####Hello everyone on the Pages!
####This is the first chapter of a story currently being written by a friend and I. We’re a decent way into the first few chapters, but I don’t want to show off too much in fear that we’ll never finish it, and it’d be ungodly long for a single post.
####Warning: Contains mild violence and cursing. Younger readers be warned.
**
Laughter and chatter filled the air as a cart rolled down the wide path, deep within the woods. The men inside patted each other on the back, tossing around items with proud smiles on their faces. The jingle of gold necklaces and the clang of copper pieces pierced through their jovial celebration and through the creaking of the wheels and axles. Though the sun was setting, the twilight was warm, the darkening blues of the sky bleeding into the reds. It was almost too calm for the figure sitting still as a statue in the boughs of the nearby forest edge. With this kind of merry-making, it’s unlikely they heard anything more than the jests of their colleagues and the satisfying clinks of stolen precious metals.
Now is not the time to strike. Wait for the right time, the opening. Often when they think they’re safe is the time when that could not be more wrong.
Quicken the pace. Don’t let them get away. They’ve gotten away too many times already.
Tonight, it ends.
Hop over this tree limb. Grab that branch. Get to the ground now, roll quietly away. They’re still too loud. Still too foolish.
Minutes pass. The carriage comes to a halt. The riders exit, make camp. So close now. Just a few more moments. The air gets quiet, but restless as the heat of the flames draw upward. The sun dips below the tree line. Could there be a more beautiful night?
Within seconds, he leaps from the trees, landing straight into the flames with a thundering crash. Embers scatter everywhere. The figure bends low, sweeping his feet. White-hot coals fly from the ground and hit one of the drivers square in the jaw. The man jumps back, screaming. The other men scramble to their feet, their faces turning from shock to rage in mere moments. Soon enough, it will be terror.
“Who the hell ar-?!” one the carriage drivers booms, interrupted by a foot to his face. Another scrambles for an axe by his side. A fist to the temple. Swords are swinging, hitting nothing but the warm, pitch black of the night. The figure is here, or was. A second later he’s behind another, grabbing his neck. A kick breaks his knee, and strong arms throw him back onto his head. The man who got the embers to his face rushes to pick up a still-burning log from the destroyed campfire and charges towards the figure. The man swings hard and fast and the log breaks on the back of the attacker. An orange flash erupts, and the figure turns around slowly, its eyes glowing green, arm wrapped in green flames. The hand flies out. Flesh burns, a man falls to the ground. The last of the carriage men shuffles back in fear as the glowing eyes turn to meet his. The terror is there, right on cue.
“What the hell are you?!” pleads the man, still clutching the stolen riches to his chest.
“You don’t want to know.” The voice was low and like gravel. From the shadow within the cloak of the glowing-eyed figure, a crossbow materializes. The figure lifts his head. His face was covered by a mask and shrouded in shadow by a pointed hood. The eyes still pierced the darkness.
“And you won’t live to find out.” As soon as the sentence ended, the sound of wood slamming against wood resounded through the trees. While one would normally hear the sound of a bolt piercing flesh, a sharp hissing erupted from the weapon, a green flash eradicating the darkness for but a brief moment.
The air was once again quiet.
The hooded figure lowered his weapon. The form of the bow slowly dissolved, the particles floating away with the hot air of the dead fire. The figure lowered his head again. The glow of the eyes faded to a soft light, like candles in a lantern. The figure scanned the carnage. It was surprising to him that, despite the smell of singed grass and the lumps of dead bandits, the night sky above the tree line was still as beautiful as it was mere moments before.
The figure rubbed his masked forehead, an instinct of a life prior. Stepping over bodies, he drooped down, slowly, carefully, picking up what items remained. A gold chain. A few rubies. Twenty gold pieces. Thirty copper pieces. These would go back to who they belonged to, eventually. The figure looked around as he fell to his knees once more. His gaze focused on the place where the fire once burned. A rolled-up piece of parchment lay there, small coals burning through it. It flapped in the breeze, dancing like it felt the heat.
The eyes behind the mask squinted. The figure crawled forward, waving his hand. The coals, as if by command, dissolved away into green particles. The hand grabbed the scroll. The figure tossed it around in his hands. It had been a while since he felt something this light. The figure packed the paper away with the other items. He hadn’t seen this get stolen from anyone in particular. Better to take it than to leave it out here.
