Posted by: lordkyler | July 30, 2016

Random Writing Snippets – Part One

Personally, I find that getting started is often the most difficult part of writing. especially when it’s attached to an ongoing project that I don’t want to muck up by forcing in something that’s stilted or off-key. That may not be the most rational viewpoint, since I often like my writing better in retrospect, even when I didn’t at the time, but there it is.

Anyway, this is a very long introduction to the idea that I’ve been doing some occasional pre-writing warm-ups to get myself going. Some days I don’t bother, and some days it’s all I can manage to do, but it totally counts so shut up, okay? Sometimes this will be tied to one of my potential projects, but it’s usually not, and I’m not going to share those with you anyway, so you didn’t even really need to know about that in the first place.

Enough rambling! Here’s some totally random snippets I wrote!


Three was the number of the day. I’d been kicked by the steward, hit by the woodcutter, and slapped by the serving maid. Three times I’d found coin shining in the streets, copper and silver and gold. A bad three, and a good three. But it was the thrice three that worried me, as it was bound to mean change, and I’d had too much change already. 

I pulled my woolen cap low and flipped up the collar of my jacket, trying to keep the wind at bay. I was walking at a brisk pace, both to fight against the chill and to escape the portents hovering in the air above me. It was futile, of course, but I had little better to occupy my time.

You see, the tricky thing about being a wizard’s son is that you’re stuck between worlds, touching both but not truly part of either one. I was a boy too clever for the farm but too slow for the city, forever trying to find a place where I belonged. I could sense the hidden magic of the world – even use it from time to time – but I would never be its master.

For this reason, I understood the curdling in my gut as the beggar boy approached me. He was another victim of the steward’s temper today, judging by his bloodied nose, but he was grinning like a fool after his first kiss. His dirty hands clutched an enormous crystalline egg, and his eyes shone with victory.

I knew resisting would only make matters worse, so I sighed and started walking toward the lad. The third thrice was beginning.



A man of no consequence stood on the edge of the world, and did not look beyond it. There had been a time when he had been a man of influence and prestige. There had been a place where the world had no borders. There had been a way of seeing that showed truly. But those things were in the past, and the past was a lie. Only the future was real.

Elwin Zarek, King of Nothing, stepped into the beyond to claim his throne.



“And what would you like to be when you grow up, darling?” asked the lady in the lemon-yellow dress.

Becky fidgeted, deep in thought. “Dunno,” she mumbled, looking down at her scuffed leather shoes. “Maybe… mebbe a pilot?”

“A pilot?” the lady said, arching an eyebrow.

Becky nodded, growing fond of the idea as she elaborated. “Yeah. Fly one of those big balloons they take up to the stars.” She looked up toward the sky, but the ceiling was in the way.

“I’m afraid little girls can’t be pilots,” the lady said, bemused.

“Well, you said when I grow up.”

“Even then. Piloting is a man’s profession. It would be unseemly work for a woman. You shall have to choose something more suitable, like politics or banking. Leave the men to their labor; it is a woman’s role to rule.”

Becky shrugged and made a few half-hearted suggestions, but when they left the senate hall, she stared longingly toward the sky. Someday, perhaps, she would make it so that women could fly and men could learn to read. One day.



There is a word known among the Ranson raiders that is not known among the dwellers of the veldt, for only the Ranson raiders seem to suffer the problem this word describes. For seven hundred years, these barbarian raiders have thundered through the mountain passes, full of rape and plunder, a constant terror to the humble folk that live in the little valleys between peaks. Old men speak of the raiders like they might speak of ill weather, predicting their appearance, forecasting their severity, and feeling the signs of their approach in the stir of the air and the ache of their joints. The valley-dwellers always fight, and they always lose, but most live to be raided another day, and life trudges onward.

It is this very sense of inevitability that gave rise to the Ranson word “hadaranak.” To take the phrase at its face, it could be translated as “fate-drunk.” While this expression may illuminate the outlines of the expression, it fails to capture the true depths of the idea.

The Ranson people train for their raids as soon as they can speak. They spend their infancy on horseback, their childhoods in training, and their youth learning to ignore pain and kill without mercy. The men – or women, for they care little about such things – riding on their first raid are already strong and seasoned veterans, and their skill grows with each victory. Even the most careful raiders begin to feel they are invincible, unstoppable, perhaps even above humanity. They could take anything they desired. Claim anyone they desired. Kill any that stood in their way. Ranson Raiders under the sway of hadaranak were intoxicated with their own power, the makers of fate.

This, of course, was untrue, and only crippled Yulle – the only man of the Raiders not drunk on his own fate – would live to tell the tale.



Every year the rains come to Little Hessinia to wash the stench away. Heavy mists press down on the fevered chimneys of the city like a mother’s hand, and cool breezes carry fresh life through the choked streets. Here, not even the most miserable millworker or arthritic crank complains about the weather, and many folk let tears fall when the rain has gone its way. To those most desperate, the rains are holy water – a city-wide baptism to cleanse the hellish place of bad faith and black shadows. A time of renewal and peace.

But not this year.



The thing finally emerged from the shadows, revealing itself at last. Fur the color of dried blood covered it like thick moss, and the scent of strawberries lingered on its breath. Crude, shapeless limbs flopped wildly as the creature rose, wobbling from side to side as it tried to balance. Large dark eyes stared unblinking at me, and stitched-together lips curled into a slight smile. Everything about the beast oozed warmth and companionship, the quintessential image of cute.

My mentor said that our prey found these things attractive, but for a young nightmare in training, there was nothing more horrifying. I had no chance of battling something this adorable, not as I was. I had no choice but to retreat, praying that I wouldn’t end up as the latest victim of a teddy bear mauling.

So that’s all for this installment. None of it really means anything, but it’s an interesting way to get stuff out of my system or try different styles and such. My biggest fear is that these will spontaneously develop into yet another full story idea. :)

Look for more later.


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