I mostly write fantasy stories and everything I share is primarily written for fun. I don't generally share my personal work online. I've included a few snippets here to give you a taster.

Extract:

The Knight washed out to sea and drifted far beneath the waves. The ocean has its own gods, ancient and forgotten in the depths, speaking in words few remember except the whales. His body drifted among the spirits of every man cast overboard, every drowned slave and lost soul. Fish sheltered beneath his broken form and crabs picked at his softened flesh until the sea lifted him from the ocean floor and carried him to the shore, where it left him on the sand. There he lay, his tabard in tatters and his armour crusted with salt.

Along the coast, hundreds of miles from anywhere and on the very edge of nowhere, a woman made her way down the steep path that led from her white cottage to the beach. The morning was fresh after a much needed storm and the pink light of summer morning glided the black rocks that edged the sands, and the distant tide waiting to rush back to the shore in a few hours time. The woman tied her skirts up at the small of her back before crossing the outcrops with ease, crouching down to pry shellfish and seaweed from cracks in the rocks.

The woman paused occasionally to watch the seabirds as they gathered, waiting for her to move on so they could pick up anything she left behind. She dipped her long, tanned hands in the cold water pools and scooped up snails, tossing them into the basket along with mussels and small clams. She threw a few extras for to birds.

As she turned her gaze away from the squabbling gulls and back to the beach a glint of metal caught her eye. She smiled. There were all sorts of treasures to be found washed up after a storm. That was how they had found their good cooking pot, only slightly dinged.

She took a small yellow apple from her pocket and bit into it, chewing slowly as she picked her way along the shoreline toward him. Her bare legs coated with sand and flecks of seaweed.

She crouched down and peered into the man’s face. His sightless gaze was fixed on the white winter sky. His eyes were pale, as if all the colour had been washed out. The woman prodded him with a sharp finger. When he did not respond she made quick work of removing his sword belt and tabard.

She tutted as she wiggled her fingers through the holes where the stitching was coming away. The Knight watched as she held the damp tabard at arms length. The dog sigil still clinging on. She then folded the tabard and tucked on top of her basket.

The woman pried him from his breastplate as if she were shucking mussels. With the weight of his armour removed he took a slow, wet breath and, with some effort, titled his face to look at her.

The Magus

I believe this was originally written for a solo RPG as diary entries. A collection of undated diary entries on loose paper.

I am REDACTED, the seventh son of a seventh son of seven generations of farmers. Or so I am told. My father claims that the men of our family have always farmed the land. He also claims that my mother washed up on shore and after seven years washed back out again. Regardless, I have not seen my homeland in decades, I am not a farmer and I am yet to be washed out to sea.

I do not know where my talents came from only that they are inescapable and as natural to me as the wheeling sun or turning seasons. However arcana is forbidden, and perhaps for good reason. One cannot call upon the dark arts and not expect some trouble to follow, and a mage can only keep such talents secret for so long. After a time it became clear that I must leave. Returning home to my belongings on the lawn and the locks changed was an unmistakeable sign.

And so, I have taken what little coin I possess and made my way to the city. where I might settle and build a legacy of my own. My family is known within our small village but I shall be known in the city, across the country, around the world. Perhaps that is too grand, but one must aim high or else the effort is a waste. I will cast off my family name and forge one of my own. I only wish they had let me take the cat. He was a good mouser and this boarding house has rats. I caught one nibbling at my grimoire. I shall adopt a new cat once I am settled, though it shan’t be the same.

The boarding house is cramped and I find myself sharing a room with four others. However I have spent the last few days exploring the city, found the library and befriended the university librarian, Cecil, at the academe. Much to my disappointment he spends more time sighing over romance novels than displaying any true academic rigour but through some tentative prompting I have discovered that he possessive progressive views on not just romance and the aforementioned novels but also magic. If he can prove himself to be as helpful with this as he was my non-magical concerns then there may be hope for him yet.

I have secured private lodgings. The room is hardly an improvement on the boarding house but it is solely mine and secure. The landlady will visit once a month for rent unless I visit her room downstairs to pay her first. I shall be paying her first. I will not entertain guests or host visitors. I shall not be disturbed in my work, it is too important.

I cast a new spell today. I shall call it the Verdure of Childhood. Oh, it is a most glorious work! So simple and sweet and it fills me with such a pleasant rush of joy. A summer breeze through the golden wheat fields. The sun reflecting on the river. What use is it? You might ask. The arcane is an art. It can comfort and it can disturb. Create and destroy. Today I grant myself serenity.

I fear that Cecil will no longer wish to assist me. He avoids me at the library. The scars will heal but perhaps not our friendship. What a waste of time. Searching for the remnants of this spell seemed like a worthwhile venture but it was cost myself an assistant and robbed Cecil of his best feature. The writing was too faint. I should not have proceeded. Fool.

I shall refocus. We are not defined by our setbacks. I shall spend some time refining the spell before attempting it on a person again.

