Balete Circlet was a small town, close to the Lemurian border, surrounded by large Balete trees which gave it its name. It was a hotspot for creatures of all kinds. It was the kind of town all sorts of merchants and travellers passed through or supplies and such. The main square was always full of chatter and haggling, merchants pawning off their wares and travellers finding their friends.
But further out, in the outskirts of the town, closest to the Eastern Fields and the scrapheap, there lay an old shop. Its dusty windows often perused by children saving up their pocket money, it lay mostly untouched. Few ever went into the shop itself, for fear of its master. Those who did spoke not of him, though they passed along knowledge of its existence to those who would listen.
Stories of the small figures seen dancing through the dusty windows in the evening light, keys turning and the mechanical whirr of clockwork circled the town. Stories of haunting red eyes, a longing gaze searching for something unattainable to those of this world, cut path through the general gossip. Whispers of the sounds of hooves ghosting down the street at the stroke of midnight, rumours of children’s toys bought from the store moving of their own accord. The soft, ever ticking clock on the wall freezing a minute before midnight and winding back the whole 24 hours to land at the stroke of 12...
But they were just stories, no?
But yet, the sound of hooves down the street sounded at exactly 12. If one cared to look, the ghostly figure of a young man joined at the hip to the shoulders of a horse, skin a paper white and hair a beautiful ivory, could be seen making his way to the market from the desolate and mostly abandoned quarter. A soft red gaze swept the empty streets, as if remembering how it looked in the day. His lips pulled back into a small, soulful smile, horn glinting in the moonlight.
His companion, a machine of splendid gold and bronze, silver and glass, could be seen behind him, never far from her master and always dressed in the finest cloth merchants ever brought. Her glass eyes followed his, soulless and calculating, less a window and more a blank slate despite the wisdom she clearly showed.
“Welcome to Dreamride,” their soft voices, thick with the accent of the Lemurians, would chime in harmony without fail, repeating nightly like a broken record. It was always followed by nervous, sorrowful laughter. “I am sure you’ll find what you need.”
Rumour had it if you meet them and disturb their routine, you meet an untimely demise. Hearsay had it if you stole from them, no matter how small, you would be plagued by the ticking of clocks. They said if you spoke their names at the moment of the resetting of the clocks, their gaze would settle on your abode. If they saw you were a deserving individual, you could gain their favour. If you were unworthy, their scorn was easily won.
Rupert and Josephine Witherfellow, the Anggitay of Balete Circlet. The twins untouched by time.
Won’t you come on down to Dreamride?
