Chosen Chapter 1
This is a story I've been working on most of this past semester for my creative writing fiction class. Loaded here for your enjoyment, sweetcakes!
Title: Chosen
Summary: Chosen by a god no one worships. A pawn in a power struggle between gods. Sent on a perilous journey against his will. Zithiar La'maask wishes for it all to end and is on a search to make it so. But what he finds will have results far beyond what he ever dreamed.
I hope it's in an easy enough format to read. I was hoping for the page to appear in the traditional lj format but it didn't. -frowns- I don't know how. Anyway, consructive criticism is greatly appreciated 'cause I'm always looking to improve!
Chapter 1
Zithiar held his water sack upside down in disgust hoping for just one drop; no such luck. Tying the sack back on
his belt he began to walk again, wilted strands of hair that had escaped its knot whipping around his face, the wind doing nothing to disperse the sweltering heat he could feel through his cloak. While the magiked fabric kept him from sunstroke, it didn’t keep all the heat out.
If he was lucky he’d make it to the village before dehydration and nightfall set in. Even with his protective measures, just thinking of the creatures that roamed the desert nights made his eye want to twitch.
“‘Go east,’ he says,” Zithiar muttered. Well, his predecessor, the old karjleck, had more pointed than verbally ordered since he was mute, but the point had been made.
Trekking over endless shifting amber dunes, he walked through the gate of the little no-name village just as the twin suns sent out their last attacks of color. A distant howl sped his footsteps and sparked a twinge behind his right eye. Stopping a passerby, he got directions to the only inn in town, the Desert Rose. Zithiar snorted. How original.
Three wrong turns and a stumble later he found the place. Greasy smoke, stale ale, soup of the night, with the underlying musk of unwashed bodies greeted his nose as he opened the door. A merry tune of drums and voice cavorted through the room, reminiscent of the Harmonian jig. A few men were already tapping their feet and humming. While the general din had gone down a half-notch when he first walked in, it had risen to its normal level almost instantly.
He made his way through the maze of tables and outstretched legs, bumping into a table only once, to the empty seat in the back corner of the room. The tables were old, worn smooth with years of elbow rubbing and the prevalent sand. The twenty or so occupants chatted amicably, familiarity in their voices and movements, bonded together over the harsh circumstances that only the desert could provide.
Zithiar had come from a desert town much like this one and knew well the realities of desert living. He only wished that his current problems were as simple as worrying where water and food were going to come from.
No, he was on a damn life or death journey, not of his choosing. With the threat of inconceivable pain, he had been sent east to find an object of power. And of course no one had told him what this object was; he would supposedly know it when he saw it.
Preoccupied, Zithiar didn’t notice that someone had sat down at his table until he heard the bench creak and the polite throat clearing. He whipped his eyes to the stranger slouched against the wall and narrowed his them in annoyance. Even as absorbed as he’d been he should have detected the man. Either the man was really good or Zithiar was very tired, maybe both. Zithiar estimated that he was six-foot-one; he had broad shoulders and harrow hips, the aura of a fighter and the outward muscle structure of a courtier. He raised a brow in inquiry.
“All the other tables were filled and you look to be a friendly sort, not from ‘round here,” the man replied.
Reyn, truth be told, had already had his own seat when he noticed the hooded man walk in. Reyn Farthsire had been waiting around town, instincts telling him that something important was about to happen. He had just found it.
He found it interesting that the man had chosen to sit in the corner, in the dark, where he could keep an eye out on things. Reyn knew that behavior all too well; it spoke mercenary. But if that behavior spoke mercenary, it lied. The man didn’t have the build of a fighter and almost ran into a table in plain view, with no one in the aisle to dodge, on the way to his seat. Now that Reyn was closer he could see that the man was about twenty, five foot ten, and the few bangs that showed…well, he wasn’t quite sure what color the man had been aiming for when he attempted to color them, but the result in the flickering torch light was a dirty blond. As in, caked in the same colored sand from outside, dirty blond.
He was either a newbie, clueless, or on the run. Reyn wondered which one it was. The barmaid interrupted his musings by plopping down bread platters and mugs of ale in front of the both of them.
“Thanks, Gretta. You’re a dear,” he said with wink and a flashy grin. She merely rolled her eyes, though they held a twinkle of amusement. It was hard not to like Reyn Farthsire.
