PaintedDiary

LOVED IT Sally and Al!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you soooo much for sharing!! These are fantabulous!!!

Painted

PaintedDiary

Fantabulous Fairy Tales Ladies!!!!! Wow!!!! So there's hope for me after all!! LOL!!!

Painted

sage

A Fantasy Tale by
sage ©

It just wasn’t Altara’s time to be happy, she thought to herself, harrumphing under her breath. She sat straddling the bar stool at the Tarabon Pub, her snug-fitting laced leather vest, doublet and breeches doing little to hide her seductive curves. And even sitting away from the crowd did no good. She touched her mug of ale to her lips, her eyes wandering, watching the crowd of curious men peer at her through lustful eyes.

Just about that time, Ganeda the bar mistress, shuffled her ample body over to Altara’s table. “Here lassie, have some cinnamon scones. You could use a bit of fat on those lovely bones of yours.” She cut a motherly grin on her lips and set down a plate of hot, scones from the pub’s stone oven. Mounds of hot cinnamon butter oozed its way down onto the coarse oak table. Altara wasn’t amused, but she lazily dipped one finger into the golden nectar anyway and touched it to her tongue. It did little to cheer her up. She wasn’t a bit hungry; she just wanted to be left alone.

Altara was a young woman from the village of Tarabon, nestled on the far coast of the Aryth Ocean. She was extraordinarily beautiful with crimson lips, cheeks of fair blush, and eyes of deep azure Agate. Her thick flaxen hair was braided and pulled over to one shoulder. A loose strand of misbehaved curled tendril fell seductively over one eye, teasing to be whisked back into place. Today she paid no attention; for a change she let it have its own way.

Altara hated the wintertime. To her the days were too short, and the nights too long, and lately she felt very much alone. She looked around at the lighted lamps hung strategically all around the pub, looking for some sort of solace from this vast loneliness that had gripped her tight. The light made a bright pool all around the damp stone walls, banishing all but a tiny dab of dimness in the furthest corners. It still didn’t afford her any relief. Every winter it was the same, dark and dingy marked by a distinctive disorder that kept her captive within its icy grip.

She lived alone for three years since her father’s passing but instead of the years gently blurring her pain of loss, it only made her miss him more. And in the distant graveyard from that early time she wished she could’ve known her mother who died giving Altara life. All in all, she was thankful that her father had taken the time to teach her how to live off the land where she kept herself comfortable growing and bartering vegetables to the nearby townsfolk. She reminisced back to a time when he had also taught her how to handle a hunting knife with craft and cunning. There was no man far nor near that would dare compete with her skill or try to compromise her virtue.

After Altara finished up the last dredges of her ale, she decided she’d better get herself back to her cabin. It was getting dark and she hadn’t chopped any wood before she left in preparation for the nighttime drop in temperature. This was a good way to get her mind off of her selfish needs and come back to the business at hand. Besides, she was sick and tired of the men ogling her and flirting, expecting her to give them a chance at love. It wasn’t that she was without suitors; she never lacked for male attention. But she was a dreamer and longed for that special someone that kept eluding her in her dreams. Coming back to the moment, she scolded herself for allowing her emotions to get the better of her.

About that time she heard a rustle of feathers as a raven flew near the doorway of the pub and perched itself on the edge of the thatched roof. Someone from the back cried out. “Filthy carrion eater,” and picked up two stones that lay nearby. They flew true and the raven stepped aside but an inch, not at all flustered by the close encounter. It fluffed its wings to settle in once again, cocked its head and stared right at Altara who seemed to be transfixed by its piercing gaze. It was then she noticed a shiny ring of gold around its neck.

Through ancient folklore Altara learned that the raven represented winter because of its ability to endure the cold. Good, she thought glumly, at least someone will be warm tonight. But even though she had seen many a raven in the village before, this one held her attention with a mystical edge of appeal. And as she ventured toward the doorway to don her cape and gloves, she seemed to feel raven’s steely black eyes watching her every move.

Altara fingered the hilt of her curved hunting knife thrust behind her belt and confident that it was secure, she wrapped her cape around her weary body and pulled up the fur hood, tucking in her magnificent braid of spun gold. She knew full well that the cold was going to greet her with its bare teeth. Without a word she walked out into the fierce winter night, the force of the wind blowing that one loose tendril of hair from her face.

The gray fog churned heavy as she trudged further and further into the woods. And as she walked past the river Dain, a mist rose from the water, leaving icy droplets on her fur cape. The frozen snow crunched beneath her boots, one set of footprints mocking her solitary journey home. Breezes from the hawks overhead swooshed gently nudging her in the right direction. And walking past the birch trees spiraled in white gauze she wished she could bandage her aching heart. She reached home to the cold breaking apart in her cabin. She knew she must chop wood, but for some reason it was as though she were under a spell and could do nothing more but climb under the covers and fall fast asleep.

Morning rays of sunlight sliced through her cabin windows as Altara’s eyes came open to the sound of chopping wood. She shook her head to clear away the last remnants of sleep and pushed aside the sleeping fur she had nestled down into last night. A warm glow found her from across the room, and when she looked over she couldn’t believe her eyes. There was a gently fire flowing in the fireplace, next to a neatly stacked pile of freshly cut oak. She swathed herself in her fur blanket and walked over to the window and saw an unfamiliar figure of a handsome man chopping wood. She watched for a moment as if in a trance as he continued with much adeptness, piling it up as quickly as the mid-day snow fell and melted in the river. She dressed without haste and went outside to confront the stranger. Approaching with trepidation, she managed to eek out a question.

“Sir, what may I ask are you doing on my plot of land?” She was amazed at her candid braveness.

“Do not be alarmed Altara. I am Fitch, a friend, and passing by I noticed your wood pile close to the ground so I thought to cut a cord in lay for the long winter.”

Altara could not utter another word. No sooner had their eyes met she was captivated by his gaze, mimicking aquamarine, honoring the deep blue seas of the ocean. The sun by now was getting high on the morning and its glint danced amorously off something around the stranger’s neck. It was a shiny ring of gold.

Words between them were of no use as they came together surrendering into each other’s arms. Altara had no need to question who this was; it was as if she already knew. And for the first time from so long ago she felt completely safe and loved.

Thus was born a forever moment lying within the ancient turning of the Wheel of Time, born anew within each winter solstice. Just look deep into your heart for crimson black of raven, the one with the shiny ring of gold around his neck, the one that will shape shift into the handsome stranger who will take your breath away, and love you until the end of time. If only you believe.

The End

Storytime

Twas indeed a fantasy. Nicely penned!

So it's a cord of wood, is it? Much more useful than a diamond.

sage

thanks sid, so nice to meet you and thanks for reading my tale...yes, a cord of wood, under certain circumstances, worth much more than a diamond!


write for the night is coming,
sage

Storytime

“Sir, what may I ask are you doing on my plot of land?”

Some how I'm reading more into this than "Who the hell are you?". 'My plot of land' is much more personal and carries with it an inherent fear as well as expectation. As such it fits as a foreshadowing and almost as a fait a comple (my French is worse than rotten).