• Mature • 1. Tragic Ambiguity (Graded)

[Llyr Llywelyn]

25th Trial, Ymiden, Arc 719
Foster’s Landing

After nearly eighty trials at sea, it didn’t matter how much silver ran through his blood, he longed to set foot on land again.

Zarik – who’d chosen the name of Llyr Llywelyn to shroud his identity upon arrival to the northern continent – proved eager to depart Graeslin’s ship that’d served as his seabound cage. He nabbed Hazel and Oceta, then on first chance, he led them over the ramp that connected to the docks. Even if he’d wanted to stay, it was unlikely. Graeslin had already taken what she could from him. She'd spent trials upon trials harassing him after their unfortunate arrival in the hold of her ship, but now she was eager to be rid of him when there were masses of people begging with every nel they had for a spot on her ship.

It wasn’t until he was already on the pier that he realized what might be happening, but what remained of his pride proved too great to try and negotiate with her for passage elsewhere. Not many ships resided in the docks, but for those that did, they were swarmed with people who looked as if they’d been sleeping on the docks or in the muck of the shores so they’d be able to reach the arriving ships before others. Splashes sounded of bodies tossed over, or kicked back down for those who blatantly attempted to stow-away by climbing over railings.

His first thought wasn’t on the Etzori men who’d been on the ship, but on getting the children away from the crowds that smelt so rank that it suffocated the salty air of the bay. He noticed Blackguards, as they were known, but the soldiers headed in the opposite direction from the docks with a formation that suggested they weren’t interested in the city but whatever lay beyond it. The few soldiers he saw on the piers seemed to participate in the ruckus as much as the next citizen. This left the throng of pirates, merchants, travelers, and refugees to shove and trip around each other in attempts to figure out their next steps for independent survival. No one seemed keen to work with one another or organize in an orderly fashion.

Foster’s Landing was chaos, from Zarik’s perspective. It reminded him of Quacia on the second of Saun during The Heap’s Rebellion Remembrance… only without the celebratory drinking, laughter, and crude open displays of frenzied vice in the streets.

Such a thing was no place for children. He sent Oceta to gather some supplies, confident in her ability to navigate the crowds and secure items with an innocent face; maybe some merchants would be more likely to sell to her rather than himself. Meanwhile, he needed to figure out if there was a place for them to stay the night or if they needed to prepare to head out of the city before dark took over.

Most of what he heard amid the crowds, he didn’t understand. He recognized the language as the Ith’ession tongue, but that didn’t help make sense of what people muttered to each other or shouted across the way. Those who did speak common, spoke of things that sounded like nonsense regardless, about towns and places he didn’t truly recognize beyond whatever Jorsie had mentioned during their voyage.

Whatever they were talking about, the young mage recognized fear when he saw it. Desperation. Anguish. So palpable, he could almost taste it.

Within bits of sending Oceta on her way, he felt a terrifying emptiness to his hand where Hazel’s had been holding on. She’d gone missing, drifted away through the crowd like a twig caught in a rushing river current. In his frantic pace to locate her, he’d found her soon enough, along with a pair of orphaned boys. They required assistance and Zarik, unable to leave a pair of lonely young children to fend for themselves, decided he had to help them.

Time went fast since they hadn’t docked until later in the trial. Dusk sneaked over the western side of Foster’s Landing. He set the children to wait in a temporary, relatively safe spot with Oceta as the eldest to watch over the other three children –

- while he went looking for one of the two Etzori men he’d spent time at sea with: the one he felt more obligation toward, the one he cared about more, the one who didn’t have political advantages –

- but he didn’t need a diplomatic ambassador who couldn’t even rupture a way to Etzos correctly... He needed the man who was armed to the teeth in weapons. The man with a cold look in his obsidian-dark eyes that promised he knew how to use them too.

Last he’d seen Kasoria had been on the docks, with the human headed in a different direction - a scowl on his features and an ornery murmur sounding from under his beard. Zarik had meant to keep track of which direction, but Hazel had slipped away from him at that time and his focus had momentarily been distracted.

Now, he needed to sift through the dingy masses of Foster’s Landing while night crept over the city and attempt to find the Etzori before the children got too antsy while on their lonesome.

Something about where he walked seemed vaguely familiar. He recognized an alley and the nearby sight of what looked to be a tavern. Kasoria’s dreamscape. He poked his head into the tavern, and quickly walked through, but didn’t catch sight of the man.

He went to the alley across the way next. There were a few surly sorts drinking and smoking in the shadows, so he hesitated at the edge of the corridor.

Zarik wondered if he should dare even with the lack of his halo – which had vanished once his ether ran dry and his sparks fell asleep – and his wings. One Ymiden night, during the voyage, he’d asked for Kasoria to rip the wings out. Zarik had realized his ether was draining; so he needed the essence for a last transformation to feed a totem of his before returning to his natural-born self. His sparks had gone dormant soon after and his wings hadn’t grown back. Now all that marked him as a mage could be covered in the layers of his clothes.

However, he glanced at the side of an adjacent building to the alley. He knew those window frames. He remembered them from the dream, and thus, he knew a pathway up to the rooftop. While he wouldn’t have the ease of the dream or his wings to help him, it might give him enough overview of the city before the sun disappeared entirely.

There were more than a few crates in the alley, and trash, and the stench of rotted fish. The aroma reminded him of his father’s house, it was only missing the astringent overcast of cleaning solution scrubbed into the stones.

Zarik walked past a pair of younger men who didn’t look much older than himself. They eyed him, and it gave a sense that he’d passed by a living gate of sorts. What harm could be done when so many people were about in the city though? It was just an alley, one sprint either way would return him to an adjacent street… and he’d been in alleys in Shanty before, alleys in Lair… he assumed that the men inhabiting this alley either were getting plastered, or partaking in illicit drugs, or even had something to sell… but those were Quacian habits and it stood to reason that Zarik had never been in an alley with native-born Etzori before.

“Look at youse,” said a mustached man with a powerful stench of whiskey on his tongue. “Sauntering right in here like yeh own the place.”

Zarik arched an eyebrow at him, walked around in a slight dodge when the man tried to lean an arm over his shoulder. He raised a hand in a surrender gesture and said in his southern accent, “No, thank you, mister. I’m not looking to buy anything.”

Whiskey stared for a short trill, then barked a laugh. He pointed at the blond and by the way he looked around, it was a gesture meant for the others that lingered in the shadowed corridor. He said, “Think you’re in the wrong alley, kid. You’ll wants t’ head back to the piers.”

“Oh… okay?” Zarik wasn’t sure what the insinuation was, but it was clearly something hilarious as a few of the others snickered and chuckled. He shook his head, then grabbed onto the window frame. Whatever they were on about, he didn’t pay it any mind. He lifted himself up on the window frame and took to the same path he’d climbed in the dream.

A low whistle followed from Whiskey. “Will yeh look at that’s. Saltbreath is a monkey too.”

Zarik reached for the next window but paused. Scraped past his fingers, a pebble hit the wall. It crumbled upon impact. Zarik glanced over his shoulder. The two younger men who’d been acting as the gate keepers had picked up a handful of rocks and now aimed tosses at him.

“Truly?” muttered Zarik. He scoffed, then dodged as a particularly large stone nearly hit his head. His foot slipped slightly from the precarious placement on the windowsill. “Stop that!”

“Fuuuck youse,” slurred one of the young men with a guffaw.

Zarik lifted himself up regardless and ignored their various taunts as pebbles hit his shoulders and legs. He had a little way left to climb, as long as none of the rocks knocked him unconscious or caused him to lose his grip. He heard the vague rise of confusion as he kept climbing despite the battering of stones against his limbs and back.

When he reached the eaves, he grabbed hold. This was the difficult part. In the dream, it’d been effortless to lift over it… but in reality, gravity pulled on him. The weight of his clothing forced him to swing his momentum in a swift and dangerous speed.

He let go of the eaves at the last moment. His body glided past both frame and roof, and it seemed he might miss the mark entirely until he twisted at the waist and forced his legs to change angle. In a powerful impact that shook the shingles apart under the heels of his boots, he landed at the very edge of the rooftop. He faced the alley and looked down.

A rock hit the frame underneath. One of the young men picked up a crossbow from behind a crate. He readied a bolt to shoot at Zarik, drunken aim and all, until Whiskey shoved on the weapon with a scold and pointed at him to return it to the hiding spot.

