Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 2, Reunion, Part 4

Brant was not entirely surprised by their response. First shock, then doubt, and finally fear. Honestly he was not sure how he felt about it himself; he was too tired to really give it much thought.

“How long ago did you see this?” Yara asked for what Brant felt was the tenth time.

“This is the dawn of the third day since that night,” Brant told her, trying to keep weariness from putting an edge to his words.
                “Brant, you’re probably the best woodsman I have ever seen, but to travel that distance in such a short time...” Dima said.

“I stopped only once, sleeping for a few hours, and then pushed on. I am quite tired.” Brant said simply.

“Incredible. You live worthy of your token. No one has made that journey in such a short time. It is well that you are so capable,” Dima said, then turned to the rest of the quorum. “We need to confer, there is much to discuss. If the serpent finds us and decides to attack I fear there is little we can do.”

“Brant, you are obviously exhausted and deserve rest,” Gevan said. “We will have more questions for you but they can wait. Go, Niri is no doubt wondering why I am still here, tell her I might be a while.”

“Tell her nothing about the Dragon, Brant, we need to have a plan before we scare the whole village,” Dima warned. “Pon, you as well, speak of this to no one.”

They both nodded and left the hall together.

Brant turned to the young girl, “Show me your token when I wake up? Maybe in a week?”

She laughed and then looked up at him, “You didn’t hear what it is?”

“No, I must have missed that part,” Brant replied.

Pon smiled mischievously, “You’re gonna love it.” 

It was a strange place. The grey sky seemed to stretch forever in every direction. Even down? Yes, some of the time. Brant looked around and found he was standing in a field. Colorless grass waved back and forth in a soft breeze.  In the distance he saw tall dark pines silhouetted against the bright sky.  Usually a place of danger, somehow he knew the forest held no horrors for him today. He walked toward it and suddenly was at a pond with the forest still in the distance. A dark plant with rich green blossoms was growing around the murky water. What strange flowers! Brant bent over, reaching to pick one of the buds.

He was in pain. Black vines wrapped around his arms and legs, cutting his skin and pulling him to the ground. He fought against the plant in vain. Each time he snapped a vine the severed fragment grew with increased vigor. Tendrils wound up his arms and legs to his torso, sharp thorns digging into his flesh. He could not move. He screamed, feeling his throat burn with the effort but only silence escaped his lips. Everywhere  the plant touched felt on fire. It kept constricting him tighter, hopelessly stronger than he was.

“You’re in quite the pickle, aren’t you?” A light, almost whimsical voice asked above him. Brant looked up, forgetting his horror for a moment.

A small feminine figure sat above him, resting on a branch of a tree that definitely had not been there before. In his mind Brant called her a Fyelin, or brownie, somehow just knowing what she was. She stood about two feet tall with rust brown skin. Green hair like untrimmed grass fell across her face. She wore a strange brown coat and a skirt made of roots and twigs.

“Hmm, guess you can’t really talk can you?” The small fey giggled, it sounded like chimes in the wind.

“Every time. They can’t move and they can’t talk,” she said, counting the two things on her fingers.

“Ah! Let me help you!” She said excitedly, hopping to her feet. “Everyone knows you gotta ‘pologize. We just call ‘em Follies, but I think they’re called Pride’s Folly by those all proper-like. Just say sorry and suddenly it ends, just like that!” She said matter-of-factly, snapping her fingers.

She put a finger on her chin, tilting her head to the side, “They probably came from some man’s guilty feelings huh! Never matter, now they’re all over the place! Best of luck to you!”

And then she disappeared, or had she jumped away? Something happened, and the Fyelin was lost in the grey shifting . The pain came back now that he was alone, sharper than before. Brant began to struggle all the more. Panic set in. He could not move! He could not breathe. The nightmare consumed every thought. I am going to die.

Doing anything other than fight against the pain was difficult, like he was wresting control of something on a set course. He knew what he should do but each time he tried to act the world pushed back, compelling him to kick and pull at the folly instead.

