward the barrier. He defied the pain coursing through him, protesting every movement. He pounded a fist on the barrier, which did nothing but cause a searing pain that radiated up his arm, leaving black, cracked skin in its wake, and threw him backward.

As he regained his senses, he saw the city… his city, sinking in the ground.

VALYA. VALYA, WHAT’S HAPPENING? No response. He tapped the cuff on his ear. He took it off and examined it. It still carried the enchantment… But it wasn’t reaching its counterpart. He reached out to the barrier and screamed, a sound that tore through his throat with an anguish that couldn’t be put into words. Deeks was educated, and he knew what was happening, in part. The barrier had reacted to a threat, and was closed to outsiders. He was trapped on the wrong side. He lay on the ground, pounding the stone impotently with his fists, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. The city surely couldn’t survive if it continued to sink. He was aware of the massive cavern that lay below the city. Far below, not close to the surface enough to warrant concern about building a capital above it. But at the rate the city was sinking, it’d plummet to the bottom.

Deeks was just a courier, trapped outside an impenetrable barrier, screaming, crying, and flailing in anguish. He heard a deep thrumming sound, and internally winced, though he was able to make peace with it. Though his sobbing didn’t stop, he laid on his back, arms spread wide to the sky above him. At least this second wave of whatever danger had killed those around him wouldn’t be stopped by his contingency barrier… He would perish with all the rest.

*************

Deeks coughed as he awoke, his mouth and throat felt covered with dust. He rolled over, taking a drink from the bottle he always carried with him on the job. He choked, spat, and tried again, more slowly. He rolled over weakly, looking toward his home. Then he remembered what had transpired. He got to his feet shakily, then felt a surge of fear, pain, and rage, propelling him to sprint toward the barrier… Or where it had been. He was able to pass through the area, which was now a shallow crater in the earth. He sped down the incline, nearly falling multiple times.

Running for… He didn’t know how long… he reached the spot. He knew it should be here. He pounded the earth with his fists, to no avail. He dug at the soil with his hands, as if he could simply unearth his home.

He did not know how long he knelt there, digging, crying, and wailing, but eventually his arms refused to move, and he could no longer hold himself up. He crumpled, and embraced the darkness that overcame him once again.

*************

He guessed it had been two, perhaps three weeks since the city sank. He had been able to scavenge food and water from some of the buildings on the outskirts, and had been keeping himself alive more out of habit than any desire to see the next day. He wandered without purpose, eventually finding himself, quite by accident, in the same spot he had fallen when the city was forced below. He sat there, staring at where his city had been. He had contemplated the possibilities of seeking the city, and fully intended to do so… but he knew it was futile, deep down. He was currently considering more… dark possibilities. The only people he cared about had plunged beneath the surface… miles beneath the surface. He wasn’t far away from other bastions of civilization, but what was the point? The only person he loved was likely dead. He had no one, no job, no purpose…

He saw a glimmer in the dust nearby. He tilted his head quizzically, then walked over to the pinprick of light. Brushing the dirt away, he saw his transport rod, which hadn’t quite been buried by the dirt that blew all around the area for days after the sinking. He remembered what it contained, and the tears began to flow again. He hardly noticed them any more, they already felt like old friends. He considered opening the dimensional pocket, then looked up.

If you need her, inquire at the Silverhold in Lewellyra. He hefted the pack he had assembled over the last few days, stuffing the rod inside. Last delivery, he thought, even as he scrubbed at his dusty, tear-streaked face. Putting aside all thoughts of his own end, he began to walk. Last delivery.

#first attempt at a short story #critique is welcome #just don't be an ass #also if you like it PLEASE tell me.#eonera #short story #Short Stories of Eonera

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inkskinned · 1 year

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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!!#my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her)#hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet.#i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!!#i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art.#i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

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