Anthiro

Anthiro's Children

Centuries come and go. Cultures rise and fall. Events, forgotten and lost. Everything begins where others things end. It is the unending line of fate that tumbles and falls, to rise and cheer again. Our story began where those of others have ended, bringing a new change upon us. The tale began in a village with an insidious incident; one that will reveal the fate of a mischievous village boy and those close to him.
A roar echoed in The Dirty Fox, a small inn in a small village named Anthiro. It was immediately followed by the roaring sound of protest. "Ya little rascal, I’ll teach ya!" shouted the mighty giant of a man at the pernicious brat that dangled in his grip.
"What did I do wrong, sir?" said the rascal with a sly grin, which did not really endorse his words of innocence. "I've been sitting here the whole time." he added in another feeble attempt to sound virtuous.
"I know it be you. You peppered me clothes! Ya bloody Imp!" bellowed the giant.
"Mr Veron, I would never insult such an upstanding gentleman as you.” the boy said with a grin that spoke volumes. “It surely isn’t my fault when you threw your own merchandise among your clothes."
Veron’s face turned a hard shade of red. "Ya little rat! Me own pepper, I’ll show ya a good lesson. Time to color those stones with some of ya Shar's blood."
The mischievous boy realized he might have gotten himself in a real danger now and stuttered apologies while attempting to struggle out of Veron’s iron grip. The owner of the inn tried to stop Veron, but she could not do much to halt the bull of a man. Helpless, she prayed a short prayer for her poor Dion. Veron burst out the inn with a yelling Dion in his hands and just moments before smashing the poor boy headfirst into the cold tiles of the street, a strong hand stayed Veron’s arm.
"I’d let him go." spoke a deep voice. Veron looked down upon a middle aged man with silver white hair and defined muscles which showed through finely made clothes.
"Why would I? What do ya care about this small devilchild?" Veron replied contemptuously. Dion stared puzzled at the stranger who dared to argue the giant of a man. Much better.
"Because I’ll cover the expenses for any inconvenience that this boy has created. The why is my own concern. His blood on the tiles will not return you your pepper."
Veron seemed stunned, but his eyes immediately had that greedy inquisitive twinkle, one that had brought many men to poverty. "Had these special peppers imported from the Malania Isles. The boy’s mischief cost me easily ten gold crowns, which me thinks ya couldn’t afford, stranger."
As an answer the stranger placed ten gold crowns in the free hand of Veron, who stared bewildered at the money, after which the stranger placed another gold coin on top of the rest. "For washing the clothes."
Veron let Dion fall carelessly, his eyes focused only on the gold. "Thank ya kind sir, the boy is yours." With one last glare at Dion he stepped back into the inn. The boy stood on the cold stones and rubbed his bruised rear, pleased he escaped the bulky man with just slight inconvenience instead of paying a higher price. He looked up at the stranger who was much bigger than him, at least a head or more, and realised that despite the silver hair his face had was not that old. He actually looked quite handsome, Dion estimating him around fifty-five years old.
"Veron ripped you off. That pepper was hardly a crown’s worth." Dion said to the man and continued with a lopsided grin when he recalled the moment when Veron had discovered the pepper. "Though that ogre’s expression was worth the eleven crowns."
The stranger stared with his pale blue eyes into Dion wearily. "But it almost got you killed."
Dion's grin distorted into a pained expression. "And I thank you wholeheartedly for your saving me, though I don’t understand why’d you spend so much gold on a stranger. That money could have bought you most of this village."
The stranger smiled. "Better a life than wealth. I can spare the coins."
Dion thought that would be doubtful, considering the clothes the man wore. Then his eyes fell on the man’s sword. The handle had no impractical inscriptions but it did have decorations of rings in gold and silver, whereas the sheath was fully adorned with oak leaves made of gold on silver. Dion reached out his hand. "I'm Dion."
The man answered the greeting by shaking hands and spoke in a deep voice. "And I'm Eothin, nice to meet you." Dion nodded kindly. "Shouldn’t you go home? Your parents will be worried if you’re out at this late hour." said Eothin with a friendly smile.
It faded quickly due to Dion's pained expression and his words."I have no parents, nor a real home to go back to. I sleep in the stables of The Dirty Fox and it is the innkeeper's wife Cera who has been such a sweet person to me, giving me food and a bed for the little work I do. Even though I always pull these pranks she never gets mad. Wouldn’t know where I would be without her. " Dion's thoughts lingered on where fate had brought him. He quickly recovered and his eyes regained a curious twinkle as he asked what Eothin was visiting Anthiro for.
