Crucifix - Chapter One - Pages 1-8

I tried really hard to split this up evenly, this first chapter is twenty pages, so I decided to start off with only the first eight. This is only the beginning of a really long story, so it is supposed to be dark, but happy at the same time. I finished this a while back, but I'm still revising it, so I'd love your critiques! This is sort of both sci-fi and fantasy, but Suzanne said to put it here.

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It was the brightest and sunniest day Claire Crucifix had seen to date on Sheroth. The gleaming star nearest the barren planet shone its light in columns of shining golden streams down onto the black, war-torn surface. This sunlight was not reflected, nor could it be, for Sheroth’s wasteland was black as death itself; thus the soil absorbed every last beam of immaterial nectar and sapped the sun of its energy. From space, Sheroth appeared as a floating black sphere in an even darker realm. It was the climax of poverty and hunger in the galaxy, its frail inhabitants searching endlessly for means of support and supplies. Sparse missions of outreach from other prosperous planets attempted to sustain the peoples, but thousands to millions died everyday nonetheless, from starvation, disease, or disputes among the small clans regarding food and water.

It was on this despicable planet Claire’s family lived. Poverty and frailty had accompanied her excessively all throughout her life, causing her to become immune to its terrible mental damages. A hunter’s daughter, a blonde, brown-eyed girl with a soft face, Claire often fended for herself, an only child. Occasionally, her father’s hunting party would locate a lone animal wandering through the wastelands, only to have it escape their grasp in the most idiotic of ways. Following such an event, her father and his group would pack their supplies and venture off to hunt it down, sometimes gone for days on end, even weeks. During times like this, Claire had to steal or scavenge food, as her mother had always taught her. Stealing food was a last resort for Claire, for food was inevitably scarce on Sheroth, and having one’s food stolen was often a life or death situation. All were on the brink of death because of this. Yet, the people endured.

Claire sat quietly outside her family’s tattered and torn tent, in one of the many tent-cities located around Sheroth’s wastelands. The ripped grey walls blew about in a weak breeze, flapping slightly and waving feebly in the air behind her. Her dirty hair waved along, but she paid no mind. She was presently watching a group of younger children play with tiny twigs a few feet away, as if one was a villain and the other was a hero. Whatever the case, the villain was perceived to be winning. In silence, Claire continued in this fashion, until her father approached, with a large slab of dark red meat slung over his shoulder.

Her father was a tall, muscular man, strong from his frequent excursions across the rugged black plains. He had rather short brown hair, and his eyes had leather wrinkles about them, from constant squinting, despite the darkness that enshrouded the grey Sheroth atmosphere. He was never clean, nor did he ever smell clean, but he did feed the family. Dressed in his usual hunting gear, large brown boots, a thick leathery belt, a bow with arrows strapped to his back, and worn black gloves, bloody from his work, he stood over her, blocking her sunlight.

“Why are you out here?” he asked, in a rough growl.

“I’m enjoying the sunlight, father,” she whispered, just barely loud enough for him to hear. “It’s not often that we get such wonderful weather as this.”

“You’re right,” he replied, still towering over her, “but if you really want to enjoy it, go and play with the other children. You’re not going to be young forever Claire.” With that said, he stooped down and shuffled past her into the empty tent, and began to prepare the meat.

Claire pondered that last thought. She knew that it was impossible to live forever, but if that was the case: what of those legendary figures of which she heard stories? The camp wise man, a consultant for such matters, told stories about heroic beings that vanquished terrible evils. But, as long as she listened to them, as she dearly loved to do, the heroes never seemed to perish . . . could they live forever? If one accomplished great enough deeds for the good of all, would he be granted immortality?

“It’s impossible to live forever,” Claire said to herself. “I should enjoy youth while I can.”

She stood up from her sitting position, the dry black dirt crunching underneath her old amber boots, and she quietly walked off into the tent-city, her arms folded behind her. The breeze strengthened into a mild wind, causing the tents to almost ricochet from each other.

The tent-city comprised of all kinds of people: old women and elders, young, innocent children with crusted hair, tall, strong hunters, frail and pale young adults and youth, and shabby dogs and cats with scarcely enough food to eat. The tents were mostly dull grey, accompanied by specks of brown and black. Some tents were pitched on the tops of hills, as was the camp wise man’s, and some tents were located in rather large clusters, as if numbers would protect from attack. As Claire walked along, some of these colorless structures flapped into her path of travel, seemingly lashing out at her as she passed. She held her hands out in front to shield herself from their attack.

