Chapter Text
TIMMON
The sun's afterglow left a brilliant hue of red and purple in the sky, the clouds reflecting the sun's light. The Rills never looked more beautiful then after a sunset; mists of orange seemed to settle around the rolling hills and streams, casting a painterly glow around the landscape. It just made it all the more pleasing to Timmon the innkeep as he made his way towards the stables, passing the inn.
The inn's sign swayed wearily in the breeze, the words The Hills' Inn gently rocking back and forth to the cool force of the wind. The inn sat upon one of a thousand hills that populated the area, and it saw great business from the nearby lumber trade. Workers tiring from a long day would often come in for drink and food, and there was much coin to be had from that. However there was a small crowd tonight, and a few travelers and a hedge knight would be staying until the morning. As Timmon passed by he saw his wife Gertrude amiably chatting up the patrons before shouting at a serving boy. He caught her gaze through the window, and she gave him her shouldn't you be bloody doing something look.
Timmon mucked out the stables every night after sunset. All four of the horses, great brown, old beasts, would constantly fill their resting place with mounds of waste each morning. The poor things were way past their time, and the oldest, two and twenty, was blind in its left eye. Yet Timmon still fed them and mucked out their stables every day despite the protestations of his wife.
"Those bloody things are too old, they're a waste of coin, and no one will ever pay for them." She repeated these three reasons to him daily, and she did so today as well. "Too bloody old, waste of coin" She had muttered as he shuffled out of bed. He hardly looked at his wife anymore, much less have a conversation with her; she was once a beauty, with silken brown hair that cascaded down in beautiful locks, and eyes the color of Tarth's shimmering waters. But as with all things time wore her down, and where there was once a gleaming smile now there was only a tired scowl, layered with pages of wrinkles. Yet they had not married for love, and their relationship had never progressed beyond what would benefit the inn business. Perhaps if they had gotten married before the winter days, before the days of the gift…
He shook his head, and strands of brown hair strafed his eyes. He brushed his hair out of his vision with his gloved left hand, taking care not expose at all what lay underneath neither the glove nor the long sleeve that covered the rest of his arm. Men always questioned why he would cover only his left arm and not the right, and he would tell them what he always did; the arm was horribly burned in a raid, and the scars were too horrible to look upon. However the rest of him was still reasonably intact and he still considered himself well looking enough.
Age had been kinder to him, but that was to be expected, after all, he had the gift.
Timmon opened the stable doors, and was immediately hit with the smell of horse shit. He chuckled as the horses spurred at his presence, particularly old One-eye. The old beast greeted him kindly, his one eye gleaming with joy as his Timmon ran his right hand across his mane. This horse served him better than any man did, as it carried him through the winter days, and through long campaigns in bloody snow. He remembered the day it was blinded, a crazed sword strike swiping away its left eye. One-eye was still responsive to his presence, and greeted him kindly and gently every day. Timmon never minded shoveling One-eye's shit; the old friend deserved every luxury he could get. After petting the old best for a time longer, Timmon finally went to get the shovel.
And then the world itself shifted.
Through the walls of the stables Timmon could see a burning white light. He ran outside to see the stars were out in force tonight, and every single one of them was burning as bright as the sun. It hurt to look upon the night sky, and the ground was so illuminated it was brighter than day. The inn's patrons shuffled outside to see what was going on, and looked around in shock. A few muttered prayers to the gods, old and new, but the stars did not seem to care.
They began to pulsate in their light, a sudden bright flash and then darkness, a bright flash then darkness, bright flash, darkness. The pulse sped up, flash, darkness, flash, darkness. A low hum began to fill the empty sound of the night, the noise increasing in tandem with the pulses. Out of the corner of his eye, Timmon saw an area shrouded in the dark, yet was illuminated for seconds with the beat of the pulses. Against his better judgement, he made his way towards it. The area was at the bottom of the hill the inn sat upon, cornered by one of the many intersections of rills that gave the area its namesake.
The pulses grew even quicker, and as Timmon reached the bottom of the hill he saw a figure from the blinking darkness, what looked to be a man, with an object on him. The hum reached a crescendo, and then it stopped. The pulses dissipated, and then stopped. The stars were no longer burning like the sun. That no longer concerned Timmon, he was currently occupied with the man gasping and writhing around in the muddy ground, clearly in pain.
Timmon rushed to the man, placing a hand on his side. "Easy friend," he consoled softly to the man, "it's going to be all right." At the sound of his voice the man stared at him with shock, and that allowed Timmon to get a good luck at his face. His hair was blonde, though it was darkened by the mud, and his eyes were bright blue. He had a face that was sure to send a maiden blushing with a smile, though right now it was contorted in shock. Does he know me? Thought Timmon, the man began to mouth words, but a fit of coughing stopped any sound that might have come out. It was then Timmon noticed the object, or rather the shield. He clutched onto what he supposed was the handle with his left hand.
It was a queer thing, circular and big. The colors were stranger. "Do you have a name friend?" Timmon asked the man. The man fixated his gaze on Timmon again, before whispering his name. His accent was as queer as his shield, but Timmon nodded, and told him his name. "My name is Timmon" Timmon told him, though his name is not that, "and we best get you some help."
The year was 280 AC, and that was the day Timmon met Steven Rogers, the man with a shield bearing a white star in it's center.