"Ha!"
In the midst of the silence rose the shrill battle cry of a young boy. The fields rustled and quaked and icy droplets launched through the air. Something swirled in the hazy field and slashed across waves of wilted crops, revealing the voice. The young boy tripped on the muck, caught himself, and spoke to nobody in particular.
"Listen you foul beast," the boy said. He blew a strand of hair out of his face, each one as white and frosty as the melting snow around him. He scrunched his face and lifted something in his hand. A thick, sturdy branch already three years in the boy's possession slashed upward and ahead. "You've come to the wrong town. I'm being paid to take you down."
"Oh, really," came another voice, gruff and low, encouraging a confident grin from the boy. The air distorted around him and the field inches away from his stick rustled. A deathly-looking beast emerged from the tangled, frosty barley. From its leathery skin sprouted tufts of black fur, its face a snarling mess of jagged fangs, and the height to take down a bull.
Was that right?
"Wait," he muttered. He sighed and lowered the stick to reach behind him, then pulled out a small book. It was crusty and yellowed to an ungodly degree from its little adventures with the boy but still legible. He flipped through the stiff pages one by one until he reached an inky illustration of a similar creature and grunted. As he had suspected, his image was off.
In actuality, it was a beast of prey teeth. It resembled a goat, in a sense, but had the paws like that of a bear. Apparently, it was dangerous. He shifted his details and raised his stance again.
"Now I'm ready for you, you mangey thing. Are you ready to die?"
The beast sneered and shifted form. It bellowed a gurgled cackle. "Just try to take me down, adventurer."
"I don't have to try!" The boy lurched forward and stabbed at the air with his stick, sending the furry creature back a-hissing. It swiped at him with a massive paw, once, twice, thrice! He dodged the first two with great determination and batted at the last with his imaginary sword. The creature yowled and licked at the struck paw.
"Haha!" the boy teased, rolling his shoulder to ready himself for another swing. He stepped forward again and slashed, but the creature scrambled backward and started running. Soon enough, the boy had started a full-blown chase through the barley field, with the imaginary creature just ahead and hidden by the patches. "Come fight me, coward!"
The barley field came to an abrupt end and the boy launched out. He landed in the streets, right in front of a startled group of townsfolk. "Watch it," they scolded, but the boy ignored them. He had a mission, one that would save everyone in the town.
"Too slow!" The beast padded through the muddy streets and taunted the boy. For added measure, it ran into a group of priests and knocked them to the muck. Which, of course, didn't actually happen, but the thought was enough to make the boy all the more determined to defeat the beast only he could see.
He bolted down the street in pursuit of the creature, which gave a nervous yelp at the terrifying boy's charge and started down another path. The boy slipped around the corner, managed to catch himself with now muddy hands, and straightened just in time for his feet to catch onto the corners of a few crates. He soared through the air for a while before landing face-first on a less-than-appealing cushion of mud, biting the slosh and skidding to a stop on his chest.
"Ugh," he groaned and rolled over on his back. He had only managed to spit out the mud before the creature once again appeared, snickering mere inches from his face with the most disgusting yellow teeth he'd ever seen in a living thing. Except in perhaps Mr. Landy. Voices around threatened to break the boy's concentration. He shook them off and raised his sword. The creature, in turn, opened his foul jaw, slowly, hauntingly, and prepared to lunge for his neck. There was only a split second left to determine the fate of the adventurer, and--
"Thistle," came a harsh voice, then no later the sound of heavy boots. The boy flinched at the sound of his name and halted in his tracks, as did the creature. The furry beast fizzled from existence. In place of it came the appearance of a massive man in a red-stained apron, cross-armed and beating down at the culprit with a furious scowl.
The boy lowered the sword, which had returned into its measly stick form, and clambered to his feet. He immediately glanced to his left to catch sight of the damage. Nothing more than a few chicken heads and meatless carcasses spilled from their bins. Though the sight of the remains scattered and staining the snowy mud wasn't much of a pretty sight. He returned his eyes to the man.
