RFP: I feel very good about this story, and while I dont expect many hits, I think I'll find it to be well done. I churned this baby out in I think two hours, and it my first dabble at anything fantasy related. I'm hoping to make this more adventure related, while still weaving the romance in. Who knows, maybe this one has potential! And good news is that my long-hiatused story "Stay Strong" will be coming to a close in two chapters. Couldnt really think of ideas, and I lost interest in it. Anyway, here you go!
The sun rose on a vast and desolate plain, its golden rays illuminating the grass-laded surface and the rolling hills beyond. Dark purple rivers, whose inky depths gave promise to speculation of their frigid temperatures, turned crystal and sparkled with renewed warmth. The brown, jagged mountains beyond, with their snow capped peaks, stood tall and imposing above the lush green forest at its feet.
'This seems like the sentimental crap some painter would throw on a canvas and peddle to a rich idiot; probably someone from the capitol.'
A young man of 20 looked upon this view with nothing but indifference, for his journey only led him through here, and any delay to marvel at his surroundings would only delay him. The man was shrouded in a tan traveling cloak, the sort that did not conceal him in nature, but drew no attention to him. Beneath, brown pants with a company of pockets were tucked into ordinary mud-brown boots. From the front, several pouches could be seen attached to his belt. On his torso he had a long white shirt and a vest that matched the fields of grain he passes through. Though plain, the several straps and buckles on his person drew attention to it. His neck was adorned with several stone pendants of multiple colors, which were almost hidden by an ashen scarf that concealed the lower portion of his face. Deep blue eyes lay below slightly curly blonde hair that formed a ponytail in the back which draped past his neck.
While altogether a rather forgettable traveler despite his moderately good looks, he was often remembered by the long and narrow sword strapped to his back. The weapon, inlaid with foreign runes and an ornate silver hilt, was held together with a leather loop attached to the shoulder of his cloak.
What was most remarkable, and in fact the story of choice amongst the commons in local pubs, was the abnormally large tome that appeared to lie in his left hand. In the six towns from the mountains where the traveler's journey began, people whispered of the man and the book, the book which did not lie in his hand, but in fact floated above his gloved fingers, its pages turning without command once each had finished.
Yes, it was the talk of towns. It wasn't an everyday occurrence in which a mage passed through.
In a pub past the mountains that the traveler was nearing, a girl of 16 immersed herself in cleaning glasses. As she set the now clean mug beside the multitudes of its brothers, she could do nothing to suppress the daydreams or the smile that crept on her lips. She brushed back her brown hair, including the minute braids with turquoise bead on the side of her head and focused her green eyes on the counter that needed to be cleaned and waxed and the tables in need of the same treatment. Clad in a long, dark blue skirt that ended at the tops of her ankle boots, and a white sleeveless blouse. A small, green vest hugged her waist and came up to the small swell in her chest, pushing it up and out, though not uncomfortably.
She had been lost in thought since the following night, when a man covered in pelts and a frizzled grey beard to match his hair, had loudly been talking to the owner of the general store. The portly listener, with a peppered moustache and a polished head, conversed in high volume due to the several empty pint mugs on his table. She recalled the correspondence with clarity and ease.
"I swear it on the crown of the Emperor, he was there as clear as day," the fur trader bellowed, "a man with a cloak, reading some giant book and a big ol' sword slung over his back!"
The proprietor of the store looked at him incredulously. "You tell me you saw this traveler? The man who rumors claim to be a mage?"
"Hah," bellowed the man, "you call him a man do you? I'll tell you he didn't look a shade o'er my son's age, that he didn't! Boy barely looked old enough for a brew, if you're askin'."
The girl saw the shop owner wave over for mead. She hurried over with two more mugs and listened in on the rest of the exchange.
"So he's a young man is he? How'd you know it's the mage?"
The trader took a long swallow from the new mug. "Everything fit the rumors almost. Man in a cloak, fancy sword, giant book in his left 'and. O' course, the stories people spin ain't nothin' near justice."
