The Setting Sunrise. (Working title)
Oct 18, 2012 20:34:03 GMT -6
Post by Selibas on Oct 18, 2012 20:34:03 GMT -6
The following is the beginning of the first chapter of a small fantasy novel I began writing last friday, it's about a little less than half of what I have planned. Please give me any feedback.
1.
For when he comes, they shall know his name.
The Earth will shake, never to be the same.
To be joined by the trickster and the rat catcher.
And the power of Vim shall come to be seen.
Tarin plowed the fields as best he could on the sweltering summer day. The valley was always hot, even in the winter. He’d only seen ice once in his life, a merchant had brought it through, and it had melted before a sale cold be made. Tarin hated the heat, but the cold never came. The cold was a fantasy for children, that most would never meet. The valley was large, but only had one true village. As a farmer, or a herder, you had no reason to leave once you reached the age that you could start your own family.
Tarin had no illusions that he could leave the valley when his mother didn't need him. His mother would always need him. He wouldn’t have to start his own farm, but that was the only positive. His father had died when he was twelve, and now he worked the land alone. His mother’s mind had been leaving her for years yet, and was all but gone forever. The only time her strange babblings turned happy were when her old friend Yarach came by every other night.
The plow got stuck for a second, and Tarin forced it through age old hard packed dirt. He was the third biggest man in the valley, in terms of muscle. At only seventeen that was quite an accomplishment. The other two were Yarach and a man Hendel the blacksmith. Shockingly enough, Tarin was much stronger than Hendel’s apprentice, Mayim. He was a slightly below average height at five foot five. He was quite sure the only reason no-one jibed at his height was due to his massive strength.
He had pale yellow eyes, that also set him apart from everyone else. His mothers eyes were dark brown, and his fathers had been hazel. Considering his parents had been among the southern refugees, he and everyone who knew him assumed that he had gotten it from a grandparent, although his father had struggled to smile at jibes of, “What color were the local guardsmen’s eyes?” His father had often told him that superior men didn't fight at what a lesser man would. He had also told Tarin that a strong man must hold himself back even more, as him fighting a normal man was something more dangerous.
Tarin’s hair was a light brown, almost red strangely. Again, it was unlike his mother’s jet black, and his father’s fair blonde. It was past his ears, and barely curly. It clung to him now, as sweat poured out of him in response to the heat and strain of his body. He shaved his beard every few days, he considered it unclean until he could grow a full beard. He had a plethora of hair on his neck, and his jaw line was covered, but his lip and chin was still adorned with light, wispy, and immaculate hair.
Tarin had a large long nose. It was shaped in such a way that it didn't dominate his face. His ears were small for his head, but didn’t look all that out of place. Tarin’s last defining quality was his wide and square jaw. He was a menagerie of masculine features, and was considered quite handsome by the girls in the village, and a few of the women. Not that he had time to act on his good looks, all of his time was spent feeding his mother. Eat, sleep, and work. That was the way Tarin Freehod lived day to day.
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Tarin heard the inevitable footsteps of Yarach and Damos coming down the road. He turned and smiled genuinely, “Hello Yarach. Hello Damos” The tall man glided toward where Tarin sat on his porch, sharpening his hoe. He was the most composed man Tarin had ever seen. His body didn’t move as his legs lightly lifted and landed. He was one of the hardest working men in the valley, he could have fed the entire village with any of the different crops he grew with his adopted nephew. The only reason he didn’t, was to give other farmers a chance to profit, and store what would be needed for hard years ahead. After a long day of working his fields, he looked as if he had just woken up an hour ago, and woken completely. He clearly wasn’t a man who didn’t roll his sleeves up, he was packed with the muscles a working man had, and was backed up with some that came from activities Tarin couldn’t guess. He looked old and young at the same time.
Yarach’s voice rolled out, with the same “high and filled” accent he shared with Damos, Tarin, and Tarin’s parents spoke with, but with an even more rich sound, “Hello Tarin, I see you completed the field early as usual this year.” Tarin looked over at his work. As usual, he had his field plowed early as he could, and growing a little larger every year. The grain was running out, and the garden wasn’t yielding as many tomatoes as usual, and Tarin’s mother detested meat, so he struggled to feed the decaying woman. “Is your mother well?”
