Morning arrived with the usual bird song and sunshine of a good day, then as usual Margret Rotwall’s rooster decided to join in on the noise making and turned the good day into a normal day at best. The kind of screech a bird could produce with sheer willpower always amazed Rowan. Some mornings when the rooster was feeling horny the bird could keep at it for hours. Rowan wasn’t sure if that flirting tactic had worked for the rooster yet, or if the bird was still thinking up new, devious ways to woo the nearby hens with. A second cry confirmed that the rooster was still going with the good ol ‘scream until noticed’ tactic. In a way it was a very human way to request attention. Rowan let out a tired groan as the rooster put some back into its third cry. A less patient neighbour let their frustration be hear a few houses down in the form of a yell nearly rivaling the rooster’s.

Rowan took another moment to just savor that feeling of being newly awaken. Joints being stiff and perfectly content to stay unmoved for a few more minutes, head full of unwanted awareness, and back threatening to raise a fuss if he moved enough for it to remember that sitting wasn’t the ideal position for sleeping. Rowan let out another disgruntled sigh and put his palms to the table to push himself back up. Doing so left him face to face with his by now finished statue of Katrina. The artist froze for an entire half a second before his body jerked back and nearly tipped the chair over. The statue remained staring at him disapprovingly while he scrambled to keep the chair from falling over. Perhaps it was the chair’s fate to fall to the goddess’ might and Rowan’s increasingly bad sleeping habits. The cheap wooden chair hit the floor, back first, then brought Rowan down with it with a crash that shook the artist wide awake. There he lay for a moment, dazed, sore, and just a little bit dumbfounded. Then the rooster screamed at the sun again and Rowan decided to join it.

Half an hour later Rowan had clean(er) clothes on, the statue in a box on a small cart, and a miserable piece of stale bread in his mouth. The sun greeted him like a bucket of cold water when he opened the door and someone finally shut up the infernal rooster. A decent day. Rowan chewed his breakfast on the way out of his humble home, a cheap looking house squeezed in between two equally cheap looking houses. The street he lived on continued a fair bit in both directions, leaving his house somewhat in the middle of that section of houses. Stone, wood, and just enough clay and dirt to keep it somewhat staying together gave the houses the usual new but somehow worn down look of new settlements. In time the older houses would be replaced by better quality ones, but for now a roof and poor walls was all one could hope to call home in Harwall. Build after need, that was the priority. A artist wasn’t that high on the list of crafters, so Rowan would have to wait his turn until all the smiths, carpenters, and stone masons had gotten their houses finished enough to work from. Bakers, butchers, and tanners got dibs on the best locations, to make them easily available to the rest of the townspeople and to the gates where merchants crowded and resources were dropped off.

Rowan swallowed the rest of the bread, grabbed the handle to the cart, and started down the street towards the Maple gate down south. He would have to drop the statue off at a smith’s place to have it baked. Dried clay wouldn’t last long if it rained, or even if left alone in the sun for too many days. On his way down the street he passed a few early wakers, a pair of grumpy guards, and Margret’s house. And the rooster. It stood waiting outside her house like a feathered guard dog, all black feathers and piercing yellow eyes. As her drew near it burred up its feathers and made a low rumbling sound that made Rowan’s hair stand on end. The noisy bird kept its eyes on him the entire time it took him to jog past Margret’s house. For a few seconds he feared it would give chase, especially when it opened its beak slightly and grew perfectly still. Rowan had a fleeting thought that it was about to charge at him like a maddened bull, and quickened his pace to get away from it faster.

He all but ran around the next corner in the street and very nearly tackled the old lady walking the opposite direction. The cart hit his heels painfully as he dug his feet in to avoid collision, and the weight of the dog sized statue nearly kept the thing rolling over him. The old lady stopped in her tracks without so much as blinking, still smiling absently and staring ahead with faded grey eyes.

“Agh- sorry, excuse me miss Rotwall- let me just…”

The cart stopped with a wheeze of rusty wheels and gravel crunching beneath its weight. Rowan let out a breath of relief as he steadied himself again and took a step back from the old lady.

Margret was old, practically ancient by low born standards, but despite the wrinkles and gnarled hands she still held a sort of youth to the way she moved. She held herself with a confident poise and always had a smile on her face as if the world amused her. She had salt and pepper hair, a constant war between the white and dark grey of old age that billowed down past her shoulders to just beneath her shoulder blades. Faded grey eyes that suggested either blindness or something close to it stared past Rowan with a gentle gaze. He could never figure out if she really was blind or not. He could ask, but Margret had a habit of dancing around questions just to watch your head spin. Instead he made sure the cart couldn’t roll off on its own down the slightly tilted street.

“Don’t you worry, I heard you before you rounded the corner. Another statue for the church?” Margret had the voice of that one grandma that would secretly sneak you treats and tell you stories your parents wouldn’t want you hearing yet. Raspy, kind, and mischievous.

“Yes, Marian wanted a statue of the goddess for the main hall.”

“So small?”

“I-... I don’t have the equipment to make bigger ones… Yet.”

