The Ballad of the Lonely Poet (Short Story)

My story begins like most. A poor fool trapped in a life he did not choose. I found my life tilling and working the dry sod of the plains. Grains, wheats of various kinds were easy to see there, most of the crop died out quickly in the frequent droughts, it was common to see vast farmlands reduced to dry chaffs by fall. It was a meager life, one of simplicity and strife.

I was tending to the fields one day, gathering the good crop for the mayor’s taxation. We had no gold so the mayor of the nearby city taxed our crop. I placed tenth of my crop for taxation and took it through the city’s gates. I had no steed, so I pulled my small wagon myself, at the counting house I dropped off my crop and was questioned on the amount, asking if this was truly a tenth of all I had. I affirmed this to be true, telling them that the drought was especially difficult this year and of all my good crop, only two-hundred of my sheaves were good enough to eat. They nodded and had me fill out the paperwork required.

After the taxation, I took to the tavern with what little coin I had saved. I loved the smell of grilled meat and the merry songs of the travelers there. They would often sing of these heroes and their legendary tales. Heroes that saved sods like me and restored life to the land. Heroes who could command flames and wield the mightiest of swords. I fell in love. These stories were my hope and dreams, that I would one day be witness to such grand Adventurers, that I would leave my meek life and take to the world. It was never something I expected to happen in my life, and certainly my life has treated me well.

I was perhaps a bit tipsy when I returned to my small cottage, pulling my wagon home and singing drunken songs I had heard in the tavern. It was a joy to see my wife greet me, slapping me to my sense. She was a beaut, the best thing I ever had in this life. Her smile warmed the stone heart in my chest and freed my of my shadows. She dragged me into the house and gave be a warm drink to sharpen my mind, what a bitter concoction she brewed. I forget its name, but whatever it was it worked. Any drunken man would return to his senses after one tankard. It was a bitter hell to the tongue, but it was a necessary one. I remember returning to my senses, staring into my wife’s iridescent hazel eyes. I loved her, Amephyst Woodburo the gem of Hillsdale.

There was another that sought after her, a greedy disgusting man who was known as our city’s mayor. Enram Eckleson. The beast took her first kindness as “proof” of her love for him. He often referred to himself as her true lover. I hated that man and our feud was well known in Hillsdale. If I was the workhorse; then he was the lazy ass, chewing hay at his own leisure. My wife would often come to me for comfort, Enram drove fear into her. I remember the solemn nights where we would sit by the the cottage’s fireplace. I would hold my wife has she let the tears escape her eyes. She was a gentle creature, there was never any malice in her, never any hatred. The only thing she learned was fear. The fear of that man and what he might do. I hated that man with a fervent passion. The disgusting pig only sought to better his comfortable pen.

It was one of these nights where we sat down holding each other, that I felt a wind blow gently into our house. She was asleep in my arms, her head against my chest. Something felt wrong and before I could even shout the pungent smell of smoke filled the house. I was coughing in second as my vision was clouded by the black fog. Amephyst awoke to my coughing and saw the horror. That horrid pig reduced his jealousy to action and had burned our fields. My cottage was surrounded by a wild fire and if I could not find a way we would perish by this flame.

I cried out in vain. Not a soul near enough or willing to help me at my worst. I prayed for something. Something that would… save us. That’s when it spoke. My wife did not see, nor could she hear it. It spoke to me in an unknown tongue. I knew the words it spoke, as if they were engraved within my mind. My mouth began reciting it, and as if an answer to my prayer was spoken. The words twisted at my scattered mind, preying at my every thought. Once the words were weaved I felt a drop of water hit my head. One after another rain began falling in the surrounding area calming the roaring flames and saving our lives.

That fat bastard realized what had happened and broken down my door, sword in hand. He charged at me aiming to stab me through the chest. Amephyst… she pushed me away, taking the strike in my stead. It pierced through her heart, killing her instantly. The murderer stood in shock, this was not what he wanted, no not this. I took the nearest object at hand, a wrought iron pan, and hit him in the head, over and over, until his bloated face was a bloody mess. I felt no remorse in that action, just hatred, hatred of another damned man. He was dead, unrecognizable, beaten. My life was ruined, devastated. I left my cottage. I set- It burned to the ground, my wife buried in the fields, marked by a heavy stone. I took a small dagger and chipped away at the stone until I marked it with a simple cross. I felt called to the distance. I felt commanded to leave Hillsdale, by it.

And so I left, bringing what I could salvage. I spent much time reading about the mythical creatures and training with my dagger. I searched for what called me and to this day I still do not know. I could feel its pale yellow eyes staring into my mind, crafting unknowable words in my consciousness. I dare not return to Hillsdale, for I do not know what I would find if I went back. My travels led me here, of all places, and into your company. I do not expect a welcomed greeting, or even a happy one. I know my wrongdoings, I know my hatred, but at least one dream is within grasp, at least that hope still shines.

You may call me what you want, but to properly introduce myself I’ll make known my name. I am Tanneth Woodburo, a wayward soul from Hillsdale.