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Short Story: A Heretic’s Sacrifice

May 3, 2018 By Josiah DeGraaf

This story is part of the Chronicles of Morshan short story series.

Emiel was twice a heretic.

When he rejected the Twelve Gods for Adolsin, the church labeled him a heretic. And when he held onto the Twelve Gods’ powers after pledging himself to Adolsin, even his fellow heretics called him a heretic.

The numerous enemies Emiel had gathered over the years caused many near-death experiences. But he didn’t mind. Enemies made escapades more fun.

Emiel landed softly on the cold stone floor, his rope dangling beside him. He scanned the area. No guards this time of night. He stretched. Kesean always said he stretched like a cat. He was never sure whether she meant it as a compliment or not.

His back cracked. He grimaced. Hiding above the chapel’s rafters for seven hours had stiffened all his joints. Orin had suggested that he disguise himself as part of the wall. Unfortunately, Emiel’s shapeshifting powers didn’t work that way.

Emiel padded along the stone floor toward the exit. A chill crept through his socks. He probably should have worn shoes. But shoes were so unnatural. How could he stay on his toes if he couldn’t feel the surface he was standing on?

He arrived at twin doors adorned with fancy carvings intended to honor the Twelve Gods. As if the Twelve Gods gave a rat’s tail for the happenings on earth. Emiel considered finding a knife to make some interesting changes to the carvings. But he wasn’t sure Adolsin approved of vandalism—even if he would be defacing false deities. And Emiel had a job to do. He pushed the doors open and tiptoed into the main hall of the manor. [Read more…] about Short Story: A Heretic’s Sacrifice

Filed Under: Chronicles of Morshan Tagged With: chronicles of morshan, fantasy short story, josiah degraaf, morshan, short story, superhero, superhero short story, writing stories that matter

Short Story: Visions of Grandeur

February 1, 2018 By Josiah DeGraaf

This story is part of the Chronicles of Morshan short story series.

By tradition, the healer’s tents were located at the back of the army. When Sian passed through them to enter the playing field of war, screams of pain assailed her.

Images of raw agony, grotesque disfigurements, and gaping wounds flooded her mind and multiplied by the dozens. She pressed her hands against her ears, regretting her blessing from the gods. Some minds she hated seeing into. She crouched, shaking, as the muffled noise caused the images to fade.

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry,” Sian said to Cedric, her escort. “I didn’t expect this to happen.”

Cedric’s youthful golden curls hung in his face as he looked down at her. He gave a reply, but Sian couldn’t make it out with her ears covered.

“Can we move beyond these tents?” Sian gestured with her head. “I can’t be near them.”

Cedric’s lips moved again, then he gently took her elbow. Sian slowly stood and let herself be led away. Once she was far enough from the tents, she hesitantly removed her hands. She could still hear screams, but not enough to visualize the minds of the injured.

Sian exhaled and turned to Cedric. “I’m sorry. If I’d known I would be overwhelmed, I would have warned you.”

Cedric stared at her as if she had been possessed by a demon. “What in Thanax’s name was wrong with you?” She sensed confusion and a hint of terror emanating from him. He was a new recruit and not used to being with the god-blessed.

Sian rubbed her right ear self-consciously. “My memory impressions. The screams of the wounded triggered them, so I glimpsed their thoughts. Gods, it was awful.”

“Don’t you need to see someone to get impressions?” Curiosity floated through his mind.

“Normally I do. But, if someone is loud enough, I’ll get a vague impression anyways. Even vague impressions of those soldiers were unnerving.”

“If you say so,” Cedric said. More tension pervaded his memory impressions, as if he had raised a shield against her. Sian understood why. She hadn’t mentioned her ability much on their week-long trek, because it sometimes disconcerted people. Cedric’s increasingly romantic notions about her proved that he’d forgotten her blessing. She should probably discourage him eventually.

Sian cleared her throat. “You want to show me where the general is?”

“Oh—yes,” Cedric stammered. “I’ll show you right to him.” But his memory impressions revealed the way before he’d taken a step.

“Never mind.” Sian waved a hand. “I know where I’m going.”

Cedric coughed. “What?” Jumbled images wove through his mind.

“You pictured the route to the general’s tent when you spoke to me.”

Cedric narrowed his eyes. “How much can you see of my thoughts?” His mind immediately conjured up the romantic fantasy he’d been cultivating.

