After a quick breakfast in the castle hall, Edric made his way through Larkenshire’s winding streets toward the landing field where the Timblewhiff remained tethered. The morning mist had burned away completely, leaving a crisp autumn day with a slow, constant breeze—ideal conditions for a skyship departure.
Halfling children darted between buildings, engaged in elaborate games. Market stalls displayed vibrant produce: plump purple tubers, bundles of marsh herbs with their distinctive blue?green stems, and baskets of tiny red berries. The buildings themselves, while humble in construction, boasted cheerful touches—flower boxes bursting with late-blooming plants, doors painted in unexpectedly bright colors, and intricate wooden carvings adorning many of them.
There was something almost defiant about Larkenshire’s warmth, as if its residents were thumbing their noses at the harshness of their circumstances through sheer, stubborn cheer.
“You don’t need to see me off,” Mira said, hurrying to keep pace with Edric’s longer stride. She’d been fussing over details all morning. Her anxiety about their impending separation manifested as a stream of well?intentioned but increasingly unnecessary instructions.
“It’s no trouble,” Edric replied, shrugging. “Besides, I’m curious to watch these ships take off from the ground.”
What he didn’t say was that he also wanted a final chance to assess Kornic and his crew—to gauge whether his concern for Mira’s safety was justified or merely overprotective. Something about the way the wolf?featured first mate acted raised Edric’s hairs. Whether that was simple prejudice or something more sinister, he couldn’t be sure.
“The takeoffs are quite spectacular,” Mira admitted, her nervous energy briefly redirected into enthusiasm. “When the ice expands and the ship first lifts…” She made a buoyant gesture with her hands. “It’s rather magical, even when you’ve seen it dozens of times.”
“Don’t worry about me while you’re gone,” Edric said, trying to soothe her obvious anxiety. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”
Mira’s lips pressed together in a thin line of disagreement, though she didn’t voice it.
They continued toward the edge of town, where a small crowd had already gathered to see the Timblewhiff off. The ship itself looked much as it had upon landing, still supported by wooden stilts driven into the ground.
The crew’s earlier hostility toward Edric was apparently forgotten in the rush of preparation. He spotted Olin, the reptilian crewman, securing ropes; others checked rigging or adjusted the protective cloth over the mini-iceberg.
Zylenaia moved among them, her white hair unmistakable. She carried a leather?bound ledger, making final notations as she confirmed cargo and supplies. When she spotted Mira and Edric approaching, she nodded in acknowledgment but continued her work.
Kornic stood on the ship’s aft upper deck, located at the stern of the ship. The wolfman’s amber eyes tracked their approach, his expression unreadable at this distance. Even without seeing the details of his face, Edric felt the weight of that stare.
*Not someone I’d want to be trapped on a ship with for weeks,* Edric thought, his concern for Mira deepening.
At the edge of the gathered crowd, Mira hesitated, suddenly uncertain.
“I should board now,” she said, glancing between Edric and the ship. “Lady Zylenaia will be expecting me.”
“Go ahead,” Edric encouraged. “I’ll watch from here.”
She took a long moment to look over Edric. "I'll stay close to Zylenaia," Mira commented, apparently detecting his concern. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but instead gave a small nod. “Take care of yourself, Sir Edric.”
“You too, Mira. Safe journey.”
She turned toward the ship, then paused and looked back. “When I return, I expect to hear of significant progress on your… projects.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Edric replied with a mock salute that drew a reluctant smile from her.
As Mira made her way toward the ship, weaving through the gathered onlookers, Edric found a spot at the edge of the crowd where his height afforded him a clear view. The breeze had picked up slightly, catching cloaks and loose hair, but remained steady rather than gusty—good flying conditions, he assumed.
followed more
Zylenaia motioned towards the rope ladder, signaling for Mira to board. Apparently, the ice mage had another task before boarding herself. From his position, Edric caught Kornic’s gaze again. The first mate was watching Mira’s ascent with an expression that wasn’t lecherous, but calculating in a way that suggested nothing good.
*Take care of her, Zylenaia,* Edric thought.
On the ground around the ship, crew members moved in coordination. Several, tethered to the vessel by ropes around their waists, began the process of takeoff. First, they hoisted up the plunge anchor—the massive iron weight that had embedded itself in the earth upon landing. Zylenaia, now standing atop the anchor itself, placed her hand on it. A faint blue glow emanated from her palm, and a thin coat of ice grew around the anchor, reducing its effective weight enough for the crew to easily haul it aboard, Zylenaia riding it the entire way.
