Writing Examples
Riddle
This is a work of high fantasy, my genre of choice. This short story is just one of many set in a world where undying beasts roam. They bring wisdom and misery to mortals on a whim and fear only the Raven Lord, the great preserver of justice and order in the world. In this particular story, an Immortal learns an important lesson as he wrestles with a timeless riddle posed to him by his tutor.
Riddle
by Kacie Schaeffer
The raven leered at him. The bough upon which it had settled itself bent low to the jungle floor, burdened with its load of gaudy blooms, before ascending to join the network of limbs and leaves that formed the canopy above. It was under this ancient vine-strangled limb that he crouched, motionless save for the occasional lazy flick of his tail. He knew he was invisible, hidden in the shadows of the swaying tropical plants that fanned around him, lighting his domain with vivid sprays of color. Any yet, ravens had an especially frustrating way of knowing exactly where to look.
"Ha, haw!" it crowed haughtily from its lofty perch. It cocked its head, its hateful little eyes glinting in the shifting sun as its gaze penetrated the underbrush that camouflaged him.
He killed it.
He was rather aggravated to find another of the black buzzards hunched in a branch of the long-dead tree that marked the portal to his subterranean domicile. He fired one of the quills that adorned his tail at the trespasser, heard the venomous barb pierce the bird's breast and knew it was dead before it hit the ferns that littered the soft earth. Sliding between the two massive roots that obscured the passageway to the underground chamber where he resided, he padded across the floor of his claustrophobic living quarters, stepping carefully around musty skeletons of giant bats and jaguars and elves. Selecting the single bare patch of earth at the far end of this forbidden cavern, he lay his head on his massive paws and closed his eyes.
The cawing awakened him as the first rays of the day began to filter through the emerald canopy. He emerged from his den in a tear, his triple rows of teeth flashing like silver razors in a vicious snarl. His crimson eyes darted from side to side, daring any ravens to appear before them that he might cease their incessant crowing. None appeared, though their calls followed him as he slunk away, melting into the depths of the labyrinthine jungle.
He hated ravens. Plain and simple, every aspect of their being grated on him. Their beady eyes, their abrasive sounds, the sickly tint of their greasy feathers...
His restless thoughts led him to a tranquil portion of the jungle on the eastern edge of his daily patrol. It was here that he routinely began his day, watching the sinuous motion of the rivulets formed by the hot rains that perpetually showered the area as they ran together to form a small reflecting pool. Normally the mid-morning heat was enough to shrink the small lake into oblivion; then he went about his way, seeking amusement in other places. For those few hours each dusk, however, this grove proved a place where he could pass the time undisturbed until his quarry awoke from the night's long slumber. He would fill the hours here with thoughts of what prey he might happen upon in the day's proceeding. In the morning he might take a family of monkeys, or perhaps even two whole families, he would think excitedly. The afternoon might yield one of the stealthy feline-type predators, or perhaps a few crocodiles if he bothered to continue as far as the river banks. He generally only hunted crocodiles when he was in a particularly foul temper, however, as they were too easy to spot and too slow to challenge him. The mid-afternoon was always the most exciting period of his projected day, as that was when he passed very near the outskirts of the mortal city that had been erected to the south of his dead- tree lair. He imagined that in his good fortune, he might even happen upon an elfling. While the young two-leggers posed about as much of a challenge as a sloth out of its tree, he had discovered that taking one invariably led to the appearance of bands of mature versions of the species. These were the supreme targets; their blood was the sweetest, their flesh the most satisfying. They were a clever breed, and had even tricked him a few times in the past. Sometimes the parties of full-grown elves and men would appear for weeks on end, even during the evening when, for lack of good hunting, he forced himself into needless slumber to make the hours pass more quickly. These were the times he truly lived for. Around this point he would shake himself from his pleasant reverie and pad light-footed into the expanse of foliage, his thoughts filled with excitement and anticipation.
Today his thoughts filled with ravens.
