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    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

    Join Date
    Jul 2009
    Gender
    Female

    Default Storytime aka is this any good?

    I write for fun. I have read my stories to my kiddos and they seemed to like them. Now that they are older, they are encouraging me to try to find a wider audience (potentially a publishing one) but I'm not sure they are any good.

    So.... I decided to post from the first story in the series and see if anyone else enjoys it. It's a fantasy tale. All rights reserved. In other words, enjoy it, don’t copy it.

    A Brother's Tale

    Spoiler: Chapter 1
    Show

    Chapter 1: Lost in the Night

    Jerem was creeping through a cemetery, trying not to think too much about it. He’d had enough of cemeteries. Cold useless places. Places where worlds ended. The half-elven boy sniffled in the dark, thoughts of his mother’s funeral flitting through his mind, but he kept moving despite his grief. Away. He was going away, though he still didn’t know exactly where. Jerem sniffled again.

    Gotta be better than here.

    Jerem wove his way through the forest of graying white stones and cracked wooden markers slowly, making steady progress even without a torch or lantern on this cold moonless night. Jerem hadn’t really considered the how much a gift seeing in the dark could be until he’d really needed it, nor how much he would come to depend on it to help avoid pursuit.

    Pursuit, for the moment, seemed to be far away, though he kept looking back every few minutes as if the expected men might suddenly appear in the darkness. Jerem was making one such check when he tripped over a gravestone and fell to the dirt, landing in a pile of freshly turned earth that splattered his face and short blond hair. He lay there for a while, not really hurt by the fall, but worn down to a level of pure emotional exhaustion that made movement impossible.

    Damn it!

    His mother would have been shocked he even knew such words, though his brothers and father knew more. It didn’t matter; Jerem couldn’t find any words that would work. Not now. No words, no explanation, no why.

    Why did it have to be mom?


    With a touch of bitterness, Jerem thought of his life over the last few months, a life that had flipped upside down and inside out in the most painful of ways. Like when Master Fochart’s wagon had collided with that crowd of revelers last All Soul’s Day. They hadn’t let him into Clearwater to see, but for weeks afterward everyone in the town looked so… dead… as they went about their business they might well have had their souls sucked out by some creature in a mad bard’s tale.

    Jerem hadn’t understood, then. He understood now. Oh, how he understood now. In some ways, the bitterness of his thoughts was welcome, knifing through the deadness into some genuine feeling, even if it was anger. It had been barely a month since his mother died and the crying had stopped, yet this deadness remained. No great joy, no great sadness, just…dead. It felt like someone had torn his heart out and forgot to replace it with anything at all. Jerem feared this too, would pass like the sobbing to be replaced by the Gods alone knew what, but…
    Jerem was suddenly aware he was lying in the dirt of someone’s grave and scrambled to his feet in fear. He frantically brushed the dirt from his hair and clothes, as if it were something worse than just dirt. There was a rustle in the brush.

    What was that?


    Jerem stopped still, listening, but heard nothing, not even an owl.

    Got to keep moving. Got to. Not gonna catch me.


    Jerem brushed some more of the dirt out of his hair, which made his arms ache. It made everything ache. He tried to think of something other than the hurt: that it was cold, the white of the snow, the graves. Somehow thinking of the graves just made it worse. Nothing left. Nothing. He wanted mom back, damn it! He cursed again, a soft elven mutter of words that would have surprised anyone, not just his mother this time, sniffling. He just wanted her back. Oh, why couldn’t he have her back…

    Jerem slid down to the ground, only a few steps from the fresh grave, unable to go further after all. His head fell to his knees, pressed tight to his chest. Tears began to fall, even though he’d been sure there were none left. He just hurt.

    Mama, please...


    The tears came harder now, shaking his small form worse than the cold. Jerem remembered when she had finally told him she was ill. Even in his little kid, self-obsessed brain, Jerem had known something was wrong. It had been wrong for a long time, but to hear it spoken scared him. If they had told him, then it was truly bad. Nobody really told him anything—they just treated him like a baby. Everyone except for his brother Janthro, and Janthro wasn’t there anymore. Even his mother had lied. She had told him not to worry—that just because she was sick now, it didn’t mean she would be sick forever. She would be well. It would just take time.

    Lies! Why did she lie to me?


    But Jerem had tried. For her, he had tried. Tried so hard to be hopeful, his own fears growing daily, hidden in an effort not to make her feel worse. Jerem had not known what else to do, but he had been desperate to do something, anything, for his mother. So he repeated the words of assurance he overheard from his father and oldest brothers—that it would be okay, that they would find another healer, one who could do something. Or another, or another…

    What had he really known? Nothing. But he believed. Jerem believed in his very soul that if they just hunted hard enough, fought it long enough, somehow his mom could beat it. He held that hope tight to him, even through the fall, while his mother hobbled around in pain of every step. Jerem could have cried with joy that spring, when she actually looked to be getting better, the pain lessening. His mother was walking again, the dark blotches on her skin disappearing. Even the latest treatment, which made her miserable for days after, seemed tolerable if it bought time.

    Jerem was so certain that his mother would be okay that he began to live his own life again, to think of a world outside of this sickness that had consumed his family. Jerem had eagerly gone back to his duties in the stables and the horses he’d come to love. He’d been willing to wander the family lands for more than a few hours at a time, and lured by the excitement of a trip to nearby Clearwater, Jerem had gone that morning without a second thought. It had been a business trip, traveling with his second oldest brother, Jonander, to check out the breeding prospects on Lord Donagles’ farm. Jerem had been so happy and excited he’d hardly slept at all the night before. When he’d said goodbye to his mother, she’d even laughed a little to see him bouncing from foot to foot so eager to be gone.

    It had been a magical day. Riding beside his brother, like an adult, like someone trusted with a job. Jonander had actually let him in among the horses, to run and explore while he examined them to see which, if any, they would buy. Jerem remembered thinking he had never seen such a glorious day, the sky a cerulean blue with clouds so white they practically glowed. It had been perfect. Perfect weather, perfect company, and Jonander had even let him pick one horse to buy all by himself. Then the messenger came.

    “Your Lady mother has died.”

    Five words with a weight seemed to come out of nowhere, a real physical weight that crushed Jerem to the ground. He nearly fell to his knees there among the horses, only remaining upright because of a sliver of pure doubt.

    They’re wrong! I just saw her this morning. They’re wrong!


    The next thing he remembered was Jonander taking him by the shoulders, and it was only then that Jerem realized he had been yelling at the messenger. He couldn’t even recall what he had said. But Jonander held him back, somberly thanked the messenger, and they rode home. Jerem cried the whole way.
    Father was drunk again when they arrived, sitting in the castle library, whiskey in hand. He was crying, which Jerem supposed was something, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. Jerem just ran for his room and slammed the door, the pain too great for his small body. Everything around him reminded him of his mother, so he curled into a ball on the bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and didn’t move. Jerem didn’t think he ever wanted to move again.

    Finally Kiman, his oh-so-perfect eldest brother, came for him. Kiman opened Jerem’s bedroom door, and walked around to look down on his baby brother. Whether Kiman was grieving or not, Jerem couldn’t tell. His brother’s face was a smooth mask, green eyes cold under perfectly groomed short blond hair. Kiman almost looked ready to go to court. Unfeeling lout or good actor? Did it even matter? Jerem just peered up from the bed as Kiman told him “you are a Telcontur, and you need to be downstairs.”
    Jerem said nothing. He just lay on the bed, his thoughts a shifting mass of pain, anger, and bitterness. He wasn’t going down there. Kiman could go, but not him. Not when all he would be was an ornament for some soul-draining ‘thing’ in a room full of people he’d never met or really cared about. No one down there could understand.

    Mom!


    It was just a small, silent cry for the only one who could have made it better. The one who had always made him feel better. His lip quivered as the realization hit him yet again that she could not ever be there for him anymore. Jerem swallowed hard, trying not to cry. Kiman had frowned down at Jerem’s miserable and immobile form for a few moments more, and then left without a word. Jerem had hoped that to be the end of it. Let Kiman stand down there with the mourners. Jerem started to cry again, when he considered what else was down there, laid out in a flower-decked coffin in the front receiving room.

    He was still crying when the household servants appeared, sent no doubt to be sure he was dressed properly and brought down to the great hall. The blue and green, house-uniformed army surrounded him. Jerem ignored them and remained on his bed. The staff dressed him anyway. Jerem refused to sit up. They lifted him to his feet. The servants even combed and brushed his hair when he refused to do so himself. When they were done, Jerem stood there a moment, before like the dead he felt he was, Jerem followed them downstairs on stiff legs. They left him standing beside Jonander and Kiman in the entry hall, where he spent an eternity being polite to people he had never met, pretending that he was okay.

    Goddess, how could you do this to her! To me!!


    The plea was torn from him as he stood there, frozen on the outside, dying on the inside. Frozen forever. Jerem came back to himself suddenly and realized he had not moved in a very long time. He was still sitting in the cemetery, the cold’s icy fingers shivering him away from his thoughts. He needed to get moving again, or he might very well freeze to death in the night.

    It was unseasonably cold for so early in autumn, the leaves on the oaks among the graves just starting to turn, but there would be frost tonight. Jerem looked about him for some kind of shelter. It had seemed like such a good idea—running away. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard. But he was not going back. His eyes finally lit on the faint glow of a warmed home, probably the local Avatarian priest’s house.

    Maybe I’ll ask for shelter there tonight.


    Jerem didn’t want to sleep outdoors tonight, not in this bitter cold. He tried to stand and found the rest and the cold had stiffened his aching limbs so much that even walking was painful. Remembering the betrayal that caused the aches hurt Jerem even more. Had it really only been four days?

    “Truly, you shouldn’t have interfered, Jerem,” Kiman had told him then, his voice emotionless yet frightening Jerem all the same, “Now you will both need to be punished.”

    And then at a snap of Kiman’s fingers, two of the household guard appeared. At Kiman’s direction, one grabbed him, the other taking hold of the servant boy Jerem had been trying to help. The other boy’s eyes were wide with fear, though he did not resist. Jerem tried to shake himself loose. He might as well have been struggling against stone and not flesh.

    “Hey,” Jerem had demanded petulantly, “Let me go!”

    But the man did not let him go. The burly guardsman just looked over to Kiman and waited.

    “See that he remembers,” Kiman stated coldly, and then turned his back on his youngest brother.

    The finality of it scared Jerem speechless.

    Wait…


    The iron-hard grip lifted Jerem off his feet, and Jerem at last panicked. It had been an accident! It had been nothing! What was Kiman doing?! Jerem cried out for his brother, begging Kiman to stop…to stay…to not do this. But Kiman didn’t even look back as he left. And what happened next, Jerem would never forget.

    He and the servant boy had been dragged bodily out of the kitchen, down the back stairs, and deep into the cellar level of the castle. They finally halted in a large open room that the household guard often used for training. Jerem still struggled desperately to get free, but his struggles had been useless, he so small and the guard so big.
    What was happening? The guards had never ever laid hands on him like this! They’d never even touched him before. Why wouldn’t they let go? Jerem tried again to wriggle free, but in vain. The guard’s grip on his arms hurt!

    “Tem!”

    Jerem now dared to glance over as he called out to the servant boy, to find Tem wasn’t struggling at all, but
    crying, tears streaming down his pale face. Jerem’s panic grew as the heavy oak door shut behind them with an ominous thud. It was only then that he realized there were two more men in the room, waiting. He and Tem were dragged to the center of the room, toward the others.

    “Let me go!” Jerem pleaded to the new guards. “Please! Let me go!”

    Jerem didn’t even see the first blow before it hit, yet it drove him to the floor hard, his face on fire. He didn’t see the next, either, but he was grabbed again and dragged upright. One after another, blows landed on his small body. Punishment? Ha! When it was over, and the men left him lying on the cold, stone floor, Jerem could barely move. He lay there, sobbing, for what felt like hours.

    “Tem?” he finally asked, turning his head the agonizing few inches over to look.

    The servant boy he had been trying to protect did not answer. Tem just lay in a similar heap on the floor, not moving at all.

    “T-T-Tem?” Jerem asked again, afraid.

    There was no answer this time either, and Jerem started to cry once more. He wanted to run away, but it hurt too much to even turn his head back around. He swallowed hard and tasted blood. Jerem cried harder, though the sobs that wracked his body with the movement hurt.

    How could he!


    Jerem didn’t understand how his own brother could have done such an evil thing. What kind of animal would do that to another person? Tem had only been a servant, assigned to the kitchens, but he was just about Jerem’s own age, and the loss of the eggs had not been Tem’s fault. It had been an accident. An accident!
    Why would Kiman do that to him? Why would he do that to me!

    The last wailing question was followed by a thought both startling and alien.

    I hate him!


    If he had been older, Jerem might have acted on this burning fiery emotion which threatened to consume him. Instead, Jerem had just lain on the cellar floor, huddled in a hurting mass, too afraid to even touch the unmoving boy beside him. Jerem feared the boy was dead, beaten to death at his own brother’s word. He feared he might die. It certainly hurt like he would. Jerem sobbed and sobbed on the cold stone.

    Eventually, they had come for him. Silent servants, who gathered him up and carried him up to his room and laid him in his bed. Jerem squeezed his eyes shut tight, tears leaking through his lids in bottomless grief and pain. Where was Kiman? Wasn’t he sorry? Surely he couldn’t have meant for it to happen like this!

    But Kiman never came. Not to apologize, nor to even see if he was all right. And Jerem hated him all the more for it. Kiman should have come. Should have said sorry. Should have said something! Any remorse would have been a salve on his wounds, enabling him to stay. But on that sunny afternoon, everything had been destroyed.

    Nothing left now.


    It was a silent mantra as his wounds had been tended by the household staff. And still Kiman did not come. And still Jerem could not summon the courage to ask about Tem. The servants did not mention him, either, not even when Jerem finally did ask the following evening.

    “We have been instructed that it is not your concern,” one of the chambermaids told him.

    Jerem had not seen Tem again.

    I wish I knew if he lived. Please, let him have lived. I was only trying to help him. Please, don’t let me have killed him. I was only trying to help…


    For two whole days that followed, Jerem had been paralyzed by guilt, pain, fear, and indecision. He did not eat, did not sleep more than a few minutes at a time; he did not do much more than huddle in a ball on his bed, feeling utterly forsaken. Every time his door opened, Jerem filled with a painful mixture of hope and fear, but Kiman had not come to see him. His brother was not sorry. His brother didn’t even care. And father was probably drunk in the library. And he didn’t care either. Jerem had never felt so alone.

    The door did open once or twice later on, the first time to allow a healer to fix whatever had been wrong in his chest that had made it hurt to breathe and the stabbing pain in his arm. ‘A bad fall’ had been the story told by the servant who brought the priest to Jerem’s bedside. That and ‘my master wishes to leave the bruises so that the young lord will remember to be more careful in the future.’ Jerem was too scared to say anything at all about the lie.

    The second time the servants came, it was with orders from Kiman to make Jerem perform his stable duties. The chambermaids and housecarl seemed reluctant to do so, though they saw to it he was dressed and brought to the stable regardless, strangely more concerned about him than what remained of his own family. Not concerned enough to defy Kiman, but still it had been a small crumb of comfort.

    The only man to actually defy the ‘back to work’ order had been Thomas Shaw, the Telcontur’s horsemaster, to whom Jerem had been apprenticed to learn the trade. Master Shaw knew Jerem better than most anyone left in the castle, and had taken one look at Jerem’s hobbling and stricken form, before leading him to a pile of horse blankets in the dark tack room.

    “You sit there today, Lord Jerem. You just sit,” Mr. Shaw had said, his gruff voice softened with uncharacteristic tenderness.

    He guided Jerem to the blankets, watched him lie down, and then left Jerem alone with his broken thoughts. Around lunchtime, Master Shaw returned, to give him some apples and honey, as well as a mug of ale, seeming to understand that Jerem was too afraid to go into the castle and eat where he might encounter Kiman.
    Jerem thanked him, and then Master Shaw was gone again, likely working to complete all the stable tasks before dusk. Jerem, in turn, looked at the mug dubiously. He sniffed at the amber liquid. Ale. His mother had never let him drink ale. He swallowed hard, trying not to cry again as he thought of his mom. With a shuddering breath, Jerem took a sip of the mug, desperate for any task to distract him from his grief. It tasted pretty bad, but Jerem drank anyway because he was thirsty. Eating the apples after helped. And then Jerem was alone again. Too exhausted to even think, Jerem fell asleep shortly thereafter.

    Master Shaw returned and woke him at the end of the day. The horsemaster had another bundle of food, this time some dried meat, a small slab of bread, and water. It wasn’t much, and it was clearly what the servants were offered to eat, but it meant Jerem wouldn’t have to go eat dinner with Kiman. Jerem nodded his thanks and ate ravenously. When he was finished, Master Shaw saw him back to the castle. Jerem fled across the foyer and ran for his room. He locked the door behind him and moved his small desk chair against it. Just in case.

    The next day, Jerem was back in the stable by his own choice, back somewhere safe. The morning chores were comforting, even if he still hurt whenever he moved, and the horses trusted confidantes for his fears. Jerem did not see Master Shaw much as he worked, in fact it was nearly lunchtime before he realized that Master Shaw was moving funny, strangely stiff, as if he were hurt. So Jerem had asked about it, thinking the man injured by one of the horses, to be brushed off with an ‘I just slept funny.’ Jerem didn’t think any more of it, still too wrapped up in his own aches, until an overheard conversation later that night made Jerem realize that Kiman had had Master Shaw whipped for the kindness he’d shown to Jerem the day before. Jerem cried himself to sleep that night.

    I’ve got to stop him! I’ve got to! No one else is getting hurt because of me!


    Jerem was dead certain of that, but the how eluded him. All night his thoughts looped around the problem helplessly. What could he do? Even at sixteen, Jerem was still a child by his half-elven blood, of a size and maturity with his nine or ten-year-old fellows in the village. Kiman was well over twenty years older than Jerem, and even if he was short, still larger than him. Once, Jerem would have thought to ask their father for help, but in the weeks since his mother’s death, his father had descended in to a near-constant drunken stupor. Jerem hadn’t seen him move from the library in well over a week.

    And in the meantime, Kiman had descended into a level of cruelty Jerem would not have believed. It had gotten so he didn’t even recognize his eldest brother anymore. Hell, forget not recognize, Jerem was scared of him now. How could he stop someone with the power of life and death over an entire barony? Kiman had had him beaten. Kiman could order him killed. Would father even stop Kiman? Images of Tem lying still on the cellar floor and Master Shaw limping about the stable haunted Jerem like ghosts. Kiman could hurt or kill anyone left he still cared about. And Jerem still didn’t know what to do!

    Mom would never have let him near me!


