Rokkoh and the Old Woman, Chapter 4

True to the stablewoman’s word, as we round the hill, a cluster of buildings comes into view. The galloping horses slow as we draw near and pass under a great wooden sign declaring the area as Fiona’s Rest. Small houses line the street, giving way to a strip of commerce. Though most have closed their doors for the night, a tavern remains lively. Opposite it, also still lit up and open for business is a place designated as Fiona’s Rest Inn.

Hitching our horses outside, the three of us enter the warmth of the inn. A bar, manned by a suave and well-dressed young man, sits to the left amongst a vacant collection of comfortable seats. To the left is a fireplace, crackling with vibrance and vigor. Ahead waits the innkeeper, a twin to the bartender. A cat, a chubby tabby, watches us as it rests upon a small pillow on the counter. Behind them is an archway leading to, presumably, the rooms.

“Good evening, travelers,” the innkeeper greets us with a grin. A thin mustache stretches across his upper lip, brushed neatly like his dark hair. Both look black amongst the pale skin, but a hint of brown in the light gives away the true hue. His brother wears no facial hair, and remains focused on cleaning tankards and mugs.

“Hello,” Max and I say to him in tandem. Nana offers a quiet grumble from within the heavy coat. I lower the hood for her to keep her from overheating in the thick furry thing.

“Three of you?” the innkeeper asks, to which we agree. He fingers through a set of thick but small papers, concern on his furrowed brow. “Looks like the best vacancy available is only a two bedroom. Would that be okay, sirs?”

Max and I exchange a look of concern of our own. Either Nana would have to sleep on the floor (or a chaise if the room had one, at best) or one of us would have to share. We could buck up and bunk together, let Nana have a bed to herself. Or one of us could take the floor. The question is which of us will get the sweet solitary, and who will have to concede?

“Not to offend,” Max says to the innkeeper, “but is there perhaps another inn in town that we could try?”

“There are some bunkhouses,” he explains with a little shrug, “but they only have single bedrooms. The Inn is the only place in town able to accommodate higher capacities. You are more than welcome to seek those out, there are a couple further down the road out of town. Their rates though, for three separate rooms, would be costlier than just one here.”

“How much for your room?” I ask, despite Max’s hesitance.

“For the two-bedroom, twenty gold,” he answers. “Most of the others around here charge upwards of fifteen for a single-bed.”

“Fifteen? Better come with a buffet and a lady,” Max chuckles.

“Some do, if that’s of any interest,” the innkeeper admits.

“We’ll take your room,” I decide. “Pay the man, Max.”

Max gives me a pleading look, begging to at least go see the room with the woman. But I will not yield. The more coin we save, the more will be in our till once Nana is back home. He should know this, he is no fool. Max, though, has had a problem with emptying his coin purse too quickly during previous jobs. After a stern discussion, Kym and I had thought the issue had been resolved. Or, at the very least, under control. Perhaps with only me accompanying him, he figures we can let loose before we have the final half of the reward.

Begrudgingly, he digs into the pouch and sets twenty gold coins on the counter. The cat, staying in its spot, sniffs at them. It relaxes back, seemingly approving the payment. The innkeeper hands a small ring to him, two keys attached to it.

“Thank you very much, sir,” the innkeeper says with a courteous smile. “You’ll be in Room Seven on your left, just through the doorway here. Enjoy your stay.”

Max grumbles something under his breath, likely something regarding how certain amenities would enhance the experience. He heads through the doorway, making a quick exit. With a careful touch, I take hold of Nana’s hand. She does not seem to oppose the gesture.

“Ready to get some sleep, Nana?” I ask her.

Those milky, blind eyes behind empty spectacles find me. She wears a blank expression, but nods her head slow. Her fingers hold a little tighter on my hand as we follow Max’s path. The door sits ajar. Our cohort has already claimed a bed for himself, jacket and boots resting at the end and his back turned to the room. It is a small room, only enough space for the two beds lined against either wall and a dresser between them. A plate holds several lit candles there to illuminate the room. I help Nana out of the coat and onto the bed, setting the spectacles on the dresser top. The floor, I decide, shall be my bed for the night. Extinguishing the tiny flames with a gust of breath, I set into my place. Though uncomfortable, I’ve had worse. The jail cell comes to mind. Nana’s coat becomes my pillow, a warmth retained therein.

A hand like a skeleton’s hangs over the edge of Nana’s bed. Its fingers curl, beckoning. I sit up, worried that something is the matter. That same blank face watches me as she waves her arms toward herself.

“What’s wrong, Nana?” my confusion comes through the dark.

“Sleep,” her scratchy voice responds, hushed. “Sleep.”

“I’m okay, Nana,” I tell her, soft enough to not disturb Max. “But thank you.”

Her hand grips my forearm, a cold clasp. Though she has little muscle, she pulls. She tugs for a few seconds before I relent with a sigh and crawl up. She scoots back toward the wall, a faint smile on her face as I lay on my back. She stretches an arm across my chest and cuddles her frail frame against my bulkier one.

“Elbert,” she whispers, content. I have neither the heart nor the curiosity to question it.

Continue to Chapter Five

Rokkoh and the Old Woman, Chapter 3

Our trek ends amongst the quiet peace of the Hemwood trees. The thick canopy keeps most of the rain out; the drops that make it through phase into a mist. The carriage stops along the trail, a long stretch of road left ahead of us. We file out, the siblings helping the old woman once more. Darkness creeps through the wood, held at bay by scarce torches lining the road. Led by Kym, and with her holding Nana’s hand, we cross the barrier into the black. In the all-consuming dark, I keep close behind Kym. Otherwise she fades into the surrounding abyss.

