Chapter One - The Usual
It didn't have to end this way. To have all of the experiences placed upon someone in just a few days, placed upon someone who had little idea of how macabre life can be. Bacchus Markov is a name known in a small village known as Resgor, a quaint settlement of about one hundred of his own kind, the miltid. They are beasts of the densest forests, intelligent and agile as they hunt, and explore and record their findings of the world they live in. They have varying colors of their fur between black and white, and their hunched, bipedal frame alongside their high stature can intimidate any prey. The miltid are a proud race in the north of their world, Kalav, however, their population have been dwindling currently.
For the miltid, they have been pushed by forces of higher intelligence than them, for their members speak of iron tools spewing fire that can rip apart flesh in a split second, chariots of light metal, and the shadows of huge stone walls and towers that enveloped the land surrounding them. They speak of the beings' names with such spite and fear, and Bacchus would shudder at times from the utterance of the word. Likra.
Bacchus would remark when his father would talk about events involving the likras, telling him and his siblings that they were thin creatures enveloped in darkness, scales hard as sheets of metal from the finest sword. Their eyes ready to point out small movement in thickets and underbrush, slim fingers twitching from the thought of massacring them. He would go on and on, but the crying of Bacchus's youngest of brothers would stop him, then he would realize that his stories became too intense and grotesque for them, and would drop the tales at that.
Bacchus would ponder about the details of his father's stories, and how truly repulsive they must be. Did his father's uncle really die by the hands of them, with their fingers dug into his body, jutting out their arm into the open air with the man's unbeating heart in their wretched appendages, bragging in likran tongue? Were innocents enslaved and used as entertainment while the likras conversed with smiles and a calm state? Did they burn and pillage while they planted their flags onto the miltid's once-owned lands? He felt unnerved by the fine details, but with reality setting in from the current news of the war, he can only dream.
Outside of his house, he can hear the sounds of farm animals being escorted to the slaughtering house across the paved streets, hinted from how coarse voices persuaded them to move forward, trying to avoid citizens that were attempting to get through with groceries or the everyday chore.
His bed sounded delightful at the moment, for mornings only gave him more fatigue and the average wanting to rest which never came; the appearance of the sun beginning to climb to the peak of the sky was the call his father, Roderick, needed for him to brashly enter his small room, holding a copper drum with thin plating, a loud tinn emitting every second Roderick would ram a leather stick upon its surface. “Breakfast! Bacchus, get ready, we're going to meet Jaffer at the butcher shop,” his father announced in a scratchy tone, Bacchus quickly getting onto his feet. “Get properly dressed, and eat your vitals, got it?” Roderick's son nodded, looking stiff in his actions.
With that, his father left him alone to gather his thoughts, a frown on Bacchus's young, wolfish face.
Bacchus was not affected by the usual snow and chill that would invade their town for countless months as he walked. His species brushed off the cold similar to the feeling of mosquito bites to a tropical native. He was busy though, mind focused on an important detail: Resgor was filled with festivity today.
The streets were filled with colored tapestry hanging from any surface one may deem hang-able, and wooden carts filled with pastries, choice cuts, and the daily fruit were moving around with their trusted owners, some optimistically informing the crowds about barter involving their goods.
It was Kalavis, Bacchus recalled finally, remembering that religious day his town fully worshiped and clung to like a lifeline. From what he can recall, Kalavis was the day that the god, Halk, will give them a sign of peace – plentiful crops, lack of disease, they will never know what Halk would give them. For this particular day, Bacchus wondered if Halk would even save them from the current conflicts in their world.
His numerous thoughts stopped for a second when he almost bumped into one of his brothers, Heric, who held a sturdy pole behind his neck. It was supported by the rising of his shoulders to keep it steady, two slabs of clean meat dangling from two hooks at the ends. His brother was enthusiastic about the thought of assisting his father with physical labor, and never complained, just puffing out his chest while he struggled to get himself and the meat balanced. For Bacchus, he just had to carry a similar pole with his hands, a slab of meat dangling at the end by a hook, the young miltid holding it like it was a fishing rod.
