genre – Page 2 – three good words

January 27, 2025

Why is it called genre fiction?

Genre: Fantasy, maybe even High Fantasy? Swords are involved.

Yes, I am experimenting again.
This is from an ancient WIP that I dug up some time ago and now it’s spawning more and more pages.

Which is why this is a first try, a draft, an attempt.
It’s a little dark. I blame January, this January specifically, which has lasted 157 days and counting. Nevertheless, we persevere.

If you like this attempt, please drop a like. Most of all: thanks for reading! j. d.

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

The Cup and the Sword (Part 1)

The wars had shattered the Lands.
They raged like a bloodthirsty beast that escaped the Nine Hells.

The battles had reached the Plains of Inan, their beauty no longer existed. Treks of refugees fleeing the Beast’s hunger could be found trailing out to the nearest ports, and when those were closed to the next port, and the next, and the next, until all ports were filled with the fleeing.

The refugees were feared and hated, many were murdered or enslaved during their escape. Deserters and soldiers with horrible wounds fled as best they could. Bands of mercenaries terrorised the high roads. The towns’ laws were severe, villagers perpetually suspicious, and the peasants became skilled in defending themselves.

The Lands were cursed, and even the Heavens knew.

The weather stopped its natural course. It either rained for weeks or no rain could be seen for days and days. There was no relief from one or the other, but the Beast, the Beast raged on.

They were a group of many. They were different in station and making, but equal in their decision to leave. It was harder to do it alone. It took some time until the ranks and hierarchies were fixed, but once all knew their place, they could do as they intended and leave the Fields, slip away unseen, and hopefully escape the Beast for good.

They marched at night and slept by day. They stole themselves past walls and gates by the tricks and cunning they had learned, never staying longer than two sunsets in a town or settlement.

Over the days and weeks they began to be loyal to each other. Certain rules were set, unspoken rules. If money was made, it was shared like their rations. And they stayed together, splitting only into groups of threes and fours if necessary. Some wanted to join them but were refused. Too dangerous, too insane. Others could not stay, their soul restless, their eyes searching the horizon. Those left in the dark of night to remain unbound and were rarely seen again.

It was raining. It had been pouring for days. Gav had given up trying to get dry. There hadn’t been a shed for leagues. His horse was as exhausted as he. His weapons were probably rusted. He no longer cared what he was or where he was. All he wanted was someplace dry.

An odd shape appeared at the horizon, dark and lopsided. Gav hardly understood what it was, but the horse did. It stopped inside the shed, the door was hanging off its hinges. Gav slid out of his saddle and fell. There was no reason to get up. There was no rain. That’s all that mattered.

It was still raining. The exhaustion had left his limbs somewhat and now what Gav was mostly aware of, was that he was wet through. Something needed to be done. He would have to remove his clothes. But for that to make sense he would need a fire. Fire. He would need wood for a fire. Gav got to his feet. There was more to the shed than just hay. There was a kind of palisade and hidden corners. He could check there.

He found enough wood to start a fire. It took long, his hands were numb and clumsy. It was nothing to the Bogmarshes of Jirigan, though. He shivered. Finally, the fire was lit. He crouched at it, warming his hands. The rain looked silver in its light. It poured in sheets, soaking the soil until what grass was left would start to rot. Nothing could be seen beyond the broken door except the grey rise and fall of land. No one was on the roads, they had found shelter long ago.

Piece by piece, Gav peeled off his clothes. The Fireguard and chainmail were heaviest. He’d stopped with the unwieldy gambe suns ago and kept to his Southern pourpoint that was sturdy enough. Then there the tunics and all the leathers. Finally, he was bare. The wounds had healed, nothing festered. The scars would remain but that was to be expected. He held his feet out into the rain after removing his boots. It would take at least a day until they dried. The smell lessened after a while. He wished it wasn’t necessary, but with water falling free from the sky, he took the cake of soap he still had, and stepped out. The rain was cold, the wind colder, but at least he could wash the grime off his skin. He watched the fire, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. It was necessary to wash, though, you never knew what could grow if you didn’t. He had seen some disgusting things.

Gav shook himself like a dog once he was in the shed again. If the Sainted Plains existed, then it was that warmth on his skin. The air was dry, the ground was dry, and there was a fire, with only the sound of rain to accompany it.

