We now move seventeen years forward and see that Watsonford decided it had to morph yet again. Though, having said that, in whole it wasn’t an outstanding volume of change; a few buildings added here and there, some entrances and stables for horse-drawn carriages were added, farm lands were expanded increasing the population of the town, the railroads had finally travelled slightly nearer to them – still on the other side of the Evergray mountains, though. But by far the most drastic changes were the surrounding hills. Hills which, over the decades of wear and tear and growing dull and brown courtesy of a near constant walking and dragging carts with goods over them, were now outrageously perfect tumbling mounds that were greener than the greenest grass and trees which were somehow as tall as some houses. Birds sang nothing but symphonies now and small creatures of all sorts scurried around their now very green home. You could still see the peaks of Evergray Ridge over the trees as well; almost always dusted in a hazy white snow. Another thing which changed came not from the town physically, but from its accolades. It now wasn’t the most southern settlement in the country, there was another small village erected far more south than Watsonford: Hariotts was its name, and it sat perched on a long peninsula stretching far out into the Seran Sea.

Nowadays Watsonford, the funny little place that it is, was one of the few towns in the land that people would say is as close to normal as you could get. Well, as normal as you can get in the four countries anyway. This was partially because it had an outrageously large size of influence from Bridgmound, one of two large human cities in Sera. Trade was good with them, resulting in quite a fair bit of traffic between the two during the peak times. So a strict rota was created to include the trade, which in turn made the town almost autonomous and, in other words, the most normal village south of the equator. Except Varnfield. That village held the world title for being boring and gruellingly automated. Literally the most simple and nonchalant town on the globe; of a population of a grand total of two-thousand. And nothing ever happened there. In fact you could say that because Watsonford was so dissimilar to the others, it could be counted as being, in fact, the true definition of an unusual town.

And the main reason for this magnificent normality? Its abundance of humble and kind people that had lived and worked there over the years, giving the town a warm and brilliantly fuzzy feel. Those you would expect to lend you some sugar if you were to suddenly run out, or turn up at your door with presents on a birthday. And you would be hard pressed to find any who would turn you away if you arrived with freshly baked goods. And it was slight that the town had a very small ageing population now; over half were aged above sixty. The reason for that? All who could would study hard and reach university at the other two big cities and go on to either work in them or travel along the border and then into the neighbouring country, Skylan, to graft in Warbrin, and most ended up not returning. Unless it’s for visiting, of course. One such girl, for example, went on to study at Warbrin University and there, with great perseverance, she created gas-lighting, which was now the most widely used form of lighting. Another? A woman named Rea was one of the founding trio of the steam engine.

Having had these Watsonford citizens going on to create such wonderful inventions, it’s no wonder three quarters of everyone wanted to do the same. So when entering Watsonford, you’d find either children, or pensioners just in their late sixties – early seventies. And it was these people that Rigel, thank the universe, found himself growing up with.

Speaking of which, Rigel currently sat upon the bottom-most roof of his home starring at the sun as it rose. Great beams of orange and red blasted over the horizon and touched all edges of all lands as its origin, the sun, peaked over the hills. Rigel normally did this every couple of days with his sister, before she left for university, as well, and then to hopefully explore the world, a thing which Rigel didn’t hold against her; any chance to study and travel across the planet should be grabbed with all your strength. And regardless of the goings on around you, one mustn’t let go.

Now Rigel, when looking at the rest of the village for comparison, didn’t stand out very much. Correction, there was only one thing that set him apart from the rest: an unusual set of eyes adorned him. They were the bluest you would ever hope to find. Bluer than all the seas or a handful of sweets from a packet of Packinsons blueberry Twisters. The same sort of blue you would find in the sky shortly after the sun had set and just when the night wasn’t quite at it’s darkest. His hair, on the other hand, made him blend in like a piece of hay thrown into a haystack filled room. Brown and curly; the standard for most young men of his age. And for being twenty, he was rather small, a thing his friends loved all too much. But that didn’t stop him from taking full advantage of his lineage. Rigel, you see, had descended from Watsonford’s original families, all of whom were part of the list of well-regarded and prestigious people whom helped create the town. And there’s only ever been one generation previous to him that wasn’t in Watsonford. Everyone else called this small little town their home. Though Rigel wasn’t planning to follow that tradition.

Like his sister, he was all for up and leaving as soon as he could and getting out into the world. Nothing against the town itself, mind you, it’s just the fact that Rigel yearned for movement. To be able to venture out to the four corners of the planet. To visit valcirin cities, where the buildings are as old as time itself; to explore the thirteen wonders of the world, one of which was an ancient worshipping sight for old gods; or to sit within ghoul cities, and possibly meet one without dying; but most of all, to visit Warbrin, the human capital of the world. They say you can find anything and everything within that ancient and colossal city. Not only does it act as humanities capital, but also a hub for all trade, research, creations, and health. It is the world’s powerhouse. And it was quite apt that the Kings and Queens of Humanity, the Monarchy for the humans, called it their home. There they could govern the worlds humans safely and have an input on Warbrin’s governing body. And it was a brilliant tourist destination, in all honesty; about a twelfth of the cities income came from tourism. Rigel sometimes wondered how studying there would be like – he fully believed he would have a range of universities to choose from when his letters were given reply to.

