"Waybreaker"
Veiled Sky
__________________
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Illustria
April 19th, 11,901 AC
9:37 AM
In the eastern hills, there was a small town. Butterfeld. A lively little place, but still quite out of the way. Its buildings were half-timber, mighty sturdy and impressively large for such a small hamlet. Dozens of people lived packed into large cottages.
The market was also full of people. Shopping required wading through crowds, pressing your way forward and cutting to get through the line.
Though none here would call anything but the pub the liveliest place around. Its seats were constantly packed, with most customers left to hang around and stand. But they didn't mind, because the establishment had the hardiest brew in the region. Denizens drank, and sang. They danced and played. Past sundown, and deep into the evening, their voices were heard far over the hills yonder.
But it was far from the liveliness of the night.
Dawn had just cracked, and the sun was waving hello to the countryside. In the tranquility, the bar stood just as still as ever, though empty and quiet. An odd sight. The only person inside at this hour was the owner, who was leaning over the counter, polishing cups and preparing for the day.
He looked up from his work, his hat covering his face. He heard something unusual coming from outside. Loud footsteps and the flapping of a hundred wings.
“Birds?”
The doors to the pub swung open and boots slammed onto the floorboards. The owner could tell immediately that the shoes were plated with metal. He felt their violent vibrations reach behind his counter, and rattle his bottles.
Behind the booted man, there was another. He came in just after, though his walk was slower, reserved.
The owner lifted the bill of his hat, allowing himself to witness the full form of his first customers. The one in front wore a long black coat, a sharp derby hat, and a plague mask with a crescent beak. His form was all encompassing, and as he passed into the building, his shadow was cast from the rising sun, blanketing everything.
The one behind him was meeker, traveling in his shadow. His head of hair was well kept. Greasy, but slicked back. His jaw was chiseled, and his eyes big, red and bright.
As sociable as he may have appeared, he hid behind the taller figure, his anxiety apparent.
The bell finally finished ringing. The door came to a close. It felt like an eternity, but the owner realized that he had only been staring for a couple seconds. His perception slowed to a halt, he could smell trouble.
The taller, masked man was the first to take a seat at the counter. He planted his feet and leaned against the table. His shadow had closed in now. It fell from its reign over the entire room, and honed in on the owner.
His bird mask was foreign to the man. The bartender wondered what sort of activity could possibly require such a thing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his heart was about to beat out of his chest.
“I'll take a bloody mary.” The other asked, taking the seat to his right.
The owner stared, his eyes wide. “I've never heard of a bloody mary…”
The room fell to a brief silence.
Brief, but uncomfortable.
“I keep telling you Mikael, you're still such a hatchling. The bloody mary is an exclusive drink at our special bar back in the nest. I know that you're thirsty, but calm down. Your gluttony is starting to reek.”
Gluttony. That word described what the owner had felt when the pair came in. He could feel the great thirst of his customers, and he feared it. Was it for alcohol or for something else? He could only wonder.
“I have all sorts of drinks. Mostly Flummel specialties, but I have Illustrian classics as well.”
“Great,” the taller man replied. “What are the specialty drinks?” His voice was filtered through his mask, muffling his speech. The unique vibrations gave the owner pause, left to wonder how obvious his fear was.
He snapped to his wall of alcohol. “We have Barrybutter, Boonever, Jagerin-”
“Barrybutter, please.” The younger one cut him off.
“I'll just have what he's having, then.”
The owner prepared their alcohol and passed it out onto the counter, almost spilling the drinks in his stress. “S-so will that be all for you gentlemen?”
The man in the mask dipped his beak down lower, his green aviator goggles finally making contact with the owner's eyes. “Are you trying to rush us out?”
“No, of course not!”
“Good,” he returned to his previous posture. “I thought I heard a bit of ill-intent in your tone just then.”
The man behind the counter decided to zip his lips.
“So what are we even doing here?” Mikael asked his partner.
“In Butterfeld?”
“Where else would I be talking about?”
