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Part 3. You had a new plan for this morning's search. Since you had already talked to the regulars here on previous mornings, you were going to the Business District to ask around and eavesdrop until twilight. The main problem was keeping a running tally of which venders you've already spoken to. Many merchants had mobile stalls on wheels and insisted on moving around with to their superstitious minds' whims, thinking they could divine where the most business would be at any particular moment. This aggravating practice made it near impossible to talk to some vendors only once. To ask the same questions a second time was a horrible waste of time for both parties involved. To compound this irritating problem was the fact that Irstradd was the biggest city in Collabria with and expansive market place. Instead of over worrying about what you couldn't control, you worked the permanent shops, tents, and stalls and left the loony carts to their vices. That way, you could form a grid-like pattern or use quadrants, depending on which city's market place you worked, and hopefully target only new businesses in the process.

You talked to the shop owners or shopkeepers and any other hired help available. You showed them the criminals' portraits, told them their names, to see if it would ring a bell, and any other pertinent information. But none of the people you spoke with in your brief time in Irstradd knew any of your marks. It was a tedious and monotonous undertaking most times. You did this until twilight, when most of the businesses closed. You were maybe a quarter of the way through the vast, permanent locations in the spacious Business District.

You returned to the Fox and grabbed your favorite booth. You liked a booth opposed to a vulnerable table out in the middle where anyone could sneak up on you and put a dagger in your back. No one could sneak up on you in a booth, because you had your back to the wall per se.

A corner booth offered the greatest protection so no one long could ever venture behind you, yet they were currently occupied. You ate a large supper having missed lunch and waited for the night crowd to thicken so you could get back to work. You didn't like the fact that the establishment didn't have bouncers. It was surprising to you, that a tavern of this large size, in the middle-class section of the city, didn't have large, burly men to stops fights, larger brawls, and to prevent property damage. Unconventional, but you weren't worried, secure in your skills and experience, just pondering the stupidity of such a neglectful policy.

Having sat for a few hours drinking and hearing nothing of importance, you decided on a more direct approach. You went to the bar where most of the morning regulars were long gone, and asked around, flashing your bounty posters, hoping for a hit with the new drinkers. After having exhausted that angle, you started making polite conversations with patrons first, and then flashed your marks' portraits and names. You tried this new tactic for a few hours and begun to get tipsy from all the polite, friendly drinking during the casual conversations. It wasn't easy to milk your ale when the person you are trying to corral was drinking like fish. They would quickly shut down thinking you weren't genuine. You had worked your way through a large portion of the bustling, ever-changing crowd, with no success and no incidents.

You walked up to two standing men talking, laughing, and drinking. “You guys got a minute?” you asked nicely.

“Yeah, we always got a minute, ain't we Duncan?” the large guy with a huge, wide nose jabbed a little snidely. His right arm was completely full of tattoos.

Part 2 Your lifestyle was wearing you thin physically, mentally, and emotionally. And if it wasn't for making the streets a safer place, you would likely try to find something else for yourself. But, you were stubborn as a mule and set in your ways as an old pitdog. So you trudged on in a miniscule existence, unhappy and more often than not, brooding in a dark, negative whirlpool of inner pain, anger and self-loathing. Something had to change for you soon, you understood.

Breaking free of your brooding, you got off the bed and stretched your stiff muscles yet tight from your long horse ride to Irstradd a few days previous. You dressed in brown pants, leather sandals that laced up around the pant legs, and a green and tan, wraparound-style shirt. It created a pocket for you to keep your valuables close. A thief could easily sneak by and steal coin purses attached to your side making you an instant pauper unable to afford even the lowliest of food or lodging. But the robber would have to deal with a fight if he tried to reach that close to your person. And even then, you have had them try with the bump and grab technique. Where they would bump into your chest, so you couldn't feel them riffling around in your shirt. Then they would apologize for running into you, as they walked away counting your coin. It is an insidious world out there, and you had to be ready at all times, or be eaten alive by low-life, predatory criminals. Many times you had saved up coin just to be robbed and feed the thief's family. So, keeping your purse up close to your stomach, was what you have learned works best from experience.

