The Mist

This week, I want you to take me there.

Where is up to you: Someplace real? Imaginary? From your past? In your future? It can be fiction or creative non-fiction. But make your descriptions so rich that I can’t help but feel like I’m right there.

What do you see? What does the air feel like? Smell like? What are you stepping on? Who else is there with your character or you? Time? Weather?

Close your eyes, paint the picture in your mind, and then use your words to paint it for me.

You have 200 words. Go. For. It! Take me there, baby! Then come back Friday and link up!



If Naddnē closed her eyes, she could strip away the years. See the forest that framed her
childhood.

The smell of trees pushing up from fertile earth.  Multiple greens gracing their boughs.  The promise of fruits, full of sticky sweetness dripping down chubby cheeks and chins.

A symphony of bird song, dadeedeedee, cheercheerprettyprettypretty, beebeebee,the melody underscored by the heavy drone of honey bees. Feathers fluttering in the in leaf tinted light.

Children playing games, hiding, chasing, their high pitched giggles filling the treetops and
underbrush.



She opened her eyes.

The trees were dull through the mist.  The dripdripdrip of moisture from leafless limbs.
Listless clack of broken branches against sodden trunks.

No birdsong, no nests in the empty trees. No buzz of bees, or fluttering wings.

No children running through the moldy leaves. The sweet, sickly smell of rot released with each squishing step.

Only Naddnē, trying to wish back the multiple green of the leaves.


Naddnē was first introduced here , she's a part of me, I think.

Practice

The prompt: Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions?


All of the young Nadan trained, daily.  So daily, Naddnē was on the field with the young men. She had been there every day for eight years. Learning the arts of defense. With and without weapons. 

Today she works alone.  Works with her sword. 
Step. Swing. Turn. 
  
The blade sings through the air. She follows. 
Turn. Swing.   The blade, her arm. Step. Swing.
 
The blade plays currents of air like the strings of a harp. Swing. Turn. 

A flash at the edge of her vision. Turn. Swing. Blade on blade. Ring. Step. Swing.
 
Blade slides on blade. Turn, swing. Blade plays on blade.
 
Naddnē realizes it is Baundl.
 
Step. He has bullied her for years. 
Turn. The blade sings.
  
At six, the practice blade is too heavy. He taunts her. Too small. Too girl. 
Step, step, swing.

At ten, he is faster. He chases her with his new steel blade. He shatters her practice blade. 
Turn. Swing, step. 

Last year, she receives her steel blade. 
He laughs at it. The hilt is made for her smaller hand. It is balanced for her lesser weight.  He calls it a baby blade.
Step, swing. 
Step, sing. 
Bloodsong. 

The blade, her arm, her rage, one.    
His blood. 
Turn, swing, sing, step, swing. 
Blade, arm, one, bloodsong. 

Baundl sweats now. Retreats.
 
Naddnē swings her rage/blade/arm. One in  the song. The blades meet, sing.  Her blade demands.  His blade no more than a thin shield. 
Turn. Swing.
 
Baundl falls.  
Step. Swing. 

Blade on leather shield. Discordant. Rage.  

The shield belongs to Dænl, her kindred. He has thrown it over Baundl to protect him from the death blow.  The shield has split Baundl's lip. 

She takes a breath, closes her eyes.  The blade is quiet.  She approaches Baundl as he regains his feet. 
 
She speaks to him, "She sang for your blood."
He topples backward as Naddnē slams the flat of her blade against his swollen, dripping lip. 
"It's only fitting that she have it"


This is a little more of the character from Prologue.  Although this was originally posted in February, I've edited (a lot) for the prompt.

Prologue

Naddnē sat on her heels. Among the rubble of an ancient landslide. Hardy grasses trying to hold on at the high altitude, roots crumbling the broken stone into smaller broken stones. The valley below was her view. Treetops just visible above the milky haze.
The mist. The damn mist. There for almost one hundred years. Since the day she set it free. The day she broke it's bonds, and broke her bond with her people.
The day she left the valley, not by choice.

She remembered that day, and when she thought about it, her belly clenched. As if struck by a knife. Her people did not chase her away. Didn't tell her to go. They simply turned away. She didn't exist to them. This was no longer her home. They were no longer her people. Her family. Her friends.

And now. She had come back. To right her wrong. Return the mist to it's source. Return the valley to it's people.