Chapter I: Focus

North Entheona’s winters fell harshly across the mountains and spruces that dominated so much of Her landscape. The great spirit goddess Morenitsa would return each solstice and cast blankets of snow across the earth — when her initial magic left the world in frozen stillness, she spent most of the season dancing between the pines and howling throughout the mountains.

Morenitsa fell in love many years ago with another goddess, for whom time did not imprison. Ragupatisa loved to trouble the lone wanderers of Entheona as much as she enjoyed watching them celebrate communally. The smell of fresh ale, fermented grapes and boiled grains often meant that her spirit was near, but the nature of her visitations were quite difficult to predetermine. Morenitsa found that Ragupatisa’s spirits were quite fitting for winter’s stillness, and the pair often caused trouble together when romance made way for tom-foolery.

Iven Eifergot hunched over a rugged wooden desk and fumbled the cork out of a smell well of ink. The dying embers from a nearby hearth illuminated only this corner of the old pine cabin where the desk was positioned, and he anticipated having to stand soon to stoke them. Iven looked up for a moment and noticed the shades of auburn light from the fire bouncing warmly off the sap that had oozed from between the home’s rough timbers.

An iron bucket, full of rust-ringed holes, sat awkwardly close to the glowing andiron inside the fireplace. Iven knew it was nearly empty, and soon he’d need to venture outside to retrieve more wood, should he hope to accomplish anything. 

Snow pelted two of the thin glass windows on the Eastern face of the cabin — above Iven’s desk was the largest, and it was purposefully so, as he drew inspiration from the view. The gnarled rafters above held a thatched roof that creaked under the pressures of piling snow and winter wind. 

A delightful little frog croaked sheepishly in a nearby corner, beside the hearth, and atop a small bit of linen. A tiny wooden sign dangled from a nail above the frog’s perch that read “Chips - friend.”

The largest log, now charred black as coal, popped loudly. Its surface had long ago split like a dried waterbed, and the retreating flames held out just long enough to win the battle. The andiron stood firm, its work complete, as the finished log broke in half and rolled away towards the cabin floor, startling the frog. 

“Riiiiiiiiiib!”

Iven jumped in his chair, breaking startlingly from his daydream of glowing sap. He hurriedly looked towards his amphibious friend and back to the wall — no more glow to be found.

Luminous clusters of iridescent, blue fungus sprung from the wettest patches of the cabin wall, and even bits of the floor. Too dim for writing under, but bright enough to fill the cabin with silhouettes and dark shadows as the fire passed from flame to coal. Iven didn’t mind their strong scent (in fact he rather enjoyed the earthen odour of mushrooms) and found their presence calming. 

He stood up from his chair, the creaking of which reported through the cabin above the worsening winter winds, and placed the cork back into the inkwell. 

A small garden of moss grew across a slab of stone in one corner of the room, atop which lay a rather large bit of bedding that had been covered in more patches than one could bother to count. Iven batted a beetle off the blanket and wrapped the linen around his shoulders. 

“I could just lay down and wait till morning,” he thought lazily. The heat from the fire hadn’t yet left the cabin, and sleep would come before it did. 

Chips, having rested soundly in the corner, had not only been awoken abruptly by the fire, but was noticeably less comfortable with the lack of warmth than his tall and apathetic friend. He looked judgementally towards Iven.

“Riiiiiiiiiib!”

Iven sighed sheepishly, as if the two had this conversation nightly. 

“Yeah. I know… But then no more distractions. I’ll be halfway in bed by the time I start writing a page at this point.” 

He readjusted the blanket around his shoulders and gripped the ends tightly around his broad neck with his left hand, the claws from his fingertips nearly breaking through the worn fabric — Iven didn’t mind sewing on another patch from time-to-time. 

The bucket by the fireplace made a scraping sound as its base was drug across the limestone hearth. A burst of wind and snow poured into the cabin, as the door opened, sending a stack of papers spiralling off the desk. For a brief moment, the broken log shot up in flames, but quickly died back down. Chips shivered atop his pillow and stared intensely at a small crystal orb atop the nearby shelf. 

The door slammed shut, and the cabin became still once again.

Gold specks drifted under the dull cerulean lights of the mushrooms that jutted out from the wall — they were confined to the crystal globe that rested atop a pillow, not unlike that of the frog’s. Chips continued to stare at them as they danced. Each speck moved like a moth under a full moon, and the image reminded him of a Summer’s eve. His long tongue began to drop from his mouth cartoonishly as he salivated over the thought of catching one. Chips drifted slowly into a trance as the specks orbited hypnotically, occasionally bursting like a solar flare from the main school.  

