A plea for help

I had an idea of characters... don't expect it to go any where because it will most likely stay unfinished forever.

“I don’t like the look of it here, Sebrin,” muttered the woman, apprehensively, clinging tightly on to her husband’s arm and digging her perfect nails into his flesh as though afraid one of the dangerous looking people lounging outside their ramshackle homes might take offence to the words and lunge for her, “these people seem to be desperate enough to try anything to get a few extra coins.”

“I don’t like it either, Sweetheart,” Sebrin answered, while trying to dodge a lump of whatever it was that could smell so frightful without condemning his wife to it, “but try to keep in mind that we are as desperate as they and the only antidote to our anguish is within reach now, whereas these poor souls will never escape whatever enchains them.”

“That’s all well and good, but I am sorely regretting not wearing our servant’s work gowns, although, by the looks of things, even those tatty skirts would be extravagant walking these streets.”

Sebrin simply sighed at the lady’s complaining; it was not her fault at all that they were in this mess, but she wasn’t exactly helping things. So, while she nattered on about the youth with the blade in his hand and the girl whose bosom almost fell out of her blouse, he kept an eye out for the signs his... oh, what had he called himself? His Channel! He kept an eye out for the signs his Channel told him to look for:

Over there was the men’s pub, The Lone Stallion, its paint barely clinging to the cracked and shaky wall, and just up the road a few meters was its partner, The Free Mare, where the women eased their pain with drink. This little arrangement was one of the few things any of the High Council of Brochen did for the tiny beggars’ town; it was supposedly for the protection of the women, but the females seemed to be handling their counterparts rather well on their own. This was made quite evident as a drunkard was chucked clear out of the lady’s bar into some suspiciously brown water in the street.

A few steps along was the hunched, blind man, inflicted with the burns of the trade he could no longer work for. Who was probably cast out of the drudge houses when his eyes began to fail; that’s the way it worked there �" no rent, no roof. Sebrin wanted to pass the old fellow a coin; however, he didn’t want to go flaunting his wealth in such a place.

Finally, they reached the little shack, three doors down from the sightless tramp, which had nothing extraordinary about it at all. Except, when you looked through the wire window, you could see-

“Oh my word, Sebrin, there is a girl dangling from the rafters,” the woman on his arm shrieked, almost delirious, “Upside down! By her legs!”

“Hush now, Demicha,” Sebrin soothed, “this is the place we are looking for.”

Like a true gentleman, Sebrin rapped his knuckles on the door cleanly and politely and awaited an answer.

A few seconds later the youngster who was on the ceiling not moments before opened the door, with apparent difficulty; the bottom of the rickety piece of wood dragged greatly on the stone floor, “Hello,” she said in a singsong voice, her smooth face gazing brightly up at him, “Who are you?”

While her husband and the strange girl exchanged a coded conversation, Demicha analysed the child, trying to pin an age on her. Her legs were covered by a pair of extremely baggy cotton trousers, so slack they almost looked like a skirt, what appeared to be a calf length tunic, which was split at the sides from her waist to the floor to leave her legs free to move out the side, and, like everybody else’s around here, her clothes were tatty and threadbare. A lot of her chest was bare, but the mucky blouse, which had had most of its sleeves ripped off, and the top half of the tunic kept her dignity. The odd outfit was brought in at the waist with a long piece of woven straw, showing that she had some curves, while her mad dark hair was held back with a purple bow and her unusually golden eyes sparkled with childish glee at every word she said. Demicha would hedge a bet (not that she was actually a gambler) at fourteen or fifteen.

“Do you think you can help?” Sebrin asked.

“Sure,” the young woman grabbed his pale hand in her olive toned one and exclaimed, “Nice to meet you, Sebrin, I’m Cyi! Sorry I didn’t shake your hand before; I’ve been trying to learn my manners, see, and Hoine will be proud of me if I shake your hand like a proper lady. So nice to meet you, please come in.”

Sebrin didn’t have much choice because at those words he was yanked through the doorway with more force than he expected from Cyi, who was clearly only just reaching adulthood and several inches shorter than himself. His wife was pulled in after him and the door rammed shut behind them.

“Everyone! We have some visitors!” Cyi called, skipping past the flustered couple and over the straw piles on the dusty ground, which could only be beds.

