BLUMIU'S QUILL- WRITINGS AND POETRY

Greetings all! I never even noticed that I only had my artwork alone here and none of my writings. I'll change that ;) Since my art and writings go hand in hand more times than not, I usually write concerning the stories I put together or put together art based on the stories. Not only that, but dabbling in poetry on rare occasion and likely my most sensitive area haha.

There are of course many writers here already, sharing and displaying it through their game narrative, so it's a good place to share. I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment; endure if need be, since I can be wordy or lengthy~

Resurrection of Knight

Transient Blitz
Part I
Part II

The Unfamiliar
Part I
Part II

Trails
Part I
Part II

Promise to a Princess
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV

Under Sun

Over Moon

Transients: Blitz Part I

Balen lunged his body against the unflinching furn door, adrenaline dulling his mortal wound. Exhausted, he slipped on his own issue of blood and collapsing against door face. The sounds of a siege not so far away now kept the sweat rolling thick down the gruff of his face, aside from the sun being at its height in Aral. He removed a bloodied hand to examine his wound again, a clean cut slicing through the leather cuirass’ stomach into his gut. He could feel the blood run steadily beneath his trousers, only made worse by reckless efforts.

It took great efforts to just undo the fastenings of his armor, the burning in his muscles making them the weight of lofty stones. For the first time in twenty-five years he thought of his parents. They always told him things would end up this way if he continued the ways of a brigand. How he would meet an early grave and they the ones to bury him. Well, they were dead now. Least he outdid that expectation. Anything was better than breaking your back on your own land to fill someone else’s stomach.

He had fallen from the parapet window as a force struck him at his center, only enough time to witness an obsidian blur streak past, Federic or his own cry ringing out. The fort’s only warning was a sentry shouting of a single armored outsider approaching the stockade before confusion within spread. Jarred to consciousness in the bailey below, the wailing of Balen’s band of brothers in his ears. Searching about for the invading force, all that could be seen were the rest of the gang rushed into the open with the same bewildered and panicked expression he wore.

Trying to gain his bearings, a small pool of his own blood started to form around him. Immediately his mind went blank and body grew numb. A strong pair of hands pulled him up just as the upper level exploded above their heads. Down again he went, flung to safety as he cursed in agony as his belly skidded the hard, uneven ground. Where some had charged for the gate quickly turned to meet the hail of fire that echoed a mile from Tres Valentes Hill.

Bodies were above and beneath the rubble, yet the screams kept sounding as their invisible enemy continued their rampage. One man called to the top of the guardhouse, but neither of the sentries were to be seen or heard. Balen crawled from the dust that had settle about him, tripping on rubble as he stooped. Now with only flight in mind, he pounded the cobblestone in retreat among those that flooded the gate to engage the decoy outside.

Just strides away from the old arched gate, the sun that beat down into the open area became radiant against the stone. A white light surged forth, even his brothers before him being consumed in it. The air stilled and staled as every hair on Balen’s body stood on end. A bolt of light shot through the guard tower in an instant; the booming thunder broke like a hundred cannons at once. Large stones blew apart from the mortar as if fabric being rent from the seams.

Balen only realized he had left the ground once he met it again with a crushing force as he tumbled into a pillar. He shielded his face as a hail of debris and wind stinking of ash blew over him. Deafened to his own moaning, it was only after the dust settled that he noticed the bodies scattered about the court. Some floundered, others lifeless, burned black while their souls escaped in vapors of their remains.

Magik, powerful magik too. Balen had only experienced it from the bosses, yet nothing like this. The sight of hens and cocks darting in every direction of their pen in vain to escape the neck ringing flooded to mind. At this point it seemed everyone had broken into retreat with no one to maintain order. Many fell from one side to another with execration and the bosses’ names last on their lips. Right when they needed them most, the duo had departed nary an hour ago.

Elder Toal and Younger Wyn Song, blood brothers that demanded unity and discipline even from ruffians and the worst of sellswords. It had all been a great opportunity when an acquaintance in the same line of work made a connection with the notorious band. Balen hadn’t been hungry since joining with them, but he had never had to work harder in his life. Rumor had it the brothers belonged to a society of assassins and were building their own branch as instructed by their brood. Now that Balen thought about it, the departure and attack couldn’t be coincidence.

This agent of death rode the wind, bodies falling round Balen, himself unflinching even as their warm entrails ran down his face. Soon only the crackling of scorched wood and stone were left to fill the heat of the day, an unease accompanying Balen’s battered state. He could hear through the ear planted to cobblestone the footsteps of the assailant. His breath cut short and only his heart pounded against his chest against the blood-soaked ground...

The Unfamiliar Pt.I

“Outta’ the way, urchin!” bellowed a swollen, beady-eyed man.

