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 Posted: Wed Jan 01, 2014 1:11 pm
 “We stop checking for monsters under the bed when we realize they live inside us.” - Author Uknown The Warrior Puppet Essireth.Puppet, in the old tongue — this is what the Orderites called him. What they said when they jeered at him, touched him, bound him. They carved it into his skin with their poison magic in runic symbols, slavers’ brands: We own you. Dirty, broken thing. Homeless, soulless animal. Object. A toy, to be used, broken, then tossed and thrown away. Detraeus.That is the name he gave himself. Detraeus: warrior, in the tongue of Soudana, the dark goddess, of whom he’s heard only amidst curse words and spat between curled lips and grit teeth. But if they despise her, then he worships her, because anything that can make the skin of Orderites crawl and their blood run cold is a weapon he wants ever so desperately to wield. He escaped them at age eight, too small to fight, but smart enough to know what a drug is and just small enough to slip through spaces a grown body wouldn’t otherwise be able to maneuver through. He remembers that day in dreams, and in his mind it smells like too much alcohol on an Orderite’s breath, like aging metal and dusty corridors — it smells like the fish and blood on the ship he stowed away on and the murky mix of the salt and the sea and the dank stink of an old fishing boat’s rarely swabbed hull. Long after he escapes, Detraeus still feels their fingers on his skin. He scratches himself in his nightmares, drawing blood because their hands are there, and he can’t yank them off. He wakes panting, heart beating like a wild gaili in his chest, wailing for freedom. And the memories are worse than the pangs in his empty stomach because he has no coin for food. He sees phantoms in the shadows. He hears voices that whisper to him, following him, taunting him. When he wakes on those nights, Detraeus rises from whatever bed he’s made for himself — be it an actual blanket or a spot of dirt slightly cleaner looking than the rest of the alleys he inhabits to beg and steal for his living — and he checks every nook around him. He lifts objects, peers around corners, searches for a source of light if it’s available and ushers away the shadows in a desperate attempt to locate the source of his torment. What monsters follow him everywhere, no matter how far he runs? Under the blood moon, his fear worsens. He dreams of the river oblivion. Trapped in an endless expanse of waist-deep water, dying of thirst, but when he stoops the water recedes, only to rise again when he stands. The pool laughs at him in the voices of the Orderites who used him. It asks, “Are you thirsty? Foolish little mule, mounts only drink once a day, if that.”Some splintered fraction of Detraeus feels that a mind so young as his shouldn’t be capable of so much hurt. So much fear. So much hate. But when he wakes in the mornings and nurses his bleeding arms, legs, and chest where he clawed himself through his skin in the night, it’s easy to forget everything but those emotions, and the etched brands on his wrists and biceps, forehead and back glow in the darkness like a wicked, laughing reminder of a part of him he’ll never fully escape. He covers them. He binds himself up like a wounded man bound for the tomb, wraps over the claw marks and hides the runes inked into his flesh — we own you, pitiful, broken thing — because the sight of them makes his stomach rise with bile and his skin quiver. He embraces his pain and breathes out his fear like poison air kept too long in his lungs. He cups his hate in a corner of his heart and shelters it, protected, and ever-safe, for his hate is what keeps him warm; it’s what he lives for, and what he vows one day to die for. When he makes it to his tenth name day — or as close as he can guess to what that might be — he kneels before the strip of cloth meant to serve as his bedding and speaks to the dark goddess: “Mother, Soudana, I do not want run anymore. Please, mother…let me live long enough to teach them and their children what it’s like to feel what they’ve made me feel. Do not let me die. Not soon. Not yet.” Not until every breathing thing with a drop of Orderite blood in its veins has felt the wrenching agony of what it’s like to be less than nothing. What it’s like to wish, to pray you were dead. Before the coming of his eleventh name day, Detraeus dares the shadows to come near him. He taunts them and throws stones at them, spitting at them when nothing comes out. No monster that lurks, meek and skittish in the darkness is any match for the beasts that claw at him from inside himself. Or, so he likes to tell himself. Word Count: 904
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Posted: Wed Jan 01, 2014 1:12 pm
From the Hand That Feeds “Thirty pieces of silver? Thirty pieces of—?” The man speaking scowled, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the creaking wooden shop table before him. Pulling his coin purse closer, he tapped it against the wood. “You’re nesting me for certain,” he said. “I know it, you are. The stitching alone isn’t worth—” “It’s a finer make than any you’ll find ‘round here for another three days’ ride or more, you can wager your head on that if y’ like.” Yviss, the town’s best leatherworker — at least, according to her — held her ground against her customer with nary a blink, bartering back and forth effortlessly. Ruthlessly. Detraeus watched. Several paces behind her, he sat crouched on the balls of his feet, tucked into the shadows on top of a large crate of her wares. Initially, he’d barely dared linger so close, but nearly two months had passed since she’d first caught him curled up on the floor of her shop. Half-starved — though that was hardly unusual — he’d broken into the building in desperation, needing shelter from a biting storm, and when she’d woken him, he’d panicked, mentally prepared himself to be beaten and thrown out into raging wind and choking sand. Instead, she’d fed him, spoken to him despite the fact that he said little to nothing back, and continued to provide him with regular meals every day since. More than anyone had ever bothered to do in the course of Detraeus’ memory. He still rarely said a word to her, but she didn’t push and seemed satisfied that in exchange for a mat on the floor of her shop and daily meals, he performed whatever daily errands she sent him out on. Thus, now, his habit in the downtime was to wait, listen, and observe. Sometimes, when a particularly colorful customer would come through, he would mouth over some of their most unique choices of phrasing, silently repeating their speech patterns to himself in an attempt to imprint them over his own stilted ways of talking. He hated the sound of his own voice. It reminded him of them with every word that left his mouth, because like a sponge his tongue had picked up their speech patterns. But if he worked at it, maybe eventually he could scrub that out, too. Learn to speak with the accent of the rest of the world — not Seren’s monsters. Yviss’ customers came in all stripes. Vagabonds, traders, and