I was lazily leaning against the trunk of a rather large oak on our family retreat in France. I was mentally preparing myself for the wonderful and deadly ride that was trans universal travel, via fire.
Suddenly, I sat up, and started strapping on my weapons. On came the belt with the hand and a half sword and scabbard, the set of throwing knives hidden underneath my knee length tunic, secured onto my gray woolen leggings. A dagger got slid into the top of my leather boots, and a quiver onto my back, with its bow in my hand. An owl hooted softly in the tree behind me, and stared at me with big, sad, liquid brown eyes. I slowly grabbed the bucket of Crayola double-sided chalk, the kind you get for little kids as last minute birthday gifts.
"Here goes nothing!' I muttered under my breath. I stepped into previously drawn circle with said chalk.
As I stepped in, the moon seemed to grow brighter, almost blinding me. I ignored it, and slowly sat myself down in the center. A plethora of symbols surrounded me. Then, I lit the first flame. It sparked on the tips of my fingers, and then caught. My hand was then surrounded in a pleasantly warm ball of white hot fire. Then, I snapped my fingers. The flame jumped, and then flew. Sparks jumped off the escaped fire, and started to bounce around. They hit several of the symbols, which then proceeded to float up off the ground, bright, and glowing several different colors. Some acid green, some bright blue, some bloody red, some black as the night. More and more sparks began to appear, and they soon clouded my line of sight. The last thing I saw was the owl, it's head turned all the way around to track the movements of a small, and rather unsuspecting, field mouse. I wished it luck.
2 weeks later.
After finding nothing of worth in the wasteland that they called a planet I had transported to, I decided to cut my trip short. I made preparations to leave during the half moon, which was decidedly more dangerous than traveling at the full moon. That was hazardous enough already. Now I had to worry about where I would land, how I would bend the rays, whether my fire would work in such low light.
Contrary to popular belief, fire does not need the sun to be used by a person of natural talent. It just needs light. And, the full moon is the best time, because the contrast between light and dark makes the symbols stand out. One unnecessary symbol, and, excuse the pun, it would all go up into flames.
I could make out the symbols perfectly, but I was afraid to how my fire would react to such low light. It might be a very dark fire, and bright fire- wait, only white hot fire was the only way to do this. I was in for a ride. Assuming I even made it out of the atmosphere.
I walked around the ashes of what once used to be a village. Under all of the debris, I saw a cobblestone path. Following, I got to the center of the town. All around me lay destruction. Fallen beams, charred wood, smashed china. And, if I concentrated, pieces of the people that lived here, reminders that this used to be a town bustling with life. A china doll, it's head, I saw a fallen house, the window frames still intact within their little pieces of wall, smashed glass, and broken bits and pieces of someone's life. I silently wished them well, and then proceeded to pull out one of the larger beams from the collapsed roof. At the end of it, I saw huge red splotches. Faint, but definitely there. Shuddering, I quickly broke it in two. I then threw the bloody half of the beam far away into the brown fields on the horizon for good measure.
I quickly made rounds around the village for a few hours, pulling out beams here and there, dragging them to what I presumed had been the village's main square. On one of my frequent water breaks, I noticed a gilt box lying a few feet away from the back of what seemed to be the village leaders house. The only reason my eyes didn't just pass over it like the rest of the debris in the yard was the fact that it was in perfect-no, mint condition. Not even a scratch on the lid. This was odd, considering, that it was underneath what I assumed to the remains of the back wall, concrete dust all around it. But, the box wasn't covered in anything, dust or anything else.
I had judged the town to be abandoned for quite some time now, about two or three months. I had figured this out pretty quickly when I went to the town well, which lay open to the elements, and when I pulled the bucket up, was hit in the face with the sickly sweet smell of rotting corpse, a dismembered limb in the bucket, so badly disfigured, I couldn't tell what it was. I had hurriedly let the bucket down again, the rope making my hands uncomfortably hot. But, when it hit the bottom, there wasn't a splash, because there was clearly water at the bottom, but a disgusting smacking sound, something like hitting rotting meat with a wooden spoon. I quickly covered my nose with my sleeve, and leaned over the side to see inside of the well. I was greeted by half a dozen half-decomposed faces, seeing the white of bone beneath the green and purple skin, eyeballs a mushy mess. The smell wove itself through the fabric of my sleeve, and slithered into my nose, choking me with the horrible scent.
I backed off hurriedly, both holding back bile, and taking deep breath of smoky air. Wait-Smoke! There was a fire somewhere? I turned slowly, making no sounds, as to indicate my presence in any manner. Over many of the houses, where I had piled many of the beams, there was a fire. A laugh was carried by the wind, along with the scent of roasting meat. I slowly picked up my water canteen, and carefully made my way to the fire. Making my way carefully through the debris, trying to stay behind the larger trees, and large piles of house to stay hidden, I circled around the village square, coming back to the cobbled pathway I had originally followed. I dropped down to the path, mostly cleared by my dragging of the large beams. A large slab of cement was wedged into the soft ground, about eight feet high. I crouched behind it.
Ahead, I could see a small group of soldiers, all in dirty red and gold livery, and horses tethered to a tree, pawing the ground nervously. They were laughing, and speaking among themselves in loud voices in a rough language, something that I identified to be a close relative of an odd dialect of Russian spoken in the frozen wastelands of Siberia. They were making crude jokes about the King, and how he was on his 8th wife. I shifted slightly, putting my hands on the sharp side of the slab to peek around Scooby-Doo style. I slipped, and my hand landed on a branch, that snapped. All of the men looked up sharply, and their eyes darted around, trying to see what the source of the mysterious noise was.