The darkness of night still blankets the countryside when Michael awakens.
Last night was the final time he would sleep in this bed. This morning marks the last breakfast he will have as a member of Aunt Marie’s household. Today is the end of his time as a citizen of Wesherby.
These thoughts suddenly come rushing into the young man’s mind as he sits up in bed and rubs the drowsiness from his eyes. A muted sigh escapes Michael’s lips.
A piece of him will miss this place. Living with Aunt Marie, Lamont, Ashe, and Augden had made him feel like he was part of a typical family, a far cry from the mess that was his own.
Home would always be this small cottage where he was raised after his mother’s passing. Wesherby would always be the village in which he grew up. Nothing would change that, no matter where he ended up or what he decided to do. If everything went wrong he can always return here to a loving family, and Michael is thankful for it.
After several minutes of allowing himself to further wake up and let his eyes adjust, Michael stands and begins to move about the small room. He is careful not to make too much noise as the door slowly creaks open, wishing to not wake Augden who is still asleep. The effort appears to be successful, as Aug is still lost in the world of dreams when his elder brother makes his way down the stairs.
Dim light and warmth radiate from the still burning fire in the kitchen hearth, making it easier for Michael as he traverses the steps.
Before retrieving a candle from the table the young man stops to place another log in the fireplace. Today may be his last day in the house but letting the fire go out would still be inexcusable. He pokes the coals with the tool hung from a nearby hook embedded in the stone and applies a bit of airflow to the hearth, which is enough to stoke the flame. In a few moments a gentle crackling fills the kitchen and the illumination of the artificial lightsource grows brighter.
Satisfied that the fire has been tended, Michael lights the candle and returns to his room. Aug is still sound asleep but the muffled sounds of movement coming from Ashe’s room next door imply that she is either awake or in the process of becoming so.
Michael sets the candle on the floor beside the bed and begins the process of dressing. His clothing is simple and takes only a few moments to put on. What takes longer is his armor.
Each piece of the simple leather studded with steel rivets belongs to the watchman himself. Likewise the sheathed sword leaning against the bedpost is Michael’s. Every man admitted to the town watch was required to furnish his own gear and maintain it. They could receive advances to cover the expense of first purchasing the equipment, but Wesherby didn’t and had no desire to maintain an armory of its own.
Five minutes after he began, Michael is nearly finished donning his armor. He places the final piece, his left vambrace, over his forearm and tightens down the straps with a good tug. A quick pat down follows to ensure that everything is secure. He then takes his weapon from beside the bed and affixes it to his belt.
The corner of the young man’s lip turns up in a satisfied smile. Michael is prepared for the journey ahead.
Now as rays of sunlight begin to peek over the horizon the light of the candle becomes unnecessary. It is promptly extinguished to save the precious lightsource from burning down further. Such tools will be valuable on the road at night, and thus cannot be wasted.
The piece of wax is deposited at the bottom of the stairs along with all of the other things that are making the trek along with him. A neat stack of backpacks, bedrolls, and other travel supplies alreadys waits by the front door to the cottage.
Footsteps and the groan of aged wood alerts Michael to the presence of another member of the house coming down the steps while he is hunched over inspecting his backpack.
“Good morning,” Ashe’s voice says from over his shoulder.
Michael stands and turns to face his younger sister.
Ashe is clothed in a simple white travel dress that tapers off midway between her knees and ankles. A blue cloak is draped over her shoulders, its hood currently being worn down. The whole ensemble shimmers with the faintest hint of magic to it.
“Looks like you’re ready,” Michael surmises, after looking her up and down. “We should set out soon, it’s already first light.”
Ashe shakes her head.
“Not yet, mother is preparing breakfast for us and it would be rude to leave without eating any.”
Gesturing toward the kitchen, Ashe takes the lead and Michael follows behind.
Aunt Marie stands hunched over the hearth, adding bits of sliced apple to the porridge she has been making. Based on the smell it will be ready within a few minutes. Michael and Ashe pass the time by setting the table.
Lamont and Augden enter the small room moments after the food has been deposited at their usual seats. Both father and son are already dressed for a day of work. If all goes well it should be the last that they work on the repairs to Wesherby and can then return to completing orders on the morrow.
