This was in response to another writing prompt on r/WritingPrompts:

An agoraphobic princess is sick and tired of knights breaking into her tower and trying to slay her emotional support dragon.

I shouldn’t have to do this.

This is manual labour, commoner’s work, blast it! What do I know about using a crowbar and excavation rods? I have more important work to do, like slaying – bloody – dragons!

That should do it. Now what? Why didn’t father make those bloody churls accompany me, so they could do this donkey-work? Rights of the Commons, hah! If he really cared about the commoners that much, why didn’t he go live in a monastery, and become one of them? Then Giles could be Lord Tallyrand, and I’d be the heir! For a change. Until he had a son, of course.

Right… that stone came out very – easily. Almost as if it had been moved before. That’s… not encouraging. Now what’s this? 

Who boards up a stone wall? And it looks like it was done from the inside, too. Stupid – inexplicable – churls, repairing… oh! They repaired it from the inside, because it had been moved before. Not good. Phew, this is heavy going, doing manual labour in plate mail. No matter. I am sworn to slay the dragon and rescue the princess, and must do or die. A man is only as good as his word.

That’s that for the carpentry. They must have heard the noise, no sense in stealth. This looks like a passage: no space for the greatsword; Poleaxe and bastard-sword. Onward! Visor down, idiot, in case of flame. 

Stairs… up. And up… up again. Dash it, this is a bit thick, what? Where the devil is that dragon? God’s blood! It must have been behind me! But moving away. Give chase! I fear no traps. I am girt with steel, by St George!

Up, and up some more. Oh, I am winded, lathered with sweat under plate mail. We must be nearly at the top of the tower!

Hark… I hear a maiden’s voice. It must be the Lady Morag. She sounds beautiful! But wait! That inhuman sound! The drake is within! She may be in danger! Poleaxe versus door… poleaxe wins! ‘HAVE AT YOU, FOUL WORM!’

‘Oh…’ 

Saints and angels, she is beautiful! But why does she cling to the monster? If monster it be, ‘tis wondrous fair! And it guards her like a mother hen, even as she holds it.

‘Please, my lord, hurt not my drake. She is here for my comfort, she only eats stoats and rats!’ there are tears in her eyes.

How could I do any harm to a lady as fair as this? Her hair so fair, ‘tis almost white, her eyes of forest green. My arms, suddenly weak, lower my axe. I go down on one knee, to show my good intentions.

‘Forgive me, my lady. I thought only for your rescue.’

‘I am not held against my will, my lord. I am sore distressed by the world and its tumult. I desire only to dwell in peace and seclusion, and the drake is a comfort to me.’

I am amazed. ‘What manner of beast is it? I had heard it was a monster, and desired to prove myself against it.’

The maiden sobs and shakes. Her tears cut my heart. ‘Knights are ever coming to kill my Sheelagh! But she is all I have in the world!’

I drop the axe and come closer, going down on both knees. I feel like the monster, now. ‘I am sorry, my lady.’ There must be something in my eyes, smoke perhaps. ‘I promise, on my honour, I shall never harm your… Sheelagh?’

‘Thank you, my lord. You are a noble knight.’ We are now very close. Our eyes meet. I know, deep down, I shall never leave her. I take her white hand in mine. ‘I am Sir Tormund, Viscount Tallyrand.’

The drake makes a chuttering sound. She blushes, very prettily. ‘I am Lady Morag, Recluse of the Crag.’

‘Might I visit again, my lady?’ I must bring men to repair her tower.

‘Please do, my lord. And soon.’

This was a sketch I wrote long ago, which was intended to go into The Ironwood Staff. As it happened, it didn't, but I thought it was nicely atmospheric, so I'm putting it in here.

Tomas felt his spine crawl. It was just after the preternaturally early sunset of this far southern land, at the end of the fourth month. He could place no origin for the feeling – maybe it was just the shaggy, untidy, leaf-littered street, where dusk seemed to grow out of shadowed corners; maybe it was the gloomy feeling of encroaching winter, when the already unfriendly neighbourhood muttered unpleasantness to the unwelcome. A feeling of threat grew with the dark.

With full night, he felt a desperate, sobbing need for light. He lit a fire in the parlour, as he had to anyway (glad that he’d already cleared the grate) and put two lamps in the corners of the room – then found that when he wanted to go to bed, the shriek-black darkness of his own bedroom bared its fangs at him. He quickly returned to the now comfortless seating of the parlour, with its hard table, cold floor and a fire that might not last the night. Feeling mounting fear, he went to check the oil store – and found it nearly empty! Fear of the dark touched his heart with icy fingers. The hairs of his arms rose up and his eyes pricked with tears. He was too scared to stay in the house – but the terror of the autumn-dark streets outside kept him there.

Topping up one of the lamps with the last of the oil, he sat shivering right on the edge of the hearth, his mind reeling in rising and falling tides of madness as the light of the fire became dim.

