The Four Heralds

by n9ne_lives

Summary:

The world is much as it always has been: the Chivalry, where social order is upheld through thinly-veiled violence and tradition; the Golden Cities, where rich men walk with the power of gods; the Grass Sea, plagued by dragons and Horsemen; and the pirate-infested blue waters of the Ring.
And yet, something apart from olden gods and lost artefacts and untapped family lines stirs. Somewhere in the world, a new presence awakens, bringing with it chaos and change the likes of which the world has never before seen, in the form of Four Heralds.
Betrayed, maltreated, and downtrodden, they have no great wisdom, no fairy-tale compassion, and no uniting goal but to destroy whose who have made their lives a misery.
The world is vast and unknown, and ancient rivalries threaten to re-ignite under the force of these new arrivals. Whether they are going to destroy the world or save it, the Heralds must decide quickly -- for they are young and their power is unknown, and the world is dangerous and jealous of its long-guarded order.

Chapter 1: I (Elena)

4th​ of April, Last Year of Peace​

 

“What can you see?” Elena asked her little brother, who was sitting on her shoulders and leaning forwards in an attempt to peer through the crowd. The two of them together barely breached the height of most of the men in the crowd, so he had to stretch and lean to the side (making her sway precariously) in order to actually catch sight.

“He’s dressed fancy,” Roderick eventually told her, pulling her forehead back and looking down at her. He had large, ever-wide eyes and thick hair that hung down. “He’s got men with him, too.” He peered up shortly. “Four.”

“And the Mayor?” Elena asked, squeezing his calf.

“He’s coming,” squinted Roderick. “They’re shaking hands.” The crowd shifted slightly. “They’re walking away.”

“This is my chance, Roderick,” she told him excitedly, holding onto him tighter. “From today onwards, everything will change. Just you wait.”

She began to carve a path out of the crowd, brushing past dirty clothes and gaunt figures. Her parents had been good to her and Roderick: they kept her fed and gave her the time she needed to work her blessing.

And what a blessing it was.

[Smith: You have a particular talent for creating anything a blacksmith/armoursmith/weaponsmith might create. Any such crafted object is half again as durable as it would otherwise be. Creation times are halved and your natural talent increases.]

She’d woken up like this one day. There was a forge deep in her soul – she could sense it somehow, huffing and puffing thin smoke like a blacksmith’s workshop. Its features were frustratingly indistinct when she tried to imagine it, morphing from something like the local village blacksmith to a royal blacksmith to something stranger and more unrecognisable still.

But at its helm was, inevitably, her – always something in her hands, always making something new. And since that day, she’d found that she just knew how to blacksmith – and she knew how to do it far faster and better than the aged blacksmith who sold farming tools and nails and pots and occasionally weapons.

She had, after all, convinced her parents and the smith to let her try smithing at his workshop. The result had left him staggered. She’d been his apprentice since then, but she knew she could be more.

She didn’t need to be an apprentice. She could be a master smith, a royal smith.

And now there was a nobleman visiting her village, and she smelled opportunity in the air.

“Evan probably has a bunch of smiths already,” Roderick said when they left the crowd and came upon a muddy road flanked by grimy straw-thatched houses.

“Lord Evan, Ricky. And he doesn’t have any that work as fast as me,” Elena said confidently. The only reason she wasn’t sprinting back home as fast as she could to bring all the stuff she’d made was because Roderick was on her shoulders, owing to the bad leg he’d had since birth.

He pulled unconsciously at her brown hair, twirling it around his fingers and tugging it. “Maybe you’re not fast. Maybe Thurfeld is just slow.”

“Thurfeld isn’t slow!” She said indignantly. “I’m faster than normal, everyone says so. Besides, my stuff is tougher too.”

“Maybe he has magic smiths.”

“He doesn’t. And if he does, then I’ll beat them too.” She patted his calf. “Face it, Ricky. We’re going to leave this village behind and go live in Wirham. We’ll be rich!”

“Maybe,” he said, laying his cheek on her scalp. Every movement made him bounce, but after years on peoples’ shoulders, he was used to it. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.” She bit her lip. “As long as I impress him. Do you think I should show him my stuff now? What if he’s tired from the journey?”

“I don’t know,” Roderick said, staring at the mud road.

“Maybe I should wait until tomorrow. But what if he leaves during the night?”

“Ask Maddie. She works for the Mayor, right? She’ll know.”

Elena scrunched her nose in distaste. “She doesn’t like me.” The feeling was mutual.

“Ask her anyway.”

She shook her head minutely. “I don’t trust her. You know what? I’ll just wait until he leaves the Big House.” But what if he thinks I’m a beggar, just sitting around?

“I’ll bring you food,” Roderick said with a sigh, lifting a strand of her hair up and gazing at it.

She smiled slightly. “I’m fine, Ricky.”

“You don’t want your stomach to grumble when you’re trying to impress him. I’ll bring you food.”

“Alright then, you little rascal,” she said, reaching up to tickle his stomach for a second. “I get myself hired as his retainer, you bring me food, we all move to Wirham, and we live happily ever after.”

There was silence for a few moments. Then he grumbled: “I don’t want to live in Wirham though.”

“Mum and Pappa do.”

“But I don’t.”

“But they do.”

“No they don’t.”

“Yes they do.”

“Well, they’ll regret it, then.”

She laughed. “You’ll learn to love it. The roads are clean and made of stone. There are people all around, and stalls where you can find fresh food, clean water, juice, wine, bread that breaks apart in your fingers, everything.” She’d heard stories from traders, and she’d envied them for their experiences. But no longer. Because she was going to move to Wirham with her family, and everything would be better.

“And there are kids,” she continued. “Ones who’ll like you.”

“The kids here like me.”

“The ones in Wirham will like you even more,” she promised. The houses of the main road had been left behind by now, and they were walking down a less trodden path to their own house. It was small, and the walls were coated in dirt and grime despite her parents’ best efforts. Two stories tall and leaning slightly, its shallow depth and width made it feel squat and malnourished. The air was warm enough that all the windows were open – wooden boards removed from their sheaths in order to let some fresh air into the house in a way that wasn’t under the door or through the roof.

