Why Editing is Important: An Eventual Demonstration
Apr 2, 2018 21:51:32 GMT -5
Caylista and Twillie like this
Post by Moni on Apr 2, 2018 21:51:32 GMT -5
If you are confused by the title, don't worry, so am I! It's a rough draft, and we rarely get them right the first time. Now, apparently, I never got that memo, and I routinely delete thousands of words whenever I feel things are about to go south.
This means that I have been trying to write an NT series for two (2! v 2*1) years, but have never actually finished a rough draft because I just kind of erase the entire thing out of existence. Sometimes when I'm several ten-thousand words in. I mean, that's a lot of writing practice, but practice is only as good as what you can get done and (eventually) show to the world. So, I am creating this thread to force myself to get through an entire draft, no matter how bad it is!
And trust me, it will get really bad. Because I have no sense of pacing or grammar and my prose is extremely formulaic.
As for the story, it's about Jeran. Because of course it is. Why are you even surprised? You want more details? TOO BAD, I'm still kind of working those out, hopefully it won't change too much from my 10 other previous versions. But the idea is that he and Danner fightCRIME monsters in a wacky town. What could go wrong?
50% of this probably needs to be cut, part I
JERAN IS ACTUALLY THE WORST DOCTOR OF ALL TIME, DON'T LET HIM DO THIS, part II
(also featuring: puns)
This means that I have been trying to write an NT series for two (2! v 2*1) years, but have never actually finished a rough draft because I just kind of erase the entire thing out of existence. Sometimes when I'm several ten-thousand words in. I mean, that's a lot of writing practice, but practice is only as good as what you can get done and (eventually) show to the world. So, I am creating this thread to force myself to get through an entire draft, no matter how bad it is!
And trust me, it will get really bad. Because I have no sense of pacing or grammar and my prose is extremely formulaic.
As for the story, it's about Jeran. Because of course it is. Why are you even surprised? You want more details? TOO BAD, I'm still kind of working those out, hopefully it won't change too much from my 10 other previous versions. But the idea is that he and Danner fight
50% of this probably needs to be cut, part I
Havister was a strange place with superstitious inhabitants. Naturally, Jeran supposed, given the location. The town stood at the precipice of Meridell and the Haunted Woods. To the east lay rolling hills and verdant plains. The river from there cut the town in two halves. Several small bridges, including one bridge at the town square, connected each half to the other. To the west lay that grand forest, rising and dipping from the horizon like the gyri and sulci of a brain.
Bulbs of garlic hung outside houses like little lanterns. Crude, stylized faces were etched into every doorway. Bracelet charms bearing the image of the sun festooned the inhabitants’ wrists. Even the town hall could not escape these inexplicable sorts of rituals: beneath the old stained glass windows fluttered a variety of ribbons, each inscribed with a little wish.
To its credit, Havister did not have to deal with whatever reject came crawling out of the Haunted Woods within the town itself. Jeran ascribed that particular victory, however, to Lady Illusen’s strong barrier spells as well as the knights that always stood watch here.
The blue Lupe squire leaned languidly against the wall around the viscount’s manor. His right hand floated about the dagger tucked beneath his tunic as a matter of habit; his left was raised against the sun.
“Jeran!” a call came from afar.
He put down his hand and smiled at the blue Wocky walking toward him. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d turn up.”
“I forgot my bag and had to go get it again,” replied Danner, raising the empty potato sack he carried. “I reckon it’d be tedious to carry things around, otherwise.”
“What are we carrying around today?”
“I told Isede I’d be buying Syana a toy,” he said, “so that’s what we’re doing. There’s a toymaker near here—old man apparently makes trinkets that children very much find delightful. Figured it’d be nice to give her something from here.”
Even though he’d visited cities all over Meridell, Jeran had never been to a toymaker’s shop before. His earlier childhood had been one very hazy memory, and as far as he was concerned, he’d materialized into existence as a page in King Skarl’s castle. By then, he’d had little reason to show outright interest in toys.
“Well, you have to show that you’ve been here, right?” Then, he answered his part of the implicit question: how he’d managed to get away from his master. “I told Tryse I was feeling ill and tired of training, and he seemed happy to let me go for the day.”
“Yikes,” said Danner. “Keep your lies simple. I would absolutely believe that you were sick, but tired of training? I don’t think that’s even possible, for you.”
Jeran was in good health, but he always had a haggardly air about him thanks to a constant lack of sleep. “Believe it or not, I sometimes do other things.”
“A likely story.”
The toymaker’s shop was located two blocks away from the town hall. Dolls of all shapes, sizes, and materials were smiling at them as the duo stepped inside. At one end of the store, an elderly Gelert watched the squires through a pair of cloudy spectacles. A door near him opened to reveal a young Kyrii whose head would barely have reached Jeran’s kneecaps.
“Hello, misters,” chirped the old Gelert, “I don’t reckon you’re here to buy something for yourselves, are you?”
“For my little sister,” replied Danner. “I’m much too old for toys.”
“You can’t ever be too old for them,” the toymaker said with a voiceless chuckle. “That’s just why I decided to go into this business in the first place—needed an excuse to have them around. If you fancy something, don’t be embarrassed, is all I’m saying.” He gestured to a sampling of tiny knick-knacks and figurines that were all small enough to fit into a hand. “These ones, I think, are respectable enough for young men such as yourselves.”
Danner exchanged a glance with Jeran, who quizzically inclined his head toward the rack. “We’ll take a look at it.”
“That is what I like to hear. Now, if your sister is anything like my son Bic over here, he might help you pick out a suitable gift.” The little orange Kyrii waved at the two squires with a wide grin that was missing a few teeth. Danner waved back.
It seemed a little strange that such a young boy could be a son to a man so old, but Jeran supposed it wasn’t impossible. What did he know about family, after all?
While Danner chatted away with him, Jeran turned to perusing the various objects on display. A plushie of a Cybunny princess caught his attention as being appropriate for a girl of Syana’s age, and when he directed Danner’s attention to it, he received the following reply:
“Hm, I don’t think that will quite work out for her. I think it is too conventional.”
Thus Jeran turned his attention to things that appeared not to be appropriate for a girl of Syana’s age. He found a painted wooden figurine of a skeletal Draik stuck permanently in an attacking pose. He showed this to Danner, and was told that it was perhaps too inappropriate for a girl of Syana’s age.
In the end, he left Danner to go looking with the little boy and busied himself browsing the rack that the toymaker had indicated earlier. It was filled with things that gleamed and moved through some mechanism or other. In the midst of them lay a small box with a little yellow Aisha dancer nestled within a chrysanthemum.
When Jeran touched it, the dancer began to pirouette slowly, and the petals of the chrysanthemum shifted ever so slightly to give her dress the illusion of movement. An old melody began playing vividly in his head; it rose in an ever-increasing show of tristful bombast, never-slowing, and, at the moment, it appeared it would never end, that it would keep spiraling around itself forever, somehow maintaining its momentum through it all—then it ended in the middle of a diminutive phrase, without resolution.
The tiny Aisha kept spinning in the same calm pace, and a strange feeling of melancholic longing came over Jeran. He did not know exactly why.
“Ah, yes,” said the Gelert toymaker, taking an interest in Jeran. “This is a special product of mine. My son named it Lisa. It is such a plain name, but I suppose it is fitting. Are you interested in it?”
