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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Fifty: Dissention

Pacing anxiously about the large, circular room, the Helngar turns his glowing, icy blue eyes toward his leader. Sitting back on a padded bench, sprawled out and with his head resting against the backrest, King Vashalak gazes toward the ceiling. He stares intently at the golden sphere that glows with a strange magic and forms the roof of the main room of the Grand Athenaeum. Footfalls approach them, coming from the hallway. Vashalak doesn’t even bother to look, though Einyr Icefang turns toward the large, double doors.

Soldiers emerge, following Captain Kristoff Mayweather. They shake their heads. Icefang’s heart sinks as he turns back toward his King. They’ve spent the last two days on the island of Tomoy, the forgotten isle that houses only the massive library. Only a small plaque near the front door bears the name of the rather diminutive island. In that time, they’ve searched high and low for any signs of Hebron, the Overseer, and the knowledge he possessed. Every literate soldier was put to the task of skimming through every last relevant book and scroll, skipping only those that would be obviously useless.

King Vashalak lifts his head and stares with narrowed eyes as Icefang approaches him. He sits upright and rests both feet on the finely polished floor.

“Well?” He asks in an impatient tone, his large, blue-skinned hands resting upon his kneecaps. “Have they found anything?!”

“No, Great King.” Icefang says, shaking his head.

“I see...”

Vashalak sighs as he rises to his feet, arching his back as he stretches. He twists his upper body and softly groans. Icefang glances back at Captain Mayweather, who appears quite concerned. Suddenly, both men and every soldier jump as Vashalak shoves an arm into the nearest shelf, heaves and throws a row of priceless books to the floor. He roars and kicks a heavy tome, before grabbing another that had failed to fall from its place, throwing it at the soldiers who stand beside his Chief-General. Soldiers on the upper levels peer over the railing, watching the King’s childish tirade.

“All of these damned books and not a single one reveals his name?! How can that be!!! How has a pathetic human bested me?! Explain that to me, right now!!!”

“My King, I-”

“Shut up!” Vashalak interrupts Icefang. “You can’t, because it isn’t possible! No one can best me! I’m the King! You’re just failures!!!”

Icefang, Captain Mayweather and every soldier in Vashalak’s view bows their head, allowing the youthful Vizhek to berate them.

“I asked for one thing! Just one! Bring me the name so that I may purge Euralian’s mistake! How hard is it to do that?! How could you fail me so spectacularly?! You incompetent wastes make me sick...”

Growling to himself, Vashalak appears to have run out of steam. He sighs and leans against the nearest bookshelf for a moment, gazing down at the pile.

“Well, it’s clear to me now that I cannot purge the bastard, and without Lapira to marry and consolidate my power, I’ll have to find another way... Perhaps the old ‘blood or silver’ technique? ... In any case, I’ll need a permanent concubine. Someone to help me relax whenever you fail me, which seems to occur with some regularity.” Vashalak snickers.

“S-sir?” Captain Mayweather bravely speaks up.

“What is it, human?” Vashalak glares at the short, blond-haired man.

“What of Hebron and that strange ship?”

“What of them?” Vashalak raises a brow.

“Are we still going to search for them, Great King?” Captain Mayweather sheepishly asks.

“Oh, of course! I want still him so that, at the very least, I can punish him for making a fool of me. I’ll get to him whenever he shows his putrid, human face... And after dealing with Salman.” The elven King flashes a sinister grin.

“What are you orders, then, Great King?” Icefang asks, stepping closer.

Vashalak takes a deep breath before slowly exhaling through his nostrils. He tilts his head back and looks toward the ceiling, seeing the scores of soldiers lining the balconies of the various levels of the Grand Athenaeum’s tower.

“Return to the ships. We’ll head back to Vaspania, and after that, I’ll send a detachment to Mishgan. If nothing else, I want to punish my first traitor. That’ll send a good message.”

“Yes, Great King!” Icefang chirps.

“And I’d like you to search the capital city for good women who might serve me. I only have the patience for one, but get me a selection; I’d like to pick the very best.” Vashalak continues.

“Of course, Great King!”

