Overture

As night fell over the village of Estwerth, there were only two sounds to be heard: the constant pattering of a summer storm and the labored breaths of a sickly woman. A month ago, the air would have buzzed with warm conversation as the townsfolk brought a close to another day of hard work in the mines. Despite officially observing the Sunrest, many of the younger men relaxed the tradition enough to share drinks at the tavern over twilight. It was not uncommon to hear a few rowdy shouts as they stumbled home, but now they only lay silent as the rain poured down on their diseased corpses.

Estwerth’s sole occupant stood at the entrance of the remote village, coughing as she struggled with the weight of a rusty shovel. With the meager amount of strength left in her, she repeatedly plunged it into the damp earth. She dug into the night, slowly and meticulously without pause. When she stopped, the storm had settled into a light drizzle even though her tattered rags were already soaked through. Her face, softly lit by the moonlight that peeked through the parting clouds, bore a striking resemblance to the bodies that littered the dirt roads behind; her pallid skin stretched tightly over her bones and her eyes were hazy like a sheet of thick fog. Thin strands of straw-colored hair, caked with grime and dirt, rested on a pair of sunken shoulders.

A weary smile formed through her heavy breaths as she looked upon the fruits of her labor. She knelt down, opened her pouch, and produced a single seed. She gently placed it into the ground, savoring the feeling of mud between her brittle fingers. Tidy rows of holes lined the fields outside of Estwerth, and one by one she filled each of them with care. Her fragile limbs ached in complaint, but she continued until her pouch was completely empty. Only then did she allow herself to rest and listen to the sounds of the storm.

Her brief reverie ended when she heard soft footsteps coming down the rough trail that led into Estwerth. She gritted her teeth; she did not appreciate having her ritual interrupted. The visitor cautiously walked around the puddles that had formed during the storm, a scowl on her face as she tried to avoid dirtying her elegant dress.

“Breaker…” the sickly woman wheezed, the exhaustion in her tone overtaken by scorn. Ignoring the greeting, her visitor looked up from her path to inspect the fields on either side. Her jet black hair was neatly trimmed, her porcelain skin too even to have made the trek all the way to the edges of the Sorian Empire. A bright orange light emanated from her eyes, cutting through the night with an eerie glow as she turned from side to side.

“Lovely garden you have here,” she commented under her breath. For a moment, the ground trembled beneath her feet before a mass of blackened roots burst out of the soil around her. Dodging them with inhuman speed, she contorted her body as she closed the distance to the sickly woman. She stopped just short of her target, a thick root wriggling in her gloved hand. “Not the warm welcome I was hoping for,” she said. “I came all the way out here for a short chat and now I will have to get my dress cleaned.”

The sickly woman’s eyes narrowed as she mustered all of the hatred left in her frail body. “Leave…me…”

The visitor shrugged, releasing the root as a misguided gesture of goodwill. “Believe me,” she groaned, “I would like nothing better than to avoid this forsaken little cesspit. However, I have a project that would benefit from your cooperation.” Motioning to the rundown buildings of Estwerth, she added, “You are not going to simply be content with this, are you?”

The sickly woman’s voice rose just barely above a raspy whisper. “They left me…to perish…alone…in pain. None of them…not you…deserve mercy.”

Her visitor scoffed, expressing the best approximation of indignation she could manage. “How hurtful. You should really know by now that I am not interested in your petty machinations. Destroy an insignificant town, kill all of Vilratha, it makes little difference to me. Whatever you have planned, it would behoove you and your misbegotten siblings to step in line. I would open the path to the Equinox, and I would have you destroy it again. Just like old times, how nostalgic.”

Before she could gather the breath to respond, the twisted parody of a female voice echoed in the corner of her mind. Its words grated against each other, every syllable sharply ending the previous. “Listen, sister. We must finish what we started, we must end this cycle. Only then will we be free, only then can I reclaim my place beside to my queen.”

She reflexively turned around to be met by another figure covered entirely by a dark, hooded robe. They advanced slowly towards her without a sound as the voice grew louder. “The others have agreed. You stand with us, or you rot into obscurity once more.”

Her first visitor coughed loud enough to reclaim her attention. “There will be plenty enough time for heartfelt reunions later. I know that you are not one for idle chatter, so I will be gladly taking my leave. Take your time to think on it, indulge yourself for a while. Creating a little chaos for the Sorians should help things along. I will find you again, and then your work will begin. Oh and do try to get a little sun, it would do wonders for your complexion.”

She turned with a dismissive wave, twin streaks of light following behind her as she walked into the night. The robed figure followed behind, silently drifting down the beaten trail. The sickly woman watched and waited patiently until the footsteps faded into the last traces of the storm. She would have much preferred to leave them cold and motionless like the citizens of Estwerth, but for now she was content to listen to the rain. She smiled once more; one day, she hoped, all of Vilratha would know this peace.

Reflections – Wanderers

“Every wanderer has their own reason to pledge their life to the trail. I have met many on my travels, shared a fire on an otherwise silent night. Some have an insatiable appetite for the world, each mountain or forest just a morsel on the way to a meal that could never satisfy them. Others have a mission, and I have heard them all: some noble, some not as much, but all of them are not quite sure where to look. And then there are those who wander simply because they have nowhere to go, searching for a place they left behind or just never had. They are the most interesting to me; perhaps they seek to build, perhaps they wish for all to be just as lost. Which type am I? I think it is best to leave that for history to decide.”