To a Farthan, the Scarves guided all things, and by extension, the thread guided all things; their nature, however, is left scattered in the dark, for those curious enough to pick up its pieces. What is known, though, is that the thread of fate is much like a coin—its two faces intertwining a Fatebearer and their Fated.
— Study II of Tarkas, First Verse
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Though the journey from Farthos to the Marlyn Capital was only two weeks' time, Varna felt that the time passed far faster when she worked on her mother’s scarf. On occasion, however, she also worked on her Fated’s Scarf as well, but it was more of a secondary affair than anything. There seemed an odd air around the Scarf, though, for the closer she approached her destination, the lighter it became.
This did not distract her from the overbearing heat on the ship, however. Despite the high altitude, Varna constantly felt droplets of sweat trickle down her forehead. Perhaps it could be likened to the passengers on board, but the warm air would always find itself wandering into the storage room. It had not helped that the room itself was filled with crates of materials. When she succumbed to her curiosity, peering through the cracks she’d formed in the crates, she noticed that an odd amount of general nourishment filled the storage room. She’d even come across one of Farthos’ more expensive brands of wine, though she avoided drinking any sort of alcohol.
The confined space of the airship’s storage room did not help the already claustrophobic nature of the shipping crate she was housed in. Though, she did admit that the hay from the hay-bales were quite nice to rest on.
The issue of food and drink, however, was a terribly pressing issue that befell Varna. She had noticed, far too late in fact, that the travel times between cities last a couple days at minimum, sometimes even as long as six months depending on the location. Thus, without a better plan at hand, she resorted to smuggling leftovers among the airship’s passengers whenever possible. She was sure that if she’d asked upfront, with evidential proof of her relation to Duke Egreiss, that she would be pampered graciously; but, the risk of her departure from Farthos would expose itself into the limelight—something she desperately wished to avoid.
Varna found, sometime near the end of the ride—after she’d long lost count of the days—that the fleet planned to situate themselves near the Marlyn Harbour. According to one of the passengers, the fleet hoped to establish trade and communication before making contact with the rest of the Marlyn society, the underlying goal being a stable give-and-take relationship between the two cultures. She hadn’t known how well that would fare, though—politics just weren’t her specialty.
Now, two days on the Capital Trail, Varna stayed on a merchant’s carriage to the Marlyn Capital. She was less than a ways away, but an immediate and pressing issue had postponed her goal, and possibly an indefinite amount of time. Language. Despite researching in the Rayan Institute’s libraries, Varna had not grasped the Marlyn Language in its entirety; lack of practice and experience impeded her from further progress. The sole reason regarding her success on the carriage could be likened to her erratic gestures to the capital, accompanied with the repetition of a single word, which, quite frankly, she believed had a fifty-percent chance of being even remotely related.
Varna’s time on the carriage was spent knitting on her mother’s scarf, which she’d repeatedly punctured as a result of her inexperience riding the specialised wagon. Often, she would find herself rubbing the lower portion of her back, as well as shifting in place for a satisfactory posture to rest.
As an aside, however, Varna recognized that the Scarf of her Fated glowed an ever-brighter brilliance than before. She was frequently mesmerised by the prismatic view, reading the history of the Scarf through its unique patterns—part of her found the story it told fascinating, the fate which befell the certain individual the Scarf belonged to, even without a single glimpse of the human. Yet, at the same time, it puzzled her to know that her own kind lacked this sort of brilliance in the Scarves. She recalled, everytime she caught sight of another’s Scarf, that it only looked blanched and bleak. It was as if the Scarves lacked the only quality it was known for.
Alas, her contemplation would halt as a consequence of the carriage’s abrupt stop. Losing her balance, Varna fell on her side in the carriage, bracing herself with her two occupied hands, piercing the dry wood. Clicking her tongue, she pushed herself up, noticing the bent end of her thin needle. She sighed, storing her materials in a small knapsack hidden underneath her cloak.
Outside the carriage, Varna could hear faint footsteps and indiscriminate chatter, which grew louder the closer it became. Nervous, she searched around the carriage for something to hide herself with. Of course, there seemed nothing of the sort.