She lifted Roderick off her shoulders with a grunt. “Come on, now. Time to walk for a little bit.”

When he wasn’t looking, too busy lurching to the door in that unbalanced gait of his, she rolled her shoulders, wincing. Roderick got bigger every day. Her shoulders were beginning to look manly, and to her slight despair, she knew that blacksmithing all day (as a master smith under Lord Evan should) wouldn’t help matters.

But it wasn’t like she was a romantic. There was no-one in the village that she wanted to be with, no-one that made her blush or lie awake at night with butterflies in her stomach. All she had was her family and what she could do to help them.

Perhaps – just perhaps – there would be someone at Wirham who’d be able to treat Roderick’s leg, or her father’s debilitating cough. And if there wasn’t… well, she’d be able to pay for their food. They wouldn’t have to keep working all day just to keep themselves clothed.

Roderick reached the door and pushed it open, limping to their room. “What are you going to show him?” He asked over his shoulder.

“Some trinkets I made.” The stairs squeaked as they climbed up, and they entered their room. There was no door, just a curtain. “Then I’ll fetch the tools I made from Thurfeld’s.”

She sighed, thinking of the stuff she’d made. She only had a single sword – most of the things she’d made since the blessing were farming implements and pots. Thurfeld had tried to get her to repair some things as practice, but she’d been… embarrassingly mediocre at it.

It seemed that she only worked well when she was creating things from scratch. It had taken a few weeks of showing off to get Thurfeld to trust her to move up from pots to tools to weapons and armour, and it meant that now there was someone actually important around, she had nothing to show him other than a plain sword, a half-finished pauldron, and a bunch of pots, scythes, hoes, and rakes.

Somehow, she doubted Lord Evan was the man to appreciate the pretty curve the blade of her scythes made.

She’d worked hard on those scythes. Anything to try and impress Thurfeld into letting her use his scarce resources for a more serious project.

“Will you tell Evan that your smithing is a blessing?” Roderick asked her, settling on his bed and swinging his legs. One was noticeably stiffer than the other.

“Of course.” Magic and blessings were special. Therefore, she was special. It was just another reason for him to accept her and her family into his retinue. "Besides, he'll probably find out anyway. Thurfeld and the mayor know about it." Among others.

From inside what could charitably called a cupboard, she swiped a few tools she’d made. A sheathless dagger (there was some cheap leather-entwined fabric wrapped around the handle, but it was the blade that would raise eyebrows), a perfect pot, and a small butterfly that she’d made when challenging herself to create something beautiful whilst using as little metal as she could.

It came out pretty nice, she thought. The wings were a bit thick and wonky, but the way they were attached to the body was spectacular.

She put the dagger inside the pot, then settled the butterfly above it carefully. The last thing she wanted was for it to get roughed around and shatter. Sure, her creations were far more durable than they should be, but they could still break as well as anything else could.

“I’ll tell Mum and Pappa where you’ve gone when they come back,” Roderick said, watching her organise her creations. “And I’ll remember bring you some food at dinnertime.”

“And water, please,” she requested, picking up the pot and looking around for anything else she could add to it. She could think of nothing, and she saw nothing. The next stop then, it seemed, was Thurfeld’s, and her (current) magnum opus: the sword she’d so painstakingly made.

A lord like Evan would recognise its quality immediately. Sure, it looked plain, but it was an unmatched weapon in the village. He’d have to hire her after seeing it, he simply had no other choice.

Then would come Wirham, and a life of luxury within its walls.

Walls! Commerce, bakers, jewellers, maroon-coated guards, herbalists, perhaps even a parlour magician!

She bustled out of their bedroom before nerves could settle in her stomach. “See you later, Ricky,” she called over her shoulder, cradling the pot tightly.

“Bye,” he said, sitting on his bed and watching her leave. “Love you.”

She was already on the first floor, grabbing some stale bread and stuffing it in her mouth before barging out of the house.

The trip to Thurfeld’s was characterised by the slow rising of anxiety in the pit of her heart. By the time she entered the village proper, the pot was trembling in her grasp, the butterfly bouncing slightly inside like it was Roderick sitting on her shoulders when he was small enough for her to take him on runs.

The crowds had dispersed, and she made her way without trouble to Thurfeld’s.

It was a more sophisticated place then most in the area: a straight wooden door, glass windows, a chimney puffing smoke, and an open back area (though surrounded by sturdy fences and gates and sheltered by a wooden roof) where the smithing could take place. Much of the building was made out of stone rather than wood.

It felt like the oldest building in the village, sometimes. She wasn’t even sure which one was at this point. It certainly wasn’t her house, even if it felt like it at times with just how much stuff needed repairs.

She settled the pot down in front of the door and knocked. “Thurfeld!”

There was no answer: for once, it seemed like he wasn’t in. Muttering under her breath, she picked up the pot and moved to the back of the building.

When she approached, though, she heard voices – Thurfeld’s low grumble, and someone else, with a smooth and foreign accent.

“I already have plenty of smiths. Why should I take another, even a 'blessed' one?”

“She might be young, but she’ll serve you well, Lord,” Thurfeld said, and Elena’s heart dropped as she realised that he and who could’ve only been Lord Evan were talking about her. She froze mid-step, clutching her pot with wide eyes. It suddenly seemed so inadequate. Here she was, a single corner between her and her future, and what did she have?

A pot, a knife, and a little butterfly?

She felt the urge to run back home, but she stifled it. It was cowardly, it was unbecoming… and she decided then that she couldn’t bring herself to look at her family, at Roderick, until she’d made good on her promise and gotten herself accepted by Lord Evan.

She took a deep breath and firmed her shoulders.

“Magic is dangerous at the best of times,” Lord Evan’s voice drifted, tainted by an edge of regret and dignified anger. “I know this well.”

She felt her stomach drop at his words. Was he going to reject her? Did he have some personal grudge against magic? Yes, noble lines and mages never mixed well, but it was different! She was just a smith, she couldn’t harm him, surely he would see that! She wasn't magic, she was just blessed!

