Chapter Text
A light summer’s rain whispered through the lingering mist of the later morning, swirling through the mossy outcroppings around the hilly lands that stretched for as far as one could see, being interrupted naturally only through the clumps of windswept grass—perhaps even the occasional tree with warm mahogany wood and vibrant leaves. Otherwise, there rested some quaint homes with brightly painted circular doors adorned with brass or otherwise another wooden carving for doorknobs. This was a quiet home, housing only those born in these secluded parts or those that wished to disappear beyond all knowledge—this place was forgotten. Forgotten by the western lands where evil snaked about the jagged mountains, or corrupted from the lingering storm clouds nothing alike those that floated bright and blue to release a calming sprinkle.
And as long as these lands were forgotten—with no official name, for there was nobody deemed important around enough to officiate anything of that sort . . . the only name given was varied throughout the smaller regions, most often referred to in the more cultivated areas as Logstedshire—so were the people. The people, as aforementioned, were a quiet, uneventful culture that often did not do anything of great importance—besides the blip in the natural order maybe a sixty years prior. Nonetheless, these people called themselves the Demonical, but were known by the foreign and few traveller as the Horned. They gained this name from the horns that curved out from every native’s head and the coiling tails that whipped to and fro from the like in Logstedshire. Despite the perhaps outwardly ferocious or glaring appearance of many of these kind, they lived in the peaceful seclusion of Logstedshire and therefore were also peaceful and benevolent.
The aforementioned trees swayed neatly in the wafting wind, and in such a rare occurrence as an unusual meadow out in the otherwise forest-barren place that Logstedshire was, a Demonical himself sat under the dew-collected trees. Not long after the rain had stopped gracing the plains with its albeit enlightening presence, this boy in particular, of maybe sixteen early years of age, had run out to his favorite dark around and began sketching nothing in particular. The passing butterfly or a blade of grass with a droplet of water glancing off of its spring green edge. It truly did not matter what it was, each separate and skilled etching on parchment got its own page in a worn red journal, the date edged on in bold and unfaltering numbers—April ninth, a moment of time that those with enough wistfulness to fill their eyes would call an early summer but what is truly an objectively spring. This Demonical—Tommy Innit—was part of the former demographic.
Tommy was born to a regular two Demonicals, the sort that came from the Ramling line and the Inniteriem line—both subgroups and family names of specific smaller species of Demonicals. His father was a taller, gruffer type with golden hair and honeyed, thick horns that curled around his summery ears. On the other hand, his mother had a much darker complexion, her hair a wispy bundle of curls that sported tall horns typical of the Inniteriem family and its surrounding cousin subspecies. These horns, and her reptilian tail with a heart-shaped tail tip, were a fiery red that shone brighter in the rain than it did without a watery glaze. They were both long dead. Tommy rarely recalled their names, and dared not to ask anyone around—perhaps because he did not have much care or was satisfied end, as a graduation of some Ramling’s pet cat from its first week of cat training had preceded today by a few weeks. But whether it be a king’s coronation or not, the Demonicals would throw just big a party for this particular event—the celebration of J. Schlatt’s sixtieth birthday.
As briefly alluded to, not all Demonicals were all certainly forgettable despite the overwhelming number of those who were in fact—they still lived their lives out all the same, just as happily if someone had taken a moment to record their names past the family tree—the most recent and perhaps even the most notable in all the history of Logstedshire, was J. Schlattanium Ramling, more commonly known to the Demonicals as merely Schlatt. He had left the shire one day for a number of months, topping a year and leading into the later spring of the proceeding. Presumed dead at the time, which was all reasonable of someone relatively quiet and reclusive to disappear for such a long lapse, he returned on an uneventful morning, returning not only from the supposed death but also as a newly proclaimed rich man. The kind of wealthy that had rumors of gold spilling out of the halls that all Demonical homes were. Along with the supposed and greatly assumed shift in wealth, the Demonicals that knew him and his family best said that he carried a new weight with him—one that such a Ramling of his age should never have had before. But nobody who ever asked got an answer and relayed it to those, and Schlatt never shared without any unwelcome prompting
But time had past, people started forgetting or simply not caring, new generations were born and new rumors were started. The revered Ramling himself appeared to have not minutely aged a day since the point he left, which sometimes was pointed out but never investigated further. Schlatt never fell out of memory, not with his alluded wealth and respectable journey that he spoke of—something of a dragon with midnight scales and glowing violet eyes and a great battle. But he did fall out of the nonstop attention of the nosier Demonicals. In that forgotten time and not very long after Tommy’s parents died, Schlatt, being the brother of the boy’s late father, decided to take in the young Inniteriem. Which did not help to ebb the reducing chatter of Schlatt, in fact, only pushed him back into greater relevance. For he had been living in Tnretend by himself as long as even the eldest could remember, and now he was going to raise his nephew in those supposed golden gilded hallways.
