Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.10

In which the Festival is happened upon and something odd happens.  As always, if you’ve missed anything or wish to refresh, you can check out here or here.

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XXIII.
They looked like two different people riding through the city.
Oscambria was still dressed in his tuxedo suit
(for if he took it off the curse would be made known,
if you remember),
but overtop of it he wore a thick, fur parka.
It was brown, ugly, and completely unnecessary,
But Koesan insisted that he wear it until they left Tor El.

Koesan also was swallowed up beneath a parka,
Hers in better condition than Oscambria’s.
“Still she’s pleasing to gaze upon,” thought the Hero.
Their packs bulged from the food rations
And their canteens were refilled with
fresh and purified Great River water.
All in all, the old trader had made the bargaining simple.

The streets were deserted as they made their way towards the gates.
All around them the mud houses and structures burned,
Fires reaching heavenward,
Little orange and yellow tongues flickering in the wind.
The air was dead,
Filled only with the crackle and hiss of flame
And a faint humming sound.

Near the city square the source of the humming was revealed.
Thronged around a massive, burning altar
Stood thousands of people,
All praying and singing a hymn to the fire god.
A Transcended Oracle was walking around atop the altar,
Smoke pouring from his ashen robes.
His voice was commanding as he prayed.

“Take this city and protect it with your unending flame.
You see our devotion year after year;
You know we all serve you and desire you.
Has Akton not burned brightly for you?
He willingly lowered himself into your pit,
Enduring more pain than many will ever know,
All for you to notice his zeal—Tor El’s zeal—and to receive your blessing.

“Come to us, we pray.
Let your fire fall on us and consume us.
Fill our veins with your burning.
Cover us with your embers,
That we’ll be shielded from the harshness of winter,
That Paes will stay away and stay shy.
Let us feel your passion!”

The Oracle raised his hands toward Gastron
And the congregation followed.
A pillar of flame shot from the altar,
Engulfing the stage and the speaker.
Oscambria stalled on his horse,
Curious, but also disturbed.
The burning man writhed and danced on the platform behind a wall of fire.

After a span of time the Oracle emerged,
The conflagration still blazing behind him.
His robes had bits of the flame stuck to them,
Bouncing around wildly.
“The god has spoken to me,”
the man began,
this time his voice calmer and softer.

Oscambria strained to hear the words.
“He has seen the truth in our hearts.
From his perch in heaven he sees the bright flame of Tor El,
But he cannot come to us at the current time.”
His voice cracked.
“He told me to brace ourselves for winter,
but that he will see us through with a boon.”

A collective gasp went through the people.
Some began moaning.
Others fell to their knees.
The Oracle held up his hand,
Flames trailed behind on his singed sleeve.
“Do not faint, for Rone has not abandoned us.
The god is occupied with other matters at the present.

“I begged him to reconsider,
and I know his heart moved,
but he assured me that he cannot leave Gastron currently.
But a boon he did give,
For our prevailing through the dead season.
Though winter is coming,
We will survive!”

He again raised his hands,
This time both of them above his head,
And brought them down quickly to his sides.
Bright arcs of blue fire trailed behind.
The lamentation halted;
The Hero jumped in his saddle.
“Did I just see what I thought I saw?”

Koesan nodded somberly,
A concerned look in her eye.
“Aye, if you’re talking about that Oracle up there
Somehow causing flames to come out his arms.”
Oscambria snorted.
“Indeed, that’s what I’m referring to. 
You act like you’ve seen this before, though.”

“Once,” Koesan said.
“The first time I was in this very city,
And the situation was quite similar,
But—” her voice cut short,
Interrupted by a burst of fire from behind.
The horses startled and took off running,
One going one way, the other towards the throng.

‘Ere he knew it,
The Hero was in the thick of the crowd,
Fighting desperately to control his steed
And also to not trample any townfolk.
“Calm it, Honeydew!” he said,
Yanking on the reins. 
“You’re going to hurt someone!”

The people were reacting slowly,
Like they were in a trance.
Many were tossed to the ground.
A few guards were shouting.
A loud bell was tolling,
Its reverberations jarring the Hero to his bones.
Oscambria pulled hard.

The horse stopped suddenly,
Confused and terrified.
All around the flaming city burned.
“What’s happening?” one cried.
“My baby!” shrieked another.
The Hero saw the Transcended Oracle staring at him,
A wrinkled brow of familiarity on his face.

The man standing at the altar,
Leading a congregation of devout followers of Rone in prayer,
Was none other than his hated rival,
Zzizgarg of Athins, (or Cornball, if you remember)
Blood-son of the Fire God himself.
“Hiyah!” Oscambria said,
Turning Honeydew away and looking for a means of escape.

The crowd was in full panic-mode,
Pressing against one another, screaming madly.
The way was difficult,
But no one wanted to stand down a Taiyoda horse,
And soon he was reunited with Koesan.
“Quickly!” he said, slapping the horse’s side.
“Let’s be gone from this place.”

“What’s wrong, Oscambria?” she asked,
Taking the lead.
“I’ll tell you on the road,”
he belted, fighting to keep his heart from beating out of his chest.
Filled with doubt and troubling thoughts,
They made their way through the city gates,
Leaving the smoking, burning city behind them.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.9

XXII.
The sprawling city of Tor El burned before them,
Like a glorious phoenix rising from the ashes of its own dead carcass.
All six watchtowers were lit in preparation for the festival to begin,
The “World Famous” Maal’tian Fiery Festival of the Flame™,
And several smaller structures simmered silently in their shadow.
“It’s beautiful,” said Oscambria,
small flames dancing in his eyes.

“It is quite a sight to behold,” offered Koesan.
“The first time I saw it I was a little girl.
Columbus brought us to the city for business
And the next thing I know the whole town is on fire.
At the time, I was scared to death,
But Columbus told me it was all for show
And that there was no reason to be afraid.”

She pressed her horse on,
Down into the rich river valley.
And Oscambria followed.
He’d lost all sense of time since his exile,
But the browning grass reminded him winter was coming,
Even if the heat from the burning city said otherwise,
And it most certainly tried.

“We shouldn’t be long,” said Koesan.
“Remember, we’re just here to restock our stores enough to make it to Feoga.”
The Hero nodded, though he was taking in the sights and not entirely listening.
“It’ll be crowded for sure.
People from all over Eura come to the festival in hopes to see Rone.”
The god’s name snapped him back to focus.
“Rone?”  A look of shocked confusion and sudden revelation crossed his face.

“I didn’t even connect the god to the festival,” he said,
slapping his forehead.
“Rone is the maker of my curse.
If he’s there then we can put an end to this whole thing.”
Koesan stopped and turned in her saddle,
Her head shaking.  “Rone won’t show up, Oscambria.
He never does.  It’s just a ritual to get the god’s blessing for the upcoming winter.

“Besides, what about your vision?”
“Maybe it won’t come to pass,” he replied,
his voice hopeful and optimistic.
“Maybe,” she quipped, “but unlikely.
Don’t set yourself up for failure.”
The Hero smiled.
“I guess we’ll just have to see then, eh?”

He took off with his horse,
As fast as it could run,
Which really wasn’t very fast at all.
The city gates were opened wide
And a constant stream of visitors was entering.
All around the orange glow of fire and embers flashed.
The heat was nearly suffocating.

A few city guard and Oracles directed the throng into two lines,
One splitting left,
Towards the festival amphitheater,
And the other forking right for the business district.
Most of the visitors were bearing left,
But Oscambria and Koesan turned opposite,
The latter keen on getting out of the city as soon as possible.

The mud-brick buildings were crammed together side by side,
As tight and compact as a perfect row of teeth.
Most of the establishments were closed,
Their doors drawn and the lights black within.
A few ladies of ill repute lingered outside one store,
Laughing and giggling as they rode past,
But Koesan growled at them and they backed away.

Finally they came to a small building,
antiquated and well-weathered,
but lit up and open.
They tethered their horses to the nearby post
(paying the local fee of eight Knicks!),
grabbed a few items from their packs,
and went inside.

The room smelled like curry and saffron.
An aged man was sitting behind at a bar,
Bent over a bowl of steaming food.
“Hmm,” he huffed,
raising his ancient white eyebrows
and slurping up a noodle.
“Come to trade?”

Oscambria, holding Mossy in his arms,
Walked up to the man with Koesan.
“Aye, friend, we’re here to trade,” answered Koesan.
The man nodded,
But made no move to rise.
In fact, he kept on eating.
The Hero’s gut moaned loudly.

“Why aren’t you two at the festival,” the man asked.
His voice was nasally,
His breath a soft wheeze of age.
“We could ask the same from you, old-timer,” answered Koesan.
The man looked up and stared hard at them,
As if he’d just seen them for the first time.
A gummy smile spread across his dingy face.

“Hee he.  Oh yes, I suppose you could.
But we’re not here for questions, are we little pretty?  No ma’am.” 
He coughed, thick and slimy,
Like a man who’d taken smoke-weed for many years.
“I can see that you’re all business,
so let’s get down to it.  What are ya’ after?”
He slid his bowl out of the way.

