{"@context":{"rdf":"http://www.w3.org/1999/02/22-rdf-syntax-ns#","rdfs":"http://www.w3.org/2000/01/rdf-schema#","owl":"http://www.w3.org/2002/07/owl#","foaf":"http://xmlns.com/foaf/0.1/","dc":"http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/","dct":"http://purl.org/dc/terms/","sioc":"http://rdfs.org/sioc/types#","blog":"http://vocab.amy.so/blog#","as":"https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams#","mf2":"http://microformats.org/profile/","ldp":"http://www.w3.org/ns/ldp#","solid":"http://www.w3.org/ns/solid#","view":"https://terms.rhiaro.co.uk/view#","asext":"https://terms.rhiaro.co.uk/as#","dbp":"http://dbpedia.org/property/","geo":"http://www.w3.org/2003/01/geo/wgs84_pos#","doap":"http://usefulinc.com/ns/doap#","time":"http://www.w3.org/2006/time#"},"@graph":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/","@type":["as:Collection","ldp:Container"],"ldp:contains":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/fiction-hero"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/interactive-bliction-2"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/use-candle"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/spells-wear-out"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/nanowrimo-pre"}],"as:name":"Posts between 2011/10 and 2011/11","as:totalItems":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#nonNegativeInteger","@value":"5"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/?before=https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/fiction-hero&limit=16","@type":["as:CollectionPage","ldp:Container"],"ldp:contains":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/fiction-hero"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/interactive-bliction-2"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/use-candle"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/spells-wear-out"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/nanowrimo-pre"}],"as:items":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/fiction-hero"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/interactive-bliction-2"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/use-candle"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/spells-wear-out"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/nanowrimo-pre"}],"as:name":"Posts between 2011/10 and 2011/11","as:next":{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/11/"},"as:partOf":{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/"},"as:prev":{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/09/"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/fiction-hero","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-114047751981265645","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"
[February 2009]
\r\n“Ours is but a small existence. We are but simple people. On this planet of\r\nours, superheroes were but stories. Until today. We are gathered here to give\r\nthanks to the new Hero of Monarar, the almighty Ora. No-one knows from whence\r\nhe came or where he goes. No-one knows how it comes that he moves so fast,\r\npredicts events with such precision. No-one knows why he has no tail, why his\r\nskin is dark, why his ears are sideways on his head. But it is to him we owe\r\nour utmost gratitude. It is he who freed us – who will continue to free us –\r\nfrom those that seek to imprison and enslave.
\r\n“We must support him as he travels our planet, rescuing villages, saving\r\nfamilies.
\r\n“Here is to Ora the tailless, Ora the Hero of Monarar!⁂
\r\nThe applause was deafening.
\r\n“Why didn’t I take the gloves?⁂ Ora mumbled to himself. The rock was grazing\r\nhis palms as he scrambled up the near-vertical cliff face.
\r\n“Because you’re a moron,⁂ replied his subconscious. “Oh, I won’t need gloves.\r\nIt’s not like I’ll be going anywhere cold, or, or doing any climbing. Moron.⁂
\r\n“Shuddup,⁂ Ora spat. “Either shuddup or get out of my head and help, why\r\ndontcha? Huh?⁂
\r\n“Hows about you keep climbing, how about that? Oh, watch out.⁂
\r\nThe blast of a laser smacked into the rock an arm’s reach above his head, and\r\nOra ducked in time to dodge the heap of dislodged stone that tumbled down onto\r\nhim.
\r\n“Oh some sixth sense you are. Warn me about a laser blast that’s already hit\r\nthe rock. Nice work.⁂
\r\n“I warned you! It didn’t hit you, did it?⁂
\r\n“Waste of good coin you were. ‘Revolutionise your life’ my rear end. Just a\r\npity you don’t come with a mute function,⁂ Ora continued to grumble as he\r\nclimbed. His subconscious reluctantly helped guide his limbs, warning him\r\nbefore he put his weight on unsteady outcrops, or grasped at stones that were\r\nnot well attached to the surface, and occasionally to hesitate in time to\r\navoid the lasers of those that were targeting him.
