Any threadmarks here are just gonna be my randomly-written snippets, so if you wanna sort through them for whatever reason then I suppose this'll be handy.
Writing Something Every Day*, Xantalos Edition
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This Is What The Thread Is For
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
This is a thread I'm making to force myself into writing something every day by the horrific, awe-inspiring power of public accountability. Every day I'll either finish some work on either of the two quests I'm currently running (links in my signature if you're at all interested) and report in here how many words I wrote for which quest, or if for whatever reason I haven't been able to force my brain to produce anything, I'll write something unrelated and post it here. Maybe even do both. Be warned, those unrelated drabbles will likely be godawful pieces of nigh-incomprehensible cringe that have nothing at all to do with anything, but given that as of now I actually write something on maybe 1 day out of every 14, I figure it's better than nothing. I'll conquer my writer's block the same way I did my ineptitude at martial arts, through bullheaded persistence!
That or I break all my promises again and this thread becomes my personal shame graveyard, but I think I've got decent chances. Feel free to critique any of the random pieces I pop out on occasion if you like. This is mostly just a thing I'm doing to force myself to produce something consistently, even if it's kinda shit.
November 23, 2019 - wrote 298 words for Respect Your Elders turn 8.
That or I break all my promises again and this thread becomes my personal shame graveyard, but I think I've got decent chances. Feel free to critique any of the random pieces I pop out on occasion if you like. This is mostly just a thing I'm doing to force myself to produce something consistently, even if it's kinda shit.
November 23, 2019 - wrote 298 words for Respect Your Elders turn 8.
Last edited:
Snippet 1 - Making My Way Downtown - Dec. 2, 2019
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
December 2, 2019 - wrote 25 words for Respect Your Elders turn 8.
Worked a pretty busy shift today, which kinda sucked a lot of me energy out, so not much progress on the actual turn front today. However, I see no reason to let that stop me from doing stuff, so have this snippet. Not sure what to call it, any suggestions?
---
Broken fingers dug into cracked ground. Parched dirt crumbled under their touch, the dust whispering against their skin with tongues of merciless lack. The digits clenched, digging soft furrows into the turf before finding purchase.
The man's body scraped forwards inch by inch, a dead sack of meat soaked through with congealed blood and abdominal juices. The moisture had left his flesh long ago, leached out into the hollow air, cooked out under the unrelenting gaze of the sun. The desert was a grand tomb, and the man's corpse the unnamed, forgotten pharaoh, mummified by his own mucous and the slowly tightening sack of his skin.
The man's trail stretched far behind him, and his destination lay far ahead. He would spend an eternity in the desert, and should he ever stop moving he would calcify, becoming bleached bone and dust under a pale sky. But though his death hung heavy in his flesh, the man's limbs continued to move with relentless, mechanical patience.
Reach forward. The crust of the earth bites at leathery skin, sizzling with heat as crumpled digits push through.
Grasp. Tendons groan like rusted cables atop a decrepit bridge as they slowly contract.
Drag. A little more dust seeps into the man's open chest cavity, drifting into his heart.
The promise he made rests there still. It is muffled by the sand and dry, crumbling dirt, but it never breaks.
The man's body scraped forward a few more inches.
Worked a pretty busy shift today, which kinda sucked a lot of me energy out, so not much progress on the actual turn front today. However, I see no reason to let that stop me from doing stuff, so have this snippet. Not sure what to call it, any suggestions?
---
Broken fingers dug into cracked ground. Parched dirt crumbled under their touch, the dust whispering against their skin with tongues of merciless lack. The digits clenched, digging soft furrows into the turf before finding purchase.
The man's body scraped forwards inch by inch, a dead sack of meat soaked through with congealed blood and abdominal juices. The moisture had left his flesh long ago, leached out into the hollow air, cooked out under the unrelenting gaze of the sun. The desert was a grand tomb, and the man's corpse the unnamed, forgotten pharaoh, mummified by his own mucous and the slowly tightening sack of his skin.
The man's trail stretched far behind him, and his destination lay far ahead. He would spend an eternity in the desert, and should he ever stop moving he would calcify, becoming bleached bone and dust under a pale sky. But though his death hung heavy in his flesh, the man's limbs continued to move with relentless, mechanical patience.
Reach forward. The crust of the earth bites at leathery skin, sizzling with heat as crumpled digits push through.
Grasp. Tendons groan like rusted cables atop a decrepit bridge as they slowly contract.