Breakfast passes as though it were any other morning in which Marie wasn’t going to the tavern. It usually was’t more than once a fortnight that she would have a day off, but given the circumstances the Grassy Knoll’s proprietor had allowed her several within the last week, including today.
When the meal is finished Michael and Ashe head for the front door and complete a final inspection of their supplies. Both siblings are meticulous, checking and double checking their own and then the other’s packs. Each finds everything in order right down to the tiniest detail.
Michael and the Malachites then make their way out of the cottage and toward the center of the village.
Ringing echoes through the otherwise still morning when they pass the smithy on their way. The dwarf inside stops his work and steps out from beneath the hutch. He raises his hands to his mouth and yells, “Ye tak' care laddie, 'n' ye tae lass. Ah ‘spect tae hear a' aboot yer adventure whin ye return!”
“Get back inside before you suffer a heat stroke, old man!” Michael shouts back.
“Ol’ man! Ah shaw ye ’n’ ol’ man!” the fiery dwarf replies. Fergus’ words are clearly in jest but the dark-haired stout remains to watch the party as they go. He waves with a hammer still in hand as they round the corner before disappearing out of sight.
The market is barren this early in the morning but a steady stream of smoke billows from the chimneys of the Grassy Knoll. Across the oval shaped center of Wesherby, the Church of the Dawn Flower is illuminated by the rising sun in the east. As the rays pass over the steeple and through the building, its stained glass casts lustrous patterns into the road for all to admire.
Michael feels no sense of conflict or attachment about leaving the church behind. Rather, he is glad to see the building go. It is but another source of painful memories, both recent and long past.
Leaving through the southern end of the marketplace, the party passes by the home of Sageit before reaching the south gate.
The old wizard is standing outside his home as though he had been waiting for them to pass. He doesn’t say anything, simply nodding in acknowledgement with his hands folded in front of him.
Ashe appears ready to say something to her mentor, or perhaps run back to his side for a final lesson, but she remains on the path. These are the first steps she will take on the journey to becoming the wizard she dreams to be. Her conviction must remain strong, as it will surely face greater trials than that of leaving her childhood home.
Finally the family reaches the south gate. Beyond it, the rolling hills and farmland of the so-called Goddess-given territory of the kingdom stretch for miles.
Lamont places a hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“Take care of yourself Michael. Watch out for Ashe and make sure the two of you find a good place to camp each night before dark.”
Michael extends his right hand to the closest thing to a father he’s ever had.
“Thank you for everything Lamont. For taking me into your home and treating me like family.”
The salt and pepper-bearded man smiles slightly. He grips the young man’s hand firmly and gives it a good shake.
“You are family. And remember, you’re always welcome in my home.”
Several feet away Aunt Marie and Ashe exchange tear-filled goodbyes of their own.
“Promise me you’ll be safe,” the mother pleads with her daughter. “And that you’ll write when you can. And that you’ll not forget about us when you become an important wizard in the capital.”
Through sniffles of her own Ashe hugs Aunt Marie tightly.
“I will. You, father, and Augden are more important than anything so I’ll never forget you.”
A tug on Michael’s arm draws his attention and he bends down to Aug’s level.
“You’re really going?” the boy asks.
Michael bites his lower lip and smiles.
“We’re really going. Be good for your mom and dad, okay? I’ll bring you back a present if you are.”
Augden immediately lights up, declaring, “I want a sword like yours!”
“Absolutely not!” Aunt Marie kills the idea before the youth can even begin to consider it.
Michael ruffles his adoptive younger brother’s hair and returns to his full height.
“Maybe something a little less sharp.”
“Look after my baby,” Aunt Marie whispers in his ear after pulling him into an embrace.
Fighting back the urge to shed a tear, Michael nods into her shoulder.
“With my life.”
“I know you will,” Aunt Marie says before breaking the hug.
Lamont puts his arm around Aunt Marie and the other on Aug’s shoulder.
Michael and Ashe both take a moment to burn the image into their minds. This is their family, standing at the gates of their home, wishing them well before they take the first steps toward a new life.
“Well,” Michael glances down at his younger sister. “Shall we?”
Ashe purses her lips and gives two concise nods.
