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ftb-writes · 5 years

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Okay, so I had writer's block all week so I dug out the first chapter of what I had intended to be a multi chapter novel that I started just before getting my retail job. I haven't had any time to work on it further, but it does make for a good read so far, and I even have a few pics that I might post to go with it later. Also, the formatting is wonky... I tried to fix it.

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The hiss is low and guttural; it is a warning, Chrys knows. He stops and stares up the path, scanning the trees ahead of them.

“It’s probably just an animal,” Bryn grunts behind him. “Or something.”

“It might be the ‘or something,’” Chrys replies, motioning for Bryn to stay still.

“You don’t think it’s a dragon, do you,” Bryn asks.

“If it is, it’s only a small one,” Chrys reassures his hunting companion. “It’s probably just a fox or coyote, but best to let it move on to be safe. We’ve already got enough meat anyway, and foxes tend to be thinner during winter.”

“If you’re sure,” Bryn mutters.

A few hundred yards down the path, something moves out into the open. It is not a fox, but it is not a dragon, either. It is a braksi, a large female with arching horns. Bryn reaches for his bow, but Chrys puts up his hand to stop him. The sound of their movements spook the braksi, however, and she runs off.

“Why did you stop me,” Bryn demands. “We could have sold the extra meat for some coin.”

“She was pregnant. If we bring in all the braksi, there wouldn’t be enough for the next generation to eat.” Chrys starts back down the path, but he turns back when Bryn does not immediately follow. “Coming, Bryn?”

“Yeah,” Bryn sighs, finally following Chrys. “Never thought of it like that. You think of the little things, Chrys.”

“One of us has to,” Chrys teases.

“Now that’s low,” Bryn snorts. “Even for you.”

The two laugh easily, teasing back and forth as they step out of the forest into the village of Telvinne. It is a small village, bordered on three sides by the thick forest the hunters made their living from; Telvinne is the last town on the way to the Scarast Mountain Range, with a butcher, a blacksmith, an herbalist, and the houses of the laborers in the area. With eight farms, a well, and nearby Lake Tel, for which the village was named, Telvinne is the home of hardworking folk, and traders came through twice a year for the villagers to get anything they could not make themselves, and so the villagers could sell any home-made goods.

Chrys and Bryn are two of nine hunters in the village; of the nearly seventy residents of Telvinne, thirty-seven are farmers, and the village’s main exports are their crops. The farmers will tell you the fertility of the soil is due to the nearby mountains, long believed by the people in Telvinne and the surrounding towns and cities to be the home of nature spirits, while the other hunters often swear it is the droppings of the large diversity of animals from the surrounding forest. Chrys thinks it may be a bit of both.

Chrys and Bryn make their way up the slope toward the main group of buildings along the main road into and out of Telvinne, waving to the farmers and the children as they passed.

“Here, I’ll take the meat to the butcher. Your wife probably has dinner going.” Bryn is married to a beautiful farmer named Ralla, who had given him a pair of twin sons a few years back. Bryn loves them dearly, and misses them on the long days spent tracking and hunting in the woods.

Bryn passes the bag with their catches and sighs. “Chrys, when you get a chance, settle down and marry a nice girl,” Bryn tells him. “Having dinner ready when you get home is a wonderful thing.”

Chrys gives Bryn a tight smile. “Sure, Bryn,” he placates, shooing the older man off. Chrys knows Bryn means well, but Chrys does not plan on settling down and getting married. Chrys has more important things to worry about.

“Ah, Chrys!” Marc greets everyone by name, and Chrys is no exception when he enters the butcher-shop.

“Hey, Marc,” Chrys replies. Chrys respects Marc with his kinder nature. Marc has bright hair and brighter eyes, and a gentle strength that can wield the knives that split bones for the man’s living. One of Marc’s sons is carefully taking stock of the meat behind the counter.

“Bryn and I just got back from a hunting trip,” Chrys tells the butcher. “Think you can do your thing?”

Marc laughs easily. “Sure thing, Chrys. See any dragons?”

“Nah,” Chrys answers as he passes the catch over. “I wish. I love dragon-watching.”

Marc smiles while he takes stock of the handful of small game, the pair of braksis, and a large buck. “Only you would want to actually see a dragon, Chrys. You’re crazy.”

“Crazy? Or interesting?” Chrys spins around, motioning out the window in the direction of the closest city, Nycelia, on the Southern Plains. “If I become a dragon expert, everyone in the city will want to get to know me!”