"I was just trying to kill a monster," he reasoned. The man shook his head slowly, without saying a word. Then he took a giant step forward and reached for the boy.
--- Kuttle - Herbal Greenhouses
"It kind of hurts, could you let me go?" The buff man said nothing. He groaned and dragged his feet, hoping to annoy the man into releasing him. Then they rounded a corner and the foggy dome greenhouses came into view. "What? You're gonna tell on me? Tattling says a lot about an adult, you know."
"Stop acting like a child, Thistle," he hissed, refusing to let the boy's dragging feet and disapproval slow him.
"I am a child, Mr. Rotter. At least to you. I'm thirteen!"
"Then act civilized!"
"No!"
They passed a cluster of gardens with some of the few in-tact plants left over from the snow. The blankets that had covered them were stained and sopping wet, draped over the near-rotted wooden fence surrounding the perimeter. A few gardeners rustled through the patches for weeds and watched as the butcher dragged the poor boy toward the greenhouse that lay next to it.
They reached the entrance of one greenhouse and the butcher pulled back a flap to the inside. By then, the boy had resorted to simply crossing his arms and going limp.
"Miss Riddle?" he called once they had gone inside. The butcher pulled the boy inside, lifted him up, then plopped him down to get him to stand. A woman appeared around one of many small tables full of potted saplings. Her tired eyes met the butcher's.
"Well, good morning, what bri--" She caught sight of the little white-haired boy next to him. Suddenly her eyes seemed more tired. "Oh."
"Sorry to bother you."
"It's fine, it's fine..." She dusted off her worn gloves. She walked up to the boy, her son, and stamped her hands on her hips. "And?" The boy wouldn't look at her.
"He was just playing, Miss. No harm done. A few gizzards to sweep up, is all."
"No reason to drag me here, I bet," the boy mumbled. He looked anywhere but at them.
"I'm sorry." The woman stepped forward and put a hand on her boy's head, then pushed it to lead him further into the greenhouse. "Go sit down," she whispered to him, then continued with the rest of her apology speech.
The boy obliged and kicked at the dusty ground until he reached a small stool against the wall and plopped himself down, leaning against the table next to it. He gave a groan and buried his cheek in his hand.
"Jill, it's fine-"
"I know, but you're still having to deal with his mess."
"Maybe he can work for my shop once or twice a week? It'd at least give him something to do that isn't, well... You know."
The thought of chopping heads off live chickens and skinning dead feemocks sounded rather ghastly to the boy. And what was it with people thinking he couldn't occupy himself? He did just fine on his own last year, and he was doing just fine now. It was them who thought his fun was outlandish. Those boring people couldn't judge his own pastimes when they did nothing more than eat, sleep, pray, and hate the snow.
"I don't know. He keeps saying all the kids bug him for things like that. I don't-"
"Ma," the boy groaned. The woman sighed, hidden but still audible from behind the thick islands of thyme.
"I'd better be going," the butcher muttered. "Good day, Miss."
There was a brief moment of silence once the butcher left, but it ended once the woman's footsteps rounded the corner. She looked down at her son with annoyance - very poorly hidden annoyance, at that - but her face softened and returned to its tired norm. She sighed.
"Oh, Thistle."
"I didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident, like Mr. Rotter said."
"I don't want to hear it, Thistle. Come on, now, help me while you're here."
The boy and his mother worked long and slow at the greenhouses, popping in one after the other to water the plants and check on the temperatures inside the domes. Each was wickedly humid by their standards, but the warmth inside kept their fingers from getting too cold. They had started in the thyme dome, which was by far the most living, and harvested what they could. The boy snipped, stacked, and tied bushels of the harvests in little bundles, as did his mother. The only perk of the task, he felt, was that the cut herbs smelled nice. Still, it was rather dull work.
"What's the matter, adventurer?" A familiar croaky voice chuckled, then a goatish snout popped out from behind a table littered with harvesting baskets. The boy gently tugged at the strings of a bushel of chives. He tossed them onto a small stack of others behind him and peered ahead, just in time to see the beast smile with those grossly yellowed teeth. "You look so pitiful." The thought of another battle with whatever that creature was called sounded enticing indeed. He didn't think another battle would fare well with his mother, though. Who knew what hell she'd raise if the greenhouses were ransacked?
