Rainve (fantasy)

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It's a story I wrote for my first creative writing class, about a year ago; I'm finally taking CWII and I want to see where I can improve on my technique. Also, we have to start a novel this semester, and I may choose this as my jumping off point. Warning: Kinda long.

~~~~

‘It has been some time since I wrote you last, Mikele, and many things have happened here that I think should be brought to your attention. When you left there was still much unresolved turmoil between those of the day and those of the night; that hasn’t changed. We didn’t discover the source of it until a fortnight later, but it turns out that a young demon woman, Rikala, has captured the heart of the human king, and her people are furious at the thought of such a union. Apparently she is some vampiric noble...Mikele, we are at a loss for what to do....’
Mikele gently folded the yellowed paper back into thirds and touched the edge to the candle's flame. There was no need to keep it in these times of spies and consorts—besides, he had the names committed to memory. Rikala. Lord Davi, the human king. And of course, dear sweet Tenvu, who had enough to worry about without an impending vampire insurrection.
"Damn," He informed the darkened room, "It's a twisted Helen of Troy."
He left his chair and wandered over to the tall bookcase, idlely hoping that an answer would somehow manifest itself in the shadowed book covers. He thought, not for the first time, that his study needed more light and decided to take his ponderings into another room.
The trees in the courtyard glittered slightly in the deepening twilight, and Mikele felt the oncoming repulsion that nighttime still did not fail to bring. It had been some time since he had been home, and he could yet recall the hell that darkness meant, in Rhafstayne, at least. He smiled at the setting sun and thanked his god, once more, for bringing him home. Like a wandering dragonfly, his thoughts turned again to Tenvu, and the letter that had arrived by messenger—a very odd messenger, but he did not expect any less from his old friend—earlier that day. It meant bad things, bad things for him, for Tenvu, for every person caught up in the firestorm to come. It meant a journey.

~~

The valleys that lay at the base of the mountain were flush with springtime blooms and newly birthed lambs, gently thriving in the unseasonable warmth. The elders read the mysteries of the yakka plant, shook their boxes filled with dragon bones and promised more of the same. This meant that the harvest could be started early, the newly tilled fields already heady with the thought of waving stalks of corn and wheat. High above them arched the summit of Mount Graido, a free portico of stone that hung in the air without any nod to the laws of gravity and nature. Town legend said that the summit—nicknamed The Bastard—had once stretched through the sky like a rainbow, ending right in the middle of the town square. There was a large, free-formed piece of granite that sat where a subtly ornate fountain might be normally, giving credence to the idea. Mount Graido was not a particularly impressive mountain at first glance, since the very top of it was visible on all but the most overcast or foggy of days, but it was still a daunting task for the small horde of travelers that had to pass over it every season, seeking the greener lands of Poutro beyond. The springtime thaw had not reached the top of Graido, which still glistened with the sheen of heavy wet snow.

Nestled in the hubbub of the town’s center sat The Bastard’s Hole, the only tavern in town that offered malt beverages which were not mostly water or laced with some debilitating drug. The tavern keeper, known locally as the Tavern Keeper, was picky enough about his clientele to have garnered a favourable reputation with the majority of those that passed through on their way to someplace else, which gave him an advantage during the small window of seasonal rushes. It didn’t hurt him that he knew the words ‘clientele’ and ‘bathtub.’

News of the warmer weather had not spread to either the larger cities sprawled out in the western plains or the notoriously crotchety mountaintop, preserving the transformed Graidona as a close-knit farming community. This meant The Hole was usually quiet; it’s only regular patrons were the few locals that fulfilled the godly trifecta of a willingness to drink, the gold to spare, and some pickiness about their surroundings.

It was still early in the afternoon, the sun coasting gracefully from it’s apex into the belly of the western sky. The streets were heavy with the memory of trodden feet, the few squat buildings glimmering with the ghosts of bodies and noise; however the actual population was close to ghost-town proportions since the bulk of the permanent township resided in the outskirts, in close proximity to their working fields. Keeper both enjoyed and despised days such as this, when the rustling March winds were hard pressed to find the smallest scrap of paper to dance with. No bodies meant no drinkers (even the hardest, laziest drunk waited until nightfall to come creeping around his door) but it also meant silence, which would be a rarity once summer truly hit.