Above the old wooden desk, a single shelf had been carved from the cross-cut of an old cedar. It’s grains shown beautifully through its oily finish.

Atop this shelf rested the crystal orb. A dust covered and dog-eared book was positioned nearby, its cover made of leather — incredibly soft — and dyed as green as the spruce forest outside. A stuffed bird perched motionlessly on an old bit of hickory beside it, and just below its extended wing (which was noticeably missing a few feathers) sat this orb.

A frozen snow pelted the thin glass windows of the timber cabin, and its thatched roof almost seemed to sag underneath the growing force of winter winds. A storm, likely. 

Chips fell asleep, despite the lack of fire beside him, with complete disregard for the noisy weather.

The door flew open, slamming against the pine wall and letting in a burst of frigid air — a flurry of sleet blew across the room and peppered the parallel wall. 

Iven dropped the bucket onto the cabin floor, spilling the contents of it out even further, as he turned around to latch the door behind him. “Gads…” he thought to himself, pondering just why it was that he decided against staying in bed. 

Chips halfway opened an eye and sighed disdainfully, spotting the ineffective log that sat quietly beside the cooling fireplace.

Iven rubbed his hands together aggressively and wheezed long exhales of warm air out of his mouth and through his chilled fingers. He kicked off his boots and flung them each towards the doorway, using his toes to launch them haphazardly. The blanket would stay wrapped warmly around him, tucked beneath each armpit and pulled so tightly that it fit like the skin of a drum.

He meandered over to the shelf and took down the glass ball from off its pillow. He placed the orb in a pile of ash between the opposing andirons inside the fireplace, and its gold flakes began to dance excitedly. A few logs he set across the metal frame, and a small bit of kindle torn from the birch tree that fell last Summer beneath them. The orb rested gently underneath and began to glow brilliantly red.

“Respect I give to that which destroys, while a life it also saves. And beauty do I ever find in your eternal blaze.”

The words fell softly out of Iven’s quivering mouth while Morenitsa’s winds blew stronger outside. As he ended his whisper, the orb erupted with a blinding light and the smell of warming wood immediately wafted through the cabin, quickly followed by a fresh puff of smoke. The kindling ignited in seconds, as the fresh logs — Iven was disappointed in how green they were — slowly took to their new environment. 

Chips opened his eyes and gazed with total satisfaction at the hearth — not content enough to move from his pillow, of course, but content enough for a frog out of water.

Iven picked up a wrought-iron poker from beside the fire and gently prodded the orb out, picking it up by hand. The tiny ball was cool as could be, and the dancing specks inside had settled to the bottom in a small mound. He rested it back on its pillow before settling down at his desk just below.

The majority of his parchments he placed neatly to the left — a single sheet set in front of him. Next he placed the cork of the inkwell upright beside its partner, adjusted the plume, and scooted the well itself somewhat nearer to his right arm. The left half of the desk glowed blue from the nearby fungus that came out of the wall, the right burned red, as the fire nearer to the far wall began to grow. All seemed perfect for finally settling in.

Iven began tapping his fingers on the desk rhythmically, rolling from his pinky down to the third (for he only had four, if you’re counting a thumb) and stared out the snow-filled window in front of him. 

“Tea!” he yelled out to the winter storm. “I must make tea.” 

A constant odour of mushrooms filled the air, of which much came from the gurgling vat sat atop a rickety stove. Besides the doorknob (which was mostly quartz anyway) and a few blades, it may be the only thing made of steel that Iven owned. The slightly lopsided furnace was mounted in the centre of the room — its copper chimney ended at the roof, sealed shut by a very sticky tar that resembled the blackest muck from a swamp. 

A kettle was swept up by its rusted handle from beside the sunken clawfoot of the stove and quickly replaced the bubbling vat that once held its glory atop the pedestal. Iven sniffed the pot of murky liquid — bits and bobs of this and that stuck out from the surface — giving it a surprising nod of approval. 

“Entirely forgot about this Chips!”

Indeed he had, and the fire inside of it was growing quite cool as well. The coals that remained would keep it rather warm, but perhaps not enough for tea right off. Iven sighed with mild frustration for just a moment, but remembered he’d extra logs already and spotted a wanderer that fell further from the spilled bucket than he’d previously noticed. 

The man looked at his friend Chips, who’s countenance had become noticeably happier in the last few minutes, and said spoke with a new burst of energy.

“Old friend, soon we’ll have tea, I’ve just tidied up a bit it seems, and this soup is a surprise all-its-own. Gadflies, I didn’t even remember it till now. It’s like…” Iven stroked the underside of his broad lip with a long, black finger nail, “… It’s like a gift from domovyk!” 

