Mermaid (short fiction)

She started as the rain fell, twitched and gasped as the first drops hit her sand-coated skin. Caught herself and breathed out slowly. Found her fingertips and ran them up her sides, along the slight sliminess of her swimming costume. Dabberlocks and sugar kelp, her first conscious thought, a nice touch. 

Sitting up, she brushed the dried sand from her arms to reveal skin the colour of damp sand, dimpled like measle scars from the rain that had landed before she woke. Ran her fingers through her thongweed hair and turned her attention to her tail.

The child who'd made her had taken great care, collecting the prettiest shells to give that tail beautiful colour, but - and for this the mermaid felt most grateful - the child had also realised that a tail was impractical on land, which meant the mermaid could wriggle it off.

The lap of every wave upon the shore was a tug against her soul, but tonight would be her only night on shore so she resisted the sea's call. All the same, as soon as her toes were free she plunged them deep into the sand, seeking the damp. She grinned, wrinkling her mother-of-pearl eyes, and threw herself to her feet, stretched one leg out and pointed her toes to dance and pirouette in the rain, past castles and mountains made from the sand. Reaching down, she grabbed handfuls of sand to toss in the air before running through the surf, jumping over and kicking the waves.

When she paused to catch her breath, standing knee-deep in the sea's susurration, she saw the other beach creations nearly all gone, collected by their new homes in the wind or sea, and she felt a pang of melancholy as she realised her own time was short. Her walk back to her tail was slower than her dash away from it, and she breathed out slowly as she scooped it up.

It was beautiful, iridescent with pinks and greys and greens and purples from the shells and seaweeds used, but she noticed the limpet and barnacle shells had, rather than being absorbed into her tail, instead returned to life and attached themselves to it. She smashed them off, irritation fading as she swallowed their flesh. Coming to life had made her hungry. By the time she'd cleared them all, the clouds and cleared. She held her tail up in the moonlight to make sure she'd missed none, and the sheen and colours captivated her again.

She walked back to the sea and sat down when it reached her waist to wriggle her tail back over her legs, and with no backward look she swam out to sea, out to the castles and where her kind waiting for her, leaving nothing but the smashed shells and her footprints.

Deadlands - the Battle of Lost Angels

This is a continuation of a write-up of our Deadlands game, started here and then left by the wayside as life got busier. 

A quick recap of that previous write-up: player characters are Carson, a gunslinger, Steve, a wannabe lawman, Tesla, a mad scientist, and Solomon, a drifter and folk singer. I play Solomon, so she's the narrator here. 