Marc rolls his eyes, but he knows from experience not to try to discourage the younger man. Chrys whirls back to Marc with a bright, excited smile. “I’ll be able to get into the royal court even, maybe!”

“Alright, Chrys,” Marc tells him. “Listen, it’ll take me two days to get all this cut up and figure on a proper price for you two. Come back then.”

Chrys nods. “See you then.”

The sun is beginning to set as Chrys leaves the butcher and starts for home. Chrys had built a small house for himself a bit out of the village, set back into the edge of the forest surrounding Telvinne, just south of Lake Tel.

The walls are covered in sketches of dragons, flora and fauna local to the region, and of villagers from Telvinne and the surrounding area. Unfinished sketches cover the small table in the main room, and Chrys is quick to close the door and avoid the breeze blowing the loose papers around.

Curled up on the table in the kitchen is a large cat that yawns in way of greeting. Chrys sighs. “I know it’s late, Bigelow. Marc and I got to talking. I caught a buck,” he tells the cat as he collects the loose sketches and stirs a pot of stew he had set to cook before he had left that morning with Bryn. “We can eat for a while off this catch, from the looks of it.”

Bigelow yawns again and sets his head on his paws. Chrys ladles some of the stew into a wooden bowl. “Catch any mice today?” Of course, Bigelow does not answer, but Chrys carries on talking as he sets his place at the table. “I didn’t see any dragons this time, not even a little one, but that’s not surprising. They don’t come this far north in the colder months, usually. Maybe when it gets warmer.”

Bigelow gets up and pads over to the door. Chrys frowns as the cat nudges it open and pads out into the deepening twilight.

“Eat it before you come inside,” Chrys calls after him. It would not be the first time Chrys woke up to an unexpected gift from Bigelow. Anything from mice and voles to rabbits and hares and even a young braksi, once; nothing is safe from Bigelow. Even bears and wolves stay out of the feline’s way.

Chrys grabs a hunk of bread he had made a few days ago and dips it into his stew, but Chrys jumps when he hears a loud yowl from outside. Chrys glances up toward the still open door, stew-soaked bread halfway to his lips. He sighs and pops the bread into his mouth and chews quickly. “What, Bigs, is there dew on the grass,” he teases as he walks outside. What he sees makes him freeze.

Bigelow is laying a few feet away from the door, on his back, staring unseeing at the night sky, completely still except for his shallow breathing. Chrys’s stomach somehow both drops and lurches up into his throat at the same time. Chrys slams the door behind him and scrambles over to his cat. Bigelow does not acknowledge the young man as Chrys leans over him, carefully stroking the cat’s cheek as if expecting the cat to sit back up. “Bigs,” Chrys asks quietly. “Bigs?”

Chrys bolts for Telvinne, his beloved pet cradled in his arms. “Hang on, hang on,” he gasps to the cat. “Stay with me, Bigs!” Bigelow makes a strange, breathy noise, but otherwise does not respond.

Telvinne is slumbering, but Chrys knows that the herbalist does not sleep until far later into the night. He goes straight for the her shop and home. “Elvira,” he calls desperately, shouldering open the door. “Elvira, theres something wrong with Bigelow!”

“Set him on the table,” the herbalist, Elvira orders, calm but authoritative, striding through the door to a back room. Chrys hurries to comply, laying Bigelow onto the exam table Elvira kept carefully clean.

She takes one look at the stricken feline and sighs. “I can save him, but I recognize the signs. Wake the rest of the village, everyone is to get to the bunker. This is the work of a cockatrice. Best to wait for it to leave the area.” Chrys nods and reaches for Bigelow, but Elvira shakes her head. “I will bring him after he’s healed. Go.”

Chrys shoots one more look at his cat before doing as he is told. Chrys trusts Elvira, he knows how capable she is. Elvira could set a broken bone, dose an ill sheep, stitch up a farming accident. But Bigelow has been a companion to Chrys for several years now, and the feline’s sudden attack has shaken Chrys.

Chrys leaves Elvira’s and decides to start with the houses that are closest to his; the cockatrice had passed his place first, after all, and Chrys worries that if it does come into the village, it will be from that direction. If a cockatrice does get into the village, it would be a catastrophe waiting to happen, especially with the children in Telvinne not knowing to steer clear.

Bryn’s house is the first he goes to. “Bryn! Bryn, please, wake up,” Chrys cries, banging on the door desperately.

