He had never felt so small before, as if he were but a speck of dust in the cosmos. The ship that once seemed so large, felt minuscule surrounded by such vastness. Miles and miles of dark ocean stretched as far as his eye could see. Above him, a star-filled, never ending sky. The surging, rolling waves beneath him hinted at the water's unseen depths and the overwhelming quiet and stillness wrapped him in its powerful cloak.
Count Wison of Dihan stood at the wheel guiding the Freedom, the small but sleek three-masted schooner toward their destiny, toward a new world.
The powerful thought thrilled him deep to his core, sparking stars all his own in his pale gray eyes as they searched the newly revealed heavens above him. A new world where all the myriad and wonderful creatures of his homeland, Faeries and Brownies, Trolls and Dwarves, Elves and Centaurs, would live side by side with Humans in harmony. Beneath his feet, beneath these creaking, squeaking wooden planks rubbing against each other as the boat shifted under the churning ocean, slept two of each species. They were the Council of Creatures; the smartest, strongest and bravest individuals of each nation. Wison pushed back the long, white strands of hair from his eyes, reveling in the warm, cleansing wind as it rubbed at his face. A stout wind, bringing them through the night and into their future.
“Let me relieve you, brother,” Witron came up the stairs to the upper deck completely unnoticed by Wison. “Ye need to get some rest.”
Wison smiled fondly at his sibling, at the dark brown tousled hair and still half-closed brown eyes.
“I don’t know if I can, brother, the magic of this moment stirs my blood. Besides, ‘tis still early in the night, you take some rest first.”
Witron laughed softly and gently, then lovingly but firmly removed Wison’s clutching hands from the wheel, replacing them with his own.
“I have already slept for five hours, Wison. ‘Tis but an hour or two 'til dawn.”
Wison’s jaw dropped and he looked about him askance.
“Nay. Persky is up already and will take the last Candle Watch." Witron gestured with a tic of his head toward the stern where
Wison saw the thin, pointy-eared Elf lighting each sleeping lantern. "There is naught left for you to do but sleep.”
Wison shook his head and clapped a large hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Thank ye, Witron. I will at least lie down and see what happens. Good night to ye.”
“Good morn to ye.” Witron said with another laugh as he watched his mystified brother walk away.
Wison quietly made his way below decks and walked along the narrow hallway, passing the closed doors of the other cabins. Some of the strangest sounds he’d ever heard escaped from behind the portals. Like Humans, many of these creatures snored but the differences in vocal cords and tones made a strange symphony of slumber; it was music to Wison's ears.
Rubbing his hands over the smooth walls of the walkway, he inhaled deeply, delighting in the rich odors of the wood as mahogany blended with cedar and oak. He enjoyed it now for he knew too well that within but a day or two, the odor of unwashed bodies would soon eliminate it all together.
Wison entered his small, bow cabin, and for a moment stopped before the small but impressive mahogany desk that had been a going away present from his mother. Maps and charts including one depicting the new world awaiting them, already covered the smooth, deep red surface. He put his finger on the drawing of the medium sized landmass; already charted by previous explorers, it remained uninhabited regardless of the reports that insured it held everything required to abundantly sustain life.
The land, raisin-like in shape, ran twice as long as it did wide. It boasted natural ports for healthy trade, a profusion of fresh water as well as forests, mountains and plenty of flat land for farming.Wison lovingly rubbed the map and the land of their future home as if it were alive upon the foolscap and could feel his caring. He shook his head at his own silliness and threw himself down upon his hammock with a laugh.
I’m not the least bit tired, he thought, I don’t know why I even bother to lay my head down.
He closed his eyes nevertheless, visions of the new life waiting for him, and all on board, dancing in his head.
2
The explosion screeched through his ears and he brought his cupped hands up to shield them. He felt his hands quivering against the cold flesh of his skull.
