Tables and Iambic Pentameter

There I stood, looking down at my kitchen table with a deep stillness.  I had just spent the last thirty minutes taking the eight chaired monstrosity apart and hauling it out, piece by piece, to the now vacated garage.  The table surface was scratched from years of use and a small circular burn mark the size of a quarter marred the tan surface.   But it was time for a needed improvement.  There is a feeling that comes right before you start something big, anxiety builds, the slight fear of making a mistake, the understanding that time will need to be dedicated and the knowledge that when the stillness passes the work will truly begin.  

All of this rushes through my mind as I stare at the table top before me with a belt sander in one hand.  Various grains of sandpaper were still tucked in their shopping bags, beside cans of dark stain and polyurethane.  The moment of stillness passes, I lower the belt sander and the project begins. 

The reason this comes to mind, is that moment before the project begins and the anxiety that flutters just out of sight.  I get that feeling before any project, even writing.  There is a poem in the Rise of Rebellion.... well, for those of you that know poetry, it is more of a half-hearted attempt put into stanzas.  The poem was seriously lacking.  In my mind the poem is important, because it sets the main character on his mission and hints at things to come.  Despite this, the 'place marker' never changed with any revision and every time I read it my guts would cringe.  I wanted something with meter, wasn't sure which type, but I knew I wanted something. 

The last time I tried to use meter in a poem was in High School (Thanks Mr. Gentry) and I hated it.  Maybe hate isn't a strong enough term, detest, despise?  I tried for hours and hours and more hours to put some thoughts into Iambic Pentameter, but the finished product was so bad it made the paper it was written on give a death rattle.  I failed the project miserably and vowed never to use meter again. 

Years later, there I sat looking at the story and knowing I would have to break that vow.  I researched iambic, dactyls and every other type of metering.  Then when I was satisfied that I could at least make some attempt, I picked up a pen and notebook.  The same moment of stillness I described earlier swept over me, the same feelings and emotions, then the moment passed and ink met paper. And here is what I came up with:

Lo comes the one, the heir
to free the captives snare
protect with blood and bone
and set his heart in stone

Begin again the fight
and heal the good in light
ne'r let him stand alone
and set his heart in stone

Release the flood of black
to break and burn and crack
Les chaos life bemoan
so set his heart in stone.

I decided on an Iambic foot, in trimeter.  Below is the previous version, so you can see just how bad the original was before I sanded out the needed concepts and refinished it. 

One will come who will shake the foundations,
One will come who will free the captives.
He who will come will shatter your stations,
Within his heart will be stone.

He alone will see good in the light,
He will come to avenge the wrong.
He will come to set things aright,
Within his heart will be stone.

His protection will be through his blood,
He will set the movements in motion.
His fall to let loose the black flood,
Within his heart will be stone.

Same concepts, but the first one has that metered flow.  I dunno what do you think?

Chapter One

Input.  I'm reminded of the movie short circuit, you know the one with the laser carrying robot whose eyes go red.  I used to watch that as a kid over and over.  I loved the part where the robot has just been zapped, and is wandering around saying "need input... input".  I feel the same way.  Comments rock!  To all of those who have left comments either here or on Facebook, I want to thank you.  Anyway,  I think its time for everyone to meet Tallon Drage.

 

Chapter One

Healings

            Tallon Drage walked the Ridgeline Road toward Lower Blacktips as the first rays of the late spring sun cleared the tops of the Blacktip Mountains.  The peaks high above were still covered in winter’s white, but where the snow had retreated, black rock glistened. The new morning light chased away the darkness of night and began to warm the cooled ground.  Tallon was grateful for the warmth.  He had been out before the sun was up collecting wood for Master Adams, the town fletcher.  From the dew covered grasses and underbrush, Tallon’s breeches were wet up to mid calf.  Yes, he was grateful for the arriving warmth.  He shifted the large bundle of sticks that he was carrying over to his other shoulder so his face could feel the sunlight

            Last winter was long and hard. His parent’s had needed to use some of the seed corn and potatoes as food, forcing them to buy more seed with the little money they possessed.  Tallon’s parents were giving and always found ways to help their neighbors.  They were rather generous, sometimes too generous from his point of view.  He had seen his parents donate several sheep to neighbors in need.  One time they even gave one of their few cows to a struggling family, a cow that could have been cooked and placed in his own belly.  With money short and mouths to feed, Tallon went to work for Master Adams, the fletcher.   Master Sandy Adams was a kind old man with wispy white hair who thought that finding arrow shafts and general cleaning were jobs for the youth, and since Tallon had reached the age of fourteen, it was a perfect job for him.  He rather enjoyed the work.  Firstly, because Master Adams was always quick with a grin and a deserving compliment and secondly, for every bundle Tallon brought to Adams, the old fletcher would give him one copper stub.  It wasn’t much but every little bit helped the family.  Tallon would rather have gone out and found wood for arrow shafts than be watching sheep or milking cows.  Tallon’s father Ander, and older brother Broman, did the majority of the heavier work, such as harvesting, repairing the numerous fences, and general labor.  Tallon and his younger sister Ania got to help with some of the smaller things namely collecting eggs, herding the sheep, planting, and feeding, but it was certainly nice to get away for a couple days a week to work in the town.   He moved the bundle of sticks back to the first shoulder, and walked a little faster to get back into the sunlight after a patch of shade produced by large pine and Jasper Oak.

