Druid Tolstoy Concept Draft

16 Sep, 2025

The following is a draft of a fantasy novella started Aug. 4th, 2024

I adjusted my legs again, glancing around. Towers of documents loomed from upon the desk across the room. Not a single stray paper had been allowed to break up the walls of the paper monolith.

I withdrew my eyes from the towers to inspect my nails. I suppressed the urge to clean the rugged edges with my teeth, but only just. The clicking of my fingernails against each other as i weathered the edges away seemed to reverberate in the empty space.

As the noise became unbearable, instead I picked at the stitches of the couch. Its leather cushions overpromised its comfort—emblematic of the office at large. Symmetrical and orderly. Boring and cold. Organized such that the books and documents became props in the office’s set: an abstractionist’s render of bureaucratic supremacy.

It wasn’t my first time making the observation—I had done so every time I was brought here.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I lurched back to reality. A spectacled man peered out between the framing of the towers, perched on an armchair that matched the couch beneath me, and holding an uncanny notebook on his lap and smiling an uncanny smile.

I stared at the notebook—too far, and cleverly positioned, to be readable. He flicked his pen. I tried very hard not to smile.

“This is the fourth time we’ve had to bring you in.”

I went back to examining the room. Bookshelves, now. It had become something of a game for me. I enter this strange room, sit on a couch that no reasonable person would have chosen to furnish their office, and wait until the man with the notebook becomes irritated. The second half of the game was trying not to let him catch on. It had proven to be an invaluable pastime, as it was becoming increasingly clear that I would be spending a fair bit of time here. I already had.

The man with the notebook sighed and closed it. “Fine then.”

He was catching on despite my best efforts.

I rose to leave, but his gaze stopped me. I didn’t resent the man, not really. He looked at me like a wounded animal—pathetic and in need of help. We disagreed on my state, and that was the genesis of our adversarial relationship. But when he gave me this look, I admit I felt some guilt. Perhaps it would be easier to let him believe he was right–he’d certainly be happier--but there are other consequences for that.

“What is it?” I mustered.

He shook his head and motioned with his hands, only gently enough to avoid spattering bits of ink on the manicured armrests, signaling he wouldn’t answer. That was unusual. He was typically more than willing to reciprocate the few times I spoke. I nodded and exited.

I walked through the doorway, closed the door behind me, and sighed. Before me stretched a long hallway. In stark contrast to where I had spent the last few hours, this hallway was spartan and proudly hostile. Stone floors, cavernous ceilings, and poor enough lighting to make the most haughty of the aristocracy feel small. Dimly lit alcoves were smothered in ambiguous shadows–inviting even hardened generals to imagine someone watching them.

In spite of the claustrophobic architecture, I always felt like prey in the open here. As, I’m sure, I was meant to.

I hurried towards the opposite end of the corridor. A staircase arose before me as I budged open a heavy wooden door. The echo of the door closing emphasized my exit, and the dull clap of my boots against the stone stairs rose to replace it. Daylight welcomed me as the door’s echo vanished—reminding me of my poor rest the night before. I strode past simple barred windows, past nondescript doors–each with a number but no other identifier-–into the courtyard upon which this hideous building imposed. Despite the anxieties of my visits here, exiting via this courtyard inspired a feeling of tranquility. Time stood still here, especially in the mornings. Most good people were still sleeping, or readying themselves for the day ahead. The rays of sun that breached the courtyard’s walls were gentle and warm. My shoulders dropped, my neck loosened, and my steps slowed.

I projected my impression of stoicism, but this place shook me. Rattled me violently as though it was gripping me with all the force of a bear trying to tear me in two. The joy I felt leaving was one of frantic relief, an end to the traumas that had begun my morning. I didn’t want to come back here. I knew I would.

My body and mind still recovering, but lighter, I headed towards the gate. A young person in military garb passed me without so much as a “hello,” and I was glad to be spared. They were, of course, no torturer of mine, but it was difficult to draw the line.

