Your fist whips out, faster than a striking snake, catching the big fellow in the nose. Even before the first drop of blood hit’s his upper lip, your hand is down and back at his neck, your dagger placed lightly against his throat. He stares at you for a bit with a puzzled expression on his face, the blood slowly leaking out of his right nostril.
“Let go of my hand if you want to live,” you say, staring the big man in the eye. He stares back for another couple of seconds. Then his face is split by a large, genuine toothy grin. He releases your hand, and you reflexively shake it to get the tingling sensation to pass. You lower your blade from his neck and say “That’s better.”
Before you know what is happening you are enveloped in a fierce bear hug. The big man lifts you off of your feet, spins you around, and then sets you back down, releasing his overpowering hold on you. He claps you on your shoulder hard enough to make you stagger. “Been a long time, Leldorin!” he says while wiping the blood from his face. He looks at his blood covered hand. “You didn’t have to hit me, though.”
“Violence is often the only way to get through to you,” you say, sheathing your dagger. “I see you got some new armor.”
He looks down at the scratched and dented breastplate. “Well my leathers had a bunch of rips, tears and bloodstains on them. It would have cost me a fortune to get them properly repaired.” He looks you in the eye and gives you a wink. “Besides, when I first noticed the rips and tears there just happened to be this beauty of a breastplate laying there on the ground, all limp and lifeless.” He chuckles a little, pleased at his fine joke.
“So you peeled it off a corpse?” you ask, not shocked at all.
“Well he wasn’t quite a corpse yet,” he says. He shows you his axe. “I found this nearby as well.” He throws back his head and lets out a loud guffaw (yes, I know, I hate this word, too). Changing the subject, he turns to you and says “I didn’t know you were heading back here. Last I heard you were on your way east. Muro, wasn’t it?”
The two of you leave the alley and begin heading in the direction of the Lucky Duck again. “Saw it and some other places while I’ve been away. What are you still doing here?” you ask. “I thought you’d taken a job with a caravan or something.”
The big guy shrugs his shoulders. “That lasted a while. Then there was an ‘incident’ and I left their employ. Been here for a few months, wasting time, takin’ odd jobs. I been working at the Duck for the past month, actually.”
“That’s just where I’m headed, as luck would have it,” you say. You look up at him. “By the way, what are you doing out here, anyway?”
You have retraced your steps back to the old, decrepit fountain with the statue depicting the figure and the bird. You take a seat on the rim, noting that the fountain has been drained. The big man sits next to you. “You heard about the Gobs, right?” he asks. You nod your head. “Well, they won’t be coming near anyone like me. Too big of a threat, I’ll wager.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “So I was stalking them. I dunno, I used to do it back home with deer and elk. It’s really not much different with the Gobs.”
“So you were sneaking up on the sneaks?” you ask. “That’s actually pretty… smart.” Not that this guy is necessarily dumb, but he’s not the most intelligent person you’ve met by far. You are a little impressed that someone of his intellect thought to lay an ambush for the Goblins. You have known this man for quite some time. In fact when you first met him (during your first trip through Evenbrook) he was a fresh-faced youth, only recently having left his home to the north. He is good-natured, a true friend, and a straight forward person. When a problem presents itself you can expect him to be right there at your side, attacking it head on. He may be uncouth at times, but he loves a good joke and he is a good companion. You are proud to count him among your few true friends.
What is this big man's name?
7/30/10
1.3
“I’ll be fine,” you say as you brush past the first guard and stand before the closed gate. You eye Lazy for a few seconds until he realizes that you are waiting for him to open the small door set in the larger gate. He shuffles over to the gate, fumbling for his keys as goes.
“Excuse me, sir,” he says as he steps in front of you to open the lock. After a few seconds more of trying to find the right key he inserts it into the padlock, turns the key and opens the door for you. “Be careful in there,” he says, shutting the door after you walk through. You can hear the padlock click closed on the other side, and then nothing.
You stand alone on the main thoroughfare. Nothing moves, the only sound the creaking of a tailor’s shingle hanging over his door to your right. The buildings around you are shuttered tight. You see light peeking out between the shutters in places but many more are dark and cold. Some of the larger buildings, inns and homes of the wealthy, have lights in their upper story windows. These are the lights you must have seen as you crossed the river on the ferry. You have never seen Evenbrook look as deserted as it does now; it’s as if nobody lives here.
You set off down the street. You are heading for an inn you know. You have stayed there many times. It is called the Lucky Duck. The food is mediocre, the bedding is old, stinky straw and the serving girls are all missing teeth to one degree or another. Even the time when you had lice probably originated from the Lucky Duck.