Despite the outwards strangeness and skepticism towards this particular notion at first, as the years past and nothing seemed abnormal from a young Demonical growing up under his parent’s watchful care, the townsfolk of this particularly cultivated area of Logstedshire grew fond of the pair. It was passed around and about the area, that Schlatt was a great father to his nephew. Many wondered why he did not find a Demonical lass and settle down with a nice large family that could lead him to old age and die with his children surrounding him. The elderly and the more clear headed thought he merely hadn’t found the right Demonical yet, but the more creative or those that knew him better than the rest felt differently. Schlatt had returned altered from his original self before the time of his grand adventure . . . no, not that he could not find anyone but more that he had already found someone. From how somber he was and more reclusive than ever in the years proceeding the month he had returned, it was assumed that whoever it was had died. Those people thought it a shame and never pried about that particular topic on the odd chance that they managed to hold a conversation for more than thirty seconds with the Ramling.
Speaking of these opportunities of a conversation, they had been getting quite a bit more frequent in the past few week or so leading up to this date, Schlatt’s birthday. The merriest party planners in town called in the best artisans in Logstedshire to do what they do best—organize a feast of a dinner, gather together the best ale, and of course stock barrels upon barrels of their signature Logsted Leaf . . . the gem of Logstedshire and considered to be some of the best pipeweed around the entire world; it mattered not that few had ventured there and returned with their own opinions. All the same, the town was in a bustle for today, with practically everyone in Logstedshire invited . . . for those who weren’t, they would still show up either way.
Either way, the sun was quickly climbing into midday by the time Tommy heard, from under the now drying trees, the steady clop of a strong stallion and the twinning noise of old wooden wheels skipping over the many rocks that adorned the nearby sandy trail out toward the west. Knowing exactly who it was, Tommy sprang up, hastily tucking his charcoal and parchment booklet into his waistband, nearly tripping over a root in his vigor. He stumbled a bit, but eventually managed to catch himself and continue sauntering as the clipping of hooves grew louder, his own chunky shoes beating softly against the springy grass. Breaking out of the small copse of trees, a little ways down a miniature slope at his feet, was a horse-drawn cart of a bright oak color, the horse itself was a deep midnight blue roan, with an oiled mane and waxed hooves. The shiny and ethereal demeanor of the strong stallion, with its muscles rippling to and fro beneath its thick hide, did the opposite of match the rickety cart, which seemed fragile and as if it could break at the moment’s notice of extra weight. Tommy, despite this seemingly obvious weight risk, haphazardly threw himself onto it with a joyous shout.
“Phil!” Tommy said, hugging into the warmth of the robes that the man that drove the horse wore, the green fabric scratchy and soft at the same time. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him roughly into his side accompanied by a warm chuckle above him—the horse drawing the cart huffed in frustration of having to course redirect as to not veer off the sandy road.
“Tommy Inniteriem!” Phil greeted, grasping the reins a bit more to steady out the direction, the pebbles of the road catching under the wheels with a steady bump on the road. “Mate, it’s been too long since I’ve come around to visit Logstedshire. I keep forgetting the nonstop chatter of this place!”
“You know Schlatt never stops complaining in that fuckin’ way of his—he acts like he doesn’t care, but I know he’s full of shit anyway.” Tommy shifted away from Phil, glancing out around at the small homes embedded in the hillsides of Logstedshire around them.
