Verse Zero
Senior Member
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A Boy, An Orb, and The Old Man I The village of Cardiff, nothing more than a gathering of homesteads surrounded by half a dozen farms twenty miles East of Windstorm Castle. Ruled over by Lord Willion Stormbright, Count of Windstorm and in fealty to the Duke of Palan’s Landing. But, to those two abodes Cardiff was nothing but a backwater; no, less than a backwater. Its people poor and the wilderness assaulting the inhabitants on a daily basis. “Hey! Oh, great writer on the knoll!” The voice of a young man wearing a dirt smattered brown shirt and sun faded trousers blotched in grass stains mounted the crest of the small hill. Gazing down at the young man sitting on a stump with quill in hand and parchment held aloft by a thin square piece of wood. “Rupert, what brings you away from the smiths hammer?” replied the dark red haired man on the stump. Gazing up and squinting through the intensity of the sun's rays beating down at high noon. Rupert, his brown hair cast in the yellow warmth of the sun smothered the light hitting the writers face. Casting him in shadow. “Looking for you of course. The old man was wondering where exactly you scampered off too.” said Rupert with a wry smile. At the mention of, ‘the old man,’ the man on the stump’s eyes brightened. He spoke, “Why?” A curious frown creased Rupert's face as he momentarily decoded the message. “Ole man didn’t say. Just asked me if I knew where you went. He care’s about you, like a son. More than I can say for yo-.” The man's hand shot up, cutting Rupert off and signalling for him to stop in finishing his statement. They both knew what he was going to say. “I’ll go see him right away Rupert. Thank you.” said the man on the stump momentarily before he jumped up spritely and began to stride away. Rupert paused, made a sign and a chuckle, before walking on after his friend. Cardiff was below them, a small stream running through the center of town since the last Winter’s snow had melted away. Receding into the Mountains that rose up to the North. Their ice-capped, cloud and fog covered masses seen as an ill omen. Only the most hardy traveled into the Oden’s Shield, the mountains named after some old god of Man, and like a shield seemed to be a wall of earth, snow, and fog. To the South, Rupert cast his glance back, and saw the boughs of the Old Forest. Hunters favored the Old Forest to the Mountains any day. Even if several sections of the mountains were rich in game and wooded with strong trees for logging. Of course even then the Old Forest’s deeper stretches were spoken to be beset with horrible monsters and spirits. As Rupert and the writer made their way into the village several people greeted them. Willum, one of the farmers who brought some crop in for sale; Tobias and his two sons manning the carpenters and woodshop; Cala, and her sister Naer behind the counter of their small herbalist shop. Cardiff was small, and most people survived on bartering and helping each other given what little money the villagers actually possessed. The only person who really had money of any sort was the old man, and he was not even native to the village. No one knows where the old man came from, and his name was only earned by the fact of his great age. Then again he’d been fairly weathered and aged when he arrived in Cardiff about sixteen years prior. Rupert always reckoned his age to be at least sixty, but some hearkened it to seventy or eighty. It seemed absurd someone could live that long unless he was one of the Old Folk. The Elves, who lived on the land long before the coming of Men. None of the villagers had ever seen an Elf, then again hardly anyone left the village unless on an extremely important venture. The old man lived at what could be surmised as the village center. More like a haphazard gathering of a couple small shops and cottages for those who did not own the farms or worked on them long enough to live further out. The Old Man's cottage was a three room building that was better constructed and furnished than anyone else's. Its roof never leaked, its walls being straight and sturdy, and fully furnished. Opening the heavy oak door the candle lit main living room, which, also served as a kitchen and dining room was empty. Rupert and the writer stepped across the threshold and called out, “Hello?” Their desecration of the perfect silence permeating the building warranted a rustle from one of the two side rooms. The door flung open and a man hobbling on a short cane came striding out. His perfectly flowing silver hair tied in a knot at the back, and piercing brown eyes locked onto the two young lads. “Boys, good to see both of you! Rupert, when will you shave that scraggly contraption assaulting your face!” The chuckle of the Old Man underlined the humor as Rupert instinctively ran a hand through the mane of wild hair that passed as a beard. Rupert, it seems did not partake in the humor by continuing it and just smiled as he spoke, “I brought our famed author like you wanted Sir.” The old man's reply was quick like a lance, “Oh come now, what have I told you? Stop calling me, ‘sir,’ I am not a noble.” Rupert just nodded with his own chordle before swinging the door closed. His departure no doubt signaling the young smith's apprentice to get back to work. “You wanted to see me?” the familiarity of the tone used was a considerable understatement to the duo’s relationship. The Old Man had been nothing short of a father, the only father the young writer had ever known. He’d seen no reason to question the fact, and had learned many things like his letters for example under the tutelage of his surrogate father. Where exactly the old man gathered this small reservoir of knowledge in the small study that comprised one of the side rooms remained forever shrouded in mystery. “Yes, yes. Follow me.” said the Old man as he made his way back into the study. The young man followed behind at the motioning of the elder he shut the door. The room was cramped and rather small, being only twelve paces wide by the same length. Yet it was crammed full of scrolls, leather-bound books, and a desk for writing. A chest was pushed up to one wall, a chest the elderly man bent down and slipped an iron key into the lock. Turning sharply left, then right twice, and followed by three left rotations the chest lid sprang up. The lock must be extremely complex to require such exacting amount of key turns to yield entry. But, all thoughts pertaining to the lock quickly vanished from the mind of the youth. As the lid from the chest opened to rest upon the rough lumber of the wall. The chest he’d never gazed into nor seen its contents. Inside he couldn’t believe what would come to be witnessed. Mind racing to thoughts of sorcery or some ancient treasure forgotten to the sands of time. Cloth. Staring into the depth of the chest all he saw was neatly folded cloth, and his heart sank. The old man seemed to discern this change of mood and looked upon the youth, “What? Expected some long lost artifact or whatever you youngsters dream about? Well--lets not crush your completely shall we.” The old man gave a small wink as he started to feel underneath the fabric. A smile creased the aged man's faded lips as he lifted forth--a crystal orb with what looked like