It was quite clear to Vernon Chester "Chesty" Adams that last April was the worst in living memory. This morbid distinction was only possible because one of his most beloved family members had finally succumbed to a long, torturous battle with bone cancer. Chesty's grandfather, James, had been the last of all of his grandparents to pass on, though his was the first death to illicit relief rather than tears.
His last months had been painful and filled with a terrible certainty of his mortality. Watching a man so proud, tough, and industrious, a firefighter for over thirty years in Calhoun County go from walking with limited assistance to being bed ridden for the last four months of his life was a heart wrenching transformation. The pandemic only worsened the circumstances, since his mother, sick with a virus, was unable to visit James at all during his final days.
Now, in mid June, ironically on the same day Chesty's grandmother, Sally had her ashes buried two years previously, he, along with his two cousins, his mother, his aunt, and his uncle finally managed to get his grandfather's ashes buried. Husband and wife were together, sharing the same headstone in a humble graveyard where other, more distant members of the family were resting as well. That was two days ago, on Thursday.
Today, Chesty was at home, alone and at a loss for what to do. His normal work schedule, working at a local mom and pop restaurant, gave him a few days off. Saturday was his last full day off, and he was taking full advantage before going through the inevitable grind that was Sunday lunch tomorrow. Sitting on his bed, he was currently staring at a small fold out knife, the first one that his Papaw James had given him. No longer than three inches long, it was hardly an imposing weapon. Its handle had a painting of a calm pond, with herons, ducks, and fish peacefully coexiting on a small tapestry of green plants and clear water.
The pond reminded him of his grandfather's lake, a quaint, man made body of water that was but a stone's throw away from Chesty's parents' house on foot. It had a cabin, which afforded its inhabitant with a futon, a refrigerator, air conditioning, lights, and a small television. In the aftermath of James' passing, refurbishing the lake had become a new project for Chesty's extended family. In a way, it was meant to honor the esteemed patriarch of the mother's side of his family.
"Maybe I need a change of scenery." Chesty muttered to himself. There was a surprising amount of things that one could do if they put their mind to it.
In short order, Chesty wore a dry-fit shirt with camouflage patterns and a matching pair of gym shorts. He likewise wore some worn tennis shoes that could handle walking over pure wilderness. For fun's sake, he brought a bow and some arrows, for there were targets that he could set up and shoot at without the threat of hitting another living creature. Chesty was far from an Olympian level archer, but he was far from average. Afterwards, Chesty took his fold-out knife and a grey stainless steel, insulated water bottle, putting both in a small backpack.
Clothed properly and with sufficient deodorant on his body, Chesty made the modest walk about a quarter of a mile to his grandfather's lake property. Moving between a thin tree line which made the boundary of a neighbor's property and a field that was just as long though not nearly as wide as a football field, he found himself at the beginning of a winding forest path, cleared by a large, powerful mower and copious amounts of wood chopping. The path was only about forty feet long, and it lead to a hillside overlooking the lake and the cabin in question.
The dark green, wooden cabin was a single room, and it stood on one side of the lake, near a makeshift dock. It was hardly a deep lake, no more than three and a half to four feet at its deepest. Nevertheless, roughly thirty to forty fish, composed of five different species, made their home at the little lake.
It took another minute of walking to reach the cabin, but Chesty made it without incident. A small gateway lead to the modest concrete patio that made up the front most section of ground on the cabin property. He paused as he saw a small, crude engraving in one corner of the trapezoid shaped slab that began the gateway.
James Connors, Aug 12, 1998
It was clearly the date that concrete was first poured in the property. He was merely three years old at the time.
The momentary reminiscing sparked an unpleasant ache in Chesty's heart. Seeing the legacy of his departed grandfather still brought pain, if only because he felt so inadequate compared to the old man.