Phil only laughed again at the boisterous boy, patting him on the back once before returning both hands to the reins on his admittedly grumpy horse. “I’m glad that he hasn’t changed a bit, really. Many other things are changing much faster than Schlatt,” he added, in a darker tone that left Tommy feeling on edge. The two sat in the cart in silence for a ways, whether it was an awkward, heavy silence, Tommy truly couldn’t discern or if it was a comfortable one. Nonetheless, Tommy did take a moment to think about how Schlatt has been recently. More temperamental, but still the gruff and kind-hearted Ramling that he has always known. There are, however, some odd moments that come in a fleeting moment and pass just as quick. The odd flicker in his eyes, excused as a lack of sleep or remembrance of a particularly haunting time.
Schlatt had spoken to Tommy the most of his adventure some sixty years ago, more than anyone else in Logstedshire—he raised him truly as his own son. Yet there were always some details that he conveniently forgot or slipped his mind, gaps of time that stretched like endless abysmal holes in his otherwise lighthearted tales. Tommy hadn’t known Schlatt before he had left to his journey, nor had he known him very soon after he had returned from the same quest. A good in between, the elders told him, with a hint of something else that Tommy really couldn’t quite yet place, but Soren gave him an eerie sensation of mystique. But still, sometimes when Schlatt had drunken a bit too much, especially for a Demonical of his age, let slip some things that he didn’t when he was a bit more clear minded. It was never anything so surprising that Tommy was taken violently aback, but it did vary marginally from the usually bright tale.
“Now that I think about, though, Schlatt has been a tad unusual in his anti-social routine,” Tommy said, breaking out of his thoughts and glancing back at Phil beside him, the man rubbing the stubble on his chin and his golden hair that flowed to his shoulders framed his face against the faint breeze. The brim of his striped green and white hat was tilted away from Tommy, so he could see his pale blue eyes minutely narrow before smoothing out once more. “He really hasn’t changed for a long fuckin’ time, but I think he’s nearing that age where he’s actually starting to.” Phil didn’t say anything, and his face betrayed nothing more than what Tommy had already seen. “Not that Demonicals are weak minded or any shit like whatever else it out there, goin’ off and dying at the moment’s notice,” he tacked on, flipping his curly hair out of his face.
Phil did chuckle at this, “Of course, of course, it’d only be natural, mate. But I wouldn’t underestimate the other races out there. I think that great things will come from them.”
“Yeah, whatever, I’m sure. Maybe if you told me more shit about them, I would actually believe you, old man.”
Tommy really didn’t know what Phil was. He certainly wasn’t a Demonical, it was rare to be born without a tail and even more so without horns, impossible without both. But that wasn’t even the main defining feature of otherworldliness, the large wings on his back that certainly didn’t scream secular or anything of that sort—even though Tommy knew little of the other races outside of Logstedshire, it still didn’t seem like something normal, like horns for the Demonical were normal. He had certainly asked many times before, with his young boldness and brash demeanor, yet Phil had always smiled a small smile and otherwise ignored the question, until Tommy reluctantly conceded to not getting an answer.
The cart started onto the more cultivated part of the area, where flat, worn stones were inlaid into packed ground for a much smoother ride. Some sheep grazed nearby with the lazy eye of a shepherd glazed into the opposite direction, not paying them any mind even as they noisily clopped through the road. Demonicals are known for being peaceful, yes, but they are also known to be quite the daydreamers about the next meal they could get their hands on. The houses began to grow closer to the edge of the road, the small picket-gated fences made with a hardy old wood crammed onto the edge of the street to maintain their gardens—whether they were preened and perfectly polished, or scraggly overgrown, there were variations upon variations of each. Each had a pathway made of similar stone as to that used in the road, except inlaid between fluffy scruffs of grass that sprang up in the most unusual patterns, leading up to one of those round doors found only in Logstedshire. Through the unshuttered and opened windows, it was easy to see what simple and happy lives the Demonicals lived.
The domestic scrape and clinking of cutlery on plates and in bowls boasted the sounds of an early luncheon, as it was not uncommon for Demonicals to have perhaps around six meals a day. Gentle smoke, not the cloying kind that choked up the neighborhood, drifted out of the occasional chimney, leaving behind savory smells that wafted about the air, giving each and every home its own personal aura of hospitality.
Some Demonicals were out in their gardens, tending to their flowers or harvesting a few early carrots springing with leafy readiness from the soil. Tommy waved brightly to a plump, elderly Kudarian watering his plants, horns curling over themselves in a majestic way that Tommy thought did not always suit the owners of the appendages—he had this thought once the Kudarian merely scowled at the youth before returning to his gardening.