“Can we get some light?” Max asks from behind, a touch of fear in his whisper.

“Quiet!” Kym hushes him quickly. “The path must not be seen, and we cannot risk anyone watching us. Secrecy is their most powerful tool.”

“Who?” my curiosity betrays me before I can stop it. A long silence meets my question.

“It’s not far now,” Kym finally says.

True to her word, our steps slow a few minutes later. We stop at the sight of a small spark in the distance. A flame roars to life on the end of a torch, and it grows as its wielder approaches. Its figure blends into the dark, only half of a featureless silver mask illuminated. When it stops a few yards away, it looms over us in expectant silence. The large frame stands still, fire flickering across its mask, sizing us up. Soon, it turns in its place and paces back to where it had appeared. Only the light of the torch remains as we follow. 

A ring of torches come ablaze, each resting atop tall rocks. Thirteen in total, our little group stands in the middle of them. The giant figure, revealed by the light of the flames to be donned in a flowing black robe and cloak, stakes the rod of his torch into the earth and raises two huge palms in the air. A heavy wind swirls around the edge of the stones, the flaming torches lapping like mad in the rough breeze. The leaves of the surrounding trees rustle on their branches, the weakest of them breaking free and joining the whirlwind. Nana lets go of Kym’s hand and releases a cry into the cacophony, arms outstretched toward the chaos.

As soon as it swells, it ends. Even Nana’s screeching cuts short. The abrupt stillness leaves a ringing in my ears and my hair disheveled. All around us, on every rock grows a purple light. Bright, pale, and rippling like water, the light encompasses the whole of each tall rock.

The ringing in my ears is replaced by a low hum, each stone quietly singing a note. All together, the chorus’s chants fill the trees and my heart. Powerful magic unlike any I have seen. Rapturous.

“What is this place?” comes my curiosity.

“These are the Obelisks of Itisio,” Kym answers, guiding Nana to Max’s side. She goes without a struggle and takes his hand. “Each is a portal that sends you to another set of Obelisks dotted across the world. They’re great for traveling long distances, but…”

“I require payment for those who wish to cross,” the giant declares, the deep thunder made soft. Turning, he reaches out a hand to us.

Kym approaches him, digging into another pouch hanging from her waist. From it she produces a smaller pouch, its contents clanking and clacking against each other as she hands it off. Going back in, she also pulls out a small horn. A bit of bloody grey flesh still clings to the base. Last given to the giant is a coin, larger than a gold piece and washed in red. The giant tucks each of these away into his cloak.

“Three may enter,” the giant says, pointing to a portal to our right. “Quickly.”

The four of us step up to the portal, its hummed note growing stronger. Max and Nana pass through first, the purple light encompassing their figures as they phase into the destination. Kym takes a gentle hold on my hand, pulling my attention to her.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” she says, her eyes screaming her desire to come with us. But there is coin to be made, and sometimes you just need to go get it. Nothing new for our little troupe, yet the longing remains.

“Better be for more than five minutes this time,” I tease, drinking in her image.

“With how long it’s been, are you sure you can make it last that long?” she jokes back.

We come together for a moment, arms around each other and our lips locked in a sweet embrace. She lets me go, leaving me wanting more, and bids me farewell before disappearing into the shadows. 

I turn to the portal and let the light take me. Little waves of tamed lightning wash over me from head to toe, pulling me with a delicate touch further inward. The hairs on my arms stand on end under the cloth of the shirt, gooseflesh perking up, a cool current sending down my spine. The soft beckoning reverses, pushes me out with that same faint force. The light breaks as I step out into the clearing of another stone circle. Dark and unattended, a cold breeze dances through.

The moon high above hangs in a thin crescent, its low light just enough to shine through the sparser trees here.

“Might be a town up ahead,” Max says, pointing out a pair of flickering lights beyond the edge of trees.

We make our way toward it, Nana keeping close to Max for safety and warmth. Nocturnal birds call from their perches, chirping and chiding, as we trudge through the night. The dots of distant lights grow into flames settled on torches, marking the gate on a fence. Beyond the wooden railings that stop at my waist sits a small house, a stable fixed a few yards away. Three horses sleep there, nestled on the ground of their stalls. A gravel path leads from the dirt road curving around the front of the house to the front door. The tiny rocks crunch with every step, announcing our arrival with loud annoyance. The door opens, and a woman appears. Disheveled brown hair hangs in loose curls, falling beyond her shoulders. A wary look shines on her face, tanned and wrinkled. Still in her nightgown, she aims a loaded crossbow out the door.

“Bad decision walking up to a stable at night,” she says, low and warning. “Not very good thieves, are you?”

“We’re not thieves, ma’am,” I tell her.

“Not today, anyway,” Max chimes in with a goofy grin. The crossbow swings to him, her finger on the trigger.

“Watch your words, son,” the woman growls. “Not a big fan of jokesters.”

“We mean no harm, you have my word,” I interject, hands up and taking a step toward her. “We are in need of shelter for the night, or a couple of horses to get to the next town. We can pay for either.”

While her aim remains on Max, her focus goes to me. She studies me for a long moment, and I do not move. No need to do anything to provoke her further. Her eyes then flick to Nana.

“Who’s the parka?” she asks, looking back to me.

“This is Nana,” I explain. “My friend and I have been tasked with taking her home. We still have a long way to go, and we’d rather not make her walk the distance if we can avoid it.”

The woman deliberates once more, looking over our trio. The crossbow moves to me.

“You got a name, kid?” she asks.

“My name is Rokkoh, and the loudmouth is Maximus.”

The woman nods slow, lowering the crossbow. She sets it down just inside the door, crossing her arms over her chest as her attention returns to us. My hands rest at my sides.

