Episode 3 Part 3 Sneak Peek #12

This sneak peek takes us to another Wayfarer flashback that can be triggered in Episode 3. For context, it uses the Child of the Fields origin and the MC was trained by Cenric. As this is a WIP written in third person, the player character is referred to with they/them pronouns (variables will be added later).  

They aren’t sure what brought them to Trost, but they are here now—reduced to peeking around the entrance to an alleyway, watching two people pummel each other into the cobblestones.

Cenric and Varyn had been insistent on this outing, sudden though it was. As for the reason, they may never know—or maybe they did know, maybe they were told, they simply did not pay close enough attention. Three hours or so before they were bundled into the cart they were busy picking clumps of burs and grass out of Aeran’s hair. He had wandered off on his own into the woods again and was eager to avoid an argument with Varyn.

Help me hide the evidence, he had asked.

The child agreed easily enough, though privately they thought it was a moot point. Aeran’s clothes were muddy and that was damning evidence enough. Not to mention that nothing escapes Varyn’s keen eye.

The ride down the mountain was cold and soggy, as was to be expected. Autumn in the Frostmarks brought a perpetual mist that did not seem to go away until it turned to snow. By the time they arrived in town, both the child and Aeran were quite keen to never leave the Spire’s comfort again.

Varyn promised a warm night in the local inn. Their business in town wouldn’t begin until the following morning, so they had the evening to enjoy themselves. That was where they were headed when the sounds of a fight interrupted.

Cenric led the charge through the mist, leading them to the entrance to a tight alleyway and the scene playing out before them. A girl—a youth—grapples with a much larger elf. They scream and shout between punches, fingernails digging into arms, fingers scratching at eyes. There is no hint of magic about either of them.

The child’s eyes shone with curiosity and horror, and they move to follow as if entranced. They do not have much experience with violence like this. The sloppy bouts between jealous youths at the annual festival barely count. A practice session gone rogue in the training grounds at their family’s estate barely count. But the anniversary of becoming a Wayfarer apprentice is marked by a fannarl attack, and that certainly does. Not to mention the one-on-on duels they’ve seen the older Wayfarers engage in at the Spire.

But this is no training regimen. This is a real fight between two people intent on hurting each other.

And that they’ve never seen before.

Aeran seizes their arm and drags them out of the way, mouthing at them to be quiet and stay out of the way. Cenric and Varyn push forwards, hands not straying far from their weapons.

The child closes their eyes and turns their head. A scuffle, a shout, a curse—and Cenric’s deep voice echoes through their ears.

“Get out. Leave. Won’t tell you again.”

The child opens their eyes.

The elf is gone, the sound of their retreating footsteps pattering away in the distance. The youth backs away, pressing her back to the wall as she wipes blood from her mouth. Her eyes dart from Cenric to Varyn and back again.

“Thanks,” she says. Intense blue eyes glare from a freckled face, framed by choppy brown hair. The mop is short enough to reveal the slight slant of her ears; her features are more human than elven. And she’s not really a youth, the child realizes now that they can see her properly in all this mist. Despite her small stature, she is several years their senior, just past the cusp of adulthood.

“Of course,” Varyn says. “Do you customarily get into scraps in alleyways? Your skills would suggest so.”

The young woman snorts. Her eyes are cold. “You, uh… you from the Spire?”

“Yes.” Varyn’s gaze is steadfast. “You are a magianis, are you not?”

“You bet your arse I am.” She scowls, lazily inspecting her bloodied knuckles. Her fingers are horribly bruised, the angles sickening… Whatever she did, she hurt them terribly. “And what of it?”

Cenric steps towards her. “You’re wounded, kid,” he says gently. “Gotta hit open-fisted or you’re more like to break your hand than your opponent’s face.”

“Don’t matter to me.” She eyes him. “Why does it matter so much to you? Here to recruit me? Gonna drag me back to that big scary castle up the hill whether I like it or not?”

“Call it friendly concern. Give me your hand—”

“Back off!” The young woman rips her hand out of his reach, backing down the street. She clasps her injured fingers to her chest, a snarl curling her upper lip. “I don’t want your help! I don’t need your help—”

“Oftentimes the help you do not want is exactly the kind you need most,” Varyn says solemnly. “We have no interest in recruiting you to the Wayfarer Order, child. Even if we did, the Grandmaster would forbade it. But your current predicament is not one we can ignore. If you—”

The young woman throws back her head and a hoarse laugh bubbling up out of her. She presses her back against the wall, her whole body shaking. “My predicament? Funny, that. Hearing it from you. Your grand order with your grand designs, helping the common riffraff like me. You know my asshole of a father—whoever he is—was one of your lot. Why would you think I’d ever want anything to do with you?”