Day 30 - Container

It's the quiet moments that you both hate and love the most. The times when everything around you falls silent. It's good in that everything else stops—the movement, the noise, the emotions of others, and your own. There is peace.

But then comes the pain, the sorrow, the sense of futility. When the chaos of others is absent, your own chaos bursts forward. It's a silent chaos, a turmoil within you, filled with guilt, remorse, inadequacy, lacklustre, and a loss of purpose.

It's times like these that thoughts come to you of fleeing, ending it. You've had these thoughts long enough to know what they look like. In some ways, you toy with them, dare them, lure them. You know what ideation is, you recognise it; you've been on the edge of it many times. You live with it every day.

You know all the antidotes, placebos or otherwise, to these moments. To think of others, of those you would hurt, to list out the reasons to stay, to live. Distraction, movement, or any of these things. 

Talking to someone, putting it out into the universe. Seeking help.

These are the things they say to do.

You don’t.

You keep it to yourself, tell no one, and simply get on with it. You keep yourself busy, tell yourself it’ll pass, and it does, or you deflect it. You distract from it and throw yourself into things. Work, hobbies, conversation, communication and activities. If you can fill the void that comes with silence, you’ll keep it all at bay.

You've learnt to avoid damaging, destructive distractions, having done enough of that before. Although the insidious destructors boil along insipidly adding more.

You're OK. Or that's what you will say.

Even when someone asks you, "R U OK?"  The second Thursday in September, is a high-probability day.  Although a question, that should be used every day.

But for you to answer 'No' on any given day is a peril best kept at bay.

To answer in such a way would take your silent moments away.

Day 29 - First Person

The chair scraped immediately to my right, dragging my attention momentarily. It was the waiter. He smiled at me, conveying several things but one. I glanced back at my coffee; it was two-thirds gone, not finished. Looking across the street, the piano bench was still vacant, although it was starting to fade. It was 5:30 p.m., 29th of May, the closing days of Autumn. It was getting dark; he’d arrive soon.

“Excuse me, Miss.”

I looked up, smiled, and dropped a fiver on the table. “Thank you.”

Taking the cup, I gulped down the last of the coffee. The cup rattled on the saucer as I stood, a lipstick smear marking its rim. I pulled my coat tighter around me, feeling the chill of the encroaching evening. The air carried the scent of rain and fallen leaves, a bittersweet reminder of the year slipping by.

He’d be here soon,  I looked left and right, stepping onto the street.  I needed to get to the nook before he started before he saw me.  I glanced at my watch, it was 5:45 p.m. He’d be here at 6, on the dot, I always wondered how he did that.  I moved up the stairs, into the shadow of the stoop.  My vantage point, I looked down upon the piano now.

Then I saw him, I couldn’t help but look at my watch, 6 p.m. 

A car turns onto the street, its headlights sweeping across him revealing his silhouette in its entirety.  He walked with a limp, it looked painful, it looked worse than the day before, maybe it was arthritis, the cold impacting him.

I’m sure he knows I’m here.

He sits at the piano bench and lifts the lid. Tapping, tinkling a key or two, getting his ear in.

He starts with Beethoven, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff. The classics.  Then Einaudi, Tiersen, Amalds, all contemporary, all international, Italian, French, Icelandic, how is that even possible?

It ends, and I’m freezing, I’ve been shivering for his last two songs, I can’t leave though. I’m sure he knows I’m here but then he doesn’t, I don’t know.  He’s stopped.

I look down, I watch worried at first that he hadn’t seen it, but he had, of course he had, I’d been leaving it in the same spot for weeks. He takes the twenty, pockets it, and then he is gone.

I descend the steps from my perch, stepping to where he’s just left resting my hand on the piano, watching his back as he returns the way he came, turning the corner and disappearing.

I know who he is, I remember, his repertoire might have changed, but it’s him.  The way he sits at the piano, gets his ear in, strikes the keys, moves.  I remember him, I remember him.

It’s my father.

Day 28 - Another Opening

The prompt for this day 28th of May 2024 was:

Take an opening line from a book you love and rewrite it to create a similar, but different opening for your story

That said, an opening I’ve liked in the past, so much so I’ve taken inspiration from the genre on two previous occasions Day 13, 2019, and in a longer short story ‘An Explanation’ in March of the same year. The following is an example opening paragraph from ‘The Big Sleep’ by Raymond Chandler.

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handker-chief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.

And here is my take. Similar, but different:

The chair scrapped immediately to her right dragging her attention momentarily, it was the waiter, he smiled at her conveying several things but one.  She glanced back at her coffee, it was two-thirds gone, not finished.  Looking across the street the piano bench was still vacant, although it was starting to fade, it was 5:30 pm, the 29th of May, the closing days of Autumn, it was getting dark, and he’d arrive soon.

‘Excuse me, Miss.’

She looked up, smiled and dropped a fiver on the table, ‘Thank you.’

Taking the cup, she gulped down the last of the coffee. As she stood, the cup rattled on the saucer, a lipstick smear marking its rim.

She pulled her coat tight, flinging her scarf around her neck as the chill of the evening descended upon her.

Day 27 - A Retelling

‘What are you doing, woman!’ he screamed, spittle flying as he turned beetroot red and frothed at the mouth. ‘Out of my way!’

Marianne had run between the knight’s horse and the forest looming before him, blocking his path.

‘Stop! The creature has done nothing to you!’ she yelled, turning her back to the woods and waving her arms.

The knight pulled hard upon the reins. The grey horse stopped moving forward and pranced on the spot, its iron-shod hooves cutting divots into the sodden earth. Pulling the reins to the left, he caused the horse to spin anticlockwise as he whipped his head around, looking down at the woman before him.

She was small, or appeared so from his mount, dressed well, not wealthy nor a pauper, her long dark hair pulled back from her face and held by a leather thong. Hands raised, imploring him to stop. Fear and uncertainty showed on her face.