The Lucky Duck is not the worst inn around, but it is close. You prefer the Lucky Duck because of the atmosphere. There is always someone drunk enough to sing an off key (and off color) tune that you’ve never heard before. Fights are rare, and joviality is abundant. There is a feeling of community there that you never thought to feel anywhere other than Ralas Than. They welcome you as a fellow traveler and vagabond. And they don’t pry into your personal affairs.
You continue down the street and then take a left at a fountain with a statue depicting what you think is a man with a bird on his shoulder. The statue is so old and weather-worn that you've heard people argue about whether it was originally intended to be a woman or if the bird was actually a devil with bat wings. You leave the cobblestones for hard packed dirt. After a few minutes you take a right at a butcher’s shop and head north again, all the while keeping your eyes, ears and nose open for trouble. As you pass an alley filled with refuse on your right you hear the soft scuffing sound of feet coming from that way. You continue on, pretending to not have noticed. After all, you like doing things the fun way. And what’s more fun than ambushing your own would-be ambusher?
You continue on toward the Lucky Duck, all the while listening for more noise from behind you. As you pass by one of the many commons throughout the city you hear it again, this time from behind you and to the left. It sounds closer than before. That is amusing to you. Not many things can sneak up on you after you already know they are there, and this something managed to close the distance to what you estimate to be about ten feet.
As you continue walking you smoothly rest your right hand on the grip of your sword, hiding the action underneath your cloak. No sense in scaring off your fun with obvious signs of aggression. You hear the scuffing sound again, this time directly behind you and even closer still. You tighten your grip on your sword, contracting you muscles in preparation for a quick draw of your sword. Almost time, you tell yourself. The scuffing sound turns into the slapping sound of feet rushing towards you, your ambusher sure that he has the upper hand. One slap, two slaps, three slaps, Now! You turn to your right, drawing your sword in one smooth motion, ready for the kill and…
A strong hand grabs yours, forcing your sword back into its sheath. You look up, up, up into blue eyes above a shaggy brown beard, a dented steel helmet to top it all off. A tall muscular man stands in front of, his right hand gripping yours, his left hand holding an axe. Some sort of animal skin cloak covered in dark fur is draped over his shoulders, and he wears a dented breastplate obviously built for someone much smaller than him. He holds you hand in an iron grip, preventing you from drawing your sword, and you can feel your hand pop and crack as he squeezes.
He looks you in the eyes and, with a scowl on his face, asks, “Well, what are you going to do now, pointy ears?”
“Excuse me, sir,” he says as he steps in front of you to open the lock. After a few seconds more of trying to find the right key he inserts it into the padlock, turns the key and opens the door for you. “Be careful in there,” he says, shutting the door after you walk through. You can hear the padlock click closed on the other side, and then nothing.
You stand alone on the main thoroughfare. Nothing moves, the only sound the creaking of a tailor’s shingle hanging over his door to your right. The buildings around you are shuttered tight. You see light peeking out between the shutters in places but many more are dark and cold. Some of the larger buildings, inns and homes of the wealthy, have lights in their upper story windows. These are the lights you must have seen as you crossed the river on the ferry. You have never seen Evenbrook look as deserted as it does now; it’s as if nobody lives here.
You set off down the street. You are heading for an inn you know. You have stayed there many times. It is called the Lucky Duck. The food is mediocre, the bedding is old, stinky straw and the serving girls are all missing teeth to one degree or another. Even the time when you had lice probably originated from the Lucky Duck.
The Lucky Duck is not the worst inn around, but it is close. You prefer the Lucky Duck because of the atmosphere. There is always someone drunk enough to sing an off key (and off color) tune that you’ve never heard before. Fights are rare, and joviality is abundant. There is a feeling of community there that you never thought to feel anywhere other than Ralas Than. They welcome you as a fellow traveler and vagabond. And they don’t pry into your personal affairs.
You continue down the street and then take a left at a fountain with a statue depicting what you think is a man with a bird on his shoulder. The statue is so old and weather-worn that you've heard people argue about whether it was originally intended to be a woman or if the bird was actually a devil with bat wings. You leave the cobblestones for hard packed dirt. After a few minutes you take a right at a butcher’s shop and head north again, all the while keeping your eyes, ears and nose open for trouble. As you pass an alley filled with refuse on your right you hear the soft scuffing sound of feet coming from that way. You continue on, pretending to not have noticed. After all, you like doing things the fun way. And what’s more fun than ambushing your own would-be ambusher?
