The cleric Karin caught my attention immediately, and when we left the town of Halfbridge, we left together. She, too, was traveling on a quest to learn more about the world, and we spent many nights staying up entirely too late into the night, debating various scientific theories whilst the campfire burned down to glowing embers.
I would not say that I was in love, exactly, but I admit to a fascination. Rarely in the life of Joseff had I met anyone with the same passion for knowledge and solving mysteries that I had, and Karin had that passion to spare. Without a doubt, though, the largest mystery that I faced during that time was that of Karin herself.
Karin laughed, a rich, pleasant sound that made the woods around them seem more alive. "I thought he was going to drop of a heart attack," she said. "The look on his face!"
Sheaf chuckled, nodding. "I told him that he'd get caught, didn't I?"
Karin lay back, peering at the stars through the clearing in the canopy of leaves overhead. "You always seem to have another trick up your sleeve, Sheaf. Sometimes, I think you surprise even yourself."
Sheaf shrugged, poking at the fire with a long stick. "Sometimes I do."
She turned on to her side, peering at him. "So what is the mystery of the great Sheaf, then? We've journeyed for months, and I still feel like I hardly know you."
The touch of a frown appeared on Sheaf's face as he murmured, almost inaudibly, "I feel the same way." Then, it was gone, replaced by a wry smile. "This from Karin, lady of secrets, cleric of a nameless God and scientist of an unspecified field of study."
It was her turn to frown, now, and the two lapsed into an ever-so-slightly-uncomfortable silence. They had seemed to wordlessly agree long ago that each of them would refrain from digging into each others past, but the topic still occasionally arose, usually in jest. Each time, Sheaf felt a pang of paranoia, a need he didn't fully understand to keep his abilities, and the very nature of his existence, private. Each time, he also felt that he desperately needed to give some of himself up, in order to learn more about this intelligent, skilled woman he traveled with. Each time, he felt as if he needed to learn more about her, for some important reason he couldn't quite figure out. And then, there was the Itch.
The Itch was a misnomer, of course. He didn't have the words to adequately define the feeling that began to originate in the back of his head whenever he was faced with some mystery, some secret, until it reverberated throughout his skull. It was a combination of a maddening itch that one couldn't scratch, and the feeling of bashing your funny bone against a stone wall, and the feeling of goosebumbs on his very brain. It was all of these, and a thousand more things, and it was none of these.
It was absolutely maddening.
When the Itch presented, there was nothing he could do about it but search down the truth of whatever was hidden from him. At the same time, however, he had no way of learning anything about Karin that she wasn't willing to disclose, and, as often as they talked, personal information of any real caliber rarely left her lips. Oh, certainly, he knew that her favorite flower was the lily, and she had an uncanny ability to cook extravagantly spicy orcish food, but such tidbits of information did nothing, less than nothing, to scratch the maddening Itch that reverberated through him.
Of course, she was hardly the only cause of the Itch. Anytime he entered a new town or city, it would inevitably come. Sometimes, the pleasant times, he'd be able to do something about it. The two of them, working together, would often track down truths, sometimes in the field, solving crimes or answering calls for adventurers, sometimes in libraries, researching the history or geography of the local area.
Figuring out whatever knowledge was hidden from him dissolved the Itch in a wave of ecstasy. Waves of pleasure radiated out from his brain to the tips of his being, bringing forth a nearly orgasmic sense of satisfaction. It was never enough, though. Often, mere hours later, the Itch would begin again as some new secret was brought to his attention, either consciously or subconsciously.
Sheaf looked up, studying the stars as well, and wondered--not for the first time--if he was going insane. Or, perhaps, if he already was. His reminiscing was interrupted by a loud yawn, and he looked over to see Karin pulling her wool blanket over herself. "I'm going to turn in," she said.
He nodded. "Wake me up in the morning if I try to oversleep."
She snorted sarcastically. "You? Oversleep? Never."
He chuckled under his breath as she turned over, her back to the fire, and began to drift to sleep, as his head returned to troubled thoughts. Most predominantly of them all, of course, was the same question, the same maddening cause of the Itch that had followed him on-and-off again for months: Who am I?
Showing posts with label Joseff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joseff. Show all posts
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sheaf, Part Four
Note: This is Part Four of the story. Part Three can be found here.
I wasn't entirely certain where I was going, but it didn't seem to matter at the time. I merely needed to move, to seek out something...not new, but new to me. It was more difficult than you might think, however. I'd enter towns miles away that the human Joseff had never even thought to travel near, but only to remember only a few short moments later that I had been there, in fact, in my thirtieth incarnation, or my fifth, or any other of my iterations. It was quite frustrating, because, especially during the beginning period of my transformation, my full memories as Sheath were not available to me, only surfacing at times that sometimes seemed incredibly random.
Sheaf paused, reading the small sign above the door, labeling the building as 'The Last Cow'. He nodded to himself, grateful to find a tavern after days of hard marching on the road. He gripped the hilt of Veracity, just in case, and entered the pub.
