​Hows my Writing? let me know

I have wrote out four rough chapters, still some work to do with them I feel, I have some ideas on how to improve but want to put it out there.

Chapter One

“How much further?” complained Marcus, who, by his own account, had been “starving to death” for the last forty-five minutes.

“Not long now, boy,” replied Arlo for the third time.

“I’m tired. Why couldn’t we hire a cart and a horse?” Marcus moaned.

“It draws too much attention, boy.”

“I’m not a boy,” Marcus grumbled. “You’re supposed to address me as—”

“Enough!” commanded Arlo.

Arlo stopped, turning to face Marcus. He crouched down to his level, softening his demeaner slightly.

“We’ve talked about this already. We need to be careful. You know the dangers, and you’re going to have to go without the things you’re used to,” Arlo said.

Marcus frowned and remained silent for the next hour or so.

They had been walking the old, disused trading road known as “The Silver Stretch” for three days now, and both were exhausted—not just physically, but mentally, following the chaos that unfolded at the palace.

Marcus spotted some old, ruined buildings a little up the fading cobblestone road. “Look, look!” he said excitedly. “What is it?” he asked.

“Looks like an old trading settlement,” Arlo replied. “The road is full of them.”

“Before the Golden Road was built, the Silver Stretch was bustling with life—settlements, camps, merchants, traders, traveling adventurers, even bandits,” he added with a joking, eerie tone.

As they approached the ruined trading post, it became clear that this old road had been abandoned for some time, filling young Marcus with a sense of sadness.

Maybe it was from being on the road alone for the last few days with only his father’s Maestor for company, or perhaps it was the longing for home, for the family and friends he had left behind.

Arlo, who moved with a steady, perceptive calmness, caught up to Marcus. Something in the ruins caught his eye.

“Get behind me, Marcus,” Arlo quietly commanded.

Marcus knew better than to ask questions and quickly did as he was told.

Arlo stepped off the road, shielding Marcus close behind him. They moved into the ruins. On the ground, just poking out from behind a crumbling stone wall, was a makeshift bedroll—crafted from various animal skins and coated in a black, tar-like substance.

“Goblins,” he muttered quietly.

Arlo’s eyes scanned the ruins, picking out several clues of recent occupation.

Footprints crisscrossed the area, and piles of rotting guts and gnawed bones were strewn across the ground.

“Maybe a day or two old,” he thought to himself.

He’d heard rumors of raiding goblin clans scouting the old road for lonely travelers and knew he’d need to stay sharp.

The thought of camping out, exposed in the night, worried him—especially with goblins wandering nearby.

“Come on, boy,” he urged. “Let’s move on.”

Picking up the pace, he decided to get as much distance as possible from the area and would walk into the night if necessary.

“Arlo, did you mean there are goblins here?” Marcus asked, his voice laced with fear.

“It’s okay, Marcus. Not at the moment, but we should still be careful. We may need to walk a little further this evening before we can rest,” Arlo replied.

“I’m sorry, Marcus. I know you’re tired,” he added, softening his tone.

Marcus was quiet for the next while, but Arlo could sense the fear weighing on him.

As night crept in, the sun disappearing over the horizon, Arlo noticed Marcus’s uneasiness. He wished he could reassure him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was looming.

Suddenly, Arlo’s attention was drawn to a light in the distance.

He slowed, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “It’s a house,” he thought to himself. As they drew closer, the outline of a three-story rustic, weathered building came into view. A creaking sign hung above the door, reading: The Wizard’s Sleeve Tavern & Inn.

Marcus rubbed his eyes and turned to Arlo. “An inn, Arlo! Please, can we go in? I’m so tired and hungry and thirsty.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Arlo replied, hesitating.

“Pleeeeeeaaase, Arlo! I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t draw attention; I’ll be quiet and listen to everything you say.”

Against Arlo’s better judgment, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid. It had been a rough few days, and perhaps a tavern would be a safer place to wait out the night.

“Okay, Marcus,” he finally agreed, lowering himself to Marcus’s level.

“Remember the rules?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” Marcus replied eagerly.

