Greeting wayfarers.
I’m trying out a new style of storytelling inspired by serialized TV

Hopefully, this will allow me to do more with shorter stories, which means less time stuck with writer’s block

I hope you enjoy the beginning of Gwenith’s story.

You cannot drink and sing your way to success

Gwenith woke up in the dark, submerged to her chest in dark liquid. The last thing she remembered was helping herself to her half-sister’s wine cellar for a late nightcap. She was sitting in something wooden. A tub, perhaps. Or a large barrel? She could feel little waves lap against her scales. She licked her fingers; they tasted like sweet red wine, from the church domain, if she had to guess.

She also felt the familiar curve of a bottle against her face. She smiled and, with her teeth, pulled out the cork. She took a long gulp of the sweet wine within and began to sing.

“As I was going over the far-famed Silver Mountains…”

 She often sang old drinking songs while she drank. She splashed her tail merrily as she sang, “Musha-ring, dumb-a-do, dumb-a-da.”

Suddenly, the lights came on with blinding intensity, and from above she could hear voices yelling. Then there came the sound of sandals and boots on the stairs. When her eyes finally adjusted to the light, she found half a dozen selkie and merfolk servants staring down at her in horror.

There was a flash of gold and teal blue scales descending the stairs. “Dear God, Gwenith, you ruined the 1602 San Domas.” Gwenith knew that voice, and its source came stomping into view.

“Muirín, *hic*” said Gwenith, “Why are you looking at me like that? Have some of this delicious wine.” She proffered the bottle to her.

The face that Muirín made could have sunk an entire fleet. Muirín snatched the bottle out of Gwenith’s hand and  said, “Do you know what time it is?”

“I dunno. Eight? Nine?” said Gwenith.

“It is 9:20 in the morning,” said Muirín, seething, “The entrance ceremonies for your first semester at the Coláiste Draoidheil start in an hour and a half. As the Crown Princess Under the Sea and a student, you are expected to be in attendance.”
Gwenith shrugged and dug around her tub, seeing if there was another bottle handy. Muirín rolled her eyes and simply pointed at Gwenith. The footmen grabbed her by the arm and tail as Muirín barked orders at the maidservants. “I want a cold bath prepared, as well as a pot of Qualdiran coffee, willowbark tablets, and a bottle of Pale Rider Ill brought up to Gwenith’s chambers THIS INSTANT.”

The maidservants scattered, and Muirín led the way, stomping up the stairs as Gwenith sang out, “There’s whiskey in the jar,” loud enough to rattle the stairs.

“That was a dirty trick, giving me a bottle of Pale Rider and calling it wine,” Gwenith moaned as she sat in front of the vanity, “I still feel like throwing up. The bath and coffee did nothing to still my stomach.”

“You brought this on yourself,” said Muirín as she gave silent instructions to the maids, “A princess getting drunk before the entrance ceremony into the most prestigious school of magic in the world reflects badly on you and, more importantly, me as your sponsor.”

“Really,” said Gwenith with a pout. “Everybody knows merfolk are never sober. Nobody would care if I made a fool of myself.”

Muirín puffed up her chest and said in her best sneering voice, “Unlike in the Home Reef, in this city decorum matters, if you cannot get that through your skull…

Gwenith tuned it out and stared deflatedly in the mirror. The maidservants fussed about her with combs and makeup in a futile attempt to make her look like Muirín.

They shouldn’t have bothered trying to make her look regal. 

“Gwenith, Gwenith, are you listening to me?” said Muirín. Gwenith shrugged.

“As I was saying, little sister,” said Muirín, annoyed, “You are going to be the queen under the sea one of these days, and as queen, knowing magic is nonnegotiable. Daddy begged me to teach you bardcraft one way or another. Since no tutor has managed to make you apply yourself, I have turned you over to the experts at the Coláiste Draoidheil.”

“I guess you are the expert on royalty,” said Gwenith. She spun around in her chair and did one of the cute, flirtatious poses Muirín used to do. “After all, you failed to win Fredrick Von Mountainheart’s heart and settled for his weak-willed and plain as toast brother.” 

“You are a remora hanging off the side of any boy who gives you wine, and you will stay that way until you start taking life seriously,” said Muirín.

