Eleint 30, Year of Risen Elfkin (1375 DR)
A chill wind blew over the little valley that sheltered the town of Spearwater, pulling leaves down from the strong, aged trees of the orchard and into the carpet of yellow and brown-orange that covered the ground. It tugged at Kess Erron's cloak as he stood atop the palisade gate protecting the settlement, prompting him to draw it tighter over his chilled arms. The moisture it bore foretold early snows, prompting the farmers to work faster; Kess would be helping to bring in the harvest if he hadn't been stuck with militia duty.
He could see old Merrick and his sons Uthel and Alten leading the efforts to pluck the last of the apples from the trees, tossing the ripe fruit into great wooden barrels. The ripest they separated from the others; these would go bad before they could be traded for the grain that would bring them through the winter, so the village would feast on them during the harvest festival and dry the leftovers to keep grain from becoming too boring. The festival would be tonight, and Kess could hardly wait; they were roasting two entire pigs, and a new batch of goat cheese had just been finished. Besides, he'd heard Ayan was going to wear her white dress again.
Beyond the sturdy wood of the palisade, a thin alpine forest loomed in the half-light. Spearwater was built into a sort or ravine between two jagged peaks of the famed Storm Horns of Cormyr, protected on three sides by rock and the palisade as well as a rocky, difficult approach on the fourth. During the Goblin Wars a few years past, a group of Orcish bandits had tried to siege the town and were slain to the last attempting to charge it. Kess was proud to be of hardy mountain stock; they had never needed the King's protection, which was just as well now that there was only an overstretched regent to give it.
Turning away to watch the preparations again, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. His hands flew to his bow and quiver, and in less than a second he had an arrow on the string. Another second and he'd pulled it back to his cheek, ready to fire. Sure enough, something was coming up the rough mountain path. Kess watched it carefully; it was impossible to tell what it was from this distance, but the wind was behind him, and he could drop it in a second if it looked remotely hostile. It came closer, moving past the trees; it was clearly humanoid, but that counted for nothing in mountains where Orcs and bandits were common.
When it was finally close enough to be clearly seen, Kess allowed the tension in his bow to slowly ease. It was a young man, not much older than the militiaman himself, of very fair skin and with light brown curls atop his head. He wore an oilskin cloak, the hood bouncing behind him so that his features could be clearly seen, and clothing of grey linen. A sword was strapped across his back beneath a heavy pack; his step was weary and weighted, which made sense given that the only way to Spearwater was over rough terrain and uphill.
"Trav'lr ho!"
The young man's head snapped up, but the shout hadn't been intended for him. Merrick tossed one last apple into the village barrel and sprinted to the best of his ability toward the palisade; he was growing old and worn down with farm work, but he was still strong, and it took him only a minute or so to run across the village. Panting, he ascended the steps up to the tope of the gate, where he stood beside his nephew and looked down at the traveler below. "Doesn't look too dangerous, though the Maimed God knows why he'd be traveling in the Storm Horns this season."
"Ho there!" The youth just kept looking up expectantly. "What business have you in Spearwater?" He shook his head, then pointed to his mouth and shook it again. "Can't tell me? What's that supposed to mean?" He repeated the gesture. "Listen, at least tell me where you're bound for." Exasperated, he shouted in a deep, rich voice that made absolutely no sense, then shrugged his shoulders and fell silent. "I don't think he speaks Chondathan," Kess said. "Try Common." Merrick nodded, and repeated his first question in the harsher, less expressive tones of Faerun's trade language. But the young man just shook his head again.
"It could be a trap, but I couldn't see anyone with him." Merrick frowned; with most of its normal defenders occupied with the harvest, the village couldn't afford to take unnecessary risks, but no one wanted Spearwater to gain a reputation for turning away travelers; their inn, however small, generated much-needed income. Another shout from below, the words of it somehow both rough and flowing, drew the pair's attention back to the young man, who drew forth his sword and held it before him. Kess's hand flew to his bow again, but Merrick stopped him. "It's not like he can attack us from down there, and he must know that."
Sure enough, he laid the weapon flat across his palms and stopped, as though offering it to the sentries. Then, suddenly, he flipped it up from his hands, leaving it to spin in the air, then caught it as it came down, twisted it behind his back, threw it again, rolled the hilt down the slope of his neck and into his hand, twirled the flat of the blade around his arm, tossed it up again, and moved his back so that it landed cleanly in its sheath. The whole display took no more than a few seconds; Kess's eyes were wide, and even Merrick looked impressed. "So, he's an entertainer. Help me let him in, Kess."
The two of them made their way down beside the heavy wooden gate; taking hold of the winch, they heaved with all their might. Little by little, the wood moved upward, retracting into the hollow in the upper palisade. The mechanism was the most valuable thing in the village, and one of the most important; other towns of similar size usually couldn't afford such potent protection, and bandits usually went after easier prey. The traveler stepped beneath the huge wooden construct without even looking at it; probably from a city, Kess decided.