"I'm bored," the boy muttered.
"You're bored so you conjure me? To do what? Nothing?"
"Well I don't want to talk to the chives like some crazy old man."
The beast slipped a little farther into view, until a single glowing eye appeared and stared at him. A taunting hiss slipped from his grin. "I'd rather you take another go at my neck, adventurer. Come on, now, come kill me..."
"Thistle." The boy's thoughts were interrupted by the approach of his mother. She appeared at the entrance of the greenhouse, hunched over a flat basket full of rosemary. The beast shriveled at her approach. "Are you done with the chives?"
"Yes," he replied, then tugged the last bushel strings.
"Good. I need to get these to the market, could you help me with the walk?"
"Yes."
Another hour. They loaded bushels upon bushels of herbs onto a flat wagon and a few more into a wooden pack. While his mother hauled the wagon, the boy carried the crate by the straps on his shoulders. Walking through Kuttle was, as always, more of a hassle as it really needed to be, with the roads being much too murky to walk properly without slipping or getting a boot stuck in the muck. The boy paused to take a breath, even if the herbs weighed very little, and looked at the shadows on the ground. Judging by the time of year and the tilt, that would make the time roughly...
Oh.
"Ma, can I run ahead? I'll get home and do my chores real quick."
The boy's mother gave her son a suspicious gander. "Fine. But be careful. And don't make me regret it. I don't want to see a trail of plant bits on the way there."
Without hesitation, the boy sped ahead. He had underestimated just how long he'd be in the greenhouses. The time had completely slipped past him. Maybe if he just picked up his pace, then he'd make it before they came.
He started at a brisk walk, then sped up into a small jog once he was around a corner out of her sight. What was the point of all his energy if he couldn't use it to avoid something, right?
And yet.
"Agh!" Townsfolk all around filled the quiet day with murmured ohh's, and the boy contributed to the noise with the sound of his body slapping against the ground. Just as last time, his face bit the muck, only this time he'd tripped on his mud-caked boots. He ignored the looks of others who passed as he scrambled up to his knees and turned. "No," he muttered, then groaned. As soiled as his shirt already was, that day, he resorted to wiping his hands somewhat clean. Then he assessed the damage before grabbing the bushels. They had either remained in the crate - thank Myths - or had scattered. One bushel of rosemary had entirely unraveled, though. The sight dug a pit in his stomach.
"Hah!" A voice cackled in the distance, followed by a few other chuckles. The boy clenched a fist at their voices, but relaxed and kept picking up the mess. "Good job, weed," one said. It was the all-too-familiar voice of Barnaby, a younger whose words and mannerisms were somehow infused with the bite of ten venomous snakes. He seemed too busy with his chalk and tablet to pester much more, however. It was the older kids who approached the boy, with Don being the day's ringleader.
"What do you think you're doing dropping all the crops like that, idiot? Don't you get that we're all poor because of people like you?"
"Lay off," the boy growled. "I could care less what you think of me. As if drawing boy parts all over town is anything to be proud of. At least I'm the one hauling crops."
"Oh yeah? I wonder if you can even pick up a piece of chalk anymore? Do you know how to draw, Mister I-Can't-Read?"
The boy flushed red. "Shut up! I can draw! And who cares, anyway, it's not like I can't do other things."
"Oh, really? Just look at you! You live out here like a weasel and can't even walk through mud properly. You can't do anything right, weed." He kicked at one of the muddied bushels with his boot. The boy flicked his gaze to the kid's boot, then bolted upright and faced him.
"Can, too! I could stab your eyes out if you keep talking to me! There's not much to mess up on, there!"
"Just try it, weed!"
Out of spite, the boy threw a muddy slop of rosemary at Don's face. It slapped at his skin and the bristles stuck to his hair. His own friends cackled, which summoned a face redder than rotten tomatoes when he pulled the herbs away.
"You good-for-nothing."
