You might find this on Quotev or something, it's all the same person though, rest assured.
And just take the story, lol, cause I'm tired. Might delete it later.

Title: Pouring In The Rain

Characters:
- (MC) Ennyadiah Ruhimere (Moor)
- (MC) Pieter Arenloch (Pete)
- (SC) Viktor
- These are who I have introduced so far, I think.

Ch. 1: Please, Please
The air about him was musty and dark, and the candles lit all around the quietly humming room flickered and cast shadows which danced on the walls and the floors. He drank his beer and drummed his large, calloused fingers on the damp and slightly rotting wood of his table, ignoring the constant hum of voices around him. He could swear that those two in the far back were always dealing some sort of drugs, and the bartender here was a hellish drunk, always screaming at the unperturbed customers. He himself was a regular, coming here to enjoy the forgetful bliss of the mountains of alcohol, now that the war had ended.
Now he was still sitting, and minding his own business when the door of the Laughing Rabbit swung open harshly and a grimly hooded figure came inside with heavy and hasty steps. Having swept a draft of cold air into the place with him, the other drunken customers looked up with disgust and some spat at him, and cursed. He promptly closed the door before any of them had the chance to get to their feet, but they all kept their eyes upon this intruder, simply doused and dripping from the unforgiving rain. He, too, looked up, and found their behaviour to be odd. They seemed to be searching for something. He was about to go back to his beer when they made eye contact with him, making him pause slightly and hold their gaze. He regretted that.
The person shuffled over to him in haste and stopped a good two feet outside of his table, but he knew that figure wanted something of him- or
They reached into the folds of their cloak and pulled out a heavy leather bag, and they offered it from a safe distance--where he couldn't simply snatch it.
"Please," His voice was soft, too soft, nigh timid. It shook and it cracked, and with a trembling hand, the figure pulled back the darkly shadowing hood of their cloak. Lustrous black strands of hair fell loose from within the stifling hood, and when their eyes of burning crimson met his, he had to stifle a gasp. It was a girl.
Her face was so pale and sickly, although he couldn't really notice it beneath the dim lighting. She was still talking, her voice stronger now, but still trembling. He hadn't heard her speak though, having been distracted by the burning in her eyes - he thought she might be a witch. Snapping out of his daze, he blinked a few times and adjusted his posture, "Come again?"
"Please, sir. Kill me."
He noticed the leather bag in her gloved hands, shaking in the air where it was suspended. His jaws parted a moment, and then his gaze flicked up to her eyes, and then he looked away. He couldn't look in her eyes, for they distracted him too much, but she seemed quite distracted as well. She nudged the bag toward him, but her gaze would occasionally flit about in what he quickly realized was terror.
The others in the building were still watching them. The gamblers had stopped their game, the druggies in the back seemed to have stopped trading to look up at the two. He was uncomfortable, but the obnoxious hooting around them and the whistling only made him angry.
"Oi, she askin' yeh for a swing? Glad t' take her if yain't feelin' it." There was a mixture of agreeing murmurs, as well as exasperated grumbling in the background.
He could feel his veins pulsing beneath his skin, infuriated, but his voice was calmer when he finally responded to her, "Listen here, missy. I'm out of that business. I've done my fair share of it back in the war, and I need not shed more blood."
She left at "business" and stepped toward another group of men who had been eyeing her like small hawks. Sickening grins came over their faces as they beckoned her wandering steps to them. One man, scrawny and with unkempt hair, stood up from the table bench and rubbed his hands together a bit, "We'd be honored te offer you a service." He held out his s's like a snake, but as he went to snatch the bag from her hands, she was pulled back by her hood and sank into another's arms with a squeamish yelp. The bag dropped from her hands and fell to the ground with a clatter, sending gold pieces to come flying out and into the greedy hands of those who dove forth for it. In an instant, the little bar had become a battleground as burly men from every corner fought for the coins of gold. The scrawny man also went for the gold, but he was quickly shoved aside by a larger man.
The retired soldier didn't know what he was doing. One minute, he was sitting there, and the next, he'd gone up and dragged her away from making possibly the worst, and last decision of her life. He couldn't comprehend why he did it, save the life of a woman he did not know. He didn't particularly care for her, either. So, why?
The scrawny little man was angry at being pushed aside. In a moment, his knife was drawn, but over the brawling, he spotted that man and the woman vacating out of the front door, the woman was in his arms. He ran to them with speed and yelled in anger as he swiped his dagger down upon the stranger, but they only turned around and kicked him back. He was left winded on the floor, groaning in pain.
He left the bar behind with the woman, struggling over his shoulder. She was sobbing hysterically, and it hurt him to hear it. The rain poured heavily over them as he walked beneath black skies, and an ever blacker town. There were some places, indoors, from which a bit of light was cast to show them the way along on the cobblestone streets. The stones were slick beneath his feet, so he walked carefully, especially as the town began a gentle slope upward in the direction of his home.
