excerpt from the Tales from Athendrolyn Anthology by Annika Sage Ellis

Full prompt list for the Anthology Blast

Tips are appreciated!

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The sunny window cast long shadows along the inside of the workshop, a long afternoon stretching ever so slowly into evening. An amateur stonemason or sculptor would have taken nature’s queue to pack up their tools and save their efforts for the following day. All angles go fuzzy in the shadows, after all, how could one hope to be precise? But Ostaeline Darkbraid was no amateur.

Hunched over her workbench, the jeweler’s lamp mounted to the frame ensured that not a speck of dust from her project went unaccounted for. Another cloud of the stuff rained from the cut of stone as she struck her flat chisel across the pale surface with a small hammer, smoothing out a soft curve. She turned the stone and brushed it clean with her thumb, all ten of her stout, brown fingers dusty from her work.

The project itself wasn’t much—for now, just a lump of stone with expertly sketched guidelines along the gray-white block. But it was how all gargoyles began.

A clacking sound, like two pebbles tumbling down a hillside, came from her window. Ostaeline glanced up from her project.

“Don’t clatter at strangers, Beryl,” she chided.

Beryl, a crow-sized gargoyle wearing a dazzling collection of inset gemstones for a collar, shuffled on the windowsill. It turned to Ostaeline and clattered again.

“Yes, I’m talking to you,” she said. “You’ve had your supper already.”

It hopped onto her desk, landing with a thunk. With a sigh, she brushed the dust off her hands with the towel in her lap, and let Beryl climb onto her arm. It scrambled up to sit heavily on her shoulder, clattering into her ear.

“You always want attention at the worst times, don’t you?” she said, with tired affection, and Beryl picked up on her feelings, if not her words. It nipped at the thick braid she wore while working, her thick dwarvish beard tied back into her hair to keep it from catching her tools or getting in the way of her hands. It wasn’t her favorite hairstyle, but it did make her family name, and the name of her shop, all the more apt.

In the next room over, a bell chimed. Ostaeline pushed away from her desk and off her stool. “Let’s go greet our guest,” she told Beryl.

It clacked excitedly and spread its stony wings. Dropping off her shoulder entirely, it glided across the room to land in front of the slightly open door. It tried to nudge the crack open itself, only for Ostaeline to save it the trouble and open the door herself.

“Welcome in,” she called, stepping behind the shop counter. Beryl raced up the ladder of its perch right above the cash register.

The single patron—an elf, tall and thin with their olive-skinned hands folded politely behind their back, and boasting the wide sleeves and long sashes of elvish finery — looked up from where they perused the inventory of dozens of handmade gargoyles. A wide variety of shapes, sizes, and engravements adorned the shelves and statue plinths. Most were perfectly still, asleep, but the ones nearest the elf shuffled around, trying to get their attention. They looked coolly disinterested in all of them.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” they asked.

“Sure am,” she replied, deciding to ignore the chilly reception, “Ostaeline Darkbraid of   Darkbraid Gargoyle Adoptions & Workshop. It’s been in the family six generations, so I can tell you anything you’ve ever wanted to know about gargoyles and then some.”

“Then I think you’re exactly the person I’m looking for.”

Ostaeline didn’t have time to ask what that meant before the elf approached the counter. They snapped their fingers, and a sketchbook appeared in a puff of smoke. She didn’t have time to ask about that either.

“Do you take projects upon request?” the elf asked.

“I do,” she answered slowly. “You’ll have to provide a reference, and depending on how detailed you want it, they don’t come cheap.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about the price.” The sketchbook flipped itself to a random page and slapped itself on the counter. “Would you be able to replicate this design?”

Shaking off a little whiplash, Ostaeline pulled a stool out from behind the counter and plopped down to review the sketch. Each detail she took in had her eyebrows creeping closer to her hairline.