Grabbing the fully memorized bounty posters from the table, you scrolled them up into a single paper tube, and stuffed the scroll into your shirt beside your for once growing purse. Walking downstairs to the tavern inside the Lazy Fox Inn you approached the long bar and ordered breakfast. You bought a steak, three eggs, and two rounds of bread. You loved steak of all kinds, with anything, even fruit, yet the steak was almost always the constant on your plate. Fruit was hard to come by in taverns you had found especially poorer inns and pubs. Pubs had no rooms for rent only selling food and spirits. Inns often had rooms and a tavern, usually on the bottom floor for their patrons to drink and eat without having to travel.

Shandonia at the mouth of the mighty Roan, where she spills into the Sagas so Sea. It is a sea power in the region. On the Silver Coast it controls the bountiful Silver Isles. Sea trade and the local fisheries makes the city flourish. It is a round three-tiered, walled city. The lowest, outer tier houses the Slums, Military, Mid, and Upper Wards where most of the citizenry and few businesses are located. Also surrounding the outer wall in a semicircle is the bustling Dock Ward where products enter and are shipped from the city. The middle tier is the Market Ward and is a circular, cobblestone area for most commerce and entertainment. And the top tier is the Noble Ward where royalty and nobility hobnob. The Duke's Castle also resides there overseeing the province of Evershire.

Irstradd is the Capital City of Collabria. It is square-sided with thick walls on three sides. One side is devoid of a wall and is facing open to the wide Roan River and is home to the port. The city is divided into districts mostly based on caste. In the center is the hub of commerce the Business District, home of the bustling Market. Many businesses also abound throughout the districts. In northeast quadrant and open to the pier is the Military District, housing both the Irstradd Army and the King's Army of elite soldiers. In the southeast corner is the Peasant District where the lowest caste lives in utter poverty. In the southwest area of the city was the Middle District, home of the middle-class and many inns, taverns, pubs, and restaurants. And I'm the northwest corner is the Superior District, with the spacious, fancy abodes of the rich. And lastly is the Noble District, a walled and guarded area in the upper east corner of the Superior District and on the waterfront. It is home to both nobles and royals as well as the ruling Duke's castle and the King's castle.

The Country of Collabria is now well into its medieval stage of development. It has a long history of warring with its surrounding countries and city-states. Yet at the time of this story it is on a shaky peace with its neighbors, that had lasted for decades. The Capital City is Irstradd, ruled by a duke with his own army, yet the King also reigns there taking a backseat on the day-to-days, and is also home to the King's army of veteran troops. The might Roan River splits the county clean through and is a major thoroughfare and a large resource of freshwater and the many freshwater fish desired by the coastal cities and towns. The land is a patchwork of pines, marshy evergreen trees in wetlands and groves of expensive and hard oaks, yet the dominate forests are hardwood with maple abounding with many other species throughout. Collabria is mostly flat except in a few different expanses where hills roll or craggy limestone boulders dot the northeastern landscape. A mountain range fingers its way in from the Coast of Swords partitioning Collabria's southern border from the dangerous provinces to the southeast. To the southwest, housed in a large dip in the terminating mountains, are the Wildman, a war-like mix of clans that war against themselves and often raid resources from border forts to the King's dismay. In the very midst of the Country is Chaosage's native home, a mountainous region surrounded by rolling hills called Crowvat. They are also Called the Hillmen and are wild as a race can come. The King has tried to subdue the Crowvats twice in his reign to assimilate them into the traditionalized, civilized culture to no avail. The native Crowvats fight furiously and own the high ground though many less men, yet the King's Army cannot go up en masse and are picked apart to the point of retreat or withdraw as the King would have it termed by the scribes recording the skirmishes. And lastly on the coast the curved to the northeast sits the Twin Cities of Dintor and Anhkpore living together with their different social structures. To the south is the Silver Coast and the large port of Shandonia. And Farther still southward is the Coast of Swords large, coastal city of Briton.