a silver dragon claw, the silver still perfectly polished, grasping the orb. It was roughly the size of a human hand span and colors swirled inside the smooth surface. “I found this with you. I never gleaned its purpose, and I’m sure it's valuable. I could never bring myself to get rid of it and so I kept it. To give back to you when you were older.” The old man's voice showed trepidation. That the boy was no longer a boy, but was a man and most likely going to soon leave the demesne of his childhood. All that the youth could do was look into the depths of the orb, his thoughts lost in the depths of those murky colors. He reached a hand out as if to take it. But it was snatched away and quickly laid back under the cover of fabric. The old man shut the chest, and turned the key back. Locking the chest and its elaborate mechanism from external onlookers. “It is not a toy my boy. Even I cannot grasp its design or purpose, for I fear it is beyond my knowledge on such things.” The old man gazed back at the boy with his perceptive eyes that seemed to penetrate every fabric of the youths being. Like a looking glass gazing through the distant fog to locate its secrets. “Is it evil? I felt -- like it was yearning me to snatch it away from you. To possess it.” The youths eye’s could not leave his elder’s. “I do not know, and I do not believe such. However it is a peculiar thing and objects possessing such adjectives should not be deemed mere trifles!” The conviction in the old man's voice was enough to signal the end of the conversation as is. “Have you ate lunch yet?” The youth was about to turn away when the voice of the old man brought him back. High noon had gone by and the first hour of the afternoon was upon them. Time stayed still for no man. He’d truly lost track of the time it seemed, an hour had gone by without him even noticing. “I have not.” replied the youth. The old man plunged a hand into the pockets of his robe, and the jingling of metals could be heard. “Oh where the blazes did I put those…” Fishing out a pair of copper coins the old man slipped them onto the outstretched hand of the youth. Who seemed surprised, for he had seen money rarely in the village. “Go get food and bring some back. I have to leave for some time. No more than a week I promise.” This startled the boy, it was even rarer for the old man to leave for anything longer than a day, and even then it was usually to head over to Osfolk. Osfolk was the name for the abode of Baron Harold Aegenstan. The local lord in fealty to Lord Willion Stormbright. “Where -- where are you going?” The youths face showed puzzlement and a natural inquiry. The old man signed and waited a minute to formulate a reply before speaking. “I cannot tell you my son. It is very important business that I must attend. You will be fine, I have taught you well I hope.” The youth smiled at this, “Of course, you have been the best teacher.” “Thank you my boy. Now I must depart! If only I can ride like the crow flies!” The old man was a flurry of energy as he stood. Hefting his cane he strode towards a couple saddlebags. Grasping both the old man flung open the door and disappeared. The youth followed out the door, and saw by that time the old man was bringing his horse from around back. The saddle bags already belted to the saddle. In a surprisingly swift motion the old man slid onto the saddle and straightened his back, cane held in his left hand. “I must bid farewell for now. But I will return!” “Hurry back!” said the youth. “I always do my boy.” the old man patted his hand on the scuffled hair of the youth, matched with a warm smile. A knicker from his boots and the horse trotted off onto the small dirt road. Heading West, in the immediate direction of Osfolk, which, was several miles distant. The youth stared off after his father, his teacher, and guide. Disappearing as the earth blocked him from view when the road dipped and bent, a wooded ridge obscuring the road from that point on. “Where is he off too?” came a voice from the youths back and he turned to see Naer approaching. Naer by all accounts was pretty, and rather tall for a girl her age. Standing at relatively even height for the youth despite being just over a year her senior. Yet it was not her height that was the main center of attraction. While it was clear she had begun to blossom into the fullness of womanhood a year prior she already wore the face of one. Village life was hard, and she was well muscled. But her face still glowed much like the youths, and full of life. Alas, it was her golden hair and ocean blue eyes. Her proud nose and high cheekbones that marked her as possessing heritage from the race of men that arrived on the Western shores four hundred and ninety-six years ago. They referred to themselves as Rythlos or Noble Men; to the other races of men like the Anglarikans from the East they are called Westmen, and the Northmen refer to them as Southlings; the Elves however are the ones that gave the Rythfae their second most popular name and even used among themselves. Saerheasta, meaning Men of the Sea or those who came across from the Sea. The youth however bore similar features, and thus counted himself a member of the Rythlos peoples. He had after all grown among them in a village populated exclusively by this kindred. “Hey, you alright?” Naer’s voice, not entirely smooth like men dream. But it was soft and pleasant enough for him. Tinged with innocence of an unspoiled flower. “Uh, yes. I mean excuse me mi’lady I do not know where he departs toward. Only that the matter was urgent business; which, could not be delayed.” Naer nodded with an, ‘oh,’ expression on her face. She was never a learned woman, though he’d taught her some letters and to read a few sentences. So his language and vocabulary was marked above many in the village, at least for an orphan he prided himself on that. “Hmmm, well I hope nothing waylays his comings and goings. Well, I must get back to Cala or she’ll be throwing a fit!” Naer hefted the basket full of herbs she’d fresh picked from the garden next to the small one room cottage that passed for Cala and Naer’s home. Both their parents had passed away two winters prior due to wasting sickness. Leaving the sisters alone in the world, and granted they did have family elsewhere. They knew an uncle lived in Palan’s Landing who worked on the docks with his own family. But neither their uncle could afford to take them in nor could they afford the journey. The Old Man, Rupert, and Willum nevertheless like so many others in the village looked after them. They had too, especially when winter came. As Naer made to walk across the street towards an awaiting Cala whom stood behind the counter the youth walked with her. No reason to, he just did. Rupert, who was busy fanning the kiln of the blacksmiths snuck a gaze over and brandished a wry smile. Rupert had teased him for his secret liking to Naer, and goaded it upon being romantic or at least sexual desires. Naer just turned her head and said, “Anything I can do for you?” The youth's face reddened a shade, but nothing more and just replied, “Taking in the Spring air. Yourself?” “Um. Going to Cala, like I reckon I said?” Naer’s face bore the expression of puzzlement. They’d never really engaged in much conversation before, or at least anything longer than in