[Story] a complex tale with a complex beginning-WILL publish, want feedback.

[Archanon8957]

Taran had stood up and ran from the river, looking over his shoulder to say, "Pull one of the bodies off the river!"
   The town was covered with festivities of every sort. Kind, and also oblivious, faces were in the trance of celebration. He didn't want to break that trance for any of them, because he knew the work they put into the three solid days of harvest before the festival.
   But he had no other choice.
   Heads  turned and the festivities suddenly quieted.
An old woman who was concealed behind the crowds walked towards him.
"Carcasses, you say?"
" Please, if you could find help. I don't know who to talk to."
The old woman cracked a smile. "Obviously. But you wouldn't go through this if you were lying, would you? ."
"I'm not lying."
"Yes, boy, I don't think you are. Ill fetch our scouts."
"Thanks."
. The woman disappeared amongst the crowds, who had already washed his words down with enough ale to continue the festival.  Moments later, A group of dark hooded scouts sprinted soundlessly through an abrupt opening in the crowds.  Taran struggled to keep up.
   By the time Taran returned to the river and his friends, the bodies were already downstream a significant distance. A dark silhouette crouched next to a carcass, Taran's friends had, he knew, disgustedly pulled to land. Sera was standing next to Noam holding herself protectively tight and taking fearful glances at the corpse and the scouts.
Taran walked over to the body and eyed it curiously. A rustle of clothing beside the body made him jump.
" Whoa now, don't be afraid."
"I-i'm not. I just didn't see you there."
"Good. Clevhound is doing his job if ye cant see him."
   Taran glanced back at the body. He could not tell what had happened to him- not a puncture wound nor any other sign of physical damage. Yet, the man's face  was locked in a mad contortion which spoke of measureless agony.
   Clevhound empathetically  followed the boy's gaze. "That man came from Harbor Town."
"What happened to him?"
The scout gave him a look that told him he didn't quite know, or that did know but didn't want to say.
   "Taran?" His father's voice turned him around. He took an extravagant breath. "There you are. You had me worried after I heard your voice in the streets."
   The scout shifted his gaze, then jumped. "Tell me that's not our ol'e Paleaen!"
Taran's father stared for a moment as the mans* features alluded his memory. The scout's beady eyes, however, dusted memoirs.
"Clevhound?"
"Yes sir! Its good to see you." The scout stood up and shook hands with Taran's father. Taran eyed the scout curiously, "How do you know my dad?"
"Ee never told you? Well, he has his reasons."
Taran's father softly dismissed the topic. "Ill tell you later son. Clev what has happened here?
   Taran walked over to his friends as his Dad and the scout conversed. Noam looked over at him from talking to Sera and said, "You know how I don't handle dead people well. See you at the  festival, Taran?"


" Taran nodded, "Ok, I'll see you at the festival." Sera still held herself, looking sick. "Are you ok?"
"Ok? Did you see all those bodies?"
Just then it occurred to him he only saw the masses of them from a distance. " No, actually."
"Ok then."
Moments passed. Sera read Taran's face. "Oh, don't tell me you actually want to see them."
"...Well.."
"They were dammed up by the other scouts a little further down. If you really want to look, go ahead."
"Are you going to stay here?"
"No, I have to get ready for the festival too. "**
"Ok, Ill meet you and Noam there."
   Taran shot a glance at his father then walked downstream. He could see the scouts crouched around the corpses on either side of the river, talking with each other. As he got closer he immediately realized why Sera was so disgusted. Half of the corpses were deformed.
   "Magic" The voice startled Taran. A scout dropped down from a nearby tree and walked over to him. "I'm Koreaus, what is your name?"
" I-I'm Taran."
"Well Taran it's a curious thing how those corpses got like that, isn't it? We are trying to figure out what caused it, but you know what my theory is?"
"What is it?"
" Sorcery, very cruel sorcery."
   Taran pondered this perplexedly, then abruptly heard his father calling him in the distance.
"I- I gotta go."
"Ok, take care then."
   *When Taran approached his father, the scout was nowhere to be seen. His father looked somewhat grave, and stood uncharacteristically rigid. "The festival has already started. Taran, I need to tell you something."
"Were you a scout once?" Taran said,  preempting the topic.
His father looked interrupted. "Y-yes, I was. Though I'm not anymore. Listen, there is more.
"The scouts and some volunteers from within the village are going to Harbor Town to look for survivors. There will be a meeting in the council chambers in a few minutes."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Truthfully, its for selfish reasons. Its carved into my mind to do what I can. I never told you why I retired, did I?
"Actually, you never told me you were a scout at all."
"Yes....of course. Not many people know."
"What happened?"
His father's eyes welled with feeling and spoke of a guarded hurt. He proceeded carefully, as if he was handling something so fragile it could crumble in the wind.
"I was on a scouting mission with the rest, most of whom you've just witnessed. Our orders were to capture a very evil man and return him to the village to be questioned and tortured."
"What was his name?"
" His name was Balal. We went in there completely naïve. He possessed an affinity with sorcery that none could ever hope to match, yet somehow the word had never reached our ears. Perhaps that was his intention."
"Go on."
"We saw him in the distance. He had been waiting for us, atop a hill. Waiting for us. He raised both of his hands. There was this deep purple light that glowed from his body. What I remember next is going into a convulsion of sorts, and then I hallucinated . Taran, please understand...This is taking a lot of me to tell you. I am your father, but I'm no hero. Do you understand?"
The question confused him, but he said, "I understand."
"Toreo, one of my best friends, was at my side. But, my eyes told me different. Balal had teleported closer,  drew a crescent blade, and had it poised to attack him. A person's very eyes aren't supposed to be used against him. But this time, by this sorcerer, they were. When I  cut Balal, my hallucination ended, and  I saw my friend Toreo lying on the ground....dead. I killed a friend and a fellow scout who deserved glory beyond what I could have ever earned."
"And so you retired..." Taran concluded sorrowfully.
"And so I retired"
"What happened to Balal? How did he die?"
Well, the scouting party didn't kill him that day, and I, of course retired. I heard of a band of knights dispatched for the sole purpose of  killing Balal that succeeded. Knight armor, if enchanted properly, can do wonders in protecting its wearer from sorcery. The reason....Taran, why I want you to come along, is for the exposure. I don't want the same thing to happen to you. It's a burden I can't let pass to my son."
"I did promise my friends I would go with them to the festival, but I will go with you. I don't want to upset them- It's true, I feel like they're my second family. It's a lie , but Ill say I was made to go."
   His father nodded and his eyes thanked him, "We are probably late for the meeting at the council chambers, we should get going."
Taran looked down pensively, "Wait, I don't understand why you haven't told me this before. Why did you keep it from me?"
His father gave him a sympathetic look. "Because, so long as we were in peace there was no reason to open the old wound, and no application for the knowledge I would give you . However, war is upon us again, and this time, you will be the one to fight through it."
Taran nodded, gazing into his father's eyes (connection, or too weird?)
Taran's father smiled, "Follow me."

