The Road Beyond Tansyhill; an August Skipps story
August woke with the dawn, ears twitching at the faintest sounds—the creak of timbers, the sparrows quarrelling in the orchard, the muffled thump of his brothers chasing each other down the lane. He stretched, long legs kicking free of the quilt, and sat up in a tumble of grey, honey-brown, and white fur.
He splashed his face from the washbasin, water dripping from his muzzle, and studied his reflection in the rippling surface. A pair of bright amber eyes peered back, quick and restless. He pulled his ears down, then flicked them back again—a morning ritual he had never quite broken.
Outside, mist blanketed Tansyhill, clinging silver to the orchards and hedgerows. It was a quiet dawn, the kind that made the village feel smaller. Or maybe it just felt that way because August knew he’d be gone for a few weeks.
He dressed quickly, in the practiced rhythm of one used to early departures. First the shirt, then the green courier’s coat, the sleeves smelling faintly of smoke and moss. He looped his scarf twice about his neck and cinched the belt around his waist.
He clipped on a few of his charms—tokens of the Laughing Hare, a polished coin, a carved acorn, a scrap of red thread—then strapped the round shield to his pack and slid the dark acacia knobkerrie into its loop. Both felt reassuringly solid. Not standard kit for a courier, but today he was bound for Neverwinter, and beyond that, into places the family routes had never touched.
He paused at the door, breathing in the mingled scents of hearth-smoke and herbs, ears tall and listening. In the kitchen of the Skipps home, August’s mother pressed a small glass vial into his hand.
“A healing draught,” Cordia said, her tone brisk but her eyes soft. “For scrapes, or worse. Just in case.”
Before he could thank her, a thunder of bare feet came down the hallway—the triplets, always awake too early, already chasing each other out the door toward the orchards. None of them stopped to notice their older brother with kit packed, though the smallest, Jorry, turned at the gate. “Bye, Auggie!” he yelled, before tumbling after the others. Cordia smiled faintly, then kissed August’s cheek and turned back to the stove. For her, this was simply another morning—though her lingering glance at him said otherwise.
At the family’s small office of Dash & Hop Logistics, his father was already waiting. Tobbar Skipps was a tall powerful harengon, solemn black and white fur. He put a heavy hand on August’s shoulder by way of greeting. August had to look up to look his father in the eye. If strangers would see them walking side-by-side they would guess they were unrelated. August very much was his mother’s progeny.
On the desk a courier’s satchel awaited August: waxed leather shining, straps tightened, the company’s sigil — an hourglass shaped like an eight — polished in the morning sun. And beside it lay a neat bundle of letters and contracts.
“This isn’t just another village drop,” Tobbar said, voice firm. He tapped the satchel with a calloused finger. “This goes all the way to Phandalin. To Barthen’s Provisions. It’s business that matters, and they’re trusting us. You’ve been to Neverwinter before, so you can find your way there. From there, you press on. Understand?”
There was no warmth in his tone, but no cruelty either—just the straightforward steel of a man who had built his name on punctual deliveries. For Tobbar, the world was simple: either the package arrived, or it didn’t. And now he was trusting his most whimsical son with the task. “And please try to look the part of a courier, that scarf and those trinkets make you look like a beggar.” He gave the charms a faint shake of his head, unable to understand how his son could trust in scraps of thread and carved acorns when proper kit was what mattered. But he didn’t press the point further.
Before leaving, Tobbar sent August up the winding lane to the cottage on the hill. His grandmother, Oema Stillbas, was waiting on the veranda, wrapped in her old green shawl. Her hands trembled as she cupped his face, and for a moment August wished she would scold him, or tell him to stay, but instead her eyes shone with something gentler, harder to bear.
“Ah, jongen,” she whispered in her old tongue, “I’ve no love for farewells. But I can’t chain you here. The world’s calling your name, and I must let it.”
