Evanescent Genesis (Chapter One)

[Garron]

(Closed storyline)



Garron slowly strode along, pondering the abrupt and deceitful changes that suddenly erupted in their lives. He was trying relentlessly to tackle these chaotic thoughts and come to some sort of logical terms of how people could be so dishonorable. No conclusions were being reached. It was something the personal code he had chosen to base his life on would never allow him to completely understand. Garron wanted to stay behind and face the preposterous charges blossomed against him and his lovely Medeia, brought on by her malicious and motivated siblings to rid themselves of their sister. It did indeed work--for now.

It always amazed him just how much strength she held within such a dainty body, and how it was that she was able to pull him so easily out and away from her siblings malevolent crosshairs. Medeia accomplished it with a fluid grace, though. She simply amazed Garron; she always had since they were children. Always close best friends, it wasn't until before his confession to her that day that he felt such depths of fear; a fear that bore through his bones viciously enough to bring the alpine man to his knees; much like the wicked omnipotent lightning that greedily tears through the heavens to claim some wandering soul, and this with Garron spending most of his childhood life trying to survive within the dense and dangerous forest of Concordia to please his mother's hope for his future. Medeia somehow understood his heartfelt words through his fearfully shy mumbling, when even he himself couldn't. There was nothing those that shared Medeia's bloodline could ever do to him that would place him in a state of fear that Garron knew well, though he did worry about the woman he loved more than life and he'd give his own up if it would protect her from her foes; be they physical or of mental state.

With such little time, all Garron managed to flee with successfully were the clothes on his back and choice weapons he favored for the dawning adventure before him. A dark boiled leather tunic formed the rugged contours of his upper body much like a second skin. Black breeches the hue of midnight, tailored to compensate his long stride, intricate and loose, covered his lower half. A tanned leather double strap belt wrapped the waist, top band molded giving way to a thick shoulder strap hoisted over right shoulder, and a pair of worn out black field boots to protect his feet from unforgiving terrain. Hoisted over his right shoulder kept a simple warhammer of complete iron forging for both head and haft, offering a massive punch to anything standing against a full, heavy leather gripped swing. Two double-bit iron throwing axes were shoved with wooden hafts down into his belt at either hip.

Decrulitlul had been the name passing whispers wafted within the sharp and fragrant gusts careening in over the coast. There was something oddly familiar dancing in the breeze, and it wasn't the mouth-watering roasting meat or the defined smells of the ocean; it was something that bore deeply into Garron's subconscious. He was helplessly lost in the vast array of his mind when a sharp stabbing numbness spread hot tendrils throughout his midsection, dulled naught behind formed boiled leather. A small heel jarring into his sinewy chest was enough to snap him out of the condemnation of secrets taunting him, boiling within blood that Garron has yet to uncover. He found himself rubbing the rhomboid birthmark claiming his inner right wrist; much like he always seemed to do during the expeditions of mind. Sun-bleached and salt-pitted oak planks screeched out their protests underfoot with each step along their elevated wooden path, and Garron couldn't help himself but to mockingly look up over his shoulder, verbally teasing Medeia that she needed to lose some weight before she caused them both to sink through the planet and throw off its rotation. It earned him a meaty slap, swift and precise, to the side of the head from her towered perch upon his shoulders. Garron chuckled, returning viridian eyes back out over the pitifully tattered village.

They entered from the south after a trying fortnight of would-be assassins and sellswords seeking to make quick coin, cautiously treading along the low rocky crag overlooking the coast. One taut trail hardly wide enough to support two men abreast guided them twisting down to the mouth of the docks, greeting travelers meekly into the ragged Decrulitlul. A small diving village nearly hidden along the coast of Tylmerande. Poorly constructed wooden framed thatched hovels stood regally in their own prideful way against the low cradle of the crag, dotting the rocky shoreline to the left, hosting several smokey tendrils billowing like grey banners mystically claiming their birthrights proudly over lordly cook fires. Lapping heavy against dark rotting barnacle laden support logs of the slightly uneven dock-line bathed in lichen, the majestic great ocean sent in her white-capped sentinels in waves of battle-lines, forever battering into the shields of her eternal landmass enemy under late morning, vastly clouded azure skies. Hunched sun riddled bare-backs skimmed the blue waters, belonging to divers of all shapes and sizes spread out wide, fighting with all their might against the churning surf for some sort of payday to bring home to their families. Straight ahead of the couple set another set of open-faced hovels hugging the inner residential shoulder of the dock, housing the quick witted traders and boasting vendors tainting the air with their haughty screams of purchase over the sparse population. Garron strode on, his energetic Medeia perched upon his shoulders worrying his shoulder-length hair, the toasted color of chestnut, between lithe and nimble fingers, thrumming her light heels against his chest rhythmically in her anxiety. They pressed on over the docks toward the beckoning sellers. Garron hardly felt Medeia's jerking movement bearing down over his left flank…