I do not usually enjoy the company of others, so do not bother.

The original Slave-on-a-Leash.

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The snake of ash
The dance is on
The bottle in the stream

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The snake of ash

Uninteresting, unbidden, underneath your feet
Unseen, I crawl below the level of the eye
Untethered, no slave more free or mobile than I
Undone by the power of the dead, no mean feat

The flash of grey is a dull thing, not to behold
The silence of morning is my conquered domain
The vale of solitude a home where I remain
The kindness of spirit, an oath not to uphold

Ungiving, willing the end of your illusions
Uncaring, I drift around your rotting corpses
Unfazed, I follow the movement of your forces
Uninterested, I turn from your sad delusions

The shades of green give me well-sought tranquility
The remainder of branches on the ground are kin
The gallery of stone heads I deserve or nothing
The snake of ash roams lest he dwells eternally

---

The dance is on

The dance is on. I stab, she deftly dodges and slashes. I sidestep, bring up my blade. She is behind me; I can feel the air moving. I jump, she bends, I roll, she leaps. A clang echoes loudly as my armour reverberates. A leg sweep does not find her. A thrust misses me. The darkness only gives up the sound of our steps as we circle. I cannot read her expression, nor can she mine. A gasp as I strike; my words finally hit the mark.

---

The bottle in the stream

Once upon a time, Cilla was walking along a stream that ran in the forest, near her family’s house. On that particular outing, she spotted a filthy, corked bottle lodged against a root by the current. Though she knew a stream bottle was very unlikely to contain a message, she could not resist the urge to verify. She rubbed the side with a wide leaf so as to be able to peek inside, and the cork popped out. As Cilla gasped and took a step back, a dark mist floated out of the dropped bottle, and assumed the form of an older woman.

“Cilla, isn’t it?” She looked with knowing eyes at the young woman, who nodded. “As you have found me, I may grant you three wishes.” Cilla could hardly believe it; she took a moment to collect herself, but the woman, or mist, did seem real, and magical. She then spoke her wishes, as one, “I have three friends, to whom you shall grant their heart’s desire.” The woman of mist made a sweeping motion with her left arm, and they suddenly found themselves on a road. Cilla realized that they were now near town.

“Your friend Francis and his betrothed Mary.” Cilla spun around to find Francis lying on the ground, his shirt bloodied. His head was propped up on Mary’s lap, but the eyes saw nothing. Mary’s eyes could see nothing either, for they were closed against the tears that kept on coming. Cilla turned on the older woman and protested that this was not what she wanted, but the woman said, “His greatest wish was that he could die for the woman he loved, and so he did.” Before Cilla could protest further, she made another sweeping gesture and their surroundings changed.

The young woman, now very distraught, cried, “Stop this! Please!” The woman of mist shook her head, and explained, “Alas, it is all done. Archie.” She was pointing towards a red-haired young woman, who stood, the colour drained from her face, as she watched a house burn. “No! That’s her house!” Cilla ran to Archie, but her arms passed right through her. “We are merely watchers, not really here.”

“She can’t have wanted her house to burn,” Cilla protested. The older woman looked at the house, and said, “She desperately wanted independence from her parents. She has it now.” Cilla fell to her knees as realization swept her off of her feet. When the woman of mist swept the air with her arm again, she did not even bother to stand up. She did, though, when she heard the woman present “Marc.”

They were now in the town proper. A crowd was gathered a few feet from Cilla, who looked to the gallows to see Marc. He was in good health, though, and the young woman felt grateful for an instant before her eyes fell on her father, hanging from the noose tied around his broken neck. Her howl of pain filled the evening, but only the woman of mist heard her. “Always an ambitious one, and your father’s abuse of power as Marshall forced his hand. Now, he is legend to them.”