Dark and Shifting Mists

The golden fields of Hearthmere stretched endlessly under the summer sun, a gentle breeze making the stalks of wheat ripple like an ocean of gold. In the heart of the village - among cottages with thatched roofs and bustling burrows - a small hare dashed between the wooden fences, a grin spread across his young face.

“Callithin, slow down!” an older hare called, balancing a sack of flour over his shoulder. “If you knock over the baker’s wife again, she’ll have you peeling turnips for a week!”

Callithin only laughed, skidding to a stop just before crashing into a group of mice carrying baskets of herbs. “Sorry, Brother Ferrin!” he called back, ears twitching in excitement. “But the abbot asked for me, and I don’t want to be late!”

The elder hare sighed but let him go, shaking his head. “One day, that energy of yours will run out, lad,” he muttered, but Callithin was already gone, darting past the village square, where a group of mole artisans were shaping bricks in the warm sunlight.

At the heart of Hearthmere stood the Chapel of Tyr, its stone walls carved with the sigil of the seven-pointed sun, the God of Justice’s sacred symbol. The great oaken doors creaked as Callithin pushed them open, stepping into the cool shade within.

Standing at the altar was Abbot Harvine, an aged mouse with graying whiskers, polishing the abbey’s silver candelabras. 

“Ah, young Callithin,” he said without looking up. “You’re late.”

“Only by a little!” the young hare protested, bounding up the steps to help arrange the prayer scrolls. “You asked for me, Abbot?”

“I did,” Harvine said, handing Callithin a candle snuffer. “The midday prayers have ended, and the Light of Tyr must be kept tended. Go and ensure the lanterns in the Hall of Law are steady.”

Callithin nodded eagerly and took the long-handled tool, heading toward the inner sanctum. The Hall of Law was a small chamber lined with old tomes and scrolls, the records of Hearthmere’s dealings and disputes, all settled by the clergy in Tyr’s name. At its center, in a small circular depression in the floor of the hall, the ‘Lantern of Tyr’ burned: Refreshed daily by acolytes and by the Abbot on Tyrsdays, it was to burn forever.

As he adjusted the wick and trimmed the edges, Callithin whispered a small prayer. 

“Tyr, let my paws be steady and my heart true, that I may always walk in your light.”

The flame flickered, and the hare smiled, taking that as a sign of approval.

When he returned, Abbot Harvine had set out a modest meal—bread, cheese, and a bit of honey. He gestured for Callithin to sit. 

“Do you know why Tyr’s Light burns in the Hall of Law?” the old mouse asked.

Callithin swallowed his bite of bread and nodded. “Because justice must always shine, even in the darkest places.”

“Indeed,” Harvine said, pleased that the lessons were getting into the hare’s long ears. “Tyr’s Light does not bend, does not dim. It pierces even the blackest alleyway and obliterates all who stand against it.”

Callithin’s ears perked up. “Even in the cities? Even where the wicked make their dens?”

“Especially there,” Harvine said gravely. “It is easy to be just when all is bright and good. But the true test of a soul is if they can carry the light into the shadows.”

The hare sat back, chewing over the words as if they were as solid as the bread in his paws. The idea filled him with something fierce—a fire that burned in his chest. One day, he would carry Tyr’s light into those shadows. One day, he would stand against the darkness.

***

Brother Callithin - former acolyte of Tyr - lifted his extremely weary head off of the bar counter. His fur, once white as the clouds over Hearthmere, was now a map of soot, some flecks of blood, and forgotten prayers. The golden fields were gone. 

Now, there was only fog.

In the reflection of the mirror, he could see out the windows of the nameless tavern that he clung to like a drowning sailor. Outside he could make out the shifting, miasmic mists and cold rain of the Fog District of Vulane - the City of Secrets.

The Fog - violet in some parts and gray in others - moved in mysterious ways. Sometimes it would blow a creature over, howling at hurricane speeds. Other times it would stop completely and envelop. While Vulane’s rain soaked into one’s fur, the Fog would soak into one’s mind.

“Isn’t there anything else to drink?” He asked, already knowing the answer as he pushed his goblet forward.

The ghost serving him - a raccoon-shaped being that hovered behind the bar with glowing white eyes - shook its head.

Callithin sighed. “All right, fill me up.” Veilwinter wine was obviously bad for him, but it was free... or at least, it had been.

The ghost shook its head again, this time slower. Callithin licked his lips and straightened in his chair—then came the giggles. Soft, dreadful... curling from the far side of the bar.

“It used to be free,” came a thin female voice about ten feet away, dripping with sinister amusement. Callithin refused to acknowledge her. “But now that you are... attached... that’s when the strings can be tugged,” the voice nearby said, chuckling.

Callithin tried to think of things he could sell... his robes? He had already sold his Staff of Light: it gave him six months rent, and ever since the light atop its withered branch burned violet instead of heavenly yellow, it hadn’t been much use as a torch anyway.

“Don’t think about it too hard, bunny,” the voice said as a little bag of coppers slid his way. Callithin looked at the voice’s owner: an older vixen in a once-beautiful gown, now withered. “Veilwinter has many uses for you.”

