《The Blindfold & The Quiver (W.I.P.)》


 Prologue: A Grim Foreshadowing

    Fire. It was all she could see. Climbing the wooden walls, covering the floors, and turning the thatch roof of her family home into ash, raining down onto her. The occasional heavy rafter croaked against the howling of flames.


    She was trapped on the upper floor of her family home. The snapping above her grew from faint to noticeable. The rafter, creaking in the balance, rocking, suddenly toppled towards her. She leapt out of the way barely moments before it crunched against the floor, falling through, leaving behind a gash, a wound in the building. She stumbled, crawled to the fissure in the wood. Through it, she saw Hell itself. The wooden furnishing of the otherwise stone-and-brick-built had created an inferno, with the enclosed, stony space serving as the kiln. Flames licked against the hard clay walls, turning the previously white walls into a puss-gray color.


    A similar snapping to before was heard. This time, below her. the floorboards had been weakened by the high flames, and also by the crushing blow of the fallen rafter.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Crackling. The wood gave out, and she fell into what was, for all intents and purposes, a furnace. Her last sight, as she was falling, were piles of scalding embers and ash, laying on the floor.


    It felt as if it would be better if she were born without her eyes. Because they¡¯d reminded him of her mother, her father always said he liked their deep blue color. But she¡¯d far prefer sparing herself the burning agony of her pupils being touched by embers and ash. And as her eyes were sizzling, she realized that her crying made it no better. It was as if her tears were fizzling out before they could attempt to cleanse the burning out of her eyes.


    And the smoke. The smoke made her light-headed. She was about to pass out. She needed to get out, she knew that. Blinded, feeling around, she lost strength in her knees and fell to the floor.


    As her consciousness was taking to the backstage, Edith began remembering some of her past experiences. Was it her life flashing before her eyes? Was this really the end of her tale?


    Her mind flipped through all the memories of living with her father in that home, which is now soon to be charred ruins. In her last moment before blacking out, she heard a muffled shout:


    ¡°There¡¯s one more in here!¡±

 A New Face

    ¡°Edith?¡±


    ¡°Hmm...?¡± Edith turned her head away from the house, as crickets buzzed away at the rising sun, as the apple tree she was sitting under bloomed with petals, in her home¡¯s backyard. She lazily blinked away at the haze of the shuteye she had been enjoying.


    It was her father. A stronger fellow. Built wide, with legs like trunks, and muscles like stones. A beard of stubble growing around his mouth and chops. With him, a boy. No. A younger man, with short brown hair. She noted that he wasn¡¯t much older than herself. An implement in his hand took her notice.


    A short bow. Judging from the color, it seemed like hickory. On his back was something that wasn¡¯t his. A quiver, far too big for him. Feathered fletching of slick design poked from behind his shoulder.


    She scrutinized him. The boy was exuding a scent of ash. His skin was smudged, seeming like he had just dug himself out of a coal mine. His dark hair was all disheveled, with his cheeks bearing the marks of ash and grime. The color of his face was a damp red. Tears were pouring from him not minutes ago, it seemed.


    And his eyes. Bearing a shade of brown, they looked dead, and even with the blossoming morning shining bright, there was no reflection of light in them. They were pointed in her direction, however she felt as though his gaze was piercing her, as if he were focused on something behind her.


    ¡°Who is this?¡± She turned to her father.


    ¡°Edith, meet Elliot.¡±


    They both silently looked at each other.


    ¡°He¡¯ll be staying with us for now,¡± he explained. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to fuss about it.¡±


    Edith wasn¡¯t sure what was going on, and she was surprised that her father had brought someone home so abruptly.


    ¡°You know I won¡¯t. For how long?¡± She wasn¡¯t bothered by him, merely by the presence of his bow.


    ¡°For now. I¡¯m going to get him inside. He desperately needs a refresh. I¡¯ll ask Martha to fetch him a new set of clothes, draw him a bath.¡±


    Now that the stout man mentioned it, she saw that Elliot desperately needed new garments. One of his shirt sleeves were torn off, with the other one most likely following suit after a mild tug. His brown pants were also tattered, full of holes, as were his modest boots. There was dried crimson on his knees.


