Interesting. I'm thinking about writing one, but I can't settle on the color. I'm thinking black for essentially Armageddon, gold for incredible prosperity like never before, or white for...something.

Also, what would happen to the winning dragons of prior years? Did they just fly off somewhere, or did they only live one year?

I like a short story that stays short, but it is now done.

I had to sleep, but now it is done.

I finished it today, so I think you're swell.

Happy cake day!

Being a shipbreaker isn't always a steady job. Most people prefer to use shipyards to condemn their ships, but it isn't surprising. They could get good rates, were generally easily accessible, and most of the time they would be alive at the end of it.

I didn't have a static base. I had a converted freighter, with all the space I could need. I hunted the stars, looking for derelict ships, and breaking them apart. But it was always a toss-up on whether or not it was a payday for me. Galactic law stated that if they have been abandoned for two standard years, they were free game. Anything less, and I had to contact the authorities first.

Not only that, there were occasions where survivors still existed aboard. If they were, I was under obligation to aid them, including towing their ship to a nearby system to get help. Sure, I got a bounty from it, but that was nothing compared to what I could get for ship parts.

After trawling through hyperspace, I found something worth investigating. An arcane based battleship, floating dead in the void. A brief scan showed there to be no life-signs or support aboard. Perhaps unsurprising, given the large hole where its command deck would be located.

I deployed my fey-spirit drones, letting them analyse its age for me. They could see its past, coupled with age-determining instruments could easily give me an accurate idea. Soon enough, I received a confirmation from them. This wreck, the Fractal Lance, was around five years old.

With that in mind, I gave it a structural scan. I identified multiple smaller power sources, armed but powered down chromatic lances, and an intact Possessed Crystal. These were the most volatile of areas, with any small mistake having a potential of major damage to my own ship.

First off, the power sources were likely linked to elemental planes. It was a standard solution in these arcane based vessels, drawing in their raw energy to power the ship. However, these were painstakingly produced, with careful balance between the planes, as well as wards to contain them. Damage to these wards would let loose untamed power, which could result in a portion of the ship around it being dragged into one of these planes.

The chromatic lances were standard long-range armaments. Enchanted with a mixture of chaotic magic, they would launch a projectile filled with its unstable power. Although powered down, the enchantments still lingered, holding residual strength. A misjudged cut could cause them to be launched, which would end badly for anything in its path. Not only that, if not carefully transported, they could break, which in a confined space with chaotic magic was a very Bad Thing.

Finally, the Crystal was delibrately possessed. Running a ship of this size required a lot of thinking power. The easiest way to do that was bind an Infernal being, and use it to control the ship. Various contracts would be used to keep it in place, however they were always with the Captain of the ship.

If the Captain was dead, it would be unchained. It would try and take over unprotected systems. I would have to isolate it, for proper disposal or re-binding. As much as I trusted my own bound Infernal, it was never a smart idea to be in a position to test them.

With the danger areas identified, I notified my constructs to begin the dismantling. As they did so, I took a copy of its backup computer records. Once in range of a command hub, I would provide them with the records. They could notify any family members of the crew, and officially list it as decommissioned over lost in space.

Notes:

• Apologies for the Swedish, but it felt right to the story. Any errors in translation are mine, and I would welcome corrections as my general Scandi knowledge combined with Google Translate paved my way.

• Fossegrim, or grim, also known as Nacken are a fascinating little bit of folklore, and I've tried a few stories with them, but this was the first that felt right.

• If you want to know what the Hell I am quoting as the song Anders sings, it is a traditional Swedish song (the Nack and the Maiden). A version on pipes can be found here though there is more than likely one with a fiddle somewhere. The translation i ripped the lyrics from can be found here, so you can see how the texts work together

I'm glad people liked the story enough for me to come back to. I usually give a story an hour and then try to tie it up, but the prompt was too good to not finish. I hope you enjoyed, and have a great day!

Good work.

A peeeeeeiiiiinnnncccil

The tall, thin man I had fallen for looked beaten as he came back into the sitting room, his fiddle in his hands. I saw tears down his face, and his normal composure had left those wonderful eyes, their edges red and irises dull.

