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It was quite a sight for locals to find a wilder around the Lightbearer Empire.
For starters, there weren't a lot of motives as to why they would want to be seen. Wilders were known to be elusive in nature; a mysterious, ethereal aura always surrounded them, a stance the lightbearer commoner couldn’t understand completely. That was the popular belief, at least. The lively personality of Lorsan was quite the opposite. His caring, kind disposition was very appreciated in Ryeham.
Residents found Lorsan as he fled from a horde of gruglins, running at an inhuman speed, quickly changing directions while calling for help. After they offered him shelter, he recounted —in a surprisingly laid-back manner— how he had ended up there: how he lost most of his belongings to a group of rogues who deceived him, acting as allies.
He brushed off the concerns with a relaxed smile, commenting they probably needed his stuff more than he did. Lorsan thanked Misarte as he told them how he had fortunately managed to retrieve his Heedwind staff, his quill case and his flute while they weren’t looking, hugging everything with both arms and a self-assured smile.
For the residents, it somehow looked like those three things were enough for the hare-wilder to survive. Like everything else could be sorted out later.
Then, he casually asked if there were any mages in the area, as if the whole ordeal had been nothing special.
People were curious about his odd features, his culture, his mission altogether... And Lorsan never shied away from conversation, either. He was confident enough to share back his thoughts, right to the mindless detail. To the point of exhaustion, if given enough encouragement. As the time passed, he became a very well-known guest, and neighbors eventually let him sleep in sheds or barns during his stay, which was more than he could ever ask for.
The eerie thoughts of destiny, responsibilities and expectation subdued as he became used to the pace of his new day-to-day life. Everything happened at a faster pace at Ryeham; it was easy to run out of time as he helped the locals in every way he could —he had a lot to thank them for! And it wouldn’t hurt to lend them a hand while he searched for what he initially came there for.
After the labor day was gone, Lorsan enjoyed looking at the landscapes; everything at sight became golden as the sun set into the horizon. It looked warm and pleasant, welcoming… Contrary to the gloomy and humid atmosphere of the place he grew up, so distant from where he was at the moment.
Whenever he took a stroll, he liked to reach a hand over some wheat spikes alongside the road, dancing with the air as he used some of his magic on them. The soft autumn wind flew across his ears, and Lorsan gained access to new, ever-coming information about his surroundings: Pebbled steps, human dialects he couldn’t understand, the smell of flour and freshly-baked bread coming from every place…
The kind of whispers these groves brought were completely different —it was difficult to describe. He would love to find a way to show his discoveries to his family, back in the Dark Forest.
While thinking of clever solutions to small problems, a sudden but familiar sound distracted him.
His ears stood with interest. He looked at the direction the sound came, listening closely and searching its source with eager eyes. It was futile, as Lorsan felt like the grasp of it became more and more diffuse by the time other noises interfered. A quiet sigh left him as he stood there, feeling the disappointment of forgetting something that felt important.
He went his way, dragging his feet and staff along the way; a slight pout on his mouth.
Just before arriving at his temporary stay, Lorsan looked up at the sky. The sunlight was fading, but still quite present. He decided to take a detour, hoping it might help him relax before going to sleep —or take a few drinks! He’d decide on that later. There were plenty of things to finish still, but a short walk wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Once he found a quiet, breezy spot in the fields, he stretched his whole body before laying down on the tall, tawny grass. He let his staff beside, leaned back, and rested his hands behind his head as he closed his eyes. Shuffling around from time to time, Lorsan thought about the strange sound from before. It seemed like some sort of melody, but he couldn’t quite decipher it. A song, perhaps? He tried to imitate the tune, but nothing familiar came to mind.
After countless attempts to relax, Lorsan only grew more restless. He retrieved his small wooden piccolo from his pocket, twirling it on his fingers. Should he try to play some? At the end, he opted to let the wind guide his thoughts, overhearing whatever distant sound that might ease his mind.
Then, he caught something else: the simple sound of birds in the distance. They called back and forth, exchanging in a conversation.
He wondered what they might be chirping about. Animal handling wasn’t a talent he possessed, so he wouldn’t be able to know what they were talking about even if he tried —not at the level other wilders could. That was something Lyca was much better at. Bryon was particularly good at it, too.
Lorsan sat up again, holding onto his staff a bit closer as he listened intently to the conversation he couldn’t understand. It irked him, how the need to ask Bryon grew within him in the most stubborn of ways.
He let out a weary sigh in frustration, blowing wind up his fringe, frowning as his thoughts grew heavier. Raising his staff up for a moment, reciting the usual spell, and asking aloud so the wind would carry the message was easy enough. He knew it was, but what was the point of doing so if Bryon hadn’t said anything in quite a long time?
Truth be told, it was Lorsan himself who made the deliberate (rash?) decision to stay silent for months after leaving home, seemingly on a whim… He could understand Bryon being mad at him for it…
But it was clearly not the case! Not a whim whatsoever, he could swear by it.
