It's me again! Hurray for Ch1!!!!!!!!!! A whopping 3972 words! I know what you're thinking, why not just add 28 words and make it a round 4000? That would be because... This chapter was a pain in the bumhole to write. That's why. My warning for this chapter is for potential boringness. Below are detailed and wordy character descriptions, partial magic descriptions, random fluff, etc. Feel free to skip to the bottom where I shall summarize things. Be aware that you may or may not miss out on potential foreshadowing if you choose to skip.
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Winds of Change Volume 1: The Oncoming Storm
Chapter 1: Revelations
“By all means, respect your fellows on this plane, love them even! But do not mix your blood with theirs. Those born of two races are abominations, unloved and unblessed by any god. No, let Men keep their gods, let the Dwarves and Elves keep theirs as well, waste not on a half-breed.”-Annals of the Divinity
The net came up empty. The small figure holding it sighed in disappointment. It was nothing unusual, but that didn’t mean that there hadn’t been hope. Slowly, the net was dropped back into the too murky water. It was only once or twice a week that there’d be anything caught in it. It was placed too far downstream, and too many people fished upriver. But if the net was moved upstream, it would end up broken or empty anyway, the catch stolen away by others. That’s if they were lucky. If they weren’t so lucky… they’d have a broken trap and bones broken to match it.
Desperate people could be cruel and dangerous. And there wasn’t a person in the slums who wasn’t desperate. The one who set the net was no stranger to violence, greed, or desperation. No one could be, after being born and raised in the city’s cesspool.
The child, for the figure was too small to be anything else, had no choice but to return home with near empty hands. If the water had been capable of reflection, it would have showed short, mud-colored hair plastered against the skull from the excess dirt and oils. The gaunt face, in general, was likewise streaked with dirt and river muck from the two small hands rubbing against it. The sharp stone-gray eyes had deep bags under them and were slightly bloodshot from too many nights of tossing and turning. The small spattering of freckles would be unnoticeable under all the filth. Even the clothing spoke of poverty, rags sewn together into a too big tunic and half breeches, and the belt (woven from river reeds) was all that kept the thin material from falling. Of course, there were no shoes in sight; those would be too big a luxury. A quick glance would have others believe that they looked upon a child of six years and they would agree, unanimously, that this child was too thin. They would be wrong about the age, the child turned 8 years last month, but they would be right about the thinness. The small stick-like arms and legs barely looked as though they could hold themselves up. In all, the phrase, ‘a vulnerable and fragile young boy,’ was perfect to describe the waif.
It was a misleading appearance, but that was the point.
The child left the river, careful of loose stones and the holes that could spawn river snakes. They were vile creatures who, while unable to directly kill an invader, could temporarily paralyze the victim causing them to fall back into the water and drown. Though not particularly fast on land, they had a spring powerful enough to let them leap forward a meter in an instant. Not that there was too much to worry about, after all, predators are more likely to appear where they can find easy prey. Unfortunately, they weren’t edible.
Home was a tiny shack leaning against a rocky outcropping. The child’s slow approach spoke of either exhaustion or trepidation. A small fist was raised to knock against the make-shift door. From inside came curses followed by an uneven thumping and the loud sound of something heavy being dropped. Finally, the door creaked open.
“You’re late, boy.” A tall brunette stood glaring in the doorway. This was the boy’s caretaker. He was dressed in an oversized tunic and breeches, similar to the boy’s in that they were sewn together, different in that they were thicker and slightly better quality. “Nothing again today, I see.” The deep voice was laced with disapproval.
“Just what I got from this morning. A few coppers, no food.” The boy replied dutifully.
“Get in.” The other said gruffly.