\r\nIn the village, children were crying for their mothers. Mothers they could\r\nsee, but not reach. A wall of men with guns divided the room into three\r\nsections; one for the mothers, one for the boys and one for the girls.
\r\nThe men had once been fathers, husbands, sons, but now were faceless, armoured\r\nrobots, unrecognizable to the ones they had once loved. They were hardly men\r\nat all.
\r\nTwo days ago, Millsy and her brother had been collecting berries on the\r\noutskirts of the village. Her brother had paused for a rest, falling asleep by\r\na bush beneath the warm, afternoon sun, and Millsy had wandered off alone, in\r\nsearch of adventure.
\r\nAs she skipped further and further from the village boundaries, her mother’s\r\nwords had begun to echo through her mind.
\r\n“Stay together when you’re out now. When you’re on the edge of the village,\r\nalways keep one eye on the horizon. Keep a lookout, and if you see them\r\ncoming, you run back and warn us all so we can get ourselves hidden, you\r\nunderstand?⁂
\r\nNo-one had bothered to explain to Millsy exactly who them was, but she had\r\ncaught enough glimpses of the news over the past few weeks that she knew that\r\nvillage after village on her tiny planet were disappearing off the map.
\r\nHer brother said it was invaders from outer space, and that had scared her\r\nuntil he had pulled her tail and run away, giggling “no such thing! No such\r\nthing! Millsy believes in aliens, there’s no such thing!⁂
\r\nAnd so despite her mother’s warnings, Millsy wandered away from the village,\r\nencouraged by her childish confidence that there were no alien invaders, and\r\nso nothing could be coming that was a danger.
\r\nWhen she saw the lights on the horizon, she stopped to watch. Darting,\r\nflashing beams. Bright colours, sparkling, glimmering, dashing through the sky\r\nand across the ground. Her neck craned farther and farther back as she watched\r\nthose in the sky. Soon they were above her and surrounding her. There were\r\nstraight flashes, like lightning; curling spirals of colour; pulsating circles\r\nand tiny pinpricks in the sky.
\r\nThey overtook her, and Millsy spun around at once, chasing them back towards\r\nthe village, not wanting to miss out on the display.
\r\n“You still haven’t justified why I paid so much for you,⁂
\r\n“Duck – incoming, eleven o’clock. Because I’m the best. There are no other\r\nwarning systems like a sixth sense.⁂
\r\n“So far you’ve just been an annoyance.⁂
\r\n“Oh, and all those laser blasts, you could have dodged without my help?⁂
\r\n“I wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for you. I’d still be enjoying myself\r\non the Fourth Moon of Rasta.⁂
\r\n“You’re blaming me for your insatiable need to try new, mind-altering\r\ntechnologies? It’s my fault that you got me installed in the first place? And\r\nwhere… Not that one, it’s loose. And where did you get me installed, again?⁂
\r\nOra mumbled.
\r\n“What was that? A back alley in Rasta’s infamous Flea Market? I’m certain you\r\nonly have yourself to blame if I’m not what you expected.⁂
\r\nOra growled. “Look, are we nearly at the top yet?⁂
\r\n“Not too far now.⁂
\r\nThen the device attached to his belt began to beep slowly, and Ora smiled.\r\n“Right you are.⁂
\r\nThe beeps became more high pitched and more frequent as he continued to\r\nascend. The relief was enormous when he could finally see the top of the\r\ncliff.
\r\nMillsy was whimpering alongside the others. She could see her mother across\r\nthe room, but her brother was not to be found, and this upset her more.
\r\nA small arm snaked around her shoulders. Her best friend, Lella.
\r\n“Don’t cry Mills. You believe in the Hero of Monarar, don’t you? You know he\r\nwill come to rescue us. He’ll set us free and put the men right again, just\r\nlike he did in the other villages. It was on the news, my Mummy said. You’ll\r\nsee.⁂
\r\n“How many more do I need?⁂
\r\n“Just one.⁂
\r\n“Really?⁂
\r\n“Yes, really. But what am I, your secretary? You shouldn’t rely on me to know\r\nthese things for you, I’m an extra sense not more memory.⁂
\r\n“Well you might have to start learning to be memory, it’s a damn sight more\r\nuseful than whatever else you do, and I’ve already gone over the maximum safe\r\nnumber of extra memory installations I can have.⁂
\r\nOra heaved himself the last few inches of the climb and rolled over the ground\r\nat the top, breathing heavily.
