All in Fantasy
The pirates appeared out of nowhere, interrupting Commodore Teddward St. Teddington’s luncheon with characteristic rudeness and a severe lack of consideration for his scones. Luckily, the delicate floral-patterned china teacup proved to be an adequate weapon in a pinch, and his first mate Raug Doll quickly moved to help him.
Cappin Hargraves was an old seadog saltier than the ocean he sailed and twice as furious. His parents, with an abundance of optimism and severe shortage of tact, had named him with all the pride that parents feel for their children and hope for his future. But despite his name, Cappin had never made more than coxswain on the trawling merchant barges that dredged the stonereef bay, and with grey about the temples and milk starting to swirl in his eyes it was unlikely he’d rise any higher before the sea closed cold iron teeth on him.
When people spoke of the witch in the woods, they whispered lest the breeze carry their words to her pointed ears. For all their proximity to the wild woods and the horrors they contained, those on the edges whispered more fervently, their wagging tongues and tall tales distracting them from the gnawing, creeping cold that encased the town in its icy grip.
They called Tifa a beggar, those well-dressed, nose-in-the-air folks who strolled the boulevards and esplanades. Her ragged clothes and enormous hat stood out against the jet black paths, ruining the sleek lines of the city, catching the eyes momentarily, it was true, but she wouldn’t lower herself and don a name chosen by others.
Shimmering dunes stretched hungry fingers towards the towers of Theros, false water threatening illusory floods in the blinding sunlight. Aspasia watched the travellers trudge across the sands day and night, huddled beneath meagre shade-cloths even as their sprawling caravans stretched out towards infinity.
I have the most marvellous brush, you see. Look here, look closely. The handle is made from densest wood, pitch black as the void yet light as the gleam of distant stars.
News networks latched onto the story like leeches on an unprepared bushwalker, warnings flashing in lurid hues across the screen. Phrases like ‘once in a lifetime’ or ‘largest in a century’ were bandied around, as though the newsreaders were discussing an upcoming sports tournament. Gleeful for the furore and the boost to their ratings.
To look at, it’s nothing special at first glance. Agriculture, with cows and sheep plodding over gently rolling green fields, golden swathes of grains hemmed in by low rock walls on one side, wire or trees on the other. Oats, obviously. They grow a lot of them here.
The old oilskin had been cold and greasy to the touch when he’d put it on, but now as the wind dug icy claws into his skin and sought the cracks in his clothes, he was thankful for it. The old castle loomed above him, dark even against the blackened sky, and before him lay the path.
Hundreds of thousands of feet had wound their way to the Augur’s house over the centuries, deep in the marshes, from peasants to kings to thieves to priests. Everyone, when they turned twelve, went to see the undying Augur, and came back bearing their fate.