“Heric, Bacchus, good job, better than the last time.” Their father gave them a short shower of appreciation, Heric harboring a giddy smile, Bacchus wondering how Heric can carry such heavy material without making it fall to the ground. Their father stopped for a second, inspecting them in front of the butcher shop, joyfully named The Head Roll, “Stay here, I'm going to talk to Jaffer; don't screw up the meat, Bacchus.” The miltid looked over to his dad, still stiff as a board at the sight of Roderick's glare, knowing that he silently told him to hold onto that meat like a vice before he entered the shop.
“Forty silver?” Bacchus looked up at Heric's calm expression while his brother asked him, fingers scratching at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Or maybe two gold? What do you think?”
Bacchus frowned at that, letting himself respond with a tone of hesitation, the answer trying to form in his mind. “For the meat, I'd say five gold.”
“Bah, too rich,” Heric grumbled to himself, adjusting his shoulders so that the meat didn't slip from the iron hooks, “Jaffer would only get a few silvers or so for this, why do you say that he will give us five?”
“That's my answer, brother, I can't see meat and decide its accuracy,” he sighed, turning around to have himself face the street, eyes observant of the terrain. Regular carts of rations. Miltid coming and going with small offspring at their sides. What caught his eye was the sight of a small group of miltid walking on the stone roads, all of them wearing iron plating that covered them from head to toe, faces able to be seen through an opening from their helmets.
“Ah, a garrison, ready to hole up this damn place,” Bacchus heard Heric's remark from the sight of the group, behind them a huge cart was being hauled by two, weary horses. “Oh boy.”
“Oh lord, if they're going to stay in our houses like the last group,” Bacchus shuddered at the memory. Miltid soldiers watching you from every corner of your house, asking you to clean up their messes; another stressful event he didn't want to experience yet again, “We're going to have a horrible time.”
“May I have all of your attention, please?” Bacchus looked over to the cart, seeing a miltid walk out in a brisk pace, and he wondered why he would announce with such force as more citizens grouped around the figure with curiosity and weariness. The soldier brought out a piece of parchment from the insides of the cart, clearing his throat with a gruff cough, reading the contents out loud. “By the authority invested in the Council of Veil, they have allowed another garrison upon the town of Resgor for the purpose of reinforcement of territory, and a safe area for refugees.”
Bacchus was surprised at how loud the retaliation was at this, for some began to complain and comment verbally on his words with loud, unfiltered voices, the soldier looking wary when one man decided to talk about the previous issue with a garrison set up in their town. The man sighed, the rest of the miltid soldiers pushing the citizens away before they can do anything physical. “The situation of Resgor's last garrison was properly handled by the Council, and our troops will rest in your inns and temporary bedding, but we do need access to rations.” The retaliation continued after the last words were said, but the soldiers quickly calmed them down, all of them feeling tense from the vulgar words lingering in the air.
“There's another thing,” Bacchus could feel himself tense as well at how serious and dull the voice sounded in the miltid soldier, who's eyes followed down the parchment. It was a corpse, listing words while tuning out to the criticisms and upset statements. “The Council has agreed to the enlistment of miltid soldiers for the war against our sworn enemies. It is urgent, fifty members must be enlisted at the end of two days for it's the maximum our group will take. It is required, and the age group is between twelve and sixty. If fifty miltid don't come with us after the deadline, we'll be forced to choose from amongst you. Have a nice day.”
Some miltid continued to complain about the situation, anger and desperation in their voices as they continued to interact with the soldiers even after they entered the Resgor Inn. For the rest of the crowd, it quietly dispersed, reminding Bacchus of a family of birds that were interrupted by a cheerful, miltid child. He wasn't surprised that they would react this way; he would react with such silence too if he heard that his family would have to be involved in this war, willingly or not.
Bacchus looked over at his brother, who's eyes were gazed down at the floor, clouded and unfocused. Before he can react, he felt a hand being placed upon his shoulder, the stern eyes of his father before him now distant, a soft sigh coming from him, “Come on, let's give Jaffer his meat.”
((I would love for people to give me some criticism on some areas of my writing. Don't hold back the criticism, be brutally honest and all.
