Record of Reclusion

Wanderhome: Hoppendell

3rd Place: Hoppendell

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The Tavern

Long ago, after dragons vanished from Haeth, a wise king was overthrown by his kin for threatening their power. Forced to flee, he crossed mountains and seas, finding refuge in Hoppendell. Among loyal supporters, the quiet village became his sanctuary. But betrayal soon came. The night before his capture, he drank at his favorite tavern, filled with gratitude, not sorrow. His final words before execution: "My time in this little village, though I lived in exile, was the happiest of my life. Thank you, my friends. We shall meet again someday." From that day forward, the once-nameless tavern was given its name: Where the Old King Drank.

The Market

Few have befriended a Daemon as Damien the Lutist did. He made a pact with the Eel Daemon: the Daemon granted him extraordinary talent, and in return, the Lutist gave the eel the ability to walk on land. Damien kept the Daemon in a jar, and together they explored Haeth. As death neared, the Daemon bestowed eternal life upon Damien. The two still live today, and if one is lucky, they may witness the Lutist playing while the Daemon dances in its jar.

The Glen

Long ago, when dragons roamed Haeth, the woods grew tired of their constant burping. It was disgusting. Entirely ill-mannered. Worst of all, dragons burped fire. At first, the woods politely asked the dragons to burp elsewhere. But the dragons didn’t listen. So, the woods uprooted themselves and walked away, settling in a glen near Hoppendell.

The Tavern: Where the Old King Drank

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The last time I visited Hoppendell was during a Leap field trip when I was young. Back then, the village had felt much livelier. Now, under Snowblanket’s chill, it seemed quieter, with its shops closed. Not that it mattered—I had no money anyway. Still, I couldn’t keep relying on others’ kindness forever.

I stepped into the tavern, Where Old King Drank. Warmth and lively chatter greeted me, the scent of hearty stew making my stomach growl. Behind the counter stood a white rabbit on crutches, his expression stern but approachable. Before approaching him, I whispered a quick prayer for good luck.

“Hello, I saw your notice and was wondering if I could help out.”

He straightened. “I’m Rupert. Yes, it’s temporary—just until I’m back on my feet. Think you can manage?”

Before I could reply, a cheerful rabbit in a flour-dusted apron bustled in. “Oh, Rupert, don’t scare her off! Look at her—she’s perfect! What’s your name, dear?”

“Clover,” I said, smiling at her warmth. “And temporary is fine. I plan to continue my journey when Frostbite arrives. I have somewhere to go then.”

Rupert nodded. “Fair enough. The work’s simple—serving, cleaning, and helping Betty here. Think you’re up for it?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

Betty clapped her paws. “Perfect! Welcome to the team!”

Just then, my stomach growled loudly. Betty laughed and ladled a bowl of stew. “You’ll start on a full stomach. Sit and eat, dear.”

The stew was delicious, and as I ate, they explained the job. It was simple: serving food, cleaning, and chatting with customers. I loved the stories they told. Some were so fascinating I could hardly forget them.

After closing, Betty and I cleaned while Rupert washed dishes.

“Phew,” Betty sighed. “Glad you’re here. It’s been tough since Rupert’s accident.”

From the kitchen, Rupert called out, “I do the dishes!”

Betty grinned. “And we’re grateful, dear!” She turned to me. “You did great today. Was it too much?”

“Not at all,” I said, smiling. “I enjoyed talking to the customers—especially the bat in the corner.”

Betty chuckled. “His story changes daily. What did he tell you?”

“He just asked where I’m from.”

Betty’s curiosity softened her expression. “And where is that?”

I hesitated, thinking of the monastery. “I grew up in a monastery,” I said quietly. “Now I’m just traveling.”

Rupert’s ears twitched. “Why did you leave? And where to?”

I smiled, though it was a little wistful. “To life! It’s… complicated.”

Betty studied me for a moment, her expression softening. “Everyone has a story, I guess,” she said. “I hope we’ll get to hear yours someday.”

Rupert frowned. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? If not, we have a guest room upstairs.”

My ears perked up. “Can I?!”

The day had been long but fulfilling. For a wanderer like me, this warmth and sense of belonging were treasures to hold onto.