Sian debated about lying. But that generally didn’t work long term. “Not much. But enough. I’m afraid you’re not my type.”

Sian hurried away. If experience had taught her anything, he would shun her once he realized how much she perceived his thoughts. But, after the awkwardness of traveling with him while he was developing romantic feelings for her, she didn’t care.

This wasn’t the first relationship she’d killed with her powers. [Read more…] about Short Story: Visions of Grandeur

Filed Under: Chronicles of Morshan Tagged With: chronicles of morshan, fantasy, fantasy short story, josiah degraaf, superhero, superhero short story, writing stories that matter

Short Story: The First God-Blessed

November 11, 2017 By Josiah DeGraaf

This story is part of the Chronicles of Morshan short story series. If you have not read the premise of the series yet, I recommend you read the premise below before reading.

Click to Read the Series Premise

Seventy-three years ago, the land of Morshan was on the peak of a new golden age. Gunpowder had been discovered, new agricultural techniques had been mastered, technology was at a high point, the kingdoms of the land were finally united, and the future could only be moving upward.

Then the gods descended.

Each god began offering noteworthy individuals a promise: serve one god above the others and they would be blessed with powers beyond human reckoning. To some was offered power over body. To others power over mind. To others power over nature.

Few who were offered these powers refused.

And society fractured.

It turns out the old saying of Morshan holds true: power always reveals what a man truly is like. And the essence of man is not kind. Within a matter of months, the unified land had broken up into warring factions, each led by one of the “god-blessed” trying to claim power for themselves. Within a matter of years, those factions had themselves split up into fiefdoms and sub-factions, countless lives and technological advances destroyed in the bloody aftermath.

Now, the once-prosperous land is a shadow of its former self. God-blessed war with each other in the ruins of a past civilization of glory while most peasants try to keep their heads low, serve a god-blessed who will protect them, and mind their own business.

But hope is not yet lost. There are still some who wish to use their powers for good. In the center of the shattered empire, a small group of god-blessed calling themselves the Heralds seek to reclaim the ancient ideals of chivalry and heroism for themselves.

But the times are dark and would-be heroes must face many enemies.

Time will tell if this is a new beginning for Morshan or one last dying gasp.

[collapse]

—

When the gods had begun “blessing” individuals with supernatural powers in exchange for loyalty, Clare was the first.

She hadn’t even needed to swear any devotion.

Because, unlike all the others, she had received blessings from multiple gods at once.

Clare strode out of her chambers. Her violet-tinted knee-high boots clapped against the stone floor, and servants turned their heads to get a glimpse of her. Nilde had recently ordered their craftsmen to design her a new outfit. It was ridiculous. She was supposed to be a warrior-ruler, not an emblem of fashion. But Nilde had insisted the boots and violet tunic would enhance public impressions of her. At least Clare had been able to keep the functional black-leather skirt.

Clare pushed through a pair of large iron doors and descended the tightly spiraled stairs into the stagnant depths of the dungeon. The door at the bottom was locked, but the guards recognized her pace and opened it before she reached it. Nodding briefly at them, she entered the dungeon.

Cells lined the right side of the hall; the wall on the left was bare, lit by occasional torches. Water dripped in the distance. Near the fourth cell, Riccardo was squatting and washing his hands in a basin of water. Redness still lined the creases in his palms.

“You’re finished already?” Clare asked. “I expected my presence would be needed to break the man.”

Riccardo stood. His curly hair clung to his sweaty brow. “Queen, I was about to summon you. He broke easily.”

Clare peered into the cell where a one-eyed man with a gnarly beard hung against the wall, legs limp and battered. He moaned softly.

She returned her attention to Riccardo. “You’re fortunate then. Are you desensitized yet?”

“I doubt I’ll ever get used to torturing people, Queen.”

Clare crossed her arms. “Forget about that—what did you learn?”

“Only that the couple and their children were insignificant.” Riccardo looked away. “He murdered them to make a statement.”

Clare clenched her jaw. “Should anything stop me from thrusting my hand through his heart?”

Riccardo shrugged. “The Rose hates you, not him. He joined simply for the pay. He was a street thug in Livorna who needed work.”

“Joining a group that hangs innocents by their entrails is how people obtain jobs in Livorna these days?”

“I never said he was honorable.”

Clare studied the prisoner. He didn’t look like a fanatic—just a pathetic man with nothing to live for. She turned back to Riccardo. “He’s not worth bloodying my hands over. Give him a public hanging. Ensure that a message is sent to the Rose. Did he mention any names?”

