CHAPTER 10

“What in the hell happened there?! Why in Eleanor’s name did Eldrin and his merry band of dimwits suddenly show up?! We were lucky that the crowd didn’t stampede, otherwise we could have been trampled!”, Lyvia was fuming as she paced to and from in the living room, clenching her fists in an effort to relieve some of the stress.

  “Let’s just be glad we got out of there on time. Celeria is still there, you know?”, Grey’s head poked up from the little play session he was forced to participate in and tried to cool Lyvia’s nerves. Unfortunately, he failed.

  “Thanks for reminding me! I still have to give her a piece of my mind! What the hell is she thinking, leaping out into the fray and standing in front of a fully armed battalion?! She’s lucky that Eldrin’s men aren’t even the least bit competent, because any regiment with the tiniest fraction of experience would have just continued on!”, Lyvia’s pacing suddenly stopped, “Grey, I want you to watch the children.”

  The silencing of her footsteps and the odd comment put Grey on edge.

  “Lyvia, what are you going to do?”

  “Exactly as I said, I’m going to give Celeria a piece of my mind!”, her tone suggested no retrieve. Lyvia stormed out the house, bounding down the stairs and practically jumping out of the atelier only to hit the forest floor full force, before sprinting off towards the village.

  ‘Well, crap.’, was the only thought Grey could muster before Lyvia disappeared out of sight. He could only mentally sigh, before returning to the three little children looking at him expectantly. He resumed playing, banishing both Lyvia and Celeria to the back of his mind.

  Lyvia bounded towards the town, running at a speed few could match. Her trip to the village was accompanied by the dull sound of a feast going on, she decided to follow the noise. She quickly ended up just outside of town, standing in front of the local tavern which was filled to the brim with guests. The loyal patrons almost had no room to sit as an impromptu assembly of angered Dynn Doriàn was being held.

  Lyvia entered the tavern under a violent chorus of noise, this time coming from a drunk and angry crowd instead of just angry. A welcome change.

  ‘Celeria better be here, otherwise I’m gonna skin her alive!’, the vivid images of skinning animals streamed through her mind, putting a small smirk on her face. However, she would first need to find her target to administer proper punishment. The tavern didn’t really lend itself to searching for someone, as a crowded room filled with those embroiled in conversation didn’t really lend itself to a thorough inspection. Instead causing the usual tavern brawl, Lyvia opted to lean back with a pint of ale and observe the situation. The entertainment of an angry and drunken crowd was one few would pass up, Lyvia was no exception.

  “Who does that bastard think he is?!”, an unrecognisable voice from a few feet away cried out in anger. The filled tavern made most unrecognisable, the sound of their voices only momentarily coming over the droning of the fierce conversations and reaching Lyvia’s ears. The conversation in the little group became more and more heated.

  “That damned Tyrrith clan just wants power! They’re profiting from the Council’s decision! Damn those pigs and damn the fools who passed that legislation!”, the little group directed their anger once again towards the source of their problems, the governing establishment.

  The crowd started off slowly, holding conversations about the local powerhouses, yet they quickly switched to the subject of the mobilisation. The subject was on everyone’s mind, affecting everyone in the tavern alike. The conversations became more heated over the course of the night, firing up like a bonfire being fuelled to warm the cold darkness.

  They came on the subject of the council of seven with fire in their hearts and daggers in place of tongues. They started to slash their way through the first subject, caring little for the crudeness in their words as their anger dictated their tone and the subject. They indiscriminately started smearing and belittling the factions that governed them from their high seat in Eleanor.

  Enthusiastic and maddened by rage orators rose to the occasion, spewing insult after insult at the seven factions that ruled the kingdom.

  “Damn those greedy pigs from the Silver Fawn! Those merchants only care about their own wares! The only thing more prosperous and secure than their own trade routes are their vaults! The money snatching hogs wouldn’t hesitate to drive a family in the ground, yet they will haggle businesses out of existence for an extra penny!”, a man rose from his seat, shouting his lungs out as he admonished the well-known merchant guild.

  “What about those damned pricks from the Boar’s tusk?! They were prancing around here only last month, looking for some damned critter that was hurting none! They attacked it in its sleep and ran off when it began trashing the fields!”, she paused to take in a deep breath, “Damned pricks only killed it when it lowered its guard! That’s the third time this season! By Eleanor, those damned asshats are either some stupid noble, or an eccentric freak that might as well be one!”, a woman rose up, claiming her own table and her own timeslot.

