Chapter 2: The Value In Friendships.
Episode 1: Then, There Was The Mystery.
It's in the morning, before sun dawn, that Escaflore gets up in his little room in the lower part of the inn. His heart aches. What he expected is not at all what he got. Sleeping doesn't feel any better than it usually does. Hes anxious. Hes scared the scars go deeper than just the surface. Deeper than he ever thought possible. He feels numb, from head to toe. He calms his breathing. Problems don't get better running away from them. That's a lesson he learned early enough in life. Early enough to survive life. Facing them down is the best chance he can get. He remembers the advice the old man OxHand gave him. To see the world with optimism. To be blind to the bad and open to the good. It's an effort, but it proves its own worth.
Choosing to wear the attire pieces that yield the best possible advantages for the day, he dawns his blood-red hunter-gloves, improving his 'focus' enhancements and technique and wears his pocket ring over the gloves, taking it straight from the cold hardstone floor. He puts an expensive 'furlone-black flat-cap' over his hair, seeking to add to his psyche-defense options. An 'Arachno-silken' white shirt and a long 'black-cotton' trouser and coat, enhance physical defense by leagues. He ties a 'white-mangel' scarf over and around his neck, to enhance sense sensitivity, and places his religious carrion-beads underneath it, to improve arkana expressions. He tops it off with black-stag boots, for grip-ability, and leaves the room and the inn, well prepped for the unforeseeable unknown.
He wants to see the rising sun. To see the breaking dawn. He wants to see it with his best friend. He goes into the stable to get her. She has twice the intellect of a normal horse so she appreciates the things Escaflore does. She also has as many quirks as a cat, jumping and neighing in excitement whenever Escaflore greets her in the morning. They find a higher viewpoint and wait in the lightening dark. The sun is rising up against the lake. The blues of the two are in perfect sync. The sky is more violet accented early in the morning. There's no one else but the two of them in that moment. The previous day was a great fishing haul and the fishers are taking a break. It's completely silent. Not a bird in the sky. Not a chirp in the wind. Not a step on the ground. Felis is mesmerized by the view. It makes Escaflore happy. Seeing Felis getting emotional always helps with his own emotional processing. The numbness subsides, to a massive degree. Life's easier with her around. He never takes her for granted.
There are things that get to his mind though. Like for instance, what comes out in the darkness that the villagers like clockwork, do their best to avoid. There are a couple of possibilities with that. He goes over simulated scenarios in his head.
A Hunter needs to analyze and predict the opponent before even coming across them. The skill of observation and deduction is henceforth one of the most basic areas of learning for a fledgling Hunter. The skill allows preparation. Preparation being the second most basic expertise. He needs to achieve the raw basics to edge advantages over the opponent. To guarantee a success to the greater goals. Fostering exorcism and death in the world are what matters most for a Hunter. His mission to his religion is what matters the most to him.
He initiates the first phase of intelligent thought. Observation. He thinks on all the possible observations that can be made, however minor, however minute. First the major one. The residents of the village finding aversion to dusks. Second the layout of the entire village. If something has been happening to the village for generations it's very possible that would translate to the layout of the houses and shops since, they were dingy, cheap and impermanent. It's likely that they get replaced or altered very often and depending on the subject of influence its possible for that influence to translate into the material. Third, the heavy catches of fish. Its 'greater winter', season wise. The idea of having a great catch in a lake during the extreme season subset is impossible. Unless, Magik usage. On a colossal scale. Of colossal quality. And colossal skill. And the last observation, the cats. There's a lot of them living in the Fish docks. Most of them clear strays. What happens to them during the night. Why are they a different case from the humans.
Hes got it.
The answer to everything happening in the village.
The truth to the unknown.
The unknown to the truth.
Felis starts licking his hair. She can tell what hes thinking and feeling. She can tell his success in the mystery solving endeavor. He deserves rewards in licks. So, she gives him the licks. They sit, basked in the scene for a long while. A while before the village starts getting active.
Episode 2: The Value In Change.