You continue on toward the Lucky Duck, all the while listening for more noise from behind you. As you pass by one of the many commons throughout the city you hear it again, this time from behind you and to the left. It sounds closer than before. That is amusing to you. Not many things can sneak up on you after you already know they are there, and this something managed to close the distance to what you estimate to be about ten feet.
As you continue walking you smoothly rest your right hand on the grip of your sword, hiding the action underneath your cloak. No sense in scaring off your fun with obvious signs of aggression. You hear the scuffing sound again, this time directly behind you and even closer still. You tighten your grip on your sword, contracting you muscles in preparation for a quick draw of your sword. Almost time, you tell yourself. The scuffing sound turns into the slapping sound of feet rushing towards you, your ambusher sure that he has the upper hand. One slap, two slaps, three slaps, Now! You turn to your right, drawing your sword in one smooth motion, ready for the kill and…
A strong hand grabs yours, forcing your sword back into its sheath. You look up, up, up into blue eyes above a shaggy brown beard, a dented steel helmet to top it all off. A tall muscular man stands in front of, his right hand gripping yours, his left hand holding an axe. Some sort of animal skin cloak covered in dark fur is draped over his shoulders, and he wears a dented breastplate obviously built for someone much smaller than him. He holds you hand in an iron grip, preventing you from drawing your sword, and you can feel your hand pop and crack as he squeezes.
He looks you in the eyes and, with a scowl on his face, asks, “Well, what are you going to do now, pointy ears?”
7/28/10
1.2
You look the guard in the eyes. “Leldorin,” you tell him, “and I’m just passing through. I need a room for the night and I’ll be on my way in the morning.”
“Well,” he says, “it’s not exactly, uh, safe in the, uh, city right now.” The guard begins to shift uneasily under your gaze. You have discovered in your travels that one way to intimidate these city dwellers is to make eye contact for a long period of time, something that is completely normal in your culture. At first this was accidental; you just didn’t understand the social norms of people outside of Ralas Than. Now, however, you’ve learned to use this simple trick to make people think twice about whether to mess with you.
The guard takes a step back and looks over at the gate, happy to break the eye contact. “You see, we have to guard the gate to keep any more o’ them little bastards from sneaking into the city.”
You frown. “Illegitimate children have been sneaking into the city…?” Sometimes you just don’t understand human culture. In Ralas Than a bastard, an incredibly rare occurrence, is ceremonially castrated and raised as a priest. In your experience it seems humans send them to orphanages to be raised in squalor and thievery.
“What’r you talking ‘bout?” the guard asks.
“Not bastards,” the second guard (the lazy one) says. He holds his hand at mid-thigh. “Gobs,” he says. “Ya’ know? Little folk? Beady red eyes like a rabbit, sharp teeth like a dog? Cowards and packrats, they is.”
“Oh,” you say, realization setting in. “You mean goblins have been sneaking into the city. Why didn’t you just say so?” you ask.
“But, I did say so!” The first guard is looking at you like you must be soft in the head.
“Anyway,” the lazy guard says, “it ain’t exactly safe on the streets right abou’ now. Gobs love to come out at night, they do, picking out thems that are all alone. You’d be a prime target, you would.”
“And,” the first guard interjects, “we’re stretched pretty thin as it is. Gobs have been running around the past three nights. We kill a few and the rest just scatter back to their dark holes and wait for us to relax.”
“They been stealing things, they has,” Lazy says. “Food, clothes, tools. They even beat a constable on patrol to death with cobbles and stole everything he had! That’s why we don’t go out alone any more, we don’t. A pack o’ them’ll sneak up on you before you know it if there’s no one to watch your back.”
Goblins definitely like to sneak, but they aren’t necessarily good at it. You just have to know what to look and listen for. And you do know. The soft scuffing of their bare feet on the stones, the short sharp breaths that they take. Even the smell is enough to give away the location of a group of goblins.
When dealing with goblins there are two tactics that can be employed. The first is safer. Simply keep your ears, eyes, and nose open and when you spot them, point at them and make a lot of noise. Goblins don’t like confrontation and they will almost always get clear of the area.
The second is more fun. Again, keep your ears, eyes and nose open. Then, when you spot them, pretend like you haven’t. As they sneak up, you prepare your counter-attack, catching them off guard and usually slaying a few of them.
“If you go in,” the first guard says, “you go in alone. We can’t leave the gate unguarded. Ya’ still wanna go in?”
What do you want to do? Answer: Go in the fun way.
