Turtle's Tale

"Kent, pass me the rod, if you would." The man, Kent, grunted a response and reached behind him to pull the long, wooden rod from the hollow space in the side of the boat. He held it out and his companion grasped it, tilting the boat far enough that Kent scowled.

"Aye, sorry, my friend." Kent's partner laughed briefly as the small boat, just large enough for the two of them to sit with bucket between them, rocked back and forth.

"You spill us again, and I'll find a new partner, Card. It's too cold for swims this early in the year." Card nodded, grinning to himself. The 'spill' his friend was still so upset about had been the last trip of the previous season. That he was still so prickly about it said more about how calm and utterly boring the trips since had been. Kent had forty years of fishing here on the Wainwrath under his belt, and his gruff attitude was matched only by his sheer skill. The man could pull more Krill a trip than Card would've guessed, at least. He couldn't complain about his partner's performance, but his attitude… He sighed aloud.

Kent raised an eyebrow but otherwise stayed quiet. Card knew from experience that his one comment earlier would likely be all the gray-bearded veteran angler offered for the remainder of their time on the water today.
Of course, that didn't mean he couldn't try. As he swung the long pole out over the water, he began yet another one-man conversation.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun still shone on the winding northern countryside when Card realized he'd fallen asleep.
Peering behind him, he saw that likewise, Kent had his patched cap drawn low over his eyes, the older man's constant snores dulled by gently churning water. Card stretched, then shrugged. A wasted day, perhaps, but a very enjoyable one. He relaxed and prepared to drift off again when he noticed beside the small boat was a turtle. Turtles were indeed rare, but known to swim the Wainwrath from time to time. The waters were cold enough this time of year to persuade most to stay away, however. Looking closer, he saw that the turtle's shell was mottled and covered in dark green lichen, enough that he at first mistook it for a mosgill in the water. Though mosgill were timid creatures, quite a bit larger than a typical turtle, and never approached boats. Card squinted down at the turtle. And the turtle squinted back. It broke the water's surface, and it spoke.

"Good day, fisherman. May I interest you in a tale in exchange for a fish?" The turtle floated calmly in the current. Card, meanwhile, was taken aback. Not only a turtle, but one that could speak! This day was turning out to be interesting after all.

"Ho, turtle.
I'm afraid it's been a slow day, I'm not sure we have…" He turned, dropping his rod within the boat.
Peering into the bucket, he was delighted to see that Kent had caught at least a few fish before dozing off.
Grasping one, he tossed it over the side. "Thank my partner here for that one, and share your tale, then, friend. I'm eager to hear it." He leaned back in the boat, relaxing again, and the turtle soon began its' story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Many, many years ago, this country was nearly all forests. Besides the rivers cutting through, a six-legged Fex could run from one side of Pheren to the other without ever leaving the shade. The mountains, though, were here. They loomed tall to the North, curving around the horizon in that same ominous way. The Wainwrath river, too, was here, though it was an unnamed, wild thing in those days.

The beginnings of the river are unknown even to me. Believe not the rumors of a wondrous, sacred spring within the Hill, for things such as that are often too good to be true. But of its' course, I and many others know well. The river flowed gently through the easternmost plains of the Summerlands, which even then were bathed in sunlight and fair weather in excess. Eventually, it came to an end, sand and silt piling among currents spilling out into the eastern sea. This path, with luck, will continue unchanged for Ever.

It was in these early days that People began to settle on and around the Hill. This was near the river's head, and thus all of the creatures downstream soon learned of the settlements. As years passed, the people grew in number and skill, transforming the Hill into a true city as the forests around dwindled. The city was great, and mighty, and strong, and the river grew with it.

Where before the currents were gentle, they now grew strong, and the waters grew deep and dark. Many peculiar, yet harmless creatures came to call the river home in this time, among them the joyful Delphain, who innocently splashed sailors and fisherfolk (blessing them purely by accident), now considered ancient and lost. The city itself held festivals at the river's edge and had by this point named it with great ceremony. Of course, this name was not Wainwrath, as it is known now, but an older name, lost with much else of those times.

As time passed, the city grew still grander, still taller, and the river followed suit.
Yet, this growth seemed unnatural in ways, the castles growing ever taller though no builders labored on them, tunnels under the city being found anew more and more often. The people themselves multiplied quickly, and unrecognized, nameless figures thronged within the walls.

The river became a dark thing in these times, with tales of man-eating fish and Krill spreading. Ships would depart, bound for East Pheron, yet no word would reach the city of their passing through the bay. Boats of fisherfolk, much like yourselves, would receive prayers and sacred charms, for disappearing into the freezing current was all too common. Tales from these times are all but gone, now, and it is a good thing they are. It was a short but profoundly bleak era, ending quickly, though for many who lived through it, not quickly enough.

Then came a great calamity of which there are few records.
The river itself is one such record, as the Hill where its' waters flow from has been tainted ever since.
Nowadays the Gray Hills stretch all across the once fertile farmland adjacent to the river's banks. Restless spirits, forgotten revenants, and collapsed tombs abound where once the fisherfolk had their markets of fresh-caught Krill. The river grew less dark in the days that followed, and somewhat shallower, though still in some parts does the current grow strong and deep. Those myriad creatures, harmless and bloodthirsty, that had once flocked near the city disappeared with it.

And after the forests began to grow back, and the land had become wild again, people returned, avoiding the site of that old disaster perhaps by instinct alone to settle around it.
A new bend in the waters' course was all that remained. And still, the river winds its' ponderous course, flowing unheeded as it always has, and likely always will.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Card woke abruptly to the clatter of his fishing pole rattling in the bottom of the boat. Hand on his head, he peered out at the river, the sun just starting to set and tinting the calm waters a serene, faded orange.

He still heard Kent's quiet snores behind him. He bent over the side, looking for… well, he couldn't quite remember. But, as he reached for the oars to start pulling back towards shore, his eyes roamed across the water. The river was timeless, it seemed, flowing just as it always had, ever since he'd first arrived on its' bank with nothing but an old rod and a smile. He hummed a bit to himself, and the boat drifted out to the banks, under cover of some trees. And somewhere beneath clear water, an old turtle lay where the sun's light shone through.

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