The Prologue
So it took some time to put this prologue down. I'll tell ya, it's hard to do. Not that its hard to hit control C then paste... but it feels like letting go. This story has been something that has been mine for the past 15 years. Something that I have stewed and thought over, there are times where I have pondered a single word or phrase for days, sometimes weeks. But, there comes a time when you just have to let it go. So below you will find the prologue for the Rise of Rebellion. Thanks for your patience! Enjoy! (Comments are especially welcome.)
Prologue
The Man in
the Black Cloak
The man in the
black cloak took precise steps toward the dark rural town of Lower Blacktips. Situated on the edge of civilization, it was
here— at this town that the rumors he was hunting all pointed toward. He hunted the whisperings of men and women who
talked in hushed voices of things that could not be explained, miracles maybe,
but most would call them the workings of demons. These were rumors that made this night look
bright, rumors that were as dark as himself.
Lower Blacktips
was a cesspool of ignorance and despondence nestled into the mighty Blacktip Mountains, that the chase would lead him
here was unexpected, yet the Grand Master was seldom wrong. The small, fragile lights of civilization
that pushed out against the darkness were barely visible through the large
broadleaf trees that guarded the night covered road. As he moved swiftly onward, a slight smile
touched his lips. The end of this
journey was so close that he could taste the conclusion. Seeking out the source of the rumors took
precision, but everything in his life was precise. He figured if there were ever a word to
describe him, it would be precise. Unlike the incapable idiots of his Commune
that called themselves Seekers, the man in the black cloak felt that he, above
everyone else, always finished his work.
He was exact and never came back empty handed. He was above those placid faced fools of the
Commune that lacked foresight. He was meticulous.
Every action planned. Every response anticipated. And he was the best.
After
a slight curve in the road the outlines of several rudimentary buildings came
into view. Just beyond the perimeter of
light, where darkness still held control, the man in the black cloak slowed to
a stop and silently stretched his long legs. He always felt security in the darkness— it
was like an old friend. From the safety
of the shadows he studied the decrepit little town and its people with silent
indifference. Everything was dirty and
worn. The settlement boasted one inn
whose lantern light barely illuminated its slate tiled roof. Scattered haphazardly around the inn was a
tanner, a small blacksmith shop that from the look of it could hardly handle
the towns’ needs, a fletcher whose pathetic arrows were said to be made from
two types of wood, and a rather small and crude town hall. Further back from the dusty town center,
slightly covered by the towering trees, he could see a spattering of candle and
lantern light flickering through the darkness signifying the presence of houses,
farms and people making their way through the more rural parts of Lower Blacktips.
It was odd that there could be a more
rural. The little hamlet survived on
farming, sheep and the hunters that flooded in from their forays into the towering
snow-capped Blacktips. Hunters were a
special type of people, the black cloaked man considered himself to be among
the great group that tracked down game and brought back trophies. The
thrill of the search, following the trail of an unsuspecting victim, the entire
hunting process defined his duty as the High Seeker and if the rumors were
correct he would be bringing back a grand trophy to the Commune.
From the security
of the shadows he pulled back from his thoughts and looked toward the most notable
structure that Lower Blacktips could offer. The lonely inn was the only building that
looked like it could withstand a windstorm.
How the rest of the soiled little town still managed to stand— was
incredible. The inn would serve as the
town’s only means of escape. Simpletons
who hated their rustic existence would try to drown themselves with whatever
the inn could offer. It had been a long
journey and the thought of sleep touched the back of his mind. Hopefully the beds would be lacking fleas and
bedbugs, the more common guests of such backward places.
Leaving
the comfort of the darkness behind him, the man walked across the dusty ground toward
the center of the village. His eyes
swept over the inn, while weighing the decision of a roof over his head. He needed information— more than he needed a
place to stay. Perhaps this inn with the
large, brightly lit common room would also house answers. Besides, other than the darkened town hall, the
inn was the only place the denizens could
congregate. Crowds of unwashed people
could be seen through the large warped glass windows, drinking and talking
about the events of the day. Although the most common thread of
conversation would undoubtedly be the pains of rural living, perhaps the gossip
could be steered toward the last bit of information he needed.
The smell of wood
smoke and rustic people filled the man’s nose as he walked, forcing him to
sniff in distaste. Though late, a handful
of people roamed the streets. The ungifted
were a necessary blight upon the land. The
words on the old wooden sign naming the inn were so ridden with time that he could
barely make out the words Red Tiled Inn.
Fools, the tiles were brown. Suspicion oozed from the filthy natives as he
walked closer. Those that dared to look
at him quickly averted their eyes.
Though no one dared to return his dark stare, he smiled softly to them
as he passed, not really caring if they were suspicious or scared. Honestly, these ungifted people were no more
than insects beneath his black leather boots.
Nothing here could stop him, and he would complete his task.
