Dont Look Into Their Eyes!

Hi everyone! This is my first attempt to write a fantasy novel by using character journal entries. Origionally, in the novel, I alternate between three different characters. Each character has his/her own handwriting (due to the coding process here, I'm not able to show this) and each has his/her own voice. Kelt, my favorite character, starts off the novel with his take on the situation. For a minor note, Kelt will refer to a "charcoal mark." I cannot show this like I can in Word, so I will substitute this "mark" for a writer's bridge of asterisks* Remember, this is a work in progress. So, feedback is greatly appreciated. To let you know, my policy is a review for a review, so your time and effort will be rewarded. Thanks! Enjoy!





*Ancient Memoirs*


I just heard the high pitch scream of our hunters. It turned my spine to ice and I have barely worked to regain my ability to write by taking long deep breaths. The girl with me has moved herself toward Inferno. She’d rather risk getting kicked by the horse then get close to me. But my dealings with her will have to wait. Right now, before I tell you who I am or how I got here, I have to tell you about them.

Magilicline spoke briefly about them to us before he had us flee the keep this afternoon. A group of those red eyed, black hearted demons followed us as she and I ran. I'm positive these are the Spirits the old man warned us of. We thought we'd lost them once we hid in this forest.

We were wrong.

This is why I sit on my rock and scribble quickly in the few rays of sunlight able to penetrate the thick canopy above us. If you read this, I’m assuming the Spirits still exist in your time. That also means the Belera I know has probably fallen. I won't be so eager to have that happen, though. And you can’t!

Heed my warning! Don't look them in the eyes. The girl I’m with fell into some kind of trance when she did. Had I not distracted her attacker . . . I don’t know what might have happened to her. I think their eyes can hypnotize. I don't know much more about them. I guarantee there will come a time when I face the Spirits again. I hear them scream again outside our camp and I fear an encounter with them will probably be sooner than I’d like. If I survive to tell that tale, I might get some more secrets about them to share with you. Until then, listen to my tale, a tale jotted down between brushes with death and fights with the unknown. I have suffered much. My physical wounds, however, will heal. I can’t guarantee the others will.

Just listen, okay? I haven’t time to explain myself right now. I’m writing on stolen time as it is. Any second those demons could jump from the forest surrounding us. Just like that our tale could end, and so would this important journey Magilcline wants us to take. Those demons don’t want to capture or torture us. They’ll kill us if we give them that chance. I don’t know what we ever did to them or what they fear we might do to them. I feel I’m better off not knowing if it keeps me alive.

Yet, I find myself wondering if these stones have anything to do with us being hunted. As I hold them in my hands right now, I can’t help but laugh at Magilicline’s words. How can these tiny objects be so powerful? They look like ordinary rocks to me. I’ll be sure to demand he tell me once he returns. But as I write this, my charcoal slips.

I doubt the old man’s coming back.

I remember we barely even made it from the keep before the bridge fell. Old man Magilicline didn’t follow us. And no sooner had we crossed, the castle keep collapsed. Anything unlucky enough to be under it would have been crushed. Poor old fool.

Magilicline was a fool. A kind hearted fool, but a fool just the same. He’s the one who gave us the book I write in now. Why did he give it to us? For us to write in, obviously. He advised we jot down every aspect of our journey—both the physical and emotional parts. He seemed insistent it would be needed in the future and read by those fated to suffer the same destiny. If you are fated to suffer my destiny, I pity you. I don’t have a destiny, so you’ve been swindled. I didn’t even have a history worth writing about until Rachel came along. I couldn’t write, or read, for that matter. Yet because Magilicline wanted me to write down every aspect of my journey, I might as well start from the beginning, seeing how once your journey’s over the beginning is usually the place you look back on and find yourself wishing to change the most. Least, it is for me . . . .
**************************************************

I was born—-though I wished I wasn’t—-to probably the worst pair of lowlifes in the Highlands. My mother is and always will be a whore. She may not have been in the business, but I cannot describe her hobby with a nicer word. Actually, I was born only because she didn’t have the heart to rid her body of me. I don’t know who my real father is, but the man who raised me until I left was an ironsmith named Leb Hanar. The old drunk had the decency of a pig and a temper ten times worse. He and my mother were married, but it seemed he was completely oblivious to her wanderings. If he knew, he didn’t care, because he had just as much respect for her as she did for him. They were only together because their marriage had been arranged by their parents.

