The Adventures of Skipps Fuzzball
Chapter 0
Introductions
by 
@Neosate Crimsonfang
@<co-authors>
This is a work of fiction and is meant for entertainment purposes only. All names and characters in it is fictional, a composite drawing from several individuals and from imagination. No reference to any living person is intended or should be inferred. No animals were harmed in its production. Businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. All art of minors are simulated pictures. All models over 18 years of age. Some actions and activities may be illegal or dangerous and should not be attempted. All products, services, and characters copyrighted to their respective owners. Some content may not be safe/suitable for work or school. Some content and depictions may be illegal to view in some areas. Some content may be illegal to view by those under the legal age of connect.

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... Are Necessary

I remember the lush greens of the forests of the Feywild. The realm of pixies, banshees, nymphs, and brownies. The forest is a verdant paradise where every leaf and blade of grass radiates an ethereal glow, shimmering with vibrant hues of emerald, jade, and chartreuse. Towering trees stretch endlessly into the misty canopy above, their trunks adorned with bioluminescent mosses that pulse gently like a heartbeat. Intricate vines laden with jewel-toned flowers weave between the branches, their petals exuding a sweet, otherworldly aroma.
The air is alive with magic, carrying the tinkling of unseen bells and the hum of distant melodies. Streams of crystal-clear water cascade through the landscape, their surfaces glittering with flecks of gold and silver as if kissed by stardust. A soft mist hugs the forest floor, swirling around the bases of fungi that glow faintly in blues and purples, casting delicate patterns of light and shadow.
Every corner of the forest teems with life. Delicate sprites with wings like dragonfly silk flit between the flowers, their laughter chiming like tiny wind chimes. Enigmatic creatures, like stag-sized deer with antlers made of blooming branches and foxes whose fur ripples like sunlight on water, wander freely. The air feels charged, as though the very essence of the forest pulses with ancient wisdom and untamed wonder.
Pathways of smooth, luminous stones wind through the dense undergrowth, inviting travelers deeper into the mystical expanse. While the Feywild's beauty is enchanting, its wild magic can shift the landscape, leading the unprepared in endless loops or revealing secret glades brimming with treasure or danger.
This is my home, left so long ago. Its vision still haunts my dreams. Long ago, when I still went by the name of ∑∆≠πœ Ω≈ç√∫µ, the wanderlust called to me. It beckoned me from my home to places that elude me to this day. Lord Oberon, king of the fey, granted me leave from the Wild to heed the call. For the simple cost of my name never to be spoken in the common tongue, he granted me a simple boon of dimensional gates to take me to unknown realms to sate this hunger for new vistas. But, as with all gifts from the fey, it came at more of a price than was spoken in the agreement. I have control over neither when these gates will open, nor where they will take me. After years of this, I am weary of stepping through gates conjured by other wizards, for I never know if I will arrive where they intended. Yet, my wanderlust forces me to step through regardless of the outcome.
Join me as I tell you the story of my beginnings.
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The throne room of Oberon is a breathtaking spectacle, where the air shimmers with the magic of the Feywilds. The soft glow of twilight dances across the walls, alive with swirling patterns of enchanted vines and luminous flowers that pulse with an otherworldly radiance. The scent of blooming wildflowers and the earthiness of ancient trees lingers in the air, adding to the ethereal ambiance of the room.
At the center of this grand space sits Oberon, his majestic form draped in robes that seem to be woven from the very stars. His crown, a delicate weave of silver and crystal, rests upon his brow, while his eyes—glowing with ancient power—survey the scene with both wisdom and mischief.
Standing beside him, ever regal and poised, is Titania, the Queen of the Fey. Her presence radiates an ethereal beauty that matches the grandeur of the Feywilds. She wears a gown that seems to be spun from the light of the moon and the colors of the dawn, the fabric flowing with an otherworldly grace. Her crown, an intricate piece of woven silver and glowing gemstones, reflects the light in a thousand directions. Her eyes, pale and shimmering like the surface of a still pond, watch over the proceedings with a quiet strength.
Before them stands a young rabbitkin, his heart full of longing and anticipation. Standing at a modest height of 3 feet 5 inches, this rabbitkin exudes an aura of agility and charm. His soft, earthy brown fur is well-groomed, giving him a sleek, polished appearance, though his features are anything but ordinary.