Claire spent the rest of the afternoon resting peacefully on the top of the tallest land structure she could spot. Overlooking the entire camp on this black spire, she pondered many things. Mostly, she worried about the rest of her life. Would she always be ruthlessly trapped on this barren wasteland planet, never to make a difference in the rest of the galaxy? Could she never escape?

Perhaps, Claire thought to herself, but I’m too insignificant to get a spot on the Phoenix when it comes back around to deliver more supplies. Only important people get to leave. Me, I’m no one. It was in times like this that she realized how much she loathed this life.

She sat there for a longer time than she knew.

“Claire!” her father called, hours later. Snapping back from her subconscious, her eyes scanned the tents for that tall, sweaty hunter whom she called father. “Claire!” he called again. Having recognized him, she leapt up from her relaxed position, and sped full speed down the hill, almost tripping. Claire reached him in a matter of seconds, winded.

“Where have you been?” her father demanded.

Claire pointed weakly at the hill. “There,” she spluttered.

“The food is ready,” he replied, ignoring her response. “Go find your mother for me.”

“Okay,” she sighed, almost reluctantly. She had expended all of her energy running to her father, only to be sent off again, this time as a one-person search party.

Why doesn’t he go get her? Why always me?

Claire’s mother was a hard-working woman, much shorter than her father, but taller than Claire. Like everyone else in the family, she was always tired and dirty. However, she was not the one who did the cooking, she was not the one who caught the food, and she was not the one who staffed the tent. Mrs. Crucifix spent all of her time at the bazaar outside camp, constantly buying, selling, or stealing items and supplies to support her family. Claire’s father didn’t do this job because he was frequently hunting, and because he never knew what items the family needed. Actually, Claire concluded that he never really knew anything that was going on.

The market was a long way from the camp, but Claire didn’t mind. Yet again, she quietly walked along through the tent forest, minding her own business and habitually folding her arms behind her back. The wind picked up even more, rolling lightweight black pebbles across the ground, resembling an army of dung beetles. Smells of stale food and smoke wafted her way. Distant voices reached her ears as she watched the once ignored lump on the black horizon become a dense mass of booths and stands.

The main collection of Sheroth inhabitants in each clan, every tent city had a bazaar, from the colossal to the insignificant. Nearly everything found in the wastelands was bought and sold here: dry animal bones, ragged clothes, rusty weapons, spoiled food, dull armor, torn furniture, worn-out tents, starved pets, and dirty cooking equipment. Normally, there were so many determined people at the market that, usually, one could never come and go without having an item or two stolen from them in the frenzied mass. Never would one think that Sheroth had so much business, as poor as it was. But the truth: all of it was nearly worthless anyway. Only in the minds of the buyers and sellers did it become valuable.

However, as Claire reached the bazaar, the she found the very last consumers to be departing. Shops were closing; merchandise was being put away on rickety carts to be squeakily wheeled back to large tattered tents; stained banners and faded streamers depicting happy customers lay on the ground, rolled up. Because of the scarcity of crowds, Claire easily spotted her mother haggling with an old white-bearded shopkeeper with wrinkled skin. Her frayed dirty-blonde hair and signature bright eyes defined her as the most perseverant customer this man had seen to date. In her frail hand, she held her old market bag, which at this point seemed half-full of random objects she had purchased, or stolen, earlier in the day. She was dressed in some of her husband’s brown leathery hunting wear, which was much too large for her, despite being tightened to its extremity.

Claire crept over to her mother and silently stood behind her until she was finished bargaining.

“Fine!” spat Claire’s mother, “I don’t need your items anyway!” The poor old man seemed relieved that she was finally giving up.

“Well, if you say so,” he replied, in a classic grandfather rasp.

Mrs. Crucifix spun around to stomp away, but instead found herself face to face with her daughter.

“Claire!” she spouted, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Father sent me to find you,” Claire said. “He said dinner’s ready.”

“Oh, good,” she chuckled. “Do you want to see what I got today?”

“No,” Claire whispered, striding along the worn path back to their camp, “not today, mother.”

“Very well,” replied her mother, “but I found some good items! I got a nice scarf for you, because your old one was - -”

“- - stolen,” finished Claire, sighing.

“Yes, and I got you some food too,” her mom revealed, gesturing to the bazaar bag as she carefully handed it to Claire. It was taken hesitantly, but excitedly; however, the surprise turned out to be a dull one, as she slowly pulled out a half-loaf of hard bread.