His grandfather had been a marine officer in the years immediately after the Second World War. James had not seen fighting on the Korean Peninsula; rather, he had been part of the occupying force in Japan whilst reconstruction was occurring. Noted for his skill with a rifle before even receiving training, he had quickly risen through the ranks, and served with dignified distinction overseas. When he returned home, he married Sally May Scott, a woman with kin north of the state border with Georgia. For decades, he was a Calhoun County firefighter, beloved by his neighbors and the community at large for his bravery and dedication to public service.
Meanwhile, there was Chesty, a high school grad who, while smart, had little interest in continuing his education, much to his mother's chagrin. He was a polite, but largely unassuming young man who never dated a girl once, even during the senior prom. All he could think of was getting a simple job that did not require him moving away from his beloved home in the panhandle of Florida. That was, of course, scheduled after he served his country, much like his grandfather did.
Chesty had joined the Marines in 2013, and served a single tour in Afghanistan. It was during said tour, that he and his fellow soldiers, whilst on a small convoy moving eastward out of Kabul, suffered a roadside bomb explosion. Chesty was relatively fortunate to have suffered only bad bruising, cracked ribs, and a fractured left humerus.
Even with such injuries, he had managed to rescue the only other soldier to have survived the explosion. Then, whilst fighting through near blinding pain, he shot and killed three militants that had tried to ambush the crippled leading car. When the rest of the convoy's men moved to help, the brief skirmish was over, and Chesty suddenly became a hero in one smallish section of a larger, messier conflict.
Chesty received the Purple Heart for his brave efforts, but would never again hold a weapon in an overseas war. He returned to civilian life by late 2015, and spent several years trying to find meaning and fulfillment after his yearly baptism of hot lead and fire. For a time, he worked for one of his uncles, a well off man who had a small contractor company that renovated and flipped houses in the northwest of Florida. Chesty sometimes indulged in camping and survival lessons, one of the few hobbies that complemented his training in the armed forces.
Perhaps, to Chesty's own torment, he was stuck in a rut with regards to his early adult life. He was in a boring job with nothing but his military service to distinguish himself from the rest of his community. Though he was regarded with appreciation and respect, Chesty felt like he had not fully deserved it. With his grandfather's passing, he hoped to enter a volunteer firefighter brigade. He could then use the experience from said service to try and make a career out of the same job his grandfather had.
Then, perhaps, Chesty would feel like a worthwhile man who could honor not only his grandfather's legacy, but also contribute to the hometown that he loved so much.
Having found a hidden key and unlocked the lake's cabin, Chesty brought out his cellphone and decided to text his mother. She would be the first to arrive home, and would likely be asking about her son's whereabouts.
"Gone to Papaw's lake. Probably spend the night there. Just wanted to let you know."
Chesty took a brief drink of the insulated water bottle in hand before he moved to get out the archery target blocks that were laid up against a wall. Taking the square objects to the top of the hill, he laid them on a flattish part of the land, in front of a patch of woodland where plentiful leaf litter and oak trees.
The bow Chesty had was a fairly expensive compact bow that could be used for professional hunting. His experience in killing animals for sport was admittedly quite limited, but he understood the basics. Right now, uncaring of any game season, Chesty simply wanted to hone his accuracy and precision with stationary targets.
Walking back some fifty feet, well under the average range of his weapon, Chesty slowly assumed a proper standing position. His knees were relaxed, his feet shoulder width apart, and his back straight. Grabbing one of the ten arrows in a simple Velcro quiver looped over his back, Chesty prepared to fire the arrow. He did not use his full strength: it was not necessary.
Pulling back on the string, the wheels on the top and bottom of the bow began to spin, multiplying the tension on the string and greatly increasing the range and power of whatever was being launched. The arrow was silently loose, and the projectile landed right in the middle of the left target, just above the bullseye by about an inch.
"Hmph, typical." Chesty mused. He was not the most dedicated bowman, though he at least credited himself for having competent muscle memory. He drew back a second arrow, intending to hit the bullseye of the right most target block. Again, like a machine, he purposefully made all the proper moves to ensure a smooth arrow shoot.