            Quickly combing through his dark brown hair with a free hand, he attempted to dislodge whatever twigs the forest had deposited.  Of his parents’ three children, Tallon was the only child to inherit his mother’s bright green eyes.  Tallon was rather inquisitive and tried to be mature for his age.  He was tall but not strong like his older brother Broman. Tallon hefted the bundle of wood higher up on his shoulder and picked up his pace, Master Adams liked him to be early.

            Master Sandy Adams made the best arrows around.  Hunters came from all over the Blacktip Mountains to purchase Adams Arrows.  Sandy used a process he called footing.  Using hardwood around the tip where the shaft was likely to break, gave the arrow added strength.  The rest of the shaft was made from soft wood because it was light weight.  One reason why Tallon loved the Ridgeline was because of the trees.   The old road had plenty of the broadleafs that Master Sandy favored as well as the softer pine.   Besides, Sandy was busy and hunters were in the process of restocking their supplies after such a long winter.  Tallon fervently hoped that he would get to hear some of their stories of far off cities and battles with bears, wolves and other wild animals.  Living in the woods was a far better choice than living on a farm.  Broman disagreed, Tallon’s older brother would often chuckle at him whenever he heard the, I want to be a hunter talk, while a twelve year old Ania would just shake her head with a grin.  Tallon’s parents encouraged him to learn woodcraft and as such he spent long hours at Sandy’s, listening to the hunters as they bought bundles of arrows.  After tales were told, some of the hunters would take Tallon to the woods around town, and demonstrate the art.   There was so much to learn, like how to move silently through twig infested underbrush, trapping, tracking, where to find food and water and how to build a shelter from what the forest provided. Tallon loved the outdoors especially because there weren’t any people around that looked at him strangely. 

Tallon kicked at a rock in the road and nearly lost his balance, the bundle of sticks teetering dangerously on his shoulder before he stabilized his footing.  Whenever people saw him, they were always talking with hushed tones and looking at him as though he were an animal from one of the hunter’s stories…or perhaps even a demon.   The old lady Hunderton had thrown sticks at him from her yard a few days back, banishing him from the area just in front of her property.  But it was a group of children his age that were the worst.  Broman always protected him and finished more fights than Tallon could remember.  Broman at the age of seventeen was strong, much stronger than the kids that loved to torment.  While Tallon tried to be like a hero, it was his older brother that acted the part.  In appearance they didn’t share very much as far as resemblance was concerned.  Broman had curly light brown hair and soft brown eyes, looking much like their father in build and color.  Broman’s size made him perfect for forge work and often talked about becoming a blacksmith.  In his free time to help the family, Broman had even helped Master Tolmes pound red hot metal. 

His mind stopped wandering when he saw some kids on the ridgeline road in front of him.  At the center of the group was none other than Will Darion.  Will loved finding any excuse to plant a punch anywhere that was soft, as did the rabble that followed him.   Without Broman, Tallon decided that avoidance was best.  He didn’t think they had seen him, but to be safe he softly moved off the road and into the forest.  He used every bit of hunter training he could recall to move through the trees as quietly as possible.  There was a short cut through the woods that would lead him the rest of the way to Master Adams shop at the edge of town.  Avoiding the gang didn’t make Tallon feel like a coward.   Besides, walking through the woods was always more fun than walking along a dusty road, and although his breeches were nearly dry, the dew needed to get them wet again.  Enjoying the sounds of the insects and birds and the lush smell of the forest, Tallon continued quietly on his way trying to convince himself that he was not a coward.  

The path through the woods led to the back door of the fletchery.  Tallon undid the latch and opened the door, carefully setting his bundle down on one of the work benches.  He ran his eyes across the room and quickly rubbed his shoulder where the heavy bundle had sat.  Great crates of goose feathers littered the work area— as well as the benches, floor and tables.  Large wooden boxes contained the metallic broadheads and all around the room were stacks and bundles of the finished Adams arrows.  Stepping lightly, Tallon was sure to observe the one rule of Master Adams, and didn’t touch anything.  On the first day Tallon came to work, Master Adams had said sternly, ‘Don’t touch anything.’  The kids that did, no longer worked for him.  And after several months, Tallon was the only youngster that remained employed.