Thoughts slipped through his mind like water through grasping fingers. He focused, trying to keep what he wanted to do clear in his mind. Finally he seized the idea firmly, and in that moment he pulled, forcing the course to change. It worked. The dream shifted; he was free. The folly still held him, cords like sharpened steel gashing his skin, but now he was in control. He wasn’t sure if it really was his fault, but if apologizing was the way to end this suffering he might as well try.

I’m sorry. He tried to say, but no words came out.

He tried harder. I’m sorry! Still no sound. Just pain, and the tightening of death.

Suddenly he realized maybe it really had been his fault. Was he too curious?

I am so sorry! I’ll be more careful next time!

“I’m sorry!” Brant shouted, sitting up in his bed.

With shaking hands he wiped the sweat from his face. The memory of the gripping vines and burning cords lingered on his skin. He tried to take a deep breath but it caught in his throat. He sobbed, tears falling to his sheets. He sat alone in the darkness, weeping silently and wondering what he had done wrong until he finally fell asleep.

Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 2, Reunion, Part 3

A few minutes before Brant entered the Hall, Pon stood before the Quorum somewhat impatiently. Part of her wanted to be done with this whole thing just so she could get back outside, but a greater part of her wanted everyone to realize how amazing Noblin really was.

“May I speak?” Pon asked, louder than she had intended.

Dima had been about to say something but she turned to Pon and nodded. “You may.”

“I understand why you are afraid. Brossen are powerful and dangerous, but this is exactly why I feel safe around Noblin. He guards me like they do each other, and it can be that way for the rest of the village too. He is strong. He could protect us, I know he could.”

The Quorum watched her for a moment.

“The girl has a point Dima,” Gevan said finally. “If she really has tamed a brossen to that extent, can you imagine how useful that would be? The strength of the beast alone could change everything about the way we live.”

“Change is not always good Gevan,” warned Yara.

“Nor is it always bad.” Dima mused, gazing at Pon intently.

Dima continued, “My greatest fear is for the rest of Kressing. The creature is obviously loyal to Pon, but how do you know it will treat others the same?”

“If we are careful I think he can get used to being here.” Pon replied. “A few of the braver men in the village have already approached him. He was aggressive at first but he is calming down a lot. Although, he does growl at them if they get close when I am not around, so um, that might be an issue.”

“Is that so…” Dima said slowly, again watching Pon.

After a minute the old woman spoke, “Very well. I am satisfied, for now.”

“As am I,” replied Gevan. “Certain steps will have to be taken. For one, it cannot stay too near the village.”

“Yes, and we will need to alleviate the fears the others have,” Dima said. “Despite the danger it seems we have little choice but to accept the risks, we must take this chance.”

“Indeed.” Yara said, addressing Pon. “What you have done is quite remarkable, but you must be careful, everyone will be watching you, for good and ill.” Yara said.

“Just a moment, Pon,” said Gevan, leaning back to talk to the others. The three began whispering to one another, rapidly discussing something that Pon could not hear.

Pon stood quietly, wondering if Hoblin was staying where she had told him. He was obedient, usually, but sometimes he got a little curious. Waiting as patiently as she could her eyes began to wander. It was then that she noticed the bearded man standing in the doorway of the hall. He looked worn and dirty, rough black hair flowing into a thick beard. He was wearing heavy leather boots and furs, obviously returning from farther north. The man wasn’t old, barely in his twenties maybe, but he looked strong enough lift a wagon. He matched her gaze with dark eyes. Oh! It’s Brant! Pon realized.

Pon had always liked Brant. He seemed to understand why someone would want to spend so much time in the forest, and he never told her off for staying out all day.

“Brant!” Pon called out with a wave.
The quorum, which had still been whispering to each other, suddenly stopped talking.
                Gevan stood and spoke, “Brant!? Just a moment, I believe we are about to reach a decision.”

Gevan turned to the others of the quorum. “Shall we?” He asked.

Dima and Yara nodded and rose to stand next to him.