The Last Cow was kept quite dim inside, with each of the windows heavily shuttered, and the only light coming from old-fashioned torches on the walls. Still, the room seemed cool, somehow, and was a welcome relief from the oppressive, smothering heat outside.
He took a seat at the bar. "An ale, please," he called to the barman, reaching into his purse for some copper and throwing it on the table. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had been able to convince the morticians to release to him all of the former Sheaf's belongings, including his considerable carrying money--had he been forced to rely fully on Joseff's personal wealth...well, it was really good that he hadn't been forced to rely fully on Joseff's personal wealth. He nodded at the barman as the tankard of ale was slid to him, and took a large drink of the cold, refreshing bevarage.
"Interesting contrast, isn't it?" he heard a female voice say, and he turned to see a small woman slide in the seat next to him. She was rather pretty, in a stern kind of way, with her brown hair pulled into a tight bun, and a pair of square spectacles perched on her pert nose.
"What's that?" he asked.
"The contrast this little tavern offers. In an age of engineering wonders, we see that The Last Cow has rebelled against the ideas of sunrods, powered lights, or any other form of technological lighting, utilizing only torches for illumination. However, by some feat of magic or technology, they are able to keep the room completely cool and comfortable on one of the hottest days of the year."
Sheaf took another long drink. "There's a flaw in your argument, ma'am."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"You seem to think that the use of torches are the equivalent of the use of a barbarian's club, completely lacking in refinement and intelligence. On the contrary, the harnessing of fire is arguably the first technological advancement ever made by the sentient species."
She smiled, then, and Sheaf realized that he once again had the body of a very young man, and that logic and reason are oft-times no match for instinct and desire. "The scholarly type?" she asked, "I do love an intelligent man."
"Oh, I don't know how much of a scholar I am," Sheaf said, wondering if he was able to blush, and knowing that he should know.
She laughed, and the strange holy symbol she wore around her neck sparkled in the torchlight as her head tilted back. "All the same, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you. My name is Karin."
"Well met," he said, returning the smile. He glanced at the holy symbol she wore, which featured a pair of wickedly sharp -looking calipers, and felt the mental twitch that told him that he should know what that was. "I'm unfamiliar with that symbol," he said, gesturing to it.
"Oh, this?" she picked up the symbol and fingered it reverently. "I am a cleric of a god of science. It's little known, but very important."
"Oh? What's his name?"
She looked at him for a moment, as if pondering, before she shrugged. "As far as I know, it doesn't have a name. If it does, it's reserved for far more important beings than I to know about."
She didn't seem to be lying, but all the same, Sheaf felt like she was hiding something. Still, her personal religious allegiances weren't any real concern of his, and it wasn't as if her symbol sported the skull and scythe of Nerull.
"Hey, why don't you take a walk?" he heard a gruff voice say behind him. He turned to see a large, heavyset man with the muscles and callused hands of a farmer behind him, sporting a thick, wild beard and a balding head.
"I'm sorry?" Sheaf asked.
"The lady, here, is out of your league. Take a walk. I'd like to have a chat with her."
Sheaf glanced at Karin, who had her brows furrowed. "Sorry, friend, but she doesn't much seem as though she wants to chat with you."
Even as the large fist smashed into the side of his face, Sheaf thought, I really should have seen that coming. But it had happened so fast that there was no time to react, no time to prepare, just time to be thrown out of his chair and land on the peculiarly cold floor. He stood, the edges of his vision turning red. "Sybgib lufecrof!" he yelled, throwing his hand forward. A giant, shining blue hand materialized before him, speeding towards the man and lifting him off his feet, before slamming him into the wall behind him.
A group of people at a table near where the assailant was now pinned all stood. "Did you see what he did to Raph?" one of them said, and they all began approaching menacingly, each adding his own threat to a nearly indecipherable din. A few of them looked at least apprehensive, but there were still six of them.
No matter, Sheaf thought, and he threw his hand before him again. "Sygib lutecraft!"
Nothing happened. Well, nothing happened that he wanted to happen. The only real result was that the three members of the group approaching began to smile, apparently seeing no more danger, and the group as a whole picked up speed.
Thinking quickly, Sheaf drew Veracity, twirling it expertly in his hand before casually slashing the chair he stood next to. The paper-thin blade sliced through the wood like a hot knife goes through butter, and the pieces of the chair fell to the ground.
"Do we really want to do this?" Sheaf asked. "I don't know how fast the coffin-maker in this town is."
It turned out that no, they didn't really want to do this.
I wasn't entirely certain where I was going, but it didn't seem to matter at the time. I merely needed to move, to seek out something...not new, but new to me. It was more difficult than you might think, however. I'd enter towns miles away that the human Joseff had never even thought to travel near, but only to remember only a few short moments later that I had been there, in fact, in my thirtieth incarnation, or my fifth, or any other of my iterations. It was quite frustrating, because, especially during the beginning period of my transformation, my full memories as Sheath were not available to me, only surfacing at times that sometimes seemed incredibly random.
