The Untouchable Ängsälvor

Word Count: 948 Average Read Time: 4:45 Time Finished: Third Day Morning Sprints

Describing how it felt to become a cloud of mist was never easy.

A similar task might be describing a sneeze to someone who has never had one. Or an orgasm. It was something the body approached and achieved, not something one simply chose to do and then executed. To the Ängsalvor, it was something that came naturally, with time.

And (in much the same way as a orgasms and sneezes) they were something one could often enduce at will, but not something one could ever fully control.

That would not stop the Solid from asking constantly to see it, as though something so personal or embarrassing should be put on show for the entertainment of the public. But Tylendore would never react with the indignity he felt when being asked to perform, because he knew it was not so much a spectacle to those Solid as it was genuine interest.

At least, that was what he always told himself when asked, in order to be calm.

Today was no exception. Tylendore had come across a family: A mother and two children. The mother was explaining to the young ones exactly what he was, and what about him was different. In hushed tones, he heard her teach them how he was not to be trusted quite as much as any other stranger or Other that they might meet. Though, to her credit, she did not expound on why that was- at least not while she was standing three feet in front of him.

Apparently, whatever version of the story she knew wasn’t horrid enough to preclude asking for a free show for her and her two little angels.

Normally at this point Tylendore would hold up his gloved hands and make some excuse about not being able to do it again today. Being worn out. Willing, but not able. This was more understandable to them than explaining his real situation. Disappointment would rush across their faces, but never anger.

Being too blunt, he had learned over time, would spell disaster for him. Many of the Solid races were not used to being told, ‘No,’ by anyone, especially not one of a race as maligned in the public eye as the Ängsälvor. They would get violent, but first, only in words. Trying to lash out with lexicon to get their way. And sometimes, that was when they would leave.

Other times, they would get physical.

It was always difficult to convince anyone that an Ängsälvor was the victim in a situation. They were not immediately considered Evil by most, but they were usually marked as the troublemaker between any conflict they might be involved in.

“Why didn’t You just show them?”

“Why did You wear Ängsälvor clothes if You didn’t want people asking that?”

“Why did Yoy fight back? It would have been better if You just let it happen, and left.”

Unfair. Unjust. But this mother had just asked him a question.

But as he began to eloquently tell them, ‘No,’ the mother walked up to him and cupped his cheek in her palm as she began to ask ever-so-nicely.

Panic raced through Tylendore’s mind as he felt the warmth of her hand on his cheek. It burned like fire, it froze like ice. He reeled back and started to breathe heavily, eyes wide and face on fire. His entire face and neck was beginning to feel numb. And then, it began.

He felt the tingle of the Mist flow through his skin, and then explode out into a cloud around him, along with his body and mind. His entire being was thrust into the act, and he could not stop it. In other circumstances, it might have been enjoyable.

Here, it made him sick to his stomach.

He had yelled, as the trasformation had begun. This was now a wailing noise, carried on the wind from within himself, out towards the group of sickening Solid people still standing before him. They got what they wanted, even when he did not willingly give it to them. He had been forced into the Mist by their touch, once again.

A sense of doom washed through him, through the cloud that was now his body. Though they could not see the change, his form shifted to reflect it in a way that other Ängsälvor would have been able to see. The Others, well, they could just see a cloud.

And he could see all around him, or rather, he could without moving. He still needed to focus and change his perception. Seeing all around him at once was something only very special Ängsälvor could do, and he was not special. He was not even normal, or worth the dust being kicked up as the two children ran off, being followed by their sickeningly applauding mother.

Good Riddance, he thought, turning his attention to the pond beside him, floating out over it to try to calm this dreadful feeling he had. His heart would still be beating a mile a minute, if it were in one piece.

As it was, his body was spread out evenly amongst the folds of the mist. If he were to breath, the entire cloud would softly create a breath around him. If he were to relieve himself or sweat, the drops of liquid would fall from him slowly, as though the were condensation or rain.

At least there was that, he said to himself, as he settled softly on the bank of the pond, just overtop the water, so no one would notice him cry.

The Fall of the Kaolin

Words: 897 Average Reading Time: 4:30 Time Completed: Second Day of Normal Writing

The sounds of the rain were what woke her.

She sat up with a start, never one to be able to slowly rouse herself from a slumber. Her painted sapphire eyes fell upon the open window, which sat just a bit to the left of the foot of her bed: Enough that, should she want to, she could look through it. But she could also completely block it out, if the mood struck her,

Today was a perfect rainy day: Enough of a storm that rain fell in steady streams from her roof in addition to the normal unobstructed droplets, but not so much that the sky was completely darkened. The clouds, just South of a perfectly porcelain white, loomed heavy and dripping above her. It was the kind of day that she savored.