Zithiar silently watched the interaction and began to eat, struggling to maintain enough discipline to go slow. He didn’t quite manage to maintain control with the ale. Gretta eyed him, gave him a pitying smile and asked him if he wanted another one. Hesitating, he debated between risking his life on the water or the chance of getting drunk, when she interrupted saying, “The water be safe, sir, if ye prefer. Just a little cloudy, but perf’ctly healthy.” Zithiar nodded with an exhalation of relief. He returned to staring across the table from under his eyelashes while studiously eating his stew. It was only a matter of time before the man started talking.
“So where are you from?”
Zithiar replied with silence.
“Occupation? Age? Race? Favorite food? Favorite color? Favorite sex pos-”
Zithiar felt his right eye spasm. This wasn’t quite what he had expected.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Hmmmm…just about. I’ve always been a nosy one.” Pleased with finally getting a reaction, Reyn flashed one of his killer grins, the one designed to make women and sometimes men swoon at his feet. It had no apparent effect on the man before him. Reyn was interested to note that he had a tenor voice, a little harsh with exasperation and the Athaakian accent. Reyn hitched the longsword strapped across his back into a more comfortable position and began to dig into his quickly cooling stew.
Zithiar glanced up at the sound of leather rubbing and clinking of metal. Sensing no danger in front of him he applied himself to his dinner once more. He had barely gotten the spoon into his mouth when Gretta returned and stumbled over a sudden leg extension into the aisle. He rose to his feet, catching her before she followed the clanging metal dishes. Using Zithiar’s chest to right herself, she gave a little laugh and set down the one cup she had saved.
“Thank ye, sir. Good thing I saved yer water from disaster!” and with a smile she left to get a rag.
Reyn watched the shadows dance across Hooded Man’s high cheekbones as he sat back down. He let out a low, nearly silent whistle. Reyn hadn’t expected the man to move that quickly. And his eyes had done some sort of weird glowy thing, more supernatural than normal. It was also interesting that when the man reached for the cup there was a slight hesitation, like he was sensing it with his hand, before picking it up, index finger inside the cup. More and more fascinating.
“You are quite the interesting fellow, Kid. That was quite the spin you had there, not to mention that fancy little knife in your sleeve.”
“I’m not a kid! I am nine and te-” Zithiar broke off with a snap of his jaws, returning the cup to the table. He hadn’t meant to say that. Apparently the man before him had the ability to irritate him into talking. Zithiar could sense the smugness radiating from him.
Zithiar clenched his jaw, willing himself to not do anything rash. He was struck with sudden inspiration. Continuing the motion of eating to distract his target, he centered himself and connected to the small amount of magic that was his to control. He did a second level scan on the man before him and nearly choked on his food. The man was three parts elf, and by elfin years had every right to call him kid. Not that he liked it any less. Zithiar released his magic and focused on the elf.
“See something you like?”
“Hardly.”
That brought a fake pout to the elf’s lips before he grinned.
“Name’s Reyn, by the way. Reyn Farthsire.” Zithiar rose to his feet, inclined his head towards Reyn in acknowledgement and went to find the innkeeper.
“Do I not get the honor of knowing your name?” Reyn asked dryly. Zithiar paused and threw a smirk over his shoulder.
“That is something you must earn, Lafrien.”
It was Reyn’s turn to be startled into silence, lewd comment dying on his lips, stormy blue-grey eyes growing sharper with speculation. There was no physical way to tell he was elfin, none.
The next morning saw Zithiar on his way out of town, hood up and pack on, headed east. The air was crisp, only one of the twin suns, Raltaar, on the horizon, a sheet of fiery sand dunes below. What should have been a peaceful morning wasn’t.
“I do not take kindly to being followed,” Zithiar said, back straight, hands relaxed. There was a chuckle that sounded of rattling gravel and four men stepped out of the shadows.
“Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve been caught, boys,” the giant with tree-trunks for arms said. “Guess we don’t have to be stealthy no more.” Showing a grin filled with rotted teeth he signaled the other three forward.
