The Ring Thief - Chapter 1 - Dawn

 Chapter 1 - Dawn

The sound of boiling water and popping fat filled the inside of a small cave as the morning sun rose over the grassy flats of Eotera’s vast plains. Inside one of the many small caves etched into the expansive fields, a red-scaled draconian was assembling a crude morning meal. While he stirred a brothy soup of various meats leftover from his last hunt, the sun’s beams creeped into his home, tearing away the darkness he hid within. Taenith inhaled the earthy aroma spindling above the fire pit. The pot released streams of steam that floated to the top of the cave, where its scent congealed. The smell forced his grumbling stomach into sharp pains, even though he was all but bored of the bland, bitter taste. For years, it had always been the same meals. The fat and meat scraps of dead wolves, rabbits, and deer, stewed together in a greasy grool, had become the opposite of appetizing. But it was an easy price to pay for survival.

After a few more minutes of stirring and added touches of herbs from various local fauna, the soup was finished. Stretching his wings and pouring some of the liquid into a clay bowl, Taenith proceeded to gulp down the mixture. The boiling hot broth relaxed his tongue, releasing the tension in his chest and soothing his sore muscles. As it poured into his stomach, he let out a sigh. When finished, he set the bowl down and headed over to his hay bed. On it was a worn and slightly rusted set of scale armor lying unraveled beside a hastily forged and equally rusted scimitar. Taking a few minutes to don the equipment, he proceeded to make his way to the exit of the cave where he grabbed a few cleaned wolf pelts before leaving. Once outside, he swiped away the stream of smoke lingering from the stew and picked up some sticks and tall grass to cover the entrance as best he could. Looking over the plains, he could see nothing aside from a few grazing deer. With a grin, he swiped his tail through the dirt, erasing his footsteps at the entrance.

He then hefted the furs over his shoulder and set out into the plains. An hour of silent walking went by until he eventually saw the outline of a small town in the distance, where several farm houses and other buildings jutted out of the earth like tiny hills. Once he identified Woodhurst, he quickly found his way to the town’s trade road, an unkempt and cart-sized line of cobblestone, that would eventually lead him to its plaza a few miles away. Intruding on the route, he glanced at a few travelers and merchants pulling massive carts filled to the brim with exotic foods, magical items, and freshly made armor and weapons. He received a few unfriendly glances and raised brows, but he elected to ignore the human travelers.

It took under an hour for him to reach the gates of Woodhurst. Being a town in the Dark Continent – a vast region of untamed and sprawling deserts, grassy plains, and snow-tipped mountains - it was relatively small and quiet. Its greatest attraction was probably its privately owned arena, a circular stone amphitheater that sat on the outskirts of town.

And it wasn’t without its flaws.

As he approached the wooden gates, he recognized two soldiers. They were both shorter men, even by human standards. One was a little over five feet tall, and the other, a few inches taller than that. Once they noticed him approaching, they stepped forward. 

“Hold up,” the taller of the two, a man armored in leather with a steel helmet, said as he held up a gloved hand and stressed the grip on his short sword with the other.

“What’s your business here?” he asked. Beneath the open-face socket of the helmet, Taenith could see the guard’s brows furl. Droplets of sweat fell from his forehead too. From the heat or fear, he wasn't sure. 

“You know who I am, Gilan. I’m here to trade,” Taenith said, taking the furs from over his shoulder and holding them down to the guard, who stepped back from the sudden movement. Being just around six and a half feet tall, the red scaled behemoth easily towered over the much shorter human, who continued to sweat and clench the hilt of his blade as he looked over the goods. Though Taenith had been to the town on multiple occasions, it seemed his alien nature struck fear regardless of any intentions he had.

Exhaling, the guard nodded and stepped to the side. “Outsiders are only allowed till dusk. Make it quick,” Gilan said, averting his eyes before waving Taenith through.  

“Thanks,” Taenith murmured before slinging the furs over his shoulders. It wasn’t long before he came to the central plaza, which was occupied by various tents and booths owned by local business people. It was a relatively crowded morning, so this was one of those rare cases when his alien nature came in handy. Walking by, many humans would gasp and scuttle away in fear. So, it was only a few minutes before he reached his destination, a large, patchy deer-skinned tent with a short line of other hunters waiting to enter. Judging by their leather armor, tan skin, and unkempt faces, they seemed to be natives of the region. Though, most of them were unbothered by his presence. 

It was about ten minutes until he was next in line.

“Some nice furs you got there,” a small wrinkle-faced man sitting on a pillowed chair, spoke. He was stroking a long skinning knife against a stick. A pile of wooden peels gathered before his crossed feet.

