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Fantasy Story #1

The screaming of a child was pungent in the air of an open market. As a hooded figure strode through the crowded stalls, he couldn't help but scoff at the Drek architecture of a desert home. The baking heat of a star in its prime kept the figure's eyes fixated to the cracked, water-forsaken ground. The figure felt it necessary to investigate the child's screaming, as a crowd had gathered around.

A Drek guard, blue eyes shining in striking contrast to the orange sky, held his sword high above his head. The hooded figure calmly asked what was going on, and a stranger answered that the guard had just finished telling the child what a thief he was. The slender hooded man stood still, calm and understanding. The guard's sword made a sickening thunk on the wood of a crate as the child's cries grew louder.

As other cried, mourned, and mentally berated the guard for his ****able loyalty to the law, the hooded figure couldn't help but chuckle. Now full of merriment, he went on his way with his new backpack full of dried food goods and supplies. Almost skipping, the figure was ready to leave this hole. "Yeah, I'm going places" he whispered.

The figure stroked his bandaged chin. He'd had what he needed to survive outside the desert city's walls, but he hadn't a clue on how to get out. Having blown all his money on dried snacks, empty glass bottles and a canteen, the Drek hadn't a clue where to go. The man travelled to the city gates, and offered a job as a guard.

The first merchant caravan came by. It browsed a selection of guards for hire, by which the hooded figure stood. The caravan had a good deal of merchants, but by the precarious eye of the leader, their cargo was much too valuable to have a lack of guards. There were currently four guards beside our hero, and each was grotesquely strong and ridden with weapons. Their bold brows declared that they were busy men, with busier fists. Their scarred, bumpy arms struck fear into the caravans that passed by.

The caravan stared at the hooded man with curious eyes. His eyes were driven downward, as he feared eye contact. The caravan leader called, "Flex for me, hooded one!" On order, the man closed his eyes, spread his arms into the air, and flexed as hard as he could. The caravan leader laughed as he compared the hooded one with the other four guards. The guards, seeing his feeble attempt, chuckled with undertoned pity.

"Fools! I practice magic! I could turn you all into newts if I wanted," the hooded man yelled, fury in his unseen eyes. The guards laughed harder, as did the caravaners.

"Magic? Why would we possibly want a spellcaster when we can just use Dwarven weapons?" called one of the guards, toting his shiny silver clockwork rifle. The recent Dwarven-Tark war brought the practiced artform of war magic to its knees. No one would dare to take on a spellcaster when a good shot to the head would kill them.

The caravan picked one of the beefier guards, and left. Running to the dust-kicking wooden wheels, the hooded figure wailed in contempt, "The Tark were fools! They didn't know what they were doing- dammit! I know how to do it correctly!" Whispering an incantation under his breath, the hooded one tried to retain his cool. Finishing it, he smirked.

Another caravan passed, and when asking where the hooded traveller was going, they agreed to keep him as a "guard". They likely thought that the hooded one was some bum trying to get to the capital for a quick buck whilst begging. Some poor desert town was no way to make a man's stake. The leader, a female Tark dressed in fine hard leather, sat next to the hooded man. Her eyes looked him over and she saw not a single scrap of skin on him. "What's your name, stranger?"

The hooded figure looked up to the stars, but his hood did not fall. "Funny thing to ask a guard. You'd think you'd ask their names before hiring them," he snickered. The leader snickered back.

"Yes, 'hired'. So what's your name?" she pried.

"Alexander Raithcliff Jackson Archibald 'mcwinnerdinner' the 2nd," he teased. The leader, growing frusterated, stared off into the starry sky and growled. Feeling the hatred build up in his employer, the figure sighed, "Fine, my name's Jack."

"That's a pretty name," the leader said. Her green Tark eyes pierced into the side of Jack's head. "So you do magic, do you? What school are you trained in?" she asked.

"Balls to the schools!" Jack threw his arms into the air in his outburst. "The schools did nothing but send your people to its knees! My grandad knew better, my dad knew better, and I know better," the hooded one grew displeased with the mere mentioning of the five Schools of Magic. Corruption, Purification, Destruction, Regeneration and Manipulation were the letters of the Tarken Empire's doom. The thick-headed Tarken elders refused to go out of their comfort zone, and because of that their castle was sacked by the Dwarves with their clockwork and flintlock abominations of ill-gotten "science".

"Don't like the schools, do you?" she queried. Jack turned away from her, only to pull a book from his backpack. The back of the wagon provided just enough moonlight to read the bold letters on the leather cover.

THE FIRST BOOK OF ARCANISM- VOLUME ONE

"This is the only magic I'll ever need. My family's been working on it since my great grandpap. He knew what was up! I heard from my dad that he'd figured out the roots behind magic- what makes it tick," Jack explained, "but he died before he could write it down. Only thing he did write down was how to make new spells. Something that your elders never could have learned!"

The leader laughed at this hearty explanation, "You're funny! Telling me that your family knew how magic worked. Next you're going to tell me that the Tarks are actually half gnome half goblin."

Jack grunted, "What's your name, anyhow?"

"Cherise, thank you," she said. A sweet smile spread across her face and she laid down. "So glad that a wonderful spellcaster like you would come onto my family's wagon to protect us from all the monsters in these Drekonian wastelands," she chuckled.

Not sensing the sarcasm, Jack remarked, "Monsters? Worst you'd get out here is a giant sandworm, and they'll just spit out a caravan if it isn't full of food."

"You're really something, aren't you?" She chuckled.

Silent, Jack laid inside a bedroll, "Wake me up there's any trouble."

"Oh I'm sure I will, brave adventurer."