Query Letter Example and First Few Chapters of “Villain Becomes the Hero” Unedited

TO: Agent Person
Xxx@xxxx.com

FROM: Daniel Hansen
212 Ironwood Drive Suite D Box 178
Coeur d’Alene ID 83814
yourorchard@gmail.com

SUBJECT: Novel Submission “Villain Becomes the Hero”

Dear Agent Person

I am writing to seek representation for my novel VILLAIN BECOMES THE HERO, an indigenous-based fantasy of about 85,000 words. I am submitting to you because xxxx do research on each agent and personalize it here so they know you picked them for a reason and didn’t pull their names out of a hat. Make sure final letter is under 400 words and less than a page. Most agents use their phones so be efficient with word use.

Throughout the novel, Fox Villain is driven by hatred to rid the world of raw mages because of a great wrong he fears they will one day do to him. It all begins with Fox Villain on the hunt for Turtle. Turtle is a young man living a normal life with his sister Raging River hunting and fishing with his clan in the mountains. Turtle is saved by Scar Hero and protected by a group of adventurers traveling south. Turtle and his sister must survive long enough to reach the legendary city of the Myen so that he can become trained enough in his newly awoken powers to no longer be the danger Fox Villain so fears.

A road trip by canoe through indigenous lands struggling against an enemy that holds a power over time, all while trying not to let his power kill himself and his friends. Strong female characters and lgbt representation.

Will Fox Villain succeed in killing Turtle? Will Turtle let loose his power and destroy everything he loves? A timey winey revenge tale becomes more and more clear as the reader follows the three points of view of Turtle, Scar Hero, and Fox Villain.

I currently run a casino consulting business and am an enrolled member of the Village of Kotzebue indigenous nation. I have self-published several books and short stories with good reviews. Raised on the Coeur d’Alene Indian Reservation I grew up listening to stories told over the fire.

I enclose the first three chapters (or whatever they request in their submission guidelines) and the above synopsis. Thank you for the time you have taken in reading my submission. I hope you like what you read and look forward to your response.

Yours,

Daniel Hansen

Photo used as page break

Subject: Synopsis

Novel: Villain Becomes the Hero

To: Agent Person

From: Daniel Hansen


Fox Villain is driven by hatred to rid the world of raw mages because of a great wrong he fears they will one day do to him. The novel opens with Fox Villain on the hunt for Turtle. Turtle is a young man living a normal life with his sister Raging River hunting and fishing with his clan in the mountains. Turtle is saved by Scar Hero and protected by a group of adventurers traveling south. Turtle and his sister must survive long enough to reach the legendary city of the Myen so that he can become trained enough in his newly awoken powers to no longer be the danger Fox Villain so fears.

A road trip by canoe through indigenous lands struggling against an enemy that holds a power over time, all while trying not to let his power kill himself and his friends. Strong female characters and lgbt representation.

Will Fox Villain succeed in killing Turtle? Will Turtle let loose his power and destroy everything he loves? A timey winey revenge tale becomes more and more clear as the reader follows the three points of view of Turtle, Scar Hero, and Fox Villain.

Photo used as page break

Subject: First Three Chapters:

Epilogue

Turtle 1

Scar Hero 1

Fox Villain 10

Novel: Villain Becomes the Hero

To: Agent Person

From: Daniel Hansen


Epilogue

 

“Islaqnous.”

He made his choice, that is how stories begin, that is how they end.  Everyone has a choice. A choice to embrace life and love. A choice to embrace hate and death.  To hold hope close to one’s heart, or to fill it with sorrow. Everyone has choices, and he chose hate.

They say love is the strongest power in the universe, but sometimes, just sometimes hate is the truest power.  A hate-filled with rage and pain that takes hold of a being and refuses to let go. Every moment fans the flames, every word strengthens the emotions.  Perhaps at times, love is the source of all that rage and hatred, but in the end, what caused it gets lost. For once hate starts to feed upon you it devours everything put before it.

Some wounds cannot be lanced, and the infection just grows and grows taking first the limbs and finally the trunk.  The hatred burns and burns as it devours itself and all those around it. A raging forest fire unstopped and unstoppable until it has burned itself out.  Hatred can reach a level it can only be fed not fought, for it must burn everything before it can finally die.

Hate is a tough place to find oneself.

Tough but freeing.

It gives one the drive to begin their story, and the power to end it.

Hate is where we find ourselves ending this story.  But each end is a beginning, and each beginning is an end.  Time is a funny thing, and since this hate formed at the last point, I suppose it should be counted as the end of the story.  For that is how hate is, an end to everything. This story is no different, it has an ending of pain and sorrow, and that ending is why there is hatred.  A hatred that spreads from its inception back only to finally die in the beginning. A hatred that hunts the characters throughout the tale.

But we begin this end with the man before us.  Like all adults, he was once a child, but a child no more.  His life has been one of fear and fleeing, one of struggle and pain.  But that fear was killed when he lost everything. He would no longer flee, he would instead hunt.  He had looked into the eyes of his greatest fear and would now face the enemy. He would stand before the maelstrom of life and say, ‘no more.’  

His pain so deep he would struggle no more.

His every thought now overwhelmed with first a sorrow that was all-consuming, before that sorrow turned to hate.  A hate he could no more escape than one can escape the air around them. It was his every breath, his very reason to continue on.  He breathed in his hate and never once did he breathe it out.

Can you feel that hate?  That fire that burns and burns throughout him?  He stares at the fox mask in his hands. He stares at the bodies and the dead around him.  Broken bodies of those he loved. Some bleeding, some too burnt to bleed.

And one body.  No, he would not think of that, he could not consider what had been done.  Some deaths mean more than others, and this death he could not even fathom.  The pain of it seared him deep, and he turned away from it before it could cut him any deeper.

The stone around him was melted with power and scorched with pain.  Dark shadows of soot marching down the walls and along the floors. Something hot and fierce had ragged through here, and left death in its wake, left him in its wake.

