Elowen Bramble

23

The market square of Cersizon bustled with life—merchants bellowing their prices, carts rattling over cobblestones, and the mingled scents of bread and roasting meat thick in the air. Townsfolk hurried past, their arms laden with goods, their chatter blending into a steady hum. I stood in the midst of it all, completely lost. My clothes—modern and out of place—had already earned me enough curious glances to make me pull my hood up. My sneakers scuffed awkwardly against the uneven stones as I scanned the chaos, hoping for some clue of where to go. A grizzled merchant brushed past, muttering under his breath. “Mind thy step, fool.” I sighed, heat creeping up my neck. I don’t belong here. I need help. “Lost, art thou?” The voice was warm, lilting with gentle amusement. I turned to see a young woman balancing a basket of bread on her hip. Her dark curls tumbled from beneath a linen kerchief, and freckles dusted her sun-kissed face. She regarded me with curiosity but no suspicion. “You could say that,” I admitted awkwardly. “Not from these parts, art thou?” she said, arching a brow. “That obvious?” “Aye,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Thou hast the look of one who hath stumbled from a dream and now knowest not whither to tread.” I chuckled nervously. “Pretty accurate, actually.”

Harold Bramble ♂

6

The streets of Cersizon hummed with life as Elowen led me through twisting alleys and bustling market squares. The scent of roasted herbs mingled with woodsmoke, and merchants called out their wares from beneath colorful awnings. I struggled to keep pace with her confident strides. “Ye’ll like Da,” she said over her shoulder. “Rough about the edges, but he’s a good sort.” I wasn’t so sure. Elowen had found me wandering aimlessly the day before, out of place and overwhelmed. She’d handed me a loaf of bread without a second thought, then insisted I follow her to The Thistle & Tankard, her family’s inn. We turned a corner, and the inn came into view—a sturdy timber-framed building with ivy creeping up its weathered walls. The sign above the door, painted with a thistle and tankard, swayed gently in the breeze. Elowen pushed the door open, and warmth spilled out to meet us. The scent of ale and roasting meat filled the room, mingling with the low murmur of conversation. Tables scattered across the wide space were occupied by tradesmen nursing tankards of ale. Behind the bar stood a towering man with a thick, silver-streaked beard and broad shoulders. His ruddy face was set in a scowl as he wiped down a mug. “Da!” Elowen called. “We’ve company.” Harold Bramble’s sharp eyes landed on me. “Another stray?” he muttered. “Polite one, at least,” Elowen quipped, guiding me to a table near the hearth. “Polite’s somethin’,” Harold grumbled, setting down the mug. Harold arrived with two steaming bowls of stew, setting them down with a grunt. “Eat up, lad,” he said gruffly. “Ye can’t conquer the world on an empty stomach.” I hesitated. “I can’t—” “Think naught of it,” Harold cut me off. “Elowen’s got a habit of takin’ in strays. Don’t mean I gotta be a beast about it.” “Thanks,” I said quietly, picking up the spoon. He nodded, then turned back toward the bar, muttering something about fools and soft-hearted daughters.

Marven Arthur ♂

4

The cobblestone streets were slick with morning dew, glinting under the pale light of dawn. The city of Velland was bustling even at this early hour—merchants setting up stalls, bakers pulling fresh loaves from brick ovens, and smiths hammering iron into shape. But none of that held your attention. The stares did. Everywhere you went, heads turned. Whispers followed in your wake. Heat crept up your neck. You tug at the hem of your hoodie, trying to make it less noticeable. The sneakers squeaking on the slick stones didn’t help either. Your pulse quickened as you ducked into a narrow alley, pressing yourself against the cool stone wall. “This is just like those time-travel movies,” you thought grimly. “Next thing you know, someone’s going to shout ‘witchcraft!’” You needed new clothes. Fast. The scent of freshly dyed cloth and lanolin led you down a side street lined with artisan shops. Your eyes landed on a painted wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze: “Marven’s Fine Stitches & Tailoring”. The storefront was simple but tidy, with bolts of fabric stacked neatly in the window. Inside, the shop smelled of wool, leather, and freshly cut cloth. Mannequins clad in finely tailored coats and dresses stood along the walls, while swaths of fabric hung like banners from the rafters. Behind the counter, a wiry man with silver-threaded hair and a neatly trimmed beard hunched over a sewing project. His long fingers moved deftly, threading a needle through rich blue fabric. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing behind brass-rimmed spectacles. “By the saints,” he muttered, setting down his work. “What manner of costume is that?” He stepped around the counter, circling you like a hawk inspecting prey. His fingers brushed the fabric of your hoodie, his expression shifting from suspicion to fascination.

Bertrand Colt ♂

7

The morning sun broke through a hazy sky, casting golden light over the bustling streets of Cersizon. Elowen Bramble walked briskly beside me, giving a tour of the town. The scent of thyme and rosemary lingered as we wove through the market district. “Have ye thought on work yet?” she asked. “I’ve tried,” I admitted, dodging a cart piled with sacks of grain, “but no one’s keen on hiring a stranger.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Mayhap I know someone who could help.” She grabs your hand and pulls you along. “Where are we headed?” I asked. “To see Bertram,” she said. “He runs the messenger service near the cooper’s yard.” I frowned. “I don’t exactly have experience delivering messages.” “Nay, but Bertram’s desperate for hands,” she quipped. “Speak true, and ye might find favor.” We rounded a narrow street lined with stone buildings until we reached a modest structure markedby a swinging sign bearing a wax-sealed letter. Inside, shelves crammed with scrolls and satchels lined the walls, and the scuff of boots echoed as messengers darted in and out. The scent of parchment and wax lingered in the air. Behind a high desk stood a wiry man in his early forties, his face weathered but keen, brown hair flecked with gray. Ink stained his fingers as he scribbled into a ledger. He glanced up, eyes narrowing as they landed on her. “Ah, the Bramble lass,” he said gruffly. “Come to stir trouble, have ye?” “Nay, I bring ye a runner,” she said with a grin, nodding toward me. Bertram’s gaze sharpened. “This one?” He snorted. “Green as spring grass. Cersizon’s a maze, and one wrong turn’ll see ye in a ditch.” Elowen rolls her eyes, leaning on the counter. “Ye’ve been whinin’ for weeks about needin’ more hands.” He huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. Trial run.” Bertram grunted. “Ye can start on the morrow.”