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A distant conflict brings old friends together as enemies in a battle for land and wealth. |
| Foreman jumped back, startled, as the door swung open, and nearly crashed into the bushes behind him . It was an unnerving sight to even the bravest of men, and Foreman wasn't exactly brave. He choked on his own breath when he saw a figure emerge. A wave of relief washed over him – it was only the Fortheval boy, donned in his normal brown tunic and leather trousers. It took a few seconds before Foreman could release a sigh that was a mixture of both relief and anger. He knew that even with the door wide open, Lissa should not be able to escape, but her power was overwhelming and uncontrollable. It was that threat that worried him that the wards could falter at any time and she would be upon him. Unlike any other citizen that he knew of, her magick erupted and bloomed at every turn, convoked by its own will instead of by that of its maker. Foreman's eyes smouldered. Just who does this brat think he is? he thought sourly. It was one thing to be a demon and another to risk loosing that demon on others. This would not soon be forgotten. Foreman waited until the boy was out of sight before moving away. He tossed the bundle of wilted lettuce and the half loaf of stale rye he carried with him into the bushes and stomped down the hill. He followed the rarely trodden path without worry of being spotted, not that he was afraid to be. This was his appointed job, after all, and though he considered himself unlucky to be the person to deliver the food, he would be damned if he was worried if some snot-nosed brat tattled on him for failing his duty. After all, he was breaking the villages laws by visiting, and if she died of starvation he would be doing the world a favor. Before long, he was back on the road the road that led to both the village and to the old sea port further south. At his brisk speed it only took ten minutes for him to arrive at the village's eastern gate. The steel portcullis, which was always raised, was a twin to the one at the northern gate. The pair were easily the most valuable things in the entire village of oak, reed, and woven thatch. He peered up at the interlocked bars of steel, a testament to the elders idiocy. What good would steel gates do when the village could be disposed by a single, well-placed torch? It made him spit as he passed underneath and into Gliccal. Though the sky had considerably darkened, the village was still alight by candlelight and sconce; dancing, flickering light guided his way. There were no dark alleys or threats in the village itself and his tense demeanor relaxed somewhat. His heavy, oiled leather boots trod against the soft dirt path below. He considered stopping in at Cardellas's inn for a drink, but thought better of it. Best get business out of the way first. He steered right down a narrow path lined with daisies and approached the Elder's house. He nearly barged in, hand on the latch of the door, but thought better of it. He knocked, and the door was opened so fast that it caught Foreman off guard. The Elder stood there without any look of surprise on his tobacco-stained, bearded-face. This act Foreman had expected; it was likely that everyone in the village would have expected the same. The old man had the gift of foresight, though it wasn't a very strong gift. The man had, what was it, about ten seconds at the most? Enough, anyway, to know he had a visitor in time to check the door even before the first knock. “Yes, Foreman?” the gaffer inquired. His voice was elderly, almost womanly when you thought about it, and this, too, disgusted the man that loomed almost three feet above the Elder Geiss. What does this man have that I don't? “I came to report that the Fortheval boy was out at the demon's house again. He could have let her out, you know.” His words had less the sound of warning or concern, and more the sound of threat. The Elder, with his gnarled hands, mused by rubbing the area around his lips. It was done in silence. With a beckoning gesture, the two went inside and the door was shut to prevent anyone from eavesdropping. “She isn't a demon, you know...” came the Elder's voice as he poured two cups of Isteranian tea. It smelt horrible to Foreman's uncultured senses. The Elder, with steps weakened by arthritis, slipped one cup to Foreman while simultaneously bringing his own to his lips. It must have been freshly made as it still steamed in the warm night's air. The heat didn't seem to bother the old man at all. Foreman waited, knowing the statement was surely baited. “She is just like any other girl her age. Emotional. It is not her fault. She does not have control over her talents. It will come with time and patience, and more time on top of that.” Foreman spat again, though only in his mind this time. Suppressing the thought to tell the Elder that he was a fool gambling with life, Foreman merely shook his head in disappointment. “You're too soft on the demon. It's only a matter of time before she escapes and incinerates our village and all of our loved ones. That boy is only going to hasten it if we don't manage to get a handle on him soon.” “The boy is the least of our concerns for the girl. Maston Fortheval is a good boy with a heart that hasn't been blackened over the years. Tell me, Mr. Thalleus, did you deliver the food this time?” Foreman's gaped at the man's words. He held greater chance to pass through the life-stealing door that guarded the demon than to slip something so trivial past the old man. “You think me unable to do such a task?” “Perhaps if her food were delivered promptly, Mr. Thalleus, the Fortheval child would not have to visit her nearly so often, hmm?” “She is a threat to the life we hold onto so dearly!” Foreman barked back, no longer even trying to mask the disgust he felt. “Those black eyes of hers bore into me from that window of hers. It's a window into Vespai's very soul, and the moment those magick seals break is the moment I'll be dragged to the abyss along with everyone else who crosses her path!” Despite Foreman's words growing louder as he went on, the Elder watched with a simple, unaffected gaze. He had heard it all before, at numerous councils and private encounters, but he was unswayed. The Gods, in his mind, would not have given such power to those They didn't have a plan for. His tired eyes moved past the ranting man while his ears dampened the meaning out of the words. The Elder stared at the painting on the wall near the door. It featured, in exquisite detail, how the village once looked from up the hill where that lonely shack stood. Drawn by Lissa's late mother, the village once was quite beautiful. That was before quake, fire, and hailstorm had decimated it nearly six years ago. In one night the village fell short of being in utter ruin and nearly half of his people had been killed. The thought of that night moistened his eyes and it took a forceful effort to tear his gaze away from the landscape as Foreman finished his spiel. “I understand your concerns, Mr. Thalleus. They are both warranted and valid. You just need more faith in the Gods. Falthor, in particular. He is without error when infusing each of us with our individual gifts, and has been so for centuries. We may be in a time of worry with wars threatening our very gates, but the Gods will not fail to see their masterpiece come to fruition.” To Foreman's ears, the Elder sounded weak, pathetic. Foreman could only grumble. He had no more words to spill and did not believe in the Gods himself. He was no fool, though, and knew that arguing with faith was a petty argument at best; it led only to parched throats and unwavering opinions. It sickened him though. To think that this lunatic could be in charge of the entire village shook his moral fibers. Foreman thirsted for power and swore inwardly that it would be his soon enough, and then Gliccal could be done with the demon once and for all. “I'll try to see it your way,” he acquiesced for now. “Please, Elder Geiss...do something about the boy for everyone's sake? Whether you have faith or not, having everyone worry won't do any good.” Foreman didn't wait for a reply. He knew he wouldn't get one even if he waited, but knew that he had been heard. The boy would be dealt with, and if Foreman's lips were capable of smiling, he might have. He laid the cup down, its contents untouched, on a side table and turned for the door and left. The door was snapped shut with angry intent. Vibrations raced through the walls and the floor. The Elder's belongings clattered in protest. The Elder's eyes returned to the painting by the door. It made the Elder feel wrong about the decision he had made to keep the girl alive whenever he looked at it. Faith had saved her, and now it had her imprisoned. Briefly, he wondered which was worse. |
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