"On passage to Deria." The stranger was clearly amused by the boy’s interest. "I'm by foot and this sleepy village seemed to offer a nice place to stay and a warm meal." As if responding to Eothin’s words Dion’s stomach rumbled. the stranger laughed loudly. "Come on little buddy I’ll buy you a meal. I’m hungry as well, but promise me that you will leave the big guy alone or I will kick your ass myself."
Dion grimaced when he thought of the pain his bruised back had endured. "That I'd rather spare myself from. My butt has had enough to endure."
Eothin burst out in loud laughter. "Come let's go in.” And pushed the door open to the inn. The Dirty Fox was a pleasant inn, not overly decorated but had a noticeable feminine touch. A large fireplace kept the room warm and the smell of good food floated from the kitchen, prevailing over the smell of beer. Several tables were occupied by rising merchants and locals who liked chit chatting with strangers. Of course there were tables used for playing dice, one of Dion's favorite pastimes when he had some money left. Gambling was something he was miraculously good at at times, but he lost often enough to avoid suspicion. Dion did not really care for wins or losses; he just enjoyed the thrill of luck which was always worth a coin. Tonight he would not play because Veron sat at the table. Instead Eothin chose the table furthest away from Veron and called a maid to order. When she arrived Dion had his mischievous grin on his face.
"Hi Jenny, you are such a sunshine every time I see you. Are you sure you're not going to go with me at the old oak tree for the midsummer dance?" The old oak tree was famous for young couples hooking up during the midsummer festivals.
The maid blushed, focusing on Eothin rather than responding. "What would you like?"
Dion grinned triumphantly, knowing that his question had achieved his goal.
The stranger smiled as he replied friendly. "A good meal with meat for both me and this little lad here. Some beer as well." The maid took off to the kitchen after a brief glance over her shoulder to Dion, and returned a bit later with a fragrant meal with a good piece of pork. the boy was not one to wait and attacked the meal.
Satisfied, they both leant back in their seats enjoying their beer. Dion sat engrossed by Eothin’s company, who had started telling stories of distant places, like the Tulbanians and the Malania islands and their strange cultures. He was not sure he really should believe that there were birds and lizards big enough to carry people on their backs and that Tulbanian women were also warriors, but he was charmed by the stories either way. Eothin’s stories were interrupted just like all other conversations when a girl’s crystal clear voice filled the room. A elegant slightly noble looking girl named Philomela sat on the stool on stage. Soon everyone clapped and sang along, for Ciryll’s Virtue was a well-known tune in the kingdom. It was about the first king of the empire and his cordial good earnings. After they had finished singing along, she received cheers and kind words of the guests, then proceeded with an equally well-known song. This one was much more raunchy, and about the wife of a farmer who complained about how he could not be like her lovers by emphasizing on her husband’s shortcomings, which often evoked laughter from the guests in the inn, especially due to the lines the girl had added herself.
People cheered loud when the song finished and several coins were thrown at the feet of Philomela, and she picked them up, giving the men time to order some drinks before she went with a ballad about lost loved ones. By the end of the show both Eothin and Dion were heavily intoxicated, and were about to retreat when suddenly Veron stood in their way.
"M’lord, was wonderin’ if ya sell that fine sword ya carryin’? am willin’ to pay a great amount." Veron said eagerly. "Have never seen such a b’utiful sword, and me would like to purchase it at any cost."
Eothin's good mood vanished like snow in the sun. "No, I would never part with it, regardless the amount offered." His voice was icecold.
Veron raised an eyebrow but did not relent."Not even fo’ fifty Nippolian crowns?" Dion was shocked by the absurd amount of money offered. It was enough to buy a small mansion with some land.
Eothin did not waver. "It is not for sale." he said in a voice that did not invite contradiction, walking right past Veron up the stairs to his room.
Veron spoke at Dion. "Keep ya head down next time me see ya imp, ‘cause he be certain unable to save ya skin then." And with those scornful words he turned and left the inn. Dion felt that there was more meaning in Veron’s words than was apparent but could not place it. His drunken state probably was not helping, therefore he decided to just go to sleep, proceeding to the stables to lay in his straw bed while a lovely voice carried in the air.