He cracked open sleep swollen eyes but he saw no cabin, no floor or walls. He saw instead only chaos, a battlefield where creatures of unknown species ran hither and yon heedless of any purposeful direction. He smelled the burning of flesh, fur and hair in the fires ranging amid the pandemonium. He heard only shrieks and sobbing and the twang of launching arrows. He turned, there, a decapitated Troll, a screaming, legless Goblin, an eviscerated Elf.
Wison squeezed his eyelids tightly shut, rubbing them hard with his balled fists. He brought his hands down, slowly unfurling them, staring at them and the blood that stained them dark and ruddy brown.
"No," he shook his muddled head, mumbling to himself. "No. The wars are over for me." The stain marks faded and vanished, an unwanted, unbidden phantom of his previous life.
The second explosion burst upon his ears at the same time that he was tossed from his hammock, a hammock designed to sway with the rolling of the ship. Wison banged his head on the floor at the same time that he heard the cry of his name from someone up on deck, the panic clear in the strained voice. He sat up, trying to shake some sense into his befuddled and bruised brain. The blinding white of lightning stung his eyes as the crash of deafening thunder plundered his ears.
“Storm,” he spoke aloud the accursed word.
Wison jumped up and almost cracked his head once more on the low ceiling. He rushed from the cabin, tripping on the scattered items tossed to the floor but gained his balance before he fell again. The hallway was short and the stairs were few, but it felt like miles before he reached the upper deck. Wison’s body flayed back and forth against the passageway’s close walls. Between blasts of thunder he heard the shouts of the crew mingling with cries of fear from the passengers.
Wison’s head appeared above deck, instantly his skin stung from the brutal, wind driven rain, his eyes almost closing against the onslaught. His brother and Persky besieged him.
“It came upon us in a flash. We couldn’t prepare.” Witron screamed to be heard over the roar of thunder and the blasting wind.
“We’re taking on water and the crew can’t seem to keep up with it.” Persky cried from behind him, choking on the deluge of rain that rushed into his open mouth. His pale green eyes bulged from his small head and his ashen green skin had turned a sickly yellow.
Wison took a quick look around; it was morning, he was sure. If the sun was visible it would be over the horizon, but it was too dark. It was beyond dark. Black clouds filled the entire sky, turning it to a low hanging, ominous roof. The rain poured from them ferociously, the water hung from the bottom of the clouds, a wall of liquid crashing down upon them. All around him every manner of creature held fast to whatever they could grasp. The boat rocked tumultuously. It took every ounce of strength not to be toppled over and out of the vessel.
Wison looked up. The crew had managed to pull in the sails but couldn't batten them down. They flapped in the wind from the bottom of the masts like white ghosts hovering just above the deck of the ship.
Wison looked to the side and sucked in his breath so fast he sputtered and coughed.
The ocean was alive, alive and angry. The waves rushed at them one right after the other, many feet higher than the ship’s ten foot sides from water line to railing. The raging, surging sea pummeled every being on board again and again as it crashed over the sides.
“What do we do, Wison, what do we do?” Witron screamed.
Wison looked at his brother and saw his own stark fear reflected in the familiar eyes.
“Stay alive.”
3
He woke up coughing and gagging. Rolling off his back, Wison pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and coughed and coughed until he felt he would cough his lungs out of his body. Like a cat gagging out a fur-ball, he struggled to get his breathing under control. When he did, he sat down hard on the wet sand.
Slowly, as if in a dream, Wison brought his hand up in front of his face. He saw the gray, wet beach sand covering his limb. He rubbed his fingers together and felt the grittiness scratch at his skin.
Wison jumped up and looked down. He was on land, on a beach. With fearful hesitancy, he looked up and around.
The shoreline stretched north as far as his vision would allow. The sand lay gray, still wet from the rain, blending with the dark ocean as the waves rushed up to meet it. What should have been the smooth surface of the coast was a stretch of land dotted and misshapen by the lumps of bodies and piles of broken ship wreckage.
“May the Stars protect us,” he whispered.
