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 Posted: Fri Feb 14, 2014 7:15 pm
Seeds Sewn in Starlight Detraeus waited until the sounds of those around him quieted. Until the stirring, murmuring, joking, jabbing, teasing and otherwise petered out and their breathing became like one: the whispered inhale exhale of a stirring night breeze. Then, he waited longer still. He watched the roof above his cot, the way the shadows moved when the trees outside bent, making twisted, twitching imprints on the otherwise white light of the pale moon. He watched the light that paced, every so often, back and forth like a flickering lightning bug in front of the shut door to their bedquarters, assuring that no one snuck out. Or, so was their intention. When that light, too, finally moved away with soft pat, pat, pat of retreating footsteps and dimmed out like the whispers had before it, Detraeus sat up in bed. After having spent the most of his day sleeping through lessons that didn’t concern him, he was wide awake for the night, and had more important things to study on his own time. He slipped down from his bunk, careful not to shake its frame and disturb the others sharing the cots beneath it, and stole out into the hall. He kept on alert, since usually, even after the miss assigned to watch the bedquarter door had left — usually a volunteer priestess taking time out to aid the local orphanage — there were generally a few others who watched over the place long into the night, and still others who woke from their beds easily, were he not careful. Practice improved his stealth, however, and generally he made it to the weapon’s room now without issue. The place was always locked, closed up with a key to prevent the children from doing just as he was and accessing their weapons outside of the assigned training hours, but Detraeus had long since stolen the necessary key which he kept always on his person, and made it in without further issue. In his eleventh year, Detraeus snuck out from his bedquarters often. Out and into the weapon room where he drew his bow over and over. The habit continued into his twelfth year where he became even more heedless of the rules and took to spending long nights firing shots into the dummy posts again, and again. And again. And over again. Until his calloused fingers bled and his arm went numb from the effort. Until he forgot everything but the physical moment he existed in: his body, his sweat, and his bow. Until the sun rose, painting his slicked skin with heat, and from there he spent the rest of his hours for the day sleeping through class lectures intended for children whose heads didn’t reach above his waist and eating when mealtimes came. In his thirteenth year, after considerably more planning than previously, he ran away again. This time he fled the capital city entirely. With nothing but his bow and his blades, he made it as far as the small, outskirt village of Wraethel before settling somewhat more permanently. No one there attempted to throw him in an orphanage. He did, however, make an acquaintance destined to change his path forever. Word Count: 536
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Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2014 4:39 am
Blood in the Rain
Pt. I It’s raining when Detraeus first steps into the village. The already dank streets are saturated with it, soggy and sleek as the raindrops patter endlessly over its surface. Miniature lakes pool in the indents formed by the footsteps of passers by in some places, and rushing gullies of water stream down the sides of it in the lower sections, scaring rodents out of their wake and sending them scurrying into the darker niches of the side streets. It isn’t deserted, though, not completely. The more desperate of merchants continue to line the muddy side banks. They hover, miserable as waterlogged felines under the sagging canvas coverings meant to shield them from the rain as they guard their wares. Some even call out to the few that slop through the streets. “Ten coppers for a hot pattellai cake! Ten coppers! Fresh off the coals, couldn’t ask for a better meal to warm your gut in this dreary weather!” “Two silvers for the finest leather worked carrying pouch you could want—” “A hood, to keep you dry from the rain! Oiled to waterproof perfection—” Detraeus pulls the hood of his already sopping wet cloak closer around his face to tune them out and adjusts the bandana across his forehead with a frown. It’s become a nervous twitch, almost, developed over his years back in ‘civilization’. The etched, glowing brands in his skin which he had once hoped might leave him with time still linger, bright as ever: a luminous marker that spouts exactly who and what he is to anyone who spots them. He had also, once upon a time, hoped that perhaps those in Soudul would be less judgemental. See him differently, somehow. But that, too, is a long decayed fantasy. The smell of old fish on the brink of rot reaches his nostrils and Detraeus grimaces, lifting the back of his glove to his nose. In his distractaction, he nearly trips over the prone body of a beggar woman, clothes soaked through with wet and mud. When he spots her though and takes a sidelong step to avoid running into her with his boot, she jerks upright, bony fingers outstretched: covered in scales. Hybrid. His grimace deepens even as she croaksout to him, “Spare a poor woman some coins, boy? A few coppers for an old crone?” Detraeus spits in the mud beside her and walks on before he can make out what she barks after him. Obscenities of some form, no doubt. He rolls his shoulders, pulling his cloak back close. Inn. He needs an inn. Any variety of tavern will do at this point. Several blocks later, Detraeus slows his pace, eyes narrowing on a tavern sign lit up by flickering candles to either side of it. Protected by a shielding spell, he guesses. The words are curving and elegant, though he has no way to guess their actual meaning, and he frowns, eyeing the passers by. Several women wait around the door — dressed strangely sparingly for the season and the weather, though it doesn’t seem to bother them much — and he waits, watching as they move, drawing several passing bodies into conversation and, on occasion, moving in with one. After some minutes of indecision, Detraeus opts to ignore the unease itching beneath his skin and steps forward, immediately gaining the attention of the woman closest to him. “How much for a room for the night?” he asks, tone curt and stiff. Her eyebrows arch slowly, attention trailing down his soaked form with far too much of an interest in detail for his comfort. He pulls his cloak tighter about himself, shoulders squaring off. Her smile is as slow as her first look, and more poisonous. “A bit young to be buying a full night, aren’t you? Your coin might be better spent booking by the hour…” Her smile broadens, worse than before, and she winks. “Or by the minute.” Detraeus scowles and suppresses a shiver. What is this woman’s game? If her job is to draw in customers, why is she toying with him? Anger bubbles just beneath the surface of his visible emotions, but he tampers it down. He’s cold, wet, and hungry: he needs a place to stay. “What good is an hour?” he clips. “I have coin. I’m not too young for anything.” “Oohh,” the woman cooes, and then laughs, drawing in the attention of several of the other waiting women as she does. Detraeus feels the back of his neck warm, fingers bunching. “Special little prince, are you? Well, then, let me ask you something, special prince—” She leans in slow as she speaks, long fingers reaching out towards his chin. Detraeus jerks back hard and fast enough to make himself stumble and nearly slips backwards into the mud. Her laughter, and that of her rotten company, echoes through the rain as his heart throws itself hard against the cage of his chest. When he gets a grip on his pulse, he sneers. “A bed. How much?” Her expression cools like hot wax on a winter’s night, evidently startled by his genuine outburst. At least the laughter stops. She draws her tongue over her lower lip, the polished paint for it making it glisten pale as the white moon against her dark skin. “A hundred and fifty for a full night.” Detraeus frowns. “…coppers?” More laughter, like harpies, and his stomach knots with bile. Her smile looks almost like it pities him. Worse than anger, worse than remorse. He hates pity. “Silvers, little prince,” she says “ Silve—” “Listen here, boy,” she cuts him off crisply, dropping the soft drawl of her previous speech. “In this downpour, I’ll give you a night for fifty. Because you have balls.” “And you don’t think he’ll last more than ten minutes!” Detraeus frowns, tense and confused as the woman addressing him makes a rude gesture over her shoulder in the direction of the one who’d cut in. Fifty silvers is still far more than any inn he’d stayed at, and well above what he can afford, but night has long since come, the air is frigid and wet and rapidly getting cooler. He needs to be indoors as soon as possible. Perhaps he’ll be able to steal the coin back come morning. “Forty,” he says. The woman tilts her head. “Is that what you think I’m worth?” Before Detraeus can so much as open his mouth, however, she waves his words away. “Follow me, little prince. You have yourself a deal.” Word Count: 1,099
