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Chapter 1

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Beware of maladies of the mind, for they can be just as harmful to a patient as a missing limb. -an excerpt from the Book of The Healer

Cyril leaned against a lantern post at the end of the docks, looking out over the waters. Straining his eyes, he attempted to see the outline of the mountains of his home island on the horizon. On a clear day their shape was much easier to make out, however today there was a light fog obscuring the horizon, making it difficult to discern where exactly the island was. Still, he looked out over the water, focusing on the sounds of the waves, ignoring the twinges of pain from his still healing back.

“Homesick already?" Asked a cheerful voice from behind him. The question brought a memory forth unbidden.

He was standing on a dock much like the one he stood on now. The sun was shining and a nice sea breeze kept the harshness of the sun at bay for the time being. “Homesick already?" A voice called to him before an arm was thrown haphazardly over his shoulder as Cyril turned to face the speaker. Ryl, a Varsulfr, or wolf-folk, member of his clan and one of his best friends, grinned down at him. Cyril was hardly the tallest person around, though Ryl all but towered over him. Six and a half feet of lean muscle gained from days spent fishing and helping around the village. Cyril had known Ryl for as long as he could remember, and was glad that if he had to leave his home to fight in some other country's war, he would be doing it alongside him. Though of course Ryl had to open his muzzle and ruin the thought. “Or are you just thinking about Tyra and that thing she does with her tail that you-“

“Ryl?" Cyril said, interrupting his furred friend.

“Yes Cyril?"

“Shut the fuck up."

Cyril shook the memory from his head as he turned to face the speaker, who, surprisingly enough, was Varsulfr. “Sorry friend, lost in thought a bit there, you were saying?"

The new arrival laughed and stuck out his hand in greeting. “No worries Islander, I was asking if you were homesick already or if you were preparing to return. Name's Tjorn Jekylsson, it's a pleasure." Cyril smiled and took Tjorn's hand in his. “Cyril Clansson, pleasure is mine." He took the moment to get a good look at the new arrival. Tjorn wasn't much taller than he was, probably standing somewhere around five eight, his fur coat was of a lighter shade of brown, which indicated that he was from one of the Varsulfr tribes that roamed the deserts to the south, his eyes a piercing amber filled with mirth. He wore simple garb that did nothing to betray his trade or his reason for standing on the docks talking to Cyril, though upon hearing his name Tjorn's eyes brightened. “Clansson eh? Does your tribe's naming convention just happen to follow ours or were you raised by wolves?"

The question brought a smile to Cyril's face. “I was raised by wolves." He answered with a laugh, “my birth mother dropped dead at the edge of the village when I was still a newborn, and the people of my clan took me in and raised me as their own, in all but blood and fur I am a member of the Bay Clan. Unfortunately, I will not be returning home for some time I fear, so to answer your earlier question, yes, I am homesick already." Tjorn laughed and clapped him on the back before walking back down the docks, looking over his shoulder he called back to Cyril. “Well, c'mon, you're not gonna make me drink alone are ya?" Smiling at the invitation, Cyril gathered his few belongings and followed the wolf.

As the two made their way through the portside town Cyril began to suspect that Tjorn knew everybody in a mile radius as he greeted practically everyone that they passed, even making some small talk as they walked by. They continued down some small winding streets and alleyways that were barely passable, making Cyril thankful he didn't have much with him, until Tjorn stopped about halfway down one of the more nondescript alleys, and opened a wooden door without any sort of marking. Cyril tensed, darting his eyes around, seeing if he could pick anything up. Finding nothing more out of the ordinary than the unmarked door itself, he cautiously followed Tjorn inside.

