10th of Zi'da, 717.
It must’ve been a gust of wind, or the frozen wood, but the man was dead. He had slipped from the rooftop, they said, and he had fallen. Many mentioned the scream the male made as he fell, and the consequent sound of the crunching bones as he landed. The rocky terrain had greeted the falling body, and had offered no mercy. He died there, its blood splashed against the stone, his hands twitching still. They had tried to help but it was too late; Sarahmissa had died, no matter how strong and smart he was. The laborers stopped their work, and stood watch as the authorities took away his body for its burial. Then, they all agreed to rest for remainder of the day, to meet in Petey’s Lodge for drinks in the evening- all in honor of Sarahmissa. And as their left, and as the orphanage was left alone, the calm returned to Middlecleft. ‘It’s a tricky business’ one of the workers had told Paplo. ‘We may barely get any snow, but working in the winter is not easy. We’re not sure we can finish it by Cylus.’
“We must,” had replied Paplo, concerned, sympathetic but also firm. “It is our obligation. The Etzori authority has been adamant. Do not let the death of one compromise the safety and wellbeing of the many.”
The worker had given him a look, but he nodded and agreed before leaving. Now, it was only Paplo who remained there, watching the skelletical building standing on its hill, abandoned and alone. It must’ve been a gust of wind, or the frozen wood, but agonic whistles escaped the half-constructed building every so often. Paplo, wrapped in his cloak, made his way towards it, and stepped inside. It lacked doors, windows, or any decorations; in fact, it was filled with wood and equipment, ladders and nails, all of which served to bring the building to life. The basement and first floor were complete, but the second story was yet to to finished. Many things remained to be done; the purchase of furniture, of supplies and school materials. It worried him that Cylus would come and no light would shine from the Middlecleft Orphanage of Friendship and Tolerance.
He wouldn’t blame the workers, of course; most of them were efficient workers, and it was made bigger by the collective efforts of the town. Now that winter was upon them, the crops had been harvested and the land had been left alone. Time had stretched out and everyone hid in their homes, working on something else, be it sewing new clothes, opening jars of jam made in summer, or counting the nels gained throughout the arc. Many boarded the ships and moved somewhere else, like Foster’s Landing, where they would enjoy a bigger chance of finding something to do or somewhere else to visit until Ashan. Paplo, on the other hand, would remain here. Unlike others, he enjoyed the calm of the farm fields of winter. It brought him a sense of peace, or at least of melancholy, and, of course, there was much more to be done.
When he finally left the orphanage, a gust of cold wind greeted him. No ships were scheduled to arrive today, and so the docks were almost all clear, one able to gape towards the horizon as much as he liked. From the hill of the orphanage, it was easily done. In fact, from up there, one could see throught the whole town, and even beyond the stone walls that surrounded it. When he tired of gaping, Paplo resumed his serene pace down hill. He walked and walked, not truly chasing an objective in mind, but simply letting the wide streets choose for him. Unlike Etzos, Middlecleft was not made of narrow streets all stuffed within the walls. They were stuffed in their own way, but there was plenty of space. With a population of around three thousand, it was a small town. The teacher had spend some time here, so he knew the outlay of it all, and the way it all worked. Despite the Etzori authority having around fifty soldiers in the town, as well as one supervisor Paplo had yet to meet, the town was ruled by two major families; the Rothgrains and the Cattleshtack.
Someone must’ve told them they were meant to be enemies once, and they had been. The Rothgrains were the owners of most farming lands, working directly for the Etzori Authority. Everyone that worked the fields had to be affiliated with them, and belong to their guild; the Middlecleft’s Farmer Guild. The Cattleshtack dealt with stock of all sorts; chickens, cows, goats, or sheep. Everyone that owned a farm animal had to sign into their guild; Middlecleft’s Cattle Authority. Suffice to say, there was always tension. The third authority within the town was the Middlecleft’s Export Company - the merchant’s guild. They were the middle man between the two other guilds, and between Middlecleft and Etzos. All caravans, caravan guards, and ships often belonged to them. There weren’t many visitors into the small town, and someone moving into town was a rarity. Paplo was, because of this, the newcomer, and the one watched by them all.
Paplo arrived before the familiar door and, just as he was about to knock, the door opened.
“Come on in, Paplo. We’re warming some milk,” said Ollipo, Paplo’s only friend in town.
“Ah, how kind of you,” replied the teacher with a smile as he made his way inside. The door was shut, and the heat wrapped around him as tight as his cloak. Said cloak was now removed and placed upon the hanger, the male comfortably moving towards the table. “You look beautiful today, Maline.”
“You always say that, Paplo,” replied Ollipo’s wife, who split the warm milk in three ceramic mugs.
The mugs arrived, and all three sat around the table, eyes fixed on Paplo, who offered them a small smile in return.
“We’ve heard about Sarahmissa,” spoke Ollipo. Rarely he missed a gossip. “What a tragedy, isn’t it, woman?”
“Yes, yes it is,” replied his wife. Bad news and tragedies often made her eyes tear up, and today was no exception. “I can’t help but think of his child. Did you know he’s a Black Guard now?”
“So I’ve heard,” replied the teacher, his smile fading away, a hand wrapped around his tankard. “I can’t help but feel guilty. Sarahmissa volunteered, and I--”
“Don’t say that. It’s not your fault,” quickly interrupted the emotional female, her hand coming to wrap itself around Paplo’s, trying to offer a comforting smile that didn’t quite make it.
“Leave him be, woman. Drink, Paplo. I’ve found you a wife.”
