The world stretched wide before Joren. Morning sun broke through soft clouds, casting long shadows over the dirt road between trees and winding between gentle hills. Joren walked alone, satchel slung across one shoulder, bag on his back and boots coated in dry dust. Behind him, the village he grew up in had already shrunk into memory. He was on his way to the city of Glazebend.
The name conjured images of towering glass bridges and flickering lamplight, and he found himself hoping it lived up to that dream. His steps slowed as the road curved beside a shallow stream. He crouched beside it, scooped a handful of water, and stared at his reflection between cleaning his face. Brown curls, dark eyes, the faint marks of sleepless nights under his gaze. He held out one hand. A pebble rose from the ground, slowly, but with purpose.
Joren has been training his powers in the open now, where he didn't feel the need to worry. After all, he must only be an oracle classification to any hunters that could notice. Nothing to worry about for now. He can play tennis between hands, like if he was holding magnets and moving a steel ball between them, never reaching the other surface. The orbs of light he could conjure now shown brighter and could trail lights for a brief few seconds, as if he drew in mid air. He was growing, bit by bit.
Joren stood and brushed dust from his pants, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. The road ahead felt endless, but it was a path he needed to walk, one step at a time. It felt quiet without farm animals or drunk regulars to fill the silence, Hazel's words about finding companions rang true. There was a fire in Joren's chest that pushed him forward, a hunger for something more than his small life back home. He was ready to meet whatever this new world had in store, whether friend or foe. As the sun climbed higher and the road stretched on, the city of Glazebend awaited his arrival.
Afternoon – Glazebend
The first signs of the city appeared long before Joren reached the gates; plumes of smoke curling from chimneys, the faint clang of smithies working metal, and the low murmur of voices carried on the breeze. The walls of Glazebend rose tall and solid, built from gray stone worn smooth by years of wind and rain. Joren's pace quickened as he crossed the threshold. The streets bustled with life as merchants were hawking wares, children darting between legs. The scent of baked bread and fresh herbs mingled with the tang of metal and soot.
He paused near a bustling marketplace, where shops lined the cobblestone streets like vibrant paintings. Fabrics of every hue fluttered in the morning wind, and the clink of coins passed between hands. Glazebend was alive, a city that promised both opportunity and challenge. Joren adjusted his satchel, feeling the weight of both his belongings and the unspoken future ahead. This was the place where his journey truly began.
Joren wandered through the crowded streets until a splash of color caught his eye. He found a small shop crowded with shelves of bizarre, vibrantly painted dishes stacked to the ceiling. Plates with swirling patterns, cups shaped like twisting vines, and bowls that seemed to shimmer with their own light, something he had never seen before. Inside, a taller, stocky man with paint-splattered clothes was mid-argument with a customer, his voice rising with frustration. "I told you, these aren't ordinary plates! The glaze alone costs twice as much as your common ware. You want a discount? Go buy from the market stalls!"
Suddenly, a precariously balanced stack of dishes wobbled. Joren's eyes snapped to it too late, but he probably couldn't save all of them anyways. The crash and shatter that followed made Joren wince, but the shopkeeper made no face, as if it was common for him. Without thinking, Joren reached out and the pieces of the plates hovered steady in the air a few at a time, then gently settled into the stack. The shopkeeper whirled around, eyebrows shooting up. "Hey, not bad! You got some skills there, friend."
The man had cuts and scrapes all up his arms, he dropped many a few fine plates and dishware in his time. This absurd looking man has a herculean build with the spikiest hair you have ever seen on a head that seemed far smaller than it should be for a body of his caliber. He did not look like he fit into this line of work at all, and yet, he was the owner and a craftsman himself. The man outstretched his hand to Joren "My name is Augustus Marcellus, but you can call me Gus. Thank you for helping me with this mess, they were some returns of this imported breakable stuff."
Joren shook his hand. "I'm Joren. Just glad I could help." Gus grunted, giving the broken pieces one last glance before shrugging. "Well, no use crying over cracked ceramics, I've got more in the kiln anyway." He moved through the cluttered shop like a lumbering bull in a porcelain maze, surprisingly nimble despite his build. "Come on, let me show you something," Gus called over his shoulder. "If you're into craftsmanship of fine dishware, I'll bet you've at least heard of my work."
Joren followed, weaving past shelves piled with experimental designs: cups with shifting glaze colors, dishware that made soft humming noises when tapped, even a teapot shaped like a curled-up cat. "This one here," Gus said proudly, tapping a large plate with intricate golden grooves, "this one's reinforced with mineral dust from the Brightstep mines. Took three weeks to fire right. You could use it as a shield if someone throws bread too hard." Gus was somewhat of a minor celebrity in the porcelain world; he creates very beautiful work that is 10 times more durable than the competitors.
Joren raised an eyebrow, examining the plate more closely. "That's incredible. I've never seen anything like it." Gus gave a satisfied grunt. "Not many have. Most folks think dishware's just for eating. Me? I think it should survive a fall from a third-story window and look like it belongs in a palace." He leaned on a shelf that creaked under his weight. "Truth is, I started making the tough stuff when my father still ran the shop. As you saw earlier, I can be a bit clumsy, which is not good in this type of environment. Then one day some traveling merchant flaunts my work in another country, and boom, I'm getting commissions from diplomats, military camps, even some weird monk who wanted a plate that could 'harmonize with the soul of his stew.'" Gus chuckled at the memory, scratching the back of his neck where dried glaze flecks clung to his skin. "Tried to get the monk to explain what that meant. He just nodded solemnly and left me a jar of soup as payment. Damn good soup, though."
There was a warmth to the clutter, to Gus's proudly chaotic world. For the first time since leaving his village, Joren felt grounded. Not by grand plans or secrets, but by this strange man surrounded by breakable dreams made durable. "You look like a traveler, where did you blow in from?" Joren hesitated for a moment, the question striking a little closer to home than expected. He shifted his satchel higher on his shoulder. "A small place, far east of here. Doubt it'd show up on a proper map." Gus nodded like he understood. "Ah, one of those villages with more chickens than people. Bet the stars are prettier out there." "Yeah," Joren said softly. "They are."
Gus didn't press. He just turned, grabbing a small mug with features of a chicken on it from a cluttered shelf and handing it over. "Here. On the house. It's not perfect, handle's crooked and glaze ran on one side, but it's got character." Joren blinked. "You're just giving it to me?" "Course. Consider it a welcome gift to Glazebend." Gus grinned. "Besides, I can't sell it. That handle looks like it's trying to escape." Joren turned the mug in his hands. The lopsided imperfections only made it more personal. "Thanks, Gus. Really."
Gus waved a hand, already moving back toward another stack of wobbling bowls like he hadn't just handed over a piece of himself. "Don't thank me yet. You'll curse that thing the first time you try to pour tea and it bites your knuckles." Joren laughed under his breath, tucking the mug carefully into his satchel. It was a silly thing, but it held a weight he hadn't expected. Something handmade, imperfect and real. "I'll come by again," Joren said, stepping toward the doorway. "You'd better," Gus called back. "And if you see any nobles complaining about their tea sets? Tell them the real art is right here."
The bell above the door jingled as Joren stepped outside into the noise and haze of Glazebend's bustling streets. He needed to find a room for the night at least; night would be upon him soon enough.