Drag. A little more dust seeps into the man's open chest cavity, drifting into his heart.
The promise he made rests there still. It is muffled by the sand and dry, crumbling dirt, but it never breaks.
The man's body scraped forward a few more inches.
Snippet 2 - Vague Unexplained Myth Thingy - Dec. 6, 2019
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
The Rethmejir was rising. Long had it hung over the world like a detached finger of God, slavering towards the warmth of the sun with a hunger it could never be allowed to fulfil. By chains of rock and of bone and of blood it had been married to the earth, the entire Kathmanji people having given their lives to meld their flesh to the tip of its tail and hold it down.
But the whips of time had eroded the sense of the world, and the men of now had sent their sons with heavy picks of lead and copper to mine away at the rocky tether holding the Rethmejir to the earth, seeking fragments of its skin to adorn their palaces with.
They had forgotten the cost paid by their past mothers, and now the Rethmejir rose from its confinement, a great pillar of basalt flesh fifty miles high. The Rethmejir stretched its form in exultation, and its sinuous pale hairs extruded from its side, whiplashing back and forth, passing through ground and sea as though they were made of ghost-flesh.
The servants of the multitudinous gods of the deep sky, freed at last from the great pit of Hell by the conclusion of their ancient oath of noninterference, flocked to the Rethmejir and brought upon their wings a storm of twisting light and mist-fire. They brought the full wrath of their dead gods upon the monster, shrieking sky shanties as they died, and it was not enough.
The Rethmejir left the downward grip of the jealous Earth, and was freed of the world forever. The sun was shrouded by its maw soon after, and an age of dark, and of long, slow slumber, followed.
--
Busy day today, couldn't get meself to write anything with actual effort so I did this.
But the whips of time had eroded the sense of the world, and the men of now had sent their sons with heavy picks of lead and copper to mine away at the rocky tether holding the Rethmejir to the earth, seeking fragments of its skin to adorn their palaces with.
They had forgotten the cost paid by their past mothers, and now the Rethmejir rose from its confinement, a great pillar of basalt flesh fifty miles high. The Rethmejir stretched its form in exultation, and its sinuous pale hairs extruded from its side, whiplashing back and forth, passing through ground and sea as though they were made of ghost-flesh.
The servants of the multitudinous gods of the deep sky, freed at last from the great pit of Hell by the conclusion of their ancient oath of noninterference, flocked to the Rethmejir and brought upon their wings a storm of twisting light and mist-fire. They brought the full wrath of their dead gods upon the monster, shrieking sky shanties as they died, and it was not enough.
The Rethmejir left the downward grip of the jealous Earth, and was freed of the world forever. The sun was shrouded by its maw soon after, and an age of dark, and of long, slow slumber, followed.
--
Busy day today, couldn't get meself to write anything with actual effort so I did this.
Snippet 3 - Some Sort of Anti-Creation Myth - Dec. 11, 2019
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
December 11, 2019 - real busy today, couldn't write serious, so I spat this out.
Long ago, a child stood at the edge of the cliff at the end of the world. They were bade to jump by their father, but the fear in their heart had grown tendrils and rooted them to the ground. They could only look over the edge of the cliff, into the dark chasm far below, where the sea swirled and hungered. The roar of the waves and the keening resonance of the bone-roots of the world called the child with a gentle insistence.
Seeing the child's reluctance after an age, their father the sky struck the ground with a calamitous cry, and broke the land with the acidic heat of his wroth. The ground shook and rose under the child's feet, and the fear in their heart could not hold on. Their feet slid off slick stone and they plummeted into the hungry sea, and they were instantly at peace once they were enveloped in their mother's grasp.
The child grew and hungered, and it fed on the bounty that the sky and sea gave to it. After an age, the child was fully grown, thick of scale and long of tooth, and they rose from their mother the sea and fed upon the land with great gluttony. But the child found that they could not be filled, and devoured the entirety of the land in an attempt to sate the terrible emptiness that had been fostered inside them. They ate every last stone, but the hunger inside them was greater, and swallowed up the child even quicker than they had eaten the land.
Father Sky and Mother Sea reunited with an inevitable glaciality, and the world was once again made into primordial substrate, the ancient parents locked once more in eternal embrace.
Long ago, a child stood at the edge of the cliff at the end of the world. They were bade to jump by their father, but the fear in their heart had grown tendrils and rooted them to the ground. They could only look over the edge of the cliff, into the dark chasm far below, where the sea swirled and hungered. The roar of the waves and the keening resonance of the bone-roots of the world called the child with a gentle insistence.
