Category: Fiction

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 2

Posted on by in Fiction

Lord Dráiden Kaldor will do anything for his betrothed. All of the grand plans he had for a feast are thrown out the window when a situation that requires his immediate attention arises. He takes Luthandra with him, for she must learn that life in Westridge is rough.

II. Dráiden Kaldor
He knew he wasn’t a looker, and he knew women whispered behind closed doors. He was hideous with an incurable case of foul breath, but that didn’t mean he was a fool. Dráiden gazed at his future wife with a sense of satisfaction. At least she stood firm and masked whatever ill-begotten thoughts she might be thinking behind an expressionless face. Most women produced a shudder at the very least. This one will stay. I can feel it.
The fingers of his right hand twitched. She’s holding her breath. Had he forgotten to chew on mint leaves!? He had been so sure that everything was ready…Dráiden extended his arm towards his betrothed. It’s no matter. She would have found out anyway. Better I know her reactions now than find out later…
“Ride with me,” he said with a soft smile. “I’ll show you your new home.”
…
“My lord…My beloved,” his lovely Luthandra started. She was still in the traveling dress he had sent her, and her pale face was traced with lines of exhaustion. She frowned. Her brows made a cute dimple when they scrunched the way they did. She doesn’t want to offend me! Something in his gut fluttered. Women liked to mistake his unsightly appearance for cowardice and ignorance. They underestimated him. Always.
“Forgive me if I am speaking out of place, but I am not yet Lady Kaldor, and I-” She stopped before the gilded chair beside his throne. Her pale fingers did not flinch as her eyes studied the intricate rose petals carved into the wood. His mother had sat in that chair, and her mother before her…
“You will sit in the empty throne beside my own,” he said before she could stammer her beauty away. “Life can be rough here, and you will soon be Lady of this place. There are times when Duty calls me elsewhere,” he smiled and gazed at her. She blushed, but complied and sat down. Her skirts swished in all the right ways as she moved.
Luthandra’s fingers twitched on the armrests. She’s young. Remember that, Dráiden. She’ll get used to this. “An unfortunate emergency has arisen. I am most sorry for this. I promise that we will feast when it is over.”
“As you wish, my lord,” she bowed her head, and none too soon. The doors to the throne room swung open. One of his wardens came rushing in, his chainmail clinking and slinking with his strides. The man went to one knee before speaking.
“We’ve caught him, and he told us where he hid the boy.” Kaldor twirled the hair on his chin and waited. “The rumors….are true. My men were able to get it out of him…”
“Then he will be punished accordingly. Fit him with a collar and bring him to the courtyard.” He glanced over at his groom, his chief servant. “Fetch me Arrowheart.” Preston bowed his head before shifting from his position below the tapestries that hung to Dráiden’s right.
Dráiden rose, his thick, velvet clothing rustling with his movement. “Ready my horse, one for my betrothed, and five men. I’ll bring the boy back myself. It was I who put that man in charge of Helenion’s Citadel for the Gifted.”
…
He walked arm in arm with Luthandra along the dimly lit halls of his castle. Darkness had replaced the bright sun which had brought her to him. He hoped she liked the suite he had set aside for her. A fire in a homely fireplace was waiting for her. Her handmaiden, he knew, would be there to bathe her in the warm bath his servants had readied.
He stopped when they came to the rosewood doors of her suite. Whatever artist had carved the thousand flowers in the ancient wood had died eons ago, and some wondered if the person was even Man at all.
He placed his hands onto her shoulders, gently turning her so that he could look at her. Circles weighed her eyes down, and she couldn’t hide the frown on her face with one of her polite smiles. He cupped her chin.
“I know that wasn’t what you expected, my sweet,” he purred. She stiffened and regarded him in silence. The frown on her face twitched, but she said nothing. “You did well today. Your riding skills are commendable, and the way you handled the child when we pulled him from the cave…” he paused. No. That isn’t what is bothering her, and you know it. It seemed that Arel had sheltered his daughter from the bloodier parts of lordship. The fool.
“I’m the one who carried out the sentence, and thus it was me who had to do the final deed.”
“I,” she started, he ran his finger over her cheek. “I know. Never trust a lord who hires and hides behind a masked executioner.” Her town was weary, and he knew that she was tired, but–
He kissed her.
He kissed her hard.
His tongue ruled her mouth while his hands brought her close to his body so that he could feel her soft form against his. Dráiden broke away when he felt her weaken. She is exhausted…leave her be. It took great restraint to let go of her and open the doors to her chamber.
“Goodnight, Luthandra,” he whispered. She bowed her head, her sandy hair hiding her face.
“Goodnight,” she whimpered. “I…fear…I’m…too tired…” He let the heavy door fall shut behind her.
Dráiden headed for his own chambers across the large hall which joined the two master suites. He drifted in a mindless daze until he was standing at his favorite balcony. It was a secluded place. It was his thinking spot…And brooding post. His eyes fell over the garden below.
The moon was a crescent sliver, barely bathing Westridge in any light at all. Still, he could see twinges of its soft glow reflecting off of the water trickling from the fountain. A hooded figure approached it, throwing back its cloak to reveal the face of a handsome elf.
Something within Dráiden’s chest tightened. I hate it when Ciallmhar’s people come waltzing around here as if they own the place. He turned. Though his relationship with the elves was neutral, he couldn’t help but be jealous. Elves were never unsightly. No. I will not ruin such a fine day as this! Closing his eyes, he focused on the day’s events. Finally a woman who won’t shudder at the sight of me or try to overstep her place because I am ugly. He sighed, rubbed his head, and went into his chambers.