With an abrupt force, the carriage’s cloak opened, a hand covered in metal plating pulling the curtains back revealing the glaring sunlight. An unfamiliar figure filled her view, though she could swiftly ascertain the individual was of the Marlyn militia. She’d seen it, once in a book, that those serving feudal lords and kings within the Marlyn territory wore a crown atop two-crossed spears on the chestplate. A wave of excitement surged over Varna as she caught a glimpse of the real thing—something she’d never seen before.
The armour-clad figure gazed at her pensively for a few moments, the gentle wind breeze passing through the gaps and caressing Varna’s face. He spoke to the merchant in Marlyn, which for the most part, she didn’t understand. Taking a look at the merchant’s nervous countenance, she broke an anxious expression, and perhaps by a tinge of pity, she recognised that the soldier gestured a sign of assurance. In the passing minutes, the carriage wheeled through the main gates without fail, to which the immediate discordant sounds of city-life entered her ears. There felt a sense of apprehension, as the many people who walked through the city spoke in a language unbeknownst to her.
The carriage would stop by a large, prestigiously-built building within the Marlyn Plaza, with several of its other kind pulling and being pulled through the cluttered area. Removing the tarp off the carriage, the merchant gestured at Varna, both to exit the wagon and that the final stop had been made.
“Inn.” The merchant spoke in Marlyn, pointing directions toward a kind of homestay. “Inn down the road, and to the left. You will find a place to stay there.”
Of course, despite her lack in the language, Varna was able to pick up the directions of the building and the type of people it accommodated. Bowing her head graciously, she quickly and dexterously wove through the crowd, which was more imposing than welcoming if anything. She would pass by several vendors, who haggled in her direction to sell their wares; and she would constantly find herself squeezing through dense rallies of people, who were overzealous in their goals of little importance.
Nonetheless, entering within the inn, Varna immediately approached the general reception. Receiving her was an older individual with a mid-height stature, wearing a brown-leather vest over his cotton shirt. His appearance was less-imposing than she imagined, with a whitened mid-length beard and rather wrinkled eyes. The man furrowed his creased brows, wiping down a wooden mug so as to tend to the next incoming customer.
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“Room.” Varna said brusquely to the man in Marlyn, before stumbling on her next words. “Stay room.”
The man stared at Varna, placing down the wooden mug after wiping down the counter. “Are you looking to stay for the night, young miss?”
Anxious, Varna attempted to formulate her response, until she resorted to nodding vigorously at the man’s question.
“It’ll be four Mares.”
Varna stiffened.
“Young miss?”
“No Mare.” Varna stammered. “I have no Mares.”
The man stayed silent, scrutinising Varna’s appearance as he squinted his eyes. He sighed softly. “Then, I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you.”
A period of silence swept over them as Varna responded dispiritedly.
“Understood.”
She spoke. Lifting her arms to push the cloak over her head, she swiftly hastened toward the exit. And just before she pushed her arms through the doors, the man’s voice cut into her ears. Perhaps out of pity, she heard him offer a compromise.
“Young miss. Would you perhaps be interested in working at this establishment?”
The man’s sudden inquiry took Varna by surprise. Confusion amidst relief plastered itself over her face for a few moments. Truly, it was a blessing by fate such that a new door opened for her. She had the merchant to thank for bringing her to the right place and time.
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It had been a few days since then, and Varna, wearing a tailor-made uniform for the establishment, was left washing dishes as customers entered to and fro the inn. The surroundings reeked a mixture of soap and food—mixed such that none overpowered the other. Her hands, wrinkled and in constant motion, washed plates in a steady rhythm as noises running water dulled in her ears. It was like a trance, perhaps, that she lost focus on the matter at hand and began entertaining her thoughts.
“They’re like pages,” Varna had recalled in the old home, the empty sink in front of them filled with soap and water. “fragile, and easily manipulated.”
She had recalled the frail voice lecturing her amongst the outside cattle, now quieted down after the violent ruckus. The window had opened slightly, making the herd audible as her mother explained.
“Now, there’s less admiration, and more intervention,” she said, with a tinge of sorrow.
She was always so eloquent with her speech. Varna had imagined the words leaving her mother’s mouth, as if they were minor notes flowing into the ceaseless horizon just past the window. It affected her too, somehow, that she inexplicably felt the weight of the words pressing down her body. She couldn’t tell what expression floated on her face, but she did know that it couldn’t have been a positive one.