“Kym’s boys, huh?” she remarks. Max and I exchange a curious glance, but accept the label. She offers a breathy chuckle, steps out of the house, and shuts the door. “How much you got?”

“Enough,” Max answers quick.

The woman shoots him a glare, rolls her eyes with an exhausted groan, and focuses back on me. She arches an eyebrow, asking me silently.

“He’s the one with the money,” I tell her, “but I’m certain we can afford your prices.”

“And if I said it was 500 each?” she asks, a teasing smirk on her lips. She takes a few slow, short steps in our direction.

“Then I’m sure we could arrange a deal of some sort,” I reply, a cool grin meeting hers.

She stops a few feet away, aligning herself to me. Chin turned up to match my gaze, her eyes (silver in the moonlight) look me up and down, sizing me up. She lingers on the sword, or what I’m guessing is the sword, for a long second.

“You ever have to use that thing before?” she asks, her voice lowering into a soft yet husky and sultry.

“Depends on which thing you’re referring to,” comes my answer in a similar tone.

“The blade, young buck,” she chuckles. “Pretty thing like you has certainly used that other weapon a time or two.”

“How much for a couple horses?” I gently press.

“Don’t wanna play, big man?” She wears a faux pout. “It would keep your coin purse heavy.”

“Another time, when there is little coin to spare. Perhaps then.”

Her smile goes sour, the tan wrinkles on her forehead furrowing in frustrated defeat. Stepping back, she huffs out a sigh.

“Seventy-five each,” she says. “Have your pick. They’re all good stock.”

Max digs into the bag on his belt, pulling out two smaller leather pouches. They both jangle into the woman’s hand. He escorts Nana to the stable, picking out a strong salt and pepper beast. I help lift Nana onto the steed before taking a tawny stallion for myself. We ride slow back to the gate, the duo clearing it first.

“Follow the road around the hill,” the woman calls. “Fiona’s Rest isn’t much farther than a mile out. And tell Kym she’s run out of favors.”

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” I say back, feeling knightly with the politeness.

Continue to Chapter Four

Rokkoh and the Old Woman, Chapter 2

The boards creak as we head up the stairs and into the hall. Doors line the walls on either side, each a private place to catch one’s forty winks. The space between each door gets wider the further down we go, the room requiring extra space for an additional bed or, as we progress, more. A window shows off the rage of nature at the very end, and only two doors remain. Kym knocks (da-dada-dada-da) on the left-hand door.

“Changed the knock already?” I ask.

“That’s a story for another time,” she says as the lock turns. 

Out from within pops a head, crowned in thin silver strands that cover little of the dome. Milky eyes watch from behind glassless oval spectacles. The nose sticks out, large and hooked like a bird’s beak. The thin mouth is curled into a scowl, no signs of teeth in the small gap as she wheezes out a sound like a dying breath.

“Who’s there?” she croaks.

“It’s Kym, Nana,” my barmaid answers, slow and punctuated. “My friend is here with me, the one I was telling you about.”

“Jailbird,” Nana nearly squawks.

Nana pushes the door open and steps aside, allowing us space to cross the threshold. 

 The room is minorly decorated, a sole painting of a boy fishing at a river hanging on the right-hand wall. A window on the wall ahead, like the one in the hall, gives us a show of the beautiful chaotic nature. A bed for one sits under the window, its side caressing the wooden wall. Under the painting rests an identical bed. To the left is a third bed, this one wide enough for two. A dresser, plain and with three drawers, sits next to it. The corner is squared off by walls and a door to host a secluded wash room.  In the center burns a pile of coal, a ring of stones keeping the rest of the room from setting ablaze. A pot hangs over the low flame; I doubt there is anything inside.

“So we upgraded, I see,” I say. “How’d you manage that? The help normally doesn’t get such fancy digs.”

“Had to bribe the owner,” Kym shrugs. “He was pretty easily swayed.”

“I could use a good swaying,” I nudge her arm with a big goofy grin.

“Gottschalk didn’t keep you company?” she jokes, taking a seat on the big bed.

“Not in the way that matters.” I take a spot on the bed, stretching out my long legs. Kym scoots up the length of the bed and relaxes back onto my stomach. Out of instinct my hand goes to her head, fingers playing with the tight little curls.

“When was the last time you washed your hands?” she asks, relaxed but snide.

“Funny thing about prison: they aren’t that big on personal hygiene,” I tell her, that smirk coming back. “Only got to bathe once a week.”

“Nasty man.” Her eyes close as my digits continue to stroke and occasionally twirl in the black.

The room goes quiet, a peaceful settling. Nana kneels on the bed, blind eyes searching for something out the window, wiry frame invisible in her too-big nightgown. The fire’s crackling is just above a whisper, my slow and deep breathing almost overwhelming it. Sleep would come easily should I allow it, but I hold tight to keeping awake. I need to enjoy this moment, this blissful comfortable silence while my love rests on me. The isolation of a cell brought out a yearning that will refuse to fade until it has been satisfied.

Questions about the map and the potential job surface, the adrenaline from the escape begging to jump on the next opportunity, but I quiet it. Sometimes it’s good to take a moment to appreciate the little things like a soft bed, good company, the sound of rain on the window. Sometimes it’s good to slow down, breathe, just be. The next adventure will still be there, waiting with eager anticipation for us to greet it. For now, there is simply us, casually entwined amongst the storm.

The door to the washroom opens. A figure emerges, tall and built like me but his skin darker like Kym’s. His hair is cropped short to match the length of his stubble. The sleeveless shirt, a pale green, hangs loose over his frame and is tucked into the black trousers. Barefoot, he steps toward the low flame. Taking off the lid of the pot, he checks its contents but is displeased by his findings. His eyes catch Kym and me then, and it takes a moment for the image to make sense. Soon after, a sly grin spreads on his face accompanied by an arched brow.