Some memorable customers

Lox, the Exile

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When the stag returned, my curiosity got the better of me. After serving him his stew and drink, I hesitated, then asked, “That tattoo on your back—it’s an orphic egg, isn’t it?”

He froze for a moment, then resumed polishing his violin.

“I’ve seen it before,” I pressed on. “It’s in my deck of oracle cards. I think you come from the same place those cards are written—a place that isn’t even on any map.”

He sighed, setting his violin aside. “How did you get the cards?”

“They were with me when I was left at the monastery,” I replied.

“Are you a witch or something? A reader?” he asked, his gaze sharp.

“I don’t think I deserve the title just yet,” I said. “I just try to be conscious of every moment.”

He fell silent for a while, and I returned to my work, thinking I’d overstepped. But as I turned away, he called out, “What time do you finish? Can we talk later?”

I nodded. That night, after telling Betty and Rupert I’d be late—enduring Betty’s teasing—I met him outside. On our way to his place, he hummed a song that seemed to be dear to him, though he repeated the same tune over and over, as if it didn’t quite come naturally.

“My name is Lox,” he said, inviting me into his sparse home. Over tea, he explained, “I come from a land where we live beside the Creator in eternal happiness.”

My ears perked up. “The Creator? As in, The Creator?”

“Yes, the land of eternal bliss where you know…”

I murmured, almost without thinking, “Everything, from Egg to Rose.”

He nodded.

I asked, “Then you weren’t forced to leave, but left. You chose exile... why?”

“To exist,” he said simply. “To be an ‘I.’ In perfect happiness, I felt joy only when praised for my violin. I realized I craved something that could only exist apart from the Creator. An ego.” He then asked, “May I see your cards?”

He took them, carefully examining each one. “Your parents left you with this?”

“That’s what my godmother said. She hid them until I turned sixteen, saying they could attract unwanted attention. I don’t see why now, though, now that I’m out of the monastery.”

“To know, to dare, to will, to keep silent,” Lox murmured, handing the cards back. “Everything from that land contradicts the Looming Gods. It’s evidence that there is someone above them. Me, the cards, and… perhaps even the songs from that land as well…”

I asked, “But they’re gone now, aren’t they?”

“Nothing is ever gone until it returns to the Creator. Until then, everyone and everything is in an endless cycle of life.”

Trying to change the subject, I asked, “You must have traveled a lot from your land. Why choose to stay in Hoppendell?”

“It’s where my talent is appreciated,” he said. “I’m playing at the festival next week. You should come.”

“I will,” I promised. Then, curious, I added, “You seem to enjoy being regarded. Why live as a loner?”

He hesitated. “I love when my talent is noticed—not myself. After a lifetime basking in the Creator’s light, I’ve come to appreciate solitude… But tonight… your company was nice.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. Feeling the hour growing late, I stood. “I should go. Betty and Rupert will worry.”

Lox walked me back to the tavern. Before I went inside, I turned to him. “Thank you for sharing your story. I’ll see you at the festival.”

The Market at The Bonfire Festival

The Bonfire Festival arrived this weekend, a time when communities gather around great flames to share warmth, food, and stories. As the giant bonfire crackled in the middle of the marketplace, the spirits of the villagers lifted, and new bonds were forged, ensuring the warmth of friendship and unity through the cold months ahead.

Betty had been busy perfecting a stew for the festival, with Rupert and me as her bloated taste-testers. I’d originally planned to enjoy the day as a tourist, but then an idea struck me. I’d noticed many villagers with cracked, bleeding lips from the frost, and remembering the beeswax the ferrets had given me for telling their fortune, I borrowed Betty’s pan. I melted the beeswax with some rosemary to give it an extra oomph, and poured it into jars I’d bought at the market. A balm for cold-bitten lips, infused with herbs intended for healing and glamour. Betty and Rupert were impressed.

“You should sell this at the booth!” Rupert suggested.

On the first day of the festival, Hoppendell buzzed with music, laughter, and the scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced cider. Booths filled the square, selling charms, trinkets, and warm food. Our garland-decorated booth stood near the center, which Betty called “the coziest ward in the village.” Even Lox, the lone stag, was preparing for his performance later in the week. I wondered if he, too, felt the strange warmth of this place—the way the festival made it impossible to feel alone.

