Irolt and A Town That Isn't Home

Dawn began to dissipate the morning mist of Allia, and the quaint town was truly a beauty to behold. In the countless years that it had stood, it had remained unravaged by both war and time.

Hand-built houses lined the cobbled streets that led toward an old church, as clean and inviting as the day it was built. Bells rang in its humble courtyard, signifying that it was time for followers of the God of Bridges to rise. Families were already beginning to stir, and some citizens were wide awake.

There was the baker, whose efforts daily scented the entire town of fresh, warm bread. There were the city watchmen who had selflessly volunteered for the early shift to ensure that the perfect safety record remained intact. There was the post office attendant, whose purpose in life seemed to be ensuring communication was available at all times. And of course, there was the very agitated blacksmith on his way to her establishment.

Irolt Ironshaper was somewhat of an anomaly in this otherwise picturesque scene. He was short, and loud, and wore patchwork armor through the streets of a town that had never once seen battle. As a tradesman capable of handywork, he could have easily fit into place had his temperament not left much to be desired.

The welcome party that had greeted him just two weeks ago had left early, uncharacteristically disgruntled. When they had offered him a house, or help with his budding business, or the courtesy of a proper Parliamentary welcome, he had declined brusquely on all fronts.

“I’ll live in the forge,” he had said.

“I’d rather set it up myself,” he had declared.

“Weak, dude!” He had practically shouted before basically growling at the startled man. “I would hate to disturb The Parliamentary for a small matter like this when they are so very important.” His face had grown redder with each word, and it had been about that time people had started to leave, the hopes of a pleasant pot-luck welcome abandoned. Not many of his new neighbors had seen much of him since.

The exception to this rule was the Allia Postmistress, with whom he had visited about twice a day since his arrival. He was waiting for a shipment of supplies that, unbeknownst to him, had finally arrived.

The sight of the familiar siren woman whose name Irolt still did not know personally offended him. It wasn’t the way she seemed to be hovering as she waited for his visit, or the extra chipper mood she was managing, but the Parliamentary symbol which was proudly embroidered on her blouse.

A symbol I should be used to seeing by now.

But he wasn’t. The loyalty to the government of sadistic overseers kept him constantly on edge at his new post. It infuriated him to see such blind faith from a town that their overlords would show no hesitation in crushing if it suited them.

“Do you have a package for me?” He asked. He was already about to turn around and leave out of habit when her answer came back in the positive.

“I sure do! Irolt, right?”

“Right.”

“Irolt Ironshaper?” She asked, as if there were a thousand Irolts wandering around Allia with whom this very singular man might be confused.

“Right,” he said again.

“I got a big box in this morning for an Irolt Ironshaper, from Evermore.” Her nose crinkled in distaste as she read the return address. “Evermore? Is that where you moved here from?”

“Yes,” he said, because it was a simpler answer than explaining the nuances of his life on the road, which were really none of her business anyway.

“Well, it’s a good thing you moved, then. I hear there are all sorts of shady people out in the city.”

All small towns seemed wary of city people, but Irolt couldn’t help but bristle at her implication that Evermore citizens were dangerous. It was well known that the city served as a sort of capital for The Resistance. It was filled with better people than he’d ever met on the road, and it was for their sake he was offended as much as for his own. He didn’t tell her this, of course, because that would break his cover. He didn’t tell her anything. He just stayed silent, and hoped she would retrieve his shipment for him.

“Will you be staying here?” She asked as she slowly migrated toward a large crate in the corner behind the counter.

“I plan to.”

“Most people who come through here settle down. It’s such a lovely little town, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he replied. Begrudgingly enough, he meant it.

Political allegiances aside, it was what he had asked for in a permanent posting. While it may be nothing more to him than a shell of a memory that would never be recaptured, it was a pretty shell. There were worse towns that one could wind up in.

The woman struggled to lift the box up onto the counter, muttering a quiet incantation to herself before the task was complete. Irolt would have been happy to assist her, but she was still grilling him about his life.

“Did you move here with your family?”

Irolt had no family. “I moved here with my partner.”

“Your wife?” She inquired.

It’s a queer thing how the busybodied nature of small town folks can strike an individual as charming or invasive, and never anything in between.

“My business partner,” he clarified, and he nodded to the box to change the subject as quickly as possible. “The shipment is actually for the forge, so I should be getting it back soon.”

