Highest rating: #19 in fantasy!
Edlyn has never fit in. With her unusual white hair and silver eyes, she sticks out from her village of brown. To make matters worse, unexplainable things tend to happen around her-things that she can't control. In a...
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Pain racks my body right as I wake and my lungs feel like they've been crushed. My muscles, bones, head—all throbbing and aching from whatever crashed into me—
Something—something attacked me—
I shoot up into a sitting position, my vision blurring from the sudden movement, and take in my surroundings.
I'd been lying on a pile of rough wool blankets near the wall of a circular dirt room. I glance upward, ducking my head when I notice that tree roots are dangling from the low ceiling. Even sitting, my head nearly brushes the roots and the dirt above me. The room is dim, its only light coming from a mostly melted wax candle sitting atop a wooden stool in the center of the room, and I smell sweet roses and smoke when I take a breath. The floor and several shelves carved into the dirt walls are chock full of small chunks of wood whittled skillfully into every shape—trees, flowers, animals—the carvings are so beautiful that they nearly distract me from the problem at hand.
Where am I?
I push the blankets off of myself and move to stand. Slowly, I force myself onto my knees and then get to my feet, bending at the waist to keep my head from brushing against the dirt ceiling. It can't be more than three and a half feet high.
Before leaving, I bend to pick up my hood from the pile of blankets that had served as my bed. I wrap it tightly around my shoulders and over my hair, hiding it as well as I can.
A soft, golden glow pours into the room through a thin tunnel in one of the walls. It seems that this tunnel is the only way in or out of the room, and a soft clinking sound can be heard from somewhere beyond the tunnel.
A bit of uneasiness seeps into my veins, cold and unforgiving. But I don't feel completely afraid. Instead, curiosity tugs me nearer to the tunnel, to that warm light. And maybe curiosity did kill the cat, but I would have to face whatever may come at me as I have always had to.
I'm careful not to knock my head on the roots as I make my way over to the tunnel dug into the wall and follow the light. It leads me into a slightly larger room with a higher ceiling. There are still roots hanging, but a fresh candle sits on the wooden table in the center of the room, burning brightly. Wooden counters and a makeshift stove line the walls, covered in kitchen utensils and more beautiful carvings. At a table occupying the center of the room sits a man that must be only about three feet tall. A bushy brown beard covers most of the lower part of his face and a big nose sticks out from the hair. He wears a brown top hat and a green jacket that has seen better days.
At first, he doesn't notice my presence—his attention is taken by a piece of wood and a tiny whittling knife. The wood is beginning to take the rough shape of a bird, although I can't tell for sure what the shape will be.
