Dance my child, Dance my child
The trees lit up orange and yellow as his father threw another log on the fire. It would be another week before they reached Simmersil. A warm bed and maybe even a bath would be welcome after weeks on the road.
Not that he had known any different. Damon's earliest memories were of him and his father being on the road. But they had been traveling the roads of Mithra for more than a dozen years now.
Damon leaned back against a tree and lazily played a tune on his lute.
"Are you bored kid? If you want to you can go clean my mail," his father said with a cheeky grin on his face.
'Mail' was a big word for the tattered and rusted shirt that his father still carried from his time in the army. But it had saved his life more than once and it was not like they could afford anything better. The little money Damon usually earned with playing at a tavern or alehouse was usually spent the same day on ale.
"You're a big man, you can clean your own mail," Damon said with a sly smile.
"But you're my squire, son."
"You're not a Knight, and you're not even in the army anymore. You don't need a squire."
His father laughed and turned the rabbit. Blood still dripped in the fire, hissing and fizzling as it evaporated.
"I could also tell you a story about this region of Listinia, We've never been here together," his father said.
Damon looked up and stopped playing. His father was a great storyteller, with his only problem being that his repertoire usually only consisted of the same twenty or so stories he had heard a thousand times already.
"It is a pretty scary story though, are you sure you are up for that?"
Damon sighed, "I'm not a kid anymore dad."
His father laughed, "that's what all children say."
He tossed another log on the fire, making flames dance.
Long ago, there lived a man in these woods. He was a simple man, living off the land. He grew herbs in his garden and caught his own dinner every day. He fished in the streams and ponds, catching trout and salmon. He caught pheasants in his snares. And he picked fruits and nuts from the trees. He was also a devout man. He prayed to the gods every day and helped anyone in need. He took in wanderers, in a time when the area was plagued with bandits. Anyone could tell you that housing armed outlaws goes against all The laws of Men and Mal, but he didn't care. The gods told him to be hospitable to anyone, and so he was.
One day, while he was on a stroll, he heard a faint crying in through the trees. He followed the sound until he found a baby girl, bundled up in furs, left to die in the woods. She was probably from one of the nearby villages, maybe Carasun, Crosscreek, or maybe even Tumbleton, put in the woods to die.
He cared for the girl like it was his own daughter. He taught her to hunt and to forage. He taught her to cook, to clean, and everything about the gods. He taught her to weave and draw. He taught her to sing and dance.
Something moved in the nearby brush. Damon sat up, frantically looking around.
"What was that?"
"It's just a squirrel or something," his father said laughing. "I see the story is scaring you Damon. Shall I stop?"
"no," Damon said.
He had to know how it would end.
One day, the girl came home with a straggler. A high priest from Simmersil, on a pilgrimage. He had been badly wounded after being attacked by bandits. They brought him in and tended to his wounds. He told them about his journey and about his life at the Temple. It inspired the girl to become a priestess herself. They ate together, prayed together, and lived together until the priest had finally recovered. On the evening before he would depart, they prayed one last time together. But as the man had his eyes closed, his attention towards the gods, he felt a sharp pain in his back. The priest was standing behind him, holding a big knife drenched with blood. He had murder in his eyes.
The man fell to the ground. He was helpless as he watched the man beat the little girl he had come to care so much for. At that moment, he knew the gods had betrayed him. Sending a priest to kill him and his girl, when they had been nothing but pious and good. As the priest hurried out the door with everything he could carry, dragging the girl behind him, he made a deal with one of the restless.
"So what happened then?" Damon asked.
"Well, the..."
Something moved nearby again. First Damon thought it might be a squirrel again, but even his father reached for his dirk now. He sat back up again and peered into the woods. Out of the thick underbrush, two men emerged. One had his hood pulled up and wore a long cloak that covered his whole body. He wore black gloves and black shoes, which seemed a bit warm. The other had a friendly clean-shaven face and wore simple shaggy clothes.
"Evening good people," the clean-shaven man said. "We are not here to hurt you, we just saw your fire and thought we might join you tonight."
His father looked weary, but eventually shrugged and pointed at the fire.
"Take a seat, we have plenty of room. It is the forest after all."
The man laughed, "Yeah, that is true I suppose. My name is Cedrik, I'm traveling back home to Maquen, and this here is."
He paused for a second and looked at the hooded figure next to him like he had just met him.
"I actually don't know his name, he doesn't talk much. But he is a great listener."
They sat down at the fire and Cedrik happily reached for the rabbit leg his father handed him.