I came across a most unusual artifact recently. As I travelled home I felt as if I were being watched. I was right. Turning into my street a man grabbed my shoulder. I froze. His voice grated upon my ear as he warned that the object, the Globe of Punishment, is dangerous and corrupting. When I turned to face him, he ran. I caught a mere glimpse of his dark cloak before he had vanished.

At night I hear whispering voices.

I have resisted the temptation so far.

News of my spells has spread, although no one knows that it is specifically me. Cecil will not even make eye-contact with me now, and that is on the occasions that I see him in the library. I am sure he is avoiding me all together. He was always at the front desk before. Always greeting people. Always present. Now, he is a ghost that flits between the stacks. I find his handwriting in the margins of poetry books.

The landlady is the best source for gossip and spends much of her day sitting on the front porch trading tales with passers-by. She dislikes me but I pay my rent a week early so she never has to knock on my door. I have spoke less than two words to her since I arrived. I cannot remember what those words would have been. Thank you? That seems right.

There are rumours of magic in the city. The guards looking out for unusual individuals. The city is full of them.

Someone from the academe was arrested.

Cecil?

They will ask about his scar. Will he tell them about the spell? About me?

I must avoid suspicion.

A tear in the fabric of the world. A rearranging of the natural order.

Unfortunately the spell has caused a scar in the fabric of my room and myself.

Although packing and moving was unpleasant and time consuming, my new home is much superior. On the outskirts of town few will bother me and I have my own private courtyard. I will, however, need to put up a sign as only this afternoon a passing traveller knock upon my door in search of supper and a warm bed for the night. I have provided her with a thin soup and a mattress before the fire.

At first I thought she might be the heroic sort as she regaled me with tales of her adventures but she lamented that she has grown tired of such a life. There is little money and even less thanks in heroism these days. I had thought heroes to be a rather humourless lot but she has a sharp wit and I do not regret opening my door to her. She finds my taxidermy mouse collection to be endearing, unlike certain other people I shan’t mention!

The hero is Cecil’s sister. How unfortunate. Even more unfortunate her name is Cecilia.

Cecilia has returned. She has given up the hero life, for now at least. She also spoke to Cecil but believes that he was maimed in a disagreement with an ex-lover. This does not seem to phase her which I find concerning.

For some reason I wish to confess to her. Perhaps it is that heroic disposition. But, she cannot save me and she is no longer a hero.

Cecilia asked me about the globe. She can hear it whispering to her at night and so she followed the voices into my study.

I thought the door was locked.

I am sure it was locked.

The key was on my night stand.

I did not realise others could hear it.

She knows what I am now.

I am not sure of the exact nature of this spell currently. When I walk before the mirror I move and shift in slow-motion, as if caught between this world and the next. A living ghost. I shimmer and shift. I find myself unable to recall aspects of my past.

Cecilia came to me. She looks so much like her brother.

Even more so now with a matching scar.

I once thought that anyone was capable of casting magic if they only took the time to dedicate themselves to it’s study. It have become clear to me that this simply cannot be true. To let such skills go to waste is illogical. No. Some of us were born with this innate connection to the arcane and so we are feared. We are forced into the shadows. Punished for what we are. Magic is rare and so we are cursed to be both feared and revered. But why should I linger in the shadows?

A child has appeared on my doorstep despite my signage. Perhaps he cannot read. He is currently weeding the herb garden in exchange for a few coppers.

I despair.

The boy has asked to stay. He will clean the house in exchange for reading lessons. He is small and thin with eyes too large for his face, but perhaps a few decent meals will see him fill out.

He says his name is Arthur. A fine name. Noble.

I shall endeavour to give him an education. Gods willing.

Arthur is a peculiar child. When I asked where he is from he said his village didn’t have a name but it was past the hill and over the river. I believe that to be nothing but meadowland.

The boy is a quick student and a talented gardener. We have such a surplus of vegetable that I have granted him permission to sell some at the market.

I watched him leave, struggling to push the cart laden with the riches of his own hard work. I told him to use the profit to buy himself a book and perhaps a new pair of shoes. The soles on his have grown so thin.

I shall leave this place broken hearted

They whisper my name. They bear my scars.

I wish Arthur a good life.

Extract:

Beneath the ground I lay and waited. I reached out into the darkness and my fingers touched black earth. I dug my fingers into the damp and tores at it until I finally broke free, out into air and light and… I heaved and coughed up cloying chunks of dirt. I spat up worms and maggots that had tried to make my body their home, their meal. I breathed in air and it’s cleanliness made me choke. Even the dim light burned my unused eyes as they adjusted. A dark sky. A great blind eye watching me as I wretched. Not an eye. The moon. Silver and shining. I stretched my long, dark limbs and reached up to a sky awash with stars. The air was cool against my bare skin, soft and light. I stroke my hands along my arms, flexed my fingers and tilted my head this way and that. The bones in my neck popped and cracked. How long had it been? Too long. What was my name, what had they called me? Mab, they had called me Mab when others called me Unfortunate Girl, Bewitched, Witch, Bitch. Where was I and where were they?