Namakobushi's Story Trove: Criticism Wanted!

What better way to improve your writing skills and expose your writing to others than by posting them to a random forum?

So here is a collection of my utterly disgraceful work. I'm looking for criticism or literally anything.

UZB Submission was written a few months ago. 6k word cap.
I have been writing book 1 for a little over 3 years now. I last edited it in the Spring.
I started writing book 2 around 2 - 2.5 years ago. My last edit has been recent. Rewriting chapter 26 now.​

Attached UZB submission as a PDF.

For this, the name by the chapter is the POV.

Spoiler: Book 1, Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Aredin



For most people, nights were a time of calm and tranquility, where they went off to their beds for a good night’s sleep, so that tomorrow they could do their tasks efficiently with renewed energy.

Sleep, that was normal for a night—unless one’s name happened to be Aredin. Which as far as he knew, was only one person: himself.

Ah, blissful sleep, how much Aredin wanted it but could not attain it.

And as for nights being a time of calm and tranquility, for Aredin, they also were not.

Countless trees sped across his view as he sprinted forward through the night. He maneuvered around towering pine trees and sturdy oak trees, and jumped over fallen, mushroom-riddled logs.

The autumn air curled in around him, sending chills through his body like a specter’s fingertips.

Above him, some owls hooted, sitting on their branch perches. Others silently flew in the night sky and stalked the infinite forest shadows for prey. Other nocturnal birds sang their eerie night songs, and crickets and grasshoppers chirped along with nature’s night chorus. Obviously, Aredin wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep during the hours of abyss. Who knew the forest would be so alive, so nocturnal? All of these sounds could have almost made Aredin's nights serene . . . but those wonderful feelings beckoned him from just out of reach.

Dry twigs snapped, fallen leaves crunched, and patches of grass got flattened under the boots of man.

Along with the snapping twigs and crunching leaves, another sound could be heard: the shouts of these men, breaking the natural peace of the forest.

Specially trained hunters chased him from behind, but despite those dangerous killers behind him, Aredin tried with effort to take some of the usual nightly calm for himself. He needed it, or else he would do something reckless or unintelligent and get himself killed. No, he needed to be in total control of himself.

So he controlled his breathing—or tried to, at least.

Aredin swerved to the left, to avoid a tree directly in front of him. At that moment, an arrow zipped through the air just beside Aredin's right ear, and planted itself into that tree. His heart slammed inside his chest.

If he hadn't moved around the tree in that last second, the arrow would have found itself in Aredin's head.

That close encounter did wonders to hold Aredin back from reaching that wonderful calm and collectiveness.

Although, maybe the arrows could help him reach that state of mind, because with each loosed arrow, the distance between Aredin and the shooting hunter increased, since they had to stand still to aim and release.

Aredin mentally sighed anyway, All those misses were a waste of arrows, they had better been retrieving all of them. They might as well plant one through his head to get a good use out of an arrow.

Of course, another arrow shot passed Aredin. He felt a sting on his left arm, like a particularly vengeful bee, as he watched the arrow speed into the night and vanish into the abyssal beyond, that nothingness a few paces in front of him.

He quickly tapped his arm with his right hand to feel the scale of the wound. His fingers passed through a tear in his long-sleeved tunic and touched only a small amount of blood, and he felt his skin. No bone or flesh or anything, so he figured the wound would be alright.

Aredin loved the night. It shrouded him, it kept him safe. But ugh, the love of his life could have at least offered some more visibility to him.

On cloudy nights like this, in thicker parts of the forest, the inky black hid the wonderful plants, anything beyond like, five paces from Aredin.

This made running into trees easy, and like the close arrow encounters, did not help Aredin reach that enticing state of calm.

How he yearned to feel like that again, a sense of tranquility to pair with the thrill of this chase would've made the past two days so worth it.

Exhaustion had been creeping up on Aredin, but the adrenaline and thrill that pumped through him kept him moving forward.

Occasional chases like this shaped Aredin's life, where would he be without them? He was surprised the adrenaline and thrill still came, despite so many of these, and always coming out in one piece.

But this one felt different. It had been going on for almost two days, and these hunters showed no sign of giving up.

They were more determined than ever to capture Aredin, and that drove him forward, and also made him worry.

Those hunters would stop at nothing—not hunger, not blood, not fatigue—to capture Aredin. It would take until either he or the hunters dropped dead. That made them particularly dangerous, especially since they were better equipped, and trained for these long chases.

Aredin had a bit of an edge, in that he'd been practicing with these pursuits almost his entire life.

Aredin found himself grinning. The other chases were too easy, he was glad for a bit of a challenge.

But what if this one was too much of a challenge? What if he was so used to those easy pursuits, that this one was too out of his league? How much longer could he keep up this running? Could he survive this one, like he had all those others? Or would some terrible fate befall him? It was probably time, twelve years was a long time to dance barely out of death's reach.

Aredin's stomach grumbled, a little protest for food. When had he last eaten? It had been too long. Even with the extra energy from the exhilaration coursing through him, he would probably drop soon.

Sweat poured from his face despite the chilly air. His attempts to slow his breathing proved faulty as he gasped for more sweet air. His heartbeat slammed like stormy waves against the hull of a ship. His legs might as well have been heavy bricks. Aredin thought himself to be a good runner, but even he couldn't keep up this pursuit.

Despite his fatigue and yearning to drop against the floor and rest and maybe fall over and never wake up again to catch up on sleep, he needed to keep running from the hunters behind him. Maybe he could drop to the ground and find a place to hide?

No! How dare he even think of such an action? He couldn't just simply fall to the forest floor and let these people take him. He'd been thwarting them for twelve years now, so it was a bad time to give in.

Plus, he needed to be around for the day the Grandmaster fell. The evil man that sent these hunters after him.

The current ruler of Raenrom—the Grandmaster—had a certain . . . grudge against Aredin. Only because one of his ancestors . . . stole something from the Grandmaster's ancestors.

Aredin shook himself from that terrible place of those thoughts. He didn't want to be there right now. Being sad, sulking, and angry would not help him keep his skin.

Something caught on his trousers, and he jerked to a stop. He promptly began to frantically pull his left leg from whatever had caught it.

Some kind of bramble plant had decided to let Aredin die to these hunters.

Thick thorns poked through the cloth of his pants and tore at his skin the more he struggled.

This was one of the reasons Aredin had a bit of a love-hate relationship with the forest, instead of only love.

While Aredin worked his way out of the bush, and while the hunters gained distance on him, he tried a few techniques to calm himself. This would not be his end.

First, he thought about the art of the forest.

These plants proved impossible to see in the darkness. Especially when running away from deadly people, and trying to not run into any trees!

The forest provided a home to tons of different animals, and also gave a chance for Aredin to finally escape the warriors behind him. The previous day, he had been chased through Raenrom's farmlands. Now, he ran through the forest, where many obstacles in the form of flourishing plants resided in the forest, this green sanctuary. The biggest of these were pine trees and oaks. Currently in late autumn, most of the oak trees had lost all of their leaves, readying themselves for winter. However, some had yet to join the others in that cold, desperate fate as they try to survive the upcoming temperatures. The leaves of those oak trees, either still on their branches or on the forest floor, were chosen from a selection of either a shade of red, orange, or yellow.

