SWC #7- the asylum

So I decided to go with some backstory for Peril this time.

Peril peered at the sign overhead. "The Criminally Insane" She studied the ground once more. Her hand seemed very small in Whorlie's hand. Why were they here? Why would Whorlie take her here? What had happened to father? Was he here?

She didn't look back, although she wanted too. She knew Kejan wouldn't be there. She wished he. Of course, she trusted Whorlie. He was father's top man, and he always protected her from the sneers of father's other men. Still she liked Kejan more. He was a bit younger than most the others. He never looked at her the way they did. Kejan never used that big word that she didn't understand.

Hereditary.

Instead, he taught her things. A lot of things. Kejan taught her to read. He taught her how to set snares for catching dinner. He taught her all about the woods. He taught her never to let on how much she really knew. Not even Whorlie would've known she could read that sign with ease.

He taught her that there were very bad people in the world. He said that some of them were father's men. He hoped one day she would not have to be around such bad people. He said that he was one of them.

That she did not believe. Why would Kejan be bad? If he was all that bad, why would he be so kind to her? If he was bad, he would be more like the other men. He would call her things like "witch" and "demon child." He would threaten to burn her under a tree like they did. Or worse, he would be like her father, and deny she existed.  

But Kejan wasn't here with his peaceful presence. So Peril tightened her grip on Whorlie's hand and he squeezed back in reassurance. It was part of how they communicated with each other. Somehow she knew when Whorlie told her it was time to hide, or eat, or sleep just by a squeeze of her shoulder or by a small nod and a smile. 

The castle mansion rose above them. She detested the walls. Gray brick and musty. The halls echoed with noise. People screaming and crying and muttering and running. Why were they here? 

Whorlie asked a few directions to the "head of this madhouse," but Peril tried to block it all out. She wasn't here. There was no roof. No walls. No wailing. She was alone in a wood with the wind teasing the trees and the creek trickling through the grass. 

It worked until they entered a very dark hall. It really wasn't any darker than the other halls. In fact, it was much quieter here. Near silent. But it felt so much more darker. And that's why it took her from her daydream. It must've. A large door waited at the end of the hall and Whorlie didn't even knock. 

"I see you've brought her." A man behind a desk stood. No, he didn't stand. He towered. His ivory skin contrasted with the black bleakness of the whole room. 

Whorlie shook his head, "But what of--"

"He is dead," the other man said with strong certainty.

Somehow Peril knew they meant her father. She didn't know how she knew. But she did. Something inside her told her she ought to feel sad. She ought to cry. But how could one ever cry for a father? It wasn't like they cared. It wasn't like they did anything of importance in a person's life. Oh, he'd helped bring her into this life. But if she was supposed to owe him something for that, then forget it. Something else deep down. A grim amusement was glad that she wouldn't have to see him again. 

He had tried to kill her once. 

"How old is she?" the man nodded to Peril.

"Does it matter, Matagan?" Whorlie stood more in front of her. What was going on?

Matagan shrugged. "For the records."

"Five years," Whorlie answered. "Is this really necessary? I mean, you've gotten him. Why--"

Matagan waved him away. "You know this will help you go free. We've been through this."

"Yes, but she's done nothing. To put her here. She's merely--"

"Whorlie," that all-too commanding voice returned to Matagan, "It is not this place that is haunted. It is simply a building. It's the people that it houses to free the rest of society from their kind. And she," Matagan pointed at Peril, "She is more haunted than I've ever seen. You know what her mother was, and with her father too. You know what she'll become."

Peril stuck her chin out. She wouldn't let this man know how terrified she was that maybe they were right. Maybe everything they ever said was true. She never knew her mother, but if her mother had been a sorceress, perhaps the spirits would come haunt her too? What if she went mad like father? What if she turned out as a bad person who hurt other people? The people that Kejan warned her against. The person her father was. What if--

"Just look at her eyes." Matagan jerked a hand toward her with disdain.

Peril blinked her eyes, not simultaneously. She blinked one right after another. It always freaked out father's men when she did that. It accentuated the fact that her eyes were each a different color. One a burning amber, the other an icy blue. Or so father's men had said

Whorlie shook his head. "I know. I'.m sorry."

"Hm, yes." Matagan's gaze fell down to Peril in full study mode now. He walked around her, but she simply turned with him. Always facing him. 

"Impertinent, she is," Matagan mumbled."Is she smart?"

Whorlie shrugged. "She's five, sir? She's shown no development of her parents as of yet."

