C.H. Schwartz

@chschwartz.bsky.social

538 Followers 1736 Following

He/Him Fantasy Writer Fantasy books should have more romance, explosions, and romantic explosions. Working on HEDGE MAGE FOR HIRE, a cozy fantasy about chasing your dreams Sometimes I draw art? https://ch-schwartz-author.com/ NO AI

“Gift for Mylia?” the innkeeper asked, a smirk playing at the edges of her mouth. “Yes.” “Ah. A thank you for the muffins? And the cinnamon rolls last week, I imagine. And the quiche she brought by for dinner.” “Don’t forget the scones!” Johan called from the kitchen. Artemisia narrowed her eyes. “How do you know about those?” “Because she destroys my kitchen when she makes them!” Johan said, sticking his head out of the serving window. “I’m getting tired of cleaning up without even getting a taste!” “She doesn’t share?” “Share?” Freya chuckled. “No, those are only for you.” Artemisia didn’t know what to do with that information. Freya spoke again with the same innocent tone. “You two have been spending a lot of time together lately.” “I suppose so.” True, most of Mylia’s spare time when not on patrol was spent at the shop while Artemisia worked or studied. If it was in the evenings, she sometimes brought dinner with her. Artemisia had been thrilled to learn that her skills extended far past baking to all cooking in general. “It’s not a big deal,” she said with a shrug. “It’s just nice to have a friend, finally.”
All of this was to say that Zephyr didn’t understand why if the headquarters of the Emperor’s Eyes was in the greatest city in the world, it had to be such a shithole. Crammed into a neighborhood on the south side of the city that even beggars would consider slums, the dilapidated Zenith Theater did a good job of looking unassuming. Once, long ago, it had been a premiere destination for new plays to debut or for concerts to play, but that had been a century and an arson attempt ago. Now the theater’s boarded up windows, crumbing brick, peeling paint and broken sign all told the world that anything worth stealing here had been long stolen. But given the might of the Empire and the security of the Imperial City, all the cloak and dagger seemed like overkill. Especially since now the whole place smelled like garbage and Zephyr was forced to wear disguising rags over their fetching suit whenever coming into headquarters. Yes, Zephyr decided as they stepped inside the theater, they definitely needed a vacation from all this. The stench of stale beer and old cigarettes hit them like a hammer. Zephyr wrinkled their nose as they sighted the source: a homeless man half buried in a pile of stained blankets beside the old ticketing window. The man mumbled incoherently at Zephyr, who pulled back their hood and gave a toothy grin. “The Emperor sees all, Caelen.” The man straightened like an arrow, tossing away the blankets and brushing grimy hair out of their face. A meticulously polished rifle rested on their lap, now exposed, and Caelen returned Zephyr’s smile with a scowl. “And he judges accordingly,” the man snapped the countersign. “You’re late, Corso.”
Gaven stood on a balcony with only one exit, an entrance to a staircase disappearing upwards. He leaned over the balcony’s railing wrought of fine black iron, face twisted in a devilish smirk at where Zephyr hung just out of arm’s reach. They resisted rolling their eyes at him and instead hazarded a look down at where churning blue-green water lapped in and out with the tide far below. Dark spires of rock jutted out like teeth from the sea foam, eager to chomp him to ribbons if the chains gave way. No doubt Gaven had a switch somewhere to do just that. Honestly, the real surprise was that this appeared to just be a simple sea cave underneath the villa and its secret basement complex. With how cliché everything else Gaven did was, Zephyr expected a pool of sharks or or something. They resisted the urge to sigh at the salty tinge in the air. Usually infiltrating a beach villa meant you’d get some time swimming and sunbathing—but Gaven had been all business from the start. Zephyr hadn’t gotten had a chance for so much as a relaxing bath. Perhaps they’d stay behind in Ash Bay after all this was over. It’d been a long time since they’d had a vacation.