    Jerem’s fist clenched in remembered helplessness of the beating. He wanted his mother desperately. He wanted her to make everything right. But she could never make anything right for him again. Yet in that hopeless instant, Jerem knew there was only one person alive who could. He knew who he could run to—Janthro.
    So he was running this night to his brother. The hope of the thought a source of warmth as he walked. Janthro would help him. Janthro was only nine years older, but he had always been the brave one. He hadn’t gotten people hurt or maybe killed. Janthro had stood up to Kiman. It hadn’t worked, but at least Janthro had tried.

    Jerem recalled that final angry showdown between Janthro and their father four years before, which had caused his brother to flee. Jerem had been hiding up on the landing, face pressed against the spindles of the staircase, while Janthro paced across the foyer below and revealed to their father the cruelty he had witnessed in Kiman. Cruelty Jerem might have doubted if he had not just experienced it first-hand. But Janthro had been bold, braver by far than he. Faced with the wrongness of it all, Janthro chose to fight and stood before the only authority higher than Kiman—their father. Janthro laid out each horrific deed meticulously, biting out the words in a low and fierce voice, ending with the death of a man Janthro had befriended. A man he accused Kiman of having killed.

    A ‘hunting accident’ Kiman had explained in calming tones, so different from the anger rolling like waves off of Janthro. A misstep in the paddock—Kiman had an answer for every one of the accusations. ‘Lies all!’ Janthro had yelled. Jerem watched breathlessly as his oldest brother responded, weaving a tapestry of reasonableness around himself that made Janthro look petty, dishonest, and spiteful by comparison. Janthro’s voice rose higher as he rejected the lies, yelling at both his father and brother, now.

    “Do you believe him or me?” Janthro had demanded in the end, and even Jerem could tell they were standing on a knife edge. The wrong answer here would split their family as surely as lightning striking a tree. He held his breath. Thick as thieves with Janthro, Jerem believed him with unswerving faith, no matter how much he had not wanted to think Kiman capable of such things. But who would their father believe? Jerem feared who their father might believe. In his panic, hope struck suddenly.

    Mom can stop this!


    Even though she was ill, his mother would want to know, to stop this, fix it before it shattered. His mother would make it all right again. Jerem got to his hands and knees and scrambled up the remaining stairs. He hadn’t even reached the top when he heard his father’s answer.

    “Janthro. You will submit to your brother’s rule, in all things,” their father ordered in a dark and furious voice. “I will have no more lies in this house.”

    “I will never submit to a kerachi like him!” Janthro had yelled back, defiant.

    There was a crack and a thump, and by the time Jerem made it back to the railing, he could see Janthro sitting on the floor, looking up at their father, green eyes blazing, his hand on his jaw.

    Goddess, father just hit him!


    “You will not disobey me or use that language in my house!” their father shouted, “I will not have it!”

    Janthro stood very deliberately, to end nose to nose with his father, ignoring the tiniest splash of red that ran along his mouth. It startled Jerem to realize his brother, though still thin as a rail, was now a few inches taller than their father. There was a pause, and then Janthro answered, his voice pitched low yet carrying throughout the foyer.

    “You will have no house to speak of, if you let Kiman rule.”

    Jerem saw his father hit Janthro again, closing his eyes as his father’s fist made contact with his brother’s face. This wasn’t punishment, something sinister was happening, and Jerem could feel it. When he opened them again, he saw Janthro had staggered back a few steps, but taken no other action against their father. Kiman, standing slightly away from the pair, was smiling at the interplay. His older brothers and father remained frozen for the space of several heartbeats, until Janthro turned suddenly on his heel and stalked toward the front door.

    “I did not give you leave to go!” their father yelled.

    Janthro stopped dead, looked back over his shoulder, and in an arctic pitch said, “I don’t need your leave to do anything! Not anymore!”

    Janthro continued walking. Kiman got in his way.

    “Back down, little brother,” Kiman demanded, looking up at Janthro, fury in his eyes.

    “To you?” Janthro snorted derisively. “Not a chance in hell!”

    Janthro did punch Kiman, striking him so hard he sent the smaller man sprawling to the floor. Janthro did not wait to see what would happen next, just continued out the front door and into the night.

    “Guards!” their father yelled.

    “No!” Jerem cried at nearly the same instant.

    Jerem remembered running down the stairs, the noise and chaos finally waking their mother. But too late. By then Janthro had gone, and though guards were sent, they never did find him. Janthro didn’t abandon Jerem entirely, though. He sent long letters home. Always in secret—for Kiman, now completely in control of the Barony’s affairs, was hunting him to bring him back, and father, angry at Janthro, had forbade his name to even be spoken in the house. The letters were smuggled in by Master Shaw, who cared enough about them both to risk the consequences of being caught. Jerem shared these secret letters with his mother, sitting at her feet in the library or at her bedside when she was too ill to get up, the words providing both of them comfort that Janthro was alive and well.

    Jerem thought Janthro’s life out in the world sounded very exciting, though their mother seemed to think it more worrying than anything else. Janthro had made it to Windshae and enlisted in the Duke’s service. He finished his training to be a wood ranger, and was now leading his own group of men on assigned tasks. Janthro had always been vague about just what ‘tasks’ those were, so Jerem spent a great deal of time imagining those details, until his brother was as bold as any hero in a Bard’s tale.

    But Jerem did not see Janthro again. Not until when mother’s health worsened enough to leave her completely bed-ridden. Then, Janthro had snuck back for one late night visit before disappearing once more. In the end, Janthro had gotten word of their mother’s final illness too late, and so never returned home again. The last letter Jerem had received, pressed tight to his chest in his shirt pocket said Janthro was ‘doing a little of the Duke’s business’ along the Dagger Mountains before returning to Windshae.

    So that’s where Jerem was going; cold, with wet feet, creeping through a cemetery, to the Ducal Seat at Windshae, to find his only friend left in the world. At least the nearby priory would be warm. Jerem brushed the last of the dirt off his clothes as he walked up the stone path to its door. He spared a glance over his shoulder at his pack, to be sure his swords and anything else that might indicate something other than a simple camping trip were still hidden under its oilskin cover. Yes, everything looked normal. Just a boy with a backpack going camping. He couldn’t hide his bow, tied along the right side of his pack, but hoped the priest would take it as a normal thing for a boy to have for a trip in the woods.

    Jerem took a deep breath, tried to look calm and not scared, and then knocked lightly on the door. A moment later, he heard footsteps approach and was rewarded by the friendly smile of the local Avatarian Priest. Jerem had only met him on a few occasions, mostly harvest festivals and feast days, and even then Jerem was always more interested in the entertainment than the blessings. The priest was a tall, lean, middle-aged man, though he looked about a decade older than he was. His hair was platinum blond, but graying heavily, and his blue eyes were piercing in an almost elvish way. The gods help him, but Jerem had no recollection of his name.

    “Excuse me,” Jerem began, hoping the name would come to him soon, “I’m traveling, and I was wondering if I could have shelter for the night. Anywhere would be fine.” He tried to sound as adult as possible.

    The priest squinted down at him for a second, and then said, “Ah, young Lord Jerem. Welcome. On a camping trip?”

    “Yes, sir,” Jerem replied easily. He had hoped not to be recognized, but since he was, he let the Priest think he was merely exploring. To be caught so close to escape would be terrible. In a way it was true, he was camping—just not with permission and not going back. Never going back.

    “I know it’s gotten rather chilly tonight,” the priest continued kindly. “You can stay here with me and then head back for warmer gear in the morning. Would you like to come in?”

    Jerem nodded his agreement and the priest gestured Jerem into the foyer of his small house. You could have fit the entire building in the audience hall of their castle, but Jerem didn’t mind. It felt warmer here than home, all wood and plaster, not damp cold stone. He let the heat wash over him as he stood there, the fire burning merrily in a small library off to his right and generating warmth enough for nearly the whole of the house. There was a narrow stairway directly ahead that must have led to the priest’s quarters, and a small parlor to his left, which connected to a dining room. Past the stairs he could see the flicker of light from a kitchen of some sort.

    The priest gestured him into the library with the small bow due Jerem as the Lord Baron’s youngest son. Jerem was so distracted he didn’t even notice. Usually having adults bow to him made him feel very strange, but this time he was too wrapped up in looking about the room, every wall covered floor to ceiling with books. All different sizes and colors, though Jerem’s gaze stayed the longest on the comfortable looking armchairs that sat in the room for guests.

    “Please do sit down,” the priest told him, pointing to one of the armchairs. “Would you like some tea?”

    While not all that fond of tea, Jerem was thirsty, so he nodded his agreement and the priest bowed his way out. Jerem watched him turn toward what must be the kitchen, and he was left in the quiet for several minutes. He took his pack off, carefully leaned it against one of the armchairs, and waited some more. Warming up at last while he waited, Jerem’s boredom drove him to pass the time browsing the shelves, finding mostly tomes on theology.

    Ugh, boring. Doesn’t he read anything interesting?


    Yet every once in a while, Jerem stumbled upon a fictional book, probably from the young acolytes who lived and studied here with the priest. One in particular caught his eye. It was a well-known tale about the Red Fox, a wood ranger-turned-bandit to protect the people of an oppressed Barony. Jerem couldn’t help himself, he sat tenderly on the edge of one of the chairs and began to read. He wasn’t sure how long he had been reading, when the priest returned with a steaming teapot, cups, and some small sandwiches. Jerem’s stomach growled softly.
    The priest served the tea from a silver set likely reserved for important guests. It was probably why it had taken him so long to come back—the man had to find it first. Jerem wished the priest would realize he really didn’t care about such things. He just wanted to eat, drink, and then curl up on the floor and sleep until morning. The priest poured for Jerem first, handing the cup over with a bow, then seated himself and poured his own cup.

    “What news of the Barony, my lord?” the priest asked, eyeing Jerem carefully. He seemed to be unsure of what to say.

    Maybe he’s just bad at talking to kids. The Goddess knows I hate talking to grownups.


    “It’s okay,” Jerem replied at last.

    Silence fell for a while. Jerem drank his tea and ate a few of the sandwiches, surprised at how hungry he was.

    “And your family?” the priest asked.

    “Okay.”

    A small smile appeared during the next conversational lull.

    “You don’t say much, do you, young Lord?” The priest finished his drink and stood. “Very well. It’s late and we rise early here. I will take you to your room.”

    “You don’t have to do that,” Jerem put in quickly. “I was expecting to sleep outside, so the floor is fine. You don’t have to kick somebody out for me.”

    “My Lord Kiman would not be pleased to find I had let you sleep on a floor,” the priest said, his hand lifting to indicate the library door.

    “I won’t tell, if you won’t,” Jerem replied lightly, though something about the priest was starting to bother him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the mention of his brother had spooked him, and Jerem was very afraid of what would happen if he was caught. He doubted he could survive another beating like the first. The priest gestured again for the door.

    “Please follow me,” he told Jerem.

    The priest waited until Jerem stood up and collected his pack before turning and leading Jerem from the library, through the kitchen and out a small door to a narrow, covered outdoor walkway that led to a larger building. The blast of cold air that hit them once they left the priory was especially bitter after the warmth of the library. Jerem started to shiver again as they walked. But it would be warm again soon and he could sleep.

    The priest also looked cold as he took out his ring of keys and they approached the door to the acolyte’s quarters, the hand holding his keys shaking. The sound fixated Jerem on those keys, a dissonant jangling in an otherwise quiet night, and he froze still for a moment. Maybe the priest was going to lock up the priory after they left, but… The priest cleared his throat as Jerem halted overlong at the doorway of the narrow, low building where the priest’s students slept. Jerem watched the priest unlock the door and gesture him inside

    Jerem swallowed his irrational fear and entered the building. He was just being stupid. The man was probably trying to be nice to him by giving him a real bed. He should be grateful. Not everyone was a spy for Kiman. And it was warm in here. And tomorrow he would move on. Jerem heard the priest shut the door and come forward to lead him onward down the hallway. There seemed to be about twelve rooms in all, six on each side.

    It was only then that Jerem realized that these doors had locks on the outside, like a dungeon. His heart began to hammer in something akin to panic. The priest had stopped now, to unlock one of the rooms to their left. He opened the door to reveal a small rectangular room with a single, simple, bed. There was a desk beside it and a trunk at its foot, but otherwise it was empty. Jerem’s eyes flew to its only window, far too small to climb through.
    The priest gestured Jerem inside, but Jerem was frozen in place with fear. He just couldn’t take his eyes off the Priest’s keys. Being locked in at night might be normal for an acolyte, but he didn’t dare let himself get trapped. Not with Kiman searching for him. Jerem turned back toward the door they had entered the dormitory from, eyes huge in the dim light. It was just so far away. The priest’s eyes narrowed in response to Jerem’s face and he said,

    “In here, if you please.”

    Jerem began to unconsciously shake his head. No. He had to get out of here. Jerem took a step back toward the door to the outside. No. He would not enter that warm room for all the money in the world just now. Jerem swallowed twice and tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

    “No,” he began, fumbling for any excuse to leave in his panic. “On second thought, I’ll sleep outside. It’s okay. Really.”

    Jerem was backing away, but the priest was moved closer to intercept him. By the barest margin, Jerem did not run, instead he kept his pace steady, prattling on as if nothing was wrong.

    “I meant to camp, so outside is better,” he babbled. “I appreciate the offer, but this is kind of cheating.”
    Jerem could tell the priest didn’t believe him, but didn’t know what else to say. He just kept backing toward the door slowly. The exit at the end of the hall seemed very far away.

    “I can’t let you leave,” the priest told him firmly before he had gotten even halfway there.

    The man seized Jerem by the arm then, and Jerem wasn’t sure if the Priest had grabbed just the right spot, or if anywhere would have done as well, but he cried out in pain. The beating last Matrinsday had been severe. The Priest let go at once, but rushed closer.

    “My Lord, you are hurt!”

    “I’m okay,” Jerem gritted through his teeth, still backing away. “I just need to go.”

    “No, come with me to the library and I will tend you,” the priest offered, no longer stern but concerned.
    It didn’t help. Jerem was still scared of him. He didn’t want to turn his back on the priest, so he mostly shuffled sideways until he reached the door. The priest kept pace with him, but did not touch him again.

    “Lord Jerem,” he repeated. “I only want to help. If we go back to the library, I can fix whatever’s wrong.”
    Jerem could say nothing to that obvious lie. No one, not even a priest, could fix his problems. But Jerem also knew the man could help heal him. If he could be trusted. Jerem didn’t want to be in pain anymore. Was that so wrong? Jerem fumbled blindly behind himself for the knob, opened the door, and sidled outside. The priest stayed nearby, silent but concerned. The sudden cold stopped Jerem still in the walkway, torn in indecision. He just didn’t want to hurt anymore. He didn’t want to make a mistake. He wanted to find Janthro.

    The priest merely waited as Jerem looked out across the snowy graveyard and then over to the door to the warm priory. The quiet drew out as they stood there, the priest careful not to touch Jerem nor get between him and a way out. In the end, it was that opportunity to escape that reassured Jerem enough to enter the priory. The priest would not try to hold him prisoner again. Jerem allowed the man to guide him to sit in one of the armchairs.
    The renewed warmth nearly broke Jerem, his emotions roiling about. He blinked rapidly, his throat burning. It wasn’t fair! Why couldn’t he just have one warm, safe night? Why? But the priest had said he couldn’t let him leave. And that meant he knew Jerem wasn’t ‘camping.’ It meant cold or not, hurt or not, Jerem had to go.

    “I really have to go, sir,” Jerem protested, his voice thick.

    The Priest brushed his words aside, kneeling before Jerem’s chair. He lifted back Jerem’s sleeve and examined his arm. Jerem just couldn’t find the strength to resist further. It was all too hard! He collapsed back into the chair and let the priest fuss over him. Why was it all so hard? Jerem instinctively began to curl about himself in despair, his legs drawing up into the chair to press against his chest.

    “It’s all right, child,” the Priest reassured him gently, dropping the ‘my lord’s’ and ‘Lord Jerem’s’ and looking at him with pity.

    Jerem only sniffled in return, letting his head fall to rest on his knees. Jerem didn’t see the Priest’s darkening expression as his examination revealed a rainbow mass of purple, green, brown, and yellow that ran up both Jerem’s arms from all the bruising, but he did hear a word that he never thought he would coming from an Avatarian priest. Jerem’s eyes opened in surprise, to catch the Priest’s brows drawing down sharply upon seeing the scabbed over cuts, where the lash had broken skin.

    Jerem could offer no explanation. Kiman had ordered a healer to repair the broken arm and ribs, but insisted that the rest of Jerem’s injuries be untouched so that they would heal naturally as a reminder to Jerem to ‘always know his place.’ Jerem swallowed and forced down the sob that followed the memories. Know his place? No place deserved that! How could Kiman have thought he deserved that? Jerem didn’t think he would ever find an answer that didn’t hurt as badly as the beating had. But he wasn’t going to cry. Not here. He looked up at the priest with haunted eyes. The priest’s return gaze said it all. The shock and sadness on the priest’s face turned into action and he whispered under his breath. Jerem could feel a tingling and then his arm felt fine.

    The rest, please…


    Jerem stopped the plea before it left his lips. He had to go. Now. He needed to find Janthro. Jerem uncurled from his seat and tried to stand. The Priest seemed to know he was still hurt.

    “Where else are you hurt, Jerem?” He asked gently. “Your face was never good at hiding anything.”

    “Everywhere,” Jerem admitted, his voice cracking.

    The man put his hands on Jerem’s shoulders and closed his eyes. There was some more chanting, and this time the tingling spread throughout Jerem’s body, easing the aches and giving him energy. Jerem knew without looking that his body was as whole as if the beating had never taken place. The other injuries, the ones to his heart, Jerem doubted would ever heal.

    “Now, my son,” the priest asked seriously. “What happened to you? Who did this?”

    Jerem looked at the floor and said nothing. No matter what Kiman had done, he wouldn’t rat on his own family. They’d never believe him anyway. Jerem kept his eyes on the floor until his nerve failed and then looked up. The priest was still studying him, with a frown on his face.

    “Your brother, Kiman, I’d expect.”

    He didn’t give Jerem time to deny or confirm, he just grabbed Jerem’s arm and pulled him to his feet.

    “I’m afraid I may have done you a terrible turn this evening,” the man went on as he led him back toward the kitchen. “You see, you were not my first visitor. Men from your household arrived bearing the message that you had run away. If I saw you, I was to send word so that you might be brought safely home. In my wildest nightmares, I never believed they meant you ill.”

    Oh no! I’m trapped!


    Jerem nearly took off at a run right then, but the Priest had his arm and moved him toward the back door at a somewhat saner pace. The priest was surprisingly strong, so Jerem had no choice but to remain with him.

    “I sent young Colin down to them when I went to make the tea,” the priest explained, still not letting go of Jerem. “There isn’t much time.”

    The priest led Jerem outside and around to the back of the priory opposite the dormitory where there was small barn. The priest released him, opened the wide double doors, and gestured Jerem inside. Jerem looked around to see two cows and some goats in the various pens. He thought he could smell horses, too, though the farthest stall doors were closed. The priest led him past the other animals to the far end of the darkened building.