Callithin’s ears didn’t even twitch at being called a ‘bunny,’ nor at the mention of the dreaded Veilwinter Temple - the cult of vulpine mages who controlled Vulane. He scooped up the bag and hurriedly gave one of the coppers to the barkeep who efficiently poured Callithin a glass of Veilwinter Wine. This liquid was slightly different from the usual, free one he would receive: it was violet - like the mists and the vixen’s dress - and had the same sparkles as the blue one he normally got... like stars in a clear sky.

Callithin was in the middle of taking a long gulp of the obviously enchanted liquid when...

*CREEEAK*

...The rarely-used door of the establishment opened. Even the badger in the corner who was in the midst of his usual loud argument with his reflection in a cracked mirror stopped to see. Accompanying the creak was a light: A bright, oppressive yellow ball of light that Callithin knew all too well.

“Szal’s tail,” the vixen said. “Are we to become a halfway home for lost Tyrians?”

The hare leaned over to see a familiar face. The creature was a mole, barely more than half as tall as Callithin himself. His robes were sopping wet, as was his thin fur. He had what appeared to be a used potato sack around him in a weak attempt to protect himself from the elements. The mole’s sandals were falling apart as well and slapped with rain as they walked across the old floorboards of the tavern.

But through it all, the mole’s face went from exhaustion to relief to absolute, innocent joy as his eyes rested on Callithin.

“Call?” Came a young voice. “Brother Call!”

“What in Gods’ names are you doing here, Hyric?” Callithin said dryly as the mole wrapped his arms around Callithin’s neck. Callithin half returned the hug while his right arm poured another gulp of Veilwinter Wine down his gullet.

“I’ve come to collect you, Callithin!” Hyric said in response to Callithin’s pointed question. “You can come home!”

“If you’re here to collect, take it up with the shadows,” the hare said, tapping the rim of his glass and spinning back around in his seat. “They own me now.”

At the sight of Hyric’s staff - which threw a holy light across the room - the ghostly barkeep had disappeared.

“Wh-what are you talking about Call?” Hyric asked.

“Oh, look what you’ve done Hyric,” Callithin said. “You’ve scared the barkeep away with your stupid staff. Do you realize what these creatures are like sober?”

The mole cradled his staff. “Owned by shadows? Calling our Torches of Light stupid? What’s gotten into you? And your robes! By Tyr, I recall how fastidious you were about them!” Hyric continued. “You would berate me if there was even a smudge on mine! And now look at yours: Even the gold thread is gone!”

“I recall when you sold the thread for rent,” came the vixen’s teasing voice.

Hyric nearly fell over backwards from that. The initial excitement upon seeing Call had vanished from the young mole’s long, gray face, replaced with a look of deep confusion.

“I called the staff stupid because it is,” Callithin said, adding a rhetorical punch to the gut to the vixen’s verbal slap to the face. “We’re told when we’re young that Tyr’s light penetrates everywhere: That it can destroy our enemies and illuminate the dark.” Callithin softened. “It isn’t true, Hyric. I’m glad you’re here, but you have to go... before you get lost, too.”

“I was sent to bring you back,” Hyric said softly. “There’s still time to—”

“—Bring me back?” Callithin interrupted, his voice rising. “To what? The same fools who sent me here to fail? The same gods who watch their faithful stumble blind into the dark?”

Hyric sniffled, drying his eyes - now wet with tears and rain - on his sleeves.

The vixen shifted in her seat and softened as well. “Oh, my dear,” she started. Hyric picked up his staff and sniffled his tears back up his nose and eyes.

“Leave me be, harlot!” Hyric said, pointing his staff at her.

“I was beginning to feel a slight sadness for you, you brute,” she said.

“Did you make him this way?” Hyric continued, almost snarling - which was difficult for a mole to do. “Change him back!” He squeaked, his voice shaking as the tears began to flow again.

The vixen chuckled. “My dear mole,” she began, leaning down to him, her long tail making slow, deliberate waves in the air. “Why would I want to? He is so much more fun now!”

Callithin was still in his seat, drinking. Ignoring. “Don’t be too hard on him, Avandra,” he said. “He’s been in the light too long.”

“In the light too long? In the light too long?” Hyric said, standing taller. “What does that... How could—?!”

Avandra sighed. “He simply means that you think darkness is the enemy, when it - in truth - is not.”

“The darkness is where your people hide!” Hyric shot back. “The weasels and stoats and foxes, slinking around!”

Avandra sipped her own goblet of deep, black wine - the little sparkles flowing down into her maw. “The dark is not so terrible! One can only really have fun in the dark, isn’t that right Call?”

Callithin didn’t respond. The vixen continued.

“But it’s true, it isn’t all spies darting around street corners and golden tongues telling lies. There are things in the dark that were not meant to be seen.”

“Oh we will see you!” Hyric retorted. “We’ll uncover all your little games!”

“That is not what I meant, pitiful creature,” Avandra said, her voice gaining an edge. “I meant that, if Tyr and all his followers could see what was in Vulane and all the dark corners of The World... you would all retreat at the revelations.”

The entire tavern fell silent at that as Hyric rolled his shoulders and straightened his back.

“Well, Callithin?” The dutiful mole asked. “Are you coming?”

Callithin sipped his wine and said nothing as Hyric shook his head and wandered back into the dark and shifting mists.

To see Callithin’s first visit to Vulane, go here:

https://veilwinter.com/f/fog-drenched-and-nameless