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Pomrick Bloomsfield
Jack Thacker
Dawn crept over Greyshore like a half-hearted apology—thin light filtering through brume, gilding the tide-flats and setting the river’s sluggish eddies aglow with tarnished brass. A stone’s throw beyond the last rotting jetty, in a pocket of scrub and alder where the forest pressed close, Vaezhasar had made himself a sort of eldritch chaise longue.
The sorcerer reclined upon a beast that matched a shire horse for mass, though no honest farmer would stable such a nightmare. Its hide was a damp, mossy green, ridged and pocked like dragon scale left too long in brine. From the nape of its neck sprouted a crest of matted spines, each crowned by a wizened human visage—tiny gray masks whose mouths gaped in silent complaint. The creature squatted on a mound of half-eaten mammalian carcasses, idly chewing; its great froglike jaws worked with slow deliberation, revealing a battlement of stained teeth.
Above this living throne sat Vaezhasar, plate and horned staff at easy rest, a slim volume spread across his gauntlets. Behind the visor’s slits his eyes flicked left, right, devouring each line. Presently he clicked his tongue—a small, disapproving sound that made the beast’s manifold heads shudder.
“Footnotes utterly bereft of vigor,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the world at large. He turned a page with surgical care, then leaned back against the creature’s cold, ridged flank as though it were the most genteel of divans. In the hush between river-murmur and distant gull-cry, the sorcerer read on, while beneath him the hulking mount shifted, sending a ripple along its back that made the little faces grimace in unison—like a chorus of critics agreeing that the morning’s scholarship left much to be desired.
Jack Thacker
Dawn crept over Greyshore like a half-hearted apology—thin light filtering through brume, gilding the tide-flats and setting the river’s sluggish eddies aglow with tarnished brass. A stone’s throw beyond the last rotting jetty, in a pocket of scrub and alder where the forest pressed close, Vaezhasar had made himself a sort of eldritch chaise longue.
The sorcerer reclined upon a beast that matched a shire horse for mass, though no honest farmer would stable such a nightmare. Its hide was a damp, mossy green, ridged and pocked like dragon scale left too long in brine. From the nape of its neck sprouted a crest of matted spines, each crowned by a wizened human visage—tiny gray masks whose mouths gaped in silent complaint. The creature squatted on a mound of half-eaten mammalian carcasses, idly chewing; its great froglike jaws worked with slow deliberation, revealing a battlement of stained teeth.
Above this living throne sat Vaezhasar, plate and horned staff at easy rest, a slim volume spread across his gauntlets. Behind the visor’s slits his eyes flicked left, right, devouring each line. Presently he clicked his tongue—a small, disapproving sound that made the beast’s manifold heads shudder.
“Footnotes utterly bereft of vigor,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the world at large. He turned a page with surgical care, then leaned back against the creature’s cold, ridged flank as though it were the most genteel of divans. In the hush between river-murmur and distant gull-cry, the sorcerer read on, while beneath him the hulking mount shifted, sending a ripple along its back that made the little faces grimace in unison—like a chorus of critics agreeing that the morning’s scholarship left much to be desired.
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