“Elena’s a harmless girl,” Thurfeld replied. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly. At worst, you can move her somewhere else – have her forge from a distance. The Caspering Town, maybe. She just wants safety for her family and a life for herself, Lord.”

She gripped the pot tighter. All that was what she wanted, yes, but even more, she wanted Wirham. She wanted the city, the hustle and bustle of people and surfeit of goods and exotic visitors and powerful men and ancient history. What was the point in being able to blacksmith if she couldn’t use her talents to get what she wanted?

There was a pregnant pause, then the sound of rasping steel before the noble lord spoke again.

“The sword is of a good balance,” Lord Evan admitted. He said, after a moment: “And you say it takes more punishment than most before chipping?”

“Try it yourself.” There was the sound of shuffling, then footsteps, then a clang that made Elena almost drop her pot in surprise. A few moments later, there was delighted laughter.

“Wonderful!”

Taking a breath, she peeked over the corner of Thurfeld’s. In the back of the smithing area were two men – Thurfeld, as bulky as ever but seeming somehow subdued compared to his usual self, and next to him, the most gorgeous man Elena had ever met.

Lord Evan. It must have been. He was dressed in a flowing leaf-green robe, and it was so smooth that it took her breath away – as if the surface of a still lake had been painted green and draped over his shoulders. He had long, curly dark hair and a delighted glint in his eyes as he looked at her sword.

Her sword! It was chipped, she realised with horror. But he was looking at it with what seemed like cupidity and joy.

He swung again, for this must have been the second time, at the wall – and he did it so hard that flecks and chunks erupted from the wall with a puff of smoke, and when he withdrew the blade, he had to do it with a grunt and a tug, as a large wound-like gouge had been left in the wall.

There was another notch in the blade, she noticed, feeling the urge to drop the pot and claw her fingers down her face in horror.

“See?” Thurfeld told Lord Evan, carefully not remarking upon the use of his property as a measuring yard. But this was the only way for Lord Evan to truly find out her good her sword was, surely? “Durable, like I said. This’ll keep you standing in a duel, I guarantee it.”

“Yes,” he breathed, holding the blade outwards and looking down its length with… was that respect? It must have been. “And it is not a true magic sword, is it?”

“It was forged in the normal manner,” Thurfeld said, perhaps for lack of anything else to reply with judging from the confusion in his tone.

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he happy? Did he want her to serve him? Or was he complaining?

She took a deep breath and stepped over the corner, clutching her pot tightly and trying not to let any nervousness show. Thurfeld noticed her first.

“Ah, Elena!” The Lord’s eyes snapped to her the moment he heard her name, making her gulp. They were a curious, piercing brown, and there was a light of something in them that she had not ever seen before when he looked at her. “Come, we were just speaking about you.”

“My Lord,” she said to Lord Evan, trying not to squeak. Was she meant to curtsy? How could she do that holding a pot? Maybe she should bow?

“Elena, the miracle smith!” He exclaimed, passing her sword to Thurfeld. “Your master tells me that you forged that blade in just a day?”

“And the hilt, yes my Lord, though he wrapped it,” she said, holding the pot awkwardly.

“It’s a wonderful blade, especially one forged without magic,” he complimented, seeming satisfied when she said nothing to contradict him. “And what’s this?”

She held up the pot like an offering. “Some other stuff I made,” she said shyly. “The first, actually.”

With a sound of curiosity, he made his way over to her, picking the butterfly out of the pot and examining it for a few moments before putting it back down. Her heart fluttered at his proximity, and for a moment, she wished that he’d look up from the inside of the pot.

Her eyes were trapped on his long eyelids. She could see the thin profile of his nose, his high cheekbones, so unlike her own rounder, heart-shaped face. She felt, for a moment, as if time had frozen, and her heart began to beat faster. She yearned for him to look up and into her eyes, but at the same time, she didn’t want the moment to change or pass.

She could feel her face heating up. It wasn’t hard for anyone to guess why she was thinking like this, but surely she was wrong. Surely it was just a momentary mood swing, a flustered minute of confusion. There was no way she had been reduced to being a blushing maiden so easily.

And yet it seemed that she had been.

Lord Evan straightened. “Is this the first item you created?” He asked her, picking up the dagger and staring at it. His voice and accent only further served to excite the flutters in her stomach.

“The second, Lord. After this pot.”

He blinked at it. “Oh, the pot itself?” He glanced at Thurfeld. “I’d thought you made it.” Her heart leapt at his complimenting tone.

“It was all her,” the old smith said with a shrug. “Probably as tough as her other works, too.”

“Yes,” he muttered, tapping the dagger with his fingernails for a moment before putting it back. He seemed to consider something for a moment before visibly taking the plunge. “I’ll admit, I don’t quite know how to phrase this, but I must have you,” he said, making her brain freeze and her face heat up in a rush.

“And your smithing skills,” he added quickly. “Of course.”

“Yes, Lord,” she said, hoping to everything that was good and kind in this world that she didn’t sound as squeaky as she thought she did.

Hadn’t he wanted her to work in a border village a few minutes ago? What had changed?

He’d seen her, a part of her whispered in giddy excitement. He had laid eyes on her, and that had somehow changed his mind. When he picked up her dagger, had he stood a bit closer than necessary? When he was looking down, was it out of interest, or to control his expression? Was he feeling the same feelings she was? Was he doing what he could to keep her around because possibly, just possibly, he felt a smidgen of the attraction that she felt for him?

It was impossible, she thought nervously, not wanting to accept the idea but unable to reject it. She was just a village peasant, and he was a rich, powerful lord. And yet he wanted her to go with him. He’d said it himself – I must have you.

There was a tinge of pink in his cheeks, and her scattered theories all came together in one glorious, elated moment.

“You’ll receive a wage, of course, and you’ll be relocated to Wirham,” he continued, that gorgeous tint of pink still on his tall cheekbones. His ears, she noticed eagerly, were far redder, hidden adorably beneath his luxurious hair as they were. “And you, Thurfeld, will of course require compensation for the loss of such a rare apprentice, but I’m afraid it’s something I must insist on. The damage to your workshop will also be paid for, naturally.”