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain: Part 1

Posted on by in Fiction

Get your medieval and fantasy fix!

Because every fantasy story needs some sort of map (and as seen in my previous post)…I’ll just leave this here…Click the image to view full size.

Glory, Pride, and the Maiden Vain
by M.L. Crabb
Prologue
I knew the maiden before the downfall she wrought upon herself, before the treachery set itself into her mind, and before she met her betrothed. Many say it was vanity. Some say it was revulsion. Others say it was pride, and few say it was hatred of the elves which spurned her fate.
It was naivety that did her in, and now she is but a song that Westridge children sing in the fields.
See saw,
Tip or fall!
Lord or Elf,
Slay them both.
Maiden Fair,
Dissappear!


I. Luthandra Raikin
A chill settled in the Adaina Mountains, marking the descent of the sun. Where it went, only Night knew. Luthandra Raikin extended a pale hand as her warden, Jeffroy Wynn, helped her out of the carriage. A horse whinnied in the distance. She shivered and wrapped her cloak around her slender form.
“We’ll camp here for the night, Lutha,” he said. Her legs felt hard and stiff from the day’s ride. It had been particularly rough, but traveling through Adaina Pass didn’t have a reputation for being bumpy for nothing. She issued Jeffroy a nod without looking at him.
Servants climbed out of the wagon behind her carriage, and she knew that they’d soon be busy building a fire and clearing the area for the night’s supper.
“I must do a Lady’s bidding,” she said with a half smile. Lady. It would be something she’d have to get used to. Her eighteenth name day was only one month ago, and it was within that same month Lord Dráiden Kaldor of Westridge had made the proposal to her father, Lord Arel Raikin of Bellavis. There were politics involved, secrets, lordly reasons, and a treaty drafted—none of which was of any concern to Luthandra.
She was going to be a Lady. She was going to have her own castle, her own lord husband, and babies. Lots of them. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and she giggled.
“I’m right behind you!” said Braynia, her handmaiden. “You promised you wouldn’t get into trouble without me, and here you are laughing like a whimsy girl of thirteen! What deviousness possesses you?”
“I wish to do my business alone,” she replied. She heard Braynia scuffle her feet in an air of disappointment. Oh, she liked the girl just fine, but sharing a tiny compartment with the same person for days on end would wear down even the most well mannered of women.
She skipped away from the others, humming softly to herself. Images of Lord Dráiden Kaldor filled her mind. What did he look like? She ran her fingers along a tree trunk when she was out of sight, and she slowed her pace to a saunter. Her sandy curls bounced down her back as she tilted her head in her dreamy state.
His first name certainly sounded elvish, and it was no secret that Westridge had dealings with them; after all, a narrow valley was all that lay between Westridge and the ancient elven forest. I bet he has long, smooth ebony hair and skin like honey. Their children would be beautiful, and her first daughter would one day inherit the mysterious stone at Luthandra’s throat.
It was green, and on some nights when the moon was big, it would glow. On instinct, she brought her left hand to it. It was set in a thick brass band that went around her neck. Luthandra ran her index finger over its smooth surface. Sometimes it reminded her of a pearl, and other times it looked like a faint emerald star.
“Lady Luthandra Kaldor,” she announced to the trees. She was a noblewoman to be sure, but the odds of her becoming a bride of one of the nine lords of the realms of Men were slim. There were many noble families, but only nine women at any given time could hold the coveted title of Lady.
A twig snapped to her right. She glanced over her shoulder. A pale face peered at her from one of the trees. Luthandra froze when she noticed its angular features and pointed ears. An elf. Maybe wishing her beloved had elf blood in him was a bad idea. She swallowed, her throat going dry.
The elf leapt out of the tree, landing in front of her on his feet as though he had been standing there all along, silent as a statue. He was nearly a foot taller than she with a muscular form that would have made her blush had she not been so terrified. He wore a shimmering hubric of silver with pants the color of charcoal underneath. A small sword hung from his left hip, and he lifted a hand.
His hair was dark, just like the Dráiden Kaldor of her dreams. He’s not one of Avanduil’s folk. It’s okay. They look like angry forest men in their browns and greens. A wave of relief swept through her form. He was smiling at her. Definately not one of them. Men did not return from the silva forest beyond the greylands, or so the legends told.
“Fair maiden,” he said, his voice like silk. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. In fact, I was not going to reveal myself to you at all until I saw…” he tilted his handsome face and reached his fingers out. “That,” he paused and lowered his hand. “The jewel you wear.”