He couldn't move, could barely breath. He couldn't think. He knew he must do something, everything, anything, but it felt as if his feet were rooted in the ground. He heard a moan behind him and that small sign of life spurred him into action.
Wison turned and spied a body, a Human body writhing face down on the ground. He rushed to it. With insistent but gentle hands he helped the Human turn over onto his back. When he saw the features, he could but sit back and allow the tears to flow unfettered down his grimy face.
Witron opened his eyes and saw his brother crying before him. He rubbed his own face as if to clear the fog from his brain.
“Have I broken one of your toys again?”
Wison’s jaw dropped, the tears still coursing down his cheeks, and he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed until the sound echoed along the shore and crept into the line of trees that bordered it. Wison laughed and the other survivors strewn along the sand were awakened by the magical sound.
4
They sat together in a circle where the dirt of the beach began to turn to tall grass and trees, the beginnings of a fire growing in the middle of the small circle of rocks surrounded by a larger circle of boulders now being used for seats. The day had finally, mercifully waned. Through thinning, mist-like magenta-tinted clouds, the setting sun hung just barely above the horizon’s edge, giving all it touched a pale, pink glow.
Wison looked at the battered and bruised creatures around him and a small smile tickled his lips.
“What could possibly be funny?” asked the Brownie, Brasher, from his perch a top a tall tree stump next to where Wison sat, indignation burning from all his six inches of stature.
Wison turned to extend his smile to the small, dark-skinned and hairy sprite beside him and then to the assembly at large.
“I would never have thought the first meeting of the Council of Creatures would take place under such bizarre conditions.”
Some of the others timidly shared his smile and amusement.
“Thanks to the protection of the Stars,” began Lydan, one of the two Elf brothers, “we are all still here to attend.”
“Here, here,” cried the Dwarves and the Trolls.
“Thanks be to you, oh great Stars,” said the Faeries.
“Aye, we are all here,” said Nevod, Lydan's brother, “but are we all well?”
“A very good question, sir,” Wison nodded as he pulled back the still wet and sticking plaits of his long white hair. “Let us take a moment and tell each other how we came through our disaster.”
"Our arm muscles are sprained and swollen, I fear," Jwara, the female Dwarf sitting quietly beside her husband Swerin, said softly through her small, pink lipped mouth. Their short, plump forearms were wrapped tightly in rags as they held them tenderly in their meager laps.
"We held fast to the main beam," Swerin reported, his long gray beard quivering as he spoke. "That monster of ocean would not get us." Gray of hair and eyes, the small, round bodies of this species belied their true power.
"We thank the Stars you survived. Your company and talents would have been a great loss to us." Wison said warmly. Swerin was a talented metallurgist and his wife a herbalist, schooled in the ways of growing and breeding healing plants.
"Uganta and Turatan wrapped our arms," Jwara timidly offered the information, pleasing, round blue Dwarf eyes looking to her left where the two young, male Trolls sat.
"Truly?" Wison asked, eyes popping wide, a smile bursting upon his face.
"Truly." Jwara confirmed, smiling as she nodded.
The wars between Trolls and Dwarf were some of the longest running conflicts on Minra Enra; the battle scarred kingdom this group had left behind. Dwarves were suspicious and untrusting creatures who tended to believe the worst of others. The worst of the Trolls were disposed to be poachers who thought nothing of taking what they wanted from whomever held it. This proclivity to disrespect others combined with the Dwarves distrustful natures kept these two creatures at continuous odds with each other. The evil of one fed greedily on the evil of the other.
To hear of these creatures helping each other was wondrous news for all. The Council members turned inquisitive eyes to the Trolls, no outward signs of revulsion visible.
Like Dwarves, Trolls' heads out proportioned their short bodies, but there the resemblance ended. It was hard not to be repulsed by the sight of a Trolls; wide bodied, their rolls of flabby fat disguised layers of muscle beneath the thick, almost black hide serving as their skin.