Now, aside from watching the sunset, there was another reason Rigel was sat atop the lowest roof of his home. And that was to escape from the many, apparently humble people below, searching him out with tenacity that would put athletes to shame. You see, whenever someone’s birthday came along, these people would all swarm around that one person for the entire day. Drowning him or her in showery gifts and small gestures that only a birthday could allow. And today just happened to be Rigel’s, and he was having none of it. He had a distinct dislike of things being given to him – he had no idea why that was, but he almost hated it. And he could already spy a group of people trying to sniff him out, presents in hand and at the ready. He had come up with a rather fitting name for the lot of them when he was younger, and the name stuck: sharks. Mostly because they held a sense and sight that bordered on the predatory whenever a birthday arrived. Somehow they always found who they were looking for, no matter where in the town one hid.

Rigel shook his head. It was also customary, for the ones nearing leaving, for a birthday sort of festival to take place during the evening to further celebrate that person’s birthday. As if they had to. These celebrations were made up of several different stalls all throughout the towns Minister Square. Said square got its name because the current Minister for Bridgmound had actually grown up living in a house facing onto it, and she absolutely adored the stalls used for birthdays, especially the one unique stall for her own. Now these stalls could be physically anything; though mostly they comprised of small competitions. Rigel didn’t mind the competitions aspect of it all, it’s just when they all decided to fix the game to allow whoever it was to win just because it was his or hers birthday.

Speaking of these stalls, Rigel could see giant wooden pillars in the distance being raised that would eventually hold large banners with their given stall name written on them in bright purple. His house wasn’t far from Minister Square so he had a relatively clear view, so when he squinted closer, he could just make out that one such pillar was struggling to rise off the ground. He took a guess at who it was before standing up and peering over the houses blocking his view, he found he was dead right.

On first look, you would think it was an older child in the distance you were staring at. But upon further inspection you would indeed see the lines of middle age and stress on his face, and that it was not a child, but the resident sweet shop owner, Sten. Now, Sten was smaller than the average person, sure. Perhaps even smaller than your average teenage. Just tall enough to pass as an older child, a fact he had grown used to this over his many years. But it certainly made for some interesting situations, like the one Rigel was watching now. Sten arrived in Watsonford about fourteen years ago after living in Chapel Place for most of his life, hauling in as much as a quarter of a million gilds annually, which was nothing to frown at. His sweet shop still exists there to this day. Though, under new management, chosen by Sten himself. He still wanted to continue working in a sweet store, but albeit not one as hectic as his original near the centre of Chapel Place. So he started a smaller branch in Watsonford and called it his road to retirement; though, he wasn’t doing much retiring from what Rigel could see.

After a few more minutes he decided Sten needed help, so he hopped down off his first floor roof (which wasn’t very tall), thanked his apparently amazing skills for not breaking bones on the hard cobbled-street, and set off for the sweet shop owner.

“Blasted things,” muttered Sten in a gruff voice, quickly shoving back on his glasses which were constantly falling off. His hair was black and just at it his ears in length with a long fringe which he parted on his forehead. This became one of his distinct features, apart from his height, of course. A small custom made black suite was what he wore, with jog straps holding high his sleeveless shirt, and his black jacket sat on the table not far from him with a golden monocle hanging out – Sten was quite posh back in his heyday.

He hadn’t gotten any further with the pillar, it seemed. He had roped round the top of the wooden thing and slung the rest of it around an adjacent pillar, hoping to use his weight to physically drag it into a standing position – something which was proving to be fruitless.

“Need any help there, Sten?” asked Rigel in a merry voice, stopping in front of the pillar to inspect it.

“No, no!” said Sten quickly. He looked up at Rigel and grinned widely. “This is your day. So no doing anything for you.” He shook his index finger as he said this.

Rigel chuckled while shrugging.

“You sure about that? Looks like a tough one.”

Sten looked back at the pillar and brought a hand to his chin before scratching his head.

“I’ll think of a way; never stopped me before and it won’t now,” he said with unwavering resolve, knowing Rigel knew he meant his height.

This was the way Sten was, you see. He had grown a great distaste in anyone helping him with things he, theoretically, could do. In part, it was due to his inabilities in his younger days regarding his height. It caused him to have a rock-like perseverance in doing things himself that simply wouldn’t budge. It normally wasn’t a problem, until things like he was doing now cropped up.