“I need to restock my supplies.
My brother and I are on our way to Feoga.
Our late father’s dad is ailing
And we were sent a letter to come as quick as we could.
We’ve been on the road since Sparka,
But had a bit of a run in with nature when we crossed the river
And lost much of our stores.

“We need outfits to keep warm,
our water refilled, and some rations.”
She spoke with sincerity,
And the Hero marveled at her creativity,
Even if he wasn’t sure why she was lying.
The old man studied them,
Weighing the truth in Koesan’s words.

“Feoga’s a long way from here, little one.
You’ll have to stop again before you get there.”
“Aye, and I don’t think we could carry enough to stock our trip anyway.”
The man smiled again,
Once again revealing the hideous grin,
populated with only a few yellowed teeth.
Oscambria tried not to stare.  (He tried not to gag.)

“Well, young one, what do you have to offer for trade?”
She motioned for Oscambria to come forward.
He placed a bag on the bar.
“Hmm,” he said,
fingering the string that held the bag tight.
“There should be plenty enough in there for what we need,”
said Koesan, nodding for him to open.  “And I’ve got a few Knacks, too.”

He dumped the contents onto the bar,
Laughing as he did so.
The sapphires and emeralds twinkled.
The painted metal balls gonged as they hit.
The smell of the Koffeean beans was strong.
“Oh yes, I think we can work with this,”
he stated, still smiling like an idiot.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.8

I have a strong feeling that this Canto will be edited out or combined with another one whenever I go back for revisions.  However, as it stands now, it’s written and it’s here.  Canto XXI, where we have an aside from the chronicler.  And if you wish to peruse through the previous cantos, click here or follow the “Oscambria” label.  And thanks for reading.

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XXI.
Perhaps I should take a moment to explain something,
My dear, dear, readers.
I have spent my entire life working on this tale,
Gathering information from historians and Oracles,
Traveling all across this great continent collecting stories,
Sometimes even journeying to the far corners of Orthe,
all so I could tell the most accurate tale of the Hero of the Living Worlds.

My life has been an adventure,
And my research has been trying,
But I believe that I am offering you the truest story there is.
I have searched through thousands of pages of parchment,
Reading through trivial events just for the briefest mention of the Hero
Or one of his contemporaries.
As it is, there was plenty of extraneous information, and I intend to be exhaustive.

My main purpose of this tale is threefold.
First, to put it into a collected written history,
That the legend will live on through the ages.
How sad it would be if this tale was forgotten,
Or if a child never knew the name of Oscambria.
This is my primary goal,
That the Tale of Oscambria will be remembered forever.

Secondly, and more realistically,
are my hopes of becoming filthy rich and well respected among my peers.
As I’ve stated, my life has been nothing but travels and research,
All funded by various lenders or sponsors.
Most of these require some substantial repayment,
And if my collection sells throughout Eura and the other Nations,
I should have no problems in reaping the financial reward for all my diligence.

Lastly, my goal comes from a part within me that cannot be denied,
Like a song that refuses to be silenced.
In my soul I’ve had this longing to write the story of the Hero,
As if the gods themselves require it of me.
Hopefully my life willn’t have been in vain and without purpose.
I feel like there is a need for this tale to be readily available,
And I hope you can see why by the end of the journey.

Now, enough of this aside. 
Let us turn our attention back to the main story,
To the quest of the Hero as he travels to Feoga in search of something still unknown.
He travels with Koesan and Mossossopia,
Through open fields and hardened roads,
A smile on his face and a swell of self-confidence in his spirit,
Still cursed and burdened, and the chance of true love working in his soul.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.7

Canto XX, wherein we see a glimpse of what else is going on in Eura.  As always, you can catch up or re-read by following the “Oscambria” labels or by clicking here. 

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XX.
While the Hero and his gang made their way westward,
Toward the faraway city of Feoga,
Back in Athins darkness was afoot.
In the Courte du Gods a meeting was taking place,
the kind of meeting that only ever happens in the dead hours of night,
And as such, it just so happened to be those hours
(sometime between II and III).

There were four of them in the Altar Room,
All garbed in the outfits of their Order.
The room was dim,
Lit only by the weak fires from the sconces.
“It is happening as we hoped it would,”
hissed the Oracle of Demtia,
her face hidden behind a bird-like mask.

The others nodded.
“As it happens here,
it also happens on Gastron,”
added the sooty Oracle of Rone,
his voice harsh,
his robe charred and blackened.
His eyes flashed orange in the light of the room.

“What about the child?” asked the Oracle of Lahk,
disguised as a regal Oracle of Lawes.
“His soul is as insatiable as his fathers.
His desires will be made known soon.”
The Oracle of Demtia cackled maniacally,
a twisted smile beneath the plumage of the mask. 
“Oh, yes.  I agree with the One of Rone.  The boy is eager to go.  Go go go!”

The fourth one coughed and they all turned and hesitantly looked at him,
The one who had yet to speak.
He was dressed entirely in black,
From his robes to his underclothes.
His cowl was down, revealing a corpse-like face,
Tattooed white and grey like a skull,
and covered with barely enough flesh to give shape.

He made them uncomfortable,
But he made everyone uncomfortable.
Such was the life of an Oracle of the Twins.
A bearer of the Death Curse, he was used to it by now.
“Then all is on schedule,” he said simply,
studying each Oracle intently,
holding their eyes until they nodded their agreement and looked away.

“Excellent.  Soon the war will come,
here and in the heavens,
and there will be nothing that can stop it.”
He held his scarred hand out,
The dagger already sliding across his open flesh and bringing blood,
dark crimson on the pale skin.
“Let us remember our roles and pray the gods will have their way.”

Each one took the blade and made the cut,
as they had every time before.
Once again they bound themselves by the blood-oath,
The sacred vow of service.
Nothing more was said as they separated,
Each leaving in a different direction
And out into the empty streets of Athins.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.6

Happy St. Patrick’s day.  Here’s the next installment.  And if you’ve missed anything, follow the “Oscambria” labels or click here.  I’m not exactly pleased with this Canto, and I definitely can see where I’ll be tweaking it whenever I start the editing process, but until then, this is it.  Thanks for reading!

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XIX.
The blind man wasn’t exactly happy
At losing his right hand woman.
The quiet lad wasn’t quite thrilled
At losing his half-sister, either.
Arca leered at them but remained silent.
Columbus, on the other hand,
Was never one to lack for words.

“You know how much I depend on you, Koesan,”
he said grumpily, all the while loading bags with supplies.
“Who’s going to look after the ledgers like you do?
Who’ll harass and hound those treacherous traders out there?”
He stalled for a moment, shaking his head.
“You’re practically a daughter to me,
and children must grow up and leave someday, I s’pose.  But I don’t like it.”

Koesan rolled her eyes,
Tired of Columbus’ protests and ready to be gone.
“Arca can step up in my absence, father.
He’s watched plenty.  He knows the business as well as I do,
Better, even, I’d say,
And you know how good he is with numbers.”
Columbus waved a hand overdramatically.

“No, I don’t doubt the lad,”
he continued, his dexterous and aged fingers moving quickly over shelves,
finding an onion and tossing it in his satchel.
“I’m sure he’ll do great.  Oscambria!”
The Hero had only been half-listening,
His mind instead occupied with fate and heavier things,
Like traveling to Feoga with Koesan.

“You best look after my girl on this quest of yours.
I know you’re going to be the ‘Hero of the Worlds’ and all,
But she’s still my baby girl,
And if anything happens to her
I’ll smash your face in with a shovel.”
The old man laughed and Arca smiled.
Koesan rolled her eyes again.

“I’d give my life to keep her safe,”
said Oscambria, unsure how to respond.
“Good.  Good.  That’s what I wanted to hear.
Now, let’s get your stuff loaded up and you two can be off.”
Soon, Pinta had two Taiyoda pack horses loaded with the bags.
Neither animal was majestic or made for speed,
But they would hold up well on the rough roads and trails.

Hugs were exchanged,
More warnings were given,
(“I mean it Oscambria!  You take good care of her.”)
and finally the two rode out of Sparka,
the sun still high in the sky,
only partially hidden behind Gastron and Hubus.
The galleyrat was resting in a basket behind Koesan.

“Have you noticed,” asked the Hero,
partially rhetorically, partially in earnest,
“that much of this journey has been on the road?
I mean, most of my days since my exile have been spent either on the roads
Or waiting on something.
The Sisters should have made my life a bit more exciting,
Especially if I’m going to be the Hero.”

Koesan laughed.  “No, I’ve not noticed,
But be careful what you ask for, Oscambria.
An uneventful journey is one absent of dangers,
Don’t you think?”
The Hero nodded, but continued.
“Yes, for true, though the actor in me
thinks only of the story that will be told.

“Generations from now,
will the bards prefer a tale of adventure and intrigue,
or one of mundane actions and wasted potential?”
“Oh, you certainly have a point there, young hero.”
She laughed again and Oscambria couldn’t help but join in.
He was slowly getting over the way she made him feel,
How she twisted his inner being into liquid knots.