Escaflore confronts the Inn keeper on his theories. He challenges him. Monitors him. Traps him. It's a battle fought in words. A war painted in minds. The old man Lonspear is more versed and intelligent than he tries to let on. Escaflore though, is very versed in speech craft. He had to be. Everything was always a matter of life and death to him. He never holds back. Never gives lesser than his best. He can never lose. He will never lose. His deadly stakes show. They flood the opponent. Overwhelm and outmatch. It isn't a close fight. Years of experience in the art of using words doesn't stand tall against a superhuman fighting for his life. OxHand cedes and asks for how he figured it out. Nobody in the village would talk to him. Not when more than their survival, more than their existence is on the line.
"First, the layout of the houses in the village. It seems normal, only to the normal. I'm not so normal as you'd guess." Escaflore opens the doorway to his thought process. Observant, meticulous and undeniably brilliant. A worthy foe to the worthiest foes.
"Aye, a distinction a blind man can make son." Lonspear rebuttals, genuinely curious where he's taking the conversation.
"I can smell a lot of scents in the air at incredible scale, unprecedented depth and boundless detail. I can smell tumors and malformations, smell early skin leak and incubating thorn disease. Smell it to the individual."
"Interesting. Go on"
"The smells are all originating from one side of the village. The left side. The right doesn't have a single one."
"Well. Shit." It dawns on Lonspear where he's headed with this. A mistake made in the past and in the now, all born from an underestimation.
"It's almost as if its arranged to the convenience of someone. To the convenience of everyone." Escaflore rubs it in. Aiming to push Lonspear into further mental siege. A means to an end, no doubt.
"Very smart. Keep going boy. Don't stop." Lonspear tries reversed psychology as a counter strategy. Reactionary and impulsive. All to stop his motion at all cost. All to put a halt to his process momentum. It doesn't work well enough, to no one's surprise.
"The anomaly can either be a Naturalborn or an Apparition. The second observation thins out the likelihood. Naturalborns tend not to be empathetic. There self-centered, survivalistic and know great boundaries to anything that passes out as empathy. There are hard limits to it. I mean just look at humans. Apparitions though, their makeup and nature are significantly more emotional and significantly less physical. The exact opposite of all naturalborn in this reality. So, when they're trapped in this reality not of their own, they easily get lost and overwhelmed by the emotion, malice and violence of this reality."
"Your something real special you know that?" Lonspear is getting vastly irritated by the stranger. He unfolds a sliver of hostility as preemptive warning. A warning well ignored.
"The second observation, is, the heavy haul of fish. I can sense the Arkana imposed on the lake. It's so faint only a handful of Mages in the world could sense it. It allows high harvest of catch even in the worst season subset possible for fishing. A great act of boundless compassion indeed. Am I right."
"You know some things are meant to be as they are right. Without change. There is value in consistence. Escaflore."
"The third and fourth observation go hand in hand. Affirming each other. Adding to each other. The culture of the humans avoiding Moon dawn like a plague and the fact that cats can survive it just fine. It narrows what our stranger is down to the character."
"Let it be boy. What doesn't concern you, doesn't concern you." The sliver of hostility is now a pool of malice. A miasma of bloodlust, sharp as a storm of razors. His intentions fill the air in essence, an aura of unbounded strength, backboned by decades of resilience. Gone is the venire of old man and random innkeeper, now lies a warrior, body bathed in the experience of countless battles, fought and won, and mind washed in the sharpening and polish of aged wars, waged and fraught. The presence still doesn't get Escaflore to stand down.
"See, it's the nature of 'Divinities', of the gods, lesser or greater, that none beneath them should see their faces. Seeing it results in instant and unhesitant death. Results in perfected death. Not even a god can stop it. It's automatic. It's their nature. Nature can never be defied. Even by the subject. The influence of time, is just, a delusion."
"Enough. I demand you stop. Now." He does not stop.
"But that would get you wandering, why do the cats survive it. See, divinity are reflections in mirrors. Looking at a mirror all you see is a reflection of yourself right. Resemblance is the key aspect. Divinity are only reflections of their own kind. Reflections only for their own kind. Henceforth, only their kind can see the reflection. Only their kind can see them. This means our stranger is human-like. A 'greater apparition' and 'lesser divinity', to be exact."
