Hello readers,

Please enjoy chapter 1 of my full length novel, "Plamen Oren" which is available online for purchase. Its still in its final editing phases so please, if you find any errors please let me know. The book can be purchased and previewed at: Thanks, and enjoy!

- Christina

Plamen Oren

I: The Eastern Wind

A crisp wind crept into the mountains from the east. As it passed through the pines’ furry fingers it chilled the very skin of the forest floor. The mountains that lined the rim of the forest valley seemed to grumble at the wind’s chilly touch. Faint lights danced in the midst of all the activity. Some where just tiny specks of dust that shined in light that broke through the canopy. Others flittered around of their own will, given life by the old trees that surrounded them. The pine pixies and mid-summer fairies danced as their little hearts beat with anticipation of what the bold, eastern wind might bring.

When the eastern wind faded, the little folk noticed a strange presence in their sheltered wood. The wind brought with it a figure, of human size, but certainly not of human origin. No mortal man bore hair so violently red, like the color of a forest blaze. Nor could mortal man have eyes the color of spilt blood. Looking at his cloaked form was akin to peering into the deepest cave. His face bore no smile or hint of emotion, just a neutral mask. The little folk darted about in the dusty summer air, trying to get a better vantage point to view the spectacle.

The stranger’s horse seemed to be made of shadow and smoke. The spots where its sharp hooves touched became scorched piles of ash. The tiny pixies had not seen such a set of creatures since the forest that bore them began falling asleep. The only mortal-sized, but inhuman creatures that remained in the valley were the fey, and they were often malevolent spirits. Despite the fearsome appearance of the foreign pair, the wind’s companions made their way through the wood without incident. The traveler’s mouth gaped in awe of the ancient trees that dwarfed him. He ran his fingers along the pockmarked skin of the redwoods as he passed. The bark was unharmed by the soft touch unlike the marred ground on which he traveled. The snoozing tree spirits shuddered as they felt a dull heat on their outer shell.

Some of the braver fairies followed him on his slow trek through the rocky path. Their delicate butterfly wings glittered in the late summer sun as they slowly grew bolder. Some dared flutter beside him, trying to catch a glimpse of his otherworldly features. He smiled and extended his hand to them, inviting them to sit between his long fingers.

“I am Oren, who are you?” Oren’s voice seemed far too gentle for his fearsome appearance. His mask of neutrality shifted to a genuine smile as the fairies and pixies began giggling and speaking their titles. They fluttered around, some stopping to ride upon his free hand and shoulders with big smiles on their small faces. Their brief glee quickly faded with the coming of trees’ end. They flew away, back into their green shelter, their curiosities satiated. At the edge of the forest lay a river whose source was the very mountains Oren had just crossed. He rode down the treacherous slope to the river’s edge. The smell of fresh water made him softly smile and close his eyes. After a moment basking in the river’s fragrance, Oren dismounted onto the rocky ground and tied his steed to a nearby sapling. The horse snorted at the action, as if it were somehow insulted by it. It scarped its hooves along the cool stones, flicking small bits of ash into the nearby grass.

Oren then took off his dark cloak, fully revealing his form to the many hidden eyes of the forest. His freckled face seemed to glow in proximity to his long red hair. His crimson eyes were like twin beacons shining in an already bright sky. Oren took off a knapsack he kept around his shoulder and went to the river’s edge.

Kneeling beside the flowing water, he took a moment to reflect upon his weathered face. Lines were distorted by the flow but still visible to him. He frowned as he dipped his cupped hands into the soothing water and began washing his face. He let the water slowly run down his freckled neck and back, allowing the chilly river water to baptize him into the arms of the new land. Crimson eyes lingered on the water a moment before closing once more. Oren took a deep breath, held it, and let the air escape him as he sat back onto his knees. He leaned to the side and pulled some fishing supplies out of his knapsack. Once the rod and line was prepared it was cast into the river in hopes of landing a small fish. Though Oren could pass for a fey, he ate as a human did.

As he waited for his supper to arrive, Oren took a small, leather-bound book from his bag. The pages of the book were tattered at the ends from its owner’s travels. Small grains of sand fell from its binding as he gave it a little shake. He placed the fishing rod between his feet, leaving his hands free to peruse the battered tome. The volume was peppered with verse, most of which had been scratched out with short, deep strokes. Anyone with perceptive eyes could see the embarrassment in the deep lines, so hurried and forced. The letters progressed from complex ink pictures to simple charcoal lines as Oren learned new languages and began shedding his old identity. He shook his head at the sight of his fruitless scribbles and began ripping pages from the volume in frustration. He crumpled them up and tossed the lost thoughts into the river where they silently floated away, drifting from memory.