He had cleaned and scrubbed until even the wooden tables showed his reflection, placed every bottle and cask into the most perfect order, had even tastefully arranged small bunches of flowers here and there, a touch of colour that hadn’t been present in the Hole since his wife’s passing two summers before. He sat now, sighing, with the door propped open to allow in some light and air. The common room was filled with the fresh clean smell of earth. Keeper was happy. Keeper was lonely.

Given the setup, the arrival of a mysterious stranger should have been heralded by an ominous cloaked shadow in the doorway; unseen cellos swelling to a crescendo as the prostrate bartender slowly lifted his head in fear and surprise. Unfortunately the Hole’s door faced eastward away from the setting sun, and Keeper had fired his evening entertainment for being a ravening twit, so nothing so picturesque occurred. Mikele had to announce himself to the daydreaming man with a firm poke in the arm.

Keeper’s next real memory was an extreme close-up of a face, peering down at him carefully. It was a tangibly gentle face, a man’s, lined carefully with years of hard work rather than hard living. His hair was shot with grey confirming his status as middle-aged, but his face was shaven smooth, something that would have horrified every older man in Graidona where facial hair was a sign of influence. His eyebrows were knit together, and Keeper wondered what was causing the poor man such concentrated concern—until he realized that he was sprawled upon the ground, his head urgently pounding. He laughed hoarsely and tried to raise himself up on his elbows, causing the stranger to straighten up and smile.

“I was worried that I would have to find some help.” The stranger’s voice was surprisingly deep, though Keeper realized that his stature was matching—a tall man with a gentle visage. “I didn’t relish the thought of trying to explain that I wanted help for a man that I surprised into unconsciousness.”

“Not to mention that you wouldn’t be able to find a living soul at this time of year,” Keeper laughed and stood up, using the table for leverage, with his hand pressed gently against the throbbing in his temple “We don’t start getting visitors here until next month. What on earth did I do, smack my head with a pot?”

“The table top, actually.” The other man tucked his hand under Keeper’s elbow and led him over to the long bench that bordered the fireplace. “I’m afraid that I caught you napping.”

Keeper carefully rested his head in his cupped hands, testing the sore spot gingerly. He’d be lucky to escape with a bruise, he ruminated, shutting his right eye against the stab of pain that shot through him at even the gentlest of prodding. He paused and tried it again. Ow.

“Stop poking yourself.” Keeper glanced up to see the other man shuffling around behind the bar. His hands moved quickly, unseen behind the counter, searching here and there, before reappearing with a triumphant flourish and a tattered white cloth. He grinned to himself and glanced up to find Keeper still peering at him myopically, one hand poised guiltily over his right temple. “I said stop it. You’re going to have a lovely enough mark on that white expanse of a forehead even without further irritation.” Keeper unconsciously reached up to pat the few remaining strands of hair that had yet to leave him and then folded his hands together primly. He left his eye closed, feeling a bit martyred.

The taller man was now wetting the fabric with something from a small container that he had dug from his pack before handing it to Keeper. “It’s a mild analgesic. Topical.” He sighed at the expression on the barkeep’s face. “It’ll take some of the pain and swelling away, but you’ve got to rub it onto the wound. It also smells a bit, so I wouldn’t go a-wooing for a few hours at least. I am, by the way, Mikele.”

“I haven’t even thought the term ‘a-wooing’ in more years than I care to remember.” Keeper gingerly accepted the outstretched cloth and dabbed at his forehead. “You’ll have to excuse me if I can’t honestly say that it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Mikele smiled wryly.

They ruminated in silence for a long stretch of minutes, Keeper concentrating on his wound and Mikele weaving in and out of the set up tables, running his fingers along the inscrutable patterns the wood made. It was Keeper that broke first, bringing a hidden smile to Mikele’s face.

“So… sir.” He paused, waiting for the pacing man to make his way back towards the fireplace. “I don’t help but wonder what brings you to Graidona. We won’t start getting visitors for a solid month, at the outside, and I can’t imagine that there’s anything of interest to be found here at the moment.” Keeper glanced shrewdly at the other man, who was now studiously digging through his overstuffed pack. “Though I don’t suppose it’s any of my business. Sir.”

