Goodday one and all. Some of you might have heard that I have recently tried my hand at some creative writing, and I have promised myself to post a chapter here whenever I finish one. So, without any further ado, I would like to present you with chapter one of my recent attempt at a story. More to come soon! Chapter 1: It was not quite gentle of a night. The wind whistled past at rather low a temperature, and most of what the eye could see was either dark silhouettes of landscape, or the grim sight of grey overcast. Then again, the night is rarely a kind moment, and it's association with Death is not made in vain. The night, like many things, is simply cruel in nature. With this in mind, the sole figure plodding through the dirt justified the weather, the lack of clear sky, and the entire futility of complaint. This sole figure was rather young of stature to think such a thing. Despite having a stance of a weathered journeyman, his back was still rather straight. His step, despite his weary disposition, retained something of an order. It almost seems like he was walking on a beat. Whether this was to motivate himself to move onwards, or due to a past habit, is still uncertain, but his semi-confident steps created for the smallest of flutters in the grey and washed out cloak that was surrounding his entire posture. In the slight flashes of revelation upon his lower layers of clothing, a dull gleam was nearly visible. Someone with an eye for armor might explain that this gleam is caused by a rather worn down coat of chainmail or scale-mail. Someone with an eye for military affairs might say that such a coat would only be worn by someone of certain high rank within the military, but very little actual combat time. To these people, the cloaked and armored stranger might pose a threat, not for his combat talents alone, but for the rank he might hold. But, there are no such people nearby. In strange places, fear of what a man could be is just as good as his worn down coat of armor, if not better, and he keeps it wound tight around himself. Some might say a bit too tight. With that thought, he further tightened his cloak, stopping the nagging flutter at his neck, and stopping the slight glints of armor from appearing. A cloud drifted away from the moon, and for a slight moment, you could perceive the traveler and his surroundings. Standing on a hill, the stranger straightened himself from his self-inflicted slouch, and stared towards the slight sliver of smoke in the distance. An automatic twitch of the gloved hand to his side, a habit of when smoke equaled horrible, terrible things, draws attention to the scabbard at his waist. The form of the sword-hilt and scabbard is so plain, it almost doesn't catch the eye. Nothing special can be noticed, but in itself is more fearsome than any expressive decoration. Nowhere on the sword is a single scar of decoration. This is a tool of war, not an instrument of prestige. However, whilst upon the subject of things that is visible, it should be noted that the cloak covers most of his features, especially of his face, extremely well. When looking at his upper body, you can hardly see anything of notice. Everything is cloaked in shadows, but due to the reflection of the moon upon the ground, you can just barely make out the sight of his eyes. His green-grey eyes, fixed upon the distant smoke, might just be the biggest sign of danger. These are not eyes that place a value upon what they see, but simply observe and digest what comes in. These are eyes of a man that has seen enough in his life, so that the need to perceive things is no longer there. He stopped watching events, and started comparing them to those that had already happened. Those eyes are eyes that receive, but not eyes that wish to see any more. In short, those are eyes that are hollow, intelligent, and ever so dangerous. For a fraction of a moment did his eyes dwell from the smoke and did his eyes grow soft, as if gently smudged glass. Too short to really notice. Too long to actually ignore. But then his eyes 'hardened' again, although they were never really 'solid', and he started walking again. One thing was different, though. Despite the fact that he is walking downhill now, a relatively easier task than going up this same hill, he wasn't any faster than before. As a matter of fact, his rhythmic steps of his boots seem to start to slow down and soften. Before long the determination bled from his posture, and his eyes started softening again. In a desperate race against his own memories, he tried to take each step as if it would bring him away from himself and his past, but no matter how much strength he put into his legs, not a single spark was put into his movement. Feeling as if history was dragging at his neck, he fussed with the cloak. Loosening it, adjusting straps, shaking it around, clearing his throat, trying to stop the drag, tightening it again. His hands became wilder as his feet became slower, and his now lukewarm pupils became smaller. Despite his slow movement, his breath became heavier and sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. His hands were frantically pulling and pushing against his cloak, as his feel barely moved himself forward. His eyes were wild, his pupils tiny, his hands a blur. He was putting as much effort into his slow walk as anyone else would into a full sprint, and despite his good condition, he couldn't hold out much longer. His breath started to feel constricted, even though he was in the loosened part of the cloak-cycle, and his hands no longer knew where to move to. As his hands shook, and his vision became dark, he made one last, tiny step. Before the darkness could fully swallow his consciousness, he noticed a slight pressure at his foot. Breaking him away from his own rhythms and cycles, he opened his eyes again, not even remembering closing them, and looked forward. The world came rushing back to him, and he realized that he barely managed to outrun his own past, as he looked at the front door of the inn. His previous experience left his mind raw and devoid of normal thought, so he softly mumbled to himself, in order to reactivate his own senses and cognitive functions. "So, this was the source of the smoke? I was hoping for a campfire, but an inn is doubly as good. Nothing beats an inn after a weary travel." His voice sounded unnatural, as if he only then remembered that he had a tongue. It sounded rather weak for a man of his stature, and for a moment he thought of perhaps turning back. However, when he moved his head to look away from the door, his body froze up again. Looking back, he saw the night that earlier, on top of the hill, seemed so soft and gentle. However, now it looked hard. The shadows were corporal, and was hunting him. He knew that if he did not rest near a fire this night, that he won't have a mind to wake up in the morning. Chuckling a coarse and mechanical laugh at his own insight into his little and personal insanity, he mutters: "As I thought, I seem to have no choice. It seems like I'll have to pray that he doesn't have as much customers today." Thinking this, he wondered if having many people present that has no reason to care about him being here is perhaps actually better than having the full focus of the social inn-keeper, with all the more reason to be kind to you. Shaking off the train of thought, he chastised himself for his procrastination, and lifts his unsteady and trembling right hand up to the doorknob. Looking at the rather well maintained iron doorknob with his big yet fragile gloved hand on top, he breathed in heavily for motivation, and then sighed at his own bad habit. "Standing here doing breath-exercises won't help a thing, so just open the bloody door." A second sigh, a slight tremble in the hand, and a push further, and suddenly the door was open. As the hinges creak, betraying his desire for a silent entry, the eyes of the Inn-keeper became fixed on him. His swift movement of his cloaked eyes tell him that his ephemeral wish of an empty tavern became reality. He cursed his luck, appearing when he least needs it, and curses the shadows for hunting him. Whilst he was at it, he cursed the hinges, and also cursed his cloak for being loosened. He lifted up the hood of his cloak, since the cloak was loose enough to do this on its own, the moment that he lifts his head fully. Although it was hardly loud enough to be heard by him himself, it did do wonders to his composure, and after the round of mumbling curses, he managed to lift his head and settle things with a fake smile. He was hoping that his eyes did not show any more of his previous fear and desperation, or the inn-keeper might think that I was robbing him. -See next post for continuation of Chapter 1-
He didn't exactly seem like an ugly young lad. He had dark brown hair, almost chestnut, that went down to his shoulders at some parts, mostly behind the ears, and was kept at around eyebrow level at the highest. There was very little of actual design, and the hair made him look years older than he was, though the degree that the hair has been kept clean might make it seem that it wasn't by lack of trying. Although this style wasn't acceptable of anyone of any real status, the style befitted a wanderer, and so not a single eyebrow was raised to this. He also had a rather full beard, which shows that he has been on the road for a while. He had a rounded nose, and his mouth, which was still visible, for the bears wasn't that full, seemed to be in a constant state of linearity. This didn't even change when he tried to laugh. His mouth simply curved, whilst still staying dangerously straight. If you were to only look at this, you might still believe that the young lad was hardly more than two decennia old, nearing the next half decennia. However, this estimate was completely blown away once you saw his eyes, and the wrinkles surrounding his face. Most people who aren't good observers might see someone who's old standing there. Slightly better observers might see someone who is young standing there. The inn-keeper was a better observer, but not a single person ever saw the truth. The truth is, young and old are relative terms. Chances are, if the young man died at that spot, at his current age, and the inn-keeper lived to double his current age, the inn-keeper would still always be 'younger' than the young man. Not by numbers, which we favor to give value to things better not numbered, but by experience. Not knowing this, the inn-keeper assumed control of the situation, and simply thought that the young man was another customer. Not that he was wrong. The inn-keeper was rather different from the young traveler. Having black hair with slight tinges of grey, well kept and combed back, dark blue eyes, and a square nose, the man seemed like a person who grew old on his own strength. His arms were still muscled from a life of harder work, which might explain how he managed to rise himself to a proprietor. Wearing a dark green shirt and a dark brown pants, with a cooking apron on top of it, he seems like ever more the humble inn-keeper. His wrinkles would probably place him in his mid-thirties, but as we have noticed before, wrinkles hardly ever tell the truth. Eyes always tell the truth though, and his eyes showed the young man what he feared. There are two kinds of inn-keepers in the world: Those that like their job, and do it for the sake of good conversation and helping the traveler. These are preferred by many, for their rates are lower, and their service is better. Then you have the inn-keeper who is an inn-keeper because he has to. Some have monetary obligations, other have hereditary obligations. Regardless of whether or not these inn-keepers would like their job if they were allowed to choose for it, they didn't have the choice, and therefore won't like the job. There, the rates are higher, and if they can ignore you, then they are all the happier. Most people would hate such an inn-keeper, but the young man would have traded his left hand for such an inn-keeper today. Conversation, and in this case, conversation not with himself, only helps the shadows of his past find him. However, if he were to be getting a bed here tonight, and something to eat in the morning, he will have to be polite. For the second time in a short period of time did he glance back, thinking of sleeping outside. Despite the fact that he is looking at nothing more than a door, the fact that the shadows were out there already made his breath stoke. Swallowing hard, then sighing at another one of his bad habits, he turns his head back to the inn-keeper, even though it was never really turned much to begin with, and clears his throat. Before he managed to get a word out, although it wasn't as if he had anything particular to say, the inn-keeper took the initiative and said: "Taellar. Stilles eso paller te requivat?" The young traveler stood there, his eyes which were once soft completely focused and solid, his mouth slightly agape, watching the inn-keeper. The inn-keeper raises an eyebrow, coughs, and says: "Ah, sorry, I could have sworn that I recognized you as one of the Southern Kingdoms. You see, eyes like yours don't really appear anywhere else. I must be getting rusty at judging people, do excuse me. I said hi, and asked if I could help you." Thoughtfully, the inn-keeper kept talking long enough for the young traveler to regain his composition, as he in turn cleared his throat again and raised himself the straightest he had stood all day. Temporarily too surprised to remember the fact that he shouldn't engage into conversations, or even the fact that he was supposed to be in the middle of recovering from a panic attack, he said, with a surprised inclination still stuck to his teeth: "No, it's my turn to be sorry. You were spot on, I am from the Southern Kingdoms. I'm just surprised that anyone here knows that it exists, let alone knows how to speak the language." The inn-keeper relaxed, since a customer that would talk back is a customer that haven't lost his mind, and the young traveler's earlier frantic antics has not completely escaped his eyes. He sighed, happy to be in a situation he is used to, and perhaps even more for not having lost his ability to read someone's origins, and responded in an inn-keeper voice: "Well, that is great. As you can see, we're quite full today, but I am certain that I can get you a spot. I happen to have a desire to meet someone from the Southern Kingdoms, and so I would certainly kick one of my current guests out for you if we lack space." He did all this whilst waving with grand motions, trying to lighten the mood from the earlier formality. It had the opposite effect on the young traveler, who remembered that he should not engage into conversation, and the traveler started slouching again. He was hoping that