The day was one of those perfect Hellanese days,
Warm but not too hot,
Breezy but not too windy.
They rode in comfortable silence
And secretive glances
Or in full-out conversation,
Complete with awkward words and tongue stumbles.

The horses were sure-footed but slow,
Yet Oscambria found that he did not mind,
For it only added time he could spend with Koesan.
“What are you supposed to retrieve for Lahk,”
she asked later,
when the two were laying on their bedrolls
and looking up at the shining planets.

Oscambria waited a bit before answering.
There was no rush,
no need for an immediate response.
“I’m not really sure.
The god said I’d recognize it.
He said it was anachronistic,
Like this tuxedo suit.”

“Anachronistic?  Like, from another time?”
Mossossopia yawned and licked her lips.
“Yep.  But I’m not sure from when.
Hopefully it’ll stand out.”
She breathed in deeply,
A content smile across her face.
“If it’s anything like that outfit, we’ll definitely notice it.”

Oscambria turned to look at her
And saw that her eyes were closed.
Her breathing was soft and gentle.
“Good night, Oscambria,”
she said faintly,
pulling her blanket up below her chin.
Mossossopia curled into a ball next to her.

“Good night, Koesan.
May Viis be gentle with your dreams.”
She continued to smile
And the Hero continued to watch her.
She was more beautiful than anyone he’d ever seen,
More so than even Biaut, he thought.
He smiled at his fortune.

The night wore on,
Easy and peaceful,
And all the while Oscambria lay awake.
Somewhat to stay alert in case of trouble.
Mostly to observe his sleeping angel,
Snoring quietly beside him,
And never ceasing to smile.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.5

Sorry this is a little late coming out today.  I left my USB drive at home.  Now I present the next Canto, wherein a meeting finally occurs.  If you’ve missed anything or wish to re-read, follow the “Oscambria” label or click here.

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XVIII.
Oscambria jerked awake,
Gasping madly for air and clutching at his lips.
Mossossopia barked,
Jumping alert with her master.
Her purple tongue flashed through the air.
Oscambria took in his surroundings
And for a span of moments forgot where he was.

Then the weight of everything collapsed on him and he remembered.
The capture and subsequent near-death experience.
Eating too many eggs and gorging himself on sweetcakes.
Falling asleep while waiting for Koesan to arrive.
He bolted from the couch and slapped his head.
“Mossy, how long was I out?
What if she came in here while we were sleeping?”

Before he had time to fret any longer
The door handle rattled.
A woman’s voice cursed.
“Oh full Pantheon in Gastron, deliver me,”
he gulped,
bracing himself for the verbal assault
and the certain heartache that would come.

The door opened and she walked in,
Glanced at Oscambria,
And softly shut the door behind her.
She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered.
The exotic mask concealed most of her face,
But her eyes were both a sharp and soft,
Silvery blue, alert and accusatory.

Fear bubbled in his stomach.
His heart ceased to beat
(or so he claimed),
though his pulse quickened.
He moved towards the woman,
But she moved at the same time,
Creating an awkward two-step.

Soon they were sitting on the couch,
Side by side,
But not yet speaking.
They simply sat and stared.
Mossossopia’s tail wagged happily,
Thrilled that Koesan was scratching a favorite spot,
And a small giggle of laughter escaped her lips.

The Hero had no clue on where to begin.
He'd never been good when it came to women,
well, when it came to speaking with women,
and the mess of his nerves helped nothing.
He rubbed at his face and thought frantically.
"What do I say?" he wondered.
He opened his mouth and Koesan filled in words.

"Why do you not smell?" she asked,
pulling down the cloth that concealed her face and sniffing.
As if he didn't have enough problems concentrating,
he now found himself staring at this beautiful woman's exposed face,
the first time he'd seen it fully since the night he'd saved her.
"I noticed it as soon as I entered.
It's almost as if the odor has completely vanished."

A blank moment passed before Oscambria realized he needed to respond.
"It's... It's this suit I'm wearing.
It somehow keeps the smell from escaping.
I, uh… Koesan, listen.  I’m sorry.”
He stopped thinking and let the words fall.
“I shouldn’t have left you all back there near Bransustopoles.
I don’t know what I was thinking.

“I didn’t want to upset you
or cause you any undue stress,
so I thought it’d just be better if I left.
I followed you all as best I could,
Keeping a watchful eye in case of trouble.
On my way I met someone who offered me this suit
And I greedily accepted his bargain.

“Believe me, I never wanted to hurt you.”
The words stopped,
Ending abruptly as they began.
Her intoxicating eyes narrowed
And a smile broke out on her face.
“I was too hard on you.
It was unfair of me to say the things I said.

“I hope that you, too, can forgive me,
as I have forgiven you.  Let’s put our disagreement behind us and start anew.
What say you?”
“I say that’s a wonderful idea.”
“Good,” she laughed,
grabbing the Hero and hugging him like a girl hugs a rag doll.
“Now don’t ever leave me like that again.”

Perhaps it was the heightened senses of seeing her again,
Or maybe there was love in the air,
Thick and heavy as a yoke of oxen stabled on a barge
Traveling down a river of lead
And loaded with iron ore deposits.
Maybe it was the hug.
Whatever it was, the Hero found his brain addled and his heart pounding in his ears.

“You made a bargain for that suit, eh?”
she asked, prodding.
“I’m surprised it works.
Blocking out a curse is impossible.”
Oscambria nodded.
“And it looks so strange,
like it’s from a far off country or something.”

“It sort of is,” he answered lamely.
“The person I made this bargain with was Lahk.”
Koesan blurted a sharp, piercing gasp.
“You made a deal with Lahk?!
The God of Deception!
What were you thinking?”
Already her calm was cracking, her budding temper kindling. 

“I was trying to—”
She laughed forcefully,
Holding up a hand and stopping him.
“I’m sorry, Oscambria.  My temper is quick to light.
If I were cursed and had a chance to block the curse,
I’d’ve taken the bargain too,
Even if it was with the Snake.”

She paused and took a calming breath.
“What did he ask of you in exchange for the suit?”
“I’m supposed to retrieve something that was stolen from him.
The item’s supposed to be in Feoga,
And I stopped by here to get some supplies before I headed out.”
“Well, I’m going with you,” she said bluntly.
“And don’t try to talk me out of it.

“If you’re going to survive then you’re going to need help.
Besides, you’ve got a bigger role to play,
Or have you forgotten your destiny?”
“If only I could,” he thought,
remembering the strange dream,
the fog and haze pouring over everything.
The haunting stare of his own skull.

“No, I’ve not forgotten.
I just don’t want to do it.
A savior for the Living Worlds?
Who am I to do that?
All I want is to be cured of this disease
And punish Zzizgarg for his actions.
I don’t want a war among the gods.”

He was standing near the table of food,
Looking blankly at an apple,
As if it could give him some answers.
Koesan moved from the couch,
Coming to stand behind him.
She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder
And spoke gently.

“I know you don’t want this, Oscambria,
but it’s what’s been given to you.
What’s woven is woven.  You know that.”
She moved closer to him,
Taking his hand in hers.
“And I’ll be with you every step of the way.
You won’t have to do this alone.”

He turned his eyes to hers,
Pain and misery etched behind them.
The overwhelming emotions pulsing through his veins left him vulnerable,
Left him excited, but tired and wary.
He blinked slowly and nodded,
Setting his lips to a determined line.
“Let’s tell Columbus.  Then we’ll get some stuff and go.”

Writing Wednesday: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.4

I mentioned last week that this could be my favorite Canto that I’ve written so far.  I’m not sure whether or not it is, but I still like it.  If you’ve missed or wish to recap, follow the Oscambria label at the bottom or click here.  Now, Canto XVII, in which some pretty strange things happen.

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XVII.

The Hero stood in the sitting room perplexed,
Gazing at himself in the glass before him.
Staring back was someone he didn’t know,
Strangely dressed and wearing a different colored skin.
The eyes were rimmed in black,
Not unlike a skull,
And a wild patch of hair clung to his face.

At his feet Mossossopia was peering likewise,
Her neck craned and twisting back and forth.
In the mirror,
The galleyrat wailed a miserable sob,
As if she was dying.
The animal began glowing
And suddenly was engulfed in harsh, orange flames.

Oscambria could do nothing but watch
As his companion burned away,
The rank smell of burning hair and fur,
Mixed with the pleasant aroma of animal flesh
And the curse of the doomed.
Soon the flames were gone
And all that remained was char and ash.

The Oscambria in the mirror reached and plucked the Hero,
Pulling him into the other world.
Glass shattered and cut him as he broke through the barrier.
“Hello,” said not-Oscambria,
smiling brightly,
his similar voice rattling the Hero’s bones.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The Hero tried to speak but found that he could not open his mouth,
And, feeling, he discovered it was sewn tight,
With the needle hanging limply at the corner of his lips.
“I’m Oscambria,” said not-Oscambria.
“This is one of the Worlds of Haze,
but I guess your world is, too, isn’t it Oscambria?
Do you think Orthe is one of the Hazy worlds?”