He lunged, giving the boy no time to react. The herbs once again fell, for what little had been repacked, and the boy fell in disgrace. Don stared at the boy for a moment with a most distasteful scowl and smeared the mud and bits of rosemary off his face. Despite the cheers from his friends to usher him on, Don abandoned the fight. The boy was left to deal with the herbs again. He only started to once he felt he could safely pry his line of sight away.
"Thistle?" The boy froze, hardly having moved an inch toward cleaning up the mess. His mother's footsteps, along with the growling and creaking of the wagon she pushed, approached him from behind. The noise stopped, but he would not look up at his mother. It felt odd, being unable to move. Perhaps if he waited, though, his mother would miraculously run to her son's aid. "What happened?"
Or not. Nevermind waiting.
The boy jumped to his feet and bolted.
--- Kuttle - East Barley Fields
"Die! Die! Hah!" The boy thrashed at the barley with his stick, continuing his self-proclaimed adventure as he had planned. Usually that late in the afternoon, he'd have eaten and used up enough energy to sit quietly in the house until nightfall. He felt like anything but calm, though. The dead barley field was back at the mercy of his temper.
He kicked and stabbed and slashed again, hardly thinking of monsters or predators, or anything but his encounter with the kids from the school. He'd gotten so good at avoiding them, lately. His mother just had to snatch him away and cause this mess, didn't she?
The boy paused his slashing for a moment and bent down to catch his breath. The area around him had been kicked up rather thoroughly, which left him with a small muddy clearing to hide in. What was it with the school kids? He used to be friends with them when they were all really young. Back when it didn't matter whether or not he could... Whatever. To the otherworld with being kind to them.
"They'll get what's coming to them, anyway," he reassured himself, then straightened himself and peered around. He didn't need friends, didn't want friends, or any attention for that matter. None! When it came down to attention, he needed not to worry about the trivial facts of townsfolk or the teasing and prodding from people who knew no better. He needed only worry about the real beasts lurking in the haze. Yes, that's right, just think of the real monsters. The slobbering, fiendish, death-desiring creatures who are far more simple-mindedly evil than the simple-minded bullies. Yes, just think of them, adventurer.
The boy filed through the images in his head of the creatures he'd seen in his book of beasts. He considered bringing back the goat fiend, whose head momentarily snaked through the wall of snapped barley stems to look at him.
He sighed. "No." That one talked way too much. Perhaps something else. The image warped. Perhaps a beast with longer fangs? Black bangs? Do monsters know how to cut hair? Probably not. Perhaps mangled, then. Maybe flippers for feet. No, what would an animal with flippers be doing on land? For Myth's sake. The boy groaned in frustration, squatted, then cupped his knees. Whatever warped monstrosity peeked at him from ahead fizzled away. Maybe he was just too tired.
The boy reluctantly stood and turned toward the streets.
He sifted through the barley field, this time with more caution about his steps. Once he popped out and onto the road, he once again crossed paths with a few wary old folks. They halted at his appearance and steadily walked to the other side of the road. He rolled his eyes.
The boy gave himself one last attempt at escaping Kuttle as he made his way along the street by pretending he was wounded. Yes, yes, tragically wounded on the battlefield, with gruesome battle scars and a limp. Dragging through the field of burning volcanic rock, surrounded by swarms of stinging sonnet beetles, propped up only by his sword and sheer determination. Onward, adventurer, onward! To the glowing, radiant tavern. Lay down your sword, push open the door. There await the glories and spoils of your harrowing journey, food and gold and jewels, all strewn about the tables by countless folk cheering your name!
Away the glorious vision went, however, once he did open that door.
--- Kuttle, The Riddle Residence
The hut was dark. The boy kicked his boots on the stone slabs before the door, to at least somewhat keep from tracking dirt inside, then kicked them off at the entrance. Once the wooden door was shut behind him, he took a gander around. Chilly, silent, empty. His mother must have stayed at the greenhouses late.
