WuHanXianShi14 0 Share Posted September 25, 2016 (Fucks sake LOTC don't censor the swear words I'm sure the kiddies can handle it) The Story of Croaker Chapter One A young boy of twelve skipped through the bazaar. He was a twiggy thing, with pale blue eyes and skin several levels paler than the common folk around him. His clothing was threadbare, barely a step up from a potato sack. Nevertheless, the boy wore a smile on his lips as he navigated the series of colourful tents and stalls which towered over him in the city of Jedih. The bazaar sold all manner of wonders. Dark-skinned merchants wrung their hands and bartered furiously with customers, selling spices, fruits, weaponry and exotic animals in cages. Multi-coloured lamps were strung from stall to stall, casting a colourful illumination below. The denizens of the bazaar gave the boy sour looks as he skipped by, no doubt thinking him to be a street urchin or beggar at best, and a pickpocket at worst. The boy did not mind, and made his way straight to a short stall selling a variety of sweets. The stall-keeper, like the others, narrowed his eyes at the child, but his expression brightened when the little thing fished two silver pennies out of his patchwork pockets. He put a sweetroll in a paper bag and handed it to the boy, who slapped the coins on the counter and dashed away happily with his prize. The sun had begun to set as the boy made his way home, clutching the packaged sweet like a treasure. He intended to share it with his mother, such luxuries were rare for either of them. The coins to buy them with had been a gift, a present bestowed on him by a girl at the whorehouse who had been tipped extra by a client. Most of the women at the whorehouse knew him and were fond of him as a little nephew, for they were all colleagues of the boy’s mother. The boy turned into an alleyway, and heard a coarse voice shout from behind him. “Hey, Bastard!” He froze, then turned. Three older children, perhaps two or three years above him stood at the end of the alleyway where he’d entered from. It was too dark to make out their faces, but he could see their sneers. Ahmad, Farid and Hassan. The boy clutched the sweet tighter to his chest and bolted down the alley. “STOP!” “GET BACK HERE, WHORESON.” A chase ensued, the boy lept over crates and ducked under bars, he twisted through the winding urban alleyways with the three older children in hot pursuit. The boy took a sharp left turn and clambered over a wooden fence, hoping he could lose them by taking an unusual route. He ran further, then skidded to a stop, realizing in horror he had led himself to a dead end. The three bullies finally caught up, wheezing and panting, their faces red with exertion and fury. “What did we tell you before, bastard boy?” Ahmad growled, his raven-black eyes glinting maliciously as he approached the child, clenching his fist. “Didn’t we tell you running ain’t gonna do you no good?” The boy pressed himself against the wall, shivering with fear. He knew it was the truth, but what was he supposed to do? Let himself be brutalized? These three children had no reason to treat him this way, they were as poor as he, barely a step up from street urchins. They were no less dirty and their clothing no further from being potato sacks. Perhaps they preyed on him because they knew their fathers, and he did not. Perhaps beating up a bastard, the only thing lower than them, gave them solace in their own place in life. Farid and Hassan gripped each of the boy’s arms and pinned him tightly to the wall, while Ahmad swung his fist into his spleen. The boy jerked violently on impact and let out a pained whimper. This continued for awhile, Ahmad laying several more harsh blows upon the child’s abdomen before instructing the other two to let go. The boy fell, collapsing to the ground and curling up into fetal position, sobbing. “Worthless lil’ s-hit.” Ahmad launched a kick at the boy’s rib. The boy croaked. “What was that?” Ahmad grinned, looking at his dark skinned cohorts. “What’d I just hear? I think that’s your new name! Croaker croaker!” He looked back down at the boy. “What’s your name?” “Al..Alexandros.” He replied feebly. Another kick, harder this time. The boy choked another sob. “Your name is Croaker. You understand?!” Willing to do anything to make it stop, Croaker nodded. “You better fackin’ remember it, bastard.” Ahmad picked up the packaged sweet which had fallen into the dusty road. He unwrapped it and peeled it apart, sharing it with Farid and Hassan as they lumbered away, grinning and chanting to themselves. Croaker Croaker better run You’ll be croaking when we’re done Croaker Croaker gonna cry? We’re gon’ piss in your w-hore mom’s eye. Croaker lay there, curled up in the dust and weeping. He should have