Zithiar sighed and released the daggers strapped to his forearms, sinking into a fighting position. Sensing an attack from his left he spun and landed an axe kick on the assailant’s collarbone, hearing a satisfying crunch. Zithiar ducked under the swing aimed at his head and managed to nick the inner elbow of assailant number two. With a flick of the wrist he lodged a dagger into the left eye of assailant three, parried a stroke from one, and turned the swing into a gut strike for number two who had tried to grab him from behind. He pulled a third dagger from his left boot and slid it through the ribs into the heart of assailant one before turning to face the boss.
“Well that was not much of a challenge,” Zithiar sneered. “You are, were, just a common group of thugs.” The big man laughed
“Only half right, Chosen. They were thugs for hire. I, however, am not.”
Zithiar was only given a moment to wonder at the statement before hunter turned into prey. His opponent had a lot of bulk and a long sword, the slash on Zithiar’s arm proof. Zithiar scanned his opponent and knew the only way of winning was to get in close enough to slit his throat, but even that was a gamble because getting caught in one of those massive hands meant death.
Taking a deep breath he reached for his magic and added speed to his limbs, knowing he’d regret it later. Zithiar parried another slash, ducked under the man’s grab and brought his dagger up in an arcing slash. Blood fountained over his head, the dead man giving one last rasping chuckle before falling forward. Zithiar felt his legs quiver before they buckled underneath the weight. He cursed to himself.
Reyn had watched from the shadows as the four thugs jumped the mystery man mere blocks from the inn. He would wait and see how the man fared before helping. Impressed by the man’s efficiency and the number of weapons concealed on his person-Reyn counted six-he felt his eyebrows rise in surprise at the feeling of magic being cast. One moment mystery man was six feet from the thug and in the next eye-blink he was less than one. The giant attacker fell heartbeats later onto mystery man who proceeded to collapse under the weight.
Reyn decided now would be a good time to offer assistance. He ambled down the worn porch steps, dusky brown cloak swirling around his feet, and stopped above the fallen man.
“Need a hand?” Reyn received a grunt and glare. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Between the two of them they managed to roll the body off.
“You going to get up anytime soon?” Reyn asked Zithiar.
“I think I am going to lie here a minute if it is all the same,” Zithiar wheezed.
“No problem. I’ll just wait ‘till you’re done.”
Title: Chosen
Summary: Chosen by a god no one worships. A pawn in a power struggle between gods. Sent on a perilous journey against his will. Zithiar La'maask wishes for it all to end and is on a search to make it so. But what he finds will have results far beyond what he ever dreamed.
I hope it's in an easy enough format to read. I was hoping for the page to appear in the traditional lj format but it didn't. -frowns- I don't know how. Anyway, consructive criticism is greatly appreciated 'cause I'm always looking to improve!
Chapter 1
Zithiar held his water sack upside down in disgust hoping for just one drop; no such luck. Tying the sack back on
his belt he began to walk again, wilted strands of hair that had escaped its knot whipping around his face, the wind doing nothing to disperse the sweltering heat he could feel through his cloak. While the magiked fabric kept him from sunstroke, it didn’t keep all the heat out.
If he was lucky he’d make it to the village before dehydration and nightfall set in. Even with his protective measures, just thinking of the creatures that roamed the desert nights made his eye want to twitch.
“‘Go east,’ he says,” Zithiar muttered. Well, his predecessor, the old karjleck, had more pointed than verbally ordered since he was mute, but the point had been made.
Trekking over endless shifting amber dunes, he walked through the gate of the little no-name village just as the twin suns sent out their last attacks of color. A distant howl sped his footsteps and sparked a twinge behind his right eye. Stopping a passerby, he got directions to the only inn in town, the Desert Rose. Zithiar snorted. How original.
Three wrong turns and a stumble later he found the place. Greasy smoke, stale ale, soup of the night, with the underlying musk of unwashed bodies greeted his nose as he opened the door. A merry tune of drums and voice cavorted through the room, reminiscent of the Harmonian jig. A few men were already tapping their feet and humming. While the general din had gone down a half-notch when he first walked in, it had risen to its normal level almost instantly.
He made his way through the maze of tables and outstretched legs, bumping into a table only once, to the empty seat in the back corner of the room. The tables were old, worn smooth with years of elbow rubbing and the prevalent sand. The twenty or so occupants chatted amicably, familiarity in their voices and movements, bonded together over the harsh circumstances that only the desert could provide.
