The Beast of Ildenwood: 13. A Village Neglected

 The Beast of Ildenwood: 13. A Village Neglected

 

The day has yet to begin, but the Wanderer and Lahab are already on the move. He notices her alert posture, the way her eyes search out the most minute of sounds. Ever since their encounter with Zerban, she has been on edge, paranoid of the smallest thing. The Wanderer follows her orders without question; it makes no difference to him, after all, which path they take through the City of Sowarr, or how quickly they travel. Now that all but one of the blocks and drains have been removed by Deletrear, he has other matters to contend with. Memories that return to him in flashes. Whispers of a past that hasn’t yet fully revealed itself to him. And something… something terrible that must have happened to him, and to someone he cares about. Cared about. He doesn’t know anymore.

The forest on the edge of Sowarr is a peaceful and beautiful place. The rich greenery that surrounds them as they pass through has a soothing effect on him, despite his troubled thoughts, and he wonders what it must be like for Lahab, to live every day alone in a forest, with nobody to bother her.

There is something he keeps turning over in his mind. Something he keeps going back to. The people with the silver-white hair. The ones painted on the walls of one of the Sisters of Miraya. They seem so very familiar. There is a memory, somewhere in his head, of someone with the very same silver-white hair. Somehow, whoever it was brings with them a sense of lingering annoyance and – envy? But the memories are still hazy, and he cannot see their face yet, cannot even tell if it is a man or a woman, and there is certainly no name.

More interesting still is the fact that he hadn’t seen a single silver-haired person in all of his travels with Lahab. Granted, he has only been with her for some days, but he had hoped that by now he’d know more about himself. With a sigh, he ruffles his curly hair in irritation. So much for getting some answers. And just who in the world are those silver-haired people?

“What are you thinking of, Wanderer?” Lahab asks, her voice strained. The two of them have been walking in silence for a while, and she looks at him questioningly over her shoulder.

Perhaps this is a good chance to learn more about these silver-haired people, and a better chance to keep Lahab’s worried mind occupied. It is unlike her to be so unsettled, and he isn’t quite sure what he can do to make her feel more at ease.

“There was a mural on one of the Sisters of Miraya,” he tells her. “It featured portraits of people with silver hair. Not grey hair like the type that elderly people have. They looked young. Who are they?”

Lahab tucks her hair behind her ears. “You speak of the Lightbearers,” she tells him, adjusting her sack over her shoulder. The night before, she fashioned straps onto the sack and a flap to keep it sealed, so that now she carries it on her back and keeps her hands free. “They are a people that once lived here, but disappeared a centuries ago. They knew many things – many secrets we have yet to uncover – and had access to a power that was as deadly as it was awe-inspiring.”

“Lightbearers, you called them?” the Wanderer asks. Lahab nods, but the name means nothing to him. There is another name on the tip of his tongue – their true name – but it refuses to make itself known to him. With a frustrated sigh, he shakes his head and trudges alongside Lahab, still trying to decipher his memories.

They come to him now like drops from a faucet. Tiny bits and pieces – a small image, or color, or smell, or sound, or the touch of something. Everything reminds him of something, but not enough to bring back a complete image, a whole memory. Pieces of a puzzle.

How long will this block take to dissolve completely? At the very least, his Energy and Life Force are no longer being depleted at an alarming rate, and that is a big victory of its own. Now, however, comes the bigger issue: trying to remember who he is and what he’s doing here. Does he have a family somewhere out there, searching for him? Does he have friends and loved ones who worry over him? Does he have a place to call home?

“Why do you ask about the Lightbearers?” Lahab asks.

The Wanderer rubs his chin. “I have a memory… of someone similar. Someone just like them.” He strains his mind to find more – anything else – but the memory is just out of his grasp, and his head begins to ache. “I don’t know. There’s not much else for me to go on at the moment.”