“Oh, and burn this place to the ground.” Vashalak casually adds.

“... My King?!” Icefang gasps.

“Did I stutter? ... Burn down the Grand Athenaeum. If this building won’t reveal her secrets to me, then she shouldn’t survive either...”

“...”

“I don’t hear a ‘Yes, Great King’.” Vashalak growls, narrowing his shinning eyes.

“But, Great King, this place holds so much knowledge.”

“It’s not the only library in the Isles, Einyr.” Vashalak retorts.

“But it’s the biggest, and the most comprehensive. Is it really so easily replaceable?” Icefang pleads.

“That sounds like arguing. I’ll make this simple...” Vashalak speaks in a deep and menacing tone as he slowly approaches Icefang. “I’m going to return to the ships, and if, by the time I reach them, I don’t see the first plumes of smoke from this building being set alight... Then I’ll order your hide to be ripped from your body and made into a new coat.”

Icefang is floored. He’d spent years with Vashalak, teaching him and enjoying his company. Nearly a decade of a mentor-student relationship, and the youthful Vizhek seems to have forgotten it entirely. He speaks to Icefang as if he were just another soldier, a puppet who exists solely to do his bidding. As he stares into the young King’s eyes, he can see that the towering elf is void of emotion; he’s deadly serious.

“... Yes, Great King.” Icefang murmurs.

“Good boy.” Vashalak reaches out a hand, patting Icefang on the cheek in a condescending manner. “Now, hurry up and get to it! I want a good show when I eat my lunch!”

With that, the King hums a little tune as he wanders off. He waves toward a group of soldiers, who don’t dare disobey; they follow the King and guard him with their lives. Now standing with Captain Mayweather, and the ever-watchful detachment who peer over the railings, Icefang lets out a low growl. He motions to the others, bringing them closer.

“Where should we start, sir?” A soldier somberly asks.

“Collect all the dry kindling outside and have a team chop down as much greenery as they can in what little time we have.” Icefang begins.

“Sir?!” They gasp.

“Once you’ve lit the dry tinder, pile on the greenery, but make sure the pile is away from the Grand Athenaeum, and be sure to dig a small trench to contain it.”

“Those weren’t his orders, sir.” Captain Mayweather interjects.

“I know.” Icefang sighs.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m not burning down all of this knowledge for that megalomaniac! Do as I say, and keep your mouths shut, or I’ll use you for the kindling instead!” Icefang growls.

The soldiers bow their heads and rush to obey the Chief-General, who blatantly disregards the King’s orders.

“That arrogant asshole... Calling me a good boy... I’m nearly twice his age; I was serving Euralian before he even had his first whiff of a woman.” Icefang grumbles to himself.

In an hour’s time, they set the fire and leave the Grand Athenaeum. From the docks, the jungle prevents the building from being easily visible; only the golden sphere and a portion of the tower peek over the jungle canopy. The fire plumes thick, dark smoke as they’re sailing away. Vashalak holds a silver plate and eats quality meat, garnished with the finest grapes. He chuckles as he admires the smoke. Icefang stands beside him, watching as Vashalak rather quickly returns to his own cabin. He doesn’t say a word. Icefang rests his clawed hands against the railing, watching the smoke from the distant fire. He can only hope that the trench is wide and deep enough, and that whenever they can return, the Grand Athenaeum will still be standing.

“I wonder if Hebron and his companions have to deal with things like this.” He thinks aloud.

“What were you thinking?! Why would you do that without talking to us first?!”

Pacing back and forth, Valan yells as he struggles to control his simmering rage. Steingar leans against a red-orange pillar, his arms crossed before his chest, his glowing, golden eyes watching the human with mild amusement as the long-haired man rants and raves.

“We made a deal! The only reason Jarae and I came at all was because you promised us that you’d take us straight back to Mishgan!”

“That wasn’t right for you to volunteer us like that.” Jarae adds, much calmer than her lover.

“I also didn’t agree to become a mercenary.” Lutala interjects.

“I don’t see why you’re so bent out of shape.” Steingar casually retorts.

“Wha-?! Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t want to do this?!”

“Are you asking a serious question or are you still raving?” A condescending Steingar smirks.

