HomeHi! It’s been a long old while, hasn’t it? WW3 didn’t start, and GTA 6 is still not out, so I’d say i’m ahead of schedule.
Anyway, bit of a random one, and not what I’d initially intended to post. This is just a short piece of creative writing intended as a ‘flashback’ for my character in a current Pathfinder 2e campaign.
It does lack some context, so I’ll give you a couple of key details to know, first. But you might not need them anyway to pick up what I am putting down.
My character is (was) Sir Ironpot. He’s a toy knight. Yes, you read that right. Look, after you’ve lost 3 characters already, things start to get weird. He was brought to life for the sake of a boy, and as a sort of spirit of vengeance targetting Ambrose Mugland, a selfish, cruel industrialist who’s profit-seeking led to Ironpot’s once-owner’s entire family dying horribly.
Okay, that’s it. Please enjoy.
P.S I’ve actually recorded an audio version of this, for those who like to listen, though I’m not settled on how to present that just yet. Keep an eye (or an ear?) out.
“It wasn’t just an accident.” The words echoed in little Samuel’s mind as he walked beside his mother down the paved street, past shop fronts and workshops.
It was the last thing the little boy had heard his mum say to his dad. He didn’t really understand it, but in the way small children have, the meaning was not entirely lost either. His older brother Davian, always trying to be grown up, but too easy to make laugh, was gone. His twin, Layton, was gone too, leaving a big, empty hole in the boy’s heart. Gone too was his dad. The tall, powerful man who would squeeze little Samuel so hard he thought he might burst into ribbons, and who made him feel safe and special when he’d lift him to his mighty shoulders. Then there was a little sister, who he’d never gotten to know, gone as well.
Samuel looked up at his mother. She walked beside him as she often had, her hand enclosing his, and setting a purposeful pace. Even in this, though, there was loss. Her once thick, black hair had fallen out in patches. One bright, smiling eye had turned milky and frightening. And she was thin, painfully thin. He squeezed her hand, not really knowing why, but wanting to see her smile.
Mum smiled down at him, as she always did, and then turned back to the direction of their walk. This made Samuel look down too, down at his other hand. Gummyfax dragged in the dust of the road, the stuffed, woolly red dragon looking dirty and haggard. Not so long ago, if Mum had seen Gummyfax being trailed in the dirt again, she’d have chided Sam and threatened to give Gummy a cold bath, and leave him on a high shelf.
A terrible threat. He was a red dragon, after all, so he would want his baths to be hot. And Gummyfax, much like his little master, had always feared high places unless they were on his Dad’s shoulders, so being left up high like that would have been awful.
But Mum didn’t chide Samuel anymore. She couldn’t. Again, Samuel didn’t really understand the complexities of why, but he understood, on some fundamental level, that she couldn’t tell him to take better care of his dragon. So, Samuel lifted the red, artfully made toy and tucked it under his arm.
That was when they arrived at the big, black door in the side of a red-brick building, so large that Samuel imagined it might be a castle.
The door swung open, and his Uncle’s smiling face beamed out. Samuel loved his uncle. The man had a smile that seemed to wash the grey and brown from the world and fill it with colour. Uncle Darmund leaned in and hugged his sister-in-law without hesitation, despite how clearly frail and sick she looked. Samuel could tell this made her feel better and decided his Uncle was even greater than he’d thought before. They exchanged some words, and Darmund sent Mum in, before turning his face down to little Samuel, his eyes quickly landing on the dirty Gummyfax.
“Who’s this then?” he asked, putting out a hand and wearing a big, silly frown.
Darmund had a funny face. Not that he was funny looking, but with his big, bushy eyebrows, and the exaggerated downturn of his expressive mouth, the ‘frown’ made Samuel laugh as he handed his dragon over.
“He’s Gummyfax, my dragon,” Samuel explained after his giggles faded.
“Of course he is. A fine name, but a dirty dragon. Come in, and we’ll see about getting him cleaned up. I bet a red dragon would like a hot bath, right?” Darmund said, keeping Gummyfax, but taking Samuel’s hand as well.
“Yeah. He’s made of fire,” Samuel said with the solemn certainty only small children are capable of.
“Well, he’s certainly that. I think a good bath will have him looking in fine shape, but it might take a while. Perhaps we can find you another friend to play with while you wait, hmm?” Uncle Darmund continued as he led the child into his living room.
Mum was already sitting down and looking bent by the weight of the world. But she smiled brightly to see her son and brother-in-law grinning at each other.
“Right, Sammy. Leave… Gummyfax, was it? Leave him with me, and let me talk to your mother a bit. Go through that door and have yourself a look around. No climbing though, okay?”
Samuel nodded excitedly, casting a glance at Mum to get her nod of approval, before taking off as fast as his little legs would take him. He wouldn’t climb. Well, he wouldn’t unless he saw something that looked really, really fun to climb.
The door shut behind him with a snap, and he found himself in a realm of wonders.
