A Bell of Wanderlust Begins to Toll

[CoreSun]

It was the sun that woke him from his anxious slumber, drifting slowly across the ground at his feet in a warm yellow glow, flooding the open doors of the stable with the shimmering radiance of its comfortable embrace. A moment passed as he clutched firmly to his mattress of hay and lifted his head to the air. The sweet smell of morning dew carried upon a shallow wind to his nose. Oh but if only he could reach out and taste it. He would have it taste of sweet sageleaf and honey, and he would wrap it in the sun's own warmth with the crispness of the morning breeze for extra flavor. He smiled in the thought, but of course it could not be so. A simple sandwhich would have to break his fast this morning, but he would certainly try to make it as he wished he could, to taste of the sweet senses of the world.

Rising to his feet, he felt the cold dirt of the stable floor beneath his feet and steadied himself on the oaken panels of the empty stall beside him. The horses were wide awake by now, but they had kept silent, they themselves probably in preference to taking in the glory of today's morning, relieved to finally awaken to a good Myrken Wood day. The past week had been full of hard rain and gloomy skies that turned the ground to sloppy, thick mud and made the air wreak of a slaten smell. Like the quarries from the mountains of the Xanth Grange had cast their dust to the wind and it carried across the mountains to Myrken Wood, where it settled and died into the soil.

But with the break of a new sky behind the clouds came a new atmosphere to the Broken Dagger, and as Boy found his feet instictively shuffeling towards the stable doors and out into the soft grass he turned to look back at the stables, and smile at the gray stone walls and thatched roof that had become his home. He had found himself one day in the woods down the road, acheing and bruised with a bump on his head, crying inside and more confused than most could imagine. After all, that was the last day he could remember prior to his new life here. Sliding his hands up through his straggly, brownish-black hair he smiled, hazel green eyes twinkling in the sunlight. He was young, probably about sixteen or seventeen years of age, thin of frame and about five feet and some eight or nine inches high. Scratching a bare shoulder brought him to look down at a tiny tear in his pants, to which he gently poked a finger through. Those thin bed-sheet sewn pants were the only clothing he posessed, but the inconveniance bothered him not, for he was light of heart and rarely took anything to much great concern. But there was one thing that bothered him quite often, or more precisely, always.

He thought of that thing now, even as he stepped up onto the porch, feet thumping hollowly across the wooden floor, the creak of the door opening marking his entrance into the tavern, where he would greet his guardian -and the owner of the Broken Dagger- with a hello and a wave before seating himself at the bar for his breakfast. What was it like outside of the Broken Dagger? What was it like in the rest of the world? He had many images in his mind, many ideals of the great adventures that were told around the fireplace in the tavern or sometimes outside, afront the stables or on the porch swing. He likened each tale of a journey much to the stars that shown so brightly and of such unrelenting brilliance, each night without fail, that on a clear night, when lieing about at the lake, one could see the water bear their visage upon itself in a perfect, if not more so, reflection of their absolute beauty. Each completed quest of courage and honor, horror, betrayel, menacing dangers and great beasts felled by the valorous hero became a new star he thought to himself. And he wanted nothing more than to experience some day for himself, just what it was to be like one of the adventurer's that would come time and again through the halls of the Broken Dagger, many of them to never come through again -no doubt having moved on to a safer place- others to frequent the Dagger with new stories of glorious achievements every time.

He could think of nothing more these days, than to cast himself out on some crazy quest and come home to tell the tale. But, like always, by the end of the day reality will have set in, and he would have thoroughly convinced himself this was impossible. After all...he'd never even gone to Myrken Town. His entire life, or that of it which he actually remembered -the bump on his head having erased everything, even his name, from memory- was now set here in the Dagger. Casting a longing gaze to the doors of the tavern and thinking only of the adventure's that lie beyond, he took a bite of his crunchy sandwhich, and wished it was the sun.