The child hopped off the road as the rickety cart plodded along with a wiry ass under its yoke. While the churlish man scowled at her, she could only but wonder what a curious features he bore. Such encounters were hardly worrisome with feet to carry her where so ever. The word “freedom” the girl did not know, but learned it to be a precious thing.

With freedom however, came the responsibilities of survival on her own. She had left behind those that had raised her, mostly in the fashion of ser-vitude, however. From whence she came and though a prison, shelter was provided. She learned to forage through trial and error; brown mushrooms growing by moist rocks were edible while the spotted, flat-head type caused deliria and irritable bowels. Nimble enough to snatch a trout from the stream and fast enough to chase down small critters, all of which was for the husband and wife that gave her their log shed.

She had run far away from that place not because of their neglects and abuses, rather it was their constant assertion she did not belong. That in-stilled the thought perhaps there was somewhere she did. The child was left little choice the day the man decided to pull her fangs, seeing how they had grown noticeable. Held down on the kitchen table with his wife clamped open her mouth, a burst of strength wrest her from their hold. Seeing her husband knocked aside, the woman recoiled in shock as the little one pierced her finger through with her fangs. This presented the child oppor-tunity of escape through the open shutters.

The girl walked, ran, hopped and skipped to her heart’s content to the point of exhaustion. The next day was spent resting in a hare’s nest between two tickle bushes. Early the following day, she discovered a dirt path carved across the grassland. Unsure of which end lead where, she chose where pheasants flew, knowing enough that they always head somewhere they call home. Thus it would be the same for her.

After an afternoon of unbroken pace, she finally retired to the roadside to give her bare feet a rest. Before coming into view from the way traveled, rattling of wagon wheels and beastly breing reached her keen ears. Before long, an overwhelming multitude of scents accompanied far off shapes. Slowly by the way came someone driven by a horned animal she’d seen occasionally.

As it drew closer, the driver turned into the tented wagon and a woman’s scraggly head came through the covered cart. For an instant the girl thought she had been found, but calmed her nerves in that her senses did not recognize it to be them. Someone else climbed out from the tented wagon as it came to a stop.

A sense of excitement and worry came over the girl as she the stranger, a young woman, approached.

“’Scuse me? Are ye a’right?” the young woman called to her in concern.

It did not seem good to mention the fact she had ran away. At the same time, they couldn’t take her back if they did not know where; this left her in silence as she debated a reply.

“Ye lost?” the stranger asked, stooping near eye level with the little one.

She admired the woman’s eyes; bright and blue. The woman smiled at her to which caused the unfortunate return of the expression. This caused the young woman to leap back in alarm.

The girl only then began to realize there was something apparent in her that caused this reaction. Perhaps it had more to do with the fangs she quickly tucked behind her lips, worried another might try and yank them out. Or it most surely was the long scar across her right cheek that began at the corner of her mouth. It had been there since she could remember.

Spinning on her heel, the young woman dashed back to the wagon. Once the child’s stomach began to knot up, it was a sure sign to flee as well. In the blink of an eye she vanished beyond the clearing into the wood.

An ember sky bruised with blue began to set over the trees. The girl spied a village and patchwork land of squares and stripes in green and yellow. Woodman rested from their labor close to where she skulked. Needing to relieve herself, the girl found an undercropping further within found suita-ble. She kept her ears sharp to any movement beyond the creeping among the leaves and stir in the high foliage. Twice she had encounters with der`angars when out with her chores, caring not for another.

Strange fire came from before her and preserved her life, but she could not hope such a thing to happen again. Finishing her business, onward she went on little but intuition. Surely the more people there were, the closure she came. And yet, this worried her. She had not much luck thus far in her encounters.

Stepping out from the shelter of the wood, the girl saw over the great loaf shaped hills a sight she had could compare nothing to. Mountains bigger than she had ever see beyond the glen. Curious of these great walls with great towers sitting on high, she followed by the road leading toward before spotting a group by the wayside. Camped a ways into the plain was a party of numerous sojourners.

Keeping her distance from the roadside, she watched men, women and other children like herself. She wondered if they too were traveling with all their belongings about them, then smelled the irresistible. Its scent she in-haled deep, beckoning her belly to draw near. Perhaps a little closer would not hurt?

Taking her place on a stone on the other side the road, the little one watched the women about a mound of stones, one of which prodded a rod or stick within. Off a ways from them were the children and elder of them, keeping the rambunctious away from their mothers as they cooked. The contrast was great from what she experienced and strange, yet welcoming. A group of the men were gathered a ways into the field while another con-versed much further up the road; their eyes were set toward the great walls.

