Day 176: 4027 words in 60 minutes making the WPM: 67.12! Error rate: 23.09 %
“The little man seemed to grow a couple of feet. It looked like he was inflating again. His presence started covering the premises of the room again. In an ironclad warm blanket, getting ready to be lulled back to sleep. “The time when the Elder Tree almost ripped itself from the earth it stood in. And nearly broke the planet in half. That’s a tale that I should manage in your class. Perhaps not completely in this time, however I should manage it.”
“A dark, little town. Located at the very edge of the Forester realm. That’s where the tale starts. It starts with a suitably unassuming little boy. His name? Steve. Now, unlike what you might think, Steve didn’t come from a long lost lord’s family. He was the son of a farmer. His father had been working farms his whole life, and his father before him, and on and on.
Now, that sets the colours of the tale. The town. It bordered the largest swampland known to us. It stretched for days, in some cases weeks. The villagers of the little hobble of cottages. They mostly worked with the land. Which was wet. But they managed to catch slimy fish, eels and similar bug-eating fish. There were alligators, but the people of this land had found a way of behaving that made alligator attacks nearly extinct.
And when the creatures did attack, they knew the ways to get the wounds to heal through both magic and herbs. These ways made them work in their healing wards. The region was known for this little town’s healing wards. However the town was hard to find, and if you weren’t an experienced traveller, you would most likely need the wards. People would heal within days, not weeks. Where other places would work for weeks, months, sometimes years.
I was not going to speak too long about the town. Because it is a blip on the map of the travels of this boy. This boy, when he grew out of his bed. The little cottage anyone that grows large enough to get out of their mothers womb gets. That one. The lad was thrown out into the swamps. When he resurfaced. He was no longer at home. Something felt wrong. Like he was pulled through something to somewhere.
And then. Before anything else. He felt sand. Sand everywhere. Breathing was hard. He fell through the cracks of the world. And there. The boy had been spit out in a desert. He had heard of the desert. Never though thought anything about it. It was in the stories, after all. Now it was not in a story any longer. His desire to get home, nearly brought him back. It felt like there was a way back the same route he came here. “” ~ The storyteller – Friend of Helga Leger