Oren pulled a small stick from between the pages and spine. He briefly closed his eyes in concentration, summoning a small flame from the astral plane in one hand. Oren dipped the tip of the small stick into the center of the heated plume and let it burn a moment before snuffing the newly formed flame with his breath. Small wisps of smoke rose from the tip of the stick as he began writing. Despite their beauty, the trees and mountains provided little inspiration. He struggled, but managed to write a single quatrain.

‘I rode to paradise on smoke and ash,

watching river’s water, at my feet, crash.

The Pine Mountains, my dearest elder kin:

What awaits me when tomorrow begins?’

He wrinkled his nose at the lines and tore the page from his book. Oren crumpled it up into a ball and tossed it into the river.

“I should pay more attention to finding food, eh Marimaru?” He turned to see his smoky steed contently munching on sparse union grass, trying desperately not to let it near his scathing hooves. Oren’s own stomach growled with envy. After another hour or so of patient diligence, he managed to snag a small salmon. His riding trousers became drenched with river water as he scrambled to capture the flailing fish before it got the upper hand. The salmon gasped and slipped from his grasp several times before Oren struck it against a large stone. With a single crack, the fish succumbed to its injuries and became a meal. Oren brought his catch away from the river and placed it on a rough patch of grass. He gathered dry, fallen sticks from the underbrush and began constructing a fire-site. Once his collection of twigs was erected into a suitable cooking-pyre, he knelt before it and closed his eyes.

Oren began to focus on the small fire as he did his hand. His breathing became slow and rhythmic. The concentrated energy formed a dull light in the center of the twig-bundle. A small glowing eye pattern appeared in the center of Oren’s forehead and began to pulse. As the third eye grew in brightness, it caused small wisps of smoke to rise from the bundle of twigs. A fire emerged and engulfed the wood, allowing Oren to cook his dinner. He broke his concentration and the glowing eye upon his forehead vanished. He gutted the salmon, impaled it on a small stick, and held it over the fire. The smell of fresh fish cooking made him smile. He intently watched as his dinner neared completion. Despite the tranquility of the scene Oren could hear something moving about in the forest.

Magpies flew from their high perches into the endless sky. The sounds of twigs snapping grew louder as the source of the disturbance drew closer. Then from the forest came three men armed with hunting weapons and carrying a large boar carcass. They all dressed in animal-skin clothing and were built as solid as the oak-covered mountains. The central figure seemed cleaner than his companions; less mud and animal blood covered his form. The men seemed equally distressed to see Oren as he was to see them as they visibly tightened their grips on their weapons.

As they walked cautiously toward where the small fire burned, Oren placed his food aside and stood. He reached a hand behind him to grasp a hidden knife in his belt. The central man, with a long knife sheathed on his hip, walked closer to Oren with his hands raised. He was a head taller than Oren, wore a thin beard, and bore a darker complexion. He saw the smoke-horse and assumed that Oren was some kind of sorcerer or forest spirit. The central figure marveled at Oren’s features a moment before addressing him in his native tongue, inquiring as to where the fiery spirit had come from. Oren could hear the mixture of fear and apprehension in his voice, just barely masked by bravery. When the man didn’t get a response he resorted to using hand motions. He smiled and bowed his head, taking the hunting knife tied to his belt and placing it on the ground. Oren slowly bowed his head as well and watched as the taller man placed his hand on his own chest. Oren didn’t loosen his grip on the hidden knife.

“Owen Redoak.” He patted his chest before pointing a finger to Oren. It took the confused newcomer a few moments to realize that he was being asked for his name. He hesitated, being asked for the first, most personal possession he ever received. He never told anyone, not even his most intimate friends his real name. He used many aliases in his travels but he uttered nothing in response. He did, however, relinquish his hawk-talon grip on his knife. Owen smiled and waved his hands in front of him, assuming Oren didn’t understand his question. He placed a finger upon Oren’s loose red hair and pointed to the fire.