His right foot is entirely white, as if dipped in fresh snow, standing out against the rest of his body. His long, upright ears are adorned with small white spots on the back, and dark tufts of fur at the tips, lending them a slightly wild and striking appearance. A dark brown spot rests prominently over his nose, drawing attention to his expressive face, while a ring of white fur encircles the base of his neck, adding a touch of contrast to his overall look.
His face is expressive, with almond-shaped eyes in a vivid shade of red-orange that gleam with intelligence and curiosity. Long whiskers twitch subtly, reflecting his alertness, while his dark nose spot gives him an unmistakable charm. His lean, athletic build speaks of agility and speed, with strong legs and a compact frame that hints at a life lived in constant motion. His posture suggests readiness, as if he's always prepared for the next big adventure, and his eyes gleam with a hint of mischief.
"My Queen, my King," the rabbitkin begins, his voice steady but laced with excitement, "I ask for your blessing. I wish to leave the Feywilds. My heart is filled with wanderlust, a longing to explore realms beyond this one. I have spent much time here, but now my soul calls to something more. I seek to see the worlds beyond, to journey where I am unknown."
Titania’s gaze softens, her eyes studying the rabbitkin with an understanding that seems to touch the very depths of his soul. Beside her, Oberon’s expression remains calm and contemplative, yet there is a glimmer of something else in his eyes—an ancient wisdom, a recognition of the path the rabbitkin wishes to walk.
"You wish to leave," Oberon speaks, his voice as deep as the ancient forest, "to wander beyond the borders of this realm. But such a request comes with a cost. The Feywilds are a realm like no other, and to leave it behind is not a simple matter."
Titania steps forward gracefully, her movements like liquid light. Her voice, gentle yet powerful, echoes through the room. "It is not only the Feywilds that shape you, young one. The worlds beyond will transform you, as will your choices along the way. You may leave, but know that your journey will not be without sacrifice."
The rabbitkin stands tall, his ears twitching in anticipation. "I understand, my Queen, my King. I am not asking this lightly. My heart yearns to see what lies beyond, to discover what adventures await me in other realms. Please, grant me your blessing."
Oberon and Titania exchange a knowing glance, the weight of the decision settling in the air like a tangible force. After a long silence, Oberon rises from his throne, his presence filling the room as he moves forward with slow, deliberate steps. His eyes lock with the rabbitkin’s, and the air hums with the power of his decision.
"You shall have it," Oberon declares. "But know this: the price of your freedom is not one that can be measured lightly. When you leave the Feywilds, you will give up something precious, your name. The name you have carried here will no longer be yours. You will be a stranger in every realm you enter, and the first soul you meet will grant you a new name. It will be a name forged from your journey, your choices, and the experiences you gather."
Titania places a gentle hand on the rabbitkin's shoulder, her touch warm with both kindness and resolve. "You will be shaped by the realms you encounter, by those you meet. Your name will no longer be what you were, but what you will become. Embrace the change, little one. It is the path of all wanderers."
The rabbitkin’s heart skips a beat, and he feels a pang of unease. His name is everything to him, a part of his identity, his essence. To lose it feels like losing a part of himself. Yet, deep within, the urge to wander outweighs the fear of this sacrifice. His eyes, bright with curiosity and determination, meet Oberon’s.
"I... I accept," the rabbitkin says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I will give up my name. I will journey into the unknown, and when the time comes, I will find my new name, shaped by the worlds I visit and the souls I encounter."
A knowing smile tugs at Oberon’s lips. "You have chosen wisely, little one. The gift I offer you is not without its weight, but it is a powerful one. With this gift, you will have the ability to open gates between dimensions. You will be able to step into realms unknown, to travel across worlds that defy comprehension. But know this: your name will fade as you step into the unknown. You will no longer be the rabbitkin of the Feywilds. The first soul you meet on your journey will give you a new name—a name that will carry the essence of who you are becoming."
The rabbitkin’s ears droop for a moment, the weight of the decision settling upon him, but his heart is resolute. He has made his choice. The possibilities of the worlds beyond fill his mind, and with a deep breath, he looks up at Oberon.
"Thank you, my King," he says softly, his voice filled with both gratitude and sorrow. "I will never forget the Feywilds, but I must seek my own path now."
Titania smiles warmly, her eyes filled with both compassion and quiet strength. "We will watch over you, little one. The Feywilds will always be a part of you, no matter where your journey takes you."