“... You know what? ... You can do this all on your own! You don’t need us! We’re done!”

Motioning to Jarae, she’s quick to join her man, ever by his side. Lutala, also eager to return to Salman’s Isle, follows behind the Jaliscan, within arm’s reach of her swaying, felinesque tail.

“Hey, if you’re going, I want to go too!” Mairlynn chirps, darting after them.

Kirsta bows her head, resting her face in a palm and covering her sapphire eyes as more than half of the crew try to walk out of the room. Finally realizing the gravity of the situation, Steingar races to block the door.

“Woah! Hold on a minute!” He exclaims, his arms outstretched.

“Get out of the way...” Valan growls.

“You don’t really want to do this, do you?!”

“Yes, we do. We’re going to claim whatever share we have from the stash box, charter a new ship and sail back to Mishgan on our own.” Valan sternly replies.

“They’re doing that. I’m claiming a share and staying right here.” Mairlynn retorts.

“But what about the mission?!” Steingar gasps.

“That’s your mission, not ours. We didn’t sign up for any of that.” Jarae replies.

“You had no right to enlist us in your war.” Lutala speaks softly.

“But we need you!” Steingar insists.

“And it’s not like we’re doing this for nothing. They’re compensating and supplying us.” Kirsta interjects.

“We could give you extra, if that’ll sway you.” Irzain adds.

“Really? You’re resorting to bribery?” Valan snickers and raises a brow.

“Please, reconsider. At the very least, Lutala should stay. We could use your skills as an alchemist, and especially your Halcyon powers.” Kirsta adds, turning toward the Lahnyt priestess.

“I’m not a whore. I heal because I choose to, and because it’s the right thing to do.” She retorts.

“Then do what’s right. Help us with this one last thing.” Steingar begs.

“Do you even know what you’re asking?! Do you have any clue?!” Valan steps toward the Helngar, looking up at him with sad eyes.

“I’m asking you to think of everyone else, everyone who might suffer at Vashalak’s hands.”

“Damn the lot of them!” Valan growls.

Steingar’s eyes grow wide with shock, as does everyone else’s. They never expected such a callous statement from Valan, but perhaps he’s merely speaking in anger?

“You were my friend, Steingar... You know how important this is to me. Ever since fate brought Sal and I together again, I’ve been eager to make up for lost time. I want to get to know my twin brother, and to learn about my real father. Being on this crew brought Jarae and I together, and now that she and I are a couple, I just want to take care of her, to take her to where she can be safe, and where she and I can have a life together. Mishgan was that place, where she and I could have a home and a life, and where I could also be with my brother.”

Jarae’s lips curl around her short, cat-like snout, her smile growing and tail swaying as she listens to the human speaking out.

“What if I get killed on this mission? What if Jarae is maimed or killed? What if Sal doesn’t survive whatever Vashalak throws at him? You’ll have stolen everything away from me, or stolen me from her.” He reaches a hand back, pointing at Jarae. “You have no right to do this to any of us, no matter the reason.”

“I’m sorry, Val. Truly, I am, but we need you. You and Jarae have real skills, in combat and in stealth. Lutala’s healing powers are too valuable right now. Hell, even Mair isn’t disposable at this point, if you can believe that!” Steingar continues.

“Hey!” Mairlynn whimpers.

“Please... We can take you straight back to Mishgan after we find and collect Harokian. If that’ll make it easier for you, then I swear to the Seraphs we will. Just help us right now.”

Sighing and hanging his head, it takes the human a moment to collect himself. Glancing over his shoulder, Valan gazes into Jarae’s shimmering, pink eyes. They share a long and intense stare as they turn to face each other. Taking her clawed hands into his, she nods her head, though her expression is gloomy. Lutala sighs with obvious frustration, crossing her arms beneath her ample breasts and bowing her head, shaking it with disapproval. Mairlynn looks to the others and waits; it's clear that she’ll only act if they will.

“Fine...” Valan looks over his shoulder and glares at Steingar. “Jarae and I will do it, but if you don’t take us to Mishgan after this...” He warns, holding up a finger.

“Understood.” The Helngar replies.

