The Ride, The Roc, The Remedy (Closed)

[Oliver]

The Ride, The Roc, The Remedy (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=89zzHCfZ_zs)

1961


Locked away under the hazy dome of his Brother Juno’s force field for all of his life, Oliver was not accustomed to the many sights, sounds and smells of Althanas proper. He stumbled almost blindly through the port of Jadet, scrambling eagerly through the ephemeral fantasy that was reality. He had so much to learn, and so little time and freedom to do it in.

Radasanth was his destination, and whilst he knew it was to the north, and it was a great distance from the heart of Concordia, he had no idea how to get there beyond following the open road and dusty trail with wanton abandon. He moved with quick steps through the busy streets, making his way to the small feeding station on the eastern quarter, through the sluice gates and over the moat that separated the monsters of the wilds from the bustling merchant town and its people.

The journey from Scara Brae had been a hectic, eye opening ordeal, riddled with vomit and the staining of one’s shoes with last night’s dinner. He had hastened to amend his sea sick status with lashings of rum and singing shanties with the crew that he somehow knew by heart, despite never having set foot on a ship before. Apparently, it was ‘one of those things’ landlubbers tended to know. His head throbbed beneath the hazy morning sun that beat down across the town, casting steam and mist from rain barrels and mud puddles. A hangover he was accustomed to, dealing with it without the comfort of his bed and his siblings was a new stark coldness in his heart he was not fond of.

He splashed through the mud and out onto the plains with his cloak huddled around his neck tightly, and his mousey brown hair bobbing and flowing in the delicate breeze as if the fae spirits of beauty followed him. His innocent eyes caught the thatched roof and open innards of the stables he sought and his nerves lessened, he had made it without incident, with the full contents of his purse, and most importantly of all – his life.

He pulled back his scarf to reveal his facial features fully, as was polite to do when talking to strangers, and approached a stern looking man wearing a leather apron. He was clearly a farrier, for he carried a hammer and shoes and was bent over an anvil beating a plate of steel eagerly. He looked very much like Albion’s smith McGregor, a man twice anyone else’s size with a moustache and beard you could hide coins in.

“Excuse me!” Oliver shouted, to no avail.

“Excuse me!” He tried again, wedging in his words between the rackets the hammer rang out over the steady stream of customers, who took horse and reign and paid without word. They were locals, living in the area all their life or travelling the long road so often they knew the cost off by heart.

The smith looked over his shoulder and sternly pointed to the tray on the table next to him. “Four silver, leave the horse holted in Underwood.” He gave no further instruction, and went back to his tempering and gruff, heavy labour.

Oliver sighed, unbuttoned his purse, and left the money with the other coin. It clamoured onto the plate with four death knells to one leg of his adventure. He dreaded to think how quickly the hammer would strike him squarely on the back of the head if he or anyone tried to swipe it and run, as tempting a prospect as it was.

He appreciated the feel of straw beneath his aching feet as he entered the stable, and instantly drew close to a brown and white stallion, covered in blotches of grey; a tri-colour work-horse more suited to a plough than to the carrying of men. It was saddled and trapped already, and continued to chew its straw without paying its new rider any attention.

“There there,” Oliver patted him as he approached his left side and stroked the manure stained and scented mane with animal loving fingers. “I won’t be any ‘arm,” he turned to his right to pick up the polish, and nearly crashed head long into a woman of equal height in an equal hurry north. Birds fluttered about in the rafters at the commotion, and suspicious eyes darted through the stocks to discern if they were in danger.

“Oh, gosh!” He stepped back, clumsy and aloof and uncertain of social airs and graces. He held up his hands apologetically, gunning and grinning at the same time. He instantly felt a spirit in her that spoke leaps and bounds of her character.

“I didn’t see you there, forgive me!”

[Sweet Polly Oliver]

“Underwood, huh?” Polly said, her voice filled with apprehension. “Where’s that?”

“It’s in the center of the great forest of Concordia,” her companion said. “It’s not a bad place for new adventurers, or so I’ve heard. Pretty safe and quiet, but an up and coming place.”

Polly’s companion was a sparrow, and he was perched on her shoulder. His name was Passer. Passer was, however, no ordinary sparrow. He was the god of sparrows, ancient and (once upon a time) quite powerful. Nowadays, however, Polly was his only follower, and his power was quite a bit less than it used to be. So went the life of a god.

The two trudged through the muddy streets of the town in silence. Polly was lost deep in thought. “Hmmmm,” she said.

“What’re you thinking about?” Passer asked. He sounded a little apprehensive, as if he was afraid to ask.

“I was just wondering,” Polly said. “Under what wood?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, if it’s called Underwood, don’t that mean it’s underneath some sort of wood. Ain’t that right? Why else would it be called that?”

There was a very long pause in the conversation. They took a right turn, approaching the farrier’s stables. Here they could borrow a horse and set out from this little place to the road leading through Concordia to Underwood. Polly wondered if they would have any adventures or meet any exciting people on the way there, but she supposed that was probably unlikely. Still, it was the first long trip she’d ever taken! She’d only left her home in the farmlands of southern Corone about a week or two ago, and since then Passer had directed her about the countryside.

The farrier turned out to be an enormous, tough-looking man with a beard like lichen and moss dropping off the side of a cliff. Polly gulped, slightly intimidated. For a moment she had a terrifying fear that the man was going to turn the huge hammer in his hand around and smack her in the head with it, but instead he set the hammer down on the anvil and squinted at her.

Polly made more of an unusual sight than she perhaps realized. She was armored and armed with a deadly looking spear, which was quite odd for a small and young looking teenage girl. On top of that, a bird followed he around everywhere—and not a pet bird, but a wild looking sparrow, which were notoriously impossible to tame. She drew looks wherever she wet.

“Can I help you?” the farrier asked in a deep, gruff voice.

“Um,” Polly said, feeling awkward. “I’d like to rent one of the horsies…you know. I want to go to Underwood!”

The farrier examined her critically, his expression unreadable. “Put two silver in the bowl over there,” he said. “Leave the horse with my brother, the farrier in Underwood.”

“Funny, that’s cheaper than I expected,” Passer muttered. Polly shrugged. She tossed the coins in the bowl and went to pick out a horse. That, as it turned out, was a difficult thing to do. There were brown horses and black horses, grey horses and everything-in-between-horses. The stable was quite large for a town this size, probably thanks to the well-worn trade route between here and Underwood. The whole place smelled like dung and wet hay, but having grown up on a farm it didn’t bother Polly much. In the end, she settled on a trusty looking brown mare, small but stocky enough to bear the weight of Polly and her equipment. Mares were generally more reliable mounts, she knew, more even in temper than stallions and less prone to outbreaks of aggression. The mare was unimpressive but would do just fine.

Just as she was about to saddle up, a boy nearly her height crashed into her at full force and they both nearly went tumbling into the smelly hay. Passer gave a squawk of alarm and flitted up above her head. The boy mumbled and apology, and Polly smiled at him. He looked to be about her age, with fascinating blue eyes and an awkward way of carrying himself that was at the same time disarming and oddly charming.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it!” she said cheerily. She finished saddling up her horse (who she’d already decided to call Sally) and mounted the steed. Then she turned to the boy once more, who had chosen the stallion in the stall next to Sally’s. “Are you headed to Underwood too?”