“More of old Mr. Gerald’s stolen bakery goods?” Claire muttered, clearly unshaken. “Isn’t there anything else edible in this bag?” She ruffled through the items.

“Oh,” interrupted her mother, “the salt is for your father.”

The market bag only held about six items: a small roll of paper, a rusty knife, Claire’s scarf, her father’s salt, Mr. Gerald’s bread, and something interesting: a small animal skull with strange black symbols inscribed on the forehead. Claire held it up to examine it, and then looked questioningly at her mother.

“What’s this?” she asked, suspicious.

“I found that on the ground,” answered Mrs. Crucifix. “I thought it looked strange, but it might be worth something. So, I kept it.” She shrugged.

Investigating the skull, Claire, fingering the rough scratched surface, found the symbols to be written in a thick pasty ink, swirling around each other in a mesmerizing manner. The skull appeared to be that of a small cat, with large eye sockets and sharp teeth. Dirt had collected in a few nooks and crannies in the irregular surface, but nonetheless it was rather pale and whitish in color. Strands of faded beads on thin strings hung from the back. The skull rattled when shook, easily fitting in the palm of her hand.

Claire found it enormously fascinating, for she had always found dark magic, however frightening, to be rather intriguing. She listened intently to the scary stories the wise man occasionally told, trembling at the images that flashed through her head when he told of historic villains. Spencer Serpens of Caroth, the Dark Ethereals, Rihu the Storm Demon, and even Zarthey of Sheroth, her home planet’s previous dictator, all retained their places in her imagination . . . each was as different as the last.

But, there was one story he refused to tell her, of the greatest dark villain of them all, of all of the history of the galaxy. The facial expression that overtook his face, when she asked to hear the story of The Destroyer of Worlds, was terrifying enough, but because of this fear, she yearned to learn more. Never could she convince him to tell her this tale, therefore she always left his tent in sadness, as if some great skill had been snatched from her grasp, never to be mastered.

Arriving at her camp with her mother, Claire snapped out of her stupor. The dusk was approaching quickly, and all residents rushed to stow away their belongings and retreat into their feeble dwellings before the darkness engulfed the colony. Children rushed about here and there, like frantic ants in a disturbed nest, and dry laundry, banners, and flags were rolled up and slipped into the arms of teenagers reluctantly waiting for work, smug and glum. She observed all of these things as she followed her mother to the tent, where Claire’s father was finished preparing the succulent meat for devouring; having set the cooked food inside the tent, he emerged from as they approached.

“What took you so long?” he shot gruffly.

“I was getting mother, father,” Claire said quietly.

“Yes,” added her mother, “it was a long walk.”

He glared at them. “Took longer than usual,” he grumbled, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Crucifix soothed, “let’s eat now.”

Mr. Crucifix grunted and ducked back into the tent, the females followed him. Claire smiled, he was always in this mood, but somehow it was amusing. Her mother was always there to counter his crude comments.

“I cooked the meat,” he said, “hope you like it.”

“Oh,” Claire’s mother smiled, “we will, definitely.”

Her daughter smiled back. Despite living on a poverty-stricken planet, Claire’s family always was able to eat dinner together, whether the food was stolen from another family or not. Most often it was freshly caught animal meat, captured within two days before consummation. Also, even though dirt, grime, slime, grease, and sweat infected nearly every touchable surface, and pollution reigned, the family’s food always remained clean, crisp, and juicy. The pink and gray meat split easily, and faint steam swirled up above their hands as they cut, sliced, and savored the flavorful steak. There was no thing as bar-b-que sauce on Sheroth, but that didn’t stop them. They seasoned the meat with some of the salt bought at the bazaar, giving it that extra bite which was always lacking.

“So,” Claire’s mother began excitedly, breaking many minutes of silence, “I have some great news!”

“Hmph,” growled her husband, “what’s that?”

“The market is having a big day tomorrow,” she continued. “Another clan from across the plain is coming through here, and bringing with them their bazaar!”

The bazaar is her life, that’s for sure, Claire thought, as she deposited another chunk of meat into her mouth.

“So?” answered Mr. Crucifix with his mouth full.

“So, that means that there’ll be never-before-seen items there, as well as the market doubling is size for one day!”

“They’ll only be here for one day?” asked Claire, pausing to wait for an answer.

