Karuka
07-24-14, 10:59 PM
Welcome to chapter 1 of a book that doesn't have a title on it, because I'm lazy! This is where you can edit my work and stuff! Let me know if you want to see more, or if it totally sucks monkey butt. And why, if you don't mind! If all goes well with the editing, I'll be looking to publish this book at some point in the future.
If Erwan Corentin could pick one word for Gantrickford, it would be “colorless.” Its buildings and its streets were the same hopeless shade of gray, and its people, clad in washed out blues and browns, were all a sickly pale hue. Even the light here was dim and weak, as if the sun god only attended the city and its surrounding country as a reviled duty, rather than as a sacred joy.
If he could choose another word, it would be “cold.” The sun’s hesitant touch let the unwelcoming colors leech all the warmth out of the land, and what should have been a pleasant spring morning instead permeated the young man with a deep chill. To defend against it, he huddled into his new navy-blue brocaded coat, hoping that his new attire would suit this continent better than the crisp linens and flowing cottons of his own country. Libicia's hot sands and vast savannahs lent themselves to cool and comfortable clothing, but this new, Euphanic air was heavy with cool and damp.
Much about this country seemed to be heavy. The standard clothing, that he had seen, consisted of thick trousers, sturdy boots, an undershirt, overshirt, vest and coat. The beautiful brocade, along with a bright red cravat, appealed to his sense of aesthetics rather well, but even in all of that restrictive clothing, he still didn't feel warm. His discomfort drew the eyes of more than one local. His tan skin instantly identified him as a Libician, so he had to hope that the glamour he had used to change his eyes to blue and the dye that had reddened his usually tawny hair was enough to keep anyone from guessing who he was.
Erwan looked down at a sheet of paper in his hand; directions to a good inn near the river that bisected the city. But how could anyone find anything amidst the cobblestone streets that wound between the tall, tightly-clustered stone buildings? Hopefully the next town on his journey, North Gantrickford, would be more open and direct. That it was only a day's walk to the north didn't give him much hope to that effect, though. How strange the cities are here in Euphana, he thought as he walked past a town guard onto a narrow bridge, absently reflecting on the strange land he had come to find himself in. With any luck, I can head home soon.
He coughed suddenly as he stepped off the bridge, bending his head into his sleeve to cover it. He sighed, hoping that the change of climate wasn't proving too much for his usually robust immune system. Then he looked around at the street he had absently wandered into. The buildings here were crumbling, and dirty faces peeked out at him from beneath matted hair. Erwan didn't consider his clothing to be unusually fine, but compared to the rags and tatters of the people around him, he was downright opulent. It wasn't the damp air that had provoked his cough; it was the scent of misery, decades of mildew combined with the scents of human waste and rotten grain. Suddenly, he felt rather self-conscious about his appearance, and rather nervous about his surroundings. Given that he was a full head shorter than the average Euphanic man, Erwan's lack of focus had led him into a rather precarious situation.
Of course, a small, scrawny man in fancy clothing was an unusual sight in the east side of Gantrickford. He was caught like a mouse in a house full of cats, and he had walked blindly in like he owned it, without the sense to have a bodyguard along to protect him from the rabble on the streets. The foreigner didn't even get a chance to orient himself before a large, dingy man with dark eyes and thick stubble stepped in front of him. "Dangerous for strangers in these parts," he snickered through rotten teeth. The vagrant pulled out a knife, waving it disdainfully at his target. "Hand over your purse, coat and boots, and I'll see to it that nothin' happens to ya, stranger. For now."
Erwan had gone pale and stumbled back a few paces, lifting a hand feebly as though that would ward off this assailant, but he was unarmed - a soft target. His retreat only prompted a charge from the thug, who thrust his knife viciously forward so that he could take what wasn't given. All Erwan saw was the rusty blade coming at him like a flash of lightning, but it stopped even more rapidly, as a strong, thin hand grabbed hold of the would-be robber's grimy chin and shoved him back.
It was a woman who had come to his rescue, and she was as tall as his assailant and just as emaciated. Her clothes, if they could be called such, had dirt so deeply embedded in the fabric that they were a mottled gray. Her shirt was ripped in multiple places, her pants had been ripped and torn at so much that they didn't even come to her knees, and her boots were falling apart at the seams. Scars covered her arms, legs, and what parts of her torso were visible, and her hair was matted and tangled. Even so, she was standing between him and death like a goddess of victory, shoving the last of a hot sandwich into her mouth. Most of the other people on the street, who had been inching forward as though vultures ready to descend on his carcass, scattered back into their holes at her appearance.
