The Begining

Tybalt’s eyes crack open as the mid morning sun streams across him as his mother pulls back the window coverings on their family's large Yurt. His name was an adopted thing. The Firbolg eschewed regular naming conventions and he was true-named “Moon Blossom” based on his penchant for late nights contemplating things under the clear mountain sky, But Tybalt had adopted it from a Human book he had read.
 
“It’s nearly lunchtime boy,'' his mother chides. “Did you stay up all night again last night?”
 
Nodding the affirmative, he leapt out of his cot, and becoming tangled in a pile of unwashed clothes, stumbled into the wardrobe, causing a cascade of collected animal bones, interesting rocks, and other trinkets.
 
“You are going to be late for your meeting with admissions. Your father is waiting for you by the boat launch to take you into town to meet him.”
 
“I know, m..ooMm” He mumbles out as he stuffs a piece of stale toast slathered in herbed jelly into his mouth. “I got this mom. You neef to Stopf WOrring”
 
“And you need to stop talking with your mouth full.”
 
Tybalt, pulled on a pair of sturdy boots and brushed the crumbs from his dark tunic. As he headed out the door, a furry form padded awkwardly beside him. “Whatcha doin’ Bork?” he said to the toddling capybara. Tybalt had rescued the stocky rodent from some poachers in the marshlands a couple years ago and the two had become friends. Firbolg befriending woodland creatures was nothing surprising. However, Bork was, to put it kindly… clumsy and stupid.Tybalt didn’t care much though. He was brave, loyal, and a good listener.
 
The pair meandered through the small village. Most of the buildings were colorfully decorated yurts like his families. The durable tents allowed the village to stay mobile and reduced their impact on their surroundings. A few more permanent structures were worked into the landscape and were primarily used for community purposes. One was a carefully excavated subterranean storage area. Families each maintain personal alcoves to store foodstuffs that enjoy the cooler temperature of the cavern. Another was a large clearing with a vast fire ring in the middle that served as the center of social life for the village. Large stones stood upright around the perimeter and strands of colorful flags and intricately painted banners hung overheard. The area looked like it marked some holy site. However, at the moment it was far more mundane; dotted with vendors and craftspeople as well as by young people talking, laughing, and dashing about and trying to impress each other.

One such person was a young half-elf named Lysander. His family was one of the few non-Firbolg that traveled with the village. His father was a Human Bard, and His mother a Elven artisan. Coincidentally, his parents had named him from a human book by the same author that Tybalt found his own name. “Mára luck síra, Tybalt!” He shouted in carefully pronounced sylvan as Tybalt entered the village center, waving happily. “You are going to do great, I mean you did have the best Sylvan teacher.” With a crooked smile he pulled the blushing Firbolg into a hug. The half elf was nearly 6 feet tall but still looked like a child wrapped around the towering, awkward Firbolg.
 
Pulling away Tybalt stammers, “Yeah, I um… Akai'ye… var nesh.. Um help? Whatever, Thanks for your help. I’m not sure they are going to quiz me on my Sylvan. I’m already running late, I have to get to the boat launch.”
 
“Tell your dad I said Hi and remember, you worked hard for this!” Lysander called after his rapidly retreating friend.
Passing clusters of tents, he paused and waved or accepted kind words from members of the community. Obviously Lysander had been talking to everyone. That's what He did, isn't it? Talked to everyone. “Why can’t I be more confident like him?” Tybalt thought.
 
Approaching the noisy creek, Tybalt saw his father Preparing a large but simple canoe. He was a Looming man with broad shoulders and an easy smile. It’s easy to see why he was so well liked. While they didn’t have a mayor or chieftain, like many other people, the village ran smoothly with leaders from the various groups of workers meeting to guide the village. Tybalt’s father was one of the village’s religious leaders. They primarily dealt with arranging festivals and celebrations of momentous occasions or organizing the somber rites for the dead. Lysander once joked that their religious leaders were more like party planners than like priests. Right now, though, he was checking over the two man boat that they would take down the rushing river into the larger town at the foot of the mountains. The boat was short and stoutly built. It took a practiced handler to keep it moving straight but it could navigate the rapids of the mountain streams like few others could.