Once his eyes adjusted to the low light of the building Cyril could see all the makings of a hole in the wall tavern. A handful of tables filled an open area, each with several seats around them, a long bar against the far wall made from some dark wood, and behind it a row of casks and a few bottles of the stronger stuff. The tavern was sparsely populated, with a couple of people sitting at each table, but the air was still warm and filled with friendly conversation. Following Tjorn to the bar, he set down his belongings, carefully leaning his shield and sword against the exterior of the bar before removing the dark cloak he was given before leaving his home and setting it with the rest of his things. The cloak was a dark brown, almost black in color, made of a sturdy but well worked leather, making it soft and pliable. Under the cloak he wore plain brown breeches with a forest green shirt, leather braces on his arms in case he needed his shield for anything, and a leather belt with a loop to hold his sword.

Tjorn ordered two drinks and sat one down at the seat next to him, Cyril nodded and sat, wincing as he slowly relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders causing a ripple of pain down his back. “Yknow, for a moment I thought I was about to be mugged" Cyril joked as he took a sip from the mug of warm amber liquid, making a soft contented noise as he tasted the sweet brew. If Tjorn took offense to that he didn't show it, instead he took a long drink from his own mug before letting out a low chuckle. “That would be the least satisfying mugging ever, you barely have anything worthwhile, plus you're injured, don't think I didn't see you wince when you sat down. If anything I'm more curious about your story. How does an Islander go from fishing their days away to being a dragonslayer?" Tjorn asked, motioning towards the now partially obscured shield. “If you're so inclined to share that is."

Cyril took another drink and sighed. “The short of it was that I, along with a few guys from my clan, and a few others from the other clans on the island, were conscripted into the war because of some old ass treaty the Clan Elders signed generations ago. My buddy and I were two of the unlucky ones that got sent to a dragonslayer squad." Cyril shrugged, the motion causing his back to burn, how he couldn't wait to heal. “I did what I was ordered and the war ended, now I'm here." Tjorn nodded thoughtfully at this, taking a good long look at Cyril as if he was meeting him for the first time. “So why not stay on the island?" Cyril sighed. “I'm not proud of everything I did while I was a dragonslayer, I sought…am seeking atonement for what I've done, in accordance with the Old Ways. I was tasked with taking up the mantle of The Wanderer by an Elder Dragon from the Island."

Tjorn nodded, if the mention of a dragon surprised him, he did not show it. “It is good to know that other tribes of Varsulfr follow the Old Ways still, no offense meant, but it seems like these days the humans pick and choose more and more from them, only following whatever justifies their beliefs." Cyril nodded in agreement, “I noticed that as well during my time at war, most seemed to only recognize The Father, The Warrior and The Healer, and if I mentioned The Mother?" Cyril made a face that conveyed his meaning clearly. 'Yikes.'

“Hell, one night, before a mission, Ryl and I decided to hold a small ceremony for luck, prayers said to each of the Divine Family, some small offerings, that sort of thing. We ended up having to just about talk down the other members of our squad from running into the night screaming about heretics and witchcraft." The two shared a chuckle and Cyril fixed his eyes on the wall, his expression softening a bit as he remembered that night. Once the two of them were able to calm down the rest of their squad, the two of them explained their beliefs a bit more clearly and the others took it surprisingly well all things considered, and even apologized for interrupting their prayers.

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, focusing on their drinks, but Cyril could tell that his new acquaintance was bristling with questions. Deciding to break the silence, Cyril asked a question first. “So what is it that you do here exactly? I've been trying to figure out how a Varsulfr from the desert ends up in a wet and cold port town, and you don't exactly dress in any way that would betray what you do."

Tjorn gave Cyril a wry smile, taking a drink to prolong his silence. 'Gods above he's an ass, just like Ryl' Cyril thought to himself as he joined Tjorn in taking another drink of the sweet ale. The thought caused a faint pain to twinge inside of him but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the burning of his back, he probably reopened part of the wound, which unfortunately meant that he'd have to find a local healer because he didn't trust himself to not make it worse when trying to reapply the bandages.

Cyril finished his ale and motioned for another as he fished for his coin purse. Tjorn shook his head and gave the bartender a nod before speaking, “drinks are on me friend." Cyril opened his mouth to object but Tjorn held up a hand preemptively silencing Cyril before he could speak. “and before you object, I will answer your question if you don't mind answering a few more for me, you can view that as your payment if you'd like" Cyril sighed, but nodded in agreement, “you didn't have to pick up the tab, you could've just asked." Tjorn just laughed in response before finishing his own ale and getting himself a refill.