Not long seemed to pass before the sky dimmed to a rich apricot. The girl adjusted her eyes to keep the group’s activities in clarity, before noticing a sudden change in routine. The women paused then stood or froze in place with a fluid yet unnatural unison. Everyone’s attention had been caught at that point, the child’s gaze also followed up the road where the one group stood. In the greater distance she could see another party approaching by way of the great wall.

Whatever they were wearing reflected in the setting sun being cast down behind the shadowed mountains. The girl kept her distance as the devel-opment unfolded, but had been spotted some time before realizing. At that time the women working the makeshift oven began passing out the con-tents inside. One of which had the baked goods in hand and began to ap-proach her, calling out.

Giving herself over to hunger, the child gravitated steadily toward the nar-row figure that gracefully crossed the plain. Still a ways off, the girl noticed something akin about the dark clad woman. The eve’s tint brought out the crimson glow of her eyes, surprising her. No one she had met thus far, not even her caretakers held this attribute; none but herself.

They always made sure she was in the shed before dark fell, often referring to the fact she possessed “wicked eyes”. She knew what eyes were and so she discovered their meaning while staring into a small bowl of water. Had she found what she was looking for so soon?

“Ce faci?” said the thin woman, a cloth wrapping in hand that perforated succulence. The woman held a welcoming yet domineering presence the child never experienced so approximately.

Tall, or at least much taller than the child, something about how her slender form and unyielding posture reminded her of the ‘lonely tree’. Sitting alone in the glen, it was still the most striking with bright olive teardrop shaped leaves with red blossoms in warmer season. Its branches mildly wavered in storm, having found equilibrium none of the other trees mastered.

Despite the initial impression, the girl knew not a word she spoke. Very strange tones and words never known before, even of the few visitors of her caretakers. However, her eager eyes became apparent to the woman with them locked on the cloth bundle.

“Ia-o.” she said kindly, holding out the bundle, aromatic steam rising from the cloth.
The child took it with a gleeful smile and allowed the woman to look upon her. She made sure to not let her get too close a look at her scar by tuck-ing her head. The concern of the woman’s expression grew with her mal-nourished condition and lack of response.

She tried again to communicate. “Ce ai păţit? De unde ai venit?”

It seemed likely she wanted to know whence she came. If they gave her this food and they seemed kin to her, perhaps it was safe to say. She pointed back the general direction she traveled.

The woman looked back at the others behind her, and then to her again. “Vino cu mine, copil.” she said taking her by the hand, leading her toward the camp.

All were silent and fixed on the engagement of the men and the visitors. Even she could sense the tension heavy upon them, but their countenances held stoically. Her escort came to one of the other women, also with dark hair braided down the length of her back. She knew they referred to her from the glances directed her way.

*The language used her is like bad Romanian that I intend to use as a basis for the Penumbra language. Haven't begun to create it, but know it's a place holder for now. So you aren't confused!

author=MadJak91
How deep are going to be with the language? Romanian like is a pretty good fit!
It is not easy. Some people can do it though. And I do not mean changing letters but using English or exchanging words but still using English grammar and such.

I guess the characters are only going to speak it in situations like here so you as a reader also feel lost and talking to a stranger and to differentiate but still. Creating or constructing a language is tough even with a base.
Time to study Romanian... :D

As far as I can lol! It's going to be as hard as you say and I'm (slowly) teaching myself basics of Romanian, in so much that I can at least learn its grammar properly enough to adjust to a fantasy language and be believable. We'll see how far that goes ^^;
I don't think I have to learn the Romanian alphabet since if I ever make the Penumbran characters, it won't be similar. Just when translated into English will do (as I don't know how to custom insert letters into Word).

author=MadJak91
You were not kidding about the language, haha. Cannot get a word but I bet that is intended so far because you should also feel like a stranger as well. Although the girl gets it.

Usual segregation. Makes sense. Humans needs to know their level of magic because they fear it. A smart Penumbra would still lie and keep their magic under control and strike at the right time. Unless there are trained humans who can smell it...

Also, edit your OP.

Yeah, that is one thing it goes for without making the changes yet (unless someone knows Romanian), feeling at a loss as the characters in it adds that foreign atmosphere as the girl's experiencing.
Then you have the reverse where she can understand what they cannot, putting her on the opposite side of her own people, though the realization has not hit her quite yet.

Yup~ Proficiency in magic can be measured through the wavelengths or aura the abyss gives off from them; the better they are, the more the abyss taints them. Other practitioners can sense this and tell, which they will be screened anyhow once into the city. It's also how the plot will move along in the next piece with Sorrow.

Promise to A Princess Pt.I


I stood in the small entrance that kept me from the steady drizzle of the opaque noon. Finding myself anxious didn’t stop me from worrying. Today is Miriam’s birth-day and would be unlike any held for her before. In fact, this might be the best gift I could ever give; I was finally able to fulfill my promise. However, that came at the cost of time away not just from her, but Dusk and little Mila. Rapping on the door in my usual pattern went unanswered.

