"For you to truly understand, I suppose I'll have to start at the beginning. I was no more than a boy when my father first began to train me in the ways of blacksmithing," Berrodin said. His eyes grew distant as he stared at the fire. "I was eager to learn, but clumsy in the beginning. However, I'm proud to say it only took me four years before I was able to take on the small odd job here and there."
Steam rose from the pot as Berrodin stirred the bobbing meat and vegetables. "When I was sixteen, I began to court Ilsa, the village tanner's daughter. Two years later, we wed and she gave birth to our son, Garron. Things were happy for a while, and business was good. On the day my son turned ten, I brought him to the forge, and taught him as my father had taught me. The boy had a knack for the work, and a passion that surpassed mine."
"You must have been proud," Cyrus said. His stomach growled as he watched the water bubble.
Berrodin nodded. "Indeed, I was. I even planned on handing over most of my work to him, so I could spend more time with Isla. But before I could, she got sick. A terrible illness, which we had never seen before. Of course, I took her to every physician and alchemist in Galeden, but to no avail. No one knew how to cure her."
The steam filled the air, clouding Berrodin's face. "Desperate, I made my way to Faldersel, along the eastern coast, in the hopes that someone there might know something. I returned a month later, empty handed, only to find out my wife had already passed. My son, not even yet a man, had buried her by himself beneath the old maple where I had first met her."
Berrodin rubbed his face, his wrinkles deepening in the fire light. "After that, I shut down the forge, which led to my son and I arguing. Barely a week passed before he left for Railvyn, which lies in the northern lands, in a cold wasteland, covered in a layer of ice so cold, your skin will be covered in frostbite before you blink."
Berrodin tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. "Distraught, I turned my attention first to mead, spending every day at Morlen's tavern, and some restless nights too. Then, one night, he sat me down, and we had a talk. If Gaila hadn't been there, it might have gotten quite violent. Angered, I left the tavern, and returned home, falling to my knees before the bed I used to share with my wife. When I finally calmed myself, I noticed a book on my desk. It was an old journal regarding different herbs and medicines. Making up my mind, I read the thing three times that night, and the next day, I began my life as the village healer."
Berrodin glanced at Cyrus, and chuckled. "I told you it was a long story. Here, I think supper is about ready. Pass me the bowls."
Cyrus handed over the two wooden bowls. "I never imagined you would have such a story, though I must admit I'm glad you became the village healer. Who knows what might have happened to me if you hadn't."
"You have a point. Who knows, you might have woken up in Morlen's tavern, or even worse, the stables," Berrodin said. He filled up the two bowls, and passed one back to Cyrus. "Now, enough of that. I'd like to discuss something a bit more pleasant while eating."
…
The storm raged late into the night, with the rain beating against the cave as wild gusts howled through the forest. As the clouds rolled overhead, a streak of light twisted through the sky, before crashing into the mountain with a thunderous boom.
Cyrus jolted upright, his fingers digging into his leather mat. The dim cave swam before his eyes, barely lit by the last smoldering embers. He covered his head as the ground shook with a rumble. As it passed, Cyrus glanced at Berrodin.
The old man sprawled out across his mat, his breath coming out in haggard snores. His nose twitched as a second crack echoed, but nothing more. Cyrus rubbed his eyes, before grabbing a few more logs and tossing them into the fire. He shielded his face as a shower of sparks flew up.
Settling back down, Cyrus stirred the embers until a flame caught hold, dancing its way up the dry wood. As the warmth filled the cave again, Cyrus stifled a yawn, and crept to the entrance. A curtain of rain cascaded from the rocks above.
"Starvhost? Where did you go?" Cyrus called. The rain pelted his body as he leaned out. The old donkey hid on the other side of the elm, its ears pressed back, and its teeth bared towards the shadows of the forest. "Hey… What are you looking at?"
Cyrus ducked under the branches, and held his hand out. The donkey sniffed it, before relaxing its ears, and stepping closer. As Cyrus patted its neck, a faint whisper called out to him, no more than a small rustling in his ears.
Cyrus frowned, and rubbed his ears. Berrodin was still asleep in the cave, and the wind was too loud to hear anything clearly.
'Strange… What is it?' Cyrus wondered. He pulled his cloak tighter, and hurried back to the cave. As he stepped inside, his hand brushed against the bristled roots of the selavain bushels. For only a moment, the whispers spiked, and a tingle spread through his fingers, before it was gone, and he was back at his mat.
'What is going on?' Cyrus wondered, blinking his eyes. As a wave of exhaustion washed over him, he laid back, staring up at the stoney ceiling. One by one, the rocks melded together, until it was no more than a grey blur, before even that faded to darkness.