Neik and Bernard Visit Dromstad
Dromstad - September 1508
The morning fog hung heavy over the village of Dromstad as Neik and Bernard descended the rocky footpath leading down from the high forested hills of Evela. Their boots crunched over frosted moss and slick stones, the mist curling around them like ghostly fingers. Bernard, walking steadily with his travel staff, kept a wary eye on the clustered rooftops below: stone cottages with mossy thatch, gathered around a central green, their crooked chimneys puffing thin streams of smoke into the damp air.
"Remember, Neik," Bernard said quietly, using the traveler’s name with the familiarity of a mentor. "Humans of this world are not always kind to those they deem… different."
Neik, pulling his fur-lined cloak closer against the wet chill, grinned. “We bring gifts of joy, Bernard. Who could turn away joy?”
Bernard didn’t return the smile. His eyes scanned the streets below, already picking out figures moving behind shuttered windows and market stalls. “You’ll see.”
From the moment they crossed the low stone wall at the village edge, signs of trouble began.
At first, it was small things.
A tangle of fishing nets left to dry in the main road, forcing them to detour. Doors that closed abruptly as they passed. Children ushered away by silent mothers. Neik — tall, broad, and impossibly rosy-cheeked — looked as if he’d stepped from a legend into a dreary world. He towered over the stoop-shouldered men of Dromstad, most of whom were gaunt from lean harvests and hard winters. Bernard’s slightly pointed ears, despite being half-covered by his hood, did not go unnoticed either.
At the town square, which was little more than a muddy clearing with a tilted maypole and two wheeled carts half-buried in muck, Neik approached a small bakery kiosk. The scent of warm bread wafted from within. He smiled and held out a carved wooden token — a currency used freely in Evela’s elven settlements.
The baker, a thickset man with soot on his apron and suspicion in his eyes, glanced down at the token, then up at Neik’s face. With a sneer, he slapped the token away. It tumbled into the mud.
“We don't trade in trinkets, stranger,” the baker growled. “You want bread, bring coin — not fairy carvings.”
Neik blinked in surprise, but Bernard put a hand on his arm. “Let it go,” he murmured. “This place isn’t ready.”
They moved on, walking past a few wary merchants and a lone fruit seller who turned her sign around as they passed. The village green was quiet, but the silence had a weight to it — as if the people of Dromstad were holding their breath.
Then, a moment of innocent wonder.
A small girl, no more than five, slipped from her mother’s grasp and toddled up to Bernard. Her eyes sparkled as she stared at him, particularly at the faint shimmer that clung to his cloak — a natural residue of his years spent near fairy dust and other enchantments.
"Are you... glowing?" she asked, eyes wide.
Bernard smiled, kneeling down. “Just a little,” he said. “Would you like to see a trick?”
With a gentle swirl of his fingers, he conjured a small floating light — the size of a dandelion puff — which danced in the air like a firefly. The girl gasped in delight.
But delight was not shared.
A sharp intake of breath came from behind them. Then a scream.
“Witchcraft!” an old woman shrieked, dropping her basket of onions. “The Devil’s work!”
The spell faded instantly. Bernard stood, hand low. Neik stepped protectively in front of the girl, but the damage was done.
A group of burly townsmen had already begun to gather — two with cudgels, another with a rusted hatchet. Their faces were twisted not just in fear, but in desperate anger.
The people of Dromstad were tough, proud, and poor. The past few winters had been cruel, and the sea less generous. Failed harvests and deadly storms had left the town bitter and bruised. They clung to old beliefs, dark tales, and a fierce sense of self-reliance. Anything "different" was dangerous. Magic, in particular, was feared — a relic of shadowy stories whispered near the hearth but never spoken aloud in daylight.
“Get out of here!” one man shouted. “Take your devil-glow and your foreign tricks with you!”
“Call the priest!” someone else yelled. “Let him burn the evil from ‘em!”
“Enough,” Bernard said quietly, his hand brushing the hilt of a hidden dagger.
Neik shook his head. “We came to help. We came with gifts.”
Bernard didn’t look away from the growing mob. “And they came with pitchforks. Time to leave, or you’ll find out how well a jolly face protects against a noose.”
Neik hesitated, sadness shadowing his eyes. “But—”
Bernard grabbed his arm. “Move.”
They turned and ran, boots splashing through mud, cloaks flapping like banners. Shouts followed. A rock sailed past Neik’s shoulder and struck a post. One man tried to block their path, but Neik lowered his shoulder and barreled through him like a snow-plow.
They cut through a narrow alley, vaulted a crumbling wall, and ducked behind a root cellar. At one point, Neik hoisted Bernard bodily over a low fence when the shorter elf’s legs couldn’t keep up. His boots barely hit the ground before they were running again.
Only when they reached the forest’s edge did they dare slow. The mist wrapped around them once more, swallowing their tracks and the hateful cries behind them.
That evening, beneath the wide boughs of an ancient spruce, they made a small fire. Bernard brewed tea from dried pine needles and sat with arms crossed, brooding. Neik warmed his hands by the flame.
“So much fear,” Neik murmured. “So little trust.”
Bernard took a sip. “You see now. Not every place is ready for kindness wrapped in mystery. Some hearts must be warmed before they can accept gifts.”
Neik nodded, eyes distant. “Then we’ll find a way. If fear is their first reaction, we must teach them joy. Carefully. Patiently.”
He looked skyward. Through a break in the clouds, stars glittered like frost on black velvet. Somewhere above, a single star twinkled brighter than the rest.
“I’ll come back one day,” he whispered. “Not with spells, not with glowing lights… but with laughter. With warmth. With wonder. For those who need it most.”
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “You think one night of gifts can undo centuries of fear?”
“No,” Neik said with a smile. “But perhaps a few centuries of gifts can.”
And under the sheltering branches of the spruce, with tea in hand and fire at their feet, the plan began to take root. A plan bold enough to reach across seasons and settlements, carrying joy in its arms and kindness in its footsteps.
In time, it would earn him a name.
But that story would come next.