"How so," asked a woman near the table who had heard them.
Another spoke up, "Aye, what's this mage like?"
A small crowd looked at him intently and the rest of the pub went quiet. The trader stood up with his mug and began walking around, taking a draw from his mug intermittingly.
"Alright, I'll tell you lot. I was over in Stemson, you know, the bit of a town a stone's toss from the plains? And I'm sittin' at an inn, eatin' a nice bit o' meat and potatoes, when all of a sudden this mite of a man comes runnin' in. Seems a fire had hit the pub there. Nice place there, I tell ya."
"On with the story," a man yelled."
"Right, right. Anyways, so a bunch of us rush over to the pub. I mean, what soulless heathen would idle around while someplace is burnin', am I right? So me and some fellows get there, and there's a crowd. This place is lit up like a baby Wyrm that swallow one of Archie's fire bombs." He nodded to the shopkeeper. "Now, there's not a lick anybody can do, and apparently this old barman, Tom, was trapped inside, about to become crispy."
"Get to the mage, dammit!"
The pelted man slammed his now empty mug down. "I am, ingrate. Hafta explain everythin' don't I? If I spout out just what he looks like, who is gonna give a huff?"
He composed himself and continued pacing. "So, as this fire's spittin' flames up in the sky, I hears this lad behind me lose his breath. A couple turn around, and there's this fellow in a traveling cloak. Now, he goes all polite about it, askin' people to get out the path so he can help. Course, we thought he was just some punk lookin' to be a hero. So he walks up the path to this inferno. I mean wood beams fallin' everywhere and flame spittin' out the windows. And wouldn't you know, he just takes his left hand out his cloak and then the damned miracle happened."
"What happen?"
"Did he do magic?!"
The bearded man nodded. "Oh he did more than that, he just stuck his hand out and the fire just was drawn to it. Every bit o' flame and ember came out the pub and wrapped around his arm like a snake. Once he got all of it, the flame just fizzled into a bit of smoke and spark. Won't ever forget that. Won't forget what he looks like either."
"What'd he look like," she had yelled, unable to stem her curiosity.
He chuckled, "Oh, you'll like this part, all of you will. It's why I bought the only horse in town and galloped my way here. See, after sittin' at the inn answerin' questions and doin' little tricks for the kiddies…and brushin' off the pack o' harlots hangin' round him, I might add, he walks over to me."
"Load of crap if you ask me," said a drunkard.
"Well who's askin' ya then? Now, he leans over to me and says only a few words, then takes off his hood. He then throws it back on and sits back down. Not before those hussies saw him, and boy did they squeal."
At this point the man looked like he'd seen a ghost, as if this was the only part of the story he didn't like. "Now, you all can take this as the ravings of a mad drunk, but he said to me 'I know you're from Weatherby, the town by the marshland. If you could, I want you to take a horse and go there, and pass on a message to the pub. If anyone would believe you, those patrons will.'"
"Now, gents and my lady barkeep, let me say this had me spooked right out of my bones. But I held my wits enough to keep listening. I mean, it's not a common day that a man like a mage tells you they recognize ya, now is it? So he says to me this: 'My name is Marcus Aldridge, my father was Bartholomew Aldridge the blacksmith.'
The man's sentence was met with outrage and a few thrown mugs, which clanged off the wall harmlessly.
"That's some low joke there, Samson!"
"Yea, someone ought to run you outta here by your collar."
The reason they were so upset was because Marcus Aldridge, the blacksmiths son, had died in a fire with his father. The family had been well liked, in part because of the passing of the matriarch, Josephine Aldridge.
"Everyone here knows that the Aldridge family has been dead for 8 years now. And how dare you speak of them like that in front of Samantha!" The angry man pointed to her.
"Quiet man! I know they'd curse me from the grave if I was lyin', but tell me one thing now why don't ya? Did they ever find a body of the boy? NO! And sure as sunshine no fire is gonna take a body off the face of the earth!"