“Only one day!” spouted her mother. “That’s why we’re all going as a family!”

“Hmph,” grunted Mr. Crucifix again, “I know I’m not going.”

“Oh, but you must!” replied his wife. “You know there’ll be hunting gear!”

“Well . . .” he mumbled thoughtfully, chewing his food.

After dinner, Claire decided it was still not too dark to go and see the camp wise man one more time, a very short visit, just to ask him about the strange skull. Grabbing her new scarf and wrapping it around her neck, and stomach contentedly settled, she stepped out of the tent to a darkening dusk, villagers continuing to scramble about in their haste to put away their belongings, for night was when the true thieves prowled about the camp. The classic smell of Sheroth, ever lingering in the nostrils of those who lived on this decrepit planet, greeted her yet again, as it had every day of her life. It was a burnt smell, intermingled with a slight scent of rotting flesh and hot rock; altogether not overwhelming, but annoying. This infecting gas carried on the breeze, now weakening as the night drew nearer.

“Claire,” called her mother, “if you’re going out, be back here before dark!”

“Mother, it is already dark outside.”

“I meant before, like, night.”

Claire simply replied by nodding her head slightly and silently walking off into the busy hive, never swayed by her mother’s constant worrying. The wise man’s tent lay only about one hundred yards from Claire’s tent, and because of Claire’s mind’s ceaseless state of sub- consciousness, always dwelling on the true meanings of things surrounding her and pondering deeply the causes of events which ensued in proximity to her tiny world, she managed to reach the wise-man’s tent in, as it seemed, a matter of seconds. Claire remained oblivious to the rotten Sheroth smell and the frantic tent-goers.

Time passes quickly when you’re not thinking about time passing, Claire thought, as she drew up to the black tent.

“Azaroth?” she spoke rather quietly, almost whispering, leaning in towards the door of the tent. A second time she called, this time louder.

“For the last time,” came an old man’s hoarse voice from within the reaches of the black cloth, “I told you to call me Mr. Azaroth! Not just Azaroth!”

Claire grinned, sighing, relieved that she had not trekked all this way to find Azaroth gone to eat dinner or such. “Sorry,” she apologized in a whisper.

“Well?” he asked, with a touch of laughter, “Are you going to come in, or am I going to have to tell a story while you stand out there?”

Azaroth’s dark tent was only a third larger than the other scrawny tents in the colony, including Claire’s, to make it twenty feet in diameter. Around the floor were spread numerous strange objects, mostly made of wood and bone, and some silvery metal trinkets that clicked and clinked as they whirled about. Drawings and scrolls hung on the flapping walls, blown by the wind, as Claire had let inside a gust of wind when she entered. The Sheroth smell did not linger here; instead, it was a strong smell of old wet leather and aging rugs, of which Azaroth had many.

“Hey, careful!” said he a bit angrily, “You’ll let all of the cold air in, and all of my scrolls out!” This statement concerned the ten or so unruly rolls of yellow parchment that the gust had misplaced in its wake.

“Sorry,” Claire whispered again.

“Bah!” shot Azaroth stubbornly, but then he smiled. “Don’t fret about it. Believe an old man like me, it’s not the first time you’ve come in here and messed up everything.”

She chuckled. Claire was used to Azaroth’s biting remarks, but she knew him well enough to know that he did not mean them; he was just trying to be funny.

Most of the time it only comes across as rude, not entertaining.

“So, what stories have you come to hear today?” he asked, as he prepared some tea for them both. “Zarthey of Sheroth? No, you’ve heard that one. . . How about tales of Ros-Avon or Lenneth? Actually, I think you’ve heard all of those too. Well? What’ll it be?”

“Really,” Claire answered bluntly, pulling the skull out her pocket and rattling it in his face, “I wanted to ask you about this.” She set it on a small table between them with a significant clunk, the beads rattling to a rest on the tough wooden surface. “My mother found it on the road back from the bazaar, and I found it to be very interesting.”

Azaroth slowly took the skull, his bushy eyebrows furrowed, fingering it carefully.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said, frowning. “The Indigeran civilizations used to have skulls like this, ornamenting their doorways to ward off evil spirits, but the Indigerans lived hundreds of years ago.”

“So it’s like an Indigeran protecting charm?”

“I can’t be sure,” Azaroth said, “but it’s not Indigeran. This marking in between the eyes is in a language not known to me. Without knowing what the symbol means, I can’t tell you what it is or isn’t, because the symbol seems to be the key identification marking.”

