Scribbling

This past week I started work on a story I first thought of several years ago. I meshed several other smaller ideas into one timeline, and set the story in one of my already created worlds. The result will hopefully be an exciting fantasy story with a good deal of twists.


Fletcher Sunder flipped his foil to the right a second too late as his opponent jabbed and the rubber-tipped point made solid contact with his padded jacket.
“Point!” called out his fencing instructor. “That’s the bout!”
Fletcher nodded, breathing heavily inside his wire-faced helmet. He saluted the other fencer with his foil and stepped off the strip. He sat heavily on the bench at the side of room, thankful for the end of the day. It had been a tiring one, and he hadn’t won a single bout. He sighed and rose to go.
“Fletcher!” his instructor called after him. Fletcher turned to face the elderly man. “Yes Mr. Sanderbini?”
“You fought well today. You want to know why you kept losing?”
Fletcher nodded. “Yes sir.”
“You were too impetuous. Your attacks are nearly perfect, but a good defensive player will parry until you overreach and then thrust in for the point. Are you understanding me?”
Fletcher nodded, a bit shamefacedly. “I get too caught up in the moment, sir.”
His instructor nodded. “Yes, try a little less aggressiveness in your next match. See what happens. Have a good evening, Fletcher!”
“You too, Mr. Sanderbini!”
Fletcher left his jacket and helmet in his locker, but kept his foil. He preferred to keep it at home, though there was room in his locker. It had been the first piece of equipment he had bought soon after he started fencing, and he had had it custom balanced for his style. He walked out tinted glass door, taking a deep breath of the night air, muggy as it was.
He shook himself and bent down to unlock his bike from the stand. A few minutes later he was pedaling down the street, glancing up at the sinking sun. The glowing orb was half hidden behind the thick line of trees at the end of the road, but the entire sky was lit up in crimson shreds. The wispy yet thick clouds diffused the light until it seemed as if the very air was tinted red.
The growing dark alarmed him, and he decided to take the shortcut through the woods to get home. It would be difficult to see in the thick brush, but he would get home nearly half a hour sooner. He bounced along the sandy path crisscrossed with roots, keeping his eyes peeled for low-lying branches or divots in the path.
A quick movement in the woods to his right caught Fletcher’s eye, a tawny shape flitting through the underbrush, but when he turned to look it had disappeared. “A deer perhaps?” he thought to himself. It would be about the right size for a small deer. It was far too big for any rodent or fox, that was for sure. He turned back to look at the path and instantly realized he had made a mistake. A large root lay across the path, and he hit it a second later. His bike’s back tire flipped up and he flew over the handlebars. Time seemed to go into slow motion as he hurtled through the air. He braced himself, throwing out his hands and closing his eyes, waiting for the crash.
But it never came. He felt the ground rushing up at him, and then a sudden forceful resistance that disappeared as quickly, spreading away from him with a feeling like a ripple. Indeed, the entire affair felt nothing so much like a dive into a lake, but a lake of air.
His eyes popped open to see a ripple of red light growing larger around him. The leaves directly below him had disappeared, giving place to a bright green sward still twenty feet off. He suddenly realized he had slowed considerably, gliding to the earth instead of hurtling.
He brought his legs under him as he slowly descended, his eyes darting around in complete puzzlement. The ground beneath was undulating slowly, a field of long grass in which was punctuated splashes of red, patches of some flower. His feet came to rest on a large boulder that sat atop a low rise. Red moss coated it in places, and here and there grew a small thistle-like plant. He jumped down off of it, noticing the grass directly around the stone was clipped short, as if mown.
A burning sensation shot through his right hand and he suddenly realized that a flicker of red light was traveling up the length of his foil like a flame. The blade was writhing; flattening and smoothing, and the grip and bellguard were also moving, flowing into a straight hilt and crossgaurd. When the flicker had faded, Fletcher stood with a perfectly-sized broadsword in his hand. The blade was red, and runes glowed fire-like in the fuller. The tips of the crossguard and the pommel were fashioned into flames surrounding what Fletcher guessed to be rubies.
He held it up to the sinking sun, watching as a flicker of light ran up the blade again. He spun it around experimentally, and was pleased to find it handled just as well as his foil. He held it in front of him for a moment, then dove into a series of attacks. The sword was slightly heavier than his foil, and favored a more cutting style than a stabbing one, but he quickly found the balance.
A swift movement to his left caught the corner of his eye and he spun towards it, his sword held out in front. The long grass was being moved by something a few yards away, something large. Fletcher glimpsed a tawny shape for an instant, and then whatever it was leaped up, bursting through the cover of grass and landing just inside the circle of cut grass.
“Hail, and well met, Fletcher Dragon-son!”
Fletcher stumbled back in shock. A large red wolf stood there, looking up at him, and Fletcher was sure it was he who had spoken. From behind he heard the flutter of wings. A quick glance back revealed a hawk just folding its wings. “Welcome to Flamehope, we have long been expecting you,” it spoke.
And then Fletcher grasped at the full enormity of the situation.