Nilko watched as the hooded stranger entered his inn and hid in the shadow of the fire. "Mel, go take care of the stranger."
A humble server whipped her hands on her apron, tired from a hard days work she headed for the stranger's table. She paused for a second, looking at him, he sure wasn't the typical customer they had through their small town tavern, but she brushed the thought aside and aproached the table.
"Sir, how may I help you this evening?" she said.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Something.
Continued...
The pitch black interior of the hall brought Braeden to a quick stop. He stood on the threshhold staring into the nothingness. Anything could be hiding in there, waiting for him. The hair rose on the back of his neck at the memory of the scream. Returning to the barroom, Braeden fetched a tallow candle from behind the counter and lit it. Holding the flickering light before him like a knight with his sword, he edged into the hall.
The rain began as a whisper from the night and rose to a deafening barrage upon the roof and walls. Braeden crept along, thrusting the candle forward, eyes alert for any unusual sight, any unfamiliar shadow. As he neared the end of the hall and his warm, safe bed, something caught his eye. The door just before his stood wide open. How odd. Who occupied that room? Mentally he shuffled through his guests. Ah yes, the stranger. Braeden had caught but a glimpse of the face beneath the lowered hood as the stranger paid for a night's stay, a glimpse of two dark, dark eyes that glittered in the firelight and a nasty scar that ran from the left ear to the chin. But there'd been something else as well, something curious that the barkeep had seen only once before... his hair. That was it. It was a bright, orange red like the flames dancing in the fireplace. He'd seen that sort of hair once before, thirty years back. It had struck him as odd then too. Real people weren't supposed to have red hair, only people in tales...
The opened door called, taunted. Braeden hesitated, glanced over his shoulder, and slipped inside. No mystery met his eyes, merely an empty room. The stranger had gone, gone without anyone noticing. Well, at least he'd paid his rent. Cupping his hand about the waning light of his candle, Braeden strode farther in, pushing the shadows back as he moved. The bed sat untouched, the blankets wrinkleless, the hard lump of a pillow in the same place it'd been that morning. How odd. Had his guest found the room unfit? With a grunt, he turned to leave, and half tripped over something on the floor.
So the stranger hadn't left after all. For sure he slumped by the fire at that moment, lulled to sleep by drink. Braeden leaned down to get a better look at what he'd kicked, and gasped. The pale face of the groom stared up at him, eyes white as milk. The foul odor of death emanated in repulsing waves from beneath the bed. Braeden staggered back, head swimming, then turned and fled the room.
Outside, in the hall, he paused. His murdering guest could be nearby at that moment, waiting for him to pass by. Bed again sounded good. Braeden's eyes swung up, toward his door, and his heart stopped. It too stood opened. No. No! Without a second though he rushed to it, threw himself at the bed, and plunged his hand through a hole in the mattress. Naught but straw touched his questing hand. No, it wasn't gone, it couldn't be gone. Maybe he'd moved it that morning and forgotten. Yes, he must have moved it to the chest.
Scrambling to his feet, Braeden rushed to the chest and let out a strangled cry. The lid lay seperate form its counterpart, ripped off, and the contents scattered about its base. No, no! Desperate hands sifted through the papers, the coins, the strange objects, every moment expecting to feel the cold smooth surface against rough, calloused fingertips. Nothing. Gone.
The pitch black interior of the hall brought Braeden to a quick stop. He stood on the threshhold staring into the nothingness. Anything could be hiding in there, waiting for him. The hair rose on the back of his neck at the memory of the scream. Returning to the barroom, Braeden fetched a tallow candle from behind the counter and lit it. Holding the flickering light before him like a knight with his sword, he edged into the hall.
The rain began as a whisper from the night and rose to a deafening barrage upon the roof and walls. Braeden crept along, thrusting the candle forward, eyes alert for any unusual sight, any unfamiliar shadow. As he neared the end of the hall and his warm, safe bed, something caught his eye. The door just before his stood wide open. How odd. Who occupied that room? Mentally he shuffled through his guests. Ah yes, the stranger. Braeden had caught but a glimpse of the face beneath the lowered hood as the stranger paid for a night's stay, a glimpse of two dark, dark eyes that glittered in the firelight and a nasty scar that ran from the left ear to the chin. But there'd been something else as well, something curious that the barkeep had seen only once before... his hair. That was it. It was a bright, orange red like the flames dancing in the fireplace. He'd seen that sort of hair once before, thirty years back. It had struck him as odd then too. Real people weren't supposed to have red hair, only people in tales...
The opened door called, taunted. Braeden hesitated, glanced over his shoulder, and slipped inside. No mystery met his eyes, merely an empty room. The stranger had gone, gone without anyone noticing. Well, at least he'd paid his rent. Cupping his hand about the waning light of his candle, Braeden strode farther in, pushing the shadows back as he moved. The bed sat untouched, the blankets wrinkleless, the hard lump of a pillow in the same place it'd been that morning. How odd. Had his guest found the room unfit? With a grunt, he turned to leave, and half tripped over something on the floor.
