--This is a mess.
--There are no elves, dwarves or kindly old wizards in this. The fantasy world has next to nil fantasy elements.
--But of course, any feedback would be great. Thank-you critiques are obligatory, of course.
Chapter One
He came running to the bridge direly, seeking refuge from the sewage skies. Arms cast around him, he came across an elk with a pipe to his lips, charming an eagle. She looked like one to Logan; her nose was tilted proudly into a crooked ridge, and her eyes, half open. Generally, her complexion was diminished to a black fur coat and its cheap perfume, and face devoured by a snobbish scowl. The pinning eyes were scorning Logan and the rest of those ‘filfy beggas’, or so he mused. The elk on the other hand looked like a man, sharing both the brown hair and cobble roosted beads set in the head for eyes.
Time had quickly passed; Logan’s hands were in a cup beneath the bridge, himself muttering through his breath. It clinked and clanked with a single coin, inspiring a sense of majesty. People passed by with a sour expression where their faces ought to have been, and dull fatigues about them. All the shadows seemed to be eluding the midday; Logan was lost in the veiling darkness beneath and left only to think on his own as everyone passed by, only looking to relish in a slight disgust with some anger or irritation, as if it were his fault, as if he had chosen this way of life. As if he had one day drew his hand and clicked his fingers all to be suffocated by the cackling street corners, and endure mocking glees as he slept in the pigsties.
The chorus of a battered violin under the bridge was, as ever, a wondrous tune. And the harmonic flute; together they gave a fabulous harmony that drifted through the crowds like fog. But not a coin to the players (just rolling eyes).
‘Please, spare something.’
His plea echoed, his plea echoed…
It reached the crowds of feet punching the ground, and dirty cloaks in scuffled motion. But they gulped it down greedily. Then the rain came, lashing down like pins. From under the bridge, the beggars appointed some protection by wrapping a sheet closer – those who had them – but as the water weaved in their feet became its filthy playthings.
The crowds were beginning to thin. Its entirety was to set off now and sit against a roaring fire, allowing the orange glow to dance over the logs and protect them from the pattering ice outside. They may have returned to their safe haven to light the streets, but misery tailed them. Some owned horses, others, fine weaponry, but all these people shared common nobility: homes. One might have protested that his home is far greater than any others, and so would have he, sleeping among the night fold away from routine and currency in the city, and all her streets with none to question.
But what rubbish.
The eagle twitched its beak, switching to a scornful smile. She had awoken his consciousness, strutting over, Logan barely able to note any other than a jutting chin as she approached.
Her hand rose, and gestured over to a pile of sacks and retreating excrement, with flies congregating around it like clergymen to requiems.
‘There,’ she instructed. ‘Go back to your home, little pauper.’
Her stubbornness offended him, but presented so little a surprise. Unpinning his scowl, Logan cast it at her and in replace, forged his own smile.
‘Sorry, madam, I wouldn’t want to deprive your own dining.’
The eagle smashed her hands – wings – forward into his cheeks. Logan flipped his own to his face and cradled the throe. So, she had found some wit in his remark? If a little painfully given, Logan took the compliment gladly. A few stoppers-by retorted with a slight gesture, which seemed to say, ‘Justice!’
‘How dare you!’ The fox fur around her neck bobbed, and some hair upon it slouched in remorse.
Laughing, the elk drew his pipe to his mouth and strode away, the woman promptly disappearing and grabbing his arm, fading into the crowds.
In the end, there wasn’t a lot to reason his trying to retort so, but he did anyway. If only to watch the other beggars snigger and go to bed a little less worn-down and tiresome, even a slight glee to their dreams.
#
They were cut down as and by savages. The exiles pursued the sun as dusk enveloped their tracks, figures raging folly and onslaught behind. Logan paced upfront, twisting his eyes as the scatter of his companions followed desperately. Some lay dead in the village—their names were gone from his mind. Villagers leapt in their footsteps throwing whatever they could, screeching and hissing, with daggers keen to tear limb from limb. Their minds were blood drunk.
His feet were punching the ground, and his hand trailing through the air with a sword clenched tightly, but still clean. Water was now leaking from the sky, and the fog ahead was a lamenting aroma, Logan racing into it blindly. The seconds felt like hours. The hours had, by now, almost claimed him.
On the horizon, a shine glowered. Then water; water was pouring in rivers before him, not far now, paces—a mirage, surely! He did not know where he was going, just running, running after the eluding dusk. Pressing the wind aside with the flap of his hands, the terrible screams behind forced him into a scurry—and his feet tumbled down. A yelp escaped his mouth and blood drew from his legs, like moth wings to nettles. His fingers were cold; they were torn by rocks and hewn in the dark.
‘Quickly!’
The voice came like a hammer; Logan’s heart spluttered. A figure danced from the mist, stumbling.
Logan scrambled together. ‘Careful!’ he cried—the man’s body was gone. Clunking, the water hissed.
He couldn’t—the stones—they were pelting from—just breathe, take a—
Logan forced power into his flapping muscles. The noise of the river was deafening—or he wanted it to be. Terrible screams! There were little else but and now they closed, or the voices grew louder, maybe both. They melted into a cacophony of molten stew and ash.
Pain purged within him as he tumbled forward, clinging onto a tree trunk. He swore not to look, not to tear his eyes, not to risk he escape.
But he had to.
Trembling violently, Logan placed his fingers to his heart, clutching it steady. His tracks were blinded by the sweeping trees above, but swaying enough to let the sight through, if only for a second.
The fields were empty. Under the orange glow, nothing moved, save the leaning bushes and shadows of ageless clouds above.
A tree boomed into him—or a shape, something, something big, growing now, quickly, quicker than the violent pounding within his chest—
The blade flew from his grasp, plunging down—
He was thrown into the icy fluids of the river. His veins were shaking as the water caved him in around him, pulling. The figure was just a black blur, grabbing, clutching, screeching and raging. The sky was gone. There was just the water, just the water devouring Logan as he scrambled together, fighting the current with his bare hands, slapping he waves.
A monstrous wail tore into his ears and a hand snatched his arm. Eyes now blinded by the ice, he cast a punch into the face, feeling a sense of dread as he missed entirely. The colours were growing clear as he gripped onto the stream. His legs flailed desperately, slapping the water bed. A stone ripped his flesh. The anger forced a gasp to his lungs and a great body of water came gushing in, burning his throat.
The grip on his arm tightened, and he was heaved down, under the water and span round, twisting with the crooked plants and stones and mud splashing into him. At any moment he determined his chest to burst open. Choking on the water he pushed for the open air.
It’s drenched in—
Blood, my own blo—
Sweat and anger, let me—
I can’t it’s too close but I—
Need to take in air now take—
Freedom just strokes away but further than the furthest mountain… The ice boils me now. Help me now I beg you sto—
I can’t no more please I’m begging begging like I always did begging now and begging then please just a coin no forget the coin I need life please the open sky is—