passing at festivals. Even after spending their entire youths in the same village did they only trade passing words to the other. “I...oh.” There was no good way at reproach at that point, and the last steps to the herbalist shop passed in silence. Whereby they split, Naer heading into the small shop, and the youth branched off in the direction of Willum to buy some crop. II Night fell upon Cardiff, the boy having turned in as dusk fell, day giving away to darkness smooth embrace. The warmth of the bedding, the feathered pillow plush under his head, and the thick blankets layered over him lazily. He was sound asleep, cascading into the realm of dreams given life, when he shot bolt upright. A hand clasped his mouth, preventing him from screaming, muffling his cries. A dark silhouette was over him, he could feel its breath on his cheek. Tears welled in his eyes. A candle lit, and he looked upon the features of his father. The Old Man had returned in the night, silent, he had not even been awoken to someone trying to open the front door! “Fa-.” “Not now my boy, we must leave!” The Old Man sprung up, hurrying out of the room as the boy flung the bedding away. Pulling on his clothes and peering outside the door. The Old Man was putting clothes, food, and various items so quick the boy could not see them all. Some were wrapped in cloth, others looked metallic, a few books too? “Come on! Come on!” The Old Man’s words struck the boy like a rap to the head. Springing him into action he began to shove his belongings into the nearest travel pack. His breath quickened, why were they running? Who was after them? These thoughts raged within his mind as the youth tried to match the Old Man’s pace. “We have not much time!” The Old Man's voice was raised, and he ran out the door with the boy hurrying after him. “Strap your things to the saddle. Hurry.” The boy complied, securing his bags to the horse’s saddle. That was when he noticed the second horse, its black mane and body melting into the darkness. Strong hands grasped him and he nearly shrieked as he was hefted onto the saddle. The Old Man was surprisingly strong for his age, he had never seen him lift anything close to his weight in such a fashion before. Had the fear of what was pursuing them given him strength beyond that of a normal Man? “Go!” The boy kicked the side of the horse and it moved forward, causing him to lurch back as its thundering hooves broke into stride. Pounding down the dirt road, that was when he saw The Old Man’s steed match his pace, “Follow me!” Looking left he saw the Old Man’s mount peel away to the South, down into the fields where he had been but yesterday morning. The boy reined his horse in, spurring it to follow, the duo fast approaching the darkness before them. The Old Forest. The Old Forest III The Forest as it was referred to by the villagers of Cardiff. Few but hunters and trappers ventured into this dense woodland. Even then they never went far, for the Forest was deemed a dangerous place, and one would not willingly seek refuge in its boundaries. Nevertheless the duo urged their steeds on as the wood thickened around them, branches swayed before them, and the world was encroached by a fiercer darkness. They passed the time in silence, even as the pace slowed, and the heavy mist of the horse breath could be clearly seen. The boy did not speak, constantly darting his head around, believing something was always out of sight and ready to pounce. The Old Man did not seem to share this fear, and simply looked about casually. As if piercing the darkness with the powers of wisdom. “This way.” said the Old Man matter-of-factly. Tugging on the reins of their horses they began trotting in another direction. All sense of direction had been lost on the youth, and his elder was now the only guiding beacon in this impermeable forest. Time itself seemed to be lost on him, but it was still night, so perhaps mere hours at most. “Where are we going?” said the boy as he looked about himself, was that movement? No, just the shadow from a swaying branch. Eyes, are those eyes! He lurched, a firm grip clasped his shoulders, and heaved him straight on the saddle. The Old Man looked at him warily, “Fear not the woods, we have not been assailed thus far and if we continue I pray we never will.” The clasp loosened, forming into a simple pat on the back as the duo began again. The crunching of undergrowth could be heard from under the hooves of their mounts. The snapping of a twig, the rustle of some leaves, and the swish of brush. The occasional noise could be heard as they ventured, as if matching them, but at times farther away rather than near. “Just some locals, no minder to us my boy.” The smell of smoke struck the youths nostrils. He could see the flicker of orange near the Old Man's mouth. He’d never seen him smoke before, “I never knew you smoked?” The Old Man grunted in surprise, “Only on travels do I take the pleasure. It's a nasty habit really. Bad for breathing you know.” The comment was met by a chuckle from the boy while the Old Man cleaned the end of his pipe before sticking it back into his mouth. Taking a long puff followed by a calm exhale of the grey vapor. “Locals?” asked the youth as his darted about, obviously terrified at being surrounded by something that lived in these woods. The Old Man’s reply was hardly better, “Oh yes, wolves, a few bears, along with the usual deer and the like.” “Wolves? Bears!?” Eyes wide the boy hunched over his saddle trying to make himself seem as small as possible. “No worries lad, they won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.” The casual demeanor was entirely lost on the boy. If anything he was more terrified than ever. Even as weariness renewed its assault on his bones after the flight from their home he desperately tried to check every direction for surprise animal assaults. Even as he found himself hunching more over the saddle, and blackness begin to take him. IV The rays of the sun beating upon his eyelids stirred him. The feeling of queezyness was like a rock in his stomach, and his back felt like he’d been beaten with a stick over and over again. His sounds of awakening clearly measured on the, ‘it hurts,’ spectrum. He fought to pull himself upright, the bright surroundings assaulting his senses, the songs of birds chirped about above him. Like some overhead chorus was singing a melody of his passing. The sounds of hooves on dirt brought him back to reality. Next to him was the Old Man, grasping the reins of both horses casually. “Where are we?” yawned the youth. “Still in the forest. You dozed off so I figured it was best for you to sleep.” replied the Old Man. “Where are we going?” “Why do you ask?” “I asked last night but you never answered.” “Oh.” The Old Man glanced back as if startled that that fact had never occurred to him. “Well?” pressed the boy as he leaned on his saddle, trying to stretch his back, easing the rigor of his tight muscles. “We are going far beyond the fields and folk of Cardiff.” answered the Old Man. The youth cocked an eyebrow, “That...still doesn’t answer my question.” “Yes it does.” replied the Old Man with a smile the boy could not see. “Alright. Fine, where are we going specifically?” The youth was not going to be shaken off that easily. “Well if you must know it is a land to the