An enchanting voice would reach Dion even in the stables, it was the fluttering sweet soprano of Philomela. She had been paid to sing in the Inn that night, and while strumming her lyre tunefully, she had begun almost as soon as he’d left, it didn’t matter that it was so late at night, this was when her performance shift started, the innkeeper thought that she had better sing when the couples starting coming in, to “ get a romantic mood going and all ‘at”, he’d said and so Philomela had sung a love song. Doing her slow and rich finger work on her Lyre to accompany the beautiful voice she had lifted to sing. Philomela’s music flowed from her lips steadily and sweetly, it might have been heard all across the village, the melody carried so well.

“Come again sweet love thy doth now invite, thy graces that refrain, to do me due delight..” The tempo quickened and the emotion of the lyrics more impassioned
“To see, To touch, To hear, To kiss, To die…With thee again, in sweetest sympathy…” The young singers voice was a graceful, bright, classical soprano with a lyrical style. Plucking each string on her lyre to accompany her melodious voice, it looked as if her fingers were dancing across the instrument.
“Come again, so I might cease to mourn, through thy unkind disdain, for now left and forlorn” Philomela seemed to be putting her soul into the words, it might have seemed as if her heavenly sound was spinning and pirouetting about the room and she hit the highest notes with ease and utter perfection. “I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die…” And she held the note on the last word for quite some time before finishing “In deadly pain, and endless misery…” She went on like this for quite some time, each refrain of the song being slightly different in emotion than the first before finally finishing and letting the very last notes ring out clear as bells and sweeter than a chorus of nightingales, an an applause she began another song.

Philomela, the singer, had noticed Dion when coming in, as she had entered almost as soon as he’d left, but hadn’t said a thing in greeting. The other kids in Anthiro didn’t like her, she could tell, they always thought she was a snob for going up every day to her Maestro Ampelius’s elegant villa to see him and his wife for Voice and Lyre lessons, they had made their fortune by being court musicians in their day and that’s what Philomela wished she could do, but she knew that was impossible, she wasn’t even of slightly noble birth, as far as she knew. Philomela was a bastard after all, so she couldn’t be sure, although, being a bastard child of a nobleman was quite a bit worse than being the legitimate daughter of a peasant. It was as if she was untouchable, especially when it came to marriage, she might have already been married off , but anyone who wed her would only go lower in the social order.

Her going up to the glittering and vast estate of Gaius Lucilius a nobleman who lived nearby, to sing for the crowds whenever he threw a party or had company only made things worse, especially since he’d given her nicer clothing, a pure white Chiton gown with gold fabric to secure it in its position draped about her willowy frame, the girls in her village had laughed and called her the pet of wealthy men and that she was like one of the animals in his menagerie, a living decoration.

Most of the women in Anthiro thought she was his new mistress, this was, surprisingly, not the case, as he had a habit of choosing ladies who were very young in comparison to himself. Philomela didn’t know why he hadn't make an advance towards her in that way, although, it did not change the fact that she appreciated that very much, and never wanted to be anyone’s concubine. Philomela had seen how well that had gone with her own mother.


Sleeping on straw beds alone, when she used to lie under silk covers in the beds of kings, this was not the life she wanted. Philomela had to make her own way, and not as someone’s property or rather someone's property for only a night. However, She supposed it had to be better than being a wife, after thinking on it a moment. At least ladies of the evening had some choice in the matter, they could refuse men if they wanted, and got paid a great deal for only one night of feigning love. Philomela did not want to sell herself, but perhaps she could someday if it meant getting to Omperus. What was so bad about lying in sin with a senator for the night, if you were to breakfast with utensils of gold the morning after?


Stepping from the Tavern after performing about six songs, each greeted with a roaring applause, Philomela leaned against it's outer walls and pondered her life in the village for a moment. Despite most of the patrons being drunken they actually seemed to break from their bawdy chatter and become silent when the young Hellenian sang. Philomela could not help but beam when this happened and In spite of anything the locals may have thought about her, they'd always recognized that she had a truly celestial voice. For this Philomela would not have changed a thing, better to have a talent, she thought, than friends or suitors.

((So I’m not plagiarizing his lyrics, The song was "Come again sweet love doth invite" by The 16th century composer John Dowland))

Larloch, exhausted after walking such a distance to this place was furious, not only did the Wizards of Omperus look down upon and treat him like dirt for his father's descent into Necromancy, they took it upon themselves to make his life miserable at every other turn as well. He'd just been laughed out of the place a tenday or so ago because he theory on Molecular Transmutation and Compound Synergy Through Layered Construction had been 'too radical and more fictitious than fact" even though the very Necromancers they mocked were on the lead front in support of his thesis. Yes it took a whole group of masters to raise a corpse but with the proper single specialization why couldn't one mage do the work of four by making a larger unit and making the units work together. The idea couldn't have been that crazy, he even intends to prove it with water...granted as a fresh apprentice out the academy basics it's far beyond him at the moment.

Actually looking up and paying attention to his surroundings he saw a girl leaning against the wall of a building, hoping Grauenland style of dress didn't make him seem like a total creep in the dark, he approached her, hopefully she'd be able to tell him where he was. Better yet, she may even be able to help him with his theory, the Tavern behind her could come later, he'd always had issues with crowds. But right now he needed a dreamer to talk to, and if a grinning girl leaning against a tavern wall didn't have dreams than he was a Tauron's bastard. He was already a Necromancer's reject so it's not like he could sink any lower, right?

