I am still working on this and the rest of my book but please help yourself to critique and comment.
The dark room was weakly lit by a dwindled fire. Its small glow was like an ocean that tossed shadows, which almost seem to creak and sway upon the walls. In the corner of the room lay Wetstone asleep in his chair. Though he dreamed he could still faintly hear the pouring rain, and the rolling of the thunder, and the wind which whipped the trees that bowed in its powerful gusts.
His dreams were suddenly broken by a splash, a small splash, like a foot slipping into a puddle. His eyes slowly opened. He sat still listening with his eyes straight forward. He keenly glanced around the room but did not move a muscle he just sat still. He heard it again, and sharply stuck his eyes on the door like a knife piercing the wood. The handle slowly twisted… and burst open. A man stepped in the room. He was soaked from head to toe with bandages wrapped around his arms and face. He looked around the room it seemed abandoned the fire was out and the room was dark he took a flint from his pouch and lit a small torch. He shined it around the room. He shut the door and walked in. He seemed to be looking for something. He saw the fire place on the right wall, to the left of it a cluttered table, above it was some cupboards. Then in the left corner of the room an empty chair. In the opposite corner of the room there was a ladder. Next to it were two posts which held up a loft which the ladder leaned against. He glanced up to look at the loft and saw a shadow. He squinted to make out its shape he could see it was a … Before he could make it out the figure leaped from its hiding and knocked him across the face.
Wetstone picked his muscular body up off the man underneath him. He wiped the blood off of his forearm with the man’s jacket. He scratched his scruffy chin and stroked his shaggy hair. Then he picked up the body and placed it on the table. He relit the man’s torch and put it into a lantern. He stripped the body of the bandages and jacket. He also took off a sheath arrows and a bow from the man’s shoulders. The body had many cuts and bruises, besides the one he gave him, and also a map hanging out of his torn shirt. He unfolded the map and skimmed over it. He noticed many marking smeared with water. He put down the map and tore the bandages, shirt and pants off the man’s body. He then took a rag and washed the mud of the man’s face and chest. He cleaned and wrapped his cuts with bandages. There was something about this man that reminded him of someone he just didn’t know who.
The man woke up with a splitting headache, he rubbed his throbbing head and looked at the fire that roared before him in it was a small pot hooked upon an iron rod. In the pot brewed a steaming stew. All of a sudden the door swung open the man stood to his feet. He saw a man walked in with logs in his arms. He tried to step toward the man but collapsed under his leg and gasped in pain.
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Wetstone chuckled as he dropped the logs, removed his hood, and slipped a hatchet out of his belt, “You’ve been pretty beat up. Who are you?”
The man glanced up in surprise and said, “I should’ve know better then to trespass on your land … Arin.”
Wetstone split the wood and look over very keenly. He stood up who could this be that he would know his real name. He thought. Then said, “To whom is your allegiance served.” This phrase was a password used by heroes of old known as Yayges. If the man answered “to the Yayges” he would know he was not a Yayge himself because people who were not Yayges themselves worshipped the Yayges. Because they did not understand that the Yayges were not gods but men who were earned authority by serving the true God. But the authority they received was very powerful it could make them invincible in battle and even perform acts that were considered magic.
The man stared at him puzzled but still replied, “To Lithren the true God and lord of the world.”
Wetstone was bewildered he glanced over and said, “Who are you?”
“Arin you can’t see? Do you not know me.”
Wetstone walked over to the man with the hatchet and replied, “Who told who I was…” he grabbed the man, “how do you know where I live!”
“Arin it’s me…”
“I Already have a “me” in here and I certainly don’t want another one now state your name!” he interrupted.
“…Emton.” Wetstone dropped him and stepped back, “I came here from Straughtbridge to get you for help. Straughtbridge has fallen to Barbill. We think Satier is in on it to he’ll do anything for a little bit of gold the evil shrant.”
“I don’t believe any of this.”
“You must your people need you. Listen I heard that King Satier is giving thirty pounds of gold to whoever wins his tournament and he is letting them go find your father the king…”
“He is alive!”
“I don’t know but that’s the rumor. But come on we could go and easily win.”
There was a long pause before Wetstone said, “Where is it to be held.”
“The king’s palace?” he grinned.
“Okay.” Wetstone agreed.
Over description, get rid of it. Characters are more interesting than setting.
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