Oberon nods, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "Go, little wanderer. The realms await you. And when you find the first soul who offers you a new name, know that it will be the reflection of your journey, the soul you are becoming. Your name will no longer be what you were, but who you are meant to be."
With that, the rabbit takes a final glance at the throne room, the magic of the Feywilds lingering in the air around him. He feels the power of the gates stirring within him, and with a single thought, a portal to another realm begins to open. The path forward is uncertain, but the rabbit steps through with a heart full of hope and wonder, ready to forge a new identity and discover who he is in the vast, infinite worlds beyond.

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New Places with new names

With a sudden shimmer in the air, and through the rippling curtain of light, an rabitkin emerges. The figure steps out of the portal with a graceful yet cautious motion, his long ears twitching slightly in response to the new environment. The rabbit is dressed in simple, worn travel attire.
As he steps into the field, his large eyes scan the landscape, taking in the wide open space. The rabbit’s nose twitches in curiosity, nostrils flaring as he absorbs the earthy scent of the wild grass and the crisp air. his long, powerful legs, built for quick movements, make a soft impression in the tall grass as he moves forward, each step tentative at first, as if unsure of the new world he has entered.
The light of the sun bathes the field in a golden hue, casting long shadows behind the rabbit and making the simple surroundings seem almost serene. A soft breeze stirs the grass, the gentle swaying movement contrasting with the rabbit’s heightened sense of alertness, his ears flicking to every sound. he pauses for a moment, looking back at the faint outline of the portal that still hovers in the air behind him, glowing faintly before slowly fading away.
The field stretches endlessly before the rabbit, his heart racing with the excitement of stepping into a new realm, untouched and wide open for exploration. The soft rustling of the grass and the distant hum of the wind fill the silence, and the rabbit takes another cautious step, feeling the weight of its journey and the possibilities ahead.
He raises his right arm, pointing in no particular direction and cautiously, “ I think we should got that way,” as he being to walk. 
~~~~~~
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the sprawling meadow. Wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their colors vibrant against the lush green grass. A girl knelt among them, her long hair shimmering like spun gold. Her laughter rang out, a melody that blended seamlessly with the rustling of leaves from the nearby forest.
She was threading a chain of daisies, her delicate fingers moving with practiced ease. Her dress, though simple, bore intricate embroidery at the hem and sleeves, catching the light with faint glimmers of silver thread.
Unnoticed at first, a small figure emerged from the edge of the woods. It was an anthropomorphic rabbit, no taller than the girl’s waist. Dressed in a roughspun tunic and a leather belt that held a satchel, the rabbit’s movements were cautious but deliberate. Its large, curious eyes darted between the girl and its surroundings, ears twitching at every sound.
It paused a few steps away, clutching the strap of its satchel as if to reassure itself. The girl looked up, startled at first, but her wide eyes quickly softened with wonder.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet. “Who are you?”
The rabbit hesitated, his fur catching the sunlight in hues of tawny brown and white. His ears drooped slightly. “I... I don’t have a name,” he said, his voice quiet, almost apologetic.
“No name? Why not?”
The rabbit sighed, his small paws fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. “I traded it to leave my homeland,” he admitted. “Names hold power where I come from. When I chose to wander, I had to offer mine as a gift in exchange for the blessing to leave and a charm to guide me.”
The girl’s gaze softened. “That must have been a difficult choice.”
“It was,” the rabbit admitted, glancing at the glowing charm in his satchel. “But I had to know what lay beyond the burrows and hedgerows. The world outside was calling me.”

The girl knelt again, closer to his level, her hands resting lightly on her knees. “And have you found what you’re looking for?”
The rabbit hesitated, his ears twitching nervously. “Not yet. Sometimes, I wonder if I gave up too much.”
The girl smiled gently. “Maybe you’re still finding your way. Sometimes, the best things take time.”

The rabbit watched her, his large eyes filled with curiosity. “You’re... not afraid of me,” he said at last, his voice tinged with wonder.

The girl laughed softly, the sound like wind chimes in the breeze. “Why would I be? You’re no scarier than the wildflowers, or the breeze that brought you here.”

“I’m not like you,” the rabbit said, his voice quieter now. “I’ve met others who’ve run at the sight of me.”
The girl tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully. “You may look different,” she said, “but I can see the kindness in your eyes. Besides,” she added with a grin, “if you meant me harm, I doubt you’d be standing there clutching a satchel like it’s your dearest treasure.”