A horrifically large scorpion scuttled across the empty display table, pulsating red under its chitinous form. It clicked pincers at the pair of them and Mylia’s transformation was instantaneous. The casual affectation that normally danced on her lips disappeared, her whole face hardening as she shoved Artemisia behind her. She ripped her sword free of its sheath with a practiced motion, and her whole body coiled like a viper before she lanced forward with her blade. The thin steel sank right through the illusion, burying the point right into the wood of the table as the scorpion blurred away into a cloud of dissipating mana. Mylia’s ears swiveled this way and that as she scanned the room for further threats, fangs bared like a wild animal. “Comet, I said stop doing that! If you have to scare people off, conjure a guard dog or something, gods,” Artemisia snapped. She tried to step around Mylia, who still tried to hold her back with one arm. “It was just an illusion, you can let me go now.” Comet, on cue, strode into view looking quite pleased and sniffed at the basket Mylia had set down. Artemisia watched as Mylia’s shoulders relaxed, sword falling to her side. Despite not knowing it was an illusion, Mylia had jumped in to shield her without a second thought. It left an unfamiliar warmth inside at the thought that someone’s first instinct would actually be to protect her.
Who discovered the Pit was a hotly debated subject. The human Kingdom of Aribethia claimed their founding queen discovered it on her crusade to unite the lords. The elves of the forest nation of Valliwyn claimed that a vision from their goddess Vallimere had led them there first. The Conclave of Dwarves said of course they’d been the ones to find it because their ancestors dug the damn thing. The various goblin tribes all agreed that the dwarves had actually dug it, but that they’d found it next and used it as a giant toilet as a joke. And so on and so forth. Whoever had found it, the one universally agreed upon fact was that humans were the first to decide “Hey, I should climb down there.” A rush of fortune seekers crawled out of the woodwork of the world after news of the discovery spread. Explorers who believed they would be the first to plumb its depths. Mages who believed they could unravel the mystery of its creation and purpose. Craftsmen who could sell their supplies to both those fools. Merchants who could supply materials to those craftsmen. Thus the small boomtown of Pit’s Burg was born. After several dozen attempts it became apparent that the Pit was truly bottomless with nothing obvious inside it, but by then Pit’s Burg had already gathered up a significant portion of the realm’s runaways and cast-offs. These types had inspired lawmen to come, and then doctors came to treat the survivors of the scuffles, and then lawyers came to sue both sides, and then politicians came to tax the whole lot of them. Within a decade Pit’s Burg had grown into a full fledged independent city-state only loosely related to the Pit itself.
A reading goal progress bar, at 20/30 books for the year
Lady Artemisia, thirteenth in line for the throne, always hated her father’s plans for her political future. All she wants is to apprentice as a mage in the city-state of Pit’s Burg and study the bottomless pit it was built around. But when she finally runs away from home to chase her dream, she never considers the possibility that her application to the Convocation of Mages would be rejected. Now with no one willing to teach her magic and in need of a way to earn enough coin to survive, Artemisia decides there’s only one logical choice: go into business as a hedge mage for hire and teach herself. What better way to learn magic than on the job? Except it turns out running a shop isn’t easy, and magical knowledge isn’t free. Worst of all, her father is still looking for her, and if he finds her he’ll stop at nothing to force her to return to a life of boring state dinners and stuffy council meetings. Soon Artemisia is forced to ask herself just how far she’s willing to go to ensure her dreams come true. Hedge Mage for Hire is a cozy fantasy about finding the happiness in chasing your dreams and the people who help make them come true.