Past the courtyard my gait picked up and before long I was buried in morning bustle. My legs had carried me to one of my favorite places. Working people chattered and moved between brick and stucco buildings: a mix of shops and workshops, inns and bars, the odd cafe and of course many homes. This was a place where no one was above the flow of traffic. If you stood carelessly at an intersection, a middle aged woman carrying freight would bark at you or a young boy would dance between your legs likewise reminding you that you are no better then them. It didn’t matter how many books were in your office, how tall your pillars of paper: no one deserved time you didn’t have to give.

Soaking in the familiar buzz of the morning market all the while, I maneuvered down an alley towards the place I always found myself after a difficult night. A red awning was being unfurled as I approached.

“Same as usual?” the old man asked as he worked the awning’s crank.

“Bit stronger.”

The man smiled, put a dowel in the mechanism, and shouted back to a young woman I knew was behind a wooden bar. I sat down beneath the awning on a small iron bench other patrons rarely deigned suitable. I felt the sun gently caress my face as it peaked passed the buildings’ roofs and into the alley. The bench was still cool to the touch, contrasting the smattering of sunlight peaking through the corner of the storefront. I closed my eyes.

“Don’t go sleeping here,” said a voice, playfully scolding. I opened my eyes to see her carrying a hot drink and a small package I recognized as a milky sweet.

I reached out to take them from her. “Thank you Maggie, I won’t.” But she stayed out of arms’ reach.

“I go by Margaret these days.”

“That’s a pretty name, too.”

“Where’ve you been this time?”

“Small village to the north. Poor yield, they said.”

“Did you fix it?”

“No.”

She handed me my coffee with a sad smile. “Will they be ok?” I thanked her again, and hurriedly sipped while she took a seat next to me, careful to arrange her skirt such that the metal burrs wouldn’t catch.

“Not sure. Can’t do much for them. Been poor weather most of the spring, and the seeds have been weak for years now.”

She looked at me inquisitively. She gave me that look whenever I spoke about work. I’d never quite gotten accustomed to it, but her youthful energy was invigorating and I was always grateful for her company. Hard to hold anything against someone like her.

“Will the Council do something about it?” She looked away as she spoke. We both knew the answer.

I took a sip of my coffee. It was still too hot but saving my tongue was secondary to avoiding the thought my companion had put in the air between us. I pulled a sweet from my pocket and dropped it into the stone mug, twirling it around.

“I’m thinking I might find another line of work.”

The girl laughed and stood up. She looked at me with her piercing bright eyes. Her gaze reflected all the pity my quip had invited, as well as that same undertone of curiosity. She looked longer than a moment, knowing I couldn’t get away from her when I had this mug to empty.

“You always say that.” She went back inside.

The candy clinked around the bottom of my cup.

Some time later I opened my eyes for the third time this morning.

A small cart had attempted muscling passed the awning. Its shepard was exchanging exasperated grumblings with the cafe owner. My empty mug was still sitting snugly between my legs, where I’d left it as I dozed off. I stretched and stood up.

Maggie noticed me stirring and came to take my cup, money, and well wishes as I stumbled off still groggy. The market had transitioned, phasing from morning prep towards midday business. Stalls and workshops hawked their wares, calling out to each passerby with a mix of flattery and sloganeering.

I went largely unacknowledged. Those who recognized me knew I was an unlikely customer, and those that didn’t still recognized my worn out uniform. Green trousers and a distinctly cut brown jacket identified me as underpaid. Not quite as repellant as sores and coughing, but nonetheless my slim wallet keeps others at bay.

One shopkeeper stopped me to ask how long I was staying. “Not sure quite yet.”

She nodded and wished me well. The older generations had a greater tolerance. Benefits from their memory of a time when folks like me did work folks noticed. These days, not so much.

As I walked, I recalled back to Maggie’s questions. Truthfully, I thought that village was probably scuppered. The fields were ailing, and too far gone for my meager talents. The fields’ caretakers were growing old, alongside the tools of their trade. The locally powerful were apathetic, and the market always welcomed newcomers as potential labor and customers alike. Everyone moved inward eventually.