Gav found a log and used it as a stool. He sat naked before the fire, using the pot he had to fill with rainwater and make hot appleseed tea, the satchel had stayed dry under the oilskin. He still had some driedfruit bread and salted meat and a few radishes. He rationed everything carefully and ate in blissful silence while the rain poured on before him, the fire crackling brightly. It was a miracle the roof had held so long. He had no mind to thank anyone save what luck he still had.

The fire eventually became so hot, Gav had to turn his back to the flames so as not to bake his whole front. He searched the shed sipping his tea. It was empty of tools. There was a mound of hay, not too old and mouldy by the fact that the horse was eating it. Nothing dripped through the roof. Behind the palisade there was more dry wood. If he rationed right, he could stay here until the rain stopped and the sun started scorching the countryside again. He would have to collect water, but that could wait. It wouldn’t stop for another two days.

The horde stood before her, there were enough to crowd the olive grove. Blades glinted in the sun, horses pawed the grass and dirt. The chink of metal sounded through the silence. Their leader was already on the first terrace, the stone blinding white in the sun. He stepped closer, setting foot on the High Vesta, breaking Holy Law by his very presence. If they were here, now, the guards of the gate were dead, or had fled to the others in the High Hills. She had stayed with a few to defy this sacrilege. These were not the Coasts. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget.

Now they were here, the dust had settled, revealing them. They looked dark and menacing and their leader stood on the white terrace leading to the High Vesta, towering, his bloodied blade unsheathed, his boots and tunic, his arms and face streaked with dirt and blood. There was hair, it was long and filthy. All that identified him as a man were the eyes, for they were clear, not mad with demons as she expected. They were clear, discerning. Ruthless. He shouted something right then, his bark echoing in the silence. He barked again, and again, the echo fading into silence. Nothing moved in the heat, no sound was made. He searched the portico, his pitiless stare seemed to cut into the very stone. His men became restless. There were some with strung bows, scanning the façade. The horses moved, the metal flashing sharply. He fixed the High Vesta with ruthless eyes and moved to step forward. Bara stepped out of the shadows into the light.

She stopped at the top of the broad, white stairs. She saw their surprise, the bows lowered a little. They had not expected this. She had commanded the guards to stay out of sight, she did not trust the fhārch to keep their arrows knocked if they saw them. Their leader was four steps below, yet still almost to her eye. He too was surprised, but it did not last long. He stared at her once she stood still, his gaze roving of her like a wolf sighting fresh kill. Bara wanted to cover herself, shield herself from it. She knew not to show weakness or fear. She was dressed as was her due, in the white cloth and gossamer veil of the First of her Order, the veil embroidered with gold, like the seams of the white cloth. She wore the jewellery that denoted her station: gold earrings in the shape of the Seal, the gold necklace with links of the Seal, and the golden ring on the middle finger of her right hand. Bara stood as she was before the creature, saying nothing, enduring the shameless gaze as calmly as she could, a gaze that would have cost others their eyes first and then their life, but that was for naught now.

He said something, a bark she did not understand. Bara forced herself to keep still, to not give into the urge to flee. None should say they had relinquished this holy ground willingly. These were not the Coasts. The Gods were still among them. He eyed her again. He wanted something, but what it was she did not know, and he had the sense to understand that. He barked something, still staring at her. There was movement behind him and one of his men, just as filthy as he, began walking up the steps though he stopped at a bark by the leader. They exchanged sounds. Bara detected some she understood. The leader said something more then looked at her before stepping up two further stairs, coming so close Bara wanted to step back. But to do so would show her fear and none should say she had cowed before a fhārch, never mind the dirt and blood, the smell of it filling her nose.

‘You here the mistress.’

His voice was like gravel. By his eyes she saw that he knew it was not rightly spoken. To acknowledge it, to even misunderstand, Bara knew, would mean her immediate death.

‘I am the First of this Sanctuary.’

Her voice did not waver, thankfully. There was another barking exchange, his ruthless eyes fixed on her. Bara understood some words. He was asking something about amounts. His man obviously knew to speak. The barking ended.

‘How many.’

‘We are few.’

‘How many.’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Women.’

He grinned and Bara felt ice slice into her. It was like facing a wolf baring its teeth for the kill.

