(Point of View: Lyra)
Time, for my people, flows like a majestic, deep river—its currents slow yet inexorable, eroding mountains and polishing stones over countless seasons. For humans, however, it seems to be a rushed torrent—a fevered blink between birth and oblivion. And for little Lexo… time was something entirely different, a capricious tool, a sweet yet dangerous aroma that clung to his aura like the pollen of a spring flower.
His sixth solar cycle was approaching—an insignificant milestone by elven standards, but a momentous event in his short, tumultuous life. Even among ephemeral humans, such occasions were marked with gifts, symbols of affection and guidance. Garen and Elara would handle the practical and protective trappings, Borin would undoubtedly present something loud or pointy, and Kael would opt for something subtly useful or downright cryptic. I decided that my contribution should bridge the gap to the wider world—a reminder of the beauty and depth beyond his small village and budding troubles—a seashell from the Great Ocean, a fragment of the sea's eternal song.
My logistical problem was predictable: the Great Ocean lay several days' journey to the west along coastal routes that, though picturesque, were often perilous. And my current "escort" companions were far from ideal for a delicate shell-hunting mission. Borin would see the crashing waves as a personal challenge and likely wrestle the tide, while Kael would "acquire" pearls from local oysters without permission. I needed a different partner.
That's when my eyes fell on Urso—Grandmaster Gustav's masked assistant, a being of considerable spatial power and utter silence. Intriguing, and crucially, assigned to Lexo's protection and service. I argued, with all the serene elven logic I could muster, to Garen and Elara that a trip to the coast to acquire a "natural component with calming and stabilizing properties" (the seashell) would greatly benefit the child, especially under the watchful—and capable—presence of Urso. Surprisingly, they agreed, perhaps relieved to have me occupied away from the ongoing school discussions for a few days.
Thus began our unlikely expedition: I, Lyra, the millennia-old elf, and Urso—the enigma in the mask.
Communicating with Urso was an exercise in subtle observation. He never spoke, nor did he even nod or shake his head in any conventional way. Instead, he responded to direct questions with a slight shift of his posture, an almost imperceptible tilt of his mask, or simply by taking action.
"Urso," I said as we prepared to depart, pointing at the small travel sack I'd packed, "we'll need basic provisions."
Without a word, Urso extended his hand. For an instant, the space beside him seemed to fold with an almost imperceptible bitter scent—and a perfectly equipped travel basket materialized in its place, containing compact rations, purified water, and… a neatly folded frilly pink apron. I raised an eyebrow. Urso remained impassive. Apparently, the apron was now part of his standard gear. I decided not to press the issue.
The journey to the coast was remarkably efficient. Urso did not walk; he simply glided through space. One moment he would take a step, and the landscape around him would blur and then reassemble several meters ahead. Trying to follow on foot was futile—he'd simply offer a gloved hand, and with a slight, reality-twisting tug, we'd be kilometers further along. By the time the sun reached its zenith, we'd arrived at the coast—a journey that, by horse, would have taken three days. It was disconcerting and strangely exhilarating.
The coast was wild and beautiful. Wind-battered cliffs dropped onto white-sand beaches dotted with dark rocks, while turquoise waves crashed relentlessly. The salty air filled my lungs—a welcome change from the earthy scent of the forest.
"I need to find the perfect seashell," I explained to Urso, gesturing toward the tide line. "One polished by time and the waves—a true voice of the ocean."
I began my search along the shore, attuned to the subtle energies of the sand and sea. Urso followed at a respectful distance, his dark figure stark against the bright sunlight and foamy surf.
Then the problem arose. This stretch of coast was ruled by a colony of Carcinus Rex—the Armored King Crabs. These creatures, as big as small ponies with rock-thick shells and claws capable of splitting a wooden shield, emerged from the waves and crevices, their many black eyes fixed on us. Individually, they might rank around D+ or C-, but in numbers, they were dangerous.
I drew my bow, preparing a pressurized water arrow. But before I could nock it, Urso moved.
He simply put on the pink apron.
I blinked, confused. Was this some unknown battle ritual? Then, from what seemed like a dimensional pocket, he produced a metal spatula and a sizable cast-iron frying pan. Apparently, he was taking this encounter more seriously than he had those bandits the other day.
Without hesitation, the King Crabs charged, claws raised and snapping. Urso met the first one with astonishing speed—using the frying pan as an improvised shield (CLANG!) to deflect an incoming claw. Then, with fluid precision, he slid the spatula beneath the crab and flipped it onto its back, leaving it thrashing uselessly in the sand. He repeated the maneuver on the next three crabs with absurd efficiency: pan to block, spatula to flip. It was both hypnotic and utterly ridiculous.
A larger crab attempted to flank him, but Urso, without even looking, hurled the frying pan like a discus. It spun through the air, striking the crab on its side with such force that the creature staggered and retreated toward the sea. Then, as if by magic, the pan returned to Urso's hand, as though tethered by an invisible thread—more spatial manipulation, no doubt.
In less than a minute, the beach was clear, save for half a dozen confused, flipped King Crabs. Urso stood there, frying pan in one hand, spatula in the other, his pink apron fluttering in the sea breeze. Then he calmly put his "weapons" away and removed the apron.
I stared at him, incredulous. "Kitchen utensils?" I managed to say.
He tilted his mask slightly, as if to say: Efficient tools for the task at hand.
I shook my head and let out a small smile. This trip was proving stranger than I'd anticipated.
I resumed my search and finally found the perfect seashell: large, iridescent, with a spiral weighted by the ocean's song. As I admired it, I noticed Urso examining one of the flipped crabs with what seemed like culinary interest. Then he glanced towards the sea and back at the crab.
"Urso," I said cautiously, "those creatures aren't… edible. Their flesh is toxic."
He looked at me, then pointed towards the sea, and made a gesture as if lifting something from the water and bringing it to his mouth.
It took me a moment to understand. "Oats? Are you suggesting the oats for Lexo's cookies come from the sea?"
Urso tilted his head, clearly confused.
I smiled. "No, Urso. Oats are a grain. They grow in fields, on land—like wheat for bread. They have nothing to do with fish or crabs."
A long pause followed; I could almost hear his internal logic turning. Then, for reasons I couldn't fathom, he straightened up and stared out to sea, as if he had just discovered something entirely new in his understanding.
The return journey was as swift and efficient as the outward trip, though I sensed that Urso was more pensive. We arrived back at Serena Village with time to spare for Lexo's birthday. I presented the seashell—a small, precious piece of the vast, mysterious ocean—for a child whose potential was as immeasurable as the sea itself.
As I watched Urso resume his stoic vigil, I couldn't help but wonder what other everyday misconceptions lay hidden behind that enigmatic mask. Perhaps next time I'll explain that rice doesn't come from the clouds. It could be quite educational—for both of us.