Rigel took a long hard stare at the piece of wood in question. It was a large, big thing. It looked to stand at least two of himself high and, probably, if it wasn’t already obvious, be very heavy. They both continued to stare at it, as if it were about to lift itself or something, when an idea wriggled its way into Rigel’s head. He knew how to help the shop owner by now knowing his sometimes stubborn nature.

He quickly bent down and grabbed the pillar.

“Don’t mind me, Sten!” Rigel called.

“I said leave it to me!” barked a flustered Sten. His hands were dancing around but he was too afraid to touch Rigel lest he drop the pillar on himself. “You’re not meant to be doing anything!”

“Sure, Sten. Honestly, I’ll grow white in hair before I stop helping you,” said Rigel, a bit out of breath. Finally, he hoisted the pillar into position. He only got to look at his wonderful work for about three seconds before he was pushed from his legs out of the way.

“Well, thank you for the help,” rasped Sten. “Now move on and do something other than help get your own birthday prepared. And I’m not letting you help me whatever the case may be!” He struggled against Rigel’s all of average height and weight.

Rigel laughed and started to walk away, but he only got through taking one step before stopping dead. Across the other side of the square, just coming off an adjacent street, were the group of old people who were searching him out. It was said that old people had senses that rivalled that of a bloodhound. What made that fact just a little bit more believable was when one suddenly spun round and locked eyes with Rigel. He could see the wiry grin form on the old man’s face curl round higher up his cheek.

Sten followed Rigel’s eyes and saw them.

“Better hurry, Rigel,” said Sten, looking incredulous as he took in the group. “Once they get you that’s it, you’ll be opening cards and untying presents for the rest of the day, not to mention the crushing hugs! Go!”

Rigel could practically see the humour behind the sweet-shop owners voice, though.

Before Sten could get another word in, Rigel had spun on the spot, waved at him and took off in a fast walk.

“Glad to help, Sten!” he called over his shoulder before rounding a corner.

“Never again today, I hope!” Sten yelled back before the group of people rushed past him leaving nothing but dust in their wake.

After getting off the main square, Rigel put his foot down and round another house and was jogging down a completely different street. He slowed to a fast walk again when he lost sight of them, thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t been caught. He was currently on Wishful Terrace, a street which ran the entire length of the southern half of the town; he would have a clean getaway path if he needed it. But before Rigel’s next thoughts had a chance to pass through his mind, a hand quickly grabbed him and he was whisked quickly behind one of the nearest houses. His mind raced and he thought the worst, but there they stayed silent, and Rigel saw the group he was avoiding barrel past them, some tripping over themselves. They really liked giving presents, apparently.

“First and only lesson about avoiding them,” came a smug voice. “It’s simple, mate. Stay hidden. Also, happy birthday!” The hand let go and Rigel spun round and couldn’t stop himself from chuckling with hushed laughter.

There before him, grinning triumphantly, was Hern; Rigel’s longest and greatest friend. He stood just a little taller than Rigel, a fact which he used to tease him to no end about, and he mirrored his brown coloured hair. It followed the shape of his face a little more, though, instead of shooting out in all directions. He took a liking to wearing nothing but shirts matched with any an all sorts of trousers. And, like Rigel, Hern’s eyes were also blue, though, not as vivid. He sported a rather cool looking scar on his cheek which he’d gained from an arrow getting a little too close for comfort, and his grin was infectious.

Hern patted Rigel’s shoulder.

“Running already? Suns just come out,” he said teasingly.

“Shut it! Mate, it’s not your birthday and you aren’t on the receiving end,” said Rigel, a grin splitting his face.

Hern shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Was two months ago. And let me tell you, not a big fan of the whole running and hiding thing. This right here,” he pointed between himself and Rigel.

“Well some of us don’t like getting gifts shoved in our face.”

Hern jumped in well-rehearsed shock.

“NO! Say it is not so!” He raised his hands towards the sky. “My friend has seriously fallen to the greatest of depths if he cannot find it within himself to accept simple gifts, oh greatest of us-”

“Sure they’re ignoring you by now,” Rigel muttered.

Hern dropped his arms and stared under heavy eyebrows at his friend. Regarding presents, Hern was the complete opposite of Rigel. He loved them by all means and took full advantage of his birthday.

“Least they acknowledge I’m here, then,” Hern said simply. Banter between the two boys was basically a given. Likened to a sport in some cases.

Hern brought up a hand and twisted the top most button of his shirt while taking a gander at the street behind the two of them.

“Wait, what gods were you talking to?” asked Rigel with bemusement written on him.

Hern scrunched his face.

“Take your pick,” he told him moodily. Hern wasn’t one for believing in any ideological faiths or religions, and he casually listed off the only gods he knew, “Iden, Geminin, Virsilon, Ursilon, that guy with the one really overgrown tooth … ehm, Flin, Flitnol-”

“Flilil-”

“That’s the one!” Hern yelled, snapping the fingers.

Rigel chortled and shoved Hern’s shoulder.

“What d’you reckon they want in terms of worshipping, then?”