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Posted: Thu Mar 06, 2014 4:43 am
TRIGGER WARNING: Contains references to child abuse and slavery. Read at your own discretion.Blood in the Rain
Pt. II The inside of the tavern is lit dimly. Shadows dance along the walls like laughing spirits. Men and women linger in the main room leaning far too close to one another, their forms wreathed in the perpetual smog of too many pipes, and the air smells dank and odorous in a way that makes Detraeus’ fingers shake for reasons he can’t pin down. He tucks them into the sash at his waist and keeps his eyes on the floor. He wonders if the stains there are piss, blood, or worse, but decides not to linger on that thought. When the woman who lead him in takes him to a desk, he slips forty silvers across the counter and tries not to mourn their loss as they’re snatched from beneath his fingertips. For now, it’s worth it for a bed, he tells himself. He’ll earn it back later. He has to. The stairs creak beneath their feet when the woman leads him up, but it’s better than thinking about the various other sounds coming from the surrounding rooms. After briefly considering asking for the quietest room they have, he decides against it. At the price he’s already paying, he doesn’t want them asking for anything more. She opens the door, and he steps in. The room is small, furnished with nothing but an expansive bed that looks grossly out of place in the otherwise bare settings: heavily pillowed with thicker blankets than he’s ever seen and showcased in the center of the room like a prized kill. A single window overlooks the muddy city below, rain tapping against it like the click of small bones pattering to the earth in a heap, and Detraeus can’t help but wonder what he’s paying for. It isn’t until footsteps sound behind him and the door shuts at his back with a click that he becomes truly wary. He rounds on her, eyes narrowed. “What are y—?” Before he can finish his sentence, though, she steps towards him. “Relax, little prince. You look like you’ve had a long day. Shall we get you out of those wet clo—” When she reaches for him, he jerks back, half-slipping in the of rainwater already gathering beneath his sopping clothes and only just catching his balance before falling back into the nearest wall. “Don’t touch me!” She blinks, composure fracturing for a half second in open surprise before she puts her act back on — still confused, but smiling again. “Come now. That’ll make the evening’s events a little difficult, don’t you think? Let me guess…” When she takes a step towards him, Detraeus watches the loose, gossamer shawl slip from her shoulders with the air of eyeing a venomous snake as it uncoils and slithers to the floor at one’s feet. His pulse fills his chest. “Was this a dare?” Detraeus wonders if he should run. Draw a weapon? Demand that she leave again? What does she want, and what is she talking about? Could she be here to rob him? He barely has any coin left to lose. “A bunch of boys, all talking about their exploits, and you’re the only one among your friends who’d never shared a night with a woman, perhaps? Embarrassed, angry…you make a little bet?” Her hand comes to a rest on the wall just beside his head, and Detraeus feels his breath rush from between his lips, all the pieces of his confusion knitting closer and closer to a proper answer. “Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I’ll take good care of you, alright? Now, relax…” When precisely he backed himself up against the wall, Detra isn’t sure, but all his brain registers as she leans in and he has nowhere to back up is: trapped. Panic wells up like a tidal wave. It crashes against the inner walls of his mind, floodwaters bursting against a levee, and Detraeus’ pulse overflows from his chest into his throat. Her breath brushes his lips, hot as Eowyn’s noon, and for the first several seconds after her mouth catches his own, he can’t move. He can’t think; he can’t breathe. Panic is an entity that holds him in iron shackles, and it owns him as absolutely as the men who once called him puppet. “Good boy…” Androynn’s voice coils its way over the back of his ear like boiling molasses. “See?” His fingers are gentle as they trail up Detra’s stomach, but they feel like nails, like claws as they trace over the shape of old bruises and press just hard enough to make sure Detraeus knows all the places and all the reasons he’s been punished before now. “Isn’t it easier when you cooperate the first time?”No. Bile pools in the back of Detraeus’ throat and his palms shake. No. He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and gathering his fury because anger is his beast. The only one that ever truly drives away panic. “ No!” He screams it, shoving at the woman hard enough that in her startled state she stumbles back, nearly crashing into the bed in their cramped quarters, and his dagger is in his hand before he realizes he’s reached for it. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, shaking. “Never touch me. Never touch me!” Her lips open and close several times, eyes wide. Then: “Jerhome! Jerhome!” The outcry is brittle, and seconds later, Detraeus darts aside as the door bangs open, the entire frame filled with the shape of a man that looks half again his height and twice as wide but is probably only a hand and a half taller. Still heavy enough to break every bone in his body by sitting on him. The woman Detraeus just threw off of him jerks her finger, pointing a sharp, painted nail at him. “The boy’s out of his mind. He paid, then screamed when I touched him and drew a knife, just—” She shakes her head sharply, drawing the back of her hand back to her lips. “Get him out of here. I—no. Just get him out of here.” Detraeus feels his heart in his throat, pulsing a wild rhythm as the apparent bodyguard narrows in on him. “She touched me…” It’s a whisper at first, then louder. “She touched me. She touched me! She wouldn’t—” “And what did you expect, boy.” The guard’s voice is gravelly as he stalks in towards Detra, his footsteps heavy enough to make the floorboards shake with his weight. “In a whorehouse…” “A beautiful little monster,” Andorynn says, tracing his fingers along the glowing brands on Detraeus’ shoulder blades that mark him as property, “…and a broken…” Detraeus grits his teeth but doesn’t make a sound when Andorynn’s fingers snake into his hair, gripping the mass of it like a leash and yanking to expose his neck, “…pitiful little whore. Do you know what that word means, Essireth?”Detraeus’ stomach drops, and his grip on his dagger tightens. “Drop the weapon, boy. Or you’ll be in for a world of hurt.” “I means I own you.” Andorynn’s breath burns against his cheek. “You were made for this, and your purpose is to make me happy. Don’t you think that’s a blessing? To have such a simple, positive purpose in life. I take care of you…” Fingers grip Detraeus’ shoulder, and he squeezes his eyes shut, “…and all you have to do is express your gratitude.”When the guard reaches for him, Detraeus lashes out, screaming, “Don’t touch me!” but he’s bashed back against the wall before he can say it again and his world spins. He jerks, yanking against the hold and snarling when his wrist is smashed back to the wall and pinned. But to little effect. His pulse is already a hive of drilling insects inside his skull, his panic eating at the edges of his anger like a corrosive toxin and making his chest feel like its closing in on his lungs. He fights, but he might as well not have. The man is so much larger than him, that putting up a struggle seems only to make it worse, and Detraeus loses track of how many times his body is beaten against the wall. By the time the man drags him out of the room, consciousness is a fleeting thing dancing on the edge of a knife blade. Back, forth. Black, white. Pain is a constant, but at least pain is better than panic, and when his limp body is tossed out into the muddy street, Detraeus’ knees fold after two staggered steps. His stomach lurches, and he falls to all fours, retching in the puddle before him. He flicks his tongue over his throbbing lower lip, grimaces, and spits. Vomit, and blood. Of course there’s blood. There’s always blood. “What do we say when we’re grateful, puppet?”