Tarin looked back down at the hoe, “As well as is to be expected.” He tried to keep his tone from getting harsh.
Yarach walked past him with a hand on his shoulder, and opened the door his tone even lighter as he saw the woman looking out the back window, “Hello Ahisa! Your looking well today.”
Tarin flinched at the way the man said the name. All of the people in the valley said Ah-hisha, where Damos, Tarin, and Tarin’s father said Ah-isa. Yet every time Yarach said it, it was Iysa, always said like that. Tarin’s father had been her husband, he said her name right. Tarin loved the man like an uncle, but his father was his father.
“Shocking isn’t it? That you aren’t considered interesting to any village girls, when your eyes never move, always straight from your head, and your head always looking straight at whatever job you need to do.”
Damos’ voice was close to Yarach’s but wasn’t quite so high
and carrying. It was closer than Tarin and his parents, but not that much. He had sandy blonde hair, and let it grow to his shoulders until Yarach made him cut it. He had a small nose, and blue eyes, and a round jaw. He was about six feet tall, but weighed less than Tarin. He wasn’t small, but he wasn’t big. He was three months older than Tarin. He did the bare minimum of what he was asked to do, but wasn’t quite lazy. He simply did what he was told, and otherwise sat about, talked, thought.
Damos was the most bored person Tarin had ever met. It was why the second he was out of Yarach’s sight he would get into trouble, and give him an inch give him a mile! He once locked all the doors in the village, from the outside, and it had taken hours for the locksmith to fix the problem. Yarach had hit him across the ear when he’d found him, but also borrowed some pieces from the smith, and Damos had been preoccupied for a week.
“It was my understanding that most of the girls you talk to are asking after me?” Tarin somewhat asked somewhat stated.
Damos snapped back, “Wouldn’t you? If you saw a monstrous man walking about, having to turn to fit through doorways, and not looking at any but who he talked to?”
Tarin smiled. It was his friends same old joke. Tarin would smile, but he didn’t know how to talk to girls his age, which played a small part in why Tarin didn’t talk to them. He also tended to keep Damos out of trouble when they were with each other. The statement about doors was true. He said, “Monstrous? Just because a man isn’t a wisp doesn’t make him a monster Mos.”
“And just because a man isn’t covered in unnecessary and unseemly bulges doesn’t make him a wisp Rin.”
“Wisps tend to break across the hands of monsters.” Damos came to sit next to Tarin before the larger boy spoke his retort.
“Monsters tend to seek the breaking before thinking, just as wisps tend to anger those they know they should not.” Tarin and Damos turned at the same time toward the country voice that spoke as if it hated the country in it. Kellmar Softbrow, was the least muscled man in the valley, he even had a little fat on his bones. Only a little of course, but it was still there. He sat atop his horse, but held his reins one handed, as the other held his place in the book he had been reading. He had messy brown hair that curled all around his head. He had blue eyes, and a hooked nose. He had small round eyes that were red from squinting at small text. He was actually a nice lad, simply a very dry wit with it, which many people in the village didn’t understand. He was five years older than Tarin, and four from Damos.
“Hello Kellmar, any reason you’re so far ahead of the wagon?” said Damos. Kellmar’s father ran the brewery, and Kellmar already ran the numbers for the whole business. He usually went into town to attempt haggling, the problem being that the people in the village had raised him; they didn’t believe he would try to pull the wool over his eyes, and would take practically any price he tried out, which frustrated him greatly.
“Looking for him.” Kellmar inclined his head.
Tarin and Damos looked over at the third chair and the porch and yelped. The small boy went into a fit of laughter from where he’d been sitting for who knows how long. Tarin quickly dropped his hoe and ran to pick up the boy in the chair. The younger boy was fourteen, and was quite the hunter.
Oran was his name, and he was only five feet tall, but weighed one hundred and forty pounds, most of which was in his shoulders. He’d been hunting and shooting since he was seven. It was only a hobby for his father, and his brother was only interested in books, but the young boy could feed the family if he needed to. That was why he didn’t work at the brewery, that and the fact that his attention span was cut into an eighth when he didn’t hold a bow. He had short brown hair, and a wide hard jaw. He had dark green eyes, and a the bridge of his nose was almost as wide as his nostrils, despite his nose being relatively large. His ears fit his head nicely at his size, and he had a large widow’s peak.