“Dunno,” shrugged Hern. “Drop to my knees and kiss the ground they walk on, probably. Better get a reward for my unmoving loyalty.”

“Uh-huh, sure. How’s Rowen, anyway?”

“Oh, you know, doing well and that,” said Hern absent-mindedly.

Rigel looked at him and felt his face drop.

“That bad, mate?” he asked a little disheartened.

“Easily,” confirmed Hern.

Hern, you see, was one of only two orphans in the town. Both his parents had died while he was still young and he got given, with a heavy heart, to a family in Watsonford. Needless to say, as he grew older and developed a personality of his own, it didn’t sit right with his foster parents and this led to constant rows between them, for want of trying to make Hern a model son. Hern tried to not let it bother him much but it did, getting him in a right state sometimes. And, like Rigel, he also longed for the day he could leave – for a completely different reason, of course. But there was one redeeming thing about him when regarding the subject of parents: he found a mother in the form of Rigel’s mum, Alison. Seeing as Rigel and Hern were close friends, and the fact that Hern was mostly round at their house, Alison ended up just treating Hern as one of her own; and Hern couldn’t be more grateful for that.

Said boy was suddenly struck with an odd thought. He frowned and asked, “So I’m still allowed to come over today, right?”

“Does the Lord Prime Minister make top coin exploiting Chapel Place?” said Rigel, giving Hern a mock punch on his arm.

“Yes, mate!” grinned Hern, and both boys then did what one would call an Every Time Is Different handshake. Which somehow took anywhere between ten seconds to half a week to finish, depending on their mood.

Hern then bent down, tightened his shoe laces, and took his second look back onto the street; it appeared deserted from first glance. He even noticed the curtains from some of the houses still pulled firmly shut, obscuring the now yellowing sunshine as it left the redness of dawn. Rigel was keenly aware of that fact and took note.

Hern started planning ahead.

“So what you doing now?” he asked, looking back at Rigel.

Rigel scratched the back of his head. Apart from what he’d done already, there wasn’t anything else he had planned. Of course he would have to venture out into the town during the festival later on, but for now home seemed a good idea.

“Thinking of just heading home, to be honest,” Rigel told Hern. “Only came out to watch the sun then suddenly got drafted into helping Sten which, apparently, is a life threatening thing,” he said while shuddering slightly at the thought of nearly being caught by the group of present-giving people.

Hern scoffed humorously.

“Trust you to watch the sun on your birthday, y’lonely plum,” laughed Hern, giving Rigel a pat on the shoulder. “How’d Sten handle it, by the way?”

“He let me help him,” said Rigel with a grin.

Hern punched the air.

“Called it!” he yelled as quietly as he could. But he froze mid-celebration and slowly let his fist lower, staring at Rigel as if he’d grown two more ears, and he asked in astonishment, “Sorry, say that again? He let you help him! Really!? Damn, how’d you mange that!?” His face had turned from one of successful smugness to one who had just witnessed the creation of a god.

“I mean, he didn’t want me to, obviously, but I’m clever when I want to be,” said Rigel.

Hern shoved him lightly.

“Is that right, thickness?” he said laughing

“Here you-”

“Are we heading back now – I think we are,” said Hern quickly before making a start towards his friend’s house. Rigel mumbled something about being the smarter of the two and followed suit.

Hern patrolled the left and right of the street with hawk eyes and, again, found no sight of anyone. Rigel, on the other hand, kept his eyes locked on the furthest corner from them to the south, not daring to move them in case any of those present-givers barrelled round it.

Hern took a glance back and nodded to the empty street around them.

“Probably still putting together the pillars and stuff for later.”

“No, I didn’t notice,” said Rigel flatly.

Hern frowned at him.

“You know what I mean. Now, we just need to get back without getting caught….” Hern trailed off in thought.

He was normally rather good with thinking things through when the time came. Though, having said that, it was a rare sight. Hern had a strong head but a keen liking to running headlong into absolutely anything that presented itself to him. It made for some hilarious situations when he came out with the wrong end of the stick, mind. Rigel took a great deal of pleasure in making him remember all the times he ended up head over heels hanging from a tree after having a hoist go horribly wrong. Or times where he felt the need to test if a lakes frozen-over top was strong enough to take him; which normally ended up with Hern blue in the face with cold.

Rigel looked over Hern’s shoulder and studied the street in that general direction. The only shop on this street was Bilford’s Bakery. Owned by Mr Bilford and one of only two bakeries in the entire town. The other being owned by Hollis, who was almost as good as Bilford’s. The two bakeries were so good at their craft that no other dared to open up shop. They simply wouldn’t be able to compete with the calibre of cakes these two bakers sold. And Rigel had a sneaking suspicion that the reason both were still closed this morning had something to do with his birthday cake, trying not to sound too selfish. Bilford always had a part in every birthday cake for everyone; the cakes he would make varied greatly but they all had one thing in common: size. They were always hilariously tall and made average sized people seem to shrink in contest with it. Bilford’s was a brilliant baker, make no mistake about that.