For a while, the two walk on in silence. The Wanderer takes this moment to check on his condition. There are some things that have been revealed to him since his sessions with Deletrear, but a few items remain perplexingly hidden from him still:

???
Wanderer of Realms
Age	???	Life Force	???
Echelon	???	Energy	53
Strength	259	Defense	???
Dexterity	61	Instinct	77
Speed	???	Intelligence	43
Status: Cursed

His Strength was enough to make Lahab balk. She had never met someone so strong before, and apparently hadn’t thought it possible, unless the person had a strength-related unique attribute. That’s their theory at the moment – that his unique attribute, which is yet to be presented to him by his Guidebook, is a strength-related one. “And an extremely powerful one at that,” Lahab had said when they had discussed it earlier on.

But it isn’t enough. There’s still too much that isn’t in his Guidebook, too many questions that haven’t been answered, even with all of the help he has received from Lahab and Deletrear. His memories, which come back in flashes, are still nowhere near enough to give him what he truly needs. It is like offering a parched man tiny droplets of water every now and then.

His very name still eludes him, and though he has no idea what his true age is, he suspects he must be somewhere in his twenties. The Echelon is still a mystery to him, and a couple other items – Defense and Speed – are hidden, too. He wonders why Strength and Dexterity have been revealed when the others have not. And then there is his Life Force.

He rubs his lips in concentration, stumbling through the tangled roots of a particularly old tree. His Life Force is no longer being consumed as quickly as it was before Deletrear’s assistance, but he was unable to remove the last drain, which seems to be connected to the Wanderer’s Curse. Currently, the Wanderer is losing 1 LF for every day that passes. While it is leagues better than what it was before, with the other drains, it is still quite concerning.

He waves away the floating Guidebook with a sigh. They are nearing the edge of Sowarr, and on the outskirts, according to the map Lahab has taken from the inn that they did not sleep at, there is a quaint little town that Lahab remembers fondly from a trip she once took with her father. She had been young then, but she had found the town to be a lovely and welcoming place. The Wanderer hopes that they will still be lovely and welcoming to these two strangers.

“It cannot have been a Lightbearer,” Lahab finally says, referring back to their previous conversation. “The person in your memory. Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Why do you say that?” the Wanderer asks, intrigued by the certainty in her voice.

“Because the Lightbearers left. They disappeared,” she tells him. “The did not move to another place, or travel to find a new home. They did not migrate or die. They disappeared. One day they were there, and the next, they were not. An entire civilization, completely lost to us.”

There is nothing he can say to this. Perhaps Lahab is right; perhaps he is mistaken. Though he hardly believes it, he cannot know for certain until his memories begin to flow more freely and return to him at long last.

“Disappeared,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lahab says. “Quite. Almost as odd as appearing in a forest,” she adds dryly.

“I would tell you how I did it if only I could remember it,” the Wanderer tells her, a hint of frustration escaping into his voice. He has gathered, through her furtive glances and verbal hints, that she suspects his arrival. She has mentioned how his arrival continues to perplex her – how he had somehow managed to get himself into her forest without her being alerted, and he can sense, even without her saying it out loud, that it bothers her to know that there are holes in her defenses. It is the suspicion that irks him the most. Even he cannot deny the strange coincidence of his appearance in Ildenwood. But he has nothing for her, nothing to explain his presence, or his strength, or his curse, or any of it. “Unfortunately, it is as hidden to me as it is to you,” he says, exhaling loudly. “Perhaps, once we have completed our mission, I can keep looking for answers, if I don’t already have them by then.”

“Perhaps,” she agrees distractedly. Up ahead, the forest trees begin to thin, and through their trunks he can see what she sees: a village. They must be at the outskirts already. His Guidebook confirms:

You have arrived at Taswera Village.

The village is nothing like Lahab has described it. Neglected and deteriorating, the brick and wooden houses look like they’ve seen better years. Clay roof tiles are missing or cracked, revealing the thatching that lies below. Some windows, having lost their glass panes, are boarded up. The path itself is in dire need of repairs, with potholes and depressions caused by the rain. It is a sorry sight, and even Lahab takes pause as she looks on, confusion marring her smooth features.

“This is the village?” the Wanderer asks her.