"Hon är lik henne, vet du." Anders finally said, his hair hanging limply in his face as he bent over his instrument.

"Hon är inte hennes, dåraktiga fe, dåraktiga troll." my grandmother replied, her gleeful expression marring her face. "Now, spelman, play us the song. It is a simple one, one all maidens learn young. I want to hear it, play us Näcken och Jungfrun."

My fiddler went to it, playing a song I had heard before but in a way I had never heard it. The song, a jaunty folk piece, stretched with pathos, longing, and hurt. And as he played the melody, his voice sang like a dirge.

Det bodde en greve högt upp i land/Han hade tre döttrar och nätta voro de-emed all äran

I saw a mill race, where a young woman sat with a handful of wildflowers. Anders, my magic man, looked at the maiden through the trees. The girl's face was one I was familiar with; paler, with blonde instead of brown hair, but it was mine.

det spordes över rike, det spordes över land det spordes till näcken vid älvablåa strand emed all äran

the memories saw each other, and then sat together. My fiddler was kind, the maiden hungry. The two did as lovers did, and in her face I saw mine, and as they lay there I begged to not see the ending.

han rider så fram till sköna jungfrun in dej giver jag ring om du vill bliva min emed all äran

she gathered flowers for him, brought him cakes and treats. They talked of a life together, of beautiful things, and I begged to not see the ending.

väl vill jag äga dig näckeman väl vill jag komma till tusen älvars land väl vill jag äga dig näckeman väl vill jag komma till tusen älvars strand Tral…

the swelling of her belly showed when they were undressed. Then a girl, a younger casting from the same kiln, dark hair like mine, peeked through the rushes at the race. She saw everything, and knew and I begged not to see the ending.

lyster sköna jungfrun till kyrkan att gå du godast drottning vore över tusen älvar blå emed all äran

the girl tagged along with him, smitten as her sister was, and he showed her his fiddle as she tried to learn the fingerings. She would fuss at that instrument as they lay together, plucking and bowing and making a racket, and still I begged not to see the ending.

lyster sköna jungfrun till kyrkan att gå du godast drottning vore över tusen älvar blå emed all äran

She was full then, and begging for his hand. To make her an honest woman, her face bruised from her father's hand. He had called her a whore, and they fought. He could not go into those holy places, by pacts made before she was born, and so she ran into the race, her sister screaming behind her.

så körde han jungfrun om älvenom fram och jorden hon dundrade och hällebergen sprang emed all äran

He fought into his Mother's arms to reclaim his woman, the woman he had fallen for as they lay beside his Mother. Foolish troll, damned fossegrim, clutching at his love. To a little girl it would appear he was trying to drown her, as his Mother clogged her lungs, reclaiming the life within her, to take it to the circles where Her children danced and played, to keep her grandson safe from the prying of the iron bearers, the cheats who took their land away

väl vill jag äga dig näckeman väl vill jag komma till tusen älvars land väl vill jag äga dig näckeman väl vill jag styra till tusen älvars strand Tral…

It was a poor repayment. The little girl crying. He took her hands to his fiddle, running her fingers over them as they both wept for what had happened. The blood of their secret pouring from her hands. His one gift, the thing he could give freely, the music of his heart that made them fall for him, to desire him, to never truly have him lest his Mother take them away.

She returned to him once more, before going across the water. The little one, who had seen him murder her sister. The constable had declared it hysteria, but they each knew their secret. She played for him there, as they sat one last time, and as he tried to hug her he felt the searing at his chest, that white birthmark he had claimed, the imprint of the trollkors she had worn.

The women wept, and even Mormor was teary, though nothing could change a lifetime of hate. There is no magic, troll or god, that can reverse that pain so quickly.

Rubber Wood Woes

Treading lightly through the copse of rubber trees, Marcus threaded his way towards the source of the sound.

He wasn’t quite sure what to expect. This was a sound unfamiliar and alien to him. A piercing whine and wheeze carried by a light breeze was all he could hear.

