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Written for Tavern Troupe story challenge 1/10/2021)
For me, Leth was simply a blur barely acknowledged while running to ferry or gondola. However, finding myself in no particular hurry one day, I decided to take time to look around. A formidable line of deobar and alder trees line either side of the Alder Bower Gate. Passing through these towering protectors of the town’s homes and shops, I began to discover what many already knew: Leth Deriel, with its quaint charm, is actually a lovely place. This Elven village I'd been running through, I saw with different eyes.
I enjoyed a glass of Wild Honey Mead at the Taproot Tavern (cleverly held within a massive hickory tree) and perused the wares in several shops, pausing to buy some warm chestnuts by the Sana'ati Dyaus. I wandered amongst the maple, birch, e'erdream and other trees densely filling this woodland hamlet; listened to nightingales, calling birds, and unexpectedly- a peacock. The town I falsely assumed was sleepy and rural bustled with traders, townsfolk, and scholars who came and went from a University tucked within the trees.
On Elder Bark Road, partially hidden beneath the roots of a sickly-looking deobar, I glimpsed a wooden figure. Reaching into the shallow cavity at its base, I extracted a soldier the size of my hand. It had been crudely carved, as if some child somewhere was just learning to whittle. Despite its simple form, the time was taken to fashion a uniform out of cloth remnants, but the once fine adornments had worn and faded from use and time. I imagined a loving caregiver overseeing its creation, smiling encouragingly as the wood was shaped and the sense of pride the budding carpenter must have felt upon viewing the finished results. Straightening the soldier's ragged jacket, I walked, eventually coming to a quiet arbor. A brief respite desirable, I settled on a comfortable ash bench, listening to the song of a cardinal perched nearby. As the bright red bird flew away, I found a spot to gently prop the toy.
Subsequent travels through the area went at a slightly slower pace, my steps mindfully redirected to where the wooden protector faithfully continued to keep watch. After some time, my detour brought me once again to the quiet arbor. I noticed, slightly disappointed, the abandoned post where the wooden sentinel had been and pondered its fate while heading to the Southern Trade Route and the path toward Shard. Just past the Deobar Bower Gate, faint sounds of laughter drifted from a nearby cottage, set back a bit from the road. In the front was a beautiful but unruly garden where two young children laughed and played with the re-discovered toy soldier. Sitting near them was an older child and someone who was likely a grandparent, examining a small block of wood. With a nod from the elder, the older child took a knife and began to whittle, taking care and nodding as the kind voice explained various techniques.
All is right and good.", I thought contentedly. The children had recovered their toy and were happily playing. I mused how, in years to come, the carver in training would be able to look back, both remembering pleasant times shared with the elder and comparing the soldier's simplicity with items he now carved. The pleasure felt noting how both quality and technique had matured, improving as the years passed, would perhaps provide the inspiration to teach whittling to a new generation of children, overseeing their creative efforts and offering encouragement.
All because the soldier had finally found home.
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