The elf had given her a lovingly rendered drawing of a gargoyle from all four sides, size estimates, close-ups on details, and even requests about the design of the plinth. The gargoyle itself took inspiration from lions, dragons, bats, and eagles. The engravings requested specific plants, gemstones were noted “optional” but there were multiple placements for insets and requests were detailed down to the cut and carat. It was one of the most complex designs she’d ever seen, much less been asked to sculpt.

“This is very impressive,” she praised. “How long did it take you to come up with this?”

The elf visibly brightened. “I’ve been designing it on and off for a little while.”

Ostaeline found that hard to believe—maybe a “little while” by an elf’s standards. Which is why such a beautiful design made her a bit nervous.

“I can replicate this design, but”—she added quickly, when the elf started to look a bit too excited—"I can’t carve a gargoyle’s personality.”

Their face fell. “What do you mean?”

“A sculptor’s job is to bring the stone to life—whatever life is born from that gift isn’t nearly as malleable. Take Beryl here.” She gestured up at the perch, where Beryl sat happily. “I sculpted this one myself nearly thirty years ago, and fully intended to adopt it out with my others. It wouldn’t take to anyone but me, though, so I kept it for myself.” Beryl clattered happily, and Ostaeline let that happy story sink in for a moment. “A gargoyle is as unpredictable as any animal, and even I don’t know how they’ll act once they’re sculpted.” She tapped the elf’s design. “This is a beautiful thing you’ve done, and I’ll do my best to recreate it as closely as I can. But I can’t promise the life inside the stone will bond with you.”

The elf replaced their cool, unflappable expression. “I see. And if that happens?”

“I usually include the price of adoption in a commission by default, and if the gargoyle doesn’t bond with you, I’ll waive that fee. I can’t offer a full refund, since the work will have already been done, and I’ll have to keep it here with me.”

Until it gets adopted by someone else, was the unspoken end to that sentence. Ostaeline never liked handing out warnings and risks and doubt—but she liked false promises even less. She’d rather this elf, who clearly poured their heart and soul into a design of their wildest dreams, understand what they were agreeing to.

A long hesitant pause later, the elf nodded. “I understand. And I’ll take that risk.”

“Alright, I’ll get you the forms.” Ostaeline produced her standard adoption application form, a form for specially commissioned projects, and a pen. She pushed them on top of the sketchbook and pushed it back across the counter. “Fill these out, and then we’ll talk about price.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

The elf took the pile and stepped aside to the end of the counter near the windows. Several plush stools sat empty for adopters to fill out their paperwork. Even seated, the elf had to hunch over from the height difference.

While she waited, Ostaeline took the opportunity to check on her gargoyles on display. They awoke, one by one, as she stepped over and around them to dust the shelves, adjust plinths, and make note of any fractures. They clicked and clattered, either in delight at her presence, or annoyance at being woken up.

A traditionally sculpted gargoyle on a high shelf—all bat wings, sharp claws, and menace—had a particular ire for her scrutiny. About as large as a parrot, it snapped at her hand on her way up the stepladder, and just barely missed.

“Quit it, Feldspar,” she scolded. Feldspar had no remorse, going for her again as she reached the top. “Don’t get an attitude with me, you literal blockhead.”

Before it could try a third time, Ostaeline snatched Feldspar by the face to keep its mouth closed, plucking it off its plinth for an inspection. It struggled so recklessly that she was able to hold it for all of eight seconds, but she saw all she needed to see. The crack at the base of its left wing hadn’t improved.

“All done, see?” She put it back on the plinth and twisted it to face out the window behind the shelf. “Go back to bed.”

Feldspar gave another angry rattle, hunched over, and went motionless. Ostaeline sighed, trudging back down the ladder. With perfect timing, the elf stood up with their forms in hand as she made her way back to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, collecting up the forms and a magically duplicated copy of their design. Skimming over the top of the first page, she read, Name: Myril Genwarin, Age: 170, Pronouns: all, mostly they/them/theirs.

“What was wrong with that one?” Myril asked, gesturing at Feldspar.

“Poor thing has a fracture,” she replied. “It’s been fussy ever since, but Feldspar’s always been a bit of a jerk.”

“Always?”

“Oh sure—came right off the chisel looking for a fight.” She ran through the commission forms, tallying up the cost in her head. “See, if I could carve their personalities to be whatever I wanted, I’d make them all enthusiastic about my check-ups.”

A little smile touched Myril’s face. “I suppose most people would.”

One transaction later, the new project was officially instated onto the list. With a promise to call them as soon as the gargoyle was finished, Myril left the shop, leaving Ostaeline alone with her work again.

Not for long, though. It was only minutes later that she flipped the shop’s “open” sign to “closed,” and went back to the workshop, Myril’s paperwork in hand and Beryl close behind, to clean up before leaving for the night.

The jeweler’s lamp still shone a spotlight down on her interrupted project, and washed the rest of the room with its bright white glare now that the sun had slipped even farther away. Her collection of tools sat patiently in an upright case behind her workbench, organized into perfectly sized compartments. Each of the dozens of shelves underneath it held different gems for decoration, separated by color and cut. In the corner, a massive collection of pale stone blocks, sized anywhere from a minotaur’s coat stand to a goblin’s shoebox, awaited her craftsmanship.

Beryl climbed back up onto its regular perch on the windowsill. Ostaeline put the commission form and requested design on her workbench, intending to leave it for the next morning… but picking out a properly sized block wouldn’t hurt.

She whisked her unfinished project away. On the other wall, it fit snugly between two other projects on her large shelf of unfinished gargoyles, and she muttered a promise to get back to it eventually. Next, she swept her workbench clear of dust and debris, put her tools away, and turned her light toward the back of the room. Now, finally, she could pick her next block.

Myril’s form, and the design sketch itself, requested a height of about thirty standard inches, converted from elvish measurements. Ostaeline plucked a standard unit tape measure out of her tool case, and set the enchanted dial to show elvish units on the other side—just in case. The tool shimmered, humming in her hand. When she pulled the spool, the second set of numbers appeared.

She got to work pulling block after block out of the pile, measuring width, height, length, and the instinctual unit that she couldn’t explain, that none but a gargoyle sculptor could ever truly understand. Ostaeline sat with the block, and tried to feel if it wanted to be carved.

After a dozen dead ends, she found one. It was the exact size she was looking for—thirty standard inches, and almost as wide as she was. It was absolutely too large to fit on her workbench, so this gargoyle would have to be sculpted on the floor. Hopefully it wouldn’t mind.

Ostaeline sat down and leaned against the block, pressing her forehead to the cold stone. She wasn’t there long—it practically sang with the urge to become something else. It was perfect.

Satisfied, she pushed the block to the center of her workshop and placed Myril’s design on top. Tomorrow, she would get to work.

“Come on, Beryl,” she called, holding out her arm. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Beryl scampered to the end of the workbench and launched itself over. Ostaeline stumbled as it clung to her arm like a weight, before managing to scrabble up, and climb onto her shoulder to perch. It clattered in her ear.

“I should just start picking you up myself,” she said, and turned off the light.

 

 

After all her years of gargoyle sculpting and caretaking, Ostaeline found one piece of advice to hold true above all others: the mind should never wander from the task at hand. When crafting something so intricate as a magical creature that would leap to life as soon as it had a body to move in, there was no room for distraction, daydreaming, or idle musing. If she wasn’t entirely focused on the stone under her tools, the tools in her hand, her hand attached to her arm—then she wasn’t really working at all.

But somehow, this commission tested her iron-clad will.

Point chisel in one hand and hammer in the other, Ostaeline carved away a wide chunk of stone, and it collapsed on the floor with a heavy thud. A cloud of dust followed, and she coughed. Her hands and beard were cloudy white, at this point, and she’d barely started carving away at her sketches. Or, rather, Myril’s sketches.

Not for the first or last time that day, Ostaeline turned to reference the commissioned design on her workbench, displayed on a small lectern. It had taken her days to get a sketch on the stone she was happy with, and she thanked every god she could name that her enchanted pencils could be erased from any surface. Even excluding all the detail work she’d have to do to engrave the finished body, the gargoyle had a lion’s head and tail, an eagle’s beak, a dragon’s body, and an extra set of bat’s wings. It was a puzzling combination of animals, pieced together in a puzzling way.

Beryl hopped across the workbench, nudging the lectern curiously. Ostaeline put her hands on her hips.

“I know I shouldn’t judge,” she started, “but who designs a gargoyle like this?”

Beryl clattered, oblivious to her question. Its gemstone collar twinkled in the light of the jeweler’s lamp.

“It’s not a bad drawing,” she continued, turning back to the hunk of stone, “it’s a beautiful drawing, but for a sculptor, it’s complete madness.” She chiseled across one of her sketched lines, forming the shape of the creature’s head. “I wouldn’t have taken the job if I didn’t think I could do it, obviously, and I do believe I can. But why all this—excess?”

It was what had been distracting her the whole time. After working on this gargoyle for barely a week, the extravagance of it all had started to eat away at her. And to know Myril had been working on it “on and off” implied there used to be even more detail that must have been redesigned. Ostaeline would never know how many revisions this gargoyle had seen, which just made her more curious as to how it came to exist in the first place.

“You know what it feels like?” she said, hammering away. “It feels like a child’s drawing. Like a kid who mashed together all their most favorite things in the world and—”

She almost hammered her thumb into the stone. Blessings and curses, she thought, it is a child’s drawing.

With a strange mix of affection and dread, Ostaeline set down her hammer and chisel and went to her desk. Slowly, she wiped her hands free of dust and picked up Myril’s sketch, beholding it with new eyes. The haphazard combination, the odd specificity, the amount of love and care and detail. She remembered how excited they were to see it complimented, how fast that excitement drained away when she couldn’t guarantee the gargoyle would like them. This had to be a drawing from Myril’s childhood, maybe even a dream pet, that they finally had the opportunity to bring to life. And Ostaeline could bring it to life—but she couldn’t promise it would be theirs at last.

“That’s a little more than I bargained for,” she muttered. She dropped the design back down on the lectern, folding her fingers under her nose.

Beryl looked up at her, innocent as any animal. Ostaeline glanced to the workshop door, and the gargoyle shop beyond.

Feldspar was a commissioned piece, intended to leave her shop the moment it was finished. When it woke for the first time, it was a bit snappy, which wasn’t abnormal for a creature brand new to life. The client came to pick it up, confident that they had exactly the pet they’d requested.

Two days later they came back. Ostaeline remembered Feldspar getting dumped on her desk and furiously insulted by her client—they were convinced she’d carved a “broken” gargoyle and demanded a refund. She refused, with similarly colorful words, and kept Feldspar in the shop, confident that someone would adopt it.

That was years ago. Nobody had.

An anxious clatter snapped her back to the present. Beryl swiped the air with its paw, reaching for her. Ostaeline smiled, smoothing her fingers over its head.

She remembered the days she spent sculpting Beryl, as routine a project as any of her other gargoyles. When it finally woke up, as she added the finishing touches, Ostaeline couldn’t help but feel especially proud of the work she’d done. She was especially surprised when Beryl refused to leave her side, attempting to follow her out of the shop so many times she gave up trying to stop it. She set the gemstones in its collar the same night she adopted it, a gift for Beryl, and for herself.

“Nothing’s guaranteed, eh?” she mused, talking more to herself. “This thing could go any way at all.”

Sculpting gargoyles, as rewarding as she found the work, was truly an art without an answer. Nobody knew how this stone was able to breathe life into statues, or why it was only one type of stone. History had long since forgotten how gargoyles came to be before there were those around to carve them—if they existed at all before some ancient creature took up hammer and chisel.

There were plenty of theories: that gargoyles were blessings from the gods, they were curses from those same gods, that they were simply magical wisps finding a magic-porous stone to inhabit, or that the compound sediment of this particular rock was susceptible to magical transformation. Ostaeline never paid them any mind—what mattered was that gargoyles could exist, and she would be the finest sculptor her statues could have ever asked for.

