Morning fog rolled low across the village fields, weaving between the rows of crops and houses alike. It wrapped around the barn muting the colors of dawn and softening the edges of the world. Dew clung to the wooden fence posts and blades of grass, each droplet catching the pale sunlight and sparkling like tiny jewels. The air was crisp and smelled faintly of earth and woodsmoke, carrying the quiet before a workday. Joren stood outside, shoulders still heavy with sleep but already shifting into work mode as he took in the beautiful morning. He grabbed a bucket of water from the well, his breath visible in the chilly air. The familiar creak of the barn doors echoed as he pushed them open.
Inside, the air smelled of hay and animals, which lay below his room. Jargon, the goat, bleated impatiently, rubbing his horns against the gate. "Good morning, your highness" he spoke to the goat. As he carried the bucket toward the pens, the wooden floor made no creaks beneath his boots, though this detail slipped his consciousness. The bucket slipped from his hands again, barely falling to the floor before Joren's hand snapped out, catching it. The water fell far slower than normal, and this time he did notice. Not a drop spilled. Joren's eyes widened, heart skipping a beat. "I must be imagining it, do I really have powers?" Joren laughed quietly, the tension breaking, "Alright, day one of superpowers. Let's not make a mess, yeah?"
Early Afternoon – The Saloon
The Broken Spoke was as loud as ever.
Morning rush had long since passed, but the afternoon rush was beginning. Joren wove between tables with a tray balanced in one hand, wiping down the counter with the other. His movements were automatic now, muscle memory dulled by repetition. Trays, mugs, crumbs, repeat.
"Festival's next week," someone said near the bar, voice slurred just enough to blur the words. "They say merchants from the capital are bringin' artifacts. Real thing, cuts through those Auspex like nobody's business."
Joren didn't comment, just turned and reached for a dish someone had left too close to the edge. That's when it happened, a plate tipped from the polished counter spinning downward. His breath caught, but time didn't freeze. The plate moved slowly, impossibly so, hanging in the air just long enough for his hand to sweep under it, catching it before it shattered. Maybe it's reliant on emotion, he thought to himself. Perhaps the exploding lantern was his doing as well.
No one noticed. Two farmers nearby were arguing about cheese rations, and Todd was talking with travelers from a far-away city. A small flyer fluttered slightly against the posterboard, pinned beneath a bent tack and surrounded by auspex news and business ads. It depicted a line of market stalls drawn in rough, cheerful sketches with musicians and a banner that read: One Week Only! Brindleford's Grand Merchant Festival Returns! Someone had doodled a duck in the corner. Something to look forward to since he got to skip out of work at the saloon for a few hours each day.
Early Evening – The Barn
Later after work, the sun's rays spilled across the village like diluted gold, casting long, sleepy shadows over Brindleford from between clouds. Joren was just finishing up the last of the barn chores when he could hear Hazel calling to him. Hazel is a woman in her mid 50's and a slightly rotund shape that seems to come with owning a farm. She wears overalls on top of a long sleeve shirt that she often pushes the sleeves of up to her forearms with working boots to complete the outfit. Her straw hat shading her from the sun and her warm smile gave Joren great comfort in his otherwise confusing upbringing.
"Hey, mind giving me a hand?" she called, gesturing to a long wooden beam resting awkwardly across two sawhorses. "I can't lift this thing on my own." They crouched together and lifted. Hazel grunted immediately, arms trembling under the weight, but Joren found it as light as a piece of firewood. It shifted in his grip as if it was made of hollow pine instead of dense hardwood, barely resisting him at all. The sensation wasn't strength, but a lack of gravity, he surmised.
Hazel looked at him sideways as they propped it in place. "Been working out when I'm not looking?"
"Uh," Joren said, blinking. "Yeah, I guess hauling animal feed does wonders for the physique." She laughed and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "Keep that up and you'll be bench-pressing cows next." As they caught their breath, Hazel leaned against the shed's open door, looking out over the soft haze of the evening.
"Festival's coming up, you know," she said. "Merchants'll start trickling in by midweek. I'm going to need help with the stall selling product to the travelers and townsfolk." Joren nodded. "I figured I'd be helping you out. Might swing by Elira's booth too, if I get a chance." Hazel gave him a small smile. "She'll be glad to see you."
The moment lingered a beat too long before she clapped her hands and said, "Alright, how about we have some food together, it has been a while since we had a proper meal together." They walked the short path to Hazel's house, the silence between them easy. The kind of silence that didn't need to be filled.
Joren had lived in the loft of Hazel's barn for years. It wasn't official, he was not related to her after all. His father, a government researcher buried in secretive work, sends letters and money when he can, though it has declined in recent years. The man is brilliant, intense, and strangely charming in his odd mix of seriousness and clumsy dad jokes that come across in his letters. Joren barely remembers his face, just a vague figure from his early childhood before he became a classified researcher.
His mother hadn't fared well after his dad was transferred. Life in a quiet village without her husband had turned her bitter, then cruel. She became someone else entirely, someone Joren now barely remembered as human. Her face had a shadow in his memory, like a beast that terrified him, traumatized him. She left one day without a word, leaving Joren without a home to go.
Hazel never made a show of taking him in. She didn't offer grand speeches or emotional reassurances. One night, she found him asleep behind the barn with a blanket over his shoulders that hadn't been there the evening before. She woke him up and offered the loft of her barn until he figured things out. he next morning, a cot appeared in the loft. A week later, a folded stack of clothes. Eventually, his name found its way into her routine, "Joren, pass me that," or "Joren, can you feed the animals before you head to bed?"
Hazel gave him space. She didn't pry about his parents leaving him, instead, she gave him work in return for housing and occasional meals together. In time, her farm became his home, a gesture of generosity he appreciated beyond words. By the time he was fourteen, Hazel was able to convince an old friend named Todd to let a young boy work at his saloon. Since then, the rhythm of Joren's life had settled into something steady. Early mornings in the barn, afternoons under the clatter and clink of the saloon, and evenings sometimes spent stargazing with Elira and her daughter or with Hazel at the kitchen table sharing a meal.
She didn't talk much about her own past either, her husband was gone before Joren came into the picture. Hazel never got over the grief it has caused her, but having another person around made it easier. Joren and Hazel often have one or two meals a week together, giving them time to catch up on what's been going on with them or news and gossip around the village. Sometimes Hazel would talk about the stubborn chicken that wouldn't give up her eggs or how the village baker's son had finally left for the city. Other times, Joren shared fragments from his shifts at the saloon or the oddest customers he'd encountered.
Tonight, she mentioned that an Auspex by the name of Tsunami was sighted in a village not far from here. "They say he is a Harbinger-level Auspex, if you see him in the saloon or around town, avoid him at all costs. Trouble is sure to follow those devils."