Hern suddenly growled to himself in annoyance.

“You know, now would be a good time to be a ghoul.”

“S’that right,” hummed Rigel thoughtfully, before nodding. “True, though. Could know where everyone is in a hundred meter radius if you concentrated hard enough, think so anyway. Pity we aren’t, though – or actually, good thing we aren’t. Maybe get a little too hungry and end up eating everyone,” he joked.

Hern glanced back at him.

“Nah, only a few,” he told him.

Rigel really didn’t know whether to laugh or feel concerned.

“Right, okay,” said Hern, getting back into things. “I think we should just chance it and go straight down to the Burlist’s and then it’s a final straight to your place. Thoughts?”

Rigel rolled the idea in his mind for a brief moment, weighing up the odds of their success. In his haste to lose the sharks, he had ran halfway across the town, and walking openly through the streets wasn’t something he was entirely keen on.

Rigel peered round every corner and said slowly, “Risky. Walk round a corner and bang, that’s you done for the day – game over. Then again, it’s gonna happen anyway at some point, and it’s the obvious choice, mind you. Screw it, who cars, let’s do it.”

“Atta’boy!” Hern praised, slapping Rigel’s shoulder in approval.

Both boys then started slowly heading in their agreed direction side by side. The cobbled streets were actually quite wide in the town centre. They needed to be, the horse-drawn carriages got pulled through there all the time. Their normal route had been weaned down into the stone ground over the years and a long double-line ran down the main streets. The sun had now also lost completely its red tinge; it now cast everything with a slight hint of yellow and the glass from the houses on either side of the boys reflected that light back onto them. It sort of made it feel as if there were a hundred spot-lights pinned on them, or in a street of mirrors. The houses slated roofs seemed to be an even more vibrant grey than normal and looked to be on the point of bursting into flames. If that were possible for slates. The more expensive houses had those brand new shelled roofing, brought in from the mines. And they looked to be brushing of the sun as if it were nothing. Rigel continued to keep a wary eye on every corner he could see, jumping slightly when he caught his reflection in the windows. Hern, though, just strutted forward like nothing in the world could stop him. Bring out a fire horse or a hydra any day, Hern would see to it.

Both boys kept a brisk pace, though.

“There’s the Burlist’s,” said Rigel with the beginnings of success ringing in his voice, pointing to an old large house with shell roofing.

“Not far, then,” remarked Hern.

The boys followed the street round the bend and past the Burlist’s, crossed over an intersection with trepidation while ruthlessly scanning the two new streets on either side, before carrying on. Once over, they finally came upon Origin Street and they could see Rigel’s home in the distance. Built for some odd reason partially into one of the largest oak-wood trees he had seen to date. Luckily for him, the tree never lost its life, thanks to some sort of magic which he didn’t actually have any clue as to how it worked. He just knew it kept the tree fighting fit. Windows spotted the house on all five levels and in some places it looked as if the house physically couldn’t be there. Gravity should do its job and bring it down but there it stood. Rigel sometimes wondered if gravity actually had favourites and would let them get away with extraordinary things every now and again.

They walked for a moment longer and before long were finally at Rigel’s front door. A large square double-door bright white in colour with a golden handle and a large oxidised copper five in the middle.

Hern chuckled to himself.

“Some sharks they are. Didn’t get seen once.”

“Shut up and get in! You’re gonna jinx it!” rattled Rigel, shoving Hern into his hallway. Said hallway was a short thin thing and had another set of wooden glass doors separating the main house from the outside. It was bricked all around with solid art-worked flooring that led on further into the house. The wonderful arrangements in colour were actually done by Rigel’s sister, Polaris.

They were both kicking off their shoes when Rigel clicked. Something was off, he thought. Rigel noticed a difference from when he left the house instantly. He grabbed Hern before he could walk forward.

“Something’s wrong,” he uttered in a hushed voice. “The curtains are all closed and it’s quite.”

“Mate, you checked the time?” said Hern accusingly, “It’s quite early.”

Rigel stepped in front of Hern, glanced at him and then crept forward at a snail’s pace. Actually, that was too fast. A snail would probably beat him at the rate he moved. The same rate bamboo would grow is a more accurate pace. Hern kept behind him with a wry smirk on his face. Rigel slowly opened and went through the next set of wooden-glass doors, then tiptoed to his living room entrance and cautiously pushed it ajar. He quickly flung a hand out behind him.

“Give me something,” he whispered, hand waiting.

“What?” Hern whispered back.

“I dunno. But if someone jumps out, I want something to hit them with.”

“Just get in, you weapon,” bustled Hern shoving him.

Rigel apparently didn’t have much of a choice as he was herded into the living room. The curtains were all closed and it was far too still in here as well. Silently still; not a loud and obvious thing.

