So I've got, and continue to create, a bunch of short and flash fiction that I've written for clients (non-exclusive agreements), for myself, or especially for you that I intend to share with you fine folk of D&D land. I recommend subscribing to the thread, because I'll be posting quite a bit of quality content as I go...
Sir Bors the Younger sat alone at the round table, tracing its knotwork carvings with his fingers. The morning light streamed through stained glass windows, washing the domed chamber in colors and light. He barely heard the chamber’s north door open or the sound of heavy boots approaching from behind.
“Ah, here you are.” A deep voice reverberated through the chamber, pulling him from thought.
“Yes, here I am, Sir Erec,” Bors replied, “and here you are as well. But why?”
“I have come to summon you to feast. Duke Cador has arrived with the Lady Guinevere and Arthur wishes to honor them.”
Bors sighed. “Aye, we’ll honor them. We’ll feast them, toast them, and wait on them, all while we grow fat and lazy.”
Erec sat beside his friend, placing his hand on Bors’s shoulder.
“No,” he said. “I have just come from the King’s quarters. We will feast tonight, then in the morning we depart for France.”
“France?” Erec’s brow furrowed.
“Merlin saw the Holy Grail in his visions. It lies hidden in an abbey in Saône-et-Loire. On the morrow, we ride to retrieve it.”
Sir Bors’s eyes widened. Erec smiled.
“Hold your wine tonight,” Bors said. “Or you’ll not be able to catch me in the morning.”
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PBP "Beregost Blues" - Dungeon Master of Gnome Slaying +5
An arrow whistled through the leaves of an old oak, skipping off a branch and narrowly missing a prize buck. The buck leapt away into the underbrush and darted through a ravine, bouncing and sprinting to safety.
“Curses,” Sir Kay said, spitting on the ground.
“Manners, boy.” Sir Hector of the Marsh reined his horse alongside his son’s and clapped Kay on the back. “The fates aren’t to blame for your miss.”
Kay dismounted and stepped off the path.
“Where there’s a buck, there are doe nearby.” Kay put an arrow to his string as he descended toward the ravine. “I’ll get me one of those.”
“It’s the wrong season, Kay. Come back and ride with me. We’ll find another good buck. Even if we don’t, the sun is shining and it’s a fine day for a ride.”
“Bah!” Kay pushed further into the forest, planting his feet carefully in the patches of mud and wet leaves.
Sir Hector shook his head.
“I’ll not follow you that way, boy. I’d snap my neck. I’ll ride around the other side and meet you by the bridge.”
Kay ignored him. Hector nudged his courser forward on the path, looping around and across a rushing stream toward the road. When he reached the bridge, he saw no sign of Kay or the buck that eluded him, only a wide ditch snarled with roots and fallen timber.
“Kay!”
His voice disappeared into the brush, drowned by the din of nature’s song – blowing leaves, creaking boughs, and rushing water. He raised his hands to his face to call again, but was distracted by a noise in the wood on the other side of the road. When he turned to look, his mouth dropped open.
A white stag stood at the forest’s edge, chewing on long strands of wild grass. Sir Hector reached to unbuckle his bow from the saddle, but fumbled with it and dropped it to the ground. The stag’s head jerked up and it locked eyes with Hector. The two stared at one another, silent and motionless.
Hector leaned in the saddle and slid to the ground, slow and careful. He retrieved his bow and drew an arrow from the quiver at his waist, nocking it on the string and circling his horse for a shot.
He leaned out and drew back, pointing the arrow at the stag’s heart, just as another arrow hissed through the air and struck the beast in the flank. The stag jerked and leapt into the wood, clearing a thorny thicket and disappearing into a stand of old oak.
“Kay!” Hector shouted, his voice strained.
“Curses!” Kay replied.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PBP "Beregost Blues" - Dungeon Master of Gnome Slaying +5
Morgan La Fey tied a golden ribbon around the trunk of a sallow tree atop a rocky hill.
