This place is dead ain't it? Well, here goes nothing.
I decided to try and re-write a story I had started long, long, ago.
This is totally unedited and just wrote in one sitting. And only about 600 words, so just the very very start. But I figured I'd share it.
Certainly not the most exciting start, but hoping to make it more interesting later on.
If one were to ask the average citizen of Celta “Where is Olm?” the response would, almost always, be “What in the Abyss is that?”. To say it’s unknown to the general populace is an understatement.
Olm is a small town, with barely over 300 residents, near the western border of the country of Celta; largest country on Ipios.
Many would say it barely even qualifies as a town. It’s more a collection of buildings than a true town. The homes and shops are separated by trees, and many are at least a ten minute walk away from each other. There are small clusters here and there but, for the most part, the buildings are fairly isolated.
The only saving grace the town has, when it comes to being acknowledged by others, is that it is the closest settlement to The Whispering Peaks. Though this is a dubious positive at best.
The Whispering Peaks are a mountain range that stretches across the western coast of Celta, and are rumored to be home to many ghosts and evil spirits. However it is a place of great curiosity to the bravest, and most desperate, adventurers. Thus the lone Tavern of Olm, The Soggy Stump, manages to just barely keep itself going by renting rooms to adventurers.
The owner of the Tavern, Brody Wallis, was a very noticeable man. Balding, with large and beefy arms, Brody stood at an impressive six foot two inches. However none could call him an intimidating man. he had rosy cheeks, large and bushy mutton-chops, and a beer belly that has started to poke out of his shirt. He says his shirts shrink. His daughter, Elizabeth, would respond telling him that, if anything, his shirts have stretched out over the years.
He has lived in a small space above the tavern, and above the rooms for rent, with Elizabeth, ever since his wife died when Elizabeth was only eight, twelve years ago. It was just the two of them, Elizabeth’s younger sister, Emma, having been sent to study magic farther east. While their living space isn’t very grand, they both seem quite happy with their lot, and spend much time town below in the tavern, interacting with the guests.
On this particular afternoon, Elizabeth was serving one of the regulars his second pint of beer when a strange man walked in through the doors.
Elizabeth looked up from the glass she had finished pouring into, and absently tucked a strand of her long, dark blonde, hair behind her ear. Her thought about how she would have to tie her hair up more securely was interrupted as she gazed at the man.
Outwardly he didn’t seem much more than a haggard traveler. Shoulder length, red-brown, hair which was somewhat tangled and unkempt. Unshaven beard, average height, and a fit build. Likely in his late twenties and wearing a simple brown cloak. However as soon as Elizabeth laid eyes on him, she froze. There was something about this man that concerned her.
She couldn’t quite explain the problem but she felt a sudden chill, and a bit of fear, while she looked on. She had an unexplainable feeling of dread, as if this man was going to cause her harm.
He didn’t seem to have any particularly foul motives. He looked around calmly at the room he had entered. Taking in the small, circular, tables that were laid out on the floor, with several stools around each. The simple and sturdy bar off to one end, and the small stage which was currently empty but often had someone playing an instrument.
From the bar, Elizabeth heard her father cough, startling her out of her frozen state.
What do you like most about creative writing: It helps to get me thinking, and it's fun.
What do you like most about creative writing: Exploring the little details of huge worlds.