“We already captured the other members of his Rose group in Livorna. The only superior he spoke to was a man that went by the name of Kel.”

“Was it actually Kel?”

“The man wore a rose-petaled mask, but he didn’t bind anyone’s life to an object, so we can’t confirm his identity.”

“Did he have turquoise eyes?”

“Our prisoner didn’t notice.”

Clare pursed her lips. “Of course he didn’t.” She glanced at the man again and caught him staring at her. He quickly averted his eye.

After the violence the man had committed, he didn’t even have the courage to look her in the eye. Clare balled her hands into fists. “Maybe I do have something to say,” she muttered, and she walked into the cell. “You!” [Read more…] about Short Story: The First God-Blessed

Filed Under: Chronicles of Morshan Tagged With: chronicles of morshan, fantasy, fantasy short story, josiah degraaf, superhero, superhero short story, the first god-blessed, writing stories that matter

Short Story: In the Shadows of the God-Blessed

September 9, 2017 By Josiah DeGraaf

This story is part of the Chronicles of Morshan short story series. If you have not read the premise of the series yet, I recommend you read the premise below before reading.

Click to Read the Series Premise

Seventy-three years ago, the land of Morshan was on the peak of a new golden age. Gunpowder had been discovered, new agricultural techniques had been mastered, technology was at a high point, the kingdoms of the land were finally united, and the future could only be moving upward.

Then the gods descended.

Each god began offering noteworthy individuals a promise: serve one god above the others and they would be blessed with powers beyond human reckoning. To some was offered power over body. To others power over mind. To others power over nature.

Few who were offered these powers refused.

And society fractured.

It turns out the old saying of Morshan holds true: power always reveals what a man truly is like. And the essence of man is not kind. Within a matter of months, the unified land had broken up into warring factions, each led by one of the “god-blessed” trying to claim power for themselves. Within a matter of years, those factions had themselves split up into fiefdoms and sub-factions, countless lives and technological advances destroyed in the bloody aftermath.

Now, the once-prosperous land is a shadow of its former self. God-blessed war with each other in the ruins of a past civilization of glory while most peasants try to keep their heads low, serve a god-blessed who will protect them, and mind their own business.

But hope is not yet lost. There are still some who wish to use their powers for good. In the center of the shattered empire, a small group of god-blessed calling themselves the Heralds seek to reclaim the ancient ideals of chivalry and heroism for themselves.

But the times are dark and would-be heroes must face many enemies.

Time will tell if this is a new beginning for Morshan or one last dying gasp.

[collapse]

—

“Alright, next dilemma.” Tobias tapped his finger along the table in thought.

Kristen couldn’t decide whether to sigh or not. His attempts to carry on a conversation were almost cute. Not that debating ethical dilemmas was how a girl wanted to be wooed. But at least he was trying.

She allowed a smile to break out of one corner of her mouth. “Hit me with your best.”

Except for the two people murmuring to each other on the other side of the tavern, they were alone. Usually the tavern was crowded this time in the evening, but Kristen welcomed the quiet. It enabled her to chat without being hollered at by a needy customer. She fingered the wet rag she’d brought with her when she joined him at the table.

He cleared his throat. “You’re serving tables one night when a family with young children comes in seeking refuge from Lord Felnor’s men. Feeling compassionate, you hide them in the basement. But, ten minutes later, Kornich enters with ten soldiers and demands to know the family’s whereabouts. If you don’t answer immediately, he’ll kill you. The catch is that Kornich has already set his tracker on the family. They’ll find them regardless. Do you tell or not?”

Kornich was Lord Felnor’s personal, god-blessed minion who could somehow trace people to their location. Kristen normally objected when Tobias brought the god-blessed into his ethical dilemma games. They always complicated the scenario and made it weird. This one was simple though.

“If Kornich is involved, I spill. No point dying for nothing.” Kristen crossed her arms, pleased with herself for answering quickly. Maybe he’d be impressed for once.

Tobias wrinkled his brow. “Really?” [Read more…] about Short Story: In the Shadows of the God-Blessed

Filed Under: Chronicles of Morshan Tagged With: chronicles of morshan, fantasy, fantasy short story, josiah degraaf, superhero, superhero short story, writing stories that matter

Short Story: Fractured Masks

August 17, 2017 By Josiah DeGraaf

This story is part of the Chronicles of Morshan short story series. If you have not read the premise of the series yet, I recommend you read the premise below before reading.

