The Eye of Disparager

Dorian sat beneath the ancient leaning redwood surveying the distant horizon. The tree shied away from the ocean’s constant onslaught. He tried to get comfortable; shifting about pressing his back into the perfectly moulded hollow he had discovered when he was a very small boy. The sky pressed down, dark sacks heavy with imminent rain. The salt-laden wind lashed up the cliff face and tugged at Dorian’s unkempt, blonde hair, it whipped about and caught him in his eyes, making them smart. He pulled his threadbare cloak more tightly about him and sniffed at the wind in exasperation, turning his attention to the waves that battered the rocks far below. Bad dreams had haunted him of late; glimpses of outlandish images surfacing in his mind, flickering towards the edges of his consciousness. He often came here to reflect upon them. This was his private place. His escape from the mundane and adventure-less life he had come to know and detest in the village. It was a quiet vantage point where he could survey his world and possibly catch a glimpse of a passing Voltarian galleon or, if he was lucky, a Kalvari carrack. Today there were no ships and he was left to dwell upon his lot in life. His cousin had been irritating him again and he’d had to get away for a desperately needed respite. It had been a trying day with Toby doing his utmost to get under Dorian’s skin. He cast his mind back to the incident earlier in the day when the little twerp had deliberately soiled the freshly scrubbed floors that Dorian had spent hours working on; purely out of spite. They had nearly come to blows and he had mustered all of his willpower to avoid a confrontation that would have inevitably featured blood and a broken nose for Toby. Dorian always pulled away before he lost his temper. Toby enjoyed getting him into trouble and seemed to relish the chastisement Dorian would endure at the hands of Toby’s father. Uncle Owen was Dorian’s inherited guardian and could be quite hard on him at times, always cracking the whip and working him to the bone. To his right the sheer cliff face continued as far as the eye could see. The land was stitched neatly to the ocean by the many fingers of rock ranging away into the mist, sentries marking the rise and fall of the ocean. This march southwards was broken by a chasm a hundred leagues from Graven, where the desolate land disgorged the Borrowed River into the ocean. The mountain folk gave the river this name because it looked so foreign in the barren southern landscape. He glanced down to where the village of Graven crouched in the shadow of the keep. The sight of the squat stone buildings huddled together under the watchful eye of Graven Keep high above brought back a familiar sense of hopelessness. He just wanted to get away; to venture north beyond the keep and inland to the great city of Voltar Regis. He had heard many tales about the capital of Voltar from the traders who visited his uncle’s inn. Maybe he could run away and join the army to become a great warrior in the fight against the North. Then he could also attend the Festival of Mia, the Earth-Goddess, in Arillon. He had learnt about the festival in the great books on Alton Savia’s tradition and culture and always longed to attend.