Gingerly, she inched to the side of her bed. Some of the Kaolin would take 10 minutes for the next part, just to ensure that there would be no mishaps so early in the morning. After all, with skin as hard and as fragile as porcelain, fixing a chip or a scuff was not a simple task, requiring time— and money. Taleandory had been told that by her mother many a morning, as she was learning what it meant to be a Kaolin. But "Tale," as she called herself, was never one to take such caution.

Especially on a day so perfectly rainy.

She pushed herself out of bed in one fluid motion, hearing her feet hit the ground with a loud clink. No pain. And she was standing, nearly ready for the day.

Tale was not a woman so enamoured with fashion that she'd take a lot of time to dress herself up. But, she wished she were, some days. And on those days, she had a small assortment of sashes and scarves which she liked to choose from. The most basic form of Kaolin cosmetics, a simple bolt of cloth tied here or there could lend that hint of care and prettiness she yearned for.

She sifted through her collection quickly. Today was definitely a yellow day, Tale thought to herself. And there was the one she wanted: Bright yellow with a small pattern on the edge.

Her small, dainty fingers tied it in a soft knot around her neck, letting it hang down behind her. She looked in her mirror. She looked good. Time to set out for the day.

Tale went to her door- unhandled, as all Kaolin doors were, and double hinged to open out both ways. When Others would ask them about that, often with concerns for safety or practicality, the Kaolin response was elegant and simple: "Why would You make something that had the chance to hurt You more complicated than it needed to be?" A door's presence already conveyed the desire of privacy. If the Others (or another Kaolin even, at times) were not respectful of that desire, then what good would a lock or a handle do?

Tale went to her door and softly pushed it open, stepping through. She felt the first few drops of rain land on her face, the first cool breeze caress the delicate curves of her body, the first footprint of soft earth give beneath her feet as she walked. She sighed a contented sigh, and began to hum an Ängsalvor tune, one of her favorites. Closing her eyes, she continued to trace the carefully measured steps to the edge of her household, as she did each morning before heading to the square.

She worked in a restaurant, serving people drinks and food just a hair slower than the others, but with much more grace and poise. It came naturally to a Kaolin to be so; Any undue haste could spell disaster quickly when Your body was so fragile. The Others could practice making calculated and precise movements, but a Kaolin had to live it.

In the distance, a small clap of thunder rumbled. Though she loved it, she hurried her steps just a small amount. It would be difficult to work if she got herself too wet, for drying herself off was very difficult.

She rounded the bend which led from her little one floor cottage to the main road of Fantas, the town it which she lived. Each step sounded with a smack of grasping mud now, the road slick with rain which had been falling for hours. To Tale, this reminded her of porridge, which she liked to play with before eating.

Smack, Smack, Smack.

Her footsteps were as regular as the ticking of a clock.

Smack, Smack, Smack.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Smack, Clop Clop, Smack, Clop Clop.

Just as she noticed something else was on the road, a runaway team of horses led a caravan wagon directly overtop of her. As she fell, she felt a brief but glorious surge of energy, as if for once she might be alright even though this was against all she had ever learned about herself.

And then, with her face in the mud, she felt the sharply intense pain of her left arm being crushed beneath the wagon's wheels. She could feel a scream building in her chest, but then stars were all around her, and everything went black.

The Birth of a Stalac

Word Count: 1271 Average Read Time: 6:22 Time Completed: First Day's Sprints

The room was lit a holy shade of blue.

It would be unusual, on any other day. Laughable, even, for someone to expend enough of their energy in such a show of intense emotion. But on a day like today, the day when there would finally be a child brought into this world, all around would gladly show their support.

The couple in question had been trying for the last 5 years to conceive such a bonding testament to their union. I had grown up with them, a constant friend and companion through troubling times. But without such a friend, they had told me, they could not had gotten through this.

To see them now, enacting that union they had so deeply and truly wanted, made me falter.

Falter is indeed the right word, though it left an odd color as it left my mind. Faltering in three ways, as their heads began to glow over the child they wished to create.

First, in the utter beauty of it all. I had only ever been witness to three conceptions, and one of which I was interested more in the technical side of things than in the spectacular moment.