Together the siblings take a single step forward, breaking the plane of the south gate and setting foot outside of Wesherby. Then they take another. And another.
Behind them the calls of their family echo into the still morning.
Michael and Ashe pause to wave goodbye one last time and then return to the road ahead of them. Their journey of a lifetime has begun.
* * *
“How are you feeling?” Michael asks.
Ashe glances up at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fine.”
With a slight chuckle the elder of the two siblings allows the conversation to fade momentarily.
It is midafternoon, and by Michael’s estimate they have covered approximately twelve miles since leaving Wesherby this morning. The only break from their march had been to eat a brief lunch lasting just half an hour. Being without his pack even for a short while was great for recuperation.
As the stronger of the two Michael carries most of their equipment and supplies. The tent and his bedroll have been affixed to the pack with a length of rope from the general store, as well as the small pot and frying pan. In addition to his armor and the longsword hanging from his waist, the load is just shy of enough to significantly slow them down. He will undoubtedly have no trouble falling asleep tonight.
Ashe by comparison has far less of an encumbrance. Her haversack possesses only half the carrying capacity of Michael’s backpack and is filled with her rations, spellbook, a spare change of clothing, and several spellcasting components. Similarly her lack of tangible armor further lightens her load compared to her brother’s.
“What’s the deal with your clothes?” Michael inquires. He had noticed something different about them this morning, but only after a twinkle of refracting sunlight catches his eye does he remember. “They sparkle in the sunlight and I’ve never seen cloth do that.”
A smile creeps onto Ashe’s face.
“It’s an enchantment. I taught myself after finding it in Sageit’s library.”
Michael snickers.
“Look at you, so proud of making your clothes shiny.”
“Hmmph,” Ashe snorts and turns her nose up at him. Her tone becomes smug as she educates her elder sibling.
“Shows what you know. My dress is as strong as your armor.”
Unable to stifle a laugh Michael lets it out, smacking himself on the chestplate. Ashe’s eyes narrow into a glare.
“Your sparkly shirt can stop a dagger?” Michael manages to eke out between laughs.
Michael’s path is blocked by his sister as she steps in front of him with arms extended. The silver-haired maiden pulls a small dagger from her waist and offers it to him. With a look of determination clear in her eyes she orders him, “Try it.”
Several seconds pass in silence. Pressure builds to the point of pain as the young man bites his lower lip. Can he really bring himself to try stabbing his own little sister?
“I’m waiting.”
In front of him Ashe continues to hold the dagger aloft with no change in her expression.
Begrudgingly, Michael takes the blade and says, “Hold a piece of it away from you. I don’t want you getting hurt if this spell fails.”
Ashe pulls at the waist until the fabric is gaunt.
Carefully and with a sigh, the sharpened point of the dagger is placed against the fabric by Michael. He flicks his wrist, expecting a tearing sound and the blade to cut into the material with ease. Instead he is met with noticeable resistance and the cloth of Ashe’s dress remains completely unharmed. In amazement, he repeats the test two additional times with no change in result.
“How…?”
Now absolutely beaming with pride, Ashe is ready and waiting with the answer.
“It’s called mage armor. A spell that magically strengthens cloth or silk to be as tough as cured leather. Wizards and sorcerers developed it as a way to protect themselves since we don’t wear armor.”
Michael gently tosses the knife into the air and catches the blade in his hand. He offers the hilt to Ashe.
“It’s a nice trick. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
The young woman returns the dagger to its sheathe.
“No, you shouldn’t have. After what happened with the pack lord I am never leaving my room in the morning without casting it first.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Stepping past Ashe and continuing down the path Michael calls over his shoulder, “Let’s get a move on, have to make it another four miles before sundown.”
Ashe groans. Her feet are already beginning to hurt and it’s only the first day of the trip.
“Ashe?”
“Coming!” she yells, racing to catch up with her brother before he gets too far ahead.
* * *
When Michael awakens the following morning he is greeted by the pitter-patter of falling raindrops. Sure enough, when he sticks his head out of the tent to investigate he finds that overnight the sky has opened up and begun to pour down on the open plains.
Annoyance bubbles up from within the young man as he returns to his bedroll. There is no way to predict the weather other than to take notice of any changes in cloud formations, but that was rightly impossible while asleep.