“Pon,” Gevan said decisively. “You have accomplished something none before you even thought possible. While there is much to discuss this much is clear: You are as capable as any adult, and are worthy to be considered such. As of this moment you are proven, as recognized by the Quorum and all of Kressing.”

The three spoke in unison, “Behold Pon, no longer child. May all approach for her wisdom.” Each bowed ceremoniously to the young girl.

Pon jumped into the air and shouted “Yes!”

Yara laughed, and then turned serious again. “Pon, you understand that this is a huge responsibility. Your token reflects your role in the village. Everyone will come to you for answers about this.”

“I am aware.” Pon said.

“Many will still treat you as a child,” Yara said. “Remember that there is much you must learn. Be open to advice Pon, but know that you have our support. You make your own choices now.”

 “It’s not like she didn’t already.” Gevan laughed, and then stopped as he remembered Brant’s sudden appearance.

“Brant, come forward son, why are you here?” Gevan asked.

Brant moved around the fire and stood next to Pon. He looked at her for a moment and said quietly, “Congratulations Pon, and sorry. This should be your day, but this is real important.”
                He then turned to address the quorum and stood upright, seeming a different person as he spoke.

“I return early to bring dire news. I have seen a dragon.”

Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 2, Reunion, Part 2

Brant crested the hill as the sun rose directly ahead of him, illuminating the thirty-odd houses and wood buildings in the valley. A thin mist was already forming as dew began to dissipate from the grass. From here Brant could barely make out the movement of a few people already hard at work. He paused to catch his breath, relieved to see such a welcome sight.

Nestled in a deep green valley surrounded by wooded mountains, Kressing was only a small village but had been here even before the splitting of the world. The people of Kressing took exceptional pride in this, as legend told that few cities survived the splitting intact, but this village, their village, had kept living its quiet little life unchanged. True or not, the story was a testament to their way of life, tucked far away in the mountains and hills of the north. Little ever changed because the people did not want it to. The winters were hard and the ground harder, but few ever dreamed of leaving. There was something about the chill breeze in the trees, whispering lightly as it passed over the mountains, that captured the heart, and a person felt as part of the land as the stone peaks themselves. The land was theirs, as each man and woman felt profoundly, but perhaps they belonged to the starry nights and crisp mornings even more.

Brant descended the hill slowly, legs aching from the arduous journey. As he walked through the field towards Kressing he was quickly surrounded by a number of small green creatures, butting and pushing against his legs.

“No, I have nothing for you.” Brant stated loudly, pushing through the herd.

 One of the most incessant of the group hit him soundly with its thick tail. Brant kicked it in return. Grenig were bipedal creatures with green fur. While they were an important staple for the community he had never really liked being near them.

Brant heard a call ahead of him. Henneth, an older man with grey hair and rough skin, was attempting to gather the herd to scavenge for rockwheat.

Leaning against his staff for support the old man called out, “Brant! Good to see you! Thought you were probing the northern border? I don’t think anyone thought you’d be back for another month at least!”

“Plans change.” Brant replied curtly as he pushed past the grenig. He was exhausted, and he had no time for questions.

“That they do lad. That they do.” Henneth said carefully to his back.

Brant kept walking but shook his head. I’ve been away too much. I don’t even remember how to act around people anymore. He kept walking but looked back and called out “Sorry Henneth, I need to talk to the Quorum and then get some sleep. I’ll talk with you later.”

“Of course,” Henneth replied, waving him on. “You’ll find them in the Hall, they’re already meeting to discuss Pon’s proving.”

Brant stopped, “Pon’s proving!? The girl is only twelve!”

“Right you are, but wait till you’ve seen what she has gone and done.” Henneth replied.

Brant paused and then asked, “Do I really want to?”

Henneth laughed, “Ha! That’s a question for the Gods. I’m sure as stone glad the Quorum handles such things.”

“Pon spends all her time running through the woods, where did she get time to make a Token?” Brant asked.

