Rallahiem (Chapter 1)

[Johnny 6 feet]

Since I got the green light to post a full story here it is. I started this one some 7 years and it's a long, long way from finished. But I hope some feedback will kick my arse enough to get working on this again.

Leave links and I'll return the favour.


Rallahiem- Chapter 1

The day was hot, then again, every damned day was.

Morgan pivoted on the creaky old stool he was perched upon and spat. A wad of amber-coloured gunk zipped across the empty space and landed in the charcoal fire with a satisfying hiss. The drink had been one of 'Aunty' Sullivan's concoctions that promised to leave anything but a nasty taste in the mouth but inevitably fell short. In this case, alertness had been the goal: so far he hadn't been alert to anything but the vile goop still lining his gums.

It was his own damned fault really. Between having to pull extra hours to make ends meet in the sparse, dusthole of a town and Travis running to him every other day with 'urgent news' of some 'salvage that had to be investigated-right-now-no-time-to-lose' a good nights rest was a luxury he could no longer afford.

It wasn't that Euden's Rook (The Rook, as the inhabitants called it) was as desolate or dangerous as some other parts of Marvis county. It was just a place people passed through on their way to somewhere more interesting. It was built a short stroll from the '85 road some hundred years ago. Exactly when was hard to say, keeping accurate historical records hadn't been a human priority for a long time. In any case wanderers had claimed it, renovated it, invited some people to stay and now here they all were, fifty miles east from Brackstone, eighty miles south of Hamilton, and scraping a living in the dirt.

The residents, at least, were a colourful bunch. There was the eccentric Mabel Sullivan; the closest thing the Rook had to a doctor, one who invariably treated everyone like rambunctious children regardless of their age, gender or species. Rothwell, the owner of the town's only bar, who spent half his days cursing and sweating in his basement brewery and the other half drinking away his profits. The town's few laws were enforced by the portly Sheriff Carter and his small team of officers, most of whom were either too old or too young to go prospecting, or simply hadn't the heart to take the risk. But while Carter was the law in The Rook, it's true leader was Yosef Logan.

He was the big farmer whose family had claimed the dozen or acres of semi-fertile land that lay nestled in the shadow of the mountain-like rise past the northwest quarter of the settlement some four generations ago. There wasn't a man, woman or child who lived in The Rook who hadn't bent their backs picking beans and corn for their supper there at one time or another. Yosef himself was largely regarded as a kind of father figure: admittedly a somewhat grumpy and tight-fisted one, but kind-hearted enough to those who were prepared to put in a hard day's work. His son however...

Morgan shook his head in negation. Now wasn't the time for idly hostile musings when he had a commission to finish. He sighed, and returned his attention to the old rifle on the bench.

................


It was past midday when Morgan stepped out into the fierce sunshine of Marvis County. For a moment he stood, blinking owlishly as his pupils adjusted to the light, drinking in the hustle of 85 street as he had a thousand times before.

The body of the noise were the familiar calls of salvage sellers and food purveyors voicing the quality of their wares to the trudging locals and the handful of travellers who'd elected to make the right turn off the old road and seek the comforts of the town. Morgan grimaced in sympathy as he saw a young man with little but the clothes on his boney back approach the hissing iron cart that was Sadin's grill. He ordered something which the owner was undoubtedly swearing to the naive nomad was mutton but was almost certainly wumpi. The latter was more plentiful (provided one had a good rifle and the guts to hunt for them) , and with enough onions it was hard to tell the difference. As the traveller stabbed his fork into the bowl the techsmith decided it was time to make his delivery.

It was a short stretch up Langley avenue to old man Morris' home. Like most of the housing in the Rook it was a mishmash of old bricks and new mortar. The gaps in the walls there were and a large section of the original roof had been covered by rusting sheet metal and stones gathered from wherever they could be found. Morgan had heard of a disused quarry somewhere to the south-west of the settlement (another one of Travis' oh-so-interesting tidbits courtesy of his treasure hunting obsession) but had never been moved to investigate it. The Rook wasn't desperate for building materials in any case: the town wasn't exactly booming.

The door creaked open before he'd even raised a hand to knock, revealing a grey bearded face which had spent the last sixty years being baked by the unforgiving sun. Morgan wasn't surprised; the old man spent half his time people watching from his window. He'd probably spotted the craftsman as soon as he'd turned into the street.

"Got m' rifle boy?"

"Aye sir, cleaned, re-cased and ready to shoot."

"Glad to hear it. Come in and rest your bones a while lad. I could use the distraction."

Morgan shrugged and did as he was bid, mentally bracing himself for the bitter tea he knew the gnarled man would offer him.

"Business been slow lately?"

It was a statement, not a question. Morgan didn't bother to reply as he entered Morris' accommodations. The familiar squeaks and musty smells greeted him as he was directed to an armchair that had seen better days. He sat as the old man busied himself by the stove.