"Welcome friends," his father said. "I'm Garlan and this is my son, Damon. We are self-proclaimed wanderers."
"Wanderers eh?" Cedrik said between bites. "Where have you been to?"
"We travel all over Mithra, from the north to the southern clans to the western colonies," Damon said.
"Ever been to Querenth boy?" Cedrik asked.
"We just came from there," Damon answered.
"What did you think?"
"It sucked. The smell was horrible, the food was expensive or tasted like shit, and we didn't even see the well."
Cedrik laughed. "Exactly my thoughts when I first visited."
"The only place worth visiting is the pantheon," the hooded man said.
His voice was creaky and hollow, without any emotion, and Damon could now see a shining amulet of Asteril hanging from his neck.
"That is a nice place though," Cedrik agreed. "And the academy is pretty nice too."
After a few minutes of silence, Damon couldn't hold it anymore.
"Could you continue the story Dad?" he asked.
"Story? I love stories," Cedrik said.
"I was telling him about the man who was killed by a priest and sold his soul to the restless," His father said.
"I heard about that once, never heard how it ended though."
"I'll continue then," Damon's father said.
The girl was never found, and when some travelers who frequented the region, came on to his house, it was as empty as the desert. Blood stained the carpet and most of the valuables were gone. Almost all the man's clothes were still there though, except one long cloak.
People say that to this day, the ghost of the man still roams the lands, looking for his little girl, singing the song he taught her. His singing can be heard through the forest, but don't be afraid when you hear it. For it is only when he is silent, that he is hunting. See, he hates mankind, having your loved ones killed when you have been nothing but kind does something to a man. Or a ghost I suppose. His deal with the restless kept him able to roam this plane, but he can only eat human flesh. He hates the gods, yet he still wears an amulet for one of the gods, just to remind him of his loss and what the gods did to him.
"I don't hear his singing now," Damon said.
His father smiled, "that must mean he is hunting."
Damon looked sideways at the hooded man. His amulet shimmering in the orange light of the fire. His heart almost stopped when he took another look at the man's hands. He wasn't wearing gloves like he previously thought, but his hands were black as soot. They were a dead man's hands.
A faint sound came from under the hood, everybody went silent to hear what it was.
Softly the man croaked, "Dance my child, dance my child. For mother Gara will see."
Not that he had known any different. Damon's earliest memories were of him and his father being on the road. But they had been traveling the roads of Mithra for more than a dozen years now.
Damon leaned back against a tree and lazily played a tune on his lute.
"Are you bored kid? If you want to you can go clean my mail," his father said with a cheeky grin on his face.
'Mail' was a big word for the tattered and rusted shirt that his father still carried from his time in the army. But it had saved his life more than once and it was not like they could afford anything better. The little money Damon usually earned with playing at a tavern or alehouse was usually spent the same day on ale.
"You're a big man, you can clean your own mail," Damon said with a sly smile.
"But you're my squire, son."
"You're not a Knight, and you're not even in the army anymore. You don't need a squire."
His father laughed and turned the rabbit. Blood still dripped in the fire, hissing and fizzling as it evaporated.
"I could also tell you a story about this region of Listinia, We've never been here together," his father said.
Damon looked up and stopped playing. His father was a great storyteller, with his only problem being that his repertoire usually only consisted of the same twenty or so stories he had heard a thousand times already.
"It is a pretty scary story though, are you sure you are up for that?"
Damon sighed, "I'm not a kid anymore dad."
His father laughed, "that's what all children say."
He tossed another log on the fire, making flames dance.
Long ago, there lived a man in these woods. He was a simple man, living off the land. He grew herbs in his garden and caught his own dinner every day. He fished in the streams and ponds, catching trout and salmon. He caught pheasants in his snares. And he picked fruits and nuts from the trees. He was also a devout man. He prayed to the gods every day and helped anyone in need. He took in wanderers, in a time when the area was plagued with bandits. Anyone could tell you that housing armed outlaws goes against all The laws of Men and Mal, but he didn't care. The gods told him to be hospitable to anyone, and so he was.
One day, while he was on a stroll, he heard a faint crying in through the trees. He followed the sound until he found a baby girl, bundled up in furs, left to die in the woods. She was probably from one of the nearby villages, maybe Carasun, Crosscreek, or maybe even Tumbleton, put in the woods to die.
He cared for the girl like it was his own daughter. He taught her to hunt and to forage. He taught her to cook, to clean, and everything about the gods. He taught her to weave and draw. He taught her to sing and dance.
