A Softer Refrain

By Gabriel Lukas Quinn

After burning bridges with her abusive boyfriend and the loving uncle who gave her shelter, outcast Tiefling Oriyola goes on a one-woman hit job. During the hit, Oriyola's trajectory pivots as she encounters a gifted boy, a reflection of her younger self. With the help of several conniving acquaintances, Oriyola must learn to feel vulnerable in a world where every friend intends to betray their trusted confidants. Will Oriyola's inexplicable journey to save this young boy prove to be a seal on her cynicism? Or shall it be her redemption? In the end, everyone deserves a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriel Lukas Quinn
• Release date: Apr 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223096405

Book preview

1 - It’s a Lonely Night on The Edge (Detox)

It was the darkest and loneliest night of her life.

And yet here she was with a crew of freaks and a common goal. How could this night of camaraderie be the loneliest she had experienced?

Could tonight’s feelings of isolation top the simmering realization of her parents’ abandonment? Could it top all the times she had been spat upon, just for being born? Could it top the moment the man she thought she had loved choked the life out of her body? Could it top all that?

Oriyola was more alone now, sitting around a fire with bonded company, than any of those moments. She was sure of it, because the feeling inside was so powerful she could think of nothing else. It was a feeling that she could only process on her own.

Oriyola was a woman of frigid passion and of brash action, and to be bound by these lonely, remote feelings was an experience by which she had never been troubled before. She had always detracted from this looming seclusion with sex, money, and violence; these things had been an instant fix that prevented Oriyola from even considering tumbling down that solitary hole.

Yet here she was, sober as a bird, broke as a beggar. Oriyola hadn’t fought tonight, either. She didn’t desire any of those things, if she was being honest with herself. Rum didn’t taste the same, neither did the cool feel of a weapon in her hand.

Oriyola had promised to guard him. She had a genuine purpose that was neither fueled by nor necessitating her usual vices. It should have felt good.

Then why did she feel like shit?—like a jackalope hit by a wagon wheel, left to die slowly in the road?

Was it because of what she had done to her uncle? Because of what it meant for the rest of her life? Because she could never return?

Maybe.

Or maybe it was the fact that she had spent her entire adolescence trying to make up for feeling abandoned, for being shooed out of any modicum of control. Now, she could easily take control of her life by sabotaging anyone who tried to get close, and killing anyone who get any closer.

Maybe she was coming out of this state of selective solitude, to finally choose helplessness over hopelessness. Maybe this was a detox.

Really? No.

It was just what she had done to her uncle. That was all. How could she act so neurotic like this? He would understand when she thoroughly explained herself. And then this feeling would quickly go away. Zip. Whiz.

Faster than a jackalope.

Oriyola opened her eyes. Above her, the night was clear and crisp, and the stars shined down drearily on the camp. The moon was a malnourished crescent, unshielded by the garments of clouds.

It was mid-spring, bordering on the worst time to travel down the cliffs and into the desert’s peripheries. Regardless, the group would descend the cliff-face tomorrow morning and trek to the nearest town on the desert’s edge.

Most of the group was sleeping at this time. Oriyola had almost slept herself, nodding off to the rhythmic rantings in her head. She had opted not to take this first watch as she was still exhausted from her horse ride to the quarry’s—the boy’s—home.

Oriyola had decided it would be best to schedule the night watches in pairs. The group were still strangers, and trust issues abounded. To rest everyone’s anxieties, Oriyola had administered a drawing of straws to select who would take watches. She and the boy had picked straws for the second half of the night, but the first watch had gone to Hunter and Kana.

Kana was a scrawny, ashy human girl with bright eyes and a careful tone. Her hair was dark and her vestments were well-kept, prim, and simple.

Kana was writing something in her journal on the opposite side of the fire, closest to the cliff edge. She had insisted on setting up camp close to the precipice so that she could get a good look at the town below and that there would only be one direction from which enemies might approach.

Both Oriyola and Hunter knew this was strategically faulty. They had shared a knowing glance when Kana had suggested it. However, Oriyola assessed that this part of the cliffs was too far from any town on the top-side for the encampment to be seen. She had mentioned this to Hunter, and he had grunted in acquiescence.

To contrast Kana’s small frame, Hunter was a tall, solid elf man with blue-ish skin, red eyes, and raven-dark hair. Dull scars lined his face, neck, and any skin showing on his arms. The scars were too numerous to have been received in any one battle, or Oriyola. Or even a lifetime of battles, she suspected. Hunter’s attire was practical with straps, clasps, and studded shielding, hopelessly obnoxious in any area of style.

