Prakfura Raiders: Chapter One: Bad Luck Outlaw: Part One {Redacted}

POV: Bad Luck Outlaw

Thick caravans of muck roiled down past my feet. They rushed to the plains stretching out miles around from the foot of the hill to congeal in magnificent pools of dark sparkling eyes. Acrid steam cloaked me in an embrace of warmth. The Muck Hill, I thought bitterly, looking back over my shoulder.

I dredged up a cough, bringing up my gullet, and reflexively swallowed. The top of the hill was shrouded in a mist so thick it obscured an ancient platform that had been raised around the bubbling dirt opening of the spring. The heat of the muck, coupled with its weight, had in many places already shattered it, and I saw not a few cracks of concrete spluttering on towards a life of placidity down below.

I shivered. A freezing east wind had begun its daily track over the hill, and it would beat a steady wave of cold for the next hour. With clenched fists, I burrowed deeper into my overcoat, seeking shelter, and stepped unsteadily into the wind, struggling to keep the coat on and the rivers of perspiration from dripping into my eyes. The stumble downhill was much a greater torture than the breezy stroll upwards.

I had come in the wee hours of the dawn, seeking desperately needed solitude, trying to remember the past. As always, I feel the memories I treasure so highly fading into the blackness of unfindable dreams. Memory by memory, I have slowly become this whimpering wreak. My mind seared at the accusation.

"No! Not this!" I spat into the wind. Just the month previous, I had had to take the leaving of one of my most experienced breakers on account of just such a charge. To have done nothing was to have confirmed that view in my men’s eyes. I could not let anyone, least of all myself, repeat such poison, I berated myself angrily, as I stumble onwards to where I hope my horse had remained haltered.

Strong. Keep strong. A tiny voice of pride rang in me.

I quickened my stride, wishing to leave the battling elements to themselves. My insides coiled like constrictors, painfully doubling me over, but I kept the pace, focusing on the clanging sword hanging from my right hip. A jewel as large as my thumb stuck out from the hilt, curving along the same direction as the blade, which tapered out to dangle a foot below my knees. I coughed up a small green blorb streaked in red, and followed up the discharge with a generous mouthful of spittle.

My back strained to rise, my wobbling hands pulling free of their gloves and the muck. I grunted in weariness. My long hair, usually skirted at my shoulder, now hung in moist clumps about my brow. I yanked the gloves and stumbled on. It took me the rest of the light to drag myself to my horse. My hands rushed clumsily to the saddlebag, grasping for a skin of wine I had stored there. The horse whinnied.

The drink burnt its way through my gullet. I felt it unwind the knots in my belly and I straightened up. No sense loitering any longer. I thought bitterly as I clambered up the beast. A sense of abject loss had crept up suddenly, and some small part of me told me to return up the hill, to rest, to seek again what I had lost. I creased my brows in anger, smouldering like the mud underfoot.

With a savage twist of my wrist, reins fluttered. The animal broke into a canter, and four hooves beat their weary way on a slippery path thick with the mist of settling azane. If there had once been an actual path, it had long since been covered or destroyed. A yawn escaped my lips as the horse jolted me forward. If I could keep the saddle, I might make good on my promise to return to my band by dawn. The earlier the better.

Forget it, A voice told me, The mail you have on is enough weight to kill any horse at the speed you’re going, and long before that, too

Shut up, Fate! I thought savagely, not checking my pace. My weight is my own matter.

The thought that my sword would lecture me on how to calculate such things infuriated me. "Insolent thing!" I clamped down hard on the fury rising in me.

More often than not, the cautions of Fate proved right, and I painfully swallowed my arrogance. That’s right, boy. Another voice. Me. An Older, sickly, dying me. My ancient skin-and-bone self, hobbling on a broken piece of bone, in a dark cave. In my mind.

I shrugged off the annoyance. Go away, Freak! I shouted into the back of my mind.

You! He retorted.

Not me. Maybe future-me. I winced.

You, nonetheless. He snidely shot back. A sickly feeling of hunger came over me.

Hunger? We hunger too!

My older self frowned, mildly annoyed. You haven’t eaten yet? He looked to his hip, from which Fate dangled.

Years and years! Came the assertive plea.

False! I clawed at it. You drew blood just two nights ago. That sickly hound.

Not man. True. Not man. Still, my hand dug into the saddle bag, searching for the hard-baked raisin loaf which had been there since five nights previous. At least one of us didn’t need to remain hungry. Search as I might, my hand came up with nothing but the skin of wine. No bread. With a resigned sigh, I took another draught.

It won’t last till dawn now! Fate, mocking me. Not the wine. Not the horse. Not your strength. Somehow it managed to sing it, and was quickly joined by Skin-and-Bone.

I meshed my teeth together as the voices began to hum to the tune of a popular love ballad. I slammed the voices from my mind and took a deep breath. Not the wine. Not the hor--. A hand came up from my right to slap myself over the cheek, hard.

“Shut it, Hare-brain!” I hollered into the empty fields surrounding me. No sound replied. Not an echo. Not a whisper of wind. I stood up in the stirrups and stared all around me, still urging the horse on. I was scared of the dark. Or so I told myself. Cold sweat broke on my forehead.