The air filled his nostrils with the smell of burnt flesh and wet blood left to dry while he planned.  It was all around him, even now, even still. He looked upon the altar and saw the glaive reflecting the light down upon him.  Its long pale wooden shaft glowing in the light, even as the obsidian blade at its end sucked that light in. A weapon of opposites, shining light from one end as it spread darkness from the other.  

He knew who was at fault.  He knew where the blame lay.  He may have forgotten much, and it was likely he would forget more, but this one thing he knew.  He knew where to point his blame. His memories were becoming singular, focused, this would get worse, or perhaps it was better.

The man who came next had told him just before leaving. The man had explained it all, and if he had not, well it was obvious for all to see.  Death had come to everything he loved, and there was only one reason for it. A reason he had the power to remove from the world.

The man had slapped him in the face and berated him with hate, before calming and explaining what must come next, what must be done.  The man had left him then, to start his hunt. Left him alone with the other man, the man in black, the man that wept amongst the bodies.  He had feared the man before he left, and he feared now the man in black, but he was beyond all those fears. They had been tools in his becoming.

He ran his fingers over the fine fur of the Fox mask in his lap and wiped his tears from it.  The slightly orangish brown fur shimmered in the flickering light, and his sobs echoed along the cave walls.  The mask stared back with a promise of menace, a promise of redemption.

Sharp little teeth ringed the mask’s mouth, and green eyes stared from it.  Frozen in a grimacing smile it stared up at his crying face. It was beautiful and terrifying.  A thing of power sent for him to help him become what he must become. Its eyes held wisdom, and a promise of what was to be.

“We can stop this.” it seemed to whisper to him, reminding him that he had a choice to make, a choice he had made, a choice he would make again.  He could feel his tears dripping down his cheeks, in long ugly trails. He sniffed and gripped the mask harder. Its fur rubbed against his palms until they burned, but even this could not match the fire within his chest.

His hate was a burning sun within him, burning away his deep pools of sorrow.  His mind filled with the steam of it, hiding away every other thought, but hate.  He may have once tried to see through the fog. To move beyond his emotions, but those days were gone.  He no longer wished to brush away the steam and see the world clearly, not this time. Not here. Here he used it to focus on the one and only important thought.  The one and only important goal.

The time of tears was over.  The time of sitting in sorrow was at an end.  Hate had cleared all of that and filled him with a new need. It was now time to act.  Time to become that which he had been born to be.

He was to become an instrument of violence.  Not to punish, no not to punish, though punishment would be acceptable in this circumstance, perhaps even appropriate.  The punishment was called for, but he understood that this was not what he was to be an agent of. He may seek his vengeance, be driven by it, but that was only a bonus.  Feeding his vengeance would be curing the symptoms and not the disease. His true goal was one of preventative medicine. The illnesses would not be allowed to grow.

No, he would be a finer tool, a tool to stop the atrocities that had come upon his people.  Stop them before they could take hold and become this sorrow. He would go to the source and cut it from this world.  Raw medicine had been gone from the world for generations, and with his help, it would return to obscurity.

He may dream of acting as an avenging angel but the idea of treating symptoms of a sickness was proven ineffective, and not what he needed to do, needed to be.  He would be proactive, he would nip the source before it could fester into this pain. His hatred would guide him into moving the world into health in a way love had failed to do.

It nagged at him that he would be snuffing out innocence, but that thought was barely a moment’s.  He laughed it off in a single bitter bark of what little humor his hatred allowed to slip through. It was painful that laugh and threatened to pull his sorrow back up with it, so he pushed it down.  Too many times he had laughed as bodies lay burnt. The thought sobered him, and cut his laugh off at the legs.

The only innocence in all of this was that innocence he would save by acting.  For the evil was already built into his enemy. The potential to cause such pain was already there, hiding and in waiting.  Just because the enemy had not used it yet was not important, because it would be used, and death would come with it. Was he not proof of that, was he not proof there was no innocence to save?

The armor snapped together piece by piece.  It had been made for him. Shaped perfectly for just this purpose.  Made for him, to shape him, to guide him, to focus his need, his goal, his everything.  The Myen had foreseen him, and they had prepared for his coming.

First, had come the well chewed, perfectly cut, and finely sewn buckskin.  No decoration. No lovingly shaped beadwork or lines of color. Just thick leather ready to turn even the sharpest blade.  Like a glove, it molded to his body. The moccasins he tied up his legs to the knees. The rough ties cutting into his fingers as he pulled them each tight before tying them into thick knots.

Next, came the armor.  Hardened pieces of hide and bone overlapping along their length and built just to snap and tie over him.  Every piece was once a living animal. The bone and hide glowing with the once sentient life that made each piece up.  The wisdom of their previous lives wrapping him and completing him. They had been bred and raised just to become this armor.

By the time the armor was around him, he was nothing but bone to the outer world.  It’s faded yellowing color as yet unnicked and unchewed. It was perfect and ancient, made before memory, made for him before there was him.  Some ancient craftsman forming each piece just for this moment.

He could feel his power surge along the armor strengthening it, using it to protect him from what was to come.  It focused him as it tightened around him, holding him as chains hold the slave, as prisons hold the criminal, as a noose frees the guilty.  His power finally focused and put to task. Tightening his hate until it choked his memory from him and left only his hate.

The mask was last. He held it considering as it stared up into his eyes.  Unable to meet that gaze he turned it seeing how it would slip over his head completely.  How it would envelope who he is, he was, so that he could be who he would become.

He lifted the fox mask to his head and slipped it on.  His new face. His new eyes. His new being. To protect him through his travel.  It tightened around his head with a pressure that was near pain, but the pain in this instance was good.  It locked in his hate, focused him.

“We will save them all.”  

Was it him that whispered these words or the mask?  It did not matter. The words and the mask helped him to forget even more than he already had.  Forget everything but his goal, his purpose, nothing else mattered, everything else was squeezed from him.  He was Fox Villain.

Fox Villain smiled as he reached up to the altar and took the glaive in one gloved hand.  It felt right, this weapon of death and time. He tightened his grip and the well-worn handle set perfectly within his fist.  His smile grew, and the power within him grew with it. His hate screamed for release.

“It will soon be time.”

