Rusted Halo

By Andrew Arthur Green

The story of Donovan, the fantasy world he lives in, and the trials he faces. It follows the life of the warrior from childhood until his adult years; documenting both his accomplishments and failures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312362543

Book preview

Rusted Halo

Rusted Halo

C:\Users\Andrew\Desktop\IMG_0002.jpg

Donovan’s Story

Andrew Arthur Green

Edits by Kelsie Beaudoin

Copyright

Copyright © 2014 by Andrew Arthur Green

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2014

ISBN 978-1-312-36254-3

www.floatingcat.com

Dedication

Dedicated to my lovely wife Jessica, whose patience and support during the NaNoWriMo process was key to me finishing this book and its sequel.

Preface

Rusted Halo was originally written in 2004 during the month of November for National Novel Writing Month.

Affectionately called NaNoWriMo, it’s an exercise in which participants have to write a 50,000 word novel across the 30 days of the month. That equates to about 1,600 words or 3 pages per day; each and every day. To say it’s a challenge is an understatement.

The primary goal is just to write. Don’t edit, don’t look back, just get words onto the page in any shape or form. It’s most likely not going to be good in its original state, and that doesn’t matter.

I originally started NaNoWriMo on a whim, due in part to a co-worker who also took up the challenge. I made the decision to jump in just two days before the start of November too. After 30 days of furious typing and gnashing teeth, I had a crude but complete novel comprised of 55,189 words.

Fast forward to nine years later, and I have finally revisited this tale. Edits and additions have been made where needed, and I feel enough polish has been added to the original rough draft that it’s in a suitable and readable state.

The story I chose to write about was about a man who was part of fictional fantasy world of my own creation. Initially based on a character created in an MMORPG, I wanted to write a non-happy revenge tale.

I wanted to challenge myself to see if I could make the reader relate to someone who chooses to go on a dark journey, and whether you could empathize with his choices. I also wanted his world to feel decidedly unsafe as well: almost anything and anyone was fair game.

As I wrote, the world that was but a seed at the beginning turned into this vast fantasy universe filled with lore. The notes jotted down on his journey created laws, characters, and settings that could most likely sustain several books. So much so, that I was able to write a second book the following year. But that is a different story…

I must admit, Rusted Halo is a very dark tale. Certain concepts, topics, and settings may be uncomfortable to some. It is most certainly not for everyone.

After the first chapter, you will know whether you will want to delve more into the world that Donovan resides in, and see how his story fully plays out.

-Andrew Arthur Green

bunny-winner-100.jpg NaNoWriMoGraph.png

Chapter 1

Donovan awoke to the smell of warm plainbread on the air. He yawned, stretched his limbs, and then climbed out of his straw bed. The young boy walked to the nearby water bowl upon his bedside table and began to wash his face. He used the cool water to flatten his hair, as well as to sweep away the remaining sleep still within his eyes. He stretched yet again, and took another deep breath of the scent upon the air.

He turned to see his younger sister still lying in bed. Since the little girl had no chores to do on this morning, she blissfully remained asleep. Bettany was halfway through her fifth year and was much shorter than her older brother. Her hair was considerably long and the golden locks were a mixed hue of dull orange and bright red. Small wispy curls could be seen at the end of each long entwined strand of hair. Each batch of the curls was tied with a small faded yellow ribbon. Her ears appeared slightly large for her impish face, and she had two large front teeth as well. Because of her teeth, Donovan often made comparisons between her and some rabbits living in the nearby field. She didn’t take kindly to these comments around company, but she secretly adored the comparison. Still asleep, she wriggled a bit in bed. She hugged her small little pillow with all her might and turned towards the wall.

Donovan was not much different than his sister. He was almost in his tenth year, of a similar scrawny build, and had autumnal colored hair as well. His mother had trimmed his hair fairly short and so all that was left was a messy tuft of orange, burgundy, and blond. His shoulders and forearms were covered with hundreds of tiny maroon freckles. His cheeks had a few specks of color as well with his chin sticking out at a similar length to that of his nose. Donovan wasn’t cursed with the large ears his sister had, those ran through his mother’s side, but he did have fairly long fingers. Almost spider-like at this age, they almost made him seem taller than he really was. As it happened, those long fingers made him an especially good asset to have in the bakery below.

