(medieval fantasy, mostly straight with some homoerotic undertones)
The Demon Of Dunnidale
Let us now draw our attention to the rustic landscape of a world known as Nuart, which its original settlers knew better as New Earth. This is a world of adventure and enchantment, and thanks to its massive influx of natural magic, it is a world of great sorcery as well. For several hundreds of years, Nuart has thrived in what we would term as the Medieval Age, for that is the age from whence the first inhabitants arrived. But enough about the planet itself, for surely you will understand more about this world as our tale progresses.
Instead, let me direct your gaze toward the vast expanse of untamed woodlands, with a scattering of shrubbery-encrusted rolling hills and the peaks of a great corridor of mountains seen in the far distance. Through this great tangle of trees and cutting though the forest like a jagged tear in the earth, is the single, desolate road that joins the villages of Bathum and Dirk's Gutter. It is on this solitary path that we come across the wary form of Orin the Younger. He is not on the path itself, but treading stealthily some five yards away from the road's edge.
A strapping young man of eighteen years Orin was, handsome in a rugged and manly fashion, yet possessive of charm, wit and a smile that endeared him to ladies both young and old. His hair was hued in a sandy blonde, while his eyes were a shade of brown so dark as almost to be termed black. As his body was still blossoming into adulthood, the prominence and strength of his shoulders had only just begun. Orin was only a few inches taller than the average man, and if need be he could quickly lose himself in a crowd. Purposefully, the young man's clothes had been cut a bit generously to belie the man's budding musculature and sturdiness.
You see, Orin was the offspring of a mercenary of no small infamy, at least in some parts of that great land. His father was once known as Orenn the Fearless, later as Orenn the Stout, and finally, as Orenn the Dead. During the latter stages of his life, Orenn had contracted with noblemen to train their sons as knights, and with the coarser types to train their sons as mercenaries, or on occasion even as assassins. Much of the man's formidable knowledge and insight had been passed on to his own son.
When the old man passed, there was nothing left to tie Orennsen, or Orenn's Son, as the young man was then known, to the small village his father had retired to. Orin sold the entirety of the property and possessions left to him as an inheritance, save for a scant few articles. Also the young man changed his name to what it now presently was, from Orennsen to Orin, both to keep his father's memory alive, and to differentiate the Younger Orenn from the Older one. Finally, Orin set foot on the dirt road that led away from the place of his birth in order to fulfill his own destiny.
On his person, Orin carried a meager lot of items. He wore a tan tunic, tied at the waist by a cord of strong, thin leather, this under a darker brown leather vest. For his lower half, he sported a leaf-green set of leggings and dark brown, ankle high boots.
His weaponry was as would be expected from a man of his day and age. He carried a simple hunting bow over his shoulder. The quiver slung across his back held all of eight arrows, for he'd lost a few after wounding, but not killing, wild game such as boar or deer. In the sheath at his side, he carried a short sword with a blade the length of two of his feet, at the small of his back and in his left boot were secreted two small and, in the hands of one who knew how to use them, very lethal daggers. The leather cap he'd tied around his belt wasn't as harmless as it looked, either, for hidden in its inner seam was an assassin's garrote made of very fine chain mail.
The young man's knapsack was lightweight. All that was bundled up within it was a change of clothing which would allow Orin to pass as a courier for a nobleman of modest worth. Also, he carried few provisions such as a rapidly diminishing supply of water in a cured goat's bladder.
So hungry was he, that when Orin caught scent of roasting meat, he halted his pace. Further into the woods and like a shadow he moved, until he discovered three men lazily sitting around a small campfire. Quickly, he gauged them to possibly be a gang of old bandits, and only a day or two from becoming beggars, for Orin saw neither horses nor any sort of sturdy armaments among them.
As an exercise, Orin calculated how long it would take him to dispatch the trio to their doom. A pitifully short time, he decided, unless they became aware of his presence beforehand and had time to gather both their wits and their bows. After that, it would be a contest between his agility and maneuvering, pitted against their tenacity and marksmanship.
Orin's father, however, had bestowed upon him the matter of the sanctity of life, and the idea that he should not rob a man of his existence unless Orin's own life were in danger, or unless he was being paid to take it. The young man was still deliberating this last part, over whether or not he wished to be employed as an assassin for hire, but that was a matter he could afford to put off for now.