Bryn’s hair is tousled when he answers, eyes weary from sleep. “Chrys? What’s wrong, what time--”

“A cockatrice attacked Bigelow in front of my house. Elvira wants everyone in the bunker, now.”

Bryn leans back inside, shouting to wake his family. “I’ll get Ralla and the boys off and I’ll help wake everyone,” Bryn tells Chrys, before darting back inside to help his wife and sons. Chrys turns and darts across the dirt road to the farmer, Dale’s, home. Dale is still young, like Chrys, and he doesn’t have a wife or children either and is quick to offer to help wake the rest of the village as well.

Between the three of them, Bryn, Chrys, and Dale are able to rouse everyone and send them for the bunker in a short time. When the three men arrive at the bunker themselves, helping Marc and his wife, the blacksmith Mira, herd their five children through the dark streets, Elvira is waiting. She waves them all in and shuts the door, and then turns her brown eyes to Chrys.

She quietly greets him, and carefully passes a bundle to him. Bigelow is sleeping peacefully, but he lazily opens an eye to glance up at Chrys, before he begins purring softly as he drifts to sleep in his owners arms.

“He will be a bit out of sorts for a few days. Best to keep an eye on him until he returns to normal,” the herbalist instructs. “Now, let us retreat deeper in. It is late, but we are all safe thanks to the fact the beast ran into Bigelow first; I am sure the others are grateful, and they are glad that he is alright.”

Chrys has never been inside the bunker, has never really needed to. Telvinne has it’s very own, as most of the villages, towns, and cities in the country of Belaro; they were built during the great dragon wars a few hundred years ago, and they are kept in good repair thanks to the crown. These days, they are mostly used for storage. Telvinne’s bunker is dug into a large hill opposite Chrys’s home, lined with stones to keep the walls from falling in and with a handful of large beams scattered through the single room to hold up the ceiling.

Chrys does not like it at all. The walls feel too close, the ceiling too low, despite it being large enough inside the bunker to hold several of the houses of Telvinne inside comfortably. Chrys settles down in a quiet, out of the way spot by the door to wait while his skin feels like it is crawling off, and Bigelow’s quiet purring seems to be the only thing that can calm the young hunter. It takes three days of sending out a small party a few times a day for Elvira to be satisfied that the cockatrice did not stay in the area, and during those days Chrys sleeps little.

The day after the cockatrice-induced seclusion ends, it snows in Telvinne; for the first time in nearly half a century, Telvinne is covered in several inches of thick flakes. By the end of the day, those several inches have grown to a foot, and the next morning sees Chrys struggling to get his front door open. Bigelow seems content to wait out the snow, but Chrys had some salted stew-meat and the money from the hunting catch to retrieve from Marc at the butcher shop.

Halfway to town, Chrys runs into Dale. The farmer has tripped or slipped on the way to check the farm he works, and he is stuck so deep in the snow he is barely visible. Dale had moved to Telvinne from further south by Nycelia, and likely had never experienced snow like this before.

“Need any help, Dale,” Chrys asks as he approaches. It takes Dale a moment of squirming to get his head totally above the snow, and when he does, he has to squint against the sun.

“Ah, no, Chrys, I’m fine,” Dale says, teeth chattering slightly. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and huffs.

“So, what are you doing, then?” Chrys wades a little closer. The snow is up to his waist already, and though it has slowed down, the snow is still falling. Chrys usually lets Dale do things himself and Dale usually does not ask for help, but in this snow that mentality could be dangerous.

“I--” Dale starts to say, and sneezes. The two stare at each other for a moment in surprised silence before Dale sighs. “I’m stuck.”

“Do you want me to get you out?” Chrys leans closer to Dale to brush snow off his head.

“Yes, please,” the farmer replies, rather meekly.

Chrys rolls his eyes. “It’s okay to ask for help, Dale,” he tells the farmer gently as he begins digging. “We only have each other out here.”

Dale smiles. "I know," he tells Chrys. "I know. I just--" he sighs again, heavy with thought. "I'm not used to having anyone to ask for help. I lost my parents to a bear when I was still pretty young, so I’m used to just doing everything myself."

Chrys glances up at Dale and gasps. "Dale, woah, I'm so sorry."

Dale sniffs. "'S alright. It was a long time ago, I don’t really remember it all that much."

Chrys helps Dale up and helps him dust off. "It's still pretty horrible. I can't imagine what that must have been like for you." When Dale just shrugs again, Chrys sighs. "Hey, listen, Dale. My house is kinda snowed in right now, but if you're out late in the fields, you're welcome to crash at my place. It's closer to your farm than the village is."