Disappointed, Claire bit her lip, as Azaroth set the skull on the table again. It faced Claire with enormous black eye sockets, as if it was watching her.

“Where did you find this again?” he inquired, his visage alarmingly confused as to this apparition.

“On the road back from the bazaar today,” she replied.

“The bazaar? If this is from the market, I suggest you take it with you tomorrow and see if you can find someone who sells them. If that is the case, then they will be able to tell you where they got it. Most likely, it’s not authentic; they must’ve made it themselves.” He paused for a moment and stared at the subject object. “Even so, it must’ve been produced by a very skilled crafter.” He handed it back to her, beads dangling like thick braids of hair.

Not all of Claire’s questions had been answered, but it was too late. “I better head back,” she said.

“So soon? Not even staying for tea?”

“No, my mother will be worried about me.”

“Ah yes,” Azaroth said, eyes twinkling, “women never cease to worry. Very well, if you must, be off! I’ve nothing else for the likes of you.”

“Thanks for the info,” Claire thanked, as she stepped out of Azaroth’s tent, into the dangerously looming night.

So where did the skull come from? Claire thought wonderingly, walking back to her home. If Azaroth doesn’t know what it is or where it came from, then how can I? Only the people who sell these can tell me, another reason to go with mother and father to the bazaar tomorrow. Maybe it has some sort of dark magic properties! How exciting that would be. Spell casting abilities? No, that’s a little far-fetched for just a little skull like this. She held it up to scrutinize it. Anyway, at least something fun is happening tomorrow. I haven’t been to an inter-colony market for a few years now. I wonder what kind of things they’ll have.

At this time, Claire had returned to her family’s tent and stepped inside. The tent was very comfortable, with a soft brown carpet, nice grey walls and a feeble lamp hanging from the center of the ceiling, suspended by a pole. The room was actually quite large, thus dispersing the light and causing the place to be relatively dim. Only her mother was present, he father was nowhere to be seen. As routine as this occurrence had become, Claire was surprised; after all, her father was to go with them to the market the next day.

“Ah, Claire,” her mother said, relieved. “You’re back.”

“Where’s father?”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Well . . . you’re father was called out at the last minute to help his friends hunt down another desert beast for food. He said he won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon, if all goes well.”

Claire merely sighed again. Grabbing her lone brown blanket, she settled down on a flat pillow, wrapped herself, removed her boots and scarf, and shut her eyes to fall asleep. She was rather tired; she had done a lot of running and walking and, most tiring, thinking deeply. Things faded faster than she had expected. Within minutes, she had drifted into a half-awake and half-asleep trance, and simpler thoughts escaped her, while complex thoughts became twisted and strange strings of memories and recollections. Time seemed to speed, while it at first appeared to slow. The last thought that Claire retained in her memory for the next day was the mysterious artifact floating through blackness away from her, as if it was falling . . .

Where did that skull come from . . . ?

The next solemn morning, a very cold day, she was awoken by ravenous barking dogs outside the tent, in the odoriferous smell of Sheroth. Squinting about her from underneath her blanket, she reluctantly sat up and stretched her arms. Then she stood, changing her black shirt and faded blue jeans for a clean grey shirt and black jeans, placing yesterday’s clothes in her mother’s dirty laundry bin in the darkest corner of the tent. The bin was predominantly filled with her father’s clothes. The smell wasn’t nearly as bad as Sheroth’s rotten stench, but it still pecked painfully at the nose.

It must be pretty early, she thought, looking around at the filtered grey light that filled the tent, entering through the fabric walls. The sun hasn’t really come out yet. Then Claire remembered the sun almost never came out anyway.

I guess it’s mid-morning, then.

Slipping on her boots again, she stuffed the strange skull into her torn pocket, and trudged out the tent door and into the pale light of the familiar Sheroth morning. Her mother had already washed some raggedy clothes and was currently stringing them up on a rope laundry line. Other early-rising villagers were calmly going about their own business, preparing rusty gear, fake merchandise, and age-old trade items for the inter-colony bazaar, which was to ensue within an hour. Claire strode over to her mother, the cool morning air flowing over her skin, causing her to shiver, and the rocky Sheroth terrain crunching under her feet.

“Good morning, mother,” she greeted optimistically. Her mother paused her work to smile at her daughter.

“Good morning, Claire,” Mrs. Crucifix laughed. “Are you ready for the bazaar? Do you have things to trade?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ve got a few.”