"I could kill you, you know. Spill your guts. Split your spleen. Right here. Right now." Lonspear raises the full veil of his power. Announces it to the world. Announces it to the stranger. It sends birds flying and settlements shaking. Sends leaves rustling and snow thawing. It's no understatement to say, Escaflore just randomly landed on the neck of one of the strongest and most powerful people in the whole 'Knightdom of Artorica'. He now has to stand by his words, stand by his work and stand by what he believes in. To not hesitate in ideals. To not falter in faith.
"I can sense the very depths of your power, the canyons of strength long filled by time, long degraded by age. I'm well aware of just how strong you are and how strong you were in your prime. A true warrior, without a doubt. You still wouldn't have stood a chance. Then." Escaflore is no easy mark either. Throughout the whole nation and possibly the ocean stretched continents of the world, he just might be, 'unrivaled under the heavens'. If potential spoke, at least. He's an anomaly, even to the anomalies called 'Hunters'.
"You can see why, right. Your smart enough to. Why chase it. Why pursue. I'll repeat my advice. Your still young. Listen. There is peace in the constant. There is beauty in the consistent. You understand what change in this picture would mean. Its monstrous. I was once a Knight. Knights exist by the Value in True Strength. It matters not the overwhelming difference in strength. Nor power, nor skill, nor technique. When a Knight fights for something the fight is a pure fight.
I'll face you down now, even if all that translates to you is inconvenience. I know what I fight for. I found my True Strength. I'll die by it. I'll live by it." Lonspear speaks long lived philosophies, fluently and eloquently, completely dropping the acted peasant accent.
"You talk about the value in consistence and shun the value in change. I do the opposite. I fight for the value in change. That is my purpose as a Hunter. The meaning to all Hunters. Life cannot be embraced while death is shunned. There is meaning to letting go. Purpose in moving on. Holding onto the lost will only make more lost. You think you gamed the system. Think you cheated the house. The system always win. The house will always have its say. It's not a matter of if but one of when. When will the house catch up to the scam. When will the system discover the breach and what price will there be to pay for the years cheated. What atrocity will you inflict on the world, on other children, because you couldn't let go of yours. Because you couldn't move on. Is that what it means to be a Knight. Is that the coveted True Strength you spent your life searching for. Calamity to all but your own. Time is a delusion Ser Lonspear. Eventually, all illusions fade, self-inflicted or not. I implore you, all delusions are impermanent. Choose change."
Episode 3: The Lord, Forever Remembered.
Lonspear is quiet. He's out of breath. Out of words. Then the door creaks and a child comes through it. Escaflore knew the little girl was listening in. He could hear her heartbeat, thumping loud as a drum. The speech on the value in change wasn't meant for Lonspear's ear alone. The girl comes in, wheeling a pseudo-conscious man, on a mobile-chair. Escaflore knew the stranger would be in the inn this morning considering the house arrangement in the left part of the street and the assumption she was going house to house in perfect order. He can also perceive the difference in heartbeat wavelengths. There were two alternating sets. A classic sign of Possession.
"So, what will it be. Consistence or change. Make your choice." Escaflore proposes to the stranger.
"Change. I choose," replies the little girl, fully confident in the choice she made. She's aware now that well intentioned empathy, can hold boundless repercussions. Acting like she did, for her people, with her people, in her reality, doesn't translate well to this alien one. When in Romes one must do what the Romens do. One must only exercise measured pity and caged empathy, in Erath, at least.
Lonspear is shaken. He gives all his strength to keep himself standing. The system can't be cheated and he now knows there's no escaping that truth. No escaping the loss, destined to be endured. The girl approaches Escaflore.
"How are we to escape its wrath now, kind hunter. How can there be survivors to this folly. To thine crime. The Bearer of Coins, I cheated. Surely, his hounds will follow, in time well due. Your help, I sincerely plead."
The little girl moves to her knees in supplication. The god begs in earnest. Pleads for the salvation of the people in the village and the surrounding nations. The crime she did. A crime of intelligence.