I set out my balms, but at first, few stopped to look. My ears drooped in disappointment.

“You’ve got to pitch it!” Betty urged. Cheetsheet image example

Before I could, Rupert shouted, “BALMS TO PROTECT YOUR LIPS! INFUSED WITH SPELLS TO BOOST YOUR CHARM! Oi, kiddo, your lips look like they could use some magic balm!”

Encouraged by his boldness, I joined in. Soon, people were stopping to sample the balm. By the end of the day, all forty jars had sold out. Some even asked for the recipe, and although Rupert suggested I keep it secret, I freely shared it, thinking it might help Fiona and the ferrets sell their beeswax too. As the evening fell and the square buzzed with joy, I felt proud—not for the coins we earned, but for seeing the villagers smile, their lips no longer chapped by Frostbite’s bite.

On the second day of the festival, I finally had some time to explore. I started by watching the flea circus, one of the few adults completely captivated by the acrobatic fleas.

Soon, I stumbled upon a stall selling antique relics and found Hak in the middle of a spirited argument with the merchant over a tattered journal.

“Ms. Clover!” Hak exclaimed, clearly flustered. “What luck! Perhaps you can convince this merchant that knowledge should not come at such an exorbitant price.”

The merchant crossed his arms. “This journal holds the final thoughts of the Great Rebel Max—priceless to his fans across Haeth. I can’t just give it away.”

As they bickered, I noticed the merchant’s cracked lips and, without a word, pulled out a beeswax balm. “Sir, how about adding this to the deal? It sold out yesterday, and this is my last one.”

The merchant tested the balm and finally relented. Hak clutched the journal, thrilled. “Ms. Clover, you are remarkable! I can’t believe you gave away your last balm to this stubborn fellow.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Hak,” I said with a smile. “It wasn’t my last one. I’m just happy we keep running into each other.”

We walked together for a while, browsing other stalls until Hak found another intriguing book. We parted ways with a promise to let fate guide our next meeting.

As I walked through the festival, I hoped to see the ferrets but didn’t. I had kept the last balm for Fiona. Another familiar face I saw was Nick, the crafty monger who always had the newest inventions, like a buttscratcher or a glass that can see through cards. Today, he had “The Everlasting Pen.”

“Hey, Clover, I know you always scribble after work. Care to have a look?” Nick noticed and approached me.

I blinked. “How could you tell?”

“Call it a gift,” he said slyly. “But mostly, it’s the ink stains on your fingers and sleeve.”

I took a quick glance at my sleeves, which were clean.

“I got you, didn’t I?”

I chuckled. “Haha, very clever. So does this pen live up to its name?”

“Indeed, never fades, never runs dry. No ink bottles, no interruptions, no limits. Perfect for scholars, reporters, scribes, or anyone who writes. Comes in three colors! Try it.” He handed me one.

I uncapped the pen, testing it on parchment. The ink flowed like silk, deep and warm. My ears twitched in delight.

“How much?” I asked.

“For you, my dear waitress of my favorite tavern, thirty tokens,” Nick replied smoothly.

It was expensive, but I had earned enough from selling the balms. This wasn’t just a pen—it was a promise to my journey. After rationalizing the purchase, I counted out the coins and handed them over.

Nick’s grin widened as he took the money. “A wise purchase. Treat it well, and it will serve you faithfully.”

Before I left, I asked, “Nick, where do you get these rare goods that are too good to be true?”

“Trade secret, Ms. Clover!” Nick replied with a wink. Then he turned to a new customer, greeting them with enthusiasm.

That evening, the stage was alive with music as performers from all around gathered for a concert. The audience would vote for the best, who would perform during the final bonfire of the festival.

Damien, the lutist, and his daemon performed first. His music, captivating and devilishly skilled, evoked hope and renewal. But when Lox played, his melody was gentle and ethereal, balancing energy with calm. Despite his beautiful performance, Damien won the vote to perform the next day.

Later, I ran into Lox. “I’m sorry you lost,” I said. “I voted for you.”