“—Young miss.” A voice intruded.
Varna perked up, water splashing slightly on her clothes as she turned to face the speaker. The old man—Drystan. That was his name. She’d gotten to learn more about him after she accepted his out-of-the-blue offer.
He appeared neat, though little sweat trickled down the sides of his face as he spoke.
“You need not work for the rest of the day.” He approached Varna, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I’d rather not overwork you while inexperienced.”
“Ah,” Varna retracted her hands from the sink, wiping them down with a nearby towel. “free?”
“Yes. Free.” Drystan responded, smiling before detaching a pouch from his pockets and presenting it to Varna.
“This is for you, young miss. Think of it as a special benefit for working here.”
Varna, attempting to refuse the pouch, begrudgingly held it atop her hands and stared at it for a few moments. Unravelling its thread, she opened the pouch to discover a few Mares.
“It’s your tip.” Drystan lightly rubbed Varna’s shoulder, smiling. “Use it to explore the city in your free time.”
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The Marlyn Capital was not at all what Varna expected. Though she knew that the tales of human-life were grossly exaggerated and twisted to promote citizen captivity, a deep part of her still felt that some aspect of the legends held true. In reality, however, Varna could not yet find a fault in the workings of humanity. Though the technology was undeveloped, there still seemed an air of wonder to the unfamiliar lands. The cobblestone architecture emanated a simplistic beauty that earned Varna’s appreciation. Perhaps it was her sheltered life-style beginning to shed its ways, but with every step she took a different aspect of the capital exposed itself to her innocent eyes.
Varna paced through the crowd, letting herself flow into the current of the masses. The dissonant, yet distinct noises of the capital life echoed through her ears. And the busy, yet relaxed atmosphere of the district held her in a sense of comfort. The Farthan City held not a candle to the organic environment of the Marlyn Capital. Her hometown felt dull and artificial. It was dead. Bare—at least, on the surface. At its core, it was a surging mass of sickness. A tumour so vile the mere thought of it made her retch.
“—Damn. Watch it.” Somebody cursed, stumbling over Varna’s shoulder as they continued walking.
Turning back to face the owner, Varna glowered slightly before a cold, metal touch brushed the back of her hand. Swiftly retracting her hand, she looked upon the object of contact. Metal chains. And in succession, small pale hands passed through her view. She saw them. The sombre expression those children wore as they walked lifelessly through the streets barefoot. And yet, the crowd paid no heed. Or, at least, it appeared they did at first glance. A large lot of them wore expressions of pity. The poor souls, they thought, as they peeked for a few seconds at best before occupying themselves with another activity. There, the first glimpse of repugnance revealed itself to Varna’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
A young man spoke at the back of the line, bowing his head slightly at Varna as he held the chains tightly in his palm. He wore a dark emerald uniform, embroidered with silver linings around the edges of the clothing. The man displayed a dismaying expression walking through the streets. His steps were slow, almost as if he were dragging the group down. With a tug of the chain, the children flinched, and with immediate effect, the line quickened their pace.
There, the crowd parted ways as the group paced toward the Marlyn Castle. A dark, seemingly despairing image burned itself into Varna’s eyes. The setting sun, overshadowed by the tip of the castle cast an orange hue across the sky. The ocean of people, separated by the unfortunate souls slowly dispersed, as the orange glow bounced off their dark hairs. Then, a cold breeze swept past the lot, the children shivering as the singular rag of cloth failed to provide any sort of warmth.
Something tugged at her mind. She knew not what it was, but felt the inexplicable desire to follow the small line. She could still hear the dangling chains and could feel them pulling on her hands the same way they did to the young ones. Clenching her fist slightly, she sighed as the breath turned into a mist.
‘Follow them.’ It said, the odd voice speaking at the back of her mind.
As if planned, Varna’s second Scarf began to illuminate a prismatic colour. The kaleidoscopic nature of the threads gleamed even brighter than before, and the hanging threads pulled in the direction of the young man. Something was telling her to follow them—to change the status quo. She hesitated, and with every passing second, the illumination slowly faded. A moment’s time was at stake; the beginning of her foundations began to shift.
She caved in.