She'd stopped struggling, and her crying had been reduced to heavy sighs and jerky breaths. She kept murmuring that one word, over and over, "please." He couldn't really figure it out. However, as he walked, he also let his mind wander and think of other things. For a moment, he wondered if he'd payed the nasty bartender for his beers, but the thought was so fleeting and he only laughed it off a bit. That laughter seemed to put a pause in the woman, she stopped and looked at him with a frightened, but more so a turmoiled gaze. Her eyes, again, they were dangerously captivating and had him stunned even as he walked. He almost slipped a moment, and he cursed then, but her gaze was still fixated upon him.
"What are you lookin' at missy?" He snapped, slightly aggravated as they continued. His little excuse of a house was in sight now.
She seemed to be saying "I," but then only stopped and looked away. Fair enough. He focused on the streets again, and when he reached his home, he finally set her down.
"Now don't ye go runnin' off somewhere. The men in this hood are more like the wild coyotes, we'd rip you apart before you could" He stopped and reconsidered his words. Remembering her request from earlier, he grimaced at himself as she was finally set down. He pushed open the rickety door with the back of his hand and went inside, but when he heard the fast, growing clopping of horses in the distance, he yanked her in by the wrist and closed the door behind them, frightened. The horses always frightened him, and so did the darkness of the night. He went about his little abode and began to light numerous candles in order to banish the suffocating darkness. His attention wasn't away from her for too long, though, as after they were lit, he returned to her and gently guided and sat her down on one of the chairs at his dining table. There was a third chair that sat by the table, and she was staring at it as he sat down in his own chair. His was bigger to accommodate for his larger size, while hers just about fit her, and was the size of any normal chair, but that little one held her attention.
"T'was me son's." His voice had some foreign emotion in it. She looked up quizzically. "They weren't home when I returned from the war. Looked everywhere, searched for months, but Ah never found 'em."
She nodded, gently biting her lip. Then, the woman met his eyes again- those eyes, those blasted eyes, he could toss them to hell for all he cared. "Sir, why did you take me away from there?" He noticed her hands, still cold and trembling.
He got up and brought one of his numerous candles over to the table. "Warm your hands. Ah, I'm such a bad host. Please, here. You'll be ill with that draped over your shoulders," He went to take her cloak, but retreated when she suddenly seized it and pulled it more tightly around herself. She was so fast, and it startled him a bit.
"Please, don't touch that." Her murmur was so soft, barely heard above the pitter-patter of the rain. He backed off, honest, with his hands in the air.
"You You can have your cloak." He sat back down heavily. She obeyed his words now, taking her hands from her still-dripping cloak and cupping them around the little flame.
A quiet engulfed them, but she broke it by asking her question again. She asked him why he had saved her. He thought of his response for a while, "I couldn't hand you to those mangy dogs."
"Why?"
"Why? Well" He seemed stumped.
"I told you I wanted you to kill me. You said no, but they They would have complied."
"Listen here, missy. Lives are precious. Yours, too. Ye can't go around asking scoundrels to kill you." There was a scolding edge in his voice, but she remained unfazed.
"You would have killed me honorably." Her voice was stone cold, contrasting against the glow of fire in her eyes. He could swear they were actually glowing, flickering, and lighting up her petite little face. Wane and sunken, though, it also seemed to emphasize her weariness.
He was taken aback by her words, and it took him a moment again to respond. She puzzled him so, and made him sorrowed as well as quite a bit angered, "How would ye know something like that? I don't look any different than the other dogs in that bar."
"No, but it was in your eyes." Her gaze had gone to the fire, the little fire that danced joyously between her hands. He thought she was looking a little healthier already, but thought it was only a trick of the light. That light flickered. Apprehension planted a seed in his gut.
"I You don't- missy, are you a witch?"
Silence lingered between them. Silence watered the apprehension. She seemed to think.
She nodded faintly, and he blinked a few times and wondered if he saw her correctly.
As if reading his mind, she drew her hands closer to the flames, uncomfortably close. However, before she could touch it, he rose panickedly from his chair to pull her hands away from the flame. As the chair was knocked backward, so, too, did the candle fall and bring the top of his table alight. The front of the sleeves of his tunic were also caught aflame, and he yelled as he stumbled back. He tried patting them down, but to no avail. As he stumbled, he tripped over his chair and began to fall. Her eyes were wide as she sat watching, stunned for just a moment.
That moment dissipated, she rose to her feet in an instant and reached out to him and the table with both of her arms. Her eyes closed, then opened wider than he had seen them go before. A blaze of light came from her eyes then, glowing a golden-white hue instead of her burning amber, and she shouted a word that he did not know. It sounded unnatural to him.
In the instant that she shouted, the flames stopped flickering and only quivered, and his arms felt no longer afire. They left the table and his sleeves all in the split seconds before he landed on the floor, and disappeared into her hands. On her fingertips remained little patches of fire the size of candles, but their glow was much dimmer and they danced tamely. Though his gaze fixed on her before switching to the fire that flickered on the tips of her fingers, she only looked at the fire that she'd trapped on her hands. She was burning, but the fire, it It was only warm to the touch - to her, at least. She was afraid.
"... Missy, what are you" His voice was low, cautious, and held back somewhat.
"Kill me." The fire disappeared from her hands and she looked to him again, "They will find me. Please kill me!" Her voice grew rapidly as what composure she'd gained simultaneously deteriorated, "Kill me! Please, please!"

