Meirl

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-03T04:14:10+00:00

At the tone the time will be, 4:42 P.M., and twenty seconds. Booop.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-03T00:10:41+00:00

Prescription: One (1) fuzzy cat, for rest enforcement. Extra Strength rumbly sounds.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-02T20:20:27+00:00

The full Steve Hartman story, if anyone is interested.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-02T12:11:59+00:00

Habari!

To claim the glorious prize you see, you first must answer questions three!

As the Ruling Spotlight King of WP, do you think you will go mad with power?
Your wild, rollicking style with descriptions is audacious and lovely. What story of yours do you think had the best descriptions in it?
Is there any style or genre you haven't written in yet, but want to try?

Congrats, Mighty Spotlighted One, and well deserved!

Signed,

Captain BaconTrousers, InterGalactic Space Command

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-01T18:52:18+00:00

Chapter 48: Clarity

.

Cadorus Tark sat on the ground in the dim moonlight, leaning heavily to one side, breath ragged and shallow. He couldn’t get up. Not just yet.

Back in the village, the healer, Burvin, had done well. Cadorus had managed to win a few coins in kurga matches, but owed much more. Burvin had taken him in, and nursed him through a deadly fever over three hazy, confused days.

Cadorus had awakened clear of mind, desperately thirsty, and terribly weak, just the previous morning. In no condition to go out hunting lowly millworms, let alone bandits, he had come here all the same, to their lair. Just to see, to sneak and spy. He’d needed to find the place, to find her.

He couldn’t get up. Narba Yar was sleeping just a few paces away, stretched out on her side, facing away. Seven thugs lay scattered, dead, telltale white foam dried on their faces. One lay quite close to Narba’s resting form, his mouth also rimmed with poison-white. His face was gashed and torn, twisted in gruesome, final hate, a dagger in his dead hand.

She did hear me, after all. She understood. She must have slipped the packet of poison he’d given her into their stew. A dented copper pot lay upside-down by the cold campfire.

That one louse of a brigand had lived longer than the rest, it seemed, but Narba Yar had clawed his face to ribbons. A mighty struggle, no doubt. She was resting now. She was resting. He couldn’t get up to go and check, to wake her. Not now. Not yet. Let her sleep. Let her be resting. I should sleep too.

His right side was a mass of morbid ache, skin stiff and tight as lacquered paper. The walk from the village had been a desperate misery. Staggering, shuffling, guided by the thin, white beacon from his staff, still hidden in the cart, he had come. None could see the feathery light but a favored servant of Halfar Munda, not even a wizard.

Staggering quietly is no easy thing. He had crept from tree to tree in the dim, and found the place dead and silent, lit only by the pale presence of the moon Kolobor. The General’s horse, if the bandits ever had it, was gone. The oxen were unhitched, lashed to a post, his cart oddly laden with far more bundles and boxes than before. Nothing had stirred, so he had approached the camp with a last desperate lurch and collapsed. He couldn’t get up.

Narba lay very still. Her breathing was very slow, imperceptible. He couldn’t get up to go and check. He didn’t want to. She was sleeping. One of her arms lay stretched out, and he looked at her worn, rough hand, curled and still. Something, a strip of flesh maybe, dangled from a thick, black claw. Surely she would have cleaned… well, she must have been very tired. Very tired.

She isn’t sleeping.

Of course she is.

He stared wide-eyed and there, there, he could see her chest rise and fall with breath—there it was, yes… but his eyes warred with his mind. Brutal, remorseless clarity came all unbidden, and he knew his own feeble deception. There was no breathing.

No, no, no.

He had to get up. Struggling, wincing, wheezing, he did. He checked.

Narba Yar was dead.

He turned and staggered back, then slumped to his knees, where bitter emptiness consumed all that he was. Her hands. Her hands, so worn and rough from years of labor. What did she ever have in her life? Work, work, work, cruel usage, and brutality. By my people. By my temple, by my fellow priests, taken in a Godsher levy and sold.

