Dahn

I walked an unmade path to the town of Dahn, two full weeks from anything else. Dahn could hardly be called a town. It was a gathering of cracked clay huts, numbering less than ten, surrounding a structure made of wood and nails. I wondered where they brought that in from; there couldn't have been trees this far out in the Sea of Dust.

It was no surprise to me, however, that this wooden building, the best-constructed in Dahn, was the bar.

The townspeople, few that there were, greeted me with curious indecision and heavy guardedness. They stared at the tough leather duster that hung over a tawny leather vest and a worn white shirt. Their gaze lowered to the holstered revolver that lay at my left hip, over black hide pants. Their eyes were caught by the reflective gleam of the bandolier strap I wore over my chest, also serving to keep my backpack securely fastened.

Perhaps what most astonished them was that I was a woman. Apparently they hadn't seen any female wanderers lately.

Ignoring the stares, I made my way to the saloon, black boots stirring up dust on the ground, more than whatever breeze that could reach this town. The bar couldn't have looked more generic, but was welcoming enough. A faded crimson sign hang over the main entrance, declaring in a yellowing script that this was indeed the saloon. Echoes of slow piano music drifted out on the lonely air, voicing how desolate and alone this town was in its subtle harmonies.

My right hand reached out and pushed one of the swing doors open, the groan alerting the few people inside that someone new had come to town. Card games stopped and the music slowed to a halt as these simple townspeople debated in their minds whether or not I was about to disrupt their afternoon. I spared them no glance as I walked over to the bar and sat, the wooden stool creaking from my lean build. The bartender eyes me suspiciously as he asked, "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey," I stated. I didn't really like the taste of alcohol, but one has to keep up appearance with this sort of thing. I didn't think this guy had any tea in stock, either.

The bartender, balding and slightly plump, nodded once and got the drink ready. There wasn't much of a selection on the back wall; mostly half-finished bottles arranged in no particular order. I crossed my arms on the counter and leaned forward, looking out the window until I sensed something come up on my right. I glanced over to see a younger man, barely over 18, with curious but hard brown eyes darting over my figure. His clothes showed that he was a man not unaccustomed to hard work.

"Howdy," he said, trying to be casual. Hard sun-baked hands wrung in his lap. Despite his attempts at seeming cool and collected, we both knew that me being here was just about the most interesting thing he had seen in months.

I responded by glaring back with azure eyes. The bartender returned with my glass. I broke eye contact as I brought the smoky glass up and tasted the cool alcohol. It, like all others of its ilk, took an effort to down without gagging. Ice clinked as I set the glass down on the bar again.

"Lady of few words, ain't ya?" The kid started again.

I decided to humor him. Not like I wasn't doing anything else. "Yeah."

"What's yer name? I'm Kale."

"Rachel," I replied, downing more whiskey.

"Where didja come from...Rachel?" His voice ran over my name as if it would bite if he said it incorrectly.

"Dustshore. East of here."

"Never heard of it," he began, before his face suddenly turned to realization. "You crossed the Sea by yourself? How didja do that?"

"I walked," I said, taking another sip of the terrible whiskey. I noticed that I was rather hungry, having only eaten dried jerky and whatever small game I hunted and cooked on the walk. I set the glass down as I asked, "Bartender, what do you have in the way of food here?"

"We've got salted beef and dried fruit. Depends on what you're willing to trade for."

I reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a thin silver coin. Tossing it onto the bar, I asked, "How's that?"

The bartender didn't even give it a glance. "What do you think we'll be doing with that?"

"Caravans still come out here, don't they?"

"We ain't seen a trader here in almost two years, girl. They've just about forgotten about us."

"The Alliance..." I started.

",,,hasn't done shit out here. Nearest Alliance settlement is three weeks by horseback. They don't care 'bout us, this deep in the Dust Sea. That silver ain't going to buy you anything, sweetheart. Now, if you were offerin' your...charms...."

I adjusted my wide-brimmed hat, a lock of long black hair gliding to my shoulder. I remained silent as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a tiny bundle of thickly-wrapped leather. I unbound it on the bar table, revealing five small, obsidian seeds.

