Written in The Stars

The first scroll

The wanderers have come a long way to return to their homeland – Lydia – where they have not been for the last five years. During their journey, they found a new friend who went with them through the impenetrable forests.

Their last stop turned out to be not so far from the nearest city, and, waking up with the first rays of the sun, the travelers began to pack up for the road.

A seventeen-year-old girl, the youngest of those present, was practicing fire spells while sitting on a rock. They were given to her, it cannot be said that well – the tongue of flame instantly drooped in her palm and disappeared from sight.

"Lydia, stop it..."

She was named after the land where she was born. A dark red unruly mop of hair covered hazel eyes. The girl stood up, but it did not add much to her height.

"I'm already packed"

"You're always forgetting something!"

Her older brother Eugene was scolding her. He was taller, wiry like that. Her hair is short and dark, slightly disheveled. He was wearing, like his sister, some kind of gray robe with a hood. He rubbed his eye as he stuffed a stale loaf of bread into his bag.

A little further away stood a makeshift tent, from which a broad-shouldered young man with blond hair had just begun to get out. Despite the hasty packing around, he must have just woken up.

"Why don't you tell Pete anything?" the girl was indignant, looking at her sleepy companion.

"Mmm, Lyds, and you've been sucking like a leech since morning!" He grinned.

"What did you say?! "

Lydia stepped threateningly towards the talker, but Eugene immediately put out his hand in front of her:

"So, what did I say about that? Pete will have time to pack, I know that for sure"

"Exactly," the young man continued to mock.

"Pete, don't push it"

"Understood"

He raised his palms, surrendering to his companion, and went to the riverbed, which was a couple of dozen meters away from them. At that time, his comrade Marcel, a swarthy, powerful man with an almost bald head, was drinking water from there. He was wearing a battered chain mail shirt and high boots.

"Are you bothering our Lydia again?" He took a sip from his palm.

"She takes everything too seriously," the young man shrugged and washed his face.

"Don't bother her," Marcel warned calmly. "She gets angry easily"

"Your word is the law for me, but it is beyond my strength"

The phrase sounded too ironic. The friends laughed lightly.

"I'm going to pack a tent," the man got to his feet. "We'll leave as soon as Nestor gets back."

The elf was sitting on a small slope, assessing the situation. A bow and a quiver of arrows could be seen on his back. His long dark hair reached to his chest, and therefore the front strands were pulled back so as not to climb into his face. The eyes were very light, mother–of-pearl, without irises and pupils - this was a feature of the alves. His thin lips stretched into a smile as a butterfly landed on his finger.

"Hey, Nestor, how's it going?" Eugene was standing at the foot and was completely ready for the road.

This cry startled the insect, and the elf sighed:

"It's okay. We can go now"

The whole city was already in the heat of work – the owners of the stalls were inviting passers-by to "taste fresh fish" or "get enough of juicy fruits." The clang of metal could be heard in the forge, and children in rags were running around the fountain in the very center.