The boy obeyed, stepping lightly through the doorway. He was cuffed harshly on the way in, for his lateness, no doubt. He didn’t resist, merely scowled and rubbed the bump on his head. The quickly fading sunlight revealed the shack in all its glory. There was a dirt floor and one wall of the cliff’s rock. The other three walls of mismatched wood showed spots of rot. In the center of the floor was a fire pit. A small pail sat next to it, used to store drinking water. On the other side was a pile of branches. Rather than a chimney, there was a simple hole in the roof. In one corner, a pile of rags was used for sleeping. They had no table, only two small roughly made stools. A pot sat between them, with two bowls to the side of it. Today should have been fish stew; instead it would be a vegetable stew of mostly water.
The boy’s caretaker waited for him to enter, then hefted the door closed and blocked it with a heavy slab of wood. It wasn’t something that would stop someone who really wanted to get in, just enough not to make it too easy to enter. It had certainly happened before, people forcing them out of their modest accommodations. They had been forced to move those times, there had been other times they had moved for safety reasons. That’s why nothing in this place was permanent or valuable, at least, not to anyone but them.
The boy grabbed his bowl-wooden as was the spoon that went with it-and dipped it into the pot. As he did so, the other grabbed the cane standing beside the door and hobbled over to join him.
They ate in silence, each of them pretending that the water with small vegetable chunks in it was enough to sate their hunger. The pot emptied quickly.
“Tomorrow I have a piece to be delivered.”
“The broker again?”
“Yeah.”
“How much for it.”
“Should be at least eight coppers. Even by his standards. Save five, buy food with the rest. Nothing fancy, just enough to get by. You’ll get a package with it too.”
“I was going to weave for the Cyclops.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I mentioned it. He might be suspicious if I don’t show. Or he’ll try to dock my pay.”
“Do it after. And don’t let anyone know what you’ve got. ”
“I’m not stupid.” He got cuffed again for that.
“Don’t get glib with me, boy. You were late today. You know it’s dangerous.”
“I said sorry.”
“No, you bloody didn’t. Ungrateful brat.” The boy snorted at that.
“What’s with that look? It’s thanks to me you’re alive to begin with.”
“So you remind me every day.” The boy rolled his eyes.
“And I’ll bloody keep reminding ya until ya get it through your thick skull.” Anger caused the accent to grow broader and thicker. “Not repentin’ at all are ya. Lil shit. Wash up a bit and get ready for bed.” (AN: Please don’t ask me about the accent… I have been watching too much Doctor Who)
The boy scowled, but obeyed. Scooping out some cold water from the pail and using it to scrub some of the filth from him, wondering all the while why he could eat filthy, but not go to bed filthy.
To all appearances, they were a crippled father and his malnourished son. To the rest of the people living in the slums, the old man was a former adventurer who suffered a crippling injury from a demon. The treatment of the poison had left him a pauper. Several months later, one of the women from his former party later dropped off a child she claimed to be his and cut all ties with him. Conceived before he was crippled of course, many laughed at the tale. For the man’s face held remnants of a fine bone structure, and he had clear blue eyes. In his prime, he was no doubt a pretty-boy; but, the demon that attacked him had done more than cripple his leg. The venom that had swept through his veins had left him with a pox on his face, so marring his appearance that it made it difficult to look at him. Now, the cripple tried to make his way off carvings and his boy’s earnings.
If any of them could see the cripple now, they would think differently. A washed face revealed no pox, only a slightly lined face. Lines created from years of living poorly, but still they belied the true age. The hair, under the dirt, would be black as ink. Under the rags, the slender waist was from more than malnutrition, and the wide hips became more noticeable after removing the baggy breeches. A woman’s slender body was revealed as the clothing was removed. The woman, a slightly aged beauty, had feared for her life in such a place, and spent the last decade living in disguise. Her slightly pointed ears revealed an elvin heritage. She was only a half-breed, but that was common in the slums. Half-breeds are discriminated by both races that could claim them, and often found themselves alone and poor.