I took a left into another alley. This one less hospitable–certainly no carts trying to squeeze through–but even more familiar. A faded sign hung on a post above one of the doors, entirely unreadable yet instantly recognizable. Home. As much as there is one.

As I entered, a young man gave me a halfhearted wave of acknowledgement as I headed up to the second floor. Second door on the right, door locked behind me, and an exasperated sigh. My body connected with a stiff mattress and time passed instantly again.

I slept less restfully than at the cafe. Memories of my morning appointment hounded me. Long hallways and the glossy spines of leather bound books were my dream’s manifestation of undue anxiety and I awoke feeling more on edge than good sense could endeavor to explain. Despite my best efforts, there was little I could do to ward off the feeling of inevitability. I knew I’d have to go back there sooner rather than later. The man with the notebook would ask me asinine questions, I would study him like a strangely colored mold, he would become exasperated and ask me to leave. Again and again. I couldn’t wrap my head around what they wanted to achieve. The exercise felt so pointedly pointless. As though the entire performance was just to send some cryptic message–the end being the very discomfort I felt as I rose from my mattress and lackadaisically gathered the clothes from yesterday and put them on. Pleasant smells finally broke my stupor.

As I made my way back to the inn’s foyer, I was greeted with a healthy buzz of other patrons. The food here was a treat for travellers and locals alike–attracting a raucous bunch of diners. Some quietly alone, more dining in groups. Families, coworkers, colleagues and comrades all met here to commiserate, celebrate, and gorge themselves on grilled meats and vegetables. I took command of a small stool by the bar and motioned to the barman. A mug of lukewarm water was passed to me. I was thankful.

The activity helped me to feel at ease. I never felt myself when I was alone. Being alone allowed for far too much freedom of thought and no good could come from thinking about my station. Being surrounded by people, even if their joy was altogether removed from me, was where I felt most comfortable. I spent my evening soaking in the atmosphere, sipping and listening to fragmented conversation.

Some time later, however, as I turned to depart back to my room, the barman moved towards me.

“Forgot to mention, we got something for you.” He produced a small letter from his breast pocket and put it on the bar before me.

I thanked him and hurriedly tore the seal. After so much tribulation, I had been gifted a reprieve.

To those stationed in regions including Newtown and its municipalities,

You are being deployed to the village of Hastville. Take the west highway departing from Newtown for 64 miles. The requester, a man named Bard, is the local botanist and will brief you on the details of the request. Please remember that you are representative of the Guild of Verdant Lands and should act as such. Any altercations with Newtown’s municipal government will be met with penalties to pay and the potential for formal demerits.

Lord

I’d passed through Hastville a few times prior. It’s a nice place–quiet, friendly people. The region specialized in growing a tuberous fern species that had been imported some centuries ago. It grew well in the limey soil around here, but most folks couldn’t be bothered to collect and propagate the spores, so it had become something of a rarity. Good for Hastville’s farmers, but not so good for fans of the dishes that used the tubers’ starch or enjoyed them fried. The prices had really exploded.

In any case, I once again had purpose and destination. Work to be done, and it was too far for any notebook-wielding sadists to chase.

Bit odd, though. These ferns were hardy as just about any plant in the region. For them to be afflicted doesn’t seem quite right, and it seemed likely I would be short on the materials needed to remedy something virulent enough to kill it. A problem for the future, however.

I thanked the barman once more and departed to my room. Two uniforms, a few spare shirts and trousers, whatever socks and underwear were still wearable, and a satchel full of poultices, acids, powders, and substrates to aid an ailing herb. Hadn’t even begun to unpack my small collection of possessions. I ensured everything was put by the door and turned in for the final time today.

I slept soundly.

Come morning, I gathered my things, left a note for the young man notifying the innkeeper I would be gone for some time, and headed to my favourite cafe.

The awning still neatly tucked above the entryway, I peered through the window to see if I could convince Maggie or the owner to let me pay them for their brew. Much to my disappointment, I was too early to witness the morning pre. Much to my joy, I pulled away from the window to see Maggie pulling her key from her bag behind me.