he looked tired enough to pass for someone who needs rest soon. "I am sorry, but I have been traveling quite heavily these last few days, and I would give you half the world for a bed, the promise of breakfast, and maybe even a bath." He hoped that he sounded as polite as he could, even though he couldn't leave his desperation out of his voice entirely. The inn-keeper's eyebrows dropped slightly, though whether it's from the fallen expectations, or the fact that his joke appeared to have fallen short, wasn't entirely clear. He cleared his throat again, a sure sign that he probably enjoyed a pipe on less busy days, and looked the traveler in the eye. For a moment, it looked like he would joke about the traveler's phrasing of giving him half the world, but then he properly looked the traveler over, and found out that he indeed looked like he had just traveled here from the South Kingdoms itself. His eyes observed the well-kept blade, the gleam of a coat of what now appears to be scale-mail under his cloak, and his worn down eyes, and nods. "Alright, I can see that bantering with you today would only lead to you falling asleep on the floor, and you seem way too heavy for me to carry alone. No offense. I shall be short. Single room, breakfast when you wake up, cold bath, I'll clean up your armor for you whilst you rest, and provisions for the further journey, which would probably last you 2 days, three if you're stingy. All this for two Callegiary Royals. I also accept Theres Silver, which would be 5 coins, or your fancy Southern Kingdom White-Gold rods, which would be a single rod." His baritone managed to drop down to normal levels whilst saying this, and whilst he said this at a constant and sudden rate, he never stumbled anywhere, showing that he was fully aware how close the traveler is to collapsing. The traveler did some mental arithmetic, and decided that his rates were fair. Normally, he would have had a jolly debate on various aspects of price, but right now, he was certain that he wouldn't last any more but a tenth of a chime. He nodded, happy that the inn-keeper realized his haste. The inn-keeper sighs, clears his throat, and realizes that he has been clearing his throat rather often lately. At this thought, he sighs again, which caused for a slight bit of comedic effect with the traveler. The traveler took out his purse and handed him 5 Theres Silver Coins, as the inn-keeper gives him his keys. The inn-keeper starts whistling, obviously in a good mood, since he finally got a customer that day, and gave him the directions to the room. As the traveler slowly makes way through the rather quaint inn, the inn-keeper shouts: "Do remember, if you want me to wash the armor, leave it beside your bed whilst you sleep. I am not prying it off your resting body." The traveler grunted something incoherent in response, and the inn-keeper shakes his head. -see next post for continuation of Chapter 1-
Having reached the room, which is the first one to appear on the second floor, he slowly put the key into the lock. Being away from the inn-keeper meant that his mind was back into his previous state of solitary fear. Whilst turning the lock, his heart managed to beat faster and faster at each degree. He was certain that unlocking the door would cause his heart to burst. If the room was not lit in some way, he would probably have no success entering the room, and would probably sleep on the floor in front of it. As sweat started dripping on his turning hand, and his breathing hastened again, the lock suddenly gave way, and he stood inside the room without really expecting it. Apparently, a portion of it was rusted. As he turned to the lock, trying to figure out why it would turn against him, he managed to also find the oil-lamp hanging there. Already being inside the semi-dark room, he knew that the lock gave him the ability to sleep inside a room today. Whilst silently praising his newest patron saint, he moved to turn on the oil-lamp, by striking the dialer to the side. As the flame came to life, the shadows behind him fled from the room. His breathing calmed again, and his heart stopped fluttering. Too tired to be concerned with his mental health, but nowhere near tired enough not to forget a free cleaning of his armor, he quickly and efficiently clasped off his armor pieces. Too tired to care that he was doing the same, rhythmic movements as a year ago, he dropped the scale-mail next to the bed, and simply started lying down. Having exhausted himself with his flight, away from the shadows, he was certain that he would not have trouble sleeping, unlike what he should have. Too tired to properly go to sleep, he was already dreaming before he managed to close his eyes. -Sorry that I had to take three posts, but that is the shame of the 10k character limit I got. Blame that. Other than that, enjoy the text so far. I won't be spitting out chapters too regularly, but I will try to do one once a week-