“Well,” he says, “it’s not exactly, uh, safe in the, uh, city right now.” The guard begins to shift uneasily under your gaze. You have discovered in your travels that one way to intimidate these city dwellers is to make eye contact for a long period of time, something that is completely normal in your culture. At first this was accidental; you just didn’t understand the social norms of people outside of Ralas Than. Now, however, you’ve learned to use this simple trick to make people think twice about whether to mess with you.
The guard takes a step back and looks over at the gate, happy to break the eye contact. “You see, we have to guard the gate to keep any more o’ them little bastards from sneaking into the city.”
You frown. “Illegitimate children have been sneaking into the city…?” Sometimes you just don’t understand human culture. In Ralas Than a bastard, an incredibly rare occurrence, is ceremonially castrated and raised as a priest. In your experience it seems humans send them to orphanages to be raised in squalor and thievery.
“What’r you talking ‘bout?” the guard asks.
“Not bastards,” the second guard (the lazy one) says. He holds his hand at mid-thigh. “Gobs,” he says. “Ya’ know? Little folk? Beady red eyes like a rabbit, sharp teeth like a dog? Cowards and packrats, they is.”
“Oh,” you say, realization setting in. “You mean goblins have been sneaking into the city. Why didn’t you just say so?” you ask.
“But, I did say so!” The first guard is looking at you like you must be soft in the head.
“Anyway,” the lazy guard says, “it ain’t exactly safe on the streets right abou’ now. Gobs love to come out at night, they do, picking out thems that are all alone. You’d be a prime target, you would.”
“And,” the first guard interjects, “we’re stretched pretty thin as it is. Gobs have been running around the past three nights. We kill a few and the rest just scatter back to their dark holes and wait for us to relax.”
“They been stealing things, they has,” Lazy says. “Food, clothes, tools. They even beat a constable on patrol to death with cobbles and stole everything he had! That’s why we don’t go out alone any more, we don’t. A pack o’ them’ll sneak up on you before you know it if there’s no one to watch your back.”
Goblins definitely like to sneak, but they aren’t necessarily good at it. You just have to know what to look and listen for. And you do know. The soft scuffing of their bare feet on the stones, the short sharp breaths that they take. Even the smell is enough to give away the location of a group of goblins.
When dealing with goblins there are two tactics that can be employed. The first is safer. Simply keep your ears, eyes, and nose open and when you spot them, point at them and make a lot of noise. Goblins don’t like confrontation and they will almost always get clear of the area.
The second is more fun. Again, keep your ears, eyes and nose open. Then, when you spot them, pretend like you haven’t. As they sneak up, you prepare your counter-attack, catching them off guard and usually slaying a few of them.
“If you go in,” the first guard says, “you go in alone. We can’t leave the gate unguarded. Ya’ still wanna go in?”
What do you want to do? Answer: Go in the fun way.
7/26/10
1.1
Chapter 1
Evenbrook…
The last leg of your journey. The end is almost in sight. Standing on the gently swaying ferry as it is pulled across the swiftly moving river you fancy that you can actually see the tips of the tall pines that mark your home of Ralas Than. Of course you can’t. You can only make out the far shore thanks to the lit lamps that mark the far crossing, and the occasional lit window peeking up over Evenbrook’s thick, sturdy wall. You’ve been away from home for too long. Your widowed father and younger sister must miss you terribly and, though you never thought you’d admit it, you miss them as well.
Evenbrook is a welcome sight. Not the largest or most beautiful city you’ve seen in your travels, but the one that is most familiar to you. Barely large enough to be called a city, Evenbrook lies on the northern marches of the country of Dell, and is the southern neighbor of your home, Ralas Than. It lies in the foothills of the vast mountains to the west. Evenbrook is your favorite city of all the cities you’ve visited because it means you are almost home.
You pull your traveling cloak around you as a sudden gust of wind rocks the tiny craft upon which you stand. Your cloak is black, just like your gloves, trousers, boots, vest and shirt. You tell others that you wear black so it’s easier to remain unseen, as your recent trip has been a sort of sight-seeing one in which you wanted to see the world and yet stand apart from it; see the world how it is without one of “your kind” there to change peoples’ natural behaviors. But inside you know that you wear all black because it looks really cool.
The ferry hits the landing with a soft thunk and you are almost knocked off your feet. You should really stop daydreaming about home so much. You have been getting lost in your thoughts more and more lately. It’s probably a sign that you need the refreshing presence of your home more than you had originally thought. Not that you’d die from being away from home; that would be ridiculous. You miss home just like anyone else would miss home after having been gone for a while. And four years is a while for most people, even people as long lived as yours.
