The Erosceror

(F-solo fant)
Story Prompt: “It was the last night of _____”

It was the last night of her training, and Natalia sat in contemplation in the utter dark of the training room.  It was below the Master’s dungeons, unlit, the door into it formed only at a special keyword, that only he knew.  Magic kept the air fresh; depth kept it pleasantly cool.  There was no light, no sound from anywhere, and no way to escape.  No one was coming for her either.  She was trapped.

Of course, she was a trained erosceror; well, almost trained.  This last test would confirm her training, and her ability as a magic-wielder.  It wasn’t a matter of weakness — the weak never made it this far.  No, it was a matter of control.  Up until now, her magics were controlled by her master.  She had to prove she was the master of her own magic, or she was too dangerous.

So here she was, far from anyone else, so that they would be safe no matter what happened.  If she couldn’t control her own magic, the Others would control her through it, and the Others would use her to destroy her people, or to generally cause mischief if they were particularly blind, depending on how benign they were.

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I know I promised a Mostly Fiction story today, but that’s not happening. The piece I’d originally envisioned grew out of those bounds, and is sitting half-done in google documents. Maybe later. Even this piece grew as I wrote it, thus creating a new tag here, “scrimshaw ivory.” About which I’ll say more later, I hope.

As always, our NSFW stuff is behind a link. The story starts safe enough for both you and Cleo…

Cleo Tickles The Ivory

F-Solo

The groove was going well. Cleo nodded to Sam as she pounded the keys of her synthesizer. The gig was going well, even if the spring heat pointed to an even muggier summer. Still things were good, she’d travelled hundreds of miles to go to the Savanna School of Art and Design, and had been able to hook up with a cool band. They’d been hired to do music in the open air market near the school — a pedestrian friendly, arty space that had become home to her and her friends.

Sam started a complicated riff on her 12-string, and Cleo went for a more subdued complement, following in behind her as she scanned the crowd. It was the normal kind of thing, artsy kids and tourists, and the occasional creepy looking guy. She smiled at the crowd as they approached and dropped loose change into the band’s hat.

The merchant’s association was paying them to play, but tips were always appreciated. One of the creepy guys dropped a bill into the hat, and Cleo felt like he was looking right at her. She shivered, but then got back into the music as he walked away.

After the set, she, Sam and Tal, their drummer, loaded the gear up on Tal’s truck. “I’ll just put the camper shell on it,” Tal said. “We’ll need it all tomorrow anyway. Either of you need a ride back?”
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