  A third rose, “Are you all forgetting the damned alchemist conglomerate that charges us each month to have a stall on the market?! They charge us! For Eleanor’s sake, the cunts dare to act high and mighty and complain when they don’t get a prime spot on the market! Besides their damned attitude, their products are absolute shit! None of the things they make could measure up to what Grey makes, let alone deserve a prime spot on the market square! How dare the drake oil sellers act like respected merchants?!”, his voice wasn’t as loud as the others, but a certain calmness pervaded it, momentarily silencing those around him.

  The crowd was jeering, hurling insult after insult at the shamed cliques. Their emotions were riled up, the inconveniences they had experienced due to the wartime were spiking, and they were far from done.

  A fourth rose, “They may be asshats, but they sure as hell aren’t as exploitative as the Sovereign’s Enclave!”, his deep and gruff wormed its way through the clamorous tavern into everyone’s ears, “The hell spawn that calls themselves ‘nobility’ exploit their populace daily! The filthy pricks lick their seniors’ feet, while they punish their underlings at every opportunity. The sadistic bastards have turned a once proud city into a slave population and a clan of talented smiths into mindless drones! Down with the Sovereign Enclave, down with those pig fuckers!”, the man rose out of the crowd, revealing himself to be the blacksmith that had started it all. He seemed emotionally touched, as his red eyes were moist, and his voice was high-pitched at certain intervals.

  They crowd joined his admonishment, shouting insults at the band of nobles and letting the anger build up inside of them.

  Another rose up, “The Druidic Gathering has brought this nation close to ruin time and time again! Their decision to value this damned forest over everything has led them to use their own people to shield it! Hell, I don’t doubt that the fuckers were the main proponents of the mobilisation!”, this caught the crowd’s attention, “They value some damned trees over the villages and towns from whence they came. The tree loving fools would sacrifice their parents to have a wooden rod shoved up their arses by a dryad!”, the man’s crude words weren’t impressive, yet the crowd agreed regardless. They cheered him on as he continued to rave about the Druidic Gathering.

  A woman rose up from the crowd, someone who was well known by the crowd and someone they knew lost their precious companion. The crowd turned silent in moments, as the respect and pity for the woman took over their ravenous instincts for a moment.

  She wasted no time to release those very instincts once more.

  “Aren’t you all forgetting someone?! How about that damned Thorned Rose leader, Duke Sgithùr!”, the crowd was silenced by dread, the mere mention of the name caused unease amongst the populace, “I am not afraid of this man, and neither should you! The capricious sociopaths that call themselves the guardians of the nation are corrupt to the core. Their punishment for deserting is death, or to serve as cannon fodder in the next battle. They have burned villages to the ground on suspect of infection or ‘treason’. The damned idiots have been going out and murdering people, while their bosses sit high and mighty in their ivory towers in Eleanor. They see us as pawns in their little game, and they have done so for the past two and a half centuries! Damn the knights of the Thorned Rose order, damn Duke Sgithùr, and damn each member of the council of seven that put themselves above the nation and the law!”, her voice reached the crowd as they drowned the tavern in a cacophony of shouts, insults, and slurs. Celeria looked around the tavern grinning like a maniac, her words were like venom and worked like a strength potion, as the crowd was riled up into another frenzy.

  The six standing on the tables waited for several moments, hoping to see the climax of the evening, yet nothing happened. No one took the honour of being the final orator, the grand finale that would restart the protest of earlier today and finish it, the speech that would ground the last ruler of Eleanor into dust and pour its ashes unto the fire of rebellion.

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  Yet, no one took the honours.

  It became clear why. The last ruler of Eleanor hadn’t faulted his populace, he had carried the burdens of a ruler in a way few could, and even fewer would. He had led the people to a new home with his strength alone centuries ago. He had carved a way through the forest and slain the guardian of the world tree, becoming its new champion and creating a home for his race.

  His bravery had allowed all that followed him a new haven which to call home, his sacrifice had given everyone a shelter, food, and a foundation on which to build a great nation. He had done all this, and he hadn’t wronged his own race in doing it.

  Yes, the rumours surrounding his deeds in the Dinol regions were atrocious, yet they were unfounded and, most important of all, they weren’t against the Dynn Doriàn. More so, he had done everything in his power to help his own race and give the fledging nation an opportunity to rise to power.

  And rise, it did.