"Hail, I'm Larloch may I ask your name?" Curse his voice, always so weak and soft until he started casting, then it was a rich baritone more befitting his statue, guess that's life a mage that can't talk unless he's casting but is so new to his trade he can barely cast.

Larloch was surprised when the girl curtsied, he'd never been curtsied or even really had any respect given to him, usually people only saw his father when they looked at him. He responded to her courtesy with a deep Grauenlandian bow. The bow shifted his hood forward, fully covering his face a side effect that he'd long ceased to notice. Hopefully he was in a small enough town where the name of his father wouldn't reach him, she hadn't recognized the Grauenland styled wizard robes on sight, an even all too common in larger cities, this gave him hope. "Forgive me rudeness for not telling you my full name before, you did the honor of giving me yours my full name is Larloch des Tam. As my dress probably gave it away, i am of Grauenland birth, but spent most of my life in Omperus among the wizards."

He paused for a bit, trying to understand the situation from her view and realized that he must appear a very suspicious person at the moment, " First off madam, I'd like to say that yes while you are very attractive, it'd be an affront to God Himself if I were to approach you at an hour such as this with anything less that perfectly innocent intentions. I'll even prove it, know this I'm horrified of crowds so shall we step back into the Tavern or some other place of your choosing. That way you will have the advantage of friends physically present to monitor me as I admit I probably seem anything but harmless and trustworthy at the moment. Furthermore while i did graduate from the wizard academy, I'm not a direct apprentice any magic i do have takes so much preparation to cast one could probably partake an entire meal before I've finished my casting."

He knew he was being long-winded and probably had just talked himself into a hole, one so deep that it'd take virtually no time for him to get out of town in most circumstances. Not like sleeping under the stars was anything new to him, in fact he was beginning to enjoy it.

"But before you make your decision I shall tell you my intentions, I can tell that you are an Artist and just as one should consult a Mage for expertise on matters of the elements; I believe one should consult an Artist on matters concerning matters of the heart, and dreams. I'm sure you know what I mean when i say that as a Mage wields the elements an Artist wields people's hearts and dreams." He inwardly grimaced because that didn't come out nearly as well as he'd hoped, even though he had just voiced his own honest opinion.

"Yes i wish to talk about things like dreams, ambitions and the like, and in this entire town i doubt i will find anyone with a better dream than you." While he had gotten way off track in his explanation he figured by now he'd explained enough where she would be willing to talk, or the sad probability- run away screaming from some wandering lunatic.

Heat crashed against the apron in waves, while cinder and sparks filled the air as each hit ignited the steel’s yellow-orange glow. Clang. The air was heavy with heat and the scent of burning charcoal. The smithy’s furnace had been glowing all day, the repetitive clashing of hammer on steel echoing throughout the room. The young apprentice was a man who rarely knew rest, only relaxing while forging iron and steel. Clang. His red eyes glowed like the ember he worked with; like a kiss of fire it caressed those he looked upon. Damon Aeacus was no hard man, but he was no simpleton either. Cinder and smoke, fire and steel; they filled his soul with a passion beyond any he had known. Clang.

He had been working all day, supporting his father’s detailed work with a sledge hammer. At night it was his turn, creating intricate work on his own. Clang. Years he had worked with his father, day and night, and finally the apprentice’s detailed work was slowly surpassing his teacher‘s. Most of it was useless though; beautifully adorned helmets, armor, and swords brought little coin in a small village like Anthiro, but one day he would travel and find a master smith. Clang. The fuller, a tool for lengthening steel, was drawing down the metal Damon was working on. It was close to being finished. Oh, the very idea of improving his skill further and learning new skills appealed to him above other things. Clang.

The work on this particular tool had been prepared days ahead, and he had even taken the time to find out what amount of alloy would forge the strongest steel. Clang. Sweat was dripping from his brow. Working in the fire had earned him quite a toned skin and some small charred wounds. Clang. Corners of the metal were knocked off, finishing the shape in a strong block with an hole the size of an egg. Clang. “That was the last hit, now time to finish it up.”

‘Finishing up’ had taken most of the night. Grinding away, fitting in the handle, and creating the detailed decorations on the head. Then as a finishing touch he inscribed his initials. He had finished his work, on his lap lay the newly forged hammer specifically made for forging blades. Whilst Damon had fallen asleep in his working chair, the smithy rested with an uncommon silence.

