Mythic: [Everlight Part 1]

A disruption at a festival provokes our unlikely heroes into action!

The myth of Everlight was a classic amongst the wanderfolk — a story as well-trodden as and far-traveled as they themselves.

They brought it with them wherever they went in the Known World, and the shores of So’litore were no different. They had traveled down this way through Duurmanshor in a well-lit caravan, filtering into the barren grassland in a lengthy line that eventually circled and stopped far too close to the Southern Bridge to Bandoska for the Bandalari’s comfort.

They immediately began to set up various lights and tents, pouring music and laughter wherever the wind would take it. The smell of pitchmud mixed with various herbs tainted the air in equal measure.

The Bandalari — the moth-winged satyrfolk of the Bandoska islands — were, and always had been, a closed-off people. Their current territory was only accessible via two highly guarded bridges, one in the far north and the other in the south, and that was exactly how they liked it. Most humans knew better than to settle or take their business anywhere near either of the bridges. Not the wanderfolk.

Despite obvious tensions, they had remained friendly and open to all visitors, welcoming Bandalari guards to patrol the camp and join in the festivities if it would make their leaders feel better about the humans being there.

This invitation did very little to assuage the Bandalari’s suspicions, but they accepted it all the same. So too had some Solitoreans — Godborn humans, all of them — both guards and commoners alike from the nearby fishing town. They were easily identifiable by their various necklaces, bands, bracers, and so on gleaming with imagery of the sun — the iconography of their Lady of the Light from which they were supposedly descended.

The Godborn and wanderfolk generally had little love for each other, and the Bandalari held even less love for either of them. With spirits as high as the tensions, patrolling the festival had been an… interesting time, to say the least.

At some point, two Bandalari guards had been drawn into one of the tents by the weaving words of a wanderfolk bard — a young human woman sitting cross-legged atop a wooden box to let the small crowd see her equally. An older woman — clearly a relative — had settled not too far behind her, watching her performance with swelling pride.

The bard had long black hair that fell in a mess of thick waves and curls over her shoulders, but the rest of her face was partially obscured behind a thin veil of sheer pink fabric. Her wrists were decorated in beads, charms, and tassels that clinked and clattered against one another as she told the story, her hands dancing across the air.

As the story ended, many of the children in the audience leapt to their feet to ask questions, or else rush to play, imagining themselves to be dragons or to have stolen the Everlight themselves. Only a few of the children were Bandalari, chasing after the human kids and trying to keep their wings from getting accidentally stepped on while their parents watched them closely nearby.

“Strange, if you think about it,” Mazzurak commented idly, adjusting her leather bracers, “that the wanderfolk tell that tale so widely.”

Mazzurak was small for a Bandalari, not much taller than most of the humans. Her features were dark — black hair and beige skin with brown fur on her lower half, like many Bandalari that could trace their lineage to So’litore before the war took it from them. Her wings were a muted assortment of blues, purples, and grays, and currently idle at her back. Her gray-black horns curled like a ram’s, with intricate inscriptions all along the sides that spiraled until they were illegible.

“Fewer possessions leave the mind open to carrying stories instead. I don’t see any problem with that.” Dagran answered, sweeping his arm back and opening the tent for them to exit once more.

They stepped back into the open air, back into the long channel of tents and carts. This stretch of So’litore, usually left dark in these long Nights, was strewn in firelight from every corner of the camp.

“Well, no. But didn’t she say it was a wanderfolk who stole the Everlight? I can’t imagine either of us telling the story with such vigor had it been a Bandalari that had stolen it.”

“Moot point.” Dagran chuckled, elbowing her arm. “Neither of us can tell a good story anyway.”

“…Not wrong… but what kind of pride does a human take knowing their ancestors cursed Everlight? Why are they even having a festival today? There aren’t any holidays this time of year. And why here? Right outside our border?”

“Tell me, Zura. Are you trying to understand humans, or trying to find more reasons to dislike them? Either way. There’s no telling why they do what they do. You’ll end up as gray as me if you try.” He gestured to himself and his appearance. He was an aging Bandalari, still in fighting form but had been looking forward to retirement for a while now. White hairs had crept into his black fur and light hair, and his bright orange and yellow wings had begun to grow thin and brittle. His white horns alone were still regal, going out to either side before facing forward, like a cow’s might. Like hers, Dagran’s horns were inscribed with magical runes.