“By all means,” Thurfeld said, looking slightly conflicted. He’d enjoyed his monopoly over the metalworking of the village, and had been hoping to raise his son (who was about the same age as Roderick) to be the village’s next blacksmith.

“The trip is short and not very dangerous,” he told Elena. “I assure you, you will be paid and treated well. I understand that leaving your life behind may be uncomfortable to you, but you may bring your family with you, of course, and you will be well-paid and—”

Elena couldn’t help herself. What was once a hope turned into a thought that turned into speech, entirely without her volition. “When can we leave?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“I accept,” she said quickly. “All of that, I mean. And Thurfeld does too. I want to go to Wirham.”

“Oh,” he said, seeming slightly surprised. Then he grinned brightly. “Fantastic! Well, I have some other business to attend to, but we can leave within a few days.”

A few days! The thought that everything would change, had changed, so quickly made her feel heady and giddy with excitement. It had been that length of time since she’d learned of the planned visit of Occham’s new Lord, and her parents had told her to show her works to him, likely not expecting anything to come out of it except for a sale if she was lucky.

But to be hired, to be on his retinue! It was everything she’d hoped for. A lightness settled in her stomach, as if this was a dream, and she felt something – perhaps relief, perhaps joy, perhaps something else entirely – bubble pleasantly in her head, making everything feel light and airy, like a giant cloud.

Her family would never have to work again. Her mother would be able to stay home and care for the house: her father would be able to stop starving himself for the sake of his family. Her brother could, perhaps, get his leg fixed, so that he’d be able to run around with boys his age as he surely longed to do, rather than sitting in the sides and staring at them.

And she… her life would change. She’d become important and trusted, the dedicated worker of Lord Evan... and perhaps something more. What else was there to ask for?

“That would be amazing, Lord,” she said, making an awkward little bow for the sole reason that if she didn’t express the bubbling wellspring of joyous feelings within her, she felt like she’d explode. “Thank you!”

“Thank you,” he said. “A good blacksmith is invaluable. I’m told you do more than weapons?”

He called me invaluable! She thought giddily.

“My blessing makes me good at armour- and weapon-smithing along with general blacksmithing,” she replied, still buzzing. “And I can make stuff faster and to be more durable.”

“Your work attests to that,” he said, glancing at the sword and smiling faintly. “But: there will be plenty of time for discussion later. Is there anyone you wish to break the news to? Any family to inform?”

“My parents and little brother. We’re a small family,” she said quickly, not wanting to test his generosity. “And hard-working.”

“Then go tell them,” he suggested. “I have some more matters to attend to with Thurfeld and the Mayor. We’ll be leaving for Wirham on…” he paused to consider it. “Noon in two days, I should think, so make sure you’re organised to leave then. We have carriages, but it might be something of an uncomfortable ride, so prepare yourself.”

She nodded eagerly. She’d bloody well crawl to Wirham if she needed to, and it wasn’t like it was so far away that the thought of a cramped carriage even registered to her as an annoyance. “Yes, Lord. I’ll get everyone ready. Thank you, Lord, for the opportunity. That you’re giving me, I mean.”

He smiled. “I sense it’ll be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Do you mind leaving the other stuff you’ve made here? I’d quite like to test it.”

“Of course!” She perched it on the nearby anvil, unconsciously twisting the corners of her tunic with her fingers.

Giving her one last smile, Lord Evan turned around to talk to Thurfeld. She didn’t even hear what he said: the moment she realised that she’d been dismissed, she turned around, so light that she felt almost drunk, and began to walk home.

Everything looked like it was being seen from a different light. Had the sky always been a shade of blue so gorgeous? Had the sun shone so brilliantly when she’d last checked, or had it just perked up in the past few minutes? Even the roads felt drier and easier to navigate.

[Achievements Earned: Meet Lord Evan (50cp). Get hired by Lord Evan (100cp). 150cp total.]

Something was happening to her on the walk back home, she realised eventually. As different as the world looked, as bright and beautiful as it now appeared, she could realise it was just excitement. But there was something deeper in her stomach, in her heart – something more than butterflies and lightness and all the other uncontrollable, something that was weighed with the unmistakable sense of power and possibility.

Something, she was convinced, was happening. She didn’t know what or why, but it was happening to her in this very moment. She could feel it… whatever it was.

[Magic Hammer: A large unadorned metal hammer, any item struck by this hammer will experience an increase in its durability and item condition. This effect can’t push them past the condition they were in when they were new, but it does scale with the force behind the hammer blow, with small taps removing minor dents, while powerful blows can fix major cracks in a single go.]

[Roll failed. 50cp remaining.]

Elena’s strange sense of significance, it seemed, was not for naught, because a strange instinct drove her to hold out her hand and prepare herself for a great weight, and it was this same instinct that let her feel the sudden presence of something that felt much like a fold on the back of her mind – a small space or location that hid more than it seemed to, like a trap-door.

When she imagined it, when she thought about this fold, her hand suddenly became heavy with the weight of a large (at least for her standards) but plain iron hammer.

She blinked down at it, baffled, then looked around. There was no one to call her crazy, however, so she just looked back down.

“What in the name of Xhrysa?” She finally said, examining the hammer. It was as plain as the one she used when smithing, but larger, and of a different shape – more sloping, less aggressive. And somehow, she just knew what it could do.

That sword that Lord Evan had chipped – she knew that, with a single forceful tap, she could make it as good as it had been when she first constructed it.

She probed that strange spot on the back of her mind again, and the hammer disappeared as if it had never existed. She took a minute to consider it, then sighed.

She’d let Roderick freak out for her. Right now, she just felt… drained but in a relieving way, as if a weight had been taken off her shoulder.

Rolling her shoulders, she continued the walk home, something of a spring in her step. Despite herself, her mind turned over the mystery of the hammer and its capabilities over, considering it, but more than its mystery, she was consumed with a sense of liberating uncaringness.

Who cared about a single magic hammer when she and her family had been invited to Wirham, under the cloak and protection of Lord Evan? There was no famine or drought to fear, no raiders to avoid, no rumours of magic and evil to ignore.

