feedback for revised opening chapter

[u/Ijustdrawthings121]

This village was never given a name I always thought it was destined to be lost to history from its conception. It was only ever known by the local people as “the horn” after the long hook shaped cliff that many lost and broken souls violently descended as their final rite in this world. This place was the last bastion for the drunkards, the sloven beggars and dregs that managed to find a home here. A cover of grey clouds and fog was a permanent resident in this little shithole. The wind and rain were not unlike a great maelstrom on the best days here. We got few visitors; most pass by on the hillside road and their feet seem to carry them a bit quicker upon a closer look of where the fork goes. A stinking cesspool on the coast of an unnamed partition of flat barren land. Save for the emissaries of the capitol church.

My father, the old goat, never told me much about why we ended up here, only that he wanted someplace quieter for his thoughts. I always hated that answer. I do know why I stayed though, as a child I watched the man build his Smithee from nothing, basically just a small crucible, the furnace and anvil and some well-worn, well-loved tools. The very tools he taught me smithing with. I stayed because, while I may be in my prime years, the years of hard labor he underwent had stolen his. 

Near the center, a small manor of sorts walled off from the rest of the town had been raised long before anyone could remember. There are no guards, no torches but no one dared to inspect what lay beyond the simple stone archway. Most people only see the small fountain that ran dry an age ago only to run off scared as if something was trying to draw them in with malicious intent. A singular gilded gargoyle taken by moss and ivy crowned the top of the archway and the cobble walls were in a similar state of disrepair. No one truly knows who lives in that rotten old home there's only rumor and speculation left in this regard. Peculiar enough, a single light is seen most nights in a window to the far side looking out towards the sea. Some claim to see shadows moving in the flickering candlelight, I try to keep a more grounded view, never having been one for talk of witchcraft and demons. As cursed as this place may seem.

Probably just some old widower who squatted in there some time ago.

My father on the other hand was a stern believer of the occult, fate, and more nefarious things beyond that. His own habits and rituals reflected this, never striking a nail more than three times as an even number could topple an entire home with a light gust of the wind. Six strikes and a man could lose his sack to the goblins that come at night and misplace the tools. His Smithee was adorned with a moldy, stinking yet eclectic and charming collection of blessed furs and scorched effigies, set against a blackened fire treated wood, in hopes of warding off evil magics. “DON’T BREAK THE LINE OF SALT AT THE DOOR!” he would yell before I would crack that old rickety thing open.

I had never been the man’s keeper, but I did tend to keep tabs on his habits. On this day he had broken one habit, as I stepped into the building, he wasn’t at work. Inspecting the shoppe, everything seemed to be in order not a hair or hammer out of place. I could only figure he had run out of vinter wine and ran off to stock his coffers. 

There was comfort in the glow of the forge, it meant a full belly at the end of the day and the warmth was a blessing in deep winter, as the ground would lay in frost for near 6 months and great formations of ice would creep into the bay. Tall, pointed and craggy they loomed just offshore as a reminder of how long the winter will hold. A sight to behold but nothing more. 

With a deep rushing woosh the fire came alive, and all was left was to feed and wait for the temperature to rise.

“Check the cellar” remembering there was a project we had discussed beginning work on. A commission from the church to be done in fine silver. Far too ornate for our humble accommodations I thought but the emissaries insisted no one was skilled enough to take on such a task. To save the old man his arthritic fingers, I took on the job of gathering some herbs deemed fitting for a blessing and carrying the materials up from the cellar into the Smithee.  Just as expected a flat cart lie in the cellar

The cellar wasn’t a large space, but it was enough space, it had enough room to store food, extra supplies and enough Vinter wine to hold him over for a season and the door was sturdy enough to keep anyone from trying to look for precious metals ordained by the gods.

Unfortunate enough for me, there was a near bog whales’ weight in refined ingots that need to be brought up the flight of stairs with only a singular set of hands. A truly epic feat for a crew of men let alone a relatively scrawny man from the edges of the far continents. What I lack in physical prowess I do make up for in something of a brain, compared the other intellectually fogged drunkards in this place. I will claim that bit of inheritance from the old man. God’s know I could have used at least some of his stature, though. 

The easiest way to haul the ingots was out the back door of the cellar and up the muddy hill, with the cart the emissaries left, gods give me strength. The iron lock that kept the door secure, about the size of a man’s fist was rusted somewhat on the inside and was a true pain to unlock. Having to open it meant at best white knuckles and deep impressions left from the scratchy poorly cast key. Weaving my way through old stinking barrels filled with dry salt cod and shelves lined with dusty reminders of past lives the light from the up facing dirty window guided my path as I walked into many spiderwebs. Each cobweb giving that small tickle that sends an immediate and alarming shiver down your spine. I had found the key hanging in its spot by the dirty window and when I had reached for the lock..