“Ho-ho, the mouth on this one! I don't know what is up with the flock this year, but you certainly know how to press my buttons!”
“Sorry… Count, sir,” he scratched his head. “I think I'm just getting anxious.”
“That's quite alright,” The Count replied. “You're just acting your age, after all. What's life without a bit of banter anyhow!?” “As for the reason we are staying here for a while, it's because this is the only village that takes a carriage towards Starfell.”
“Okay well, why don't we go now? See when the next carriage is going out.”
“Patience.” The Count sighed. “My crows tell me that our target has already gone deep into the region. Far too deep I’m afraid. Perhaps he was lured into some trap. I’m told that the crows have lost sight of the boy. He got off to some forest, got into a fight, then left my radar. He very well may be dead.”
“Even more reason we should go and search immediately…”
“Ever since The Trials, Starfell has been deemed a particularly dangerous magic region. Not somewhere I'd like to visit. Local legend says that nobody who goes down the valley comes back out; the Illustrian Council seems to agree.” His beak dipped. “Travel there became taboo after a few young explorers came up missing. If our enemy was normal I'd say he'd have zero chance of return, but he is the boy that beat Vanessa. We will wait for word from my scouts. Wait for him to either try and return, or to turn up dead.”
Mikael dropped his gaze. “I-I apologize for my haste. I'm just so thirsty. I haven't had anything to drink since we left Durham.”
The boy opened his mouth up as wide as he could, flexing his jaw. He raised his right hand up to his face, and placed four fingers in between his sets of teeth. Then, the boy clamped his whites down and tore into his skin, grinding back and forth.
The owner’s eyes went wide.
He stared as the boy gnawed away, tearing into his flesh and sucking up the blood. He licked his fingers up, down, and all over, consumed by his own taste.
“Patience!” The Count grabbed a long knife from his coat and jammed it into the boy's shoulder.
Illustria
April 19th, 11,901 AC
10:01 AM
Dust awoke to the sound of birds. It was a strangely violent waking, many songs suddenly reached out to him and interrupted his slumber. His eyes blinked open, he was stunned for a moment. The melodies he heard were of a different culture. Unfamiliar words to greet the sun.
He let his gaze fall to the side. The day had already made a bit of progress. It was a later waking than he was accustomed to. The tiny window he looked out from was another thing yet unfamiliar. It was a small, circular piece of glass in an otherwise wooden wall.
A wooden wall, but not in the sense of a plank. The room was natural, formed from the innards of a tree.
Dust sprung up from his tiny bed. “The village of logs?”
The room he was in was completely brown. And, like the skin of a tree, it had no consistent shape or pattern. It was a place created by mother nature.
The bed Dust slept in was a rectangular cut-out in the wood, furnished with a mattress and a blanket. Next to his ‘bed’ was his staff, his coat, his canteen, and his heating stone. The boy practically dived at his things, and threw them all into their places.
But after he tossed the sleeves of his coat on, he noticed a second necklace hanging around his collar. It seemed his Gestus pendant was left on in his rest, but another was placed on top. The necklace bore the clover sign of Gaela, the only Angel without a consistent symbol. Though, upon closer inspection, it was unnecessarily large for a pendant, and it was using Voice without pulling any of the boy's.
Dust realized that what he was wearing was a charm, rather than a pendant. He wondered who had given him something so valuable.
His distraction brought forth the feeling of his injuries. The longer he continued to stand, the more they ailed him. His back ached, his sides screamed, and his chest felt like it was going to split down the middle at any moment. He stumbled back to the bed, apprehensive to rest, but losing the ability to stand.
The charm was feeding him, he was sure of it now. He gave into the feeling, climbing up the mattress, and tossing his head back against the pillow. Feelings of restoration filled him. He felt he should be anxious about his surroundings but he couldn’t be. The only thing that he could bring to mind was rest. He groaned into the pillow and felt all of the tension slip away.
But just as he started to relax, the door to the room creaked open.