He was sure it wasn’t a bird. Not a single pleasant note could be found buried within the strangled layers of this raucous disturbance. It sounded like a dying animal caught in rusted old machinery. There were no machines out here in the wood. No logging or anything in this region. All the trees were devoted to the collection of sap, felling one would be bad cause for business. The most technological thing Marcus had about his person was his sap tap, and that was made of wood.

He tried to piece together some sort of melody but it was to no avail. There was absolutely no pattern to this sound at all.

Whatever this sound was, as Marcus drew closer to the source, he found himself becoming more irate with each step. Pounding and beating his skull into submission, the noise was relentless. Finding the source of and shutting up that cruel confounded cacophony would not come soon enough.

Marcus soon parted the dense thicket to reveal a well-lite grove of immature rubber trees and sat at its centre was the source of the terrible din.

Sat atop a stout stump was a man, his back to Marcus, and in his hands the oldest and most ravaged looking instrument Marcus had ever seen. How that accordion was still making noise was beyond him. Patches of old leather crisscrossed the bellows with varying perforations and tears at the seams, distorting the sound so horrendously that Marcus dropped his bucket of sap and covered his ears with his hands. Bony fingers hammered the keys with such force the ivory threatened to splinter.

I’ve never seen an accordion abused this badly before.

The thought swirled in Marcus’ head, vying for dominion over the torturous wailings but, like any other thought within earshot of this deranged musician, was immediately forced out and drowned by the horrendous sound.

The musician was also singing in a language Marcus could not understand. His head bobbed in rhythm to a beat undecipherable in the notes from the accordion and the tune of his words was so out of synch with the music that at least three different compositions were being played at once. No wonder the sound was so appalling.

Getting the man to stop by shouting proved a fruitless labour for the racket was so loud. Marcus would have to get closer. He tried to step into the clearing, but the sound was so strong he physically recoiled back behind the treeline.

What to do?

He looked around for a rock to maybe throw at the musician, get his attention that way, but while scanning the forest floor, Marcus’ gaze fell upon his bucket. In a bold move, Marcus balled up some lint he found in his pockets, doused it in the sticky raw caoutchouc, and placed them into his ears.

An unpleasant sensation to be sure but it provided some relief. With that, Marcus stepped through the treeline and approached the musician but barely made it 10 feet into the clearing before the sound stopped.

Stunned, Marcus also came to an abrupt halt. Then the musician turned to face Marcus, cold beady eyes peered over the rim of ancient spectacles. His old crusty lips mouthed something that looked like the wind cried again today or something equally absurd.

“What?” Marcus replied as he mistakenly removed the makeshift earplugs. He was immediately hit with an impetuous cascade of jibes and insults fired from the musician’s mouth. Each hit home, striking Marcus with the force of a bullet, almost knocking him backwards.

Blood boiling, dazzled, and in pain, Marcus knew not what to do and could think of nothing more than shutting this old fool up.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Marcus cried as he charged the old musician.

The two bodies collided with such tremendous force that they both spiralled over the stump.

All sound had ceased.

Panting, Marcus rose to see the musician beneath him. He was met with the same cold stare but this time it was different. The black beady eyes had glazed over. Marcus sat back against the stump in shock and disbelief.

Before him lay the battered broken bones of the musician, their breathing as wheezy as that of the accordion whose splintered remnants perforated the dying man’s lungs. It was an accident. Marcus didn’t mean for this to happen. All he wanted was peace and quiet, something he will never get again, not after taking a life.

Good read. Underworld hit hard, didn't it?

Cool.

I will be messaging you in 4 days on 2023-02-02 18:39:23 UTC to remind you of this link

4 OTHERS CLICKED THIS LINK to send a PM to also be reminded and to reduce spam.

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I once saw him kill 3 men. With a pencil.

Oh no...Hårgamannen took the boat to America! 💃🏼💃🏼💃🏼

Same

This is awesome, can't wait for the next part!

As dad would say, definitely stay in school because it'll help you pay the bills (hopefully so that you can write with your free time!!).

After reading this piece, I searched your history for more prompt responses and was astonished that I could not find more. Just because you haven't been "successful" here before doesn't mean you aren't talented (because you are!) Please, please, please keep writing! A few of us would be happy to support you in your future endeavors.

