Still Alive

Sorry the posts dried up.

It’s been a bit crazy around here.

Job 1 was understaffed because HR severely dragged its feet (like every semester) when it came to processing new hires.

Job 2 took some adapting, or re-adapting to the time slot.

Little sister got married two weeks back and last week was an aikido seminar with Hiroshi Ikeda Shihan.

There are three projects in the works, including expanding Ashford vignettes. Another’s fiction and the third’s currently mostly secret.

Naothlan Vignette #6 (2019)

Ding ding.


Ding ding.


Tobias felt the connection and contact between hammer and metal, more than seeing it.  The repetition and act of feeling out the hot steel and coaxing it into shape was, he’d always thought, relaxing.  He had always been able to fold spells into the metal as he molded it with more ease than other magicians he’d known.

But, there was something else he was supposed to do . . .

Oh, yes.

“Feel the metal, sense what it wants to become, and how,” Tobias intoned.  “Just like casting a spell.  If it doesn’t want to be what you want, see if it can be coaxed, flattered, or convinced to change.  But, above all, do not force it. Better to start over with new metal than to bespell a piece of steel, iron, or bronze that doesn’t want to be what you’re making.”

He slid the lengthened bar back into the forge.

His eyes remained on the metal even as he kept awareness of the half dozen hopeful apprentices around him.

“Yes, ah, Diane?”

“What about deadlines?”

“Crafting, with smithing, is an art,” he said, rolling the bar a little in the coals.  “Any patron who does not understand that the process cannot be rushed is not worth your time.  Otherwise, you get crap items and magic that’s more dangerous to its owner than to anyone else.”

Now would come the resentment.  The desire to have instant wealth and, possibly, fame.  The belief that it was fine for him to say such things, to do such things, because he was an acknowledged master, but that beginners out to make their mark had to take anything that came along.  That would weed out about half of them.  Skill would settle the rest down to the one he would take and teach.

“Everyone to a station.  Begin the basics with Kazuo, and we’ll see who stays for tomorrow.”

Naothlan Vignette #5 (2019)

“Nigel, Livinia, could you head over to the marsh today?  Brody was by there last night and said the hydra’s looking off.”

“We were scheduled for the stables, horse check-ups.  That’ll be the whole morning,” Livinia noted, with a glance at the paper before her.  The sunlight through the window highlighted her short, green hair.

Erin Lloyd nodded.

“Afternoon’s fine.  Push the north glade check back to tomorrow if you need to, it’s not an urgent.”

“Does it need both of us?” Nigel asked.  “Ehren has a pregnant pegasus in the hills that’s due any day now.  One of us should be near, just in case.”

Erin ran a hand through her own short bob as she considered.  Prioritizing endangered species, especially when short staffed . . .

“I’d rather have two along, since it’s the hydra and may be agitated,” to understate the potential problems.  Seven regenerating heads made even routine checkups interesting.  “But, I’ll see if Avery has anyone he can spare to escort and help out.  Any preferences?”

“I’ll take the marsh.  Liv’s got more experience with the pegasi, and they seem to like her better.”

Livinia nodded.

“If Jamari’s available, he’s always been helpful, especially with the hydra and other amphibians.  Good in an emergency too,” she suggested.  He worked well with Nigel in the past.

“I’ll see what I can do.  Have fun, guys.  I’ll let you know, Nigel, in a bit,” Erin said, already returning to the never-ending ‘To Do’ list before they’d left the tiny, cramped office.

Naothlan Vignette #4 (2019)

“Ward stone seven, northwest looks good.  Aura’s strong, no signs of tampering.  Glamour stone’s aura is weakening.  Should be checked and reinforced.”

“Noted, Taya.  Possible intrusion detected near stone eight.  Nelson’s on-site, could use some help.”

Taya Bridger did some quick calculations of distance and terrain.

“Understood.  It’ll be four hours on foot.”