fighters of every background imaginable. Even hybrids. She herself was a hybrid, technically, though Detraeus hadn’t been aware at first — her stunted dovaa horns were easy to hide, and dark skin and soulless, empty eyes obvious enough to convince most she was pureblood. Not that Detraeus was privileged enough to care. She fed him; he wasn’t about to spit insults at her thanks to her bloodline. “Boy.” Detraeus looked up. “This.” Yviss took the neatly laced up sack of coins just provided to her and tossed it his way. Detraeus caught it instinctively, startled, and after a second spent staring dumbly at it, he looked back up to her. “Take it to Irvran first, give him fifty copper pieces for the kargoth meat, twenty-five for the leklan flank. Then to Servitri, give her five silvers for the eechibo leather and and seven more for the kengurha pelts. We owe Borvin six silvers for the thread and new wooden needles, and tip him an extra silver because he gave us an extra spool. Lyoria needs twenty-eight coppers for…” She trailed off, eyeing him. “That’s a lot to remember. I’ll write it down for you. Can you read?” Detraeus held the weight of the coin pouch in his palms. He’d never held so much at once before. Yviss had never trusted him with money. “Boy.” “I can read,” Detraeus lied. “Mm.” Yviss glanced over him once, dubious, before plucking a small scrap of parchment out from beneath the stack where she scribbled down the numbers from her transactions. Her reed pen moved quickly, scratching dark ink shapes on the paper, and when she finished, she handed it over to him. Detraeus’ eyes swam over the shapes. Indecipherable lines and dots, curved and straight, connecting and not. Black gibberish against stained tan parchment. “Read it to me,” Yviss instructed. Detraeus frowned, eyeing the sheet before him blankly. He drew a breath and let it out. “Fifty copper pieces to Irvran, kargoth meat, and twenty-five for leklan. Five silvers to Servitri for eechibo leather and seven for kengurha. Six silvers to Borvin and an extra one for tip. Twenty-eight cop—” “Enough.” Detraeus bit his tongue, lips clamping shut and pulse beating a hard rhythm in his chest. Had he gotten it wrong? He hadn’t gotten it wrong. He knew he hadn’t. But if she was angry, perhaps she would still give him nothing for the day’s work, keep him hungry or beat him. Or kick him out entirely. He pinched his fingers tighter to the parchment to keep them from shaking. If he shook, that was weakness, and she might beat him just for that, or— “Well?” Detraeus’ attention darted up. “Go!” she clipped. “Does it look like I have all day?” Detraeus scrambled down off of his perch and fled, darting out into the crowd in the direction of Irvran’s butchery. Once completely out of Yviss’ sight, however, he slowed his pace, heart thrumming from the inside of his chest. He fingered the coin purse in his pocket. How much was in there? What would it buy? How long would it last if he ran now, stowed away in the nearest wagon bound for a deeper desert city and prayed for the best? Detraeus ran the pads of his fingers over a healing scab on his arm, currently unobstructed by wraps or other of the various covers he made a habit of donning every day, and he weighed his options. At present, he had a place to sleep every night. Cold at times, yes; hard, yes; dirty, yes. But reliable. Yviss hadn’t struck him yet either, and that was a plus. And, above all, she fed him. Every day she fed him something, even when the pickings were slim, and he was loathe to abandon that kind of regularity. Yet, he reminded himself, it wouldn’t last forever. Nothing good did. Eventually she would grow weary of him, find permanent fault with him, no longer need him for anything and throw him out. Something would break the chain, and as such, he couldn’t stay where he was indefinitely. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to head north again — put as much distance as his legs could manage between himself and the spawning ground of Soudana’s enemies — and finally set foot on his homeland. The soil born of his goddess’ magic. Who was to say this wasn’t that opportunity? “ Yes,” someone from an adjacent market stall snapped, speaking to one of his customers. “Are you a fool? Go for it! You’ll be more than satisfied with the results, you can wager your head on that if you like.” Whatever the man he was selling to said in response was lost on Detraeus. If Soudana were ever to give him a sign, that was it. Quickly buttoning shut the pocket flap containing the coin purse, Detraeus darted out into the street, weaving efficiently between larger bodies so that no one so much as brushed his small form and, as soon as he made it to the next alleyway, he swerved abruptly to change direction. After having inhabited the place for as long as he had, Detraeus had long since memorized its layout as well as any number of useful extra scraps of information — the places to avoid, the shortcuts, the best nooks to duck into should he ever be pursued by someone he’d rather not have on his his trail. Soudana had made it blessedly easy for his mind to store information and tuck it away like a reference of mental picturebooks, so who was he not to make the most of it? Particularly since he seemed to be good at little else. When he made it to the desired avenue, Detra slowed his pace, blending in with the moving crowds before filtering off to the side near an ever-present stack of empty crates and an abandoned fruit car. There, he waited. He watched the passers by, careful to pick a time when he’d become enough a part of the scenery that not an eye was on him. Then, he scaled the pile, first the barrels and then to the awning of the cart. A quick, practiced grip on a jutting brick from higher up the building’s wall and then another over the roof, and with a careful hop, heave, and scramble, he was over and up, on the roof. Most of the rooftops in the village were flat, given that it was a desert and rarely ever rained, let alone snowed enough to make any other type of architecture necessary. But the fair majority of the village’s residents used the extra space for little more than extra storage, and some rarely ever visited the space. This was one such roof, and Detraeus shamelessly used that to his advantage. In a tucked corner, behind a large enough lip to remain unseen and yet from which he got a favorable view of much of the town, he had sequestered away a collection of goods decidedly not the property of the building’s owners. Preparation, built up over the course of his stay, for his first real opportunity to make it out. Three canteens — two of which were stolen, and one of which was purchased with stolen coin — a thick blanket of leklan wool — holed, but useable — two small blades, neither of which he was apt at using but which he thought were better to have than nothing at all, and a slingshot which he’d also had limited enough practice with to consider himself utterly useless with that, too. Not nearly so much as he might prefer, but it would have to suffice. As he uncovered said goods from beneath other, never-used items which belonged to the building’s owners, he knelt beside his things and pulled them towards him. Laying them out one by one, he lifted each and every object in turn, running his fingers over them, inspecting them, naming and counting them. Three times he repeated the process before he made himself stop, emphasizing to himself that they were all there, and began packing them against his person. He would have liked to stay put ‘til nightfall — wait until the bustle of commerce died down and most retired to their homes — but with him set on a task as he was, Detraeus knew he didn’t have time on his side this round. Too soon, peacekeepers would be on the look out for him. Surely Yviss would send them after him as soon as she suspected he was late. And if they caught him… Detraeus shoved the thought from his mind. He couldn’t afford to lose body parts, or worse, but he had no intention of being caught. He would be out of the village before sundown. Word Count: 1,894
