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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Fifty-One: Only The Beginning

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Irzain looks up as he lay on his side, having fallen atop the deck. He lets out a groan as he slowly sits upright, his back rolling over the hard, wooden beams.

“See?! You’re getting better!” Steingar chirps, holding out a clawed hand.

“Yeah. I was able to remain standing for a whole ten seconds.” The middle-aged human facetiously replies, taking hold of his hand.

“That’s up from eight, yesterday.” Steingar smirks.

“Don’t give up. Every failure is a learning experience... Besides, surrender is utterly unacceptable, and I’ll beat you senseless if you even consider it.” Kirsta adds, leaning against the central mast as she watches the pair sparring.

“...”

“You’re considering it, aren’t you?” She asks in a low growl, taking a step toward him.

“No! Not at all!” Irzain swiftly replies.

“Well, alright then! Let’s continue!” Steingar chirps.

After over an hour of intense training, Irzain makes his way below deck, while Steingar and Kirsta continue their regiment. The Arona-Dahl has been at sea for a little more than a week, and with their destination inching ever closer, everyone has been preparing. For Irzain, that means combat training, and as much of it as he can handle; Kirsta and Steingar won’t let him get away with anything less. Steingar teaches him hand-to-hand techniques and the arts of the spear, while also sparring with him to build his strength and endurance. Kirsta, who’s the best with the sword and a skilled archer, shows him the ways of the blade and the bow.

For as tough as they are on him, though, they seem to know the Scribe’s limits, rarely pushing him too hard. Even Valan has joined in, occasionally giving Irzain tips on how to properly use firearms, which is his favorite kind of training; it takes the least amount of strength and relies mostly on intuition. It’s been a trying week. With his sore arms and rubbery legs, he hobbles down the steps, leaning against the walls of the swaying ship for support. As he reaches the lower landing, he can hear a faint groan.

“You should really consider letting me examine you.” Lutala remarks from within the lounge, just beyond the wall he leans against.

“Ugh... No, thanks. It seems to go away after a time, and it’s occurring less often these days. I think that elixir is doing the trick. I’m glad I bought so much of it.” Mairlynn replies.

“Well, alright... I just hope it isn’t masking any symptoms of some illness that I could easily treat. I am a healer, after all...”

“No, thanks. You can keep your magic to yourself, and those stinky potions, too.”

“If they smelled nice and tasted good, they likely wouldn’t be very healthful.” Lutala quips.

Just then, Irzain has an epiphany. Waddling around the corner and through the archway, he finds Mairlynn sitting in the booth, slumped against the back wall and leaning into the corner. Her golden, wavy hair is uncombed and a hand rests over her flat belly, She turns her ruby eyes toward him, lifts a dainty hand and waves her fingers, her familiar, lusty smile gracing her youthful face.

“Hi.” She coos.

Lutala turns in her seat, on the bench just across from the little Falmun. She smiles and waves to the older human, subtly bowing her head, though she remains silent. Irzain waves in kind before focusing his attention back onto Mairlynn.

“Well, you’re looking good this morning. I love what you’ve done with your hair.” He quips.

“Ha-ha... Did they beat your ass again?” She retorts.

“Only a little. Either I’m getting better or they’re feeling sorry for me.”

“Oh... So, they’re finally going easy on you?” The elf smirks.

“Soreness is good. When you’re sore, your muscles are responding to the strain; they’re becoming stronger. You should embrace that pain; it’s the only good kind I’m aware of.” Lutala assures him.

“Yeah... I was thinking, though...” He says as he takes a seat beside the Lahnyt. “I was briefly studying Halcyon, before all of this happened. I was only dabbling, but I’d learned enough of the art to set Kirsta’s broken ankle. I’d never read into magic before then, but... Well...”

“Yes?” The blue-skinned priestess raises an orange brown.

“Okay, just hear me out, but... Does Haze have destructive powers?”

Lutala’s and Mairlynn’s eyes both widen with shock and surprise.

“Yes, I suppose, but only to a point.” A concerned Lutala finally replies.

“So, could I learn to fight with it?!” He excitedly poses.

“Heh, hardly...” Lutala chuckles. “Unless you wish to dabble in necromancy, enchantments or weakening spells.” She adds.

“You can’t use magic to harm people?!” He gasps.

“Weakening spells are very harmful...” She retorts.

“But what about the old stories?” Mairlynn suddenly interjects.