My relationship with my family was worse than its reputation. I hated Leb for many reasons. Why should I call him my father when he didn’t call me his son? I was the little bastard who cooked and cleaned for him, and who got promoted to punching bag whenever Leb got drunk—-which was frequent. It’s a wonder I never killed the dog in his sleep for all he did to me!

As for my mother, I didn’t call her “Mother,” either. She never gave me any reason to think me her son. I didn’t even know her name until I reached my tenth summer. Up to then, Leb had been calling her names like “Woman” or “Trollop”—among many others. I’d honestly thought her name was “Bitch” for awhile. But my tenth summer must have been when she'd heard it one too many times. I still cringe when I remember how quickly she straightened my beliefs out after that.

“Boy,” she'd snarled and sat me in a chair as I forced down the tears and rubbed my sore bum. “I’m only tellin ye my name just tae shut ye up. Most men—-includin yer worm o a father—-don’ know it because I make it a habit not ti bi known bi it. I figure names get ye nawhere in life. If somdody is affected bi yer presence, then he can gae an’ make up a name fae ye. An’ if yer well known, others’ll know who he’s talking about.”

I assumed that was true: “Kendra Hanar” never filled the mouths of any of her acquaintances, but “Classy Dimples” and “High Hips” did. And if you’ve any Highlander blood in you, your male ancestors most definitely would have known ole Kendra by touch. So from then on, I knew her name; to be perfectly honest, I liked calling her “Bitch” more. I realized quickly that calling her such would only get me whipped, so I took care to say “Kendra” during those random instances she’d be home.

I lived in this loving environment until my sixteenth summer—-just under a month ago—-when I’d finally had enough of it and took matters into my own hands: my second mistake. I went not only for myself, though. I went for Rachel. Becoming attached to her was my first mistake.

Rachel is the only person in my life that I don’t mind remembering. She was Leb’s younger sister, a young innkeeper’s widow, forced to run her late husband’s business. Rachel lived in a village in Belera, a country to the north of the Highlands, but the distance didn’t stop her from coming to see me every chance she got. I could expect her at least twice a year on the same two seasons: summer and winter. She’d said the inn was the quietest on these two seasons because of the weather, so she felt these were the best times to trust it under the care of friends. She’d spend an entire month with us. She stopped asking for me to come back with her when Leb and Kendra threatened to sever all ties with her if she didn't stop poisoning my mind about leaving.

Rachel cared about my parents, yet she hated how they treated me. Because I couldn’t live with her she bonded with me as much as she could during her visits. I learned a lot from her no-nonsense attitude on life. Her stories were the best things she gave me. Some were educational yarns of her country and the wars being waged there. But most were just plain amusing to listen to, telling of heroes and heroines, monsters and mystical creatures. One day she’d tell me how she’d been kidnapped by Trolls and saved by a pack of wolves, while the next her words might take me on a dark journey to Belera’s northland, where only nightmares dwelled. They let me get away from the horrible reality that was my life. They let her do the same.
**************************************************

You’re probably wondering what this charcoal mark means? Well, simply put, I am a bad writer, so I tend to jump around a lot. My ideas sometimes get confusing unless I break them up. I’ll usually put a dot to show a tense change—like I was just writing in the past and now I’m in the present. It’s easier for me to do this. That way I don’t have to waste time telling you “I’m returning to the past” or “I’m slipping into present.” You’ll know just by the dots, okay?

So far, the night here is quiet again. No sign of those creatures yet. Apparently they grew tired of searching for us. In that case, I’ll write a bit more then take Inferno out to graze. I’ll eat, too.

