The manor sat perched between a riverbank and the main road, fashioned from ragged cobblestone and cedarwood. The structure stood tall and frigid, crooked by the time and its own weight. Its steep gabled roof sloped dramatically downwards. Strange wooden carvings adorned the underside. The manor had modest square windows on all floors. Colourful glass glazed the windows, casting a spellbinding kaleidoscope of colours, that danced across the room when touched by the dying light of day. Flowerbeds, with carefully arranged blossoms, decked each windowsill. Vine tendrils crept up the walls and snaked onto the roof, partially encapsulating the building in its earthly embrace.
The estate surrounded a cluster of hot springs, a bustling hub despite being on Elven land. Travellers frequented the inn, drawn by the charm of the bathhouse. While all creatures were welcome on Elven roads, humans were a rare sight due to the lasting impact of the thousand-year war. Only a select few, esteemed for their trade, art, or diplomacy, were permitted residence in Elven lands. As the spring equinox approached, the road leading past the bathhouse buzzed with activity, coinciding with the Week of Merchants—a festival honouring traders from across the realms. During this time, animosities were set aside as Elves and other beings alike welcomed all, including humans, to join in the festivities in the city of Runswick.
Sylvar sat in one of the manor's many rooms; a lantern lit up the windowsill with crimson. The curtains were drawn, forbidding any light from the outside into the room. The bed on which the young elf sat had a simple wooden frame. The pillow was soft; white linen sheets smelled of soap and cold water. A colourful blanket was thrown over the bed. It was made from several squares, each with a different colour and pattern. Warm, reddish colours dominated the palette, just like the rest of the room. The bedspread had golden tassels in each corner.
On the elf's right, perched on slender wooden legs, rested a petite bedside table. It boasted a lone drawer, embellished with an intricate iron handle. A pitcher, a bowl brimming with water, and a mirror adorned its surface. A moist towel, evidence of recent use, hung casually over one edge. Alongside the pitcher, a silver comb, a bar of soap, and a razor for shaving were neatly arranged. The flickering candle cast its warm glow, unveiling the contents of the table.
The wall facing Sylvar bore two windows, and between them stood a wooden desk paired with a chair. Every visible inch of the desk's shelves was crammed with journals, letters, maps, and assorted literature – a deliberate yet chaotic arrangement. An ornate open-shelved closet occupied the remaining free wall space, its shelves mirroring the cluttered yet organized abundance of the desk. On the desk itself, a leather-bound journal lay open beside a quill pen and a small jar of ink. The candlelight illuminated the still-drying ink on the journal's pages. Draped over an armchair was a fur fabric, crafted from the same material as the duvet. The short, grey fur suggested it likely belonged to a rabbit.
Across from the bedside table, a robust oak dresser commanded attention with its sturdy presence. Ornate iron handles graced its three drawers, while colourful linens adorned its surface. Atop it, Sylvar's armour stood proudly beside his meticulously arranged weapons, all bathed in the warm glow of a nearby candlestick.
Sylvar reclined on the bed, clad in a white undershirt and loose brown trousers. His feet were bare, and a light, colourful robe hung over his shoulders. With his long hair left down, having been recently brushed, he lacked the energy to tie it up or braid it. The young elf sat in silence one hand gripping the duvet. The other sat close to his chest, strung up by woven linen rope. His breathing was slow, and his bandaged chest heaved delicately. The encounter with the bloodsucker had inflicted more damage than Sylvar initially realized during the fight.
Gashes adorned his lower stomach, chest, and thigh. While those injuries healed well, leaving only nasty scabs as reminders, the wound on his left shoulder displayed a stubborn resistance to recovery. Lady Omaira managed to pop his shoulder back in, luckily it wasn't broken as the elf initially thought. Regardless of the Lady of the House's efforts, her concoctions, and herbal treatments, the bite wound persisted in a vexing cycle- closing and opening, occasionally gushing blood in the dead of night, only to scab over and repeat the process. It was a vicious bite that seemed adamant in its refusal to heal. Sylvar had secluded himself in his chamber for three days, adamantly avoiding the healer's aid. The solitude was a refuge he cherished, though the bustling activity beyond his door unnerved him. The manor, once home to over a dozen girls under Lady Omaira's care, had been a sanctuary for the orphaned and lost. Sylvar vividly recalled his own arrival, wide-eyed and disoriented, despite Pelleas's reassuring presence by his side.
The door to Sylvar's left opened wide, letting in a streak of golden light that illuminated a bright square on the ground. Soon, the space filled with a tall shadow. Sylvar let go a heavy sigh.
