Serali ran through the dusty streets of Land's End, on her way to visit her favorite person in the little village. She was a gangly child, taller than all of the other children her age and golden blond where they were dark. She was presently at that stage where she seemed to be all knees and elbows, and was often bumping into things or tripping over her own feet. Running was one thing that she did well, despite giving the impression that all of her separate parts were about to fly off in different directions, and she was currently racing down the street, enjoying the feel of the wind through her hair. The rushing sensation made her think of flight, of the way the wind felt on her wings during her frequent and vivid flying dreams. There was, however, an unpleasant factor to her headlong rush, for the principle reason behind it was a deep desire to reach her destination before she was spotted by the other children. She raced on, ducking down a side street that led past a couple of houses and then ended at the little blacksmith's shop.

Too late she noticed a shape lurking in the sharp shadows cast by the hot afternoon sun.

"Where are you going, heron-legs?" asked taunting voice.

"I know where she's going, Jerda." chimed in a second whiny tone. "She's off to visit that outlander."

"Aha! Truth revealed form the most unlikely of sources," sneered Jerda. He stepped out of the shadows and blocked Serali's path. He was a short, rather stocky boy of about twelve. His sidekick, an equally short, but much thinner boy named Tris, oozed out after him. Both of then had bronze-tanned skin, black hair and dark eyes, but Jerda's features, though still childish and unformed, hinted at a heavy, brooding countenance, while those of his companion were fine, almost feminine, and spoke of future handsomeness, though also at a certain petulance.

"What do you care where I'm going?" retorted Serali. "It's none of your business."

"Since my father was fool enough to let you stay here, outland girl, and also fool enough to let that smith into town someone has to keep an eye on you two, see that you aren't conspiring together."

"Yeah, Jerda and I got a duty to fulfill." snickered Tris.

"Some duty, harassing harmless folks. I was born in this town, Jerda, which you seem to forget, and right now I'm delivering an order from my father to Breck, so let me by."

"You heard her, Jerda, Let her by!" Tris mocked.

"Nah, I think we should inspect her so called order. Who knows what this little outlander," he emphasized the word exaggeratedly, "Is carrying." He laughed, trying to sound deep and authoritative in imitation of his father, the village's mayor, but his voice broke boyishly in mid-chuckle.

Serali could not suppress a snicker, which enraged Jerda. He jumped at her, fists swinging. She dodged out of his way, just managing to evade his blow, but then Tris joined in the fight with a sharp blow to her side that she didn't see coming. It hurt, but not too badly, and she tried to counter, swinging her own hands, but with fingers outstretched rather than fisted. Jerda stuck out his foot as she lunged towards Tris and instead of hitting him, she fell into him, overbalanced, and they both tumbled to the ground. Before she could get to her feet, Jerda kicked her, viciously, in the stomach. Her breath whooshed out in a rush and she was gasping, trying to catch her breath, as Tris scrambled to his feet. He joined his friend in pummeling Serali where she lay, and between the two of them she had no chance to get to her feet, fight back. She curled up into a ball, trying to protect herself, but the blows kept coming. Suddenly a deep voice bellowed.

"Here now, what do you think you're doing?"

The blows stopped, and Serali could hear feet running off, headed back towards the village. Huge hands gently lifted her up to her feet.

"Are you well, little one?"

"I'm all right, Breck. Just a bit bruised, is all."

Standing over her was the immensely broad form of Breck, the village smith. He had moved to Land's End three years ago, allowing Serali's father, who had been the closest thing to a smith the village had had up until that point, to devote more time to his business and to his family. He was not very tall, though slightly above average when compared to the locals, who were all fairly small. He was a broad as a house though, or at least he seemed so to Serali, and had fair skin, fairer even then her golden tan, but his hair was black and his eyes were blue, where hers were green. Still, one could see why the villagers tended to lump the two of them together under the heading "outlanders."

"I judge that you were on your way to visit me when those two delinquents jumped you. Do you need assistance to make it the rest of the way?"

"No, no I'll be fine." She replied, straightening with a painful stretching feeling where she had been kicked in the stomach. "Let's just go."

"Right you are, oh wise child, I shall accept your advice and we shall be on our way."