Making a little bow and saying a word the pair assumed meant "thank you", the young man made his hand into a tube and lifted it to his lips. "He's thirsty," Kess said. "I know that," Merrick replied irritably. "I'm not senile yet." Beckoning, the aged farmer set off up the dirt path through the middle of the village. "Go stare at the road again, Kess. You were lucky enough to actually see something interesting once. Maybe the next time it'll be an Ogre ready to rip the head off of any lad who thinks his elders are complete fools just because they've got grey hair." Despite his curiosity about the stranger, Kess obeyed. It was just his luck to be stuck at the palisade while a mysterious traveler passed through town.
Lilian Rysstas looked up with a start as the door of the Appleblossom Inn swung open to admit Merrick, closely followed by a tall stranger with very fair skin. She did a double take at the sight of a new face; the grain merchants weren't expected until the next day, and this young man was alone. She left her loom and hurried over to the bar, fixing a smile on her face. "Welcome, traveler. What can I get for you?" "He doesn't speak a lick of Chondathan, nor Common, neither." She raised an eyebrow at Merrick, but his face was perfectly serious. "What am I supposed to do, then?" "Play a little game of pantomime, like I did at the gate. Good luck."
He blew her a kiss, then turned and walked out, leaving her alone with the strange traveler. "Well, wherever you're from, you understand that you pay me," she mimed putting a coin down on the table, "and I give you a drink," she mimed raising a cup to her lips. He shook his head, and she sighed. "Well, so much for the basics." She looked around for help; a number of middle-aged women sat around the inn, filled barrels of freshly-picked apples beside them, cutting the bad spots out of the fruit for the night's celebrations. A few of them cast curious glances at the bar, and others shrugged, but none spoke up.
Turning back to the young man, she noticed that he had taken three cloth balls from the pockets of his leather jacket and was motioning with them, two in one hand and one in the other. "Sorry," she said. "Coin of the realm only. Or at least bring something a little better than that if you want to barter." He probably had no idea what she was saying, but maybe he got the gist of it. He shook his head again; it seemed to be his iconic gesture. Walking out into the center of the room, he vaulted onto an unoccupied table, turning all heads in his direction. "Hey! None of that! I just washed those tables!" It was half shout and half groan.
He flashed a winning smile around the room, his teeth startlingly white compared to the dingy, worn-down ones of the villagers, and tossed one ball into the air, then caught it with the same hand. He did it again; all eyes were now fixed on the little cloth balls. Without further delay, he began to juggle, slowly and easily transferring the little balls from hand to hand. It was simple enough; they'd seen a few minstrels do it before. Then, still keeping the three balls up in the air, he leaned down and delicately dipped his boot into one of the barrels. Flicking it upward, he brought an apple into his pattern, now of four.
A few people clapped, but he just shook his head again, still smiling. Then he did it again, and again; six spheres flew through the air, landing easily in his practiced hands despite their great speed. He was a blur of motion, as was each of his projectiles. A stronger round of applause broke out, but he shook his head yet again. He began throwing each ball higher, moving them up toward the ceiling. He moved along the table just a little bit, then tossed each ball (though not the apples) outward to bounce against the wall right above one of the recently-lit torches. Each one came back aflame, but he received them without hesitation; the leather gloves he wore protected his palms from the heat, and he kept his hands open so as not to smother the flame.
With this impressive array of objects, he began to skip, turning on the spot as he did so. Still spinning on his own axis like a top, he slowly cantered around the edge of the circular table, gradually gaining speed. A moment later and he was moving almost as fast as the balls he threw, half of them afire; he never seemed to be in doubt as to where to put his hands or feet, even after spinning for a good minute. The entranced women put down their knives and applauded hard, and this time he let them, still smiling as he moved.
Slowly he came to a stop, extinguishing the balls and allowing the apples to fall neatly back into the barrel. Pocketing his implements, he stepped down from the table to continued clapping, then made his way back to the bar. Mirth in his eyes, he mimed drinking just as Lilian herself had done. Agape, it took her a moment to react, but she deftly filled a mug of ale and set it before him; he'd earned at least that much. He picked it up and brought it back over to the table he'd stood upon, then drew a sword of modest quality from the sheath beneath his backpack.
He drained the ale of its froth, bringing the liquid to just below the top of the cup, then placed one hand over the opening. Taking his sword in the other, he tapped the cup with it, drew his arm back, and swung straight at the clay vessel. The assembled women gasped as the sound of breaking earthenware echoed through the Appleblossom. Yet, an instant later, the young traveler lifted the perfectly intact cup up to the light for all to see, then drank freely from it, emptying it in one long swig. Returning to the bar as the applause renewed, he passed the empty container over and mimed drinking again.
Lilian picked it up, looking for cracks, but she could find none; she'd definitely heard it shattering and seen the sword pass right though it, but the outside wasn't even wet. Amazed, she refilled it and set it before him again. This time he simply stood on one of the stools adjacent to the bar and, lifting the cup in one hand, tossed it over his head. It turned over twice in the air before he caught it in his other hand, but not a single drop of ale splashed out. As clapping once again filled the inn, he took a bow and sat at the stool, where he began to slowly and tranquilly drink his beverage as though nothing had happened.
"If I can just figure out how to get him to the festival," the awed innkeeper mused, "we'll have the kingliest entertainment in all the Storm Horns."