They’d moved on. And so did Zarik. He climbed farther up the roof to the highest vantage point, then stood to look over Foster’s Landing in the last gleam of sunlight that caressed over the streets.

Where was Kasoria… where was he… Zarik squinted and he started a slow, methodical survey of the crowds he could see. In one direction, the ocean met a river and he assumed it had to be Southwood. In another, he saw the spot where he’d left the children though they were out of easy view. His gaze flicked over hoods and cloaks and dark haired Etzori in his search. He recalled what the man had looked like, on last sight, and he compared every individual to that recent memory.

He saw one such figure, making their way through the crowd toward what looked like a gate. If it was Kasoria, he wasn’t on a merry stroll and moving fast.

Glancing around, Zarik readied himself. At least most of the roofs were stone or wood, both things he was accustomed to. He sprinted across the roof, leapt over the narrow alley – to a couple shouts from Whiskey’s men – then landed on the opposite building. He didn’t pause to collect himself after the landing, and continued to the next roof, and the next, as he kept track of the man going toward the gate.

Not until he reached a shorter house and crouched to collect his breath. He'd barely gotten a decent inhale when he heard a shrill scream from a woman in a neighboring window. She screeched something in Ith’ession that he didn’t understand, then tossed an egg at him. It landed on his shoulder and proved itself to be rotten.

“Wonderful,” he muttered, wiping the rancid yolk off his wrinkled tunic, then he looked to… he was closer to the man now, and when he looked to him, he realized… that wasn’t Kasoria.

“Foda-se!” He stood. He’d shouted so loud that the random black-haired short man looked up at him with brown eyes, then scampered away. Zarik looked to the nearby building he’d jumped down from. It was higher up… but then that woman was still in the window and this time, he dodged a second egg that she threw at him. Zarik outstretched his arms and shouted back at the screaming lady, “Ohhh… Vai-te foder, vaca!”

Foster’s Landing was certainly not the most welcoming place to arrive after eighty trials at sea. Zarik’s patience had become non-existent. He offered a rude gesture when a third egg hit him in the hip, then he hurried to leave the rooftop when the woman gathered a couple children to help her. He slid over the eaves, then landed in the street with a dull thud against his boots.

How far away had he gotten from the children as well? The sky had only darkened more and the glare of candlelight within inhabited buildings started to glow. He looked toward the gate, then ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe Kasoria had already found a place to stay or…

...it didn’t seem like the Etzori planned on finding him or coming back and he supposed that was that. He thought to maybe ask a few people who walked past, but then he felt unusually sour toward these folk. Even if some of them had seen Kasoria, would they even help?

He walked over to a barrel at the corner of a building, climbed up to sit on it, and crossed his arms. Zarik leaned against the corner, and he sulked. He sulked like any brooding adolescent could, with a deep furrow in his brows and slightly puffed out cheeks as he pouted. So lost in his upset, that he nearly didn’t see the diminutive bearded man through the crowds and shadows past an alley, walking in the street over… but he had.

As soon as he saw him, he felt the sting of immediate recognition. He shouted, uncertain if the other man had seen him or not, “Kas!”

Zarik forgot his pout. He scurried off the barrel, shoved past a couple who’d been about to walk in front of him, to run through the alley.

Only a few steps past, however, and the male of the couple grabbed onto his collar from behind. Zarik felt sudden resistance choke him. He coughed while he got dragged back.

“Watch where you’re going, kid,” snapped the bulky man who matched Zarik in height. He roughly let go of the collar once he placed the biqaj in front of him.

“Wes, dear, we don’t have time to waste,” whined the frail woman beside him. She lowered her voice and added, “They’re locking the gates. No in. No out. We have to be on our way.”

Zarik raised his hands in front of him, a surrender gesture. He offered an insincere smile. The irises of his eyes were bright with vivid orange color, the colorful height of his annoyance.

The young mage mocked, “Yeah, Wes. You should probably listen to her, Wes. Sounds like the lady knows best... Wes.”

The straight punch that came next was expected. After all, Wes had enough disdain to grab him instead of continue on without conflict. Of course he was the punching sort. Zarik met the assailing arm and redirected the punch along the outside of his forearm.

Hand still open in surrender, Zarik's palm faced himself as he guided Wes’s punch. He didn’t stop the punch, but rather let Wes lean forward as the man’s fist sped past empty air.

Adrenaline spiked through the spry biqaj, tuning him into the fleeting moment.

Zarik’s other arm wrapped around to hold the man’s arm in place. He slammed his knee into Wes’s lower back. His outward hand swung while Wes moved forward. The flat edge of his open hand slammed into the older man’s face with a crunch just under the sellion of his nose.

A scream sounded from Wes’s lady who overreacted at the crimson blood that resulted from the chop to the human's nose.

The thud vibrated through Zarik's hand and he grimaced from the unusual sensation. He had acted on instinct, through vague recollection of how he'd seen his father fight in the past, and now, Wes’s ire had grown rageful.

Zarik disengaged, waving his hand to try and rid it of the tingling. He skipped backward a few steps to avoid a wide swing that wasn’t anywhere near its mark. Wes had become too momentarily dazed by the strike.

Now was his chance.

The biqaj turned on heel to run away. He’d gotten about five paces toward the alley before his path got blocked by a familiar face… but not the one he wanted to see. Whiskey and his gate keepers were looking to change location it seemed.

“Merda…” muttered Zarik.

“Whatever tha’ means, is probably right,” replied Whiskey with a stroke over his hefty mustache. He grabbed Zarik's shoulder by the tunic and yanked him into the alley. “Didn’t no one tell yeh there’s no room for foreigners here?”

“Wa-wait,” but his attempt lasted about a trill. A sucker punch landed against Zarik’s temple, from the young man who’d grabbed the crossbow before.

He stumbled into a wall and managed to lean out of the way from a second strike. His head pounded with a rush of blood. He kicked out. His heel landed against a knee, and the other young man backed off for the moment.

“Be reasonable,” said the biqaj, in a monotone voice. He glanced to see Wes had decidedly become best friends with Whiskey as the latter traded off an empty namesake bottle for the other man to use. Zarik lowly commented, “Least I’m bringing people together in these trying times.”

[Kasoria]

"How much?!"

"S'less than some are chargin', believe me-"

"An' that's supposed to make it better?! Chargin' twice what I woulda' paid a season ago for that?!"

The horse in question looked over for a moment, and Kasoria felt not a twinge of guilt. He wasn't a disgrace to the equestrian name, but not worth as much as the horse trader was demanding. The man in question crossed his arms over his ample chest and shrugged. Kasoria in full froth was a frightening sight, something the man in question knew well. But this man had seen much of horror over the last two dozen trials or more. He'd watched his home degenerate into a hellhole in that time. He'd seen so many lost and hollow faces cross before his door that he barely even reacted to them anymore.

Kasoria breathed out through his flaring nostrils, and behind his scowling glare, admitted defeat. Honest Andrew would not be scared into a discount. The wanker.

"... fine."

Andrew had the tact not to gloat, at least. He just watched as the little man festooned with deadly weapons started to count out his money. Happy Horus continued to munch of the weak meal, grass, and grain mix that their owner had left out for him. Hardly a filling meal, but Andrew had been busy with other ventures. Horse feed was at a premium now, and not just for animals. There was such a glut of panicked, bedraggled souls clogging up the streets and the fields beyond the port, even food not meant for human mouths was selling briskly.

Kasoria might have spared some concern for that, had he knows the truth. He wasn't built for empathy, not anymore, but something things, such as rampant greed, still made his nostrils quiver with disgust. But even had he known, that trial, he would not have cared. He was as focused as an arrow in flight, uncaring about the cries on the wind or the sights of despair it flew by. He needed a horse, he needed supplies, and then he needed to go.

He needed to know. Needed to lay eyes on his son on the other side of a country ripping itself apart and wailing as it was ravaged. Every face he'd seen, every tale of woe, every snippet of news that was worse than the last, all of it fed into that single imperative. To go, to ignore all else, and know. There was no want, no desire. These things were fancies, once all the intensity of them was stripped away. Necessity was always the true power behind all actions; imperatives that were built into blood and brains and souls. Kasoria did not want anything. But he needed this.