Seeing the child's reluctance after an age, their father the sky struck the ground with a calamitous cry, and broke the land with the acidic heat of his wroth. The ground shook and rose under the child's feet, and the fear in their heart could not hold on. Their feet slid off slick stone and they plummeted into the hungry sea, and they were instantly at peace once they were enveloped in their mother's grasp.
The child grew and hungered, and it fed on the bounty that the sky and sea gave to it. After an age, the child was fully grown, thick of scale and long of tooth, and they rose from their mother the sea and fed upon the land with great gluttony. But the child found that they could not be filled, and devoured the entirety of the land in an attempt to sate the terrible emptiness that had been fostered inside them. They ate every last stone, but the hunger inside them was greater, and swallowed up the child even quicker than they had eaten the land.
Father Sky and Mother Sea reunited with an inevitable glaciality, and the world was once again made into primordial substrate, the ancient parents locked once more in eternal embrace.
Snippet 4 - Old Man Ankryn Is A Dick - Dec. 13, 2019
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Usual blah blah had busy as fuck day, couldn't write serious shit, decided instead to write something vaguely ripping off Diogenes, or something. I dunno, I'm tired.
Old Man Ankryn was sitting at the village well and laughing when the king came calling in all his royal finery. All the villagers save for the decrepit elder knelt and placed their hands on their throats in fealty, as was proper. The monarch gazed around, his features unbroken and content, but stopped when he saw the giggling old man. He did not frown, but the lightness faded from his eyes.
"What are you doing, elder?" The king called as he walked regally over to the well, clad in finery that was worth more than the village.
Ankryn paused his self-indulgent laughter and showed the king the bucket he held in his hands. "I am taking water out of this well, and then I am pouring it back in," he explained. "I attain my mastery over the world thusly, and it makes me laugh."
The king's smooth brow crinkled, consternation heavy upon his features. "I am master of the realm that spans the known universe, old man. In what way are you master over anything?"
Ankryn snickered. "You are king. You have no more control over your domain than a seed has where it goes in the wind. When you make war, do you decide who lives and who dies? Can you command those without food in your realm to not starve? Can you make coin jump up into the air and land in your palm?"
The king frowned. "I cannot do any of those things. None can, save for the Lost Goddess who sculpted all things from mud. But I daresay I am arbitrator over more than you."
"Not so," declared the old man. "When I take water from the well, I know that it is enough for a man to live on for a day. I create life thusly. When I pour it back, I welcome death to another eventuality. Behold," he proclaimed, pouring the contents of his bucket into the well. He held out his hand and the king leaned closer, curious in spite of himself.
A gleaming fish leaped out of the well and landed squarely in Ankryn's hand. The old man squeezed, and with his other hand reached inside the creature's mouth and pulled out a coin. "And so do I prove my own dominion," crowed Ankryn. "What say you, oh king?"
The king was moved by this display of world-wisdom. "I have scarce seen a philosopher of your skill and power in all my days," he said. "Will you come to my palace and speak wisdom into the annals of history?"
"Do you have a well like this one?" The old man replied.
"No," admitted the king, for wells had gone out of fashion in the capitol with the advent of piping.
Ankryn shrugged. "I am afraid I cannot help you, king. You will die in thirty-seven days."
The king's brow buckled in sorrow, and he left without another word. He died thirty-six days later, primarily out of spite for the old man at his well.
Snippet 5 - The King Doth Descend - Dec. 18, 2019
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Mainly did some number work regarding the lizardmen update today, but a vow's a vow so here's this randomly generated scribble.
And yes this is by far the stupidest thing I've ever written.
-----
"Hark!" Said the King Of All Creation. "Today is the day of my death. I shall plummet off of the top of Mount Velocitus and into the infinite depths of the Hell Sea, for my beloved daughter has passed beneath those treacherous waves, slain by the traitorous spirit of pox, and I shall not be able to rest so long as the world is without her."
So saying, the King did climb the infinite heights of Mount Velocitus, braving the thickets of cutting air that grew upon its slopes and hunting wild singularity geckoes for sustenance. After an epoch, he reached the peak and looked out across the vista of his kingdom. The sun was rising over the edge of the world, sending gently twinkling refractions of light scattering across the waves of the Sea.