Only a strange skull, the origins of which I am dying to know.

“How exciting!” exclaimed the mother.

“It seems.”

Mrs. Crucifix continued to string laundry up on the rope, which stretched between two wooden posts nearly fifteen feet apart. “We’ll leave in a few minutes,” she said. “Just let me finish putting up the clothes, and then we’ll go.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you just go sit down or something?” Mrs. Crucifix suggested.

Claire shrugged. She walked back over to the tent and sat in front of the tattered and torn dwelling as she had done yesterday afternoon. There was no wind this morning, which caused a frighteningly silent environment; there was no flapping, no yelling or crying of children, and no whooping of successful burly hunters. The same two children she had quietly watched the day previous were present yet again; however, they did not play-fight with sticks. The hero had accidentally injured the villain, and they both sat outside their tent, gloomy and sad. Over to the right, Claire observed an old man trying to build and start a fire, thin tongues of smoke drifted up into the sky as he feebly attempted to produce warmth on this cold, dreary morning. A few hundred feet away was Claire’s favorite hill, the tallest spire, the one where Claire had doubted herself to ever leave Sheroth. Upon the spire sat a lone scout, who looked out over the wasteland to see any returning hunting parties, like Mr. Crucifix’s.

He must be pretty cold up there, even if there is no wind. Upon this observation, she noticed that not only wasn’t there wind, but also the sky was full of grayish clouds. That’s why we can’t see the sun; the clouds are blocking the way. Oh well . . . it’s not as if we’ll miss it anyway. Hope it doesn’t rain at the bazaar.

“Okay, Claire!” called her mother. “Can you get me my bazaar bag? It’s in the tent, on my side.”

Claire, train of thought halting, stretched one arm inside the tent and fumbled about for the recognizable brown bag. Her fingers slipped over rough and scratchy blankets, cold metal cooking tools, sagging pillows, and finally the open top of the sought object. Claire clasped her hand around the woven neck and pulled, but the bag was astonishingly heavy.

“What the heck is in this thing?” she asked, shocked. After some strenuous yanking, Claire managed to drag the sack out onto the black gravelly Sheroth dirt. It was as full as she had ever seen it.

“That is what we are going to trade!” exclaimed Mrs. Crucifix. "I’ve saved half of everything I’ve traded or purchased, ever since I heard about the inter-colony market today, so now we have tons of stuff to trade!”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Mother, that’s wonderful,” Claire beamed. “How much of it can I trade?”

Mrs. Crucifix slung the bag over her shoulder, smiling. “Well, you get one third, I get one third, and we’ll save a third for your father, okay?” Claire nodded, fingering the skull in her pocket.

Setting out that morning, they reached the huge bazaar around noon. As they neared, they could smell the food and hear the sounds and music. The smells were numerous and different: steaming steak, with its signature aroma, so familiar to Claire; an odd smell, like an alternating pattern of perfume and sugar, with a hint of herbs, perhaps a wizard’s mix; and, of course, Sheroth’s stench hung underneath all of these colorful shows. Tagging along was the wafting scent of toasted bread. Sounds accompanied these displays to the audience of the nose: the rhythmic beat of a tribal drum, constantly keeping up a catchy rhythm, to become lodged in Claire’s brain; a spectrum of tones rang from an unusual band, seeming as though it belonged at a child’s carnival, though it held no definite beat; following along with the others was the lovable sound of guitars and makeshift drum sets. Finally, after this torture, the entire bazaar came into view as a rainbow lump in an enormous valley.

Whoa.

The market had tripled in size since Claire’s visit yesterday. Sweaty vendors rushed to set up their colorful displays, eager customers crowded around the more popular booths, and hyperactive children ran hurriedly about with wooden play swords, axes, and spears: reluctantly purchased or traded by frugal parents. One booth possessed a miniature stage, upon which a small skit was being performed, making use of the vendors’ items, in order to arouse interest. Red, yellows, and blues dominated as booth colors; streamers were abundant. Almost all strode about with some type of delicious food or beverage, the smell of which was overwhelming, drowning out the decrepit Sheroth scent. There was so much noise that Claire could barely hear what anyone was saying; however, no matter the voices, the merry music always came out the clearest, putting all customers, vendors, traders, and passersby in states of jubilee and care-freeness.

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Pages 8-19 coming soon. Actually, I've already written them, I just need to wait for some criticism.