The two faced off, the knight getting his mount under control. He could feel it was still tense and anxious, its nostrils flared, pulling upon the reins, trying to loosen them to get its head free. He glanced beyond the woman into the shadows of the forest behind her, but saw nothing.

‘Move aside, woman!’

‘NO! Why are you here?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

‘I’m to kill the beast! To rid the village of the nuisance!’ he called again as he pulled the reins to the right, turning the horse again, trying to break its focus to calm it. The rump of the horse passing close to Marianne caused her to jump clear, closer to the forest behind her.

‘It’s not dangerous, leave it be.’

‘I can’t. I’m told it is taking stock, causing havoc for the village. They want to see it dead. I must free the village of the creature.’

‘It’s not killing the stock. It is harmless; it eats nothing more than the branches and leaves of trees.’

‘Rubbish, woman, that is not what the village says.’ His horse finally stopped, as the scare of the woman blocking its path faded, to the point that the knight sat into the saddle, easing the grip of his knees, further calming his mount.

‘They lie. They know it’s not the creature killing their stock,’ she pleaded. ‘They’ve seen the creature; they know it is not this creature that does the damage.’

‘I’ve seen the remains, girl. The cattle and sheep have been gorged, their throats ripped, fur and skin flayed by the beast.’ He scanned the forest behind her, trying to see and spy the creature. This was where the villagers had said it would be, in here, where the woodcutter's path entered the woods.

‘It’s not this creature, I swear. If you could see it, you would realise it is not possible.’

He looked down upon her, weighing up the situation, thinking. He’d gotten the village, in their fear, to agree to submit to the word of his god if he was to rid them of the beast. Yet here she stands, declaring its timidness, its innocence. How was it possible? Is she in league with the beast? His mind whirled as he tried to reconcile the bloodiness of the livestock they’d shown him with the woman standing before him.

‘Show me.’

Without asking, she turned and walked to a hedge at the edge of the path they were upon, reaching into it and snapping, tearing a branch free, a clump of leaves coming off with it. Walking towards the nearest tree on the edge of the forest, she thrashed the branches against the trunk and whistled, calling into the woods. ‘It’s okay, little one, you can come out.’ She shook the branch.

After waiting a minute, he was about to speak and declare enough, and then it appeared, extending towards the clump of leaves—a creature's head, easily the same size as his horse’s. Before the creature could bite the head of leaves from the branch, Marianne stepped away, taking the branch with her.

The creature stopped momentarily, its head tilting a little, and began to move forward. Revealing a neck that went for three to four feet before revealing the true bulk of the creature, it was enormous, its girth as large as two horses, its shoulder broad and an easy 18 hands high, higher than his mount, towering over the woman in front of it.

The horse's ears flattened to its head, whinnying. Again stomping, pulling at the reins, trying to get its head—to flee or attack, he did not know. He reined it in again.

Marianne shook the branch again, cooing, luring the creature further from the shadows of the forest. ‘See,’ she spoke over her shoulder towards the knight in a calm, semi-quiet tone, ‘no claws, not even teeth. There is no way this creature could have done the damage you’ve seen.’

The knight leant forward, patting his horse, talking to it quietly, calming it.

‘Can you lead it to the village?’

She looked at him. Could she trust him? ‘Why?’

‘If you want the creature to live, we need to show the villagers that it is not the killer. The most expedient way to do this is to show them.’

He looked alien to her, sitting atop the grey, his plate armour polished, the long pole rising 10 feet vertically from where it rested in the stirrup next to his right foot. His face, though, was human. She studied him.

‘You will need to help.’ She doubted it, what she’d heard of him before she even sighted him. Rumours said he did little; it was his lackeys, his squire, that did it all for him. Even now, she could see the squire in the distance, waiting, simply standing, watching from afar.

‘How?’

‘Go ahead, leave branches, lucerne, hay, anything you think would tempt a horse or cow. Leave it in the path, and we will follow.’

Without a word, an assumption of an unspoken command, he pulled the reins to the left, turning the horse, and walking it back towards his squire.

Marianne pulled the branch from the beast, having to tug it away, taking the opportunity to remove it as the jaw slackened whilst chewing. She began walking, following the direction the knight had taken. As she arrived at the point the squire had been standing, a carrot lay on the ground.

Breaking it in half, she held her hand out flat. The creature took it, crunching and eating, stepping forward, approaching her, nudging her, clearly wanting the second part of the carrot. Marianne smiled and walked on.

The carrot was followed by another, and as they passed through the orchards, apples took their place. The knight and his squire were nowhere to be seen, just the treats for the creature. This is how she proceeded, heading back towards the village.

Arriving mid-morning, she was surprised to see the fields leading to the town were unusually vacant, with no one working the fields, no driving of ploughs or drays, empty, as if it was the seventh day, the day of rest.

Getting closer to town, it became apparent why. The villagers who should’ve been in the fields were gathered in the town square, silent, waiting. In the middle of the square stood two troughs, one with water, the other burgeoning with heads of lettuce.

The creature paused at the sight of the crowd. Although they stood still, it sensed their presence, sniffing the air, hesitant. Marianne grew worried it would flee.

Standing to the right of the trough containing the heads of lettuce stood the knight, bereft of his horse, plate armour and lance. He stood in a padded leather doublet, trousers and fine boots, a sword sheathed over his left shoulder.

He bent and grabbed a lettuce, tossing it to her feet. ‘See if he likes lettuce.’

Marianne looked at him. He looked more human now, out of his armour and at the same level as herself. She nodded thank you to him, bent and picked up the lettuce. Turning, holding it high, she shook it towards the creature, which in its alert state had risen to its full height, three feet above where she held the lettuce.

The movement and the scent of the fresh lettuce grabbed its attention again, distracting it from the presence of the stilled crowd. It bent and took the lettuce whole in its mouth, returning upright, surveying the crowd, the sound of the lettuce crunching audibly as the creature chewed. Swallowing the lettuce, it sniffed the air, trying to discern the scents about it, searching for more of the sweet smell of lettuce amongst the smell of humans all about it.

