#fantasy flash

It was late in the day when the Companions gathered in the Hall to mark the passing of another somber Summoner’s Eve. Each had their own stories, but it was in silence they filed through guild, only the clink of battered armor to tell their tales.

With bowed heads they murmured prayers to the gods for blessings, opportunities to prove themselves, and a chance to end the reign of the dragon king. One day… one day! It was a promise that fell from every warrior’s lips and a prayer over every babe. Forty six years of the dragon king’s rule had left the land scorched and the stables bare. The people of Fairen despaired that it may never know the sight of a green countryside, or cattle in their pastures.

On this day, like so many anniversaries of Summoner’s Eve past, the brave companions mourned their kingdom’s future. It would start with a solemn prayer, followed by an offering of leafy greens to the gods….

A thud at the far entrance interrupted them, light spilling into the establishment as the huge oak doors swung open. The dying streaks of ripe currant in the sky silhouetted an expectant figure at the far end of the lodge.

The occupants paid the visitor no mind-- every adventurer from here to Hare’s Peak thought they were the first to arrive on the dusk of Summoner’s Eve, just like the mage Myrgan in tales of old. Only forever more the Companions of Everlasting Courage knew the truth.

The kingdom of Fairen would never again be free. A thousand companions and mages had died at the hands of the immortal dragon king. There was nothing left but to drink, and remember the days of glory, when most were just squires to the brave souls who proved the truth of the kingdom’s fate.

Hugor the Hale was one such former squire, now a man broad of belly and chest and a gray head taller than any Companion still alive. He sat at the end of the long table, whisking a whetstone down a blade the size of his palm. It was a blade of great sentimental value to him, and despite the hopeful days of glory well behind him, he took care to sharpen it each day. Sir Sven the Stirring would be proud. It was the least Hugor could do. He was the last in a long line of king-blessed knights to bear the blade.

The visitor’s over-long pause in the doorway continued for a moment more, cleared throat echoing through the hall. It was duly ignored. Travellers were common in the Guild District; they’d find their way out on their own, or they were shown out.

It wasn’t until the newcomer approached Hugor that he bothered to pause his task. A woman in boiled leather glared at him, a dark braid thrown over one shoulder, a bandoleer stocked with vials slung across her front. She seemed even shorter than she had in her ‘grand entrance’ to the hall, barely reaching the height of his stooped shoulders, and he was sitting down. She bore a resemblance that seemed awful familiar, but Hugor couldn’t place his finger on why and thought nothing more of it, and bent to his task once more.

“Heard you needed a mage.” Her voice carried a bellyful of pride, like so many before her.

Hugor scoffed. “The guild for ninnies and womenfolk meets in the warrens.” He began to turn back to his whetstone, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure they are just dying for another of your kind.”

She spat, green-tinged saliva arcing to land on the man’s breastplate. It smelled… minty.

Hugor looked down, disgusted by the spittle slipping down his armor. Tiny flecks of green floated in the liquid, landing in loud drips on the stone floor.

“Uncommonly rude.” He wiped the spit away with a sleeve. “I will forgive the impertinence if you leave my guild this instant.”

The girl made no such move, instead fishing into her belt pouch for more mint before folding her arms in defiance. “You fool! I have come to lend strength and honor to your cause!”

Hugor barked a laugh. “Strength? And honor? You could’ve been mistaken for a mouse in a potato field. Go home, little mouse. The Age of Courage is over. The Foretold never revealed himself. Summoner’s Eve is just another day. ”

The little mage’s eyebrows slammed together in her fury. “My name is Frynn of Premly, Frynn the Foretold! I am here to show you the error of your despair, Hugor the Hale!” She thrust her arms out, baring dark arcane tattoos on umber flesh. They seemed to writhe of their own accord in the candlelight like a mess of serpents in a pit.

Hugor sat up. The lost resemblance and distinct marks now demanded further thought. Some old geezer before the fall of the rightful king had come knocking on the guild’s doors, nailed some convoluted drawings and a prophecy to the doors. Uncommonly rude wizard, too. Called them all fat and slovenly and downright unheroic.

Finally some interest dawned in him. “Where’d you get those?”

“I am the Foretold, and I am here to lead this fat and slovenly Guild to glory once more.”

At such a loud and rude proclamation a number of adventurers stood, their benches scraping away from the table in indignation. Hugor raised a hand to quiet them.

“I don’t care if you’re my mother’s dull daughter, insulting the guild’s state of fitness will not earn you friends, mage.”