"Viper, you bitch." The filthy hooligan got his feet back under him and picked his knife back up, this time pointing it at the woman. "You might be fine living off rats in the gutter, but I sees a chance for better. I got 'im first, he's mine!"
She looked back at the cowering nobleman, and her eyes, as though to contrast the ragged condition of the rest of her, were the same brilliant green as the finest of emeralds, sparkling with will and pride. "He's not worth the trouble of it, Chuck. He'll go back across the river and we'll have the whole damned guard swarming these streets, as if it's not already hard enough out here. Let it go. You got a match tonight, so do I."
"Match? For what? Tin bits?" Chuck, as he was called, started advancing forward again. "I could eat for a month off'a that coat alone. I'm not going to let some woman keep me from that." He glowered at Erwan, then stabbed at the proud woman. She shifted toward him, grabbed him by the arm, and flipped him onto his back, wrenching his knife from his hand and holding it to his throat.
"Rats at the seventh rung shouldn't challenge serpents at the second. Scurry on away, Chuck, and this can end with you alive." Green eyes glowered into brown ones for only a few seconds before the man slipped shamefully away, leaving his knife behind for the Viper to toss casually in the gutter. With the situation diffused, she turned and looked at Erwan, who was standing with his hands clenched in front of him. "Lissen, Stitches, I dunno your name, where you're from, or what you think you're doin' on this side of the river. What I do know is that if you stay here, that's gonna happen again and again, until you get unlucky."
"So it would appear..." he said carefully. There was only a slight quiver in his voice, as if he were trying to put a brave face on over his fright. A faint, milky-white glow was trickling through his fingers, but it died down as he noticed it. If he'd managed to get his reaction off in time, it would have been a shield spell. That makes it even more fortunate that this woman arrived when she did. I was warned not to use magic here. Fortunately, the daylight and the way his hands were positioned made it unlikely that anyone had noticed it. Even so, he was slightly disappointed that he had needed a rescue less than two hours into his stay in Gantrickford.
"Of course, you are correct. It was not in my plans to stay here for long." He looked at her warily, but still gave her a sweeping bow, tucking his left arm into his belly as he did. Just because he wasn't sure that this destitute woman wouldn't decide to pick up where Chuck had left off didn't mean that he could lose his manners, after all. "I must thank you for your protection, miss. I was looking for my inn and must have taken a wrong turn somewhere," he told her as he straightened up.
"Don't thank me." The woman's words came almost in a growl as she glanced around the dingy streets. "Last thing we need here is the law coming in and digging things up. C'mon, I can get you to the nearest bridge. You won't find a place for folk like you on the east side of the river. Hell, you won't even find whores for folk like you on this side of the river." She turned suddenly, marching down the street like a general moving through her war camp, and he had to jog to keep up.
What is she? She obviously wasn't a prostitute; her clothes weren't bright and revealing enough, and her face was scarred and untouched by powders and rouges. She couldn't be a servant; no serving woman would have been able to protect him. She wasn't a thief; she didn't carry pouches and tools at her waist - instead there were a pair of daggers. The hilts and sheathes were in excellent repair, with a tiny emerald fitted carefully on the pommel of each one. He could only guess the blades were as well cared for. Seventh rung, she said. And second. Is this woman...? No, she couldn't be. She had obviously lived a rough life, and was tough, but there was no way that the Euphanics would let their women fight. Her lover must be the fighter. He shuddered a little bit at the thought. How terrible, all around.
"Here." The woman stopped in front of a wider bridge than the one he'd wandered in on. This one had guards posted in the middle, instead of at the western end. "They can tell you where to go from here." Her job done, she turned to leave.
"Wait!" He called after her, fumbling at a pocket in his jacket. At the very least, he could give her some coin; it was a minimal showing of gratitude for what she had done.
"Put it away, Stitches. I don't want'cher money, and I don't want'cher trouble. So if you don't send trouble over, that's pay enough." She hadn't turned around, but her shoulders were tense. On the bridge, the guards were watching her every move.
Erwan frowned, as thin and poorly dressed as she was, couldn't she use whatever money she could get? "Would you guide me to my inn, then? You seem to know this city better than I do."