Looking into the face of a Divinity as a lesser being results in imminent death. Its natural and happens against their own will. Knowing their true name, however, though just as frowned on by the greater system, the hound of designed order, it's to the onus of the individual divinity to inflict death on the knower themselves. Defying that leads to a price to be paid. Paid by both the god and the knower. What that translates to in the material realm is a new plague. Never seen before. Never heard of. The plague's mission will be to thrash and tear. To consume the knower and devour entire nations in recompense. It wouldn't be stopped. It wouldn't be opposed till completion.
The god possessed the sick in the night, that none die from seeing her, and by her presence in their body, healed them throughout the day. The healing isn't permanent since an Apparition's nature is antagonistic to the physical, since, they are primarily non-physical beings from a fictional reality. It's just not good at handling physical problems even as a divinity. The con to this possession is the mind of the subject and possessor sip into each other. Their conscious blend and awareness is shared. Every one she possessed knows her true name. Ordinarily when divinities possess a subject, they either never plan on leasing the subject their will back or will immediately kill them to avoid the chase of the greater hounds against them. She, however, found a way to cheat the greater system from knowing for multiple human generations. Time though, is just a delusion. It's impermanent. Her empathy would lead to catastrophe for many nations. Heavy is the crown of the exalted divine.
"Let them die in peace. All you possessed. I'm not capable of healing ailments I have never even come across. I'm not good enough. But I can numb the pain, give strength to their bodies and allow them joy for a few days. Allow them play, allow them rest, allow them their goodbyes and allow them a peaceful, painless and dignified passing. For three days I can add and take such from their lives. It's the best of my abilities. The scale of my knowledge. If they pass before the greater hounds realize the cheat, it might let its wrath subside due to their passing. Law is law and all laws can be stretched by those not good enough to defy them. That's the very definition of justice. But you must leave here my goddess. Find a place deserted of humanoids, the forests in the Wayward Highlands mayhap. There make your home. There can be beauty to solitude. Freedom in nature. Your race should advantage you great peace in a setting as such."
"I agree my Lord. Though it be not necessary nor desired, thoust found me a path to the salvation of many a nations and my life alongside. My life, I resolved to forfeit, a brave face I swore to bear, but thoust has been my help and my Knight."
"Your Lord I am not though, my Lady."
"Yes, you are. Tis my decision and choice, as a divinity of great renown, to forever crown you my Lord and Knight. And bind I as your willing Vassal. Not a day will pass in the forests that I will not think of your capacity in manhood. Your destiny I can identify. Your kind I can recognize. I will wait for you, however long it takes. Wait to be your one and only maiden. In this life and beyond."
She walks back over to OxHand.
"Forgive me, good ser Lonspear. I've betrayed your kindness but my motives I hope you can understand. Life can forever have meaning, even, if meaning is lost. I urge thoust be a true knight, preserver and be leaden with new hope. Find that meaning. I could not be the cure you hoped to your daughter but I hope to not be a calamity to other children."
"It is I who ought to be on my knees before you. My lady and my god. I am beyond grateful of all you did to save her life and if her life cannot be saved all you did to add more days to her. All you did to take the pain away. When I learned of her ailment, I was crushed. I was brought to my knees. A life time I sought the value in true strength, my life dedicated as a Knight. It took losing everything to find it. It took being blind to see it. All along. Right beside me. The many years I spent here as a no name peasant were the very best of my lifetime. The many years I spent here away from the blade were the very best I have ever known. The many years I spent here as a father are all I would ever want to know. You allowed it all. You will forever be my lady and my god. Through the darkness and brightness of life. I will never forget you. I will never forsake you."
The old man Lonspear OxHand falls on his knees in thanks. Knights never kneel. But he does.
Episode 4: The Solution, Never Forgotten.
