A piercing metal clang rang out on the hot, lonely street. The orange-skinned man ran out of the alley chasing an all-bones, no-meat kid by the name of Doodles. Orange was a fat abomination. His stubby arms reached out to Doodles. Grasping, or so, he tried, the small kid by the scruff of his neck.

“—hey, Chubby, get off the road!” a man laughed. And Orange’s face turned crimson. Sweat lined his forehead, and he smelled like rotten cabbage. Orange glared at the man, who ruefully sat cross-legged on a tree trunk. And the man raised his eye menacingly. 

“A thief stole my money! Help me, you corrupt guard!” Orange shouted as he pointed at the small back of Doodles. But still, the man—no, the guard laughed. He shook his head.

“I’m off-duty today, Chub,” he said. “Why not ask them for help?”

He pointed to the other side of the street. Far away, a medium-sized house adorned with yellow flags stood mighty over the rocky terrain. Several people wearing heavy armor patrolled it. A foxtail emblem engraved on their chest plate. They brandished large broadswords and sturdy shields.

Orange hesitated. The guard gave him a sardonic smile.

“So? What now? The kid’s out of sight. What now? Hmm?”

“… go to hell,” Orange growled, gritting his teeth, and ran off. 

“Persistent fat-ass,” the guard muttered. He raised his finger and sniffed it.

 

—Doodles’ eyes glowed. He gripped the pouch of gold and gave it a long, wet kiss before ripping it open. Gold and silver coins fell and hit the filthy ground. The sound went clinking, clanking, music like no other. He danced cheerfully and dramatically counted them one by one.

“... ten gold coins!” said he, in tears. “It can finally—finally…!”

He stuffed the money inside his underwear and hurried out of the room to the plaza. A man wearing clothing made from expensive wool was speaking to a crowd. The onlookers, mostly from middle-class families, gazed at him incredulously. Doodles stopped for a moment as the man revealed a small wooden guitar.

“Stone houses, wooden houses. Wells dried up. Violence and assault,” the man sang, his voice uneven and deep, as he strummed an untuned guitar. 

Doodles left. The guitar howled in the distance.

“For her,” he said. His skinny figure disappeared into the foliage. The gold weighed heavily.

 

 

 

Vaughn Prys scanned the alley. Debris from decaying buildings filled the path and, though it was dark, a bunch of young men with bare torsos were chatting just around the corner. He heard the rats slink away and the raven’s caw. The air was heavy, freezing him in his light clothes. His collar chafed his neck and an uncomfortable feeling in his gut told him to stay away. But he couldn’t and he won’t.

The debris stirred with each step. His feet suffocated by his tight shoes. Step by step. Each toe felt a sharp pain. A sound, a murmur, he heard. What was it? Voices in the distance and nearby. Footsteps and rocks falling. 

A lantern dangled high from a small house. The roof was crumbling and the wooden door torn apart. It smelled of sweat and alcohol inside. He approached with a hand clutching his stomach and swung the door open.

“Be a man or woman, sorrows shared or drowned,” sang a man on the stage. 

The house wasn’t as small as he thought. Retired soldiers, guards; teachers and unemployed men; wise men, stupid men; old men, young men. People of different walks gathered in this far-off house, a world of their own, dancing and singing, or perhaps amusing themselves to death. The smell of old booze was suffocating. Most, if not all, were completely intoxicated. 

A red-faced young man noticed Vaughn enter and approached him with a grin.

“Welcome to the promised land!” he exclaimed and clapped Vaughn’s back. “Here, follow me. Drinks tonight are in the house. Thank that man over there.” He pointed to a man that wore a metal bucket helmet. 

“My name’s Agares. I’m a traveler,” he said.

“Vaughn. Call me Vaughn.”

Agares led him to a table by the corner. A fat man with orange skin sat there with an old bearded man. A dozen or so bottles of alcohol occupied their table.

“He-hello, there,” said the old man. His breath stank of alcohol. “Wh-who’s he?”

“Vaughn,” Agares answered. He pointed to the fat man and said, “This guy’s Henry, and the old man’s...”

“…Morris,” Henry finished. 

A woman nearing her forties wearing a grey dress approached a nearby table and Agares waved her over. 

“Get this guy a drink.”

“No, no, I don’t drink,” Vaughn said.

“A new face? Not from around here, are you?” the woman remarked. She had a western accent. “Drinks are free, haven’t you heard?”

“I’d rather water, please,” Vaughn declared.

Silence filled the table. Agares laughed.

“Ha-ha-ha, get me one too,” he said. “You want one, Henry?”

“N-no,” Henry said, quietly. He avoided Agares’ eyes and shrunk from the attention. 

“That seems to sum it up,” Agares said.

“I’ll be back,” the woman said.

“Thanks, Mabel!”

Vaughn sensed someone watching him. An inconspicuous gaze settled on him. He couldn’t tell who, but it didn’t feel hostile at all. Morris, the old man, spoke in monosyllables. His dark skin was home to multiple infections. Henry had peculiar orange skin. Vaughn thought it strange. Agares was all smiling. He slammed a mug down on the table and turned to Vaughn. He didn’t seem drunk at all.

“What brings you here, Vaughn?” he curiously asked.

“Um, business.”

“Are you a famous businessman?”

“I don’t think so...”

“...y-you travel, right?” Vaughn recalled. 

“Sort of. I’ve been to many lands, like Enzo and Belby.”

Henry tapped the table fervently.

“Belby is a myth. Don’t act as if you’ve seen it,” he said, quite drunk.

Agares shouted, “NO, IT ISN’T!”

His voice boomed loudly. The music stopped and everyone’s gaze fell on the youth. It was as if the world had paused.

Vaughn shuddered. The wooden floor trembled, and Henry held a fearful look.

“So-sorry,” Agares muttered. And the world began to move again, reluctantly, I believe.

Mabel returned with a water pitcher and two mugs. She stayed quiet, then after settling them down, a person called. She sighed and left.

“You’d be stunned at what I’ve seen, Vaughn Prys,” Agares said. “If you want business, find Angelo.”

He left quietly. Outside. 

 

A week had passed and as Vaughn searched for Angelo, he happened to meet a small boy, who said to him: “Fate wills an ill star descendant wreak havoc and burn the world!”

Vaughn was fishing. The boy came from nowhere. But Vaughn didn’t flinch. He was confused. His brow furrowed. 

“What? Really?” 

“His name is Restiads.”

“Who told you that?” Vaughn asked.

“I don’t know. Strange, you’re older than my father, and he’s in his 40s.”

“Nothing strange about that, kid.”

“—hey, do you see that?” He pointed to a brown bear bathing in the distance.

“Yeah, ha-ha, look at that. What a majestic creature. Let me try to feed it.”

Vaughn turned to his fish basket; it was empty. The boy was gone too. His stomach churned angrily.