Chapter 1: Morning Dew
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC[1] of the Fourth Rekindling
06:00[2]
The clock rang at the same time every single day, which was to say at sharp “six” o’clock the bell inside will toll without mercy for those forced to endure it. Its “DING, DING!” were like divine commands to rouse and wake. Even without the rewards of a hard day’s work or the discomfort of a hard bale mattress, the clock kept a man running.
Awakened by the insistent noise, a young man no older than perhaps his earliest twenties or latest teens stirred from his slumber, groaning quietly something about having “No rest for the wicked”. He rose from the dimly lit room with no windows and walls thick of wood logs, insulated by packed dirt from the outside. He took a shivering cold walk out of the room, grabbing a thick light brown pelt coat along the way. In the right corner of his room was the dutiful wooden wall clock, made possible by clockwork he could not even begin to understand except for the “ticks” and turns of the brass-like hands upon the round numbered surface behind it. He pressed a small, black iron node just below the clockface as it finally stopped tolling. His footsteps then arrived at the central room of his little abode, necessity plaguing the layout with an ugly mess. From the door leading out, a hearth resided in the far-right corner of the room, the furnace set ablaze and casting light, with a clay chimney leading atop. The far left was dominated by a stock of foodstuff, stacks of firewood as well as any other assortment of resources possible. The middle contained a medium-sized table with haphazard chairs to surround it, on its side an array of brooms and tools left to gather dust. A measurably thicker change of outfit was on the hook by the left entrance, and on the right remained several items of import, including iron-headed picks and even a small knife in a hilt, placed neatly atop a wooden stool.
The man, who seemed so languid, sighed and picked from the far-left corner a slice of half-eaten, almost moldy but still mostly edible bread, unappetizing as it was. He wolfed it down without even a hint of deliberation and walked his way towards the door, picking out a metal pan. With the familiarity of a routine, he grabbed the thicker outfit hung near the door, which consisted of a small cap-hat, a pair of hide gloves, a small leather satchel, cloth face-wraps, and finally boots to go with his already thick pelt coat. In his hands were also an old metal pot and iron-headed pick, tucked neatly into his pockets and satchel were a razor-blade saw and the knife. He donned the clothing, pulling a crudely made hood over his head, and attempted to open the door.
…Which remained stubbornly shut, his small pushes doing nothing to the door in any way. He sighed, and attempted to push it again, to the same results. Sufficiently annoyed, the young man tried once again to push the door open, this time with enough force to probably tear a new hinge through his poorly constructed entrance, though all he managed was to splinter it casually. Cursing under his breath, he once again tried to push out, ice flaked off the metal doorknob, before-
“Augh-!”
Finally, he pushed it open and almost fell to the ground from. The door clutched in hand, the young man looked at the outside world once more. To his annoyance, the ground was elevated far higher than it should. Snow, packed up to around his knees, blocked his path outside in more ways than just blocking his door. This means another entire day wasted on clearing snow, and he… just did not have that kind of motivation. Deciding that he would be much better off ignoring the pressing situation at hand, the young man stepped out with a pick in his hand as he waddled through the snow towards the right of his house. There were around five or six blocks of perfectly carved ice, big enough that each one was the size a hog, laid in perfect cold stillness. Clearing the snow from the top of his ice mound, he reared the pick back and only released its force at the very right moment, carving out a large chunk from one of the ice blocks and carefully dropping it into his metal pot. Satisfied with the results, the man turned towards his house and slowly started walking back.
It was then he noticed how searing cold this “morning” was. The immediate impact of the wild winds bombarded him as soon as he turned to face the source of the frost, with very little to lessen the chilling breaths. He could barely see anything from that direction. Inwardly he would have cursed himself for being cheap and not buying at least a full mask to protect his eyes from the harsh winds, if only he was not in such a tortuous position. He could hardly think of anything other than to trek heavily back to his domicile. The journey, painfully, was not impossible, proven by how he managed to wrangle himself inside and closed shut the door, heaving a sigh.
“Pain in the…”
Noting how useless it would be to complain to himself of all people, the young man simply sighed and took off as much of the thick clothes as he could. The cap drops from his dome, then the satchel, the boots, and lastly the gloves. The coat still hung from his shoulders, too cold to be removed. With the metal full of ice chunks, he slowly made his way towards the hearth as he put the pot onto a small metal platform, right next to a great deal of things sharing the same platform on top of the fire.
