When I again laid eyes on the city of Corlanis, I remembered just how difficult it was for me to believe it was named for the god of water. To the east, if one strained their eyes, they could make out the vaguest hint of the Fengal Desert, home of savage and, if the rumors were to be believed, cannibalistic tribes of primitive men. To the north and the west rose mountains, reaching their rocky peaks to meet the heavens above them. Looking closely at the skies, one could sometimes even see a roc soaring in the west. To the south stretched a great plain, paths from the frequent caravans that took the only easily-traveled route into the city deeply carved into the grass.

But no matter how hard one looked, there was not a hint of a body of water to be seen around the city.

Even in the city, water was not prominent. Oh, sure, there was a mill that ran on a water wheel from a small stream that coursed through the city outskirts. There were a few fountains, I knew, in the palace courtyards. The greater part of Corlanis, however, was nearly as dry as the desert to the east. If a person desired water, as people are wont to do, they would have to travel to the small stream that ran the mill and take from there, some carrying the heavy jugs that would be full of water nearly a league back to their thatch huts.

My memories stirred. The difference between the city outside the palace and the palace itself made it seem like this area was home to two different worlds. While I had only been in the palace once before, over a decade previous, I still remember what I can only describe as the magic perfectly.

Inside, there were caravans that flew through the air, attached at the top to wooden beams that helped them travel, though I never figured out how. Water cascaded from the palace wall into a pond just outside, and I could swear on my daughter’s life that I had seen the same water pulled back inside, continuing the cycle eternally. There were the caravans…oh? Have I already mentioned those? They’re worth mentioning again, since they are the most magical part of that palace, perhaps even the known world. Forget those elves, the stuck-up bastards.

I was here to see my own. Bastard, that is. In the same guise I had used before, of a wandering merchant – not really a guise at all, but the years would make it so that I would, with any luck, not be recognized by his mother. If she saw me and knew me, it would mean losing my head – and I liked my head. It really helped with the being-alive thing.

But it wouldn’t do to dwell on her any longer. I was here for a glimpse of our son, and to once again see the magical caravans flying through the air.

Impressum

Texte: Lucy Anne Porter
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.05.2012

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This world wouldn't exist without the help of my friend Jenna. We've worked on creating the lands and the people for over six years now, and hopefully for many years to come.