At the sunset of the fourth day of the fourteenth month, Doubte reached town of Narcissus.
He was not happy about being here, it was unbearably cold, and he could feel a sense of wrongness, perhaps even repulsion, in the air.
Nine months ago, when he and his team left for quite a dangerous but lucrative job in the Ensorcelled Forest, he would not have sensed anything unusual, but he could now. As he stood alone in the line for Guard checkpoint, he could practically taste magic in the environment. And it was not a testament to his great proficiency in magic, for as one Elays rightfully claimed, it required a great deal of refinement.
He had barely six months of practice, and he felt it for the sheer weight and not concentration. It was this unease that nature radiated that was a dead giveaway, though he also knew in the backbone of his soul that something was different today too. Not related to the troubles of the town, neither entirely malicious nor beneficial, and permanent. In his almost nineteen years of life, he has never held more confidence in anything but this. Haa, another eerie observation of the day, but he would have to look into that tomorrow.
The signs were not only magical, though. For example, town guards were more thorough and jumpier than even the ones stationed at the ancient ruins – oh yes, and he knew those, for he was around them growing up. People in line looked unusually cautious and alert – more like, paranoid. And the biggest clue was the lack of any gossip. None, at all, not even a whisper. As if any sound would be similar to the preaching of the Forbidden.
Yet he was here, even though he was almost nine months late – he was supposed to meet up with his parents during the second week of the fifth month. It was their last known location and where his teammates would likely be waiting for him - if they were alive.
If they were alive, he would definitely find them and take them on the journey to the Empire. After their last disaster, they all needed a training arc as his father would have called it.
He was grumpy, too, because he hated the town of Narcissus. It was small, and there was not much to do. It was always quiet and peaceful around here despite its proximity to the two death zones.
It was so mundane, in fact, that his great-great-great aunt once said that it rivaled tranquility of High-Elven villages. He had no idea how his Half-elven aunt managed to get into ones of those, for it was easier to sneak into the kingdom's treasury in addition to half-species generally being despised by purebloods. He strongly suspected that she was full of shit, yet he still believed her when she claimed that even those villages had more life than this town.
He was double grumpy after realizing the flower symbolism might actually be acting as a minor place of power—subtly amplifying whatever was going on. He'd picked up the language of flowers and colors in that cursed forest, and by what he knew, this one reeked of trouble.
The only symbol and attraction of the town were vast meadows filled with striking daffodils. Their petals faded from midnight black at the tips to pale gray near the center, ending in a pale brown at the stem. The flowers were breathtaking in any light, and faintly magical, which explained the presence of the Temple of Minor Gods and a handful of third-rate alchemists.
Case in point: one of the key contributors to his team's glorious run nine months ago was a multi-day case of explosive diarrhea, courtesy of some potions they'd purchased from the local alchemist.
Daffodils symbolized rebirth and new beginnings, while their coloration represented stagnation and a loss of hope. He had goosebumps for several days after connecting the dots of how eerily perfect of a symbol were these flowers for the town. He was getting them again now—goosebumps, that is—and not just from the cold.
As he slowly moved forwards in line, his thoughts wandered from one topic to another. From adventures with his team to resignation that they might all be dead, from excitement about how he was going to brag about his stay in the forest and his future plans to the probably grief stricken, snotty faced mother.
Regrets flooded him. For not heading immediately back, or not insisting enough on sending a message. Worst of all, the thought that his parents might think he was a ghost that came back to haunt them for whatever reason struck uncomfortably hard. And this was a legitimate concern, for his great-great-grandpa, from mother's side, did just that. For the laughs.
The old creep has genuinely been Doubte's role model ever since he heard the story at the age of eight.
He died young - at the tender age of two hundred and forty. Bedridden for last decade of his life, he still found energy to strongly objected to Doubte's great-grandmother's marriage for five years before his passing. So, thirty-five years later, when Doubte's great-grandparents were in the bedroom, the old guy came back just to bother them. And why not? Who could blame him?
It was said that he was a decent mage, well-traveled, well versed at politics, business, and supposedly a great company, but a hopeless gambling addict. Interestingly enough, his closer connection to luck, fate, and spirituality of things, all perks for being a ghost, did not help to him with his hobbies. As a matter of fact, it made it worse. He lost around twice as much post-mortem and more frequently too.
He stuck around for five hundred years before getting swatted back to Valhalla by Doubte's great-great-great-aunt after losing a bet. In the process, she accidentally summoned the great ghost of a fly, which—according to Doubte's mother—was still buzzing around Midgard a thousand years later.
Dead man's luck, he thought, grinning at the pun. Minus points to the aunt, though.
As joke hit a proverbial spring fae, he went over the thoughts he has been having for the past ten minutes, and could not suppress a shit eating grin from surfacing on his face.
He had several reasons for that.
First, one more reason to hate this town, for the damn flowers were definitely messing with his head. Nothing to be concerned about. Just Induced depression, by the way of suppressing more colorful emotions or thoughts the grim ones get to the surface. Well, exactly what the flowers advertised, can't really get mad about that one.
Second, though, and this was the primer reason for his happiness, he figured something out. His parents taught him basic of mental defenses, but after his experience in the forest, he theorized that one could add subtle clues to the internal alert system. Like, a two way alarm.
Something is messing with your head? Add a red flag to rattle you up to a full awareness. Now, one can just stay on the defensive and never bother. But then again, if some asshole is trying to get into your house, why not invite them in, get them a nice cup of tea, and then pummel them to death with a pastry?
No? Alright, Doubte was not that violent either, but he had no qualms with killing someone with a joke, with a pun really.
Doubte was not a great comedian- his friends never missed opportunities to remind him of that- but he found himself quite charming. He preferred to think that it was a matter of unemphatic crowd. His internal monologue was often filled snarky comments and even dumber jokes, yet, that pun, was a new low even for him. That was a flag. We are under attack, all rules of engagement suspended. Initiate a full scale offensive.
No one taught him thar trick, which made him understandably proud . He could not wait to test it in combat- bombarding his enemy with the stupidest jokes imaginable, preferably in the entire existence. Sometimes even he got scared of himself. He would make such a fine torturer.
Around that time, he caught his reflection in a patch of ice and had an inexplicable urge to pull his elbows, raise his hands, and do the weirdest wiggle imaginable. He could have sworn he heard a hellishly catchy tune, and even a wink of approval from some celestial entity.
He got a suspicion, that maybe, just maybe, it was not that he was a genius, but rather he was not taught the trick because it was bordering on the Forbidden.
He quickly dismissed the thought, and focused on what he saw in the ice-mirror.