Tainted

Tainted

The Tainted Boy

riley adkisson

A Cursed Child

He was cursed at birth, though he doesn’t know it.
A quiet curse. No scar, no mark. Just a rule, written into his bones:

He cannot have what he wants most.

At first, that meant the usual things: comfort, friendship, even love.
Every time he reached for something good, it slipped away...
Slowly, painfully, or all at once.

Over the years, that hunger hollowed him out.
Until what he wanted most was the simplest thing of all:

To finally let go.

But the curse still held.
Even that, it would not allow.

And so the boy, known only as Taint, sets off in search of an ending.
Instead, he finds a world just as broken as he is:
a sorrow-twisted land of bickering gnomes, militant squirrels, unstable villagers, and a Crone who remembers too much.

He was cursed at birth, though he doesn’t know it.
A quiet curse. No scar, no mark. Just a rule, written into his bones:

He cannot have what he wants most.

At first, that meant the usual things: comfort, friendship, even love.
Every time he reached for something good, it slipped away...
Slowly, painfully, or all at once.

Over the years, that hunger hollowed him out.
Until what he wanted most was the simplest thing of all:

To finally let go.

But the curse still held.
Even that, it would not allow.

He was cursed at birth, though he
doesn’t know it.
A quiet curse. No scar, no mark.
Just a rule, written into his bones:

He cannot have what
he wants most.

At first, that meant the usual things: comfort, friendship, even love.
Every time he reached for something good, it slipped away...
Slowly, painfully, or all at once.

Over the years, that hunger hollowed
him out. Until what he wanted most was the simplest thing of all:

To finally let go.

But the curse still held.
Even that, it would not allow.

And so the boy, known only as Taint,
sets off in search of an ending.
Instead, he finds a world just as
broken as he is:
a sorrow-twisted land of bickering gnomes, militant squirrels,
unstable villagers, and a Crone
who remembers too much.

This is not a tale of heroes.

It’s a story about what’s left behind.
About survival, memory, and the cruel kind of magic that doesn't look like magic at all.

This is not a tale of heroes.

It’s a story about what’s left behind. About survival, memory, and the cruel kind of magic that doesn't look like magic at all.

This is not a tale of heroes.

It’s a story about what’s left behind.
About survival, memory, and the cruel kind of magic that doesn't look like
magic at all.

Taint

Once known as The Tainted Boy

One day, he made a quiet decision.
Not to fight. Not to run.
Just to walk into the woods and let the world finish what it started.

But instead of an ending,
he found something else.

A strange, sorrow-stained world.
Creatures twisted by grief.
Villages hanging on by ritual and rumor.

People who were just as lost as he was and maybe needed him more than he expected.

He didn’t ask to be part of their story.
But he’s in it now.

One day, he made a quiet decision. Not to fight. Not to run. Just to walk into the woods and let the world finish what it started.

But instead of an ending,
he found something else.

A strange, sorrow-stained world.
Creatures twisted by grief.
Villages hanging on by ritual
and rumor.

People who were just as lost as he was and maybe needed him more than he expected.

He didn’t ask to be part of
their story. But he’s in it now.

One day, he made a quiet decision.
Not to fight. Not to run. Just to walk into the woods and let the world finish what it started.

But instead of an ending,
he found something else.

A strange, sorrow-stained world.
Creatures twisted by grief. Villages hanging on by ritual and rumor.

People who were just as lost as he
was and maybe needed him more
than he expected.

He didn’t ask to be part of their story.
But he’s in it now.

One day, he made a quiet decision.
Not to fight. Not to run.

Just to walk into the woods and let the world finish what it started.

But instead of an ending,
he found something else.

A strange, sorrow-stained world.
Creatures twisted by grief.
Villages hanging on by ritual and rumor.

People who were just as lost as he was and maybe needed him more than he expected.

He didn’t ask to be part of their story.
But he’s in it now.

No one remembers what his name was.
Maybe he never had one.
They called him The Tainted Boy at first; whispered in pity, written in warnings.

Then, just Taint.

Shorter. Sharper. Easier to forget.

Bad things followed him.
Houses burned. Families cracked.
Not all at once, but always eventually.

No one could explain it.
Eventually, they stopped trying.

So did he.

No one remembers what his name was. Maybe he never had one. They called him The Tainted Boy at first; whispered in pity, written in warnings.

Then, just Taint.

Shorter. Sharper.
Easier to forget.

Bad things followed him.
Houses burned. Families cracked.Not all at once, but always eventually.

No one could explain it.
Eventually, they stopped trying.

So did he.

No one remembers what his name was.
Maybe he never had one. They called him The Tainted Boy at first; whispered in pity, written in warnings.