Detraeus flicks his tongue over his throbbing lip, but he doesn’t dare wince when he finds it wet and metallic in flavor. “Thank you, my lord.”
“That’s right. Clever boy…you learn fast when given the right incentive, don’t you?”Detraeus digs his fingers into the muddy gravel and bites his tongue until the memories vanish. Present. He is in the present, on Soudul, a world away from Seren’s hell. No one can find him here. He has— Weapons. His weapons. Detraeus sways, pushing himself messily up onto his knees and touching his hip where his dagger usually rested, but his fingers touched only an empty sheath. Had the man taken it from him? Had he dropped it? He couldn’t lose it. Not that dagger. It had meaning. It— A boot crunches down into the muck and gravel inches from Detraeus’ fingers, and he jerks his hand up, scrambling backwards. The brothel guard looms over him like death, and Detraeus makes a point not to swallow. Then, he spots the glint of metal in the man’s hand. His dagger. Immediately, he scowls. Despite the lingering nausea in his gut, the stabbing pain in his ribs and the continued throbbing in his bleeding lips, anger wins out just long enough to give him temporary strength again. “That’s mine, you—” The weapon clatters to the ground as the guard lets it drop at Detraeus’ boot. “Get out of here, rat. And don’t come back.” Heat pools in Detraeus’ cheeks. Shame. Disgust. Contempt. A thousand words swirl in his mind — bitter comebacks, explanations, curses, threats — but all of them feel hollow and dangerous. None of them come near his tongue. Instead, he reaches out, snatching up his prized gift and holding it close to his chest momentarily before tucking it into the sheath at his hip. When the guard steps away, not even bothering to make sure Detraeus follows through with the demand that he leave, much of the energy in Detra seeps back out. His limbs are quivering. Whether from cold, fear, or hurt he can’t tell, but his previous exhaustion feels as though it’s multiplied triple fold and for several long seconds all he wants is to curl up then and there. Let the world move him if it pleases. He’s done. But panic is nipping back at the edges of his conscious. The nausea in his gut is roiling, and he can’t stay. He can’t stay. ‘Get up.’Detraeus squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in as the cold rain patters wetly against his skin having long since soaked him through. ‘Get up.’He grits his teeth, bites his lip and tastes the metallic sting of blood on his tongue. ‘Get. Up.’ Detraeus pushes himself up, staggers, and then stands. One step back. Two. He touches the dagger at his hip, then his quiver, arrows, and bow. His coin is gone, but he can earn or steal that back later. In the meantime, once satisfied that all his material possessions are in order, he turns, and starts back down the village street. First a walk, then a jog, and finally a run. The pace hurts, but he pays it no mind, his entire focus dedicated to getting out. His boots make the puddles dance, scattering in every direction, and he darts between carts and passerby with the dexterity of an alley rat with only one destination in mind. Word Count: 2,082
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Posted: Sat Mar 08, 2014 3:37 am
Blood in the Rain
Pt. III Detraeus runs until he’s out of the village, until it’s far behind him, and further still, until there’s nothing but trees, swamp, and a looming canopy overhead so thick he can no longer spy the face of the moon. When he stumbles, boots sinking into the ankle-deep shallows at the edge of a river, he stops. There, as his lungs greedily drag the chilled night air in to fill them, he sinks to his knees, shivering, and splashes his already rain-wet face. It starts light, but grows rougher — gentle washing to rubbing, to scrubbing. He wets part of his cloak in the river and then scrubs hard at his lips with it, where the woman kissed him, and then his hands, where she touched him, and his neck, where her fingers brushed. Eventually, after setting his bow and quiver aside with some reluctance, Detraeus wades out deeper into the water. Ignoring the rising chill seeping through him, he washes thoroughly, scraping and rubbing over every inch of himself he can reach — once, twice, three times, four — until he loses count. He feels filthy and he can’t get the grit off. There are hands on him. Finger marks smeared all over his skin no matter how much he cleans. His teeth are chattering, his dark skin notably more pallor with cold, when he first feels something distinctly more alive than the current slither past his ankle. Detraeus freezes. Jerked out of his hyper-focus on cleaning and abruptly as alert as his exhausted and trauma-addled mind can manage, he stumbles backwards, trips over a slippery stone beneath the water, dunking himself, and then scrambles back further, shuddering. His gaze darts around, trying to make out what touched him, but the water is dark and muddled with silt, near impossible to see through. Then, something glints. Scales? Just another wet rock? A reflection of the waning moon? Pushing himself up onto his feet and doing his best to ignore the chilled quiver to his limbs, Detraeus takes several slower steps backwards until he’s safely on the bank again, and reaches for his weapon. Strapping his quiver to his hip, he draws an arrow, aimed at the water, and waits. His pulse beats in his throat. Even his breath feels cold against his lips on its way out. The serpent strikes at him before Detraeus completely registers that it has so much as broken the surface of the river. His first shot veers off far from his target, but mostly thanks to his staggered retreat. His second shot hits, and by the time it hisses again, his dagger is in his hand. It snaps its fangs, but fortunately snags on nothing but boot leather, and he jabs down. Gouging the back of its head in the first blow, he twists his blade, stabs again, then slits its head off in the next several goes. He swallows and grimaces as he wipes his blade. A shake of his boot dislodges the head, and a kick sends it spinning bloodily into the river as he takes a step away from the still-twitching, oozing body. When he stoops, however, propping his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut to give them just a moment’s rest, a string of rustling in the nearby foliage roots him in place. Again, his breathing slows. Not now. Why now? Why now?Detraeus exhales, and jerks to a stand, drawing his bow. “You want to die?” he snaps, shouting at shadows. “You want to die? Come die.” The serpents come at him in droves. Enough that he assumes he must have disturbed some variety of nearby nest, because how else would there be so many? He doesn’t recognize their species type, but from the long fangs to glinting, striped bodies, he stays well away from their bite, automatically assuming them to be venomous. He sinks multiple arrows into the first three as soon as they break the tree line, managing to down them before they reach him. The fourth and fifth draw in close enough that he has to bat their snapping jaws off with the butt of his bow before gutting them with his dagger. The sixth shreds a slit in his trouser leg, teeth nicking into his thigh, and Detraeus winces, teeth gritting as he stumbles. When he slits beneath its jaw, warm blood spews out, spattering his