From now on, everything was right with the world. She could truly relax, because a miraculous blessing had happened, and as little as it was her place to worry about it (though worry about it she would, just later), to ask her not to enjoy its fruit would be like asking a man not to sleep after five straight days of back-breaking work.

And so she slumbered, in a blanket of peace and relief.

Anyone could tell that she’d be woken up eventually, but what sleeping mind recognises itself in those deep, dark moments?

Chapter 2: Chapter 2 (Ramien)

4th​ of April, Last Year of Peace​

 

Ramien Kotsiron looked at himself in the dull sheen of the warped mirror, testing the youth of his skin and thinness of his nose with long, thin, dexterous fingers.

He was short for a boy his age, and soft. His skin was a dusky sort of brown, as free of blemishes as it could be, and there was no trance of wrinkles, scars, or misfortune in the very few subtle lines his forehead and mouth sported.

He had shoulder-length black hair, a roiling waterfall of it that tumbled down his back. Putting a hand through it, he thought that it had been grabbed so often that it barely felt his any more. It was currently loose, but he presently tied it with a few clips cleverly hidden in thick locks so that it seemed to meet over the middle. It made for a more graceful and womanly image.

He wore thin, partially-transparent baggy trousers but no shirt. His chest was carefully hairless, as was the rest of him in truth, and all the musculature he had was carefully restrained to be nothing more than a subtle, sensuous suggestion.

With his sharp, beautiful face, his large brown eyes and his naturally pouting lips, he was the definition of young, nubile male beauty in all but one way: he was ageing. Anywhere between fourteen and sixteen was, he thought, the tail end of any young boy’s life, and anyone could tell that he had already been dragged into that age range.

This was not all he’d ever known. He remembered being a normal boy once, before his generational beauty had attracted the attention of a burgher. That had led to what felt like the inevitable grasp of the tastes of the rich and wicked, and it was an iron-fist gauntlet from which he could not escape and his family could not do anything about.

A rough knock sounded at the door of his small preparation-room, shortly followed by a woman’s voice. “Are you ready, boy?”

Ramien looked at his reflection one last time. His eyes, he thought, looked too sad. It took little effort to put an acceptable smile on his face, a trace of bashful, tempting vulnerability in his eyes.

He felt as if he had shrunk in that moment.

A thin brown shirt was grabbed from a nearby table: it was open in the middle, cut to reveal the centre of his torso up to the womanly shape of his waist and hips.

Women, he’d found, looked like hourglasses. Men were more like upside-down triangles. He was something of a mix of both, and when that frame was mixed with his soft-sharp face, he looked girlish. Whether this soothed the consciousnesses of the people who hired him, he didn’t know – perhaps they felt that it was better for their soul if he looked more like a girl than he did a boy.

“Coming,” he called out, finding that putting on a soft intonation on his voice was slowly growing more and more difficult to perfect. He was already as tall as some of the shorter men that came here. Yes, his time was limited. That wasn’t in doubt.

He opened the door, saw Madame Caila standing there with an important look in her eye, wearing her usual arousing-but-not-sexual outfit, the one that had never been ripped from her for as long as she’d been head of the brothel. She had usually deserted the corridor by now, letting him find his way to the client, but apparently there was something that he was to be told this time.

“Pool Room, best behaviour,” she warned the second he was in sight. “This woman is important.”

Female clients had been more numerous when he’d been younger, but they still appeared now and then. “A landed lady?” He asked, feeling a sudden chill that saw him try to pull his thin shirt tighter.

Madame Caila’s lips pursed. “Worse – a witch. And she asked for you personally. You understand what that means, boy? It means you’ll please her in whatever way she requires, and maybe she’ll see fit not to make all our teeth fall out and children be kidnapped.”

That, he thought sourly, was an ironic idiom coming from her, considering her business, least of all because she probably had no children of her own (and if she did, then he pitied them, though he hardly believed she’d turn herself into a broodmare for the sake of more profit when she could snatch children from the street). She didn’t seem to notice any of this. Ignorance – what a kind luxury to have!

“I understand,” he said, bowing his head momentarily. He’d been taught very, very carefully how to act, and it had been a long time since he’d deviated from that.

“See that you do,” she said stiffly. Ramien had been a difficult boy to sculpt: the usual manipulations and affections – offered in overwhelming quantities and carefully withheld in intentional cycles – had far less of an effect on him than pain and punishment did, which wasn’t the desired motivator in a house that held physical beauty above all else.

That boy was too smart for his own good. Whether he’d fully surrendered or not, she found she couldn’t tell.

“Well?” She snapped when he stood there for another moment. “Will you leave her waiting?”

He turned and started walking quickly, feeling lingering resentment for the (comparatively) old woman. At one point, he’d wanted to tear her throat out with his teeth. When had that changed, and what sorry, confused blend of hatred and strange, traitorous comfort did he feel around her now?

The brothel was well-constructed and even better designed. He walked on thick, warm oak planks that exuded a comfortable luxury. The corridor was relatively thin but the walls were high, giving it an airy feeling. When he left the residents’ areas, the walls turned opulent, the doors sometimes left cracked ajar to show a young woman or boy as they waited or rested, sometimes with an outsider and sometimes not. Nobody looked up as Ramien passed, making him feel like an invisible or forgotten ghost, sneaking through this castle of pleasure.

It was funny – he was probably one of the few people (pious men excluded) who found the sights and sounds of this place repellent. He’d wanted to be a fighter and a great man when he was young, not a girlish boy waiting to outlive his usefulness and be flung to an uncertain end. Now he snuck around, so good at acting the shy girl that he barely had to pretend to feel that way.

Yes, he felt small indeed. Madame Caila had always said that sensuality was as potent as a wielded weapon: he agreed, except it was one wielded against him, slipped into his ribs and twisted whenever he was reminded of it in the mirror. The acts Madame Caila accepted payment for on his behalf had never brought him true pleasure.

Perhaps they would do that for someone out there, were they in his place. This home of his must seem like a decadent miracle to them, a paradise they didn’t dare hope for, but he was a boy tormented by pleasure, not seeking it.