Then, just Taint.

Shorter. Sharper. Easier to forget.

Bad things followed him.
Houses burned. Families cracked.
Not all at once, but always eventually.

No one could explain it.
Eventually, they stopped trying.

So did he.

No one remembers what his name was. Maybe he never had one. They called him The Tainted Boy at first;
whispered in pity, written in warnings.

Then, just Taint.

Shorter. Sharper. Easier to forget.

Bad things followed him. Houses burned. Families cracked. Not all at once, but always eventually.

No one could explain it.
Eventually, they stopped trying.

So did he.

The Crone’s power is not well understood.

But her presence is felt.
In the way the trees turn.
In the way sorrow gathers like fog.
In the way some things seem to know they’re being watched.

She doesn’t chase anyone.
But nothing in her forest goes unseen.

The Crone’s power is not well understood.

But her presence is felt.
In the way the trees turn.
In the way sorrow gathers like fog.
In the way some things seem to know
they’re being watched.

She doesn’t chase anyone.
But nothing in her forest
goes unseen.

The Crone’s power is not well understood.

But her presence is felt.
In the way the trees turn.
In the way sorrow gathers like fog.
In the way some things seem to know they’re being watched.

She doesn’t chase anyone.
But nothing in her forest goes unseen.

The Crone’s power is not well understood.

But her presence is felt.
In the way the trees turn.
In the way sorrow gathers like fog.
In the way some things seem to know they’re being watched.

She doesn’t chase anyone.But nothing in her forest goes unseen.

Deep in the forest, hidden beneath twisted
roots and whispering trees, lives the Crone.

She stirs black water in a stone basin.
She mutters to her cat, Trojah, who may be listening.
She speaks in riddles, half-memories, and
things that haven’t happened yet.

Her magic doesn’t shimmer or shine...
it drips, it seeps, it remembers.

Deep in the forest, hidden beneath twisted
roots and whispering trees, lives the Crone.

She stirs black water in a stone basin.
She mutters to her cat, Trojah, who may be listening.
She speaks in riddles, half-memories, and
things that haven’t happened yet.

Her magic doesn’t shimmer or shine...
it drips, it seeps, it remembers.

Deep in the forest, hidden beneath twisted roots and whispering trees, lives the Crone.

She stirs black water in a stone basin.
She mutters to her cat, Trojah, who may be listening. She speaks in riddles, half-memories, and things that haven’t happened yet.

Her magic doesn’t shimmer or shine...
it drips, it seeps, it remembers.

Deep in the forest, hidden beneath twisted
roots and whispering trees, lives the Crone.

She stirs black water in a stone basin.
She mutters to her cat, Trojah, who may be listening.
She speaks in riddles, half-memories, and
things that haven’t happened yet.

Her magic doesn’t shimmer or shine...
it drips, it seeps, it remembers.

Made of memory. Unraveled by it.

The Crone

In Stableton, Warren was the kid no one crossed.

Bigger than most.
Louder than all of them.

He spoke in short commands.
He didn’t ask twice.

The other kids followed him. Not out of friendship, but because that’s what you did. He kept them moving. Kept them in line. Kept things from getting worse.

He didn’t like Taint.
Never did.

In Stableton, Warren was the kid no one crossed.

Bigger than most.
Louder than all of them.

He spoke in short commands.
He didn’t ask twice.

The other kids followed him. Not out of friendship, but because that’s what you did. He kept them moving. Kept them in line. Kept things from getting worse.

He didn’t like Taint.
Never did.

In Stableton, Warren was the kid no one crossed.

Bigger than most.
Louder than all of them.

He spoke in short commands.
He didn’t ask twice.

The other kids followed him. Not out of friendship, but because that’s what you did. He kept them moving. Kept them in line. Kept things from getting worse.

He didn’t like Taint.
Never did.

In Stableton, Warren was the kid no one crossed.

Bigger than most.
Louder than all of them.

He spoke in short commands.
He didn’t ask twice.

The other kids followed him. Not out of friendship, but because that’s what you did. He kept them moving. Kept them in line. Kept things from getting worse.

He didn’t like Taint.
Never did.

But when Taint left, Warren followed. No explanation. No plan.

Just a look on his face that no one could quite read.

Maybe he wanted to hurt him.
Maybe he wanted answers.
Maybe he didn’t even know why.

But he went... into the woods, after the boy he couldn’t stand.

And didn’t come back.

But when Taint left, Warren followed. No explanation. No plan.

Just a look on his face that no one could quite read.

Maybe he wanted to hurt him.
Maybe he wanted answers.
Maybe he didn’t even know why.

But he went... into the woods, after the boy he couldn’t stand.

And didn’t come back.

