The Fool and His Keeper (The Chonicles or Matt and Morn)[updated: Oct 23]

[Swaeft]

Kilo11, I like it, and will definitely read on when time permits. But what basically gave me the 'Matt is surprised' vibe was you saying he was wondering what he should be doing, despite doing the same thing for 3 months, during which I assume Morn has already shown his patterns? Which I found slightly odd, but not a big problem at all, and now that you mention irritation instead of surprise I think it's more of the former.

[Kilo11]

Ah, I see what you're saying now. I was looking more at the dialogue bit, and the wonderment comes in the beginning. I will again look at it, just to see if there is maybe something worth adding/changing. At any rate, although the three shorts at the beginning are fun, I think I am sort of treating them as "test runs" in my mind now, as I am more interested in seeing how the longer tale develops, and whether it can become something of value.

[Kilo11]

Hello story lovers! In an attempt to get progress here (and try to be able to enter the MCWC XX) I thought I would get another update together, and will hopefully have another sometime during the coming week. It will depend on whether I make real progress in my real work, but I'm hopeful (to be fair, I'm always hopeful, and it is often unfounded hope; what are you gonna do ). And Caillagh, you might like this one, as it's another one where someone Matt manages to not talk. I hadn't planned that, but sometimes things just turn out that way I guess. Anyway, here is the next update for our Chronicles, and the final one for Chapter 1.

[Kilo11]

Continued from Chapter 1 - Part V

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Chapter 1
A Cold Wind Blows


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(Part VI)

In a proper story Matt would stride out of the bandit camp with head held high, smoke rising behind him, and Morn's bloody grin gripped tightly in his redded right hand. There would be justice and resolution and possibly snacks in the adjoining room. And if things took a bit longer than expected, there might even be an intermission, though I wouldn't always count on that. In a proper story our heroes would learn a lesson, and be the wiser for it, and the lesson would prove of utmost vitality at the end of their journey. In a proper story there might even be a nice girl, a stripling lass tied up in some back corner of the camp, her hair the color of spun gold or deepest night. We'd think her a victim at first, but she'd show us that a girl can kick too, giving Matt pause in some of his more, shall we say, curious thoughts. These are the things that would happen in a proper story.

But this is not a proper story.

Out of breath, Matt stumbles past the low stockade of sharpened stakes, leaning off of his wounded leg as much as possible. From the camp behind can be heard stifled moans and whimpers, the tones of large men trying not to sound small, and failing. But over these softer notes there is another sound threatening to drown out all else. Spread-eagled in the mud is an ancient bandit with more years than hairs on his head, and he is spewing profanities and curses at our heroes' backs. He tries to raise himself to his feet, but slips and falls, again, his cane a handful of paces away where Morn had spitefully cast it. Matt continues in his crab-walked hobble, Morn unceremoniously draped over one shoulder, the old man screaming at their retreating forms. As the two finally reach the clearing's edge the antique warrior throws one final insult and Morn answers with a quick nail-file chuckle.

Under the forest, Matt at first walks haltingly, a dozen ragged steps forward followed by a short rest. His leg does not seem as bad as he had previously thought, and the movement seems to be doing him some good, but still his gait is stilted and unusually taxing. He tries his best to ignore it, pressing forward with self-deceptive determination, and manages to move for perhaps half an hour, regaining the edges of the swamp where he had been taken the day before. Once there Matt stops, heavily dropping himself onto a rotting log.

"Ach, is the wee lad done alreedy?" Morn taunts. "Why, by yer heevin' you'd think it was yoo doin' the fightin' back thar."

Matt ignores him, rubbing his leg and feeling for the source of his pain. He moves his fingers methodically, breathing deeply all the while. After a few moments of silence he lets out a sigh, confident that things are not as bad as he initially feared, and as if to embolden this thought the birds begin slowly to return to their songs and covert trysts in the canopy above. However, the moment of tranquility is short-lived.

"Ach, 'tweet, tweet' to someone else!" Morn snaps. "A've had enough of these burdies and their daft songs. And yoo, boy, won't yoo git yerself to yer feet so's we can start movin' again?"

Matt remains silent, his breathing slow and precise.

"Weel, what's keepin' ye?"

Without a word or wince Matt raises himself from the log, and begins slowly to walk south, skirting the edge of the swamp.

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It takes the better part of that day, but eventually Matt manages to cross the marshlands, his leg becoming more stable with each league. By early evening he is walking through the rocky hillocks that separate the swamps from the low wooded country that falls to the sea, and as the sun begins to slowly descend he gains the final ridgeline, beyond which his village would be spread out below. But as Matt peers out he sees no cooking fires or thatched roofs, and the flocks of sheep and goats are nowhere to be found. In fact, he can see almost nothing, for there hangs a heavy and ominous haze in the air. Knowledge finally damning hope, Matt squints and is able to recognize the outlines and forms of the scattered farms, but they are outlines only, skeletal remains of what was once his home. The fires have all died away, but lazy coils of smoke still rise from the smoldering ruins.