“Then tell me,” Arlo said with a serious tone.

“Never tell anyone my real name, where I’m from, who my parents are… and what my favorite color is,” Marcus joked.

“This is important, Marcus,” Arlo said firmly.

“I know, I really do. I’ll be good.”

“What’s your name?” Arlo asked, testing him.

“My name is Tomas Smith. I am headed to Old Town where my dad”—he indicated toward Arlo—”Jeffery Smith, will be starting a new job as a house servant.”

Arlo paused, scanning the area one more time. “Fine, let’s go in,” he said.

Chapter Two

“Give us an ale then,” asked Trent, the old wheat farmer and a regular patron of the Wizards Sleeve.

“Put it on the account, yeah?” he added.

Darrian Herring, the barkeep, smirked as he replied, “You are, of course, planning to settle your account in the very near future, I assume?”

“Aye, yes, of course. Just waiting for the cart to come by so I can sell off me harvest,” Trent replied.

Darrian poured a flagon of dark, murky ale. “One flagon of Wizard’s Brew for our most loyal—or should I say, unpaying—patrons,” he jested.

The inn was busier than usual, though that didn’t take much. Darrian often joked that he’d seen busier graveyards—people were dying to get in those.

Seated in the corner of the room near an open fireplace, its warm orange glow flickering across their faces, were Mr. and Mrs. Gristlewood. The pair of old-time farmers had retired a few years back and now spent their evenings playing their usual game of Snatcher. As usual, Mr. Gristlewood was losing.

“Ah, Snatch!” he grumbled as Mrs. Gristlewood deftly swiped the two wooden totems from the board with a satisfied smile.

“Heh heh” she chuckled “your round” she said with a grin and the warmth of long marriage.

“Heh heh,” she chuckled. “Your round,” she said with a grin, the **warmth of their long marriage clear in her voice.**

“Yes, my queen,” he mused with a playful glint in his eye.

“Another for me and the Queen,” he called out as he approached Darrian.

“Of course, one lives to serve,” Darrian replied, playing along with a grin.

“The usual?” Darrian asked.

Mr. Gristlewood nodded, and Darrian poured two glasses of wine into the familiar, worn glasses they always used.

“Does the Queen require sustenance, my lord? Shall I instruct the house chef to prepare her a meal?” Darrian continued, still playing along.

Mr. Gristlewood smiled. “Not today, young man. But since you mention it, do let Hot Pot know we brought those herbs he asked for.”

Hot Pot was the tavern’s resident chef.

Behind the bar, through the serving hatch, the sizable head of a towering half-orc peered through the opening. “Did I hear my name?” he rumbled.

“Mr. Gristlewood’s got those herbs you asked for,” Darrian replied. “More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me—but I suppose that’s why you’re the chef.”

“Mr. Gristlewood, a delight to see you as always. Do thank the wife for the herbs! Sure I can’t rustle something up for you to eat?” Hot Pot asked with a grin.

“It’s no trouble, Hot Pot. I think she enjoys the little bit of work growing these for you,” Mr. Gristlewood replied, reaching into a pouch on his belt and pulling out a collection of herbs and dried flowers. “If you insist, we could go for a small snack.”

“What are you in the mood for?” asked Hot Pot.

“Oh, surprise us. We trust your judgment.”

Hot Pot smiled, his thick, dark red-skinned face lighting up with a hint of pride as he disappeared back through the hatch.

As Mr. Gristlewood carried his drinks back to his table, Trent turned to Darrian. “Ya know, now ye mention it, I am feelin’ a bit peckish meself.”

“Would this request also be going on the account?” Darrian mused, raising an eyebrow.

Trent fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a few small pieces of copper. “Well, if it ain’t too much trouble, kind sir.”

Darrian sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I think Hot Pot has some leftover stew. Might need to sit above the fireplace for a good while, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Darrian’s attention shifted to the old, thick double doors as they creaked open. A middle-aged man, hooded and weathered, stepped inside. He wore a grey overcloak, a rough sack tied to his back, and moved with the cautious air of someone used to keeping a low profile. At his side was a young boy, clad in a pale green tunic beneath a coarse brown cloak that hung loosely over his small frame.

