(E is for Elya’s Hearth)
Hogan’s Gap, Old Town Section,
Commonwealth of Toria
Tuesday, 4:40 P.M.
Mabon (Autumn Equinox) 2008
The aroma of roasting spices and something vaguely garlicky hung thick in the air, a familiar comfort to Sully Eshbern. Twitching his leathery horned nose, he allowed the various smells of Elya’s signature Balkan dishes momentarily ease the anxious flutter in his chest.
The centuries-old Elya’s Hearth wasn’t a place easily missed. Tucked into a narrow lot off a cobbled street, the Tudor-Style building was a three-story conglomeration of mismatched stones and timber, its oval windows glowing with the amber light of countless ornate lamps. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney shaped like a snarling dragon head, a whimsical touch that belied the ancient power humming within.
The Hearth wasn’t just any mystical Faerie café; it was a historical institution, a quiet haven where time seemed to slow its frenetic pace. It had witnessed countless generations, from the whispers of the Revived Faerie Court and Parliamentary intrigue to the boisterous shouts of inebriated college students.
Today, the Hearth was especially busy. A pair of British academics debated the authenticity of a recently discovered manuscript in hushed tones, while a group of Murre let University artists sketched furiously in their sketch books, capturing the unique atmosphere of the place. Several “branch hoppers” from the neighboring Arcadian-Frumboldt Parallel Sector shared a large platter of “Sunstone Cakes,” their stoned laughter echoing off the ancient walls.
Elya, in her maternal human guise, moved with a quiet grace, her long, embroidered skirts swishing against the worn wooden floors, as she poured steaming mugs of tea and coffee. She knew each of her customers, their quirks and preferences, often anticipating their orders before they even spoke. She was more than a café owner; she was a confidante, a silent observer, a guardian of the Hearth’s long, rich history.
The occasional flicker of rough scales beneath her sleeves, the faint metallic scent that clung to her apron, these were subtle clues to her true identity. She could, if she chose, unleash the raw power of a zmei dragon, but she’d long learned the power of subtlety and the importance of well-brewed pot of a tasty and refreshing beverage.
Sully, in stark contrast to his mother’s imposing presence, was a splash of vibrant orange against the muted tones of their dwelling. He was a wyrmling, still shedding the last vestiges of his hatchling stage, his scales a brilliant shade of pumpkin. While his mother was a seasoned dragon with scales, the color of ancient embers, Sully was all youthful exuberance and clumsy grace. He hadn’t yet achieved the full, imposing size or the fiery, deep crimson that marked adulthood in their kind. Instead, he was a compact, energetic ball of scaled energy, his moments a touch uncoordinated, his fire a sputtering flicker, his shape-shifting ability still sorely lacking. When she was a picture of regal power, he was pure, untamed potential, promises of the magnificent dragon he would later one day become.
The irony, of course, was that he should have been inside, not fidgeting near the rear exit, but actively lending a hand to the staff as was expected of him, adding a layer of mischievous rebellion to his already vibrant presence. This was a time for young wyrmling to learn their responsibilities and help maintain their home, yet Sully seemed eager to test the boundaries, his neon form representing youthful defiance against the mundane routine.
Staying indoors all day to do numerous chores and listen to the endless chatter of customers didn’t excite him. Now he craved the crisp coolness of the outside, the rustling of the leaves that had begun their fiery descent from the trees. He watched longingly as sparrows darting between the metal trash bins, their tiny forms a flash of grey against the brick wall. Finally, he reached his decision.
With a final, furtive glance back over his shoulder, Sully quietly nudged the door open and stepped out. The pavement was cool beneath his talons, a stark contrast to the warm wooden floors inside. The afternoon shadows stretched long and thin, painting the alley in hues of grey and gold. Sniffing the air, he soon detected a subtle earthly scent, a mix of damp leaves, decaying wood, and something else . . . intriguing. Like burn incense mixed with long-expired molasses and rusty pennies.
(F is for Find)
Nostrils twitching, he padded forward, his small claws clicking softly on the flagstones. The alley wasn’t entirely empty. A ginger cat with emerald eyes watched him from atop a stack of discarded packing boxes, its tail twitching with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Sully froze, his heart thumping against his ribs. He’d mostly interacted with the magic-born inside the café, and the sight of an ordinary-looking feline was both thrilling and a little intimidating.
The cat remained perched, studying him with unnerving patience. Sully, emboldened by the thrill of his forbidden outing, puffed out his chest a little. He wasn’t just a menial café helper; he was a noble zmei dragon, after all. He let out a small, rumbling growl, more of a kittenish purr than a fearsome roar.
The cat remained unimpressed, its green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, it let out a soft meow, a sound that seemed almost . . . friendly.
Sully, feeling a sense of relief, moved closer, his stubby tail flicking cautiously. He hadn’t anticipated encountering another inquisitive creature during his secret adventure. As he advanced, picked up that intriguing earthy smell once more, this time coming from slightly behind the jumbled box pile. Following his nose like a hound, he traced it to the wall belonging to the neighboring grocery selling specialty foods. There, nestled at the base, was a small burrow, just barely visible beneath a tangle of wisteria vines and fallen leaves.