South-East. Further than the confines of this Forest, across many a river and countryside. To a bastion of light and shadow overlooking a fair green country. Just you wait my boy, you will see it. Snow-capped peaks rising high up to the heavens as if spears ready to pierce the sky, rollings hills like a sea of emeralds delving into valleys of idyllic peace.” The look in the elder’s eyes as he looked at the boy was so full of light, memory, and a warmth like the love of a thousand suns blazing bright. That gaze warmed the boy's body, stoked the fires of adventure in his heart, and could not hinder the smile creasing his lips. “How far is it? This fair green country, surely it must be far for no one has spoken of it back home.” said the boy with eyes wide, like listening to a storyteller weaving the threads of an epic. “Oh my boy, we have quite a ways to go. But it is closer than you think, like all things wondrous, it is always near if you love it so.” Those words awoke an inner longing, one he had not thought of, as is heart looked back upon the way they had come. To every twist and turn, path or foliage. Back to that quiet house in an insignificant village. To Naer, Rupert, and all the others he had grown up cherishing. “Don’t worry, you will see them again. Just keep them in your heart.” The smile the Old Man bore gave a new hope to this flight, this journey thrust upon them, for no care in the world could squash what was in his heart. Long would he dream of them, until he could embrace them once more. But for now he would have to settle for looking ahead, and watch as the road they took went ever on. The Forest during the day was nothing like it had been at night, its green leaves and the golden beams of light striking between the boughs gave an ambiance to everything in view. At times it felt surreal, the trotting of the horse hooves was a sensory sound given into afterthought. The sight of a pair of foxes galavanting between the shrubs, squirrels dashing along trees like a game he used to play with the village children, and even the chasing love song of birds performing daring acrobatics between the tree’s. Like fearless partners performing in a traveling circus. “Why do the villagers fear the Forest?” queried the youth. “Fear it? I wouldn’t say they fear it, more like looking upon it as a source of the unknown. it is a border demarcating the world they know, and the world that they do not.” “Why do people fear the unknown then?” said the boy as he brought his horse closer to the Old Man’s. The Old Man stuck his pipe in his mouth, it's smooth brown shape, fashioned by the hands of its master. “Unknown? No, that is too general my boy; Most fear what they do not understand, what they cannot make known to them, that is what they loathe.” “Ah...I see.” stated the boy as he pressed a finger to his lips in ponder. “Do you?” His elders words caught him at unawares. “Do I what?” replied the boy. “See? Boy what do you see!” exclaimed the older man beside him. “I..uh..understand I guess?” The boys reply was hurried and entirely unconvincing. What was worse is that this was so readily available the follow up was entirely well within the realm of asking for it. “Understand? Guessing belies the fact of not understanding, understanding something denies guesswork!” “I…” “It is alright my boy, simply food for thought.” The Old Man jabbed a hand into his rucksack, “Speaking of which.” An apple and a loaf of bread smacked into the boy's chest, leaving the youth to hurriedly grab them. The sight of food, or the fact his stomach roared with new found hunger that had lied dormant, made his mouth water. The taste of the apple was exquisite, its juices a welcome flavor that fed new life into his body. The bread was soft, probably baked yesterday by all accounts, and it only complimented the flavor coursing through his mouth. A draught from the sheepskin washing it all down. V The day passed with the sounds of hooves clip-clopping upon the forest floor. Leaves rustled, and shrubbery were crushed under hoof as the duo made their way onwards. The Old Man was humming a gentle tune as the smoke of his pipe wisped away. The forest seemed less dark, morbid, and horrible as time past. The sounds of the land having grown in accustom to the ears of the youth as he tugged the reins. Guiding his steed around a tree before falling in line with his older counterpart. The sun shown through the tree boughs, lancing rays casting amber glow across the forest floor. “How do you know the way Father?” it was one of many questions that erupted into his mind. But he knew that his elder would only answer in piecemeal, and only when it mattered. Small talk was not the Old Man’s strong suit. For he was generally quiet during village gatherings and festivals. Trading in idle chat when approached or to make an enquiry. For the most part the villagers never pried back, and simply taking him upon face value. For the elder gently swaying in the saddle of the lead horse before him had always been a kind soul to the villagers of Cardiff. Turning in his saddle, as if the question was more an accusation, fixed a stare at the boy behind him, “Many paths I have walked my boy. I know the way because I have been there before.” “That far green country?” “Of course my boy! If I did not know the way I would have brought a map!” The Old Man turned back to facing forward and swung his pipe from side to side. Trying to regain the tune once being hummed before. “Does this land have a name?” “Yes my bo-” A shrill cry went up to the South-West, behind and right of the duo. It was like a horrid whistle, sharp and piercing through the forest around them. “Quickly now!” The Old Man whipped the reins and his horse took off, the boy in fear and surprise instinctively did the same. The thought of being chased by some unseen force cause the hairs of his neck to stand on end. Sweat greased his palms as he hunched over, tree branches and bushes grabbed at him like clawed hands. He peeked up, the smack of a tree branch across his cheek jolted him, the taste of blood filled his mouth. His cry was bit back as he followed his elder. Where once the Forest was silent, now it was filled with this shrill whistle and the approaching chase! The whistle shrilled again, its horrid noise felt like knives stabbing into his ears. Tears began to well up as more tree branches whipped his body, the panted breaths of his horse snarled. The uneven ground made the riding rough, and his balance was always off one way or the other. “Father!” yelled the boy, his cry went unanswered as he craned his neck. The forest was growing thicker the more East they went. The sound of hooves beating the earth behind him stabbed into his gut. A firm hand grasped his shoulder and drew him close. His cry was met by the soft gaze of the Old Man. “Keep heading East, do not stop for anything unless it is me. Now go!” The Old Man slapped the rear of the boys horse, sending him galloping away. The boy looked back to see his Father looking back at him, staying resolute and firm as the terrible whistle blared once more. Shapes began to be seen further aloft, and moving rapidly towards the Old Man. The uneven ground and tree’s made it hard to see, until finally his Father was out of sight and the only sound of his own steed charging along could be heard.
