Kelisay shook her head. “You would have paid them no mind if not for me. They should not be blamed for my actions and by my life I cannot let you cast that blame. I stand accused and ready for my punishment,” said the kelpie as she bowed her head.
“And why should I spare them for you?” Seark demanded this more than asked.
Kelisay raised her head defiantly. “Because if you give them chase I will be gone. The waters shall speed me away from here and your punishment shall be without meaning. You will be petty for such a selfish act. Or you can leave them be and give meaning to your sentence. Do so and I will not fight or flee. On this you have my word,” said Kelisay.
Seark raised an angry hoof again, yet this time Kelisay did not flinch. Slowly, after thought, Seark lowered that hoof as he thought on the kelpie’s words. Kelisay then heard him chuckle as he nodded at her. The unicorn’s decision had been made.
“Very well then, Kelisay,” said Seark. “I will spare the dirty halflings. Your sentence starts now. And should you leave before it is finished you will only regret your decision forever.”
Kelisay nodded slowly. “I understand,” she said.
“Good,” said Seark. “Then let it begin.” At these words, Seark’s horn shimmered with golden light as he aimed it at Kelisay. The dirt rose, covering the kelpie’s legs and neck. And though dry and not mud, the dirt remained there uncomfortably to the water horse. Pleased with his work, Seark began to walk back to his home, horn still glowing. As he walked, the dirt upon Kelisay pulled her along with him like shackles.
Without a choice, Kelisay followed behind the powerful unicorn. In those moments, she felt her heart sink further as the dirt clung to her limbs. She was a prisoner now, paying for her antics. The thought of living in the dark and within the soil brought tears to her eyes.
Yet even as she cried, the kelpie paused long enough to look over her shoulder. There she could see the halflings in the distance, watching as she was pulled away. They were safe now and would remain free of Seark’s anger and this pleased Kelisay more than the judgment placed upon her. It was then that she offered one more smile to the sky before making her own solemn vow.
To the waters she would return someday.
She would again be free.
Beauty and the Weed
Thorn-Ren
Night softly descended upon the Saelen Kingdom as the evening slowly filled with lunar light. As many of the kingdom’s inhabitants prepared rest, pixies and fairies offered soft songs and tunes to join the crickets chirping in a nightly, harmonious symphony. For many, the setting of the Firestar meant the time had come for winding down. Yet for others, it was merely the start of their day.
In a small stretch of Saelen rested what was known as Bunda-Bas. Bunda-Bas was a little-known part of Lunaria that could be easily overlooked. To most of the world, it was was simply a bit of land flourishing in lavish stretches of weeds. But to those that knew, those that understood the magic of Bunda-Bas and its secrets, Bunda-Bas was a very small, very magical town.
A town of plant people.
These plants, or weeds if you will, all slept soundly as the day faded into night. And while they slept, they appeared to be nothing more than regular weeds planted within the soil. This not only nourished them while they rested, but also it hid them from outsiders who would not know how to treat plant people. It was a secret and protection that allowed the people of Bunda-Bas to live in relatively undisturbed peace.
With nightfall fully cast, the weeds began to stir. Not far from Bunda-Bas, a cluster of such weeds had been forced to hide from wandering bandits. Now safe, leaves unfurled as the plants began to move softly and deliberate. Soon, little hands and feet emerged as dark, glassy eyes surveyed the night for dangers.
The tallest of the weeds, a bit of pigweed known as Pyron stood with his hands on his hips as he looked about the camp of weeds. As the leader of the scouting party, Pyron had objected to every weed under his charge, thinking them all fools. Pyron’s thick leaves rippled with frustration as he noticed the milk thistle of the bunch still sleeping. He fought the urge to kick that milk thistle himself, for as leader Pyron had to be above such actions.
With his patience at end, Pyron motioned to the dandelion siblings, Dell and Della, his trusted underlings and the two plants he could mostly tolerate. What they lacked in smarts was made up for in loyalty. The duo looked at Pyron expectantly with curious eyes under tufts of yellow hair. “Thorn-Ren still sleeps. Wake the runt up already,” he said, with impatience.
Dell nodded. “Of course,” he said.
His sister nodded. “With pleasure,” offered Della.