Fear and clawed at his heart.
He turned to gaze back through the mirror,
But instead found only a large, broken hole in the air,
Filled with an inky black darker than the void of space.
Shards of glass lay piled haphazardly below the opening,
Glinting and glistening softly in the weak light.
“Yes,” continued not-Oscambria, “I believe it is.”

The Hero turned back to himself
And found the imposter sitting atop a unicorn.
The eyes had sunken in deeper and the hair had grown wilder.
“Come on, we’ve got places to go and things to see.
It’s going to be so much fun with you here, Oscambria.”
Suddenly a triceratops appeared,
Equipped with a saddle and a lance.

Not-Oscambria slapped the unicorn and laughed.
They bolted, and without knowing how or why,
The Hero mounted the dinosaur and rode after himself.
He rode over a mountain of yellow cheese,
Cratered and well-weathered.
Ahead, he could make out not-Oscambria,
Galloping at an unsustainable pace.

In a flash the landscape changed
And the Hero was riding down a white street.
All around him were white buildings,
Hiding behind the looming grey fog.
Not-Oscambria’s laughter filled the air,
Sounding like a small child watching a cat fall from a fence,
Over and over again and never tiring of it.

The street ended at some stairs,
Which proved too difficult for the triceratops to climb.
The Hero made his way up
And towards the white tower.
At the top of the stairs he looked back
And saw the thick haze had descended on the land,
Erasing everything save the steps and the white palace.

Columbus’ caravan was parked near the entrance,
And to it were tied the bodies of Columbus, Koesan, and Arca,
Much like they were back when he first found them.
This time, however, they were dead,
As evidenced by their heads sitting in their laps respectively.
All three stared blankly at the Hero,
Following him as he entered the palace.

Inside, fog and haze poured everywhere,
Choking the Hero as he stumbled through.
Terror now squeezed his bones and he’d’ve screamed
Had his lips been un-sewed;
Nonetheless, he tried.
Through it all, not-Oscambria’s boyish laughter sounded,
Slowly pulling the Hero inward.

Finally he emerged at the throne room.
On the raised dais sat the imposter,
His face now a smiling, ivory skull.
The beard still fell away below his chin,
Long, matted, and silver.
The teeth were filed to a point,
All aligned to a frighteningly perfect smile.

A crown lopsidedly lay on not-Oscambria’s head
And a skeletal galleyrat curled in his lap.
“This all will pass if you fail,”
began the ruined man,
his young voice now taking a harder and deeper tone.
The skeleton motioned around the room,
But to the Hero’s eyes he saw only haze.

“Everything you know and love will die.
The Living Worlds will cease to be.
The passing of Orthe will overrun Hubus.
Kavle’s Maw will expand,
Enveloping Gastron in the Great Abyss
And leaving only ruin in its wake.
From this, there is no escape.

“You cannot fail, Oscambria.
All hope hinges on your success.
Not just the hope of man,
But the hope of the gods.
The Pantheon depends on you,
Though they are too drunk with their power to realize it at present,
They will acknowledge your exploits or curse your failure.

“The Great Haze will descend on the Living Worlds,
as it has in times past and on other planets.
It is not yet time for this system’s end,
But if you do not succeed,
Then it will die prematurely and young,
And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
All depends on you and your actions.”

Not-Oscambria stopped speaking,
His voice cutting short and fading away.
“Hope is your greatest strength.
You are the only hope left…”
The voice drained into an unintelligible whisper.
The skull rolled forward and snapped off the neck,
Bouncing once, twice, three times across the floor and rolling to a stop at the Hero’s feet.

The empty sockets stared up,
As black as the hole the broken mirror had made.
The haze burst into the throne room,
Thick and palpable,
Smothering with a heavy hand.
The Hero fell to his knees
Choking and unable to breathe.

All around him the whiteness of the room was replaced with the grey haze.
It worked its way into his nostrils,
It pressed against and into his eyes,
It seeped in through the gaps of his sewed lips.
He saw his skull looking back at him.
“You are the only hope left…”
and everything faded to grey.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.3

Canto XVI, wherein we discover the results of Oscambria’s prayers, a verdict is rendered, and an old friend returns.  If you’ve missed any of the previous installments of this tale, click here to catch up, or follow the “Oscambria” label at the bottom of this post.  There’s also a glossary, world map, and other miscellaneous information available after the jump.  The next Canto is perhaps my favorite one so far.  As always, thanks for reading.

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XVI.

The guard that had caught him walked in first,
Carrying a chair and a gagging rag.
Behind him walked Columbus,
Tapping a walking stick ahead of him.
The guard sat the chair down near Oscambria,
Stuffed the foul smelling rag in his mouth,
And moved to stand in the corner of the room.

The blind man sat comfortably in the chair,
Crossed his legs,
And pulled out a wad of smoke-weed.
The fragrance of the smoking pipe was somehow soothing,
And the Hero felt himself relax.
His mind began to churn.  “What luck,” thought Oscambria,
“that I should flee Arca and fall into the hands of Columbus.”

“My name is Columbus,
the owner of the store that you tried to rob.
I have no patience for thievery,
Especially after returning from a long and stressful trip.
Normally I would have you taken to a Reckoner,
Where you would be tried and sentenced,
Either to prison or death.

“Unfortunately, our local Reckoner is out of the city,
or so Pinta tells me,
thus the task of weighing and judging falls on me.
Also, unfortunately for you,
I mentioned that I have just recently arrived,
And my trip has left me in a foul mood.
Nonetheless, I’ll try to be fair.”

Columbus took a long drag on his pipe
And blew a cloud of white smoke.
The hope of getting off easy faded;
When the Hero heard the agitation in Columbus’ voice,
he decided against revealing himself to the man.
“I’ve owned this store for many years,” the man continued,
“And it’s not by letting thieves get away with their crimes.

“I’m a faithful follower of the gods,
firmly believing that Lawes is the supreme judge.
However, Lawes’ statutes are clear,
And the Law is the Law.”
An awful memory flashed through the Hero’s spinning mind,
Recalling the same words Columbus had said
Just before Arca jabbed the halberd into the roadside vagabond’s skull.

“I have it on good word that you were trying to steal from my store.
Do you deny the charge?”  Columbus took another drag.
“No,” he tried to answer,
but it was weak and muffled from the gag.
His mind had grown dull from the smoke and the odor on the rag.
The blood and brains of the dead thief.
The blind man released another cloud and pulled out a long knife.

“I take your silence as a no contest.”  A pause.  “Pinta, leave us.”
The guard grunted and complained.
“I do not pay you to question me, son.  Now leave us.”
The guard grumbled again, but he obeyed, eyeing Oscambria as he left.
They sat in silence for a span,
Oscambria staring at the blind man’s blade,
All the while flowers of fear were growing in his guts.

Yes, readers, let it be said that the Hero of the Worlds was capable of fear,
That even he had a terror squeezing his heart.
Here he was, bound and gagged before a blind man with no tolerance for law-breaking.
A man holding a dangerous, simple-looking knife and planning to use it.
A man with a serious, business like face, except for that girly tattoo near his left eye.
If he could just remove the gag then he could make himself known,
But his constitution had abandoned him for fear and apathy.

“Having offered no defense, I, Columbus of Sparka,
former Reckoner of the Feoga regions,
find you guilty and found wanting.
As I can’t throw you in prison,
I sentence you to death.
I suppose it’s only fitting, after all.
My journey began in bloodshed; it should end with it, too, eh?”

The Hero’s eyes widened when the man stood from his chair.
He wondered at the quick madness of the simple trial.
A cloud of smoke covered Columbus’ face,
Casting him like a god come down from the sky.
Mossossopia leapt from Oscambria’s lap and ran up to Columbus’ feet,
Happy to see the man again,
or trying to protect his master, as Oscambria thought.

Unable to see,
Columbus tripped over the small galleyrat.
He fell hard and the knife flew from his hand.
Landing on his face he let out a curse.
(Strange for a man that followed the gods to do so, I think.)
“What in all manner of… Gah!”
He lost his tongue as the quick kisses of the galleyrat filled his face.

Mossossopia only licked him for a few seconds,
But it was enough to stall the man.
“A dog?  Why didn’t Pinta…  No it’s not a dog.  A…galleyrat?!  But, it can’t be.
Mossossopia?  Oscambria?”
Mossy growled tenderly,
Obviously pleased that the man remembered her.
The Hero grunted and moaned through his suffocating gag.

Columbus stood and dusted himself off,
Picking up the galleyrat.
“Are you gagged, Oscambria?  Well, I’m guessing you’re Oscambria.
This is definitely his galleyrat, of that I’m certain.”
The Hero yelled again, letting the rag stifle his cry.
The odor was dumbing him.
He sighed instant relief when Columbus plucked the rag from his mouth.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” said Columbus,
returning to his chair and his pipe.
“I can’t believe it’s you, either,” replied Oscambria,
rubbing at his wrists.
“You were going to kill me.”
An uncomfortable air hung between them,
Separated by the thick smoke.

“Yes.  The Law is the Law.
And you are still guilty, child, but your sentence can be rethought.
It could be that the Sisters have deliberately led you to me,
Being that I know of your destiny.
Or perhaps it’s just a large coincidence that you end up here.
Either way, you are here, and we have things to discuss,
Chiefly being your departure from our caravan.”