"I'll be back for 'im in half a break," he growled, watching the trader scoop the little mound of gold towards himself. "Don't fuck me about an' sell 'im if I'm a little late. I ain't hangin' around Foster's."

"Me neither," Honest Andrew said with a smirk, though something almost like sadness tinged it. "Time fer me to pack up an' get gone, I think. Like everyone else. Place is fucked, innit?"

Kasoria gave a him a look that could have curdled milk, but didn't answer. He waited for the man to finish drawing up papers, tuning him out as he gave him news of disaster and horror with that chipper, contented tone in his voice. Because a sale was a sale, an Etzori was an Etzori, and what could be better? No matter how much he was a vulture upon the corpses of his people; no matter how much he leeched and gorged from the desperate, selling feed not fit for rats to people too starved to refuse him.

Whole country falling apart, a monster eating out people alive, and all he can think of is getting out. After fleecing everyone he can, first.

"I'll have a saddle an' bag thrown on fer an extra few nel," Andrew said, still smiling, blissfully ignorant of his customer's slowly tightening features. "Dunno why yer botherin' with a horse, though. Y'don't strike mas as much of a ri-"

The little man moved so fast that Andrew finished the word into the polished wood of his counter. After Kasoria smashed his head against it, of course. The next sound he made was something between a whine and a gurgle. Kasoria's left hand had snapped up and gripped the side of his head, slamming him down to the counter with a brute strength that belied his size. The horse trader started to wriggle, squirm, hands reaching for something, anything-

SHUNK

-then he saw his face reflected in sharp, perfect steel. His eyes, staring into his eyes, terrified and wide. Kasoria leaned closer, right hand clutch the dagger stabbed into the wood an inch before Andrew's eyes. He would enjoy this. He didn't often have the luxury of doing the right thing, but this... well, probably wasn't much different, but it felt that way.

"I'll fuckin' learn, wun'I?" He let go of the man and shoved him back in the same movement. The crumpled, smeared bill of sale wafted down next to Andrew, white-faced and shaking. "Write up a new one. I'll be back." He yanked his dagger back and shoved it back into its sheath. "Don't even think about doin' somethin' stupid wi' me, mate. I'm no' in the fuckin' mood."

"Y-Y-Yes-"

Kasoria didn't stick around for the "sir". He was already pounding through the streets, lit by torches and lanterns and a red glare on the horizon that never went away. Burning towns and burning pyres, people were saying. Mounds of bodies to be destroyed after dying of plague, and entire settlements wiped out by the Plague Mother's armies. Kasoria's face tightened again into something hateful, that kind of loathing that stung at the heart to feel it so deeply. People moved out of his way instinctively, feeling the rage barely battened down seeping from him.

Rations. Enough for ten days. Then get the horse and go.

Zarik didn't even flicker into his mind. That was over. That time, that adventure, that... acquaintance. There was no point going back to him or the ship that had brought them here. His deal had been honored; he'd been what help he could with that bitch Graeslin, and protected the mage on the voyage. He told the boy they would renegotiate when they got to Foster's Landing, and that too had not been a lie.

Then Kasoria had sen it. Rearing up out of the fog with ten thousand flailing arms and ten thousand wailing mouths. A city of thousands new swelled into ten times as many as it could take, whole villages of people sleeping on the beaches, the docks, the streets, the fields, without tents or shelter or food. Just running without care or thought, like animals in flight from wolves. He didn't believe it at first. Not the tales the "good" Captain had told them. But this... this was so much worse. This wasn't just war or conflict; this was a breakdown of everything that made a country work. Public order, civic service, transport of food and people and services... the only things heading towards the southern territories were soldiers. Men being fed into a meat-grinder that everyone, everyone said was simply not working.

You can't kill a morty with a fucking gladius. You can't kill a plague with a spear. And magic came back... far too fucking late. So you don't fight it. You run, until someone finds a way to fight. You make sure you and yours are safe. You-

"Fuck's he think he's playin' at?"

The words seemed to pierce the miasma of anger Kasoria weaved around himself. His eyes flitted over to the voice, then frowned as he saw they were directed up. Along with a finger that he followed-

"... oh, fuh fuck's sake."

What in the Fucking Fates Zarik thought he was doing jumping around on the rooftops, Kasoria had no bloody clue. Maybe he thought it was better that navigating the sea of refugees under him. That would make sense. Kasoria growled a few more words out and then, against all instincts, started to shift direction. He opened his mouth to shout but the boy had already hopped down out of sight. More curses. More growling. Enough for a mother to pull her children out of his path as he went by.

"Don't get close, Jean!"

"Mama, he sounds like a fox."

"Oi?!"

But they were gone when his head whipped around. Leaving the little man staring at nothing through his thick, lank hair. He kept stamping around the corner, seeking out but not finding one blond-haired boy amidst hundreds. He craned his neck, even stood on his tiptoes, but-

"Kas!"

Damnit, where the fuck are you, boy?!

He kept looking. Kept moving. That was his voice, he was sure of it, and few others dared call him that. Then he frowned as some new flavor of sound wafted across the air. Sounds of violence. Things he knew well. Grunting and wet, hard impacts of flesh on flesh. A scream came a moment later, a woman, clearly observing rather than involved. Kasoria started powering towards the tumult, shoving people out the way, until he came out of the crowd and into the mouth of an alley. A woman was standing before him, trying to badger a big brute of a man into obedience. Three others he didn't recognize were menacing a final. Standing there with a bruise forming on his face and blood on his lips.

You could fuck off. Just walk away. He's not your problem anymore.

You don't owe him anything.

"... shite."

"W-Who are you?"

"A bloody idiot, is what I am," Kasoria said, as he walked past the woman and got fucking involved.

His left hand bunched into a fist and his right dug into his pocket. Something cold, metal and familiar settled over his knuckles with an ease he always had appreciated. He knew that one couldn't grip or punch metal into alterations, but the longer he used these, the more they felt attuned to him. But that thought quickly vanished as he got closer to the hulk in front of him. Something niggled in his memory. Something nameless but coming with a vague face and when he turned around-

"K... Kasoria?"

Well, fuck me.

"Hello, Wes. Been a bit, eh?"

"I... um..."

It is, in fact, possible for a human to deflate. Not quite like a balloon might, but eerily similar. All the aggression and pained anger that puffed up Wes seemed to blow out of him; the only thing missing was a fart sound as he turned around and stammered out his words. The three other jackals exchanged looks as their new ally suddenly forgot about them. His face drained of color. He swallowed so hard his nose twitched and he grunted, far and pain warring on his face. Kasoria looked up at him and gave a slight smile. Yes, indeed. Sometimes it was so very useful to be know. If only for what horrors you were capable of.

"What's the crack?"

"Er... I... um, this wanker, he-he punched me-"

"Aye, he's a handful, that'n," Kasoria said, peering around Wes' bulk and rolling his eyes at Zarik. "Foreigners. Y'know what they're like. No fuckin' manners. But he's a client, so..."

He shrugged. A careless gesture, in theory. But not when doing so parted your cloak and revealed the weapons strapped to you. The jackals were suddenly alert again. Wes just seemed to go even paler. Behind Kasoria, the sound of furtive footsteps was like a landslide in his ears. He looked over his shoulder and found that same mousey woman wringing her hands, shuffling closer.

"Wes? Oi, Wes?"

"Y-Yes?"

"Think y'should go wiv' yer woman, hmm? Probably got somewhere important t'be, aye?"

"Wait, who the fuck are you?" Whiskey had enough booze and ignorance in him not to care about this bizarre scene in front of him. He moved to Wes' side and stared down at Kasoria. "Mate, what's wrong wiv' you? Ignore the little cunt and-"

"D-Don't!"

Three sets of jaws dropped at the same time. The jackals were speechless. Kasoria didn't say anything. He just sighed... and rested his left hand on the pommel of his sword. Wes swallowed again and became a dynamo of movement. He shuffled and bowed at the same time, edging respectfully around the man he knew from the South Side, and going back to his wife.

"S-Sorry about this, Mister-"

"S'alright, lad," Kasoria said over his shoulder, before turning his gaze back to the jackals. "Y'didn't know..."

"Know what?!"

