The lands of Forlania have been in constant, unyielding war since the death of their king. No one is safe from attack. Not even a small human settlement in the middle of nowhere. Enter Tara. One of the last of humankind, and the possible saviour of...
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Village life gently swirled around Tara, with the perpetual ebb and flow of people, scurrying in every direction. The village was a living, organic entity, with blood flowing through its veins, and with a definite pulse and heartbeat. It had its own distinct personality and was constantly regurgitating information through its winding, meandering hills. It had once been viridescent. A land of fresh grass and bushery as far as the eye could see, but now it sat in patches of mud.
The villagers of Ralon marked the time in two ways: before the the death of King Trigarias and after. What came before was good. And all that came after was not.
After his departure the skies lost their vivid colours. At first they greyed, then tinted a deep crimson as if Trigarias had been the only thread holding an entire universe together. Each burst of light illuminated the earth in a similar shade. The resulting terror and uncertainty thrust each land into unnecessary war, with allies and enemies changing with each lunar cycle.
Night had swept her all-consuming shadow across the sky, and her golden stars had begun to fall. The effect was incredible. They floated down to about a metre above the ground and then winked out of existence. Tara was transfixed by the beauty of it, but such small moments of peace never lasted long in the lands of Forlania.
"Catch anythin' good today?" Tara asked the fisherman and his son, who were currently dragging their small wooden boat to shore. Their faces were long and despairing, and almost identical.
"...Not today." The fisherman, Royce, admitted with a deep-set frown. It made each and every wrinkle fold into themselves, maturing him by at least ten additional years. "The fish just aren't bitin' like they used to."
"Might just be the season." His son reassured with a firm tap to his shoulder. "They'll come back eventually. Always do."
"Not this time, Riker." The older man shook his head of thick black hair. It was like watching a small river of ink thrash around his face. "The tides haven't been kind to us. Our food swims further than we are permitted to go."
Riker, who obviously didn't take his father's ramblings seriously, simply shrugged. He had heard this same sentence so many times that he had lost count; the fish always came back eventually...though the village had typically lost a handful of people to starvation before they did.
"We could just...go where the fish are going." Tara suggested, but this only warranted a panicked expression from Royce. It wasn't completely unexpected of the paranoid man. "Or not."
"Don't let the others hear you saying that." Riker stayed, though he didn't seem as unnerved as his father was. "They'll cut your tongue out."
"Then I'll just write it."
Riker's lips quirked into an amused smile, but his father's expression only darkened. War plagued the world around them. If they left their little settlement then they would be met with nothing but hostility. With only a few small groups of human beings left, it was a risk that couldn't be taken. Not even for essential resources.
"You can't speak of such things h-"
The loud blaring of a horn interrupted Royce's oncoming lecture. There were exactly three kinds of horn sounds; the first, which was relatively high pitched, indicated that it was five minutes until curfew. The second, consisting of two short blows, meant that they were under attack. Third was a low, thunderous sound. This was the one that they had heard, and it meant that there was a potential threat to their secluded life and to gather around the Elder's Shack.
There wasn't a moment's hesitation amongst them. Immediately, all three of them hurried to the centre of their small village. There they saw the rest of their community, totalling to about twenty-five people, crowded around Elder Kaler. He was ancient, as far as Tara was concerned, with a face that sagged like melted candle wax and a sturdy, oaken walking stick.
Kneeling at the mercy of this panicking group was a Gorgon; a race of only women with long braids that, according to legend, were almost sentient. She looked completely beaten up - her face was bloody and bruised, but that was nothing compared to the deep stab wound near her hip.
The villagers had already started arguing over her fate, but the Gorgon didn't look conscious enough to defend herself.
"Get rid of her!" Mary Ralnor yelled, terror trembling in her voice. "Just one of those...things could wipe us all out!"
"We cannot." The elder declared, struggling to lean down and point towards the gem tied around her neck. It was the Prostasia; a symbol of protection throughout Forlania. Every race had only one of these unmistakable jewels, and all had agreed to never harm the wearer. Its main purpose was to allow limited trade between races. The gem punctured the atmosphere with its purple light, but the villagers still didn't look too convinced.
"She's already half dead!" Another woman said desperately. "Clearly someone else didn't hold up the accords. Why should we? We're at war. That shit don't matter anymore."
"She's hurt. We should help her." Royce stayed as if it were the most obvious choice. "If she wears the gem, then we know our duty. It doesn't matter if everyone else has forgotten."
"Help her? We barely have enough resources for ourselves!"
Riker shifted uncomfortably next to Tara. "Maybe we should just let her go then. We don't need to kill her, or help her, just leave her in the woods somewhere."
"That's just as bad as killing her ourselves." Royce argued back.
Mary grimaced. "Are you willing to take personal responsibility for what might happen if we don't kill her?"
Silence fell upon the crowd. None dared to bare the burden of saving a Gorgon, for many gems had been used in the past to scout out settlements for later attack, but Tara could guarantee that no one would be willing to personally dispose of her either. The elder didn't voice his own opinion, but it was clear that he stood by their oldest tradition of assisting any gem wearer that came to pass.
Tara's gaze flicked to the ground. Her mind was reeling at the situation, causing a rather intense headache to form on the right side of her skull. They all presented valid points. To kill the Gorgon would break ancient agreements, and possibly form enemies, but the village would be safer for it. If they let her go it was unlikely that she would survive, but if she did, then there was the possibility that she would remember their location and inform her people...helping her posed the same problem. What if, after they used all of their medical supplies and food in nursing her back to health, she returned home to lead the rest of her people to the village?
The decision wasn't clear yet, and it wouldn't be until someone agreed to take personal blame for the outcome. Tara knew that she was the only one willing to do that; whether it be for the greater good of her people, or for maintaining their honour.
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What should Tara do?
A) Kill the Gorgon. (The village may be safer for longer, but ancient bonds will be broken. Turn to Chapter Two.)
B) Let her go. (The Gorgon woman will be abandoned in the wilderness. This will not cut into supplies, and will technically not break any old laws. She may die, but if she lives it might pose a threat. Turn to Chapter Three.)
C) Help her. (Tara will take full responsibility for the Gorgon's future actions, and will personally nurse her back to health. This will cut into supplies. Once she leaves, there's the possibility that she might bring her people back with her. Turn to Chapter Four.)
