I stand in the tightly packed market plaza, one hand holding our daily pouch of coppers, and the other holding Emily’s as tight as I could, as the vendors hawk their wares for sale.
They yell to the various passersby, many of them being adults, as they walk through the plaza, with some taking an interest in the many items for sale. Street food, weaponry, if you could name it, it’s there. Even the occasional whittler selling utensils and her own artistic creations, a lot of it being animals.
The whittler-lady notices me staring and nods towards me and beckons us closer with a friendly wave. Emily notices this and, seemingly interested in the lady’s wares this time, makes her way through the crowd, still tightly holding onto one another as she leads us to the lady.
Her wares are laid out on a simple and unassuming, but stained, formerly-white-now-beige rug, the many whittled creations standing out against it greatly. I think she did it on purpose – the contrast – which is very clever.
Mum always told me to take note of the things in plain sight.
“It’s where things go unnoticed,” she had told me. She had sat down on my bed next to me as I lied under the covers, staring into her hazel-brown eyes as she read scriptures, giving contextual morals of the story as she finished each one. “Many of which should be known,” she continued, as she looked out of the window in my bedroom, a flash of an emotion I could only describe at the time as being regretful or perhaps dejected. She did not give context. I follow her eyes out the window.
The moon outside was full and bright – awfully so – but it was very pretty.
She returned her attention to me after a short while of looking out that window, kissing me gently on my forehead and hugging me tightly to her chest. I do not remember much of what she said, as her tears made their way to my dark-brown hair, dampening it a bit, save for a quiet, “I love you,” as she caressed my cheek.
A month passed after that night and so did she. I do not know if she was talking to me. The moon isn’t as bright as it once was.
“Hello again,” the whittler-lady said slowly, “Arthur and Emily.” Her speech was somewhat slurred, like she had trouble speaking.
“Hello Tess!” Emily cheerfully replied, still looking very attentively at all of the animals on display.
I notice something held in Tess’ hands, as she quietly and patiently watches Emily browse. To the side of Tess, I see her whittling knife with darker than usual shavings surrounding it. I take a closer look at what’s in Tess’ hands.
It was an almost dark-grey shade of wood, sort of in the shape of a spherical thing, with a dark liquid or perhaps mass pooling under it. Many long, dark tendrils snake out of the sides and top of the sphere, almost like the curved sunrays of Matthew’s framed drawing of the view out of the window. Matthew’s drawing was lopsided, but Mother told us to not mention it to him. It was an okay drawing.
This carving, however, is bad.
But I do not mention it to her. I do not like it when they get hurt. They always hurt.
Emily lifts one of the items for sale. It is a fluffy sheep. This one is good.
“That looks good, Tess,” I tell the whittler. She smiles kindly. A smile with no teeth.
“You think so too?” asks Emily, looking at me. I nod. She turns back to Tess, “We’ll take this one, Tess!”
We pay for the sheep, pouch slightly lighter, hands holding each other tight all the while.
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“Well, you know how my brother is, Arthur,” Emily said. We are sitting on the embankment on the river’s eastern side. Grass has sprouted, making a soft seat.
She continued, “One moment he’s awake, the next he’s asleep!” She smiles, perhaps imagining Samuel’s loud snoring and stupid sleeping face. “And then that face he makes when he gets woken up suddenly!” Emily begins laughing to herself. It is a hearty laugh.
He really does look dumb when he wakes up. I laugh along as I imagine it myself.
We sit like this for a while, just watching the river run its course, as it is subsumed by the sea. The sun has finally touched the horizon, a signal for us to make our way back home. It is a perfect evening.
“How about you?” Emily asks. I turn to look at her, confusion present on my face.
“What do you mean?” I ask. She turns to look at the setting sun while I look at her. Some time passes. She turns back to me with a smile. Her face looks like she knows.
Did she see me buy it back then? I nervously gulp. A tiny wooden ring hidden in my hands.
She opens her mouth to speak.
“When will you wake up?”
What?
“Wake up, Arthur.”
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“Wake up, Arthur!” A voice yells in my ear, the smell of bile and alcohol wafting its way into my sinuses, waking me up instantly. I shoot straight up, laying a hand on my chest. It beats fast.
It was all a dream.
I forcefully lie back down in my bedroll, hands over eyes, breathing heavy.
“Oi, you sorry sod,” Lekmash said, knocking three times against the trampled dirt floor beside me, creating a thudding noise. I peek out of my hands to look at the offending hand as it lays flat on the ground. “It’s your turn.”
“Right.” I said, forcing the sleep out of my eyes as I finally calm myself down. I quickly shuffle out of the bedroll, stretching my arms out as I stand. Crickets chirp among the underbrush. A lazy fire, the coals slowly turning into embers, crackles and spits. I walk towards one of the trees near the campfire, and make myself comfortable in its roots. Tonight is a cold night.
My watch has begun.
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The forest has come alive. The many living things have all awoken, busying themself with survival.
Much like we are.
We wait in ambush, our prize slowly making its way down the dirt road.
A lone man on a wagon, with two mules dragging it along.
