Page 4 of The Tricksters Deception

My hands tremble as I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The sheer impossibility of the situation overwhelms me. I glance around, searching for something familiar, something to ground me in reality. But all I see are the strange, fantastical beings going about their daily lives. I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me, the world tilting slightly as my mind struggles to process the impossible.

“Hey!” I’m startled by a voice behind me bellowing. Turning around I see a very stocky...man? He wasn’t taller than me but he seemed very angry. His short face and oddly shaped pointed ears reminded me of the dwarves I saw in fantasy novels. Head to toe he was covered in unusual armor, none of it perfectly fit, either being too big or too small and of odd colors as if it were from multiple outfits. As he walked closer I froze, warts that covered his face like an extra layer of skin became very ascertainable, his bulging eyes reminded me a bit of a chihuahua but I wouldn’t dare say that aloud now. “What are you doing just standing around?” He wallows.

Although initially distracted by him, I now notice he's not alone; three others, similarly dressed, stand menacingly behind him. What were they? I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

“If you want to just be standing around,” he continues, his burly accent now apparent, “then you gotta be paying for it. What do you have?”

“M-Me?” I ask, my voice finding its way back. “I don’t have anything. Not even a bag or pockets.” It wasn’t entirely true; the jacket around my waist contains pockets, but aside from a packet of gum, I don’t store anything in them.

He grunts and grabs onto my forearm with force. “No pay?” he snickers, “Then pay another way.” This couldn't be happening to me. With brute initiative, he pulls me towards his direction, and I scream, almost colliding with the floor, but his grip stops me. The others around him laugh as they begin walking toward the opposite end of the alleyway, away from the sunlight. I have no idea where they are taking me, but I must figure out a way to get out of here and away from them. Unfortunately, I decide to take the route of screaming at him to let me go, but it's useless. With so much noise in the main street, I feel like I won’t be heard.

I hear the faint wisp of something speeding by, and a rock flies into the forehead of one of the men in front of me, causing him to fall to the ground. Staring down at his hideous face, the stone embedded in his forehead, blood already pouring, I can't help but scream. It's not exactly fear; it's more like overwhelming shock that needs an outlet – even though the creature in front of me might be dead.

Alarmed, the other brutes start scanning the rooftops, drawing weapons I hadn’t noticed before. Basic daggers at the ready, the one holding me throws me against the nearby wall, and I feel the scrape of my shoulder through my clothes. That's definitely going to bruise. On the ground, I stay close to the wall, worried that whatever threw that stone might not be any more friendly towards me.

A few more stones are shot from an unidentified location. Another one of the attackers goes down, yelling, the stone wedged into the side of his neck. This time, I don't scream; I just stare, wondering if this is an incredibly realistic dream. Perhaps I'm already dead, and this is the afterlife.

The creatures around me start shouting toward the sky, challenging a shadow to come out and face them head-on. I try to move my legs, but I can’t seem to put my weight on them. From a rooftop with cover from the glistening sun, a figure drops down on top of the one who had been hit in the shoulder. With a swift twist of the neck, the creature stops crying out in pain. As if choreographed, the hooded figure leaps from the dead one to pounce onto the next closest, knocking him down hard. I watch the creature’s head smash into the brick path beneath him.

Paralyzed, I catch only a slight glimpse of the hooded figure. It becomes much clearer when he draws his basket-hilted sword from its holster to block an incoming dagger from the original assailant who grabbed my arm. The hooded man spins to his right, forcing the short creature to fall forward. As he does, the man gives him a swift jab into the back of his neck, making him fall into the wall and not get back up, blood splattering outward as the hooded figure pulls the blade out. Hearing his final gurgles as he dies, I realize I'm now the only one alive, and I just hope—

“Are you okay?” he asks me. For the first moment, I feel overcome with relief. He wasn’t there to kill me. Looking up at him, I see that his clothing resembles other hunters I would write about in my stories at home. A typical Robin Hood appearance with light green and brown clothing, a tunic with a hooded jacket, and pants with many straps for holding various items. Tucked in next to the sheath for his sword is a slingshot, a very basic one. Almost amused, I stand up, coming face to face with him. My heart stops in my chest—or at least it feels that way as I stare at him. I am left awestruck, like a deer in headlights. He doesn’t have anything unusual about him; he looks human – two eyes, two ears, which are half-covered by his dark hair and hood, and a nose. It is all the features you expect to see in a person, and yet, something strikes me about them. Maybe it is how perfect they are? Like something you expect to see in art. It’s mainly his eyes, I decide. They are so dark, yet so captivating. I typically like lighter features – blonde hair, blue eyes, but his draw me in in a way I hadn’t been prepared for. I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

There's something dream-like in his appearance – something that has me resisting the urge to reach closer to touch him, to see if he isn't just an illusion of my mind.