His blood burned through his body. Fanning his leathery wings, he waded into the reflecting pool at the heart of his jungle sanctuary. Steam rose to enshroud his tawny flanks as he slowly submerged his massive paws and broad chest. He felt the temperate waters play through his mane and swirl about his wings, blanketing his powerful shoulders and tiger-striped hindquarters.
How he detested ravens!
He recalled the first thing he had ever killed. Well, in truth it had been so long ago he couldn't really remember what had died, but he had a dim memory of himself as a cub, wrestling with a playmate, and a sudden, unexpected, and careless pressure on his tail. A cessation of the game, a patch of fur sprouting ridiculous porcupine stickers, his Elder hovering over him, grim and stone-faced. The manner of the death did not really interest him, but he now remembered the journey the Elder had insisted he undertake despite his numerous protests. He had been made to traverse mountains and valleys, plains, and a desert, too, he thought, until he reached the fabled perch of the Elder Coro. His Elder had spoken with Coro, a one-sided conversation in which his caretaker had spoken and the great black bird had sat as still as a figure carved of the very ash upon which he reposed. At the end of the dialogue, both had looked at him, Coro waiting expectantly. In the uncomfortable silence, he had frozen, staring into the glimmering eye of the Elder bird. It had held him transfixed; he had felt very naked under its gaze until his caretaker had rescued him.
"Great One, admit have I transgressed,
And slew I Innocence in jest,
Desire I peaceful be his rest;
Hold no malice for crimes confessed."
He had parroted his Elder's silly limerick; after several moments of deafening silence Coro had nodded, and a raven had alighted, bearing the message into the pale sky on black wings. And they had left.
His tail lashed the water angrily as the whole incident began coming back to him. A ridiculous effort, he thought. But then, his Elder had been full of ways to spoil the hours. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the name of the Elder who had guided him through some of his more formative years. He could picture him clearly, the powerful body like his own, the elfin face, the wide feathery wings...
Sphinx.
The old desert two-leggers always spoke the word with such awe and reverence, much as the Elders did of Coro's name. Of course, Sphinx was a hideous mortal name that in no way entailed the majesty of his true title, but the Elder had always allowed the pathetic creatures to address him as such. His divine name had long since been lost to history, much as his own was gone to time. Sphinx, however, had lost his name through ignorance, choosing the crude mortal title to carry his being. He himself, though, had been a name that gave tremble to the most stalwart of hearts, a name that was whispered to frighten children into submission and shouted to curse traitors to their graves. The elves sometimes called him Manticora, a word that had no particular meaning to him save for the hushed tone in which it was wielded. While this was somewhat satisfying, he found it irksome that he could remember Coro, that despicable Raven, but not his own proper label.
Feeling slightly calmer, he allowed his head to dip under the surface of the reflecting pool. Perhaps, he considered, he could ask Hel, the Basilisk who had named him, when he met him again. Their paths did seem intertwined to some degree, and Hel saw all and knew all. He remembered all.
The first time he met Hel he had been practicing shooting the venomous barbs from his deadly tail. The Serpent had addressed him by a glorious title, whatever it was, and explained his birthright as the youngest Immortal. When asked what a birthright was, Hel had responded that it meant he was to live forever wielding the greatest power the world had known. When asked what that great power was, Hel had flicked his silver tongue and said magnificently, "To conquer that which even eternity can not undo." He had simply blinked and said oh, deciding that sounded like a magnanimous power indeed, even if he was not sure what it meant entirely or how to use it.
And then he had killed his first Elder. Under tutelage from the Serpent, he learned of stealth and secrecy. He stole away the life of every Immortal he encountered until he was the terror residing at the very core of their being and a taboo word in everyday conversation. When he single-handedly decimated the Arch, the eldest of the Elders, a clan of dragons admired by all Immortals for their power and wisdom, he began to realize the extent of his gift. In some incomprehensible way, he was greater than the greatest of his kind.