The bakery that Donovan’s family resided in had been in his family for several generations. His great-grandfather had given it to his grandfather, who in turn gave it to his mother. Both his mother and father ran the bakery below. The two children helped of course, and the entire family lived in the lofts above.

One of the benefits of living in a bakery was that one was rarely cold. Traditionally, the house was kept warm due the fact that the brick ovens were continually heated. Even during the coldest spikes of winter, all one really needed was a thin blanket if one so desired.

Donovan got dressed in his work clothes: a cotton undershirt, a simple faded stone-blue smock which was already covered in flour, tweed pants, and a pair of soft leather shoes. He lifted his nose and waited to taste the air again. In addition to the smell of plainbread he had awoken to, he could also smell some saltbread as well as the distinct scent of long pretzels.

Plainbread was the staple bread of the town; it had a bland taste and an ultimate versatility in its use with any part of a meal. Saltbread had the usefulness of being sturdy and able to withstand long periods of time before being eaten. Saltbread was especially handy for travelers and those wishing to sail upon the seas. Long pretzels were the specialty of the bakery: a foot long braid of soft boiled bread, covered in coarse salt. They were promptly baked to increase the crispness of their golden skin, which then was brushed with a bit of wild seed oil for flavor.

While Donovan loved to eat long pretzels, he favored the sweet breads that the family would make. Those breads containing bits of honey, breads covered with small amounts of course sugar, and breads that were dipped in fruit purees were more to his liking. To him, the sweetness of the bread was a good method of waking someone up. The tartness of their tastes along with the sugary scent would instantly heighten one’s senses.

A personal recipe that he had invented a few months ago, and was well liked by his friends, was his spearmint-honey bread. In a small half-loaf pan, he would combine traditional bread dough with several spoonfuls of honey and cinnamon. He would then mix the concoction well and let it rise for several hours. He would pick fresh spearmint from a nearby household garden, which took a small bit of thievery to retrieve, and top the loaf with the mint leaf and plenty of sprinkled sugar. The finished bread was not only sweet and light, but also had an aroma that could be smelt throughout the house. He’d often share it with other children in the town when they attended church ceremonies.

The Church was a large part of the townspeople’s lives. Attendance to at least one church session per week was required by the law of the land. Often these ceremonies lasted one to two hours, and dealt with not only the day-to-day news of the town of Gestalt, but also pressing matters regarding the outside world.

Gestalt was a fairly self-sufficient city, somewhat sizable compared to other capital cities, and like most towns it was encircled by a large wooden wall. Built from the plentiful timbers of the nearby forest, the wall was several meters tall and stretched as high as three large persons. Amongst the wall there were three gated entrances. Each of these entrances was protected by heavy iron doors, and they were watched day and night by members of the Holy Protectorate perched above them. Only recognized travelers were allowed to enter through any of the gates, and whenever not in use they were kept shut and blockaded with large wooden beams. Even though the populace was constantly surrounded by this large protective wall that was designed to keep out the wild, daily life inside was carefree and free from worry.

As Donovan climbed down the stairs into the bakery’s storefront, he saw his father working at the front counter selling several loaves of round oatbread to Mrs. Boncing who lived a few houses away. His father was a stout, broad shouldered man with a scruffy blond beard. His chest and upper forearms were quite wide, his large status mostly due to time spent working in the lumberyards of the nearby forest as a youth.

Mrs. Boncing was a large rotund women that held the role of a housewife most of her adult life. She had given birth to all six of Mr. Boncing’s sons, and feeding a family of eight took a significant amount of food. Oatbread was a hardy, tough, and bland bread. Four of the six Boncing sons worked long, tiring jobs at the family smithy, and it was often said that oatbread would stick in one’s stomach for hours. This subtle benefit would help to keep one’s hunger down between meals. It didn’t hurt that a little bit of jelly or jam spread onto the bread didn’t make it taste half-bad either.

When Donovan reached the kitchen he saw his mother mixing a batch of dough which was obviously for several loaves of plainbread. Plainbread consisted of just the breadmaking basics: flour, milk, yeast, with a pinch of rock salt. Mix the bread, let it rise, lay into long bread pans, score the tops, and bake for about an hour. His mother motioned for him to walk over to her.

Donovan, I need you to knead the sesame bread over there on the counter. Once you are done with that, we can go ahead and get started on breakfast, she said.