“Clever,” Edric murmured to himself as his mind wandered to estimating the relationship between ice volume and lift capacity.
Once the anchor was secured, attention turned to the restraining ropes and wooden stilts. Ground crew members adjusted cables, keeping the ship steady, while others loosened the stakes and ties holding the vessel in place. Their movements were practiced, each person knowing their role in the dance before liftoff.
At some unspoken signal, Zylenaia raised her arm, and a blue glow of magic flared around her. The mini-iceberg tethered above the ship’s decks began to grow. Edric watched, fascinated, as crystals formed and expanded. The ice grew organically, like accelerated frost spreading in all directions.
*Where did the ice come from? Could it really just manifest from nothing?* Edric wondered.
With a start, Edric suddenly remembered that he too possessed magic—air conjuring, minor though it was. He’d almost forgotten about it entirely in the rush of recent events. Curiosity piqued, he extended his palm, focusing on the mental image Thaddeus had described. He felt the faintest airflow against his skin, but any actual effect was completely lost in the steady breeze already blowing across land.
Edric smirked at the insignificant display of his own magic compared to Zylenaia's. He let his hand drop back to his side. Still, it was *something*—a tool, however limited, that might prove useful if applied creatively. *Perhaps underwater breathing, as Thaddeus had mentioned?* He filed the thought away for later experimentation as his attention returned to the rising ship.
As the ice mass increased, the ship began to strain against its remaining restraints. The wooden stilts, still planted in the earth, now bore less weight as the growing ice counteracted gravity. Tension rippled through the guide ropes.
“Almost there!” someone in the crowd called excitedly—a young halfling boy bouncing on his toes.
With a final surge of ice growth, accompanied by a visible pulse of blue energy from Zylenaia, the Timblewhiff’s weight shifted decisively.
The crew remaining on the ground reacted immediately to the first surge of upward motion. They released the last restraints. The wooden stilts were heaved out of the soil as the vessel rose steadily, trailing ropes and guide lines.
The men who had been working beneath the ship quickly found themselves lifted by their tether ropes still connected to the vessel. Rather than appearing alarmed, they seemed to have anticipated this. They minimized swinging, allowing themselves to be pulled upward until they dangled several yards above the ground. Then they climbed the same ropes, hand over hand, locking their feet for leverage before pulling themselves upward again.
Edric watched, impressed by their strength and coordination. Because one end was tied to their waist, each movement drew the hanging loops of rope upward behind them.
As the Timblewhiff gained altitude, the hinged stilts that had supported it were drawn upward, folding against the hull like the legs of a bird tucking in for flight.
When the ship reached sufficient height—perhaps a hundred feet above the ground—the great kite sail was unfurled from the bow, then dropped. The crowd below cheered as the wind caught the fabric, billowing it outward. The sail rose higher, angled to catch the morning breeze, and pulled the ship forward.
“Safe journey! Fair winds!” called the gathered villagers, waving enthusiastically as the Timblewhiff began its proper flight. One child threw small bundles of dried flowers that caught the breeze, scattering colorful petals in the ship’s wake—a local tradition, perhaps, or simply childish exuberance.
Edric found himself caught up in the moment, watching as the skyship gained speed and altitude. Glints of morning sunlight shimmered through the ice that drove it upward. From this angle, with the sail fully deployed, the vessel possessed an undeniable majesty.
*Like something from a dream,* he thought, appreciating the spectacle. *What Sarah wouldn’t give to see this…*
The thought of her brought the familiar pang, but it was tempered now by the wonder before him. He might have lost his world, but this one—for all its dangers and differences—held marvels that defied his understanding of physics and possibility.
As the Timblewhiff dwindled into the sky, little more than a dark speck trailing its billowing sail, Edric turned away from the dispersing crowd. His gaze settled on the town—his home for the foreseeable future.
“Nothing left to do but get to work,” he murmured to himself.
Edric wandered through a puzzle of narrow streets and winding alleys towards the western quarter, where Dorin had indicated Maryn’s workshop could be found. It proved to be a district of craftspeople and small businesses. The road sloped gently downhill toward what must have been the old millpond—a modest body of water now ringed by workshops that took advantage of both the water access and the relatively flat terrain.