In the distance, a bell started to chime the half hour. The first bell struck.

Muirín didn’t wait for the second. She seized Gwenith by the wrist and hauled her to her feet. 

Muirín was moving so fast that Gwenith found it difficult to keep herself from constantly tripping. 

She hated it when she had to change her tail for legs, another thing to hate about this day.

By the time they had reached the carriage, Muirín and Gwenith were not making eye contact, let alone talking to each other. 

Gwenith thought she might have gone a little too far with the comments about her love life. However, the look on Muirín’s face made everything about this day better.

They sat on opposite sides of the carriage, with Muirín’s husband, Prince Klaus, serving as a towering and befuddled wall between them. Klaus had been invited to the ceremony as a matter of courtesy, but Muirín would have dragged him along anyway as emotional support.

Gwenith stared out over the side at the canopy of Sliberberg with its rainbow of colors. The Clock Tower of the Coláiste Draoidheil was just visible over the treeline.

From the noises coming from the other side of Klaus, it sounded like Muirín had buried herself in Klaus’s snow-white fur to make herself feel better. 

To Gwenith, it sounded almost like when she used to play with her Prince Fredrick Von Mountainheart doll as a girl.

She remembered how they used to role-play the fairy tales about Prince Fredrick. Muirín would always be the good guys, while Gwenith would be the bad guys.

There was a jolt in the road as the carriage rattled through the overgrown stone gates that separated the suburbs from the shaded rowhouses and wizard towers of Slibermond. For a brief moment, Gwenith’s eyes rested upon the doting couple as Muirín nuzzled Klaus’s snout.

Up until a year ago, Muirín was just as much the party girl as she was. Sure, she never drank as much as she did, but she was too busy making the boys into quivering, lovestruck jelly.

Of course, Muirín claimed that it was practice for her Beltane debut that would win her the title of queen of New Mountainheart. 

How she ended up with Fredrick’s bland and forgettable twin was a mystery to Gwenith.

Now Muirín acted like a disappointed aunt instead of a sister

There was a lurch as the kelpies pulling the carriage came to a halt. The brass fence and towering gothic structures of the Coláiste Draoidheil loomed ahead like castle walls lit by purple magefire. The carriage had joined a long line waiting for entrance onto the grounds. 

Gwenith could only remember bits and pieces of what happened after that. The buzz of her nightcap had been replaced by the creeping of a hangover. Between swallowing willowbark tablets, there were snippets of being led through halls lit with gas lamps that burned with purple fire and lined with portraits that moved of their own accord. They were escorted to an auditorium that was impossibly large.

Then long, boring speeches by berobed, important-looking men and women. 

By the fifth speaker, Gwenith was bored to tears.

With nothing better to do, she started to scan the crowd to scope out her future classmates.

A few seats over to her left was a girl whom Gwenith could not ignore, even if she tried. Her hair was solid gold, and her skin was pearl white. She seemed very small in this auditorium, trembling like a piece of seaweed in a storm. It was all her sponsor, a green-skinned sidhe with brown hair in a very pink dress, could do to keep her calm.

“I would not bother getting to know her,” whispered Muirín. “I met her at the market last week, a real minnow from the middle of nowhere. She will not last the semester, even with my sister-in-law coddling.”

Another girl caught her eye; this one was sitting a few rows back. She was scanning the crowd too, but her head was snapping to and fro with unnatural speed, locking eyes on a person for a mere moment before she was on the next. 

She was pale, not like the minnow girl, more like a corpse burnt in the sun. She was dressed to the nines in a black-and-scarlet dress with lots of lace and ruffles. She gave Gwenith the evil eye and hissed, her fangs bared.

Gwenith spun back around in fright. That girl was like a crazed shark looking for a meal. 

One last time, Gwenith cast her eyes to the crowd. This time, her gaze fell on a human boy her age, a handsome one, too. He had auburn hair that never seemed to fall out of place and a smile that could charm all the fish in the sea. One look, and her stomach filled with churning waves. The boy noticed his admirer and flashed Gwenith a smile and a wink. Gwenith blushed and waved back.

Then Muirín suddenly yanked her head the other way, “Stay away from the Von Sablemere brat,” she said, whispering coldly, “That rake is the most dangerous reef that a girl like you could get wrecked on.”