I inspect the man.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Name: Unknown
Class: Unknown
Level: Unknown
HP: Unknown | SP: Unknown | MP: Unknown | DEVOTION: Unknown(?)
Noticed Characteristics:
* Orcish heritage: dulled tusks, sharp and thick facial structure;
* Late 60’s-70’s: deep, wrinkled laugh-lines;
* Seemingly unarmed: no knife in boot, no sheathed weapons, no visible mana disturbance in immediate vicinity;
* Protective clothing: a thick padding underneath his shirt, likely a gambeson;
* Strong figure; wiry limbs, slightly large chest
Conclusion: Do not fight alone. Looks can be deceiving. Entity could be Divine-based or Shifted.
A decent target, should it all work out for us.
“Come out of there,” the man said. His eyes gazed at where Lekmash was hiding. Seeing that he was singled out as planned, Lekmash walked onto the road in front of the wagon, but not before signalling us with hand-sign, the people hidden in the underbrush, to quickly surround the wagon without alerting the man on it.
Lekmash smiled a sharp tusky grin, saying to the man, “Hold there, friend.” He gestures with his hand, halting the man with his arm outstretched. The man ignores it, the mules trodding along as usual.
Lekmash frowns, his brow furrowing, making his naturally angry face even more intimidating. “Listen here, Mathalosh,” Lekmash continued, his face scowling as he emphasises the word, “We don’t want to make this end badly for you,” the greatsword held in his hand vibrates rapidly, the blade’s vibration causing a loud tearing sound in the air, like a fly’s buzzing, but hundreds of times worse.
“Dude, what did you call me?” The old, Orcish man stood up from where he was sat, summoning a shield and a mace from nowhere, blueish light coming into reality where the items appeared – before twinkling into nothingness.
Fuck. He’s a player.
“Fuck me, not another one of you’se,” Lekmash said, spitting off to the side, hand-signing us to initiate the combat, letting him get the final blow.
THUD!
A crossbow bolt lands squarely onto the side of the wagon owner’s chest, who stares at the now-fallen implement.
“Oh, you fucking piece of shit.” The padding underneath his shirt quickly lost size, and with it came a tide of grey goo spilling out of the man’s clothes.
“Shifted!” Lekmash screamed, his eyes renewed with vigour, his soul set ablaze, “This is our chance, my brothers!” A red glow emanated from the Half-Orc Bandit Leader, his Rallying Cry skill having been activated.
Our hearts began to beat as one, the earth seemed to quake beneath our steps. The world focused on a single point. The player before our very eyes.
A rapidly expanding tide of grey spread out far enough to start climbing upon our bodies, eating their way through the tough and heavy leather clothing we were wearing. One of us was quickly being ravaged upon, the grey wave on their skin rapidly taking on a reddish tint. The caster among us had cast Stoneskin on everyone, but sustaining that many instances of the spell had overbearing effects on the caster.
The person being ravaged upon was that caster. He is dying. Rallying Cry’s effect on me waned, before many voices raged and screamed, dirt being kicked off of the road, as four warriors leaped with superhuman strength at the player.
Seeing this lit the fire within me again. I joined in the fray.
Blood and viscera, left and right. It got everywhere. He didn’t stand a chance.
The player was quickly dispatched and dissipated into blue twinkling light, as did his grey goo, leaving behind a single shard. The one thing we were all after. After the many years spent starving to the brink of death, killing the weak and weary that roams these roads, we had finally gotten it.
We look at one another, clearly eyeing the prize. Everyone’s eyes became sharp. Deadly.
“Oh, no no no, dear Gods, please, please, please…” Lekmash pleaded, cutting through the dangerous situation, his hand holding the hand of Serilõ, the caster. There were holes dug into the caster’s body, clearly showing his inner flesh, blood leaking out of it.
Like deep, bloodied maggot burrows.
Lekmash looks at the blood on his hands, eyes widening in distraught. He turns around searching for the shard in a frenzy. His eyes meets the Shard, falling to his knees, crawling towards it like an infant. He grabs it cautiously, cupping it into his hands.
We all watch as he quickly crawls back to where Serilõ lies, placing the shard on his body every which way. On his forehead, in his mouth, in his hand, in his other hand, in both his hands.
“Lekmash.”
He turns around, mouth agape and quivering. His eyes, streams falling down his face. Serilõ’s body lies there in his arms, bloodied and gored. There is no blue light. It does not dissipate.
“He’s dead.”
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A single gnarled root turned into a staff is embedded into the earth, where one could see a deep grave in front of it. Serilõ’s staff indicating his final resting place.
We toiled quietly, making up Serilõ’s rites with respect to his God, The Goddess of Creativity, since nobody else but Serilõ followed her. The many knick-knacks he’d made of clay were placed beside the staff, in hopes that a wandering follower of the same faith would realise what had transpired and someday give him his proper rites.
We lowered his body gently into the grave.
He is buried. He is gone.
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“Why do none of you weep?” We were all gathered around the campfire, set up for the night. Lekmash continued, staring at the fire, “He is our brother – he was one of us – and yet none of you even dare to cry. What of his love for all of us? Do you discard it, as if it were nothing more than stones to throw into a river?”