Philomela did not recognize Larloch in the least, and having grown up in the rather secluded town of Anthiro she'd have no idea who the mans father was. She could not even tell that he was from Grauenland by looking at his odd attire. Even if she knew the man before her was son to a necromancer, it was of little consequence. As she studied music not magic, although Philomela would have argued that music was more potent than any spell. The singer stood waiting patiently as the apprentice wizard talked on, he certainly liked to chat or rather explain himself in the greatest detail. She perked up a bit at the mention of Omperus, so he was from the shining city she so longed to see? She spoke to him almost in a sigh before her sky blue eyes took on a vacant look "You come here from Omperus?"

The jewel of Hellenia, with its golden chariots that glinted in the sun, bath houses made of pure alabaster, temples with high arching walls and expertly crafted columns. And the vast forum with its fountains spewing crystal clear spring water, its cobbled pathways lined with Olive and Fig trees, their scent filling the air with a saccharine aroma. Men and Women of all races and creeds intermingling within the endless markets, selling spices, silk tapestries, sparkling jewels and instruments…Oh the instruments they must have had! Peculiar woodwind instruments that made the shrillest of sounds, strings unlike the Lyre and booming hollow drums! Philomela had only owned two instruments in her lifetime, her own voice and the Lyre she held in her hands at that moment. However, her maestro had allowed her use of his Lute and taught it to her, she so longed to own one of her own, but it was an instrument from a far away land and much too expensive for the bastard daughter of a courtesan, despite being a renowned singer, she still didn't have any extra money. Her mind wondered from these thoughts and back to her musings on the place she so admired.

A city of culture, magic, philosophy, poetry, music and foreign ideas, that was the dream she had of Omperus. Philomela had only read and heard of it extensively, but never visited. So she didn't know if anything her mind had conjured up due to information from second hand sources was anything to be trusted. She was broken from the spell of the dreams that danced in her mind, upon seeing a tall woman with ebony locks and a scholarly air pass them by. It was Argenta, a silver merchants daughter who was well liked among the denizens of Anthiro. Of course, she'd said no word in greeting, the women of the town disliked Philomela with passion.

Perhaps if they thought of her as more of a human than simply "The one who shows herself off as if she were a gilded Rose." If they knew that she too held hopes in her heart and fanciful ideas in her brain, they might have treated her with more respect. But maybe not, the songstress was certain that all her dreams would sound awfully silly if mentioned aloud. That was also the reason that so very few in the village knew of the visions of Omperus that resided in her head. It would not matter if she told the villagers either way, if they were not being enchanted by her voice, they snickered behind her back. People were so funny that way, they would applaud you in the night; But when you were seen leaving a tiny room built onto a menial lemon farmer's abode, and striding into a nobleman's carriage to sing at some feast or celebration, they would whisper of you being his whore. And Philomela was no nobleman's concubine, simply a song bird with lovely plumage. Sure, the gentry were amorous of her voice and enjoyed casting their eyes in direction of her countenance, but they would never touch Philomela, as it was not permitted. This suited her just fine, and if it had been allowed she'd of quit right away, then again…Working in the heat of her uncle's orchard was not exactly ideal. And she had to repay the debt her mother owed him somehow, not to mention pay off her Maestro for all those years of free Vocal and Lyre lessons, that were still going on, amassing more and more debt.

Philomela put this out of her mind, having realized there was a man speaking to her and she had drifted off completely into the recesses of her head. In fact most of Larloch's speech had been lost on her when she went into her faraway thoughts. She tried to recollect his words, he'd said some things about magic, and then told Philomela he wanted to speak of dreams. Her pale cheeks turned to roses in embarrassment but she spoke in her ever sweet tone of voice "Please continue, Good sir. Tell me of Dreams…" Was the generic and vague reply she'd come up with, having had a split second to think of a reply, not having heard Larloch's long winded explanations, she cursed that constantly straying mind of hers.

"Who says I'm teaching anything, in this case you- the Artist are the expert." He sat down lotus style as was customary in Grauenland and began to speak.

"I'd say that people need dreams as they not only comfort but they also give purpose to far more than a few," he began not entirely sure where to go with this. "Furthermore I'd say the fastest way to get to know someone is to know their dream and yes to answer your question i came here from Omperus, well driven here may be the more accurate description. But i will say this, the stories in this case may be less impressive than the real thing."

He had added that last bit because that had seemed to be her main interest out of everything he had said. He knew that depending on the circumstances of your stay Omperus can easily match and often exceed the numbers people normally hear in the stories, after all he'd seen in himself. His stay however had been in the reverse for the most part, but he believed people should see things themselves.

Seeing as he wanted to have her engage in the conversation, he asked her a question of his own," Forgive me for being so forward Philomela but may I ask you what your dream is?"

Argenta slipped through the Tavern quietly her head bowed modestly as to not to draw attention from any of the patrons as she searched for her father.

“Argenta! My sweet charm o’ luck! Come here!” her father, Aurel, bellowed from one of the dice tables.