The sound of children’s laughter filled the air, noticing almost immediately Phil in his cart making his way through the cobbled roads, crying out with joy at the sight of Phil. He was quite well known all throughout the entirety of Logstedshire for one particular reason: his fireworks. They were works of magic and works of art, and many knew Phil not by his name but by an official title of the Green Wizard. Every respectable party had Phil there to facilitate the greatest fireworks of the age—although, the frequency of Phil being seen in many parties as of late had taken a sharp decline . . . yet still, even the elusive wizard could not stay away for something as important as Schlatt’s sixtieth birthday.
The young Demonicals—many of every kind, running about and around, some with singular, thick horns and some with an entire forest of thin appendages curving behind their heads. They waited with unconcealed excitement and mirth for Phil to release at least some of his smaller fireworks. But by the time the cart was nearly completely around the bend and from where the children were eagerly waiting, nothing came from the old cart, and small sounds of disappointment sounded at varying intervals.
Tommy jabbed Phil in the side, “Don’t be a fuckin’ wrongun, now, you—” Before Tommy could finish whatever vitriol filled words he was about to spit at the old wizard, the small hiss and subsequent pops and sparkles of some miniature fireworks streaming behind the cart went off, sizzling out in the air for a few moments before spreading out and taking shape into birds—crows and sparrows that danced in the wind, the children squealing with happiness and instantly beginning to chase after the small figures. Tommy grinned at Phil, who laughed back at him.
“You act like you don’t know me at all, Tommy!” he said as he shook his head, glancing back at the playing children. “Always have to leave anything hanging for a surprise . . . the outcome is better that way, yes, I think so.”
“Why the hell do you even talk like that, anyway? Fuckin’ cryptic and all for no good reason.”
There was no response, and the cart steadily approached the bottom of one of the tallest hills around, the one that the house of Tnretend was built into—and although it was built with the same style as all the others around with only a bit more space, the position on the hill certainly gave it a special quality. Many of Schlatt’s crankier relatives openly share their opinions that Schlatt should just die already and make way for the next enervation of residents at Tnretend, but the old Ramling still held on.
Tommy glanced back out at the copse of trees they had left behind, not really wishing to go back to the house already, and wanting to finish a particularly interesting sketch of a squirrel that he had not yet finished. “I’m gonna go, Phil. Try not to be fucking killed by Schlatt with how long you’ve been away, now,” he said, motioning towards the top of the hill. Before he heard a reply, he hopped down from the cart and sauntered over towards his little meadow. Before he went, however, he did pet the braided mane of the stallion—who huffed appreciatively and nuzzled against his hand.
~~~~~
It was some time past noon when Schlatt, sitting at his polished desk that had his thick, leather bound red book laying open to around a third of the way flipped to the left. An inkwell and a quill were set off to the side, with many other discarded leaves of parchment with jottings of notes or detailed illustrations of all sorts of scenes. He had just then finished the sentence he was on, adding a swooping period, when a sound knock came at the door. Schlatt groaned, not in the mood to listen to another jabbering Demonical at his door. He leaned back in his chair and let the knocking end for a few moments, before gruffly shouting, “Fuck off!”
His chair scraped harshly against the polished stone floor, stepping forward to his window above his desk to shutter it in case whoever was at his door decided to come looking for him.
“I do not want any more well-wishers or distant relations or any of you fuckers!” he said, closing another window that was letting in a bit too much light for his liking. He paused for a moment, his fluffy ear flicking to hear if his disruptor had left or was still going to be a pain on his conscious.
“And what about very old friends?” came an amused voice trickling through the closed door, and Schlatt immediately perked up from his usual grumpiness at the familiar warmth of the tone. He scuffled over to the foyer, where he immediately pulled open the door from the polished copper doorknob, grinning at Phil standing at his door—his old gnarled staff in his land and his green hat as wide as it always was.
“You could have started with that, there have been way too many leeches of my neighbors crawling up to my door lately, and I’m getting tired of it.” Schlatt huffed, gesturing for Phil to enter Tnretend.