------)(-----()----)(-----()-----)(----------********----------)(-----()-----)(-----()-----)(
   Noam re-checked the outskirts of the festival crowd, looking for Taran. Sera was standing next to him, a look of worry on her face. "Do you think something happened to him?"
"Well, if something happened to his father as well. He was there with him."
"Yea. His father seemed to know one of the scouts, and they helped us. He was with the scouts; he will be ok, right?"
  Noam paused, then said, "I think so Sera."
"Good." A nervous laugh escaped her lips
.*Noam looked away from the crowded streets. His eyes gently swept Sera's features.
"Your really worried about him aren't you?"
"Well yea I am. Do you know how long we've known each other?"
"Four and a half years more than I knew you guys. So, ten years?"
"Eleven . I met him when I was four. He is family to me. We are family...I ju..."
   A young child carrying a wooden board with mashed yams on it interrupted, "Want some yams?"
Noam replied, "No. Thank you."
The boy seemed slightly offended. "They are really good, made them myself."
  The child seemed to have no idea he was interrupting. Noam half-laughed. "That's kind of you to offer, but I am not hungry.  Sera, want any?"
   Noam glanced at Sera. Her face was in her hands.
"You look upset. Maybe my yams will help you."
Noam stared at the child confusedly. Something wasn't right.
"No, they wont. We don't want any. Now please, go."
The child  looked up at Noam mockingly. "Nonsense, take some yams. Take them now."
   Noam locked eyes with the child. The child's face suddenly had grown old. His eyes turned a piercing yellow and seared the sockets they rested in. His mouth opened- the void within soul-stealing- and said in a decrepit voice, "Two days, boy, no more."
   The child then vanished from all sight. Sera lifted her head from her hands, eyes still watery. "Noam, are you ok? "
--------------------
   Nearby, the watcher observed. It thought to itself, Illusionists can even come in the form of children, shape shifters, they are, and corrupt as sorcerers. The watcher looked down, and stated, "The people are too involved with the festival to notice, but this shape shifting illusionist, a follower of Balal's son, was correct. Illusionists are the venom that paralyzes its prey before the armies come- before it is destroyed." The watcher looked over its shoulder, " Damn Palaean for lying. He killed Balal, and he's known it from the beginning. Balal's son, as a master of illusionary magic, made him think he killed his friend, Torio, to rob him of his glory. However..." The watcher barked a laugh under his wing..."It worked out in Palean's favor, the coward would rather be guilty of killing his friend, than dread that an opponent so vastly stronger than he is, will eventually engage him in combat. I hope the fool perishes. Taran is ready."
   The watcher then disappeared with powerful flap of its wings, unnoticed by all.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
   Taran followed his father though a back entrance to the village which was separated from the festivities with buildings. The laughing and rambunctious crowds would slow them down for sure. To the majority of his acquaintances, Paleaen had always been a citizen. He would be there to have fun like the rest. How inconveniently untrue that would be.