His destination, the Pool Room, was one of the pricier settings, though worth it (were he to think objectively from the shoes of a pleasure-seeker). It was made of ancient stone rather than the usual wood, and boasted several pools with water ranging hot enough to melt someone to pleasantly cool.

It was a more social place, too, with the of-taken option of attendants waiting to serve food, drinks, and massages, with the possibility of other residents lounging around and looking pretty for a reduced price (as long as they weren’t touched – that privilege cost almost the full price).

There were benches and seats in that room, coated in overwhelming layers of cloth – though no actual beds, as it was a damp and humid room at the best of times. No, those were next door: easily accessed, but untouched by the worst of the moisture.

Nearing the Pool Room, Ramien looked down at his outfit to make sure it was appropriate, and found that it was indeed adequate.

He usually didn’t bother (nor did his clients care, being happy enough to tear it off him quickly whether or not it was in perfect shape), but a witch was a different matter.

One didn’t wisely tangle with witches.

Taking a deep breath, he went to knock upon the door to the Pool Room – only to find a voice, steel-hard and rough and dipped in humour but undoubtedly female, call out to him first.

“Come in.”

He didn’t need a reminder of her powers. Even that simple act left him more shaken than he’d have liked: had she somehow heard his footsteps? Was she looking through the door with her magic eyes? What manner of sorcery was she working? Had she enhanced her ears, her sense of smell to pick on his perfume?

He opened the door. Beyond it was a woman with pale skin and hacked-off blonde hair that was almost as short as a man’s. She was tall, easily taller than him, and wore a full outfit: a thick brown skirt, decorated with pockets and glinting pieces of metal, and a shirt that exposed much of her chest – which, he noted, was relatively small, at least compared to some of the residents of the brothel that he knew.

She wore a necklace with a pendant he couldn’t place, and her face was almost elfin, with eyes so dark they were nearly black.

She grinned at him wolfishly. “Ahhh, you’re the one I wanted to see, yes. Come in.”

“If it pleases you,” Ramien said politely and demurely. She was lounging on a jutting portion of stone, intended to act like a wide bench, that was covered in thick, comfortable cloth: he tried to sit next to her, close enough to be flirty but not so close as to be eager. Women tended to want to get to the action later than men, he’d found.

He sat, and something changed.

[Achievement Earned: Meet Your First Witch! (100cp)

Roll Failed: Book of Amun-Ra (600cp). 100cp remaining.]

It was the witch, she thought. She’d stilled suddenly, the anticipatory smile wiped from her face and replaced with something else entirely.

Was it fear?

“Boy,” she said. Her tone was completely impersonal, as if all sign of life or personality had been drained from her. “What do you know of witches?”

The back of Ramien’s neck prickled, and he realised that whatever was happening right now, it was not at all within an area he was knowledgeable in – that being pleasure. There was no hint or trace of arousal or flirting in her tone, and he realised grimly, for the second time, that he was talking to a witch.

“Tell me honestly,” she commanded, and his lips itched as if a line of ants was marching across them.

He licked them unconsciously and said, “You’re temperamental and powerful, and people fear and hate you.” Then he froze, feeling the dread weight of regret land in his stomach like a headman’s axe.

His brain did not do him the courtesy of freezing so that he could not recognise his mistake for a few moments more: rather, his every word played back in his mind, ringing with truth and landing on the witch’s expressionless face without reserve, and he immediately realised that what he’d said would be enough for her to kill him.

His very next thought was that he had been bewitched to tell the truth, and at that point he did not think that if she had commanded him to tell the truth then she couldn’t be annoyed at hearing it, but rather that if he was going to be cursed for all eternity, it might as well be for something more than a few words.

He jumped to his feet, not sure what he was ready to do but ready to do something rash anyway, only for her to raise a hand and still him, not with any magic but rather out of a mixed sense of fear and curiosity.

“And what do you think about witches, Ramien?”

He didn’t ask how she knew his name. He hesitated but found no itchy compulsion upon his lips to tell the truth, but he decided to speak honestly anyway. If you’re in a forest, you might as well try to wander deeper and trade a squirrel for a deer. “I haven’t met any before today, but I’ve always feared them,” he said, watching her expression carefully for any sign of what he should say to earn her favour.

“Why?”

He frowned. He’d always been reprimanded for that – never frown in front of a client, never show dissatisfaction in front of a client – but he felt that if the witch wanted to complain about his conduct to Madame Caila, she’d have a lot more to talk about than a frown. “When a man or woman comes in here, I know what they want. But you?” He looked down at himself, at his open vest and lithe muscles and loose airy trousers, and then back at the witch, who was beginning to look ever so slightly amused. “I’d almost believe you’re not here for sex.”

“Perhaps I’m not,” she said.

Then why are you here? He thought doubtfully. “I’ve never met an adult who isn’t here for sex.” Sometimes they lied, they said they wanted company or affection or to treat him like their long-lost son or whatever else it was, but in the end, it always went back to sex.

“Now you have,” she said simply, adjusting her position slightly.

His gaze never left her black eyes. “Then what do you want that I can give?”

Careful, his mind whispered. She’s a witch. But his intuition disagreed. She was a witch: that was why he didn’t need to be careful. It didn’t make sense, yet he felt it anyway, as deeply as unmistakeably as hunger or thirst, and it informed his actions just as much.

“Let’s go into the bath,” she said casually, pointedly not moving.

Familiar ground, he thought uncomfortably, wondering why he didn’t feel more relieved. He slipped off his jacket, but found that his actions lacked their usual seductive grace. His trousers fell secondly, showing his decidedly unaroused state.

The witch was beautiful, in an exotic, foreign sort of way, but apparently his cock recognised danger when it saw it, which he was grateful for.

She raised her eyebrows slightly and looked him up and down. That had ceased being flattering long ago.

“Help me out of my clothes,” she commanded, standing up. She was even taller than he’d thought: his eyesight came up to around her mouth, leaving him in that familiar, uncomfortable territory of being nothing more than a girlish boy hired for pleasure.

Her shirt was buttoned, he realised when he came closer – he hadn’t noticed at first because they were coloured to match her shirt. He undid the buttons one by one, his fingers dexterous but dragging the process out somewhat. Out of habit, he brushed her skin through her shirt as he worked, flirting and teasing slightly. He found that it rankled not to be looking into her eyes more than it usually did.