Gwenith said, “Okay, okay, message received, big sis.”

She settled back into her seat as the next speaker started to drone on and on.

She prayed there would be drinks at the reception.

And that Muirín wouldn’t notice if she found them first.

There was only one more speaker, and she kept her words brief.

Then all the speakers exchanged a glance—and then, as one, began to chant.

Gwenith didn’t understand a word of it, but it was beautiful like a poem being read.

A ripple passed through the crowd. Chairs lifted, bobbing inches above the floor, then drifted apart into neat rings of five. Tables slid into place between them. A sudden swell of music flooded the hall. Servants—unseen but very much present—began circulating with trays of food and drink.

Gwenith gave a good long stretch and said, “Finally, I can get something to take the edge off.”

“Oh, really? Unless you fancy drinking water with willowbark tablets, you might be out of luck.” Muirín said, “I’ve already seen to it that no one here will serve you a drop.”

 “Big sister, really? Not even a little bit of beer?”

“Yes, really,” said Muirín as she rose from the table, “I’m going to speak to my sister-in-law. Be a good girl and mingle with your future classmates.” Within moments, she and Klaus had melted into the crowd. She didn’t even look back. For the first time since waking up, Gwenith was alone.

Suddenly, a servant with a floating tray of drinks passed within reach. Gwenith instinctively reached for one of them. The servant dodged out of the way without spilling a single drop. Undeterred, she tried again, swiping at empty air and flying trays. Each time, the servant slipped neatly out of reach.

She slumped to the table, feeling like a caught fish flopping against the shore.

A sea of champagne flutes clinking and people laughing surrounded her island of misery.

The minnow girl was ingratiating herself with the speakers from earlier. 

A clique of remora had begun to form around the shark girl.

Breaking through the crowd was the Von Sablemere boy. He had two flutes of champagne in his hands.

“You look like you need this more than I do.” 

He offered her one of the flutes. 

Her eyes locked onto it. 

She knew she shouldn’t. 

Big sister would not like it. 

But she needed something to drink.

“My hero,” said Gwenith, taking the flute.

He eased beside her like an orca slipping behind a seal as she took a sip. It was top shelf, perfectly bubbly, and the flavor was divine.

“I spied you during the speech. I didn’t know Muirín had a little sister who could rival her legendary face.”

“Careful—she’d have your head for that,” Gwenith said, her cheeks burning pink.

“I am Adrian Von Sablemere.”

“Princess Gwenith,” she said with a flirtatious giggle.

Adrian complimented Gwenith on her voice, her hair, and her face. 

With each compliment, Gwenith blushed and giggled demurely, begging him to keep the compliments coming. 

 Adrian ensured she was never without a full glass in her hand.

Every time he returned with more champagne, she would praise her well-trained dolphin.

With each drink, her self-control slipped more and more.

She was sipping her seventh flute.

Adrian was complimenting her on her hair and suggesting they hook up after the reception.

Suddenly, there was a sound of flatware breaking.

A few paces behind them, the shark girl and her remora were circling the girl with pearl-white skin.

“Now, little Miss Charlotte,” said the fanged girl with a hiss, “I don’t like how you’re cozying up to the professors. If anyone is going to be the teacher’s pet, it’s going to be me.”

Charlotte curled up into herself and put her hands over her ears.

“Got nothing to say, eh, dolly girl? How did a no-talent pipsqueak like you get into this place?”

Charlotte started to whine softly to herself.

Adrian went back to trying to convince Gwenith to see him after the reception, but Gwenith could not look away.

“Are you mocking me, Miss Mousy Doll?”

No answer. Charlotte was on the floor, starting to make a squeaky, sobbing sound.

The other girls started to laugh at her pitiful sobs 

Gwenith’s stomach turned, and her hands tightened. Why had no one come to Charlotte’s defense? 

“Well arn’t you going to defend yourself, ‘your Majesty’?”

Charlotte started to sob openly.

“Bah, you’re not worth my time,” said the predator as she dumped her bloody mary over Charlotte’s head. It flowed down in red streams, staining the girl’s skin and pretty white dress.

Charlotte was in full tears now.