Rigel decided he’d had enough.

“Hello?” he called out in a normal voice. It echoed slightly. He stood up out of his crouch and huffed. “So much for someone being here-”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” boomed a chorus of loud shouts.

Now, if Rigel were a cat, he would’ve probably jumped and hit the roof and quite easily gone through it. But he wasn’t, so instead he rocketed back and collided straight into Hern.

The curtains all swung open to reveal a fair bit of the town crammed into the living room, which wasn’t anywhere near small but it still struggled. Of course they were all here, where else could the inhabitants of Watsonford go? Rigel was then set upon by a multitude of people, all wishing him a happy birthday in some form or another. The Stanley’s for example, an elderly couple who’d lived in Watsonford for their whole lives, had developed a recursive birthday monologue in which they changed only a few choice words for it fit different people every year. It normally lasted about five minutes. He also received a slightly bruised arm from his countless other friends punching him in what was known as birthday dumps. This great compilation of people here also explained the reason why it was so desolate outside. Tumble-weeds would be a good decoration for the streets.

After meeting and thanking a few more people, most of which were his friends and ended in further bruising, he finally found his way to was his mother, Alison. She was much smaller than Rigel in stature and her hair was a very thin black. She looked frail. She wore a specific type of medicine attached to a string near her nose. This was to keep it unblocked and keep her breathing easy. Her hands shook slightly as she clasped them together in front of her. Alison had been born from the generation that left Watsonford so, as a result, it didn’t make her Seran. She was actually a Skylanian; born in a town not far from the capital, Warbrin, which made for an easy life; nothing was too far out of reach there. It wasn’t until she was twenty-four that she decided to relocate herself back to Watsonford where their family home still stood untouched. Being back in her family’s town never failed to brighten the day for Alison.

She smiled with nothing but the love a mother could give her son and brought Rigel into a warm hug. There isn’t another person in the world who could come close to the hug a mother could give, according to Rigel.

“Happy birthday, dear,” she told him. Her voice wobbled slightly and she brought a hand up to clear her throat. Rigel winced slightly. She’d been under the weather as of late, three weeks to be exact. Just a simple cough and sore chest, but it was it’s longevity that held cause for concern. Research and testing from the Institute of Health in Banifell resulted in the discovery of a sickness in the chest which spelled only death for its host. It lasted merely a month before it takes life and while they were trying not to concern themselves about it, the worry was a black cloud hanging over them constantly. And Rigel didn’t want to even think about what would happen after.

“How’s the chest?” he asked concerned.

“Oh now, you don’t worry about that,” she snapped, straightening Rigel’s now crumpled top and trying with no avail to fix his ludicrous hair, “today’s your day, remember.”

“Apparently this is my day every year,” Rigel mumbled while rolling his eyes.

“This is your day every year, son.”

“Oh right,” said Rigel, tapping his head, “silly me.”

“Weph I’d haffily bake whis day as well,” came Hern’s struggling voice, muffled by a super-sized loaf of bread flavoured by bright red jam. He had found his way to the food in record time, no doubt. Nothing different than usual.

“Sorry, chubs, could you say that again with your mouth less full,” chuckled Rigel, waving a hand at Hern’s incomprehensibly full cheeks.

“Mhmm,” Hern hummed before swallowing. “I said I’d obviously take this day off your hands! Always loved one day to myself, but two! My friend, can you imagine all the stuff I’d get-”

“Wow, wow, slow down there speed train!” said Rigel. “I think one’s quite enough for you.”

Alison reached a steady hand over and brushed some crumbs from Hern’s shoulder.

“And where would I get the help to plan and guide Rigel if you weren’t here, Hern?” she said.

Hern’s eyes widened in horror and he snapped his head towards Rigel. He’d been caught.

“Even what!” Rigel barked in horror, turning a lightening hot glare on Hern. “You were in on this?!”

Said boy raised his hands, like a dear caught in headlights, and took a step back.

“Now, lets all just calm it. I was bribed, and with a heavy heart I had to accept. You know what I’m like.” Hern’s smile curdled at the furious stare Rigel gave him. He gave a panicked cackle. “You know, I’m just going to head over there. Not getting into this. By, Alison!”

“You’re for it after this, traitor,” grumbled Rigel with a lowly voice. Though, it had an undertone of light comedy. Hern shrugged and turned back to gorge himself on the large assortment of food which had been gathered. Guests were required to be well fed during these events, but at the rate Hern was hoovering it all, they would be lucky to see any more than a few crumbs.

“He means well,” his mother told him warmly..

“Oh, I know. Still gonna make him suffer,” said Rigel, smirking. He knew he wouldd get him back on Hern’s own birthday next year.