"We have only cuts ourselves." Uganta reported shyly, lowering the head covered, as were his arms and legs, with the broad, wire-like black hair that all Trolls boasted.
"It was our pleasure," said Turatan with a nod to Jwara. His voice, similar to Uganta's, revealed his youth.
Uganta nodding enthusiastically, a playful smile spreading across his perpetually snarling lips, displaying the brown, fang-like teeth.
"Once Flerial stitched us up, we were fine."
"She did a fine job on many of us," piped up a tiny but pleasing voice.
Perched on the back of a centaur who stood at the back of the circle, Vishena, Queen of the Faeries, regally sat. Her flaming red hair swirled around her, one transparent wing was bandaged and still, and her emerald green toga-like gown hung in tatters from her minute but voluptuous body. Upon her lap, the bandaged head of another Faery lay, tiny eyes closed, small, purring sounds of slumber floating from her bud-like mouth.
"Is she all right, Your Highness?" Witron asked, studying the still form of Flerial, the Queen's companion and a renowned healer.
"She will be, as will I, dear man." Vishena rewarded him with her beautiful smile. Except for their wings and their diminutive stature, these Nymph Faeries resembled Humans in both body and head. Vishena ruled the Oreads, a passionate race, one natural drawn to Humans, whom they found easy to love.
"It's actually an amusing anecdote." Vishena's tiny hand stroked the blonde almost white hair of the ethereal beauty who lay in her lap.
"I'm not so sure of that, Your Majesty." The deep voice of Chiron, the male centaur rumbled up from its depth. "We are so very sorry."
"Nonsense, pet, you and Chalene saved our lives." Vishena assured him tenderly, turning to the rest of the Council, who sat poised eagerly awaiting her words with rapt curiosity, the crackling, spitting fire forgotten at their feet. "We were sitting upon their mighty backs when the storm hit. Is it not wondrous that they asked us to do so?"
The invitation from Centaur to Faery had amazed all who heard it. The number of creatures who'd ridden on a Centaur's back in the last hundred years could be counted on one hand; it was one of the greatest honors for any living creature.
"When the storm struck they captured us in their mighty hands and somehow managed to keep their hands closed throughout the entire ordeal."
"I'm afraid I held on a little too tightly," Chiron said gruffly, though he too now smiled. "It was I who broke Vishena's wing."
"Tut, tut, dear one, no worries." Vishena twinkled as she continued. "When Chalene hit the beach, she lost consciousness, dumping Flerial out, who hit her head on a rock when she landed."
"I see the cause of your amusement, Vishena, but I am more pleased by your survival. Is she unconscious?" Wison gestured to the still form in Vishena's lap.
"No, no, her head is bruised but not seriously." Vishena looked down at the sleeping sprite, pride glowing in her eyes. "She is exhausted from the hours of treating others."
"She was amazing with my sister," Chiron stood on his four horse hooves, stamping around the circle until he stood next to his sister. Half-Human and half-horse, these creatures were powerful and intimidating beings, utterly beautiful in their majesty.
"My leg is broken," Chalene announced and small gasps of dismay hissed around the fire, drowning out the lugubrious pounding of the ocean waves in the distance. A broken leg for a Centaur was a serious medical condition; it would require months and months for the leg to heal. The inactivity it forced upon her could be hazardous to the Centaur’s general health.
"But my brother fares well," Chalene said with a hopeful lilt and a pale smile, dark eyes lighting on her restless brother. There was no mistaking their familial bond; both were ruddy-skinned, dark-eyed and crowned with black, curly hair, Chiron's falling to his shoulders while his sister's reached her wide, horse back. They were two of the most prominent in the Centaur nation, second only to their father, Ixion, who ruled.
"True," Chiron agreed. "I have only small cuts and bruises and a couple of broken fingers on one hand." He flexed the bandaged appendage, as large as one of the small boulders in and around their meeting site.
“Flerial will see to it that I stay well,” said Chalene, smiling at the still form of the Faery, “I have no doubt.”