“It appears that I’m staying too. You aren’t leaving me much of a choice.” Lutala grumbles, showing her anger.

“Wow... Uhm, okay, then!” Mairlynn tosses up her dainty hands.

With the conflict averted, Valan pushes past Steingar and returns to the room he shares with his lover, who swiftly chases after him. Lutala leans against the wall, staring at her own, clawed hand for a moment with dull eyes. Kirsta turns to her, reaches out a hand and rests it on her shoulder.

“Are you alright?” She asks in a startlingly sweet tone, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“I think I should write a letter to my family...” Lutala murmurs.

“That’s right! You found out where they went yesterday!” Kirsta speaks in a chipper tone.

“They’ve taken a coastal ship to Zekora, the mainland Kingdom near our island continent. It has many Lahnyt living there; I have an aunt in Zekora. She’s my father’s sister, and that’s likely where they’re going to stay, if only for a short time.”

“At least you know they’ll be safe there, right?” Kirsta asks, hoping to lift Lutala’s spirits.

“Yes... I should write them a letter... They should know what I’ve been doing, and what I’m being forced to do, in the event that I don’t survive this mission...” She adds, glaring at Steingar.

Pulling away from Kirsta and shoving past Steingar, he leans into the hallway, watching Lutala for a moment as she storms down the corridor in a huff. Irzain runs his fingers through his shaggy brown hair and turns his emerald eyes toward the dainty Falmun.

“So, what’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know...” Mairlynn says with a melancholy sigh. “... I guess that depends on if you want to join me in my room or not.”

“...”

Her lips curl into a sinister grin as her narrowed ruby eyes scan the middle-aged Scribe’s form. She lifts a hand and brushes her wavy, golden locks over a pointy elven ear, before blowing Irzain a little kiss.

“It’s an open offer. At least we’re the same age.” She winks.

“Heh... At least you haven’t changed, Mair.” Kirsta says, patting her on the shoulder.

“Would I ever?” Mairlynn innocently replies, looking up at the blond, buxom warrior.

Joining Kirsta as she leaves the room, Mairlynn waves her slender fingers at Irzain and Steingar, who are now the only two left. Steingar turns to Irzain, silently thanking him for his continued support; he gives the older human an affirming head nod. They both disperse and wait for the Arona-Dahl to be prepared. After agreeing to find Harokian on the Isle of Bural the night before, King Albrecht was quick to give them ample supplies for their journey, as well as a substantial payment made in vasariks, which would allow them to make any necessary purchases when they return to the Erie Isles.

The time ticks slowly by, and the crew don’t communicate much, and in some cases, at all. Even when they’re summoned to a final dinner in King Albrecht’s banquet hall, they avoid each other. On the following morning, they’ll depart for the Erie Isles, their course set and the steam engine at full power. After their dinner, later that night, the crew lie down to sleep in their rooms, though few of them manage it. Only the paired couple find any peace. Valan holds Jarae tightly in his arms, his nose buried in the soft, sweet smelling fur of her shoulders. Her tail rests over his outer leg, and her firm but plump buttocks presses into his groin.

Irzain sits at the edge of his bed, his mind wandering. At first, he dwells on Naoma, but remembering Prince Alaric’s words, he finds himself suddenly thinking about Boala, the tavern girl from Bremen, and the only woman he’s slept with in years, besides Naoma. Kirsta is in the room across the hall, unable to sleep and occupying her time with exercise. She performs no less than fifty pushups before stretching her muscles with sword flourishing. Afterward, she tucks her feet beneath the nightstand and begins to perform as many crunches as she can muster, her beautiful, alabaster skin coated in a fine layer of sweat.

Mairlynn stays in the room beside hers. The dainty elf occupies herself with carnal pleasure. However, as everyone in King Albrecht’s castle refuses to see her as the adult she is, unable to look past her youthful appearance, she resorts to using her hands. It’s moments like these when she truly regrets being so cold to Salman, when they still had a sexual relationship; he could be bedding her right now, reaming her little body with his substantial manhood. If only she could better control her objectification and underlying anger towards men... As she struggles with her own pleasure, she pauses. Sighing with increasing frustration, she furls her brow and turns her head at a familiar sound.