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?” asked an older curious new voice. Rigel turned, knowing exactly who it belonged to. The towns lead Hunter, Anderfil, stood there proudly. He was tasked with the solemn duty of keeping the big cats and other predatory animals far away from the farms. It proved difficult work during the summer months, he was out normally every day for hours on end, tracking and setting barriers to ward off predators. He leant against the wall, waiting for an answer while sipping on some freshly made tea. He had black hair that was starting to both whiten and recede, and there were a few lines surrounding his well-trained brown eyes, his bow was strung around him as he always had it; Anderfil preferred bows as opposed to rifles.

He was on the list of people who had been born in Warbrin. He had started training to become part of the Defence Guard but dropped out after two years. And with those two years spent, all that training and experience under his belt, he had nothing to show for it. But it turned out that the first two years of training for humanities military held its perks, like teaching one how to hunt at mastery level, for survival purposes. So Anderfil ended up moving to Watsonford becoming it’s hunter for the local farms. It paid well, gave him a home, and he liked the quaint town. And it was during this training that he discovered he loved bows far more than any of the modern weaponry.

Rigel thought he was the brilliant old timer of sorts; Anderfil was pushing fifty now. Rigel opened his mouth to speak but paused, he would play it cool with the hunter and, with a little luck, hopefully be able to finally outwit him.

“Eremurus petals infused in liquidised euphorbia. He won’t stop running for hours.”

“Good combination, sure,” Anderfil began causally. “Would certainly keep him running for a couple hours. But there’s one problem: assuming you’d do it during his birthday, beginning of the year, no eremurus petals bloom until April. Try again.” He twisted his head slightly and looked towards Alison while raising his cup. “Morning, Alison. Doing well?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Alison. She then found her eyes being dragged towards the cup in Anderfil’s hand. Her right eye twitched slightly. “Goodness, so silly of me, but I recognise that cup, Anderfil. That doesn’t just happen to be part of my antique Crownfield set does it?” she asked. And although she didn’t speak it, an air of authority found its way into her question.

Anderfil suddenly looked like he had just remembered something important and put the cup down.

“Don’t think it is ma’am,” said Anderfil in a somewhat tenser voice. “But just for safe keeping, I’ll put it back-”

“Thank you.”

“Tea mixed with quaking grass!” Rigel blurted out suddenly. Anderfil eyed him, silently saying continue. “That’d leave him buzzing for days! What was it again … what did the grass stand for,” He looked like he was going to burst from thinking, rather like a tomato in an oven, “agitation – that’s the one! Done, dusted!”

“There you go, lad!” Anderfil commended while grinning. “Got there eventually, I see. Now! On to what we’re all waiting for: your present.”

Rigel became intrigued instantly, forgetting any attempt at petty revenge on his non-biological brother. After all, any present from Anderfil was bound to be one for the books. He glanced around the hunter but found nothing so he waited. He glanced at his mother who also said nothing. She had a small knowing look on her face, though.

“I’ve heard you want to go to university? And hunting and trapping is part of the requirements for your course, wasn’t it?” asked Anderfil, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the string of his bow.

Rigel nodded. He had plans to study both Officer Training and Ministerial Studies, and the former required some form of survivability as a prerequisite. One of the units in the curriculum was surviving a lone week in the Skylanian Outback – not for the faint hearted. So Rigel nodded and said, “It is, and if I can, yeah.”

Anderfil nodded.

“Well, how would you like to come with me on a three day hunting trip? We’re running low on a couple things for the farms.”

Rigel lurched forward and grabbed Anderfil.

“No way! You did not-” his voice failed him and he stood staring gob-smacked at the hunter.

“Is that a yes, then?” Anderfil asked pointedly.

“Obviously! Thank you!” Rigel yelled. He had to stop himself bouncing on his feet with excitement or snapping Anderfil in half with a hug. Hugs were not the done thing with the hunter, you see.

Rigel was over the moon; a training session with the lead hunter of Watsonford. It just doesn’t get any better, if you asked him. Well, getting a pot of gold and an unlimited supply of Packinsons would definitely come close. Or maybe a holiday to the Central Belt. But regardless, this would pretty much cement him a place in university when he eventually applied.

Rigel was about to speak again but was stopped by Alison coughing painfully. He put a hand on her shoulder at once.

“Have you had your medicine today?” Rigel asked.

Alison waved him away.

“Took it before you left. Now, you carry on and have some fun,” she told him, whisking him forward to open some more presents. Anderfil let himself lean back against the wall casually until Alison tugged Rigel out of sight. Once he was sure they were gone, his eyes suddenly darted back to the cup for a moment. He took a swift glance around before grabbing it, quickly poured out the tea into the nearest plant pot and shook the excess liquid off. He looked around again and then hurriedly stuffed it back into the glass cabinet alongside five other cups exactly like it before walking away to find something else to do.