The entrance was dark and mysterious, a gateway into the unknown. Sully then a felt renewed surge of excitement. What sort of creatures dwelled within? Perhaps angel wyrms with leaf green wings. Maybe even a family of tiny carpenter gnomes like the ones he read about in his storybooks.
He started towards it, curiosity overwhelming his caution, when a familiar voice, laced with concern, echoed from the rear kitchen area. “Sully! Where are you?”
His mother’s voice, though soft, carried as undeniable edge. He froze, his fringed ears drooping slightly. He had completely forgotten about her, about the customers impatiently waiting to be served, about the consequences of his little adventure.
Sully hesitated at the edge of the alley, torn between the call of the burrow and Elya’s voice of authority. The earthy scent from the hole in the wall seemed stronger now, almost as if it were pulling him closer. He glanced back at the partially opened exit, where the warm narrow glow spilled out into the dim alley. His mother’s shadow briefly moved across the light, and he knew she’d come looking for him soon. But the burrow . . . it felt like a secret just waiting to be uncovered. Something about it made his scales and stubby quills prickle on end, not with fear, but with anticipation. He took one last step forward, his talons brushing against the damp leaves.
The ginger cat leapt down from the boxes, landing silently beside him. Its bright eyes glinted in the dappled light, and it tilted its head as if to say, Go on then. Sully hesitated. The cat’s presence was both reassuring and unnerving. It didn’t seem like a threat, but it was watching him too closely, as if it knew something he didn’t. He crouched low, peering into the burrow.
The darkness inside was thick, impenetrable. He could hear faint rustling like the sound of tiny claws scraping against dirt. His heart raced. What was down there? He reached out a probing claw, brushing aside a few leaves to get a better look.
Suddenly, the rustling stopped. The alley fell silent, save for the distant hum The Hearth. Sully held his breath. Then, from the depth of the burrow, a pair of glowing eyes appeared. They were small, but bright, like twin embers in the dark. He froze, his tail stiffening. The eyes blinked once, slowly and then vanished. The rustling started again, but this time it was louder, closer. Sully backed away, his claws scraping against the pavement. The cat hissed softly, its fur bristling.
It was the first sign of alarm Sully had seen from it, and it made his stomach twist. Before he could decide whether to run or stay, a voice–soft but clear– echoed from the burrow. “You shouldn’t be here.”
The words were faint, almost a whisper, but they sent a chill down Sully’s spine. He looked around, but the alley was now crouched low, its ears flattened.
The voice came again, sharper this time. “Go back. Before it’s too late.”
Sully’s mind raced. Who–or what–was speaking to him? He wanted to ask, to demand answers, but his voice caught in his throat. The burrow seemed to pulse with a strange energy, the earthy scent now tinged with something strong and metallic, like raw dripping meat. He took another step back, his talons trembling. The cat let out a low growl, its eyes fixed on the burrow. Sully felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to flee, but his curiosity held him in place. He had to know. He had to see.
The glowing eyes reappeared, closer this time. They were joined by another pair, then another, until the burrow seemed alive with moving lights. The rustling grew louder, more frantic. The rustling grew louder, more frantic.
Sully’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to run, but his trembling legs wouldn’t obey. The cat let out a sharp yowl and darted away, disappearing into the shadows. Sully was alone now, facing the unknown.
The voice spoke one last time, cold and final. “You’ve been warned.”
And then, the eyes vanished. The rustling stopped. The alley was silent once more. Sully stood there, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He didn’t know what had just happened, but he knew one thing; the burrow wasn’t just a hole in the wall. It was something else entirely. Something dangerous. He turned and ran, his claws clattering against the pavement as he fled back to the safety of the café. But even as he reached the door, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the burrow–and whatever lurked within–wasn’t done with him yet.
(G is for Grievous Warning)
The Burlap Sack’s Count'
One, two, the thread are loose,
A burlap sack, a ghoulish ruse.
Three, four, the fibers fray,
A sticky scent upon the day.
Five, six, tremor starts,
Within its folds, a beating heart?
Seven, eight, a shadowed stain,
Whispering secret, born of pain.
Nine, ten, the twine is tight,
Enclosing what should shun the light.
Eleven, twelve, the burlap sighs,
Reflecting back dead, hollowed eyes.
Thirteen, fourteen, a muffled groan,
From something trapped, and all alone.
Fifteen, sixteen, a rustling sound,
As cold, small fingers twist around.
Seventeen, eighteen, the sack does heave,
A macabre promise to deceive.
Nineteen, twenty, the knot it binds,
And leaves no trace, no soul it finds.
For in that sack, a curse does dwell.
A stolen life, a living hell.
Beware the burlap, dark and grim,
For what it holds will swallow him.
It’s not just fabric, stiff and brown,
It seeks your soul, and drags it down.
So heed this warning, stark and true,
The burlap sack is waiting for you.
Graffiti on the wall of pedestrian tunnel
in Ghouls’ Grotto, Hogan’s Gap,
Commonwealth of Toria
(Grub Street--Restricted Sector)
(H is for– )
Hel’s Coming for you, Tod!
Graffiti sprayed on a locker
at Burlwood Grammar School
in Port Bognor, Commonwealth of Torian, 2005
Written by mmpratt99 deviantart
Content is available under CC BY-SA