Taenith’s thoughts were elsewhere, so he didn’t notice the man was speaking to him until his foggy eyes stared up at him. “Oh,” he said, glancing at the furs. “I guess. They’re no Guivespear,” he said. 

The old man chuckled, revealing a mouthful of empty gums and few dangling teeth. “Well, not many can survive a wolf, let alone ones with swords for fangs and wings that spray acid,” he chuckled.

Taenith smirked, “I suppose,” he said, looking back at the tent entrance. After a few moments, he noticed the old man was still eyeing him.

"Can I help you?" 

"Haven't seen a demihuman in these parts for a while. What's your name? If you don't mind me asking."

Taenith paused. He wasn't used to humans conversing with him by choice. Needless to say, it caught him off guard. "Taenith. Yours?"

“Zoombi’s the name,” he smiled, pursing his eyes together as he sliced another peel of wood from the stick he was shaving. "A pleasure to meet you Taenith,” he said, watching as the draconian’s gaze caught a glimpse of the leather-armored orcish woman in the tent while another hunter left with a sack of gold in his hands. 

“Y’know Groa well?” he asked.

“You could say that,” Taenith said. 

Zoombi raised a brow and chortled, “She’s my grandchild you know. Can’t say I’ve seen you around here before though,” he said. 

“Grandchild?” Taenith asked, raising a brow. He’d known Groa for several months now. But he only came in every few weeks early in the morning. He certainly didn’t expect her to have human relatives. Maybe there was something he was missing. Whatever the case, he didn't care much. Nor could he judge. He was a walking dragon that breathed fire for gods’ sakes. An orc with a human grandfather wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’d ever seen.

 As Taenith thought to himself, he could hear metallic footsteps coming from inside the tent. 

“Dammit Zoombi. What did I say about bothering my customers?” a gruff, feminine voice grumbled. Pushing the tent entrance to the side, the owner of the voice, a tall bulky woman adorned in padded leather armor, approached Taenith and the old man. She wore a head of long black hair that matched her pitch-black eyes, and her gray skin was matted with scales along her arms and legs. The brightest part of her was her teeth, which were sparkling white when she bore them towards Zoombi.

“Just having a chat,” Zoombi smiled. “You young folk never take the time to get to know people nowadays.” 

Taenith shrugged, then faced the grimacing woman in front of him. Though he towered over the elderly man and other humans quite easily, she was nearly head-length to him. However, with her black ringed eyes, and the hissing snakes tattooed on her cheeks, she was quite terrifying, even to him. 

“Well look what Icarus spat out of hell again,” Groa scoffed. She folded her arms and began tapping her forearm with one of her talons. “Where’ve you been so long?” she asked. 

“Good to see you too, Groa,” Taenith said, taking the pelts in his hands and offering them to her. “I think the wolves are starting to move north. This is all I could get,” he said. 

“Five pelts?” she sighed before extending her scarred hands down to the furs. Not a single drop of blood caked the black and white patterns. 

“Not bad, Red. A lot better than what the other guys brought.” she said, running a hand over the backside of the pelts to feel for any cutting mishaps or inconsistencies. “Good work as usual.” 

Taenith blinked and scratched the base of one of his horns a moment. “Thanks,” he said. 

Groa motioned for him to come inside.

“Don’t bother my customers next time, pa,” Groa shot daggers at Zoombi before opening the tent entrance.

“Fine fine,” Zoombi returned to whittling before pausing almost immediately. “But next time I visit I better see you,” he said.

Taenith nodded at the old man before following Groa into her tent. It was larger than most other trade tents in town. It could fit maybe a dozen people, give or take. The ground was padded with an oak platform, and at the center was a small desk decorated in pelts and other small knick knacks. 

“Crazy old man,” Groa muttered to herself while flattening Taenith’s pelts over the desk. She rolled her hands over the soft material one more time. “Tell you what, I’ll give you 20 gold pieces for this,” she said.  

Taenith tilted his head, “Sounds fair to me...Gray,” he said, trying to match her snarky remarks.

Groa raised a brow, unamused. “Get out of my shop, smartass,” she said, reaching down for a bag of gold. She tossed it over to the draconian.

Smirking, Taenith took the bag and placed it into his backpack. “See you soon,” he said.

Groa huffed, “Not likely. The old man and I are ditching town.”

Taenith’s gut sank when he heard those words. He didn’t have much in life. Groa was the closest to a friend he had, even if she didn’t see him that way herself. 