“You keep giving her small ones. Lady lantern doesn’t need any more ego than she has.”

“Margret.”

Rowan blinked and couldn’t help but glance around the street. Empty. He turned back to frown at Margret. She shrugged and let out a dry laugh.

“Important as she is, kind gods wouldn’t waste time on a old woman’s musings.”

“She has the church for that.”

Margret let out another raspy little snicker.

“A god arrogant enough to pick chosen only to deal with gossip and backtalk needs smaller statues. Don’t you worry, lady lantern knows I mean no harm, and the priest here knows she has better things to worry about than being called lady lantern.”

Rowan shifted uncomfortably and scratched his neck while Margret smiled up at him.

“If you say so.”

“I know so. Now go deliver that statue boy, and don’t let Herman bully you.”

Margret took a step to the side to let him past.

“Would be easier if he didn’t scream and pick fights.”

“He’s a cock, it’s what cocks do.”

Somewhere behind Rowan’s back the rooster let out another shriek. Something hit the ground with a crash. Margret’s expression remained innocent enough to feel insulting. Rowan felt like he should protest, but Margret waved him away and before he knew it he was alone on the street again as he heard the old woman coo gently at her evil bird past the corner. Maybe if he rolled the cart fast enough he could ‘accidently’ hit the rooster some day. Tempting tempting… Another shriek shut that idea down. If he opened war against the bird the bird would up its game, he was sure. Better to remain passive aggressive to maintain the peace.

The rest of the walk to the smith remained uneventful but slow. By the time Rowan had rolled his cart up to the small ramp leading into the smithy, the sun had already rosen high enough that the rest of the town had woken up and gotten to work. The small plaza framed by the Guild, a number of shops and smithies, the townhall, and homes of several important people, bustled with the early activities of the settlement. Market stalls were being set up, early risers were browsing wares, stone was being brought in from the quarry past the Lake gate to be added to the new wall. It was a nice morning, despite screaming roosters and witty old ladies borderline insulting the goddess of humanity out in the open. Rowan told himself that a nice morning would work in his favor and rapped his knuckles on the door to the smithy.

Lumbering footsteps approached the other side of the door within a minute, and as Rowan took a step back the door swung open to reveal a man just barely fitting in the entrance. Clark the smith whuffed a greeting past a fiery beard. That, or he coughed, it was hard to tell sometimes. Clark was a tall, thick man, with thick limbs, thick eyebrows, thick nose, thick- you know the deal. The man had a habit of letting others keep the conversation going on their own, or to let quiet reign while in his presence. Rowan usually went for the quiet. Clark’s impressive build, fiery red hair, and quite a few hints of orcish ancestry, left others at a fifty fifty chance of babbling their jaws off out of fear, or staying silent enough to hear his mustache bristle whenever they did something he disapproved of. Like staring at him in silence. Rowan knew not to by now, so he turned around to heave the cart up the ramp two steps, then dodged to the side as Clark reached past him to take over. The larger man pulled the cart up to the door, lifted it like a loaf of bread, and went inside with it as if a box full of dry clay didn’t weigh enough to make a lesser man sweat from the mere thought of lifting it. Clark hauled the delivery, cart and all, through another door and into his workplace, then started opening up the box without waiting for instructions. Clark was a man of habit, routines, and efficient work. Rowan just had to watch the giant smith pack up and move the statue with surprisingly delicate movements over to the kiln. Despite his looks, Clark could produce some of the most intricate designs with teeny tiny details that took steady and precise hands. He could also break a log in two with his bare hands but that was less surprising.

“20 silver?”

Grunt.

“Do you have any swords to sell me? I need a new one.”

Two grunts and a point at a stack of swords on a shelf. Rowan moved over to the swords to pick one while Clark prepared to put the statue in the kiln. The smith held up a few fingers signifying the cost of the sword Rowan held up, then gave a thumbs up as the artist left the total amount of coins on a table near the door.

“I’ll come get it tomorrow.”

Another grunt. Rowan didn’t worry about the statue cracking while cooking. So far Clark had only broken one statue and that was because Rowan had left the base of the statue too full of air bubbles. The man was a master of his profession, and Rowan had full faith that he’d have a complete statue to pick up tomorrow. He said his goodbyes, got his informative reply in the form of a grunt, and took his leave again, new sword sheathed at his hip.

Back outside the town had woken up properly. The plaza was full of busy people and less busy people watching the busy people. A tired guard stood guarding a merchant’s stall while the merchant hawked his wares. Rowan took some time to stroll through the colorful stalls to look at what was offered. He bought some new bread at a decent prize from a baker wagon. A town crier yelled news outside the Guild building. The changeling that assaulted the town a few nights ago had not been sighted since. A house near the Lake gate caught on fire yesterday. A caravan from Rider’s Rest would be arriving any day now, and with it wares from the south.

