Adventure of Wylie Starrik 1

Wylie arrives in the crowded town square as a bell chimes above the market arch. Beneath a spice stall, a dove lies trembling, its white feathers stained with blood.

The stall owner, a broad-shouldered middle-aged man in a russet vest, with a square, weathered face, close-cropped gray hair, and a brass earring, hurriedly crushes herbs into a clay cup. Customers press around him, demanding bread, remedies, and answers.

He thrusts the unfinished medicine aside and kneels, shielding the dove with one arm. The bird’s breaths grow shallow, each faint flutter barely stirring its feathers.

The crowd tightens, voices overlapping beneath the awnings. A dark stain spreads along the dove’s wing as the stall owner looks up at Wylie, desperate and pleading.

Wylie takes the unfinished cup and crushed herbs from the stall owner, steadying the trembling dove with careful hands as the crowd falls briefly silent.

He mixes the herbs into a paste and lays it across the dove’s injured wing, then gathers warm golden light between his palms. The effort leaves his fingertips sharply numb.

Sunfire sinks through feather and flesh. The bleeding stops, the dove’s breathing deepens, and its wing settles against its body beneath the fragrant green paste.

The crowd parts unevenly around Wylie, revealing a small boy, a human child with light-brown skin, tousled dark hair, and a mustard-yellow tunic held by his anxious mother near the bread stall. The stall owner shields the recovering dove.

Wylie rises with the dove cradled safely against the stall owner’s arm. His numb fingertips tremble, and the surrounding faces turn toward him beneath the market awnings.

His quiet thanks reaches the nearest customers, though the effort catches in his throat. Several people lower their voices and step back from the bread stall.

The small boy’s mother guides him forward. He limps on one bare foot, clutching a torn strip of blue cloth around his swollen ankle, while the crowd opens reluctantly.

Heal the injured boy

The thanks settles over the square like warm sunlight. Shoulders ease, and the last customers step aside, leaving a clear path between Wylie, the mother, and her injured son.

The boy looks up from beneath tousled dark hair, gripping his mother’s fingers. His swollen ankle is mottled with bruising, but the torn blue cloth remains tied firmly above it.

The market obeys. Even the bread seller lowers his voice, while the recovering dove shifts safely against the stall owner’s arm and watches Wylie with one bright eye.

Wylie kneels beside the small boy and gently unwraps the blue cloth. His pink eyes follow the bruising as he cups both hands around the swollen ankle.

Warm gold gathers beneath his palms and sinks into the injured joint. The small boy’s clenched toes relax, and the mottled swelling fades until the ankle bears weight cleanly.

The healing costs Wylie a sharp burst of numbness through his wrists, and the herbs beside him rattle as his hands briefly tremble.

The small boy cautiously lowers his foot, then takes one unsteady step. When pain does not return, he stares at Wylie in astonishment.

Wylie kneels beside the small boy and gently loosens the torn blue cloth. He cups the swollen ankle between his hands, careful not to jostle it.

Golden sunlight gathers softly around his palms and flows into the bruised ankle. The mottled skin smooths, the swelling recedes, and the small boy’s tense foot relaxes.

The small boy carefully tests his foot against the paving stones, then stands with his mother’s support. Around them, the market exhales in astonishment, while the stall owner reaches for fresh herbs.

Wylie rises, flexing his numb fingers. The market’s warmth gives way to the sharp brightness of afternoon, and the crowd falls respectfully silent around him.

The stall owner lifts the recovering dove into a padded herb basket, while the anxious mother draws her son close. Customers begin guiding the frail and injured toward shaded doorways.

A clear lane opens through the square toward the castle road. Behind Wylie, the boy takes another careful step, and the dove answers with a soft flutter.

Before taking the castle road, Wylie turns toward a weapons stall beneath a faded crimson canopy. Its keeper, a lean elderly woman with bronze skin, white braids, and a blue wool coat, watches him from behind racks of spears.

The weapons keeper searches among ashwood shafts and iron-headed polearms, then draws out a three-pronged weapon with a warped haft and a cracked central tine. She tests it against the paving stone; the head wobbles.

She wraps the defective trident in burlap and sets it aside, while the western tower rises beyond the market roofs. The castle road remains open, but the armory offers a usable lead.

The weapons keeper unlatches a narrow drawer beneath the stall and removes a dust-darkened bronze medallion stamped with the western tower’s sunburst.

She turns the medallion over, revealing a faded maker’s mark and three tiny notches along its rim. The castle road glints beyond the crimson canopy.

The defective trident remains wrapped beside the stall, its cracked tine visible through the burlap. The bronze token rests on the counter between them.

Wylie takes the bronze medallion and follows the castle road toward the western tower, leaving the crowded square behind. The wrapped defective trident remains with the weapons keeper as collateral.

At the armory gate, two guards, both adult men in dark blue tabards over chainmail, with sturdy builds, cropped brown hair, and steel helmets inspect the sunburst token, then admit him beneath the tower. Its stairs descend into cool stone lit by blue witchflame.

Below, Master Oren, an elderly elf man with a broad frame, copper skin, braided white hair, and a soot-dark leather apron, turns from a rack of ceremonial arms.

He places a newly reforged iron trident in Wylie’s hands, its three keen tines balanced beneath a sun-shaped guard. The required purchase is complete, but its price empties Wylie’s travel purse.