Chronicles Of Enduwin Chapter 2: Gatherings ~ Part One
Three nights and three days had passed, meaning that now, as the afternoon light of Solas struck Shankee’s face, it was the fourth day of travel. Four days of travel in row, with little rest. Thankfully though, the storyteller knew that it was coming to end; the travelling that is. Much of it had been done on horseback. It was much quicker, had the old Fargg simply walked around the Olc and to here, the centre of the plains, it may have taken weeks, if not longer. Now though he moved of his own locomotion, having sold the horse, which he bought four days ago, that morning. Brash and curt would be the only way to describe the smithy which he had sold it to. There would have been no use for the horse now, Shankee was sure of it.
‘Ah.’ He muttered to himself.
‘Mmm.’ He added.
Having raised his gaze from his feet for the first time in several hours, he looked at something other than the crook of his staff. What he saw, what had elicited the verbal reaction, was one of the few noticeable hills of the Plains of Origins. Not only one of the few, but
the hill. That is to say, this time it was
the hill. Another hill could have been the
the hill under other circumstances and then this hill would be any other hill; but this was
the hill now.
Atop the hill were out-thrusts of rock that had the appearance of being intentionally placed, not naturally formed. From above they must have looked like the petals of a stoney-grey flower jutting up from the monotone flatness of the plain. Shankee quickened his pace slightly, having his destination in sight spurred him on. It was only a matter of moments before he reached the rocks. Up close one could see that they were almost perfectly rounded into cylindrical forms, resembling the struts of a small building. They were arranged in a pattern that seemed to shift ever so slightly every time the storyteller attempted to wrap his head around its configuration. Shankee knew where he was; for sure he knew this was it. The centre of the pattern featured none of the rocks, it was bare earth again but with a noticeable hollow that dipped into the hill it was on.
“The point.” The old Fargg mumbled to himself again.
“It’s the actual point of origin.”
It was only now, being here, after having read of it so many times, having woven tales of it to hundreds of ears that Shankee thought to himself, ‘Why have I not come before?’
He then concluded that even if the thought had occurred to him before, which he didn’t think it could have, he would have been unable to locate this place no matter what. It was a place that was and wasn’t of Enduwin. It was here before Enduwin, it became Enduwin and it didn’t become it. It was an ethereal place. A dreadfully confusing place and one of intense power. Reaching into his small travel satchel, the Farrg fingered a glass sphere, no bigger than a marble, which bobbled in the bag’s depths.
Shankee could see them. The others. Warriors, guardians, adventurers; they were all coming his way and were close very close indeed. Could they see this place? Was it for them too? No. This was why he was here surely. Otherwise why would he have arrived first? It must be, it must have been his first task.
Letting go of the orb, Shankee was physically alone again. Motioning forward more with his body than his feet, the storyteller made his way to the hollow. It was about three times his height across, perfectly circular and around a metre at its deepest. The slop down to this lowest point was gentle and safe. Reaching the lip of the hollow Shankee placed one foot over the edge. Immediately a rush, like fire shooting through his body, spread from the foot throughout his body and seemingly evaporated off him. It was intense, a freezing fire, a numbing stinging painless sensation. Placing a second foot inside the sensation intensified greatly, much more than doubling if the storyteller was correct. Every step after that increased the sensation tremendously. Upon reaching the centre of the hollow it felt as if his entire body was vibrating. ‘It is vibrating!’ He thought to himself. It was pulsing through him, the pulse of origination. The metaphorical and literal starting point of the world.
And then it was gone. As quickly as it had overtaken his entire being, it let him go again, releasing its gyrating grasp. Shankee remained unmoved for several moments. It felt as if he was awaking from a dream in which he was already awake. Gathering his wits, and wrestling himself out of his stupor, the storyteller recalled his task. At least what thought to be his task, for now. Raising his staff up directly in front of him, using both hands he brought it crashing down on the ground before him. Shankee whispered into the cusp of his hands, but the words boomed across the plains.
“This way. Over here now, come now this way.”
The words reverberated across the flat plains, impossibly echoing off non-existent mountain tops. They travelled out to the ears of the approaching adventures and plucked at their heartstrings; beckoning them to the mound.
