Morningtide in World’s Edge. Grey clouds encircled the pale sun, swaddling it as if it were a newborn babe. The village of Felicitas-In-Gloam was slowly stirring; the orange glow of hearthfires exuding plumes of grey smoke out of chimney tops.
Faerynne was bored. One night in this quiet little village had taught her a few things; firstly, that everyone fell asleep by nine in the evening and, secondly, that playing music after this time was firmly frowned upon. Alas she thought. Patrons tend to tip better later at night when they’re more drunk.
Biting her full lower lip, the bard elegantly stood up from the linen window seat she had ben perched upon. The lyre by her feet was simple in design, but beautifully decorated, with carvings of green vines and white roses climbing round the crossbar.
“Morning. Can I start playing now?”
The bleary-eyed barkeep looked up from shining his silverware. In front of him stood a slender, tall elf, with lightly tanned skin and plentiful freckles framing her rosy cheeks. Brown eyes flecked with pure gold studied him carefully, but what caught his attention the most was her hair; beautiful flaxen-coloured locks neatly braided into two buns at her nape.
“Sure.” He said, rather gruffly. “But don’t go making too much racket, or you’ll wake up the little’uns.”
Flashing him a winning smile, Faerynne sauntered to the centre of the makeshift stage. After arranging herself on the wooden stool, she picked up the lyre and began to sing:
“To be a blackbird flying wild and free,
To be bound neither to country nor tree!
To scorn the gilded cage, and laugh at fear,
To be wild, and shit upon all those near.”
This last line lead to a rather disgruntled grunt of warning from the barkeep. Trying to keep herself from laughing, Faerynne bowed and eyed the patrons of the bar with a practised eye. One elderly gentleman seemed to have found her pithy poem so funny that he was mildly choking on his gruel. Another, seemed fast asleep. Figures, she thought. Maybe I’ll have better luck elsewhere.
Stepping out into the watery sunlight, the bard made sure to don her brown cloak and fasten it securely at her nape. Walking down the street proved similarly uneventful, so she decided to walk to the seafront for some fresh, briny air.
The sea was a kaleidoscope of blues, turquoises, and greens, each wave capped by a crest of white foam. The clouds were growing darker now, and worried mothers ushered their children away from the beach, back indoors where dry socks and warm fireplaces beckoned. Faerynne took no notice of this, and instead chose to stand on the very edge of the shore, water threatening to lap at her feet and enter her shoes.
Then, the bard gently raised onto her tip toes and, rose up into the stormy sky.
She quite enjoyed the looks of shock and disbelief she garnered each time she did this. A flying bard. She thought to herself wryly. At least it’s original.
Faerynne had once been a young’un herself, on a rickety ship during a storm much fiercer than this. Rolling waves had rocked the vessel from side to side, throwing off passengers like ants off the back of a beast. It has thrown off the young girl too; she screamed as she sank into the freezing water, the last of the air in her lungs escaping as bubbles into the distance.
But then, she felt it.
Magick. Wild, untamed and raw, encapsulating her and entering her lungs, her very bloodstream. Then, she rose, up, up, and out of the water and into the inky sky.
I want the storm to stop. She thought, face covered in a mix of saltwater and tears.
And it did. The clouds abruptly cleared, and the yellow sun peeked out from behind them, warming her cold skin. Her breath hitched, and she willed herself down. And so, she did; floating down back onto the ship, back into the arms of parents who were confused, scared, but mostly happy that their child was alive.
That has been some fifteen turns of the sun ago. Life had been a winding path since then, which had led her here, to this shore, in this village. To the arse end of nowhere she thought, with a quiet sigh.
Floating back down to the ground, she abjectly ignored the shocked and confused faces of the surrounding villagers. They’ll just have to get used to it, she thought with a shrug.
Turning towards the village centre, she was about to walk back, when she felt a tug on the hem of her dress. It was a young girl with hair red as flames, smiling up at her.
“Can you tell me what it’s like up there?” she asked.
Faerynne smiled.
“I’ll write you a song” she said.
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