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A Boy, An Orb, and The Old Man I The village of Cardiff, nothing more than a gathering of homesteads surrounded by half a dozen farms twenty miles East of Windstorm Castle. Ruled over by Lord Willion Stormbright, Count of Windstorm and in fealty to the Duke of Palan’s Landing. But, to those two abodes Cardiff was nothing but a backwater; no, less than a backwater. Its people poor and the wilderness assaulting the inhabitants on a daily basis. “Hey! Oh, great writer on the knoll!” The voice of a young man wearing a dirt smattered brown shirt and sun faded trousers blotched in grass stains mounted the crest of the small hill. Gazing down at the young man sitting on a stump with quill in hand and parchment held aloft by a thin square piece of wood. “Rupert, what brings you away from the smiths hammer?” replied the dark red haired man on the stump. Gazing up and squinting through the intensity of the sun's rays beating down at high noon. Rupert, his brown hair cast in the yellow warmth of the sun smothered the light hitting the writers face. Casting him in shadow. “Looking for you of course. The old man was wondering where exactly you scampered off too.” said Rupert with a wry smile. At the mention of, ‘the old man,’ the man on the stump’s eyes brightened. He spoke, “Why?” A curious frown creased Rupert's face as he momentarily decoded the message. “Ole man didn’t say. Just asked me if I knew where you went. He care’s about you, like a son. More than I can say for yo-.” The man's hand shot up, cutting Rupert off and signalling for him to stop in finishing his statement. They both knew what he was going to say. “I’ll go see him right away Rupert. Thank you.” said the man on the stump momentarily before he jumped up spritely and began to stride away. Rupert paused, made a sign and a chuckle, before walking on after his friend. Cardiff was below them, a small stream running through the center of town since the last Winter’s snow had melted away. Receding into the Mountains that rose up to the North. Their ice-capped, cloud and fog covered masses seen as an ill omen. Only the most hardy traveled into the Oden’s Shield, the mountains named after some old god of Man, and like a shield seemed to be a wall of earth, snow, and fog. To the South, Rupert cast his glance back, and saw the boughs of the Old Forest. Hunters favored the Old Forest to the Mountains any day. Even if several sections of the mountains were rich in game and wooded with strong trees for logging. Of course even then the Old Forest’s deeper stretches were spoken to be beset with horrible monsters and spirits. As Rupert and the writer made their way into the village several people greeted them. Willum, one of the farmers who brought some crop in for sale; Tobias and his two sons manning the carpenters and woodshop; Cala, and her sister Naer behind the counter of their small herbalist shop. Cardiff was small, and most people survived on bartering and helping each other given what little money the villagers actually possessed. The only person who really had money of any sort was the old man, and he was not even native to the village. No one knows where the old man came from, and his name was only earned by the fact of his great age. Then again he’d been fairly weathered and aged when he arrived in Cardiff about sixteen years prior. Rupert always reckoned his age to be at least sixty, but some hearkened it to seventy or eighty. It seemed absurd someone could live that long unless he was one of the Old Folk. The Elves, who lived on the land long before the coming of Men. None of the villagers had ever seen an Elf, then again hardly anyone left the village unless on an extremely important venture. The old man lived at what could be surmised as the village center. More like a haphazard gathering of a couple small shops and cottages for those who did not own the farms or worked on them long enough to live further out. The Old Man's cottage was a three room building that was better constructed and furnished than anyone else's. Its roof never leaked, its walls being straight and sturdy, and fully furnished. Opening the heavy oak door the candle lit main living room, which, also served as a kitchen and dining room was empty. Rupert and the writer stepped across the threshold and called out, “Hello?” Their desecration of the perfect silence permeating the building warranted a rustle from one of the two side rooms. The door flung open and a man hobbling on a short cane came striding out. His perfectly flowing silver hair tied in a knot at the back, and piercing brown eyes locked onto the two young lads. “Boys, good to see both of you! Rupert, when will you shave that scraggly contraption assaulting your face!” The chuckle of the Old Man underlined the humor as Rupert instinctively ran a hand through the mane of wild hair that passed as a beard. Rupert, it seems did not partake in the humor by continuing it and just smiled as he spoke, “I brought our famed author like you wanted Sir.” The old man's reply was quick like a lance, “Oh come now, what have I told you? Stop calling me, ‘sir,’ I am not a noble.” Rupert just nodded with his own chordle before swinging the door closed. His departure no doubt signaling the young smith's apprentice to get back to work. “You wanted to see me?” the familiarity of the tone used was a considerable understatement to the duo’s relationship. The Old Man had been nothing short of a father, the only father the young writer had ever known. He’d seen no reason to question the fact, and had learned many things like his letters for example under the tutelage of his surrogate father. Where exactly the old man gathered this small reservoir of knowledge in the small study that comprised one of the side rooms remained forever shrouded in mystery. “Yes, yes. Follow me.” said the Old man as he made his way back into the study. The young man followed behind at the motioning of the elder he shut the door. The room was cramped and rather small, being only twelve paces wide by the same length. Yet it was crammed full of scrolls, leather-bound books, and a desk for writing. A chest was pushed up to one wall, a chest the elderly man bent down and slipped an iron key into the lock. Turning sharply left, then right twice, and followed by three left rotations the chest lid sprang up. The lock must be extremely complex to require such exacting amount of key turns to yield entry. But, all thoughts pertaining to the lock quickly vanished from the mind of the youth. As the lid from the chest opened to rest upon the rough lumber of the wall. The chest he’d never gazed into nor seen its contents. Inside he couldn’t believe what would come to be witnessed. Mind racing to thoughts of sorcery or some ancient treasure forgotten to the sands of time. Cloth. Staring into the depth of the chest all he saw was neatly folded cloth, and his heart sank. The old man seemed to discern this change of mood and looked upon the youth, “What? Expected some long lost artifact or whatever you youngsters dream about? Well--lets not crush your completely shall we.” The old man gave a small wink as he started to feel underneath the fabric. A smile creased the aged man's faded lips as he lifted forth--a crystal orb with what looked like a silver dragon claw, the silver