[Kilo11]

Hey folks! It's been ages since I posted an update here, and to be entirely honest, I had half-forgotten it. So many thanks to Turkafinwe who nominated it in the Writers' Study Yearly Awards, thus reminding me of its existence

Long story short, I had a lot of fun when I first started this story, and I want to keep it up, so here is a new update, continuing on with the story that I left off just above. I hope you all like it!

[Kilo11]

Continued from Chapter 1 - Part VI

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Chapter 2
Missing Persons


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(Part I)

Matt threads his way down the hillocky ridge, forcing himself to move slowly. The pain in his leg has subsided to a dull throb on the edge of consciousness, but he knows that a slip could still harm him. He sets his feet carefully, one before the other, moving ever closer to the smoking wreck that was once his home.

As he shuffles forward Matt notices just how quiet the place is. The devastation before him is clearly fresh, but he hears no sobs or moans, nor any of the wailing hubbub that one would typically expect from a sacked village. There is not a voice to be heard anywhere amongst the broken homes or in the rocky fields. Uncertain of what that might mean, Matt turns his head slightly to speak over his shoulder.

"Morn," he says tentatively, "I can't see or hear anyone. Are they all... dead?"

Morn is silent at first, a silence filled with the hollow sounds of averted glances and furrowed brows. Finally he answers, his words quiet and softer than usual. "A'm no' sure, but A don' think soo." he says. "A cannae see any livin' thing here, but there's no' trace of death neither. A think they've gone."

Matt does not respond, but his shoulders relax ever so slightly on hearing the news. Without speaking he then continues in his survey of the village, and forty-five minutes later he sits against the large border stone outside the last farm, laying Morn on the grass beside him. He had found nothing and no one, but he had also found no traces of proper violence either. The buildings had all been ransacked and then put to flame, but there was not a single corpse anywhere, nor any blood to be found.

Matt breathes deeply, wondering what to do next, and while he considers the options he notices a small grunt at the back of his mind, a sound like the memory of a rock falling on packed dirt. "What is it, Morn?" Matt asks, his face wrinkled in puzzlement.

"Hummm..."

"What is it?" Matt asks again, a shade of hope in his voice.

The sword is quiet, but its edges slowly pulsate with a deep reddish glow, the color of old blood. Then, suddenly, Morn flashes with the gold of summer sunshine. "A found somethin'." he says simply, the words echoing in Matt's mind.

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"Do you hear that? There's something under the trees, following us!" The man is speaking quietly but with barely contained hysteria, and there is a sense that at any moment he might literally leap out of his boots and bolt away.

"Gand, would you calm that fool down." Captain Tanis coolly responds, adding in low tones, "I don't know why we even brought this sorry lot with us." Though he did know why they were there with them. The southern pirate turned Bandit Captain had his own small troupe of merry plunderers -- Gand the Cutter, Kish, who hated the sight of blood but could kill with the best of them, and Molg, who for decency's sake will not be described further -- but their current task was more than pillaging or hunting bounties. They had been hired for something special, and for good or ill the task at hand demanded a number of additional hands, even foolish ones.

As Gand moves toward the man who had spoken Tanis calls after him. "Gently, Gand." he says simply. Gand looks back with a mournful expression pasted to his brow, but he complies, giving the coward mercenary nothing more than a sharp cuff across the back of his head. The party then begins moving again.

There are over a hundred of them all together. Tanis' cadre of hired killers form the backbone of the column, and mixed amongst them are two score vagabonds and highwaymen who would club their own grandmothers for a half-copper. And trailing at the end of that vulgar train are the people of Matt's home, their faces turned down toward the dirt, their faces smeared with soot and tears. They have been walking for a day and a half now, and are far to the east, on the brink of the Blackwood, a sprawling forest of oaks older than kingdoms. Under normal circumstances Tanis would tarry in the Blackwood, taking tolls from the merchants who traveled under its dark canopy, but they were told to make haste, to move on to Redhall as quickly as they could. And so they press on steadily, taking comfort in their numbers yet doing their best not to look over their shoulders.

A half hour after Tanis' party has passed a shape detaches from a darker patch of gloom, stepping silently into the road. The figure, a small thing, bends down and sniffs the dirt purposefully. It then stands again, looking forward and back along the forest trail. After a moment more it begins moving east swiftly, heading in the direction of Redhall and the Kerkyran Sea.

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Continue to Chapter 2 - Part II

[Alwyn]

A revival of The Fool and His Keeper is a treat! I'm wondering what Morn discovered, what is making the bandits nervous and who the small figure is.