Lore/Story A Wanderer's Musings (Festival of the Bonfire Art Contest Submission)

A Wanderer’s Musings


Wanderer sat by a blazing hearth, tending to the flames as he strummed at the strings of an old wooden lute. The notes were gentle and melancholy, resounding through the city square before vanishing into the gray sky above.

It had been so long since he had returned.

Wanderer smiled faintly as the flames jetted upwards, releasing a ponderous cloud of smoke that smelled of applewood and spruce.

They were still there, in some forgotten corner of his memory. The three, bound by the pact…and a fourth, merely a distant silhouette beyond recollection.

The one we left behind.

He had a name then, a family, simpler comforts in a simpler life. Even now, so long after he had left, the memories resounded in his mind as clear as daylight, their taste bittersweet.


A traveling merchant made his way towards him, peddling a wooden cart brimming with ripe green apples. He waved and smiled as the merchant offered an apple to him, taking it with a worn hand.


The memory was painted in vivid color, a single moment frozen abruptly in time.
A tall woman, her face kind, cradled a child dressed in a tiny coat of violet wool. Besides her, a boisterous young boy in a fur jacket rolled in a pile of soft winter snow. Another besides them, wrapped in an oversized black and gray scarf, stared into the sky wondrously.

What had it cost? A few years of joy in exchange for a lifetime of…this? Of…wandering?”


Wanderer bit into the apple, a sigh slowly escaping his lips. The fruit tasted wistfully sweet, of warmth and home and a time long past.


And yet, seemingly against all odds, despite the pact itself, Envoy had found him, only mere husk
How had it happened? Was the pact finally about to unravel, after so many years? Or had it already been broken?

So many questions and so few answers.


Cheering abruptly sounded from the distance and Wanderer looked up from the flames. A human adventurer in glittering ornate armor entered the square, surrounded by a crowd of excited townspeople. The hero raised a gauntleted hand towards him and waved briefly. Wanderer set down the apple and nodded towards them.

Everything was changing, caught in a tide of rebirth and renewal. The world was no longer what it had been before, in the days of his former life.

He remembered Envoy’s warning, spoken quietly during their reunion.

The war takes an unexpected turn, brother. An end draws near.

Wanderer studied the hero intently as they made their way towards him. Was this the Light’s gambit? To base their victory upon the actions of a single champion?

It seemed foolish-but yet, standing in the vicinity of the adventurer, Wanderer almost believed it. Dressed in their shining armor, the human seemed to exude an aura coursing with an almost godly power.


Wanderer motioned towards the hero invitingly. They sighed and sat down beside him, taking an object from beneath their cloak and studying it intently.

“Your brother gave me this lantern,” they began, setting it down beside him. Wanderer held it up and inspected it with tentative hands.

It was a small and pale lamp made from a strange ethereal metal, glowing with a soft ghostly light. Wanderer ran his hands across its reflective glass surface. There was no doubt that it was one of Envoy’s creations.


“He told me that it has some sort of connection with the dead,” the hero said. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Wanderer nodded. “He…Envoy too is no longer what he once was. More spirit than man now, I’d imagine, but my brother still.”

“Are you as well?” they asked. “No longer truly human anymore?”

Wanderer rested a hand on his chin.. “I’d imagine my brothers are all still human, to an extent. It’s been so long..and we’ve all changed so much.

“Brothers?” the hero asked. “Was he…?” They abruptly stopped, their voice faltering.

Wanderer titled his head towards them, intrigued. “What is it?”

The hero seemed reluctant. “A memory,” they said. “Nothing more.”


“Memories are fleeting things, aren’t they?” Wanderer asked. “Many of those most dear to me have been lost over the passage of time.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a tiny wooden match, holding it gingerly in his worn hands. “I still remember my first time returning to this city,” he said. “It seemed so long ago. A year ago, two years, a decade?” He tossed the match into the air. “Everything had changed.” He turned to the hero.


