Jake Reynolds
Wordslinger
- Joined
- Sep 24, 2010
- Messages
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Hi folks, thought it was about time that I posted some stuff of my own here to be torn to shreds. This is the first mini-chapter of a short story that features one of the secondary characters from my novels, set in his younger days. Any thoughts or opinions greatly appreciated.
Quinn's First Assignment
1
Barrow, Taradea Province, 2nd Day of Azdoch, 1828
Barrow, like most small towns, had secrets.
It was like many in the forested Hills of the Veil, so named for the mist that would often reach down from the Vaston Range like claws seeking to reclaim the land that man had taken. It was a place of old spirits and superstition, a place where the southern pioneers had not quite overcome what had been there before.
The thatched rooftops may have seemed homely, the snaking arms of smoke twirling upward promising warmth by a fire and perhaps a bowl for travellers. To Martyn Quinn, the muddy streets and rickety animal pens suggested that an outsider asking questions could expect a cold reception.
Not that he required warmth. Quinn was the sharp edge of the Tower of Scripture, a man who was expected to get things done. That his first assignment should take him to a place all but forgotten by the world was no surprise. In the southern hills the darkness of woods still held mysteries for those who cared little for lines on maps.
He dismounted, preferring to lead Shinsu in on foot, for if he rode in upon the young mare it might give the wrong impression. As it was he would be mistrusted as an outsider, but if he came charging in arrogantly he would get nowhere.
He saw movement on the streets as he reached the low wall that marked Barrow’s boundary, snow still clinging to its uneven rocks. People darted to and fro, no doubt hurrying about their business so that they to could return to their fires. Though it was warming further south, the snow of the hills desperately clung to every surface it could.
As he led Shinsu he caught the gaze of all that he passed. Those he saw out of doors merely lowered their gazes and barrelled forward on their way, unwilling to greet him. He expected it. These were people who ran Barrow as Barrow was run; a church officer from Havegard had little business there.
Everything he had with him marked him a city man; his long grey woollen coat and scarf, his black leather gloves and tricorn hat, his shirt and vest, his expensive boots. Owning a horse wasn’t so out of place here, though the saddle likely was. He might have received some kind of approval for the battered bedroll, marking him as a man that slept outdoors, but that would be all.
The goodwife hurrying past with her baskets, the two farmhands who narrowed their eyes and the old man that stood from his porch rocker and went inside at the sight of him, all of them told him more effectively than words that he was unwelcome.
He reached the town square, where eight buildings- one of them the church- faced a clay statue of a man with an axe, no doubt some kind of town founder. Most of the villages and towns at the base of the Vastons had such decoration, the southern provinces still proud of their pioneer spirit. To his right he saw half a dozen people deep in discussion in the entranceway of what seemed to be a council hall, unmindful of the cold winter’s evening. At sight of him one of the men stopped speaking and gestured to the others, all six of them going indoors silently.
‘Might have to break my promise, Shin,’ he told her as he rolled the ride from his shoulders, ‘not sure if you can find a warm stable tonight.’
‘After a stable?’
The voice had pipped from behind him, and he turned to see a boy of perhaps ten years, so rugged up against that cold that he couldn’t rest his arms at his side.
‘Could be,’ Quinn said. ‘There an inn here?’
‘Mem’s Place.’ The boy tried to point, but had to move his whole body sideways to do so, indicating a slightly larger building on the other side of the square, one of the few that had light stronger than a candle. ‘Got a stable there. Best get inside quick,’ he added. ‘We’re all supposed to be inside after dark.’
‘Why is that?’
The boy looked up at him as if he were dense. ‘Because the Widow Wind can freeze a man in ten steps, ‘specially in a winter like this.’
Quinn had the impression that the boy was repeating something another had said, likely his father’s words. ‘I'd best get inside then, yes?’
The boy shrugged and waddled away without another word, though Quinn thought he heard him singing to himself. Clucking to Shinsu, he led her toward the building opposite the council hall, tying her to the hitching post before slinging his saddlebags across one shoulder and heading toward the doors.
Before he had even put a foot on the bottom step the doors burst outward and a man staggered through them, stumbling down the three steps to sprawl in the hard, half-frozen mud. He was pursued by the biggest woman Quinn had ever seen. She wore an apron that he could have used as a blanket, a huge cudgel in her hands as she rolled from the building, blocking most of the light.
She was about to speak when she saw Quinn, and then sniffed as if she could smell the city on him, ignoring the spluttering man who also fell silent as he realised that an outsider stood there. The woman looked him up and down, her tongue poking out one of her cheeks as she assessed him.
‘Room and stable?’ she asked eventually, her voice matching her fierce demeanour.
‘Please, and a hot meal if you’ve one on the fire.’
‘We can rustle something up if you can pay for it.’
‘Not a problem.’
