Once upon a time, there was a young girl. This girl was the daughter of the Countess Ember and Earl Elric. The girl's name was Willow as that is where she was birthed, under a willow. As this girl reached childhood, she realized what she wanted to be, Willow desperately wished to be a knight, to go to battle with the wyverns. Not to fight once arrived though, to stay, and live and learn from them as they have educated themselves with their own languages.
All this, she had read in a book, a great old one, bound with hide, worn with age. This was a queen's book, stolen, returned, traded, and bought with silver, bronze, zinc, and gold coins. From reading this great book, Willow was enchanted with literacy, and two wondrous form of writing, faerytales and poetry. Such works lost save this musty book
Willow often rests within a favorite grove within the flooded wood. Glancing down the hill she sat upon, she thought she had seen a deer. This could hardly be correct as the stones stick up out of the mudded down water and one would be reduced to hopping along, trying to keep balance.
Aartiky never stood erect, it just wasn't possible for him. He scurried around, sometimes with his hands, sometimes just crouched. There was a different air about him. Or maybe it was just his eyes, the way they wobbled and shook. His legs were long, too long maybe. Hands always tense, Aarkity looked poised for action. Probably the action he like best: pouncing. He would pounce on all manner of things, pieces of string, stray marbles, but mostly anything shiny. Aarkity loved shiny objects with a passion, silver cogs (the currency in Bobin), needles, the very rare opal dug up from the ground.
He was half-child, half-pet. That was all his keepers cared to admit. Secretly, though, Aarkity suspected he was no higher than a dog. Almost family and stupidly loyal.
He lived in a mediocre village. The kind with stone cottages and thatched roofs. No one was particularly wealthy, so no one ruled. There was a large centre well and smaller ones scattered around. Aarkity's family were the ones to build the centre well. And so, their surname was Welle; Ida and Ernest Welle. And the children of course. Maude, Myllu, Felix, Reuben, Ollie, Pireo, Jorgy and Lona. And Aarkity. But he didn't really count. Until the strange boy's family built a house in Bobin.
He said his name was Garfyld, but who knew if it was true or not. He always stood stock still, staring and staring. Aarkity couldn't quite figure him out. What was he thinking? Was he angered or pleased? Who knew? Aarkity certainly didn't. Did his keepers? His keepers weren't the kind you could just up and ask; they were always bustling about, not able to keep their hands still. They were scientists, or so they thought. True, they made many cogs, but fair? Aarkity thought not.
A king's sorrow could not be easily summed up. He has the trouble of keeping a kingdom in place.
A great, elaborate tree grew from the top of his head. "Dillon will see whom the real king of the forest is," he muttered.
"Hershel. Pssst, it's me Kapel. Hey, what you doing here?! This here's Dillon's part of the forest!"
Hershel spoke through his teeth, "Kapel, who have you brought?"
"Oh oh oh oh, It's just me. Honest."
"And I," a voice came through a thicket.
"Velvel," Hershel said, clearly surprised, "and for what reason have you accompanied this hedgehog?" With the last word the deer hissed at Kapel.
"I to seek revenge from this immigrant lion."
"He has wronged you too?"
"In many ways, yes.
Not perfect, true, but then again, is anything?
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