Story Sketch: Bayjer

This is really a story sketch of Bayjer, Anli and Ellius, I think. But we’ll call it Bayjer’s for now, since it’s his POV.



“I’ve never seen a witch take so much tafil!” Anli frowned as she raised her cup. Her eyes never strayed from Ellius, who was huddled in the far corner of the tavern, over a twist of paper filled with the red dust. He stared at the dust like he did not know what to do with it, though Bayjer had seen him take the stuff before.

“How would you know?” Bayjer asked. “There aren’t any Ingfakuti witches.”

“There are a few,” Anli said, her delicate features turning dark. “But most of them are dead, yes. That’s the best you can do with the corpse-eaters.”

“You’re in a foul mood tonight. But I understand most witches like them fresher than that.”

Bayjer smirked as Anli made a warding sign. Across the room, Ellius had tapped the tafil into a bowl of rice porridge. The odd look of confusion was fading, giving way to something almost… greedy. Bayjer looked away. He felt suddenly uneasy, and took a long drink.

“But you’re right,” he said to Anli, as she refilled his cup and then her own. “I’ve sold the doses before. He’s got nearly three there. And yesterday he took two more.”

“And still he looks wasted. A witch on that much tafil should be glutted and fat. Something is wrong with him. Taiver should end our association with him.”

Bayjer ran his fingers through his short beard. “I won’t say you’re wrong, my lady, but I trust Taiver’s instincts.”

“Even Taiver makes mistakes,” Anli said.

Ellius used his spoon for only the first two swallows of porridge; after that, he simply picked up the bowl and bolted its contents, as if he were a starving man. Bayjer watched his adam’s apple bobbing rapidly as he swallowed. When the bowl was emptied, Ellius licked the rim and the insides, oblivious to the curious stares of those watching. Then he stared into the bowl as if he might refill it by will alone.

Bayjer tugged on his beard and shifted restlessly. “I’ll talk to Taiver,” he said, and then rose. “Come on, let’s go, Anli.”

Her grateful look unnerved him.


Story Sketch: Idriq

I’m taking a short story workshop from Cat Rambo and just had the first session today. Really great, lots of things I kind of “knew” on instinct solidified, and lots of things I didn’t really know as well. And now I think I shall finally have to sit down and read some Kurt Vonnegut, which I have been meaning to do for ages, and revisit Joe Hill, whom I tried once and felt lukewarm about.

One of her assignments for next week was to write 250 words about a character from a short story summary we had to bring, doing something mundane. Which made me smile a little, since that’s kind of like these story sketches I am doing. (Er, well, sort of. In the exploring a character sort of way.) The short story summary I brought was about a Vessian warrior’s daughter, so I look forward to working on that, as it’ll help with the worldbuiling I’m doing for (tentatively titled) The Scarlet Empire. (Hm, I am also considering Empire of Hunger ? Hm, that looks much worse typed out. Need to keep considering.)

OK, today’s story sketch: Idriq. Whose name I may decide to spell differently, we’ll see. Idric? Ideric? Preferences? 🙂



Being the third son of a nobleman was barely better than being born working-class, as Idriq saw it. Sent here and there on his father’s interests… He might as well have been a merchant’s son, working for his wages. His father should not have been surprised that he took up with other, more promising causes. He should have been pleased that Idriq had chosen to serve as Eyes for the Firhkenn order instead of becoming a thief or a gambler.

But Lord Bestricht bellowed and raged just as if Idric had signed on to the Elite. He grew red in the face and broke china, and threw silverware, and frightened Mother. Later on he drank until he passed out, and Idriq and his mother dragged him into bed, holding their noses against the tavern-floor reek of him.

His mother’s touch was soft when she patted his hand. “It’s a good thing you do,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes, as was polite for a woman and her son. “And Anereiq will be pleased.” A small smile caressed her lips as she named her eldest son.

Idriq bowed to her, and said his thanks, and excused himself. Later, he was glad when the Lord Knight asked no questions of his request to be sent away immediately.

