Having completed his customary evening tour of the campfires, Taelsin paused for a moment in the shadows cast by their flickering light. Carefully turning his face away from potential onlookers, he let the full weight of the strain he was under settle upon him.
He knew he was, in many ways, in a hugely privileged position. His Mayor Class—albeit one of a now-lost City—gave him all manner of bonuses to his Endurance and Intellect when working for the good of his people. He was unsure how leading a frantic retreat, transitioning from one disaster to another, was being quantified as being 'for the good of his people,' but, in his current state of extremis, who was he to argue? Regardless of how he may feel about the passive buffs, he was more than aware that without them, he would long have collapsed from mental and physical exhaustion.
Throughout their escape from Swinford, he had been astounded again and again by the casual way in which those without any such benefits were able to . . . just cope. Whether it was the resolve of the dwindling number of irregulars, who formed up, uncomplainingly, against each new bandit charge, or the stoicism of the camp's cooks, who, day after day, found a way to keep them fed, there was, without question, something quite remarkable about the men and women of Swinford.
But, then again, it was not just his people on this march, was it? They had found unexpected allies - nay, friends - in the ranks of General Souit's army. Where would they be now without Degralk, Kettle and all the rest? It was those intertwined iron bonds forged between their disparate groups that kept the refugee train moving as much as anything else.
Taelsin's shoulders suddenly slumped, and he had to fight to stay upright. His heart ached for them all. In his soul, he hurt for every burden they carried, every hope crushed, every dream left behind following the collapse of Swinford's walls. He had sworn to protect these people—generations unending of Elms had taken the same, exacting oath—and after all his plans for the future, it was he who had seen the once great City reduced to ruins.
Tears sparked in his eyes as he turned to scan the camp once more, heart sinking even further at what little of them remained. 'Cross the Bloodspires', Donal had said. Taelsin did not even think they would have the wherewithal to rise in the morning. And he would not blame them.
But then, he noticed a small group gathering near one of the central fires, huddling close to share the sparse warmth from the glow. One of them, a young woman he recognised as Elara, a Seamstress, began to hum a soft, familiar tune. Despite himself, Taelsin smiled, instantly recognising the melody – it was an old folk song about a Swinford of ages past. After a few moments, Elara's humming grew into words, and she began to sing softly to herself:
Sylvalin, where rivers weave,
Fields of green, 'neath sky so blue,
Strong and proud, the City brave,
Towers high, and hearts so true,
Shadows grew as storm clouds loomed,
Whispers of impending doom.
Her voice trembled, but there was a strength in it that resonated with the Mayor. On a whim, not entirely understanding why, he triggered a Skill to enhance the volume of her voice and pushed it towards her, enjoying the surprise on her face as his power settled upon her. The song abruptly cut off as she looked about in shock before catching the eyes of the Mayor.
Smiling, he gestured to her to continue. "That is far too pretty a song to keep secret between you and a few others. Please, continue."
Blushing a deep red, Elara took some persuading from her companions but eventually repeated the opening lines, the enhancement Taelsin was channelling, ensuring her voice reached every corner of the camp.
One by one, each refugee stopped what they were doing and turned to face the woman, attention which deepened her blush even more.
As she completed the first verse and moved into the chorus, she stumbled, but then a few other voices joined in with hers, blending in harmony:
Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,
Through the night, your light will shine,
Hearts remember and renew,
Sylvalin, your spirit's mine.
The new singers may have lacked some of the haunting beauty of Elara's voice, but they added depth and weight to the words. Taelsin, though he could scarcely spare the mana, chose to enhance the carry of their voices, too. The melody weaved through the camp, touching each soul with its haunting beauty:
Walls that stood through centuries,
Trembled as the foe advanced,
Hope's faint gleam began to cease,
Eyes with fear and dread entranced,
Still they fought with all their might,
Against the dying light.
As the choir of voices swelled, more added with each line, Taelsin felt a warmth spreading through his chest. The people of Swinford—of Sylvalin as was—were untied in singing of their history. They were a people who had faced evil before and had always found a way to survive. More voices joined in with the repeated refrain of the chorus.
Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,
Through the night, your light will shine,
Hearts remember and renew,
Sylvalin, your spirit's mine.
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The words spoke of his people's role in helping the West survive. There was, after all, a reason that the people of these lands had looked to Mayor Elm for leadership during the dark times. Such heroism had traditionally come forth on the walls of Swinford.
Streets where laughter freely flowed,
Filled with cries and tears of woe,
River’s course, once gently showed,
Ran with blood of friend and foe,
Sylvalin, the heart beat slow,
Sorrow marked its final woe.
Taelsin watched as faces brightened, memories of past glory lifting the weight of their collective sorrow, if only for a moment. The song flowed like a river throughout the camp, and soon, even Souit's men were joining in; something about the tune carrying them along:
In the hearts who saw the end,
Burned a fire, a light unbent,
Vowed to rise, the broken mend,
Though the City’s time was spent,
Spirit of Sylvalin send,
Hopeful tales that would ascend.
Children's clear voices joined in, their innocence adding a purity to the sound. Mothers smiled through tears, fathers stood taller, and old men tapped their feet to the rhythm. The melody was almost a lifeline to flagging spirits, a renewed thread connecting them to their shared past and, perhaps, a collective future.
Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,
Through the night, your light will shine,
Hearts remember and renew,
Sylvalin, your spirit's mine.
The rhythm picked up, and those in the camp began to sway in their seats. Elara was suddenly dragged upwards by her husband to dance, wonderfully graceful despite her weariness. Others followed, their steps growing bolder. Laughter and applause mingled with song, transforming everything about the atmosphere in the camp.
Sing of Sylvalin so strong,
Echoes of her name in song,
Though her walls have crumbled long,
Courage will live on,
In hearts where memories throng,
Sylvalin’s spirit ever strong.
Tears welled in eyes, not of despair but of pride and gratitude. Despite all they had lost, they found a way to lift each other up and honour their beloved City.
Oh, Sylvalin, brave and true,
Through the night, your light will shine,
Hearts remember and renew,
Sylvalin, your spirit's mine.
The song, its chorus now a harmonious round, echoed through the camp. The night seemed to hold back its chill, allowing the fire's glow to spread, embracing everyone in its light.
As the final notes faded, the camp settled into a peaceful silence. The weight on shoulders felt lighter, the path ahead clearer. The song had reminded them all of what they were fighting for – a community bound by love and resilience.
I have not heard that song in many a long year.
Taelsin jumped at the voice in his ear, turning and finding no one there.
It is heartening to know the old songs are still held in such esteem. But you are far from home, little man.
Taelsin glanced at the camp, but a new singer had taken over, and exuberant dancing was now in full swing. He doubted anyone would be looking his way anymore. "Who are you? The Goddess?"
The voice laughed, taking on a distinctly masculine tone. Hardly. However, considering your recent experiences with her offspring, I feel you would be reassured if I were to say you should consider me 'Goddess-adjacent' rather than one of her brood.
"I don't know what that means," Taelsin said, stepping further into the shadows to avoid notice. "Who are you?"
A complicated question with an even more complicated answer. For your purposes, consider me an appreciative audience to a song I have not heard in a long time. I feel moved to reward it.
Taelsin frowned, then pointed to Elara's spinning, laughing figure, twisting in the light of the fire. "Then your singer is over there. I am sure she would find any boon more than welcome."
The voice laughed again. She may be the instrument, but that song was delivered for you. Your people worry for you, Taelsin Elm. They feel they are, in some way, letting you down. They sing to make you smile again.
Taelsin did not know how to reply, shaking his head in confusion.
In fact, I can think of no finer reward for your people than to offer you, their leader, some succour. But what to do? What to do? Something around your Class, I think. 'Mayor' is hardly appropriate for a man without a City, after all. Perhaps a little evolution would be suitable? Yes, I do think it would be. Something Epic-tier, perhaps. Wandering Steward, I think. A leader forged in the crucible of displacement and adversity. Having lost your home, you carry the strength, wisdom, and resilience of your City within you, leading and inspiring others even in the most dire of circumstances.
"What!" Taelsin said with rising alarm. "I don't want you to change my Class! Elms have always been Mayors."
And the world is changing, little man. Yes, this seems a most suitable reward for a pleasant song of times long past. Boosts to your Charisma, Intellect and Wisdom, of course. Oh dear, oh dear. Your Skillset is quite underpowered for the challenges ahead. Let's do something about that, shall we? I think the passive
Taelsin barely had a moment to reply before a tempestuous upheaval occurred in his mind. It felt as though invisible hands were tearing at his very being, pulling away the familiar mantle of his old life, piece by agonising piece.
His body tensed and shivered as the change coursed through him. A burning heat radiated from his chest, spreading outward until every nerve seemed aflame. He felt the metaphorical weight of his Mayoral chain around his neck dissolve, replaced by an intangible but palpable burden of greater gravity. His limbs ached, muscles seizing as though they were being moulded anew. He doubled over, gasping, the world around him blurring and spinning.
As the excruciating discomfort peaked, a rush of cold clarity washed over him, and he felt a strange, exhilarating liberation. Heavy and confining, the chains of his old responsibilities had fallen away, replaced by a sense of boundless potential. His mind cleared, and with it came a flood of new awareness.
Taelsin glanced at the glowing interface of his notifications, flickering with unfamiliar symbols and text:
Class Evolution: Mayor -> Wandering Steward
The notification was accompanied by a brief, searing vision of his new abilities. He saw himself standing amid his people, a radiant aura enveloping them as they drew strength from his presence.
The liberation was intoxicating, a heady contrast to the pain of the transformation. No longer confined to the boundaries of his fallen City, he was now a leader of the lost, a guide through the wilderness. The power of his new role surged through him, filling the void left by his old responsibilities with a renewed sense of purpose and strength.
As the final vestiges of discomfort faded, Taelsin straightened, his gaze sweeping over the camp. He was the Wandering Steward now, and though the path ahead was fraught with peril and uncertainty, he was ready to lead his people through it.
"Hello! A bit of help, please?" Taelsin's mind was pulled back to the present by the appearance of Donal on the stone path above the camp.
But it was not the sight of the Frontiersman that caused dismay to rock through Taelsin. Rather, it was the unwelcome vision of the bloodied, unconscious Daine Darkhelm slung across his shoulders.