The tone of Columbus’ voice left little to the Hero’s imagination.
What could he say?
He’d abandoned the group he’d said he’d protect.
“I know why you left us, Oscambria,
and I almost do not blame you.  Almost.
You acted foolishly,
Though love is prone to foolishness.

“What did you think was going to happen after you left?”
The Hero hung his head and mumbled.
“I expected no one would miss me,
least of all Koesan. 
The way she looked at me was too much.
This curse doesn’t turn my heart to grey, too.
No, it still beats just as bloody red as everyone else’s.”

“Well, you were wrong.
When we discovered your absence
Koesan flew into another fit of rage,
This time directed at herself.
I had to keep her from going back to find you.
We had a strict schedule to keep,
And there was no time for distractions.

“The whole thing was like one big drama,
like an act from ‘The Callow and the Unsettled,’
and I’m near too old for that stuff.
Arca finally convinced her to stay,
Bless the lad…”
Columbus’ voice trailed off for a moment, then added,
“Why do I not smell you?”

The Hero chuckled and recounted his meeting of Lahk.
He went on and vindicated himself,
Telling how he kept a watchful eye on the caravan
As best he could.
“A tuxedo, you say?  Hmm.  Fascinating.
But you should never have taken an oath with Lahk.
In the end, he always comes out ahead.”

“I was hesitant,” said the Hero,
“but I didn’t have many choices.”
Columbus extinguished his pipe and suddenly stood.
“Enough of this.  I’ve decided upon your sentence.
You’re going to have to make up to Koesan.
It’s beyond me how you both have managed to fall for one another so quickly,
But you have, and you should put your differences aside.

“You can come with me and wait in the sitting room.
There should be some eggs and corncakes there.
I’ll need to scold Pinta.  His head’s a sack full of sand and nothing more.
What was he thinking gagging you like that?”
Columbus blathered on and made his way to the door.
Oscambria, followed,
his heart thumping louder than before.

Yes, dear readers,
let it never be said that the Hero did not fear.
He was, after all, made of the same stuff we are,
Flesh, blood, and bone.
You know how it feels to have the weight of admission hanging over you.
Columbus led him into the sitting room.
“Take a seat, lad.  She’ll be in here soon.  Help yourself to the food.

“I’ve things that need doing.
You two can find me after you’re finished.”
With that, he turned and closed the door.
Oscambria heard the soft click as the lock turned.
He sighed heavily,
Scratching absently at Mossossopia,
And staring nervously around the adorned room.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.2

Sorry about last week not having a continuation of the story.  I definitely have not been feeling well, and last week was the first time I haven’t posted original fiction for Writing Wednesdays since I started it, which was in August or something.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy this piece.  If you remember correctly, Oscambria had just got caught shoplifting.  As always, you can read the previous posts by following here or here.

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XV.

His hands were bound and he was sitting on the floor in a cool room,
Walls bared and blank,
In a lower level of the same store.
Mossossopia was sniffing around,
Likely looking for a crumb of food.
The Hero had no idea how long he’d been waiting,
But it felt like several commercial breaks.

He had offered no resistance against the guard.
Instead of putting up a fight and causing a scene
He simply dropped his shoulders,
Shook his head miserably,
And looked into the eyes of the thick-set man.
He tried to pour sympathy and pity into his stare,
Like a whipped pup, but it had no affect on the man.

The guard took him and the galleyrat out of the storefront,
Scolding him the entire while,
And left him in the holding room,
Telling him someone would be to see him soon.
The room was dim and empty,
Full of nothingness,
And as time wore on it began to unnerve Oscambria.

He was thankful that the tuxedo suit had not been removed,
Else his problems would have increased a hundredfold,
and he’d’ve likely been executed on the spot.
Finally there came a noise outside the door,
That of two men talking;
Mossossopia ran to the door and sniffed the air,
Her purple tongue flashing against the wood.

The Hero braced himself.
He rehearsed what he’d offer as his defense,
That he was starving and sick,
As anyone could tell from his extremely pale skin,
And that he just wanted a bite to eat before he died.
The food wasn’t even for himself, he’d say,
But for his four children, all motherless and sick like he.

He prayed to the Muses a CCCLXXII word monologue.
“Oh wonderful Muses,
help me in this show I’m about to do.
Fill me with a passion even more than what you did for me in ‘Gilgon the Great,’
That whoever comes through that door will have pity on me and Mossy,
That they’ll release us and spare us,
So we might get on with our quest.

“You know my heart.
You know this horrible curse I bear.
You know how I long to perform once again in the Round,
To please you, dear Muses.
Aid me in this role.
Help me fool the one that comes for me,
And I will give you praise for the performance.

“All of my days have I served thee,
eager to assume a character and entertain a crowd,
all for your glory.
Please do not fail me here,
Here in this dead and barren room in this strange city.
Fill my heart, touch my tongue,
And in all I give you praise.

“Remember me in my time of trouble,
Like you did when I first came into your service.
I once was a nervous lad,
Afraid that I would not please you,
But you stilled my soul
And lit my passions on fire,
And ever after how I’ve served with steadfast determination.

“Even Mossy serves you,
of this I’m sure,
as his antics are always full of cuteness and lovability.
Touch him that he, too, will aid me,
That he’ll look with glassy eyes and pity,
That the resolve of our captors will fail
And we will be released soon.

“Since the dawn of the ages you have been there,
helping Man to find his tongue,
remember his lines,
manipulate his body and put on a show for all to see,
all to glorify your selves.
You, oh Muses, have given this world so much,
And yet I ask for more.

“If you find it in your graces, bless me.
May my performance be the fodder for songs for years to come.
May the bards sing how the Muses came to my aid,
The aid of the captured Hero,
And how they rescued him from his stinking holding cell in Sparka.
Everything I do… I do it for you, like Old Bryan Adams.
It’s all for your glory.  Glory.”

He fell silent and concentrated.
He assumed a dejected position against the wall (as best he could)
And summoned tears to his eyes.
“No one alive can withstand my acting,” he whispered,
fighting the urge to smile deviously, fully expecting divine assistance.
It would do no good if someone walked through and saw him in tears,
But smiling like an idiot.

The door opened,
Slow enough that an air of suspense filled the Hero’s lungs.
He closed his eyes and released the tears.
Warm, salty streams trickled down his face.
He prayed one last, silent, short prayer
And steeled himself for the performance.
He opened his eyes and his mind went blank.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria (A Portrait of Mossy)

So I didn't go into work today.  Still unwell, as it is.  However, I left my flash drive at work yesterday, which has the entire epic on it.  Usually I try to take a few minutes and prep these posts in advance, but I didn't get to it this week.  Thus, today there is no continuation of the story.  The tale is written, but it will have to wait until the next episode of Writing Wednesdays.  I do have a sketch of a still-young Mossossopia to share, though, so hopefully that's worth something.  That's Gastron and the moon in the sky, too.

If you've not read any of The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria, then this is a great chance for you to catch up.  Click here or here to read what's written up to now.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 2.1

This is the first Canto of Book Two of this crazy adventure, wherein a bridge is crossed, a meal is had, and a thief is born.  You can read the first 13 Cantos in blog form here or in one long webpage here.  Also, if there’s any questions or confusion on names, the second site has a few links that will help.  Above all, enjoy.

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Book Two: The Roaming Years

XIV.
The days passed without incident,
And truthfully the Hero found himself bored more than once.
He was far enough away from the caravan to keep a long eye on it.
He recognized the beautiful woman who’d stolen his heart,
The stooped blind man who’d taken him on,
And the silent, troubled youth;
seeing them so close was painful.

He wondered how long he’d been absent from Athins,
How long it had been since he’d been cursed,
But he could not guess.
He scratched at his face,
Covered with rough and unkempt patches of hair,
And once again wished he’d a blade sharp enough to shave.
If a god heard his wish, it went ungranted.

The Hero was wearing thin,
Exhausted and hungry.
Disadvantaged at having only his legs to carry him,
The wagon was always far ahead of him,
And since drivers changed on rotation,
They only had to stop for the horses to rest,
Which wasn’t frequently enough for the tired Hero.

Eventually the woods ended
and Oscambria knew they were near the Crossing.
He also knew that he’d be more exposed,
But there was little he could do about that.
Soon the Crossing was in full view,
Its mighty span crossing the whole of the Long Leg,
Ancient and impressive.

“Look at it, Mossy,” said the Hero in awe.
He’d never looked upon the old bridge,
And the site took his breath away.
Built in a time when the gods were more involved,
From the hands of both Man and God,
The bridge reflected brilliant light off its prismatic surface,
A serene and beautiful piece of practical art.

The wagon was well on the other side of the river,
Moving on toward Sparka,
By the time Oscambria made his way onto the bridge.
Made from a strong type of clear crystal,
The trek across the span would appear as if you were on air,
If not for the rainbow of lights
And the occasional milky spots of imperfection.