They couldn’t see him, but Lorsan thought and prayed for the right words to whisper so many nights before —and many more before that. After a lot of thought and in his honest opinion, whatever he could say fell short to describe the wonder of every place, the hardships of the journey… Everything was hard to describe when it happened so fast!
Contrary to Bryon, Lorsan was powerful enough to send lengthy messages, but he knew his friend would despise being distracted over his stories for such an extended period of time. He was certain he didn’t have hours to spend listening —not because of duty, but because he’d be annoyed as hell. Besides, it was not a conversation and more like a recording, how boring would that be?! Bryon would send a whisper back only to seal his annoying mouth shut for once. Moreover, condensing the message to a few phrases wouldn’t do it justice at all.
Despite him longing for Bryon’s messages (not his voice, mind you), Lorsan couldn't enjoy them completely once they came; they always came with an undercurrent of guilt. As if the sentinel on the other side enjoyed taunting him with additional formalities and dryness in his delivery. For Lorsan, it was often a reminder —or punishment— for the silence he had decided to preserve.
It was funny how those short letters and one-liners managed to make him feel flustered every time. The thought of Bryon breathing so close, almost as if right beside him, kept him on edge even if words were few. Despite the moment or time of day, he always stopped on his tracks to listen, for windwhispering wasn’t meant to last. There was one and only one opportunity to listen, and he had to seize it.
Whenever others caught him listening, staying still and remaining silent like he never did, he preferred to brush it off as some bothersome report from home, dismissing it with a conceited smirk. It was easier than introducing Bryon to every living creature in town, wasn’t it?
…He still mentioned Bryon to a few anyway, especially when his amused smile over the sentinel’s reluctance boiled up to the surface, quite evident in his tone. Also when Lorsan’s eyes glinted because of something else entirely, listening to the subtle nuances in Bryon’s voice, opening up through the message in subtle ways. At those moments, people always teased him over the pensive expression he wore, lingering as the day went on.
Fortunately, Bryon’s messages usually came when the sun was setting in the groves of Ryeham. Sometimes spoken to the mage while he was almost asleep, resting on the straw stacks inside a hayloft borrowed as a temporary residence.
“Lorsan,” the voice called, speaking out of nowhere and making Lorsan startle out of his slumber.
Whichever tone he used to greet, it always managed to make him shudder —but it was too of an embarrassing reaction to disclose aloud, of course.
He often wondered how many of those air letters got lost in the air and slipped into his dreams instead, hearing the spell with eyes closed, held conscious only by the thread of Bryon’s reports, informing him about the happenings of the Forest with a warm, yet sharp tone.
Good enough of a lullaby, if he was honest.
That was one of those nights. Yet different in a way, for Bryon’s voice felt smaller. Still firm, but softer than the mage was used to.
“…Do you ever get lonely, wherever you are? I certainly do,” the voice murmured, closing the message with a quieter,
“Sincerely, Bryon.”
It caught Lorsan off guard, his green eyes half-opening in unease, sobering him up. Hearing his friend so burnt out made his heart sink a little. Besides, Bryon did not sign his messages like that unless it was important.
An entirely personal, honest message sent out from desire. Not coaxed, not entirely thought out, either —different from the ones Lorsan received out of obligation.
Something that had happened once or twice in all their time as apprentices.
Lorsan glanced at his staff at reach, pondering the idea of casting a quick reply, knowing there was no use in it: windwhispers were not always meant to be immediate. Knowing Bryon, he had probably sent that message a while ago, already asleep by now.
Of course he did feel lonely at times, Lorsan thought. More often that he cared to admit.
‘Distance makes the heart grow fonder’ after all, or so they say around these parts of Esperia.
He decided to think about Bryon’s meaning and intentions in the morning instead, rolling back on the straw bed and scratching away the itch from his drooped ear, preparing to doze off again.
Then he realized, interference from the whisper still crossed the ambience.
Hadn’t the message ended already? Bryon signed off and all.
He guessed not, given by the barely-there muttering Lorsan picked up underneath the seeming silence. Bryon forgetting to properly close the spell on time? What a rarity! What was even happening to him?! The always-so-poised, refined man was acting so clumsy now…
Lorsan let out a snort, relieved to be alone in the moment so no one could witness the silly grin he was wearing. He laid on his back again, his smile softening as he imagined how Bryon’s slip had probably shaken some of his rehearsed composure away. He even felt tempted to fill the silence with mindless teasing despite knowing it’ll get him nowhere.
Instead, his ears attuned a bit more, wondering how all this would play out.
Did his friend really have something else to say? He wondered while enjoying the quiet murmur in the meantime.
It seemed so, for Bryon spoke up at last:
“…Am I bothering you with all these questions?” he asked, coming out raspy. Almost insecure.
What? Not at all! What made him think—
“I know I was the one who bound myself to hearing your words. Wisely, you never compromised.”
That little jab hurt more than it should have. It was true, but not because he didn’t want to—
“Would you rather be alone?”
No! Of course not! Anything but that.
Lorsan sat up almost in a jerk reaction. The way Bryon sounded, resigned and defeated under a serious facade, got under his skin in seconds. That wasn’t the way he wanted things to go at all.