Oran’s laughter only increased as he was lifted into the air. Tarin put him down, and let out a small chuckle as his front of anger faded. He returned to his chair, and picked his hoe up again, setting to the sharpening in almost one motion. Damos kept his face angry, but Tarin could tell from his friends eyes he was not, The tall boy said, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, someone’s libel to stab you with a hoe.”
Oran stopped laughing, but still managed a toothy grin, “What about the time I found you sneaking around the river when a few of those Clint girls were bathing?” He spoke similar to Kellmar, but not with as much indignation in his voice.
Damos snorted, “Oh? And would you mind telling us why you were down there good lad? I’m sure a saint like yourself only meant to watch their clothes for them!”
Oran smiled and said, “You jump pretty fast to defend yourself Damos, I wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you assume that’s the only possible thing I could say.”
The angry look on Damos’ face slipped away as he joined in the little boys laughter. Tarin’s mother had needed medicine while he was in town, so he’d had to settle for a story. Both boys had mentally agreed to not alert the girls in the river of there presence. Kellmar had been doing business, and didn’t feel what they’d done was right, which Tarin agreed with. Damos wasn’t very ashamed but Oran was. He’d apologized to the girls and been slapped and scolded for it. Yet he kept from mentioning Damos’ name, which was much appreciated by the older boy.
Kellmar got down from his horse and said, “The dancing monkey is often too busy laughing at himself to notice that nobody else is laughing.” Tarin and Damos were clearly confused, but Oran seemed to know what it meant. Usually, when Kellmar found a book with pictures in it, he showed it to Oran, it was a small joke to him, as his brother couldn’t read.
That’s when the door opened, and out walked Yarach. He had a solemn look on his face but he put on a fake smile. He said, “Hello Caspins. Damos, we’ll be leaving soon, but I must speak with Tarin.”
Tarin rose with a quizzical expression, and moved to walk with Yarach. Kellmar took his seat, and the two muscular men waited until they were out of earshot from the other young men. “She’s not doing to well, is she Tarin?”
Tarin hung his head, lately she’d been calling him strange names. The Judge, Juron, Heliot. He had to force feed her, and bath her to keep her from drowning. It wasn’t an honorable life, especially considering the woman was thirty-five. “No, Yarach she isn’t.”
“She… she was a bright star back home in those final days. She doesn’t deserve this fate. No one was as passionate as your mother. She was-is the greatest woman I’ve ever know. Are you planning on going to the Feast of the Harvest?”
Tarin furrowed his brow. That was a strange conversational jump. From his mothers deteriorating mind to the Fall celebration the town had. “No, I’ll still need to work that night.”
“You need to go Tarin.” Tarin kept his brow furrowed, he said, “Why's that?” Yarach looked directly into the shorter mans eyes, despite his height he still wasn’t looking down at Tarin. His voice was deadly serious, “Don’t question, go. I’ll stay with your mother until you get back.”
Yarach immediately dropped the topic, and began telling the boy a short story about how his father had saved his mothers life. It was refreshing to hear a story about his father. His mother had begun to lose her mind around the time his father died, and Tarin’s best memories were working the field with the idealistic man.
When they were back in earshot of the other young men Tarin could hear an argument, “Clearly, the problem isn’t the wolves it’s that the shepherds aren’t driving them off.”
“Have you ever hunted Kellmar? No, you haven’t. If you stop a wolf, all you do is anger the pack.”
“I have to agree with your little brother there, it’s a bit harder to fend of a hungry pack with nothing but a cane or bow.”
All three of them stopped as they saw the other two, Damos already rising. He quickly fell in line next to his uncle, and nodded goodbye to all the others. Tarin heard low whispers about how Damos was looking at a basic argument to the issue, and would need to think more on it.
Tarin took back a seat, his hoe and whetstone, and a place in the argument. He played a bit of devils advocate to both, until they could see the wagon, filled with casks of different ales and beers. The stood and left, Tarin noticing an extra horse led alongside the wagon by the boys father. Kellmar mounted his mare, and Oran leapt into the extra horses saddle. They were headed east, opposite of the way they had come and Damos had left with his uncle. Tarin stood and leaned against a post of his porch. He looked to where the sun set, and had a moment of rest. THUD! There was an arrow stuck in a post not two inches from his head. He smiled at where Kellmar lectured the hand that had shot the arrow. He pried the arrow from the post, and walked inside, time to begin supper.