   A neglected backside of a dome peaked out after the two rounded a corner. His father looked over his shoulder.  "Stay close to me as we step in. Just  a warning: Some might wonder why your not at the festival. I'll answer anything directed towards you. If all goes as planned nobody will question why you're here."
   Taran nodded to his father's affirmation, also taking into account his obvious tone: Palaean, his father, had been here before.
   Rough hair caught the wind as he turned his head towards the back entrance. Taran followed his father to the door, and cringed as he opened it. Rusted hinges, Taran thought, surely this would interrupt.   The interior of the chambers was uncomfortably warm. Nine torches protruded inward from the walls, uncomfortably close to the ascending rows of seats, on which were all men of approximately Taran's father's age. He did notice, among these men, a few hidden in the shadows of hoods- the men with whom his father once related.
   Taran also noticed a couple, no, a whole row of foreign-looking faces. They spoke amongst each other and observed Taran like scheming ravens.
    Seating was scarce, but the two found a seat in the third aisle and sat down. Three hooded men dipped their heads in Paleaen's direction. Paleaen did the same, though quicker.
   Taran's attention went to a man elevated on a pedestal. He certainly looked like a judge, or an authority of a sort. The ravens staring at Taran quickly turned their heads towards him as he resumed the speech.
   "As I was saying before I was interrupted,  I had not expected such a crowd as this, nor have I seen so many outlandish folk at meetings like this one, where the real threat is to the citizens, not foreigners. "    Taran looked back up at the ravens. One of them wore a scowl which spoke of a inhumane, searing hatred, yet the creases on his face suggested he had always looked like this. The most mystifying thing about it, his gaze was locked on Taran's father. For what Taran knew, they did not know each other. But he was wrong before...
   "...were fortunately able to identify the corpses by the clothing they wore and the badge on their soldiers' uniforms. Its clearly obvious that the bodies came from Harbor Town, twenty five miles south of us. It is important to note the people of Harbor Town were not harmed by weapons of any kind, except that which is made through the magical arts. Sorcery, to be precise."  Taran saw a hooded figure nod in the corner of his eye " We have yet to identify who the attackers were, but if they were just sorcerers and nothing else, that undoubtedly narrows our options. Alas, it is unheard of to have an army of just sorcerers capable of overtaking a town, especially one as fortified and guarded as harbor town was. It is unlikely that any cults are responsible for the destruction because of this same reason.  If any one of you thinks this is more of the same, I advise you to rethink. We are dealing with something quite unusual." He paused for a moment and drank from a goblet which rested beside the podium, then set it back down. " Excuse me. A group will leave in the morning to look for survivors. Would those who wish to volunteer please raise their hands?"
   His father nudged Taran and quickly whispered, "Raise your hand." Taran observed there was but a few, from the crowds, who volunteered.
   Moments later, the speaker looked down at his podium and just when he was going to proceed, an adolescent hand caught his eye. "Sir, is that your son?"
Palean nodded. "Yes he is."
"And you intend to bring him with you?"
" Yes, I want to take him through the city so he can see the effects of battle firsthand."*
The speaker's face tightened ."This is your choice."
Taran's father bowed his head deeply. "Thank you."
   A smallish man whom Taran had not noticed quickly walked to the speaker and handed him a piece of parchment. The speaker read the parchment, keeping it at arms length as though it were a danger to him.
   "That would indeed make seven volunteers, not including the scouts, who will meet at the center of the village at (time system in operation, though it is in the morning.). My servant boy will see the scouts and those who have volunteered on their way. Have a nice evening, and enjoy what's left of the festival."
    Ubiquitous sounds of shuffled clothing came afterwards. Out of the corner of his eye, Taran saw his father stand, but Taran waited. The hateful raven still glared at his father. Why? What was their connection? He would ask his father after they left.
   The sun had regressed into a bed of purple, its magnificence relatable, now, to the human eye. Taran followed his father towards the house, though would surely go back to the festival when he had his questions answered.
   Taran's father gave him a joyful look. "You see, nobody  protested your joining the group. Its great news. " Taran had actually forgotten about this potential complication entirely. Other complications swept it away.  "Did you know any others in that room apart from the scouts?"
His father paused . "I don't believe so. Why?"
" Because There was a strange-looking man in  the row directly across from us who glared at you during the whole meeting. He must have known you."
His father looked at the passing ground with a furrowed brow, and glanced back up at Taran questioningly.
"I'm not sure how that could be."
"Why not?
"Because the row across from us was empty."
--------------------------------------------------------
   Sera lay a wet rag across Noam's still face. The people would simply think he over-indulged, or *perhaps that he was ill, however Sera knew different.
   His face had turned a ghostly pale, and his eyes restlessly searched all around him, as if looking for himself again.
   Sera's concern was quickly becoming toxic, but every time she opened her mouth to ask him what happened, the words refused to come.
------------------------------------------------------
   They were nowhere to be found. Either they left the festival or the illusionists were playing tricks    on him.
   Like they did with his father.
   He wouldn't give the illusionists the immediate victory, especially if they weren't even present. He had to continue searching.
----------------------------------
   A  snail clung to a tent, watching the festival and most importantly, Taran's search. It thought to itself, "That is three times the illusionists have tampered with the lives of these citizens. The time is drawing near. Soon this village will be wiped off the map. It's all part of the cycle of things. Harbor Town was just the beginning."