“I don’t suppose that it is.” Mikele’s voice was unnaturally loud, though he kept his back to the barkeep. “But I don’t intend to make enemies and I find my own company to be dreadfully dull at times.” He turned his head when he said this, the long rope of his contained hair swinging with the force of his gesture. “You can stop worrying that cloth, I imagine that it’s done all it can do for you. I’m making my way to Poutro, and this is supposed to be the accepted way to get there.”

Keeper arrested his rise from the bench, staring at Mikele with his mouth quite agape. “Over Mount Graido? I don’t know if you took a peek at it on your way into town but it’s still quite asleep for the winter. Pushka—one of the elders you know, one of the town leaders—said the going’s even worse with the weather like it is, all the snow’s liable to tumble at a moment.”

“Pushka? Tall man, big nose?” Keeper affirmed this. “Well, he would certainly know. Regardless, over I go. Look, as much as I appreciate your horrified gasps there are just some things that cannot be avoided. There are things that need to be done and no time in which to do them. I can’t wait a month…” Mikele clenched his fist unconsciously, his eyes turned momentarily inwards, two scarlet roses of passion blooming on his cheeks. A sudden movement caught his eye and he flicked his eyes upwards to see Keeper backing away slightly, an odd fearful look on his face. Mikele relaxed and forced a small laugh. “It’s to be done. For the here and now I need a stiff drink for courage and possibly a room for rest and it appears that I’m in just the right place for such things. Come, Keeper—I will sample your ale and repay your injury with a story, if you wish.”

Keeper busied himself behind the counter, choosing glasses, preparing drinks, engaging in the myriad clinking of glasses and sloshing of liquid that characterized every bartender at his craft; this gave Mikele enough time to encase himself comfortably at one of the largest tables and shuffle through his overstuffed pack. He glanced up as a drink was set in front of him, with the bulk of Keeper following behind.

“Relax barkeep, for my tale is long and rarely told. Your little town is well-traveled through proxy I understand, but I am willing to wager that my tale is set in a place that you know nothing about.”

Keeper laughed in good-humour. “That would be a bet that I wouldn’t take. I have met travelers from the far recesses of the Misharb desert; I have met wanderers from the frozen tundras of Gush… I even met a man, once, who was raised in the far southern mountains by a pack of wolves.”

Mikele raised his eyebrows, his dark eyes glinting. “Impressive. Certainly impressive, especially coming from a man who has never left the town where he was born. Regardless, I have a story from a town that none of your travelers have visited, a town that exists mostly in legend. I will tell you a story of Rhafstayne.”

“Rhafstayne?!” Keeper’s voice dropped to a hush, widening his eyes to show the whites; Mikele thought he even detected a certain trembling in the older man’s hands. “Do the vampires really exist? Is there really a war going on there? By the gods…”

Mikele tsked. “You have no patience, do you? Yes, the vampires do exist. The story I’m about to tell—if you allow me the chance—will explain the beginnings of the current situation in Rhafstayne—which is technically two cities that share natural boundaries, the city of Rhaf and the city of Stayne. And there is no war, yet. Now hush while I talk.”

“This was before the time that many of the children there know, almost 16 years ago. Back then the humans of Stayne and the vampires of Rhaf had no reason to disagree, and relations were as smooth as could be expected. The two groups knew virtually nothing about each other—humans were creatures of the day while vampires were creatures of the night, and while it was known that the vampires had some strange practices, they never practiced them in sight of the humans. Of course it’s possible that the vampires felt the same about their day-dwelling neighbors, but no one ever ventured into their city to find out. There was no reason to worry, though; the vampires did not feed on the grains from the land and the cooked meat of the domesticated animals, but they raised their own cattle. Who cared that the cow was not technically cooked—or dead—before it was made the evening entrée? They did not feed on anything that offended us, so it was alright. Something would change.

It always starts with the heart. It’s a part that you cannot control, an emotional center that guides us, that leads us. Sometimes you can give your heart to one before realizing that it truly belongs to another. What can be done? This is the essence of my tale.

Legend says that they first met in the fields, a carpet of green grass and blue posies the separated Rhaf from Stayne. Her name was Merella, a beautiful human woman who had already seen her time of sweetness and romance. She was married with a small daughter who would inherit her auburn hair and impetuous ways. Her husband adored her—she cared for him in return. But something made her wander the fields at dusk, eager to capture the bloom of youth that made every living thing sparkle with intensity and purpose.