Happy hockey player
“What you are doing is exceptionally dangerous. You are meddling with forces beyond your understanding. You are going to get yourself, or worse someone close to you, killed. Take this fine as a blessing. Return to your home. Give up on this.” “No.” “No?” he echoed. “No,” she repeated more forcefully. “Even if I’m dragged out of this city kicking and screaming, I’m going to keep learning magic. I’ll master magic. I’ll solve the mysteries of the Pit. I’m not going to give up on that just because you think I can’t manage it. If you were that worried about it, perhaps you should have let me apprentice under you like I wanted in the first place.” She expected another blowup. Another blast of rage in her face like she always got when she defended her dream. This time, however, she swore there was almost a twinkle in the corner of his eye. It must have been her imagination, because he frowned deeply at her. “Think on what I said, I implore you. Good afternoon, Miss Artemisia.”
“You’re crazy,” Mylia said to Kalin without looking up from where she etched. The drunk had sauntered over while they worked looking for free food and somehow the two had gotten involved in a fierce debate about boulderball. “Koby Roseheart is the greatest player in the history of the sport.” “He’s only won one championship!” Kalin protested. “Take away just his scores and he still would be the all time points leader just on smashes alone.” “I’m sorry,” Artemisia interrupted. “What’s a smash?” The table all turned to look at her, faces dumbfounded. “Do you not know how boulderball is played?” Johan asked. “I assume there is a boulder and or a ball involved.” The sport was a wholly Pit’s Burgian creation, and she knew almost nothing about it. Back home in Havensford it barely registered. Kalin, with drunken enthusiasm, explained that playing it revolved around attempting to take a medium sized boulder and chuck it through a ring on a pole in the center of the arena to score while several smaller boulders were hurled at each other in an attempt to stop said score from happening. A smash represented any time you successfully struck the boulder carrier with one of the smaller rocks and was worth one point. A score through the ring was worth five. “Don’t people get injured?” she asked. “Constantly!” Kalin confirmed. “Gods, I miss when the Old Town Spelunkers were around. Our district hasn’t had a team in decades.”
A group of player character minis next to a toppled big bad
Dylan larkin spongebob meme about how he wants a trade but only to Vegas or the Panthers
Artemisia couldn’t stop herself from groaning. The gossip circle in the nobility always spread faster than the truth could keep up with. If she had a crown for every rumor of a vampire cabal or Valliwynian sleeper agent amongst the House, she’d never need to open her shop again. “Why do they even care that I disappeared? It’s not like I spent a lot of time in the public eye before I left.” “There was that incident at the royal library,” Aden pointed out. “That was not my fault! The ladder gave way and those bookshelves should have been properly anchored.” “It took a week to clean up.” Artemisia could tell Mylia was trying her hardest not to laugh at her. She rolled her eyes at them. “Whatever. I didn’t think my departure would be the talk of court. What changed?”
Descending a story required twenty-one steps and there appeared to be a doorway every five stories. Thanks to the already well established measurements of the Pit’s circumference she was able to determine that one full rotation of the Pit required descending over six hundred stories and took you past more than a hundred doorways. Given that the lights lining the staircase spiraled downwards as far as the eye could see, there were likely thousands upon thousands of portals waiting to be explored. She couldn’t help but obsess over what was down there. The Convocation wasn’t publishing anything, however, and the mercenaries she bartered reports from were not great at studious note taking. Their observations were frustratingly surface level. It was hot. It was wet. We found some gold. A giant snake tried to eat me. A giant bird successfully ate my friend. So on and so forth. She had rough notes on four of the portals now with this most recent report. “It sounds like this one took them to a giant forest,” she told Freya. “That’s kind of dull, ain’t it? Just a big forest like Valliwyn?” “No, like literally giant. He said they couldn’t see the tops of the trees and there was a beetle the size of a wolf.”
