In the glowing firelight, the littles gathered in a tight semicircle—knees knocking, tails twitching, fur fluffed (depending on species and general enthusiasm). The Storyteller shuffled toward his old stump with the familiar combination of badgerly gruffness and village-elder ceremony: a rustle of robes, a huff, a groan, a sigh, and then a long negotiation with his spine before sitting became the acceptable choice.
Around them, adults completed the last soft clinks and putterings of evening chores. Someone swept a porch that was already spotless; someone else rearranged the same stack of baskets for the third time. Fireflies drifted lazily through the ferns, blinking as though wondering where they were meant to be. A breeze whispered through the leaves overhead. Crickets cleared their throats and began their nightly chorus. Stars winked conspiratorially in the deepening sky. It was another beautiful evening in Apple Grove—beautiful in precisely the same way as every evening before it.
The littles whispered impatiently, each hoping tonight’s tale might be daring enough to discuss later, though not so daring it would earn them a stern reminder about “proper bedtime thoughts.”
The Storyteller surveyed his audience, cleared his throat with operatic flourish, and began.
“In the golden light of the Nearstar lies our fabulous Undersky—a tapestry of green and gold and blue! Oceans! Forests! Mountains! All woven by omnipotent Gods and magnificent magic!
“…Or,” he added, wiggling his paws vaguely, “possibly by a series of strange chemical coincidences. I wasn’t there, mind you…”
He shrugged. “Regardless! A wonder to behold!”
He paused to ensure he had every twitching ear. He coughed delicately and continued.
“Gaze northward to the snowcapped mountains of the Frostshard region, their peaks stretching so high even the clouds refuse to climb them. Leopards and hill goats survive there by hooves and pure stubbornness. Life clings thinly—one misstep and you’re simply… gone. Poof. Like a story no one finishes.”
He let the silence stretch just a moment too long.
“Look south, and you’ll find yourselves in Thistlebriar, beyond the Shadow Peaks. Wild country. Armored dilos quarrel with Bears who have suspiciously complex opinions and very persuasive claws. Packs of Coyotes argue with the moon until dawn, and if you try to hush them—well. Teeth often have their own stance on etiquette.”
“Venture west to the Rotfen Marshes. The very thought of the stench makes me long for soap. Mud pits bubble hot enough to cook you by steam alone. Hags brood there, and Alligators lurk under the reeds—and worst of all, Leeches.”
The Badger shuddered, eliciting sympathetic twitches from the grown-ups.
“But follow the melt of the Boreal Cascade as it narrows and sweetens, and you’ll reach the splendid Gilded Burroughs. Those who crave influence or acclaim flock there. Gleaming halls! Glittering façades! Absolutely monumental tax forms! Our noble leaders devote themselves to protecting our tranquil lives. In return, they request only a modest portion of our harvest. Truly, we are fortunate—that such a small sacrifice buys such peace, such order, and the freedom to avoid all difficult decisions.”
“Follow the Cascade a little farther and you return home to Mossvale, with our fine neighbors of Root River Valley to the east—undoubtedly the loveliest, most peaceful, and most predictably uneventful places in all of Undersky. Here, everyone knows exactly who they are, and precisely what is expected of them. Comforting, isn’t it? No surprises… ever.”
Parents nodded from the shadows—perhaps a fraction too eagerly.
“So… some of you may be foolish enough to wonder what lies beyond it all. The Frostshard to the north, the Rotfen Marshes to the west, the Thistlebriar Territories to the south… but what about beyond the sea?”
His voice lowered, gentler now. Almost wistful.
“Beyond the Narrow Sea, across Samuel’s Strait, or over the Depthless Ocean lie strange lands. A desert so vast even shadows lose their way. A mountain of fire that roars at the heavens. An icy kingdom where warmth freezes solid. Wondrous realms… but terribly dangerous. Best admired from a very comfortable distance—or from someone else’s story altogether.”
“Tell us about those places!” an overeager squirrel called out.
The Badger folded his paws, smile gentle but stretched just a touch too tightly.
“Oh, little ones… how fortunate you are to live here in Apple Grove, in the safe and settled lands of Mossvale, under the careful guidance of the Gilded Burroughs. So secure. So well provided for. Everything you need to know has already been decided long before it might trouble you. You needn’t fret about what lies beyond the oceans… or even beyond the borders of your own homes.”
He clapped his paws. “Now off you go! Sleep deeply, dream sweetly, and rest assured—tomorrow will be every bit as peaceful as today.”
The littles were briskly whisked away. Parents murmured their thanks as the old badger gathered his robes and wrestled himself upright.
Only once the grove was empty did he pause.
He glanced toward the dark horizon, where the fireflies’ glow surrendered to the unknown. His jaw tightened, his shoulders sagging just a fraction. A whisper—too low for even the crickets to hear—escaped him.
“Oh, if only that were true.”
He brushed pine needles from his robe, straightened himself, and limped back toward the warmly lit cottages… the last of the night’s smiles fading behind him.