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Posted: Sat Jan 04, 2014 4:23 pm
So You Shall Reap “You’re a beautiful little monster, you know. But that’s still all you are in the end: a monster. One more mindless, soulless weapon in the arsenal of a goddess who couldn’t be bothered to give her own children a place to rest when they die…”Detraeus stirred in his sleep, the echoes of night soundless to him. Fingers brush down his cheek, tracing the shape of it, and he holds still as a stone because the only other thing he can do is shake and he won’t show that kind of fear. Not yet. Not for as long as he can help it. He hates it when Andorynn talks. The man loves to talk — draw things out, say things with false, mocking sweetness and twist and bend his words until he’s telling Detraeus:
“You’re probably lucky, you know. You should be grateful. At least here, with us, you can see what it’s like to live. What it’s like to truly feel. Most monsters don’t get to appreciate that kind of privilege.”The wind blew from the south: cold and bitter. It skittered its way up his skin as he slept, seeping through the loose, holed weaving of the only blanket separating him from the desert night, and he shivered, small body curling tighter in on itself instinctively. In his sleep, he didn’t hear the soft murmur of approaching voices. “Are you frightened?”
Detraeus counts the pulses of his beating heart and says nothing. Wait. Wait, and everything will be over. Everything ends if you just wait.
“There’s no need to be frightened.”Something CRACKed, and Detraeus was awake in an instant, body still and eyes closed to avoid alerting his intruders even as his pulse beat a wild rhythm in his chest. Who were they? How many? How big? And should he run now or hold his ground? “They’re asleep.” “It’s just a kid.” “Is it a hybrid?” “It’s a bundle of blanket, am I supposed to be able to tell?” “Will you tone it down? Whatever the kid is, it’ll be awake in a minute if you two don’t keep a tighter button on it.” ‘Three,’ Detraeus mentally noted, still not daring to open his eyes, and they had spotted him obviously, so that narrowed his options down to: fight or run. He couldn’t fight them, not all three, and they sounded like adults besides, so how much did he dare try to grab before running? Slowly as he could force himself to move, he slid his hand down, still tucked beneath his blanket, feeling along the parched, chilled earth until he felt the cold hilt of one of his two weapons. “Probably doesn’t have a scrap on ‘im anyway, look at the runt. This is a waste of time. We’re looking for a hybrid nest, not one lost leklan in the rough.” “Look. He’s bound to have something on ‘im. He’s here, we’re here. No reason we shouldn’t—” “Oi!” Detraeus shot up, snatching everything immediately in reach and bolting. “Karis, grab him before he—” The cold leather of someone’s glove clapped over Detra’s mouth. When he jerked, attempting to stab backwards with one of the weapons already in his grasp, another locked onto his wrist. “Not so fast, little quicksilver,” a woman’s voice admonished, level with his ear. Her grip held him fast, cold and tight against his skin as iron shackles that refused to budge no matter how he twisted, and Detraeus felt his senses begin to seep out of him as panic reared its yellow head in an attempt to consume him whole. ‘ I’m not going to die today. I’m not going to die today. I’m not going to die today.’ “Looks like a pureblood.” “Does he have anything on him?” Detraeus focused on his breathing, focused on the rock formation ten paces in front of him, focused the realness of his pulse and the chill of the night air. They were kicking through his few belongings, but he barely noticed. A more distant part of his mind knew that he needed what little he had to survive long term, but in the moment his thought process could only think from heartbeat to heartbeat. One panicked pulse hard in his throat to the next. He needed a way out. She was touching him. He needed out. “There’s nothing—” Something clinked. Coins. “Well then, what do we have here?” His coins. No, Yviss’ coins. They weren’t even his and they were going to take them. The degree to which this infuriated Detra was inarguably irrational — he had, after all, stolen them himself — but that they would take them when they were hers, the one thing of value he had on his person, felt like being spit in the face. The instant the woman’s attention seemed the barest bit distracted, Detraeus whipped his spare hand around, yanked out his spare weapon, and buried it backwards into her leg. The moment her grip faltered, he bolted again. A man’s hand caught at his clothes when he fled, tripping up his balance and sending him tumbling, but as the man focused on shoving Detra’s weapon hand down into the dirt, attempting to pin him, Detra swept his other hand along the ground, desperately searching until— Immediately upon feeling what he needed, Detra closed his fist, gripping tight as he could to the first sizable rock his fingers came across and swinging it up, hard as he could muster into the side of the man’s head. And again. And again until the man’s grip weakened. His expression was a twisted, bloody mix between rage and shock as he slumped. But Detraeus was too busy scrambling out from beneath him to care. Behind him heated curses and the woman’s muted snarling mingled together, quickly followed by the sounds of pursuit, but Detraeus thought only in heartbeats and footfalls. One, two, three. Breathe. One, two three. One of them screamed something at him that his mind was too preoccupied to translate, and Detraeus’ legs protested the impossible as he demanded they move faster. Fortunately, he’d made his ‘camp’ near to the edge of the Terra Expanse — not daring to trek out into the barren wilds of the open desert without so much as a compass — and so by the time he could hear them closing in, he was already scrambling up, up, up large boulders and then smaller ones, fighting his way into the protective range of mountains. The chase felt like an eternity, though it likely only spanned the course of a handful of minutes. When his legs felt like the broken stubs of burnt trees, numb and dying beneath his body, Detraeus wedged himself between and beneath the first set of rocks positioned to create such a hiding place. And he tempered his breath, putting as much of a leash on its pace as his racing, starving lungs would allow. Everything. He’d lost everything but the knife in his hand, the clothes on his body, and his life. ‘ So far,’ a whisper of mental caution reminded him. ‘ You could still die now if you’re not quiet enough.’ Detraeus shut his eyes. One, two, three.Breathe. One, two, three…Detraeus held his knees to his chest, body curled tight as he could manage and lips pressed to the tattered cloth of his leggings to help muffle the sound of his breathing. ‘ Mother Soudana, goddess, protect me…please…’ He fell asleep hours later without having moved an inch, knife coiled so tightly in his grip that it felt as though the hilt were trying to mold itself into his palm. He woke when morning speared its way through the crack between the boulders, jabbing at his closed eyelids and demanding that he rise. He had places to be, after all. Word Count: 1,351
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Posted: Tue Jan 07, 2014 3:33 pm
The Poison Cliffs Word Count: WIP
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Posted: Mon Jan 13, 2014 2:04 pm
Death of a Hybrid Detraeus chewed as he walked. Heavily cooked, salted and dried meat: not the best flavor, considering it was probably nearing two weeks old now, and it felt as dry on his tongue as the sand under his boots, but it was edible and energy-giving. Detraeus wasn’t complaining. The sun hung low in the sky and sank further by the minute, inching from evening towards dusk. But that was how he liked it. He’d taken to doing most of his traveling at night and seeking shelter for sleep during the day. Not only because Eowyn’s climate made the full, blistering heat of midday nearly impossible to breathe in on some days, let alone travel, but also because he considered himself safer that way. Because of his racial gift — perfect nocturnal vision — traveling at night gave him an immediate advantage over more than half of Magesc’s population without a single other factor thrown in: he could see, and they couldn’t. This worked as a defensive mechanism on several levels — he could see potential attackers coming long before they spotted him, as well as run full speed to escape without fear of slamming into something blindly. Add in that one of the primary races disadvantaged by limited sight was the one he wanted to avoid at all costs, and Detraeus saw no downside to his current set up. Detraeus picked his way over the uneven ground at his feet, mentally running over the list of provisions at his disposal and debating when he would need to take the time out to attempt hunting again. His stash of dried meat was running low, so sooner rather than later would be ideal, but he still felt horribly incapable with the weapons on his person. The only things he’d managed to stab with them thus far were things already attacking him. To hunt effectively, on the other hand, he needed— Detra paused, took a whiff of the air as another hot breeze blew his way, and turned his head towards the scent. Newly rotting meat. A smell he’d grown quite familiar with over the course of his travels thus far, and at this point to him, it meant one of two things: a.) a dead animal which, depending on its state and how long ago it had died, might provide an edible source of meat if cooked enough, or b.) a body. Bodies were more common than he might have expected at first, though he supposed it made logical sense — the skeletal remains of the fallen soldiers in places with so much death that some had never even made it beneath ground, the newer corpses of victims of attack along the edges of the Expanse, either wild animal or Magescian-committed, and so on. To Detraeus, though, a body meant supplies. It meant potential food, better clothing or weapons. It meant a shot at surviving longer. He couldn’t afford to carry much more than he had on his person, but replacements and improvements were worth the search. Thus, unfastening his bandanna and prepping to wrap it back over his nose and mouth, he started off in search of the smell’s culprit. He found her propped up against a leaning boulder, stiff fingers still clenched to her blood-soaked gut. A hybrid, obvious as the rising sun with her pastel skin, empty eye sockets and glinting scales. Attacked, probably. Perhaps hunted down, even. Detra’s eyes darted over her, looking for anything worth taking, but the moment his roaming gaze spotted what was laying to the left of her, his attention locked and refused to budge. Her weapon: a bow. For reasons he couldn’t begin to explain, Detraeus felt his breath catch. His pulse hummed with restrained excitement as he drew his eyes over the weapon, fingers clenching and releasing anxiously. He’d only ever seen a bow in action on a rare few occasions, but they had always mesmerized him. The perfect weapon in his eye, because what better way to hunt than by downing your prey before it so much as realized you existed? What safer way to fight than by utilizing patience and skill instead of brute force and mania, keeping oneself out of the danger zone, striking efficiently, and finishing — ideally — without ever having to step into the line of fire? Detraeus moved in. When his fingers first brushed the upper limb of the bow, he shivered, feeling as though a physical current of energy rippled through him in that moment. As though the weapon were beckoning to him and drawing him in. He breathed out, gripped it, and tugged it to him. Snatching up the quiver as well, he made a quick withdrawal, staggering away from the body and holding the weapon to him as though its previous owner might still rise again at any second and steal it back from him. Other than a small coin purse — emptied, likely thanks to whoever had attacked her — she looked to have little on her worth its weight on his back, and not wanting to linger too long and unwittingly gather the attention of whoever had attacked her, Detraeus opted to make his exit. Strapping the quiver to his back — frustratingly large and bulky compared to his small frame, but worth it, it had to be — and carrying the bow, he started back on his path: north. He made it around the next bluff just as the last light of the setting sun sank beneath the horizon’s edge. Shielded under the growing shadows of the coming night, Detraeus rubbed his thumb over grip of the bow — his bow — feeling the smooth grain of the wood against his skin. He would practice with this. And one day, he promised himself, he would kill with it. Word Count: 977
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Posted: Wed Jan 15, 2014 11:05 am
A Lesson in Accuracy Word Count: 1,172
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Posted: Sat Jan 18, 2014 9:07 am
The Moon Beasts Word Count: 2,834
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Posted: Sat Jan 18, 2014 3:26 pm
The Moon Beasts
[Transcribed are Detraeus' thoughts. He cannot read or write at this age.]
