A thick, wet snow piles up on the brim of his old leather hat. Despite pushing it off every five or so minutes, it keeps coming back. If this is what every winter in the Crown Isles is like, perhaps it is better to be nothing more than a farmer.

  He turns his nag into the short tunnel bored through the tall stone caldera walls and onto the best bridge. The squishing sound of the snow beneath the horses' hooves changes to a soft splashing. Curious, he looks down at the bridge below him; snowflakes melt as soon as they land upon the stone—how? this apparent feat of engineering fascinates him. He follows a small stream, formed from the melted snow, watching it flow towards the edge of the bridge and fall down into the caldera below.

  When he was younger, he would go down to the Aznakhe River, which ran by his homestead, sometimes to fish, other times to pan for gold—he never found any. He would, occasionally, wonder how the river kept such a steady stream of water, and more so, how the Crown had enough to supply all the rivers that start from its run-off. After seeing the size of the caldera itself and the amount of snow that it gets, even this early into the season, he finally has the answer to his childhood questions.

  A sharp whistle pulls him from his trance. He turns to the source, seeing a guard pulling his fingers from his mouth. “Sorry about that, sir.”

  The guard gives a quick glance up to the farmer. “State your name and purpose.” It’s not often one sees a farmer here in the Crown Isles, especially one with a B?scy [1] accent.

  With a smile, the farmer asks for a moment and begins digging in his overcoat, looking for the identification papers he knows are in a pocket, somewhere. His hand brushes over the head of his axe, thankful it is on the side opposite from the guard; he had forgotten to clean it before departing, and he would quickly be detained if it were to be seen.

  “Ah!” He pulls the folded paper from his pocket and hands it to the guard. “My name is Ill?c Syrlwyr [2], and I am here to look for my daughter.”

  The guard reviews the paper; determining it's all in order, he hands it back and takes a small ledger from his pocket and writes the farmer’s name down. “Looking for your daughter? what happened?” He asks, cocking his head at Ill?c.

  Ill?c had rehearsed what he would say to the guard on his way up the Crown, figuring this would be the best way to get past the checkpoint, as well as gain any possible information on where the husk of his daughter might be. “I got into an argument with my daughter about a week ago. My wife said it would be best to just wait, figuring that she would come back soon, that she went to stay with a friend. After a few days I decided to go look; now I’m here.

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  The guard looks at the man in a doubting manner; he believes the story, but it just seems very... collected for a man whose daughter has been missing for a week—especially with Faerthryne’s reign having started. “What makes you think she’s in the Crown?”

  “She used to always talk about coming here when she was little, wanting to grow up and move to the Crown Isles; typical farm girl things—they’re all like that until they realize they're never going to be anything but a farmer's wife. Though, Euri never grew out of it.” Ill?c realizes his slip; if the guard asked for his papers and wrote his name down, there must be a record of who comes and goes.

  The guard taps his chin. “Well... if you want, I can check to see if we have an Euri Syrlwyr in the records.”

  “No.” Ill?c says firmly, trying to hide his growing panic. He changes his tone. “I don’t want to be held here as you look. I would much rather go searching myself. Do you have any idea of places I could start?”

  The guard sighs; he is suspicious of the man but has no real reason to detain him; it would not be a good look if he detained a man just looking for his daughter. “I would try the College. If she doesn’t have money for a stay at an inn, the College would be where to go.” He will have to tell a similar story to the Watchman at the college gate, and if he decides it’s suspicious, he has no superior to answer to if he’s wrong.

  “Thank you. Can I go?” Ill?c asks.

  “Yes, speak to the Watchman at the gate. If you describe your daughter to the man at the gate, he could recognize her.” The guard waves Ill?c through. “Best of luck finding your daughter.”

  “Thank you!” Ill?c’s horse trots off.

  Footnotes

  [1] A term used to refer to someone from the region, or Kingdom of Brachb?sc.

  [2] The most common last name in Iania, held by 15% of the population. Syrlwyr means free worker. Growing in popularity following the shattering of the Kingdom of Iania in 0553 EotG, peasants, who did not wish to serve as serfs to any crown, would burn their documents and claim this to be their last name. It is most common in agricultural regions; because of this, these regions will have a document called the Syrlwyr Gyr?d (The Crylwry Record/Log) which consists of family trees and records going back as far as they can trace them. This is done in order to prevent unintentional incestuous relationships between a bride and groom who both bear the last name of Syrlwyr. Some villages, most notably Nyrkaern, where 67% of the population has the last name of Syrlwyr, will break this down into specific branches of ‘Syrlwyr’—’?styr (east) Syrlwyr’, ‘Syrlwyr ?d-Myr (at the river)’ are two examples of these branches.

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