Matagan did his "hm, yes," response again. He waved a hand at Whorlie. "You may go."

Whorlie moved but Peril did not release his hand. He gave her a smile and the shoulder squeeze to stay. Peril shook her head and clenched her teeth. What was he doing? She wouldn't stay in this monstrous place. She'd trusted him. 

"Now Peril." Whorlie knelt. "This man here is going to take good care of you, okay? I have dangerous business to attend--"

Peril hugged his neck. Whorlie lied. This man intended to do no such thing. 

Whorlie worked to free himself from her entangling grip. "You'll be safe here. Nobody will try to burn you or touch you or hurt you in any way." 

She let go. Because it was useless. She was only five. No matter how she fought, in the end Whorlie would leave and she would stay with Mr. Creeps the human tower.

Why was Kejan not here? No, she knew. Kejan would not have let this happen. Whorlie made sure Kejan wouldn't be here. She took a step away from Whorlie in disgust. He may go and leave her if he wish. But she would not stay here. 

Whorlie left. Peril stood in the middle of that dark room and toed the cobbled floor. Matagan lifted her chin, but she jerked away and bit his finger. 

Matagan clubbed her on the head and she let go. He was rather composed for someone who'd gotten bit. "Insolent girl." He glared at her. "And Whorlie said you weren't crazed yet."

Oh, she wasn't. But if that's what they wished to believe, she could play it up. And when they weren't looking, she'd get away. 

Matagan called for someone. Peril didn't remember much else. Except that they put her in a stupid white dress. Frilly and silky. Nothing like one would wear in a mental ward. But then all the prisoners had worn everyday clothes, not just her. 

She made them drag her to a room then. They said it was "her room" but it was only a room. The asylum would never, never be her home. She would not belong here. If she could ever help it. She would refuse to speak. Not a peep. They could think she was crazy. What did they know? 

There was only one other thing Peril remembered about that day.

That first evening, the nightmares started. 

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Summer Writing Camp #7 - It's the last one!

So summer is coming to a close. Do you know how much I dislike saying that? I don't even what to look at all the school supplies the stores have put up. And I like that kind of stuff. Pencils and notebooks. *sighs*

Moving onward, this will be our last and final prompt for the summer. It makes me sad. I love reading all of your creative ideas. They are all so different, even though the prompt is the same! It's amazing how diverse everyone is.

If you want to join, it's one of the easiest things in the world. You come up with something related to the prompt. Be it short story, poetry, song, a scene, whatever you want. Get creative. Have fun with it! Link back here and you've done it. You have joined us for our finally Summer Writing Camp. 

The deadline is August 28th.

Fellow blogglings your prompt is:

*chessy drum roll*

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Did you like this link up? Would you want to see it again next summer? How can it improve? Also, do you like doing link-ups in general? What kind? Throw me some ideas!

SWC #6: Oddball and Peril

I'm very untimely when replying to comments. *hides face* I don't even know why. I love all your comments. You, people, are awesome! 

Okay, this prompt fit an Oddball scene I had in mind. But-

It's in Peril's POV. I'll try to keep it as unconfusing as possible. 

*frowns at Oddball* What are you laughing at?

Oddball: I'm sorry. What were you saying earlier today? 'Peril is the definition of inconsistent'?

Why are- You know, what? Just read the script. 

(If you want to join the link up, it's here! It's due today actually. . . )

Peril felt a presence close to her. Oddball leaned toward her with a tin cup. She took it and smiled. 

"Maybe this gas burner wasn't such a bad idea after all," Oddball said. 

Peril held the cup close and breathed in the bitter smell of coffee. Wonderful. 

He poured himself a cup and sat back against the rocks. The small gas burner was the only light in the dark cave, but she was pretty certain that he stared at her. 

Oh, he expected her to reply! Right. Of course. 

"You still would teased Rocky about bringing it anyways." She sipped the coffee tentatively. It was still too hot. 

Oddball shrugged. He offered her some jerk and she shook her head. She wasn't really hungry. 

He made a face after swallowing some. "You know, Rocky could live off this stuff?"

"I believe it." She laughed and then stopped. She sounded almost rational. Nothing like the persona she had created for herself. She glanced at Oddball. 

"Can you remember the last time we had a real meal?" he asked. It seems he didn't notice. Though stopping mid-laugh would be something weird that her persona would've done. So maybe he wouldn't have noticed. Or maybe he was just hungry, with all his talk of food.

"At Hawk's," Peril said. "During Christmas?"