He stood and surveyed his work once more. He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Why had he done this again? To return the stolen goods, sure, but, why had he started this job in the first place? It had been ages since he had thought about it last. Now it seemed like his task was automatic. An instinctual response.
No thinking, he thought. Just action. Always moving forward. The figure turned away from the wreckage, towards the tree line. The shadowy man passes the threshold into the forest. The thing about always moving forward, he thought. The longer you go, the more you risk going too far.
–
The gravel shifted under thick heavy boots as he walked down the beaten path, leaves falling as the sky turned to a soft blue. He had been walking all night, his thoughts never once escaping his mind though they swirled together. Time seemed to drag on. The trees became blurred, a mixture of greens and browns as the masked man wondered on.
Hours passed by, or perhaps it felt like hours, before he reached the gates. He had seen them in the distance for a while now, the thick stone pillars, one of the only things in focus in his view. Along with his footsteps, the man could hear the softest sounds of people waking, doors opening, horses whinnying. He’d been here before, maybe a few days ago. It was hard to tell when all the town gates he’d seen looked so similar, at least in his mind. At the time it was just supposed to be a quick stop, a brief rest. Then those bandits decided to go and make trouble. The man sighed as the pillars drew closer. He’d be off schedule, he thought. If he had one.
The man’s face grimaced beneath his mask as he thought back to the bandits. As he did, it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t remember what their faces looked like. Could that be, he wondered. He’d done this before many times, but he’d never…
The more he thought about it, the wearier he became. He couldn’t remember any faces. In his mind it seemed to him they all blurred together, a mess of eyes and noses, large ears and dark hair. The man put his hand to his mask. He felt the wood on his fingertips, and a faint warmth as if it was a small creature gripping his face. What does my face look like? he wondered as his hand slid from the raised brow down to the elongated frown that was the mouthpiece. It had been a while since he’d actually taken the thing off. A wave of discomfort washed over him, but it wasn’t from the mask on his face.
The man removed his hand quickly and shook his head. He looked back up to where he was walking and saw the pillars had grown to nearly cover his field of view. He’d been getting too lost in thought recently. Now is not the time. This visit will be quick, as planned. Return the items to the people and then he’d be on his way. The man continued to walk and soon approached the gate.
The sun was above the horizon now, and the warm red light beamed through the trunks of the trees to either side of the gravel path. As the man approached he could see now the shiny silver knockers, large steel bracers nailed into gigantic oak doors. The stone of the towers to either side was clean and smooth, the hallmark of a well-off and well-kept city in this region. Most of the smaller towns and villages tended to have wooden archways without doors of any kind, if they had even that. That’s what he thought, at least.
The man approached the massive doors and looked up. He didn’t quite remember them being so tall, though he could be wrong. He placed his hand onto the knocker, the silver making it glimmer in the morning sun as if it were enchanted. He pulled it back, slowly at first, then rapped the door with heavy thuds. The man waited for a brief moment as he backed away from the door. His patience was wearing thin, and he crossed his arms as he looked to the bastions above the stone pillars.
The man waited, hearing only the sounds of faint shuffling while the voices of denizens starting their day grew increasingly louder.
Perhaps there’s a lower section of wall somewhere, the man thought. I could get into a tree and maybe jump my way- His thoughts were interrupted by the crash of a door swinging open towards the top of the left pillar. A head peeked out and looked down below him, slightly annoyed. His helmet glinted in the sun just as the knockers of the door did. His face looked old and wizened, but not frail.
“Halt! Who goes there? State your business!” The guard shouted, his voice hoarse with years of service yet still able to carry out.
“I’m here to trade some items,” replied the man from below. “Let me in and I’ll be on my way.” He raised up the little bag from his side, and the old guard above squinted as he examined the hooded figure.
“Hmm… yes,” he said after a while, sounding not quite convinced but too exasperated to interrogate any further. “Enter then, and don’t be stirring up any trouble.” The guardsman grumbled as he stepped back inside his hole. A few moments passed, and the masked man heard the sound of grinding metal as the massive oak gates slowly spread apart. The doors creaked to a stop as they opened just enough for him to step through, a loud clank signaling the end of their journey. He stepped past the doors, and just as soon as he did the loud metal scratching began anew, and the doors lumbered back to their resting place. “Welcome to Silverhold.”