The boy strode to the middle of the hut, where a woodfire metal stove was just barely puffing out a small scrap of heat from a few embers. He knelt down in front of the barred door for a moment, opened it, then tossed some tinder from a crate inside. Bit by bit he built the flame, adding twigs, branches, and chopped firewood until the heat swelled well enough to distort the surrounding air. He flopped back to keep his distance and watched the fire, the way it danced and spat.
Then it was time to ransack the cabinets and barrels for dinner. There wasn't much for food, unfortunately. A few apples in a crate, a few potatoes hanging in a sack from the ceiling, and some drying herbs. Not much of a selection.
He resorted to sticking a potato on a metal skewer and cooking it over the fire. Perhaps it wasn't much of a meal, but it was decent enough for what little they had. He set his aside and fixed another, for when he'd eventually encounter the woman who kept him alive. Then he waited in silence and listened to the fire.
But he did not sit readily in the open. No, he felt there was some safety, and perhaps some justice, in banishing himself to the corner behind the table. He swallowed his meal bit by bit, dreading the unavoidable conversation he sensed was to take place. His mother was late, too late, and he knew why.
After he'd swallowed the last bite, he finally heard them. Footsteps scuffed at the door and knocked against the wood. Not long later, the old hinges groaned. She let the door shut behind her and the light show her face. She looked much too tired.
"Hi, Ma," came a sheepish voice in the quiet. Jill slowly exhaled the day's burdens and made her way to the oven, readily aglow with bright, warm embers. She groaned and slowly lowered herself onto a feather-stuffed pillow, then rubbed her feet. She didn't respond to her son. The boy, in turn, slowly climbed out of his little hiding spot behind the dining table and grabbed the peace offering.
"I made you dinner," he said, handing her the plate. Jill flicked her eyes to her son, then at the plate. Half an apple, half a baked potato, and a few strips of feemock jerky. The leftover milk, too, it seemed. She turned away. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Yes, thank you," she finally responded, only sounding a little frustrated. She took the plate and reluctantly started eating. "Did you eat, already?"
"Yeah."
"Mm."
"Something wrong, Ma?"
There was a rather stifling silence between them for a moment. Jill took a large bite and chewed for an unreasonable amount of time, thoughts clearly running through her mind. After a while, though, she finally stopped to speak. What few words came out were rather bitter, as expected.
"Did they push you or did you fall?"
The boy shrank and picked at his fingers behind his back. "He pushed me," he admitted. He bit his lip and muttered, "After I fell."
"Thistle," Jill groaned. "I told you to be careful. Those herbs were supposed to be shipped out this afternoon."
"I was trying. I was being careful."
"Really? Or were you running?"
"I was walking! Just a little faster."
"Can I not go one day without you making my job harder?"
The boy's eyes widened. He felt a wave of anger flush over him. "I didn't have to make your job harder, Ma. If you didn't make me stay, it wouldn't have happened."
"Don't blame me for your messes, Thistle. You're old enough to take some responsibility for this. Maybe if you didn't run around causing people trouble all day I wouldn't have to keep you on a leash while I'm working. Did you think about that?"
"Well, what else am I supposed to do?
"For starters, you could apologize to a good few people here around town."
"To who? Don? The idiot who pushed me?"
"Thistle--"
"I didn't do anything wrong, why would I apologize?"
Jill let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, you little thorn in my side..." She stood and went to clean her empty plate. The boy felt a strong heat in his face. Thistle. Weed. Thorns. Is that all they saw him as? Just a prickly weed nobody could get rid of? What did she want him to do? What else could he do?
"I hate it when you call me that."
"Wh-- Call you what? Your name? What's wrong with your name?"
"Why do you think? Everyone calls me a weed because of that stupid name, and you call me a thorn in your side. I hate it! I hate it and everyone who knows it!"
His mother paled. Suddenly her brow relaxed and her eyes widened. "Baby, wait, I don't--"
"Everyone thinks I'm a good-for-nothing. I can't learn things like they can, I can only annoy them or make stupid mistakes or mess things up!"
"What? No! Thistle, no, what on Leuther makes you think that?"