Oddball rubbed his chin. "Is potluck a real meal?"
 

"I don't remember," she said, "what is a real meal again?"

Oddball laughed. She was glad he was smiling. He hadn't done much of that when they were in the Border. But here they were lost in some cave in the Labyrinth and out of all the people in the world, Oddball smiled. She wished she knew how to make him smile more often. 

But right now, she didn't feel much like smiling herself. She didn't really know why. But she had to, right? That was her mask.

"I remember," Oddball shifted on the cave floor so that his elbows were propped on his knees, "when I was really, really young-"

"Because you're just so old now," Peril tried to put more quirk into what she said.

Oddball chuckled, "Yeah, something like that. . . We would eat tree mussel stew." He stared at the ground. "It was the best. And my mother would make it."

Peril sat forward. This stew sounded disgusting. But Oddball never talked about his parents. Never about himself. She kind of hoped he would go on. Just out of curiosity. But he fell silent again.

She wanted to prod him, yet she felt it was always a sensitive subject. His past in the Border. Of course, the mask she had created for herself was supposed to be oblivious and unintuitive. The mask would ask. If she cared anything about self preservation, she would ask.

"What's your favorite meal?" Oddball asked a little awkardly.

"This right here." Peril held up her mug and took a swallow. The coffee was cool enough now. Just the smell of it made her more herself. 

Oddball shook his head. "Like you need more energy."

Actually, it had the opposite effect on her. She could focus better. She wasn't so scatter-brained. She was more herself. Peril looked down into her cup. Which wasn't exactly a good thing. 

Oddball sighed. He actually tried to a conversation with her. She wasn't sure why. Worse, he had to drag words from her. Usually it would've been the other way around. Peril would make a general nuisance of herself, jump around, and ask wild questions while Oddball would grumble something about too many questions and her always causing trouble. 

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Peril shook her head. "Yeah, I'm good." She gave him a wide grin, but he only squinted at her in the darkness. 

Never before had she wished so much to be alone. Where no one could see her. Where she could just be herself in peace for two seconds. She didn't even know what herself was like. She glanced at Oddball. A part of her just wanted to tell him, to be able to be herself. And a part of her was scared out of her mind to do so.

"Are you sure?" he asked again. Surely, he'd understand, right?

"Yes. I'm just tired is all." She put the tin cup on the ground. She had enough of that. "I'll just turn in for the night." She left to the corner where she had placed her bedroll, and she didn't look back. 

It was the coffee, not Oddball, that always let her guard down. It was the Shamdram military and going back to the wretched asylum that she feared most, not Oddball seeing who she really was. 

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Well, that was terrible. Although it is 3:30 am. . .I'm not even going to try to edit.

If you are officially confused, I apologize.

Summer Writing Camp #6

I hope you all liked #5 with it's dragon. In fact, there's still time left to join if you wish. Also you don't want to miss on what everyone wrote. The creativity is strong with this blogsphere.

Ahem. I will be gone for the next week. But for now, here's a prompt/link up thing. The deadline is August 14th.

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Have an awesome week!

SWC #5 Enter Ayvie

So more Eelistle? He's the elf guy from the first, third, and fourth prompt. 

Actually, I'm sure he's the only elf I've written about.

This one's a little long. Okay, it's a lot long (that is what long's all about, you know). Here' the thing. It's in first person this time. Hope you like it. Brayden is actually conscious for this one. Not sure if that is completely good or not. . .

By the way the, deadline for this two week's Summer Writing Camp is July 31st. That happens to be this Friday, people. I really hope you get to join, because- because-

Dragons!

You know you want to. :D Though you should at least hop on over to Rachel's blog @ Secret Scribblings and read her take on it. I happen to think it's quite fabulous. 

I sip my water. We sit outside the café under the canopy

 “We need to get to Tenerath,” Brayden says around his sandwich. 

I don’t prod him to explain. Three tables down there’s a girl. Dark skinned and short, who seems like she’s listening to every word we say. It wouldn’t matter anyhow. Brayden would only elaborate when he wishes too. 

“What’s wrong?” He frowns at me. “You’ve hardly said a word since we arrived.”

I consider telling him about the girl. But he will only push it aside as paranoia. So I settle for the second truth. “I hate the city.” My voice sounds surprisingly composed and void of emotion. But in reality this whole place has me on edge. There’s so much noise. So many people. So much—

City.

Brayden swallows and shrugs. He already knows about my abhorrence for all places over populated. “Garath’s men won’t be leaving us alone anytime soon.” Brayden takes a long drink from his mug. “So as soon as we can find fast transportation, we’ll get out of here.”