“Let me know when you have the time.”
Oh, he’d let him know alright.
In a swift movement, Lorsan hoisted Heedwind from its place, holding it high as he closed his eyes, driving the energy of the air around him for his usual spell to wake up. With a frown, he recited the conjure and a channel opened up: a thread of breeze forming from Heedwind’s glowing orb. The spell looked a bit unstable, but who cared! Knocking Bryon out of whatever he was thinking was top priority now.
“Bryon, wait— Acknowledged!” he proclaimed with determination, perhaps a little too loud. “I do listen.”
His voice broke slightly at the admission, making all his resolve crumble.
“I just…” he continued, trying not to get bothered by the warmth raising up his neck.
…He totally forgot what he was saying, didn’t he?
And it didn’t help that he managed to wake all the sheep up with the little whirlwind he gathered inside the barn, bleating in confusion and annoyance. The spell broke as he let Heedwind rest on the ground as fast as he took it in his hand, watching all the mess he had provoked without notice, stray mixed with hay whenever his gaze could reach.
He recalled how hard he got scolded that time, and how long it took to tidy up the place so the owner wouldn’t kick him out, resorting to every nice word and compliment he could come up with.
Those words still haunted him.
Lorsan liked to think he wasn’t alone; that everyone was waiting for him back in the Forest, didn’t they? The wind would always connect him to home, didn’t it? He acknowledged all that. However, worries about home were able to eat Lorsan alive if left unchecked.
His family was probably fuming about his attitude for the eleventh time, and Bryon had every right to be angry at his foolish response, but what else could Lorsan do?! Days came and went away so quickly; lightbearers seemed to live in a rush. He enjoyed the haste of it all —it was a pleasant change of pace— but it came with disadvantages.
On the positive side, it left little to no space to give concerns a place to settle.
Should he have said something different, at that time? Something less direct? More charming? Maybe his impulsive delivery made everything more awkward than it really should. Perhaps the true meaning of his words, and lack thereof, got lost on its way back…
His musings got interrupted by the same insistent murmur, standing up in a determined hop.
There’s that sound again! He thought aloud, lifting his hand up to one of his ears in hopes the full body motion would help him catch the sound better. He closed his eyes and focused in the sound:
It was like a bird song, but not quite. No lyrics attached, but there was a tonal composition behind it. Something he had definitely listened to before, but where, exactly? He almost felt nostalgic thinking about it, yearning for it to play again to get a better grasp.
And it did.
It felt right behind his ears…
A spark lit up in Lorsan’s green eyes as the sudden realization came: It was his friend, calling through a whisper.
No spoken message, only a soft whistle that could get easily lost in the wind, mistaken by a rustle of leaves. Akin to moments long lost in his memory and suddenly brought back to the surface. Not ordinary melody, but the song they liked to share in private, practicing together through the breeze in Moongloss like young, secret admirers.
Nothing came out of Lorsan but a surprised sound. He sat on the floor with a thud, bringing both of his hands to his face. A strained complaint came right after, feeling the weight of his ears as they helped him hide .
How could he possibly forget? Utter embarrassment came right up to his face.
“Using that song, of all the ones available…” Lorsan mused, his gaze fixed on the tawny grass. “Are you seeking to kill me?”
If it meant longing, affection or apology, Lorsan could never tell, even at those first times he heard it from afar. How much of those times did Bryon recall? There was never a time to discuss it, really. The conversation he had sought for was left on halt once his priorities were forced to change, his focus on their Master’s mission. The time to depart came sooner than he ever thought, and the opportunity to engage around the song, to play it side by side at last, became only a broken promise.
Lorsan’s furrow deepened. If he could only teleport himself right to the Whisper Web headquarters, he’d smash Bryon’s head right to his own and never let go. The distance felt greater than ever this time, feeling powerless. He had to ruffle his hair with force in an attempt to appease the frustration to boil up.
“I’m sorry, alright?” He mused into thin air, only to raise his volume right at the end, retorting loudly with both hands raised up in some sort of tantrum. “I can’t do anything from up here!”
A sudden, strong blow of air out of nowhere made the amber stems around him sway and rustle everywhere, surprising a mother and child at a near distance. He had definitely used too much force —and feeling— when speaking to the wind… When he turned his head, rushing to apologize, he realized they were actually pretty far away, talking about the whirlwind that had passed by.
A sheepish smile formed in his lips; Lorsan had forgotten how close everything felt while using his abilities, sometimes. He scratched his head as he turned back to look down to his staff, lifting the glowy sphere into his hands as he laid down again, defeated.
“What are you yelling at? Bryon can’t even hear you,” he chastised himself.
Talking with no filter was so easy with Bryon at his side, the limited time frame the wind offered felt too scarce in comparison. There was a lot he wanted to say; so many mindless details he had treasured in those short, yet intense years outside. He was desperate to tell it all, and he’d be sure to let him know eventually! But now was not the time.