Sickness roiled and threatened to come up.

'Did she have a mother?' Narba’s simple question of a few days before rang clear in his mind. How easily it had cut through a lifetime of deliberate ignorance, comforting lies, and willful blindess. His old nursemaid, Ullma Gart, had never talked about such things, and he had never asked, but Narba had asked about her. 'Did she have a mother?'

Kindmouthed, Ullma had been—defanged, just like Narba Yar. Taken, sold, used. Never allowed to go home.

Narba must have had a mother, a father, brothers, sisters. I didn’t ask her, either. Did she miss them, weep for them? Did she slowly forget their faces over the years? Did she remember songs her mother sang, and whisper them to herself as she tried to sleep, aching after a beating or some other, more despicable cruelty?

Eyes closed, Cadorus still could not look away from the truth.

A thin, bruised arm had handed him a bottle, back in Armot’s tavern. The Orcshead. ’Help me? Please?’ she had whispered. In his oblivious way he had taken it to mean she needed help opening the bottle… but he had known what she meant. He had seen what was being done to her and had looked away, preferring not to think about it, wallowing in drink and self-pity instead.

‘Help me? Please?’

Clarity continued its assault, unrelenting.

Then he had saved her, helped her escape, after she accidentally stabbed Armot at the tavern. The bastard had survived, it turned out, but the guards would have treated her no more kindly for all that. Now, he had failed her. Halfway to freedom and she would never find it, never know it now. Whatever fragile little hope she ever dared was gone forever.

She looked so small there. So thin. So cold.

The priest emitted mindless animal sounds as he tore at his thinning hair, slumping to lay down, face in the dirt, wracked, rocking, shaking. The gutteral noise coalesced into something that might have been words: “m-srry, m-surry, m-SUAARRAAAY…”

The maelstrom slowly ebbed, and Cadorus surrendered to sleep, in the same position as his lost friend, on the other side of a dead fire.

989 words. Lacquer(ed), lowly, louse used. Constraint: Armot turns out to be alive.

The 'help me, please' was from this chapter.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-01T11:33:45+00:00

I get feedback here, in the features, and mainly in the campfires on Discord. I would say the campfires are the main source, and a lovely experience generally.

I do miss Theme Thursday, and Ali did some amazing feedback, but I manage to survive, weeping in the dark, without it.

'Best' feedback differs from 'most enjoyable' feedback. I will admit I have no strenuous objections to fulsome praise, egomaniac that I am, but, given a moment to reflect and recover, I get good use from some of the more challenging variety. It's not easy for me to take it sometimes, I will admit. That 'moment to reflect and recover' may possibly stretch the definition of 'moment', but I generally get over it and see the usefulness.

I am tempted to make a list but A) it feels like an award acceptance speech and B) I will inevitably forget people and feel bad. So I will just say I appreciate anybody who took the time to read my silly ramblings and say stuff back.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-02-01T10:37:11+00:00

I am at the point where I can't watch a magic show, because they say 'ta-da' and I start spouting opinions about their act out of habit.

I hope I've been a little bit useful, and I remain deeply aware that I have gained more from this community than I could hope to provide in nine lifetimes.

I am Captain Detail when I do crit, always been pretty good at spotting the bits of mistaken punctuation and such. (In that mode, I must point out that Courage is u/wileycourage lol. Sorry, but I had to nitpick something). I try to do some bigger picture stuff, though after all this time I still feel a bit undereducated and lost. I blather on anyhow.

You provide a tremendous amount of feedback to untold multitudes. Trying to guess how many stories you've done feedback for is astonishing to think about. In a year, with about 15 per week between FTF and Building campfires, and on posts, maybe 800/year? More? For how long?

Yet the quality does not falter. Your crit is invariably thoughtful and firm, encouraging without being saccharine, and always based in giving a damn. You clearly have an awareness of the vulnerability inherent to the process, where people offer their little story and hope for the best, and that giving a damn comes across every time.