“Firstly, how badly are you injured and how did you receive your injury? I can smell the faint scent of blood on you, and it's fresh, which makes me think you're bleeding, not to mention you've been wincing every so often since you've sat down. What happened?" Cyril waited a beat to see if his new acquaintance was going to lay out all of his questions at once. When it became clear that was not the case, Cyril spoke. “I've lived amongst Varsulfr my entire life,and yet I still forget about how sensitive your noses can be." Cyril chuckled, “Well let's start out with the how, remember the dragon I mentioned earlier?" Tjorn gave Cyril a nod of confirmation. “Well, his name is Icandyr and he carved his sigil into my back as a mark of penance. It's not life threatening but boy does it hurt like a bitch, I think I may have reopened part of the wound when I sat down."

At the mention of a dragon's sigil being carved into Cyril's back, Tjorn's eyes went wide for a moment before he caught himself and forced his expression back to one of neutrality. “Sounds painful" he said, looking at the former dragonslayer with a more measured glance. Cyril got the feeling that he was being evaluated somehow.

“Well I know a good doc I can take you to when we are done with our drinks." Cyril nodded, raising his glance in a gesture of thanks before the two of them drained a good portion of their drink in unison.

A few more moments passed in silence before Tjorn asked his next question. “There are trials being held for soldiers in the capital, hosted by the new government of course, do you plan on heading that way as part of your atonement?"

Cyril looked grim for a moment before he answered. “Yes, at some point I must stand trial for what I have done but there are things that must be done first. The path of The Wanderer is seldom straightforward afterall." Cyril said with a sigh, looking into his mug and the amber liquid that resides within.

Tjorn nodded once more, turning his attention to his own drink, as if he was divining his next question from the bottom of his mug. “One last question," Tjorn said, his gaze focused on the wall in front of him, “Do you think you'll be able to receive the atonement you seek?

Cyril chewed on the inside of his lip as he considered the question, “truthfully Tjorn? I don't know. The path to atonement is a long one, especially for someone like me." Another sigh escaped Cyril's lungs, “I know that I may die as I seek atonement, especially when encountering dragons, I'm sure that many of them would kill a dragonslayer without a second thought, whether or not that dragonslayer was seeking forgiveness wouldn't even register as a possibility to them." The last of the liquid in Cyril's mug disappeared as he finished it off, “So, in short, I hope so, but I know there will be situations where the odds are stacked against me when it comes to my survival."

Cyril's words had a certain finality to them, as if by speaking them aloud, he was coming to terms with the fact that he might not make it through this trial. There was a pang of sadness in his chest, but he ignored it in favor of a growing feeling of determination. Sure, the path ahead was going to be an arduous one, but he wouldn't back down, no matter where his road took him.

Tjorn watched the growing feeling of determination flit across Cyril's face and he couldn't help but crack a grin. “Alright Cyril, my turn to answer your question, simply put I'm a merchant" he motioned to the bar around him, “this is actually one of the spots I do most of my business in, the fact that it's existence is really only known by the locals makes it easy to pick out those is want to work with."

Cyril nodded, it made sense in a way, by conducting his business in a local watering hole known mostly only by those who lived in the area, his new acquaintance would be able to get a feel for who was truly familiar with the area and those who are only here to make a quick buck. “What do you trade?" Cyril asked, his empty mug sat in his hand, exhausted of its contents.

Tjorn chuckled, “oh this and that, fabrics from my tribe when I can, other various goods when I can't. The fabrics are my main product though, the supply is surprisingly steady given that my tribe isn't exactly known for keeping dates well. But during the war I also traded in information and secrets, still do, when it's profitable." Tjorn said, punctuating his final sentence with a shrug. He fidgeted with his mug for a few moments before turning to Cyril. “Yknow how you made that joke about being mugged when you first came in here? Well," Tjorn paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, Cyril sat in silence, his face betraying no emotion. “Everyone currently in this bar is on my payroll so to speak, I've been helping the new government find various elements from the Empire's ruling class and their military, this includes Dragonslayers for obvious reasons."