As the two dandelions approached the milk thistle known as Thorn-Ren, the plant began to stir. Uprooting himself, piercing eyes opened to regard the two weeds approaching him. Purple hair pulsed with life as two little hands went upon the thorn daggers resting on a belt made of grass and vine. Thorn-Ren cocked his little head with amusement and the dandelion siblings halted in their tracks.
Thorn-Ren then spoke. “That would be unwise on your parts,” said the little weed casually. “Besides, I was not sleeping, just being prudent and seeing if the bandits were truly gone.”
Pyron sneered at the smaller weed. “I am in charge here, you little patch of trouble, and it is I who does the thinking,” he snapped.
Thorn-Ren shook his head. “Then we truly are doomed,” he countered.
Pyron turned from Thorn-Ren then, disgusted. “I will waste no more time on you, for we must return to Bunda-Bas and report in. The Children of Nibiru are growing increasingly bold with their scouts. We must prepare in kind. Obviously, they are planning some sort of offensive,” he said.
Thorn-Ren rubbed at his eyes for a moment, clearly frustrated by his commander’s words. “Then you are blinded by fear and anger, Pyron. When are you going to learn that the people of Alethia are not our enemies? Sure, they look spooked about something, but it is not us,” offered the milk thistle.
Pyron shook his head angrily. “You know nothing of the ways of the world. We are weeds. They are flowers. Always will they be our enemies. Always must we be ready for whatever they may send at us,” he said. Dell and Della nodded enthusiastically as the other weeds watched the exchange.
Thorn-Ren rolled his eyes. “Utter nonsense,” he replied. “Never has Bunda-Bas been attacked by Alethia. Perhaps you are truly afraid, or worse yet, perhaps you crave such a war.”
“That is enough!” Pyron inched closer to Thorn-Ren, staring down at the smaller weed. “I grow tired of your words and the slippery slope you tread upon. Before our comrades, I challenge your loyalty to Bunda-Bas.”
Thorn-Ren shrugged, standing his ground against the larger weed. “It has nothing to do with loyalty. Though I question a people that elevate one such as you,” said the milk thistle.
“Are we to fight now over these words?” Pyron asked, raising his hand over the hilt of his sword.
Still Thorn-Ren did not budge. Obviously, Pyron wished to fight him, but the smaller weed was not about to play his game. “We shall save our fight for another day, for when it is justified by more than your ego,” said Thorn-Ren as he turned from Pyron. “For now, I will continue my patrol. You do what you feel is necessary for the cause you so blindly follow,” he added before walking away from Pyron and the others.
Pyron clenched his fists, calling out to the defiant weed. “Thorn-Ren! You get back here this instant! That is an order!”
Thorn-Ren kept walking, responding over his shoulder as he continued to walk. “I am already following your orders, sort of. I am watching our borders. I get to do my job and be rid of you and that is good for both of us,” he said before saying no more. Pyron continued his tirade in the growing distance, but neither he nor the other weeds pursued him.
Thus free of the others, Thorn-Ren was pleased. Often the little weed preferred to be alone, for the company of the majority of Bunda-Bas was tiresome. The fear and underlying anger that permeated hi
s home opened the doors for those like Pyron and it was a scary trend that concerned Thorn-Ren greatly. He wanted nothing more than to be free of such things, free of the fates that held sway over his life.
Mostly, Thorn-Ren just craved freedom.
With the darkness surrounding him, Thorn-Ren smiled as he became a shadow in the night. Bending his knees, the little weed made no noise as he listened to his surroundings. Behind him, the grumbling sounds of Pyron and the others grew more distant as the sounds of the evening took hold. Keeping his hands near the hilts of his weapons, Thorn-Ren was at last content there was no further danger as he lowered his guard.
Thorn-Ren walked like this for some time, enjoying the night air and the relative freedom his solitude brought him. Within an hour of his journey though, the little weed heard the distinct sounds of a rambunctious encampment and raised his guard once more. As he neared, the sounds deepened, and Thorn-Ren knew he had discovered the bandits they had eluded the night before. Curious about their intentions, the little weed pressed forward bravely toward the commotion ahead.
