Alakon, the Hunter.

1400 words yesterday, 11,500 total.

Hunter had the good fortune to stumble across a woodsman’s cottage late in the evening, and gave his name as Alakon. Starved for news of the upheaval in the south, they welcomed him in, despite the unease that his sleepy eyes left in them. The food was simple, hearty at this time of year, the fruits of the forest, fresh venison, bread heavy with the northern wild grains and milk from the two thin cows behind the house. Alakon found himself easing a little, losing some of the madness in this simple and nonthreatening environment, and his host eased too.
Natir he said his name was, once a criminal destined for the slave markets who had escaped during the first battles between the southern giants. He described the horrors of war, of slavery, unheeding of the poison in Alakon’s eyes, the soft murderous edge to his voice as he answered questions about himself with more questions about them. His bearing was that of a prince, his eyes those of a predator, his voice rich with a power that men such as Natir could not even dream of, and before long, Natir felt the stirrings of jealousy and impotence. His wife and daughter blushed when Alakon smiled at them, his son hung on the foreign lord’s every word. He had only been a petty thief in the south, stealing coins from merchant’s houses and small items left unguarded, but to the woman he had portrayed himself a great mastermind, seduced her with tales of his works, until he had killed her husband and run off with her. He did not mention the squalor of slavery, the merciless criminal lords delegating every move and thought of even the youngest child beggar. No, he saved those things until the woman began to disrespect him, to question his nights spent drinking and whoring, the unreasonable loads he put on her shoulders in bearing the children and keeping the house. She had been a rich man’s wife, bored and pampered, and it was not long until Natir had to threaten her and beat her to keep her obedience. His daughter and son had grown up with the rod and switch, and cowered when he moved near them, though bitterness already burned in his son’s eyes.
Now Natir watched his daughter simpering in front of the great lord, and his anger flared that the girl would try to refuse the match he’d set for her, but would be so ready to lie beneath a stranger. His wife was little better, and so when she fumbled his wine in her haste to obey his order for another cup, he struck her, knocking her into the wall. He was unprepared for the flood of rage to fill Alakon’s eyes, unprepared for the hand locked around his throat, though Alakon had never moved. Too late, he remembered rumors about a killer, stinking of dark magic and thirsting for blood, roaming northwards.

Alakon is a completely, whole-heartedly, a sociopathic villain. He is nuts, bitter and broken by recent events in his life. He enjoys killing, simply for the sake of it, and yet he has a twisted sense of justice also. He is not the central villain of the story, rather a side-plot that will bring the necessary characters into Jastu. The scenes with him are difficult to write, as he thinks so completely differently from normality, and yet the challenge is quite interesting as well.

The rating on this book will end up being an R at this rate, if it isn’t already, and will most likely cause complete disownment from my family… Wait, is that a bad thing?

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