A Familiar's Tale
-=A Familiar's Tale=-
-Chapter 1 -
L ong, long ago, in the time of stories, there lived a noble warrior. He came from simple stock, the son of a peasant mother and father. He was an ordinary child, by most standards, but extraordinarily bright, and courageous. Growing up, like most young children, he played at being a knight, fighting imaginary evil in the backyards of his friends, and in the outskirts of the woods.
The thing that made the warrior different, however, was that while most other children eventually grew tired of such games, the warrior did not. He dreamed of a life of excitement, as in his childhood games.
He got it. When an evil monster threatened the town, the young warrior was the first to answer the call. Armed with a kettle lid and a rusty old sword unearthed from a bog, he hunted down the creature and slew it, earning the respect and admiration of the townspeople.
But this is not his story.
Now that the warrior had had a taste of real adventure, he craved more. The town's blacksmith wrought him a fine sword and shield, and he bought many supplies. He undertook a quest to destroy evil wherever it may be found, and left his village for the wider world.
He had many adventures, all of them great tales to tell.
However, again, the following is not his story.
This warrior did not travel alone. Early in his journey, he encountered a familiar, a companion who would accompany him throughout his travels, and share in both his victories, and his defeats.
The story of this familiar is often brushed aside, but nonetheless, it is a fascinating tale.
Herein is chronicled the tale of the warrior's familiar.
This is HIS story.
=---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------=
F lint shivered, curled up in a ball, hidden among the roots of a great tree. He had done as much as possible to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, but the Humans tracking him had dogs and divining rods.
Flint could hide his sent, but his kind used no magic, and thus had no defense against magical methods of tracking.
The Foxfolk youth tried to curl tighter in an effort to fight the cold. Hailing from the Southern Deserts, his kind had little resistance against the brisk late autumn weather, their short fur and small size designed more to radiate heat than retain it.
Flint was a scrawny creature, about four feet tall standing up, an average size for his kind. He was thin (though that could have been the result of the conditions in which he had been kept), covered in short tan fur, with cream colored fur on the front of his torso, his paws, and the underside of his muzzle. He had a pair of broad, pointed ears, currently folded flat against his head, and a short, bushy tail, currently curled around his body.
His eyes were a deep brown, but they were currently squeezed shut.
The young Foxman was very far from home indeed, and not by choice. His people were simple desert nomads, inhabiting the dunes and scrublands to the south. According to legend, they had once had a great and powerful civilization, but it was long gone.
Flint had been taken as a slave while visiting a trading post on the edge of the desert, getting seperated from his people in the bustling crowd and bumping into some disreputable types. He'd escaped from his captors twice while in town, but they had always recaptured him, and eventually they had shipped him north, far away from everything he knew. He had been slated for sale at an auction block in a Human city as an "exotic import" (few people had seen a Desert Foxfolk male so far north before).
When informed of this, Flint chanced one final escape attempt. He was far from home, and the land around him was completely alien to him, but he knew he didn't want to belong to some Human merchant with a taste for exotic pets for the rest of his days.
Given his track-record, he hardly expected to succeed. However, he had to give it one last shot.
He flinched slightly, hearing a sound he hadn't wanted to.
"Hey! The Witching Rod has something! This way!"
Flint cursed silently to himself. He heard the crackle of boots shuffling through the dead leafs that coated the forest floor, and tensed.
They were on to his location, a divining rod would lead them straight to him, thanks to the tracking spell they had placed on him shortly after his first escape attempt. Having no way to remove it, Flint had hoped he could at least outrange its effectiveness. Obviously, though, he hadn't gone far enough.
"He's somewhere around here... spread out. We'll get 'im."
Flint gritted his teeth, praying the one with the diving rod wasn't headed his way personally. He'd hidden himself well enough, balled up under a layer of dead leafs in the roots of an old tree, but a magical aid would pinpoint his exact location regardless.
If that happened, though, Flint still had two weapons; his sprinting ability, and a row of very sharp teeth.
Unless he came up against the handler. He wore thick leather gloves, and had fast hands.
The sound of footsteps gre closer.
"There's SOMETHING here... the rod's goin' nuts!"
"He's small! Could be hiding under the leafs!"
"I'll check..."
Flint tensed as he heard a hand reaching down into the roots of the tree...
"YOWCH!"
Flint bit down with all his strength, tasting blood in his mouth, before bolting, exploding out of the leafs and running as fast as he could. He didn't bother looking back, his ears told him well enough that he was being chased.
But, after two previous escape attempts, he knew a thing or two about his captors. They had better endurance than he did, but they were slower on the sprint, and less nimble in tight spaces.
Flint dove through a thicket, ignoring the thorns tearing at his fur and skin as he wriggled underneath. It was hard to be stealthy with the crunch of dead leafs underfoot, but all Flint needed was to cut through somewhere his captors couldn't follow.
Coming out the other side of the bush, Flint picked himself up and began running again...
...straight into the side of a large animal in his path.