A small, oddly shaped head poked into the doorway. It was a child. Some kind of child. He had a wide head, much wider than anything normal, and he was very short. Dust thought the door to the room looked difficult to get out of, but this creature looked barely half the height of it. “Are you alright?” The child spoke, clearly nervous.
“I’m doing fine, “ he looked down at his neck. “Is this yours?”
Dust’s few words proved to be enough to inspire the child to come into full view of the door. His legs were incredibly short, and mostly taken up by his breeches and his round black shoes. His body was plump, round and wide, his proud belly hung for all to see on the other side of his shirt and vest. The wanderer was impressed how his clothes seemed to keep all of his weight so perfectly bottled.
“I found you washed up at the lake while I was out fishin’. You were bloodied up real bad. You might not have even made it if not for our charm.” The child spoke with a thick accent, understandable, but foreign. It was something akin to the Flummel accent but very different in its own way.
“Yeah, speaking of this charm, I was wondering if you really wanted me to borrow this,” Dust scratched his head. “It’s a very precious item.”
“Oh, Mother said I could lend it to you.”
Just after the kid mentioned her, a woman, very similar in shape to him but a bit taller appeared at the door. Though the child had ginger hair, the mother was blonde, braided. She had a dainty green hat and a pink dress.
“I said it was okay for you ta’ borrow that…” She spoke in a manner less discernible than the child’s. “Clefford here was real worried about ya’.”
“You should've seen how I found ya'!” The round child jumped. “You were dyed red with your own blood!”
“Well, thank you for healing me.” Dust lifted up his shirt and found all the bandages carefully wrapped around his torso. He pressed his finger against them and felt the sharp response of his nerves.
“Oh, those?” The mother sighed. “I patched ya’ up. The village said not to trust a long person, but Clefford wouldn't let you go.”
“Mhm,” He mouthed. “Thanks again, though I'm more concerned with this charm. Is this yours?”
“Oh, that's just a minor one to help with your healing.”
Dust looked down at the necklace again. It seemed the actual charm was structured around the center clover, which was forged of a green gemstone. Stainless steel or some other malleable metal made up the rest of the ornament. It depicted a set of vines, leaving out from the leaf and grasping at the chain.
He frowned and let it fall back against his chest.
“Why would you let me borrow this?”
The mother smiled. “Well you needed it didn't you? It’s not something too valuable anyways. My husband can always make more, he’s a Charmsmith.”
Dust nodded, but ran out of things to say.
“I'm Sigurd,” The woman spoke again. “As I said before, the brat here is Clefford, and we were actually just about to have brunch if you would like to join us.”
Dust continued staring. “I'll be al-”
“SIGURD! CLEFFORD!”
Before he could finish his sentence, someone began to shout down the length of the house. Clearly they didn’t seem to be taking into mind the tight acoustics of home. Every syllable that the masculine voice mouthed fell upon the room with a harsh crash.
Clefford and his mother looked on down the hall from whence they came, then turned back to face Dust. There was a grim look about them, but it swiftly faded.
“Well, Brunch?” Sigurd offered again, forcing a smile.
Dust shook his head. “I’ll be alright.”
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Dust woke again, but this time the birds were much quieter.
Their songs sung of relaxation and peace, rather than waking and productivity. The sky was orange, and the sun was low. He was still in the log house from before, though he didn’t remember going back to sleep. His exhaustion still hadn’t quite left him.
Thoughts crossed his mind of whether it was okay for him to still be here, but he figured he would've been thrown out if he was any inconvenience. Though he still didn’t want to waste another second laying around, so he threw his covers off himself, and arose from the dug out bed. He had fallen asleep with everything but his staff on his person, so he quickly grabbed it, and went to open the door.
The door was misshapen, wood cut to fit the irregular hole. Dust pushed it open, then stepped one leg after the other into the small opening.
The area just outside the door was a cramped corridor. To the left, it led towards a large, open room. To the right, there was an immediate dead end. And just in front, across from the room where Dust had slept, was another door.