His name was Shiell, a minor vampiric noble whose lands bordered the vast expanse of the neutral zone. Why he was wandering around that evening is still and always will be unknown—the vampires were always so close-lipped as to why. They had no problems with when or where and couldn’t really be accused of keeping secrets, not really—but they never said why. Regardless, he was out there that evening, his meandering path inevitably leading him into Merella’s. There is no question that they met that quiet evening. There is no question that she loved him from the start.

I’ll admit that he was a fine enough figure to capture any woman’s attention, tall and regal with that sort of bony, swoopy face that attracts the feminine eye. Oh yes, I’ve seen him—understand that I tell this from personal memory, not as some oral tale designed to keep tradition alive. I was there that evening when Merella came flying through the city streets, her face flushed with excitement, her hair streaming behind in flashes of golden red. She left her family right then, no hesitation; she cried little pointless tears over her small child, divorced her husband, packed her things and prepared to go. She made it as far as her parent’s house and then stayed the rest of the night there. No one could change her mind, and she remained resolute about something for the first time in her life—she was in love, her heart sparking with life for the first time in her memory. He had whispered similar words to her, words she repeated in breathless, excited gasps—he had said that she was the one he had been searching for. That his love had lead him to her. That their hearts belonged together. He told her that he would collect her the next evening and they would be wed immediately, as there was no reason to wait.

He stuck to his word, at least, striding through town the next evening at sunset to claim his love. The stares that met him were either curious or hostile, and he received one from every townsperson, the streets lined with warm bodies. I still wonder if he was tempted, if the warmth of our blood called to him, if he felt the primal stirrings of his ancestors—the vampires that had fed on humans, ruled them. He gave no indication of this as he was striding confidently up to his lover’s door, his cloak billowing behind him, his fine white hair streaming in the evening breeze. The ceremony, he announced, would be that evening, a private event that was only meant for the eyes of his brethren. He would return her to the town for one evening—the following one—for any celebrations or packing that needed to be done. None of her family felt much like celebrating the event, but they agreed in case that was the last time they would see her. She waved goodbye to her friends and her loved ones as she walked up the main road, her body radiating excitement and her eyes flashing with life. If she felt any guilt or had any second thoughts then she didn’t show it in her actions.”

Mikele paused, cupping his glass protectively. The light outside was rapidly fading into dusk and he shuddered, his mind replaying the events over and over. He would have stayed lost in his reverie if he hadn’t felt a light squeeze on his shoulder and detected a movement out of the corner of his eye. Keeper’s hand came into view setting a filled glass in front of Mikele, and received a small smile in return. Mikele had to glance up in order to take a sip and was surprised to see that he wasn’t sitting alone anymore; across from him was one burly man eyeing him intently, his mouth hanging open slightly. Beside him was another man who was slightly smaller but no less intent on Mikele. Keeper seated himself next to this man and smiled apologetically.

“I start getting some of the locals in once evening really hits. The farmers won’t start comin’ for another half hour, but this is Jurk our blacksmith” the larger man nodded once “and Jick our grain manager. They’re brothers so don’t bother asking about the names. If you’re uncomfortable with an audience…”

“Not at all.” Said Mikele, smiling at the new arrivals. “I rather fancy one, actually. The next bit is one… that I prefer not to think about too much. Some extra bodies will help with that. Everybody comfortable?” The three men nodded eagerly, leaning into Mikele’s words. “Good. I’m almost done…”

“The mood in the town was one of tense anticipation all through the next day. Many of them felt poorly for Merella’s husband, who had reacted rather poorly and ultimately took ill. How would he feel to see his freshly ex-wife prancing through town, flushed with excitement over her newly acquired husband? Many people, bless their curiousity were more interested in what bits of news that she could bring back, what she could tell them about the city of darkness. The crowds started gathering early, and by the time the sun was setting it was almost impossible to tell where each man, woman, and child ended and the next one began.

Her figure appeared at the edge of the horizon, a speck of movement that grew very slowly. The crowd was hushed, the merest whisper met with quick movement and the silence. Her figure shimmered and caught the last traces of the dying sunlight, casting her front in the darkest of shadows. She seemed to be moving rather slowly, which was put down to dramatic affect.