It was a tidy workshop that smelled of wet wool, old sawdust, and paint, all with the faint scent of tobacco underneath. A door opened out into a big room full of boxes, another into what looked like a shop floor, and then another into a kitchen. He was eager to explore them all, and see what mysteries might be discovered, but then he froze.
By the kitchen door stood a strange little figure that Samuel immediately fell in love with.
A knitted horse with stiff legs, and a great, floppy neck, his eyes askew and a little tongue poking from the black-thread-line of his mouth. Mounted upon the horse was a knight with a simple, smiling face, and a suit of knitted mail. His legs looked silly, floppy at the horse’s flanks, and yet Samuel’s brows furrowed.
He strode up to the stuffed knight seriously and examined him.
“You’re a knight? But you haven’t got a helmet. Knights should have helmets,” Samuel told the knight, rubbing his chin the way his dad had when examining a piece of ornery machinery.
He loved knights. They were in all his favourite stories. Knights helped people. They guarded the innocent from monsters, they saved princesses from evil kings, and they found things that good people had lost.
It made him think of his mother. She wasn’t a knight, but she did things that a knight might do, though with fewer swords and more hugs. When he felt sad, or scared, she was always there to wrap him in her arms, say soft, comforting things, and stroke his hair. But, recently, sometimes, she’d been the one scared and sad, and Samuel had realised that she needed someone to do the Mum things for her. Samuel tried. He wrapped his short arms around her as best he could, told her how much he loved her, and stroked her hair. It made her feel better, at least a little.
Looking at this knight without a helm, Samuel decided that maybe knights were like Mums in a way. Maybe, sometimes, they needed someone to do the knightly thing for them.
Darmund stared into his looking glass and tried to settle his emotions. Esme had fallen apart almost as soon as little Sam had left the room. But she was still so focused on her son’s well-being that she’d kept her tears quiet. He’d given her tea, put a hand on her back, and let her cry it out. Her muffled, sobbing ‘thank yous’ had felt like knives. She was all that he had left of his brother, besides Sam, and he would not have let her rot in the street in a thousand years.
After the tears, they’d talked. He’d assured her that she would live with him for as long as she needed to, and he would give Samuel everything he could. Esme couldn’t have believed it would have been otherwise, surely, and yet the relief seemed to cut the strings of fear and necessity that had been holding her up. With her tea unfinished, she had fallen asleep right there.
Darmund had stayed strong. But when he’d picked her up to take her to the guest room, tears had pricked his eyes. She was so light. So, gods-damned light, like a hastily improvised toy, made from paper and sticks.
Once she was tucked in bed, he’d broken down completely, and now he stared at his reflection, making sure he didn’t look too tear-stained. After all, he needed to make sure the boy hadn’t gotten into too much mischief. He’d packed the workshop and kitchen away as best he could, making sure anything of real danger was nicely out of the way. But still; little boys had a way of finding trouble.
He needn’t have worried overmuch.
He found the boy only a few feet from the door, holding a heavy iron pot as high as he could, and struggling manfully to slide it over the head of a prototype knight Darmund had made a few months ago.
The thought of a cute, silly knight of wool and stuffing had been appealing, but he discovered that toy knights and warriors were better made of harder stuff—wood, or even metal. So this creation had been collecting dust, waiting for the day he decided on a clear-out.
Until now, that was.
The heavy pot settled on the woollen knight, making both horse and smiling warrior flex and sag under its weight. But he stood, despite the new burden. He had a skeleton of flexible resin and wood, which held up surprisingly well.
“There you go, sir. I know it’s not a proper helmet. Proper helmets don’t have handles, but it makes you a proper knight!” Samuel said with all the gravity one would expect from a brother-in-arms before a battle.
“I see you’ve found a new friend, then?” Darmund said, which made Samuel turn so quickly he almost tripped on his own feet, and he had a guilty look plastered on his little face.
“Yeah. I like him. Can I… keep him?”
Darmund was struck by how much this boy reminded him of his older brother. He had a sort of serious, slightly concerned aspect that had been Samund’s too.
“Well, as long as he doesn’t mind. What do you say, Sir Ironpot?” Darmund asked.
By way of reply, the iron ‘helm’ shifted slightly and threatened to topple the stuffed knight over, but Samuel’s little hands were fast as striking snakes and kept him up.
From that day forward, Sir Ironpot never left Samuel’s side. Which was no easy feat, considering that the knight-and-horse was about the boy’s size, and the pot was always teetering precariously. Regardless, old Gummyfax retired to a high shelf in the storage room, and little Samuel only missed him rarely, and never for long.
And there we are! Hopefully a bit sad, and maybe a little heartwarming in the end.
I am working something a little more meaty: An introduction to a city I’ve been noodling for my fantasy stories, the city of Bantha. Shouldn’t be too long, and should be pretty different to what I have put up so far.
And remember, keep your dragons clean, and your hugs sharp.
– Stuart. The Saucerer