The Legend of the Kyuun, and the gods of Airl » Places

         The sun softly sank away into the encumbering blackness of night. The rips in the fabric of the sky continued to swirl as they stared malevolently upon the small town sitting on the edge of Airl. The town's old structures had broken down, with roofs buckled in, and lamps strewn across the cobblestone streets. The windows were cracked or ruined. The perfect glass shattered on the ground as people clamored to gather what belongings they had. A single lamp remained standing in the night, its bulb blinked intently and out of rhythm. A cold and frosty wind coursed through the town, carrying the scent of hemlocks. It brushed aside the loose sleeves of the still standing townspeople, who eyed the shadows of night. A chilling whisper rode the wind's back and screamed in pure silence to the people.

They looked to the trees in the surrounding forest, which did not utter a single word. They remained purely silent, keeping to themselves, the old secrets of the Gods. Several leaves danced along the cobblestone roads, as the winds lashed at them. Some of the townspeople heard echoes from the forests and the streets leading out of town. They clung to their forged swords and spears, as the bells of a nearby shop rattled away before the wind. Some trembled and held their eyes shut, others tried to breath slowly. The fear, the fear forced the air in and out faster. Others had hunched their backs as they watched the endless night unfold. The touch of Cryptis walked along their spines like fingers tip toeing.

Ezall stood near the city's old fountain, which no longer gushed water. The water merely dripped slowly out of the single fount and rolled gently onto the old leaves of fall that had fallen and gathered within the fountain bed. He was propped up by his stick, as he eyed the roads and the woods cautiously. His eyebrows were drawn together, as his eyes darted from side to side. The wind continued to kick up his scarves, which yielded before the wind's heed and billowed slowly behind him.

He kept his eyes fixed on the forest, for the shadow was darkest there. The roads, though ruined and filled with wreckage, was a clear sight. One could see the night, with its violet pink hue draped below the darker black. Few stars shone, perhaps none at all. Not even the moon durst show its brilliant face. It was indeed a dark and gloomy night. Not a single light, except for the blinking lamp by the old shop.

Ezall shifted his gaze to the small firepit built by several survivors, they were huddled together around the pit. The flames waved their arms before them, showering them with warmth, heat, and light. The survivors looked pale, with dirt gashed on their faces. Their hair was unkempt and ruined, and they were clad in drab tunics with torn sleeves.

The people of this town were a poor sort. They lived meagerly, without the pleasures of life often found in other cities. They managed. They had neither spiraling majestic towers or arches. Their homes were cramped and small, and their food were not costly delicacies. They managed.

Ezall watched a man break his piece of white bun and share it with another woman. They chewed on the bread like it was their last morsel. Perhaps it was there last morsel, for they might not even see the dawn of the following day. Ezall lowered his gaze to the ground, before he returned to observing the old forests.