Fortunately, he had pitched the tent in such a way that the canvas proved to be relatively waterproof. Stretching the fabric to being taut while at an angle produced a surface that liquids would readily run off. Unless it were poked or prodded from within the occupants of the tent would remain protected from the dampness.
While Michael is packing his bedroll Ashe begins to stir. She groggily sits up and rubs her eyes to banish the sleepiness with marginal success.
“Is that rain?” the young woman asks through a yawn.
“Yeah, it is,” Michael answers, fixing his bed to his pack. “Get ready. We’ll eat and then I’ll collapse the tent and we’re moving on.”
Now somewhat more awake than she had been moments before, Ashe squints at her elder brother. Her tone is leary as though she knows the answer to her unasked question but doesn’t want to have it confirmed. Eventually she does so anyway after Michael fails to provide on his own.
“We’re not waiting it out?”
The hair on the back of Michael’s head sways as he shakes his head.
“That could take all day. We don’t have time to waste.”
“We’re going to be soaked,” Ashe shoots back. “Everything we have could be ruined.”
Michael looks over his shoulder and points his index finger at the roof above their heads.
“Tent won’t hold water forever. We’re getting wet either way, may as well get something for it.”
Still not pleased with the decision, Ashe resorts to a final plea.
“What if we get sick from the cold?”
With a thump the fully loaded backpack is placed on the ground at the foot of Ashe’s bedroll. She has yet to climb out of it and Michael is already completely prepared to depart.
“You want to go back home?” he asks her. “Never have to worry about walking around in the rain again while sitting next to the hearth so your clothes can dry?”
“Of course not,” is the young woman’s reply.
Ashe throws off the cover of the bedroll and quickly begins to gather her things.
Challenging Ashe’s pride was always a sure way to get a reaction out of the apprentice wizard. Whether it was the one that was desired was another matter entirely. This time it had been successful, but the future would be anyone’s guess.
Within five minutes all of her belongings have made their way back into the haversack and it is once again strung over her shoulders. The hooded cloak purchased in Wesherby will serve her well today. While Ashe can depend on the blue garment to keep her face and hair dry, Michael will be braving it.
Once given the go-ahead Michael steps out of the tent and quickly begins the work of removing the stakes from the ground and collapsing the canvas for travel. Ashe assists by gathering the stakes and coils of rope as they are pulled from the earth. Through their combined effort it takes only half the time it had to make camp the night before to pack it away.
As predicted, Michael is drenched by the time they have finished. The young man’s shirt is plastered to his chest and his hair has been matted to the sides of his face.
“First spell I want you to learn is whichever one lets you control the weather,” Michael states once everything is stored away.
With a chuckle and a smile Ashe jokes in return.
“So you can have a personal rain cloud follow you everywhere you go, dear brother?”
Glaring at his dry sibling with an otherwise blank expression the young man grumbles, “Let’s go,” before turning and walking away.
The corners of the wizard’s lips curl upward and her tongue protrudes slightly between her teeth. Celebrating her small victory she skips through the shower to catch up to her brother as they begin the second leg of their three night journey.
Listening to the sound of the rain puts Ashe at ease. It’s so peaceful, watching the drops plink against the surface of puddles and the ripples cascading outward toward the edges. They are almost like herself and Michael in her eyes, rushing forward into the great unknown.
“You remember when we used to play in the rain as kids?” she wonders aloud.
Michael gives her a sidelong glance. “I remember our mothers getting mad that we tracked mud everywhere and stained our best clothes.”
Recalling the events of her childhood brings a smile to the wizard’s face. She and Michael were as inseparable then as they were now. When their mothers were working at the Grassy Knoll the two children would play hide and seek amongst the many tall tables and bustling patrons, usually earning a scolding from whichever barmaid caught them first. That didn’t stop them, no, it only made things more fun.
The customers of the tavern loved to tell stories to the little ones, fairy tales, adventures of the past, outright lies, they were all gobbled up by the inquisitive pair. Food was never a problem either. Those partaking in the establishment’s fine selection of ale and spirits hardly noticed when a strip of bacon disappeared from their plates, or sometimes they even willingly offered it to the children after seeing the desire in their eyes.
