“You?Youare getting a new dress?” Rosie stared at me in disbelief as we made our way through the town square. Everyone took to the town today, hanging their Celebration decorations on shoppes and cottages. Tulips adorned window boxes, delicate moss sculptures of Eldrene and her Forest Train sat sentinel by doors, and enticing smells came from the bakeries: rich spices, roasted meats, sautéed squash pies, carrot cakes.
“And why is that so surprising?” I asked, bending down to smell a tulip.
“Just the simple fact that I have known you for fifteen years, and I’ve seen you purchase possibly two dresses that entire time.” Her long red hair looked particularly magnificent today, blowing in the soft breeze.
“I hate too many options—you of all people should know that—and besides, I generally have no need for such attire. Everything I own is doomed to get torn and dirty out in the garden.” We passed by the first dress shoppe, which had an array of fabrics hanging on a rack outside. I turned away from Rosie, inspecting the woven textiles in the discount pile tucked underneath the racks.
“It’s about Goddess-damned time!” Rosie squealed behind me. I sighed in exasperation. Yes, it had been years since I’d bought a new dress, but did she need to make such a fuss?
“I like my regular clothes—”
But before I could say anything more, it became abundantly clear who’d garnered Rosie’s excitement.
Ludwig Gudling had taken up position on the town stage—a raised wooden slat that was usually home to our Bard’s theatrics—and today, apparently, Ludwig. The shoppe-goers kept to their business, their intermingled conversationsa cacophony of sound. No one could bear Ludwig, and they had no intention of paying him heed today.
Ludwig was Moss’s… fanatic. He constantly told tall tales of Irk Road, the Witherings, dragons ravaging towns, the death of the Gods, et cetera. Essentially, any story that might ruin your day and fill your head with fear. He used to be a world-renowned storyteller, but his acclaim fell with his growing proclivity to share the darker sides of Nestryia.
He was a slight man, more wisps of clouds and wheat stalks than an actual human, always donning large, circular goggles, obscuring his eyes from townsfolk and giving the sense that he could very well be part bug. Despite his tiny frame, his reedy voice filled up the bustling streets.
“Folk of Moss”—a slight whistle sang through his teeth with everys—“shadows creep along the Irk, through the Shadow Woods, into our very lands! They tell of monsters emerging out of deep chasms created by a dark shadow. The black magic like gnarled roots, ripping open this very earth bit by bit!”
“Not this again,” I whispered to Rosie.
“What? You don’t enjoy a spooky story told the same way every other week?” Rosie playfully nudged me in the ribs.
“At this point, I think Moss has his entire monologue memorized.” I began to mouthBut I tell you, these shadows…just as Ludwig said the same.
“But I tell you, these shadows are not just bred of the Witherings. Nay… the Prince… he lives on.” Rosie and I chuckled under our breath, and Ludwig wagged his finger into the sky, his voice rising above the ongoing chatter. “His wrath is unending; his withering magic will find us here. Our greenforests will turn black with decay! Our town will fall into ruin! Our very people will turn against us, warping into creatures of the night as the magic poisons our minds! You know it is true.”
“He does love to drone on about the Prince.” Rosie sighed.
“Yes, and he is dead—the most deceased. Hells, Eldrene has said herself every Celebration, ‘The Prince will never be seen again.’ So he’s forever smote.”
Rosie heaved a laugh, clapping me on the back so hard, I almost fell headfirst into the dress fabrics. She caught me before I could set off a chain of racks falling onto each other and gently swiped a few stray curls out of my face as she did so. Though she was a seven-foot-tall orc, Rosie had always been the softest being I’d ever known; she just didn’t know her own strength.
“You’ve heard of the towns taken by his magic, what happened to the people there… the peoplestillthere.”
“Goddess, I hate hearing stories about that place,” Rosie said, squeezing my hand so tightly, my fingers started going numb.
“Then let’s not listen,” I said, trying to wiggle free.
“It is only a matter of time, mere moments perhaps, before we ourselves fall victim to the gray, tortured fate of…” Ludwig paused, his arms outstretched.
The crowd’s chatter had quieted, their lively conversations turning to hushed whispers. Despite themselves, everyone was waiting with bated breath for the name we all knew too well, one that ought not be uttered in the sun-warmed streets of Moss.
“Dwindle.” Ludwig relished every syllable of the name.Rosie gasped along with the rest of the crowd. I shook my head. This was ridiculous.
“You know that of which I speak.” Ludwig said this as if it were a revelation.
It was only the most spoken-of village in Nestryia.
At the northernmost part of our realm lies dragon country—a vast continent that few have ever traveled. If they have, they certainly haven’t returned. Directly to the south of dragon country is the Witherings, the largest continent in Nestryia.
Before the Prince’s demise, the Witherings was rumored to be an ancient kingdom that the gods themselves envied. When he died, though, his magic seeped into the land, causing it to fall in on itself. The magic began to spread into dragon country, until the great rending took place.
Where the two lands had once shared a border, there was now a chasm that ran straight through like a crack in the earth. Some say that dragons tore through the original border, burning so deep that none dared cross. Others believe that the Prince’s withering magic sought to extricate itself from all other continents. If that legend is true, then he was successful in his endeavor. The Witherings lies alone, bordered by nothing but the Shadow Woods.
And Dwindle.
