Sheldon Burnston

Tales of Fantasy

And Found Wanting Winter 2001

 Most Reverend Brother,

I greet you in the names of Mother Earth and Father Sky, and hope that this scroll finds you in continued good health. As of this writing, the Tree has given me no sign of any changes in your aura save for those we discussed at our last meeting, but as you stated then, a gradual diminishing at your advanced age is to be expected. I pray that you will not be gathered into the Tree before we meet again, for I am sorely in need of your counsel, but we will pluck that leaf when we come to it.

This scroll will be sent in the hand of Brother Anselm, who will be accompanied by Brother Oakley and Sister Eunice on their return to the Grove. I commend all three to you, as their efforts in assisting me have been of great value. We were able to harass and delay the forces opposing the Barony quite successfully.... read more

A Beginning…Spring 2001 with "Dove Firefoot"

The cool morning mist made her skirts seem heavy as she mounted the three steps before the door of the apothecary's shop. Lailai Firefoot, "Dove" to her friends, paused for a moment as she heard loud and heated voices from within, but her errand was urgent. Katree was ill and tossing with fever, and she needed the herbs the apothecary would supply. Dove had left her old friend Emberon to look after the sick Dryad, but who knew how long it would be before her attention wavered and she went off to do other things? She had to hurry.

Within the shop, she beheld the familiar bent and wizened shape of Butternut, the proprietor, looking up at a stranger. Butternut's voice was raised, which was quite unusual. In all the time she had lived here, Dove had never heard him utter a cross word.

"An' I tell ye again, sir! It be not the poison ivy ye have, else my lotions would've cured ye a fortnight gone! There be nothin' I have for ye here, as ye've tried aught in my stock!"

The stranger, a tall, well built man with blond hair and rugged features, was obviously frustrated as his tone rapidly alternated between demanding and beseeching.... read more

A Deep Problem, Part I Spring 2003

With a sigh, Grover Treeman pushed the small pile of copper and silver coins into the box and locked it. Business was not too bad at the Rusty Scupper, considering that it was a midweek night and all of Toolibrie was suffering from the lack of trade, not to mention the recent Catastrophe and the Lyfeyian Inquisition. He watched the rest of his staff – his daughter-by-bond Lariandra, Otis the bouncer and Amanda the cook – finish cleaning the taproom and gather the sweepings into the fireplace. The portly, tired man rose to his feet with a grunt and went to pour himself a small tankard of dark ale. He had earned it already, he thought, and the night was far from over.... read more

A Deep Problem, Part II Summer 2003

“This is ridiculous!” Rodin Rae slammed her hand on the table, anger and frustration coloring her face. “We have been sailing in circles for nearly two hours now. Can’t anybody come up with a workable plan?”

Her companions around the table looked at her with differing emotions. Jomton, the aged shipwright, looked amazed, his almost-toothless mouth agape. Cygnus, the Blue Star Mage, smiled a small smile into his beard and, as usual, appeared totally calm. Skye the fairy, his consort, looked at her Clan sister with worry writ large on her expressive face. Willow, an elf gypsy, looked sympathetic, while Bartholomew the Druid just sighed with impatience.

True, they had all gathered at Jomton’s shipyard to finalize their plans about dealing with the giant Kraken that had been terrorizing the waters off Toolibrie city for six moons now, but despite all their collective knowledge and various abilities, no one seemed to have a workable idea.... read more

Loose Ends Summer 2004

The sun was just beginning to touch the tops of the trees, adding its coloring to the already bright spring foliage. With a steady, mile-eating stride, the large man in brown robes crested the hill and looked at the road ahead.

Too far to Toolibrie to make it tonight, Old Son, he mused. Best find a place to rest, or give in and use Root Travel. Brother Bartholomew, Druid of the Fellowship of the Great Tree, stood for a moment. He was returning to the city from the memorial services for his old friend, Jomton the Shipwright, held that morning at the Druid’s Grove. Jommy had been a sea-faring man; in fact, he and the Druid had been shipmates, of a sort, in by-gone times, and this was the second funeral for the old salt. The first had been at the temple of Lir, God of the Seas, in town. However, in deference to the conversion of his old friend to the Way of the Tree, Jomton had been very generous to the Druids of the local Grove, and they chose to honor his memory with a service to commemorate his passing.... read more

Just a Shell Winter 2006

“So that’s them?” hOOt the Bard looked at the shells on the bar dubiously. The raucous sounds of a gather of FALO, the Clan of the Heart, filled the taproom and made it difficult to be heard. His two friends leaned in closer.

“Yes, that’s them,” replied Rinka Tur with a bit of a grin. “Somehow, even though I’m no longer an official courier, these two called to me, and I knew I had to bring them to you, Bart.”

The tall Druid bent over a bit more and pushed at the two shells with his forefinger. “These are two of the shells we rescued from the Siren,” he said musingly, “along with Starshadow’s Muse. I recognize this one, at least.” He poked at one of the shells. It was older-looking than the other, very knobbed, and somehow its luster was duller that its counterpart. “And you say you felt compelled to bring these two and no others?”

Rinka Tur nodded her head. “That’s right, Bart. Just these two, and I also felt strongly that hOOt should be here as well.”

The Bard smiled brightly. “Oh. Well, here I am. Now what?” read more

Oil and Water April 2008

It was cold.

And wet.

The not-quite-rain began to condense on the bronze of his helmet, and drips ran from the cheek guards and flaring back into the already sodden cloak, and then under his chest and backplate. It added to that already sucking the warmth from his skin. The horse-hair crest on his helmet had long ago rotted down to a mere line of fuzz, its original blue fading into the green-black of mold. His boots squelched in the swampy muck under foot, and cold water oozed through the waterlogged leather to bathe his feet in cold and dank.

With a sigh, the sergeant let fall the woolen blanket that helped keep a bit of warmth in the shelter, built on the small rise that kept its dirt floor dryer than the surrounding slough, and began his “rounds.”

As he expected, the soldier at the first guard post was alert and heard him coming.... read more

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