Henneth raised his eyebrows, “You’re one to talk! I seem to recall a young boy who spent weeks in the wild and you seemed to do just fine. Youngest boy to be proven in my memory.”

“Well, maybe, but my Token almost got me killed.”

“And I’ve no doubt Pon has had some close scrapes of her own. Her token is like nothing I have ever seen.” Henneth said, and then he shook his head. “Baffles me, really, the two of you. The woods are a dangerous place, far too dangerous for most folks, but as children you just up and leave, hiking through the trees and hills without a care in the world.”

Brant shook his head, “I wouldn’t say without a care. I knew the risks, and it was frightening at first, I just… needed space.”

Henneth nodded, “I suppose you did, and I don’t blame you for that. Now Pon does the same, in her own way. After your token, and now hers, I’m beginning to wonder if the woods make you stronger than the rest of us.”
Brant was silent for a moment before answering, "Not stronger, but different, I think. Tell me, what has she done? Is her token rally enough to prove her?"

Henneth laughed again, “I'm not saying. I won’t ruin it for the girl, you know as well as I that she would want to show you herself, and she’d have my head for spoiling it.” 

Brant sighed, “You’re right, she would. Besides, I really must get moving.

"Alright then lad, I’ll see you later.” Henneth said.

Brant waved to Henneth and continued into Kressing. By now the rest of the village was awake. People were tending gardens, animals, or otherwise preparing for their day. More than once Brant was greeted in welcome surprise, and each time he felt gladder to be home.

The Hall stood proudly atop a stone foundation, bathed in the golden light of the breaking morn. Great wood pillars and walls upheld a heavy thatched roof. The once rich colors of the columns had long faded but ornate patterns were still visible on the old building, carved onto the doors and pillars years before. Old and sturdy, the hall had weathered storm, time, and attack for more than an age. Thick doors open, it welcomed any to enter and enjoy the warmth and safety of its walls.

Brant climbed the few stone steps leading to the Hall, eager to deliver his message. As he entered he heard the familiar voice of his father, Gevan, echoing through the large room as he conferred with the other members of the Quorum.

“Certain steps will have to be taken. For one, it cannot stay too near the village.” His father said.

“Yes, and we will need to call everyone together and explain.” A woman’s voice answered, old but strong. “Despite the possible danger we have little choice but to accept the risks, we cannot ignore this chance.” It was Dima, another member of the quorum, she was one of the oldest women in Kressing but her voice and mind were as sharp as they had always been.

A third voice, again a woman’s, but younger than Dima, spoke more softly. “Indeed. What you have done is quite remarkable, but you must be careful, everyone will be watching you, for good and ill.” It was Yara, the final member of the Quorum. She was a tall woman with graying brown hair.

Brant stood a few paces into the large room. Thick poles on either side extended the length of the hall, supporting the high ceiling above. White light spilled through the open doors behind him, mixing with the yellow glow of torch and fire. In the middle of the room was a large fire pit, a few logs burning to ward off the morning’s chill. At the other end of the hall was a platform a few steps high. On the platform sat the Quorum, comprised of the three leaders of Kressing. Gevan and Yara sat on either side of Dima, the eldest of the three. Before them stood a small figure with brown hair, long and untidy, wearing a green tunic and heavy cloth pants. Brant recognized her instantly. Pon faced away from him, and the Quorum seemed so engaged in their conversation that they had not noticed him enter.

Brant watched for a moment and then smiled. Pon was trying very diligently to stay still but her feet were getting the better of her. She really was an interesting child. Despite the danger and the fear of her parents she spent the greater part of each day running through the woods. She would play and explore in what most would consider life or death situations, examining each plant, bug, and creature she could find. She was different than him in this regard; she knew things about the way the forest worked that he had never noticed before.  Brant had always preferred to wander, seeking the distant landscapes and peaks. When he was young he had pressed farther into the wild than most people ever did as adults, sometimes not returning for days at a time. They were similar, yes, but perhaps the more similar you were to someone the more you understood how different you really were.

Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 2, Reunion, Part 1

Pon perched on a tree branch, light flitting through the leaves above. She held her breath, listening to the heavy footsteps below. Carefully, she peered from her hiding spot, hoping the beast was leaving. The tree shook violently. It had found her.  She leapt from the branch as the tree splintered behind her. Rolling to cushion her fall, Pon sprung into an all-out run. The creature roared as it crashed through the trees behind her, gaining despite every obstacle Pon put between them. She was blinded for a moment as she broke into a bright clearing. Sprinting across the field she used her spear to vault onto a large boulder. She couldn’t hope to outpace it in the open so she turned and planted her feet, ready to face the monster.

                The brossen broke into the clearing and locked eyes on her. It charged with six powerful legs thundering against the ground in terrifying rhythm. A grey blur of claws and fur the creature crossed the field in a matter of seconds. It stopped barely an arm’s reach from her face. For a moment it just watched, and then it opened its mouth and let out a deafening roar.

                “Alright Hoblin! Alright! You found me,” The young girl said, slumping onto the stone.

                The brossen stopped roaring and excitedly spun in place. After a moment it nudged her expectantly with one of its massive horns.

                “Fine! You vulture. I guess you’ve earned it.” Pon said, pulling a green melon from her bag and throwing it into his mouth.

                Hoblin chewed happily as Pon caught her breath. Only a few months ago she could have outrun him but there was no hope for that now. Every day he got bigger, faster, and even smarter. Brossen were naturally clever, but Hoblin was learning all sorts of things from Pon that other brossen never figured out. By now he knew all her tricks and hiding places. More importantly, he was getting much better at staying still and doing as told.

                Pon grabbed her spear and jumped onto the beast’s back.

                “We’re going to a new place, and you gotta be careful,” Pon said as she patted his side. “No roaring or jumping around, alright?”

Hoblin clawed at the ground eagerly, he wanted to run.

They’ll like you. Definitely. How could they not?

“Just take it easy,” Pon told him as they started for Kressing. ‘Otherwise they might stab you when they see you.”

Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 1, Mistakes, Part 5

The sun was setting as Dillon walked emptying streets. No longer bright, the city had changed from the dazzling white of midday to a rich red as the sun cast crimson light across the desert. This shift in mood was another thing Dillon loved about this place; the city itself changed color with the day; white at midday, red at dusk, and a silvery blue during the night.  

Dillon wandered aimlessly, musing on shifting colors and thinking of the old man and his hungry children. Everywhere i go, hungry people and fat rulers. This thought, most of all, troubled him in his travels. It was rare indeed to find a city where there were no rich or poor, so rare, in fact, that he had yet to find it.

“There! Grab him!” A voice shouted nearby.

Dillon was ripped from his thoughts by a strong hand and a thick set of arms. As he struggled in the powerful grip, guards filled in the street around him, blocking the way in both directions. The men were wearing the tell-tale red and white of the royal guard, which was bad news indeed.

“It seems the “Phantom of the White City” is not so difficult to catch after all.” One of the men said, stepping forward.

The man had the piercing white eyes of a noble, glowing faintly in the shadows of the evening. He wore the uniform of the guard as well; a loose fitting pair of pants and a finely trimmed white tunic with two red stripes entwined into the fabric. This man also had markings denoting his official rank and was obviously in charge.

Despite his predicament, Dillon couldn’t help but smile. Phantom of the White City? I’ve never heard that one.

“Ah, well, we all have our off days, but “Phantom” might be a bit much,” Dillon replied, letting himself relax in his captor’s grip. “You apparently know who I am, but I have no idea who you are.”

“Remember the name, thief,” sneered the man, stepping closer. “I am Captain Helkir, I tracked you down in less than a day, and I will bring you to the Sahvir myself.”

“Yes, well, about that,” said Dillon stiffly. “I don’t know about phantoms, but I don’t much like being caught.”

