This an excerpt of what is supposed to be a tall-tale/myth in my nation's culture, originating in the eastern scrublands. In short, it's about a weakling that becomes tired of his reputation and decides to prove him to his community by hunting far from his village, which leads him to discover a magical power that he soon abuses.
I'm looking for some criticism about the description, how the plot, settings, characters, and dialogue are conveyed, word choice, etc. I also suspect that there are some errors in my logic as well as cliches (I'm aware of the one in the end). Please don't mind any grammatical errors; that something I have a reliable tool for.
Within the immense stretches of chaparral in Demescia, a trivial village known as Ocottŭn is situated. Yurts of varying diameter populated it, and the indigenous Lithonians of the scrubland populated them. Ocottŭn, despite its diminutive size, was as rich in culture as it was in vŏcenŭkŭd. These warriors would often hunt dangerous creatures such as coyotes and drakes within a radius from the village.
Kovp, however, decided to go farther from the village than his kin. It was a smouldering afternoon, the sun projecting its radiant beam on figuratively everything in existence; not even the sparse, white clouds could hinder it. Kovp had a reputation of being the feeblest yet most perseverant vŏcenŭk in the locale. Determined to gain admiration in his community, he ventured into the thorny, bushy, wilderness with few to no trees or signs of human life in sight, wearing light leather armour. A gentle breeze slightly moved canary island foxgloves and rock purslanes, and for Kovp it whispered very subtly “turn back.” Still, with his mind concentrated on his elusive aim, he continued to deviate. Dusk soon commenced, and Kovp was still walking through the forest of bushes, with not a single drake in sight. He assumed the other vŏcenŭkid slain the population in the area. As soon as the sun met the horizon, he heard a distant rustle in the bushes, causing him to pause in his footsteps. He quickly turned his head, stunned by the growling foe. The hairy grey fiend stood on its hind legs, exposing its jagged teeth. Its hands were canine enough to be called paws but were also capable of grasping and tearing objects (or animals with its sharp claws). The red eyes that, without words, spoke from the inferno and beckoned him to its torment gazed at him, alert and eternally ominous. It was a chupacabra, a consumer of livestock and defiler of humans. A few more came into sight, and fate was clear: a pack of chupacabras was going to hunt him down.
Kovp sprinted through the steppe, ignoring the thorns of bushes he literally ran over. His speed was well until he tripped over a rock, and toppled into a cove. The tumbling caused bruises to the dorsal and lateral regions of his body, but luckily he landed in a pond at the bottom. His heart was still thumping rapidly, even after three minutes. He noticed his dim surroundings; there were no lights except the setting sun above and the dying fire on a torch at a distance from him. He splashed towards it, watching for any other rocks to spoil his plans. When he got to the light, a carved, ornate door in the wall revealed itself to him. Kovp was puzzled; curious; moving his hand towards the knob; grabbing it; twisting it. He opened the door with only a light push, and what he saw baffled him even more. It was a cave, with a huge, rotating orb, levitating in its centre. Beside it was a makeshift couch placed over a tattered, ugly rug of violet and emerald. A hermit in robes was sitting, relaxing in his humble abode.
He turned his head towards the bruised vŏcenŭk, his golden, acute eyes of steelish grey sclera fixated on him. He then spoke; “And who might you be?” he asked in a low, monotonous voice. Kovp was too focused on his eyes to answer his question. The eyes seemed to stare deep into his soul, analysing and reverse engineering it like it was some sort of technological device. “Did you hear me, weakling?” he spoke louder but still in a monotonous tone. “Who are you? Are you one of those surface dwellers?”
“Who am I?” Kovp uttered, “Who are you? Why are you living in this cave?”
The grizzled hermit sighed, and then suddenly he made a pulling hand gesture. Kovp flew to the other side of the cove towards the hermit, abruptly stopping near his pale green face. He felt he was levitating in the air--because he was levitating. “I asked you a question, mortal. I expect you to answer without backtalk.” The hermit released him, and he dropped a few feet to the limestone floor. A realisation soon came to him.
“Y-you’re a… nemrŏn.” Nemrŏns were the gremlins of the underearth; demigods punished by Jovŏ himself for the grief they caused long ago. They were sentenced to spending most of their lives in the caves and ruins. Those who returned to the surface transformed into pigeons and crows.
“Stop stating the obvious!” He bellowed in a booming voice loud enough to bring down stalactites from the ceiling of the room. “If you won’t tell me who you are, I’ll say it for you. You are Kovp, a mortal from the village of Ocottŭn with a burning passion for the hunt. Nevertheless, you’ve been ridiculed constantly by your peers and women for being as fragile and useless as a broken glass dropped on a marble floor, to which you respond with pretentious insults and self-righteous comments. You have had enough, so you came here on a whim one afternoon nearly got murdered by chupacabras, and stumbled upon my imperial chamber. Welcome home.”
Kovp was shocked at how accurate his description was; kept his astonishment inside and lied to both him and himself. “You make up false stories, you fiend. I’ll have you know that I am at the top of my vŏcenŭk class, first class, and have a confirmed kill count of 6,96-“
“Look. Can we get to the part where I give you a magical sword that makes you the strongest being in this realm of reality?”
“You can do that?”
“Sir. I’m a nemrŏn; I’m not totally useless like you.”
Kovp was eager to get his hands on the sword, for the sake of his safety and reputation. Though, there was a bit of guilt; those under the faith of Jovŏ knew better than to accept an offering of a nemrŏn. They were quite known to be devious and betray their promises. Nevertheless, it’d be tempting to finally have authority. But nevertheless, there might’ve been a catch. “What the catch?” Kovp asked with a brow raised. “What kind of trick would be up your sleeve?”
“Ha. You honestly trust that snipe Jovŏ?” the nemrŏn scoffed aloud. “He claims nemrŏnŭd are malicious tricksters; he was only salty because we didn’t have same plans, and thus he was too stubborn to compromise. I assure you that there are no tricks in these sleeves or sleeves in these tricks.”
That only quenched a bit of his suspicion, though he decided to toss it away and look at the bigger picture. “I accept your offering. Where is this magical sword you speak of? What does it do?”
“Look up.” Kovp heard a loud crack from above. Doing what the nemrŏn said, he looked upward and saw a long, narrow spike falling, racing towards him with immense gravitational force. Before it could pierce is eye sockets, the spike stopped in midair, then *shhrrk*! It broke into millions of tiny pieces, scattering among different parts of the room. A single piece of dead wood levitated in midair, attracting the stalactite parts, once scattered, to its upper portion, forming the blade. Surprisingly it didn’t break, and thorny vines came as well, wrapping their snake-like bodies around the entire object. All ended when the sword floated towards the orb and was struck by its greenish-yellow lightning. It fell on the floor, at the feet of Kovp who stood in awe.
“Behold!” shouted the nemrŏn! “Mody, the merciless sword! It harnesses more of your opponent’s soul with every slash and jab; causes them to tumble to your boots and weep a song of mercy. It can slice steel ingots in a single motion, let alone human flesh. I must warn you, though: this sword is for the spirit of the hunt, not the insecurities of the soul. Once you wield it, you are bound eternally with your blood to use the weapon’s power responsibly.”
Kovp didn’t listen to most of what he said. He grabbed the sword, letting its thorns impale him like spears. He tried not to respond to the pain, but the nemrŏn could see it in his eyes. “I am grateful,” Kovp said in a malicious tone, grinning widely.
