The Demon

I read somewhere (please, don't ask for source, because I couldn't tell you now) that when one encounters writers' block, one is to write about why they can't come up with an idea.

I have a deadline for a short story. I've never written one before. But I thought it would be an amazing way to flesh out a side character for my main story. I think this is a great chance to really breathe life into a person who, as my "big story" goes, is just as "real" as the main characters, but has much less "screen time".

My first method of preparation was to research HOW to write a short story, and to that end I found a trove of information. I found a method that I'd like to try, and now, I'm sitting down with this character in my mind ...

...and I have no idea what her trouble will be.

She's part traditional D&D rogue and part Indiana Jones. Someone who goes after rare artifacts and ruthlessly sells them to the highest bidder. She's not evil, persay, but her ethics are questionable.

But I don't know what trouble to get her buried in over her head. Suggestions?

"Reality"

Somewhere in her mind, she was back at home. She was at peace. Her brain blocked out the pain and heat, and she was laying in the pastures of the west field, enjoying the mild breezes and easy sunlight of the springtime of her homeland. She could hear the sheep on the hill, grazing and moving through the plains grass with the lazy practice of years of visits. In the back of her mind, she knew they'd need to be shorn soon, and she knew that there were several with lambs due. She could smell the sweetness of the grasses surrounding her, making a bed that was slightly itchy, but still cool to the touch for her to lay on, in the shade of the largest cottonwood for at least two rôst in all directions. She could tell her hair was laying around her head, creating a little extra cushion for her head in addition to the grasses under her. Her body was relaxed and she could feel the grass on her ankles and bare feet where her skirts left them bare. She was pretty sure her father would come looking for her eventually, chastising her for not being more diligent, but she'd never had a problem with the sheep. They had never run off with her at watch before. They knew her scent and trusted her, and actually wanted to be near her. It made her smile slightly.

“Hey!”

The yell confused her, and she furrowed her brow slightly, not wanting to open her eyes yet, not wanting to find out who was yelling at her. It wasn't a voice she recognized, so she didn't really want to address it.

Something poked her in the ribs on one side. Not terribly painfully, but what was more distressing was the shifting of her realization of gravity. She thought she was laying on her back, but as she became more aware of the poke to her ribs, she also became aware that her weight was such that she was actually laying on her stomach. She moaned as she realized there was something washing over her, an insidious, almost evil sensation. It made her breath come in shorter gasps, and her muscles tense. She was in pain.

She felt a hand grasp her arm firmly, and roll her over, and then the illusion was shattered. She was so hot, and everything felt so dry. Her eyes wouldn't open, but she wasn't sure she wanted them to. Sand was everywhere. On her face, in her hair, on her skin. And the layers of clothing were caked with it. Sand and blood. She could smell it. The awful aching in her abdomen reminded her of that cause. She was so beyond grief that she couldn't even cry anymore.

She could feel something wiping at her face, a cloth of some kind getting the worst of the sand off her features. She couldn't help but wince as the rag touched her more swollen and wounded features. Still, she didn't dare open her eyes with all the sand in the crevasses of her skin. She'd never felt this close to dead. Never before this amount of discomfort combined with pain and dryness. As her reality came back to her, she realized she should have been dead. A person doesn't just run through the desert while wounded and without water and survive. Part of her wished she was. If the dream of her lying in the pasture with her sheep all around her, back home before all of the changes had occurred, she would have died happy.

Something touched her face and her chin, and she discovered she couldn't even lift her hand, let alone push away whatever was touching her. It became obvious that it was a hand, and it opened her mouth slightly, and she felt even more parched as it did. There was so little moisture in her mouth that her tongue felt swollen and leathery.

When the water hit the back of her throat, she choked, involuntarily, her coughing wracking her body as she did. There was a long pause as she got her breath back, and then more water, slowly, in her mouth. The relief she felt at having the moisture reintroduced to her mouth would have made her eyes water if she'd had tears left. It was slow, deliberate, and she wondered if that was what she'd heard in her dream, this person's voice.

She wasn't sure when she stopped drinking, but after awhile, the water stopped coming to her mouth and she relaxed, much more hydrated, and realized there was a hand behind her head when it laid her head back down on the sand gently.

“Hey.” It was a man's voice. She felt an immediate apprehension. Reality meant being afraid of men. They were stronger, and in the sands, usually mean and cruel. Nothing like her father or brother. Her throat threatened to cut off her words with how tight it became.

“Hello?” she managed to choke out. Her voice was scratchy from lack of water and disuse.

“Are you of the tribes?” He asked quietly.

She couldn't help but get a small smile of triumph on her face, feeling her lips crack, “Not anymore. But … I'm 'fraid you've wasted your water.”