\r\n“Move a foot to the left.⁂
\r\nHe obeyed at once, rolling out of the way of yet another laser blast.
\r\n“Haven’t they given up yet,⁂ he grumbled.
\r\n“Apparently not,⁂ replied his mind. “Maybe you should find some shelter while\r\nyou work out where the next device is.⁂
\r\nHe pulled out his frantically beeping scanner. “Whatever, it can’t be far.⁂
\r\nOra stood up, trusting his sixth sense to warn him of any more incoming\r\nlasers, and scanned the landscape. He could see buildings in the distance.
\r\n“Looks like they’ve got a fireworks show or something going on over there like\r\nat the last place. For a backward developing planet, they sure are celebrating\r\na lot.⁂
\r\n“You should run,⁂ suggested his subconscious, and Ora complied.
\r\n“Of all the planets to crash on, I not only hit a backward one, but a backward\r\none that keep their nuclear cells inside yooge great fireworks machines.⁂
\r\n“Did it occur to you that the cells might be powering the fireworks\r\nmachines?⁂
\r\nOra was lying flat on his belly beneath what appeared to be a carpenters\r\nworkbench. The workshop had apparently been cleared out – equipment heaped\r\ncarelessly against the walls – to make room for the enormous multi-faceted\r\nmachine in the centre. It was shooting out streak after streak of light in\r\nevery direction. The beams rebounded off walls and furniture until they\r\nescaped through windows, or through the increasing number of holes in the\r\nwalls.
\r\nThe machine was slightly translucent, and Ora could see the power source he\r\nneeded behind a series of hinged flaps leading to the heart of the thing.
\r\n“Here we go again.⁂
\r\n“You shouldn’t steal.⁂
\r\nThere was a pause.
\r\n“Sorry,⁂ said his subconscious. “Still a bit of official programming in me.\r\nI’ll work on it.⁂
\r\nOra rolled his eyes and began to creep forwards. He had ordered a fully\r\nstripped down version of the sixth sense; it was all very well programming\r\nmorals into mindware, but it didn’t half screw them up in conflicting\r\nsituations.
\r\nA number of the women leapt to their feet, squealing and crying as the not-men\r\nmoved to surround the small huddle of boys. The terrified lads were ushered to\r\nstand and guided slowly out of the room. The mothers wailed, pushing against\r\nthe unmoving wall of men as they tried to reach their children. The boys\r\nthemselves were silent, too terrified even to cry, panicked eyes staring back\r\nfor one last time at their mothers and sisters before they were lead across a\r\ncourtyard to the carpenters workshop.
\r\n“There are people coming.⁂
\r\nOra froze. He had got through two of the compartment doors – there were just\r\ntwo more layers between his hand and the nuclear cell. His fingers brushed the\r\nthird door, searching for the minuscule lock.
\r\n“I can do this. I can’t stop now.⁂
\r\n“It’s too late for you to hide now. But they won’t see you from the doorway.\r\nJust hurry.⁂
\r\nThe first boy was pushed in front of the machine. He stood there, trembling,\r\nstaring up at the dark, hulking construction. It was spewing sheets of light\r\nfrom every surface. Ora could roughly make the lad out through the semi-\r\ntransparent innards of the machine. Nothing else seemed to be happening as Ora\r\nscrabbled frantically with the third lock, breaking it, reaching further in to\r\nmove on to the fourth.
\r\nThe boy flinched as a rebounding streak of light hit him in the chest. Ora did\r\nnot see the child crumple to the ground, or begin to twitch as plates of\r\narmour appeared from nowhere, sliding themselves over the small limbs. The boy\r\nbecame upright as the armour covered him. He was standing by the time a helmet\r\ngrew over his head. Then he walked stiffly, as if controlled by strings, to\r\njoin the ranks of the other not-men.