Suddenly, it stopped sniffing, looking directly towards the trough of lettuce, and for the first time, broke from Marianne's lead and trotted about her directly towards the trough, bowing its head to take another lettuce. Again, returning to full height, looking about, surveying the crowd.

Swallowing, it bent down again and took another lettuce, returning upright to scan the crowd.

And another.

As it bent towards the trough again to get its fourth lettuce, the knight struck. Decapitating the creature in one fell swoop, severing its head immediately behind the skull.

The crowd broke into shouts and screams of horror, none louder than Marianne’s.

The knight shouted above the din, ‘IT IS DONE!’ thrusting both hands into the air, as if calling for the crowd's adulation, or upon his god for recognition.

‘IT IS DONE! NOW AS AGREED, YOU’LL BEND YOUR KNEE TO ME, YOUR LORD AND SAVIOUR, SIR GEORGE!!’

Day 26 - Backstory 'The Undertakers'

Harria and Uktar are two ex-lovers bound together by the decisions they’ve made. As thespians within the grand city of Waterdeep, they were lovers both on and off stage. However, they decided that acting was not profitable enough to achieve the wealth they desired quickly.

So, they began looking for ways to get rich fast. Their searches often turned back to their art, leading them to run some piecemeal con jobs in the city. These activities eventually brought them to the attention of Waterdeep’s underworld, particularly the notorious Xanathar’s Guild. Through their connections with the guild, they found themselves in the underground town of Skullport.

In the dark catacombs of Undermountain, they devised their latest money-making scheme: conning foolhardy adventurers lured by promises of unimaginable treasures. The ruse? Pretend to be vampires and threaten adventurers as they transition to the first level of the dungeon. To pull this off, they recruited several struggling thespians and stole make-up and disguise kits from the theatre they last worked with.

Their gang, known as the "Undertakers," has had some success, enough that each member has a bit of coin and occasionally ventures into the City of Splendours. However, tensions have arisen lately, with Harria and Uktar bickering over the future of their enterprise. They have even moved to opposite ends of their lair as communications have broken down between them.

When adventurers arrive from the south, they first encounter Uktar. Despite the tension with Harria, he continues the ruse, attempting to extort 10 gold pieces per adventurer in exchange for safe passage through this level to the one below. The challenge, however, is that they must bypass one or two Xanathar’s Guild outposts whose sole purpose is to prevent adventurers from descending deeper into Undermountain.

Here’s how the situation might play out:

• The Proposition: Uktar, the spokesperson, greets the adventurers as they enter, masking his surprise and casually engaging with them. He says, “Friends,” gesturing to several of his gang members, “I see we have adventurers among us, some new clientele.” Then, addressing the adventurers, he adds, “Presumption dictates that I offer you our services.” He gestures broadly at the gang. “My friends and I can offer you safe passage to the lower level for a mere 10 gold pieces each. This level, as shallow as it is, offers you nothing but trouble, as it’s been stripped of all treasure by your predecessors.”

• The Issue: If the party lacks sufficient gold, Uktar suggests they could pay with a ring or a magic item. The gang subtly spreads out as the discussion progresses, preparing for a potential fight.

• Bought Passage: If the adventurers pay the fee, the Undertakers lead them south, then east into the Grick Snack Watch, which inevitably results in a battle. The logic here is that the Undertakers must have come up from Skullport and must transit through here when wanting to spend their ill-gotten gains.

• Complication: The Xanathar’s Guild outpost is under strict orders to prevent adventurers from descending deeper into Undermountain, fearing it will disrupt their operations.

• Fight, Fight, Fight!: A fight is likely to break out (I will have to sprinkle a healing potion about). As the first gang member dies, another will break from the fray and run north to alert Harria of the trouble. If the tide turns against Uktar, both he and Harria will try to flee north. Let’s count this as when the party has killed 50% of the originating gang members.

 

Day 25 - Demilich

 

“No bloody way, you touch it!”

The two stood side by side at the door to what they assumed was the real tomb, as the one above was a ruse. Before them, in a narrow room ten feet wide and twenty feet deep, stood a lone chest, closed. Although there was likely nothing within it, for upon it and all around it lay treasure: gold coins, gems, diamonds, and other rich accoutrements.

The thing was, there was no actual tomb, no sarcophagus, no coffin. What made it the real tomb was the skull with two pink ruby eyes sitting upon the chest. Although it could’ve been mistaken for a simple adornment, the dagger driven into the opposite corner of the chest gave it away. Pinned by the dagger was a scroll bearing the note, “Here lies Acererak.”

“Do you think anything will happen?”

“Waddaya mean?”

“Well, if I touch it, touch the skull, will anything happen?”

Thoughts raced through their minds as they contemplated the challenges they had endured to get to this point: arduous puzzles, traps, and of course, the undead.

‘Nah, it’s just a skull on a box.”

“Well then, if that’s the case, you touch it first.”

He balanced on one foot, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder, lifting his right foot, extending it, and pointing his toe towards a single gold coin that had fallen away from the treasure

He nudged it. 

The skull flew into the air, a voice booming, no rasping, from every direction and the skull at once

“This, my friends, is the moment everything changes.”

Day 24 - Video killed the Radio Star

‘TIKTOKKILLEDTHEVIDEOSTAR!’

‘TIKTOKKILLEDTHEVIDEOSTAR!’

The music was blaring, one of Trudy’s favourite songs, but what the hell was Artur Singing, it was like a different language and he was screaming it at the top of his voice.  Rounding the corner, there he was, leaning over the firepit dropping another log into the flames.  Bopping away to the song as it continued to play in the background,

She walked up towards the fire, yelling over the music ‘What are you singing?’ It was slightly louder as the music suddenly dropped and transitioned back into the chorus.

‘VIDEOKILLEDTHERADIOSTAR!’ he sang back at her quite proud of himself for the timing of his answer.  He paused pausing, waiting for an acknowledgement from Trudy.

‘No, no. not what is the song, what were you singing?’