“Gate’s approved, go for it.”

Taya smiled, “Five minutes, then.”

She touched the crafter crystal near her ear, cutting the communication with the nearest Red Guard facility.  The crystal was stowed without conscious thought.  A moment later, a small gemstone replaced it.

The gate-stones were expensive, Guards weren’t often given permission to use them.

Must be big, Taya thought.

She rubbed the stone and whispered the command word keyed to her, thinking of ward stone eight.

An instant later, the opal vanished.

A six foot diameter hole opened a few feet away.

Through it, Taya could see the ward stone, and the slender form of Nelson Rookwood.

She stepped through and nodded.

Nelson was a great interrogator and fighter.  He could get a suspect talking before they even realized what they were doing.  But, he was not much for tracking.

“How long ago?”

“I’d guess . . . six hours, from the undergrowth damage.”

As they spoke, Taya stripped off and bundled her gear.  She handed the bundle to Nelson and, second later, became a nine foot tall wolf-woman.

The scents and sounds of the wood washed over her.  She caught the intrusive scent in an instant.  Six hours . . . more like five.  Strong scent of . . . well, that was interesting.  And contraband.  No worries.

Naothlan Vignette #3 (2019)

Tradition dictated that all new students who sought to study at Norvale University must arrive not only at the university itself but also the town on foot.  Supposedly, the tradition was supposed to teach a lesson in humility before a student began their studies.

Screw that, Everitt Lynn thought as he looked at the town’s towers only a couple miles away.  After walking two days from Talbridge, all he had learned about was sore legs and blisters.  What was the point of living on the world’s only island, in the only nation, of magicians and magical beings if you didn’t use the bloody magic to make travel easier?  And fuck tradition too.  Just because ten or sixteen or twenty generations or whatever had done it, that didn’t make it right or good.

The argument had been running through his mind like a mantra for the last six miles.

It gave him something to focus on, especially when combined with the sheer stubborn desire to unleash it on someone when he finally arrived.

In the meantime, the academic town that had evolved to support the university grew.  The towers took on definition, enough that Everitt could see some details and materials.  Like so much of the island of Naothlan, Norvale was built of native stone and woods.  It had not kept up with the rest of the world, or the 21st century, in that respect.

Some said it had an old world charm, within sight (on a clear day) of the new world.  After a morning spent trudging through the foothills of the Spine Mountains, up to the pass, and into the valley, any picturesque elements of the landscape were lost of Everitt.

Exhaustion trumped appreciation.

Even once he dragged himself to the outskirts of  Norvale, he still had a good mile to go, up slope, before the university gates.

Naothlan Vignette #2 (2019)

The walls of Meister Briggs’s office anteroom were becoming all too intimately familiar to Howard Montagne.  He had been sitting in the room for two hours, awaiting a meeting with a minor functionary in the meister’s employ.  The man was in charge of Curmont, a town halfway across Naothlan, but critical to Montagne’s project.  Apparently, his office in Bywater, the closest city to the Sablewood, was grossly understaffed.

Howard rose and crossed to the room’s lone desk.

He debated whether to be humble and self-depreciating (Sablewood really did need the meister’s cooperation) or brusque and demanding, to get attention.  Or something in between.

The full House of Meisters wasn’t necessary for the release project, only Curmont’s, as the closest town to the release site.

“Hi, remember me?” he’d only been sitting in line of sight for hours.  “I was supposed to see someone nearly two hours ago.  Any idea when someone with even a little authority will be available?”

The nameless young man behind the desk, he didn’t even have a nameplate, looked up from a pile of documents.  He was probably some senior staffer’s son, or nephew.

“Meister Briggs’s local staff are extremely busy, Mr., ah, Montague.  Would you like me to write you in for another day?”

“Montagne.  And, no.  I could walk to Curmont and the meister’s home office before you’d find another open appointment.”

Stalling, that’s all it was.

Howard returned to his seat, fuming inside.