“Excommunicated? I should have let you die?” He asked both with a slightly disapproving tone that made her nervous. He sounded older than her.

“I can't walk. I'll die anyway.” She explained simply. She had been in the sands long enough to know how survival worked.

“Are your legs broken?” She heard him ask, simply.

She shook her head, still unable to open her eyes, “They stopped working.”

“Sand Exhaustion.” His statement was simple, yet again. She heard the water again, and was hopeful until she felt the rag, damp now, wiping the blood and sand from her face. While one eye remained too swollen for her to open, the other allowed her to, and she was able to blink and clear her vision enough to see the person who'd stumbled across her.

In the moonlight she could see light, almost icy eyes and carefully tended facial hair accompanying a strong chin and balanced nose. His lips were full, but not too much so. He wore his hair back and had a covering over his head to keep the heat off during the day. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, though she had always been terrible at judging age.

“I would happily die away from them.” She said softly.

He raised an eyebrow, tucking his rag away, “Should we save your story for later?”

She gave a small smile, “If at all. Are you leaving the sands?”

He nodded his answer, “When did you last have food or water?”

She watched as he broke apart a simple ration of jerkey and offered it. She tried lifting her arm, but could only wince apologetically as it didn't obey her, “I might have to wait...” She said sheepishly.

He shook his head and tore off a piece that was smaller and pressed it to her mouth enough for her to take it. The taste of food made her feel more alive than dead. Several minutes passed with him giving her food, until finally, he simply said, “I am Gowan.”

“Kalyssa.” She replied, chewing.

“Well met.”

She couldn't help but to smile slightly, “Agreed. Thank you.”

After swallowing the last of the rations she was given, she continued, “I'm from a village near Arlond.”

He looked thoughtful, “Aurel. Not as far north as you. I'm heading home. North. But not as far north as your home.”

“I have flexible goals,” She said while looking up at him, “I wanted away from the tribes before I died, and I got that far. If I could get to the edge of the sands, that would be nice.”

“I can take you with me.” He offered.

She could feel her expression get a guilty tinge, “I know it's dangerous to take on added burdens in the sands, Gowan.”

He shook his head, “My daughter would give me too much grief if I told her I left you. I'm doing this for her, and my sanity from her, not for you.”

Her reply was a sharp, humorless chuckle, “You could simply not tell her about me at all.”

There was no trace of humor on his face, “I don't keep things from her.”

Her own smile faded slowly, and she cleared her throat, nervously. “If this if your goal, I will do my best not to slow you down.”

His reply was all business, “We're wasting precious moonlight. Are you ready?”

She nodded, but knew it was a lie. But she was determined to try. She began working to sit up, and immediately felt like her insides were on fire, making her wince and wrap her arm around her stomach. Her breath came out in pants as a response.

“What happened?” He asked, shrewdly.

“My … husband was angry with me. It wasn't a new thing.” She kept trying to get her legs to cooperate with her attempt to eventually stand.

“So, he beat you?” He sounded mildly incredulous.

“Yeah. We fight … fought … a lot.” She paused to breathe, “It's complicated.” Her tone clearly told him that she'd rather not revisit the idea.

“Alright. Well, you can't move. That's obvious.”

“That's what I was trying to tell you. It would be stupid to try and help me.”

“Yeah.” He said flatly, watching her without expression.

“This place, it makes you have to think about the really important things,” her voice was more defeated than she wanted it to be. She was hoping to sound stoic, so that he wouldn't feel bad for leaving her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod in agreement right before bending down to pick her up out of the sand.

With a mixture of surprise and pain, she could only manage to get out, “Gowan … wait … you shouldn't....” before she had to stop talking entirely.

“You've told me that once before, already.” He said as he stood with her.

The stronger of her two arms was enough to get her to hold onto his shoulder as he began to turn around.

“I have a woorpak. She can carry us both.”

Kalyssa couldn't think of what to say except, “Oh.” She felt both relieved and sheepish as he carried her across the sand like she weighed nothing. She knew that was not the case, but didn't make an issue of it. Her focus quickly was consumed with her trying to keep from wincing or crying out as she was moved.

“Have you ridden a woorpak before?” He asked quietly.

She shook her head, “No, but I've seen them before.”

“We'll know right away whether she likes you and whether you'll ride one for the first time or not.”

She could feel herself pale slightly, “I saw one bite a tribesman who was trying to become a handler.” She said nervously.

“They're like huge three year olds, except they're pickier.” Gowan advised.

She swallowed, worried, “If she doesn't like me, will she bite me?” She could hear her voice betray her concern.

“Yes.” He said bluntly. “And there will be no riding her.”