I shot a thing today. An arrical. There were three in the end. All dead now. They have magic that heals them under the moon. Note: always run when attacked at night. Also met a man, a khehora, and a hybrid boy. Got food. They didn't attack me.
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Posted: Sat Jan 18, 2014 3:27 pm
In the Wake of a Red Dawn Word Count: 3,887
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Posted: Sat Jan 18, 2014 3:42 pm
In the Wake of a Red Dawn
[Transcribed are Detraeus' thoughts. He cannot read or write at this age.]
The strange people fed me more today. I slept without meaning to. Thankfully, they did not attack me in the night. The khehora seems kind. She let me ride her. She even flew. The hybrid boy is strange. Very happy. The man left me with as much meat as promised. Enough to feed me to Soudul. And coins. The boy gave me a dagger. I don't understand. It is good quality, though, and I'll keep it.
Strange people.
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Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 8:58 pm
Silvers for the Ferryman It felt strange, paying the fare. Detraeus counted over the coins in his pouch six times before he convinced himself to approach the booth selling boarding passes and then once more before he actually made it there. He checked over the rest of his belongings as many times or more, plagued by a nervous itch that said he was so close but this only meant something was bound to go wrong now. His things would be stolen, broken, lost, leaving him with nothing. A storm at sea that would wash him overboard and drown him, never to be remembered by a soul, because why would they? No one knew him as anything more than a dot on their timeline. A smear out of the corner of their eye. That dirty child in the way that they shoved aside for more important business. He fingered over the sheath of the dagger he’d been gifted: an elegant weapon, larger than his throwing daggers, but compact enough for him to manage despite his small hands, and carved like an art form, vicious and precise. He thought of the boy who’d given it to him. A strange mash up of dovaa and oblivionite, but boisterous all the same. Talkative. Almost invasively friendly. He wondered what kind of an upbringing it took to take such an outcast — something deemed so filthy by society at large — and still give them enough happiness that they grew into such a child. “Oi.” Detra’s attention jerked upwards, pinning on the face looming over the ticket booth. A heavily wrinkled, pointed face with a distrusting scowl on it. “Get out of here, eh? We’re only taking paying custome—” Detraeus reach up, standing on tip toe in order to clap the necessary three silver pieces up onto the counter in front of the man. The collector frowned. After fingering over the pieces of currency, he eyed Detra again, narrow the lids on his deep, empty sockets. “You have parents?” When Detraeus shook his head, the man huffed, gathering up Detra’s coins and dropping them into his collection box with three heavy clinks before ripping off a boarding pass from his stack and scribbling on it. “You know where this ship’s headed?” A nod. “You know three pieces only pays for your body, no excess…” He waved his hand, “…bits and boxes, cargo. Nothin’ but what you can carry.” Another nod. Detraeus eyed the slip of paper almost hungrily as he waited, pulse picking up of its own regard. What if the man didn’t give him the slip? What could he even do about it? Anything? No. His money would be gone. Wasted. “Hn.” The man jerked out the slip, holding it to him. “Watch your weapon arm, kid.” Detraeus blinked, and then immediately snatched it up, drawing it to himself almost as desperately as he did food on the days after he’d long gone hungry. As if he couldn’t quite believe it was in his fingers but damn him if he was going to let go now. Without waiting for a single additional word from the collector, he scurried off to the main dock. Soon, he would be on his way home. Word Count: 535
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Posted: Fri Jan 31, 2014 8:59 pm
An Audience With Legend The first footstep he set on the soil of Soudul felt surreal. Impossible, somehow. As though, no matter how determined he’d felt every step of his journey so far, he had never fully convinced himself — or even partially convinced himself — that he would actually make it. It had been a goal, ever a goal and nothing more. A distant reward dangled at the end of an infinitely long stick simply to keep him moving and get him further away with every step from the pawing, grasping, yanking, punishing hands of Seren’s abominations. And yet, here he was. Someone shoved at Detraeus from behind, barking something about him moving too slowly, and he jerked away from the touch, scrambling forward without a backwards glance and then breaking into a run because he could. He ran through bustle of the port city, darting around shoppers and merchants, around carts and vagabonds. He ran straight as he could along the dockside, avoiding the buckets of fish and the shouting dock workers. He ran until he broke through into the outskirts of the village, until trees and rising murk became more prevalent, until his heart felt like a wild ferkat clawing for escape through his chest and then, tucked himself up against the nearest tree — tall, looming, and fungal — and sank against it. Shutting his eyes, Detraeus swallowed hard, and breathed. In. Out. In… After a glance around to ascertain that he had the place well enough to himself, he began unfastening his things and laying them out before him: counting, checking, and counting again. A quiver with seven remaining arrows. A black bow which had lodged one of the no longer present arrows between the eyes of a now-deceased arrical. Three small throwing daggers. Four dragon soul obs. Two canteens. A full-sized dagger, elegant and higher quality than likely anything on his person but the bow itself. His coin purse, with six remaining gold pieces, fifty-two bits of silver, and thirty-seven coppers. He counted the coins four times over to make sure all were still there before he placed them back in their pouch. One satchel of wrapped, stored and