Sheaf paused, reading the small sign above the door, labeling the building as 'The Last Cow'. He nodded to himself, grateful to find a tavern after days of hard marching on the road. He gripped the hilt of Veracity, just in case, and entered the pub.
The Last Cow was kept quite dim inside, with each of the windows heavily shuttered, and the only light coming from old-fashioned torches on the walls. Still, the room seemed cool, somehow, and was a welcome relief from the oppressive, smothering heat outside.
He took a seat at the bar. "An ale, please," he called to the barman, reaching into his purse for some copper and throwing it on the table. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had been able to convince the morticians to release to him all of the former Sheaf's belongings, including his considerable carrying money--had he been forced to rely fully on Joseff's personal wealth...well, it was really good that he hadn't been forced to rely fully on Joseff's personal wealth. He nodded at the barman as the tankard of ale was slid to him, and took a large drink of the cold, refreshing bevarage.
"Interesting contrast, isn't it?" he heard a female voice say, and he turned to see a small woman slide in the seat next to him. She was rather pretty, in a stern kind of way, with her brown hair pulled into a tight bun, and a pair of square spectacles perched on her pert nose.
"What's that?" he asked.
"The contrast this little tavern offers. In an age of engineering wonders, we see that The Last Cow has rebelled against the ideas of sunrods, powered lights, or any other form of technological lighting, utilizing only torches for illumination. However, by some feat of magic or technology, they are able to keep the room completely cool and comfortable on one of the hottest days of the year."
Sheaf took another long drink. "There's a flaw in your argument, ma'am."
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"You seem to think that the use of torches are the equivalent of the use of a barbarian's club, completely lacking in refinement and intelligence. On the contrary, the harnessing of fire is arguably the first technological advancement ever made by the sentient species."
She smiled, then, and Sheaf realized that he once again had the body of a very young man, and that logic and reason are oft-times no match for instinct and desire. "The scholarly type?" she asked, "I do love an intelligent man."
"Oh, I don't know how much of a scholar I am," Sheaf said, wondering if he was able to blush, and knowing that he should know.
She laughed, and the strange holy symbol she wore around her neck sparkled in the torchlight as her head tilted back. "All the same, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you. My name is Karin."
"Well met," he said, returning the smile. He glanced at the holy symbol she wore, which featured a pair of wickedly sharp -looking calipers, and felt the mental twitch that told him that he should know what that was. "I'm unfamiliar with that symbol," he said, gesturing to it.
"Oh, this?" she picked up the symbol and fingered it reverently. "I am a cleric of a god of science. It's little known, but very important."
"Oh? What's his name?"
She looked at him for a moment, as if pondering, before she shrugged. "As far as I know, it doesn't have a name. If it does, it's reserved for far more important beings than I to know about."
She didn't seem to be lying, but all the same, Sheaf felt like she was hiding something. Still, her personal religious allegiances weren't any real concern of his, and it wasn't as if her symbol sported the skull and scythe of Nerull.
"Hey, why don't you take a walk?" he heard a gruff voice say behind him. He turned to see a large, heavyset man with the muscles and callused hands of a farmer behind him, sporting a thick, wild beard and a balding head.
"I'm sorry?" Sheaf asked.
"The lady, here, is out of your league. Take a walk. I'd like to have a chat with her."
Sheaf glanced at Karin, who had her brows furrowed. "Sorry, friend, but she doesn't much seem as though she wants to chat with you."
Even as the large fist smashed into the side of his face, Sheaf thought, I really should have seen that coming. But it had happened so fast that there was no time to react, no time to prepare, just time to be thrown out of his chair and land on the peculiarly cold floor. He stood, the edges of his vision turning red. "Sybgib lufecrof!" he yelled, throwing his hand forward. A giant, shining blue hand materialized before him, speeding towards the man and lifting him off his feet, before slamming him into the wall behind him.
A group of people at a table near where the assailant was now pinned all stood. "Did you see what he did to Raph?" one of them said, and they all began approaching menacingly, each adding his own threat to a nearly indecipherable din. A few of them looked at least apprehensive, but there were still six of them.
No matter, Sheaf thought, and he threw his hand before him again. "Sygib lutecraft!"
Nothing happened. Well, nothing happened that he wanted to happen. The only real result was that the three members of the group approaching began to smile, apparently seeing no more danger, and the group as a whole picked up speed.
Thinking quickly, Sheaf drew Veracity, twirling it expertly in his hand before casually slashing the chair he stood next to. The paper-thin blade sliced through the wood like a hot knife goes through butter, and the pieces of the chair fell to the ground.
"Do we really want to do this?" Sheaf asked. "I don't know how fast the coffin-maker in this town is."
It turned out that no, they didn't really want to do this.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Sheaf, Part Three
Note: This is Part Three of the story. Part Two can be found here.