Cyril nodded, with the rebellion a success, the rebels installed a new government that operated off of a council like structure with members almost evenly split between human, Varsulfr and dragon. It wasn't a surprise that they'd want the heads of anyone that was sent out to kill their kind. Cyril turned slightly in his seat, his eyes roaming over the other patrons who didn't seem to pay him any mind, taking note that the only visible exit was where he entered earlier, and sat at a table next to the door was a large looking man with a blacksmith's hammer by his side.

“You're safe though" Tjorn said quickly, turning to face Cyril as he noticed the human scanning the room, raising his hands in a placating gesture as he continued to speak “at least you don't have to worry about anything from me. I wasn't sure at first but you truly seem to want to work towards atonement, there's not enough of that in the world."

Cyril nodded again, “well I appreciate you hearing me out before dragging me off to a back alley to beat me senseless and ship me off to the capital." While his tone was sarcastic, he was thankful that Tjorn took the time to hear him out, but being told that he was essentially deep in enemy territory didn't exactly calm his nerves.

Tjorn smiled sheepishly, “yea guess I deserve that," the Varsulfr replied, not picking up on the note of genuine thanks buried in Cyril's sarcasm. “Look, what I mean to say is that I think I can help you. Let me take you to the town's best doctor first, then you and I can part ways after we discuss where you want to head first. I can give you info on what areas to avoid. I'm not the only one the new government has looking for 'bad guys'" Tjorn provided the finger quotes for the end of his sentence and made a motion to the bartender, who shook their head with a smile before digging around in the cabinet underneath the drink shelves.

“And how do I know that, A, your doc isn't going to knock me out to make your job easier, or B, that you won't send me directly into another one of your groups?" Cyril crossed his arms, he wished that he had put his sword and shield closer to him. As it stood now, any movement would probably be seen as hostile, and while he was confident in his abilities, he knew he couldn't take on the entire bar at once. Was this where his journey ended before it truly even began? His thoughts continued to race.

Tjorn continued to hold up his hands placatingly, “I understand your hesitation, truly I do. As for how you know you can trust me, to be honest you can't and you have every reason not to, after all I am the one who approached you."

Cyril snorted “yea, not helping your case there bud."

Tjorn continued unbothered by Cyril's interruption. “But you are also one of the few humans that I have met who follow The Old Ways in their entirety and not just picking and choosing the bits they like. Before you say anything else, yes I know you were raised by Varsulfr, but that changes nothing. If anything, I'd like to see the Old Ways live on through you, for however long that may be given the severity of your atonement."

He paused as the bartender put two small glasses on the table between the two men, both filled with a very pale, almost clear liquid. “Share with me a drink and a bond, and you will know that I shall let you walk your path unharried."

Cyril held Tjorn's gaze for a long moment. He was very familiar with the 'ritual', for lack of a better term, that Tjorn was offering him. They would link arms and share a drink and be bound in their word and honor to uphold any promises made. He'd seen it often growing up, from being used to seal business deals, to being part of ceremonies of union. If Tjorn truly put as much weight into the Old Ways as he claimed, Cyril knew he would be safe to continue on his path. Determined, Cyril nodded and picked up the glass before him, waiting for Tjorn to do the same. They linked arms and knocked back the drink, both draining their glasses in one smooth motion. The liquid burned the whole way down and caused Cyril's eyes to water. With a cough he roughly placed the glass back on the bar, seeing Tjorn being similarly caught off guard by the drink's potency made Cyril feel a little better.