1.
For when he comes, they shall know his name.
The Earth will shake, never to be the same.
To be joined by the trickster and the rat catcher.
And the power of Vim shall come to be seen.
Tarin plowed the fields as best he could on the sweltering summer day. The valley was always hot, even in the winter. He’d only seen ice once in his life, a merchant had brought it through, and it had melted before a sale cold be made. Tarin hated the heat, but the cold never came. The cold was a fantasy for children, that most would never meet. The valley was large, but only had one true village. As a farmer, or a herder, you had no reason to leave once you reached the age that you could start your own family.
Tarin had no illusions that he could leave the valley when his mother didn't need him. His mother would always need him. He wouldn’t have to start his own farm, but that was the only positive. His father had died when he was twelve, and now he worked the land alone. His mother’s mind had been leaving her for years yet, and was all but gone forever. The only time her strange babblings turned happy were when her old friend Yarach came by every other night.
The plow got stuck for a second, and Tarin forced it through age old hard packed dirt. He was the third biggest man in the valley, in terms of muscle. At only seventeen that was quite an accomplishment. The other two were Yarach and a man Hendel the blacksmith. Shockingly enough, Tarin was much stronger than Hendel’s apprentice, Mayim. He was a slightly below average height at five foot five. He was quite sure the only reason no-one jibed at his height was due to his massive strength.
He had pale yellow eyes, that also set him apart from everyone else. His mothers eyes were dark brown, and his fathers had been hazel. Considering his parents had been among the southern refugees, he and everyone who knew him assumed that he had gotten it from a grandparent, although his father had struggled to smile at jibes of, “What color were the local guardsmen’s eyes?” His father had often told him that superior men didn't fight at what a lesser man would. He had also told Tarin that a strong man must hold himself back even more, as him fighting a normal man was something more dangerous.
Tarin’s hair was a light brown, almost red strangely. Again, it was unlike his mother’s jet black, and his father’s fair blonde. It was past his ears, and barely curly. It clung to him now, as sweat poured out of him in response to the heat and strain of his body. He shaved his beard every few days, he considered it unclean until he could grow a full beard. He had a plethora of hair on his neck, and his jaw line was covered, but his lip and chin was still adorned with light, wispy, and immaculate hair.
Tarin had a large long nose. It was shaped in such a way that it didn't dominate his face. His ears were small for his head, but didn’t look all that out of place. Tarin’s last defining quality was his wide and square jaw. He was a menagerie of masculine features, and was considered quite handsome by the girls in the village, and a few of the women. Not that he had time to act on his good looks, all of his time was spent feeding his mother. Eat, sleep, and work. That was the way Tarin Freehod lived day to day.
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Tarin heard the inevitable footsteps of Yarach and Damos coming down the road. He turned and smiled genuinely, “Hello Yarach. Hello Damos” The tall man glided toward where Tarin sat on his porch, sharpening his hoe. He was the most composed man Tarin had ever seen. His body didn’t move as his legs lightly lifted and landed. He was one of the hardest working men in the valley, he could have fed the entire village with any of the different crops he grew with his adopted nephew. The only reason he didn’t, was to give other farmers a chance to profit, and store what would be needed for hard years ahead. After a long day of working his fields, he looked as if he had just woken up an hour ago, and woken completely. He clearly wasn’t a man who didn’t roll his sleeves up, he was packed with the muscles a working man had, and was backed up with some that came from activities Tarin couldn’t guess. He looked old and young at the same time.
Yarach’s voice rolled out, with the same “high and filled” accent he shared with Damos, Tarin, and Tarin’s parents spoke with, but with an even more rich sound, “Hello Tarin, I see you completed the field early as usual this year.” Tarin looked over at his work. As usual, he had his field plowed early as he could, and growing a little larger every year. The grain was running out, and the garden wasn’t yielding as many tomatoes as usual, and Tarin’s mother detested meat, so he struggled to feed the decaying woman. “Is your mother well?”
Tarin looked back down at the hoe, “As well as is to be expected.” He tried to keep his tone from getting harsh.