known this would happen. Of course those three would know he’d been given the two pennies. He was lucky they didn’t catch him on the way to the bazaar. As he slowly ran out of tears, he began to wonder. If he had known his father, if he wasn’t a bastard boy, surely this wouldn’t happen to him. But, who was his father? “He had brown skin, but not dark like the people here. Fairer, like toffee.” Croaker’s mother dabbed a wet cloth gently on her son’s lip, wiping away the dried blood. She was fair-skinned and raven haired, with emerald eyes. Not unheard of, even in this southern land of Qalasheen, as women were sometimes taken in raids and sold off to brothels. Croaker’s mother was one such woman, taken at a young age. “His eyes were beautiful. Blue as the sky. He said he got them from his father, and now they belong to you.” She poked her son’s nose and smiled gently, which elicited a tired smile in turn from the boy. It was true, Croaker’s eyes were a striking shade of light blue. “But what was he like?” He implored to his mother, blue eyes pleading for more information. She maintained her gentle smile and scooped her fingers into a wooden canister, applying a herbal salve to the blooming bruises on the boy’s bare chest. He grimaced and flinched, causing the shoddy cot he sat on to creak. “He was gentle, and quiet. He didn’t say much, he seemed sad. There was a stone in his heart, weighing it down.” She finished applying the remedy and gently placed her hands on the boy’s chest, guiding him into lying down, then pulling a tattered blanket up to his shoulders. Croaker could feel the sleepiness seep into him, but kept his eyes half-open to squeeze in a few more questions before bedtime. “What was his name?” His mother smiled sadly at him and shook his head. “I never learned it, sweet boy. He was..” She faltered. “He was just a client.” Of course. She was, after all, a w-hore. He knew it, she knew it. She then turned about and fell into the sleeping roll only a few feet away from his. They shared the same one-room low ceilinged hut. She blew out the candle, engulfing them both in dark. “Good night, Alexandros.” Three months had passed, and once again one of the working girls at the whorehouse had given him a gift. Three silver pennies. Evidently a particular patron of the brothel had been extra generous that day. Croaker made his way to the Jedih bazaar, taking wayward alleys and hidden paths. It had been months since he had seen the sneering faces of Ahmad and his two minions, and he had learned to keep well away. The towering stalls, exotic goods and dazzling lights of the bazaar were just as they always were. The thrum of bartering pervaded in every corner and nook of the market. Croaker made his way to a thick-bearded merchant whose stall was lined with an array of weaponry. “I’d like a knife please.” The boy spoke with practiced confidence, forcing himself to look up in the man’s eye. The merchant looked down at the young ragamuffin, questioning the ethics of selling a weapon to one such as this. “Do you have coin?” The man asked, his accent a thick dialect from Abu-Khourn. He eyed Croaker suspiciously, watching the boy circle about his stall and admiringly eye his wares. “Yes sir.” Croaker scurried back over to the merchant and held out his three silver pennies in both palms. The merchant scowled fiercely. “Is that all? That will not buy you a moldy platter of pita, boy. Stop wasting my time.” he waved his hand in a sharp shooing motion. Croaker obediently padded off, looking properly dejected, but he secretly wore a smirk. He had pilfered not one, but two steel blades from the merchant’s stall while he circled around. When the world sees you as nothing but a beggar, a bastard and a thief, you learn to be very good at being all three. He walked home, going down the main road. It felt alien to him by now, as he had become so used to skulking down alleyways and hidden passages to avoid attracting unwanted attention. He had dismantled the hilt of one knife and fit it inside his boot, an old sailor’s trick he’d learned from watching the docks. The other he had hidden tightly up his sleeve. He saw a shadow following him, and pushed on, turning into the same alleyway he had three months earlier. “Hey, Croaker!” He had been expecting that harsh call-out, but it still sent a wave of nausea and fear through him. Croaker planted his feet firmly in the ground and steeled himself. Today he would not run. He did not turn around, even as Ahmad, Farid and Hassan approached him from behind with a wicked grin. “I heard one of your ma’s w-hore friends gave you her w-hore money, Croaker.” Ahmad emphasized the name, knowing it to be the insult it was. “What did you buy for us today, Croaker?” “I didn’t buy shite for you, Ahmad.” Ahmad faltered