“Yes,” she says uncertainly. “I believe so… but it is so very different from what I remember.”

Out of the corner of his eye, through a gap between a couple of run-down houses, he sees a flurry of movement. Someone running.

INT: Your arrival has unsettled the villagers. Proceed with caution.

Another warning. The more he experiences these little things, the more he believes they are nothing more than representations of what is. His book cannot tell him anything he does not already know. Even this warning must be based on his own suspicions.

He walks alongside Lahab as they step out of the treeline and onto the paved stone paths of the village, long overtaken by weeds and dirt. There is hardly a soul to be seen, except for an old man who sits crumpled on a chair, staring forward with a scowl on his face. His clothes are worn, but they have been patched up many times – evidence, perhaps, that someone cares for the man. But he sits alone, staring at nothing in particular, and looks altogether unhappy.

Perhaps he is unhappy with the strangers, but he does not look at them. He does not seem to take notice of them at all. Or… He is trying very hard not to take notice of them.

“This is strange,” Lahab murmurs quietly. “It is the village – I remember these houses, somewhat – but it looks so…” She searches for the right word, but can’t seem to find any.

They walk past these homes, all closed up and silent, as they make their way down the main road. It is completely unfamiliar to the Wanderer, another place he can safely check off his list. This is not his home. It is nowhere he has ever been before.

The village square lies ahead, settled atop a cross-roads, and there, the pair spot a group of young men standing on guard, an assortment of feeble weapons in their hands – wooden sticks, farming tools, and one even has a butcher’s knife.

INT: Your arrival has threatened the villagers. Proceed with caution.

Proceed with caution once more. Is that all these warnings have for him? How will that help him with the men standing before them, or the makeshift weapons they grip tightly in their hands? Feeble weapons they may be, but they are weapons nonetheless, the Wanderer tells himself grimly as he places a hand on Lahab’s shoulder, and they do not know what more these men have in store for them. “Perhaps it is not wise to approach any farther,” he suggests.

“There is no reason why we shouldn’t pass by this road,” Lahab says reasonably. “We are simply traveling through. Why should they stop us?”

“Whatever the reason, those things in their hands don’t look very inviting,” he replies.

Lahab shrugs him off and continues. “Leave it to me,” is all she says. It is slightly infuriating, how easily she walks into danger she knows is there, but he can do nothing but follow.

When they are mere steps away from the men – all of whom look very much like the old man they have left behind, with their worn clothes and tools and scowling, sun-drenched faces – Lahab finally comes to a halt, the Wanderer just a fraction of a step behind her.

“We come in peace and bear no ill will,” she greets them formally, placing a hand on her heart. “We wish only to pass.”

For a moment, the men stare back at them, immovable statues. Then, one of them – perhaps the leader – visibly relaxes, and the hand that carries a thick branch falls limp at his side, the branch scratching against the ground.

INT: The situation has been diffused.

“We mean you no harm, either,” the man says, his features softening. As soon as he speaks, the others seem to break out of their frozen states, each of them deflating slightly, relaxing until all that is left is a curiosity. “Please forgive us; our village rarely gets visitors anymore, and those who visit us most often – especially from the Guardian ranks, as you seem to be – are not always friends.”

Lahab stiffens slightly, tilting her head to one side. “How did you know?”

The man reaches up to the back of his head, running his fingers through his hair. “One of our own has a strong attribute that allows her to see into others’ books without their knowledge,” he admits. “She knows to warn us whenever a Guardian passes through. As I said, we aren’t on the best terms with the Guardians in Sowarr.”

“Why is that?” the Wanderer asks. Weren’t the Guardians supposed to serve and protect their communities? How could an entire village not be “on the best of terms” with the Guardians?

The man shares a look with one of his companions and shakes his head with a sigh, gesturing towards Lahab. “How do we know we can trust you? We apologize again, but the truth is, the Guardians have let us down too many times to count. There is no reason for us to reveal more than we need to – you are one of them.”

“I am a Guardian, yes,” Lahab says indignantly. “But do not place me in the same leagues as your Zerban. We are galaxies apart.”