I still remember them, Rachel’s stories. Her visits stopped just over a year ago and rumors of her inn being destroyed by a band of Gnomes still get passed around on the tongues of gossipers. At first I cried because of her fate, but now I realize she is better where she is. She is with her husband, and her fears of her doomed country no longer bother her. Sure, I’m still a bit angry she didn’t take me with her. I don’t hate her for it. I can never hate Rachel. She is the reason I am not afraid to die. She is also the reason I haven’t killed myself yet.

Yes, I speak of her like she is still around today. She’s here, in my heart.

Enough! I don’t know where all this sentimental piss came from. Know this about me before you continue reading: I am not a sensitive person. True, I have feelings. Everyone does. Mine just rarely come out. I learned from an early age that life isn’t worth crying over. People die, you get kicked in the face, and then you move on. Rachel taught me that. I don’t like my past, but I’ve accepted it. It’s part of who I am.

Twenty days ago I left my home in the Highlands to search for a new life because I don’t want my past to be who I will be.
**************************************************

I understood if I stayed in the Highlands, memories of my past and the faces involved would come back to haunt me, so I decided to leave for Belera. When Rachel had lived there, the country was at arms against itself. She had felt strongly about the war. Like her, her husband was killed by Gnomes, so she supported the brave men who fought those yellow-eyed monsters. Each dead Gnome avenged her husband’s death a little more. She never would be happy, she’d told me, until all those opposing Belera’s freedom were destroyed. She died before her dream was fulfilled.

I didn’t have to think hard on how I might live my new life in such a war-torn country. My decision had been made once Rachel stopped coming to visit me. I would honor her name and her beliefs by becoming a soldier and fighting to make her dream a reality.

I'd had it all planned out. I could join a unit and forget the other parts of my life while I fought. I already knew how to use a sword, and I figured I could be taught how to kill a savage easily enough. And if I died. . . . I knew I wouldn’t be dying until I had seen Rachel’s dream through.

Diblun is one of the closest villages to Belera, so it only took me two days to reach the country’s southland. I started asking around the minute I arrived, yet no one seemed eager to help me with my soldier dream. Apparently, Belera’s residents had finally grown weary of war. It had only taken them ten years to get that way.

I arrived at a small southland village called Tarno the next day. I had just about given up hope of becoming a soldier and entered a local pub to drown my anger when I heard tell of a young war hero looking for a few loyal men.

“That young whelp is insane if he thinks there are any lads left in this country foolish enough to follow him,” a patron beside me barked to the pub owner. “You know where he intends to go?”

I sipped my ale and listened intently as the grizzled pub owner replied. “My guess is into enemy territory. Probably off to destroy that faction of Gnomes that has been raping our women and burning many villages as of late.”

I knew my fight was mostly with the Gnomes because they had been the ones to kill Rachel. I figured this might be the only lead I’d get in awhile. And so I asked the pub owner how to go about in finding this war hero. If he was after the Gnomes, then I was after him. The pub owner and his patron just looked at me and frowned.

“You’re not from around here, are you, boy? It’s not just your accent that gives you away; you obviously do not know the story of the Child Butcher.”

I made a face. “Sounds like a real cheery fellow.”

The patron shook his head. None of them caught my sarcasm. “The boy learned how to kill before he could write his name. He is not much older than you, I’m guessing, but he doesn’t take kindly to mice who think they’re men. If you plan to have him recruit you, you best make sure you’ve the experience.”

A fly that had been pestering me for a while finally landed beside my flagon. I calmly took a knife from my belt and slammed it down. The fly took wing a second too late. My weapon’s sharp tip split the annoying beast in two before stabbing into the counter. “Fair enough.”

The pub owner and the patron were silent as they stared at the insect halves. I yanked my knife from its two inch hole in the solid wood, finding the men's expressions amusing. It took them a full minute before they could speak to me again.

“Just because you can halve an insect does not mean you could kill a man,” grunted the patron. I watched him use his fingernail to flick the dead fly bits off the counter. “That blighter was slower and a lot dumber than most I’ve seen. And for all we know that could have been a lucky strike on your part.”

