Chapter 1
With the flap of a bread encrusted with sweet beans held firmly between his teeth as he peddled his small, yet barely-crafted-for-movement caravan from the nearest section of land which could be considered the outskirts to the doorsteps of bakeries, jailhouse, ward office, park-hooligan provisional loitering spot (till they’re displaced by the river hooligans midyear), to the outskirts at the opposite end of this perfectly circular city of eclectic palette, where a bike mechanic shop at the forest’s gnarliest entry is comedically delivering orders to the city via this boy sporting a glue-and-tape ride which can only be called, generously, a soulful machine, he seems the embodiment of your humble-beginnings, overworked, yet optimistic protagonist trope character, but Sette betrayed the lack of a fundamental trait to aspire to that archetype; the hamartia is in that his bread had grown stale in his mouth from his failing—and forgetting—to eat it by the time he reached Raphto’s All Bikes for Sale and Discount Mechanic shop + Parcel Service, which is something any great protagonist wouldn’t forget to do, because eating well (not to say that a slice of bread is eating well) is essential to welcome adventure heartily or at least to surviving the day to do anything but eat for an hour upon arrival at his friend’s shop, like maybe ask how his day went (his friend who prepared enough servings of rarriott stew for them both, meaning for 10 regular people, 3 people’s worth for Raphto, 7 for the 5th natural world wonder of Porra, Sette’s stomach) and whose day would prove relevant for the uncommon parcel request he received from a ward vessel which would see Sette traveling westward for another two days—and should he have left sooner, that hour of eating sooner, perhaps there would’ve been a way (though unlikely since he may have taken a nap after all) of avoiding the conflict that now awaits him hours from now. Sometimes an hour of satisfying an appetite is enough time for destiny to contemplate your next line, and one line changes an entire book.
“Wu wuwuwu wuuuuuu! Do you hear that, Raph? That’s my stomach… DYING!”
Sette arrived in the late afternoon today, typical, and the stiff bread which sat like a maudlin tear on his bike’s handlebar basket is the 30th one in this 30-day calendar month that he would have had to destine to the birds on the trail back East home; daily, it seems, he goes pollinating the road with the pale yeasty cream color of dried toast, a flutter of those dry crumbs landing on the the perennial spring Bruisblossoms that contour the road to shine a purple pastel glow over that singular road that trots into the forest, the old cradle of mysteries, from the fold of the capital city of Porra, Silcontra.
“Budgeons are gonna miss you today, Se, got a two-day pa—are you adding paprika to your stew again?”
The air’s woosh was the only response. Se’s face was contorted into an expression of delight that barely makes it into the “lovable by a parent” category; the smile—if something we have to call it—has nothing to do with Raphto’s paid errand, but everything to do with those 100 grams of paprika he divides evenly (with only an ungodly intuition as his guide at each shake) between all of his servings of rarriott stew, which sit neatly lined up on the delivery service window (where a streak of successful deliveries, 640, is proudly tallied on the nailed wooden board with a recently varnished and nicely engraved detail of Se’s homemade Wielder insignia, an indigo colored crest with a minimalist, sharp shape of three petals arranged as if at the ends of a triangle, pointing to the middle, where a filled gold circle catches the gaze—synthetic insignias are only superficial, and he’s the only person most know that would go to this length to pretend to be a Wielder), and this window doesn’t only work for feeding Se, but also to separate the inside of the shop and the outside by a short latch door built for the transfer of larger deliveries, not to let Se in to wander about the shop and clumsily knock over the valuable equipment powered by state-made utility shards—not that the equipment was vulnerably situated anyway, but around Se you can never be too sure something won’t break. Returning our attention to the errand left undiscussed, Se completely missed everything Raphto was saying and started eating within seconds of arriving once he dismounted his castle on two wheels—his haste when food is present, typical after a long day of peddling, is not the kind of impatience inspired when his toast is the main course for the day. He leans over two of his bowls, properly leaning with arms straight and chest puffed like the puffiest budgeon, precariously pushing the bowls close to the edge nearest him to afford him a glance at a flier left over a stack of boxes, (cardboard in addition to the dewy smell of steel, oil lubricants for gears, and stew vapor were the definitive scents of the shop—paprika too at certain times that are easy to guess), and without pause his voice erupts before poor Raphto has a chance to reiterate the gig but with enough time for a sigh.
“The Wielder cup is starting again?! But it hasn’t been 10 years, does that mean that—EEEEHHHH is champion Cro letting go of the title?!”
Leave a Reply