"I heard it from my grandfather when he was alive, the stories of the Withering Storm."
The man's voice was deep and carefully composed, made to sound daring.
In the lonely guild, he stood with his body wrapped in a long brown cape, his face hidden beneath its hood, unlit by the dim lantern above. The guild itself was built upon the veranda of the owner's small home.
The air felt polluted with darkness, as the sun barely reached the grounds of Ravina, an establishment built deep within a wide crack in the land, its denizens living beneath the surface.
Behind the old, dark wooden counter sat the owner himself. A few bags lay scattered about, while the small carcasses of strange animals were mounted upon the walls. Glass bottles containing all sorts of peculiar substances lined the shelves. The old man, with his bloated nose and dark robe, sat upon his stool, not even glancing at the man's strange appearance as his eyes instead lingered on the sweater he was weaving with a wooden spindle.
"First were the ordinary humans of the Lotus. A country whose southern edge touches the ocean, while God's frozen mountains stand to the north, enclosing our land from its enemies.
Some six hundred ninety-six years ago was when the first storm came to be.
Tearing through the southern ocean, it made its first landfall in the south, pressing onward toward the heart of the country.
By the gods' mercy, the southern mountain ranges prevented the intoxicating air of the storm from destroying the land outright. As the storm crossed the middle, it finally reached the northern mountain ranges, beneath the northern lands and the heavens beyond.
The storm returned most of its winds, yet what remained crushed everything beneath it as it fell at the feet of God."
The old man, still uninterested, continued to listen to the man's blabbering.
"It would not be the last time such a storm would rage. Two hundred fifty-seven years later, it returned for its cleansing. Then again, after another three hundred forty-three years, it made its third appearance.
People survived by retreating into crevices and caves, carving shelter beneath the earth. In time, a mystical tale brewed upon the surface that those who endured the trial of the Withering Storm were allowed to live beneath its blessings… or its curses, as some chose to call them."
The man finished and pulled one of the stools toward him, sitting down as he let out a quiet sigh.
"Do you think I am stupid, boy?"
The old man spoke, his voice trembling with age, yet still firm.
"You think that just because we have lived our lives underground, we do not know the ballad of the Withering Storm? Every damn child here knows of its calamity and the diseases it brings."
The man sat in silence. Did he just call me a boy?
"This is not something I am willing to settle on. Perhaps you ought to find someone else for your tomfoolery."
The old geezer continued his work, still not sparing him a glance.
"I am twenty-one years of age, just so you know,"
the man commented.
"That does not make you any less of a boy," the old man snapped, frustration creeping into his voice. "I had a son who was about twenty-five. Stupid boy deserted us to explore the surface. I do not even know whether he is alive."
Sadness lingered briefly in his eyes.
"My point is this," he insisted. "If you want information, you must bring something more interesting. If I started selling answers for children's bedtime stories, I would be running a school, not a guild."
After a short silence, the hooded man stood, preparing to leave.
"Wait… I do have something, though."
He rummaged through his pockets before placing a bottle cap upon the counter.
It was no ordinary cap. It bore markings from Central, the capital built by the Ramanians, whose industries alone mass-produced such metallic pieces. For one to appear this far north, beyond the northern mountain ranges, meant it had crossed them. That alone made it vital information.
"This cannot be…"
The old man stared at it in disbelief as he snatched it from the counter, holding it delicately between his fingers while examining it.
"Where did you find it?" he asked, almost reverently.
"Not far from here. Eastburn," the man replied.
"They are here… they are already moving,"
the old man murmured as he shuffled across the room, his movements pained and unsteady. He grabbed a pen and paper from the desk, glancing toward the man before quickly looking away, his hand hovering uncertainly above the page.
"What is it then?" the hooded man asked. "I take it this means more than bedtime stories."
"They are moving quicker than I thought," the old man began, his hand finally scratching against the paper before stopping again. "I received word this morning that the Ramanians have announced an association they wish to form with the rest of us. They claim they need our aid in settling the differences left behind by the previous president."
"Wait… the president is dead?" the man asked, taken aback.
"What? Have you been living under a rock? It has been two weeks since that old bastard passed away."
"Apparently, news does not fall from the sky and into this shithole very often,"
the man replied, irritation seeping into his voice.
"Anyway," the old man continued, "there is great unrest in the north. People call it a Trojan horse, their next step in enslaving us. No one expected they would march our way this soon. I need to pass this message to the other towns quickly."
"What do they mean by this association?" the man asked. "What kind of people do they want? I thought they already had enough of us enslaved to their causes."
"They want Witherers," the old man said. "Perhaps their pride has been wounded by a lack of resources to produce weaponry, so they now intend to use us."
"For what purpose?" the man pressed. "To throw us into the southern lands?"
"Not much is known," the old man replied. "They wish to understand the blessings… and their scientific functions."
The proposal stirred something within the man.
"Sounds like I finally know where I am going,"
he said, lifting his worn backpack onto his shoulder.