"It is a good day," the King said, and dove in a single, perfect moment, moving like coiled mercury in a flawless arc before he began to soar headfirst downwards. Faster and faster he flew, until to the peoples below he seemed like a great comet falling from the sky, a tongue of flame ripping across the sky. He held his hands out before him and parted the waters of the Sea, and his body entered the afterlife without a sound.
...
"Geez," said Darryl. "Did that old guy really just dive into the lake?"
"Yup, you're not dreaming," said John. "Looked like it hurt, too."
Darryl winced.
And yes this is by far the stupidest thing I've ever written.
-----
"Hark!" Said the King Of All Creation. "Today is the day of my death. I shall plummet off of the top of Mount Velocitus and into the infinite depths of the Hell Sea, for my beloved daughter has passed beneath those treacherous waves, slain by the traitorous spirit of pox, and I shall not be able to rest so long as the world is without her."
So saying, the King did climb the infinite heights of Mount Velocitus, braving the thickets of cutting air that grew upon its slopes and hunting wild singularity geckoes for sustenance. After an epoch, he reached the peak and looked out across the vista of his kingdom. The sun was rising over the edge of the world, sending gently twinkling refractions of light scattering across the waves of the Sea.
"It is a good day," the King said, and dove in a single, perfect moment, moving like coiled mercury in a flawless arc before he began to soar headfirst downwards. Faster and faster he flew, until to the peoples below he seemed like a great comet falling from the sky, a tongue of flame ripping across the sky. He held his hands out before him and parted the waters of the Sea, and his body entered the afterlife without a sound.
...
"Geez," said Darryl. "Did that old guy really just dive into the lake?"
"Yup, you're not dreaming," said John. "Looked like it hurt, too."
Darryl winced.
Partial SHAAAME #1
SHAME #1
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
Dec. 31, 2019 - I didn't write shit. Well, I did extrapolate some on mechanical effects and such in my lizardmen quest, buuuut I didn't actually pour my soul into any piece of art, which is what I made this thread for. So my laxity that day will live on in perpetuity!
I'm doing something for today as I type this, though.
I'm doing something for today as I type this, though.
Snippet 6 - Night On The Town - Jan. 1, 2020
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
I said I was gonna write something for today, and by dammit I did, even if I had to stay up later than usual to do it! Not really sure where the idea for this came from.
-----
It happened deceptively quickly.
Jeremy wasn't paying too much attention to his surroundings, laughing instead at a joke Travis had made - some sick crack on how much an orphan could fit in their stomach, but that was Travis for you, his humor was blacker than ... well, Travis could probably finish that statement appropriately. The four of them - Jeremy, Travis, Piper, and Sam - were cutting through some residential streets in Miramichi, heading back to Sam's house after the fireworks festival at the close of the year. They were all of them full of sweet and spicy food and drink (save for Piper, who didn't drink), and looking forward to resting their feet.
"Hey."
Jeremy blinked and looked around for a moment before finding the source of the unfamiliar voice - an older-looking guy with a salt and pepper goatee and long, greasy hair was walking towards him, followed by two others, a tall heavy-set bald guy and a shorter guy with a buzzcut and a hard look on his face. "Mind if I bum a smoke, sir?" Goatee held out his hand, his skin rough and calloused.
Jeremy paused and began to search through his pockets, the others continuing their conversation as he shuffled through his coat pockets, pants pockets, hadn't Sam given his smokes to him to hold an hour or so ago? Ah, there they were. He pulled one out of the packet and held it out to Goatee Guy, looking up to find that all three of the strangers had knives in their hands.
He froze, liquid ice coursing through his body. Holy fuck those were knives. Holy fuck those were knives. Blood pounded in his temples, the hollow of his throat, the tips of his fingers. He could feel how dry his lips were, and the pleasant ache of too much Polanian food twisted in his suddenly cramping gut. He couldn't move, couldn't stop looking at the knives and how they gleamed in the streetlight.
Goatee reached out and took the cigarette from his hand. "Get your money out, all of you." His voice was now hard and whiplike, projecting ill intent that cut through the haze of shock. "Valuable shit, purses, watches, all that. Move! Take it out now!"
Jeremy couldn't move, didn't even feel connected to his body. It felt like he were his own puppetmaster, cut off from the strings that would move his limbs. He was caught in an odd detached calm, observing the panic in his mind from a distance. He could see the others complying with the men's demands, see wallets, rings, bracelets being handed over, Baldy and Buzzcut putting them in a backpack. Someone was looking at him and lips were moving, the words floating to him through a fog.
