--Portsmouth was not always the capitol of Fanelia. In fact, if you go back enough generations in time, you will find that the kingdom it was in was not even called Fanelia. It is only after a pirate princess came to the land once known as Zanasute that the landscape of Portsmouth changed. She recognized the strategic potential this small town had, and ventured heavy coffers of gold into growing its fishing harbour into huge trading posts and shipyards. Gold alone does not build a city though. None of it would have been possible without having the hands to do that, many hands. And so, she brought many allies which were instrumental in turning Portsmouth into one of the richest cities in the known world. The town’s population bloomed along with its fame, but so did the darkness embedded within its roots. And at its roots were the allies of the pirate princess, who were pirates themselves. The city was now rife with sailors, gamblers, swindlers and thieves. Men and women of poor moral standing, as his teachers would tell him. This is where the dark shadow looming over Portsmouth extends from. But there were many things that Tristan’s teachers had told him nothing of. If these people were living lives in the wrong, what was stopping them from fixing it? Why did things have to be this way? His curious 12 year old mind could not understand, but he was determined to find out. It was during one such exploration, down in the dark allies of Portsmouth that he overheard a man yelling angrily, as he stormed out into the street.

-…Again! I can’t believe that you’ve gone and done it again! – The man’s voice resonated between the tightly packed stone house walls. – Can you not do anything right? I’m talking to you, get back here!

--Tristan was intrigued. In his home, he had never seen people behave in this manner. Here he saw a humble portal leading into a house one might call run down, but from the look of it, it might have simply always been this way. The house was in disrepair with multiple attempts of patching it up, but the attempts were ultimately half-hearted, rounding out its rather sad demeanour. In front of it, an older man, mid-life perhaps, a small brown pot in one hand, and a clenched fist in the other, waving it at a cowering woman somewhat younger than himself. The woman seemed to want to run away from him, but was now frozen with fear. The man seemed to be out of his wits, as he teetered with every shake of his fist, his ectomorph figure threatening to topple over. Tristan was about ten paces away but he could clearly smell that the man reeked of “the strong stuff”, the juice that grown-ups really liked to drink in his home, but would never let him have any of. Well, that’s not entirely true… his teacher Grif Kaedah would sometimes insist that he takes a sip from his cup. “It’ll grow hair on your chest!” the old bear would say. Tristan never quite understood why would someone want to grow hair on their chest, but Grif Kaedah was the only one of his teachers he actually liked, so he would comply. The bear warned him though, not to consume too much of it, or it would cloud his mind. That must have been it… That must be why the angry man seemed to be struggling to stay on his feet.

--The angry man threw the pot he was holding and a steaming brown liquid spilled from it onto the woman’s dress. She quivered.

-This isn’t food for people! – The man yelled. – This is for pigs. I bring you my pay so you can cook me shit like this? Why do I even feed you? A dog would take better care of our kids.

--Overwhelmed by his curiosity, Tristan observed in silence, and the two of them didn’t seem to notice him. The woman did not reply to the man. She appeared to be trying to make herself appear as small as possible in her bland, dark beige dress, and she was intently focused on the rain drain in the corner of the street. On her face, Tristan recognized a relatively fresh bruise, and trepidation.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

-Every day… every day I slave away at the docks. All day I take their shit. And when I get home, I have to listen to the kids crying, and I have to listen to your shit! Well, what about me? Don’t you ever think of me? After everything I’ve done for you, is this the best you can do to repay me?

--The woman was silent, but her eyes shot up at him, showing a hint of defiance and dissatisfaction with that which was said. In response, the man’s fist opened up above her and swooped down, slapping her over the bruised cheek so hard that she fell to the ground.

-Stop that! – Tristan squeakily hollered, in as commanding a voice as he could muster, but with zero success.

--Confused for a moment, the man looked over his shoulder at Tristan, but then ignored him and continued his tirade, the back of his hand smacking the woman’s other cheek. This is when a small rock broke a window on their sad house. It was meant to hit him in the head, but Tristan’s aim wasn’t very good. The inebriated man turned around again.

-I… – Tristan choked on the words in his throat. He swallowed, slightly trembling. – I will not idly stand by in the face of injustice!

--Funny enough, it was the Fanelian family creed that first came to his mind. He had picked up a second stone off the ground to fling at the tippler, but he immediately had to drop it and scram, as the man’s focus and anger were now upon him. The man stomped towards him, with an intent sense of purpose that helped him not to stumble. Tristan found that the entrance to the alley he was in was now blocked by a parked stall with gutted fish. He slid under the stall, nimbly reaching the other side, while the man tried to jump over it and tripped, prostrating himself upon the ground on the other side. They were now both back at the main boulevard, which was rife with merchants and commoners alike. Tristan tried to gain distance, but he tripped on apples rolling all over the ground. Looks like someone spilled them, which in turn caused the fish stall to park in the awkward spot where it was. He caught his balance and kept on running. A few apples flew past his head, angrily tossed by the drunk. He ran as hard as he could, but despite moving somewhat clumsily, the old man’s legs were much longer, and he was catching up.

--It was time for some trickery, Tristan thought. Up ahead, he could see a crowd of some twenty or thirty people. They were assembled around a wooden box on top of which there was a ball, and a girl stood on top of the ball, juggling knives. He will try and lose the man there. He squeezed through the people, all the while trying to keep his bearings and spot out his hunter. He couldn’t quite see him, but he was sure the drunk couldn’t see him either, as he was several heads shorter than everyone else in the crowd. Satisfied that he had evaded his pursuer, Tristan emerged on the other side. But he didn’t.

--He was now face to face with the drunk, his pungent breath warming Tristan’s face. The man’s hand wrapped firmly and swiftly around Tristan’s, exclaiming with a joyous grin “Gotcha!” He lifted his other hand and clenched his fist… Tristan braced himself, imagining the man’s fist collide with his face in slow motion. He closed his eyes firmly, but he couldn’t feel any pain. Peeking through his right eyelid, Tristan could see the fist looming above him menacingly, but it did not come down. The drunk’s face was at first burning with anger, all flustered, but he did not seem satisfied with the result of the chase, even though he had caught his prey. He hesitated for a bit, and then pulled Tristan over one knee and started spanking him, mumbling something indiscernible to his own chin. After the first few smacks, Tristan cried out and asked for it to stop, but the hits kept coming. After a dozen solid smacks, the man got up and Tristan fell into the muddy street, landing on his face. The old man spat on the ground next to him, wiped his face and stumbled away. Perhaps towards his home, to finish where he left off, or perhaps towards a tavern, to replenish his haze. Tristan got up slowly, holding his sore posterior with one hand. He whimpered and tears ran down his cheeks. He could not understand why there were people like that out there. Why would anyone ever want to harm another? He did not cry from the pain, he cried because he could not understand.

--The crowd dispersed, and a girl with red hair walked up to him, some two years his senior. It was the knife juggler.