Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,8
have made for the east until more civilization appeared, and worked from there on. But the moment had passed, and the door did not crack.
He briefly thought that perhaps the hut was an abandoned jail for some poor slave who had stepped too hard on his master’s foot. The windows were in pristine condition; there appeared to be no cracks, or for that sake any chips in the green paint coating the door. A bird chirped in the distance, and the sound of the sand ridden wind grew louder as he stood still waiting. The sun was extremely bright and there was no shade for him, making sweat slowly bead on his forehead as the intensity of the day grew. His hand holding the broadsword slowly released its tension, almost letting the handle slip, as he sighed in disappointment. He knocked once more, yet still no response came. He tried the door’s knob. It was locked. With a sigh he threw away his last hopes of anyone being inside, and turned around to face the pathless desert abyss, about to retrace his steps. No one was home.
“Yeh fallen tatter,” came a raspy voice, seemingly from thin air. Adacon had turned his back as the words were uttered, and he quickly turned around to face their source. No one was there, but a small hidden hole had opened on the door’s frame. “What chose you to disturb me? Has the great hawk of the sky met the humble serpent of the sea?” the withered voice continued. “Ah, I see you are a slave, escaped I presume. Forgive my queer tongue, and let me open the door.” Adacon remained speechless as the tiny door swung open. Standing in the light now able to poke through the door was a small and silly looking old man, well robed in dark purple cloth.
He wore a purple cap, a strange looking assembly, lined with emeralds that appeared completely foreign to Adacon. He held aloft his left side with a marble staff, which looked rather valuable; its top was gemmed with amethysts and rubies. His face was well wrinkled, a yellowish tan desert color, filled with crazy hair that assumed the form of a beard encompassing a mustache. His eyes were deep green, and quite large, though his pupils were barely visible inside his irises. Adacon could plainly see that the odd looking man was weaker than himself, but he decided not to spare any caution for the appearance. He took his sword out from behind his back and pointed it at the small man in a menacing motion.
“Are you an ally of the lords?” Adacon asked viciously, gripping the handle tightly and preparing to strike down. To be safe now, he thought, he could only trust himself; a stranger’s trust would have to be hard earned. He kept an intimidating glare on the old brightly clothed man, but the old man simply stared back with an eager smile.
“Fellow of the light, brethren of Darkin, calm your anger. I am not at all with a label, you see. I do not follow such organized rules for structuring life, but I embrace life all the same. Now let us have some tea, yes, that would be nice. Save the sun for another day, don’t you agree? Today is a particularly harsh one. I think perhaps I shall have to set about making an awning for my front step. Perhaps the Lord Grelion should not get any sleep yet,” the little man babbled.
The old man had a delightful sparkle in his eye; Adacon could not tell if it was virtuous or pure evil. Either way, the welcome greeting was a relief to him, and rest from the heat along with food and drink seemed too desirable to question.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Adacon returned. “I am a weary traveler seeking refuge, and if possible, something to eat. I would be greatly in your debt if…” he was cut off:
“Tisk you—dabbling in your moral necessities. I am of your kind too, you know. I shall prepare for us some feast, as I suppose I can fix. But alas, it is time for you to escape this harsh golden eye, and breach into a cooler ambiance, down inside my den. Come, follow me, and leave your haste behind.” The old man grinned deeply and turned, scuffling quickly back inside his hut. It was small making for Adacon, but he managed to squeeze through the door. He sheathed his sword again, realizing