After a grunt, she paused only long enough to fork two of her fingers toward the man in the dirt, who tapped his chin twice and pointed at her in his silent rage. Quinn ignored their tiny superstitions, starting up the stairs and into the common room, thinking his arrival in Barrow was much as he expected.
The common room was similar to his welcome; both were as he had assumed they would be. A blazing fire scorched the room from the far wall, a main set of stairs leading upward to his right, and a corridor presumably leading to the stableyard where patrons might also relieve themselves if there was an outhouse. He caught sight of the immense woman passing through the archway, presumably to the kitchens beyond.
There were only six four-seater tables, and besides a man hunched over near the fire with his back to him, Quinn saw nobody else. The bar, situated further than usual from the bottle wall, ran the length of the place to his left, behind which a wiry barman cleaned tankards with a dirty rag.
‘Quiet night,’ Quinn observed, receiving only a shrug from the barman and no movement at all from the man by the fire.
He shrugged off his saddlebags and coat, ignoring the barman’s eyes upon him as he revealed the Najarim blade that was sheathed upside down on his back, the three foot long weapon easily hidden beneath the heavy wool. He draped his coat over the back of his chair before unslinging the weapon his teacher had given him, the runes upon the scabbard marking it as foreign even more than the gentle curve of blade and handle did. It was not a sword used by those from the Empire.
Leaving it upon the table by his hat, he walked over to the bar and leant upon it, his height perhaps half a foot more than the barman, though he chose a less intimidating stance. ‘Any of the stout in stock?’
‘Not so as city folk can stomach it,’ the barman replied, earning a shifting of the shoulders of the man by the fire.
‘Well, there’s a difference between coming from a city and being from a city.’ Quinn spun a copper gild on the bar.
The barman nodded, ‘Fair enough. Just the one?’
‘For now.’ Quinn spent the time waiting leaning back on the bar with his elbows upon it, looking at the various decorations. There was a stag’s head over the fire and a few flags, but not much else. ‘I’ve a horse outside,’ he started when the barman returned.
‘Taken care of. Baskin will be back soon enough. He’s never scared of Mem for long.’
‘Mem?’
‘You can’t be telling me you missed her.’
‘I see.’ Quinn smiled, settling over his ale. ‘Boy outside mentioned the Widow Wind,’ he said quietly.
The barman’s eyes narrowed as if he were some character in campfire tale. ‘Folk story. Just a name for the wind off the mountains. They say she used to stalk into town after dark, taking husbands away from their wives. Freezing it is, especially in a winter this late. Wait until a few more hours after dark.’
He held out his hand. ‘Martyn Quinn.’
Quinn's First Assignment
1
Barrow, Taradea Province, 2nd Day of Azdoch, 1828
Barrow, like most small towns, had secrets.
It was like many in the forested Hills of the Veil, so named for the mist that would often reach down from the Vaston Range like claws seeking to reclaim the land that man had taken. It was a place of old spirits and superstition, a place where the southern pioneers had not quite overcome what had been there before.
The thatched rooftops may have seemed homely, the snaking arms of smoke twirling upward promising warmth by a fire and perhaps a bowl for travellers. To Martyn Quinn, the muddy streets and rickety animal pens suggested that an outsider asking questions could expect a cold reception.
Not that he required warmth. Quinn was the sharp edge of the Tower of Scripture, a man who was expected to get things done. That his first assignment should take him to a place all but forgotten by the world was no surprise. In the southern hills the darkness of woods still held mysteries for those who cared little for lines on maps.
He dismounted, preferring to lead Shinsu in on foot, for if he rode in upon the young mare it might give the wrong impression. As it was he would be mistrusted as an outsider, but if he came charging in arrogantly he would get nowhere.
He saw movement on the streets as he reached the low wall that marked Barrow’s boundary, snow still clinging to its uneven rocks. People darted to and fro, no doubt hurrying about their business so that they to could return to their fires. Though it was warming further south, the snow of the hills desperately clung to every surface it could.
As he led Shinsu he caught the gaze of all that he passed. Those he saw out of doors merely lowered their gazes and barrelled forward on their way, unwilling to greet him. He expected it. These were people who ran Barrow as Barrow was run; a church officer from Havegard had little business there.
Everything he had with him marked him a city man; his long grey woollen coat and scarf, his black leather gloves and tricorn hat, his shirt and vest, his expensive boots. Owning a horse wasn’t so out of place here, though the saddle likely was. He might have received some kind of approval for the battered bedroll, marking him as a man that slept outdoors, but that would be all.
The goodwife hurrying past with her baskets, the two farmhands who narrowed their eyes and the old man that stood from his porch rocker and went inside at the sight of him, all of them told him more effectively than words that he was unwelcome.
