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.