“Yes! Everyone’s heard the stories of the mages of old, powerful enough to use the elements as weapons. Is that not possible?!” A desperate Irzain quickly asks.

“It is, but the wielder is as mortal as their target; if I were to summon fire in my palm, I’d still be holding fire, and it would burn me severely and instantly. This is true for all of the elements. Why do you think the stories of old are stories? If people could throw fireballs, they’d be doing it.” The priestess explains.

“Oh... I see...” He murmurs, sighing with disappointment.

“What about Halcyon? Couldn’t you use the healing or protective powers to shield you, and still use Haze to fight?” Mairlynn curiously inquires.

“In theory, yes, but the amount of energy required to do that would be so immense that none could manage it for long, if at all. Only one blessed by Yashuva Himself could ever hope to accomplish such a spectacular feat.” Lutala answers with an amused giggle. “Although, I did use the power of light to blind an attacker not too long ago. That’s something you could learn.”

“Is it really so hard to use Haze and Halcyon at the same time?!” Mairlynn raises a brow, ignoring Lutala’s last statement.

“Yes, it is. I could perhaps summon one ball of fire, or a weak bolt of lightning, but if I also used Halcyon to preserve myself during the attack, I’d run out of magical energy so fast that I’d risk falling unconscious from the strain. I’d be lucky to hit anything at that rate. I may even succumb faster than when I used my powers to preserve you during your seizures.” She explains, turning her fiery eyes toward Irzain.

“That’s disappointing. I wish I could use it to fight with...” He says with another sigh. “Fighting is so... Tedious.”

“No wonder people don’t bother with magic. Medicine aside, it doesn’t seem very useful to me.” Mairlynn remarks, once again making herself comfortable in the corner.

“It certainly has it’s uses. Like everything, though, it must be used wisely and in moderation, like alcohol.” Lutala retorts.

“That doesn’t help me right now, though.” Irzain remarks.

“Looking for the easy way out, huh?” Mairlynn smirks.

“In a manner of speaking.” He flashes her a sly little smile.

“Well, I’ve got news for you, big guy. Nothing in life is easy... Except for me.” The childlike elf winks.

“...”

“Don’t be discouraged. I’ve seen you practicing with Kirsta and Steingar; you’re twice the warrior you were when we first met.” Lutala assures him, resting a clawed hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I am, aren’t I?” He says with a widening smile. “That still doesn’t make my muscles any less sore, though. Fighting is so much work!”

“You know, a full body massage might do you some good. I have a special technique that I use... Do you want to know what it is?” Mairlynn leans over the table on her spindly arms, gazing at him with unbridled lust.

“Uhm...”

“I don’t use my hands or my feet.” She winks at him once again, innocently sticking out her tongue.

The middle-aged Scribe’s face turns as red as a beet, and he slithers back atop the bench.

“Please don’t traumatize him, Mair. He’s already in pain.” Lutala giggles.

“Yes. That’s a cruel and unusual punishment.” Jarae adds as she suddenly enters the lounge.

“Oh, come on! I’m offering up my womanhood for literally nothing! What man doesn’t want free sex?!” The little Falmun exclaims, a hint of anger in her voice.

“Men with morals?” Lutala shrugs.

“Men with standards?” Jarae flashes a sly grin as she takes a seat beside Irzain.

“You two are mean...” The youthful elf pouts. “Neither of you understand what it’s like to be me. You don’t know the struggle. You wouldn’t pick on me if you did.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m pretty cruel...” Jarae teases her.

“If I had your looks, he’d have jumped on me in the blink of an eye and you two wouldn’t be talking.” Mairlynn adds.

“I’m not so sure about that, either. You come off as quite strong and demanding at times.” Lutala remarks to Jarae.

“At times?!” The Jaliscan laughs.

“I’ve heard that some men dislike that.” Lutala continues.

“Well, anyway, it’s an open offer, Irzain. I can teach you things about pleasure that you can’t read about in books. Maybe you and I could slip off for a few hours and write a whole new chapter?” The little elf coos.

“And with that, I need to lie down.” Irzain says as he rises from the bench.

“Oh, good!” Mairlynn begins sliding out from the dinning booth.

“Alone...”

“Aww!” She whines.

“The hell you do! Break time is over!” Kirsta exclaims as she barges into the lounge.

“Let’s go, Scribe. We have to mold you into a warrior.” Steingar adds, standing in the archway, behind the blond-haired, buxom woman.

