This is a little short story I'm working on, set in the world of a book I'm going to (attempt) to write someday soon. I'm doing a series of stories on each of the main characters to try and develop their personalities more. This is the first one, not about the main character, however about the character I like the most, who's name is, unsuprisingly, Goyle.
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Fire and Brimstone
A Faremor Story
By Joe R.
An inferno. That’s what his life had become. All around him, the world was an inferno. Everything burned; childhood memories being reduced to ash and soot. He sat curled up on the floor of his room, clenching at the blanket his human mother had woven for him not three days earlier. Three days before the villagers came. He didn’t know why they hated his family so much. But they did. He clenched the blanket tighter and curled up for what he thought would be his last moments, sobbing. And then, there was a roar and a crash, and a tall, slender figure burst through the door to his room, swept him up off the floor, and broke out through the second-story window, all in one fluid motion.
He looked up at his father as they landed, the once-great gargoyle warrior, now weakened by age and the life of a father and husband. Maybe that was why the villagers hated them. Because his family was not conventional. Because he was a half-breed.
He then looked toward his house, also once great, now little more than a burning pile of kindling. He looked to the side, seeing a small army of farmers and merchants and peasants, all wielding some sort of weapon, advancing on his father and himself.
“Where’s mama?” he choked through the soot in his lungs. His father shook his head and for the first time, the life in his father’s eyes was gone. His ability to think was gone. He couldn’t even form a sentence. He began to wonder if burning to death would have been the better alternative.
His father set him on the ground and told him to run. Run to the mountains. Run until he couldn’t run any farther. He shook his head, but the villagers were closing in. His father told him to run again. And he did. He didn’t stop until his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell into the underbrush. He sat up and looked back, the smoke from his burning home clouding the sky. He had lost everything. He had no home, no family. His head was so clouded that he couldn’t even remember his real name. When he tried to recall it, the only things that came to him were the jeering voices of his peers and the name they had given him: Goyle.
He had lost everything, his family, his home, and even his name. Exhausted and sobbing, the youth half-breed now known as Goyle fell into a deep sleep filled with nightmares of flame and ash.
+++
It had been weeks. Goyle stumbled through the underbrush of the [Ilzard] mountain range, scouring for something edible. He was ravenous; the mountains did not have much in the way of food. He’d been lucky to find any kind of non-poisonous vegetable, let alone any kind of meat. He knew his luck would run out before long, and he would starve to death, bitter and alone in the wilds.
He still clung to the blanket that his mother had made him. It was the only thing he had left, and, despite many tumbles into bramble patches and thick underbrush, it was as soft and warm as the day his mother had handed it to him. He wasn’t sure why, and wasn’t going to question it.
Goyle sudden jerked his head to the side. He had heard footsteps, coming this way, he was sure of it. Not knowing who was approaching, he leapt into the underbrush and concealed himself. Some time passed, and finally the source of the footsteps appeared on the path.
An old man wearing a simple, dusk-gray robe was casually strolling down the rough path. Goyle wasn’t sure what this old human was doing in the mountains, but simply seeing him filled Goyle with cursed memories and rage. A voice in the back of his head told him what he was about to do was wrong, but the voice was too weak to penetrate the cloud of anger surrounding his sense.
“An odd place for a stroll, isn’t it?” he questioned in the gruffest voice he could manage, which sounded just like a child’s mimic of an adult. The old man turned slowly toward the source of the voice, his face not changing.
“Yes, well I do like the serene settings here. It’s a favorite place of mine to get away to. However, I don’t recall any talking shrubs being here.”
“I’m not a shrub, old man,” Goyle continued in his mock-fearsome voice. He stepped out from the shrubs. “Now give me all your supplies. I’m hungry.”
Though Goyle was merely ten, he was still imposing by human standards. His gargoyle features; long gray horns, wings, matching tail, and stony skin covering his forelimbs and chest, gave him a feral look, though he was still a great deal shorter than the old man.
“Well now, aren’t we rude. If you had simply asked politely, I would have gladly shared my rations with you. However, now I don’t think I will.”
Goyle took a step forward. “Now, old man. Or things get ugly.”
A hint of a smile played on the old man’s lips. “You may try, child.”
“I am not a child!” Goyle roared, and charged forward, ready to batter the old man in the midsection with his horns.
The old man simply laughed and sidestepped the charging half-breed, knocking him on the head just hard enough to make him stumble and fall to the ground.
“Ow! You meanie, why’d you do that!”
“If I remembered right, you were the one who attacked me, little one.”
“I’m not little!” Goyle got back up and swung his fist at the old man, who easily batted the blow aside. Goyle continued to swing and kick and flail, but the old man simply deflected each blow harmlessly.
After a few minutes of thrashing about, Goyle collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. He slammed his fists into the ground, and began to cry.
“I’m not strong enough,” he sobbed, and looked up at the old man now standing over him. “I guess this is the end of my line…just make it quick.”
The old man’s expression changed for the first time, into one of shock. “Why, child, why on earth would you think I would want to harm you, let alone kill you?”
“Because you’re human…you hate me.”