But when Taint left, Warren followed. No explanation. No plan.

Just a look on his face that no one
could quite read.

Maybe he wanted to hurt him.
Maybe he wanted answers.
Maybe he didn’t even know why.

But he went... into the woods, after the boy he couldn’t stand.

And didn’t come back.

But when Taint left, Warren followed.
No explanation. No plan.

Just a look on his face that no one could quite read.

Maybe he wanted to hurt him.
Maybe he wanted answers.
Maybe he didn’t even know why.

But he went... into the woods, after
the boy he couldn’t stand.

And didn’t come back.

First to Fight. Last to leave.

Warren

Louder than they’re brave.

Braver than they look.

Hamwise

Mersula

They’re not heroes.
They’re not trying to be.

But when things go bad (and they tend to) they’re still there. Not out of duty. Just because that’s who they are.

In a world full of strange magic and bitter endings, they’re the kind of people who stick.

They’re not heroes.
They’re not trying to be.

But when things go bad (and they tend to) they’re still there. Not out of duty. Just because that’s who they are.

In a world full of strange magic and bitter endings, they’re the kind of people who stick.

They’re not heroes.
They’re not trying to be.

But when things go bad (and they tend to) they’re still there. Not out of duty. Just because that’s who they are.

In a world full of strange magic and bitter endings, they’re the kind of people who stick.

No one really remembers how they met, only that they’ve been side by side ever since.

They talk like they’re always mid-argument.
Sometimes they are.
Sometimes they just throw a few punches
for the fun of it.

Mersula moves fast; sharp and quick to act.
Hamwise is slower, sturdier.
She cuts through the noise.
He keeps them from falling apart.

No one really remembers how they met, only that they’ve been side by side ever since.

They talk like they’re always mid-argument.
Sometimes they are.
Sometimes they just throw a few punches
for the fun of it.

Mersula moves fast; sharp and quick to act.
Hamwise is slower, sturdier.
She cuts through the noise.
He keeps them from falling apart.

No one really remembers how they
met, only that they’ve been side by
side ever since.

They talk like they’re always mid-argument.
Sometimes they are.
Sometimes they just throw a few punches for the fun of it.

Mersula moves fast; sharp and quick
to act. Hamwise is slower, sturdier.
She cuts through the noise.
He keeps them from falling apart.

“The Forrest Comes First.”

They are Shrubbery Gnomes. Two of many.
Keepers of the forest’s edge, sworn to uphold the delicate balance between life and decay. To outsiders, their work may seem small. But to them, it is sacred.

They carry a blade longer than either of them, sharpened daily, blessed weekly.
Grass is trimmed. Roots are guided. Growth is kept within proper bounds.

It’s not farming. It’s not landscaping.
It’s discipline in the name of harmony.

They carry a blade longer than either of them, sharpened daily, blessed weekly.
Grass is trimmed. Roots are guided. Growth is kept within proper bounds.

It’s not farming. It’s not landscaping.
It’s discipline in the name of harmony.

They are Shrubbery Gnomes. Two of many. Keepers of the forest’s edge, sworn to uphold the delicate balance between life and decay. To outsiders, their work may seem small. But to them, it is sacred.

They carry a blade longer than either of them, sharpened daily, blessed weekly. Grass is trimmed. Roots are guided. Growth is kept within proper bounds.

It’s not farming. It’s not landscaping.
It’s discipline in the name of harmony.

They carry a blade longer than either of them, sharpened daily, blessed weekly.
Grass is trimmed. Roots are guided. Growth is kept within proper bounds.

It’s not farming. It’s not landscaping.
It’s discipline in the name of harmony.

The squirrels disagree.
Loudly.

The feud between the Shrubbery Gnomes and the Squirrel Collective is longstanding and, at times, bloody.

Gnetta & Gnorma don’t speak of it often.
They let their shears do the talking.

The forest comes first.
And they are here to keep it that way.

The squirrels disagree.
Loudly.

The feud between the Shrubbery Gnomes and the Squirrel Collective is longstanding and, at times, bloody.

Gnetta & Gnorma don’t speak of it often.
They let their shears do the talking.

The forest comes first.
And they are here to keep it that way.

The squirrels disagree.
Loudly.

The feud between the Shrubbery Gnomes and the Squirrel Collective is longstanding and, at times, bloody.

Gnetta & Gnorma don’t speak of it often. They let their shears do the talking.

The forest comes first.
And they are here to keep it that way.

The squirrels disagree.
Loudly.

The feud between the Shrubbery Gnomes and the Squirrel Collective is longstanding and, at times, bloody.

Gnetta & Gnorma don’t speak of it often. They let their shears do the talking.