“Oh, come on!” Irzain whimpers.

“This isn’t a game!” Kirsta growls.

“We’ve already used up a week of our precious time and your training isn’t going nearly as quickly as I’d hoped it would.” Steingar speaks calmly but sternly. “We’ve tried to be patient with you but... Well... I sincerely hope you’re not the type who needs a trial by fire...”

“But we have two more weeks left! Can’t I pace myself?!” The Scribe whines.

“Not if you want to be ready for what’s to come.” Kirsta retorts.

“We’re only looking for Harokian, not doing battle with the entire army of the Empire. Besides, Vashalak doesn’t even know Harokian’s name or where he lives! We hold all of the cards.” Irzain boasts, a wide and confident grin plastered on his face.

“But he still knows about us, and has bounties out on our heads.” Kirsta replies, resting a hand over her eyes as she sighs in frustration.

“We may very well run into soldiers along the way, and we’re certainly going to have issues with Harokian when we try to take him. Don’t forget that he likely has no idea who he is or understands his importance to the Empire.”

“You think that his guardians have kept the truth from him for this long?” Jarae turns back to the warriors.

“Let’s just say that I expect force may be necessary to get him back to the mainland.” Kirsta answers.

“You need to be ready for anything and everything, and that requires far more training than we can squeeze into only three weeks, so stop wasting time.” Steingar demands, his voice growing even more stern.

“Seriously, what is there to be ready for?” Irzain asks them in a rather snippy tone.

Falling deathly silent, Steingar turns his glowing, golden eyes away. He stares blankly through the windows near Mairlynn, his expression changing. Kirsta shares a similar look, though she stares at her boot-clad feet. Jarae contorts her lips with worry as she glances over her shoulder, seated beside Lutala. She’s discomforted by the two warrior’s strange stares, as are the priestess and the small elven woman.

“I-I mean, how bad can it be?” Irzain asks.

Walking through the streets of his humble village and humming a little tune, music he’d heard from a traveling bard, the young Vizheki man makes his way toward his father’s workshop. Turning a corner, he pauses and glances toward the sky. The sun is high in the sky; he should’ve been there already, but he overslept.

“I hope father isn’t going to hurt me too badly.” He remarks to himself.

“Excuse me, mister...” A little voice begins.

“Hm?”

The towering Vizheki man turns his head downward, the gentle breeze blowing his long, golden locks across his face. He moves his hair away from his matching eyes and tucks the strands behind his large, pointy ear. Standing barely crotch high is a little girl, a human. With light brown hair and big green eyes, she gently tugs at a leg of his trousers.

“What’s wrong, little one?” The elf takes a knee.

“I’m so sorry, but...” She hesitates to speak, her emerald eyes darting away.

“It’s alright. Tell me.”

“I don’t want to ask, but we’re hungry. My mommy and daddy lost their work and my big brother isn’t strong enough yet. Can you spare a coin for us to buy bread?”

The elf’s heart aches as the little girl turns her tear-filled eyes toward him. She’s only a child and yet she’s clearly ashamed by her actions. As she points a finger down the street, the elf can see a woman down the road. Standing on a triangle of grass, where the road forks and crosses another, she too is begging. With hair and eyes like the little girl, the rather busty woman speaks to a couple as they pass by, appealing to their hearts. The man holds up a hand while his female companion scoffs. The impoverished mother lowers her head in shame, having failed to even attain a small copper vasarik. The pain in the elf’s heart swells, empathy for the less fortunate. He sheds a tear as he turns his eyes back toward the little girl.

“Here... I may have something for you.” He speaks very sweetly.

Looking down and fiddling with the strap of his coin purse, he digs deep and feels two coins. Pulling them out, he sees the large silver vasarik, earnings from his father for a week of labor, and a large copper vasarik, the change left from his previous pay. The girl stares at the copper coin, salivating at the thought of food in her belly. Seeing her pitiful expression, the elf pulls at the copper coin with his thumb, tucking it away and surrendering the silver coin to the flabbergasted little girl.

“B-but mister!”

“Take it.” He says, holding it closer.

“... Is this a trick? Are you going to pull it away, like the last person?” She asks, looking up at him with untrusting eyes.

“What?! Who would do such an awful thing?!” He gasps.

Reaching out with his other hand, he grabs the little girl’s wrist, turns her hand over and puts the silver vasarik into it, before closing her fingers around the coin.

“Buy food for you family.”