He looked side to side, wondering where the residents might be. He didn’t want to go wandering around someone else’s home, but he also didn’t want to shout to get anyone’s attention. So, he sat in a self-induced state of paralysis, searching his mind for what to do.
But just as his confusion set in, he heard a sound coming from his left.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The ginger-headed boy from earlier poked his head around the corner, peeking in from the large room. He eyed the white-haired one, holding his gaze on him for many uncanny moments. Dust could tell that he was just nervous, but his strange appearance made his staring all the more uncomfortable.
“You slept for so long,” the child said at last. “I was beginning to think ya’ weren’t going to wake up today.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” the wanderer scratched his head. “Have you been in there waiting for me to wake up?”
“Well, that room you were staying in is mine.” Clefford shuffled as he spoke, flustered. “And I thought since I was the one who brought you here, I should be the one to greet you when you wake up. Are your injuries doing better?”
Dust looked down at his bandages.
“I think I’m good to walk for a bit, thanks to that charm.”
“Awesome! I was wondering if you wanted to head outside with me. I thought I would show you where you washed up.”
Clefford dipped his head.
“I wanted to go and see the town anyways,” The wanderer walked closer to him. “There's something I need to confirm.”
“Oh okay! Well, two birds with one stone.” The round child looked up then jumped excitedly. “We better head out soon if ya’ don’t want to miss the sun!”
“I’m ready to go whenever you are.” Dust let loose a tiny smile.
The ginger boy led the foreigner out of the cramped house and into the sprawling hills. Even with the sky a deep scarlet, the grass was still able to shine so green. Its hue was fantastical, almost painted on, and the sky in the distance was clear like no other.
Dust looked back behind him, observing the wooden home in its entirety for the first time. It was indeed a log, and simply that. It was merely a log, turned onto its side with two little windows facing out front.
The wanderer stared, and this time not in his typical disinterest, but rather because he felt this strange sense that he had been whisked someplace else in his time of rest. He felt that he died in his battle against Azure and that this was the strange little heaven waiting for him on the other side. But he knew that wasn’t true. He looked at the forest that lay just behind the house and thought about the horrors that were somewhere else in this valley, lying dormant.
Clefford turned to face him from under the sun.
“Our house?” He looked at the staring boy. “I guess you haven’t had a chance to see it from the outside yet, have you?”
“No,” Dust shook his head. “It’s a strange place to call home, that’s for sure. I wonder though. Did your people build these log homes, or did they find them? How come they lack insects and don’t decay?”
The ginger boy walked a few steps forward, urging the wanderer to follow. He brought him to the edge of the hill on which his house sat, a view that overlooked the rest of the village.
Down the initial slope and over a few hills, lay the village that Dust was seeking. The village of logs. Though, in the distance, all of the buildings looked like nothing more than firewood laying around. If it weren’t for the ocean crashing against the shore just over the homes, the wanderer might not have a good sense of scale.
“It’s only legend at this point, but I heard that the first of us to cross the ocean and to settle on this coast brought with them the trees of their homeland. Saplings and trunks alike. Apparently it’s a special kind of tree, one that will never decay, but I don’t think there’s anyone around that still knows the wood’s name.” “I’m told that our ancestors used these trees for everything. Homes, tools, food. Even the very house that we now leave behind may have been carried over the ocean in a great ship.”
Clefford’s eyes went wide as he spoke of the world, Dust smiled. They stopped their staring and resumed walking down the slope. The sun was soon to set, and there was still a distance to cross in to get into town.
“Do you guys still grow these trees?”
“Like I said,” the boy looked at his feet. “It's regarded as a legend. For some reason or another, the saplings were never used. Knowledge on the subject has been fading for centuries, these trunks here are the only evidence of the trees ever existing.” “Maybe if we… Maybe if we had some way to learn about the place our people came from, we could learn the truth about the trees.”
“To learn about the place you came from? I'm sure that wouldn't be too hard if you visited a library.”
“Oh, books? I think there are some people who have those here,” the little guy said. “But libraries aren’t anything we’ve had access to in years.”