On the inside, everything seemed to glow. The bright whites of the buildings nearly drown out the man’s view of the street before him, and the reflecting light warmed the entire entryway as if it were a hearth. The sky was a brilliant bright blue, and the sun was peeking out just above the large stone walls that ringed the horizon. From this distance the tower guards looked like ants crawling about on giant gray logs.
The man didn’t remember the city being this impressive the first time he was here. It was as if he had awoken after a long slumber, though still drowsy from the night, and had stared out into the dawn’s light. Just like staring into that light, the beauty made his eyes sting. The man hiked up the bag at his side and flung it over his shoulder, and he pulled the tip of his hood down to shade his eyes from the sun. He had a job to do, and it was time for him to finish it.
The first thing one notices about Silverhold is the people. Not just how they look or how they talk, though both equally grandiose, but the multitude. The streets were packed with so many bodies all clambering to go here, to go there, get into this tavern, that brothel. It seemed as if the walls were going to burst at the seams should a single family or two more move in. When asked, many would tell you the streets were made of cobblestone, inlaid into some of the finest mortar of the known land. They would tell you each slab of stone was hand cut by a master craftsman, dwarves from the Western mountains, and that Silverhold was known across the region for the straightest street cobble. One wouldn’t have to ask these things if, during the day, the streets weren’t nearly invisible by the sheer number of shoppers, merchants, and carriage drivers clogging the walkways.
Of course, Silverhold isn’t just known for its fancy street stones. The city is the epicenter of one of the largest precious metal mines on the known continent. The ancient tomes of the record keepers described the area as one great pile of riches, all buried beneath the earth. Some say it was once a dragon’s lair predating the dawn of mankind, a ten-thousand-foot-high pile of treasures forged by dragon’s-fire. Yet others insist it was the landing site of the gods in the time of creation, before even the ancient dragons. The region became lost to history for a period of time, until mankind migrated from the Western islands. A village was founded here, and soon after its citizens located the riches buried deep below.
Silver was the prime metal found below, and heaps of it were often found close to the surface in those days, hence the name Silverhold. After the discovery, hundreds of settlers from the West poured into the region. Many had heard the rumors of the Land of the Sylver Wood, which was a carry-over of the original elvish name of the forests, only made heavily ironic due to the abundance of the metal. Many came looking for work in the mines. It wasn’t long before these mining towns grew unfathomably rich from trade across the continent, and after generations they were merged into what is now the glimmering metropolis. Silverhold was and still is the trading capital of all of Sylver Wood, supplying commodities of the precious metal type to anyone from the dwarves of the Western mountains in exchange for their stone to the humble halfling village of Silverhills just to the south of the city.
The Silverhold of the modern day certainly adhered to its prestigious history. Inside its great stone walls, the streets were filled with people and animals, and far in the distance a momentous castle seemed to touch the swirling, white clouds. Inside lived the King of Silverhold, no doubt swimming in pools of rare treasures. Just to the East of the castle was the Colosseum, the premiere entertainment center that hosted everything from outdoor galas to public executions. In front of the castle, the entire way to the gate the masked man had entered, were entire acres of neatly spaced, rigid mansions with gleaming white plaster walls and dark oak framing planks. Just down the street of the castle and the Colosseum was the world-famous Merchant’s Mile, the business district. Often one could hear from that direction the clangs of hammers beating or the raising pitched voices of auctioneers bargaining, even over the squeals of hogs, clip-clop of horse hooves, and shouts of drunken men.
Silverhold wasn’t without its blemishes, however. To the far East, to the very edges of the walls, lay the slums. While the Western side of the city looked like a shining utopia, the slums of the East looked like smoking heaps of dead trees. Plumes of smog rose from the shabby inns and taverns, hogs and rats ran about with absolute freedom, and prostitutes dotted the sides of the cramped, claustrophobic, dirt alleys. Beggars came to the edges of the Mile, clutching rusty pints filled with maybe a single copper piece and dust.