With a tear running down her cheek, the little girl sniffles before lunging into his arms, throwing her little arms around his neck and embracing him.

“Thank you so much, mister!”

“You’re welcome, little one. Eat well.” He says, gently patting her on the back.

“MOMMY! LOOK!” The little girl shouts as she pulls away.

Darting down the road, she shows her mother, who gasps and covers her mouth. The little girl points to the still kneeling elf, who stands to his feet as the mother waves to him. The pair then dash down the road, toward the marketplace. With a wide smile on his face, the elf sighs and continues to walk the path toward his father’s workshop. As he passes the blacksmith, he pauses. Turning his head, he looks into the window and spies a sword. Made of simple steel and with a broad blade, the sword is an archaic design, easy to make and sold primarily to the peasant class. It costs a small silver vasarik, which the man had been saving. He turns his eyes away and takes a deep breath.

“Maybe next month... If you’re still there.” He says to the sword in the window.

Continuing down the road, the woman and her daughter enter a market with man and a boy, older than the girl but still quite young. They all share the same hair and eye color. The elf is thankful that the girl was being sincere. Across from the market is his father’s workshop, ‘Cydren’s Brick & Mortar’. His father is the only stone and brick mason for several isles, and so there’s always plenty of work. Entering the shop, his father turns to him.

“There you are! Finally decided to show up?!” Cydren says with a little grin.

“I’m sorry. I was up late.”

“Gallivanting about with your friends? Chasing women, perhaps?” Cydren smirks.

“If only... I was helping old lady Famara with her garden. She’s nearly too feeble to weed it, and I felt badly for her.” He replies.

“Did she pay you for your labor?”

“Mother asked that too.” Harokian murmurs.

“And what did you tell her?”

“No. I just wanted to help her.”

“What a son I’ve raised... I’d have loved to see Okolana’s face when you told her.”

“She was frustrated.” Harokian grins.

“Come on, son.” Cydren says with a little chuckle, patting him on the arm. “We have work to do.”

“Yes, father.”

“So, did you leave it at home?” Cydren asks, leading Harokian into the back room.

“Leave what at home?”

“The sword! You’ve wanted it for ages! I paid you extra so you could afford it.”

“Oh, that! Uhm... No.”

“So, you finally wised up and decided against it?” His father chuckles.

“No...”

“Then why didn’t you buy it? ... ... Did you give away your earnings again?!”

“Well...”

“Damn it, son! You keep doing this! This is why your mother is so frustrated with you all of the time! How will you ever sustain yourself if you cannot save enough to even buy a simple sword?!” Cydren scolds him.

“It was for a good cause!” Harokian exclaims.

“It always is with you... Listen, son, and listen well... You cannot save everyone.”

“I can try.” Harokian softly replies.

“And you’ll fail. Get used to the idea while you’re young, and it’ll save you a century of misery. Sometimes you have to think of the greater good; your friends, family, and all of the people who depend on you. Your labor is your own, and if you keep giving away your time and money, you’ll be just as unfortunate as those you keep trying to help, and so will everyone else who depends on you.” Cydren sternly instructs.

Silently nodding his head, Harokian and his father begin their work, molding new mud bricks and taking the dried bricks to the furnace to fire-harden. After a time, the matter of Harokian’s generosity is forgotten and the pair discuss the little things; what they hope to have for dinner, if Harokian will finally ask Saya to the town dance, and other amusing nothings. However, their conversation is interrupted by a horrible commotion. Glass shatters and an arquebus discharges. Racing toward the blue-tinted window at the front of their little workshop, both men peer outside.

They’re left frozen in horror. Soldiers of the Crown march through the streets with their prize; humans, Falmun, and the few Jaliscans that inhabit the town, all wearing shackles on their wrists. Everyone not a Vizhek, Helngar or Lahnyt seems to have been rounded up. Dragging them out from the market across the street, the unfortunate family of beggars are pulled into the group. The little girl screams as she’s placed with other children. Though he’s underage and weak, the boy, her older brother, is shoved into a group with his father, men designated for service as soldiers in Vashalak’s army. The mother now stands alone. A Helngar soldier eyes her from head to toe.

“What about this one, sir?”

“My, my... What lovely breasts you have, my dear.” The Helngar licks his lips.

Reaching out a clawed hand, he grabs her chest and fondles her D-cup mammaries through her dirty dress.

“Oh, yes! Very nice!”

