Strange Place: First Stop

Strange Place is the humble name of an assortment of story ideas that are or
were spun, and spinning still. A collective of stories that may not have quite made it to the Storyboard.

"Welcome to the first stop, those bound for Apotheosis, The Starmaker, Esprit de la Plume, and Strangers Abound, this is your stop. 

Apotheosis
Cheshire fixed his assailant with a hard stare, an arcane ring of inscribed runes floating languidly around the tome. Though they drifted gently as if carried by the summer breeze, their gentle pulsing glow belying the tremendous destructive potential.

"Who sent you?" The question was poised with all the casualty of smalltalk. 

When the man failed to answer he grinned, though there was no warmth to be found in it, "It's quite rude to ignore someone. So be it then."

And when he left, there were not even the charred remnants of flesh nor bone, just a dark ashen smear.

But he did leave bearing something new. A genuine grin of jagged teeth.

A soft glow emanated from his waist pouch and he pulled from it a small polished roundstone. It glowed faintly with a sickly chartreuse.

The Raven nodded. It was to be expected. Such acts were not likely to elicit anything else from the tender soul.

But he had simply done what he needed to protect himself. Or so he believed. 

It mattered not what other's thought anyhow, for there were no others to speak of. Not that he wanted there to be either. But once in a while the thought of another mind to think things through came up. Especially with the assassination attempt. It certainly was something to be wary of. It was doubtful that there was any affiliation between them and the inept man sent after him. Even with a soulbinder he hadn't been able to seal him. What a waste.

Likely, it was some novice bounty hunter seeking a quick fortune, one that had the misfortune of plucking his poster from the board.

He looked weak. A simple magus with no evident affinity nor 

Still, he would be wary, for there were doubtlessly others after him.

Tugging his cloak tighter around him, Cheshire leaned into the wind and continued his long trek to seek out Time.

The Starmaker
Drifting through the clouds, he left in his wake a gentle trailing tail of stardust, twinkling softy amidst the vast darkness of the night.

It was the same as any other, the only difference being the Time.

Chrono would be here tonight. And mayhaps he would finally find a voice.

The little Starmaker, who granted everyone's wishes, but could not grant his own.

And so he would beseech Father Time.

He lighted down beside a gnarled oak, and waited.

At first he saw but faint wisps, mesmerized by the silvery strands surrounding Time himself.

And then​ Time was there, dressed in a simple white robe, a large hourglass floating beside him, the sands ever trickling.

It was honestly not what one would expect from the grand entity by which all were bound.

He wore such simple plain dress, with no outstanding features, were it not for the drifting hourglass.

But he had perhaps stared a moment too long, for the entity took offense, and in a whirl, had thrown the unfortunate observer clear out of the sky.

He landed heavily and found himself staring blankly at a pair of slippers of the same plain design.

"The defective."

He winced at the derogative.

"What is it you seek in depriving me of the private hour of my own?"

A jest, for he knew the lesser god could not answer. The stars though ever present, to twinkle and give light, spoke not a word.

How he envied the other entities, their brilliant laughter, their melodic voice, so lively, so full of life.

Fire crackled and roared in fiery spirit.

The Sea was of immeasurable depth, one that lulled with the surf, low, and slow, until the tempest hour hence one could nigh feel the churning rage hidden beneath the surface crests.

The Wind with her soft giggles as she fluttered over the plains, twirling and dancing, her voice as if carrying the light of the Sun.

Everyone had a voice except him.

And he came beseeching the same. Though he could not vocalize that which he wished to convey, he had long understood the unspoken tongue.

He implored Father Time for what he had not, and the response, was but an impassive, "No."

The word fell like a slap and he blinked up from where he floated beneath. 

Desperately he descended on his legs, knees planted firmly on the Earth below as he bowed low, beseechingly.

To one of their kind, merely touching the Earth upon which tread the lesser beings of petty flesh and blood was a disgrace. And to do so kneeling before another, neck exposed so prone, was the ultimate submission and respect.

But Time was making to leave.

The Wind who had slowed as she passed by was quick to flitter along lest Chrono turn his ire upon her.

The Starmaker tried again, and grasped at the hem of his robe, bowing deep once more.

But the other just turned his head, scoffing, "Grovelling ill befits a deity. My respect for you is all but gone with the Lady Wind."