Edric passed a tannery where hides stretched on wooden frames dried in the sun, a weaver’s shop with bright fabric samples displayed in the window, and a cooperage where the rhythmic sound of hammers on barrel staves echoed through an open doorway. Each building showed signs of recent repair—new thatch here, fresh daub there—testament to the damage the town had suffered and the determination with which its residents had rebuilt.
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The neighborhood had a distinctly halfling character, with doorways built to their smaller stature and windows set lower than human standards. Edric found himself ducking instinctively as he passed beneath hanging signs and low awnings.
“Excuse me,” he called to a passing halfling woman carrying a basket of herbs. “I’m looking for Maryn’s workshop—the bowyer?”
“Maryn?” Her expression brightened. “Just down the lane, dear. Look for the sign of the Oak and Arrow. Can’t miss it—has the most beautiful carvings you’ve ever seen right on the front.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. The shop structure showcased its craftsman’s skill in every detail. The oak timber frame featured intricate carvings of wildlife—leaping fish, darting birds, and small woodland creatures that seemed almost alive in their detailed execution.
The sign itself was a masterpiece of woodworking: a carved oak tree with an arrow embedded in its trunk, the wood grain incorporated into the design to suggest both strength and motion. Beneath the image, in careful lettering, were the words *Bristleleaf Family Woodworks.*
“This has to be it,” Edric murmured, appreciating the craftsmanship with a professional eye. The precision of the carvings spoke of tools kept razor?sharp and hands guided by years of practice. *If their bows are half as well?crafted as their signage, I’m in the right place.*
The shop door stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of a well?organized interior. Edric ducked his head to enter, a small bell chiming softly to announce his arrival.
Inside the workshop, shelves displayed finished pieces—elaborately carved boxes, decorative panels, and several bows in various stages of completion. The air smelled pleasantly of wood dust, hide glue, and the faint aroma of linseed oil.
What caught Edric’s eye immediately were the finished bows displayed prominently on the far wall.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior, he noticed the same precise, almost obsessive attention to detail that marked the building’s exterior. Every shelf, every workbench, every display bore the signature of the same master craftsman.
The front room had a door leading to the back where the real work happened, and Edric could hear the steady rhythm of woodworking—a plane smoothing wood, a pause, then the distinctive hush of sanding. He waited near the counter, not wanting to intrude but eager to meet the artisan responsible for such impressive work.
After a few moments, the sounds from the back room ceased, and a halfling man emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth.
His appearance was somewhat surprising. While Edric had expected someone dressed in the casual attire of a craftsman, Maryn wore an almost formal ensemble. His waistcoat and pressed shirt would have looked more at home in an accountant’s office than a woodshop, though the fine coating of sawdust somewhat undermined the effect.
His features showed mixed heritage—the round face and build of a halfling, yet with subtle traits suggesting beastkin ancestry, perhaps squirrel or badger, given the faint striping visible along his temples.
“Morning,” Maryn said, his voice surprisingly deep for his stature. His sharp eyes, magnified slightly by small spectacles, took in Edric with a quick, professional glance. “I see you’re the new arrival. The hero from Ayzelsted?”
“Edric,” he confirmed, extending a hand. “Though I’m afraid my heroic qualities have been greatly exaggerated.”
Maryn’s handshake was firm, his calloused palm testifying to years of work despite his formal appearance. “Most heroism is exaggerated,” he replied. “You want a bow suited to your stature, I presume?”
“Two projects, actually,” Edric said. “First, yes, I need a proper bow. But I’m also interested in prototyping a new weapon design—something called a crossbow.”
Maryn raised a thick eyebrow, showing either interest or skepticism—with him, it was hard to tell. “Crossbow? I’m not familiar.”
Edric glanced around the shop and approached one of Maryn’s display bows. “May I?” When Maryn nodded, Edric respectfully lifted the bow from its mount on the wall and carried it to the counter.
“It’s essentially a bow mounted horizontally on a stock, with a mechanical trigger mechanism that holds the string at full draw until released.” He used the bow as a prop to help demonstrate the concept.
Maryn studied him and the device Edric was trying to convey, with an impassive expression. “Interesting,” he commented without elaborating.
Edric decided to expand further. “The stock would allow for greater precision in aiming, and the trigger mechanism eliminates the need for sustained draw strength. It’s easier to master than a traditional bow—and potentially more powerful, since the draw weight isn’t limited by what the archer can hold.”
“Hm.” Maryn’s fingers drummed lightly against the counter in thought.
“I was hoping to be involved in the construction process as well—to refine the design as we go,” Edric admitted.
