The squadron that Master Pritchard dispatched silently scanned the Tywyll. Bowmen and crossbowmen walked behind the dagger-hands and swordmasters. Their feet made little to absolutely no sound as they crossed the cursed forest.
Not many could venture deep in the forest without becoming afflicted with madness. The utter silence could make one’s brain weak. Only, this was deep in the Tywyll; Caislín and her Solitary had stayed within the outskirts.
I have been longing to write something on Apricotpie for months, but I can't write long works without a computer. Alas, my life does not permit sitting at the computer isolated in the corner of the house. So, instead of something eloquent or a fanciful story, here is a snapshot of the things that go through my head in a day written while a baby was sleeping on me from my cell phone.
She couldn’t remember if she screamed.
“Quit pacin’, Your Highness, you’ll burn a hole in the ground with your heels,” Aloysius remarked, leaning against a gnarled tree, arms crossed over his chest.
Her stomach hadn’t settled. Her body was sent in another tempest; this time it was a tempest of confusion, not of sorrow.
"Hello."
"Oh. Hi. You look familiar...have we met before?"
"I don't think so. I've seen you around at this conference before. At least I'm pretty sure I have."
She tilted her head to one side.
"Ohhh that must be it. I've been here every year since they started this conference back in 2012."
"Cool! So have I. My name is Mark. Mark Barton."
He shook her hand.
"Melissa Grey. Nice to meet you!"
Smiles.
"Do you live near here? I live about three hours from here in a little community called Lake Victor."
Chance let the rest of the warm sun tan his face.
The summer-like streak that stretched on through months about Destrea halted with a torrent of rain a couple nights ago. The Tywyll Forest was cold now, but the sun peeked through the damp leaves. It was just enough to create a warm patch where he laid.
His eyes were closed. His mind was screaming, meditating, but singing. One song replayed in his mind, making his tongue dance to it.
“Rain won't wash away the memories
And the wind won't hide her perfume
But it blows
Caislín fingered her father’s crown.
The funeral was held yesterday. She was officially the queen of Destrea. Instead of sapphire coronation banners, black and purple streamers danced in the whistling wind to mourn the loss of a monarch. She was given word that Sa’di had been implicated with the band of terrorists and had since disappeared, thus proving their points.
Teren awoke with sunlight shining on his eyelids. He sat up and yawned, then heard a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called sleepily. Cybille entered the room, then turned around and walked back out.
“You are not dressed.”
Teren rolled his eyes.
“It’s fine. I have a t-shirt and boxers on, you can come in.”
Cybille reappeared with one hand over her eyes.
“Your new suit is done, and I brought it up.”
“New suit? What new suit?”
“The one I measured you for last week. Remember? Your father wanted you to have it for when the guests arrive.”
Cybille sat in the kitchens, sipping a mug of tea, a small break from work. The door from the back walk was suddenly flung open, and one of the cook’s boys came in, soaked to the bone. Cybille raised her eyebrows. It was a sunny afternoon last time she checked, and the sprinklers weren’t on outside at this time of day, unless… She smiled into her tea as the cook came and began to dry her son off. The boy was complaining about “annoying brats” and “hooligans” and Cybille laughed under her breath. A sudden rain shower on a clear day sounded just like Teren, Hugo, and Jason.
They found Chance in the stables.
But before they did, he just waited. He could hear the crowds and personnel drop into desperate clamor, and he knew that his team was successful. He found himself useless at this point in missions, given he discouraged himself from fighting. He knew he could, but experiences were burned in the back of his mind. They held him back. Even sparring in between missions proved difficult to do. He wished he could harden up, but memories kept him soft - broken. There was no time to let his heart cool before another memory burned it in despair.
Cheri knocked on Jonathan's closed door.
“Come in.”
She walked in and eased herself slowly onto the side of Jonathan's twin bed.
“Hey Mom.”
“Hey Kid.”
She poked his nose and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle off of his pillowcase.
“I wish we didn't have to leave you all alone while you're sick.”
Jonathan blinked back his disappointment.
“I know. Just give Gramps and Nanna a hug for me and tell Uncle Thom I said happy birthday.”
“Will do. We'll try not to stay for more than two or three hours. Call me if you need anything, 'kay?