It had pained Samantha to hear him speak of him like that, thinking it was a cruel joke. But the fur trader made a good argument. Marcus had never been found dead, and while it seemed impossible for him to be alive, she could only hope.
As she wiped down the last of the tables, giving her ample time to rest until the nightly regulars, she thought it all over. What if there was a way? Could he still be alive?
Samantha sat down rather ungracefully on a chair and slumped into an easy sleep. Exhaustion had overtaken her, as it always did after work. Her life was a flurry of events. During the crisp mornings, she could be found in the meadow behind her pub and home, firing handcrafted arrows from an old knobby wooden bow. It was her reprieve from the pub, which although did not seem like a prison to her, she aspired greater exploits than that of a maiden to serve mead. That is why she practiced her archery, hoping to one day amount to something of value and honor. She held her bow with odd care for a weapon. The bow was, in fact, merely a thick branch of wood. But each morning she would practice with it, for Marcus had made it for her when they were little.
A surprisingly good craft for a boy of twelve, she held onto it as her greatest treasure, as it was a week and a night later that the Aldridge family was consumed by fire.
Her dreams were not as foggy as was natural, it was almost as if she was a spectator watching an event, perhaps watching the upcoming archery competition. But yes, the unnatural clarity drew her suspicious, even in her sleep.
The meadow that her dream was set in was alight and pleasant. Samantha watched as two small children, one boy with sandy hair and a girl of much shorter stature and equally opposing black curls. Inside her dream, she watched as he ran around, chasing the girl. The girl turned around and began to chase the young boy. As they ran, the two became older, moving from children to adolescents. She watched as her body transformed into that of her present self, but the boy had ran into the shadows of the meadows. He was immersed in inky darkness, but not before she saw a swish of a cloak the color of sand. She ran to the wooded meadow, but was caught by an invisible barrier. Try as she might, she couldn't fight past it, and her limbs grew heavy as if lead had been strung to her by chains. Samantha slumped to the ground and cried.
A voice carried from the distance. "Do not mar your beautiful face with tears, my friend. I have been gone for such a long time. Eight years, to be precise. Be patient Samantha, I shall make my homecoming in two nights. I am curious to see how you've changed, for the better that I am certain of."
Her dream self fought back more crystalline tears, and allowed her shaking lips to speak the message her voice was asking. "How do I know this isn't a dream? How do I know that this isn't just because of that man's story?"
The shadowy body had halted, and was chuckling. "Samantha, you cannot know if this illusion will ever gain weight, but as you still place some semblance of trust in me, I am certain you will discover the truth."
Samantha awoke with a start to a pecking at her small window. She shook off the sleep and walked to the window, allowing the carrier pigeon to enter. Try as she might, the grasp of that dream would not leave her. Taking the small parcel, she sat on her chair and opened it. An ornate parchment scroll, with an expensive ribbon and gold seal stamp, lay on her lap. A silver chain was obscured slightly by the scroll.
She picked up the chain and placed it in a soft hand, examining a polished pendant on it. Samantha resigned herself to the tiny scroll that lay unopened. She cracked the seal on it and removed the ribbon that confined it. The scroll unfurled itself, and she bore into its one sentence with both of her emerald orbs.
'Look closer at the pendant.'
The writer obviously knew that she had merely skimmed over the valuable necklace, barely noticing the pendant's markings. She brought the tiny pendant up to her eyes, which were so skilled at unveiling the hidden filth in her pub. Samantha eyes lit up in shock as she instantly recalled the crest that had been marked on the pendant.
Villagers of Weatherby that had been in the village square found their attention drawn to the pub, and the girl that had screamed such a cacophony, one that could be heard throughout the shops. For, she soon as she laid eyes upon the markings, she knew their origins. The crest, which had been a smith's hammer and a sword crossed over an anvil, was identical to that of one on a sign that hung not a half mile from the town square. The sign, which was slightly charred, looked immaculate in relation to the shop that had been gutted and reduced to rubble by fire.
The crest on the necklace that had been sent to her was identical to the emblem of the former town's blacksmith, and was the Aldridge family crest.