Hard Winters RPG

[Firefoot]

"Indeed it will not," Scyld agreed, and turned from Rowenna for the second time to take the broom to the kitchen. He felt exasperated and amused, and still not wholly sure he understood her.

All of that anger, over something she’d only thought he’d said? Maybe he ought to be more annoyed than he was, but he was much more amused at the memory of her flustered. Even when he tried, it was difficult to catch her at a loss for words. He liked seeing her so, with her defenses stripped away, if even for a few moments. Even more, it pleased him what he saw in those moments: that she would have been upset at his leaving and was now glad of his staying.

His good mood was tempered though, by the knowledge that she did not yet know everything. Wait until she heard the rest.

[Firefoot]

Wrapped up in the story, Cerwyn forgot the drudgery of their trek, her irritation at her companion, and even her fear of being found out. So when it was revealed that the lad in the story was actually a maiden, she was caught completely off guard.

She stopped and whirled around to face the storyteller. He had (what seemed to her) a knowing smirk on his face. “But how – when –” she spluttered. Her heart was racing and her stance wary, but he seemed no more threatening than he had when he thought her a boy. “What gave me away?” she asked.

[Galadriel55]

Balan watched as his companion staggered in surprise. He waited for her to regain her composure before he spoke.

“What gave me away?” she uttered finally.

“It is hard to tell,” Balan told her. “A bit of this, a bit of that. The way you reacted to some of the characters and adventures of the tale. The way your face looked when you were eager or anxious for what was to happen next. But I was not certain until now.”

The woman did not say anything at first, so Balan gestured to her to start walking again. “I see you would rather be a lad than a lass on this road,” Balan told her, “and I do not see why you should not remain such to others. If you do not wish it, I will not reveal you to the first passing stranger that we meet – if anyone else has the bad luck or bad sense to be on the road this day. But beware that you do not overstep yourself – I will not lie to other men to get you out of trouble. This is hardly your deepest secret, but I would grant you silence, if you so wish, in return for your friendship. Do you accept my offer?”

[Firefoot]

“I have committed no crime,” she said, irritated at his implications. “My brother is estranged from my father, and I wish to find him. I believe him to be at Scarburg, so if we are as close as I think, it hardly matters whether my gender is known or not.”

She sighed. “Nevertheless, it seems I have no choice. I will accept your offer, as long as you will finish the story,” she said, smiling slightly. “My name is Cerwyn.”

[Galadriel55]

“And mine is Balan,” he replied. “But I fear you mistook me: I never thought you had committed any crime, but I feared you might do so in the future. When desperation is great enough to make such a small secret matter so much – think of the deeds done by desperate men. And seeing how loathe you were to let go of your secret, surely it is not as unimportant as you make it sound.” Balan sighed. “But I will leave that for you, and finish the tale I began.”

So Balan spoke of the maiden, the last of the people who once dwelt in the land of the Thirsty Desert. ”O Wraith of the Desert!” she called, “Guardian of the Land-That-Once-Was! Come forth and accept these gifts into your keeping!” Her hands burning, she built a round mound from the heated sand. “Wraith of the Desert, I bequeath to you our tall towers!” With her knife, she pricked her thumb and let the blood stain the sand. “Wraith of the Desert, I bequeath to you the colours of our fields in bloom!” She spread her arms, shielding the mound from the sun. “Wraith of the Desert, I bequeath to you the shade of our mighty trees!” A silver tear rolled down her cheek and sunk into the thirsty ground. “Wraith of the Desert, I bequeath to you our glittering pearls and flowing rivers!” And with those words her last strength left her, and she fell onto the mound. “O Land-That-Once-Was,” she whispered, “I bequeath to you our quest and my life.”

She never left that mound, but around it an oasis grew. The maiden’s gifts were not powerful enough to restore the land to its former glory, but they were enough to change the desert. The rare travelers who braved that country noticed an island of green at the heart of the yellow wasteland. Thick grasses carpeted the ground, and leafy trees threw out their branches high above. Scarlet flowers bloomed all around. A creek flowed over a bed of while pebbles, until it was sucked in by the dry sand of the desert. The creek flowed from a small round well at the heart of the island, rimmed with sandstone and filled with sweet water. No matter how much the Thirsty Desert drank, the well never emptied. But men who would drink from that well said that as they leaned over the rim, they would hear a girl’s voice whispering to them; and they would say that the maiden never died, but became the guardian of the Green Island. They say also that every day the Wraith of the Desert comes to drink from her well, and he hungers not anymore for the lives of wayfarers. At the Green Island he quenches his thirst, and day after day marvels at the great depths of selflessness.