-------------------------------------------
A bird flew overhead, watching a rough haired man walk towards a towering spire in the distance. It thought to itself, "Predictable Paleaen. Such a weakness this is of his. He knows of course the  common village authorities can do nothing about that which they don't see- the cunning illusionists advantage. So he goes to his village's owner, Grirok, miles away, and expects him to rid the town of the illusionists. Little does he know, it's a set up. You deserve what will happen to you, Paleaen. Damn you for your lack of foresight."
--------------------------

   Paleaean hadn't a clue if the illusionists were connected with the attack on Harbor Town, and, immediately, it didn't matter. The village's safety was his primary concern, and as far as he knew, the village was under attack.
   The speaker at the council chambers could do no more that what the owner of the village allowed. This Lord, Grirok, would be the only person he could talk to. The only person who could independently do anything.
   He lived in his tower, which seemed a simple brisk walk away, though Palaean knew better. It was actually quite a distance from where he was. The tower's size, he hoped, matched its owner's capability against illusionists.
   Minutes stretched into hours, and hours coaxed the stars to full their full brilliance.
A  light suddenly flicked the night away in the distance. A hunched man who waited next to the light eclipsed a distinguished iron gate. He had arrived.
   It was now Paleaen's time. The Gatekeeper took a step back as he approached and did not ask him why he wanted to see Grirok. Illusionists were assaulting the village!
His village. The village he grew up in and protected for seven years, where he met his wife, and where he taught Taran how to work.
   Taran.
His name shot toxic worry through his mind- he prayed he had found his friends and was safe.  He prayed to Gaedos the illusionists weren't holding him by a string like he knew they could.
   Huge arched doorways broke inward and creaked under the thick weight of steel-clad oak.
Castle doors, He thought flatly
   The interior glowed with polished oak, severely offset by cluttered, glittering objects. He lunged for a spiral staircase at the back of the room, and leapt up the steps as if  death were chasing him.
And it might have been.
   The second level was sectioned off with towering bookcases that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. Dust quickly filled Paleaen's lungs from frantic breaths spent in search of the staircase.
There. A much smaller bookcase accented its ascent.
   The third and fourth levels were split in half- menacingly luminescent orbs of  various colors, and bookcases that smelled of oil and polish and pride.
   The fourth staircase was in the center. Oak and iron and nails, or a voice, murmured in the heights. He deflected his hopes.
   After Paleaen walked up the steps of the fourth staircase, he sighed.
A bustling man turned wide-eyed, thick scrolls in each hand.
   "Whoa w-who are you?"
He smiled faintly. "My name is Paleaen, father of two- I wish to remain a father."
Grirok furrowed his brow, "Wait a moment..Paleaen...Paleaen from Thresniki?."
Paleaen furrowed his brow, "Yes, how did you know?"
   The village-lord blew air dramatically out from pursed lips. "How did I know, he asks me.... You should have bought a pony."
"What?"
"You walked all the way from your village. Did you not see the pony shop along the way?"
This had hardly anything to do with saving his village. "Look, I came to talk to you a...."
"Thresniki", he interrupted, "Being infested by illusionists."
Paleaen eyes narrowed.
"Well, not sure if you've seen them... not the illusionists but my sentries. That town has been infested with illusionists for months. I'm actually surprised you had just now taken notice, especially when your son's time is so near."
The word pulsated in his head. How dare he mentioned his son.
"What do know about my son? "
   He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards a backroom. "You'd be surprised what I know."
Paleaen was growing impatient. "Look, can you do anything about the illusionists? Can you do anything to help the city?"
   Grirok cracked a smile. "No, I cant."
Paleaen stared at him with incredulent dismay.
"But, you needed to come here. Don't worry. Come with me"
   The man walked towards another room. Palean glanced back to the descending spiral staircase, then to the room.
   Grirok soon heard following footsteps.
   Grirok spread out his hands melodramatically, "Behold, our little future predictor..."
-----------------------------------
   An ant crawled on the ground, observing a rock on wooden floors, shadowed by two men. It thought to itself, "Finally...Paleaen could use an eye-opener."
------------------------------------
   Paleaen stared blanky. It was a lonely pebble-sized disk in the center of the room.
   He was finished. If Grirok couldn't help him, then there would have to be another way. He was wasting his time here.
   Grirok place a heavy hand on his pivoting shoulder. "Listen, how would I know all that I do if this was fake? Its not as it seems, watch this."
   With a clap of a hand, the device morphed. Disks, pivoting blocks, gears and whirring cogs slowly remade the object. Soon the tiny device had  filled space of the whole room. "It's a defense system. It seemed to work on you, didn't it?"
   Paleaen reluctantly turned back to the device. "How does it work?"
"Well, think about something. Try, your village, for example."
   Two long prongs unfolded from within its works, and between the prongs a gaseous white materialized. It whirred as color infused the pure white, then halted when the colors had splayed over objects. Palean faltered.
-------------------------------------
   A moth fluttered about in the corner of the room, watching a  man gape at a circular image. It thought to itself, "Indeed, the village will be over-taken. But it will be not by Balal's avenging son's cultic group, the illusionists, but by the Xenorithians. Sorcerer's, all of them, and the finest anyone has seen. This race of sorcerers could use this plane of existence as a decent way-station to defeat their seven rivals, though as of yet, un-allied races."
----------------------
   "That's the village?"
" Believe it. You wonder why I didn't do anything to rid the town of illusionists, why I wont even try. Try thinking of your son, now."
   The image morphed.
   Desert sands stretched as far as he could see. A lonely silhouette stumbled exhaustedly over shifting  grounds.
   Paleaen's mouth gaped, "It cant be...Why am I not by his side? Where is he going?"
"Good questions. Where are you? Think of yourself now."
The image morphed once more.
   Through the tangled interlacing of branches, flat, well-trimmed grasses surrounded a man with a graying beard, and striking bitterness in his eyes. He was on his knees, facing a white, spade-shaped object.
   "Why am I crying?"
Grirok didn't answer. The tree branches dissolved, and the old man's face came closer. It wasn't himself, Paleaen realized. But familiar...oh so dreadfully familiar. He knew who this was, but it was too much. He wouldn't allow that to be his son! Greivingly, Paleaen said, "If that is my son, where am I?"
   Etchings along the white stone his son faced materialized. Paleaen braced himself on the wall. Grirok put a hand on his back. "And now you understand."
------------
   A gecko gripped the room's only window, watching two men intently. It thought to itself, "Soon, Paleaen's belief in the lie will catch up with him. He chose to believe the greatest Illusionist's trick, when he knew it was a just a trick. This man hates dreading enemies- the fool chose to believe the lie."
--------