"What, are ya fuckin' retarded or some shit? Get your -"
Travis was moving in front of him. "Dude, he's scared shitless. Besides, you've already got the rest of our stuff, leave him."
Goatee's voice was as sharp as his blade. "One chance. Move."
Travis moved - maybe reaching for the flip-fold knife he kept in his back pocket, maybe just gesticulating to emphasize something he was about to say. Didn't matter much - all that came out was a soft exhale as the knife pierced his throat.
There was screaming, a lot of it, and it took Jeremy a second to realize it was coming from his throat. Travis grabbed at Goatee's arm, but the older guy bulled into him, knocking Jeremy on his ass as he stabbed again and again and again.
The shock of his tailbone hitting pavement jolted Jeremy back into his body, and he sprung back up to his feet before he even realized he was down. He could see Buzzut closing in, maybe on Travis, maybe on him, but it didn't matter because his body was solidly set to 'run' and the only available direction was forward.
He crashed into Buzzcut's side, staggering at the impact and standing back up to find a fist an inch from his face. Pain exploded through his jaw in a flash and he tasted blood. He flailed his arms in Buzzcut's general direction, hands curled into crude fists, but met only air as he felt a hand grasp his collar and another fist crash into his gut, two, three, four times. He looked up and saw Buzzcut's face inches from his own, snarling in animal fury.
There was a sickening crunch, and Buzzcut was toppling suddenly, his knee buckling to the inside as his face paled in agony. Hands - small hands, a girl's hands, Piper's hands - grasped his head and dug furrows into his flesh as a knee dug into his ribs, then the back of his head. Fingers he'd previously only thought of as dainty pried the bloody knife out of Buzzcut's fingers, and Piper turned towards Goatee as Jeremy stood there, feeling oddly woozy.
Their movements were too fast for him to follow clearly. Piper dashed in, Goatee leapt back, knives traced shining arcs in the streetlamp light. Spittle flew as Goatee shouted obscenities and charged, his eyes reddened and bulging. He missed his thrust, and Piper hooked his arm, drove her other hand into his chest, grabbing at his neck as she drove a knee upwards into his groin. She stepped back and twisted, and now Goatee was on his back somehow, and she drove downwards, the knife flashing in the night air as it came down again and again.
Jeremy was sitting down by the time it was done, lying in a puddle of warmth. Had he pissed himself? He reached a trembling hand to his midsection, drew his fingers back up to his face dripping blood. Oh.
Hands were cradling him, pressing down into his stomach. He looked up - Piper and Sam were looking back at him, faces pale, eyes wide. Sam had a nasty gash going down his cheek. Jeremy blinked - Travis had been stabbed too, why wasn't someone helping him? He tried to speak, but found it oddly difficult.
"Travis?"
Neither of them said anything, but their faces were answer enough.
"Oh."
-----
It happened deceptively quickly.
Jeremy wasn't paying too much attention to his surroundings, laughing instead at a joke Travis had made - some sick crack on how much an orphan could fit in their stomach, but that was Travis for you, his humor was blacker than ... well, Travis could probably finish that statement appropriately. The four of them - Jeremy, Travis, Piper, and Sam - were cutting through some residential streets in Miramichi, heading back to Sam's house after the fireworks festival at the close of the year. They were all of them full of sweet and spicy food and drink (save for Piper, who didn't drink), and looking forward to resting their feet.
"Hey."
Jeremy blinked and looked around for a moment before finding the source of the unfamiliar voice - an older-looking guy with a salt and pepper goatee and long, greasy hair was walking towards him, followed by two others, a tall heavy-set bald guy and a shorter guy with a buzzcut and a hard look on his face. "Mind if I bum a smoke, sir?" Goatee held out his hand, his skin rough and calloused.
Jeremy paused and began to search through his pockets, the others continuing their conversation as he shuffled through his coat pockets, pants pockets, hadn't Sam given his smokes to him to hold an hour or so ago? Ah, there they were. He pulled one out of the packet and held it out to Goatee Guy, looking up to find that all three of the strangers had knives in their hands.
He froze, liquid ice coursing through his body. Holy fuck those were knives. Holy fuck those were knives. Blood pounded in his temples, the hollow of his throat, the tips of his fingers. He could feel how dry his lips were, and the pleasant ache of too much Polanian food twisted in his suddenly cramping gut. He couldn't move, couldn't stop looking at the knives and how they gleamed in the streetlight.
