The Mad Raven's Tale (The Accarian Chronicles Book 1) by Andrew Walbrown (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📕

On the floor, he saw Amantius’ footsteps, all the way to the long, oak table where dinner had been served. He shook his head in annoyance; not only were they grossly late for dinner again, but they were also bringing the mud from Mount Meganthus into Pelecia’s clean home.

Ulam hated the fact that they were late more times than not, and he knew with time their tardiness would continue to grow. He hated seeing the look of disappointment in Pelecia’s eyes, one that she almost entirely reserved for Amantius. Though sometimes, Ulam was the target of her frustration. Often she had implored him to abandon Amantius to the wilderness and to stay home, telling him to detach himself from the shenanigans. More times than not he agreed with her, though he did not believe he could separate himself so willingly. In some ways, he needed Amantius as much as Amantius needed him. Without him, Ulam felt he would be trapped within the four walls of their home for eternity. Not that he was not grateful that Pelecia had raised him and put food in his stomach and a roof over his head, but his heart ached for exploration, and Amantius was his guide.

Sometimes he felt as though he should simply hoist Amantius in the air and carry him to the house, so they could not possibly be late for dinner again. However, such a sight would be a circus, and he did not want the prying eyes of his neighbors on him any more than they already were. Being the only Orc, and the only non-human, in Accaria already came with that perk. Everywhere he went people gawked at him, sometimes out of curiosity and sometimes out of fear. Children often ran away screaming from him, although occasionally some bold child would assault him with a barrage of questions. He only met hostility when sailors from foreign ports would dock in the Whaleport, bringing prejudice along with their merchandise. Countless times he had been attacked by drunken, ignorant sailors, and many times he had to knock them unconscious.

They took their places at the table, Pelecia at the head, Ulam and Amantius across from one another. To Ulam’s never-ending lack of surprise, he found the meal lukewarm. Of course, he knew it was no fault of Pelecia’s; Ulam guessed the food was ready to be served around an hour prior. As a result, his annoyance with Amantius increased tenfold, causing him to grind his teeth out of frustration. But as he filled his stomach with food and good wine, his anger started to completely disappear. At one point he became so relaxed he was surprised to find that he was enjoying the taste of the cold fish in front of him.

As usual, there was little conversation during dinner. Of all aspects of life, Amantius and Ulam both agreed that eating was an almost spiritual experience, one that should not be sullied with pointless banter. Ulam welcomed this moment of quiet in his life, for he did not get much of it. The only sounds in the house were the scraping of forks on plates, the perpetual chomping of food, and the occasional belching. The latter usually coming from Ulam’s side of the table.

After their plates had been ravaged, Amantius retired to his room to rest while Ulam stayed behind to help Pelecia clean. Though he said nothing, he could not help but be annoyed by Amantius’ laziness. Not only does he bring mud into the house Mother has spent all day cleaning, but he also skips on chores. Why is he so ungrateful?

“It is okay, Ulam,” Pelecia said. He looked up from the pile of plates to see her smiling. “You can go read if you wish. I can clean this by myself.”

“There will always be time to read,” Ulam replied, his voice betraying his annoyance.

“It is fine, I assure you. I know you boys had a long day. I am guessing you went to Mount Meganthus again? There is only one place on the island where that kind of reddish soil is, and that is at its base.”

Ulam quickly glanced at his sandals in the next room, covered in the blood-red mud that resides at the base of the mountain. He sighed, put the pile of dishes aside, and grabbed an iron brush. “Sorry, Mother. I will clean our sandals…and the floor.”

“Oh Ulam,” Pelecia said as he walked into the adjacent room, the brush appearing minuscule in his huge, Orcish hand. “You need to learn to relax. You will not live a very long life otherwise.”

Ulam grunted. He tossed both sandals into the yard and exited the house, grabbing an overturned bucket and an unlit torch. He went to a nearby well for the water, using the lit torches aligning Accaria’s dark streets to set his own ablaze. The clouds were thick in the sky, blocking out the moonlight that would have illuminated the city. Ulam was thankful he remembered to bring the torch, otherwise he might have found himself at the bottom of the well.

He set his torch in a sconce near the front of the house, using the light to scrub the soil from both pairs of sandals. He felt the iron bristles warping beyond return and knew he was ruining the brush with each stroke. But it felt good because he was taking out his frustration on the mud clinging to the soles of his sandals. Frustration at the mud, frustration at Amantius, frustration at his life in general.

He stopped to rest, listening to the sounds coming from outside their courtyard walls. He heard hammers hitting nails, the smooth slicing of saw teeth on lumber, and the occasional bout of laughter. The past few days Accaria had been in a light mood, as commoner and noble alike prepared for the Monarch’s Festival, an event filled with contests and tournaments held yearly to celebrate the reigning King or Queen’s birthday. This year was King Roderic’s fifty-third and most likely