Pacing about in her room, Lutala turns toward the arched doorway which leads to her balcony. She hears the footsteps echoing throughout the hallway, but thinks nothing of them. She opens the door and peers outside, looking up at the full moon and wondering if Salman is also staring at it. The thought of him brings tears to her fiery eyes. Suddenly, there’s a faint knocking on her bedroom door. She turns and brings up a clawed hand, wiping a finger beneath her eyes. Without saying a word, she approaches the door. Knock, knock, knock! The person outside seems to grow impatient.

“Lutala? It’s Lapira. Are you awake?”

“What do you want?” Lutala asks in a low grumble.

“May we speak? ... Please?”

Sighing and opening the door, Lutala tilts her head back as she stares blankly at the six-foot-six Vizheki Princess. Her soft, feminine features appear troubled as she looks down at the Lahnyt, a full foot shorter than herself. Lapira brings a hand to her face, brushing a long strand of silvery-white hair and tucking it behind a long and pointy ear.

“I, uhm... I was hoping we could have a word.”

“Alright...” Lutala murmurs.

“... May I come in?”

Lutala steps back and waves a hand, presenting her room to the Princess, who isn’t staying in this wing, but at the other end of the castle; she’s closer to the King and the Prince. She closes the door behind the Princess as the elf makes her way inside. Lapira heads directly for the balcony, standing outside and admiring the view. Lutala joins her, an orange brow raised as she cocks her head and eyes the bluish-purple elf.

“Is there something I can do for you, Princess?”

“Please, just call me Lapira.” She speaks softly.

“Are you alright?”

An increasingly concerned Lutala approaches her. Why is the Princess being so kind to her all of a sudden? She’s never once asked her to call her by anything other than her title.

“Heh... It’s funny you say that, because that’s what I came to ask you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend. I’ve seen the sorrow on your face for days, and now that we’re here, it’s only grown worse. I’ve felt tremendous guilt after our last talk. It didn’t go as I’d hoped, but I wasn’t able to bring myself to speak with you. Now that you’re leaving in the morning, I realized that it might be now or never... What’s troubling you, priestess?”

Lutala can see the genuine concern on the elf’s face. Her silver eyes are gentle, and the light hairs of her brow are curled softly with worry. Her little frown speaks the truth. The Lahnyt is taken aback. She never expected Lapira to care about her feelings, especially after the pair have spent nearly a week avoiding each other.

“Please, just call me Lutala.” She speaks softly.

Standing beside the Princess and leaning against the stone railing, Lutala stares at the shimmering waves. With narrowed eyes, she shifts her gaze downward, staring at the grounds below the balcony. The grass shimmers from the night’s dew, glowing softly in the moonlight.

“Would you like to know the truth?” Lutala finally begins.

“Well, I’d prefer to not hear lies, unless they’re entertaining.” Lapira retorts.

“I care for Sal. I care for him more than I’ve admitted, even to myself... I can’t explain it but he infects my thoughts. I think of him even when nothing is there to inspire me; he’s with me when I’m sitting and meditating, or eating a meal. I wonder how he is and what he’s doing, and I wonder if he ever thinks about me. That’s what I was doing only a moment ago; looking up at the moon and wondering if he was looking at it too. I miss him terribly, and I regret ever leaving his side. Even if I had to sin and lie, I would rather commit the sin and pretend to stay for Roak’s well-being, so long as I could be near Sal. Leaving Mishgan was a mistake and I regret it, especially now that Steingar has dragged us along on this quest for King Albrecht.”

The Princess turns toward the Lahnyt, looking down at her and listening as the priestess empties her heart to her. Once she’s finished, the Vizheki woman is at a loss for words. She’s suspected as much from their limited conversations, from how Lutala glared at and avoided her, and from how Lutala behaved when they spoke about Salman a week earlier, on the main deck of the Arona-Dahl. Lutala’s jealousy was plain to see. However, hearing her admit her affection for Salman doesn’t make it any easier for Lapira to accept.

“I see...” The Princess finally replies.

“I’m sorry. I know you care for him, too, but you asked.”