However, he’d give Bryon that, he knew exactly how to persuade him…
The young mage was glad to hear from his friend again —meaning being, he was not completely furious (hopefully). He even offered a renewed change to get the words out of his chest at the cost of his exposure. And there was Lorsan: with restless hands and his chest tight, unable to come with a proper answer to whisper back.
Bryon had opened up to him multiple times by now. Why couldn’t Lorsan do the same?
“I’ve got no idea how to answer this, after all,” he let out in disappointment. “I wish I could ask you directly…”
With a final spin on his hand, the orb went back to its place.
“What’s what you really want to hear, Bryon?” Lorsan mused on his way back to the hayloft.
The melody stuck with him for the rest of the day, and many days before, humming it mindlessly without realizing.
If others realized, he’d just wave it off with a warm smile and some charming words like he always did, wouldn’t he?
Heading south, and being chased again as usual, Lorsan met the Magister and crew.
They saved him from the initial danger, and the one that followed right behind, neutralizing the damage those cursed grapes could unfold —it seemed, similar signs of decay were showing even on these lands, so far away across the river. However, the Magister cured the disease like it was nothing. In fact… If they could work that fast with such ease, perhaps it was a good idea to ask for them and do a little, harmless detour as a quick favor.
Lorsan had already listened to his fair share of rejections over his time looking out for help, sharpening his enticing skills with every rebuttal and dismissal up to no avail. His confidence did not waver despite all, and at that moment, he felt confident the Magister would at least listen to his plea.
They didn’t need much convincing, for it seemed their paths were leading to the same place, like some sort of fated destiny that not even them could understand. The wilder felt stoked to hear the news —the Magister seemed like a powerful mage! Despite looking young and inexperienced at first sight, it was clear it wasn’t the case. Their use of magic managed to leave Lorsan pleasantly impressed, there was no better person to bring back home.
And so, the whole crew made their way to Holistone, hoping Valen could find them a boat to cross the river.
It’d been a while since his last visit, but the city and its noise was growing on Lorsan. Maybe it was thanks to the new company, but it didn’t feel as threatening or overwhelming as it once had. In contrast, he moved across the pathways like an honorary citizen by now, looking like he was the sole owner.
Valen had even recommended a place to stay, close to Traveler’s Light, a well-known tavern in the city that was always surrounded by all kinds of people. Though the Magister had kindly suggested he stay at his own home at one point —they had plenty of rooms to spare— Lorsan thought it was fine as is, not wishing to pester the Magister when he could manage on his own. The inn Valen had told him about was comfortable enough for Heedwind and him. It was close enough to the town square to grab a quick coin doing some magic tricks, or even helping in the tavern with simple chores.
Nothing could replace the hayloft back in Ryeham still, but he could manage.
Truth be told, the presence of trustworthy companions let Lorsan ease a bit in that small time frame, waiting for news to arrive, seizing the opportunity to do as he pleased in the meantime. One of those times, he walked past the brick walls of the city and sat down next to an autumn colored grove, shuffling around the game cards Valen had lent him. He was determined to learn and win this time around.
He was so focused on reminding the rules and being quick in every movement, humming the same tune and interrupting it with some low musings, he didn’t notice the child that had already approached: one with ginger hair and a nest on head, a backpack double his size on his back.
“What song is that?” Rowan, the young merchant, asked.
Braddock, the bird on the nest, seemed to be curious as well, flapping his wings with a squawk.
Lorsan got startled, his voice cracking in surprise. He didn’t expect Rowan to be there in the slightest; hadn’t Lorsan seen him chatting and trading in the town square? His ears drooped slightly, thinking of the answer to the question.
“It’s a folk song from home,” he replied quickly, trying to come up with something else to add to his white lie. “...It’s popular around festivals.”
“Really? And what do festivals look like, from where you are?”
Rowan was being so inquisitive, it made Lorsan blink in mild confusion.
“Very different from around here! I’m not sure how I’d describe it, however…”
He paused, tilting his head as he tried to give more thought into the open question.
“It’d take me ages to explain all the terms and customs, but I could tell you there’s plenty of dancing and drinking, that’s for sure.”
“Music must be very different…” Rowan commented. “What kind of instruments does it use?”
“It is, actually!” the wilder added with a bright smile, forgetting his initial intent altogether. “A key difference, for example, is that brass is very common to see here –even currency is made out of it! Not so much around the Dark Forest.”
He idly played with the cards, shuffling them before stacking them and saving the deck into his pocket, adding a lighthearted, “wooden and leathered instruments are the usual.”
The young merchant’s blue eyes followed his movements, as though analyzing something.
“Do you like music?” he asked, “I sometimes hear you singing; everyone has heard you at least once. It’s not in my realm of expertise, but Mirael says you’re quite good, like you probably have experience singing melancholic ballads and such.”
Did he really do it that much?! He hadn’t realized until now. Was it that one? Or…
“...Yes, I like music quite a lot,” he confirmed with a nod, hiding the embarrassment of being so oblivious behind a confident smile.
“And do you play any instruments?” Rowan continued, adjusting Braddock’s nest on his head.
