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The dragonslayer peered around warily. He sat on rough stone, and his spear leaned near the entrance of the cavern, out of reach. He had come across dragons that did not take him seriously before, just to cut right through their contempt, but this one’s entirely different tone had triggered instincts too deeply rooted to ignore.
“Don’t be silly, boy. There will be no fighting here. Come have a cup of tea and a bit of a chat.”
He just couldn’t kill anything that sounded exactly like his grandmother, even when the cookies were nearly as hard as the furniture.

He prided himself to be the toughest, most ruthless man in the world, shrugging off torture, ignoring such petty things as morals, and looking forward to breaking Death’s neck. When he was brought to justice, with a record-breaking list of charges, and proud of it, finding a punishment that would faze him was problematic. Death was too easy.
The solution was easy, too, once someone thought of it. They chucked him through a one-way worldgate.
Once he realised the alway-cheerful cute animals made of marshmallow did not mind getting ripped to shreds, he knew he had lost.

I did (and posted, here) the first page back in October, but now that I finally completed it, I decided to upload both as one file. Since it’s pretty big, click below to view it:
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Brass hid in corners of the workshop while thieves carted off the Master’s tools and materials by the trunkload. In broad daylight. Brass had not much mind to do anything but follow instructions, but it thought it odd the Master would not prevent that. It also did not want to be stolen. Where was the Master?
This sorry state of affair continued for days, growing sorrier, since less things were left to hide behind or under. Brass snatched bits of conversation from the air, and eventually caught one that shook he world of the loyal little construct.
They weren’t thieves, but heirs.
Brass worked through the implications one by one, because all together they were too big. It realised it would not beable to hide long enough to decide if it should do anything without its Master, so it worked out an idea how to gain time.
One box of metal scraps and half-finished works the heirs carried off held one piece that was more than finished, but still busy with thinking.

Magic, in principle, was easy. He concentrated on what it should do, and made the signs that his intuition told him epitomised the idea. In time he learned that some designs belonged to grand concepts – a circle was “protection”, a rectangle “order”, but a square “containment”. That knowledge was useless when a concept central to a spell refused to connect to a shape he could draw or carve.
The scribbles for “to the other side” had been clear even in a panic, taking him far further than expected.
The problem now was that he did not know what “home” was.

When they came in sight if the water, the sky turned black. There was light just as before on the ground, faint shadows falling behind them, but looking up, there was nothing but darkness beyond their beacon. The bicolour trail the bird had left glowed even brighter.

The shore was steep enough that they needed to walk sideways, but it turned into a softer slope forming a sort of beach. There was a smaller copy of this shape at the water’s edge, not the continuing slope you’d find on a beach. There were no waves to form it; the surface of the water was perfectly still. The ground was covered in smooth, dark pebbles.

Sylvie crouched and bent her head until it nearly touched the ground to have a closer look.

“If it is this shallow all through, it should be no problem to cross,” Daaren said.

“I don’t trust it.”

Neither did he, but what good would it do? “Looks like a long way to circle around, if it’s possible at all. Any idea how to find out if the hunch has merit?”

Sylvie’s sigh did not stir the surface. She took another deep breath, and blew. There was the slightest hint of movement. Sitting down cross-legged, a bit back from the edge, she said, “I wonder if it’s water at all.”

“It’s not water. It’s not ground. It’s not air,” Daaren pointed out. What it was was bloody unnerving.

He dipped the tip of a shoe (which was no shoe, either) into the liquid. It rippled, at first faster than water would. The pebbles below disappeared, leaving blackness that could be formless ground, or an infinite void. As the turbulences died down slowly, the pebbles reappeared.

After a rather too long silence, Sylvie said, “Circling around it is.” Daaren did not argue.

Sometimes, survival was a struggle against nature. Finding shelter from the elements as well as food was essential.
Sometimes, the elements were all on your side, and food was there for the taking.
Nico wondered if it counted as person-against-nature or person-against self when she just could not stomach fruit that called out “Eat me! I’m ripe and juicy!” from its trees.
It was one reason why she disliked places that seemed taken right out of fairy tales.

Tarci and Reena had been as close as sisters, but things had changed. It had started slow, but once it had been known that Tarci was pregnant, Reena started avoiding her. It was hurtful and confusing, but since wondering did not help, Tarci waited for an opportunity when they were alone, and asked.

“Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

Reena averted her eyes. “I’m sorry, I…” She shook her head. Tarci trembled. She was afraid of them domehow drifting apart entirely, but her old friend reached out and held her hands. “I was afraid of telling you something, of hurting you. That’s why I avoided you.”

“I’m worried now, so you might as well tell.”

Reena sighed deeply. “It is not really my place to – yes, I will tell you, let me finish. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with your life, but, your love… Oh, how can I say this. When I look at him, the spindliness, the long, narrow face, the bright eyes, the way he moves quickly when he moves, but not at all when he stand still… He’s just so weird. Beautiful, but beautiful like a waterbird, not a man.” She must have noticed that it gave Tarci a little sting, and went on, “He’s nice enough to talk to, mostly, and I’m sure you know your mind, and I wish both, all of you happiness.” With a shrug she ended, “I just don’t understand how you could bed an elf.”

This conversation was weird indeed. As the awkward pause caused by Tarci’s attempt to figure out if she was angry grew too long, Reena muttered, “Not my concern, I said.”

Tarci smiled crookedly. “At least we’re talking again.”

Because it was better than thinking of anything else she might complain about regarding being trapped in an abandoned mine with a collapsed entrance, Nico said, “You know what I hate most about this? Not being able to see a thing.”

Her companion did not answer, but there was a brittle little crackling noise, and a faintly glowing, angular object between their thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, thanks. What is that?”

“A piece of my soul.”

“And it… glows.”

“Temporarily. It will last a few hours.”

“Um. And that’s no problem, ripping a bit off your soul?”

Her companion seemed as confused at the question as she was at the whole thing, but after a moment answered, “It will grow back.”

“OK, then.”

Penyo was the greatest duellist of his time; there was no blade more nimble. Leaving dozens of opponents dead or worse, humiliated, did have its risks, of course. Revenge did not always involve honourable methods, and even the best blade can’t protect against every ambuscade.

As the hand gripping the sword slowly started cooling, Penyo wondered who would pick him up next. He hoped the human in question would look good in a cloak and a hat with feathers in it.