“Dhorna dimeaţa” An approaching pair called to from the street.

“Dimeaţa.” I waved. It was a nice change as I would only receive suspicious glances. The uniform more than likely was to blame if they thought I had come for an inspection, but I’d frequented enough to reserve some other wariness. The Inquiry was never friendly and their presence a violation of the small freedom promised them within the city walls.

Miriam’s apartment was located just on the outer corner of the Penumbran district of the Underworld. The “Underworld” was a given term for Nisrian districts in Huema cities; added to the lower levels of the capital, they went generally unmaintained if not by the residents themselves. Small buildings huddled together along the foundations of North and even South Saggio, though the Penumbra themselves never went so far. The earliest migrants that stayed made their homes from the cast out mason stones, umber and slate built upon wooden framework of their own hands, or when that ran out, the plaster-mud technique of the Gitanon.

The few with some wealth left to them after coming so far pitched together, sold their valuables for materials in constructing storied buildings, all under a ribbed vault roofing. For where they lacked in customary height was made up for in ornamental detail; Piercing spire roofs and trim tracery windows. This community was my first exposure to the Penumbran culture, though I hadn’t been able to explore it as I wished.

Miriam’s current apartment originally was on the second floor, the bottom once belonging to a tailor. When discovered not to be registered with the magistrate, he left a number of his tools with Miriam before either being jailed or banished, to which I then rented for her own tailor. She had been trying to do more on her own and distance herself from the past. I still don’t know what to make of Viktoria becoming part of her again except Miriam is stable and happier for it.

I grab the olive crest knocker again, this time spying a little head pop up from the side window. A little voice then followed from the door.

“Hello~ May I ask who it is?” Mila asks gaily.

Playing along with the dear, I replied as playfully. “Someone who can make you cream cones~”
“I was told not to open the door for anyone unless they addressed themselves, and to never trust anyone that bribes.” she giggles, showing had taken Miriam’s rules to memory.

I beam from the other side in Mila taking to what she was taught. “It’s mama, bambiana.”

“Com e` dici.” Mila answered correctly. I also had been teaching her the dialect of the Nobile, since she spoke the rustic tongue as I growing up.

Finally she opens the shop door and her sallow oval face is all agrin. Such a tiny thing with eyes of deepest blue I’d ever seen. The faint light of the day and dim interior perfectly offset their luminescent quality. She jumped into my arms and I plant a kiss on her pillowy cheek.

Within the shop, rolls of fabric, spools, scissors, scraps and other instruments are left about on the work table. The counter lamp hasn’t been lit, meaning she’s closed. It wasn’t that unusual given the occasion, yet last year she insisted on working at least half working hours as she couldn’t afford less. Not only did that mean livelihood, but keeping the clientele she had gained satisfied.

Penumbra lived among their own and any that sold themselves to the Huema or Galite against their own or harlotry was outcast. Most still accepted her business because it was the best in the district if not Isalme (if I dare say so), yet no more involvement than that. If only they knew her contribution through Count Ambrose of their behalf, reception would be quite different. Her acquaintance and almost a father figure from how she made it sound, Count Ambrose, had made plans to visit and assess just what needed to be done in that underworld. He was the only real champion of the Nisrian within Huema society directly interceding on their behalf.

“Did I catch her before heading over?” I asked Mila.

“No, maerta closed early saying she had to go somewhere. She was going to drop me off at grandmama’s…” Mila answered discouraged.

“Oh…” I replied in thought. “Good thing anyway, right? Grandmama is at my place helping cook for tonight.” I bounce Mila to my side and head toward the stairs.

“Rema?”

“Hm?” I respond distracted, my attention nosing about some papers laying open in a cubby behind the desk.

“I made maerta a present I was going to slip under her pillow, but didn’t get a chance this morning. Should I do it before bedtime or now?”

This would only be Mila’s second gift since living with Miriam, and this one all of her own accord. “Hold to it for until this evening. I was planning us all do it at one time so it’s special, just make sure you have it before heading out. I’ll buy some time for you.”

Seemingly satisfied with the idea after some though, Mila pointed my attention to the desk bell, to which I immediately fell in synch with a devious smirk. Four quick rings and we masked our giggling as we waited. No response so I rapidly tapped it repeatedly.

“Haven’t I said not to touch the bell?!” we heard her call down from the spiral stairs.

Ignoring this I kept going, its high-pitch ringing exasperatingly, drowning out the pattering rhythm of the roof shingles. The trotting of her heels over the boards above was a sign to retreat somewhere in the absently furnished shop, save a round table in a side room and large scrolls of fabrics. I wedged us between the latter as she made way down the winding stairs...