It began with an unexpected meeting. Four strangers came together for one short job. They forged a fast bond, deciding to venture forth so as to improve their lots in life. Four unlikely heroes; Tyrion the Lost, Amadeo the Exile, Hope the Unworthy, and Anastrianna the Runaway. LEUR. They traveled into the unknown, facing great peril at every turn. Spirits of the past and beasts of the wild, or even powerful oathbreakers, they braved danger time and again. Though they looked to the future, Leur often found themselves confronted by their past; Anastrianna rebuked her heritage, Hope claimed her destiny, Amadeo saved his home, and Tyrion revealed his history.
Together, they seemed unbeatable. But this is where the tale turns. Tyrion, unable to let go of who he once was, found himself staring into the face of death, Mas'Valendra, the Dread Lord. Granted a second chance at life by the timely intervention of his friends, Tyrion was convinced to return home to Lorelei. You know where they've been, dear reader. Now it is time to see where they still must go...
The night air bites coldly into his exposed flesh, as Tyrion tightens his grip on the reigns of an ethereal steed, translucent and hazy in its appearance. He and his companions have now rode through into the next day, as evidenced by the cresting of the moon above. He looks back to the three riders trailing close behind.
Amadeo, abjurer from the once haunted village of Misery, gives the halfling a nod as he pulls a scarf tight around his neck and face.
Hope, newly empowered paladin, maintains a steely gaze, focused on spotting approaching threats from out of the darkness.
Anna, servant of the Dawnmother, holds up a glowworm and summons four floating pink orbs that she places around the party. "How much farther?" She calls out from the rear.
"We're nearly there! Another hour maybe, maybe less with the speed these creatures move!" Tyrion snaps the reigns of his steed, quickening his pace. "You should thank your master, Amadeo, for teaching you this spell!"
"He taught me more than that, but we'll see if any of it comes in handy!" The abjurer shouts over the freezing wind.
They pass the fork in the road, where east leads to Misery, turning west this time. "I'm sorry to bring you so close to home again, my friend!" Tyrion calls out.
"Nonsense! We're doing this for you, remember? My family is safe, but yours might not be. You helped me save my kin, now we're going to return the favor." Amadeo summons orbs of light as well, planting them in cardinal directions to give off more light. The bite of the night air cuts at his face like a knife, and he breathes into his hands. "So what's the plan once we get there, O great and wise Lord Autumnsong?"
"With my father in Mysthaven, we could try checking at my old home. Not sure what we're liable to find, though. Ol' Stumpy could make a decent place to rest." Tyrion's eyes dart to and fro, and he points out in front. "There she is! Lorelei, City of Smials!" Beyond, they can see what appear to be mounds of hills, some settled alone and others stacked atop one another.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"What the Hells is a 'smial'?" Hope asks. "Doesn't look like much to me."
"They're the technical term for halfling homes. Holes, big folk call them, dug into the earth and carefully made into the finest housing you'll ever find this side of the continent...And don't you tell me it don't look like much, Red! A smial is a halfling home, and that means comfort, ain't no mistake!" Tyrion makes an obscene gesture at the devilkin, who laughs and nods.
"Terribly sorry, milord, I'll be sure to pay it every compliment you think it deserves."
The city looms closer, and just as described, it appears to be a collection of smials, some alone and others stacked. Along the main road sits streetlights short enough for halflings to work them. In the distance, they can make out larger dwellings more in line with big folk, and at the center of town stands a massive tree stump, perhaps a hundred feet in diameter. "What in blazes...I take it that's Ol' Stumpy?" Amadeo concludes, Tyrion nodding as they ride up to the open gates.
"Aye, it is. Now remember not to claim anyone here, not even I, as 'little' anything. Some of my kin are...sensitive." Leading the group onward, Tyrion gestures to one small road barely big enough for their horses. "That street leads to Autumnsong Manor. It may contain information on what happened to my mother, maybe a diary or something. Not to mention the vault has treasures we could get into if need be."
His finger next turns to the giant tree stump. "I know I suggested Ol' Stumpy as a resting spot, but I believe we could also...Well, I mean it's possible-"
"Your wife's home. Lady Frida Summerwind." Anna pipes up, riding close enough to take the halfling's hand.
"Aye. I need to let her know I'm alive." He squeezes her hand silently, biting his lip before Amadeo chimes in.
"To House Summerwind, then. We can rest there, hopefully, assuming she doesn't strangle you, hm?" Glad for their early arrival, as no one walks the streets to spot the conspicuous foursome.
The trek is short, but to Tyrion, it seems an eternity. Passing through the streets, into the dismal Old Quarter, he looks over the many big folk homes, some majestic while others have fallen into disrepair. Every clop of the ethereal ponies makes his heartbeat rise higher and higher, until they stand at last outside a large house of white and gold paint, now chipped in many places to reveal the basic daub underneath. The thatched roof has collapsed partially inward, and Tyrion can smell the rot coming off the dead flowers in the front garden.
As they dismount, the horses vanish into the aether. The halfling stands motionless, as if he were a remarkably lifelike statue. Anna rests a hand on his shoulder, and Hope does the same. "Will you be alright?" The dark elf asks in a low whisper.
"I...I don't know. I don't think I can do this." He turns away, only for Amadeo to block his path, kneeling down. Embracing the half man in a tight hug, the two lock eyes.
"You'll be fine. Trust in yourself, Tyrion. Trust in us to be at your side. More importantly, trust in that sacred pact you made. You swore you'd return to her. Now's your chance to make good-"
"Fine, fine! Gods, you talk too much!" Pulling away, the halfling tightens his belt, breathing deep before approaching the front door. He steps across half buried paver stones, the grass of the yard having grown up nearly to his hips, and soon reaches the porch. His hand tentatively grasps for the knocker shaped like a wolf's head, and he pounds it against the door three times, then twice, then five times.
For several seconds, there is silence. Tyrion tries to knock again, but the knocker is pulled from his grasp as the door creaks open in the early morning air, a figure standing in the doorway.