“Mab.” She whispered, brushing aside her gown to sit upon a stone. “Hear me, my Queen.”
The wind gusted, raising gooseflesh on her arms, then subsided.
“Mab.” She whispered again. “Heed your servant’s voice, I beg. I am in dire need of your counsel.”
Morgan sat in still silence, her attention fixed on the gnarled old tree before her, and waited. The sun crossed the horizon, dipping into the sea. The day’s light faded away. She waited.
Weariness tugged at her mind, threatening to break her vigil, but she shook it away. A chill crept into her limbs, gnawing at her will like a dog at a bone. She waited.
The stars faded. Dew ran down the limbs of the tree and spattered on her face. Just as the sky lightened in the east, she felt her focus slipping, her thoughts wandering to places and times far away.
She saw her brother Arthur on his throne, the radiant Guinevere at his side and Lancelot standing behind. Arthur’s standard, three gold crowns on an azure field, hung from a rafter above them. She watched as the standard frayed and the rafter cracked, as the Queen’s gown dulled and faded to a nun’s habit, as Lancelot’s polished armor fell away and Arthur slumped in his throne, his shoulders slack and his hair suddenly thin and gray. Blood ran from underneath Arthur’s crown and pooled on the floor.
“Mab.” Morgan whispered, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears.
A ray of sunlight struck her in the face, shaking her focus back to the hill, the tree, and the present. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a figure before her, half flesh and half gilded shimmer.
The wind gusted again, whipping against the tree and whistling through the branches. On that wind, Morgan heard a voice.
“Ask and it will be answered.”
Morgan sighed. “I can no longer sleep while my brother lives. Tell me how I may destroy him.”
As the golden figure formed, she realized it was not Mab the Fairy Queen, but a man in polished armor.
The wind spoke again. “Do not be vexed. The seeds of destruction are sewn.”
Morgan tried to reply, but the words caught in her throat when the sun passed behind a cloud and she saw her son’s face on the man’s body. She laughed aloud, awakening herself from a dream.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PBP "Beregost Blues" - Dungeon Master of Gnome Slaying +5
UPDATE: I see there have been a couple dozen views but not really any comments or thumbs-up. That's fine, I definitely don't need validation, I just wanted to let everyone know, if you'd like to see more, I need feedback to the effect. I've got little motivation to spend the time to share my work, as well as clutter the forum with content, if folks ultimately aren't interested in it. Up to you.
Jandar ran a claw along the crimson fletching of an arrow before sliding it from his quiver and onto the string of his bow. In one swift motion, he drew and loosed, causing the thick silver fur of his mane to fluff and sending the missile hissing through the air into the center of a straw target some fifty feet distant.
“That’s the secret,” he said to the boy standing at his right. “No waiting. Just instinct.”
He fired again. This arrow struck just below the first, near enough to tear off one of its feathers.
“Now you,” Jandar said, stepping aside.
The boy, about three-quarters Jandar’s height with a mottled brown mane contrasted against Jandar’s pure silver, removed a short blackwood bow from the bundle on his back, braced it on his boot, and pulled the string into place. He drew an arrow from the quiver hanging at his belt and nocked it. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bow into place and drew back quickly, releasing just as the string reached his muzzle. The arrow struck the target high and right, missing the center by several inches and barely penetrating the packed straw.
Jandar sighed.
“Instinct. Not haste.” Jandar moved behind the boy. “Try again, but draw slowly and only release when I touch your hand.”
The boy put another arrow to string and pulled back slowly as he raised the bow into position. The string passed his muzzle, his cheek, then his ear. Just as he reached the point he could not pull any further, Jandar grazed the fur of his hand with a feather.
He let go, sending the arrow through the right edge of the target and into a wooden wall where it sunk deep and vibrated from the impact.
“Better,” Jandar said.
“Better?” The boy asked, turning to throw a quizzical stare at his mentor. “My first shot was closer.”