“No need to apologize,” Lox smiled. “I was happy to play. If you haven’t eaten yet, would you like to grab Betty’s stew and eat at my place?” His voice was filled with excitement.

I agreed, though I couldn’t help but imagine Betty and Rupert teasing me. Sure enough, they did. Betty whispered, “I’ll leave the door unlocked in case you’re out late.”

At Lox’s place, we shared the stew with whiskey, and he told me stories of the lands he’d traveled. Some were frightening, but most were inspiring.

“Where do you plan to go next?” he asked.

“I plan to see the Witch of the West. My crafts are rudimentary, conjured from my intuition without any structured teachings.” I hesitated but felt honest. “I try not to doubt; it scares me that I’m not doing it right. I try not to let worries sneak in.”

“Does uncertainty worry you?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

He paused, then picked up his violin. “Can I play you a piece?”

I nodded. He began with a gentle, whimsical note. As the piece progressed, the rhythm built, adding complexity while maintaining an uplifting quality. The melody felt like a journey—optimistic and familiar, as if setting out on a new adventure. When the music ended, the world grew quieter. In the soft warmth of the room, time faded away. There was only the delicate and unhurried rhythm of our shared heartbeat. In that moment of stillness, we found something deeper than words.

On the final day of the three-day festival, the giant bonfire was lit, towering over the village. Damien, the lute-playing storyteller, serenaded the crowd with soothing melodies, filling the air with harmony. As the fire blazed high, the villagers joined in, singing and cheering, their voices rising in unison. The warmth of the fire and the music brought the community closer together, their hopes rising for a peaceful and warm Chill.

After the Festival

"Men can be cruel, innit?" Betty said, assuming the flame between Lox and me had died out.

Rationally, I knew that night was just a fleeting moment—a warm connection, nothing more. There had been no promises. We were tied by the origin of my oracle, nothing else. Two lonely souls shared a heartwarming conversation, felt a spark, and moved on.

But emotionally? I got attached. I found myself hoping for more—a sign that he felt the same. Instead, he remained unchanged. The very next day, he slipped back into his routine: playing his violin somewhere, arriving at the tavern at 6 p.m., greeting me with a faint smile, ordering the same stew and ale, smoking, then leaving. That quiet indifference left me feeling hollow.

Days passed, and on a snowy night, I saw him standing outside, just as he had the first time we met.

“Do you have some time? I want to apologize for that night and explain,” he said, his voice careful.

I nodded, and we went to his place, where he brewed me tea.

He sighed and spoke quietly, “I had someone I loved back in my homeland. Love like that doesn’t happen under the light of the Creator, but we loved each other. I guess I’m the problem.” He paused, then continued, “I left, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure. The song we used to sing faded with time, but the emptiness in my heart grew deeper. It’s just me now, with the tune echoing, pulling me back. You asked why I stay alone. I’m lonely, but I refuse to replace him. Or at least, I thought I wouldn’t. But that night, I craved intimacy. You were the first in a long while to make me feel like myself. But after, I only felt more longing for him. I know it’s unfair to you. I’m sorry. I feel guilty…”

I saw him crouched, sobbing, and my heart broke for this wretched soul. Born in the Land of the Creator, he should have found Nirvana after cycles of lives, yet here he was, lost and unfit for the light—cursed. I hugged him, transferring warmth through my arms and fingers to his hollow heart. “I forgive you,” I whispered.

The Glen

The cold nipped at my ears as I prepared to leave. Rupert and Betty kindly offered me shelter until spring, but I couldn’t stay. There was still much to learn, and the Witch of the West awaited. I thanked them both, my heart heavy with gratitude, and stepped out into Chill, my journey calling me onward.

But there was still one mystery I needed to solve. There was a bat—a bar rat—whose story shifted with each telling. One constant remained: his tales always began or ended at a mine. He claimed to be a professor of rare minerals, a soldier hiding in the depths, a cave surveyor, and even a miner. One day, he called himself a blaster.

When I asked him which mine he meant, he replied, “The one in the glen, of course!” as if it were obvious. But when I asked Rupert and Betty, they both shook their heads. There were no mines near Hoppendell, just a large glen. I was determined to uncover the truth before I left.