Chaosage Medieval Bounty Hunter #1

Irstradd and Callum Shaw

You awoke in a moderately priced inn, on your third day in Irstradd, the Capital City of Collabria. By the warming weather and blooming trees, you knew it was early April or so. You usually only kept up with dates and times in cities and knew months or seasons in a rudimentary way otherwise. You had five bounties you were actively gathering information on. Working all five cases at once, you drank ale, eavesdropped, and questioned patrons at your inn's tavern. Once any clue came along, you would drop the other cases down a peg on your priority list, and voraciously focus solely on the newly producing bounty. If no clues came your way or the names of your marks didn't arise in your initial investigation, you would widen your search outside your inn's tavern. As most taverns were often not busy until nightfall you would ask around and show your bounty posters, with the criminal's portrait sketched in charcoal, in the Business District during the day hours. When darkness fell and the shops and stalls closed, you would drink ale, eat, and refocus your efforts in a tavern, usually the one you stayed at. That way you didn't have a long, dangerous, drunken walk home. You merely needed to reach your room before you passed out if you were working in your inn's tavern. Quite convenient you felt. If all else failed, you would flag down every passerby you neared and show off your bounty posters. Yet, it usually never went that far especially with five open bounties to glean from. Someone knew something and it was your job to pry if out of them which was usually with politeness and flattery. Plus luckily folks loved to gossip. That was your bread and butter.

You had a bad habit of solving more cases than new ones arose. It was good for the city's crime rate and your coin purse, yet was bad for you having steady work in a single place. Therefore, you traveled between a handful cities and occasionally the towns and villages that linked them. Working those local cases until they were depleted and you had no work once again then you would travel on the next location for new cases that had arose since your last stop. Just a giant circuit of bounties, dangerous wilderness travel, and constant, biting loneliness. It was a ceaseless, near-thankless process and profession, that left you perpetually lonely, living out of cheap inns, and drinking cheaper ale. The only thing you gained, were more scars to add to your ever-expanding collection of spiderwebbing lines, a constant string of healing bruises, the occasional one-night fling, and barely enough coin to do it all again. What you needed to break the cycle was a big bounty, that could lead to a better, more sustainable life.

Chaosage Medieval Bounty Hunter

My book is published. It is a long one and only part one of a trilogy. I hate to do the sale's pitch but if anyone would like to purchase my fantasy novel go to amazon and put Chaosage medieval bounty hunter in the search. You will have to scroll down a little to find it. It will greatly help me out. Also on kindle.

Description

In a fantasy world called Collabria, Chaosage a Crowveon of the outcast, savage people of Crowvat, was taught to read and write by his witchwoman mother unlike the other children of the village. This set him up for when his mother was murdered when Chaosage was a teen, he moved away from the Hillmen and entered civilized society. He found that he a propensity for unlocking clues and became a bounty hunter and solved cases in the unpredictable cities. But he wanted more for his lonely self than the perpetually growing scars of his dangerous and fast-paced profession. Internally he held a deadly secret. Readings gave him prophecies that seemed to come true for his skeptical mind. His life seemed to be sending him toward some unwanted destiny and he planned to fight it with all he had. He is thirty five at the start of his action-packed tale. Chaosage is hunting Ivor Ricketts a massive, military-trained murderer who slaughtered two Generals in the King's Army.