  The growth of the nation could be attributed to several factors, yet the Old One certainly was one of them. He had served as the precautionary measure for any nation to declare war, as the prospect of an army of dryads led by a hero who was rumoured to have killed a beast capable of scourging an entire kingdom was enough to deter most and give the few that could match him think twice.

  The crowd died down, returning to their drinks. Their anger had yet to be quelled, but they had no reason to direct it at the one person that put a roof over their heads, so they opted for silent contempt for the already slandered factions.

  The six orators stood on their tables with baffled expressions, as they could do nothing as the crowd slowly started to leave. Some left in a hurry, leaving the tavern with caution as they remembered all too well that what was said that night shouldn’t have been said, let alone cheered on.

  Lyvia had heard all she needed to. She had already spotted Celeria, yet she knew that addressing the heartbroken woman now would only result in an even larger escapade. The clash between an angry drunk woman and an irritated buzzed woman would only result in an ugly shouting match and a worse evening for all. Lyvia left the tavern quietly, leaving Celeria to wail in her own disgrace.

  She was one of the many tavern goers that streamed out of the door, returning home with a quickened step and a cautious gaze.

  There was only one little group that remained, the one group that lamented the silent contempt of the crowd the most, the six orators that had poured their heart and soul out in front of almost the whole village. They could only drink away their regrets, as they felt let down and betrayed by the people they thought were on their side.

  “What is wrong with them?”, the second orator took another swig of her drink, “Why don’t they just join us? We can just say ‘fuck off, Eldrin’, and we would be fine! We could protect ourselves, so we wouldn’t need Eldrin or the Boar’s Tusk, or any bastard of the Council of Seven!”, the second orator started gulping down her drink like a madwoman. It was only after the mug was empty that she lay down on the table and quietly started sobbing.

  “Cheer up, will you?”, the third orator put a bottle of water in front of the sobbing woman, “They just don’t get it, yet. We might have gone a little overboard and scared them, but the situation can’t continue like this. You know that just as well as I do. They will come to us.”

  Celeria had a small drink in her hand, “Yes, but that will be too late, won’t it? If we don’t do something now, we will all be living the consequences of our indecisiveness. Eldrin isn’t just going to twiddle his thumbs until the people start to become something more than disgruntled. Besides that, it’s already too late for the guards, for the men and women that have served and lived in this village for decades. They have been sent off to some Eleanor forsaken massacre across the kingdom.”, she took a deep breath and a large swig of the foul-smelling drink in her hands. She wiped away the tears on her cheeks, taking another swig to quell the misery in her heart.

  The table was silenced, as they knew she was right.

  They continued to drown away their sorrows, continuing into the night until they were the last patrons of the tavern. The staff was starting to clean the aftermath of the rowdy night, while the owner counted the profit. The man had a gleaming smile on his face, as the jingle of coins on his desk enraptured him.

  Luckily, the night was young, and the tavern wasn’t closed yet.

  A lanky figure stepped in the tavern, seemingly appearing from nowhere as the windows had not revealed a passer-by in the late hours. The man wore a strange green spotted brown cloak. The patterns reminded Celeria of the forest, of the young plants that rooted themselves in the lacklustre soil, as well as the thick foliage that permeated the deep-rooted giants which continually loomed over them.

  He moved with a certain elegance, moving past the furniture and the staff with a certain sway, only stopping in front of the table with the six buzzed and saddened orators.

  The owner headed to the back with the staff following him. The table dismissed it as an odd ritual of them, not even realising that the owner would rather burn the place down than let some drunks sit in it without supervision.

  He pulled up a chair from behind him, sitting down at the head of the table. The others looked at him with cautionary glances, the man suddenly sat down at their table like it was nobody’s business, what the hell was he doing.

  Celeria cast a throwaway glance at the newcomer, catching little of his face but seeing most of his stature. He, or she for that matter, stood tall, taller than anyone in the tavern. The weird cloak served to hide his torso, leaving only their shoulders exposed for others to see.

  The man sat there for several minutes without moving. Celeria looked again, and he suddenly had a drink in his hand. It had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, yet the table didn’t mind it.

  They were drunk, losing track of the staff had been happening for the last hour. They could hardly react to the staff that had repeatedly told them to leave. They had eventually given up, content to simply wait till the last patrons passed out from exhaustion and too much alcohol.

  The figure seemed to sit still for several more minutes, content to stare at the far wall for what seemed like an eternity to the buzzed group. It was only after this eternity that the man put the drink to his mouth, gulped it down in one swig, and opened his mouth.