“My friend is right, Son.” The pub owner nodded solemnly and continued to clean things with his dirt-smudged towel. “Even if the Child Butcher were to accept you, he is ruthless and reckless, with no concern for his troops.” He poked me in the ribs with his plump finger. “Just why do you think he needs a fresh batch of men? Because he buried the last hundred he had.”

“Whare can A fin' him?”

The two men looked at me as if I was mad. The patron finally told me what I wanted to hear. “You can find him in a hideout in Dale, a small, central Belerian outpost northwest of here. The hideout’s not called Dale; just the outpost it’s hid in. Dale’s about a nine day trek from here at horse speed. Ask for Nolan when you get there—-if you manage to find the place. Then your life is in his hands.”

"Appreciate it.” I tossed the pub owner a copper mark for my drink, took my cloak and strode toward the door. Someone cleared his throat behind me.

“I’ve seen many lads with bright futures lose their lives under that man’s command. Tis a fool’s gamble to go with him on such a suicide mission.”

I turned to the pub owner and winked. “A've nae bright future in store fae me. I don' fear death, an' I don’ consider myself a fool. Guess A’ve nothing ti worry about, then.”


I lodged that night in the village inn and thought about the days ahead. This Nolan character seemed like a man I normally wouldn’t want to tangle with. But I would not let myself be swayed. Something told me Nolan would give me a chance to make something of myself.

On my fifth morn away from home I awoke early and prepared for my journey north. I didn’t have Inferno with me at this time, and I had no gold on me with which to purchase a horse, so I had to go it on foot. I left Tarno’s hamlet with the sun at my back, and I had cut halfway through the forest region surrounding it when black night forced me to stop. It had taken me a day to travel what a horse could have done in an afternoon. It surprised me but I didn’t realize the extent of my problem until my next night out.

I traveled all day, again, and just breeched the forest tree line a few hours after sunset when I asked a passerby where I was. I was hard pressed to learn I was still in the southland. Rachel had told me Belera was divided into three hemispheres: the southland, central Belera, and the northland. When I asked the passerby how far it was to Dale, he just looked at me and gave a pitied sigh.

“You still have to get through the Breadbasket before you reach central Belera, and you should expect it to take a good week on horse—-if you don’t get lost.”

“A week?” I cursed myself for my stupidity. The patron at the pub had said the journey to Dale would take nine days at horse speed, but I hadn’t stopped to consider whether the horse traveled all night on some nights to get that estimate. I hadn’t considered how much longer it might take on foot, either. I knew I would get nowhere if I stood around yelling at myself, so I asked the passerby if he could perhaps be my guide. “I’m new in this country,” I told him. “And I’m bound tae get lost without the help.”

The man laughed at my offer and told me he was too busy to deal with a highlander with no directional sense. He was kind enough to point me in the right direction, though. I camped in the nearby forest that sixth night, knowing all too well I had to get a good sleep because I may not get the privilege to do so for a long time. It occurred to me I might have to go all day and all night for as long as my body would allow it once I started crossing the Breadbasket. I'd have to make up for the hours I’d lose by not riding a horse.

The next morning was my seventh day from Diblun—-and my first in the Breadbasket. I beat the sun up, downed a meager breakfast of dried berries and water, and started out before the first line of dawn cut across the horizon. I remember realizing how dangerous it was to get lost in the Breadbasket. Just a sea of grass, small streams, and stout bushes. No cover from the sun, save a few trees here and there, and the only real source of food were a handful of hard to catch coneys. A green desert: that's what I saw. If you didn’t die from heat exposure, hunger would take you. I survived my first day in the region and found the night to be even less forgiving.
**************************************************

First, realize the Highlands I come from are covered in hills and mountains. Unlike most villages that sit atop these mighty landforms, Diblun is stuffed in between them. I’m no expert on weather conditions, but I'm assuming most of the fierce winds we would have received were broken by the hills surrounding us. Because of this, I never knew the meaning of a “fell wind.” I found out the hard way that first night in the Breadbasket.
**************************************************

It howled louder than the pack of wolves I had seen sizing my body up from a distance. And if the wolves didn’t kill me, I was almost certain I’d freeze to death. I kept my head down as I walked, trying to go with the wind instead of against it. It rattled through my bones even then, beating at me, turning every unprotected area of flesh I owned to ice.