“There there… Don’t spill over, don’t make my life any more terrible.”
Those were lightly pleading words at least, actual prayers at most, but regardless of the nature of the sentence, the ice did melt away into water but a short moment after. Heaving a sigh, he pulled out a thick waterskin that did not seem quite normal even from a glance, grey in color and the stitches were distinctly well-groomed, soft yet sturdy at the same time in his grasps. Placing a filter funnel over the top of the waterskin, he lets water flow freely down the round metallic hopper as the steaming hot liquid poured fully into the bag. The filter caught all sorts of debris, mostly dirt and a few stray pebbles; all of it were scrubbed away meticulously for the next use. After putting everything away, the young man was left with a water skin filled quite ingeniously, sitting in his hand without the fear of burning his skin. Truthfully told, this thing was made to never let heat escape anyways.
Seemed today did not start so terribly after all. He managed to get inside his house in one piece! That was a good omen, all things considered.
He took a chug of the refreshing liquid, feeling a little possessive over the scalding sensation as he knew this would be the warmest thing he would feel today, and quickly put it inside of his coat. And then he dressed again, picked up his pick, and made his way outside to greet the familiar frost. A routine, he imagined, that he would spend the rest of his life perfecting. At least this time, he was going out to start a productive day, rather than spending precious energy on a warm sip of water.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
06:34
“Morning.”
Whoever said that right in the aftermath of a white out had to have the worst sense of timing on this continent. And to him of all people? Wow, thank you!
To the young man draped in so many layers it might as well be a new set of skin, morning was never much different than night. Both were searing cold, both dark with little variations in-between, and both terribly uncomfortable to be out on. No matter what time it was, this world vowed to give its children little mercy. “Morning” was a forgone concept that seemed to only kept alive by fragile traditions of “work time”, or the passing memories of sunlight in a world covered not by frost, but the warm hands of the gods, whoever one happened to worship.
Which hour it was mattered not to Luna, that hauntingly bleached celestial body gloating from her throne in the heavens. She has perched on the horizons ever since the young man was born and was there even a hundred, perhaps thousands of generations before that. Even after his passing, she will continue to linger until every single surface on these lands were covered by nothing but sterile ice.
So was the end game of the sunless lands.
Admittedly, he could concede that it was not in his best interest to be so grim-minded as he dug through the snow and made a small path from his house to the dirt street connecting to the rest of civilization. Others draped in just as much clothing as he did, albeit in varying quality, “joined” him in the silent, droning symphony of shovels and spades digging through crunching snow. A hint of annoyance and lethargy marred everyone’s face, including his. It was already grim enough that he was doing this. Souring his mood further with demure imagination was just going to make this… Even more so unacceptable.
Even this was costing him precious hours that he could have used to toil away and earn a living for himself, still he relented that without any clean-up, this snow would simply pack up and up until it became a wall so thick it could no longer be considered snow, instead an impenetrable obstacle. Today it was only up to his knees, but perhaps tomorrow would be to his waist, then neck, then higher than his roof. It was better to just deal with it now than let the problem rot until the wound festers so disgustingly that one would have to cut the limb off. So, despite the initial morning reluctance, he kept digging.
Just as he labored, shoving another heft of snow off the path towards the road (which he dug just wide enough to fit a sled and body through), a pair of thick-robed legs suddenly stopped in front of him. The young man pulled his irises towards the top of his eye sockets just to see the new arrival’s knee. With a sigh, he stuck his shovel into the snow and stood up straight to face the new figure, half expecting the confrontation to be familiar already.
This new young man, also of his early 20’s or late teens, was dressed impeccably for the familiar cold – thick coat, thick gloves, thick boots, and an actual mask with sap-lens goggles this time, giving him more protection against that white death. He was scarily tall, at least according to the first young man’s standard (or was he just short?), looking more like a walking wall than anything. There was no visible sign of his face, but his eyes were noticeably much rounder than the other man. They made him just ever less so demure looking, more slightly boyish.
“Willem.” The first young man spoke, swallowing hard for a moment as he attempted to find the perfect words. Not that he did not want to speak his mind, but this one… Would certainly be greatly affected by what he said right now. “…I…don’t require any help, if-”
“We’re late, Wyatt.” Willem answered, with a pout on his face. He seemed adamant about something.