As for the rest of the tale… it was more or less true. She had been an adventurer, a rouge to be precise. Her job was to find monsters, pick locks, and disarm traps. As for attack… she didn’t do much of it, preferring to hide in the shadows and use ambushes when necessary. For the most part, she preferred to leave things to companions with more offensive power. One day, her party had fallen to a ferocious demon. Only 3 of the original 7 had survived. The fact that she survived, was half due to luck, and half due to her concealment. But her body had been crippled, forcing her to leave adventuring and settle down.
Unfortunately it had only been the start of her decline. The massive debts she received from the healing that had saved her life, but not her leg, put her in a precarious position. Though she sold everything she had, the poverty eventually caused her to end up in the slums, unable to support herself and unwilling to sell her body for survival. One day, one of the two remaining members of her party showed up at her door with a newborn baby in her arms. The couple had had a falling out, but neither of them wanted to end their careers as adventurers, and neither of them wanted to raise a child alone or had family able to take care of it. It was a common thing with adventurers, to have no family or to cut yourself off from them. It had been a mixture of bribery and threats that had caused her to take in the child, and move further away from the city, towards the outskirts of the slums. Said child had been hers ever since. Not by choice, of course. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but the real mother had vanished, and hadn’t returned. The father had never shown himself either. She had no way of tracking them down, if they were even alive to begin with, and had been too soft to throw a baby away in the slums, to no doubt be sold for nefarious purposes.
But the child she’d raised didn’t know this tale, or rather; he only knew that she was not his real mother. She took care to remind him of it frequently. He also knew what she taught him about picking pockets, hiding in shadows, and running away from danger. Of course, she’d taught him a few other things as well, but he didn’t think of those as useful.
After washing to her satisfaction, they both changed into nightclothes. Just a tunic and breeches, no different from the day clothes except for being slightly cleaner. At one time, they’d only had one set of clothes apiece. Now, they were lucky to have three.
The boy stoked the fire, causing the room to be bathed in a slightly brighter glow. Sharp shadows stood out behind the stools and pail. He stared dazedly into the crackling flames. It wasn’t time to sleep just yet, and he was enjoying the warmth while it lasted.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The woman grabbed a stick from the wood pile and whacked him over the head with it.
“Oww. Wha’ was that fer?” He’d picked up some of her thick accent.
She whacked him over the head again.
“Ow. Damn sadistic witch.” She whacked him one more time. Expecting it this time, he only grimaced and rubbed the sore spots.
“I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, use proper language when we’re alone.” She was careful to enunciate every word. Her original Elvish was good; she’d been born there after all. But she’d been sent out at a young age and hadn’t practiced it much since, until she started teaching the boy that is. The human language was taught to her by an uneducated farmer, it had taken her years to realize that mistake, but she had never been able to correct it when she got mad. Of course, living in the slums for so long hadn’t helped either. She’d picked up some colorful language over the years.
“Fine fine, but what did you hit me the first time for.” He was also carefully enunciating, not wanting yet another bump.
“Practice.”
The boy groaned audibly. “C’mon, I have to weave tomorrow. Can’t it wait ‘til tomorr- OWW. Damn wom-OW.”
“Proper language. And ABSOLUTELY NO CURSING.” The woman smiled smugly. As an afterthought, she hit him one more time. “And no calling me woman either! Even when we’re alone!” The boy whimpered and kept his mouth shut. She continued, “Tonight, we will practice writing the human language.”
The boy grumbled, but didn’t refuse. His only choice was to mentally prepare himself for yet another night of bumps and bruises.
“Since you seem so agreeable, we’ll practice Elvish tonight too.”
“Oh, come on! That’ll be all night!” He immediately shielded his head from another blow. Surprisingly, it didn’t come.
“One day, you’ll be thankful for this,” the woman said seriously. “This will come in handy, and it will give you a better chance.”
Slightly mollified, but still mad about the bumps, he responded sullenly, “Teaching me magic would be more useful.”
