Shame and sorrow were to be her lot in life. The legacy given to her and the legacy she herself would pass on.
Once upon a time, a town that sat nestled near the foot of a mountain, surrounded by forest evergreen, ran out of food and fuel in the midst of a deadly winter. They were not poor, the people of this town. They were not foolish with their provisions. The winter had just lasted far longer than any in the realm had expected. Every season of that year was winter. Many perished.
There are flames in the distance. There is a dragon in the distance. We must ride out to meet him.
It is said that the first dragon was born of hatred. And all of the things that follow hatred. Envy and greed. Bloodlust.
It is said that the first dragon was born from a person, right here in this very village. It is said that the first dragon was born of a curse. A curse that was meant to save, for some curses can save.
This week’s story will be posted by midnight on Sunday, November 6. This is the anniversary post for Storyfeather’s third year.
Thank you to everyone who read even one of the fifty-two stories I posted during the third year. Thank you for your precious time and your interest. Thank you for supporting my dream. Thank you for being a part of Storyfeather, Year Three!
Year Three was a challenge. The overarching theme I was aiming for was the elements and the senses, in stories inspired by and often in the form of myth and legend.
In an effort to improve my drawing skills (and further serve the stories), I joined the Inktober challenge, drawing and inking one image every day for the month of October. The Sunday images were Storyfeather-related. Now that there are over 150 stories on the site, I hope to do a bit of re-organizing to help with navigation. I also hope to do release the Storyfeather podcast in the coming year, to provide an audio version of each story. As the site develops, the core challenge will remain the same, a story a week.
A lot happened in the year three stories. Stars were incubated in the hearts of humans, a tortoise raced a cheetah, someone escaped from the underworld, a potion was brewed, a divine drop of blood was guarded, and an inventor made a map that could lead to realms unknown…
Here’s to seeing what Year Four brings. Thanks again, Mighty Readers.
Long Live Stories!
No one calls me Hildegard. I insist that all who meet me and know me call me Gard. I was once a wanderer, but I truly am a guard now. This is the tale of how and when my watch began. For I have set myself the task of watching over a child, my sister’s child, a strange child. My hope is that hers will be a good strangeness. My fear is that it will be a wicked strangeness. She does not care for me, my niece, for I broke a promise I made to her many years ago.
“This is what it looks like,” Sig said, handing over the page where he had drawn a picture of the flower he wanted the scouting party—the children—to find. He wanted to go himself, to search for the flower, to seek help in a nearby town, but he had to stay where he was needed. “There may not be many,” he warned, “this close to winter.”
“How much do you know?”
The man in the long dark maroon coat swept toward Mick. The visit was expected, but not at that hour. Mick thought the man would show up the next day. That was, in fact, why he was in the lab at that late hour in the first place. He wanted to get some things done so he would have time for the new project that his boss had dropped on him that day. Said new project being the man in the dark maroon coat.
“Who is he?”
Father chuckled, but I knew I must say something, for Ida had asked the question in earnest.
“He isn’t anybody,” I said. “He’s just a snowman.”
Once, there was a fisherman who was dissatisfied with his wife because she was always complaining and frowning. The fisherman had no friends, for he never went to the market at the village square. His wife was the one who sold the fish he caught. So he poured out his misery when he went out on the waters to do his fishing. When that made him tired, he would go silent and that’s when the fish would come. For when he complained, the noise frightened the fish, but when he was silent, they would come near and see his lures, and his lures were quite enticing.
On the canvas of the world, all we who inhabit it have been painted by the hand and the skill of some great and unseen painter. Our forms are sketched, our colors chosen, and even a bit of our talents and favors are swirled into our beings. While the painter is busy marking the subtle and the transparent differences between us, there is another who is busy filling us with the elements that are the same between us. The great alchemist mixes the proper balance of feeling and thought for every person born.