Argenta’s face turned bright pink and she quickly scuffled over to her father’s side. Her father still had thick curly locks growing out of his head, except for his hair was now silver, and they also grew in abundance on his face down to his chest; but he was not as tall as he once was, bent over from old age and appeared more to be a grandfather than a father.
She knelt down beside him where he sat at the table rolling dice and drinking with another merchant. The merchant gave her a cordial nod as she joined them. Her father’s cane rested against the table and her father sat concentrated on the game.

“Papa, it is time to go home. It is very late and the Tavern will be closing soon,” she said softly to him, turning the silver ring on her finger out of habit.

“Oh, I don’t believe so my dear. It won’t be closing for a while, I thinks.” he replied wine reeking from his breath, “Besides, now that you’re here, I can break this losing streak.”

Argenta knew the Tavern was not closing very soon, but that was just one tactic to get him out of the Tavern. She worried about him being able to get home by himself, though she would never say it like that because she knew it would hurt his pride. He rolled again, rigorously shaking the dice in his hand before letting them spill out. It was a bad roll. He muttered small curses under his breath and the other merchant took the rest of the coins from Aurel’s side of the table.

At this point her father conceded defeat and got up with his daughter. Argenta supported his weight and held his cane since it did no good helping maintain his balance when he was this far gone.

“I came here on my horse, dear! Go get the stable boy to fetch it, I’ll wait here.” Aurel ordered his daughter stopping short of the door and sitting down in a chair.

Argenta handed him his cane and went outside. Again, she saw Philomela and the stranger still standing together. Well.. now the stranger was sitting in front of Philomela in a peculiar fashion. Philomela appeared unengaged with him, with a spaced out look on her face. Perhaps, it was time for her to intervene. If anyone saw Philomela with an unusual stranger, the gossip hounds would really have something to talk about. Argenta had never talked to Philomela before because she had always been warned against associating with her. On the other hand, there was no one around to see her and who was she to judge Philomela in the first place? She had never talked to her before.

Argenta convinced herself to stop just before she was about to pass Philomela and Larloch, and turned to them. She heard his last question to Philomela, at which point she cut in.

“Excuse me sir, this is quite urgent,” Argenta said in a friendly and natural voice, that contradicted the aggressive look in her ice blue eyes. The impropriety of his question shocked her; what was his place to ask the dreams of people of a village he just walked in to? Was he some sort of entitled son of a politician from Omperus? She certainly didn't think so. She turned to Philomela her eyes softening, “Philomela, would you mind walking with me over to the stables? I have something to tell you.”

She held out her arm to Philomela, like an old friend, and waited patiently for her to link arms.

Involuntarily, Philomela's eyebrows rose, had the mage just simply sat upon the ground before her? With his legs folded over one another in such a strange fashion, sitting upon the grassy path that led away from the tavern that flanked her. With her standing up and Larloch posturing himself the way he did, it would have certainly been a sight to see, a bemused singer clutching a Lyre with a grauenlandian sitting at her feet. What was this man trying to do?

Philomela thanked the gods that Argenta had gone, what would be said if she was seen? That she was a lady of the evening ready to be claimed by whomever deigned to visit Anthiro? As standing outside a tavern full of drunkards, in almost pitch darkness, with an unknown man about her age, did not look virtuous at all. And anything involving Philomela tended to become exaggerated beyond measure.


He was now informing her that as an artist, she was an expert on dreams, and yet he did not even know what it was she did. Did he? Philomela hadn't mentioned it but perhaps he'd heard her singing, as her voice had a way of carrying through the village.

It was true that dreams gave purpose, but they never brought her comfort, for hers was a grand dream that few other girls from inconsequential farming villages possessed. Larloch was then explaining to her that, in his opinion, the best way to truly know someone was through knowledge of their dreams, their desires. Perhaps it was, that's what her courtesan mother had always said, albeit, she had used the word desires in place of dreams and was usually speaking of men.

Now the mage told her that Omperus was not all she might have hoped, but Philomela seemed to tune this little dash of information out. As she'd have to see for herself before tossing away her pretty expectations for the city. And Philomela certainly hoped that she would someday, at least once, see for herself what Omperus was really like.

Wait a moment…The mage spoke of being driven out of Omperus? What had he done? Was this spell weaver some sort of criminal? Perhaps he had performed some forbidden form of magic, stolen from a merchants stall, Or…Gods forbid he had committed a murder or abduction?! Philomela was somewhat frightened by this new information, granted she had a tendency to over think things, still he must have been a lawbreaker of some manner? Philomela's stomach turned at these imaginings.