Three books: This Princess Kills Monsters, Violet Thistlewaite is not a Villain Anymore, The Adventures of Amina Al-Sirafi
Artemisia plastered on the fake smile she had been trained her whole life to wear and gave her a respectful nod of the head. The mage did not return it. “Thank you for waiting,” she said. “My name is Apprentice Perlin, and I will be processing your application before taking you to Master Verum for your interview. Your name is?” Even now, months after running away, Artemisia struggled to deny the reflex to spout her full title. Lady Artemisia Echovian Lucio, heiress to House Lucio, thirteenth in line for the throne of Aribethia. She’d said it thousands of times. The thought of it soured her stomach, and she swallowed that trained recitation in order to simply say: “Artemisia.” “Miss Artemisia, before we proceed I must make sure you are aware of a couple things. Please confirm with a yes or no for each question. First, you are aware that the Convocation is a neutral party to the affairs of all nations including diplomacy and warfare?” “Everyone knows that.” Perlin stared at her expectantly, quill hovering over the page. She flushed. “Sorry. Yes.” Perlin made a note. “Secondly, you are aware that acceptance into the Convocation will require relinquishing all claims of inheritance such as but not limited to lands, titles and government positions.” “Yes.” She tried not to sound too eager at that one. “Lastly, do you understand that all application decisions are final and not subject to appeal. Acceptance cannot be denied and rejection cannot be appealed after the interview.” That one she had not known. “Oh.” She paused. “How often do people fail the interview?” “One in twelve make it through,” Perlin said, not looking up from the paperwork.
The doorbell jingled as she stepped into the most heavenly room she’d ever seen. Rows upon rows of books greeted her, with purple placards labeling each section. History, arts, children’s, romance (she had to restrain herself from going straight to that one), mysteries…the columns went on and on. There at the far back she glimpsed a small coffee counter of all things, with tables for patrons to enjoy their purchases at. All the chairs were wonderfully high-backed and cushy looking. The sights didn’t compare to the smell. Fresh cut paper, the metallic tang of ink, and laced over top of it all was the dark aroma of fresh brewed coffee and herbal teas. It smelled like she was back home in her mother’s library having teatime again. “I think I’m in love,” she breathed. “Welcome!” called a deep voice. Artemisia turned to the counter where a large man with dark tanned skin gave her a cheery wave. A portly fellow with a wild bushy blond beard, he spoke in a thick islander accent. “The Cracked Spine is here for all your needs, whether they be books, beverages, or bones.” “I beg your pardon, did you say bones?” “Of course!” he said. When she gave him a confused look, he grinned wide enough to reveal pearly teeth. “It’s a pun! Books have spines that crack, but so do people!” And then he laughed, a deep booming sound that threatened to knock books off the shelves. Artemisia tried hard not to chuckle. She did. But it was too bad of a joke not to laugh. A giggle slipped its way out, much to her chagrin, but that just made the man laugh even more.
“It’s for you.” Artemisia pushed it across the table, the back of her neck growing hot as Freya turned her mirth from Mylia’s misfortune towards her embarrassment. She became acutely aware of her tongue in her mouth. Was this too forward of a gift? What if she didn’t like it? For the first time in her life she wished she had spent more time talking to her peers and less time locked in her room reading. Mylia’s dark expression vanished, purple eyes lighting up as she pulled on the ribbon and opened the miniature bell tower. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting it, then placed it on the table. “It’s…I’m sorry. What is it?” “What time is it now?” Artemisia asked. Freya shrugged. “Almost eight evening bells?” Artemisia adjusted a small dial on the base to slightly before the number eight and set the bell tower down. They all stared at it for a few minutes. Right when Freya opened her mouth to say something assuredly sarcastic, the tiny tower tolled its little bell. Mylia let out a cry of delight. “It’s a little working bell tower!” “It’s primed off the closest one. Now it’ll toll when the real bell tower tolls, assuming the number of bells matches the setting on the dial. It should work no matter where you are, assuming there’s enough ambient mana around. I tried to keep it efficient, but in mana barren environments it might not work. Like the Contrari Desert. There’s conflicting studies on mana density there.” “Oh no,” Freya said dryly. “Mylia’s always going over the mountains into the desert. However will she wake up on time then?” They ignored the innkeeper. “It’s genius,” Mylia said. “I’m never going to oversleep again. I can’t believe the Convocation hasn’t made something like this before.”