On the other side of the room there was a hole in the thin boards of wood that were supposedly the wall and just as Cyi disappeared through it another darker face, a young man’s face, with curly brown hair, took her place. He didn’t smile at them; he only flicked his head back once, signalling that they should step inside and once they had he reached out his hand. Sebrin flinched back immediately, expecting the man to advance, but he only raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh,” Sebrin said in relief and returned the hand shake, “I apologise, I’m rather jumpy at the moment.”

Cyi jumped back into sight, “This is Hoine,” she said, pointedly.

Sebrin took the hint, “Well, you taught this one well,” he explained to Hoine, “a very polite young lady.”

“I heard,” he said back, which, by the way Cyi’s rosy cheeks split into a grin, was both agreement with Sebrin and praise to Cyi, even if it didn’t really make sense to the new comers.

Demicha probably would have enquired what was meant by this statement at this point, but her attention was otherwise occupied by the others in the room, aside from the two they had already met. Cyi was the youngest here, but she wasn’t the smallest; the person leaning against the wall across from them couldn’t be much more than five foot and so thin that it couldn’t possibly be a man, although it was very hard to tell. The dirty blonde hair (dirty because of the filth �" it could be any shade of blonde) had been cropped short, the boy’s shirt and britches disguised any curves she might have and the way she was picking the mud out of her stubby nails with a pocket knife was very unladylike. Only the eyes, ice blue in colour, and lashes looked remotely feminine. She seemed pretty disinterested, not even glancing up from her work, so Demicha moved on. The next was a man, a considerably handsome man, a good height and build, no physical wonder, but plenty of muscle mass. His hair was somewhat ginger, an array of freckles on his nose and cheeks and pretty hazel eyes that were locked on hers, which made her blush slightly. However, the one that held her attention was sat in the corner, sharpening a huge spear, with skin so dark the only features Demicha could clearly make out in the dim light were his ebony eyes, matching black hair and the sheer size of the man. Or more accurate: giant. He surveyed them once then went back to his weapon, which was devilishly sharp already, even though he could probably kill everyone here with his bare hands.

Hoine had left their side to sit by a bowl of berries he was rhythmically popping in his mouth, spitting out the seeds and placing them in a neat pile on his other side. No one said a word for about a minute, when the redheaded man said, in a smooth voice, “Cyi, why don’t you introduce everyone?”

This seemed to please the girl to some extent, “Okay,” she said cheerfully, “Well, this is Sebrin and his wife Demicha,” she started, “I’m Cyi, the man who shook your hand is Hoine, but you already met us, the blonde woman is Svuna,” she didn’t react to this, “he’s Charold,” she pointed to the handsome one, who winked, “the big one’s Kanoko,” the giant nodded, “and Tajin’s out in the garden.” She took one look around, as if to ensure no one else had made themselves known, then climbed on to the sitting giant’s shoulders and, with an uncommon grace, leapt into the rafters once more. Kanoko didn’t even seem to notice he had just been used a spring board.

“You have a garden?” Sebrin asked, surprised a place like this would.

“Well, we used to have a garden,” Charold answered, a glint of laughter in his eyes, “We now have more of a crater.” Cyi giggled above them.

“What on earth do you...?” Demicha tried to ask but was cut off by an enormous BOOM, which shook the house and blew their eardrums.

The pristine couple clamped their untarnished hands over their ears as the debris fluttered down from the ceiling; meanwhile the others merely paused their activities for a moment and raised their heads, listening for something.

“I’m still alive,” someone shouted from the garden, most likely it was Tajin, “and I think... Yep! I’m still intact!”

“Then get your arse in here!” Svuna yelled in a raspy voice, “We got business,” and for the first time she laid her cold eyes on the people coming to her for help and it was more of a glare. She flicked the knife shut and put it in what must have been a holder behind one of the three sashes she wore around her hips. The sashes confused Demicha because Svuna didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would wear an accessory and they weren’t even colour co-ordinated; one was blue, one red and the other cream (it must have been white, once upon a time). They were faded, ripped and grimy, but they must have been there for a reason. Maybe to help conceal other blades? This thought scared Demicha so she stopped thinking about it.

Tajin turned out to be a small mousey man, about the same height as Cyi and didn’t look much further on in years. His straight black hair, high brow and pointed russet face gave the illusion of intelligence and as he walked in he attempted to wipe off the mud that the explosion had thrown on to his dungarees, “What’s the deal?”

“We were just getting to that,” Charold said, a question within the statement: What is the deal?

“Where to start?” Sebrin muttered, “I was something of a traveller in my youth, I’ve been almost every place this world can offer and on one trip I-”

“Can you tell where my home turf is?” Charold cut in.