salted arrical meat, intended to last for travel. Carefully, Detraeus folded back the wrapping on a piece, ripped a shred off, and chewed, focusing on the flavor as he curled his toes in his boots. Food, water, and the earth of his homeland beneath his feet. The land built by the magic of his goddess for his people. Detraeus breathed out, and looked around, drawing in the sights and smells of the unfamiliar continent. As much as it was ‘his’ by birthright, it still felt, looked, and smelled alien. No matter, though, he insisted to himself. One day, he would know this land as well as any other, and when he was ready. When he was strong enough, he might even leave it again. For now, however, this safety was all he needed. After finishing with his brief meal, Detra’s attention flit again to the soul orbs on his person. He knew, as per tradition, a child who had chosen their path and their weapon would present these as evidence of their service to their people, their leader — and their goddess. His uncertainty of the details surrounding this ritual unnerved him, however. Though he knew the general principle, what precisely would be expected of him, or how things would proceed was a mystery. Would he be allowed to speak at Soudana’s altar if that was what he preferred? Leave his orbs before her, as she was his ultimate leader? He only had a vague concept of what all might transpire, and the questions he had made him wary. The thought of presenting himself before anything but an altar to his goddess herself— Detraeus ushered the thoughts away. He worshipped his goddess, and surely here, on his homeland, that love would be respected. These were all his people, the children of Soudana just as he was, and surely they would understand that she was the only being in all of existence that he pledged himself solely to. This in mind, he tucked his things away, strapped his weapons back to his person and stowed his valuables, then stood. He would locate a place to stay for the night in this fishing village, then, in the morning, secure passage to the capital, locate the sanctuary of his goddess, explain his purpose, present his orbs, and, once back in the city proper, find a place to stay more. It seemed like a solid plan, and felt simple enough — at least, until he attempted to put it into action. With actual coin on his person, finding a place to stay was no major matter, though the number of looks he received worried him greatly and he wound up barring his door and sleeping fully clothed with all his weapons and coin on hand near his person. The following morning — after checking through his belongings any number of times to assure himself they were all there — he made his way out, and started his trek towards Obsidian City. Given that he trusted none of the wagons or riders making the journey and didn’t feel like wasting coin on them besides, Detraeus opted to walk it, and spent the better part of three days on foot. The city, when he reached it, was everything he might have imagined it to be: massive, sprawling and busy. Littered with folk of every sort, nearly entirely oblivionites, though the occasional hybrid or scholar walked among them. Buildings climbed high towards the dark sky, and the sanctuary itself. By the time Detraeus reached it, he felt breathless in its presence. The center of worship for his goddess. The building that housed all the priests and priestesses for the most magnificent and powerful of all divine beings. Soudana’s house in the mortal realm. It loomed over the city, casting its shadow like an all-seeing eye, and Detraeus had never felt smaller, more humbled, or more honored. He stepped inside. The towering, dark marbled walls seemed only to re-emphasize his insignificance compared to the grand scheme, and the chill of the cool air within crept up along his skin, but it did not bother him. This was his Mother’s house. He was designed inferior — vastly and ever inferior — to her magnificence so it seemed fitting to feel so small. But whatever love and worship and strength he could demonstrate to add to her might, that was what mattered. As he wandered, aimless for some time, his attention eventually settled on a single statue. Though his eyes could not interpret the script etched at its base, Detraeus knew it to be her, and he felt his pulse flutter. Only here, only on this continent would he see such effort, such art, such dedication put into honoring this world’s one true goddess. He felt the tips of his fingers itch, and his hand lift almost of its own accord, wanting to touch— “Boy.” Detraeus jerked his hand back, fingers balling into a tight fist at his side and head snapping around so that his attention could narrow on the guard who’d addressed him. A man, heavily armored, middle-aged, but severe in the face, his lips a strict line. “Don’t linger,” he clipped. “Are you lost?” Detraeus shook his head. “Classes to get to?” Again, Detraeus shook his head, and finally, the man’s head dipped a fraction, noticing the orbs at his waist. “Here to see His Lordship, then?” Detraeus frowned, fingers automatically shifting to hover over his orbs. “…to present your orbs? Go up in ra—” “Yes.” “Breathe a bit, then,” the man encouraged, brightening a fraction. “No need to be nervous. You’re not the first and won’t be the last, mm? Veranno’s meeting room is down that hall, up the staircase and to your left.” Detraeus’ frown didn’t leave. “You won’t be able to bring that weapon though,” he said, heedless of Detra’s wariness as he stepped forward and lifted a hand to reach for it. Immediately, Detraeus jerked back. “It’s mine.” The guard eyed him, matching his frown. “I have no doubt it is, boy,” he said after a cursory pause, “but you’re not going in to meet with Veranno fully armed, no matter how much of a runt you are. Now come on, you can have the bow back after you finish speaking with—” When he reached again, Detraeus jerked again out of range, gripping his bow tighter and shaking his head. “It’s mine.” The guard pursed his lips, looking as though he were quickly losing his patience. “What’s your name, boy? You’re going to get yourself into trouble if you keep this up.” Detraeus scowled. Perhaps he’d come to the wrong place after all. He