“Your first shot wouldn’t have pierced a goblin’s hide. What’s the good of hitting something with only enough strength to annoy it?”
The boy wrinkled his nose and curled his lip revealing the glistening white tips of his fangs. Jandar laughed.
“The instinct will come,” he said. “The hunt is in your blood. Just keep practicing.”
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PBP "Beregost Blues" - Dungeon Master of Gnome Slaying +5
Main Street lies before you, dark and long like a path into the abyss. Gray moonlight diffuses into clouds of fog and smoke, through which you can see vague shapes of people, animals, and… others. Every nerve on edge, you press forward into the shadows, fearing what lies ahead only slightly less than what you know lies behind. Buildings tower on either side of you, reaching toward a starless sky.
In the distance, past rows of shattered windows, ruined concrete, and piled refuse, a neon sign sways in the breeze.
“Main Street Deli,” it says in glowing green letters, a lonely reminder of Downtown’s vibrant past.
As you approach the sign, a figure steps from behind the twisted carcass of a delivery van.
“Hey man,” he says. “I ain’t eaten in a week. Can you help me?”
“I’m sorry, no,” you reply. “I don’t have anything on me.”
You hasten your steps, but he pursues, loping behind like a lopsided wheel.
“I don’t need much.” He reaches into his jacket to retrieve a thin object. You see the glint of steel. “Just a finger or two’ll get me by.”
LOCALE: Middle Park
Several weathered brownstones stand to your left like a row of rotten teeth. On your right, the street lamps at the edge of Middle Park cast an amber glow on a wrought iron fence, rusted with age. Behind the fence, an overgrown field of weeds and grass. On a bench not far away, a boy sits with something pink in his lap.
You stare for a moment, wondering if you can trust your eyes. You take a cautious step toward him, then two. He raises his gaze to meet yours, his face filthy and streaked with tears.
“They took it,” he says. “They took it and they won’t give it back.”
He lifts a shattered piggy bank for you to see.
“What did they take?”
“My magic penny…” He pauses, his chest heaving and fresh tears welling in his eyes. “First they took my Mommy and then my magic penny. It’s all I had left.”
“Who did?” You ask.
“Them,” he replies, pointing behind you.
STORY: Little Jack and the Magic Penny
Little Jack watched from the sofa while men in dark robes and white masks took his mommy away. She didn’t fight them or anything, just went away. She gave Jack a sad look as they led her from the room, and then she was gone.
Jack stared at the television where an old cartoon flickered, bathing the room in ghostly light. He reached into his pocket to feel the magic penny his father left behind when he abandoned them so long ago, rubbing its face with his thumb. He bit his lip to hold back the flood of emotions building in his chest.
“Man,” he whispered to the room. “Man, are you here?”
The room turned dark as the cartoon ended and transitioned to another. When the light returned, a figure sat beside Jack – a grown man in a tattered business suit and hat.
“I’m here, Jack.”
Jack let out a deep, shuddering sigh. “They took my mom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Man removed his hat and laid it on the sofa beside him, revealing dark, wavy hair caked in blood. “They’re bad men, Jack. You must never trust them.”
“I won’t,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to scare you, but eventually they will come for you too. When they do, they will make tempting promises. They’ll probably tell you that you can be back together with your family, but it’s all lies.”
Jack pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head between them as a spike of grief shot through his chest and into his stomach.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Man reached over to rest a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“I’ll help you any way I can, and I’m sure there are others who are fighting against them as well. Just sit tight.” Man smiled. “You’re a brave boy and I’m sure you’ll be alright. Just keep your eyes open and be careful.”
Jack nodded. “I will.”
The television flickered again, cutting to a commercial for Main Street Deli.
“Thanks,” Jack said, raising his head and looking toward Man.