There were those in the House who didn’t see the value in Sablewood, or reintroducing species to Naothlan’s wild.  Fortunately, they had no say in the preserve’s funding or spending.

Naothlan Vignette #1 (2019)

“The mission is green, we’re good to go.”

Two hours later . . .

“Control, where are we?”

“We . . . have lights and cameras, if needed, Boss.”

“Siren, we good?”

“Contact made and prepped, Boss.”

“Faust, ready?”

“Just finishing touches, Boss.”


“Clear lines of sight, Boss.”

“Vulcan, start beating the bushes.”

“Five seconds.  Four.  Three.”



A small explosion went off north and a touch east of Boss’s position.


Just over two minutes passed before, “Eyes on target.  Two reinforced black Escalades.  Heading east on High.”

Armored black Escalades.  Could the target get any more cliché?

“Good, Artemis.  Siren?”

“He’s in the second.”

A few moments passed, then a faint thwick of wood grazing wood came over the comms.

“First’s disabled at Spring. Second veered north on Spring.  ETA to Faust, one minute.”

“Nice shot, Artemis.  Neutralize personnel and bring it in.  Good work, Siren.  Move in, everyone.”

Half the team should, he thought, already be there, and Artemis would be the last in.

He was about fifty yards out, when he heard, “And they’re stuck.  Securing target, Boss.”

“Copy, Faust.”

One hour, seventeen minutes later . . .

Marcus Grinnell cut off the projection he’d been talking to with a gesture.  The device’s crafted gemstone core sat on his otherwise bare stainless and graphite desk.  He allowed himself a smile.  Rising, he left the combo office and meeting room to find most of his team gathered on couches around a low, square coffee table.  The air of anticipation, which followed every job, was palpable.

“The package reached the bosses.  They send their congratulations.  Control?”

Talia ‘Control’ Winthrop, their resident intel specialist, in hipster-steampunk that day, looked up from her array of tech and magical devices and shook her head.

“Police chatter’s quiet.  No casualties, a couple scrapes and bruises from the stampede.  They’re tentatively calling it a minor gas explosion.”

“Any reason they should think otherwise?”

“Assuming Faust’s little buddy poofed after,” Vulcan shrugged, “there won’t be any signs it was anything else, Boss.”

“In that case, I think we’re officially off-duty.  Good work, everyone.”

The effect of the words was instant.

Without a sound, the entire room suddenly relaxed as if releasing a collective sigh.

Seconds of silence passed.

Suddenly, Talia emerged from the kitchen and began tossing bottles around the room to everyone.

Catching one, Abelard ‘Vulcan’ Teach, their whipcord explosives witch, bellowed, “Talia, you should’ve seen their faces when Bryan set off the ward and their SUV stopped dead.  It was hilarious, after the whiplash.”

A blush shadowing already dark skin, bear-like and bald Bryan ‘Faust’ Smith waved off the compliment.

“That was nothing, Abe,” Alexis ‘Siren’ Morgan, the image of a Bond vamp, grinned, “compared to when his critters dissolved their car and guns.”

“Ate,” the summoner corrected.  “Corrieys eat metal, preferably iron.”

Marcus caught his bottle with a smile.

They had earned some downtime.  Two weeks of arduous prep for a rush job had just gone off without any serious complications.  The homeland, Naothlan, had been protected from exposure.  It was a good night’s work.  And no one beyond the room would know about it.  Even the target and his security would swear to their dying day that they’d gone straight to a safe house.

“Nice shot, Chris.  Right through the engine block from, what, 350 yards, twenty feet elevation?  Better than Tarvek, he’d be proud.”

“I make it closer to 400,” Christina ‘Artemis’ Lyons, their sniper, settled her compact, athletic frame into a chair.  “And that sexist, racist bastard wouldn’t’ve been proud.  He’d be pissed and deny it. . . . It was a good shot, though, wasn’t it?”