Hello everyone here is a bit of a story that I have honestly not finished but plan to ... Its a Dying Earth comedy with a couple elements inspired from the TerribleMinds blog frm the amazing Chuck Wendig.... Here ( http://terribleminds.com/ramble/blog/ )
The cold would have woke me had Juddah not been there to do it. The sun had fully set leaving the ever persistent dull brown red glow on the curve of the world. Glaring at the buzzing saucer person hoving in my face I wished it has a clue what my expression meant.
"You need to activate the field again Cloto, I don't rightly know why you won't tell me the spell to start the rotates and heating elements"
"Yeah, yeah, how many time we been over this flying carpets don't own land no more."
I thumb the trinket in the pouch at my side as Juddah pulled away from me and took a place blotting out the ruddy sliver of the moon out making it look like there was a bloody smile just at the bottom of his bronze shell. Thought a moment about pulling the little trigger to see what the trinket did again but ever the coward I'll still have time yet to find out its purpose.
Rolling to the side on the bedgrass I pushed myself into seated position and called up the map of the field into my thoughts. It fluttered and twisted as I called it into view and nearly expurgated last nights meal and the bottle of fine liquor. Both inner and put world spun or perhaps that was just Juddah floating off towards the vines giving things that impression. Went from sitting to a bent over catlike crouch without willing it there. I look to the side and think you know the kind of crouch. Had no audience here at the vineyard edge so swallowed both gorge and pride as I sat back down as the field machines came into view.
' ctun fthagt 347' the command come out of the mageside of the brain and activated the warming plants, the fans and heaters that world keep the plants alive during the long night here in the depths of third winter.
Standing I brushed the accumulated dewice from the jerkin, kilt, pouches and scabbard I wore and walked off the now dying bedstead hoping it would seed again for the bulbs now that I went and let it freeze long enough.
"Juddah" I called, I may dislike the saucer a bit but some audience is better then none while I set out a time and let the citizens forget Cloto the jester, Cloto the actor, Cloto the singer and well also Cloto the sad, mad drunk. Around the deep purple hillside of the valley beneath the growing ice crowd cover that came with season set here the rings of the heaters ignited feet above the orchards. Humming lowly in the thick brass ring the cycling orange fanbelt sent of wafts of harmed air and moisture, he looked forward to seeing it in the cool air as it misted and formed clouds that looked a bit like faces and people at times bent over the vines much like the migrant machine laborers that would arrive in the next picking season.
I walked into the rig of the heaters so as not to freeze now that the moon as not constantly under the softly dying sun.
"Juddah, I ever tell you I like the moon the way it is now when you an see the blasted crater and the debris ring spreading from it...", the saucer was far across the field it once owned before all the war nonsense I could make out the silloette of it against one of the far heating globes that hovered over the field in certain spots. Waving in front of my face I dismissed the mech-spell and cleared my third eye to see the valley more clearly.
Motion catches my attention. "Look there, yeah right over there my hearties," I look over my shoulder expecting, well expecting my mates or and audience but its just dying grasses and growing ice behind the ring . "Ok look, me look me over there." So look I do and see the mist ghosts tending the nearer vines placing their needed moisture. One of the workers, a particularly voluptuous one twists at the waist as she bends and I see Monique there in her features before ther head lays back adainst a vine and bursts into a much less appealing shape looking moe squidly then alluring now.
Mutely I walk on towards the home that will just have to do till the sun is pulled back into the sky again hopefully no dimmer as Hypoliom draws it on promising no harm. I mutter a prayer to the god of continuance and think about the pattern of observance here and hope I did it at the proper time. Seems I've only just gotten back here but I know I've been here longer then I intended. Pulling the trinket from my hip pouch I look at it in the dim moonslight and take a quick peek for my partner here on the farm. A brief movement at the edge of the field says I'm free a glimpse of the supposed arsenal, Monica's consoling gift to me. Cold silver with plain engraved patterning arabesques that waver and never meet. It has no bolt or bullet, no sight nor oriface just a curved palm sized boxy affair with a trigger. I raise it to my head and mime pulling the trigger careful to to.
Mists swirl around me tentacles at me feet and ankles and I wonder if Monica came back as a octopod somewhere, they were not unheard of. Think again about the trigger and put the thing away before I'm tempted to see its effects up close.
Juddah is approaching the door from the wrong angle when I reach the cabin.
"Weren't. You ," I say leaving the participle hanging then look to the sector I'd thought I'd seen movement. There are more mist women there one motions to me. I scoff and say "I've been alone with you too long old ball."