Don't ask how I managed to make it through the night, or the next day and night and daywithout sleeping. Maybe it was my stubbornness and iron will to continue on. Maybe I was determined to see Nolan before I grew too weak for him to exploit my fighter's spirit. Or maybe a higher power was watching over me, pushing me to keep going. As if some higher power would wish to watch over me!

I was exhausted by my third night in the Basket. I slept so good I didn’t feel the wind. I didn’t even feel the sun’s warmth on my back once the fourth morning came, and I ended up sleeping until late afternoon. I traveled the rest of that day and all night. This pattern continued for a while until I lost track of my days. Though I didn’t know or care to know how long I’d been in the grassland, something told me I was making good time for being on foot. I still believed I could make it out of this region in the time it might take a horse.

On my fifth morning in the Breadbasket—or was it my sixth?—I had had it with the grassy scenery. I wanted buildings, I wanted people! I wanted . . . my stomach to stop growling. My food provisions had been used up the day before, and I worried that I might not find anyone to refill them for a while.

It was then that I saw, through the sun’s glare, what resembled a herd of animals in the distance. I wasn’t sure if I was seeing a mirage at that moment or if my prayers had been answered by the gods I’d thought had long abandoned me. I only remember chasing that horizon to get to my prey. But what I found was not grazing beasts. The closer I got, the larger the images grew, until the glare dispersed and I finally realized why they called the grassland region a Breadbasket.

Roughly fifty houses sat in front of my eyes, their thatch roofs and white washed siding nothing special. But as I crossed the river and entered the quaint colony, there was something exotic about it that intrigued me. It wasn’t the strange symbols painted on doors or the arched lintels and strange oval, glassless windows. It was the people themselves.

They seemed very content with their lifestyle and didn’t allow my presence to interfere. Some fished, others tended vibrant gardens. Throngs of them worked large community fields. It amazed me no other colony had thought to use the Breadbasket’s land to their advantage like these people had.

There were no streets, just streams and ponds. What was not a yard owned by one family was a sprawling field owned by everyone. The river I'd crossed to get there ran in front of all the homes and fields. I assumed the colony depended on that river: fishing equipment lay on its banks or tied to primitive bridges along its shallows. A line of young men dug out new trenches to guide the river’s water to a fresh field nearby. Dogs played, children giggled, and horses with the silkiest manes I’d ever seen waited patiently for their masters to groom them.

I remember observing this colony of people for a long time, feeling small and awkward in so wholesome an environment. Then my stomach growled and reminded me why I had come here, so I strode to the nearest house and knocked.

She answered.
**************************************************

I find myself watching her now. She has said nothing to me since Inferno and I brought her here. She just sits at the root of that oak and hugs her legs while staring through the trees to watch the sun get squashed between the distant hills. She doesn’t smile or frown, but occasionally I see her twirl her red hair in her fingers as if she is thinking deeply of those she has lost.

Her pointy ears and feral blue eyes sure startled when I first saw her standing in that door’s opening, but I admit I find her attractive now. I know what she is, and I know Elves in the Highlands are slaves. I don't compare her to them. She, just like all the Elves that used to live in that colony, is different. She has this innocence and pureness about her that I never saw with any Highland Elf. Her hands may have worked the fields, but the calluses don’t show. Her body is thin but not sickly, and her womanly figure forces her loose tunic and pants to fall around the curves.

