A story of two confused writers fumbling around in an approximate english. Each is gonna write a chapter trying to outwit, outwrite and surprise the other, and each telling one side of the same story.
Will feature rural investigation, mystical brainwashing and ominous deities.
“More ale!” bellowed the fat man as he grabbed a passing serving girl's arm, holding up his tankard in front of her face. He became louder as he got drunker, Azami noticed with a sigh. He was already swaying on the bench when she entered the dark and stuffy inn, and with every drink he was losing both balance and restraint. He had introduced himself as Zu-Lem when she had sit across him at the table farthest from the half-rotten doors. She had wondered why he had bothered coming up with such an obviously fake name. It wasn't her name she was interested in anyway. The old woman on Bakers' street had told her that he had what she was looking for. Or at least he knew where to find it, provided she could pay.
So far he had only asked for ale. And more ale. It was the fifth refill now, and Azami was starting to doubt his usefulness. The inn doors opened with a creak, and a light breath of fresh air brushed her face and tickled her neck where strands of hair where escaping her tight ponytail. She was glancing at the door, distracted by the apparition of a newcomer silhouetted against the morning sun, when the fat man started talking again.
“And that's nothing compared to the beating I gave Allard! They were talking about it for months!”
Azami snapped her head back towards Zu-Lem, managing a vague grunt. She had no idea what he was talking about. She had stopped paying attention to his drunken ranting after he started talking about his days in the King's Guard. Memories probably just as fake as his name and not half as entertaining. He was wasting her time, she decided. It had been four days since her sister disappeared, and every minute spent listening to this disgusting old drunk allowed Lyna's ravishers to get further away from her grasp. But if not here, where could she find help ?
The people in her own village had deserted her the moment Lyna was gone. She couldn't tell why, nor did she waste time trying to find out. Only her sweet Rocah had helped her. He was the miller's son, and her childhood friend, and her first love. Four days ago, she had gone to him. She told him she was leaving, and he led her into a dark corner behind the sacks of grain. He asked her where she was planning to go. Somewhere, anywhere, I'll try the nearest village and see what they tell me. You shouldn't go, leave it be, he said. He pleaded with her for what seemed hours, but she wouldn't yield. She had to shove him aside to step out of the mill. He grabbed her arm, gently, and whispered in her ear. There was a talk of riders at the market. Strange men wrapped in large cloaks, speaking a strange tongue. They left town the night Lyna disappeared. They made for the East. Towards Kelhats. Kelhats, you hear ? That's why you shouldn't go. Please stay. Please forget about her. You will, I promise.
She had to run, not to strike him. And so she went East, went to Kelhats. She had no time for wash-house gossip or strange rumors. Lyna's face was burned into her mind, blanking out any other thought, consuming her fears and doubts. And as she made her way along the muddy roads and through dark forests, it was Lyna's face she saw. Not the trees and beasts and clouds. Just Lyna, pleading, crying, begging Azami to find her. In her dreams too. Last night she had dreamed of the rid...
Her thoughts were shattered by a squeal of delight from the fat man. The serving girl had come back with a pitcher of ale. Annoyed, Azami made ready to leave as the fat man watched his tankard fill up avidly. She was knotting the strings of her purse when his laughter startled her.
[to be heavily edited and continued]