Story Sketch: Ellius

As fun as it is to doodle the characters, this is going to be a novel or novella, so I’ve started “word sketching” as well. I’ve decided to try to go through all the characters, writing a short piece about each. As an exercise, I’m also going to post them here, just for fun. These’ll probably be spontaneous and raw, unedited, so I can’t promise they’ll be good… but, they’re sketches— good isn’t the point. Finding, learning, experimenting, building for later… that’s hopefully what I’ll be doing.



The stories of the Vessian witches are the stuff of nightmares: gaunt figures in tattered robes and bits of armor, with ravenous eyes and ferocious appetites, unstoppable forces of nature. One lone witch of Vess, they say, could wipe out entire battallions with raging rivers of fire, dissolving the corpses of their victims into slurry they magically consume them for power. To even speak to one is to invite death to sup on your blood and bones.

Strange, then, to think that Ellius is one of them.

He is still, and quiet, and his appetites are private. The only hint of the mad hunger reputed of his kind is in the leanness of his face and body, and the rare, faint flash of some secret desperation in his eyes. Though he is tall and broad of shoulder, he has less strength than would be expected of a man of his size; it takes him and Anli both to wrest the heavy crates of cargo onto the back of the cart. His laugh is soft and restrained—at least, the only laugh Taiver has heard him utter—and seems to hide as many secrets as the rest of him.

His smile is not common, and more often a grimace, which is why for Taiver it is an irresistible challenge to tease it out.

Taiver jokes and jabs; he worries at Ellius like a dog with a stubborn piece of sinew. He is intrigued, and then he is more; too late he realizes he has been consumed by his own curiosity.

Drifting, floating

I have a lot of story starts that go nowhere. For instance, I jotted this down, but there isn’t really a point.

He is an old man now. Old enough, anyway, that his hair is now mostly grey, his face a deeply craggy terrain. Sometimes he thinks that the years passed so quickly–though he isn’t sure how that can be, when the days crawled past, a tedious war against boredom. He sat in his toll booth, day in, day out, and he planned for better things, and the moments went by, 50 cents at a time, then a dollar, then a dollar fifty.

In his head he has been many things. A cop. A truck driver. A farmer. A sculptor. On rare occasion, an investments broker, sharp in his suit and tie, with clever remarks for the equally sharp women he imagines he would consort with.

I’d never heard of this market before but a friend tweeted about it, and I love the idea of it . A magazine for Scifi/fantasy + another genre? LOVE! And the next genres are Superheroes, sidekicks, and villains? SUPER LOVE! If I could get my writing act together…

[dream scene] cowboys and trains

Last night’s dreams were filled with cowboys (probably due to staying up too late and watching Deadwood) and (modern) trains (probably due to my affection for trains).

Wrote this snippet this morning on my phone, before I left for work.


There are times when life is unfair; most of the time, in fact. 
Davy considered this one of those times, but even so, there was 
something, hanging on to the side of the quickening train with dirt 
gusting into his eyes, that filled him with a love for life. So though 
he'd left town half in disgrace, with a heavy heart and the knowledge 
he'd never see his momma again, he grinned and whooped as the 
train picked up speed.

[dream scene] Blue blood

I’ve been tossing around the idea of jotting down little scenes or spontaneous story snippets whenever I have an interesting dream.  Part story-starter, part way for me to recapture the feeling of the dream, and all fun. The snippets won’t necessarily be directly lifted from the dream, but will always  be inspired by it.

Had a bizarre dream after seeing The King’s Speech last night; so here is my first “dream scene.”


Blue Blood

It’s the protocol of the thing that befuddles them.

Is he a Royal, or isn’t he?  And even if he isn’t–will his blue blood, undeniable, protect him from retribution all the same?  Should he then be imprisoned instead of executed?  Or will his immunity protect him even from that?

The Empress is mysteriously silent.  Since she received word of the murders, she has been shut in her throne room and refuses to let anyone in or out, save her second consort, the Princess of Ulshrum.  The Princess delivers her orders, and carries out the lesser business in her name.

There are whispers that the Empress is dead.  That he murdered her, too.

The possibility is too grim to consider with any seriousness.