Chapter 1: The Stranger
The air is pleasantly cool as it flows playfully through the crowded plaza. The old, worn paving stones feel the slap of shoes and sandals as they listen to the prattle of unassuming townsfolk. The conversation varies, sometimes dying down, and other times rising to a dull crescendo. Sometimes many voices speak, competing for attention. Other times it is a select few whose vocalizations are to be made out above the rest of the crowd. Here, a Kran discusses kras latest trip to Gugrontid with a fair-skinned Dermorian, kras deep, gravelly voice catching the attention of the occasional passersby. Meanwhile, on the far end of the crowded plaza, three graying heads nod, while snatches of conversation whisper on the wind, interrupted now and then by hearty, seasoned chuckles. The elders, two Dwarves and a Diaboli, talk like old friends, sharing jokes and reminiscing. Their faces crinkle into warm and much used smiles as their babble meanders within the warmth of a shared past. Through it all a gentle wind ruffles hair here and there. The smell is thick and pungent, rich with the aromas of town life. The stench of sweat mingles with the dense, earthy scent of dirt, accented by wood smoke from torches. These aromas drown the nose in their depth, pervading the olfactory sense of all those present. All the while the breeze drifts by, first as soft as a bluedust pillow and then as wild as a hungry tefusang.
Today is an ordinary day in Hydlaa.
While perhaps sounding as distant and exotic as another land, this is but a day, no more distinct than any other in the eyes of the Hydlaa residents. For them, there is nothing more commonplace. Yet, it is vital to understand that the people of Hydlaa find their city’s consistent normalcy to be not a detraction, but a great beauty, for they love the calm simplicity of their city, with all its sounds and smells. In fact, the only aspect of the scene less striking than the scene itself is a particular Xacha, plain and insignificant, who is talking with a friend beside the fountain. He looks completely at ease with the situation, and fits into the crowd well. His face possesses the singular quality of being eternally forgotten. He lacks any distinctive features. His skin is extremely pale, like fresh goujah milk or sun-bleached bone. Atop his pate sits an unassuming mass of dull, straight, lifeless black hair. All in all, it’s not a bad face, just easily dismissed from the memory, the very antithesis of eye-catching. He wears banal clothing, slightly worn and inexpensive, yet certainly not cheap. His shoes are just the same way. At his belt hangs a pouch of money, which he doesn’t seem too concerned about the safety of. He is so without distinction that on first glance, passersby wouldn’t even see him there. Noticing seems to require a conscious effort. He continues talking to his friend. “Didst thou hear of Gareth and his plight?” he asks, his arched and inquiring eyebrows concealing a playful smile. “Nay, why do you ask?” his apparent friend, a klyros, responds, his expression expectant but not overeager. “Well, you’d have thought the whole town would’ve heard,” the average man continues, grinning, “after all, Mrs. Garth has been known to make some noise when she finds out that Garth’s been into the spirits again.” “No,” the Klyros replies in mock disbelief, “our Garth?” He grins wickedly. “Aye,” confirms the man, “she found him asleep on the walk out front in the dark hours of the crystal, covered in beer.” The Klyros chuckles, “Just doesn’t know when to stop, does he? Never has.” They share a knowing grin. The Klyros begins to wrap up the conversation, and finally heads home for dinner after waving goodbye.
Now more or less alone, the indistinctive man heads home as the light begins to fade from the crystal. Another day passes, he thinks. His shoes tap their way along the dusty street as the city quiets. After turning a few corners, he reaches the door to his modest home, the walls of old half-timber style with gently flaking whitewashed plaster, and enters, carefully locking the door behind him. The old house’s timbers, weary with age, creak as if in greeting, and he heads to his bedroom, one of the two rooms he lives in. Inside, the walls are warm plaster, with a painting of an old Xacha claiming a space over the bed’s headboard. The bed itself has the look of a thing handed down through families. It isn’t ornate, but doesn’t need to be. Its straw mattress and under-roping serve their purposes well, as they probably have for some time. The sheets are the color of the flax they were spun from. Perhaps dye was regarded as a frivolous extravagance by the previous owner. Beside the bed wobbles an old stool he uses as a nightstand. Its top is graced with naught but a half-spent candle in a sturdy bronze stand. Feeling the weight of the day rush down upon him, he suddenly feels tired, and changes out of his mundane clothes into an equally mundane nightgown and cap, made of grey cloth woven from rivnak wool. With a yawn, he stretches out onto his not-quite-large-enough straw mattress and waits for his eyelids to grow heavy, thinking back on the pleasantly normal day which is drawing to a conclusion. After a few minutes, he is lost to the land of sleep. The week goes by, every day more or less the same, nothing new, nothing changing. The ordinary man has an ordinary job as a scribe for the Vigesimi. He sits in a small room and copies: sometimes legal documents, sometimes speeches. Never anything creative, and certainly nothing interesting to the layman. Every day the same, like a handful of tria dropped into an eager merchant’s outstretched hand, each one perfectly shaped by magic, mundane. And so his days pass. And the man is wholly content with this, his life.
The life of Kleed Lachu.
