Ghelfunn and Tooloo

_{Scene 3}

Ghelfunn awoke like most mornings, with his tweedmouth goosican licking his face. The goosican was the friendliest breed in the Fifth Realm, beloved for its hunting abilities and loyalty to its owner. When born, the four-legged goosican would emotionally attach itself to whomever it first licked, in an instant. Luckily, Ghelfunn passed that test and for the last four Winters has been at Ghelfunn's side. 

"Get off me, Tooloo," Ghelfunn said with a yawn. "Silly beast. I'm awake." Ghelfunn sat up in his bed, looking tired. Tooloo looked at Ghelfunn with that soulful grin on his face that meant let's eat.

Ghelfunn's father, Dham Drathoy, found a shop in the marketplace set aside for various kinds of animals. He wanted a tweedmouth for Ghelfunns' sixth Winter Celebration, a time when a child in the Fifth Kingdom began to take on certain responsibilities. Caring for a goosican would be the first step in a long journey to manhood. At least that was Dham Drathoy's plan.

Ghelfunn dressed and walked into the cooking den. His father was making breakfast. Tooloo quickly found his bowl of mashed gruelshu, wasting no time gulping it down. The cooking den was Drathoy's favorite room in the house. He loved to cook. 

 "Sit down, son," Drathoy said. "Your breakfast is getting cold. Did you sleep well?"

"I was sleeping great when Tooloo decided to lick my face off," Ghelfunn said. "I wish I could train that tweeder to obey me. He won't listen. I say let me sleep and all he does is look at me. I know he's laughing at me." Ghelfunn took a bite of his father's bread, the best bread in the Fifth Realm according to those who were lucky enough to get a bite.

"It takes patience," Drathoy said. "You can't give up on him. He's still young for a tweedmouth. I'm patient with you, right? I will never give up on you. Training takes patience and time. He loves you. A day will come when you will be thankful Tooloo was licking your face." 

After breakfast, Ghelfunn prepared for studies. In the Fifth Realm, the young studied together in a nearby temple complex. Tooloo, of course, was never allowed inside. This irritated him greatly. On this particular morning, however, Ghelfunn was going to skip his studies and run to the market. If his father found out, then Holy Grief would ascend on him like a smothering blanket. He had to be careful.

Ghelfunn prepared for a day of study at the temple as he always did. He packed his satchel with writings and books, said good-bye to his father, then walked out the front door with Tooloo lagging behind. Drathoy said goodbye and looked at his son leaving the house, then returned to the cooking den.

Is father still looking? Is he suspicious? Ghelfunn thought. I feel so guilty. Looking at Tooloo, Ghelfunn said under his breath very quietly, "We need to hurry. I must do this. I have no choice. My life, and my father's life, is at stake."

Ghelfunn walked down the street from his house and saw his friend, Stoyvit, standing in the front garden of his house. Stoyvit and Ghelfunn had been neighbors since both were born, close friends whom often spent days playing together in the grasslands east of town. Stoyvit was bigger than Ghelfunn, had long blonde hair streaming down to the mid-waist which was typical for his family's tribe. Ghelfunn often teased Stoyvit about his height and weight, mostly because he was jealous. To be a warrior, Ghelfunn often thought, I need to be as tall and strong as Stoyvit.

Ghelfunn and Cilghor

_{Scene 2}

Ghelfunn stood his ground. No more running. If the demonlord chased him into the alley for a showdown, so be it. The dark, wet, and crusty alley floor was dirty with garbage, mostly tossed from the windows overlooking it. A pile of old shells was stuffed into one corner near the entrance, a broken gate hung loosely on its hinges creaking in the wind. The smell of rotten food filled the air. 

The rains have subsided at least, Ghelfunn thought. He didn't mind a fight in the rain, but he preferred to stay dry during a fight. The battle with this demonlord was going to be tough enough. He didn't need the rain adding to the mess.

Cilghor the Infected stood in front of him twenty feet away. Cilghor had been chasing Ghelfunn for days but could not catch him. As a swiftfoot from the hills, Ghelfunn ran like a deer. Cilghor was slow, like an oxbeast. Cilghor knew he must trap Ghelfunn in a place like this, in an alley with no exit. The two enemies knew each other from the Old Days when they fought on opposite sides of the Pilgrim Wars. Cilghor hated Ghelfunn's guts and wanted to spill them out and take a bite, as was the manner in which demonlords celebrated a victory. Eating a piece of one's enemy was sacred duty.

"You have decided to fight," Cilghor said. "Tired of the chase?"

"Not tired. Just bored," Ghelfunn said, stiffening his muscles. "I'm hungry, but I don't mind killing a demonlord before dinner." He offered Cilghor a smile.

"The others I killed were not smiling," Cilghor said. "They were not bored, either. They died under my gaze like slaughtered pigs."

Slowly, methodically, the demonlord raised his four arms and took an aggressive posture that Ghelfunn had seen many times. Cilghor showed fisted claws at the end of each upper arm. He was ready to punch, like a fighter entering the arena. His two lower arms were outstretched, each hand holding a blade. The knives glistened in the darkness of the alleyway from the shining lamps nearby. Ghelfunn had seen knives like this before, but usually much larger. Cilghor's blades were smaller and seemed more dangerous. Demonlords were known for their skill with the blade. Their four hands could expertly handle swords and knives of every kind. The blades were made of the finest metal.