We started on a train heading west that crashed into a sinkhole, that turned out to be an underground railroad being built by Hellstromme in an effort to surreptitiously win the rail wars (ie, be the first to connect the east and west of the USA by rail). As this was a secret undertaken, we had to stay with him until he'd broken ground: having done so, we were accompanying him on his rail-less train 'The Good Intentions' toward Lost Angels when we were attacked by a small band from Warlord Kang's Iron Dragon railway. Having successfully fought them off, we rested and that's where this section of the tale begins.

 ~~~

The Good Intentions had been damaged in the fight with Warlord Kang's troop, but we were able to repair it well enough to get moving and see a view of Lost Angels by sunset of the 15th September, 1879. Hellstromme's men deployed a fort around the engine, and Hellstromme advised us and O'Malley to stay out of the way, so we observed Lost Angels from behind the fort. The city was surrounded by a barricade, and campfires with red-robed figures stalking between - Grimme's enforcers, the 'Guardian Angels', O'Malley said. Even thought we got a glimpse of the ruler of Lost Angels himself. Carson took a few potshots at the city defenders to help Hellstromme's efforts, but saw something like lightning and thought better of it. Kang and Hellstromme weren't the only railway barons in the area: the guy from New Orleans had also made it.

O'Malley asked us to help him out: he had a friend in town, name of Sam Helman, who was in trouble with Grimme. The small armies encamping around Lost Angels would have Grimme distracted, so now was likely the safest time to try to try and help. We agreed, of course.

The townsfolk seemed fearful, peering from behind blackout blinds. The few we saw were skinny as strays, ribs clearly visible, and it only got more disturbing. A group of wounded soldiers met a wagon of Guardian Angels - they were pleased to see the angels initially, greeting 'Sister Andrea', before the 'Angels' turned on them and clubbed them to death. We froze, partly in fear and confusion and partly feeling if we tried to help we'd be added to the cart. The cries, though, will haunt me for a long time. "Oh God, no, not there. Please don't take me there'. O'Malley had no better idea than us on that. We kept going, but it didn't sit comfy. 'Lost Angels' indeed.

Sam's room at the boarding house seemed unused. O'Malley said they must have got to him already and we had to leave, fast. Found a back route through the kitchen (filled with rotten carcasses: I remember wondering why they'd let the food go off when it was so scarce. Course, now I know food just doesn't keep in this forsaken State).

We were less careful leaving the town as entering it, and ran into a patrol. They called us 'curfew breakers' and demanded our surrender. What we'd seen with the cart, that wasn't something we were minded to give. The leader threw a bone into the ground and a dead guy clambered out. I tried to run to the roofs, but he caught me as I struggled to climb, squeezed me so hard thought I'd be dead too. The others fought: a lucky shot from O'Malley made the dead guy really dead, and most of the others - including the leader - fled as he fell.

We made it outside the city limits just in time to see an airship arrive to bomb the battlefield and the sprawl we'd just left.. Some of the buildings survived and we could see people inside so we tried to help. I don't remember much, just there were so many bodies.

O'Malley called us heroes.

He told us there's real evil in Lost Angels - he didn't know exactly what, but was trying to find out and that's part of why he was looking for Sam, who would know more. Told us about the Explorer's Society - a society of people trying to do good in the World. Told us to go to the Shan Fan club house and tell Roderick Pennington-Smythe O'Malley had sent us and what we'd seen. He also said page 13 of the Tombstone Epitaph is where he leaves notes for members of the Explorer's Society, and he'll use the tag 'Good Intentions' to indicate a message is intended for us. I'd like to have spent more time with him, found out mroe about how he became a journalist and how I could, but he had to go south.

The bombing had shaken all of us. It was Hellstromme who'd ordered it, and the devastation seemed at odds with all he'd said about wanting to end the war and suffering it caused. Still, we slept in their camp that night before heading north to Shan Fan. It was nice to say bye to Hegerty, at least.

Bethany & Eric (backstory)

I've been horribly quiet recently, for which I apologise. I've been burnt out and tired: the fibromyalgia diagnosis was a bigger stress than I initially realised and coming to terms with it has been harder and is taking longer than I'd expected, and RPGaDay took more out of me than usual as a result.

But I'm working on getting back to normal! And to begin that, here's the tale of Bethany and Eric, which I've been meaning to write up for a very long time (stats for various games may follow).

~~~

The house was small and dank. It would have been dark, but the hole in the wall where the door had been let in the light. It wasn't as if there was anything worth stealing that hadn't already been stolen, and they'd needed the wood for the fire.

Nothing worth stealing? There was one thing, something Bethany's siblings's grumbled to find in the blankets they shared, but no one else knew about. Even if they did, with the battered scabbard and nicked blade it wouldn't be worth much - indeed, the only reason Bethany still had her grandfather's sword was her mother had told her father it had already been sold and had been able to find a convincing sum from the small amount she could earn. An uncharacteristic rebellion from the mousey woman, but important to her daughter. Their father wasn't a bad man, but years of struggle had taken its toil on his temper and ability to control it. He frightened Bethany.

They lived in the room that made up the first floor of the building, Bethany, her siblings, parents, aunts, uncles and a mess of cousins. It was a confusion, at times: Bethany shared her name with an aunt and a cousin, and her sister Lydia, who shared hers with their mother and 2 living cousins, had been heard to grumble they were so poor they couldn't even afford their own names.

To keep food on the table, everyone who could, worked; those who couldn't, begged. This day, Bethany, all of 15, would be doing so in tandem with her 12 year old brother Eric. She knew most of her other siblings would complain to be paired up with him - he wasn't strong and they didn't want to have to defend him if anything came. But Bethany didn't mind. She liked his calm and quiet, and knew he could talk himself out of most problems they were likely to face. But the biggest reason was that he reminded her of their grandfather.

As soon as their father was clear of the street, she ducked back to the area cordoned off as the sleeping area and retrieved the sword, wrapped it in rags and strapped it to her leg - a limp would help bring in some money, and she always felt better having it nearby. Back out, she dusted Eric's ash-grey hair and led him to one of her favourite places - a park their grandfather had taken them to before he'd died. She found herself a good spot near the entrance and let Eric get to work. 

This was the other reason she liked to work with him. People responded to that appearance of vulnerability and she didn't have to do anywhere near as much work. She stretched back and enjoyed the sun on her skin.

And that's when she spotted the smoke, coming from the direction of their home and billowing higher. She made sure Eric was close, but then the flames started to flicker and she knew there wasn't much time - and even less chance for the slums. Most people were standing around in confusion, and she knew then they needed to move before panic set in. She caught Eric's hand and dragged him away, ignoring his kicks and protests. She knew the others would get out or they wouldn't. She knew she couldn't help them. But she could help herself, and she could keep Eric safe.