But Man was gone.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
PBP "Beregost Blues" - Dungeon Master of Gnome Slaying +5
So I've got, and continue to create, a bunch of short and flash fiction that I've written for clients (non-exclusive agreements), for myself, or especially for you that I intend to share with you fine folk of D&D land. I recommend subscribing to the thread, because I'll be posting quite a bit of quality content as I go...
Arthurian Flash Fiction
Sir Bors the Younger and Sir Erec
Sir Bors the Younger sat alone at the round table, tracing its knotwork carvings with his fingers. The morning light streamed through stained glass windows, washing the domed chamber in colors and light. He barely heard the chamber’s north door open or the sound of heavy boots approaching from behind.
“Ah, here you are.” A deep voice reverberated through the chamber, pulling him from thought.
“Yes, here I am, Sir Erec,” Bors replied, “and here you are as well. But why?”
“I have come to summon you to feast. Duke Cador has arrived with the Lady Guinevere and Arthur wishes to honor them.”
Bors sighed. “Aye, we’ll honor them. We’ll feast them, toast them, and wait on them, all while we grow fat and lazy.”
Erec sat beside his friend, placing his hand on Bors’s shoulder.
“No,” he said. “I have just come from the King’s quarters. We will feast tonight, then in the morning we depart for France.”
“France?” Erec’s brow furrowed.
“Merlin saw the Holy Grail in his visions. It lies hidden in an abbey in Saône-et-Loire. On the morrow, we ride to retrieve it.”
Sir Bors’s eyes widened. Erec smiled.
“Hold your wine tonight,” Bors said. “Or you’ll not be able to catch me in the morning.”
Arthurian Flash Fiction
Sir Hector of the Marsh and Sir Kay
An arrow whistled through the leaves of an old oak, skipping off a branch and narrowly missing a prize buck. The buck leapt away into the underbrush and darted through a ravine, bouncing and sprinting to safety.
“Curses,” Sir Kay said, spitting on the ground.
“Manners, boy.” Sir Hector of the Marsh reined his horse alongside his son’s and clapped Kay on the back. “The fates aren’t to blame for your miss.”
Kay dismounted and stepped off the path.
“Where there’s a buck, there are doe nearby.” Kay put an arrow to his string as he descended toward the ravine. “I’ll get me one of those.”
“It’s the wrong season, Kay. Come back and ride with me. We’ll find another good buck. Even if we don’t, the sun is shining and it’s a fine day for a ride.”
“Bah!” Kay pushed further into the forest, planting his feet carefully in the patches of mud and wet leaves.
Sir Hector shook his head.
“I’ll not follow you that way, boy. I’d snap my neck. I’ll ride around the other side and meet you by the bridge.”
Kay ignored him. Hector nudged his courser forward on the path, looping around and across a rushing stream toward the road. When he reached the bridge, he saw no sign of Kay or the buck that eluded him, only a wide ditch snarled with roots and fallen timber.
“Kay!”
His voice disappeared into the brush, drowned by the din of nature’s song – blowing leaves, creaking boughs, and rushing water. He raised his hands to his face to call again, but was distracted by a noise in the wood on the other side of the road. When he turned to look, his mouth dropped open.
A white stag stood at the forest’s edge, chewing on long strands of wild grass. Sir Hector reached to unbuckle his bow from the saddle, but fumbled with it and dropped it to the ground. The stag’s head jerked up and it locked eyes with Hector. The two stared at one another, silent and motionless.
Hector leaned in the saddle and slid to the ground, slow and careful. He retrieved his bow and drew an arrow from the quiver at his waist, nocking it on the string and circling his horse for a shot.
He leaned out and drew back, pointing the arrow at the stag’s heart, just as another arrow hissed through the air and struck the beast in the flank. The stag jerked and leapt into the wood, clearing a thorny thicket and disappearing into a stand of old oak.
“Kay!” Hector shouted, his voice strained.
“Curses!” Kay replied.