Eventually they would be shooed out of the facility by one of their mothers and spent the rest of the day outside.
Diene was always more strict than Marie. Ashe hadn’t been old enough to understand at the time, but in retrospect it probably had to do with her time in the cloister. Such places were always quiet and orderly, the polar opposite of a crowded tavern.
“You remember catching that hay bale on fire?”
Ashe blushes as the embarrassing story is brought up.
“Actually, ‘caught on fire’ is putting it mildly. Do you remember when you exploded that hay bale?”
“I did not blow it up!” the young woman adamantly declares. “Besides, that hay was too moist from being harvested after a rain and would have caught fire on its own anyway. Make hay when the sun shines.”
Michael chuckles to himself. Ashe’s use of the old adage is correct and the farmer had incorrectly baled his hay after a storm without allowing it to dry first, but he wouldn’t allow that to stop his fun.
“What about the sparks that shot from your fingers? Surely they didn’t start the fire?”
“I was eight and didn’t know what I was doing,” Ashe defends herself. “I didn’t even know I could use magic or what mana was back then.”
Rain continues to drip from Michael’s nose and chin but he has forgotten the storm entirely thanks to the conversation at hand.
“I thought you were smarter than me and knew everything?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, the young mage leans forward to look her brother square in the eye.
“I am smarter than you, but no, I don’t know everything.”
Ashe’s tone carries undercurrents of challenge as though she is daring Michael to test her. He chooses not to however. As much as any older sibling is loath to admit it, Ashe is more educated than Michael by no small margin so it is almost impossible for him to guess something he might know that she would not.
At that moment a ray of sunlight breaks through the clouds and shines on the man. He covers his eyes to shield himself from the glare.
“Huh,” he says, rubbing the spots from his vision. “I guess the rain’s stopped.”
Beside him Ashe takes down her hood and wrings out the cloth. While he would love to do the same it would involve first removing all of his armor. The doffing process takes only a minute but the five to ten required to redon the studded leather isn’t worth it. They will dry in an hour or so anyway thanks to the heat and bright rays of sunlight that have replaced the storm clouds overhead.
“I guess we managed to pass the time by reminiscing about the old days,” Michael’s silver-haired companion says with a shrug.
Ashe makes her way down the path but stops after realizing that she is alone.
“Michael?”
The young man in question is clutching a scrap of armor at the base of his neck. Knowing what is below it Ashe gives him a moment alone for whatever conversation he is having with his mother. He joins her after thirty seconds or so and the pair continue down the road on an otherwise uneventful day toward Mitford.
* * *
Sometime after lunch on the third day of the trip, Michael and Ashe are making pleasant conversation and a good time when something breaks the relative calm of the plains.
A shriek from overhead pierces the stillness that permeates the air, drawing the attention of both siblings. Their mouths fall open, jaws unclasped as a mighty creature soars through the sky above.
The majestic beast is over ten feet long from the point of its beak to the tip of its tail. With the powerful hindquarters of a lion and the razor sharp talons of an eagle, the gryphon, an apex predator of the plains, floats on the breeze some two hundred feet overhead. In the clutches of the lord of the skies is a cow bleating in distress.
Michael feels pity for the creature, doomed to be devoured by the gryphon and its clutch, but it is Ashe who puts the thought into words.
“That poor cow,” she says, biting her lower lip through a frown.
Nodding in agreement, Michael watches as the winged hybrid carries the unfortunate animal to the west. It disappears out of sight somewhere over the trees marking the border between the Great Forest of Delor and Arcturia.
On occasion the creatures that inhabit the forest have been known to wander outside its bounds to search for easy meals. Typically they wouldn’t stray far, but for a flier like the gryphon even thirty miles wouldn’t be too much if the hunt proved simple enough.
Cows were hardly capable of running from the soaring terrors, let alone defending themselves. Likewise their owners were in no position to anger the creatures looking to take advantage of a free lunch. What could a peasant armed with a stick do against something like a gryphon, after all? To anger it would only mean certain death for the farmer as well as their livestock.
“We should be glad it’s not us,” the young man decides.
Ashe turns to look at her elder sibling wearing an expression of concern.
