Yo bitches, I said I was writing a thing and I have written some of it. I hope to keep writing this thing because I really like the idea, but it takes me a long time to write such things so I don't know if I'll manage it.
Our protagonist or whatever he will be is a character you will all know and have heard stories of, but probably not from his own perspective and hopefully not from a story like this. I imagine you'll work out who he is before he does.
Also I use naughty words sometimes, is there a way to bypass the swear filter? Armadillos won't really be fitting into this tale I'm afraid, and neither will portugal. Well I can sort of bypass it by using spaces, be warned, there are naughty words. Sort of.
Anyway, here's the first part of the thing:
Birth
There was darkness. And something else. Awareness.
He couldn't discern anything, but he was aware of his own existence. He? Yes, he was a he, whatever that meant.
It meant he was male. And if he was male, he must have a physical prescence, a body.
And suddenly he could feel it. Mainly pain, searing pain all over. But other things too, he could feel his body, knew it was there, his limbs, legs, arms, hands. A head, a neck, a torso. He was lying on something, face up.
His eyes snapped open, light flooded into the darkness, blinding, searing, confusing. His eyes snapped shut again. His chest rose, air rushed in. His chest fell, breath rushed out. Was this breath his first? Was this his birth?
He lay for a while, just breathing in and breathing out. There were smells, but he didn't know what they meant, what they were.
His eyes opened again, slower, more cautious. It hurt still, but the pain faded. There was no sense at first, no meaning to the light. But then patterns appeared, shapes started to form. The light's source was a small square, high above and to the side of him. Around the light source were squares of grey, ordered in rows and stacked together. A wall. A wall with a window. He was ..... inside?
Yes, inside. There was more grey above him, a ceiling. More walls around him, one with a patch of dark brown instead of grey. A door. A closed door.
And there, to the side with the window. His right, his right side. There, there was a figure. A body. His body?
No, it couldn't be his body could it? Was he seeing his own body from the outside? He kept his gaze on the figure, flexed his fingers. He felt them slide over the floor, it hurt. But the figure's fingers didn't move. It wasn't him.
He tilted his head foward, look down at himself. There it was, his own body. It looked... wrong. He was clothed. Yes, a belted black robe covered him, but his hands and feet were uncovered. They didn't look right. Skeletal, with cracked, mottled brown skin. He raised a hand before his face, looked closer. It wasn't just skin, the hand was covered in something. Dirt? Mud? He brought his other hand up, rubbed them together. That really hurt. But some of the stuff fell away, revealing red, raw looking skin.
He looked back at the other figure. It was clothed as well, not in a robe but in trousers tunic and jerkin. It appeared to be one of the Folk, a man. Its skin looked normal, pale and somewhat dirty but not covered in mud like his own. It had medium length brown hair framing a slightly chubby face. Its chest was rising and falling, apparently it was alive.
He looked away, just lay there and stared at the ceiling. His face started to move, his mouth twitching, curling up. A smile. It hurt, but it felt good. It felt more than good, it felt right, felt like it was more a part of him than anything else he knew. His mouth opened and breath bubbled out in short sharp bursts. Laughter. That hurt even more, and felt even better.
He heard noise coming from the other figure. It was moving, turning its head and making nonsense noises. He shot up, rising to his feet, laughter and pain forgotten as something new thundered through him. Fear.
His legs buckled and he almost fell, unsteady in this new position. He backed away from the figure, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his heart pounding. His back hit a wall, he flattened himself against it and slid down to sit on the floor. He kept watching the figure, its eyes were open and it seemed to be looking around. It didn't appear to be anymore aware of itself than he was.
He rose to his feet again, fear giving way to curiosity. He approached the figure, watching carefully. It lifted its head, started to sit up. It looked around and saw him.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
He stepped back, startled. The noises .... no, the words. They made some sense to him, they meant something.
"Who are you?" he tried to speak the same words, they sounded similar but not quite the same.
The figure scratched its head "Lars" it looked around "oh, the drunk cells. Almost as good as home." It looked over at the window "nearly time for them to let us out I reckon. So, what was your name? Last night's memories are.... hazy to say the least."
"My name? ..... I .... don't ..... know."
The figure - Lars - grinned "well I've been there before, you certainly look rough enough." Lars gave a dry chuckle "Sons, you look like you've been bathing in a swamp."
He lauged along with Lars, though he did not know why. Not faint little laugh of Lars, but strong, musical peals of laughter, not just from his belly but from the very centre of his being, his very.... soul? His soul.
"Alright Chuckles, it wasn't that funny."
"Chuckles?"
"Aye, well I need to call you something, and since you can't remember your own name..."
"Chuckles. I like Chuckles."
Lars nodded "Chuckles it is then. Ah, you hear that? I thought it was about time to leave."
He did hear it, the sounds of something striking something else, coming closer. Footsteps. Footsteps on stone.
The footsteps stopped, and more noises followed. Hard to identify, and then a scraping, a squeel of metal sliding over metal. The door opened, revealing a figure in the doorway and behind him a corridoor of grey stone.
The figure was another man, another one of the Folk. He was wearing leather armour and had a sword belted to his waist. His face was grim, surly and sour looking.
"Get out" his voice suited his face.
If Lars was perturbed by the man's attitude he did not show it "much obliged, thanks for the hospitality. My friend and I are unclear as to the events of last night, I don't suppose you could shed any light on the matter?"
The man made no reply, just stood in the doorway for a moment and then turned and started walking along the corridor. Lars shrugged and headed after him, Chuckles following.
He stepped into the corridor and looked either way. To the left was the man leading them, heading towards an open door leading into a room. To the right there was another door, this one closed. They went left, and found themselves in a chamber with four stone walls and a door on each one. The wall to the left had a window as well as a door, with glass in the frame. The armoured man headed to the door in this wall and opened it without a word. Light spilled in, too bright for Chuckles. The man remained silent, just gestured at the open door.
Lars headed for the door, and Chuckles followed. Before stepping out into the light he turned to the armoured man.
"Truly, I don't remember a thing. Do you at least know my name?"
The man looked at him, lips curling in disgust "F uck off."
F uck off. No, that wasn't his name, but it was certainly a familiar phrase. Something told him he'd be hearing it a lot.