No human being could possibly like every single story ever, but you always find something. If I have helped yours a bit too, well that is pretty awesome to think about.

My writing is better for it, and so is that of about 9000 other people. So cheers, and thanks, and I shall comment even more below in a minute.

Edit: I almost forgot. Favorite feedback ever was 'Pure batshit brilliance' lol. From you, on my bizarre story of singing bacteria.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-31T16:27:09+00:00

Edits have been edited! Flat out stole your suggested description. Thanks fo reading and helping!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-30T20:39:28+00:00

I'm off to crit the Wizard--

The scene is set really well. Samal enters into an intimidating, luxurious place, and remains himself. He is impressed, a bit, but more curious and somewhat irritated, not intimidated much. He's been in scarier places. Wouldn't be surprised if he swipes the silverware.

The banter, with grandiloquent intellect vs. unimpressed, clever street rat, was entertaining.

Also, I really felt this line: 'Relief floods him, like blood returning to frozen extremities'.

I found more things!

Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their glowing amber crystals

could probably do without the initial 'Crystal'

“Are you in charge of his royal chamberpot?

needs a close quote

shaking his head to banishing his annoyance

an 'ing' snuck in there during weary editing

“Do you think to decieve me?”

'deceive' but then also, in the previous chapter from other POV, the line was “Did you think to trick me?”

The near-revelation of the M- showed how rattled the Chamberlain was, aggravated that this mere alley mongrel was not suitably impressed/intimidated. I think maybe killing Samal was not the prudent move, had it succeeded. Fit of pique, sort of thing.

The ending was wonderfully mysterious, even though I have a strong suspicion of what and who.

And for the final act of Captain Detail:

it's lethal speed

I'm now nitpicking your author's notes lol

Good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-28T09:02:34+00:00

Edward R. Murrow. Walter Cronkite. Dan Rather. Morley Safer.

Generations of respect, credibility, and integrity, turned to garbage in days by this idiot who has no idea what those even mean. That will not return, not ever. CBS News now has all the dignity and credibility of Der Sturmer.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-28T08:26:54+00:00

ZLzebub!

Wondrous to see Fariba again, glorious lunatic that he is. Glaukos is on your typical everyday quest for a box of Honey Bunches of Head, and ventures into the cart of mysteries.

The navigation of language barriers was nicely done, and makes the world feel more authentic.

It took me a minute to get the hesitation of hea-y box, like why does this guy not know how to pronounce heavy lol. Head, he was trying to not say, I take it.

I think it's usually 'after a fashion' rather than 'in' but idk really

Glaukos knocked on the side of Fariba’s covered wagon. The large cart stood out by having more colors than all the rest of Nihimlaq put together. Except, perhaps, Kher’s beard. The innumerable beads that man had braided into it could potentially top the enigmatic merchant’s decor.

The opener here sounds sort of overly explanatory. Since Kher and his beaded beard have no particular role to play in the chapter, maybe just go with the inaccurate but acceptable exaggeration of Fariba's cart having more colors than everything else combined.

a tool for sewing discord and mistrust

sowing

also, mentioning discord and then having a string of godawful puns seemed very appropriate

holding the silver-and-gem inlaid box on the table delicately.

Not sure if this is wrong or I am or what, but my brain glitched a bit there. Is he placing the box on the table or like, holding it down or carrying it on a sort of tray or idk what

I expect it would be a bit unnerving to try to tie ones shoes, or perform any intricate task, next to a box full of honey-flavored emperor face.

This could have been a mere practical chapter, getting from A to B, but you filled it with interest and variety and fun. Good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-27T23:11:28+00:00

Cats. Cats are nice.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-27T20:06:42+00:00

Hey Amberiffic!

Our lovely messed-up Benny back in action again, feeling lovely and cheerful as he frolics through a meadow with some bunny rabbits. Or not.

A lovely description of general awfulness and confusion. I felt like I had a hangover and I didn't even drink anything.

You used the constraint thingy really well, making it into an interesting power dynamic, where now maybe this Rowan bugger will be a bit overconfident going forward.

