02: Travelling

 Some more story sketching, figuring out the world and the stories to fill it.

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It will take half a day to reach the manor, but you don’t mind. You’re on holiday now; you can indulge in the luxury of patience. The sun’s barely risen when you depart, the great iron wheels of the train clack-clacking over sidings and switches and crossings, rows of whitewashed houses flicking past the window. You watch them for a while, until the houses turn to parks and office blocks, and then just countryside. The sky’s an iridescent blue today, and the sun is bright on the vineyards and the distant mountains.

Clack, clack, clack. The day ages, the sun rises, and the train chugs along.

You’ve brought a little something to entertain yourself for the few hours of the trip, and you pull it out now. A book - well, a tome, really. The cover is old bound leather, the sort that crackles when you bend the spine, and you can read the title by touch alone as you run your fingers over it. The Birth of Myth. It’s a catalogue of fantastical tales and legendary creatures, with beautiful illustrations and flowery words. It’s one of your favourite books. Your parents bought it for you, years ago, and it would not be an understatement to say it’s what drove you to study ancient history. You wanted to learn all about the long-gone peoples that had brought these incredible stories into existence, to feel like you knew them personally, that you were one of them.

You turn a few pages, settling back into the carriage seat. One catches your eye: a favourite. The Grune. It’s always fascinated you because it’s local. Supposedly, a curse runs in the blood of a line of ancient royalty. When a child is born to someone from that line, they must make a terrible choice: keep the baby in darkness for an entire year, not letting them see so much as the flicker of a candle…or watch them be consumed by the curse. If the child survives the year of darkness, their trial is passed; they shall never succumb to the curse. But they shall still carry it, and they must make the same choice for their own children in turn. They must be told of what they carry in their blood, then, so that they do not unwittingly bring forth a child in light. A child who would not fail to become…

You run your fingers across the drawing of a fierce, long-snouted creature, snarling at the words surrounding it with terrifying fangs that look ready to rip something apart. It looks fearsome…but part of you gets a thrill from looking at it. You’d feel different if you were face to face with one, you’re sure. Feeling the hot pants on your face as it bared its mouth at you, teeth bone-white and shining with saliva. The eyes piercing and animalistic. The fur, thick and matted, smelling of him. Nothing between you and it, nothing to stop it doing whatever it wanted. Nothing at all…

Well, probably. If they were real. Which you know they aren’t.