She hit him again. “You idiot! Magic isn’t something so simple! You’re too young to be able to control your mana! You could die!” It was a common argument. So common, in fact, that it was brought up every time she tried to teach the boy something he didn’t want to learn.
“I wouldn’t die that easily! I’m stronger than that!”
“It’s got nothing to do with the strength of your body. It’s the soul that matters. You’re too young. Your soul hasn’t had time to fully mature.”
He rolled his eyes expressively. Yet another whack on the head hit precisely on one of the already swollen lumps, causing him to curl up in the fetal position.
“I’ve already taught you runes!”
“But you haven’t taught me how to use them. They’re useless when they’re just carved on stuff!”
She scoffed, her eyes full of amusement as he once again covered his head. “You’d be surprised. Now, start practicing.” She raised the stick menacingly.
He grumbled curses under his breath, but picked up a second stick and started scratching symbols into the ground.
Languages weren’t as difficult as Runes. He’d been learning to read and write all three for years now. He didn’t appreciate it much; it didn’t really come in handy in the slums. It was much easier to learn by ear, half the city spoke multiple languages, and he was sure he’d picked up half the beast language by now too. Hardly anyone around here knew how to write, even if they did, there would barely be any to read it.
He darkly suspected that she was just being sadistic when she made him practice languages. If she had known more than two, no doubt he would have been forced to learn those as well.
Runes were a different story. Runes were changing symbols, each one had a purpose. Carving a Rune on an item and activating it, would cause it to be imbued with magic. It was a different kind of magic than the spells mages cast, but spells were expensive to learn. The required spell books cost several gold, impossible to afford for someone so poor. Since his caretaker didn’t know much magic aside from Runework, there wasn’t much he could learn, even if she decided to teach him.
Runes allowed people unable to cast magic a means to use it through magic items. Runes could be carved into any item of decent quality, and that item would gain an effect from the Rune carved in it. They can provide a large enhancement to skills if done correctly. A sword could be carved with a Rune of [Sharpness] and it becomes able to cut enemies easier. A shield could be engraved with [Sturdiness] to prevent attacks from damaging it, while still allowing a full defense. There were many runes that could be used for similar purposes, [Defense], [Sturdiness], [Protection], [Resistance], [Fortify], etc.
The boy hadn’t understood why he had to learn so much. He had never seen the effects of a Rune, so was less than enthusiastic about learning them. Who would want to learn a language that was always changing? Until the woman finally decided to show him what Runes could do. As an example, the woman-who-was-not-his-mother had carved one on the metal pail they used for water. First, she had made him struggle to carry the full bucket halfway back to the house from the river. Then she carved a Rune for [Lightness] on the metal frame. It had taken her several minutes of meditation to do so, and the Rune had glowed white for a moment at its completion. She then ordered him to carry the bucket the rest of the way home.
She had laughed at his grumbling, and laughed even harder when he had picked up the pail and showed a dumbfounded expression. It had weighted only half of its former weight. This was only considered a minor level of skill, a moderate ability at Runework would have caused the bucket to weigh one fourth or one fifth of the original. A high level of skill would have made it next to weightless. Skill level depends both on the amount that you understand the Rune you use, the correctness of the Rune you carve, and the amount of mana you put into it. However, you could carve Runes without using mana, these Runes would then absorb ambient mana until full enough to activate. The boy, of course, did not understand these intricacies; but, after the bucket incident, he had pursued the topic of learning Runes with much more enthusiasm. He’d even diligently practiced meditation before bedtime.
Unfortunately, his Runes never glowed, so he was sure there was some secret she wasn’t telling him. Rune practice always left him mentally and physically worn.
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She wasn’t satisfied until after two hours of practice. Of course, after he had carved the Elvish and Human language symbols to her satisfaction, she had insisted on verbal practice.
“What point is learning to write a language if you can’t speak it?” She asked.
He responded, “What’s the point in learning languages that I’ll never have to speak?” Then she hit him again.
