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"Saturnio's Daughter"
Nov. 9th, 2024 10:42 am"Saturnio's Daughter"
10/1218 DR
I.
Naked sword in hand, Romal the Mongrel crouched behind the tavern and listened to the shouts of the mob that pursued him. The Signarm accent had never seemed harsher to him than now, with thirty men yelling for his death. Seemingly a tall, sturdy young man not yet thirty years of age, Romal had draped his dark travel cloak around him for hopeful concealment. His head still revealed was crowned with thick shaggy black hair. His heavy-featured sullen face was clean-shaven but with a day's worth of stubble and his eyes were dark blue with odd amber flecks.
But those meeting him could stare at nothing but the ears which rose to sharp points. The Eldanarin and the Darthim had such ears, but he was clearly not a member of either Race. He was the only one of his kind in the world.
Daring a quick peek around the corner of the tavern, he saw the mob was gathered across the muddy street by the blacksmith shop. He growled deep in his chest exactly as a Troll would. His horse was tethered in that shop. Along with his blankets and heavier tunic. With winter coming, he needed all of that, especially the fine Skandoran stallion he had become used to. Romal slapped the flat of his sword against his free palm. He didn't want to slay any farmers or shopkeepers today, but if they left him no choice, well.... Let it be on their heads.
There were at least thirty men by the shop, waving torches or field tools such as pitchforks, axes and pruning hooks. No matter. He was Romal the Mongrel, and he feared nothing that drew breath. If that hateful crowd did not move away from the blacksmith shop, he would attack them and test his prowess to its limits.
Someone was approaching from behind. Romal's hard life had sharpened his senses to the level of a wild beast surviving in the wild. He wheeled around, sword drawn back and his side pressed up against the tavern wall. But there seemed to be no immediate threat. Walking openly toward him out of the darkness was a short, slightly built man in a loose robe of brown burlap with a hood pulled up over his head. His hands were empty.
Seeing that the man was making no outcry, Romal lowered his arm slightly but remained alert. The next few minutes could mean life or death. The robed man stopped just out reach and threw back his cowl to reveal a roundish, completely bald head with a placid face. In the gloom, his skin tone seemed to be tawny like a lion's, but not quite like that of a Chujiran.
Leaning forward from the waist, the stranger whispered, "Be at ease. I am Berjalam, a monk of Tel Shai and I come to aid you."
In the same low tone, Romal said only, "How?"
"I can take you past those men to retrieve your horse and we can go to the mountains. We of Tel Shai have developed some slight mystic arts." The man held up his open hands. A faint blue shimmer played around them, then extended itself into a nimbus over his entire body. The Mongrel glanced down and saw the blue light was glowing around him as well.
"What IS this? I mistrust sorcery..."
"Ah, this is nothing like the magic your Darthan masters used," Berjalan assured them. "This is beneficent, almost holy. I will explain it all later."
Romal held up his sword, almost admiring the azure nimbus along its length but finally saying, "How does this help me?"
"This is called the Veil. Now you will have to trust me, Romal, that the crowd will neither see nor hear us."
"What? Is this jest? Never mind. I will play along but mark these words. If that mob attacks, your head will bounce in the dirt before they reach me."
The monk smiled and gestured for the Mongrel to follow him. With only the slightest hesitation, the Mongrel straightened up, squared his shoulders and trod behind the smaller man. They crossed the wide muddy main street of Wyonal Town and neared the torch-waving, shouting crowd...
And the crowd ignored them completely. Nearly holding his breath, treading as lightly as possible, Romal passed close by the townspeople. He could hardly believe it. At any second, he expected those men to attack him with their farm tools.
"I tell you, he is a spy for the Darthim! It was they who gave him unnatural life. He reports to Tollinor Kje, no less!"
"He's a monster not meant to live in this world!"
"True! True! Stronger than a Troll, quicker than a Snake man. One pirate I met in the capital says Romal can breathe underwater like a Gelydra. Who knows what else he is capable of?"