It didn't have to end this way. To have all of the experiences placed upon someone in just a few days, placed upon someone who had little idea of how macabre life can be. Bacchus Markov is a name known in a small village known as Resgor, a quaint settlement of about one hundred of his own kind, the miltid. They are beasts of the densest forests, intelligent and agile as they hunt, and explore and record their findings of the world they live in. They have varying colors of their fur between black and white, and their hunched, bipedal frame alongside their high stature can intimidate any prey. The miltid are a proud race in the north of their world, Kalav, however, their population have been dwindling currently.
For the miltid, they have been pushed by forces of higher intelligence than them, for their members speak of iron tools spewing fire that can rip apart flesh in a split second, chariots of light metal, and the shadows of huge stone walls and towers that enveloped the land surrounding them. They speak of the beings' names with such spite and fear, and Bacchus would shudder at times from the utterance of the word. Likra.
Bacchus would remark when his father would talk about events involving the likras, telling him and his siblings that they were thin creatures enveloped in darkness, scales hard as sheets of metal from the finest sword. Their eyes ready to point out small movement in thickets and underbrush, slim fingers twitching from the thought of massacring them. He would go on and on, but the crying of Bacchus's youngest of brothers would stop him, then he would realize that his stories became too intense and grotesque for them, and would drop the tales at that.
Bacchus would ponder about the details of his father's stories, and how truly repulsive they must be. Did his father's uncle really die by the hands of them, with their fingers dug into his body, jutting out their arm into the open air with the man's unbeating heart in their wretched appendages, bragging in likran tongue? Were innocents enslaved and used as entertainment while the likras conversed with smiles and a calm state? Did they burn and pillage while they planted their flags onto the miltid's once-owned lands? He felt unnerved by the fine details, but with reality setting in from the current news of the war, he can only dream.
Outside of his house, he can hear the sounds of farm animals being escorted to the slaughtering house across the paved streets, hinted from how coarse voices persuaded them to move forward, trying to avoid citizens that were attempting to get through with groceries or the everyday chore.
His bed sounded delightful at the moment, for mornings only gave him more fatigue and the average wanting to rest which never came; the appearance of the sun beginning to climb to the peak of the sky was the call his father, Roderick, needed for him to brashly enter his small room, holding a copper drum with thin plating, a loud tinn emitting every second Roderick would ram a leather stick upon its surface. “Breakfast! Bacchus, get ready, we're going to meet Jaffer at the butcher shop,” his father announced in a scratchy tone, Bacchus quickly getting onto his feet. “Get properly dressed, and eat your vitals, got it?” Roderick's son nodded, looking stiff in his actions.
With that, his father left him alone to gather his thoughts, a frown on Bacchus's young, wolfish face.
Bacchus was not affected by the usual snow and chill that would invade their town for countless months as he walked. His species brushed off the cold similar to the feeling of mosquito bites to a tropical native. He was busy though, mind focused on an important detail: Resgor was filled with festivity today.
The streets were filled with colored tapestry hanging from any surface one may deem hang-able, and wooden carts filled with pastries, choice cuts, and the daily fruit were moving around with their trusted owners, some optimistically informing the crowds about barter involving their goods.
It was Kalavis, Bacchus recalled finally, remembering that religious day his town fully worshiped and clung to like a lifeline. From what he can recall, Kalavis was the day that the god, Halk, will give them a sign of peace – plentiful crops, lack of disease, they will never know what Halk would give them. For this particular day, Bacchus wondered if Halk would even save them from the current conflicts in their world.
His numerous thoughts stopped for a second when he almost bumped into one of his brothers, Heric, who held a sturdy pole behind his neck. It was supported by the rising of his shoulders to keep it steady, two slabs of clean meat dangling from two hooks at the ends. His brother was enthusiastic about the thought of assisting his father with physical labor, and never complained, just puffing out his chest while he struggled to get himself and the meat balanced. For Bacchus, he just had to carry a similar pole with his hands, a slab of meat dangling at the end by a hook, the young miltid holding it like it was a fishing rod.