“Um … don't put me too close to her … at first?” Kalyssa could feel her heart beginning to race a little in fear. Woorpaks were huge beasts, covered in long shaggy fur meant to keep the sand from their skin. Often, a full grown woorpak could easily kill a full grown tribesman. They were known for being particular to only a few people, and easily irritated and angry.

“Either it's gonna happen, or it won't.” Gowan said without elaboration, and then whistled, “Bertie!”

On the nearest dune, the large female woopak flicked her ears in response to his call, stubbornly staring down a sage brush.

“I got you lunch! C'mon!” He yelled at the beast.

“Wait!” Kalyssa stammered, “I'd … I'd rather not be bit!” She strained to see the animal from her vantage point, panicked, and unable to move far without pain. Thoughts of how badly she'd been tricked by this man just so that he could feed her to his beast raced through her mind.

“I'm joking.” He stated simply, and she looked over to see that, while his expression remained unreadable, his eyes betrayed his amusement at her panic.

“You … you are?” She watched his face closely, wary.

“Yes.” He held her up so that the animal could sniff her, the beast's nose at the end of it's massive head was enough to let Bertie smell her without having to lean down too far.

Bertie sniffed deeply into Kalyssa's clothing, leaving traces of drool that the girl couldn't help but grimace at, disgusted.

“Alright, we're good to go.” Gowan said as the girl was looking at him, stricken.

She heard him make an odd clicking noise, “Get down, Bertie. Don't make this harder than it has to be.” He chastised.

The stubborn woopak sighed dejectedly, and knelt down at the command, looking irritable and bored. Carefully, Gowan set Kalyssa on Berie's back. Kalyssa couldn't help but close her eyes to keep from showing how much pain she was in at being moved. Once on the furry creature, she had to keep herself sitting upright, and it felt like her abdomen was ripping open. She clenched her teeth to make it so that she wouldn't cry out.

Kalyssa could see him go back over to grab his waterskin, but didn't pay too much attention. Her being able to stay upright stole her entire focus. Before she knew it, he was mounting behind her on the beast's back, and having the woopak stand. He gave the furry creature's command to begin traveling. The movement was murder, and she could feel her arm beginning to shake as she was holding herself upright. Clearly, he could tell as well.

“Lean back. It'll be easier on you.” He said with a tone that was somewhere between command and suggestion. Kalyssa nodded, and did so, apprehensively at first. Once she'd done so, though, and realized that he wasn't going to move so that she'd lose her balance, she found herself to be surprisingly comfortable. She didn't want to be vulnerable to someone she didn't know, but her body had other plans, and before she knew it, she was being gently roused awake by Gowan. Bertie was stopped, and Kalyssa looked around, disoriented.

Nearest her was an inn, small, but clean looking. It was daytime, mid morning, perhaps, and around Bertie was the bustling village. She didn't know which one, but it was clearly not the desert.

“Hey,” she heard Gowan say gently.

“Gowan.” She said it simply, trying to orient herself.

“Hold yourself up, I have to get off.”

She nodded and pulled herself to sitting with a pained expression. Once he was on the ground, he reached up to help her down, “Come on down.”

Kalyssa was careful to keep her expression guarded from betraying how badly she was hurting as she got down off of Bertie, but he still kept a hold on her once she was off the beast.

“Can you walk?”

All she could manage was a nod, but she was able to step away slightly while holding his arm for support. She turned to him, then, “Thank you,” she said simply.

He nodded. “You're sure you're alright?”

“I will be,” she promised. “Travel safely.”

“I will.” he stated emotionlessly.

Musical Inspiration

So, what triggered this post is actually the fact that I've been listening to the same song on repeat now for a couple of days. Thank the gods for headphones, or I think my family might have already slaughtered me by now without them.

While writing what I'm hoping will be an epic story (epic in my own mind due to simply the driving pressure from the characters in my story to get their lives told), I'm driven to epic music. More important than WHAT I'm listening to is the fact that I am. I haven't done any research about others being inspired while obsessively listening to a single song, but I'm fairly certain I can't be the only one.

Music is an incredible thing to me. It has a way, like math, to transcend language and pull at the soul. This is well known, written in history throughout time, quoted about (something about soothing savage beasts? :) ). I feel like it tells a story while I'm working to tell the story of my own that's inside me.

I think maybe that's why there's such a draw to good music while creating. Creating is a process that's telling the story of the muse or genius that is flowing through you, and is essentially expressing a story. The music is doing the same. It's as though you're walking a journey with another soul, walking the story telling path with company. It's inspirational and encouraging at the same time. Helps to make the lulls easier to work through.

Of course, my OCD mind probably likes the soothing repetition of the song on repeat, too. But I'm not 100% positive on that.