should have known better. He should have— “ Name.” “Detraeus.” The man blinked. Stared. Blinked again. And then laughed. After an extended pause, just before Detraeus gave up and made to leave, the man shook his head. “I’ll be needing your real name, kid.” “Detraeus,” Detra growled, “ is my name.” The guard clicked his tongue, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Wanna play fun, do you? What’s your family name, mm?” Detra shook his head. “No family name…of course. A brat orphan with an attitude. This is exactly—” “Soudana is my mother,” Detra clipped. “I want to give my orbs to her.” Again, the guard laughed, though this time decidedly less friendly. “Of course you do. Listen here, kid. In this building? Veranno is your god. Soudana is your goddess. But you answer to Veranno first, ‘cause even though he barely has time for your s**t, he has more time for it than the Lady does, you get it? So if you want to progress—” The instant the man gripped his shoulder, Detraeus tensed, twisting and yanking against the hold as his pulse leapt up. “Don’t touch me!” “Just hand over the damn weapon you little—” “ It’s mine!” By this time, unbeknownst to Detraeus, they were attracting a significant amount of attention from the passers by — students, teachers, and worshipers alike. A second guard joined in almost as soon as Detraeus started screaming, holding his arms back despite his flailing and snarling, and keeping him still as the other guard stripped him of his weapons. He was nearly shaking with panic, blind to the surveyors, when a booming voice cut over the commotion. “ What is going on here?” The hands holding him dropped, and Detraeus collapsed to the marble flooring. He scrambled against it, staggering backwards and balling his fists as he righted himself again, body tense as a rail and limbs quivering. For the first several seconds, he didn’t dare look up, and the quick explanations of the guards snapped back and forth at either side. His weapons. They had stolen— “You, boy.” Detraeus bit his lip, reminded in spite of himself of a hundred orders. A hundred male voices. No, more. Barking, demanding. This, though, was not Serenia. These were not Seren’s monsters. These were his people. These were Soudana’s children, just like him. ‘But they already hate you. They touched you. Grabbed you. They’re stealing from you. They won’t listen. No one will ever be truly like y—’“Look at me, child.” Detraeus stamped down the chatter in his head, reminded himself that if he could stare Andorynn Wymrith in the face, he could handle this, and he forced his chin up, eyelids narrowed on the figure addressing him. Tall. Long, black hair, and a penetrating, eyeless stare that seemed at least as intimidating as the rest of him. Clearly, by his dress, someone of importance. Your lordship.That was what the guards had addressed him as, and now they were silent, heads dipped in respect. Slowly, Detraeus felt his cheeks begin to heat, balled fists tightening and shaking again. Was this to be his first encounter with the leader of his people, second only to his goddess herself? Shamed, cheated, and stripped of his weapons? Laughed at for his intentions and then unceremoniously displayed before Draco Veranno himself? “Identify yourself,” the man said, his voice cool and clipped. Far from friendly, but not precisely accusing either. Detraeus resisted the urge to spit at the boots of those who’d manhandled him. Instead, he brushed the back of his hand habitually across his lips and shook his head. “I am no one, Your Lordship.” “Another orphan?” “Soudana is my mother.” Draco’s attention seemed to flicker. First on Detraeus, then to either of the guards at his sides. “Do you intend to assassinate me with your bow?” he asked at length, a bitter humor slipping in under his words, and Detra ignored the tense reactions of the guards. He shook his head. “I’m small, Your Lordship. Not stupid. I prefer to live.” Draco lifted a hand, flicking his fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion towards the weapons the guards had taken from him. “Hand me the child’s quiver and daggers. Return his bow.” His attention refocused on Detraeus. “You did come for an audience with me?” Detraeus felt his breath peter out, and he jerked his bow back into his possession, scowling darkly at the man who’d taken it before nodding mutely. He had come to pay respects to his goddess, but for now it seemed this was the only option. “Follow.” Detraeus followed seamlessly behind the man, and all he could think as he walked — as he watched the massive oblivionite’s proud wings flick and tail sweep behind him, the clinks and clanks of his armor loud and his footsteps at least as impossible to miss — was that behind him, Detraeus truly was nothing. His tiny body, likely not even eleven full summers of age yet, would have been invisible from the front, and the soft pads of his worn boots, falling apart with disrepair, were silent by comparison. The door to Draco Veranno’s main meeting chamber groaned the low, creaking sound of old, well-used wood, and Detraeus slipped in like tiny bird behind Draco in his wake. “What do I call you, son of Soudana?” Draco let Detraeus’ weapons fall to his desk with a clatter, and Detra watched them like a feline keeping an eye on its fish. Or perhaps, in this case, the right to draw its claws. “Detraeus.” “Warrior?” Draco drew out one of the seven arrows remaining in his quiver, lifting it and balancing it between his fingers. “Wouldn’t ‘archer’ be more appropriate?” When Detraeus said nothing, eventually Draco slipped the arrow back in with the others. “You come with orbs?” Detraeus untucked the pouch at his waist, drawing out two of the firani orbs therein and stepping forward to place them on Draco’s desk. “And what do you intend to do as you progress, little warrior? Are you sure you are on the right path, training to be a soldier?” “I want to kill orderites until there aren’t anymore.” Draco eyed him. Steady. Unblinking. Eventually, he motioned to Detraeus’ quiver and daggers. “Take your weapons. Learn to use them. And consider yourself an adept. Return to me when you are ready to progress again…Detraeus.” Word Count: 2,579
