#WritersCoffeeClub 25-04-12 How would you write a story with a cast of one? Could you?'
Liminal Shore
997yk
Nymeria sat a good ten paces up from the waters edge. She looked out across the vastness of the lake, staring at the mirage caused by the evapourating water in the distance. Beyond the distorted shimmying blob that would be Cree, was the woods she once called home. Her head swam with countless thoughts like fish lurking in a darkened river. They were there, but slipped through her fingers the moment she tried to catch one.
She left the fish to swim, and began disassembling her hand crossbow while maintaining eyes on horizon. Pull, unclip, unclip, detach, squeeze the trigger, unlock, slide out the bolt carriage, unclip the sled, release tension, twist out lock pin, dump out the spring.
She looked down at the symphony of parts laid out on the keffiyeh. She'd had it all these years, and it still fascinated her that a curly spring sandwiched in the stock performed the same as a regular bow limb. It was a little front heavy, but that worked in her favour when shooting, and the slimness made it easy to conceal like one of those loud sticks that belched acrid smoke and spit lead balls. She remembered how the noise hurt her ears more that slug of lead that hit her.
“What the fuck are those damn blustery things called? Mmh, right guns. Clumsy inelegant things.” she scoffed.
She produced two little metal vials from her pack. She unscrewed the cap of one, pulled out two patches of sail cloth, and began dry cleaning the hand crossbow. After removing the dust and dirt from the metal bits, she inspected the stock, checking for cracks or splintering. Her fingers traced over carved words,
“Silence in service,
Service in silence,
The loudest voice holds no faith.”
She smiled at the teeth marks left on the words on the opposite side.
“Faith protects…”
Faith, hadn't protected the mercenary from her wrath, or taking their gear to impersonate them
She flicked the sail cloth patches to knock excess dirt from them before putting them back into their metal vial. She opened the other metal vial, and pulled forth a well oiled bit of cloth made of three plys sewn together. Every part was rubbed thoroughly with the oiled cloth as she reassembled it. She gingerly tapped it on her head listening to make sure everything was put back together correctly.
She looked at the mirage in the distance, fading away as the sun changed position. Maybe she would stay at the shore another night, and head to Xanderar in the morning. Or maybe even jet right over to Erlaskar and skip across Silver Lake and pass through Shalavant without incident while the moon is new.
There were options, all leading along a circular path, none really more enticing than any other. She reflected deeply on this. She was somewhere, but nowhere at the same time.
Another paradox of her life.
#Eberron #DnD #Khorvaire #Werewolf #Werewolves
