The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

The Planks

If dishonesty and butchery were art forms, there is no doubt Jain is a master of his craft.

Danan. The Third Great Age. 3031.

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Danan opens his eyes; his slow, startled blinks reveal bright eyes observing him from above.

"Master monk, wake up; it's time to go." Firm hands rock Danan's shoulders before Cecil struts out of his vision in a prancing blur of self-importance.

Pale morning rays' seep into Danan's vast bedchamber as the gentle breeze brushes through his wavy hair. Danan grunts as he rises, groggy. The rhythmic thrumming of cicadas and crickets heralds the morning from the open window. To his own surprise, he rolls out of bed unclothed and stands stark naked in the warming sunlight. A splash of cold water rains down some sense of consciousness. He dresses, slipping on his light black silk robes and sliding on his leather sandals. He collects a tube case of writing reeds and a small pouch with clay pots of ink and gum.

Danan then strolls through the garden, where butterflies bob and weave between the droning bees. At his feet, the brooks babble and the leaves rustle overhead. The golden sunlight warms his sleepy face as he strolls out into the front courtyard with dawdling steps.

"Master Danan, do get on with it this way, if you please. Don't dawdle; Lord Varesh is pressed for time." Cecil's voice, lofty and high-pitched, carries a sharp and condescending whisper from ahead. Danan strolls into the main courtyard.

"Rise and shine, cocker. Heard a scullery maid got an eyeful of his holy tackle," jests Captain Jon, smirking. The horse-mounted household guards, clad in gleaming plates, titter beneath closed helms as they sit atop fidgety destriers, eager to move.

In front of the main house stands a wooden carriage made from dark fruitwood. The four-wheeled horse-drawn carriage rocks on four large iron wheels. Its enclosed wooden body curves forward from the base of the enclosure. The outside of the carriage is carved with an intricate mosaic of mystical geometric patterns. At the sharp square end, a double rear door swings open with a gentle squeak. Atop the carriage stands a mountain of wooden chests, woven bags, and crates. All tied down with ropes, fixed tightly to the carriage roof.

"Do hurry up, Master Danan." Lord Varesh's impatient voice sounds dull and muffled from inside the carriage, his eyes boring through the dark, diamond-shaped windows.

"Well, come on then, climb in, sir monk." Captain Jon closes his helm, then pivots his horse with a gentle shift of his weight. "Cecil, you ride up top with lard pot." The portly driver sticks his pinky finger up his nose, rooting around for something buried deep within. The driver mutters profanities as Cecil leaps next to the fat carriage driver, nimble as a cat. The caravan lurches into motion, rocking the mountain of wooden chests on the carriage canopy. The driver clicks his tongue and pulls on the reins, urging the caravan forward.

Danan scrambles into the departing carriage, but the sudden jolt sends him sprawling like a felled tree onto the wooden floor. A lone lamp swings above him, in rhythmic motion, from the carriage roof. A small bed occupies most of the space and is adorned with a Thielian wool blanket and a giant white bear pelt, resembling more of a sleeping chamber than a carriage. To the side of the carriage bed, a lone wooden bench faces inward, inviting contemplation amidst the rolling opulence. Danan looks up to find Lord Varesh lounging on the luxurious bed, propped up by piles of soft cushions.

Jain sprawls, crammed onto the narrow bench, to the side of Lord Varesh. He lets out a growling snore and scratches at his questionably stained, spread crotch. His head hangs down, almost touching his chest, drooling thick globs of spittle onto his damp pants. A burp stinking of fish and stale ale erupts from his unconscious mouth.