“Oh, no?”
“Nah,” the boy stared. “Lyanne doesn’t really want us to read much.”
“Lyanne?” Memories of the fight from the night before flooded Dust’s mind. He felt the statue of Posseida reaching out to him from beyond the woods, calling for his return. But just as those thoughts returned, they left. Fleeting, almost. “That crazy woman in the ruined palace? She governs this place?”
“Technically, the governor of this place is my father,” the kid looked side to side, anxious. “He is our true chief, but he cannot make any decisions for Lyanne is always watching. We cannot even leave this place, for her guards are everywhere, watching the hills just outside. I know some who have attempted to escape, though I’m not sure how successful they were…”
“You can’t even leave?”
“Yes, though most people here are content with that. They never really wanted to leave anyways. Unlike me…” He sighed. “I didn’t want to bring it up because I thought it might be a touchy subject, but that state I found you in- It was the legion that did that to you, wasn’t it?”
“The legion?” Dust questioned.
“The Apostles, Bishops, and other members of Lyanne’s church. They’re a legion of water warriors, at the beck and call of Our Lady. They guard the citizens of upper Starfell.”
“Citizens?” His head tilted. “You mean those elemental puppets?”
“Huh?”
“You called those elemental puppets citizens.”
“In Lyanne’s eyes they are people, and we are made to address them as such.” Clefford paused. “You must forgive me, calling them citizens was a matter of habit.”
“You’re okay,” Dust assured. “I just wanted to make sure that it was known those citizens you speak of are creations of magic. Nothing more than an imitation of humanity created by the queen.”
“Yes, I've even heard some bear resemblance to people who died in The Trials. My father even claims to have seen the late Queen among them.” The boy looked back towards the forest, only to realize he could no longer see it.
The town was coming up over the next hill, and now the true scale of the logs was clear. Massive. Some of them at least. There were ones like Clefford’s house that were small, but there were some the size of human buildings, their shadows large enough to command a presence in the early twilight.
“Tell me, why is that Lyanne has been referred to as both ‘queen’ and ‘princess’ throughout my time here?” Dust asked.
“Well, it's because she insists we call her a princess.”
“But, she's the queen?”
“Well,” the boy shrugged. “She assures us that her mother is just out on leave, and that she's only the acting queen. Though, it was said that Queen Lydia passed away on that horrible night ten years ago, I suppose we can't rule out the possibility Lyanne's telling the truth.”
“Why follow a leader you can’t be sure of?”
“I don’t know. We’ve always served under the Starfallen Family, we Leprechauns tend to dislike change.” Clefford smiled.
“Leprechauns?”
“Yeah?” The boy glanced back. “That’s what I am? You’ve been talking to me all this time and you didn't know what I was?”
“I don’t think very many people would.” Dust stared.
“Well, I think most would ask!”
The rest of the walk was plain, but short. The village, though it boasted some large buildings, was still a small place tucked away at the edge of a valley. A tiny getaway. It wasn’t anywhere that needed to house many people. And the people it did house were maybe half the size of a human anyhow.
It was the end of the day, and so naturally there weren't many Leprechauns outside to greet the pair. There was the occasional silhouette at a window, but soon the light in the room would go flickering away, and all evidence that Dust had seen another one of the strange creatures would fade entirely.
At the edge of town there was a lake. Nothing too large, but enough of a water source for a place like this to live off of. On one end, the lake collapsed into a small river delta, and fed the ocean. On the other, it was being sourced by a running stream coming from further in the woods. Clefford pointed.
“That must’ve been where you came from,” he then repositioned his finger to direct towards the bank right before him. “And this is where I found you.”
The boy recalled his memory of saving Dust, in which he accidentally caught the wanderer on his fishing line and pulled him up to shore. But he whistled and kept it bottled.
The wanderer looked down at the water.
“I suppose I just got lucky,” he sighed. “Thank you for showing me this… Though I must be honest. There is another reason why I wanted you to take me into town. I have a question for you.”
The Leprechaun boy turned his head.