Click to Read the Series Premise

Seventy-three years ago, the land of Morshan was on the peak of a new golden age. Gunpowder had been discovered, new agricultural techniques had been mastered, technology was at a high point, the kingdoms of the land were finally united, and the future could only be moving upward.

Then the gods descended.

Each god began offering noteworthy individuals a promise: serve one god above the others and they would be blessed with powers beyond human reckoning. To some was offered power over body. To others power over mind. To others power over nature.

Few who were offered these powers refused.

And society fractured.

It turns out the old saying of Morshan holds true: power always reveals what a man truly is like. And the essence of man is not kind. Within a matter of months, the unified land had broken up into warring factions, each led by one of the “god-blessed” trying to claim power for themselves. Within a matter of years, those factions had themselves split up into fiefdoms and sub-factions, countless lives and technological advances destroyed in the bloody aftermath.

Now, the once-prosperous land is a shadow of its former self. God-blessed war with each other in the ruins of a past civilization of glory while most peasants try to keep their heads low, serve a god-blessed who will protect them, and mind their own business.

But hope is not yet lost. There are still some who wish to use their powers for good. In the center of the shattered empire, a small group of god-blessed calling themselves the Heralds seek to reclaim the ancient ideals of chivalry and heroism for themselves.

But the times are dark and would-be heroes must face many enemies.

Time will tell if this is a new beginning for Morshan or one last dying gasp.

[collapse]

—

Grimweld heard the weeping before he saw the distraught woman pushing through the throng milling about in the market. She stumbled up the steps toward where he stood guard at the citadel’s entrance. A small crowd followed her.

Grimweld readied himself. This was an opportunity to show the people how to be compassionate. To remind them that honor still existed in the war-racked lands of Morshan.

He stepped forward to meet the woman, who threw herself at his feet. She tried to stop sobbing long enough to speak. “My son … the gods be with my son …”

Grimweld knelt and removed his helmet, hoping that seeing his face would comfort her. He put his armored hand on her shoulder, conscious of the onlookers. “What happened?”

The woman shuddered. “We were coming home from the harvest festival last night with a couple friends when this—this thing lunged from the shadows. Ripped his throat open and left him to die!”

Grimweld considered the facts. “Where were you? Was this an animal? Human?” He paused. “One of the god-blessed?”

“We were in one of the alleys. I couldn’t tell whether the thing was god-blessed or not. It looked human from a distance, but it had the teeth of a jackal and the claws of a lion.” She grabbed his arm. “My son frequented some places he shouldn’t, but who doesn’t? He was a good lad, Herald! He needs the gods’ justice!”

“We will do what we can to bring him justice.” Grimweld stared her in the eyes. He needed to assure not only her, but also the growing crowd. “We built up this city for a reason, woman. We will not allow such beings to roam here unpunished.” [Read more…] about Short Story: Fractured Masks

Filed Under: Chronicles of Morshan Tagged With: chronicles of morshan, fantasy, fantasy short story, josiah degraaf, short story, superhero, superhero short story, writing stories that matter

Short Story: To Whom the Future Belongs

July 7, 2017 By Josiah DeGraaf

This story was originally published at Kingdom Pen.

—

Serena could change the future.

Most days it wasn’t all that interesting. She’d see a potential future in her dreams where she’d break a pitcher or lose a button and, upon waking, simply take a different set of actions to avert the mishap. A far cry from the days of her youth when a warlord had tried to use her powers to win conquests. But Serena didn’t mind the slower pace. It was better when people’s lives didn’t rest on her ability to alter the future. She’d become accustomed to leisurely visions of village life.

But then she foresaw her son’s death.

Serena sat on the edge of her bed, the battered wood rough against her stout thighs. Bells rang in the distance as she rubbed her cheeks. She’d went through this routine of sitting on her cot and rubbing her face every morning when she was in the warlord’s employ. It helped her focus on changing the future. But she hadn’t needed to concentrate this hard for a while, and the circumstances were different. Wrinkles etched her cheeks after many years of living on the earth. Her hands had toughened from being a washwoman since her husband’s death.

And now the stakes were much more personal. [Read more…] about Short Story: To Whom the Future Belongs

Filed Under: Chronicles of Morshan Tagged With: fantasy short story, josiah degraaf, short story, superhero short story, to whom the future belongs, writing stories that matter

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