And with that Dillon shot up, ramming his head into the jaw of the unsuspecting man holding him. With a shout of pain the man released him, giving Dillon just enough time to sidestep a tackle by the Captain and shove him in the back, toppling him into the recovering guard.

Dillon ran, jumping onto the counter of a nearby booth and vaulting off, sailing over the heads of the guards on the far side of the street.

“Get him!” Shouted Captain Helkir, enraged at his humiliation, “Or I’ll have your heads sent to the Sahvir!”

The royal guards themselves… Maybe I’ve ruffled more feathers than I thought. Dillon sprinted down the street, dodging people, stands, and the occasional camel. Unfortunately, this chase was not going as well as Dillon would have liked. Whenever he thought he was losing his pursuers they would somehow reclose the gap. They’re good, I’ll give em’ that. Definitely better than the normal thugs I have to avoid. Dillon ran up a large stack of barrels and crates lining the street, deliberately toppling the pile as he ran. A loud crash behind him let him know that he had successfully brought the whole thing down. He glanced back and saw most of the men either jumping the mess or plowing straight through, knocking barrels aside roughly. He shook his head in disbelief, that barely slowed them down at all! This chase was quickly losing its thrill as he sought desperately for a way to escape. Suddenly he rounded a corner and saw a man in a doorway, hurriedly motioning for him to enter.

Dillon dove into the man’s house and the door closed quickly behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside he looked around. It was not a beautifully adorned home, but it was cozy. A few lamps lit the area with a warm glow and a table and cushions were arranged in the middle of the room. More importantly, he saw a mother and two small children in the corner, staring at him apprehensively.

“Uhh.. Hello.” Dillon said carefully, “Thank you? I suppose?”

“Oh, my friend, my friend! No worry, they are only surprised, they are not knowing who you are!” A man speaking spotty Orran  was quickly closing the windows, glancing back at Dillon as he spoke. He looked vaguely familiar.

“I am sorry, but do I know you?” Dillon asked, still speaking Yhildrish.

“Oh, my name is being Yholdan! And this is my wife, Saree, and my two children. Saree, this is the man! Yes, you once gave me enough frankas to move out of the pit where I was living in. I guess you are not remembering!” The man said happily, apparently unaware of his poor grammar.

They both fell silent as the thundering of footsteps outside told them that the guards were passing by. Dillon took advantage of the moment to examine Yholdan further. He was a large man, both in height and width, wearing the traditional white robe and turban of his people. Dillon thought he recognized the man, but he looked so different Dillon could hardly recognize him. Last time they met, more than a year before, Yholdan had been homeless, dirty, and broken spirited. After waiting a few moments Dillon spoke.

“Well, I am grateful for your help. You can speak to me in Yhildrish, but thank you, you’re Orran is quite good.” Dillon said convincingly.

“You are much to kind!” The man seemed overjoyed that Dillon had complimented him, but he had begun speaking his native Yhildrish. “Because of you my life has been changed forever. I now have a place for my family; I have a home. On top of that I have a good way to keep them both. For this I cannot repay you.”

“I don’t know about that, I only gave you money, if I remember right. You did the rest. Besides,” Dillon said, peeking through one of the windows, “I think we might be even considering you just saved my hide.”

“Ah, I’m sure you would have gotten away somehow. Now, we must move quickly, how are you planning on leaving?” Yholdan asked, sitting down at the table and motioning for his family and Dillon to join him.

“Leaving, you mean your home?” Dillon replied, furrowing his brow.

“No, no, I mean the city of course! You cannot stay here,” said Yholdan.

Dillon sat across from Yholdan and asked “What do you mean, leave the city? Why can’t I stay here?”

“Surely you know?” Yholdan asked, surprised. “The Sahvir has personally called for your death! All of the guard will be out looking for you. You are not safe here.”

“The Sahvir?!” exclaimed Dillon, “Why? I steal things, yes, but why is he concerned with a petty thief?”

