The Key
Chapter 1
Many a norm in his life could be seen as a tad odd to the common narrow-minded eyes of one of the town-folk down in the heavily-inhabited crowd of buildings and human far from his God-blessed sanctuary: an example was to go ahead and wander of into his self-proclaimed fortress of green-pink-yellow-blue, especially deep in the night when the stars in the Heaven above seem to burn the brightest, and think and think, maybe even nap a bit if he wanted to, and find some more things to think about.
At several but not all times had he brought a clear canvas and paints that could weave a hand-made rainbow at the flick of an experienced wrist to jot his creativity into tangible form. He expressed his wild visions in the most expectantly awe-issuing way, and as much as he'd loved and longed for some human companionship, naught but the eyes of him, his holy Lord above, and the stars ever gazed a peek. A con, he considered it, in his life that can never be brushed aside - not even the gentle breeze can sway this knowledge away. He stared at the glittered sky, his sight closer to them from the elevated terrain. His face was solemn and the expression was never-budging. The land of lonesome beauty was nice, but mere flowers and grasses of different variety could not wrap a warm arm around this oaf of a man, he thought to himself in bitter realization.
His main living quarters are located a few meters away from his floral-y decorated work place. The warm little cabin was accompanied by a barn about three times as large, which had been built countless generations before his own time. A few of the standard barn-yard animals occupied the space: two strong middle-aged horses, a few cows, both young and aged, and a few chickens that looked to be at the brink of their foretold life-times.
He had taken a look into his food supply that morning, and it was unsurprisingly low. That was expected actually; he had been in a feverishly gluttony mood the night before (he'd apologized to his God, knowing he sinned against Him for that event) and told himself that he'd go into town to stock up. This wasn't the first time a problem of the sort had occurred, and he always had a solution for things he knew were to happen. And in this predicament, he'd have to go into town, with the remaining money of the earlier generations of the Vargas bloodline (which isn't much, to his comfort) and the money he would gain from selling some items he gain through hand-blistering labor (some plants he'd grown himself, some milk he had gotten from the cows mentioned earlier, similar things of the lot.)
In between the aged walls of the Vargas household, the last known man of his kin was preparing himself and his bag for the journey that lay ahead. He made sure his hair was okay and in presentable shape, for the sake of his long-passed Mama, who'd always nag about the sort of thing. Attention to his clothes followed after, and in a few minutes, he had made himself into his epitome of presentable. For someone of his background, he looked excusable.
His time-water-earth-sod-worn boots made faint click clack sounds with every tap against the stern, rock-like ground that made the walk way that follows in a semi-straight line out the door. Ignoring the straying trail ahead, he darted past the grass and soon into the barn. Barn animals, chickens and cows alike, whined at the sudden intrusion of their owner. They seem to catch up on the occasion, taking heed of the intimidating man's newer and cleaner garb. They moved out of the way in an almost scripted fashion.
It was easy taking Talia, his personal horse, out of the decaying walls of the centuries old shack, but not as easy to get on. She was a young horse (in comparison with the other one, who was a few years older) and held much more energy than she'd more time to spend. She buckled and swayed often, making a supposedly tedious task one of the most horrendous and worrisome (if there were others to witness)
Finally, with a triumphant sigh, he found his bottom on the saddle that was strapped around her. He doesn't ride horses often as much as he probably should, but he knew what to do, his thanks regarded to the instructed guidance of the past.
Bearing them in mind, they darted through the varying layers of forest that separated town from the flower strewn land of the Vargas, with the noon's sun burning in their wake.