“Gods above and below Sam! What was in that?" Tjorn asked the barkeep, coughing a bit still as he glared at the man standing nearby, cleaning glasses. “Ah, just something I've been working on, I'll have to see if I can smooth it out a bit" Sam, the human barkeep, replied with a laugh. “Ya fucking think?" Tjorn responded, glaring at the man for a few moments before turning his attention back to Cyril. “Sorry about that, once your throat feels like it isn't on fire anymore we can get moving, might have the doc look at that too, make sure Sam here didn't just sear our throats with his newest concoction." Cyril laughed, which quickly turned into a cough that had him readily nodding in agreement to the Varsulfr.

———

The walk from the bar to the clinic that Tjorn claimed had the best doctor in the city took maybe twenty minutes of supposed shortcuts and confusing twists and turns through alleys and side streets. Now properly wearing his sword on his hip and his shield on his back along with his bag of belongings, Cyril noticed a few looks thrown his way that were less than friendly, though Tjorn's presence seemed to prevent anything more solid from being thrown at him, and for that, he was thankful.

As they entered the small building that was only marked as a clinic by a small sign by the door, the two of them were having a conversation about Cyril's tribe. Tjorn hadn't had the chance to talk to an Islander before so he was taking this as an opportunity to learn as much as he could.

“So spear fishing or net fishing?" Tjorn asked Cyril as he gave a woman sitting at a small table near the entrance a nod. Cyril acknowledged the woman with a nod of his own before responding to the increasingly curious Tjorn. “We do both but personally I always got more enjoyment out of spearfishing." With the tension between them all but completely dissolving between leaving the bar and ending up at the clinic, Cyril was more than happy to answer the questions being asked about his home, and was enjoying learning about the differences between their tribes himself.

Tjorn was in the middle of asking another question with all the enthusiasm of a curious pup when the sound of someone clearing their throat caught their attention. Standing in the doorframe of what Cyril assumed was a hallway leading deeper into the building, was a dark haired human woman wearing a well worn apron over her clothes.

“So is this our dragonslayer?" She asked, taking a moment to look Cyril up and down. “Given the fact that you brought him here chatting the day away, I assume we aren't dragging this one off kicking and screaming." Cyril raised an eyebrow at Tjorn, who was quickly trying to say something in response but was cut off by the woman. “You brought him here as if he was a friend, so I will assume you have your reasons, and I trust you." She clapped her hands together, “alright let's get this over with, come on back and we can fix you up or whatever idea Tjorn got into his head this time."

The woman led the two of them into one of the rooms towards the end of the hall. The inside of the room was very clean and sparsely furnished, the main items of note being the exam table in the center of the room and a few cabinets with various medical supplies and tools along the far wall. Unprompted, Cyril began to remove his gear, waiting until he was sitting on the table to finally remove his shirt, revealing the numerous bandages wrapped around his torso."Need you to replace these bandages, I opened up my back again and don't want to make things worse or get an infection." He said, wincing as he tossed his shirt onto the pile that the rest of his gear was in.

The woman moved behind him and began to unwind the bandages, revealing the extent of his wounds bit by bit. “Holy shit" she muttered, “what happened here? This almost looks personal." She commented as the last of the bandages were pulled away to reveal the mess that was his back as it tried to heal the damage caused to him by Icandyr's claw.

“It was a dragon, so yea, probably safe to say it was personal, probably enjoyed himself carving me up like a deer at a feast." Cyril said with a laugh, wincing as pain moved through his body.

“A dragon?" She asked with a snort, “I'm surprised you're alive, these marks look deliberate, almost looks like some sort of runic drawing or something."

Cyril nodded, noticing that she seemed a bit pleased with the knowledge that a dragon was the source of his wounds. “Yea, it's Icandyr's sigil," he answered, “it's meant to keep me from dying immediately should I run into another dragon, though I'm doubtful that a dragon will give me the time to show them the sigil before they take off my head or at least trying to, not that I'd blame them."

The doctor nodded as she began to clean the wounds on his back, “and why would he do this for you? Someone who has killed his kind?"

It was clear she held a very low opinion of Cyril, Tjorn's hospitality probably being the only thing that was keeping her from making the whole process twenty times more painful. Nonetheless, Cyril began to explain his journey for atonement and how the great dragon that lived in the mountains near his home was the one to set him on the path before him. By the time his story was finished, the woman was pulling the last of the bandages snug, albeit a little too tightly, but he wasn't about to complain.