So the stranger hadn't left after all. For sure he slumped by the fire at that moment, lulled to sleep by drink. Braeden leaned down to get a better look at what he'd kicked, and gasped. The pale face of the groom stared up at him, eyes white as milk. The foul odor of death emanated in repulsing waves from beneath the bed. Braeden staggered back, head swimming, then turned and fled the room.
Outside, in the hall, he paused. His murdering guest could be nearby at that moment, waiting for him to pass by. Bed again sounded good. Braeden's eyes swung up, toward his door, and his heart stopped. It too stood opened. No. No! Without a second though he rushed to it, threw himself at the bed, and plunged his hand through a hole in the mattress. Naught but straw touched his questing hand. No, it wasn't gone, it couldn't be gone. Maybe he'd moved it that morning and forgotten. Yes, he must have moved it to the chest.
Scrambling to his feet, Braeden rushed to the chest and let out a strangled cry. The lid lay seperate form its counterpart, ripped off, and the contents scattered about its base. No, no! Desperate hands sifted through the papers, the coins, the strange objects, every moment expecting to feel the cold smooth surface against rough, calloused fingertips. Nothing. Gone.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Something.
The night hung heavy with storm; the humid air and distant forboeding rumble drove the livestock to pace and the shutters of the village to slam shut. The local inkeeper, Braeden, stood outside his front door, watching the clouds roll forward, his burly form shillouetted by an occasional flash of lightning. Why did that blasted groom dissapear every time he set foot outside? Probably behind the stables, drunk as a rat in a brewery. Again.
With a sigh, Braeden turned his back on the night and slipped into the dark interior of the tavern's barroom. Twelve stout, round tables, burdened a mere hour ago by full benches, sat empty waiting for the morrow, their rough edges blurry and indistinct in the hazy atmosphere of the room; the fire, roaring like a wild animal, defied the gloom and spit fiery sparks at the figures slumped in wooden chairs at its feet. Nothing to do. An unusual thing for a barkeep. Rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, Braeden strode across the room towards the counter. The aroma of good beer permeated the wooden surface, assaulting his senses as he passed. His mind strayed to the door of the cellar, to kegs and bottles. No. He shook his head. Best to leave that to others. Yet, would one sip hurt?
As he hesitated, an unearthly moan shook the timbers of the tavern and rattled the door. The storm had arrived. The fire spluttered, daunted, and the heavy sleepers stirred in their chairs. Braeden shivered. Mmm, how a warm bed struck a pleasant chord at that moment. The groom could handle the tavern, it was his job after all, to watch it at night. If he'd only show up Braeden could sleep without worry.
Another moan scattered his thoughts, this time joined at the end by a skin curling scream. Braeden found himself gripping the edge of the counter as the scream trailed off and died. What could make such a terrible sound? Nothing he'd ever seen, of that he stood sure. Loosing his hold on the counter, Braeden glanced about and dashed for the hall door. Sleep alone could drown out this storm.
To Be Continued...
With a sigh, Braeden turned his back on the night and slipped into the dark interior of the tavern's barroom. Twelve stout, round tables, burdened a mere hour ago by full benches, sat empty waiting for the morrow, their rough edges blurry and indistinct in the hazy atmosphere of the room; the fire, roaring like a wild animal, defied the gloom and spit fiery sparks at the figures slumped in wooden chairs at its feet. Nothing to do. An unusual thing for a barkeep. Rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, Braeden strode across the room towards the counter. The aroma of good beer permeated the wooden surface, assaulting his senses as he passed. His mind strayed to the door of the cellar, to kegs and bottles. No. He shook his head. Best to leave that to others. Yet, would one sip hurt?
As he hesitated, an unearthly moan shook the timbers of the tavern and rattled the door. The storm had arrived. The fire spluttered, daunted, and the heavy sleepers stirred in their chairs. Braeden shivered. Mmm, how a warm bed struck a pleasant chord at that moment. The groom could handle the tavern, it was his job after all, to watch it at night. If he'd only show up Braeden could sleep without worry.
Another moan scattered his thoughts, this time joined at the end by a skin curling scream. Braeden found himself gripping the edge of the counter as the scream trailed off and died. What could make such a terrible sound? Nothing he'd ever seen, of that he stood sure. Loosing his hold on the counter, Braeden glanced about and dashed for the hall door. Sleep alone could drown out this storm.
To Be Continued...
Hey Again.
Hey again, got a question this time. I put the wrong URL for your other blog, the discussion one. How do I delete a blog from my dashboard in my blog account and stick a new one in? What is the URL for that blog anyway?
Hey.
Hey, if this actually shows up then I've finally found out how to work this whole blog thing. If not, then I guess you aren't reading it right now :-)
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Nilko
Nilko watched as the hooded stranger entered his inn and hid in the shadow of the fire. "Mel, go take care of the stranger."
Teller
It was a dark night in the small town of Rykosh. The rain beat against the wooden shutters of the Midnight Rose. Inside the thick walls, a warm fire sat sparking in defiance against the cold wind and rain.
A dark man strode throught the oak door; his face was shadowed by his hood. He slid into a dark corner, and sat down to watch everyone else as he dried himself by the fire.
A dark man strode throught the oak door; his face was shadowed by his hood. He slid into a dark corner, and sat down to watch everyone else as he dried himself by the fire.
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