Lorsan doubted his answer for a second, his hand instinctively reaching into his pocket.
“I do. Sort of,” he admitted, pulling out a small, wooden flute for Rowan to see.
Rowan’s eyes inspected the instrument closely, as if evaluating its condition and value.
“Will you play something for me?” Rowan asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
Lorsan let out a brief laugh at the sight of Rowan’s puppy-dog expression. Sometimes, he had to remind himself that Rowan was a very young human. He made the flute run through his fingers as he quickly thought of a simple tune to play. To his surprise, muscle memory did its job, leading to a sweet and fast melody jumping around in the air with ease.
“Amazing! That could work.” Rowan said, pulling a notebook and a fancy pen from his coat pocket. “Can you play any other instruments?”
Lorsan began to feel suspicious. What did he mean by his playing ‘working’? These questions were oddly specific.
“I can play the lute,” he replied, uncertain. “But I haven’t touched one in years since I’ve been here.”
Rowan nodded as he attentively listened, scribbling something in his notebook and flipping through pages filled with notes. He underlined some words before murmuring a low, “That can be arranged…”
The wilder’s eyes narrowed as his ears stood up in further suspicion.
“What’s this questionnaire really about?” he interrupted, crossing his arms with a confused expression.
Rowan’s smile was clever, and Lorsan noticed a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“Remember you promised to help me attract customers at the next fair?” he asked, showing Lorsan his notebook and pointing with his pen. “It’s written right here—date and all.”
Lorsan was speechless. He had, in fact, said that a few days ago. Reading the mood, Rowan seized the opportunity to explain this plan.
“Well, it starts three days from now! How about I lend you a great instrument to draw in a crowd around us? I think it’s a brilliant idea.” Rowan grinned. “We could rotate instruments throughout the week so people don’t get bored.”
“A whole week…?” Lorsan repeated, just to confirm what he heard.
“That’s right! The Astral Fair is managed by the Mithril Consortium, so it’s the perfect opportunity to make a good impression,” Rowan continued, tapping the pen against his lips as he let his thoughts run freely. “I might even use the opportunity to test those bunny ear headbands I’ve been planning to sell...”
Lorsan could not believe what he was hearing.
“You weren’t joking?!” he exclaimed, mortified; Lorsan holding on to both of his ears.
“Why would I? Your rabbit ears are pretty popular lately, don’t you know?” Rowan said, as if explaining the obvious. “Your ears stand out in the crowd.”
Braddock squawked what it seemed like agreement, spreading his wings on his seat for a moment.
That child’s mind was brilliant and frightening at the same time, it was a logical and so well-thought out plan for a human his age, Lorsan felt obliged to disagree to his terms.
“You shouldn’t lend me an instrument like it’s nothing.” he said in a complaint, stumbling into his own words. “What if something happens to it? I’m not the most careful wilder—”
“I trust you! It’ll be fun,” Rowan assured him. “Braddock and I will be there; also, the Magister wanted to participate.”
The mention of them put Lorsan in a crossroad. Would rejecting the offer risk the Magister’s will? He doubted so, yet the possibility of disappointing them made him obliged to say yes. On the positive side, the thought of not being completely alone in the ordeal made him less anxious —the Magister was good at solving problems, in case it was necessary.
Before accepting, Lorsan wanted to make his concerns known.
“Lutes seem to be rather exotic around here… At least the ones I’m familiar with,” Lorsan said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “If we happen to find one, it might be expensive to lease.”
“You can count on me for that!” Rowan pressed, “You are doing me a favor after all, so consider the expenses as means for a greater purpose.”
Lorsan couldn’t keep his excitement away from the idea of holding a lute again. His whole body was shaking, from his tail to the way he had to stand up, unable to keep still.
“And… Can I use it in my free time?” he asked tentatively as his ears perked up, fully stretched.
“Of course! You can consider it as part of the payment for your services,” Rowan said, showing him a satisfied smile. “I’ll take that question as a yes, then; glad to see negotiations worked in both of our favors.”
The young merchant sealed the arrangement with a handshake, rapidly walking back to the city and giving Lorsan a thumbs up, shouting:
“I’ll talk to you about it later, when everything is settled!”
Before Lorsan could say something else, Rowan was almost running down the pebbled road back into Holistone again, planning ahead, entirely focused on marking completed tasks on his little notepad.
A tired smile spread across Lorsan’s face. He had to admit, the interaction had been kind of a shock.
He looked at the flute in his hand again, twirling it in his fingers again. He rarely used it anymore, barely registering it as an instrument by now. A few people had wanted to buy it —and he pondered the idea of that exchange some counted times of need— but he always decided against it in the end.
It was a reminder of simpler times. A stolen piece of home in a careless mistake; an instrument that should’ve been returned to its rightful owner a long time ago, to the music room in Jade Academy… But he felt so attached to it now! In Lorsan’s mind, giving it away felt wrong, and tossing it seemed like a waste. Watching its engravings as he always did, he concluded once again that no one ever missed this little one.
