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Interlude: Lirrel - Early Cuts
There was a light tapping at the base of the barn door. An energetic and rhythmic percussion that could only be his son. The boy had a predisposition to music, often conversing in song and converting whatever found objects and old farm tools he could get his hands on, into instruments. The light clacking of two small rocks. The hum of a saw blade bent back and twanged. A length of twine strummed on a bowed twig.
Every sound had a meaning to the little one, and this particular tapping meant dinner. Colirus’ wife would have bread ready, perhaps some cheese from the neighbors goats, and as always some kind of stew. Old Colirus had learned a little perhaps, of his ten year old child’s second language.
The boy’s father whistled back, inviting him to come in.
It was everything an old farm building was supposed to be. Musty. Full of tired implements of the trade. Old hay and dirt on a well-trodden floor. It took Lirrel’s youthful eyes a moment to adjust, as he pushed the door open and peeked inside with curious dark pupils.
“What are you working on? Mum has finished cooking. I did the peeling.”
“This is fine news, boy,” Colirus replied smiling. “I’ll be back in the house soon.”
The aged farmer’s gaze moved back to a well-soiled sheet, draped over something upon the ground. There was evidence of plenty of recent movement in here. Lots of shuffling items about, poking through chaos… like trying to drag out old memories.
“What is under there?”
“A fine question...” his father replied, winking mischievously.
“You are old enough now, for secrets. Tell me, are you ready to keep one? Of this you tell nobody, ever, unless they point to you where my brother’s bones lie.”
Lirrel considered the offer for a split second, before agreeing with a wide smile and a happy note from his lips.
Fate saw fit that one day, some thirty years later, that a visitor might arrive under the guise of seeking lodgings. He was plain-faced and humble in appearance, a middle aged fellow dressed in simple linen and carrying nothing more than a well-beaten walking stick.
“Excuse me, might you offer a traveler from Kalair a roof for one night?”
Naturally, Lirrel had offered the poor soul a proper bed, in one of the home’s simply attired guestrooms. They broke bread together and talked that eve, sharing even a song or two, the farmer’s only child unaware of what would come next. From out of nowhere the stranger said, “behind the small boulder, in the field where the clover runs free.”
His departed Father’s brother. Lost at the age of ten with no warning, had simply lost all breath from some unknown affliction of the lungs. Well, that was how father had told the tale.
“Yes, Lirrel. I know the secret Colirus bestowed upon you. Times near when the contraption will once again, be required. Tell me, are you trained in it?”
Lirrel was recoiling in shock, unable at first to speak.
“Yes,” he finally replied.
“Good. The Burning Rose is in need of your service. I do not ask lightly, but your father, the fine man that he was, worked with us long before you were born, and his oath did not dissolve upon his parting with the world.”
By year’s end Lirrel’s farm was abandoned, the home’s doors and windows nailed shut beneath firm planks. The garden left to overgrow and climb of its own free will.
Lirrel lived in Kalair now. A friendly whistling timberyard’s hired hand by day, and a crafter by night. Each evening the same nameless messenger of The Burning Rose would knock and deliver a pouch. Lirrel would tip the stones out onto a table in a concealed room, and practice. Upon river pebbles and small chunks of nameless rock he ran the machine, peddling with his feet to keep the grindstone turning. The domed cabochon. Facet tops. Asscher. Radiant. Trillion. He mastered them all. One day he hoped to shape something worthy of the art. The Burning Rose has said it would not be long till that day may come...
There was a light tapping at the base of the barn door. An energetic and rhythmic percussion that could only be his son. The boy had a predisposition to music, often conversing in song and converting whatever found objects and old farm tools he could get his hands on, into instruments. The light clacking of two small rocks. The hum of a saw blade bent back and twanged. A length of twine strummed on a bowed twig.
Every sound had a meaning to the little one, and this particular tapping meant dinner. Colirus’ wife would have bread ready, perhaps some cheese from the neighbors goats, and as always some kind of stew. Old Colirus had learned a little perhaps, of his ten year old child’s second language.
The boy’s father whistled back, inviting him to come in.
It was everything an old farm building was supposed to be. Musty. Full of tired implements of the trade. Old hay and dirt on a well-trodden floor. It took Lirrel’s youthful eyes a moment to adjust, as he pushed the door open and peeked inside with curious dark pupils.
“What are you working on? Mum has finished cooking. I did the peeling.”
“This is fine news, boy,” Colirus replied smiling. “I’ll be back in the house soon.”
The aged farmer’s gaze moved back to a well-soiled sheet, draped over something upon the ground. There was evidence of plenty of recent movement in here. Lots of shuffling items about, poking through chaos… like trying to drag out old memories.
“What is under there?”
“A fine question...” his father replied, winking mischievously.
“You are old enough now, for secrets. Tell me, are you ready to keep one? Of this you tell nobody, ever, unless they point to you where my brother’s bones lie.”
Lirrel considered the offer for a split second, before agreeing with a wide smile and a happy note from his lips.
Fate saw fit that one day, some thirty years later, that a visitor might arrive under the guise of seeking lodgings. He was plain-faced and humble in appearance, a middle aged fellow dressed in simple linen and carrying nothing more than a well-beaten walking stick.
“Excuse me, might you offer a traveler from Kalair a roof for one night?”
Naturally, Lirrel had offered the poor soul a proper bed, in one of the home’s simply attired guestrooms. They broke bread together and talked that eve, sharing even a song or two, the farmer’s only child unaware of what would come next. From out of nowhere the stranger said, “behind the small boulder, in the field where the clover runs free.”
His departed Father’s brother. Lost at the age of ten with no warning, had simply lost all breath from some unknown affliction of the lungs. Well, that was how father had told the tale.
“Yes, Lirrel. I know the secret Colirus bestowed upon you. Times near when the contraption will once again, be required. Tell me, are you trained in it?”
Lirrel was recoiling in shock, unable at first to speak.
“Yes,” he finally replied.
“Good. The Burning Rose is in need of your service. I do not ask lightly, but your father, the fine man that he was, worked with us long before you were born, and his oath did not dissolve upon his parting with the world.”
By year’s end Lirrel’s farm was abandoned, the home’s doors and windows nailed shut beneath firm planks. The garden left to overgrow and climb of its own free will.
Lirrel lived in Kalair now. A friendly whistling timberyard’s hired hand by day, and a crafter by night. Each evening the same nameless messenger of The Burning Rose would knock and deliver a pouch. Lirrel would tip the stones out onto a table in a concealed room, and practice. Upon river pebbles and small chunks of nameless rock he ran the machine, peddling with his feet to keep the grindstone turning. The domed cabochon. Facet tops. Asscher. Radiant. Trillion. He mastered them all. One day he hoped to shape something worthy of the art. The Burning Rose has said it would not be long till that day may come...
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