WHO DO THESE LIPS CALL?

0573 WORDS ■ Seth Fairbairn Cassius Martel ■ Allow me to help.

VALKYRIE

Lyall was never too far from an adventure, if he could help it. His primary focus on his journey was to grow so he might, one day, be able to draw Aleus once more. But as much as he tried to tell himself that he would find more and more reasons that proved how unworthy he was to carry her. The world was being consumed by a fierce darkness and he found himself, on the daily, fighting to not be alone. Men died, and martyrs were slaughtered for a cause that seemed so far away. And he? He had no allegiances, no one to defend. He was far from the hero he wanted to be. He felt as if he was being punished, punished for not being strong enough to fight. Listless days only served to make him rusty so daily practice was expected. Practice did not only mean sharpening one’s combative skills, but their spirit. This journey would do way to test his spirit and nothing would bring him greater joy.

Kakariko Village. He had only heard rumors of its peril, during the time of the assault he was finding way with aiding an old farmer who was at the end of his age and would not last to the winter’s end. He did not and Lyall made sure he was there to bury them. In the spring he harvested that which he helped the old man grow and gave it away to those who had naught come the spring, for the devastation had not only come across Kakariko. As such with chaos its effects rippled across the rivers. Alas he would arrive at the ruined town, feeling as if he walked into a new world. He had been here only last spring and in but a year’s time it had become an inkblot on the map, a stain forgotten by history.

But it was not forgotten. Here he was looking to help in their time of need, only happening upon a traveler with news. The Zora carried his arm tucked in his robes, his oni mask rest so it sat against the back of his skull, which he claimed did to deter predators. His scabbard was rest on his back and his bare feet stained by his journey and the swathing cloth wrapped from his soles up to his shin were worn by time. He was surprised the entire town wasn’t in ruin, the Bomb Shop having been a central piece of the village’s economy. There were many about. He could only assume the majority were volunteers to lend their aid as he recalled not the population being so big his last visit.

“Excuse me,” He called out. “Whom do I talk with to find out where I am needed? I have a few rations to spare,” Pickled vegetables he had brought with him from “but more importantly: a strong back.” He pushed his arm from his robe, letting it slide from his shoulder to bare his tattooed torso.

Wrapped around him was a folded cloth, where he had stored the food stuffs for his journey in lacquer boxes that kept the watery vegetables from spilling or spoiling. He seemed prepared to help, simply needing some direction. He was a tall man, six feet and eight inches with a toned form. Weapon aside he seemed to be one who has seen a great deal of physical labour. The blade was no decoration.