“Oh, I was just… it reminded me of somebody,” he replied, unsure of the veratown of his statement. Did it remind him of somebody? Sometime? Something? Jeran moved back toward Danner to avoid justifying himself to the toymaker, suddenly aware that it was not polite to aimlessly peruse through his wares.
“… And this, well, I call him Yom,” the Kyrii boy said. He was directing Danner to a plushie knight with tiny wooden sword stitched to his hand. “I think it would work for her. He is energetic and listens well.”
Evidently, Danner had decided to play along. “I see, I see! Very interesting. But my sister would also like some toy she can share a meal with. Her favorite food is apples—and, as you can see here, he doesn’t look like an apple person.”
“That is a problem,” replied Bic. “Yom is more of an orange fan, and you know what they say: apples and oranges couldn’t be more different. I think I’ve got just the thing, though.”
He pulled out another knight plushie. It was not much different than “Yom,” except that her armor was vermillion. “This is Nyz. She likes apples a lot, and her personality is much like Yom’s.”
Danner took the plushie and scrutinized it closely, even noting how his reflection looked in its beady eyes and nose. After rotating the toy about innumerable axes, he looked back at Bic and nodded. “I think ‘Nyz’ would get along well with my sister.”
Bic nodded back. “All right, Nyz it is! She’ll be so happy with her new friend. And you—uh, other guy,” he said, addressing Jeran, “did you need my help with something?”
“I don’t need anything, kid,” replied Jeran coldly. He nudged Danner gently toward the old toymaker. Danner, having taken the hint, went to the toymaker, placed the plushie on the counter, and swiftly declared his intention to purchase it.
While they haggled over the price, Jeran found himself growing impatient at the proceedings. The tune that the music box had played returned to his head, the same ceaseless, almost tautological melody. Something about the store had struck him as particularly cramped now. Each breath he inhaled seemed to be the same breath he had just exhaled, the same breath of everyone who’d walked in here.
Rubbing his clammy hands together, he wandered around the store before exiting thoughtlessly. Outside, the air became suddenly crisp again. The sunlight, unimpeded by a display glass, shone upon him, and the breeze ensured him new breaths.
Even the tune ceased.
With a sigh, Jeran closed his eyes and inclined his head backwards. The unadulterated chatter of the town square flitted by, and it was almost as good as silence. On occasion, the sound of footsteps drew near and the door to the store creaked open, and every time, Jeran would peek through one eye to see if Danner had come out.
When Danner did come, Jeran noticed that his potato sack now had a plushie knight occupant. “You took forever in there,” he said.
“What can I say? The old guy’s a good conversationalist… and stiff on his prices. I think you might have liked him.”
“He’s all right,” replied Jeran. “It’s just the location. It feels a little—”
The chatter of the square carried on as normal, and so did the occasional Baabaa bleat and Pawkeet squawk, but something in the general drumming of footsteps changed. A long, heavy gate staggered amongst them, a small aberration in the soundscape.
“—Danner,” he changed the topic: “I think something’s wrong.”
Danner listened to their half of the town square. Citizens moved through it like water, with the occasional droplets let loose to one of the stores or stalls scattered about the area. Their movement, as a whole, did not seem strange, but Danner had the idea that a clog someplace was hindering their flow.
Jeran’s intuition seemed to be onto something. “You might be right,” he said, watching the blockage of people beyond the bridge. “Don’t tell me you want to investigate.”
Wordlessly, Jeran patted the impression the hilt of his dagger made under his tunic. This display of assurance would have seemed unnecessary if not for the fact that the long, staggered sound became more prominent.
Shrieks rent the uneasy calm. The semifluid mass of people dispersed in all directions, and the ripples sent waves of footsteps Jeran’s way. The Havisterites running past them made room for the duo to see what exactly was causing this emergent frenzy.
A giant, fluted figure came into view. Despite the light of the sun, shadow stuck to it like a bundle of torn garments, obscuring any features but its broad, misshapen spine. Four barbed horns, emerging from what appeared to be its head, pointed in the direction of its path.
How in the world did this thing get into the town? thought Jeran.
For a moment, its inky eyes appeared to glare right at the squires, but when they made themselves light and scattered, the monster lumbered toward the toymaker’s shop. Realizing what its new destination was, Danner dropped his potato sack made a dash for its legs, evading Jeran’s belated attempt to restrain him.
“Get back here!” Jeran barked. “Don’t—don’t—”
Danner was already attached to the monster’s legs, holding it down with his weight, shouting for anybody in the toymaker’s shop to exit. The creature stomped its leg and swung its arms to Danner’s general location. Its cold, shadowy fingers wrapped around Danner’s left arm and pulled.
His calls for help evidently worked, because he could see something move through the window. The old Gelert apparently made his way out a secondary exit, and the boy followed.
With a clenched fist, Danner delivered a blow onto one of the creature’s phalangeal joints. The finger let go long enough for him to twist his body free and drop to the ground with a running start, but the monster yanked him back violently.
He reflexively attempted to pull back, but his feet lost traction with the ground. He took a breath as he tried to look out into the world and reorient himself, to no avail. Dark tendrils spiraled around him, and with them the type of cold that the chilling winds of a snowstorm brought on. It seeped into his bones.
His shivering overrode any other sort of response. He lay in darkness, singularly focused on commanding his limbs to move, to struggle, and they did not obey him. Not even his voice could escape. His body was a useless, fleshy sort of puppet, and he had lost the strings controlling it.
Then, a sliver of light broke through. A muffled screech sounded, and Danner knew that it if he could hear the full sound, it would have been painfully loud.
“Danner!” Jeran’s voice. “Danner, get out!”
Another screech. Sunlight—and warmth—poured in as the monster’s grip on him weakened. After reacquainting himself with the idea of controlling his limbs, he pushed against the giant arm that had been restraining him.
He found himself thrashed against the cobblestone road with a faint metallic tinge in his mouth. Danner staggered to his feet, still quivering. He brushed his long, disheveled hair away from his eyes.
Jeran was standing over the felled monster, shaking the remnants shadow off his dagger, which appeared to resemble a particularly small short sword. He stared at it in silence.
“What belt should I buy, if I want to fit a ‘dagger’ like that in it?” asked Danner. He’d intended for this question to come out in a less tired way than it did.
“A good one,” replied Jeran, cautiously inching away from the beast. When he was close enough, he took Danner’s arm and laid it over his shoulders. Danner wanted to protest this and say he was all right, but he really did feel weak enough to need the help.
As a matter of courtesy, Jeran eventually asked, “How are you feeling, Danner?” to which Danner wanted to respond that he should have asked that question earlier, but that appeared unnecessary.
“I feel terrible,” said Danner in a raspy voice. “You know what they say… uh… don’t charge unarmed into the enemy. That’s overrated.”
That was not a good joke. “You could be seriously hurt.”
“No, it’s not that bad,” replied Danner. “Would you mind getting me my bag, though? I’d hate to think that I’d waste all that money on nothing.”
Jeran frowned. How was he supposed to support Danner and get that pouch off the ground at the same time? He stared acrimoniously at the potato sack for a while, hoping that a street rat would snatch it away. Unfortunately, the square was quite deserted at that point.
After he moved closer to the bag, Jeran let his right leg support all the weight he carried, leaving his left leg free. He skidded his foot toward the sack, flexing and releasing his toes with each jump. Each stride of his foot put a little more strain on his other leg.