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Posted: Fri Feb 07, 2014 8:38 pm
The Dust of Dreams Before he had a waking memory of the place, Soudul existed in Detraeus’ dreams as a utopia. A mythical promised land, built by his goddess for his people and somehow an answer, in his ten-year-old’s mind, for all past, current, and future injustices. Once he reached it, somehow everything would be over, and he’d have a blank slate to work with. Unfortunately, reality has a way of breaking children of their fantasies, some more easily than most, and Detraeus’ dreams were especially frail, his hopes frequently more fragile than the brittle bones of newly hatched birds. After less than a day on the streets on his own, the authorities of Obsidian City escorted him to — or rather, forcibly dumped him at the doors of — an orphanage therein. Accusing him of theft, they confiscated his monetary gains, and left him the charge of the orphan matron. “Come now, boy—” Their fingers gripped him hard. Too hard. Hard enough to leave bruises that he would feel in the days to come, and Detraeus made it worse by fighting them, screaming. “Don’t touch me!” “ Relax rat,” the larger of the two snapped. “We’ll take you someplace you can be took care of, eh?” “Your stolen coppers’ll go to a good cause, mind, you don’t have to worry,” the second added, sifting through his pouch of coins and Detraeus snarled, feet scrabbling uselessly at the cobblestoned path beneath his feet. “Same pot that’ll be goin’ to your orphanage and feedin’ you, in some senses o’ the word, mind. So it’s about like it all rounds out, don’t you think?” Eventually, Detraeus gave up on his struggles, stilling like a rag doll in their grasp and spitting at the pavement. It was closing in on high noon when they brought him before the orphan matron: a tall, heavy woman with sooty skin and mottled dark and light hair, bleached with age. Round, puckered lips, and a nose like flattened pebble. Whatever she said to him, Detraeus paid it no mind, his gaze darting over the fortifications of the place. Layout, details. How he would make his way back out at the first opportunity. It was a dingy, dreary place that smelled overly much of sweat, snot, and salt. The bedroom she guided him to — packed from wall to wall with small, thin straw mattresses stacked high atop each other in pillared ‘bunks’ — reminded him so much of the quarters he’d kept on Seren’s hell-continent that Detraeus’ knees shook at the sight. The halls echoed with the sound of young voices, and that only served to emphasize the impression further: it was a prison for children. And what would be done with them once they had them locked here? Were ‘his’ people no different, no better than those born of Seren? Had he traveled all this way for nothing but the same? Was the world all equally poluted? The walls seemed to close in on him as he was guided through the halls, shadows laughing at him again, and the ricocheting voices of his peers became stilted and dilute. Twisted. On his first night in the orphanage, the ceiling was a face that taunted him, the thinly threaded blankets fingers that poked and prodded at him, touching and jerking him awake any time he drew nearer to sleep. Before the dawn, Detraeus ran away. Word Count: 570
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Posted: Fri Feb 07, 2014 9:20 pm
Pebble in a Hurricane Detraeus lasted two days in the streets before he was rounded up again by Oblivion City’s authorities and dragged back to the orphanage. He ran again the next night, and the next, but the more frequently he did, the more closely he was watched and the more easily he was spotted after making his escape so that in time, the cycle became a repeating loop to which Detraeus eventually reluctantly conceded for two years. The orphanage provided shelter, after all, as well as food, and even some limited degree of training, though he could not practice to the degree he wished and was never allowed to keep his weapons on his person, a fact which embittered him more than most anything. They attempted to school him, but upon finding he had not the faintest knowledge of even his letters, let alone basic history, reading, writing, or arithmetic, he was placed amongst the youngest of children with disastrous results. “Look, look, it’s the warrior who can’t spell his own name.” “Don’t be cruel — perhaps he can’t help it? Some people can’t help being stupid.” “I bet he’s not even an orphan. His parents were just so ashamed they threw him out and Mother Maira took him in out of pity.” “What is he even doing here, but taking up space? I’ve never seen him try at anything.” “I’ve never even heard him talk. Do you think he can? Perhaps he’s dumb and dumb.” Laughter. Detraeus took to lashing out. “Watch where you’re going warrior of Soudana—ahh!” Detraeus shoved hard enough to send the other boy tumbling onto the floor. Two others joined in, and Detraeus fought — vicious, angry, and uncontained — yanking at hair, punching, clawing, ripping and shoving as he took his own fair share of damage himself. He smashed his knuckles into the other boy’s face, uncaring of the pain that shot through his arm as he hit teeth, and whirled on the second and third when they attempted to drag him off. “Monster! Monster!” “He’s insane!” “Someone get Mother Maira!” Though that first fight was broken apart soon enough, Detraeus left with a split lip, bruised cheek and wrist, many more were to come. At the faintest word, Detraeus would pick a fight, sparing no cruelties, and generally ending up with a smattering of cuts and bruises himself by the time he and his opponent (or opponents) were forced apart. After one incident lead to a near fatal injury involving a cracked skull and broken ribs on the part of one of his ‘attackers’, the rest of the children finally shifted their strategy and took to avoiding him like a poisoned animal, spitting insults and rumors beneath their breath but never going near him. He told himself he preferred it and from that point on ignored entirely any attempts the teachers made at schooling him, waiting each day solely for the time he got to spend with his bow in the training yard. Word Count: 511
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