There were frequent clusters of bushes, despite being far from the edges of the forest, where they could get the most sunlight. Most of the bushes--similar to the trees--let go of their leaves for the soon-coming winter. Some of the bushes had small, barbed thorns growing from their branches, like the one he had accidentally stepped on. Aredin had to carefully weave through the forest to not run into any of the cloth and even flesh-ripping thorns of the bushes, which he has obviously failed to do.

He found himself to still be slightly panicked, making him reckless as he stabbed his leg on thorn after thorn.

An arrow whizzed past the top of his head, terribly close to killing him. It flew along his view, and then disappeared within the blink of an eye.

On the bright side, Aredin had not stepped on one of the unusual, colorful plants that only grew on the northwestern side of the island--the direction he was running towards, and the part of the island in which he ran on currently.

These small plants grew near and sometimes even on the trees in the dark. They clung to the trunks or near-surface roots of trees. The plants had flowers in many shapes and colors; the orange variety that had small tendrils for flowers were the most common. The plants feed on the energy of the trees like parasites, and could take the place of mushrooms in the task of decomposing; mushrooms were also common in the dark parts of the forest. Like the parasitic plant, most mushrooms Aredin knew were poisonous to eat.

The parasitic plant was named "treesite," and for obvious, uncreative reasons. The treesites were unmeasurably poisonous if ingested; it was like having your insides eaten and their nutrients drained. Local legend had it that this plant could kill in other . . . more graphic ways, so Aredin made sure to steer far from these plants, just in case. Although, considering he managed to get caught in a bramble, next, he'd probably brush one of these terrible treesites and befall a terrible fate after all.

At least he would not die at the hands of the hunters.

He finally pulled his bleeding leg from the bramble, and jumped back into a dash. Sprinting away from the close hunters and trying to gain more distance between them.

Their arrows periodically flew towards him, mainly trying to get his legs. It was the stray arrows from the hasty aim that neared his head. The hunters needed him alive so that the Grandmaster could get personal revenge on Aredin.

Revenge was something of a fool. And it was even more foolish to hunt Aredin and his family for something that none of them alive had anything to do with. The Grandmaster hadn't been alive either. Of course, Aredin had to acknowledge to himself there was more to the story, there always was. He didn't want to dwell on the specifics too long–or any of these thoughts.

Aredin hated vengeance and what it caused people to do. People seemed attracted to doing wrong to others, and even more attracted to retribution. Aredin had seen before that revenge made for a very good driving force. Aredin thought it next to greed on the terrible scale.

The Grandmaster harbored both of those.

Ah, here he found himself again, thinking about the Grandmaster. And didn't he want his own revenge, did he not want to watch the Grandmaster fall because of what he had done? . . . This was a doom caravan of thoughts.

He pulled himself out of it, forcing on surviving this moment.

Aredin needed to think of something to shake off the hunters, but sleep and food was all he could think of, he couldn't get either of those two things if he was dead, though. At least one more meal and maybe sleep in a bed before he died sounded wonderful.

Aredin pictured a map in his head: Nyodsrenk was close by, a filthy shore town filled with seafaring people, pirates, thieves, and bored, blood-thirsty citizens. If he wanted to be pick-pocketed and then maimed, Nyodsrenk was the place to be.

Not the safest place, but it would have to do.

The hunters disturbed bushes in their hasty path, and they discussed their tactics with each other. Soon, they would catch up to Aredin. With each step, his running slowed. He couldn't keep this pace up anymore. The extra quick sprint he ran when he got out of the bush quickly drained him of any remaining energy. Tonight would end up being filled with blood. Aredin would eventually be caught, and he'd have to give a fight. There appeared to be no other way to escape this night alive.

Unless he could lose the hunters in the town.

Beyond countless trees, light from street lanterns illuminated their surroundings like little captured suns, beaming out from a glass case.

Aredin would soon reach Nyodsrenk. This filled him with hope and determination, and a last-ditch wave of energy.

He had survived the hunters this long, he could do so a little more.

How long would he have lasted if the Grandmaster hunted Aredin himself, instead of sending his goons?

Knowing the powers the Grandmaster had, Aredin would've been dead in the first minute of the pursuit.

Aredin shivered from the thought–no, it must have been from the chill in the frosty air, like specters wandering the forest and passing through Aredin.

Yet . . . if the Grandmaster was so powerful? Why did he not hunt Aredin himself? Hmm. . . .

Argh, thinking about things like this posed too hard for Aredin's mushy brain, deteriorating from a lack of sleep. And again! Here he was, thinking about the Grandmaster.

Focus!

Aredin could see a street that ended abruptly as the houses met the forest. Stone constituted the first floors of the buildings, with wooden walls for any next floor, and some sort of dark shingled roof, likely some type of shale. Some walls of first floors varied slightly to bricks, and some upper floors had other materials too.

The hunters would have to give up in Nyodsrenk, or they'd be thrown into a dungeon for attempting murder, or so Aredin hoped. Nyodsrenk was a more . . . lenient town. They had no curfew, and usually, no one was there to stop a street fight.

But, the people of Nyodsrenk might enjoy a few of the Grandmaster's goons walking into their town. Most everyone was against the Grandmaster's rule over Raenrom which influenced surrounding towns and villages. Although, the only hold the Grandmaster had over a town like Nyodsrenk was probably a little bit of mandatory tribute, a few rules, and an unhealthy amount of conscription.

The conscription was the main terrible thing, for the Grandmaster asked for too many people. What was he doing with all of them? He was building a massive army of course.

So, none of the towns or villages had the might--even with their soldiers combined--to directly take on the Grandmaster's army, or Raenrom. But if the few hunters walked into Nyodsrenk, they would probably be attacked.

Aredin, through his aching and sweating body, managed to start up a faster sprint. Everything around him started to get dizzy and wobbly.

Burning trees, I'm going to faint . . . or run into a tree. Whichever happens first.

Two more arrows whistled almost silently past Aredin and hit the trunks of trees in front and to the sides of him with a few thunks. A few more seconds of aim, and they could have gotten Aredin's legs. So, Aredin had the hunters' poor aims to thank, and maybe himself, for he constantly moved between trees and ran forward.

At least I know I'm not dying to any arrows.

Every arrow shot meant one hunter gained further distance between himself and Aredin. They risked dropping Aredin for reaching him and cutting him down. Cowards.

The trees with the arrows in them quickly became something of the past as Aredin sprinted forward with speed, albeit slowing.

The tree seemed so far behind him, how could there be so much of this forest untouched by man?

Well, he and the hunters ran through it, so it obviously was now touched—but, before they disturbed this land.

Aredin began to worry that the hunters would catch up to him, whether his legs were a synonym to a pin cushion or not.

He glanced behind him to see how close the hunters were.

The nearest hunter to him ate something while running! Lucky skunk!

In front of Aredin, Nyodsrenk got closer.

Aredin would at least touch forsaken civilization before he got captured. So maybe people would remember him. Aredin, defeated in front of witnesses, instead of alone in the forest.

How would the Grandmaster spin Aredin's tale when he dies? Would he be known as a criminal, or as a martyr, some angelic figurehead of a resistance, of a revolution?

Or maybe the Grandmaster would make any trace of Aredin's existence disappear. Aredin would never have lived, because he would not have a lasting impression or mark on the world.

That terrified him.

He wanted to be known for something. Anything. He didn't want to vanish into nothingness, without a lasting effect.