The charcoal I write this with is getting warm and soft, and I dab at the page to rub away the smudges. Inferno clogs over to the girl and rests his snout on her head. She smiles and reaches up to stroke him. I find myself smiling, too, so I clear my throat and quickly get back to my story.
**************************************************

I knocked and she answered. I hadn’t realized the people I’d been watching so long were Elves. My first reaction was to apologize for my mistake so to avoid any confrontation. I then turned to leave. Rachel had told me the races of Belera didn’t get along, so I doubted a colony of Elves would want anything to do with a Human with a strange accent. I made it halfway down the yard then felt the girl grab my arm from behind. She smiled at me as I turned to her. She didn’t say anything; she just smiled.

I was led inside and introduced to her family. They didn’t talk to me, but they didn’t make me feel unwelcome, either. I soon found out from the girl that her mother and father could not speak my language. She had only learned to speak it because they didn’t want her to grow up ignorant of the race that would soon dominate this world. It was a good thing. She made for a good translator during my two day’s stay in her colony. During that time, I was relieved to discover she knew the layout of Belera.

“Humans like you come by a lot,” she said at the table during supper. “Some need a place to stay; others wish to trade with us. I talk to them sometimes. They tell me many things, like how to get to different places. I make maps of this land so I can better understand it.”

I dipped my spoon into my first ever bowl of fish stew. “Do ye bi ana chance know how tae get ti Dale?”

She smiled and shifted her eyes as she sipped. “I do not tell my parents of this, but a man from Dale once came here. I was attracted to him and talked for many hours with him. He told me how to get to him did I ever feel like it.”

“Could ye make a copy o that map fer me?”

Her expression darkened. “I do not have one. He told me I could not write the way down. He warned me bad men might find my map and use it for the wrong reasons. I assume Dale is a place meant to be hidden; either that or it hides something that does not wish to be found.” She forced a smile. “But I have remembered the way.”

My hopes were again lifted. It was then I took a risk: my third mistake and definitely not my last. “Seeing how you know the way so well,” I prodded, running my finger along the rim of my wooden mug. “Maybe ye could tell me, an’ A could write i dewn?”

Her features again darkened in uncertainty. “He told me never to tell.”

I shrugged. “Nibody has ti know.”

“But I will still feel guilty.”

“That guilt’ll pass.”

She averted her icy blue eyes and wrung the napkin in her hands as she frowned. “It will not for a long time.”

“But i will pass some tyme or anather.”

“Not if something bad happens to Dale or the man I spoke to.”

“It won’.” I felt my patience dropping and my cheeks flushing.

She looked at me and shook her head. “I cannot be certain unless I keep my secret. He told me never to—“

“Leuk!” I was getting frustrated and it must have showed by the way I slammed my mug down. The girl jumped a full hand from her seat and her parents looked at me as if unsure how to react. I managed a smile to reassure them their daughter was not in danger then focused my attention back to the stubborn red haired girl. “Leuk,” I said in a softer tone, trying to sound as cheery as possible as my temper rose. “I need tae get ti Dale. A’ve bin roaming this countryside fer a long tyme an’ I don’ want ti waste anamore days in the wilderness than I have tae.”

“Why do you wish to find Dale?” she asked me with narrowed eyes.

“I need ti speak with a man there.”

“For what?”

“That is none o yer business!” My mug came down again, rapping harshly on the table. The mother and the girl just stared at me in shock. Her father asked his daughter something in Elvish and she responded in a stunned whisper.

“Simu te fide geno,” she said, her wide eyes fixated on me. She then faced her father and screamed it. “Simu te fide geno!” She pointed her finger at me in accusation and her parents turned to glare in response.

“Te fide geno, eh?” her father growled. I sat there as he advanced on me, my eyes as wide as dinner plates. I shook my head in protest. That would have been fine had I known what I had done wrong.

I took a risk. “No.” I assumed the word and its meaning was universal and I made sure to pronounce it in the Southlandish accent as best I could, just in case my accent made it mean something else. “No te fide geno.”

The elven man furrowed his brow at me once I said this, then nodded his head and smiled. “Priào uth,” he sneered. At first, I thought I had successfully calmed the man down and so laughed along with him as he came nearer. I thought we’d just shake and put this behind us.