still perfectly polished, grasping the orb. It was roughly the size of a human hand span and colors swirled inside the smooth surface. “I found this with you. I never gleaned its purpose, and I’m sure it's valuable. I could never bring myself to get rid of it and so I kept it. To give back to you when you were older.” The old man's voice showed trepidation. That the boy was no longer a boy, but was a man and most likely going to soon leave the demesne of his childhood. All that the youth could do was look into the depths of the orb, his thoughts lost in the depths of those murky colors. He reached a hand out as if to take it. But it was snatched away and quickly laid back under the cover of fabric. The old man shut the chest, and turned the key back. Locking the chest and its elaborate mechanism from external onlookers. “It is not a toy my boy. Even I cannot grasp its design or purpose, for I fear it is beyond my knowledge on such things.” The old man gazed back at the boy with his perceptive eyes that seemed to penetrate every fabric of the youths being. Like a looking glass gazing through the distant fog to locate its secrets. “Is it evil? I felt -- like it was yearning me to snatch it away from you. To possess it.” The youths eye’s could not leave his elder’s. “I do not know, and I do not believe such. However it is a peculiar thing and objects possessing such adjectives should not be deemed mere trifles!” The conviction in the old man's voice was enough to signal the end of the conversation as is. “Have you ate lunch yet?” The youth was about to turn away when the voice of the old man brought him back. High noon had gone by and the first hour of the afternoon was upon them. Time stayed still for no man. He’d truly lost track of the time it seemed, an hour had gone by without him even noticing. “I have not.” replied the youth. The old man plunged a hand into the pockets of his robe, and the jingling of metals could be heard. “Oh where the blazes did I put those…” Fishing out a pair of copper coins the old man slipped them onto the outstretched hand of the youth. Who seemed surprised, for he had seen money rarely in the village. “Go get food and bring some back. I have to leave for some time. No more than a week I promise.” This startled the boy, it was even rarer for the old man to leave for anything longer than a day, and even then it was usually to head over to Osfolk. Osfolk was the name for the abode of Baron Harold Aegenstan. The local lord in fealty to Lord Willion Stormbright. “Where -- where are you going?” The youths face showed puzzlement and a natural inquiry. The old man signed and waited a minute to formulate a reply before speaking. “I cannot tell you my son. It is very important business that I must attend. You will be fine, I have taught you well I hope.” The youth smiled at this, “Of course, you have been the best teacher.” “Thank you my boy. Now I must depart! If only I can ride like the crow flies!” The old man was a flurry of energy as he stood. Hefting his cane he strode towards a couple saddlebags. Grasping both the old man flung open the door and disappeared. The youth followed out the door, and saw by that time the old man was bringing his horse from around back. The saddle bags already belted to the saddle. In a surprisingly swift motion the old man slid onto the saddle and straightened his back, cane held in his left hand. “I must bid farewell for now. But I will return!” “Hurry back!” said the youth. “I always do my boy.” the old man patted his hand on the scuffled hair of the youth, matched with a warm smile. A knicker from his boots and the horse trotted off onto the small dirt road. Heading West, in the immediate direction of Osfolk, which, was several miles distant. The youth stared off after his father, his teacher, and guide. Disappearing as the earth blocked him from view when the road dipped and bent, a wooded ridge obscuring the road from that point on. “Where is he off too?” came a voice from the youths back and he turned to see Naer approaching. Naer by all accounts was pretty, and rather tall for a girl her age. Standing at relatively even height for the youth despite being just over a year her senior. Yet it was not her height that was the main center of attraction. While it was clear she had begun to blossom into the fullness of womanhood a year prior she already wore the face of one. Village life was hard, and she was well muscled. But her face still glowed much like the youths, and full of life. Alas, it was her golden hair and ocean blue eyes. Her proud nose and high cheekbones that marked her as possessing heritage from the race of men that arrived on the Western shores four hundred and ninety-six years ago. They referred to themselves as Rythlos or Noble Men; to the other races of men like the Anglarikans from the East they are called Westmen, and the Northmen refer to them as Southlings; the Elves however are the ones that gave the Rythfae their second most popular name and even used among themselves. Saerheasta, meaning Men of the Sea or those who came across from the Sea. The youth however bore similar features, and thus counted himself a member of the Rythlos peoples. He had after all grown among them in a village populated exclusively by this kindred. “Hey, you alright?” Naer’s voice, not entirely smooth like men dream. But it was soft and pleasant enough for him. Tinged with innocence of an unspoiled flower. “Uh, yes. I mean excuse me mi’lady I do not know where he departs toward. Only that the matter was urgent business; which, could not be delayed.” Naer nodded with an, ‘oh,’ expression on her face. She was never a learned woman, though he’d taught her some letters and to read a few sentences. So his language and vocabulary was marked above many in the village, at least for an orphan he prided himself on that. “Hmmm, well I hope nothing waylays his comings and goings. Well, I must get back to Cala or she’ll be throwing a fit!” Naer hefted the basket full of herbs she’d fresh picked from the garden next to the small one room cottage that passed for Cala and Naer’s home. Both their parents had passed away two winters prior due to wasting sickness. Leaving the sisters alone in the world, and granted they did have family elsewhere. They knew an uncle lived in Palan’s Landing who worked on the docks with his own family. But neither their uncle could afford to take them in nor could they afford the journey. The Old Man, Rupert, and Willum nevertheless like so many others in the village looked after them. They had too, especially when winter came. As Naer made to walk across the street towards an awaiting Cala whom stood behind the counter the youth walked with her. No reason to, he just did. Rupert, who was busy fanning the kiln of the blacksmiths snuck a gaze over and brandished a wry smile. Rupert had teased him for his secret liking to Naer, and goaded it upon being romantic or at least sexual desires. Naer just turned her head and said, “Anything I can do for you?” The youth's face reddened a shade, but nothing more and just replied, “Taking in the Spring air. Yourself?” “Um. Going to Cala, like I reckon I said?” Naer’s face bore the expression of puzzlement. They’d never really engaged in much conversation before, or at least anything longer than in passing at festivals. Even after