Drylo and the Ruby of Talimast – A Halfling’s Tale of Mystery

Talimast was not for the faint of heart. Life on its jagged eastern cliffs, overlooking the gray-churned waves of the Parumgan Sea, demanded fortitude even from the hardiest souls. The cold there wasn’t just cold—it was a presence, a biting, whispering thing that clung to flesh and soul alike. And yet, nestled along those cliffs and battered coasts, lived the Halflings, small in stature but mighty in endurance. Their homes carved into wind-swept rock, their boats cutting through icy spray, these resilient folk had long embraced the sea’s cruelty as part of their rhythm.

Among them lived a curious young Halfling named Drylo, whose bare, padded feet trod unflinching over the frost-bitten stone. Winter was approaching swiftly, but Drylo paid it little mind. Unlike others who grumbled over the cold, he felt at home among the biting winds and the salt-stiffened mist. With a quiet nod to the sky, he made his way toward the cliffs as he did most mornings—alone, thoughtful, wandering.

His father, Balengo, an old sheep farmer with a voice like rolling stones, was already awake and lecturing no one in particular. “To achieve a life of meaning, one must first define what is meaningful,” Balengo declared to the open dawn, likely unaware that Drylo had wandered off without listening. The elder Halfling’s words echoed behind him, floating out into the brisk morning like smoke from a fire.

Drylo wasn’t in search of meaning—at least not consciously. But something in him stirred with each gust of sea air and with each crash of wave against stone. He climbed the tallest cliff, where the Daigatar Coast stretched out like a silver ribbon into a haze. This was his sanctuary. The city of Talimast lay below, distant and almost forgotten, and Drylo stared across the water as if he might find answers in the shimmer of its surface.

He sat in silence, letting the morning air sting his skin and the mist dampen his curls. Though small and unassuming, Drylo held within him a fire, a desire to feel something greater than the mundane. The sea always gave him that feeling—wild, dangerous, mysterious.

His sister, Evynta, found him there. Bent with age and a limp from an old injury, she had once been the swiftest among them. Now nearing her seventy-eighth summer, she still bore a sparkle in her eye that even time hadn’t dulled.

“You’ll freeze yourself to death, fool boy,” she scolded, draping a thick blanket over his shoulders. “And worse, you don’t listen when I call. You’ve got a head thicker than Gweloch’s fence posts.”

Drylo grinned but didn’t respond. He couldn’t explain the feeling that held him there. A hunger, perhaps—but not for food.

“Do you even eat while you’re out here staring at the sea?” Evynta asked as they returned home. Drylo gave a cheeky response about playing cards with sharks and snacking on fish tails, but it only made his father snort.

“You’re wasting your time with stories. You should learn a trade,” Balengo muttered.

“Wouldn’t it be something if the Talimast navy turned their cannons on their own cliffs?” Drylo said suddenly, eyes twinkling with dramatic flair.

“What are you on about now?” his father asked with furrowed brows.

Evynta quickly redirected the moment, asking if Drylo had picked up supplies from Farmer Gweloch yet. He had not, and so, with a heavy basket and two cold rolls, he was ushered back out into the coastal wind.

As he trudged along the rocky path, his coat still lying at the bottom of the basket, Drylo’s mind wandered into the clouds. The cliffs, the cold, the sea—he barely felt them. The world seemed to blur into one long breath until the gruff call of Gweloch snapped him back.

“What do you want?” Gweloch’s raspy voice echoed.

Gweloch, blind and grumpy as a wet badger, was arguing with his pigs again. His enormous sow squealed in reply, stomping through muck. “No, I don’t care if the sky’s blue or the mud’s dry. You’re still a fat sack of trouble,” the farmer muttered.

Drylo chuckled softly. These moments—odd, meaningless, surreal—were strangely precious.

But something shifted in Gweloch’s tone. “I only wanted to be whole again,” he murmured to no one in particular. “Living in this hell and brought out with your smile… and now it is hell again.”

For the first time that day, Drylo was speechless. He watched as Gweloch, lost in a memory, wiped his face clean of emotion and called him forward.

They went inside. The cottage smelled of old wood and salt. Drylo’s eyes landed on the farmer’s carved wooden ships—beautiful vessels whittled from memory, even in blindness. But one object stole his attention: a half-finished scrimshaw ship carved from a large, pale bone. His hand twitched toward it, drawn by something deeper than admiration.

Suddenly, a flash of red caught his eye. Behind an old cabinet, something pulsed—glowed. Drylo hesitated only a second before reaching toward it. His fingers closed around a ruby that blazed like fire—and everything went cold.

A sharp, metallic chime rang in his ears. Then darkness. Trees. The forest.

Drylo was no longer in Gweloch’s cottage. Instead, he stood among gnarled trees in a place he did not know, under a sky thick with menace. Another Halfling stood nearby—Jorsh—though neither knew how the other had come to be there.

Jorsh clutched the ruby now, eyes wide with fear. Around them, the forest pulsed with unnatural light and sound. Something ancient stirred.

Twigs snapped. Air hissed. Threads of invisible webbing brushed Jorsh’s skin as he backed away, only to feel a sharp sting—something had grabbed him. Panic set in. Voices, harsh and garbled, filled the forest.

Then came the beast.

A black wolf, massive and monstrous, stepped into the clearing, its breath steaming in the chill. It growled low, its eyes fixed on Jorsh with fatal certainty.

It leapt.

But before the jaws could close, the beast froze midair—shuddering, bound by an unseen force. Then it collapsed. Its body crumpled, fading like ash in wind.

The ruby was there, still glowing, half-buried in dirt.

Jorsh stepped forward slowly, brushing away the remnants of the beast. He reached out—just as Drylo had done earlier—and in that moment, the trees whispered. The forest knew their names.

Moral of the Story

Even the smallest among us can be drawn to the great mysteries of life. Curiosity may lead us into danger, but it also opens doors to truth, wonder, and self-discovery.