1 Efran

A small, gangly cloaked figure swiftly brought up his sword, gritting his teeth hard as metal came into contact with metal. As the opponent's sword shifted against his, a high-pitched screech rose from the impact. The faun piped up his eyes to look into who stood in front of him, knees bent awkwardly inwards as if he could topple over with the gentlest kiss of the wind. A great dark shadow, hidden beneath a thick hood, loomed over his short stature. Two beady eyes stared at him behind the thick silver, pushing harder against him. They glinted like two shiny olives against the thick black, oddly round and looming. Whispering voices sounded from beneath the stranger's ogle, eyes screwing up smaller and smaller as each ticking second went by. Fear momentarily flittered through the hero's body as he caught sight of the fellow. A hard kick hit his side, to which the bairn toppled to the ground, sword pointed upwards towards the shadow. The cloaked beast slipped forward without a sound, large sword raised and ready to strike. 

He rolled out of the way just in time, hearing the hardware beat the ground and slip into the embrace of the earth. Without hesitation, he rose to his feet and picked up his sword behind his bare back. Looking into the face of the shadow, he swung it forward with a piercing yell.



"Efran!"



Efran Crawford woke with a start.



And just like that, he was back. The young bairn mumbled behind a pair of dry lips, scrunching his nose in protest as his surroundings came into view. Here he lay, warm in his room under a scratchy blanket of cloth. A small fireplace flickered along the adjacent wall, dark plumes of smoke rising into the vent and up the chimney. Sunlight peeked through an open window, spilling in a bright glow that fleetingly blinded him. Birds cheeped and snickered outside, shaking their breasts with the new day. Just outside, he could hear a horse-drawn carriage pass their shack of a house. The four-legged beast brayed and whinnied against the tug of the reigns, thrashing its head back before continuing onwards in a brisk trot. This particular coachman and horse was a common sight from his bedroom window, and it was extremely obvious that the horse lacked much talent for seeing where it was going.

"Easy, lad" the coachman cooed, patting the mare's shoulder.

Their house lay within a small town along a tiny and ignorable bay. If you were to look on a map, it is more than possible that you would not be able to locate this little village. Their house stood pressed against a bundle of four rather large cedar trees. It was not an impressive sight, to say the least. Stout and old, the roof was slanted at an odd angle that made it impossible to walk-up straight along where his dresser was. A large painting of his great grandfather loomed above the mantle, oil-painted strokes cracking with the exposed heat and old finish. At the foot of his bed, two pink small hands grasped the wooden-carved bed posts.

Bright eyes and a wide smile found his. The face was dusted with freckles, heavily around the nose and under the eyes. The nose was small and sloped upwards, giving him an exceptionally inquisitive look. A head of golden curled hair twisted and wrapped behind two large ears and down the back of his neck. Here stood Ruban, his youngest sibling of only 4. He thumped his hooves along the ground in urgency, a second-hand tunic bouncing in rhythm with his excitable nature.


"Wh-what?" Efran croaked, rising a hand to rub his eyes.



"Mama told me to wake you! You're late for work!" 



Work. Oh no.



It took a fleeting moment for Efran to realise his mistake. Surely he had not slept in again? The chattering birds and sound from the kitchen downstairs told him otherwise. Practically jumping out of bed, the faun stumbled over to his dresser, frantically tugging a drawer loose. The wood had splintered and worn down through the shiny finish where it had been handled roughly one-too-many-times, and clunked ungainly along it's hinges. In fact, the aged dresser almost toppled to the ground. Not the one to care for outfits, he tugged a white blouse loose and threw it over his head, thumb catching on a drooping loop of string while he fled downstairs. As he stumbled down the rickety steps, he could hear Ruban giggling behind him- accompanied by the clip! clop! of two little hooves.

 As he swung his bodice around the handy-work of the staircase's railing, he was greeted by a wide-set room with far too many windows.

Along the left side sat old and torn furniture with Father plopped atop one of the rock-like pillows. He had a leather-bound book in his hands, which were square and calloused from a many-day's labour. He had an unusually square face for a faun: with a stiff upper lip and a nose that jutted outwards with a big bump from being broken too many times, before it curled towards his chin. Mother sat along the right side of the house by the dining table. She was small compared to the rest, a trait she blamed her own father for, and scooped up a tiny morsel of oatmeal into a small mouth. Even Efran, a young bairn of only 14, stood taller than his mother. She adjusted two thin spectacles as she looked up from her food, button-nose twitching with the movement. The front door ahead of him was peeked open. His oldest sister and brother had already left.

"So sorry, ma. No time to eat. I'll see you lot later!"

 He spluttered hurriedly, nearly stumbling over his own hooves on his way out.

"Don't forget yer' bag, Efran!" His mother called out, lifting a large brown satchel in his hand.