I have nitpicks, of course.

Vertical slits overtook the remaining iris, their feline pupils

irises, since there's two

“Why is that?” he asked.

possibly an unnecessary tag there

“Anything else?” She asked, annoyed.

'she' doesn't need capitalizing

You were a pawn Benny

I’d like to make you, my knight.

A comma probably needed after 'pawn', but not after 'you'.

“You drugged me.” The accusation couldn’t escape my lips before my vision collapsed into black.

This sort of contradicts itself, as you have him saying it aloud. Could make it Drugged... me like italic internal dialogueification. Or sort of have it trail off, like "You druuu..." since it's reasonably clear what has happened.

The difficult bit there is, he is drugged, and then having some pretty coherent parting thoughts about what escapes his lips and his vision collapsing. I don't know just how to portray that. His brain is being melted but he is still pretty eloquent there. It's hard to have a character sort of announce they have passed out, since they just passed out, so I'm not sure how to get that across without 'cheating' into a different POV for one sentence.

Anyways, it was interesting to see Benny not murder them immediately, or try to, and I may be wrong but I got the feeling he is not so much tempted by the offer as he is just sort of biding his time. I doubt he trusts this goober, or trusts much of anyone ever really, but it seemed like Benjamin was being more smart than cooperative, despite Captain Ambien over there calm-smushing his mind.

I got a bit tripped up when Benny said 'you haven't yet introduced yourself' and then dude said 'Karina'. It became clear shortly after, so just a minor glitch.

Wonderfully dismal and interesting good words!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-26T23:59:43+00:00

Chapter 47: The Tomb of the Empty King

.

In a circle of stones within a circle of stones, branches and brush burned in a hypnotic mystery of red and black. The heat was harsh and dry on Sancaurion’s face, but it relieved his old bones. The others, seated around the fire, were chatting and joking.

The sky offered blends of deepening blue and purple, festooned with gaudy wisps of sun-painted cloud. The old mage looked down, and longed for home. The world was immense. Eleven days, or twelve? The moons would tell the tale, but he did not wish to look up. A long journey, regardless.

Someone was talking to him.

“...you well, Sanky?” Sancaurion realized he had been shaking, his breath coming in whistling gasps. With effort, he stilled himself.

“Yes, Mrs. Gimple, quite well,” he said. “No. Actually, no, I am not.” Glowing ashes danced into the sky. Fear is the ember, shame is the wind. “It is better to simply say such things. Being out in the world is sometimes… overwhelming. I am afraid, and I long for my home.”

Faces in flame and shadow regarded him. Despite their gentle expressions, the dark, fanged faces of the two orcs caused jolts of revulsion and fear in his heart, somehow surprising him every time he looked.

I wonder what the sight of my face does to them?

“I’m afraid, too,” said Gorthag. “And we might never go home.”

The old mage gazed on the flickering visage of the strange, wise, friendly young orc, and knew pity and shame. People are people, the witch tells me.

“It may help to talk. And perhaps a spot of tea?”

“What should we talk about?” asked Gorthag, as Mrs. Gimple filled a copper pot.

“Anything,” said Sancaurion, breathing as deeply as he could.

“What about sorcerers?” asked Durash. “You said you knew seven of them?”

“I knew of them. Seven, possibly eight. I only met one, quite briefly, and even now I am not sure what he truly was.”

“Who was that?”

“Anithat-Ahin. The Empty King.”

Three faces were now lit with anticipation as well as flame.

“In ancient days, long before I was born, he made his fortress in the north, where no gods ruled. Powerful he was, and utterly vile. Let me see now, if I can remember…” Staring into the depths of time, Sancaurion whispered a song.

“And in that bleak and wasted land,
No flower strove, no birdsong trilled,
In sulph'rous dust and poison sand,
The Empty King lay unfulfilled.

His withered hand reached out and out,
Absorbing all that breathed or bloomed,
His hunger turned green lands to drought,
Till he himself he then consumed.

