The trek felt like a slow descent through a world of shifting textures. Moss-covered roots gave way to the sharp, golden stalks of the coastal plains. Every step sent a puff of dry dust into the air, coating Crispin's boots. A sharp wind, carrying the heavy scent of brine and decaying kelp, greeted him.
Eldir-Vahn opened. To the south, the land simply fell away into the Shimmering Sea. The water spanned the horizon, a colossal sheet of sapphire that seemed to glow from beneath. It reflected the brilliance of the sun with blinding intensity. Light fractured across the waves, creating a million dancing sparks.
The main road grew wider as it approached the coast. Paving stones replaced the hard-packed dirt. Granite markers replaced the wooden posts of the interior, carved with the sigils of the Tamer's Guild. Crispin gripped his staff, using it to navigate.
He reached the first major crossroads an hour before noon. A squad of Elvish guards occupied the center of the path, their presence as sharp and cold as the silver armor they wore. Their tall, slender forms stood like statues against the backdrop of the sea. They wore capes of deep-sea silk, dyed green so dark it appeared black in the shade.
Crispin slowed his pace. His heart hammered against his ribs. He kept his gaze fixed on the dirt, watching the rhythmic movement of his own boots. He felt their eyes.
One guard stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of a thin, elegant blade. He was tall, even for an elf. His skin possessed a pale, iridescent sheen. As Crispin drew level with the group, the commander leaned in. The scent of lavender and ozone followed him.
"A false-born," the guard whispered.
The words cut through the sound of the wind. The other guards let out a low, melodic chuckle. Crispin did not stop nor look up. He felt the heat rise in his neck, a stinging shame that made the road feel miles longer. The insult lingered in the air long after he passed the crossroads.
Mirandir rose from the cliffs like a jagged crown of bleached bone. White stone buildings clung to the precipice; their foundations carved directly into the salt-stained rock. The city lacked the soft greens and browns of the forest. It was a place with hard angles and steep stairways. Every surface seemed polished by centuries of salt and wind. The city did not sprawl; it climbed. Narrow staircases carved into the limestone cliffs served as the primary arteries of the port. Buildings hung over the edge of the precipice, supported by massive marble struts that looked like the ribcage of some fossilized leviathan.
Elvish halflings crowded the thoroughfares. They possessed the lithe grace of their full-blooded cousins but lacked the ethereal, towering height of the guards at the crossroads. Their ears came to soft, subtle points. Their skin tones varied from the pale ivory of the high cliffs to the deep bronze of the dockworkers. They moved through the streets in a flurry of dyed silks and embroidered linen, a sharp contrast to the drab, mud-stained brown of Crispin's attire.
As he descended toward the lower tiers, the chatter of the marketplace died down. One by one, the citizens paused. A woman carrying a basket of silver-scaled fish stopped in mid-stride to gaze at his elvish white hair. A group of merchants ceased their haggling. They did not look at him with the cold malice of the guards. Instead, their expressions held a strange, unsettling reverence.
They bowed their heads as he passed. Some stepped off the narrow path entirely, pressing their backs against the white stone walls to grant him the center of the road. Crispin felt the heat of their gazes. In a city of halflings, his rounded ears were not a mark of weakness; they were a symbol of a lost aristocracy.
He hurried his pace, his boots clicking rhythmically against the cobbles. Was this the reason for his assignment here? An Aldyr in a Halfling city would be the center of attention. Did the guild want to see how he fared when he became the center of attention? The silence followed him like a shroud until he reached the salt-crusted edge of the Tamer's Wharf.
The wharf was a chaotic symphony of beasts and brine. The docks, unlike the pristine upper tiers of the city, showed the realities of the trade. Massive iron rings, which the dockworkers bolted into the timber, tethered creatures that defied his imagination. To his left, a group of handlers struggled to restrain a spiked sea-drake, its iridescent scales shimmering green and gold as it snapped at its restraints.
The spray of the Shimmering Sea coated everything in a thin layer of crystalline salt. A man stood on the porch, staring out at the sapphire expanse. His skin was the color of seasoned mahogany, mapped with deep lines and scars from decades of exposure to the elements. He wore a simple vest of boiled leather. His arms were thick as tree trunks, crossed over a chest that looked as sturdy as the pier itself.
Beside him lay a mountain jaguar. The beast was a mass of tawny muscles and black rosettes, spanning nearly six feet from nose to tail. It watched Crispin with golden, predatory eyes. A low rumble vibrated in its throat. The sound was a physical force, rattling the loose boards beneath Crispin's feet.
The man turned. With slow, deliberate grace, he moved, his eyes scanning Crispin from head to toe. Reaching forward, he let his calloused thumb brush the edge of Crispin's ear. He lingered there for a second. He felt the rounded, human curve.
"Aldyr, eh?" Kaelen's voice was a gravelly baritone that seemed to harmonize with the crashing waves. "Careful around here, boy. The guards will harass you for not being one of them. The elvish halflings will treat you like an elvish lord even if you aren't one. Neither path ends well for the unprepared."
Kaelen stepped back. He gestured toward Crispin's clothes with a grunt of disapproval. "This gear? Rough spun tunic and breeches? You look like you belong in a grain field, not a monster's den. Your job today will be simple. You need better gear, and you won't get it by begging."
He pointed to the staff. "The staff looks old, but reliable. It can stay. The rest of you is a liability." Kaelen leaned against a support beam. His jaguar shifted its weight, its claws clicking against the wood. "The river wyverns have been a pain in the ass recently. Small, nasty things. They swarm the lower inlets and tear the nets to ribbons."
Crispin adjusted the strap of his satchel. He thought of the translucent ball tucked safely inside. "Regulus and I can handle it."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow at the name, but he did not mock it. He simply grunted, his gaze shifting back to the horizon. "I expect twelve," Kaelen continued. "Twelve hides will fetch you a premium price. Do not mangle the skins or the wings. We need the leather intact. What do ya say? Up for it?"
"I am," Crispin said.
"Good. The Low-Tide Caverns are a mile south. The entrance only appears when the sea recedes. If you are late, the tunnels will fill with a hundred feet of water. If you are fast, you might make it back for dinner."