“Bust out of jail and go right to the ladies,” Max says, humored and cool. “Impressive.”

“It would be less so if he hadn’t been arrested in the first place,” Kym teases, rising from her spot.

“Neither of you would have gotten away otherwise,” I defend myself, sitting up as well.

“We had horses ready,” she argues. “All you had to do was jump the wall.”

“And all you had to do was not be seen by the guards,” I toss back.

“GRAAH!” Nana screeches from her post at the window.

The room returns to that silence, an unease filling the air now as we watch the old woman. Her focus remains on the drama outdoors, little shriveled and bony hands resting gently on the windowsill. She does not move, and for a moment I wonder if the sound was one last exclamation before Scommortod claimed her dying soul and delivered her to Baltevmt for eternity. Her head twitches, jerking up as she leans in close to the glass. She looks around for a moment, then eases back into her original position.

“Where did you find her?” My question comes as a whisper.

“It’s complicated,” Kym answers in the same hushed tone.

“Do you have the map?” Max asks.

“Map!” Nana chimes in.

“The map is safe, Nana,” Kym tells her, off-handed as if it has been said a thousand times already.

“Technically, it’s Nana’s map,” Max explains, not bothering to lower his voice. We brace for another outburst, but it does not come. “It’s…”

“Complicated,” I cut him off. “Got it. So, about the job.”

Kym and I meet Max at the fire. With a wave of her hands, three wooden chairs appear from nowhere. We each take one. She reaches into one of the little bags hanging from her waist and withdraws a small folded piece of parchment. She hands it to me, the paper far fresher than that of the map.

“It’s all in this note,” Kym says as I take it.

Scrawled in an elegant script, far prettier and refined than my own, is the message: “Hello, friend. The elderly woman who has given you this letter is my grandmother, Nana. Though she wears spectacles, you can see that she is blind. She is deaf for the most part; she is only able to hear certain things. She is also very feeble, and thus incapable of defending herself. I am in need of someone willing to bring her to her home in Everglow Wood. She has with her half of the payment, one hundred and fifty gold pieces. The other half will be given to you upon her delivery. Nana is not much trouble, save for the occasional outburst. She keeps to herself otherwise. She wishes to return home so she may, after such a long life, die where she grew up. Please help her fulfill this final desire. If you choose to take upon this task, many thanks to you. If not, please help her find someone who will. I fear she has little time left.”

“I trust we’ve already collected that first payment?” I ask, handing the note back to Kym.

“Of course,” Max scoffs. “We’re not foolish.”

“We’ve decided part of it will go toward acquiring a couple horses for the trip,” Kym says. “I’ve got a contact up in Fiona’s Rest who will give you a good deal.”

That word catches me. You. Intriguing little bastard.

“Are you not coming along, then?” my curiosity makes itself known.

“I’ve got some business to attend to elsewhere,” she answers, avoiding my gaze. A knowing look fills Max’s eyes as they meet hers for a moment. They break away, him rising from his chair and heading toward the dresser, and her turning her attention back to me.

“What kind of business?” I ask her.

“The kind that results in money,” she smirks. 

“That’s awfully vague,” I joke.

“I’ll tell you about it afterwards, promise.” She holds out a pinky to me, and I take it with my own. Using that little latch, we pull each other close until our lips connect. Of all the things I had to miss out on, this sweet embrace ranks high. Other, more tender things sit higher on the list.

Something soft hits the back of my head, resting on my shoulders. I break away from my girl, turning to face the direction of the projectile. Max, with a delighted grin, sends something else my way. I catch this one in time: a pair of black pants, much like his own. From my shoulders I remove the first item, a white towel. He finishes his onslaught with a white tunic directed at my head and a pair of boots at my feet.

“Can’t be going around in your prison rags,” he jests. 

“Are we leaving tonight, then?” I ask, removing the sodden shirt and drying myself off. “I was thinking we could get some rest first.” I send Kym a wink with the remark.

“You just broke out of jail,” she says, slow and direct. “The guards will notice soon, if they haven’t already, and will be looking for you.”

“Which means we need to leave sooner rather than later,” Max adds. 

“Can we at least wait for the rain to stop?” I groan, changing into the fresh clothes and tossing the drenched ones back toward the door. 

“The storm will provide good cover,” Kym says. “Besides, there’s already going to be a carriage arriving any minute now. So your fancy new clothes won’t get too wet.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” I muse with a humored grin. 

“Someone has to around here,” she shrugs. 

“HERE!” Nana shrieks.

A knocking comes from the door, three heavy thuds that reverberate throughout the space. Kym goes to it, poking her head in the gap briefly before shutting the door once more.

“It’s time,” she announces. 

Kym goes to Nana, a gentle hand on her back as she whispers something too quiet to hear. Max, meanwhile, turns back to the dresser, opening the lowest drawer. From it he reveals a long sack, two sword hilts sticking out the end. He pulls them both out, revealing their leather sheaths and belts. He offers one to me, which I gladly take and put on. Pulling the hilt, I find the iron blade hidden within the sheath. Simple, effective, hopefully sturdy in case of an emergency. Max pulls out a coat from another drawer, tossing it to Kym. She catches it with ease and wraps it around Nana. She looks so tiny in it, the fur on the inside hiding her thin arms and neck. It hangs so long on her short frame it nearly reaches her ankles. Kym assists her with slipping on a pair of insulated boots. Once the hood rises, she is covered head to toe.