    “We don’t keep many animals, here,” the priest continued to speak calmly, though Jerem was shifting from foot to foot in his hurry to be gone. “I do however have a green filly that was donated by your father. Given you were training to be his Horsemaster, I think you might be able to ride her. You might not get away, but at least you’ll have a chance.”

    A horse! Goddess, that’s great!


    “Thank you,” Jerem stammered aloud, his panic fading with the Priest’s promise of aid. “Thank you. I can’t repay you….”

    “No need,” the priest told him with a smile. “I’ll tell them that you caught on to me and ran back across the fields.”

    He gestured at the stall to his right, and Jerem opened the door and stepped inside. A mare was standing in the dark back corner, not asleep, but watching him warily. She was a good fourteen hands, and still young enough to grow more, and her thick winter coat was so sleek and black she was almost shining in the faint moonlight. With a shock, Jerem realized that he actually knew her.

    Brightwind!


    Jerem had been training Brightwind before she had been taken away, his first attempt at doing so. He’d seen her born, named her, played with her, and then cried when she had been sent away without warning last spring. Brightwind sniffed the air in turn, as if she too remembered. Jerem cooed at her, whispering soft, kind words to settle her as he slid the bit to her bridle in her mouth. She pulled back at the bit, which was probably uncomfortable and unfamiliar in her mouth, but Jerem rubbed her along her shoulder as he always had back home. Brightwind settled down at his touch and lowered her head. Once the bridle was on, it was time for her saddle. This process went much smoother, as Brightwind seemed to have decided that she trusted him, and even when he tightened the girth, she did not shy back from him. With a gentle tug, Jerem led her out into the night. With another muttered thank you to the priest, Jerem stepped into the stirrup and swung himself up. Jerem doubted he could have stayed on had she not known him since she was a baby, but Brightwind did not throw him, shifting and stepping anxiously under him.

    “Easy Brightwind…” Jerem couldn’t keep her still for long, and she went charging out down the road. “Thanks again!” he yelled over his shoulder, finally getting her to gallop off in the direction he wanted.

    He did not look back. The wind was biting, but Jerem was not feeling the cold. He was healed, he was free, and he was racing the wind itself. He let out a whoop and urged Brightwind on into the night.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2019-06-20 at 12:26 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  2. - Top - End - #2
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Celticbear's Avatar

    Join Date
    Aug 2016
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    R'lyeh
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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    I'll read yours if you read mine. Now then, to back up that promise...


    Kay, just finished reading, and I have very few notes, and I'll get my one hitch out of the way before I start praising it.


    Your story seems to be told in a non linear path, but I think this was on purpose to get across how much of a blind panic Jarem was in during his flight. While I liked at times where the transition was slow, the quick changes I spied were kind of glaring. In my experience with sepia tones, the only way you can pull em off is real smooth like, and I know you can do that because I did see instances of really awesome transitions that were so smooth that I can't believe they weren't butter.

    On the subject of how terrified Jarem was, I really like how you portrayed his thought process during the piece. When Kiman started to do some evil shiz, Jarem still had brotherly attachments to him, and had to be convinced over and over again that Kiman was indeed a total jackass, and that's some good in the mind writing. I loved Jarem as a character, and can't wait to read more.
    "I'M just a guy with a boomerang... I didn't ask for all this flying... and MAGIC!!!" -Sokka

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    Quote Originally Posted by Wuff View Post
    the biggest nerd ever who transforms into BEAR is of course alluring.

  3. - Top - End - #3
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    An Enemy Spy's Avatar

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    May 2008
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    Right behind you
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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    "Jerem was creeping through a cemetery, trying not to think too much about it."

    Your very first line is in passive voice. Try "Jerem crept through the cemetary, tyring not to think too much about it." One small change brings the sentence to life. Now we're in the cemetery with him instead of watching him from afar.

  4. - Top - End - #4
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Hope you enjoyed Chapter 1...

    Here's Chapter 2
    Spoiler: The Hook and Sinker
    Show

    Chapter 2: The Hook and Sinker

    Jerem’s enthusiasm lasted for about a mile, before the biting wind set him to huddle down against the filly’s back, shivering. He let Brightwind run, until finally the horse grew winded and slowed her pace to a saner and safer walk. Jerem looked about more then, but didn’t really direct Brightwind so much as she led him. So long as they were heading away from Kiman, Jerem was content. The terrain grew rougher, the road rutted and frozen, so Jerem dismounted to take her reins and lead her on foot. It would do neither of them any good if she mis-stepped and broke her leg. As they walked, Brightwind nuzzled and butted his shoulder until he reached back to pat her.

    “I missed you, too, girl,” Jerem told her happily. “I didn’t know where you had gone. I’m glad you were okay. I guess we’re both on our own now, huh?”

    Jerem continued northwestward, still talking to Brightwind. Or maybe he was talking to himself. In either case, it made the night less lonely and him less scared. In an effort to avoid his brother’s men, Jerem cut through Darkwood forest instead of remaining on the road. He didn’t go in too far, staying as close to its edge as he dared, because Darkwood was haunted. Worse things than Kiman lived in Darkwood’s depths and even the locals wouldn’t venture deeply inside.

    With a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, Jerem recalled several such stories from last year’s harvest festival bonfire. No. He was not going in any further into the trees than absolutely necessary. It didn’t matter anyway, because he didn’t dare lose sight of the road: he had no idea how to get to Windshae without it. Carefully and quietly, Jerem walked and walked, Brightwind a reassuring presence beside him. For hours it seemed, until weariness finally overtook him. As scared as he was, Jerem just couldn’t go further. It was time to make camp.

    So Jerem led them both a little distance further from the road until he found a likely spot, a bit more open and less choked with underbrush, but still shielded from the road. Here he tied Brightwind to a tree, took her saddle off, and then began to rub her down and curry her coat with his bare fingers. It was long work, and hard without the right equipment, but she needed to be cared for properly. The black mare seemed to enjoy his attentions after a while, butting up against his side and leaning into his hands. Jerem patted her muzzle and wished he had some treat to give her. When he was done brushing her, he rubbed her dry with the blanket from his bedroll, so she wouldn’t be wet with sweat in the cold.

    “Good, girl,” Jerem whispered, keeping up a running dialog with her as he worked. “Do you know where we are? I don’t. But Windshae’s to the northeast. So’s Darkwood now, so I think we’re too far west, but if we skirt its edge and take the long way round, we should be okay. Likely be safer, anyway.”

    Jerem debated using the saddle blanket as a horse blanket, before deciding to invert it over Brightwind’s saddle in hopes of drying it overnight instead. The blanket was damp and would likely make things worse. No, he was better off trusting that Brightwind’s thick winter coat would keep her warm. Brightwind watched the proceedings dubiously, and Jerem smiled back at her reassuringly.

    “Boy, I’ll bet Janthro’ll be real surprised to see me,” Jerem continued, lifting Brightwind’s left foreleg to check her hoof. “Even more surprised to see you.”

    He checked each foot in turn, and then paused to watch a moment. Brightwind seemed content, but she was chewing on her bit as if it felt strange or uncomfortable. Jerem frowned and bit his own lip in unconscious mimicry. It probably was unfamiliar, what with her not being ridden much. But he couldn’t take it off. Unable to think of what else to do, Jerem reached out and felt around her mouth with his fingers, to check as best he could that the bridle was only annoying his horse, not injuring her.

    “I wish I could take your bridle off, girl,” he apologized as Brightwind tossed her head in annoyance. “But you’ll run for sure, won’t you? I’ll tell you what, I’ll try to make some hobbles for you so you won’t feel quite so bad while we work on teaching you to stay put. How’s that?”

    Brightwind didn’t seem to care one way or another, but she did eventually settle down and stop chewing on the bit in her mouth. Figuring that was the best he could hope for, Jerem turned his focus toward himself. What was he going to do for the night?

    “Didn’t think this through, did I, girl?” he muttered worriedly as he moved over the few feet to a clearer and flatter area where he decided he would be sleeping tonight. “But what else could I have done? Anything more by way of supplies, and Kiman’d know for sure I was running.”

    Jerem pushed the rocks and other debris out of the way and then dropped to his knees to take inventory. He swung his pack off, placed it before him, and then emptied it out on the ground. The resulting pile was not encouraging. His swords remained where they had been stored, wedged along the packs’ frame, but they were pretty useless right now. He wasn’t even sure why he’d brought them, but he’d felt safer just knowing they were there. Just in case. One by one, Jerem sorted the rest of the items, trying to figure out what to do.

    “Food enough to last until tomorrow night. A couple blankets. Clothes. My bow, but only six arrows. Ah ha, my flint and steel. Now we’ll be a bit warmer. I think I can build us a fire that won’t be seen. Promise you won’t tell if I screw this up and it doesn’t light?”

    The comment drew a barrel-chested sigh from Brightwind, which Jerem mirrored as he used his bare hands to dig a small trench in the dirt to shield and conceal the fire he wanted to build. He then spent quite some time gathering up enough twigs and small branches to keep the fire going throughout the night. As Jerem searched, he tried to recall everything his brother, Janthro, had ever taught him about picking wood for fires that would not smoke too much and attract attention. His pile grew steadily, as this area of Darkwood was dominated by hardwoods, with lots of brush near the ground to be collected. Lastly, he gathered up the smallest bits of tinder he could find in the vicinity. Once he was ready Jerem knelt before his pile and built a fire in the trench. He held his flint and steel close and struck hard. The sparks ignited the tinder, but the tiny flame died quickly.

    It took six tries, but eventually the fire was lit. Jerem kept it small, feeding it only a few sticks at a time, so it wasn’t very warm. But it was light on a very dark night and that was something. He huddled close until feeling returned to his numb fingers, before turning his attention to surviving the night. Jerem pulled the blankets he had brought from his pack, grateful to have them, but they were not what he had wanted to be truly ready for weeks out-of-doors. He’d wished again he been more daring when packing, but the fear of Kiman had been more than enough to stop him. Jerem wrapped himself up tight in his blankets, consoling himself with the fact that he no longer hurt all over. That was a blessing to be grateful for, and his mom always used to say darkness was less scary if you held on to a light.

    Mama!

    Jerem curled into a ball in his blankets and waited to see if he would cry. It hurt so much, he wanted to, but tonight the tears wouldn’t come. He lay there numb and miserable until he finally shivered himself to sleep. Even then, he did not sleep well but woke often, always expecting to hear the sounds of his brother’s men beating the bushes for him. Yet the sun rose the next morning, pale and wintry, with Jerem exhausted, cold, but still safe.

    Jerem’s morning routine was simple and quick. Though hungry, he placed what little food he had back in his pack. It might be all he had for a long while. His blankets he rolled and then stuffed inside his pack as well, before heading over to Brightwind to check on her. Brightwind seemed fine, the bit not irritating her mouth too much, and she didn’t seem nearly as cold as he felt. Jerem reached up to hug her neck tight, as she pushed against him.

    “I’m so glad you’re here, girl,” he told her fervently.

    Jerem held on to her a while longer, before letting her go to scout around his campsite now that he could see it better. He left Brightwind tied, still fearing he would not be able to catch her again once she was loose. Even though she could not follow, Jerem continued talking to her as he wandered about.

    “Don’t worry,” he told her, looking up at the various trees that surrounded them, “I just want to get a better look around. I’m not leaving you for good. But I have no idea where we are…you didn’t stop for directions.”

    He chuckled to himself at that, giddy at surviving his first real night alone. He had done it. All by himself. Just a baby…ha! Let Janthro say he was a baby now. With a self-satisfied smirk, Jerem scouted each nearby tree, the frost-covered ground crunching under his feet, before he finally found one that suited him. It was a large white pine that seemed to tower over the rest of its forest brethren. If he could just get to the top, he might be able to figure out where he was. With a running leap, Jerem caught and then swung up onto the lowest branch. He scrambled quickly upward, his small size and slight weight enabling him to reach within four junctures of the top before he was forced to stop. The tree swayed under him as he scanned the horizon on all sides before climbing back down. Once on the ground, he gathered up his things, shouldered his pack, and saddled Brightwind.

    “You know, we’re lucky,” Jerem told her as he gathered up her reins. “I think we can make it to Moondale in another day or so. I’ve never been. Have you?”

    Brightwind didn’t answer so much as took the opportunity to lunge for some grass that peeped out among the browner leaf litter. Jerem tugged her back on track and led her north, closer to the road.

    “Got to find some work,” Jerem continued brightly as they walked, “Something good enough to feed us both. I’m not losing you again, girl. What do you think we can do?”

    Jerem’s conversation meandered on, from all the things he might be able to do, to what Moondale might be like, to what his brother Janthro would say when at last Jerem found him. Finally, they broke through the last of the underbrush to find themselves once again on the main road around Darkwood. With a small cheer at this little victory, Jerem climbed onto Brightwind’s back to ride north and west, heading toward Moondale. He hoped. Jerem sincerely prayed he remembered right from the large Barony map that hung on the wall in the family library. It had been a source of fascination for its beauty rather than its content.

    “What am I going to tell them when I get there?” Jerem muttered to himself as they rode along. “Can’t be me.”

    Jerem fell silent at that, unsure what he could do or say or pretend to be. When it came down to it, Jerem suddenly realized he wasn’t prepared to do much of anything. Being a son of the ruling Baron, even the youngest son and not heir, had meant a childhood filled with activity but none of it useful outside of that world. He could read and write, in two languages no less, but very few peasants could. Actually, he wasn’t sure any of them could, most of the signs in nearby Clearwater being pictures without words. He could fight with swords, but he’d never seen anyone but his father’s most noble guests or guards wear one. He could do sums, recite poetry, sing, dance…the list went on and got more useless from there.

    Jerem shifted his bow higher on his back and snorted. It seemed the only two skills he had that would serve him here were his bow hunting and horse training, which were ironically the same skills that his oldest brother and father had seen as the most worthless and demeaning. If he hadn’t been the fourth son, he would never have needed to get his ‘hands dirty’ is such ways. But it was something he could do, and Jerem held to that tightly. And kept thinking.

    What the kitchen boys did wasn’t so hard.

    Jerem’s willingness to get his ‘hands dirty’ was increasing dramatically the longer he traveled and his hunger grew. By dinnertime, his food was gone, with still no sign of Moondale. Jerem worried he might have been wrong in his directions after all, but he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to spend another night out in the cold, not after waking nearly frozen this morning. Yet as it began to grow dark, Jerem resigned himself to having to. And if he wasn’t to freeze to death, Jerem also knew he would need to find or make shelter, which would take time.

    At the next likely spot, a curve in the road at Darkwood’s border, Jerem stopped. The wood came right up to the road here and its underbrush was thick. If Jerem and Brightwind could force their way through, they could set up camp and be hidden without going so far into the wood’s haunted depths as to risk attack from the evil spirits within as he had the previous night. Jerem frowned at the underbrush, then selected what he thought was a good spot and headed into the forest. Brightwind resisted a little as the branches scraped at her, but with a gentle tug and some encouraging words, Jerem kept her moving.

    It didn’t take long before they could move a bit easier, now among the more mature trees, and Jerem scouted for a place to make camp. He tied Brightwind to the bole of a young oak and got her as settled as she could be for the night. It took him until nearly full dark accomplish this because Jerem wanted to get that bit out of her mouth for the night. She didn’t like it, and Jerem feared that if he kept it in much longer irritation would soon turn to injury. In the end, Jerem had had to take the bridle nearly apart, securing it to his lasso with several clever knots, to create a halter for the horse that he thought he could still turn back into a bridle when he needed it.

    Now shivering in the darkness, Jerem set about making his own shelter. He dragged over several larger pieces of deadfall, and used the branches to make the frame of a low, lean-to structure barely bigger than he was. When the frame was complete, Jerem ‘roofed’ the gaps with pine boughs and then fallen leaves. In the end, he was left with what looked like a long leaf pile with a hole at one end. Jerem’s hands were numb with the cold by this time, barely able to undo the knots on his pack and remove his two blankets. Wrapping both around him, he wriggled into his shelter feet first and fully dressed.

    Jerem pulled his pack closer to block as much of the open end as possible and then tried to sleep. As time passed, Jerem began to warm up. In fact, he was far warmer than he thought he would be, buried among the leaves. Janthro had been right. He wouldn’t freeze to death. Jerem wondered as he finally began to doze if Janthro would be happy to see him.

    Jerem woke to the sound of rain, which slowly seeped into his shelter and soaked his clothes. Jerem tried to keep as dry as possible by pulling his oiled cloak over himself and his things, but it was awkward and ill-fitting in his small shelter. By the time the sun rose that morning Jerem was wet and miserable. But the rain had ceased, and Jerem struggled out into the chill. Getting ready to move took far longer than it had the day before, his numb fingers making every task a trial. Muttering to himself, Jerem finally got his gear on Brightwind’s back, led her to the road and then climbed aboard himself to be began the day’s journey.

    The sun was high and thin, barely warming the air, but Jerem was grateful for even the slight change. And the road itself wasn’t too bad, wet but not treacherously so, though Brightwind would need a bath soon. Jerem guessed it to be a good thing as the dirt that now covered her legs and flecked her underside made her look more common than she was. And while he was still wet, his cloak kept out the worst of the wind. So all in all, things were getting better. Maybe. Not really, but… Jerem wrapped his cloak about him tighter and tried not to cry.

    It was also busier today, Jerem realized with a start, with traffic on the road, even though it was wet and cold. After he’d passed the first farmer’s wagon with merely a wave, the sound of the next sent him fleeing into the cover of the trees beside the road. How could he have been so stupid? It could have been Kiman! So every time thereafter, Jerem hid when he heard someone coming. The first few times, he didn’t look back, just rode as deep as he could and hid silent until the sounds were gone. But when nothing bad happened to him, Jerem grew bolder. He still scurried off the trail and hid Brightwind from sight, but he tied her and then crept back.

    He missed the riders entirely the first couple times, but he stayed closer and closer to the road on successive trips and was rewarded to see wagons of goods traveling past him down the road. A farmer alone, loaded down with sacks that might have been food or grain, and then a pair of wagons, with two outriders on horseback, loaded high with baled hay. Jerem grew hopeful. He just had to be getting near somewhere. He just had to!

    But another night arrived with still no sign of Moondale. No sign of any town. Hope waning, Jerem led Brightwind once again back into the woods for the night, shivering. This time, he decided, he would have a fire. If he had no idea where he was, then his father’s soldiers probably didn’t either. Once again, he tried to recall all his brother, Janthro, had ever said or taught him about building a fire that would be both warm but small, and most importantly not smoky.

    The fire seemed to light easier this time, and his shelter built much more quickly. He dried as much of his wet clothing and blankets as he could by the fire. While he waited for them to dry, he set about preventing another wet night by stretching his oiled cloak across the sapling frame before piling on the leaves and other roofing materials. He hoped this would keep the leaves he’d collected for bedding dry. Once again, Brightwind was left to fend for herself. Jerem re-rigged the halter for her and secured her to a nearby tree. He prayed she wouldn’t get loose. He didn’t think he could stand to lose her.