She attempted to banish these thoughts when he quite boldly asked her what her own dream was, but they continued to nip at the corners of her mind and the flush of pink had abandoned her cheeks leaving them the same ivory color as the rest of her visage. "Ah..My dream ..I--"

Luckily, she was cut off by Argenta who had been walking with her silver merchant father. Philomela had often seen the raven haired and ice eyed Argenta in the market with the man, it had caused her on occasion to wonder just what it was like to have a father. Philomela had her uncle, but he had born his own children and paid her little heed. This was not a bother of course, as he'd had the grace and charity to take her disgraced mother in and keep the concubine's daughter as if she were his own. Still, the girl had never met the man who'd given her snowy skin, pale blonde hair and sky blue eyes, or so she thought.

What was this? Argenta who'd never breathed a word to the musician in her life was now asking Philomela to accompany her to the stables? Perhaps Argenta had chosen a suitor and needed a songstress to perform at the wedding? The heavily cloaked girl had never struck her as one to settle for life as a farmers wife, but possibly that had changed?

However, there was a slim chance that Argenta had actually saw the somewhat desperate situation Philomela found herself in and decided to help the much whispered about young lady out. Which would have astonishing as most village females, maidens, wenches, and matrons alike, tended to avoid Philomela as if she were the plague. It was all to due with the rumors about her, but even more so because it was generally thought that by striving for higher company and a life as a performer outside of Anthiro, she was spitting upon the simple lifestyle lived by those in the farming village.

If she was indeed trying to be of assistance, Philomela would have been extremely grateful,For she did not know what Larloch's crime had been. He could have been holding a knife behind his back, for pities sake!

Somehow feeling she was taking a gamble, the singer turned to Larloch and gave an apologetic curtsey and cooed a lie, for she had never once even chatted with Argenta in her lifetime. "My sincerest apologies, it seems my dear friend Argenta is in a state of emergency, please do excuse me, Sir."

Philomela then took Argenta's arm and put on a smile oft reserved for gentry or those she was familiar with.

When they had walked far enough away, Philomela leaned ever so slightly nearer to Argenta and whispered, her voice sounding unsteady for the first time that night"Gods bless you, That man seems to have been an exile from Omperus, I feared he was a criminal of some sort." She paused and cast her gaze downwards, hoping she was not incorrect in her assumptions. "That is why you beckoned me, is it not?"

By this time, they'd surely have reached the stables, and their speech would have almost undoubtedly woken the sleeping Dion.

Larloch nodded as when the girls walked off for the was nothing he could do about it. They had gone about five paces from him when he called out to them," In case you're wondering I was laughed out of the city after i gave my graduation theory at the wizards academy, they said a multi-element transmutation and synergy was too radical."

He didn't continue after that, he doubted either of them understood the genius of his theory but at least they were genuinely ignorant instead of being reactionary.

After seeing the look in the other girl's eyes he sincerely doubted he'd be able to stick around in the town much long. He adjusted his position to be able to face the dawn, as was his habit he would wake up before the dawn and say his prayers to Der Hehr. If everything went as planned, he'd be gone before the rest of the village woke for their daily activities.

Little did the young wizard know that Der Hehr had other plans in store for him.

“Well, he was an odd character and was asking too many personal questions of a lady he had just met,” Argenta replied, “Now I am more relieved I got you. He must’ve done something very bad to be an exile.”

Larloch called out behind them trying to explain his self and like many times before, his effort was futile. Argenta did hear him but she could not comprehend his plight really. She was not brave enough to face the ‘wizard’ again to have him explain his whole scenario. It was in all probability anyways he would move on from the village and they would never see him again. At least that's what she hoped

She patted Philomela’s arm with her hand comfortingly, noticing her tilt her golden head down and her soft blue eyes staring towards the ground.

“Please, don’t feel bad. I really wanted to help you. ”

Argenta felt her face flush; she could hardly believe she had done something so bold, considering that man was possibly a wizard, exile, or both. It made her feel good to think that she had actually helped Philomela yet she also felt a foreboding feeling now. They made it to the front of the stable and stopped at the closed doors. She brushed a ringlet of black hair from her dark blue eyes and took a deep breath.

“Dion! Are you in there?” Argenta called, knocking on the large wooden doors with her free hand.

She had become familiar with Dion because of her father’s frequent visits to the Tavern. Her father would bring their black horse Marion and keep her in the stables until he was ready to go.

“C’mon Dion, my father is waiting!”