"Rockfruit seeds. They come from far to the northeast, and can grow anywhere. Give them a little water every few weeks and you've got enough food to feed everyone in this town."

The bartender picked one of the seeds up, examining it. Kale looked on in astonishment. "...Looks like you got yourself dinner, little wanderer, maybe even a room for the night," the former said, "I would even offer you one of the whores, if'in you, ah, would enjoy that."

"The meal and the room will be enough, thank ya," I replied, flatly.

The older man dropped the seed onto the others. "But, ah, if these aren't...fertile..." he started.

"They are," I glared back.

"But if they aren't..."

"...I won't be leaving this town alive."

"Smart one you are, girl. I'll get your meal ready," the bartender finished. He moved to the far side of the bar and called for the piano player to get "something" ready for me. The musician - an old, wispy man - slid off the piano bench in an exaggerated motion and crossed into a back room.

Kale continued staring at me. "What is it now?" I asked.

"You, uh, you've been a lot of places, ain't ya?"

"Yeah," I replied, taking another swig of the half-forgotten whiskey.

"Where are you going now? Can't've come all the way out here to see this shithole!"

"No one's been to the far side of the Sea of Dust."

"Of course not! It's just endless dunes past here, nothing but sand and dirt!"

"Has to be something out there."

"But...why would there be?"

"Because the world doesn't just end, Kale. There's something out there, because there's always something out there."

-----

This stars Rachel Aensland, probably one of my favorite self-created characters. She's a post-apocalyptic/Western gunslinger in the fine tradition of characters played by Clint Eastwood, because I am actually surprisingly not that well versed in Westerns. This is probably the first part of a longer series of stories starring Rachel. One of these days, I might write a sort of self-introduction, to show you where she came from.

Cleaning House

In an effort to make this place look slightly more professional, I cleared out a few early posts that I didn't think were really all that good. Mainly stuff about video games or me whining about my life that didn't really make this place look good. Considering this is going to be something of a portfolio (imagine that, this shitty blog I've had since high school), I at least want to look halfway-decent.

That of course means that there aren't all that many posts here, but maybe I can actually get off my ass this time and post more. If anything, it could help my work ethic. Maybe.

EDIT: Also changed the background, title, and basically everything else. Lookin' good.

The Drawing Room

Oh hey, I have a writing blog!

-----

It was autumn when I returned home.

The house was as it had always been, a silent white monument surrounded by trees of burnt red and shining orange, grass of jade and gold, with a shimmering gray river snaking around the west side. The house was simple, unadorned, with wooden steps leading up to a small porch where my mother-in-law sat on a wicker chair, smoking. The tail of my rugged coat rustled in the slight breeze as I approached the house, my gaze locked with hers. She knew why I had returned, without me having to say anything.

"Another fruitless visit," the old woman stated, flatly. Her graying wheat hair was tied tightly into a bun and she wore loose-fitting clothing that matched the colors of the flora that surrounded her. Her eyes glared at me, scathingly blue.

I nodded. I had not seen the house in more than a year, and yet it was unchanged. I could always count on that, at least.

"Come in, then," she said, "you must be tired."

I walked up the old set of stairs, each creaking softly. She stood up, smoothly, and walked me inside to the sparsely-furnished house. The living room was by far the most decorated of the place, with an ornate, traditional carpet and wooden chairs, desks, dressers spaced throughout. My mother-in-law bade me sit, and I chose a chair with dark green cushions near the door. She sat down across from me, into a crimson seat that looked as old as she was.

"What did you find?" She asked, taking the thin cigar out of her mouth.

"I traveled west, and crossed the sea at the end of the continent," I took out a cigar of my own, thin but long like hers, and lit it. "I sailed for weeks before we found land again, a large archipelago that ran down the width of the world." The smoke of our tobacco permeated the room, like cold air filling a warm space.

"But what did you find?"

"The people there were strange, but welcoming. Primitive and friendly. I visited their shamans, wise men, viziers." I paused, breathing in a puff. "They knew nothing," I said as I exhaled, smoke clouding my vision.

"They could not help?"

"They had never heard of it before. They doubted such a thing could even exist."

"So you've come back with nothing."

"I have."

"Again."