Like a gentle whisper, Thorn-Ren reached the camp undetected. Sure enough, the three bandits from before were busying themselves with some project, obviously up to no good. With a shoddy camp erected, Thorn-Ren watched as three imps fidgeted impatiently around a steaming pot over a poorly wrought fire. Anticipation was high for these imps and to Thorn-Ren the mischief makers could barely contain themselves. Each of the imps scratched feverishly at their skin, looking upon the boiling waters expectantly.
One of the imps looked at the largest imp nervously. “Are you sure this is going to work, Midsyr? I am going mad with this itching!” he exclaimed
The one he called Midsyr pushed at the imp in reply. “Of course it will work, fool! We shall be healed and stronger than before. And once we are cured, we shall go back to find that poor excuse of an imp and his stone troll savior. We will have our revenge,” he said as the other two imps laughed nervously. As the laughter died down the apparent leader pointed to the other of his lackeys. “Cutley, bring me our main ingredient. The time has come to be cured.”
Thorn-Ren watched as the imp called Cutley went to fetch what was required, scratching furiously the entire time. Resisting the temptation to scratch for a moment, the imp snatched up a small, closed sack. As it was raised, Thorn-Ren heard something cry out as the bag began to move. The little weed’s eyes narrowed. The imp bandits had caught one of his own.
That was all the motivation the little weed needed to act. Running into the camp, Thorn-Ren allowed some of his little thorns to fly from his leaves, striking the backside of the lead imp. The imp howled as he turned and struck one of the other imps with his spoon. Thorn-Ren then ran between Midsyr’s feet as he drew his little daggers, poking at the struck imp’s foot. This caused the imp to retaliate against Midsyr as the two imps began to quarrel.
Rolling once, Thorn-Ren turned, looking upon the imp holding the bag. Stopping from his feverish scratching, the imp known as Cutley locked eyes with the little weed. As the imp tried to point and warn his comrades, Thorn-Ren charged bravely, letting his leaves hurl more tiny thorns at Cutley. The imp raised his hands up to protect his face from the incoming assault.
Running through the imp’s legs, Thorn-Ren used his feet and his little thorn daggers to climb up Cutley’s back. As the imp howled and tried to rid himself of the little weed, Thorn-Ren hopped upon his head, poking near Cutley’s eyes. The imp reacted out of pain and Thorn-Ren leaped off, grabbing at the bag and stabbing at the hand holding it. As Cutley released the bag, Thorn-Ren caught it midair before landing and fleeing away from the camp.
“It’s been fun, gents, but I must bid you farewell,” said Thorn-Ren as he disappeared into the night.
As Thorn-Ren ran, he could hear Midsyr behind him. “Don’t just stand there, fools! Get them! We need that bag back! Hurry!” He commanded.
Thorn-Ren could now hear the quickening footfalls of the pursuing imps. Securing his daggers to his belt and the bag over his shoulder, the little weed ran as fast as he could. Using the night and the terrain to his advantage, Thorn-Ren managed to stay one step ahead of the imps, though it was not easy. The imps covered ground more quickly and the little weed was carrying a heavy bag. Thorn-Ren knew he would need all his wits to elude Midsyr and his lackeys.
Without turning around, Thorn-Ren tossed a few thorns behind him as he neared a tree he was familiar with. At the same time, he darted around the tree and out of the sight of the imps. Rushing, the little weed climbed under a stretch of roots. Disappearing into the hole under the tree, Thorn-Ren held the bag close to him as the one inside began to struggle again.
Thorn-Ren placed his lips close to the bag as he spoke. “We are almost free of these imps, but for both of our sakes, you must remain quiet now,” he urged softly. To his relief, the person in the bag quieted and remained still.
Thorn-Ren listened intently. His move had confused the imps who now stopped to search about for him. The little weed could hear their confusion and incessant scratching as they bickered amongst themselves. He then saw the feet of one of the imps as it paused in front of the tree. Thorn-Ren held his breath.
But then the imps were gone, running feverishly through the night.
Thorn-Ren breathed a sigh of relief then. Waiting a few more moments, he took cautious steps from his hiding place, looking about. Satisfied that the imps were away, the little weed gently brought the bag out, carefully cutting it open. Proudly he took a step back to allow the imp’s captive to free themselves.