Dion had been dreaming of giants smashing trees and kids and shining knights killing giants when a good shake and yelling woke him from his drunken slumber.
“C’mon Dion, my father is waiting.” he heard a familiar voice say.
“I’mma commin’, I’mma commin.” he replied sluggishly with a drunken man’s tongue before letting himself drop down at the door. He had to attempt several times before he succeeded at unlocking it for the guests waiting outside. The wooden door opened up slowly; Dion showing his sleepy face to those who had woken him up. Philomela and Argenta stood there arm in arm, and Dion suddenly thought he was still dreaming. No girl gets along with Philomela. What is this witchery? The drunk boy became wary, stepping aside before speaking. “Here you are -hick- ma’ams.” Waving his hand as if he was addressing royalty before he stumbled backward falling on his rear. “Woops -hick-.”

Philomela heard very little of Larloch's explanation and she did not quite understand what the imposing foreigner was speaking of, in fact it sounded like the ravings of a mad man. She was glad to have left with Argenta, and to know that however much the silver merchants daughter might have been poisoned against ever speaking to Philomela, she had the honor and kindness to rescue her from someone who must have been certifiably insane.

The lily of a girl stood outside the stables a moment before seeing Dion appear and noticing the surprise on his face. It was then she remembered herself, her place among the village women. Her pale face flushed a moment and she unhooked her arm from Argenta's with an apologetic look and curtsey. Breathing a formal goodbye that was softer than silk "I beg your pardon and I thank you, Good Maiden Arhanrod." before scurrying off, as quickly as she could without appearing ungraceful. Even in her hurry, she still seemed to flutter on the air when walking, fabric from her white chiton gown billowing out behind her like thin foggy clouds as she made her way on foot, across the moonlit path leading away from the stables.

Philomela felt a bit as if she had been intruding on Argenta and her father at that time, and imagined herself a bit silly for going all that way when she could have slipped away when they'd gotten far enough from Larloch. She had to suppose it was due to having forgotten for a few split seconds that she was indeed not a friend to Argenta, nor was she a friend to any of the women in Anthiro, unless her Maestro's wife counted but they didn't actually live within the village.

The singer narrowed her crystal blue eyes when standing in the middle of the dirt road, making sure she was taking the right turn to get back to her uncle's menial lemon farm, she stood near Damon's shop then and almost considered peeking in to ask if she might borrow a lantern. Men tended to treat her with more kindness as they were the ones often present at her musical performances in Anthiro's tavern,as wives and maidens did not often grace the building. This did not change the fact that she would be ignored if one's wife or sweet heart were present.

She decided to step up to the blacksmith's storefront, and peer in to see if anyone was awake, wondering if Damon would still be working at such an hour.

“Really, Dion. You, too?” Argenta said with a shake of her head, when the drunken boy answered the door.

Argenta felt the smooth arm of her new companion slip out from hers suddenly. Philomela said a quick thank and pardoned herself before Argenta could say a word to her. She watched Philomela until she was out of sight, frowning longingly. Perhaps she had been too forward with someone who was not of her social standing; but why could she not talk to anyone she wanted to? Be friends with whom she wanted? In her heart, she knew that social ranking did not determine the quality of one’s character.

She sighed in frustration and turned back to Dion still on his butt struggling to get up.

“Thank you for answering my call. I think I’ll get the horse myself though, it seems you are in no state to be helping anyone.” She told him, hoisting him up by the arm effortlessly with a well-toned arm from plowing in her own garden.

She left him to wobble in place as she went further into the stables to search for her father’s horse. Her mind changed back to another subject: The “wizard man”. He was an exile; that meant he was possibly dangerous to people. She was one of the only two people in the village who knew about him currently, and she felt responsible for the safety of others.

“Dion, there was a stranger outside the Tavern who was harassing Philomela.” she said seriously, stopping in front of the stall where the horse was being held, “He said he was a wizard and an exile from Omperus. I think the people in the village need to be aware of him he sticks around.”

She turned her head, flipping her rebellious hair out of her eyes and peered piercingly into Dion's dark green eyes, wondering if he caught anything of what she said. Or if he took it seriously at all, because he was a very absurd boy. Then again, it seemed very absurd that an exiled wizard would come to Anthiro, and she did not realize how ridiculous it sounded.

Dion wasn’t sure if it was him being drunk or if Argetha suddenly had decided to play tricks on him, either way he found what he heard ridiculous. Mages and wizards would never visit a silly small town like Anthiro. Nothing to get here, no one to meet, and much too far from the main roads to be considered a nice stop to stay. The inn really just thrived from soldiers, merchants and farmers who would take the offside roads to reach the Anthohill Fort and watchtowers stationed in the neighborhood; the fort were good to buy great amounts of products from merchants and farmers.
“A wiz-urd –hick-? Are you trying to –hick- play me a fool?” Dion was still sitting on his rear with straw mixed in his hair and a slightly red blush warming his cheeks. “No wiz-urd would visit Anthiro, there is nothing here.” The last bit was said with a clear sense of frustration in the boy’s voice.