The forest comes first.
And they are here to keep it that way.

Gnetta

Gnorma

Wick shows up exactly when he’s needed and never quite where he should be.

His coat and pack are filled with things no one can explain.

A lantern that gives off shadow
instead of light.

A ribbon that flutters when there’s
no wind.

A rusted staff topped with a gleaming moon pendant.

A string that won’t stop knotting itself.

He doesn’t talk about where he got them. He doesn’t talk much at all.

Wick shows up exactly when he’s needed and never quite where he should be.

His coat and pack are filled with things no one can explain.

A lantern that gives off shadow
instead of light. A ribbon that flutters when there’s no wind. A rusted staff topped with a
gleaming moon pendant. A string that won’t stop knotting itself.

He doesn’t talk about where he got them. He doesn’t talk much at all.

Wick shows up exactly when he’s needed and never quite where he should be.

His coat and pack are filled with things no one can explain.

A lantern that gives off shadow
instead of light.

A ribbon that flutters when there’s
no wind.

A rusted staff topped with a
gleaming moon pendant.

A string that won’t stop knotting itself.

He doesn’t talk about where he got them. He doesn’t talk much at all.

Wick shows up exactly when he’s needed and never quite where he should be.

His coat and pack are filled with things no one can explain.

A lantern that gives off shadow
instead of light.

A ribbon that flutters when there’s
no wind.

A rusted staff topped with a gleaming moon pendant.

A string that won’t stop knotting itself.

He doesn’t talk about where he got them. He doesn’t talk much at all.

No one knows where he came from.
He never stays long.

His name isn’t written anywhere...
But it keeps showing up.

And wherever he goes,
something changes.

Wick never arrives by accident.

No one knows where he came from.
He never stays long.

His name isn’t written anywhere...
But it keeps showing up.

And wherever he goes,
something changes.

Wick never arrives by accident.

No one knows where he came from.
He never stays long.

His name isn’t written anywhere...
But it keeps showing up.

And wherever he goes,
something changes.

Wick never arrives by accident.

No one knows where he came from. He never stays long.

His name isn’t written anywhere... But it keeps showing up.

And wherever he goes, something changes.

Wick never arrives by accident.

Toothy. Weathered. Strange.

Wick

She talks to trees.

Not like someone pretending.
Like someone who’s waiting for an answer.

People say she’s odd.
She doesn’t argue.

The wind doesn’t carry her.
The forest does.

And one day, it will speak back.

She talks to trees.

Not like someone pretending. Like someone who’s waiting for an answer.

People say she’s odd.
She doesn’t argue.

The wind doesn’t carry her.
The forest does.

And one day, it will speak back.

She talks to trees.

Not like someone pretending. Like someone who’s waiting for an answer.

People say she’s odd.
She doesn’t argue.

The wind doesn’t carry her.
The forest does.

And one day, it will speak back.

Among the Gustborn, everything begins with a whistle.
It’s how they speak. How they sing. How they name their children.

Treena can’t whistle.

So her sister carved her a tool —
a small, hand-carved whistle, so she could speak in their language… even if her voice didn’t come the same way.

She’s never flown like the others.
Instead, she climbs. High branches, forgotten ledges, narrow paths that disappear into cloud.

Among the Gustborn, everything begins with a whistle.
It’s how they speak. How they sing. How they name their children.

Treena can’t whistle.

So her sister carved her a tool —
a small, hand-carved whistle, so she could speak in their language… even if her voice didn’t come the same way.

She’s never flown like the others.
Instead, she climbs. High branches, forgotten ledges, narrow paths that disappear into cloud.

Among the Gustborn, everything begins with a whistle.
It’s how they speak. How they sing. How they name their children.

Treena can’t whistle.

So her sister carved her a tool —
a small, hand-carved whistle, so she could speak in their language, even if her voice didn’t come the same way.

She’s never flown like the others.
Instead, she climbs. High branches, forgotten ledges, narrow paths that disappear into cloud.

Among the Gustborn, everything begins with a whistle.
It’s how they speak. How they sing. How they name their children.

Treena can’t whistle.

So her sister carved her a tool — a small, hand-carved whistle, so she could speak in their language… even if her voice didn’t come the same way.

She’s never flown like the others.
Instead, she climbs. High branches, forgotten ledges, narrow paths that disappear into cloud.

Pushed to the sky.

Rooted to the soil.

Treena

If you're an agent, publisher, or curious reader and this world spoke to you — reach out. Whether you're interested in the full manuscript, a collaboration, or just want to say hello, I’d love to hear from you.

readtainted@gmail.com

Let’s see where the story goes next.

And So Our

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And So Our

Story Begins

And So Our

Story Begins

And So Our

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