Tallon moved quietly up through the work area to the door that led to the front of the shop, already he could hear the crackling voice of Master Adams.  Opening the front door quietly, Tallon slipped into the front area of the shop where hunters and buyers would come to talk and buy arrows from Master Adams.  The moment the door opened, the old man paused in his conversation with a hunter to give Tallon a leathery smile.  The hunter was a bear of a man, clad in a patch work layer of animal skins that nearly touched the floor.  Several knife handles jutted out from his jerkin, while he leaned casually on a large, dark-wood bow.  Master Adams on the other hand, looked like a bundle of sticks tied together haphazardly.  His wispy white hair and creased face was an entertaining sight.  Tallon liked Master Adams. He was genuinely kind and always showed real interest in the happenings of a fourteen year old. 

“As I was saying Sandy,” continued the bear-like hunter, “Although the winter was long, the season was good.  I was able to reuse a lot of your arrows multiple times.  The tips don’t break or bend on impact.  In fact, I convinced several groups of hunters that your arrows were far better than anything else around.”  

Tallon had heard it all before, he could guess that the hunter would then ask for a discount or something like that. 

“You know, I imagine that the whole lot of them will be coming down to purchase several bundles from you before spring ends.   I’m like your unofficial seller!  So Sandy, how about a few silvers off the price tag?”

Master Adams looked over at Tallon and grinned.  It was contagious and Tallon found himself grinning as well. 

“Now Tray you know my rules, I don’t heckle prices, I don’t lower prices and I don’t need sellers.  So don’t even think about getting a discount.” Master Adams crackled. 

“Sandy!  Not even for an old friend?”

Still smiling, Tallon walked past the hunter and the seller’s counter to a small closet.  Pulling out a rough woolen apron and a broom, Tallon secured the apron around his waist and began to sweep the floor, making sure to get the corners and around the counter.  Luckily, Master Adams wouldn’t have him sweep the feather covered shop floor until the spring rush was over.  At seasons end, the shop floor, with all of its feathers, would take an entire day to clean, if not three!  Tallon enjoyed working. His parents had taught him well.  Mother always stressed that cleaner was better.  He could just hear her say if it isn’t cleaned right it isn’t clean! Tallon grinned as he swept, unfortunately for his mom he was never this thorough at home.  He moved the broom over the floor, slowly gathering bits of dirt left from the many buyers that came to Adams.  Hunters wore soft leather boots for stalking prey, and they were often beyond dirty.  As soon as the dirt and grime was swept up, Tallon switched the broom for a rag and an old wooden mop bucket.  Filling the bucket with a few soap shavings and hot water off of the iron stove, Tallon began cleaning the floor on his hands and knees, while occasionally stealing glances at Tray the hunter and Master Adams as their conversation moved from arrows to hunting and from hunting to general concerns like the weather.  Because Master Adams liked the store front to be spotless, Tallon didn’t spend too much time listening to the conversation of the two men.  He would only listen to the stories that hunters brought with them of daring escapes, dangerous hunts and the like.   Tallon didn’t understand why adults loved talking about the weather.  Plainly put, weather was dull.  It seemed like whenever his elders ran out of neat stories, they would talk about weather.  Tallon figured if it rained, it rained, if it was sunny then it was sunny.  Worrying about it didn’t change it, so you might as well leave it alone.  Tallon turned back to his work, moving the rag in large circles and mopping up whatever the broom missed.  Pausing to clean his rag in the water, Tallon stopped and stared intently at the fletcher and the hunter, something sparked his attention.

“Barnes was telling me that there was this man dressed all in black that came to the inn last night.  Said he took an interest in a bunch of rumors… something about the folk out on the old Ridgeline Road.  Barnes said the man was just strange, like a story that just can’t be true.  The man didn’t fit in and there was something very different about him.  Walking death he was.  It was his eyes.  He said they were black, black like polished obsidian and deeper than a moonless night.  And his skin was pale white like the moonlight.”  The hunter said slowly.

Tallon gaped, the rag lay forgotten in his hand.  A cold fear began to settle in his chest.

Master Adams retorted, “Those foreign folk are always sticking their noses around, ready to have the Creator curse anyone that isn’t up to their standards.”  Sandy paused to rub his bony jaw with an even bonier finger, “Funny thing is they’re so busy looking down their noses that they seldom realize there’s more to life than the nose on their face.”

“Barnes said the man wasn’t a normal traveler— didn’t even have a horse.  Sandy, who travels across the Blacktips without a horse or a pack animal at least?  I don’t know of anyone that can make it through the Blacktips with so few supplies!” 

Sandy coughed, “Well in that case, I hope he is one of your lot that’s going to stop on by to buy up all my arrows.”

Tray leaned forward on his dark wood bow, “That’s what I’m saying Sandy, Barnes said the man didn’t carry a knife or even a bow!  No one travels the Blacktips without something to defend himself with.”   

