WIP bits playing w characters

Living up by the Spikes was a  delicate dance. Some people just said it was damned stupid. Magic was  unstable here- more so than down in the valleys. It crackled visibly  between the tall mountains, daring anyone foolish or power-hungry enough  to come on up if they were hard enough.

Sometimes people did go up. They didn't always come back down.

But  people did make a living down here, and so some stayed. Some were in  the dubious business of ritual preparation- making a living off whatever  clueless bastard that had it in their head to venture up the Spikes in  search of power and, apparently, wisdom.

Perhaps the kind of wisdom that would have kept them from going up in the first place.

The  rest of occupants of the village of Spike Bottom were mostly in the  business of harvesting. Not so much for food, however. While large  amount of magic in the area led to bumper crops, it also had some  unpredictable effects on the people who ate it.

So agriculture wasn't so much their business. No, they harvested the trees.

The  trees surrounding the Spikes spent decades absorbing the excess magic  that occasionally shot down from the mountaintops, and so became  incredibly powerful with time. If they weren't chopped down, eventually  they grew sentient and caused all sorts of problems.

Lightning  crackled across the sky and slammed into the nearest mountain with  almost vengeful force. Syla could see the diverted streams of magic  writhe down the mess of crags to disappear into the forest beyond.

That  was probably going to be trouble, but hopefully someone else’s. No good  came from direct exposure to magic like that. Sure, you might be  blessed with the ability to control rainfall or something, but it was  just as likely that you would be roasted to a crisp or could only  control the specific genus of voles living in the sewers of Nunda.  

But  if you were careful (and sturdy enough to take direct hits from whole  tree branches), you could make a fair amount of money harvesting the  trees here. Depending on the temperament of the tree and the skill of  the craftsmen involved, it could be made into wonderful - and most  significantly, valuable- things. Enchanted doors that never broke or  opened for trespassers, walking sticks that wrapped around legs like  snakes and operated joints and muscles at will, or rocking chairs that  never stopped rocking.

Occasionally a tree had  enough conductivity to be used for channeling magic, but those were  pretty rare. Generally any tree with that amount of power uprooted  itself and either ran off in the night or went on a rampage until  someone tossed a lit cigar at it.

Not that the “enchanted” objects could be any less dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. 

Syla  held out a spike and accompanying rose-covered nameplate. Life was all  about choices. So many choices. Had to make good ones. Rough claws  placed it tentatively on the ground near the sapling and waited for a  reaction. 

There was no movement- that was a  good sign. Either that or this tree was a dud with no magic at all. Just  to check, Syla scrambled behind and pulled up a second spike with a  different name. “Got any preference at all?”

No answer but the familiar buzzing of the forest. 

“Riiight,  then. Thank you for your time.” Syla pushed the first sign into the  dirt on a whim. “I guess you’re just gonna be ‘Bleth’.”

There  were more to name- the first in a series of choices that had to be  made. It was only right that someone knew the character of the trees  they were caring for and selling. Made for bad business when someone  sold a birch with a mean streak off to make for someone’s bassinet or  rocking chair.

Syla stood up and lazily  let the accumulated filth roll off sun-warmed scales back onto the  forest floor. There was always work to do, but something about the day  just seemed off. Whether it was just a severe case of the heebie-jeebies  or an unconscious attunement to the magic-laden atmosphere, it could be  fatal (or worse) to ignore it. Syla gathered up the pile of stakes and  surveyed the area with the learned disaffection of a local.

An unfamiliar playing of light sent screaming panic in Syla’s hindbrain.

The  iridescent streaks of pure magic hadn’t drained down the mountain at  all. They were lying there, open to the air, not grounding into  anything. 

It felt like it was looking straight back, and appeared to wriggle in an inviting sort of way.

Huh. That could not be good at all. 

The  crunching of tree bark forced Syla’s gaze away back to the immediate  surroundings, as all the trees shifted themselves roots and all to make a  tight circle. Being watched without any eyes was something Syla was  used to- but on this scale… it was like they were waiting. 

Carefully,  so as not to make anyone (or thing) aware of what just happened, Syla  smoothly sauntered towards the edge of the forest towards somewhere a  terrified lizard could safely get absolutely shitfaced.

And maybe look into leaving the family business behind for something substantially safer, like mugging armed adventurers.

The  ground felt like it was shifting under Merl’s feet- though whether that  was a valid geographical phenomenon or the result of this find was up  for debate. 

The stargazing books left behind  by ancestors long dead had managed to survive whatever bafflingly weird  shit had happened to them in the “Bermuda Triangle”, the ravages of  time, and whoever the hel had shoved them so haphazardly between five  dusty boxes. It was surprising that they hadn’t fallen apart- though the  paper felt worn and brittle in Merl’s hands. It was delicate stuff, and  no wonder.

‘But none of it makes any damned  sense.’ Either the persons responsible for the charts were slobbishly  just painting stars wherever, or the entire sky had changed. Merl  couldn’t recognize a single constellation out of that mess. Even the sun  looked wrong for some reason.

Maybe they’d  just been shoved down here because they were useless garbage and the  librarian couldn’t bring themselves to destroy even useless literature.  It seemed possible- but usually even the inaccurate garbage was left in  the accessible archives, maybe with some warnings or the expectation  that the reader (having come all this way, filled out a gigantic form  for a library card, and wandered back to the “ridiculous fiction”  section) would be capable of exercising some common sense. 

The  things downstairs were usually there for storage or because they were  dangerous. Lots of people had written some irresponsible how-tos  involving the wellsprings of magic-like energy that could be found far  underground or in other dangerous areas. Advice such as “dance with a  sprig of mint in your mouth, balancing a glass of wine in your right  hand, while reaching out to the pure energy with your left foot.”  Specifics like the kind of mint tended to be left ambiguous so that the  author couldn’t be blamed when an unfortunate reader died as a direct  result. Too many lawsuits by the bereaved. 

But  this thing didn’t seem dangerous necessarily, unless you were going to  try to follow an absent “North Star” back from the wilderness and ended  up in the ocean or something. 

At least it was  interesting, though- someone had left notes in fading pencil. It could  be a mildly entertaining thing to paw through after work, when the  pleasant monotony of shelving and providing referrals was over. 

People  who work at a library tend to enjoy reading, so Merl carefully tucked  the book with the least-damaged cover into a bag to take home for the  night. Maybe if Merl looked out at the sky really carefully, those same  stars would align differently.

That bit of odd  excitement over, Merl went back to digging through those dusty boxes to  find an old set of bookends for the reading nook.