Skipps blinked, then smiled shyly, his nose twitching. “You’re different,” he said. “Most would call me strange. But you…”
“I see someone with a story,” the girl said, finishing his thought. “And I think your story deserves a name.”
The rabbit’s ears perked up. “You’d give me a name?”
“Of course! You skipped your way into this meadow, light as a breeze. How about Skipps?”
“Skipps,” he repeated, the name rolling over his tongue like a promise. “I think I like it.”
“Then Skipps it is!” The girl placed the daisy chain she’d been weaving around his neck. “Now you have a name again, and the world can call to you properly.”
Skipps chuckled softly, his small paws brushing the flowers. For the first time in his journey, he felt truly seen, as though he’d found not just a name, but a friend.
The meadow seemed to glow brighter as their bond took root, the whispers of the forest carrying their laughter toward the distant silhouette of a castle watching over them both.

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The Last of Home
The meadow swayed under a warm wind as Skipps and the girl walked side by side. Her name, he’d learned, was Elira—a name that reminded him of the Feywild, light on the tongue and full of quiet music.
She was thirteen, though her eyes had seen more than most twice her age. In the slanting light of dusk, her gaze seemed older still, shadowed by something too heavy for such a young soul. Her fingers, though deft and gentle when weaving daisies, bore calluses from labor. Dirt clung to her nails and her arms showed the faint sun-kissed marks of tending land alone.
“You live here?” Skipps had asked, glancing back toward the copse of trees she’d emerged from.
Elira nodded, brushing a strand of pale hair from her face. “My parents’ farm. It’s just past the orchard. You can stay there, if you like. There's... not many people around. No one to run you off.”
Skipps twitched his nose thoughtfully. “Do you live alone?”
A beat of silence.
“I do now.”
He looked at her sideways, ears tilting in sympathy.
“Fever,” she added softly. “Took them both, a few weeks apart. I stayed because... I don’t know where else to go. If I leave, there’s nothing left of them.”
She didn’t cry. She didn’t waver. She simply said it, as if she’d already repeated the truth a hundred times in her head.
Skipps didn’t speak. Instead, he walked beside her in silence, listening to the hush of the grass and the distant whisper of trees. He understood what it was to feel untethered.
~~~~~~
The farmhouse was small and crooked at the edges, the way old buildings get when love and labor aren’t enough to hold off time. A soft golden light spilled from a lone oil lamp in the kitchen window.
Inside, the air was filled with the scent of herbs hung to dry—lavender, thyme, and a few Skipps couldn’t name. The hearth was cold, but the girl set about rekindling it with practiced hands, stacking kindling with precise, quiet focus.
“You’re good at that,” Skipps offered.
She smiled faintly. “I’ve had to be.”
He helped where he could, clumsy at first, unsure of how to be useful in a world that ran on chores and not chaos. He fetched water from the well, chopped carrots with too much enthusiasm, and startled the chickens twice before she asked him gently to stop “helping” outside for now.
But despite his quirks—and perhaps because of them—Elira began to laugh again. Not often, not loudly, but enough. Enough to remind herself she wasn’t alone anymore.
~~~~~~
Days turned into weeks.
Elira taught Skipps how to mend fences, milk goats, and identify the good mushrooms from the ones that made you “see through time,” as he put it.
Skipps, in return, showed her little wonders from the other places he’d seen. He made copper trinkets with his tinker’s tools and played strange melodies on his pan flute that made the wind dance through the wheat. He whispered stories of starlit realms and time-locked temples, of a queen with foxfire eyes and a king whose crown shimmered like dew on spider silk.
Sometimes she believed him. Sometimes she thought he was just making it all up to keep her smiling.
Either way, she was glad he stayed.
~~~~~~
One night, under a tapestry of stars, Elira sat on the porch while Skipps strummed absentmindedly on the strings of a dulcimer he’d found in the attic.
“Do you think you’ll leave again?” she asked, her voice barely above the chirping of crickets.
“I don’t know,” Skipps said, after a pause. “The magic that moves me doesn’t ask permission. Sometimes a portal just opens. And if I step through... I can’t come back.”
She looked down at her hands. “Would you go? If one opened now?”
Skipps didn’t answer right away. He watched her—a lonely girl with callused fingers, sitting in the only place left that felt like home. He thought of her daisy chain, now dry and fraying on the mantle. Of the way she hummed when she swept the kitchen, and how she scolded him when he tracked mud into the house.