She looked back at the unfinished brick that would soon become Myril’s gargoyle. Often, she wondered if the life inside the stone could hear her voice, feel her hands, maybe even see her chisel working to break it free. Ostaeline would be the finest sculptor it ever knew—the only sculptor, frankly—but what happened when the sculptor’s job was over? Were gargoyles born knowing companionship, or was it something taught to them?

Ostaeline scooped Beryl into her arms. She sat down on the floor next to the unfinished sculpture and placed her palm flat to the stone. Breathing deeply, she tried to reach that mysterious spark of life inside the rock. The potential for more.

“Just between us,” she told it, “there’s someone out there who’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

The rock didn’t reply. Beryl clambered over her arm and mirrored her pose, pressing a curious paw flat against the cool surface. Ostaeline chuckled, scratching behind its wings.

“I’d be excited too, if I were you,” she added. “If Myril is anything like me, I know for a fact you’ll be pampered to death. Beloved more than any diamond. More precious than any amount of gold. And if you’re anything like Beryl, you’ll bring them more joy than you’ll ever understand. That’s what being a companion is all about, after all.” She cradled Beryl’s stone head in her palm. “It’s about taking care of someone, and letting them care for you back.”

Beryl made a sound like stones scraping together, nuzzling into her hand. She smiled down at her lap, but she let her mind wander a little farther.

“It’s not all perfect. Maybe you don’t fit into someone’s house. Maybe you get a chip in your wing, or a crack on your face that people would rather scream about than actually try to fix. Or maybe they gave you that crack themselves. Maybe…” She swallowed thickly, unsure who she was keeping her composure for. “Maybe you feel like giving up on care. Companionship. All that. But there’s always someone out there who wants to care about you. All you have to do is let them.”

Her voice broke and a few stray tears slipped into her braided beard. Beryl turned away from the stone entirely, anxiously trying to climb her shirt. Ostaeline let the rest of her emotions burst out in a laugh instead, plucking Beryl off and setting it on the floor.

“Anyway,” she finished, “keep your mind open to being someone’s buddy while you’re in there.” With a grunt, she pushed up to her feet and swiped her abandoned tools off the floor. “We’ve got a lot of work to do in the meantime.”

Ostaeline went back to work as if she’d never stopped, focus renewed, and more determined than ever to complete this project.

 

 

A month later, Ostaeline was finally satisfied.

She called Myril the morning after she completed their commission, and they promised to arrive to pick it up that same afternoon. A few rushed preparations later, Ostaeline managed to clean up her workshop and move the gargoyle to the front of the main shop with the help of an enchanted hovering dolly. It sat proudly at the front counter, a testament to her efforts.

An elegant beak extended from its bowed head, the lion’s mane flowing with an expertly sculpted mane. The dual set of wings were tricky to place, but she managed to place them almost on top of each other—the dragon wings raised to the sky, and the bat wings at a lower angle underneath. Its dragon body had individually engraved scales, from the neck down to the tail, curled around the plinth as requested. The flower-engraved plinth itself was some of her finest detail work in years, if she could say so herself. And finally, the gemstones: brilliant opals set into the head, chest, and front legs. All things considered, the gargoyle was perfect.

Except it hadn’t woken up yet.

Ostaeline inspected the gargoyle one last time and hoped she didn’t look nervous. She had carved gargoyles that slept through their first night alive, but they were always awake the next morning. This one hadn’t so much as blinked since she put the finishing touches on the plinth. She knew it was alive—she’d stake her career on it—but it was sleeping for an abnormally long time. Like it was damaged, or shy, or… something.

“What do you think, Beryl?” she asked. Beryl was too busy chasing a bug around the counter to respond.

Behind her, the welcome bell jingled, and the shop door swung open. Myril bustled in dressed to impressed, somehow wearing an even more extravagant outfit than the one Ostaeline had met them in. They had the stony facial expression of someone trying very hard to hold themself together.