On one of these so ordinary days, Kleed is talking with Finara, a guard at the northern gate who is a friend of his. As the wind tickles dust across the old stone of Hydlaa, the day inches along like any other. However, this day is, in fact, not like the others. This day is Kleed’s birthday. He isn’t really expecting gifts, as he has few close friends, and he hasn’t mentioned his birthday’s approach to any of them recently. But unbeknownst to him, Finara is aware of the unique nature of the day. Consequently, Kleed’s face is full of genuine surprise when Finara hands him a small good luck amulet. It’s nothing ornate, but Kleed places great value in unrequited friendship, and so sees great value in the gift. His mouth spreads slowly into a warm smile, his dimples becoming more defined and his eyes creasing warmly at the edges, his eyes full of genuine gratitude; he unclasps the coupling on the thin chain the charm hangs from and reaches towards the back of his neck to put it on. He is just about to bring the ends together behind him. But they are not alone.
Between the two doors which the gate consists of, perched on one of the worn rafters in the ceiling, a Fahny watches in greedy interest. His eye is caught by the cold gleam of the amulet. He tilts his head and fluffs his feathers in anticipation of flight. Maybe, just maybe, it can snatch the amulet before the clasp is done. Kleed begins to clasp the ends together, but his fingers slip. The chain escapes his grasp and begins its plummet to the ground, spiraling in a dizzying dance with gravity. Kleed’s hands fly down to grab it, his eyes widening in alarm and surprise, but he is too slow. Down swoops the fahny, greedy mouth agape. Beak touches metal, and Kleed’s hands, which were frantically reaching below, are left with naught but the bird’s wake. Kleed mutters something under his breath before jerking his head up to look for the little thief. Far above, perched on the ramparts of the city wall, a smudge of purple rests with a shining chain in its mouth, as if teasing. Then, without further ado, the fahny flits across the walk towards the forest.
Kleed’s smile is stolen by a disappointed frown. Finara sighs, “I didn’t see that coming.” Kleed shakes his head slowly with his eyes turned down, then, as if coming out of a reverie, looks up with a somewhat forced grin. “Thought that counts,” he concedes. He shakes his head again and slips into a more genuine grin. “I am very thankful. It was so kind of you to…” He breaks off. His eyes are looking past Finara, fixed on something just over her shoulder. She raises an eyebrow at his odd behavior and asks, “What is it?” “Our friend appears to be back,” he responds, never taking his eyes off the creature in question. She slowly turns her head to glance behind her. Sure enough, a splash of purple is nestled in the tall grass, its head cocked in their direction. It chirps, dropping the chain from its beak. Kleed leans over to Finara and murmurs, “I’ll be back.” Finara smiles knowingly and offers a “Good luck,” before adding playfully, “After all, that thing wasn’t free.” Kleed throws her an ephemeral smile, then creeps towards the bird. However, just as he’s about to pounce, the Fahny snatches the amulet back up and flies off to a nearby tree. Kleed walks towards it again, carefully, and again, just as before, it comes within reach but escapes before it’s captured. This game continues into the forest, the bird always daunting him from just ahead. They pass the turn off for the magic shop, and don’t stop. After about thirty minutes, the two are facing off just outside the woods on the other side of the forest. The crystal begins to grow dark, but the fahny isn’t tiring of the game. Finally, Kleed loses it in the gathering dusk. He’s about to head back, disappointed and tired, when he notices a lone figure starkly outlined atop the hill which bulges up beside the dusty road. Curious as to who would be out on the edge of the wilderness at this time of night, he quietly walks up towards the silhouetted figure. He treads carefully so as not to disturb the cloaked stranger, gingerly keeping to patches of moss and soft dirt. After a few light steps, he finds himself with an excellent view of the stranger though he is concealed by the tree trunk and tall grass. Feeling guilty for hiding, he thinks about calling out to the stranger in greeting. He opens his mouth to call out, but the words never leave his lips. The sound is stuck in his throat, for as he prepared to greet the stranger, the stranger gently dropped the cloak’s hood, which slid off as fluidly as running water. Before him, now set aglow by the dimming light of the crystal, is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.
Her face is well defined, with high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Her skin, soft, supple, and slightly blue, looks cool and refreshing in the night air. Her ears are gracefully pointed back, though not much longer than his own rounded ears, and her lips are full and endowed with life and character. Her eyes are like the crystal itself, pale, azure, and sparkling, while giving off a feeling of strength of mind and steely determination. Her hair flows down her shoulders, long and soft as Arangma silk. The contours of her face betray innocence, yet not naiveté. She has the look of one who has seen darkness, but refused to accept it. As Kleed gazes, spellbound, he thinks of the story of Laanx and the creation of the Lemurs. Truly, he thinks, she is in the very image of Laanx herself before Laanx was struck. Her beauty must have no equal. Kleed’s eyes are loosing focus. Suddenly he notices a change in the composure of the otherworldly face. She seems to brace her thoughts against some sadness, and as she looks out towards the wilderness, a peculiar thing happens. A single tear, clear and smooth as glass, tumbles weakly down her cheek. The trail it leaves glistens. Kleed is taken aback and cannot think what to do. He longs to run out and comfort her, but he knows that to do so would be folly. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, afraid to shatter the fragile anguish of the moment.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The stranger pulls up her hood with a deep, painful sigh and, with one last glance into the gathering dark, she turns back to the road and walks into the forest at a brisk pace, still unaware of Kleed’s presence. As soon as she is gone, Kleed begins to come back to his sense, while her beauty still echoes through his mind. He looks back behind him, but she is nowhere in sight. He sighs, the curious feeling the stranger had awoken within him leaving his mind just as the air leaves his mouth. His eyes close in a long blink, and he stands up stiffly, realizing how long he’s been hiding. His feet find their way back to the path and he heads home, deep in thought.
To be continued…