He looked at the fireflies and said simply, “Not tonight.”
And for the first time in a long while, Elira smiled like she meant it.

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What Remains After the Light
It was a quiet morning, the kind that begged to be remembered.
The sun rose slowly over the edge of the wheat fields, painting the sky in pastels. Dew glistened on the grass. A soft breeze stirred the clothesline. Birdsong threaded the air like a lullaby.
Skipps was in the garden behind the farmhouse, his paws deep in the rich soil as he clumsily harvested root vegetables under Elira’s tutelage. She’d teased him earlier for pulling carrots by the greens instead of loosening the dirt. He could still hear her laughter echoing across the yard.
“See? Technique,” she’d said, wiping earth from her hands and tossing a potato toward his head. He caught it with his teeth and bowed exaggeratedly, earning a grin that warmed his chest like spring sun.
She’d gone to the barn after that—to feed the goats, she’d said.
Skipps remained, humming to himself, eyes half-closed as he soaked in the scent of loam and lavender.
Then came the scream.
It tore through the morning like a blade through linen. High. Panicked. Elira.
Skipps dropped the basket and sprinted, ears flattened, heart hammering against his ribs. The world narrowed to the shape of her voice. Another scream—cut short. A crash. Shouting—deep voices, foreign and cruel.
He vaulted over the fence and through the tall grass, leaping a split-rail post without slowing. The barn door was cracked open. He smelled sweat. Steel. And blood.
~~~~~~
Inside, chaos.
A burly man in rusted mail loomed over Elira, one hand gripping her arm, the other a cudgel stained red at the tip. Another figure dragged sacks toward a wagon outside, while a third bound one of the goats—a distraction, he realized. They had come for livestock… and found something else.
Elira struggled, kicking, tears streaking her dust-smeared face.
“Let go of her!”
The words burst from Skipps as he launched himself forward without thought. The only weapon he had was a kitchen knife, still tucked in his belt from peeling apples that morning. He didn't remember drawing it—only the burn of his legs, the weightlessness of the leap, the scream he didn’t recognize as his own.
The blade sank into the man’s thigh. He howled and swung his cudgel wildly. Skipps ducked, rolled, slashed again—this time at the wrist. Blood spattered across the hay.
Elira crumpled to the floor.
That was when time stuttered.
~~~~~~
She lay curled, blood matting her hair, a livid bruise across her cheek. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. A small, wet sound slipped from her lips.
He scrambled to her side, whispering her name over and over. “Elira, Elira, I’m here—hold on, just hold on—”
Behind him, the remaining slavers regrouped, shouting, drawing blades.
Something broke.
Skipps turned, slowly. His breath steamed in the air, though the barn was not cold. His fur bristled. His eyes, once soft and curious, now glowed with a hard, alien light—like burning coals under a sheet of ice.
The air thickened.
The slaver who had struck Elira raised his sword.
Skipps raised his hand.
Words spilled from his mouth—not spoken, but conjured. Ancient syllables danced through the air, twisting with raw power. Symbols burned briefly into being, unseen by the slavers but branded on Skipps' mind forever.
The first bolt of arcane energy exploded from his outstretched palm. It hit the slaver in the chest, tearing through chainmail like parchment, sending him flying into the support beam with a crunch.
Another incantation. His other hand erupted in flame. He hurled the fire at the second slaver, who had only enough time to scream before being engulfed.
The wagon ignited. Horses screamed and broke loose. The barn filled with smoke and light and magic—the kind that scorched the very walls and cracked the air like thunder.
One man remained. He turned to flee.
Skipps didn’t speak. He simply stepped forward and pointed.
Lightning lanced across the barn and struck the man in the back, hurling his smoking body into the feed trough.
Silence fell.
All that remained was the crackle of fire and the wet, shuddering breaths of a dying girl.
~~~~~~
Skipps dropped to his knees beside Elira.
She was so pale. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Blood soaked through her dress where the cudgel had struck her ribs.
Her fingers reached for him blindly. He took her hand in both of his, trembling, whispering her name like it could anchor her soul to the world.
“Skipps…” she said, voice like crushed flower petals.
“I’m here. I stopped them. You’re safe now.”
She smiled, just barely. “You’re... very loud when you’re angry.”
He choked on a laugh that came out as a sob. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
Her grip weakened. “Don’t go… okay?”