They call me the bronze bull Please listen, I'm not conceited It's all true I tell you From haters I'm mistreated God has my mold in a vault I look like Elvis and my body rocks And when it gets cold outside I tuck my dick in my sock #poet, #poem, #poems, #writersofimstagram, #prose, #poetrycommunity, #poemoftheday, #poetry, #wordporn, #untwinesg, #poetsofinstagram, #iamwriting, #inkedwords, #poetrygram, #creativewriting, #writing, #writer, #writersnetwork, "#writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #writm, #mirakee #rebelbritt

#poet, #poem, #poems, #writersofimstagram, #prose, #poetrycommunity, #poemoftheday, #poetry, #wordporn, #untwinesg, #poetsofinstagram, #iamwriting, #inkedwords, #poetrygram, #creativewriting, #writing, #writer, #writersnetwork, "#writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #writm, #mirakee #rebelbritt

Public Announcement Guy I don't get it really How hard is it to wear a condom There is some bad shit out there That will change your life for ever Hells, I wore a condom everytime But that one time Oh shit, my dick itches... #poet, #poem, #poems, #writersofimstagram, #prose, #poetrycommunity, #poemoftheday, #poetry, #wordporn, #untwinesg, #poetsofinstagram, #iamwriting, #inkedwords, #poetrygram, #creativewriting, #writing, #writer, #writersnetwork, "#writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #writm, #mirakee #rebelbritt

It was a cold day For a roll in the hay Often strangers can find comfort in duress Love finds it cold Battling fear and stress But a cold fuck is a fuck the same When the end of the world is to blame The lycanthropes and Nosferatu battle outside Not many of us humans left alive Blood bathes the glass-strewn street Leaves us hiding like rats from cats Only to move when we must The little church is silhouetted on the hill Now with a bun in the oven We can't stay still Will be safe on that powerful soil And not even the bloody winds of demigods' turmoil Can make that cross fail and fall The trip will be dangerous and scary But I must get me and this man to sanctuary #poet, #poem, #poems, #writersofimstagram, #prose, #poetrycommunity, #poemoftheday, #poetry, #wordporn, #untwinesg, #poetsofinstagram, #iamwriting, #inkedwords, #poetrygram, #creativewriting, #writing, #writer, #writersnetwork, "#writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #mirakee, #sanctuary, #poeticwordchallenge, #november

Pip22 Though exhausted, she wasn't shaken, and as rotten, biting teeth came at her face, Pip timed the dagger's swing. Just as the chomping mouth was about to change the pretty woman's facial features for her, Pip dropped down back-first, crushing the dagger-wielder once and for all with her solid fall. The armless skeleton fell on her. Pip caught the nuisance skull with her throwing dagger and with the meaty portion of the orc sword, she gave a hardy twist. The head popped off, and went flying, animated no more. Looking up in anticipation Pip rolled to her right, just as the two remaining tines of the rotting and rusting pitchfork stabbed into the soil, where the redhead's, ample breasts had just been a moment before. The frustrated warrior let a long, drawn-out scream as she dropped her dagger into the grass. And with that empty left hand she pulled her way quickly up the hayfork's handle. Off the bone-littered ground, she drew the orc blade back with her uninjured but burning, bruised arm. The dead farmer's eyes would have widened in their empty sockets, if the worms hadn't already sucked the juices out. The dull orc blade smashed through the lower skeleton's lower face, sending the cranium off to splash echoing into the thin, black muck, with the shattered jaw off to catch its head. She immediately embedded the point of her new prized, toothed orc sword, for she fully understood that she would have never survived the night without its thick blade. While still breathing heavy within the diameter of the camp fire's lit area, the light showed a hooded figure in a dark brown priest's robes. Its sleeves and chest were emblazoned with golden floss and chevrons, as if it was in an army of some kind. Pip instantly knew him as the necromancer that was controlling the dead. "Fuck you magic-user! #Fantasy, #fiction, #writersofimstagram, #writersnetwork, #writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #creativewriting, #writm, #writing, #mirakee, #journal, #journaling, #writer, #thoughts, #musings, #art, #watercolor, #artwork, #sketch, #sketchbook, #artoftheday, #artsy, #penandink, #artofinstagram, #artfido, #art_spotlight, #artsanity, #_artshow_, #dailydesignpick, #artwowsharing