Hm... Not sure if I should continue it.

Please, if it is okay with you, I am hooked now. Sorry.

Lol actually? I have like 2 chapters sitting in my Google Docs, if you want them. XD

What do you like about it?

I love how he saved her all like a hero. Love her description, and how you use details. And SHE TOUCHED FIRE!!! OMG!! And first she is shaky, but sort of calmish. Then she is like "KILL ME PLEASE!!" I jumped in my seat as I read that in my head. I read in my head with characters like a real voice, and it was like, Wouh! And my characters suck, but yours have such an amazing setting. Dangerous and yet the mans home. And he was scared of the dark and rushed her inside. But didn't wan't her to touch the fire, but he cought it on fire and she SAVED him!!! My characters just start out heading to school, like a really lame school.I never thought of using a bar. I just sat in bed reading it. And then it ended and I almost woke my whole fam up! Is that a good reason?

Lol, then I guess I can't disappoint. XD -- If we could discuss stuff along the way too, I think that'd be nice. These stories of mine don't get too much attention, haha.

I hope this is okay, it's not as exciting as chapter 1, lol.


Title: Pouring In The Rain

Characters:
- (MC) Ennyadiah Ruhimere (Moor)
- (MC) Pieter Arenloch (Pete)
- (SC) Viktor (The hecc-ish bartender :) )