“You’re early!”

Flustered having been caught making puppy eyes towards an empty cafe, I stammered out an explanation, intermingled with a soft plea for coffee.

Maggie just chuckled and held the door for me, “put your bags on one of the tables and help me clean the bar, I’ll pay you in coffee.”

Twice in as many days, I was overjoyed at being put to work.

The cafe’s bar was one solid slab of stonewood, polished to a sheen by decades of regular use. The decor commanded the same reverence as the centuries old trees I recall witnessing as a student. I paused to breath it in–the cool morning air mingled with the lingering aroma of roasted coffee washed over me.

“Any time now,” Maggie called from across the room.

I placed my bags as instructed, rolled up my sleeves, and pulled a cloth from my pockets to clean my hands. Maggie passed me her own cloth, took mine, and thus I was on my way.

We worked for some time–light from the window beginning to shine through, highlighting the shimmer where we’d scrubbed. I dunked the last mug into the basin and began wiping it down as Maggie squeezed passed behind me.

“Where are you headed this time?”

“Hastville. Little town westward. Nice place, grows ferns.”

“I know it. My momma used to date someone from Hastville. He was nice.” Maggie grabbed a mug I’d cleaned and took it with her to the grinder. “How long’ll you be gone?” She raised her voice to overcome the whir of grinding beans.

“Not sure. I get the letter telling me where to go, I pack my things and I go. Details happen once I’m there. Best guess, maybe a couple weeks?”

The whir of the grinder continued as I stowed the final mug and emptied the sink basin. Watching Maggie crank the grinder, I looked around for something more to do.

The grinder quieted.

Maggie looked at me with an expression that didn’t suit her. “You going to be alright?”

I was taken aback by the question and didn’t really know what to think–let alone say.

My bewilderment must have shown. “Whenever you come back, you don’t seem yourself.”

I understood. “I get called in for debriefing when I return. It’s just tiring is all.”

Maggie had placed the grinded coffee into a canister and was now holding her kettle, looking away from me as she poured with the steady hand of an expert. For a while I watched her, on the back foot after her pointed questions. Maggie was some years my junior, and yet both wiser and more thoughtful than I had ever hoped to become. When I had first found this cafe, some years ago, I was freshly stationed in Newtown and Maggie was an energetic girl working morning in her grandfather’s business, wiping down tables and teasing the regulars before heading to the gymnasium for schooling. That was some years ago now, and while I had wizened and drooped beyond my age, Maggie had mellowed to elegance. Her insight and empathy was well known among the working folks in the neighbourhood, and transformed cafe visitors into regulars. Her care for me was something I counted among my best features.

Maggie finished her pouring and turned to me again. “I’ve heard the rumors about the Guild. I don’t know where they’re coming from but I know they can’t be true. I’m worried you’ll get into trouble with everything being said.”

Ah, that explains it. “It’s alright, we’re just not fitting into the Lord’s plans for Newtown these days.”

“Where do we get our beans if you folks don’t manage the nurseries down south? The price of those ferns in Hastville forced us to import starch from outside the municipalities. Folks keep moving in to the city but they don’t bring anything for trade. Lord Cresteel can plan whatever he likes but people need to eat and people want to eat well.” Maggie placed the coffeed mug in my hands. “It’s strange how much people’ve been changing. Our regulars are getting younger but fewer men. The boys class at school is so small the mistress’ been worried she might have to downsize.”

I’d never seen her so plainly upset. I averted my eyes, sipping my coffee and desperately searching for a place to look that wouldn’t let Maggie catch on to my own discomfort. “I’m not sure what’ll happen. I just try to make plants grow right.”

Maggie’s eyes glimmered. “Get going, you. I’m loaning you the mug. If you stay much longer the roads’ll get hot.” She brushed passed me, pausing briefly as her hair tickled my face, and disappeared into the closet in the back of the cafe.

I did as I was told.

#Fantasy #Writing