So, he couldn't let himself be captured. Not today, not ever.

Another arrow tried at his legs, it fell short and hit the ground. That arrow disappeared into the darkness behind him as he ran.

Anticipation pushed Aredin forward, and he recalled Nyodsrenk from his memory as he ran. Anything to distract him from the death behind him.

Nyodsrenk, a large town nestled in between the ocean to the west and the forest creeping in on all of the other sides. To the north and south, however, Nyodsrenk felled the forest for wood to supply new houses and firewood. However, as the town expanded, it crept further through those cleared areas, getting closer to the forest's edge again and again. All the while they chopped down more poor, innocent trees, which hadn't had a chance to live their full lives.

Nyodsrenk once had a palisade wall surrounding it, but all the rapid expansion made walls close to the town useless, only hindering building placement. Plus, nobody attacked Nyodsrenk in decades—except for themselves, so the walls were pointless. Well, the wood logs used for the palisade were actually unfathomably pointy . . . but. . . .

Nyodsrenk had a somewhat pathetic road that connected up to Raenrom, made from mostly stones, but sometimes lazy latches of dirt from cleared forest and trampling hooves. That road went west-to-east, cutting through the forest and then connecting up to the road that went to and left Raenrom, leading to the other cities. Aredin could only imagine the amount of poor trees that were killed to make way for the road, through kilometers of wonderful forest. He chose to run north of that road, isolated in the forest, to make it easier for him, and harder for the hunters, as well as to avoid any patrols on the road. Bandits, always ruining everything, and requiring guards to walk the roads.

Besides that road and the ocean, Nyodsrenk sat isolated in this vast forest, known as Pine Cloak.

No road went north to the insignificant villages to the northeast, in between Raenrom and the sea, which was pointless to use . . . for complicated reasons. To put it simply, going too far out in the ocean sank boats, and the other accessible islands–close enough that boats don't sink to the force at work—were hostile to inferior Lleidunians.

Did Aredin have time to think of Nyodsrenk's famed ports, on the side of great rocky cliffs? Probably not.

With Nyodsrenk so close, and with quickly creeping exhaustion, Aredin made an uncalculated jump over a fallen tree in his direct path. Of course, when so tired, why would he think that he wouldn’t be able to jump over a large log?

His toes got caught on the remains of a branch that jutted out from the tree, which tipped him over and caused him to crash down onto the ground.

Aredin groaned. Pain.

Spoiler: Book 1, Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Aredin



After a few seconds of sulking on the forest floor, face digging into the dirt beneath him, he forced himself up off the ground with his hands.

Ow, how could everything hurt as much as it did?

Ripples of pain sent through his toes and feet. Pain so bad he thought he had lost a few toes to the tree, but he wiggled and accounted for all ten of his toes.

The aches of fatigue began to really catch up to him. Aredin thought that he might faint. The world around him teetered and twirled, almost like he viewed the world through the eyes of the wind. Aredin might as well take off into the sky and do a dance, or whatever wind does.

He stood straighter and shook off the bits of the forest floor that had gotten a bit too attached to him in the brief time he had caressed it.

"There he is!" A hunter called from behind him. Lying behind the log had apparently hidden him from the hunters.

Well, they had found him. Great. Although, he hadn't been intending to hide in the first place.

I thought I would last at least another minute.

He took off into a run, using the very last of whatever energy he had left, scraping and scavenging for any scraps of energy. Somehow finding a little more energy, he pushed himself forward, further than he ever thought he could.

His body raged an inferno of heat as it shoved itself into dangerous limits. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and left salty trails behind as they dripped down over Aredin's eyes.

Sweat also collected at the back of his neck into an unsavory pool.

He could almost kill for a good bath.

His muscles throbbed, crashing into him over and over like wild waves.

Aredin panted for breath. Desperate. Air.

Thoughts became hard, impossible. How . . . do think?

He ran into a thick line of bushes. The edge of the forest!

Another arrow struck down on Aredin. This one planted itself in the back of his right foot, cutting through the boot and some of his heel, but not much. Tending to the wound could wait for later.

He struggled his way through the bushes, which were bare twigs and branches that went off in all sorts of directions. There were so many bushes between Aredin and the street. . . .

Aredin finally finished pushing through them and stumbled forward, erupting onto the street he had seen from a distance not too long ago, yet which also seemed like an eternity ago.

Aredin wanted to collapse, to fall and never get up again. But this was not over yet. There were still more steps to take.

He bent down to yank the arrow from his foot, and then tossed it back at the approaching hunters. That . . . that would . . . teach them! Y--yeah!

The Nyodsrenk street that Aredin stood on had a width of maybe nine paces. It was of stone further down, but transitioned to dirt as it neared the forest. The walls of the buildings lining the streets had fallen victim to moss and encroaching vines. There became less of these the further into the town.

Aredin had made it into the town!

His nose caught a heavy scent in the air . . . of the ocean. He immediately yearned to turn around and wall back through the forest, where the captivating aroma of pine lingered over all. That scent had quickly disappeared when Aredin entered this town.

He sniffed, something else wafted in the air along with the ocean scent . . . beer. The building to Aredin's right had a sign that hung down from its door. A large wooden sign with the image of a mug of overflowing foam.

A tavern, at the edge of the town? Well, with the rapid expansion, they probably needed some newer establishments closer to all the new houses. Buildings stretched on and on along the street, seemingly endless. Every seven or more buildings, another street intersected this one. The street stretched to the coast, turning left and right slightly, but continuing mostly straight. So many people. . . .

Aredin noticed a distinct lack of wanted posters on walls. He spotted no board dedicated to things like that either.

What especially stood out to him included that he saw not a single poster for him. He had expected to see posters of him lining the walls of the town. If he wanted to have someone captured that he could not get, he'd put wanted posters of that person everywhere. So why did the Grandmaster not?

Ah whatever. He could be glad not to see any, maybe a little concerned, and move on. There was nothing he could do about it. Best not to worry too much, he felt too tired for that anyway.

Aredin sighed, forgetting everything around him for a moment. The hunters that pushed through the bushes, and the town around Aredin became nothing.

He rested his left hand and his weight against the plain wall of a newer house on his left and decided to take a quick breather. Not that it would do any good, he was bound to drop dead in a few minutes.

Aredin kept his right eye watching the hunters struggle through the thick tangle of bushes at the edge of the forest, while he shut his left eye to the closest street lamp, casting out a snarling, harsh glare of light towards him.

His height let him blend in with other people, or relatively alone, it made him forgettable--the dark, forest green cloak he always wore canceled that out. His short, dark brown hair stayed obediently in the cloak, and never crept out to block Aredin's vision. He liked it that way.

His spindly body made people think he didn't eat food.

He wore mud-colored pants and a slightly less brown tunic. A small satchel fell to his side, convenient for carrying coins and other things that proved useful to him.

All of this combined made it look like the forest had birthed him, which probably wasn't far from the truth, the way he loved being in the presence of great trees.

One of the hunters decided to nock an arrow and aim it towards Aredin while they still stood in the thicket of bushes. It was time to move.

Aredin pushed himself away from resting against the wall and dashed across the street to the tavern.

An arrow sped past his view and disappeared down the street. Good thing it was mostly empty of people, or the goon could've hurt someone beside Aredin.

But that might enrage someone and have them retaliate against the hunter.

