It’s been a long while since I made a post on this blog! Unfortunately, life became very busy for me and I found myself lacking the time and the energy to create. However, writing still means the world to me, so I’m certainly going to be trying to force myself to get back into posting. It may not be the same schedule as it used to be–in fact, I may only post once a week–but I look forward to getting back to sharing!
I hope you enjoy this snippet of a story that I’ve only just started working on. It’s not very far in development yet, but I already love my main character and I look forward to bringing this story more and more to life over the next few months.
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Reillia!
The name clattered through his mind, forcing Jerix from his rest and sending his heart racing. He sat up, his threadbare blanket falling from his chest and resting in a heap at his waist. The voice that echoed in his ears was familiar, though it’d been many long moons since he had heard it. It used to come to him in whispers, offering warnings that had often saved his life.
He’d never heard it filled with such fear and desperation. It was the scream of a desperate mother, a sound that he knew far too well. The dream surrounding the name had been dark, filled with images of a broken child wrapped in her mother’s arms. Memories of his own past mixed with the fragments of the dream–his mother, her violet eyes wide, her throat stained red as his name left her lips in a desperate plea. Faintly, he could feel his nails digging into his palms. The feeling was distant, as though someone else was experiencing it.
The fire crackled, the sounds of the charred logs breaking apart pulling him from his thoughts. His mouth was dry, his silver hair greasy, and his eyes bleary. Faint, grey light filtered in through the cracks around the door. Nighttime still, then. He lurched from the bedroll, rubbing his face and grabbing his pack, digging through it until his fingers grasped the wineskin. It felt empty, but he pulled the cork out and lifted it to his lips, hoping that at least a drop was left. The faint scent of wine ghosted through his nose, though none of the sweet liquid found its way to his tongue. Truely empty then. His thirst was going to have to go unquenched.
With a grunt and a groan, he straightened. The fire was nothing but embers and, given that the hut he’d spent the night in did not belong to him, it was time to move on. The owners of the ramshackle shack were sure to be unkind to one of his kind loitering without permission. He rolled up his bedroll and shoved it into the bag, pulling on his black shirt and pulling his hair back into a half pony-tail. Perhaps he’d be able to find the stream he’d nearly fallen into the night before to wash his hair and get a drink.
He was halfway to the stream when something began to feel off. He lifted his head, inhaling deeply through his nose. A metallic, sweat-drenched stench reached his senses and his head whipped from side to side. He wasn’t alone. As if on cue, a twig snapped behind him and he twisted, his fingers grasping the hilt of his sword. It had barely been drawn from its sheath when a dagger flew past, only centimeters away from embedding itself in his neck. His heightened senses saved him, giving him just enough time to step back so that it only grazed his skin. Within moments, he was surrounded by, to his guess, about ten soldiers. The black and green uniforms of the queen’s men sent a stab of panic deep into his guy. It seemed that his days of hiding were over.
“So, we’re starting with the knives, huh? Not even a hello?” He straightened, releasing his sword so that it flid back down into its sheath. He kept his hand casually balanced on the hilt, just in case.
“Queen Armathe requests your presence at the castle.” A stone-faced soldier stepped forward, his short black hair slicked against his forehead.
“Not much of a request if I can’t say no, is it?”
“Oh, Gods ears, just shut up and come.” An impatient voice spoke up from the group of soldiers. The black-haired soldier turned, his grip on his sword tightening.
“Quiet, Elliot,” he growled. Jerix leaned forward, searching the crowd for the person who had spoken. He found them rather quickly, with the way the surrounding soldiers were giving them a number of dirty looks. They were a defiant little thing, their golden gaze hard and unflinching. Jerix snorted and rested his weight back on his heels.
“Yes, commander,” Elliot muttered after a terse moment.
“Well,” he began, causing the group of ten to turn their gazes to him, “since I’m not doing anything important right now, I suppose I’ll accept your queen’s invitation.” He let his hand fall away from his sword and within the blink of an eye, a knife was at his back and blue manacles were slapped on his wrists. His jaw involuntarily clenched at the feeling of the runestone. It was as though a blanket had been thrown over his senses–his eyesight, his hearing, his sense of smell–everything was muted. He couldn’t quite stop the low growl that left his throat–it earned him a kick to the back of the knee. He grunted, just barely managing to keep himself from falling.
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