Chapter Text
When the shadow of a wyvern flies over Clearwater Valley for the first time in over a century, the residents of Fleecehold hold a meeting. Their hamlet is at the edge of the valley, pressed against The Spires, and would be the first in line of fire if the wyvern were to attack.
Adalyn takes up a spot in the back of the square, no desire to speak. She might not mesh with her neighbours easily, but Fleecehold is her home – she is interested in what the community will decide. She’s disappointed when Arryn, the Shepard, immediately starts rousing the masses. He’s something of an alarmist, pressing the need to appease the wyvern ‘Before it burns our homes and eats our livestock.’
There are some who push back against him. Marcine, one of the farmers, feigns ignorance and asks what a wyvern could want. She tries reasoning with him; that since they have no treasures, the wyvern will leave them alone.
One of Arryn’s lackeys mentions Parchentine – the most recent place in memory to be plagued with a dragon. They’d sacrificed a virgin to the dragon in hopes of staving it off.
The idea is shot down when somebody points out that the plan had failed, merely whetting the dragon’s appetite.
Adalyn crinkles her nose when Arryn presses the issue again, until he has a following to listen to him. “Would you rather give up a maiden once a year, or lose all of our livestock and be in ruins before the month’s end?”
Adalyn does a head count of the hamlet and cringes. Barely forty people live in the area, and a mere five are unwed women (maidenhood unaccounted for). It’s clearly an unsustainable idea, and she comforts herself over the ridiculousness of it.
When the idea isn’t immediately dismissed, she frowns. Her brow furrows and knots, and she becomes more aghast as the idea is further discussed. Were the people she lived alongside really working out the logistics of offering their kin as a snack to the wyvern?
She realises she has to say something. Her stomach drops, and she clenches her hands before clearing her throat.
“There are five unwed women in Fleecehold. Even if the creature were to demand one each year, we’d soon have to give up children, or men. I don’t think this idea has merit.”
The discussion stutters into silence. Adalyn tries not to shrink from the weight of the hamlet’s stares. Shifting under the pressure, she presses on.
“Dracanoids are sentient. They’re not dogs to be tamed with meat or food. If we were to speak with it, negotiate with it, we might be able to maintain the peace without sacrificing anyone.”
Arryn scoffs. “You speak out of self preservation, Baker. With no family to speak for you, it’d be no surprise if you were chosen to go first.”
She grits her teeth. “Then let me go on my own terms. I’d meet the wyvern and speak with it. We should send a delegation, not a sacrifice.”
The shepherd laughs, and is soon joined by others.
Anger flickers in her hands, and she tightens her fists. “You’d do well to mark my words, Arryn. If I do not sate the wyvern, it may yet have its turn with your daughter.”
His laughter cuts out, and he narrows his eyes. “A delegation is a waste of resources and a waste of men. It’s nearly harvest time – we need all hands at work.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose at the statement – at the absolute ignorance and arrogance of it. To sprout fear and alarmism one moment, and then to ignore the danger and act like there will be crops to harvest the next – the ridiculousness of it stuns her.
Adalyn turns tail and leaves. The community can talk it over without her. Perhaps another hamlet or village in Clearwater Valley has need of a baker. Perhaps she could be her own delegation, and visit the wyvern anyway. Whatever her decision, it was hers to make, and she’d do so from the comfort of her own home.
Adalyn decides to leave. She has no ties to Fleecehold or its occupants. Her father had long since passed and her mother had never stepped foot in the Valley. She could go anywhere that money would permit. Wait out the trouble in another village. Move to the Red City. Send a realtor to deal with her house and the bakery.
Perhaps it is the coward’s choice: to abandon ship and leave her neighbours to their troubles. She shrugs off the thought. At least she hadn’t condoned the sacrifices. She wasn’t that much of a craven.
When the torchlight shines through her front windows, she has to admit that the other residents move fast. She’d packed her bag by candle light and was contemplating whether to leave in the morning or to disappear without trace in the evening. It seemed the choice had been made for her.
The murmur of voices that accompany a crowd begin to grow, louder and louder until a fist pounds at her door. She glances out the window to see a mob – she even spies Arryn carrying a pitchfork.
Adalyn bites her lip. The time for de-escalation has passed. With how riled up they appear she doubts that she’d be able to calm them. Even if she’d had friends to speak for her, or a better reputation. Distantly she chastises herself for not making an effort to find friends in the hamlet.
