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Darion's house


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Marious

Darion lived few doors down from the church in a modest Tudor style home. The front door opened in on a large space dominated by a red brick fireplace on the opposite wall in front of which was a dark worn green velvet day bed and a pair of old floral upholstered chairs. To the left was a small kitchen area with an oiled wooden counter and washing tub over which were hung various knives, spoons and ladles. To the right was a wooden staircase, the steps worn and rounded by frequent use, that led up to a small landing area. The landing served as his bedroom, a bed pushed up against the far wall over which was a small window looking out over the town below and beside that a modest wooden armoire which held his clothing and other personal effects.

The exterior of the house was tidy but unused, blending nicely into the surrounding area without standing out. Two rain barrels flanked the doorway, and off to the left was a small wooden trough in which Darion would often throw scraps to feed some of the villages stray dogs, although he rather enjoyed canines at arm’s length, he was also keenly aware that hungry dogs were far more dangerous then with a full belly.

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Marious

It was not like just any other day Darion noticed quickly as he sat up in his bed, sweat on his brow and pains radiating from his hips. His eyes slid across his bedroom, wide and alert, searching for something that appeared not to be there. The air was thick, not of humidity or smoke, no, something much more ethereal, electric, elemental… enchanted. Unsettling as it was, he swung his legs over the edge of his bed tossing aside the down filled cover and planting his feet onto a sheep skin rug.

The feeling of the rug, the floor, the wooden boards under his feet helped shake his uneasy feeling. Listening for a moment revealed nothing more then the sounds of birds and wagon wheels outside, his house silent save the soft crackling of wood from the fireplace below.

Cherry wood smoke perfumed his home, with notes of yesterday’s stew completing the scent, and once he wiped his brow on his night robe sleeve he stood with an audible groan as his bones and muscles stretch out their stiffness.

His mind was filled with the bits and pieces of his current obsession, dressing himself without thought or intention while standing in front of his wardrobe with an intensely pondering face looking back at him in a chipped round mirror.

Since he had come to the Ilse’s, a refuge from his complicated past, he had quickly been thrust into a position of law enforcement, the sheriff to be precise, something that he did not even want. However, given his ability to arbitrate and his live and let live attitude, the town had mostly accepted the law man’s presence. Even the thieves, of which there were many, including in the governing administration and the church itself, had a certain respect for his discernment when it came to applying the rules.

With a kiss to the locket around his neck he descended the stairs, to stoke up the fire, wash his face, and grab a bowl of stew. With a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other Darion opened his front door and stood looking out onto the town, nodding to the passing people and wondering where the day would take him.

Though the lake was forbidden, even a source of terror for some, his position gave him certain latitude to poke around more then some, its mysteries having become Darion’s obsession.

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