Pip19 Skeletons with patches of sporing mosses attached violently waved their weapons at her, as they soon climbed at an angle up the trellis of bones, their fallen kind. Luckily just as they begun making shore, they seemed to be thinning back in the farthest campfire lit, watery environment. Yet she saw a few still entering from the fog as spindly dark masses. They came at the exhausted redhead in manageable twos and threes luckily. Pip had quickly found that the local swamp skeletons were half rotten and just as easily crushed with a timely - aimed punches and kicks, as with her weapons. It was like fighting children, but she knew even enough pint-sized children could overwelm the biggest warrior. She hoped the shambling corpses, some of the.fresher ones with flesh dangling, would cease climbing the rotten bone mountain. Four skeletons emerged at once and came at her together, yet with no tactics she believed. They just wanted to rip and shred her to bits. With a mighty swipe she knocked three rusted swords out of her path, yet the one behind, that she had to let go, ran her through. The green-tarnished sword took Pip in her right side, across from the navel. From the back, the bone-man had put it threw to the hilt, where the stunned redhead could see the rusted and bloodly blade sticking straight out. Crazed she took a few powerful steps forward and smashed the angry, flat and heavy pommel down through the skull of the dead imminently out in front. As the attack dropped the creature like a bag of bones, she had pulled the green and red blade from her gut, out her back, and the skeleton that had injured her stupidly remained stationary, as if its hollow sockets were shocked at what it had accomplished. #Fantasy, #fiction, #writersofimstagram, #writersnetwork, #writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #creativewriting, #writm, #writing, #mirakee, #journal, #journaling, #writer, #thoughts, #musings, #art, #watercolor, #artwork, #sketch, #sketchbook, #artoftheday, #artsy, #penandink, #artofinstagram, #artfido, #art_spotlight, #artsanity, #_artshow_, #dailydesignpick, #artwowsharing

Shade 5 Melody most knew it wasn't human for certain and frantic visions and thoughts of what it could be splattered her amygdala with fearful, demented notions. She was hyperventilating as she ran at top speed with only a few feet of vision in front of her. It was such an odd feeling of vulnerability and daring and stark fear to be sprinting blindly, like playing a deadly game of blindfold chicken. A large rock, car, building, glass window, pointy stick, anything could easily be in her blind path, Melody worrying but couldn't slow. Death she thought pursued her. She wasn't totally positive due to undue stress, but a soft hissing and grating could be heard, as if forced breath was just under her frantic breath. She knew it must be her pursuer hot on her heals. Tears flowed sideways on their horizontal exit gliding off her pretty face, which tickled her ears as they passed in broken, salty droplets, tiny enter her dyed blond ringlets. Even the mix of sandy, gravely soil was in values of grey. She felt herded, like being corralled merely by the tone of light through the endless grey. She obviously wasn't going to enter the darkest, rolling grey without a light, off the ambiguous pass. She feared looking back into the seemingly light-emitting eyesockets, for fear she would become captivated, mesmerized, and ultimately shocked into obeying the voice in her head that lightly demanded her halt her pace, to quit her denial of innocence. The voice whispered in Melody's mind, she rumimated as she ran, that we are all sinners and must allow ourselves judged. She fought the truth of those word. Her parents had taught her that all were born into sin, and figured that was what the robed creature meant, for the tall blond was definite that it was the entity speaking in her head. #fiction, #Fantasy, #horror, #horrornights, #horrorwriter, #horrorstory, #horrorstories, #scary, #writersofimstagram, #shadowlicious, #dreamsandnightmares, #writersnetwork, #writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #creativewriting, #writm, #writing, #randomness, #random, #mirakee, #horror_sketches, #darkart, #darkartists, #watercolor