“Why?” he asked.

“Why else?” she pulled out a book and flipped through its pages. Each line was dotted with various numbers, none of which he understood. “Sales have been down ever since the apostles came around. Just last week I had a shipment stolen, not to mention the graffiti,” she said pointing to a new patch of leather in her tent.”

Taenith sighed. “I thought they didn’t care since you were a local.”

Groa laughed, “Tell that to the Kingswatch freaks.” 

Slamming her book on the table, she looked Taenith in the eyes and frowned. 

“If I were you I’d leave here and never come back.”

Taenith’s throat choked. Sure he knew she was a brute who could probably snap him in half, but he’d never seen her so serious before in the past. Her eyes were like a dragon’s, trained and unwavering.

“Where will you go?” he asked.

Groa grabbed Taenith’s furs from the table and set them into a large wooden box she had sitting on the ground behind the counter. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably the southern tribes before catching a ship off the continent,” she said, locking the case before turning back to Taenith.

“I’d recommend the same for you.”

Taenith bit his tongue. “Yeah. Right.” He began to leave. 

“Travel well, Red,” Groa nodded at the draconian as he stepped away. She couldn’t lie. She’d miss the big oaf.

“You as well,” Taenith said before slipping out of view, leaving Groa to her own devices as he made his way back towards the central plaza. His steps felt heavier with each motion as he pondered on their conversation. He arrived in the Dark Continent years ago to escape the reach of Kingswatch. He came so far, through secrecy and hitching rides off caravans, that he didn’t even know where Lune was anymore. But now, once more, his slice of home, of normalcy, was being threatened.

Taenith clenched his jaw as he came into the plaza, where he inevitably garnered a few raised brows and scoffing gestures in the process. Usually, he would simply exit the town, but his tense chest and dry tongue made him dizzy. He then looked once towards the gate where the same guards from before eyed him. But he ignored them. Past the plaza, and among an arrangement of small wooden homes, was a two storied inn. With a low grumble, Taenith followed his thirst until he eventually found his way to the entrance of the large cabin-like building. Looming above the front door was a cracked and dried wooden board painted with the words, “Wyvern’s Breath Inn,” over it. His heart pounded a bit as he approached the entrance. Even from outside, he could hear the chatter of its inhabitants, all of whom he knew would be human. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore Groa’s advice. This was his town, even if its inhabitants disagreed. He rested a hand against the hilt of his scimitar. With a deep breath, he pushed forward. The door creaked as he stepped into the dimly lit establishment. 

Immediately, eyes connected to him like maggots to feces. Many of the customers, angry, confused, or both, looked him up and down for what felt like an eternity before most went back to huddling around their bitter mead and stale bread. The only ones who didn’t pay him any attention were either the unconscious or the few men dressed in full plate mail sitting at a table in the far corner of the building. On their shoulders were various crests of whatever god they served. He couldn't recognize all of them from where he stood, but none seemed to be of Lunas. To his surprise, none of them seemed to notice him yet. Judging by the flicking of cards and shuffling of decks, they were busy with some sort of game. 

Exhaling, he passed a few other tables occupied by drunk humans dressed in cheap linen clothing. He garnered a few more disgruntled grimaces, but none lasted long before their hosts fainted from their booze-ridden states. Once Taenith reached the main oak bar, he took a free spot next to a man whose tongue slunk out of his mouth. It was dripping spit and booze into the cracks of the heavily worn and, worryingly sticky, walnut countertop. Wincing at the sight and its smell, Taenith sat himself down and nodded at the bartender, who was preoccupied with cleaning a used mug with a dirty rag. 

“Water, please,” Taenith asked, setting his claws on the counter. Instead of replying, however, the bartender mumbled something under his breath before turning his back to the bar. Silence permeated between the two for a few moments as Taenith stared into the bartender’s arched and burly back. The draconian’s eyes must have felt like hot coals, because after scratching his shoulder blade, the bartender finally met the draconian. 

“Whatchu want?” he asked, setting a greasy mug down on the back counter. When they locked gazes, Taenith finally gained a good view of his scruffy brown beard and harsh red cheeks. He was an older looking man, at least in his late forties by the looks of him. Balding plagued his dry and cracked scalp, and freckles conquered his sun dried and leathery arms. He almost looked like a dwarf, if he were several feet taller and didn’t have the muscle to make up for his bulging gut.

“Water,” Taenith said once more. A fiery response rested impatiently in his stomach as he gazed into the man’s dark hazel eyes. He knew this was not going to go well, but his itchy tongue thirsted him to continue.