Goatee reached out and took the cigarette from his hand. "Get your money out, all of you." His voice was now hard and whiplike, projecting ill intent that cut through the haze of shock. "Valuable shit, purses, watches, all that. Move! Take it out now!"
Jeremy couldn't move, didn't even feel connected to his body. It felt like he were his own puppetmaster, cut off from the strings that would move his limbs. He was caught in an odd detached calm, observing the panic in his mind from a distance. He could see the others complying with the men's demands, see wallets, rings, bracelets being handed over, Baldy and Buzzcut putting them in a backpack. Someone was looking at him and lips were moving, the words floating to him through a fog.
"What, are ya fuckin' retarded or some shit? Get your -"
Travis was moving in front of him. "Dude, he's scared shitless. Besides, you've already got the rest of our stuff, leave him."
Goatee's voice was as sharp as his blade. "One chance. Move."
Travis moved - maybe reaching for the flip-fold knife he kept in his back pocket, maybe just gesticulating to emphasize something he was about to say. Didn't matter much - all that came out was a soft exhale as the knife pierced his throat.
There was screaming, a lot of it, and it took Jeremy a second to realize it was coming from his throat. Travis grabbed at Goatee's arm, but the older guy bulled into him, knocking Jeremy on his ass as he stabbed again and again and again.
The shock of his tailbone hitting pavement jolted Jeremy back into his body, and he sprung back up to his feet before he even realized he was down. He could see Buzzut closing in, maybe on Travis, maybe on him, but it didn't matter because his body was solidly set to 'run' and the only available direction was forward.
He crashed into Buzzcut's side, staggering at the impact and standing back up to find a fist an inch from his face. Pain exploded through his jaw in a flash and he tasted blood. He flailed his arms in Buzzcut's general direction, hands curled into crude fists, but met only air as he felt a hand grasp his collar and another fist crash into his gut, two, three, four times. He looked up and saw Buzzcut's face inches from his own, snarling in animal fury.
There was a sickening crunch, and Buzzcut was toppling suddenly, his knee buckling to the inside as his face paled in agony. Hands - small hands, a girl's hands, Piper's hands - grasped his head and dug furrows into his flesh as a knee dug into his ribs, then the back of his head. Fingers he'd previously only thought of as dainty pried the bloody knife out of Buzzcut's fingers, and Piper turned towards Goatee as Jeremy stood there, feeling oddly woozy.
Their movements were too fast for him to follow clearly. Piper dashed in, Goatee leapt back, knives traced shining arcs in the streetlamp light. Spittle flew as Goatee shouted obscenities and charged, his eyes reddened and bulging. He missed his thrust, and Piper hooked his arm, drove her other hand into his chest, grabbing at his neck as she drove a knee upwards into his groin. She stepped back and twisted, and now Goatee was on his back somehow, and she drove downwards, the knife flashing in the night air as it came down again and again.
Jeremy was sitting down by the time it was done, lying in a puddle of warmth. Had he pissed himself? He reached a trembling hand to his midsection, drew his fingers back up to his face dripping blood. Oh.
Hands were cradling him, pressing down into his stomach. He looked up - Piper and Sam were looking back at him, faces pale, eyes wide. Sam had a nasty gash going down his cheek. Jeremy blinked - Travis had been stabbed too, why wasn't someone helping him? He tried to speak, but found it oddly difficult.
"Travis?"
Neither of them said anything, but their faces were answer enough.
"Oh."
Snippet 7 - Ankryn's Secret Cliffside Recipe - Jan. 2, 2020
Xantalos
Turtle-Speed Writing
People commonly avoided Old Man Ankryn when they could, for he was apt to poke holes in life that niggled endlessly in search of answers that were not needed. He was regarded as a public nuisance, and was frequently run out of towns and cities, always on trumped-up charges because he knew the laws of propriety well and was careful never to break them outright.
During times when foolishness ran rampant through the lands of men, Ankryn's reputation flourished and told tales of itself on all the levels of the world. Many a fool with more brains than sense would seek him out in those times, promising him wealth beyond measure, glory in the eyes of gods and men, and every worldly pleasure imaginable if he would share with them his wisdom and will.
Typically Ankryn would smite them with foolishness until they went away, for their petty desires tired him. Those who truly irritated him he would answer truthfully, and watch as his words battered at their minds and teeth.