‘Oh! Um, nothing.’ pulling his phone from his pocket and hitting pause.

‘No, what was it?  She asked, smiling, waiting, using the silence to draw out the answer.

‘TIKTOK killed the Video star.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, think about it, all the kids, even the adults are all watching TIKTOK or YouTube Shorts.  It’s killing the video star.’

She thought about it momentarily, ‘Absolutely’ he was correct. ‘It’s not only killing the video start, it’s also killing our attention span.’

       Artur, lifted his phone holding it between the two of them and tapped the screen.

        'TIKTOKKILLEDTHEVIDEOSTART' sang Artur

        'TIKTOKKILLEDTHEATTENTIONSPAN' Sang Trudy

Day 23 - Writers Block

 

Draft 1	Draft 2
I’ve been here before With month-end knocking on the door I’d say writing becoming a chore But then that would make me a bore 17,579 words written and done With twenty-three days all but done The month has become long Maybe it’s just writers block that’s the bore With just eight days to go Slow I must, must not go Pushing myself to write some more Before the month is no more	I've been here before With month-end knocking on the door I'd say writing's become a chore But then that would make me a bore 17,579 words written and done With twenty-three days all but gone The month has become long Maybe it’s just writer's block that's the bore With just eight days to go Slow I must, must not go Pushing myself to write some more Before the month is no more

Draft 3

Draft 4 - Final Draft

I've been here before With month-end knocking on the door I'd say writing's become a chore But then that would make me a bore 17,579 words written and done With twenty-three days all but gone The month has become long Maybe it’s just writer's block that's the bore I find myself staring at the screen Searching for ideas, a spark unseen Hoping for a moment of clarity To guide me through this writing spree With just eight days to go Slow I must, must not go Pushing myself to write some more Before the month is no more

I've been here before With month-end knocking on the door I'd say writing's become a chore But then that would make me a bore 17,579 words written and done With twenty-three days all but gone The month has become long Maybe it’s just writer's block that's the bore With just eight days to go Slow I must, must not go Pushing myself to write some more Before the month is no more I find myself staring at the screen Searching for ideas, to spark the unseen Hoping for a moment of clarity To drive me through this writing spree

Day 22 - Chapter 21

After a long night, and a somewhat subset of a family reunion Taesha, Bobmadik slept late, entering Bombading's living area shortly before noon.  Here they found Thraina and Durog talking with Aelen.  Who in good form had woken a little worried, until he spied Uncle Durog sleeping in a bed opposite where he woke, climbed out of bed, shaking his uncle awake.

He was asking questions ten to the dozen.  As his parents joined them Thraina excused herself to go get some food organised for them to break their fast, while Durog filled them in on the discussions he’d been having with Aelen, explaining to him where his parents were at first, then on answering his questions about Dalgroth, who Bombading and Thraina were and other cursory items. 

Once they were up to speed on Aelen’s conversation Durog encouraged the boy to go get his dagger, it was time he cleaned and sharpened it.  As the boy ran off to his room Durog leant in.  ‘Duether is calling for a council, he has sent Bombading, and others to round up the ruling families’ clan leaders and the heads of guilds to attend.  We are all to be in attendance, the Falcon and his brood as well.  Bombading has sent runners to fetch them.’

‘When?’ Asked Taesha.

‘This afternoon. Aelen is to be present.’

Both Taesha and Bobmadik looked at each other.  The conversation with Duether had gone into detail of their plight.  At first, he was happy and glad to see his son and daughter-in-law.  And, as it turned out was well briefed on the two of them and their little charge due to Durog’s updates.  

He heaped praise and acknowledged Durog and his family’s duty to the crown, calling for his chief steward, and ordering him to send a squad of six, with supplies to make their way to the valley.  They were to replenish the homesteads, and work with and protect Dalia and Olin until Durog’s return.

As the conversation crossed onto the events in the valley, and scuffles and encounters along the way concern crossed his face, the idea that a Drow Assassin had pushed a kobold force into the valley undetected, the rogue, asked tracking them at the four ways, the goblin encounter before the white ways and then another days and leagues later as they left the white ways.

There was no way of knowing if all these events where related, but seemed to be based upon the draw sighting.  Maybe the latter most goblin attack was nothing more than a coincidence, resulting in the fortuitous reunion of the brothers, Bobamdik and Bombading, even still it indicated something was going on.  

By the end of the conversation, Duether drank the last of his wine, pushed back form the table ‘Get some sleep children, it will be a big day tomorrow’. Bob, Bombading, Taesha and Thraina instantly reminded them that Duether was not only the Lord and ruler of Dalgroth, but their father, and ultimate protector.

‘So he thinks this is important?’ Asked Bobmadik.

‘Absolutely, he has not called for a council of clan and guild leaders since the end of the Drow Wars.’

The next several hours passed quickly, the four of them, Thraina, Taesha, Durog and Bobmadik ate together, talking of a range of topics, everything from their valley home and what it was like to live away from the courts and realm of Dalgroth, through to speculation of what Duether knew, why the council, and more.  

Once this meal was done the group began to ready themselves, Taesha’s and Bobmadik’s formal robes retrieved from storage.  They found they fit well, the years of working the lands, and even the flight of the last several weeks had left the two particularly leaner than they were before they left.

For Aelen, Thraina had organised a tailor, had the boy measured up even before his parents had gotten up.  A trifling affair really as the tailor and his assistant returned shortly after lunch with a finely cut pair of pants and tailored shirt that fit the young elven boy perfectly.  

For Durog the servants had been sent off to retrieve the appropriate uniform for the old Dwarf, the uniform of Lord Dalgroth’s personal retinue with the rank and title bestowed upon him days of old.

Finally the four stood ready, Thraina, who was not required at the council stood back for a moment commenting that they most definitely did not look like the bedraggled mob she’d greeted no even 18 hours ago.  Embracing both Taesha and Aelen she wished them luck and watched as the four left the room, Durog leading the way followed up my Aelen with his parents walking together behind.