The glaive began to glow as if from within, shining a light upon his armor and reflecting back into the cave.  Dark shapes danced along the light within the shadows of the once great temple. Edifices and colored paintings highlighted along the wall, coming in and out of focus.  The glow brightened as his own power finally focused completely.

The man in black cleared his throat and the Fox Villain turned his head to take in the once ally.  The mentor that had helped him here to train. This man had scared him. Truth be told he still would scare him if fear had not taken leave of him.  The man in black’s anger burned as bright as Fox Villain’s hate.

“You know what you need to do?”  The voice was a song upon the wind.  A song of sorrow, vengeance, and anger.  The voice was a melody of pain, and for a moment Fox Villain feared that this man would turn on him before he could take the next needed step.

“I do.”  His own voice was rough through the mask.  More a growl then speech. A deep rumbling growl that echoed back from the stone walls.  Fox Villain narrowed his eyes as he stared at the man in black.

“It must be stopped before it can happen.  The glaive can harness your power for just that journey, the armor will protect you.  Only with the death of one can there be life for all.”

His lack of memory tugged at him, “I don’t remember, not all of it.”

“Do you need to though?  Beyond what needs to be done?”  The voice was so reasonable.

“Did you do this to me?”

“Your power does affect your memories, but I may have amplified it.”  The voice paused, “But I did not do it to you so much as for you. To assist you, a gift for what you did.”

Something needed to be said.

“I understand.”  And Fox Villain found that as he said the words he did understand.  His memories of life were choppy and broken, but new knowledge had replaced it.  He knew the death he sought would put an end to all this pain before it could become.  More importantly, he knew how to use this power. Knew how to put a stop to that which could not be allowed to happen.  The world opened to him with possibilities.

He had already known who was responsible, but with this new knowledge, he knew how to get to the point to stop it.  There was one creature that was too blame, and he would end them before they even began. That was the gift he would give the world.  Would anyone not do the same? Faced with a monster poised to bring pain and suffering upon the world, would anyone not end them before they had the chance?  It is only natural to wish to stop the seeds of evil before they can sprout into suffering.

“The mask will protect you.”  The man in black added.

Fox Villain made no reply.  His new face squeezed, and his power flared and crackled around him.  Sparks flew as electricity surged along his body and jabbed painfully into his mind.  But the glaive sucked it in and focused it.

“It is time.” His voice, the mask’s voice whispered, either to the man in black or to himself he was not sure.

And so, with the power of hate Fox Villain raised the glaive before him and leaped into the world he once remembered.  His choice had been made, his hate would guide him.

 

Turtle 1

 

The clan had settled upon the river for several weeks now as they met the fish coming upstream to spawn.  It was Salmon season and the season of gathering that sacred fish that brought life and plenty to his people.  The season just before they moved into the valleys of the east sending groups into the mountains to gather berries. The time before they began preparation for winter and the hunts to come.  

The hot seasons came with living in the teepees they used to travel from area to area and ensure easy access to much-needed foods. Turtle liked this time more than the hunkering down in longhouses throughout winter.  Sure, winter was a time of hunting and allowed him to compete with Raging River in the hunt, but it felt too unchanging, too stagnant of an existence.

He knew that there were clans in the world that never moved from place to place.  Choosing instead to remain rooted in one spot, but it was not a life he could understand.  He was made for the constant moving and changing of his clan, and he embraced every moment of the hot seasons that allowed him this freedom of travel.

The planting during the thaw and rain.  The long treks and root digging as rains became heat.  The river berries and fruits of the hottest days, followed by traveling to the rivers and lakes to find the salmon, water potato, and camus.  The gathering and preparing for winter as they harvested the high mountain berries, and finally the hunker down through the cold months, broken only with the hunts that kept his people in fresh meat as their dried goods slowly depleted.

A cycle.  Life was a cycle.  All he had ever known was the cycle of life.  Each moment exciting and new before it died and changed into something else just as exciting and just as new.  On and on again it feeds him and kept him on his toes. This was the world he had always known.

The sharp cry woke him from his thoughts as he turned from the water’s glare to look up the bank.   Raging River stood clad in buckskin and shoeless. Her hair hung long and black framing her sharp face and copper skin.  She was the darkest girl in the clan, and her darkness was seen as a sign of blessing upon the people.

Turtle looked down at his own arm, the same ochre colored skin of all his people, but not as dark as his sister’s.  He felt a moment’s envy as he always did when thoughts turned to his sister. Even in birth, she had outperformed him coming fast and strong from the womb.  And now she had spotted the coming salmon first, proving again her skill.

Raging River’s cry turned into trilling and her finger pointed out toward the traps.  The shimmer of fins sparkled along the water’s surface in mass. For the past few days, a few of the strongest fish had passed by, but the people had allowed them to pass unmolested.  It was good that the strongest would make up the next generation, that they would live to breed.

But now patience had given way to a mob, as the salmon leaped through the waters of the river in their thousands.  The sight of their reddish scales glinting in the sun so bright Turtle had to look away for just a moment.

The traps, of course, had already been built and the clan would eat well tonight as those traps filled and were emptied.  The wooden structures dotted the river across points the salmon were likely to find themselves and worked to ensure those that fished need only empty them upon the bank in mass.

Once upon the banks, those fishing would give way to the cleaners that would pull each fish to gut and fillet and prepare for smoking, wind drying, frying, cooking, and eating raw.  They would fill their stores and then feast upon the rest.

But all of that was sidelined in Turtle’s mind.  It was great the clan would eat, and he would do his duty, but the joy of this time was in gaffing the fish.  Gaffing was a hunting with skill. A gaff was a long wooden pole held tightly in the hands on one end, with the other end tied with barbed hooks made of bone or horn.  The gaffer would stand upon the bank and as the fish swam by they would reach out and hook a salmon before wrestling it onto the shore.

Sure, the traps fed the clan, but gaffing was a chance to practice the skill and compete for the hardest fighting fish.  The strength of the person placed firmly against the strength of the salmon. It was a game that bided the time as the traps filled, a game that often fed many and honed skills.