Slowly and cautiously,
Oscambria made his way across.
He tried not to think about the churning river below,
Or the long emptiness that separated him from the water.
The Crossing had stood for years,
And the weight of a cursed actor and a galleyrat wouldn’t break it.
Still, he tried not to worry.

Slightly more queasy than before,
He reached the end of the bridge without incident.
The wagon was too far ahead,
Appearing like an ant in the distance.
Sparka was still a few days away,
And anything could happen between then,
But Oscambria had no way of catching up.

The caravan would be on its own.
He’d abandoned his short post as a hired blade,
Leaving them to defend themselves in case of problems,
As if there was something he’d have been able to do.
The best he could hope for was to try and see them to Sparka,
And once there,
He’d collect supplies and head on to Feoga.

The days slipped by,
Melting into each other,
Indistinct and uneventful.
When he could sleep,
His dreams were filled with terrors and doubts,
Which was only slightly worse than being unable to sleep
Due to the pain and emptiness in his stomach.

Before he knew it he was in Sparka,
Wand’ring the streets and looking all the foreigner.
Many of the townsfolk eschewed the strangely clothed Hero,
Eyeing the tuxedo suit and galleyrat with mixed curiosity.
Not all, though.
Some complimented him on his attire,
But Oscambria knew not how to respond.

He laughed at the situation,
Wond’ring how the citizens would react if they knew the man
Beneath the outfit was the exiled and cursed Oscambria of Athins.
Or did they even know of his curse?
Had news yet spread?  How long had it been?
Whether they knew of Oscambria’s doom or not,
He knew they would recognize the curse without the suit.

He had no coin and no means which to procure sustenance,
And he dared not try to steal anything so soon.
He stumbled into a grey clad man.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized hastily,
pulling at his clothes and looking away.
“It’s no bother, friend,” he replied sincerely.
Oscambria turned to go when he felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

“You look like you could use some help,”
continued the stranger,
“and I think I could offer you some,
if you’d take it.
Can I get you and your friend,”
He pointed down at Mossossopia,
“a bite to eat?”

“Can a mouse find its way through a maze for some cheese?”
asked the Hero, his stomach taking over his tongue.
“Can a dog lick its backside?
Yes, man!  I’d love some food, a juicy, tasty, meal,
If it’d please you.”
The stranger looked more than confused at the uncommon choice of words,
But he smiled and stuck out his hand anyway.

“I’m Eidan, an Oracle of Juma,
And while I can’t get you a steak,
I can get you a fine burgermeat sandwich.”
The Oracle led them to a small bistro
—Michelangelo Donaldolla’s, or Micky D’s for short—
And ordered two combo meals,
Chatting away with a pleasant voice.

“I’ve made it my purpose in life to serve Juma,
To spread peace and compassion all across the lands,
As deemed holy and good by the God of Peace.
Here in Sparka there’s a flock of us that follow the Great Lamb.
We make it our business to help out all in need,
From the ragged and wretched to the lost and weary traveler,
Even if he is oddly dressed.

“Juma gives peace to all,
We who do not deserve his love,
And his grace is never ending.”
The Oracle continued speaking,
But the Hero lost attention in the words,
Instead occupying his time looking around the bistro,
Staring at the other patrons waiting in line.

A family with a crying babe.
An old croon, bent with age.
A dirty boy with a bag full of coins.
Arca.
Oscambria jumped in his seat,
Ducking behind the Oracle
And causing the speaker to stumble.

“Dear man, you gave me a fright.
Is there something a-matter?”
The silent youth appeared not to notice the commotion
And Oscambria lurched his eyes back to Eidan.
“No, no.  Nothing’s wrong, just…”
The Oracle turned to follow the Hero’s stare.
“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing!  I just thought that I recognized someone, that’s all.
Wrong person though.”
The lie seemed to please the man,
And Eidan launched back into his sermon.
If Arca saw the Hero he did not act,
Much to Oscambria’s thankfulness.
Nonetheless, he kept the boy in the corner of his vision.

“And that is the truth of the matter,” finished Eidan,
Taking a long drink from his cup.
“What about you?”
The question caught the Hero off guard,
And he wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Me?  Wh-what about me?”
The Oracle furrowed his brow.

“Who do you serve?
You’re not one of those new pagans are you?
Full on belief that the gods no longer exist?”
Oscambria chuckled softly.
“No, of course not.  I serve the gods,
Same as anyone with a brain.”
He watched Arca take a table and order.

“Good, good.  And who—”
The waiter returned,
Setting a platter of two burgermeat sandwiches down before them.
The aroma of the food was enough to make the Hero’s stomach moan,
Loud like a dying dog on a lonely, cold, and moonless night,
Howling at the ink black sky in defiance or despair.
“Dear Juma, was that your innards making that noise?”

Oscambria blushed, but he didn’t care.
He picked up a sandwich and began eating,
Sharing bites with Mossossopia.
The meal was finished in silence,
With only the soft din of cutlery on plates making any noise.
The Hero leaned back in his chair,
Content and full.

In the sweet afterglow of the meal
the Hero’s eyes wandered to find Arca.
They fell upon the lad,
Who was staring intently at Oscambria,
His mouth half-opened and his young brow wrinkled.
The Hero felt his face grow white.
Arca’s eyes grew hard and his lips formed a thin line.

Thinking fast, the Hero doubled over,
Feigning pain.
“Forgive me, Eidan,
but this burgermeat seems to disagree with me.
Long has it been since I’ve had such a meal,
And the food perhaps was too much.  I thank you for your kindness,
And may Juma bless you.”

Oscambria rushed from the table,
Mossossopia fast on his heels,
And took off running.
He ran for the bath-house district,
But turned aside to an alley before he entered.
He breathed heavily, hoping Arca had stayed back,
And continued running.

‘Ere long he was lost.
Sparka wasn’t a large city,
But it was a foreign city,
Filled with winding streets that formed a labyrinth to those unfamiliar.
Tired, he leaned back against a wall and panted.
The curse, it seemed,
Also drained him of his stamina at a quicker rate.

He was in the market district,
Evidenced by the plethora of carts and vendors,
Shops and stores,
And the throng of people.
“A perfect place to get lost,” thought he.
“I’ll have to steal some supplies, Mossy, as much as I don’t want to,
and then we’ll get out of here.”

He turned and entered the closest store,
A moderate sized building filled with denizens.
Stocked fruits and nuts lined the walls.
A gaggle of women cooed over some exotic dresses.
Oscambria cast a quick glance about the room
And quickly stuffed a few goods of food into his tuxedo suit,
Sweating and hoping the act went smooth and unnoticed.

If anything, though, the strange outfit made him stand out,
Like a black speck on a white sheet of parchment,
But if anyone saw his deed they kept their mouth shut.
He sighed in relief,
Glad to have picked such a busy store.
“Come on Mossy,” he said,
and turned right into the path of a scowling guard.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria (Transition)

As I mentioned previously, last week ended Book One of the story of Oscambria.  If you missed any of it and wish to catch up or re-read, click here.  (You can also follow the super special link at the end of the post, too, which is what I would recommend.)  Today I present the next book, in its entirety.

-----------------

Book One-and-a-Half: A Transition

XIII.
There is no Canto XIII.
Even I’m not as bold as to make a XIIIth song.
Oscambria’s tale is filled with enough woe and ill luck.
There’s no reason for me to add more under this foul number.
Rest easy, children,
For this story teller does not tempt Taipeos,
Not now, not ever.

-----------------

I’ve debated off and on whether or not to include this link as a special addition to the story.  Basically, my manservant Cornelius Antonin Scruzz created a wiki-like site that I (and others) can use for referencing.  He’s spent a few hours working on the site and I think it looks pretty good.  The site is full of juicy background information and worldbuilding goodness.  Curious about the many gods of the lands?  Want to read the entire epic on one page?  Just want to see what the site looks like?  It’s all there, and then some.  The site is still a work in progress, but I think Cornelius has done rather well.  Again, the link is available here.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 1.11

Canto XII for Oscambria’s adventure, wherein a vow is made, a question is asked, a blade is given, and a Hero presses westward.  The previous Cantos are all available here.
------------------------
XII.
Oscambria felt ridiculous,
Wearing the unfamiliar outfit,
a spectacle for a god and a galleyrat.
Neither of them knew how to tie the silly black thing around his neck correctly,
But they did their best,
Resulting in some knotty, dangly thing,
Which threatened to suffocate the Hero with every breath.

“It looks different than I expected,” chimed in Lahk,
an unreadable expression across his face.
“But it definitely seems to be working,
so that’s a good thing.”
Indeed, readers, it was working.
Immediately after the Hero donned on the clothes
A metamorphosis Kafka would be proud of happened.

The greyed skin of the accursed shimmered suddenly,
Not like Old Cullen’s did when he’d stepped into sunlight,
But kind of like a wet rock does beneath the daylight glow.
The color of his flesh lightened,
From the dull grey to a really pale peachy-white-brown,
And he would appear passable in society,
As if the sun rarely bathed his skin.

Also the foul odor ceased,
Or the emission of it did, anyway.
I suspect he still smelled,
Beneath the tuxedo suit,
But its enchanted properties prohibited the smell from filtering through.
This could be related to the grey skin,
But that is only speculation.