The rest of us, however, have less protection. Kym manifests a shawl for herself, a thick and hooded black fabric that stops with a point at her midsection. Max dons a leather jacket he pulls from another drawer. I am left with only the clothes on my back. I stow the complaint away in a back corner of my mind; it is far better than my attire as of late.

Journeying back down the stairs and through the merriment, the bard playing a new but similarly upbeat jig, we step out into the night. The storm has waned, but the wind still rages, whipping rain harshly into the street and buildings. Just outside the door waits a carriage, doors open and ready to accept us. At the helm sits a figure cloaked in grey, the rain darkening the material until it is almost black. Max climbs in first, helping Nana get in. Kym comes in close behind, making sure the old woman does not fall out. Once she is secure, I enter the carriage and take the open seat next to my girl. As soon as I close the door behind me, the horses kick off, their hooves clipping and clopping down the brick road.

Continue to Chapter Three

Rokkoh and the Old Woman, Chapter 1

A light, bright and brief, flashes beyond the bars of the window. Nampurm roars a hearty and playful, yet ominous, sound in the night shortly after. The stars are gone, covered by the full and rotund clouds. The Novhina blinds and deafens again, the violence in tandem. The soft skyward mountains, overburdened by their contents, spill out in a great exodus. A crack in the ceiling betrays the sanctity of the stone room, letting the storm trickle in. From elsewhere inside comes a manic hollering. In the dim light, figures hurry to the noise. Orders to quiet down and to get off the bars echo loud throughout. 

The signal, finally.

Wetting my fingers, I extinguish the lone candle sitting in the center of my little table. Though the window in my cell sits high, my stretching frame is able to get my hands to wrap tight around the two bars. With feet pressed firmly against the rough stone wall, I keep a strong grip on the round iron. The lightning and thunder come again. As the sound rolls across the city, I pull with all my might. They begin to loosen and wiggle in their place. The thunder quiets, as do I. The clamor at the other cell intensifies, the prisoner screaming louder amidst the barking orders. I could pull on the bars more, but I cannot risk a guard waiting at his post nearby to overhear my activities. The storm rattles again, though, and I tug. Freer now but still attached, the bars snicker at my attempts. Fools. The tremendous sound comes once more, and my muscles strain against the will of the metal. 

Gravity has its way with me and sends me back to the floor. My flesh thuds against the stone, sending a sting throughout my body. Despite the brief shock of pain, I sport a brimming smile. Clutched in each hand is a round iron tube. Back to my feet, I set the bars on the cot in the corner of the room. I climb back up to the window; it’s a tight fit, but my frame is able to squeeze through. Out into the pouring rain, my ragged trousers get drenched almost immediately. The drop to the ground isn’t far, and I land on my feet without issue. The city lights up with another flash, and I disappear into the nearest alleyway.

My hair, black as the night sky, sticks to either side of my face in the downpour. The prison tunic and pants, plain and thin and tawny, cling to my skin. Once I’m safe and dry, they’ll be tossed out and forgotten. Maybe we’ll all make a spectacle of it and set them aflame. Kym had been meaning to try out her studies of fiery magic last I had seen her. In the few weeks since then, she may have already tested her prowess. Even better, a chance to show off her progress. I’m sure it would bring a smile to that pretty face. 

The streets of Hemwood are barren, save for the growing puddles. Yet, I remain cautious. At each new mouth that opens to a road or sidestreet, I poke my head around the corner of the building and check for anyone on a stroll. Indoor lights shine out through uncovered windows, showing the citizenry as they enjoy a drink at a tavern or go about their lives in their homes. The coast, it seems as I draw nearer to my own home, is clear. Easiest damn breakout I’ve ever done.

“You alright, sir?” a voice comes as I check a new road. Young, a touch curious, eager. Coming from the left of the alleyway, basked in the glow of a shop, is a Hemwood guardsman. The rain drips down the iron helmet, pooling at the brimmed edge and flowing off in little waterfalls all about. Poor kid is soaked from the blue cape down to his skivvies under the plain leather armor. Judging by the lack of even stubble, he’s a few years younger than me. A new recruit perhaps, freshly eighteen.

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” my answer comes after a second of hesitation. A paranoia creeps into me, though logic attempts to smother it. The alarm at the prison has not yet rung; my absence has not been noticed. This boy, then, could not know of my escape. But that insect gnawing at my brain begs to differ.

Could take him by surprise, I contemplate. Clap either side of his face to catch him off guard, take his sword from his belt, run him through if I have to. Drag him into a hidden spot in the alley. No one would be the wiser. The rumor mill might connect the escape and the murder by midday, though. Can’t have that. 

“You look awful haggard,” he says over the rumble of thunder and constant cascade of rain. “Would you like me to escort you to shelter? Storm is awful rough tonight.” 

Can’t hurt this kid, I reason with myself. He’s new on the job, still seems to have that sense of goodness. The other older guards ran out of mercy and kindness long ago. Hemwood could do with a nice change of decorum amongst its protectors.

“That would be lovely,” I answer with a faint grin. “Was looking for a place to dry off.”

“Follow me,” he says, pointing a thumb from the way he came. “We’ll get you to Steinn’s Stein. It’s not far.”

“Perfect,” I tell him, keeping close as we trudge through the torrent. 

True to his word, we stop only a few blocks down the road. His kindness, or perhaps just his manners, show again as he holds the door open for me and allows me to enter first. My brief hesitation is met with a patron’s shout to not let the storm in. We enter quickly, the guardsman closing the door close behind him. Ale and warm meat tease the air with their aromas, the best of the scents wafting about the inn. Groups huddle together at their tables, some wet while others remain dry. Altogether, however, they talk and laugh amongst their little jovial companies. Good times being had all around, and a lute playing somewhere in the crowd to keep the mood elevated. 