Gwenith’s chair scraped back before she realized she’d moved.

She was going to save Charlotte from the sharks one way or another.

Before she could think, Gwenith lurched forward, grabbed the vampire by the shoulder, and spun her around.

“Hey—leave Charlotte, hic, alone.”

She showed her fangs and glared at her. “Back off, seafood. This doesn’t concern you.”

Gwenith held her ground, swaying slightly. “Look, you made her cry, hic. You ruined her dress. You made your point.”

The girl’s lip curled. She shoved Gwenith’s hand away. “What makes you think you get to tell me anything, Seafood?”

“I hate princesses like you. Everything handed to you—” the vampire hissed. “I, Natasha Tepish, clawed my way here. Every coin, every lesson. You? You got in because you’re royalty. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

She raised her hand to strike.

Gwenith caught her wrist. “I’m not letting you hit her.”

Natasha moved faster than Gwenith could think.

A sudden flash of movement struck Gwenith hard in the face, followed by searing pain.

Gwenith staggered back.

Blood dripped from her cheek.

Hesitantly, she looked up.

Natasha’s fingertips ended in talons dripping with her blood.

And she had a predatory grin on her face.

“Right—no,” she slurred, and threw herself forward.

After that, it dissolved into flashes—pain, shouting, bodies colliding—until everything went black.

Gwenith woke face-down on cold stone, her cheek in a puddle of vomit. The room was dark and damp. Every part of her hurt: her face throbbed, her arms ached, her stomach churned.

She heaved herself onto her arms, groaning in pain, her mind racing to piece together what had happened.

A dim light flickered beyond a set of bars across the room.

She shook herself and staggered forward, disbelieving, until the cold bronze met her scales. She recoiled. “This can’t be happening. Muirín will get me out.”

“I am very disappointed with you, Gwenith.” The words spoken in Muirín’s sharp voice slashed the air like a broadsword.

Gwenith turned and saw Muirín descending the stairs, radiant in the gloom of the jail cells. The look on her face belonged to someone who had scented blood.

“Big sis, get me out,” Gwenith pleaded, voice shaking. “I’m innocent. Natasha struck first. It was self-defense.”

Muirín folded her arms. “Why should I? I told you: stay away from Adrian. Instead, you got drunk and started a brawl—on day one.”

Gwenith slumped against the bars. “I know, but Charlotte was crying. Someone had to step in.”

“Protecting a minnow from a shark isn’t an excuse. You could have gotten a professor. Instead, you threw a punch and made the family look like brutes. I should leave you in there so you learn. But bronze bars won’t teach you better than your old tutors.”

Muirín grinned. “There’s a convent inland. Middle of nowhere. Fixes girls like you. You leave tomorrow.”

Gwenith gasped, “You cannot do that. You promised father!”

“I promised a magical education. Not how, not how long,” Muirín said.

She turned her back. “Besides, you burned your reputation with the Coláiste Draoidheil. If it weren’t for Charlotte’s testimony and my sister-in-law’s intervention, they would’ve expelled you immediately. The only way you can attend classes is if you swear off alcohol.”

Gwenith swallowed hard, dread biting deep in her stomach.

A convent, or the college.

Either way, the bottle was finished.

“Okay, you win,” Gwenith said. “I’ll quit drinking and go to school.”

“I don’t believe you,” Muirín sneered. “Swear it – to me, to God, to anyone.”

Gwenith gritted her teeth, frustrated. “I swear. On my voice and any gods listening—I’ll stop, and if I break this vow, then let all my scales fall out, and my mouth make not one more sound.”

“Very well,” Muirín said, ascending. “I’ll have you released. Last favor you get.”

She paused on the stairs.

“Your funds are with the bursar. You’ll be fed. Nothing more.”

The cell went dark. For once, the music inside her died, leaving only silence.

Minutes later, Gwenith staggered from the watchhouse into twilight that was starting to fade into early night.

Her dress hung crooked, torn, and stained.

She stopped the first robed figure she saw, clutched at their sleeve, and asked for directions. When she received an answer, she nodded, thanked them, and started the long walk back, swaying as the champagne sloshed within her.

Soon, she slipped quietly through the looming gates of the Coláiste Draoidheil.