Then, in a moment of clarity, he remembered a beautiful little song from a childhood now remote -haltingly at first, but with growing confidence, he sang that simple little childhood hymn. It told of the love of Light, the security of mother and hearth, the merriment of family. Eventually he was singing it out loud, tears streaming down his face for the things he no longer had – light, mother, friends.

After a time, his mind turned over his emotions, and he realised that for all his efforts, he was wretched. His life was a mess, for no other reason than he lacked light, companions, everything!

Finally, as his last source of light grew dim, he told himself that the lack of something was no reason to be afraid. Despite the dank, clammy fear, he put on a cloak, went out and locked the door, leaving for the neighbourhood Sanctuary.

It wasn’t as cold as he’d expected outside in the gusty small hours, but neither was it as threatening. Entering through the side door, he sat at the front, sitting cross-legged in elado-fashion, as he used to call it, in the front row.

Like all Sanctuaries, there were images of the patron Powers of the town all around, and scenes from the Lore. The whole building was octagonal, as usual, but the north-western wall was blank, free of images. It was the direction of the Shining Mountain. That wall was carved with abstract, swirling designs which focused attention on a large golden lamp with eight wicks, standing on a stone plinth. It was a representation of the Light of the One and was kept lit at all times. Right now, it was the only light in the place.

Tomas sat, looking at the lamp. It glowed continually, shining its light on everything, good, bad and indifferent. There was no darkness. There was not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of one of those wicks. Tomas felt a wave of peace and contentment at the thought. To avoid the need, you had to go where the need was satisfied. Not to where it was denied, in an affluent, decaying society; not to where it was distracted; but to where it was truly satisfied. All other needs were simple reflections, or pointers to, that need which could only be filled by the Presence denoted by the sacred lamp. Tomas’ heart filled with gratitude at the gratuity of the Presence – it excluded no-one.

As he sat there, an acolyte came in from the passage that linked the Sanctuary to the Cloister. It didn’t look like he noticed Tomas, as he blearily refilled the Lamp and trimmed its wicks. After he had finished, he sat cross-legged in front of the Lamp for a few minutes, then got up to go. He noticed Tomas and started visibly. He looked hard at Tomas, but Tomas made no acknowledgement. Then he came down and sat close to Tomas. After a while he said, ‘I wondered why I was awake at this time of night. I often am, when someone needs to talk.’

And so they talked. It was full light when Tomas felt tired of talking. The old acolyte went off to get some holy water for Tomas, and Tomas thanked him and went home. The autumn sun was shining nostalgically on the locked-up house, and Tomas splashed the holy water on the door and moved to the windows. Then he saw it – swinging in the shadows of the thatched eaves was a loathsome bundle of artefacts. A twisted piece of metal, it looked like part of an axle; a crow’s wing-feather; a fragment of wood; and the paw of a monkey, all tied together with grass, and suspended from a rafter by strands of horsehair. The fear of the night before seemed to ooze from it. With his staff, Tomas knocked the excrescence off, then poured the rest of the holy water on it. As he watched, the pieces writhed and smoked, darkness fleeing before light.

In the world of The Ironwood Staff, there are classes or people, in all races. What I wrote below started as a meditation on 'inequality'', and this is what came up, applied to that world. As some background to the scene, the Eladi appear as Celadi (settlers from across the seas), Oreladi (the original inhabitants of the land), who didn't flee when the kchabani came but became nomads, and Moreladi (the original inhabitants who fled to Greenland in the First Foul War), who have now returned to retake their ancestral lands.

'Let me tell you about poor people,' rumbled Tulan. 'You might think of them as of no account, but the One, who created the gods, hears their prayers - it is said. Those who have little, they come face to face with their failure every day, as soon as they wake up in their poor houses. People of Patrician class hide their own failures behind fine hangings, or thick stone walls, and they use gold and silver to make up for them; but just because they can ignore their sin doesn't mean they become perfect. Their own evil is only hidden... in the dark - and like mould and decay, it grows best in the dark.'
He had their attention. 'Don't be too quick to dismiss Oto's people. Is a nomad of the Whitewaters really worse off than a working elado in Greenland, a quarryman, or a lumberjack? There would be times when an Orelado longs for food that he didn't have to hunt, or gather, or barter for. In winter he might wish for a roof and a stone fireplace; but a rich merchant in Ferndale has to talk and make deals and take risky decisions, six days a week, and never sees the light shift and change in the grass of a morning. Which would you rather have?'
There was silence for a while. 'All people are not the same, unless it be that we are all children of the One. Each class of people does things that the others need done, and there would be no Kingdoms without them. Our job is not to look down on people, nor to do evil out of envy. Our job is to do good... whatever we can, wherever needed. Any less, and we are not doing what we were made for.'