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I wasn't entirely sure this belonged here, since this bit o' fiction has nothing to do with WH Fantasy, 40k, or LOTR. But, I couldn't find a better place, so please correct me if this isn't the right subforum.

Anyway, this is a small snippet of a story I've been forced to work on for extra English credit the last few months. It still needs to be edited, but...here it is.



The taproom was hot. The source of this came from the immense crystal chandelier that dangled with a slight tilt in the middle of the room, hung low enough that the tallest of the patrons were forced to duck as they passed underneath it. Each of the fifty candles on it was lit and burning; as a result the ceiling above the chandelier was black with soot and the air of the room was smoky and thick, difficult to breath.

The expensive chandelier looked ridiculously out of place considering it’s surroundings, for the tavern itself was a mean, dingy little place. The walls were patched and unpainted; the floors were stained and unswept; and the place smelled heavily of sweat and fish.

For some odd reason it was incredibly boring staring at the wall opposite me. So, I let my gaze drift a bit. A group of farmers, still sweaty from a day’s work, were hunched around a knotted table. I leaned back and tilted my head to see what they were doing and, after nearly tipping over backwards, saw the makeshift cards they each had clutched in their hands—papyrus, stiffened in glue with crude symbols scrawled on. There was a substantial stack of coins in the middle of the table and for a brief moment I felt the urge to join them, but brushed it off as I settled back into my beer.

I felt and heard, rather than saw, the door being opened. Used to the stifling heat of the taproom, I shivered at the brief draft of cold air that accompanied the stranger who walked in, and picked up the drawn-out creak of the slightly rusted door hinges.

I turned around, more out of boredom than out of any real interest in identifying the stranger, and immediately he stood out.

He was dressed almost like a monk, in an ankle-length brown robe, complete with a drawn hood. It was a simple affair, and the material was light enough that it could be worn with relative comfort even in the hotter months that we were going through now. The item that really drew the attention, however, was the belt—lacquered leather, with a large, ornate silver buckle. It was obviously expensive, and contrasted with the simple, homespun look of the robe.

One of the hands slowly reached back and slipped off the hood of the robe. He was facing away from me, so that I could only see the left side of his face. It was well-formed and strong, with sharp, chiseled features. The one eye I could see was a vivid green, and remained focus straight ahead. Obviously, the man knew what he was looking for. He remained facing away from me as he spoke to a man seated at one of the many crude chairs lined up against the wall. I glanced around and noticed the men nearest to the stranger edging away, while the seated man seemed perfectly calm, even smug. I shrugged and turned back to my beer; whatever it was it was none of my business.

As I downed the last of the beer and pushed the tankard towards one of the servant girls, I noticed the stranger had moved and was seated a few stools away. He was facing me and still had his hood down. I managed to stifle my surprised gasp to a low grunt as I saw his face.

Starting at his cheekbone and ending at his chin, the left side of his face was horribly scared and twisted. The skin was a reddish-brown, blackened in some places, with the jawbone clearly visible underneath a thin layer of scarred and calloused sinew. He gave me a slight smile now. While genuine, it sent a shiver down my spine as I saw the jawbone lift and the twisted sinew attached to it stretch and bend. This man was unnerving, intentionally or not.

He stood and stepped towards me now, offering a hand. I shook it warily. The grip was powerful and brief, something I could appreciate. He pulled his hand back and seated himself on the stool next to me. I managed a slight smile as he spoke.

“You’re a mercenary?”

The voice was rough and deep, with a mellow tone that showed no sign of emotion, good or otherwise. I briefly tried to figure out how he knew this. Apparently sensing my thoughts, he gestured to the sheathed broadsword laid across the counter in front of me.

“No soldier with any sense, off duty or otherwise, would be here alone. It’s a damned hornet’s nest if you have the King’s mark. And that’s not a peasant’s weapon,” he said. There was an awkward pause. It was true that the King’s men were despised, especially in such a tax-drained village as this, but few dared to speak it aloud—the King wasn’t a tolerant man, and this policy carried through into the men who served him. I decided not to say anything and let him speak. After all, he hadn’t posed a question, so I wasn’t obligated to speak.

“You plan on answering me anytime soon?” the man asked.

“Yeah…yes, I am,” I said slowly, coughing as my voice came out a bit higher than I wanted it too. As a mercenary, I had seen hell and laughed, but this man, and the way the conversation was heading, was making me quite…uncomfortable. “Why?”

“And I’ll assume since you worked for the farmer by Bitter Creek this afternoon to pay for the beer you just drank that you’re flat broke and need a job?”

“How in the hell did you know that? Have you been following me?” I asked harshly, raising my voice as I did so. This man had just needled a sensitive area, and I jumped out of the barstool as I barked out the question. Several heads turned from around the room, curious, startled expressions on their faces. I ignored them and kept my eyes focused steadily on the man, still seated with a neutral expression fixed on his face.

“No,” he said with another ghastly smile. “It’s been the gossip of the town for the last few hours.”

I fought the urge to groan. Reputation was everything and in a town this small, I should’ve known word would spread fast. I was a mercenary, and as such, had deliberately etched out an intimidating image of myself. Mucking the stalls of a local cattle farmer was embarrassing, but the part that concerned me was how quickly word would travel and, by extent, turn off potential hirers. I made a mental note to pay a visit to the farmer and feed him a pitchfork. I glanced up and saw the man still smiling, apparently waiting for an answer of some kind. I gave none. There was another awkward pause, and then, once again, he broke the silence.

“Can you add?” he asked.

“What?”

“Can you do math. Add, subtract. Seven minus three equals--”

“Four.”

“Good then. I’ve got work for you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “As a ledger boy?”

He chuckled. “No, no, you’ll be engaging in your typical face-pounding antics. Just, with a little added…fun to it.”



Aaaaand, STOP! HALT! CEASE! There ya go, the first little bit, for your viewing un-entertainment.