Trystan Meets Ysolt

 The pale light of an overcast sky greeted Trystan’s blurred vision. His ears rang, drowning out the muffled yells of the fuzzy people all around him. He stumbled forward, stopping himself from falling over with the oak staff he held firm in his hands. He was unable to figure out where he was or how to communicate his confusion. A large, dark, flat shape looked as though it were swinging to his side. Then, he felt a hard yank on his rucksack, dragging him back and away as his vision began to sharpen. Heavily armored soldiers rode out on their equally armored mounts from behind a large set of gate doors. And the first clear sound he heard was the husky, earthy pitch of a foreign woman murmuring in his ear. “Careful,” she said with a tone of concern. “Lest you trampled.”

The wayfarer froze, his tan skin becoming pale as he looked over his shoulder to find himself face to face with a darker-skinned woman with brilliant teal eyes. Her skin was marred by ritualistic scarring and a semi-precious stone set into her brow. Much of her unruly, ebony hair was held back and away from her face by a combination of tight braids and a brightly patterned scarf. Its remaining lengths cascaded down her back. She smiled as she helped Trystan regain his footing and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Better now?” The question left him dazed until the words finally registered. “Yes,” he nodded before asking, “Where are we?” Pearlescent, ivory teeth were exposed as the woman, draped in colorful robes, grinned at his inquiry. She could see that a magical aura lingered around him, though it was quickly fading. He didn’t come by here on foot, cart, or horse. However, she wouldn’t voice her suspicions.

Instead, she answered teasingly, “You forget? City of Mighty Marlock!” She gestured toward the open gate with a wide sweep of her staff, the top of which was carved to look like a pair of leaves unfurling from a thick stem, cradling a cup of petals. The troupe of militiamen that had been riding out came to an end, leaving the gate open enough for the pair and an approaching merchant cart to pass through at their leisure. Trystan continued to look stunned, disbelieving that he managed to find himself exactly where he had hoped to be. But what became of the wolf and the villagers at the Trade Post?

A low rumble of thunder could be heard from the distant horizon. He looked up to the sky to find that the sun had been masked by rain clouds. The woman beside him looked past the swinging corpses at the gates to the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. “We find shelter before rain fall,” she recommended with a squeeze of his shoulder. “Come. Come,” she insisted, hooking her arm with Tyrstan’s to help coax him to pass through the eagle-headed gate into the fortified metropolis.

He had only caught a glimpse of the decaying forms that were hung as a warning to all who entered the city. Looking to the darker woman next to him as she led him through the sprawling streets, the wayfarer asked, “Were those criminals hanging out there?” The woman glanced back over her shoulder before answering the question quietly, “Rebels.” He mouthed the word with shock and concern. She nodded and quickly assumed that Trystan was not from these parts and that the news likely had not reached his home. “Mighty General Grieve Marlock led revolt against Corrupt King Corin VII. Rename capital after self. Use of former name unlawful,” she explained as she leaned in close to keep the conversation quiet and private while her eyes searched for the signs that would tell them where they were heading or any place they might want to look for.

Though her use of the common language was not fully structured, Trystan could tell that she was not only well-educated but also well-informed about current events. He understood everything that she was implying. There had been a revolution in this kingdom recently, and by the looks of the swinging bodies outside the city walls, there were those who were not content with the new regime. The fact that he wasn’t aware of the capital’s previous name meant he was safe from breaking at least one law. But it also meant that he would need to be careful as to whom to trust. He returned his attention to the woman who tenderly clung to his arm, leading him through the unfamiliar streets.

She saved him from being trampled by the militiamen. For now, he would trust her. When introductions were finally made, he learned her name was Ysolt Ynys.