Chapter 1

Prynn awoke as he did most days, spluttering and shivering as his sleep-fogged brain tried desperately to claw to the surface of wakefulness. And, as he did on most days, he immediately rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, hard as it was in a bed that was now thoroughly soaked through. 

Magda stood over him, bucket tucked squarely beneath one pendulous bosom, clicking her tongue in irritation. 

"Wake up Prynn, you lazy bug. There's no use pretending, I know you're awake. Come now. Up, up, up! There's work to be done!"

Prynn tucked his knees squarely into his chin and tried to ignore her. It wasn't until Magda tossed down the bucket and began to bodily lift him by his ankles from the bed did he admit defeat. Stretching languidly, he blinked with exaggerated slowness at her one, two, three times.

"Oh Magda dear. Good morning, good morning. What's for breakfast?"

She huffed, reclaimed her bucket, and fixed him with a stern expression. "Same as the usual, sweetling" she purred in mock fondness. "Now get up before I throw your breakfast to Borf."

Upon hearing his name, the Borf in question bounded into the room. He was a great lumbering beast of a dog, all knock-knees and wiry grey fur that stuck out in uneven tufts over his knobby joints. He had great, sorrowful eyes that recalled all sorts of injustice suffered by dog kind throughout time immemorial. He was dumb as a bag of rocks and Magda loved him more than anything.

"Yuh" Prynn huffed, already pulling a well-worn tunic over his head. 

Prynn made his way into the kitchen; that is to say, the corner of the one very large room in which they lived that served the purpose of a kitchen, being that it contained the weathered wooden stand where Magda liked to chop vegetables. Above that six mismatched pots hung from the rafters by some old fishing hooks, and beside a small fireplace was sunk into the wall, its tiny mouth accentuated by a lopsided and sagging stone archway. At present the fireplace contained a tiny white pot, looking very much like a fat hen sitting on its nest of embers. Inside a grey goo bubbled gently. 

The remainder of the room wasn't much to look at. Opposite the kitchen area, nestled in the far back corner was Prynn's "room," which was really his tiny cot and a few surrounding curtains, which offered him a bit of privacy from the rest of the household. On the other end of the room, just adjacent to the front door and beneath a glassless window stood a simple wooden table and two chairs, their legs bowed with time and use. On the other side of the door was Magda's own bed, a simple pile of blankets, furs, and other generally soft things, which she shared with Borf on most nights. Prynn had asked her once whether she wouldn't prefer an actual bed, but she claimed the relatively firm soil of the floor was better for her back.

Magda herself followed him into the kitchen to tend the fire, poking at the gasping remnants of embers with a blackened stick and humming faintly under her breath. She was a short, stout woman with the grey hairs and round cheeks of someone who should be chasing grandchildren and kissing booboos, but with well-worn and hardened features that told just the opposite. Her eyes were a grey-green and sparkled with wisdom, if not intelligence, and the wrinkles between her brows bespoke of a life of much hardship. Magda had never married, and when asked about it would brush aside the subject. Prynn was her only family in this world, and even he wasn't related to her by blood. Once, when he was little, Magda told him she had found him in a field as a baby. When he was slightly older and inquired as to why she felt compelled to keep him, she had replied simply "I needed an extra set of hands. I'm not getting any younger." Prynn had accepted this explanation without further prodding.

Magda retrieved one of the smaller pots from its hook and spooned a generous helping of the grey goo into it before handing it over to Prynn. The boy gave a grunt of thanks and took his breakfast to the chair by the window. Borf knocked and slobbered about his knees as he greedily spooned the food into his mouth, more from pure hunger than true enjoyment, as the stuff could only generously be called anything more than bland. As soon as he reached the bottom, Magda snatched the bowl off the table, kicking one of Prynn's legs in the process.

"Up, up, up. Sun's already up" she huffed. "Out you go, get to work."

Prynn rose as slowly as he could in defiance before grabbing his patchwork cloak from the hook by the door, throwing it over his shoulders, and stepping across the threshold of the tiny home. Outside the sun was just finishing its egress from its nest amongst the mountains, already casting a golden shine over the valley below. Their home stood upon a tiny hill on the western most end of the valley, and from here Prynn could see the entirety of the village below, its rough edges cast against the backdrop of long shadows painted by the rising sun. Already he could pick out the tiny forms of villagers bustling to and fro, their movements reminding Prynn of so many insects. 