It was surreal: Others of importance in both of their lives gathered around, lending the soft blue glow of their emotions to the room which would otherwise be black as obsidian or coal. The couple, enamoured more than ever with one another, stood at the center of it all arms stretched over their past weeks' labor- a collection of precious stone cut just right, and assembled overtop of an inscribed circle.

To reproduce, it was said, there needed to be both an intense fire and a deep determination between those involved. Constructing Your child by hand, or overseeing a very close friend's hand if You lack the skill, was indicative of the latter. And if You lacked the former, well...

Shhndr's light faltered just a hair, and only for a split moment. Should it go out, or dim too long, it would spell disaster for their unborn child. Deep fire, deeper than anything else in life, was needed to be successful.

Especially in recent years.

Shutting that thought deep from my mind, I focused my emotions on the task at hand. Our role was secondary, of course, but our light would help mask any faltering of their own, lest their partner notice and begin to doubt themselves as well. The avalanche of pain would claim many a child from parents with too few friends and too many faltering thoughts.

Which brought me back to my own, and reminded me of the second reason I falter as I stand here in support. The reason which shook me and my close ones whenever we thought of children. The reason that I could not stand by my friends 100% as they moved on to the next stage of their lives.

I was not unpopular.

Three Births, including the one which taught me what it was. Two births by friends. And though I was far from crumbling, I could not claim youth as my excuse anymore. There should be more, and would be more, were it not for all of the failing births I had seen over the years.

Why were people no longer able to do that which was once so normal a part of Stalac life? Why did one in every 10 or 15 ceremonies end with meeting a newborn, and the rest end with crushing despair and bitter, bitter darkness? Why were we not able to conceive, though we wanted no more than to be with one another?

Why couldn't we?

My light went out as my mind began to reel uncontrollably in response to that question. I focused on the stone walls, old and strong and firm in resolve. I tried to push that angst from my mind, on this very important day. That third reason to falter, the real reason behind it all, was not important right now. I must be here for Shhndr and Kshtk.

I took just the smallest step back, and then one step forward to make up for it. Looking straight ahead, I imagined myself as I was, without light: My perfectly polished edges shining only the reflection of those around me, the only light present my two yellow-green eyes.

And then, I imagined the light once again falling from my body, and gushing into the room around me. I imagined those around me reflecting my own light back instead. And I thought of my friends, and how hope has helped heal heinously hardened hearts in the past.

And hope sprung from me again, along with my light, blue as the fabled 'sky' from the stories the wanderers would regale the children with. Those same stories which would soon be told to the child lying there in the middle of the room, beneath Kshtk and Shhndr.

They were both emanating streams of that same color. Was that..? No. I urged myself not to revise what I saw with what I only wished to see. Casting my gaze to those around me for a second, and then back to them, I saw it again: A tint of red in the otherwise holy blue. It was faint, but definitely present, and in both of them.

I heard a surprised gasp from across the room as someone else noticed it too. "When hope springs eternal, eternal springs life." That was the mnemonic my parents had taught me when I first was to see the miracle of a birth. Hope was blue, and life was red.

Shhndr and Kshtk, however, were both rapidly glowing purple. A deep purple. Deeper and deeper, until they could go no further. Their light outweighed and overpowered ours, though we were not to stop our labor until they had stopped theirs. This, I had seen, was a very wise bit of advice, for what comes next can easily be ruined by a lack of constant and consistent support.

The bright purple glow was snuffed suddenly, and all that remained were the faint blue glows bordering the room. The center, both couple and child, were unlit, as unlit as those without life might be.

This was the dangerous part of a birth, and the one which had always been so. It was not unheard of for life to be taken instead of given here; A fate which forced the lone survivor to live alone for the rest of their lives in remorse for their crumbled partner, and their child who would never get the chance to crumble.

I could not think in that one moment. All I could do was glow.

No reaction.

Glow.

No change.

GLOW.

And then, miraculous release! Both Shhndr and Kshtk sprang back to life, with their purple union draining softly into the body beneath them. Though they would fade to normal, if satisfied, shades of greenish blue, it was the child which drew one's eye. Bright red, brighter than ever shown by those born even only a few lessons ago, shone from their body.

And slowly, they began to move.

First, a leg. Then an arm, and then the head— and there were the eyes, bright and yellow amidst the newborn red. They pushed themselves up, to sit on the ground, as their eyes fell upon the sated and sighing couple beside them.

This was too much for me. Too beautiful, too perfect... Too close to home.

I left the room, my inner light snuffed by thoughts of despair and frustration, as they spoke their first words.

"What will You call me, parents?"