As they passed through the keeps passageways, descending the stairs back into the main passage they noted how much busier the keep was from the night before, no longer were they empty bar the odd guard surreptitiously waling the halls, they were a buzz.  Guards patrolled in pairs, keep stewards, both male and female moved about all seemingly in a rush.

None rushed enough to fail to stop and acknowledge the rank and importance of the people passing, many recognising both Durog and Bobmadik and by association Taesha and Aelen. 

As they passed they could hear the voices of those who had paused, guard and steward alike start talking in hushed tones, As tongues would be wagging about Durog the Drow slayer, let alone Bobmadik and Teasha who had fled the keep, abducting the elven babe before the council could rule for or against them.  And then, of course, the elven boy, who was the babe they stole away with.  

Even with the keep’s rules and laws to keep what happens within the walls from the general populace, it would be out there in no time that these four were seen walking the halls.  It didn’t matter how these stories may grow, or even be conveyed as succinctly as they passed they were all based on a semblance of truth.  ‘There will have other be protections put in place, Aelen’s, and by default your Taesha is now gone until we get to the bottom of this.’

Taesha looked at her husband, and simply squeezed his hand acknowledging what he had said.

The expanse of the keep never failed to impress upon Bobmadik and Taesha the enormity of the Cavern it rests within, the walk from Bombading’s chambers to the council chambers was nothing less than fifteen minutes, the later part of it quite circuitous as it navigated more narrow passageways that for deliberate reasons turned often with stairs up and down, through several halls of varying purposes, from formal dining spaces to simple passageways with fresco’d ceilings and bay windows.  Some antechambers to libraries, meeting rooms and more.  

Finally, they arrived at an antechamber of the side of the main throne hall where the council was to meet that day.  Here they were somewhat pleased to find Flacon, Feather and Wolf in the company of Bombading, all quietly talking, each with a goblet in hand waiting.

“So Bombading, it seems you are going to get your answers today.’ Stated Falcon, turning towards them.

‘It does my friend it does.’ 

The group re-united then fell into a comfortable silence, the new arrivals presented with goblets of their own, finding that they had cold fresh water retrieved from one of the many creeks that flowed into and passed through the cavern of Dalgroth.

Aelen stood in silence with his parents as they all waited, eventually deducing that now was a good time for questions, a distraction appreciated by all of the adults about him.  Just as they were all laughing at an innocent question asked by Aelen of Wolf about his name a courtier stepped into the room declaring they were required.

Quickly sorted in order of rank that only the courtier could devise they entered the court singular or in pairs.  First Bombading as 3rd in line to the throne, then Bobmadik and Taesha due to both his title of 8th in the line of Dalgroth and Captain of the Field Guards, then the esteemed allies of Lord Duether, Falcon and Durog, both wearing the livery and ranks of commanders within the Army of Dalgroth, Followed by Aelen, and then Falcon and Wolf to the rear.  

The placement of Aelen between more about protection than a conveyance of rank or standing within the courts of Dalgroth.

Even though all but Aelen had been in the hall before, Teasha and Bobmadik having been married here the scale and importance bear down on them.  The space itself was one hundred and fifty foot across, and three times as long, and although they had entered form the antechamber halfway up the length of the hall there still existed a gap between them and the councillors sitting at a horschoe table, Lorde Duether sitting as the head of the state and apex of the table.

The seven of them proceeded towards the councillors, taking in who was in attendance, all of them bar one were to be expected, the years Bobmadik had spent away from the halls had been immaterial, as a fistful of years was nothing in the lives of dwarves who lived upwards of 400 years, and in reality where not even considered adults until they were a hundred years old or more.  The unexpected Leeshana Naidro.

As they approached the council sitting in the centre at the mouth of the table were five seats, Bobmadik and Taesha sat in the chairs to the left and right of the centre most seats respectively.  Falcon then sitting to Bobmadiks left while Durog sat on Taesha’s right.  Aelen was sat centre most, with Wolf and feather standing behind him, and turning to face down the hall, watching to his back, vigilant.

‘Welcome Friends.’ It was Duether who spoke. ‘Let’s get down to business, we are here today because of the Elven boy Aelen Tjuni Sir of Bobmadik and Teasha, a prince of the court of Dalgroth.’ The proclamation was received in silence, the message clear to all.  Debates of old, of the place of Aelen within the clan were put to rest with that one statement.  

Although effective in silencing any immediate protests, it would still be discussed and debated for years.  The elves had abandoned the Dalgroth in the greatest time of need, they had not helped them reclaim their domain, to deal with their dark cousins, yet here was the high lord of Dalgroth declaring an elf as one of his own.  

‘We are here today’ continued Duether to discuss recent events that have put my grandson in peril, and to explore both the cause for the events by looking back into what brought the boy into our care.  Let-us being with how the boy first arrived, to do this I will call upon Falcon, Patriarch of the Falconbred, and commander of the same.’

Falcon stood, pushing his chair behind him, and began.

Day 21 - Mysterious Letters

 I used the Day 19 prompt for today's effort, it was called 'Mysterious Letters' - Write a story in which your main character tries to unravel a mystery, but write it as a series of letters, social media updates, or memos – or a mix of forms.

The following is a bit of an abstract take on the prompt:

21st May 2025

Well, they’ve done it. They’ve passed the segregation laws, now to see what this means, no translates into.  I do know Exaa Corp. has been bidding on lots, and the council has awarded the contract to them to build the Dormitories.

Sue is not home yet, it’ll be interesting to see what she thinks when she gets back, I know it was on topic for the P&C this evening.  Is the debate to keep the school going blended across all floors or do they segregate by towers?

It’s weird, it's backward, how are we meant to address the problems, this can’t be the way to address the problems, contract to grow again they say.

We’ll see.

12th June 2025

Been too busy to note, the segregation laws last month! It’s as if the dam walls broke.  It was indiscriminate, incredible actually.  The government, military and police alike were ready for it.  

