Culera: Brother.

I have to write a story for my final exam due on Saturday. I have already written a story based on the character of a girl who was stolen from her family and village by a band of raiders, and sold to be a slave on a ship. Now I'm thinking about writing the story from the viewpoint of her older brother, who was also captured at the same time. He should feel agony that he, as the oldest, allowed this to happen and couldn't do anything about it. He should be full of anger and full of raw edges.

Possibly storyline: He is captured and sold in Culera (capital city)... he somehow escapes and makes it back to his old village, which is in ruins. Some people have escaped and have been living in hiding. He gathers them all together and creates a band of rebels - a type of guerrilla, if you see it from the side of the enemy. They raid the 'enemy' and generally make their outrage known. Then his sister returns... somehow. The story shouldn't be conclusive, but end with him having emotional closure that his sister is back, and leave room for any future raids and the satisfactory ending that the story demands (regaining of rights and village; justice dealt to the raiders).

Catacombs

Last night I dreamt that I was a either 1) a modern-day Jew or 2) somehow connected to modern-day Jews, and I was hiding in the city of Rome. People kept hunting for me, but there was a whole network of people who spirited me away into the catacombs of Rome - now refurbished into a bunch of space-age underground hubs connected by the original dirt catacombs which we had to run through on our way back from raiding the farmer's market in disguise.

The most memorable part of my dream - well, there were two. The first one was before I found the catacombs and I was put into safekeeping in this really huge house with a field across the road. The front of the house was all window-doors that had locks. I was frantically trying to lock all of the complicated locks while a mob of about 20 guys gathered outside. One of them found a door I hadn't locked, and they all trooped in. I dont' remember how I escaped that scene. The second memorable thing was when I was in the catacombs and I got into a utility elevator. There was a hidden door along the bottom of the elevator, which led into another (also descending) elevator. I squeezed through that one and ended up in a different elevator on a different floor than I had punched into the original elevator. I thought that might throw off the pursuers... and I was right!

The Dark Trail

The torchlight wavered as the guide stumbled. “sorry,” he mumbled. ‘Must’ve stepped into a hole”. She knew that he hadn’t stumbled, regardless of the roughness of the trail. She rather attributed it to his liberal use of the wineskin. Ahead of the, inky black darkness spread into the distance, prohibiting one from seeing past the glare of the torch. The narrow dirt trail they followed led down a shallow hill for about a mile, then around the edges of the dense wet-forest, which had been hacked back to allow travelers an easy passage. Tendrils reached out through the dark as if to grab the unwary and drag them away into the murk. She shivered and quickened her step. Closer to the guide, she peered ahead. Nothing could be seen. “how much further?” she asked. “’bout a mile’” You said that half an hour ago,” she accused. “we’ll get there when we get there.” Was his laconic reply. She bit back a retort, and made sure that the handle to her dagger was in easy access. Casting frequent glances behind, they made their way along the forests edge to where the smell of salt and fish was strong in her nostrils. “Almost there”. Sure enough, around the next bend, there was the sea. Bathed in the light of the moon, the sandy beach spread an open 20 yards in front of them. She knew where the boat was. Digging in her leather-bound pouch, she found a silver piece. “Thank you, I know my way from here”. He took the piece, examined it in the torchlight, and smiled. “Thankee, kind lady”. A quick head bob later, he vanished into the darkness.

Terrok-har

Deep in the forests of the remote island Terrok-har, above the sheer, rugged cliffs which presided over the turbulent sea like an impenetrable fortress wall, there dwelt in that quiet solitude a mystery which was never fully explained by the mainland villagers. The island was separated from the mainland by a wide channel, nearly a mile across, yet was so large and high as to be clearly visible even on the foggiest sea morning, when the tops of the gray mountains in the eastern corner of the isle raised their heads through the mists of the early sunrise like victorious conquerors over the night.

Those who ventured near the island’s base oft reported strange sounds and tremors, and the occasional glimpses of a leaping beast – one who soared through the treetops far above with huge lunges. It must be tremendous, this beast, they said, in order to create such tremblings with the mere fall of its feet. And on infrequent nights, a curious sound threaded its way through the murky evening breeze. The more practical listeners said that it was an unknown bird with great vocal prowess, but local legend decreed it the sound of a fey’s ghost flute; others, a mother’s keening cry of loss.

