Gimlegild

“Why Gimlegild Doesn’t Like Magic”

“Gimlegild remembers the noise. The sky cracked like dry wood, and the color ran out of the world. Gimlegild was a boy then, see, just a sprig of life on this continent. Magic flowed like water everywhere—spells for crops, spells for light, spells to make a broom sweep your own damn floor.”

“People stopped doing things. They just... cast things. Said a few words and expected the world to obey. And the world did, until one day it won't.”

“Gimlegild ran. And ran. And ran more. Never again, he said. Never again would he live under the heel of magic’s lazy, glittering boot.”

He taps the side of his head.
“Gimlegild sees the world clear. No tricks. No sorcery. Just stone, sweat, and truth. And when the mountain pulled magic out of the air, when spells died in the wind like flies in the cold—that’s when Gimlegild knew. This was the place. No magic. No noise. Just peace.”

He grins faintly, leaning back in his chair.
“And here Gimlegild shall stay. Until the end, and then a bit longer, if the cats permit it.”

“Why Gimlegild Doesn’t Light the Streets”

As heard on a quiet night, under a starless sky, with only the glow of lantern oil and fireflies to guide the way.

“Ah, so you want to know why the streets are dark, do you?”

Gimlegild leans forward, the wood of his chair creaking beneath him.
“Gimlegild hears that question once every few years. Usually from someone new. Someone who’s still waiting for the lights to hum on, or the stones to glow beneath their boots. But Aritan doesn’t hum. Aritan breathes.”

“Long ago—before the mountain, before the silence—Gimlegild lived in a city where the lamps danced on their own. Pretty things, aye. Always glowing, always singing. But one night, they sang the wrong song. One spark turned red. Then blue. Then the sky screamed, and the streets were never lit again.”

He taps his fingers slowly against the table.
“People forget that light has weight. That it comes from fire, from work, from hands that trim the wick and refill the oil. In magic, that cost is hidden. In Aritan, the cost is paid proper. No illusions. Just flame and sweat.”

He leans back, satisfied.
“If you want a lit street, light a lantern. If you want magic, walk until your boots wear thin. But don’t ask Gimlegild why the streets are dark.”

He pauses.
“The stars are still watching. And they don’t take kindly to questions like that.”