Just as he was about to scoop the bag up, a hand snatched it away. An expletive almost escaped Jeran’s mouth, but it stopped in its tracks when his eyes met that of a little Kyrii boy from the toymaker’s shop. Bic, was it his name?
“Hello, mister,” he said, holding the potato sack up to his face, “were you trying to pick this up?”
Now, what would it have looked like he was doing? Before he could speak, Danner cut in: “Yes, yes, we were. Nyz is in there.”
“Yeah, I remember!” said Bic cheerily. He handed the bag over to Danner’s limp hand, much to Jeran’s irrational annoyance. “Be careful, now, you wouldn’t want her to get hurt. She still has yet to meet her new friend!”
“I would hate for anything to happen to her, now,” replied Danner with a weak smile.
“That would indeed be a shame,” commented Jeran.
The little Kyrii grinned sweetly, showing a gap in his front teeth. He glanced aside at the vanquished monster, which was most clearly the reason he’d decided to show up. “Wow, that thing is… really big.”
“Yes,” snapped Jeran. Danner weighed more heavily on his shoulders, arms interlocked around his neck. The potato sack containing “Nyz” lay on his chest like the gemstone of some lavish amulet. The stupid creature was hardly anything special; in fact, Jeran and Danner had encountered many like it outside the town’s borders. “Shouldn’t you be with your father?”
“He’s a slow walker.”
“Well, you should… take care of yourself, then.”
He waited for Danner to chip in with a more graceful remark. Absent Danner’s voice, or indeed his consciousness, Jeran jerked his shoulders to see if he was responsive. When that failed, Jeran ran off into the direction of a nearby apothecary. If memory served him well, she had a makeshift infirmary and a variety of potions that would help Danner.
At least, they had always worked before.
Bulbs of garlic hung outside houses like little lanterns. Crude, stylized faces were etched into every doorway. Bracelet charms bearing the image of the sun festooned the inhabitants’ wrists. Even the town hall could not escape these inexplicable sorts of rituals: beneath the old stained glass windows fluttered a variety of ribbons, each inscribed with a little wish.
To its credit, Havister did not have to deal with whatever reject came crawling out of the Haunted Woods within the town itself. Jeran ascribed that particular victory, however, to Lady Illusen’s strong barrier spells as well as the knights that always stood watch here.
The blue Lupe squire leaned languidly against the wall around the viscount’s manor. His right hand floated about the dagger tucked beneath his tunic as a matter of habit; his left was raised against the sun.
“Jeran!” a call came from afar.
He put down his hand and smiled at the blue Wocky walking toward him. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d turn up.”
“I forgot my bag and had to go get it again,” replied Danner, raising the empty potato sack he carried. “I reckon it’d be tedious to carry things around, otherwise.”
“What are we carrying around today?”
“I told Isede I’d be buying Syana a toy,” he said, “so that’s what we’re doing. There’s a toymaker near here—old man apparently makes trinkets that children very much find delightful. Figured it’d be nice to give her something from here.”
Even though he’d visited cities all over Meridell, Jeran had never been to a toymaker’s shop before. His earlier childhood had been one very hazy memory, and as far as he was concerned, he’d materialized into existence as a page in King Skarl’s castle. By then, he’d had little reason to show outright interest in toys.
“Well, you have to show that you’ve been here, right?” Then, he answered his part of the implicit question: how he’d managed to get away from his master. “I told Tryse I was feeling ill and tired of training, and he seemed happy to let me go for the day.”
“Yikes,” said Danner. “Keep your lies simple. I would absolutely believe that you were sick, but tired of training? I don’t think that’s even possible, for you.”
Jeran was in good health, but he always had a haggardly air about him thanks to a constant lack of sleep. “Believe it or not, I sometimes do other things.”
“A likely story.”
The toymaker’s shop was located two blocks away from the town hall. Dolls of all shapes, sizes, and materials were smiling at them as the duo stepped inside. At one end of the store, an elderly Gelert watched the squires through a pair of cloudy spectacles. A door near him opened to reveal a young Kyrii whose head would barely have reached Jeran’s kneecaps.
“Hello, misters,” chirped the old Gelert, “I don’t reckon you’re here to buy something for yourselves, are you?”
“For my little sister,” replied Danner. “I’m much too old for toys.”
“You can’t ever be too old for them,” the toymaker said with a voiceless chuckle. “That’s just why I decided to go into this business in the first place—needed an excuse to have them around. If you fancy something, don’t be embarrassed, is all I’m saying.” He gestured to a sampling of tiny knick-knacks and figurines that were all small enough to fit into a hand. “These ones, I think, are respectable enough for young men such as yourselves.”
Danner exchanged a glance with Jeran, who quizzically inclined his head toward the rack. “We’ll take a look at it.”
“That is what I like to hear. Now, if your sister is anything like my son Bic over here, he might help you pick out a suitable gift.” The little orange Kyrii waved at the two squires with a wide grin that was missing a few teeth. Danner waved back.
It seemed a little strange that such a young boy could be a son to a man so old, but Jeran supposed it wasn’t impossible. What did he know about family, after all?
While Danner chatted away with him, Jeran turned to perusing the various objects on display. A plushie of a Cybunny princess caught his attention as being appropriate for a girl of Syana’s age, and when he directed Danner’s attention to it, he received the following reply:
“Hm, I don’t think that will quite work out for her. I think it is too conventional.”
Thus Jeran turned his attention to things that appeared not to be appropriate for a girl of Syana’s age. He found a painted wooden figurine of a skeletal Draik stuck permanently in an attacking pose. He showed this to Danner, and was told that it was perhaps too inappropriate for a girl of Syana’s age.
In the end, he left Danner to go looking with the little boy and busied himself browsing the rack that the toymaker had indicated earlier. It was filled with things that gleamed and moved through some mechanism or other. In the midst of them lay a small box with a little yellow Aisha dancer nestled within a chrysanthemum.
When Jeran touched it, the dancer began to pirouette slowly, and the petals of the chrysanthemum shifted ever so slightly to give her dress the illusion of movement. An old melody began playing vividly in his head; it rose in an ever-increasing show of tristful bombast, never-slowing, and, at the moment, it appeared it would never end, that it would keep spiraling around itself forever, somehow maintaining its momentum through it all—then it ended in the middle of a diminutive phrase, without resolution.
The tiny Aisha kept spinning in the same calm pace, and a strange feeling of melancholic longing came over Jeran. He did not know exactly why.
“Ah, yes,” said the Gelert toymaker, taking an interest in Jeran. “This is a special product of mine. My son named it Lisa. It is such a plain name, but I suppose it is fitting. Are you interested in it?”
“Oh, I was just… it reminded me of somebody,” he replied, unsure of the veratown of his statement. Did it remind him of somebody? Sometime? Something? Jeran moved back toward Danner to avoid justifying himself to the toymaker, suddenly aware that it was not polite to aimlessly peruse through his wares.
“… And this, well, I call him Yom,” the Kyrii boy said. He was directing Danner to a plushie knight with tiny wooden sword stitched to his hand. “I think it would work for her. He is energetic and listens well.”
Evidently, Danner had decided to play along. “I see, I see! Very interesting. But my sister would also like some toy she can share a meal with. Her favorite food is apples—and, as you can see here, he doesn’t look like an apple person.”
