Eymur's page

“No place like home.” A phrase from the old world, when people still believed there were other places to compare it to. In Mournfall, the words land differently. Instead of evoking comfort, it is a warning. Other beacons visible on the horizon are a thing of the past. For all anyone knows, Mournfall is the last stubborn glow in the swallowing darkness of the world. Here, home is the cliffside terraces, the sea walls, the lantern towers that keep the night at bay. Here, home is survival.

For some of the methuselahs who remember other coasts and brighter skies, the phrase still carries nostalgia. Eymur Izei is not one of those people. A year ago, his home fell into the sea without a warning. It happened before dawn, when the city was still waking up. Saven, his father, rose early as usual to tend the ash terrace carved into the cliffside. ”Be right there, pops.” were the last words Eymur uttered to his father. He was getting dressed for work when the sound came. A long, rumbling groan echoed through the house as the ground and walls trembled, as if the cliff itself had found a thundering voice. Trinka’s cough broke into a shout. Eymur ran to investigate, but by the time he reached the edge of the terrace, the world below was a churning smear of gray water, white bubbles, and blackened soil. The farm was simply not there anymore. It had folded into the sea with the cliff. It took the crops, tools, and Saven with it. There was nothing to bury, and nothing to dig a hole in.

After that morning, the phrase “No place like home” changed for Eymur. There is no place like home, because there is no home. Trinka, Eymur's mother, survived the collapse. The shock did not take her, though sometimes Eymur wondered if it would have been kinder. The cough that had always lingered in her chest grew deeper. What had once been a seasonal fit became a constant rasp. She did not tend the crops for years. Neither Eymur nor Saven would allow for it in her condition. Stubborn as she was, her contribution to the farm was cooking soup and resting. The boys, as she would call them, insisted.

But now, the terrace was gone. The house above it was condemned within the week. They were moved inward, away from the cliffs. Thankfully, on one hand. Who knows when the next collapse will swallow their home? On the other hand, they traded an open plot for narrow streets that smelled of brine and damp stone. Ash farmers did not have savings. They had land. And that land was gone now. After his failed attempts to obtain a field to work, Eymur found himself at the job boards near the lower markets. Men and women gathered in tight knots, scanning for postings. Dock work. Night watch. Gutter clearing. Eymur stood among them, small even for a halfling, hands in pockets so no one would see them shake.

Eymur noticed a man limping through the street and decided to offer help. This was his first interaction with Kamak. The cloaked figure did not initially introduce himself. He did not ask Eymur’s name. He stood slightly off to the side, his weight shifted carefully, as if one knee did not fully trust the ground. His coat was plain. He leaned against a wall, relieving his leg. "Can you move through the city, kid?" the limping man asked. Eymur shrugged. "I’ve lived here." The man returned an indifferent response from under the cloak. "That’s not what I asked." After a small pause, Eymur responded with a simple "Yes." The figure held out a parcel wrapped in waxed paper and bound with twine. It was light. Sealed. "Deliver this. Payment on delivery." Eymur asked for details, and the figure provided the necessities. An address and a phrase to speak. That was all he'd need. Eymur delivered the package. He was paid more coin than a day of dock work would.

The second job came two days later. The parcels were always sealed. Letters, perhaps. Small packages that shifted slightly if shaken, though Eymur did not shake them. He told himself he did not need to know. He may have been a farmer, but he was no idiot. Mysterious parcels, doors only opening after an uttered passphrase, all of that coming from a man who barely steps out of shadow. But it brought the food and mother's medicine to the table. He was not stealing. He was not threatening. He knocked on doors and offered the unknown goods. Parcel running was not illegal. It was a service. Despite all of this, it was probably better not to be searched. He learned which alleys swallowed sound and which carried it. Which stairwells were slippery and better avoided. He learned to move when patrols turned corners and to pause in shadow when drunken street arguments happened. He began to see the city not as a network of passages and blind spots. He was good at it. Kamak remained distant. If a parcel arrived late, the payment was smaller. If it arrived on time, he summoned the halfling sooner. There was no praise coming from the man. It was a very transactional affair.