Maryn lifted an eyebrow again. “That’s… unusual. Most prefer to place an order and return when it’s done.”
“This is an unusual project,” Edric replied. “I have some experience with woodworking, and I believe the design will benefit from hands-on adjustment during construction.”
Maryn considered this, then excused himself. “Please wait here a moment.”
As the craftsman disappeared into the back room, Edric took the opportunity to examine the finished bows more closely. The workmanship was, indeed, exceptional—each weapon balanced form and function with an artist’s eye. One particular bow caught his attention: a recurve design with delicate inlays along the limbs depicting flowering vines. The precision of the work was remarkable, the thin slices of contrasting wood fitting so perfectly that their seams were nearly invisible.
His appreciation was interrupted by the sound of running feet. A small halfling child—no more than six or seven years old—burst through the doorway from the back room. The boy shared Maryn’s mixed features: halfling size and proportions, but with faint badger?like features. He skidded to a stop upon seeing Edric, eyes widening.
“Wow! You’re tall!” the boy exclaimed with the unfiltered honesty of childhood.
Before Edric could respond, a young woman rushed in after the child. She looked to be in her late teens, wearing an expression that blended exasperation and affection. Her most pronounced beastkin feature was her upturned nose—more animalistic than Mira’s subtler traits. She wore a stained work apron, her hands roughened by labor, already bearing the calluses of someone well?versed in the family craft.
“Jarrin!” she scolded, grasping the boy’s hand. “You can’t just run in here when Dad’s with a client!” She looked up at Edric, embarrassment clear in her flushed cheeks. “I’m so sorry. He’s supposed to be helping me sand, not bothering customers.”
“No bother at all,” Edric replied with a genuine smile. The child’s unguarded curiosity was refreshing.
“Wren!” Maryn’s voice sounded from the doorway, mild but firm. The girl—Wren—somehow understood everything he didn’t say.
“Yes, Dad,” she replied, tugging her brother toward the door. She offered Edric an apologetic smile as she dragged the still?staring boy away. “Come on, Jarrin. Those dowels won’t sand themselves.”
Maryn watched them go with a subtle blend of fondness and resignation before turning back to Edric.
“We’ve worked up a preliminary estimate for the crossbow project.” Maryn tapped the figure at the bottom of a small ledger sheet—a sum that made Edric’s eyes widen slightly. “This includes materials, time for the woodworking, access to tools, and consultation with a blacksmith for the metal components.”
“The crossbow project would be nine gold ayzel,” Maryn said, letting the number hang in the air between them like a physical weight.
Edric mentally compared it to the coins he carried. The amount was far more than he currently possessed—nearly six times what remained from the custody transfer fee. *I knew it would be expensive, but this is beyond my current means.*
“That’s… more than I can afford right now,” Edric admitted.
“I suspected,” Maryn replied, not unkindly. “Experimental designs cost more. The extra time for adjustments…”
Edric nodded, understanding the craftsman’s position perfectly. “What about the standard bow? I do need one regardless, and I’d prefer it come from the best bowyer available.”
Maryn seemed pleased by the returned interest in his more typical work, though he maintained his professional demeanor. “Now, I can help you there! I'll show you the options.”
The discussion that followed was detailed and technical, with Maryn asking questions about Edric’s preferences.
“Truthfully,” Edric admitted, “my experience with bows is extremely limited. But I do have some specific features I’d like incorporated.”
He explained his requirements: a notch on the bow’s side to index the arrow, regular markings of various sizes at eye level on the stave, and colored knots on the string for consistent positioning. As he described each element, he again used one of the display bows to demonstrate the concepts.
Maryn listened attentively, his initial skepticism giving way to interest. “These are unusual modifications,” he observed, “but I see their purpose. You’re creating a sighting system to ensure consistent aim across shots.”
“Exactly,” Edric confirmed, impressed by the craftsman’s quick understanding. “And this horizontal stick with markings would attach temporarily across the bow to help with estimating horizontal offset.”
“I’ve never seen these features on a bow, but the principles are sound.” Maryn gave Edric a skeptical look. “I’d heard the ranger hero had no experience with archery…” Maryn studied his face carefully. “Perhaps the tournament reports were exaggerated.”
Edric hesitated, unsure how to explain that his knowledge came from firearms rather than bows. “Let’s just say my skills lie in different areas than traditional archery,” he replied carefully.
