Category Archives: Saldecla

Stories that take place in Saldecla.

Damn Brick Walls

I walked into the fancy establishment my friend worked at.  She assured me I’d have no problem getting in.  I shifted my turban a bit higher on my head.  It was too large on me.  I absently grabbed the ear-flap and tied it to the other side to try to muffle the sounds of chatter that resounded on either side of me.  Suddenly, a brick wall was in my way.  I looked up.

He was huge, with dark skin and nothing to cover his massive chest, save scars and crossed arms.  Slowly, my eyes went higher still, to his face.  He stared at me with the pale eyes of someone from the north, maybe even as far as Icesog.  I took a step back quickly. “Sorry, sir.” I moved to step past him, and a heavy hand fell onto my shoulder, faster than I could think. Read the rest of this entry »


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I stared in disbelief.  A boy, he could not have been older than sixteen, was asleep on my stoop with a newspaper draped over his body.  He wore a strange cape, with a skull at the shoulder, and under one hand, he held a wicked-looking staff.  He was a nice-looking boy, with his strange pale hair and his bow-shaped lips.  His large nose looked comical on such a smooth face.

Slowly, I nudged him with my fuzzy, purple slipper.  The boy jerked awake and stared up at me.  His eyes were an unusual green in color, and looked clouded with confusion. “Hey, get up.  Spent the night partying too long?” I asked.  He simply stared at me.  The silence quickly became awkward. “Do you want to sleep on my couch?” I knelt beside him, and he scowled as he puzzled through my words, then nodded and forced himself upright.  With sluggish limbs, he slipped past me as he held his cape shut.  He looked around, then flopped onto the plush seat with a quiet grunt. Read the rest of this entry »


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Torment from Dreams

The day was still and cold.


The night was cold, and its silence was pregnant with tension.

Better, but no.  That wouldn’t do, either.

Write.  Strike out.  Re-write.  The cycle continued many times as Damon tried to write a story for his bored teacher to read.  He was wasting paper.  Each false start cost money he could only barely afford. Read the rest of this entry »


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The Spirits Provide

Pole goes in the water.  Pole jabs the bottom.  Push the pole away and pull it out at the same time.  Go forward.  Turning is harder, but goes the same way.  That’s what Pop always told me before he died on a ferrying run gone bad.  He was gone now, so the ferry was mine.

It was a shitty raft, moved by a long pole.  It took a lot of raw strength and quick thinking.  Pop had been saving up for a real boat, but he lost his money when he went underwater.  All I had was what the Spirits let return: his raft, his pole, and his teachings. Read the rest of this entry »


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Morella Brightcloud

Her story starts before her birth.  Morella’s mother and her father, Achille, were deeply in love, despite her father’s strange fascination and obsession with order.  Rumors circulated, however, that Morella’s mother slept with people in order to gain their favor in her husband’s endeavors, but Achille ignored the rumors and simply enjoyed the woman’s company.  Morella was born, and any who looked at her saw mother and father– there was no doubt that she was not a bastard– especially after she began to sort her toys by size and color.  Many times, Morella did catch her mother with other men, and her mother explained very patiently that there was nothing wrong with embracing a sexual nature, but she must save her virginity for the person she was destined to marry, and that she must not tell her father of such things.

When Morella asked her mother if the woman still loved Achille, she answered “With all my heart, which is why I sometimes embrace people I do not like at all– for his sake.  If they see me come to them, they assume both of us must like them, or that they have some advantage, and your father can simply clean up the mess, which he is very good at.” Read the rest of this entry »


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A Sculpted Fantasy

The sculptor threw aside the chiseled bust of his commissioner.  The duke would hate it.  Shaking hands picked up the stone.  Ah, it looked much better, with that curl missing.  Now, it lacked that lively edge that made the duke seem an impetuous youth.  Slowly, he carved the hair into something more refined, and the duke as he was now appeared.  Absently, he wondered what had happened to change the lively young Achille into the stern man he was now.

Had his father finally beaten it out of him with fists and feet?  Had he gotten a too-convincing tutor?  Had one of his adventures in the desert gone bad?  Perhaps, he just grew into it.  With a sigh, the old man set aside the stern bust, made to join the library once Achille’s heir took over the duchy.  He looked it in the eye.  It held all of the life of the man– a relatively small amount, as it was. Read the rest of this entry »


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The Fall of the Heir

Continued from The Heir’s Rise in Heroism.

The man sighed regretfully, then looked to either side. “Search the stables!  We’re looking for three girls and a boy.  There should be one with heavy armor, two with caster books, and one with a bow!” He returned his gaze to me. “We have witnesses that saw you leave with them, and I know you’d never let them leave on their own.”

Panic coursed through my body.  Father was going to have my friends arrested! “Please, let them go!”

He shook his head. “If we return without them and you, we lose our heads.” Read the rest of this entry »


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