“That is a problem,” replied Bic. “Yom is more of an orange fan, and you know what they say: apples and oranges couldn’t be more different. I think I’ve got just the thing, though.”
He pulled out another knight plushie. It was not much different than “Yom,” except that her armor was vermillion. “This is Nyz. She likes apples a lot, and her personality is much like Yom’s.”
Danner took the plushie and scrutinized it closely, even noting how his reflection looked in its beady eyes and nose. After rotating the toy about innumerable axes, he looked back at Bic and nodded. “I think ‘Nyz’ would get along well with my sister.”
Bic nodded back. “All right, Nyz it is! She’ll be so happy with her new friend. And you—uh, other guy,” he said, addressing Jeran, “did you need my help with something?”
“I don’t need anything, kid,” replied Jeran coldly. He nudged Danner gently toward the old toymaker. Danner, having taken the hint, went to the toymaker, placed the plushie on the counter, and swiftly declared his intention to purchase it.
While they haggled over the price, Jeran found himself growing impatient at the proceedings. The tune that the music box had played returned to his head, the same ceaseless, almost tautological melody. Something about the store had struck him as particularly cramped now. Each breath he inhaled seemed to be the same breath he had just exhaled, the same breath of everyone who’d walked in here.
Rubbing his clammy hands together, he wandered around the store before exiting thoughtlessly. Outside, the air became suddenly crisp again. The sunlight, unimpeded by a display glass, shone upon him, and the breeze ensured him new breaths.
Even the tune ceased.
With a sigh, Jeran closed his eyes and inclined his head backwards. The unadulterated chatter of the town square flitted by, and it was almost as good as silence. On occasion, the sound of footsteps drew near and the door to the store creaked open, and every time, Jeran would peek through one eye to see if Danner had come out.
When Danner did come, Jeran noticed that his potato sack now had a plushie knight occupant. “You took forever in there,” he said.
“What can I say? The old guy’s a good conversationalist… and stiff on his prices. I think you might have liked him.”
“He’s all right,” replied Jeran. “It’s just the location. It feels a little—”
The chatter of the square carried on as normal, and so did the occasional Baabaa bleat and Pawkeet squawk, but something in the general drumming of footsteps changed. A long, heavy gate staggered amongst them, a small aberration in the soundscape.
“—Danner,” he changed the topic: “I think something’s wrong.”
Danner listened to their half of the town square. Citizens moved through it like water, with the occasional droplets let loose to one of the stores or stalls scattered about the area. Their movement, as a whole, did not seem strange, but Danner had the idea that a clog someplace was hindering their flow.
Jeran’s intuition seemed to be onto something. “You might be right,” he said, watching the blockage of people beyond the bridge. “Don’t tell me you want to investigate.”
Wordlessly, Jeran patted the impression the hilt of his dagger made under his tunic. This display of assurance would have seemed unnecessary if not for the fact that the long, staggered sound became more prominent.
Shrieks rent the uneasy calm. The semifluid mass of people dispersed in all directions, and the ripples sent waves of footsteps Jeran’s way. The Havisterites running past them made room for the duo to see what exactly was causing this emergent frenzy.
A giant, fluted figure came into view. Despite the light of the sun, shadow stuck to it like a bundle of torn garments, obscuring any features but its broad, misshapen spine. Four barbed horns, emerging from what appeared to be its head, pointed in the direction of its path.
How in the world did this thing get into the town? thought Jeran.
For a moment, its inky eyes appeared to glare right at the squires, but when they made themselves light and scattered, the monster lumbered toward the toymaker’s shop. Realizing what its new destination was, Danner dropped his potato sack made a dash for its legs, evading Jeran’s belated attempt to restrain him.
“Get back here!” Jeran barked. “Don’t—don’t—”
Danner was already attached to the monster’s legs, holding it down with his weight, shouting for anybody in the toymaker’s shop to exit. The creature stomped its leg and swung its arms to Danner’s general location. Its cold, shadowy fingers wrapped around Danner’s left arm and pulled.
His calls for help evidently worked, because he could see something move through the window. The old Gelert apparently made his way out a secondary exit, and the boy followed.
With a clenched fist, Danner delivered a blow onto one of the creature’s phalangeal joints. The finger let go long enough for him to twist his body free and drop to the ground with a running start, but the monster yanked him back violently.
He reflexively attempted to pull back, but his feet lost traction with the ground. He took a breath as he tried to look out into the world and reorient himself, to no avail. Dark tendrils spiraled around him, and with them the type of cold that the chilling winds of a snowstorm brought on. It seeped into his bones.
His shivering overrode any other sort of response. He lay in darkness, singularly focused on commanding his limbs to move, to struggle, and they did not obey him. Not even his voice could escape. His body was a useless, fleshy sort of puppet, and he had lost the strings controlling it.
Then, a sliver of light broke through. A muffled screech sounded, and Danner knew that it if he could hear the full sound, it would have been painfully loud.
“Danner!” Jeran’s voice. “Danner, get out!”
Another screech. Sunlight—and warmth—poured in as the monster’s grip on him weakened. After reacquainting himself with the idea of controlling his limbs, he pushed against the giant arm that had been restraining him.
He found himself thrashed against the cobblestone road with a faint metallic tinge in his mouth. Danner staggered to his feet, still quivering. He brushed his long, disheveled hair away from his eyes.
Jeran was standing over the felled monster, shaking the remnants shadow off his dagger, which appeared to resemble a particularly small short sword. He stared at it in silence.
“What belt should I buy, if I want to fit a ‘dagger’ like that in it?” asked Danner. He’d intended for this question to come out in a less tired way than it did.
“A good one,” replied Jeran, cautiously inching away from the beast. When he was close enough, he took Danner’s arm and laid it over his shoulders. Danner wanted to protest this and say he was all right, but he really did feel weak enough to need the help.
As a matter of courtesy, Jeran eventually asked, “How are you feeling, Danner?” to which Danner wanted to respond that he should have asked that question earlier, but that appeared unnecessary.
“I feel terrible,” said Danner in a raspy voice. “You know what they say… uh… don’t charge unarmed into the enemy. That’s overrated.”
That was not a good joke. “You could be seriously hurt.”
“No, it’s not that bad,” replied Danner. “Would you mind getting me my bag, though? I’d hate to think that I’d waste all that money on nothing.”
Jeran frowned. How was he supposed to support Danner and get that pouch off the ground at the same time? He stared acrimoniously at the potato sack for a while, hoping that a street rat would snatch it away. Unfortunately, the square was quite deserted at that point.
After he moved closer to the bag, Jeran let his right leg support all the weight he carried, leaving his left leg free. He skidded his foot toward the sack, flexing and releasing his toes with each jump. Each stride of his foot put a little more strain on his other leg.
Just as he was about to scoop the bag up, a hand snatched it away. An expletive almost escaped Jeran’s mouth, but it stopped in its tracks when his eyes met that of a little Kyrii boy from the toymaker’s shop. Bic, was it his name?
“Hello, mister,” he said, holding the potato sack up to his face, “were you trying to pick this up?”
Now, what would it have looked like he was doing? Before he could speak, Danner cut in: “Yes, yes, we were. Nyz is in there.”
“Yeah, I remember!” said Bic cheerily. He handed the bag over to Danner’s limp hand, much to Jeran’s irrational annoyance. “Be careful, now, you wouldn’t want her to get hurt. She still has yet to meet her new friend!”