“Plamen, you’re Plamen.” Owen smiled and pointed to the cooking pyre that had flames the same color as the traveler’s hair. Oren gave a small smile as he nodded. He would take the name given to him, and would not so much as think of himself as “Oren” while in Owen’s presence. Plamen looked to the slow-spreading fire and understood the implication. But to his chagrin the flame for which he was named had traveled onto his supper, burning it to nothing. Plamen cursed as he turned to his spoiled dinner. He began to blow on it and peal the outer layer of flesh in hopes that some meat would be spared. Owen crouched to watch him futilely search for edible meat. Plamen, in his frustration, threw the fish to the ground. Owen couldn’t help but stifle a smile, though it made Plamen scowl at him. He pointed to the fish then to himself once more.

“It is my fault, I made your fish burn. I am sorry…”

“I don’t think he understands you, Owen, leave him be. We need to get back before dark or the fey might appear and turn us all into asses.” One of the other men insisted as he looked to the trees with suspicion in his eyes. The forest was slowly loosing its magic but all feared the remaining inhabitants of the old wood. Owen laughed at the thought of seeing his little brother being turned into a jackass.

“I know Vernon; give me a moment will you? It never good to meet someone like this and just leave him to his own devises.” he nodded. The other man, named Wallace, nodded in agreement.

“Hurry it up then. You know how we feel about his lot.” Wallace sneered with narrowed eyes to Plamen, who frowned at being addressed in such a way. Owen sighed at the rising hostility and grasped Plamen’s hand in an attempt to promote friendship, per his custom. Plamen, offended by the touch, tore his hand from Owen’s grasp. Owen recoiled and looked to his kinsman for interpersonal wisdom he seemed to be lacking. They shrugged and gripped their weapons a little tighter, never taking their eyes off the strange spirits before them. Plamen’s hand tingled with uncomfortable energy.

“Don’t touch me, human.” Plamen spoke, though accented by his own native tongue, in the language of the hunters. The gentle voice heard by the small folk was gone. Owen sat up and looked to Plamen with a confused expression.

“You know our language?” Owen asked as his lower lip hung slightly open. Plamen stood and ran his shaking fingers through his hair.

“Yes I do. You were the one who assumed I didn’t.” Owen blushed slightly under his thin brown beard. It was true, in that short time a lot of assumptions had been made, he thought.

“O-oh, forgive me.” He stood and bowed his head in apology. “Are you a friend to these woods, then?” Owen’s voice shook in the presence of the angered spirit. Plamen crossed his arms.

“If you’re asking me if I plan on eating you, no.” Plamen’s indignant expression made Owen nervously laugh. He patted Plamen on the shoulder, causing him to tense up at the touch.

“I’m terribly sorry. I don’t mean any insult to you, friend. Many spirits in this forest make a game of hurting my people and I can’t be too careful. My village is not too far from here. It is not safe in the wood at night especially if there are fey around; you are more than welcome to stay with me as a token of my apologies.” Wallace and Vernon seemed shocked at the statement. Plamen bitterly smirked as they began telling Owen to reconsider. He cast the hunters a cynical gaze. His crimson eyes caused them to wriggle inside like worms in the presence of a hungry bird.

“Are you sure you want a fire-monster like me in your village? ‘One such as me’, you can never be too careful after all.” Plamen shook his head. His words caused Owen to laugh. Something in Plamen’s tone seemed too serious, unnatural. If this Plamen wanted to hurt them, he would have done so already, Owen thought. Plamen, however, was not amused. “Is there a flaw in my language or in my humor?”

“I’m sorry for laughing. I meant nothing by it. Please, I insist you come to my village, especially now since I have so much to be sorry for.” Plamen looked the hunter in the eye. The contrast of green and red vision did little to break the friendly connection Owen was offering the seemingly closed off Plamen.

Plamen had lived with humans all his life, and carried the scars on his body as testament. The only restful times came in the forests of the world, away from the mortal sphere. But something always brought him eye to eye with man, as if encounters were increasingly unavoidable. In the end Plamen’s resolve was extinguished and he agreed to Owen’s offer.

“I’ve nothing better to do and I am tired from my travels. I will accept your apology.”

“Wonderful! We’ll help you gather your things.” Owen stood and told his companions to gather Plamen’s things and tend to his steed. Despite their fear of the beast, it behaved as any common horse would, though it was reluctant to part from the grass on which it preyed. Owen smiled and bowed his head to his new guest before picking up his hunting knife.

“Welcome to my woods, Plamen.”