Between trail food and the cheapest things at inns, Artemisia hadn’t eaten well on the road. And gods bless Johan’s heart, but his food was almost criminal. This bite of sandwich restored a faith in food she hadn’t realized she’d lost. Her manners flew by the wayside as she devoured the rest of it, sopping up the drippings on her plate with the last bit of crust. Then she ordered another. “Hey now,” Mylia chided, “I said my treat, but let’s not go overboard.” “You owe me,” Artemisia replied as she licked the last tasty morsels off her fingers. “You stole my toast this morning.” “Stole? I saved you from that toast. You should be thanking me for sparing you from having to eat it,” Mylia countered, but her grin returned. “So? What do you think? Bet you didn’t have a market like this back home.” No, the market back home had been larger, busier, better organized, and significantly cleaner than Old Town’s. But that seemed tactless to say. “There’s more people than I expected,” she offered instead. “I was under the impression that Old Town was all but abandoned.” “It is. Old Town used to have five markets across the district. Now it’s just this one. You wouldn’t believe how far some of these merchants have to travel to get here each morning. It does leave the market a little more crowded than intended. Tybil here technically set up his stall on part of the dueling ring, which should merit a fine. Isn’t that right?” Tybil constructed Artemisia’s new sandwich with one hand and shot Mylia an obscene gesture with the other.
“Oi! This one’s not a tourist, she’s new blood. This is Artemisia!” A chorus of grunts greeted Freya’s message and she waved the rest of them off. “Ah, don’t worry about them. Takes time for most of us in Old Town to warm up to newcomers.” She slapped the sill of the kitchen window and leaned her head in. “Johan, did you hear? New neighbor!” “Course I heard you screaming.” A portly faced man with thick spectacles and thicker sideburns stuck his head out the window “Hullo luv. Welcome to Pit Street.” “That’s my husband,” Freya said. “He’s the closest thing we got to a cook.” Artemisia’s stomach roared again. “Thank the gods. What’s good?” “Nothing,” said the man, Kalin, from down the bar. “It’s all fuckin’ rubbish.” Freya shot him an obscene gesture, but Johan chuckled. “He’s not wrong,” the man admitted. “I’m sure it’s better than whatever I would come up with. Just give me whatever’s hot and fresh.” When Johan appeared again, sweeping a plate of plate of chicken, steamed carrots, and a boiled potato in front of her, Artemisia immediately regretted her claim. There wasn’t a speck of seasoning or color to be found within a mile of the plate. With a deep breath, she took a bite. It was impossible, and yet, it tasted like the color beige. Artemisia chewed slowly and painfully, locking eyes with Kalin down the bar. He gave her a sympathetic nod and gestured at the beer.
As she hopped off the cart it was readily apparent why they called this district Old Town. Half the buildings looked like their rusty nails were barely holding the timbers together, and the cobblestone street held more potholes than paving stones. Even the buildings that were habitable were so weathered that the stone itself seemed to be begging for release. The dwarf took two of her few silver crowns as payment and bid her farewell. Artemisia didn’t watch him go. She was too busy beholding the majesty of the Pit up close for the first time. She knew the dimensions of what she saw by heart. Near two miles across, a perfect circle, and Pit Street stretched approximately six miles of its circumference before butting up against the mountains on the north and south ends of the city. The numbers didn’t do it justice in person and her heart raced at the sight of the infinite darkness below. She was finally here, where she wanted to be. Yet after just a few moments she had to look away. Why was it so big? Why didn’t the sun seem to penetrate the darkness inside? How had the sides been formed of such perfectly smoothed stone with no tool marks? Why, gods, why hadn’t they built a railing around the damn thing? Her breath quickened in her chest, and she hazarded another look down into the inky abyss. Her stomach leapt into her throat and strangled itself, forcing her to retch her breakfast over the edge. “Yeah,” chuckled a raspy voice behind her, “I remember my first time. Least you don’t have to worry about cleaning up!”