Yholdan laughed, it was a deep and booming laugh that made Dillon smile, “Petty?! Ha! You have gotten away with stealing from some of the richest men in the city. Still, I do not know why the Sahvir would busy himself with such affairs, but I know he wants you dead, while I do not. Whatever I can do to help, I offer freely. We must get you out of the city.”

Dillon’s thoughts ran wild, leave Yhildran? It had been over two years since he arrived in and for once he was not thinking of leaving.

“I can’t leave, this place is my home now.” Dillon said quietly.

For the first time Yholdan’s wife, Saree, spoke up “You honor us,” she said sincerely.

To consider a place home was of great importance to the people of Yhildran; it meant it was the place you would die for. For a foreigner to call Yhildran home meant that he had not only moved here, but he had adopted the people, the city, and even the land as his own.

Yholdan nodded, “Yes, it is your home, but until it is safe again you must leave. I am sure this is one of the Sahvir’s passing whims and he will forget you. Once things have calmed down then you can return.”

“I see…” Dillon replied slowly, “Well, you may be right, but I cannot endanger your family any further. Thank you for your help, I’ll find a way to get out.” Dillon began to stand but was quickly interrupted.

“Nonsense,” Saree said, “You have saved my family. Allow us to help you one more time. My brother, he is leaving for the north tomorrow. He can take you in his caravan, no one there will betray you, I can promise.”

“Ah ha! This is why I love this woman, always thinking!” Boomed Yholdan, kissing his hand and motioning to the stars in gratitude. He was obviously convinced his wife was the best woman in the world.

Dillon paused, it was a good idea.

Back north… It had been over six years since he had been there, would he be welcome? Dillon was not sure what kind of reception waited for him, but it was still probably his best choice. Besides, a caravan would be perfect for blending in; all sorts of people left the city to go north and one more Orran going back to Oris wouldn’t raise any suspicions.

Dillon sat back down, “Very well. Thank you, Saree, going north would be perfect.”

“Wonderful, I will speak with my brother tonight.” Saree said.

“Do you have somewhere to stay in Oris?” asked Yholdan.

“Yes, I think I do. Far north, past the great city Vandar, there’s a small village called Kressing, that’s where I’ll go.” Dillon said absently, rubbing his chin.

“That far?” asked Yholdan, “Why? Anywhere in Oris would suffice.”

“Because,” Dillon replied, “it is always good to visit family, isn’t it?”

Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 1, Mistakes, Part 4

Dillon ducked the larger man’s right hook, quickly following it by slamming his knee into the man’s gut. One down, three to go, he thought as the man slumped over. On a good day he might be able to win this fight, but pain wasn’t really his thing so he decided to cut it short.

Dillon turned to face the now sizable crowd. “Today is a special day!” He shouted, pulling a fistful of gold coins from a pouch and holding them high. “Because today,” he paused dramatically, throwing the coins into the air between himself and his pursuers, “I get to make it rain!”

The crowd fell silent as the gold sailed through the air. Even his would-be attackers watched open-mouthed. The moment seemed to stand still as more money than most people earned in a year flew through the air on Dhalkan street. The strange quiet was ended by the sweet sound of jingling coins on stone. The result was almost instant; chaos erupted as the crowd rushed forward in a throng, pushing and yelling as they fought for the money. Dillon watched the pandemonium for a few seconds and then turned, laughing as he ducked into a small shop and ran out the other side.

The streets of Yhildran were packed as thousands went about their business. Merchants shouted their trade as poor and rich passed by, intent on whatever errand they were running. Stalls lined every street and corner, selling rugs, food, jewelry, weapons, and trinkets. A few people from Oris, Boltak and even Lyntir moved about the market otherwise dominated by native Yhildrish. Children with varied amounts of clothing ran up and down the road, either playing or on a task for a parent or employer. The din of constant talk and shouting made the streets seem alive, each as vibrant and familiar to Dillon as an old friend.

 The sun glared overhead in a clear sky, its light magnified by the white sandstone of the buildings and roads. The constant heat of the sun sank deep into the skin, making it difficult to remember what it was like to be cold.