Halloween Fiction - RIP

The sun is warm against my back, the grass prickly-dry and the ground leaving dust-prints on my dress. My fingers caress the stone: cool and so smooth it feels wet. I trace the sharp letters: no ‘dearly beloved of…’; just your name, your dates, RIP. Your mother chose it. I would have given you poetry. I would have given you everything.

RIP.

Is this epitaph meant for me? To wad platitudes against the gaping hole? To stem the sorrow bleeding from my soul by pretending to know you rest gently?

This is a peaceful place to rest. Trees and hedges mask the main road that’s not that busy, really, except when school ends. The sky, today, is vivid blue with a scattering of cirrus clouds – the ones you said were angel hair. The intermittent breeze has fallen still.

 A pair of racing squirrels break my reverie. I lean back and listen to the bird song – melodic warbles and a cawing crow. The breeze returns, picks up discarded leaves and that crisp packet someone left and I lean back and ponder: is it for you?

The epitaph. Not a wish for peace in repose, but a command.

The breeze is stronger now – strong enough to send a shiver from my neck, and suddenly the peace and stillness feels oppressive, feels eternal like I will be alone forevermore.

Is that it? We’re not trying to comfort ourselves with those words, but demanding that you lie still and do not rise like some vampire to feed on our grief, keep us trapped in some twilight-life; not dead, but unable to live without you.

Here. Have my grief. Have my sorrow. Have my tears. Please, rest easy. Let me live. Rest in peace.

#RPGaDay2016 - Day 31: Best advice you were ever given for a game of your choice

I can't think of an answer for this, which is frustrating as it's the last day and I want to go out on a bang.

So, little bits of advice - not necessarily the best, just the bits I remember - from a host of games and in no particular order.

1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer - "Yes, thigh-high stilletto boots with stakes for heels would be very cool, but could you actually walk in them?"

2. Aberrant - "Think bigger."

3. Ravenloft - "You need a big gothic tragedy for the players to interact with, and individual gothic story arc for each player to travel through." (ie, you aren't going to change the world, but you might be able to change yourself.)

4. Deadlands - "I like the character development we're building. I don't want this to be a party of individuals."

5. Cyberpunk - "Someone's always got a bigger gun." "If you get into a gun fight, it's your own fault." "Why make guns illegal when bullets can be really expensive?"

6. World of Darkness - "Share the storetelling." "It's all about being a teenager, really. Werewolves = uncontrollable anger, Vampires = numb deadness, Hunter = believing you're unique and special."

7. Exalted - "What does it look like?" "If you can imagine it, you can probably do it. Just not yet."

8. ShadowRun - "Sometimes doing nothing is the best thing to do."

9. Midnight - "You aren't the heroes. You won't survive if you forget that."

 

#RPGaDay2016 - Day 30: Ideal game room, if money's no object

Wasn't this a question last year? I would love the hi-tech room briefly described there, but I think the cosy room is the one I can better expand.

So: big, comfy, flumpfy sofas and cushions for the players; a comfy chair for the GM, with a table the right height for whatever tools they need. A ceiling fan. Blankets. So far, so combining my lounge with my friends' conservatory. Possibly why this appeals to me so much.

A kitty to get in the way

There's more, though, to move into the 'money no object' realm. Mostly, I want a huge library with floor to ceiling bookshelves, andthose cool library ladders that whizz along rails, and a spiral staircase to the game area, which would nested in a top corner of the library on a mezzanine overlooking the main library. And there would be at least one secret passage opened only by pulling on the correct fake book. Maybe that's where the hi-tech game room would be hidden...

 

#RPGaDay2016 - Day 29: If you can game anywhere in the world, where would you game?

The thing is, I prefer to game indoors so it kinda doesn't matter where in the world I am! Gaming outside - if it's windy, dice and character sheets go everywhere. If it's sunny, I sweat and burn. If it's rainy, character sheets get wet. If it's hot/humid, I get ill... Basically, when it comes to weather I'm fussy! So indoors - ideally with heating/ceiling fan - is better for me. And if you're indoors, it doesn't matter where in the world before. As I and many others have said before, it's the people who make it.

There's a lot of places I'd like to visit - Canada, Iceland and New Zealand probably being current top options - and lots of places I'd like to visit and game - like Australia (if Mark Knights can find me space at his table) and Canada (there's a few friends I miss a lot who live there).

The other thing is, I live in a beautiful part of the world with a temporate climate that (just about) suits me, so really, home is where I want to be.

Husbit answers: "Vin Diesel's house. Obviously with Vin Diesel, or that'd be a bit weird." Can't really argue with that.