\r\nThe next terrified child was pushed into position.
\r\nOra had missed the entire transformation, squinting upwards with his tongue\r\nsticking out as he worked the fourth and final lock.
\r\nThe lock broke, the door swung in, and he pushed his arm further into the\r\nmachine, straining to wrap his fingers around the cell.
\r\nThe second boy, hands over his mouth as he awaited his fate, caught sight of\r\nmovement through the machine. He saw the hand in the centre, followed the arm\r\nback to a face wrought with concentration.
\r\nHis eyes widened. “Ora, Hero of Monarar,⁂ he breathed. The stories were true.\r\nThe legendary hero was here, was going to save him, as he had saved so many\r\nothers. The lad watched in awe as Ora’s hand closed around the heart of the\r\nlightning beast, and wrenched it directly from its body. The beast shuddered\r\nand died, spitting out a final few shards of light as it did so. The not-men\r\ncrumpled to the floor, armour plates dissolving into nothing as they\r\nretransformed.
\r\nThe boy cried in relief and turned to the others to tell them what he had seen\r\n– who he had seen.
\r\n“Leggit!⁂ Shouted Ora’s both conscious and subconscious simultaneously, and\r\nthe hero bolted out of the workshop, back in the direction of his ship.
","as:name":"Fiction: The Hero of Monarar","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-05T16:46:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/flash"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-03-23T02:17:12.752Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/interactive-bliction-2","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-3149512785497720837","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"\r\n\r\nInvestigate door.
\r\n
Your eyes are drawn again to the marks on the small door, and you squint,\r\ntaking a tentative step forward. A small cloud of powder rises around your\r\nfoot, and a floorboard creaks. The creak is low, and to you, sounds welcoming.\r\nLike the house is inviting you in.
\r\nEncouraged by this, you continue. You have to watch out for the things\r\ncluttering the floor, and step carefully around an upturned plastic chair.\r\nThat obviously wasn't part of the original décor, and despite the heavy\r\ncoating of dust, you assume it must have been left by the documentary crew.\r\nYour foot clacks against something heavy.
\r\n\r\n\r\nLook at floor.
\r\n
The dust makes everything the same dark grey, but there are distinct shapes\r\nthat you can see. Several small plastic chairs are visible, laying on their\r\nsides or with their legs pointing into the air. A standing lamp with a wide\r\nshade has fallen over at the foot of the stairs, to your left. There's a knee-\r\nhight rectangular box against a wall to your right, with what looks like a\r\npadlock hanging from the front, and beside it lie pieces of a large and once-\r\nornate vase. At your feet is something long and narrow, and a glimmer of metal\r\npeeks through the dust. When your foot made contact, it felt pretty solid. You\r\nkick it again to roll it over, and dust peels away to reveal a brassy\r\ncandlestick holder.
\r\n\r\n\r\nTake candlestick holder.
\r\n
You pick up the object, about half the length of your forearm. The metal is\r\ncool, but surprisingly not cold. Feeling like you need a souvenir, you tuck it\r\ninto your coat pocket, and continue to pick your way across the hall.
\r\n\r\n\r\nInventory.
\r\n
In your coat pockets you have the candlestick holder, half a bar of Dairy\r\nMilk, and the keys to your flat. In your trouser pocket is your mobile phone,\r\nwhich is turned off so your friends won't disturb you, and some change.
\r\n\r\n\r\nInvestigate door.
\r\n
The small door is in front of you, and to your left is the sturdy looking\r\nbannister that runs up the side of the staircase. You could touch the\r\nbannister and the wall to your right at the same time, if you stretched out\r\nyour arms. It's harder to see because you're no longer in direct line of the\r\nlight from the entrance (which you left open), but you lean to inspect the\r\nfront of the door. Cobweb trails curl around your finger tips as you run your\r\nhand down the dark wood. You can feel carvings on the surface, and blow and\r\nswipe at the dusty layer until the patterns are no longer so obscured.
\r\nYou suppress a splutter at the thick and itchy air you're breathing. Some of\r\nthe shapes carved into the door feel like cogs, but there's something else as\r\nwell. Something winding, with a shape more organic. You only wish you could\r\nsee all of the details.
