Stranger - part 1

The sound of lightning hitting the ground very close made me wake up from the meditation a little startled. And the noise of the dry branches scratching the carriage I was in on that stormy night, helped to make the climate darker.

The wind seemed to want to whisper something as it struggled through the holes in the hatches. Mud splattered on the small windows while I could only watch the silhouettes of the dry trees being battered by the rain.

The coachman continued riding through the night, without making any stops, by the way, who in their right mind would stop in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a storm? It has been difficult to find someone willing to take me to the small village of Barvh, due to its location near the Forest of Gunnison, so I have nothing to complain about. I just want to get to an inn soon and eat something tasty to warm me up.

The carriage lurched and I almost thought we had hit something. I was a little worried so I opened a small window used to talk to the coachman when needed. It had a piece of wood curved down that kept the rain from entering.

"All right sir?"

The coachman wore a big heavy black cloak of old leather to protect himself in the storm, he kept the four horses at a constant speed with periodic lashes.

He nodded without looking away from the path. I closed the window. He wasn't much of a talker from the start when I met him in Arkell County.

A small village near the Mountains of Gareth the Golden (an ancient dragon that gave rise to the city's name).

You must be wondering who is this who writes you, right?

I'm Louie D'Ayllanor, a young bard, half-elf and with a great aesthetic sense, by the way, who seeks to discover what is behind the adventures sung by bards around the world.

About 5ft 3in tall, slim waist but slightly defined muscles. Wearing navy blue cotton pants, dark red leather boots with gold accents, and a long-sleeved white shirt made of ethereal spider silk, it's highly recommended to travelers for protection. Should you be ambushed by bandits along the way or even by filthy goblins, it can save you from a stabbing wound that would be fatal.

Of course, he would love a light, shiny mithril chain mail, but not everyone can afford one. Even more early-career bards.

I always wear my long greenish hair tied back in a low ponytail and a headband for pure style.

I also carry a shoulder bag, with all kinds of equipment, useful for the most varied situations.

That mark on the face? Family heirloom maybe? As I said before, I'm a half-elf.

My mother was a human, with long coppery hair, curly, and almost always in a half ponytail.

She was an attendant in one of several taverns in the Port of Ayllanor, capital of the Kingdom of Faloriand. But she ended up getting sick about 10 years ago and unfortunately, she didn't resist.

She said that my father was a high elf, one of the oldest elf races in the world, and shrouded in mystery, since, unlike the more common elves, high elves are hardly seen around, tending to be more inmates.

I didn't get to know him, he was what they call a "free spirit", always traveling the world. He must have been in his 40s since he hasn't been around these parts.

As a half-elf, I had normal physical growth until I was 15-years-old, but since then there have been no major changes in my appearance. However, in terms of learning, I joined the Adventurers Guild at the age of -years-old, where I learned everything I know today.

After completing more than 30 years of research in the capital's library, I decided to go out into the world and live my own adventures.

Of the many unfinished stories I read during my research, some made me want to go out and see for myself: the many legends surrounding the village of Gerd. Name this given in honor of the founder of the small village: Willow Gerd.

Also, my mother was born there. However, she moved to the capital as a child due to my grandfather's work. Leaving before the legends started.

The legends were not consistent with each other, but they all said that the village disappeared without leaving any traces or survivors. I always wondered how they knew this, after all, if there was no one left, who spread the stories?

More loud thunder broke, clearing everything, and as I watched the raindrops trickling down the glass, I thought I saw a large figure near the side of the road.

I squinted, forcing myself to see something, but all I saw was my reflection in the glass, appearing and disappearing in time with the sway of the lamp's luminaries.

Maybe he was still tired from the trip.

Even though it was a short distance, the carriage was not at all comfortable, wooden seats with chipped paint intact for the most part.

The few pillows they had, smelled musty and were so threadbare, it was impressive that they were still intact.

A few pieces of the carriage's wooden floor seemed to lift with each jolt, making me wonder if it would make it to the village in one piece.

I noticed the speed slowing down, indicative that we would be arriving.

I fixed my hair, checked my bag, and looked back inside the carriage to make sure nothing had fallen out.

The coachman stopped and knocked twice on the small window, a characteristic sign that meant he had arrived at the agreed spot.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, taking care not to slip.

My feet dipped ankle-deep in mud.

"Oh great!"

Every step felt like the ground was trying to swallow me up.

I walked towards the front of the carriage to hand over the two gold coins I had taken from my pocket, payment for the journey there.

A little expensive, but it was necessary, in this storm, no one wanted to go out.

I watched the coachman's face, covered with his cloak to the nose, and a long hat protecting his head, so you could barely see his eyes. Despite being soaked, I tried to smile looking at my feet sunk in the mud.

"Is this how it feels for an adventurer caught in a slime? Hehe."

He didn't show any reaction.

"Well anyway, thanks for the trip."

He nodded, putting his hand on his hat, and with a snap of the whip, he was gone, disappearing into the storm.

I took a look around, looking for the inn to stay with. I narrowly missed it, as the small sign was swaying in the wind and hard to see due to the rain.

I rushed over there, shaking off the water from the leather overcoat I wore to protect myself from the rain before I went inside.

There was a threadbare rug at the entrance, a little torn at the ends, but it served to get some of the mud off my boots.

The inn was actually a small house of stacked logs with a thatched roof and a small chimney smoking in the background.

When I opened the door, I could have sworn it hadn't been opened in eons, from the long creaks that crept.

At a glance, I could see that there were a few gentlemen, mostly humans, sitting drinking or eating in the background.

An awkward silence filled the room as I opened the door, while everyone looked in my direction.