I was incapacitated for a few days at that point, as my body--and more importantly, my mind--underwent it's uncontrollable transformation. I thirsted, but no water would sate me. I gained a terrible fever that refused to break under any treatment. I hungered, but any food I dared consume would inevitably be ejected from me in a most uncouth manner. Worst of all, my head ached with such an excruciating pain that, to this day, I find it impossibly to aptly describe. Finally, after three days, I awoke from the first decent rest that I had received in days to find myself feeling...perfectly fine.
He sat himself up, throwing the thick blankets off of him. Judging from the light peeking in through the slats of the shudders on the windows, he assumed it to be mid-afternoon. "Dad?" he called, his voice hoarse. A glass of water stood on the table next to his bed and he picked it up, drinking greedily, and could barely suppress a frantic giggle when he realized that, once he drained the glass, he was no longer thirsty.
The door opened abruptly, and Adem walked in. "What can I get for you, son?" he asked, before seeing the empty glass on the table. He quickly moved to pick it up. "I'll get you another glass, and don't worry, there's another doctor coming. One from Heathridge. He'll be here today, with any luck."
"Dad, it's okay," the boy said, swinging his legs down and stepping up. A quick rush of dizziness hit him and he blinked, swaying back and forth for a moment. "Stood up too quick."
"Are you...are you feeling better?" Adem asked, feeling his forehead. "Your fever's broke."
"I'm all right," he said, nodding. "It always lasts about three days." He realized his chest was bare and quickly remedied the situation with a simple brown shirt, before heading towards the stairs, his father not far behind him.
"What always lasts three days?" his father asked as they entered the tavern proper.
The boy looked around for his backpack, finally finding it in a corner behind the bar. "The transferring sickness," he said, grabbing some of the trail rations his father kept behind the bar and shoving them within his pack.
"Joseff, what are you doing?"
"Don't call me that," he said, as he began filling a waterskin."
"What? What are you talking about, son?"
"Sheaf. My name is Sheaf."
"What? Son, are you sure you're all right?"
Sheaf sighed, and massaged his temples. "How can I put this? Okay. You remember Sheaf? Not me, the last one, the one with the fondness for wine."
Adem nodded slowly.
"He wasn't the first Sheaf. He was," the boy paused, doing some quick counting in his head, "the forty-seventh Sheaf, actually. Whenever one of us is near death, we can feel it. So we find a suitable person to transfer to."
"What?! Joseff, what are you talking about?!"
"My name is not Joseff anymore," Sheaf said, frustrated. "I have the memories of forty-seven people that were born before me. I possess knowledge vastly beyond what Joseff could learn in his seventeen years. I was Joseff, yes, but you have to understand that's not who I am anymore."
"I...son, what are you talking about?"
"Except for the wife of Roland, the twenty-third, none of my other families have understood, either. I don't expect you to, Dad." He grabbed his backpack, now complete with three waterskins, and began walking back to his room.
Adem followed him. Sheaf began stuffing a few sets of clothing into his bag before closing it and shrugging it on. "My sword is...." he paused, closing his eyes for a moment. "Three-hundred feet East of here."
"You don't have a sword, Joseff!"
Sheaf sighed. "You really need to stop calling me that. And yes, I do. The sword Veracity has always belonged to Sheaf, and is the source of much of my power. I cannot travel without it."
"Son, you're not traveling anywhere," Adem said, grabbing his shoulders and looking into his eyes. "Now, I don't know what's gotten into your head, but--" he was interrupted by the side of Sheaf's hand crashing into the back of his neck. Sheaf caught him as he fell, lowering him gently to the ground.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said quietly. "But Sheaf must wander. My goal is much too important for your emotions to stop me." He sighed and began walking towards the door, before stopping one last time. Then, without turning around, he said, "But I do love you. And you will be missed."
Continue to Part Four
I was incapacitated for a few days at that point, as my body--and more importantly, my mind--underwent it's uncontrollable transformation. I thirsted, but no water would sate me. I gained a terrible fever that refused to break under any treatment. I hungered, but any food I dared consume would inevitably be ejected from me in a most uncouth manner. Worst of all, my head ached with such an excruciating pain that, to this day, I find it impossibly to aptly describe. Finally, after three days, I awoke from the first decent rest that I had received in days to find myself feeling...perfectly fine.
He sat himself up, throwing the thick blankets off of him. Judging from the light peeking in through the slats of the shudders on the windows, he assumed it to be mid-afternoon. "Dad?" he called, his voice hoarse. A glass of water stood on the table next to his bed and he picked it up, drinking greedily, and could barely suppress a frantic giggle when he realized that, once he drained the glass, he was no longer thirsty.
The door opened abruptly, and Adem walked in. "What can I get for you, son?" he asked, before seeing the empty glass on the table. He quickly moved to pick it up. "I'll get you another glass, and don't worry, there's another doctor coming. One from Heathridge. He'll be here today, with any luck."