“I would hate for anything to happen to her, now,” replied Danner with a weak smile.
“That would indeed be a shame,” commented Jeran.
The little Kyrii grinned sweetly, showing a gap in his front teeth. He glanced aside at the vanquished monster, which was most clearly the reason he’d decided to show up. “Wow, that thing is… really big.”
“Yes,” snapped Jeran. Danner weighed more heavily on his shoulders, arms interlocked around his neck. The potato sack containing “Nyz” lay on his chest like the gemstone of some lavish amulet. The stupid creature was hardly anything special; in fact, Jeran and Danner had encountered many like it outside the town’s borders. “Shouldn’t you be with your father?”
“He’s a slow walker.”
“Well, you should… take care of yourself, then.”
He waited for Danner to chip in with a more graceful remark. Absent Danner’s voice, or indeed his consciousness, Jeran jerked his shoulders to see if he was responsive. When that failed, Jeran ran off into the direction of a nearby apothecary. If memory served him well, she had a makeshift infirmary and a variety of potions that would help Danner.
At least, they had always worked before.
JERAN IS ACTUALLY THE WORST DOCTOR OF ALL TIME, DON'T LET HIM DO THIS, part II
(also featuring: puns)
“What do we have here?” a stridulous voice greeted Jeran as he pushed through the door. Delphine, a pink Eyrie, looked down at the squire and his companion from an elevated platform where she stored some of her reagents. Her multicolored scarves trailed behind her as she slid down a decorated stone pillar to ground-level.
The reception area was barren except for a pile of old books resting on a counter. A thick layer of dust had formed upon them. Two magical lights hung from the ceiling, granting the interior a warm violet glow. Here, the noise and bustle of the outside world did not enter.
Delphine craned her neck and considered the unconscious Wocky Jeran was carrying. “Ah, I have seen you before,” she commented absentmindedly, placing a few fingers on the back of Danner’s head. “With Sir Tryse?”
“Yes,” replied Jeran. “He is my master.”
“What happened to him?”
He was about to respond, “he’s doing well,” but then realized that this question made little sense in terms of the subject. Sir Tryse hardly ever changed, let alone enough to warrant a query such as this. She was inquiring about Danner.
“He was attacked by a shadow beast,” he said, “in the town square.”
“I see,” mumbled Dephine. In a fluid motion, she turned around and waved Jeran in the direction of one of the myriad hallways leading away from the entrance room. The wooden floors shined with waxy gloss and squeaked under his boots, threatening to make him lose traction.
Eventually they came to a room with a smattering of cots. Delphine patted one of them to indicate that it now belonged to Danner and wordlessly left, leaving Jeran to unload him onto it. He clawed Danner off his shoulders and gently dropped him off, positioning him so that the glaring green lights barely missed his eyes.
Danner squirmed a little in his new position and stayed still only when Jeran placed Nyz in his left hand. He did not know why he thought the plushie would calm him down. Upon further reflection, Jeran realized that the name “Nyz” seemed familiar, somehow, an approximation of a name he had heard before.
Why did Danner choose that plushie, anyway? The Cybunny knightess did not look particularly special, compared to anything else they could have picked up at the toymaker’s store. Could it be that he’d felt some connection to it? Did “Nyz” elicit a similar feeling in Danner as the music box did in Jeran?
Who’s feeling superstitious now? he thought, closing his eyes. More likely, any soft thing would have made Danner behave as though he were more at ease. Jeran admitted, with some inner embarrassment, that this was likely true of himself as well.
The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him. Jeran opened his eyes to find Delphine carrying a whole host of potions with a variety of smells, the most potent of which was a strong, metallic scent. The offending vial was filled with a dull, red-tinged liquid that sloshed torpidly like swamp mud.
“What is that?” he asked.
“This is called ‘ferrous essence,’” she answered quietly, putting a few drops of the liquid into a bowl already filled with various dried petals and powder. “It’s commonly used for those with anemia.”
“Anemia?”
“Lack of iron.”
After that, Delphine mixed them together with a thin wooden stick until a gum-like substance formed, then handed the bowl off to Jeran. “Make sure he chews on this for at least thirty minutes,” she ordered the squire. “Call me when you’re done. I have other patients.”
Jeran nodded. For a few moments he stared at the gray, waxy gum and back at Danner’s face, unsure how to proceed with this order. He was far more used to hurting others than curing them, and part of him believed that he was going to mishandle this. It was always easier to destroy something than to construct or repair it, but he supposed it had to be done.
The first step, he supposed, involved emptying the plate, so Jeran bundled the gum around the mixing stick. He then gently prodded The first step, he supposed, involved emptying the plate, so Jeran bundled the gum around the mixing stick. He then gently prodded Danner's mouth with the wax in an attempt to get it to open. It did not.
"Come on," he whispered, "this is, uh, Illusen's strawberry jam. You like that, don't you?"
Here, Jeran learned that he could not deceive an unconscious person. He attempted other methods of attack, all doomed to failure. He tried pulling down Danner's lower jaw, pressing on his tempo-mandibular joints (!note: find a not-awkward way to say this), and even promised him that if he were to perform the simple motion of opening his mouth, he would let him win all their sparring matches.
As a measure of last resort, Jeran covered Danner's nose with his free hand, blocking his breathing for a few seconds. When Danner drew breath orally, he seized the opportunity to feed him the gray, sludgy, and frankly unappetizing gum.
Danner's face scrunched up with apparent displeasure at the taste, and, just as Jeran was concocting a complex plan to get his jaws to move, started to chew the stupid gum. Jeran, then, was left with the uneventful task of counting down thirty minutes, or 1800 seconds, as it were. He liked setting tangible goals for himself, and he knew how to count seconds more than he did minutes.
As he approached second 700, the door whooshed open, revealing a green Ixi clad in chainmail. He stepped into the room imperiously and glanced down at Danner without saying a word. His narrow eyes snapped to Jeran, who bowed almost instinctively.
“Feeling ill?” he asked.
“S-sir Tryse,” he stuttered out, momentarily betraying his surprise. Of course, he chastised himself, I was incredibly conspicuous. How could he not have found me here?
A shadow beast appearing in broad daylight, in the middle of the city was, in retrospect, something completely unprecedented. They never ventured close to the city, and the squires had only encountered them close to the Haunted Woods, from where they had occasionally straggled away.
The incident was destined to draw attention.
“I got better,” he said monotonously. Sir Tryse might have believed he was telling the truth, if it weren’t for the impunity of the lie.
"So it appears," said Sir Tryse with a faint smile. Jeran knew he wouldn't be called out; indeed, he suspected that Tryse enjoyed watching him dig his own grave, so to speak. "You are very much better indeed. I had no idea you could singlehandedly dispatch a shadow beast while feeling a little... out of sorts. I should employ you on night patrols more often."
The boy must have told him. Realistically speaking, anybody who saw the ordeal could have done it, but he couldn't help but think about the boy blabbering out the story to the first knight he saw. "It wasn't singlehanded," replied Jeran, making a gesture with his shoulders toward Danner. "I had help."
"Ah, yes, Isede's squire." Tryse said Isede like it was invective. "From what I have heard, he seems to have been more of an--ah, what's the term--impediment to your progress. Managed to get himself snagged, too, by the looks of it."