One day he was relaxing nude on the edge of a cliff and gazing at the world miles below, watching for the colors of a billow-moth lest it steal his rightfully stolen stash of fruit, when he was approached by the Pirate Queen Kesaatrya of the Southern Elliptical Sea, who had made her fortune by tricking her way into mayorship of many a coastal village and dying dramatically before making off with the valuable shellfish feasts they would throw for her funerals.
"Ho there, old man," said the Pirate Queen as she sauntered forth, her many bone bracelets clacking upon her wrists and ankles. "What brings you to the edge of this cliff?"
Old Man Ankryn looked her over, chewing noisily upon a lemon. "My toesh," he mumbled through a mouthful of pulp. "And alsho the goatsh, they chashed me here."
"Goats?" Questioned the Pirate Queen, and promptly leapt to the side as the implication hit her. A sharp crack echoed out of the plains as a spring-goat whizzed by her, breaking the sound barrier as its oversized legs propelled it over the edge of the cliff, soaring down to the purple sea miles below as its bleating slowly faded.
"Goats," agreed Ankryn. "You might want to watch for them, they're far too fond of clothes for their own good."
"Is that why you're airing your wrinkles?"
"No, I lost my own cloth somewhere in the burrows under this cliff. It'll be a right bastard to get them back, but I'll get to it eventually."
Kesaatrya frowned. "You were hunting for the eggs of the bird-otters? They're worth a fortune, I don't see why you'd still be here if you'd gotten out of there alive."
The old man shook his head. "Not at all, I was just going on a walk."
"A walk? Up the Cliffs of Cam-Dire?"
"What of it?"
"Only those cliffs are impassable by anything without wings! It took me two months to get up here the long way, chartering guides through mountain passes and paying for all those damn zepplin portages. How'd you get up here, really?"
"I walked, oh clickity-clacker. That so hard to believe?"
The Pirate Queen strode to the edge of the cliff. "Old man, if you show me how you got up these cliffs with no climbing gear, I'll make you a rich man from all the eggs I harvest and sell to the colonialists out south."
Ankryn grinned. "Why, it's simple! Don't know why you didn't ask." He lifted a foot and showed the sole to her, shining with sap. "I took this from the bark of a grunge tree, there's a copse about three miles west of here. Get some and cover your feet with it like I have, then come back here."
Kesaatrya shrugged and headed west, for she could see the power of knowledge in the old man's eyes. She trekked through the high swamps for hours until she found the copse of grunge trees the old man had described, gnarled and contorted with pustule-filled bark. She snuck up to one of the trees, careful not to wake it, and popped one of these pustules - not the most pleasant experience of her life - and smeared the yellowish paste over her feet, grimacing mightily at the smell.
The trek back was most unpleasant, for the sap prickled and stung at her flesh. The old man was still sitting upon the cliff edge when she returned, having gone through half of his pile of lemons. "Well," the Pirate Queen inquired.
"Ah," Ankryn beamed. "It's simple, really. If you try to go up a cliff headfirst, you fall towards the ground, where your feet want to be. Therefore, you must reaquaint your feet with their new home - go backwards!" So saying, he sprung up to his feet and waltzed backwards over the cliff edge. The Pirate Queen gazed incredulously over the edge to find the old man standing on the face of the cliff as though it were flat ground, arms crossed in contentment.
"And the sap," she asked.
"To help your feet get used to where they need to be," Ankryn said. "Trust in your stride, lass, and you'll be traipsing down this cliff in no time flat."
His words struck heavily at her sensibility, and Kesaatrya decided to heed the old man's advice. What was the worst that could happen?
The Pirate Queen turned around, walking very carefully backwards step by step towards the edge of the cliff. She took one step over, feeling how the sap clung to the rock with devilish quickness. Arms held fast to her grappling rope, she took another step over, and another, and was almost to where Ankryn was standing when the cliff hornets nesting in the honeycombed stone, attracted to the scent of the grunge sap, burst out of their hive and stung the bottom of her feet most ferociously. She came free of the cliff with a cry, and sailed down the slope to the waters far below, a cloud of hornets following her the whole way.
"Ha," giggled Ankryn, who was clinging to the rock with the strength of his well-exercised toes alone. "You cleared them out! I can go get my clothes back after all."
During times when foolishness ran rampant through the lands of men, Ankryn's reputation flourished and told tales of itself on all the levels of the world. Many a fool with more brains than sense would seek him out in those times, promising him wealth beyond measure, glory in the eyes of gods and men, and every worldly pleasure imaginable if he would share with them his wisdom and will.
