The First Day

RhyDin proper: consider the bustle of town, the color and the variety. To many, it devoured and overwhelmed, causing a soul to lose nearly everything. So many years ago, she had nearly lost herself in all the noise. Now, an icy gaze surveyed these strange qualities of the place in a very different light than they had once been considered. It had been nearly twenty years since she had first set foot there, and it had been five years since she had last laid eyes on the busy town center. It certainly had its own flavor, and now it left a certain bitterness in the back of her throat.

All the same, it was time to return. The sun shone, but the winter air was crisp as Maia strolled down the thoroughfare, taking bites of an apple she had purloined from a cart a few blocks back. She was not devoid of a sense of entitlement (sometimes faulty) that came from thankless years spent protecting those who never knew she had been there. Perhaps it was the oppressive nature of that task which had brought such darkness into her heart. The minute she became cognizant of this blackness creeping in, Maia dropped everything.

Forget your duty. Forsake your mission. Find your soul again.

As such, she had returned to reconnect with anyone who was still around, still alive, still kicking. Maia had basic suspicions about who those people might be, but so far, all of her leads had gone cold. The cemetery was too immense for her to find the fresh graves that may hold her compatriots. The Less Crowded Inn was gone, done, burned to the ground, its denizens scattered to the four winds. Not even the siren song of the Agnothran and the resting place of her heart and soul could call her back to that place again. She carried the rogue with her, always, and didn't need a grave site to connect with that.

Many years had been spent in RhyDin, and many people she cared for had been left behind the day she pulled away without a word. It would take the better part of an age to track them all down, to find them dead, in distant lands, or right where she left them. She had decided, instead, to allow fate to bring them to her. Fate owed her at least that. The pirate would take a job or two to pay the rent, and find a nice enough place to lay her head at night. The rest could go for ale, and she would sit in the town center, the heartbeat, the one place where someone was sure to eventually turn up.

The Red Dragon Inn loomed before her, familiar and alien all at once. She had once sworn she would never return to this place. Now, she stood outside, contemplating what might be on the other side of the door. Maia resolved that she was not quite ready and she moved to a bench across the street, where she could just sit and watch. Ignoring the cold, she finished her apple and remained perched. Her vigil had begun. Fate would decide the rest.

Maia studied people with all the fervor of any scholar serious about the material at hand. With each new face of interest, a name would be born. Regardless of whether they ever met, what their own name might be, she always held that imagined name in concert with the one she learned. Precious few would learn what title she had given them.

This figure had an old name. It was, at first, but a dark cloak billowing around a slight form. As he moved nearer, the life in his eyes and the intent of his gaze excited her as no other could. No other ever had, no other ever would. The drumming of her heart accelerated and she tingled, lips to toes. He was searching, too. None of this could be real. His eyes found her own, and no ocean would stand between the two. That urgency brought her to her feet, and she felt she were a marionette sentenced to dance endlessly on the end of a string.

He drew the hood away and his eyes cut through her, a shot to the gut. His eyes, unmistakably. Maia shuddered at the smile that came to him, as though he were unable and unwilling to believe. Had everything that happened been but a terrible nightmare? Was she finally awake, at last? Her heart refused to believe it. None of this could be real, but still she spoke the name that had been his all along, and hers alone to speak. "The Rogue..."

The warmth of him was real enough as his arms slipped around her, and drew her in. She clung to him, finding every familiar curve of him, unchanged even after all these dreadful years. His arms. His heartbeat. His smell, unmistakably. His voice came then, and the world melted away as the single word he whispered in her ear melted the fear in her cold heart. The word was his own name for her, and hers alone to hear.

"How I miss you..." It was all that she could say in return as she felt the warmth of his lips on her neck. His lips crept towards her lovestained words to kiss them away, once and for all. None of this could be real.

No.

None of this could be real.

What a trip.

The journey by sea had been beset by many a raging storm, one of which had, inexplicably, dumped the man directly into this unknown realm. Wallace, the boatswain, had thought it would take them the better part of a year (mayhap longer), to find their way back to the North Sea and return to port at Grimsby. The prospect of another year of seasickness and terrible food was too much to bear, and this was supposed to be one of those grand life-altering adventures, no? So, the eternally disheveled young fellow disembarked, ever faithful that the worst was over.

Poor fool.

Hired as a scribe his second day in town... an excellent fit for the bookish gent. The extravagantly named Englishman figured it was his posh accent that made him so very employable as such. His determination to avoid working on a farm, at all costs, likely also aided his cause. There was nothing like the smell of pigs and cows on a man for years on end to foster a little creative ambition. He had a fine example just down the road from the family farm in Warwick: not so long ago, a brilliant playwright had come up from nothing in Stratford-Upon-Avon. There was no particular reason that Everett Ian Ephraim Isaac Ogden could not do the same.

Excepting an epic case of writer's block.

Well, that had to be easy enough to fix. All he needed was a decent point of inspiration. Humanity (or some local version thereof) was infinitely inspiring. There were characters all around, from the fiery damsel to the wise old sage, the sympathetic villain and fools, fools, oh there were fools aplenty (including the would-be playwright). Everett just needed to see them in action, surely such would provide ample material for the next landmark work of theatre. This need drove him to the heartbeat of any town- its primary tavern.

The Red Dragon Inn. Complete with real dragons.

Barely through the door in his ratted old cloak, he found himself overwhelmed at the picture in front of him. It immediately became clear that this RhyDin was very, very far removed from his Queen's country. Locked in wonder, he reached up to adjust his spectacles when... how forward! The hand was strong, and belonged to a woman. He studied her in that brief window, and found her fascinating, though he would not call her fair. She was a warrior, or at least she carried herself as such. It was perplexing- such a little thing, and yet he knew enough to feel a mite intimidated. She didn't say a word, and just walked right out the door.

"Huh."

He shrugged, wearing his uncertainty as plainly as the poor grey cloak that hung from his shoulders. Steady, man. With a deep breath and a brave little smile, Everett moved to the bar. Much better. He could sit in sublime civility, enjoy a drink, and perhaps he could even meet some fascinating creature to enthrall and inspire him.

Poor sheltered Everett. If only the beginning could be so easy...