"Dad, it's okay," the boy said, swinging his legs down and stepping up. A quick rush of dizziness hit him and he blinked, swaying back and forth for a moment. "Stood up too quick."
"Are you...are you feeling better?" Adem asked, feeling his forehead. "Your fever's broke."
"I'm all right," he said, nodding. "It always lasts about three days." He realized his chest was bare and quickly remedied the situation with a simple brown shirt, before heading towards the stairs, his father not far behind him.
"What always lasts three days?" his father asked as they entered the tavern proper.
The boy looked around for his backpack, finally finding it in a corner behind the bar. "The transferring sickness," he said, grabbing some of the trail rations his father kept behind the bar and shoving them within his pack.
"Joseff, what are you doing?"
"Don't call me that," he said, as he began filling a waterskin."
"What? What are you talking about, son?"
"Sheaf. My name is Sheaf."
"What? Son, are you sure you're all right?"
Sheaf sighed, and massaged his temples. "How can I put this? Okay. You remember Sheaf? Not me, the last one, the one with the fondness for wine."
Adem nodded slowly.
"He wasn't the first Sheaf. He was," the boy paused, doing some quick counting in his head, "the forty-seventh Sheaf, actually. Whenever one of us is near death, we can feel it. So we find a suitable person to transfer to."
"What?! Joseff, what are you talking about?!"
"My name is not Joseff anymore," Sheaf said, frustrated. "I have the memories of forty-seven people that were born before me. I possess knowledge vastly beyond what Joseff could learn in his seventeen years. I was Joseff, yes, but you have to understand that's not who I am anymore."
"I...son, what are you talking about?"
"Except for the wife of Roland, the twenty-third, none of my other families have understood, either. I don't expect you to, Dad." He grabbed his backpack, now complete with three waterskins, and began walking back to his room.
Adem followed him. Sheaf began stuffing a few sets of clothing into his bag before closing it and shrugging it on. "My sword is...." he paused, closing his eyes for a moment. "Three-hundred feet East of here."
"You don't have a sword, Joseff!"
Sheaf sighed. "You really need to stop calling me that. And yes, I do. The sword Veracity has always belonged to Sheaf, and is the source of much of my power. I cannot travel without it."
"Son, you're not traveling anywhere," Adem said, grabbing his shoulders and looking into his eyes. "Now, I don't know what's gotten into your head, but--" he was interrupted by the side of Sheaf's hand crashing into the back of his neck. Sheaf caught him as he fell, lowering him gently to the ground.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said quietly. "But Sheaf must wander. My goal is much too important for your emotions to stop me." He sighed and began walking towards the door, before stopping one last time. Then, without turning around, he said, "But I do love you. And you will be missed."
Continue to Part Four
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sheaf, Part Two
Note: this is Part Two of the story. Part One can be found here.
The arrival of Sheaf was a breath of fresh air. He brought with him a worldliness, the likes of which I had never seen before in my young age. The knowledge he possessed was astounding, but he never expected me to take his word on anything, instead urging me to research what interested me and to find my own truths in the world.
He stayed in the inn for nearly a week. Each day, at around lunchtime, he would come downstairs for a glass of wine and a bit of food, and pay a platinum Imperium. Each night, as business dwindled, he would find the time to converse with me, on all manner of ranging subjects, from the histories of various gods to the politics of countries and provinces near and far.
I was a young man, then, and perhaps easy to impress, but impress me he did. And, daily, he continued to impress me with his knowledge and wisdom, until the day came that I was no longer a young man. Time, you see, is a fickle lord, and does not always see the need to age us according to our years.
"Oh, the current Emperor's line stretches back a few thousand years," Sheaf said, taking a sip of his wine as Joseff polished the various bottles of spirits behind. "But no, he is not of the original family. That line died out long ago."
"I...didn't know that," Joseff admitted. "So what happens if the Emperor dies without an heir?"
"A series of elections. The Senate and Council of Governors each appoint a candidate from within their ranks, who must meet a stringent set of criteria. Then, both parties vote, and the winner of the election is appointed Emperor."
Joseff nodded, thoughtful, and opened his mouth to ask another question when the front door burst open. "Raiders!" Patrick, the blond-headed farmer from the West end of town shouted, his chest heaving. "They attacked the Millbrooke's farm first, and they're--" he abruptly stopped and toppled forward, showcasing the handle, as well as half of the head, of the throwing axe that had found itself planted in his head.
Joseff stared for a moment, certain that it was a joke. Certain that Patrick and his friends had gotten together, and decided, hey, let's play a trick on Joseff. He's always got his head in a book, why not give him a dose of reality? We'll make him think someone died right in front of him. Hells, maybe his father was in on it, too, and that's why he was being so quiet, not saying anything, not doing anything, maybe it was all just a fantasy, some stupid joke and he needed to laugh, to show that haha, he got it, and wasn't it just so funny, because they had really pulled the wool over his eyes!
He bent over, suddenly, the mutton and bread he had eaten for lunch ejecting itself from his stomach with the speed of a ballista bolt. Then came the subtle clinking of chains, and Joseff looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before freezing.
