Tales

The D'arvian Wurm races

In the far away land of D'arvia, on the middle of the Serpent's hook peninsula, there was a small house. It resided on the edge of a small grape plantation, next to a stone building for making and storing grape juice. Behind the grape field, on the other side of the rotting wooden fence, there was tangled, adventurous woodland stretching as far as the eye could see in that direction. The rest of the surrounding area was hills and grassy green fields. The owner of that quaint lot was named Bentley Johnston, and he had a beautiful wife, seven daughters and two sons.

All day long they worked on the grapes, picking bunches, filling and carrying buckets, separating the stems, piling the grapes into their giant juicer, and filling jars with sweet purple liquid. It was in the middle of harvesting season, and the rows of vines were thick with lush fruit. All the kids helped. Even Jessica, the two year old helped pick some, though she ate most of the ones she picked. They ate lunch in the vineyard, only stopping when it was time for dinner. After dinner the kids got some free time, and scattered about the house and yard.

Bentley went to the back of the house, and into the cluttered study. Books sat on desks, shelves, and in teetering piles, globes and maps and heirlooms were scattered around, and papers with poems and journal entries and expenses and taxes and sketches and everything you can think of were stuck in between books, wedged in corners, and stuffed onto shelves.

Bentley wove through the mess of literature, and pushed some piles of books and a chest full of scrolls to the side. On the floor there was a trapdoor with dusty wooden boards, and a dented iron lock. His wife Genevieve came into the doorway.

"Where are you going?" She asked.

Bentley took an old brown key from around his neck and unlocked the trapdoor, opening it with a squeak to reveal a flight of stone steps descending into darkness. "It's a Tuesday," He said, lighting a lantern.

With that, Bentley took the lantern and stepped down into the darkness, closing the door behind him.

Genevieve smiled. "Can't keep away from those pets of his."

Bentley descended the stone stairs, his lantern casting a sphere of yellow light around him. He went down about fifty feet until he came to a large black cavern. His lantern did little to illuminate the misty space, and the back wall was far from visible. Bentley walked across the ominous cave. He heard scuttling and squirming noises echoing around, and suddenly he saw a looming shape in the darkness. It was white-ish grey, with a slimy membrane and moist clay-like flesh. It was longer than Bentley's house and as twice as thick as he was tall. It had no eyes, no limbs, and a whip-like tail. Its head was round and blunt with a circular mouth filled with rows of teeth. It had dozens of nostrils and eardrums in two chains down its sides, and a pink spot on its forehead.

Bentley rubbed its head, "Red-eye, who's been a good wurm?"

Red-eye slithered around him, wrapping him in a slimy but affectionate hug. Bentley went to the cave, Red-eye slithering behind him. More wurms like Red-eye, but without the spot, and some with other distinguishing features, squirmed around the cavern. Big ones, little ones no bigger than Bentley's arm, and slimy green eggs. As they went, Bentley greeted each approaching wurm, scratching their chins and petting their backs the way they liked, and calling them by name (If they had one. Most of the smallest ones didn't.) Red-eye was one of the biggest, and the fastest of them all.

Bentley found the back wall of the cave, and leaning against it was a wooden sled attached to a giant harness. Bentley strapped it on to his wurm, in a tight loop around the neck with long, thick leather reins coming back and attaching to the sleigh, and then got inside.