The hot day and loud clamor only made Dillon smile more. He loved this place, where the desert sand was almost as plentiful as the people to rob.

 It wasn’t that Dillon enjoyed stealing from people, just that he enjoyed stealing. The challenge of the planning, the heist, the chase, all of it added to the thrill. He was too good not to, and thievery kept life interesting. Yhildran had an exceptional amount of wealth, allowing him to pick his targets with care. He took from where it would scarcely be missed and with a little luck he got something nice for himself while making sure the money got back to the people who really needed it.

                Dillon moved quickly at first, making sure he lost the men in the crowds, and then more slowly as he attempted to find something in the bazaar that caught his eye. As usual, it didn’t take long to find what he wanted. A small stall, where an even smaller man was selling what appeared to be random pieces of junk. Like many in Yhildran the man was obviously living in poverty and probably had nothing of value. It looked like he had gathered random pieces of worn out furniture and cast-off clothing in the hope that someone would see something they might need. What really caught Dillon’s eye were the two children peeking from the tiny roomed tent behind the stall, obviously hoping for something of their father’s wares to sell, ensuring dinner for that night.

“I’ll take the lot!” Dillon exclaimed, “How much for everything?”

The man scoffed, “Please sir, do not mock me, buy something if you will, otherwise leave us in peace.”

The man looked tired and thin from lack of food. No doubt his children were the same.

“No sir, I do not mock.” Dillon said, more seriously than before. “Peace is exactly what I hope for you.”

Untying his heavy and recently filled coin purse he handed it to the old man.

“Take it quickly and find somewhere safe to stay. You’re fortunes have shifted my friend.”

The man opened the pouch and his eyes widened. Then he moved quickly, grabbing his staff and motioning to his children to emerge.

The man studied Dillon for a moment, and then spoke softly, “Thank you, whoever you are.”

He then moved into the crowd with his children in tow, never looking back. Dillon watched him go and then turned to his recently acquired junk.

“Well, trash or not, you’re all mine now.” He mumbled to himself, bending down to look through it all.

Dillon sighed as he dug through torn rags. You had to go and pick someone who really had nothing didn’t you? As he expected there was practically nothing of value and almost everything was broken or ruined in one way or another. However, he did find an old knife and scabbard, along with a carved necklace nestled together in a wooden box. The necklace was fashioned after what appeared to be one of the many Yhildrish gods, perhaps Yaan, he was not sure. He left them together in the box and put it in his bag. A nice souvenir I suppose. Better than nothing.

Aetherra; by Isaac Ostlund; Chapter 1, Mistakes, Part 3

Brant’s hand snapped back. He was turning to flee when a loud crack like the snapping of timber rang in his ears. He sprinted toward the edge of the crater when the egg burst open with a blast of energy and force, knocking him to the ground. He watched wide-eyed as leathery black wings stretched from inside the broken shell, unfurling in each direction. His heart dropped in his chest. World’s end… It’s a dragon. He was up in a second, vaulting the fallen tree and racing from the clearing. A long, terrifying shriek ripped through the air. The sound filled Brant’s ears, pushing every thought from his mind except one: give up and die. His legs almost gave out and he stumbled. Clenching his jaw he forced himself forward, willing his legs to move he dashed through the trees.

  Panicked thoughts raced through his mind, a dragon? How? All of Xorias feared the Dragons. Each was like a catastrophe; powerful, deadly, and unstoppable. Only a few Great Serpents were known to exist, but whole armies had little power against even one. Stories of the destruction and terror caused by the dragons were told around the world, some reaching as far north as the village of Kressing. Brant remembered a man years ago who told of Amon, the Dragon of Wrath, and his annihilation of the city of Qalen in less than a day.

Despite his fear Brant slowed, realizing he had been mindlessly sprinting and could not keep it up.  It just hatched, he told himself as he slowed, I’m alright, I’m alright. I just need to get back and tell everyone. He forced himself to steady his pace and pushed on, running for an hour in spite of burning legs and the taste of iron in his mouth.