"Dearie, look at you," Lady Omaira set the woven basket on the floor and clapped her hands together, "The devil would be scared of ye,"
"That only means it would not bother me," Sylvar murmured
The redhead let out a burdened sigh and stepped further into the room, leaving the woven basket at the door. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and turned to the closed window.
"Sittin' here, stewing like a mean cabbage," she began, dismantling the curtain blockade off the window. I can smell you downstairs."
Sylvar unseemly sniffed around. The scent of soap still lingered on his pale skin. He washed himself and his attire regularly. The older woman noticed the man's confusion. A smile grazed her slender lips.
"You smell of depression. You elves wash yourselves more than you work."
Madam Omaira, a woman in her late forties, possessed a mane of russet hair, vibrant ringlets framing her face. Her stature was imposing, with broad shoulders and a soft motherly stomach. Gentle wrinkles carved her face, each a mark of years lived. Yet, beneath her gentle exterior lay a strength evident in her toned arms and forearms. Her eyes, a piercing smokey blue, exuded a gruff perseverance. A deep navy gown and a black apron, belted at the waist, enrobed Madam Omaira's shape. Adorned with golden jewellery that chimed with every movement, she moved about the room with purpose and grace, a comforting presence despite her imposing demeanour.
Madam Omaira sighed with relief as light poured in through the uncovered windows. She opened both of them with a smile and blew out the candles in the room, waving away the smoke with her apron. Sylvar winced at the sudden change of lightning and shielded his red eyes with his hand.
Sounds of life filled the room. It smelled of spring and dewy flowers. It was early morning. The sun was just waking up from its velvety slumber and the valley was already humming with life. Sylvar heard the horse's hooves against the gravel road, children playing in the distance, and the cheerful voices of young women. A chilly breeze broke in through the window, carrying the smell of freshly baked bread and cooked eggs.
'If it weren't for my daughter you would roth here till summer,"
"Am I a burden?" Sylvar said with his stomach growling nearly as loudly as his voice.
"Fuck's sake," the woman laughed, "I ought to slap you for this. What? Starin' at me like a foal in the moonlight. You aren't a burden, is it that just you've been sitting here for three days and haven't left once."
"Uh..." Sylvar licked his dry lips, and the scents from outside began violently tickling his nostrils.
"C'mon, git. I need to clean. " Lady Omaira's gaze hardened. Her eyes bore into the elf, devoid of their usual warmth, "The first thing you need to do is grab a bite and go see Moyra. She's been waiting for you. And if you delay any longer, I'll personally haul her over here myself. Understand?"
"Yes, madam," Sylvar said and remained seated. Omaira sighed.
"I should whip your arse like your mother didn't."
Sylvar pouted his lips in disdain. The redhead brushed her palm over the young elf's face, tucking it behind his pointed ear.
"The gods didn't give me a son. I don't want to lose the one I don't have."
The woman's eyes softened. She didn't look as angry at the man anymore. Concern furrowed her forehead, and she smiled. The sounds of the village lulled Sylvar and carried the man far away. His velvety eyelashes lowered, and just as he was about to close his eyes, a jab of pain woke him up from his daydream.
"Fuck," he cursed under his breath and glanced down at his wound.
"Go to Moyra. Immediately."
Sylvar's wound gushed black blood, drenching his shirt. Madam Omaira pressed a thick linen cloth against the gaping hole, but it soaked through. She stuffed a handful of dried herbs into the wounds and sealed them with a clean cloth. Sylvar cursed under his breath some more, this time in the old elven. Madam Omaira didn't appreciate him cursing, so he did it in a language she wouldn't understand.
The bleeding had stopped; it seemed. Sylvar's chest glowed with dew in the sunlight. He struggled to put a new shirt on.
"It will be okay, dearie," the older woman cooed, her cool fingers brushing over Sylvar's forehead. She pushed the man's head closer to her face and planted a motherly kiss on the top of his head. Sylvar relaxed into her and closed his eyes for a minute.
The woman left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar as a message for Sylvar to get off the bed. The man groaned and slowly dressed up. He ran a comb through his hair once more and unhurriedly crept towards the door. Each step felt like a struggle, his body frozen and stiff. Every movement felt awkward, like that of a newborn foal. Standing in the doorway, he waited for the feeling to return to his legs before venturing into the hallway. Walking with a slight hunch, he navigated the manor's corridors, mindful of his towering height and the low ceilings that threatened to singe his hair on the chandelier above.