“Don’t you like it?” She twirled around for him, letting her skirts swish around her ankles. Her gown was made of heavy, traveling fabric, but it was still blue and still pretty. Her beloved had sent it as a gift after the betrothal had been finalized.
“I…do, Maiden,” he drummed his fingers over his chin as though he wasn’t quite sure of how to act. The elf shifted his weight. “I have a proposition for you, and one would be wise to heed the advice of an elf. I’ve seen many turns of Men in my lifetime.” His dark eyes sparkled. I bet Dráiden’s eyes sparkle better.
“Oh, and what sort of proposition do you have?”
“I will take your hand, and you will live out your days in happiness. You will return our dear Celmyra’s Gift, and in return, I will be your husband. I’ll treat you kindly; you’ll have children who’ll enjoy the pleasures of elvendom.”
Marriage!? Was this elf out of his mind!? Did he not know who she was!? Her eyes widened, and Luthandra put her hands to her gaping mouth.
“Kind Sir, who are you to ask such a thing of me? What lands do you hold, and what brought you neigh?” She squared her shoulders. Her father would be proud of her eloquence! She was sure of it.
“I hold no titles. I am a simple swordsmith. You will be happy. You will have all the comforts of home and then some.” He stretched his right hand out to her, his eyes large and welcoming. “You will be treated with the highest respect for returning-“
“I am sorry, but no. I’m on my way to be married to the Lord of Westridge.”
“I know. I’ve seen your convoy and heard your wardens speak of it,” he said, nodding his head with a grim expression on his face. “Disappointment awaits you. Give my people Celmyra’s Gift, and only happiness you shall see.”
Luthandra put her hands to her neck, covering the gem. My family’s prized gem...The elf was after nothing more than treasure! She scowled at him, screwing her pretty face into a twisted scowl.
“Do you think I’m stupid!?” she snapped. “I am to be Lady of Westridge! How do I know you won’t just snatch it away from me and leave me for dead!? Get away from me before I scream and summon my wardens!” The elf backed away, his face unreadable. He uttered a word in a tongue she could not understand and was gone. A leaf trickled down from the tree behind the spot where he had stood, and there was no evidence that he had ever been there, not even a footprint.
He was after her riches! Elves were supposed to be better than that! They were supposed to be wise, gallant even! Were all the wonderful tales of elven princes whisking innocent maidens away lies!? It was no matter. Dráiden was gallant, and Dráiden would protect her. He’d give her all that she could possibly want.
Luthandra picked another place to do her private bidding and headed back to the campsite. Jeffroy was telling Braynia that they only had a day and a half before they’d reach their destination. At that notion, she smiled. Luthandra said nothing of the elf; some things were never meant to be known.
…
The sun blazed overhead in a final attempt to threaten Ithir with one last heatwave before Autumn prevailed over Summer’s end. Luthandra’s convoy inched closer to the gates of Westridge. A trumpet sounded from one of the watchtowers in the distance. Heavy stone dragged against an unseen, hard surface as the massive gates opened. Luthandra plastered her face at the window.
Lord Kaldor’s banners flapped in beautiful blue streams as his men rode out to greet them. Luthandra held her breath. The carriage came to a stop. Another trumpet sounded as drums began to thunder. Lord Kaldor rode out from the gate, his horse a massive black stallion decked in black leather. Silver fire and blue frost marked Lord Kaldor’s cloak, which billowed behind him.
“I can’t take this anymore!” she cried, shoving the door open.
“My lady!” Braynia shrieked. “This is unseemly behavior!”
“I want to meet my beloved!” She jumped out of the carriage, landing squarely on her feet. Lord Kaldor’s horse trotted to a stop, and the man swung himself from his saddle with one, fluid movement. No elf could be that precise! Smiling, she walked towards him, passing his bannermen and their pretty streamers.
He neared her, and it was then that she saw him.
Luthandra stopped, but remembered to curtsey.
Lord Dráiden Kaldor closed the gap between them with three long strides. Oh, he was tall and physically fit in stature all right, but…His face…His skin…It was sallow, almost sickly with about as many ruddy pot marks as there were stars in the sky. His nose was a huge, hooked mess, and he had a stringy blonde mustache that looked greasier than a basted chicken leg.
His brow was adorned with a silver band, but it did little to mask the fact that the man was balding, and what was left of his hair hung in mismatched clumps about his shoulders. His eyes! His eyes were sunken and beady, like tiny buttons sewn into a fabric too thick and coarse for them to be of any use.