"Hesitation"
"No, no I- I cannot do such a thing!" His hands raised defensively, and his brows knitted in such a way that he expressed sorrow and fear, "Missy, please do not ask this of me."
"You must! You must, sir! If you cannot, they- Is it the money?"
Her attitude had shifted so quickly that it caught him off guard, "No, Miss-!"
"I can gather more if that's what you want!" Her eyes were wide now, in a fear worse than his own. She came to him and took his tunic into her own hands, and they quaked terribly.
"That's not it, ah just can't. So please-"
A raucous knocking at the door interrupted their clamor. The woman looked up with a profound terror in her eyes, "They- they're here, I told you!" She spoke in a ferocious, and a desperate manner, speaking quickly as she held her cloak around herself in order to feel a bit more protected and secure. He was a bit calmer about the situation, but her words did give him suspicion. Working quickly, he ushered the young woman to the back room and returned to the door. He opened it with caution, ready for anything, with his emergency blade a hair's width from his hand.
It was an angry bartender who came in his sights, towering over the smaller soldier with a displeased expression on his face. He remembered that this man didn't enter the war; in fact, all the men knew this, yet none sought to ask why of the "hellish drunk". Soaked in rain, the light glinting off his dark face made him seem evermore frightening. He wasn't about to let his guard down.
"Pete," They spat the name, utterly repulsed, and he found himself shrinking a bit.
"Ah, Viktor! What brings you here?"
"You caused that ruckus in my bar, and ye had the audacity tah leave without payin' me." He began with a malicious edge to his words, "Pay for ye filthy drinks and the damage to me bar, or so help me ah will burn your sorry li'l shack down."
He had to stop himself from laughing at this, this was no time for that. He only chuckled a bit in his nervousness, relieving stress as well, and nodded quickly before heading inside to search his drawers. He didn't want any trouble from that man, so he went about his home and hustled to collect what he had.
The miserly bartender peered inside as he waited. There was an impatience to his drumming foot and a look of growing disapproval in his squinty gaze as they scanned the objects inside. His gaze changed, then; he'd caught the movement of something like a shadow or spectre in the back door, and what he thought were two dim candle flames. A blink and they were gone.
Now Pieter returned, a weak smile on his face. While searching, he'd come to the grim realization that his coins this month were all but spent on alcohol.
"Couldn't ye fix it from all that gold she spilled? Surely, there was enough to build you even a second bar. An' I do pay you for the drinks...! Most ah deh time." He had the coins in a worn, leather sachet, and it was held to himself with no wish to be given up.
"Those bleating sheepskins took all of it. Now, hand it over." He ignored the last comment, and looked upon the man with a steeled gaze.
Although he nodded, the money was given up with a noticeable reluctance.
The disgruntled bartender huffed as stole it away from his hands, before peeking inside to check if he had his due. Satisfied, he left him be and returned down the street from whence he'd come. The rain pelted the bartender's back as he went, but the tired soldier didn't stay to see him off.
He muttered distastefully as he went to close the door, thinking distantly of how its creaking joints should be oiled soon. Then, he made his way a few steps to the back of his home and knocked on the doorframe to the next room over with a heavy hand.
"T'was jes' Viktor from the bar. He went his way jes' now, so you can come out, missy." He spoke as his eyes peered into the darkness. He made out her cloaked form near the back of the room as she shuffled toward the trembling candlelight. In one moment, the dimly flickering lights caught her eyes in such a way that they did indeed glow- or, it was again simply a matter of his spurred imagination. He could not recall whether the eyes of a witch did indeed glow as such, but while it unnerved him in slight, her calmed demeanor brought ease to his mind.
"Yes, thank you, Sir Sir..." She stumbled on her words, and he caught her.
"Pieter, I am Sir Pieter Arenloch, retired soldier of the Border Wars," He smiled, but he chuckled mirthlessly, "It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." He held out his hand and she took it. Her hand was so small, though, and he thought it may well crumple up in his grasp. As he led her back to the table, he spoke again in question, "May I know ye name as well?"