I nod. “What do you have in mind?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Preferably a dragon.”

A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I see. And is dragon flying another one of your assorted arcane abilities?”

“How hard can it be?” Brayden clasps his hands behind his head. “We’re on a budget and a tight schedule. I’d rather not rob some corrupt lord and buy a dragon within the same town.”

I settle my hands on the table. “Translation: you do not know how to fly a dragon.” 

Brayden rolls his eyes and hunches back over the table like he’s sharing a secret. “That’s a minor inconvenience which will soon be resolved after purchasing said dragon.”

“Of course.” I sit back but don’t let my smirk fade.  Brayden ignores me.  

“We should split up.” He darts a look around the market square. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

My chest tightens. Since Brayden has gotten better, I’ve allowed him to take the lead, just like old times. I’m not exactly good with people. Brayden pretends to be oblivious to the pensive look that has stolen my smirk, but the gleam in his eye gives him away.

“Um, ma’am?” I say to the lady in charge of the stable. 

 

She continues to scold one of her stable hands about overfeeding the ponies. 

“Ma’am?” This time I tap her shoulder. 

She whirls on me fast. But as soon as she looks me up, all the way up, she steps back. “Aye, sar? What coulds I be doin’ fer ye?” Her accent's more atrocious than the kids I spoke to earlier. 

“Ma’am, uh,” I stammer. “I wondered if you might have a, maybe.” I shift under her gawking stare. “A dragon. For sale?”

“No, sar. Not ‘ere.” Her face still shows surprise, but her voice is as easy as a brook at sunset. 

“Do you- might you know-“

She points to a man at a booth across the wide square and her confidence returns. “Mastar Tidlar knows just en ‘bout all the bisness that goes ‘round. Ye could ask ‘im?” She turns it into a question to make it gentler.

“Yes. Right.” I bow of my head. “Thank you . . . ma’am.” Only Brayden has ever heard me speak without stumbling over myself. Not even Cordon could get that.

She nods and covers her smile. 

The man at the booth has weasel eyes and a kept, pointy beard. He sits with his feet kicked up on his booth and relates some story to two other men. I have a strong suspicion that his name is not strictly Mastar Tidlar, but in truth Master Tidler. Well, Tidler. 

“Sir?” I step up to the booth.

The two men beside me balk before reacting more ethically. 

“Yes, my good man?” Finally! Someone who can speak properly. Tidler’s unfazed expression at my appearance puts me a little more at ease myself.

“I was, well- Someone informed me you knew about the business exchanges in this town?” 

“They were correct.” Tidler twirls a charcoal pencil between his fingers. He has a certain charisma that inclines others to like him, yet he studies me just as much as I do him. “Is there something you are looking for?”

I open my mouth. If asked, this man would give away information concerning me and Brayden. For a high price of course. And with me being so recognizable. . .

I force myself to smile back at him. “Do you know of the best inn around?” I breathe so as not to stammer. “I have some business in town and I could be here some time.”

Tidler rubs his chin. “Any preferences you have?”

“Some place that will give me a good cut rate. Uh, a nice bed.” Now I make stuff up and hope he doesn’t see through me. “I will probably be around for a week and I am a bit particular about my rest. So, nothing rowdy.”

Tidler smiles understandingly. “Of course. Rocker’s is the best place. It’s a nice cozy part of town and he has grand food.” He sets his feet on the ground and leans forward. “If you go down Lion’s Tail street down here?” He points down a cobbled street that branches off from the square. 

I nod.

“Then take a right at the bakery. Crumb Shop is its name. Keep going and Rocker’s Inn will be to the left.”

“Right. Then left. Thank you sir.” I bow my head.

“Pleasure.” He kicks his feet back onto the table.

I walk down Lion’s Tail. Walk normal. Not too fast. When I’m out of sight, I double back down a side alley.

“I couldn’t find a dragon for sale.” Brayden joins me as I walk back the café. 

“Clearly,” I say. “Or else you would have one with you.”

Brayden smirks. “Your sarcasm’s still weak, but we’ll work on it.”

I roll my eyes and fight down my own smirk. 

The crowd practically parts for us as we make our way through. 

Brayden frowns. “This is ridiculous. How are we supposed to hide with you around?”

I don’t point out how he included me then excluded me all in a single since. 

“If you’re with me you’ve got to do something about all- all-“

“All what?” I ask with a tone of seriousness.

