The Merlinian Legacy (working title)

Chapter 11: Leavetakings

Alaric, his new mentor Saline, and her familiar, Kage, were about to reach the edge of the forest when distant mechanical sounds cut through the crisp air. The rhythmic clanking of gears, the creak of wooden wheels, and the low hum of machinery echoed among the trees, distinct from the natural rustling of the winter-laden branches. The noises grew louder, reverberating through the stillness of the woods, interrupting the flow of their conversation.

Saline paused mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing as she cocked her head toward the sound, listening intently. "A gnomish horseless-cart, by the sound of it," she murmured, her voice carrying a note of curiosity. "Is it their caravan returning to the forest? Interesting timing, wouldn't you say?"

Alaric's ears twitched, picking up the familiar cadence of gnomish machinery—metal clinks, the occasional hiss of steam escaping a pipe, the rattle of brass-bound wheels. It stirred something nostalgic within him. He had often heard those sounds in his hobby as a weapon tester for the gnomes, spending hours at the edge of their camps, watching the gnomes at work as they tinkered and invented.

"They must be on their way back from Title Town," Alaric said, adjusting the pack slung over his shoulder. He glanced toward Saline to gauge her reaction. "It might be worth a stop, see what news they bring from the human settlements."

Kage, perched on Saline's shoulder, let out a low, rumbling purr that almost sounded like a laugh. "Yeah, interesting that they arrived just when your gardeners decided to powder the forest in snow," he commented, his tone amused, the words echoing in Alaric's mind with the strange, supernatural resonance that marked the bakeneko's speech.

Saline nodded, her eyes glinting with interest. "Lead the way then, apprentice. Let's see what fate has delivered to us this time."

With that, they turned toward the source of the sound, following the mechanical clatter until they reached a bend in the path. The trees parted to reveal the caravan making its slow, steady way through the forest. Alaric recognized the crest of Thistlefoot's seal etched into the sides of the lead-wagon—an intricate design of a leaf entwined with a gear.

At the front of the caravan, Thistlefoot himself strode alongside the lead wagon, bundled against the cold in a thick woolen traveling coat. His coat, though practical, was embroidered with intricate designs of gears and cogs, each stitch precise and symmetrical, reflecting his devotion to the pacifist "Way of the Gear." His sharp eyes darted about, assessing every creak and shift of the wagons. To him, the mechanical world was not merely a tool but a finely-tuned system, each part working in harmony with the whole—just as he viewed life. A brass monocle, fitted with multiple lenses, glinted at his chest, and a tool-belt was strapped to his waist, filled with crafting tools in various shapes and sizes—a symbol of his meticulous nature and his belief that every problem could be solved with the right mechanism.

Spotting Alaric and his companions, Thistlefoot raised a hand in greeting, his expression shifting from wary to pleasantly surprised. "If it isn't Alaric Vale," he called out, his voice carrying over the whir of the wagon wheels. "It's been some time, lad. Have you come to greet us back to the forest? And I see you've picked up some curious company along the way."

Alaric returned the gnome's smile with a nod. "Just a fortunate coincidence, Thistlefoot. We were on our way out when we heard you coming through. Thought we'd see what news you bring from the human settlements."

Saline raised an eyebrow, offering Thistlefoot a thin, measured smile. "It seems you've made quite the impression, Alaric, to be recognized by name. And had your caravan thrived on its journey, Master Tinker?"