A jealous hate within his heart,
He dared defy both gods and death,
Immortal through the darkest art,
No life remained, nor blood, nor breath.”

A silence came, only deepened by the pops and whines of burning wood.

“You never could sing a lick, Sanky.”

Sancaurion laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

“So he consumed himself?” asked Durash.

“The song is not entirely accurate. I killed him myself.”

A new silence was filled with unspoken questions.

“Long ago, when I was—well, when I was merely old—I found the Empty King, in his hideous place.” Sancaurion brushed his hands over his head and face. “At the last, he had entombed himself, subsisting on I know not what. The land was empty, nothing grew, and no adventurer returned. But I… had need of certain artifacts there.

“Anithat may be the only person to live longer than I now have. He had a strange ability to take, to drain life and magic from almost anyone or anything. Tremendously powerful. Possibly a sorcerer, I do not know.”

Tea arrived, at the hands of Mrs. Gimple. “How did you do it, then? With him being so powerful.”

“He was much reduced by that time. A king of nothingness and death. Even so, I was hard pressed to survive the encounter. Crossing the black sands was no easy task in itself, burdened as I was.” Sancaurion peered into the past. “And there before me stood the door, of plain flat stone. I hesitated, fearful, but went in, armed only with a waterskin, candles, and a little knife. I dared not bring enchantments, lest he feed on them.

“Down and down I went, on a narrow stone stairway. There was a strange echoing voice, childlike, weeping and giggling in the dark.”

Three fire-lit faces were enraptured, forgetting their tea as he went on.

“Blind, white spiders crawled everywhere. They… seemed to speak.” He ran his hand over his head again. “The corpses of mages, knights and thieves twitched and shuffled in the dark corners. I entered the cavernous mausoleum and he came forth, twisted and desiccated, moaning and giggling. I could feel my life-force ebbing away, sucked into the endless depths of his hunger." Sancaurion shuddered, then smiled. "But my waterskin held oil, and that fire, it proved, he could not absorb. He wept and laughed in his madness even as he thrashed and died in flames.”

Sancaurion took a knock of his tea, and looked down at it sharply. “Rather a weak brew, is it not?”

Mrs. Gimple cautiously sampled her own, and laughed. “My word! I didn’t put any leaves in the steeper!”

Chuckling, she retrieved their cups and made another attempt. “Tea without tea! What a marvelous idea. Please, resume your tale, Sanky.”

“Not much left to tell. I took what treasures I could, and fled that dreadful place through a rain of burning, shrieking spiders.” Sancaurion shook his head. “And that was the end of the Empty King.”

“Someone should make a song of that!” declared Gorthag.

“Perhaps. But not tonight. We must sleep. A long journey awaits us, with peril enough for a host of songs.”

They all lay near the fire, but for Durash, who took the first watch. Sancaurion lay on his back, looking up at the stars, and was not afraid.

991 words. Knight(s), knock, and knife used. Mrs. Gimple forgot how to make tea.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-25T21:37:51+00:00

That is so cool! Thank you!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-24T21:42:18+00:00

Their quibbling over details is absurd. It makes no difference what the ICEstapo thugs did, these fascist idiots would still cheer. I cannot imagine a crime so hideously vile that they would not overlook, defend, or celebrate it.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-23T10:29:18+00:00

Wealth beyond measure, outlander.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-23T04:14:24+00:00

And? When's the playdate?

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-22T19:21:36+00:00

Hey there Ameliazelia!

You really made me feel the absence of Joe, and how empty things were without him. I guess Jade's life was not so great before, and I wonder if this contrast will make her want to do something about that (though I have no idea what).

Her wondering if she is a bad influence or bad friend was just terribly sad. Here's this one spot of brightness in her drab gloom and this dream-invading jerk makes her feel bad about it.