“Let’s get you something to eat,” the guardsman suggests. A soft hand pats my shoulder, his baby face stretching into a smile. He guides me to the counter where a lovely young lady fills tankards with gorgeous amber liquid. Her rich dark skin glows in the candlelight. Her long black hair hangs in tight curls around her face. Her eyes, a brown so deep they almost appear obsidian, catch me as I approach. A smile, graced with beauty, familiarity, and sincerity, greets me as I take up residence on a stool.

I need to ditch the guardsman. Kym will think I’m up to something if he sticks around too long. 

“Someone get a little caught up in the drizzle?” she asks, her sharp teasing tongue playing behind dazzling perfect teeth.

“Only a little,” I smirk to her.

“Do you have any coin this time or am I tossing you out again?” she asks, playfulness lighting her eyes. 

“I’ll pay for him” the guardsman interjects, ending the game. To be fair, he had no idea we were playing. As far as he knows, I truly am a lowly beggar and not an escaped criminal. There is no need to inform the young man of the truth.

“You are too kind, friend,” I say to him. “Sit and share a drink with me.”

“Supposed to still be on patrol,” he declines. “But thank you. Have a good night.”

His blue cape leaves a drippy trail back to the door, and in a moment he is gone. A relieved sigh escapes me as I turn back to Kym.

“Did you make a new friend?” she squeaks with fabricated excitement. 

“Bastard caught me just up the street,” I explain. “Sweet bastard, I’ll give him that.”

“Take it you got out okay?” She fills a tankard with that luscious beer and sets it in front of me. Of all the things I love about Kym, the free drinks are high on the list.

“It was the definition of perfection,” I muse with a sip of the deliciousness. “I’ll have to find a way to thank Gottschalk.”

“Look no further,” she says, reaching under the counter for something. She slides a folded piece of parchment toward me. “Got this just about a week ago. Might do the trick.”

Opening the old and yellowed paper, a map unfolds before me. Crude little markings in the shape of trees covers the expanse of it, and a river runs through it. At the northernmost edge of the illustrated woods are two words: Everglow Wood. A small house hides amongst the trees, labeled Pelle’s Hut. Far to the north of it is a scribbling of a mug; no name accompanies the picture. To the east of what I assume is the brewery or tavern sits an X etched in red. 

“So we’re pirates now?” I ask with a low chuckle. “Do I get a peg leg and a parrot?”

“Pirates are on the ocean, stupid, not land,” she chides while keeping her grin. “We’re adventurers now. Or, at the very least, treasure hunters.”

“And who all is included as we?”

“If you’re thinking just the two of us, think again.” Another patron, a true paying one, flags her down. She takes a brief moment to refill the tankard.

“Are you at least in on the job?” I ask when she returns, taking a mouthful of the bittersweet.

Her dark eyes go somewhere beyond me, catching the attention of someone. With a wave she beckons them, and her gaze then returns to me.

“Come upstairs,” she says, quiet. “We’ll go over the details in a more private area.”

I nod in approval, downing the rest of my drink in a deep pull. Invigorated, I set the tankard back on the bar top and rise from the stool. Kym steps out from her post and I follow.

“Grab the map,” she reminds me before I go too far. I snatch it up and follow her through the crowd.

Continue to Chapter Two

Flash Fiction 002 – Horizon

Happy Wednesday, everybody! Today’s piece is another flash fiction story. Like the last one, Shore, this is from a prompt based on the photo above. Let me know if you guys like it!

Horizon. A symbol of possibility, of hope, of infinity. Seafarers and frontiersmen looked to it and saw adventure, destiny. No matter where you go, it always waits ahead and beckons you to catch up. A tease. Beautiful. Eternally out of my grasp. On sleepless nights when nothing else can soothe me, I ride out of town and up toward the mountain to watch as the sun rises over the horizon. A slow reveal, black fading into orange into blue. 

Tonight is such a night. Perched on a rock amongst a set like seats, the horizon plays under the waking sun. Another stretch of mountains gives the horizon a rugged and uneven line. The town splays out in between us. While the rising sun lurks behind those distant mountains and sheds its light upon all, another brushstroke of orange paints the town. It begins at the cathedral, runs down the boulevard, and shares its hue with the houses along the way. Before long, the whole of the town takes on the color. The rippling cascade engulfs all, making clouds of gray and black that stretch heavenward. Accompanying the melody of the lapping flames is the harmony of screams.

Wrapping my shawl around myself, I bask in the glorious acapella. It sings deep into the morning, eventually fading into the single lustful burning. The walls of the town keep it contained, and as I watch I wonder who, if anyone, escaped. And among them, who would track down the arsonist? Perhaps they would include me in their list of victims. After all, such a blaze leaves few identifiers. Maybe the smoke in their lungs would get them sooner rather than later and thus tie up such loose ends.

The horizon calls my name. I answer, for a witch’s work is never done.

Poetry 002 – My Phantom, Forever

Happy Wednesday, readers! This week, I am showcasing another poem. This was written a long time ago, more than ten years ago. Let me know if you like it!

This house is empty.

Where did you go?

The faintest tapping…

Is that you?

The stairs creak under my feet.

Can you hear the groaning wood?

I creep from behind as you type away.

Have you gone deaf, my dear?

My arms enclose around your frame.

You used to love that…

I close my eyes and gingerly kiss your neck.

Why don’t you giggle like you used to?

Your warmth fills me, makes us one.

Are we back to normal now?

You fade away, smoke spreading through air.

Will I see you again, my lovely apparition?