Typically Ankryn would smite them with foolishness until they went away, for their petty desires tired him. Those who truly irritated him he would answer truthfully, and watch as his words battered at their minds and teeth.
One day he was relaxing nude on the edge of a cliff and gazing at the world miles below, watching for the colors of a billow-moth lest it steal his rightfully stolen stash of fruit, when he was approached by the Pirate Queen Kesaatrya of the Southern Elliptical Sea, who had made her fortune by tricking her way into mayorship of many a coastal village and dying dramatically before making off with the valuable shellfish feasts they would throw for her funerals.
"Ho there, old man," said the Pirate Queen as she sauntered forth, her many bone bracelets clacking upon her wrists and ankles. "What brings you to the edge of this cliff?"
Old Man Ankryn looked her over, chewing noisily upon a lemon. "My toesh," he mumbled through a mouthful of pulp. "And alsho the goatsh, they chashed me here."
"Goats?" Questioned the Pirate Queen, and promptly leapt to the side as the implication hit her. A sharp crack echoed out of the plains as a spring-goat whizzed by her, breaking the sound barrier as its oversized legs propelled it over the edge of the cliff, soaring down to the purple sea miles below as its bleating slowly faded.
"Goats," agreed Ankryn. "You might want to watch for them, they're far too fond of clothes for their own good."
"Is that why you're airing your wrinkles?"
"No, I lost my own cloth somewhere in the burrows under this cliff. It'll be a right bastard to get them back, but I'll get to it eventually."
Kesaatrya frowned. "You were hunting for the eggs of the bird-otters? They're worth a fortune, I don't see why you'd still be here if you'd gotten out of there alive."
The old man shook his head. "Not at all, I was just going on a walk."
"A walk? Up the Cliffs of Cam-Dire?"
"What of it?"
"Only those cliffs are impassable by anything without wings! It took me two months to get up here the long way, chartering guides through mountain passes and paying for all those damn zepplin portages. How'd you get up here, really?"
"I walked, oh clickity-clacker. That so hard to believe?"
The Pirate Queen strode to the edge of the cliff. "Old man, if you show me how you got up these cliffs with no climbing gear, I'll make you a rich man from all the eggs I harvest and sell to the colonialists out south."
Ankryn grinned. "Why, it's simple! Don't know why you didn't ask." He lifted a foot and showed the sole to her, shining with sap. "I took this from the bark of a grunge tree, there's a copse about three miles west of here. Get some and cover your feet with it like I have, then come back here."
Kesaatrya shrugged and headed west, for she could see the power of knowledge in the old man's eyes. She trekked through the high swamps for hours until she found the copse of grunge trees the old man had described, gnarled and contorted with pustule-filled bark. She snuck up to one of the trees, careful not to wake it, and popped one of these pustules - not the most pleasant experience of her life - and smeared the yellowish paste over her feet, grimacing mightily at the smell.
The trek back was most unpleasant, for the sap prickled and stung at her flesh. The old man was still sitting upon the cliff edge when she returned, having gone through half of his pile of lemons. "Well," the Pirate Queen inquired.
"Ah," Ankryn beamed. "It's simple, really. If you try to go up a cliff headfirst, you fall towards the ground, where your feet want to be. Therefore, you must reaquaint your feet with their new home - go backwards!" So saying, he sprung up to his feet and waltzed backwards over the cliff edge. The Pirate Queen gazed incredulously over the edge to find the old man standing on the face of the cliff as though it were flat ground, arms crossed in contentment.
"And the sap," she asked.
"To help your feet get used to where they need to be," Ankryn said. "Trust in your stride, lass, and you'll be traipsing down this cliff in no time flat."
His words struck heavily at her sensibility, and Kesaatrya decided to heed the old man's advice. What was the worst that could happen?
The Pirate Queen turned around, walking very carefully backwards step by step towards the edge of the cliff. She took one step over, feeling how the sap clung to the rock with devilish quickness. Arms held fast to her grappling rope, she took another step over, and another, and was almost to where Ankryn was standing when the cliff hornets nesting in the honeycombed stone, attracted to the scent of the grunge sap, burst out of their hive and stung the bottom of her feet most ferociously. She came free of the cliff with a cry, and sailed down the slope to the waters far below, a cloud of hornets following her the whole way.
"Ha," giggled Ankryn, who was clinging to the rock with the strength of his well-exercised toes alone. "You cleared them out! I can go get my clothes back after all."