    “You’ll stay, right girl?” he begged as he left to climb into bed. “Please.”

    Brightwind just huffed at him and began to nibble at what food there was nearby. Jerem’s own stomach growled in response. He eyed the green bits that fell from the horse’s mouth to be lapped up again. Was grass edible? Jerem frowned over at a bit of green peeping out by a nearby tree. Maybe tomorrow he’d find out.

    Tomorrow arrived, and Jerem sampled the grass. It tasted pretty sour and he spat it out again. He finished the last of the waterskins he had brought and looked into deeper Darkwood. Would the ghosts eat him if he was only thirsty? With a resigned sigh, Jerem turned back toward the road. No, he wasn’t going to chance it. Jerem went back to getting ready for the day’s journey to Moondale. If Moondale even existed. Once he was packed, Jerem led Brightwind back to the road and rode on. But he had been riding less than half an hour when he came around a wide curve in the road and saw Moondale in the distance.

    “We did it girl!” Jerem cheered, leaning down to hug the mare’s neck tight.

    But his happiness was tempered by cold and hunger. While Jerem might miss an occasional meal by choice at home, if his explorations took him away from home during meal times, Jerem had never been truly hungry before. In the chaos of his departure, he’d miscalculated his supplies, and his last meal had been over a day ago. Worse, his fingers and toes had long since gone numb. Jerem didn’t think he could even remember what warm felt like now. A biting gust of wind set him to shivering harder as its searching fingers seemed to blow right through him atop Brightwind.

    Jerem climbed down from his horse’s back then, to try and use her larger body as a shield. He pressed himself closer to her shoulder as he walked beside her, to block the wind and possibly even steal a little warmth from her large body.

    “This is horrible, g-g-girl,” Jerem stuttered, his teeth chattering. “There’s got to be s-s-someplace here I can find for us.”

    At least Brightwind seemed to be okay in her heavy, winter-thick coat. Jerem huddled closer. He had to take a weird half-step every few paces, leaned in as he was, but it did make him feel better as they walked. They kept to the road as they approached Moondale, the town nearly deserted as dawn broke. There were some flickering lights in the larger buildings, and more and more began to dot the dawn’s dim light. People were moving in the town, not many at this hour, but the day in Moondale was getting started. Jerem saw a flash of silver, almost like armor, and sharp fear drove Jerem once again into the brush.

    The guard!


    How could he have been so careless? After the incident with the priest, he should have known they’d be hunting for him. And days away wouldn’t be much, not to men like them. And…and he was just stupid. Jerem hurriedly led Brightwind deeper into the cover of the trees. What was he going to do? He couldn’t stay here, shivering. His stomach growled loudly again. No, to stay here was the same as being discovered by Kiman’s men—he would be dead either way. He needed to find out if Moondale was safe. He needed to be secret. Like playing capture the standard with Janthro, the only way to avoid losing would be by being sneaky. Jerem looked back the way he had come and then over to Brightwind and then back toward Moondale again. No. If nothing else, riding into town on horseback would draw all sorts of attention.

    “Sorry girl,” he told her with a sigh, “you’re going to have to stay here for now.”

    Jerem led Brightwind around until he found a spot with a fair bit of grass nearby and then tied her to a tree with his lariat alone. Using his lasso was not as strong a tie as if he’d used her bridle, but Jerem wanted to give her some room to graze and the ability to pull free if threatened. He didn’t know exactly when he would be back and there could be bears or mountain lions or he didn’t know what, only that if she was that scared by it, he wanted her to be able to run.

    Though he hoped she wouldn’t, not for anything short of something like a bear. Jerem ran his hand along her shoulder again, feeling her lean her weight into him in response. She nuzzled against him as his fingers moved to rub her forehead. It might have been his imagination, but even after only a few days back together he sensed she wanted to be with him. Brightwind watched him as he moved away to test his contraption, before bored, she began nosing at the dusting of snow to munch on the grasses that poked through.

    “I’m hungry, too,” Jerem agreed and spent the next several minutes clearing away the snow in her range with his boot, to expose more of the grass beneath. At least she’d get some breakfast that way.

    Satisfied Brightwind would be safe while he explored, Jerem sought out a tree to climb. He scrambled up easily, and from its top branches he could see nearly the whole town.

    So that’s Moondale.

    It didn’t seem all that different than Clearwater, the town closest to his family’s home, though it was a good deal smaller. Unlike Clearwater, Moondale only had one road into and out of town, winding from the southeast to the northwest, to skirt the edges of Darkwood Forest. There was another road running parallel to it for the length of the town, farther back toward Darkwood, and several smaller streets connecting the two major roads like the rungs of a ladder. Buildings dotted the streets, with a large town green left empty in the center.

    Even early as it was, there seemed to be a surprising number of people about. Jerem could see figures as they bustled up and down the main street, and among the other, smaller roads that made up the town itself, but he could not make out the details. He would have to get closer before he could guess how easily he might blend in.

    Think it through first.

    His mom’s favorite phrase, especially if she thought Jerem to be doing something he either shouldn’t or couldn’t. As much as he wanted to scramble back down and just ask for food, he needed to plan. Jerem squinted as he tried to make out more details of the town and its people, before laughing aloud as he unconsciously flashed back to playing stalking games with Janthro. Janthro had always said he was part squirrel.

    Jerem studied the buildings once more, noting that everything in Moondale seemed to be made of wood, plaster and thatch, rather than the stone used in Clearwater. In fact, there were only two stone buildings to be seen, one of which was clearly the blacksmith’s shop in the southwest corner of the town. The other stood near the town’s center, one of the largest buildings there, and might have been an inn. The rest of the buildings were arranged along various roads. Based on the wagons of grain, and hay moving back and forth, Moondale was probably a farming town, with few local resident business owners, who plied their trades on the visitors from the ranches and farms that surrounded it. On closer observation, the flash of sliver he’d seen turned out not to be armor, but the blacksmith bringing something metal into a two-story wooden building. He might just be safe after all.

    It didn’t matter, really. Jerem couldn’t feel his toes anymore and he was willing to risk capture just to get warm again. Just ’cause it’s dangerous, doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Jerem chuckled as he recalled his brother’s advice. This might not be a jump from the roof, but there were still things he could do to make sure that if there were household men in the town, they wouldn’t find him.

    First, his swords had to go. They’d seemed like such a good idea when he was packing, but they were not a weapon of the common class and most certainly not anything a boy his age would know how to use unless he were from a noble family. He didn’t want to leave them, but still he pulled them from his pack and laid them atop his one waterproofed cloak carefully. Jerem’s fingers ran over his gently pointed ears. No hiding those, not with his short hair, and he’d never seen anyone but his brothers and mother who’d had ears like that. But if he pulled his cloak hood high, it might be enough. His glance went down his body and over his clothing. It was a little too fine to be common, but the last few days of sleeping outside had done wonders for its ability to blend in. Who said dirt was a bad thing?

    Jerem carefully went through every possession he had brought with him. Anything that so much as hinted he might come from the upper class or a boy his age would not likely own was placed with his swords in the cloak. His heavy sweater with the Telcontur rearing horse on it, his unstrung ash bow with its string carefully coiled and stashed dry in his small quiver, the quiver, even his brush with the fancy carved handle, it all was laid down to be wrapped tightly and then cached beneath leaves and rocks. He could come back and get it later. After he’d gotten a job and a place to stay.

    Jerem settled Brightwind last. She was his only friend in the world right now and Jerem was strangely reluctant to be out of her sight. But like his swords, owning a horse and begging for work didn’t go together, not even for an adult. A parentless child would draw even more suspicion. Jerem shuddered as his thoughts drifted over his subsequent capture and return home. Never again. He was never going back, not even if they begged him. He hugged Brightwind one last time, the knot of his rope pressing into his shoulder.

    “I wish I could just let you be, but you’ll still run, if I let you,” he told her with a rueful chuckle as he checked the knot to see that it could come loose should something spook her bad enough. “But I promise I’ll be back. And if you get really scared, you can break free.” He stepped back and headed for the road. “I promise,” he told her one last time.

    Jerem pulled up the hood of his cloak up to block the wind and hide his face and hiked back over to the main road. With one last worried glance to the area where he’d left Brightwind, Jerem headed into town. No one paid any attention to him at all, except when he’d gotten in the way of a heavily-laden wagon, and then the man had cursed at him roundly. Jerem ducked away quickly and hid in an alley until the man was gone. There were no other children about at all. Jerem didn’t know if this was normal or not. Maybe the bitter cold had kept them all inside. Maybe there were no children.

    Jerem’s stomach growled loudly, drawing his attention inward. He really wanted to find some food. He stuck his hands in his pockets, jingling the coins there, but knew he didn’t have all that much. He needed more. He passed the blacksmith’s first, the heat of the forge drawing him inside despite himself. It wouldn’t have been Jerem’s first choice, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and it was warm.

    Jerem did not see anyone as he crossed the threshold, though he stood for a long while in the doorway just soaking up the heat. He was standing in a large, open room, littered with various tools and tack, repaired or in the process of being repaired. One whole wall to his right was stacked floor to ceiling with pieces of hardwood, split and ready to be made into charcoal fuel. Charcoal was piled next to it, near an opening that must lead to the actual forge based on the heat coming from it.

    Jerem stood in this first room until his fingers began to hurt as they warmed. Trying to distract himself, Jerem headed over to the opening. He stepped out into a two-walled outbuilding to find the forge itself, bright red coals glowing in preparation for the day’s work. Even open to the air in this chill, the area around the forge was comfortably warm.

    The blacksmith was manning the bellows, pumping the great device to provide his fire with air. The man was large, with burly, thick muscles cording his bare shoulders and arms. He had curly black hair and a mustache that covered much of his face as the smith looked down at his fire. There was a younger boy in the smithy as well, standing a little away with a piece of long metal in his hands. He, too, had curly black hair and dark eyes. Might he be the blacksmith’s son? Jerem didn’t have much time to ponder this, as the boy looked over and spotted him.

    “Mr. Cander,” the boy said.

    The blacksmith looked up, spotting Jerem as well.

    “Can I help you?” he asked.

    Jerem nodded in the affirmative, adding, “Yes sir. I’m kind of new in town and I was looking for a job.”

    The Blacksmith frowned at him a moment, but his arms never stopped their rhythmic pumping of the bellows.

    “How old are you?” the man asked doubtfully.

    “Sixteen,” Jerem answered promptly.

    The boy with the rod snorted a laugh at this answer, but the blacksmith just replied, “Awful short for sixteen. Where’s your folks?”

    Jerem’s chin jerked up, “Dead.”

    Some sympathy came to the Blacksmith’s face.

    “Where’d you come from?” he asked.

    “South,” Jerem answered truthfully, but vaguely. “I’d like a job if you have it.”

    The sympathetic look deepened.

    “Sorry, kid,” the man answered at last. “Harlin here’s my apprentice and there’s not enough work for more.”

    Jerem took a deep, shuddering breath. It had been too much to hope for that the first place he stopped would have hired him. He summoned his courage, dipped his head, thanked the man, and left. Just as he did, he heard the apprentice, Harlan, ask, ‘What’s wrong with his ears?’

    Jerem reached up to touch them. Nope, the hood wasn’t doing him much good. But they were just a different shape. Why was that ‘wrong’? Jerem shook away the distracting thought as the cold hit him once more. He continued down the main street, past two more of what were clearly homes, to stop at the next likely workplace.

    It turned out to be a bakery, whose matron by the counter flat out told him to leave if he wasn’t going to buy anything. She added a couple comments under her breath as he did that implied he would rob her if she took her eyes off him even for a moment. It made Jerem angry, and he stomped all the way to his next option, a building off toward the opposite end of town from the Blacksmith. It turned out to be a harness-makers.

    But he was too small for the harness maker, too. Too weak for the miller and his sawmill. Too dumb for the physicker, though the man had done nothing more than look to Jerem’s ears before declaring that. Jerem didn’t even get the chance to explain he could both read and write. It was late afternoon by the time he made it back to the large building in the center of the town he had seen from his treetop perch that morning, and Jerem was cold, hungry, frustrated, and more than a little scared it would get dark and he still would not have a place to stay.

    The sign that hung above the building’s double oak doors said ‘Hook and Sinker’, though the letters were old, chipped, and barely legible. The picture above, of a man fishing, with the teardrop weight and hook abnormally large, was much clearer, bright with new paint. Jerem didn’t know exactly what the Hook and Sinker might be, but his teeth were chattering uncontrollably as his body shook.

    It could be the inn he’d hoped for, or it could be a fishmongers, but it didn’t matter because Jerem figured it would be warm in either case. He stepped through the door, to find himself in the wide common room of a tavern. He was standing toward the right edge of its longer side, facing a bar that took up three-quarters of the opposite wall. Tables were spaced out throughout the room in between and booths lined what free wall space there was. A great fireplace dominated the wall to his left, burning merrily and making the whole room quite warm. There was a curtained doorway next to the bar across from him, and Jerem guessed it must be the kitchen when a young woman carrying a tray of dirty dishes headed through it. There was another door, which exited from the wall opposite the fireplace which Jerem thought might lead to the boarding rooms.

    Jerem was also not alone in the inn. There were a fair number of people at the various tables, most of whom looked up when he arrived. But thankfully, nearly everyone returned to whatever they were doing shortly thereafter. Only the tall, lanky man at its center kept his eyes on Jerem. He had wispy brown hair, thinning at the top and appeared to be middle-aged. He was wearing a white apron, with a towel tucked into the belt, so Jerem deduced he was the innkeeper. Trying not to look too desperate, Jerem walked over to him. He stopped about a foot away, looked up, and smiled.

    “I’m looking for work, sir,” Jerem began. “And I have nowhere to stay. Could I work here?”

    The man looked down at him a moment, not at all unkindly, and Jerem’s hopes rose. But they were interrupted by a call for ale from a table in the corner and whatever thoughts might have been in the innkeeper’s mind about him working there were shaken loose by the demands of the moment.

    “Sorry lad,” the innkeeper added quickly. “I don’t have any work. And folks are callin’.” He waved in the direction of the door as he moved off to get the requested drink. “Try Pacquin’s or somewhere.”

    “I’ve already been,” Jerem protested, “No one else has work. Please.”

    Jerem hated that he sounded so pathetic, begging like a baby, but he really didn’t want to spend another night in the cold. And he didn’t even know where another town was. And he didn’t know if Brightwind would still be there. And it was snowing. And…

    “I don’t have anything for you,” the innkeeper repeated. “Sorry, but that’s how it is.”

    The man was already back at work before Jerem could even protest further. He just stood there in the center of the room, trying not to cry. Why was this all so impossible? Why wouldn’t anyone help him? He swallowed hard, drew on every ounce of courage he had, and turned toward the door. He hadn’t taken more than three steps, when a new voice said,

    “Gyillian Michael MacCafferty, I’m ashamed of you!”

    It was a woman’s voice that had spoken, full of reproach. Jerem tried not to be drawn in. The longer he stayed, here in this warm place, the harder it would be to leave and the more likely he would just start crying like some sort of baby and… Jerem sniffed hugely, but took another step closer to the door.

    “You, boy!” the female voice continued, “Wait!”

    Jerem did turn around then, to find a middle-aged woman approaching him. It was clear she and the innkeeper were related in some way, as they had similar faces and eyes, though this woman was plump where the innkeeper had been lean. She wore her long, light brown hair in a single thick braid down her back, and was dressed in a simple light blue shirt and darker skirt, all covered with a large bright red apron. She caught his eyes and smiled warmly at him.

    Jerem unconsciously smiled back as she drew near. Without asking, she reached out and took one of his hands, her skin nearly burning hot against his in its cold-reddened state. She squeezed gently.

    “You’re all cold,” she told him as if he didn’t know, tugging him in the direction of the bar. “Come and get warmed up, boy.”

    Jerem followed dutifully, hope rising. Could she actually be able to help him? He sat on the stool as directed. By this time, the woman had had a closer opportunity to look him over. The innkeeper had also had time to come near too.

    “Cerna, you can’t be serious,” he began.

    “Look at him!” she demanded in return. “He’s just a boy! He’s wet, freezing, and you’re going to set him back out there?”

    “We don’t have a job, and that’s what he was asking for.”

    Cerna tsked at him.

    “Gyillian, sometimes I think you got rocks for brains,” she chided. “Can’t you see he has nowhere else to go?” She turned suddenly to Jerem. “Do you?”

    Jerem just shook his head, mute, afraid to say anything lest he destroy his chances. Cerna nodded firmly at him.

    “You can’t just turn a child out in this snow. “

    “I wasn’t going to…” Gyillian protested.

    “I know,” Cerna cut him off. “But go open that door and look outside a moment.”

    That seemed to stop the conversation as Gyillian did as Cerna had asked. He opened the door wide, stuck his head out, and shut it quickly. He returned shaking his head.

    “He can stay,” was all Gyillian got out, before another customer required his attention. He waved at the man to signal he had heard and then waved distractedly back in their general direction. “You deal with him.”

    Cerna turned back to Jerem, with a chuckle.

    “Sometimes I think my brother forgets there’s a world outside this place,” she laughed. “Would you like some hot cocoa?”

    Jerem nearly burst into tears, but managed another nod.

    “Stay right here, then.”

    Cerna disappeared into the kitchen, to return with not only the promised hot chocolate but a steaming bowl full of beef stew and a hunk of bread as well. She placed it in front of him and Jerem looked at it a moment.

    “I can’t pay…” he began, embarrassed.

    “We’ll sort that out in a bit, lad,” Cerna assured him. “Now tuck in.”

    Jerem ate ravenously, not leaving a crumb of food behind. The food and drink did wonders for his mood and Jerem looked about the Hook and Sinker hopefully. The patrons all seemed friendly enough, and no one was looking at him funny. Cerna and Gyillian were taking care of various tables, along with two young women and a boy that looked only a few years older than Jerem. Jerem hadn’t been sitting long, when Cerna came back to sit beside him once more.

    “So what’s your name?” she asked.

    “Jerem,” he answered promptly, trying to make a good impression.

    “And where are you from?”

    “South by Clearwater.”

    It was far more detail than he would have liked to have given, but he really needed this job and ‘away south’ wasn’t going to do any more than make them think he was in trouble. Which he was, but hopefully Clearwater was a big enough town to mask just what kind of trouble he was in. Cerna nodded and continued on much the same path as the other people in the town Jerem had talked to. She asked on his parents, where he was going, and what he intended to do. Thankfully, if she had noticed his ears, she did not comment on them. Another man, of an age with Cerna and Gyillian, arrived while they talked, rolling in a barrel of something, to stop behind the bar and raise his eyebrows at Cerna.

    “Another stray, hon?” the dark haired man said with a laugh. “Gyil says you’ve moved up from cats.”

    “Say hello to our new….” Cerna paused here as if at a loss for exactly what Jerem’s job would be. “…helper.” she decided on at last. “His name is Jerem. Jerem, this is my husband, Cob.”