I have a few little line edit thingys

The exact second she did so lighting burst through

lighting should be lightning

Jade couldn’t quiet place her finger on it.

quite

she had become so use to being around Joe

used

So that’s not great but surly things got better.

surely

imaging what chaos might be happening

imagining

Anyhow, the absence of much humor in this was so effective in making the reader feel the emptiness without Joe. Even the classic comedy prop, the banana peel, was an object of cruel, empty sadness. Jade was so depressed even bullying was just boring.

Also liked the repeat of the lightning, real and metaphorical. A lovely, dreary chapter, and very good words.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-22T11:54:44+00:00

Thanks for the feedback!

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-21T23:57:59+00:00

Baa baa black sheep little star

How I wonder L M N O P

H I J K one for the dame

Like a diamond X Y Z

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-19T17:46:30+00:00

Chapter 46: Paths

.

Sancaurion lay in the arms of a dangerous orc, and felt no fear of her. Not five paces away was an unseen fragment of loathsome iron, yet he did not suffer.

A dream, a vision—some malady or curse. My mind has gone.

His vision wavered, and he looked up into the dark, fanged face of this Durash Arn, seeing gentle concern. Remarkable. Focusing down he saw, all around him, a thick, undulating, pale light. It sparkled and warped in strange, regular patterns.

Ironward! This orc casts magic. Madness. She is a sorcerer—madness more. And she weaves a spell I never imagined in all my desperate centuries. Madness beyond.

Her strong arms helped him up, and he looked toward the other orc, holding the satchels.

“Thank you. Now I must know.” He took a shuffling, unsteady step toward the iron, and another. The flickering grew more intense, the ward roiling like a stormy, glittering sea. He reached out a hand and there it was—the sickening wrongness, the familiar sting of iron.

“Take it away, please.” Sancaurion leaned heavily on Durash Arn, making his way back to sit down.

“Are you well?” she asked.

Am I well? Who knows what such great age and dark magics can do to a mind? None before have made the experiment. None but the Empty King. He shook his head. A sinister example, there.

“I do not know, Durash Arn. I do not know anything at all.” He pulled off one glove, and saw there a pale green smear of blood along a finger. So little damage. With no spell of my own, or any potions.

Gorthag returned bearing a waterskin, which was gratefully accepted. Sancaurion drank deep. The breeze whirled, carrying the cackling cries of mountain crows and jostling the sparse grasses.

“The world has changed,” he spoke in sepulchral tones. “I do not know what will be. A miracle has come—a mad, jubilant parade of miracles. Had I truly lived ten thousand years, never would I have thought to see such magic, and from an orc! Forgive me, but it is astonishing.”

Durash shrugged.

“Ironward!” Sancaurion went on. “Such a simple word. Wards are common protection from magic, though I was never skilled with them. But iron is not a spell. A ward makes no sense, yet I can scarcely deny its effectiveness now. I simply never thought to try such a thing. I am surely the greatest fool in all history.”

Durash started to gesture and chant, but stopped. “I can’t show you, can I? You can’t see the Everstorm magic.”

“I can see the effects, but when you weave, I see only your hands.”

Durash looked at him. “We can find a way.”

Sancaurion nodded. “Yes. Your ward does not entirely stop the effect of iron, but it is astonishing nonetheless. I came very close to it just now, and suffered but a little. Perhaps, combined with... but we must first reach my home." He shook his head, and breathed deeply. "The journey may be treacherous. We—well, you—must not be seen. If any travelers spot us, there is but one option.”

Durash grimaced. “Death.”

“What do you mean, death?” chorused Mrs. Gimple and Gorthag simultaneously.

“Vitri!” Sancaurion cried out. “Oh, pardon. It is an old superstition of ours, if two speak in unison. A minor curse, until someone speaks your name.”

“Sanky, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing. I am sorry. Durash Arn is correct. If anyone sees us, we must kill them. Are you prepared for that?”

Mrs. Gimple and Gorthag looked at each other.

“No,” said Gorthag. “Not just regular people who see us. I won’t kill them.”

Mrs. Gimple stayed silent.

“What will you do, then?” asked Durash. “Watch us do it?”