It wasn’t until she was in a few feet that anyone noticed what was wrong. She was dressed in the sheerest of lavender silks, her hair arranged in a mass of curls on perched on the top of her head, and should have been flush with pride and beauty. But her face was pale, her entire body a waxy texture, and there was no sparkle to any part of her; She moved slowly, languidly, as if she was working purely on the memory of what movement was supposed to be. It would have been better to see her horror-stricken, to see her raped or mauled—what we saw was a beautiful dead body that still moved. She paused in the middle of the crowd… and then she spoke.”

Mikele’s face had taken on a pale hue of it’s own. The small crown that had gathered was completely silent, hearty farmers gasping and clutching their hearts. The silence went on for a bit before one of the men who stood at Mikele’s shoulder finally spoke.

“What did she say?”

Mikele started and glanced up. “Her voice was dark and dead. She said that he had stolen her heart.”

The crowd glanced at one another, confused.

“Well…” said Keeper “That seems a rather normal thing to say. They already knew that she was in love with him, didn’t they? It’s a rather common term of endearment.”

“Normally.” Mikele’s voice had dropped to a whisper, forcing everyone to lean in. “But I’m afraid that she meant it rather literally.”

The horror took a minute to dawn. It started with occasional murmurs of “My God” from here and there, and grew to cover each man’s soul. Strong country men who had never feared even the howling of wolves found themselves huddling against their neighbor. It was too much to be borne.

Mikele shook his head once, clearing it of the spider strands of memory before he could speak again. “The crowd ended up killing her, ridding themselves of the undead monster that she had become. Her ‘husband’ took it as a sign of war, declaring that the vile humans had taken something precious from him. He saw nothing wrong with the being he had created, and felt no need to explain why such a thing would be done. It was… the beginning.”

~~

The crowd dispersed soon after this, as Mikele refused to answer any questions or explain any more. Soon only Keeper was left at the round table, staring at the despairing figure of his first customer. He finally leaned closer, touching Mikele’s arm. He could feel him trembling.

“Please, sir. Mikele. Something’s been bothering me for a while now. You called me Keeper once, and I’d swear that I never told you my name. You seemed to know who Pushka was, and you were so certain that I’d never left town, which is very true. How…?

“I passed through here once, on my way from Rhafstayne. I fled that dark town after the battlements went up—a spit in the face of the vampires if there ever was one. I couldn’t imagine any good coming from the actions of frightened, suspicious people.”

“You saw everything that happened to the woman?”

“Saw everything?” Mikele’s face split into a decidedly unhumourous grin. “I should think so. Merella was my wife. Poor jilted little Mikele…” Keeper’s face twisted into a mask of horror. “Now you understand. Leave me.”

The conversation in the main room eventually turned to more mundane events, the dark tale purposely forgotten. Keeper was soon swamped with orders and lost track of the table in the now dark corner. Mikele had finished his last beer and sat, his mind running with memories that he’d rather never darkened the corners of his mind again. A movement in the doorway caught his eye, and he realized that a figure was there, beckoning him.

The cool evening air smacked him as he left the brightness of the bar, his pack already heavy on his shoulder. He had to search the shadows of the nearby buildings before he finally saw the figure again, and his face grew a beautiful joyous smile for the first time in years. “Tenvu.” He sighed, the voice a prayer on his lips. “It is so good to see you again, my dear.”

The figure launched himself at him and revealed itself to be a slim young woman. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Oh, father.” She whispered. “It is so good to see you too.”

He chuckled slightly, unwilling to let her go. “You haven’t called me father in years. You really must be pleased.”

She unwound herself and held him at arm’s length, studying his worn face gently. “We can catch up as we walk. There isn’t time enough to lose, so we might as well start now.”

“In the dark?”

“It’s just as dangerous in the light. C’mon Mikele… Dad.. The morning waits.”

The two figures were soon swallowed by the flowing night, their strides heavy with purpose. Unseen in the doorway, Keeper watched them disappear. “Save travels, Mikele.” The words grew light on his lips, and the evening wind rustled his clothing with a seductive caress.