"As she has already done for me." Nevod said as he stroked his long black and blonde corkscrew goatee. "Thirty-seven of her tiny little stitches now hold me together."
He held the large bandaged arm up like one of his many medals. Unlike Persky, Nevod and Lydan were large for Elves, almost as broad and tall as Wison's six and three.
"I almost passed out myself just watching her flying to and fro," the warrior Elf's golden green eyes sparkled with delight. He flung his muscular body back and forth in imitation, the long black hair shot through with blonde streaks that hung in corkscrew curls down his back flaying about as he did.
"You have never passed out in your life." Lydan said from the ground, looking up at his brother, eyes and mouth smiling fondly at him. "And considering that you're two hundred and sev--"
"Don't…you…dare," Nevod jumped to his brother, a long, thin threatening finger wagging in front of his brother's long thin nose.
"--that you're as old as you are, that's quite a feat." Lydan amended with a small chuckle, shifting his awkward position as he did so.
Nevod saw his brother’s discomfort and quickly took Lydan's shoulders, helping him to adjust until Lydan sat commodiously once more, his wrapped and slung right arm and wrapped and splinted left leg making the relativeness of comfort a peculiar one.
"Anything else, brother?" Nevod asked, honey green hazel eyes staring with deep concern into a perfectly matched set.
"Nay, brother, that's better. Thank you." Lydan answered tenderly; the deep bond running between these two glowed as bright as the stars above them.
They were two of the greatest Elvin warriors in all history and as completely devoted to each other as they were to the peace movement.
"Are they broken?" Jwara asked of Lydan, pointing to his wounds. "I can make some ointment which will speed their healing?"
"Nay, good lady, they are not broken, merely badly sprained. But I may make use of your potion still, if I may. I am sure I will be well in no time." He smiled at her gladly, smooth, silky honey colored skin and long honey colored dread locks fairly glowing from his natural inner harmony. "As will we all, yes?"
Nevod stood once more, hands gesturing wide to the assemblage.
"Hear him, my brother the diplomat. He will have us all convinced we are on holiday soon."
Nevod's joke met with chuckles and smiles but his intent rang true, Lydan was famous far and wide as a talented and powerful negotiator while Nevod's own laurels had been earned on the battlefield.
"I will take some of your ointment as well, good lady," a small as yet unheard voice spoke up. Climora, as dark, hairy and diminutive as her compatriot Brasher, this Brownie was more restrained than he was. "Both Brasher and I suffer bruised ribs from the ordeal. I believe such a tonic would help us much."
"How were you--"
"I'll tell you how we were hurt," Brasher cut Turatan off before the young Troll could complete his question. "A crew member, though I'm not sure which, grabbed us, he did. Just as the storm burst upon us. Grabbed us and threw us in his pocket."
Brasher jumped up, hands on hips, his powerful but small arms bulging as one bare foot tapped impatiently on the top of the wide oak tree stump, indignation coursing through his small, sleek body. Like Faeries, Brownies bodies appeared in the same likeness as Humans. Though earth bound creatures bearing no wings, they still possessed magical abilities of their own which they dispensed at their discretion.
"All that bouncing around. It's a wonder our heads are not broken." Brasher's ire rose to full tempo. He brought one tightly fisted hand up, pounding the air with it as he spoke. "And if I find out which one it was, I will thrash him within an inch of his life."
Climora starred at him, one fuzzy eyebrow raised high upon her small forehead.
"You mean you will thrash an inch of him?"
Nevod coughed loudly, a strange clogged-throat bark, but the mouth behind his hand turned up noticeably at each corner, as was those of many others around the circle of flames.
"I will be sure to talk to the responsible person," Wison assured Brasher, not sharing that his true intent was to reward said person for saving the lives of the two Brownies.
"And you, brother?" Wison turned to Witron hoping to distract the Brownie from his simmering anger; anger that often simmered but never boiled.
