On The Edge - Chapter 3 (standard:fantasy, 1430 words) [3/3] show all parts
Author: Scott Neelan	Added: Jan 04 2003	Views/Reads: 2546/1854	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The story of the magic-using boy in the world of forbidden magic continues...

The Felligad Inn sat as it had for nearly a century, with moss-caked
walls and fading paint giving it the rustic, antique feel that made it 
the most popular inn on the Errywndle. It stood like a towering 
monument to days gone past, inviting weary traveler and jolly regular 
alike. Inside, the inn was much bigger that it showed, with nearly 20 
rooms, a large dining hall, and a bar large enough to house the entire 
King's Army and still have space. Many a person drifted into that 
lounge, some telling tales of adventures long past and of homes not 
seen in years, others coming in only for a drink or two before bed. And 
then there was the woman. She had been at the inn for a day now, and 
had not moved from here seat in the furthest corner more that twice, 
each only when it was necessary. Now, she sat, mug of ale in hand, 
staring at the table. With her radiant beauty, she had attracted many a 
patron of the bar to her, but each met with rejection or ignorance. 
They thought of her as a faerie creature, or a siren sent to capture 
one unlucky lad and be killed. In truth, she was lonely. 

Silvestri sat, blocking out the noises of the patrons around her, hiding
from herself even her mug, only thinking of one thing: her lost love. 
Just a day before, or was it two or three? She could not recall, as she 
had lost all notions of time. However, just a short while before, he 
had broken it off. "What had happened? What did I do wrong?" she began 
to weep openly, not for the first time, but the first time to be 
noticed by anyone else. The bartender, on break, had glanced at the 
reclusive woman in the corner, and noticed the tear immediately. He 
began to think, to wonder what, if anything, he should do to comfort 
her. He had been there all day, had watched the patrons, one by one, 
approach her only to be turned away, had heard their talk of her 
afterwards as if she were some evil creature. Now, he could see that 
something was wrong. Against his better judgement, he decided to try 
and console this glorious young lass, to cheer her up and move her from 
her self-imposed hermitage. He approached her, cauutiously, not knowing 
how she would react. "Ma'am, are you all right? You've been in this 
corner all day. Is something wrong?" the young man questioned, obvously 
testing the waters of conversation, 

"Leave me, young man. You do not wish to hear my tale. You seek only
companionship, that which I cannot offer. Go, before I break your 
heart," she murmured, loud enough for only the man to hear. 

"You are wrong about that, mi'lady. I am used to being only a shoulder
to cry on, but if you wish, I will walk away now. Good day," he turned 
then, and started to walk away. Her response somehow did not surprise 
him. What did, however, was the hand that gripped his shoulder. 

"Forgive me, I'm used to the many men approaching me to get me to bed
them, or to wear it like a trophy. Please, if you truly wish to hear my 
tale, sit here next to me," she glanced up at his face, and gave a weak 
smile, the first to grace her lips in a week. 

"Gladly, young lady," The bartender pulled out the chair next to hers
and sat down, facing her. "Now, before we start, pray will you tell me 
your name. I am Hern," he said with a smile, looking into her eyes. 

"I'm Silvestri," she said, almost giggling. "Why am I feeling so relaxed
around this man?" She thought, but kept to herself. 

"Now that we're introduced, tell me, what is your problem?" Hern asked,
seemingly concerned. 

"Well, it all started almost 6 years ago..." 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Errywndle Road was quiet this day, the usual hustle of travelers,
messengers, and salesmen seemingly absent. The surrounding forest was 
unusually calm, as the noise of the persons on the road seemed to 
always be upsetting them. The occasional carriage passed by with nary a 
sound or a trouble. At the eastern end of the road lay Merdwyn, a 
medium-sized village that had been a trading post for many years. On 
the western side lay the city of Viran, the capital city of Boran. 

A caravan of carriages, horses, and buggies was slowly approaching
Merdwyn, carrying a band of Gypsies. The nomads had been kicked out of 
Viran by the locals, and had decided to travel east to Merdwyn and 


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