 “This!” He gestures to me up and down. “You’re too tall.” Now he waves me away like a fly. “You stick out like a tower in the plains.”

“What exactly do you suggest I do? I am not going to chop off my knees.”

“I don’t know! Stoop a little. Cut your hair!” He puts a hand on his chin and looks at me again. “And do something about those ears.”

“I am not chopping them off either.”

A voice behind us calls out, “Freak!”

A few other snickers and insults join it, but not many. Brayden throws a death glare over his shoulder as I rub the back of my neck. I can’t hide in the human’s realm. At home, I was invisible. I both cherished it and hated it. Now I miss it like the memory of water in a desert. 

“No matter,” Brayden steps into the café. “We’ve got to out of this town tonight with or without fast transportation. 

The place is packed with dinnertime guest. We stand off in a corner because there’s no place to sit. Brayden orders us some farven juice. 

“Eelistle,” he says quietly after the server delivers our drinks, “You know I would have no one else with me on this journey. No matter how much you stick out.”

I nod. How do I respond to those words exactly? Or is a response even required of me? 

Brayden snort-laughs to himself. “Sometimes it’s even advantageous. Most people find you intimidating.”

I stare at him. Me? Intimidating? Brayden laughs even louder now. We’ve known each other too long for him not to know what I’m thinking. 

“Good sirs?” A young woman stands nearby, the one who listened to our lunch conversation. She bows with flourish and grins. Brayden looks impressed. I am not.

“I’ve heard you were unsuccessful on your dragon hunt.”

“Um. How did you know this?” I hear myself respond first.

She looks at me. “People hear things.”

Well, that is most comforting.

“I have a dragon you can buy,” she says brightly.

“Really?” Brayden’s eyes dance. “How fast does he fly?”

“She,” the female says. “Fire Flicker’s the fastest you’ll ever see.”

“How much for her?” Brayden says.

“Ten lens.”

“Ten?” Brayden’s voice only remains tempered because she’s attractive. 

“Yes.” Now she grins even wider. “Five for her and five for her driver.”

“Driver?”

“Flicker and I’ve flown many people, and I’m sure we can be of good service to you.”

“No,” I say. 

Brayden looks at me.

“We can’t have another life to. . .” I crinkle my nose while finding the right words, “be responsible for. Besides we have no thought to where we may go or what danger--.”

“I know precisely where we’re going, Eelistle,” Brayden says firmly.

“Yes, but. . .” I sigh. “We need to travel freely,” I insist. “Having a beast of our own is efficient, but another person in the party becomes another liability. She will only slow us—“

“Excuse your elvishness,” the girl says, “I am capable of taking care of myself and I am certainly not a liability.”

I bow curtly to the female. “Apologies my lady. I meant no offense. It is clear from your, um, physique, posture, and excellent blade,” I nod to her sword in its sheath, “that you are a good warrior—“ 

“My physique!” The woman clenches her fists and glances at Brayden. 

Brayden shrugs. “Don’t take it lightly. He knows swordsmanship when he sees it.” 

“I merely mean.” I take a breath before beginning again. “That we must move fast and I, um, do not know how long your services will be needed. Certainly, you do not wish to be in tow for long.”

The woman crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll leave when I see fit, if that’s what bothers you. But as you said yourself, I may be more useful than simply steering your ‘fast transportation.’”

Brayden laughs loudly and jabs my arm. “She’s got spunk.”

We both glare at him. Standing close to her, I stick out even more. We’re complete opposites. My skin is pale like the moon and my hair, just as pale, hangs loosely behind my back. She is dark like the night and her hair, just as dark, is bound up in various braids and a scarf. 

Brayden gazes at us with amusement, like life is a game. Like he is a king and not an exiled prince with a price on his head. 

“She comes with us,” he says.

She smirks at me in triumph and I simply look away. 

“Ayvie,” she says.

Brayden introduces himself and his “sulky friend.”

They chat as we exit the café. Ayvie asks where Brayden “got” me. Of course, he launches into an untold version of how we met and somehow makes a twist in which he can appear heroic. This is why I can’t stand girls amongst our company. Brayden flirts with them while I take the serious matters seriously. Speaking of which.

“We have to make a stop by Rocker’s Inn,” I blurt.

“Eelistle,” Brayden says patronizingly, “we’re leaving. We have a dragon and lucky for you someone who knows how to fly one.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I think it will be worth our while to pay the owner a three days’ worth stay.”

"Why?" Ayvie says in annoyance.

But Brayden nods. “I see. Excellent plan.”