“We don’t serve outsiders here,” the bartender said before turning his attention to a neighboring customer, refilling his drink without hesitation. As he finished filling the new customer’s mug, he noticed the draconian had not left. He narrowed his eyes and bit his fat lip. “You deaf?” he asked.

Without facing the man, Taenith looked forward to the row of half emptied bottles and grit his teeth. “Water,” he said. His yellow eyes flickered like wildfire.

Taenith noticed one of the apostles from the corner had glanced up from his hand of cards to him. His blue eyes were barely visible through the shadows overcast by the sun visor built into the brow of his helm. When their eyes met, the apostle whispered something to his companions. Then, they returned to their game.

A few other customers noticed the tension building at the counter too. A few of the especially zealous yellow toothed consumers picked up their drooling maws long enough to stand shakily with their sun-dried fists clenched. Some even managed to draw weapons – mostly crude knives made of wrapped together pieces of metal. 

 “You best choose your words wisely, boy,” the bartender’s brows furled as he stared into Taenith’s eyes. “You understand?” he asked, revealing a knife from the innards of his brown leather vest.

Without a response, Taenith lifted himself from the seat. Holding back his anger, he turned and began walking out of the ghoulish establishment. A cup of water wasn’t worth any bloodshed.

Then, as Taenith felt the exit’s handle in his hand, the bartender muttered under his breath, “Damn demi.”

Taenith felt the word bounce around in his skull like a rubber ball. The term was slanderous, one thrown about as an insult to any creature not fully human. Its harsh words spread its sickly grip over his veins and pressed down on them like a smelting iron. The same slur was used towards his mother, and all others of his kind. Hearing it again, and from another human no less, intoxicated him with a long buried hate.

“Mongrel,” he returned, clenching his fists. “I would choose your words more wisely.”

Wide-eyed, the bartender cracked his jaw and drew the knife from his vest.

“Whatyou just-” the man began before a sudden surge of flames erupted from Taenith’s draconic maw. Fire bathed over the bartender, expanding and igniting from the alcohol around the counter. His screams filled the inn before he was cooked into a lifeless roast. Then, the flames began licking the wood of the tavern, spreading through its boards and into the walls, snapping the glass windows and fallen glass bottles alike. Busy watching the chaos unfold, Taenith didn’t even notice the armored men from earlier charging towards him. Without warning, an armored fist slammed against his maw. Dazed, he fell backwards while desperately trying to draw his scimitar. Before he could grab for anything, however, a pair of armored hands grabbed his arms, forcing him down. 

“Fucking demi!” The apostle snapped, his voice muffled by the helmet that covered most of his face. At his side was a longsword, which he could only assume was made of an expensive exotic material, as it gave off a slight purple hue. Looking to his shoulder, Taenith gained a better view of his god’s crest. Though his knowledge on deities was limited, the symbol of a dragon clutching a broken arrow suggested to him that it was the demigod, Maras, the patron of pacifism.

Taenith sneered. “Hypocrite,” he said, his maw leaking blood from the punch he had taken. 

The apostle above Taenith chuckled before launching another fist into his bloodied jaw. Taenith laughed and looked into the man’s deep blue eyes. He then spat blood onto his helmet, coating his pantheonic emblems and phrases in a web of running crimson. “There. Now you’re a true apostle,” he chuckled with a mocking sneer.

Taenith’s thoughts slowly drifted into a haze, and he lost count of the blows he received before the apostles finally decided to throw him out of the bar and into the dirt of the streets. Blood from his battered face soaked the ground beneath him. 

“Don’t move. We'll deal with you soon,” the blue-eyed apostle spat before retreating inside the inn to take care of the still spreading flames.

For minutes Taenith lay there, gazing into the blood stained-dirt that caked his battered scales and armor. Even so, he laughed, tears flowing from his bloodshot eyes.  

“He got what was coming,” Taenith mumbled to no one, rolling over to face the sky. Visions of his past flashed before his eyes again before he heard shouting from across the town. A surge of adrenaline shot through his sore chest. If the guards found him, they would have all the excuses in the world to throw him in jail, or worse. It took a moment to orient himself, but Taenith slowly dragged himself off the ground. As he started to leave, however, he noticed a slender man approaching him. Without hesitation Taenith shot his hand for the hilt of his sword and jolted forwards. In a split second, his blade found itself aimed at the throat of the man, who was dressed in light leather armor and a light cloak. His eyes widened as Taenith’s scimitar threatened to puncture his exposed throat.

“Stay back,” the draconian snarled.