Laid flat, Flint yelped in terror at the sight of a bucking, whinying horse above him. Scrambling backward, he tried to escape, but quickly backed up into someone's leg, and let out another yelp as a strong hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
"Hah! Didn't occur to you we'd go AROUND the thicket, di-"
From somewhere nearby, there was a loud throat-clearing.
"Hey! What's going on here!"
Flint looked up to where the sound had come from, and blinked.
A Human youth had emerged from the bushes, carrying a pail of water. He couldn't have been any older than Flint... 16 seasons or so, though the young Foxman hadn't quite mastered gauging Human age yet.
The slaver who had caught Flint scowled.
"None of your business, runt!"
The boy narrowed his eyes, walking over to his horse and soothing it, trying to calm it down.
"I'll say it isn't. You've spooked my horse, AND invaded my camp, and I think that warrants an explanation."
Flint blinked, and looked around. Indeed, they were in a camp. The remains of a cookfire smouldered in the center of a clearing, and a small tent had been erected.
The slavers growled, and Flint grunted slightly as he was lifted up by the scruff of his neck.
"This Furling tried to run away from our caravan. Now that we've caught 'im, we'll just be taking him back with us."
The boy set down the water before his horse, and walked over to the slaver.
"I've never seen your kind before around these parts..."
"He's from the Southern Deserts. Cost us a pretty penny, but he'll sell for twice as much where we're going."
The boy's eyes narrowed, and he looked up at the slaver.
"I wasn't talking to you."
He looked at Flint.
"Tell me, do you have a name?"
Flint blinked. He'd told his name to the slavers, before he'd known their true intentions, but he doubted they even remembered it by now. If so, they never used it. It was odd having any Human ask him the question.
Flint made eye contact with the Human, and was surprised to feel something... different. He did not have the cold, emotionless eyes of his captors. He seemed entirely different.
The Foxman gulped.
"...F-Flint, sir."
"He talks Human, too. Smart one. Only adds to the value."
The boy looked up at the slaver again darkly, and then back at Flint.
"I'll give you 500 sovereigns for 'im."
The slaver blinked.
"What?! Why would YOU need a slave, boy?"
"That's not YOUR concern. I'll pay you in gold, right here. That's a good deal and you know it."
"Look, kid, we'd prefer to sell 'im at auction, and besides, wouldn't a runt like you have to get permission from-"
In retrospect, Flint figured the sword hanging from the boy's belt should have been easy to notice. Nonetheless, the slaver seemed quite surprised when a point of cold steel was pressed against his nose.
The boy gritted his teeth.
"What you're selling ISN'T auction material. It's obvious he's been abused and underfed, and the fact that he's trying to escape means he's probably fresh, and I believe the capture of free beings for sale into slavery was OUTLAWED well before I was born.
"Aside from that, don't ever call me 'runt'. I am Walfin of Meadhill, slayer of the Meadhill Bogey, Champion of the Realm. You will address me as 'sir'. Besides that, you should know I DESPISE slavers."
Digging into his pocket, the boy removed a small coin purse. Opening it, he glanced at the contents, before tossing it to the ground in front of the slaver.
"Take that and go, and leave the slave. If I see you in these parts again, I'll bring you to justice myself."
Too stunned to do much else, the slave dropped Flint to the ground, scooping up the purse and looking inside briefly. Scowling, he waved to the others.
"Alright, this is enough! Let the ru-... Champion, have what he wants."
Grumbling, the slavers retreated back from whence they'd come. Walfin watched them retreat for a few moments, before collapsing to the ground, breathing a deep sigh of relief.
Flint, too stunned to do much, shook his head clear, and looked up at Walfin.
"I-I... thank you... Master?"
Walfin looked down at Flint and smiled.
"I can't believe I pulled that off... and don't call me Master, Walfin will do."
He looked over the bedraggled Foxman. Extending his hand to Flint to help him up, Walfin smiled.
"Vermin, those slavers. You Foxfolk are decent people, even if I've never seen your particular breed before. I don't like seeing you treated like talking livestock... I-I suppose I just had to do something."
Flint blinked, hesitantly taking the hand and standing. Walfin was still a good bit taller than Flint, at about 5' 8". He was of average build and appearance for a Human, though, with a slim frame, brown hair, tanned skin and green eyes. Except for the sword he wore, he seemed to be just like any other Human.
But there was something intangible about this one, something Flint couldn't quite place...
He'd been apparently willing to stick his neck out for Flint's well being, at least, and that counted for something.
"Th-Thank you for... saving me, then, Walfin. I-I'm willing to work off what you paid for me, if you'd like."
Walfin blinked, then smiled, scratching the back of his head.
"Th-That's fine... you can leave whenever you like, but from the looks of you, I'd say you could could stand to stick with me for awhile, at least until you're back on your feet."
Flint raised his eyebrows, but smiled back.
"That's... a generous offer! I-I suppose I'm in no shape to go anywhere as I am, though..."
Walfin, smiling back, stuck out his hand.
"We'll see what we can do about that. In the meantime... welcome to my party, I suppose."
Flint smiled, amazed at his good fortune.
Many adventures awaited Flint in his journies with Walfin of Meadhill, and these stories will be told...