PERCEPTION IN A BLADE OF GRASS
The troll had obviously caught wind of him this time. He had, once again, ventured too close, but the ore was rich within the rocks at the cavern entrance. How could he resist? He had almost dared venture inside this time. Relief that he had rightly decided against that compelling urge brought a smile to his face. Yet fear drove his feet onward at breakneck speed. The troll was hardly ten or twelve steps behind and it was still gaining ground.
Bursting from the thick wood out onto the open field gave new zeal to his stride. Another smile gave credence to the blossoming thought that he just might outrun it.
There, standing amongst the blades of green. He knew he had seen something. A red thread. Impossible, for he was running faster than a zebra with a lion attached to its tail, but he knew he was not mistaken. It stood out like a sore thumb.
The troll was slowing, but he couldn’t stop to turn back now. Not when he had so narrowly made his escape. Making a mental note, he would return to investigate later, much later, after that god-awful, ugly, stench of a creature had crawled back into the dark hole from which it had come.
Hours passed. He milled around the small village to kill time. It was not far from the valuable dig of ore he had discovered. The tavern beer was watered-down and not worth the few coins still clinking within his pocket. Folks here tended to be stand-offish to his kind anyhow, and he had already drawn more attention than he was accustomed to. He found solace in the village graveyard of all places. No one paid him any mind in this place. It was actually a peaceful respite; a small stream bubbled toward one end, lending its mesmerizing song to his enjoyment and relaxation.
He noticed that the marking stones were many in this graveyard. Some bore engravings with names and dates indicating a long history within this place of burial. Others were smaller, worn with time, and covered in rich moss.
Courage returned with the much needed rest. He decided to go back and search for the strange thread that he had perceived among the grass of the field.
Retracing his steps he found it less difficult than he thought it might be. Some of the grass was still mowed over from his earlier flight, leaving him a broken trail. A red glint caught the corner of his eye. Sure enough, there it was. One red thread in a sea of green.
Clawing the grass away he dug up the tattered fragment of cloth attached to the thread. Perhaps it had once been a tunic of scarlet or maybe the remains of a grandiose handkerchief. The embossed letters, though worn, were easily distinguishable whatever it had been. JW it read.
“Who is JW?” he wondered aloud to himself. Certainly there was no reply, but as certain as the silence that accompanied his question, an answer dawned on him like the lighting of a lantern. He had observed those same initials etched into one of the marking-stones in the village graveyard.
It was a quick trip back. He confirmed the very initials on both stone and cloth. Even the style by which they were crafted seemed to match. But what of it? This was no concern of his. An old peculiar feeling began to sound warning deep within his gut. It was this sort of thing that always ended in trouble.
“Dang it.” he muttered. He was intrigued and he knew it.
It was only a piece of tattered, discarded, old cloth that someone had thrown out without so much as a second thought. If so, why then did he feel so compelled to pursue the matter further? Was this some form of trickery? Had he been bewitched by an old, lost, fragment of red cloth?
“Baaaahhh…” he scoffed. His sensibilities told him to forget the whole thing, but his feet were already walking toward town.
The local tavern seemed a likely place to ask. That, and the fact, that it was the only place he had seen more than two people gathered together in the entire village.
He received the same rude welcome he’d experienced earlier. Considered quite handsome among his own people, it was obvious he was not viewed equally here. At least humans tolerated his kind. There were some races that outright loathed his race and did not hesitate to show their distaste.
The rude welcome turned to bitter disgust at the mention of the initials and the name inscribed upon the stone marker. Tempers rose further at the realization that he had somehow disrespected the deceased by soiling their rest with his visit to the gravesite.
In a rush, he found himself tossed from the tavern like a raucous dissident. If he had noticed any ill-favor when first arriving at this quaint village, he was thinking that he had far exceeded his stay now.
Angry, alcohol embolden words, hammered vehemently within the tavern walls. He rose quickly, wiping the dust and soil of the street from his trousers and shirtsleeves.
The urgent instinct of survival motivated a quick departure, but not before his ears garnered a distinct clue among the loud tavern voices. It seemed “JW” was a person of treasured prominence in this village.
Had he discovered something of importance? Was this piece of red cloth of significance?
“No. It’s just a piece of junk.” he told himself. He thought to toss it forthwith and be done with this ordeal. “It’s only a pair of obscure initials.” Yet, curiosity continued to compel him. He wondered what this was all about.