   Palean felt like he was coughing up his heart as he gasped, " The dates on the stone, they have to be incorrect."
   Grirok's tone grew even graver, "I'm afraid not."
Paleaen pushed himself up, "I have to leave. This isn't going to happen."
"Its too late. Balal's son wants revenge, and he will take it."
Palean was too numb to react. He started walking
"You killed his father, Palean."
Paleaen turned around, incredulous tears in his eyes, "I didn't kill him, I killed Torio!"
"No, Palean. Balal's son, the great illusionist, made you think this. And you knew his tricks, yet you beleived."
   The buried pain, fire, anguish, restlessness, erupted all at once. He was on his knees. He knew his immoveable fate the moment he slayed Balal, but he would rather have guilt for a short time, than dread.
"Your stories amuse them, Palean."
   Paleaen's voice was reduced to animalistic rasp, "Where is he?"
"Here."
   He jerked his head from the floor, "Do you have any weapons?"
Grirok exhaled and smiled. "Do you think I'm willing to fight fate?"
Paleaen's face contorted, and his voice erupted, "You swine! You took a bribe didn't you? You let Balal's son use the machine!"
----------------
   A ladybug listened happily from along side a wall with two men nearby. It thought to itself, "Yes, Paleaen, the dealings of the cunning are much more quiet than you would like. Its simply a matter of survival in circumstances such as these."
----------------------
   Grirok's head dipped, "Not only a bribe...."Grirok abruptly burst into tiny particles, which eroded to nothingness. "...but my life back."
   Paleaen's screams bent under their own intensity, and his hands clawed at the wood flooring, splinters running inside his fingernails. Consuming dread.

-----
   Tents rustled in the evening breeze. Shops creaked, whistled, protested.
The festival crowds had thinned as night approached and the celestial goddesses became brilliant.
   Taran waited. His friends were still nowhere to be seen.
   No, wait. Something moved next to a tent. It could have been a bird, but he wasn't sure. He brought his stiff legs under him and pushed forward to inspect.
It moved again.
   Taran narrowed his eyes . Soon he could make out two movements, one lighter in color, yellow, golden,
Blonde.
   He broke into a dead sprint. "Sera!?"
Her head turned, eyes filled with both disbelief and elation.
   "Taran! Where were you? We have been waiting here for hours!"
Taran's lips peeled back. He said, "It's the illusionists they've played a trick on us. I'm glad you stayed."
"I'm glad we stayed."
We
   Noam hadn't said a word. As Taran circled the tent, his face fell.
Sera read him, and started shedding tears, "I don't know what happened. He just suddenly went stiff, and his eyes went all dark."
Dark.
"The illusionists." Taran muttered despondently "Sorcery's son."
"What are we going to do?" ,
     Taran wavered  in the weighty breezes as he recalled his father's advice. "Take him home with you Sera. Have a mystic come by. He'll know what to do."
Her feminine brow took on a masculine furrow. "Ok. Where will you be?"
"I don't know. My father hasn't returned yet. I'm starting to worry about him."   
Chapter two: The mourning scout
   A sword drew, crimson, out of a writhing body. Balal's son stepped on a key hanging around  the man's neck . Paleaen stood in front of the tower, dreading, seething,
loathing. He watched the gatekeeper twitch once more, then go still. Paleaen's jaw flinched.
   Lamp-light bled darkness in the murderer's eyes. With a foreign accent he said, "Paleaen... can't say I'm impressed. You followed the bait like a child."
----------------------
   A snake slithered between a bush, listening intently. It said, "Indeed, he did. However, a powerful race will save him for a short while. Though your feelings are correct, Strega son of Balal, he is unprepared."
------------------

"I was protecting my city", he said quietly.
Balal's son dipped his head. "As if you thought you could..."
      He smiled as a dreading tear rolled down Paleaen's face.
"Tell me what you chose to believe, Paleaen."
His words hung in the air, unanswered.
     Knees suddenly hit hard earth next to droplets of blood. A dribbling line of crimson joined the droplets. A lifeless corpse collapsed to the ground