Old
boards creaked slightly as he stepped up onto the rough wood planking and moved
toward the door. Distrust from the people he passed floated
through the air, heavier than their earthy stench. Even though Lower Blacktips had regular
hunters that would come down from the Blacktip Mountains
to sell their pelts and jerky, the backward people living here still saw
outsiders as trouble. Certainly this was
a place of ignorance. Ignorance is like
a death sentence and having a lack of knowledge is certain destruction. If these people knew what he was they would cower
in fear, he was destruction. Softly pushing the door open with a dull thud,
he walked inside. The idle chatter of
the many worthless patrons came to a sudden stop. Heads turned and cold stares could be seen
over glass mugs. With a silence that was
tangible, the man in the black cloak smiled to himself and approached the bar. Several large men in worn work clothes moved
hastily to the side to open a space.
Gulping visibly,
the large, round bartender rubbed his grimy hands down the front of an even dirtier
apron. The man in the black cloak smiled
softly and seized a stool that was recently vacated. The stout bartender took a deep breath
through a reddish beard and began dry washing his portly hands.
“Err. Can I help’s yer good sir?” The bartender said moving his pasty hands a
little faster.
Filled
with disdain, the man in the black cloak kept a smooth face. The barkeeper could hardly speak. It was a strain just to understand. Certain sounds were grossly over enunciated. Leaning across the bar, the man in the black
cloak spoke quietly, “I need a room for the night…” He trailed off, looked around the common room
as the noise of idle chatter rose up into a cacophony of sound, as if to make
up for the brief silence, then added, “Preferably one that is quiet.”
The
barkeeper nodded quickly and motioned with a plump arm toward the far side of
the inn to a set of stairs. “Err, those ‘ill take yer to ther rooms. The last ‘urn down ther hall is furthest from
ther noise. It’s open if yer warnts it.”
The man in the
black cloak smiled softly, “Good. The
road has been long and dusty and a little quiet would be perfect.”
Visually calming,
the innkeeper nodded, “By ther looks err it I’d say yer’v been a fair distance.”
“I
have been, and in all my travels I have yet to find such a fine, clean
establishment.” The man in the black
cloak lied with ease, knowing that it was always a good idea to compliment and
flatter the simple minded. It always alleviated
suspicion, especially when they wanted to hear the lies.
The
bartender reached over the counter bumping a few dirty glasses and held out his
hand. “Ther name’s Mort.”
The
man in the black cloak gripped the offered hand, “Good to meet you Mort, how
much do you charge for a room?”
“A
silver fer every night that yer here, it’ll be more if yer have a horse ter
stable,” Mort said conversationally.
“Wonderful rooms
at wonderful rates! I do not have a
horse, but I will take a room. Also, I
would love to purchase dinner as my stomach would be distressed if I passed up
a plate of the delicious food I can smell.”
The man in black paused, motioning toward a few of the customers plates
on either side. Most had something that looked like meat covered in black
flecked burnt gravy, and then continued, “I will take a dish of your… food.”
Mort grinned,
turned and hollered toward the kitchen behind him. “Tarma gert me another a ‘em
plates!”
Tarma, a plump
woman with an apron that had somehow managed to become even dirtier than Mort’s
soon arrived, carrying a plate of the awful meat with the burnt gravy.
“No need to bellow
like a bear with a sore tooth, we’re moving just as fast as we can.” Tarma said
with a glare for Mort who frowned in reply.
Despite his girth, Mort moved quickly away from Tarma, apparently trying
to find a mug in need of refilling.
“There you are sir, it’s our special!” Tarma
smiled warmly as she set the plate down on the counter. “If we let him,” she said with a sniff and a
glare for Mort, “he’d run this inn to the dirt.”
Tarma gave another
pointed look toward Mort’s back and went back to the kitchen, chattering to no
one in particular as she went.
The man in the
black cloak leaned forward on the rickety stool, quickly taking a few bites of
the meat and swallowing quickly, noticing that the special tasted even worse than it looked. Mort returned with a wary eye for the
kitchen.
“Yer wartch that
ole Tarma,” Mort said gruffly, “Why ther old buzzard thinks she owrns ther
place!”
The man in the
black cloak nodded and pointed to the meat with his fork, “This is the finest
meal I have had in weeks,” he lied again.
Rotten tree bark would have been superior… and more edible. Not even the fact that the meal was hot, made
it taste any better. Disguising disgust,
he smiled to Mort, “I have been living off of dried meats and cheese— it is good
to have a hot meal.”
Grinning large, the
barkeeper revealed several missing teeth, “Err. So what be yer trade?”
“I gather
information for travelers, peddlers…” the man in the black cloak replied after
swallowing another bite, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have heard
some rumors that there are strange things around this area. Things best avoided.”
Mort leaned back
from the bar and ran a hand through his red beard while looking from side to
side as if everyone were listening to him and asked quietly, “What sorts err
rumors?”
The man in the
black cloak was certain. The way the barkeeper paused before speaking
and the tightness around his eyes gave it away.
Mort the bartender knew the origination of the rumor. Leaning forward, he fixed Mort with a
penetrating gaze and spoke softly, “Information on anything peculiar that might catch the unwary
traveler in a dire situation.”