He turned and began to walk rather briskly down the road towards his house, but noticing that Serali was lagging behind, he paused a moment for her to catch up and then continued at a more moderate pace. Together they entered the smithy, which was attached to the side of Breck's house. It was a modest affair, a small forge, a smaller anvil, an assortment of hammers, tongs, and other tools. Iron bars were stacked in one corner and another was occupied by a heap of charcoal. The forge cast a glowing red light around the room and it was stiflingly hot.

Serali produced the list from her father and handed it to Breck. He looked it over briefly.

"Most of this is just the usual, you can tell him I'll have it done in a couple of days. The lanterns though will take a bit longer, probably a week or two."

"That's what Pappa said you'd say." responded Serali with a grin. "I'll tell him his predictions were right, again."

"Ha!" he laughed. "You do that. Now I've got to get to work. You can stay and watch, but keep out from underfoot."

Happily content to sit in a corner Serali watched with fascination as Breck heated iron, bent it, folded it, sculpted it into dozens of useful everyday items. She loved to come here and see things made, it was wonderful to watch as nothing turned into something before her very eyes. She was also fascinated by the fire, its leaping tongues that came in so many surprising colors and how the iron put into it copied its bright glow. She loved the way it danced and darted, but a bit of her fascination of late had become odd. She had experienced on several occasions an almost irresistible urge to put her hand in the fire. She had the insane feeling that if she did so, it would feel warm and pleasant on her skin, that she could play with it, dance with it like an Arandian dancer with her serpent. This irrational feeling frightened Serali a little, and it was made worse by the fact that it was not the only such that she had felt.

The other inexplicable compulsion was almost worse than this. She had first encountered it while exploring a gully that led to the edge of the Great Escarpment. Looking over the half-mile drop to the dry desert floor below, she was seized by a desire to leap off the edge. It was not suicidal, she had no accompanying desire to hit the ground far below, rather she had the odd feeling that she could spread her wings and fly. She could picture it precisely, the feel of wind in her face as she fell, the unfolding of her wide wings, the peculiar uplifting sensation as she caught the warm thermal that rose off the desert floor. It was so vivid she sometimes wondered if she had lived another life as a bird, but somehow that didn't feel right, for in none of her imaginings had she ever had feathers.

Her reverie was interrupted by a noise at the entrance to the smithy. Standing outside holding the reins of a monster of a horse was Patren Longfoote. Serali immediately tried to make herself as inconspicuous in her corner as she could.

"Hey Breck," called the other man. "I need to have this brute here re-shoed."

Breck looked up from the plough he had been mending. "Alright, I suppose you want him done now, since you've hauled him along."

"You've got it right, blacksmith, I'm going on a bit of a trip soon and I'll need to have new shoes before I go."

"Bring him in then and I'll get started."

Patren came in through the big double doors at the front of the smithy, leading the horse behind. He was a large man, not as broad as Breck was, but taller. He too was from outside the village, having moved in from parts unknown a little more than a year ago. Unlike Breck, or Serali herself, he was dark skinned and dark haired, though taller than most of the village-folk. Perhaps because of this, or perhaps because he was an open, charming man, unlike Breck's self contained taciturnity, he was fairly well accepted by the village folk. There was even talk of letting him be a part of the Mayor's council. Despite all this, Serali didn't like him.. There was just something about the man that gave her the creeps. Though he had never done anything, never even said anything, she was convinced that he was thinking about something thoroughly unpleasant when he looked at her with his dark, unfathomable eyes.

Breck set about the work of shoeing the horse briskly and was soon done. He ushered Patren out of the stable politely, then stood and watched him till he was out of sight. Returning to the smithy, he looked at Serali, still huddled in the corner.

"You don't think much of that slime ball, do you?" he asked.

"There's something bad about him, something nasty in his eyes. He's always polite, even to old Jorn, but something's just fake about him."

"Yes, he's a fake for certain. Back when I lived in the city there were a lot like him, smooth-talkers who were only out to get what they could from those as who are fool enough to listen. I wish that I could do something about him, the greasy slug, but no-one is going to trust me. Never mind that I've been here for years, never mind that they know nothing about him, he's got them all charmed."

Then he picked up his hammer and shook his head. "Enough of that though. No use crying over things that can't be changed." And with that he resumed his banging, the sharp clang clang of the hammer on hot metal filled the room.

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