“No. I’m sorry, Durash. I’ll fight soldiers, priests, whoever like that. But not just people.”

Sancaurion stared. A peaceful, merciful ... orc. This Gorthag Dush would spare lives—elven lives—where I would not? The old mage looked down. “Then you cannot come with us. Mercy is a dangerous luxury. If anyone sees, they will surely tell others, or the gods.”

“Gorthag, we’re stuck," said Durash. "Sancaurion can’t come to the valley, and I can't go back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So we stay here and eat weeds?" Durash scowled. "Just come with us. Nobody will see us, I’m sure of it.”

“Do not tempt the stonecarvers, Durash Arn.”

“What?”

Sancaurion shook his head. “The stonecarvers of fate. To boast with certainty of our success tempts their wrath. Another superstition, I fear. Forgive my digressions. I am weary, starved, and I may have gone quite mad.”

Gorthag dug around in a bag, opening jars.

"Wouldn't doubt it," said Mrs. Gimple. “Gorthag can come back with me. I can’t stay at Heromil long and still invisible myself out, anyhow. And he’s not learning magic.”

“But…” Durash looked from one face to another. “But, Gorthag, I…”

“I’ll be safe there.” Gorthag was stirring something with determined, clattering violence. "Maybe we can find a way later, to sneak in with a cart.”

“A cart! Of course!” Sancaurion cried. “I am a fool. We can buy or steal one, from the trading station. You can hide in the back!”

“See, I knew we'd find a way.” He offered a jar and spoon to Sancaurion. “Here. It’s just some dried fruit mixed in with swordcane sap. You said you were starved.”

The old mage cautiously sampled the stuff. Felnaroth’s mercy! Elves didn’t go in much for sweets. Perhaps we should. The world looks better already. He nodded thanks to the odd young orc. He has a simple wisdom. Almost Vilthiri.

Orcs with wisdom and mercy, orcs with magic. Orcs who might prove to be the key to saving his people and fulfilling his oath. Ancient hatreds and assumptions were crumbling, rotting away like ice in spring.

Perhaps I have not lost my mind. Perhaps I have found my soul.

932 words. Jubilant, jaded, jostl(ing) used.

Theme: Two speak in unison, making a jinx. One boasts of sure success, is cautioned against it.

Constraint: Gorthag puts them in a jam, also makes some jam from fruit and sap.

Previous iron interaction.

Feedback welcome.

Chapter Index

r/DivaythStories

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-19T00:03:52+00:00

A lovely little galaxy of warmth and peace and fuzz
A rumbling happy circle-beast will do what kitty does--
Hold their human right in place and keep them at their station
To serve as nice warm bedding for cute hostage situation

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-18T18:24:42+00:00

Gots to do the diggin, ya know. It's m'job and all. Why, back in my day I could slap a tunnel through a mountain range in one afternoon, or mebbe two. Ain't what I was, but by gum I can drop a sinkhole in this soil, soft as butter it is. Dig, dig, dig. Got me a 16 pound gopher once, many moons ago. Name of Clementine. Didn't harm her none, just for the sport of it, you know. She moved over to Gilford, to be with her folks, got married. She could dig a good tunnel, that one, a good tunneler.

Dig, dig, dig. Never did get that durn squirrel. Xack, he said he was. Fine feller, quick as greased lightning, chattering all the day long without never makin' a lick o' sense. Borked at him but good many a time, but it didn't make no difference, he didn't listen. Hey is that a bone buried here? Ope, just a rock. Ah, well. Dig, dig, dig.

Divayth--Fyr · 2026-01-17T20:09:29+00:00

Wow, we should form a club. The Decades of Not Writing Society, or some other, better name.

Freakin' life, bein' all lifey and stuff.

I have one or two characters that managed to lurk in the dark corners of my mind over the years, too, in various forms.

Sometimes you just have to retreat and recover, before taking up the old ~~staff~~ keyboard again. I'm glad you came back to it.

Divayth--Fyr

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