“Of course. I just need you to sign here.” She pointed to a scroll of parchment, where Irolt carefully signed his name.

And yet still, his supplies were not released to him. Her hands had not yet left the box, as if she was holding him ransom to a conversation that would not go well.

“You’re a blacksmith then?”

Maybe she thinks I’ll be in a better mood to talk since my package arrived. But did she really have to pick today to socialize?

He had much preferred the shorter trips, and the arrival of his supplies made him all the more eager to return in a timely manner.

“I am,” he confirmed.

“That’s just wonderful!” She exclaimed.

Irolt’s attitude toward the woman briefly softened when he saw the genuine excitement flare in her eyes. He became more perceptive to her words just in time to be let down by them.

“That could really help my petition!”

“What petition?”

It made sense to him that she was only trying to build up to ask him for something. People were never nice to him for no reason, it seemed, not even in a commercially wholesome place like Allia.

“Thank you for asking! I’m trying to get signatures for a municipal expansion project. Could I maybe tell you about it?”

Irolt looked to the box, dying to get it back to the forge and open it up. His hands were practically shaking with the desire to return to his craft.

It’s important to blend in.

He had been doing a poor enough job at that, and her request seemed innocent enough.

I can probably spare a few minutes.

He nodded, and that was all she needed to continue eagerly.

“If we replaced some of the older houses at the town center with newer models on the outskirts, we’d have the space to extend the town square. That could attract more travelers, and we could put up a proper school building, and smaller shrines to followers of different faiths, and then invest in better road access to keep traffic flowing. It’s a good time to really put Allia on the map.”

“So the petition is just to replace some old houses?”

“Oh! No, the petition is to set up a Parliamentary trading post here, to get the ball rolling on funding all of this.”

There it was, the sinister side to the request.

“Weak, dude! I’m not signing that!”

To her credit, she didn’t abandon the project of his signature right away, although the sting of rejection was plain on her face. She shifted tactics.

“Do you follow the God of Hammers?”

A safe bet since he was a forge owner, but wrong.

“No. I follow no gods.”

“Well,” she paused, and tried another way. “If you really mean to settle down here, then one day your kids will need to go to school, and -”

“I don’t have children.”

“Alright, but if one day-”

“I have no family,” he interrupted, “and no plans to start one. But if I had kids, the last thing I’d want would be a trading post.”

He had startled her into silence, and became painfully aware that he was on the verge of turning this into another scene.

“Listen, you said yourself that this is a nice town. Why throw that away? If The Parliamentary wanted a trading post here they’d have one, but petitioning them is just going to invite trouble.”

His words must have sounded harsher than he intended, because they pushed the patient, optimistic woman to snap at him.

“You’re very mean!”

At least he was back in familiar territory. He seemed to hear that everywhere he went. “I get that a lot.”

“Don’t you want to do something nice?”

She was tenacious, he had to give her that.

“I know you don’t understand, but I am doing something nice.”

“So you’ll sign the-”

“Not the petition!” He was shouting again before he knew it, his frustration getting the better of him. “Forget the petition. I’m going to give you some advice. If you want shrines and houses and schools built, then build them yourself. The Parliamentary won’t do it for you.”

He picked up his crate and exited the post office, but not before catching her last, scathing question to him. “Why are you like this?”

Because this is what The Parliamentary makes of people.

Of course, it would do no good to tell her that. She wouldn’t believe or understand him, even if he could get her to listen. Not for the first time, Irolt wished there was a way to understand how valuable a place was before it was completely unrecognizable. Or gone. Or both.

He made most of the journey back before he realized it would have been in his best interest just to sign the petition. It had looked suspicious not to, and he had caused a scene, and it would be easier to do recruiting if not everybody hated him.

I can’t believe Zazeezy thought I’d be any good at this.

What The Resistance needed wasn’t just loyalty to the cause. They needed someone who could blend in. Someone good with people. Someone smart. Someone strong.

It felt to Irolt that he was only good for making weapons, and that there would never be anyone to wield them.

When his misplaced anger faded, it left him with a heavy heart and haunted mind. He continued on to his forge in a town that was not quite home. The sounds of bustling people in familiar streets reminded him of something he could never return to, and thinking about that fact still pained him. Memories were akin to picking at scabbed wounds that simply refused to heal any further.