“If you think you’re so good as a seller, why don’t you go sell him a bow and a few bundles of arrows while you’re at it?” Adams chuckled.

 “Nah, you wouldn’t want him here. Barnes said the man struck fear into everyone that looked at him!”  Tray continued shaking his bearded head.

Master Adams cackled, jabbing a bony finger at the hunter with every word.  “Ha!  Old Barnes was probably too drunk to notice anything, let alone strangers in the night!  Barnes probably was telling you the story to get you to buy him another drink!  The sun doesn’t have to set before Barnes has filled himself with booze.” 

 “Barnes does like his drink,” Tray spoke and moved back a few steps to avoid the bony finger, “but Sandy, I’ve never heard Barnes admit he was afraid, not even last year when him, and his mule got attacked by a bear protecting its cubs.  Sandy, Barnes said that he was terrified of this man.”  

Although Tallon didn’t know Barnes, he agreed with him. There was something about this man with black clothes that was very unsettling.  He shifted his eyes to the store front windows, sure that the man would be staring through.  But only the rippled image of the town looked back.   With a shake of his head, Tallon returned the rag to the hot soapy water.  It was foolish to think that the black cloaked man would somehow be after him.  Yet, rumors and trouble seemed to follow after him, like the time when he was helping Master Joe Samerson, the local tanner.  Tallon accidentally cut his arm really deep, and after a day’s time, the cut healed enough to look more like a cat scratch.  The tanner never let Tallon work for him again. Whoever the man in the black clothes was, he hoped to never get the terrible opportunity to meet him.  

Tallon was too busy with his thoughts and had missed Master Adams reply.

With a thick finger, Tray picked his front teeth, “But that isn’t all of it.  That man was asking questions about the boy who’s not quite right.” 

Tallon’s jaw dropped, the man in the black was looking for him.  He felt sick.   Quickly, he wondered what would happen if Tray realized that the boy from the rumors was scrubbing the floors behind him.  But what ever the hunter could do was not as frightening as the knowledge that the black cloaked stranger was looking for him.  That thought made the blood in his veins feel like the pointed tips of icicles.

Noticing his distress from the corner of an observant eye, Master Sandy Adams replied with a secret grin for Tallon, “Tray, you of all people should know not to believe rumors.  Master Ander and Annabelle Drage are the kindest people this town has ever seen.”

Tallon smiled, feeling the fear settle… slightly.  If anyone in all of Lower Blacktips was on his side, it was Sandy Adams.  Tallon finished the mopping as the conversation turned back to the weather.  He couldn’t help but feel troubled— some stranger was asking questions about him, a stranger that struck fear into people, a stranger with black eyes who could cross the Blacktips without a horse or a weapon.  Tallon walked into the workshop to the back door and threw the used mop water out into the woods.   Returning to the front of the store, Tallon put the bucket back and tossed the rag onto the pile of dirty ones in the closet.

He had just started to oil the wooden counter when Broman rushed into the store, breathing hard.  Looking at Broman’s shoes on his clean floor, Tallon was about to make some comment about dirty older brothers, but the look on his brother’s face stopped him. Something was wrong.

“Master Adams, hunter sir, excuse me,” Broman turned to Tallon, “Tallon, Dad’s hurt. Part of the tree we were cutting, fell and hit his leg. He’s hurt bad.”  Broman panted, out of breath.

“Master Adams—” Tallon started.

“Go boy!  No use standing around gawking.  Run home with your brother, if your father’s alright you can come back and finish or just work a little extra tomorrow,” crackled Sandy. 

Tallon rushed to put the oil away and ran out the front door with his brother.  “Is Dad okay?” 

Broman spoke between breaths, “Tallon, he’s hurt bad, his leg is all funny.  You know that oak tree we were cutting and moving from off the smashed fence up on the northern end, well it broke loose while I was cutting and Dad was standing under it when it fell.  He jumped out of the way, but it caught his leg, he’s roughed up really good.  I carried him back to the house as fast as I could.”  Broman huffed heavily, “There isn’t anything we can do.  The bones are crushed.  Mom told me to run and get you.  You better do something, Dad’s in a lot of pain.”

His brother’s words came out in near panic.  Tallon took off at a sprint.  Fear for his dad compelled him onward.  Tallon had always been quick on his feet and his lithe form flew over Ridgeline Road.   Though Broman was strong, he lacked a runner’s body, and was quickly outpaced.  The rocks on the ground crunched as he ran, the wind rushing through his dark brown hair.  Just as Tallon peered over his shoulder to look for Broman, there was a sickening thud.  Tallon fell to the ground, gasping for breath, something had hit his chest.  Stars flickered across his blackened vision as Tallon realized he was on his back laying on the road.   His vision cleared slowly enough to reveal Will Darion staring down at him with a smirk. 

