Five Runes: Prologue - At Least the Tree Isn't a Cold Hearted Bitch

by JF Hindy

The Five Runes Series

  Prologue – At Least the Tree Isn't a Cold Hearted Bitch

  By: JF Hindy

  Copyright 2013

  Pretia, Warren, and Kotomos had been walking for what seemed like ages. Just one short month ago, the trio had been in a warm bar with friends having drinks and laughing. It was early summer, the sun was shining, the sky was clear, and anything seemed possible. It was hard for the three to imagine anything going wrong.

  Now, it was midsummer but no one living in the woods would know. The trees were huddled together closely and their branches gigantic and full. It was constant night within the woods. Without the benefit of sunshine, the whole floor of the woods was clear of any foliage. Also, without the warmth, it was freezing cold. For all intents and purposes it was a desert with a forest watching over it. In the winter.

  Of course, without the warmth from the great sun, it was also freezing cold. The trio shivered as they walked as none of the three had though to bring winter clothing. Between that, the lack of plants on the ground, and the utter lack of any animal life aside from birds, the feeling among the three was sheer emptiness. There was simply nothing around to brighten the mood.

  Everyone except Kotomos, at any rate. The large barbarian was browned from spending days in the sun, training for battles he would fight for those who bid for his services. He was tall and buff with toned muscles. He also kept his hair cut very short because any hair could be used as a handhold for opponents during grappling. His brown eyes were dull witted, but alert. They saw a lot of things, but they rarely understood them unless it was battle.

  Kotomos walked along with the endurance of a seasoned warrior. Having been standing in fields of blood and bodies hacked into pieces, a clean forest that was a little chilly was not much for him. What he did, however, was booze and his favorite hobby, women.

  “How much longer are we going to be in the damn forest? We haven't seen any signs of life except these ridiculous trees for days,” Kotomos complained. He was walking along swinging his broadsword like a child plays with a walking stick.

  “It's probably a good thing we haven't. You'd probably try to either drink or make love the first thing we saw and the last thing I want to see is a rabbit or a deer have to go through that,” Pretia snapped irritably. She was just as tired of this weird, dead forest as everyone else but she also had vision. She knew her goal was reachable and even near. She could just feel it.

  Many people paid attention to Pretia's feelings because she was a sorceress. Since those who used magic had particularly great gut feelings, most wouldn't argue with a magic user if they had one. There were many reasons for this but the main one was that magic users were invariably immortal. The only thing that could drain the life force of a mage was actually using magic.

  In most children's story books, mages could use magic any time they wanted. They just had to read all day long, cast spells, and read the books again. This was impractical as no one could imagine reading the same things every day. Mages said this because they were secretly jealous.

  When a magic user hits a certain age (which can range based on race, gender, and genetics), they simply stop aging. It used to be theorized that the mystical energy stored in mages have restorative properties. This was proved wrong repeatedly because mages could still be beaten, stabbed, slashed, burned, and all manner of other physical harm with no healing whatsoever.

  The only way a sorcerer or sorceress can age is if they cast a spell. When they do, the magic drains them quite literally of life. How much they age depends on the size, the scope, and the strength of the spell. A typical magic dart might just be a few hours. A magic dart launched at several hundred people would be months. A magic dart the size of a castle might very well kill the mage.

  Pretia appeared to be in her early 30's. She was, in fact, much older. Well over 200 years old to date and it showed. Especially in times like this. Her lithe body literally shook with rage. She tossed her shoulder length red hair out of her face and glared at Kotomos with eyes made of a deep green.

  Kotomos was highly offended by Pretia's remark. He stopped talking and leaned on a tree, folding his arms much like an infant. He returned her glare with what might've been the dumbest conceivable look a person could give another. He was trying for anger, though, and it was the thought that counted.

  “What's with you anyway. A month ago you were all about walking into these woods and finding some ancient temple teeming with treasure or something ridiculous like that. Since we entered these stupid woods, you haven't spoken a word. You've just been walking around in circles and glaring at me,” Kotomos returned. That much talking was hard for the big man and he massaged his temples.

  “Well maybe if you didn't complain every 12 steps about how there are no women or booze in these woods, I wouldn't consider spending part of my life force frying you to a crisp!” Pretia shouted back. Kotomos rolled his eyes like a teenage girl might've and looked at a nearby tree.

  “Do you see what I have to deal with?” Kotomos motioned over to Pretia, who's face had turned nearly as red as her hair. The brown robes she wore flowed as though there were a wind even though there were no winds nearby. When mages show dramatic emotion, magical energy is released naturally like sweat.

  “Oh, so now you're talking to trees. That's what sane people do, after all,” Pretia mimicked Kotomos' eye roll and turned to a nearby tree. “Look at me, my name is Kotomos! I'm a drunken moron who thinks with the head hidden by his loincloth,” she mocked his voice, gabbing at the tree.

  “Well of course I talked to a tree. At least the tree isn't a cold hearted bitch like you,” Kotomos returned, proud of his comeback.

  Warren, totally forgotten by Pretia and Kotomos at this point, sat down to watch the show. As long as he'd known the warrior and the mage, they argued just like this. One would've thought them immature lovers, quarreling to hide their feelings. Except Warren knew better. Pretia just really hated stupid people and Kotomos was just really stupid.

  While Pretia and Kotomos were both humans, Warren was a gnome. Gnomes generally grew to somewhere around four feet tall and, unlike every other race, females tended to be taller than males. Warren was short for his race at just under four feet, but made up for it with a quick mind that saw everything.

  Gnomes were not much different from humans aside from size. They shared a similar life span, culture, and even society. There were scholars and artisans, criminals and miscreants. Warren happened to be all four of these things.

  As a young gnome, Warren's parents had left him on the front porch of a small orphanage. Unlike most orphans, Warren didn't grow up not knowing about his parents. They were killed a short time later by the long arm of the law after they went on a theft and murder spree. This was fortunate in Warren's mind's eye because most orphans he knew obsessed about their parents in an unhealthy way.

  However, the news that his parents were bad people inevitably did it's damage. As a kid, Warren joined a school where he became very mechanically inclined. Unfortunately, that mechanical inclination led to his invention of things like a mechanical lock pick that automatically picked locks and a nifty weapon he called a fully automatic crossbow.

  For many years, he used his inventions to rob people and commit other crimes. One day, though, he found himself wanting something more out of life and a series of events unknown to anyone living set Warren right. He used his expertise for good, but still carried around his inventions.

  Warren dressed unlike anyone else living. His jacket had an array of chains and p
ockets which hung and stored gizmos of all kinds. He had a piece of machinery that could tell how much time has passed. He called it a clock. Along with that was a gizmo to tell which direction one was going and many others. During his dark days, as he called them, he also practiced alchemy, and had an assortment of vials that contained things only he knew about.

  He ran his small fingers through his wispy white hair and sighed. His dark gray eyes looked with an odd mixture of pity and humor at the enraged humans. They had gotten around the point where they started threatening each other with physical harm. This was usually the point where he stepped in.

  “Okay you two,” Warren stood up and walked over to them. As he expected, the two didn't so much as glance over and likely couldn't hear him over their shouting. “I said that's enough!” He shouted.