Hearing the hatred in those voices, Romal gripped his sword hilt painfully tight. Always the same. He had been driven from one nation to the next, chased like prey, nearly hung from a tree or burned in a pyre. Rare it was that he had found a town which accepted him even for a short while, and such respites never lasted too long.
For one red-hot moment, he was sore tempted to begin slashing left and right at the Humans who did not see or hear him. If they were going to fear and hate him so much, thwn by the Halarin, he might as well give them good reason....
In that ominous pause, Berjalam snatched up a fist-shaped rock, drew his arm back and flung it down the street as hard as he possibly could. Glass was rare in the Darthan Age and it was merely by chance that the stone went directly through the only window in that frontier town. The unmistakable crash made everyone jump.
"The Magistrate's house! Did you hear that?" And thirty men ran full tilt down the main street, howling like hounds on a scent.
Left alone in the open double doors of the smithery, Romal rushed to where his Andromil neighed low and shifted its weight at seeing him. The big chestnut horse had become fond of Romal, who treated him well. The simple harness was pulled onto the horse's face, the folded wool blanket was draped across its back. Saddles existed in this Age but the stirrup had not been invented. Romal had not noticed that the blue glow had faded. The Mongrel grabbed his travel bag and threw it across his back with a strap.
With an easy bound, Romal vaulted up onto Andromil's broad back without jarring him. He swung the stallion around and, without asking, seized Berjalam by an arm and pulled the monk up to sit behind him. The slightest tug on the harness and a mild tap of his boots to the ribs made the horse take off at a gallop into the night.
Within minutes, the lights of the street torches were behind them and nearly out of sight. Even if the townspeople had found nothing by the broken window, even if they had seen the missing horse, it would take them time to mount up themselves.
Racing away from the beaten earth road leading from the town, Romal sent his steed thundering across an open plain and toward mountains that rose dimly in the starlight. Free. Free and alive where only a short time earlier he had been preparing to fight and die. As the relief washed over him, he broke into the first genuine hearty laughter he had voiced in too long.
( the rest of the story )
10/1218 DR
I.
Naked sword in hand, Romal the Mongrel crouched behind the tavern and listened to the shouts of the mob that pursued him. The Signarm accent had never seemed harsher to him than now, with thirty men yelling for his death. Seemingly a tall, sturdy young man not yet thirty years of age, Romal had draped his dark travel cloak around him for hopeful concealment. His head still revealed was crowned with thick shaggy black hair. His heavy-featured sullen face was clean-shaven but with a day's worth of stubble and his eyes were dark blue with odd amber flecks.
But those meeting him could stare at nothing but the ears which rose to sharp points. The Eldanarin and the Darthim had such ears, but he was clearly not a member of either Race. He was the only one of his kind in the world.
Daring a quick peek around the corner of the tavern, he saw the mob was gathered across the muddy street by the blacksmith shop. He growled deep in his chest exactly as a Troll would. His horse was tethered in that shop. Along with his blankets and heavier tunic. With winter coming, he needed all of that, especially the fine Skandoran stallion he had become used to. Romal slapped the flat of his sword against his free palm. He didn't want to slay any farmers or shopkeepers today, but if they left him no choice, well.... Let it be on their heads.
There were at least thirty men by the shop, waving torches or field tools such as pitchforks, axes and pruning hooks. No matter. He was Romal the Mongrel, and he feared nothing that drew breath. If that hateful crowd did not move away from the blacksmith shop, he would attack them and test his prowess to its limits.
Someone was approaching from behind. Romal's hard life had sharpened his senses to the level of a wild beast surviving in the wild. He wheeled around, sword drawn back and his side pressed up against the tavern wall. But there seemed to be no immediate threat. Walking openly toward him out of the darkness was a short, slightly built man in a loose robe of brown burlap with a hood pulled up over his head. His hands were empty.