I nodded, taking another puff. This was how it always was with the two of us. We used to fight, each accusing the other of our shared pain. After years of grief and acceptance, we had grown complacent.

We did not speak for some time, neither of us searching for something to say. She broke the silence. "Have you eaten?"

I nodded.

"Are you tired?"

I shook my head.

"You want to see her."

"Yes," I said, then exhaled.

More silence. The seconds grew longer as we sat, waiting for each other to make the next move, the move that she dreaded and I anticipated. She stood up, and motioned that I follow. I rose, putting the cigar out on a nearby stone ashtray. We walked through the unadorned white hallway, our steps echoing on the dark hardwood floor.

We came to the master bedroom, bare except for a large bed in the middle, a dresser on one wall, and a desk and chair on another. There was a wide, sliding glass door at the back of the room, showing a view of the forested backyard. The last wall was completely bare, and this was where we stopped. A thin black seam ran down the center of the wall, a support for the ceiling. My mother-in-law pulled this seam apart from the center, showing an old stone door hiding behind the false wall, with an ancient iron lock keeping it closed. My mother-in-law reached inside her sleeve and produced a large black key, fit it into the lock, and turned. A bolt shot out of the lock and the chain keeping the stone closed fell limp.

With an exhale, she pulled open the gray stone door to reveal an unlit stairway leading down into darkness. A brass lantern laid on a shelf just inside the space, which my mother-in-law grasped and lit. She led me down, each step creaking with age, all still sturdy. The stairwell went down for some long minutes, and the stone walls surrounding us gave way to the dank rock of an underground cave.

The stairs finally ended at a thin passageway, leading into the cave. On our left was a series of torches, serving as fenceposts against a dark, rushing stream. Each torch was lit, casting flickering shadows on the cave wall. We proceeded wordlessly, she uncaring of my travels, me knowing better than to think otherwise. The cavern was damp and clammy, with a faint dripping somewhere in the darkness, in no particular direction.

I eventually spied a structure in the distance, a small stone shack built into the rock wall. It lay across a thin rock bridge, over a dark abyss. There were no windows, only a thick wooden door. Another lantern hung from a hook to the right of the door, smaller than the one we used to get here. We came up to the entrance, and my mother-in-law knocked twice on the door.

"Ariana? Ariana, are you there?" She asked, but with no answer. "...No matter. You have a...visitor. He is coming in." She stepped aside, opening the door to an unlit, cold stone hallway.

She turned, glaring at me in the torchlight, "You know what to do when you're ready to return."

I nodded, trying to keep my excitement in check.

"Don't...strain her."

"I won't."

She held my gaze for another second, then waved me off as she turned back the way we came. I took the small lantern, lit it, and walked inside, closing the door behind me. There was no sound inside the structure, but as I walked inside I saw and heard a faint flicker of candlelight at the end of the hall, leading to a small living area. A thin bed laid in one corner, a desk and chair on a wall, a thick, circular rug in the middle of the room. Candles were spaced throughout, casting dark shadows on everything inside. The room smelled faintly of foreign herbs and medicinals. My wife sat on the rug, reading a book as her legs peeked out from under her robe and rested on the cold stone floor.

She faced away from me, her long hair running down her back, black as obsidian. She wore a long cloth robe, simple yet elegant, caressing her form without overstating it. It was the color of a midsummer's night, with thin strands of gold and scarlet snaking around and forming a pattern that spoke of lonely winds and empty skies. She was barefoot.

"Ariana," I said.

She made no movement, but she heard me. I could almost feel her eyelids close as she took in the sound of my voice, like a breath of mountain air in this dank cavern.

"You're back," she said in her light, airy voice.

I walked inside, setting the lantern down on a nearby stool. I moved over to her, setting down just behind her left side. I caressed her cheek, fingers cascading down her silken hair. "How are you feeling?" I asked.

"I haven't changed," she replied, turning a page.

"Is it too cold down here? Should I get a thicker robe, for you?"

She smiled, us having gone through this routine countless times before. "No, no. I'm fine," she replied.

"What are you reading, then?"

She brought the book up so that I could see it. It was a book on philosophy, likely collected essays of some great thinker. She loved philosophy. "Existentialism," she said, bringing the book down again.

