The Outlands (rough draft)

I haven't written here in a while, but this is my next installment. And it's sickening me! For some reason the page re-loaded itself and I lost the whole first draft, which I thought was my best work yet. However, I hope this will do. I've re-written it, and I still think it's quite good. The character of Deman was originally intended to be quite good, but it turns out I gave him a "slightly" more sinister side. Enjoy, and don't hesitate to criticise.

* * * * * * * *

Mositas looked around the room, feeling a slight disconcertment. It was clean enough, and it was a kitchen, but this had become hard to tell because of all the piles of parchment, books, cooking equipment and sacks of feathers that crowded it.

"It's a bit disorganised, but you get used to it," Fero said from the doorway. He came into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"A... A bit... A bit disorganised?" Mositas was staggered by the under-exaggeration of that comment. She stepped forward into a bird cage containing four pidgeons, and, startled, stepped back into a large wobbly bookcase. She shielded her head with her arms as the contents of the top three shelves thundered to the floor.

"Be careful, these are old," Fero rushed to pick them up, looks of concern etched into his face. Mositas did not bother to conceal her snort.

"You, that bothered over a few mouldy old pages? How amusing." Mositas grinned, but her brother shot her a nasty look, and didn't reply until he had put all the books back.

"Deman likes his things kept properly." Mositas stared at Fero in disbelief, and then glanced around at the messy room. "And besides, these aren't just old, they're rare, and that means they're-"

"-Valuable," Mositas cut him off. "I knew there was an ulterior motive for your concern. That's all you ever think about: money." Mositas stared at him in distaste, and then eyed the bookcase. "Although... these are rather extravagant for an Outlander, even a rich one. Surely this... Deman, as you call him, has travelled in the Empire at some point. There's no way he could have got these here, in the Outlands. Books naturally aren't part of the trade here anymore, and there haven't been any working printing houses in about-"

"-A hundred and thirty seven years." Mositas jumped and turned round. Standing on the spiral staircase in the corner (which she hadn't noticed through all the clutter) was an old man. He was dressed in a blue waistcoat, under which he was wearing a stiff-collared white shirt with a necktie, and trousers with a blue and black checked pattern. He was bald on top, but what hair he did have was wiry and grey, and stuck out. He swooped through the chaotic arrangement of equipment, back straight all the time, took Mositas' hand in his and brought it up to his lips.

"Mositas, my friend Deman. Deman, my sister, Mositas." Fero introduced them.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," said Deman, in an oily voice.

"The pleasure is all mine," replied Mositas in a cold tone. She had taken an instant dislike to this man, for reasons that she couldn't fathom.

"And yes, my dear, I have done my fair share of travelling, mostly in the Empire, but also a good few years in the wilds of the Outlands; from the ice mountains of the north to the desert plain of the south. I acquired many books on my travels, and a few good pieces of handy knowledge, as well. We should talk some time, and I can delight you with tales from afar." Mositas simply nodded curtly at this. 'If I wanted to be delighted with tales from afar, the last person I would ask would be you,' thought Mositas, but she held her tongue.

"So," she said, this time to Fero, "how did you and... Deman meet?"

"Ah, yes, a story. Do please tell, Fero. It really is fascinating," he added to Mositas, whose dislike for this man started to grow. He seemed to be oblivious however, and just sat at the large table, with his hands together on his lap, obviously keen to listen. Mositas took another seat, but Fero remained standing.

"Oh, well, alright then. Well, as you know, Mositas, I had been travelling for a while. Eventually I arrived in Letuma, after travelling all day, and made my way through the city. As you probably noticed, this city is rather small; it's only made up of six circles, in fact, and you don't get into the decent part till about the fifth circle. Anyway, I quickly made my way through the slums, until I got to the fifth circle, when I started asking for places to stay. No one would take me in, and the only inn in Letuma is in the second circle, and that was packed full anyway. So eventually I got into the innermost circle, and was wandering about in the square, when who else did I see but-"

"-Oh, yes, this is the best bit!" interrupted Deman, clearly beside himself with glee. Mositas' belief for that statement was hard to find. The promise that the story was "fascinating" had so far yet to come true, and she found her dislike for the man growing by the second.