“My lady,” he smiled. “It pleases me that you are so eager to meet me,” kindness marked his tone, but Luthandra held her breath. The only thing that smelled worse than Lord Kaldor’s mouth was the rotting cow her caravan had passed along Alpine Road two days into their journey.


Goodbye, Hashtag Glitter Nation

Posted on by in Fiction

The Command Deck has another special guest today!
Missed the last “guest?” You can catch her post here: Careful With That Selfie!

Aaron Winters from my upcoming story, Stars or Stripes, has something to say about hipsters and memes. He goes by another name, but only close friends are allowed to know it. Boo. I want to know it now!

This pic went viral on the Empire Web underground. 
What does Aaron have to say about it?

A hipster!? Is that what people are calling me these days? I regret hacking one of my chit cards and regret ever creating that underground network in the darkest and most forgotten corner of the Empire Web. The exciting location of my hidden corner is Zoning Regulations: Manufacturing: Textiles: Code by Fabric Type, then find the “Cottons*” folder.

I wanted a place where we could openly discuss things without fear of reprisal by empire authorities…but all people are posting is a bunch of hashtag one liners and cat pictures. With all the bandwidth these silly images and videos take, it will only be a matter of days before RIA watchdogs catch on.

Goodbye, Hashtag Glitter Nation….I’m not even going to share The Great Kittenpurror Sir Meows Clinton meme…All our meows are belong to him.

Oh, and as for me, Cottons*’s creator? I’ve been turned into a meme as you can see in the image above. I posted this picture the other day (if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em…*sigh*). Look  what someone did with it!

There goes the end of the Cottons* folder. I wonder if Emperor Clinton will be amused or displeased to find that he has become a kitten adored by the purrletariat. I smell a few arrests in the future, which is why I’m #GettingTheHellOut.

See, I’m with the times. Just because I appreciate the forgotten things in life, it doesn’t make me some wannabe, hipster snob! I just now realized that me ranting like this isn’t helping my image…

So yep, getting out, deleting Cottons* and all the posts, images, videos, and user data within, and throwing away this hacked chit (I can always hack another).

~Aaron signing off.

P.S. It’s not considered rage quitting if you’re sparing a handful of people from being taken into RIA custody and arrested.

Stars or Stripes is coming soon to a Command Deck near you!
 Did we mention that it’s going to be free?
FREE! 

Careful With That Selfie!

Posted on by in Fiction

The Command Deck has a special guest today!

Agent Jadelynn Jackson from the RIA (who is also the star of my upcoming story, Stars or Stripes) has a special message for you all.

Dear Self,
I must not take selfies with my empire-issue chit card. I must not take selfies with my empire-issue chit card….and et cetera.

In my defense, it’s not everyday you get to go into a classified area with relics from the past. By past, I don’t mean ten years ago. Nope. This was some Grade A, pre-Great War stuff.

I mean who could blame me? You have to have a Level 5 clearance just to get near the thing! The selfie would have been just an innocent file named something boring stored in my chit for a few hours until I got home to transfer it.