for a moment, taken aback by the boy’s unexpected defiance. “You should fuckin’ know better by now you filthy whoreson!” He roared, his temper flaring as he violently gripped onto Croaker’s collar. Croaker gasped violently, the air knocked out of him as Ahmad threw him against the wall. “Tell me your name.” “Alexandros.” A violent punch to the gut. Tears sprung into Croaker’s eyes. Fear overtook him. He gasped for breath. “Wrong answer, whoreson. Tell me your name.” Ahmad’s breath was hot and seething against his skin. Croaker squeezed his eyes shut, and in that moment, he was no longer afraid. Fear was a weak sensation being swept over by something much stronger. Fear leads to anger. Ahmad screamed. Croaker’s boot had connected with his groin in a hard kick. But it was no ordinary boot, it was the boot he had hidden his first knife in. Ahmad staggered back, gasping for breath, a growing crimson stain spread between his legs as his wound bled profusely. Croaker finally had control of himself once more, and slipped his other knife down his sleeve, into his palm. Farid and Hassan paled, their eyes widened in fear. “He’s got a shiv! Run!” They were experienced street brawlers. They knew that to fight a boy with a stabbing stick was a death sentence. Ahmad was left alone, having crumbled to his knees, bleeding. Croaker stood over the older boy, his eyes cold and distant, devoid of joy. Anger leads to hate. “What’s your name?” Ahmad forced himself to look up at Croaker, a pained glare of suffering in his hazy eyes. “F-f-uck you!” “Wrong answer.” Another kick, straight into Ahmad’s rib. This one quite possibly punctured the boy’s lung. Ahmad croaked. “What’s your name?” Ahmad no longer replied. He’d gone very still, his breathing sharp and erratic. “I like my name.” Croaker said, coolly presiding over the dying boy. “I like Croaker. I like making people like you croak. Thank you Ahmad. I like this name you have given me. Can I keep it?” Ahmad did not answer. Figuring he never would, Croaker walked off. As Croaker made his way out of the alley, he began thinking to himself. Had he done a bad thing? Much as he tried to see it that way, no. Ahmad was a monster. Ahmad had beaten all joy out of his life. Ahmad deserved to die. “Hey, boy!” Croaker froze. The voice that had just spoke had spoken with authority, it was an adult’s voice. He saw two Janissaries approaching, scimitars dangling at their belts and wearing armour of lamellar. He felt a sinking dread in his stomach, these were the city guard. “Boy, we heard screaming. What in allah’s name happened here?” It must have been his unlucky day, because the Janissaries almost never cared to investigate what they knew was just some lowly street urchin being knifed in an alley. Croaker’s clothing was specked with blood. There was a knife in his palm. Even if he managed to hide it, they’d search him and find the knife in his boot. The guards would know, and justice was harsh in Jedih. He would be hanged. So, he bolted, straight down the adjacent street. “HALT! Damned rat, stop!” The Janissaries gave chase, but their armour weighed them down. Croaker ran and ran, he did not stop. He ran until he reached the city gates and ran some more. He would not be safe in Jedih anymore. Tears welled in his eyes, he wouldn’t see his mother again. Not for a long awhile. He wouldn’t be able to say goodbye, what would she think had happened to him? It was monstrous what he was doing to her. She was a slave, she lived a hard, suffering life. He was her only joy and he was abandoning her. He ran and ran until the city was in the distance, only the deserts of the Alnorid surrounding him now. He stopped at an oasis, collapsing in the grass and splashing water from the pond onto his face. He sniffled and began to lay out a plan. His name was not Alexandros anymore. It was Croaker. He could not steal for a living, not for moral reasons. It just wasn’t stable enough. He was a worthless bastard street rat, with no education or trade. What could he do? He could fight. Of course. He could fight, or at least, he could learn how to do so properly. As a younger boy he had heard of grand mercenary companies up north. Sellswords who would save entire villages outside of Wett or Novo Horos. He could be like them. So Croaker took off his shirt and turned it into a sack. He filled the flask he thankfully had with water from the oasis, and filled his new sack with the figs growing on the oasis tree. Then he began trekking through the desert, making his way north. Chapter Two Soon 10 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Reckless Banzai Screamer 11993 Share Posted October 16, 2016 I love Croaker! 3 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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