The creature that walked through the door stood maybe four and a half feet tall, with mottled green skin. His face was unusually flat, his eyes wider and shorter than those of a human. His ears were pointed, and the teeth that Joseff could see were yellowed and sharp.
The goblin wore a simple chain shirt over his outfit, and a metal cap protected his head. In his left hand he held a short sword, and his right hand grasped the handle of the throwing axe in Patrick's head, his foot bracing against the farmer's neck as he wrenched free the weapon.
"Gonna diiiiiiiie," the goblin said, singing the word in his guttural voice. He slowly began to approach the three men, a cruel smile alighting on his face.
Sheaf was the first to react, quickly striding towards the goblin. There was a soft noise, almost the sound of a page within a book turning, as the traveler drew his sword, and Joseff saw for the first time how impossibly thin the blade of the weapon was. The goblin slashed at Sheaf, who parried the blow easily, and continued to twist his body, making a 360 degree turn with his sword, bringing the business edge of the weapon back around to sever the goblin's head at the neck, neatly and effortlessly, as if he had practiced the act since he was three.
"You are armed, Adem?" Sheaf asked, not turning.
"Aye," the barkeep said. He drew the simple cudgel he kept behind the bar and, after a moments thought, opened a drawer. "Joseff," he said, and his son turned to him to see the revolver in his hand. "Take this, son. You're not as strong as I, you'll do less damage with the stick."
Joseff nodded, swallowing heavily, and took the firearm. His father passed him a pouch filled with rounds, which he buckled around his waist, before checking to see that the gun was loaded. Six rounds were in their respective chambers. Six rounds of death.
"I'm going out there," Sheaf said. "The two of you would probably do best to protect your establishment. I daresay, when the day is done, this will be quite the popular building."
"Wait!" Joseff said, careful to avoid the puddle of vomit as he walked around the bar. "I'll go with you."
Sheaf opened his mouth, and for a moment, Joseff was sure he would refuse, but then a shadow of understanding, and...sorrow?...appeared on the mans face. "Yes," he said, finally. "You may join."
The events that occurred after they walked out the door of the tavern passed in a haze for Joseff, a well-intentioned man who had never seen evil, had never known violence other than the occasional drunken brawl. It seemed that blood was everywhere, painting the walls of the buildings, staining the glass of the windows, forming miniature rivers in the worn ruts of the roads.
There were hundreds of them, and for a town that boasted maybe 400 people on a good day, it was a challenge the likes of which no one was prepared for.
Still, the townsmen fought on, and fought well. They weren't warriors, true, but many of them had held a hoe since they could walk, and strong muscles count for a lot, even if they are untrained. And the raiders were fighting for profit. The townsmen were fighting for home. Never underestimate a man who fights for his home and family, for they are prone to perform feats greater than you can imagine.
Joseff wasn't sure if he actually hit anything. He fired his weapon automatically, whenever he saw a clear shot. Now that he was outside, he could see that there were more than just goblins--humans, orcs, and even a few elves were counted amongst the attackers.
He pulled the trigger again, and didn't feel the comforting shock as the weapon fired, didn't hear the accompanying miniature crack of thunder. Again, he thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger, and heard only a faint click, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Again, he tried to fire, and with the same result, before remembering that he must need to reload.
He fumbled the cylinder open, spilling the useless casings on the ground. Awkwardly, as if each finger on his hand was new and untested, he began to push new rounds into the weapon, before raising it, thumbing back the hammer, and pulling the trigger, the face of an orc raider rushing towards him disintegrating in a cloud of light red mist.
He turned to see Sheaf engaged against three combatants at once. Blood so dark it almost appeared black dripped from numerous wounds he had already endured, but he fought on with a ferocity and skill that was incredible to watch, singlehandedly turning the tide of the battle against the attacking forces.
In a daze, Joseff followed his lead, absently firing at raiders, reloading whenever he realized his weapon was empty, his brain unable or unwilling to fully comprehend the chaos of the situation it found itself in.
After a period of time that seemed simultaneously an eternity and an instant, the attackers knew that they had lost. They began to flee, in greater and greater numbers, until only the stragglers that were unable to escape from combat were left. Sheaf himself had three of them, trapped at the end of a shallow alleyway. Joseff tried to fire, but his gun had run dry once more. He clumsily opened and emptied it, his free hand diving into the pouch for more bullets.
The pouch was empty.
But that was impossible! His father had at least fifty rounds in that pouch, they couldn't all be gone! His hand searched the pouch, frantically, until it finally alighted on the smooth metallic surface of a single bullet. He pushed it into place, closing the cylinder back into position, and looked up just to see the sheen of wet metal push through Sheaf's back.
It seemed impossible, but there it was. The other two combatants lay dead on the ground, but one, a goblin, had somehow gotten the upper hand, and his long sword had been forced through Sheaf's midsection.
