In a time unknown, there was a wondrous and wild land far away from those we know; a land that was home to the beginning of a great adventure.

  Where does an adventure begin? Is it in the heart, an internal choice to discover the unknown? Or, is it all preordained by the wills and the invisible hands of great godly beings deciding our fates before we’ve even entered the world?

  For every person, whether big or small, short or tall, we’re unaware until it is upon us. Until the desire or invisible celestial winds pull us into the wild, we never truly know where each of our great journeys begins or where they will take us.

  For Hoxley, the tall freckled girl with the legs of a faun, white woolen hair like a cloud, horns atop her head, and saddle bags full of letters to deliver, it began most peculiarly, with the sound of shouting from just beyond the horizon.

  The sound of Hoxley’s hooves clopped to a halt in the middle of the white stone bridge spanning a quickly rushing river when the frantic shout split the air. She’d been deeply engrossed enough in a book about the strange biology of gels only moments before, but the sound of panic and distress shook her from her concentration. An adolescent boy, approximately fourteen summers old, came bursting out of the undergrowth by the far side of the bridge. The boy was slathered in mud up to the waist and stumbled as he ran.

  “Messenger!” He called to her, arms waving, as he ran. Messenger!” The boy was brown skinned and lean, wearing clothes that might suggest a social higher class than the average villager, if again, not for the mud. Close-cropped hair with intricate marks carved into the side of the scalp indicated he’d had enough money to afford such frivolous, lavish preening most couldn’t. He ran as fast as he could manage before sliding to a stop in front of her. Up close, his clothes appeared even more regal. Even with the tears and slashes from running through brambles, the stitching was meticulous and well crafted. “Messenger…” he panted, bending at the waist to put his hands on his knees and gather breath.

  “Yes, I’m a messenger.” She said, looking past him for what could have made him run in such a fashion. As she’d done for the past three years, she cleared her voice and spoke in a direct, if slightly monotonous, tone. “My name is Hoxley, a messenger of the plains tribe. I will deliver any written message any distance in the great lands for one silver coin. Light parcels up to ten pounds for two silvers, and packages over twenty cost one gold coin. All parcels are guaranteed to be delivered in safe condition within allowable travel time. Do you wish to hire my services?”

  “Yes… I do…” he huffed. “Are you by any chance good with that pugil?” he asked without looking up from the ground, sweat falling from his brow to the stone below their feet. Hoxley glanced over her shoulder, where her six-foot valewood staff with the carved sphere ends stuck out of its sheath upon her back.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am quite skilled with my pugil stick. I’m trained to keep your letters and parcels safe from bandits and thieves. Do you have something for me?”

  He nodded frantically. “It’s a message that must be delivered. Here is your payment.” With that, he reached into a pocket on his belt and produced a fistful of gold coins, more than Hoxley had ever seen in her life. Some fell between his fingers and clinked upon the stone as he hurriedly cupped them into trembling hands.

  “Oh! Here, you dropped some. Let me help you….” She said as she stooped to pluck them.

  “Leave them alone, here take these.” He said, pouring the coins from his hands into hers. Looking at the handful of treasure over, there must have been at least thirty coins threatening to fall through her fingers.

  “Good Sir, my rates are not this expensive. What is it you want me to deliver for you?”

  “Take it, I insist. I want you to deliver two things with a message.” The boy said as he grabbed a small leather satchel with intricate stampings from around his neck and quickly handed it to her. It was light for its size, bulging with contents approximately the size of someone’s head.

  “Of course. Where are these items going?”

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  “To the throne of the western kingdom, far from here. Is that enough gold?” He asked, scooping up the rest of the coins and plopping them in her palms with the rest.

  “Hold on…” Hoxley said, funneling them into her money pouch before reaching back to her saddlebags. She pulled out a waterproof bag and untied the drawstrings. From within the container, she produced a small slip of paper, an envelope, and a quill. The boy bounced on his toes as Hoxley’s hands worked quickly, mindfully occupied by the thought of earning the highest commission of her three-year career. With the supplies at the ready, she looked to the kid and asked, “What would you like the message to read, good Sir?”

  “Here, give me that.” The boy said before snatching both and turning away to write upon his thigh. As he did so, Hoxley took her second quill and began filling out a small slip of paper. It was standard for a messenger to write a receipt to give to the client, proof that she’d accepted the letter and parcel for delivery. He frantically scrawled a short message before standing straight, stuffing the note in the envelope, folding it closed, and thrusting it into her hands. “There. Here is the message. Give me my proof of receipt.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hoxley said, finishing her part before holding it out for him to take. He snatched it and quickly read the scrawl that had her name at the bottom.

  “And this is guaranteed?”

  “Always guaranteed.” She said proudly. “My name is Hoxley, and my word is my bond. I always deliver.”

  “Good.” He said as he tucked her receipt into his inner shirt pocket. “Get your pugil ready, they’re coming.”

  “My pugil?” She said with some confusion as she tucked the envelope into the waterproof bag. “Who’s coming? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “There are men who are chasing me who wish to capture me and take me back to the eastern kingdom.” The boy admitted, crazed eyes revealing his desperation.

  “Good Sir, I only deliver letters and parcels. I don’t provide security and protection services. For a job like that, I suggest- “

  “There he is!” A tall, burly man said as he stepped from behind the underbrush at the far end of the bridge. “Over here! Over here! I’ve found him!” The thug pointed a short sword in the direction of the boy now cowering behind Hoxley’s hindquarters. Three more men, all wielding weapons, poured out from behind trees and down the hill to reach the spanning stone bridge. Her full white tail flicked in anticipation.

  “Good Sir? Do you know these men?” She asked uneasily.

  “You have to protect me. I need to escape them and reach the western kingdom.”

  “Sir, I’m not in the service of conflict, I’m only a messenger. If you quarrel with these men, it’s none of my business.”

  “It’s your quarrel now. Those men mean to capture or kill me and you- “he said, gesturing to her carrier bags “have been paid forty pieces of gold to deliver me and my bag unharmed to the throne of the western realm. That is the message, and I am the parcel.” As the men drew closer, the boy pulled a polished dagger from his belt.

  “You’ve done what?!” Her hand shot back into the saddlebag, pulled the waterproof bag, threw it open, and unfolded the letter. Fingers worked quickly to unfold the paper and read the message sloppily jotted on the parchment. Her blood ran cold as she took in the words:

  Hoxley, the faun girl messenger, has been paid forty gold pieces to deliver Prince Damron and his crown, in good health, to the throne of the Western Kingdom.

  Prince Damron, son of King Damron

  “What does this mean?” Hoxley asked, holding the letter to his face. “What have you done?”

  “You have taken my gold and given a receipt for those instructions. I have the receipt in my breast pocket. I know your code, faun girl. You and your people are bound by your bond to defend your parcel and deliver it, lest your good name be ruined. I sure hope you weren’t lying about your skill with that pugil!” The boy taunted while shifting to a defensive position. “Get ready, here they come.”

  “You there!” The lead man in leather armor shouted as the others hurried to catch up to him. Each of them was gasping for air, sweat creating a light sheen on their faces. Had they been chasing this boy who claimed to be the prince? “Hold him! Don’t let him escape!” Everything was happening so fast.