Hope...
It's a word that glimmers in the mind, a fragile ember that refuses to die, no matter how cold the world becomes. Some say hope is a luxury, a fool's comfort for those too stubborn to accept the weight of reality. Others call it a weapon, a quiet rebellion against the darkness, a reason to rise each morning when the sky is still grey and the stones are still cold.
That's why the old stories fear it. Why tyrants try to burn it from the root. Because real hope isn't passive. It's hunger. On the planet Baedakar, hope is both. It is the silent promise in a mother's eyes as she sends her children to the mines, the whispered prayer before the first light flickers in the communal square.
It is the ache in the bones of the old, who remember stories of a time when the world was kinder, and the stubborn spark in the young, who dream of something more than dust and stone. But hope, here, is also a burden. It sharpens every disappointment, makes every failure heavier. It lingers in the quiet moments between shifts, in the hush before dawn, in the way people look to the abnormal sky and wonder if something better might ever come. On Baedakar, hope is the hardest thing to kill, and the hardest thing to keep.
The morning begins as it always does, with the sound of stone grinding against stone, the constant fierce breezes against the thick rugged walls, and the thin pale light that never quite reaches the canyon floor.
The acrid air, thick with the reek of machinery oil, rouses most of the village elders, while the younger folk have already begun their work in the mines in the dim morning light. The elders emerge from their homes almost like they are undead, their footsteps dragged in weary unison, a sluggish, synchronized shuffle echoing through the canyon. It is almost like they have lost all the hope they once had, their spirits so depleted they seemed like shadows of the living, mere husks going through the motions until they meet their fate, either through an untimely crush beneath a boulder dislodged from the canyon's treacherous ceiling, or from the slow, corrosive sickness brought on by the ever, present sulphureous fumes swirling in the wind. On the contrary, the village young radiate hope, energy and an inner fight to make their home a better place for all.
As the elders graze through the narrow, winding paths connecting the makeshift houses carved into the canyon walls, clustered together to preserve heat and provide additional shelter to the inhabitants. The paths worn smooth and slippery by the generations of footsteps, with some small craters from the falling debris from the canyon ceiling.
People are now converging from different paths and doorways, all drawn to the heart of the village, the communal square. By far the most populated place in Baedakar, it is the central place to get all the necessities to survive. The cracked stone well at its centre, standing firm since far longer than anyone can remember. Some battered benches arranged in a rough circle around the well is a very popular spot for the elders to sit and ponder about the daily struggles of Baedakar, and feeding the stone, grey feathered Crestwings. One of the many myths of the village. If the Crestwings return each morning, there is still hope for change, and a reminder that not all things are bound by the canyon's walls. Crestwings are therefore seen as living symbols of hope and freedom. It's believed that sharing food with the birds helps keep hope alive in the village, and that a well, fed flock will carry the villagers' wishes, prayers and dreams to places the villagers can only imagine.
Following the cracked road up north, a large entity lays a large shadow on the communal square, this is the central oven. The central oven is a massive, soot, stained structure, radiating warmth, with thick pipes snaking out like veins to every building and home. Many gather here to warm their hands early in the morning before they go on to contribute to their struggling society. A mother squeals, "Get away from there, Mona," as her child gets a little too close to the orange, red fuming metallic surface of the oven.
A little southwest of the cracked stone well in the square is the local market, a small thing really but still the very lifeblood for all people of Baedakar. The market is made up of several battered small tents, providing the necessities for survival in this harsh world. The tents are scattered at the foot of a very large structure located behind it. It is the governor's office building, where the village elders and the village chief, the Arkuh, discuss plans to advance the village living situation, although it feels like the ideas discussed never really leave the confinement of the office's thick walls.
The time is now past breakfast and people in the market are sprouting with life and laughter. The Crestwings have learnt about this early morning action and are now flying and landing on benches. They are waiting for their daily share of the food, occasionally getting scared off when the water hits the ground from the overfilled water buckets that people are carrying from the central well. The market stalls are now opening to a line of waiting customers. Here you can buy various food items ranging from the smoked Rockskitter meat to the pickled Ashcap mushrooms, and of course the favourite of many, the dark, crisp bread loaves baked in the central oven. You can also buy gear for the mines here, such as stone and metal mining picks and lanterns. There is also an occasional shop that sometimes sells hand, knit mittens and socks, where the seller is a sweet old lady who opens the shop when she has the energy for it. There is also a mostly empty stall that is only used by the travelling merchants visiting the planet once a rotation. These merchants are highly sought after, and they often bear rare wares Baedakar has never seen before.
As the sun climbed higher, the bustle of the market began to thin, as the larger working groups drifted away in small clumps towards the canyon's shadowed tunnels. The market square is now getting empty, leaving the elders on their benches and vendors packing away wares for the moment. A faint metallic groan echoed through the canyon, coming from deep within the maze of winding pipelines under the cracked ground, a sound so common that no one paused to listen. In the hush that followed, a few children lingered by the well, daring each other to peer into its depths, while a pair of young women knelt by the oven, patching a seam in one of the heat pipes with practiced hands. If you listen close enough, you could hear the distant, rhythmic thud of picks striking stone, a reminder that beneath the surface, Baedakar's heart was always working day and night.