He grabs her dress with both hands and callously rips it open, revealing her bosom to the world. Her jiggling flesh hypnotizes the men. The Helngar continues to fondle her breasts, taking a step closer as a hand reaches for his belt.

“I may need to find a room for her.” He says with a twisted grin and a cruel laugh.

“Stop!”

The soldiers turn back as a lone Vizhek dashes out from the workshop across the street.

“Get back here, damn you!” Cydren chases after his son.

“Leave her alone! What did these people ever do to you?!” Harokian demands.

“What’s it to you? They’re inferiors; they aren’t like you and I.” The Helngar replies.

“They’re scared and crying, and that man is bleeding from his nose. I’ve been afraid. I bleed the same as him. Am I not an inferior to?!”

“Son!” Cydren yells.

“Listen to your father, elf...” The Helngar soldier slowly steps closer. “You’ll live longer.”

“But sir, he’s a Vizhek.” A human soldier remarks.

“He can always be another casualty. Who’s to say he didn’t die when we came into town?”

The Helngar flashes an evil grin as he draws a wheellock pistol, taking aim at the young elf who challenges him.

“Enough!” Another voice exclaims.

The Helngar warrior’s expression swiftly changes as he turns his head. Emerging from the crowd, a Vizheki man clad in beautiful armor steps forward. He wears an insignia distinguishing him as a commander. Stepping closer, the steel plates clank loudly; everyone has fallen silent. The Helngar lowers his weapon and audibly gulps, concerning Harokian. The commander soon stands before the pair and glances down at the pistol in his soldier’s hand.

“And what do you think you are doing with that?”

“Sir, I was just-”

“Executing a Vizhek?!” The commander interrupts.

“No, sir!” The Helngar bows his head.

“I thought so...”

The commander looks toward the terrified mother, her breasts still exposed to the open air, and a soldier standing behind her, his arm around her neck.

“Well, now... This one is a lovely specimen, for an inferior.” The commander chirps. “A little dirty, but her face is as perfectly formed as those teats of hers.”

A few of the soldiers chuckle at the commander’s remark, while Harokian feels a silent rage at his equally cold attitude towards the terrified woman.

“I think she’ll be good for the trials. Take her to my ship and keep her safe. We’re returning to the Capitol City anyway.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Wait!” Harokian exclaims.

Turning toward the dissenter, the commander grins and raises an amused brow.

“What gives you the right to do this?!” Harokian pleads.

With his smile widening, the commander approaches Harokian, his hands on his hips. Cydren covers his face in his hands, expecting the worst and unable to watch.

“Please, son! For the love of the Seraphs!” He whimpers.

“Listen to your father, boy.”

“Why do you treat them so cruelly, as if they couldn’t feel? What are you even doing to these poor people? What right do you have to do this?” Harokian continues, ignoring both his father and the commander.

Standing before the young man, the commander stares at him for a moment before suddenly raising a hand and smacking him across the face. The sharp edges of his ornate gauntlet cut the young elf’s face, and Harokian falls to the ground.

“My signed writ, orders handed down by our Great King Vashalak! That’s what gives me the right to do this! Now mind your damn business and be a good patriot! Let us do our jobs and take away the inferiors!” The commander snarls.

The soldiers chuckle at the young elf who lies in the dirt, watching helplessly as the soldiers march away with their prize. The women scream for mercy as they’re pulled along. He knows what horrors await them. The anger burns within Harokian’s heart. Cydren kneels beside his son, looking over his wounds.

“Just a few cuts...” He sighs with relief. “By the Seraphs, son! What were you thinking?!”

“I was trying to help them.” Harokian replies.

“You nearly got yourself killed! You must be smarter than that! You’re too important!” Cydren exclaims.

“I’m just a mason.”

“To your mother and I...” Cydren swiftly adds. “Please, son... Don’t be so foolish. You cannot save everyone.”

“Those were our neighbors, father! That woman may be a human and an unfortunate, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be treated like an animal! They treated her like prized livestock! ‘Every life has value’, that’s what you’ve always told me! Don’t you still believe that?!”

His father silently chuckles and smiles, realizing what a good man Harokian has become under his care.

“I know you’re right, and it’s true... But your life has value, too.”

“Who would I be if I were to turn away, even for my own sake?”

“Not a coward... Your life should always be the most valuable to you, son.” Cydren swiftly retorts.

“If everyone thought that way, how awful would this world be?” Harokian asks with a little smile.