"He prevented it from harming others. He's very brave, sir," was all Jeran could muster. He couldn't well tell him that Danner kept the beast distracted long enough as not to notice a dangerous thorn in its side. Tryse would probably quip about Jeran using him as bait, and "bait" was not at all a proper word to describe Danner. Not that it technically made a difference; he wouldn’t have been conscious to hear this hypothesized affront.
"Bravery..." the word lingered in the air for a moment. Here it occurred to the young squire that he had little idea of what Tryse thought of bravery. "Bravery is an admirable trait, to be sure, but one must take care that they do not become so brave that they extinguish the possibility for their future.”
Jeran’s had to stop himself from trying to take another look at Danner. You know he’ll be fine, you idiot. Don’t act too concerned. “That is true, sir.”
Tryse stared at him expectantly. When Jeran didn’t respond, he continued on: “Nevertheless, I surmise that the action this boy took was indicative that he was far more”—he glanced at the ceiling, searching for the proper word—“beholden to his duty than certain others. Some may say he’s responsible.”
“Very much so.”
“Very much so, indeed, Jeran. I suppose I should punish you for your lack of responsibility in this regard, but it appears that serendipity is on your side. It’s very unlucky for the beast that you decided to shirk your training today. Might have caused some serious damage otherwise.”
Jeran remained silent, and Tryse sighed. “I’ll have to think of a good punitive measure. Until then, I expect you to accompany me on my nightly patrol today: do take care that you don’t come with a nasty disease by then.”
Accompanying him on his nightly patrol usually would have been the punishment. Sir Tryse, unlike mere mortals, never appeared to require sleep. He had morning patrols, afternoon patrols, night patrols, and all sorts of tasks to accomplish between them. Danner had once convinced Jeran to try preparing their food with garlic for a month, just to make sure he wasn’t a vampire.
“I won’t, sir,” said Jeran.
“Good, that’s what I expect to hear, after a showing like that.” Tryse turned around, began walking, and then stopped. Holding up his hand, he told his squire one last thing: “And do be careful not to lounge around here for too long; it isn’t particularly good for the spirit.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Tryse left, Jeran heard some shuffling to his right. Danner was moving in his sleep and mumbling all the way, which had the unfortunate side-effect of displaying a mouthful of sticky gray ooze. Jeran let out a sigh. How many of these thirty minutes remained?
Since he could not stay indefinitely with Danner, Jeran set out to find his master, Lady Isede. The purple Xweetok was exceedingly strict with everybody except her squire, who was naturally rigorous and did not need her chastisement.
Jeran didn’t know much about Lady Isede, least of all her exact whereabouts, but she was stationed somewhere west of town. So he found himself running about the western fort, flagging down any knight or squire he could find for information.
He met Sir Ruppticious when he decided to take a break and lean against a wall. His hand pressed against something soft and distinctly unlike any wall he had ever encountered. Surprised, he drew his arm back and stared at the bricks for a few moments, slowly making out the edges of an old, gray Yurble.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said, stepping back, “I did not mean to disturb you.”
Sir Ruppticious shushed him. “Laddie, do ye think this is a joke? Don’t ruin my disguise!”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeran did not think it wise to question Sir Ruppticious, mainly because the knight had retired twenty years ago and probably would not know who Lady Isede was, let alone her location. He also did not want to subject himself the ramblings of a seventy-year-old man.
Next, he found a little squire named Atcon. The red Mynci was not any younger than Jeran, but he retained his boyishness still, complete with his squeaky, high-pitched voice. “Hello!” he exclaimed. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, actually,” replied Jeran. “Do you know where Lady Isede is at this hour?”
“Lady Isede? I… haven’t seen her today at all, but I think Sir Valance would know where she is. Always does. Try asking him.”
Sir Valance was sparring in the training grounds. It took some dodging of blows, insults, and challenges to reach him. The Ruki handled four short swords at once against two opponents, and he was failing miserably.
When Sir Valance hit the ground bottom-first, Jeran took the opportunity to join the scramble for his attention. The knight seemed bored as shouts flung themselves at him, answering each one in turn.
“Sir!” yelled Jeran. “Do you know where I might find Lady Isede?”
After a while, the answer came back: “Isede’s set to Feit’s Peak!”
So Jeran headed to Feit’s Peak, a small mound with a red maple tree at its peak. Near the roots rested a sun-shaped headstone engraved with a name—presumably Feit’s, whoever they were—too faded to read. While he rose up the mound, Jeran shielded his eyes from the rays of sun to the west.
A western sun was also a late one… but Jeran only had to arrive by night, and if everything from hereon went smoothly, he would make it back to Sir Tryse in time. If it did not go smoothly, well, this was a special occasion, and while Tryse wouldn’t understand, Jeran did not count it against himself when drawing up his own scores.
How wonderful it would be, he thought, to have some power over himself, but that would not happen until he himself became a full-fledged knight. With a huff of cold autumn air, Jeran dangled himself from the maple’s bough and tried to spot any sign of movement in the surrounding woodland that descended into the river.
The idea to shout Isede’s name came to him, but the rational part of his mind swiftly decided against it. These woods were not very dangerous during the day, but, well, caution was the better part of survival, especially when you were alone. As Sir Tryse would put it, a moment’s ease was hardly worth the permanent termination of your consciousness.
Jeran circled the mound restlessly, watching for Isede the entire time. A few vermillion leaves fell from the maple tree; the sun descended some degrees westward; Kreludor began to show on the horizon. Finally, some nearby rustling stole his attention, and a pink Xweetok in shining plate armor approached.
“Lady Isede?”
“That’s me,” she responded, narrowing her green eyes. She absentmindedly ran a hand through a stray wad of damp hair that had escaped her ponytail. “And you… I think I know who you are, but do remind me.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Jeran. “My name is Jeran Borodere. I am a squire under the training of—”
“—Sir Tryse, I’m well aware,” Lady Isede’s voice turned cold. “What business do you have here?”
“It’s about Danner… err, Mr. Toron… I mean…” He did not quite know what had caused him to forget how to pull together basic sentences. “He’s injured and really needs your help.”
Lady Isede’s eyes narrowed even more, though she could not keep some anxiety from creeping into her tone: “Do explain the nature of his injury and how you came to know about it.”
Jeran explained, though he fudged the details regarding why he and Danner were in the town square in the first place. He told her that he was sent to purchase a small amount of herbs from the apothecary—and then the shadow beast attacked. Danner’s current condition was much more faithfully recounted.
“He’s currently at Delphine’s Apothecary?” The only question she asked. She did not expect to hear the full truth from him, justifiably so, and probably planned on hearing the full truth from Danner himself.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “He’s being taken care of well, last I checked, so please do not worry.”
“I see,” replied Isede. “Well… Jeran, since you decided to take some time out of your day to relay this information to me, I must thank you. Would you care to accompany me on the way?”
He was going to go in that direction anyway. “Of course.”
They walked toward the town proper in vacuous silence, for a time; neither had much to say to the other, and while there existed little animosity between them, Tryse’s shadow was over Jeran in a way Isede could not ignore. The squire walked like him, examined his surroundings in much the same pattern he did. Even Jeran’s idle, loaded stare, when he was contemplating something, seemed torn exactly from his face.
“So,” she said after some time had passed, “how has your training been going?”