Maryn regarded him a moment longer, then seemed to accept the non?answer. “Well, I can incorporate these features. For someone of your height and build, I’d recommend a longbow design. As for draw weight…” He glanced at Edric’s frame, assessing him. “I'll have you try a few options.”
He brought out several bowstaves of varying flexibility, having Edric draw each to gauge the different weights, being careful not to exceed a halfling’s draw length. Edric found himself surprised that he was able to draw the heaviest bow in Maryn’s shop. *Maybe because these are halfling bows,* he wondered.
Maryn looked at him again with mild skepticism. “You’re sure you’ve never used a bow?”
Edric only laughed awkwardly. “Perhaps something to do with the Herald’s blessing.”
Though Edric had to admit, it was strange that his muscles were toned as if he’d been training for years, while his aim had been so far off.
After careful consideration, they settled on a design that balanced power and manageability—enough strength for range while allowing Edric time to aim without exhausting his arms.
“How quickly can you have it ready?” Edric asked, aware that his training with Rennard would be limited until he had a proper bow.
“Ordinarily, a custom bow takes two weeks at minimum,” Maryn explained. “The gluing and curing can’t be rushed if you want a weapon that will last.” He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the counter. “But I do have a stave that’s been curing for a similar?sized archer—a merchant who never returned to claim his commission. I could adapt that as a base and have something for you within a few days.”
“That would be ideal,” Edric said. “What about cost?”
“One ayzel and four sted,” Maryn stated simply.
The price Maryn named was still substantial, but within reach of the funds Mira had provided. *This will use most of what I have, but a proper bow is non-negotiable. Both for practical reasons and to satisfy the Queen's requirements.*
"I'll need half as a deposit," Maryn added, "with the remainder due upon completion."
Edric counted out the coins, noting how the silver steds' iridescent sigils caught the light as he placed them on the counter. *Another mystery of this world—how they create that effect.*
As Maryn recorded the payment in a ledger kept beneath the counter, Edric found himself drawn back to the crossbow concept. "About the other project—I understand it's beyond my current means, but I don't intend to abandon the idea. Would you be open to reconsidering once I've secured additional funds?"
Maryn looked up from his ledger, assessing Edric with that same shrewd gaze. "The design is intriguing. If you can find the funding, I am willing to discuss it further."
"I might also be able to contribute labor to offset some of the cost," Edric suggested. "I have experience with woodworking, particularly precision fitting."
An expression that might have been amusement flickered across Maryn's features. "My standards might be different from what you're accustomed to."
Fair point, Edric thought, recalling the exquisite craftsmanship visible throughout the shop. This isn’t amateur work—but I’ve cut custom check-pieces for Brown Bess locks that had to mate to a thousandth, and I know how tight a French-inlay needs to be. I could hit this standard—maybe not on the first try, but give me a week with these tools, and I’d be there. He kept the boast to himself; Maryn wouldn't understand the references, and pride wouldn't pay the bill.
Before he could respond, a small face peeked around the back door again—Jarrin, apparently having escaped his sister's supervision once more. "Dad, are you done now?" the boy called, clearly impatient.
Maryn sighed, then gave his son a look that somehow conveyed affection and stern warning simultaneously. The boy ducked back out of sight without another word.
Maryn just shrugged, closing his ledger.
Edric thanked him, finalizing the details of his order and confirming the pickup arrangements. As he prepared to leave, Maryn gestured toward the displayed weapons one last time.
"Before you go, you were admiring our work. What did you think?" the craftsman asked spontaneously.
"It’s exceptional," Edric replied honestly. "Particularly the inlay work—I've rarely seen such precision." He pointed to the recurve bow that had caught his attention earlier. "That piece especially. The vine pattern must have required remarkable patience."
Something flickered in Maryn's expression—not quite discomfort, but a slight reservation. "Well." He cleared his throat. "Three days, then."
As Edric stepped back into the sunlight, ducking through the low doorway, he found himself recalculating his plans. The bow would take a significant portion of his available funds, leaving little for other projects. *I need to find a source of income—something that utilizes my unique skills without raising too many questions.*
Behind him, he heard Jarrin's voice pipe up again: "Dad, is the tall elf-man gone now?" followed by Maryn's hushed response.
Edric smiled despite himself, feeling unexpectedly optimistic as he made his way back toward the castle. *Three days for a bow. That gives me time to scope out the forge, meet this young Finn, and continue training with Rennard's men.*
The crossbow would have to wait, but Edric was accustomed to patience.