005 Changes

Hey there readers! We’re taking another little break from the fiction this week. Today’s post, though, is in regards to the stories I have been sharing here. I have now put two stories centering on the character Rokkoh here, from two different time periods in his life. In the first one, Rokkoh and the Princess, our hero is older, roughly in his late 30s or so. When I initially wrote this piece, I had based his physical appearance on an old World of Warcraft character, who I then adapted in a character creator called HeroMachine. In both of those, Rokkoh had been slightly older with a grey goatee and a bald head. When I put him on the page, I chose to darken his facial hair but keep the hairless dome. However, looking back, I realized there seemed to be a touch of repetition amongst characters. 

For those who have known me for a long time, I had been working on a supernatural mystery/thriller years ago. It resulted in a novella called The Blade and the Bullet, which has since been rebranded as The Cross Chronicles. (For those interested, click here to read the ancient first draft over at Booksie.) In it, we follow vampire Daniel Cross as he tracks down a killer in Seattle. Like Rokkoh would later be, Daniel is bald. His physical appearance had been based on a musician I have liked for a little few years short of two decades. (God, has it been that long?). 

Can an author have two characters from two different worlds have similar appearances or characteristics? Absolutely. There’s nothing wrong with it. One could argue, depending on the author’s opinion, that the two characters are reflections of each other. That being said, I don’t know if I want that for Rokkoh and Daniel. Primarily, this is because Daniel already has a reflection in a planned project.

Going forward, any Rokkoh story set around or after Rokkoh and the Princess will feature our paladin as having hair. Any future versions of this novella will be updated to accommodate this change. I wanted to make this post to hopefully help avoid any possible confusion when we return to that segment of the timeline.

Thank you for reading this update post, and have a great day!

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 6 FINALE

Shelter. I need to find shelter. Damn bandits. Came out of nowhere. Left me for dead. The others… oh fuck, the others. Hopefully they died quick. There’s nothing left. Bastards razed the cart once they took everything. No weapons, no food, nothing but the bloody clothes on my back. Damn them all to Baltevmt.

A trail of little red spots follows me through the snow, glistening in the midday sun. An occasional scarlet handprint lingers on the bark of a tree. The world, though already chilly from the kiss of winter, breathes an unrelenting cold onto my skin. Need to find shelter, make a fire, get some food. The edges of my vision blur in and out, teasing me with clarity as I trudge and stumble. The air is silent all around, the birds seeking warmer weather.

In the distance rings out the clash of metal striking metal. A battle, or perhaps a duel between some of my brethren soldiers. Yet it comes in a solid rhythm. Regardless, it could mean help. Despite the dizziness in my head and my unstable legs, I head toward the sound. Each strike beckons me, promising safety and food and a place to rest. Though it takes some time, the sound becomes louder and louder, morphing into more of a pounding echo. I run, desperate for its calling. The air grows warmer as I draw near, the snowy ground clearing with every step. Through the trees, a building takes shape. One level, small, but hopeful still. Soon, the snow is gone and the heat becomes tremendous. To the right of the hut sits an active forge, an orc hammering away on a red-hot blade. I break through the trees, my body no longer willing to move. Huge, shirtless, and streaks of gray running through his black beard and ponytail, the orc finds me. The scent of lavender trickles into my nose before everything goes black and I thud upon the ground.

A tune, hushed like a whisper and pitched low, stirs me out of the dark fog of sleep. Some heavy thing is on top of me, its weight a welcome comfort. My body aches all over, remnants of the lost battle. Yet the song sung in a language not of my own brings me a serenity. My eyes open to the hut full of animal skins and skulls, as well as beautifully crafted weapons. Sitting next to me, his song filling the small space, is the orc.

I made it. I found shelter and a kind soul. Thank the Novhina.

“Been a bit more than a week,” he says, his tune coming to a close. Those he wears a serious look, his crimson eyes hint at the humor hidden underneath.

The hut, the forge, the lavender… the Smith.

“There ya go,” he chuckles when he sees my recollection. “Started to wonder if you’d forgotten about your greatsword.”

“Do you still have it?” I ask, eyes full of wonderful hope and excitement.

“Told you I’d hold onto it, didn’t I?” The Smith rises from his stool and goes to the wall at the other end of his hut. Hung there, among other splendid pieces, is a long and wide blade made of steel. He removes it from its spot and carries it over. A wave of lavender washes over me as he lays it in my lap.

“Thank you.” I try to sit up, but my muscles scream.

“Ease up, little man.” A gentle hand sends me back to the bed. “Rest up here for a few days, then you can be off with your new toy.”

For the next three days and nights, the Smith keeps a caring eye on me. Three hot meals a day, hours of conversation, and plenty of physical aid help fill our time. At dawn on the fourth day, my body has rested enough to walk with little assistance. I can even wield the new sword with relative ease. The Smith sends me on my way, promising to craft another weapon should I ever need it, and I head into the west.

Continue to “Rokkoh and the Old Woman”

Continue to “Rokkoh and the Princess”

Continue to “Rokkoh and the Final Year”

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 5

We pore over the details in his hut, a cozy little home with walls covered in animal skins and taxidermy heads. Various bladed weapons are hung up as well, a testament to the Smith’s level of skill. Several scrolls fill up the table at which we sit, their contents ranging from different types of metal to intricate pommel designs. He offers inscriptions, blessings from whatever Novhina I wish, anything I would desire. After a goblet or two of wine and careful consideration, we agree upon a simple steel greatsword. Its hilt is to be wrapped in leather, its pommel round. My only request is for it to bear the lavender scent of his forge, as a reminder to always remain strong. He agrees without quarrel.

“How soon might it be ready?” I ask as he guides me to the door, our business concluded.

“Not too long for most of it, only a couple days,” he answers. The hut breathes in the heat of the forge as the Smith opens the door. “But for the lavender to take, I’d give it a week to be safe. Think you can be back by then?”