Arthurian Flash Fiction
Morgan la Fey
Morgan La Fey tied a golden ribbon around the trunk of a sallow tree atop a rocky hill.
“Mab.” She whispered, brushing aside her gown to sit upon a stone. “Hear me, my Queen.”
The wind gusted, raising gooseflesh on her arms, then subsided.
“Mab.” She whispered again. “Heed your servant’s voice, I beg. I am in dire need of your counsel.”
Morgan sat in still silence, her attention fixed on the gnarled old tree before her, and waited. The sun crossed the horizon, dipping into the sea. The day’s light faded away. She waited.
Weariness tugged at her mind, threatening to break her vigil, but she shook it away. A chill crept into her limbs, gnawing at her will like a dog at a bone. She waited.
The stars faded. Dew ran down the limbs of the tree and spattered on her face. Just as the sky lightened in the east, she felt her focus slipping, her thoughts wandering to places and times far away.
She saw her brother Arthur on his throne, the radiant Guinevere at his side and Lancelot standing behind. Arthur’s standard, three gold crowns on an azure field, hung from a rafter above them. She watched as the standard frayed and the rafter cracked, as the Queen’s gown dulled and faded to a nun’s habit, as Lancelot’s polished armor fell away and Arthur slumped in his throne, his shoulders slack and his hair suddenly thin and gray. Blood ran from underneath Arthur’s crown and pooled on the floor.
“Mab.” Morgan whispered, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears.
A ray of sunlight struck her in the face, shaking her focus back to the hill, the tree, and the present. When her eyes adjusted, she saw a figure before her, half flesh and half gilded shimmer.
The wind gusted again, whipping against the tree and whistling through the branches. On that wind, Morgan heard a voice.
“Ask and it will be answered.”
Morgan sighed. “I can no longer sleep while my brother lives. Tell me how I may destroy him.”
As the golden figure formed, she realized it was not Mab the Fairy Queen, but a man in polished armor.
The wind spoke again. “Do not be vexed. The seeds of destruction are sewn.”
Morgan tried to reply, but the words caught in her throat when the sun passed behind a cloud and she saw her son’s face on the man’s body. She laughed aloud, awakening herself from a dream.
(I'll pause there for now. More to come!)
UPDATE: I see there have been a couple dozen views but not really any comments or thumbs-up. That's fine, I definitely don't need validation, I just wanted to let everyone know, if you'd like to see more, I need feedback to the effect. I've got little motivation to spend the time to share my work, as well as clutter the forum with content, if folks ultimately aren't interested in it. Up to you.
Sourcebook Flavor Text
The Hunter's Pupil
Jandar ran a claw along the crimson fletching of an arrow before sliding it from his quiver and onto the string of his bow. In one swift motion, he drew and loosed, causing the thick silver fur of his mane to fluff and sending the missile hissing through the air into the center of a straw target some fifty feet distant.
“That’s the secret,” he said to the boy standing at his right. “No waiting. Just instinct.”
He fired again. This arrow struck just below the first, near enough to tear off one of its feathers.
“Now you,” Jandar said, stepping aside.
The boy, about three-quarters Jandar’s height with a mottled brown mane contrasted against Jandar’s pure silver, removed a short blackwood bow from the bundle on his back, braced it on his boot, and pulled the string into place. He drew an arrow from the quiver hanging at his belt and nocked it. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the bow into place and drew back quickly, releasing just as the string reached his muzzle. The arrow struck the target high and right, missing the center by several inches and barely penetrating the packed straw.
Jandar sighed.
“Instinct. Not haste.” Jandar moved behind the boy. “Try again, but draw slowly and only release when I touch your hand.”
The boy put another arrow to string and pulled back slowly as he raised the bow into position. The string passed his muzzle, his cheek, then his ear. Just as he reached the point he could not pull any further, Jandar grazed the fur of his hand with a feather.
He let go, sending the arrow through the right edge of the target and into a wooden wall where it sunk deep and vibrated from the impact.
