Season I | Episode III | Chapter I

315 days until Affliction Day

At first, the heat and Tarrick don’t mix well together. It’s not that bad anymore.

The Wide Canyons are, well, wide. Very wide. And big. Very big. They’re everything High Tobain is not. Well, the mountains are enormous, sure. But there, back in Tarrick’s hometown, everything is green. Here, the world burns with reds and oranges and yellows. The air smells different. It feels different. Dry. Dusty. And hot. The sun seems to hit harsher around here. The days are long and the breeze is bottle-necked between flat walls of sheer rock.

Upon arriving upon the Wide Canyons’ shore, they’d reached the end of the road by boat. A small beach awaited them after crossing to the other side of the wide bridge. Tarrick had stepped off, Grandma holding onto his arm. Prothea had glided off to the rocky shore. Then Tarrick had tested out something he’d never done before. Grandma had given him the boat’s remote control and he’d pressed the bright red button. It had only taken a few seconds, but the Lennox had Meaningfully been shrunk down to the size of a toy. It now resided in a glass bottle inside Tarrick’s bag.

They’ve been walking ever since. It’s not so bad. The canyons are beautiful. During the day, under cloudy skies when it’s bearable to breathe, the canyons look like fire turned to stone. In the mornings, the sun washes away all colour and the orange becomes almost white. And at night, everything seems blue and purple, while the light from campfires makes the walls look alive. A great plus: the nights are refreshing. Tonight, they’ve set up camp under a thin wide shape sticking out of the ground. Somewhat sheltered from the wind. On their adventures, Grandma has brought with her her lovely knowledge of her old Chronicling days. One of those things includes how to build tents. Which, you know, is wonderful, because Tarrick still barely knows how to live outdoors.

Something he still barely knows is what a Chronicler does.

That’s not true. He knows a thing or two about Chronicling, by now. Let’s just say, Chronicling isn’t just about travelling. It’s, most importantly, about looking for good stories. About fantastical creatures, strange people or wild natural occurences. They’ve been looking for a while now. For such fantastical creatures, strange people or wild natural occurences. And apart from some rocks and a few plateaus, there hasn’t been a good story to find. Tarrick misses Leohomin’s mansion. At least there he could’ve found a lifetime supply of good stories. Tarrick looks up. The stars twinkle in the night sky. Smiling at him. Tarrick takes a deep breath. Holds it. Exhales. Now’s not the time to despair. They’ve barely started. They’re doing exactly what a Chronicler does. Searching for a story in these parts. Back when they were on the Lennox, Tarrick had argued they had to go to Yeagsant, the nearest village, but Grandma had said no. She hadn’t just said no. She’d refused to. Categorically. He’s not entirely sure why yet. But he has a feeling this is the kind of thing a Chronicler does. They find stories.

Or maybe stories find them first.

The kettle hisses. Tarrick’s ear perks up. He puts down his book, rises from his spot on his sleeping bag and pours himself a cup of tea directly from the blue campfire. It immediately feels better when the liquid gold-like tea slides down his throat. He bets that’s exactly why Leohomin has given him that box of tea leaves. For those times when the going gets tough. Or boring. Or worse. Deadly. Just do something that reminds you of good times. That’s all that’s required of you. Drink good tea, knit a sweater, anything. Cheer yourself up.

A philosophy he should follow more, he thinks.

“Someone’s coming.”

Tarrick almost drops his teacup. He spins around towards Grandma. Wasn’t she sleeping in her tent?

“What?”

The flap of Grandma’s tent closes as she walks out. “Someone’s coming.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. And I just hope they’re friendly.”

Tarrick wakes up Prothea, sprawled out next to his sleeping bag. She almost protests upon opening her eyes, but when he puts a finger to his snout, she shuts up and climbs onto his shoulder. Tarrick’s gaze follows Grandma’s. It’s dark only a few steps away from the campfire. The sound of footsteps reach him. The person doesn’t have hooves. Not a bighorn-lizard then. Maybe an eagle-coyote. Or worse. A mountain scorlion. Grandma’s told him stories about those giant beasts. Dangerous creatures the size of a house. With venomous tails and a mouth full of teeth.

Luckily enough, it’s just a Davrian who arrives in the circle of light. Tarrick sees Grandma relax.

“Hi! What’s up?”

She’s tall. Very tall. He’s never seen someone so tall. Muscly at that. But that doesn’t mean she looks threatening. On the contrary. She’s all toothy smiles and enthusiastic paw gestures. She’s dressed in climbing gear. So, that explains the musculature and tall-ness.

Maybe this is the story he’s been waiting for.

