It was a terrible plight, Dermanassian thought, to be alone in the world. To be
the last of a race once the envy of all civilizations, now lost to mass insanity and
death.
The residents of Bullfrog stared as he dipped his spoon into his crockery bowl.
“Freak,” someone snickered.
Dermanassian moved his angular face deeper into the shadows of his hood.
Perhaps leaving the east had been a mistake. But although they were cousins of
sorts, the eastern elves were a mediocre substitute for his own kind. It was his
awkwardness with them, as much as desire to see the world and test himself
against it, that had driven him to wander the land at the threshold of adulthood.
Ending up in this swampland inn at the beginning of storm season was a bit of
poor planning and bad luck.
The town of Bullfrog was, by local standards, a major trading hub. To him, it
was a stinking settlement on a patch of drained bog, which might have been
more pleasant left under water. Yet he needed rest and supplies, and so he
ventured into Bullfrog one morning hoping for both. He planned to be on his
way as dawn burned off the morning fog. Instead, he had been trapped in the
fens by a sudden storm. Now, he sat in damp clothes eating his second dinner of
pungent stew. The rain lashed through the trees outside; rising waters swirled
among the stilt supports of the inn and the thin trees dotting the fens.
The people of Bullfrog were over-protective of their marsh, though it was
suitable only for ranching their bizarre livestock – giant rodents with a
lingering, musky flavor symbolic of the place itself. The folk made it clear they
did not like outsiders; they rarely spoke to him, which he thought was just as
well. Yet they spoke about him, in overly loud voices meant to ensure he would
hear their taunts and insults. The innkeeper pointedly instructed him to
destroy his dishes in the fire when his meals were finished, so as not to
contaminate the good folk of Bullfrog. And, of course, to compensate the
innkeeper for his losses, Dermanassian was charged twice the rate. The youth
noted the innkeeper had no such queasiness when handling his coins.
Their treatment of Dermanassian was new to him only in its extreme. His race
had been gone for thirty-some years – long enough for one generation of
humanity to depart and another to be born and mature. It was sometime during
this revolution of time that the reputation of his race had changed. Where once
he might have traveled surrounded by luxury, respect, and kinsfolk, he now
crouched in the corner of a run-down inn, slumping his shoulders to minimize
his height as if the citizens of Bullfrog might miraculously forget that he was in
the room.
His meal finished, Dermanassian stood. He gathered his dishes to take with him
to his room, for he had no desire to reward the innkeeper’s malicious avarice
with additional coin.
"Like diseased rats, they were," a man spat as Dermanassian reached the door.
His hand hesitated on the latch, but he did not need to turn to know who spoke.
It was, inevitably, Roca, who loudly insulted him and his race whenever he was
present and probably even when he was not. Roca, with brown curling hair that
hung in ringlets wet with rain and grime. With yellow pants torn on the left leg
so that his scuffed knee poked through as he lounged in his chair. With the
ceramic tankard that never emptied no matter how much he consumed. With
the chipped tooth that glinted when he guffawed at his own jokes until
Dermanassian found himself imagining his fist landing squarely in the man’s
jaw...
the last of a race once the envy of all civilizations, now lost to mass insanity and
death.
The residents of Bullfrog stared as he dipped his spoon into his crockery bowl.
“Freak,” someone snickered.
Dermanassian moved his angular face deeper into the shadows of his hood.
Perhaps leaving the east had been a mistake. But although they were cousins of
sorts, the eastern elves were a mediocre substitute for his own kind. It was his
awkwardness with them, as much as desire to see the world and test himself
against it, that had driven him to wander the land at the threshold of adulthood.
Ending up in this swampland inn at the beginning of storm season was a bit of
poor planning and bad luck.
The town of Bullfrog was, by local standards, a major trading hub. To him, it
was a stinking settlement on a patch of drained bog, which might have been
more pleasant left under water. Yet he needed rest and supplies, and so he
ventured into Bullfrog one morning hoping for both. He planned to be on his
way as dawn burned off the morning fog. Instead, he had been trapped in the
fens by a sudden storm. Now, he sat in damp clothes eating his second dinner of
pungent stew. The rain lashed through the trees outside; rising waters swirled
among the stilt supports of the inn and the thin trees dotting the fens.
The people of Bullfrog were over-protective of their marsh, though it was
suitable only for ranching their bizarre livestock – giant rodents with a
lingering, musky flavor symbolic of the place itself. The folk made it clear they
did not like outsiders; they rarely spoke to him, which he thought was just as
well. Yet they spoke about him, in overly loud voices meant to ensure he would
hear their taunts and insults. The innkeeper pointedly instructed him to
destroy his dishes in the fire when his meals were finished, so as not to
contaminate the good folk of Bullfrog. And, of course, to compensate the
innkeeper for his losses, Dermanassian was charged twice the rate. The youth
noted the innkeeper had no such queasiness when handling his coins.
Their treatment of Dermanassian was new to him only in its extreme. His race
had been gone for thirty-some years – long enough for one generation of
humanity to depart and another to be born and mature. It was sometime during
this revolution of time that the reputation of his race had changed. Where once
he might have traveled surrounded by luxury, respect, and kinsfolk, he now
crouched in the corner of a run-down inn, slumping his shoulders to minimize
his height as if the citizens of Bullfrog might miraculously forget that he was in
the room.
His meal finished, Dermanassian stood. He gathered his dishes to take with him
to his room, for he had no desire to reward the innkeeper’s malicious avarice
with additional coin.
"Like diseased rats, they were," a man spat as Dermanassian reached the door.
His hand hesitated on the latch, but he did not need to turn to know who spoke.
It was, inevitably, Roca, who loudly insulted him and his race whenever he was
present and probably even when he was not. Roca, with brown curling hair that
hung in ringlets wet with rain and grime. With yellow pants torn on the left leg
so that his scuffed knee poked through as he lounged in his chair. With the
ceramic tankard that never emptied no matter how much he consumed. With
the chipped tooth that glinted when he guffawed at his own jokes until
Dermanassian found himself imagining his fist landing squarely in the man’s
jaw...
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| The Peacekeeper of Bullfrog By SC Bryce |
Publication History |
Readers' Comments |
"Hooked me from the very first paragraph and I didn't want to stop reading..." "Loved this..." "Gimme more!" "Riveting..." "Tragic figures..." "Such lovely, assured writing..." "A wonderfully enigmatic character..." "A fabulous story, beautifully written..." "Brilliant..." "Richly developed..." "Extremely vivid..." "Compelling..." "Your writing flows magnificently..." "Masterfully handled..." "I genuinely loved reading this story..." "Dermanssasian is as enjoyable as always..." "A wonderful read..." "Polished..." "Prose flows beautifully..." "Fully engrossing..." "A great story..." "Wonderful detail..." "A strong tale..." "Solid..." "Great character development..." "Good writing..." "A really fine story..." "Effective and intelligent..." "Comes alive..." "Unusual..." "Wonderful..." "Nice resonance..." "Absolutely love the title..." "Very nice description!" "A fine story with a rock solid plot..." "Very well written..." "Elegiac feel..." "Very well developed..." "Nice details..." "Love the world-building here..." "Very well done..." "Wonderful descriptions..." "Well done and quite believable..." "Well done!" "Caught my attention quickly..." "Flowed quite nicely..." "Effective..." "Dermanassian is a very intriguing character..." |
First Printing:
Nanobison, Vol. 3, Issue 9, Doug
Hebling, ed., available at
www.nanobison.com (Aug. 2008).
Nanobison, Vol. 3, Issue 9, Doug
Hebling, ed., available at
www.nanobison.com (Aug. 2008).
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