"Morning," two blonde twin girls chimed in unison as they passed the elf. Sylvar nodded politely in response. They giggled and hastened their steps, whispering joyously to each other as they disappeared around the corner. Continuing down the narrow hallway, Sylvar greeted each woman he encountered with a nod of his head. The corridor stretched on, vibrant with hues of reds and browns that mirrored the colours of Sylvar's room. The pervasive influence of Lady Omaira was evident in every detail, from the carefully chosen decor to the impeccable cleanliness. Sunlight flooded through the windows, illuminating the hallway and rendering candles unnecessary during the day.
Sylvar fluttered his eyelashes at the sun. It beamed into his eyes relentlessly. There were no clouds in the sky; vast cerulean overlooked over the vale. It was the birth of a perfect day. A delicate breeze danced in his hair and tickled his skin. The man breathed deeply once and let it out slowly. He glanced at the path leading down to Omaira's inn. The tiny window was open and timid, groggy voices poured out into the air. Dark forms flashed by the square opening once or twice. Sylvar stared inside the inn from a distance, focused on someone behind the bar. He took one step forward and stopped. The elf spun on his heels and strode away in the opposite direction, promptly stopping at the notice board on his way.
The path to Moyra's cut through Omaira's garden and led into the woods. Sylvar went off the beaten path and followed a narrow trail made by deer, hares and other forest critters alike. If Sylvar were to take his horse, he would've been already at Moyra's doorstep. The man chose to walk.
Moyra's abode nestled beneath the shelter of an ancient cedar tree, its expansive canopy casting a shadow over the surrounding area. The tree had begun swallowing part of the house as the years went past. Fashioned from the very cedar wood that surrounded it, the house took on the shape of a steep triangle, its roof nearly touching the ground at its corners. A thick layer of moss and fallen branches carpeted the entirety of the roof, spilling beyond its border and dripping down like dough out of a bowl. A sturdy chimney protruded from the roof's peak, threatened by encroaching vines. A vague trail of smoke swirled into the air and melted in the canopy above. Two square-panelled windows flanked a wooden door, arched delicately. The two windows had become obscured by a white creeping rose bush that had overtaken the entire front of the house, its blossoms casting a shadow over the glass. Milkweeds enshrouded the gravel path to the house. The garden blossomed and exploded with a vast array of flowers and herbs, despite being wildly out of season.
Sylvar stopped a few metres from the front door, staring at the small round attic window tucked at the peak of the roof. A white dove sat perched on the windowsill, cooing softly. The side window was ajar, allowing reminisce of a friendly chatter to escape into the outside. The young elf grabbed the brass ring on the door and alerted his presence by four deliberately slow knocks. The chatter ceased immediately, followed by soft shuffling of bots and fabrics.
Sylvar was greeted by a low metallic creak and a pair of disinterested eyes.
"Who are you?" a much, shorter young man leaned against the doorway, his shoulder casually supporting him, arms crossed over his chest. The man wore a simple linen tunic which came down to his knees, its hue a deep shade of green. A brown waistband cinched his slender waist, while loose-fitting trousers of the same brown hue draped over his legs. The man's forearms were encased with leather vambraces. He stood barefoot. Creamy blonde curls framed his tanned face, with tufts of smokey hair peeking out at his temples. and merging with his coarse sideburns. His light green eyes, with slitted pupils, observed Sylvar closely, while a wide, flat nose added to his feline-like appearance. The entirety of the man's sclera was shrouded in darkness. He raised his thick, round eyebrows expectantly, awaiting the elf's reply.
"Who are you?" Sylvar repeated the same question back at the stranger. The young man rubbed his stubbly chin with a slight smile, his cheeks hollowed by a dimple on each side.
"Well, it depends who asks."
"I am here to see Moyra."
"Who? No one lives here by this name."
Sylvar's nostrils flared.
"I'm just messing with you," the blonde man laughed, his monolid eyes squinting with delight, "Come in."
Sylvar stepped through the threshold, slightly crouched to fit through the doorway, but still towering over the blonde man. With a confident stride, the stranger moved ahead as if he owned the place. A long fluffy tail trailed behind the man. It was the same colour as the man's hair, with blurred black markings adorning the entire appendage length. As Sylvar passed the door, he straightened his back, the house's ceiling was as tall as the roof allowed.