The next thing I knew, I was jumping from my chair as the big Elf pulled a fillet knife on me! I held my hands in front of me then started stepping back toward the door, all the while shaking my head and laughing nervously. The girl’s father neared, that knife raised to strike me down were I to give him the chance.

“No simu te fide geno!” I protested, my back pressed against the door as I fumbled blindly to unlock it and let myself out. “No simu!” The man glanced at his wife in uncertainty then looked my way and charged toward me. I grunted as he grabbed my shirt and threw me to the ground as if I were a doll. He glared at me yet again and I fumbled for my pathetic hunting knife as the man made to pounce.

“Pava!” The girl halted her father in mid stab. I scrambled to my feet then counted my blessings once she managed to coax the knife from his white knuckles. I winced as the family glared back at me, the girl and her mother with their hands on their hips. “Do you wish to die, stranger?” she snapped. “Simu te fide geno means ‘he is a bad man.’ My father has honor. If you challenge him, he will not back down.”

“Challenge?” I looked at her in bewilderment. "What did A say that would . . . ." I trailed off as the girl's gaze bore further into me. She pointed out my mistake. How was I supposed to know that “noh” in Elvish means "yes?" It isn't my fault the language is backwards! I guess if I had sounded like I was agreeing with her father and laughing about it, most would take that as a challenge. My sheepish grin masked my anger. "I guess sayin sorry won’ help?”

She walked toward me and opened the door. “I think you should leave now,” she advised, gesturing to the outside with her outstretched arm. “I cannot guarantee your safety if you do not.” After looking once more at her father, I decided to take her advice.

I spent the rest of that day wandering that colony in search of provisions for my journey. I was lucky to find a group of Elves intelligent enough to understand my plight once I acted it out for them. I found looking like a fool is not a bad thing if your audience graciously stuffs your pack with sweet breads, potatoes, and dried fish. One helpful citizen raced back to his home and earnestly shoved a blanket, filled with duck feathers into my arms, while another handed me a beautiful fillet knife, its handle adorned with a rainbow of fish scales. “Thank ye” is one of those universal words, so I didn’t have to worry about leaving the colony like I had the girl’s home. At least the other Elves wielded smiles instead of weapons as they saw me on my way.

Night arrived quickly, so I decided to pitch camp on the other side of the river. I was close enough to the colony to see the glow from their homes. I did not envy them, all warm inside while I struggled to keep warm outside. Their duck feather blanket had helped and their kindness had touched me. I had never received such treatment before from my own race. It puzzled me and gave me something to think about as I dozed off. How could those people be so accepting when their country suffered from so many prejudices? I don’t think I ever came up with an answer.

I woke in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke. I never thought I would gaze off across the river and see the colony on fire! I rubbed my eyes, unable to believe what I saw, then stuffed my blanket in my pack of supplies and plunged into the frigid water. Screaming met my ears as I waded through the surge, my supply pack, my boots, and the large fillet knife the Elves had given me held over my head. It didn’t occur to me then that I would have a hard time drying my clothes in the bitter night air, or maybe it did and I just wasn’t willing to go running around naked. I pulled my numb, soggy body onto the far bank and defeated the purpose of taking my boots off before I went into the water by shoving them on my sopping feet once I left the shore.

The squishy belching sound I made while I ran was drowned out by the chaos around me. Homes burned, Elves screamed and ran around in panic. Imagine the fires from a burning funeral pyre. Now imagine those fires licking from every building, with sparks and debris raining down on screaming people as they try to throw dirt on the flames consuming their fields.

I squinted through the glare of the dancing blaze and thought I saw the girl and her family escape their house before it fell on them. I ran after their shadows in hopes of convincing them to help me once I helped them.

I was within arms reach of the girl’s trailing red hair when three hooded figures with swords intercepted her and her family.



Interested in reading the next installment? After this, though, I've no more post for this story. If you'd wish me to, let me know. Otherwise, one chap is it for now.

Kelt's Story. Chap one: continued  (ASR) The colony is destroyed. Kelt continues to tell his side of the story. #867674 by spiritwolf