"I am well, Wison. I have rope and sand burns on most of my exposed skin, but that seems to be the extent of it." Witron showed the red and raw spots with a small smile and shrug of his shoulders.
Wison silently thank the Stars. He could not have born the pain if harm or death had come to his brother. Unlike Wison, Witron was not determined to change the world. He would, however, follow his brother to the ends of the universe, if that was Wison's wish. Witron longed for naught but far-reaching and fruitful farmland upon which to work and had followed his brother in the hopes of such a place.
"And you, dear Wison?" Vishena asked, a sultry smile upon her inquisitive face.
"Just my head," Wison said with a laughed.
Wison’s only injury was, ironically, the one he took to the back of his head, the one he’d suffered in his cabin aboard the Freedom. Unbeknownst to him, he’d split his skull open requiring many of Flerial's stitches to close it back up.
Wison gently rubbed the back of his head where the offending injury throbbed.
“Most of the crew survived, only two hands perished, as you already know.” Wison referred to the two burial services held earlier in the day. The bodies were laid to rest in a small plot of field found just beyond the tree line. At this moment, two other crewmen were hard at the task of erecting a crude fence to protect the site and to partition off the area, ground Wison now considered hallowed.
“Do we know where we are?” Asked Uganta, the younger of the two Trolls, his anxiety making him sound even younger.
“Do we know when we are?” Turatan blurted and though he spoke with great force, the fear pulsed in his young Troll voice.
“From what we’ve deduced from the location of the constellations, ‘tis two nights since the storm first struck,” Vishena answered the question in her small but firm voice. Earlier in the day she and Nevod had spent hours on just these calculations.
“That means the storm lasted over a day and a half,” Jwara spoke without taking her blue eyes off the flames before her, as if she herself did not realize she spoke out loud.
“As to where we are? That question has still not been answered.” Wison turned to his brother for further confirmation.
“Once things settled down this morning,” Witron began, referring to those first frantic few hours of consciousness consumed with caring for the injured and the dead, “six of our best surveyors were sent to scout out the land. Two were to walk the entire shoreline to ascertain the shape and circumference, two left for the north and east and the other two traveled south and west. Unfortunately it may take days before they complete their mission and return.”
The heavy silence dampened not only the Council members’ spirits but seemingly the fire itself and the flames began to dwindle. Climora shivered, her tiny teeth chattered loudly enough for some of the others to hear. Turatan got up, fetched more wood and swiftly placed it on the fire, the pungent scent of burning pine quickly assailing their nostrils.
“Until then, we have plenty of wood for fire and plenty of game for food,” Lydan spoke with an assurance only his brother recognized as forced. “And with each passing minute the crew is finding more and more of the ships supplies where they’ve washed ashore.”
Grunts and nods of agreement answered his statement. Wison smiled, amazed at how much of the vessel’s stores were already on hand. Everything from weapons, bows, arrows and swords, to kitchen supplies and dishes that would, no doubt, go unused for many a day. At least ten crewmembers were kept constantly busy scavenging up and down the shoreline, gathering items as they washed in on the tide's ebb and flow. The pile of materials grew so large it hid Persky centered in its midst, keeping an ever growing inventory.
In the hands of the irreplaceable Persky, Wison felt such precious commodities quite safe. They had been together for so many years now, Wison didn't know how to function without him.
After rescuing Persky from the front lines of a scarred battlefield, Wison had brought him home and nursed him back to health. Since then, they'd shared an undying, unwavering loyalty.
The Council members looked to where the heap of goods grew and for some its ever enlarging mass comforted, as did the sight of Persky himself. One of the kingdom’s few mixed breeds, Persky looked like an adolescent boy; his skin was a slight yellowish green, paled by Human blood, his eyes were long and upturned and his ears were slightly pointed. But it was his very mixture that served as a metaphor for the country these creatures hoped to create.