Now that the deal was settled, he had little time to start practicing for the presentations. It seemed playing the piccolo worked out fine; the lute on the other hand, was a completely different story. He stopped playing ages ago, and he was sure his hands were too rusty to play as sharply as before… But the mere thought of carrying one again made him burst with energy.
Lorsan was used to singing in the streets and taverns for quick coin, so he had to come up with a fresher repertoire. What kind of songs should he rehearsal? His mind was already making a list of more obscure, unused tunes, for flute and lute all the same. There was a lot he would need to relearn, but years of practice did not fade away so easily. Nothing a little refresher couldn’t fix, especially knowing the Magister would be there to keep things in check.
With new resolve, he ventured deeper into the auburn grove, holding his flute close to his lips again as Heedwind followed close behind, supported by the wind —he was confident the whispers of the woods would help him find the correct song to perform.
The next day, in the middle of rehearsal, Lorsan recognized the hurried steps of Rowan by the sound of thick glass and heavy buckles tingling against each other, followed by the flapping of Braddock’s feathers close behind.
“Lorsan! Here you are,” he greeted.
“Where else would I be, my friend?” the mage replied, watching Rowan and Bradock rearranging the nest above his head from falling.
“Good news; I think we found what we needed,” the young merchant explained, regaining some breath. “But I wanted you to see it before we seal the deal.”
Lorsan’s eyes widened in anticipation, the gesture followed by a flick of ears.
“Let’s go and find out, then,” he said with a confident smile.
Rowan nodded in agreement and led the way across the streets of Holistone, ending up the commercial alley. There, they took a pathway that led to a narrow storefront: a humble showcase of one trombone behind crystal windows. There was a wooden, hanging sign on top of the door, reading ‘music shop’ in its rustic yet professional engravings.
Once they entered, a brass bell making their presence known, Lorsan was surprised to see so many string instruments gathered in one place—different sizes and shapes, covering the naked walls and wooden counters in every corner. They greeted the luthier in charge, an elderly woman in a simple and elegant attire.
Rowan and her chatted for some time about mindless details, but soon enough the conversation derived into business. Once she listened to the young merchant’s petition, she went inside through a door, probably heading to some sort of storage. When the lady came back, she was carrying a fancy case that was placed on the counter, opening it. Rowan blue eyes observed in detail as he waited for the woman to pick up the instrument.
After the assessment, he nodded in approval, trying to show calm in every gesture.
“I know you gave me instructions the other day…” Rowan spoke to Lorsan, receiving the instrument in his hands and turning to face his acquaintance again. “But there’s a bit of a problem.”
The mage approached and there it was: a tear-shaped instrument made of pale wood. Some metal decorations adorned its neck and body, the tuners were made of bronze. It was lighter and smaller than what he was used to, he thought as he received it, making him suddenly aware of how frailer and expensive that instrument looked in comparison.
“Madame here told me earlier that, since it’s not originally from wilder territory, it’ll look and sound a bit different,” Rowan explained, a bit uncertain. “But it’s the closest we could find…”
“But don’t let that deceive you!” the lady added. “It excels in sound and performance.”
There was no need for a further explanation, for it was obvious from the start —its metal decorations and other golden details gave it away with ease. But despite the size, it fit comfortably enough in his arms, at least for the days needed. He strummed lightly at the strings, noticing a brighter, denser sound from them.
Rowan paused, but then that clever smile returned to his face.
“I think it’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship! Very high quality, as you’d expect,” Rowan said, turning to bow to the lady, who smiled back. “I’ll definitely catch the eye of the crowd.”
A spark lit up in Rowan’s eyes as he raised himself onto tiptoes, reaching for Lorsan’s ears as if to tell him a secret. The rabbit-wilder didn’t need it to hear clearly, but he bent closer anyway with a curious expression.
“Not to mention—the price was a total steal for what we’re getting.”
Lorsan raised an eyebrow, amused by how Rowan was putting extra effort into convincing him—he didn’t really need to. He corrected his posture, his attention on the lute. He passed his hand through its neck, picking at the strings again. They were a bit harder than what he was used to. Maybe if he used a pick…
“So? Will this be enough?” Rowan asked, his clear eyes pleading once again.
Lorsan gave him a confident smirk.
“Good enough,” Lorsan said, holding the instrument with care as a subtle breeze from outside swept through the room. “Thank you.”
Braddock squawked as his wings fluttered in place, Rowan grinning at him.
“Are we sure?” Rowan asked, taking some steps to observe Lorsan and the lute once again with narrowed eyes. “You’re the expert, so…”
The gesture reminded Lorsan to look at the instrument in more depth, with a close eye on any damage that he could find. The instrument, however, seemed to be in good care. He decided to play at his usual volume, testing the cords with the force needed for the Astral Fair.
“I believe so,” he confirmed,
Rowan looked stoked, and Lorsan wasn’t sure of the reason: his talent for music, or the fact he could visualize the plan he had crafted taking form.
“It’s settled, then!” He said with a thumbs up, going back to the counter and signing some papers. “We’ll be leasing it for two weeks, as we previously agreed on.”