I crabbed a trembling hand over the drops. You’re still scared of the dark, are you? Mockery drips in the voice. My hand paused over a scar running over my right eye as I tried to ignore the voices clambering for attention.

Scareredy- Scardy, Scardy, Scardy! A small boyish voice began chanting in a sing-song voice. It grew louder. I jumped.

Snap! The crack came loud over the sound of hooves beating against the ground. I felt myself being pulled towards the ground, and my flailing arms wildly grasped at the horse’s mane. I snagged a fistful, and the pull jolted the pitiful beast on its hind legs before it shook free of my grasp to gallop off into the distance, leaving dust in my mouth.

I wobbled dizzily to my feet. The dried out muck from the hill, now miles behind, had saved me from the worst. Still, a couple of bruises and an uncountable number of scratches would not do anything to encourage a frightened man. My feet hobbled me on as I fruitlessly waved after the disappearing animal. I sank back onto the dust, and it soon layered me in a thick brown.

Little Ry, little Ry, Oh what trouble have you got on the spry! Skin-and-Bones taunted, curling over in laughter. His gibberish fueled my anger.

Not the wine. Not the horse. Not your strength. Your saddle! Fate, belittling as usual. I forced my feet into a rhythm, ignoring the voices. My eyes turned skyward to take in the stars. I altered my course, turning slightly left.

Another fifteen miles, maybe. I told myself, trying to be encouraged. I reckoned I could reach a friend by midday, if I did not run dry before then. I could borrow a horse there, permanently, maybe.

Miles passed, and so too did time. A scorching sun rose through the ground, letting rays of heat shooting through me. I whipped off the overcoat and draped it over a shoulder. A spring returned to my step, but my lips had already begun to swell from my arid surroundings. All through the night, I had busied my mind with pointless arguments and fantastical plans, trying to ignore the dark, swirling around me. Now that day had arrived, I felt a growing optimism that I might indeed make it.

It was not long after midday, that I found my wearied feet on the threshold of Mr. Vrisbrin. Vrisbrin was a small time farmer, big time crook. So I liked to tell myself. I was a big time crook and nothing else. I rapped loudly on the wood.

A short, portly and aged woman answered the door. With unkempt hair in her eyes and hands steeped in flour, I might have mistaken her for a baker, which she was. Her slanted bulging eyes took me in, unrecognizing and full of contempt. “And what is it you want here, Mr. Traveler?”

I had the hilt of my sword tucked behind my coat, and so that telltale sign of identity was hid. My face, covered in grime and swollen with dryness, I doubt anyone could have recognized. “A certain Mr. Vrisbrin.” I replied in a deep official voice, holding my hand to my heart and making a slight bow.

“Not in.” She growled and slammed the door in my face. Not quite fast enough. I jammed my steel capped boots through the gap and purred cheekily in a normal voice. "Now, now, Mother Vrissy!" Using the nickname given to her by the band. "Can't you recognize poor young Captain Ry?" I looked down with piteous eyes.

Her far contorted in surprise as she strained her neck upwards to look closer. She squinted quizzically. Shorty. Skin-and-Bones. I buried him deep in my mind and kept the face.

A sudden realization dawned on the woman's face. Her eyes lit with life as she studied me. Then her hands rose up to tug at my beard endearingly. "Oh, sonny!" She laughed. "What happened? I hardly recognize you! Come in! Come in!" I was dragged almost forcibly behind the door. By your beard, no less.

Shut up, sword.

I was barely through before an equally old and portly, but not so short, man waddled out from an inner room. "Why, isn't it young Ry!" He exclaimed, beckoning. "But come on in, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

I was escorted into a familiar living room. Barely furnished, about fifteen paces wide and half that long. It had a small table, a fireplace, and some stools, nothing else. Here I was immediately placed on one of the stools while old Vrisbrin's mouth walked on. I barely paid attention at first, as Mother Vrissy had placed in my hand a large ladle and a pot of mutton stew on the fire with the injunction to make are it was well turned. "Ah, boy," the farmer said, slapping me on the back. "Been a long time since you came. Why, that last time, I heard you'd just taken a whole chest of gold right from the mayor, under the nose, you did!" And he laughed emphatically.

I smiled along, trying my best to hide my delight at seeing mutton. I loved mutton. I began salivating despite my dehydration. I smacked my lips, and found myself unable to part them again. All for the best, Fate laughed. Vrisbrin went on. "Y'know two weeks off I heard them marketeers say King Daeron got himself a fine present from the Droan king. Some animal can't recall 'em name." He looked puzzled. Deep in thought. I slashed a mouthful of stew at my lips, and they parted. "Aye I recall!" His eyes lit in amusement. I knew he was trying to bait me into a guessing game and so remained silent. He glinted his eyes at me. Then he leaned forward. In an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper, he said, "Unicorns!"

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this is just the first part of the chapter because I don't think I should end here. Also I had to remove a lot to comply with the 2000 words rule. :)

Also, the universe in which this story takes place is the same as the one Scarlettfire is writing! Technically this is her storybook-cum-novel and these are my character parts!