    She only now noticed that the craftsmanship of the quiver completely juxtaposed his other attire. She was still dreamy from dozing off against the tree trunk.


    As her father ushered the boy to the house, Edith retreated into her head. That bow got her thinking. Its sleek design along with its steel ornaments along the handle were imprinted into her mind. She wasn¡¯t thinking of Elliot¡¯s bow though. She was thinking of her mother¡¯s.


    She never met her, not that she remembered, at least. But she did remember her bow. She supposed that the eyes she had as a child were more drawn to a shiny item sitting in the corner of the room rather than her mother¡¯s face.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Her father, Ronald, never spoke of her. He didn¡¯t say what happened to her, or where she could have gone. He had a certain aversion to speaking about it.


    All Edith knew of her mother was her title. Bea of Skopvale. She was an archer, and along with Edith¡¯s father who was more proficient in swordsmanship, her mother and him were mercenaries for hire during turbulent, bloodshed-ridden times, and in turn, had amassed enough coin to last their lifetimes and had retired to a modest house in a smaller, remote village, and had Edith. When her mother turned desolate, Ronald hired a maid, Merida, a kind older lady who took Bea¡¯s place in raising Edith, and so she was quickly accepted into the family.


    Despite her mother being desolate, Edith didn¡¯t have a bad childhood. She was seventeen and she had her father and Martha, and if that was not yet enough, the entire village of Leofdale knew of her parents and their deeds while they worked for the lord. Not only because they were well known, but also because word travels fast, whether it is through the gossiping housewives, the children¡¯s chatter, or the talks between the tavernkeepers and patrons over bitter ale deep into the night. As such, Edith was quickly accepted into the social circles as the daughter of the two heroes that had done their part for the benevolent lord.


    Although Edith¡¯s family did not do a lot of work, that was an obvious sign of good luck for the villagers. If Edith¡¯s parents would be needed, the roads that led to the village would be soaked in innocent blood, and wherever her parents would be working, it would mix with the blood of criminals and outlaws, as they made a vow with the local garrison to protect the Leofdale¡¯s population from outside invasions, should any such dire situation result in the need arising.


    The village of Leofdale was situated on a crossroads that also functioned as the main and only village square. Said square could be walked across in about sixty steps. Near it stood the garrison, a fort-like structure, that was the heart blood of Leofdale¡¯s protection.


    Across from there, on the other side of the circular square was the tavern, which was the social hub for all walks of life. Human men were the most numerous of the barkeep¡¯s patrons, however an occasional dwarf or gnome was not as unusual as one might think. The only people that would stare when one of the two would walk in the tavern would be children, due to their inexperience, and maybe lack of manners. Children much preferred the thick forest that opened into a broad grassland with the sight of an occasional tree standing alone amidst the sea of green. Past that were smaller hills with an occasional unlit pyre beside a watchtower, because, although the era was considered a time of serenity, a population of peace-loving folk could never be too careful.


    In the case of an attack, the opposing enemy forces would hopefully be spotted by the guardsmen up in the towers, and they would light the pyres to alert the townsfolk to either prepare to defend their home or flee, but these people rarely fled. Most of the capable, able-bodied men and a considerable sum of women as well would be prepared to fight, to hold out. They loved the land with great pride, and if they could not live there anymore, they would make sure to live on in either spiteful victory, or their blood that they would have left soaking the soil and in the deep gashes and scars that they would have left on their would-be murderers.


    Thankfully, relations with neighboring nations seemed peaceful and none of the lords, neither Lord Percival, who was the reigning lord of Mithalond, the land in which Leofdale stood, nor Liege Harold, who was lord of the neighboring nation of Rysholm, shared any yearnings for land conquest, as they both seemed to care for their subjects, and neither appeared to want to trade riches for the act of putting the populus in harm¡¯s way or into a state of unnecessary bloodshed.


    Outside of regarding the rapport between these two lands, there was little news or no news at all in Leofdale, as they were almost lodged in between both the nations, and outside relations did not concern the simple village folk. Peace was plentiful, and that was all they needed to know.