In the tavern, maybe the patrons could get caught in the fight between Aredin and the hunters, and join the fight, maybe provide a distraction for him to escape.

The hunters were obviously dumb enough to walk into Nyodsrenk, evident by their advancing through the bushes. Hopefully they were incompetent enough to get attacked and overwhelmed here too.

The people of Nyodsrenk didn't like the Grandmaster's reign anymore than Aredin did. They might welcome the hunters so they could channel a bit of their built-up anger.

Aredin pushed the tavern door open before he recklessly collided with it because of his dash, and went into the tavern. He pulled the door behind him.

The scent of intoxicant drinks strengthened upon entering. On top of that, Aredin smelled roasted meat, fresh bread . . . and smoke from the cheap pipes sometimes used by the seafarers. The smoke clung to them like desperate beggars.

Aredin flinched and shook his head lightly at the sudden assault of overwhelming smells.

Almost everyone in the tavern looked up at him unwelcomely as he entered, their eyes stabbed at him like daggers.

These people are doing wonders to remind me why I avoid this town.

Aredin sighed and then paused to breathe, trying to ignore the looks given from the seafarers. Rugged sailors made for most of the people in the tavern, maybe even the town. Some minor merchants dotted the tavern tables, and people in dark cloaks discussed things off to the sides of the room. Those people had the decorum to not look up as Aredin entered.

He took that back--some stared at him, just less blatantly than the seafarers. Aredin noticed someone in the shrouded corner of the tavern room to his right. The person sat alone at a table, keeping an eye on Aredin. He held a firm and serious, calculating gaze on Aredin that unsettled him, despite the person appearing to be only about sixteen. Why did someone so young sit at a tavern? Although, Aredin wasn’t much older.

Something about the person strung Aredin as odd. Short, messy red hair topped his head. His skin looked unlike that of a Raenian. His skin came from someplace of harsh sun, a place of usually darker skin. Despite that, the ancient Raenian ancestry poked through the obviously Rithuanian heritage.

Aredin’s instincts determined that this person could be a danger to anyone or anything--including Aredin.

All these stares shook Aredin.

Go on, eat!

Aredin scanned the room quickly while heading for the bar counter. This would make him look less awkward while he planned his escape. It was stupid of him to have gone in here, but there was no going out now.

The bar was made out of wood and stood on the back-left side of the tavern. All of the tall, wooden stools that took it were filled with quite nearly drunk Nordvarns. They hastily and sloppily slapped bits, copper coins, onto the bar, demanding refills of their flagons.

To the right of the bar, a flight of stairs led to a second floor, probably to inn rooms. The staircase went from the right, up to left, and emerged on the second floor at about the halfway mark of the building. It was built to have a view over the tavern, with only a wooden railing to keep someone from falling off at either side. It was supported by simple wooden beams every few steps.

Nowadays, lowly inns and taverns were combined into one.

Each table was made from crudely cut wood, although completely circular. Slightly better looking chairs surrounded the tables, enough for maybe six or seven to circle each table comfortably. However, only two to four people occupied each table.

The tables lacked any logical order, instead having been scattered about the room wherever there was space.

The floor was made out of flat, polished wood which was splattered with ale and scraps of food. A maid currently mopped the floors, which did not do much to remove the many old stains.

Aredin noted the generous distance between the floor and the roof above, barely lit by the candles and lanterns in the tavern.

The warm, constantly changing light helped to give the tavern a comforting feel, a feel that the seafarers negated.

At Aredin's walk to the bar, the patrons finally turned back to their meals with their shoulders slightly more slumped than before, probably disappointed Aredin wasn't armed like a Raenian soldier. . . . Aredin could only hope these men were eager for a fight. Hopefully on sighting a Raenian soldier, they'd leap to tear him from limb to limb.

How much time did he have to escape? He had wasted too much time already, at any moment, the door would open and the Grandmaster's hunters would kill Aredin. Where could he go? He obviously couldn't go back outside into the town, at least not out the front door. But what about from upstairs? Maybe he could hide in one of the inn rooms . . . no.

The door burst open behind him from a forceful kick. It fell to the floor and splintered into a sea of wooden pieces. Aredin whirled around and faced the door in an instant. The hunters barged in with weapons drawn . . . they could have just opened the door, but instead they made a dramatic entrance.

Their gear intimidated Aredin.

They wore gambeson underneath chainmail hauberks, coifs, sturdy and yet maneuverable cloth pants with the occasional leg armor, leather boots, and fashionable hats with a steel mask. Beyond that steel, the hunters' eyes burned with determination and bloodlust. They thought the hunt would finally end, and with Aredin in their grasp.

One of the hunters, their squad leader, wore an armet instead of a mask, however, his eyes were still visible with the same emotions in between the steel.

He stood there in shock before he found his brain again and started moving towards the staircase slowly.

Aredin glanced at the expressions of the patrons.

Since he hadn't seen any wanted posters of himself in the few glimpses he got of Nyodsrenk outside the inn, and none inside, there was probably only a slim chance the patrons would attack Aredin, after realizing the hunters were here for him. They, probably a forty-ish percent chance that the large majority of them would do nothing.

But Aredin held on to that other remaining chance with hope, that they would attack and provide a distraction for Aredin, or defeat the hunters entirely.

The hunters ignored the bar or any empty tables and headed for the staircase.

Oh no.

The patrons watched, they didn't act.

They need encouragement, I see. Aredin glanced around the room for his options. An empty table sat not six paces away from the staircase. . . . Bartender of this humble inn, I'm sorry for the hadalpelagic I'm about to cause.

Aredin mustered any muscle he had left and ran to and then flipped over that table. It blocked the most direct path to Aredin through the maze of tables.

The patrons sat, still observers of this odd happening. Burn chances in a raging inferno! I had a good fifty percent, do something!

And then they began to shout. Everyone began cheering, shouting . . . and betting on who would win the conflict. Many bet lots of coins on Aredin.

High hopes.

Aredin sped back to the staircase and ascended it with haste, watching the chaos descend below.

Ale visibly dribbled down the beards of many bearded patrons. More ale spilled onto the floor from enthusiastically raised mugs. Some ale even landed on the unfortunate maid, whose once-clean white dress was moist and darkened.

Aredin mustered a small smile at the patrons, and then snuffed it out because of the maid.

Some people brandished weapons towards the hunters. Others started throwing mugs and food. But they didn't do much else besides the throwing to physically attack or hinder the hunters.

Then.

Some of the drunks got up and danced around. Their obese bellies blocked the trackers from moving any further--until they were pushed aside with ease. The drunks stumbled back onto tables and pushed food and drink off the tables.

A riot ensued.

Unfortunately, Aredin reached the second floor, and saw nothing else. The sounds carried up here, and they gave Aredin hope that he could escape

Hope, he relied so much on hope. He wanted more control over events around him, not to rely on possibilities like hope.

The hallway that the stairs led into continued straight, and then right and left after two rooms on either side. The hallway measured about a cramped six paces wide. How did it go any further right than this? That hallway section was above the kitchens.

He ran down the dark and gloomy hallway. A lone lantern flickered in the hallway, which rested on a small table at the top of the stairs. Door after door on either side approached and then became something of the past within heartbeats. In mere moments, Aredin stood at the other end of the hallway.

A window sat in the wall, here at the end, created from a wooden rail and a cross-shaped grille. Glass windows were a thing of the rich. Nobody in Nyodsrenk had the money to spend on fancy windows, especially when the Grandmaster funneled much of their earned coin.