Shade 4 Awkwardly running in her large, plush towel, she mystified and horrified by her new, dull but intense surroundings in gradations of grey, like a mad painter's canvas. Melody knew she was no longer in her apartment, maybe not even her world, she added the addendum to her defeatist observation. A flash entered her mind almost too quickly to catch: at night, she was zooming in her new, royal blue, Buick Encore in a windy rainstorm. It still had the new car smell, and as quickly as it came, it was gone. With her long legs cramping were tiring, Melody was already slowing a short run. The nearly naked woman knew that too much time at the gym flirting and not working out was catching up to her. (Sometimes you can't have things back. Choices are consequences. Consequences are inevitable.) As she ran like a spazzy tween that was unlucky enough to be the hide-n-go-seeker to run into the paper wasp nest, Melody's towel plummeted to the ground and rolled up like it was 420 whereever here was. Her unrestrained, full breasts bounced side-to-side in looping, rocking motions like disproportionate wings on an obviously non-flying bird. Her screams sounded hollow and echoing, as if she was in a large cavern beneath the ground. (Maybe she was she thought. Who knew.) The tall, curvy lady ran knowing that the ghost, that thing was catching up. She imagined that she could hear its raspy breath getting steadily louder. Melody feared looking back, afraid she may slow, or trip, or even seeing the creature might take her breath again. A dense, chilly fog was oppressively pushing in on her from every angle; like a claustrophobic, ever-tightening space. Just the thought of being stuck in tangible darkness nearly made her forget the robed things chasing her. #fiction, #Fantasy, #horror, #horrornights, #horrorwriter, #horrorstory, #horrorstories, #scary, #writersofimstagram, #shadowlicious, #dreamsandnightmares, #writersnetwork, #writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #creativewriting, #writm, #writing, #randomness, #random, #mirakee, #horror_sketches, #darkart, #darkartists, #watercolor

WIP - #art, #artwork, #bipolar, #illustration, #painting, #paint, #fineart, #sketch, #sketchbook, #pencil, #marker, #watercolor, #artoftheday, #artsy, #artcollective, #penandink, #artofinstagram, #arstagram, #artlife, #artfido, #art_spotlight, #artsanity, #_artshow_, #dailydesignpick, #artwowsharing

Shade 2 She got a good look for the first time. "Get outta here you sick fuck! My husband will be home any second!" Melody played a tune worthy of her name, for she was actually was a single socialite, more readily found at a nightclub than at the altar. With total abandon, she threw her ringed fingers and jewel encrusted, fake nails thrashing wildly into her, only - straight when wet, locks. He didn't seem to be coming any closer Melody noticed, and somehow found that more worrying than if he was advancing. What was he doing out there. Melody, shaken up, leaned against the floral tiles behind her. It was the North American Orchid Collection and was cool to the touch, yet quickly warmed beneath her hot body. Of course she thought about the tiny square window in the bath beside and sight high. Yet, she knew absolutely that her hips would never get through. Failing to mention that she had also nailed it shut after an event with a pervy neighbor boy. But Melody was just like us all; wishing for the unattainable. There was no escape. With time calming her and his steadfast decision to not move made her brave. With the shower begining to get a bit chilly, she took a shaky grasp of the matching curtain from the orchid collection and threw it open like a matador. The quilt rack from the cluttered bedroom had tipped over and had leaned against the doorframe. "You have too much shit Melody, she scolded herself and let out a sigh of relief. She needed to get the rest of the soap rinsed from her thick hair before the water froze her. The blond partier thought as she spun around on a wet heel in the one space without a plush rug. The linen closet door and what initially looked like a dark grey sheet fluttered out and grew and formed into soild-looking ghost with bead-like yellow eyes, fake looking as christmas tree bulbs. #fiction, #Fantasy, #horror, #horrornights, #horrorwriter, #horrorstory, #horrorstories, #scary, #writersofimstagram, #shadowlicious, #dreamsandnightmares, #writersnetwork, #writtenwork, #writtencommunity, #creativewriting, #writm, #writing, #randomness, #random, #mirakee, #horror_sketches, #darkart, #darkartists, #watercolor

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