The man at the bar immediately raised his hand for a refill and the innkeeper just as quickly snapped at him. “Keep your shirt on Kalin, I’ll be right there.” Setting the mugs down she paused in front of Artemisia and scowled. “What’d you want, tourist?” She was a human just now passing the end of middle age, though the worry lines and sleepless nights written on her face made her seem even older. A streak of gray had crept into her auburn hair but it was hardly noticeable against the mess of it shoved into a hasty bun. All of that was lost on Artemisia after hearing the scorn in her voice. “Tourist?” she asked with a meekness that would have enraged her father to hear from a noble Lucio. “Haven’t seen you here before, therefore, you must be a tourist who has come into Old Town to look at the Pit. Normally you all just go back to the fancier inns back in the heart of the city but let me guess. You wanted to take in the authentic, original Pit’s Burg dive bar experience before you leave. I got that right?” Her accent was Aribethian like Artemisia’s, but rougher and more clipped. Clearly she’d grown up on the outskirts of the kingdom. “Actually,” Artemisia replied, “I just moved here. Lor-rol told me about this inn he co-owned, and I wanted dinner.” She stared, mouth agape. “You moved here. Here. Out of all places?” “I bought the old bookshop.” The innkeeper’s eyes almost popped out. “You bought that dump? Kossa’s stars, no wonder you look a fright. No one’s been in there in years!” She extended a hand. “I’m Freya, welcome to The Busted Mug.”
“What bounty?” She tried to keep her voice steady. A bounty was a good deal worse than if her father had sent a few hand picked individuals after her. How wide had the notice gone out? She checked the boards in the market whenever she visited out of minor paranoia of this very situation, and her face had never been among the wanted posters there. The man held out a piece of parchment. “Go on. Take it. You got nowhere to run anyways.” She scowled as she snatched it from his hand, stepping back lest he try to grab her. He made no move to do so, merely folding his arms and tapping his foot impatiently. It was not a wanted poster, but a missing person’s report. She read it carefully. Missing. Lady Artemisia Echovian Lucio. Please report all findings to the nearest government official of Aribethia. Reward for successful location and return: 10,000 ducats. Below the writing was a well rendered print of the most recent portrait of her. Her father had made all of them pose for one every year; this was the twentieth in a long line of paintings she hated. It was jarring to see her past self stare back from a piece of paper, face buried under the weight of thick make up and lustrous black hair flowing off the canvas. After so long keeping it chopped short she couldn’t remember how she had managed to keep that much hair in order. But the part that drew her in, the worst of it all, were her eyes. They stared sullenly back at her, without a single spark behind them, trapped in a miserable point in time. Had she truly looked this unhappy back then? “That’s not me.” “Bullshit,” the man spat. “I asked around the market last week and they said that there was an Artemisia here, some kind of witch in a pointy hat. You’ve the right name, right color eyes, right age…only thing not right about you is that you got a damn haircut.” “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s not me. So you can be on your way.”
I have been in the editing business so long that I dont know what to do with the rest of my life
An elf sitting at a bar
A paperback copy of reborn in ash by gabrielle steele
Artemisia was jolted awake by a panicked, high pitched voice. “Excuse me! Could you stop your familiar from eating us?” She groaned and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. How long had it been since she had dreamed those horrible memories? Even now they faded away, but she could feel the hollow pit in her stomach that always followed them. She might have lost herself completely to it, were it not for the purple light bouncing around her bedroom. “What’s happening?” she mumbled, blinking through the bombardment of color. “Your familiar. We are sure it is a lovely pet but if you would not mind we do not want to be breakfast!” Her vision finally adjusted to see a diminutive humanoid form bathed in violet flitting around the ceiling to avoid Comet’s impressive leaping attempts to seize it in his claws. That snapped her awake. “Comet, no!” He stopped his assault and fixed his golden eyes on her. He flicked his tail and conjured another image of roast chicken. “I don’t care if you’re hungry, we don’t eat people!” She peered closer at the figure as they descended from the ceiling towards her face.