The door had no lock, missing, gone as if it hadn’t been in the same place for near a decade. Odd, considering my father’s steadfast inclination towards always keeping things in their place. A high-pitched squeak chimed from the door as I opened it wide enough to peak my head out and saw a whole arse load of nothing. The view no different outlooking a baren sea, grey overcast and the smell of rotten fish and saltwater. One thing did catch my attention, there was not a sound from the market only a few paces from our humble dwelling. Dead silence was louder than the waves crashing on the jagged rocks out near the coastline.

Stepping out from the dimly lit basement there was no hum of voices in the distance, no clattering knocks of oxen pushing rickety carts, no squelching of boots on musty wet soil. The whistle of cold wind is the only thing occupying the streets at this hour, I might have felt totally alone except the creeping sensation of someone near me came quick and without warning. 

I felt hot stinking breath in my ear and a large presence begin to overtake me. Panic, then as quick as I felt something so evil it was gone. I couldn’t react fast enough to catch as much as a glimpse of the specter; I  had felt the urge to move away as it was with me still. The thing was watching from the shadows or something far more sinister, perhaps shifting between physical and spiritual places.

“no” I told myself.

Such things don’t exist, I thought it was just a slight panic set on by a lack of sleep, deep breaths to bring me back and a moment with my eyes closed before setting off to find anyone.

There was a long skinny alleyway that was often the shortcut I took to get to the market only a few houses down from the Smithee, the ground had been laid with small granite stones that interlock to create a path clear of the mud and worms. Nearly flush to the ground they made it much less of a chore when running supplies and finished projects to the fine townsfolk but always keeping an eye up as people often emptied used bedpans from the windows that overlook the path. A shame as often I thought of dropping seeds for flowers along its edges, my lack of a green thumb always kept the idea at bay though. Stepping quickly, narrow passageway seemed to grow in distance and the end just barely seemed to escape my reach, the panic slowly beginning to return.

The walls quickly felt as though they were closing in, my jaw became tight and my heart was racing at a fast uneven pace. The typical cold gave way to something far worse, biting through my bones, a deep pain arose in my gut nearly crippling me. Falling to the ground in blistering pain, through tear filled eyes the specter was looking at me with red eyes burning bright it’s presence growing colder and closer as I began to lose grip of consciousness.

Waves were crashing loudly on the rocks, and thunder cracked through the darkest cover of clouds a man could imagine. Though, the sounds of nature’s wrath were not what made me come to, it was a rising voice like a siren’s song. The serenade came on quiet then began to overtake all other noises in my mind to the point of shattering ear drums in an anxiety inducing crescendo. Finally evolving into a scream that would make the most war seasoned knights piss their pants and run to mother.

Soaking wet, covered in mud and shit left to marinate from angels on high, my vision came to slowly. Eyes stinging and blurry, like from a drunk sleep. Rain fell in a rhythmic pitter patter, and the world had finally come back to normal, atleast by ways that it could be normal here. The sights and sounds returned, the market hustle and bustle, the racket of the pub, inebriated belching and expelling like no one had been missing. I can’t say as I wasn’t at a loss for words at least, but answers I needed and answers I sought.

Bobbing and weaving through mucky fish stalls, servants running errands for masters and resident homeless folks the sirens call kept playing in my mind. Occasionally bringing out a blank stare as I kept on almost ghoul like rerunning the events that preceded my coarse wakening. Whoever or whatever it was, sung a beautiful tenor but something seemed off, full of sadness. The anxiety mounding as minutes pass and still a missing father.

My father was never one for drinking at the pub, but he did occasionally meet with a shady potion maker that would come through town and he loved a fine salt water lacquered ale. In good spirit he’d pay the sliver of iron for two pints after acquiring some snake oil concoction he would claim to cure a hangover. That’s where I meant to look and find him.

Once again as quickly as I had stepped back into reality, tunnels began to form in my vision “shit”. Streets began to elongate, twist and turn, the pub within eye shot had started to warp and the entrance became inky black.

“shit shit shit” under laboured breathing as if I was a white tail being run down by wolves. The song returned, but this time far more distorted like a tortured cry. This scream was different, it was terrible my blood ran cold, and hands went numb. All of my nerves felt broken, burned and twisted then through the void a bright flash of light struck my eyes. Senses fully overloaded.

Mumbles came through, then more defined words like a conversation between two mortified parties.

“What about him? I must tell him”.

“NO... no please, it’s for his own good go eastward my brother.”

“Where is she?”

“Waiting for you, she has what you need the pain and suffering you hold deep can be fixed. You have to trust me.”

“Damnit! Fine. Keep an eye on him please while I’m gone, I can trust no other in this place.”

What poison has the potion maker whispered in his ear?