Solus’ Light smiles on Eard today. Its familiar symphony filled Zevas’ senses. Hammer blows punctuated cheerful chatter, a chorus of laughter carried on the sea breeze. A smile tugged at his lips as he inhaled deeply, the unique blend of brine, woodsmoke, and blooming wildflowers a comforting assault on his nose. The smell reminded him of... days spent adventuring in the quaint village square, pretending to be a knight errant on a noble quest.

Though not from here, the scent reminded him of home, the kind of scent that only this little village could own.

Shoulders relaxed with each step onto familiar cobblestone, a tension he hadn't even noticed melting away. Here, the sharp vigilance ingrained in him felt foolish, almost out of place. "Ah... Been years since I last visited,” He ran a hand through his beard, with a faint smile on his lips. “Time flies, doesn't it?”

A group of giggling children swarmed around him, their voices a chorus of playful squeals. “KHAHAHA-KAHAHAHA!” His laughter exploded, a rapid burst of sound that made them jump. One brave child, hair smelling faintly of sweet jasmine, reached out a tiny hand and patted his beard.

"Ahoy there, little sand crab!" He boomed playfully. "Careful, or you might find a treasure chest full of candied seashells hidden in my head!"

He laughed, mimicking a jar of clinking treats "CHINK-A-CHINK!", setting off a cascade of giggles. The children scattered across the light-dappled square, their squeals ringing in his ears. He shook his head, a goofy grin splitting his face. "Sweet as honeycakes, these little ones," he chuckled to himself.

As he strolled through the village, he exchanged jokes and greetings with everyone he passed – a whiff of sweat tickling his nose, the tang of a day's honest labor. Laughter, loud and boisterous, carried on the wind from the shore. There, some villagers sat, crafting beautiful trinkets from the smooth, colorful stones that decorated the shore. Their fingers blurring as they worked. The polished stones glittered in the waxing light of morning, catching his eye.

"Well, well, if it isn't the one and only Zevas Lokspfeil!" An old lady looked up from her work, wrinkles crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "Fancy seeing you with all your limbs intact this fine waxlight!”

He cackled, throwing his head back. "Ouch, Balley!” he feigned a wince, clutching his chest theatrically. “Your words sting like unripe berries! Haven't I told you enough stories about my amazing adventures, or is your memory soured from all that vinegar you use for pickling?"

The closer he got to his dear friend’s house, the stronger the hearty smell of fish grew. A young fisherman sat fixing his net.

"Good waxlight, lad!" he boomed, puffing out his beard with a theatrical grin. "Tell me, does this glorious beard of mine not make you yearn for the open sea? A true sign of a seasoned sailor!"

The fisherman rolled his eyes playfully. "Aye, it's a real beauty alright. Bet all sorts of sea critters love to make a cozy home in there!"

Surrounded by a garden bursting with colorful flowers, the village elder's house promised a welcome respite from the day's journey. A bunch of colorful stone wind chimes hanging in the doorway clinked a happy tune in the sea breeze.

He gave the old wooden door a loud knock with the back of his axe. "Pythair! You better have a barrel of that strong Kreginnian ale ready!" he boomed. "My gullet's as parched as driftwood baked by the zenith light of midday!"

The door creaked open, revealing Pythair's wrinkled face stretched into a wide grin. The scent of pungent herbs and old bandages hit him first, a familiar aroma from Pythair's work. "Zevas! My old friend, come on in! What a pleasant surprise to see you!" Pythair ushered him inside, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Although, I'm afraid tonight's drinks might not be as strong as you're used to."

He exploded in his high-pitched laugh, catching a flash of wings as a bird shot skyward. "KHAHAHA-KHAHAHA! Good to see you lookin' so spry, Pythair!" He clapped the elder on the back, nearly knocking him over. "But hey, no worries if the ale barrel's empty – Eard's a fun place even without fancy drinks!"

He settled in, chatting away and enjoying is friend’s company. The air carried a mix of healing herbs and the old house's earthy scent, a comforting aroma, though slightly musty. Despite the hint of bitterness, his anxieties eased, replaced by a soothing calm. Here, in their quiet corner of Eard, he found a peaceful respite from whatever trouble was brewing outside.