Crossbow seemed to have taken control of their little back, now. Carrying the most obviously dangerous weapon of the bunch, he sauntered up to Kasoria, bow in both hands, held at the hip, leveled at the little man's stomach. Kasoria glanced at it for a moment, then looked up at him. Rotgut. Liquor. Ale. All of it and in mind-numbing amounts, that's what he smelled cascading off all three of them. To his right, a man holding a whiskey bottle was squaring off and brandishing his brawling weapon. To the left, a man with a mustache a Rynmere Lord would have killed for kept his eyes on Zarik.

Kasoria breathed in... and breathed out. That's how long it took for him to know how to handle this.

"Y'know, it'd be better if you three..."

He paused. The words came out of his mouth, filed in an orderly fashion to the front of his mind, but he didn't feel them. Didn't believe them. Not in the base and aware way one told a lie, but deeper in his being. Something else was straining under him to be let loose, and this... farce, was not helping his mood. He stopped talking long enough to shake his head, like a man who's remembered he's forgot to lock the front door.

"Oh, fuck it-"

With the last word still echoing between them, Kasoria lashed out with his right leg, a sweeping kick that wasn't aiming to do the same to Crossbow-

-instead aimed at his weapon, knocking the aim of the crossbow from in front to the side and with a curse he fired reflexively-

-shooting the bolt straight into Whiskey's thigh.

The mustachioed drunk screeched with agony and fucking hells, didn't that just sober up a man sharpish. Crossbow's lips started to form into a "fuck!" of shock but before he got the chance, weapon still useless and balance of-

-Kasoria's hand shot out of his pocket and with a sickening crack-crunch sound, he hammered a straight right into the man's chest. The brass knuckles cracked something important in him, and Crossbow went back howling and coughing in equal measure... right into Zarik's arms. Kasoria forgot about them both; the mage would have to handle himself. He still had to deal with-

"Cunt!"

-Bottle, who was swinging the empty glass tube towards him with an oath-

-only for Kasoria to lunge into the blow, left arm coming up, taking the blow and sending a shower of glass tinkling down onto the floor instead of across his head-

-right arm coming up and across, brass-wrapped punch breaking Bottle's outstretched arm at the inside of the elbow. The stem fell from the brawler's hand and before he could get over the pain, work on retaliation, Kasoria pivoted hard to the right-

-left arm folding in, elbow swinging up and out-

CRACK

Ouch.

It sent a tremor of pain rippling through him, but it was enough to feel Bottle's jaw breaking under the elbow strike. The man whirled away, twirling like a dancer for one comical trill, then slumped down, down an arm and a working jaw. There was shuffling behind him, angry cursing, gasping, and Kasoria turned and drew with his left hand in the same movement-

SHUNK

"FUCK!"

Whiskey slumped back down to the ground. One hand still clutching his bolt-pierced leg, the other letting go of the dagger he'd pulled from somewhere. Which you'd do, after something throwing a knife into your bicep. Across a mere ten feet, Kasoria's aim had been excellent. He stalked over to the gasping man, wounded in two limbs now, ignoring whatever Zarik and Crossbow were up to. Instead, he crouched down in front of the sweat-drenched man, and yanked his knife back.

"That's mine," he said simply, before tapping the end of the crossbow bolt with his knife. Even that tiny vibration was enough to make Whiskey yelp. "That, is yours. I were youse, I'd not take it out. It'll make the bleeding worse. Might even bleed yeh out before yeh find a healer." The Raggedy Man looked about, at Zarik and Crossbow, at the unconscious Bottle, and made an appraising like "hmm" sound. "Might wanna go by yerself, too. Don't think yer in shape t'drag these two wiv' yeh..."

He could have killed him. Could have killed them all. His mind ran through a half-dozen ways to do it, just in the time it took him and Wes to have their chat. But that was not his objective that trial. That was not the best way to get what he needed. Bedlam or otherwise, you never got far leaving a trail of fucking carnage behind you. Some roughed up wankers who got in a brawl with the wrong little sod, however? That would hardly be noticed. Kasoria sighed, wiped his blade clean on Whiskey's shoulder, and sheathed it as he got up.

"Right," he said sternly to Zarik, as soon as the younger man was finished and back on his feet. "We need t'talk."

Then, without any further discussion or ceremony, Kasoria grabbed by mage by the collar and half-dragged, half-threw him towards the alley exit. Towards where The Happy Trout was still open, still in business, and still likely served that delicious pottage. He needed words with this fucking boy.

Receipt

-7WP for one Basic Horse, with mount accessories

[Llyr Llywelyn]

W

ords weren’t going to help him now.

Zarik held his hands up, balance swayed from the blow to his head that still rang in his pointed ears. He swallowed a lilt of bile that’d risen in the back of his throat. He kept his head turned down, with his gaze up to glance between the four men and that whiskey bottle which changed hands. Best he relax, to make the imminent beating bruise a little less.

"K… Kasoria?"

The vermilion hue to Zarik’s irises changed in a flurry of cheerful yellows. He glanced over, then smiled when he saw the familiar Etzori. Kasoria must’ve heard his shout, then.

His cheer didn’t last, however, when Crossbow stepped a little closer. Zarik sharply turned his gaze back to his peer. His smile faded. Instead, he put on the best warning look he could muster. The two youths kept unwavering gazes locked while Wes and Kasoria conversed.

A slight distraction occurred when Zarik heard the other man call him a client. He glanced over and his smile returned momentarily.

Crossbow took a slight step closer. Zarik responded by shuffling farther away, back still against the alley wall. Raising a hand, he pointed at Crossbow and shook his head without a word. The other was simply waiting for an opening to get another hit in. He wasn’t keen to get sucker punched a second time though.

The older men continued to exchange words, until Whiskey made a crass comment that had Wes yelping like he’d just poked a great bear.

Even Zarik looked over, eyes wide at how the hulk of a man had raised his voice. He’d only gotten into it with Wes due to a lapse of his usual restraint, and with the intention to get one good hit and then run for it. He hadn’t planned on the other three blocking his way.

But here Wes bowed and apologized to the smallest man in the alley, and retreated as quick as he could. It was an odd sight to witness.

And Crossbow had gotten distracted by it as well.

Zarik prepared to shuffle farther away, maybe even out of the alley, till Whiskey took up the guardianship on his whereabouts while Crossbow threatened Kasoria.

"Y’know, it’d be better if you three… Oh, fuck it-"

After that, things happened quick.

Quicker than Zarik could fully track. The familiar sound of a crossbow's twang, a bolt hitting into flesh, and a shout. Zarik winced, a slight pain in his right hand as if in sympathy. He looked from the bolt sticking out of Whiskey’s thigh to –

- Crossbow who landed against him. Zarik’s hands moved before he could think. He took hold of the coughing peer by the coarse tunic gathered in his fists. In advantageous momentum, he swung him to the side.

The pair of young men struggled in artless disorder.

Crossbow, despite his wheezes, slapped at the biqaj and tried to wrench free. Zarik slammed him into the wall, exacerbating the hoarse breaths of the injury. It lasted a trill before he got grabbed and rolled along to also hit the wall, neither of them willing to let go.

They tripped over each other.

A stack of old crates crashed into splintered remnants in their wake. To the ground they went, all slaps and shoves and knees and even some scratches. Shattered glass sounded, from Kasoria's much more eloquent fight, and some fragments landed nearby.

Zarik managed the fall enough to land as the one on top. He endured a few slaps, scratches, and weaker punches to the face and shoulders. The biqaj fiercely pressed the flat of his palm into Crossbow’s face, and forced the human to look aside so he couldn’t aim the punches properly.

“Gods, let up already,” said Zarik. He heard cursing and gasping and yelps to the side, and glanced once to see Kasoria retrieving a knife from Whiskey’s arm.

The glance lasted long enough that Crossbow shoved his hand aside, then got a decent punch in. Zarik felt knuckles thud into his jaw from underneath. He would’ve sworn if his teeth hadn’t clacked together so violently that he nearly bit his tongue.

Zarik, however, refused to give up his advantage of being on top.

Straddled over Crossbow’s waist, he drove his elbow into the already injured sternum, to hear an even worsening crack. His hand darted to grasp at Crossbow's jaw and force him to look up while the Etzori struggled to breathe properly. He brought his other hand to push against the injury with no small amount of pressure. It was enough to cause involuntary tears in his opponent's eyes.

“I told you to let up,” snapped the biqaj. “Não te estiques.”