skin wetly and joining the other smears. The nick in his thigh stings, burning enough to make him wonder if some of the creature’s venom managed to get to him. Then, the seventh sinks its fangs deep into the back of his calf. Detraeus cries out, jerks, and then sinks, toppling to his knees and then lashing back at his attacker. His world spins as he fights, and in seconds, every movement feels more surreal. He jabs at the creature and blinks, watching his dagger grow and contort. Blinking, he shakes his head and stabs again, and again, splitting a gaping black chasm into the beast’s body. His dagger is a sword by the time he finishes. A writhing, thorned sword, and he collapses back against the earth, shuddering and squinting up at the sky as it whirlpools. Undulating, bulbous clouds that twist into grotesque faces and then melt away again, screaming. He squeezes his eyes shut, anything to block it out, and then something moves to the side of him. Another serpent? Jerking himself around, he tries to push up, but the ground ripples, soft, and sponge-like; unstable enough for him to lose his balance again immediately. He feels for his weapon instead. When his fingers close around what he assumes is the hilt of his dagger — sword, thorn vine — he rolls onto one side, and forces himself up, balancing on his knees as best he can despite the rippling earth. It’s another serpent, but nothing like the others. As he watches, it grows before his eyes, doubling and then tripling in size, fangs the size of his torso, body the size of a small ship. It opens its mouth, jaw large enough to swallow him whole, and Detraeus drops his sword — it’s fighting his grip anyway, hissing when he tries to swing it — and reaches for an arrow instead. The tip glows, shimmering as though laced with dark magic as he notches it into the string of his laughing bow. “Give me a name, Detraeus,” his bow says, and Detraeus frowns as he aims. “Now’s not a good time…” His arrow swishes through the belly of the beast like a pebble cutting through fog. Nothing. Not a scratch. “But I deserve a name,” his bow insists. She sounds almost as though she’s pouting. “I’m loyal to you, aren’t I? Faithful, even when your other weapons desert you?” “Your arrows aren’t working.” Detraeus’ his tongue feels thick and strange in his mouth. Not made for talking. He narrows his eyes at the beast, shuts his lids completely, and then opens them again. “But help me kill this, and I will give you a name.” “Swear to your goddess.” “I swear to Soudana.” He sinks one arrow, and a second, and a third into the black mass that was the snake beast. It snarls, twisting and splitting into multiple beasts, too many to count. He fires more, and, after what feels like an eternity, it shrinks back down, the multiples folding in on themselves again and again until there’s nothing but a handful of bubbling puddles several paces from his knees. Detraeus crawls back to the riverside. Eyeing the roiling current, he sinks, succumbing to his dizziness, and eventually collapses completely, half in and half out, feeling the liquid seep into and soak his side. As he trails the tips of his fingers along its surface, observing the gentle tug of the current, he wonders when the entire stream became blood. Had it always been blood…? The dragon’s roar is distant — or perhaps very close — but Detraeus pays it no mind. It probably doesn’t exist. His eyelids sink heavily against his cheeks, and he watches the sky spin: pivoting on its axis, fading into and out of existence with each blink. It’s possible he loses consciousness. The next thing he feels is two fingers on his neck. Word Count: 1,394
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Posted: Sun Mar 09, 2014 5:26 am
The Woman Made of Stars “Still breathing, are you?” It’s a woman’s voice. Gravelly, but warm. When she touches his cheek, her fingers are heat, and Detraeus’ lashes flit — wanting to rise — but something is holding them down, making them impossible to keep open. He turns his head to press into the touch instead. Everything about him is so cold, but this — this is what it feels like to melt. He wonders if he’s dying. “Alekus, he’s alive.” “For much longer?” “He’s been bit, I’m near certain, but I think if we…” Her voice fades out as Detraeus turns his concentration to opening his eyelids. It’s never been this difficult before, as far as he can remember. At least the hand hasn’t left his cheek. Some distant part of him wonders if it’s odd that he doesn’t mind the touch — welcomes it, even — doesn’t he usually not? But the thought is gone again almost before it came. When he manages to crack his eyes open, the woman is shimmering. A body built up of a thousand stars — no: galaxies — and her hair swims in the breeze, aloft. As her attention swings to focus on him, Detraeus tilts his head. He hears himself speak. “Are you a goddess…?” The words feel distant, and it’s strange to think they came from him. “There are stars in your hair…” “He’s definitely been bit,” the woman says. “Still hallucinating, from the sound of things. We need to get him inside. Now.” “I can carry him.” Detraeus frowns, turning his head to squint at the source of the masculine voice. In a moment, his temporary calm shatters: wings and light. A smile that forgives you for all the sins you never knew you committed, a smooth, tapered face, and long, pale, pale hair that strangles him in his nightmares. The edges of Detraeus’ vision darken in on him, his throat constricts, and his chest squeezes down around his lungs. Andorynn reaches for him. “No!” Detraeus thrashes backwards, but it nearly sends him toppling into the river full on, and only the woman’s grip on him yanks him to stability again. He trembles, lashing his head back and forth as his words tumble into a repeating string of half nonsense wound around desperate pleas: “No, no, no, don’t—please, don’t…don’t…I don’t—I can’t— please…” “Back up Alekus.” “What in the name of—?” “You’re scaring him.” “I haven’t touched him—” “Yes, well, he’s probably not seeing you to begin with. Back out of his line of sight before he chokes on his own tongue.” When Andorynn steps back and away, Detraeus shuts his eyes, shuddering, and grits his teeth, continuing to shake his head. “Don’t let him,” he blurts. “Don’t. Please. Don’t—” “No one is here to hurt you.” Fingers touch Detraeus’ cheek again, and when he opens his eyes, the body of stars is a loose galaxy above him. “I can’t move…” “Your body is going into shock. You’ve been poisoned, and I need to take you somewhere safe to treat you. I’m going to lift you up, is that alright?” Detraeus watches the way the pinpoints of light rotate gradually throughout her body with absorbed fascination. Some part of him, buried deep under the poison-addled fog in his mind, is screaming an objection, but its voice is distant and muted, and Detraeus nods, watching the stars bend to lift him. “Some days you can barely walk, Martra, and now you’re carrying the kid? What am I even here for?” “He’s thirteen summers at most, Alekus, and not well fed at that. If I can still take down a diabi, I think I can handle this.” Distantly, Detraeus is aware of the man and the woman arguing, but his grip on reality — already shaky at best — is slipping fast along with his consciousness. Instead of their voices, he loses himself in the warm beat, beat, beat of the galaxy’s pulse against his ear when she rises with him in her arms. “Am I going to die…?” he asks. “Not if I can help it.” “My bow…” “Your weapons are coming with you, don’t worry.” “Don’t leave…” “I’m not going anywhere.” That final statement wraps itself around Detraeus like a cocoon, and in the surreal, enveloping heat of its embrace, Detraeus loses consciousness. Word Count: 731