--------
   Lit windows eclipsed a towering wall of ridged shade. A furrowed toddler walked in window sight, then sprouted a smile to a taller figure's pacifying hand.
Home.
   He would have to explain where father was the moment he stepped in the door. His obliviousness was like a spike that continuously drove deeper and deeper in his mind.
   But, of course he shouldn't be worried.
   His father was once a scout. He was clearly capable of taking care of himself.
Unless...
   No. His father didn't know the man he saw at the meeting. It wasn't a possibility. He was getting too worked up.
      A heavy oak door creaked open. His sister walked up to the door, pensive.
" Taran, is dad behind you?"
   No.
Taran shut the door. A taller woman walked over to him, head cocked, damp kitchen towel in hand.
"How was the festival?"
"It was fun", he lied
His sister's lips bent  as she shook her head and went to her room.
   His mother went back into the kitchen, towel swung over her shoulder, where she continued rinsing a pot . She looked over her shoulder, "I assume your father is helping clean up the festival?"
   Taran tactfully sighed . "Yes, that is where he is at."
   And that is where he was. He got caught up by somebody at the festival after seeing Grirok, and didn't  want to be rude. It all made sense now. He would return in the middle of the night, or at the latest, the morning.
Morning
The scouting party. What would he tell them? What if come morning his father still had not arrived?
   Taran rested his head against his hands. He would show up in the morning.
--------------------
   Through a window, a wolf watched a worried boy rub his hair, then move out of sight.
----------------
Chapter three: Complications
   Taran rubbed his eyes intensely. Morning air, he thought, it's so dry. The next thought came almost immediately.
   He pushed open his door and tip-toed as quietly as he could to his parents bed room. Their door was cracked open. His tip-toes slowed.
   He only had to push it to a certain point so he could peer over the corner. Taran grimaced as the door creaked.
   He saw a set of feet poking out of the covers. Feminine feet.
Mother's feet.
   His brow furrowed as the door creaked once more. Almost there. Just a little bit further.
He slowly turned his back to the wall and slid down it, head in his hands.
   Taran, after a short while, got up and walked heavily back to his room. There was one option left. His father must have wanted to meet him at Harbor Town. Not at the center of the village-  he didn't need to follow the rules. He was better than the rules.  His father was sitting on a post in the docks of Harbor Town, hand over his brow, happily awaiting him and the rest. Undoubtedly, he was there.
   Refortified and dressed, he walked out the front door .
----------------------------------
   A wolf watched a sleepy eyed boy walk out his front door from behind a veil of thorns and vines. It thought to itself, "Oh, how much of your father you have in you. When something happens you don't like, you start to delude yourself. Was this not your father's downfall?"
-------------------

   The center of town was not far from home, even though their residence was on the outskirts of the village.
   The outskirts were a matter of striking contrast to the actual village. It was dominated by granite, bristly grasses, pines, mud, fire, footprints, fences, rust, roaming hunting dogs, sweat, and pride. The village was filled with bustling folk who never failed to over-oil their hair. Ornate tapestry hung high above paved grounds. Every edge and corner was filed and polished. Shops displayed tall coats, rich fabrics, and novelties of every kind. Taran was never quite sure which he preferred more.
   His steps turned a higher pitch. A few people were socializing next to an extravagant depiction of Gaedos's blessing, a solid bronze statue. One man looked Taran's way. His eyes dropped to the ground, suddenly finding a great interest in the passing stonework. He couldn't deny that participation with the volunteer group without his father assistance felt both dishonest and awkward.
   He completed a circle, eyes still glued to the ground.  A man to his immediate right nudged him, and said, "Where's ya pah?"
   I wish I knew.
Taran looked up at him, then noticed  two others looking with questioning eyes. He paused for just a moment, praying to the statue for fortune.
    "My father got caught up with business in another town, and said he would meet us all in Harbor Town. He's deeply sorry for any trouble this will cause."
   The group exchanged nods, lips pulled at their sides. A short man amongst the group remained still, eyes fixed his way. The stone-work never seemed so interesting. The man's feet shifted.
"Son, wasn't the deal that your father would guide you there?"
   He followed his feet up to his adam's apple, then looked to the side. Curse it.
"Son?"
   Something. Just get something out. This might work. "H-he has a great...uh, contempt, for rules. He must  join us at Harbor Town. That is where he is. And if you don't let me go, once you get to harbor town he might, um... slaughter... everybody."
   The short man repulsed, then looked around the group. A man had braced himself on his knees, shaking with laughter. The man to Taran's right had cracked a smile, eyebrows raised. Others found no humor in it at all.
   The short man said, "Your making up stories, boy. Do you realize your breaking the law?"
   The one who had been laughing suddenly pushed himself up, struggling to speak in between laughs, "Sir...please, lets bring him along...we...he makes me laugh."
The small man's jaw jumped, " No, you imbecile. "
   The man to Taran's right murmured, "What if hees telling dah trufe?"
Gaedos, sell my story.
   "He isn't." , the short man said, "and even if he was, he's infringing on the agreement."
Taran's head sank. Another man piped in. "You know, I don't know who your name is,  and it doesn't matter.  I've worked in the village before on issues vastly more severe than this, and legally, you need a signature or document stating..." He motioned to Taran, "...his father's agreement to this. And come on, this is volunteer work. Are you seriously gonna hold back a child who just wants to help?"
The short man's eyebrows bent in the center, " Even if you were right, that's only half the point now. He lied right out to me."
-----------------------------------------
A bird landed on a rooftop and noticed a group of men bickering nearby. The watcher said, "Oh, the pathetic strides they make to sound important. I pity that shorter man."