He glared for a few trills, but Crossbow remained where he was – wheezing and gulping for needed oxygen with a weakened wave of his hand to offer a truce.

Zarik stood, then, and he moved off the other young man. He paused, then lightly kicked him in the side a couple times and muttered, “Chupa-ele.”

He felt a tug on his collar, again. This time, he had to lean downward due to the difference in height with Kasoria. He fell into step from the slight throw to get him moving away. Zarik raised his hands, palms open, in show that he was finished.

The blond shrugged to get the other man to let go of his collar and said, “I can walk.”

A slight smile quirked the corner of his lips. Despite everything, he’d still accomplished what he’d set out to do: he’d found Kasoria in the sea of people. It’d been a happy bonus to leave the alley with less of a beating than the other guys. He kept quiet, with a glance over his shoulder at the injured men left behind in the alley.

He hadn’t seen the whole fight, busy with his own scuffle, but he’d seen enough.

As soon as they were through the doors of The Happy Trout, the place he’d walked through the once before while on his search for the Etzori, he nodded. This time, he got a better look and he recognized it, that staircase, the simplistic layout, and he knew there’d be a few rooms upstairs.

The biqaj glanced around as if he were a country boy walking into a grand ballroom for the very first time, eyes all bright with amber hue. His path strayed while he mused aloud.

“Would you look at it? This place looks almost exactly like how you had it.”

He referred to the dreamscape, of course. Once the comment had been made, however, he lowered his gaze – as bright and interested as he’d been with the inn - onto the shorter man.

Zarik followed wherever Kasoria wanted to settle and eagerly said in his southern medley accent that stood out even more in a place where it seemed to be one-of-a-kind, “I knew you could fight, but I didn’t know you could do that!”

He fixed his sleeves, then his tunic’s surcoat, wrinkled though it all might be. Zarik ran his fingers through his pale blond hair, slicking the strands away from his golden-bruised temple. The biqaj openly smiled, the slight crooked slant of his canines on display. The off-white teeth had gotten smudged with silver blood that reflected the tint of blush on his cheeks. His tongue glided over his front teeth, in an unconscious lick to clean them, before he started talking in a cheerful tone:

“For a bit, I thought you’d skipped town without so much as a farewell! Hazel sure was worried that maybe you fell into the water at the pier, but I told her you knew how to swim fine enough. I figured you were making sense of it all. Fates know I can't. Everyone here is so... well...

…What? What is it? What’s that face for? Oh... you wanted to talk, yes? S-sorry.”

Speak ✣ Am ✣ Think

[Kasoria]

The Trout no longer seemed that Happy to Kasoria, but it was no less Busy. End of the world or not, there was coin to be made, and what Etzori worth his wallet would skip the opportunity for that? Serving wenches bustled around busily, arms laden with trays of cheap food and cheaper ale. People filled the building, some just sitting at empty tables, taking advantage of warmth and a refuge from the drizzle that seemed to hang over the town. The two new faces had to hunt for a while to find space, sliding into the spaces left by a pair of departing figures.

A man and his woman tried to beat them to it. Kasoria snapped his head to them and fixed them with a look that could have frozen piss. The other man swallowed and backed away, hands up. "We'll, ah, find somewhere else."

"Aye. Do that."

Then they sat down and the boy just couldn't shut up. Of course. For all his erudition and wealth and, he had to admit, his power, Kasoria marveled at how innocent, how optimistic, how stupid someone had to be to remain so... fucking chipper all the time. The more he was confronted by it, the more he thought it had to be an act. After a certain point, it wasn't just an indomitably positive attitude; it smacked more of a mask one wore, to hide from the hardship of the world. A girl floated over, red-faced and her hair a mess, not even trying for the "Sultry Serving Wench" look that day. Kasoria snapped off a few orders, ale and stew, quick and easy. She floated off, soon swallowed by the crowd, and Kasoria kept listening.

He didn't speak. Not when his fighting skills were complimented. Not when the mage went on about him leaving. He just stared silently. Without looking away, his hands went into the folds of his cloak, and came up with a pipe and a little hide bag. He packed the bowl with spicy-smelling herbs, a memento of his time around Mistral Woods. Packed it and lit it with the candle at the table, all without a word being spoken. By the time Zarik started to get a little antsy for an answer, he was puffing steadily away. The glowing knot of burning plant matter seemed to hiss and spark in front of him; reflected in his eyes, it seemed to make them glow red in the center, alive where the rest of him was immobile.

Tell him the truth, Kasoria thought. Why not? You don't owe him. You made no promises. What did you owe? A goodbye? A fond farewell? Boy needs to grow up, him and his brats.

"Yeh've been in Foster's fer less than three breaks, an' I had t'pull yer arse out the fuckin' fire cuz you got set on four against one." An unusual way to begin, but Kasoria was nothing if not dedicated. He inhaled from his pipe and his next words came out with little fits and puffs of grey smoke. "How well d'yeh think yuh'll fare on the road t'Etzos? Wiv' everythin' from bandits an' soldiers to a Morty's monsters an' plagues cloggin' the space from here t'there? What about Etzos itself, hmm? City'll kill yeh stone fuckin' dead on a good trial, let alone when it's under siege."

The older man shook his head and looked away as he did. He didn't have time for this. He needed to get going, needed to move. That need, that lack of knowing, ate at him every time he sat still for more than a few bits. As if the action of sitting still and not doing anything was a crime against his family. But the boy pulled at him. What he'd done, what he'd given him... he wasn't a good man, by any measure of the word, but he wasn't without...

Principles? Standards? Code?

Whatever.

"What you saw out there? That's how I make me money. Sellin' those skills. Has been fer a long time. I stood to me word, and you. Had yer back on that boat comin' over here." Kasoria hoped the boy would overlook the fact that had been after he'd outright confirmed that Graeslin couldn't make him a better offer. Still, he plowed on regardless. "But like I said, now we're on dry land, we can... renegotiate."

Two plates of stew that wasn't really worth the name - it was so thin and watery and sparse with contents it was more like drippings or soup - were placed in front of them. Followed by ale that didn't much smell like it. Kasoria nodded his head, happy for whatever could fill his belly, if only for a while. He tapped out his pipe and placed it gently by his bowl. Then he named a figure.

"That's how much it'll cost t'hire me, from here t'Etzos," he said, beginning to eat without any ceremony. "F'youse can pay it, I'm yer man again. If not, I have business I need t'handle, an' I mean fuckin' now. So youse can tell yer kids goodbye from me, an' we'll part ways right now."

He started eating. Mouth chomping and working almost mechanically, feeling no twinge of guilt any longer. There it was. He'd made an offer, and a fair one. Zarik could make of it what he willed, agree or deny or counter, as were the three options open to any man. But Kasoria would not feel indebted. Not when he was hungry and anxious enough, too much to allow any other pettier emotions to crowd his mind.

"Wadaya say?"

[Llyr Llywelyn]

The ease at which Zarik spoke didn’t fit in with the crowded tavern of desperate souls. Nor did it follow any sense, other than his own. Other than the wrinkled quality of his clothes and the fresh bruises, he clashed in appearance from the mass of mostly Etzori. Even without his halo and wings, the young mage radiated an ineffable aura of supranormal existence. He gingerly tapped the silver and gold mark at his temple.

While he talked, he observed his gritty companion interacting with the home territory. Certain things, missing pieces to a never-ending puzzle, settled into place. The inn was a familiar space for Kasoria. It’d been important enough to be present in his dreams. So Zarik checked for the differences and similarities between the imagined and the real.

Zarik glanced at the serving wench, paused only for the meal order, then returned to talking at the older man. The blond settled his elbows on the table and leaned forward. His amber-yellow eyes looked at the pipe with obvious curiosity. As he talked, he began to feel as if he’d forgotten something… and the human’s fiendish eyes glowed from reflected embers. Kasoria had mentioned that he’d wanted to talk. Zarik gave him the chance to do so, along with a stammered apology.

In a fidget, he chewed at his thumbnail. Unwilling to contain nervous eagerness, he wasn’t certain what the man would say. With how Kasoria began, though, Zarik proudly smiled as if he’d been given a compliment – though of course, it was anything but.

The young man cleared his throat, realized he probably shouldn’t grin over getting in danger's way, so he rid himself of the expression. He forced a somber look instead, to overcompensate for his misplaced satisfaction. Lowering his hands, he settled them in his lap. He fixed his posture, and his eyes cooled blue while he listened to the rest of what Kasoria had to say.