“You blind buffoon! I told you, my name is--”

“Uncommonly rude. Nealan, Kayn, would you do the honors?” The two Companions came forward, nearly as portly and grizzled as Hugor himself. Nealan the Noble and Kayn the Knightly saluted him. With an energy they’d not shown since their last near-campaign, the two warriors bundled a shrieking tiny mage back to the doors from whence she came, and ejected her into the street. A thundering boom followed as they barred the door from any similar incursions. The rest of the warriors gathered ‘round them, cheering and congratulating Hugor and their mates for their swift actions.

And so it was that on Summoner’s Eve, forty six years after the fall of the rightful king, that the last in the line of true royalty, and only soul to bear the marks of the prophesied Foretold, was ejected from the distinguished hall of the Companions of Everlasting Courage.

Dearest Avedon,How I long to be near you once again! Our brief encounter last week in the herb cellar was not enough to sate my desire to be close to you. There is so much I feel that could be gained from time well spent with you, please say you will find yourself in need of more newt eyes soon.

With all my devotion,

Lenore of Loch Lochy

He was staring at the letter in his hand with disgust. “Can you believe this tripe?!”, he asked his apprentice. His mute apprentice took the letter from him and scanned it for a moment, and turned the letter over, scribbling quickly on the back. He handed it back to Avedon.

Maybe she’s into you?

Avedon scoffed. “Only you would think such a brazen attempt to use me would be a true flirtation! Thank the gods you don’t have a voice, Merlin, otherwise there would be no saving you from showing what a fool you are!” He sighed and plopped his last eye of a newt into the the bubbling cauldron over the fire. “This is clearly a ploy to learn my powers!”

Merlin rolled his eyes and took the paper back. You’re right. You’re not that charming anyway.

The wizard read the response and could only grunt sourly. He tossed the letter into the fire and settled back into his chair.

“Anyway, I don’t intend to go back to the cellar for my supplies anymore. You will go for me.” Merlin looked at him, all exasperation. “Don’t look at me like that, boy! You know that cellars are far too undignified for distinguished wizards like me to be going to regardless!” He grabbed another sheet of parchment. “And I need you to go right away”. With the penmanship of a chicken he scratched out his shopping list and pushed it towards his apprentice.

“Eye of newt. Filet of Fenny snake, Wool of bat, Witches mummy. Honeycomb. 2 kegs of wine.” Merlin’s eyes flickered over the list at raised an eyebrow at the last item. “What! It’s vital to my work!” Again with the eyeroll. “Just get the damn wine, and stop complaining!” Avedon fished around in his robes for a moment and found a jingling coinpurse to throw at his assistant.

Merlin let out a sigh and got up, starting for the door.

“Oh!” His master cut him off quickly. “And deliver this to that vixen!” Once again he was scratching onto a piece of parchment.

Lenore,

It is true that my skills and potions brings many far and wide to the courtyards of this great kingdom.

Indeed, inferior artisans declare to me, “Your potions are better than ours!”

Verily, I could teach one and all, but I would have to excise a steep reimbursement for that none can afford.

In Superiority,

Avedon of Great Glen.

Merlin snorted as he read over the wizard’s shoulder and Avedon sealed the letter with wax. “Deliver this to her if you see her. If you don’t see it, leave it with Barney at the cellar.” The mute nodded, still seeming to mock his mentor with his eyes, and tucked the letter into his smock.

___

Lenore of Loch Lochy was not a busy woman. In fact, Lenore of Loch Lochy spent most of her days at the cellar like it was tavern, drinking wine and schmoozing the patrons for whisperings of new potion recipes and transmutation spells. In exchange, she was sure to share her own three day old rumors and maybe a good eyeful of her best assets. It was not a bad trade, to be sure, for Lenore had some very enviable treasures aboard her person. The regular of the cellar was more of a socialite than a lush however, for many wizards had tried and failed to get past the smallclothes of the endowed lady, and many had decided that she wasn’t promiscuous, she was just… friendly.

The friendly lady of the loch was slouched in a great armchair in the cellar when Merlin ducked his head into the entrance. She was a sight for sore eyes, truly, and Merlin was happier to look upon such a lovely, friendly soul rather than his own sour master.

Lenore recognized Merlin immediately. “Merlin, what a surprise!” Her gaze darted behind him in hopes that perhaps Avedon accompanied him. “Running errands for the great wizard!” Her voice betrayed her disappointment when he was not shortly followed by the object of her affections. The assistant approached Lenore and slid the letter onto the table next to her. She grabbed it before his fingers had even left the parchment, and eagerly ripped off the seal to read it.

Merlin expected at any moment to hear the moanings of a scorned woman, but instead soon little giggles filled the cellar. “Oh, my dear Avedon!” She covered her mouth, bursting into hearty, heaving laughter. “What a treasure this man is!” Merlin ceased his appreciation of bosoms momentarily and raised his eyebrow at Lenore. “Truly a man of great mind and wit!” She exclaimed.