“If escaping the Tower is as easy as it was this time, absolutely,” I tell him with a grin.

“Good,” he roars a laugh. “If not, I’ll hold on to it until you return.”

“Dagan had his dagger when he came back. A really nice one.”

“The one with the fancy sheath, right?” he laughs again. “Had that thing lying around. Bought it off some miniature fella that was passing through. Strange merchant, he was. Had a pet squirrel, I think. It’s fake, anyway. Gems and all. Blade will likely snap the first time the fool uses it. But that’s what you get when you try to trick an honest man.”

“What was his task?” I ask.

“Ah,” he shakes his head slow, the jovial tones fading a little. “That’s between me, him, and Valier Forest. Just know that he has the strength of a flea compared to you.”

He bids me farewell as I pass through the trees, the warmth of the forge and the smell of Lavender fading with every step. My path stays straight as an arrow, just as it had been during my earlier trek. The wind has calmed once more, snow sparsely drifting from the sky. The absence of the whistling makes room for the low, grumbling voices of men. I hesitate behind a pine near the campsite, poking my head out just enough to find the fire smoldering and my friends gone. Two bearded men stand just beyond the smoking pit, long coats and insulated caps keeping them warm. A third waits on a carriage, reins in hand and ready to order the two horses to move.

“There you are, Rokkoh,” her voice comes from behind, light yet terrifying. Cloaked in a black fur coat that covers her head to her ankles, her face shielded in a scarf as pale white as her skin, her sharp hazel eyes reveling in her victory, steps out the Baroness from the front of my tree.

“We were beginning to worry about you.” Her words come slow, calculated, cutting. “Thought the wolves might have gotten you. I’ll take that back, by the way.”

Her eyes go to the iron sword for a moment, as do mine. She extends a hand to receive it, eyes flicking back up. I could cut her down right here if I wanted. End her reign of lashings with one of my own. The guards might be a problem, but I see no weapons on them. Perhaps I’ll get lucky. Once they’re taken out, all I would need to do is find my friends. My guess is they’re inside the carriage. Only one way to be sure.

“You’ll be dead within the minute if you try it,” she whispers, a playful eyebrow arching.

Reminding myself of what the Smith had said about strength, I toss the sword into the snow. Though I cannot see it, her scowl freezes my skin. Her beckoning hand relaxes, a mean yet tired look casting over me. With her other hand, she summons the two bearded men.

“Get in the carriage with the others,” she orders, no humor left in her. “You will receive your punishment when we get home. Go.”

Willingly I make my way to the carriage. The Baroness whispers something to the men, but I am too far to hear the words. The door at the back of the carriage opens with ease, and my three cohorts greet me with sleepy disappointment. We do not exchange greetings, or even a single word at all, as I climb in and take my place next to Kym.

Continue to Chapter Six (Finale)

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 4

The wind whistles as it throws snow all about. For a moment, it sounds like a neighing horse in the distance. Despite the flurries and the sound, the Smith’s hammering rings out and the glow of the forge melts through the darkness. That warmth comes over me as I draw near, the snow disappearing in the heat. Even the wind slows to a breeze here. The Smith ceases his work as I step onto his land, setting down his tools once more.

“Welcome back,” his voice booms with excitement. He turns and his eyes go to my blade. Puzzled, he looks from it to me with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms. “If you killed Ohnesh without bloodying your blade, then that is a story to tell over a drink. Maybe half a drink for you. You look like a lightweight.”

Part of me wants to protest his quip and prove I can hold my liquor, but the angry sword in my hand demands different answers.

“I didn’t kill Ohnesh,” I tell him, black brows furrowed and a scowl on my face. “It’s just a baby. Its mother is just trying to feed it. There’s no strength in murdering the innocent.”

Our eyes lock for a long silent moment, both of us giving the other a sour look. The only viable weapon near him is his hammer. Though I have limited training, I at least have a sword. With a mad fury I could disarm him quickly. From there he could submit or die. Though, I do have to factor in his size. Who’s to say he would not simply slap the sword away and rip me in half? A cold fear trickles into my gut, but I stand ready regardless. If anyone is meant to bleed tonight, by the gods it will be him.

His red eyes ease. The fowl, mean look fades into a pleased grin. A laugh rolls from his belly and into the air. He loosens his arms from their lock over his chest. With carefree steps, he approaches.

“Well done, little man!” he exclaims. “I knew you would pass. Got that look in your eye. A good man at heart always has that look.”

My feet are planted in their spot. No longer out of bravery, but confusion. Is this just a tactic for him to get close and squeeze the life out of me? Throw me off guard and then extinguish the life from within me? The sword rises, my grip firm, and points at the orc.

“Easy with that,” he jests, knocking it to the side with the back of hand. I let it fall back to my side, defeated with no struggle. My befuddlement paints itself a ghastly hue of green all over my face.

“Strength is not just borne of muscle,” the Smith says, clapping a rough and heavy hand on my shoulder once more. “That’s might. Strength is the willingness and capability of doing good, not just for yourself but for the benefit of others as well. You could have slain Ohnesh with ease had you wanted to. It’s a pacifist, and you saw it meant no one any harm. You knew it would have been wrong. And you returned, looking to take on the awful person who ordered you to kill it. That, little man, is true strength.”

There is pride in his crimsons, undiluted and eager happiness. My heart swells. The only other time someone has looked at me that way has been in my swordplay lessons with Sir Rovert back at the Tower. A warmth greater than that of the forge fills me, bringing a wave of tears to my eyes and a brimming smile to my face.

“Now,” he says, softer as he leans in closer, “let’s talk about that blade.”

Continue to Chapter Five