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Untitled Fantasy Story



"Chapter One: Prison"

The moon over Vojyada was exceptionally calm. Of the few sounds in the air, the stormtroopers dominated. Their marching echoed tirelessly through the large urban city. The bells of criers and random clashes of vagabonds caught the unused wind. Despite the grandness of Vojyada, it was nonetheless a shiny lure for thieves, brigands, and the like.

"I believe you have something of mine," Alawen said, arms crossed across his red robe. The man ignored the accusation, lying silently facedown in the glowing dirt of magical grease. "All right," the wizard continued to deaf ears, "I'm going to cancel the spell." Alawen raised his hands - his sleeves falling back slightly as they tilted. "Oh, and don't even think of running."

Alawen uttered the words and swung his hands in quick, concentric circles - the brown glow of the grass and gravel disappeared, leaving only the cloaked man, who remained facedown with his knees tucked under his body. The mage cautiously made his way toward the downed individual. Within the same moment his hand came down on the back of the man's head, Alawen's vision was suddenly blurred and the agile man was off the ground. As the thief came down from his springing off the grass, he proceeded to smash the empty powder-vial into the wizard's forehead.

Groaning heavily, Alawen came to quickly enough to see the man hobble out the gate. The mage rose to his feet and conjured five orange-red missiles. Squinting heavily around the powder in his eyes, he let the glowing darts fly. Four of the missiles impacted against the iron fence or the ground; one found its target in the back of the cloaked man's head. He fell . . . . .



After leaving the infirmary, Alawen made his way to the city brig. He awkwardly saluted the guards as he entered and stepped into the recesses of the jail. He had only so much experience in the stockade due to lack of light and clean air; that and he really had no excuse for being there. Each door he passed held a new image in their slits. Weakened men crying and raving for food or justice begged for time to be heard as he went by. Others simply threatened him with death. When the pungent odour of fresh vomit reached him, Alawen almost forgot his reasons for being in the dark corridor. The heavy iron door guarded by Khanduras' finest refreshed his memory.

Alawen gave the troops another of his unprofessional salutes; the guards unlocked the door. Looking around, he couldn't help but notice how the candles along the walls caused animated dots of light to glint proudly off the plates covering the two sentries. The amount of visible light dropped yet again as Alawen made his way into the small, damp room. Once the stormtroopers closed the door for security purposes, sight was all but impossible and sound was frighteningly scarce.

Alawen opened a belt pouch and picked out a tiny insect. The firefly buzzed up to the low ceiling, leaving a yellow trail of light to mark its path. Its mobility ceased as Alawen quietly spoke the formula sitting in his mind. He voiced the final syllable, and the firefly abruptly burst, scattering nothing but an intense radius of bright light from a floating focal point. The sudden change in lighting caused Alawen to look away momentarily. The uncomfortable moan coming from the back wall turned him back.

"Oh great, it's you again," the young thief commented as he dropped his hands from his eyes to his lap - the chains on his wrists rattling softly as the rested along his knees. "Well, you got me. Now what?" Alawen opened his mouth, but he stopped himself before any words could escape. He stopped and looked at the man - hardly out of childhood - sitting calmly, legs crossed. "Well?"

"That was a very stupid venture," Alawen remarked, emotion replacing tactfulness. "What were you thinking, I . . . are you that ignorant to how these things work?"
"I'm ignorant?" the youth retorted quickly, "well if I'm ignorant to the city's workings then you, my friend, are just naïve."
"Don't change the subject . . ."
"Ah, so you don't deny it, eh?"

Alawen stopped his blind assault and regained his composure.
"I shall remind you - my friend - that you are the prisoner, not me. I ask again, what were you trying to prove with your stunt?" The young man looked up, his dark hair hanging slightly over his eyes.
" . . . I wanted to prove that the mighty invincible country of Khanduras wasn't quite as invulnerable as it once thought."
"That's it? You risk death for spite?" The captive thief grinned.
"Each man to his own." Alawen mockingly repeated the outrageous sentence to himself and laughed.
"What mother would allow such an immature child to leave her womb . . ."
"You leave my moth . . ."

Pain thundered through the man's foot as his weight dispersed across it. He stifled his cries as best he could, but the odd grunt still escaped his guard; the man seated himself once more. Raggedly, he told Alawen,
"Never speak ill of my mother again, or by Lucan I swear I'll cut your tongue out." The unfazed wizard replied sincerely,
"Very well." Alawen turned to the door and walked. He stopped briefly to snap his fingers - the magical light faded.

Before signalling the guard, Alawen turned around. "You know, the worship of Lucan is illegal in Khanduras." The chained man cocked his head and raised his eyebrow.
"Your point?" Alawen wanted to smile at the remark, but thought it best to restrain himself.
"Just so you know, yes, I was naïve when I took up my occupation, and I now search for a way to atone for it." With that, Alawen signalled for the guard to let him out, and he made his exit.