“Ah, is all the social activity weathering you?” Phil walked into the foyer, the shiny brick a bit chilly beneath his thin boots. The wizard glanced at Schlatt, really taking in his face framed by his thick horns. He had dark, short hair that had begun to gray only a bit in some places, with mutton chops on his face and dark eyes. Despite the age of the Ramling, he barely had any wrinkles on his face. “Obviously not, it still is as if you haven’t aged a day since you left on that adventure to the End mountain.”
Schlatt throatily laughed, closing the door behind Phil with a click. “Good genes, good genes, you could say.” Phil only hummed, his expression betraying nothing to what he was thinking. “You make be asking yourself where my manners are, but I think I lost them years ago. So you’re going to have to just starve to death or whatever.”
“Ah, it’s all right either way, I’m not thirty anyway, mate.”
“Well that’s good. Come in here to the study, see what I’m working on.”
Schlatt led Phil through a short hallway, the arches of the homes of the Demonicals creating a pleasant rounded shape to every hall and room of their dwellings. On his intricately carved desk, his book still lay open, the ink already dry from when he had gotten up to get the door. Phil observed the room with a sharp and searching eye. There was, of course, the relatively clean and organized desk. However, the rest of the room did not look as picturesque as the mahogany desk. There must have been small side tables littered around the cozy room at some point, but were now deeply buried beneath stacks of paper, trays of used dishes, and other trinkets that were obviously well-loved—and well-used. There were a few picture frames perfectly centered on the wall behind parallel to the one the desk was resting against, depicting some well-dressed Ramlings who Phil assumed were Schlatt’s parents.
On one of the overflowing stacks of paper, a framed piece of fraying parchment sat, with deep inkings that looked ages old. Phil recognized this map, as he had been the one to give it to Connor—along with the key to the secret passage into the End mountain—all those years ago, back when Schlatt was much younger. It was nostalgic to see . . . as nostalgic as something that happened not long ago could be for somebody his age. He truly did not expect how the journey to the End mountain would alter both Schlatt and the others they travelled with, but it did, and there was no returning from that point. Obviously, not everything was negative, as Schlatt seemed to be living out the rest of his days in relative satisfaction.
Noticing his look around the cluttered room, Schlatt huffed, “Yes, yes I know, it’s messy and shit. I really should clean it—wouldn’t want to have to leave that to Tommy once he gets it . . .” he trailed off, watching Phil with an expression that he couldn’t quite place. “Get over here and look at my book, I worked really hard on this thing,” he said, gesturing over to the open book on the desk. He closed the cover and opened it again to the first page, where he had previously written—
“‘There and Back Again, a Demonical’s Tale’” Phil read aloud, his gaze slipping farther down the page, “‘By J. Schlattanium Ramling.’ Ah, so it’s pretty official, then?”
“Yeah, yeah. It is.”
There was silence as Phil stared at the page, memories of decades ago surfaces once more. He opened his mouth warily, watching Schlatt with a pitying eye. “Did you write all about . . . him?”
Schlatt didn’t look at the wizard or say anything, some complicated emotion in his eyes. His ears sunk a bit, however, always a tell that Phil had observed in Demonicals for ages. After a few moments, he spoke up. “Enough, y’know. What needs to be written about . . . Connor.”
Phil hummed, flipping through the book absentmindedly. The majority of the parchment pages were still blank, to his surprise. Schlatt must have noticed it in his expression because he added, “That’s all for Tommy, if he ever wants to write anything down—I think something big should happen in his life.”
“Ah, so . . . you’re still going through with your plan tonight?”
“Yes. You know how I’ve grown tired of this place—all farming and knitting and a place where nothing ever happens.” Schlatt motioned out the nearby window, a sour look on his face, “I want to see mountains again—mountains, Phil! Huge forests, towering cliffs and flowing rivers . . . I’ve truly missed all of that here.” Schlatt glanced out the same window, out at the the rolling hills of Logstedshire. “I know Tommy would go with me if I asked . . . but I don’t think he’s grown tired of this boring ass life like it has for me.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve come to terms with that,” Phil said, following Schlatt’s gaze with a distant look in his eyes. The sun was sinking lower in the sky now, a sure line that was uninterrupted even by clouds. “Now I think you’d better get to that party of yours, it’s about time you’d leave for it.”
“If I must,” Schlatt grumbled.