Mort’s eyes
widened with fear. Without taking his
obsidian eyes off the bartender, the man in the black cloak pulled out a gold
mark. Greed and intimidation went very
well together. “Perhaps I can make the
information worth your while.”
“Just tell him
Mort.” A brown haired man in work
stained clothes to the right spoke suddenly.
“Master Taren Darion,” Mort turned quickly to
the brown haired man, “Yer better keep yer mouth—”
“Leave off
Mort!” Taren replied heatedly. The man in the black cloak watched the
exchange silently and moved the gold coin toward the brown haired man. As the coin scraped softly across the table,
Taren licked his lips. The man in the
black cloak barely contained a smile. Greed
had found its victim. A gold mark was
more money than these farmers would see in years of labor and the right
simpleton would sell out any of their neighbors for the right price. Taren Darion made the gold disappear quickly
into his rough worn tunic.
The brown haired
man continued, “The unwary traveler would do good to remain far away from a
family up on the ridge—”
Mort grunted
sourly, very likely bitter that he had missed out on gold, “Darion, yer know
ther family and their’s good as any, if not better. It’s their boy that’s trouble.”
Darion nodded,
irritated at being interrupted, “The boy is
trouble. I’ve heard people say that he’s
a demon, one that escaped from the Badlands or
a leftover from the demonic wars. ”
“Oh?” The
man in the black cloak said with unfeigned interest.
“You see, strange
things happen when the boy is around, things that no one can call… natural,”
whispered Darion.
“Unnatural?” The cloaked
man questioned.
Sliding his eyes around the room the brown haired man
continued, “Joe Samerson, the tanner, once hired the boy to do some work at the
tannery. Joe said that he saw the boy
get an awful cut on his arm.” Taren
Darion lowered his voice further, “The next day the wound was nearly
healed. The children in town are scared
to death of the demon boy, several profess that they have seen him create a
ball of flame in his bare hand without so much as a burn.”
“A Demon would
certainly be something to stay away from.” The man in the black cloak said slowly.
Mort cocked his head, avoiding a direct look at the man in
black cloak. “Ther boy might be a Demon,
but ole Master Darion forgets ter mention how good a family that raised ther
boy is.”
Ignoring
Mort, the man in the black cloak continued. “What type of a man is Joe? Would you call him a man of good word?”
“Yes, Ole Joe is better than most.”
Darion responded.
“Where does this family live?” The man in the black cloak asked, with just a
hint of a smile on his thin lips.
“Follow the River
Road until you reach the bridge. There, the Ridgeline Road peels off toward the
Blacktips. You will find the boy at the
last farm house.”
Mort snorted
loudly, “Err. Ther parents, Master Ander
and Annabelle Drage err decent hard work’n folk. Why I even used ter oldest son fer all sorts a
small jobs, but if yer warnt to avoid trouble, you best be away from ther demon
boy, he’s trouble.”
Taren frowned at
Mort, while the bartender scowled back sullenly. The man in the black cloak watched the
exchange, the corners of his mouth quirked into a half smile. With deliberate ease he reached into his dark
cloak and removed a small handful of silver marks. While the red haired bartender was a fool, a
sizable tip would cover any hard feelings.
Money always found a way to please the simplistic. “This should cover the room and meals,” the
man said softly, disrupting the glares between the men. “And Mort, keep the extra for yourself.” That extra bit of silver was probably more
than the inn saw in a month.
The bartender
knuckled his forehead with those grimy hands and thanked the man in the black
cloak profusely. After a bit more idle chatter with Mort and
Taren about the weather, the recent crop planting, the market for wool and
whatever else the man in the black cloak could think to say to ease the men, he
turned back to the foul meat and sludge.
The gravy was cold and jellied. Through
some sort of miracle he managed to choke down the rest of what should have
never been classified as food. Mort
thanked him again while reiterating how good the Drage family was except for
the demon child, while Taren glared and pretended not to listen. Conclusively, the man in the black cloak
stood to his full height and asked for the room key. Blinking thickly, Mort ran his encrusted
hands over his apron before reaching under the serving counter. With the small iron key in hand, the man in
the black cloak took measured steps past the remaining customers to the staircase. His black eyes took a brief pitied look at
the common ungifted people of Lower Blacktips
then turned and moved up the creaky steps and down the hall toward his room. Upon his face he wore a grin that didn’t
touch his dark eyes.
The man in the
black cloak, whose black eyes blazed from the receding light of the hallway, softly
shut the brown oak door to his room. Finally,
silence surrounded him. He didn’t bother
to light the lantern or candles— instead he wrapped his cloak tightly around
his muscled body and lay upon the lumpy bed with his dark eyes open, reveling
in the secure blackness of the room. The
soft smile never left his mouth. He had
finally tracked down the source of the rumors.
His long search that began so long ago was nearing completion. Soon the prize he was steadily working toward
would be his. Now that the prey was
found, the real hunt could begin.