Zithiar had come from a desert town much like this one and knew well the realities of desert living. He only wished that his current problems were as simple as worrying where water and food were going to come from.
No, he was on a damn life or death journey, not of his choosing. With the threat of inconceivable pain, he had been sent east to find an object of power. And of course no one had told him what this object was; he would supposedly know it when he saw it.
Preoccupied, Zithiar didn’t notice that someone had sat down at his table until he heard the bench creak and the polite throat clearing. He whipped his eyes to the stranger slouched against the wall and narrowed his them in annoyance. Even as absorbed as he’d been he should have detected the man. Either the man was really good or Zithiar was very tired, maybe both. Zithiar estimated that he was six-foot-one; he had broad shoulders and harrow hips, the aura of a fighter and the outward muscle structure of a courtier. He raised a brow in inquiry.
“All the other tables were filled and you look to be a friendly sort, not from ‘round here,” the man replied.
Reyn, truth be told, had already had his own seat when he noticed the hooded man walk in. Reyn Farthsire had been waiting around town, instincts telling him that something important was about to happen. He had just found it.
He found it interesting that the man had chosen to sit in the corner, in the dark, where he could keep an eye out on things. Reyn knew that behavior all too well; it spoke mercenary. But if that behavior spoke mercenary, it lied. The man didn’t have the build of a fighter and almost ran into a table in plain view, with no one in the aisle to dodge, on the way to his seat. Now that Reyn was closer he could see that the man was about twenty, five foot ten, and the few bangs that showed…well, he wasn’t quite sure what color the man had been aiming for when he attempted to color them, but the result in the flickering torch light was a dirty blond. As in, caked in the same colored sand from outside, dirty blond.
He was either a newbie, clueless, or on the run. Reyn wondered which one it was. The barmaid interrupted his musings by plopping down bread platters and mugs of ale in front of the both of them.
“Thanks, Gretta. You’re a dear,” he said with wink and a flashy grin. She merely rolled her eyes, though they held a twinkle of amusement. It was hard not to like Reyn Farthsire.
Zithiar silently watched the interaction and began to eat, struggling to maintain enough discipline to go slow. He didn’t quite manage to maintain control with the ale. Gretta eyed him, gave him a pitying smile and asked him if he wanted another one. Hesitating, he debated between risking his life on the water or the chance of getting drunk, when she interrupted saying, “The water be safe, sir, if ye prefer. Just a little cloudy, but perf’ctly healthy.” Zithiar nodded with an exhalation of relief. He returned to staring across the table from under his eyelashes while studiously eating his stew. It was only a matter of time before the man started talking.
“So where are you from?”
Zithiar replied with silence.
“Occupation? Age? Race? Favorite food? Favorite color? Favorite sex pos-”
Zithiar felt his right eye spasm. This wasn’t quite what he had expected.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Hmmmm…just about. I’ve always been a nosy one.” Pleased with finally getting a reaction, Reyn flashed one of his killer grins, the one designed to make women and sometimes men swoon at his feet. It had no apparent effect on the man before him. Reyn was interested to note that he had a tenor voice, a little harsh with exasperation and the Athaakian accent. Reyn hitched the longsword strapped across his back into a more comfortable position and began to dig into his quickly cooling stew.
Zithiar glanced up at the sound of leather rubbing and clinking of metal. Sensing no danger in front of him he applied himself to his dinner once more. He had barely gotten the spoon into his mouth when Gretta returned and stumbled over a sudden leg extension into the aisle. He rose to his feet, catching her before she followed the clanging metal dishes. Using Zithiar’s chest to right herself, she gave a little laugh and set down the one cup she had saved.
“Thank ye, sir. Good thing I saved yer water from disaster!” and with a smile she left to get a rag.
Reyn watched the shadows dance across Hooded Man’s high cheekbones as he sat back down. He let out a low, nearly silent whistle. Reyn hadn’t expected the man to move that quickly. And his eyes had done some sort of weird glowy thing, more supernatural than normal. It was also interesting that when the man reached for the cup there was a slight hesitation, like he was sensing it with his hand, before picking it up, index finger inside the cup. More and more fascinating.
