Wizard of Ozeria Chapter 1: Heartlands

He swung the scythe with an uncanny expertise, found only in those who spend their lives in the field. The wheat fell in sheets, like rain, under the mighty blows of his medieval tool. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow, pausing to look at the moon which was just barley peaking out from behind the rolling hills. The sky was clear as he went back to his heavy work.
When the moon finally rested high in the clear sky, a woman ran from the small cottage that resided next to the field of pale wheat. Her gate was even and known, unfaltering in the night. Her feet knew the land as well as her lips knew her name. Her hands were pale and small in the light of the omnipresent moon, and they clutched the hem of her dress in order to keep it from getting soiled. The man hardly slowed his arm when she approached him, glancing over his shoulder at her in the darkness.
"Dorian," the woman said in a calm smooth voice, "What are you doing out here, this late at night?"
He slowed and stopped the rhythmic motion in order to turn towards the woman, "I'm going to town tomorrow." He said, in the same smooth tone she had, "I want to get there early, so I can spend more time there."
The woman put her hands on her hips, looking up into Dorian's cool amber eyes, "Well, you'd better stop working then, and get rested! You wouldn't want to sleep in! The wheat can be cut when you get back!" She stood up straighter, trying to raise herself above Dorian's immense height. "You're father wants a word with you before you go as well."
Dorian rested the scythe over his thin shoulder as he walked past the woman, towards the little house. Smoke rose from the chimney in small plumes, scorching the sky above it. He almost had to bend over in order to climb through the small door. He looked around the comfortable room. There was a fire burning, with a tea kettle heating on it, two old creaky armchairs facing it, and a big old dog sleeping in between. Home was the true word for this place, not just a house, but his heart and passion was here. In the more worn of the two chairs, Dorian's father slept, a pipe burning tobacco dangling off of his lip. Dorian bent beside the older man, and lightly pulled the pipe from his softly wrinkled lips.
The man immediately woke up, looking around him in surprise. Realizing it was Dorian, he calmed, placing one hand over his overworked heart. “Dorian!” He exclaimed, his voice weary from many years of tilling the field, “How many times must I tell you not to do that?”
Dorian stood up straight, stretching his arms upward, brushing his large hands on the ceiling. “I’ll stop doing it, when you stop smoking in your sleep.” He yawned.
“Humph!” His father grunted, pulling himself up in the broken chair. He took his pipe back from his son, poured fresh tobacco into it and lit it. He leaned back in the armchair, puffing merrily as Dorian lounged in the opposite armchair.
The two men sat like that for a long while, just listening to each other breath. The older of the two started to snore after a while, having fallen asleep again, the pipe still burning in his mouth. Dorian nudged his father with one muddy boot. Again, his father started, waking spontaneously and looking around him as if hunted.
“Mum, said you wanted to speak with me.” Dorian explained.
“Oh, oh yes!” His father replied, ”You are a full grown man now, Dorian, and that come with responsibilities. Tomorrow is your first visit to the town and there are many rules to going there, just as how there are many there who would enforce those rules. The first thing is that you never make eye contact with anyone. You are going there to take our products to Mr. O’Neill, not to get caught up in the local hullabaloo. After your business is done, you can spend some time get wrapped up in the local fair, but you must be home before dinner. Secondly, if you run into a long coated stranger, I want you to hide.”
Dorian knew exactly who his father was talking about. The long coated strangers were the villains in many if not all of the stories his father had told him as a child. They were tall, with hooked noses and extremely short hair. They looked like point hounds, and they could smell if you were lying. They wore all brown leather, with raw hide coats that hide both a pistol and a long dagger.
“What do I do if I run into one?” He asked, trying to hide the bubble that was rising in his throat.
“You run.” His father said, pulling the pipe from his mouth dramatically. ”You go into the woods, and run as fast as you can. Go straight and don’t look back. You have good strong legs and a wide gate, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you. You’ll come across a dirt road in the middle of the woods, run in the direction of home from there. The road will take you to a small house. There will be people there who will help you.”
He then reached over and clasped his sons bony shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” He said, grinning a lie, “you won’t run into any trouble.”
Dorian stood up then, and left the room, smiling at his father lovingly as he did so. He went to the end of the little house, where there was his little bedroom and his little bed. He undressed and got under the short covers, his feet sticking out the foot of the bed. The fear of the upcoming day started to rush him there in the dark, and his mind raced with all of the possibilities of what could happen to him. Slowly, in the coldness of his bed, he fell into a light sleep.

The town was crowded, and Dorian didn’t know how to deal with the onslaught of people rushing from one side of the street to the other. He stood in the center, his eyes on his beaten boots. He kept one hand in his overall pocket, rubbing the stack of money he had saved up for this occasion…....... This is no where near done, I will also have this in comic book form.