Tag: the real thing

I have a pretty good idea of how this is going to go now.

“Sounds fine to me.” I paused. “Ah… anything vile in those camps?”

“Nah. Or nothing that made me throw up,” Finglas replied. “No human bones in the stewpots, no black-glowing idols, none of that crap. The only skulls I saw were deer and pigs. Oh, and they got a dog-god around here, looks like. Saw a shrine or two in the camps.”

Nellas narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t…”

“Didn’t do nothing except light an incense stick at each one. Didn’t touch nothing, either.” Finglas snorted. “I ain’t some penchannas stripling, brother. You meet a god at the side of the road, you give it a friendly nod and leave it the hell alone.”

…

As it happened, we never had any trouble with the locals around Lost Atlanta, either coming or going. Maybe their dog-god liked the incense. Or maybe his worshipers just didn’t want any trouble.

God, I can’t wait for this heat to become more manageable. It’s downright enervating.

Elf-Lands

Kentuckians may not have a King, but they definitely know how to put an expedition together. By the time I arrived at Fort Savannah, Mary-Jo had already gotten our team assembled. There was me, her, Finglas and Nellas for the scouting, a dour-looking healer named Elanor Dawnflower, and an entire squad of grizzled, hard-eyed elven archers led by one ‘Bob Jones.’

Mary-Jo had warned me about that, ahead of time. “Some of the elven families still hold onto what human mages did to them, back before they got loose. Bob knows you’re not one of those, but he’s not going to give out his True Name to you anyway.” I had still spent half of the two week trip up to Lost Atlantia wondering if Bob really did know I wasn’t one of those Mage Alliance bastards, but he never said or did anything except keep one eye on me at all times. Eventually I decided it was his problem, not mine, and I needed to concentrate on actually getting to Lost Atlanta.

Damned if it wasn’t properly lost, either. It was so lost, the locals from Savannah said that even bandits couldn’t find it. The way they said that, I gathered that I was supposed to be impressed. I did my best, but we don’t have bandits in Virginia. I had to take on faith their supernatural ability to find lost places.

There is a summer cold in Chez Lane, we fear. Been dealing with that all day, not to mention more naps than usual.

I’m not going to lie. Mary-Jo Carter barely had to sell me on the expedition. She gave me the whole pitch anyway. 

“Lost Atlanta is one of the few major cities on the Eastern Seaboard that hasn’t been picked over, or fully destroyed.” Carter looked barely old enough to be a Congressman’s aide, let alone a Congressman herself, but the rules were different in Kentucky. She certainly sounded like she knew what she was talking about. “The post-Discovery plagues bit very hard there, and there were a cluster of thaumaturgical spikes that disrupted recovery efforts, at just the worst time. That would make it valuable, on general principles.” She smiled, for a moment looking even younger. “But there’s also a special prize to be won.”

I considered the wine rack with a critical eye. We were having this meeting in my family’s Potomac river-house, which is a lot fancier than it sounds. I may be so far down the line of succession that my name was simply scribbled on the back of the page somewhere, but I was certainly welcome to use House Barod’s various manors. Within reason, obviously. The family wouldn’t care if I popped open another house red, but I’d have to pay to replace any of the really good vintages.

I decided that it was time to tell the story about how the Fermi Resolution world got their Coca-Cola back. I was aiming for one thousand words today, but… stuff happened.

Ruins of Atlanta, Georgia
2256 AD

The kudzu screamed, and leapt.

I’m not going to lie: I flinched, slightly. Not as much as I did the first time I had heard the scream of a feral kudzu hunting bloom, but it’s definitely something you have to get used to. Or I guess… not.

Now, Finglas Carver didn’t flinch. He just whirled, quick as lightning, and shoved his spear smack into the middle of the kudzu bloom. It immediately snapped itself around the spearhead, trying to suffocate it like it would a squirrel, but instead tangling itself up in its own questing tendrils. Before it could unscramble itself, Finglas’s brother Nellas weaved his fingers around in an intricate pattern that collapsed into a jet of fire.

Kudzu smells shockingly good when it burns. Sort of like sandalwood and pine — but Finglas waved me away. “You don’t want two lungfuls of that smoke,” he told me as he maneuvered the burning kudzu to a clearing. “One lung, sure is good. Two lungs, that’s too good.”

I nodded my understanding as I carefully looked behind me. They’d told me feral kudzu didn’t hunt in packs, but then they’d also told me that they didn’t go after humans. Clearly the creatures weren’t entirely predictable.

There weren’t. Just the usual wild riot of the Old Georgian countryside. But there were probably going to be other things. Vicious. Nasty. Maybe even deadly.

I grinned. I couldn’t wait.