“Right on time,” Ostaeline greeted. Beryl abandoned the chase to crawl forward curiously.

“It’s ready?” they blurted, letting the mask slip a tad.

She stepped aside, presenting it with one hand. “See for yourself.”

The cool façade completely melted. Myril rushed to the gargoyle and dropped to their knees in front of it. They reached a shaky hand out, unsure. “C-can I?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Ostaeline said, and they snapped up straight. She couldn’t help a smile. “I was just going to warn you it’s sleeping. The best way to wake a gargoyle up is with a treat.”

They nodded seriously. “Of course. I—I’m afraid I don’t have anything.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Ostaeline produced a handful of colorful landscaping pebbles from her pocket. Myril held out their cupped hands for the offered treat, eyes wide and reverent.

“Just hold them out like this,” she said, guiding their hands under the gargoyle’s beak. “It might take a minute for it to recognize the smell, but—”

She cut herself off as the gargoyle stirred. The dragon paws shifted on the plinth, blank stone eyes blinked for the first time. It stretched both sets of its wings and folded them onto its back. It was alive. Myril appeared to have stopped breathing.

It looked at the pebbles in their hand, head tilted. It lowered its beak, pulling back at the click of stone hitting stone. Then, it plucked one out of their hand, and swallowed it. And then another, and another, until it was eating out of Myril’s hand like it had known them all its life—and, Ostaeline supposed, it had. Myril laughed in breathy disbelief, smiling ear to ear.

Ostaeline finally let herself relax, sighing against the counter. “Congratulations,” she said, “on your newest member of the family.” Beryl crawled up its perch and clattered in agreement.

“Thank you,” they breathed. “Thank you so much, I never—” They choked, eyes shining with happy tears. “I’ve always wanted a gargoyle, but I was never able to convince my parents.”

The gargoyle nuzzled into their hands, now empty of pebbles, and clattered. Myril laughed wetly, petting its stiff mane and the back of its neck. Now that the worst was over, Ostaeline couldn’t help brimming with pride at the work she’d done.

“There’s still one thing left to do,” she said, marching behind the counter.

Myril followed with their eyes, but didn’t move. “What else?”

“I’ve approved your application, obviously.” Ostaeline presented a new form. “Now, you fill out the adoption certificate, so we can make it official.”

“Oh! Right, of course, of course.” They bustled to standing, but had their eyes trained on the gargoyle sitting at their feet.

“Have a name picked out yet?”

Myril beamed at her. “Summerset.”

Ostaeline couldn’t help but return their enthusiasm. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thank you.” They looked down at Summerset again, their smile never wavering. “It’s everything I dreamed it would be.”

While Myril filled out the certificate, Ostaeline put together a care sheet for them to take home. It included everything they’d ever need to know about caring for a gargoyle properly, and her shop number, just in case they had any questions. She went over it briefly after the adoption was certified, but she could tell Myril was only half listening. Summerset had every ounce of their attention—and Ostaeline couldn’t blame them.

After another round of profuse thank-yous, Myril left with the plinth under their arm, and Summerset following at their heels. Ostaeline stared out the door, arms folded behind the counter, for a long few minutes after they’d gone.

Was her pep talk all that Summerset needed for this to go well? Was it all useless, and it was always meant to be this way? Could Ostaeline have changed its mind at all, knowing how much she didn’t know about how gargoyles thought?

“I guess it’s another mystery,” she said, looking up at Beryl. “But I did a pretty damn good job, don’t you think?” Beryl stared blankly at her. Close enough.

Ostaeline patted herself on the back for a job well done, and meant to retreat back into her workshop, to continue one of her dozen unfinished projects… but there was something else on her mind.

Instead, she shuffled up her stepladder and grabbed Feldspar off its shelf. It rattled and snapped at her, of course, but she didn’t let go. She tucked it against her chest and carried it away.

“Come on, you little stinker,” she told it. “Let’s see if we can’t fix that wing of yours.”