‘Twenty-five men.’

She had forced her Order to leave, though they had cried and begged her to join them or at least let them stay, but Bara knew, she knew what was approaching. They thought she had not heard, but she knew the stories and commanded their flight. They would not disobey her. They were safe in the High Hills now, fleeing to the King, while she stayed behind. She was the First. It was her duty to stay when all else deserted, never mind what was approaching. The Order would remain intact, for she had trained Niria well. What else she lacked, Niria would learn in time, while she, Bara, would face these demons as duty demanded. A Sanctuary was never left unattended. The Gods would not forget such sacrilege.

‘You twenty-six.’

He was no longer grinning. He stared at her, as if searching her for a lie. She stared back. They were all beyond his and his horde’s reach, safe in the High Hills, possibly already under the King’s command. He understood this, she could see it. He looked her up and down again, and it was a different look, one she did not know. He moved then, as quick as a snake, and before she knew it he held her face roughly with his hand. The shock was severe. No man had touched her since she took her Oaths. There was the zip of an arrow and an agonized cry behind her.

‘Tell men stay.’

He was crushing her jaw in his hand, his eyes cold as steel. He would spill her blood right here if she did not stop the men, the bloodied blade was still in his right, unsheathed.

‘Linus! Erius! Stay away!’

Her voice pitched as she shouted, betraying her fear. There was a horrible moment of suspense. Then something moved but the leader moved as well. He lifted the filthy blade, blood crusted on the deadly steel, a command as it seemed to keep his men away. He scanned the portico quickly, a razor sharp glance. He could probably see more in one heartbeat than others in an hour’s time. He turned his attention back to her. Nothing happened for the time it took for a heart to beat and a body to breathe. Then he touched her lips with his thumb, roughly. Bara wanted to shout for the men but he stopped it when he pulled her down to him and planted his mouth on hers, the reek of sweat, dirt, and blood overwhelming as he forced his tongue into her mouth, the taste of it sudden and revolting.

Bara could endure only so much. She gathered all her strength and pushed herself away. Her hand flew the next moment and struck his cheek in a loud slap. It was hard enough to turn his head. Immediately, she heard the slicing sound of unsheathed swords. He barked something, but Bara didn’t wait to see what it meant. She ran but was caught by her wrist, yanked back, and thrown down the steps into something hard and solid. Hands grabbed her, men’s hands, keeping her from fleeing. More barking followed and Bara lost her head. She screamed for Linus and Erius, senseless with terror, as someone picked her up and dragged her away, the sound of metal and horses growing to thunder, the rush and trample of boot-clad feet reverberating through the heat as the horde charged across the white terrace, past the High Vesta, and stormed the holy quiet of the Sanctuary.

November 16, 2014May 16, 2020

reconstruction, 1

I started this as a Merci-For-Reading to all you lovely people. Then I looked out of the window. Behold, a November day in all its grey glory. Which brought me to this dark little piece. So here it is, for you, my dearest wordlovers, and your likes, re-posts and comments that I truly cherish. Oh, and in case you’re wondering: Yes, the Philae on the Comet might have a little bit to do with this particular genre twist… Enjoy :) j.d.

They said they were like bright lights. It looked beautiful, like slow fireworks at daylight, falling from the sky. Then the first alarms went off, but by the time anyone knew what had happened it was too late.

Afterwards they said someone had tampered with the force fields and sent an asteroid belt the wrong way. They could just stop the whole thing from coming down, but a few escaped. Those were the bright lights in the sky, like comets you could touch.

A whole mountain range disappeared, it had one of the highest peaks known. From one second to the next it was gone. Whole coastlines and cities were no more. The oceans rose, and more land was swallowed. Many were able to escape to the moon bases, but many others weren’t so fortunate.

Then came the rains and snows, hail storms that would last for weeks. Volcanoes erupted and new land rose, but it was too young. The rains never stopped long enough and the famine lasted for years. The War made it worse. You could see the bombs in the sky, the clouds of fighters shooting each other down. Finally, the weather started to change and more land could be tilled again. People started coming back. That’s when the Reconstruction began.

* * *

Records of Reconstruction

Urbana Regulatio Historia
Section XIV § 27

Consortia in Residencia

1.1

Residents are of either persuasion. According to Section III URH, their form and permanence must be in strict accordance to Federation Regulation 24-10 of Humanoid Development.