Rowan stopped listening when the crier started reciting words from the church. It was always the same old anyway, and preaching made him uneasy. Katrina had eyes for her devoted people say. Maybe one unlucky day he would draw her attention while she listened to some countryside bumpkin preaching about keeping iron above doors and to never invite a stranger into one’s home. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the heavens smited him with lightning just as the preacher was yelling about the walls and faith keeping the insides of the town free of threats? A bit. A bit of irony wasn’t worth the risk though, however small it was.

Rowan pondered if he was being a bit too paranoid while he walked back home. Someone bumped into him while he weaved his way past others on the street, nearly making him trip. A flash of red hair and a stuttered apology was all he catched before a scent hit his face like a physical hit. A sweet herbal scent that made his head spin and sent his blood running at a startled and excited pace. He had to blink hard to clear his head, but the scent lingered too thick to let him escape its effect. He saw the cloaked stranger give him a confused look, then a brilliant smile that somehow made the dizziness double. Pure and unfiltered need filled him, what for he couldn’t tell, but something was calling to him with such intensity that he could feel his bones begin to shift under his skin as the change tried to take hold of him, a reflex of fear and raw emotion urging his curse to react. A smooth hand made itself visible as it reached for his face past the haze. Long fingers almost brushed against his cheek, then suddenly jerked back and drew back.

Feet against gravel was all he heard as the person hurried away from him. A familiar voice called out as the scent faded away with the fleeing person.

“Rowan? Are you okay?”

The world stopped spinning as the scent disappeared, and Rowan found himself hunched over and leaning against a wall. His heartbeat thundered in his ears and he was panting heavily as if he’d run a mile.

“Rowan?”

Rowan forced the ache in his teeth back before he looked up. Marian, the priest of Harwall stood before him, soft face frowning in concern.

“I uh-... hah… I’m fine.. Dizzy.. Ate something bad. Bread too old.”

He managed a half hearted gesture at the bag of fresh bread he’d dropped on the ground. Marian looked at him, then the bread, then back at him and sighed.

“Not that bread I hope, or I’ll have to go talk to that baker.”

“No no, old bread. Bought new because of it.”

Marian kept his face stern and lecturing for a moment more, then softened and offered Rowan a hand.

“You shouldn’t eat food that’s gone bad.”

Rowan took the offered hand and lurched back up, painfully aware of how cold the morning air was. Or was it him that was warm? Marian’s hand felt cold, soothing, touchable- Marian gave him another concerned look as Rowan shook his head. Something was definitely up. Why was he feeling all worked up? Focus.

“Rowan? You sure you’re fine?”

“Very” he croaked. Marian looked at him in confusion as he cleared his throat.

The priest was a man of dark skin, white shoulder length hair, and golden eyes. His features were soft and delicate, almost feminine, and only the faint traces of the beard he was working on set him apart as clearly male. The silky robes he wore as a priest didn’t help much in establishing his masculinity. Rowan found his hazy mind drifting to thoughts of torn silk and fearful almond eyes.

“Rowan?”

Rowan blinked again. Was he getting distracted again? Wait did he ask something? Focus.

“...Bread” he managed to reply. Master of conversation. Marian blinked, then straightened his mouth into a thin line threatening to let out a laugh. Rowan felt his face heat up, along with other parts- wait a second what’s going on here?!

“You look like that woman we treated last week.”

“Who?” A distraction, thank the gods.

“We had a woman come to the church babbling about colors. Turns out she ate a bunch of mushrooms while picking herbs with her friends. They said she suddenly stood up and ran faster than a deer when they noticed her. Katrina knows what people get up to sometimes, and why Igor makes mushrooms like that.”

“A-ha…” Not a good distraction. He was just compared to a mushroom lady. Did he eat mushrooms?

“I didn’t eat mushrooms.”

The edges of Marian’s mouth twitched. Rowan had to try very hard not to stare.

“Only bread” he offered.

“Only bread” Rowan confirmed.

“That’s not healthy. You need to eat some meat and greens too.”

“I have bear.” The words left his mouth before he could think it through properly. Marian’s dark eyebrows shot up.

“Bear?” Shit.

“I meat a very nice hunter that gave me some meat.”

“A-ha…” Marian frowned. Double shit.

“So uh, I think you might need to go home and sleep off that…” Marian trailed off.

“Bread.”

“Bread” he snickered. “Yes, go home and rest off that, whatever you got from the bread. Was it moldy? Actually don’t tell me. Just don’t eat bad bread again.”

Rowan nodded numbly and gave a sloppy salute. “Roger that captain.”

Marian snickered again and turned to go. Rowan did the same, then spun around and quickly shouted down the street “The statue will be done tomorrow!”

“Great! I’ll be at the church!” Marian responded from down the street while waving.

Rowan waved back with a smile a tad too goofy, then turned and walked back home with the speed of a embarrassed man thinking about mushrooms and bread. Maybe his feral side ate something a few nights ago and it just didn’t kick in until now. Possible, not very likely, but he couldn’t think of what else would have caused it.

“...”

Rowan paused. Caused what? He’d just made a fool of himself in front of Marian hadn’t he? Why was he thinking about mushrooms? His head hurt. He started back down the street again while scratching his head. He had the feeling he was forgetting something important.