When not looking a witch in the eyes could save his life, he felt himself resentful of looking down. Strange, strange.

There was a feeling in the back of his head, he realised – like a minuscule wrinkle or flap on the back of his brain. Perhaps it was the humidity getting to him, but it felt… real. Distinct.

He finished unbuttoning her shirt, and moved behind her to slip it off.

Flirt, take your time, make her feel respected but desired, never ogled, Madame Caila’s voice whispered in his ears. He could see hints of her tight breasts spilling over her ribcage, but just moved to her side, not looking at them, kneeling and pulling down her long skirt.

Her legs were smooth and powerful, and would easily please any man. She wasn’t wearing shoes or socks, and merely stepped out of the pooled garments when he was done. He picked them up and folded them neatly in the same movement, placing them on a nearby surface.

“Shall we?” She asked, indicating towards one of the hotter baths.

Now that he could see her from something of a distance, he could tell that her body was gorgeous, but only partially in the sexual way of curves and shapes. Rather, it was the way she held herself that imbued her with sex appeal, a sort of untouchable confidence that begged to be tested.

Ramien took his queue and stepped into the baths. The hot water reddened his skin, and it was a slight effort not to make a sound as he entered. The witch was soon by his side, finding an underwater ledge to sit on and leaning back on the stone rim of the bath. Her arms were spread to the side, revealing the firm swell of her breasts almost to the nipple. Steam curled in the air too much to clearly see anything beneath the water, but he caught glimpses of her feet kicking the water gently.

He remembered how, once, a client had asked him to float on his back with him, and the two of them had just floated in that pool, staring upwards, not saying a word. But this time was not remotely like that, for the rest of the session could pass without a word or glance and he’d still feel that unassailable sense of tension and unease.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what a witch wants with you,” she said eventually, letting loose a relaxed sigh and leaning her head back.

“All creatures have libido,” he said, less seductively than Madame Caila would’ve liked, were she here to judge him.

“You’re calling me a creature?” She teased.

“A woman.” It was his peoples’ beliefs that humans were nothing but creatures that could look at themselves, and that wasn’t so easily stamped out by five years at a brothel.

“Well, you’re right about that,” she said reflectively, lifting a hand to play with some steam. He noticed uneasily that it did not act as it should – it curled around her searching fingers like string, cloying up and dissipating far slower than nature dictated.

More magic, it seemed.

“Do you think witches have any less of a sex drive than normal women?” She asked him, somehow making the steam arrange itself into the shape of a searing pair of lips. She blew them into the air, and he watched them dissipate as they drifted upwards, until they splashed harmlessly against the arching stone ceiling.

“The stories say that witches are incapable of love,” he replied.

“Ah, love.” She winked, making him swallow dryly and remember just how beautiful she was. “A different matter than lust, no?”

“They also say that witches can enthral anyone they want, that they don’t bother with the surrender involved in love when they can just enchant people to love them back.”

“True enough, for the decent ones,” the witch said, abandoning the steam to stare at him with an unerringly straight gaze. “Does this scare you? I could whisk you away without anyone ever the wiser.”

“It’s already happened to me once.” Madame Caila had always said that he should be eternally grateful for her shelter, as she kept him safe from the bad people who would kidnap and enslave him, and that she kept him fed and healthy.

The second part was true: the first part was true only so long as you considered that those same people were getting their go at him anyway, except they were paying for it.

Would he be ‘grateful’ under the witch? Perhaps. One didn’t mess easily with a witch nor her retinue. But what was the point in trading a master that could be tricked and lied to for one that couldn’t? There was no greater status in being a more powerful woman’s slave.

“I’ve heard the workers of this here pleasure-house are willing,” she said idly.

“We’re told that ourselves.”

“Hmm.” She laughed. “I’m surprised you admitted it. Usually they lie. Do you expect me to do something about it?” Her voice turned coy, teasing. “To save you from the wicked Madame of the Brothel? To free your companions and return you to your sleepy peasant life?”

He looked down, realising that she could indeed do all this and more (in theory, at least), and found that he had no idea what that would look or feel like.

What was it to be free?

“Why would you?” He asked, grappling with his confusion. Had he been in this house for so long that he couldn’t fathom life outside of it – the day-to-day without new people to please, new reprimands from Madame Caila, new residents to meet? Was that it?

Here, the witch hesitated, seeming somehow… uncertain.

Why? Why would she be uncertain of anything? Ramien thought upon all he knew of witches. They were far-seers, prophecy-tellers, king-killers and -makers. There was very little they feared, at least when it came to those normal things which men took for granted.

But something had happened to shift her attitude around him at the beginning of their meeting, he remembered, and though it seemed to be relaxing again, this was another hint of unease, another wrinkle in the face she was wearing that might just suggest that it was nothing more than a mask.

“I suppose you wouldn’t know, having lived your life in a soft place like this,” she said, going back to staring upwards, “but what do you think a farmer does upon seeing the tracks of a wolf around his flock?”

“He kills it,” Ramien said. He did, after all, remember a few years of his childhood, even if they were fading by the day. “To protect his flock.”

But witches had no flock to protect. They were selfish, unnatural creatures, driven mad and unapproachable by power. The ones who thought they were sane simply didn’t realise their own unusualness… or so it was said.

He doubted this one was an exception from the usual madness.

“He kills it,” she agreed, then looked down at him. “You were the tracks in my pen, boy.”

He went still, his head feeling slow and mushy from the heat in the humid air.

“I saw you in my dreams, in flashes of greater-consciousness,” she said. “Where you see just distance, I see also time. The future is like a series of hills, some things concealed behind mounds of earth but most things open to me. I know what strings to pluck, what levers to pull, to make the future itself bow to my will.”

What frightening power! He thought, feeling painful prickles run along his spine. The ability to affect something not yet here, to morph and shape it before its time to your desires… but then, when had witches been anything other than wily and powerful? The danger they presented had never been in doubt.

“So I will do something in the future,” he said, reaching the conclusion naturally.

