This story is an old concept. Not that it is tried and true, but rather that Vincent is the raw material from which Mykris and Brandon were formed. This story will have far more sex (toned down from my drunk ramblings) and practice for writing violent scenes.
Also, what might be apparent by this piece, I need an editor/someone to talk about this story and my other works. I didn't realize how bad my writing had gotten until the latest chapter of Spritely fellow was rejected for SPELLING. So yeah, if you're interested tell me. It would speed up my writing at the least.
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There lies a small village in the pass between the valley. It was a small and simple place, so much so that it had not even been named. It had started long ago as an abbey for fisherman and merchants to worship at during their trip through the otherwise impassable mountains. The village had only grown out of the priests and monks need for housing. It was not meant to be a place of residence, there were towns of and cities within a day's travel in either direction each with more opportunity and amenities. However as time passed, another building of the same size as the abbey eventually came into being. An infamous blacksmith had settled down there, and built herself a sizable home with her furnace and crafting stations built in. With the smokestacks and second floor included, in rivaled the size of the main abbey building.
After the blacksmith settled in, a handful of other families decided to settle in as well. Each had their reasons for not going to the cities. A village so small had its advantages after all. The only government officials who came by were tax collectors for the kingdoms on other sides, or guards being posted to and from the shoreline towns stopping in for food. Others escaped family problems to hide in the mountains or were outcasts who made it this far. Even given the stock of the people, it was a good village. The people all worked to make sure the society survived. There was enough animals to corral or hunt, a series of streams and small lakes if one was willing to climb the mountains to the caves and terraces to retrieve it.
It was here that Vincent was born. No doubt dubious circumstance brought his mismatched parents there. He barely remembered their face, but he had heard from the others in town that his father was a guard and his mother was someone he was tasked to protect. The guard knew the blacksmith from a time when she tried to ply her craft in the major cities and she owed him a big favor. He asked her to be Vincent's guardian and keep him safe, try to give him a good life. After accepting she gave him a place to grow and food to eat, but had little time to look after him between her work and the men of the village she would invite to her bed.
Not to say she didn't care for him, she just wasn't the mothering type. It was a small village and everyone knew everyone, so he was never in any serious harm, but the other children would bully him because he had no parents, or his scrawny frame, or his shy nature. Sometimes they would gang up on him when none of the adults were watching. The boys would hit him and throw stones while the girls jeered and insulted him. His mind was like a rock to this abuse however. He truly loved three things that eased the pain then: The blacksmith for what love and support she spared, the small amount of people that treated him well in his world, and the statue he had found as he hid one day.
Any of the people in the village who cared enough to help him were like safe zones for him. He often hid with them and they would lie to the other children as to where he was hiding. They had learned long ago that Vincent never played hide and seek, so if he was hiding it was because someone bad was seeking. Still sometimes the village wasn't a viable option if he wanted to escape a beating so he would run into the surrounding hills. He had a special place there, near the base of the mountains. He had happened upon it one day as he fled the other children and went deeper than he had ever gone before. Carved at the base of a crag was a small shrine. It was in an alcove only a few feet tall and wide. It had what once might have been candle or incense holders, but those had long since faded with the rain.
The figure in the middle, oh that beautiful sight, remained almost entirely unscathed by the passage of time. A women covered in swirling cloth poured from a basket over her head, carved entirely out of stone. The swirling grey had subtle shifts in shades that gave the rock a sense of life. It was old, rudimentary and could have been much better if completed more recently as the cloth seemed like it was meant to be soft, but the technology that made it couldn't accomplish it. The face, however, managed to look immaculate beyond all reason. It's knowing smile and smooth supple features belied the work of a master craftsmen from any corner of the kingdom. Even in the overcast skies and surrounded by all this mud and rock, the face seemed to shine with sunlight.
The women was clearly meant to be of a more motherly age. Might have explained Vincent's obsession with the alter had this not been his one place of solace. Try as they might, the other children and dangers of world never seems to strike here, Every other crag had rocks resulting from tremors or sand built up over centuries, but this single clearing seemed unnaturally peaceful. The mountains seemed to have cleared way to give this place room. A small pool and a lone crag surrounded on all sides by mountains.