Nine months passed, and Trinka’s cough worsened. The widow’s coughing fits turned into flecks of red on her palm, and eventually nights when she could not lie flat without choking. The apothecaries did not barter for sympathy. Powdered tonics and bitter syrups cost silver, and silver came from parcels. Eymur did not ask what was inside them. Then came the situation. The address was different. Not one of the narrow tenements or backroom shops he was used to. This was a well-kept townhouse near the inner wards, where lanterns burned brighter and had cleaner windows. Kamak’s instructions were brief, as always. The woman who answered was clearly expecting someone else to appear. There was no domestic comfort in her gaze, but there was a hint of joy at seeing the package delivered. Then she raised an eyebrow. "You’re not Kamak." she said, looking left and right at the street before visually inspecting the package. The halfling was set aback by this. He sputtered a simple "No." as a response. "Where is he?", the questions kept coming, but Eymur's desire was to keep the interaction swift. "I deliver." The woman studied him for a while. Took in his size, the careful way he held the parcel, the way his eyes did not wander past her shoulder into the room beyond. "All right." Eymur just nodded, but it was clear the woman did not mean the hooded man he knew by the name Kamak. It was probably better not to know. He left with his coin.

The invitation came two days later, with a bundle of top-shelf medicine. Surely, that merits at least a few thankful words. But when Eymur arrived at the address on the invitation, he did not meet the cloaked man who usually gave him work. This was a man Eymur had never seen before. The man was neither ostentatious nor crude. His coat was well-tailored, given the circumstances, but unremarkable. His hair was somewhat combed, his expression mild. He did not even give Eymur a name. "You’ve been delivering for me for some time., he said. The words settled like a stone in Eymur’s stomach. "I delivered for Kamak." A hint of a smile appeared on the man's face. "Yes. And Kamak delivers for me." The room was quiet for a moment as Eymur shifted uncomfortably, scanning the room for means of escape.

"You have been punctual.", the man continued. "Accurate. Unobtrusive. But still, I prefer direct arrangements." Eymur thought of Trinka’s cough. Of the red spattering on her knuckles. Of the apothecary’s thin patience. "What happened to Kamak?", Eymur asked sheepishly. The man’s gaze did not shift. "He was redundant. Acting like a handler when he should be delivering. I was wondering how he walked around since he busted his knee." Nothing more. They spoke for a few minutes, and the offer was simple. Higher pay, direct instructions. If Eymur refused, he could return to the job board and hope the docks had room for a halfling. Surely, his wiry arms were made for lifting heavy boxes. He knew he would watch the medicine thin and the cough deepen. If he accepted, nothing outwardly changed. He would carry parcels, knock on doors, and get paid. He hesitated only long enough to recognise the weight of the choice. "I’ll deliver." he said. After that, the parcels came more frequently. Sometimes heavier. Sometimes accompanied by a reminder not to open. He never had, and he sure as hell wouldn't be starting now. But he never heard from Kamak since.

At home, Trinka noticed the change before she understood it. Eymur spoke less. Ate quickly. Watched the door as if it might open on its own. When she asked about work, he answered without getting into details. "Eh, it pays. Pretty boring, actually. A lot of walking and not much else.", he shrugged. "That's good.", she said between coughs. "I bet your father would be proud." Eymur did not answer that. A memory came to him. Memory of him cutting through a lower stairwell to shave minutes from a route. The stone steps had been damp and slick. Halfway down, a man had slipped ahead of him, arms flailing before crashing hard against the stone floor, sending echoes of cracking bone and grunting through the stairwell.

"Help!", the man gasped. Eymur froze. The parcel under his arm was supposed to be on time. That's why he was taking an already dangerous shortcut in the first place. He knew the patrol pattern in that district; two guards would pass the mouth of the alley in a heartbeat. That means awkward questions and delays. Nobody wants that. He could drag the man aside. He could shout for assistance. He could do what any decent citizen of Mournfall would do. He thought of Kamak. Redundant. He thought of Trinka’s breath hitching in the night. The man on the stairs reached for him. Eymur stepped around. "I can’t." he said quietly, though he did not know if the man heard. He did not look back. The parcel arrived on time. That night, Trinka’s cough bled again. He held the basin for her, wondering whether this would have been the last time if he hadn’t brought the syrups today.

That was a memory of only one of the lapses. He finished the food in silence. Mournfall was survival. There is no place like home. For some, it means warmth. For others, memory. For Eymur Izei, it means something else entirely.

Home is a room with damp stone walls and a narrow bed where his mother coughs through the night. Home is the weight of coin counted carefully beside a flickering lamp. Home is the knowledge that cliffs can fall without warning, that men can become redundant, that help given at the wrong moment can cost more than it saves. He did not set out to join the underbelly of the city. He did not dream of shadowed corridors or sealed parcels. He wanted wages. Medicine. A future that did not end in a basin of blood. He tells himself he is still the same halfling who stood at the job board, hiding his shaking hands.