In the far past, in a small village by the name of Merryweather lived a small girl named Chrysanthemum. Like many children of that time, she was a farmer’s daughter and had never left the village, except for small excursions to the nearby town of Flore.
Although village life was repetitive at times, Chrysanthemum never knew anything different. She would finish chores for her mother, then play the day away with her best friend Alaria, the daughter of the village blacksmith. They would play house with time-worn dolls, search for berry bushes in the nearby Quietwood, or sit on a branch hanging their feet above a slow-moving river for village boys to try to grab, constantly pulling up at the last moment and sending the boys tumbling into the river.
Life remained the same for little Chrysanthemum. Although merchants and messengers passed through her little village, they didn’t change any aspect of Chrysanthemum’s life. That is, until the day a messenger from Flore arrived.
“People of the village of Merryweather!” The man yelled from horseback in the center of the town square. As Merryweather was a sleepy small village, any oddities or routine breakers naturally gained the attention of everyone, so every villager that could spare the time gathered to hear the messenger’s words. “I bring forth news of Quietwood! A strange blue mist has been seen deep within the lost groves. The King’s Rangers cannot determine the cause of this mist. So do not enter the lost groves of Quietwood by Count Kelly’s order!”
The messenger then rode off down the country road to the next village. The announcement created rumors and mutterings among the gathered villagers but no genuine concern. Quietwood was a royal forest, so only nobles and royals could hunt for the animals that lay within. The villagers were fine with this situation, as they had livestock and could hunt in the outlying groves of the forest. The border to Quietwood itself wasn’t an actual border, more a sense of unease at the lack of natural sounds, which created rumors of something vile living deep within its depths.
Chrysanthemum continued her daily life. As she grew a year older, she was tasked with caring for the less intensive tasks on the farm, such as gathering eggs and feeding chickens. This slightly reduces her time with Alaria, but Alaria was also learning to tinker with her father, so there wasn’t excess time where one had to wait for the other.
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A few months after the messenger passed, a herald rode into town on a warhorse and called for an emergency town meeting. All the essential persons gathered in the village chief’s home while the children tried to eavesdrop on the meeting. Chrysanthemum, however, knew the best spots to eavesdrop from, as the chief of Merryweather was her uncle Cherri.
“People of Merryweather,” spoke the messenger in deep tones. “Four days past, the young lordling Christof ventured into Quietwood alongside a few knight’s sons to hunt a boar. He has not returned, and neither have any of his retainers. I call upon the people of this village to aid in his search for next week.”
“We can’t,” protested Chief Cherri. “The Summer’s End festival takes place in a week and a half, and we must prepare.”
“This is an order directly from Count Kelly,” responded the herald. “He is aware of the festival, so you do not need to send your whole village searching, but a party of at least 8 experienced woodsmen is needed. It is not just your village searching, either. Brook’s End, Old Willow, and Dirtmound villages have sent parties alongside the town of Flore and the King’s Rangers. In addition, the group that finds lordling Christof will be richly rewarded.”
From Chrysanthemum’s vantage point, she could see the chief sigh and look around at the other villagers. “I guess that is fair of Count Kelly and within our duties as his subjects. Very well, I swear to provide a party of hunters searching for lordling Christof.”
The herald nodded. “That is all his nobleness asks of you.” He then turned and left the room. Once the hoof beats of his horse faded into the distance, Chief Cherri looked right at Chrysanthemum and beckoned for her to come down.
“I’m guessing you listened to that whole event, didn’t you?” questioned the chief. Chrysanthemum nodded slowly. Cherri sighed. “It’s not for you to worry about, alright? Leave this to the adults.” Chrysanthemum nodded again before making her escape. Her uncle caught her before she managed to get out of the room. “Don’t try to eavesdrop on meetings again, you hear me? Adult problems are for adults to deal with; you shouldn’t worry about this.”
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Although the subdued mood stayed for a few days, Chrysanthemum had utterly forgotten the adult’s nervousness by the Summer Festival. The year’s festival was slightly less cheerful, but Chrysanthemum didn’t honestly mind. The last thing she heard that night, falling asleep with pumpkin soup still smeared between her lips, was her parents whispering late in the night, “and they never even found the poor boy….”