The boy was at peace there. All the beatings and disgrace he suffered meant nothing in the face of that smile, that face. Even the blacksmith noticed the boy's demeanor changed for the better after discovering it, although he never told her what "it" could be. She was aware that she wasn't helping the boy grow up, but everyone has baggage and hers didn't leave her available in such a way. Still she was human and felt a sense of gratitude to whatever brought the boy happiness. This continued for almost a year. Vincent would come home covered in bumps and bruises, but with a content smile on his face. That stone altar made everything alright after a long day. He could hardly remember crawling back through the numerous joined mountain bases to get back to the village most days. This continued for about a year, until Vincent was just turning nine.
The day was like any other. He endured the stones thrown at him and stood tall. At least he did, until a sharper rock knocked the side of his head. His vision split as dots danced around his view. One little redheaded girl, unimaginatively named Scarlett, broke from her silent acceptance to rush to his side. She was new in town. Her parents were from a tribe to the far north, the ones that wore the skirts and painted their faces. Apparently, no one told her about the food chain in the village. She was tending to the blood seeping out of his forehead. It matted the boys wild hair to his face as his eyes searched for what was truly up and down.
"Goin' to far fer a game...", Scarlett whispered as she desperately wiped away blood with her clothes only to see more take its place. Her dress hem started to stain red as Vincent's got his bearings. He looked up and saw someone sitting next to him and rolled into a crouch away from her. His glare sent a shiver down her spine with the things kept inside it. When he noticed the blood on her dress, Vincent ran his hand across the wound on his forehead.
"The rock and blood. My blood on you, why?" He sputtered out. His head was still spinning slightly from the potential concussion, so no coherent sentences flowed out. He looked at the other children. They still stood about 5 meters away and were busy laughing at him getting knocked over to notice anything.
"Yer bleeding. You need to get to a doctor 'fore you get an infection." Scarlett said in a mock motherly tone. Her dress had collected mud from her crouching next to him. She looked down to try to get the clumps caught in between threads and upon looking back, Vincent had already begun to walk towards the village gate. She ran up to him and although Scarlett hadn't noticed, Vincent could hear the other children beginning to mutter their suspicion about the new kid. He spun on his heel an looked her dead in her eyes. Green.
"Don't help me. It's not good for you. Stay with them." Good advice was the only gratitude he could offer before he turned and ran towards his sanctuary. A confused expression came across Scarlett's face as the other children caught up with her and sent chasing jeers after the fleeing boy. Vincent ran down the winding road to make sure he wasn't followed and in doing so turned a corner too hard and ran straight into a horse, landing hard on his rear.
"Ah! Blasted little runt!" Heavy metal boots slammed hard as they came down from the horse. Clinking steel walked up to Vincent, who was desperate to get the his fleeting vision back. His head hurt and he wanted to vomit, probably not a good sign. Rough leather in the shape of a hand grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him up. "Oi! Watch where you're walking, brat!"
Vincent might have gotten off with just that had his vision decided to stay gone. Instead it focused on the small tusks and dark green complexion of the man holding him. Scars covered his face and armor giving him a terrifying visage. This coupled with Vincent's likely concussion meant his nausea would not be denied and he emptied his stomach on the expensive looking armor.
"AHH! You LITTLE SHIT!" The orc brigand threw Vincent off the road into the muddy hillside. The orc tried in vain to wipe the vomit away from his armor as his travelling companions buckled over with laughter at his plight. Rage filled the warrior as he charged the child, but Vincent knew these hills better than them and was fast enough to take advantage of that . He scrambled up to the crevice between the first two mountains. The heavy footsteps of the orc grew silent as Vincent pulled past the second crevice.
Valley after valley, mountain after mountain, Vincent was practically flying between the mountain ranges. His legs burned and the need to double over was rising, but he would not allow it until he was safe. Fear of an unholy beating pushed him faster than he had ever gone and in record time the altar came into sight.
The running and the bleeding caught up to him as he collapsed at the altar. Relaxation and pain both came as the familiar air soothed away the possibility of danger. Heaving and coughing, Vincent sat beneath the alcove. After a few minutes, he finally looked up at the familiar stone gaze looking down on him. A smile snuck onto his face as he layed down again to relax. He started to nod off when the awkward angle his neck was in made him roll on his side. That small action probably saved his life as the hardened steel boot swung hard into his side.
Airborne, his vision left him and the concussion finally took him under. He was not conscious to hear the sound of steel on flesh and bone as the orc's rage was sated. Another figure leaned onto the altar, flinching at the especially nasty blows. When the blows stopped sounding with cracks and took a more organic squish, the elf finally walked up to the brigand.
