act41side

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

The Victorians are retreating, not fighting!

Tara has gotten back all its territory!

Peace will be restored to all of Tara by Samhain!

Stop the cart.

I've been ordered to escort you directly to meet Her Highness, with no delays.

Before I meet her, I need to see it with my own eyes—my sister's city, post-war Tara, the survivors and civilians—have their new lives finally begun?

...If you insist.

But the people are not yet prepared for two red dragons—

Of course I know that.

Just—just take these!

These knives, axes, and bowls are all made of iron. They'll make for good materials.

I beg you, Culann, take them... even if you have to melt them down and make some eyes for our statue.

Autumn is almost over, and mornings in Na Saoirsí are cold and damp.

A pair of scarred, weathered hands rub against the cold and dry metal goods—much like a soldier running their fingers over a medal of valor in wartime.

The people yell out his name, hoping the broken tools in their hands will be accepted, smelted, and used by the hero to forge the statue.

The hero... yes, the hero... Every story needs a hero like that.

Theo! Theo! Come help carry this stuff into the workshop.

I mean now, Theo! I'll help you sharpen your knife tonight.

What a lazy brat. This is what you get for pampering him too much.

No, uh, I mean, doesn't matter if that boy's around, just take everything, please!

I can't take <i>everything</i>. We all need these tools to get by. And that goes double for your prosthetic leg.

I—

I'm standing up fine, aren't I?

That wooden leg Nemos made is only temporary. Once better craftsmen arrive in town, they can repair your iron one.

But you're making a statue to commemorate our victory in the war—one that'll be displayed in the main square during Samhain!

Frankly, it'd be an honor for my rusty old leg to be a part of that.

No means no.

Just take it, already. It's all old stuff we'd have thrown out while cleaning anyway—no one's got any use for them.

What's wrong with these bowls? They look perfectly fine to me.

We can use clay ones instead. As for the axes, we'll just share the few we've got left.

The war just ended, and the city's short on everything. If we don't help you, how will the statue ever be finished?

Still, I can't accept used prosthetics, no matter what.

You're a great man, my hero, but you can be so stubborn!

Loughshinny slowly walks into the crowd.

For some reason, she feels as though there's something separating her from them. As if she's looking at them from the other side of a bonfire.

Excuse me, what are you all doing?

A new face in town? Haven't seen many of those lately! Where are you from, Vouivre?

I've returned to Tara from a place far, far away.

See, Culann? If you'd just taken everything without a fuss, you wouldn't have embarrassed yourself in front of our countryman from afar.

My answer is still no. Not the prosthetic leg. The other stuff... fine.

Why are people donating their pots, pans, and prosthetics?

Because we all want to erect a statue in the square for Samhain, to celebrate Tara's rebirth.

It's to celebrate Samhain?

I've only ever come across the festival in Taran folklore. It's held after the autumn harvest and before winter, yes? And it's meant to connect this shore to the next.

You know your stuff, Vouivre!

We used to just celebrate the harvest every year. It was the Dublinners who told us about the festival's historical origins.

So we sweep our houses, prepare feasts for our guests, and most importantly, light bonfires! On the day when life and death intertwine, we welcome all visitors to the banquet... There's so much to do!

And since this is the first Samhain since Tara's rebirth, it should be even more grand.

Good thing, too. Otherwise, Culann would never accept our old pots even if he had to tear down his own house instead.

Speaking of, do you have any iron of your own you'd like to donate, so the hero can add it to the statue?

All I have on me is a bookmark. I <i>think</i> it's made of iron. Will that do?

You don't need to listen to her, Taran from afar.

Haha...

So what sort of statue are you making?

A red dragon, to celebrate Tara's rebirth.

A red dragon...

I'm telling you, Culann, if you don't take my prosthetic leg, I—I won't leave until you do!

Then I suppose I'll have to pick you up and carry you back myself.

Ugh! You and your gigantic muscles! By the time Samhain is over and the statue has been erected, we'll all be living the good life. We'll be able to make as many prosthetics as we want!

Just imagine: a massive dragon statue standing tall in the night. Even through winter, its flames will remain lit, just like in the legends. Why it'd be enough to drive off the man-eating mist...

And we wouldn't have to obey that blasted curfew anymore—

The curfew is an order approved by the Red Dragon, put in place to ensure our safety.

I know that. Of course I know that!

As they speak, more and more people begin to gather around them, until the alley is completely blocked. They each carry all manner of things meant to be melted down for the statue.

Culann patiently receives each new visitor as the objects at his feet begin to pile up. He's quite a large man, but even he can't carry all of them at once.

Allow me to help you, Culann.

Oh, no need for that. My apprentice, Theo—

Can you really count on Theo, though? We have no idea where that rascal ran off to! He talks a good game, but slacks off when no one's watching—typical Victorian!

And how old was he when his parents died? Does he even remember Victoria?

So what's your name, friend?

Reed.

Have you found a place to stay yet? You're welcome to stay at my place for the night—you wouldn't want to be wandering the streets during curfew, that's for sure.

I think I do. But... a curfew? You mean the city has a lights-out bell?

Not quite. Victoria used lights-out bells to suppress the Tarans. Na Saoirsí's curfew is to safeguard us.

The black mist lingers in the Dark Woods, shielding all of Na Saoirsí from outsiders, but at times, it also drifts into the city streets.

The curfew is meant to prevent anyone from encountering the mist. It permits no trespass—anyone who enters without permission will never return.

You mean the mist really eats people?

...Listen to yourself. You come all this way, and <i>this</i> is what you ask about? Look, things will be better soon, just you wait.

Now come with me. I'll show you around Na Saoirsí.

What about the man building the statue? Culann, was it? What is he going to do? I know a bit of Arts. Perhaps I could help him.

Oh, don't worry about him! He's a genuine hero! He once dispatched an entire Victorian scout team in the Dark Woods. Unfortunately, he was a bit of a softy at the last moment. He's the only one willing to put up with Theo's nonsense.

All by himself? Really?

Well, in the woods. The forest has always been on the Tarans' side—Ugh! Stop changing the subject, Reed!

Just come with me and have some ale and stewed meat. It'll warm you right up!

You must know that you've come home at the perfect time.

Phew. Well, at least there are still potatoes in the store...

Damn! Look at the time! I'm late!

Who's the one charging through here like a wrecking ball—?

Theo?

Sorry, sorry. I'm just in a hurry to get back. I didn't mean to bump into you, sir. Here. Let me wipe that off for you.

...You dare to disrespect me, too?

What? No, no. Maybe I misspoke. I was just wondering if you needed help—

Stay away from me!

The man raises his cane and strikes Theo hard on the chest, knocking him away.

The morning mist has long since gathered in the uneven crevices of the stone pavement, forming murky puddles. Caught off guard, Theo stumbles backward and falls straight into one.

You Victorian scoundrel! Who do you think you are? How dare you offer me charity?!

Urgh...!

Put that cane away! What's going on here?

Are you okay, Theo?