  “An interesting bunch of demagogues we have here.”, the mouth behind the hood turned into a wickedly long smile, “Wouldn’t want anyone to know what was said here tonight, right? I don’t doubt that some people would find that very interesting?”, the empty container vanished into the cloak within a second, making it seem as if it had been never been there.

  “Luckily for you, I don’t do things that way. Well, my employer doesn’t. He likes your favourite subjects just as much as you do.”, six cards appeared from his jacket and slid over the rough table towards each of them, “There’s a firepit outside. Memorize it, then burn it.”

  The figure stood up, walked towards the door, and vanished into the darkness outside.

  It took several moments for them to realise what had happened, the booze only helping with the delay. Celeria picked up her card first, noticing the oddly scribbled text on both the front and backside.

  A wife who weeps for her husband, a tailor who controls all but the needle, and a demagogue with no crowd. Those who seek to maintain their power do not smile kindly on your actions, missus Vitafius, but I do. The fire which births change is ignited by the words of the forgotten. The sorrows of the downtrodden will fuel it to new heights, and the flaming sea of anger and hatred will unleash itself upon those who sought to maintain their power through all means. From the ashes, a new order will replace the old and rotten one.

  Now, will you ignite the flame, Celeria Vitafius?

  The front had a boldly written message, which contained more information about herself than Celeria was comfortable with. The weird scribbling suggested it wasn’t written by a scribe, as the handwriting was too shoddy, it was barely readable as it was.

  She turned the little card around, finding only some incomprehensible patterns in the top right corner. The scribbles made no sense, as they didn’t combine into any type of language she knew, even the more exotic ones she had heard of didn’t fit into the scribbles.

  She looked up, finding the mysterious man gone and her fellow drunks just as dumbfounded by the notes in their hands. The fourth orator was about to drool on their card, before the blacksmith snatched it from their hands, the man seemed to be onto something, as his head took on a darker shade from the combination of intense brain activity and alcohol.

  This continued for several moments, lasting until it seemed like the man would pass out, until he put the two corners towards each other in a fitting pattern. They created a triangle, yet the outline of the symbols suggested that it wasn’t done yet. The few that understood his intention passed their cards to him, and the ones that didn’t had theirs taken away.

  After some shuffling around, an image appeared.

  The incomprehensible writing turned into a masterwork, as the weird lines turned into tall trees filled with leaves, hard corners turned into gentle rocks and waterfalls, and the swaying lines that extended through it all turned into rivers, bushes, and even small animalistic caricatures.

  In the middle of it all, there was a small village with a palisade surrounding it. Some houses were strewn about the edges with a rather large complex to the north-east of it.

  The alcohol made Celeria question which village this was.

  ‘Is it one close by? Like Grenby or something? But they don’t really have some like that close to them, right?’

  Her eyes suddenly widened considerably, and her jaw dropped to the floor.

  ‘Shit.’

  The little pattern turned out to be a hexagon with a detailed map of their village and the surrounding forest, with the animals denoting monster nests, the complex the Tyrrith clan home, and the houses.

  ‘What are those houses then? Like, they aren’t really landmarks or anything.’

  The alcohol deluded her senses, yet after tracing the location of each of the houses, she realised something terrifying.

  ‘That’s my house! The other five...’

  She looked around the table once again, noticing that the blacksmith was just as uncomfortable as she was. His house had been denoted as a prime spot in the middle of the village, the little caricature even held a little anvil and a workshop.

  Her little home was drawn in detail, as she could even see the yarn she had perched in her workshop through a window. The occasional patching up always required some materials, and she could see her own atelier in greater detail than she herself could conjure up. The unbelievable skill seemed otherworldly, as if it were creating a new dimension within the paper.

  The blacksmith took one last look at the paper, then turned towards the other five.

  “It seems like we demagogues have gotten ourselves in a bit of a pickle. We can’t really reject this offer, nor do I think anyone here would want to.

  So, are we gonna be a wet or dry piece of tinder?”

  The table quieted down, yet they solemnly nodded.

  “Good. Well, let’s leave introductions for another time then. I don’t doubt that the odd stranger attracted far more attention than a small group of locals.”, he stood up, “The forge is always open to the warm hearted.”, he paced towards the door, recovering from the odd drunken misstep with a comical sway in his legs.

  The night was almost over, yet something larger had been born in its final moments.