Cilghor began to swing his lower arms, cutting the putrid air with each blade as if swatting flimens. The blades moved so fast Ghelfunn could hardly see them. A blur of steel and wood protruded from Cilghor's lower arms as his upper arms tightened and bulged with blood pouring into his large veins, making them pulsate with each heartbeat.

Ghelfunn did nothing. He stood his ground like a stone statue. The smile left his lips, but that was the only sign he was ready for a fight.

At that moment, Cilghor stepped forward quickly and began his assault. The demonlord's clinched fists targeted Ghelfunn's upper body and face. His bladed lower arms were aimed at the waist and below, hoping to critically carve a thigh tendon or perhaps slash the groin. In the old days as a soldier, Cilghor quickly overcame an enemy this way, by pounding the head, strangling the neck, stabbing the lower extremities, using his four arms to punch, grip, strangle, slash, and stab an enemy from head to toe. 

Ghelfunn knew these tactics. He was ready.

As Cilghor came forward, Ghelfunn immediately hit the ground in a slide. Using the wet surface to move smoothly and quickly like a snake, Ghelfunn slid under the demonlord's lower arms and their knives. Cilghor harmlessly slashed through the air making no contact. Cilghor's upper arms were also useless, having nothing to punch. Ghelfunn's slide took him straight through a path between Cilghor's enormous legs. Once through, now behind Chilghor, Ghelfunn swung to his feet facing the back of Cilghor's agitated body.

The entire movement took Ghelfunn seconds to execute. 

Ghelfunn quickly reached for a circlespar hanging on his belt. He had to hurry. With his right hand, Ghelfunn tossed the circlespar like an arrow tip directly at the back of Cilghor's neck. Before the demonlord could turn around and face Ghelfunn, the circlespar entered Cilghor's neck and sliced its way through the throat, completely separating the demonlord's head from his torso. Cilghor crumbled to the ground in a heap of sweaty bewilderment. Ghelfunn had moved so fast, with such confidence, Cilghor never had a chance. The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. 

The small, thin, cylindrical circlespar took a reverse path to Ghelfunn's waiting right hand. Ghelfunn placed the deadly serrated blade back on his belt. Cilghor's blood dripped from the blade staining Ghelfunn's pants.

Ghelfunn stood over the dead carcass of the demonlord Cilghor the Infected. He removed the two blades firmly gripped by Cilghor's lower hands; the tendril-like claws still wrapped around the hilts. Ghelfunn placed the blades in the small of his back beneath his cloak, snuggly using his belt to hold them in place. He smiled at his old enemy.

"Time to eat," Ghelfunn said. 

 

++++++++++++

_{The Coffee Shop}

Noname sat at a coffee shop patio table, shivering. Damn it's cold. Why does it have to be so cold? It was the wind. It would have been much warmer had the wind not blown so hard. This time of year, it was normal, so he accepted it.

The Standard Coffee Shop was like a thousand other coffee shops in LaLaLand. People standing in line, workers behind the counter running madly to keep up with the growing crowd, filthy bagel crumbs and dirty napkins littering the counter top. The place smelled like the inside of a coffee cup that had been sitting in the sun all day. When Noname purchased his large cup of coffee he thought about leaving. This place is a dump, he thought. Instead he took his coffee and found an empty table outside on the patio.

Noname needed to work. He was by nature lazy, but a writer must work no matter how much he wanted to be somewhere else. Words had to hit the page consistently no matter what, day in and day out, or the bills would remain unpaid. He had no choice; he had to write at least five hundred words or feel like more of failure than he already felt. Writing kept him sane. 

His novel had no title. In fact, it had no setting or plotting or even a good character. Not yet. Noname's favorite professor, Dr. Asswipe Numbnuts, taught him to begin a story with either a strong character or an interesting setting. From these starting points, a plot would emerge like a string of vines growing on a brick wall. Dr. Numbnuts knew how to write, Noname was sure. The professor was popular among his students and was respected for having written fifty-four novels over a span of thirty years. Dr. Numbnuts was tall, lanky, had huge hands and liked to play the banjo. Yes. The banjo. When Noname visited the professor's home recently he had seen an expensive looking banjo in the corner of the living room. Ivory frets decorated the finger board, walnut being shined to a high brilliance. The well-worn drum head showed grease and dirt from the constant strumming of the professor's right hand as he finger-picked the five strings that were tightly stretched along the length of the instrument. For a banjo, it was beautiful. Was it possible for a banjo to be beautiful?

Five hundred words. Noname was stuck. He stared at the computer screen waiting for something, maybe a word to magically type itself into the manuscript from an unseen hand. He drank some coffee. It was getting cold now, too. I'll start with a setting, he thought. I'm at a coffee shop, so why not write about the coffee shop? I need to write five hundred words. That's all for today. Just five hundred words.

Noname began to write, forcing his hands to hover above the keyboard. He waited. Soon his fingers began to tap the keys and words began to fill the page. Suddenly he glimpsed downward toward the word count on his manuscript. Five hundred and twenty seven words.