It's snowing heavily, throughout the little deserted fishing port and the rivers running through the valleys. Throughout the forests unbounded by scope and the rising highlands relentless in scale. It's dead silent. Completely empty. Not a flying bird in sight. Nor a chirp in the winds. Not a step to be heard. The wind is rushing hard, relentless and berserk. It threatens those not locked in houses, those not curled in hibernation. Those not above and beyond the normal. The air is heavy with moisture, freezing on contact. It makes it hard for Escaflore to smell. Deprives him of a sensory organ he grew up so dependent on. A form of sense he grew so accustomed to. He doesn't mind it though. He loves the existence threatening winters. So does Felis. It's the middle of the day, but the sun can barely be seen. It's heat and luminosity hardly translates to the material. It's a darker day and hard to see through the winded snow, the cold in the middle of greater winter is spine splitting. The village is dead silent. It's been a day since they heard the news. It'll be two days until they have to say their final goodbyes. To the people they love. To those they cherish. They have a mass of things to think about. A weight of things to talk about. They do so in the warmth and shelter of their houses. Safe from the ravenous wintry winds. Escaflore though, is sitting in the open. Where he first watched the sun dawn with his friend. He's here now with Felis. They're both further than normal. The threats and malice of the blizzard doesn't work on them. It's as warm as summer for them. They grew up loving blizzards. The peace. The silence. The solitude. It's their place. Their comfort zone.
Escaflore is a mess of thoughts. He's pulled in hard by the intrigue of his waiting lady, deep in the forests of the Wayward Highlands. Obsessed by the idea of someone waiting for him for the rest of their lives. The thought of someone wanting to depend on him. She was the first life Escaflore ever saved. The first change he ever left on the world. The weight of what that means to him weighs heavily in his heart.
The Mor, believe in the grand purpose. The eternal meaning. They are martyrs, called by destiny into self-sacrifice. They're heroes, meant to be forgotten, meant to be forsaken, meant to be betrayed. They exist to save humanity and persevere their cruelty. To change the world and know it's evils. After their service they pass on and their spirits rest in their heaven. Their paradise. They rest in, 'the living dream,' the physical form of the greater divinity, Phius. The god to all Hunters. The hope to all Hunters. The goal to all Hunters. In the living dream they find purpose, meaning and reason. They find peace, rest and hope. They find joy unbounded, happiness unquantified and love not-withheld. It's the one meaning in countless lives subjected to agony. To countless lives born of agony. It's all the meaning in Escaflore's life. To save people. To change lives. To find, the dream.
The villagers, as expected, are weighed down in mood. The small and bare settlement, accustomed to peace, accustomed to the normal, accustomed only to concern for their livelihood, is flooded by antagonistic principles. By a miasma of heart ache. Drenched in a plague of pain. Here now lies the center piece of politicking and scheming on an existential scale. Here lies the chess board minor in dimensions and the pawn pieces, meek and insignificant. Gone is their sole concern for fishing and workshops. Gone are their minor habits and soft schedules. Gone is the simplicity of being the unknown. Gone is the calm of being the unremarkable. Of being without renown. A dark cloud weighs heavily on them all. Unfocused malice and directionless loathing sips into their heart. Not sure to whom it should seek out. To whom should end up on the noose of their blame. They hold it back though. Hold back from scapegoating the Hunter stranger. To the best they can. Consciously they know no one is to blame and they should be grateful of their salvation and their saviors. The truth just takes some time to process. Before moving from mind to heart. From conscience to emotion. The heart now is too distracted. Too overtaken by grief. Give it some days and it'll accept things as they are. Accept reality as it should.
He plans to stay for three more days and serve the village in any way he can. The second day after their passing he intends to move on. To find his place. Find his purpose in a world he was promised would need him. That promise wasn't broken even now.
The weight of the third day weighs heavy in his heart. The day they'll start moving on. The day he'll have to make them move on. The diseases and malformations they have are all terminal. The pain they would be suffering, were it not for the imposed arkana, would be merciless. The plague that would be inflicted onto the world were they to live would be beyond inhumane. He wishes he was convinced he's doing the right thing. Wishes someone convinced him he was doing the right thing. All he has in his life is Felis though. And there are limits to the tricks she can do. She can read his heart and know his pain. But she can't argue or add to philosophy. There are limits to her awareness. She does her best though.
On cue, she approaches him and starts licking his cheek. Maybe he underestimates her too much. She can understand more than enough. It gets easier. Things get a little bit simpler. Felis cools him down. Much better than the blizzard ever could. He resolves to face that day with bravery. With strength and courage. Like a Knight would. That's the best he can do right now and he'll give the very best he ever can. Always.