“Actually, we tell it as a cautionary tale.” A voice from behind surprised them both, the human bard standing in front of her tent. She had removed her ceremonial garb, doffing the trinkets and veil in exchange for common clothes. She cracked a sheepish smile. “Sorry uh — hi! My name is Avanessa — the Storyteller! …in training. Pretty nice setup we have here, right? It’ll only get bigger too, though, not by much. The last five wagons were moving a bit slower than everyone else, but they should be here soon.”

“A pleasure, miss storyteller. My name is Dagran.” He swept low in a bow that Zura beside him did not mimic.

She instead nudged his arm, already attempting to make an exit. “If you’ve forgotten, Dagran, we are supposed to be on patrol.”

Avanessa jumped in quickly. “I don’t mean to be a bother — I just noticed you two joined in for the myth of Everlight, and heard you talking about it after! The story serves several functions actually, like most oral histories do. It’s quite fascinating.”

Mazzurak stood tall, staring this human down. “If you have something important to say, you’d best spit it out. We’re very busy.”

“We’re not that busy.”

“Maybe you aren’t,” she snapped at Dagran. “But someone has to make sure there’s no Godborn here plotting to cross into Bandoska.”

Avanessa glanced between them and cleared her throat. “Well, I was hoping, if you have the time — and since you both seemed to have taken an interest in my stories — if you had any of your own to share! I’ve met so few Bandalari, you must have interesting tales that everyone else is missing out on. I’m especially interested in anything you might know about the Ashborne Mountains.”

She gestured north, to the nearby mountains that made up the border between So’litore and Duurmanshor. They were nearly impossible to make out right now, surrounded by firelight as they were, but they were the same mountains the caravan had descended through. There was a pass there for ease of access, though Zura had never seen it herself.

Dagran’s eyebrows rose. “Have a special interest in them, do you?”

“Oh, naturally!”

Zura’s patience for this interaction was fading fast. She picked a direction and began walking in the hopes that Dagran would break off his conversation to continue their patrol, but instead when he followed her, so did Avanessa. She trotted along beside them with great zeal.

“You see,” she explained, “I pick up bits of history from all around the world. That’s part of my job! Everywhere we go has its stories. I’ve heard that one of the Ashborne peaks is rumored to have housed a dragon forge — I imagine many people must have traveled there to look for it over the years, but, well. You know how it is with the forges.”

“Yeah. They don’t exist,” Zura responded matter-of-factly. “Wiped from existence by the dragons. We would have found them by now if any piece of them survived.”

“…well that’s one way to think about it. So… I take it none of you have ever looked there?”

“Many people have,” Dagran corrected. “My grandparents were myth hunters in their day. They and their group scoured each peak for months and turned up nothing. Much the same as all the other myth hunters, or so I hear.”

“It’s a running theme, yeah,” Avanessa frowned, but quickly picked up her spirits. “Dragonforge or no, I did also hear about an old Bandalari holy site up near the tallest peak of the Ashborne Mountains. Rumor has it you can still find the old road that led up to it. Do you know—”

“We are well aware of it,” Zura snapped. “It was there for a long time before you humans destroyed it.”

The bard blinked, rubbing the back of her neck. “Well, that… that’s accurate, I suppose.”

“But,” Dagran reminded them both, though specifically eying Zura. “That was the Godborn, not the wanderfolk.”

Zura rolled her eyes, her tail twitching with annoyance. “Godborn, wanderfolk. Humans are humans.”

Dagran sighed. “Don’t mind her, Avanessa. The University seems to have a vested interest in teaching hatred as well as magic. She’ll grow out of it when she meets more humans.”

Zura snorted, but didn’t dignify this with a response, crossing her arms as they walked. They passed more tents, each filled with more people and oddities than the last. Though the scent of pitchmud stung her nose, it was dulled by several herbs that had been mixed in, as well as various foodsmells that had begun permeating the air. For as much as she disliked the humans, their food did smell wonderful.

There was a bright flash of blue light as a group of kids ran past, tossing a handful of gemsalts onto one of the fires.

“So — So it’s true, then? That Bandalari can learn magic?” Avanessa’s eyes lit up, rushing forward to block their way. “You went to school for it?”