Joseff pulled the trigger. The goblin's head vanished, as if there were a wizard showcasing his abilities. Slowly, Joseff walked to Sheaf, who turned to see him. "Thank...you," the man said in a strained voice, pain evident on his face.
It was at this point that Joseff noticed that the blood oozing from Sheaf's copious wounds didn't merely appear black, but was black, as dark as ink.
"Please," Sheaf said, struggling with the effort of speaking. His breath came out in ragged bursts, a cruel mockery of true breathing. Not without struggle, he held his sword up, red blood flowing off of it, and Joseff saw the oddness of the blade up close. It almost appeared to be...paper. Dark words were scribbled on the blade, here and there, and Joseff saw that they were names. "Take it," Sheaf said, holding the sword by it's paper-thin blade. Joseff's hand moved, and then stopped. "Take it!" Sheaf said once more, pain and desperation in his voice. And then, "Let me die in peace!"
Joseff grabbed the handle of the sword, and pain erupted through his body. He saw the names on the blade begin to disappear, as if they were evaporating, and out of the corner of his vision, he saw the blood from one of the cuts he had sustained begin to darken. My blood is turning to ink, he thought, like his.
The man he had begun to consider a friend fell to the ground in death, and the boy began to feel his head flood with information and memories. The last thing he could remember before darkness stole his world from him was one word, burning in importance above all others: SHEAF.
Part Three
The arrival of Sheaf was a breath of fresh air. He brought with him a worldliness, the likes of which I had never seen before in my young age. The knowledge he possessed was astounding, but he never expected me to take his word on anything, instead urging me to research what interested me and to find my own truths in the world.
He stayed in the inn for nearly a week. Each day, at around lunchtime, he would come downstairs for a glass of wine and a bit of food, and pay a platinum Imperium. Each night, as business dwindled, he would find the time to converse with me, on all manner of ranging subjects, from the histories of various gods to the politics of countries and provinces near and far.
I was a young man, then, and perhaps easy to impress, but impress me he did. And, daily, he continued to impress me with his knowledge and wisdom, until the day came that I was no longer a young man. Time, you see, is a fickle lord, and does not always see the need to age us according to our years.
"Oh, the current Emperor's line stretches back a few thousand years," Sheaf said, taking a sip of his wine as Joseff polished the various bottles of spirits behind. "But no, he is not of the original family. That line died out long ago."
"I...didn't know that," Joseff admitted. "So what happens if the Emperor dies without an heir?"
"A series of elections. The Senate and Council of Governors each appoint a candidate from within their ranks, who must meet a stringent set of criteria. Then, both parties vote, and the winner of the election is appointed Emperor."
Joseff nodded, thoughtful, and opened his mouth to ask another question when the front door burst open. "Raiders!" Patrick, the blond-headed farmer from the West end of town shouted, his chest heaving. "They attacked the Millbrooke's farm first, and they're--" he abruptly stopped and toppled forward, showcasing the handle, as well as half of the head, of the throwing axe that had found itself planted in his head.
Joseff stared for a moment, certain that it was a joke. Certain that Patrick and his friends had gotten together, and decided, hey, let's play a trick on Joseff. He's always got his head in a book, why not give him a dose of reality? We'll make him think someone died right in front of him. Hells, maybe his father was in on it, too, and that's why he was being so quiet, not saying anything, not doing anything, maybe it was all just a fantasy, some stupid joke and he needed to laugh, to show that haha, he got it, and wasn't it just so funny, because they had really pulled the wool over his eyes!
He bent over, suddenly, the mutton and bread he had eaten for lunch ejecting itself from his stomach with the speed of a ballista bolt. Then came the subtle clinking of chains, and Joseff looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before freezing.
The creature that walked through the door stood maybe four and a half feet tall, with mottled green skin. His face was unusually flat, his eyes wider and shorter than those of a human. His ears were pointed, and the teeth that Joseff could see were yellowed and sharp.
The goblin wore a simple chain shirt over his outfit, and a metal cap protected his head. In his left hand he held a short sword, and his right hand grasped the handle of the throwing axe in Patrick's head, his foot bracing against the farmer's neck as he wrenched free the weapon.
"Gonna diiiiiiiie," the goblin said, singing the word in his guttural voice. He slowly began to approach the three men, a cruel smile alighting on his face.
Sheaf was the first to react, quickly striding towards the goblin. There was a soft noise, almost the sound of a page within a book turning, as the traveler drew his sword, and Joseff saw for the first time how impossibly thin the blade of the weapon was. The goblin slashed at Sheaf, who parried the blow easily, and continued to twist his body, making a 360 degree turn with his sword, bringing the business edge of the weapon back around to sever the goblin's head at the neck, neatly and effortlessly, as if he had practiced the act since he was three.
"You are armed, Adem?" Sheaf asked, not turning.
"Aye," the barkeep said. He drew the simple cudgel he kept behind the bar and, after a moments thought, opened a drawer. "Joseff," he said, and his son turned to him to see the revolver in his hand. "Take this, son. You're not as strong as I, you'll do less damage with the stick."