“Look what we caught, a dirty Demon running for home.”

Tallon could only gasp in reply. His lungs struggled to replace the air that was knocked from them. 

When Will continued, his voice was full of scorn. “You thought you lost us this morning cutting through the woods didn’t ya?”

Tallon looked to either side and saw Todd Darion, Jesse Andrews, and two of the Smethers boys laughing stupidly. 

“Our dad,” Will said, motioning to his brother Todd, “fought in the Demon Wars.  Do you know what he did to Demons?” Will sneered. 

Tallon coughed, “He should have drowned the both of you.”

Pain exploded along his side where Will kicked him.   Tallon could taste blood in his mouth.  He had been a fool, letting himself out pace his brother.  A look down the empty road only verified how truly alone he was.

Noticing the look, Will snickered, “I’d be careful if I were you, big brother isn’t here to save your worthless Demon hide.”

Todd put his mouth next to Tallon’s ear, “You don’t know when to keep your slobbery Demon mouth shut.”

“How about we shut it for him?” Will spoke softly to his gang. 

Their bodies cast shadows over Tallon as they gathered around him.  He closed his eyes and rolled up into a ball awaiting the wrath of Will’s mob.   Usually he was better at watching out for them, he had left his caution back down the road with Broman.  Whether his ribs twitched from the first kick or the knowledge that there would be more seemed oddly important.  Tallon tensed waiting for the onslaught when there was a high pitched scream.

Tallon opened his eyes to see Broman deliver a kick to Jesse.  Todd was already on the ground with a bloody nose— Broman dodged a punch from one of the Smethers boys, deliberately landing upon the already fallen Todd. The Smethers brothers came from two sides, while Will tried to corner Broman from a third.  Tallon reached out and got a hold on Will’s feet, tripping him. Will kicked out, hitting Tallon in the face. Tallon’s vision blurred but refocused on Broman as he delivered a full legged kick to the fallen Will.  The blonde haired Smethers boy landed a punch on his brother’s side.  Broman turned just in time to dodge a punch from the red haired one.   Spinning to the left, Broman hit the blonde fellow with an elbow.   Todd Darion tried to get to his feet, but was kneed in the mouth, adding to the blood already covering his face.  Broman faked and circled, trying to land a good hit on one of the Smethers.  In anger the red haired Smethers boy rushed Broman, hoping to knock him to the ground.  Broman dropped his forehead into the face of the rushing redhead, bright red blood exploded from a broken Smethers nose.  Tallon came to his feet and stood by his brother. 

The blonde Smethers boy took one look at his fallen comrades, and another at Broman then took off running and shouting, “I’ll get you for this, you demons!!”

In frustration Tallon threw a rock at the departing figure, but missed.  The Smethers were only brave when there were numbers on their side.

“Tal, are you alright?”  Broman said between breaths of air.

“A little worse for wear, but nothing’s broken,” Tallon replied.

He surveyed the scene of the battle— four boys lay in agony clutching bloody noses and mouths.  When Broman fought, he fought for blood.

Tallon looked at his brother, “Are you okay?” 

“It’s a good thing I’ve got a hard head.  One of the Smethers got a good hit in the ribs, but it’ll just bruise.”  Broman replied while eyeing his handiwork.

Tallon watched as Broman walked over to Will Darion and delivered a kick to the boy’s ribs. 

“I’m going to tell my dad!  He fought in the demon war,” squealed Will.

 “I don’t care, have the pansy come out, I’ll bloody him up too!”  Broman yelled at him, sending another kick to the fallen Will. 

Broman grabbed Will by the tunic, pulling him to his feet and whispered, “You touch my brother again and your mom won’t recognize you,” then dropped him.

Dusting large hands, his older brother gave him an accusatory look. “Come on Tal, let’s leave these pigs to bake in the sun.  And go slower this time.”

Tallon couldn’t agree more.  He made sure to walk very close to his brother, Broman the bodyguard.  No matter how many times his brother stepped in and broke up fights, Will’s gang never gave up.  Tallon scolded himself for running headlong into them. With a roguish grin, Broman handed him a bunch of leaves to clean off the signs of the fight.   He took the leaves and immediately started cleaning the area around his nose, while Broman wiped Smethers blood off of his forehead.

“That was really stupid Tal,” he said, “You know those fools hate you.  You know it.  I don’t think you should be going into Lower Blacktips to help Master Adams.  It’s too dangerous!  Will’s taken a big disliking to you.” 

“Broman, you’re just going to have to knock ‘em around a bit more.  Besides I’ll heal.”  Tallon grinned.

Broman chuckled, “I’ll have a bruise the size of Mom’s best pot on my side tomorrow and you won’t even have a scratch.” 