At that, she did turn, pulling her shirt aside to reveal a brand over her heart. It was a large X, white with age. "Stitches... no one like me gets over any bridge to that side of Gantrickford. You gotta find your own way from here." With that, she walked down an alley, back into the wretched streets to which she belonged and leaving him to cross back to the western part of the city on his own.
If Erwan Corentin could pick one word for Gantrickford, it would be “colorless.” Its buildings and its streets were the same hopeless shade of gray, and its people, clad in washed out blues and browns, were all a sickly pale hue. Even the light here was dim and weak, as if the sun god only attended the city and its surrounding country as a reviled duty, rather than as a sacred joy.
If he could choose another word, it would be “cold.” The sun’s hesitant touch let the unwelcoming colors leech all the warmth out of the land, and what should have been a pleasant spring morning instead permeated the young man with a deep chill. To defend against it, he huddled into his new navy-blue brocaded coat, hoping that his new attire would suit this continent better than the crisp linens and flowing cottons of his own country. Libicia's hot sands and vast savannahs lent themselves to cool and comfortable clothing, but this new, Euphanic air was heavy with cool and damp.
Much about this country seemed to be heavy. The standard clothing, that he had seen, consisted of thick trousers, sturdy boots, an undershirt, overshirt, vest and coat. The beautiful brocade, along with a bright red cravat, appealed to his sense of aesthetics rather well, but even in all of that restrictive clothing, he still didn't feel warm. His discomfort drew the eyes of more than one local. His tan skin instantly identified him as a Libician, so he had to hope that the glamour he had used to change his eyes to blue and the dye that had reddened his usually tawny hair was enough to keep anyone from guessing who he was.
Erwan looked down at a sheet of paper in his hand; directions to a good inn near the river that bisected the city. But how could anyone find anything amidst the cobblestone streets that wound between the tall, tightly-clustered stone buildings? Hopefully the next town on his journey, North Gantrickford, would be more open and direct. That it was only a day's walk to the north didn't give him much hope to that effect, though. How strange the cities are here in Euphana, he thought as he walked past a town guard onto a narrow bridge, absently reflecting on the strange land he had come to find himself in. With any luck, I can head home soon.
He coughed suddenly as he stepped off the bridge, bending his head into his sleeve to cover it. He sighed, hoping that the change of climate wasn't proving too much for his usually robust immune system. Then he looked around at the street he had absently wandered into. The buildings here were crumbling, and dirty faces peeked out at him from beneath matted hair. Erwan didn't consider his clothing to be unusually fine, but compared to the rags and tatters of the people around him, he was downright opulent. It wasn't the damp air that had provoked his cough; it was the scent of misery, decades of mildew combined with the scents of human waste and rotten grain. Suddenly, he felt rather self-conscious about his appearance, and rather nervous about his surroundings. Given that he was a full head shorter than the average Euphanic man, Erwan's lack of focus had led him into a rather precarious situation.
Of course, a small, scrawny man in fancy clothing was an unusual sight in the east side of Gantrickford. He was caught like a mouse in a house full of cats, and he had walked blindly in like he owned it, without the sense to have a bodyguard along to protect him from the rabble on the streets. The foreigner didn't even get a chance to orient himself before a large, dingy man with dark eyes and thick stubble stepped in front of him. "Dangerous for strangers in these parts," he snickered through rotten teeth. The vagrant pulled out a knife, waving it disdainfully at his target. "Hand over your purse, coat and boots, and I'll see to it that nothin' happens to ya, stranger. For now."
Erwan had gone pale and stumbled back a few paces, lifting a hand feebly as though that would ward off this assailant, but he was unarmed - a soft target. His retreat only prompted a charge from the thug, who thrust his knife viciously forward so that he could take what wasn't given. All Erwan saw was the rusty blade coming at him like a flash of lightning, but it stopped even more rapidly, as a strong, thin hand grabbed hold of the would-be robber's grimy chin and shoved him back.
It was a woman who had come to his rescue, and she was as tall as his assailant and just as emaciated. Her clothes, if they could be called such, had dirt so deeply embedded in the fabric that they were a mottled gray. Her shirt was ripped in multiple places, her pants had been ripped and torn at so much that they didn't even come to her knees, and her boots were falling apart at the seams. Scars covered her arms, legs, and what parts of her torso were visible, and her hair was matted and tangled. Even so, she was standing between him and death like a goddess of victory, shoving the last of a hot sandwich into her mouth. Most of the other people on the street, who had been inching forward as though vultures ready to descend on his carcass, scattered back into their holes at her appearance.