Now comes the midday rest, a traditional three, hour quiet time when the market closes and the square empties completely. This is the time when the elderly take it easy and tend to the home. The kids too young for the mines play in the protected, winding stone alleys. Here they work with what they got, which is often pebbles and scrap metal found in various places around the square. Some kids are a little too daring and try to touch things they should not, the oven pipes sticking out from various floor, and wall dugouts are a primary goal for little too curious kids, often resulting in a scolding by one of the village elders.
The midday hush now well underway, sunlight shining through the dusty windows of the old Karrin household. Inside, Jorun and Hazel sat at their narrow dinner table, sharing a rare, delightful treat, a pair of golden, honeyed Siltback fritters brought in by the last travelling merchant that visited last merchant rotation. Hazel broke off a piece, savouring the unfamiliar sweetness, when a sudden crash shattered the quiet. The window exploded inward, scattering glass and dust across the floor.
Jorun leapt up, cursing under his breath. "Those blasted children! Can't they play anywhere else?" Hazel just sighed, brushing crumbs from her lap as she eyed the jagged hole. The wind was already snaking its way in, cold and sharp.
A moment later, three children burst through the door, faces flushed and eyes wide with guilt. "We're sorry!" the smallest blurted, clutching a handful of pebbles. "We didn't mean to!"
Jorun started to scold, but Hazel eld up a hand. "No use shouting. Help us fix it, then." The children nodded, scrambling for scraps, an old cloth, a bent board, a sticky wad of resin from the oven's pipes. Working together, they patched the window, hands moving quickly and clumsily, but with real care.
When they finished, the patch was crooked but sturdy. Hazel inspected their work, then broke off pieces of the fritter and handed them out. "You did well," she said, her voice softening. As the kids left the building with crumbs of the delicious fritters still clinging to their lips, Hazel stopped them. "Listen to me, all of you. Don't spend your whole life patching up what's broken. The world's bigger than these walls. Make something new for yourselves, even if it's just hope for now." The children grinned, and darted back outside, their laughter echoing down the alley. Hazel and Jorun sat together in the quiet, watching the new way the afternoon sun reflected through their newly patched window, and for a moment, the world felt just a little bit lighter.
With the midday hush drawing to a close, the younger workers make their way back from the mines after their shift, leaving their parents behind to work a few more hours until sunset. The square soon fills with the energy of youth, their spirits undimmed despite the gruelling hours spent underground. After the quiet of midday, elders emerge from their homes to greet their grandchildren, often carrying gifts as tokens of appreciation for their hard work. These gifts usually reflect each elder's trade, resulting in a colourful variety of offerings. Since most elders are involved with food in some way, many of the gifts are delicious treats, small comforts to sweeten the end of a long day.
Soon, the square began to settle once more, the lively energy of reunion giving way to a quieter rhythm as the afternoon wore on, and the people seeking the comforts of their homes once more. This time of day is often plagued by a variety of storms and unnatural weather patterns, and this day was no different. Today, it was just a mild, almost cleansing rainfall sweeping over the canyon, giving them much needed rainwater to fill the well.
Although the deep canyon their ancestors built their home in is notoriously good at keeping the violent windstorms and the dreading sunlight at bay, there are still some hazards that pose a significant risk to the inhabitants of Baedakar. One of these events is the Downrush Storm, considered a significant threat. These storms are sudden, violent downdrafts of superheated or supercooled air that sweep down the canyon walls, creating crushing pressure changes. These "downrushes" can slam doors, shatter windows, and make it hard to breathe for a few minutes. People must seal their homes and brace themselves when the warning whistles sound, which, for some reason, malfunction more often than they should.
As the rainfall passes, the more experienced workers emerge from the mines, appearing to have waited out the rain before making their way home to their parents and kids. It is time for the evening feast, where the elders, with the help of the young, prepare a meal for the hard, working parents in the mines. While they kick back and relax for a couple of minutes, the kids run laps to the local storehouses to gather the supplies listed by their elders to prepare the feast. This feast is often eaten separately in their own houses but prepared in unison with the other families. Today's feast was put together by the Grainwright and Brothlin families, whose recipes and rivalry have filled Baedakar's tables with warmth and flavour for generations. The meal is a hearty communal stew called "Stonepot Medley," a slow, cooked blend of root vegetables, smoked Rockskitter meat, wild canyon herbs, and dumplings made from dark bread dough. The stew is simmered in heavy stone pots, each family adding their own twist a pinch of rare spice, a handful of pickled Ashcaps, or a splash of fermented berry drink. The aroma fills the canyon, signalling the end of another hard day.
As night settles over Baedakar, the canyon is bathed in the soft glow of oven pipes and lanterns flickering behind thick stone walls. The laughter and clatter of the evening feast fade into gentle murmurs, bellies full and spirits just a little lighter. Outside, the last of the crestwings circle above the square, their silhouettes darting through the dusk before settling into hidden nooks along the canyon walls.
In the quiet that follows, the village seems to hold its breath. The elders sit by their windows, watching the shadows lengthen, while the young drift into dreams of distant places and better days. Many whisper a wish to the night, hoping the crestwings will carry it beyond the stone.
Tomorrow, the promise of a new merchant stirs a restless excitement, an echo of hope that refuses to be snuffed out, no matter how heavy the world becomes. For now, Baedakar sleeps, wrapped in the hush of routine and the fragile certainty that, come morning, life will begin again. And beneath it all, hope endures, quiet, stubborn, and unbroken.