Yarach walked past him with a hand on his shoulder, and opened the door his tone even lighter as he saw the woman looking out the back window, “Hello Ahisa! Your looking well today.”
Tarin flinched at the way the man said the name. All of the people in the valley said Ah-hisha, where Damos, Tarin, and Tarin’s father said Ah-isa. Yet every time Yarach said it, it was Iysa, always said like that. Tarin’s father had been her husband, he said her name right. Tarin loved the man like an uncle, but his father was his father.
“Shocking isn’t it? That you aren’t considered interesting to any village girls, when your eyes never move, always straight from your head, and your head always looking straight at whatever job you need to do.”
Damos’ voice was close to Yarach’s but wasn’t quite so high
and carrying. It was closer than Tarin and his parents, but not that much. He had sandy blonde hair, and let it grow to his shoulders until Yarach made him cut it. He had a small nose, and blue eyes, and a round jaw. He was about six feet tall, but weighed less than Tarin. He wasn’t small, but he wasn’t big. He was three months older than Tarin. He did the bare minimum of what he was asked to do, but wasn’t quite lazy. He simply did what he was told, and otherwise sat about, talked, thought.
Damos was the most bored person Tarin had ever met. It was why the second he was out of Yarach’s sight he would get into trouble, and give him an inch give him a mile! He once locked all the doors in the village, from the outside, and it had taken hours for the locksmith to fix the problem. Yarach had hit him across the ear when he’d found him, but also borrowed some pieces from the smith, and Damos had been preoccupied for a week.
“It was my understanding that most of the girls you talk to are asking after me?” Tarin somewhat asked somewhat stated.
Damos snapped back, “Wouldn’t you? If you saw a monstrous man walking about, having to turn to fit through doorways, and not looking at any but who he talked to?”
Tarin smiled. It was his friends same old joke. Tarin would smile, but he didn’t know how to talk to girls his age, which played a small part in why Tarin didn’t talk to them. He also tended to keep Damos out of trouble when they were with each other. The statement about doors was true. He said, “Monstrous? Just because a man isn’t a wisp doesn’t make him a monster Mos.”
“And just because a man isn’t covered in unnecessary and unseemly bulges doesn’t make him a wisp Rin.”
“Wisps tend to break across the hands of monsters.” Damos came to sit next to Tarin before the larger boy spoke his retort.
“Monsters tend to seek the breaking before thinking, just as wisps tend to anger those they know they should not.” Tarin and Damos turned at the same time toward the country voice that spoke as if it hated the country in it. Kellmar Softbrow, was the least muscled man in the valley, he even had a little fat on his bones. Only a little of course, but it was still there. He sat atop his horse, but held his reins one handed, as the other held his place in the book he had been reading. He had messy brown hair that curled all around his head. He had blue eyes, and a hooked nose. He had small round eyes that were red from squinting at small text. He was actually a nice lad, simply a very dry wit with it, which many people in the village didn’t understand. He was five years older than Tarin, and four from Damos.
“Hello Kellmar, any reason you’re so far ahead of the wagon?” said Damos. Kellmar’s father ran the brewery, and Kellmar already ran the numbers for the whole business. He usually went into town to attempt haggling, the problem being that the people in the village had raised him; they didn’t believe he would try to pull the wool over his eyes, and would take practically any price he tried out, which frustrated him greatly.
“Looking for him.” Kellmar inclined his head.
Tarin and Damos looked over at the third chair and the porch and yelped. The small boy went into a fit of laughter from where he’d been sitting for who knows how long. Tarin quickly dropped his hoe and ran to pick up the boy in the chair. The younger boy was fourteen, and was quite the hunter.
Oran was his name, and he was only five feet tall, but weighed one hundred and forty pounds, most of which was in his shoulders. He’d been hunting and shooting since he was seven. It was only a hobby for his father, and his brother was only interested in books, but the young boy could feed the family if he needed to. That was why he didn’t work at the brewery, that and the fact that his attention span was cut into an eighth when he didn’t hold a bow. He had short brown hair, and a wide hard jaw. He had dark green eyes, and a the bridge of his nose was almost as wide as his nostrils, despite his nose being relatively large. His ears fit his head nicely at his size, and he had a large widow’s peak.