Dale chuckles. "Yeah, thanks, Chrys. And, ah, if you need a place to crash not buried in snow..."

Chrys laughs. "Thanks Dale. I might just take you up on that. Spirits know Bigelow hates the snow, poor boy won't leave the house."

Dale joins his laughter, the sadness from a moment ago forgotten, even if only temporarily.

"I mean, aren't you worried about the dragons, too," Dale asks.

"Nah, they don't bother me," Chrys tells him, waving as if to brush the concern away. "C'mon, if you walk me back to my place, I have something I wanna show you."

The two talk while Chrys retrieves his meats, and they help each other trudge back through the snow. Chrys glances at Dale once before he pushes the door to his home open.

Dale's mouth falls open. He steps into the house, slowly spinning to take in all the pictures. "Did you draw all these," he wonders. "They're amazing!"

"Thank you," Chrys laughs, blushing slightly.

"Where did you see these dragons," Dale continues, motioning to some of the sketches. "Were they in a book?"

"No, these are dragons I've seen while hunting. Or they've strolled across my yard. This one--" Chrys reaches up to a cluster of sketches of the same dragon, a large male with curling horns and dark scales. His wings have some minor tears along the edges, and he's covered in scars; there is a determined gleam in his eyes in all the sketches Chrys has of him. "I call him Big Boy," Chrys explains. "He's the most territorial in the area. I think he's the one in charge around here. He's the first dragon in during the warm months and the last one out when it gets colder. I saw him quite a lot while I was building my home. Nothing happens in the area without Big Boy knowing about it."

"Really?" Dale cocks an eyebrow. " Does he know about me?"

"Probably," Chrys tells him, shrugging. "He may have never seen you," he reassures when Dale looks mildly alarmed, "but he knows everyone in the area by scent."

"Wow. And he just wanders through your yard every now and again?"

Chrys nods and motions to another cluster of sketches. These feature a female, one with a blind eye and a missing claw on one of her front feet. There are less sketches overall than of Big Boy, but they are more detailed. "This is Skye. She's a bit more shy, but she sits for hours once she is comfortable. She's Big Boy's mate. Whatever she's doing, she's doing it right. Most males mate with a different female each year, but Big Boy keeps going back to her."

"Who's that," Dale asks, pointing up at another sketch. It's a jet black male, with no scars or injuries. The sketch looks hurried, and the dragon it features appears to be asleep. That sketch is the only one of this particular dragon.

"That's Shadow," Chrys says, fondness in his voice. "He's my favorite. Never sits still, but he's a gentle soul. Bigelow's gone hunting with him a few times. He's a little smaller, or maybe he's just young. He checks in with me every year when the dragons come back north for the spring and go south for the winter."

Dale glances up at Chrys. He has a gleam in his eyes; Dale can see that this is not mere curiosity, like most of the villagers assume -- Chrys is obsessed, he's living and breathing and dreaming dragons.

"Crazy idea," Dale says. Chrys turns his gaze back to the farmer with a teasing smirk.

"Crazy," he asks, "or interesting?"

Dale snorts, and then reaches up to motion to all the sketches. "Could I bring my uncle down here sometime? He lives in Nycelia, and he's an old drinking buddy of Nycelia's current dragon expert, Tern--"

"Yes," Chrys interrupts. "Of course." He scoops Dale into a tight hug, a light, airy giggle tumbling off his lips. "Thank you, Dale," Chrys says as he lets the farmer go. "None of the others have ever taken my dreams seriously."

Dale flushes at the honesty in Chrys's voice. "Just don't forget to come home every now and again, yeah?"

Chrys nudges him gently. "Hey, why don't you come along, Dale? It's bound to be an adventure, and I could use an extra set of hands -- wherever it is that studying dragons will take me."

Dale looks around the sketches, at Chrys's excited grin, and he feels himself grinning back.

"You have to show me me all the local dragons, first," he says.

"As soon as it warms up," Chrys promises.

"Then I'm glad to be on board," Dale agrees, shaking Chrys's hand. "Now, come on. I'll help you move Bigelow up to my house. Besides, it's weird that there's more snow here than up in the village."

"There is a slight slope," Chrys chuckles, turning to grab a blanket. "When the snow gets too heavy, it pushes everything down towards me."

“I’m never gonna get you northerners,” Dale sighs.

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