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Posted: Wed Mar 19, 2014 9:04 am
Eight Days Later Clink, clink — CLANG…
Clink, clink — CLANG…Detraeus stirs. The muted, distant sounds of metal on metal slip into and out of his range of awareness as he edges towards consciousness. He’s nowhere familiar. The bedding beneath him smells of smoke, strong soaps, and cammaline root. The mattress — while not ‘thick’ by most standards — is fuller than those he’s accustomed to sleeping on. There’s even a cluster of sheets, tangled between his legs. How long had he been asleep? As the fog clears more fully, Detraeus sets himself to the task of taking both a mental inventory of himself and his surroundings, familiarizing himself with what he has to work with. His ‘bed’ is propped up a good three to four feet off the ground with a stone base, and is located against the far wall opposite the door in a small, dimly lit room. A single lantern burns on a sturdily-built wooden table some three paces from him, and a tall bookshelf, adorned with more tomes, scrolls, and other paraphanalia than he cares to count waits on the wall opposite that. Other than that, however, the room is empty, and quiet but for the perpetual distant clanging. Detraeus wiggles his fingers, then grips them into fists; sluggish, perhaps, but workable. At least he’s alone. When he twists, he doesn’t feel any jolts of pain, spasms, or numbness suggesting that he’s uninjured. Stiff, yes, but incapacitated, no. So why can’t he remember how he got here, or even figure out where ‘here’ is? Detraeus pushes upwards onto his elbows and then palms, frowning at how much effort the movement takes but dismissing the concern quickly. He’s tired, that’s all, and while he may not know where ‘here’ is, wherever it is he knows he needs to find his weapons and get out. If he can’t so much as remember how he happened to arrive at the place, it’s likely not a wise place to linger for long. Thus, untangling his legs from the sheets, he swings his feet over the lip of the cot, lets them dangle for a moment, and pushes off to stand. The floor is stone, cold, and hard when he collapses against it, legs folding like wet parchment beneath him. When he’s over his initial shock — unused to his body completely ignoring his commands — Detraeus grimaces and grunts as he pushes up off the stone, nursing a bruised lip with the back of his hand. What is wrong with him? Who’d done this to him? How can he expect to escape if he can’t walk? In his momentary upswing of panic, Detraeus misses the fact that the distant clanking of metal has stopped, and he hears the sound of padded footsteps only when they’re accompanied by the creak of door in front of him. Head jerking up and fingers bunching against the stone floor, his eyes narrow at the intruder: an aging woman, perhaps through fifty summers already, with dark, tightly braided hair that hangs long past her shoulders, nearly to her waist, and a bowl in one hand, a walking stick in the other. When her attention settles on him, she tilts her head. “Ah, you’re up, I see. Well...figuratively. Are you thirsty?” Detraeus grits his teeth. “You drugged me—” “Healed you, actually. Though since you haven’t walked on those legs for eight days, I’d imagine they’re a bit unused to the sudden strain.” “Eight…?” Detraeus’ head spins as he tries to remember what he was doing leading up to his arrival here. Something. Anything. But his mind continues to draw up a foggy blank. He covers the rising beat, beat, beat of his pulse with a scowl. “Who are you and what do you want with me? Let me out of here! Where am I? And how did you get me here?” The woman pauses, eyebrows arching as she sets the bowl on the small table beside the bed. “My name is Martrae’a Khelvun. What I ‘want’ with you is to keep you alive until you’re healthy enough to do well on your own again, but by all means, if you wish to leave…” She gestures towards the door. “My doors are unlocked. I can even give you a map to the city, if you wish.” Detraeus frowns. After a moment spent struggling to resituate himself and only making it up to a half sit, he grits his teeth. “You mock me.” Crouching at his side, she offers a hand up. “ Don’t touch me,” Detraeus snaps before her fingers come within arm’s length of him and she pauses immediately. After a long moment, she shrugs and stands again with what appears to be some effort — heavily reliant on her cane — and it’s only then that Detraeus notes that one of her legs is not a leg, but a prosthetic. How she gets around as well as she appears to is suddenly a matter of curiosity and Detraeus frowns again as she moves towards the door. “I’ll be around again later,” she says. “If you’ve decided you’re ready by then, I’ll be happy to help you up. I’ll bring by some water for you, shall I? There’s soup in the bowl, but for that you’ll likely need to be up first.” Then, without giving him a chance to respond, she leaves, and Detraeus listens to the click, clack, click of her retreating walking stick with bitter frustration. The soup’s smell has wound its way through the air to him now, and his stomach makes it very clear that it would love to eat, and is rather upset with Detraeus for his stubbornness. Detraeus shuts his eyes, and lets out a long breath. By the time Martrae’a returns, she finds him next to the cot, half-standing, legs wobbling, struggling to drag himself up onto it with just his arms and having embarrassingly little success. He falls as she enters, swearing and hissing as he bangs his joints against stone. “Tch…language, child.” “Go piss yourself,” Detraeus snaps, face scrunched in a wince as he nurses a bruised knee. Martrae’a hums in response and approaches, setting a full glass — presumably of water — onto the table beside the soup along with half a roll of bread. When she turns her attention back to him and steps up beside him, he glowers up at her. “What?” She holds out a hand. Detraeus purses his lips. “Won’t you fall over, trying to lift me?” “I think I have the upper hand on keeping myself upright at the moment, don’t you think?” After a snort and an extended period of eyeing the offer warily, Detraeus begrudgingly reaches up and accepts the help. Between the two of them, they manage to get him onto the bunk again, and Detraeus curls his toes, frowning at his legs. “Eight days…?” “You were bitten by an arvathi — at least one, perhaps more — and poisoned fairly heavily, so it’s more than just lack of use that’s leaving you feel weak. The venom is primarily a hallucinogenic, but it can affect your nerves and as a result, motor functions. Like your legs. They will heal, however, at least with the proper treatment and gradual exercise. Frankly, I was a bit surprised you survived those first couple of nights, but now that you’ve made it this far, there’s little left to fear. Just a slow wait for your body to repair itself and clear out the last of the toxins.” “You’re not a healer,” Detraeus says, frowning. “No, I’m