The window also had a currently open shutter on the outside. The window--luckily for once--seemed to be big enough for Aredin to get through if he could get the cross of wood out of the way.

Aredin first started altering the window to his personal liking by trying to yank against the cross of the window with both of his hands, but it didn't budge.

So, he then moved his hands away from the window and kicked the wooden window once . . . twice--the window grille splintered apart, a swarm of wooden shards flew out from where it used to be. Aredin kicked off any remaining pieces of wood attached to the frame. With the grille gone, the window could now just barely fit Aredin, so he could crawl through it and onto the rooftop.

Finally! A dignified window.

He grasped onto the window frame, a hand on either side. He looked out of the window, the rooftop was only a few paces above. He threw one leg onto the windowsill and ducked slightly to make room for his body. He then looked back.

Heavy footfalls climbed up the stairs. The hunters had pushed through the tavern and would soon be upon him. He had wasted too much time appreciating his new art.

He pushed himself out of the window, keeping one foot on the frame. With his hands, he began to look for cracks in the wooden walls and began to do the dumbest thing he had ever done.

He climbed.

He frantically searched for each next hold.

So close to escape from the hunters, he ran out of close handholds.

What could he do? He needed to think quickly.

He had a rather crude dagger, could he use that to make his own handholds? But how could he unsheath it without losing grip and falling off the wall?

He strained his neck to look at the next building over. It was another two-floored building, with an alleyway five paces wide. Barrels and sealed crates lined the sides of the alley, which probably served as a cheap storage for the tavern and inn.

Aredin gripped hard with his left hand, and then swiped his right hand over to his sheath to grab his dagger.

As he did, a hand from below grabbed onto his left foot.

No! The roof was so close! From there, he could jump from roof to roof between the thin alleys and along the buildings that were directly connected to each other. He could lose the hunters and finally be free of this chase!

Aredin thrashed about, trying to get the hand off him. He lost the footing of his left foot.

He held on to the wall with only his right foot and left hand, but he grabbed his dagger and stabbed it into the wall. He then hauled himself up.

The hand, which only barely reached Aredin, ripped off his boot.

"Burning trees!" The hunter cried.

Aredin scrambled up the wall, stabbing it with his dagger when he needed new holds.

His arms and legs couldn't support him much longer. His brief break in the hallway and in the tavern before the hunters entered had done little to refresh him.

He needed sleep, food, and water. Things he couldn't get right now.

The roof overhanged the wall by about half a pace. Aredin took his left hand and then threw it up and around the overhang, and then onto the roof. He stabbed a new handhold right below the overhang, and then tried to pull himself up.

He partially hit his head on the overhand, and his dagger kept sinking into the wall, creating a larger hold that made the daggers grip on the wall loosen.

Ugh, he couldn't do this.

He brought his left hand back to its old hold, and then took out the dagger and carved some footholds further up from the ones he used now. Be could heft himself up to these, and with a hand on the roof, could possibly pull himself up better.

He looked down as he carved the new holds, and saw two if the hunters climb from the window and start scaling the wall.

After making the holds, he returned his left hand to the top of the roof, carved a fresh hold for the dagger, and then hefted his feet up as he pulled himself up with his left hand, bracing with his right.

He pulled himself up and around the overhang, legs dangling over the side. He then fully got himself onto the roof.

He lay there, puffing for air. Yet the hunters climbed below him, and would soon meet him on the rooftop.

Aredin pushed himself to his feet and then turned around, glancing at the next building, which had been to his back as he climbed.

He sheathed his dagger and tested the shale tiles, making sure he wouldn't slip, then gave himself a running start, and jumped across the small alley space onto that other roof.

Loose shingles slipped off from the reverberation of his feet hitting the roof

They slid off and fell down into the alley, cracking into a thousand shards as they hit the ground.

Aredin lost his balance for a moment, almost falling and hitting the roof, but he caught himself.

He turned to look at the hunters climbing the tavern and inn walls. One of them had been hit by one or more of the shingles and had fallen to the ground, but the other had almost reached the roof. Another hunter climbed in the other's place, who did not stir. Aredin's stomach churned.

Aredin turned and walked along the slanted roof, which was flat enough to walk on without issue. Many of the roofs had this gradual slope, with only a few having steep peaks.

He now needed to find a way to get these hunters off his tail. The easiest way would be to jump into the ocean, but they'd probably commission a boat and eventually find him somehow. Unless they didn't know he jumped into the ocean, but at least one seemed to always know his location. Plus, Aredin didn't feel like swimming with the squids just yet.

Aredin paused to look at the captivating moon, whose shape Aredin has trouble describing, a rough, prismatic diamond maybe. It wobbled slightly in the sky–as if orbiting itself–as it continued its fourth and final rotation of the day around the planet. The moon passes by twice in the day and two times at night.

The moon dwarfed every other object, making the two suns that appeared in the day seem tiny. However, in comparison to the two suns, tonight, the moon glowed orange with intense, anticipating energy. A sign of something soon to come.

It was a Hunters' Moon, a rare, mesmerizing variant of a full moon. It was named "Hunters' Moon" because it was a good time to hunt animals for the winter, but it was also an omen . . . a bad one--or so most people in northwestern Lleidunia believed. Aredin didn't believe in the superstitions, but tonight, he had a reason to fear them, to acknowledge them. Despite being orange, some called it a Blood Moon.

A Blood Moon was the start to an end. A night of bloodshed.

One of the hunters made it onto the roof. They watched Aredin, waiting for the others. To wait, they took their bow from around their torso and nocked an arrow.

Should Aredin attack, or run?

Probably attack, since that hunter currently stood alone. But Aredin did not want to fight, not while running was an option, even if it obviously had not worked in the past two days.

Tonight was different, Aredin was in Nyodsrenk.

Aredin took off along the roof. Yet pathetically, fatigue ate at him like a powerful and influential parasite, draining him.

As he ran, he quickly grew tired and puffed for air, while his fatigue grew to new heights. At the end of this, he'd die of overworking his body.

But for now, it ran on desperation and a need to preserve, even if he'd die in the end.

That once-nocked arrow cut through the air, flying way to Aredin's right as he veered left and towards another building.

He jumped a narrow alley and crashed down onto another set of connected buildings, making for a collection of rooftops. Again, his landing caused loose slate tiles around him to fall off the slight slant of the roof. They splintered as they hit the stone alley, creating a bit of commotion.

He wasn't waking any Nyodsren by these. They usually stayed up through the night drinking, then sleeping through the day.

As far as the rumors said—which were probably ignorant stereotypes.

Aredin stole a brief glimpse behind him. The leader of the group of hunters and two others followed from a rooftop away. The others were nowhere to be seen. That unsettled Aredin, where had they gone?

Another arrow shot across his view in front of his face. If he kept running at the pace he was at before looking behind him, that would've pierced his head.

Well, to his left somewhere was where another hunter stood.

Were the hunters desperate? The Grandmaster wanted Aredin alive, but he kept slipping away from the hunters' grasps. Better to kill him and end the threat than to spend an extended time of exhaustion at a chance for taking Aredin alive. But that would spark the Grandmaster's wrath than letting Aredin go until they could capture him. The Grandmaster wanted Aredin alive so that he could gain the satisfaction of killing him.