“You don’t think a gryphon would attack us, do you?”
He shakes his head to dismiss the thought.
“Not unless it were desperate. Gryphons are magical creatures and highly intelligent. They’re too smart to attack something like a pair of travelers and draw attention to themselves unless we walked into their territory or stumbled into their nest.”
Surprised by how knowledgeable he is on the subject, Ashe chooses to inquire as to where Michael might have come to possess this information.
“So who taught you all of this? I’ve certainly never seen or heard it before.”
Michael smacks his lips, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a strip of jerky before taking a bite.
“Captain Adams taught me. He told me how his unit fought against a pair of gryphons after marching too close to their nest. They killed the male when it made a series of passes on them, but not before it took out five men. The female retreated back to the nest and made hit and run attacks on them for three days before the scouts found her.”
After a momentary pause Michael continues but his voice is deeper, emulating the late captain.
“‘That bitch fought tooth and nail to protect those eggs. Took damn near a hundred arrows and twice as many cuts to bring her down. Gryphon is good eating, little tough where they transition from bird to beast but very tender in the wings’.”
“What did they do with the eggs?” Ashe asks, curious due to their omission from the remainder of the story.
Michael tears off another strip of the jerky and offers what remains to his companion.
“I think they sold them. Or maybe they kept them and gave them to the army. If you raise a gryphon from birth they make for incredible mounts. The Order of Dawn uses them too.”
The youth gazes up at the sky as the breeze licks at his short blonde hair.
“Can you imagine what it would be like to fly on the back of a gryphon or hippogryph? To be able to go anywhere with nothing that could stop you.”
Ashe smiles. “Why do I need to spend the time and gold on a gryphon when I can use my own magic?”
“What about when you run out of mana?” Michael interjects.
“I only have to worry about having enough mana to cast the spell,” the wizard replies after finishing the last of the jerky. “It works for the full duration afterward.”
“Bah,” Michael dismisses Ashe’s words with a wave of his hand. “I should have known better than to expect a wizard to understand. All you’d ever want is one of those magic flying brooms the hags ride.”
There is a sharp intake of breath as the silver-haired woman gasps. Her brows scrunch together and color rushes to her face.
“Did you just call me a hag?!”
A bolt of frost breaks across Michael’s armor, chilling him to the bone while simultaneously knocking him to the ground.
“A joke Ashe, just a joke!” he yells, throwing his hands in the air to prevent more magical snow from being thrown his way.
“Hmph.”
The icy glow begins to fade from the magus’ hand and she glares down the bridge of her nose at him.
“It better have been.”
After his sister turns her back and steps out of earshot, Michael climbs to his feet muttering quietly to himself.
“You’re much more like a harpy.”
* * *
The night passes quickly, and all is quiet in the morning of the final leg of the journey to Mitford. There isn’t a cloud in sight or a flying monster to ruin the atmosphere. There isn’t a view of the sky either.
With less than twenty miles remaining in the trip, Michael and Ashe have crossed the threshold and entered into the Great Forest of Delor. Mitford is the only human settlement within the forest, and the fact that it is even allowed to stand is a testament to the negotiating skill of a former Arcturian queen. Her majesty, Queen Brunella, had sworn on her own life that no harm would come to the forest as long as her family sat on the throne. She had also offered several fairly lucrative trading deals with the otherwise reclusive race to which the forest belonged that ultimately won them over.
The Weald Elves are a solitary society. Their worship of the nature goddess Delor far outnumbers any other faith, making druids or priests of nature more plentiful here than anywhere else in Mont. Visitors are permitted but strongly cautioned about the consequences of disrespecting the wilds.
Few humans ever see the sprawling cities built into the canopies or within hollowed out segments of gargantuan trees still full of life.
Alanoré, the center of their collective, is said to be a sight to behold. Nestled along the river Fettanar and secluded in a hidden grove behind the great waterfall of Delor’s Tears, it cannot be found by anyone who has not visited before.
“Michael, look.”
The young man pulls his nose from the map and sees a cart pulled by a pair of deer with luscious red coats and racks of antlers capable of putting any found in Arcturia to shame. Atop the cart holding the reins is a young man appearing to be in his late twenties. Looks are deceiving when dealing with elves or their kin, however, and the choice in pack animals means this individual can be nothing but.