Dance my child, dance my child
For mother Gara will see
How much you've grown since last she saw
She loves you wild and free
The lands will know what faith you bring
Oh they will now for sure
How much you pray, how much you know
How much your heart is pure
Something moved in the nearby brush. Damon sat up, frantically looking around.
"What was that?"
"It's just a squirrel or something," his father said laughing. "I see the story is scaring you Damon. Shall I stop?"
"no," Damon said.
He had to know how it would end.
One day, the girl came home with a straggler. A high priest from Simmersil, on a pilgrimage. He had been badly wounded after being attacked by bandits. They brought him in and tended to his wounds. He told them about his journey and about his life at the Temple. It inspired the girl to become a priestess herself. They ate together, prayed together, and lived together until the priest had finally recovered. On the evening before he would depart, they prayed one last time together. But as the man had his eyes closed, his attention towards the gods, he felt a sharp pain in his back. The priest was standing behind him, holding a big knife drenched with blood. He had murder in his eyes.
The man fell to the ground. He was helpless as he watched the man beat the little girl he had come to care so much for. At that moment, he knew the gods had betrayed him. Sending a priest to kill him and his girl, when they had been nothing but pious and good. As the priest hurried out the door with everything he could carry, dragging the girl behind him, he made a deal with one of the restless.
"So what happened then?" Damon asked.
"Well, the..."
Something moved nearby again. First Damon thought it might be a squirrel again, but even his father reached for his dirk now. He sat back up again and peered into the woods. Out of the thick underbrush, two men emerged. One had his hood pulled up and wore a long cloak that covered his whole body. He wore black gloves and black shoes, which seemed a bit warm. The other had a friendly clean-shaven face and wore simple shaggy clothes.
"Evening good people," the clean-shaven man said. "We are not here to hurt you, we just saw your fire and thought we might join you tonight."
His father looked weary, but eventually shrugged and pointed at the fire.
"Take a seat, we have plenty of room. It is the forest after all."
The man laughed, "Yeah, that is true I suppose. My name is Cedrik, I'm traveling back home to Maquen, and this here is."
He paused for a second and looked at the hooded figure next to him like he had just met him.
"I actually don't know his name, he doesn't talk much. But he is a great listener."
They sat down at the fire and Cedrik happily reached for the rabbit leg his father handed him.
"Welcome friends," his father said. "I'm Garlan and this is my son, Damon. We are self-proclaimed wanderers."
"Wanderers eh?" Cedrik said between bites. "Where have you been to?"
"We travel all over Mithra, from the north to the southern clans to the western colonies," Damon said.
"Ever been to Querenth boy?" Cedrik asked.
"We just came from there," Damon answered.
"What did you think?"
"It sucked. The smell was horrible, the food was expensive or tasted like shit, and we didn't even see the well."
Cedrik laughed. "Exactly my thoughts when I first visited."
"The only place worth visiting is the pantheon," the hooded man said.
His voice was creaky and hollow, without any emotion, and Damon could now see a shining amulet of Asteril hanging from his neck.
"That is a nice place though," Cedrik agreed. "And the academy is pretty nice too."
After a few minutes of silence, Damon couldn't hold it anymore.
"Could you continue the story Dad?" he asked.
"Story? I love stories," Cedrik said.
"I was telling him about the man who was killed by a priest and sold his soul to the restless," His father said.
"I heard about that once, never heard how it ended though."
"I'll continue then," Damon's father said.
The girl was never found, and when some travelers who frequented the region, came on to his house, it was as empty as the desert. Blood stained the carpet and most of the valuables were gone. Almost all the man's clothes were still there though, except one long cloak.
People say that to this day, the ghost of the man still roams the lands, looking for his little girl, singing the song he taught her. His singing can be heard through the forest, but don't be afraid when you hear it. For it is only when he is silent, that he is hunting. See, he hates mankind, having your loved ones killed when you have been nothing but kind does something to a man. Or a ghost I suppose. His deal with the restless kept him able to roam this plane, but he can only eat human flesh. He hates the gods, yet he still wears an amulet for one of the gods, just to remind him of his loss and what the gods did to him.
"I don't hear his singing now," Damon said.
His father smiled, "that must mean he is hunting."
Damon looked sideways at the hooded man. His amulet shimmering in the orange light of the fire. His heart almost stopped when he took another look at the man's hands. He wasn't wearing gloves like he previously thought, but his hands were black as soot. They were a dead man's hands.
A faint sound came from under the hood, everybody went silent to hear what it was.
Softly the man croaked, "Dance my child, dance my child. For mother Gara will see."
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