Mage Legend

River Village, a small village near the border of the Elf Kingdom, has no pointy-eared elves but generations of hard-working human farmers. Their ancestors fell in love with the fertile land and the warm river all year round, settling their homes in the valley between two small hills, sowing wheat seeds and various vegetable seeds on the land.

They lived a life free of conflict, and no one had the heart to disturb their peaceful existence, especially after meeting the hospitality of the villagers here. Since River Village is neither on the seashore nor an important transportation hub, aside from a path leading to the Elf Kingdom Forest, there's nothing here to catch a merchant's attention. Thus, throughout the year, outsiders rarely pass through. Moreover, the villagers generally don't require goods from outside merchants; they weave their clothes, brew their wine, completely self-sufficient. The carvings and handicrafts that appear here aren't for trading Gold Coins, but for exchanging mutual praise among villagers.

The people living here have always taken pride in this village, frequently saying, "This is almost the most peaceful and serene place in the world."

However, this autumn was somewhat distressing as the village's harvest was poor. Just like last year and the year before, from the onset of spring, the sun was stingy with its light and warmth, with rarely a few days of clear skies and bright sunshine. The crops grew weakly, looking sickly. It was rare to see lush green on the vegetables, and the fruits always seemed small and tart. Even the green caterpillars resting on the leaf veins were shriveled like the skin of a skinny old lady.

"No good wine can be brewed again this year," Old Bard bit into a green apple, feeling as if he was eating a lump of soil, without any taste. Such things even mischievous squirrels and troublemaking wild boars wouldn't eat; they'd rather go hungry, hiding away in the Elf Forest. "Alas, it's been like this for three consecutive years, what on earth is going on?"

The only one in the village with a periodic smile on his face was Sithock, whose mushroom harvest was exceptionally good. The perpetually damp and slightly chilly weather made it easy for plump mushrooms to grow on decaying logs. He still had a huge pile left over after distributing what he collected to the neighbors. To do justice to these extra gifts, he unprecedentedly pushed a cart, taking those mushrooms to the northern towns.

Now, he's discussing with some elders of River Village, sharing the rumors he heard from the outside.

"I hear that on the Holy Pate's plains, the sunshine is as bright as ever. And the dark soil is like soaked in oil, just sprinkle seeds, and they grow vigorously. Apart from being careful to remove weeds, you don't need much tough labor to get a good harvest!"

Old Bard frowned, wistfully wishing his land could grow the world's most delicious fruits. But the Holy Pate is too far, and his old legs have never walked such a long way. Old Bard fished out a small flask from the cloth bag at his waist and took a hard swig before shakily saying, "Is that…necessary? This bad spell will pass."

"I think it's quite necessary; at least those farmers with poor harvests should go and try first." Sithock walked up to Bard, lightly patting his shoulder, "It's been so long since we tasted your good brew, even my old woman at home has started complaining."

A soft laugh escaped; everyone knew Sithock's wife was a true boozehound, yet she'd never been drunk. Among all the wine she tasted, Old Bard's homemade fruit wine was the most beloved, leading to quite a bit of gossip over tea and meals. Honest Bard's old face blushed red like a fine apple.

"My mushrooms have always had good yields; going north is a hassle for me." Sithock looked around at the room full of old villagers and said, "I'm only considering everyone, without a smidge of self-interest."

"We all know that!" Tom the craftsman, with a voice as resounding as striking iron, said forcefully, "Except for hiding wine away from your wife, you've never had any self-interest!"

Ha ha ha, laughter seemingly dispersed the village's gloom, but it was just a fleeting illusion. Everyone was aware that the grain in the granary was running low, only enough to last this winter if everyone tightens their belts. What about next year? If the climate continues like this, where will the old and the children go scraping for food?