a weaponsmith. But my mother was a healer, may her memory live on, and I learned some from her despite my best efforts at the time not to. That, and having six sons will teach a parent a thing or two about tending to the scrapes, bruises and bites that inevitably result from stupid behavior.” Detraeus huffs. “Why.” “Why what?” “Take me in,” Detraeus grits out. “I have nothing to pay you with. No one will compensate you.” Martrae’a tilts her head, eyeing him. “Peace of mind, I think. I’m very selfish, you see, and I couldn’t stand the thought of making myself suffer through months of nightmares about leaving the body of a boy in a bog to die in his own s**t.” Grimacing, Detraeus looks away. “Of course, the nightmares almost surely would have replaced your face with that of one of my own sons to make the guilt worse. Imagining how I’d feel if someone turned down the chance to spare one of my children…” “Rest easy, then. I have no mother to weep for me. And I am not your son.” Martrae’a — to Detraeus’ great surprise — laughs aloud at that. “Trust me, child, I’m well aware of that. My sons were taught manners.” Before Detraeus can formulate an apt response, she leans her weight back up off of the cot’s edge, grips her cane and motions towards the soup bowl. “Eat. You’ll be wanting the energy. Oh, and, before it slips my mind…a name? I assume you have one.” Detraeus eyes her in silence. “That is, if you’d rather I call you anything other than ‘child’ or ‘boy’.” More silence. “Or, I suppose, I could name you myself. Let me think…Bortrum — Ittrevan — Othessia—” “ Detraeus.” She considers him for a long moment, and then adjusts the shawl about her shoulders. “Very well, Detraeus. Eat for your strength. You have a lifetime ahead of you. Wouldn’t want to waste it, mm?” And with that, she’s gone again, leaving Detraeus alone with rapidly cooling meat and vegetable soup and a world of personal questions to grapple with. Most immediately: where does he go from here? Perhaps, though, as little as he’d like to admit it, the old woman is right for the moment. For now, the best he can do for himself is to earn his strength back, and thus, with that in mind, he gets to work shoveling down the stew. Word Count: 1,688
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Posted: Thu Mar 27, 2014 9:07 am
Ego and Avarice
Pt. I “How old are you?” Three days have passed since Detraeus initially remembers waking up in Martrae’a Khelvun’s care, and he has been working up his strength slowly, but steadily. To cure the otherwise gnawing boredom of spending most of his time laying in a cot in a dimly lit room, Martrae’a had suggested he come out to her workshop — a largely open-air addition to the far side of her house with a protective roof and built-in furnace and bellows — to watch her craft. With little else to do, Detraeus had gladly agreed. Now, he eyes her as she works, taking in everything he can and speaking up only when she asks him direct questions. He prefers it when she doesn’t, of course, but she’s doing more for him than he can ever hope to pay back, and he figures it is his obligation to entertain the older woman’s occasional desire for conversation to at least some minimalistic degree. “Fourteen cycles,” he says. “Or almost so.” “You look barely thirteen,” Martra comments. Since Detraeus doesn’t know whether to take that as an insult, a compliment, or otherwise, he keeps his mouth shut, and watches instead as she moves over to fetch a pair of tongs and begins manipulating the hot metal under her care. She moves with remarkable sprightliness for a woman of her age and disability, as though everything about the way she carries herself has adapted slightly to the loss of leg and compensates smoothly. Privately, he wonders how long ago she lost it. “I remember you said you had no mother to speak of…” Martrae’a moves her hand over the glowing heat of the impressionable new blade-to-be, testing the heat and — from the looks of things — applying a sliver of magic to the process as she tests it before cooling it a fraction and going back to melding its shape. “Do you have anyone else that might be looking for you?” Detraeus shakes his head. “No father? Brothers, sisters, cousins?” “No.” “Friends?” Detraeus purses his lips. “A family name?” “My mother is my goddess. Detraeus is my name. I have nothing else.” “Mm.” Martra nods her head towards the far wall. “Fetch me that bucket, and if you think you can make the walk, fill it with a spit of water from the outside well for me. Three fingers high or so.” Detraeus blinks, glances to to said bucket, and after a moment, slides down off of his perch. Standing is still tiring, and walking more so, but his body is recovering quickly overall, and he completes the task out of breath, but successful. Days turn into weeks. He works on his strength, and as he begins to draw back closer to ‘normal’ Detraeus starts to debate on when he ought to leave. While he stays, though, Martrae’a’s lessons in weaponsmithing give him something to keep his mind active, something to devote his focus to and — to some extent — pour himself into. It’s fascinating, in a way few things, if any, have ever been before, and he likes it. He enjoys learning. Enjoys testing his mind and his memory and trying to retain as much of her instruction as he can in the short period he has available. When he realizes that he’s loathe to leave it, that more than anything spurns him to gather his things. Sitting on the edge of the bunk which he’d originally woken in with his few belongings gathered around him, Detraeus strings up his boots, and then reaches for his bow. At his request, Martrae’a brought his weapons — all his belongings, for that matter — into the room for him after that first day. Since the incident, however, he has yet to go properly hunting again, and he thumbs his finger over the weapon bound to him, a flicker of a memory itching at the back of his mind. “Avarice,” he says at length. “I name you Avarice, for to you blood is gold, and the greed with which you seek it out is insatiable. Thank you for upholding your bargain. You’ve saved my life more times than I have a mind to count.” With that, Detraeus holsters his bow, stands, and fixes the rest of his things to his person. He straightens the sheets on the cot, smooths over the pillow, and then leaves the room. Martrae’a’s voice catches him as he steps out the final door, into the midmorning sun. “You still owe me, Detraeus.” Detra frowns, and turns, a knot of dread — betrayal, even — building in his gut as he faces her. “I told you I have no coin to pay you.” “I’m not asking for your money.” Brow furrowing further, he shakes his head. “I don’t understand…?” “I don’t let just anyone watch me work, you know.” Martrae’a adjusts her weight on her cane and squints at him. “I’ve been meaning to take on someone help me around my work area. My last apprentice grew out of it, started up her own place, but I’ve been putting off taking on anyone else despite my sons’ insistence that I need the extra set of hands. I need someone quick on their feet, intelligent, observant…someone who knows how to spend their time listening and not talking.” Detraeus eyes her, posture still wary. “You can pay me back in labor. Just the things you’ve been doing — fetching things, keeping the bellows stoked, perhaps running a quick errand or two — and