“A question? About what?”
“I didn’t come out to this valley for no reason. I am actually looking for something, and I was told I could find it in a village of logs.” Dust looked back at the buildings behind him. “After doing a bit of research, the only thing I could find that mentioned something like that was a folk-tale from the Flummel region. It spoke of a village deep in the Starfell Valley. One that housed tiny people. It seemed that the story wasn’t lying, though I had little hope when I was journeying here… Because that same book also told me that this town was no more.”
“No more?” The boy looked around, confused. “They think that we have been wiped out?”
Dust put his chin onto his hand. “Maybe, but I think it’s more likely that the book is lying.”
“Lying? About us all being dead? But why?”
“Because your people have access to something that the Illustrian government doesn’t want people to have. No, that the entire world doesn’t want people to have. A Wayfinder.” The white-haired boy looked over at Clefford. “That is what I came here to find. If you know anything, please tell me.”
“A Wayfinder?” The boy’s eyes fell open. “That’s something people aren’t supposed to have? It’s just a world map, charmed with the five major blessings.”
“So you know about them?”
“Know about them? My father used to make those!” Clefford scratched his head. “He might not have any more though...”
“Your father can make them?” Dust stared.
“Could. Could make them. A Wayfinder requires someone to imbue it with a blessing from each of the five major pantheons, so a Charmsmith really has only two options when creating it. Either they can somehow be accepted into the church for all the required elements, if that’s even possible, or they can gather five different people with five different blessings.”
“It’s quite rare to see a room with even three of the churches getting along,” the wanderer nodded. “Let alone them all sacrificing a permanent segment of their voice supply together.”
“Well, that is true, though this village is a bit special. We have two faiths. Most people here were originally in the Church of Gaela, but were forced to switch to the Posseidan Church by Lyanne after The Trials. If you ask any here what blessing they hold, they will tell you that of the sea, but most still secretly pray to Gaela. Our gracious Angel seems to care not, for he knows we have been forced to betray him.” The kid looked back to the hills. “My father too, holds both the blessings of both the Angels. Though, he was accepted into the Posseida faith long before any of the townsfolk. During his younger years, before The Trials, he was something of an adventurer. According to you they would call him a criminal, because in his travels he was a Wayfinder salesman.”
“More than just a criminal. Waybreaker activity is seen as a top priority when it comes to national defense. Your father must've been pretty hardcore.”
“I suppose, he must’ve been... I do respect the guy. Just thinking of the many permanent pieces of his Voice, spread throughout the entire world to linger long after his death is a crazy thought. His impact is certain, whether it be good or bad. Though, he certainly isn’t that man he used to be. You’ll have to meet him to understand. He rarely talks about the old days, and when he does he always mentions how it was his partner who was the real special one. Or so he says. I’m not really sure who or what they were, but apparently they could somehow cover the other three blessings for him when they made their maps.”
“I see,” Dust sat in thought for a moment, “Does he happen to have any maps left over?”
“Maybe,” Clefford sighed. “I remember there being some around when I was younger, but I haven’t seen them for a long time.”
“I guess I’ll need to ask him then.”
“I doubt he’ll say much. But, if ya’ still wanna try talking to him, the only time he really comes out of his room is for dinner, which is soon.” Clefford smiled. “I believe we're having my mother’s famous potato salad tonight, if you want to join.”
The wanderer stared. “Well…” His stomach growled. “I skipped brunch. I guess I could go for some food.”
“You’ll regret your reluctance when you taste it!”
____________________________________
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Dust and Clefford arrived back at the home on the hill as the dinner table was being prepared. Sigurd paced around the kitchen.
The log home had a queer shape. It consisted of a main room, with the sofa, the oven, and the dining table all sharing a space. Then, branching from beside the sofa, was a short hallway which winded down slightly. At the end, there were two doors for both Clefford’s room, and the parents’ room. To Dust’s understanding all business was done outside in this household, so there was no bathroom.
