31st of Glade, Year 102
“Taelian,” whispered the Dratori enthusiastically as he peaked his head through the gaps of the fence. The birds, rare and gaunt as they were, chirped as they fluttered beneath the summer light. It was hot — of course it was. A midsummer day in Silfanore, in the dreg of the lower city nonetheless, mired in the pungent smells of claustrophobic city life and almost noxious humidity. But they were used to it, sweaty as they were, and they enjoyed their games and their whispers and their heroics that they both truly thought might one day come to light.
They were told not to whisper of the Dranoch - that they could never be the villains, as such stories were ones of covert revolutionary sentiment, and would have them both sent to be harvested in the Atrium of Dusk. Horror stories told by parents, but ultimately true — the most imaginative and reckless of children died young, as in their world it did not have to be a Dranoch who overheard them. Someone who wished to curry favor, perhaps—even another child harmlessly tattling to one of the guards just to see what might follow.
Good things never did, and those children often regretted their stories for the remainder of their life.
And so, their stories weren’t focused on the things changing around them, even with Courtier Dalen’s death and Aldrin’s ascent so fresh and new. They weren’t even on Sil-Elaine most of the time, but of worlds far away from the impact of the Sundering, often whispered to them by the lucky old or the most wistful of farmer’s wives.
Today’s tale was set in the Larissa, the land of golden valleys and untamed human tribes who war endlessly with the ‘civilized world’. Of course, Taelian and Lethiril—ever civilized— were the Clockwork settlers of old, still trying to rein in the primitive Koltoskan braves.
“I think I saw one,” Lethiril said, his face pressed through the fence, the side of his head lain against the side of Taelian’s. They relaxed into the wood but crouched their knees against the grass as if their blatant presence in the open, muddy field was somehow subterfuge.
“Did he have our horse?” the other asked, blinking. A Dranoch patrol walked by and eyed him as they did, though the Siltori paid them no mind. He simply lowered his eyes, curtained now by his boyish silver lashes, and after they passed his head rose like an ostrich.
“He did,” Lethiril replied.
“How many meters?”
“A lot.”
“Think he may have friends?”
“Doesn’t matter — we have guns!”
“True. Okay then, Leth, we’ll ambush him. You take sunny cliff, I take lone road. The one blocked by all the tall brown grass—is that how granny Lierril described it?”
“Think so!” the Dratori boy exclaimed.
“Taelian,” whispered the Dratori enthusiastically as he peaked his head through the gaps of the fence. The birds, rare and gaunt as they were, chirped as they fluttered beneath the summer light. It was hot — of course it was. A midsummer day in Silfanore, in the dreg of the lower city nonetheless, mired in the pungent smells of claustrophobic city life and almost noxious humidity. But they were used to it, sweaty as they were, and they enjoyed their games and their whispers and their heroics that they both truly thought might one day come to light.
They were told not to whisper of the Dranoch - that they could never be the villains, as such stories were ones of covert revolutionary sentiment, and would have them both sent to be harvested in the Atrium of Dusk. Horror stories told by parents, but ultimately true — the most imaginative and reckless of children died young, as in their world it did not have to be a Dranoch who overheard them. Someone who wished to curry favor, perhaps—even another child harmlessly tattling to one of the guards just to see what might follow.
Good things never did, and those children often regretted their stories for the remainder of their life.
And so, their stories weren’t focused on the things changing around them, even with Courtier Dalen’s death and Aldrin’s ascent so fresh and new. They weren’t even on Sil-Elaine most of the time, but of worlds far away from the impact of the Sundering, often whispered to them by the lucky old or the most wistful of farmer’s wives.
Today’s tale was set in the Larissa, the land of golden valleys and untamed human tribes who war endlessly with the ‘civilized world’. Of course, Taelian and Lethiril—ever civilized— were the Clockwork settlers of old, still trying to rein in the primitive Koltoskan braves.
“I think I saw one,” Lethiril said, his face pressed through the fence, the side of his head lain against the side of Taelian’s. They relaxed into the wood but crouched their knees against the grass as if their blatant presence in the open, muddy field was somehow subterfuge.
“Did he have our horse?” the other asked, blinking. A Dranoch patrol walked by and eyed him as they did, though the Siltori paid them no mind. He simply lowered his eyes, curtained now by his boyish silver lashes, and after they passed his head rose like an ostrich.
“He did,” Lethiril replied.
“How many meters?”
“A lot.”
“Think he may have friends?”
“Doesn’t matter — we have guns!”
“True. Okay then, Leth, we’ll ambush him. You take sunny cliff, I take lone road. The one blocked by all the tall brown grass—is that how granny Lierril described it?”
“Think so!” the Dratori boy exclaimed.