    “Hi kid,” Cob said with a wave, before he lifted the barrel up with a grunt and shifted it behind the bar.

    “Hi,” Jerem ventured back tentatively.

    Cob just returned to his work and Jerem waited on his stool, hoping for some more direction as to what he was supposed to do. Cerna was no help, leaving him with a brief ‘be back soon.’ Nearly half an hour later, Jerem was dozing against the bar, head pillowed on his arms. He hadn’t even taken his pack off his back, just nodded off where he sat. The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake by Cerna.

    “Time for bed, Jerem,” she explained.

    Jerem looked about the now-empty common room, blinking and rubbing his eyes. How late was it? Jerem felt a momentary twinge of worry for Brightwind, but knew she was better equipped than he was to stay out in the cold overnight and he had left her in a well-sheltered spot. The twinge of worry for himself was sharper. Where was he supposed to sleep? He had a job, but did that mean he was expected to come back in the morning? Some of his fear and confusion must have been evident on his features, because Cerna spoke again.

    “You’ll have a room upstairs,” she explained. “Work starts before dawn.”

    She gestured Jerem to follow her, which he rose and then did. They walked over to the door opposite the fireplace, opened it, and then walked into the quiet hallway beyond. There were doors to either side as he passed, guest rooms Jerem supposed, and the hall ended at a stairway to the second floor. Jerem followed Cerna up the stairs and across the second floor. There were fewer rooms on this level, and she stopped at one of the last doors on the left, and opened the door.

    Inside was a small room, with a bed, small table, and dresser. A stonework column broke up the wood paneling on one wall, and Jerem could feel a comforting draft of warm air from the shared chimney through the little grate that covered a gap in the stones just above the floor. There were bright yellow curtains on the room’s single, shuttered window, and a matching yellow quilt on the bed. Jerem didn’t know if this was a guest room or staff room, but Cerna gestured him in and he went. He slid off his pack gratefully and placed it on the floor next to the dresser. Cerna sat on the bed and Jerem looked back at her curiously.

    “So what can you do, Jerem?” she asked.

    Jerem’s mind raced through all the things he’d thought of while riding here.

    “I can clean up, sweep, wash, whatever you need.” Jerem paused for breath, and recalled the stable he had seen attached to the rear of the building. “I can take care of horses. I’m real good at that.”

    “Are you now,” Cerna mused. “Well, come down just before dawn and start there, then. We’ve got four guests with animals, and they’ll need to be tended. Ask Marcos where everything is. That’s the boy you saw earlier. He’ll be around. And when you’re done with that, well… we’ll just see.”

    Jerem nodded eagerly.

    “This is your room now, Jerem,” Cerna continued, patting the bed beside her and Jerem sat as directed. “For as long as you work for us, your room is included in the wages. As are meals. So the pay won’t be much.”

    “That’s okay,” Jerem reassured her quickly. “This is better than anything I had before.”

    Cerna frowned at that comment.

    “Where were you going? On the road all alone?”

    “To my brother, Janthro,” Jerem answered honestly, because he couldn’t think of anything but the truth that quickly, “He’s in Windshae…somewhere.”

    “Does your brother know you’re coming?” she asked deftly.

    “Sort of,” Jerem replied, “I think. I didn’t know where else to go.”

    Cerna nodded as if something made sense to her now, before asking, “No family left in Clearwater?”

    The memory of his beating came back quite vividly, making his vehement head shake not a lie but the simple truth. There was no one left for him in Clearwater.

    “Do you have any money?”

    Jerem shook his head again, digging in his pockets to pull out what few coins he had. Cerna looked at them as he held out his hand and chuckled.

    “Well, we can certainly help you with all that,” she said after a moment. “So get settled and go to sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day. The horses should be turned out first thing.”

    His memory jogged, Jerem asked haltingly, “Cerna, ma’am, I do have a horse. That’s how I got here. I left her outside of town because I wasn’t sure if I could find work or if I’d be moving on. But could I bring her in tomorrow morning? If she could stay? She won’t be any trouble. And she won’t eat much, I swear, and you can take what it costs out of my pay, just…she’s all I have left.”

    He tried not to sound too desperate with the last, but he was. Cerna watched him grow more and more agitated, before patting the bed once more.

    “You go to sleep, Jerem, and then get your horse after you’ve done morning chores. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

    “Thank you, ma’am,” Jerem told her as she rose.

    “You’re welcome, Jerem.”

    She shut the door behind her and Jerem didn’t even bother to unpack. He just stripped off his clothes, crawled into bed, and slept warm and comfortable for the first time in days.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  5. - Top - End - #5
    Ogre in the Playground
     
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    Checks odd Giant threads I'm in... sees updates on stories

    Right as I'm getting ready for bed too. I'll read this in the morning, but right now I am super tired.
    "I'M just a guy with a boomerang... I didn't ask for all this flying... and MAGIC!!!" -Sokka

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    Quote Originally Posted by Wuff View Post
    the biggest nerd ever who transforms into BEAR is of course alluring.

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Checks odd Giant threads I'm in... sees updates on stories

    Right as I'm getting ready for bed too. I'll read this in the morning, but right now I am super tired.
    No worries. I just hope you're enjoying it.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Indeed I am enjoying, time to catch up...

    Welp, I don't have much to complain about. Other than that Brightwind better not die in the cold. She survived so far, dammit.

    I have a weird attachment to horses, I blame the Wheel of Time XD
    "I'M just a guy with a boomerang... I didn't ask for all this flying... and MAGIC!!!" -Sokka

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    Quote Originally Posted by Wuff View Post
    the biggest nerd ever who transforms into BEAR is of course alluring.

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Indeed I am enjoying, time to catch up...

    Welp, I don't have much to complain about. Other than that Brightwind better not die in the cold. She survived so far, dammit.

    I have a weird attachment to horses, I blame the Wheel of Time XD
    Speaking of Brightwind..... Chapter 3

    Spoiler: Chapter 3: A Horse of a Different Color
    Show


    Chapter 3

    A Horse of a Different Color


    The next morning, Jerem woke happy. It was almost a surprise, to actually be happy. He was warm. He had a job. He could get Brightwind as soon as he finished his chores. Jerem smiled proudly. And he had done it all by himself! Just a little bit here, and he could go find Janthro, and then everything would be all right again.
    Jerem dressed quickly and scampered down the stairs. The Hook and Sinker was quiet, the only sounds coming from the kitchen. Jerem followed the noise through the beaded curtain. Cerna was at the hearth, mixing something in a large bowl.

    “Morning,” she said, pointing with her spoon toward a side door. “Stable’s that way. Marcos is out already.”

    Jerem followed her instructions out into the cold of a small alley. The stable stood opposite and he dashed over. Inside was warmer and smelled strongly with the familiar scent of horses. The young, dark haired boy Jerem had seen last night passed by, leading horses out of their stalls. He looked to be about Jerem’s own age, had Jerem been human, somewhere between nine and ten. Jerem fell into step behind him, to follow the latest horse to a small paddock attached to the stable’s other end. When the boy turned around, he jumped and swore, surprised.

    “Sorry,” Jerem apologized.

    “’t’s okay,” Marcos answered. “Jerem, right?”

    “Yeah.”

    “You know what to do?”

    Jerem nodded.

    “The hay’s up there,” Marcos pointed up to the loft. “The shovel’s over there.” Another point to a small doorway inside the stable. “And the other stuff’s in there.” This time Marcos indicated another door next to the first. “I’ll get the rest of them.”

    And with that, Marcos headed off to retrieve yet another horse. Jerem went to get a shovel and began to clean out stalls. The work was hard, but not all that much different than what Master Shaw had expected back home, and Jerem and Marcos found themselves done, stalls clean and horses turned out, in remarkably short order. By silent, mutual agreement, they went inside to wash up and have breakfast. Marcos showed him where the water pump was outside the kitchen, though Jerem’s hands were numb with cold by the time they were clean, and then led him inside to sit at the worktable to one side of the hearth. Cerna served them eggs with potatoes and sausage, and Jerem was introduced to the remainder of the Hook and Sinker’s staff. Myra and Carolyn were the two waitresses, one tall and blond, the other brunette and shorter, but both nice enough. At least they said hello to him, and he said hello back as they all ate.

    Jerem didn’t say much to anyone as he ate, but listened carefully. It seemed much of the conversation flowed around various people that lived in the town, whom Jerem did not know yet. But there was no mention of Baronial soldiers, not even in passing, and Jerem was hopeful that he might have truly escaped.

    After breakfast, he was sent to work inside getting ready for the lunch crowd. He set out chairs, wiped tables, and got out dishes. He peeled so many potatoes that he thought he might be seeing them in his sleep. But as tired as he was, as hard as this work was, Jerem couldn’t complain. He might have had fewer chores and more playtime back home, but he could vividly recall being hungry and cold and that was good enough reason for him to keep going.

    Jerem left immediately after lunch to go get Brightwind and make sure the things he’d left behind were as protected as they could be. He didn’t have much time before they expected him to begin his afternoon chores and wanted to make sure he wasn’t late, not on his first day. As he walked out of town, Jerem considered what to do with the possessions he had left behind. He debated bringing his bow back with Brightwind, but in the end he decided to keep it hidden with the rest. Hidden with his swords. He had not seen one single person yet who had worn a sword and the way Cerna had looked at him when explaining Brightwind made him uncomfortable. Hard enough for him to have a horse. Swords would give away who he was for sure. And then Kiman would come, a thought that still set Jerem’s heart into panicked racing.

    So Jerem had a plan. Tied around his back, much like a pack, was some canvas. He’d found the irregularly-shaped oilcloth in the stable and was told it had been part of a wagon once, but torn as it was now, trash. It would be a perfect way to protect his belongings, though. He also had some more rope and high hopes of making a more durable cache for his swords and other items. Eventually he would bring them to the Hook and Sinker. Just not yet.

    Jerem’s pace sped as he closed in on where he’d left Brightwind, worried she’d broken free and run. He arrived at the clearing. It was empty.

    She’s gone!


    Jerem’s heart sank, and his stomach twisted, but before he could actually cry, Jerem heard the sound of hooves and was nearly butted to the ground as Brightwind’s muzzle collided with his shoulder. Jerem recovered his balance and straightened to find Brightwind loose but there, and threw his small arms as far around her neck as they would go.

    “Brightwind!” he cried joyously.

    She let him scratch her behind the ears as he took up the dangling end of his lasso. He led Brightwind back to the tree where he had originally tied her and re-secured her rope. She seemed annoyed at this, but didn’t do more than huff her displeasure. Jerem bribed her with an apple from his pocket anyway, which threatened to derail his entire plan as she pinned him against the tree searching for more.

    Finally he squirmed free and retrieved his buried belongings. The outer wrappings still looked good, and when he opened the bundle, the inside was still dry and rust-free. He re-wrapped it carefully and then wrapped it one more time in the oiled canvas he had brought. Finally he tied the whole thing tight, placed it back in the trench, covered it with rocks and leaves, and inspected his handiwork.

    It should be all right, for a couple weeks at any rate. Once he found a good hiding place, he could bring them into Moondale. Jerem then retrieved Brightwind’s saddle. It was a little worse for wear, being left out in the weather as it had been, but Jerem figured it might actually help his cause if it looked a bit shoddy. He put it on Brightwind atop her saddle blanket and then checked her bridle before attaching the reins once more. She bore it all placidly and Jerem promised her hay and water just as soon as he could. Still, it was late afternoon when he finally climbed aboard Brightwind’s back to begin the ride home. His return was quicker, atop Brightwind, so it didn’t take long before he found himself riding into the town proper and passing the blacksmith’s shop. Good. He would be in time for dinner. Even better, he should have just enough time to make up any missed chores after that.

    Jerem had just ridden past the forge when a man he had not met before came out from Pacquin’s store to watch him, and then before he had gone twenty feet more another man joined the stranger. This one, a skinny, hawk-nosed fellow, Jerem remembered from the candle-makers. He had told him to go away. Both men had funny looks on their faces as they watched him ride toward them up the main road, their eyes narrowed like something was wrong. Jerem didn’t think much on it, his attention on the Hook and Sinker beyond them, but then a third man came striding up suddenly.

    “Whoa, girl,” Jerem told Brightwind as the stranger stopped directly in their path. He didn’t want to run the man over.

    This stranger was a bear of a man and one that Jerem wasn’t sure if he had met yesterday. He had curly black hair, a thick beard, and heavy brows. And he did not look at all happy. The stranger reached out and grabbed Brightwind by the bridle.

    “Hey!” Jerem protested.

    “Where’d you get the horse, boy,” the man demanded angrily, not letting go of Brightwind.

    It surprised Jerem, but he answered promptly.

    “She’s mine.”

    The stranger snorted derisively at Jerem’s answer and his grip tightened on Brightwind’s bridle.

    “Not likely. Get down,” the man ordered.

    “No,” Jerem snapped back petulantly. He was already late and going to get in trouble. Besides, who was this guy that he thought he could tell him what to do anyway?

    “Get down or I’ll take you down,” the man warned darkly.

    “Why should I?” Jerem asked hesitantly after a beat, growing frightened by the man’s tone. What was going on here? Who was he?

    “Because I said so, boy!”

    The man didn’t give Jerem the chance to even think of a response, much less give it, as he reached forward, grabbed Jerem by the arm and pulled him out of the saddle. Jerem barely had enough time to kick his feet free of the stirrups and get them back under him before he hit the ground

    “Hey!” Jerem protested. “Leggo!”

    “Where’d you get the horse?” the man demanded again, shaking him.

    “She’s mine,” Jerem repeated, to be shaken hard once more. It made his teeth rattle, and his arm was starting to hurt where the man held him so tight. Brightwind was shifting anxiously at the sudden movements and noise, but the man’s tight grip on her bridle kept her from moving too much.

    There was also a crowd gathering at the fuss, five or six men strong now, with at least one more on the way. The men surrounded Jerem and the large stranger and Jerem heard one of them ask what was going on.

    “I think we got us a horse thief,” answered the man who held him.

    “What!” Jerem demanded, shocked.

    “You stole this horse!” the man snapped back with another sharp shake.

    “Did not!” Jerem insisted angrily.

    “Then where’d you get it?” someone else asked.

    “She’s mine!” Jerem cried yet again, to be ignored this time, too.

    “Take it to the green, we’ll find out where he got it soon enough,” a third man, a thin, lanky fellow in brown put in, “it’s got to have some sort of markings on it. Deal with the thief in a bit.”

    “But she’s mine!” Jerem insisted loudly, but no one seemed to be listening

    “Liar!”

    Jerem didn’t even see who said it, but the crowd sure heard it, a dark rumble following the accusation and masking Jerem’s cry of denial. Suddenly a hand reached out and tore Brightwind’s reins from his grip.

    “No!” Jerem cried and pushed forward to try to get them back.

    “Thief!” yelled someone else.

    “Get him!”

    And then suddenly that large man had Jerem around the waist, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him high off the ground. Jerem kicked and struggled but could do nothing. He could just see Brightwind’s head above the crowd, being pulled away.

    “Get away from her!” he screamed, fighting helplessly. “She’s mine! I told you the truth! Leave her alone!”

    Someone must have yanked hard on Brightwind’s bridle, for Jerem heard her squeal.

    “Stop it!” he wailed. “You’re hurting her!”

    But he was just too small. His kicks seemed to bounce off the legs of the burly man who held him high off the ground. In desperation, Jerem bit the man, who dropped him with a yell. Jerem made a break for Brightwind.

    “You vicious cur!”

    The man didn’t just grab this time, he hit Jerem hard, knocking Jerem to the ground with a strangled cry. Jerem rolled on his back to find the man about to hit him again. Jerem curled into a ball, lifted his hands to his head, and closed his eyes, hoping to somehow protect himself. But then there was a sound like he’d never heard before, somewhere between a growl, a scream, and some hoarse nightmare, and the blow never landed. Cries of alarm and confusion broke out around him.

    “What the?”

    “Get it!”

    You get it!”

    “Look out!”

    There were several thunks and the sound of rapid hoofbeats closed in. Jerem opened his eyes, desperate. They were going to hurt Brightwind! But as he looked up, his eyes widened in awe. Brightwind now stood before him, rearing and grunting, her hooves and teeth lashing out at any who came close, making a wide circle around them both. There was even a man on the ground, curled around his stomach. Jerem sat up, a wide smile spreading across his features. Brightwind was protecting him! She was amazing! He scrambled to his feet and raised his hand. Brightwind stopped rearing to circle him again, halting only when Jerem’s hand rested against her withers, ears back and snorting.

    “I told you she was mine!” Jerem shouted angrily.

    But the townsfolk seemed to be regrouping rather than listing. Out of the corner of his eye, Jerem could see the big man who’d grabbed him before shoving his way through the crowd. And this time, he had a rope. Panicked, Jerem reached for Brightwind’s mane. But before he could swing aboard, someone grabbed his ankle and he went face down in the mud. Brightwind whirled to protect him, but someone seized her by the bridle. Jerem struggled to his feet even as Brightwind struggled to get to him. Someone got a rope around Brightwind’s neck, and then another, pulling the horse away no matter how she fought. Then someone wrenched Jerem’s arms back which drove him to his knees again. He was going to lose her! Jerem took a deep breath for one last try to break free.

    “Just what in the name of all that’s holy is going on here!”

    The sharp voice cut into the chaos, and the crowd parted to reveal Cerna marching forward angrily, her hands on her hips, her brother Gyillian following close behind. She spotted Jerem, kneeling on the ground, his arms bent back and face bright red where he had been struck, and her face darkened with fury.

    “And what, Jake Lambert, are you doing to that boy!”

    The man who was bending his arm let go instantly and Jerem pitched forward. He was on his feet quickly, but hesitated, torn between running for Cerna and running for Brightwind. Cerna, and her ire, followed his panicked gaze to Brightwind.

    “Michael Dernin, now I know that’s not your horse!”

    The man with the rope stopped dead, to argue, “This boy stole it! I don’t know who it belongs to, but it ain’t him!”

    The other men holding the ropes on Brightwind voiced their agreement, scowling in Jerem’s direction. Jerem couldn’t help Brightwind, and she was tied too tight to even help herself. Jerem ran to Cerna instead.

    “She is so mine!” he insisted, pleading. “Just like I told you! Please! You’ve got to help me! You can’t let them take her!”

    Cerna folded him into the safety of her arms, and Jerem clung to her tightly. She turned back to Michael.

    “You have proof that horse don’t belong to the boy?” she asked mildly, but with an undertone that forcibly reminded Jerem of a mama bear watching a coyote approach her cubs.

    “Cerna, he can’t possibly have a horse of any kind, let alone one this fine,” Michael argued. “I mean just look at him! By himself, those ears, somethin’ ain’t right with the boy. He’s got to be a thief!” Michael’s gaze hardened. “You don’t want to go on harboring thievin’ throwback, do you? Get on back to your kitchen and leave him to us. We’ll get him to fess up.”

