The Age of Arrival

The salty tang of the harbor spilled through the open door of Ol’ Man
Eldred’s Sundries and Supplies, carrying with it the rasp of the wind
and the scent of sun-bleached driftwood. Two figures, weathered like the
harbor flotsam, entered, their faces grim and dust-crusted from travel.

Eldred, a man whose joints creaked like the shop’s floorboards,
pushed himself up from his stool behind the counter. The taller woman,
her eyes as hard and blue as a winter sky and her braid as thick as his
wrist, gave a curt nod.

“Supplies,” she rasped, her voice a heron’s cry against the creaking sign above the door as she handed him a list.

He shuffled around the shop, gathering their order: water, rations,
canvas for repairs. His gaze flickered to the map the younger man
clutched, a worried crease etching his brow. The map depicted the jagged
teeth of the southeastern coastline, a bold red line marking their
intended path.

“Heading for trouble, are you?” Eldred rumbled, tossing a coil of thick rope onto the counter.

The woman shot him a sharp look. “Trouble follows us,” she said, her
voice laced with a bitterness that spoke of battles fought and loved
ones lost. “War back in the west. These people got no choice but to find
a new start.”

Eldred grunted, a low rumble in his chest. “There’s land aplenty down
south, fertile valleys untouched by war. But those lands come with
their own dangers.”

The woman scoffed. “Dangers we faced plenty. Heard whispers of ruins
down there, an old city called…” she nudged the younger man.

“Zillamon,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

“Aye, Zillamon,” Eldred said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a
conspiratorial rasp. “Grand city it was once, built by a civilization
that worshiped a right trickster of a god – a fox-devil they called it.”

“Gods and devils,” the woman scoffed, a flicker of doubt crossing her
hardened features for a brief moment. “Just stories to scare children.”

Eldred shook his head, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.
“Stories hold a sliver of truth, miss. Zillamon, it stands there still, a
crumbling monument to a mercurial power. But it remains empty. No man,
no creature, dares settle there. The magic of that devil, it lingers, a
curse upon the land.”

The younger man’s face paled, but the woman’s jaw clenched tighter.
“We ain’t got much choice, do we?” she said, her voice flat but her eyes
burning with a desperate defiance. “War or a cursed city. Seems like a
choice between the frying pan and the fire, wouldn’t you say, Old Man?”

Eldred studied them, these weary souls driven from their homes by
war, seeking refuge in a land shrouded in dark legends. “Mayhap.” he
said, his voice gruff but laced with a grudging respect.

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