The interior of the house was as cluttered with plants as the outside. Numerous wooden shelves and metal hooks decorated the walls, holding various plants in handmade clay pots. Sylvar carefully removed his boots and placed them near the door, along with his cloak, which he hung on a spare brass hook. Moving through the organised chaos, he navigated past glass vials and coloured bottles nestled among the plants, dried herbs hanging from the tall ceiling, unlit lanterns and candles, mystical crystal orbs and beads, brass coins, and hundreds of small pouches tied off with yarn. Despite the clutter, the house was impeccably clean. As soon as the elf stepped through the door he was greeted by a gentle smell of sage, which was soon overpowered by the powerful aroma of fresh lemongrass and pine.
Moyra sat beside a crooked stone fireplace, tending to a bubbling pot of vegetable soup. Her delicate hands stirred the mixture with absent-minded grace, adding herbs and spices with practised ease. A soft smile graced her lips as she worked, her attention focused on the task at hand rather than her guest. Moyra appeared to be in her late thirties, with gentle crow's feet around her eyes and smile lines indicating a life well lived. Her nose was thin and sharp, perfectly complementing the diamond shape of her face. Moyra appeared thin and frail, her skin pallid like clam chowder and ash. She wore layers of white garments that partially concealed her fragile form, her platinum hair cascading down her shoulders and back in gentle waves.
She gasped quietly to herself and turned her head to look at Sylvar. All eight of her eyes bore the resemblance of dark unpolished amethyst, perfectly captivating yet harboring an unease if one decided to stare at them for too long. Despite the ethereal white glow of her locks, Moyra's eyebrows were dark, almost black, and so were her eyelashes. The woman's gentle smile grew into a confident gleam, revealing sharp, milky grey teeth.
"Sylvar," she greeted, extending her trembling hands towards the man. Her voice was gentle and timid, with a slight hiss that accentuated the letter "S", "Oh how long I've awaited your arrival."
"I apologise for making you wait." The man knelt before the woman, clasping her long fingers in his, careful not to crush them. The skin on the woman's hands was thin, showcasing her veins in all their disarray. Moyra smiled, crinkling her eyes which lacked pupils. Two of the largest eyes were set at the top of her high forehead, accompanied by a pair of slightly smaller ones at the bottom, nearing her temples. A pair of small eyes, the tiniest of them all sat above her cheekbones.
"The most important part is that you're here at last," Moyra's gaze wandered to the curly-haired man who sat at the long kitchen table next to the open window, "Yuki introduced himself already, hasn't he?"
Yuki, the man with impossibly high cheekbones gave Sylvar a two-finger salute accompanied by a cheeky smile. Pointed canines poked at his bottom lip as he beamed.
"Barely," Sylvar replied, shifting his gaze back to Moyra, who struggled to get to her feet. He offered the woman his arm for support as she crept across the kitchen, one hand clutching onto the elf, the other grasping a bone-white cane with intricate carvings.
"He's my apprentice, but enough about that," Moyra's eyes sat still, gazing off somewhere outside for a few seconds," Show me what you got there." The woman pointed her long finger at Sylvar's chest. The man glanced around the kitchen, catching Yuki's absent-minded gaze staring directly at him. The man had his chin resting on his palm, head tilted at an angle.
"Maybe not here." the elf refused.
"Come sit down," Moyra ignored the elf and gestured at a cushy seat nestled in between an open shelved cabinet and a tiny overcrowded stool. Sylvar undid the laces of his shirt hesitantly and threw it over his head in a sluggish manner. Yuki's eyes widened and Moyra let out a small gasp once the bandages were removed. Sylvar threw a glance at Yuki, then back at Moyra with his lips pressed tight.
"You should've come here the moment you got bit, stupid, injudicious child," Moyra scolded, shaking her head in disapproval. Yuki rose from his seat, fetching jars and vials for Moyra, who had already begun boiling a pot of water over the fire. Sylvar watched the woman work in silence, feeling the blood rush to his ears. Moyra moved swiftly, ignoring the pain in her tendons and joints, while the young elf stared at the ground in shame.
"Did you kill the one that bit you?" Moyra inquired
"I do not know."
"By the gods," Moyra wept, "Where did you find such a creature to begin with?"
"South of Runswick, by the Lover's Creek."
"Ah, another fine mess to clean up," Yuki grumbled sarcastically, his tone dripping with exasperation, as the man rose to his feet. Fashioning two curved swords like crescent moons off the windowsill he took a step towards the door. Moyra waved it off with her hand.