The best games are like that.  They hone the skills one might need to survive.  Games of the mind and body designed to keep one fit and hale in times of plenty, because as all clans learn times of plenty only last so long before slipping into history.  The cycle brought all seasons with it.

Turtle and Raging River had competed throughout their lives.  Who could hunt the best, pick the most, dig the deepest, carry the most, and gaff the best fish?  They had this unending competition for who was the best, and all the ways it could be proved, and Raging River nearly always won.

Not today though, today, Turtle promised himself the best fish from the river, and so he held his gaff firmly as his eyes roamed the deeps and shallows.  It was not a hunt for the most, for none of them could compete with the traps, no this was a hunt for the best. He bent his knees and speared into the water jerking to the side to hook the thick red salmon he spotted.

A game, perhaps, but a game he would win.

He laughed as he pulled the wet flopping body from the water and the waves crashed up onto him.  He jerked the gaff to one side over the bank and stabbed his catch into the earth. The salmon flopped and turned upon the hook, and with a twist, it was free to beat into the ground.  It was bright red and thickly grey as it jumped this way and that upon the earth. Turtle kicked it idly up higher onto the bank and admired his catch.

He took a moment to glance at Raging River smiling and pulling a big beautiful salmon from the water.  His eyes tightened at her obvious better choice and he turned to spot a better specimen he could hold up before her smug face.

A deep red form leaped from rock to wave before him, and he leaned out over the bank to get a better view of it.  The wiggling tail gave away its position and Turtle aimed his pole just so, just so. The fish turned upon the water and then leaped, water flung back from its scales as it flew up and into the air.

Just as it reached its peak Turtle struck out catching it upon the gills.  It was common to aim for fish within the water reading to jump for their stillness, but for Turtle that was a lack of skill.  Pulling them from flight was so much more satisfying, and here he was pulling the strongest from the river mid-jump.

The weight of the fish yanked his pole down, and he leaped back pulling it from the waves.  The splash of water covering him as the strength of the beast pulled him forward. He yanked back trying to further set the hook and pull it free.

Right it pulled then left, before pulling straight out and away from him.  He led the fish just enough to really get a good pull, before attempting the harsh jerk that would ensure the barb would never let go.  

But that jerk never came.  The barb never set. The pole jerked Turtle to the left nearly off his feet and driving him to his knees, and then back up before going slack.  The damn thing had unhooked itself and escaped his grasp. Wet and irritated Turtle looked into the waters trying to spot his prey, that had moved further upstream, likely into the arms of a less skilled fisher.

His ego deflated he kept looking, taking solace in some smaller fish.  He would find another queen, but until then he had to keep up with the small warriors.  Water dripped from his chest and hair, and he spits it all away as he kept up his hunt.

“Do you see me, brother.”  Raging River laughed as she flopped another salmon upon the bank and moved up to a more precarious position upon a cliff next to her, assured in her expertise, and if Turtle was honest, likely showing off by leaning out over rocks and rapids where most fishers stayed to the lower and safer banks.  He felt a moment of jealousy and pulled his own gaff from the water holding it high into the air.

She laughed, that beautiful laugh she had, and the joy of the hunt filled her eyes.  She sparkled, and Turtle wondered why more of the men and women of the village did not love her.  Sure, many did, and all lusted after her. But none had brought his mother gifts for the attempt to woo her.  They hid from her instead, taking easier spouses. It put an ache in Turtle’s heart for his sister in search of a love equal to her.  It was hard believing any would.

Raging River laughed and flipped her hair at him in derision and he had to admit she was likely too annoying to find a lover when she snorted at his own small salmon pulled from the waters.  She waved him away one-handed and sang to those watching her greatness as she speared down into the waters at a large salmon leaping up to her hook.

She jerked back and turned to pull it up on the bank, but gravity and the strength of the salmon worked against her.  This fish would fight, and Raging River had not set her feet to fight back. It turned this way and that upon the gaff, and she grasped the pole double fisted.  The look of shock on her face would have been comical if not the undercurrent of fear.

Turtle’s sister was not one to give in to fear though.  Nor was she one to let go a catch she had caught. With the pride of an eagle, she held tight and attempted to yank the fish up before it struck the water.  Her strength was not equal to her pride, and the salmon splashed down into the river.

At that moment for most the fight would have been done, and the pole released and pulled from their grasp.  But it became the start of the fight for Raging River. The salmon was surely hooked so even in defeat she would eventually win, but that was not enough for her.  She pulled back and attempted to manhandle the creature from the water.

The salmon pulled and Raging River pulled back.  Her arms tightened and bunched as her every muscle struggled against the flopping fish and rushing currents.  The sweat of the moment formed on her brow, and Turtle tossed his pole back to rush to his sister’s aid, not that she would bother to thank him for intervening in her personal battle with the fish.

The clatter of his pole was a distant background as he turned to rush towards her, but everything began in slow motion.  The fish, the girl, the boy, the moment, the monster, it all happened faster than a blink of the eye. Turtle’s feet squelched and he felt himself slip and plummet into the wet earth, mud filling his mouth and covering his face.

He spits what he could out and pushed himself to his feet, still trying to reach his sister, but to his chagrin, she began to laugh.  One hand pointed out at him and the other on the pole she pointed and laughed. He would never live this down, that much was obvious. Still, the salmon pulled and his sister held on.

Raging River slipped upon the earth and would have plunged into the roaring water but for a hand that caught her.  A thickly muscled arm covered in scars and burns pulled her from the rapids. It was unlikely that she would have died, but an injury was likely with such a fall.  That arm was attached to a man.

The man was out of legend.  He stood tall in the sun, his scarred chest and face glistening with the sweat of the day.  A thick bear skin hung from his back and its head hung over his face. Its dark bristled fur sucking in the light.  His breeches were buckskin, rough cut, and rougher prepared. As if by a man unused to making his own clothing, but had to make due.

The man’s breeches clung to him fitting him as if sewn on.  His thin waist led up into a muscled stomach and thickly muscled chest.  His arm was like a piece of iron, built rather than grown. But over all of him was a spider web of scars and old burns thick and screaming of violence.  The violence had not left his face alone, were somewhere someone had burnt him beyond recognition.