"Always were a quiet one." He tutted. "Like the chair? Got it from a family headed to Brackstone a week ago. Their horse had keeled over 'fore they were halfway off the road from the weight of their personals. Traded the poor buggers for a string of guinea pig. Sad to say I went soft at the sight of the girl they had with 'em. Thirteen if she was a day, all skin and bone she was..."

The good thing about spending time with Morris, Morgan reflected, was that a visitor rarely felt the need to make tedious polite conversation with the old trapper, as he was up to the task of providing enough for both parties. The old man kept a lot of company to fill the silences in any case, even for a guest of Morgan's reserved character. The man was good at his job if nothing else.

The techsmith nodded and grunted in all the correct places at Morris' monologue, idly observing the furry residents engaging in a veritable life-cycle of activities, before a steaming mug was pressed into his hand.

"Heard the news round town?"

"I've been in the shop all morning."

"You need to keep your ear to the ground more often. Nary an opportunity was ever realised without discovery."

Morgan shrugged and sipped his tea. It was bitter, bracken but mercifully free of critter droppings.

"If it weren't for Old Morris and that young lad, what's-his-name, you would've never heard about that D'Vari tribe that nearly crossed our settlement."

"They were twenty miles away at the closest." Morgan muttered, doing nothing to stop his host's ramblings.

"...and there was that business with Logan's boy and that out-of-town trader's hides."

"Nothing got proven. No-one went to the box over it." No surprises there. The big farmer in town wasn't going to allow his progeny sit in a sun baked oven for the sake of a couple of leather coats.

"Well, someone's headed to worse than the box over this, I promise you. We've got bounty hunters in town lad, they arrived last night."

"Why here?" Morgan replied, his voice thick with incredulity. "There's been no body-snatchers* around for months."

"There's the nectar-heads camped out in the petrified wood."

"No-one pays bounty hunters to track down junkie scum. Even Carter's boys could handle an invasion from those."

The tech was speaking truthfully, but the fact was that the 'nectar-heads' were a persistent problem in Marvis county and far beyond. It was unsurprising, given the relative availability of the drug. 'Nectar' was just that, specifically a type found in the blossoms of a short, orange-flowered plant which sprung up in wooded areas even in the heat of the central band. It's users found euphoria and hallucinations in the early stages of their addiction, madness and feral-like rage in the latter. What was left at the end of that downward spiral could found roaming in snarling packs, on the hunt for unwary travellers to do nightmarish things to.

"Well, they're here for something. By my reckoning they're either looking for someone in town or looking for someone to point them in right direction."

"As long as they're directed far away from me." Morgan grunted. "Untrustworthy, morally bankrupt, egotistical fuckheads, the lot of them."

"Odd words for a lad who does his best business with those fuckheads." Morris' wheezy chuckle sent a ripple of squeaky chatter through the other occupants of the room. As if it were a signal, the techsmith found his feet. He drained his cup with a grimace and tipped a hand to the old man.

"I should be getting back."

"Aye. To your hole. Here." Morris picked up a cage and pushed it into the younger man's hands, who peered doubtfully at the pair of animals inside.

"These are old rabbits."

"This is an old rifle." Morris' reply was curt, although were was a gleam in his eye. "They'll feed you well enough boy, I wouldn't cheat you."

"Just skimp me from time to time."

"Just so. Now off with you, and remember what I said about opportunities."

"I'll think about it." Morgan muttered, as much to shut the old man up as anything else. He shut the door behind him with a clunk which brought a distressed bark and the gentle pitter-patter of half of his payment losing it's tenuous grip on it's bladder. The young man gave it a sympathetic look.

"Believe me, I know exactly how you feel."



*- Marvis county's term for slavers.

[Pharaohs Army]

Morgan grimaced in sympathy as he saw a young man with little but the clothes on his boney back approach the hissing iron cart was that Sadin's grill to order something which the owner was undoubtedly swearing to the naive nomad was mutton but was almost certainly wumpi.

This is a little clunky.
Break it into two sentences.
Also change "was that" to "that was"

Like most of the housing in the Rook it was a mishmash of old bricks and new mortar, what gaps in the walls there were and a large section of the original roof had been covered by rusting sheet metal and stones gathered from wherever they could be found.

Same with this. Try a period after the word mortar instead of a comma. Or say
...mortar. A large section of the original roof and also the gaps in the walls had been covered...

Will return later to feed the content. It's interesting. Good world-building so far.

You should sign into the AOWL.

here's my (&Zygote's) rap, drop a comment
http://www.netcees.org/showthread.php?t=143812

[Johnny 6 feet]

Cheers. This was copy pasted off another site and not yet proof read. I'll be cleaning this up as I go along. Looking forward to your feedback on the story man.

Dropped feed on the audio link.