Southgate

"This village is Southgate-on-March, we call it.  It lies in that part of our lands that were called the Limbus Meridianus, a part of the March. I am its marshal - a mayor of sorts, if you will.  We call my office the Drussard.  It is a joyful calling, it is, planning the celebration for visitors and friends who return!" 

His smile bloomed up to his eyes, and twinkled.  A Christmas sparkle filled the room. 

"Hospitality is our greatest honor, especially for those who are not of this land.  Your presence is an absolute joy to our little town - it is why we exist!

I am the Innkeeper of Southgate.  The village is here to welcome our guests, and it is necessary for all visitors to stay here for a night or two before proceeding in from the Marchland.

I am the Mistral, the - oh, I don't know, constable? of this fair land.  Constables - they have something to do with crimes or criminals, so that's not at all what I do.  I wander about, along Tuvnadailla - the very outer edge of the march - to pace the bounds of our shrievalty, I think you call it."

"A what?"

"Shrievalty - that's not your word?  Sorry.  It's so hard to keep up with the modern world, and that is why Southgate exists as a special place.  It is my responsibility to watch over any of the Quillendal who come to our village.  "

Quillendal?

Outlanders - those from outside our land.  It's perhaps - the little hounds - a puppy, you call it?

I am the master of the Hôpital Pourlebois, the little building where you left your wand.

"Why are there so many magic wands still there?"

"In some cases, the wizards come to live with us, and do not need a wand in our land.  As you notice, we consider them - perhaps dangerous is the word, although not quite right.  In most cases, those who leave our land relinquish their wand to the Hall of Wood, as a gift, in a sense."

But they - they leave, and wander about, without a wand?  But - is it their choice to do so?

(The Drussard) beamed.  There is much to learn here.  We have no secrets from any being - but we do have riddles, perhaps.  It is not a sport, but perhaps the difference between your land and ours.  You are free to come and leave, with our without your magic charms.  We welcome also the Quillengoll, the  - some call them Muggles? - from your land.  Few come, and fewer still these days.  But we have friends in Flich-na-failte, our neighbors, who come by on occasion, as their parents, and parents' parents, and so on.  Had you stopped there?

I passed through.  They seemed cautious, and suspicious.  They kept to themselves, as though the village were at land's end.

The Mistral glanced to his fellow elders briefly. 

"Hospitality may be hidden, or worn openly.  The people of Flich are kind; but they, after all, have - have wizards - as travelers-by.  And they may not have our means to welcome the pilgrim, as we do.  And not all pilgrims are pleasant, either.

I did not stay in the village - I did not find Flitch hospitable.  They directed me, and I camped in the Forest of Moon by a little stream.  It was chill and dank, but I made a campfire there, which was most comfortable.

A flicker of pain showed on the face of the master of Pourlebois. 

There was a spring in that forest which was wholesome; but the river which joined it stank."

 He shuddered ot recall of the smell.  Something had died in the water, and rotted there; or perhaps a slaughterhouse had dumped a diseased animal into the water.  Putrid.

  I passed into the forest and the foulness did not follow me.  But of the travelers, how do they camp and make fire without wands?  Like Muggles, with tinder and flint, without spells?  We use a burning spell, but without a wand.....

Cail Orgun

Powered by ScribeFire.