Birthday’s had always been a pain for Rigel, but at least he could safely say that this part, the part where he he opened presents, was all right, at least. Getting them in the first place was annoying, mind you, but once he got over the fact that there was no room for arguments, it became almost pleasant. He got to his first present, given to him by the Burlist’s. They had given him a long satin white shirt for formal wear. It had small golden outlines round its edges and it exuded expensiveness. He wasn’t surprised, nothing less would come from them. He got a long brown coat from the Drinisters from across the street, a big thick leathery brown thing that looked like as if it could take on any weather. He put that aside thinking he could use that for Anderfil’s trip. He opened a few others and was pleased when he got one of Ports Unusual Surprises. These little things were all edible and sometimes could be used for things like untangling knots without any trouble or firing a potato when you found yourself without a potato canon. They could come in all shapes and sizes, mostly fitting in the palm of your hand but every now and again they would be the size of your head. They wouldn’t be surprises if they were all the same, after all. Rigel firmly put that at the back of the bread bin for later. No one would dare touch it there.

“And this one’s from Polaris,” said his mother, handing Rigel the last present. A small box wrapped tightly in bright-yellow wrapping was what his eyes were met with. Rigel always enjoyed this part. Every year he would get a present from his sister. And because she was out doing stuff in the world, it was always bound to be something special.

Hern had left the food table by this point, or what was left of it anyway. Bomb sights looked like neat and tidy hotel rooms compared to the abomination the food table was now in. He sat across from Rigel to watch, nursing his ballooning stomach.

“Never eating again,” he groaned loudly.

“I believe you,” said Rigel without any real conviction. He was rolling the golden present in his hand. Hern creaked one eyelid open and stared at his friend and was met with Rigel trying to act cool and flip the present from hand to hand, failing terribly, though. Hern couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Rigel brushed him away and looked back at the present, giving Hern time to catch his breath, before deciding not to open it.

Hern suddenly found his stomach not bothering him and sat up quickly.

“What, you not gonna open it?” he complained.

Rigel nodded.

“I’ll leave it for later and open it when Florence arrives.”

“Oh, yeah, old goaty isstill to get here,” wondered Hern, leaning back into the couch and glancing around at the now nearly empty living room. Rigel’s mother was currently helping someone to the door.

“Look who’s finally gained enough knowledge to call people names, orangutan,” Rigel said through a smirk.

“Ha, ha. Now, you better tell me when you open that thing, I want to see what it is,” said Hern, unamused.

“I’m sure he will,” said Alison, walking back in from the hallway.“If he doesn’t then I will,” she added simply.

Rigel noticed it was just the three of them left in the house now. It sounded all too silent after the commotion earlier.

“Please do,” said Hern, nodding towards Alison as she walked past both boys and into the kitchen, most likely to get a cup of something for herself.

“D’you need any help, mum?” called Rigel.

“No, dear, I’m fine,” came his mother’s reply. Rigel then let himself finally sink into the other sofa opposite the one Hern was on. Faded dark green was their colour with a wooden surround. Hern stuck his feet on the table in front of him between the two couches and Rigel soon followed.

“When’s Florence getting here, anyway?” Hern asked, itching his left foot with his right.

Rigel shrugged.

“Meant to get here today. She’ll arrive when she does, I suppose,” he told him. Rigel looked out the window onto the street in front, which now held many people bustling about their day before the evening’s events. Rigel felt himself get a little excited at the prospect of the evening. It normally just ended up in an extremely competitive competition between Hern and himself at every stall but he supposed, if he could keep himself from starting the inevitable rival, he’d give others a chance to play them all.

“Just doesn’t give a damn, Florence, does she?” muttered Hern, closing his eyes again.

“Nah, she just dose what she wants,” said Rigel, shrugging in his seat.

“Maybe she’s off fighting some dark witch or something. Now that’d be cool.”

“Maybe.”

They both fell into a calm silence then; Hern letting his food settle and Rigel wondering about Florence. The witch normally lived up in Erthen, the only magic tier town in all of Sera. He had heard there were three in Skylan which he was secretly jealous off. The witch always visited him every birthday and every so often would turn up out of the blue. Twice she brought someone alone with her. First another wizard and then a witch. Both were a little older than Rigel himself was just now and they were both studying under Florence’’s teachings. What he wouldn’t give to be a wizard. Or to just use magic point blank. He dazed off in daydreams about casting spells and fighting off dark magic as a wizard. Oh the spells he would learn to create and use.

He was abruptly brought out of his daydream when Hern landed on the couch next to him, obviously now rid of the bloated feeling he had before. Honestly, Rigel thought he was secretly a dragon with the rate he could put away food.

“So! Ready for tonight, then?” Hern asked him with a voice full of anticipation.

“Might as well ask you if you’re ready to lose,” commented Rigel humorously.

“Right then. Talking like you’ve not already been beat, it’s already happened,” said Hern rubbing his hands together.

“Hope last year won’t be repeating itself?” came Alison’s shrill voice from the kitchen, as she read the morning paper.

Rigel couldn’t help but laugh as he said, “Not at all.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 3: The Arrival Of Two