1
Yorktown
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The cloudy gray sky of Valenfrost was all Dahlia could see as she laid on the cold ground. She blinked, unsure of how and why she was here. The shaman slowly got up, only seeing snow and dead trees around her. She walked, unsure of what she was experiencing. Soft chants beckoned her from every direction, her eyes moving to see where they were coming from.
There were no visible sources, only the dead forest and the darkness that lingered beyond it. It all looked familiar, too familiar. Dahlia stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing on a single dead tree. There was a rune carved into it, but no magic emanated from it. She inched closer, recognizing it as she brushed her fingers against it.
“Where have I seen this before?” She asked herself, trying to remember where she had seen this particular rune.
“To become a shaman, you must learn death and its secrets,” an old voice croaked out, the chanting suddenly going quiet.
Dahlia blinked. She was now smaller than she had been before. She was a child again, her body shivering from the cold as she held the big dagger in front of her. The old voice spoke again, the snow around her becoming more mushy and watery.
“You must be able to learn nature and its gifts.”
Dahlia could feel her small body sinking into the snow, her eyes widening as she tried to get out. She could see a figure emerging from the dead woods, an old shaman whose beard was long and braided. His stern eyes stared down Dahlia, who couldn’t seem to call for help.
“You must be brave and fearless. Otherwise, the spirits will overwhelm you, and so will your failures.”
Dahlia watched as she sank into the marsh, her hand reaching out to the sky before the ground entirely consumed her.
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Dahlia Astera gasped awake, sweat dotting her forehead as she caught her breath. She looked around, almost expecting to see herself out in the forest once more. Instead, she found herself in her cot, the dawn’s glow peering through the small opening in her roof. The faint morning light was weak, but it was enough to illuminate the hut.
Dahlia looked around her small home, her eyes squinting. She could see James’ figure in his own cot, Seamus’ own cot next to his. They were both asleep, snoring softly under their blankets. Dahlia longed to slip into James’ cot like a child looking for refuge, hopefully sleeping away the nightmare under his warmth. She could feel her face redden as she shook that thought away.
‘Too tired to think straight.’
Dahlia laid back in her cot, sighing softly as she tried to remember the dream. This was one of the first nightmares in years, and she knew it had to mean something. Despite her best efforts, however, she could only recover bits and pieces. Even then, none of it made sense. It wasn’t long before she soon gave up on trying to remember, frustrated with herself.
‘I need some fresh air... Clear my head…’
Dahlia sat up and reached over to grab her warmer clothing nearby, which sat neatly folded. She slipped on her tunic over her sleeved shirt before moving to put on her overpants and hide boots. Once she was upright, she tied her hair up, her fingers tying her raven black locks into a messy bun.
Before she left, Dahlia debated on whether to relight the fire pit. Its logs were dead, the embers glowing softly and its heat nearly gone. She pondered for a moment before deciding that the two men were fine. She could relight it later. With that, the shaman crept out of the hut, her feet light and her hood up.
The outside air was freezing, but Dahlia welcomed the refreshing feeling of the icy wind. The sun still wasn’t up, but she could see its light dawning on the horizon. She took another breath, seeing the steam puffs of her breath rise in front of her. Dahlia started walking, her poncho-like cloak wrapped around her torso. The custom-made garment protected her from the freezing wind that passed by.
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Frost had come a little earlier this year, making it harder for her to find the herbs needed for medicine and the animals she needed to hunt for food. Still, she could manage, as she had always done these last eight years. Dahlia walked through the snowy path, occasionally stopping to gather some herbs and berries she had spotted.
She knelt next to some Girnleaf, checking to see if the leaves were jagged or not.
‘Smooth means poison. Jagged means healing.’
A distant voice in her memory seemed to remind her. Dahlia followed it, picking the leaves that had jagged edges, whilst avoiding the ones with smooth edges. The voice was not of a spirit or a telepathic spellcaster. It was a distant memory of a man who had taught her how to survive and prosper on her lonesome. The same man who had also raised her.
The shaman shook the memory away, not wanting to remember the painful memory of the dying old man. Dahlia stood up, putting the leaves in her pouch before looking back at the path she had been walking. The sun had breached from the horizon a while ago, its soft rays of light shining through the trees.
