ANATHEMA - Inferno's Vow

Chapter I: Sylrel

These Forms bear the mark of the perfect creation

With an end, comes beauty

But this one, why is It plain?

It shall hold The Will unlike any other

Above all will it be marred

And you shall keep The Will, and care for it

Lest it be destroyed, so will the life

It refuses to yield.

ANATHEMA

In the summer heat, planted between the rolling hills of the sprawl of Sylrel, was a well. Built of stone and wood, it was near as elderly as the town it serviced. There were many like it; there was nothing of great importance about this well. A slanted roof made of cut Norsjin wood and a base made of plaster and heavy stone bricks were all that comprised it. Two legs held a roof above the stone base, and on one leg was stationed a crank, which creaked with rust and the cries of iron too old for use. Yet, despite the wear the years had imposed upon it, it was still in use, being patronized by the lower homes of Sylrel as a source of fresh and bountiful water.

The crank let out a long creak as it sprang into action, winding up the taught cord to retrieve a saturated bucket from the depths of the well. The motion was not spontaneous or brought about by some cloaked Magii or spirit. Rather, it was spurred by a young man, who, fighting against the rust and deposits of the water-fetching mechanism, continued to reel in the water bucket. As the bucket reached the summit of the well, it swung back and forth, a harmonic motion that was created due to the inconsistent operation of the crank. The young man reached out to steady the bucket, stopping it in its tracks as he spun it around to make its spout face him. With his free hand, he reached around to the bag on his back and plucked free a hanging glass bottle. The container was swiftly uncorked, and soon water began to flow from the bucket into the glass.

Ander, having exhausted the contents of the bucket into his glass, placed the glass on the rim of the well, sealed it, and then released the bucket. The young man - only a few moons older than fifteen - bore the responsibility of fetching water for his household, a daily task he would tackle every morning. He was born from the Idris lineage, a very modest and small family of no great importance. He was a member of the lower houses of Sylrel, ranking below the merchantmen and the high houses. Being born of common stature meant his home had no recurring supply of water, and thus his journey was needed to sustain his family's activities and ventures. It bore nothing on his mind; in fact, he quite liked it. It was the first of the daily trips he would make throughout the southern sect of Sylrel. Such was the place common folk would congregate, trade, and talk, albeit often with rude affectation.

Before lowering the bucket back down, he took a respite to wipe away the sweat from his brow. Carrying his pack was no easy feat, no matter how many times he had done it before. He was still a young man after all, one couldn't expect him to carry a day's worth of water for four people without some level of strain. Such was why he refused to lower his pack, even during the lengthy time it took to fill his bottles.

Down went the bucket, and back up it came. He repeated the process until he had half a dozen sealed bottles bursting with water. The water would still have to be treated with heat before use or consumption, which was another lengthy process. Nevertheless, he had what he needed from the old well, and with a few thankful pats, he departed from it.

The well itself was a small walk away from the edge of Sylrel. Around it, besides the dirt and gravel paths often walked by folks of his class, were endless stretches of farmland. As far as the eye could see were fields of budding seed and hearty roots. Planted mostly in spring, the crops were being guarded and tended to by the local Feylings, those simple little creatures who worked the land in servitude to local lords or farmers. On occasion, men could be seen in the fields, noting the growth of their harvest, but more often than not were the Feylings the guardians of the lot.