Whipping past her, he grabbed it, slung it over his shoulder and began to run towards the city, hearing Ruban giggle and skip towards his mother. The door creaked as he pushed it open, as if it were calling for him to return back home and stay in bed. The sun beat down on the earth beneath him, sending up plumes of dust behind his feet. The earth was dry, red, and hot. The summer's were commonly more desolate than the spring, but it had been many months since the world had witnessed a summer quite like this. He darted past the horse-drawn carriage, shakily uttering a brief "Good morning" before pressing forward, large satchel thumping against his hip.

"When will that boy learn?" tsk'd his father as he looked up towards Ruban with a teasing brow, before returning back to his book.

. . .

Subtle changes were continuing to take place in the relationship between Efran Crawford and the rest of the Crawford household as he began to grow into a young man. His mind having outstripped his parents- both self-proclaimed scholars of hard work and noses in books- he turned elsewhere for both information and comfort, and this brought him more into contact with his employer, a Mr. Arthur Brooker, who found some pleasure in helping him. The 40-some year old male wanted to laugh at his remarks much more often than he allowed himself, and even struggled to give the boy a hard time whenever he showed up much too late for work. He was an enthralling character in that he was rather tall for a faun, with thick apricot curls draping over slender hips. The man seemed to look older each time they met.

"Marriage and a child would do that," his father would say.

Arthur, whom Efran seemed insistent in nicknaming as "Artie", was quick of thought but slow of speech, with a ginger-brown drooping moustache, through which he strained all his ale and wine. He was well-known within the city as owning an accomplished smithery, and took enormous pride in a professional workplace. Speaking of, he'd have his head for being this late.

Efran arrived in the city of Ettinsmoor with a sniff.

All this was so familiar, quite as truly a warm feeling as when he would reach his own house. This narrow cobbled street with the gaunt water trailing down it, the close-built squat houses with their bow windows, many of them distorted with the faces of mothers, husbands, and kids who were watching the arrival of a crimson coach. A port town of hard-working peasants and opulent noblemen alike, the town had grown rapidly in the last few years, new houses having sprung up among the disorderly huddle of old ones as the oldest and most powerful families in the region had begun to claim their land here. Of course, the locals often despised the idea, and kept to themselves as pompous individuals strutted through the streets with ungainly long-legged walks and guts that hung well below their waistbands. Along the northern side of the city, one could see the castle. It bore its size proudly and rose into the sky like a giant, hands outstretched in the forms of royal red and gold flags. A strange town. He felt it more on this rushed day. A secretive, forgettable little town, crowded in the fold of the hills astride and only recognizable by a castle in which sat a Lord who had not come to see his people in many years. Gossip had riddled these streets; all of which labeled their grand lord as a yellow-bellied varlet. Of course, Efran loved Ettinsmoor nonetheless.

It was charming. . . in its own way.

Keep your head down and draw your bag tight to your chest, son.

His father's words riddled anxiety through his mind as he sunk deeper into the depths of the city. The paved streets were alive and buzzing with excitable chatter. As Efran found his way towards the heart of the services sector, he slung his satchel close against his chest, feeling the worn leather rub against his white-collared blouse, which was lazily buttoned up. The top button nestled in the second hole, not aiding him in his attempts to keep his cool. Copper hair was ruffled unevenly atop a young-looking face, complimented by a youthful mound of facial hair beneath his chin. Fauns often grew facial hair earlier than the humans or elves, and often found comfort with the likes of centaurs or satyrs in avoiding bullying at school. It had been a long time since Efran had attended his classes, and found that he would rather spend time with his job and his books than worry about that nonsense. He felt his sword in its sheath repeatedly thump against his hip, and stuffed the weapon in his bag. He was unsure of where he had found the piece of craftsmanship, but knew that it was not of Ettinsmoor origin, and therefore, had some worth to it.

It didn't take long to arrive at the armoury.

Multiple other smiths, most amongst them young boys, were well into their days' work. He spotted Diarmuid and Leif, two human men of around 30, coated with the splatter of gunpowder and cracked mineral rock. They hardly noticed his arrival, save for Leif who greeted him with a haphazardly wave. Efran smiled weakly, watching as a few rogue sparks caught in the man's thick, ginger beard. The man yelped in surprise, patting his chin frantically to put the flame out. This earned an exceptionally loud chuckle from Diarmuid, who punched his shoulder with a strength that he often forgot. Further along the path that wound through smog-laden shacks stood Arthur, with his strong, burly arms crossed against a flat chest. Efran swore if he were to narrow his eyes, he'd see steam coming from his ears. A dry lump rose in his throat as Efran slowed his pace, gnawing on a tag of loose flesh from the inside of his cheek. Cautiously, he dug his blunted nails into the handle of his satchel as he met Arthur's look.

Efran coloured.

"Artie, I-"

Quickly, the older male rose a hand.

"I don't want to hear a word from you. Get your gear on and get to work. We'll discuss it later."

Efran pressed his mouth into a firm line, knitting umber brows together with a stern nod. Pushing himself past his friend's frame, he felt his expression begin to flush crimson from the embarrassment. If there's one thing he despised, it was being the source of disappointment.

"And Efran?"

He turned over his shoulder with a thick brow raised, awaiting the worst. Instead, he was met with an entertained smile.

"Fix those buttons, boy."