“I won’t,” he whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”
But her gaze had already drifted past him—to the rafters, to the sky, to whatever lay beyond this world. Her lips parted once more. Her eyes unfocused.
And then she was gone.
~~~~~~
Skipps knelt in the burning barn, holding her cooling hand long after the light left her eyes.
The fire licked the beams above him. The wagon collapsed in on itself. A scorched crow screamed in the distance. He sat amid it all, his clothes singed, his fur flecked with ash and blood, arcane symbols still fading from the air around him.
He did not weep. Not yet. The tears would come later, in the silence between worlds.
That morning, he had been a traveler with no direction.
By nightfall, he was something else entirely.

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Ash and Memory
Skipps buried her beneath the apple tree.
It stood at the edge of the orchard, where the light always hit first in the morning. She’d once told him it was her favorite place to sit and read—when there was time, when there was still joy.
The fire from the barn had not spread far, and the rains that came in the night extinguished the rest. But they did not wash away the blood in the straw, nor the silence left behind.
He dug through the night and into the gray blush of dawn. His paws bled from clawing through roots and stony earth, his breath ragged and steaming. Each scoop of dirt was a memory—her laughter, her gentle scolding, her soft humming by the hearth. He had no magic left for this task. He would not use it even if he did.
When the hole was finally deep enough, he wrapped her in her mother’s old quilt. He took great care with her hair, tucking golden strands behind her ears. He placed the daisy chain she had once given him across her chest, now dry and brittle, but still bright in his memory.
There were no last words. He had said them all already.
Instead, he knelt beside her and bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the quilt. The wind whispered through the orchard leaves above them, and the world stood still.
Then he rose, and he buried her.
When it was done, he carved a small sigil into the bark of the tree—a spiraling knot of vines and stars. A Feywild symbol for safe journeys and remembered names.
He sat by her grave until the light dimmed again.
~~~~~~
The house was silent.
It had the eerie stillness of a place between lives. Every shadow was hers. Every corner whispered her absence.
He couldn’t stay.
Not like this.
But neither could he leave empty-handed.
Skipps lit a candle and began to search, moving slowly through the farmhouse as if it might collapse under the weight of memory. He passed her dried herbs, her books stacked neatly on the shelf, the worn broom propped by the hearth. Each item he touched lingered in his fingers like ghosts.
Then, in the cellar—behind a stack of firewood and crates of canned vegetables—he found the door.
It was low, hidden in the stone wall, and locked with a thick iron hasp. The lock had long since rusted, and it crumbled away under his tools.
Inside was a storage room, and at the back, wrapped in old canvas and spiderwebs, was a long chest.
Skipps lifted the lid with trembling paws.
Inside, he found the last pieces of Elira’s father—a man he had only known through stories. A man who had once traveled roads and ruins, who had worn steel and shadow like a second skin.
The contents were modest. Weathered.
But to Skipps, they glowed with purpose.
A set of simple leather armor, dry and cracked at the edges, still bearing faint scratches and the scent of oil and sweat. It was far too large for his small frame, but with belts, straps, and rough stitching, he managed to bind it to himself. The sleeves had to be cut down. The chest cinched. It fit awkwardly, like a child wearing a father’s coat—but it felt like armor nonetheless.
Two long daggers lay sheathed beside the armor, their blades dull but clean, forged of good steel. In Skipps’ hands, they were closer to short swords. He tested their weight, gave them cautious swings. One he named Memory, the other Ash.
At the bottom of the chest, nestled beneath a moth-eaten cloak, he found a tattered, hooded mantle, the color of stormclouds. The edges were frayed, the clasp rusted, but when he fastened it over his shoulders, it billowed like it still remembered the road.
Skipps stood in the flickering candlelight, armor cinched tight, blades across his back, the cloak whispering around his feet.
He stared at his reflection in the cellar’s broken mirror.
Gone was the boy who had tumbled into the meadow.
Before him stood something new.
Small, but sharp.
Soft, but tempered.
Grieving.
But not broken.
~~~~~~
He climbed the stairs and stepped outside. The orchard swayed around him, the grave beneath the tree undisturbed in the half-light.
Skipps didn’t speak. He didn’t cry.
He only pulled his hood forward, tightened the daggers at his side, and turned toward the distant hills.
Somewhere out there, the world still turned.
And something—somewhere—had to pay.