Curfews are in place now, and the segregated are to stay indoors until the end solution is in place.  As much as the government was ready, the infrastructure was lagging.

The school! The bloody school, it was overnight, the Tower solution was taken, even buses, public transport is segregated now.

Thank god it’s not inside the houses yet, although I’ve heard there is talk of it sometime.

This is a disproportionate response, it’s ridiculous.

28th June 2025

It’s getting insane now, it’s not safe to walk the streets, especially if you're a male between 10 and 50.  Beatings, people being beaten with truncheons, accused of loitering when they're simply queuing.  It’s degrading, the military, the police, they're doing it to their own, beating us down.

Sue told me they’ve started splitting up families now, her brother Bill was taken two days ago.

Bill?  He was a pastor, a teacher, taken.  Torn away from his family.  The girls, Margie are devastated.  The pendulum has swung too far now, there’s no middle ground, and they've all given up on trying to find the right solutions.

6th July 2025

This is it, this will be my last entry.  They’re coming for us now, they’ve been working down the streets for a few days now, yesterday they were a block over from us, so it has to be today, they’ll come, they’ll take me, they’ll take Tim.

The pamphlet arrived yesterday, no technology, cash only, we’ve not carried cash for ages, there was a run on the banks, thankfully Sue had preplanned, she’d heard this was coming.

Tim just came in, they’re two doors down.  I’ll go now.

For the sake of us all, I hope they come to their senses, I hope they realise we’re not all bad, that we have a purpose, and in the majority we’re good.  

But we’ll see.

Day 20 - Setting the Scene

The two (three) of you sit at a table at the back of the Yawning Portal. After coming in from the Sword Coast road, you've been here for several days. This is your fourth day as residents of the inn. Your intent is twofold: get a bit of rest and recovery and learn more about the Yawning Portal, which you’ve concluded to be the massive 40-foot pit that takes centre stage on the bottom floor of the inn.

Looking about the room, you’re impressed by what you see; the tales and renown of the tavern that set such high expectations have been met, and more. In the days you’ve been here, you’ve toured the city, offloading the treasures and artefacts from your adventures so far, trading them in for more portable currency: platinum coins, diamonds, and gems.

Beyond these mercantile pursuits, you’ve also been making enquiries about the Yawning Portal, and more pointedly, the talk of the dungeons beneath the establishment. What you’ve learnt is that the dungeon, known as the Undermountain, pre-dates the city of Waterdeep. The tavern itself predates the city, and even more bewilderingly, so does Durnan, the barkeep.

Looking in his direction, you clock his full head of hair, only partly receding, giving him a high forehead, and keen hawkish eyes, with his nose underlined by a full moustache. Dressed in a fine white linen shirt and burgundy doublet, buttons neatly fastened, he cuts the figure of a well-to-do gentleman keeping his audience. The story goes that he is older than the elves themselves, a retired adventurer who quested below the very bar in the depths of the Undermountain for years.

Although he’s not one to tell you any of this, all interactions you’ve had with him have been congenial, jovial even. When pressed on himself, he goes silent. Enquire about his well, and he advises you that for a single gold piece each, you’re free to descend.

Durnan, though, is not the only person of interest. In the brief time you’ve been here, you’ve been able to discern a breadth of things, from tensions between the Zhentarim (the Black Network) and the Xanathar’s Guild to a few interesting characters, like Mirt the Moneylender, a long-time friend and compatriot of Durnan, rumoured to be as old as the bartender himself.

Then, of course, there’s Volothamp Geddarm, the famous adventurer-turned-book-writer, who right this moment is making his way towards you, weaving between the tables and through the crowd. A quad of goblets in one hand and a fine bottle of red in the other. “Gentlefolk, dare I ask, would you partake in this mighty fine wine with me?”

Day 19 - A Vignette

    His eyes cracked open, not moving, the mask pulled tight on his face, irritatingly tight, hisses, the pressure, 11 psi holding his lungs open. Laying still for a moment, the pain in his right shoulder was intense, side sleeping pain; it was there every day.

He left the mask in place, knowing the ruse it provided him. He rolled onto his back, glancing to his right, the pain transferring from his right shoulder into his spine as he felt his vertebrae separating, aching and laying still a little longer, indulging in the ache as a relief.

Lifting both his hands, thumbs flicking the magnetic clips on each side of the mask, clicking in unison. The straps fell away, the pressure on his face, his chin releasing. Sliding his thumb under the mask, he pulled it away from his face, lifting the straps and the airflow tube over his head, placing it easily upon the pump, and hitting the power switch. All in a fluid, familiar motion, having done this hundreds, if not thousands, of times over the last five-plus years.

Rolling further to his left, the relief in his spine and right shoulder coming at once, he spooned his wife, draping his arm over her. Such an odd thing, not grasping her, not wrapping his arm around her, simply draping it over her. He knew, or told himself, she liked it. It gave her a sense of security.

Breathing now, without his machine, he relaxed somewhat, not alarmed or concerned that it would make her uncomfortable. The airflow venting from his mask chilling her neck would not cause a chilled muscle, an ache that would last all day.

He pulled her closer. She was awake; he knew it, but the two, their closeness comforting, did not speak. They lay there in silence, comfortable. He didn’t want it to stop; he could lie there all day.

But there was no way of keeping it at bay.

Day 18 - Another Rules List

In May, I am writing a story a day. Yesterday's prompt was to write a story through a list of rules, which I did. The residual thought was an idea for a different rules-based prompt: the rules of Dungeons & Dragons.

Dungeons & Dragons is a game steeped in rules. The two core books, the Player's Handbook (PHB) and Dungeon Master's Guide (DMG), contain 636 pages of rules between them. Furthermore, Wizards of the Coast (WotC) has published 48 books in the official fifth edition of the game, all filled with various rules.

So why would I even think there were more rules to be written for such a thing? Even more so, with all these rules, why would you need any more?

