Sleepers' Sage | ONC 2023

I. Sunrise (Rewrite)

"Well met, my dear listener. I find myself merrily surprised to be blessed with your presence during the telling of this tale, yet unsure where to start. Never shall I be one to bar curiosity, and so I shall not abstain long of the sharing of this story. Before we begin, I must warn you, for this story is no sweeping limerick of heroes and dragons such as the greats bards sing to us in the inns, nor is it one of swords and sorcery, ready to surprise you with magic and wonderment. Our story is one of simple pleasures and long-winded journeys."

"Now, now, don't look at me like that. In oath and trust, I assure you this tale is no lullaby, listener. Journeys always bare teeth, but not always such as the serrated edges of swords."

"Oh? Suddenly no longer interested and glum? Very well then, listener. I must admit my amusement then at your light despondence, for I cannot help but smile at your spirits. Look at me now, bowing for so little, to cast tinder to the flame of your engagement. Nevertheless, I see your perspective, a little battle then. Perhaps only the most rousing details of our stories conflict, but not more than that! If you are so captivated by the thrilling life of a sellsword, you should ask the Iron Shields, not me."

"With our understanding cleared, my continuous struggle of beginning our epic re-emerges. To no longer halt our introduction—for I can see your engagement falter—I shall return my devotion to trade and tradition. Back in my youthful day, my father would tell us many fables of twisting oak woods and far-off highlands cradling towers to the heavens. Every one of those journeys began in the same way, and such journey, I shall too take you."

~(✩✧✩)~✶~(✩✧✩)~

Our tale starts a long, long time ago when the world was yet young and the seas still untamed. So long past, it was when the mountains stood taller than the highest peaks of the Mourning Expanse, and the wilds were still vaster than the darkest depths of the Sovereign's forests. Here, so carefully tucked away in the verdant hills of the Great Dale, sprawled hidden in the vale was the town of Forn, and there lived a young girl named Marion.

Her mother was a lady gone unnamed, only mentioned in action and appearance, as she had left her family behind shortly after her daughter's birth. As such, Marion was raised alongside her two brothers: Bartic and Dunstan. The latter was a happy fellow, resembling their unnamed mother more than his siblings. Dunstan was a lean boy, even in his early years, with ginger hair and was always looking for a next adventure (or, if he was less lucky: tasks). This caused his hands to show wear, and he spent most of his time in the chapel for scrapes and bumps that needed blessing.

Bartic, meanwhile, matched Marion and her father more closely. His short brown hair curling around his ears and holding a full, chubby figure, Bartic counted almost as many jokes as he counted freckles that coated his cheeks and shoulders. 

What his brother, Dunstan, lacked in matching appearance, he made up in vigour. When Dunstan got in trouble, it was almost always Bartic's fault, and should Bartic get hurt (which was frequently, and until he grew up, he often missed teeth in his smile), Dunstan was never far off.

Marion had quite the fire within her as well, and the young girl held enough stubbornness to fuel it too. This went not unnoticed by the troublemakers, who often pulled her into schemes and knavish antics. One such caper—the greatest, should you ask the siblings—involved their father, a warm man by the name of Barett Barwick. He looked much akin to Bartic (although Barett had long since grown out of his youthful stoutness) but shared the crooked, strong nose he had given to Dunstan and had stern, honourable eyes in a deep shade of grey only Bartic shared. While Barett had recently opened his very own hostel and bar, he was better known by the citizens of Forn for his other, now abandoned, profession: that of a great soldier in the army of Goldblades.