Aredin continued forward at a quicker pace. Somehow, he had managed to get many houses away from the tavern and inn, which was now something in the distance, something of the past.

Aredin jumped to another rooftop, but fell short. He threw out his hands onto the rooftop and caught himself before he fell to the ground. His body yanked to a halt, probably hurting a whole list of bones and muscles.

With arms that feel like weak noodles, he pulled himself up onto the rooftop.

And then retched, bile dripped from his mouth.

He collapsed onto the rooftop in overwhelming exhaustion, panting. Sweat poured from his head,moving with the bile at his chin, and then in a small pool on the slate tile under his head.

So this was finally the end. It had come, after a good resistance against the inevitable. Although he would've liked to have lasted at least another day, that had been too ambitious of a hope.

He shut his eyes, and tried to control his breathing.

All around him on the roof, and on the one behind him, he heard footsteps on the slate tiles.

More to come later! I need to figure out which ones I want to share.
I don't want to just paste everything here for fear of someone copying it.

I love the forums breaking my formatting sorry about that.

Italics (thoughts as well as emphasis) are gone.

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Spoiler: Book 2 Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Redimer


The window revealed a bleak nothingness. The abyssal clouds blocked the moon from shining upon the open ocean.
Those clouds sent thick rain pouring down, falling onto the merchant boat and everything around it for kilometers—including the nearing coastal city of Kirbenost.
The water appeared as black as the thunder clouds above. The eerie wall of gloom rendered silver shimmers on the waves and tranquil reflections of the moon and its light void.
The rickety ship creaked on the shoreline waters inside Kirbenost's territory after three days at sea coming from the southeast. It came from Rithuane—a hot, dry city on the water's edge of a savannah, a wilted and withered place compared to Kirbenost.
New rain coated the entirety of the small, wooden vessel. The droplets of water pitter-pattered against the roofs of the ship's rooms. That, and the rocking created somewhat of a violent lullaby. The boat tossed and turned on the open coast during the early spring storm.
The wind threw rain in every direction, causing the water to hit against the sides of the boat or slip through cracks between the planks and into the ship.
A solitary ship on a stormy night, surrounded only by water and nothingness. Under the night and the clouds, nothing could be seen, and so nothing existed. Not even Kirbenost's looming castle was visible, nor its lighthouse.
The storm churned and rippled the living sea, making it seem like a wet, shadowy entity embracing the merchant ship and waiting to plunge it into the deep waters.
Redimer did not feel too pleased about this. Every passing second he spent asking when the storm would stop. When would they reach land, when would he no longer need to be on this boat?
Yet, it would be over soon, for after all of the sailing at sea, he'd finally touch stable ground in a matter of minutes. Kirbenost couldn't be more than a kilometer away.
Redimer sat on his cot in the small room that has been his home for three long days. A room right next to the captain's room. Those two rooms—plus another reserve room—led to a thin hallway that connected the entrances to the three rooms, and then to a door that led to the deck of the ship. The entrance to the below deck could be found elsewhere.
Water trickled into his room from the door. The room's boarded windows did little to stop the rain's onslaught. The water continued to find ways to reach Redimer.
A single thing poked out from the cloak of black clouds and night. It shone through Redimer's boarded window to the left, illuminating his damp, dark room and the arriving raindrops.
An orb of glowing yellow light. The mark of a dock, the mark of a city, of civilization . . . of land. The lighthouse stood tall, shining as best it could over the sea.
Thunder cracked and waves roared. The occasional thunderbolt lit up the dark, cloudy sky for brief moments before the sky went back to its total darkness, save for the struggling brightness of the lighthouse.
A wave crashed into the ship and propelled it sideward. The cot, ancient chair, and chipped wooden desk that occupied the room all slammed to the side of the ship from their various spots. An empty glass lantern that once sat on the desk shattered onto the plank floor.
Redimer, sitting on the cot, hit his back against the ship's hull and grunted as pain flared through his back in an overwhelming pulse.
I knew it! I'm going to die at sea!
A loose plank, set free by his weight, launched out into the sea behind him. Wind and rain whipped at him and drenched his tunic.
Redimer put his hands against his face, continuing to sit in front of where the missing plank had been.
The leaky ship caused Redimer to get soaked. He dripped water from head to toe—mostly his fault. He could move the cot and go sit somewhere else in the small room, but he chose to stay there, against the missing plank and exposed to the storm. He needed the fresh air, instead of being completely encased in wood—terrible stuffy cabin.
His boring tan tunic and brown trousers clung to his slightly tanned, pale skin. He shivered frequently from the cold and moistness that embraced his body. He hadn't slept because of the raging storm, and the conditions were too intense to sleep in.
He rubbed his eyes and waited for the voyage to be over. Kirbenost was so close, how much longer did he need to wait?
The strong smell of the ocean assaulted Redimer's senses, overpowering even the scent of fresh rain.
He felt himself getting sick. His stomach churned like the sea, his head pounded, his throat hurt as if he had swallowed a bucket full of brine.
He wanted to take a nap, but couldn't in these miserable conditions. He closed his eyes, but then snapped open from his moist, clinging clothes, from the rain and the ocean pounding at his back.
I hope the pay for the job is worth this awful travel—and more, to make a profit, to make this task truly worth it all. Not that money did him any good, or that the coins that entered his pockets would make a difference. . . .
This would be Redimer's first time visiting inside the walls of the greatest city on Lleidunia: Kirbenost. Well, actually that belonged to Rithuane, but he had listened to many tales about Kirbenost's splendor.
This trip would not be just to travel, it would be so he could start and complete a task assigned to him by the very king and queen of Rithuane, and the king of Kirbenost.
His stomach groaned . . . growled.
Redimer turned around in his seat, and emptied his stomach out into the ocean.
Why did I accept this task? Why do I accept any of their tasks? I should just go back to doing—
Maybe I should get the captain to turn this ship around. Oh no, another three days at sea? No, I'm making landfall soon, just a matter of what I do with it.
He could tell the king he wasn't going to accept the job, then perhaps, take a look around Kirbenost?
You've never been much for vacations, unless it involved sword fights between you and someone else, particularly crime lords and threats to the throne.
Redimer snorted at himself, oh look at me, trying to be all heroic and loyal to Rithuane.
Redimer wanted to distract himself from his thoughts. If only he could take a nap . . . then he would probably dream about slaying demons and sea monsters.
No, he needed to find peace.
A good sword fight.
Redimer glanced at the table and its drawer, which contained his satchel, and then frowned. He had forgotten to bring a sword with him. Looks like he'd have to settle for dagger fights until he could borrow one from the king.
I bet he wouldn't let me do that unless I agreed to help him finish his task.
Redimer looked out into the abyss, the deepest shade of black only centimeters from his dark room in the ship. He felt the rain relentlessly tap against his face. He watched the distant streaks of yellow blaze through the sky. What would happen if one of those hit the boat?
How much longer would the storm go on for? Minutes? Hours? Days? When could it end? How much did it contribute to Redimer's suffering.
Sure, I'll play this game: what do I hate most about the events unfolding right now? He used to do that with stories as a kid. Call him pessimistic, but he enjoyed finding out what he liked the least about each story.
Though my life is no story.
The storm—he definitely loathed it. Too much water and discomfort, and loud, sudden noises in the form of thunder.
The old, poor ship—he hated that too. He disliked being at sea in general, the boat might suddenly decide to sink at any moment, and Redimer would die, lost in the ocean. The ship must've seen decades, and it certainly needed a fortune's worth of repairs. At that point, they might as well scrap it and make a new ship from its planks.
Hmmm. What about the job? His motivations, his reasons? . . . Himself?
"We've arrived!" A ship crewmember announced from above.
Redimer couldn't help himself from smiling.
Finally.

