He reached the edge of the forest, finding the first signs of civilization.
Snowy fields stretched out before him, as he flew over fields divided by dry stone walls and hedgerows. Ahead, he saw a farmhouse. It was a rustic building with wattle and daub walls, a thatched roof, smoke curled out of its chimney. Grace from the surrounding area creeped into the building.
He was curious, but determined to find a city. Instead of investigating, he followed the road leading away from it. As he followed, there were more small houses here and there, even a small village, a crude wooden palisade surrounding it. He pressed on, hoping to find a city.
He saw changes in the surrounding grace before he saw the city. Grace was moving towards the city, slowly at first, but as he approached and saw the first yellows of the guards’ lanterns on the grey stone walls, the grace had reached the point of being a rushing current.
I don’t think there’s enough grace for me to gather much, but it’s moving so fast!
The city walls proved no obstacle to him as he flew overhead. The guards beneath him, dressed in rough livery and armed with spears, paid him no mind.
Over the wall he found himself in a residential district, although he could see at most a fifty feet due to the dark and snow. He noticed the grace drifting into some buildings, but most of it sped onward, deeper into the city. The buildings themselves were ramshackle, most only a single story. All of them made from wood, wattle and daub, or a combination of both.
I can’t see anyone about other than the guards on the wall. Not surprising really, it’s the middle of the night in a snowstorm.
He decided to look into one of the buildings; a nicer looking small 2 story house with an overhanging upstairs.
I’m pretty sure I can go through anything. The snow passes right through me, through a wall seems the easiest way.
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He slipped easily through the wall, appearing on the other side. The upstairs of the house was dimly lit by the yellow-red light of a half dead fire. Inside were 2 adults and 4 children, snuggled up asleep near the fire for warmth under dirty brown and grey blankets.
It’s so cold even in here! I’m not surprised they’re all in front of the fire.
What caught his eye next was the flow of grace in the house. He watched it drifting across the room, towards a table that sat against the back wall.
Hello, what do we have here?
Drifting over, he saw the table was a small shrine. A clean white cloth neatly spread out on it, clearly of better make and condition than the family slept under. On top were small silver candle holders, although the candles looked like they’d burned out. There was also a collection of small pewter symbols carefully arranged across the table and in the middle a small silver plate and knife.
I can feel it, something about this shrine. It’s pulling in all the grace in the house.
The grace just sat there hovering a couple of inches above the table, a lot more than he’d seen from the deer.
Should I take it?
No, I’d feel like a burglar. Besides, for all I know, this belongs to another being like me. A spark, I think they called it?
That thought gave him an idea.
“Scrivener, What’s a spark?”
You are a spark.
Sparks are beings like you.
“But what am I?”
A spark.
He took a moment to calm his frustration before trying again.
“Can you tell me anything else about sparks?”
Sparks are tasked with the collection of grace, they are rewarded for their work with powers. Any further explanation is outside of my requirements to answer.
“But you know more, don’t you?”
He waited for a moment, but there was no response.
Well, fuck you too. He thought quietly to himself.
He floated out of the house and began checking its neighbours. Most were the same, but noticeably poorer. Families huddled around fireplaces to find warmth in the frigid night, small shrines each collecting grace above them.
The only grace I can find here, the people, I feel wrong taking it. Maybe if I go deeper into the city, find where the grace is flowing to.
It only took a few streets before he found himself in what looked like a warehouse district. There was no one around here and the buildings were a mixture of wooden sheds or warehouses with the occasional stone building that, after a quick glance around, turned out to be offices of some kind.
I might as well hurry through here. There doesn’t seem to be any sources of grace here.
As he sped through the district, he barely noticed it, but stopped when he did. There was a thin tendril of grace twisting away from the rest to behind one of the warehouses.