Since Donovan had to make sesame bread this morning, he had to prepare. In order to correctly make the bread, the sesame seeds had to be rolled slowly into the dough as it was being kneaded. Sesame seeds were a local delicacy and a rare find. He went over to a small cabinet containing different spices and flavorings. The cabinet was quite old and made from tarnished hardwood. Cobwebs and dust-balls could be seen stretching along its top. Amongst the numerous jars and shelves sat many different ingredients. Sea salt, thyme, peppercorns, pumpkin seeds, ground sugar, and dried moonflower leaves were just a sampling of what could be found. He reached for a tiny glass jar containing a few hundred sesame seeds and took it off of the shelf.

He walked over to the table containing the dough his mother had prepared earlier. He gently tossed flour on top of the counter, and then scooped the dough out of the copper bowl it had been proofing in. He split the dough into two halves and began to knead half of it between his long spindly fingers. Donovan took pleasure in the texture of the dough. He liked how it was sticky, smooth, and spongy at the same time. He began to roll the dough portion into a long cylinder, rolling it back in forth with his hands through the flour.

He then prepared the sesame seeds. He opened the cork upon the glass jar containing the seeds and set it aside next to a sugar bowl. Donovan then dipped his left hand into a small bowl of water and sprinkled some sugar onto the damp hand with his right. He admired how his left palm now sparkled in the morning sun. Next with his right hand he grabbed a pinch of seeds from the jar and laid them across his sugary left palm. Clasping his left hand, he then began to roll the bread back and forth with his right. Slowly he shuffled the fingers in his left hand and began to sprinkle the sweetened seeds throughout the dough. As it rolled, it picked up an occasional seed which was implanted into the loaf. He continued this process until both dough halves had become large rolls of speckled and tanned bread.

The loaves were then looped together to make medium sized circles. Each was then baked on flat pans on the highest rack of the brick oven for just a few minutes. They were removed and the residual heat around the oven was used to finish baking the breads in the open air.

Nice job with those loaves, Donovan. Now it’s time to make the morning bread. You know the recipe, his mother said from across the kitchen.

Of course Donovan knew the recipe, except on the rare occasion that the family had some bacon or ham for their morning meal, each breakfast had consisted of some version of morning bread. In fact almost all meals had some type of bread, one way or the other, which was the curse of being a baker. He didn’t mind the taste of morning bread: an egg poached on top of a slice of bread from a stale, days-old loaf; but the dish had a certain charm to it. The moisture and juices from the eggs helped to soften and season the underlying bread; whatever kind it might be that day. He walked up to the storefront to gather a loaf that hadn’t been sold within the previous week from his father.

Dad, I need a loaf of old bread to make morning bread… he let out with a sigh.

Ah, morning bread yet again. Let’s see. Let’s try to make something interesting today. Donovan’s father scrounged around the multiple storefront racks that held all the family’s wares. He scanned through the many different breads displayed in the case. Here we go. Five-day-old pumpkin bread. That should make things slightly interesting.

With a slight smile he took the bread and walked back into the kitchen.

The family’s stovetop was situated along one of the main windows. The flume for the main smokestack led up along the wall and up through the roof. The window was dressed quite plainly and was open on this morning. It had four glass panes amongst a wooden frame. It had been painted an off white, and small ruffles of faded lace were hung from the top valance. The window led out into the main road between the shops and houses of this district. The road was a dusty brown with patches of wild grass along its sides. Deep grooves from the wheels of wagons could be seen dug into the dirt.

The building directly across from the bakery’s window was the library of the town’s scholar and school teacher. An oak tree had been planted alongside the building many moons ago and even looked older than the building itself. Its branches stretched into the sky taller than even the highest tip of the library’s fireplace. It had unfortunately been planted so close to the building that the tree had, over time, shifted the bricks within the wall of the library. A window that at one time had been found along this wall was removed due to the growth of the tree, and numerous single bricks lay loose amongst the base of the wall. This tree’s roots and limbs had so entangled itself with the library walls that if anyone had wished to chop down this one tree, that person would essentially be tearing down a wall of the library. So the tree stayed, protecting its own longevity by entwining itself into the wall. It was autumn, and so the leaves of the oak were a deep musky orange. Each leaf appeared as if they were made of thin, tanned leather; and many of them littered the roadway below.

As Donovan began to cook his family’s breakfast he could hear the laughter and screaming of children outside.