“Merlin, you brought me such great news today, do be a darling and deliver this back to the Wizard!” She winked at him and reached into a satchel to give him some silver pieces and a piece of parchment for herself. With a great flourish, a quill appeared and wrote in a delicate script.

Sweet Avedon,

Your special talents are worth all the gold in the kingdom and not a farthing less. Please accept this gift delivered to you by your faithful lackey. Though I would have preferred to see you today, I understand that a man’s time is not his own for a busy and learned man such as yourself.

Devotedly yours,

Lenore of Loch Lochy.

She fanned the letter to dry and once again reached into her satchel to produce a packet the size of her palm, tied with an ivy vine. She pressed it into Merlin’s hands with a coquettish grin. “I trust these will end up in the right hands,” her voice was a low murmur, leaned towards him.

Merlin took the package with a slight nod and backed away with a final stolen glance to Lenore’s barely contained bosoms. With a sigh, he retreated to the cellar counter to complete the business his master had sent him to do.

___

Avedon pursed his lips as he read over the last word of Lenore’s message. He toyed with the still wrapped package in his hand. It was soft, and didn’t seem to hold anything of great weight or shape. Maybe it was yet another sycophantic letter? An embroidered hankie? Not that he was interested at all. Clearly it wasn’t anything of value. The wizard tossed it to his assistant and turned away.

“More from the flatterer. Take this. I’m sure whatever it is, it’s of no use to me.” Merlin caught it midair and tugged at the vines. The packet opened almost of its own accord, probably enchanted anyways. What sat in the middle of the fawn skin bundle was a neatly folded corner of red silk. The assistant put the skin down and held up the silk to the light to inspect it further.

Merlin choked. His coughing and sputtering filled the chamber, and Avedon whirled to him to see the boy bright red, consumed in soundless laughter, still holding up the silk.

It was the wizard’s turn to sputter. “The gall of that woman!” He yanked the dangling panties out of the air.

His assistant took the letter from the table and wrote, Yes, these definitely won’t be of use to you. Avedon tried to snatch the letter from him, his face flushing scarlet, but Merlin was too quick and all too happy to tease him again. Such a learned man. So busy. Much too busy for these. I’ll just take them off your hands.

“You will do no such thing!”, the wizard roared. “In fact, I think you should leave. Such insolence will not be tolerated in my presence!” Merlin raised an eyebrow at him. “Immediately!” The boy narrowly missed being by projectile candlesticks and ducked out of the chamber quickly.

The wizard considered the silk panties alone in his chamber. It had been decades since he’d seen such an article, let alone be gifted any willingly. These were extraordinary. There were roses embroidered down the edges, and little petals forming a V down the front in an elaborate flourish. These had certainly taken some time to perfect. As suspicious as Avedon was to the comings-on of ambitious enchantresses and young warlocks alike, receiving the smallclothes of devoted would-be students was a new development. Bold, but he would rebuff her all the same. He didn’t become Avedon the Great by sharing his bed and greatness with others… far too easily to be duped into sharing his best secrets. He had to send a message back… But not the panties. He was keeping those. They smelled vaguely of pork and roses.

Crumpling the silk in his hands, he stuffed it into his robes and began his response.

Lenore of Loch Lochy,

Please do not bother my lackey with items of frivolity while he runs errands of utmost importance for me.

Avedon the Great

___

Determined women are resourceful women. That is why Lenore had piles of embroidered silk underthings, all awaiting a sprinkling of potion and bacon fat to be sent off in little fawnskin packets. That is why when she was interrupted at her chamber doors with loud knocking, she quickly threw a cloak over the pile on her bed before answering the door.

A servant she didn’t recognize stood in her doorway with a letter. It was Avedon’s pecked to death penmanship on the front. Her eyes lit up and she snatched it out of the messenger boy’s hand, tearing it open.

After a moment, she thanked the messenger and shut her door again with a heavy sigh. She just didn’t get it… she’d sent her favorite panties to him! Why were his letters always so curt? Never mind that, she thought, he just wants to keep my packages discreet and private. What a gentleman!

Perhaps a different approach. What do wizards love more than spells, potions, and ridiculous costumes? Dinner. And their mothers.

Lenore sat down to another piece of parchment and started an entirely different letter.

Dear Lady Moraine,

I am so pleased to invite you to The Singing Trout for a small dinner with myself and your wondrous son, the great Avedon. He has told me so much about you and I really must insist on having the pleasure of meeting you myself. After all, I hope to be much more acquainted with you in the near future.

Sincerely,

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