Fwiw, I have a new pipe dream about doing voice-over work for this 3 dragon egg piece. My dream last night was about your work, and I woke up with a shit-eating grin!

gizmo, fucking guy! What we do in the shadows much

Thank you I'm glad you enjoyed but unfortunately I don't have the time :'(

That is an awesome quote

Oh, this is GOOOOOD!! Keep it going! I'm lovin' it!! 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

The 'bord had been picked over thoroughly by this time, and a bottle of akvavit swam in a bucket of salted ice on the small table where my aunts and mother had gathered, a small jury awaiting the condemned. We came into their sight and the questions started to fall.

"Maja! You glow!" said plump aunt Ella, looking the two of us over with from her seat on the couch. She had always been the kindest aunt, and her eyes begged forgiveness for what would come tonight.

"Who is this man you bring?" asked aunt Ebba, giving Anders a long hungry glance. Anders smiled to her, and the normally cruel set of her lips turned soft, and she got up from her stiff backed chair to hug me.

"This is my bo- I mean, this is my boyfriend, Anders. Anders, Ella's and Ebba, my aunts."

The three greeted each other and set to talking, my mother's intelligence network of old busybodies at her social club seemed to have found out a bit. While mother and mormor mulled wine in the kitchen they picked at my man, asking questions about his family, their home, his prospects, and why he had taken such interest in their poor, innocent Maja. To his credit Anders was perfect, deflecting the more bawdy questions with a smirk and a wink, and doing his best to walk the tightrope laid in front of him. Yes, he was serious. No, he did not want for money. Dead, unfortunately, soon after crossing, and he an orphan.

Finally, when the dust settled my man, a little worse for wear, had satisfied his first challengers, and as if on cue my mother and mormor came from the kitchen, mugs of mulled wine for all. My mother served the glasses as her elder settled back into the soft chair that was only used when she came over, sipping her own mug and looking at Anders strangely.

"I am sorry, my dear, but your father and uncles are away collecting some last things. It would seem that it is just us tonight, but god jul!" my mother handed me my mug, then set Anders own in front of him, waiting for comment.

"Thank you, dear, but you have a guest in your home! We must not bother him with such details. Now, Anders is it?"

"Yes, mother. That is my name. And yours?" My man quipped, and Mormor's eyes lit up with interest and a bit of anger.

"I am called grandmother, or mormor in our tongue. pratar du svenska? kan du de gamla sångerna, spelman?" my grandmother countered, switching to her native tongue. "kan du spela för oss i kväll?"

I rarely heard my grandmother speak Swedish, but I heard the bitter in her voice, and felt Anders hand tighten in mine. She had been quite the musician herself, playing violin in the Orchestra and helping to pay for her children's needs after their father passed with her bow.

"Känner jag dig? innan?" Anders replied, releasing my hand and standing up. "I must go Maja. My stomach, it is unsettled."

"Oh, no, stay spelman. Just a little while? Play us a song, then." My grandmother leaned forward, her wine-darkened teeth looking like a cat halfway through finishing a mouse.

"I cannot impose, and if I am sick I do not wish for you to catch."

"It is always a man's worry, if a woman would catch. Stay, spelman. Just a little while? Play us a song."

Anders fidgeted in place, then stood from his chair. I saw his eyes looking between mormor and I, and his face begged me for an excuse, any way out of this.

"I want to leave, häxa. varför måste du vara grym?" Anders moved towards the foyer, not even looking at me as he stumbled towards freedom.

"Stay, spelman. Just a little while. Play us a song."

The tension in Anders' body left him at mormor's words, and he walked in soft steps to the door. I heard him opening the case, and heard him sobbing. My grandmother looked pleased, and sat back into her throne delighted with herself.

"What are you doing, mormor? " I demanded, standing up and getting ready to take my man home.

"Just greeting an old friend", she said with bitter words, and awaited my fiddler's return.

I do write now and then, I’ve even been paid to do some small writing commissions, but for now I need to focus on school. But it means the world to me that you think so highly of my work, this is the first time I’ve done a successful writing prompt here.