As their laughter subsided, the aroma of roasting fish grew stronger. A rich and mouthwatering scent that tickled his nose and set his stomach rumbling in anticipation. The sounds around him changed, no longer the playful chatter of waxlight, but the focused bustle of cooks at work. The air crackled with the promise of bold flavors, the warm scent of hearth-baked bread, and the earthy musk of wild herbs – a symphony of aromas that spoke of a feast in the making.

Two figures entered the house, their footsteps muffled by the thick rugs on the floor. One sported a shock of curly red hair, reminiscent of Pythair. A grin split his freckled face, his eyes mirroring his father's. The lad's confident stride, the subtle flex of his shoulders beneath his tunic, caught his eye. There was a sharpness in his gaze, a calculating glint that hinted at something more than just youthful bravado.

The other, with a honed physique and tawny skin, stood tall. The lad moved with a quiet strength, each step measured, his gaze alert. His muscles rippled beneath his black vest with the promise of explosive power. That lopsided grin on his face…

Who…? His eyes widened momentarily before he schooled his features. A curious warmth spread through his chest.

Pythair, raised a hand in greeting. "Deynfif! Hirua! Back so soon? Did you manage to snag a decent snack for the village?"

The red-haired lad drew himself up to his full, albeit modest, height. A spark in his eye mirrored Pythair's own. "Snack, father? We brought back a feast fit for a king… or at least a very hungry muckledeor!"

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Such wit. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. Pythair gestured towards him. He pushed himself out of the chair, the old wood groaning under his weight. Even slouching, he had to duck his head to avoid the low ceiling.

Pythair spun towards him with a wide grin. "My sons, this here is Zevas Lokspfeil, an old friend from our soldiering days back in Vredenhof." A thunderclap echoed as the elder clapped him on the back, his thin frame belying the force of the gesture.

The lad with freckles dotting his face stepped forward, extending his right arm straight toward Solus’ Tower, as if grasping for the Light from its tip. He brought his clenched fists down, thumping his chest over his heart. "Here we rise, Sir Zevas Lokspfeil, I’m Deynfif Lorghin."

"Here we thrive, lad." He answered, noting the well-mannered Kregennian gesture of respect.

The other lad spoke up, "Good wanlight, sir. I’m Hirua." This one was more direct, without the pleasantries.

"Sturdy lads you have there, Pythair, like saplings beside a mighty oak!" His eyes scanned the two young men, taking in their youthful energy and the promise of strength it held.

A tightness gripped his chest as he turned to Deynfif. Fifbrith's face, a mirror image, flickered in his mind's eye. "Your brother," he began, the booming joviality momentarily muted. The name echoed with a pang of loss. He cleared his throat, forcing a gruff chuckle. "A warrior's heart in that one." He paused, memories dancing in the hearth's flickering light. The shared jokes, the clinking tankards, the battlefield camaraderie. "Left us too early." The words scraped against his throat, raw and unfinished. He drained his tankard, the ale a bitter comfort against the sudden ache.

A warm grip on his forearm brought a grounding sensation. He turned, catching Pythair’s eyes – their usual jade glint softened with a comforting warmth. "Perhaps another night for those stories, my friend. Today, we honor the spoils these young warriors have secured!"

"Aye," a rumbling sigh escaped his lips as he nodded. The tankard returned to the table, amber sloshing against the worn wood. "Truth as always, elder."

His eyes shifted, lingering on the boy with tawny skin. A nagging familiarity tugged at his memory, a fleeting echo from a tale barely remembered. "So, tell me, young sprout," he rumbled, scratching his beard. "Where'd Eard find a strapping lad like you? Those features hint at a faraway land, wouldn't you say?"

A movement caught the corner of his eye. Hirua's hand twitched at his side. The lad's lips parted, but before any words could escape, Pythair chuckled. "The wars left him an orphan," the elder explained, a touch of gruffness in his tone. "Found his way to us weary and alone some years back." Pythair's grip tightened momentarily on the lad’s shoulder. "We may not know his bloodline, but Eard is his true home now. He's my son, as surely as any born to me." With a booming laugh that shook the room, Pythair pulled the young warrior into a tight hug.

