Record of Reclusion

Wanderhome: The Farm of the Friendly Ferrets

2nd Place: The Farm of the Friendly Ferrets

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The Hillock

Long before Haeth or dragons, a great species roamed the world, but it thrived on conflict—even among itself. Eventually, it vanished, allowing other creatures to thrive and new ones to emerge. After countless wars, peace finally took shape in the Land of Haeth. One night, a Star fell from the sky, sharing tales of battles, kingdoms, dragons, and gods. As she spoke of the vanished species that sought to conquer all, her light faded. With her final breath, she urged the people to cherish the peace they now enjoyed.

The Farm

After the last war it rained for a hundred days. In Swarming, it rained for one hundred days. These rain corroded the weapons and machines lying outside. It was as if the sky wanted to break all of them down so that they will never be used forever. Some scholars speculated that it was the last dragon who hid herself in the sky shedding tears to wipe out the hatred on Haeth.

The Road

The Mist Possum is a mysterious and ethereal creature that haunts a road on a day shrouded in fog. Travelers who encounter it are stopped and offered three riddles. Solving them earns safe passage and perhaps a cryptic blessing, but failure results in strange misfortune or becoming lost in the fog. The Mist Possum is neither malevolent nor kind -it is a forgotten keeper of the road, bound to test the wit and courage of all who cross its path.

The Hillock

Cheetsheet image example Fiona and I walked toward her farm, our breaths visible in the cold air. Behind us, the bees huddled together for warmth. As we passed a cluster of stones by the side of the road, I noticed their silent significance. Though they bore no inscriptions, their arrangement was unmistakable — a memorial to the small, forgotten gods who had fought alongside us.

“Can we stop here?” I asked, pulling out a candy.

“Was about to ask the same thing,” Fiona replied. She knelt in front of one pile. “Aye. I’ll never forget Jang, the god of cupboards, not as long as I live. During the war, me family was bein’ chased. Jang opened a cupboard door for us, held it shut ‘til the danger passed.”

I whispered, “May Jang find peace,” and placed the candy on the stones, stepping back. “A small gift. It’s not much.”

We continued on our way until the path sloped upward. At the crest of a hillock, the ruins came into view — crumbled walls, broken columns, and an air of solemnity that hummed with the past.

I stopped, my gaze fixed on the remains. “Do you think it was the war that ended them?”

Fiona sniffed the air, thoughtful. “Could be. Wars’ll tear everything to bits.”

“Or maybe they ignored the signs,” I said quietly.

Fiona nodded. “Aye, that too. Nature always sends a warnin’, but most don’t listen ‘til it’s too late.”

We turned and continued down the path, leaving the ruin and the stones behind us. The ruins cast a long shadow across the hillock. Somewhere in the breeze, I thought I could hear faint whispers, as if the stones themselves were mourning.

The Farm

As we neared the farm, I noticed three small huts clustered together. Bumblebees, beetles, ants, and ladybugs huddled for warmth, while two ferrets lounged nearby, chatting animatedly.

“Oi, Fiona!” one called, spotting us. “Blimey, look who’s here! Got a mate with ya, I see!”

The second ferret nudged his companion. “A new mate for tonight’s party?”

I waved. “Hello, I’m Clover. Good to meet you.”

The first ferret grinned. “I’m Toby, and this here’s Dotty. We’d be chuffed to have you tonight. Fancy a bit of poker?”

“No, but I deal different kinds of cards,” I replied with a smile.

Fiona proudly introduced me. “She’s a proper clever witch. Used her skills to find me keys. Thought I’d invite her to our do tonight as a thank you.”

Dotty gave me a thumbs-up. “Well, we’re excited to have you.”

I chuckled. “They seem nice.”

“They are,” Fiona said with a wry smile as she opened the door. “Bit daft at times, but good folk. Come on in, Clover. Let’s get some warmth and settle down.”

Inside, the warmth of the hut enveloped me. Fiona busied herself with soup, while I crouched by the fireplace to start a fire. As the flames crackled, my gaze landed on a portrait of another ferret, his features soft and kind. Next to it, a neatly folded handkerchief. I wondered who he was but chose not to ask.

Fiona placed a steaming pot of soup before me, beaming with pride. “Here’s the scrumdiddlyumtious soup, Miss Clover! Bon appĂ©tit!”

I savored the rich aroma. “Wow, it looks lovely!” I took a spoonful. “It tastes even better!”

Fiona shrugged. “Ain’t no bother. Just a bit of this and that. Now then...” She set a tin of biscuits on the table. “Here’s to keeping warm, eh? To good friends and quiet nights.”