Tallon felt his back where the sharp rocks from the road had cut him, already the wounds were healing.  They were small enough that in a few hours they’d be completely healed.  For the thousandth time, he wondered why his body healed so fast.  He could get cuts and scrapes and they would be gone without a scar before the days end. Unfortunately, he thought ruefully, he couldn’t heal the holes in his tunic.  Mom was not going to be happy, Tallon mused.  It would be one thing if he just healed quickly… the strangest things were the lines of power.  When Tallon was little, he assumed that everyone saw the white and dark lines— strands that crisscrossed without form or fashion that were as soft as the gossamer streamers of spider webs, only dimmer.  Like the soft flicker of a distant candle.  How could they miss something that seemed to be everywhere?  Yet people walked through them as though they didn’t exist.  They were so natural that he rarely even noticed them himself, until night.  The dark lines were especially visible at night.  Their soft black glow was greatly emphasized by the surrounding darkness.  Often he would ask his mom what the lines where, but she didn’t understand.  No one did, the lines were some strange thing that only he could see, that only he could tap into.  It was that power made him a target for people like Will.

Broman interrupted Tallon’s thoughts when he said “There’s Mom.  Let’s hurry, and don’t tell her about the fight.  You know Mom.”

Tallon chuckled, “If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you enjoyed fighting local thugs.” 

“For you little brother, I would fight Todd and Will’s Dad!” Broman laughed, “No matter what they say, that scrawny goat kisser couldn’t have fought in the Demonic War.”

Tallon laughed.  The entire time he had been pondering about the lines, Broman must have been thinking about Will’s dad in a war.  Now that he thought about it, Master Darion in a war was laughable.  The picture didn’t fit.  The man hated anything that sounded or looked like work and the effort of lifting a sword would probably incapacitate him. 

Their mom finally reached them.  She’d been running with her skirts hiked up since she saw them.  Annabelle Drage was slight and slender, with nearly black hair.  The few strands of white made her look regal.  She had a strong, delicate manner about her.  Something that didn’t make sense, but that was the best way to describe her.  She could out work many of the townsfolk and yet show the deepest concern for anyone who struggled.  Her mouth was always quick with a smile.  Her bright green eyes sparkled in the sunlight. 

He didn’t have to tell his Mom about the fight, she took one look at him and Broman, and put her hands on her hips, which was always a bad sign.  “Broman and Tallon Drage, you’ve been fighting those kids again, haven’t you!” 

Full names— Tallon knew that Mom was going to let them have it.

Broman started, “But Mom, they were—” Just as Tallon said, “It wasn’t our fault they—”

“Broman dear,” She cut them both off. “I’m glad you won.  Next time though, try using your head instead of your hands.” 

Tallon lost it, chuckling, he said, “Mom he did.  He used it to hit the Smethers boy right in the face.”

Broman laughed, pushing Tallon playfully.  The corners of her mouth lifted in a slight grin.  She rarely stayed mad for very long.  Tallon continued to laugh until he looked at his mom and saw that she had gotten serious.

Worry creased her eyes as she said, “Tallon,” she paused with a look of deep concern, “Could you go in and see your father?” 

“Yeah Mom… is he okay?” Tallon said softly.   The worry and fear from earlier returned, making the laughter of just moments ago seem grossly out of place.

“I’ve given him boiled sundew root to reduce the pain.  He’s sleeping right now in our room,” She turned to Broman, “Tell me what those boys tried to do this time.”

Tallon left them in the ankle high grass and climbed the stone steps into their house, Ania rushed to him holding him close.  He could see that his sisters hazel eyes were red rimmed.  Putting a hand to her light brown hair, Tallon asked, “How’s Dad?”

Ania swallowed hard, “Papa’s hurt Tallon.   I’m scared.  But I know that you’ll be able to do something for him.  You need to help him like you did for Betsy!” 

Betsy was one of a few heifers. A little less than a year back, Betsy had been found with awful slashes and deep bloody gashes around her neck.  Tallon’s Dad was certain that it had been a bear.  He didn’t think there was anything to be done with Betsy except a quick death to remove her from her misery.   He left Tallon in charge of the dying cow and went out to the fields with his bow and a brimming quiver of arrows.   Tallon remembered staring at the poor cow as it suffered and struggled to breathe.  That was the first day that Tallon used the white power lines to heal.   He remembered the pain as the power was unleashed through him into Betsy, the smell of his burnt and blistered skin and the feeling of the grass while staring at his hand in horror.   He remembered the look of surprise on his Dad’s face when he returned from killing the bear and saw Betsy without a mark or scar, grazing on the nearby grass.  It was then that Tallon told his Dad about the white and black glowing lines of power.  Though they existed everywhere, only Tallon could see them.  He remembered the bitter feeling of cold fear as he told the story to his Dad.  His father however, had understood and thanked him for helping Betsy.  Somehow he must have sensed Tallon’s fear, because he sat down in the grass and talked.  There was a peace and calmness in his words.  They talked amid the sounds of insects under a bright blue sky.  It’s funny how certain things just have a way of standing out.  Tallon still remembered his father’s words of counsel.  He had pointed to his own skin while saying, Son, this isn’t what makes us who we are.  Paused softly, and then lifted his large scarred and calloused hand to his chest, it is what is in our hearts and our minds and what we do with them.  Tallon, the things that are a part of us don’t make us good or bad.  It is how we live.  It is the way we treat others.  It is how we use what we know and what we feel.  That is what makes us good.