    This seemed to meet with the approval of the muttering crowd and the man who’d grabbed him before now advanced on them both. Cerna didn’t move. Instead, Gyillian stepped forward, shielding them both, Cerna’s husband, Cob, now beside him. Gyillian raised his hands for silence, which reluctantly fell. Clearly innkeeper was a more important job than Jerem would have thought. Cerna squeezed him around the shoulders reassuringly and Jerem straightened a bit to listen.

    “Now, from the beginning,” Gyillian asked Michael Dernin, “What happened?”

    “This boy came riding in on a stolen horse!” Michael insisted. “And we stopped him.”

    “Yeah!”

    “He stole it!”

    “Deformed little thief!”

    Gyillian raised his hands once more until the buzz again died away.

    “Did any of you actually see him steal it? Do any of you own it?”

    The crowd muttered a lot after that, but no one spoke up to accuse Jerem or claim the animal.

    “I asked him who it belonged to, and he said it was his,” Michael argued into the silence. “No kid could have a horse like that.”

    “I could so!” Jerem put in angrily.

    “Thief!”

    “Liar!” Jerem shouted back from the safety of Cerna’s arms.

    “Enough!” Gyillian yelled, before it could degenerate further. “Enough of this! The lad’s just a child, Michael. What’s your excuse?”

    That brought order again, and Gyillian continued questioning the people. When they finally reached the point where Brightwind had broken free to protect Jerem, Gyillian halted the story.

    “Let me see if I understand this. You think the lad stole this horse and the horse was so grateful that it wanted to stay with him? Wanted to stay so bad it got violent?” Gyillian shook his head. “Let the horse go a minute, Michael.”

    Michael shook his head vehemently, as did the other men holding the ropes.

    “It’ll savage us!”

    “Yeah!”

    “It nearly stove in Barth’s head!”

    “You’re crazy!”

    Gyillian signaled for silence once more. When he finally had it, he turned back to Jerem.

    “Lad, will that horse hurt anyone, if she gets let go?”

    Jerem honestly didn’t know. But he knew they had to risk it. If he couldn’t get Brightwind to be good, the townsfolk would put her down as savage. And even losing her would be better than getting her killed here. Unable to speak, he nodded.

    “You want to be the one to let her go?” Gyillian questioned further.

    Jerem nodded again and with a deep breath stepped away from Cerna’s side. On wobbly legs he walked beside Gyillian over to Brightwind. The crowd had grown to more than double its original numbers, to include much of the town. Jerem felt like he was going to throw up. But the crowd parted before him as he approached, backing away to give the men and the horse a wide circle of room, just in case. Jerem looked up fearfully at Gyillian.

    “Go on now, lad,” the innkeeper told him.

    Brightwind snorted and tugged at the ropes, still held tight by the men, and Jerem reached out. She did not lunge or bite at him, but let his small hand spread gently across her velvety nose. Jerem swallowed hard.

    “It’s okay, girl,” he told her shakily. “It’s going to be okay. But when they let go, you need to stay put, alright?”

    Jerem’s hand moved to her neck and down along her shoulder.

    “Just stay put,” he whispered, his voice still shaking. “Please…”

    Jerem turned to Michael Dernin, the man who’d called him thief.

    “Let Brightwind go.”

    “Drop the ropes, guys,” Gyillian seconded. “And let’s just see who this horse belongs to.”

    The men dropped the ropes and stepped back in quick succession, recalling Brightwind’s earlier ferocious defense. The horse started to rear as her bindings freed, but Jerem just grabbed her mane and held tight. The mare settled once more without more than a snort. Jerem took the ropes off her neck as fast as he could then, to free her and clasp her reins tightly in his own hand. She did not resist him in the slightest. Jerem finally looked back to find Gyillian beside him.

    “I think this horse belongs to Jerem,” he said at last. “Don’t you Michael?”

    “Then how’d he get it?” Michael argued back. “That kid’s was askin’ all over town for work, before you went soft. He had a horse like that, why does he need a job, then? Answer me, boy, how’d you get that?”

    “She’s always been mine,” Jerem explained after a glance at Gyillian for support. “I saw her born. Father didn’t think she’d be any good, late and small as she was. Said I could have her.”

    It was all true. Brightwind might be a beautiful animal now, but when she’d been born, she’d been given to Jerem to train because she had appeared small and sickly. A horse they would have trouble selling as any kind of war horse. A horse Jerem could train and make mistakes on with no consequence. Jerem just didn’t mention the part where his father had given the horse away for the same reasons and how the priest had given her back. He looked back and forth among the townsfolk closest. They didn’t appear convinced.

    “Always been his?” Jake Lambert growled. “Tell me you don’t believe the half-breed throwback’s lies.”

    Cerna pushed forward at this, to put her arm possessively about Jerem’s shoulders.

    “That ‘throwback’s’ manners are better than yours, Jake Lambert,” she lectured angrily, “and yes, I do believe him. So you leave him and that horse of his alone. Someone comes and tells us different, proves something different, then…well then. But meantime, you keep that dirty mouth of yours shut and you do not touch this boy again. I will stand for him and anything he might do. You got a problem with him, you come to me. You hear me?”

    Jake Lambert looked like he not only heard her but wanted to disagree in physical terms. But Gyillian and Cob were between them, both glaring angrily, and Jake Lambert backed down. Jerem didn’t understand what was passing between all the adults around, but the MacCafferty’s were important here. Respected. Powerful. And they had stood up for him. Jerem nearly burst into tears, weak with relief and moved by their defense of him. Blinking rapidly, he looked up at Cerna, whose stern features softened into a smile.

    “Now you go on and get your horse into the barn, Jerem. There’s chores waitin’.”

    Jerem hesitated, but Cerna put an arm around his shoulders and began to walk with him down the street toward the Hook and Sinker. Cob and Gyillian remained behind with much of the crowd. Jerem kept his eyes on the safety of the barn, but listened for as long as he could.

    “You heard Cerna,” Gyillian was saying to someone, “We take responsibility for the boy. Th’ lad might be a lot of things, but he’s no thief and I’ll challenge any of you to prove otherwise. So let’s all get back to work rather than burnin’ more daylight with this foolishness.”

    “It’s a mistake,” someone, Mr. Dernin Jerem thought, said, “You’ll regret takin’ that boy in.”

    “That’s my problem, now ain’t it?” Gyillian replied.

    And then Jerem could no longer hear anything more. They arrived at the stables, and Jerem settled Brightwind into one of the stalls. Cerna stayed with him, whether to protect him from potential problems with the townsfolk or out of some other concern, Jerem didn’t know. He got Brightwind’s saddle and bridle off quickly and stowed them in the tack room, before returning to make sure she was settled with plenty of fresh water and hay. Her mouth was raw from where the bit had cut at her during the chaos, but she looked otherwise all right. He gave her a quick hug. Cerna waited until he came out of the stall for the last time before asking,

    “Jerem, lad?”

    Jerem turned to her with wide eyes.

    “Yes, ma’am?”

    “That horse yours?”

    “Yes, ma’am,” Jerem repeated softly as she studied his face.

    “Then don’t you worry on anything,” Cerna continued as she knelt down to be eye to eye with him. “You’re both safe here.”

    Her words broke the dam at last and Jerem fell into her arms sobbing. Every fear, every hurt, every betrayal, everything that had happened over the last few months spilling out helplessly as he cried into her shoulder. He was safe here. They would protect him. It seemed like forever before he could get control of himself once more, but when he finally let Cerna go, still sniffling, she told him gently,

    “Sometimes children get asked to lift a man’s load early. But that doesn’t mean they’re grown-ups, nor that they have to be. You’re a good boy, Jerem, with a load of troubles you probably didn’t ask for. But the Lord doesn’t give us more than we can handle—he gives us the help to lift that load. So you go on inside, get your chores done, and remember that.”

    Jerem sniffed again. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

    Cerna rose to her feet and ruffled his hair affectionately.

    “You get inside. And no more worries.”

    And there were no more worries. Jerem made it through the day, Cerna keeping him beside her in the kitchens for most of it, and when he was out in the Hook and Sinker itself, it seemed Gyillian was always nearby. Jerem kept his head down anyway, unable to make eye contact with anyone from the town as he placed their drinks or food at their tables. They said he stole Brightwind. Said he lied. They hated him. It made him want to run away and hide every time he thought about it, which was pretty much constantly. Thankfully, no one really spoke with him as he scurried about clearing tables or bringing out orders.

    At last the common room was empty, the tables cleared, and Jerem felt safe enough to look around as he finished his chores. Only three men remained at the bar, and thankfully Michael Dernin and Jake Lambert were not among them. Jerem’s hand instinctively reached up to touch his bruised cheek anyway. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Jerem got the broom out and began sweeping up. He was nearly done, when Marcos came over during his rounds of wiping tables, like him finishing the chores involved in running the Hook and Sinker.

    “Sorry about earlier,” he said sympathetically.

    “Thanks.”

    “Just so you know, I think she’s yours.”

    “Thanks,” Jerem said again, smiling weakly this time.

    Marcos nodded and moved on to the rest of the tables. Finally, Jerem was done with the sweeping and he sat down at a booth in the corner to rest. He didn’t think this day would ever end, but it had. All he wanted to do now was go to bed and pretend it had never happened. He heard footsteps and looked up to see Gyillian approaching. The innkeeper sat down opposite Jerem.

    “How you doin?” he asked.

    Jerem answered, “Fine.”

    It was a lie, he was miserable, but Gyillian and Cerna had been the only two people who’d been nice to him when it mattered. Who hadn’t called him thief. He didn’t want to risk upsetting them. But he could tell that Gyillian didn’t believe the lie in a glance, even before the innkeeper added,

    “Been a rough day.”

    Jerem just did not have the energy to keep up the subterfuge.

    “They hate me.”

    Gyillian’s voice softened, “No, lad, they don’t hate you.”

    Jerem’s throat was burning by this point, so rather than risk crying, or sounding like he was about to, Jerem kept quiet. But finally the silence became too much.

    “Yes,” he insisted, “They do. They think I stole Brightwind. They all look at me funny now.”

    Gyillian paused and considered this a while.

    “Jerem, this is a small town. People talk. It’s their way,” he said kindly. “But that’s all it is—talk. There ain’t much that happens here that doesn’t get talked to death. Who’s doing what with whom until you’re about ready to pull your hair out over it all. And they’ll talk about Brightwind and you and what you do. But…” Gyillian emphasized, lifting a finger, “it will pass. We’ve got to go on living with each other and for a long time at that. So you can’t just hide out or not see people. Not gonna happen, not here, so’s the best you can manage is to keep you head up and keep doing what needs to be done. Lad, no matter what people think, they’ve got eyes. They’ll see what you do, and take their opinions from that.”

    Jerem nodded back, even though he didn’t really believe or want to take Gyillian’s advice.

    “It’ll blow over,” Gyillian repeated. “And you’ll still be standin’ here when it does.”

    Gyillian rose then, to continue on with the business of running the Hook and Sinker, serving the one or two men that remained and otherwise leaving Jerem to consider what he had said. In the end, Jerem returned his broom to the kitchen and headed upstairs to his room. Though he didn’t think he could, he finally did fall asleep, still worried about tomorrow and what would happen then.

    But tomorrow came and went and nothing happened. So did the next day, and the next, and then a week had gone and no one had called him thief again. Jerem hadn’t left the Hook and Sinker during that time, save to exercise Brightwind, and everyone sure seemed to whisper a lot behind their hands when he was around, but true to Gyillian’s word, he survived.

    Gyillian had been right about people accepting him, too. Marcos kept talking to him and two other local boys, Brian, whose farm was one of the closest to Moondale, and Harlin, the blacksmith’s apprentice, both came by regularly and often went with him to explore. Even the adults eventually stopped looking at him like a stranger but a member of their community.

    Jerem didn’t realize it, not until he and Brian had been caught shearing designs into Mr. Bair’s sheep, that he wasn’t just a scullion, but Gyillian and Cerna’s boy. Jerem had feared to be discharged, when Mr. Bair had sent for the innkeeper, surprised to find both Gyillian and his sister arrive. Jerem watched helplessly as a furious Mr. Bair angrily pulled forward a sheep to show the star newly sheared into its back, gesturing forcefully as he insisted ‘someone’s got to pay for that.’

    Mr Bair ranted for quite some time at Gyillian and Cerna while Jerem and Brian cowered in the corner wondering what was going to happen next. Brian eventually grew brave and whispered that his dad was going to kill him when he found out. Jerem just shook his head back, eyes wide and mute. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. He had nowhere else to go. Finally, the rancher wound down and Cerna turned to Jerem.

    “You did this?” she asked simply.

    “Yes, ma’am,” Jerem answered softly, his eyes on the floor.

    “What do you do now, then?” she pressed him.

    What do I do now?


    Jerem didn’t answer at first. He was expecting to be told to leave. He was even expecting to be beaten. Kiman had done that to the servants a lot when they’d gotten in trouble. But Cerna wanted to know what he was going to do. Jerem took a deep breath. Out of nowhere, he heard his mother’s voice: say you’re sorry and make it right. Jerem’s head lifted.

    “I’m sorry, Mr. Bair,” he said softly.

    Cerna nodded firmly once, like she approved, and Jerem stood a bit straighter. His eyes traveled to Gyillian. The innkeeper met them seriously, as if sizing Jerem up. Then Gyillian turned back to the sheep rancher.

    “Can’t speak for Brian’s Da, but we’ll send Jerem around to help you with the shearing, when it comes. And for the next four weeks,” Gyillian frowned at Jerem. “you’re to head over here and do whatever Master Bair tells you. After your usual chores.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Gyillian’s gaze expanded to include Brian. “Did you boys keep the cut wool?”

    Brian nodded. “Behind the barn.”

    “Go get it.”

    Jerem and Brian raced out of there as fast as they could. They exchanged relieved but nervous chuckles. They hastily collected the wool bits and brought them back to Gyillian and Cerna, and in a measure of how well they now knew him, they made Jerem give his word he would not to do it again. He was just heading out with Cerna when he saw Brian’s father walking in. Jerem hoped Brian’s dad would let him off easy, too.

    Now Jerem hadn’t escaped completely unscathed. Gyillian had switched him twice for that once they were back at the Hook and Sinker. Not beat him, not like Kiman had done, not even like he’d seen the chandler do to his apprentice just a week ago. The punishment had felt like what his father would do when he’d gone too far at home. Back when things were okay, before mom died. In fact, it was that realization that drove Jerem to run and hide in his room, sobbing uncontrollably for what felt like an hour. It wasn’t that Gyillian and Cerna cared, it was that Gyillian and Cerna weren’t who he wanted to care just then. He wanted his mother back. He wanted his father back. But they were never coming back again.

    In desperation, Jerem searched his things for his brother’s precious last letter. The one thing he had that implied someone in his family still cared for him. He read it over and over again the next few days, a crumb of comfort in what felt like a sea of sadness. Gyillian and Cerna both knew something was wrong, but Jerem was still too scared to explain. They might ask him to leave. So he dealt with it alone.

    One of the first things Jerem did, in an effort to make his past feel less lost, was to sneak back to his woodland cache to retrieve the belongings he had hidden there. He didn’t think he would get in trouble for it. But he hadn’t thought Brightwind would have caused the fuss she had, either. So for now, Jerem would try to keep his stranger things secret. So he rode out one afternoon after chores, heading south. He found the cache sooner than he expected, the landmarks he had marked on his journey to Moondale much easier to recognize than he thought they would be. The bundle was damp, dirty, and cold when he dug it out, but otherwise seemed all right.

    He did not open the bundle because it was easier to handle and looked less suspicious if it remained wrapped. Instead he carried it over to Brightwind and looked up dubiously. She seemed to be eying him with impatience as he tried to figure out how he was going to get the bundle and himself aboard. It had been so much easier when this had all been in his pack. In the end, Jerem just gave up, and with the bundle held awkwardly under one arm, tried to grab the saddle horn with the other and swing his way up. It took three tries, Brightwind bearing it all patiently, before Jerem was mounted and riding toward home, the bundle balanced on his lap.
    He swung wide around Moondale, leaving Brightwind to graze in the wood while he snuck his things in the back door and up to his room. By the time he returned to gather up Brightwind and put her back in her stall, it was time for the dinner rush. No one even asked where he had been.

    That night, his door shut tight, he unwrapped the few reminders of his past life and stared at them wondering what to do. He would not need his swords, not in Moondale, nor the fancier clothing. His bow he would want to leave out, to show he could help with more than just dishes and stable work. Jerem sorted through everything, placing it either with his swords or his bow, depending on whether he thought he could use it here.
    The smell of balsam as he moved a sweater to the ‘hide’ pile caused him to clutch it suddenly to his chest, his heart breaking. Every winter, his mother had used to embroider sachets filled with the aromatic needles and place them in his drawers and for a moment it was like she was right there in the room with him. He held the fabric up to his face, to inhale deeply.

    Mom!


    And with the scent, the past weeks fell away as if they had never happened, and the wound was suddenly fresh and raw as it had been for her funeral. The tears came again and Jerem was helpless to stop them. But eventually they did stop, leaving him exhausted. Would it ever stop hurting? Would his life ever be normal again? Jerem tossed the sweater away angrily. This was just stupid. Crying over a smelly sweater. He sorted the rest quickly, angry, wrapping the bundle back up and then tying it to the rope frame under his bed. No one should find it there.

    Jerem climbed into bed after, tired and physically ill, wondering how long it would take for the sick feeling to go away. He woke the next morning, still feeling off-balance and out of sorts. He fell into the distraction of his chores gratefully and in the end, to his surprise, things did return to normal. The queasy feeling disappeared and Jerem began to find comfort in the simple fact that he was loved. Wherever his father or brothers might be, he had people here who cared about him. He had friends.

    Jerem had never had friends before. He had brothers, all but Janthro too old to be anything but another set of adults. He had tutors, who always called him ‘young lord Jerem’ and were no fun at all. Even the servant children weren’t confidants or true playmates, ever aware that he was ‘Lord Jerem’ to them.

    But Harlin, Marcos, and Brian were friends. Jerem laughed with them, fought with them, got into trouble with them. He didn’t think there wasn’t a place in Moondale and its surrounding farms that the four of them had not explored. And so Jerem lost a winter to ice fishing, skating, snowshoeing, and snowball fights. The spring flew by with hikes and horse races and fishing trips. It startled Jerem profoundly to wake one weekend morning to find nearly six months had passed since he had run away from home.

    That night he lay awake, wondering. Could he have a real home here? He wasn’t really a scullion, stable boy, or whatever else they might call the work he did. Jerem knew Cerna, Cob, and Gyillian loved him as their own. He could stay. He could have a life here. He could…

    The imagining spread out before him, growing up in Moondale. He could see himself doing for the next several years everything he’d been doing the last six months. And the next six years after that. He could be like Gyillian one day, a respected member of the town. But even as Jerem dreamed, other memories crept in like a draft of winter air through a crack. His brother, Janthro, all alone in Windshae. To never see Janthro again. How would his brother even know that he was all right? Would Janthro risk going home to make sure he was okay, only to be captured by their brother, Kiman?

    Jerem lay silent for much of the night, vacillating between staying safe in Moondale and continuing on to Janthro in Windshae. It had been six months. He could stay here, safe, but…

    No.
    Jerem didn’t understand the certainty or the urgency, but both were there. It’s time to go. I need to find Janthro.

    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  9. - Top - End - #9
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

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    Jul 2009
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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    And now we finally get to meet Janthro.....

    Spoiler: Chapter 4: Duke Andron
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    Chapter 4
    Duke Andron

    Janthro scratched his head as he approached the Duke’s tower leading his horse, idly wondering if the bugs from the straw pallet he’d slept on had taken up residence on his head. They would have been better off sleeping in the wood, rather than that Inn, but the Duke had been insistent, that when duty permitted, his men stay and spend their coin in such places throughout his Duchy. Janthro would rather have thrown his bedroll in with their horses. Oh well, he really shouldn’t be grousing about an easy assignment that had gone off without a hitch.

    Janthro was not at all sure why Duke Andron had sent them along in the first place. His unit, while able to perform caravan guard duty, had been created to deal with specific tasks where a small unit could act in ways a much larger company of soldiers could not. Missions of skill and stealth, that was where the ‘Duke’s Left Hand’ excelled. Andron needed someone brought secretly to a meeting in another Duchy or city? The Hand got the job. Raiding and sabotaging across enemy lines? That could be them, too. Hell, anything out of the ordinary, strange, dangerous, or important—the Duke had probably asked them at least once.

    But simple escort duty was a rarity, especially traveling in the comfort of inns and main roads. They could all fight. In fact, all five of them had been selected from the regular corps. However, combat alone was not where their training lay. Penjuana and Janthro were Rangers by trade. Penjuana, dark and imposing with ebony skin and deep brown eyes, had trained on the brutal Plains of the Sun, a desert land where any mistake now matter how small could be fatal. Janthro, tall and lean, with long russet hair and the angular features of his mother’s elven people, had honed his skills in the fastness of Darkwood forest. Janthro’s elven-green eyes were still scanning carefully, even in the heart of the Duke’s capital, ever wary for something out of place.

    Also scanning, but perhaps looking for different things, was Jack Karras. The short compact man had once been a thief, spared the gallows in return for service. Even now, the liquid movement of his gait belied his old trade, where things might change to the deadly in an instant. He, like the rest of the party except for Terreen and Praden, had chosen only minimal armor. He had a leather chest plate which covered his torso, but his arms and legs were bare. He wore his hood up, hiding his dark hair and deep set eyes as he followed a pace or two behind his Captain.

    Terreen Sheveson, their cleric, was perhaps the one who looked most like a traditional soldier. Older than the rest, thick-set with a heavy blond beard and moustache, Terreen’s bulk almost dwarfed them all, although Penjuana and Janthro were among the tallest in the Duke’s service. He carried himself with calm authority, even when wielding the large war mace that currently hung loose from his belt.

    Lastly, there was Praden. Quiet, nearly sinister, Praden. No one was quite sure what Praden’s background was, but he had the tendency to come up with some of the nastiest tricks and ordinance surprises Janthro had ever seen. Not so much misfits as atypical, soldiers all, capable of facing the most complicated tasks and succeeding against the longest odds.

    Janthro pushed his long, russet hair back behind his pointed ears, the only real visible sign of his mixed-blood. Otherwise he could, and often did, pass for human. His elven blood brought with it other advantages, less visible, including his night vision and better hearing. Hearing which now caught dark-haired Karras’ whispered plans to find a tavern. Karras, it seemed, would need to stay with him. The tavern could come later. He turned back to Praden, the wiry, mouse-faced man far behind and acting as rearguard.

    “Praden,” Janthro ordered, “you and Terreen take the horses to the stables, get cleaned up, then report to me in the tower.”

    Praden threw him a quick salute, before picking up his pace to collect Karras’ reins. His eyes scanned the area before the gates rapidly, coming to rest on a youth wearing the Duke’s scarlet and sable. An off-duty servant.
    He waved and shouted, “You, boy! Here!”

    The boy looked up and his face fell as he recognized the men who had called as soldiers. He approached quickly enough, though, and Praden set him to work leading two of their five mounts along, collecting Penjuana’s reins himself as they passed. Terreen followed after more slowly, with his and Janthro’s mount. For whatever reason, Terreen was the only other member of the company that Dawntreader, Janthro’s buckskin, let touch him without a specific command from Janthro. The train of horses marched off northwest, along the outside edge of the inner bailey wall, toward the Duke’s stable.

    After they left, Penjuana and Karras closed with him to head for the inner bailey itself. The inner wall was broken by an iron portcullis gate, currently raised but guarded by two men with polearms. The one on the left spotted them, saluted and stepped aside to let them pass. Janthro acknowledged the salute, exchanging ironic shrugs with the man as they were waved through without comment.

    Finally.


    Janthro’s thoughts were amused now, rather than his usual frustration, because he was at last becoming familiar enough around the inner bailey that his rank and position were known and the access due him granted as a matter of course. It had only taken two and a half years. Janthro knew it was his age. Despite his imposing height, he still couldn’t hide his youth. At least they didn’t understand exactly how young a Captain he was. Even at his physical age of twenty-five, his rank raised eyebrows. During first year or so of his promotion, it even raised fists, until Janthro proved beyond doubt that messing with him was far too hazardous a risk.

    But Janthro couldn’t be considered as old as his physical years, not being a half-elf. His mixed-blood, something not commonly known and even less commonly understood, meant when he’d first joined the Duke’s service, he’d still been a youth just shy of adulthood. His size had masked that, as had his reserved and taciturn attitude. Janthro had grown quite adept at hiding things since he’d fled his home. What he was thinking, what he was feeling, his age, his experience, all were carefully controlled now and shielded from outside view.

    Janthro also knew from the tales his father and his father’s men used to tell that this was exactly how good commanders should be, aloof and separate from the men they commanded. He got along well with his unit and the other soldiers under the Duke’s command, but he had been careful since his arrival to never let them see him lose control. Even off-duty and drunk at some tavern, if he was with soldiers, Janthro was still Captain.

    As such, the sigh of relief as they crossed the courtyard was entirely internal. It was no less real, but carefully hidden. He was home. Or as much of a home he had known in the last few years. It was a kind of comfort. Duty nearly done, they just needed to report in and he could release the men for a much needed two-day leave, which meant for Janthro a brief respite from responsibility. Janthro planned to use his time to play and get drunk, preferably in a section of the city where no one knew him as Captain or even a soldier. Find some pretty barmaid. Who knew what could happen then?

    Janthro growled at himself. He was getting as bad as Karras. Work before play. They still had things to do. The trio crossed the wide bailey courtyard and entered the keep proper at this point. They used the soldiers’ entrance along the northern sea wall. It, too, had a duty guard, but the hassles of protocol were far fewer than at the main entrance. Janthro shed Penjuana in this hallway, releasing his Lieutenant to give their report to the Battalion commander. Outside of any real chain of command, the Hand often had two layers of reports to give: true ones to the Duke or the Duke’s Chancellor of War, and usually much blander false ones to the Battalion commander of which their unit was supposedly a part. Janthro wondered if that commander thought the reports as useless a diversion as he.

    Karras remained with him as they traveled away from the soldiers’ sections and deeper into the actual rooms and halls of the Ducal court. Neither commented about the nobles they passed, who looked at them as if they were some form of rodent or insect that just crawled in. Janthro suspected Karras actually enjoyed the reaction they usually got, dressed as they were in plain clothing and leather armor. Janthro was more ambivalent, only disliking it in the sense that it meant they’d taken notice of him at all. Janthro would much rather have passed unmarked by anyone.

    Janthro wove his way through the maze of corridors until he reached the outer hall of the Duke’s formal audience chamber. The Duke’s major domo was stationed outside this final door, as were two House Guards bearing spears. Janthro stepped up to the Major Domo.

    “Captain Janthro Diadrem reporting as ordered,” he stated.

    The man nodded an acknowledgment and waved him to a parlor chamber that adjoined the hallway to his right. The small but well-appointed waiting room was usually for visitors, not them.

    Great.


    This was going to take a while. He and Karras exchanged bored glances before both entered the room and sat down for the duration.

    “Think he’ll tell us why we got the duty, Boss?” Karras asked quietly.

    Janthro confirmed no one was in earshot before replying, though he knew if Karras had spoken, it had already been checked.

    “Doubt it. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to for us. ‘Ours is not to reason why’,” he quoted, though he doubted illiterate Karras would get the reference.

    Karras snorted anyway, then propped his boots on the low table in front of him. Janthro leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and chin on his hands while he waited. It seemed like an inordinate amount of time that they sat there. Janthro stifled a yawn. He would much rather have been sent to the barracks to await the Duke’s convenience. At least then they could have passed the time more easily, either in discussion or play. Hell, he would even rather continue slogging through the reports on the Battle of Carriage Water he’d borrowed from the archivist.

    Janthro had been slowly but surely working his way through the records of every major Westland conflict for the last hundred years. It had been a response to the first man he’d lost while in command, a way to assuage the guilt and go on. It had been his own careless mistake that had put the man in that place at that time, and Janthro vowed he would never let such a thing happen again.

    Janthro blinked a few times, realizing he had dozed off in the warm waiting room. He hadn’t moved from his propped position, thankfully, but damn he wanted this day over. He cocked his head to find Karras outright snoring next to him. Janthro allowed himself a chuckle at this. Sleep when you can, the first rule of soldiering. He elbowed his subordinate to wake him. Karras could sleep as much as he wanted shortly. Their guarding mission, while easy, had built up quite a sleep deficit, as they’d only had the five to guard on the way out and the trip back had been rapid. Karras shifted in his seat and they waited some more.

    At last, the Duke’s Chancellor of Protocol himself entered and bade them to follow him into the hall. The Ducal Audience hall was deep but narrow, with a central arched aisle supported by stone pillars that ended twenty-five yards ahead of them at a stepped dais. Centered atop the dais was the ruling throne, gilt in gold but carved of wood for the current Duke’s father. The central aisle itself was braced by rows of stone benches for supplicants and courtiers, half of which were filled today.

    Stained glass windows along the walls allowed the afternoon light to filter in, and candle chandeliers hung at intervals over the main aisle to further brighten the space. In between the windows hung wide tapestries that depicted the history of Winshae and her rulers’ conquest of Westland. Above their heads hung colorful banners representing the thirty-two lands that the Duke’s ancestors had gathered together under his rule. Janthro did not look up at them as he and Karras approached the Duke, though he could tell when he passed his family’s blue and green one about halfway down on the left side.

    The Chancellor directed them to the first few rows to sit and wait some more. Janthro was tired of sitting, so he walked past the directed seats to stand with Karras against the far wall. The Major Domo could still see them, and he was less likely to fall asleep this way. Janthro’s glance strayed to the dais and his Duke.

    Duke Andron was a wiry, hard-eyed man of middle age. He had a sharp voice and a taste for plain speaking which Janthro had no idea how he could have acquired given what he typically heard when he was in this room. Andron’s narrow face was frowning, not a bad sign as that was its usual position, and he watched the petitioner before him intently. Janthro listened long enough to determine it was a merchant guild issue and sighed. It explained the long wait in the other room and implied a still longer one here. Damn but merchants could go on forever, as if by sheer volume of words they could drown the Duke and make him do their will. Janthro stilled himself in a position of parade rest and waited to be called.

    “Captain!” Karras hissed some time later, the urgency in his tone drawing Janthro’s gaze to follow his subordinate’s even as Karras drew a dagger and advanced. He saw the movement a second later, the ripple of a tapestry in a windless room.

    “My Lord!” Janthro cried, running up the lowest steps of the dais, to place himself between the movement and his Duke. Karras, in the meantime, had charged the tapestry directly. The guards seemed stunned, swords drawn quickly but moving in the wrong direction, toward Janthro.

    “Get the Duke!” Janthro ordered angrily. “Assassins!”

    That word got them going and they halted immediately to retreat to either side of the Duke to guide him out of the chamber. The ripple behind the curtain shifted and suddenly a small black-clad man forced his way through a previously unnoticed slit. He had daggers in both his hands, one of which he threw and the audience hall fell into panic.

    In a maneuver he doubted he could have repeated with all the practice in the world, Janthro threw his buckler and intercepted the dagger mid-flight. Both objects crashed down the dais steps, the dagger stuck fast in the wood. Janthro was close enough now to hear the assassin curse, and then Karras was on the man, rolling around the floor, each trying to get his knife somewhere vital. Janthro could hear shouts and shrieks from all about the hall, and he prayed it merely panic and not another assassin. He glanced back toward the Duke, to confirm.

    “Get Andron out of here!” Janthro yelled again as there were no other threats, wishing the guards would move quicker.

    At that moment, a glass ball rolled out of the assassin’s hands. It stopped a few feet away. Janthro had time for just two steps before the ball exploded, knocking him off his feet. He struggled back up to a seated position, his head throbbing, to find Karras down and the assassin heading for the door. Since the assassin was heading for the double doors at the main entrance to the audience chamber and not the smaller side door next to the dais the Duke had gone through, Janthro made a brief detour to check on Karras. He was stirring even as Janthro reached him. Janthro pulled him to his feet.

    “Come on!” he yelled, and ran for the main doors himself, not even waiting to see if Karras followed.

    His glance darted left and right from the entranceway, before taking a chance and heading straight down the hallway. If the assassin’s plan had been blown, he was likely trying to get out as quickly as possible, which meant right out the front door. The occasional bystander on the floor or screaming voice led him onward. His blood pounding in time with the pain in his head, Janthro made it out the main doors to see a black shadow disappear around the residence.

    Damn it!


    Janthro put on more speed running hard for the spot where the man vanished. He skidded around the corner to find the assassin scrambling up a rope over the inner bailey wall. Janthro leapt and caught the rope, yanking it out of the assassin’s hands as he tried to pull it up behind him. The assassin paused for the briefest moment, as if contemplating whether or not to cut the rope, but then disappeared on the other side. Janthro felt the rope jerk under him and looked down to find Karras right behind him. He reached the top and pulled himself over the wall. Then he realized why the assassin hadn’t cut the rope. It had been looped, not tied, around a merlon of the wall and hung free on both sides. If the assassin had cut the rope on Janthro, his route down the other side would have vanished as well. Janthro and Karras rappelled down after the assassin.

    “Track him,” Janthro ordered Karras, falling back to let the thief take the point.

    They could no longer see the man they were chasing and Janthro needed Karras’ skills to have any hope of finding him again. Karras didn’t hesitate, just ran off in an eastward direction, along the wall. Janthro had no idea what cued his subordinate to go this way, but he trusted Karras implicitly. They ran through the tight streets, dodging this way and that a seemingly random intervals. Only once did Karras stop, at a noisy and populous farmers market.

    Here Karras climbed up a butcher’s stall and from its roof looked about. He dropped to the ground and they were running again. There was a crash and scream from somewhere behind them, but Janthro followed Karras without looking back. They must have run over a mile now. Breathing hard, Janthro kept telling himself the assassin must be just as exhausted as his pursuit. The streets began to get narrower as they headed deeper into the oldest and poorest section of the city.

    Janthro froze the moment Karras’ closed fist came up. At another slight hand gesture from his subordinate, Janthro moved quietly to the side of a building, concealing himself, and watched still as a statue as Karras crept forward and disappeared down a side street. Janthro began counting in his head. He had just reached two hundred and fifty when he spotted Karras returning down the street. Janthro gestured him into a broken doorway.

    “Report.”

    “I found where he went,” Karras told him. “Tavern called the Five Ravens. He’s in there, drinking. Two ways out, front door and back. Otherwise he’s pinned. It’s Guild, so no civilians. I think I can cover both exits from the roof there.” Karras pointed across the street and to his left at a three story building of stone. “At least ’till you get the Hand back here. I’ll leave the usual signs if he leaves.”

    Janthro frowned at Karras’ assessment.

    “You think we can’t take him ourselves?”

    “Couldn’t see much inside, boss, but he’s not alone at the table. Figured this was something you’d want done real certain-like. Just us, he might slip out.”

    “Okay,” Janthro agreed. “I’m gone.”

    He left Karras in the doorway and headed back toward the nearest post station of the guard. He was running again, hoping to find a post messenger at the guardhouse that he could send the rest of the way. He did not like the idea of leaving Karras alone doing surveillance. No matter how good Karras thought he was, with two exits to keep an eye on, there was a slim chance the assassin still might escape. Janthro wanted to return before his Duke with a body, not excuses.

    As he neared the Post Station in the Carvassas neighborhood, movement got more difficult, unusually difficult. There were people everywhere, most milling about, but as Janthro tried to thread his way through the crowd, he began to feel uneasy. It was nothing definite, just the sense these young men were not merely aimlessly loitering. In a hurry or not, Janthro slowed his pace to a less attention-grabbing walk. Still, he felt the eyes of the men on him as he moved.

    What’s happening here?


    Janthro could practically feel the wrongness, the crackling energy of violence to come. He could also hear snippets of conversations as he passed. After the third variation of ‘almost time,’ ‘not him, he’s no soldier,’ and ‘just wait,’ Janthro knew he had much more to deal with than a simple assassin’s capture. He took an abrupt turn to the south, away from his destination, but closer to a larger, manned garrison of city guards. Something sinister was about to go down and Janthro figured they would need every man there to keep whatever it was from exploding to engulf the entire city. Once he’d gotten a few more blocks, the streets thinned of bodies and Janthro ran once more.

    It’s local, then. Goddess hope we keep it that way.


    Janthro was gasping by the time he reached the garrison house. It was unmistakeable for anything else within the city, three stories tall and stone, with iron-barred windows and thick walls that protected even a small stable. It took up its whole block in the city. Janthro burst through the double, iron-bound, oak doors and skidded to a halt in front of the watchman waiting by a desk inside.

    Janthro’s sudden arrival caused a stir, the three men about the main room all drawing weapons as the doors swung hard against the walls before rebounding closed. Unable to get the air to speak properly after his hard run, Janthro held up his open hands in a gesture of peace. The men eventually lowered their blades, but did not sheathe them, their eyes still hard upon him.

    “We’ve got a problem,” Janthro declared bluntly, still breathless.

    He brought his left hand up slowly to his neck then, knowing his words would not be enough. The guards moved closer at the movement but were thankfully trained well enough not to attack outright. Janthro fished out a golden ring fashioned in the shape of a rose, with a falcon entwined around it its top and held it up before the startled men.

    It was the signet of the Duke of Windshae, to be honored in his city and his realm without question. It was the only identification members of the Hand ever carried, if they carried identification at all, and it was enough to gain them whatever help they might require by its sight alone.

    As expected, the lead guardsman’s eyes widened at the ring, but he processed Janthro’s rise in status from crazy person off the street to Ducal Officer quickly, bracing to attention and saluting. Janthro waved him down.