The old man shook his head and put his fingers on his temples. “I see…you must have been the victim of a great prejudice to think that.” He bent down next to Goyle. “But understand, o child, not all humans are so filled with hate. All creatures possess good and bad. I’m afraid you’ve simply only dealt with the bad.”
The old man gave Goyle another look over. The half-gargoyle was covered in dirt and dust, though his unnaturally tough hide had spared him any kind of visible wounds. “You must be homeless to wander this part of the mountain chain. Tell me, would you like to come live with me at my temple?”
Goyle stopped sobbing and looked up at the old man. “You…you mean it? A home?”
The old man smiled. “Yes, my child, a home. I am a monk; I take in children of all makes and types under my wing, children society has forgotten. I train them physically and mentally, so they may be enlightened, and harbor no hatred in them for the rest of the world. My name is Master Ulreth. Tell me, what is yours.”
Once again, Goyle tried to recall his full name, but it was lost in a sea of darkness. “I…I don’t remember…but you can call me Goyle.”
“I see…well then, young Goyle, we had best make haste if we are to make it to the temple before sundown.”
Goyle smiled for the first time in what had felt like forever and nodded with enthusiasm. He started down the path with Master Ulreth, but stopped mid-stride.
“Oh, yeah!”
He dashed back into the underbrush and emerged holding the blanket his mother had woven him, still as sterling and neat as ever. And with that, he joined Master Ulreth on the way to his new home.
+++
Time passed, and Goyle grew strong. His heritage blessed him with an amazingly potent blend of natural talent. His human side had given him a cunning edge; a mind for brilliant tacticians and a general dexterity that allowed him to learn almost any weapon he could lift. His gargoyle side gave him immense strength and stamina, and his hide could take much abuse before even showing wear.
Over the next five years, Goyle trained under Master Ulreth and his fellow students. There were children from all breeds: humans; the enigmatic and ferocious beetle-men, the Yaeug; the intelligent and dark Shadowkin. The humans easily made up the majority; however all the students got along without quarrel, thanks to their Master’s teachings.
Goyle quickly showed himself to be the temple’s strongest fighter. He was a master of both hand-to-hand and armed combat, wielding a wooden practice sword as easily as an enormous partisan or war club. No other student could top him in physical prowess, not even the mighty Yaeug.
However in spiritual matters, Goyle lacked. He still harbored hatred for the humans of his old village, a hatred that he couldn’t simply meditate away.
---
I'll try and finish it tomorrow. It's actually probably not even half-finished, however I felt like posting what I had now, since getting some feedback would probably encourage me to try and finish it.
EDIT: Posted more of it, probably now about half done.
Oh, and if something's in brackets, it's a temporary name, considering I'm too tired to actually make decent names...ever.
---
Fire and Brimstone
A Faremor Story
By Joe R.
An inferno. That’s what his life had become. All around him, the world was an inferno. Everything burned; childhood memories being reduced to ash and soot. He sat curled up on the floor of his room, clenching at the blanket his human mother had woven for him not three days earlier. Three days before the villagers came. He didn’t know why they hated his family so much. But they did. He clenched the blanket tighter and curled up for what he thought would be his last moments, sobbing. And then, there was a roar and a crash, and a tall, slender figure burst through the door to his room, swept him up off the floor, and broke out through the second-story window, all in one fluid motion.
He looked up at his father as they landed, the once-great gargoyle warrior, now weakened by age and the life of a father and husband. Maybe that was why the villagers hated them. Because his family was not conventional. Because he was a half-breed.
He then looked toward his house, also once great, now little more than a burning pile of kindling. He looked to the side, seeing a small army of farmers and merchants and peasants, all wielding some sort of weapon, advancing on his father and himself.
“Where’s mama?” he choked through the soot in his lungs. His father shook his head and for the first time, the life in his father’s eyes was gone. His ability to think was gone. He couldn’t even form a sentence. He began to wonder if burning to death would have been the better alternative.
His father set him on the ground and told him to run. Run to the mountains. Run until he couldn’t run any farther. He shook his head, but the villagers were closing in. His father told him to run again. And he did. He didn’t stop until his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell into the underbrush. He sat up and looked back, the smoke from his burning home clouding the sky. He had lost everything. He had no home, no family. His head was so clouded that he couldn’t even remember his real name. When he tried to recall it, the only things that came to him were the jeering voices of his peers and the name they had given him: Goyle.
He had lost everything, his family, his home, and even his name. Exhausted and sobbing, the youth half-breed now known as Goyle fell into a deep sleep filled with nightmares of flame and ash.
+++
It had been weeks. Goyle stumbled through the underbrush of the [Ilzard] mountain range, scouring for something edible. He was ravenous; the mountains did not have much in the way of food. He’d been lucky to find any kind of non-poisonous vegetable, let alone any kind of meat. He knew his luck would run out before long, and he would starve to death, bitter and alone in the wilds.
He still clung to the blanket that his mother had made him. It was the only thing he had left, and, despite many tumbles into bramble patches and thick underbrush, it was as soft and warm as the day his mother had handed it to him. He wasn’t sure why, and wasn’t going to question it.