You grab your things, which include a pack, a bedroll, and your unstrung bow and quiver. Stepping foot onto the landing located at the far West end of the dock you turn, pay the ferryman, and head over to the main road heading into town. It has a name, something like Farnick Street or Frensic Street, but you don’t remember. It’s the main road, one of the few that is paved with cobblestones.
You approach the gate into the city, which to your slight astonishment is guarded by two men, instead of the customary one. They both wear padded jackets, metal skullcaps, and carry six foot spears. The symbol of house Gelhurt, the noble family who stewards over Evenbrook for the queen, is embroidered on their right breast.
“Halt!” one of them commands, and the other immediately stops reclining against the wall and comes to attention, fixing his gaze on you. These two are young, and not just by age. They are young to battle and duty. They have probably never used their spears in anything like a real fight, let alone a battle. You rest your hand on the pommel of the thin blade worn at your waste, feeling the reassurance of the steel even through your gloves. Taking them head on is not your style of fighting, but even so you know that you could take them both. Nevertheless, that would be impolite and rude, and they’re just doing their jobs.
The one who originally spoke takes a step towards you as you come to a stop a few paces from them. You can tell he is a rookie because he just closed the distance enough to place you inside of his effective range and in a perfect position for you, should the need arise to draw blood. He speaks again, trying to sound commanding and intimidating, though you are having none of it.
“What is your name and what business do you have here so late in the night?”
Evenbrook…
The last leg of your journey. The end is almost in sight. Standing on the gently swaying ferry as it is pulled across the swiftly moving river you fancy that you can actually see the tips of the tall pines that mark your home of Ralas Than. Of course you can’t. You can only make out the far shore thanks to the lit lamps that mark the far crossing, and the occasional lit window peeking up over Evenbrook’s thick, sturdy wall. You’ve been away from home for too long. Your widowed father and younger sister must miss you terribly and, though you never thought you’d admit it, you miss them as well.
Evenbrook is a welcome sight. Not the largest or most beautiful city you’ve seen in your travels, but the one that is most familiar to you. Barely large enough to be called a city, Evenbrook lies on the northern marches of the country of Dell, and is the southern neighbor of your home, Ralas Than. It lies in the foothills of the vast mountains to the west. Evenbrook is your favorite city of all the cities you’ve visited because it means you are almost home.
You pull your traveling cloak around you as a sudden gust of wind rocks the tiny craft upon which you stand. Your cloak is black, just like your gloves, trousers, boots, vest and shirt. You tell others that you wear black so it’s easier to remain unseen, as your recent trip has been a sort of sight-seeing one in which you wanted to see the world and yet stand apart from it; see the world how it is without one of “your kind” there to change peoples’ natural behaviors. But inside you know that you wear all black because it looks really cool.
The ferry hits the landing with a soft thunk and you are almost knocked off your feet. You should really stop daydreaming about home so much. You have been getting lost in your thoughts more and more lately. It’s probably a sign that you need the refreshing presence of your home more than you had originally thought. Not that you’d die from being away from home; that would be ridiculous. You miss home just like anyone else would miss home after having been gone for a while. And four years is a while for most people, even people as long lived as yours.
You grab your things, which include a pack, a bedroll, and your unstrung bow and quiver. Stepping foot onto the landing located at the far West end of the dock you turn, pay the ferryman, and head over to the main road heading into town. It has a name, something like Farnick Street or Frensic Street, but you don’t remember. It’s the main road, one of the few that is paved with cobblestones.
You approach the gate into the city, which to your slight astonishment is guarded by two men, instead of the customary one. They both wear padded jackets, metal skullcaps, and carry six foot spears. The symbol of house Gelhurt, the noble family who stewards over Evenbrook for the queen, is embroidered on their right breast.
“Halt!” one of them commands, and the other immediately stops reclining against the wall and comes to attention, fixing his gaze on you. These two are young, and not just by age. They are young to battle and duty. They have probably never used their spears in anything like a real fight, let alone a battle. You rest your hand on the pommel of the thin blade worn at your waste, feeling the reassurance of the steel even through your gloves. Taking them head on is not your style of fighting, but even so you know that you could take them both. Nevertheless, that would be impolite and rude, and they’re just doing their jobs.
The one who originally spoke takes a step towards you as you come to a stop a few paces from them. You can tell he is a rookie because he just closed the distance enough to place you inside of his effective range and in a perfect position for you, should the need arise to draw blood. He speaks again, trying to sound commanding and intimidating, though you are having none of it.
“What is your name and what business do you have here so late in the night?”
What is your name? Answer: Leldorin
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