“Good,” replied Jeran unhelpfully. “I can’t say anything has been going particularly well, or particularly poorly, lately.”
“At least it’s not a bad sign.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Jeran turned his head slightly away from her. He looked into the bright amber sky and the dapples of dark blue clouds littering it.
“You said Danner was exiting a toy store when the beast attacked?”
“He was outside it, ma’am. He might have been passing by it,” he responded, trying to sound as disaffected as possible. To add a little more credibility to his story, he said: “I think the patron of the store was an old man—and, I think, his son.”
“His son?”
“Yes.”
“That’s strange,” said Isede. “I don’t remember Mr. Willow having a son.”
Jeran shrugged, and they continued along their path until they reached Delphine’s Apothecary, where he left Isede and then ran frantically to reach Sir Tryse before sundown.
The reception area was barren except for a pile of old books resting on a counter. A thick layer of dust had formed upon them. Two magical lights hung from the ceiling, granting the interior a warm violet glow. Here, the noise and bustle of the outside world did not enter.
Delphine craned her neck and considered the unconscious Wocky Jeran was carrying. “Ah, I have seen you before,” she commented absentmindedly, placing a few fingers on the back of Danner’s head. “With Sir Tryse?”
“Yes,” replied Jeran. “He is my master.”
“What happened to him?”
He was about to respond, “he’s doing well,” but then realized that this question made little sense in terms of the subject. Sir Tryse hardly ever changed, let alone enough to warrant a query such as this. She was inquiring about Danner.
“He was attacked by a shadow beast,” he said, “in the town square.”
“I see,” mumbled Dephine. In a fluid motion, she turned around and waved Jeran in the direction of one of the myriad hallways leading away from the entrance room. The wooden floors shined with waxy gloss and squeaked under his boots, threatening to make him lose traction.
Eventually they came to a room with a smattering of cots. Delphine patted one of them to indicate that it now belonged to Danner and wordlessly left, leaving Jeran to unload him onto it. He clawed Danner off his shoulders and gently dropped him off, positioning him so that the glaring green lights barely missed his eyes.
Danner squirmed a little in his new position and stayed still only when Jeran placed Nyz in his left hand. He did not know why he thought the plushie would calm him down. Upon further reflection, Jeran realized that the name “Nyz” seemed familiar, somehow, an approximation of a name he had heard before.
Why did Danner choose that plushie, anyway? The Cybunny knightess did not look particularly special, compared to anything else they could have picked up at the toymaker’s store. Could it be that he’d felt some connection to it? Did “Nyz” elicit a similar feeling in Danner as the music box did in Jeran?
Who’s feeling superstitious now? he thought, closing his eyes. More likely, any soft thing would have made Danner behave as though he were more at ease. Jeran admitted, with some inner embarrassment, that this was likely true of himself as well.
The sound of approaching footsteps alerted him. Jeran opened his eyes to find Delphine carrying a whole host of potions with a variety of smells, the most potent of which was a strong, metallic scent. The offending vial was filled with a dull, red-tinged liquid that sloshed torpidly like swamp mud.
“What is that?” he asked.
“This is called ‘ferrous essence,’” she answered quietly, putting a few drops of the liquid into a bowl already filled with various dried petals and powder. “It’s commonly used for those with anemia.”
“Anemia?”
“Lack of iron.”
After that, Delphine mixed them together with a thin wooden stick until a gum-like substance formed, then handed the bowl off to Jeran. “Make sure he chews on this for at least thirty minutes,” she ordered the squire. “Call me when you’re done. I have other patients.”
Jeran nodded. For a few moments he stared at the gray, waxy gum and back at Danner’s face, unsure how to proceed with this order. He was far more used to hurting others than curing them, and part of him believed that he was going to mishandle this. It was always easier to destroy something than to construct or repair it, but he supposed it had to be done.
The first step, he supposed, involved emptying the plate, so Jeran bundled the gum around the mixing stick. He then gently prodded The first step, he supposed, involved emptying the plate, so Jeran bundled the gum around the mixing stick. He then gently prodded Danner's mouth with the wax in an attempt to get it to open. It did not.
"Come on," he whispered, "this is, uh, Illusen's strawberry jam. You like that, don't you?"
Here, Jeran learned that he could not deceive an unconscious person. He attempted other methods of attack, all doomed to failure. He tried pulling down Danner's lower jaw, pressing on his tempo-mandibular joints (!note: find a not-awkward way to say this), and even promised him that if he were to perform the simple motion of opening his mouth, he would let him win all their sparring matches.
As a measure of last resort, Jeran covered Danner's nose with his free hand, blocking his breathing for a few seconds. When Danner drew breath orally, he seized the opportunity to feed him the gray, sludgy, and frankly unappetizing gum.
Danner's face scrunched up with apparent displeasure at the taste, and, just as Jeran was concocting a complex plan to get his jaws to move, started to chew the stupid gum. Jeran, then, was left with the uneventful task of counting down thirty minutes, or 1800 seconds, as it were. He liked setting tangible goals for himself, and he knew how to count seconds more than he did minutes.
As he approached second 700, the door whooshed open, revealing a green Ixi clad in chainmail. He stepped into the room imperiously and glanced down at Danner without saying a word. His narrow eyes snapped to Jeran, who bowed almost instinctively.
“Feeling ill?” he asked.
“S-sir Tryse,” he stuttered out, momentarily betraying his surprise. Of course, he chastised himself, I was incredibly conspicuous. How could he not have found me here?
A shadow beast appearing in broad daylight, in the middle of the city was, in retrospect, something completely unprecedented. They never ventured close to the city, and the squires had only encountered them close to the Haunted Woods, from where they had occasionally straggled away.
The incident was destined to draw attention.
“I got better,” he said monotonously. Sir Tryse might have believed he was telling the truth, if it weren’t for the impunity of the lie.
"So it appears," said Sir Tryse with a faint smile. Jeran knew he wouldn't be called out; indeed, he suspected that Tryse enjoyed watching him dig his own grave, so to speak. "You are very much better indeed. I had no idea you could singlehandedly dispatch a shadow beast while feeling a little... out of sorts. I should employ you on night patrols more often."
The boy must have told him. Realistically speaking, anybody who saw the ordeal could have done it, but he couldn't help but think about the boy blabbering out the story to the first knight he saw. "It wasn't singlehanded," replied Jeran, making a gesture with his shoulders toward Danner. "I had help."
"Ah, yes, Isede's squire." Tryse said Isede like it was invective. "From what I have heard, he seems to have been more of an--ah, what's the term--impediment to your progress. Managed to get himself snagged, too, by the looks of it."
"He prevented it from harming others. He's very brave, sir," was all Jeran could muster. He couldn't well tell him that Danner kept the beast distracted long enough as not to notice a dangerous thorn in its side. Tryse would probably quip about Jeran using him as bait, and "bait" was not at all a proper word to describe Danner. Not that it technically made a difference; he wouldn’t have been conscious to hear this hypothesized affront.
"Bravery..." the word lingered in the air for a moment. Here it occurred to the young squire that he had little idea of what Tryse thought of bravery. "Bravery is an admirable trait, to be sure, but one must take care that they do not become so brave that they extinguish the possibility for their future.”
Jeran’s had to stop himself from trying to take another look at Danner. You know he’ll be fine, you idiot. Don’t act too concerned. “That is true, sir.”