“I guess I should get back. Check up on the others,” Dahlia told herself. As she moved, her eyes caught some movement between the branches.
It was a raven, its feathers white as snow and its eyes a pale blue. It stared down at her, curious and watchful. Dahlia blinked at the sight. She focused on its uniquely pale feathers, something she had never seen before.
The shaman stared at the interesting creature, which continued to stare for a moment before it opened its wings and flew off. The shaman didn’t know what to make of it, but decided not to think about it too much as she started her walk back home.
It had been ten days since the Siege of Yorktown, as the townsfolk had called it. Dahlia was still wearing some of her bandages, but had recovered fairly quickly. James, however, wasn’t so lucky. He was in bed most of the time, still healing from his wounds and bruises. Dahlia had been treating him despite his protests. Sometimes, she would catch him trying to sneak off from bed, wanting to go out. Of course, she would always stop him, whacking his head and hands with her trusty broom handle. He would always comply, grumbling as he drank her tea and ate her stew. It was kind of fun caring for him, like taking care of a wounded animal with the same attitude.
Dahlia wasn’t sure of what to think of James, as she had initially seen him as a consequence of her actions. She had summoned him, and it was her responsibility to make sure he stayed alive. It was different now, as time went on and she had gotten to know the otherworldly man. Dahlia felt it was more natural to be by his side, as an equal more than a protector.
Despite this, she still felt an obligation to take care of him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself or get killed. This obligation had only grown stronger during their last battle, as both James and Dahlia had nearly died fighting off the marauders and that thing.
The young woman shivered at the recollection of that abomination. She was unsure of what it was and where it had come from. James had seemed to suspect its origins, but he never spoke of it directly. Dahlia knew the experience had scarred him.
The shaman shook the thoughts off as she reached her hut, heading inside from the cold. Seamus was up, groggily rubbing his eyes as he sat on his bedroll in the other corner. He gave Dahlia a small wave before yawning out tiredly. Dahlia waved back, her eyes looking over at James, who still slept soundly.
“I’m gonna go to Yorktown. See if there’s any more work to be done,” Seamus spoke quietly, trying his best not to wake the blond man near him. Dahlia nodded, heading towards the fire pit. Seamus had been doing nothing but help with the rebuilding of the small town, telling both the shaman and James that he was making amends.
Dahlia could understand that since the young refugee had blamed himself for the marauder’s involvement and destruction of Yorktown’s buildings. Parts of the town were almost destroyed during the battle, thanks to the fires set by the marauders. If it weren’t for the rain, most of the town would be gone by now. Since Seamus had virtually no wounds, he had been helping rebuild for the last week.
“Don’t overwork yourself,” Dahlia said as she knelt next to the fire pit. She wiped away some of the faded runes before using her soapstone to replace them. “Get some rest when you need it,” she added before turning to Seamus.
“I’ll be alright,” Seamus answered as he put on his cloak. He gave the shaman a wave before heading off without another word. Dahlia frowned, wondering if Seamus was mentally healthy. She had heard about what had happened to him, how he had killed those marauders without even realizing it. He had refused to talk about it with anyone, which worried the shaman. Dahlia decided to talk to James about it later, when they both had breakfast.
Dahlia faced the fire pit, grabbing some firewood and placing it above the ashes. She held her hand out to the wood, taking a breath as she whispered.
“Ignition.”
Ethereal runes materialized in front of the wood before immediately dispersing and engulfing the firewood in flames. She watched the flames as they crackled and burned, her eyes hypnotized as she stared. The smoldering wood then suddenly turned to burnt flesh, blackened and raw from the heat as it sizzled in the flames. Among the flesh was a lone eye that stared at her accusingly.
Dahlia jumped, scrambling away from the fire pit. She blinked, the burning flesh now just smoldering wood that crackled softly. Dahlia’s heart was beating in her ears, her breath shallow and quick as she stared at the fire. She shook her head as she stood up, clenching her shaking hands into fists. The shaman could still hear the screaming, the way the marauder’s body cooked under the flames of her spell. She had never experienced that type of horror.
Dahlia soon calmed herself down again, taking deep breaths as she inched towards the fire pit. She pushed down the memory, hoping that it would soon all go away. That one day, she could go through her tasks without being reminded of what she had done. Deep down, however, Dahlia knew that the haunting images would never leave her soul.