The Ivory Killer (DISCONTINUED)

-Chapter Five- Aron

Heads up, this chapter includes injuries and slight mentions of blood. How do you guys feel about these warnings? Like 'em? Hate 'em? Find 'em unnecessary? Your feedback is appreciated! On with the stuff!

Waking up was less than pleasant, in more ways than one.

It started with a broom to the face. The dusty bristles ripped an aggressive sneeze from my body before I looked up at my attacker.

Ah, the blacksmith's wife.

"Scram!" she grunted, before hitting me with the broom once more. I raised my hand protectively, but she continued her broom-barrage. I spluttered a quick, "Sorry," before scrambling away, barely missing a hit to the back of the head.

I sprinted around the shop and slowed to a stop in the streets. From the front of the shop, her husband, the blacksmith, glared at me while tending to his fire. That small fire was the reason I picked the forge to sleep by to begin with. The night had grown chillier as the sun dipped below the horizon, and a source of warmth was more important than a comfortable surface. Creating my own fire would have been too difficult to accomplish, so the next choice of action was to piggy-back on someone else's.

Once the sky had become dark, I slipped behind the smithy and huddled into the small corner between the forge and the wall of the shop. Quickly, I had fallen asleep. After weeks of a decreased food supply, I became tired easier, so falling asleep was never a problem once I found a safe spot. The warmth radiating from the dying fire inside the bricks lulled me to sleep.

Now that I was away from my source of warmth and walking the streets, I realized that I was soggy. I took my dirty, slightly ripped shirt in my hands and rang it out. Water ran along the wrinkles and dripped onto the ground. Along with my clothing, I registered the cold droplets of water trailing down my face, and how my curly, no longer greasy, hair was plastered to my forehead. It must have rained. Along with my wet appearance, dirty puddles collected in the streets added to my theory. The bits of grass sprouting along the sides of the road were glistening with water. Only a few vendors prepped their stalls for business. The rest were probably afraid of another surprise shower that would ruin their products.

Despite the warm weather accompanied with Otania's summers, I still shivered when a breeze passed by. My wet clothes were beginning to become itchy against my dry skin. I ran a hand through my hair and it stayed slicked back against my head. A few people gave me weird glances over their shoulders as I walked by. What else were they to do when a dirty, soaked teenage kid just wandered down the street?

I began formulating a plan in my mind. I didn't have any extra clothes, and my laundry days consisted of washing them in stolen well-water. When my clothes were wet, I just sat down somewhere along the forest edge, hidden, and waited for them to dry. Today, though, I hadn't had a chance to plan any of that. Not only where my clothes wet, but dirt and mud from behind the smithy had clung to my trousers. My thin cloak, which barely hung down to mid-calf, was plastered with the stuff. I wanted to wash off my clothes, but I hadn't even acquired breakfast. Maybe I just wouldn't have breakfast.

Just as I started to sort my options, the sound of a horse's canter faintly echoed along the road. I stopped where I was, peering farther down the path. Horses rarely used the market road; it was constantly occupied by stalls and people. Any carts that would pull through would hit at least a few people before making it to its destination. So, why...

The horses came into view, along with a wooden cart, and about eight men. Another collection, so soon? Wasn't there just one the other day? Why were there so many this time?

People scrambled out of their way. Mothers swung their children behind their skirts and a pair of teenagers entered the nearest shop in a frenzy. The men walking beside the carts watched the people and their moves. A soldier shed from the group and his eyes latched onto a man standing on the side of the road. The victim's eyes widened and began to shuffle back and away. Then, in one snake-like move, the soldier lunged and gripped the man's upper arm. I couldn't bother watching the rest of the encounter, because I was too worried about my own escape from the situation. That man was already a goner.