The Fabler at Daybreak

Prologue

            This one might be a little longer than I'm used to. So I'm going to try to finish it before I get bored with it... The updates might be a bit slow, but I will attempt to keep up with the demands of the Board of Never-Ending Suspence (ak@contradistinctive. Only the smartest will see what I did there;) Anyway, I'm sencerely sorry!

Wish me luck! :D

-Here's the pronunciation:

Seanán (SHIN~nahn)

Lindita (lin~DIT~tah)

Cain (cane)

Veli (VEH~lee)

Petturisa (PET~or~eezah)

I think you know how to pronounce "Dusty"...

Ohra Parannuskeinoa (oh~RA PARA~nos~kay~noah)

Säde Laine (sah~DEHY LINE)

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Prologue

Streaks of rich burgundy and bright amber tickle the clouds that linger in the brightening sky. A softly moaning breeze winds its way down the meandering backstreets of the Russian town.

A window in the old tavern located on a street just off of the main road is suddenly alight with the flaring of a match. The firelight touches the face of the man in possession of the flame. His deep sapphire eyes twinkle fiercely and crown-shaped shadows stretch across his eyelids up towards his eyebrows, created by his considerably long eyelashes. The blonde curls spilling over his forehead are mussed due to a long, black, merciless night of tossing and turning. A multitude of little voices of worry relentlessly buzzing, mosquito-like, in his ear; of hands of fretfulness penciling vivid, plausible pictures depicting failure at every turn.

The shadows shift as he lights the tall wax candle on the windowsill. It's 1911, but the owner still hasn't bothered keeping up with the latest technology; "Too expensive," he grumbles when asked.

The blonde-haired man takes a step back and cups a hand behind the match, blows it out. He casts a look over one broad shoulder at the motionless door at the front of the tavern, then allows his gaze to wander to the head of the room where the girl is placed.

A girl of sixteen sits in a creaky chair with her head down, eyes on the dusty floor; the owner never seems to hold neither the time nor the patience to sweep. Her straight blonde hair, one shade lighter than that of the man, veils a narrow face, sharp cheekbones, and full lips with a small mouth comparable to a daub of pale cherry paint by a paintbrush. Wide bright eyes gleam with the kind of fear that is too overwhelming to bother masking—yet not quite strong enough to be dubbed “terror”. The man gazes sympathetically down at her pale fists that shake violently, partially hidden in the folds of her cheery red dress that is adorned with black lace.

Another man enters the room from the typically locked door to the stairway. Both girl and man flinch at the crash the door makes when slammed.

The new man flicks his gaze over the two, then mutters something in muffled Russian before speaking more audibly to the girl.

Without lifting her head, the girl struggles to unclench her teeth and translates in Finnish to the blond-haired man. “He called us foolish, then told us that we need to ‘unlax’ so we can create the ‘serene air’ his tavern is known for.” She falls silent and listens while the gray-haired Russian man speaks again in his harsh tongue, then she clarifies: “We need to avoid fights breaking out.”

The Finnish man humbly jerks his chin down and closes his large eyes. He takes a breath big enough to satisfy an elephant’s starving lungs, then expels the mass of air with a trembling exhale.

The girl, on the other hand, completely ignores the bartender’s command as if it were mere advice. If anything, she retreats deeper into herself and allows a new wave of strain to tighten her muscles. Her stomach swarms with—forget butterflies—a thousand bees whose drone shakes her entire body as they brush against the insides of her belly.

The tavern owner retreats with a sigh to stand behind the bar and set up his display of merchandise. It is at this time that the first clients enter the tavern.