Adventure-seeking lads and fool-hardy men sometimes sought out the island, in hopes of finding a means to gain the upper land, but none had yet found a single passable way through the unforgiving sea cliffs.

Dover never thought that it was a bird. It was too melancholy, too melodic, mighty and mournful. Even now as he sat in the shadow of the craggy, overhanging cliffs, he thought that he could listen to it forever, if only the creator of such beautiful music were able. He tossed another piece of driftwood onto the small fire he had built and stared out over the sea. Small waves lapped against the pebbles a few feet away. The sea was calm tonight, he thought. As calm as if it was a baby being rocked to sleep with the music of this night. The mournful song faded to an end, leaving the black air above heavy with silent promise.

Fiery World

A world which was split apart by a fiery cosmic collision. A small part detached, and very few people lived through it. It basically became as a small moon. Perhaps there is a portal made by an evil wizard on the large planetary land so that he could establish a base on the small one – only to find that the remaining people there had evolved into a race of their own.

Small planet chunk would be difficult to live on – tough farms, few animals – lots of pestilent, hardy plants. Cave houses?

Larger, original 'mainland' would be a wealthier, rich land inhabited by fair and educated people with a very civilized, prominent government. Astrologers there knew about the part that detached, but it was assumed that there were no survivors.

so... was the collision was caused by evil magic?... and now, hundred of years
later, this wizard is trying to make it his base. The 'good' magic (religious government?) has decided to destroy this base with a modified form of the same (evil) magic. But the 'savage' people of this world don't want to be blown up by magic... they must escape to the mainland, or accept the powers of the 'evil wizard'. Do they actually reach it, or do they end up somewhere else?

Is this entire story just a question of what makes good 'good' and what makes 'evil' bad?

“we all watch the same moon and stars.”

Chiatha

This is all I have for this one...

"it was the time of long summer, and the town of chiatha lay silent in a gritty haze of red dust."

I remember that when this idea came to me, the 'long summer' was actually a *very* long summer of the duration of about twelve years. Eventually the seasons would change...

The Sea Man

Legend has it that a great sea-giant haunts the open depths, forever and ever doomed to wander. A great black swan accompanies him, floating just behind or to the side, wherever he may be. Rumor tells that he has dealt some terrible crime and is therefore doomed – to work his own penance.

We don’t believe in legend, we folk of the sea. Of surety, there have been times when a frightened sailor on the river spoke of a shadowy man and swan-like shape floating across the top of the waves – more than likely it was just a floating log, and when pressed about it further, they are inclined to agree.

The shadows never make a sound, ever, in all their sightings. They never cause a ripple. Sailors and fish-men speak of great black eyes that bore into theirs, searching for something – something never found.

Brownsword Piper

"Brownsword". Is this a name of person, or an artifact upon which a story revolves?

Story (or back story) idea:
Piper on a hill, warned that enemy is coming so takes his listening group of children beneath the hill in tunnels. No survivors are left, so no one tells them it's safe to leave. They are left to legend. Eventually a castle is built on the hill,... it degenerates and becomes ruins... but flute melodies are still sometimes heard.

Speaking of Dreams...

These are a few dreams I had over the course of two nights' restless sleep. I thought I might be able to use them at some point.

1) Climbing through a narrow 5 or 6 story house full to the brim with antiques that were too broken or dirty to sell, but they all had stupidly insane price tags on them. And there was someone always one floor above me, slapping on the tags and picking out his own things before I got there.

2) A holy bull that was to be given to Attilla the Hun - apparently this poor boy hated Attilla the Hun but was required to present him with the holy bull. But the holy bull had a daughter - a magnificent mare, which the boy determined to tame and use to defeat Attilla.

3) I was at this huge touristy gas station in Georgia and was stocking up on souvenirs. But at the counter, the gas station service lady told me that my dad died last night - she had seen it on the news.