Those words echoed in Tallon’s mind as he felt his little sister cry into his shoulder.  No matter the pain it would cause, Tallon knew he would use his gift to save his Dad. 

“It will be okay Ania,” said Tallon, hoping it would be true. 

He carefully let go of his sister, her eyes were wet.  Taking a deep breath, Tallon walked to the back of the house to his parent’s room to find his father.

It was an awful sight.  Tallon’s Dad was asleep in his bed.  His left leg was lying at a funny angle and large deep abrasions covered it from the knee down.  Tallon choked back his tears— it was hard to see his father in such a state.  Tallon knew that his Dad was tough.  He was a very strong man with large hands and arms heavily callused from years of farm work.  His gray streaked, light brown hair was matted to his sweaty forehead.   Tears finally found their way to the surface, and Tallon had to wipe them from his eyes.  Softly, he sat down next to his Father.  Taking a deep breath, Tallon closed his eyes and stilled himself, slowing his mind and focusing inward.  Gently, he placed a hand on his father’s leg, then calming himself further, reaching out to the white lines of power that lay everywhere like wisps of spider webs.  Most of his knowledge came from trial and error, but he somehow knew that for healing, the black lines must be avoided.  Tallon reached out with his stilled mind and touched a white strand.  Instantly a power of pain filled him; Tallon clenched his teeth against the onslaught.  Although the power burned with agony, there was a savor, making him hunger for more.  That feeling almost caused him to release the strands.  In determination he focused the power, transferring it down his arm to his father’s leg, bathing the wounds in vivid white light. 

It only took seconds, seconds that felt like slices of eternity.  Tallon cut off the power.  His father’s leg was straight and perfectly healed.  The only thing remaining was all the old scars of ancient farming wounds.  Tallon withdrew a shaking hand from his father’s leg and clenched it tight.  He knew what he would find.  There was a terrible throbbing.  Tallon looked down at his clenched fist and slowly opened it.  All along his palm were blisters, burns and blood.  Wisps of smoke were still spiraling upwards from his ruined flesh, filling the room with a thick smell of oily char.  Whenever the power was released it left a painful mark.  Tallon wondered if that was why his body was supposed to heal so fast.  Did the Creator decide he should heal others through his own pain and rapid healing?   Maybe he really was a demon.  Maybe Will Darion was right.  No one else could see the lines.  No one else could touch such power.  No one else healed so fast.  Demons from the war were said to have been magic.  Old stories, from several grizzled hunters, spoken in hushed tones about the Demonic Wars.  Always there was a touch of fear that resided just behind their eyes.  Demons had done horrible things.  Tallon shivered as his mind filled up with unanswerable questions.  He was covered from head to toe in a layer of sweat.  He felt weak.  The power always left him feeling this way.  Tallon wobbled on the stool, where his Mom caught him, delivering a warm hug and tears. Tallon couldn’t remember seeing her enter the room.  Everything moved slowly as if time had become like cold honey.

“Thank you my Tallon.”  His Mom said with tears running down her cheeks.

Tallon nodded numbly, noting that her eyes were red and not knowing why such a detail was so important.   His mother gently took him to the kitchen. 

“Broman, Ania, see that your brother gets some food,” She nodded at their questions, “Your father is fine, your father is fine.”  With a relieved and slightly pained smile, she turned and walked back to be with her husband and closed the door without a sound. 

Tallon looked out the window and noticed the sun getting low on the horizon.  He hadn’t realized that it took so long.  His stomach grumbled loudly as his sense of smell was reawakened by his mother’s stew.  Tallon’s eyes blinked with surprise when he realized that he was sitting at the table with a bowl of soup in front of him.

“Hey Tal, your food won’t feed you, so you’d better start eating it.” Broman said around a mouthful of steaming stew.

Tallon picked up the spoon and winced, and had to hurriedly shift it to his uninjured hand.  It was hard enough trying to eat with his left hand, but it trembled so much that his mouth received less than half of what the spoon could hold.  With each successful bite of hot stew, his body warmed up with it.

“You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full of food. It’s not very nice.” Ania said with her bottom lip pointing to Broman. 

“Ania neither should you.”