He looked around the room, hunching over slightly and putting his hands above his eyes as if trying to keep out the noonday sun.

“Domovyk, are you messing with us again? Domovyk…?” he held out the name on the second go-around, speaking as a child during a game of hunt. Chips looked at him judgementally, croaking dully as he blew out a disapproving sigh. 

Each home across the Great Lands was home to a domovyk — the tiny spirits were oftentimes no larger than a rat, but could be as high in stature as a dwarf. The domovye were respected by the people of Entheona, and it was rumoured that a home without the blessing of one was without good fortune until such a time came. 

Their presence was as mischievous as it was protective, and they were nearly never seen. To catch a domovyk was believed to be impossible, unless you were a god, but to spot one often drove them away — they delighted much in their host’s belief in them, and their spirit would fade when the boundary between realms was broken.

Iven didn’t mind the temperament of his dear, little friend, and his newfound contentment with the thought of tea and soup and warmth and light had thoroughly put his mind in a positive place — the parchments sat waiting on his desk and would remain so, after all. It wouldn’t be long before their need for attention would be quenched.

He laid the wandering log, as well as a couple other gnarled pieces of spruce, into the oven’s chamber and slid open the ventilation flap beneath it. The rust was so prominent around this flap that one of the metal braces nearly fell completely off — Iven paid no mind.

The fire inside the oven grew quickly with the constant sucking of air that blew beneath it. In only twenty minutes, the logs had been reduced to coals and little smoke remained inside. Iven returned to the fireplace, having only puttered around the house touching odds-and-ends meanwhile, and closed the vent and oven door entirely. Following this, he pulled down a tiny wooden lever from the side of the copper flue, and a creaking sound inside said the damper was now shut. 

“Morenitsa-be-damned, I forgot to close it last time! No wonder this thing was bordering cold!” 

Another dramatic sigh graced the interior of the cabin, as Iven held his palms tightly against his large, purple head and moaned. 

Even Chips deemed it theatrical. 

Iven peeked each of his eyes through two sets of four fingers each, and looked around the cabin for a bowl. A large wooden bowl, with a crack that came midway from the lip, set off to the side of the dining table — he set it on his head like a child’s hat atop a watermelon. 

Not wanting to delay his writing any longer, he scooted the vat of soup next to the kettle, and the two found themselves in a precarious position over what was now a rather well-heated stovetop. Bubbles formed on the surface of the right-half of the pot, but the kettle had a bit of catching up to do, it seemed. 

As motivated as he may be, Iven always found waiting to be extraordinarily time-consuming. His inability to focus during a period of necessary patience enveloped his mind in such a way that frantic pacing, mixed together with nail-biting and thought-avoiding actions were generally all which kept him busy. Waiting for the kettle was no different.

A metal-on-metal brushing sound signalled the left half of the soup would be heating while the kettle made its last sprint towards boiling. He’d not considered giving it a bit of a stir.

As the alarming whistle that signalled the onset of bubbling-hot tea pierced the cabin air, so did the ever-growing odour of “mushroom and bits” stew. The cracked bowl was dunked a bit deeply, considering, into the pot of mush — it wasn’t long before a cascade of steaming water poured over a small pile of minced pine needles, as well a mixture of dried chrysanthemum and marigold petals. Iven poured a tiny bit of mead into the concoction, of which the smell became incredibly over-powering. 

Setting the wooden mug down beside the stacked parchments, Iven ogled the items across his desk — ensuring everything be in order was quite necessary to igniting his focus (and maintaining it, of course): The parchments were tidied, a single piece placed in front of him, angled just so that his plume would scribe in perfect parallel lines; the inkwell was near to overflowing, a deep-purplish liquid that smelled a bit of rotten fruit dripped from one side and dried across it before reaching the bottom edge; tipped gently into the inkwell, a familiar plume, stolen from Iven’s effort at taxidermy, blossomed out of the small container like a puff of dandelion; the mug and bowl, both made from the same wood it appeared, happily did their jobs among the writing equipment. 

Iven brought the bowl to his lips and slurped loudly, opening his jaw a bit wider to permit a chunk of something entry. A sip of tea, a deep breath and four loud cracks as he popped the air from his finger’s joints — all was finally in place.

Pulling his plume from the inkwell, Iven Eifergot drew the feather across the parchment for but a second as a large Thud! came from beneath his desk. 

Iven set the plume down beside the paper, a bit of ink staining the desk, looked down below his chair, and realised he had entirely lost his focus.