Fawn's Veil

The Girl

The ground was burnt, hardened, soaked in hatred, and scattered with fine crystal shards that spilled blood from foolish skin.

Why this planet? she thought.

Digging her toes in against the wind, her little feet struggled to resist the hostility of the red ground beneath her. She lifted her hands to shield her aberrant eyes from the burning dust and gazed out over the Village.

Fawn often found herself trying to imagine what desperation had forced the settlers to stop here, so very long ago.

Tutors of her primary learning taught her that some pilgrims had brought with them the Godsless technology of past humanity. Her people knew that mass technological freedom had caused the failure of ancient civilization.

As she wandered along, following inside the crude, colossal Village perimeter fence, she let herself take a moment to observe those close by. It was easy for her mind to drift, just as her feet did.

The civilian villagers all bore layers of dry dust on their drab clothing and skin. They were swarthy from the harsh nature of the dark red star: the pitiless celestial was responsible for unyielding heat and a faded crimson light.

Almost all the people stayed in the shade at every opportunity. Their whole Village was designed accordingly.

Occasionally, Fawn’s attention would stray from the villagers to the strangely dressed Soldiers that stood like menacing specters in various locations. They wore a uniform garb, fundamentally different from the surrounding people.

The cloth was light-absorbent black in its entirety, silken in nature, and defiant in its glory. It provided resistance to any accumulating dust.

Having been made to fit perfectly, their outfit had the unusual feature of appearing seamless. It even encompassed their hands in gloves, as well as feet in shoes of a sort, fitted with an additional sole that allowed grip on any surface short of total verticality. The Soldiers appeared as though they were sewn into their clothing somehow.

A metal thread embroidered cowl shrouded their head and face, kept firmly in place by a pin that cut into the top of their forehead, leaving the light to reflect skin far paler than the villagers.

The only visible contrast on the clothing was a metallic asymmetrical chevron: an item akin to an inverted hook made only of straight lines, featured just below the throat.

The Village had no obvious leader, so the black-clad Soldiers were the only authority, known to the villagers as the ‘Cast’.

A small boy passed too close to one of their stations: dirt and dust struck the lad’s face as the Soldier turned swiftly with sudden force, leering at him. His piercing stare locked the boy’s gaze, causing his nervous little eyes to widen and slowly drop to the sword—now in the Soldier’s hand.

The sword itself was a masterpiece of the highest order: the metal from which it was constructed stood in defiance of expectation.

A blade so thin as to barely reflect light, the pommel comprised almost all the weight of the instrument. The handle had been meticulously crafted to fit in the hand so precisely that it made sword movement as intuitive as a gesture.

The lad had seen what happened to anyone who aroused the irritation of the Cast. His feet slid against the loose dirt as he struggled to scramble away. All the villagers knew to stay away from these hazardous zealots, far enough so as to never be caught within range of one of their ‘gestures’.

The boy finally succeeded in getting to his feet and made for the other children in the distance with all speed. Watching him carefully, Fawn felt the boy’s fear as he ran toward her and the other children. She imagined the danger he faced, and it tightened her stomach.

In a vacant space near the Village entrance gate, there was a marked-out play area, denoted only by jagged, crystalline rocks placed at each of its four corners. Some of these rocks had an unusual reddish tinge, built upon further as the panicked boy fell and struck his arm against one, splitting the skin instantly—pouring his blood across its coarse, razor-like surface.

A few children were running around within the defined area, jovially reaching for each other and stumbling about. The rules of their game seemed lax, but they were enjoying themselves, if only in a constrained sense.

The children would often tug at their long sack-like clothing. Made with sleeves to the elbow, and pants or dresses to the ankle, they were poorly fitted, and abraded the skin.

Focusing her attention on the other children as she drew closer to the field, Fawn could feel them looking at her. She had modified her clothes: her dress was closer to knee-length, and the sleeves were all but gone.

Lighter in her steps and more playful than the others, she had more of a sense of exuberance about her and stood out against the dusty, disheveled background.

Fawn exhibited a peerless enthusiasm, reflected in her bright, crystal-clear eyes of shifting liquid that rarely settled on any one color.

They were so unusual that most people would look away rather than into them, and none were ever certain of what shade they had seen. Her gilded skin reacted in a unique way to the light, like the texture of an ancient, treasured metallic statue. She often felt highlighted by her varied visage and not always for the better.

The violent and destroyed environment of this world had been without the joy of safety for some time. The harsh nature of the villagers meant there were no happy, playful children—just frightened and mistreated ones.

These irregular moments of relatively carefree behavior exhibited by local youth as they played had a real rarity to them, drawing a lot of attention whenever they happened.

Although she would play with the others from time to time, the game would become dull for Fawn after a while: she found she would catch the other children too easily and never get caught herself.

She walked around the edge of the marked-out space. Moving slowly, she drew shapes in the loose dirt with her toes. The wind howled as it battered the Village’s outer wall. Dust forced against its upper edge plumed into the air in dense sheets and came cascading back down inside the poorly made interior.

Built with its entrance gate on the flat of the land, the Village dropped away down a hill. This kept most of it in frequent, nearly constant shade.

Buildings were made of rudimentary rough sawn timber. Fawn had never seen where the wood had come from, but the notion fascinated her.

There were some exceptions: those buildings were composed of dry sandstone, and had stood for much longer. The whole place was a crudely intermingled scattering of structures, a poorly conceived monument to a failing species.

Away from the center of the Village and overlooking everything from the highest point stood a reinforced, guarded tower––a stark contrast to all around it. Unpleasant looking, and far more carefully built than anything else in the Village, it was made of better materials, and built to impose authority.

Fawn tilted her head up toward the ten-story edifice, nervously regarding the platforms that protruded from the circumference of the tower. Separated from each other like fingers splayed out, each platform appeared around the length of a person and varied in width.

The sun’s crimson light reflected off of something metal on one of the platforms, dancing across Fawn’s eyes. She turned quickly from the whole image, disappointed that she had let herself linger as long as she had.

She made her way down the hill: away from the tower, the gate, the wall, and the children’s field, toward a small, modest structure, among others of its kind. The wholly unremarkable place Fawn called home, was made of the same wood as the rest of the Village and only just held together.

Unlike the girl herself, the house in which she lived had no outstanding qualities. Flying in the face of all sense, it stood two stories tall, shaking and wavering in the wind, and seemed to move even if there were no breeze.

The front door opened easily as she nudged it, revealing a few panels of poor flooring before a set of paltry, narrow stairs built against the left wall. To the right, there were four pillars coming straight down onto the dirt floor.

Behind the pillars stood a rough boarded area, dressed with a long narrow table set with three crudely fashioned stools. A simplistic food preparation bench had been built beside the table, with a shelf above it holding various rudimentary jars. Some jars contained Fawn’s favorite foods: others offered strange, strongly flavored leaves that she would stay away from entirely, given the chance.

Dust covered all surfaces, and there had been no effort made to remove it. Over time, the gritty, ever-present material had accumulated into a dense layer. Rounding corners and edges, it was as though it should be considered something that was part of the building itself.

–Garrick M Lynch–