Oran’s laughter only increased as he was lifted into the air. Tarin put him down, and let out a small chuckle as his front of anger faded. He returned to his chair, and picked his hoe up again, setting to the sharpening in almost one motion. Damos kept his face angry, but Tarin could tell from his friends eyes he was not, The tall boy said, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, someone’s libel to stab you with a hoe.”
Oran stopped laughing, but still managed a toothy grin, “What about the time I found you sneaking around the river when a few of those Clint girls were bathing?” He spoke similar to Kellmar, but not with as much indignation in his voice.
Damos snorted, “Oh? And would you mind telling us why you were down there good lad? I’m sure a saint like yourself only meant to watch their clothes for them!”
Oran smiled and said, “You jump pretty fast to defend yourself Damos, I wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you assume that’s the only possible thing I could say.”
The angry look on Damos’ face slipped away as he joined in the little boys laughter. Tarin’s mother had needed medicine while he was in town, so he’d had to settle for a story. Both boys had mentally agreed to not alert the girls in the river of there presence. Kellmar had been doing business, and didn’t feel what they’d done was right, which Tarin agreed with. Damos wasn’t very ashamed but Oran was. He’d apologized to the girls and been slapped and scolded for it. Yet he kept from mentioning Damos’ name, which was much appreciated by the older boy.
Kellmar got down from his horse and said, “The dancing monkey is often too busy laughing at himself to notice that nobody else is laughing.” Tarin and Damos were clearly confused, but Oran seemed to know what it meant. Usually, when Kellmar found a book with pictures in it, he showed it to Oran, it was a small joke to him, as his brother couldn’t read.
That’s when the door opened, and out walked Yarach. He had a solemn look on his face but he put on a fake smile. He said, “Hello Caspins. Damos, we’ll be leaving soon, but I must speak with Tarin.”
Tarin rose with a quizzical expression, and moved to walk with Yarach. Kellmar took his seat, and the two muscular men waited until they were out of earshot from the other young men. “She’s not doing to well, is she Tarin?”
Tarin hung his head, lately she’d been calling him strange names. The Judge, Juron, Heliot. He had to force feed her, and bath her to keep her from drowning. It wasn’t an honorable life, especially considering the woman was thirty-five. “No, Yarach she isn’t.”
“She… she was a bright star back home in those final days. She doesn’t deserve this fate. No one was as passionate as your mother. She was-is the greatest woman I’ve ever know. Are you planning on going to the Feast of the Harvest?”
Tarin furrowed his brow. That was a strange conversational jump. From his mothers deteriorating mind to the Fall celebration the town had. “No, I’ll still need to work that night.”
“You need to go Tarin.” Tarin kept his brow furrowed, he said, “Why's that?” Yarach looked directly into the shorter mans eyes, despite his height he still wasn’t looking down at Tarin. His voice was deadly serious, “Don’t question, go. I’ll stay with your mother until you get back.”
Yarach immediately dropped the topic, and began telling the boy a short story about how his father had saved his mothers life. It was refreshing to hear a story about his father. His mother had begun to lose her mind around the time his father died, and Tarin’s best memories were working the field with the idealistic man.
When they were back in earshot of the other young men Tarin could hear an argument, “Clearly, the problem isn’t the wolves it’s that the shepherds aren’t driving them off.”
“Have you ever hunted Kellmar? No, you haven’t. If you stop a wolf, all you do is anger the pack.”
“I have to agree with your little brother there, it’s a bit harder to fend of a hungry pack with nothing but a cane or bow.”
All three of them stopped as they saw the other two, Damos already rising. He quickly fell in line next to his uncle, and nodded goodbye to all the others. Tarin heard low whispers about how Damos was looking at a basic argument to the issue, and would need to think more on it.
Tarin took back a seat, his hoe and whetstone, and a place in the argument. He played a bit of devils advocate to both, until they could see the wagon, filled with casks of different ales and beers. The stood and left, Tarin noticing an extra horse led alongside the wagon by the boys father. Kellmar mounted his mare, and Oran leapt into the extra horses saddle. They were headed east, opposite of the way they had come and Damos had left with his uncle. Tarin stood and leaned against a post of his porch. He looked to where the sun set, and had a moment of rest. THUD! There was an arrow stuck in a post not two inches from his head. He smiled at where Kellmar lectured the hand that had shot the arrow. He pried the arrow from the post, and walked inside, time to begin supper.
