Spectre hated storms, so when he heard the first, distant rumble he quickened his pace. He knew it was irrational. He was a day's walk from the refugee camp, and another day from Starilaskur. If the storm was blowing his way, he would have to weather it, and if it wasn't, there was no outrunning it.
Still, there were hamlets along this road, and farms. He doubted any of the farmers would offer their hearth and home to someone six feet tall with a face of metal, but the barns could offer shelter. Spectre looked up at the vast grey wall of clouds advancing across the mid-afternoon sky. It was definitely coming closer, carried by a hot summer wind. He hated storms.
The sky had been clear yesterday morning, shortly after dawn when the farmer's market had set up, and still as blue as robin shells when, at noon, the vendors began to pack their wares. He had approached one of them, the ropemaker, and asked if he could ride with him to Starilaskur. The man had given him a hard look, eying the mace that hung from a hook at his waist. Spectre had wished, not for the first time, that he could smile. After a half dozen bakers, a cooper, a seamstress, and a bookseller, Spectre still lacked a ride. The seamstress had been the one to suggest it.
"You could walk," she had said, with a shrug, after apologizing that he was too heavy and likely to tire out the horses.
Yes, he could walk. His legs had escaped the war unscathed.
The wind was blowing harder now, the few trees that dotted the rolling hills began to sway, their branches bending beneath its breath. The crack of thunder drew closer.
Two years he had lived in the camps, helping in any way he could. Times of crisis brought people together, and this was no less true of his countrymen. They wove themselves together into a tapestry, a tale of survival and strength. And yet amongst them Spectre had felt separate, a loose thread left dangling. Warforged would pass through the camps from time to time, never staying: finding religion, or other wars, and moving on.
His reasons for leaving were selfish, which had made it that much harder. They had argued with increasing frequency over the two years in the camp. Every time he would tell her that it was time to move on, and every time she would ask him, what could be more important that this? Even now he couldn't explain to her why he was leaving her people behind, the people he had been built to protect.
He crested a hill. The wide, gravel road carried on down the slope and then up another gentle hill to disappear beyond its peak. Down at the bottom he could see a structure. It wasn't a barn, though perhaps part of it might have once been. The building was a chimera of architectural styles: part farmhouse, part castle, part inn- It might be an inn, Spectre thought, that would be a relief. Or perhaps the abode of a mad wizard, but Spectre did not dwell on that. An edge of darkness was moving across the fields, and soon it would reach the road. A bolt of lightning forked out to touch a distant tree, like the burning hands of a god. The sound of it split the air. Spectre began to run.
The rain hit half-way down the hill, hard enough that Spectre could feel it through his leather skin. He looked up to see that it was above him now, that ugly, grey, tumultuous form, tinged red from the dust of fallow fields.
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ninetydegrees
I accidentally the whole novel
on 2010-07-21 02:19 am (UTC)Still, there were hamlets along this road, and farms. He doubted any of the farmers would offer their hearth and home to someone six feet tall with a face of metal, but the barns could offer shelter. Spectre looked up at the vast grey wall of clouds advancing across the mid-afternoon sky. It was definitely coming closer, carried by a hot summer wind. He hated storms.
The sky had been clear yesterday morning, shortly after dawn when the farmer's market had set up, and still as blue as robin shells when, at noon, the vendors began to pack their wares. He had approached one of them, the ropemaker, and asked if he could ride with him to Starilaskur. The man had given him a hard look, eying the mace that hung from a hook at his waist. Spectre had wished, not for the first time, that he could smile. After a half dozen bakers, a cooper, a seamstress, and a bookseller, Spectre still lacked a ride. The seamstress had been the one to suggest it.
"You could walk," she had said, with a shrug, after apologizing that he was too heavy and likely to tire out the horses.
Yes, he could walk. His legs had escaped the war unscathed.
The wind was blowing harder now, the few trees that dotted the rolling hills began to sway, their branches bending beneath its breath. The crack of thunder drew closer.
Two years he had lived in the camps, helping in any way he could. Times of crisis brought people together, and this was no less true of his countrymen. They wove themselves together into a tapestry, a tale of survival and strength. And yet amongst them Spectre had felt separate, a loose thread left dangling. Warforged would pass through the camps from time to time, never staying: finding religion, or other wars, and moving on.
His reasons for leaving were selfish, which had made it that much harder. They had argued with increasing frequency over the two years in the camp. Every time he would tell her that it was time to move on, and every time she would ask him, what could be more important that this? Even now he couldn't explain to her why he was leaving her people behind, the people he had been built to protect.
He crested a hill. The wide, gravel road carried on down the slope and then up another gentle hill to disappear beyond its peak. Down at the bottom he could see a structure. It wasn't a barn, though perhaps part of it might have once been. The building was a chimera of architectural styles: part farmhouse, part castle, part inn- It might be an inn, Spectre thought, that would be a relief. Or perhaps the abode of a mad wizard, but Spectre did not dwell on that. An edge of darkness was moving across the fields, and soon it would reach the road. A bolt of lightning forked out to touch a distant tree, like the burning hands of a god. The sound of it split the air. Spectre began to run.
The rain hit half-way down the hill, hard enough that Spectre could feel it through his leather skin. He looked up to see that it was above him now, that ugly, grey, tumultuous form, tinged red from the dust of fallow fields.
(continued)