At the moment, Orin only wished for a few mouthfuls of the hare the three older men were roasting on a spit. To this end, he crept up next to a stout tree and whistled out as a bird, then abruptly changed his call to that of another fowl, before finally returning to his original tune. Any man who had spent time out in the wild would recognize this as an artificial warning. A second after, all three men were scrambling about for their weapons.
"Who goes there?" One of them challenged the forest.
"Orin, son of Orenn the Fearless."
"We know of no such man! What do you want?"
"I am a simple traveler, and I caught the scent of your fire from the road. I would gladly pay a ha'penny for a portion of your meal, if you were but willing to spare it."
"How many come with you?"
"I am alone."
"Show yourself!" The man demanded.
"I cannot. You three are armed. I fear that if I show my face, your arrows will strike me down. Are you men of honor or men of dishonor?"
This last question could be rightly taken as an affront to an honest man, Orin knew, for in those lands a man's word was worth its weight in gold. Indeed, the man who answered him scoffed at the implication.
"We are men of our word. Come forward, if you will. We will not shoot at you unless we are provoked."
"Are you bandits?" Orin further tested them, because one could not be too careful out in such desolation as what he presently found himself in.
"No, Orin, son of Orenn, we are not." The man replied.
Orin watched the man relax, and return to take his former seat on the ground.
A second man soon sat down as well, but the third studiously kept watch. This was the best that Orin hoped to get, as he left his hiding place and took several steps closer to them. Had he been in their shoes, undoubtedly he would be watching a newcomer as closely as this last man was watching him.
"I suppose you'll be wanting to know our names?" The only man who'd thus far spoken asked. "I am Judson, and sitting beside me is my brother Ackerley. The man standing is Bartram. What then is the name of your village?"
"Bilge Barrel." Orin replied.
"Quite a ways from home, are you?" Ackerley scratched his head. "What's a young lad like yourself doing so far away from your mother's bosom?"
"My mother passed some time ago, my father more recently." Orin divulged. "I wish to see more of this earth than what I'd already seen in my own village."
"The wanderlust has you, has it?" Ackerley nodded. "I had that same wanderlust once, and what I saw of the outside world made me come straight back!"
He started laughing.
"Sit down, young Orin, sit down." Judson urged.
Orin would comply with the invitation, but he first sought out the eyes of the last man standing. Bartram nodded his consent, before the watchful man finally seated himself beside the other fellows. In order not to be discourteous, Orin followed suit a moment later.
"Would a ha'penny suffice for a few bites to eat?" He repeated his offer.
"What need have we for coin, out here in the woods?" Judson shook his head. "Have you anything edible to trade?"
Orin pulled from his knapsack a small stock of almonds, blueberries, cheese and dark bread. For the next couple of minutes, he negotiated for a share for the hare, as well as for the filling up of his canteen. Alas, the three men had no arrows to spare.
After the deal was shaken hands upon, they all began conversing at length, as men wanting for new company tend to. They spoke of the general state of things in that small pocket of the world, of past conquests and battles, both on the battlefield and on the bed, and of the proximity and highlights of any villages in the vicinity.
"Have you any knowledge of a place where a man such as myself can find adventure?" Orin asked later.
"No adventure left in these parts." Judson shrugged. "The only things around here are all these trees." He chuckled. "One you get past those, you'll find even more trees!"
Orin glanced at the other men. Ackerley shrugged in much the same way as his brother had, but Bartram, the most mysterious of them all, solemnly met his gaze.
"They say the Devil has taken root in Dunnidale." Bartram revealed. "That's not too far from here, if you're willing to make the journey."
"Oh, don't tell him about Dunnidale!" Judson scolded. "You know well that place has the Devil's curse on it!"
Not one to be easily spooked, Orin insisted on hearing more of the place.
"I cannot rightly say what lies at the bottom of it." Bartram related. "But what I have heard from the mouths of men that have come from there is this. Dunnidale was the same as any other place, up until about a generation or two ago."
"It was a prosperous place, sure enough." Ackerley nodded. "A good place for trade, as I recall it."
