Insignia: Scars of Lumierna

Two

The wooden wyvern flies through the air with the help of a small hand. Lying on his back in the center of the only room on the second floor beside a small bedroom above the bakery, Stirling plays. The room is bare, except for minimal furniture; a mattress made of discolored linen sheets sewn together and stuffed with straw, a few shelves holding candles and kitchenware, a wooden table with benches, and a brick box that's top is opened and filled with smoldering coals warming a pot of mashed peas and carrots.

Stirling's mind is far from the small dusty room as he imagines the dragon being a real beast soaring through the clouds above. He only owned a couple of wooden toys in his life due to the cost and this was by far his favorite.

His mother, Jannell, kneels on the hard floor beside him. "Stirling, dear, is there anything you would like for the special occasion? You made quite the leap to becoming a man yesterday."

Stirling sits up, ecstatic. "I want a dragon! A real one!"

"A real dragon?" she repeats. "Why would you want one of those? Dragons must be hard to take care of and clean up after."

"Because I want to become a Winged Rider! I want to fight and protect our kingdom." Stirling throws his hands enthusiastically and wildly as he talks, emphasizing his words. "The Bard who can read told me all about the history of the Winged Cavalry and sang songs about some of the Greats like Hildwulf who led a team of four to victory against a hundred Uviktiland ships! And Ravenor on his all-black dragon, completely invisible in the night. No one knew he was coming until his arrows were sticking out from their chest." Stirling grabs the imaginary arrow protruding from his own rib cage and falls back to the floor dead.

Jannell smiles. "That's nice dear. But I'm not sure that your father and I can afford a real dragon; maybe we can get you another toy one."

Stirling frowns. "That's not the same."

Becoming a Winged Rider for the Winged Cavalry is the most prestigious career in the Isles of Wyverna. Due to this fact it comes preassigned with the highest training difficulty. The young Riders experience grueling and vigorous lessons, starting the moment they receive their insignia.

Winged Rider parents strive for their children to be at the top of their class by teaching them the knowledge they will need to know starting as soon as they can walk. Anything they can do to get them a head start before they are sent to actual training.

The Winged Riders are a small selective portion of the nation as the highest ranking in the military. Even if your parent was a Rider, there is still a chance you will not be deemed fit to serve and will be demoted to a guard if you cannot prove yourself by graduation at the age of sixteen. For the few children born each year and the fewer who survive long into adulthood to have families of their own, they live among lords and never understand the value of money. For all they do to protect the people, they receive the highest respect from the kingdom's people.

Stirling longs to be a Winged Rider. What young boy doesn't want to live the exciting life of fighting in the clouds? He stares at his wooden dragon as Jannell pats him on his head before returning to the table and picking up her wooden pestle and mortar. He watches his parents momentarily, his mother grinding the ginger, humming quietly while his father pokes at the hot cinders. Stirling pushes himself off the ground and shuffles his way over to the table.

Resting his chin upon the dented and chipped wood, he whines, "Why can't I be a Winged Rider?"

Giles jabs the iron poker into the coals and turns around to face Stirling. Staring down at him, he says with a stern voice, "For the hundredth time Stirling, it's the way of our land. It helps our society run smoothly. Everyone has their place. Your insignia should be your only gift. You should be bearing that with honor. ''

"It's how it's always been honey, simple as that," Jannell adds.

"It's not fair!" Stirling complains, raising his voice slightly before stomping his way over to a stool sitting below the window.

Stirling ignores his father's grumbling voice behind him as he speaks to his mother, "Of course, it's not fair. Nowhere in the holy words does it say life shall be fair."

"Giles, he's just a boy," Jannell shushes.

"But he won't be forever."

With a little bit of force, Stirling pushes the weather-warped shutter caught on the sill open. Breathing in the pungent city air, he crosses his arms on the windowsill and lays his head down watching the townsfolk socialize below.

"It's not fair," he mumbles to himself as he inspects his insignia, "I don't want this."

Stirling's attention perks as four city guards appear from the market's crowd. People quickly scamper out of their way, but their rubber necks stretch with their eyes shackled to the guards. The curiosity to see whose home they were marching towards is too strong for them to ignore.

Stopping several shops down the dirt road, the guards step up to the tailor's shop. Stirling stands up quickly, kicking the stool out from below him he lets it crash to the floor. His parents startle at the sound as he leans out the window for a better view.

"What on earth are you doing?" Giles shouts as he stalks over to the window and peers out over Stirling to witness the guards bust through the shop's front door.

People begin circling as the guards disappear inside. A commotion coming from the depths of the tailor's home can be heard all the way to the bakery.

Suddenly a barrel is lobbed out the front door. It lands with a crash on the market road splintering open.

The liquid escapes through the cracks, saturating the dirt around it.

Two of the guards emerge with the Tailor, his hands tied behind his back as they escort him out of the shop.

The other two guards follow behind, holding another barrel together.

They begin swinging it between them and once the guards with the tailor step off to the side of the door, they lob the second barrel into the street. It crashes on top of the first, repeating the action as it bursts open, adding to the expanding puddle.

One of the guards who helped throw the barrel pulls out a parchment and announces to the crowd, "Durwin Macon of the lower class tailor occupation has been found guilty of illegally brewing mead without being part of the innkeepers, alehouses, or brewery occupations. He will be brought to stand before King Dietrich who will decide his sentence.

Giles reaches out and pulls the shutters closed. Stirling jerks his head back in time to avoid being hit in the face. "Enough of that."

"What is happening?" Jannell asks.

"The Tailor is being arrested for brewing mead. Serves him right. You break the law, you deserve to be punished. Simple as that," he answers.

Stirling stares at the closed shutters, the people in the commonly noisy atmosphere of the market have grown eerily quiet. They must be watching as the guards take the man away, afraid to speak up so they aren't the next to be walked off in shackles.

"Stirling, honey, step away from the window. Come on and eat some lunch, then you can help me finish making this gingerbread. I know it's your favorite," Jannell says, her voice luring Stirling away from the window's trance.

He slides onto the wooden bench at the table, wondering what will become of the tailor.