Darrian’s eyebrows twitched with curiosity as the pair stepped in cautiously, their movements slow and deliberate as they made their way toward the bar.

Chapter three

A few days’ walk from the secluded [[Wizard’s Sleeve Tavern]], within the castle walls of Hillington, stood a sinister-looking mage tower. Its dark spires loomed ominously against the skyline. Inside, in the Grand Mage’s private sanctum, a secretive meeting was underway.

On the towering balcony of the sanctum, two men stood in grim conversation. The Grand Mage, a gaunt figure with pale skin and slicked-back hair, had a skeletal visage, his sunken features and visible bones giving him a spectral appearance. His dark robes seemed to blend into the shadows of the tower.

Beside him stood Prince Eldermon, a striking contrast. Clad in white royal garments that shimmered with a faint, ethereal light, his chain mail glinted beneath the soft glow of the evening. His golden hair cascaded in thick waves over his shoulders, and he was adorned with a heavy, ornate necklace studded with jewels of deep blues and fiery reds. The chain of his necklace draped regally around his neck, catching the light and adding an air of opulence to his presence.

The air between them was thick with tension as they discussed matters of great import, their voices low and urgent.

“You let him escape!” Prince Eldermon’s voice was laced with bitterness. As the King’s brother and next in line to the throne after his nephew, Prince Marcus Sol Eldermon, the weight of his responsibilities bore heavily on him. His golden hair seemed to bristle with frustration, and the ornate jewels of his necklace sparkled with the intensity of his displeasure.

“There was a complication,” the Grand Mage said, his voice cold and measured. “Arlo the Maestor—there is more to him than meets the eye. Still, you got what you wanted: the King is dead, the son is missing, and you have the crown.”

“For now,” Prince Eldermon snapped, his frustration evident. “And the young prince? My position will not be secured until we have his head—figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Worry not, my liege,” the [[Grand Mage]] said, placing extra weight on the title he used for the would-be king. “The child will be dealt with. Did you bring it?”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the prince’s face. “Of course. The young prince’s royal brush,” he said, tinged with sarcasm.

“Perfect,” the Grand Mage replied. He plucked a few hairs from the brush and walked over to a small cauldron filled with a swirling, thick, purple-black goo. As he dropped the hairs into the cauldron, bubbles popped, and a glimmer of light danced across the brew.

He poured the concoction into a bowl and took a vial with a needle attached, filling it with the liquid. His gaze shifted to a metal-locked crate adorned with black symbols and runes. With a decisive motion, he opened the crate lunged the vial into depths of the crate.

A howling squawk echoed from inside as a shadowy figure began to emerge. The Grand Mage’s eyes narrowed as a shadowy set of claws reached out, pulling the hideous figure from the box. Standing face to face with the Grand Mage, the creature awaited orders.

“Nevant!” the Grand Mage commanded in a dark tone.

The creature, contorted and unnerving, let out a chilling shriek before leaping out of the window, leaving behind a trail of oily smoke that gradually dissipated into the night.

With a horrified look upon his face, the Prince froze for a moment before casting a glance of disgust at the Grand Mage. Turning on his heels, he stormed out of the chamber. As the Prince departed, the Grand Mage’s eyes followed him with a look of deep loathing.

Chapter Four

As Marcus took in the antiquated and somewhat worn-looking tavern, he wondered if this was what all taverns looked like. It was, after all, the first he had ever been in. The air was thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, and burning wood. He glanced around the room, taking in the warm glow of the fireplace, its orange flames flickering and reflecting off the faces of an old couple engaged in a game. Wooden pieces were strewn across the table as the couple exchanged knowing glances, their years of companionship evident in every smile and playful jab.

Marcus tightened his grip on the rough fabric of Arlo’s overcloak as they walked toward the bar. Each creak of the floorboards beneath their feet made him feel exposed, as if every pair of eyes in the room was scrutinizing their every move. Yet, despite his nerves, he was fascinated by this new world—so different from the polished halls of the palace.