But nope. I had to mess up big time. My boss laughed the entire time he was reprimanding me. *sigh* So how did an innocent selfie blow up in  my face?

It’s easy.

An agent sent out a mass message, warning everyone about a potential twelp situation several miles away. That same agent sent me a private message because I was closest to the “fun.” Well…My thumb slipped, and when I was trying to swipe my selfie away, I hit “Reply All,” and my lovely mug was sent to the entire 10th Eastern Command.

Charming, I know.

I wonder how many times it got forwarded before Headquarters purged everyone’s chits…Ah, my smiling face and that devious little act of mine…Well, here’s to you, Level 4 security clearances and below. You got to see a rare artifact; you only had to put up with my face.

The lesson here is simple: don’t abuse your chit card privileges, and don’t hit the “Reply All” button. But really…why do they still keep it RIGHT next to the regular “Reply” button? Not that I was going to send my selfie to the agent in question or anything, but still! Why?

~Jadelynn

Stars or Stripes is coming soon to a Command Deck near you!
 Did we mention that it’s going to be free?
FREE! 

The Emerald Dress is Here!

Posted on by in Fiction

The Emerald Dress is here! A dark tale of obsession and regret, this ebook will keep your fingers swiping the pages as you follow Amanda Johnson’s descent into chaos.

Avaliable on Lulu for $2.99
Coming soon to the iBookstore and Amazon!
Download The Emerald Dress today!
Everything changed when she met him. Amanda Johnson liked to consider that she had a regular life so mundane that it was simple, carefree, and above all else, too easy—work smart, not hard. Hunting for antiques and flipping through the yellowed pages of strange old books were her Friday night highlights.
Once the tight fitting emerald dress came into her life, the one he liked, she couldn’t help but grow fixated to the point of stealing glimpses into his private journals and creating a secret scrapbook of her intensifying obsession. Amanda’s simple world was quickly unraveling into the strings of discord.
 
His delicate fingers, his light caress, and his wonderful face—Dr. Jeffrey is not the nice man she believes he is. Beneath those thin glasses and stethoscope is a cold sociopath.
Follow Amanda’s descent into madness in this novella as Dr. Jeffrey unfolds his sinister plans for her.

Enjoy this excerpt from the beginning of the novella!
Local Woman Commits Suicide by Asphyxiation
Winterville (Placer Sun Times) – Amanda Johnson was found dead in her apartment at approximately 7:00 p.m. Saturday night. The official police report claims that the woman had committed suicide in an elaborate display of unrequited love. She had turned her living room into a shrine of candles, flowers, and wine. Officer Richman was the first to arrive at the scene. He described the ordeal as a dark ritualistic matter created by the whims of a girl stuck on works of fiction. The city hasn’t seen a death so elaborate or shocking in ten years.
She was found lying in the center of the room inside a crude circle of half empty wine glasses, flowers, and candles. Wearing a tight fitting, emerald dress, she held a photograph of herself against her chest, just below her breasts. Amanda Johnson had plugged her nose with a close pin, and the autopsy shows that she held her breath until she died. There were no signs of foul play. Not everyone believes her death to be suicide.
Local resident Lacy Spring claims that it was murder.
“It was the boyfriend,” she told the Placer Sun Times. “I know he was doing something to her. Amanda was always a loner, but something happened. She began coming to work without showering or changing clothes. She would gaze off and start talking to no one. Then, suddenly, she stopped showing up altogether.” When we stated that her doctor had proof that Amanda Johnson was suffering from manic depression, Miss Spring became belligerent.
“It was him! He’s the boyfriend!” she shouted. “Of course he created a paper trail for himself. Wouldn’t you!?”
The doctor requested that we keep his name private. He stated that he was friends with the woman and nothing more. Evidence points to the accuracy of his testimony even though the autopsy shows that she had engaged in intercourse several hours before her death. The police have closed the case and have asked the Placer Sun Times to drop the matter. We have our First Amendment rights and an obligation to the public to provide fair and unbiased news.
 An anonymous tip enabled us to uncover a few startling facts about the doctor’s past relationships. Two of the five women are dead, and Miss Johnson now marks a third. Could Lacy Spring be onto something? Could the hospital be employing a sociopath right under our noses? Miss Spring claims to have Amanda Johnson’s personal diary and was gracious enough to let one of our reporters borrow it. As for the police, why are they so quick to close the case? Stay tuned for E.L. Pierson’s exposé into the matter in our Sunday edition.