"How is it?"

"I'm reading it." We sat there in silence for a time, taking in the experience as we always have. I pretended to read over her shoulder, but I was far more focused on her scent, her very form, finally putting aside my memories of her.

She was the one to break the silence. "Where did you go?"

"West," I replied. There was only one way for this to happen, after all.

"What did you find there?"

"Nothing of use," I said with a sigh.

She turned, focusing her black eyes on me. There was no white on them, just a deep black with irises of gleaming silver. "Tell me," she said, with a slight insistence.

"Ariana..."

"Please." Her eyes, boring into mine, held no emotion.

I stood, taking her up with me. She slid over to the desk, pulling out a small brush set and a roll of thick paper. I rolled the carpet up and laid it aside as she rolled the paper out onto the floor, then opened the painting set to reveal a set of thin brushes and paint of myriad colors. She picked up a brush in her left hand and looked at me expectantly.

And so I began telling her my story. I told her of the paths west, of the mountains, the white deserts, the clear turquoise oceans beyond. I told her of the port town where I bartered passage on a galley, of the old captain who could not speak our native tongue, of the tiny room they gave me to sleep in with two other sailors. I told her of the waters we crossed for weeks, before we came to the island chains at the end of the world, stretching like a barrier against whatever lay beyond.

As I told her all these things I gently held her right hand. Her left moved across the canvas stretched before her, painting everything I told her, exactly as I had seen it. Her eyes did not move from the canvas, not even when she loaded her brush with paint, or even when she mixed colors on the upturned cover. We sat together in the candlelight for hours, the only sounds being my soft voice and her brush stroking the canvas.

I spoke of the village huts, of the endless jungles, of the palaces of ivory and white stone. I spoke of places that she had never seen, might never see, and yet she painted them exactly as they were, like she had lived there all her life. I could see her eyes darkly shining as I told her my story, seeing everything as I had seen it, guiding her hand as she worked. I never let go of her other hand, an unnecessary gesture that I refused to go without.

After an eternity, she had reached the end of the canvas as I finished my tale. There was no need to touch up, no second coats. We laid the painting out to dry as we stood up, still holding hands. Wordlessly, I led her out to the cavern, her stepping gingerly behind me, unable to make out the way ahead. I opened the front door and she brought her hand to her eyes, as if she had stepped out into the bright midday sun. We paused as her eyes grew acclimated to the dank torchlight of the cavern, then sat together on the steps of the house. I held her close.

"They didn't have anything?" She asked, futilely.

"They had never heard of it before."

"Nothing similar?"

"When I described it, they thought that you were some kind of monster, touched by evil."

She smiled. "You married a demon."

I returned it. "You weren't when I met you."

She looked away. "That was a long time ago."

"Summer, right? Deep in the forest, where the sun was blocked out by the golden leaves..." I began.

She continued, "...and where the grass was too light to step on, and the streams tasted of sap."

"Yes, that's how it went."

"Like you would forget."

We sat in silence, then, listening to the soft rustling of the water, the flickering of torches, our quiet breathing. She looked down, eyes half-closed.

I was the one to break it this time, "They say that southeast of here, there lies a dense mountain range that stretches up to the stars. A tribe lives there, making their homes in the rock and the ice. A man I traveled with in the desert told me that these people are learned in ancient arts, passed down through countless generations. They are secluded, but I am told that the righteous who would seek their knowledge will find them."

"Do you think they can help?"

"My companion in the desert assured me they would."

"You believe him?"

"He would have no reason to lie. We relied on each other. I...wouldn't be here if not for him."

She closed her eyes tightly, "Don't talk like that."

"...Sorry." She opened her eyes and turned to stare into mine, her eyes darkly glimmering in the light. We held each other's gaze, before I reached out and kissed her.

We sat huddled close to each other, watching the flickering torchlight push away the darkness, almost imagining the mountains of mist that lay beyond.

----
Sort of based off of the anime Mushi-Shi, which I'm going through right now. It's not meant as a fanfic or something related, just a little tale that I thought of.

Now that I've graduated, I'll probably be writing more short stories now, which means that this blog should hopefully be updated on a more regular basis.