“If we can just…” began Wison, but stopped at the sound of raised voices. He turned in the clamor’s direction and saw two crewmen rushing over to Persky with a large piece of what looked like wood held between them. Persky spoke to the men for a moment, took one glance at the item they held, then directed them to Wison with a pointed finger.
Having watched the entire silent dialogue, Wison stood to greet the men as they approached.
“My lord, my lord,” one of the two shouted, “look what we’ve found.”
The two out of breath young men stopped before the Council and lifted the large piece of wood before them.
The group gasped with astonishment. In the shocked silence, Lydan began to applaud. Within seconds the entire committee joined him. The ovation brought the rest of the crew swiftly over. Seeing the piece of lumber before them, they too began thunderous cheering.
The wood was haggard and jagged at its edges; holes showed where a few small pieces were now missing. But what lay upon the wood survived the storm in perfect tact. What lay upon the wood in unspoiled composition were the golden letters spelling the word Freedom.
It took a while for the happy eruption to pass and when it did, the look on each and every creature’s face appeared changed, eyes shone brighter, cheeks glowed rosier and now the smiles outnumbered the frowns.
“Good friends,” Wison shouted, climbing up on one of the large rocks, long white hair flowing out behind him as the excited crowd stilled and quieted, turning their hopeful faces up to him. “Good friends, I can think of no better time to call it a day. We have all suffered through this day; we have all worked hard, but now, with this sign of hope, let us rest. Let us end this day with hope in our hearts and the promise of the future on our minds.”
The cheering rose to a crescendo once more and as man and creature made their way to the bed rolls set out for them, Wison watched them shaking hands and patting each other on the back. He felt a hand come to rest on his own back and turned to see who put it there.
Lydan’s good hand rested genially on Wison’s shoulder and a kind smile rested on his lips.
“You will get us safely through,” Lydan said softly. “I have no doubt.”
Before Wison replied, Nevod came to Lydan and helped him away to a bedroll of his own. Wison stood alone, the power of hopeful spirits staying by his side. He began to make his way to his own bedroll when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, someone still sitting near the Council meeting spot. He turned and saw a young Human female, Katrin, still working furiously on the parchment she balanced on her knees.
Katrin's presence had been a gift from Belamay, Wison's betrothed. As a gesture of her undying support, Belamay had paid for Katrin, a celebrated artist, to accompany her beloved on his quest, to capture on parchment, the epochal events of this auspicious journey. Katrin, at first fearful of the long sea voyage, believed in the freedom movement and the opportunity to be the recorder of this momentous occasion circumvented her fears, and she accepted the position gladly.
Belamay.
Just the thought of her, his soul mate, sent shivers of delight through Wison. Her raven hair and dark eyes, her porcelain skin and cherubic round face wistfully framed by a huge mass of tightly wound curls quickly sprang to life in his mind. He remembered well her curvaceous figure, a waist small enough for his hands to engulf yet endowed with breasts and hips that bountifully pleased both eye and hands. Belamay's easy acceptance and understanding of his dream were evident once more with the presence of this artist.
“You will harm your eyes working in this dim light,” he said to Katrin as he approached. He saw a patch covering one eye, her injury from the storm.
“Your eye, rather.”
Katrin did not look up, even to acknowledge his jest.
“I’m just about done,” she said and with a few flourishing strokes held up the drawing.
The small grin on Wison’s face grew to a magnificent smile. Before him lay an uncanny rendering of the very first meeting of the Council of Creatures. The depth and talent of her strokes brought each creature to vivid life. Wison squinted in the growing gloom and looked closer to see the smallest details.
Katrin saw his study and frowned.
“If ye wish,” she said, eyes jumping from her work to his face, “I can fix it.”
“Nay,” Wison said quietly, still smiling, “leave us just as you have us.”
Katrin brought the rendering back to her knees and smiled at her own work. There they were, a group unlike any her world had ever known. They each wore their bandages and splints, dressings and supports as proudly as they would any medal or commendation. They all wore the same look, from the smallest to the largest, they all wore the look of hope.
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