As I stepped into the tavern’s wooden door, the chill followed me inside. Rupert stood beside me, leaning easily on his healed leg—no crutch in sight. Betty stood next to him, holding a spell jar I’d made for them to ward off evil spirits.

“For your hard work,” Rupert said, offering me a bag of coins.

I shook my head gently. “You’ve given me more than enough—shelter, food, and a chance to meet such wonderful folks. Besides, the balm sold better than I expected. I’ll be just fine.”

Betty’s brows furrowed, but she softened. “Are you sure?”

“More than necessary would burden me,” I said with certainty.

They both stepped forward and wrapped me in a warm embrace. “Come back anytime,” Betty said, her voice thick with emotion.

With a final wave, I turned down the frozen path, the tavern shrinking behind me. My breath clung to the air, but my heart felt heavy with goodbyes yet buoyed by gratitude.

As I walked, I spotted the bat—what a marvelous coincidence! I was delighted to run into him. After greeting him, I got straight to the point. “I would like to see the mine where you’re from.”

He paused thoughtfully. “It’s a bit far. We can go if you’d like.”

I offered him a brownie Betty baked this morning. “Lead the way.”

On the way, I asked the bat his name. He smiled faintly. “I forgot. Does it really matter? Just call me Bat.” The way he said it, with that small, sad smile, made my heart ache. What could have caused him to forget his own name?

Bat led me to a glen, where light diffused across a leaden sky. Life stirred in the glen, as if something unseen were feeding it energy—pine beetles wrestled for mates, snow moths flitted gracefully, mourning cloaks zipped, and wolf spiders watched from shadowed nooks. Yet the mine Bat spoke of was nowhere to be seen.

“Here! Can you see the entrance?” He gestured to a small, overgrown hole in the ground.

At first, it looked like an animal burrow, but as I knelt to peer inside, I saw the narrow shaft plunging into darkness. I could have been hallucinating, but I thought I heard mourning in the void. I wanted to listen, but it felt distant, like a fading echo.

“Where does it lead?” I whispered.

“To a mine,” he replied. “Long ago, folks crawled through these shafts for gems and minerals—until the collapse. The rain came hard that day. The miners went down despite warnings. The soil gave way and buried them alive. They sang songs of hope,” Bat said, his voice tinged with sorrow. “But no one came. The youngest miner was twelve.”

I stared at him, stunned. “How do you know all this?”

“I saw it—the soldier holding her breath, the professor’s eyes gleaming with discovery, the blasters shouting, the miners sweating. And I heard the last song sung in the mine.”

I asked about his age, and to my surprise, he remembered them all—even the day the woods walked.

“But it wasn’t the dragons’ fault—they were just breathing.”

This bat wasn’t just a bar rat—he was a forgotten god, tied to a home buried beneath the earth. His name, age, and identity had slipped away with it. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t suspected his divine nature. Truly, gods come in all forms and sizes.

He pulled me away from the hole. “I’ll show you my friends!”

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He introduced me to a massive beetle named Rex and a caterpillar named Milly, who excelled at staring contests. His childlike delight was endearing, but tinged with melancholy. After spending the day with him and his bug friends, I carefully asked a question that had been lingering in my mind. “Can I ask something? Are you happy?”

“With these critters’ hospitality, yes,” he whispered, “but it’s lonely during Chill. The bugs are kind, but it’s not the same as having folks like you around. Don’t tell them, though.”

I understood then why he visited the Old King so often. I handed him my last balm. “I want to give this to you. I would have given it sooner if I’d known you lived out in the wilds. I’m sorry for not thinking of it sooner.” I clasped his hands. “Stay safe, Bat.”

“You don’t need walls or roofs to feel at home. You will learn to live with nature’s cycle from the Witch of the West. She is waiting for you.”

I was struck—Bat wasn’t as lost as I’d thought. Somehow, he knew who I was looking for, though I’d never told him. “What do you mean? Does she know me?”

He grinned cheekily, as though he’d known what I was thinking all along. “Travel safe, Clover.”

Soon, only his assured voice remained, resonating with the depth of a god.