Chapter Text
The little town of Raven’s Refuge is hidden in a lush valley between two of the many scraggly, eternally snow-capped peaks of the Greyridge mountain range. It is often forgotten about in government reports, frequently neglected in the regular census, and regularly dismissed as inaccessible for tourism.
A former booming mining town back in the industrial heyday, now, the increase of magitech in the big cities means not many have a need for coal anymore. Raven’s Refuge is now a small collection of homes, farms, and businesses that have collectively banded together to maintain the community. This is partially due to stubbornness, and partially due to habit, and partially due to the ‘sweet dally-valley charm’ the locals claim the area possesses. Families have nestled their heritages so deep in these hills that erasing their mark on the land would not simply require excavating generations of headstones and disassembling dozens of homes. It would mean removing the literal blood, sweat, and tears those who call the Greyridge home have wrestled into the ground to produce crops each year.
In the winter, the paths through the mountains to the rest of the country become quite lethal to traverse, as often the snow can pile four, five, even six feet high. During those months, the community works together to keep the heat in. In the spring, the snow melts and the small swath of valley begins overflowing with vibrancy, and so trade can recommence in early March with the nearby town of Glamour Falls (though saying the town is nearby is somewhat using the term loosely; even with the fastest motor in town, a trip is still a two day affair). Wildflowers become almost invasive in their abundance during the summer, and the fauna grows diverse and plentiful enough that when the autumnal hunting season arrives, it never fails to restore the delicate balance and nurture the entire community during the impending months of cold isolation.
The Greyridge mountains themselves are wild creatures, and the residents of Raven’s Refuge are careful to keep themselves within the groomed boundaries of town as much as possible. There is a distinct difference between the huntingwoods and those which lie beyond that and further up and surrounding the mountaintops. Right outside the line of civilization roams the Felicity Wilds, a forest so dense and teeming with unknown wildmagic that children are often threatened with an overnight stay in there alone when they misbehave.
Magic is also somewhat different in Raven’s Refuge. In the faraway big cities and at the grand academies and universities, with tuition far too high for anyone whose residence is in the Greyridge to afford, there are spells, incantations, and many years of book-learning required for one’s magic to form itself to follow a cohesive intent. Not so in Raven’s Refuge. Here, those born with the varying degrees of reality-bending ability simply operate on instinct, intent, and a little bit of sheer chutzpah and willpower, with some tutoring from whoever’s around to give advice. Some develop specialties, and some can only do things like lift coins or light candles. Others are phenomenally potent; the magic those folks weave often can unravel in unpredictable ways.
Some jokingly theorize that the many generations of isolation are the reason things are the way they are in Raven’s Refuge, and the distinct survival-based needs of the humans in this unpredictable terrain have meant their magic develops differently. Others think the proximity to the Felicity Wilds has something to do with it; that the land and the trees are becoming so much a part of the people that their gifts have lost the semblance of civilized touch, and they’re drifting back to the natural magic of the rain and the dirt and the pines. It’s very likely that both of these hypotheses carry nuggets of truth in them. Were the hoity-toity scholars from the capital to catch wind of this strange phenomena, no doubt they would tear the land apart for the secrets behind it, and so townsfolk are careful to not let the rare visiting outsiders get a glimpse of any of them using their power.
As you can imagine, Raven’s Refuge is not a town whose residents are overflowing with money. They have, over the years, assembled a carefully crafted system of codependence that ensures each business has what it needs in order to get by, and each citizen can get what they need to live another day, without relying on any government assistance. They would not call themselves poor, though. They are a community rich in their own culture, music, and dance, and though some of their customs and superstitions may seem strange to big city folks, anyone can tell you that being so near to your neighbors in times of strife makes such a close-knit life worthwhile.
So in this town, where wildmagic touches the tips of chimneys and enchants the eaves of cabins, and where the post office rarely has anything to deliver but everyone checks their mail anyways, everybody knows everybody. It’s impossible to not! The grannies have their twice-weekly evening knitting club where they all exchange the latest gossip. Parents see each other every morning and afternoon on the walks to and from the schoolhouse with their children. The sheriff does very little real police-work, as crime is low and need to commit is even lower; the job is mainly judicial at this point. The academics all make the half-hour trek to the same little shop at the very edge of the Wilds. It is run by the particularly strange, reclusive, and powerful woman known colloquially as the Wildswitch, and while superstition would normally keep the townsfolk away from such a person, this shop is where new books and magic items seem to always be mysteriously in stock, even during the months where travel and trade would become foolhardy in the winter snow. Sometimes, in the longest winters, the only news traveling in and out of the mountain range comes through her.
The twin bakers and the butcher and the grocer and the farmers have an intricate web of connections exchanging various foodstuffs back and forth, to ensure nobody needs to leave town to get essential groceries and supplies. The whole valley barely spans two leagues, and so there’s not much distance to traverse within the town’s reach itself, which means most don’t ever worry about being isolated unless they try.
All this is made simpler for folks by one little twelve-year-old boy named Angus McDonald. He can be seen daily, pedaling up and down the gravel roads on his pretty blue bike, the saddlebags and basket often overstuffed with deliveries to be made to all sorts of people, in and just outside of town. He gets a wave and a hello from all who see him, and flying behind him most of the time, or perched upon his shoulder, is little Roswell.
The vermillion flycatcher began following him around one day, and Angus never explained where they came from, but now Roswell is as much a staple of the delivery system as the boy is. Often they can be seen flitting around with small slips of paper clasped in their tiny feet, off to inform Angus as to where he might be needed next. Angus runs deliveries for most everyone in town these days, and his sweet, familiar face and cheery greetings are a beloved regular sight.
So you can probably guess, dear reader, that folks notice right away when Angus disappears.