His stared out from that ruined face with eyes like beady black obsidian.  He was a creature of violence that had embraced what it was and lived to tell the tale.  He held Raging River easily above the water and rocks before lifting her back up and sitting her upon the bank.  He stepped forward quietly and pulled her gaff up out of the water, salmon still struggling and sit it all upon the earth next to her.  He turned then to Turtle and stared, a moment of hate in his eyes, that made Turtle flinch before being replaced with a resigned look of duty.   

The entire clan had whispered about this man.  He had appeared almost a year before from the high mountains.  He had swooped down upon the land like a spirit out for vengeance.  Saving those hapless travelers and lone campers deep in the woods from monsters and animals set to harm them.  

Several had started to pray to him to save them, and too often he had.  Never giving a name. Never giving a sign of hello. Just stepping in to save those in need and ridding the deepest darkness of its monsters.

He was a man who had become a legend.  A man that they had named in absence of him naming himself.  As is only right, for names are a thing given and not a thing taken.  A moniker used by people to name and shape others. A label to box him and puts him into the place they needed him.

They had named him Scar Hero, and now in this instant, he stood upon the bank of the river shaded by the background of the village calling Turtle’s name.

 

Scar Hero 1

 

The village was much as he remembered seeing it.  Some standing or sitting amongst the teepees covered in thin buckskin dresses heavily beaded.  Others running too and fro along the banks pulling large reddish fish from the waters with long poles or gathering out large flopping hauls from wooden traps.

The smells of humanity and home lingered on the air.  The smell of already caught fish smoking, a sweet embrace that watered his mouth and made him yearn for what once was.  The sharp taste of berries still fresh yet drying brought a small smile to his lips.

He had found a patch of berries just days ago and had his fill, but only carried away enough to get him here.  He had known where he was heading and had not wanted to weigh himself down too much. He had already snagged a large deer along the trail, and with the leftover bear meat still dried in his pack, he knew he had enough to gift to the village in exchange for a warm welcome.

One did not merely enter a village and expect kindness.  Sure, one would receive a welcome that all hosts might offer, but it was rude, and not how he had been raised. One brought enough to ensure that the visit was a blessing and not a curse.  

The salmon in the traps would feed the village well, but their stores of meat would have dwindled as they spent time fishing instead of hunting.  It was not a season to hunt, and so only those easy kills were chased after in the fishing camp. If winter was to be a time of plenty, they must fill up on salmon now and store what they could.  A nice deer would go well with them, and he thought it might be a fine gift of what they had no time to gather themselves.

For now, the village was concentrating on the fish and traps.  The traps themselves were made of skinned logs hammered into the water in edifices of layered round wood.  The salmon swam in, but just couldn’t swim out, and the trap tenders just had to scoop out piles upon piles.

Around the traps ran laughing youths competing with each other to gaff out untrapped fish with long wooden poles.  The sparkling joy of the day reminded Scar Hero of better times and better days.

He knew they had named him thus, Scar Hero.  He had had another name once, several in fact, but this name was who had become.  His tortured and scarred body and face removing all trace of who he had once been, leaving behind who he was now.  

A savior to some.  He had spent the last year healing his body and preparing his skills with monster hunting.  The bearskin on his back was proof of his success in riding the forests around them of the more dangerous of beasts.

The bear had lived peacefully for years in the high mountains before something within it snapped.  Perhaps it had gotten a sickness, or just got fed up with people wandering into its territory, but in the end, it had become violent, and Scar Hero had been forced to put it down to save a small hunting party to the north of where the village now sat.

Like some other beasts, it had become broken in a way that only finishing it off could cure.  It had been a sadness for Scar Hero to harm such a massive and beautiful creature, but he had done what needed doing at the time.  The skin a reminder of his success in ending its pain, and his failure in not being able to save the creature but only the humans.

He flipped one arm free from under the skin to leave it open and free.  He was here to stop another beast. A beast of greater maliciousness, if not one any less tragic.  The birds chirped behind him in the heat of the growing day, as the laughter of humans echoed back at him from the river’s edge.

His moment of remembrance was over.  He had spent the year of seasons preparing for what came next.  To meet his opponent and save that which he could.

Scar Hero sighed and moved slowly along the tree line towards the river bank.  The laughter and calls of the fisherfolk echoing along the water’s edge. He slipped silently from shadow to shadow until reaching the short cliffs the banks rose up to.

The cliffs were not so high they could be counted as true cliffs, and yet the rock sheared off and fell before meeting rocks and raging rapids.  Just downstream from the main traps, where the bulk of the hunters stood.

The fish coming upstream glistened in the sunlight.  Their scales like shiny stones filling the river as they swam upstream.  The water rippled as it hastened towards the seas, but it wiggled as well with the jumping and moving fish.

It was a sight to see, and one that Scar Hero had not seen in too long.  He could image a well-balanced warrior walking across the river’s surface on the backs of the fish they were so thick.  He smiled. It would be a good catch this year, and the clan would eat well once they had preserved and stored their limit.

For there would be a limit.  There always was in the hunt.  One did not take more than could be replaced.  A bad hunter killed too much and so feasted before starving.  A good hunter knew that some berries must be dropped and left to continue the cycle of growth.  The world was full of limits, and they must be respected if prosperity was to continue and grow.

To overharvest was a fool’s harvest.  

To survive one must find a balance of sustainability.

One young girl had climbed the hill to better meet the coming stream of fish and spot the best of the batch.  The girl was likely in her teens. Skin darker than those others in the village, with midnight black hair that hung straight and long.  She was muscled as were most of the village and moved easily upon the rocks and earth with her youth.

She laughed and called to another, in the joy of her moment.  The joy on her face hurt something in Scar Hero’s chest. He could have stood and watched her for days in her glory.  Memories of his own happy childhood stung at his core, and something within him hitched and made it hard to breathe. He swallowed it all down.

Memories were a tricky thing, and he was here not to relieve his own, but ensure those of others.  Still, he took the moment to appreciate the joy before him. He had had so few times like these in his life.  So, a few moments to just stand and appreciate joy.