He reached the town square, where eight buildings- one of them the church- faced a clay statue of a man with an axe, no doubt some kind of town founder. Most of the villages and towns at the base of the Vastons had such decoration, the southern provinces still proud of their pioneer spirit. To his right he saw half a dozen people deep in discussion in the entranceway of what seemed to be a council hall, unmindful of the cold winter’s evening. At sight of him one of the men stopped speaking and gestured to the others, all six of them going indoors silently.
‘Might have to break my promise, Shin,’ he told her as he rolled the ride from his shoulders, ‘not sure if you can find a warm stable tonight.’
‘After a stable?’
The voice had pipped from behind him, and he turned to see a boy of perhaps ten years, so rugged up against that cold that he couldn’t rest his arms at his side.
‘Could be,’ Quinn said. ‘There an inn here?’
‘Mem’s Place.’ The boy tried to point, but had to move his whole body sideways to do so, indicating a slightly larger building on the other side of the square, one of the few that had light stronger than a candle. ‘Got a stable there. Best get inside quick,’ he added. ‘We’re all supposed to be inside after dark.’
‘Why is that?’
The boy looked up at him as if he were dense. ‘Because the Widow Wind can freeze a man in ten steps, ‘specially in a winter like this.’
Quinn had the impression that the boy was repeating something another had said, likely his father’s words. ‘I'd best get inside then, yes?’
The boy shrugged and waddled away without another word, though Quinn thought he heard him singing to himself. Clucking to Shinsu, he led her toward the building opposite the council hall, tying her to the hitching post before slinging his saddlebags across one shoulder and heading toward the doors.
Before he had even put a foot on the bottom step the doors burst outward and a man staggered through them, stumbling down the three steps to sprawl in the hard, half-frozen mud. He was pursued by the biggest woman Quinn had ever seen. She wore an apron that he could have used as a blanket, a huge cudgel in her hands as she rolled from the building, blocking most of the light.
She was about to speak when she saw Quinn, and then sniffed as if she could smell the city on him, ignoring the spluttering man who also fell silent as he realised that an outsider stood there. The woman looked him up and down, her tongue poking out one of her cheeks as she assessed him.
‘Room and stable?’ she asked eventually, her voice matching her fierce demeanour.
‘Please, and a hot meal if you’ve one on the fire.’
‘We can rustle something up if you can pay for it.’
‘Not a problem.’
After a grunt, she paused only long enough to fork two of her fingers toward the man in the dirt, who tapped his chin twice and pointed at her in his silent rage. Quinn ignored their tiny superstitions, starting up the stairs and into the common room, thinking his arrival in Barrow was much as he expected.
The common room was similar to his welcome; both were as he had assumed they would be. A blazing fire scorched the room from the far wall, a main set of stairs leading upward to his right, and a corridor presumably leading to the stableyard where patrons might also relieve themselves if there was an outhouse. He caught sight of the immense woman passing through the archway, presumably to the kitchens beyond.
There were only six four-seater tables, and besides a man hunched over near the fire with his back to him, Quinn saw nobody else. The bar, situated further than usual from the bottle wall, ran the length of the place to his left, behind which a wiry barman cleaned tankards with a dirty rag.
‘Quiet night,’ Quinn observed, receiving only a shrug from the barman and no movement at all from the man by the fire.
He shrugged off his saddlebags and coat, ignoring the barman’s eyes upon him as he revealed the Najarim blade that was sheathed upside down on his back, the three foot long weapon easily hidden beneath the heavy wool. He draped his coat over the back of his chair before unslinging the weapon his teacher had given him, the runes upon the scabbard marking it as foreign even more than the gentle curve of blade and handle did. It was not a sword used by those from the Empire.
Leaving it upon the table by his hat, he walked over to the bar and leant upon it, his height perhaps half a foot more than the barman, though he chose a less intimidating stance. ‘Any of the stout in stock?’
‘Not so as city folk can stomach it,’ the barman replied, earning a shifting of the shoulders of the man by the fire.
‘Well, there’s a difference between coming from a city and being from a city.’ Quinn spun a copper gild on the bar.
The barman nodded, ‘Fair enough. Just the one?’
‘For now.’ Quinn spent the time waiting leaning back on the bar with his elbows upon it, looking at the various decorations. There was a stag’s head over the fire and a few flags, but not much else. ‘I’ve a horse outside,’ he started when the barman returned.
‘Taken care of. Baskin will be back soon enough. He’s never scared of Mem for long.’
‘Mem?’
‘You can’t be telling me you missed her.’
‘I see.’ Quinn smiled, settling over his ale. ‘Boy outside mentioned the Widow Wind,’ he said quietly.
The barman’s eyes narrowed as if he were some character in campfire tale. ‘Folk story. Just a name for the wind off the mountains. They say she used to stalk into town after dark, taking husbands away from their wives. Freezing it is, especially in a winter this late. Wait until a few more hours after dark.’
He held out his hand. ‘Martyn Quinn.’
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