you’ll be learning a valuable trade skill in the process. You can continue to bed in the room you’ve been using. I’ve too much spare room in this old house, anyway, and I’ll see that you’re fed—” “I can feed myself.” “Very well, then you can hunt for the both of us,” Martrae’a amends, and at his frown, she adds: “I’ll take notches off your debt for it.” Detraeus folds his arms, shifting his weight. “I could leave. Right now. You can’t stop me.” “You’re right. I’m sure you’re a much faster runner than I,” Martrae’a says. “Not to mention that I wouldn’t bother to try to in the first place. You’re free to leave if you wish.” “Then why tell me I owe you?” Detraeus snaps. “Why bother mentioning it if you’re not going to make me pay?” Martrae’a’s eyebrows rise. “Some choose to repay kindnesses even when they are not obligated to, you do realize this? They recognize opportunities and help others without having their hands tied behind their backs…” Detraeus grimaces and looks away. “I’m not intelligent. I’m not helpful, and I’m not kind. You wasted your time on me.” With that, he turns, stepping towards the door. “Detraeus.” Looking back on the moment, he still isn’t sure why he paused, but he does. When he looks, Martrae’a tosses a scroll towards him, and he frowns as he catches it. “A map,” she explains. “My home is on the outskirts, as you’ll see, but that should get you anywhere you need from here to the capital.” Detraeus eyes the parchment, a stinging heat in his cheeks joining his scowl because he knows, even if he opened it, all the ‘words’ every line would swirl into the next meaninglessly. He’d take it, likely, if he knew the first thing about attempting to read it, but he knows better, and so instead, he sets her ‘gift’ aside on the nearest shelf and walks out without waiting for a response. Word Count: 1,252
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 5:19 pm
Ego and Avarice
Pt. II Eleven days after leaving Martrae'a, Detraeus is crouched in the mud. The ethereal, murky swamp lights of the surrounding foliage cast a dim glow over the folds of his cloak as he keeps his body as still as he can manage, crouched at the trunk of a fungal tree and tense. Attention pinned to the nearby lake — Koralifel, dark and rippling with unspoken power — he lifts a single arrow from the quiver strapped to his waist and nocks it, drawing it back with a held breath. Four peisio dragons wait near the water’s edge. Two drinking, and two others circling out over the lake, the low beat of their wings making rippled indents over the surface from the pulse of air beneath each sweep. Ysalis were the easiest to hunt for quick orbs, of course, but peisio orbs drew a greater profit and, as far as Detreaus is concerned, they hone his skills better as well, something more important than profit so long as he can afford to feed himself. Which he can. For once in his life, Detraeus feels — not comfortable, granted, and perhaps not even secure, but no longer desperate. No longer helpless. With a minor c**k of his head, he lets the first arrow fly. Immediately after, he draws a second, not so much as waiting to see if the first lands — though it does — and by the time he has the second one in the air, the full attention of the first two dragons are on him. A third arrow burying itself in the eye of the first dragon takes the creature out, leaving nothing but a shrill screech in the air and a pile of dust in its wake, and Detraeus darts behind the bulk of the tree as the second comes sweeping in. A tunnel of water crashes against the bark, rushing over the knotted, root infested earth of the swamp at his feet seconds after he moves out of his way, and then he’s out again. Pulse fast in his chest, he nocks his bow, and when he releases, Avarice sends two arrows whipping through the air like sharpened birds of cut stone, destined only for one purpose. They bury themselves in the chest of the second beast, and only just in time, since the echo of another roar is fast on the tail of his second victory. The third dragon makes it close, talons catching at the lip of his cloak and yanking back, water magic swirling icy, cold, and constricting around his ankles and up his legs. Detraeus draws a full breath, quick in case the water makes it towards his mouth, and lashes out with his dagger. He needs to work on his close range — a fact he becomes more potently aware of every time he has to fight something at his chest instead of fifty paces off — but thankfully even his small blade strikes true: two slashes at the beast’s feet dislodging its grip and then another twisting into the dragon’s belly and finally slashing at its neck. By the time he’s loose of it, there are three more that have joined in from the lake and surrounding area, but fortunately he has the time to see to those with his bow, and three hours later, he’s nursing little worse than a bruised shoulder and mangled cloak as he barters off his earnings in the village market. This cycle repeats itself — exhausting, but acceptable — for several weeks, Detraeus earning his keep from hunt to hunt, feeding himself with the meat he kills and trading for coins to fill in the rest of his necessities. The process is still rough, however, and even as he settles into a routine, his mind continues to drift back towards Martrae’a. Not the woman specifically, but the process of observing her — what it felt like to watch and learn and absorb with someone who, mistakenly or not, somehow considered him a ‘worthy’ pupil in at least some regards. He misses it more than he cares to admit. Over a month after leaving her and carving out his own process for taking care of himself, Detraeus finds himself taking pit stops on his way back into Wraethel to watch her house. When she is actively at work, he lingers longer, and over time, moves in closer, always attentive to see if she has, in fact, taken up a ‘replacement’ apprentice. She never does. Two months after leaving, Detraeus lingers under the overhang of her workshed, shoulder propped against the wooden frame as he waits for her to come out, the rain splattering wetly just outside and splotching muddy specks up his already filthy boots. He needs new ones, but at least these haven’t fallen off of him yet. “It’s poor manners to spy on woman, you know.” Detraeus’ head jerked up, shoulders stiffening and fingers darting to the hilt of his dagger, but they stay there, relaxing as his expression falls into a relaxed frown. He rolls his shoulders back, lips pursing. “Even an old one,” Martrae’a adds. “You could have knocked on my door.” “How much to replace arrowheads?” Detraeus asks, ignoring her commentary and thumbing over the chipped tip of one of the arrows in question. “I need—” “You need, you need, you need…” Matra tisks, and her walking stick clacks on the stoned ground of her workshed. “Did it ever occur to you to think what I might need?” He narrows his eyes. “I have coin.” “Yes, but you still owe me, don’t you? Or did you think I’d forgotten?” Gritting his teeth, Detraeus scowls and turns towards the rain. “Fine. I’ll leave—” “Detraeus.” The tips of Detraeus’ fingers itch. He wants to clench them, or to kick something, or to simply keep walking, but instead, his legs ignore him, holding still just before the threshold into the storm. “If you wanted arrowheads, you and I both know there are places in town where