From the front door of the inn Lonspear OxHand calls to Escaflore. He invites him to food and shelter. Escaflore agrees only because he thinks it's the least he can do.
Lonspear directs him to his little personal room. The room is orange accented, predominantly lit by candle light. Cheap and lightly medicinal incense fogs the roof of the room. It's warm and cozy. The boarded windows seal it off from the frost onslaught outside. There is a deed to the inn hanging on the wall at the far end of the room Escaflore is currently in. He can read it from afar in great detail.
The deed to Renev's Inn.
Paid in non-brandished armor and lightly-embellished sword.
Paid in bold cape and sapphire pendant.
He sits him at a hard brown, wooden, creaking table. Every action births a loud creak as the reaction. There's a charm to it though. The only thing to focus on would be the person you're sitting with. That's the beauty in the homes of the simple and the meek. When a focus on the material is lost. All focus is taken by the person you love the most. The truest and purest happiness possible, found in the most unlikely of places.
Across Escaflore sits the semi-conscious man in a mobile-chair. His eyes are open but his precognition doesn't seem to be functioning. On his right sits Lonspear's daughter. His true strength. She smiles at Escaflore. Smiles through the scars and patches of exposed dermis. Escaflore smiles back. He doesn't show any sign of aversion or discomfort. Growing up he got used to seeing worse scars and ailments. The girl is surprised by his reaction to her. Living with the disease, she got used to seeing how people would not take well to her appearance. How people wouldn't see her as a person anymore. She got good at telling different expressions and could notice an ingenuine attempt at trying to patronize her. For the first time since her father, she met someone who saw through the surface. Someone who saw her as just a little girl. She immediately knew she liked him. She had many a questions to ask and many a stories to tell him.
Lonspear serves everyone on the table leaven bread and a bowl of steamed fish. Soup and meat. He feeds the man static on the mobile-chair before eating himself.
"He was my friend when I served as a Knight. When I served the blade-brandishedcrown. My vassal but friend. The greatest of friends. When littleSophnia contracted the illness no apothecary or healer, in the whole nation, fruited any change. No Mage or Scholar in the entire continent rose to the task. The task of achieving the impossible. The task of birthing a miracle. The best I had, I gave. Money, politicking, nobility. Strength… "He comes to a stall. Hesitating to say the word. Hesitating to use it in this specific context.
"Push came to shove, all abandoned me. All failed me. Thine Knighthood, reduced to a bad jest. It was my friend here that led me to the path of careless abandon. I abandoned logic, abandoned reason. Just as they abandoned me. I sunk deep into the rabbit hole. Deep into the world of mysticisms and myths. We travelled through the whole nation for the most fractional hopes. Never giving up. Never giving in. We never became faint of strength. Nor did we dim our hope. Eventually, we were rewarded with this village. Rewarded by the same 'lady fate' that took everything away. A fruit well deserved, handed to the farmer. So, we thought. My friend. My vassal, Variathon, contracted 'mind leak', so goes the name. As time goes, the mind liquifies and dissolves. In the most minor way possible, but it starts showing. In time due."
The table grows gloom. Escaflore is loss of words. He doesn't know what to say. Where to start. He lifts the bowl of soup, steaming hot, in the palm of both hands and takes a big sip. Sophnia, ever cheerful breaks the ice. She is interested in his attire. She's never something so stylized before. Clearly, it seems dauntingly important.
Escaflore isn't blind to her strategies of ice breaking. She seems experienced with that when it comes to her father. It reminds him of Felis and just how much he depends on her to function as a person. Losing her would be enough to kill him. It's a thought that tries to crawl into his mind. Involuntarily. He does his best to kill it off. Fast.
He's used to such sporadic non-voluntary self-consuming thoughts. He used to have long session psyche breakdowns when he was younger. It's the feel of a tsunami, comprising of the most self-destructive and malicious thoughts, flooding an exposed brain. The feel of fighting his own demons, equal to him in every capacity. There are no culprits to it bar himself. He has no enemies. That's the worst part about it.
Taking Felis as the subject of attack, is the worst form it can take. He overcame it just months ago. It seems he's regressing. Mayhap, fighting nightmares isn't as simple as he thought. Or rather it was hard, however, not hard enough. He kills the one thought though. Now he has a gruesome headache. Now he's suffering throbbing trauma.