Internally, the accused Wyatt felt that he had no choice but to deal with this issue head-on, in addition to other concerns already piling up like the snow around him. It was exactly the headache induced by the chaos of the elements and the chaos of this accuser that Wyatt wanted to avoid. Whatever holy power graced him today decided that he was going to face trials for the wrong of…
Well, what did he do wrong exactly? No, this must be for the sick entertainment of some bored higher entity. At least, it would be more comfortable if that were true.
“Listen.” He tried his hardest to keep his composure, and to this end he was succeeding despite it all; his heart truly contained nothing but benevolent intentions. “There’s snow everywhere. It’s cold outside – colder than it always is. Until I dig up everything around a 15-pace radius around my house, I won’t even know if some poor vagrant died somewhere on my property. It isn’t my fault that a white out happened last night while everyone was asleep after all, and these things don’t clear themselves.”
Wyatt spat the final words, before stopping and wheezing in the freezing cold, cursing himself internally for expending too much energy for his rant. Conversations should be reserved for when it was warmer, not when the temperature was as harsh as…this.
“I’m not blaming you for the white out,” Willem sighed, taking the shovel from the pile of snow and shaking the frost off the blade. “I’m blaming you for being slow.”
For a moment Wyatt remained quiet, surprised at the audacity – thick snow packed up to his knees, the biting cold penetrating every layer of his clothes, and this guy was telling him that he was being slow? Was Willem slow by any chance?
“…Alright.” Wyatt muttered after a few moments. The word sounded more like a sigh. He yanked his shovel from the snow again, and started laboring once more, ignoring the newcomer entirely. “I’m slow, fine. You can go pick ice yourself then.”
“Well, I tried, but I can’t push those blocks without toppling them over and squashing myself!” Retorted Willem, stepping brazenly towards Wyatt and stopping him mid-shovel. He seemed to be greatly offended, eyebrows creased and eyes narrowed. That mask probably hid some sort of pout too. Probably.
“Tough luck.” Claimed Wyatt, as he turned away and shoveled someplace else not burdened by the sight of his so-called companion. “You don’t seem to have the patience for me, and I don’t seem to have the patience for you.”
Silence descended upon the duo for a few seconds. Wyatt paused, deliberated, and then nearly instinctually, turned around slowly while holding the shovel out handle first. As expected, Willem was already halfway towards him before stopping, surprised at the action. He sighed, took the shovel and plunged it into the snow. For the first time today, Wyatt smirked.
“Next time you want to help me, just spell it out,” said Wyatt, walking back to his insulated house. He entered carefully, as to not let the cold wind in. Within a few seconds he procured another shovel, this one with a tinge more rust on the blade and a bit dull on the tip, but still adequate.
“I’m not good with words,” murmured Willem, piling snow to the side to clear a path. “Unlike you.”
“…At least you’re good at shoveling.”
It must have taken one good Sol-adjusted hour of standing and working in the freezing air before the deed was done. Beside the path, the snow now stacked to his thighs, with both Wyatt and Willem flattening the sides to make the path more “aesthetically pleasing”, or just to make it seem less like they’re building an igloo. If only they knew how, snow was abundant, after all. There is nowhere in the next mastance[3] radius around this small town where the ground is not covered in at least seven dimiters[4] of snow, more if that area is particularly unlucky. Knowing how to turn snow into durable, workable material would make anyone a billionaire, enough to find entry to one of the big cities where the air is warm and the food abundant. Unfortunately, such an idea sounded ludicrous to both young men, so they dug, dug and dug.
When the ground was satisfactorily clear, with the clean white snow replaced by a rough, paved brown trail forming a small path from the door to the main road, the duo finally relaxed under the overhead roof of the porch.
Willem spoke first with a sigh. “Why don’t you just hire a pyromancer to do all the work?”
“I don’t have parents to afford that.” Wyatt looked to the side, rolling his eyes. “…Besides, the only pyromancer in this place is old man Hubbs. And I’m not even remotely interested in negotiating with him.”
“It’s just the standard fare-“
Wyatt cut him off with a low sigh. “He’s a crazy bum who almost burnt down the Chief’s yard that one time. He also likes to lie that he was a pyromancer back in “Solstice” or wherever he came from that gave him that tanned skin and… eerily ashen hair. I wouldn’t trust him even if he showed me a certificate or something. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t entrust the general integrity of my house to him. Not in the slightest.”
“I’ve hired him before, he’s not that bad.” Willem said casually, pulling out a well-insulated waterskin. “I think people like to gossip too much.”
“Yeah, wait until he burns your carefully maintained Golden Age hothouse to the ground and see if you agree…Or just ask the Chief.”