\r\nYour wandering hand finds a wooden protrusion at waist height, and you try to\r\nturn the handle. It moves stiffly, but the door itself doesn't budge.\r\nCarefully, you lean your shoulder against it and push harder, but to no avail.
\r\n\r\n\r\n_
\r\n
[What do you do next? Comment!]
","as:name":"Interactive-Bliction: > Investigate door.","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-06T16:14:00.002Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/done"},{"@id":"blog:Done"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/IF"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/interactive+bliction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/interactive+fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/if"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:11.712Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/nanowrimo-pre","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-5807979824494744510","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"I've never sat up and counted down to the first of November before.
\r\nIn 2007 I used Nanowrimo as an opportunity to kick myself into writing some\r\nmore of a novel I started many years ago (reaching 35k new words by the end of\r\nthe month) and in 2008 I took part in earnest, came up with a totally fresh\r\nidea the night before and hit the fifty thousand, two hundred and twenty ninth\r\nword of Milo's World before midnight on the 30th. It was, quite simply, the\r\nbest feeling.
\r\nIn both 2009 and 2010, my degree objected strongly, and I didn't even try.
\r\nThis year, I know what being too busy to take part feels like, and I know what\r\nmissing out feels like. But I also know what taking part feels like, and I\r\nknow what winning feels like.
\r\nThis year, I'm writing an old idea in a new way. A short story from around\r\n2007 sparked novel scribblings in 2009, which got left to fester. Looking at\r\nthese scribblings with eyes two years older, I plan to take the core concept\r\nand solidify it into something readable.
\r\nThat's the theory, at least.
\r\nI'm terribly excited about creating some new lives. Then destroying one of\r\nthose lives, and watching the effects cascade.
\r\nI'm mostly nervous because I've never written anything set truly in this\r\nuniverse before. Fifty percent of Milo's World was, and that fifty percent was\r\nfrom the point of view of a child with an enormously vivid imagination, so\r\nthat doesn't really count.
\r\nA good chunk of Currently Untitled will be set inside the main character's\r\nhead; a head which is subject to the physics and realities of this universe\r\nregardless of how much her mind tries rebel against them.
\r\nHer name is Harriet, by the way, and her little daughter is Rosy. I'll\r\nprobably tweet about them as real people, because for the next 30 days, they\r\nmight as well be. Rosy's dad is called Zeke, and Harriet's inconsequential\r\nboyfriend's name is Paul, as far as I know. I'm also aware of the existence of\r\nPatrice, a panda with an eye patch, and Arthur, a tiny penguin.
\r\nI'll probably post some extracts here. But I can't post daily progress,\r\nbecause of various linearity issues that I may or may not elaborate on in\r\ntime.
\r\nBut now, I'm going to stare at the counter on the front page of the Nanowrimo\r\nsite, and try to figure out that first line...
","as:name":"Nanowrimo: Pre-madness","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-31T23:52:00.000Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/done"},{"@id":"blog:Done"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/nanowrimo"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:01.153Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/spells-wear-out","@type":"as:Article","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-173028562666338053","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/12227954801080178130"},"as:content":"One of the first lessons Turald learned during his time at Castle Qythe was\r\nthat spells wear out. They weaken, they lose their power, the more they are\r\nused. They were all taught this, he and his classmates, probably in their very\r\nfirst week of study. But few eight year olds take this kind of wisdom to\r\nheart. Most are keen to crack on with casting, and nobody thought to question\r\nwhy some of their oldest tutors never demonstrated even the simplest of\r\nenchantments.
\r\nFor as long as he could remember, Turald had loved to explore dark places. He\r\nloved to see what was out of sight; to make known the unknown. When he was\r\nfifteen, he discovered a whole section of the castle's cellars that had been\r\nlost for centuries. To the delight of his wizened mentors, the expanse he\r\nfound was filled with age-old liquor which had been promptly and\r\nenthusiastically excavated. It was from then that his freedom had been\r\nunofficially granted to roam and explore the castle grounds as extensively as\r\nhe saw fit. Recognising his gift for discovery, Turald's studymaster, the\r\nancient but sprightly Professor Chalmak, quietly overlooked Turald's disregard\r\nfor out-of-hours and restricted-area rules that were strictly imposed upon the\r\nother students.