“Miss Gwenith?” asked a dwarf in a neat uniform in the university’s colors, who appeared from the shadows on the other side of the gate. She couldn’t tell if he was a footman or a guardsman.

“That’s me,” Gwenith replied, her voice flat with fatigue.

“I was told to collect you,” he said. “Follow me.”

Gwenith braced herself for a lecture from a berobed bigwig, expecting stern words. Instead, the dwarf simply motioned for her to follow. He led her silently to a large brick building that stood out among the Gothic ones. Up several flights of stairs and down a hall, they stopped at door 301.

“Here is your key,” the dwarf said, holding out a large brass key.

She took the key and flipped it. WD301 was engraved on the brass head.

A beat of silence. Then the dwarf tipped his hat. “Have a good night.” He walked away without looking back.

Gwenith stared at her new room’s door, uncertain. Steeling herself, she turned the key. The door swung open, silent and smooth, revealing a large suite: two canopy beds, wardrobes, a sitting area by the window, and a pile of luggage. Steam curled from beneath a door along one wall—likely the bath.

A soft voice drifted out, singing in an unfamiliar tongue—like the one used by the Lyonesse knights she’d once drunk with, but gentler.

As Gwenith listened, the bathroom door swung open silently.

A girl stepped out, skin pale as pearl, cheeks flushed pink, golden curls wrapped in white towels.

Gwenith froze, breath hitching, shocked by recognition.

It was the minnow girl Charlotte.

Charlotte’s brows shot up, her mouth parting in surprise.

Charlotte tried to say something. It sounded like Lyonesse. Gwenith did not understand Lyonesse, but from the tone and gestures, she surmised that Charlotte was asking what she was doing there.

“Apparently,” Gwenith said, with a sheepish shrug, “I’m your roommate.”

The girl watched her for a moment, frowning slightly, confusion flickering in her eyes—as though she hadn’t quite understood what Gwenith said. Without another word, she turned and rummaged through her things, her movements brisk and distracted as she searched for something.

Gwenith noticed the bathroom had a large tub—big enough for her tail.

A soak in hot water would be the perfect way to get some tail time in and dull the champagne’s edge.

She entered, glanced at the large tub, and turned on the taps.

Inside, she started removing the cursed heels that had plagued her all day.

“Uh—excuse me.”

The voice was soft. Careful.

Gwenith paused, mid-motion with the sash in one hand, turning with surprise. The minnow girl appeared in the doorway, now dressed in a white bathrobe and wearing oversized glasses, her posture tense and eyes watching Gwenith carefully.

“I want to thank you,” she said, “For… earlier. For scaring them off.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I hate sharks and bullies.”

Something about the girl tugged at her memory, just out of reach as she fumbled with her laces.

After a moment’s hesitation, the girl stepped forward.

“May I?”

Before Gwenith could say yes, small, precise fingers reached out and untied the knots with calm efficiency.

“I am… Princess Charlotte Evermore,” she stammered. “Princess of Mainspring.”

“Princess Gwenith Llewellyn,” she said. The dress fell. “My father’s the King Under the Sea.”

Gwenith sat on the edge of the tub and took off her anklets, placing them nearby.

Her legs shimmered together, fusing into a single tail—pearl scales shifting as they settled.

Charlotte stared, lips parted in wonder as Gwenith slid into the tub. Water against her scales made Gwenith’s shoulders sag in relief, her breath slowly evening out.

Gwenith asked, softly, “Charlotte?”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied, her tone prim.

“I’d like some alone time,” Gwenith said, more softly than intended. “It’s been a long day. I just want to forget—my sister, the fight, that Natasha girl.”

Charlotte nodded and closed the door.

Gwenith gave a big stretch and sank into the warm water, letting out a low, shaky sigh. The champagne still clouded her head, blurring the day’s sharp edges.

She closed her eyes and started to dream.

She was five years old again. Her father had given her a porcelain princess doll. It was part of the tribute from one of Father’s bannermen, a prize from a merchantman that refused to pay the toll.

She loved that doll like a little sister.

When Charlotte curled in on herself, something in Gwenith twisted—sharp and immediate, like watching that doll crack.

Charlotte looked almost exactly like her doll.