“Love makes people do crazy things.” “It was definitely a different word beginning with L that drove my brother that night,” Artemisia scoffed, “if you know what I mean.” Mylia smiled, but she seemed to be holding words back. Right when Artemisia was going to ask her what it was she spoke, voice soft. “Have you ever been in love?” “Oh. Um. I guess you did say this was the time to ask each other personal questions.” Mylia blanched and looked away. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—” “It’s alright. If you must know, then no. I have not been in love with someone.” “But you’ve dated, right?” Once they were all in the throes of puberty, Artemisia had begun to attract the interest of a couple of the other children of nobility. Her father had been fiercely protective of her, she knew more than a few offers of future marriage had come in but he’d always turned them down. “She’s a Lucio,” he said. “She’ll have her pick of whoever she wants when she is ready and not a moment before.” That had suited her just fine. She’d been far more interested in books, although her father did insist on sending her on a few dates—for the social practice, he’d claimed. It was just that everyone she’d been matched with were all so dreadfully dull, far too busy talking about themselves to let her even speak. Boys who merely spoke of hunting and swordplay, girls who talked at length about fashion and archery, none of them came close to even piquing her interest. And that was to say nothing of the ever present feeling that they were far more interested in her last name than in herself. “I had a couple dates, here or there. Its just that no one has ever seemed to fit quite right. What about you? Have you been in love?” “Once,” Mylia said, studying the path in front of them instead of looking at her. “Maybe twice.”
The silver chest. She couldn’t bear to look at it. Instead she swallowed her welling grief and spoke. “It’s what I was asked to retrieve.” “Yes, I understand that, but what is it? Why were you asked to retrieve it?” “I don’t know! Why don’t you open it and find out?” “Because,” he said slowly, “I do not want to risk invalidating whatever deal you made with that devil.” That was enough to make her stop staring at her knees and look at the mage. “You know about that?” “I suspected when I found out how you got out of that fine. I confirmed when I tracked down who had put the pressure to get your license for the Pit approved, while you were asleep.” He shook his head. “You really will do anything to learn magic, won’t you?” There was no malice in his tone, but with Mylia laying at death’s door from her choices, the words pierced her worse than any blade could ever have. “I couldn’t go back home. I had to make this work. I didn’t mean for…” The words caught in her throat.
fore, and its been three days now.” A cat. Artemisia hated cats. But she liked paying her mortgage. “I can find a cat, sure.” Freya started to smile, but then her expression fell. “Is this gonna cost me an arm and a leg?” Ah. Cost. Yet another thing she probably should have thought about before putting the sign up. The material components for most of the services she expected to offer would be pretty small, just a few helms for paper and ink. And bandages, for the many pricked fingers. But how much was magic worth, especially if she truly had no competition? “Ten…no, thirteen…” Artemisia’s voice trailed off as she attempted to run profit forecasts in her head and gauge Freya’s expression at the same time. “Oh my stars, you don’t even know.” Artemisia scowled as the heat rose to her cheeks. “As I said, I was not intending to be officially open yet.”
She wondered if all the watchmen here were so rude as she walked to the taxi. While the cart itself was ordinary, just a simple passenger wagon bathed in peeling green paint, the creature it was hitched to was anything but. It looked akin to a newt, if a newt had been drawn by a child who had only heard of through playground rumors. A fat tail and flat head sprouted from a bulbous, brownish-green body perched low to the ground, and it would have been quite ugly if not for the big eyes and dopey smile. One of those eyes swiveled to look at her and a long pink tongue flicked out to lick it. “Never seen a triton before, lass?” asked the driver, a stocky looking dwarf with a shaved head and traditionally long wispy eyebrows that framed his face. They shook as he chuckled, the trinkets of metal braided into them jingling. “Not outside of an illustration,” Artemisia said, leaning forward to study it. A glistening, sticky sheen covered it and she was surprised to find it smelled faintly of fresh cut grass. “The real thing can’t compare to ink scratches on a page,” the dwarf said. “Where ye heading?”