The masked man was caught off guard as he stared towards the gray off to his right. He stood still and watched the towers of smoke lazily rise before being shoved aside by a rather large man, head down and grumbling to himself, clutching parchment scrolls in one hand and an ink quill in the other.
“Watch it, decrepit little slime!!” shouted the fat man, barely glancing back. He continued walking, muttering to himself. The hooded man scowled under his mask as he turned in anger, growling. The fat one was gone, lost in the ceaseless crowd. The man took in a long, slow breath and grumbled before releasing a short sigh. He looked down at his clothes. Was he really decrepit? He hadn’t actually looked at his clothes in…days? Weeks? His cloak and hood were normally a dark green, accompanied by a brown belt and sash. His grey pants were hiked up to his knees, dirty brown boots wrapped in what were once white cloths below that. His arms were fairly unclean as well, mud patches dotting his exposed elbows, scuffs and scratches on his olive gauntlets. The dirt obscured the green of his garments, melding everything into a brown mess. He guessed the fat man had reckoned him a poor citizen. Maybe that wasn’t too far from the truth. As he examined his deteriorating clothing, more street goers were fast approaching. He supposed it wasn’t a good idea to stand still here in Silverhold. It wasn’t a good idea to stand still anywhere.
With that, the man remembered his mission. He’d been here long enough already. He moved towards the right side of the road and turned back to face the towering castle and Colosseum. Birds flapped in the sky overhead and children jumped in muddy puddles, their laughter ringing through the air. Underneath bright blue awnings, women were working on laundry or trying to sell their handiwork off to passersby. The masked one turned around and stood facing the direction of the street, one foot on the smooth, dwarven-cut cobble, the other in the soft dirt. The smell of fresh bread mixed with the smell of animals. He walked along the street, keeping his head and hood down once more and staying out of the way, ignoring women and the animal sellers and the carriage drivers. He looked up once more to see a beggar trudging off towards a crumbling tavern, no doubt heading to drink his sorrows away after a day of failure. He looked down at his bag, now resting at his side, filled with the stolen riches of, no doubt, the well-off living in the spacious mansion houses.
The man began to turn right, his boots sinking into the mud. He hadn’t walked but a few feet when he heard a light gasp to his left, and eager squealing. It wasn’t a hog, but rather two young children, draped in rags, their faces caked in dried mud. One, a young boy, was holding a small bag, the other a girl wielding a short stick. The little girl waved the stick about like a sword, making pantomimed thrusts and sweeps as the little boy playfully hopped about, taunting the girl with the bag. The little boy looked up, his face turning to shock for a brief moment but soon to pure joy. The girl, curious as to why the boy had stopped playing along, turned to look back where the boy was staring, and her face too mimicked her friend’s. The masked man stopped in his tracks, staring back. The little boy began to breathe rapidly as a smile came to his face, and the girl put her hands to her mouth and stood in shock. The little boy came running up to the man, the man taking a short step back in confusion.
“Yo-you…you’re…” the little boy stuttered, his excitement tying his tongue. “Aren’t you-aren’t you him? Th-the-that man! The ma-Masked Man! The w-the one that ol’ Damascus Heverly in the tavern says h-he seens!” The little boy looked like he’d just been told he earned fifty gold pieces.
“Wha-wh…” the man mumbled. Damascus Heverly? Seen? What was this kid going on about? Surely he hadn’t…
“He always be tellin’ stories ‘bout you, en’ all the other drunk guys says he just makes that stuff up!” The girl stood locked in place, big brown eyes widened, and the little boy examined the mask beneath the man’s hood. “It really is true! You do ‘ave a big scary mask on!”
“Look, kid, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” the man grumbled in response, his voice sounding impatient, low and scratchy. He gripped the bag of riches harder and moved the child aside as he continued to walk on. The boy wasn’t so easily deterred, however, and came running back up immediately, blocking the man’s path once more.
“Woah, and it glows too? I tol’ ol’ Damascus Heverly ‘There’s no way that’s true!’ I says to him ‘It’d t’ave to be magic or somtin’, and as far as I seens there ain’t no magic masks ‘round!’” The man halted, shaking his head in confusion, then quickly moved to the left of the child, picking up his pace. The boy followed, the little girl close behind him.
“Get out of my way,” the man threatened.
The boy continued to follow alongside the man, occasionally tripping over a stray rock or two in his excitement.