Tryse stared at him expectantly. When Jeran didn’t respond, he continued on: “Nevertheless, I surmise that the action this boy took was indicative that he was far more”—he glanced at the ceiling, searching for the proper word—“beholden to his duty than certain others. Some may say he’s responsible.”
“Very much so.”
“Very much so, indeed, Jeran. I suppose I should punish you for your lack of responsibility in this regard, but it appears that serendipity is on your side. It’s very unlucky for the beast that you decided to shirk your training today. Might have caused some serious damage otherwise.”
Jeran remained silent, and Tryse sighed. “I’ll have to think of a good punitive measure. Until then, I expect you to accompany me on my nightly patrol today: do take care that you don’t come with a nasty disease by then.”
Accompanying him on his nightly patrol usually would have been the punishment. Sir Tryse, unlike mere mortals, never appeared to require sleep. He had morning patrols, afternoon patrols, night patrols, and all sorts of tasks to accomplish between them. Danner had once convinced Jeran to try preparing their food with garlic for a month, just to make sure he wasn’t a vampire.
“I won’t, sir,” said Jeran.
“Good, that’s what I expect to hear, after a showing like that.” Tryse turned around, began walking, and then stopped. Holding up his hand, he told his squire one last thing: “And do be careful not to lounge around here for too long; it isn’t particularly good for the spirit.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Tryse left, Jeran heard some shuffling to his right. Danner was moving in his sleep and mumbling all the way, which had the unfortunate side-effect of displaying a mouthful of sticky gray ooze. Jeran let out a sigh. How many of these thirty minutes remained?
***
Since he could not stay indefinitely with Danner, Jeran set out to find his master, Lady Isede. The purple Xweetok was exceedingly strict with everybody except her squire, who was naturally rigorous and did not need her chastisement.
Jeran didn’t know much about Lady Isede, least of all her exact whereabouts, but she was stationed somewhere west of town. So he found himself running about the western fort, flagging down any knight or squire he could find for information.
He met Sir Ruppticious when he decided to take a break and lean against a wall. His hand pressed against something soft and distinctly unlike any wall he had ever encountered. Surprised, he drew his arm back and stared at the bricks for a few moments, slowly making out the edges of an old, gray Yurble.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said, stepping back, “I did not mean to disturb you.”
Sir Ruppticious shushed him. “Laddie, do ye think this is a joke? Don’t ruin my disguise!”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeran did not think it wise to question Sir Ruppticious, mainly because the knight had retired twenty years ago and probably would not know who Lady Isede was, let alone her location. He also did not want to subject himself the ramblings of a seventy-year-old man.
Next, he found a little squire named Atcon. The red Mynci was not any younger than Jeran, but he retained his boyishness still, complete with his squeaky, high-pitched voice. “Hello!” he exclaimed. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, actually,” replied Jeran. “Do you know where Lady Isede is at this hour?”
“Lady Isede? I… haven’t seen her today at all, but I think Sir Valance would know where she is. Always does. Try asking him.”
Sir Valance was sparring in the training grounds. It took some dodging of blows, insults, and challenges to reach him. The Ruki handled four short swords at once against two opponents, and he was failing miserably.
When Sir Valance hit the ground bottom-first, Jeran took the opportunity to join the scramble for his attention. The knight seemed bored as shouts flung themselves at him, answering each one in turn.
“Sir!” yelled Jeran. “Do you know where I might find Lady Isede?”
After a while, the answer came back: “Isede’s set to Feit’s Peak!”
So Jeran headed to Feit’s Peak, a small mound with a red maple tree at its peak. Near the roots rested a sun-shaped headstone engraved with a name—presumably Feit’s, whoever they were—too faded to read. While he rose up the mound, Jeran shielded his eyes from the rays of sun to the west.
A western sun was also a late one… but Jeran only had to arrive by night, and if everything from hereon went smoothly, he would make it back to Sir Tryse in time. If it did not go smoothly, well, this was a special occasion, and while Tryse wouldn’t understand, Jeran did not count it against himself when drawing up his own scores.
How wonderful it would be, he thought, to have some power over himself, but that would not happen until he himself became a full-fledged knight. With a huff of cold autumn air, Jeran dangled himself from the maple’s bough and tried to spot any sign of movement in the surrounding woodland that descended into the river.
The idea to shout Isede’s name came to him, but the rational part of his mind swiftly decided against it. These woods were not very dangerous during the day, but, well, caution was the better part of survival, especially when you were alone. As Sir Tryse would put it, a moment’s ease was hardly worth the permanent termination of your consciousness.
Jeran circled the mound restlessly, watching for Isede the entire time. A few vermillion leaves fell from the maple tree; the sun descended some degrees westward; Kreludor began to show on the horizon. Finally, some nearby rustling stole his attention, and a pink Xweetok in shining plate armor approached.
“Lady Isede?”
“That’s me,” she responded, narrowing her green eyes. She absentmindedly ran a hand through a stray wad of damp hair that had escaped her ponytail. “And you… I think I know who you are, but do remind me.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Jeran. “My name is Jeran Borodere. I am a squire under the training of—”
“—Sir Tryse, I’m well aware,” Lady Isede’s voice turned cold. “What business do you have here?”
“It’s about Danner… err, Mr. Toron… I mean…” He did not quite know what had caused him to forget how to pull together basic sentences. “He’s injured and really needs your help.”
Lady Isede’s eyes narrowed even more, though she could not keep some anxiety from creeping into her tone: “Do explain the nature of his injury and how you came to know about it.”
Jeran explained, though he fudged the details regarding why he and Danner were in the town square in the first place. He told her that he was sent to purchase a small amount of herbs from the apothecary—and then the shadow beast attacked. Danner’s current condition was much more faithfully recounted.
“He’s currently at Delphine’s Apothecary?” The only question she asked. She did not expect to hear the full truth from him, justifiably so, and probably planned on hearing the full truth from Danner himself.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “He’s being taken care of well, last I checked, so please do not worry.”
“I see,” replied Isede. “Well… Jeran, since you decided to take some time out of your day to relay this information to me, I must thank you. Would you care to accompany me on the way?”
He was going to go in that direction anyway. “Of course.”
They walked toward the town proper in vacuous silence, for a time; neither had much to say to the other, and while there existed little animosity between them, Tryse’s shadow was over Jeran in a way Isede could not ignore. The squire walked like him, examined his surroundings in much the same pattern he did. Even Jeran’s idle, loaded stare, when he was contemplating something, seemed torn exactly from his face.
“So,” she said after some time had passed, “how has your training been going?”
“Good,” replied Jeran unhelpfully. “I can’t say anything has been going particularly well, or particularly poorly, lately.”
“At least it’s not a bad sign.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Jeran turned his head slightly away from her. He looked into the bright amber sky and the dapples of dark blue clouds littering it.
“You said Danner was exiting a toy store when the beast attacked?”
“He was outside it, ma’am. He might have been passing by it,” he responded, trying to sound as disaffected as possible. To add a little more credibility to his story, he said: “I think the patron of the store was an old man—and, I think, his son.”
“His son?”
“Yes.”
“That’s strange,” said Isede. “I don’t remember Mr. Willow having a son.”
Jeran shrugged, and they continued along their path until they reached Delphine’s Apothecary, where he left Isede and then ran frantically to reach Sir Tryse before sundown.
