HOME | DD

Description

* throughthewoodsweran Part One: Mountains of the Moon

location: Mountains of the Moon, north-eastern Persilian Democratic Republic

Art, story and Child Harold (c) me
Also please don't steal my Moon Yak. You can, but I'll be very sad.
Hope you enjoy the story!

---------------------------------------------------------------------CHILD HAROLD-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The events of the past few months felt so surreal to the seventeen year old, that he had a hard time convincing himself that they weren’t something he’d dreamt up or read in a novel, let alone actively participated in.
Four months was, apparently, more than enough to turn one’s life upside down.
Four months ago Harald had been an average Oakland farmboy. He’d get get up at dawn to work in the seaplum plantation, pulling fat purple fruit after fat purple fruit from the shallow salty water until his shift ended. His afternoons were devoted to helping Grandpa Oglívy in the garden, and on Sundays he travelled to the nearby town of Flyville, whether to see the weekly market, drink in the Goblin Arms while listening in on the conversations of seamen and travelers or going down to the docks and watch the whaling ships unload giant, pale carcasses onto the shore.
It had been simple, almost idyllic. Nothing ever changed.
Three months ago Harald came home from his shift, ashen hair ruffled from the, striped bag swinging from one shoulder and found out that Grandpa Oglívy’s usual rasping cough now spewed red with every hacking wheeze, blood blooming across cotton handkerchiefs like little scarlet flowers.
One month and nineteen days ago Harald had stood over a birchwood casket, old friends from his grandfathers sailing days with names like ‘Ølv’ and ‘Ute’ clapping him on the back and grunting their condolences. He stood there, sun too bright and mouth too dry for comfort, feeling stiff and awkward in his first ever suit and starched collar.
And now he was here, having sold the house and ditched everything, alone save for a solitary moon yak, it’s round, curious face glistening in the starlight.
Now he was here, after having hitchhiked into the unknown, staring at a landscape he’d only ever seen in a book titled ’37 wonders of the Old Continent’ that he’d found int Grandpa Oglívy’s study. And boy, those musty photographs really hadn’t done the sights justice.
The boy huffed in disdain, how could he have enjoyed such a trivial, boring lifestyle? How could he have let himself stagnate in this deadbeat corner of the world for so long? Well, there was no use in beating himself up over something he couldn’t change. After all, it didn’t matter where he’d been, what was important was where he was going.
And Harald Hansun Oglívy knew exactly where he was headed.

He’d heard talk of it so many times.
The heart, but also the cesspit of the Continent, they called it.
A city of blood and gold, silver on the roves and shit on the streets, they said.
It’s a place of dreams, sure, but dig too deep and you’ll uncover your worst nightmare, they warned.

Where?

Why, Mouldville City, of course.

Description

* throughthewoodsweran Part One: Mountains of the Moon

location: Mountains of the Moon, north-eastern Persilian Democratic Republic

Art, story and Child Harold (c) me
Also please don't steal my Moon Yak. You can, but I'll be very sad.
Hope you enjoy the story!

---------------------------------------------------------------------CHILD HAROLD-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The events of the past few months felt so surreal to the seventeen year old, that he had a hard time convincing himself that they weren’t something he’d dreamt up or read in a novel, let alone actively participated in.
Four months was, apparently, more than enough to turn one’s life upside down.
Four months ago Harald had been an average Oakland farmboy. He’d get get up at dawn to work in the seaplum plantation, pulling fat purple fruit after fat purple fruit from the shallow salty water until his shift ended. His afternoons were devoted to helping Grandpa Oglívy in the garden, and on Sundays he travelled to the nearby town of Flyville, whether to see the weekly market, drink in the Goblin Arms while listening in on the conversations of seamen and travelers or going down to the docks and watch the whaling ships unload giant, pale carcasses onto the shore.
It had been simple, almost idyllic. Nothing ever changed.
Three months ago Harald came home from his shift, ashen hair ruffled from the, striped bag swinging from one shoulder and found out that Grandpa Oglívy’s usual rasping cough now spewed red with every hacking wheeze, blood blooming across cotton handkerchiefs like little scarlet flowers.
One month and nineteen days ago Harald had stood over a birchwood casket, old friends from his grandfathers sailing days with names like ‘Ølv’ and ‘Ute’ clapping him on the back and grunting their condolences. He stood there, sun too bright and mouth too dry for comfort, feeling stiff and awkward in his first ever suit and starched collar.
And now he was here, having sold the house and ditched everything, alone save for a solitary moon yak, it’s round, curious face glistening in the starlight.
Now he was here, after having hitchhiked into the unknown, staring at a landscape he’d only ever seen in a book titled ’37 wonders of the Old Continent’ that he’d found int Grandpa Oglívy’s study. And boy, those musty photographs really hadn’t done the sights justice.
The boy huffed in disdain, how could he have enjoyed such a trivial, boring lifestyle? How could he have let himself stagnate in this deadbeat corner of the world for so long? Well, there was no use in beating himself up over something he couldn’t change. After all, it didn’t matter where he’d been, what was important was where he was going.
And Harald Hansun Oglívy knew exactly where he was headed.

He’d heard talk of it so many times.
The heart, but also the cesspit of the Continent, they called it.
A city of blood and gold, silver on the roves and shit on the streets, they said.
It’s a place of dreams, sure, but dig too deep and you’ll uncover your worst nightmare, they warned.

Where?

Why, Mouldville City, of course.