-------------------------------------------------
   "Oh come on. This isn't about you."
   The short man narrowed  his eyes.  "My job is to make sure everybody on this list..." The man to Taran's right smirked as a sheet was vigorously waved in front of the other, "...is accounted for."
   He poorly suppressed a laugh. "I'm sorry, but your a servant. You have a specific master, but if there was no other people but him, would you have a job at all?"
   A voice from outside the circle rang in, "Well dun. Case be closed."
Taran looked over.
   They all wore black. A scout whom Taran had not met walked over and addressed the group, "Honestly, you guys have wasted a bit too much time on this. We need to get going. Harov, they seem to be in agreement, and we happen to agree with them."
   The small man turned crimson and stumbled away.
      "Harbor town is twenty five miles south of us fella's. Lets get moving."
After taking one long look at the statue, Taran  followed behind the group.
Chapter four: **
   The terrain had begun to transform around him. Tall grasses and distinct trails turned into flat marshes and nebulous routes. Village-citizens whistling at determined hunting dogs were replaced with protesting crows and fearful coyotes. The smells turned from burnt pine to sweat-stained cloth.
   Taran's eyes went from bright ovals to sleepy squints- his legs from fresh machines to aching weights. Food turned into charred bird and cold rations. Taran's belief in his story turned into a haunting nothingness.
   A wet flicker of movement nudged Taran's gaze off eternally passing ground. A meaningless conversation lit as Taran's eyes found the ground again.
    Somebody had said a word that sounded like his father's name. He shut out the world. Blood thrummed against his ears as if it were trying to break free. Muscles tensed as if preparing for a great war. Two eyes almost didn't want to open.
   Where are you?
----------------------------------------------
   A quivering voice echoed in a cold prison cell. A rhythm soon formed out of the senseless murmurs. Words filled the rhythm.
   A rat scurried to the source of the sound, and sat, listening.
--------------------------------------------------
Everywhere, death
   Houses still smoldered, collapsed, mourned. Charred mounds where scattered throughout the streets, to which even the scouts repulsed.  Taran found himself gaping, but not at the corpses.
A misshapen bronze statue hadn't let go of his attention.
   Statue.
   A scout walked wearily next to Taran, and stared ahead. "Bastards. Whoever they are, they just defiled the most powerful god known to man. They'll be smitten young man just you see."
   The scout turned as a voice carried his way. Taran hadn't the faintest clue what the voice had said, but the scout yelled back, "No, I haven't found any." He turned to Taran. "Be right back."
   Taran nodded.  He looked back at the melted statue, then suddenly squeezed his eyes shut. No, he told himself, I'm hallucinating.
   A shape had appeared in his far left. He dared not look. He wouldn't look.
Just as he cracked his eyes open and  had taken a decided step forward, blurry rough hair caught the wind.
   His knees found the ground, carelessly next to a charred corpse. His hands braced himself as he roared from the core of his heart. Angry tears came pouring out like he was cursed.
   When the tears finally cleared and half the group had gathered next to him, the shape was nowhere to be seen.
   The group had asked several unanswered questions, but given his state not all we expecting an answer. Soon, they walked away to finish out the job.
   A little while later, he stood up. He checked where his father stood not thirty minutes ago, and loathingly followed the ground back to his feet.
   Taran cocked his head.
What is that?
    He picked it up, the feeling of cold leather comforting in his hand. Jewels were placed in a circle about  the cover and jutted down its spine. Taran picked a place in the center of the book and opened it.
------
   "I don't know where you are, not a way, a map, or star. Don't know where  you are,  I know home is far, but I..."
   "Stand up."
Paleaen whipped his head around, and gaped madly. Penetrating eel-like eyes were covered by a gesturing, fin-bladed hand. Sharp strikes at the air issued from this one. Smaller, less imposing eyes flipped back Palaean's direction. "Or, you can sit if you choose. We aren't your enemies, you shouldn't fear us."
Paleaen's eyes blazed, "Then who are you?"
"Arkahnians."
   The taller one  bent over. The smaller one looked towards it and spoke in the same sharp, cutting voice. Paleaen thought he saw the larger one nod before looking his way and speaking again.
"W-what is he saying?"
   The smaller arkahn laughed, "She..." the sharp language stopped. "...welcomes you here, in this cozy prison cell, and apologizes for ripping you out of Tranikuell."
Paleaen briefly recalled fatal yellow light. He almost laughed. "No, tell her she doesn't have to apologize. I wasn't doing very well in the battle.
   Without looking back towards her, the other said, "Indeed, you had died. She brought you back to life. You have unfinished business."
---------------------------
   A rat's lips pulled back. It thought, "Leave it to the great and powerful Arkahnians to rescue stupid Paleaen from Strega. Its ok, the charm he is under wont last for long."
______________________
   Paleaen was then suddenly reminded of Grirok's device, and how it had predicted his death on that same day. Whether it was from shock at seeing these aquatic creatures, dying and then coming back to life, or perhaps even worrying about his son, Grirok's predictive device had somehow been forgotten. He said, "I-I shouldn't be here."
She narrowed her eyes. "I 'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
   Ofcourse. How would they? Its all relative at this point, he thought to himself.
"I saw i-into my future. In my future I saw a gravestone made for me which had in it carved today's date as the last day I lived. And so I wonder why I'm still here. Am I to die at the end of this day?"
Both Arkahns paused for a moment, then bent over, elongated fingers spread out alien-like, chips of cold turquoise beamed. Sharp, airy cuts echoed across the entirety of the empty prison cell.
They're laughing at me.
   The smaller one finally stood up straight and looked him in in the eye, and said. "You think about this wrong. In your world, the people don't even know when a person dies-all they have to do is go missing long enough."
"What do you mean? Are you saying I could still survive this?"
"What I mean is this: Your gravestone might not have been over a dead body. Yes? But there is a reason why you're here. Might we get to that?"
Paleaen laid his head on an uneven, uncomfortable stone wall, then was reminded he was in a prison. "Why am I here?"
The Arkahnian took something vaguely similar to a sigh of releif, "To help your son."
Paleaen narrowed his eyes for just a moment, then felt throat go dry. M-my son? How did you know I had a son."
The Arhkanian tilted her head, "You'd be surprised what we know."
Paleaen shook off a bad memory, "Is he in danger?"
"Well, none that you will be in control of. Traniquell is in a great state of change. Your son will bring it back to the way it was."
"Forgive me... this is all a little hard to take in. How do you know this? Why are you so certain?"
   The taller Aquatic creature looked down at the other, gesturing with its elongated hands. The smaller one looked back at Paleaen after listening. "There is a device that we have. It measures the collective state of consciousness in any given territory. Traniquell's  changes have  been brought on namely by our enemies called the Xenorithians, a race made up entirely of sorcerers."
The race that destroyed Harbor Town, Paleaen thought.
   The Arkahn continued, "Another thing the device does in times such as these is test the people's will. It looks for a hero. Its  unanimous amongst the three of our devices, and the interpreters therein. Your son is to be the one."
   Paleaen found himself gaping in astonishment and smiling with pride at the same time.
Both Arkahnians exchanged a strange series of  cutting sounds. She continued, " We need you for one last thing. She brought you back to life using an elixir. It will unfortunately fail in three days. Now is your time to do what you can for your son."
   Palean furrowed his brow. He wasn't expecting that. However, he should have been dead back at Grirok's tower. He favored dying after helping his son over dying by illusionary magic immensely. Palaean cracked a smile.
   "How can I help him?"
Her eel-like turquoise eyes beamed. "We happened to pick up one of the Xenorithian's journals. However, in all of our knowledge, we have failed to decode it. What is very likely is that the Xenorithians shielded it specifically from us and the six others with their sorcery. Howev..."
"Wait, I'm sorry, six others?"
   She responded just a bit slower, "Yes... six. Not our allies, but they aren't friends with the Xenorithians either."
"What sort of races are they?"
***She cocked her head loftily, "Oh, they range from scaly Lizard-kin to hulking Giants, from superior God-kin to  cunning Elves...I could tell you all about them, but that is not the focus at the moment.
Paleaen dipped his head low, "Continue on about the journal."
   "Yes. I was just going to say there is a chance that the Xenorithians even blocked human access to the journal's words, but we are not certain."
   Things were starting to make sense. "So, you want me to somehow give Taran the journal to be decoded?"