He's holding his head in his right arm. He's in shock. He didn't answer a single of Sophnia's questions and is now dead silent. Lonspear recognizes the look. The look he's seen so many times in others and himself. He holds his left hand. He knows what children like him had to live through. He knows there was nothing he could do to stop it. But he can hold his hand right now. Pull him back from it. Anchor him in the present. Establish reality over memory. Some of the children wouldn't even be allowed any physical contact by any other human but their cruel handlers. He knows this and hopes physical contact will be the positive shock he needs. He gets it right. It's the first time a human who Escaflore didn't consider cruel ever touched him. It pulls him from the self-consumption. Pulls him from the pain. He wants to cry but he holds himself back. Lonspear tells him its right to cry. He is just a kid, after all. Sophnia stands and holds his right hand.
He spends the night sleeping in Lonspear's home. It's an easier night than it's been for a long time.
In the morning of the second day Sophnia swarms him wanting to go and see the water fowl. The snowing subsided and the sun is up. Her father tags along. Most water birds migrate into warmer continents during greater and lesser winter but the ones in Whetstone stay because of the vast network of hot springs covering the island. They evolved to take optimum advantage of them, down to the number of offsprings they produce to avoid overpopulating the resource. There are a lot of them swimming in the lake. From diving standard swans and kelp feeding ducks, to imposing sacro swans and dominating sifters, double the size of adult regular swans. At a regular day in the week, the hot springs directly bubble into the lake from its floor, giving it a steaming contrast to the snow leaden surrounding.
Escaflore focuses his hearing directly at the forest and the lake. He loves listening to nature. Loves hearing snow fall from the leaves and branches of trees. Loves the rustle of burrowing red foxes and hymn of meditating high foxes. Loves the running of deer and incanting of revered stags. If he listens deep enough, he can even get to the Wayward Highlands. Get to the segmented groves. Hear the activities and labors of the Mer Ruids. Eavesdrop on their cultures and rituals. He can go to the crevices of valleys, deep and domineering, and to the grassland plains vast and awe inspiring, leveled out by the snow, through sound alone. His hearing defines his freedom. The three spend the day staying at the lake and playing in the shore snow.
As the sun dusks, and light's deprived, Escaflore shows Sophnia, a personal skill. Molded by some of his magikal abilities. He materializes light from thin air and shapes it as sacro squids, greater in size than any of the three observers, and multiplies them in great numbers. They fly though the air, swimming in grace, lighting up the entire Fisherside village and the surrounding lake and forests. They make hums and hymns reminiscent of pods of long extinct golden whales. Escaflore loves nature and animals and it shows in his art's expression. The passion fueling the knowledge. The knowledge fueling the beauty. It was a talent he was always fond of. Shaping elements. His handlers though, were always indifferent to it.
Sophnia jumps, exited like a puppy, asking her father to carry her on his shoulders. It's the first time she ever saw any magik. The two are mesmerized by Escaflore's little parlor trick. He can see the shine on both their eyes. Wonder and amazement. An expression he never thought he could be the cause of. He feels light hearted. He's happy being around the two. There's no place in the world he wishes he could stay other than here. Other than this moment. This present. The 'little parlor trick' is promoted to a special place in his heart.
He goes to the stable to get Felis. He wants to introduce her to the two. Sophnia especially. He thinks Sophnia would especially love her.
Sophnia does. On Felis' back she rides in circles. Starring at the night sky and the luminescent squids. She is happier than she's ever been now. She is at peace. So is Escaflore and so is Lonspear. Lonspear is especially happy. He's grateful he met his goddess. He's grateful he met Escaf. He's grateful and glad. It's the one boon of remorse fate granted him. He goes and gets Variathon, wheeling him over to watch the scene with their new found family.
The villagers sit outside and watch the wonders in awe. Their heavy thoughts are forgotten. They find relief from the burdens of destiny. Find peace in the present, free from the haunting of the future. Their hearts start accepting things as they are and choose to celebrate those they love. Choose to cherish their final hours with them. In the vibrant dark of night. In the majesty of nature. In the beauty and wonder of magik. They give thanks to the lives they had with them all. For the length they did. They're all grateful to the man who allowed it. They're all grateful to the stranger Hunter. Their savior.