Counting by the number of meals he had received, the injured prisoner figured he had been incarcerated for near two days - three if they were starving him. He wasn't sure whether it was madness or illness, but either way he couldn't help but notice how much the odour of his ankle resembled bad cheese. Regardless of his current health, the man's own experiences had automatically caused him to pick up many things. He knew the general intervals between watch changes, or when the guard would enter with his next meal of bread and water. He couldn't help but feel the chains bite into his wrists even deeper . . .

The door opened unexpectedly. In the dim light the prisoner could see the outlines of a familiar character.
"Can I help you?" he asked sarcastically.
"Perhaps . . ." Alawen looked over his shoulder to make sure the heavy metal door was closed. "You seemed very defensive the other day when I mentioned your mother. Why was that?" The thief replied, the strong defiance in his voice all but gone,
"Why do you care?" Alawen cocked his head and eyebrow, and grinned.
"Every man to his own." The thief gave a heavy sigh.
"Well, not that it's any of your business, but . . . she died unjustly and cruelly."

The young man closed his eyes as he continued. "My family once had a friend within the stormtrooper ranks - well, at least we thought he was our friend. One day he exposed her as a worshipper of Lucan." Alawen lowered himself into a crouch as the thief went on. "The priests of Khandra pleaded with her for show to repent and convert - she wouldn't . . . . ." The man coughed lightly and looked to Alawen again. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be forced to watch your own mother burn alive?"
"No," Alawen said solemnly, "I cannot say I do. I'm sorry."

The man's head fell back against the stone wall as Alawen continued.
"You would give anything to avenge your mother, wouldn't you?" He answered.
"I would give everything." Alawen smiled and turned back to the iron door.
"You need not give everything - I will help you."
"Why should . . ."
"Don't ask why, and don't ask how. Soon enough you shall know." Alawen signalling the guard as before and the young thief was left alone once more.

It took a second of momentary despair for him to realize he wasn't completely alone; directly in front of his feet sat a small sack seemingly dropped by his recent visitor. With his good foot the thief hooked the drawstring of the sack and kicked it to himself. If not for a recent request, he would have asked how - within the sack was his belt, his tools, and his weapons. Alongside them he also found a note:


If you are reading this then I have judged your character well. I simply request that you hear me out. All the tools for your escape should be in this bag. You can find me in the apothecary's store across from the jail. I will be waiting.

Alawen Ardennes


Play the music!

Reacquainting himself with his lock picks, he quickly freed himself from his chains and limped his way beside the door - the guard with his food would be next to come. Considering he was near escape, time seemed to crawl slowly as he worked out his plan. He knew from when he was brought in that the hall was linear; that it shouldn't take more than a minute of good sprinting to exit the jail - of course, he also knew a good sprint was impossible.

Finally, he heard the footfalls and curses of the meal-bringer. The youth kept himself flat against the wall as the door opened. When the guard saw no one, he immediately ran to the vacant chains - the thief followed. With nary a sound, the escapist plunged his dagger into the nape of the stormtrooper's neck; directly below the helmet, a hair above the steel collar. As the guard stood stunned and dumbfounded, the thief followed up his calculated assault by quickly dragging the lithe blade across the front of the man's throat. Moving towards the door, he quickly looked back at the gurgling trooper and instinctively created and dismissed an idea - there was no way he would effectively wear the bloody armour as a disguise. He hobbled out the door.

The rogue tried vainly to ignore the pleas of help from the other prisoners as he passed the cages. Too late, he realised; their cries alerted the two entrance guards. He dipped his hand into his belt pouch, searching for a vial - the guards advanced. He finally found what he was looking for, and hurled the small flask at the ceiling. Upon impact, a heavy, yellow cloud began to descend on the two troops. A whiff was all it took as the guards began choking and clawing at their helm-covered faces. The thief held his breath and closed his eyes; he then sprung and dove through the dark cloud. He rolled out of his landing well away from the disoriented guards and ran as best as he could out into the open air.

He shouldered the door open - right into another pair of guards. One reacted instantly and hooked him in the midsection; the other swept him from above the ankle. The young rogue let out a painful cry and dropped hard against the cobbled pathway. The first guard picked him up roughly by his cloak. He said nothing as his fist came into contact with the youth's face. After hitting the walkway again, all the thief could think of was for darkness to settle in . . .

A brilliant light - a fiery arrow - flashed through the air. It struck one of the guards in the back, burning a hole through his overlying shroud and sending the man's body into the far wall. The other guard looked up in time to watch Alawen let loose five orange-red missiles - all five made contact.

Alawen ran to the fallen pile of men and lifted the beaten fellow's arm over his shoulders.
"I know what you said earlier," the thief said, "but why are you doing all this?" Alawen replied.
"I'm atoning."

"After dragging the man through several alleys, the weight on his shoulders finally became an issue.
"I understand your situation," Alawen said, "but my God boy, move your legs a little!"
"Don't . . . call me boy . . ." the thief let out slowly. "E . . . Emon. It's Emon."
"Well, Emon, do you realise that because of you I am now a wanted man, and the two of us need immediate sanctuary, lest we lose our heads?"

Emon smiled weakly and cocked his head.
"Your point?"