Now that I can finally dive into the actual writing part, I've finished the first page. I tried to find a balance between not overloading with exposition but still keeping it clear what is happening and why it's a problem.
A lilting symphony wakes you; brightly colored warblers and thrushes are serenading the dawn. It's your favorite time of day - the golden hour when the flora and fauna of Dreaming Forest blush and bloom, but the humans of Harrow Village have yet to wake.
Since dreams were lost thirty years ago in the Sacrifice of Salvation, there is little attraction left for you in sleeping late. You wake with the sun - earlier, in winter, - and generally spend your mornings laying out in the dewy grass, staring up at the light shimmering over the leaves of the forest canopy, or trying to count how many different sounds you can hear. Sometimes, you bring out miniature, carved palaces and hang them, then sit a while watching the hummingbirds squabble over the thrones of seed and the fountains of nectar.
But today is different, for it will be your last day in Dreaming Forest for some time, perhaps forever. You sit and hot drink Franjia tea, just watching and taking everything in, as if drawing each aspect of the scene on the folded papers of your mind. "Good-bye to you all," you murmur at the creatures of paradise that flit and dive around you. This place, this secret idyllic corner of nature, was the final dream of your wife before she was lost. You were meant to have shared it together - her, the Muse of Epics, and you, the simple storyteller she fell in love with. Instead, you had tended it for four decades, alone, with only her memory beside you. And now, even that is fading.
"It's time," you sigh, and return inside your simple wooden cabin to finish packing. Today you are to begin a pilgrimage that will take you thousands of farspans north, across the equator and beyond, to the sacred Grove of Muses. It is there your wife stands as stone, along with the other muses who gave their lives to save the planet. All save Sandman, who was all but destroyed, and now orbits the planet as a ring of glittering dust. Now, instead of giving special dreams, all dreams exotic or mundane, return to him.
A weeks worth of food. Three pairs of clothing. A blanket. 50 pieces of silver - all your savings. There isn't a lot you can take, since you will have to travel light. And it will not be easy - you will have to trust that you can earn money along the way, whether by odd jobs or by telling stories, if you hope to keep traveling once your funds run out. But there is one item above all others that you must take: Ivani's Book of Tales.
It is your most valued possession, the original stories your wife once inscribed and gave to you as a wedding present. Many of the stories have faded to near illegibility - the ones you have read the most, for all tales fade in the world now that the muses have gone, even ones like these written before the Sacrifice or written on Remembrance paper or carved into stone. They might not vanish immediately like spoken tales, never to be told again, but they still are powerless to last forever. But to lose the memory of them - that is what terrifies you, and what has driven you to take this Pilgrimage.
At first you had thought the lapses were just the dawn of old age - you are over seventy - but they were all related to the Book of Tales, or to stories you told the people of Dreaming Village. You would speak a tale, and then not only would the words be lost forever - but you would find you couldn't recall what the story had been about a week later. After months of this, you began to hear rumors and complaints of others who were also forgetting - forgetting not just the stories they had heard, but the memories of the Muses or the dreams they had had in childhood before the Sacrifice had robbed the world of nighttime visions. Then, you woke one morning to find you couldn't remember the color of Ivani's eyes.
Something is wrong, and it is imperative that you find out what. You hope there will be something with her, in the Grove of Muses, to explain what is happening or provide an answer. She had sacrificed herself to save the world, but at what cost? Why have dreams gone? Why do stories fade? And what is eating your very memories?
You shrug on your cloak, shoulder your pack, grab your favorite carved walking stick from your collection, and shuffle on foot through the trees towards a forked path overlooking the town. Your limited supply of money will not get very far, and you cannot cross mountains, oceans, and deserts on foot. You'll need some form of transportation, and the nearest place to get that is Dreaming Village.
The town is divided into two sections - the main town, and Inrit Gardens. You are well-known to the townfolk as you have spent over half your life telling stories to them and buying food and supplies. But Inrit Gardens is a place for tourists and the rich who planted summer homes there. Like most village-folk, you avoid it unless there is a reason to go.
You have toured Inrit a few times just to see the sculpted gardens and the creatures that inhabit it, as it too was a place touched by your wife, but its beauty had been tamed and controlled so it did not hold the solace you hoped. Still, it might be a good place to visit now, as nobles have deeper pockets than the common man. While it might be harder to get noticed or draw a crowd in a place like Inrit Gardens, they would likely be willing to pay a lot more for an hour's entertainment.
But you haven't said good-bye to anyone in the main village, and they are the ones who have supported you all these years. The children, especially, are fond of your tales even as their parents grow jaded through the years, remembering the times when stories could be told over and over.
You reach the edge of the forest and the forked path and look down over the village. Inrit Gardens dazzles even from here, a patch of green and blue, home to many stately homes and several larger mansions. Everything there seems quiet, almost untouchable. The main Village is a bit more brown and homely, but you can see the colorful awnings of the market stalls in Town Square, as well as at least a hundred small figures moving about. It should be a good crowd, today. You step forward, clenching your staff with veined, papery hands. Where will you begin your journey?