She was quiet a moment, her head tilted aside in absent thought after she settled back into the chair. It seemed to him that she had been thinking about this for a while, and now her words came to clarify her thoughts, "It's You may call me Moor, Sir Arenloch. Moor is fine." But as she spoke, her gaze shifted in obvious discomfort. The woman was not in earnest, he knew, but he did not question her. She must have had her motives, after all. "I should have introduced myself earlier, forgive me my neglect to do so." Her gaze met his again, and this time her words were indeed in earnesty.
"Ah, no, it is all right. There was simply too much commotion earlier." His hand rubbed the back of his neck, before settling upon the table.
But, just as the wood met his calloused fingertips, there came a stark realization that he couldn't feel the coarseness of burnt wood beneath them. His gaze trailed to it slowly, in hesitance, while his hand lifted away.
"Did ye Fix it, missy?" His eyes scrutinized the fine grain like a hawk to a mouse. He realized that his sleeves were also completely fine, as if untouched by the fire.
"Ah, yes, I did. Was that wrong of me?" She asked with a voice he could not refute.
"No, this I's jes' beyond my grasp. I've ne'er heard of witches doing such a thing; I even thought reversing the effects of the flame was a taboo Or somethin'..." His voice ended in a bit of a murmur, but it quickly rose again with more confidence, "Well, but those were jes' tales that ah heard from friens n' village folk."
"I Actually, I" She began, but her voice died fruitlessly, "Forgive me, for I am tired. May I go on to bed?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry, miss Moor! Ah'd forgotten, was only thinkin' bout myself, see. Would you like to sleep in me son's old room? T'was actually the little room from earlier."
"Yes, that would be fine, thank you." She rose with his gesture, and he led her again to the room in the back. There, the young woman peered into the room and looked about, a bit of wonder in her face, as she hadn't had the opportunity to really see it earlier. She turned to the man and smiled gingerly, "It is quaint, Sir Arenloch."
"Ah, it is really not much. And please, do call me Pieter, or Pete. No need for all this formality." His posture was modest, and a lighthearted smile came into his face.
"Then... Pete," She nodded in turn, "I bid you a good night." She went on to the cot and lied down, finding it cozier than she'd first imagined. She sidled into the thin, faded cotton cover, and seemed quickly asleep. He carefully closed the creaking door behind him and left.
However, she did not sleep yet, instead contemplating this situation as she lied there in the comfort of quiet darkness. Her eyes lifted gently to take in the view of her surroundings, having quickly adjusted to the heavy weight of its shadows. Still wrapped in her cloak which was heavy upon her form, she remained there unmoving. But soon, a quiet knock on the door took hold of her attention and she sat up with both surprise and wariness, "Come in, please."
The door opened slowly, and on the other side stood Pieter, the candle in his hand throwing a warm glow on his face. He seemed tired.
"Forgive me, if I've woken you. Ah wanted to know if you'd like me t' light the candles up in 'nis room. Would ye?" He asked, a bit sheepish in his manner, "Me son could ne'er sleep in the dark, see."
"Yes, how kind of you Please, go ahead, and thank you." Now she sat up in her bed, tucking her feet away beneath her. She watched as he went around, carefully lighting numerous candles that she had seen earlier in the darkness. After he made his round, he returned to the door and left while bidding her a good night. She returned his good wishes and lied down once more, watching as the door closed behind him.
Her lips parted and blew a sigh. Moor knew that this man was kind, but that was ever more a reason for why she could not stay here. It was too risky, she reasoned, but the gathering warmth of her cloak and the little wool blanket coaxed her mind into calming, and she eventually slept.
Pieter awakened at cockrow to the cries in the distant outskirts, and he heaved himself out of bed to prepare for another day of living out the mundanity that was his life. There was nothing to do in these days after the wars. With no one at home to care for, he could only pass the days and hope for meaning to come back into his life. He washed his face in the basin and took himself an apple to eat when he sat at the dining table, fingers drumming upon the wood, and
He stood abruptly, the chair knocking back and hitting the floor as he hastily made toward his son's old room. He hesitated at the handle, but when he pushed it open, he found the room to be barren. That was, save for a note that lied upon a perfectly made bed. Slowly, almost with caution, he gingerly picked up the bit of paper and read it. Then he realized that it wasn't a dream; he really had met a witch the night afore.
And she had run away,