\r\nIn a broom cupboard, Turald once found a mousehole that lead two hundred\r\nmetres north and seventy four years into the past. One of the seniors had been\r\nable to use this to make peace with a long-dead, estranged father who had been\r\nin that classroom, all those years ago.
\r\nIn the shadowy corner of the library marked 'secret', Turald had found the\r\nheadmaster's daughter, missing for over forty years.
\r\nIn a tunnel that he had found through crawling into a large oak chest, Turald\r\nuncovered a delicate glass vial containing the last breath of the first\r\nphilosopher.
\r\nWhen Turald realised that his elders thought him special for his findings, he\r\nbegan to keep a diary of them. Through his diary entries, he noticed patterns\r\nin his actions. Or rather, repetitions. The shedding of light was the key.\r\nIllumination was all he needed to do to bring something once hidden out into\r\nthe open. His ability to conjure just the right incandescence became his\r\ngreatest gift. Thus, he practised with vigour.
\r\nCaves, caverns, abandoned ruins: Turald devoured their secrets, consumed their\r\nstories. He exhausted the castle grounds, graduated from the Qythe Academy,\r\nand ventured forth into the Olde Lande, searching without hesitation for doors\r\nto throw open. Eyes aglow with his own special kind of vision, he absorbed the\r\nmysteries of a world in shadow.
\r\nBut spells wear out.
\r\nHe recalled this first in a forest, under a bristling canopy so thick that the\r\nblackened foliage groping at his legs had long since found ways to sustain\r\nitself that did not rely on the land's pale sun. He could see the trinkets\r\nthat had been stowed away by blind magpies in treetrunk nests; the hoards of\r\nstolen food secreted into the undergrowth by milky-eyed squirrels. And then,\r\nhe couldn't.
\r\nThe flicker in his vision was fleeting, but enough to panic Turald, just for a\r\nmoment. Enough to make that first ever lesson come rushing back. Still young,\r\nstill adventurous, Turald shook his concern aside.
\r\nDeeper in the forest, he found a well; a man-made hole into the earth, darker\r\neven than woods entombing it.
\r\nWhy had man built such a thing so far into the shade? Turald could not resist.
\r\nHe descended, uncovering a concealed tunnel with his brilliant sight. Time\r\nhaving vacated entirely, Turald followed the route that stretched before him.\r\nNo magic nor mystery, nor hidden treasure presented itself, and the rhythm of\r\nhis steps lulled him into a trance. He walked blind for many hours before he\r\nrealised he was doing so.
\r\nA droplet of water striking the tip of his nose roused him enough for him to\r\nrealise he saw nothing. Turald stopped. The sudden lack of motion was jarring,\r\ndizzying. Turald sat. Water seeped into the hem of his robes, and he sat.\r\nYears of advice, words of warning, from teachers, mentors, elders, echoed\r\nthrough his mind.
\r\nSpells wear out.
\r\nSpells lose their power. Lose their potency. Lose their meaning.
\r\nSave the important spells for when you need them the most. Best to leave this\r\nworld with a spell in your heart, than to leave it because your spells have\r\nrun out.
\r\nTurald's light had run out, so he sat.
","as:name":"Spells wear out","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-29T13:52:00.003Z"},"as:tag":[{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/doing"},{"@id":"blog:Doing"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/fiction"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/story"},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/tags/writing"}],"as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2013-04-01T01:51:07.104Z"}},{"@id":"https://rhiaro.co.uk/2011/10/use-candle","@type":"as:Note","blog:bloggerid":"tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18505529.post-425692911409145654","as:actor":{"@id":"http://www.blogger.com/profile/14496078324895787574"},"as:content":"","as:published":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-06T16:34:20.885Z"},"as:summary":"Amy wrote about something","as:updated":{"@type":"http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#datetime","@value":"2011-10-06T16:34:20.885Z"}}]}Use candle stick as lever.