He basked in the glory of his reminisces, until his thoughts turned dour with bitter memories. For his every personal triumph, he recalled, a raven appeared to haunt him. They harangued him day and night, in every clime, all the days of the year. He had journeyed to see Coro, demanded that he call his feathered pests off, and, when the Elder bird sat silent and glaring at him, killed him easily. The ravens had at once begun swooping and wheeling at him like crazed fiends. For every one of them he obliterated, two more seemed to appear until at last he had happened, in his wild flight from the rooky homeland, upon his old mentor Sphinx.
Before Sphinx, the ravens halted their assault, choosing instead to circle overhead and cackle an endless barrage of obscenities at him. Sphinx had regarded him coldly. When he spoke, it was as if he had chosen his final words very carefully.
"Abomination! Murd'rous fool!
Wicked a heart and actions cruel
Ne'er by the dead can be ignored.
Call they out to the Raven-Lord
To themselves avenge by his sword
And end unrighteous this discord.
The Serpent's gift you think unique!
Mundane it is, petty, and weak.
For possess we all it as well
But not are we the tools of Hel!
Your deadly ways change and repent
Or to oblivion be sent.
Coro will ease the souls of wrath
Until no hope at all he hath
You your wisdom through life will hone,
And learn what always have we known."
Sphinx had then turned to depart, but thought better of it and presented one final soliloquy.
"Answer this riddle, child of Hel,
And here in safety you shall dwell:
In the places 'twixt sea and land,
In the spaces 'tween cloud and sand,
What gift of life is the most grand?"
He had thought on the question, of course; pondered it, grown bored with it, and forgotten it. All of Sphinx's rhymes made his head ache. They seemed to be empty words with no meaningful answers. But now he remembered the riddle and, even after all this time, he supposed he still was no closer to solving the riddle than when Sphinx had first posed it millennia ago.
A sudden sense of motion and sound alerted him to his present surroundings. His pleasant little sanctuary was suddenly alive with a flurry of beating wings. A cascade of black feathers rained upon his rapidly evaporating pool as the air was filled with a chorus of harsh squawks and caws. He had scarcely sprung nimbly from the pond, landing gracefully on all fours with his tail poised to strike down the hundreds of ravens that flocked to every branch in sight, when he became aware of a very different presence. His eyes flicked to the trail he used to enter this glade, narrowing to murderous slits as he picked out an elfin man clad in flowing black garments. His pupils dilated as he identified the black bow that the man held poised in his steady grip, his keen sense of smell telling him that the arrow aimed at his heart was coated in a toxin so vile, no Immortal would be able to withstand its effects. The ravens cried angrily in a cacophony that made his head ring, bombarding him from all angles, and he had the sudden uncomfortable realization that this elfin character was no typical man, but an Elder himself.
The Lord of Ravens...
Sphinx's warning seemed immediately all too clear now, and at the moment the realization struck him, he saw his eternal life abruptly extinguished. It felt wrong. It was a violation of who he was to die. The sensation was so startling and unexpected that he did not attempt to strike his foe, but instead waited, paralyzed.
The Elfin man remained motionless for a lifetime. Finally, as if he somehow sensed the epiphany that had just shaken the lost creature before him, the Raven Lord tipped his broad brimmed hat at him, lowered his bow, and turned swiftly on his heel. His cape brushed a fallen log carpeted with moss, and he was gone. The Manticore was left dazed, surrounded by hundreds ravens now eerily silent as their hundreds of pairs of eyes bored into him, scrutinizing his next move intensely. He sat down, regarding them calmly, and one by one, they began to take flight, disappearing through the thick canopy to the crystal skies beyond.
Manticora mused to himself as the last of Coro's messengers took wing and he began the voyage back to his underground den:
"In all the places 'twixt sea and land,
And all the spaces 'tween cloud and sand,
The gift of life that is the most grand
Is simply the strength to stay one's hand."