“Hello there!” the man calls, pulling back on the silken reins. He waves with his free hand to the strangers as he steps down.
“Traveling to Mitford are we?”
“That’s right,” Michael answers, folding the map and returning it to his pack. The need for it has already passed as the only fork in the road was several miles back.
Smiling as though he has been granted a blessing from Delor, the elf waltzes toward them.
“I just so happen to be coming from Mitford myself. Charming little town.”
Ashe squints, spotting the golden eyes of the newcomer and the moderate point his ears come to, and then says, “You’re a half-elf, aren’t you?”
“Right you are,” the man snaps his fingers enthusiastically. “Permitted within the Great Forest and the Kingdom of Arcturia. It makes being a traveling merchant much easier. That’s my chosen profession, you see.”
An “ah,” escapes Michael’s lips and he raises his chin. The uncanny friendliness of the traveler makes a great deal more sense now. Everyone else the pair had met on the road either said nothing or offered only a word or two in passing. This half-elf has something to sell.
“Might I ask what the purpose of your visit to Mitford is?” he inquires, gripping his lapel in each hand.
After several moments of silence the man looks ready to steer the conversation in another direction. Ashe answers him however.
“We’re passing through on our way toward the coast.”
A large grin snakes its way onto the merchant’s face and he claps his hands together loudly.
“You’ll be needing supplies then. Surely a delicate flower such as yourself cannot carry all of the necessary foodstuffs to reach Rhar in that fashionable bag over your shoulder. I carry the finest nuts and berries the Great Forest of Delor has to offer, all at an affordable price you won’t find anywhere else.”
Unwooed by the words of the salesman, Michael replies, “We’ve got dried fruit to fill our need for sweets.”
Snapping his fingers and turning back to his cart, the half-elf begins to rummage through it looking for something.
“You mention sweets, I’ve something you’ll never find in Arcturia.”
He produces a white box from beneath the canvas and returns to the potential customers. Opening the box for inspection it is revealed to contain a large chunk of honeycomb. Even Michael is unprepared for the sight of such a delicacy and licks his lips.
“The purest of honeycomb harvested not three years ago from a vineyard on the western coast. I’m told there is the subtlest hint of salt from the sea air to match the sweetness of the honey. It can be yours for only seven silver pieces.”
“De–”
Michael interrupts Ashe by putting his arm out infront of her. He looks to the merchant.
“Three silver.”
“Sir, surely you understand that I have a business to run. I can hardly sell something at the cost to myself and expect to remain a merchant for long.”
The half-elf rests his palm against his chest to emphasize the point.
“Five silver and five copper, not one piece more,” Ashe declares, now suddenly in the bargaining mood.
Sighing in defeat, the merchant replaces the lid on the container and rolls over his hand to accept the payment.
“A pleasure doing business with you.”
In a flash he is once again seated on the cart and Ashe finds herself in possession of the honeycomb.
“A word of caution. Mitford is a delightful little village but something wasn’t quite right this last journey through. I would suggest you and your lovely wife refrain from making camp outside of town to save the coin. Stay at the inn instead.”
“We’re not married! We’re siblings!” Ashe shouts as the cart begins to roll away, taking the half-elf with it.
Meanwhile, Michael manages to ignore the merchant’s incorrect assumption because his attention had been caught by another part of the man’s speech.
“What does he mean, ‘something wasn’t quite right’? Or that we shouldn’t stay outside of town?”
Ashe turns back to face her brother with a quizzical look on her face.
“You’re right, he did say that.”
She ponders for a moment.
“He’s a merchant, maybe he made a deal with the innkeeper to tell stories that would scare travelers in order to get a better deal on his stay?”
Sighing and biting his lip, Michael shakes his head.
“No, he seems a bit too honest for that. We’ll need to keep an eye out when we arrive in Mitford.”
Glancing at the sky a new sense of urgency comes forth as the sun seems to be reaching its zenith.
“Come on,” he nods down the path. “I want to be sure we get there before dark.”
If whatever the half-elf is implying happens to be true, being outside the village at night doesn’t seem like a good idea.