He could hear the door to the tavern open somewhere behind him. Voices were spilling out onto the street. He darted from shadow to shadow. The afternoon sun was low on the horizon lending a pale cover. Hope lifted his gaze. He spied a great tree in the distance. It was within running distance. If he could reach it and put it between himself and his pursuers, then he might have a chance. He began to race toward it when a thin figure stepped gingerly from the corner of a thatched building blocking his escape.
Fear should have seized him. A deep foreboding of disappointment should have taken the breath from his lungs, but it was already vanquished. Her beauty surely stole the breath from him. Her presence alone had captivated every thought. Escape no longer caused his feet to fret, nor did the thought of his eminent demise raise the briefest of alarms in his mind.
“ I heard voices in the tavern.” she said, the melody of her own voice quieting his soul.
He lowered his head. Surely a creature as radiant as this; a creature of such undeniable beauty, must find his visage loathsome at best.
“Did you find something that belongs to Papa?” she asked, a gleam in her eye allowed hope to lift her rosy cheeks.
The sensation of joy he felt at the twinkle he only glimpsed in her eye was overwhelming. He could not find the strength to utter a single word. She held him with the simple sound of her voice the way a mother held the hand of a small child.
Loud voices filled with anger and hate closed behind him. A cry rang out. The scurry of feet and the smell of dust filled the air. Nerves twitched deep in the sinew of his arms, yet he remained steadfast in the presence of the young woman that stood before him, unyielding to the angry mob that was quickly surrounding him. Surely the entire village had emptied to escort his swift demise.
All motion stilled at the presence of the young maiden. The anger failed and wasted away. The voices ceased. The sound of a cricket sprang forth like the sound of a trumpet in the fervent calm.
Sweet innocence broke the silence once again. “Did you find something that belonged to my Papa?”
He dared not lift his head, nor utter a sound at all, not for fear of the crowd, but embarrassed that his vulgar tongue might in some manner offend. He reached into his pocket and produced the trinket of embossed red cloth and ever so gently handed it to the maiden.
A tear seeped from the corner of her eye and slowly rolled downward caressing the soft skin of her cheek. It was quickly followed by another. The unsettled stir amongst the crowd caused a feeling of regret to rise within his gut. Had he somehow offended her in this offering?
Lifting her hand she wiped the tear from her face and reached forward lifting his chin until her gaze met his. She smiled broad relieving him of any and all fear.
“Can you take me to the place where you found this?”
It was only a moment later and they were searching the ground where he had found the tattered cloth. It was not a misplaced piece of tunic, nor a fancy handkerchief. The red cloth had been a piece torn from a purse. The purse had been stolen only the day before her precious Papa passed from this existence on to the next. Amongst the coins that were carried in the purse was a priceless family heirloom. A simple four-leaf clover given generations ago. It was a symbol of luck and prosperity to this family, but would have been quickly discarded as worthless by a would-be thief.
His keen eye rewarded him once more. There it was perfect and true. A four-leaf clover lay only inches from where he had first spied the scarlet thread. He gracefully handed the trinket to the maiden.
What had been shear hatred only moments ago became cheers of gratitude among the crowd. Hands pressed in from all sides to slap him warmly upon his back. Never again would a human in this village view his kind with skepticism or mistrust.
The maiden kissed his cheek in thankfulness and with a certain twinkle in her eye. He felt a spring of exhilaration fill the very marrow of his bones.
And after the warm and endearing welcome he experienced in the tavern that evening, he knew he would always find friendship in this village.
Strong obsetrvational Perception suggests rogue.
Desire to not drink and save coin suggests thrifty rogue-swashbuckler? DNR officers are trained to be "clue-sensitive" in the wild- ranger maybe.
The ore vein suggests a crafter- maybe Dwarven-Elves are great crafters too
Out-running a troll suggests elven ranger or druid even (SoW)
Human dislike suggests Ogre-maybe shaman with the hero being calmed by the graveyard(spirits).
I would say male, not to be LGBT insensitive, but he was as struck by the voice as I was =).
His lack of understanding of human tears suggests ogre or skar- but im leaning ogre due to skar essentially being a troll.
Like a typical shaman He is also driven to lay spirits to rest.
The hero is a male Ogre Shaman, who is not a craftsman or a merchant, but his master won't teach him priceless knowledge without compensation. Afterall, an ogre has to eat. So he's mining the Ore to sell to the blacksmiths at the broken maw. I also contend that he is traveling in the valley of the watchmen!
Care to share your vision of the hero Klumpedge?
PS- There are some great lines in this story that cross over the poetic edge. I LOVE that. That is always the writing voice that I try to capture because story tellers ARE bards, and poetry fuels emotion.
