Giant's Reach

Competition is tight now that uplifts have their own voices. For Ferret, living with his father from one cargo contract to the next, things are only going to get tighter - until they are approached with a deal that could make them or break them...

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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The Silver Talon enact their plan and Todger cannot simply stand by. They claim to fight for uplifts and humans alike, but who are the real victims?

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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The train has come to the world of Giant's Reach, but not everyone is happy. Terrorists attack the testing site of the new invention, claiming they fight for uplifts. Their vengeance is swift and bloody, though, and leads Todger to a difficult choice...

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Music for the podcast is provided by Kevin Macleod:

Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

No Copyright Motion Graphics provided by http://www.youtubestock.com

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Change comes to the world of Giant's Reach and technology marches on. At the testing site for a new type of technology called a 'train', the labourers are poor and broken people. But even they can't fail to be awed by the train... and to consider what it might mean for the future.

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

No Copyright Motion Graphics provided by http://www.youtubestock.com

YouTube Channel: https://goo.gl/aayJRf

A yellowdust researcher gives an uplifted animal the greatest gift she can: the freedom to speak.

This is something I've wanted to do for a while, because although I genuinely feel that the idea of animal sign language is something unique to this world, and although it's led to some pretty cool interactions, having the animals be able to speak does away with a lot of confusion and fiddly writing. Hopefully this does it in such a way that it's not just 'animals that can talk' - they don't have the vocal cords for it, for a start!

Have an amazing Christmas, and I'll be back in the New Year! Thank you for all your support this year, and I hope you have a really peaceful and safe Christmas period :)

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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In the world of Giant's Reach, uplifts are giant animals that can reason and think like humans - and play like humans. Helen is a hare, among the best at running - but before she can beat her rivals she needs to overcome her own insecurities...

The referee raised his voice so that all the animals could hear him.

“Alright you lot,” he rasped. “Let’s have a nice clean race. I know this one’s for the cup, but any of youse gonna be biting or scratching, you’ll find yerself disqualified quicker than I can start this race. Got that?”

From her third-lane position, Helen nodded. She extended her claws, scratching at the gravel of the track, then backed up a bit so she was even with the other hares.

“Shortlegs,” someone muttered.

Helen looked round sharply, but all the other runners were preparing in their own way. Big Jonk up in the first lane was stretching, legs extended far behind him; in the lane next to Helen bounced last year’s winner, the grey-and-black Reginald. He gave her a polite nod as she appraised him.

The others all seemed to be engrossed in their routine, so Helen got back to hers. She scooped a little of the gravel up and made sure to spread it liberally over her paws. Her ears twitched as it came again, this time from the left.

“Shortlegs.”

She growled and spun around.

“If you have something to say, say it,” she snapped. The five hares to her left all looked up, reacting with - or feigning - confusion. The nearest one, Yarn, shrugged.

“Only cowards hide in a crowd,” Helen muttered, shaking her head. The race organiser, who she knew had heard nothing but occasional squeaks and her growl, looked from face to face and shrugged.

“Right then,” he said. “Take your marks.”

Helen’s head went down, ears cocked and listening.

There was only the track ahead, shimmering in the midday sun, the murmur of the crowd, and her breathing.

“Shortlegs.”

“Ready,” the referee said, before she could do more than look sideways. 

“Set.”

“Go!”

Helen powered forward, powerful back legs thrusting against the ground. Around her the others did the same, all of them suspended in the air for a fraction of a second as their initial lurch sent them forwards. Then her paws made contact, and the race was on.

The first lap was almost a warm-up, none of them willing to expend the energy to do much than keep the pace. Big Jonk, simply by dint of his size, ended up at the front of the pack; to go around him would require far more spent effort than was wise at this point. The second and third laps passed with little change, the yards turning to miles pounded underfoot.

Slowly but surely, Helen found herself pushed to the back of the pack. Ahead of her, the mottled fur of the others was like a solid wall. She kept her breathing steady, kept her stare forwards. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else, except - 

“Shortlegs,” came the cry, but this time it came with the added sound of breathiness. Of someone struggling to find the air.

Got you, Helen thought, and adrenaline surged through her. With a conscious effort, she tamped it down, held on to it, squirrelled it away for later.

Five laps, six laps, and there were no words now. Nothing but heavy breathing, even from Helen. But she had reserves; she dug deep and kept moving. Her legs - yes, shorter than the others, if only by inches - beat a fearsome rhythm.

Big Jonk was the first to fall behind her - not because she had sped up, but because he was done. She spared only the barest look back to see him collapse to the side, gasping for air that would not come. She passed another, and another, never changing her pace, until she was behind last year’s champion.

He was the same as her - breathing heavily, but it was measured. The world shrank down to just her and Reginald, just them and the blue sky above and the crowd to the side and the last lap ahead of them.

The bell rang, almost unheard by the racers, and yet Helen heard what was whispered over it.

“Shortlegs,” came the cry. “Do it!”

She looked back, locking eyes with Yarn; her eyes were wide, foam at her panting mouth, and she nodded her defeat.

Helen let the adrenaline sing through her, rushing through her form; her legs found a new rhythm, a faster one, and she moved up alongside Reginald. The hated nickname seemed to lend her wings, to chase her up the track in a cloud of dust. The beleaguered hare glanced sideways just once as she passed him, one final leap propelling her over the line a mere nose ahead of him.