The music stopped and Lorsan gave the lute to the woman who placed it back into the case, producing a satisfying clack in the process. After payments were done, Lorsan took the case into his hands and waved goodbye to the clerks.
As soon as they exited, they could see the Magister waiting right outside like an unlikely bodyguard. Chippy and Hammie, their hamster familiars, were taking the job quite seriously as well.
“Magister?” Lorsan called, perplexed. “How did you find us?”
“I asked the Magister to take care of you on the way back,” Rowan said, glancing at the instrument. “Carrying that case is a big responsibility.”
Lorsan held the case closer in an instinct. Rowan was right, he’ll have to be careful…
On their way to the inn, Chippy and Hammie were walking forward, discussing other details of the fair while Lorsan replied to them, excited for the date to be approaching. Seeing him distracted, Rowan decided to ask the Magister, as low as he could:
“Should I gather some different clothes for him? Something that stands out…”
Lorsan quickly turned back to retort in a loud complaint.:
“‘Don’t! I’m not a mascot.”
“Overhearing is rude!” Rowan called out, frowning as he pointed fingers.
The Magister chuckled softly, placing his hand on Rowan’s shoulder.
“Let’s leave it as is,” he pleaded gently.
“When did you learn to play so well, Magister?”
“I can’t tell. A long time ago, I suppose.”
Lorsan hummed softly in understanding. By the Magister’s answer, he rapidly concluded there wasn’t much he could ask, given their unwillingness to open up, or lack of ability to do so. The Magister’s origin would remain a mystery for him, but at that moment it wasn’t important. He felt content to be sharing as is, playing together, each one with a lute of their own. The hall inside the Mystic Mansion filled with failed attempts at music that soon transformed into pleasant melodies.
Dolly, the girl in charge of the tavern, cheered on them from afar, pleased to watch the place becoming more lively as they kept the pace. Chippy and Hammie watched from the other side of the counter, reminiscing of times where the Magister played frequently.
Mirael, the sorceress, approached the Magister at one moment, pulling at their cape to catch their attention as she asked for a dance. It was probably lighthearted teasing, like she seemed to know the Magister would decline, who just laughed politely and kept focused on the rehearsal for everyone’s enjoyment. Valen looked at the scene from the bar, taking a drink; amused yet intrigued by the whole ordeal.
Picking up on something unrelated, Lorsan decided to ask:
“Would you teach me some of your magic tricks? I’m quite interested in that summoning spell you did just now.”
Then, the Magister blinked in surprise, his gaze focusing back at the instrument they were holding, tilting his head slightly as they hadn’t realized the true extension of that spell or how to properly explain it.
“Must be spatial magic involved,” they concluded, not stopping their playing. “Are you versed in it?”
“I could try, but…”
The mage made the effort not to entertain the idea before it ended in disaster.
“What about something related to sound? I’m definitely well-trained for a spell like that!” he said, giving the Magister a nod and a smirk.
The Magister suggested some of the spells they could recall, as Lorsan kept them in check so they wouldn’t provoke themselves a headache.
At last, they decided to try one that the wilder knew from his days in the Academy: the silencing spell, to mute the sound of a place or room —Master Arden had taught them how to spot and break it, but not necessarily how to set it up. Lorsan could hear Cassadee’s —the novice mage— scribblings at a distance as she listened to the lesson, like a second student in the improvised class. Lorsan could see why: The Magister had an unorthodox way of teaching that somehow made the spells stronger.
The second one was much more interesting to him: the Magister called it a ‘sound repeating’ spell. It wasn’t a recording completely, but the mix of simple temporal and wind magic managed to turn the sound of his piccolo into a loop. He was surprised to see how he could play both and make a humble ensemble if he so wished! Although at better judgment, he concluded it was a bit of a stretch to perfect them before the Astral Fair.
His playing wasn’t perfect, either, but playing the lute after so much time was a gift in itself in his eyes. His smile must’ve been telling of that fact, since the Magister asked him the same thing: where had he learnt to play. Lorsan didn’t know how to respond —speaking about home made him melancholic, in a way. The Magister seemed to understand, not really minding the polite dismissal in his excuse.
“I could show you, when we arrive at the Dark Forest,” he offered, trying to change the topic. “In case you haven’t forgotten.”
“Hm? I haven’t. Valen told me the boat will be on time by the end of the week.”
The other man seized the opportunity, standing from the tavern counter and walking closer with slow, stealthy steps, placing his hand on the Magister’s shoulder.
“About that, are you done for today, you two? I’ll need to borrow the Magister for a few minutes, if the bunny man would be so kind,” he quipped, giving them a small nod at them as though asking for a private conversation.
“You speak to him as if he’s holding me hostage,” The Magister said with an amused smile, and then turned back to Lorsan. “I’ll get going, see you at the Fair.”
The Magister summoned their spell and stored their lute, following Valen and walking away, chatting at a lower voice. Valen’s hand lingered on the Magister’s shoulder longer than he’d seen before, as though he’d missed them —a funny sight, given Valen’s unbothered appearance.
Lorsan let them be, going to rehearsal on his own.