Ania stuck her tongue out at Broman as she filled her spoon, she then turned to Tallon.  “Is Papa okay?”

Tallon smiled, nodding to her.  “Dad is alright.”  Ania was the sweetest thing.  She had gotten all of their mother’s kind heartedness.  Ania was so concerned with the welfare of others that she rarely made time to think of herself. 

Broman tossed a hot roll that Tallon barely managed to catch. “Tal,” he said, “what did it look like…you know after?” 

Tallon dipped his roll into the stew, “there isn’t a mark.  Everything is better.” 

Ania smiled at Broman, “See, I told you he would do it.” 

Broman glared, “You told me… it’s more like you asked me so many demonic questions that I can’t believe I’m still alive.”

Ania folded her arms, looking just like their mom.  “That is no way to talk to a girl.” 

Broman laughed sarcastically, “I’m sorry… I didn’t notice you were here.” 

Not catching the sarcasm, she went on with her meal, directing skeptical looks toward Broman.  Tallon chuckled behind his roll.  Broman loved to tease her. 

“Tal, are you okay?” Broman asked as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, while Ania harrumphed and pointed deliberately at the cloth napkins.  She could do a fine impersonation of their mom.  Tallon unclenched his right hand where the skin was an angry red, parts of it stuck together, bleeding.  The sight made Broman whistle softly. 

“It’ll heal.”  Tallon whispered.

Ania looked at him with all the seriousness a twelve year old could muster, “I knew you’d be able to do it.  Just like when you healed Betsy.  Oh, she’s wanted to say thank you for a very long time.  It’s been so long ago, but I don’t think that she ever got the chance.  She really likes you.”

Tallon grinned, swallowing a mouth full of the hot stew, “Well, you tell Betsy she’d better continue to be careful around the wooded areas.”

Ania nodded earnestly.  She loved animals.  After the feeding was done in the morning, she would spend hours with the sheep, cows and chickens.  She spent more time outside than in.  Even the sheep followed her.  Whenever it was Tallon’s turn to get them into the barn before dark, the stupid animals would run all over.  Ania on the other hand just had to walk out into the fields and the sheep went where she walked.  Tallon ate another spoonful.  His mother was an artist in the kitchen.  The stew was perfect, and satisfying, with just the right flavor.  Soon their parents joined the table, dishing up two more bowls from the large pot on the stone hearth.

“It feels good to be able to walk again.  Thank you Tallon my boy!”  His father said gruffly while taking a seat.

Before their dad could even put the spoon in his bowl, Broman blurted out, “Dad is it true that Master Darion fought in the Demonic Wars?” 

Ander gave a deep chuckle.  “No.  Old Taren never left his farm.  Most folk around here didn’t either.  Why do you ask?”

“Will and Todd said he did.”  Broman said softly as he pushed a few potatoes around with his spoon.  Tallon sopped up the last bit of broth with his roll.  Healing always left him starving.

“And you believed them?”  Annabelle said wryly.

“That old codger has been after my land since the day I bought it.”  Ander added with disdain, “His boys must share the sentiment.”

Broman said something to their mom, as Ander motioned to Tallon with his spoon, “So how’s ole Sandy doing with all of those hunters come to buy arrows?”

Tallon froze in mid bite.  He had forgotten all about the conversation between Master Adams and Tray, the hunter.  He turned to tell his parents to tell them about the black-eyed man, when there was a weighty knock on the door.  Somehow, Tallon knew who was standing behind their old oak door.

And the Winner is...

Thank you for all of the amazing comments.  There is nothing like sitting down with a good book and getting lost in a different world for a few hours.  Of the books from your comments, I have read many of the them, while others I haven't heard of, so now I have a great reading list.  So thanks again!  Before  I announce the winner, I need to apologize at how long it took to announce the winner, I stupidly had the giveaway right before I went out of town. Don't worry though, I'll get better at this.  And now, the moment you have all been waiting for, the comments were numbered and inserted into a random number generator at random.org.

AND THE WINNER IS.....  Havilah! 

Thanks again! 

FREE Gift Card!

Nothing says Free like a gift card! 

I'm giving away a free $20.00 gift card to Barnes and Noble.

Ahh, but there is one rule!  You have to become a follower of my blog.

Now, for the juicy part, everyone will be given entries by doing the following:

MANDATORY ENTRY:

Follow my blog and comment saying you're a follower

WANT MORE CHANCES?

Entry #2: Post an answer to this question:  What was the first book that really inspired you to love reading?

Entry #3: SHARE this giveaway on your Facebook page. Comment saying you did and leave the link.

Entry #4: SHARE this giveaway on your blog. Comment saying you shared and leave the link, once again.

THAT'S IT!  Good Luck!

Contest ends Friday August 4th high noon (12:00 p.m.) MST.

Beginnings

 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.