Zura was beginning to wonder if they had the authority to detain this bard for pestering them, but Dagran was ever happy for the company. She had to wonder if she’d been boring him up until now with all her insistence upon keeping vigilant at the festival.

That wasn’t her fault really, though. Being a guard seemed to mostly be boring work. Patrolling, counting heads, memorizing faces of anyone that looked like trouble. The boring work was the good work that kept Bandoska safe most of the time.

Active threats were much less common, especially in comparison to what the university had prepared her for.

“Many Bandalari do, especially guards,” he answered her, patting the spellbook at his side. It was a heavy, but simple tome, bound in black leather and bearing no sigil or marks on the cover. Even Zura could mistake it for a regular book had she not known better. “Swords and shields are reliable, but magic can also be incredibly useful in its own way.”

“Bandalari war-mages are legendary across the known world,” Avanessa nodded quickly, clearly elated to be in their presence.

Dagran just laughed. “I’m hardly a "war-mage", but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Oh. What are you two, then?” She asked, looking between them.

He was more than happy to elaborate. “Myself, I found an affinity for healing magic. I’m what they call a “bastion”, actually. Zura meanwhile — would you like to explain what your specialty is?”

Avanessa turned to her with a strained smile, clearly aware of Zura’s disposition towards her but still trying to keep her best foot forward.

Mazzurak had no interest in explaining to her what or how she did what she did. It wasn’t exactly sharing state secrets to speak on the matter, but there was a reason the Bandalari kept their capabilities close at heart, especially when it came to humans.

Even if she wanted to answer, there wouldn’t have been time.

In that moment, the ground began to shake beneath them.

Zura and Dagran spread their arms and wings out to either side to help them keep their balance while Avanessa grabbed onto a nearby wagon. For several seconds the ground continued to shake and roil like water in a pot set to boil, surprised screams breaking out as tent stakes collapsed and spilled dry fabric onto the various fires around.

Just as the shaking stopped and people began to orient themselves once more, a loud CRACK tore across the air, and, for the briefest of moments, the entire sky was lit with blinding light. Mazzurak blinked for several seconds, the image of the Ashborne mountains cut out against the sky imprinted onto her eyes. She grabbed her sword reflexively, though there was no danger immediately present.

“…what was that?!”

No one had any answers — most of the wanderfolk were too busy stamping out the blazes to even start thinking about it. Some called out for water, causing a swarm of people with buckets and others with torches to rush down to the beach.

No one appeared hurt, and the fires were mostly under control within a minute or two. “Everyone alright?” Dagran asked, getting a murmur of agreement in response.

Avanessa was an exception though. She’d suddenly gasped, holding her hands in front of her mouth. “Oh… oh no…”

“What?” Zura snarled, accusatory, more than ready to believe the humans had somehow caused this freak of light.

“We… we have a big problem. I don’t know what caused that quake and the light, but there were a lot of loose boulders throughout the pass. The rest of the caravan wasn’t that far behind us — they would have been in the pass by now — right in the way of any falling rocks that quake caused!” She turned quickly to face Dagran. “You said you’re a healer, right? My family —”

Zura stepped forward, imposing herself between them. “The mountain is Solitorean territory. In other words, not our jurisdiction.”

Dagran put a hand on her shoulder. “People might be injured. It’s worth checking out, just in case.”

Zura scoffed. “The Solitoreans are Godborn, aren’t they? Surely they have some sorcerers amongst them. She can go get them to handle this.”

“If something’s happened up there, it’ll be time-sensitive. Looking for a sorcerer that happens to have healing powers will take far longer than just going ourselves. Come on.”

“By ourselves? Without backup!?” Zura still wasn’t convinced, but Dagran was a stubborn old Bandalari and wouldn’t be dissuaded either. He waved them both to follow him without responding, scooping up a stomped-out torch from the ground and heading out along the dirt path that led into the mountains.

Her fists clenched, stomping one hoof in frustration but unwilling to let her mentor leave by himself. With a huff, Mazzurak rushed after them, grabbing an unlit torch of her own and catching up to Dagran and Avanessa just as they left the firelight and entered into the darkness of Night. Dagran flipped through his spellbook, drawing a sigil in the air and speaking firelight into existence at the end of their torches.

With only this bit of light, they went rushing into the mountains to look for any stranded members of the caravan.

None of them knew it then, but this decision would come to change their lives forever.