…we can… renegotiate.

A slow blink. That was his response. His cheer drifted, as if carried along with the pipe-smoke that misted between them. Zarik’s face lost its silvery blush.

He stared at Kasoria, fixedly, while the other man looked away.

Blue eyes narrowed with brief scrutiny...

... and then the expression was gone, and he was back to his vague countenance of trustful positivism by the time Kasoria spoke again.

Patiently, he listened. He glanced at the plate of stew that was set in front of him, then he smiled toward the wench. His expression was forced but charming in a way that offered silent thanks during a tense moment. She barely paid him mind, beyond a slight confusion, already onto the next table.

Zarik watched her walk away.

Kasoria declared a figure, setting his price.

No reaction. Nothing said.

The biqaj didn’t even so much as glance at the guard-for-hire. Zarik continued to watch the serving maid while she hustled between tables.

In his quiet, further terms were set by the other man. Hands remained in his lap, he touched neither drink nor food. He continued to track the path of the red-faced girl. Terms concluded with obstreperous slurps. The little deadly fighter shoveled stew into his mouth, or so it sounded, as still Zarik refused to glance at him.

Wadaya say?

“She’s pretty,” mused Zarik. A smile hesitated on his pale lips. His gaze followed the serving wench while she went in and out of sight between the packed crowd. “Must be tough, working so hard around these rough sorts, men like you… but look at her, doing it anyway, with such heart too, and looking all the prettier for it. Bet she’s decent in the throes.”

The blond finally drew his gaze away. His ice-blue eyes momentarily widened while he inhaled like he'd awoken from a long nap and remembered where he was and who he was with. He settled into the smallest of apologetic smiles.

“My understanding was we would help each other arrive to Etzos. Is this Etzos?”

He waved a hand, as if he didn’t want Kasoria to bother with an answer. His gaze lowered to the thin stew in front of him. Zarik picked up the ale, sniffed it, then placed it down without a sip. He casually adjusted the collar of his tunic to let his neck breathe and said, “You’re worth more than what you ask for.”

“What business is it that you need t’handle? I assume it has to do with…” he didn’t finish the sentence, merely looked at Kasoria with a long steady stare. Zarik picked up a spoon. He sighed, then broke his gaze and forced himself to take the smallest of bites. After he swallowed, he had a feeling that he’d be throwing it up later somehow, someway. He gave in, then, and took a sip of the ale. Least that way whatever came up would be even more watery and get out of him faster.

He fixed his wrinkled tunic some more, ran a hand over his hair as if combing it, and surveyed the crowd. Zarik slowly blinked, and this time, he kept his eyes shut. He listened to the murmurs and conversations around them, the clatter of plates and sloshing of ale, to Kasoria – whether the older man talked or ate or drank or smoked or merely breathed – and then he said with his eyes still closed, “I have to return to the children… soon.”

His eyes opened. He looked at Kasoria. He said, “If I wanted to rush to Etzos, I would’ve found the ambassador. I didn’t. Do you know why? I was looking for you. Do you know why that is, Kas?”

The pause he gave didn’t offer enough time for a decent answer. He knocked on the table between them, a light rapping sound lifted from his knuckles. Zarik leaned forward and spoke with a deeper resonance to his voice than his usual timbre, and as his accented words glided off his tongue, it seemed this tone came more naturally to him than his customary lilt, “Because I don’t need a slick talker or a mewling mind. I need a man who knows where he's going and how he's getting there, and cursed is anything that gets in his way, monster or man.

And you mean more to me than being some red-blood to block a blade with.”

“It’s stupid, I know,” he leaned back, away, and crossed his arms in a sulk. “I’m daft, I know. I mean, I’m not supposed to say these things, but look at it. Sitting in this place of your’s… you remember when I saw it last? Maybe you don’t. I do. And now there’s trouble, real trouble, yes? And my magic is useless,” – a dry scoff escaped him with fleeting bitterness for that fact – “You said it yourself, even without all the trouble… Bandits? Monsters? I don’t know i-… ah, forget it.”

Zarik shrugged and scratched behind his ear. He glanced at his barely touched stew. The young mage added in a light-hearted tone, the cheerful timbre from before returning at full force, “Besides, this place isn’t much for a writing desk. If I can’t draft a contract, then we’re just going on about what sounds nice while wasting time, aren’t we? You know of a safe place to go, don’t you? Safer than here?”

[Kasoria]

"Uhn?"

Kasoria twisted around in his seat as he followed Zarik's distracted gaze. Pretty? Who was pretty? It took him a few trills to realize he'd meant the serving wench. Already whisked away to another table - no, this was her third - taking orders and distributing new drinks, fresh drinks. She reminded him of Jessye, just for a moment. Not what she did or what she looked like, but the bearing of her. That hardness behind the soft features and feminine form. Women were such odd creatures to him. Prone to crying and arguing and fucking ghastly bodily functions he didn't want to ponder while eating... but he couldn't deny how strong they bred them in Etzos. Because men were expected to be strong, and smart, and noble, and brave. Women weren't, but the world still forced them to be. No-one expected anything from them, yet they gave it all they had and more.

Means more, when it's like that. Because it ain't just everyone else thinking you can't survive, it's part of you, too. And you do it anyway.

Yet the sellsword sighed. He rolled his eyes gently, as he turned back to his new friend. This was the boy's problem, in one bloody go. He couldn't focus on the here and now. He had education and intelligence, a five bit chat with the Quacian would prove that beyond contest, but Kasoria wasn't seeing much in the way of common sense-

No. Not that. He trusts too much. He sees the... what's it called... ab-something. Not the reality.

The Etzori cocked an eyebrow when Zarik attempted what could only be described as a lawyer's quibble. Referring to the exact wording of their contract, never mind it was a blood-smeared handshake in a Yaralon boarding house. Kasoria felt a rush of something uncomfortable in his guts when his mind made such a disparaging comparison, but he ignored it. Fuck his guilt, what skeletal shred of it he had left. He didn't have time for his precious fucking standards, not when his son was fuck knew where on the other side of the country. So he allowed a half-smile to creep over his face, instead.

"This is Etzos," he said, spreading his hands out to engulf their table, the tavern, and the town beyond it. Then he thumbed over his shoulder. "The city's Etzos. The fields an' the river an' the woods an' the hills t'the north are all Etzos. Now, if youse wanted me t'watch yeh all the way t'Etzos Prime, well..." He spread his hands again, and shrugged. The very epitome of a man failing to appear like one who was helpless before the facts. "Shoulda' specified."

He wore that smile until Zarik spoke again, in a tone that seemed to be prying. The sentence left unsaid, as if expecting Kasoria to finish it for them. The smile slid away, and a carefully neutral expression replaced it. He didn't answer. He didn't speak. He just blinked a few times until Zarik got the idea, and moved on. Kasoria had learned long ago that you didn't need to be clever or intimidating to avoid questions you didn't want to answer; you just simply had to shut up.

"You really think an ambassador woulda' done youse much good fer gettin' t'the city sharpish, like?" He chuckled and shook his head, gesturing beyond the dirty windows with his spoon. "Ain't much need fer diplomats or negotiators out there, boy. Unless yer runnin' away or runnin' t'ward wiv' intent t'fight, yer useless in Etzos now."

The little man chewed his food slower as he realized what he was saying. But it was true, wasn't it? The cultured, complex web of commerce that built his home into a world famous beacon of enlightenment... Fates, he couldn't see it anymore. All he saw was a country terrified and falling apart. Swamped by refugees, besieged by monsters, unable to hold back the tide.

Doesn't matter. None of it. Martyn matters. That's all.

Something Zarik said got through to him. The absurdity of it. Just reinforcing what he'd thought at the beginning. The boy saw things that were not there. Because he wanted them to be, so badly, or he just didn't understand how people worked, he wasn't sure. But it was something that made Kasoria unusually angry. The Quacian could see his jaw working under his beard; muscles around his lips tightening and squirming quickly while his gaze froze into black ice.

