As I writer I sometimes harbor guilt over unfinished stories, this is one take on what happens to them...
I wake up slowly. The sound of dripping water is echoing in a room farther down the corridor from my own. I can still smell the room's previous occupant. Their fear mixed with the coppery-sweet scent of blood; all underlying the castle's own distinct odor of dank moist earth and rotting lichen. The combination tickles my gag reflex back to life. I have been locked in Castle Point for... well I'm not entirely sure anymore. Perhaps three weeks, perhaps more, time does not flow the same way here as it does in the rest of the world. It would seem that I have been left to my own devices. There have been no changes, nothing new, no people, nothing at all for several days now.
My whole body aches. I have no wish to open my eyes to face the new day but some things are beyond what we would wish. Sitting up with as much care as possible, I am confronted once again by my dismal situation. I am in one of the castle's corner towers; brought here against my will, as are all the castle's guests. The room around me is sparsely furnished, waterlogged bits that have come in on the tide from the unfortunate ships that have strayed too near the point's rocky shore. The walls are black, not only in my room but throughout the entire keep. A black so deep it appears to absorb all available light. It used to be a brilliant, shining white, I do not know where this knowledge comes from, perhaps the walls spoke of it. But I do know the evil that has taken over here has permeated every stone; staining each one until it shares a closer resemblance to its own true imaginings; creeping and stealing even the magic bestowed upon me by my heritage; leaving me weak and vulnerable.
lived many lifetimes and always my nemesis came in a form easily recognizable.
Always an older man but not too old, always with a job that let him be mobile
and accepted everywhere; a bard, a tinker, a ring master with the circus, his
work chosen so he might find me more easily.
He has altered his appearance with each new life, using a combination of magic
and illusion. So many times have we played out this game that I no longer
recall his original features but I always know when he is near.
My heart begins to beat faster, I feel a blush rise to color my cheeks, my
stomach comes fluttering to life and my skin becomes tortuously sensitive,
completely aware of the lightest touch. Ultimately, the only way that I have
ever been certain of his identity is by the star shaped birth mark located just
behind his left ear.
That beautiful never changing star, how boring the centuries would have been
without its presence weaving its way in and out of my life. So many times I
would ask myself, 'Is the man I am leading to my bed to be my mortal lover or
my eternal foe come to test our magical powers in battle once more?'
Its bittersweet sometimes thinking of childhood dreams, remembering the games of imagination played as a child...
The Dragon, the Unicorn
and the Oakall stood waiting patiently in Charlotte's field. The trio was
becoming worried, Charlotte had not come to the past three meetings and their
strength was beginning to wane.
The Dragon's large whimsically coloured wings expanded, while his chest filled
with air. He extended his long pale-purple scaled neck and attempted to breathe
fire. A noise filled the air, sounding like nothing more than a plump balloon
"Do you see?" The Dragon lamented. "No more fire, my wings will
not take me up into the beautiful skies, my once sharp claws are brittle, and
look at the color of my wings - they're pastel. No more vivid oranges, yellows,
greens and blues, my colors are fading. What are we going to do, my
friends?" His mighty head lowered in great sadness, shaking from side to
side as he contemplated their dismal future.