Detlas had changed so much in so little time,” he continued. “In the blink of an eye, it had grown from a tiny fishing hamlet, cowering in fear of the Roots, to a bustling city thriving on trade.

But yet, when I first arrived, it seemed like nothing had changed. A horde of the corrupted dead had encircled the city, tearing at the gates. The assault had lasted for days, and supplies were running ever lower. When I made my way to the central plaza, the great fortress-city had become a ghost town, pale and silent as a corpse.

I knocked on doors, tapped on windows, all to no avail. Those who had the courage to face me slammed their doors and closed their blinds.

I had no home, no bed to sleep in or food to eat. The inns and taverns were closed, bolted shut with iron bars and locked with a wall of hostility. The roads were infested with the Corruption, and the airships had since long left the city’s port. All I bore was a single match, three sticks, and an old worn lute.

So I made my way to the city’s center, sat beside its old hearth, and lit a bonfire with my match and sticks, a tiny and feeble flame that seemed to grow ever weaker with every passing breath.

There, with only a ragged wool cloak and the bonfire to keep me warm, I played my lute, my voice ever faltering in the cold wind. Hours passed as I sat by the flame, strumming and tending the bonfire even as it slowly dimmed.

My hands had grown cold and numb, skin cracked as I strummed at the lute’s strings, and yet I played, watching as the sticks were slowly consumed and the fire grew ever dimmer.

The flame had nearly become a single ember when night fell, a great blanket of darkness that threatened to smother the flame with hands of icy wind. My singing became desperate, almost frantic and pained.

And yet, just before the flame dimmed, I heard the creak of a nearby door and watched as three wooden logs were tossed upon the hearth. A man, the bartender of a nearby tavern, stood before me, bearing a rusty fiddle.

Together, wordlessly, we played, our song echoing through Detlas’ dark streets. The flame seemed to burn with a renewed vigor, burning with hope.

As the night progressed, another joined us, carrying her harp and a large basket of firewood.
Flutes and clarinets, a great organ and a pair of drums filled the night with sound anew. Our songs rose to a crescendo, piercing through and beyond the night’s black cloak.
And the bonfire flared with brilliant light, a great beacon to ward off the darkness.

When morning came and a regiment of troops arrived from Ragni, Detlas was alive with color and sound. A festival, unlike any other in the world. The city, reborn in the warmth of the bonfire, the warmth of community.”


The hero smiled softly, a strange expression in contrast to their jaded facade. “Was this truly how the festival started?”

“It is a story,” Wanderer admitted. “It is up to us to believe what we want.”

The adventurer stood up, their armor creaking as they rose to their feet. “Thank you for your time, keeper.” They slipped on their traveling cloak, draping it across their shoulders. “I would stay here longer, but your brother did ask a favor of me.”

“No need to worry,” Wanderer replied gently. “You’ll always have a place at the bonfire.”
The hero nodded in gratitude before striding into the distance.

Wanderer smiled tenderly as a slight pang of sadness resounded deep in his heart. Far in a corner of his memory, he smelled the earthy aroma of crushed pinecones and snow.

We were so foolish then, learned and knowing and yet still so young. Everything could have been averted, this mad calamity stopped by simple wisdom.
And now, we’ve paid the price for our reckless ambition.

Wanderer wrapped his cloak tightly around his chest and continued to tend to the bonfire, watching the flames rise and fall. He strummed at the strings of his lute, a soft, sad tune that danced upon the wind and vanished into the clouded sky.

What was he now? A mere storyteller at the bonfire, telling tales of inspiration and hope that even he couldn't truly believe? Was that the price he had paid?

And most importantly, did the stories hold truth, the answers he had been searching so long, so frantically for?
Perhaps, even now, there still was hope, even weathered by time and memory, buried so far beneath.

Wanderer lifted his gaze to the distant skies, watching as the sun, a shade of mournful crimson, descended towards the horizon.

It had been so long since he had returned.

 

this is fantastic. i love this so much

 

Bump for the bonfire tender to see his family again

 

NEVER

 

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