The reality is that it is because of all these rules that you need a few more. The game, in its simplest form, is a game of storytelling. Groups of people come together to tell a story that can last four hours, four years, or even four decades. The rules and books provide a scaffolding for the storytelling; playing the game is where it occurs.

The trick, though, is how do you navigate and breathe life into the story if there are so many rules that not everyone knows, or that can be interpreted differently? Second, how do you establish the social boundaries that allow the game to survive and thrive?

This is where the concept of 'Table Rules' comes into play.

Dungeons & Dragons is 50 years old this year (2024) and still going strong; some would say the strongest ever. Over these 50 years, the concept of 'table rules' has evolved. These rules, which might have started ad-hoc, evolving as an individual game evolved, have now become more of a tool. Not only for long-established players but for helping newbies join and enjoy the game. Let me give you an example.

In late 2022, my youngest daughter asked if I’d help establish a D&D club. As I already work for an educational organisation and have what we call in Australia a ‘Working With Children’ certificate (i.e., I’ve been police-checked and am not a dodgy character), I agreed. So we began.

As they were 14-year-old children, they, of course, wanted to dive in. No session zero (a topic for another day), no real rules descriptions beyond a brief walk-through of their character sheets, a little more than this, and we were on our way. Most of all, not a table rule in sight.

It was a bit of learning on the fly, much as I had all those decades ago when I started, and we most definitely did not even have the concept of table rules. Let alone an adult guiding us through the process.

So fairly quickly, and deliberately, I introduced the idea of table rules, one or two at a time, and by the end of our first term of play, we’d arrived at the table rules for our table, which one of the girls has since turned into a poster.

Now, before I get into all of these rules, I have to reiterate that they are in no way complete and, in my experience, differ at every table. An easy example of this on the list above is rule number 4. I most definitely don’t have to have it as a written rule for the adults I play face-to-face with on occasion.

Second, as much as I influenced these rules through my experience in playing other games, I used moments and interactions in the game to emphasise them.

I’d also like to say that there are other rules. One of my favourites, in fact, never made this list or any such lists before. I will add it before I finish this essay.

Finally, I have to add, before I get into detailing each of these rules, that I’ve never actually had a 'Poster' or even a printed list of table rules before. In other games, they’re called out and then taken to the lore of the table. The easiest example is rule number 9 above.

So, the rules, and where and why these particular ones exist:

1. DM Makes the Rules - An oldie but a goody, lifted from many of the official D&D books. This rule exists to overcome all those hundreds of pages of rules. Combined with the stories being told, whether published or home-brewed, they result in a vast array of possibilities and situations. It is the DM who decides how to proceed, aiming to bring the most enjoyment to the game.

2. Beware of META - Now this is nuanced. You, as a player, know stuff your character does not. For example, as a player, you may be very aware that your rogue friend just pocketed a gem they found in the corner, but your character does not. So as hard as it may be, you’ve simply got to ignore it and play your character as if they do not know. Doing otherwise will result in arguments and a feeling of unfairness.

3. FLOW Is Key - This is simply the idea that, at times, it is more important to let the game run than to lawyer up and argue. If you’re all going for flow, DM and players alike, the game will run faster, less haltingly, and result in a good experience for all.

4. Help Pack Up - Now this is a serious D&D club rule. They're kids, it’s a public library, they let us have snacks, drinks, etc. Also, the DM brings a heap of stuff with them. Pitch in and help, as many hands make light work.

5. Don’t Talk Over Others - This was distinctly one of the rules that came from the kids at the table, and blow me down if it is not the hardest to keep. They get hyped, excited, and distracted. It was good it came up, but it is also good that I have a poster to point to.

6. We Operate as a Party - A D&D club rule for sure, and they still need to be reminded of this. Sometimes they forget they are on the same side and maybe are not as generous as they should be to their fellow players for really odd things.

7. We Play for Inspiration - I’ll be honest, I get this one, yet at the same time think maybe it should be imagination. Either way, the idea here is that we are playing to be inspired to do more than the mundane, to enjoy and want to come back (Note: the core set of girls have been playing for 7 terms now).

8. Have Your Ticket Ready - This is one I use with the adults as well and a challenge. Turns, especially in combat, and especially if there are six kids, can take time. As much as in the game a round (made up of all turns) occurs in a concurrent six seconds, it can, and has, taken up to 30 minutes. A battle that might take a minute in the game could take an hour in real-time. So have your ticket ready, i.e., know what your character is doing, and while others are having a turn, look up the rule that relates to your action and/or the spell you want to cast.

9. Potions Are a Bonus Action - This is a generous rule. In the official Rules As Written (RAW), it takes an action to drink a potion, a whole action, which means no attack, spell casting, or otherwise. So I let my characters drink that healing potion as a bonus action; it means they might just live to fight another day.

10. Prevent Animosity Towards Each Other - Again complex, but based on experience and brought to the table by me. ‘Role Playing’ or otherwise should be about supporting each other always. I’ve observed, both in a long-running campaign and D&D club, where ‘characters,’ not players, have expressed animosity in-game. This is like a cancer. Beware of it and stamp it out. In the worst case, it can make the game NOT FUN and end up in lost friendships.

So, all that said, a sample set of rules to achieve two things: get my story a day done, and write down something I’d been thinking about for a while. As I’ve said, though, this is not a set of rules set in stone, and they change at every table. 

I hope you've found this of some interest, and for the players amongst you Here are a few more I noted as I wrote, which I’ll leave you to consider and expand upon:

• The DM is your friend and out for fun for everyone.
• Be Generous.
• Litigate Later.
• Have Fun.

May the die roll in your favour.

Day 17 - List of Rules

Today’s prompt - Write a list of Rules that tell a story?

- No Smoking (Rule addendum post smoking laws)

- before that only when the batteries were gassing

- Minimise Waste

- Getting dinner, get to, one for you and one for a mate

- Reduces traffic

- Hot bunking, in two shifts

- be good to your opposite roll up your bag, roll his out

- Pirate Rig - wear for the week (wash or dispose)

- in the later years, it was light overalls, aka flight suits

- No bare feet, boots, or sandals

- boots in the engine room

- ask to pass forward and aft of the control room

- always put your name on the hull/external/aloft board

- and remove it, remember to remove it.