"I have just enough ingredients to concoct an antivenom, but mark my words, should you encounter a strigoi again, you turn tail and flee," Moyra warned sternly. "Those creatures are not to be trifled with. They'll lure you in with their charm, only to tear out your throat the moment you let your guard down."
"But it failed."
"You got lucky this time, I suppose," Yuki remarked, scratching his stubbly chin. Sylvar's eyelid twitched.
"Your presence irritates me." the young elf stated plainly.
Moyra drew in a deep breath. In rapid succession, she drew an intricate symbol in the air with two fingers and pressed them against Sylvar's arm. The man stiffened up in his seat, the tendons in his neck straining under concealed pain. Symbols which Moyra drew in the air etched themselves into Sylvar's skin. They emitted a faint purple glow, and the bones under Sylvar's skin popped and cracked, his muscles setting into place.
"Your shoulder settled incorrectly." Moyra's voice carried a sharp edge. The wrinkles around her mouth melted away as the symbols faded from Sylvar's skin "Tell Omaira to leave the work to the professionals next time." the woman turned her revitalised gaze to Yuki," Take care of him. I must rest now."
"Wait-" Sylvar grasped at his pocket," We found these symbols back at the bandit's camp, where I found the strigoi. Do you recognise them?"
Moyra peeped at the parchment handed to her. Her eyes narrowed. She shook her head but took the paper anyway.
"Perhaps, but the memories are...Hazy." She trailed off, "I must study them. Come back tomorrow." The woman turned her back to leave but stopped. She reached into one of the many drawers and retrieved a handbook, the size of her palm, bound in white leather.
"For my dear Ethel," she placed it in Sylvar's hand," I won't be able to make it on time for her name day. Tell her I apologise. And... It would be best if her mother didn't know about this gift."
The woman exited the kitchen, leaving her cane behind, while Yuki remained crouched next to the bubbling pot, tending to the fire with meticulous care. As he stole occasional glances at the young elf, a cocky smirk played on his lips. Both men maintained silence throughout the process. With acute precision, Yuki cleaned Sylvar's wound before meticulously mixing a green powder into a vial of black, tangy mass. Sylvar recognized the mixture's potency as it bubbled upon contact, anticipating the agony that awaited him. The pain, akin to the inferno of a thousand suns, engulfed him as the concoction was applied to his wound. Clenching the armrest, he struggled to contain his agony, his body jerking involuntarily. Yet, despite his suffering, Yuki's cocky grin remained unchanged as he continued to administer the mixture, ensuring that the pain persisted.
After what seemed like hours of raw agony, Sylvar's body sunk into deep lethargy. He threw his head back with relief seeing an empty vial in Yuki's hands. He tossed it into the fire with evident disappointment.
"Fun's over," he announced, "You can go."
"I think I will stay for a bit," Sylvar closed his eyes. Yuki shrugged and perched himself in his usual spot by the window with a smoking pipe in his teeth. Sylvar watched him through his eyelashes till the blonde caught his gaze. Yuki blew out a cloud of smoke in the elf's direction, the same grin as before landed on his lips.
"You look like you've been through a lot," Yuki brushed his fingers over the table, each of his digits ending with a sharp claw.
"Really? What could have possibly given it away?"
"Your complete and utter lack of humour." Yuki grinned, the whiskers at the bottom of his jaw twitched. The blonde man blew out another cloud of smoke. It smelled like molasses and hay, herbaceous yet woody. He rose from his seat and crept closer to the elf on all fours.
"Is it true that they neuter half-elves in Scalanis?"
Sylvar's expression darkened at the question, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before he composed himself.
"It is true," he replied, his voice tinged with resignation.
Yuki raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "So you don't have any... jewels?" he teased, the hint of mischief evident in his tone.
Sylvar's jaw clenched, his patience wearing thin. "You are an audacious little bastard,"
Yuki chuckled, undeterred by Sylvar's firmness.
"Just making conversation," he shrugged, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.
Sylvar sighed, shooting Yuki a pointed look.
"Perhaps a drink?" Yuki suggested rifling through cabinets until Sylvar directed him to the right spot. Pouring two glasses of wine, he set the bottle on the table. Yuki raised his glass in a silent toast, but upon tasting it, grimaced and set the glass aside.
"Do you..." Yuki began, the words trailing off as he searched for a topic.
"I will return another time," Sylvar announced, rising from his seat. Yuki nodded.
"Not with another bite, I hope?" he quipped.
"We will see," Sylvar replied cryptically, hesitating at the door. Turning back to Yuki, who remained seated with his usual grin, the elf added, "Thank you."