"Well, yes, alright. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Who else did I see but Deman, here. He noticed that I was probably in need of a place to stay, as he saw my tatty cloak, my boots caked with mud and the way I dragged my feet. He immediately offered one of his spare rooms, and, of course, I accepted. And, well, that's it," Fero finished lamely. Mositas was stunned into silence. Knowing Fero, she would have expected a few stories of his travels, but instead she had just witnessed one of the most boring of tales ever told. Deman, on the other hand, did not seem to share her unenthusiastic mindset. During the middle of the tale he had gone off to light the many candles scattered around the room, and now, upon hearing silence, he turned back to the two siblings.

"Is it over already? My word, how time flies when you're listening to a good story." For some reason, this took up the limit of Mositas' patience, and it was only her self control that prevented her from spewing forth the most hideous insults. Instead, she merely replied in a sarcastic tone.

"Oh yes, what a positively captivating tale. I can't wait to hear the next one. It's one of my absolutely favourite pastimes, listening to people talk about walking through streets." She ended with a glare at Deman, who looked stunned, as though she had just slapped him across the face. Fero glanced fearfully between the two. A look of intense anger played across Deman's face, resulting in a murderous smile.

"Well, I think it's time for sleep," he said, still smiling. He hurried around the room, blowing out all the candles he had just lit.

"But you just lit all of these," protested Mositas.

"That was so the wax would melt," replied Deman, an insane look now upon his face. He scurried around the table behind Mositas, gripped her by the shoulders and started to push her towards the stairs. It was now that she realised how tired she was, as Deman's grip was surprisingly strong, but she had no energy left to protest. A pushed her up to the third floor (the house was tall) and through a door in the wall. Quickly, he closed it behind her, uttering a quiet, but spiteful "Goodnight."

She took a look round the room. It seemed pleasant enough; indeed, it was more luxurious than she was used to. There was a neatly made bed, with clean sheets on one side of the room, with a dressing table sat next to it with a lit candle stood on top. On the opposite side was a large wardrobe stood up against the wall. Facing Mositas was a large window, which she stepped up to, and looked outside. There was a marvellous view across the city, and over the land she had travelled. The city was lit up, for night had settled in, and, despite the fact that Mositas knew of the suffering that was contained in its walls, it was a beautiful sight. However, despite these luxuries, she couldn't help thinking that she would much rather be back at the old inn on the roadside.

She got ready for bed, and eventually got under the covers. She was fatigued, though she found it a long time before she got to sleep.

* * * *

Mositas awoke, parched. She discovered her throat was dry, and decided to get some water. There was none in her room. Resigned to the fact that she simply had to drink, she made her way out of her room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Quietly, she poured a glass of water from a large jar, and made her way back upstairs again.

On passing the second floor, she heard sounds, murmurs, coming from behind a door on the inside wall. She paused, set her drink down, and carefully put her ear up against the door. She could hear cracks, and moans, and a curious rustling sound. It seemed her curiosity got the better of her, as she suddenly threw caution to the winds and decided to open the door. Slowly, carefully, she turned the handle, and she eased the door open. She nearly vomited at a result.

Upon opening the door, a disgusting smell engulfed her, causing her to retch. She recovered, though, and, pinning her nostrils together with her fingers, she boldly continued, poking her head round the door. Her eyes widened at what she saw.

Deman was kneeling in front of an open fireplace, flames crackling in the grate. Many cages were stacked high around the walls, each containing several pigeons, squawking terribly, rustling their wings together, making a noise reminiscent of the wind. Years of pigeon droppings littered the floor, rendering the original floor invisible. It was this that was the cause of the smell. Deman had no shirt, and his back was covered with scars: old scars that had healed, newer scars that were in the process of healing, and fresh wounds that must have been made that very night. On the floor beside him lay a long whip, stained with blood.

Suddenly, Deman reached out into a close cage, and grabbed a pigeon. It flapped its wings desperately, but Deman's grip was too strong. He looked at it for a moment, then, with inexplicable speed reached down with his mouth and bit the bird's head off. Mositas gasped, and watched, terrified as he spat the head in the fire, and then proceeded to pluck the bird of its feathers. He stuffed them all in a large sack on his other side, and threw the body in the fire, which crackled evilly. Deman reached for his whip.

Mositas, unable to bear any more of this, quickly, and quietly, as possible closed the door, and ran straight for the stairs, and up to her room, shutting the door closed and locking it from the inside. Her drink lay forgotten in the hallway.