As he exhaled a breath in preparation for striking the target, a large horsefly buzzed terrifyingly close to Chesty's face.
"Jesus!" Panicked, he drew his bow back with great force, and the arrow flew well above the right most target deep into the woods. Chesty swatted frantically around him while curing his upper torso the other way. Even a former soldier like him loathed horseflies.
After a few moments of calm, Chesty looked ahead at the targets. He quickly realized that he had lost one of his arrows. Annoyed greatly at this inconvenience, he glanced beyond the targets, hoping in vain that the lost arrow had not landed too far away.
"Damn..." Chesty took an exasperated breath as he trudged forward. Arrows were a pricy commodity, and were best reused for as long as possible. After collecting the arrow that had planted itself in the left target, he carefully stepped into the woods to look for the second arrow.
It became readily apparent that the arrow he had erroneously loosed was much farther away than he had originally thought. Ten feet into the woods, and not a sign of the iconic white and black fletching could be seen. Chesty kept his head level, scanning the ground for the telltale characteristics of his missing projectile. Frustration grew as minutes of searching proved futile. It was clear deeper exploration was needed.
Grimacing with each step, Chesty had to spare his attention to avoid poison ivy and listen for venomous snakes. Eastern diamondback rattlesnakes and the less common but more stealthy copperhead could make their homes in the forests of northwest Florida. Three minutes of searching was proving frustrating, and it befuddled Chesty that an arrow could prove so illusive.
Suddenly, he saw the arrow in question, having lanced itself onto a tree stump that was larger than a manhole.
"Yes!" Chesty maintained enough caution to not rush his way to the arrow, but his heart beat faster with contentment as he stepped up to the tree stump and gently recovered the wayward arrow. A quick examination assured Chesty that it maintained structural integrity and could be reused for practice.
Then, as Chesty placed the arrow in his quiver, he noticed a strange marking on the tree stump in front of him. It appeared to be an emblem of three equilateral-equiangular triangles that composed a larger triangle. The shapes had been perfectly carved into the center of the stump, as if a master carpenter had simply stamped the shape into the timber.
"What the heck is this?" It was no emblem Chesty was familiar with. The sides of the triangles were too smooth and the wood of the tree stump too pristine to have been caused by natural decay. It appeared man made, but with methods Chesty could not fathom.
Kneeling down, he brushed a thumb over the emblem, trying to determine if the tree stump itself was real, or a very convincing fake. Suddenly, the triangular emblem began to glow a bright blue, a sight that was both hypnotic and alarming for Chesty. As the light intensified, he was forced to avert his eyes, and an odd, blue energy began to wash over his kneeling form. A flash enveloped him, and he and the gear in his possession disappeared without a trace.
As the glow vanished, the triangular symbol on the tree stump faded to nothing. The grain of the wood became a continuous surface, with no evidence that it was ever home to a foreign emblem.
Another side project of mine, though I confess I might have too many plates on the counter if you know what I mean...
Eh... I'm sure it's nothing. I'll commit to short chapters for this Breath of the Wild fanfic.
To clarify:
1) This takes place after the Calamity, but roughly thirteen months before Link awakens.
2) The main character, Chesty, is more of a third party witness to many of the events and goings on in Hyrule. His role in the main quest that Link is going on will be limited, at best, though rest assured, there will be eventually times where the two will cross paths.
3) Some of the stories will be partially inspired from gameplay that I have done in Breath of the Wild, but there will be special events and items outside of the main quest. Can you guess some of the things Chesty will find and earn as he navigates his way in Hyrule?
As a final challenge to the reader, what is your guess as to where specifically he will end up within Hyrule? I'll give a hint in that it will not be the Great Plateau, otherwise he would be stuck up there, and this isn't Gilligan's Island I'm trying to write here.
As always, many thanks to those reading my stories.