“I did... I suppose I was hoping you’d say something else. Perhaps homesickness or a similar trouble. I should’ve known better.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you.” Lutala rests her hand over Lapira’s. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t be sorry. You spoke your mind, and I respect that. If it makes you feel any better, I have similar regrets. The only difference is that my course has been set; my nobility prevents me from having a choice in the matter. All I can do is walk on the road placed before me, even if I hate it... I’m certain that Albrecht will try to talk me into marrying one of his other sons, or to accept a favored noble as a husband.”

“Is that something you’d ever consider?”

“No, and I doubt I’d ever come around to the idea. Alaric is already married and has children, so there’s really no other suitors even remotely appealing to me, aside from Salman, of course. It would take a powerful magic to alter my thoughts and erase that man from my heart. There’s no magic that could do that, is there?” The Princess turns to Lutala.

“No. Neither the darkest of Haze nor the brightest of Halcyon could ever control what you desire.”

“I almost wish it could... I suppose I’ll just have to live my life alone.” Lapira smirks. “At least here I won’t be imprisoned until I surrender my will; I won’t be forced to marry anyone. It’s nice, having a choice, even one so simple as that.”

“Is that what you want? To never marry? I mean, no one should live without love, or even basic companionship. Yashuva and his prophet say that ‘it’s not good for anyone to live their life alone’.”

“Wise words, Lutala. Very wise. Maybe I’ll come around, and maybe I won’t? I suppose it all depends.”

“On what?”

“On whatever road is built for me to travel... I’ve done all that I could do with what power I have, and I’ll continue to do so. That’ll have to be enough. Don’t live with regrets, Lutala. You’re far too young, and your life won’t be nearly as long as mine. Know that I don’t say this lightly, but... When you leave with the others tomorrow, finish the mission, bring Harokian to safety, and then go back to Mishgan... Go back to Salman and resolve this tension. Speak your mind – he’ll listen to you – and enjoy your life with him.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Lutala boldly replies.

“I’m envious...” Lapira admits, her grin somewhat forced. “In the meantime, think of the future and try to grasp only the pleasant thoughts. It’s unsettling to see you so down, and this is coming from me. Goodnight, Lutala, and thank you for what you’ve done. I owe you and your friends far more than I could ever repay.”

“I know... Goodnight, Lapira.”

The Princess leans in and embraces Lutala, holding the Lahnyt for a moment. To both the priestess and the Princess, it goes a long way to heal the fissure that’d formed between them. As Lapira leaves Lutala’s room, the Lahnyt turns toward the ocean. Staring at the shimmering waves of the navy-blue water, nearly black in the darkness of the night, her thoughts dwell on the pleasantries of their talk, and her mind races with the myriad of potentially glorious outcomes of her future. However, as before, her mind shifts. As she leans against the stone railing of the balcony, Lutala can’t help but wonder what Salman is doing at that very moment.

Standing at the window of his castle, Salman looks up, gazing at the moon. Has the Arona-Dahl made it to Ogrodin yet? Does King Albrecht know what’s going on? Is he sending help? Are Lapira and Lutala alright? So many thoughts race through his mind, but one keeps returning. He turns his eyes away from the beauty of the moon and toward the many thousands of torches and lanterns that litter the landscape of his island. So many have come in the recent days, and a camp has sprung up in what was once an empty field stretching between his castle and the primary town of his isle.

One light in particular races toward the castle. It’s a rider returning from the docks, which has been abuzz with activity in recent days. He turns away from the window and looks toward a chair beside his bed. Seated at an angle and with a leg pulled up, Salasha rests her foot on the edge of Salman’s bed. She rubs an ointment on her glossy hide, her slender, clawed fingers caressing her bare legs, which are hardly covered by her tiny skirt. Primarily a light green, and with intriguing, dark green stripes, the appearance of her flesh is akin to a watermelon. The half breed Lahnyt turns her yellow eyes toward the human, flashing him a little smile.

“Is that better?” He asks her.

“Yes.” She speaks softly, brushing a strand of platinum blond hair away from her face. “I appreciate this, and for... Well...”

