Sky Swimmer

Fuegar, Part 8

The whole town has turned out to view what a hanging banner proclaims to be the Worlds Fastest Lumberjack Competition. 

 Livia, Floe, Eric and his dad Dan are also in the crowd. They are caught up in the contest of strength, skill and concentration as two lumberjacks chop away at enormous, individual logs of pinewood, trying to be the first to cut their log in half.

"Fuegar is the guy on the right," says Livia

Fuegar's girth easily out measures the log he is chopping. More or less nineteen years of age, Fuegar wears the uniform of a forest ranger. His face grim with determination, his huge arms swinging the heavy axe with fierce precision, Fuegar wins this round of the contest.

"I'm glad he's on our team," says Dan.

---

Dan keeps lookout outside on the porch, but remains within earshot of the conversation that flows inside. In the small cabin's living room is a rough wood hewn table that serves as a dining room table. Livia and Floe are seated around it. Eric leans against the small kitchen counter while Fuegar pours everyone freshly brewed coffee, then helps himself to another heaping bowl of chili topped off by two fists of chopped onion. His eyes often dart to Livia's even as he speaks to Floe. And his accent is very peculiar, Floe can not place it, kind of French with a touch of Irish tinged with Russian, is that even possible?

Fuegar swallows his vowels, introduces nasal inflections and says in an aggressive tone, "We have no choice but to hide you, princess, though my stomach churns with the thought of running from the detritus that pursues you."

"Or from those four bowls of chili you just chowed," exclaims Eric from across the kitchen, he is acutely aware of the tension between Fuegar and Livia, and doesn't like it a bit. 

Fuegar disregards the comment. "Your Highness, you must stay here with me, you as well Livia, we can not risk either of you falling into their lascivious hands."

Floe is shaking her head in disbelief. "Highness?"

After finishing off a full pint of Samuel Adams Nordic Blast Bottled beer, Fuegar wipes the foam from his mouth and says, "You were a wee baby when the elders hid you with the Walker foundation that finds families for homeless infants. But I trust Livia's Night Visions. It was her visions that found you, so yes, you are the princess."

"I wouldn't exactly count a dream as evidence of someone's royalty status," says Eric.

"You know nothing of the Dream Arts," retorts Fuegar. Then softer to Livia, "It is a skill that very few harness, and even fewer have mastered. But if the ability rises within you to have Night Visions, then you must heed them for there is no denying their power to foresee the future."

Floe doesn't like the sound of that, her own dreams being rather, ah, destructive, she hopes that she does not have the Dream Arts capabilities. The dogs of anxiety bark in the distance. She quickly changes the subject. "Was your dad really the Captain of the Palace Guard?"

"True enough. But all the Guards have passed through to loftier dimensions in their heroic defense of Cylestia."

"What does that mean?" says Eric with careless impertinence.

"It means they have passed on to heaven, son," says Dan, and he shoots Eric a look that could only mean one thing, mind your manners. And suddenly Eric feels guilty, he realizes he is in unfamiliar waters and needs to pull his oars in for a rest. He feels something for Livia, but it is obvious that she has history with this mountain of a guy and so he had better just put his emotions on cruise for a while.