The cultist shoved past Daisy as he scrambled for the
exit. She fell hard against the stony alter, cracking her head against the
golden idol before coming to a rest on the bizarre mosaic floor. It wasn’t
until the chamber had emptied of the fanatics before I noticed that Daisy wasn’t
moving. There was a trickle of blood running from the back of her head along a
groove in the mosaic. As I watched, it began to rush towards a small, black
stone at the center of the design. The stone began to glow green when the blood
touched it.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
100 Words a Day 877
The first sign of habitation was a fluffy column of black
smoke ascending from the copse of trees. Those who knew where to look, or searched
carefully, could find the twisting path between tightly-packed pines to the
interior. The hut protected by the woody path was large and of sturdy
construction, better than most of the buildings that composed the villages that
dotted the mountainside. Behind the cabin were several rows of wooden frames of
various shapes and sizes. Various bits of biota were stretched out, hung out,
or otherwise suspended to cure in the crisp air and bright sun.
Monday, June 27, 2016
100 Words a Day 876
The Tartakar was a large man, covered in strange,
swirling tattoos. They appeared
to shift and transform as he moved: animals turning from one to another, the
constellations across his back changing the sky from winter to summer.
“They say those men of the plains have a strange magic,”
my companion said to me. “It’s those tattoos,” he continued. “They let them
travel as a ghost does, leaving no prints, and creating no more movement in the
grass than waving of the wind.”
The man looked over at us. My companion fell silent and
stared intently into his warm ale.
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