She grew close enough to him that with only a short burst of speed he could be by her side, and yet she did not notice him.  She was so focused on the river and fish within it. The look of concentration on her face belying her blindness to everything but the task at hand.

It took only a moment’s pause before everything started.  The action that would make all other actions necessary. The moment that ended his time alone in the forests hunting monsters in freedom, and a return to the suffering that was others.

The woman seemed to hook something that decided to fight back.  Her head down and back muscles bunched she pulled this way and that.  Scar Hero stepped forward in a moment’s worry, only to see her slip upon the mud and rocks and tumble straight over the ledge and towards the rocks below.  She fell fast, but Scar Hero was faster. His pack and weapon dropped at his feet as he rushed in and grabbed her by the forearm.

The shock of contact almost caused him to let go.  Her smooth skin under his own scarred flesh a momentary thing that lasted an eternity.  The muscles in his arm bunched and his hand tightened as he lifted her back to the ledge and firmly on her own feet.

He released her before his grip could tighten more as she met his eyes.  Her hand jerked back as she took in his visage, and he knew then that his scars were worse than he remembered.  Her eyes traveled from face to chest, along his bearskin, and back again to his face, a look of fear and near disgust plain within her eyes.

He wanted to say something, to assure her, but no words came as they stood there looking at each other. When he could take no more of her look he stepped past and reach down to pluck the gaff sticking straight up from the water’s edge.  He lifted it and the salmon easily and dropped it all upon the ground next to her, a gift she likely would not welcome.

The cries of the boy she had been yelling and laughing at came closer, and Scar Hero turned to meet his dark gaze.  The boy was dark, but not near as dark as the woman beside Scar Hero. He likewise was a teen, yet his face seemed more childish in its own way.  The boy was covered in mud and grime, but it did not faze him.

Had he ever been that young?  Had he ever looked with such worried eyes for another?  Scar Hero sighed again and attempted to smile at the boy.

A moment’s recoil before some kind of recognition entered the boy’s face.  Like the girl his eyes roved Scar Hero’s body, making him self-conscious of his many scars.  But it was not to be helped, and the boy seemed to recognize him for a moment. A recognition of stories, and not of self.  This was no surprise, it was unlikely that with the burns and healed cuts along his body that even Scar Hero’s own mother would be able to recognize him.

The boy’s look changed from fear to awe, and Scar Hero smiled.

“Raging River are you ok?”  Even in awe, the boy’s worry won out, and he rushed to the girl’s side.

She humphed and pulled away from him in anger.  Likely unhappy that she had been saved, or even needed to be saved.  It does not always sit well on the young to be forced to recognize that not all things were in their power.  

Scar Hero smiled at the small act of youthful defiance against embarrassment.  He stood silently watching, as the two flapped like birds around each other. One in worry, the other in irritation.

“Yes, brother I am fine, now step away.”  The girl flapped her hands in the face of the boy and mimicked pushing him away.  He hovered still.

“I just.”  His worry was bright and energetic as he hopped from foot to foot trying to soothe her.

“You just nothing, I am fine.”  The girl turned to Scar Hero rubbing her shoulder, “And you, what do you think you are doing manhandling someone like that, you could have broken my arm.”

Again, he smiled, but not sure how to respond, luckily the boy did for him, “Raging River, he saved you from that fall, be nice.”

“Turtle you hush up, I was fine.”  She looked exasperated at her brother then back at Scar Hero with a stern countenance that only the young can really master.  By the time one grew old that sternness became strictness, and was easier to take seriously.

“I apologize if I have injured you.”  His own voice sounded rough and broken in his ears.  It had been too long since he had spoken. He thought back, had he spoken since leaving the mountain lake where he had stayed to heal?  He had seen humans, saved some, moved past others. But he could not recall ever speaking to any of them. His voice was unused, but here at least he had found it again.

“I’m fine, it’s fine, who are you?” Raging River sounded mollified, but not necessarily finished with her anger.

“Don’t you recognize him, he is Scar Hero, the one that has been saving people all over from monsters.”  Turtle sounded excited and the awe was back upon his face.

“Scar Hero, what kind of name is that?”

“Not one I chose, but one that works as well as any other I have had.”

Raging River humphed again and stood back taking him in, this time with less disgust, and more a gauging eye.  Her sight ran along his arms and took in his rough sewn clothing, and bare chest. He could feel the touch of it.  The investigation like fingers upon his scars as her eyes traced the many cuts and burns, before stopping on his face.  He knew it was a ruin. He knew the burn covered and disfigured all that was there, and yet she did not seem afraid of it.  

Her initial disgust gone, she now looked at it as a part of him, a part she did not seem to care about.  No different then some having longer hair or smaller hands. She accepted that this was him, and rather than look at what it could have been, she looked at what was.  It hurt him, as he had not even been able to look at himself in such a way in so long.

He could see her body preparing to reach out towards his scarred face, and perhaps he would like that.  Perhaps he wanted fingers to sooth away his pains and aches, but it was not to be. He stepped back and away from her rising hand to be just out of reach and met her eyes.

She gave him a look of pain as if thinking she knew what he had felt, but she could not know, that was impossible.  Turtle waved between them and coughed in oblivion to what had just past.

“Come down to the village, everyone would love to meet you.”  The boy paused in sudden shyness, “That is if you can stay for a bit.”

“Yes, I plan to stay for a bit.”  He paused, “There is a thing I am hunting, and it is close by.”

Scar Hero stalked over and lifted his pack upon his back in one swift movement.  Its thick elk hide straining for just a moment before settling upon his back. He had rolled it just this morning and he knew it was tight, and all within it safe.  The long glaive he had carried for too long he grasped in his hand and held tight.

“Hunting!  Like a monster.”  Turtle’s excitement filled the air around them and Scar Hero again wondered if he had ever been so young and naive to find excitement in such danger.  He must have been once.