"Oh, deities" A murmur fled his lips as swift as he turned and grabbed his coat to leave. The rising sun in the distance brought a crimson burn to his gaze, and he turned away, prompting himself down the opposite way. The rain from the night before made careful his tread as he made his way downhill. He would find her, he had to; for if this danger truly existed, he couldn't allow her to be hurt by it. He just couldn't answer why.
The landscape changed before him. The ground had evened out by the time he'd made it out of the housing area and into the waking market. As the shopkeepers were still setting up their wares, few ever called out to him. He passed earthenware and delightful shiny baubles, cloth like luxuries fit for royals and once, a magician with his own curious knicknacks who displayed works of witchery and illusion. Somehow his fire practices seemed less elegant than what that woman, Moor, had displayed. The fire on her fingertips, trembling as if in awe and in fear of her. It seemed unreal.
Pieter shook it off and kept walking, haste quickening his movements. He focused on where he knew he must goit was written in her letterand turned into a street not yet touched by sunlight. This was the slum of their particular village; yes, this was within the walls of the capital city, yet even a place as great as this holds its own secrets. This one was no different to many others of its sort, it was dark and musty, not a place that he would travel to within the night. However, this is where she'd pleaded with him to meet her, and to finally end her.
It was quiet. Pieter maneuvered onto a low roof, overlooking the area. Lightly, he went across the rooftops until he found himself standing over her, crouched in the silent gloom below and wrapped mysteriously in that cloak she was so protective of. He alighted on the cobblestones below, silent, his every movement deliberate, yet she seemed to have known his presence beforehand. She was up before he could approach, and she looked at him from beneath the dark of her hood.
A short dagger materialised in his hand, the same from before. "Are you sure ye wan' te do this?" But his voice had changed, lowered, and hinted at an apathy. The way he held himself, it had changed so quickly, and the woman herself now seemed unsure. He couldn't fathom whatever could have compelled her to nod. Pieter firmed his grip on the dagger, and then...
He rushed her.
A quick, hard impact.
She keeled over, into his arms, and then she began gasping wretchedly as he lowered them both to the ground. He held her there, in his arms. She didn't move.
"See?" Pieter began, his voice was susurrus, a calming thing despite where they were, "Yer trembling."
Her gasping turned into sobs, quite as wretched. She managed to say that she didn't want to die, and beyond that, was incomprehensible. Pieter removed the dagger from the folds of cloth, having punctured only her cloak, just to the side, missing her by a hairwidth. Then he recalled her words, 'You would have killed me honorably' ... This wouldn't have been honorable, killing a young woman in these village backwaters. This present decision was, however.
"Yer a witch, miss Moor," He uttered aloud, jokingly, "I doubt tha' this flimsy li'l thing would'a done ye in, missy."
Moor muttered something indistinct within the folds of his coat. He only shushed her and took her to her feet. They exited the dank alley and were greeted by the glow of rising sun. It had come over the hills now, and so the village had begun to stir. Presently, Pieter casually leaned in and murmured to her, very clearly, "Might wan' te hurry up now. We've got ourselves a tail."

Aw hec I just read your "About Me" and found out that you like dragons.

I'm not spoiling anything yet but I think you'll like where this goes.

(I also fixed the quotations and apostrophes because copying and pasting them from Google Docs gets rid of them for some reason... :( Oh well, haha.)

@Wakame
WOW, I am still so hooked. I love that he was so kind to spare her. My writings are not as interactive. https://www.sylestia.com/forums/?thread=80505&page=1#1
Sure, I like dragons, but I also get interested in either dragons or (if writers are lucky) very interesting books, no matter the main concept. I only like to read the best, and I think I have found it. This is the only one so far that has interested me in this whole forum for writing.

So, I really like it. Nice work!

Awe, ahaha. I like that story of yours, too! The idea of dragons going to school but also hiding their identity is interesting!

I see, I see. Then I hope I can continue living up to your expectations, lol. This might become an emotional rollercoaster too, haha. See, Moor and Pieter are interesting characters with several layers of depth underneath, I've yet to even barely skim the surface. Maybe I'll get to their roots and backstories sometime. Maybe.

But I'm honoured that you like it so much, haha. I didn't expect I could hold up to all the other awesome writers in this forum and community.