Prynn himself was a tallish boy of around 18 (though he couldn't be for certain), quite thin, though not knobble-kneed enough to stand out in a crowd of similarly aged boys, but not at all muscular enough to cut an impressive figure. He had a messy mop of light brown hair that stuck up in at random angles here and there and perpetually made him look as if he had just woken up; which, for Prynn, was honestly the goal. He had long, thin features which became even more pronounced against Magda's puggish nose and dimpled cheeks. The only things truly unique about him at all were the constellation of three small freckles upon his right cheek, the rather large and angular chip out of his left front tooth, and the tiny scar on his forehead that resembled a star. He had once asked Magda if she thought the scar made him special somehow, burdened with some great destiny. "Some people just have scars" she had responded. This too he had accepted without further inquiry. No, there wasn't much that was exceptional about Prynn, except that some might say he was exceptionally average. I wouldn't say that necessarily, but some might. 

Now, in this village that Magda and Prynn lived in (or, more precisely, above), everyone seemed to have their own unique role. After all, it wouldn't be much of a village if everyone was doing the same thing all the time. That would just be a collective of like-minded enthusiasts carrying out their one hobby to the mutual bemusement of other enthusiasts. But this wasn't merely an echo chamber for hobbyists, but a genuine, true village. And, as it happened, Prynn's role in this village was to be a brick maker. Magda liked to brag that they made the best quality bricks in the entire valley. "People come far and wide for our bricks, Prynn" she would say, with an air of feigned haughtiness that was ill-suited to her face. Prynn would roll his eyes. In reality "far and wide" truly meant "in this valley," and "best quality" meant that there were no other brick makers anywhere on this side of the continent. 

Pynn tried not to bring this up to Magda, for whom living on this hill was a matter of great pride, for it contained the springy red clay that was unique to this location in the valley, and was presumably why Magda's father's father had chosen to build his homestead and begin packing bricks in the first place. In actuality, the bricks they made were quite awful, and in fact, last year the back corner of their home (which was of course constructed from these bricks) had collapsed in on Prynn in his sleep. The boy surely would have died if not for how soft and crumbly the bricks were. Since then, Magda could often be heard shouting "child friendly" at the market on Faire Day. 

Prynn personally hated Faire Day. For some reason Magda always insisted on peddling their wares there, despite the fact that they had cornered the market on corner-assembling materials as it were. Not only had everyone in the village heard of their bricks, but the simple fact that they were so shoddily constructed guaranteed a steady demand for them. And yet, once a month Prynn would find himself helping Magda heft a cart-full of bricks down their tiny hill into town, merely to turn around and pack them up, save for one or two, at day's end. 

Prynn cast one more discerning look at the village below. It was named Brightwater, and it was a land-locked locale. Prynn had once inquired about the name at school, imagining that perhaps there had once been some great lake or river or even a particularly attractive puddle that the village founders had stumbled upon. In response, his teacher had called him a "proper bowl of mashed turds", which Prynn couldn't even begin to interpret, and so this too he had accepted without protest. In a place like Brightwater it was better not to have an inquisitive mind. 

Walking around the side of their home, he found the efforts of yesterday's work, a pile of neatly stacked red bricks beside a freshly dug pile of clay. Before it, laid out in a simple assembly line was a row of square wooden casts, a trowel, and a bucket half full of rust-colored water. Prynn sighed and dug his hands into the pile of soft earth, thinking to himself of the village blacksmith, bakers, painters, farmers, fools, frog wranglers, prostitutes, and stable muckers. Yes, the world was truly full of fantastic and exotic occupations for those who weren't destined to make bricks. But, as he was Prynn, son of Magda, that was his fate.

Prynn set to work in a steady rhythm, scooping clay into his hands, dipping it into water, and patting it down into an empty mold. After about five minutes of this, he stood up, roughly wiped his hands down the front of his already stained trousers, and congratulated himself on a job well done. He had made approximately three and a half bricks, and, Shine willing, tomorrow he might even make four. Prynn circled to the back of the house, his bare feet tickled by the sparse, crispy heads of grass that grew in erratic patches between the mud. Leaning against the back of the home was a rough approximation of a stable, constructed from the sinewy limbs of the naked saplings that sometimes sprouted up on the backside of their hill, and tied together with rope that was certainly older than Prynn himself. The stable had been constructed several years ago after Magda managed somehow to trade a season's worth of bricks for a cow. She had been a kindly creature, with large, soulful eyes that constantly seemed to be longing for something more. Unfortunately, Magda's cattle farming days ended when they came outside one morning to find the poor thing stuck up to its knees in mud. The cow had stared at Prynn, chewing its cud in a manner that seemed far more bemused that Prynn would have expected from a cow. The fortunate part was that they were able to hire a few young men from the village to hoist the cow from its otherwise exceedingly slow, muddy demise. The unfortunate part was that in order to pay the young men for this service, Magda was forced to sell the cow.