Goyle sudden jerked his head to the side. He had heard footsteps, coming this way, he was sure of it. Not knowing who was approaching, he leapt into the underbrush and concealed himself. Some time passed, and finally the source of the footsteps appeared on the path.
An old man wearing a simple, dusk-gray robe was casually strolling down the rough path. Goyle wasn’t sure what this old human was doing in the mountains, but simply seeing him filled Goyle with cursed memories and rage. A voice in the back of his head told him what he was about to do was wrong, but the voice was too weak to penetrate the cloud of anger surrounding his sense.
“An odd place for a stroll, isn’t it?” he questioned in the gruffest voice he could manage, which sounded just like a child’s mimic of an adult. The old man turned slowly toward the source of the voice, his face not changing.
“Yes, well I do like the serene settings here. It’s a favorite place of mine to get away to. However, I don’t recall any talking shrubs being here.”
“I’m not a shrub, old man,” Goyle continued in his mock-fearsome voice. He stepped out from the shrubs. “Now give me all your supplies. I’m hungry.”
Though Goyle was merely ten, he was still imposing by human standards. His gargoyle features; long gray horns, wings, matching tail, and stony skin covering his forelimbs and chest, gave him a feral look, though he was still a great deal shorter than the old man.
“Well now, aren’t we rude. If you had simply asked politely, I would have gladly shared my rations with you. However, now I don’t think I will.”
Goyle took a step forward. “Now, old man. Or things get ugly.”
A hint of a smile played on the old man’s lips. “You may try, child.”
“I am not a child!” Goyle roared, and charged forward, ready to batter the old man in the midsection with his horns.
The old man simply laughed and sidestepped the charging half-breed, knocking him on the head just hard enough to make him stumble and fall to the ground.
“Ow! You meanie, why’d you do that!”
“If I remembered right, you were the one who attacked me, little one.”
“I’m not little!” Goyle got back up and swung his fist at the old man, who easily batted the blow aside. Goyle continued to swing and kick and flail, but the old man simply deflected each blow harmlessly.
After a few minutes of thrashing about, Goyle collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. He slammed his fists into the ground, and began to cry.
“I’m not strong enough,” he sobbed, and looked up at the old man now standing over him. “I guess this is the end of my line…just make it quick.”
The old man’s expression changed for the first time, into one of shock. “Why, child, why on earth would you think I would want to harm you, let alone kill you?”
“Because you’re human…you hate me.”
The old man shook his head and put his fingers on his temples. “I see…you must have been the victim of a great prejudice to think that.” He bent down next to Goyle. “But understand, o child, not all humans are so filled with hate. All creatures possess good and bad. I’m afraid you’ve simply only dealt with the bad.”
The old man gave Goyle another look over. The half-gargoyle was covered in dirt and dust, though his unnaturally tough hide had spared him any kind of visible wounds. “You must be homeless to wander this part of the mountain chain. Tell me, would you like to come live with me at my temple?”
Goyle stopped sobbing and looked up at the old man. “You…you mean it? A home?”
The old man smiled. “Yes, my child, a home. I am a monk; I take in children of all makes and types under my wing, children society has forgotten. I train them physically and mentally, so they may be enlightened, and harbor no hatred in them for the rest of the world. My name is Master Ulreth. Tell me, what is yours.”
Once again, Goyle tried to recall his full name, but it was lost in a sea of darkness. “I…I don’t remember…but you can call me Goyle.”
“I see…well then, young Goyle, we had best make haste if we are to make it to the temple before sundown.”
Goyle smiled for the first time in what had felt like forever and nodded with enthusiasm. He started down the path with Master Ulreth, but stopped mid-stride.
“Oh, yeah!”
He dashed back into the underbrush and emerged holding the blanket his mother had woven him, still as sterling and neat as ever. And with that, he joined Master Ulreth on the way to his new home.
+++
Time passed, and Goyle grew strong. His heritage blessed him with an amazingly potent blend of natural talent. His human side had given him a cunning edge; a mind for brilliant tacticians and a general dexterity that allowed him to learn almost any weapon he could lift. His gargoyle side gave him immense strength and stamina, and his hide could take much abuse before even showing wear.
Over the next five years, Goyle trained under Master Ulreth and his fellow students. There were children from all breeds: humans; the enigmatic and ferocious beetle-men, the Yaeug; the intelligent and dark Shadowkin. The humans easily made up the majority; however all the students got along without quarrel, thanks to their Master’s teachings.
Goyle quickly showed himself to be the temple’s strongest fighter. He was a master of both hand-to-hand and armed combat, wielding a wooden practice sword as easily as an enormous partisan or war club. No other student could top him in physical prowess, not even the mighty Yaeug.
However in spiritual matters, Goyle lacked. He still harbored hatred for the humans of his old village, a hatred that he couldn’t simply meditate away.
---
I'll try and finish it tomorrow. It's actually probably not even half-finished, however I felt like posting what I had now, since getting some feedback would probably encourage me to try and finish it.
EDIT: Posted more of it, probably now about half done.
Oh, and if something's in brackets, it's a temporary name, considering I'm too tired to actually make decent names...ever.
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