“You’re not going to stay here forever, you know! One day you’ll leave this place. You never know what you’ll find out there. We ran into all sorts of people while we were adventuring.” The boy was silent at this. It was rare for her to talk about her adventuring days, and the mother he had never known.
As though lost in memory, she continued. “Our group always managed to get into trouble, your mother especially. We were all young, convinced of our invincibility. We took on anything we thought was a challenge. Of course, we failed a lot more than we succeeded, but nobody was ever hurt. They were fun times. I thought they would never end.” He thought she would end there, so he dared to brave a question.
“What was her job? That woman’s?” He was careful to ask as though he wasn’t very curious. He wasn’t, really. Not about his mother. He didn’t care about a woman who had abandoned him. Even if she was dead, it didn’t matter one way or the other to him. What he cared about was her abilities. Runes were good, but he wanted to be able to cast magic. To do so, he needed to have an aptitude for it.
She glanced at him sharply, looking him in the eyes long and hard. Apparently, she decided she liked what she saw. “She was a summoner.”
“A summoner…” The disappointment in his voice was unmasked. He wanted magic, not contracts with magical beasts. He wanted to rely on his own power.
“That’s right,” she seemed amused by his distress. “She had some sprites at her beck and call. And some moderate elemental spirits.”
The boy’s face twisted into a grimace.
She laughed, “She also knew a few magic spells. She wasn’t very good, but there you have it.”
“Really?” He asked, suddenly hopeful again.
“Really. And you know, everything is dependent on bloodlines and determination. Your mother was only a moderately good summoner, and only mastered basic spells, but she never tried very hard either. She just wanted to have fun; she didn’t want to put in the work necessary to be truly strong. And who knows who your father was. He could have been a great mage, or an ordinary human. He certainly wasn’t anyone from our little group. She couldn’t stomach any of the men. Too childish for her. Either way, mage bloodlines overpower human ones, so chances are good that you have magical talent.”
As he thought about wielding magic, he smiled; for once it was an innocent smile. It felt strange on his face. She smiled softly as she looked at him, but it was a mixed smile, both happy and sad. He was too lost in his thoughts to notice it. He didn’t even question why she was so talkative, when normally she was so secretive about her past.
“Now, let’s get off to bed. You have an early start tomorrow.”
The two of them climbed into the pile of rags together. Both were facing the declining flames, the woman behind him. As he watched the flames, he imagined shooting fireballs from his hands, summoning dragons as his minions. She wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him in towards her bony chest. It was always like this, she would wrap him in her arms with his back towards her, the closest thing to a hug he ever got. If he tried to do it the other way, he’d only be hit. Still, it was warm.
He dreamed of monsters and magic, becoming a hero and being praised as he walked down a street. He dreamed of slaying demons with sword and magic. He dreamed of never being hungry or lonely, of never working until your hands blister and bleed, and of living without fearing for tomorrow. At the end of his dream, he went home-an enormous building with 7 rooms, 3 fireplaces, and plenty of blankets- to the only one he could call family. Her unpoxed face smiled at him, and her footsteps made no sound as she walked in to fix dinner.
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Back to the Prologue To Chapter Two
I almost died writing this. I fluctuated between wanting to be super detailed and thinking it was super boring... so here is your summary. XD
Summary:
Characters: Boy + his father who is secretly not his father.
Location: Slums
Status: Poor, hungry. Father=Crippled
Activities:
1. The boy is practicing reading and writing.
2. The boy has a mysterious side job
3. The boy runs errands for the father who is secretly not his father.
4. The boy wants to learn how to use magic, but only knows about runes for now.
Next few chapters will get dark, so don't get used to the fluffy. Also, do not expect another update today. Maybe sometime late this week. Don't rush me. Also, any and all chapters are subject to changes/edits/complete rewrites at any time. I may decide to switch everything to first person at some point. Who knows?