She pressed a bundle of saffies into his hand, rolled cigarettes of Svart-tong root and Sha’aska leaves. “For courage. For light. And to remind you that you’re never alone.” They smoked one together in silence, the smoke curling into the mist. For August it burned harsh, just as it had the first time, but his chest filled with warmth and memory of a vision past: the white-dressed woman, a laughing hare, the world streaming past. First of many visions and dreams since then. When he closed his eyes to a slit and peered through, he could almost see the woman walking behind the orchard trees. Oema had called her Tymora — to August she was the Laughing Hare. The saffie filled him with “potential”. He gathered it in his breath and exhaled it with smoke. As the smoke swirled above his head, he lightly stabbed a finger at it and spoke in the old tongue: “Chikitu strea. Lanta I ta liber!” From his finger a silver point of light shot up into the sky. It felt like a release of the potential that burned in his chest. Oema nodded approvingly. Her voice rose softly in a half-hummed blessing, and when she was done, she kissed his forehead. “Go then. And write your story.”
The satchel was heavy at his side when he finally left Tansyhill behind. He had walked the road to Neverwinter before, but this time was different. Beyond Neverwinter his map ended.
The walk to Sandvleet would take two days, and August had a few deliveries to make there before turning toward Neverwinter. With the weather holding fair, he expected an easy week on the road. But the second day proved otherwise. Trouble rose with the wind across the heath.
The gusts tore at the tall grasses, flattening them in golden waves. A flash of green darted through — a courier’s satchel thumping against one hip, a dark walking stick in hand. August Skipps of Tansyhill ran as though the ground itself were falling out from under him, his long hare’s ears streaming back in the wind. Behind him thundered hooves; two riders had broken off from the ridge to flank him on the open ground. Bandits. He had seen steel glint as they crested the hill.
Harengons were fast, but he could not outrun two men on horseback — he could outsmart them, though. August led them deep into the tall grasses before ducking low and using the stalks as cover. “Laughing Hare, don’t let my feet tangle now,” he thought, breath sharp in his chest. He, slipped off to the side, away from the path he had been following, circling around.
The riders slowed and joined up, uncertain where their prey had gone. From his hiding place to their right, August was able to study his pursuers. Two young humans — one a slender boy with mousy features and bad acne on his cheeks, armed with an archaic spear that looked stolen from a grandfather’s attic. The other had the look of a brawler who had lost half the fights he had been in, his youth betrayed by a thin blond attempt at a moustache. This one carried a woodsman’s axe. The horses, skittish in the high grass, seemed unused to riders. Stolen draft animals, perhaps.
Everything about the pair suggested they were new to roadside robbery. As they passed by a mere ten feet from August’s position, still unaware, a smile touched his lips.
“Sombra ta kanta, spĂritu ta suta,” he whispered.
A smoky wisp escaped his mouth and drifted toward his pursuers. From five feet behind the horses a sound tore out of the grass — a shriek, jagged and raw, as if someone were being flayed alive, loud enough to make the air vibrate. The fur along August’s arms prickled at his own conjured terror, though he knew the sound had come from him. The animals reared in fright, screaming, nearly throwing their riders. The slender boy dropped his spear while clinging desperately to his saddle; the brawler swore and fought for control of the reins. With another whisper a second scream split the air to the left, deciding the matter. The horses bolted, dragging their masters back the way they had come, unwilling to discover what stalked them in the grass.
August grinned wide but did not wait to see if they regrouped. He ran until the heath dipped into a hollow, then followed it until he reached a forest. He had come this way before on an earlier trip to Sandvleet and knew the area well. With no sign of pursuit, he trailed the forest’s edge until he found a fallen oak. Last time he had been here he had dug out a pit so the hollowed oak and its roots would provide cover against the rain. There, heart still hammering, he leaned against the wood, sweat making his shirt cling to his body.
His stomach growled like a wild boar. He dug into his pack and pulled out an apple and some nuts. He did not dare make a fire, but he had other means to keep himself warm. From a pouch he drew a saffie. Lighting it, he watched tendrils of black-blue smoke drift up, carrying with it the sharp, resinous tang of Svart-tong root, the same scent that clung to his grandmother’s shawl. With it came the memory of home. Sweet memory — perhaps — but not as sweet as what lay ahead: Neverwinter. Adventure. Beyond Neverwinter his map ended. He had to go to Phandalin and beyond Phandalin lay whatever he dared to imagine. For the first time, he felt that the edge of the map was not the ending. It was the beginning.
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