"Viper, you bitch." The filthy hooligan got his feet back under him and picked his knife back up, this time pointing it at the woman. "You might be fine living off rats in the gutter, but I sees a chance for better. I got 'im first, he's mine!"
She looked back at the cowering nobleman, and her eyes, as though to contrast the ragged condition of the rest of her, were the same brilliant green as the finest of emeralds, sparkling with will and pride. "He's not worth the trouble of it, Chuck. He'll go back across the river and we'll have the whole damned guard swarming these streets, as if it's not already hard enough out here. Let it go. You got a match tonight, so do I."
"Match? For what? Tin bits?" Chuck, as he was called, started advancing forward again. "I could eat for a month off'a that coat alone. I'm not going to let some woman keep me from that." He glowered at Erwan, then stabbed at the proud woman. She shifted toward him, grabbed him by the arm, and flipped him onto his back, wrenching his knife from his hand and holding it to his throat.
"Rats at the seventh rung shouldn't challenge serpents at the second. Scurry on away, Chuck, and this can end with you alive." Green eyes glowered into brown ones for only a few seconds before the man slipped shamefully away, leaving his knife behind for the Viper to toss casually in the gutter. With the situation diffused, she turned and looked at Erwan, who was standing with his hands clenched in front of him. "Lissen, Stitches, I dunno your name, where you're from, or what you think you're doin' on this side of the river. What I do know is that if you stay here, that's gonna happen again and again, until you get unlucky."
"So it would appear..." he said carefully. There was only a slight quiver in his voice, as if he were trying to put a brave face on over his fright. A faint, milky-white glow was trickling through his fingers, but it died down as he noticed it. If he'd managed to get his reaction off in time, it would have been a shield spell. That makes it even more fortunate that this woman arrived when she did. I was warned not to use magic here. Fortunately, the daylight and the way his hands were positioned made it unlikely that anyone had noticed it. Even so, he was slightly disappointed that he had needed a rescue less than two hours into his stay in Gantrickford.
"Of course, you are correct. It was not in my plans to stay here for long." He looked at her warily, but still gave her a sweeping bow, tucking his left arm into his belly as he did. Just because he wasn't sure that this destitute woman wouldn't decide to pick up where Chuck had left off didn't mean that he could lose his manners, after all. "I must thank you for your protection, miss. I was looking for my inn and must have taken a wrong turn somewhere," he told her as he straightened up.
"Don't thank me." The woman's words came almost in a growl as she glanced around the dingy streets. "Last thing we need here is the law coming in and digging things up. C'mon, I can get you to the nearest bridge. You won't find a place for folk like you on the east side of the river. Hell, you won't even find whores for folk like you on this side of the river." She turned suddenly, marching down the street like a general moving through her war camp, and he had to jog to keep up.
What is she? She obviously wasn't a prostitute; her clothes weren't bright and revealing enough, and her face was scarred and untouched by powders and rouges. She couldn't be a servant; no serving woman would have been able to protect him. She wasn't a thief; she didn't carry pouches and tools at her waist - instead there were a pair of daggers. The hilts and sheathes were in excellent repair, with a tiny emerald fitted carefully on the pommel of each one. He could only guess the blades were as well cared for. Seventh rung, she said. And second. Is this woman...? No, she couldn't be. She had obviously lived a rough life, and was tough, but there was no way that the Euphanics would let their women fight. Her lover must be the fighter. He shuddered a little bit at the thought. How terrible, all around.
"Here." The woman stopped in front of a wider bridge than the one he'd wandered in on. This one had guards posted in the middle, instead of at the western end. "They can tell you where to go from here." Her job done, she turned to leave.
"Wait!" He called after her, fumbling at a pocket in his jacket. At the very least, he could give her some coin; it was a minimal showing of gratitude for what she had done.
"Put it away, Stitches. I don't want'cher money, and I don't want'cher trouble. So if you don't send trouble over, that's pay enough." She hadn't turned around, but her shoulders were tense. On the bridge, the guards were watching her every move.
Erwan frowned, as thin and poorly dressed as she was, couldn't she use whatever money she could get? "Would you guide me to my inn, then? You seem to know this city better than I do."
At that, she did turn, pulling her shirt aside to reveal a brand over her heart. It was a large X, white with age. "Stitches... no one like me gets over any bridge to that side of Gantrickford. You gotta find your own way from here." With that, she walked down an alley, back into the wretched streets to which she belonged and leaving him to cross back to the western part of the city on his own.