Overall, the experience in the home was a cramped one, for the long people anyways. Sigurd seemed to get around just fine. She passed four plates out onto the table before looking up at the pair standing in the doorway. “I was wondering when yall’d get back!” She shouted. “I’ve been waiting on ya’! Did you show him down ta’ where ya’ found em’, Cleff?”
“Yes’m,” he answered. “Were we out too late?”
“Nope, came back right on time.” She placed a steaming pot of potatoes and other food down at the center of the table, and started towards the hallway. “I forgot to get the forks out, you’ll have to grab your own. I’m going to try and wake your father.” She said to Clefford before disappearing.
The boy turned to the guest. “Don’t worry I’ll get yours, just take a seat.”
Dust sat at the circular table, choosing the chair that looked the most out of place. It was a slightly different design from the other three, so he reckoned it was placed here with the purpose of being the extra. He scooted in just as Clefford walked up to the table and passed a fork out next to everyone’s plates, just above their napkins. Then, the child took a seat as well. Specifically the one directly to the right of Dust’s.
Sigurd came back into the room with her husband in tail. They both promptly fell into a chair as well. The Father sat at the seat closest to Clefford's, then Sigurd took the one to his right.
There was an odd silence.
Moments passed after everyone was seated, but nobody said a word. Dust didn't expect the table of such a home to be this lacking in energy. It was too awkward. He had to avert his eyes up to the ceiling, wondering if it was going to be him that had to break the silence.
The sounds of scratching at bowls and chewing commenced, but there was still no word from the family.
Dust looked at Clefford's father. His hair was a hue of ginger that he didn't know existed. It was so pure and bright. Even his freckles shone in the dim lighting of the home. His jaw was strong, mighty compared to the rounder faces at the dinner table. His face was scarred, and his shoulders broad. The wanderer could tell he was looking at a man who had seen action, there was a cloudiness to his eyes.
“So,” Dust faced The Father. “I heard you used to be a bit of a traveler back in the day.”
The Leprechaun's expression shifted a bit. His guard was raised. “Yeah, I used ta’ travel a bit. What about it?”
The father's response threw the wanderer for a loop. He hardly expected such aggression. “I'm actually a traveler myself. My name is Dust.”
“And?” The Father shook his head, his brow now tucked down into his eyes.
Sigurd and Clefford exchanged glances.
“Well, I was thinking we could help each other. There is something I want from you, and I think there is something I can help you out with as well.”
“Not interested.”
“Aren't you the chief of the village?” Dust stared. “Or, sorry, the former chief? I promise this concerns yo-”
“BE QUIET!”
Another great silence overcame the room, until Clefford and Sigurd both went wide eyed, fiddling with their thumbs and motioning for the man to calm down.
But Dust's face stayed neutral, his eyes sharp. “I can beat her,” he said. “I can beat Lyanne. I can win back your village. I just need your help.”
The man went silent, a shadow over his eyes. He was impossible to read. The foreigner too, went quiet, wondering what he was thinking. But after the man refused to interject, he continued.
“She has the ability to control the starlight, so we’ll fight her at dawn. I don't need a very big force, just a few men for assurance and I'll need a charm from you as well.”
“What are you talking about…?”
“Huh?” Dust’s head dipped to the side. “I feel like what I'm saying is pretty simple.”
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?” The man’s eyes trailed off, his lips quivering. “What are you talking about…? You can beat her? WE TRIED THAT ALREADY! And I don't have any tough men left to spare you! THEY’RE ALL DEAD!”
“Oh, honey calm d-”
The man pushed the table out, tossed his chair to the side, then stormed back to his room and slammed the door.
A third silence fell on the room.
This one was by far the worst.
And by far the longest.
“Sorry, he’s-” Sigurd tried to say. “He's, well… Ever since…”
Clefford looked up from his lap, swallowing a lump in his throat. He had been the one to explain to Dust what he knew of this place, so he only saw it fit for him to be the one to fill in the gaps. “There are some things I neglected to say earlier,” he cut his mother off. “There is no need to keep you in the dark, I suppose I will tell the story from the beginning.”