The interaction piqued his interest, prompting him to lean forward slightly. The boy, Hirua, stood rigidly, a tightness around his eyes hinting at past struggles. Pythair clapped a hand on the lad's shoulder, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he did so.

He grinned, a genuine warmth blooming in his chest. It was good to see Pythair so at ease, the elder’s joy infectious. Pythair's words struck a chord, a deep resonance of loyalty and kinship. The lad, though, seemed to hold himself back, a shadow lingering in his eyes. Best not to pry. Pythair clearly had his reasons, and Eard was known for taking in strays, offering them shelter from the storm. He'd seen it himself, time and again.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Well said, Elder! A fine crop of defenders you've raised!” He thumped Hirua's arm playfully. “Keep those muscles growing, lad. The Imperial jackals won't stand a chance against Eard's brawn! KHAHAHA-KHAHAHA!"

Pythair took a quick glance at Hirua and smiled briefly. Then his dear friend turned to him. "Speaking of Imperials," his voice took on a serious edge, "rumors arrived about another village succumbing to the Miers these couple of days. Did you catch any whispers on the wind?”

A sudden chill drafted through the room, and the fire in the hearth flickered. He observed a stiffness in Deynfif's posture. The lad's hand hovered over a mug of water, then abruptly pulled back.

His cackling laughter died in his throat, replaced by a heavy silence. The muscles in his neck tensed. "Aye," his voice low and gravelly. His hand tightened around the tankard. "Those Miers descended like an unstoppable avalanche, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake." He thumped his tankard on the table, amber liquid spilling over the rim. "We were stretched thin, barely enough to guard the fort. Helpless to stop the bloodshed."

Pythair's shoulders slumped, the usual fire in his eyes dulled as he traced the grooves of the worn tabletop with a finger. His voice, normally booming with confidence, was now barely a whisper. "Deepest apologies, Zevas. We couldn't stand shoulder-to-shoulder against those… marauders this time."

He forced a short laugh. "Don't fret those wrinkles, Elder Pythair." His gruff voice softened a bit. "Recruiting's not on my agenda! Swinging by after that nasty raid… figured I'd check in and see how you're doing."

A brief, firm squeeze on his arm. Pythair's gesture, a comforting weight against his worn leather bracers. "Appreciate you looking in, friend," Pythair murmured. "Eard feels a bit lighter after a tough day."

He returned the grip, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Your welcome warms a weary warrior's soul, Pythair. Eard is more than just a haven; it feels like coming home.”

He leaned back, a contented sigh escaping his lips. Pythair's words soothed him like a warm blanket. He settled back in his chair, the creak of the old wood a comforting song. He and his dear friend got lost in a lively conversation, reliving the excitement of their younger days.

Time flowed like a heady stew, simmering with old memories and seasoned with shared joy. He felt the years melt away, each story a warm ember against the chill of recent events. Laughter bubbled up from his chest, a welcome ache spiced with years of camaraderie. Pythair slammed his fist on the table, sending the ale sloshing over the rim of his tankard. He gasped for breath, clutching his sides as his body shook with mirth, as if the very air was seasoned with it.

As their stories flowed, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, stirring a symphony of scents that painted Eard in vivid hues.

The sweet, powdery smell of a parent's hugs echoed in the children’s laughter, a dusting of love on the air. The sour sting of sweat, brought to mind playful rivalry and honest labor by the shore. The salty tang of the sea-soaked air swirled around the fisherman mending his net, a tribute to the sea's bounty. The bitter, healing scent of herbs, a reminder of Pythair's comforting hands. Rich, savory aromas of a feast in the making, a promise of comfort and shared meals. And a heady warmth of camaraderie and mirth, a spice that crackled in the air like stories told by the hearth.

Here, in Eard, these scents intertwined, creating a unique fragrance that whispered of home, a scent that only this little village could own.