“You are quite the interesting fellow, Kid. That was quite the spin you had there, not to mention that fancy little knife in your sleeve.”
“I’m not a kid! I am nine and te-” Zithiar broke off with a snap of his jaws, returning the cup to the table. He hadn’t meant to say that. Apparently the man before him had the ability to irritate him into talking. Zithiar could sense the smugness radiating from him.
Zithiar clenched his jaw, willing himself to not do anything rash. He was struck with sudden inspiration. Continuing the motion of eating to distract his target, he centered himself and connected to the small amount of magic that was his to control. He did a second level scan on the man before him and nearly choked on his food. The man was three parts elf, and by elfin years had every right to call him kid. Not that he liked it any less. Zithiar released his magic and focused on the elf.
“See something you like?”
“Hardly.”
That brought a fake pout to the elf’s lips before he grinned.
“Name’s Reyn, by the way. Reyn Farthsire.” Zithiar rose to his feet, inclined his head towards Reyn in acknowledgement and went to find the innkeeper.
“Do I not get the honor of knowing your name?” Reyn asked dryly. Zithiar paused and threw a smirk over his shoulder.
“That is something you must earn, Lafrien.”
It was Reyn’s turn to be startled into silence, lewd comment dying on his lips, stormy blue-grey eyes growing sharper with speculation. There was no physical way to tell he was elfin, none.
The next morning saw Zithiar on his way out of town, hood up and pack on, headed east. The air was crisp, only one of the twin suns, Raltaar, on the horizon, a sheet of fiery sand dunes below. What should have been a peaceful morning wasn’t.
“I do not take kindly to being followed,” Zithiar said, back straight, hands relaxed. There was a chuckle that sounded of rattling gravel and four men stepped out of the shadows.
“Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve been caught, boys,” the giant with tree-trunks for arms said. “Guess we don’t have to be stealthy no more.” Showing a grin filled with rotted teeth he signaled the other three forward.
Zithiar sighed and released the daggers strapped to his forearms, sinking into a fighting position. Sensing an attack from his left he spun and landed an axe kick on the assailant’s collarbone, hearing a satisfying crunch. Zithiar ducked under the swing aimed at his head and managed to nick the inner elbow of assailant number two. With a flick of the wrist he lodged a dagger into the left eye of assailant three, parried a stroke from one, and turned the swing into a gut strike for number two who had tried to grab him from behind. He pulled a third dagger from his left boot and slid it through the ribs into the heart of assailant one before turning to face the boss.
“Well that was not much of a challenge,” Zithiar sneered. “You are, were, just a common group of thugs.” The big man laughed
“Only half right, Chosen. They were thugs for hire. I, however, am not.”
Zithiar was only given a moment to wonder at the statement before hunter turned into prey. His opponent had a lot of bulk and a long sword, the slash on Zithiar’s arm proof. Zithiar scanned his opponent and knew the only way of winning was to get in close enough to slit his throat, but even that was a gamble because getting caught in one of those massive hands meant death.
Taking a deep breath he reached for his magic and added speed to his limbs, knowing he’d regret it later. Zithiar parried another slash, ducked under the man’s grab and brought his dagger up in an arcing slash. Blood fountained over his head, the dead man giving one last rasping chuckle before falling forward. Zithiar felt his legs quiver before they buckled underneath the weight. He cursed to himself.
Reyn had watched from the shadows as the four thugs jumped the mystery man mere blocks from the inn. He would wait and see how the man fared before helping. Impressed by the man’s efficiency and the number of weapons concealed on his person-Reyn counted six-he felt his eyebrows rise in surprise at the feeling of magic being cast. One moment mystery man was six feet from the thug and in the next eye-blink he was less than one. The giant attacker fell heartbeats later onto mystery man who proceeded to collapse under the weight.
Reyn decided now would be a good time to offer assistance. He ambled down the worn porch steps, dusky brown cloak swirling around his feet, and stopped above the fallen man.
“Need a hand?” Reyn received a grunt and glare. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Between the two of them they managed to roll the body off.
“You going to get up anytime soon?” Reyn asked Zithiar.
“I think I am going to lie here a minute if it is all the same,” Zithiar wheezed.
“No problem. I’ll just wait ‘till you’re done.”