A picture of the book "The Devouring" by A.M. Shilling
A few moments later sharp claws pricked her legs as the familiar trod on top of her, kneading happily before it curled into a ball. “Decided you like it here?” she chuckled in spite of the needling pain. The creature purred, a comforting weight on her legs, and she gave it a scratch behind the ears. Now that the ceiling had been repaired the night sky with its twin moons, many stars, and milky purple galaxies could no longer be seen from her bedroom. Those months of camping off the road on the journey to Pit’s Burg had made them a comforting sight before falling asleep, and she now found she missed them dearly in the dark. “Maybe I can get a skylight put in,” she muttered to herself. The familiar flicked its tail in response and an impossibly beautiful night sky blossomed into existence across her ceiling. Purple astral clouds rolled between glowing stars of yellow, orange, and red, the darkness coiled around them textured like velvet. The twin moons glimmered blue and gold as they twinkled down on them, the nightscape familiar yet alien in its design. “That’s beautiful,” Artemisia murmured. “Thank you, uh…do you have a name?” The familiar made no response and a comet streaked across the false sky in a dim blue flash. “How about Comet? That’s a nice name, huh? What do you think of that?” The familiar’s purrs deepened, and soon she and Comet were both snoring beneath the magical starry sky.
Artemisia looked out the window of the mage’s tower and reflected that reading about a bottomless pit wasn’t the same as actually seeing it. At the far edge of the city a yawning emptiness swallowed the horizon, the low peaks of forested mountains barely visible behind it. Were it not for the height of the tower, she’d barely be able to see across the length of it. The Pit. Her mind struggled to process it. The Pit was so terrifyingly alien that parents used it to frighten their children into behaving. Naughty children get taken in their sleep and tossed in the Pit, her father would chide her and her brother, much to her mother’s annoyance. She always feared it would give them nightmares. Her mother needn’t have worried. The idea of the Pit did nothing but excite her. If there was a more pure expression of the magical unknown, Artemisia couldn’t imagine it. And yet, even though she was close enough to finally see it, it was still so far away.
The door bell jingled as she stepped into the most heavenly room she’d ever seen. Rows upon rows of books greeted her, with purple placards labeling each section. History, arts, children’s, romance (she had to restrain herself from going straight to that one), mysteries…the columns went on and on. There at the far back she glimpsed a small coffee counter of all things, with a few seats for patrons to drink and read at. All the chairs were wonderfully high backed and cushy looking. The sights didn’t compare to the smell. Fresh cut paper, the metallic tang of ink, and laced over top of it all was the dark aroma of fresh brewed coffee and herbal teas. It smelled like she was back home in her mother’s library having teatime again. “I think I’m in love,” she breathed. “Welcome!” called a deep voice. Artemisia turned to the counter where a large man with dark tanned skin gave her a cheery wave. A portly fellow with a wild bushy blond beard, he spoke in a thick islander accent. “The Cracked Spine is here for all your needs, whether they be books, beverages, or bones.” “I beg your pardon? Did you say bones?” “Of course!” he said. When she gave him a confused look, he grinned wide enough to reveal pearly teeth. “It’s a pun! Books have spines that crack, but so do people!” And then he laughed, a deep booming sound that threatened to knock books off the shelves. Artemisia tried hard not to chuckle. She really did. But it was too bad of a joke not to laugh. A giggle slipped its way out, much to her chagrin, but that just made the man laugh even more.
A fan in a red wings jersey says they will always be a fam but they hate this team
A writing progress bar showing 53,121 words out of a planned 80,000, of a project tentatively called Hedge Mage for Hire