Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 1 – Companions in Motion
The lower quarter of Aerlune was alive with its usual midnight symphony. Lanterns swayed in strings across cobblestone courtyards, painting the air with shifting pools of saffron and violet light. The smell of roasting chestnuts mingled with incense smoke, spilled wine, and river mist that clung to the old stone walls. Musicians played from every corner—fiddles, flutes, drums fashioned from barrels—and hawkers still shouted their wares as if dawn were centuries away.
This was the quarter where the respectable rarely lingered but where life itself insisted on flourishing. And it was here, in the half-lit square of a tavern courtyard, that Pherelar Jadesyl found his first companion.
Dorian Nymphwind stood balanced on a weathered wine barrel, his goat-hooves tapping a mischievous beat. His guitar—strings worn smooth from taverns, caravans, and midnight serenades—sang bright as he tuned it to the crowd’s laughter. Notes spilled like coins tossed into a fountain, never ceasing, never stingy. He played to no one in particular, but everyone within earshot leaned closer, as though his music was seasoning that made their own conversations tastier.
He was dashing in his way, with a vest of plum-colored satin and a smile quick as lightning. He had the look of one who had never paid for his own wine if he could charm someone else into buying it. His songs were equal parts poetry and jest, and he wielded them with the ease of a man who knew the difference between foolishness and wisdom but preferred not to say which he embodied at any given moment.
It was to this tableau of lantern-light and laughter that Pherelar stumbled, still restless, still pacing. His staff clicked against stone as if marking time in a metronome no one else could hear. His lips moved ceaselessly, muttering spells, counting steps, reciting snippets of recipes from lands he had traveled: saffron soup from the Ember Dunes, pine tea from the Frostmark, honey wine from the Crescent Isles. He never stopped moving—forward, around, back again.
Dorian’s music faltered. His sharp faun eyes caught the elf’s circling form.
“Pher, my friend,” he called down, voice lilting, “why spin and race?
Are you chasing moons, or fleeing disgrace?”
The words were half-song, half-challenge. The crowd chuckled.
Pherelar laughed, relief breaking through his anxiety like steam hissing from a kettle. “Both, if you must know. A curse has me bound—one that devours my years if I stand idle. Every pause is theft. I need the Elixir of Time before I crumble like a week-old tart.”
He pulled a honey bun from his satchel mid-sentence, bit into it, and spoke through crumbs. “And by the saints of supper, I won’t face this hunger on an empty stomach.”
The crowd gasped, laughed, then leaned closer. A curse! An elixir! A wandering mage with sugar on his lips! They smelled a story, and Dorian thrived on stories.
The bard’s hoof scraped the cobbles. Old instincts prickled—fauns had a long memory of hunters and shadows. He flicked his hair back with theatrical disdain.
“Ah! A quest with teeth, a curse beneath,
A mage in need of friends for relief.
Well then, Pher, you’re in blessed luck—
For Dorian’s songs will keep time struck.”
He strummed a flourish, and half the courtyard applauded. Pherelar bowed—while still pacing, never halting—and grinned. “If you’ll keep me moving, you’re welcome at my side. And I promise stories enough to last a lifetime. Perhaps three.”
They began a procession with no declared destination, weaving through the square. People followed as if tugged by invisible strings. Pherelar spoke between strides—half breathless, half gleeful—about the myth of the Elixir of Time hidden in the Whispering Mountains, where ancient guardians tested those who sought it. Dorian answered with riffs and rhymes, turning prophecy into tavern song.
They were halfway round the lantern-lit square when a third figure joined them.
A shadow detached itself from the colonnade and fell into step, stride deliberate, boots heavy on stone. Jarek Pyreforge Strongshield, tiefling paladin, wore his vows as visibly as his armor. His horns curved back in arcs dark as fired brick; his eyes carried the weight of duty, steady and unyielding.
Jarek was not a man of excess words. His voice was granite, his tone measured, each syllable as sharp-edged as the blade at his hip. “You should have summoned me sooner,” he said, his gaze flicking to Pherelar’s restless circling. “This curse is no trifling matter. If your survival depends on motion, then we move—until the cure is found.”
There was no warmth in his words, but there was weight. For Jarek, seriousness was its own affection.
Pherelar paused only long enough to lick sugar from his fingers. “Done. But hear this, Jarek—we’ll stop for food often. Adventure is starvation’s worst enemy.”
Jarek did not sigh, though the temptation hovered. “Eat if you must. But keep walking.”
Pherelar nodded enthusiastically, pulling another bun from his satchel. “Easily done.”
“Good,” Jarek replied. “I’ll guard the path. Dorian can keep the pace. Together, we’ll keep the curse at bay.”
Dorian twirled his guitar in a showman’s flourish. “So we march: a mage who munches, a knight who scolds, and a faun who rhymes. The finest circus Eldoria never asked for!”
The courtyard roared with laughter. A baker, delighted at the spectacle, ran two streets beside them to press honey cakes into their hands. Children followed, clapping to Dorian’s rhythm, until their parents dragged them back to bed. Even the tavern-keeper cheered them on as they vanished into the midnight streets.
The three companions did not stop until dawn. And even then, when the horizon blushed with light, they made a ritual of their sunrise to keep Pherelar safe. Pherelar traced constellations with the tip of his staff, murmuring names of stars he had seen over the Crescent Sea, stars mirrored in northern glaciers. Dorian plucked a melody that refused to resolve, keeping every step open-ended. Jarek polished his blade with methodical care, letting the steel wake in the light like a cautious animal.
Together, beneath twin moons finally at peace, they walked into the rising day.
Links to the chapters in the story:
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Prologue – The Hour the World Slipped
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 1 – Companions in Motion
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 2 – The Road That Refuses to End
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 3 – The Temple and Its Three Questions
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 4 – The Sorcerer Who Collected Seconds
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Chapter 5 – The Elixir and the Decision
- Perilous Pursuit for Time: Post Script – Coming October 27th, 2025
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