Chapter 1: Chapter 1: How did this whole mess begin again?

Chapter 1: How did this whole mess begin again?

It began a long time ago. Many moons and very many songs have long come and gone since then. But as record keeping wasn’t exactly high on the priority list of humanity back then, nobody quite knows exactly when. And while I, as well, don't know the when, I sure know the where. 

First came the strange caves, littered across the known world: some narrow and tall, some round and enormous, some as big as your local canteen. Which, by the way, was exactly where the rumours about those things started. It was a relatively small canteen on the outskirts of the Southlands, near the Kingdom of Aegis, that is. The rumours, just as swift and unexplained, said that those strange contraptions contained Dragons, and not just any Dragons, but Scarlet Shadows from the legends of old, with an enormous wingspan, overwhelming presence, power, and most importantly, a treasure horde. Or, well, something along those lines. You know how it goes. You say this, he says that, another adds their own thing and completely misses the original… What? I never said I knew how it all began now did I? 

Anyway, listen to me. 

Naturally, that sparked the adventurous hearts of the nation's men and women. With very little on their backs, they sat upon the journey for fame, wealth and power!

Thus the Great Era of Adventuring began.  But unprepared they were for the dangers and the magnitude of their quest. Very many died. Very few succeeded in obtaining a piece of that legendary dragon horde. Those that did, rose in ranks, and lived famous, powerful, influential lives. They became the faces everyone strived to be. Role models, bigger and better than one's own fathers and mothers. Every explorer, adventurer,  zealous looter, and starving bandit strived to conquer a cave and return with wealth beyond belief and a story that will outlive their lives in song and sable. 

This is where we come in now, with the bravest of adventures gathered in town squares, ready and willing to go on a daring adventure of their lifetime. Like those good with the sword – see that dashing hero with hair as golden as the sun and torso of a sculpted triangle, for example?  Or incredibly fast and furious with their  feet and fists, like that one lad over there, hair in a bun, half naked, and in a fiery pose – showing off a tad too many chiselled muscles to that gaggle of ladies in the corner. Or, even those smart type heroes who wear glasses,  who constantly push them up and somehow end up being the villains of their stories. Do ignore that specimen in green currently taking notes. Ah, yes, those types tend to carry their own quills and parchments on them. 

Where was I again? 

Right, with all those brave young men and women  getting ready to go on their epic adventures  for the Dragon Horde.

Everyone wanted a piece of that meat. It came with glory for eternity - and eternity that will probably last as long as their line lives but let's not concern ourselves with needless facts. Those three look perfect, don't they? All geared up, sidekicks ready to run errands as fast as the wind, ready for their brilliant future.

You'd think this story is about one of them, right? Well, think again and buckle up, for I’m taking you all the way across a whole ocean, three rivers, two ravines, one capital city, 24 towns, and 567 tiny villages, and across a single rope-bridge, right up to him. Yes, him. This guy. Our hero.

***

A long time ago in the outskirts of a small village in the northern seas lived a young boy, barely twelve summers of age. He lived with his mother and father – I know, strange right, that the  hero has living parents – minding their family bakery. They made their living selling baked goods. Mainly bread, made with his great grandmother's special recipe. An open flap and a makeshift window had been added to the side of their tiny home, facing the winding road with an enormous sign of a freshly baked bread etched on it. His grandma – I can definitely say she had the golden hands when it came to baking and was quite the looker too, even in her advanced years, oh yes – she used to tell tall tales of his late grandfather, ever the adventurer, and how he burned his hands twice trying to fashion that sign very many years ago.

Like I said, it was a family business, and our young hero, whose name – oh, right, I forgot to tell you – his name was Zeth – had his life’s ambition decided long before this particular tale began. And by that, I mean me, finishing explaining all of this so you know the gist of it. You’d better believe me when I tell you this is actually not that much. So don’t you be mean! Where was I? Oh right. Zeth’s life ambition was, of course, to become the best baker in the Northern Isles. He wanted to make bread just as sturdy as his father’s, as fluffy as his mother’s, and have the fame of their Cavalier Family’s Baked Goods reach the big town across the bridge and up the river. Now, now, don’t go blaming him for that. He was, after all, quite sheltered, and while, yes, he knew of the Empire and the enormous cities with houses and castles taller than the tallest mountain he could pinpoint, it all seemed very far-away. Unreal. Something that belonged to the travellers and the drunken strangers in the wee hours of night. 