“It’s alright. The least I can do is make you comfortable.” He replies.

Her smile grows and she returns her attention to her skin, rubbing the oily substance on her arms, shoulders, toned belly, and even into her modest cleavage. Her body is only covered by a small and simple top, which drapes over her shoulders and ties at the front. Turning back toward the window, Salman looks for the rider, but their light is gone. Footfalls approach, and within moments, the door latch lifts and the hinges squeak. Glancing over his shoulder and looking toward the door, Salman stares at Naemen, who stands on the threshold of Salman’s room. He’s clad in shiny, plate armor, and pants for air. He looks as though he’d just ran across the island.

“Hi, Naemen!” Salasha chirps, greeting her brother.

“Hi...” He glances curiously at his sister. “Sorry for barging in.”

“Oh, it’s fine! We were just sitting together!” Salasha replies in an innocent tone.

“Was that you I saw out there?” Sal asks, pointing toward the window.

“Yes. I, uhm... I have the new count.” Naemen says, his armor clanking as he steps inside.

“Which one?” Salasha asks.

“They’re still tallying the fighters, but a ship came in with letters from the other Lords.” Naemen replies.

“And?”

Naemen approaches the Lord, holding out a small pile of letters. Salman collects the letters, noting how all of them have had their seals broken. Opening the top letter, he begins to read.

“That was me. I wanted to verify it.” Naemen remarks.

“Verify what?”

“We have four new supporters, Sal. Probably more now, with all of the rumors going around about what Vashalak’s soldiers are doing to the outlying islands and smaller colonies.”

“Good.”

“I can’t believe the stories I’m hearing. Vashalak is so cruel!” Salasha whimpers.

“Apparently, he’s reinstituted slavery as well. He signed an order the day after you rescued Lapira. Many of the Lords you wrote to received official letters from the Crown giving them the authority to claim... Lesser beings.” Naemen continues.

“That evil bastard... Vasar did away with slavery for a reason, and Euralian spent almost one hundred years making sure no one continued the practice.” Salman growls, carefully reading his letters.

“Well, it’s turning the tide against him, Sal. At least for the humans, Falmun and Jaliscan... I can’t imagine any half breeds wanting to serve with that law in effect, either.” Naemen adds.

“Maybe they’ll come and join us?!” Salasha asks with hope in her voice.

“I hope so.” Salman says with a somber sigh.

“Or maybe they’ll flee, leaving us only the fanatics to deal with? I’ve noticed the Helngar still have all of the same rights; they actually gain more power under Vashalak. I also find it interesting that the Lahnyt and the various hybrid races aren’t mentioned at all. I don’t think that bodes well.”

“You’re always so negative, brother! I can’t believe people would allow such cruelty! People have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to feel! They won’t stand by and let people be enslaved and have their rights taken away! Vashalak is killing the old world to make room for something new, but it’s dark and evil!” Salasha boldly exclaims, her modest breasts jiggling in her very small and revealing top as she nearly leaps out of her chair. “We can stop him, if we try!”

“Maybe, but many people have homes and families. It’s easier to take them and run away than fight for what’s right. I think when push comes to shove, quite a few will run away, and those who can’t afford to flee will sit down, shut up and accept whatever the world does to them.” Naemen retorts, amused by Salasha’s exuberance.

“I still can’t believe that. I don’t know if I could sleep at night if I ran away.” She says, a melancholy look in her eyes as she shifts her gaze toward her bare, plantigrade feet.

“I didn’t say it was hopeless. The fanatics who hate Vashalak and all that he’s doing will join our side. We have a fighting chance.” Naemen admits.

“Finally being positive?” She says with a little grin, turning her eyes up to look at him.

“Eh.” He says, lifting up a hand and shifting it from side to side.

“There aren’t very many letters here...” Salman remarks, flipping through the various envelopes.

“There’ll be more, I’m sure. Word of our rebel alliance has already reached two dozen islands, and I sent agents to spread the word, like you wanted. Everyone knows that you’re the leader of the rebellion. I’m sure many will come!” Naemen answers.

“Good, because we’re going to need all the help we can get...” Salman murmurs, once again staring out of his window.