Insignia: Scars of Lumierna

Three

Two weeks later, Stirling wakes to the sun shining brightly into his home through the open window. His blankets are littered across the floor as the house grows too warm by mid-morning. By the time he awakes, his parents are already hard at work baking countless loaves of bread, pretzels, and a few sweet treats in the bakery below.

Rolling off his straw mattress in his braies, rubbing his tired eyes, he stumbles across the room to the kitchen table where a loaf of rye bread is sitting out. He tears a chunk of the loaf and nibbles at the stale bread as he stares out the window past the rows of thatch and wood-shingled roofs towards the eastern mountains of the capital nestled at the bottom of the southernmost point of the island.

An unusual urge to venture out into the mountains suddenly develops and bubbles up inside of him. Stirling takes large dry bites of bread. Coughing up crumbs, he throws his short sleeve tan tunic over his dingy white undershirt. He pushes the long sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbows and ties the laced front of the tunic closed. Hopping towards the staircase, he slips into his trousers with a tied top and synch around the ankles.

He ties the rope cord belt around his hips and whisks down the stairs to his mother's side. She wipes some flour off her face with her apron and peers down at her anxious son.

"Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma, can I go exploring?" he asks impatiently.

Pausing, she rests her hands on her hips as she thinks it over, "Hmm, we do have everything handled here, so that's fine as long as you don't go too far. Oh, and be home before the sun starts to set. You don't want to be out past curfew, or you'll make me worry."

Without any hesitation, Stirling slips on his leather turnshoes coming up to his ankles and takes off out the bakery door. Bumping into a woman standing in one of the many condensed groups of people flooding the streets, he utters a quick "sorry" and takes off sprinting through the market. He weaves his way through the bustling morning crowd throwing out routine apologies. Down on the trampled dusty ground, he can see nothing but worn and frayed tunics. He can't see the towering mountains past the rooftops, but he knows the direction.

Lumierna, a city at the bottom of a mountain, is on a noticeable incline with the castle perched at the top. He makes his way up from the flat grounds of the lower district market to the middle class and upper districts. The streets begin to widen, accompanying the homes and shops growing dramatically in size, each affording to have their own land between them. Even though there are only a few people on foot in this area, no one seems to take notice of the wandering child as he follows the dirt road.

Nearly out of the city, Stirling reaches the wealthy class neighborhood. The homes are grossly oversized with pristine yards. He passes the last house on the city line and comes to a stop at a stone wall standing twice the height of a man. It runs along most of where the city and the mountain meet like a gray seam to keep any tumbling rocks, animals, or other creatures hiding in the woods from reaching the houses at the bottom.

High up on the hill, he can see out across the city that encloses him all the way to the farmers' fields full of harvest and livestock. From here, his view is too good. He sees the gallows where the tailor's figure hangs. Shying his view away, he heads to a hole at the base of the wall, hidden behind bushes created by children long before him who, too, wanted to escape the claustrophobic feeling of the dense inner city and explore the thick forest creeping along the mountainside.

Crawling through to the other side on his hands and knees, he breathes in the pine-filled air, thin and fresh in his lungs. It's a relief from the thick air of indistinguishable scents of the market. With one long drawn-out breath, Stirling sets out into the forest, following a new path, slowly being worn into existence as he begins to further his escape into the mountains. He knows his way around the bottom of the forest reasonably well, but he awaits the time he finally knows every rock, branch, and bush in the place. He likes to think of it as his home away from home.

Feeling blissful with his current freedom, his smile doesn't falter as he trips and stumbles his steps along the rough terrain; hopping over raised oak roots and boulders, balancing on fallen silver fir tree trunks, and running his hand along the coarse bark of cedars as he passes trees who are older than Lumierna itself. The sun casts streaks of light down through the breaks and gaps between the overlapping treetops above like golden translucent ribbons.

Slowing his pace, Stirling notices the forest has grown quiet. Not the quiet he has become familiar with as he leaves the sound of the industrial world he is accustomed to, but instead an overwhelming, unnatural silence. The occasional rustling sound as small critters scurry through the brush and the whistling of birds has long faded to only the crunching of leaves, pine, and fir needles below his shoes.

A weary and uneasy feeling settles in his stomach as he pushes through a thick bush. Stepping out into a clearing surrounded by birch trees, he stops dead in his tracks. Stirling is speechless, his body as still as the white trees around him. A dragon fledgling lays basking in the sunlight, its autumn orange scales like fallen leaves glistening like a crackling forest fire. Lifting its head, it locks its golden eyes on Stirling. Stirling's heart begins to race with excitement and adrenaline. Building up enough courage, he uproots his foot and takes a small step forward.

The fledgling instinctively leaps to its feet in a fight or flight stance. Seeing it stand, Stirling instantly becomes aware this dragon is not built like the ones owned by the Winged Cavalry. Dragons were once caught from the wild but are now most commonly bred in captivity. They are of the Wyvern species, the only species he's ever known to exist, their bodies shaped similar to a bat with two hind legs and their arms and wings being one. This dragon instead stands on four legs balancing gracefully on its clawed toes with its feathered wings puffed out from its body to give its body a larger appearance, along with the feathers on the tip of its tail fanning out like the fletching of an arrow.

Two small horns were beginning to sprout from the top of the fledgling's head, slanting to the point opposite of his snout. Stirling smiles to himself about this small factor. The people at the monastery's library would speak of the Cavalry to Stirling but could not give him much information about the features of a dragon. Most, if not all, had never seen one up close and could only recite what they had read in books or scrolls. Stirling had bombarded them with many questions about dragon youths, one being if they hatched with horns or if they grew in over time.

His hands begin to shake as the adrenaline surges through his body, his knees feeling weak and ready to buckle as his leg muscles tremble. Slowly extending his right hand out, palm up, Stirling tries to show the dragon he means no harm like he would let a dog sniff his hand.

The fledgling drops its tail and feathered wings taking a few timid steps forward, extending its neck out as far as it can towards Stirling's extended hand. Without any known reason to Stirling, the fledgling becomes startled and swipes at Stirling's arm with his claws before swiftly leaping out of view into the thick forest.

"AHH!" Stirling yelps, immediately pulling his arm into himself. He holds it tight against his chest with the other hand without inspecting the damage. Stirling stares at the tree line where the dragon left with such grace and speed, he feels he had almost dreamt it.

With his adrenaline fading away from his recent encounter, he can now feel the searing pain coming from his arm and the warm liquid running down his elbow before watering the forest floor. He pulls his arm away from his body to check his wound. He sees three long gashes slashed widthwise across his insignia mutilating the image.

Stirling wobbles feeling woozy at the sight of his blood and the severity of his wound. He swallows his urge to vomit. Ignoring his revulsion, he quickly pulls off his outer tunic wrapping it around his arm as tight as possible. Already feeling lightheaded and beginning to sweat, Stirling staggers down the mountainside.

His feet drag heavy with each step he takes.

Left, right, left.

The buildings around him tilt and rock.

He's almost home, only three more blocks to go.

Or is it five?

He squints through his failing vision.

Where is he?

His toe catches on a rut in the road. He lies there in the dusty street, his tunic now soaked with blood beside his face. Sole after sole, he watches the faceless shoes pass him by.