    “We don’t have time for that, man,” Janthro snapped. “You need to get every soldier you can muster and head for the wharf district and the Carvassas neighborhood. Spread them as far as you can around both areas. There’s trouble brewing…a riot I think.” Janthro’s voice was back to normal now, but still clipped and urgent. “Keep the key junctions clear and do not engage them or go inside. Let it burn if you have to, but your men get pulled in, they die and we all lose.”

    The soldier’s eyebrows raised at these orders, but he appeared to be following what was said. He also seemed to understand the danger of the word, riot, at least. Janthro hoped he was competent.

    “This is planned,” Janthro emphasized. “They want it to spread, so we can’t give them that chance. If we can get around it, we might be able to keep it tied to where it starts. Your garrison isn’t big enough for more than that.”

    The man was nodding unconsciously with his words now, processing what he needed to do. Janthro re-caught his attention before he could get too distracted. The riot also meant he now needed one more thing.

    “I’ll also need your best city man,” he ordered.

    The guard station commander paused for a moment at this request, and then called out, “Grayman!”

    There was a buzz behind him, as more people arrived to see what the commotion was about. Two disappeared back within and returned a short time later with a young, brown haired man in a chain hauberk. He drew himself up to attention before them both and saluted.

    “Sir?”

    The guard commander returned the salute. He then gestured at Janthro.

    “You are to follow this man’s orders to the letter, Grayman. Report to me when you are released.”

    “Yes Sir!” the guard responded and the commander turned to the rest of his men and the duty at hand.

    “Sound the alarm, Credon!” the commander snapped, “I want every man here ready to move in five minutes!”

    It was like someone had poked an ant mound, the guards suddenly boiling into a riot of activity. A bell started clanging somewhere deeper in the garrison. Janthro dismissed the guardsmen from his attention, all but Grayman. He had done what he could here, it was time to make sure his assigned mission did not fail. He didn’t dare leave Karras alone for much longer, not with what he now knew. A planned riot to cover a planned escape. That had to be it. He had to get back to Karras, but he also needed the rest of the Hand. That was certain. He had to send a message that would not be ignored.

    Janthro briefly scanned the room he was in. It was bereft of any furniture, except for some low benches lining the walls. There was a half-wall toward the center, dividing this outer public area from the more private guard areas within, but it too was spare and lacked any means of communication. Janthro knew there must be some form of parchment or ink somewhere, but he didn’t have any more time to go find it. He did, however, notice the iron stove, which would have to serve.

    Without explaining anything to the man waiting beside him, Janthro ran over and opened the stove. As it was late afternoon, the fire within had burned low and not yet been rekindled against the evening chill. Janthro reached inside to gather some cold charcoal from its edge, singeing his hand in the process. He returned to Grayman, dodging the guardsmen who now were heading out into the streets in small groups of three to four at their commander’s orders.

    “Show me your arm,” Janthro ordered.

    Confused, the soldier complied. Janthro pushed up the man’s sleeve and then proceeded to draw a geometric pattern down his arm with the charcoal chunk. It wrapped around from the elbow to the wrist and Janthro rubbed hard to be sure the ash stain would stay. By the time he was done, the soldier was looking at him as if he were crazy. Janthro ignored him. Penjuana would recognize the plainsmen markings for what they were, and that was what mattered.

    “These are your orders,” Janthro snapped, “You are to go straight to the main guard barracks at the Tower of Avaintar. Do not stop for anything and do not get captured. Tell the guard you must see Penjuana.” Janthro paused. “Repeat that. Who are you reporting to?”

    “Penjuana,” the man replied promptly and Janthro nodded.

    “When he arrives, show him your arm. If he is not there, find him. Tell him to gather the Hand and go to the sign of the Five Ravens on Makfish Street. South edge of the Warf district. Got that. The Five Ravens. Makfish Street.”

    “The Hand. Five Ravens. Makfish street,” the soldier repeated dutifully.

    “Go!” Janthro ordered and the man disappeared out the door.

    Janthro followed him into streets that were already showing signs of the unrest nearby. Shops that would normally be open at this hour had their doors closed and windows shuttered, merchandise moved inside from the street. People were milling about. Janthro could tell in a glance whether they were innocent bystanders or rabble-rousers based on the direction they were moving. The innocent were moving away from the area. Even if they didn’t know what was to come, an aura of fear was driving them away from the wharfs and the poorer neighborhoods with the clarity of animals fleeing a forest fire they could not see. The rest remained, either to be part of the upcoming chaos or to take advantage of it.

    Janthro ignored them all and headed quickly northwest, back toward the Five Ravens, trying to balance the need to get to Karras quickly with the desire not to get caught up in the riot and trapped. He could smell fire before he had even made it two blocks. Somewhere, the city was already burning.

    Not my problem.


    Janthro reminded himself of that several times as he changed course to avoid the danger. His problem was the assassin. He made it to the Five Ravens as a smoky haze was starting to fill the streets, to spot his subordinate still perched on the roof across the way, a small spyglass in hand. A few moments later, Karras spotted him and silently descended. They regrouped in an alley.

    “You’re back early,” Karras commented laconically.

    “We’ve got bigger problems,” Janthro explained with a shake of his head. “There’s some planned violence going down. I’m betting it was supposed to come after the successful assassination of the Duke. Since that got screwed to hell, it’ll be good cover for an escape.”

    “And us?”

    “We wait for the Hand,” Janthro explained. “Unless we’ve no choice. Then we go in, get him, get out—I’ll take him dead if necessary.”

    “You want the back or the front?” Karras inquired with a raised eyebrow.

    “Front.”

    Neither spoke another word. Karras disappeared to find the back exit and Janthro crept to the end of the alley to take up a position that was both hidden but could also see the front of the entire building. He settled himself on a barrel and threw his cloak over himself as if he were a drunk or a heathin addict, just sleeping it off. With his cloak’s hood high and askew, Janthro could just see the building’s front through his slitted eyes. Janthro settled in for the duration, trying not to get anxious as the time passed.

    Logistically, it was an easy watch, as the whole front of the building was mostly solid stone. It was like someone had built a warehouse and decided to turn it into bar as an afterthought. There was one small window to the right of the door, and a sliding panel in the top center of the door itself, but that was it on the main floor. Even the sign was not obvious, a small wooden square affixed directly to the building’s side rather than swinging free from a post.

    Janthro frowned. Even though the building’s design made his watch easier, he couldn’t help but wish it were otherwise, because there was no easy way to know what the inside looked like, or what awaited them, in a building like that. It was probably the home of all sorts of illegal things for just that reason. Which again, was not his problem but the Municipal Guard’s. Regardless, once the Hand arrived it would be Karras who entered first, to recon the inside and report back. Janthro pondered what they would do if it were truly a Guild operation, with its accompanying secrecy and passwords, before dismissing the worry. Karras had been close enough to see their target once. He could get in again.

    Janthro was tempted to edge closer. He could. He could even find a spot that would allow him to be in a position to hear what might be said at the door. All he had to do was move a few feet, to a position more directly across from the building. The temptation was squashed ruthlessly, however strong, because it was also stupid. No one had entered or left since he had taken his current position. Were he to move to the more exposed position, and have to remain there for any real length of time, he would draw the attention of everyone nearby. They would know he was there.

    So Janthro remained at the alley’s edge ‘sleeping it off.’ People passing by treated him like the street debris he was pretending to be, and no one entered or left the target building. Not one single person in what he suspected was nearly an hour now, and Janthro grew more certain that this was a protected site. Which meant getting in would not be pretty. Janthro frowned in deduction at the building.

    Whose protection was this assassin under? He was obviously Assassin’s Guild because Janthro couldn’t think of even a single report of someone working ‘free-lance’ in the city, though Karras would know for sure. And the Munis had been hunting Assassin Guild lairs since the dawn of time. With little success, too. This place was too obvious to be them. More importantly, that Guild had no compunctions about killing anyone who failed and fled back to them. And Karras had reported their target was most definitely alive in there. So it wasn’t the Assassin’s Guild.

    Closely related, but not the same, would be the Thieves’ Guild. They fit better with what he had seen here. Covert safe houses masquerading as normal businesses. Safewords and passwords and other means to tell apart the members from the riff-raff. But again, the Guild would not take kindly to the assassin having led pursuit to them. Which meant the assignment itself was dangerous enough to warrant protection from pursuit, or the assassin felt certain that he had lost Janthro and Karras in the chase and the Guild’s doorman believed him. The assassin had to believe this location to be secure enough to hide him until he could be smuggled out of the city for a while.

    Either way, or even if the assassin were protected by some third, unknown power, it meant the Hand was in for it once they made it inside. Janthro continued to study the structure, making what deductions he could about what to expect inside as well as who and how to counter it. Time ticked by, and Janthro waited.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  10. - Top - End - #10
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    Celticbear's Avatar

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Brightwind chapter!

    ...

    HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO THE HORSE ;-;

    Also I like Janthro's direction, it seems like he's a badass
    "I'M just a guy with a boomerang... I didn't ask for all this flying... and MAGIC!!!" -Sokka

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    Quote Originally Posted by Wuff View Post
    the biggest nerd ever who transforms into BEAR is of course alluring.

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    RangerGuy

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    Quote Originally Posted by Celticbear View Post
    Brightwind chapter!

    ...

    HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO THE HORSE ;-;

    Also I like Janthro's direction, it seems like he's a badass
    The horse was okay in the end :)

    Glad you like Janthro, too, because we're sticking with him for a couple chapters.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  12. - Top - End - #12
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    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    And now we learn why the Left Hand is the one the right is not permitted to know...

    Spoiler: Chapter 5 Part 1: Riot
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    Chapter 5(Part 1) : Riot!
    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:27 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  13. - Top - End - #13
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

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    And because Chapter 5 was apparently too long to fit in one post...


    Spoiler: Chapter 5 Continued: Riot Part 2
    Show


    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:28 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  14. - Top - End - #14
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    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    And... We're back with Jerem. In two parts, because the Chapter's too big.

    Spoiler: Chapter 6: Windshae (Part 1)
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    Chapter6:
    Windshae
    Part 1


    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:29 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  15. - Top - End - #15
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    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    The rest of Jerem's first week in Windshae.

    Spoiler: Chapter 6: Windshae Part 2
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    Chapter 6: Windshae Part 2

    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:29 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  16. - Top - End - #16
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Hope everyone is enjoying the story so far.

    I did have a question, though. What age do you think this story is aimed at? Young adult? Adult? I'm curious because I don't really know myself what age my writing is appropriate for.

    Thanks
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  17. - Top - End - #17
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    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Okay

    This is where it gets complicated. When I write, I don't write linearly. So while stories are overall plotted, and I know what happens, I write the scenes that speak to me first. Which leaves me with 14 books, none of which are entirely finished.

    So we have now officially reached one of the 'holes' in this story. I have parts before which you've seen and parts after, which you haven't, and an outline of what happens in between. So sorry for the long delay in posting, plus the likely rough writing of the work itself as I try to fill in the 'holes'.

    Anyway here is the first part of Chapter 7.

    Spoiler: Chapter 7: Karine's Keep Part 1
    Show


    Chapter 7:
    Karine’s Keep

    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:30 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  18. - Top - End - #18
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    And the rest of Chapter 7.

    Spoiler: Chapter 7 Part 2: Karine's Keep
    Show


    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:30 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  19. - Top - End - #19
    Dwarf in the Playground
     
    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    On to Chapter 8. I did have some questions about whether or not to include something in this part of the story, but will wait a bit to ask.

    Spoiler: Chapter 8: Broken Down to their Foundation
    Show


    Chapter 8:
    Broken Down to their Foundation


    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:31 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  20. - Top - End - #20
    Halfling in the Playground
     
    Goblin

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Dude, this is awesome. I have stuff to do today and instead I'm sitting at my desk getting totally sucked into this. So in answer to the thread title, yes, it's good.
    Quotes from my adventuring party:
    "They're not really innards anymore. They're out-ards."
    "Your lower back burns from the death glare of a dwarf."
    "What's Thor gonna do, zap me?"
    "Is it drugs?"
    "I set my weapons on the ground." "Do you set your brain down, too?"

  21. - Top - End - #21
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    RangerGuy

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    Quote Originally Posted by TrashTrash View Post
    Dude, this is awesome. I have stuff to do today and instead I'm sitting at my desk getting totally sucked into this. So in answer to the thread title, yes, it's good.
    Thanks. I hope you like Chapter 9.

    Spoiler: Chapter 9: The Price of a Life
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    Chapter 9:
    The Price of a Life

    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:32 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

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  22. - Top - End - #22
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    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    A quick story based question. As you can see, the narrative is sticking with Jerem and Janthro. Do you think I should include what happened with the Hand's mission? It felt like it was unnecessary but curious to know what you guys thing after finishing chapter 9.

    Thanks
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  23. - Top - End - #23
    Halfling in the Playground
     
    Goblin

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    I think that you should stick with Janthro and Jerem's storyline. Adding in the Hand's mission could create an awkward pause in the dynamic of the brother's plotline.

    As an amateur writer who has an almost-obsession with fantasy stories (blame Tolkien), I think your story is amazing because of the plot, the execution, and the way you paint a scene with your words. Don't get discouraged, writing seems to come very naturally to you. Keep up the good work!
    Last edited by TrashTrash; 2019-03-27 at 10:55 AM. Reason: formatting fails
    Quotes from my adventuring party:
    "They're not really innards anymore. They're out-ards."
    "Your lower back burns from the death glare of a dwarf."
    "What's Thor gonna do, zap me?"
    "Is it drugs?"
    "I set my weapons on the ground." "Do you set your brain down, too?"

  24. - Top - End - #24
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    RangerGuy

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Quote Originally Posted by TrashTrash View Post
    I think that you should stick with Janthro and Jerem's storyline. Adding in the Hand's mission could create an awkward pause in the dynamic of the brother's plotline.
    Thanks for the feedback, it helps to get an outside look at things when you're writing. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

    So without further ado, the rest of the story.

    Spoiler: Chapter 10: Telconturs Together
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    Chapter 10:
    Telconturs Together


    Please DM for more, if desired. Trying to get published.
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2021-01-27 at 06:33 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

  25. - Top - End - #25
    Halfling in the Playground
     
    Goblin

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Is it okay if I send this to some friends? I think they'd enjoy it just as much as I did.
    That's also the best way I've ever seen "all rights reserved" explained.
    Quotes from my adventuring party:
    "They're not really innards anymore. They're out-ards."
    "Your lower back burns from the death glare of a dwarf."
    "What's Thor gonna do, zap me?"
    "Is it drugs?"
    "I set my weapons on the ground." "Do you set your brain down, too?"

  26. - Top - End - #26
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    Goblin

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Quote Originally Posted by jlvm4 View Post
    Hope everyone is enjoying the story so far.

    I did have a question, though. What age do you think this story is aimed at? Young adult? Adult? I'm curious because I don't really know myself what age my writing is appropriate for.

    Thanks
    I think maybe young adult, with the reference to Janthro's... er... girlfriend in chapter 5 and the mild language used. That's just my personal take on it.
    Last edited by TrashTrash; 2019-03-29 at 02:22 PM.
    Quotes from my adventuring party:
    "They're not really innards anymore. They're out-ards."
    "Your lower back burns from the death glare of a dwarf."
    "What's Thor gonna do, zap me?"
    "Is it drugs?"
    "I set my weapons on the ground." "Do you set your brain down, too?"

  27. - Top - End - #27
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    RangerGuy

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    Quote Originally Posted by TrashTrash View Post
    Is it okay if I send this to some friends? I think they'd enjoy it just as much as I did.
    That's also the best way I've ever seen "all rights reserved" explained.
    Sorry it took so long to get back to you, I was out of town. Thanks for the feedback, I'm glad you liked it.

    In terms of sharing, I would prefer that, assuming they have web access, they read it here (as it's only got my login on it, and not my real name).

    If for whatever reason they don't have internet access, DM me and I'll see if I can't put together something in pdf form to send to them. I hate to be so obnoxious about it, but I've been working on this series (as mentioned before there are about 14+ books in various states of completion) since the 1990's and I'm rather possessive of the characters :)

    Again, thanks for reading.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

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    RangerGuy

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    Quote Originally Posted by TrashTrash View Post
    I think maybe young adult, with the reference to Janthro's... er... girlfriend in chapter 5 and the mild language used. That's just my personal take on it.
    Yeah. That's where I get hung up too. As the series progresses there's more stuff that is less young adult going on. People get hurt, die, have relationships... basically life. Which can sometimes get quite mature. I mean it's never going to be Game of Thrones-level sex and violence, but it does get more obvious than oblique references. Not to mention some pretty violent and ugly things already happen to the characters in this book.

    So there are two issues with figuring out what 'level' the series is at, text and content, and I'm not sure they are both the same. I'd be curious as to your opinion on the language itself (words and sentence structure). Did it also come across as young adult level?

    Thanks
    Last edited by jlvm4; 2019-04-07 at 01:24 PM.
    I’ve known people who play chess like this. They can’t think their way to a checkmate, so they spend their time trying to clear the board of the little pieces. This eventually reduces the game to a simplicity they can grasp, and they’re happy. The perfect war is a fool’s mate.
    -Miles Naismith Vorkosigan

    ranger avitar created from site paladin avatar

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    Goblin

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    Thumbs up Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Quote Originally Posted by jlvm4 View Post
    Yeah. That's where I get hung up too. As the series progresses there's more stuff that is less young adult going on. People get hurt, die, have relationships... basically life. Which can sometimes get quite mature. I mean it's never going to be Game of Thrones-level sex and violence, but it does get more obvious than oblique references. Not to mention some pretty violent and ugly things already happen to the characters in this book.

    So there are two issues with figuring out what 'level' the series is at, text and content, and I'm not sure they are both the same. I'd be curious as to your opinion on the language itself (words and sentence structure). Did it also come across as young adult level?

    Thanks
    The sentence structuring is very well done, to the point where anyone could read it without difficulty. I think the vocabulary used might go over the heads of younger kids, though, as might the idea of the characters struggling with issues of morality (for example, the priest making the judgement call to let Jerem go instead of locking him up might be a little confusing to a younger kid. When I was younger, I personally had problems comprehending that sometimes what's allowed isn't always what's right.)
    Last edited by TrashTrash; 2019-04-24 at 11:23 AM. Reason: Small grammar fixes!
    Quotes from my adventuring party:
    "They're not really innards anymore. They're out-ards."
    "Your lower back burns from the death glare of a dwarf."
    "What's Thor gonna do, zap me?"
    "Is it drugs?"
    "I set my weapons on the ground." "Do you set your brain down, too?"

  30. - Top - End - #30
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    Goblin

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    Default Re: Storytime aka is this any good?

    Also, sorry for the late reply myself. My schedule went absolutely insane recently.
    Quotes from my adventuring party:
    "They're not really innards anymore. They're out-ards."
    "Your lower back burns from the death glare of a dwarf."
    "What's Thor gonna do, zap me?"
    "Is it drugs?"
    "I set my weapons on the ground." "Do you set your brain down, too?"

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