“Heric, Bacchus, good job, better than the last time.” Their father gave them a short shower of appreciation, Heric harboring a giddy smile, Bacchus wondering how Heric can carry such heavy material without making it fall to the ground. Their father stopped for a second, inspecting them in front of the butcher shop, joyfully named The Head Roll, “Stay here, I'm going to talk to Jaffer; don't screw up the meat, Bacchus.” The miltid looked over to his dad, still stiff as a board at the sight of Roderick's glare, knowing that he silently told him to hold onto that meat like a vice before he entered the shop.
“Forty silver?” Bacchus looked up at Heric's calm expression while his brother asked him, fingers scratching at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Or maybe two gold? What do you think?”
Bacchus frowned at that, letting himself respond with a tone of hesitation, the answer trying to form in his mind. “For the meat, I'd say five gold.”
“Bah, too rich,” Heric grumbled to himself, adjusting his shoulders so that the meat didn't slip from the iron hooks, “Jaffer would only get a few silvers or so for this, why do you say that he will give us five?”
“That's my answer, brother, I can't see meat and decide its accuracy,” he sighed, turning around to have himself face the street, eyes observant of the terrain. Regular carts of rations. Miltid coming and going with small offspring at their sides. What caught his eye was the sight of a small group of miltid walking on the stone roads, all of them wearing iron plating that covered them from head to toe, faces able to be seen through an opening from their helmets.
“Ah, a garrison, ready to hole up this damn place,” Bacchus heard Heric's remark from the sight of the group, behind them a huge cart was being hauled by two, weary horses. “Oh boy.”
“Oh lord, if they're going to stay in our houses like the last group,” Bacchus shuddered at the memory. Miltid soldiers watching you from every corner of your house, asking you to clean up their messes; another stressful event he didn't want to experience yet again, “We're going to have a horrible time.”
“May I have all of your attention, please?” Bacchus looked over to the cart, seeing a miltid walk out in a brisk pace, and he wondered why he would announce with such force as more citizens grouped around the figure with curiosity and weariness. The soldier brought out a piece of parchment from the insides of the cart, clearing his throat with a gruff cough, reading the contents out loud. “By the authority invested in the Council of Veil, they have allowed another garrison upon the town of Resgor for the purpose of reinforcement of territory, and a safe area for refugees.”
Bacchus was surprised at how loud the retaliation was at this, for some began to complain and comment verbally on his words with loud, unfiltered voices, the soldier looking wary when one man decided to talk about the previous issue with a garrison set up in their town. The man sighed, the rest of the miltid soldiers pushing the citizens away before they can do anything physical. “The situation of Resgor's last garrison was properly handled by the Council, and our troops will rest in your inns and temporary bedding, but we do need access to rations.” The retaliation continued after the last words were said, but the soldiers quickly calmed them down, all of them feeling tense from the vulgar words lingering in the air.
“There's another thing,” Bacchus could feel himself tense as well at how serious and dull the voice sounded in the miltid soldier, who's eyes followed down the parchment. It was a corpse, listing words while tuning out to the criticisms and upset statements. “The Council has agreed to the enlistment of miltid soldiers for the war against our sworn enemies. It is urgent, fifty members must be enlisted at the end of two days for it's the maximum our group will take. It is required, and the age group is between twelve and sixty. If fifty miltid don't come with us after the deadline, we'll be forced to choose from amongst you. Have a nice day.”
Some miltid continued to complain about the situation, anger and desperation in their voices as they continued to interact with the soldiers even after they entered the Resgor Inn. For the rest of the crowd, it quietly dispersed, reminding Bacchus of a family of birds that were interrupted by a cheerful, miltid child. He wasn't surprised that they would react this way; he would react with such silence too if he heard that his family would have to be involved in this war, willingly or not.
Bacchus looked over at his brother, who's eyes were gazed down at the floor, clouded and unfocused. Before he can react, he felt a hand being placed upon his shoulder, the stern eyes of his father before him now distant, a soft sigh coming from him, “Come on, let's give Jaffer his meat.”
((I would love for people to give me some criticism on some areas of my writing. Don't hold back the criticism, be brutally honest and all.
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