Thin streaks of hazy sunlight sliced through the cracks between the rickety wooden boards, illuminating the room with the morning’s rise. The stirs of the land echoed from outside the confines of the shack, but the inhabitant within remained blissful. His head sagged down as the man slumped in his chair; locks of unkempt blonde hair veiled his face from the light. Set on a desk in front of him was an old tome; the spine was bent to the midpoint, and the odd page spilled out from the bindings. The pages were littered with tales of the Black Scourge from beyond the walls. A candle burned nearby, and the flame danced as a shadow shot past — it pressed close, and with a short and exaggerated huff, the flame blinked out, leaving behind a smouldering wick surrounded by a heavy pool of melted candle wax. The figure stepped over to the man, and stood behind him; their soft gaze flicked over him from head to toe, and the figure reached out to him.
“Wake up, Athelstan.” She said, grasping his shoulders to give him a light shake. Athelstan’s eyelids fluttered back, baring two dull blue beads which swept over the contents of the table for the briefest of moments, before retreating back behind closed lids. A heavy sigh escaped the woman standing over Athelstan, and he parried with a low groan. She marched off towards the corner, and fumbled around with a bucket. With a heave, she lifted it to her chest, and a bit of the water sloshed over the sides, thudding into the stone below. The lapping of the water was like a call to arms, with Athelstan springing out of his chair in an instant; he fumbled with the tome and folded it back in on itself, bounding it closed with a sloppy knot. With a clatter the chair toppled over, dismissed with a kick from Athelstan — he circled the table, putting distance between himself and the bucket-wielding woman. She reciprocated with a short laugh, “You don’t stay here for free,” she began, teasing with a feigned toss of the water. Some droplets flung out, licking the leather of Athelstan’s tome. “The cows need their muck shovelled.” Her words slewed out with delight, a smile crossing her countenance, “Your favourite.” Athelstan opened his palms in surrender, baring a pair of rugged hands. “Fine, Agatha.” he simply huffed, gesturing for her to lead out.
Athelstan emerged from the shack behind his companion, taking a moment to cast his gaze to the distant walls of Felsen looming in the background. Athelstan wrestled the book into a satchel at his side, and tossed it down into the hay; the straw sagged under the weight of it, and the book nestled into the mound. Athelstan slinked his hands into a battered pair of gloves, and wrapped his mitts around the gnarled handle of a pitchfork. He thrust it forward, and began to shovel through the mounds of dirtied straw, sifting out the waste, and unceremoniously tossing it to the side. Agatha had perched on a nearby barrel, tilting her head to and fro as she studied Athelstan at work, “Do you really get much from them?” Her question broke a short frame of silence, and she gestured over towards the book. Athelstan stopped to wipe his brow, the back of his forearm swiping across it as he turned his attention to Agatha. “Well of course,” he leaned on the pitchfork, and folded his arms around it, eyes perusing Agatha’s curious demeanour. “There’s a lot to be learned about a whole manner of things. And there’s a whole world out there, condensed onto these pages.” Agatha laid her hands down on the barrel and pushed herself forward a little, leaning in. “Yes, but why read it?” She pursed her lips, and drummed her heels against the wood.
“Why not go see it?”