I raised a biscuit, unsure but eager. “Dink! To good friends!”

As we ate, Fiona’s gaze drifted to the frosted window. Her voice softened. “You know, Clover, I’ve been livin’ quiet since... since he passed. Funny thing, that. You don’t realize how much quiet you can handle till it all goes silent.”

I leaned forward, intrigued but careful not to press too hard. “He’s him, isn’t he? Who was he, Fiona?”

Her eyes turned wistful, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Ah, his name was Bobby. He was a beekeeper. Not the most glamorous job, but he had his own way of doin’ things. We married after the war. Not out of love, mind. We were both there, both just... in need, y’know?”

I nodded slowly. “I guess life isn’t a fairytale. Still, it sounds like you got through it together.”

Fiona let out a short laugh. “Yeah, we did. But it wasn’t some grand love story, Clover. Just a couple of folk makin’ do after the chaos. He
 he passed away a year ago. Caught a nasty cold that turned into something worse. But I just carried on. Took over his bees. Still not sure what I’m doin’, but here I am.”

My ears drooped slightly as I looked down at my bowl. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. It must’ve been hard.”

“Hard?” She shook her head. “Nah, not really. I reckon it’s just part of life, innit? You get used to things, even loss. He’s gone, and I’m still here, keepin’ the bees, keepin’ the farm. Don’t know if it makes sense, but it’s how it is. And I’m not complaining.”

I bowed my head, my voice sincere. “Can I pray for him? And for you, too, Fiona? I know you saw me doing some craft over there, but I was a monk before a witch. I hope you find peace with it all.”

Fiona smiled softly. “Cheers for that, mate. You’re a good one, Clover. It’s not easy, but... we get by. We always do.”

We sat in silence, the fire crackling. Outside, the wind howled, but inside, there was calm—an unspoken understanding.

Fiona held her spoon. “Right then, enough of the serious stuff.”

I clinked my spoon against hers. “To better days ahead.”

Soon, Toby and Dotty joined us, along with their families. They were as lively as Fiona, their chatter filling the space with warmth. I set my oracle on the table, and one by one, I read their fortunes, weaving the cards into stories. Toby’s cards spoke of a long-awaited child, while Dotty’s hinted at a creative project blossoming into something unexpected.

“Blimey,” Toby said, hugging his wife. “We’ve been grafting proper hard. Just hearing your words gives us a bit of a lift.”

Dotty nodded, eyes wide. “You’ve got a real knack, you have. Hope that creative project’s about the book I’ve been scribbling away at, bit by bit.”

“Oh, wow, what is it about?” I asked, shuffling my cards.

“You see that pile of weapons over there?” His son proudly pointed out the window. “Dad’s writing about the rain of a hundred days that made it so. Perhaps you’re going to be a best-selling author dad!”

Afterward, they insisted on giving me something in return: a bundle of beeswax. “For your candles or whatever witchy things you do,” Dotty said with a wink.

By the time the bonfire was lit, the farm was alive with music and laughter. The ferrets and I sat close to the flames, holding mugs of steaming drinks and roasted chestnuts. They talked about the day when peace was finally declared on Haeth.

Later, as the flames died down and the crowd thinned, we lay on the flocks beneath a sky strewn with stars. Fiona pointed out constellations, weaving old shepherds’ tales into their shapes.

“That one there,” she said, pointing with her crook, “is the Sheep’s Guardian. They say she watches over lost flocks and lonely wanderers.”

I smiled, thinking of how Fiona herself embodied that legend. I shared my own story of the Lightning Dancer, tracing the faint handprints on my shoulder and waist as I spoke. Toby and Dotty chimed in with tales of their own, their voices blending into the gentle hum of the night. The stars seemed closer somehow, their light mingling with the warmth of new friendships and shared stories.

As I drifted off to sleep in Fiona’s little cottage, I felt a rare kind of peace—the kind that only comes from nights like these, filled with firelight, laughter, and the quiet promise of warmth against the coming Chill.

Cheetsheet image example The next morning, it really started to snow. Indeed, it was Chill. At her door, we shared a warm hug.

“Well, I guess the road calls even in the snow,” I smiled.

“You’re an adventurer, no doubt. Don’t be a stranger, though. The door’s always open. Travel safe, mate.”

“Goodbye, Fiona,” I replied softly.

With a final wave, I headed into the cold landscape, my heart filled with hope. As I climbed the first hill, I glanced back, imagining Fiona laughing as she closed the door. And I knew I would. Someday.