“What does it do?! Does it cast magic spells?! Is it worth a lot ‘o money?! Why does you wear it all the time?!”
“No, it doesn’t-it’s not-look, kid, move it!”
“Ol’ Damascus says everytime he seens you, you’s wearin’ that thing! Say, we was just actin’ out what ol’ Damascus told us ‘bout the time you stuck a bolt into-”
“I said get out of my way, kid, and I’m not going to tell you again!” the man growled, the green behind his eyeholes growing brighter. People were staring. A crowd was being drawn. Why won’t this kid shut up?
“Is somethin’ wrong wit’ your face?! Can you take off your hood?!”
“Shut up, kid.”
“Why do you go around kicking the dirt outta bad guy?! Is it true you really did save ol’ Damascus from those robbers once?!”
“Shut up…shut up…”
“Is it true they all wind up dead as a doorknob?! Do you like doin’ that?!”
“Shut u-”
“Is your name really…aww, what did ol’ Damascus say he heard you say it t’was…G…Grr…Ghar?!-”
The little boy hit the ground as he slammed into the calf of the man, the man’s cloaked shoulders hunched over, his fists clenched tight. The man turned quicker than lightning and starred the little boy down as he tumbled to the ground, the little girl jumping back in terror. The mask was glowing bright now, green shining out the eyes, the frowning mouthpiece, out the decorative details pointing in towards the nose. His whole body seemed to shake with an uncontrollable rage.
“I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP! NOW STOP PLAYING PRETEND AND GET OUT OF MY WAY!” the man shouted, his voice like rocks. All eyes were on them now. Beggars looked up from the side alleys, prostitutes from the brothels, barkeeps ran out of their taverns. The man’s breathing was quick and heavy. The little boy looked up at the glowing mask, terrified and dumbfounded.
“H-h-he said…” he stammered, tears forming on the rims of his eyes. The man looked into the child’s eyes, the terror he saw in them. It reminded him of the raw fear he often forced out of the bandits he went after. It reminded him of…
The man rose slowly. He backed away from the little boy, who shuffled onto his knees. The man looked down at the muddy ground, taking in deep breaths. He clenched his fist that held the bag and raised it up, slowly. The people watched with baited breath.
“He said you were a-a hero…” the boy whined with a broken heart, the tears flowing down his round cheeks and into the mud. He sniffled. Was that true? Only partly, the man thought. He was, in fact, Ghar. It was one of the few things in his life that he knew was still truth. If it were up to him, he’d have no name. The very word to him was little more than a painful reminder of a time long gone. But he kept it in his mind, if but to hold on to one thing. But the rest of what the boy said was fiction. Maybe not the penchant for preying on those who took what was not theirs, but…
“I am no hero.” the man replied softly, the glow of the mask fading away. He placed the bag onto the ground before the child, the precious metals clanging quietly as they came to rest. The boy took a few moments to wipe away his tears, rubbing his eyes with his muddy hands before reaching into the bag, still sniffling. His little hand pulled out a large ruby and a gold chain, and his face quickly turned from anguish to amazement. The beggars around him noticed the shining riches, their eyes widening at the sight of many lifetimes worth of work encased in a single piece of cloth. All at once the beggars and tavern workers and brothel owners rushed towards the bag, the boy getting up just in time and running towards a nearby patio, still clutching the ruby. He looked out past the squabbling pile of dirty brawlers, searching for a glimpse of the man with the green cloak and glowing mask. Aside from faint boot treads off away from the square , he was nowhere to be found.
A short distance away, the man named Ghar crouched low behind the wooden slats of an inn roof. Stealing a glance for but a moment, he witnessed the mass of bodies scrambling for the riches, and the lone boy standing away, scanning the ground. He crouched behind the wood once more, clutching his hands and exhaling a deep breath.
He took off, clambering over the rooftops as quickly as he could. He shouldn’t have come here, he thought. But the pain in his heart was there from the moment the boy started asking questions. No, the moment he started asking questions.
He had to get away.
His heart was heavy, his mind was weary, and he had a sudden urge beat something to the ground.
**
####Thanks to anyone who read the whole thing! Here’s a cookie! 
Please leave a comment if you did, it would really help to improve the writing! Thanks!
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