Tales & Treasure

Vatis - A New Story

Vatis stepped over the corpse of a man he didn't think could die.

He was almost sad. There were only a handful of stories he knew that didn't end with death, and those unfortunate people usually begged for release at some point. Maybe that's how all stories should end.

Vatis sat between the inviting roots of a willow tree and retrieved his diligently-wrapped journal from his tattered pack. It was swathed in thin but pliable canvas held together by an emerald-colored bow. He placed the covered journal on his lap and closed his bag. Its frayed drawstring hung limply over a hole that wasn't supposed to be there but had persisted in its development from unnoticeable to coin-size.

What's his story?

Vatis carefully pulled his quill and ink from a compartment sewn to the front of his pack. The bright blue quill had lost most of its downy barbs from constant rubbing against a troublesome wart on his right middle finger, leaving a feather that looked more like a sparse pine tree than part of a blue jay's wing. He closed the compartment, tightened the silver latch, then pressed the buckle's tongue into another hole that wasn't there when he bought it. But as the thread in the extra compartment loosened, the strap was no longer tight enough with its original punch holes. So, Vatis improvised. He punched a new hole, a jagged thing that was more of a slit than a hole, but it did its job.

Vatis dipped his quill into his nearly depleted bottle of ink. I'll need to replenish this soon. Where's the next town? Basswood or Barnwood. I can never remember which one is west of the river.

He pressed a small dot onto his palm. It joined dozens of faintly washed dots marking the inside of his left hand. He couldn't afford to waste paper.

Where do I begin?

Gunnar had been everything a hero was supposed to be: loyal, brave, strong, and even intelligent. Well, more astute than most of the so-called heroes Vatis had encountered lately. His hands wanted to write, but his mind didn't have the same desire.

It's been two days. What am I missing? Vatis stood, scratched his head, and walked back to the corpse. He checked Gunnar's pockets for the third time. The back of his hand rubbed against the cold, tough skin. It felt almost like armor; unfortunately, Gunnar's actual armor hadn't been able to stop the arrow, whose broken shaft still stuck a few inches out of his chest. This wasn't how his story was supposed to end.

Vatis didn't want to interfere with the outcome of any story. He was an impartial observer, recording the deeds of Emre's finest heroes as well as a few villains. But sometimes the protagonist needs a little nudge in the right direction, he thought as he returned to his journal. The dark leather cover was now more black than its original hazel color. He flipped to the first page. It read:

Stories of Emre

Vatis cringed as he saw a faint black line in the bottom right-hand corner of the page. One too many cups of ale had led to a careless night of writing, tarnishing his beautiful, flowing script. He took pride in his penmanship. His fellow bards were always envious of his handwriting, but it had been a long time since he was active in the guild. He wasn't sure if they'd be envious of him now, not anymore.

Squirming, Vatis moved past his mistake and flipped through the book. He loved the way the paper felt against his thumb. He stopped skimming his notes of Gunnar when he came to a page detailing their encounter with a bear outside Numeria. Heroic, yes, but story-worthy, no.

The next page recounted Gunnar saving a drowning boy in the Cemil River. Now, that might be a start – a good introduction. Vatis continued his recollection of Gunnar, flipped to a blank page, and wrote: