Tales From Creative Writing

The Sorceror

5/2-6/29/2023

Suddenly aware of his own existence, Fuuxandith feels…warmth, and a softness. A bed. He wasn’t here before. Where is he?

He sits up with a start, and a piercing pain stabs his abdomen as he grunts and brings a clawed hand to the wound, only to feel rough gauze through a shirt that isn’t his securely wrapped around his large torso. A small blossoming streak of blood seeps through his side. Pressing his hand there, a muted version of that stabbing pain shoots up his orange scales.

Fuuxandith takes a moment to look around the room, the walls a mixture of wood and stone, just barely tall enough for his height. A gentle stream of light shines through an open window, revealing a clean, dust-free floor. The furniture resembles that of a standard inn: minimal and pushed to the sides, leaving a central space in the middle. A chest is pressed against the foot of the bed (which suddenly seems disproportionally large compared to the small room), while drawers and a wardrobe sit quietly in a corner. Beside the bed on a nightstand, a glass of sweet-smelling, sunset orange water waits to be noticed. Fuuxandith narrows his eyes at the seemingly harmless cup.

No, he wasn’t here before. He digs into his clouded memory for an answer: he can remember…the lashing of relentless rain, dramatic flashes of lightning in dark clouds, and an earth-shattering crack…and nothing else. Judging from the bandage, he must’ve gotten injured and someone took him in…but why?

He’s not waiting around to find out. Fuuxandith swivels to get out of the bed, and the sword of his wound twists into his side and he hisses in pain. But he’s dealt with worse. He fights the bandage telling him to stay down and slowly rises, his horns shy of the ceiling by a few inches. He needs to find his armor– he’s sure he was at least wearing that– and find whoever took him. Fuuxandith takes a step forward–

–And his leg immediately buckles under him; his arm instinctively shoots out to the side to balance himself, but instead his hand slams into the glass, sending it flying and shattering on the hard wooden floor, water splashing and flecking the walls.

"Son of a–" He winces, one hand braced against the nightstand while the other holds his side that feels as if it's been torn open.

Footsteps rush down the hall, making the distinct tap tap tap of talons. The door flies open, a worried, elderly kenku taking in the sight, black feathers slightly fluffed up.

"Oh dear, are you okay?" His voice croaks and creaks like an old floorboard. The stranger, minding the glass, rushes to Fuuxandith's side, his hooded cloak giving his movements a willowy quality.

"Who are you? What am I doing here?" Fuuxandith snaps, slightly snarling in a mild show of aggression. The shattered glass set his nerves on edge– he doesn't know what this person wants from him or if he can be trusted. He's not letting his guard down.

"Yes, introductions are in order! My apologies," the stranger smiles. "My name is Crow. I found you unconscious nearby, stuck under a fallen tree after a terrible storm. You were bleeding very badly, so I took you here for urgent care. I'm glad to see you're finally awake."

Fuuxandith scrunches his snout: Crow's a bit of a redundant name, considering kenkus are already crows…but whatever. He remembers a bit more clearly now…yes, he was testing his strength against the trees. It was a horrible storm, as Crow said: a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree and it must've fallen on him. It would explain the tearing pain across his torso, if the tree went so far as to rip his flesh. Fuuxandith grimaces; he would've been dead if not for Crow.

"Oh. Uh…thanks." But Fuuxandith remembers his earlier disposition and goes back on the defensive, his gruff voice sounding more like barking. "So, what? Do you want anything? What do I owe?"