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A year passed, and Chrysanthemum was growing into the young lady her parents dreamed her to be. She was not, however, as happy as she had once been, for she had learned of her and, more importantly, Alaria’s engagements. As she had long predicted, Chrysanthemum was to be engaged to a farmer’s boy. This created considerable awkwardness between her and Nolan, her husband-to-be. What was far worse, however, was the news of Alaria’s engagement.
“She was engaged to who?!?” shouted Chrysanthemum to her parents.
“Percival, the blacksmith’s son.”
“But Percival is from Flore! And he’s the inheritor of his father’s blacksmith!”
“Yes, Chry.”
“But that means Alaria is moving to Flore!”
“Yes.”
“Leaving me!”
“Yes.” Her parents sighed and looked at each other. They had already guessed Chrysanthemum’s reaction before telling her the news, but the breaking had gone even worse than they had expected. Chrysanthemum was sobbing on the floor and with just reason. With Alaria in Flore, Chrysanthemum might be able to see her best friend a handful of times a year, if even that. People simply didn’t travel; at least, farmers and townsfolk didn’t.
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The rest of the year passed darker than any had prior for Chrysanthemum. She stuck closer to Alaria than ever, seemingly trying to hold her for as long as possible. She was so distraught that she almost didn’t catch the town gossip. A sheep had wandered into the woods near nightfall, and shepherd Jolain had gone searching after it. That wasn’t gossip-worthy, as sheep often walked off if they could. What was noteworthy, however, was that Jolain hadn’t returned. For over a week. A few huntsmen had gone searching for his trail, but it was like he had… vanished. And not even that deep into the woods, either. A hunter reported to the village chief that the sheep’s trail and Jolain’s footprints were clearly visible until they disappeared. No trace, from one imprint in the mud to nothing. The hunter could only feel that the air after Jolain’s footprints disappeared was moister than usual.
The following spring was the worst time in Chrysanthemum’s life, for Alaria was leaving for her wedding and would not return. Chrysanthemum stayed for long hours at Alaria’s home for her farewell, mostly crying but comforted by Alaria’s promises to write every week. However, the hour was late, and the coach that the blacksmith had hired to take his daughter to Flore needed to leave immediately if Alaria was to reach the town by the time the gates closed. So, with tears in her eyes, on her cheeks, and staining her clothes, Chrysanthemum waved goodbye to Alaria until she was no longer visible on the twisting road.
Chrysanthemum stared at her uncle Cherri in a cold sweat. “What?” she asked.
“Alaria’s carriage never reached Flore,” responded her uncle in a grave tone.
“WHAT?” stuttered Chrysanthemum in disbelief.
“You heard me the first time, niece. Alaria never made it to Flore.”
“Then where is SHE?!?” screamed Chrysanthemum.
Chief Cherri sighed. “We don’t know. After I received word that her coach didn’t reach Flore from the blacksmith, I sent out a search party to see if her coach had crashed somewhere or been attacked.” Chrysanthemum stared at him in horror. Cherri continued, “But that’s our mystery. It had rained a few days before she left, so the road was still muddy. But therein lies the mystery. Lionel could track the carriage wheels and hoofprints as clear as ink across a paper, but after a few miles, the carriage tracks seemed to… rise out of the mud. The dirt wasn’t any drier than any other dirt on the road, but the carriage wheels seemed to have sunk less and less into the mud until they were gone. Completely, gone. No other coach tracks could be found, and strangely enough, all other tracks along the road vanished there too.”
Chrysanthemum was utterly inconsolable. She screamed, cried, and raged all night, and the next, and the next after that. Search parties were sent out, but none were as thorough as Chrysanthemum, for she spent every waking hour searching the woods for her lost friend for the next few weeks. But Alaria was never found.
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Sitting quietly at night, watching the flames of the fire in her family’s small cottage, Chrysanthemum hugged her legs into her chest. “Nothing matters anymore. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.” Chrysanthemum muttered over and over. Suddenly, she stopped. Chrysanthemum felt a cold stillness wash over her, and every noise muted and faded into nothing. Both curious and terrified, Chrysanthemum looked out the small cottage window. Mist. The only thing Chrysanthemum could see was a wall of blueish mist. Chrysanthemum got up and looked out the window, attempting to see the mist more clearly. She only noticed the misty wall rapidly moving towards her before flooding over her and the house.
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If you were to ask about the village of Merryweather today, the people of that land could only respond in one fashion: “There is no village of Merryweather, not anymore.”