But he didn't let go, and Time was soon growing impatient. 

Time waited for no one, after all. Neither man or beast, nor even the celestial bodies.

Esprit de la Plume

She waved shyly at her parents as they left, a kiss and a hug and they were out the door. Little Lillian Medraphoriathne Hollingberry turned to the long dusky hall and clutched the stuffed rabbit closer to her breast. 

The large empty house was frightening without the voices so full of life and laughter. 

But it couldn't be helped, her parents were busy more often than not.

She mumbled an apology and darted upstairs to the attic alcove where her retreat was. Running in the house was strictly forbidden. It was unbecoming of a young lady, or so her Mother had said.

But she couldn't bear the emptiness, the darkness behind each corner, the scary depths hidden behind each door.

Her doting parents had furnished it as her bedroom after she became enamored with it one day when her Father and herself had been exploring.

Little Lily lay in the scintillating sun of the window, so dancing with the wind rustling the leaves that served to filter. 

And she drew. She colored and drew a menagerie of worlds she had never seen, letting the dark graphite trail across the paper, guided by none. 

The small dog barked up at her, a little yorkie on a leash, walking beside a metropolitan woman in the latest of trendy feathered hats and long overcoats.

Next was a large spider that gave her the shudders. The web he spun crossed the whole page and the next after, and he slinked into a corner, balling up into himself as he waited. She left him alone and was quick to flip the page. 

---

Rukin hated witchcraft. It was dangerous stuff, something intangible. You couldn't just throw it down to the ground and beat it up.

Something you could feel, but couldn't fight.

It had been an odd sight to someone so well dressed at the docking pier, but he hadn't paid it any heed--until the drawing moved.

A trick of the light? Curious, but cautious and wary, the street rat peered over the heavy crate he was lugging, and startled, "Witch!" 

Lily clutched her sketchbook peering around her, eyes wide, until she realized who the boy had been calling to, "I'm not a witch!"

Indignant as she held her head high at the boy glaring at her.

She had just been drawing the sea down by the pier, there had been a few passerby admiring the ocean, but this part was more industrial than touristy.

Then one of the cabin boys who had been moving crates had suddenly dropped his, pointed a finger at her and called her a witch! How rude!

"Drawings don't move by themselves, yer a Witch! Get outta here scum 'fore they hang ya! I'll call for them!" Rukin waved his arms, as if to scare her off, but it just served to further incite her ire.

"Go ahead rat!" She snapped back.

"What are you shouting about and where are those crates boy?" a gruff voice called from above them.

"Sir, she's a witch! She'll give us bad luck!"

The ship captain glared down at the both of them, "The only bad luck I've had is your snail's pace work, now get to it! I want those crates in the hold!"

Rukin shot her a nasty glare and she sniffed, turning the other way.

"Get out of here." he muttered as he slinked past and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Missy ye best be getting along. Pier's for docking an' loading. It's right dangerous with all the heavy liftin', an' I don't want tuh see ya getting hurt, eh?" The captain waved at her from over the railing and she nodded, "Yes sir, I'm sorry."

"Good girl." he chuckled, and disappeared back over the railing. 

Lily packed up her bag, staring out over at the lolling waves.

A storm was brewing.

Strangers Abound

That day I had been in the last observation cart at a window seating, avoiding the noisy mothers tending to their children, or the rampant child let loose by exhausted parents. It was perfectly the same. Normal as it was mundane. Fatigued and dozing as I oft did on the long journeys, the maglev humming softly as it sped along. 

When he came up to me and called me by name, it had indeed piqued my curiosity. 

He sat beside me, uncomfortably close, and blathered on about something or another. I shifted closer to the window, disgruntle by his impolite ways, and stared at the blur of scenery. But his words drew me in, for he spoke of Times past as if I had been there at his side, and when I questioned why he painted such vivid memories, he gave me an odd stare. 

"But you were there. Do you not remember?"

My memory is impeccable. There is little I will have forgotten, and certainly not such recollections as those he so told.

"I cannot remember what has not come to pass."

And the stricken look of hurt that passed his visage, however, brief, cut deep. It was uncomfortable, so much so that I found myself looking away. 

Such insane ramblings, that he believed us more than strangers.