Willem took a swig from his waterskin, Wyatt following in kind. A drink to drive the exhaustion away, to make the aching body work despite decay. If there was one true magic in the world, in Wyatt’s eye, it was water, either liquid or ice. There was always a need for water.
“Do you think they have flowing water in the cities?”
Wyatt blinked, deliberated, and finally said. “Maybe. I heard they have boats for sailing. Big ones. But that was only a rumor from someone in the next town over.”
“You believe ’em?” asked Willem, adjusting his gloves and mask, pulling it tighter.
“They’re the ones with the railway, the train station, and the big guild halls.” Wyatt sighed. “I’m inclined to believe them.”
“Well, how about warmth? Heating?” Willem asked again, his voice sounded distant and ever so slightly tired. His posture relaxed for a bit, slumping against the wall. “Warmer than here?”
“…I don’t know.”
“Remember when we said we’d find that out together?”
For a second, Wyatt went silent, his expression screaming: “By Sol, you remember that embarrassing, naive dream from way back?” He groaned and put his head in his hands.
“I guess I did say that.” He mumbled, looking upward for any sign of respite from the stars. “…Although you don’t believe it anymore, do you? Bringing us, your family, the entire village into the cities? You’d have better luck working in that rail town.”
Willem paused, trying to find the right words. Finally, he just shrugged. “I guess my father and mother don’t have enough energy to move so far anymore… And my sister’s too young, and there’s things to dislike about the rail town.”
Wyatt chuckles dryly. “What, that it’s warmer?”
“It’s cold over there too! It’s not a metric to determine likeness.” Willem sighed, leaning back and looking up to the ramshackle thatched roof. It was a little depressing, even just viewing it made him feel destitute. Willem spoke after a second. “…I think I’m afraid of trains.”
“Huh?” Wyatt stared back, eyes widening. An amused smile broke free under his face wrap. “Trains?”
“I- Well-”
“You’re afraid of trains?” Wyatt pressed, chuckling slightly. Of all the things he knew of Willem… “Since when?”
“I mean, ever since I’ve learned of them. You never saw one because you don’t go near the train station, but have you heard their screech when they come to a stop? It sounds like a dying boar… Or elk, trapped in a metal body. Urgh…” Willem started to shiver, grinding his teeth visibly. “Feels like I’m in the maw of a beast every time I see it.”
“Are they really that bad?”
“I- Well…It’s subjective, I guess? I don’t know. I tried to tell my father that and he, well, stared at me and told me to “grow up”. I don’t even know if it’s a valid concern or not!”
“It doesn’t sound rational, if you want my opinion on it.”
“…Really?”
Wyatt shook his head, amused. “Don’t ask me. I’m the poor boy who hasn’t even seen a train up-close. If you say they’re out to eat me, or that they’re giant metal beasts, or that the people who get on them have to pedal up for them to churn the wheels, I wouldn’t question it.”
“Don’t get coy with me…” Willem sighed.
For a moment, both of them stood there quietly, awkward silence descending as the topic died. Internally, they both groaned, knowing there was work to be done, sleighs to pull, and ice to pick. The more time they spent doing nothing, the less they had to earn a living and keep their fireplace burning for the next few days, ensure their house stay up despite the damnedest of circumstances, or to…go to the city in a decade or so, if they put their hearts into it. In short, they needed money.
“…No rest for the wicked.” Wyatt quietly muttered, eyeing Willem as he trudged through the freshly cleared path. His tone was smooth, casual, and repetitive. It was routine, same as always. “We should probably get to it.”
Willem was already right behind him, catching up to his left. Next to his friend, Willem put his hand on his shoulder as he quietly ordered: “You’re on sled duty.”
“…What? Why-”
“For my efforts.”
Without letting him say another word, Willem rushed past, running down the street to where the sleds full of cargo were. Wyatt was left there to stare, dumbfounded. He sighed and adjusted his coat, chasing down his friend.
“Who volunteered!?”
[1] The shortened form of “Ex Crepusculum“, a measure of year that has 264 days. This resets every time a Rekindling event happens
[2] A day in this world lasts 20 hours
[3] World equivalent of kilometers. Roughly equivalent to 1.5 kilometers each (more precise measurement equaling 1.4 kilometers).
[4] World equivalent of centimeters. Roughly equivalent to 2 centimeters each (more precise measurement equaling 1.7 centimeters).