She takes the only option feasible to her, and makes for the back door. Bag hefted over her shoulder, and rolling pin in her other hand, she inches the back door open, hoping the hinges won’t squeak.
It wouldn’t have mattered if they did – hands are upon her before she has a chance to scream. Adalyn lashes out, but somebody grips her forearm, and the rolling pin is pried from her grasp. There’s a crack as something comes down hard over the back of her head. Everything flashes white, and a sudden pain ricochets through her skull before Adalyn passes out.
She’s not unconscious long. When Adalyn comes to, she’s being carried down a set of stairs. Through the pain and disorientation she recognises the hamlet’s store room, and panic surges inside her. If they bolted the door shut, there’d be no escape.
She writhes and starts hitting her captor with her fists. There’s a curse – she thinks she recognises Jon, the lumberjack, and she’s dropped to the floor.
Struggling was a definite miscalculation, and Adalyn tumbles down the stairs, winded and head spinning by the time she hits the ground. Unable to stand, and barely able to breathe, she realises that Jon blocks her only exit. Terrified she clambers to her feet, and rushes towards him.
He shoves her back and she lands on her butt again.
“Get changed, or we will change you.”
She spies the nightgown on the floor and scowls. “Are my clothes not presentable enough for the wyvern?”
“Tomas prepared some poppy milk. Drink it before sunrise.”
She gapes as he turns and leaves. When she hears the door bolt shut she jumps into action, leaping up the stairs and banging against the wood. Incensed, she screams, hoping to make him stop, to get a rise out of him, just desperate for him to come back.
“You’d better marry Annie fast, Jon, or she’ll be the next they lock in here!”
Silence. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. Perhaps he hadn’t cared.
Adrenaline still buzzes through her system and she backs down the stairs. Alone with her thoughts, panic begins to overtake her. The door is locked. She double checks. She searches the room for anything she can use – a weapon, a shield.
The shelves are full of cheese wheels. Curing meats hang from twine, and bags of grain are scattered about. Not much in the way of sharp instruments or bludgeoning objects. She spies the sedative, sitting by the nightgown. Milky liquid in a glass vial, with a cork stopper.
She disregards the observation – not even wanting to consider the sedative. It’s too soon to give up. She pauses for a moment, taking stock of the situation.
It was still evening – barely passed midnight when the mob had arrived. There’re a few hours yet until sunrise. Her whole body aches. She can feel several bruises forming already from her tumble down the stairs, and her scalp itches. She scratches idly, before noticing her hand comes away red. Whatever they’d hit her with had done some damage.
She begins to pace. The vial is glass. It could be an effective weapon if smashed into somebody’s face. But if she failed – if more than one person came for her, she’d be facing a wyvern without the sedative to numb her senses. She still believes that the wyvern is intelligent – capable of communicating. She just feels that being offered on a platter might not make a good first impression.
There’s plenty of twine to be found. She could try to garrot somebody? Or toss a bag of grain at them? No. Too obvious. Too ridiculous. It might work with one captor. Not a whole hamlet. She’d never make it up the stairs.
Fighting her way out isn’t an option. Her stomach sinks with dread when she contemplates her other choices. She could take her chances with the wyvern? Decidedly a last resort. Adalyn doesn’t think being tied to a stake and left out in the cold is conductive to a good negotiation.
She surveys the room again, scouring the details, checking for anything she could have missed. Cracks in the brick walls. Stones in the dirt floor. No, nothing. Even the shelving is useless, unless she could defend herself with splinters.
Her eye catches on a nail, and she frowns. She checks all the shelves and picks the loosest nail she can find, working it free. She takes the twine from some meat, wraps it around the nail head, and leverages the metal loose.
Free from its confines, she twirls it between her fingers, pondering its possible uses. No, it wouldn’t work as a weapon. She couldn’t pick a lock with it either, as the store room was dead bolted. But maybe-
A plan begins to form in her mind. Flimsy, but the best she’s thought up so far.
Adalyn changes into the night gown, and tips the sedative out in the corner before she can lose her nerve. She doesn’t sleep. Considers it – realises she probably should get some. But can’t bring herself to stop pacing and wringing her hands long enough to sit down and try.
Instead she waits for sunrise.