The
second night was finally creeping in, a welcome respite after the thirty-two long hours of day that preceded it. It only felt worse than it was thanks to the lack of clouds in this full cycle
Funny things, clouds. Distant and wispy, you wouldn't know if you were in one — just damp air, like fog. No way to tell a bunny, a dinner plate, and a doorknob apart — unless you stand on the ground, among people.
In a field of a cliff, sparse but dense tufts of auburn grass grew out, and a thin, oily, film glimmered in gold in the setting Stern. Thin, rolled wheat disks, thin enough to be translucent, lay drying in a flat patch, spread across thin linen. They had been drying there for the entirety of the cycle; they had picked up warps and wrinkles.
Surprisingly, unrelenting in the strong winds, none blew away; Beneath the wafers, there was the circle inscribed on the sheet, with a pair of dimmed, but once glowing, limestone placed diametrically across that held them down. Despite the ink being crusty and brown—almost like dried blood—and had a blue glow about it. Imperceivable from afar, but it was certainly there.
Suddenly, the stones pulsed, sending out a weak, intangible wave-they did it again. Not too long after, they lost what glow that remained, and the autumn breeze flowing across the field was all too keen in playing disc golf with the thins.
A young woman was walking up the slight incline of the rear of the cliff, and she dropped the aged duffel she had slung across her shoulders and sprinted in a mad frenzy when she saw her traveling rations being blown away.
Her cow-hide sandals squeaked from the dew-oil they picked up, but she paid it no mind — she couldn't — the wheat thins were of more import and she needed them now. She already had been set back a week and had been cutting it dangerously close with the coppers she had left. She was certain Stew would rip her off, even for wafer wheat, knowing she was leaving tomorrow. Stew didn't care for niceties; they never filled his stomach.
She leaped on the sheet, and managed to grab the corners, save one. The thins the wafers started falling through the open corner, and she almost fell face first trying to reel them in.
She quickly knotted the corners and ran with the bundle in tow, grabbing and stuffing it with as many runaways as she could. She knew the dew-oil would boil off, and she was not able to have qualms with eating off the ground with the weight of her moneybag.
"Just over half" she sighed. she had erred towards making more than she would need anyway, with the intention of selling it to the shopkeeper's son across Stew's. The lad had only started to look after the shop, and she believed she had at least enough finesse to get a copper or two more out of him. she had been on the road longer than her age would show, and she certainly could bargain like an old man.
She grabbed her duffle, the bundle that remained and hooked her sandals across it, waiting for them to air out.
She glanced up, to see a single cloud skirting across a vast expanse littered with starts, orange Stern-light faded, yet their twinkle suppressed still by the moon, which drew her eye. She blinked and looked ahead one more, shaking her head.
It was dark now, and she only had the soft moonlight to lead him down to the hamlet.
There was no church here, it was too far out. The seas were rougher, and the tide almost reached the top of the white limestone cliffs on the long days. No ship sailed here — naval or otherwise. The only road out was through the countryside, and it took far too long to get to a city. The folk here sold preserved salted fish to the caravans that made their way down here. That's all they had, salt and fish, but they had plenty.
The caravan was to arrive 3rd short day of this cycle, which was tomorrow, hence his rush. she'd have to walk for 3 long and 2 short days to get to the nearest city, and a whole long day if she settled to just reaching a town.
She retrieved a thick, weathered book from her duffle, an unusual burden for most travellers. Unwrapping the coarse waxed cloth encasing it, followed by a layer of silk perfectly fitted to the book's dimensions, she carefully softened the wax seal. Bathed in the faint light filtering through the kitchen window into the stables, she meticulously turned the pages.
Anaemia; pallor and weariness.
Lack of iron in the body, reduces mana capacity and 3% higher strain while casting
𝓗𝓾𝓰𝓸 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓲𝓬 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓽, 𝓾𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓽.
The sidenote, in its pristine handwriting, sharply contrasted the unnaturally uniform text. Each character in the book seemed meticulously placed, as if stamped with infinite patience from rubber tree seals like the ones aristocrats have. She was curious about the strange symbol next to the 3, which she'd only seen in this book, always adjacent to numbers.
She had read the book over, and over and over again, and could almost perfectly remember it. 'But remembering isn't learning,' the book said once. It was halfway between a textbook and a log, sheerly from the neatly written but populous notes in the margin. There was little she understood, but more so because of her limited vocabulary than lack of intellect. She had taught herself to read from posters and signs, but written word was precious. The techniques to flatten and harden goatskin were accessible to an elite few who could afford it, but this book had pages far too thin to be made such way; another mystery.
She had never dared show anyone the book, she knew better. She always said, "it's my father's bones, I keep them around to make soup on a rainy day," if anyone got too inquisitive.
She grabbed a nearby pebble and twig, flipping to a page with a folded corner, she used the twig like a quill and her blood and dew-oil from her sandals replaced the ink, she could crudely replicate one of the diagrams onto the pebble's exterior. She discarded the twig, tended to her wound, and settled onto the hay. Her exhausted eyes and darkened pupils, relieved by the prospect of rest, were unaware of the extraordinary events awaiting her tomorrow.
In a distant city, far removed from the serene white cliffs, a middle-aged man sat in a dimly lit room, perched upon a mahogany chair. Despite the room being littered with expensive mana-lights, it remained dim, he was too tired to turn them on. With a tired gaze, he watched the moon ascend through the brass-rimmed glass panes that comprised a significant portion of the room's roof, and an entire wall.
As he rose from his seat, his knees protested with a weary creak, and a cascade of parchments tumbled from his lap to join the multitude already scattered across the floor. He absently wiped his ink-stained hands, stained a deep royal blue, upon his robes. The robes weren't like a mages', regal and with brilliance, extruding wealth and class. They were plain, cream and long. If one were to look closer, they'd know these humble robes were of Shehri cotton, worth a month's salary for a clerk.
With a shuffle of his woollen slip-ons, he made his way forward, flicking a switch before departing through the door with a muted thud. Overhead, a soft whirring filled the air as dark wooden shutters, aglow with a gentle teal light, slid into place to cover the glass panes, cloaking the long metal contraption—the one the man had dedicated his life to, one which he called a rocket.