Talos and Cyrus

Chapter 1 - Not Where the Heart is

"Three shillings." grunted the trade master, slamming three underwhelming bronze coins on the moldy counter of the market stall. Cyrus looked down on them pitifully, feeling aggravation begin to burn in his core. He had expected more.

"That's it?" he asked, trying his hardest to sound polite. "That's all they are worth?"

The trade master, who called himself Odav, leaned forward, resting his thick arms on the counter. It groaned beneath his bulk.

"You should be grateful I'm even taking that vermin in the first place, silver hair." he growled. His breath was horrid. "They're hardly worth more than the mud caked into the soles of your boots."

Cyrus shot Odav a glare filled with all the venom he could muster before hauling four scrawny pakruts onto the counter, their lifeless bodies beginning to chill. He had caught them in a makeshift trap that morning, which came as an immense surprise. He never caught anything.

Cyrus brought a pale hand over the three shillings and slid them into the leather bag slung over his shoulder, flinching as they clanged against one another. It was a shameful sound.

"A good day to you, boy." Odav sneered, grabbing the pakruts by their hairless tails and tossing them aside. They landed on a large brown sack at the trade master's feet.

Not feeling the least bit satisfied, Cyrus didn't bother to utter a reply as he turned his back on the market stall. He started for home, following the winding path that led him deeper into the village. It was midday. The sun was at her highest point in the sky, casting warm spring rays down onto the bustling villagers of Aeredale.

Aeredale was a quiet village, built right along the edge of the Gray River. A thick forest surrounded the entire town, shielding it from outside affairs and temptations. The village was extremely small and never got many visitors besides for the influx traders that sifted through annually; sometimes they all arrived at once, but that was a rare occurrence. It was the only time Cyrus felt truly happy to live in the compact village. He lived across the river with his family, just out of reach of the bustle within the town's center. It was always mayhem.

Cyrus expertly weaved himself through the growing crowd of people, avoiding any scampering children and the sharp hooves of irritated elkorses. Villagers shouted at one another and threw threats around like they would a tomato, and Cyrus had to duck when an actual tomato came soaring over his head. Women hung out of the windows of their homes, pinning faded clothes onto a line while calling out to one another with shrill voices. Kezas, canine-like creatures with the head and markings that of a badger, lounged on the porches of farmers' homes, an elderly one wagging its tail as Cyrus walked passed. He smiled at the animal.

It was not long before he came to the rickety wooden bridge that would take him over The Gray River and straight home. His legs knew the way.

Home was a tiny plot of land supporting an even tinier house. Home was Flossie, his family's ancient elkorse, grazing on her patch of grass. Home was Maera, his older sister, hanging ragged clothes on a line. Home was Castor, his younger brother, washing shirts in a tub of soapy water. He gagged whenever he caught a whiff of the clothes' stench. Cyrus almost laughed. Home was Dione, his youngest sister, brushing and singing to Flossie, her clear voice like a song to his ears. Home was his mother and father chuckling loudly inside the house while supper cooked in a rusted pot over the fireplace. Cyrus smiled and trotted to the front door, pushing it open with his shoulder.

"Cy!" his mother sang as soon as he walked in. She danced over and enveloped him in a warm hug, as she always did. She smelled of flowers. After a moment, she pulled away and looked him up and down.