"You're gonna want to listen t'me carefully right now, boy." Zarik was sure to, if only because the Etzori's calm delivery had wiped away most of the usual growling gutter accent of his words. "The last bit a' family I have left in the world is in Westguard. It's a town West a' Etzos. Getting to them, knowing their safe, that's all I care about now. Not this country. Not the city." He paused, time they'd spent over the last dozen or so trials holding him back. The vestige of something like friendship wanting him to restrain his words, but he beat the feeling down. This was no time for weakness. "Not yer kids. And not you."

Kasoria didn't leave the boy time enough to process that. Neither of them had the time for buggering about with that. He leaned forward, arms folded under him, elbows on the table and shoving aside his half-empty bowl.

"I said I'd get you here, and I did. I stood by you, and I did, even after that pirate cunt made me another offer. You gave me a gift, and I won't forget that. But if youse think there's... something between us," he sounded more bemused by the idea than confused. "Then first off, yer wrong, and for a second, I don't care. I'm finding my family. I'm going to look 'em in the eyes and know they're safe. After that..."

He leaned back into his chair and waved his mug of ale vaguely. Fates, he hadn't even thought that far ahead. What would he do, anyway? Go back to Etzos? Why? What were left there for him? Even less than before he'd been hurled across the world through a Rupturing portal, now Lissira was laying siege to it and plagues were sure to follow. Following Martyn and Jessye seemed more likely. Wherever they went... yes. That was what he'd do.

"... I'm not sticking around." He looked around, finishing his ale and letting his gaze fall over the lost and broken and bedraggled. Finery and jewels glinted under dirt and grime. There was wealth in here, high society, even nobility. His betters, as one might say. Now reduced to the same as the beggars by the fire. "But I'll get yeh to Etzos, if you have the coin."

Kasoria turned back to Zarik and smiled, heedless of whether or not the younger man was hurt by his blunt words. Disappointment was part of life. You dealt with it and you moved on. No reason to lose your sense of humor.

"An' if y'think I'm worth more'n that," he said, unpolished accent returning with vigor. "Pay me double. As fer where to go? I don't know where's safe, but I wasn't botherin' t'find out. I'm headin' t'Westguard. Probably skirtin' the city from the north, not the south. That's where Lissira an' her fucking monsters are comin' from. They're days away from the city, but I'd bet my left nut she'd got vanguards skirtin' ahead. Scounti', pillagin', sowin' terror an' preparing the ground. Probably just shittin' everywhere an' spreadin' more plague, most likely..."

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Life is rich with disappointment…

Phantasmic whispers interjected his thoughts, brought to Zarik’s mind from obscure memories.

Surrounded by a pitiful crowd of evacuees who overlooked two more faces - no matter what wonders or dangers hinted in their respective eyes - it was just him and Kasoria. The two of them, as they were, no sailors, no children, no mysticism. For all the pithy time he’d spent with the other man, at sea and in dreams, he learned more in the few bits of renegotiation than he had thought he'd known before. A wealth of information unfolded before him.

Not simply of the world, or Etzos, but of Kasoria himself.

He had gestured for the other man to not bother with his rhetorical question about semantics. His gesture had gone ignored. Not only did the Etzori bother, but he bothered a great deal. Wry humor displayed on hairy, aging features while the little man met the technicality and raised it: Etzos Prime.

Life is rich with disappointment, with pain…

“Ah, I see. Yes, you are correct. I should have specified,” replied Zarik easily in a calm voice. The young mage half-smiled in a mimic, to try the expression on and see if he liked it. He didn’t.

He rid himself of the smile soon after, attempted to inquire on the urgent business, to only be stared at. Zarik moved on with a quiet reset of his own mind, eyes closed for a few trills before he returned to the conversation at hand.

Much of what he said seemed to pass by the Etzori, either because he’d been too delicate in his phrasing or because the other man simply didn’t care. Zarik supposed the man was a sellsword after all. He had thought too highly of him and thus, had overshot his composition of their transaction. Fondness had led him to regard Kasoria as a smart individual, one who could pick up on the finer notions of what was said and what wasn't said. He adjusted his view of the older man, though he retained his favorable attachment. Something about the Etzori's resolute stare, the darkness in those shrewd eyes, the short stature, and…

Life is rich with disappointment, with pain, with hatred, with things that don’t make no sense and…

…Zarik intently watched Kasoria, now, rather than act distracted. He recognized the grind of aggravation in the man’s tightened jaw and mouth. Hearing the calm voice that followed, he raised his brows as if surprised by the unusually clear enunciation. He leaned forward, careful to listen as he often was.

One word made sense of it all: family.

Zarik’s expression softened. He glanced over Kasoria. A sad smile curled his lips. The older man’s words were brusque when the last desertion was spoken in plain rejection.

"Not yer kids. And not you."

The blond glided to the edge of his seat. Under the table, his foot tapped against Kasoria’s boot. His knee lightly nudged against the other man’s leg. He nodded, a passive and understanding gesture. The irises of his eyes had mellowed from their usual vivid gemstone colors to periwinkle.

There was nothing for Zarik to process. Friends were a far-off concept for the young biqaj. He had informants, he had people he knew, he had… but friends?

He held his tongue still while the Etzori continued on. Despite this fact, his lips twitched downward in reaction to the older man’s bemusement at the idea that the two of them had "something between" them. A ridiculous concept, it seemed.

Certainly, Kasoria was greater than a friend would be to him. Zarik had said as much, subtle as it might’ve been, or more likely, purposefully both ignored yet rejected by the other man. It was this contradiction that stirred Zarik in an unseen way. He kept listening as Kasoria had spoken on their agreement, or as it sounded, what was owed and subsequently fulfilled by the Etzori's particular terms.

Promise and Payment, the two things that came after Family.

His spiel culminated in an offer, and another smile, all said and done in the name of negotiation.

Life is rich with disappointment, with pain, with hatred, with things that don’t make no sense and idiots like that cunt dead in the other room...

"…y’think I’m worth more ‘n that, Pay me double."

Zarik laughed. The sharp barking sound interrupted the other man's words about the dire circumstances of Etzos. He hurriedly covered his mouth with his palm. The blond rid himself of the overflown amusement, for the things talked about weren’t appropriate to act merry around. He held his hand over his mouth until Kasoria seemed finished with it all. Then slowly, as if uncertain whether he’d manage to keep from laughing again, he lowered his hand.

“Oh…” he picked up the spoon and took a modest bite of the watered down soup. He grimaced at the taste, forced a swallow, then bluntly said, “Why not triple then?”

“I understand,” he added in a quiet voice. His eyes glimmered blue flecked with periwinkle and golden topaz. He lifted his ale but paused while he stared at the liquid. “My apologies. If I had known it was a matter of family… I wish we had put together a proper contract in Yaralon, so I could rip it up and nullify it for you right here and now.”

Life is rich with disappointment, with pain, with hatred, with things that don’t make no sense and idiots like that cunt dead in the other room. I want you to be better than those other people though.

“I also have something I want you to listen carefully about, old man.”

He moved aside his soup and ale to the table edge, so they were out of the way. Zarik didn’t so much as even glance when the serving wench passed by their table. He leaned forward, gaze fixed on the human, and he spoke to Kasoria in a low voice, “It’s not a gift I gave you, Kas. It’s not some fancy pendant, or embroidered holster, or trinket from some far-off market. Maybe you meant arriving here? Maybe not. Maybe you meant more than that.”

The biqaj snapped his fingers between them, though Kasoria was hardly distracted and the gesture had more to do with the topic than any attempt to focus attention. It was the sort of intentional signal that if they'd been in Emea, the entire world could have given out around them and Kasoria would've found himself in a different place, even lost in a void of nothingness, taken along by Zarik's pure authority of the dreaming realms.

He casually pointed at the human’s heart. “When I tell you that you mean more to me, that you’re worth more to me, I don’t say it out of sentiment. I don’t say it to suck your cock and make you feel good.”

“And I don't say it to garner any favors out of you. You are my initiate, Mister Kasoria. No matter how things go, plague, war, famine, whatever - no matter the differences in our ages or homes or way we look at life, nor your acceptance of this reality... This does not change. It will never change. Not even in death. You will always be my initiate.”

“Triple,” he repeated and placed his left hand on the spot where Kasoria’s soup bowl had been. He revealed the familiar scar across the palm, that’d healed well from its last cut though the scar had faded in its gold shimmer. He offered to shake hands. “Triple and we go to Westguard first, check on your family however much you like, take them along if you want. If all the children under my care survive with limbs intact, then… quadruple your initial asking price if we arrive safely to Etzos Prime.”