Spoiler: Book 2 Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Redimer



The ship slowed as it gradually turned left into Kirbenost's main harbor—the one that faced the vast expanse of ocean to the east. Kirbenost was a coastal city that could nearly be classified as an island. Right outside of its walls to the north, a river ran from the ocean to a lake on the western side of it, where a second, smaller port was located.

However . . . land connected Kirbenost to the mainland via the south. If it wasn't an island, Kirbenost could certainly be called a peninsula.

Redimer anxiously stood from his seat at the wet cot, and walked to the wooden table that was now out of its place after sliding around the room from all the tosses and turns of the ship. Now, he needed to grab his belongings. It would not serve him well to walk around without any possessions. Who knew when he'd need a knife, a map of Kirbenost, some coins, or a change in clothes?

The drawer faced towards the hull of the ship, resting up against it. He turned the table around in a single, swift movement of his hands. With that done, he opened up its single drawer under the table's top to retrieve his satchel, the storage for all the items he brought with him.

There were only a few spots where the outside cloth was damp—Redimer's belongings had survived the storm. He couldn't say the same for the clothes around himself . . . or his mind, that had been damaged the most during the storm. Okay, maybe not, but it felt a bit like that.

He hoisted the satchel around his head and let its soft, durable cloth drop down around his arm and rest at his left side.

The merchant boat lurched to a halt. It swayed up and down gently, safe from the harsh waves by wooden walkways to its sides, and a tall stone wall to its front. The waves closer to the shore proved weaker than the ones in the open ocean.

Redimer exited his room and moved through the small hallway to the deck of the ship. He felt glad that the hallway was as short as it was, because he didn't know how long he could last in something that dark and narrow.

Rain still downpoured, dark clouds still blotted out the moon. A weak wind tossed handfuls of raindrops at Redimer, soaking his already wet clothes.

Sailors and dock crewmen hustled onboard to haul crates and barrels onto the docks. The captain shouted over the thunder, rain, and wind about where to put what and to be careful with certain supplies.

"Don't drop that crate!" He yelled. "Be careful! Don't you dare slip!"

The deck was coated in about two centimeters of water. The planks were all splintering and wearing down enough to snap and split under enough weight and pressure. The white sails flapped helplessly, frequently banging against the wooden masts in the harsh wind, as if ready to be torn off at a moment's notice. The ship was one whole safety hazard, ready to fall apart and take its crew with it.

Redimer passed by the captain on the way off of the ship. He had already paid when he boarded, but he still wanted to give the captain something.

"Use this to repair your ship," he opened a small, side pocket of his satchel where he kept some of his currency and dropped five silver coins into the palms of the captain as a tip.

Someone in particular scolded him in his mind for his generous but frivolous spending.

Rain drenched Redimer, it sent tremors of almost freezing cold throughout his body.

"If you use it for something else," Redimer attempted at a wink, "I'll know."

It worked every time, the captain would go on to use those funds to repair the ship.

He had nothing left to do, so he walked off the ship via a giant, sturdy board of wood that the crew set between the ship and a pier.

"Curse this rain," Redimer grumbled, holding his left hand above his head, silently wishing he had brought a hat or a cloak—or for the rain to go away.

Always unprepared, packing very little, but bringing enough money to buy nearly everything he would need. Someday, he would change that habit.

Water that found its way into Redimer's short, dark brown boots slushed around under his feet and in between his toes. The rain had flattened his slightly poofy red hair, leaving it uncomfortable.

Redimer spent nearly his whole life around the city of Rithuane, which rarely had rain, and the rain that did come wasn't nearly as intense. This moist Kirbenost climate was new to him.

But here he was, inside of Kirbenost and on solid land. All he had to do—or rather, all he wanted to do—was walk to the nearest inn and sleep there for the night. Then in the morning, he could go meet the king in the castle to check in for the job. The king had also said something about providing rooms.

Indeed, he would be getting a room in the castle. Although, it wouldn't be as special because he would not be getting his own room. He would be sharing it with the other people who were given the same job.

He was ambivalent on whether he wanted to sleep in the same room with a bunch of strangers, however.

Redimer had only been given the names and basic information of the other people he was working with. But he already knew a lot about them. These other people were known all across Lleidunia because of a certain event that happened on the western coast of the mini-continent, specifically, an event that involved a rebellion and the overthrowing of a sinister dictator and replacing him with a council of a group of different people.

Redimer walked up the stairs from the docks and piers—the lower port—to the upper port.

The upper port appeared extremely busy, even near midnight. Unlike the wooden piers of the lower port, stone constituted the flooring of the upper port. Firm ground. Redimer relaxed ever so slightly.

There was a dry dock not too far from Redimer, where people were repairing a broken-down caravel there. The dry dock had a large, arched roof that extended over to the sides to keep the caravel . . . dry.

There were also treadmill cranes positioned on the port, just above sections of pier, to move crates and barrels of goods around on the upper port, and perhaps reach down to the lower port.

People of all professions walked from destination to destination in the rain. It seemed to Redimer like mainly dock workers and sailors, but there were certainly other people—Redimer included among them, a mercenary of sorts.

What did all these people do, walking from one place to the other in the middle of a stormy night? Where was the curfew?

After only a few minutes of walking through the port, it came to an end. In the place of cranes and crates easily seen by lanterns, dark houses stood. What were busy walkways in the port were now empty, desolate streets in the city proper.

Each house towered two and sometimes three stories high . . . houses almost shapeless, except for the fact the winding stone streets molded them, keeping them contained in blocks.

Every single one of the houses had walls of stone and small windows of what looked like reinforced wood. Coniferous and oak wood framed the other levels, and colorful tudor made the walls of those floors. The windows were bigger than those of the first floors, but still mostly framed and shuttered with wood, glass was seldom used for the windows.

The roofs of the houses were shingled or wooden, and in upside down V-shape. Sometimes the attic or final story showed its tudor facade. Other times a side of the roof faced the streets, showing only wood, shingles, and decorative windows. The windows on the roof jutted out from it with elaborate overhangs. These windows were almost always glass.

The streets themselves were kept rather clean, and they were forlorn and devoid of life at this time.

A curfew should have been in effect in the streets by now, and it should've started a few hours ago, restricting activity on the streets at night. Though, that didn't seem to be the case. Either Redimer wasn't seeing any patrols, there was no curfew, or they didn't walk in the storm.

Redimer worried what would happen if he did encounter a guard patrol, what would they do with him, where would they take him? He probably couldn't verify his identity as one of the people helping the king.

Redimer passed by the towering lighthouse on his way through the beginning of Kirbenost's streets just off of the port. The lighthouse still had its bright yellow orb of light shining towards the empty sea for any sailors to find their way to Kirbenost. The light shone as the brightest thing closest to Redimer.

The tall glowing building had a tranquil garden behind it for Kirbenost citizens and new and temporary arrivals to enjoy.