The boy’s eyes seemed absorbed by the glaive and its newness.  At this point, Scar Hero had seen it too much in his life, and so the eyes of this boy let him see it again for the first time.  A forearm length of obsidian sharpened to a razor’s edge, fastened to a long thin pole of pale wood. The pole was much like the gaff poles they used here, or the spear poles some used for hunting.  But shortened and the blade longer than any spearhead had a right to be. It was longer than even most knives. A weapon to kill, not simply to hunt. The weapon of the Myen’s and one Scar Hero wished to one day put down.

Before he could respond though Raging River’s resigned sigh spoke over them both.

“Well if you are going to stay, you better come and be introduced to Grandmother.”

Her words echoed through him for just a moment.  He grabbed the deer carcass he had brought as a gift and lifted it bodily up onto his shoulder with ease.  His muscles bunched, as the deer met air, and then shoulder. He turned to Raging River and his grip on the glaive grew tighter.

It was time to face what scared him more than monsters.

 

Fox Villain 10

 

The first thing Fox Villain experienced as the light dimmed around him was the village humming with life nearby.  Far enough back a line of trees hid it from his sight but close enough he could hear it. He could taste smoked fish upon the air, and he felt a moment’s yearning to feel his teeth sink into it.  

It had been too long since he had sat upon a bark woven mat and ate his fill of fresh smoked salmon.  To just relax and enjoy the sounds of children playing and people living. The colors and music, of people.  The joys of a life lived amongst the clans.

The pain in his chest momentarily caught him.  A sharp ache that pierced his thoughts. He moved it from his mind as his hand idly rubbed his chest.  Such wounds would not matter soon. A lucky blow, that could have ended him but hadn’t. He was still well enough for this one final chance.

‘We save them today,”  his voice whispered.

The noise of the villagers no longer called to him.  Their smells and colors not for the likes of him. He had moved beyond such things, and he came to save such as they, not join them.  He must focus on his tasks and his desires. The needs of the world came before the wants of his heart.

He breathed deeply of the hot pine air and smiled at the sudden stillness of the forest around him.  The only creature not driven into fear and silence by his arrival the humans that lived nearby. The slowest of all beasts, but still he would protect them from the evil in their midst.

He cracked his neck along the top of his armor, letting his mask’s cheek bend nearly to his shoulder guard.  He loosened his arms and legs, letting them become accustomed to movement, and preparing them for the action to come.

He needed to loosen the tightness that his hate had made of his muscles.  It would do him no good to seize up and harm himself. He laughed at the thought for a moment before setting off towards the sounds of life.  One of those sounds needed silencing. He could smell his prey from here.

Fox Villain moved as he had been trained.  Not straight through the trees and brush, but as a hunter.  Taking each step slowly but surely. Taking in the world around him as he flowed through it towards his prey.  It would not do to charge ahead until he was ready to pounce. Only then could he charge ahead in reckless abandon.

The village was much as most villages were.  The fires stoked and cooking. People gossiping around them as food cooked and the day wound away.  It was a nice life, a nice village. Little did they realize the malice that walked within them.

Fox Villain did not begrudge them their ignorance.  It was not always easy to spot. Evil did not always declare itself to one’s face.  It often hid in plain sight, hid and cried as if innocent and in need of help.

No, it took one of great keening at times to really spot it.  A specialist like Fox Villain comes to cut it away from the bosom that held it close.  Cut it away before it poisoned the body and ruined the mind. He would be their savior, though they would fear him for it.

He was noticed, he could hear the sounds of them as he walked first from the trees and in amongst the teepees and fires.  He was noticed, and he gave no sign of it. He was not here for them, and there was no need to cause them more fear than necessary by attempting to engage with them.

Even so, he knew he scared them.  He was a ghost in their midst how could he not.  His fox mask alone was enough to worry most who gazed upon it.  He was a silent shadow moving from fire to fire, person to person, family to family.

He brought trouble with him, and those who saw him took only moments to feel it in their guts.  He was not here as a kind and happy guest, but as a messenger of death to come. He wore his hatred upon him like a cloak, thicker than the armor around him, and more visible than the mask upon his face.

The bone armor shone in the afternoon light, pale and faded yet still shining in its menace.  He smiled at how he must look to them, a ghastly apparition came to call as their day ended. A storyteller’s most fearsome words come to life and walking among them.

He could hear the villagers first curious, then afraid, then running from him.  This is who he was now. The villain came to collect. The village scattered around him in fear that his shadow might fall upon them.  He was bad medicine in the flesh.

His quarry stood in the middle of the village, surrounded by his allies even as Fox Villain walked alone.  The group huddled near a teepee no larger than the others, but glorious in its way. The dwelling of a leader not held above her people but held in respect by them.  

The girl noticed him first, turning from the elder woman she was speaking to, her arms waving until her eyes spotted him.  Then her arms stilled and dropped slowly to her side. Her words caught in her throat. She became stillness incarnate, as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

The old woman looked made of stone, hard edges and harder eyes.  Her grey hair pulled back tightly from her wrinkled face as she looked to where the girl’s eyes had turned.  Her mouth pursed, and the boy. Oh, the boy, he turned in immediate fear.

Such fear was a thing remembered as Fox Villain strode purposefully across the village.  The boy seemed to shrink down and stepped to the side behind the large hulking form of the scarred man beside him.  

That man was not a welcome sight.  Long an enemy, that often stood in the way of justice.  The scarred one turned, his long dark bear skin shading his eyes from the afternoon sun.  Those eyes pierced out from under the skin and Fox Villain felt his step falter. Falter for a moment, before he took another step letting his righteousness fill him and steady his mind.

The scarred one stepped forward and dropped the bearskin from his shoulders and stood bare-chested as if chiseled from stone.  The thick fur pooling at his feet like a second dark shadow in the day. Here was the boy’s last and final protector. Many had died to reach this point, but it would all be made better once the boy died.  All would be saved today.

Fox Villain stepped slowly through the teepees and fires knowing his time had come.  The scarred man mirrored him as he began closing the distance. Fox Villain stopped and planted his feet on the ground looking not at the man but at the boy.

“Islaqnous.”  The word directed at the boy.  The boy was all that mattered. Fox Villain did not expect him to understand, but still, the forms must be met.  He leaned into his glaive letting the pole dig deeper into the earth. There was no response to his word, but that was fine.  He answered to himself, he would understand and that was enough.