Escaflore doesn't sleep this night. He knows what's going to happen. He's expecting it. His power is starting to wane. His strength is depleting. His energy diming. Through the night he feels some of them slipping from his hands. Those who would already be dead by now. Through the day he'll have to make the others pass on, before his ability cuts out and the pain comes in. Sophnia is among the first type. She should have been dead a long time ago. He doesn't want to let go off her just yet. He wants to hold on as much as possible. He can hear Lonspear even from the roof of the inn. He is with Sophnia. He refused to sleep and is holding her hand as she slumbers. Singing her a song through the whole night. A song of Knights and dragons. A song princes and maidens.
Many of those with terminal ailments passed through the night. Those who didn't were stuck in sleep. They passed on through the day. Sophnia was the last to pass on. Lonspear mourned her on her grave. He knelt at there through the whole night. Variathon passed away in the day. Lonspear put his best friend and his daughter in the same coffin and chiseled both names on one tombstone. A total of 66 people, men, women and children passed on.
The second day after they were all put to rest, Escaflore was ready to keep journeying throughout Whetstone and helping however he could. It was a religious calling after all. Lonspear however convinced him to stay for a day more. He was moving on too and wanted to be in his company. He planned to sell back the inn, even at a loss. He sold the deed in exchange for his armor and sword. His cape and pendant however, he left behind. He didn't need them back. It's a past with no priority in remembering. He bought a horse in preparation for the next day. He wants to stay in the company of Escaflore for as long as he can. He wants to take care of him for as long as he can. He's now more than a stranger worthy of pity to him. He is now more than a friend worthy of a laugh to him. He is the son he never had. He'll give his best to him, both for himself and his little Sophnia. He swears it to himself as a Knight. He laughs at the idea of still calling himself a Knight. Three times in his life he knelt. Hardly what a true Knight would do. He sees the truth now though. A true Knight ought to devote himself to the service of others, and the self-sacrifice of themselves. That's the Knight he wants to be. For the sake of all that believed in him. Worthy of all that believed in him.
The next day comes and both Lonspear and Escaflore are ready to keep moving. Lonspear has dawned his armor and blade, sheathed at his side. Escaflore can feel the presence he's emanating. The aura he's radiating. He is where he belongs. As a Knight of strength true. Before they leave, the people of the little autonomous village, in the middle of nowhere, come to greet them. In great numbers they all bow to Escaflore in respect. In thanks. Escaflore is shocked. He is lost for words. He thought they would despise him. He thought they would chase him out, stone in hand. He was told that their kind should bear the cruelty of man. That it should know it's evils. That that should be natural for them. Expected. It seems that part of the narrative, just failed.
Lonspear taps him on his hand and Escaflore bows back. Reciprocating the respect and thanks. He gets his mare and Lonspear boards his.
They move on.
After some distance Lonspear asks about the goddess. She never told anyone anything about herself to try and avoid a situation as such pry as anyone might. She never even told of her gender. So how did Escaflore figure it out.
"Knowing that she had a humanoid genus narrows the possible Apparition species she would be. She pulled of a high level arkana on the lake to produce fish in plenty but also made it so thin no Mage could even feel the residue. That shows great mastery in the 'magik route'. She also possessed 66 people and more throughout the generations, switching possession throughout the night every single night. That shows great mastery of the 'summoning route'. She also showed a lot of emotional capacity which is expected from Apparitions but it being specifically empathy also narrows it down further. All the factors narrow down her species and gender. Even approximated age. I knew she was a she because in her race, the females specialize in both Magik and Summoning at equal capability, skill and technique. 'Dual-affinity' it's called. While the males specialize mostly in the 'focus route,' just like you do. 'Mono-affinity'."
"Impressive as always. You'll always make me proud. You know that."
The words make Escaflore blush. A little.
"If you don't mind me asking. What was her species and race."
"She was 'High Helven'. A 'Forestbound High Helf'. To be precise, one of their queens."