The half-orc man was naturally rowdy, and incredibly hard to even get a single serious chat with most of the time, save for when we were ambushing.
He continues, rubbing his eyes free of the tears forming in them, “‘He was not with us long,’ some of you might say, ‘I didn’t know anything about him.’” He held the shard in his hands, rolling it between his fingers.
“Bullshit…” he says, laughing sadly, “He joined us four months ago, yes, but in those four months he’d held nothing but love for all of us,” he scowls, his face hardening like steel, “It’s you.” He glared at us all, one by one.
The others look away as he does, but I do not. I stare the beratement in the face, accepting my fault.
“It is you who did not say hello back, ignoring him early in the morning and getting annoyed for his cheeriness. It is you who did not ask about his God, his love for art and the medium of clay.” He started rolling the shard faster, his fingers squeezing harder and harder. A handful of the men wince at the treatment of the shard. Lekmash notices this, a painful realisation that his words aren’t being given a single thought by some. He looks hurt.
“And it is also I, who is guilty of all of those things,” his face became defeated, finally releasing his eye’s hold on his tears. He continued, “It is I who did not wave back,” he started hitting his head hard, over and over again. “It is I who did not act kind to him,” he says through tears, blood leaking from his temple, and the constant hitting of his head. “It is I who did not care for his faith.”
The camp is quiet. The crickets chirp. The stars shine brightly in the sky. A lone man weeps.
It is a moonless night.
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My eyes open. I am in my bed, in the orphanage.
The door quietly opens, Emily tip-toeing inside before noticing that I was awake. She furrows her brows, looking cute.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” An obvious frown on her face for her foiled surprise morning greeting. “I was going to jump on your stomach.”
“Good morning to you too, Emi,” I replied, yawning and rubbing my eyes.
I sat myself up, looking out of the tiny window that showed the bakery on the other side of the street. The baker’s boys were carrying a bag of flour each, bringing them inside. I angled myself slightly to see the rising sun, as it made its way over the mountains.
It is a good day.
“Wanna get something from Edwin’s later?” I asked. She nodded fervently.
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“Last one there is a rotten egg!” I shouted, as I made my way down the stairs. Emily had only just opened the door, no longer lying on the bed.
That I pushed her onto.
“That’s not fair!” she yelled, bolting after me, as she pushed the door wide open. It hit the doorstop very loudly. A grunt could be heard from Samuel’s room, followed by a rather surprised Winfrey rubbing her eyes just outside of her own opened door.
I make my way down the spiral staircase, holding onto the railing as I descend, with Emily hot on the chase.
As I make my way to the bottom and look into the kitchen I am greeted by Mother carrying Matthew, who was still sleeping in her arms. She is holding a wooden ladle to her mouth, tasting whatever she was cooking. Most likely some stew, since it was in a big pot.
“Arthur Patten,” her voice boomed in a controlled fashion, Matthew not even stirring slightly, “Do you dare to run in our household, young man?”
A sense of uneasiness took control of me, the world crashing into a halt.
Every hair on my body tingled, my mind was in a flurry.
Mother burrowed her gaze into me, ladle still held to her mouth. She audibly finds the food to be pleasing, returning the ladle back inside, momentarily being distracted and adding a bit more salt into it.
The grip she had on my body went faint, no longer holding me in place, but more like she was keeping me on a leash – distant, but still there.
I shuffled my way into the kitchen. Whispering a quiet “sorry” as I passed her and sat down at the kitchen table.
Not much could be heard except for the occasional sound of boiling stew and the fire being maintained by the enchantments right below the pot.
Mother tastes the stew again, satisfied with the result. She turns off the enchantments, and begins to bring bowls out. As she begins to fill six bowls, she suddenly blurted out, “Emily Patten, what do you have to say for yourself?”
A meek-looking Emily walks down the stairs, her head hung in shame. “Sorry, Mama.”
“Good. I don’t want any of you tripping down those stairs, or tripping over something else,” Mother said, looking at the carpet near the bottom of the stairs. The one I tripped on a few days ago.
Emily giggles at that, taking her seat beside me at the kitchen table. Winfrey makes her way downstairs as well, with a yawning Samuel right beside her.
"Good morning, guys," Samuel said in between yawns, "Good morning, Mum!"
"Good morning, Mum,” echoed Winfrey. Her raven black hair was very tangled, her usually wavy hair incredibly unkempt, unlike Mother's own straight, neat raven hair.
“Up late last night reading, Winny?” asked Emily, her legs dangling on the high chair, her legs swinging up and down.
“Yeah,” she replied, taking a seat nearest to Mother.
“What were you reading?” asked Sammy as he sat beside Winny, looking excited for the bowl of beef and vegetables stew that Mother placed in front of him.
“Enough chit-chat, you guys can talk as much as you want after we’ve eaten.” Mother places the final bowl where Matthew was sitting, his face still in sleepy-land.
The stew wakes him up a little – only barely.
Mother brings each of her hands out to Winfrey and Matthew, signalling the beginning of the Prayer of Thanks. We all hold our hands together, and Mother begins the prayer.
“O, Demos, we thank you for your grace…”