Oriyola propped herself up on her elbows and leaned over her gear-bag. As she looked towards Hunter’s bedroll area, she nearly cursed aloud. Hunter lay reclined with his head propped on a rock, his eyes closed and his hands pressed against the ground with the palms down. The bastard was asleep.

Oriyola stirred herself, rising to her feet with hands clenched into fists. She stood up. Her breathing was vagarious; she let out a huff.

What’s the matter, Tiefling? Hunter spoke without opening his eyes.

Oriyola unclenched her fists and felt foolish for a moment. I thought you were asleep, she said simply.

I’m not, he replied.

Kana continued to scribble tirelessly, her charcoal pen rasping against the journal’s dry pages. She did not look up from her work. The other girl beside her, Kana’s personal traveling companion, Lola, snored gently in her sleep. The boy, sleeping furthest from the fire, was curled in a ball of blankets. The black bird was nestled into a sloping valley in the boy’s pillow. Its body leaned sleepily against the side of the boy’s head, but its eyes were alive and glaring into the fire and the faces beyond.

Oriyola stepped over her baggage and took a seat on a rock next to Hunter’s head. Certainly doesn’t look like you’re keeping watch. She looked down at his upturned face as she said this. Hunter’s eyes opened and were already meeting hers.

Hunter’s countenance remained stone as his eyes blazed in the light of the fire. After a moment of complete stillness, his face erupted into a pursed smirk. He spoke lightly, It’s dark. I see better with eyes closed. He closed his eyes again.

His blank, ashen face was serene and motionless. It was liberated of whatever hardships it had endured to get him those scars. He was free, maybe even happy.

Oriyola scoffed, The moon’s out; we have the light of the fire. There’s plenty to see, Hunter. She was reaching over towards his face. To slap him alert, or to gently brush his eyelids open, she could not yet tell herself.

Suddenly, but not violently, Hunter’s firm hand was around her lavender wrist. She flinched, but her gaze remained locked on his unopened eyes.

I see more of our environment now than ye could e’er hope to see in broad daylight, Hunter intoned, his eyes still firmly shut.

Again, Oriyola scoffed and goaded, Yeah? Like what?

A mile east of ‘ere, there’s a nest of birds perched in a tree hanging over the precipice. They’re asleep, and a jackal is stalking them. Soon it will climb the tree.

You couldn’t possibly know that. Oriyola shook her head.

Hunter finally released her wrist. His upper lip twitched for a moment in the thought of a smile. He raised his hand to the sky, pointed a finger eastward. The tree is dry and it shall not carry the jackal’s weight. The trunk shall snap, sending the jackal and the baby birds over the side of the cliff.

Oriyola laughed in disbelief, shifting her position on the rock now that her hand was returned to her. That’s—

Hunter shushed her.

There was a brief silence, then Hunter thrust his finger eastward. There.

Distantly on the wind came the sound of a hoarse crack and the whining yips of some desert beast. There was a sort of faint shuffling noise, perhaps the sounds of a bird’s wings flapping frantically.

Oriyola could not make sense of it. How could he have heard that?

You just cast a spell on that tree to break it. You couldn’t have known it was so dry it would snap. Magic explained a lot of things in this world. A little deceptive, illusory magic could explain this supposed ability.

Yer nipples are hard, Hunter said quickly. Kana’s scribbling stopped for a moment, then resumed. And it’s not because of the cold, he continued.

Hunter’s eyes were still closed.

Oriyola felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle up. She suddenly blushed and felt foolish again. You’re wrong, she lied.

Hunter’s nostrils flared. Adrenaline has spiked.

Oriyola suddenly felt the loneliness in her system flush out. It was quickly replaced by anxiety and a tinge of betrayal. Crossing her arms over her chest, Oriyola grimaced. Show me how, then.

Hunter’s eyes opened, finally splashing blood red across his otherwise colorless face. Those eyes knew too much, and yet they were not displaced nor disturbed by the forbidden knowledge. He raised his hand and held it for Oriyola to take in her own. As soon as she did, he squeezed it tightly, feeling the construction of her hand. It was tense and the muscles wanted to contract. Gently, he caressed the muscles, relaxing them until the palm opened heedlessly. First, Tiefling, feel, Hunter whispered, and he took her open palm and pressed it gently against the dirt of the ground. Close yer eyes, and feel the rhythms of this eve. Feel the breaks in the rhythm and stumbles in the patterns.

Oriyola tried. At first she felt nothing. Perhaps his elven senses were more acute than her own. Perhaps she would never have what he had.

Breathe, Hunter called from somewhere far off. Feel the pattern there, then search b’yond.

Oriyola breathed. She felt her pattern: her breath, her heart, her mind. Then, gradually, as her own pattern subsided, she began to feel the pulses of the earth. She felt