Joseff nodded, swallowing heavily, and took the firearm. His father passed him a pouch filled with rounds, which he buckled around his waist, before checking to see that the gun was loaded. Six rounds were in their respective chambers. Six rounds of death.
"I'm going out there," Sheaf said. "The two of you would probably do best to protect your establishment. I daresay, when the day is done, this will be quite the popular building."
"Wait!" Joseff said, careful to avoid the puddle of vomit as he walked around the bar. "I'll go with you."
Sheaf opened his mouth, and for a moment, Joseff was sure he would refuse, but then a shadow of understanding, and...sorrow?...appeared on the mans face. "Yes," he said, finally. "You may join."
The events that occurred after they walked out the door of the tavern passed in a haze for Joseff, a well-intentioned man who had never seen evil, had never known violence other than the occasional drunken brawl. It seemed that blood was everywhere, painting the walls of the buildings, staining the glass of the windows, forming miniature rivers in the worn ruts of the roads.
There were hundreds of them, and for a town that boasted maybe 400 people on a good day, it was a challenge the likes of which no one was prepared for.
Still, the townsmen fought on, and fought well. They weren't warriors, true, but many of them had held a hoe since they could walk, and strong muscles count for a lot, even if they are untrained. And the raiders were fighting for profit. The townsmen were fighting for home. Never underestimate a man who fights for his home and family, for they are prone to perform feats greater than you can imagine.
Joseff wasn't sure if he actually hit anything. He fired his weapon automatically, whenever he saw a clear shot. Now that he was outside, he could see that there were more than just goblins--humans, orcs, and even a few elves were counted amongst the attackers.
He pulled the trigger again, and didn't feel the comforting shock as the weapon fired, didn't hear the accompanying miniature crack of thunder. Again, he thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger, and heard only a faint click, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Again, he tried to fire, and with the same result, before remembering that he must need to reload.
He fumbled the cylinder open, spilling the useless casings on the ground. Awkwardly, as if each finger on his hand was new and untested, he began to push new rounds into the weapon, before raising it, thumbing back the hammer, and pulling the trigger, the face of an orc raider rushing towards him disintegrating in a cloud of light red mist.
He turned to see Sheaf engaged against three combatants at once. Blood so dark it almost appeared black dripped from numerous wounds he had already endured, but he fought on with a ferocity and skill that was incredible to watch, singlehandedly turning the tide of the battle against the attacking forces.
In a daze, Joseff followed his lead, absently firing at raiders, reloading whenever he realized his weapon was empty, his brain unable or unwilling to fully comprehend the chaos of the situation it found itself in.
After a period of time that seemed simultaneously an eternity and an instant, the attackers knew that they had lost. They began to flee, in greater and greater numbers, until only the stragglers that were unable to escape from combat were left. Sheaf himself had three of them, trapped at the end of a shallow alleyway. Joseff tried to fire, but his gun had run dry once more. He clumsily opened and emptied it, his free hand diving into the pouch for more bullets.
The pouch was empty.
But that was impossible! His father had at least fifty rounds in that pouch, they couldn't all be gone! His hand searched the pouch, frantically, until it finally alighted on the smooth metallic surface of a single bullet. He pushed it into place, closing the cylinder back into position, and looked up just to see the sheen of wet metal push through Sheaf's back.
It seemed impossible, but there it was. The other two combatants lay dead on the ground, but one, a goblin, had somehow gotten the upper hand, and his long sword had been forced through Sheaf's midsection.
Joseff pulled the trigger. The goblin's head vanished, as if there were a wizard showcasing his abilities. Slowly, Joseff walked to Sheaf, who turned to see him. "Thank...you," the man said in a strained voice, pain evident on his face.
It was at this point that Joseff noticed that the blood oozing from Sheaf's copious wounds didn't merely appear black, but was black, as dark as ink.
"Please," Sheaf said, struggling with the effort of speaking. His breath came out in ragged bursts, a cruel mockery of true breathing. Not without struggle, he held his sword up, red blood flowing off of it, and Joseff saw the oddness of the blade up close. It almost appeared to be...paper. Dark words were scribbled on the blade, here and there, and Joseff saw that they were names. "Take it," Sheaf said, holding the sword by it's paper-thin blade. Joseff's hand moved, and then stopped. "Take it!" Sheaf said once more, pain and desperation in his voice. And then, "Let me die in peace!"
Joseff grabbed the handle of the sword, and pain erupted through his body. He saw the names on the blade begin to disappear, as if they were evaporating, and out of the corner of his vision, he saw the blood from one of the cuts he had sustained begin to darken. My blood is turning to ink, he thought, like his.
The man he had begun to consider a friend fell to the ground in death, and the boy began to feel his head flood with information and memories. The last thing he could remember before darkness stole his world from him was one word, burning in importance above all others: SHEAF.
Part Three
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