Hermits, by definition, are people who live in self-imposed solitude away from the rest of humanity, maintaining religion and discipline, honing their minds and souls. It is in these small, secluded cottages that they are able to shelter themselves from the greed of the world, never having a companion to love, to hold, or to support them. They are one of the strongest survivors in this world. Having loved ones would only draw the greed to them: they will take all that is dear to them, including the love in the hearts of the innocents; because no matter how much the greed take, they can not snatch the heart's love by force, but the pain felt for another can be more severe, more haunting, and more damaging that the physical punishment that can be taken by oneself.
And so the hermits live in a constant, lonely agony; until the sun-lit sovereign finally breaks their solitude with a large amount of hope (it takes 4 whole coins to draw them out), and lets these scared people ride on the safety of a royal steed, trusting someone for the first time in a long time, enough to sit behind them, all due to the confidence now gifted to them and the possibility of a place where people can live without having to constantly fear the power of Greed.
The Queen rode through her Kingdom, listening to the sullen and somber murmurings of the townsfolk. The camp was much quieter than usual. It had been a long night, for sure, but the trial was finally over. She glanced to the sky to watch as the stars dissipated from view, blanketed in a flowing wave of oranges and yellows, turning a suspicious eye toward the red orb hovering menacingly above the treetops.
The Blood Moon had passed, and now was the time to reclaim the soldiers who ambled aimlessly outside of castle walls, Hope lost to the devils of the dark. She strode past the first wooden barricade, traversing the threshold from safety into the unknown, accepting her archers' salutes with an acknowledging nod.
Cowering in front of a mound of fresh earth lay one of the fallen, traumatised beyond belief. She had her hope ripped mercilessly from her heart, and right now she felt scared, vulnerable and cold. All of her power had been taken away in one, short moment by those who cared not for the person she was, only trying to destroy the person that she could become. The Queen recognised the young girl's face as one of the first to have joined the camp.
The sovereign cursed herself internally as she glared at the remains of what once was a sturdy barrier, torn down by the Greed's razor claws. She should have never attempted to extend her borders. She should have planned for something going wrong, re-enforcing the barrier as much as possible in the daylight. The Blood Moon had caught her completely off guard, and now the citizens paid for her mistake.
Striding carefully towards the traumatised girl, the Queen handed her a golden coin with care. The girl, peering out from between her knees, jumped to her feet in joy as Hope filled her body once again, driving away the demons in her mind and rejuvenating her soul, immediately rushing to her newfound friends and family within the walls.
The Queen smiled as she handed coins to five other stranded men and women. As long as she could provide the hope that these people needed, thought the monarch, they will be able to overcome these hardships. Although they may be scarred for life, these brave souls will return to the camp stronger than ever. Of that, she was sure.
The morning sun had finally traversed the horizon, letting warming rays seep through fragile, wispy clouds. For a short moment the people stood still, basking in the warmth and glory of the daylight, savoring the moment. The Queen too stopped, appreciating the sight she saw before her. A sight of people, enjoying being alive. It filled her heart, gratifying her for every pain she had endured for her subjects.
The monarch tugged lightly on her horse's mane, trotting into the dark depths of the forest once more, on an expedition to recruit forces to aid her.
The woodland was rather pleasant this morning, thought a small, hunched man, crooning over a low, rickety wooden workbench. He ran his fingers through his greasy black hair, lingering at a patch of bare skin on the top of his head. With his woolen sleeve, he wiped the oils from his unwrinkled, yet sagging, face.
The birds did not sing too loudly; in fact, it was rather suspect that they barely sang at all this day. The smattering of sun that usually invaded his dark, damp abode did not pierce his eyesight; in fact, there was even less light than during a rain storm, causing him to light the haphazardly-sculpted wax of his home-made candle, filling the tiny shack with an aroma of burning hair and blood which still remained from the animal fat it was crafted from.
Feeling the absence of a pain which usually clawed at his beaten knees around this time, the lonely man was reminded of a task that bore doing, a ritual that had been kept for every day of his life, for twenty-three, long years. He stood up, curved back cracking at the strain, and covered the five short strides which took him from one end of his home to the other. Bending and placing his hands on the animal-skin blanket, he lowered himself to his knees, brought his palms together in front of his heart, and prayed with all that he was worth, feeling the love that sustained him as breakfast does any other man.
After the ritual he returned to his work at the desk, lightly brushing his fingertips over a holy sigil that was pinned to the uneven rock wall. Looking at the leaf-made paper on the desk, curling his fingers around a thin stick of coal, the little hunch-back continued with his calculated calligraphy.
With each line, circle and figure, a creature formed on the page; but with each stroke, scratch and scrawl, a pain racked his heart. Practicing this forbidden art, how could he not remember, every day of his life, the betrayal that he had suffered.
A young boy, innocent and free, frolicked in a clearing in the forest, curiously scratching amongst the grass, leaves and vines. Arms laden with scrap shrubbery, he lay them down, one at a time, on a flat stone slab, and lost himself to his passion for hours on end. He entwined the vines around sturdy sticks, puncturing leaves with spindly sprigs, forming a tiny, intricate structure. It had leaf-feathered wings like a sparrow, the beak of a hawk and in it sat a sharpened stick, threatening like the stinger of a bee.
Proud of his innocent creation, he picked up the slab with great effort and waddled enthusiastically into the thicket.
774Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp8oKjnlWZO
The elation in the kid's heart came into sudden contrast with the depressing mood of the small fire-lit camp on the edge of the woods.
Two small children sat back-to-back hidden behind a veil of reeds, knees curled into their chests. One larger man struggled towards the camp, carrying a bundle of firewood that wouldn't even serve as a pittance, taking each step as though it caused him great pain. A gaunt woman lay on her side under a pelt tent, staring idly into a sputtering flame.
The child, whose step now slowed, hesitated as he took in the scene, but the sheer pride that he felt in his creation, the hope that it would bring his despondent mother, having lost his baby brother in a stream of blood, at least a moment of joy, pressed him further.
He approached her with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, holding his creation to her at arms length like an award. The glaze in the woman's eyes dissolved as she pushed herself to a sitting position, but the movement froze the moment she laid eyes on the contraption, jaw hanging ajar. Encouraged by her reaction, the youth excitedly presented to her each painstakingly hand-crafted feature that the creation had to offer, and with the twist of a twine, sent the sharpened stick zooming through the air, lodging itself in the bark of a nearby tree.
For a few silent seconds, expecting praise, a pat on the head, a kiss on the cheek, the child stood tall, chin held high. The strength in his arms suddenly disappeared, however, cracking the slab on the ground with a thud, at the ear-piercing screech of his mother. Bewildered, the child scrambled away, shocked to see his mother's shaking, bony arm pointing accusingly at the now snapped creation, then to him. The burly man in the distance dropped his wood and sprinted to her, clasping her protectively in his arms. Without even questioning, he shot a menacing glare at his son from under bushy eyebrows. The kids hidden in the vines hugged each other tighter.
Standing tall and slamming his boot down onto the child's labour of love, the father grabbed the kid's head in one hand and squeezed tightly on his temples, growling a ward against evil. Tears streamed down the boy's face as he stood obediently, small fists clenched at his side. Why had he expected things to be any different from the last time?
Vagrants were not supposed to know things. Knowledge was power, and the Greed sought power in all its forms. His parents drove this small child from its home, fearing a potential slaughter should their son's curse be found out; if not from the Greed, from other passers by.
Like a Devil from the holy lands, he was shunned, back pelted with pebbles as he was pushed to face a harsh, solitary life in the forest. His crimes? Curiosity, talent, and love.
A gentle rapping on his chamber doors brought the hermit out of his trance. Releasing a groan, he dragged his hand across the workbench to a sheathed knife which lay at the edge.
As three more gentle taps followed, he remained in his place, resting his weary head upon the edge of the table.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Annoyed, the hermit jumped irritably to his feet and scuttled to the door, sliding aside a small metal cap which covered expertly-cut thin leaves that were wedged into a hole in the wood, which allowed him a one-sided view out into the forest.
The hunched man held back a gasp as he laid eyes on her; a beautiful, proud-sitting woman, side-straddling a majestic steed, gleaming crown atop her head, met his eye contact through the portal.
Hastily shutting the peephole, leaning against the worn wooden entryway, the hermit's mind raced alongside his heartbeat. What was such a beautiful woman doing here? He had never seen someone so lovely, so clean and so sturdy. Immediately he became self-conscious of his unkempt appearance, trying to recall the last time he had bathed.
Before he became any more flustered, however, reason overtook his immediate responses. Since the hermit was a self-learned man, and having the time to idly contemplate many a thing, he was brought back to his doubts as to the true nature of the Greed. He was well aware of his primal urges, and was now convinced that such... attraction... was but another form of greed. Should he allow his heart to be swayed by such influences, he pondered, there was no telling what would happen. Every waking moment he consciously kept his thoughts and feelings as pure as manageable, in the fear that, in adopting the nature of the Greed, he might become a part of their fold.
And so the hermit returned to his workbench, ignoring the Queen at his doorstep. Should she continue such folly, she would be swallowed up by the forces of the Greed. Night-fall was soon, he conjectured. She would leave soon.