- case of beer if you don’t

- Foot under the flap valve when flushing

- Part 3’s, part 3, nothing else

- Senior Survivor

- longest qualified not rank

- Don’t sit in doorways

- Don’t foul bulkheads

- knock when entering messes

- All mess

- Stay out of my office

- even customs

- Red tags/tape ‘Emergency’ item

- Bar one?  (Failed my Part 3 on that)

- Know your systems, all of them

- shut, not closed

Day 17 - Landon Again

'Shit!'

'What?' Kosthos stood up, looking towards his friend.

'It’s soured.'

'It can’t be, I cracked one earlier today, and it was fine.' Turning sideways, he shimmied between the kegs over towards where Landon stood, holding the whiskey thief out to him for a taste. Leaning across the top of a barrel, placing his hand upon its lid, he tasted it.

'Fuck!' Kosthos lifted his hand to his face and sniffed it. 'Bloody Bertie!'

'Bertie? For fuck's sake, what are you talking about?'

Looking around the darkened room, Kosthos scanned the barrel lids, his dark vision extending beyond the candle melted to the beam next to Landon. He could see it now, the darkened puddles on the lids of the other six barrels.

'The little shit has done something. What does it taste like?'

'Sour, like your frickin’ socks in brine.’

'All good, still drinkable, saleable.'

'No way! And not what Karlich expects. We're buggered.'

A sense of futility washed over Kosthos as he said this, the depressing question, will he be a street urchin, beggar forever? passed through his mind.

'Well, then, this won’t do.' Moving with agility, Landon squeezed past the barrel between him and his friend and pushed Kosthos into motion. 'We’ve got to get the six barrels as promised to Karlich tonight. Let’s go.'

The two pushed out of the alley, onto the wharf's dockside. Kosthos, not asking, simply followed as Landon turned right and ran along the wharf several hundred feet, then to its edge before stopping at the wharf's edge and dropping down waterside.

Not hesitating, Kosthos did the same, confident as he landed upon the familiar deck boards of Landon’s sloop. 'Where are we going?'

'Barthen’s got some barrels dockside, I saw them getting delivered, an easy two dozen, he won’t miss six.'

Kosthos said nothing. Barthen was a good man and had always treated him fairly, even letting him stay in the stables when the cold hit. Landon was right though, he probably wouldn’t notice, and they could always return the favour.

He moved forward and untied the prow line.

Landon expertly navigated the boat out and south along the wharf edge for several hundred metres before deftly turning it into the wharf again and securing the boat.

'Right.' Whispered Landon as he moved about the boat, lifting a piece of decking to retrieve two blackjacks, passing one to Kosthos. 'We don’t want to kill anyone.'

Again, Kosthos followed his friend blindly. He’d known Landon for a few years now, but it seemed of late Landon had seen something in him. A simple street urchin. He’d been bringing him into his exploits and undertakings, trying to show him a way off the streets, this beer run being his latest endeavour.

The only problem was he wasn’t sure if Landon’s loose interpretation of commerce was much better than living on the streets as he had been. They always seemed on the edge of legality. Not evil, not bad per se, but questionable.

He watched as his friend suddenly lifted his pace, sprinting forward. At what was a miff to him only momentarily and then the thug came into sight. It was one of Barthen’s henchmen hired to watch his wharves.

Landon’s speed never ceased to impress him, his speed, his style, and well confidence would be the best way to describe it. Skilled yes, but confident more. He moved in and in one belt of the blackjack brought the guard to his knees, catching him, and lowering him to the floor, dragging him so as not to block their entrance.

Suddenly Kosthos heard footsteps running from behind, he spun, head-turning, and he brought his blackjack up in a fluid movement, 'Kee Yah!' The bulbous end smashed into the temple of the fellow bearing down on him.

Eyes diluting instantaneously, his forward momentum propelled him into Kosthos who simply stepped to the side and let him pass through, landing face-first into the hard planking of the wharf.

'C’mon, we’ve got to get this done before more turn up looking for these two.' Again Landon ran forward further into the wharf into the lower entrance to Barthen’s warehouse.

Minutes later, the two of them had expertly spun the barrels on their edge. Lowered the last of the six into the boat, the two unconscious guards left reclined against each other would wake or be found sometime soon. Job done they pushed out into the Silver River.

They sat in silence, Landon at the tiller of the boat, expertly navigating it away from the waves and towards Brookdale. Each in their thoughts until Landon broke the silence. 'So who is this Bertie?'

'Oh,' Kosthos thought for a moment. 'It’s a creature that turned up a few years ago. I was at my loneliest, dark cold and miserable, and this little fellow turned up. Ugly bugger, all of a foot tall at most, bulbous head, snot-coloured eyes that glow in the dark, horizontal pointy ears, tufts, no, spikes of hair all over.'

'Sounds, um, weird. What’d it do, did it speak?' asked Landon as he took in his friend’s description.

'Yeah, he’s a bit simple, but could communicate, he kept me company, I tried to teach him and him me, we formed a sort of understanding. Where he came from, I don’t know, but he was a help when I needed him, and he has simply been around ever since. I’d see him for a bit and then not for a long while. He likes to play tricks, probably thought he was simply having fun souring the ale.'

'You sure? Sure it wasn’t anything more?'

Kosthos didn’t answer, they both returned to the silence they’d shared a few minutes before. It was at least two hours on the river to get to Karlich’s.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Landon spoke again. 'Kosthos.'

'Yeah?'

'It’s time you leave your Bertie behind. We’ll make this delivery and continue down the river.'

'Ok.' He leant back, it wasn’t a problem, everything he owned he had with him already. He leant back wondering what the future had to hold for him.

As he shifted his weight to get comfortable he felt it, that sticky, warm oily feeling. He raised his hand to his face, yup, he’d left home, but home may not have left him.