The Road

The road stretched endlessly before me, snow rising up to my waist beneath the pale light of a white sun. The cold gnawed at my fur, and then, the mist arrived—soft at first, then thick as soup, swallowing the path and leaving me lost. I raised my ears high, swiveling them, but the mist dulled all sound. The world felt gone, leaving only me. Then, from within the fog, a spectral figure emerged—a figure I recognized from the stories of my monastery.

The Mist Possum. It stood before me, ancient and powerful. “Hail, wanderer,” it intoned. “What dost thou seek on this forsaken road, where light is scarce and mortal lanterns fade?”

I stepped forward. “Hello. I’m trying to get to the end of this road, though I sense this path holds secrets far older than my paws.”

“A curious soul! Wouldst thou partake in a trial of wit? Three riddles, and if thy answers ring true, a blessing shall be thine.”

Excited, I grinned. “Riddles! I accept, noble spirit. My ears are sharp, and my mind
 blunt, but I like quizzes!”

“Then let the dance of riddles begin!”

The first riddle came: “I have no eyes, yet once I did see, I once had thoughts, but now I am free. What am I?”

I thought for a moment, then smiled. “Ah, yes, the skull, dear Possum. A relic of life, now silent and hollow.”

“Well spoken, small traveler,” it said with a nod. “Thy tongue cuts as keen as the wind through these mists.”

The second riddle came: “I am from a mine and shut up in a wooden case, yet I am used by scholars to alter their fate. What am I?”

I thought hard, then faltered. “A coffin? No, that has nothing to do with scholars
” I gave up, feeling the Possum’s disappointment. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

The Possum remained silent for a moment, then posed the final riddle. “I have keys but no locks, I have a space but no room, You can enter but not go inside. What am I?”

I hesitated, my mind turning in circles, but I had no clue. I guessed, “A
 keyboard?”

“Ah, well done!” the Possum exclaimed. “Though thou hast but two correct, I cannot grant thee my full blessing.”

I bowed deeply. “That’s fine, noble Possum. Your riddles stirred my dusty brain. Please, it’s not much, but I offer a candy.”

“Gratitude is more precious than gold,” the Possum said with a slow nod. After a brief pause, it added, “Carry this blessing—to match thy wit. Now, I fade, as all mist must beneath the sun.”

With that, the Possum dissolved into the fog, scattering like dew at dawn. “May your riddles find more wanderers to delight,” I whispered, watching it disappear.

As the mist thinned, the road reappeared, and I walked on, the Possum’s blessing warming my heart.

After hours of walking, I paused at a crossroad for a rest, nibbling on a cookie Fiona had baked. Suddenly, thunderous hooves startled me as a giant beetle pulling a carriage rushed past, nearly trampling me. I yelped and jumped aside. The carriage screeched to a halt, and an eagle’s head popped out.

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“I was reading!” he scolded the beetle before noticing me. “Oh dear, did we nearly—? Lizzy, I told you to mind the mist!”

“I’m fine,” I reassured him quickly.

“Most dreadfully sorry! Allow me to atone—might I offer you a ride to the village?”

Grateful for the warmth, I accepted and climbed into the cluttered carriage, which was filled with boxes of journals and papers.

“My name is Hak,” the eagle said. “Archivist of letters and diaries. I run the Museum of Diaries, a haven for life’s small treasures—far richer than those stuffy historians’ books! Do you journal, Miss
?”

“Oh! It’s Miss Clover,” I replied, pulling out my little carnet. “And I do! Though my entries aren’t as grand as you might imagine. Just simple notes on my crafts and prayers I honed during my time at the monastery.”

“Ah, simplicity is the heart of profundity! A life of a witch in a monastery—unique and priceless for the museum!”

I clutched my notebook tightly. “I couldn’t part with it just yet, but maybe someday.”

“Marvelous!” Hak beamed, handing me his card. “Should the day come, the Museum will welcome it with open arms.”

As the beetle trotted on, Hak showed me journals from his collection, each a vivid snapshot of its time. I began to see the beauty in his work—they were windows into lives long past, often more genuine than the histories penned by scholars.

Soon, the village appeared, its warm lights glowing against the chill dusk.

“Well, here we are,” Hak said as the carriage slowed. “Do visit the Museum someday—you’ll be captivated.”

“Thank you, Hak,” I said, stepping down. “I promise to visit. Safe travels!”

“And to you, safe wanderings!” he replied, tipping his wing before the carriage disappeared into the village streets.

I stood for a moment, watching it roll away, before turning toward the inviting glow of the village ahead.