spending their entire youths in the same village did they only trade passing words to the other. “I...oh.” There was no good way at reproach at that point, and the last steps to the herbalist shop passed in silence. Whereby they split, Naer heading into the small shop, and the youth branched off in the direction of Willum to buy some crop. II Night fell upon Cardiff, the boy having turned in as dusk fell, day giving away to darkness smooth embrace. The warmth of the bedding, the feathered pillow plush under his head, and the thick blankets layered over him lazily. He was sound asleep, cascading into the realm of dreams given life, when he shot bolt upright. A hand clasped his mouth, preventing him from screaming, muffling his cries. A dark silhouette was over him, he could feel its breath on his cheek. Tears welled in his eyes. A candle lit, and he looked upon the features of his father. The Old Man had returned in the night, silent, he had not even been awoken to someone trying to open the front door! “Fa-.” “Not now my boy, we must leave!” The Old Man sprung up, hurrying out of the room as the boy flung the bedding away. Pulling on his clothes and peering outside the door. The Old Man was putting clothes, food, and various items so quick the boy could not see them all. Some were wrapped in cloth, others looked metallic, a few books too? “Come on! Come on!” The Old Man’s words struck the boy like a rap to the head. Springing him into action he began to shove his belongings into the nearest travel pack. His breath quickened, why were they running? Who was after them? These thoughts raged within his mind as the youth tried to match the Old Man’s pace. “We have not much time!” The Old Man's voice was raised, and he ran out the door with the boy hurrying after him. “Strap your things to the saddle. Hurry.” The boy complied, securing his bags to the horse’s saddle. That was when he noticed the second horse, its black mane and body melting into the darkness. Strong hands grasped him and he nearly shrieked as he was hefted onto the saddle. The Old Man was surprisingly strong for his age, he had never seen him lift anything close to his weight in such a fashion before. Had the fear of what was pursuing them given him strength beyond that of a normal Man? “Go!” The boy kicked the side of the horse and it moved forward, causing him to lurch back as its thundering hooves broke into stride. Pounding down the dirt road, that was when he saw The Old Man’s steed match his pace, “Follow me!” Looking left he saw the Old Man’s mount peel away to the South, down into the fields where he had been but yesterday morning. The boy reined his horse in, spurring it to follow, the duo fast approaching the darkness before them. The Old Forest. The Old Forest III The Forest as it was referred to by the villagers of Cardiff. Few but hunters and trappers ventured into this dense woodland. Even then they never went far, for the Forest was deemed a dangerous place, and one would not willingly seek refuge in its boundaries. Nevertheless the duo urged their steeds on as the wood thickened around them, branches swayed before them, and the world was encroached by a fiercer darkness. They passed the time in silence, even as the pace slowed, and the heavy mist of the horse breath could be clearly seen. The boy did not speak, constantly darting his head around, believing something was always out of sight and ready to pounce. The Old Man did not seem to share this fear, and simply looked about casually. As if piercing the darkness with the powers of wisdom. “This way.” said the Old Man matter-of-factly. Tugging on the reins of their horses they began trotting in another direction. All sense of direction had been lost on the youth, and his elder was now the only guiding beacon in this impermeable forest. Time itself seemed to be lost on him, but it was still night, so perhaps mere hours at most. “Where are we going?” said the boy as he looked about himself, was that movement? No, just the shadow from a swaying branch. Eyes, are those eyes! He lurched, a firm grip clasped his shoulders, and heaved him straight on the saddle. The Old Man looked at him warily, “Fear not the woods, we have not been assailed thus far and if we continue I pray we never will.” The clasp loosened, forming into a simple pat on the back as the duo began again. The crunching of undergrowth could be heard from under the hooves of their mounts. The snapping of a twig, the rustle of some leaves, and the swish of brush. The occasional noise could be heard as they ventured, as if matching them, but at times farther away rather than near. “Just some locals, no minder to us my boy.” The smell of smoke struck the youths nostrils. He could see the flicker of orange near the Old Man's mouth. He’d never seen him smoke before, “I never knew you smoked?” The Old Man grunted in surprise, “Only on travels do I take the pleasure. It's a nasty habit really. Bad for breathing you know.” The comment was met by a chuckle from the boy while the Old Man cleaned the end of his pipe before sticking it back into his mouth. Taking a long puff followed by a calm exhale of the grey vapor. “Locals?” asked the youth as his darted about, obviously terrified at being surrounded by something that lived in these woods. The Old Man’s reply was hardly better, “Oh yes, wolves, a few bears, along with the usual deer and the like.” “Wolves? Bears!?” Eyes wide the boy hunched over his saddle trying to make himself seem as small as possible. “No worries lad, they won’t bother us if we don’t bother them.” The casual demeanor was entirely lost on the boy. If anything he was more terrified than ever. Even as weariness renewed its assault on his bones after the flight from their home he desperately tried to check every direction for surprise animal assaults. Even as he found himself hunching more over the saddle, and blackness begin to take him. IV The rays of the sun beating upon his eyelids stirred him. The feeling of queezyness was like a rock in his stomach, and his back felt like he’d been beaten with a stick over and over again. His sounds of awakening clearly measured on the, ‘it hurts,’ spectrum. He fought to pull himself upright, the bright surroundings assaulting his senses, the songs of birds chirped about above him. Like some overhead chorus was singing a melody of his passing. The sounds of hooves on dirt brought him back to reality. Next to him was the Old Man, grasping the reins of both horses casually. “Where are we?” yawned the youth. “Still in the forest. You dozed off so I figured it was best for you to sleep.” replied the Old Man. “Where are we going?” “Why do you ask?” “I asked last night but you never answered.” “Oh.” The Old Man glanced back as if startled that that fact had never occurred to him. “Well?” pressed the boy as he leaned on his saddle, trying to stretch his back, easing the rigor of his tight muscles. “We are going far beyond the fields and folk of Cardiff.” answered the Old Man. The youth cocked an eyebrow, “That...still doesn’t answer my question.” “Yes it does.” replied the Old Man with a smile the boy could not see. “Alright. Fine, where are we going specifically?” The youth was not going to be shaken off that easily. “Well if you must know it is a land to the South-East. Further than the confines of this