“If war gets in the way, then the offer stands for wherever is next and we can renegotiate then. I can give you partial payment of the initial asking upfront or we can spend it on supplies.”

“Either way, I suggest we get a move on. It’s likely dark already and I heard they were barring the gates for the night.” The tall biqaj stood and he dismissively waved at what was left of his soup and ale – hardly three bites and sips to each – as if he didn’t care what happened to them. He didn’t plan on splitting up from the Etzori, however. Zarik would keep the man in his sights, then collect the children on their way out of Foster's Landing.

…disappointment, pain, hatred, things that don’t make no sense and idiots like that cunt dead in the other room. I want you to be better than those other people though. You’re my son, I want you to be stronger and smarter than people like him.

[Kasoria]

He still hadn't quite worked out how the boy's eyes worked. Every emotion, it seemed, had its own emotion. He was certain it wasn't do do with the cycle of the moon, the presence of the sun, night or day, any of that. No, it was mood. But even after trials penned in close on that fucking boat, Kasoria still hadn't managed to peg them all. Now a new one greeted his words. Blue and vivid, almost violet in its understated violence. The old man frowned. Had he offended the boy? Was that something he should worry about?

You don't need someone under your feet for trials at a time, he reminded himself, then thought with as close as he could manage to compassion, and he don't need to tangle himself up with someone who doesn't give a shit about him. Never ends well.

Then he guffawed as Zarik raised the price for him. Loud and sudden enough for their underappreciated wench to jump and spill fresh ale across the floor. It didn't matter; the Trout was so full and busy that trial, a wet spot on the boards would hardly be noticed. Kasoria hadn't even seen anyone mopping the floors, nor could he smell soap from the kitchen. Selling food, selling drink, sell sell sell sell. Make nel while the crowd is hungry. And thirsty.

And desperate. No better time.

Where the kid had all but abandoned his own meal, Kasoria had almost demolished his own. He munched soup-sodden bread, drank the stuff straight from the bowl, guzzled ale... his bread was a messy, stringy tapestry of food and drink and hair. He mopped at it ineffectually with a napkin, then gave up the notion. It was like trying to stem an artery with silken thread. He chortled through the mess and supped at the fresh mug. Triple. Such largess the boy was offering. He had to be careful about that: when it came to the Etzori, promising coin was always something people took seriously.

Then the tone changed. Well, not so much that, but the nature of the words. Kasoria cocked an eyebrow, yet his expression seemed to harden despite the satirical gesture. "That sounded suspiciously like an fuckin' order, boy."

Which he supposed it was, but he listened all the same. Listened and felt his opinion of the boy shift a few inches. It was so easy to think of him as that: a boy, naive and sheltered, adrift in a Big Bad World that would kill him dead without someone like Kasoria to shield him from it. The events of that alley writ large and unto mortality. But then, with a few words strung together, the boy could change your opinion of him. He showed wit and insight and, most of all, understanding. Of himself and others around him. Kasoria was silent as he listened, sipping occasionally at his ale.

He was less stoic when the word "quadruple" was spoken, and nearly choked to death on a hefty gulp.

"You a'right, love?

He waved away the serving girl. "F-Fine, love... kfff..."

The little sellsword watched the taller man finish and then get to his feet. Once the redness had gone from his face, he gestured easily to the food he'd left behind, and turned his eyes back to his food.

"Siddown an' finish yer food. I know it taste's like goat balls in cat piss, don't fuckin' matter. Food is food, when yer on the road." The boy... no, the man did not sit down, and Kasoria stopped chewing to fix a hard stare on him. "F'I'm gunna be kep you an' yours alive, learn t'do what I fuckin' say, yeah? Siddown."

It was hardly a bardic vow of loyalty. Nothing that Quacian nobility would want turned into a fresco. But from Kasoria, the very obtuse nature of it was something else. He didn't demand another handshake or draw blood. He didn't even ask for-

"Half in advance," he said when the mage sat back down. "Half when we get t'Etzos Prime. Half of what I said, tripled. We get all yer brats t'the city, safe an' sound, we'll consider the quadruple bit a bonus, aye?"

Well... he was an Etzori, after all. But now he was an Etzori well-paid and retained, which counted for quite a lot. He ate the rest of his meal in silence, decision made and future tied to the bijaq. Zarik did as he was told and ate along with him. But mayhap he noticed, now and then, how the little killer's eyes seemed to focus on nothing as he ate. As if he were thinking deeply, in areas unseen and ill-considered. Mayhap he could have been right. But Kasoria wasn't saying. Not until the bowls were wiped clean and the mugs supped dry and he slapped his hand on the table... but no coin.

"Foods on youse, too. Expenses. Right. Les' get yer kids, get a horse, an' fuck off out uv'it."

He smiled. Grinned, almost. Surrounded and beset, and not just by what was real and ravaged. But still, he managed that gesture. Because he was employed again, with full purse and then some awaiting him for doing what he was good at. He did not relish the idea of having children running around like lobotomized rabbits for the duration of the journey, either, but... some part of him appreciated what they were doing. That part he did not like to nourish or acknowledge, because it should have died arcs ago.

They left the Happy Trout as they had left, and yet not. Bonded without parchment or notary, yet tied all the same. The serving wench cleared the table, knocked the mess they'd left behind onto the floor, and had fresh arses on seats within moments. Foster's Landing was beyond busy that night.

After all, it was the end of the world.

[Nursia]

Terrific.

The length of this thread is nearly a tenth of a novel. The quality reads like you two ran it through an editor or something. The flow is undeniably smooth, and the way that Kasoria and Llyr play off of one another? Absolute goldmine, right there.

It's not often that I get to read about a sellsword telling a man that him and his kids aren't all that they're cracked up to be, that his loyalties lie elsewhere, all in the same thread where all sorts of depraved things happen to both parties. You two better keep writing, because I absolutely adore reading your interactions.

And this thread? Keep it up, and you'll have a magnum opus on your hands.

Kasoria

Rewards

Knowledges:
Detection: The Sound of a Fight Underway
Endurance: Ignoring a Bottle Breaking Across Your Arm
Intimidation: Stabbing a Dagger Close to Someone's Face
Intimidation: Letting Everyone See You're Armed
Negotiation: Understand the Exact Words of a Contract
Negotiation: Half in Advance, Half on Completion (keeps everyone involved honest)
Psychology: Know When to Speak Subtly, and When to be Blune
Unarmed Combat (Brass Knuckles): Can Be Secretly Readied while Still in Your Pocket
Unarmed Combat (Ki'Enaq): Knocking a Weapon Off-Target, and Into Another Enemy (projectile-loaded or otherwise)

Non-Skill Knowledge:
Etzos, Ymiden 719: Foster's Landing is Swamped by Refugees Fleeing the Southern Lands
PC Zarik: Often Seems like a Ditzy, Careless Child
PC Zarik: Sometimes Seems Far Older and Wiser than he Looks
PC Zarik: Kasoria's New Employer
Wealth:
Renown:
+10
EXP:
+15

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.

Llyr

Rewards

Knowledges:
Appraisal: The Value of Your Initiate.
Deception: Pretending to be distracted.
Unarmed (Stylish Style): Evading a punch.
Unarmed (Stylish Style): Striking with knees and elbows.
Unarmed (Stylish Style): Grappling.
Climbing: Finding Solid Handholds.
Climbing: Hauling yourself up a wall.
Linguistics: The Local Dialect of Etzos.
Psychology: Obligation.

Non-Skill Knowledge:
Kasoria: Sellsword, an impressive fighter.
Kasoria: Saved my hide though he didn’t have to.
Kasoria: Doesn’t have great table manners.
Kasoria: Shrewd.
Kasoria: His only family is in Westguard.
Kasoria: Family is Important to him.
Kasoria: Money is also important to him.
Kasoria: Obtuse, Blunt, Amusing.
Kasoria: Careful when negotiating deals with him.
Kasoria: My Initiate.
Etzos: “Etzos Prime” is the city.
Etzos, Ymiden 719: Etzos Prime Under Siege
Location: Foster’s Landing
Location: The Happy Trout Inn
Injuries:
Some bruising around the temple and face, nothing that won't fade in 3-5 trials
Renown:
+10
EXP:
+15

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.