1.2

Residents are not Citizens. According to Section IV URH, they must not be recruited from the body of Citizens. The ordination must remain highly controlled, following Federation Regulation 36-17: 1.1 to 1.27. Freedom of movement and of person, according to Section V URH, may be allowed in 1) a House Domain and in 2) a Citizen’s Private Quarters (see § 25). Freedom of movement is to be guaranteed in all quarters of the Federation, according to Federation Regulation 5-15.

1.3

A Resident’s duty is to relieve the bodily needs of the respective Citizen. To one Citizen there shall be one resident. In case of a breach of contract according to Section X URH, the consortia in residencia may be legally dissolved.

1.4

The legal Houses of the Federation are the legal guardians of the resident, until the resident acquires a legal consortia in residencia. In case of dissolvement by breach of contract, according to Section X URH, the resident may return to their previous legal guardian.

1.5

A Citizen of any persuasion is to have a permanent resident and a consort. According to Section IX URH, this must be accomplished by their thirtieth year. The respective resident is to be asserted from a House Domain (see § 26).

1.6

It is understood that Citizens and residents be allowed a certain period in time to accustom to each other. This time may not exceed one (1) year. Consorts are to be granted the equal amount of time for adjustment. It is understood that after the maximum of three (3) years a full household is to be established once a consortia in residencia (see § 26) is established.

1.8

Both Consorts are to have permanent residents. Their living quarters must coincide with those of the Consorts. According to Section XII URH; the rights and freedoms of each Consort are not to be infringed by the consortia in residencia.

* * *

The Mistress walked down the lines, lifting her finger every time she wanted to inspect one of them. The latest batch was lined in an avenue, naked and chained of course. They were from the Islands and wilder than the usual ones, so unruly they had to be kept on their knees. Those the Mistress thought worth her while were prodded and often yanked to their feet. At this stage they were still savage, but once sold, it was no longer Gordec’s problem. He was taking a risk with this batch, but someone had tipped him off that the Houses were looking for fresher meat, and where else to find it than on the Islands. It had taken weeks to capture this batch and some of his men were killed, but it was worth it. By the look of it the Mistress was impressed.

He watched the Mistress glide down the aisle, followed closely by her secretary, holding onto a ledger and scribbling down whatever the Mistress said in that mysterious language of theirs. The Mistress was impressive in her flowing dark robes. She was not pretty, at least Gordec wouldn’t bed her for any price, too thin, too old, too much of the City on her. He liked them simple, with enough meat on their ribs to hold onto when it got rough, the kind you got down in the docklands, where there were no House Rules to stop you. Just thinking about it made Gordec lick his lips. He had one particular one he went to, a filthy thing that cost him a pretty penny, but Gordec didn’t mind, he got his money’s worth out of her each time.

He would have to wait though until he could pay her another visit, he first had to make sure this deal went through. Never mind her elegance, this particular Mistress was business, and by the look of it she was really pleased with his fare and not just looking it. She raised her finger again, and Gordec prodded, but the kral wouldn’t move. He prodded harder and the kral still stayed on its knees, never mind the sparks the electric made. They were tough these Island kral, tougher than the mainland ones, maybe the reason why the better Houses were looking for them. The clients probably needed some variation.

Finally Gordec had to make the sign. His guards came and dragged the kral to its feet. One thing had to be said about kral, they had perfect proportions. Rumours had it they had made a pact with demons to make them perfect, but who knew. This one here was the strong type and even tried to fight but the Mistress was quick. In a flash she had a hand around the kral’s member, an impressive thing even when limp and the kral went still. Gordec had to grin, this particular Mistress always surprised him. The Mistress weighed the kral’s strength in her pale hands, nodding her head. By the look of it, the kral was ready to kill her if it ever got the chance, but with the Mistress’ holding its worth, even this one wouldn’t budge.

‘He’s perfect,’ the Mistress said, ‘I’ll take him as a well.’

She said something more to her secretary that Gordec didn’t catch and then let the kral go. It was the Mistress’ luck that the men were still there. In a flash, the kral moved to attack her, nearly knocking the guard’s over, but the men reacted quickly. In seconds the kral was on the floor and silent.