The garden was encased by an ornamental white fence made from birch wood that marked the boundary between the streets and the garden. The white wood was a luxury import from the north, and to use it to decorate something such as a common garden made it obvious just how much richer Kirbenost was compared to everyone else.

As the center of trade on the island or mini continent, Kirbenost had excess money to spend. Contradictory to Rithuane, which barely had enough money to upkeep its tremendous population. Would Kirbenost's king help Rithuane if Redimer succeeded in helping him?

Redimer walked down the street and closer to the garden. The rain had been cloaking most of its detail, but as he got closer, it wasn't the tranquil garden he originally noticed it to be. It revealed into Redimer’s vision a poorly tamed riot of overgrowing plants and a splattering of color.

Inordinate lush green bushes and shrubs extended far beyond their territory, most of the plants grew through the fence or intruded far onto the carefully laid out garden path made from asymmetrical stepping stones. The only things keeping the plants tamed and away from world conquest were the humble gardeners. However, the plants were cut conservatively out of a fear one clip of the shears would ruin the whole garden.

Not only was the three-house long garden a mess of overgrowth, but of color. Flowers of every color grew across the entirety of the garden; purple tulips and red roses and yellow snapdragons.

Redimer decided it reflected his inner self quite a bit. He . . . liked the garden because of that. It felt like looking directly into his soul . . . okay, maybe not. His thoughts seemed like mush in his brain—he needed sleep.

The garden looked nice though, it has a bit of charm. Definitely nicer than the gardens of dead and dehydrated plants back in Rithuane.

Well, he enjoyed being in its presence until he noticed a certain plant inside of its birch fence boundary. Somehow, he spotted it through all the messy anarchy of the garden, sticking out to him like a sore thumb. Yet, it was a sore thumb on a whole hand of swollen fingers. That one plant seized Redimer's gaze, ignoring the rest of the garden. His enjoyment of it immediately ceased.

A cluster of bulb shaped, orange flowers with fuzzy, curling pink tendrils inside of them. The exposed flowers of the plant were small—they could easily be missed by the passing eye. Redimer had recognized it immediately—although he wished he hadn't.

This plant—Oh no.

This plant was among the deadliest things on all of Lleidunia . . . so purpose did it serve here, in this garden? It couldn't have been placed there by accident, considering it was quite horrid at spreading its seeds.

Those bulbed orange flowers belonged to nothing other than the most common type of treesite, a highly fatal plant that grew on the northwestern side of the island, this was the middle of the western coast. Naturally, they grew exclusively on trees and fed only off the nutrients that its host tree gathers. Those unfortunate trees barely lasted a week being fed on.

So to something as weak and thin as a human, just brushing a treesite with a finger could kill them. It started with coming in contact with the plant, which causes treesite stuff to enter through their skin and then take root in their neck, promptly, it cuts off resources to their brain, and eventually causes it to decompose because of its weakened state and the treesite's invasive growth; and this all happened in a matter of a few hours.

Redimer had . . . he had . . . witnessed this once before in Rithuane: it had not been a pleasant experience.

So why was it here? Why was the most dangerous plant—a plant used as a weapon—in this garden?

Maybe he should go investigate, take a closer look.

Redimer took a step closer.

The wind whirled through the streets and whipped at Redimer's ears and played with his messed up hair from the rain. The wind grabbed and pulled on the ends of his tunic.

The winds almost . . . whispered. It was passing in a certain direction . . . away from the gardens. Like it wanted him to turn, to look away, to leave.

Coincidence?

Thunder struck down. The rain still fell.

Redimer decided to check his options, although his curiosity and his will to follow through his assigned task urged him to investigate. Could the treesite have a significant function being here? Like, could it give me a lead on my task?

No, of course he wouldn't find a lead on his first hour on a Kirbenost's ground. Perhaps the treesite was nothing. Maybe he mistook it for some random plant. Perhaps his lack of sleep drove him into insanity, hallucinations.

He continued down the street for a few more paces. To the south—or in this case to his left—was a wall of houses, the street continued west for a few more buildings and then turned left and met up with another street. The wall of houses parted for the street on the first floor. However, for the second floor, the wall of houses continued. This created a sort of uncertain tunnel for the street, which was devoid of light more than the night present on the streets.

The first building Redimer could spot through the thick rain and beyond the tunnel had a welcoming sign above its door that swung in the windy storm. A warm, orange light emitted from the building and shone through the windows and doors. There was a picture of a bed on the sign, as well as an inscription, which was too far away to read.

But without any question, it was an inn.

For moments, Redimer forgot about the treesite.

An inn! Sleep!

Redimer found an inn already—in this city he's never been to—and he didn't even need to open the main pocket of his satchel for a map of Kirbenost to find one. Although, he wouldn't have kept his maps dry if he opened his satchel in the rain . . . well maybe if he found a place free of rain, like the tunnel up ahead by the inn. But he didn't need to grab his maps because the inn was right by where he'd be able to use them.

Well, whatever, this line of thought was pointless.

He liked the conveniences of this city's building locations already. An inn right there! Just by walking down a street for a minute or two.

He had maps of each city in case he had to travel there or needed the specific location of an important building. Although, he usually ended up never using the maps, since he rarely ever got a task outside of Rithuane—until now, that was. Kirbenost, a big, unfamiliar city of winding streets and an intense clutter.

He had dreams of getting a task outside of Rithuane, but had never asked for one, there was never anything going on anywhere else but Rithuane, and Rithuane was where Redimer was needed. Unless, that was what he was led to believe.

The ones that he did get, did not live up to his expectations. When could he be involved in something truly world-changing? When could he take a break from beating up gang leaders in Rithuane to taking down The—

Back when Raenrom was Usurped, Redimer was young and he—he didn't have his job yet. And when the rebellion was put into motion to overthrow the man on Raenrom's thrown, it happened too fast to have traveled from Rithuane to Raenrom and have done anything useful for either side of the conflict.

But now, Redimer had a task outside of Rithuane, his dreams had come alive. There was a thrill to it, being away from Rithuane . . . being away from—He felt . . . alive . . . well if it weren't for his exhaustion or the worrying treesite plant.

Redimer turned to face the garden again, and the treesite.

The plant was slightly obstructed behind the fence. The night, and a thick sheet of rain.

The downpour had not yet ceased, and if it weren't for Kirbenost's advanced drainage system, the streets would have flooded long ago during the storm.

Hmm. There was something off about this. . . .

The streams on the ground flowed into holes on the sides of the streets, where they trickled down into a system of tunnels that led out to sea.

The running water from the strong downpour carried everything with it.

The gardens started right off of the street; its position was in the place of a few buildings, so it didn't take long for water from the garden to disappear into the tunnels underneath the city, and the water was not exposed for long at all.

Redimer sighed and then cursed under his heavy breath.

By the treesite—from the treesite—a dark crimson dyed the excess runoff from the garden and drained into the system below the ground.

Blood.

Fresh blood.

A whole lot of blood.

And the torrent of water carried all of the violent red away into the underground tunnels, never to be seen again. It was being efficiently cleaned up by the storm and by the clever drainage system.

The rate at which the body decomposes after coming in contact with a treesite was too fast. By the time the storm would end, there would be nothing left of the corpse, not even a bone or a nail or a piece of skin.

This was smart, it was no accident.

This . . . was a murder.

 

“Like a particularly vengeful bee” is a synonym I aspire to use as a writer