“I haven’t seen folks in these parts before! Who are you guys? I’m Isolniel, by the way.”

“I’m Tarrick, this is my Grandma Maeena and this is Prothea.”

“Nice to meet you, Gran. And you too, kitty-kitty!”

Prothea jumps down from Tarrick’s shoulder and sniffs at Isolniel’s feet. She scratches under Prothea’s chin. Prothea turns into a puddle on the ground.

“Aww, look at you! You’re so sweet! Hey, um… Not to seem presumptious or anything, but… Can I steal a bit of your campfire? I would’ve built mine, but being with people is way more fun!”

“Sure. But… um… we’ll be on our way early tomorrow morning, though.”

Isolniel waves her paw. “No problem! I rise at dawn.”

Soon enough, Isolniel is sitting with Grandma, Tarrick and Prothea around the campfire. The only sound around is the crackle of the wood burning. The ground is hard under Tarrick, but he doesn’t really mind. They pass teacups around and Isolniel whistles at the taste.

“Wow, that’s some good stuff! I’m terrible at making tea. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” says Tarrick, chin up.

“So what are you doing out here, Isolniel?” asks Grandma before sipping her own tea.

“I’m a climber!” Her wide smile is infectious. “I come here to climb the tall peaks. The highest peaks.” She preens her fur. “I’m also a bit of a photographer. I take pictures and sell them to magazines. Helps pay the bills, you know. What about you?”

Tarrick exchanges a glance with Grandma. “We’re travellers. Looking for good stories.”

Isolniel jumps up and down at that. “Ooh, ooh, ooh! I love good stories. Have you found any?”

“Not yet,” answers Grandma, looking downright saddened.

“Aww, that’s too bad. Can I tell you one, then?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

The shadows grow darker. Isolniel waves her arms around for emphasis while she tells her story. Her sharp teeth glow in the dark. “My Dad - he’s a climber too, but he’s retired - told me about the tallest canyon in these parts. The Growing Rock. It’s said that every year on Affliction Day, that wall grows taller and taller. It almost blocks out the sun in the east. I bet you’ve seen it before.”

“We have, yes,” says Tarrick.

“Well there’s something strange about that peak. There’s a cave entrance at the bottom and it is said that the Growing Rock is entirely hollow. Something lives inside.”

“Something?”

Isolniel nods. “A mountain scorlion. Not just any mountain scorlion. The biggest mountain scorlion you’ve ever heard of before. You think a normal one is big? This one is as tall as a tower and built like a war machine. I’ve asked around. Everyone knows about it around here. Some back in Yeagsant say it’s got some Meaningful powers and makes the ground shake every once in a while. And truthfully, I believe them. A thing that big must be blessed. Thankfully, it’s been living peacefully. Somewhat. Some people haven’t come back. But no one knows if that mountain scorlion is at fault. Still. Peaceful or not, it’s a problem for me. That beast rarely leaves its home. And… well, I’ve always dreamed - it was my Dad’s dream before me - about climbing to the top of the Growing Rock. No one’s ever done it before. Because everyone’s too scared of that mountain scorlion. And for good reasons, lemme tell ya!”

Isolniel pouts, chin sitting in the palms of her paws.

“My Dad once tried to climb on top of the Growing Rock. He never made it close. The mountain scorlion growled at him so loud, he couldn’t hear anything for a few days. He never tried again.”

Isolniel’s eyes gleam. She punches the inside of her paw with one fist.

“That’s why I’m going to be the first one to climb that Rock! Either that or I’ll die trying.”

Isolniel stops talking. The crackling of the fire fills the space between them.

“Wow,” says Grandma. “That’s… an interesting story indeed.”

“Do you want to be there to watch?”

Tarrick chokes on hisr tea. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m going to try tomorrow morning! I’ve been training all my life for this and I finally feel ready. Do you want to be there to watch me climb up there? The view must be amazing.”

Tarrick opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I want to!”

Tarrick sends Grandma a glare. She barely notices him.

“Wonderful!” Isolniel clasps her paws together, fingers intertwined. “You can take pictures from the ground! I have another camera.”

“There’s only one problem,” says Grandma, carefully.

That’s strange. Tarrick never thought Grandma would be careful about anything.

“Yes?”

“What about the mountain scorlion?”

Isolniel shrugs. “I’ve thought about it! I’ll just climb while it’s sleeping. I’ve studied its patterns and it only wakes up after the sun is up. So I’ll go before sunrise and climb. Easy peasy.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course! Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”

Tarrick swallows. He has a feeling not everything will be fine. He drinks his tea.