“There we are then,” said Lahk,
patting the Hero on the shoulder like a proud father.
“As long as you wear this garment,
you should be allowed within city walls,
mixing with society and whatnot.
Take care not to lose your attire, child,
And be quick about the task I’ve given you.”

“Quick?” scoffed Oscambria,
pulling at his sleeves.
“Feoga is all the way on the other side of the continent.
It’ll take months to get there and back again,
That is assuming I’m to find you here.”
Lahk shook his head,
The blond hair reflecting off the campfire light.

“Quick for a god is different than for your kind,
even if you are semi-mortal.
And no, I will not be here in the middle of nowhere,
‘twixt two cities and all of the excitement of this world.
Just use your god-cell to summon me.”
He rummaged around in his satchel,
Looking for something.

Oscambria was still getting over his good fortune,
—Even if he was cursed—
At receiving the tuxedo suit.
“Why can’t you retrieve this stolen item?”
he asked, mildly curious.
Lahk didn’t answer immediately,
Still intent on his search through the satchel.

Finally he turned, holding some small gold lined buttons in his hand.
“These will fit perfectly in those open slits on your sleeves, I believe.
I don’t really remember where I got them,
Or what they’re even called,
But I do think they’ll look nice with that outfit.”
He dropped the buttons into the Hero’s hand
And went and sat by the fire.

Oscambria was about to ask his question again
When the god started speaking.
“I guess I could go and get the item,
but we gods have only so much free time to spend.
Besides, you looked like you could use a hand,
Especially after what Rone did to you.”
The god spat in the fire.

“That curse stinks terribly of sulfur and brimstone,
signatures of the God of Fire and Passion.
Rone’s always been a hothead,
Never one to take a joke,
And your disrespect of him spread ‘round the pantheon like wildfire.”
Oscambria was about to interrupt when Lahk silenced him.
“Not that I believe you did as he says you did.

“Anyway, to answer your question,
I could go and get the item,
But I don’t have the time or energy to do so right now.
God duties, a lusty maiden, and what have you.”
Oscambria fit the metallic buttons in his sleeve cuffs,
Finishing off the final look for the magical outfit.
Ladies, he looked handsome, I say, albeit strange.

“Hmm,” huffed the Hero,
“even if I look completely foolish,
the curse seems to be contained by the fabric.
For that I will travel to Feoga and retrieve your stolen object.
I don’t trust you, Lahk,
But I don’t desire to stay an outcast all my days, either.”
The god’s smile lit up the darkening sky.

“Good.  Good.  Very good.”
Lahk was on his feet again, looking eager.
“You best be going if you aim to keep an eye on that wagon.
We’ve wasted enough of the day,
if you consider companying with a god waste.
Regardless, you’ve agreed,
And now our pact is nearly sealed.  A blood-oath, eh?”

The Hero nodded,
anxious at making the sacred vow with the god.
Lahk pulled out an old dagger,
One made of stone instead of tampered metal,
Its handle from bone or petrified wood,
And drew the blade across his left hand.
Bright red blood appeared.

The knife passed to Oscambria,
Who likewise cut his hand.
With a firm grip and grim eyes he embraced the god,
Pulling him close and staring in his eyes.
“I, Oscambria, child of Athins, son of Oscar,
do bond myself to the service we discussed, Lahk,
by blood and by cut.”

“I accept your service,”
responded Lahk,
releasing his grip and wiping his hand on his garments.
“Now I have one more boon for you,
‘ere you leave.  Keep the blade.
It’s not much,
But it may prove useful if you get in a scuffle.

“There are great things in your future, Oscambria,
or so I’ve been led to believe.
You’ll become the Hero of the Three Worlds,
But you’ve a lot o’ growing to do.
I hope my blessings help on your journeys.”
Oscambria felt truth behind the god’s words
And he nodded his gratitude.

He hid the dagger in one of the pockets of the outfit,
(there were plenty),
and whistled for Mossossopia.
They bid each other farewell
And the Hero took off down the path,
Westward toward Sparka, toward the forsaken caravan,
Toward Koesan, toward his fate.

--------------
Thus ends Book One of Oscambria’s tale.  Next week’s Writing Wednesdays will be a special one, an intermediate one, a short one, with another bonus.  As always, thanks for reading.

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 1.10

Today is my wonderful wife’s birthday.  Happy Birthday Keisha.  I love you.

We’re up to Canto XI with Oscambria’s journey, where a new character pokes his head in, a bargain is offered, and a Hero struggles with his curse.  If you’ve missed any of the previous Cantos, click here to catch up.  As always, enjoy.
-------------------
XI.
No one saw him leave.
Arca and Koesan were busy with the horses,
Columbus had already climbed into the wagon to sleep,
and so his departure was a simple and easy matter.
He snatched a few carrots and figs and a jar of olives,
All recently acquired from the Bransustopoles traders,
And quietly walked into the forest.

He watched the wagon roll away,
Clanking and bumping on the uneven pathways,
And forced down a stab of pain in his heart.
“Look at ‘em, Mossy,” said he, pointing a finger.
The galleyrat stared off and the Hero continued.
“They think we’re back there with Columbus.
Surely they’ll notice the lack of smell at some point, eh?”

Galleyrats don’t talk, so Mossossopia did not respond.
She did tilt her head at an angle and blink a few times at him,
As if to say, “Eh, indeed.”
They waited for the wagon to disappear over a hill before moving.
“We’ll follow them from afar,
keeping a distant eye on them,
just to make sure they make it safely to Sparka.”

They walked through the woods,
Staying off the path and sticking near the banks of the Long Leg.
The day was cloudy and cool,
Perfect weather for a brooding heart,
And Oscambria dwelled on his internal aching.
“She’s smitten me, Mossy,
but for the life of me I’m unsure why.

“I can’t help but wonder if Viis had not revealed her to me,
if I had not seen her in my vision,
if I would have the same feelings I do now.
She’s beautiful, certainly,
As beautiful as Biaut herself,
But the disdain in her voice and the contempt in her eyes
Is more than I can bare.”

Mossossopia sniffed the air,
Oblivious to the soul bearing,
And her quick, purple tongue flicked out.
“What is it girl?” asked the Hero,
stooping to scratch the galleyrat behind the ear.
Mossossopia growled and suddenly took off,
Vanishing into the next valley.

Oscambria thought about cursing,
Then he thought about the irony of cursing,
And decided instead to growl his frustration, too.
He chased after the small animal,
Pulling up to a quick stop when he came down into the valley.
Mossossopia was in the hands of a traveler,
Standing near the waters of the Long Leg.

“Greetings, friend,” said the strange man,
smiling broadly and waving with his free hand.
Long, blond hair fell from the man’s head,
Contrasting heavily against his deep blue and purple garments,
Which were obviously very expensive and well crafted.
Suddenly self-conscious of his curse,
Oscambria took several steps backwards.

“It’s okay, friend.  I smelled your curse long ago.
Much like your galleyrat must’ve smelled my sweet aroma, I daresay.
What an exceptional creature.”
Despite the man’s friendliness,
The Hero stayed put.
“What is her name, if I may ask?”
The man’s voice was smooth and perfect.

“Her name is Mossossopia, sir,” answered the Hero.
“After the island from which she came.”
“Ah, yes, Mossossopo.  It’s fitting, I suppose.
She is beautiful.”  He sat the creature down and pulled something from a pocket,
Flicking it on the ground.
The galleyrat sniffed briefly,
And then gobbled up the snack.

“Alas, I am not here to discuss your pet galleyrat, though.”
He motioned for Oscambria to come close to him.
“Don’t worry, child, I won’t cause you any problems.
I’m here because I’m here, and I’m here to offer you something.
What is woven is woven, right?
But come, sit, rest with me and comp with me.
You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

Hesitantly, but dutifully, he approached the strange man.
Looking back, I wonder how things would have played out
If the Hero did not happen upon this man.
Of course, past speculation is always pointless,
So there’s no reason to think on it.
The man plopped down next to the low banks,
Sitting cross-legged and staring out at the flowing river.

“I know who you are, Oscambria,”
began the man, keeping his eyes on the water.
“And you know of me, but you don’t know me.
I am with the new pantheon of other gods and goddesses,
But I choose to spend most of my time away from Gastron
And in the presence of more… interesting creatures.
The gods are a bit too tiresome for my liking.”

The Hero looked up at the familiar Planet of the Gods,
Running through the vast list of deities in his head.
“Who is this man?” he wondered.
The stranger offered another bit of food to Mossossopia
And began picking at his fingers.
“Like gods often do, I am here to make a bargain with you,
if you are interested, that is.”

He flashed a deceptive smile at the Hero.
“I can see it in your eyes,” he continued,
staring at the Hero,
“and you’ve figured it out, I’d say.
Who am I, Oscambria?  Who am I?”
A brief moment of silence filled the air
And a dramatic burst of wind gusted strong.