Seeing that the man was making no outcry, Romal lowered his arm slightly but remained alert. The next few minutes could mean life or death. The robed man stopped just out reach and threw back his cowl to reveal a roundish, completely bald head with a placid face. In the gloom, his skin tone seemed to be tawny like a lion's, but not quite like that of a Chujiran.
Leaning forward from the waist, the stranger whispered, "Be at ease. I am Berjalam, a monk of Tel Shai and I come to aid you."
In the same low tone, Romal said only, "How?"
"I can take you past those men to retrieve your horse and we can go to the mountains. We of Tel Shai have developed some slight mystic arts." The man held up his open hands. A faint blue shimmer played around them, then extended itself into a nimbus over his entire body. The Mongrel glanced down and saw the blue light was glowing around him as well.
"What IS this? I mistrust sorcery..."
"Ah, this is nothing like the magic your Darthan masters used," Berjalan assured them. "This is beneficent, almost holy. I will explain it all later."
Romal held up his sword, almost admiring the azure nimbus along its length but finally saying, "How does this help me?"
"This is called the Veil. Now you will have to trust me, Romal, that the crowd will neither see nor hear us."
"What? Is this jest? Never mind. I will play along but mark these words. If that mob attacks, your head will bounce in the dirt before they reach me."
The monk smiled and gestured for the Mongrel to follow him. With only the slightest hesitation, the Mongrel straightened up, squared his shoulders and trod behind the smaller man. They crossed the wide muddy main street of Wyonal Town and neared the torch-waving, shouting crowd...
And the crowd ignored them completely. Nearly holding his breath, treading as lightly as possible, Romal passed close by the townspeople. He could hardly believe it. At any second, he expected those men to attack him with their farm tools.
"I tell you, he is a spy for the Darthim! It was they who gave him unnatural life. He reports to Tollinor Kje, no less!"
"He's a monster not meant to live in this world!"
"True! True! Stronger than a Troll, quicker than a Snake man. One pirate I met in the capital says Romal can breathe underwater like a Gelydra. Who knows what else he is capable of?"
Hearing the hatred in those voices, Romal gripped his sword hilt painfully tight. Always the same. He had been driven from one nation to the next, chased like prey, nearly hung from a tree or burned in a pyre. Rare it was that he had found a town which accepted him even for a short while, and such respites never lasted too long.
For one red-hot moment, he was sore tempted to begin slashing left and right at the Humans who did not see or hear him. If they were going to fear and hate him so much, thwn by the Halarin, he might as well give them good reason....
In that ominous pause, Berjalam snatched up a fist-shaped rock, drew his arm back and flung it down the street as hard as he possibly could. Glass was rare in the Darthan Age and it was merely by chance that the stone went directly through the only window in that frontier town. The unmistakable crash made everyone jump.
"The Magistrate's house! Did you hear that?" And thirty men ran full tilt down the main street, howling like hounds on a scent.
Left alone in the open double doors of the smithery, Romal rushed to where his Andromil neighed low and shifted its weight at seeing him. The big chestnut horse had become fond of Romal, who treated him well. The simple harness was pulled onto the horse's face, the folded wool blanket was draped across its back. Saddles existed in this Age but the stirrup had not been invented. Romal had not noticed that the blue glow had faded. The Mongrel grabbed his travel bag and threw it across his back with a strap.
With an easy bound, Romal vaulted up onto Andromil's broad back without jarring him. He swung the stallion around and, without asking, seized Berjalam by an arm and pulled the monk up to sit behind him. The slightest tug on the harness and a mild tap of his boots to the ribs made the horse take off at a gallop into the night.
Within minutes, the lights of the street torches were behind them and nearly out of sight. Even if the townspeople had found nothing by the broken window, even if they had seen the missing horse, it would take them time to mount up themselves.
Racing away from the beaten earth road leading from the town, Romal sent his steed thundering across an open plain and toward mountains that rose dimly in the starlight. Free. Free and alive where only a short time earlier he had been preparing to fight and die. As the relief washed over him, he broke into the first genuine hearty laughter he had voiced in too long.
( the rest of the story )
