8 Bit AdventureJarven sighed wearily, slowly rubbing a dirt-stained palm along his forehead. He was looking forward to putting his feet up and having a nice warm meal; he was tired. So very, very tired. He’d been travelling for weeks now without any proper rest; the feeling of lying in a bed was virtually forgotten to him at this stage. He could only imagine the torment that his horse was feeling at that moment in time. He looked down at it, fondly stroking its mane. It snorted and tossed its head sharply. It was a loyal stallion, with an immaculate brown coat, capable of remarkable feats of endurance due to the unreasonable demands made of it by Jarven. It had never once complained, and until it voiced said complaints, Jarven felt no reason to go any easier on it.
Of course, if the horse had any say in the matter at all, it would be the one riding Jarven from town to town, not the other way around. It was sick and tired of his constant little adventures from place to place, with hardly a break in between. Never a chance to talk to any nice lady horses, fed only with the cheapest feed that Jervan could afford (adventuring may have been an exciting business, but it certainly didn’t pay very well; certainly not at Jarven’s level), and there always seemed to be some cult or gang chasing after them, out for their blood. As for Florence (that being the horse’s name), he always tried to carry Jarven towards the biggest, nastiest looking enemy available whenever they got into a fight. It’d serve him right if he had his brains splattered onto the wall one of these days. Florence tossed his head in anger once again. Life just wasn’t fair.
Suddenly, Jarven let out another sigh; this time, however, it was one of relief, rather than one of exasperation. He sat up straighter, and a broad smile lit up his face. Out of the mists in front of them loomed a tall wooden palisade, lined with bright torches. The town of Wrangleyolk, the epitome of poverty and filth. Crammed together, over-crowded houses were the norm there, its people one-upping the horrific nature of their own homes in both filthiness and lack of education. Yes, the people of Wrangleyolk were renowned for their astounding level of stupidity. Really, it was a wonder that someone hadn’t accidentally burned down the whole town already, what with the majority of the residences having thatched roofs and being made entirely from wood. Wrangleyolk was surrounded by a dense forest, and had been built nearby a small, unnamed river; trees lined the cobblestone path that Florence trotted along, which was covered in moss and in a terrible state of disrepair.
Regardless of the run-down nature of the place, it was indeed their destination. And they had finally arrived.
Jarven nodded to the two guards standing watch at the gate set in the palisade, then set off in search of the local inn. After asking around among the locals scattered along the street for a while, Jarven was directed down a small, dark alley between a series of old warehouses near the main gate. The alley was cramped, so much so that Jarven was forced to dismount from Florence, pulling the horse along by the reins. The path began to wind among the clustered buildings, a dirty tarpaulin draped across the rooftops blocking off the evening’s sky already obscured by the thick mist. Small lamps hung along the walls provided the only decent light source.
Eventually, the sound of quiet music reached Jarven’s ears; a bright light appeared up ahead, signalling the end of the path. A dark wooden door stood in the wall, surrounded on either side by opaque windows. Above the door was a sign with the name ‘
The Rusty Stump’ in big bold letters. The Rusty Stump; the only thing in Wrangleyolk more infamous than the stink of the villagers. Thieves, cut-throats and general ne’er-do-wells were known to frequent the place for a drink, a place to sleep safe from the authorities and to conduct various dark businesses. Two thick looking thugs holding equally thick looking cudgels stood on either side of the entrance, eyeing Jarven warily.
‘Hello there, friends!’ called Jarven cheerfully, ‘Mind if I go in for a room?’
‘Fine. Just don’t cause any trouble,’ one of them yawned, although he didn't sound as if he cared too much either way.
‘Of course not. I know to mind my own business.’
A stable hand appeared from a passageway next to the entrance and took Florence from Jarven, leading him to a cramped stable at the back of the inn. Jarven walked past the thugs and gently pushed open the door, gingerly stepping through the threshold. Greeted by a surge of warm air, Jarven surveyed the room with interest. It was a dimly lit place, making it hard to pick out individual features of it. Many tables with quiet customers (there were also several notable exceptions) were scattered around the room, some darkened, others lit up by small, flickering candles. A stairs to the left of the door led up to the bedrooms in the establishment, and directly to the right was the bar. At the far end of the room was a bright stage that seemed to dominate the attention of most patrons, a bearded bard playing softly on a magnificent looking guitar and singing in a low, gravelly voice. Several curtained booths bordered the walls, small signs indicating whether or not they were occupied. Jarven strode up confidently to the bar, leaning across the counter. Staring across at him with dark, recessed eyes was a dwarf. He stood indignantly on a tall stool, washing a deep mug with a red cloth.
‘Hello there, stumpy. The name’s Jarven. Mind if I book a room for the night?’
The dwarf gave him a vehement look, but nodded, holding up a gnarled hand and 4 stubby fingers.
‘Four coins, eh?’ asked Jarven with a grimace. The dwarf nodded again, then held out his hand as Jarven produced the required amount from his pocket. The dwarf handed him a key with the number 17 engraved onto it. He thanked the dwarf, then spun on his heel and walked up the stairs.
After spending several minutes fumbling around in the dark looking for his room, Jarven opened the door hurriedly and locked it after himself. He walked quickly over to the bed and flung himself onto it, pulling the blanket over his head and finally allowing himself to relax, enjoying the comfort of it all. It took him all of ten seconds to fall asleep, plunged into a deep sleep and pleasant dreams. He'd need the rest; the next day would be a long one.
Old Comment (reply to above guys, who were commenting on the story)
hi, try breaking it into smaller chunks. No offence i couldnt bring myself to read all of it just the end :/
Thanks for the feedback. I was actually trying to make it longer than normal to give people plenty to read, but I suppose it's easier for me to write + nicer for people who don't have a lot of spare time if I give it in small, bite-sized chunks. I'll definitely make the posts a lot shorter from now on. Again, thanks for the tip. I'm also trying to come up with a new name for the main character. Jarven just doesn't sound well to me at all. It's a bit of a mouthful
Hope anyone who did manage to read through all of that found it enjoyable
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Topic: Short Stories (Read 1914 times)