It was an incredibly stupid dream. Heh. And I’m not going to tell you why. You’ll figure it out. Maybe. Probably? 

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Anywho. I’m done. Let's move on to the story then shall we?

One perfectly perfect day, or, well, I suppose I can say the exact date: on the 27th of the 5th month, year 497 of the Great Serpent, our young hero, Zeth, while squeezing fresh dough, was having a pleasant conversation with the house cactus, Fergus – I know, boy talks to himself and thinks it’s normal –  when a strange, deafening boom outside echoed through the walls. It rattled the windows  and the ceiling so much that dust fell in clouds. Zeth, sensible boy that he was, quickly covered the baking table and raw goods with a clean cloth, before finally losing his balance and crashing to the floor. Flour flew all over the place, coating him in a thick layer of white dust, from the tip of his hooked nose to his eyebrows. His hair survived, because the first thing his dear old grandma – oh that beautiful Izabelita – taught him was to wrestle his hair in a bun and hide it away. Which was where it all was, still as orange as the day he was born, and spitting clean under the pristine white hat of the head baker.  Something that he secretly put on when his parents were away and none the wiser.

As he scrambled to his wobbly feet, he spied Fergus tilting dangerously at the edge of his shelf. Tucking him in the safety of his arms from what would have been an instant death on impact, he finally managed to get to the window. A cautious peek outside showed the grass in front scorched to blackness in strange, angular lines, looking to be as thick as his foot was long. His brows furrowed in confusion. Those were definitely not there before. 

“What in the world is that?” he murmured, pressed up close and too personal to the glass. “Looks weird, right, Fergus?”

Instead of the ever-silent cactus, a powerful bang at the door answered him. So strong that the house shook once more. Zeth hit his nose on the window with a painful oomph, barely managing to hold on to the pot. His mother’s precious pots and vases, along with almost everything stacked on the shelves, clattered to the floor and shattered on impact, leaving behind a dirty mess of herbs, flour, shards and processed foods of all kinds. He absently hugged Fergus, horror dawning on him. 

“Riff!” he cursed mutely and moved to do something, anything really, to fix the mess. But, as it was, luck wasn’t his friend that day. He tripped on a stray piece of dried apricot and  crashed to the floor, again. 

You’d think that would cap the ‘bad things that can happen in a day’ jar, but no. Heh. Listen, it’s funny! Because Zeth managed to crash onto and completely break a barrel holding very special wine. Something that his family had been keeping for longer than his own mother was alive.

“This is a dream, this is a dream,” he repeated the words like a mantra. His nose ached, his back hurt something fierce, and his chest felt like it was caving in. He could feel splinters the size of his fingers poking him all over. The yucky wetness under him soaked his clothing – hat, apron, underwear and all. “Dreams are supposed to be nice, right, Fergus?” 

The cactus, which had miraculously survived the fall, was silent in his precarious perch on his stomach. 

Zeth shakily patted the pot — lucky bastard cactus —, swallowed thickly, and raised a bony hand to his face. It came up in a mush of herbs, flour, and who knows what else. All coated beautifully in red liquid. A glob of goo landed on his cheek.

“I broke grandpa’s wine,” said Zeth faintly and screwed his eyes shut. That barrel was supposed to be in the corner, hidden away, not bothering anyone. Why would it ever be in the middle of the room? This was just all a really bad dre..nightmare. “Yeah, that’s it. A riffy nightmare. Mother and Father will never let me near the oven again. Or leave me alone…I need this to not be real! Come on, wake up!” 

Before he could wake himself up, another bang followed suit and took the door clean off its hinges. It crashed with a heavy squelch-y thud. Zeth took a break from squeezing his eyeballs back into his skull to stare at what used to be the front door.

“Well, well, well, who would have thought? The poor bastards did say the truth. He’s here!”

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