It was all the same to Prynn, who hadn't much enjoyed the task of milking the cow in the first place. Even better, he now had the perfect hiding spot for his well-deserved mid-morning naps. Inside it was dark and damp, the heat from the rising sun already coaxing steamy warmth from the red soil as here and there tiny flies danced about. No sooner had Prynn settled into a corner of the rickety shed and began to drift off, his butt thoroughly warmed by the earth below, than a series of taps on the door came echoing through the air. With a huff, Prynn pushed the door open, momentarily blinded by the stark contrast of the golden morning light against the darkness inside. 

"Good morning Prynn" came a chipper voice. He recognized it at once as belonging to Barclay. Barclay was Prynn's oldest, truest, and only friend. They had known one another since they were quite young, due to the fact that Barclay's family crafted the molds that Magda's family had been using for generations to build bricks. Prynn imagined that they built other things too, but if Barclay had ever mentioned it he couldn't recall now. All Prynn knew was that theirs was a friendship driven by the strongest force of all, forced proximity, and that he felt generally ok about it. Prynn stepped back into the shed, beckoning his friend come closer. As Barclay stepped into the cramped, muggy space, he wrinkled his nose.

"It still smells of that old cow in here" he remarked. Prynn turned away from him to settle back against the corner once more.

Barclay was a good head shorter than Prynn, somewhat plump though not exaggeratedly so, with a voice that was perhaps one pitch too high and spoken with the kind of lilt that made it seem as if he were constantly asking a question. He had the kind of face that was so unremarkable, one could easily forget what he looked like even if Barclay were standing right in front of them. Prynn tried not to focus too long on his friend's features, as it made his eyes cross. But what mattered more than his looks was that he was entirely loyal to Prynn, as great a friend as any boy could ask for.

"Barnaby" Prynn hummed. "What brings you by so early? Don't you know I have much work to do?" Prynn was already nodding off as he asked this, his voice becoming muffled near the end as his chin lolled against his chest.

The shorter boy ignored the last question, and instead simply responded, "I was thinking it could be simultaneously beneficiary for us to acquire some foods. That is to stay, proceeding our schools."

Prynn tried hard not to snort out a laugh. If there was one thing consistent about Barnaby, it was that he was constantly seeking out his next meal.

"I can't be certain, but I think you're using some of those words wrong" the taller boy quipped.

Barnaby furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. You see, despite being a family of carpenters for multiple generations, Barnaby's dad had it in his piggish head that his first and only son would some day be a stupendous scholar. For this reason, his one great aspiration in life was to hire a fancy foreign tutor from lands far beyond this village, such that Barnaby might one day be a revered intellectual in some airy, pristine library, which was undoubtably owned by a very fat, rich king. Unfortunately, building wooden casts for bricks wasn't exactly the most lucrative business. As a result, Old Man Barnaby had opted to teach his son himself. This amounted to him collecting all sorts of large and exotic words, often times through relentless pestering of any foreigners who happened to pass through Brightwater on business or adventures. The wizened fellow carried around a tremendous scroll for just this purpose, and often could be seen around town scribbling down his newest acquisition with an old, blackened candle stump. 

Every night before bed, the old man made Barnaby pour through this tremendous list, practicing the words aloud as his father explained what each one meant. Yes, Señor Barnaby was quite proud of the amazing job he had done cultivating such a bright young scholar as his son. Lately he had even contemplated giving up his wan existence as a carpenter in favor of becoming a teacher. Only two things were holding him back from achieving this grand dream: the general derision that this idea garnered in his wife, one Lady Barnaby, who had surely married into this family purely for the buttery-sweet-lavishness of the life of a brick mold carpenter; and of course, Mrs. Cockatrice. 

Mrs. Cockatrice was the current reigning molder of impressionable young minds, the first and only teacher to have ever existed in Brightwater. She was, to Prynn's estimation, approximately eleventy billion years old, a creature out of time immemorial. In the beginning, there was darkness and there was Cockatrice. She was fiercely proud of her title as an educator, and possessed of such righteous fury towards any who might doubt her prowess that she had, on more than one occasion, been forced to cast a look of such scorn onto an unfortunate soul that they immediately burst into flames. Papa Barnaby knew better than to stake his claim as a master of the literary arts so long as she still lived. So yes, those were the two main things keeping him from his true calling. Well, three, if you counted the fact that he was illiterate. Which he, thankfully, did not. 

"Uhm, which ones?" Barnaby asked, crossing and uncrossing his fingers rapidly in the manner that Prynn understood to mean that he was flustered.

"Acquire" Prynn returned, hoisting himself from the wall. "But no matter, we shall obtund with some treats anymatters, my dear Brayen" he purred, slapping him warmly on the back. He could see the shorter boy working through that for a moment in his mind before he followed Prynn through the door of the shed.