“There you go, now, get dressed and get out of my sight, Tjorn might be willing to entertain your supposed change of heart but personally? I think you're just trying to avoid any real consequences of your actions, so get out of here before I start losing business because of a dragonslayer."

Cyril nodded and got dressed, gearing up once more as he and Tjorn left the building. “Sorry about that," Tjorn said, “I knew she didn't like Deagonslayers but I didn't think she'd kick you out like that." He sighed, “no matter, here take a look at this." Tjorn motioned for Cyril to follow him over to a nearby rock, using the flat surface to spread out a map he pulled from his bag. “I'm not sure how you plan to travel but we currently know of three other groups like mine that are operating within what was the Empire's borders. One is obviously operating out of the capital," he began, pointing to a mark in the south eastern part of the map that depicted the now defunct Empire. “One is operating out of a small cluster of towns that dots the eastern bank of the Ralsur River, so you'll want to avoid following that as much as possible." He said, pointing to the thin blue line that snakes its way through the map. “And the last one is operating out of a fast growing town known as Pritte, that sat along the frontlines of the war for a while, since the fighting stopped they've established themselves as a trading hub, which is unfortunate because you'll be taking a pretty big risk if you stop there for supplies." Cyril frowned as Tjorn pointed out the last area, it was in the direction he planned on heading.

“Why do all this for me Tjorn? Don't mistake my curiosity for ungratefulness, but I feel like most others in your position would've either turned me in or attacked me with the intention of leaving me to rot." Cyril asked, crossing his arms.

Tjorn rolled up his map and stowed it before facing Cyril again. “Because I truly believe you want to do good in this world, yes, your motivations may be your own, but I can tell you are genuinely remorseful for what you've done and who would I be to deny someone the chance to atone for their actions in the eyes of the gods?" Tjorn smiled and put his hand on Cyril's shoulder, “I won't ask where you're headed and I don't want to know, the less I know and all that Yknow?" He chuckled, “but I'll be making my way to the capital at some point and once I get there I'll be setting up shop and looking into a more permanent residence, so by all means look me up if you're ever in the area." He took his hand off of Cyril's shoulder and held it out for a handshake, which Cyril readily obliged. “Walk with The Wanderer, my friend, and may the gods look favorably on what you hope to achieve"

With one last smile the two parted ways and after a quick check of his meager belongings, Cyril was on his way south. He had a destination in mind, and unfortunately the route he had planned would take him through the territory being patrolled by two of the groups that Tjorn pointed out, but a detour could always be planned if need be, for now Cyril was just happy to set foot on the road, feeling, for the first time in recent memory, that he was on the correct path.

After walking for some time the sun began to dip below the tops of the trees that lined the road he was walking on. Deciding to stop for the night, Cyril pushed into the forest that surrounded him, looking for a suitable place to set up camp for the evening. Once he found the perfect spot he settled in for the night, setting a few traps and catching a small rabbit that would be enough to satiate his hunger for the time being.

He ate in silence, reflecting on the events of the day, wincing slightly as a twinge of pain ran through his back. Once he was finished with his meal he tossed the bones to the flames and said a small prayer of thanks before reaching into his pack and retrieving a small folded letter. The words of the letter were familiar to him, more familiar than he was with himself most likely. He had read this letter more times than he could feasibly count, with the edges of the paper becoming soft and fragile from use. With a sigh he turned his attention from the letter to the fire before him, focusing on an empty area on the other side of the fire, his mind conjuring up a phantom figure that sat just beyond the firelight.

He knew the shadowy figure was not there, Cyril knew all too well that he was alone, and that it was impossible for that certain specter to be here with him in the flesh, but nonetheless, Cyril took comfort with the shade's presence, sitting idly for a few moments as he stared into the fire, letting a calm wash over him.

“I will be with you soon my love" Cyril said aloud to nobody, “and then I'll send you home, I swear by it"