The scarred man cried out in a long low whoop that filled the air and drew Fox Villain’s eye.  It seemed he had an obstacle still to his goal. It made no matter, one step at a time, one more end before the last.

He turned slightly setting his feet as the man charged across the ground, earth chewed up under his feet, and glaive cutting through the air.  Their battles had not always gone well for Fox Villain, but he had learned. Learned hard.

The man would not give way easily, nor without a battle.  Fox Villain was still injured, and his chest ached where it had last met a blade.  He smiled still though, smiled at this the beginning of the end. Today they would start the final act.  One that would free the world of those that would bring it harm.

Fox Villain stood tall, his armor tight against him, glaive glowing in his hand.  It filled with power, less than it had, but still enough to do what needed to be done.  The man charged against him, his own glaive dark and spent, but still sharp.

The two weapons were mirror images of each other.  One dark, sucking in the light around it, and the other bright with power and need.  Bright with hatred. The two struck and sparked as the men circled and fought.

The force of an avalanche striking the stone buried in the earth.  The air shook with the force of impact, as each man turned and circled lashing out with all they had.  The world fell away as both focused down into just each instant. Nothing mattered but now in a sea of now’s, a chain reaction of events that flowed like a dance.

Obsidian met obsidian as blade struck blade. Death offered and turned in the swinging morass of battle as the two faced off.  Too often they had met, too often Fox Villain had failed, but not this time.

As his weapon vibrated with a blow, Fox Villain turned his body, and his hands until he pushed upon his opponents’ weapon.  Both caught and gripping the other as they attempted to push back against each other. But their bodies held, and neither budged an inch.

Fox Villain turned his blade before turning it all against his enemy and he began pushing the other’s weapon down towards the earth.  The two-meeting eye to eye, grimace burnt face against the fox mask. The mask smiled as he turned sharper and struck out with the wooden pole striking the man a glancing blow to the side knocking him off balance.

The man turned with the hit and Fox Villain flipped the weapon in his hand and let it spin until he struck out again.  Obsidian was turned by wood, but the parry only opened the door to another blow from the wooden shaft. This one with the full weight of Fox Villain’s strength against the man’s head and the scarred man hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Stepping closer and before his opponent could react Fox Villain slammed the butt of his staff into that head again, feeling the satisfying crunch of the blow that knocked his enemy unconscious.  He raised his glaive and turned it blade down to finish this obstacle off when he heard the cry of anger. Too late he turned to find the girl charge into him knocking him off balance.

He paused, this was not how it was supposed to happen. He spun his blade away so as not to cut the girl, and drove the butt of the glaive into her stomach knocking the wind from her lungs.  The force of her charge halted, as Fox Villain reset his feet and slammed the pole into the side of her head knocking her to the ground in a boneless crunch.

He had no time or desire for this battle, so he turned.  The village was in shock and hysteria. Not use to such a brutal attack in their midst.  He felt a moment’s sadness for bringing such terror among them, but what must be must be.

His eyes found his prey huddled against a teepee not far from him, and he smiled at his success.  He would win the day, and the evil would be pulled up by the root of it. He stalked towards the boy, watching fear fill the young eyes.

Again, he gave his prey the honor of the moment and said, “Islaqnous.”

His words were met with only fear.  He knew that fear, tasted it on his own lips.  He swung his glaive lazily as he approached, slowly but surely, righteousness in his every step.  This would be his triumph. The boy’s eyes though gave him pause. Hard to see the evil that would flourish through the innocence he found there.

No, he could not think of such things.  This was the moment. This was his chance to finish it all before it began.  He caught his glaive in his hand with the firm steady thump of wood on flesh.  The pressure from the boy’s power pulling the air from his lungs.

He could feel it building, all around him.  This was his chance before the boy could become what he would become.  Before the power could fill him and surge out into the world. Fox Villain had sacrificed too much and come too far to let it happen, not again.  Not ever.

He took another step towards the boy and he knew what it must be like.  The pain of it, the sheer confusion of what was happening to him. The pain of power building with his emotions.  The fear gobbling up all that was and forming a ball in the pit of his stomach.

Fox Villain could not allow that build up to reach its next level.  He must cut the source off before it took its next step. The air around him pulsed slightly as the boy’s fear grew.  Fox Villain breathed deeply and bent into the force pushing out at him, cutting his way through the pressure towards the boy.

And like that it all changed.  The power that had been pushing against him pulled.  Sucked towards the boy, Fox Villain staggered with the sudden shift and had to use the pole of his glaive to keep from falling.  The world took in its breath and he knew that he had taken too much time.

The world blazed in power and fire.  Lightning struck out from the boy and burnt away all in its path.  Fox Villain was struck again and again with the blasts of power, crackling along his armor, through his armor.  He could feel the burn of it even through his mask.

He staggered back and knew he had failed even as the power receded from him.  Only with the pole to lean on did he remain standing. Staggered and bent even then.  He coughed through the smoke and pain, and felt too injured to move, to broken to complete his mission.

He tried to right himself.  Tried to pull it all together.  As the smoke filled the air around him he reminded himself this was his chance.  He wanted to scream at his own weakness. Why had he taken his time and not simply charged the boy?  Why couldn’t he have simply run in and finished the mission before all that power had been allowed to escape?

If he could take a moment and finish this it would all be worth it.  He coughed in the smoke and shook off the flames that covered him. If he could gather himself and make that final push to end it all.  But no, he had not that moment, as he felt his own glaive pulse in response to the power that had surged around it. He felt it pull from him that which it needed and he screamed in frustration and rage as it pulled it him into its light.

And like that the world turned and he leaped.  The world not going dark, but instead bright. And as the light past, he stepped out onto another bank.  His armor cracked and burnt as he tried to keep standing, but his glaive slipped and fell from his hands.  The earth reached up and slapped him with its muddy fist.

He had passed the dream land too quickly, and his protection was cracked and burning.

More mud, more fog, more memories, more pain, and he had fallen face first into the earth weeping in frustration, weeping in failure, weeping alone.

 

 

Please feel free to explore my short story page

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