The warmth of the fire offered some comfort, but Marcus couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at him. He stayed close to Arlo, who walked with the steady confidence that had been a source of reassurance these past few days.

Darrian tilted his head in welcome. “Welcome, friends, to the Wizard’s Sleeve Tavern and Inn,” he announced with a practiced flourish, his voice warm but laced with curiosity. “I am Darrian, the barkeep for your evening. Pleased to make your acquaintance…” The words trailed off into a slight question, his tone inviting them to introduce themselves.

His eyes, sharp and observant, scanned the newcomers—taking in the middle-aged man’s travel-worn cloak and the boy’s nervous grip on it. Something about the way they carried themselves—cautious, yet with purpose—piqued Darrian’s interest. He sensed there was more to these travellers than met the eye.

Arlo offered a polite smile. “Smith. This is my boy, Tom,” he said smoothly, the lie slipping easily from his lips.

Marcus, in an earnest attempt at formality, began to perform a clumsy courtesy, but Arlo quickly nudged him with a gentle elbow. Recovering swiftly, Marcus straightened up and gave an awkward little wave instead, hoping it looked natural.

Darrian’s eyes flicked from Arlo to the boy, taking note of the interaction but showing no sign of suspicion. “Well then, Smith and Tom, what brings you to our humble establishment?” he asked with an easy-going grin, though his gaze remained keen, ever curious.

“Milk of the goat for the boy, and a warming brew for yourself, good sir,” Darrian announced with a welcoming smile as he placed the drinks on the table. “On the house, to get you settled.”

Arlo nodded in appreciation, though he kept his expression guarded. “Much obliged.”

“Our resident chef may have some specials on offer,” Darrian continued, still smiling. “Unless there’s something particular you were after?”

Arlo glanced at Marcus, who eagerly eyed the milk but was careful not to drink it without permission. “Nothing fancy. Just something filling, if you’ve got it.”

Darrian leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “Hot Pot’s stew is well-known in these parts—if you’re willing to take a gamble. It’s hearty, rich, and made with whatever he’s scrounged up fresh this week.”

Arlo considered this for a moment. “Stew sounds just fine. One bowl for the boy and myself, and maybe a bit of bread if you’ve got it.”

“Of course,” Darrian said, giving a slight nod before straightening up. “I’ll have it brought over shortly.” With a final glance at Marcus, who had already started sipping his milk, he headed back toward the bar.

Marcus grinned a little, trying to hide his anticipation as his belly grumbled at the thought of food. He finished the milk quickly, showing a hint of disappointment as he saw the bottom of the mug. Leaning into Arlo, he whispered, “Thank you, Arlo.”

Arlo’s focused gaze softened as he leaned closer to Marcus. “It’s not Arlo,” he whispered back. “Pa or Dad will do just fine.”

“Yes, Pa,” Marcus replied, looking down. “Sorry.”

Arlo gave a smile, with a hint of amusement. “It’s okay, son.”

As Arlo and Marcus settled into their booth, Darrian peeked through the hatch into the kitchen. What had once been a disorganized mess was now immaculate and well-stocked, thanks to Hot Pot. The layout had been adjusted to accommodate Hot Pot’s larger frame. The smell of a warm, hearty stew filled Darrian’s nose. He called out, “Something smells good, my red-skinned, pointy-tusked friend.”

“Aye, stew is good to go,” Hot Pot replied warmly. He grabbed a wooden bowl and began spooning out the stew with practiced precision.

“If you could pour out another two bowls for me, Hot Pot, we have a couple of strays who’ve walked in,” Darrian mused.

“Fresh meat?” Hot Pot asked, leaning into the hatch to get a glimpse.

As Darrian moved over to give Hot Pot a glimpse, he met the eyes of the young boy, who widened in a flash of childlike fear. Hot Pot responded with a big tusky grin, crossing his eyes and poking his tongue out at the boy. The child quickly hid behind Arlo, suddenly shy. Hot Pot chuckled, but his amusement faded when he saw the stern look from Arlo. With an embarrassed squint, Hot Pot darted back into the kitchen. “Two more bowls coming up,” he said with renewed seriousness. “Give this to Trent would you.”