‘Are you really sure about that one?’ Gordec asked the Mistress. She nodded, watching the kral bleeding on the ground.
‘With the right training he’ll be excellent,’ the Mistress said, looking satisfied.
‘It tried to attack you, Mistress.’

Gordec usually didn’t try and persuade his clients from a deal, but he’d seen that look in a kral before and it always meant trouble. Real trouble. He wasn’t sure if the Mistress knew it, these Island kral weren’t like mainland one’s. He tried to explain it but all the Mistress said was ‘I like a little spirit.’ Gordec shrugged, it was none of his business anyway.

She bought a total of five that day, all of them Island kral and she hardly haggled the price. Gordec was to send them to the usual place in the Low Don. It was said that after six weeks there, even the wildest kral followed any Mistress. Gordec always wondered what they did to them there, but it wasn’t for him to ask. He got a perfect price for the five, and finally had that wild one off his hands which was more than he had bargained for that night.

* * *

Needle-point heels, glossy, black. A black pencil skirt, a white blouse, stretched tight over pert breasts, a slim black belt. A slim-fitting black jacket matching the skirt. Her hair held back in a strict bun, a pair of delicate black-rimmed glasses. Full lips, flawless caramel skin, striking dark eyes tapering to a clear curve. This is Ji’an in full regulation uniform, a Citizen.

As long as Ji’an could remember, life in the City was structured to keep the Peace. The rules and laws minutely regulated daily life, making Commuters absolutely punctual, and there was a precise amount of hours that you were allowed to stay in the offices. If you exceeded these, the doors locked to your ID and you could no longer return to your workstation. The Federation was rigorous in keeping its Citizens healthy, rested and at peace, for which Ji’an was grateful. She could not think of living any way else.

Like all other Citizens, Ji’an was raised away from her biological parents in a Home Circle. Long before the Reconstruction began, the Sages understood that blood ties were destructive to the overall peace of the society due to their strict confinement. It was no surprise then, that once the Reconstruction began, ‘families’ as they were known in those dark times were freed into Home Circles.

One day she, Ji’an Taiyge, woud fulfill the Duty too, for each Citizen had the duty of ten years to supervise a Home Circle with ten, maximum twelve children, though six were the norm. The children, who were never biologically related unless they were twins, were raised together as siblings, each equal to the other. They all knew their biological parents, of course they did, only the criminally insane were disallowed contact. Everyone knew their birth mother and birth father, the records were always updated and easily accessible, but there was little contact. There was no need really, the Home Circle was what was important. It was, Ji’an had observed, simply nice to know.

Now at twenty-five, Ji’an knew her place. She and the rest of her Home Circle had left the Low Don at the age of ten, and joined the Institute near the High Falls like everyone else. Ji’an still remembered the grand ceremony of Leave Taking. Tula and Maso, their guardians, had cried tears, for now it would only be them again, their ten years of guardianship were over. There had been many hugs and many kisses, everyone was crying, and Ji’an had wondered how it must have been, back in the violent days, when the people you left also shared the blood in your veins. She could only imagine how difficult it must have been if they all already cried when saying goodbye to Tula and Maso, Olen even running back to hug them once more. In that, blood ties must have made Leave Taking torturous. It was right then, what the Sages decided. One should not get too attached, it clouded the mind.

Once at the Institute they learned the Laws of the Federation, and by their twentieth year they were finally of age and ready to actively partake in the necessary endeavours to further the Peace. Each of Ji’an’s Home Circle had chosen their profession according to their skills, all seven of them had talents the Federation needed, Tula and Maso had done well. Now they all played a valuable part in sustaining the peace and prosperity the Federation created after the Reconstruction. It was a stability needed to help those parts still torn and deranged by the darkness of the War, to heal, recuperate and join the Federation’s measures of Peace.

Ji’an had no doubt about this. It was a fact of her life, and she rejoiced in it. She knew of the immense value of the Peace, the food, clean air and water, the simple stability she was able to enjoy after so many, too many decades of disaster. She had seen the Fleet Communications, she had watched the DeNost Journal, and there was always, always the Siege of the Seven Stars and all its horrors… Even now, Ji’an could shudder at the mere thought. So now, of age and firmly in her place, Ji’an Taiyge knew what she was grateful for.