“What?”

“No, scratch that, I want to know if you can identify where each of us was born.”

“Why?”

“You say you’ve been everywhere,” Svuna said, sceptically, “prove it.”

Sebrin glanced at Charold, who seemed to be the leader, but he said nothing.

 

“Well, you, my dear,” He started, “you have blue eyes and pale skin, traits uncommon to this region, however there are hunter gatherer villages to the north of your fairness, so I’m guessing Prezchmil, a land that ranges from mountainous, to trees and grasslands, to rocky terrain,” He looked up to see the young girl doing backwards walkovers on a precarious beam, he swallowed nervously, “Your eyes and name are what gave you away, the golden colour is only found in the gypsies of the Yale plains to the west, your name and, uh, free spirit are from the Gilda community,” He moved on, “Hoine, you confused me a little because your name and certain features are from the Aehan tribe of the jungle islands, but your green eyes and lighter hair are more like the settlements on those same isles so I think you are half and half, yes?” Hoine nodded, “Tajin, easy enough: the Eastern Janbi desert near to the river where explosive powders are made,” Tajin grinned, “The three Fatuma islands far to the south are the only areas they grow them as big and dark as you, Kanoko. And finally,” He turned to Charold, “Your native to this land. The land of Brochen.”

“Very good,” Tajin said with glee.

“Anyway,” Sebrin shook it off, “On my travels I got off rather badly with a gang and I have a big meeting coming up in a week and I have to travel through their territory. I need protection throughout the journey and, from the rumours, you match them in skill so I wish to hire you.”

“Are you so sure that’s it?” Svuna enquired, suspiciously, her arms crossed, “Because I’m not.”

“Are you accusing my husband of lying?” Demicha exclaimed.

“Hush up, Doll face; it’s obvious you have no idea what’s going on,” Svuna snapped, then she lent off the wall for the first time and stared icicles into Sebrin’s eyes, “it’s doesn’t look like your hubby told you much. He’s keeping it all to himself,” She tutted, “How selfish.”

“How dare you suggest my husband is being untruthful!” Demicha didn’t believe ‘Doll face’ was a compliment.

“He is being untruthful, Sweetie,” Svuna answered rolling her eyes, “you’re just too swallowed up in your own fear to notice.”

“What does it matter anyway?” Demicha seethed, “You’ll get your money no matter who’s after us!”

“And a lot of good it’ll do me when I’m dead!” Svuna fiercely shouted, “it may have escaped you, Honey pie, but I have my own priorities! You stupid pompous twat.”

All her team mates seemed to be leaning away from her, even the giant, but that didn’t stop Demicha, “Street rat!”

“Over-attentive snob.”

“Oh, bite me.”

Svuna bared her teeth like a wild animal, “With pleasure,” she growled and pounced, her sturdy hunting boots eerily quiet on the stone floor, at the source of her irritation, who moved out of the way at the last second so that her teeth attacked only the air, nevertheless it was enough to make Demicha shriek. Sebrin pulled his wife behind him in order to protect her, but there was no point; Svuna was curled up on the floor shaking with laughter, “You... should’ve... seen... your face,” she managed to choke out between ragged breaths.

Sebrin stared in complete bewilderment and decided that a person who can go from indifferent to business to patronising to anger to violence to hysteria in under five minutes might not be entirely sane. His wife came to the same conclusion, “She’s crazy!” she screamed, shaking all over.

“As coo-coo as they come,” Charold agreed, slipping is arm around her trembling shoulders, “You are so lucky she found your face funny.”

“Yeah,” Tajin agreed as exited into the garden, “or you’d be without one now.”

“We’ll think about it, alright Sebrin,” Charold shook his hand.

As they left, Svuna’s laughter serenading them out, Demicha turned on her husband, “You’ve put our lives in the hands of LUNATICS!” 

Author's Note

I had no idea what to call this so if you have a better choice do tell.

Reviews

[DeusExMachina]

Its obvious this is the start of a longer story, and I think the idea is actually quite nice. Its not entirely original (I've read stories with the same kind of set up many other times), but I think having kind of a gang of differing characters does work, and lets you carry out some decent characterization easily. Some of the names were a bit hard to get your head round (Hoine?), but all in all it's a nice start to a story that could end up being very good. Also, I think the name suits this piece rather well as well!

[Caramel]

Yeah... I'm probably not going to finish it. Ever. :P

[DeusExMachina]

Sad.