But leave, the Queen did not. Every half-hour, the hermit's ears where greeted by a gentle tap upon his door. Well into the night this continued, persisting through cricket's chirps and and wolf's howls.
Hour after hour the hermit became increasingly nervous, and increasingly paranoid. He had never endured company for so long, even if it was indirect. Could she be a Greed? He could not hear the patter of their nightly march. Perhaps, unable to capture him after years of trial, the were attempting to lure him out in another manner, with a carrot of sorts.
After a sleepless night, morning finally came. The knocking had ceased two hours before dawn, and the hermit, on his knees for morning prayer, thanked his deity for the strength which allowed him to persist through such a trial.
Today was the day that he needed to pick mushrooms for his soup, and so he unlatched his door, swung it inwards and stood back as light streamed into his abode.
The light which entered held an unusual shape, however, and shielding his eyes from the sunlight, the hermit stood aghast at the sight of the Queen resting upon the back of her horse, graceful even in slumber.
All of the hermit's suspicions seemed confirmed. She had lasted through the Greed and remained in broad daylight, all to tempt him out of his safety. Loudly slamming the door shut again, the hunched man's chest heaved, sweat dripping down his face.
Once again grasping his knife, he fearfully weighed his options; to fight or to flee. He could not stay trapped in his own home much longer. Either he had to kill the thing outside his door, or stab the horse and run for his life.
As the scrape of metal on leather of his knife filled his ears, a gentle gold light unexpectedly filled the corners of the hermit's cottage. Surprised and on edge, he desperately searched for its source. His eyes rested on a gorgeous gold coin in the fireplace, spinning lazily on its axis.
The hermit found himself uncontrollably drawn to it. This golden light seemed to fill some sort of yearning inside of him, one that he did not know he possessed. re-sheathing the blade, he slowly stumbled towards the object of his desire. Was this greed he felt? Had he finally given in? No, this was different. This coin did not lure him with the promise of more, of excess, but rather a promise to make him whole, to give selflessly to him a part of himself that should have always been there.
Reaching to the coin, swathed in its glorious glow, the hermit fell to his knees. He felt, coming from this gold, the love of God which he cherished every day and night. And so with no more hesitation clouding his mind, the hermit embraced the coin in his arms and absorbed it into his being.
774Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2HTneOJlhp
The hermit dared to hope.
Calmly opening his door, the looked up at the slender face of the Queen. He did not see Greed in her eyes, nor did he see hatred, contempt, or fear. He only saw a pure caring and love. Re-assessing his world in a new light, a perspective which he had not dared to take since days of his youth, he thought with a new mindset, one where he dared to hope that something good may come of his trust.
This woman was not a Greed, yet she did not fear them the previous night. There was no way that they would have not come for her, and she had no weapon to fight them. Unless...
He looked to her questioningly, and she answered his curiosity.
The horde of the Greed had come, yes, and in full force the previous night, heralded by the sinister Blood Moon. But that force had been slain, and the portals which spawned the blights of the world had no more soldiers to send. And so for a single, blissful night, the Greed would not bother the innocents.
The hermit rejoiced at this news. Not only was there an army capable of fighting this menace, but that meant that there was a stronghold which held its own against them. And that meant... safety. Safety with people.
The Queen offered her tender hand to him, but he shied away. He was still not sure. After so long... would he be able to be with other people again? His craft that he dedicated his life to, would he leave all of that behind?
Sensing his fears, the monarch stretched backwards, facing the sky with closed eyes, and revealed to the hunch-back even more coins of Hope. With this gift, he mustered the strength to relinquish his doubts to the back of his mind, and hoped... for the best. Because this leader, who he would follow in an instant, pledged that she would strive tirelessly for nothing less.
And so, taking her hand, the hermit jumped onto the horse's back behind the monarch, and was handed a simple hat with a feather adorning its rim.
He returned to the camp as the Hermit of Tide.
Although it took many moons for the Hermit to adjust, he finally integrated into the camp, and became one with its people. He made many friends, and came to love all of them, trusting each one with his life.
In order to defend his new sanctuary, he eagerly teaches his friends - nay, family - how to build his most prized invention: a Ballista, a weapon way ahead of its time, hidden from the Greed to protect the world. For so long he had been shunned for his love of technology, and for so long he had to keep the biggest pride that he possessed to himself; but now he was amongst people who not only accepted it, but appreciated it and celebrated it. The very thing he was ostricised for earned him a place as a hero.
As he is commissioned to use his once hidden and neglected expertise, he leaps off the back of his ruler's mount and bounds around enthusiastically, finally seeing his creation come to life.
