The Merchant Marine

Furfernbulen was once, and still unknowingly, a kingdom embroidered in potent magics. Magical magics that unrelenting powers cruelly crave. Peer, as you may, the battle for powers was invisible. Cautious words flitted about, as they were stabbed and kidnapped before they ever fell on an ear. The secret battle was likely millennial old. In fact, the town itself was ancient, its walls, its people, its ways, and most of all, its stories. At the epicenter of all the action was the Gray Fox Inn. Not just a king came here but a counsel of kings. It was there that the Elders, great men who had conquered and saved thousands of kingdoms, sat and drank, weaving tales and spinning truths (but usually lies.) In the olden days when the Elders were merely old, the Gray Fox was the nervous system of Furfernbulen. At the time, the Gray Fox lacked adornments. Its walls were constructed with perfect measure, its interior trimmed with gold, the ceilings arched and vaulted to astounding heights, its tables and chairs made of the finest woods by the finest craftsmen, the wines and meads flowed endlessly as the impulses of the Fox led the way of the world. Now, as the Elders sit, the walls scorched from battle after battle, furniture and trimmings with sockets where their jewels once sat. The magic once so potent seems dreadfully dead. Chairs, some missing legs at that, were found randomly throughout the inn as if a brawl had just broken out or disarray had become the norm. The glass windows were stained with a stubborn filth that no man or woman could ever clean. Still, those men continue to weave their tales to each other. A bartender still haunts the room, as a few guests, brave enough, stop in just to say they have seen the Gray Fox Inn. Guests listen to stories that have been told a hundred times before in a hundred ways. Elders’ words are like cheap tapestries in a palace of gold; useless, and always covering something of worth with cheap threads. There was never a set amount of Elders that frequented the Gray Fox Inn. It’s not as if there was someone attempting to count them, but if there were, the task would prove great due to their similar appearances and their penchant for coming and going during a tale. Not to ever say they were bored by a tale, but sometimes they found their presence needed elsewhere…Their garments were the most neutral of colors, so devoid of personality that one could say the makers of said robes lived a very boring life. Many adorned hoods which many thought was because of scars, boils, and other terrible atrocities that lay across their faces, but in reality they found it comforting to drown out the little light that entered through the windows of the inn. Despite conveying a such a powerful aura, it was their eyes that held no strength against curses such as cataracts and double vision. The oldest Elder, if such a thing existed, rarely commanded any audience. But tonight in the room, a wily devil sat near the old man. The man leaned in close over the Elder in his chair. Every wretched old breath that devil could smell, it was like a thick smoke. His face nearly touching the Elder, he smiled as he tried to suck in the words which he could nearly see, wanting to hold them deep in his marrow and never forget. The Elder paid no attention, not even a blink or a stare. He was sure to weave the tale as best and untrue to its nature as he could, leaving only the small nugget of truth possible. And the story goes as such… “Inside a mountain where I once slept, on my way to destroy the demon wench that would have Furfernbulen for her dinner, a fog attacked for my soul and tore at it. You may think a fog not a worthy foe but I knew better. Sometimes the enemy comes with beauty deceptive and alluring, but this time she came with her beast. I swore at death, knowing it was coming for me. I swore at the demon, wondering why, WHY, would she send the fog to do her dirty works? I grabbed my sword and swung, hacking till my hands bled, but the fog gently rolled in at me, neither scared nor dead, it rolled in, around my sword. I ran further into the mountain, hacking at the fog. It stole my sword, it stole the shirt off my back and the shoes from my feet. But a protector of Furfernbulen knows little of conceding. HERE, HERE!” The Elders drank a drink and pounded the table… “Near naked and covered in my blood, my life force, I was at a dead end. The stones of the cave were distinct, I remember all of them as if they were carved into my mind. Burned in my brain they are, burned forever as the cold hand of death approached. I swung at the fog, it grabbed my wrists as if I were a mere child and it put me to my knees, never a moment more shameful in my years. I stood back to my feet but pools of blood made my footing weak. I stood though, but down I was forced again and again. And Elder of Furfernbulen bows to nobody, even the Earth herself!” The Elders drank a drink and pounded the table… “I managed my hands free for but a second, only a mere second, and had remembered a gift bestowed upon me by a traveling musician whom I had valiantly protected once. He told me this silly pipe from the tallest of organs would save my life. I played the pipe with all the power I had left, and without hesitation, the fog stabbed at me. I dodged and slipped on my own blood, cracking my head on the cave walls. The cave never was the same, as it crumbled from my thickest of skulls. I woke up and commanded the fog. It danced around me, like a caged tiger, I could feel its hate swirling all around me. I sent the fog into the den of the demon. I brought back her head, and hid the fog. I hid it, where the lights of a thousand adventurers dare not tread. Let this be a lesson that no man or demon threaten Furfernbulen!” The Elders drank a drink and pounded the table… The devilish cur had a smile crush upwards like a shot from a cannon, there and now he had heard enough. He whispered, “Thank you,” into the Elder’s ear and slid out the door in near reckless fashion.

Welcome To A Future

So, I decided to post bits and pieces of stuff I write just for fun. Well, more to let me know things aren't all just serious. I think I like writing as a way to really open up and really enjoy creating and not just consuming. Let me know if you enjoy any of it... I think I will kind of spell out a story at a time and let it be available in chapters. I don't know how that will work for reading -