“The coast is clear. I assure you the imps will trouble you no more,” said Thorn-Ren with a flourish. “Please come out for some much-deserved fresh air.”
It was in that moment that Thorn-Ren was stilled to wonder, for soon, soft pink petals unfurled from the bag. Enchanting in the lunar light, Thorn-Ren was silenced by the beauty slowly freeing itself from the bag. And when soft, shimmering eyes cast a curious gaze upon him, the little weed’s breath stopped for long moments. Swallowing nervously, Thorn-Ren watched as a pink lotus flower freed herself completely from the bag.
Fidgeting, Thorn-Ren put his thorn knife away as he tried to remain calm. He was very much shaken by the stirring he felt in his chest. He sought the words then, but in truth he was perfectly content to simply look upon the beautiful flower looking back at him. For a spell, the two plants observed one another curiously.
At last, the pink lotus attacked the silence. “I assume you were expecting something else in this bag, for your words appear to have run off with the imps,” she said to him, ruefully.
Thorn-Ren shook his head clear, offering a polite smile. “My apologies, for it seems my wits were vanquished temporarily,” he said.
“Vanquished? By what?” asked the pink lotus.
“By beauty,” replied Thorn-Ren in earnest.
The pink lotus giggled softly, and the sound was rich in Thorn-Ren’s ears. “Are all weeds as silly as you?” she asked.
The milk thistle shook his head and shrugged. “I am almost certain they are not,” he answered, still dazzled by what stood in front of him.
The pink lotus smiled richly. “Well I am thankful for your uniqueness and courage then,” she said, nodding to him. “May I ask the name of my hero?”
Thorn-Ren grinned. “Only if my reward for such a rescue is to also know your name,” he replied.
“I guess I will allow it,” she replied playfully.
The little milk thistle bowed. “In that case, I am Thorn-Ren of Bunda-Bas,” he answered.
She replied with a curtsey. “And I am Calla. Of Alethia of course. It is a pleasure to meet you and quite fortunate I did in fact,” she said.
“The pleasure is mine,” said Thorn-Ren as he extended a hand. Shaking her extended hand softly, the touch itself sent a ripple through him. “Now what on Lunaria were you doing out here and why did you hold the sway of those imps so?”
Calla sighed wistfully. “I was out for a wal
k when they discovered me. In the chase, I am afraid I relinquished my bearings and became lost. The petals of my kind are known for their healing properties and from what I understand the three had been stricken with a maddening enchantment. But far be it from imps to ask for a few petals,” she offered with a polite chuckle.
Thorn-Ren nodded to her. “Fools they were, to not be able to see past their selfish need at the splendor under their noses,” he said.
“Such things, you say,” said Calla playfully.
Thorn-Ren shifted nervously. “My apologies again, I still was not expecting you from that bag. But as luck would have it, I happen to know the way back to Alethia,” he said.
Calla’s smile faded. “Is this where we part ways, good Thorn-Ren?” she asked, troubled.
“Not at all,” said the milk thistle as he extended his arm. “I would not feel right if I did not see you all the way home. Your company shall be payment for my good deed.”
Calla sighed playfully. “I suppose I am indebted to you for your courage,” she said.
Thorn-Ren shook his head. “Not at all. It is you who are doing me the favor. I have not enjoyed the company of another this much in many a time.”
Calla hooked a hand through Thorn-Ren’s arm. “Very well then, Thorn-Ren. Lead the way,” she said.
As the two plants began their walk to Alethia, Thorn-Ren practically beamed as he continued their conversation. “You know, Calla is a lovely name and suits you very well,” he said.
Calla squeezed his arm as she looked at him thoughtfully. “Thank you. I truly wish I could say the same. Thorn-Ren sounds dark and fearsome and you are a noble soul. Your name sounds combative, yet you strike me as someone who is adventurous at heart,” she said softly. “If I have offended you, I am truly sorry.”
Thorn-Ren chuckled. “It’s alright. You must understand there are not a great amount of noble or adventurous names given in Bunda-Bas. Our names are meant to be fearsome, to show strength. To be honest, I was never a fan of my own name and others are not a fan of me. I am often called Patch by my brethren as a means to belittle me,” said the milk thistle.
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