The Astral Fair’s opening came by sooner than he had expected, but he didn’t break a sweat over it. He was used to performing and it was best to take it as any other day of work, with the difference Rowan was by his side. The calm, yet lively melodies managed to gather people around, while the merchant spoke to the pedestrians passing by, enchanted by the music but also curious of the younger one’s skillful showcase of artifacts, maps and healing items of every kind, ready to fulfill every need requested —and negotiate fair prices for both parties.
Some people nearby, sorcerers or curious children mostly, got curious about his magic tricks, especially when they noticed how an enticing breeze gathered around Heedwind, aiding them from the heat carried by the midday sun. People still asked about his features now and then, and when he saw bunny headbands walking on top of some heads around the town square, it didn’t take long for Lorsan to realize Rowan had put his other idea in motion regardless of his opinion. He let out a weary sign that soon got forgotten by all the declines he had to make in order not to touch his bunny ears —those were real and very sensitive.
At the distance he could see the Magister enjoying himself and winning an unfathomable quantity of hats, piled into each other as Chippy and Hammie followed them around. When they got closer to the multitude, it gathered even more attention, as the hats could be seen from very far. Up close. They even seemed to reach the height of Dura’s statue…
With their new attire, the Magister joined in with music on his own, attracting more customers around the place- Lorsan went with the flow easily. He was comfortable with the attention as the performance evolved —he seemed like he fit with the atmosphere of the revelry, emphasizing it with lively singing and strong strums of lute.
He felt at ease, yet there was a hint of a longing Lorsan was not willing to address.
The Opening Day didn’t end even after the night arrived, as though merchants and entertainers had only changed shifts. After arriving on his bed at the small room in the inn he was staying in —both Rowan and himbodyguarded by Valen and the crew— Lorsan could still hear the clamor of the city, barely muffled by the walls and height. Every limb of his body was pleading him to rest, yet his mind still drifted back to the music he had to perform the next day.
Despite himself, he took the rented lute out of its case, and played other types of songs. Ones that were not meant to perform in crowds, but to be heard in the calm of the Dark Forest instead.
The first notes came, and his eyes softened, letting the strings fill the space. For Lorsan, they lacked the mellowness and warmth of the one lute he’d grown to love. It was a different sound, but it still reached for an itch he didn’t know he had within.
Deep down, it was still a song of wilder kind.
The song, a relaxed, wistful tune that Lorsan tried to recall from memory, got easily lost in the noise of Holistone at late hours. It felt reassuring, in a way; his home was so still half the time… you could hear a crack of a branch at a distance, if you put enough effort —and he could swear, magic wasn’t even necessary. Perhaps it was a consequence of those animal features people often had, more sensitive to perturbation in the ambiance. Maybe it was that special connection to nature everyone shared, but… Lorsan couldn’t shake that odd feeling of paranoia that rose up his neck at times.
Like every place had eyes and ears to the most pointless of matters.
So nosy —himself included, of course; he could only do so much when it came to tuning out the whispers the wind would carry. Windwhispering was fairly uncommon compared to other talents, but they were still there, able to hear and gather information about him. Of his outings, of his thoughts spoken aloud…
Holistone, and other Lightbearer places he had met, were the complete opposite. The link between them and the land was different, and no one paid so much attention to detail —everyone was busy to really care about nuance. He couldn’t quite describe it, but he liked how he didn’t have to watch his words so carefully when speaking to them. Lorsan could be as noisy and dramatic as he pleased and no one would bat an eye to his quirks. He could be a stranger lost in the city if he wished so.
Not that he’d wish for that in the long run, but… the sense of choice beyond all was incredibly liberating.
How could he ever describe all of those nuances to his family? Would all his chatter sound like excuses in the end?
Will there be ever a time where he could speak with Bryon about it?
While the sound of that wilder song kept echoing in the narrow room, blending with the murmur of the festival, Lorsan came up with the conclusion that it was not about his need for storytelling, but rather for someone to engage with it. Someone who would listen to his ramblings, his senseless reflections and simply, understand. Perhaps adding a sharp comment in return, every now and then.
He found himself missing home and its quietude, now almost at grasp.
Home. Quietude…
Should he pick up the quills once more? Easing his mind by writing his reflections in parchment for uncertain posterity, maybe some lyrics to his next song? Ah… but their teal colors they shone under the candle light of the lamp made him disgustingly nostalgic at times like those.
Lorsan kept playing instead, finding comfort in the headboard as he focused on that song; the one he always ends up recalling with a lute on his hands.
If his playing managed to shine through, would that be enough for Bryon to listen? Would the breeze carry the message either way, crossing the river back to the Oaken Council?
Will Bryon ever care to hear about him, after everything that transpired in that silence between them? Would he stop everything, just to listen like Lorsan did?
Lorsan was sure his senses wanted to fool him when he caught the ghost of Bryon’s whistling, answering back to him like two birds resting on branches. He blamed it on muscle memory and too much drinking. Wishful thinking, if anything.
Then again, the wind did not lie when it came to share its secrets.