“I’m alright now,” I muster, even though my shoulder is really stinging.

“Trolls aren't exactly tolerated around here for that kind of behavior, but I’m sure someone will find them soon. We should go and get your shoulder checked out,” he smiles, offering his hand to me. Without a second thought, I take it. His hands are rough but not indelicate. “The doctor is only a few streets away. Have you been here before?” By ‘here,’ I assume he means to this town before, not to this world.

“I’m actually very lost. I’m not even sure I’m alive, honestly.“ He raises an eyebrow, some of his dark hair shifting beneath his hood.

“You look pretty alive to me. Come on, you must have hit your head pretty hard,” he guides me back towards the main street and into the crowd.

A few streets away, just as he said, stands an old house with a sign out front that reads "Practitioner," with the same word written in various other languages beneath it. The house itself is a relic of another era, with weathered stone walls and a sloping roof covered in moss. Ivy climbs up the sides, adding a touch of wildness to the ancient structure. The windows are small and adorned with intricate wrought iron grilles, hinting at the mysteries within.

We step inside, and I am immediately taken aback. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and ancient parchment, creating an atmosphere both enchanting and slightly eerie. From floor to ceiling, shelves are filled with mixtures and concoctions, herbs and books that glow and move as if alive. Bottles of various shapes and sizes, containing liquids of every color imaginable, are carefully arranged on the shelves. Dried plants hang from the ceiling, their leaves rustling softly as if whispering secrets.

It is the most miraculous thing I’ve ever seen. The shelves, made from dark, polished wood, are carved with intricate etchings that remind me of runes from television shows about witches. The designs seem to pulse with a faint, otherworldly light, adding to the room's magical ambiance. The floor is covered in a richly patterned rug, its vibrant colors contrasting with the muted tones of the stone walls. In the center of the room stands a large wooden table, cluttered with more bottles, open books, and strange, glimmering artifacts.

Candles flicker in various sconces and candelabras, casting dancing shadows on the walls. A small fireplace crackles in the corner, its warmth adding a comforting glow to the otherwise mysterious setting. As I take it all in, I can't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder, as if I've stepped into a place where the very fabric of reality is woven with magic.

“Good to get out of the sun,” my companion comments, pulling back his hood. His dark hair falls forward in a mess, but one that suits him. That’s when I notice something else – a single hoop earring hanging from the top of his long pointed ear, which means he isn’t human after all.

Attempting to hide my disappointment, I respond, “Yeah, I’ve been out all day. Probably longer,” muttering, trying not to stare at his ears. I think I'm over the initial shock; now I’m just curious to touch them.

“So what happened to you, Princess?”

A bit flustered by the nickname, I clear my throat, “Well, I woke up in a field, and I actually have no idea where I am or what country I’m in. That’s why I thought I had to be dreaming or dead,” lifting an eyebrow at me, he takes a moment to register what I just said.

He chuckles, “You’re in Aynor, a city of Skiora.”

“You know,” I sigh, “, even though you’re trying to help, it doesn’t. I’ve never heard of Skiora. And no one here seems to have heard of where I’m from either. Not to mention I haven’t met a single human since I woke up on the forest floor.”

“It’s a good thing you came here then.” A new voice enters the room, and it’s a lady who had come from behind the luxurious looking dark purple curtain which led to the rest of the house, at least that’s what I assume. Looking her up and down, she wears a long robe, red with metallic gold spirals at the end of her sleeves, held close to her by a belt. The belt itself was strapped with at least a half dozen pouches - who knows what each contains. Since her light hair was up in a bun, I could also see no bearing of pointed ears or scales. “I’m Patricia, the practitioner of the lower town, and a human if that makes you more comfortable.” She holds her hand out for me to shake it, and I accept it graciously.

“Don’t get me wrong; that’s totally not what I meant,” I stutter.

Smiling, she responds. “Believe me, it gets overwhelming for me too sometimes. There aren’t many humans in this town since it’s primarily dominated by Woodland Daemonaria, but most are still quite nice to us.”

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