Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

"Sleeping under your own personal tent, I see." Soern's voice stirred Dashyl from sleep. On his chest was his father's journal lying open and facedown. Soern chuckled as Dashyl picked up the book, sat up, yawned and stretched his arms.

"No," Dashyl responded, indignant. "This is my father's journal. I must have fallen asleep reading it last night."

"We all need our rest, Dashyl. Even though we're two-thirds of the way through these plains, we still have a long way to travel to Trader's Haunt," Soern said.

"I know that, but it's been a long time since I've been able to read one of my father's entries and I'm so curious about what he's written," Dashyl responded. "Maybe there's a clue about who's following us."

"Aye, you are right, there could be. Who was your father," Soern asked.

Dashyl paused. He looked over at Fretly who eating his breakfast. Fretly just stared back at him, chewing slowly.

Soern, sensing Dashyl's hesitation, said, "Now, son, you don't need to tell me, but you can trust me. I've helped you this far."

Dashyl sighed, "My father was Kilkarak, the greatest chemist in all of Veratar."

Soern simply said, "Humph."

"What," Dashyl asked.

"I have no use for Sarion chemists. They deal in the unnatural, often using their knowledge and talents to further the nefarious plots of the Legion," Soern paused to drain the last of his drink. "The only chemistry I can appreciate is the science of brewing tea. So many magical combinations one can make when combining herbs, leaves and water."

Dashyl's eyes welled with tears suddenly. He turned away from Soern, letting his tears roll down his face and under his chin. "My father was a great man. He died in the name of science."

Soern came up behind the boy and put his hand on Dashyl's shoulder. "No need for that, son. I'm sure your father was a good Sarion. I'm sorry I spoke ill of the dead."

Dashyl sniffed and hung his head. "I miss him so much," he whispered to himself.

"We'll get you to Trader's Haunt and away from this corner of Veratar. Once we accomplish that, you can think about how best to honor his name," Soern comforted.

"Look at that," Fretly exclaimed, pointing to a group of dark forms moving towards them from the far edge of the horizon.

Soern left Dashyl's side and stood next to Fretly, following his gaze. After squinting for a while, he said, "Ah, that's a heard of bufflegars. They're gentle creatures that grow fat on the grasses of the plains. However harmless they may be, they do attract vaygr who hunt them when they come close to the edge of the plains. We're probably safe where we are, but it's another reason to move on. Hurry up and eat your breakfast, Dashyl. We must be on our way."

Dashyl took a deep breath and patted the cover of his father's journal. The hard pieces of wood wrapped in cloth that served as the journal's covers felt comforting, like he could feel his father's hands holding them. The young Sarion placed the journal back into his gear sack and pulled out some food to eat. He couldn't wait to learn more about his father's thoughts and feelings.  The boy silently wished he was in a safe place where he could forget about people chasing him and people wanting to kill him, where he could just sit and read and read and read and be with his father again.