**Both Arkahnians smiled. "Precisely."
   "How would we do this?"
"We have a ritual that will allow us to time-travel within a seven day time frame. Unfortunately, we are limited to these seven days, but we can use it for timing."
"Why are you limited?"
She sighed, and had begun to talk until being cut off by swift, airy cuts. "Oh..."
She responded to the swift cutting sounds. " I cant tell you why. Its exclusive knowledge."
"Oh, sorry."
   She continued, " Its ok. The ritual will allow you to visit your son in ethereal form, though you will still be able to effect things in that dimension."
"What do you mean, affect things?"
Her aquatic eyes fluttered, "Well, you will be holding the journal. You will be affected by the elements, things of this nature.
" I see.
"Where do you think the best place to give him the journal will be?"
   Somehow, a simple answer didn't seem to satisfy the question.
Just then, he remembered why.  The scouting trip to Harbor Town left that morning. Had Taran gone without him?

[WhiteFox]

Things seem really rushed; everything gets described in one or two sentences and it's like we're watching the story in fast forward. The tone is very pragmatic, and there isn't much sense of ambience or mood.

As complex as this story is, it could stand to be condensed a lot. There seems to be a lot of events and scenes that, for the most part, all establish the same thing. The point of view jumps around a lot too, which can be disorienting.

Both of these things considered, I guess my best advice is that you might want to take more time to describe fewer scenes. Make every word count.

There's some errant punctuation and spacing. In particular you might want to comb it over for apostrophes. There're some extra ones, and some missing ones. There're quite a few indentations missing too, though the ones that are there do make things much more readable.

Does the story have a title?

[llearch n'n'daCorna]

It's also extremely long. If you want commentary, might I suggest posting it in readable chunks - a page or three at a time?

[Archanon8957]

Things seem really rushed; everything gets described in one or two sentences and it's like we're watching the story in fast forward. The tone is very pragmatic, and there isn't much sense of ambience or mood.

As complex as this story is, it could stand to be condensed a lot. There seems to be a lot of events and scenes that, for the most part, all establish the same thing. The point of view jumps around a lot too, which can be disorienting.

Both of these things considered, I guess my best advice is that you might want to take more time to describe fewer scenes. Make every word count.

There's some errant punctuation and spacing. In particular you might want to comb it over for apostrophes. There're some extra ones, and some missing ones. There're quite a few indentations missing too, though the ones that are there do make things much more readable.

Does the story have a title?

First of all. Freaking mounds of thanks to you and learch for commenting. You guys rockk.
And this is actually excellent advice. There is a lot going on and it is rushed. The beginning segment is like that, but it will calm down later when Taran gets this journal. Hrm. The world needs to be told a bit more. I am actually overjoyed to hear this. World building is easy to me, im glad atleast there wasnt enough to keep the reader occupied. I know what to do now.

Thank you so very much.
-Arch