Chapter 24

Ethernon Peninsula

“Once upon a time there lived a Fairy of Light… embraced in the shadows cast by the high-hanging sun…”

Fairy of Light, Folktales

A small, sparsely decorated carriage made its way along the slightly hilly road by the side of the River Sumnner. To the carriage's left, a wedged line of tall trees extended in a full band, blocking the distant horizon, while to its right, beyond the river, a stretch of tall mountains blanketed the sky. The carriage's insides were as peaceful as the outside, with Myrell silently reading, Sash gazing out the small opening in-between the curtains, and Noah leaning back in a half-asleep state.

They've been on a road three days now and should reach the Brightfloods, and their end-destination in two-weeks’ time at their current pace.

“Excuse me, Lord,” a timid voice from the coachman called out from the outside, waking Noah up. “The horses are getting tired. Do I have your permission to stop?”

“Sure,” Noah replied. “We should eat as well.”

“Thank you, Lord. I see a nice spot by the river.”

“Hm.” Noah nodded absentmindedly, stretching out and yawning. “How long was I out?” he asked Sash.

“Two hours, Master.”

“… decent.” Noah nodded; he hadn’t slept much ever since he came here, barely four to five hours on average. He’d promised himself that, at least during the journey, he’d take several naps to try and make up for some of the missed hours. After all, no matter how well he maintained his body, he was still getting up in years. “Where are we now?” he asked.

“We should be just outside the Sumnner City,” Sash replied. “Perhaps half a day away or so.”

“We can resupply there and buy some more things,” Noah said, stroking his unusually smooth chin. “Do you two need anything?”

“… no.” Sash replied.

“Me neither, Master.” Myrell added. Just then, the carriage came to a halt as the neighs of the horses reached from the outside.

“One of you, cook us something,” Noah said as he got off the carriage. “If you can’t, bring me the tools and I’ll fix us something.”

The air around was rather fresh, he mused as he stepped on the still-wet grass. They had stopped on a small protrusion in a road, hanging above the river-chasm that the vastly broad and deep artery of the Kingdom had carved out over the eons. The wind blowing about was breezy and cool, though not too powerful, largely due to the mountains to the south, beyond the river, blocking it. It’s a lot like the Highlands… he mused inwardly, recalling a brief stint he'd spent in Scotland early on in his twenties. Well, except warmer, I suppose… considering how loose and lithe his clothes were, he estimated that the temperature danced around twenty degrees Celsius. Just short of perfectly comfortable.

Glancing down toward the river, he spotted a few scores of fish moving around in groups, though he'd be hard-pressed to recognize them; his library of knowledge when it came to this world hadn't extended yet to its wildlife or even herbal life. He had plans, however, on tackling it soon enough. Especially considering the three-tailed fox he'd seen back in the Weepwoods; a speck of curiosity was yet to be sated.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the coachman drop down a few empty buckets into the river and pull them up full, hanging them around the two horses’ necks, while he himself had taken a mouthful before. Myrell, with Sash’s help, had started a fire and began chopping up vegetables to make a broth as methods to preserve meat were still rather primitive, especially when it came to land-based animals. It would do, however.

It felt strange, standing by the river, letting the wind caress him; the reality of his situation, perhaps for the first time, began to truly settle in. These past three months – almost three months, at least – have passed in a rapid succession of days, where his attention was drawn taut to all ends of the spectrum. No, he shook his head, I was just avoiding it. He'd known, for a long time now, this reality. He, however, hung onto the empty and hollow dopamine rush that the new life provided. It's begun to fade away, slowly, as he gradually settled into his new life, leaving behind the bitter sensibility of everyday living.

In retrospect, he was hardly able to recall nearly three months of his life here, save for the very few, specific memories. This realization, however, made him relax slightly as it mirrored his life back on Earth. Months, if not years of planning, spent in dull and stuffy rooms that he’d all but forgotten, all for the few days of excitement that stayed with him. It felt comforting that life here was just as boring as it was back home; the little bit of excitement he felt during his last night in the capital had already faded away. He was as he always was.

In the end, he was a bit too old to care much; he didn't have the luxury of tottering around and accepting the reality in full over the course of years. By his calculations, he will turn forty-five in eleven days. Forty-five… Jesus Christ… he sighed bitterly, wondering where and when and how had the years escaped him. Somewhere in his late teens, the life seemed to speed up twofold, and then when he turned thirty, it went up tenfold once again. Days turned to blurs, each day becoming less important than the last.

“Master, it’s almost ready!” Myrell’s jovial voice woke him from his stupor as he tore his eyes away from the river and glanced back. The coachman had joined the two, sitting on the empty dirt beneath, surrounding a small, smoking bonfire over which an iron pot hung.

He chuckled to himself and shook away the thoughts, walking back; unlike the three, a small stool awaited him. Glancing into the pot, he saw the boiling water mingle with the chopped pieces of various colors, most of which he didn't really recognize. Save for the alcohol and fruits, he was still quite ignorant of the plant life.

"Is everything alright?" Sash asked him, seemingly having noticed his inner turmoil. Noah paid him a curious glanced and smiled; the black man sitting next to him was a curious one, he mused. Noah had already learned Sash had become a slave at the tender age of twelve and had been one ever since, recently having turned thirty. Yet, even still, beyond the empty anger on the surface, he was a kind man. Kind beyond stupidity.

“… I was just pondering on how deep the river runs,” Noah said as Myrell took the four prepared bowls, pouring the broth into each. "Has anyone measured it?"

“… no,” after a brief silence, the coachman – a tall, skinny man well into his fifties, dressed in tattered, brown-sashed clothes, said somewhat awkwardly. “According to the legends, the First One himself carved out the canal upon the Kingdom’s founding, to provide it with fresh water. Some have tried, over the years… but nobody returned from the water’s deeps. Not alive, anyway.”