Darrian passed the piping hot stew to Trent, who had momentarily forgotten about it. Trent looked up at Darrian, curious about the newcomers, as he took the wooden spoon and a small wedge of bread. “Who are they, then? Merchants?”

“You know, Trent,” Darrian replied with a wry smile, “when you’ve been working the road as long as I have, you learn not to ask.”

“Probably some of those religious types,” Trent speculated. “No old temples on the Gold Road. Pagans, I reckon, off to pay homage to the old gods.”

“You know the Imperials have approved worship now,” Trent continued. Darrian sensed Trent was about to go on one of his rants about the Imperium. “Apologies, Trent, duties call,” he said, as he picked up the two bowls for the strays, along with a special compliment from the chef: a slice of cherry pie paired with a small jug of warm custard.

Arlo flicked through a small journal, his focus intense. Darrian glimpsed maps and scribbles before Arlo closed the book and met his gaze.

“Two bowls of the chef’s special Wizard stew, along with a special treat for the boy, compliments of the chef,” Darrian announced.

Marcus’s eyes widened as he licked his lips.

“For after your supper,” Arlo said with a smile.

“Thank you,” Marcus replied eagerly.

“Of course,” Darrian responded. “If there’s anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He picked up the empty mugs and walked back to the bar.

Marcus was hungry and didn’t stand on ceremony. The stew was hearty, thick, and soul-warming as he devoured his bowl. Arlo ate with much more grace, continuing to read his journal.

“Tomorrow will be a long day, so eat up,” Arlo said. “I’m thinking maybe we stay here for the evening. At least it’s warm, sheltered, and less exposed than camping out.”

“Stay here?” Marcus leaned in, looking uneasy. “There’s an orc in the kitchen,” he added, glancing around.

“Half-orc,” Arlo replied. “And you’re saying you don’t want the pie?”

Marcus quickly slid the pie closer to himself. “No, I think it will be okay.”

Arlo grinned. “Not all orcs are bad, Tomas. I’ve met many in my time. In fact, a half-orc like the one in the kitchen saved my life once.”

“Really? You needed saving?” Marcus asked with wide eyes.

Arlo chuckled. “Everyone needs a friend sometimes,” he said, a hint of warmth in his tone.

Marcus scraped the plate clean until not a crumb of pie remained, then leaned back in his chair, feeling both full and drowsy.

Darrian strolled over to clear the plates. “Everything to your liking, I hope?” he asked.

“Very good,” Arlo replied, nodding toward the now-empty plate. “Pass my thanks to the chef.”

“Of course, sir. We take care of our guests here,” Darrian said with a satisfied smile.

Arlo straightened up a bit. “Darrian, I was wondering if you had a room available. A twin would do just fine.”

Darrian’s eyebrow twitched slightly. “Of course, Mr. Smith. I can have a room made up for you—just for the night?”

“Just for the night,” Arlo confirmed.

“It’ll be four silvs for the room, with meals included,” Darrian explained. “We can also arrange breakfast for an additional forty five copper ahead.”

“Sounds reasonable. Please let me know when the room is ready—the young one’s half asleep already,” Arlo mused.

“I am _not_ asleep,” Marcus muttered with mild scorn.

Darrian gave a slight head tilt, a knowing smile tugging at his lips, as he carried the dishes from the table and made his way back toward the bar hatch.

Hot Pot wiped down the last of the counters, giving the pots a final rinse as he doused the stoves. “Just these to clean, then you’re done for the night?” Darrian asked.

“Yep, mostly. Got some work in the greenhouse later, once it’s cold enough,” Hot Pot replied, setting a pan aside to dry.

Darrian chuckled. “You know all that effort growing your ‘special ingredients’ is wasted on our clientele, right?”

Hot Pot smirked. “Maybe, but I don’t believe in half measures when it comes to food. Plus, I enjoy the process—the extra care. It’s relaxing.”

“Well, if it’s not much trouble, could you find Fern after you finish here? Have her make up a bed for the strays,” Darrian asked.

“Got a bowl to bring her anyway, so I’ll let her know,” Hot Pot replied.