Forest, across many a river and countryside. To a bastion of light and shadow overlooking a fair green country. Just you wait my boy, you will see it. Snow-capped peaks rising high up to the heavens as if spears ready to pierce the sky, rollings hills like a sea of emeralds delving into valleys of idyllic peace.” The look in the elder’s eyes as he looked at the boy was so full of light, memory, and a warmth like the love of a thousand suns blazing bright. That gaze warmed the boy's body, stoked the fires of adventure in his heart, and could not hinder the smile creasing his lips. “How far is it? This fair green country, surely it must be far for no one has spoken of it back home.” said the boy with eyes wide, like listening to a storyteller weaving the threads of an epic. “Oh my boy, we have quite a ways to go. But it is closer than you think, like all things wondrous, it is always near if you love it so.” Those words awoke an inner longing, one he had not thought of, as is heart looked back upon the way they had come. To every twist and turn, path or foliage. Back to that quiet house in an insignificant village. To Naer, Rupert, and all the others he had grown up cherishing. “Don’t worry, you will see them again. Just keep them in your heart.” The smile the Old Man bore gave a new hope to this flight, this journey thrust upon them, for no care in the world could squash what was in his heart. Long would he dream of them, until he could embrace them once more. But for now he would have to settle for looking ahead, and watch as the road they took went ever on. The Forest during the day was nothing like it had been at night, its green leaves and the golden beams of light striking between the boughs gave an ambiance to everything in view. At times it felt surreal, the trotting of the horse hooves was a sensory sound given into afterthought. The sight of a pair of foxes galavanting between the shrubs, squirrels dashing along trees like a game he used to play with the village children, and even the chasing love song of birds performing daring acrobatics between the tree’s. Like fearless partners performing in a traveling circus. “Why do the villagers fear the Forest?” queried the youth. “Fear it? I wouldn’t say they fear it, more like looking upon it as a source of the unknown. it is a border demarcating the world they know, and the world that they do not.” “Why do people fear the unknown then?” said the boy as he brought his horse closer to the Old Man’s. The Old Man stuck his pipe in his mouth, it's smooth brown shape, fashioned by the hands of its master. “Unknown? No, that is too general my boy; Most fear what they do not understand, what they cannot make known to them, that is what they loathe.” “Ah...I see.” stated the boy as he pressed a finger to his lips in ponder. “Do you?” His elders words caught him at unawares. “Do I what?” replied the boy. “See? Boy what do you see!” exclaimed the older man beside him. “I..uh..understand I guess?” The boys reply was hurried and entirely unconvincing. What was worse is that this was so readily available the follow up was entirely well within the realm of asking for it. “Understand? Guessing belies the fact of not understanding, understanding something denies guesswork!” “I…” “It is alright my boy, simply food for thought.” The Old Man jabbed a hand into his rucksack, “Speaking of which.” An apple and a loaf of bread smacked into the boy's chest, leaving the youth to hurriedly grab them. The sight of food, or the fact his stomach roared with new found hunger that had lied dormant, made his mouth water. The taste of the apple was exquisite, its juices a welcome flavor that fed new life into his body. The bread was soft, probably baked yesterday by all accounts, and it only complimented the flavor coursing through his mouth. A draught from the sheepskin washing it all down. V The day passed with the sounds of hooves clip-clopping upon the forest floor. Leaves rustled, and shrubbery were crushed under hoof as the duo made their way onwards. The Old Man was humming a gentle tune as the smoke of his pipe wisped away. The forest seemed less dark, morbid, and horrible as time past. The sounds of the land having grown in accustom to the ears of the youth as he tugged the reins. Guiding his steed around a tree before falling in line with his older counterpart. The sun shown through the tree boughs, lancing rays casting amber glow across the forest floor. “How do you know the way Father?” it was one of many questions that erupted into his mind. But he knew that his elder would only answer in piecemeal, and only when it mattered. Small talk was not the Old Man’s strong suit. For he was generally quiet during village gatherings and festivals. Trading in idle chat when approached or to make an enquiry. For the most part the villagers never pried back, and simply taking him upon face value. For the elder gently swaying in the saddle of the lead horse before him had always been a kind soul to the villagers of Cardiff. Turning in his saddle, as if the question was more an accusation, fixed a stare at the boy behind him, “Many paths I have walked my boy. I know the way because I have been there before.” “That far green country?” “Of course my boy! If I did not know the way I would have brought a map!” The Old Man turned back to facing forward and swung his pipe from side to side. Trying to regain the tune once being hummed before. “Does this land have a name?” “Yes my bo-” A shrill cry went up to the South-West, behind and right of the duo. It was like a horrid whistle, sharp and piercing through the forest around them. “Quickly now!” The Old Man whipped the reins and his horse took off, the boy in fear and surprise instinctively did the same. The thought of being chased by some unseen force cause the hairs of his neck to stand on end. Sweat greased his palms as he hunched over, tree branches and bushes grabbed at him like clawed hands. He peeked up, the smack of a tree branch across his cheek jolted him, the taste of blood filled his mouth. His cry was bit back as he followed his elder. Where once the Forest was silent, now it was filled with this shrill whistle and the approaching chase! The whistle shrilled again, its horrid noise felt like knives stabbing into his ears. Tears began to well up as more tree branches whipped his body, the panted breaths of his horse snarled. The uneven ground made the riding rough, and his balance was always off one way or the other. “Father!” yelled the boy, his cry went unanswered as he craned his neck. The forest was growing thicker the more East they went. The sound of hooves beating the earth behind him stabbed into his gut. A firm hand grasped his shoulder and drew him close. His cry was met by the soft gaze of the Old Man. “Keep heading East, do not stop for anything unless it is me. Now go!” The Old Man slapped the rear of the boys horse, sending him galloping away. The boy looked back to see his Father looking back at him, staying resolute and firm as the terrible whistle blared once more. Shapes began to be seen further aloft, and moving rapidly towards the Old Man. The uneven ground and tree’s made it hard to see, until finally his Father was out of sight and the only sound of his own steed charging along could be heard.
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