you can get them. You’ve been lingering out in the woods for four weeks on and off again. Did you wait that long just to give up after a handful of sentences and one p***k to your pride? Come.” She nods her head towards her work table. “It’s wet and miserable as a drowning bird out there. Help me get a fire going, and stick put until the storm lets up. I’ll give you ten coppers off your next ‘purchase’ of arrowheads.” Detraeus eyes her, pride and indecision warring with pent up curiosity and an itch to scratch away at his boredom. A quarter hour later, he’s sitting propped up on an unused stone mold, attention fixed on Martrae’a as she bends, shapes, and works the hot metal at her disposal. She talks to him as she does, explaining each step and their importance, how she regulates the heat and pliability: too strong, and the weapon becomes brittle and fractures, too forgiving, and it won’t hold its shape in battle. She talks as though he never walked out, and while it confuses him, he isn’t about to complain. When the rain lets up, Detraeus pretends not to notice, and Martra doesn’t comment, casually continuing to give him the occasional instruction: “Bring that larger striker — no, the one to the left, next to the prongs. There you are…” or, “Douse the fires a bit — just a splash of water, they’re getting too rambunctious.” When the sun begins to sink, the shadows of night stretching ever longer across the soot stained floor, Martrae’a begins to put up her things. She lets the fire in the bellows die out, cools and sets aside her project for the day and works off her thick gloves. Detraeus moves back, abruptly uncertain of his welcome there as though he’s being jerked from a dreamstate back into reality, but she tisks at him. “You’re welcome to dinner, if you like.” He frowns. “And if not, I hope to see you earlier tomorrow. Work begins close to dawn, you know. Not half into the evening. You’ll be much more productive that way. If you come early enough, perhaps I can even begin classing you on how to make your own arrowheads.” Detraeus holds onto his silence for an exaggerated pause before finally, he asks, “Why?” Martrae’a arches her eyebrows. “I told you once. You’re intelligent, quiet, and you pay attention. It makes my job easier to have an extra set of hands, not to mention a full pair of legs, back, and shoulders more equipped to carting about a few things my body isn’t so pleased to deal with anymore.” “I’m not intelligent.” “When I first came into the room with you after you became properly conscious again and rational, we talked. One of the first things you said to me was that I wasn’t a healer. You didn’t state it as a question, and I’d given you no reason to say that. You had no way of knowing since we’d known each other so briefly. So why?” Detraeus folds his arms, frowning. Was she stalling for time? And if so, why? Eventually, however, when she doesn’t let the question go, he huffs. “I heard metalworking, before you came into the room. It went on for some time, but stopped before you arrived. Your clothes smelled of soot and iron, not herbs, and had burn marks on them. And you’re too strong. Your arms are thick, and your shoulders bulky. Besides…” He rolls his own shoulders, frowning. “You lost a leg. You must have been a warrior once, to have participated in battle…not someone content to sit behind the sidelines and listen to the weak while they cough and whimper.” Martrae’a eyes him for a long period, and looks for some time as though she is sorely tempted to comment, but eventually, she lets the commentary slide, saying only, “Close observation and intuition are both markers of intelligence.” “I can’t read,” Detraeus snaps, frustrated, though his cheeks heat immediately after, regretting the admittance. Martrae’a, however, brushes it off. “You could, I’m sure. If you wanted to lear—” “I don’t.” “And that,” she responds, “would be precisely why you can’t. I will see you tomorrow, Detraeus.” Detra blinks, flustered, and frowning, mouth half open with an unspoken rebuttal, but she steps through her door and shuts it on him before he can come up with anything. He eyes the doorknob, brow pinched and chest tight with frustration, but no matter how he tries to shove her words away as he stalks off into the growing dark, they refuse to leave him. The next morning, he returns before the sun is yet fully in the sky, and Martrae’a greets him without a single comment about the evening prior. For the following three cycles of the moon, Detraeus comes and goes as he pleases, arriving most mornings on time but occasionally — randomly — never showing at all as though to test whether she comments on it. But she never does, and eventually, he concedes to settling, mostly, to her schedule. He still hunts when he wishes, keeping his bow arm strong and his aim on point, but he studies, too, and the longer he spends with her, the more Martrae’a shows him of her craft. By the time he reaches his sixteenth year, Detraeus no longer bothers to pretend he is not living with her, and she has begun working him through the process of creating multiple simpler items himself. He’s far from an expert, but the craft gives him a sense of satisfaction that, before then, he never felt with anything except his bow. It is when he is nearing his seventeenth year, after close to three full cycles of the seasons with Martrae’a, that a familiar restlessness begins to stir within him, and he knows it will not satisfy him to stay much longer. He made a promise to his goddess, and as stable as he feels in Martrae’a’s company, he is too stationery. Too dependent, and too inactive. He has a blood count to attend to, and he’s making no progress at Martrae’a’s anvil. Word Count: 2,032
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 5:26 pm
A Snake in the Mists Word Count: 3,215
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 5:27 pm
A Snake in the Mists
[Transcribed are Detraeus' thoughts. He cannot read or write at this age.]
A dovaa girl interrupted my hunt today. Loud, irritating thing. She knew nothing of stealth. Then she got herself attacked by arvathi. I should have let her die.
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 5:28 pm
In the Dark of the Night Word Count: 2,291
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 5:29 pm
In the Dark of the Night
[Transcribed are Detraeus' thoughts. He cannot read or write at this age.]
I encountered one of Seren's monsters on Soudul. Soudul, near Martrae'a's land, on top of that. To my shame, she crushed me, but let me live. I don't understand. I've become too weak. An embarrassment to Soudana. I need to leave this land soon. There is no excuse.
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 6:06 pm
Grappling With Street Rats Word Count: 1,822
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Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2014 6:07 pm
Grappling With Street Rats
[Transcribed are Detraeus' thoughts. He cannot read or write at this age.]
I got into a fight on my way off of Soudul. Some stupid boys who ganged up on me. I suppose I hit first, but they deserved it, and then some archer who liked to talk a lot tried to get me to a healer. Like I haven't had worse than this, or that I'm trusting any random potion mixer to touch me. I have places to be.
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