It's the start of a rewrite of a story I wrote a couple years back. My goal was to fill it out and add some things and whatnot and so far I've turned the first paragraph into a couple pages so good so far. Have a read, it's set in a fantasy world called Phanthos ruled mostly by a temple devoted to the sun god Holluphan (the "good guys") which is why the main character is fleeing a bishop's estate pursued by paladins. It's a world just recently introduced to gunpowder, so magic and steel are most prominent, but pistols and muskets are becoming popular. I think that's all the backstory I need to give you right now for the story to make sense so...
Reynault “The Flint” Arctus dashed breathlessly through the tangled snarls of the Mournbosk, dry branches slapping at his face, black cape billowing behind him, the embroidered silver lion above two crossed pistols seeming to writhe and swipe its outstretched claws in the wind. Thorny brambles that snaked across every tree trunk and inch of bare earth caught at his rich maroon doublet and gold trimmed hose, tangling about the shining silver buckles of his lizardhide boots and threatening to send him sprawling face-first into the muddy forest floor. The distant baying of the thestradonts only brought a manic grin to the master thief and part-time brigand’s lean, hard face and made him clutch the oilskin wrapped package beneath his arm tighter. The paladins could chase him all night with their stupid, stunted lizard hounds for all he cared, The Flint had escaped worse.
As he vaulted over a crumbled remnant of Old Kingdom masonry, a greenish blur of scales and fangs exploded from the thick foliage and hit him in mid-air, radically altering his course and knocking the wind out of him. The parcel his employer had sent him to recover went flying as well, oilskin catching the moonlight briefly before disappearing into the brush. Reynault hit the ground hard and slid for an impressive distance through the rotting leaves, completely ruining his favorite outfit. Swearing an oath to Thrassis, he rose from the mud and tossed his long brown hair, now heavy with muck, from his eyes and searched the foggy ruins and warped tree boles for his attacker. From around the blackened and gnarled trunk of a tree which had obviously been kissed by lightning in its venerable lifetime came a hissing reptilian monstrosity. Ten feet long and roughly resembling a wingless dragon, the creature had powerfully muscled forelimbs which ended in heavy claws that dug visibly into the tree trunk it clung to. Its short, thick head was dominated by a slash of fang filled maw topped by two slightly protruding yellow eyes which shone with a baleful intelligence. Bony plates protected its broad shoulders, muscular spine and haunches and its powerful tail.
The creature hissed and descended to circle Reynault cautiously, its tail flicking from side to side and its forked tongue testing the air. A thestradont, and one of the Bishop’s by the look of the heavy iron collar which encircled its neck. Reynault began to circle away from the beast, keeping his eye on the restless tail. He knew from painful firsthand experience that a single, lightning fast whip crack from it could shatter a man’s femur like glass. That is, if it didn’t eat you and simply maul you with its claws first, there was really no good way to fight a thestradont. But then again, everything had a weakness.
Reynault dropped his hands to the belt slung at his waist and drew the two flintlock pistols he kept crossed beneath it at all times, raising them slowly to align with the thestradont’s gleaming eyes. It is said that Reynault the thief lord earned his nickname in equal parts from his skill with the flintlocks and from the uncanny way that everywhere he went, he struck sparks. This would draw laughs in the taverns in the warm light of the oil lamps, but the truth was that no man in Vos Holluphus, or indeed, Phanthos itself, dared to cross the Flint’s pistols or his temper. And he would show this miserable beast of the church exactly why that was. His first shot darkened the lizard’s left eye forever in a spray of ichor and blood, the second went wide and spanged harmlessly off its armor, whining off into the darkness.. Roaring in fury and pain, the thestradont launched blindly at the master thief, slashing with sickle like claws in a strike that would have ended Reynault’s career forever, had he not already vaulted up and over the creature’s shoulder on its blind side. Twisting in mid-air and showing the grace and dexterity that had made him a legend, he fired both pistols once more, this time driving the lead balls into the already shattered eye socket of the thestradont and was rewarded when they cracked through further bone and the monster collapsed to the ground in mid charge, letting out a low howl of pain and then falling silent.