“He is not our Zerban,” the man growls, his face darkening in anger. “He has taken everything from us! If it were up to us alone, that rotten, duplicitous man would have been stripped of his title years ago.”

“Isn’t it up to you, though?” the Wanderer asks. “Isn’t a Guardian chosen by their community?”

“Yes, they are,” the man replies. “But Sowarr is a large city, and the village officially belongs within its borders. Zerban is intelligent in his two-faced ways. He smiles and pleases the rest of the city, but the villages in the outskirts are his to prey upon. Do you know he has us paying an additional security tax? He claims that because we are on the borders of Sowarr, security is more important for us, and brings his own guards to place on our streets – guards that do more damage than good.”

Lahab’s eyes narrow, and her jaw clenches. She must feel insulted, and the Wanderer doesn’t blame her. The more he learns about the late Guardian, the clearer his image of the man becomes, and it’s none too good. A minute sense of relief flows through him, and he feels guilty immediately afterwards.

“Those men bled us dry – them and Zerban!” the man continues. The others grumble in disgruntled agreement. He gestures around him at the village at large. “Look around you. They’ve left us with barely enough to keep ourselves alive, let alone keep ourselves looked after! Everything has fallen into disrepair, and if we have to pay one more security tax or endure the abuse of these foreign guards, we’ll have nothing left at all.”

The Wanderer narrows his eyes at this, and he can sense that Lahab has picked up on it, too. “Foreign guards?” he asks. “What do you mean?”

The man waves his hand impatiently. “They hardly speak our language,” he explains, setting down his branch. “All they know how to say is ‘Money’ and ‘You die’ - and we knew from the moment they opened their mouths that they weren’t our security, but Zerban’s.”

“Mercenaries,” Lahab mutters, her lip curling in disgust. “The little weasel smuggled in mercenaries and set them up here.”

“Are these guards gone?” the Wanderer asks, glancing around warily.

“They left yesterday evening, but we know not when they’ll be back,” the man says. “While they were gone, we have decided to take a stand. We simply cannot be treated like this. They beat our people and attack our homes. Just a week ago, one of our own died of a serious injury, and they didn’t even care! We won’t let that happen to anyone else. If it comes to a fight with the Guardian himself, we’re ready to take him down, Guardian or not! He might be quick on his feet, but we’ve got some good fight in us yet.”

Lahab’s lip quirks into a humorless smile. “There won’t be any need for that, my good people,” she tells them. “Zerban is dead. He won’t be a nuisance to you any longer. As for the mercenaries… Well, I can’t be certain they won’t come back, but I’ll send word to the Palace and have some protection sent here for you. If you can hold on until then, you shouldn’t have to worry about them.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Dead? You mean Zerban is dead?”

“Yes,” the Wanderer confirms. “Most certainly,” he adds with a wince.

There is a moment of stunned silence, and then the men’s faces break into smiles. “Dead!” they say. “How fortunate! How fortunate, indeed! We can be free now! Free of him!”

Lahab meets the Wanderer’s eyes, almost as if to say, See? I told you not to worry about it!

The Wanderer cannot help but feel the load has been lightened.

This, too, he feels a twinge of guilt for.

Looking away, he wonders how he will carry this burden for the rest of his life. He wonders if he even should.

* * *

Profile: Zerban
Title: Traitor to the Guardians ▼
Previous Title(s): Noble Guardian of the City of Sowarr ▼
Zerban was stripped of his title as soon as his treachery was revealed to the other Guardians.
Character: Duplicitous, Arrogant, Unjust
Strength: 32
Dexterity: 79
Speed: 85
Defense: 30
Status: Deceased ▼
Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma leading to punctured internal organs.
Culprit: The Wanderer of Realms
Unique Attribute: Celerity of Movement ▼
Celerity of Movement is an attribute that allows one to move their body with great speed. This can translate into quick movements that can be impossible for the normal eye to track, when developed correctly. Several skills can be improved drastically as a result of this attribute. In Zerban’s case, these were the Running Speed and Swift Reaction.