And the crowd went wild…

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

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As his wagon skids out of control, caught on the treacherous Pank's Peak, how will Keffyn save his life, his wagon and, most importantly, the expensive ornaments he's transporting?

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The wagon’s rear end swung out over the cliff-side with a crunch of gravel. In the front, Keffyn screamed in panic as he yanked on the reins. In the wagon’s bed, crates slid into each other with a crash, throwing the balance out even further. The oxen groaned as they strained against it, hooves scrabbling at the shale.

His shout of surprise and fear billowed into the freezing night sky. As his stomach dropped out from under him he lurched forward across the wagon’s tongue; the wagon stilled as he lay there, nose-to-tail with one of the oxen.

Time seemed to stand still. Flakes of snow drifted down, mingling with the deep drifts that already piled the cliffside road. Keffyn’s heart thudded in his chest, and he licked his lips nervously.

“Whoa now,” he murmured, as the oxen began to stamp. They couldn’t look back, yoked as they were to the wagon, and it would only take a single step backwards to pull the whole thing own off the road. He chanced a look back; the cliff was sheer, dropping away into a dark blue abyss. He closed his eyes briefly, ignoring the creaky voice of his grandfather in his head that shouted after him. “You’ll die up there, lad; no-one passes Pank’s Peak in the dead of winter!”

The snow under one of the iron-shod wheels shifted slightly, sending a ripple of movement through the wagon; the crates shifted again, the little ornaments inside tinkling slightly. Packed in hay, they were for sale in the city, midwinter decorations for well-to-do families. “Stupid rich folk,” Keffyn muttered. “Should come to us, not the other way around.” It suddenly occurred to him that this was a stupid way to die, shepherding glassware to make sure they had more than the bare minimum of food and firewood over the snowy nights to come. No great, heroic death; just another mad fool tempting fate.

The reins, still clutched in his hand, were thick leather. He gave them an experimental tug; one of the oxen looked back a little, ear flicking, but didn’t move.

“Now then,” he began to mutter. “Don’t move, that’s right. Stay there, don’t look back…” He kept up the burbling, the words flowing out of him in one long torrent, as he clambered forwards in slow motion. The leather creaked as he pulled on it. Inch by aching inch, he moved along the metal tongue of the wagon and leaned his weight forward even further.

The wagon creaked again, like the last exhalation of a dying man. Keffyn froze.

“Go on,” he said, voice trembling. “Get. Walk. Go forwards.”

The oxen stubbornly refused to move. One of them snorted, steam rising from its back, and he scowled. He looked back at the crates, hard up against the backboard now and still suspended over the chasm, and shook his head.

With one hand, he reached down between the oxen and began to prise the locking pin out. The tongue connected the wagon’s body to the oxen, a single piece of metal fastening it in place, and as he worked numb fingers around it Keffyn hissed a steady stream of curses. It was no use. The pin was held in place by the force of the wagon’s weight pulling back against it; it would take the strongest man in the village to even work it loose, and Big Daffyd wasn’t here.

Keffyn hung his head for a moment. Despite the cold, sweat had beaded on his brow, gellid and slimy, and when he huffed out a breath a few droplets caught on his nose.

He breathed in sharply, the winter air stabbing at his lungs, and shouted, “Go!”

The oxen responded, finally, a shuffling step that only served to swing the wagon sideways along the edge of the cliff. He scrabbled for purchase, trying to ignore the rattling from the crates.

“I said GO,” he snarled, and before he could even stop to think about the stupidity of such an act, raised one hand and slapped the nearest oxen’s rump.

It snorted, finally taking two or three stumbling steps forward. The wagon tipped under him again, the nails tearing at the planks as they flexed, but it was enough. The oxen dragged the wagon back onto the road.

There was a heart-stopping moment as Keffyn looked back to see one of the crates tipping. The forward motion of the wagon had sent the smallest crate back on one edge. He bolted around, pushed off the tongue and flew across the wagon bed. He slapped a hand down on the crate’s top, one on its side, and held on for dear life as the oxen came to a stop.

Only then, gently, did he let the crate settle again.

It was many minutes before he was able to sit back in the driver’s seat and take the reins again. As he turned the treacherous corner, Keffyn breathed a sigh of relief; the glow of the city’s lights lay ahead, dim and fuzzy in the storm.

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Music for the podcast is provided by Kevin Macleod:

Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

No Copyright Motion Graphics provided by http://www.youtubestock.com

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An uplifted cat goes to the circus. What starts out as an interesting diversion turns nasty when the lion-taming act comes on...

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Music for the podcast is provided by Kevin Macleod:

Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

No Copyright Motion Graphics provided by http://www.youtubestock.com

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There's a messenger system that runs all over the known world, powered by giant geese and dedicated messengers. The bond between man and uplift is strong, but there are limits to even that...

Have a great weekend all, and a lovely week! Work has been mad again, but I managed to complete my third-round entry for the NYC Flash Fiction competition on time and I'm waiting to hear back results!

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

No Copyright Motion Graphics provided by http://www.youtubestock.com

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Captain Gita's unit stumbles across Purkoy dog soldiers, and battle ensues. But why are they this deep in Gita's homeland?

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Teller of the Tales Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

No Copyright Motion Graphics provided by http://www.youtubestock.com

YouTube Channel: https://goo.gl/aayJRf