“We are a noble family, so to speak, and prior to the events that unfolded eight years ago, our family had a place in the house of Star. Eldun, the very village where we find ourselves, thrived for years under our name. The O'Reihans. Cliff O'Reihan, my father, was the heir to the house, set to succeed his father. But the previous chief died during The Trails while dad was away. When Father returned to this village, years after Lyanne claimed it for her own, he found it in a depressing state, and declared war immediately. He took all of our good men marching through the woods to her doorstep. He thought her forces would be weak after her city too had fallen in The Trials. But, when he returned home after the battle, he was defeated and alone. Gravely wounded, but alive.”
Sigurd started sobbing, pulling a handkerchief from her shirt to dry her tears.
“All the others died. Father was there to witness it all, and ever since that day…” Clefford choked on his own tears. “He hasn't been the same person.”
“It's okay.” Dust paused. “I think I can understand what he might be feeling. I guess I’ll have to beat the princess without him. A stronger healing charm would be pretty helpful against her legion, but I can manage.”
Sigurd faced the wanderer, finally catching the last of her tears. “You're actually planning on beating her then?”
“I have to.” He responded. “For one, it's part of the deal I was trying to make with your husband. And second, I can't just look away from what I see going on here. Lyanne is crazy, and has no right to rule this place. I will end her reign if it is the last thing that I do.”
“But why? Your goal lies elsewhere and it is perilous to fight her.”
“Recently, I learned that it can be me who saves someone, despite the kind of person that I am.” He smiled. “Lyanne's ability is clear to me now. I know that I have it within me to win, and I am determined to do so.”
“Well,” Sigurd sighed. “If you're dead set on goin’, keep that necklace with ya’. I know it isn't much, but it's all the help I can provide with these aging hands of mine!”
“And that's all the help I need.”
Despite the rough start, the dinner turned wholesome. Dust enjoyed his potato salad, giving his compliments to the chef after scarfing some down. There was an air of unease about the table, but things progressed as smoothly as they could until bedtime.
The wanderer took the sofa. It was tiny and horrible to sleep on, and the O'Reihans strongly urged that he use Clefford’s bed. But he insisted that the boy be able to get some rest tonight, and took the miniature couch for himself. Sigurd disappeared off into her room first, but the ginger-headed boy stayed out a bit longer. He talked and talked with Dust, asking him questions about the country and his travels.
But he too, even in his eagerness, succumbed to sleep eventually. He wrapped up his thoughts, rubbed his eyes, then walked to his room down the hall.
“There's still so much I need to ask you.” He said in his parting. “Can we talk tomorrow? After your battle is over?”
“Of course,” Dust said. “I suppose then I'll have a new story to tell you as well.”
Clefford frowned. He opened the door to his room but he could only stare, lost in his thoughts.
“You'll win, won't you?” He asked.
“Who can say for sure?”
There was a short pause before Clefford shut his door in silence. The conversation ended there, and all the candle lights in the house were off.
Only darkness and quiet remained. Dust yawned. He didn't think he was going to manage to get any sleep on the miniature couch, but he didn't want to betray the O'Reihan’s hospitality by leaving and finding someplace else to stay. So there he sat, rolling round and round for many minutes, hoping that maybe he could possibly find a position that was comfortable. But it was a fool's errand, and eventually he moved himself to the floor.
The wanderer sat there in thought. Sleepiness had left him, and now he was brimming with a second wind. It had been a couple hours at this point, and his first wave of ‘tired’ had long passed.
He felt that maybe he could work himself back into sleepiness if only he relaxed a little, but there was a strange crackling in the wind all of a sudden. All the hairs on his body stood at once. His ears twitched.
“Fire?”
The wanderer brought himself to his feet and made way for the front door. He opened it carefully, and stepped outside in a quiet manner. There was a great plume of smoke in the distance, a gray cloud over the ocean. Dust quickly jogged to the verge of the hill and peered down into Eldun.
The log homes were going up in flames.
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