“Better,” Jandar said.
“Better?” The boy asked, turning to throw a quizzical stare at his mentor. “My first shot was closer.”
“Your first shot wouldn’t have pierced a goblin’s hide. What’s the good of hitting something with only enough strength to annoy it?”
The boy wrinkled his nose and curled his lip revealing the glistening white tips of his fangs. Jandar laughed.
“The instinct will come,” he said. “The hunt is in your blood. Just keep practicing.”
Horror Setting Text
LOCALE: Downtown
Main Street lies before you, dark and long like a path into the abyss. Gray moonlight diffuses into clouds of fog and smoke, through which you can see vague shapes of people, animals, and… others. Every nerve on edge, you press forward into the shadows, fearing what lies ahead only slightly less than what you know lies behind. Buildings tower on either side of you, reaching toward a starless sky.
In the distance, past rows of shattered windows, ruined concrete, and piled refuse, a neon sign sways in the breeze.
“Main Street Deli,” it says in glowing green letters, a lonely reminder of Downtown’s vibrant past.
As you approach the sign, a figure steps from behind the twisted carcass of a delivery van.
“Hey man,” he says. “I ain’t eaten in a week. Can you help me?”
“I’m sorry, no,” you reply. “I don’t have anything on me.”
You hasten your steps, but he pursues, loping behind like a lopsided wheel.
“I don’t need much.” He reaches into his jacket to retrieve a thin object. You see the glint of steel. “Just a finger or two’ll get me by.”
LOCALE: Middle Park
Several weathered brownstones stand to your left like a row of rotten teeth. On your right, the street lamps at the edge of Middle Park cast an amber glow on a wrought iron fence, rusted with age. Behind the fence, an overgrown field of weeds and grass. On a bench not far away, a boy sits with something pink in his lap.
You stare for a moment, wondering if you can trust your eyes. You take a cautious step toward him, then two. He raises his gaze to meet yours, his face filthy and streaked with tears.
“They took it,” he says. “They took it and they won’t give it back.”
He lifts a shattered piggy bank for you to see.
“What did they take?”
“My magic penny…” He pauses, his chest heaving and fresh tears welling in his eyes. “First they took my Mommy and then my magic penny. It’s all I had left.”
“Who did?” You ask.
“Them,” he replies, pointing behind you.
STORY: Little Jack and the Magic Penny
Little Jack watched from the sofa while men in dark robes and white masks took his mommy away. She didn’t fight them or anything, just went away. She gave Jack a sad look as they led her from the room, and then she was gone.
Jack stared at the television where an old cartoon flickered, bathing the room in ghostly light. He reached into his pocket to feel the magic penny his father left behind when he abandoned them so long ago, rubbing its face with his thumb. He bit his lip to hold back the flood of emotions building in his chest.
“Man,” he whispered to the room. “Man, are you here?”
The room turned dark as the cartoon ended and transitioned to another. When the light returned, a figure sat beside Jack – a grown man in a tattered business suit and hat.
“I’m here, Jack.”
Jack let out a deep, shuddering sigh. “They took my mom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Man removed his hat and laid it on the sofa beside him, revealing dark, wavy hair caked in blood. “They’re bad men, Jack. You must never trust them.”
“I won’t,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to scare you, but eventually they will come for you too. When they do, they will make tempting promises. They’ll probably tell you that you can be back together with your family, but it’s all lies.”
Jack pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head between them as a spike of grief shot through his chest and into his stomach.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Man reached over to rest a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“I’ll help you any way I can, and I’m sure there are others who are fighting against them as well. Just sit tight.” Man smiled. “You’re a brave boy and I’m sure you’ll be alright. Just keep your eyes open and be careful.”
Jack nodded. “I will.”
The television flickered again, cutting to a commercial for Main Street Deli.
“Thanks,” Jack said, raising his head and looking toward Man.
But Man was gone.