The Prince from the Pauper, Can a young bosmer fight against his destiny? Options

[gasbait]

Chapter 1:


I watched enviously from the field as the little imperial children made their way to the school. Each of them was dressed as if they were little princelings, subtle ways for their parents to brag I suppose. The children seemed grumpy and impassive about the opportunity for schooling; if only they could understand what it feels like to be in this side of the fence, almost knee deep in manure and muck.

While only being seven years of age at that time, I understood and recognized this village’s implied caste system. If your father was a merchant, you were a merchant, if your father was an innkeeper; you were an innkeeper, and so on. I watched with envious eyes at these future merchants, diplomats, traders, and politicians make their way to school. School was a privilege, given only to children with the most revered and wealthy parents; and after looking at myself; a farmer’s dirty, small, smelly bosmer son; I realized I could never hope to be allowed inside such a place.

My father was a small man, and while I hate to admit this; he was uneducated and an ignorant farmer. He believed that a man did not need an education, that the sweat in his brows and work in his arms is what defined a man. If only he could realize how small and bitter the fruits of his labors really were; maybe then he would realize why I did not want to follow down his path.

If his occupation was not humiliating enough; he was a bosmer. Our village, like many others around the empire, had a slight case of what I like to call “imperial snobbery.” The imperials did not like the fact that a bosmer, or any other race could own land, and it did not help 90% of the village’s composition was made of imperials. Our family would be given harsh treatments in stores and markets where we sell out crops. Not only that, I can’t even count the number of times we were overcharged for goods when we went shopping, and even the tax collector was merciless on us no matter our situation.

Father was aware of this racism, but he did not express anger, instead he felt flattered. He was convinced that the only reason these treatments were given was because the imperials were envious of our family, something he said his father could never have said. His ancestors never actually owned the farm, but father was given it when the landowner died in a bandit raid and he had no reliable heirs. Father quickly took advantage of this situation and managed to inherit the land; something he is still proud of to this day. Why anyone would be envious or proud of our one acre and a half farm is beyond me, but if theirs anything I learned from growing up as a bosmer it was this; imperials are crazy.

Mother was a lot more outspoken then father, and was not afraid to express her anger at this treatment. Whenever she would catch someone trying to cheat her in a store (which was surprisingly many) she would start a loud argument and commotion. She knew that if she caused a big enough commotion; merchants would fear that some of their customers may leave, and it soon became that our family was only cheated when father went shopping. She was obviously the more powerful one in relationship and was not afraid to express her strength of character and mind to others. She did however, have a gentler side when talking with me. I knew she silently wept when I was rejected from the school; with no money to move, and no education; I was stuck with being a farmer. Father did not seem to mind this fact, but I knew mom fought everyday to try to stop this from happening. How such polar opposites could ever get married was beyond me.

My parents never told me the history behind their pairing, but from what I have gathered from my fathers drunken rambling; they apparently met in a far trading city of Anvil. Anything after that was drunken rambling about how he was making his way up in the world, and soon the name “Fellamont” would be known across the empire. I silently laughed to myself, how could a family of poor farmers ever become famous?

By now, the children had entered the school and I still had to weed the field and feed the pigs; the two things in life I hated the most. I wondered how fate could be so cruel as to force me to live a farmer’s life, a life filled with hard work that ended with sundown and began with sunrise.


It was then that I decided to fight against my destiny; a bold claim coming from a seven year old. Whether I had to run away, change my identity, or even become like those imperial snobs, I would make the name Chargmane Fellamont famous. Little did I know, that destiny.... was already unwillingly on my side.

[gasbait]

Chapter 2.

The sun was starting to set when I had finally finished my set of chores.

I walked through the endless pile of manure and dirt as I made my way back to the farm house. My face was red from both the heat of the day and the anger at the pig’s behavior during feeding time. Nobody ever liked feeding pigs; they were big, hairy, smelly pigs and always so hungry that it was never safe to turn your back on them. Today was even more brutal, because as I was feeding them; a particular big pig managed to push me into the mixture of pig crap and manure. Not only was this demeaning, these were my last set of relatively clean rags.

Weeding was equally brutal, while one acre is not necessarily big for a farm; I developed numerous blisters and I felt dehydrated when I was finally finished. The only thing stopping me from running to the house was the mixture of exhaustion and pain.

As I entered the house, I noticed the sound of cutting and a humid smell coming from one of the pots. Mom seemed busy at work making supper, so I decided not to disturb her and just made my way silently to one of the chairs. By the time I made myself comfortable on the chair; mom finally noticed my presence.

“Chargmane, your fathers went down to the tavern. Call him back here for supper!” She said.

My feet seemed to protest at the slightest sense of movement, but their was no use denying mom…at least if I wanted something to eat tonight.

I made my way down the dirt path to the village, ignoring the glares from the imperials going the other way. As I reached the village, I noticed some loud, angry voices coming from the center.

“They probably caught another thief” I thought to myself silently.

As I made my way towards the village, the shouting and yelling became more audible.

“-four Tamika's West Weald Wine and attempted to runaway!” shouted what sounded to be a very angry man

“NO! Please! I was just trying to get my wife to bring me the money to pay for the drinks!” Someone sobbed. The voice however, seemed similar…too similar.

“LIAR! You are a liar and a thief and will be punished!” yelled a different voice.

By now I had started running towards the village center. I was correct in thinking the accused voice was familiar….it was my fathers.

Father was surrounded by big, strong men. Even though he was a farmer; I had the feeling anyone of these guys could beat my father in a fist fight.

“I wasn’t going to steal anything I….SON! Please Help me!” He begged as he instinctively inched away from the approaching men.

“Your son is here?!” A man laughed in a mocking tone. “Then he shall enjoy watching this, GET HIM!”

The memory of this event would be forever engraved inside my head. As the men descended upon my dad, the only thing he could manage to do was give a short, terrified cry.
I could only watch helplessly as the men beat and assailed my dad. His cries of mercy and fear were only answered by a barrage of fist and laughter. I saw his tears bleed crimson, but I was too afraid to do anything.

After what appeared to be hours of merciless beatings, they roughly picked my father and threw him beside my feet.

“Take him back to his umbrella seller and make sure to remind him what happens to thieves who don’t pay.” The man jested

The whole crowd laughed at my family’s humiliation, and when my brain finally accepted what had just happened; I felt warm tears falling down my cheeks. With considerable effort, I half carried, half dragged my dad up the road back home. He was unconscious and bleeding from the temple of his head. I ignored the laughter and cheers from the village and instead tried to get my now unconscious dad back home.

Each step was heavy with sorrow, and my tears continued to stream down my cheeks like an endless river. I was mad at everything; mad at the crowd for their merciless “justice,” mad at my father for humiliating us, and worst of all; mad at myself for being weak.

[Illydoor]

First of all let me welcome you to the fan-fiction section of the forums Gasbait - I'm relatively new myself . Now onto The Prince from the Pauper:

Your story has a good premise, and you capture emotion very well in your writing. It's one of those stories you enjoy reading because you want to see the main character finally get his comeuppance and the bad guys get their just punishment, which is always a good thing for the writer because it means you can take the story anywhere you want.

However, most of the story seemed a bit info-dumpish, like you're just 'telling' and not showing us. Instead of just placing the information in our laps for us to read, try and describe what's happening a bit more.

Looking forward to the next part!

[gasbait]

Ahh I understand what your saying and your completely correct. The reason this sounds a little rushed is because im trying to advance the story as fast as I can, I mean theirs only so much a 7 year old bosmer can do right? I will try to be more descriptive in my next update, which should be done by tuesday!