“You’re Lahk, the god of deception and lies.”
The blond man laughed, full and heartily,
White teeth gleaming in the cloudy afternoon light.
“Indeed, I am the very god,
if you can believe what I tell you.
It is completely up to you to weigh my words,
Only I hope that you do so quickly.”

Had the meeting happened a few weeks before,
Oscambria would scarcely believe it.
It was common lore that Lahk roamed Orthe,
Making deals and stealing souls into his service,
But they were always legends,
Not actual, informal gods
Happened upon by mere chance.

“For an actor, you’re rather quiet.
Aren’t your type typically bursting with words?
Lovers of the Muses,
Enraptured by all of this world’s art and beauty?
Verse spewing from your mouth with no plug to stop it?
You, my friend, are too quiet.
Of course, I may have a certain, affect, on people.”

Lahk held up a hand in front of the Hero’s eyes,
Letting the pupils focus on the god’s hand,
And snapped loudly.
Oscambria blinked in surprise,
Shaking his head.
“There.  Now.  Things should be a bit better.
I tend to forget myself.”

“You,” began the Hero, slowly,
“mentioned a bargain?  Why would I bargain with you?
I’m no fool, Lahk.”
The god nodded absently, ignoring the insolence.
“You are no fool, child, but you’ve much to learn, too.
News spreads fast among my kind,
And I know of your fate.

“I am no fool, either, fleshling,
nor have I called you one,
But I will if you refuse my offer.”
Lahk’s cool words felt icy and forceful,
But there was a hint of possible warmth, too.
“Very well, Lahk, perhaps I spoke too soon,
though you did say I spoke not enough.

“Tell me of your bargain.”
The bright smile flashed again,
And the god spoke.
“I have need of a certain item.
It was taken by one of those new age believers,
Those that say the gods no longer exist,
From my altar in the temple at Tor El.

“I believe this man fled to Feoga with the item,
intent on selling it to a collector’s house for a tremendous sum.
I would like you, Oscambria, to return the item to me.”
The Hero scratched his head
And pulled Mossossopia up into his lap.
“What sort of item was taken?”
“A anachronistic item of uncertain origins.”

“Well that was vague,” mouthed the Hero, as if he understood what that meant.
Lahk chuckled merrily, adding,
“Aye.  We gods have a tendency to be vague.
I cannot begin to describe to you what the item is,
Only that you will recognize it when you see it.
In return for your service I will give you a similar item,
Another piece of anachronos.  Something like this.”

Lahk reached within his satchel and pulled out a wad of cloth.
He stood and let the material unroll,
Revealing a strange and very odd piece of attire.
Black, slack breeches,
An ebony jacket,
A silver (and so very small vest),
And a white, collared shirt.

“It reminds me of a sand penguin,
especially with those two black tails.
What is it?”
“It is what you will be wearing as you travel the lands.
It is called a tuxedo suit, though I’m not sure why.
I won this from Gastron in a game of dice,
And it seems to have certain magical properties about it.

“Wearing it will, I believe, negate your curse, so to speak.
It won’t heal you, but as long as you wear it
Your odor should stay in check,
Allowing you entry to cities and such.
Oh,” he added, pulling out a strip of black material from a pocket,
“this also ties around the neck in some sort of fashion.”
He handed the outfit to Oscambria.

“Something like this is what was stolen from you?”
“Mercy, no.  Well, sort of.  Not a tuxedo suit, but related to it.
It wasn’t a piece of clothing.”
The Hero looked carefully at the material,
Smooth and soft,
Not a type of clothing for traveling,
And shrugged his shoulders.

Coming from a god,
Particularly this one,
There had to be a secret agenda.
“So you’ll give me this outfit if I retrieve your stolen object?”
“Yes,” answered Lahk, nodding.  “It’s that simple.
But try on the thing first.  Make sure it works.
I want to see how it looks on you.  And be quick about it, would you?”

Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 1.9

Here’s Canto X for the story.  Once again, if you’ve missed any previous Cantos, click here to catch up.  Enjoy.
-------------------
X.
From Oscambria’s viewpoint,
Which was well outside of the city,
Tucked away from the world and in the nearby woods,
He could just make out the returning wagon.
Once again he’d had to spend the day castrated from society,
Unable to venture into the metropolis of Bransustoples
Lest he wished certain death.

The tall chimneys of the Great Temple blocked much of the setting sun,
An impressive eclipse with visible smoke rising from their tips,
And the Hero was thankful for the brief respite.
Most of the day he’d spent up in a tree,
Uncomfortably propped on some branches,
Squinting at the city,
And his eyes were weary from the sun’s light.

He made his way carefully down the mighty oak
And leaned casually against it,
Watching and waiting for the wagon to arrive.
He whistled a shrill, strange melody,
Consisting of five off-beat notes,
Which stood for MOSS-O-SOPP-EE-A,
And a few moments later the galleyrat appeared at his feet.

The planets were glowing bright in the darkening sky as the wagon pulled to a stop.
“How was the city?” he asked conversationally,
receiving a grunt, a blank stare, and a smile back for an answer.
“It was perfectly fine,” spat Koesan,
red rising to her exposed upper cheeks.
“I think I would rather jump from a cliff
than go through another day like today.”

Oscambria jumped at her outburst,
As did Mossossopia,
And Koesan blushed,
Sending her already red cheeks into a deeper flush.
She started, stopped,
Began again, stumbled,
And spat out her rage in one long spill.

“It’s those wretched traders of the city,
always looking down on our caravan like we’re cursed or something.
Wait, I don’t mean it like that,
And I mean no offense,
But they treat us differently,
Hiking up their prices and sneering at us,
All the while smug about their own success.

“I swear by watchful Lawes that they judge us,
that they treat us unjustly.
It’s beyond me why Tapeios would bless them.
Why do they deserve the fortune they have,
In their high houses filled with gold and luxury,
In their large markets stuffed with merchandise,
When they act as if they were gods themselves?  It’s blasphemy!”

The Hero was at a loss for words,
Uncertain how to console the furious woman,
So he simply said what came first to his mind:
“I’m sorry, Koesan.”
This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say,
And Koesan burst again,
this time turning her wrath on Oscambria.

“You’re sorry?  It’s not your fault that those crooks,
those filthy dealers,
act the way they do.  Unless you’re apologizing for your curse,
which again isn’t your fault,
but still there’ve been a steady increase of problems since you’ve joined up.
You’ve turned us into a sickly smelling sweet bag for bad luck,
Attracting all the wrong sorts of flies.”

Her words stung him,
They beat against his heart with vigor,
Clawed at his brain,
Whispered that what she said was true,
That he was a foul being,
That he should never have joined them,
That she inwardly hated him.

Was it more than coincidence that unfortunate events happened
While he was around?
In his heart he had already fallen in love with this woman,
A woman he’d only known for a few handful of days,
And he couldn’t help himself.
It was the knowledge that he was the cause of her problems
That finally put a plan into his head.

“Oh, bother!” she hissed,
throwing her arms up in the air
a bit too overdramatically.
“She would make an excellent actor back at the Round,”
thought he, but the thought quickly vanished.
“Koesan, leave the boy alone,”
the weathered words of Columbus spoke.

The blind trader was still seated on the wagon,
And the bright lights of the planets above
Caused his eyes to shine out white.
“Have you forgotten that he saved us from those vagabonds?
That without his help we’d all likely be dead?
Or worse for you, I’d wager,
You being as beautiful as you are.” 

Oscambria saw her eyes twitch,
Saw her face fall slightly,
(which was evident only around the eyes,
as the bottom half of the face was covered with the exotic cloth mask she wore),
and once again his heart plummeted.
“This love is such a strange thing,”
thought he, frowning compassionately at Koesan.

“You are right, Columbus,” she said,
looking back up and into the Hero’s eyes,
“He did rescue us, and for that I owe him my gratitude.
I did not mean to burn against you, Oscambria,
But my anger was kindled by the city
And it ignited when it shouldn’t have.
I hope you accept my apology.”

“Of course,” he said immediately,
offering a very slight smile.
“Good.  Good.  I have a headache and we’ve got a long way until Sparka.
I think I’ll rest in the wagon.” 
She turned and vanished into the covered home,
Leaving Oscambria and Mossossopia staring after her,
Deeply conflicted.

“Don’t let it worry ya, son,” consoled Columbus later.
They had ridden in mostly silence for the past few hours,
Oscambria handling the reins on the bumpy wooded paths.
Columbus stroked through Mossossopia’s thick fur as he talked.
“She’s a woman, and she’s always been headstrong and quick tongued.
As it is, with women you care about,
They always break your heart.”

Oscambria nodded in silence,
Comfortable in letting the old man talk.
“And I know you care about her.
I can see it plain as day.
It’s in your voice, and in the absence of its presence.
You don’t want to hurt her, so you stay quiet.
I can see it in her voice, too.”

Oscambria looked out onto the reflective surface of the Long Leg,
The calm and serene waters, surrounded by the thick forest.
He tried not to let the words of Columbus get in,
Tried not to notice what he’d said about Koesan.
He’d already made up his mind, and the man was making it harder on him.
When daybreak came and they stopped to let the horses rest,
Oscambria took Mossy and some food and disappeared into the surrounding woods.