“Wasn’t sure that would work...” Reynault mumbled, shoving his pistols back in his belt and trying to straighten his clothes as best he could. After driving his sabre into the thestradont’s shattered skull to be safe, he began to sweep the area for the package. The rest of Chreaphan’s men would be on him soon and it simply wouldn’t do to lose his objective after coming this far. It took several minutes of swatting at vines, tramping down sawgrass and getting torn at by thorns for him to find the string wrapped, irregularly shaped object. The wrap had at one point and Reynault recognized it instantly as the pommel of a sword. A sword? That was what he had risked his life for? That was what he had infiltrated the very home of the Bishop of Wisdom to recover? It was vaguely annoying. He was to be well paid of course, but it was still a bit insulting.
His employer, a man in dark robes who had approached him in The Grinning Hippogryph when Reynault was trying to spend some quality time with a few pints of ale, had stressed that he was surely the only person in all Phanthos possessing of the skill to successfully handle the job. He had also mentioned quite casually that the item in question was an artifact of unimaginable value. The huge sack of gold the man had produced from within his robes convinced Reynault that at the very least he was worth endulging; if it turned out he was simply insane, the thief could accept the job then disappear into the night with his down payment, but if the story held any merit, he could always return the item to the stranger for his reward and then slit the man’s throat at a later date to retrieve the artifact for himself.
But the man who referred to himself only as Frost had not been insane, Reynault’s casual observation of Chreaphan’s estate had revealed there to be an unusually high number of fully armed and armored paladins of The Shining Order patrolling the grounds and visible on duty in the towers. Bribing some of the scullers and cooks of the mansion yielded further information concerning a caravan of many wagons and soldiers, including the paladins, that had come to the manor a few days earlier. Rumor had it that it was a collection of dark artifacts found in a major raid upon a temple of the moon god that lay hidden somewhere in the shifting wastes of the Sanahahn desert.
Gaining entrance had been laughably easy, his finery disguised by a houseboy’s rags, Reynault had shuffled right past the guards at the gate as just one servant in the throng of many such men and women who toiled for the bishop’s household. Once inside the main building, he was able to peel off into the shadows and creep towards the winding staircases that descended to the wine cellar and larders and finally through a well concealed secret passage into the true basement. He knew the contents of the wagons had been secured behind the massive iron gates of the vaults beneath the manor and that all approaches would most likely be guarded by paladins in full plate mail, armed with broadswords and heavy crossbows. Of course, fully enclosed helmets tend to limit a man’s field of vision and make sneaking up on said man so much easier. Then it’s just a simple matter of a quick stab under the gorget to sever the aorta, dragging the body to a quiet place and donning the armor as your own. And as it turns out, a soldier who has been standing watch for the past eight hours in a hundred or so pounds of heavy metal will welcome a replacement for his post without so much as a raised eyebrow.
The trouble had come when Reynault tarried too long within the vault; it had been so absolutely stuffed with treasures of every possible kind that his covetous mind had temporarily locked up in ecstatic greed, he had stood gaping, dumb wonder shining on his face before he remembered the gravity of the situation and began a frantic search for the item Frost sought. Finding the parcel had not been too hard, it was propped up against a statue of some shining black stone and had warnings scrawled in common and Lakverik across the oilskin just as Frost had described them, but just Reynault’s fingers had closed on it, a muffled shout and the clang of an alarm bell began. The guard he borrowed his clothes from must have been found. Or the real watch change had occurred and his rouse had been found out. Either way, his plate mail disguise had become deadweight, he had wriggled out of it as fast as he could and was just tossing the gauntlets to the floor when a paladin leading two snarling thestradonts had come through the vault doors, bellowing a challenge.
Preferring to keep things as simple as possible, Reynault had shot the man through the slim gap of his visor and vaulted over the backs of the lizards.
Obviously, I'm not done but I'm pleased with it so far and welcome feedback.
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