“…” Noah dubiously glanced at the coachman, somewhat stupefied inwardly; the river was clearly at least a few tens of feet deep, and it was fast – though he was far from well-educated in terms of physics when it came to water and rivers and how speedy they ought to be, his gut feeling was telling him it is not supposed to be as fast as it is. And, somehow, more than one person throughout history thought it a good idea to jump in and dive? I guess it’s good to see their dumbest match our dumbest… maybe? “Thanks,” Noah smiled at the coachman as he took the bowl from Myrell. Save for the special occasions, or for those extremely rich, utensils, or at least this world's version of them, were rarely used – even less so on the road. "You seem pretty knowledgeable."

“A-ah, no, my Lord,” the coachman quickly denied, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I’ve just heard the story someplace, is all.”

“… it’s fine to be humble,” Noah said. “But I hardly care for humble people. If you entertain me with enough stories that you’ve ‘heard someplace’, I will pay an extra Crown on top of our prior agreement.”

"E-eh? R-really?" the coachman's eyes lit up momentarily upon hearing Noah's words, something that the latter hadn't missed, merely smiling as a reply, taking a sip of broth. It was far from tasty, but it wasn't bad, he mused. "V-very… very well," the coachman relented, nodding lightly. "W-what kind of… stories would my Lord like to hear?"

“Tell me about the Wastelands.” Noah said.

“W-wastelands, my Lord?” the coachman wasn’t alone in being taken aback – both Myrell and Sash, even if they knew that their Master had the tendency of asking some really strange questions, looked up from their food.

“Hm, Wastelands,” Noah nodded, ignoring their gazes. “Both Northern and Eastern. Just share a story that you’ve heard.”

“… uhm…” the coachman thought for a brief moment before replying. “Well, I don’t know if my Lord has heard, but when I was a child, rumors of the, Light may Purge him, the Wasted Northern King.”

"… I haven't." Noah said, maintaining a calm demeanor.

"At that time," the coachman said, his voice growing lower. "Somebody saw a large number of the Grand Duke's army battered and bruised… many of them missing… after, apparently, they were sent to explore the shoreline path of the Jagged Mountains. The story goes that one of the soldiers got drunk and shared what they went through, having met a massive army of half-naked men wielding… wielding kindled clubs. Hundreds of thousands, he said. According to him… they were led by a ten-feet tall man who called himself the Wasted King. Of course, though, it is probably just a story…"

“… of course,” Noah smiled faintly, etching the ‘story’ into the back of his mind to revisit it once he comes back to the capital. “What about the Eastern?”

“… there isn’t really any one, specific story,” the coachman said, awkwardly scratching his nose. “Most of it remains unexplored because of the Sandstingers…”

“…” There’s still a lot I don’t know, Noah sighed, having to pretend to know what the hell ‘Sandstingers’ are. Though it wasn’t too difficult to extrapolate from the name, he’d still have to research on them as well. “Hmm… stories… stories… do you have any about the Edge of West?”

“Edge… of West, my Lord?” the coachman asked nervously.

“Hm.” Noah nodded.

“W-well… there… there is the popular one… but I’m sure my Lord has heard it before…” The hell I did! Fuck!

“Pretend I haven’t.” Noah said, maintaining a smile of composure, dying on the inside.

“A-ah, yes,” the coachman nodded awkwardly. “W-well, the story goes… that the Edge of West is the home to the Pyrmarian – a shapeshifting beast preying on the lost travelers. Apparently, three hundred years ago, Lumina Kingdom sent a small platoon of experienced soldiers to kill the beast – only for a single man to return back. He appeared miserable, his tongue cut off, and almost seemed dead. Out of pittance, the King at the time, His Majesty Eylore, decided to Knight the soldier and invited him to the Throne Room alongside many of the Nobles. The soldier began laughing maniacally when the King gave him a title, and turned into a massive, fifty-feet long snake, killing over a dozen Nobles before escaping. Apparently,” He sure likes using ‘apparently’… “It was this event that caused House Korntall’s, the second-largest House of the Kingdom at the time, fall."

“…” Noah put all the names he’s heard to the memory, pondering silently. If they’re anything like us, which they are, he mused inwardly, then most of their myths, stories, and legends will be based on some or another reality… this sounds more like fabrication, however. Oh, no, we haven’t killed the Korntalls, it was this shapeshifting, mean beast from the far south that we call Edge of the West… the entire thing pretty much screams ‘oi, don’t ask any questions if you want to live, you bastard…’

Noah remained silent, and everyone followed in his footsteps, eating the broth. Thinking of the rough map of the Ethernon Peninsula Olivia had given him, he realized he shouldn’t really be surprised no matter what he hears. The peninsula itself is, at least based on the rough calculations he was given on the map which he wouldn’t know how to verify even if he was given the tools, slightly larger than Germany, though shaped quite differently, with the southern end curving out and back in, the Edge of the West nibbling at the bottom. It was defined through three central powers – Lumina Kingdom to the north-east, Folkfar Kingdom to the south, and the Kingdom of Freemen to the west – as well as dozens, if not hundreds, of minor powers, namely in the way of the Nomadic Tribes of the Nomadic Plains comprising most of the western end of the peninsula, as well as countless Desert Clans, and the massively turbulent Ovnur’s Valley to the east-south, just above the Folkfar Kingdom, situated between two gigantic mountain rings and home to outlaws, banished clansmen, refugees, and who-knows-what-else, perpetually in a state of war.

Well, he thought, stretching lazily and yawning as Myrell began cleaning up. I can just take it easy… I need to slowly figure out Elucido before I even consider giving other places any major attention…