"You! You literally just told me!" Silence filled the room for a second, then became disrupted with sniffles. The boy held back his tears as much as he could. "I can't do anything here but talk to myself and run away from my old classmates. You just took me out of school because I... You stopped homeschooling me because I... You don't even want anything to do with me. I'm just a lost cause to you! To everyone!"
His mother shook her head and knelt down to him. Exhaustion was written all over her face, but even she was on the brink of tears. "Myths, no, no." She reached out to hold him. "That's not what I--"
"You hate me, just admit it!" But he distanced himself before she reached him, before he could get an answer, far too overwhelmed to even risk hearing it. He backed away and turned.
"Where are you going?"
"Bed."
Before Jill could protest, the slam of a door finalized the end of the argument.
---
The boy leaned against his door and hushed, listening for movement on the other side. There were no footsteps approaching, hinting that he was likely not to be disturbed. At least until morning. Deeming the atmosphere safe, the boy exhaled a long breath and wiped the fiendish tears off his face. How dare she not understand after everything she'd seen? How could she not realize that he was hurt? Or, Myths, that she said such awful things, sometimes? The woman acted as if she was more afraid for her herbs than her own child. If that's really how she saw things, then why keep him? 'At least Pa cared about me,' he scowled, not daring to utter the words aloud.
The thoughts bubbled quickly, repeating themselves over and over again. None were merciful, no matter how hard he attempted to reason the situation. He groaned and slapped his ears with the heels of his hands to make them stop.
"Give up," he whispered, imagining that the loud thoughts came from a dark creature lurking where he couldn't see, rather than his own mind. If he could only ignore it, it would go away. That's right, that's right... Just ignore it and it'll slip away into the night.
He sighed and assumed the mission, peering to the right where he knew a distraction rested loyally against the wall: two books, some of his only possessions, which he kept tucked safely in his shoulder bag. He reached for the bag and slid it over, then opened the flap. His small book of Leutherian beasts flopped to the side at his rummaging, making way for the target of his night. He plucked out the other book, which was only a little larger in comparison, but at least thrice the number of pages.
It was a simple, brown, leather-bound book with an embedded title laid with faded gold paint. Below it was an equally faded figure he recognized all too well, centered in the cover and lifting a blade skyward. He remembered getting it when things were still right. When his father hadn't left, when he could call the other kids friends, when his chin could hardly reach the rim of the kitchen table.
As per his routine, he could expect to occupy the rest of his night staring at the only understandable contents on the pages. Inky pictures that were smudged, faded, and stained decorated them consistently, illustrating what could only be the story of that one character. A two-legged beast with a long neck, bird's face, and strong arms appeared on nearly each, matching the imprint on the cover. She bore weapons of steel and armor from centuries ago. Well, that's what he assumed.
As he opened the cover that night, again for the hundredth time since his possession of it, the lurking beast that whispered its taunts quieted. He started at the first image, then flipped to the next.
His rendition of the early pages always felt the same. The first illustrated the adventurer at home with others bearing her image. The next, she was sweeping a hand over her face to look at the endless valley beyond. No matter where his imagination took him thereafter, he always recognized the beginning. She was at home, and she didn't want to be. No matter the reason why, she didn't want to be.
The boy stared at the second picture. Usually, he skipped to the thrill, where she was illustrated tackling foes and receiving praise. Yet, for whatever reason, he found it hard to move on. The page turned heavy on his fingers.
Turn it. Imagine she's been called by some destiny. Imagine she's left to pursue another life. She takes that first step, adventurer. She takes that first quest. Turn the page and see it.
He closed the book and turned in for the night.
[Personal note: The pacing is off... He should have this fight later once the viewer has had more time to understand Riddle as a character. Like there's only been one real instance where he's revealed personally that he's bothered by his name and it's just not enough. This fight as it is now comes across as an excuse to dump or gain sympathy. Pretty cringe timing. I need to focus more on his internal struggle with identity in the second draft and see if it'll work then. Would probably be best in "Something's Amiss" but there's already another fight scene in that one. Plus the fight here is supposed to kick Riddle into his first attempts at achieving his goals, so getting rid of this would destroy all of that progress. Maybe switch the two fights??]