“That’s the thing,” she said, pulling her gaze away from the ceiling and looking at him with a heavy-lidded gaze. He felt like prey for a moment, and the feeling only amplified when she moved, lifting just enough to let one brown nipple wink out of the water before it was submerged again and suddenly she was on him, prowling, pinning him.

Usually he was the comfortable one in these matters, never out of his depth or exposed to something new, but for the first time his heart began to beat faster and he felt his breath shorten – not out of lust at the way she straddled him underwater, or the way her pose lifted her partially so that he could see almost her entire torso and a bit beyond, or the way the very tip of his manhood – a part of him he’d felt ever so little attached to – just barely brushed against her soft skin, but rather, out of fear.

There was a lot of her physical beauty to be noticed in that moment. He didn’t see it at all, because all he could see was the deep dark pits of her eyes, and the merciless cruelty within them – an ancient gaze, one that had seen mysteries and killings and mused on them for centuries.

“There is a fog in my vision,” she said, riding closer to his groin and wrapping her arms around his neck delicately. Her soft body pressed against him in a manner so sensual that it almost aroused him. She sighed directly next to his ear and whispered her next words into it, making him shiver despite himself.

“In my mind’s eye, there is a presence that was not there before, watching me as I watch it.”

To the left of him, her head, her short blonde hair: to the right of him, the rim of the bath. And in front of him the steam thickened, gathering and intensifying unnaturally. The subtle lights of the room probed gentle beams through the humid air, reducing its reality and making everything seem flat and an equal distance away from him – and in the thickest, heaviest parts of the fog, he could almost see eyes, staring at him unblinkingly.

The steam immediately above the bath roiled like a billowing flag, lifting, lifting, lifting until it was as if he was seeing it head-on, the churning and boiling curves seeming like the hills of foresight that the witch had described.

“This creature steals my vision,” she murmured, one hand clutching the back of his head as if seeking security. “It is there at my most vulnerable. It is unknowable, but there is a reason that I can see it where others like me do not. I See far more and far better than anyone else currently alive, and that creature, that…” she sighed, grinding slightly against his thighs. For the first time, he felt genuine, electric pleasure, despite the state of frozen fear he was in. “That beast, that monster, cold and cruel, well, I’ve tracked it. I doubt many others could, and I didn’t think it would let me, but it did. And where does it lead, but to the Golden City, to one pleasure-house under the personal management of a Madame Caila, and to the vision of you as you stood before me ten minutes ago, so much like you are now but for the trace of that beast’s eyes staring at me from yours…”

She shuddered and, involuntarily, so did he, overwhelmed by the physical contact of the witch.

[Achievement Earned: Terrify a Witch! (100cp), Arouse a Witch! (50cp). 250cp total.]

“The beast returns, and I embrace it,” she whispered, clutching him tighter, wrapping her legs around him. She moved her hips over his manhood and slowly descended upon it.

The feeling of being inside her was like being wrapped in the smoothest silk or softest cotton: she was warm, inviting, and electrically arousing all at once.

[Roll Failed: Occult Libraries. 200cp remaining.]

[Roll Failed: Divinity Machine. 250cp remaining.]

A sense of foreboding filled his head like smoke from a fire, and it came before the witch pulled, looking at him with those same black eyes, swirling with a mixture of fear and lust.

“I see now,” she said, her gaze foggy. She sheathed herself fully upon him in a sudden, violent movement, making him cry out in pleasure. “There will be a man who comes here in three days,” she said, not looking at him as she spoke. Her voice was infused with a sense of frightening purpose, and despite everything, Ramien listened well. “That man will try to kill you. I suggest you let him succeed: it would be kinder upon everyone. But if you don’t…” she bared her teeth in a mad grin. “Flee from this toy-house and seek me out. I am the Witch Vivian von Quixo, and I will make you great.”

Chapter 3: Chapter 3 (Holsus Serj)

4th​ of April, Last Year of Peace​

The Word of Drogan:

A man must learn to control himself as he controls his steed.

It was in this cause that Serj had brought his horse to the edge of the known world, to the very outskirts of the ancient Darkwood Forest, with a pack of supplies upon his back and no brothers by his side.

His steed shuffled uncomfortably under its thin blanket of a saddle, and in response he patted its neck soothingly. "Saveh, Morian, saveh," he told it. "Be calm. You will not be the one to go in there." Intelligence was the burden and privilege of man, not beast.

He sighed, tangling his fingers in the horse's hair and wishing to have a few more days. But no – he was seventeen now, more than an adult ready to tackle the world. It was time to prove it to not only others, but also himself.

He wore the traditional thick trousers and centre-cut robe of the Lao Lake Horsemen and his head was bald, as it had been since his birth. He'd be be able to grow his hair when he returned from his trip and proved himself worthy of it. He was tall, fitting on a horse less comfortably than his brothers: when he slipped off Morian's back, he came up very close to the tips of its ears.

He carried everything he'd need with him: his bow, arrows, some food, a waterskin, fire-making supplies, a thick bundle of cloth for a blanket, a knife, and some other supplies. Against his chest, securely wrapped in corded leather, was the bone whistle that would summon Morian to him.

He looked at Morian and, behind him, the stretching, endless expanse of the Grass Sea. Then he glanced behind him.

Trees – so many of them and so tall and thick that they seemed an impassable wall, warding him off with every rustle of their leaves in the breeze and sway of their branches.

There was barely any gust and yet still felt like the forest was shouting at him in a muted voice. The divide between the Darkwood Forest and Grass Sea was stark, with a shadowed wall of woods and barely a few dozen metres' worth of adventurous trees encroaching over their line to demarcate it, and he wished that he could be back with his tribesmen, riding as fast as the wind.

He sighed. The longer he stayed, the more his mind threatened to betray him. Master yourself, he told himself. If Drogan could kill a dragon this way, then you can walk into the Forest.

"Off you go, you weak-backed colt," he said, slapping his childhood horse's flank. Morian whinnied but didn't flee until he was shoved and slapped again, at which point he began to gallop away, the blanket acting as his saddle fluttering away in the wind.

A loyal steed, Serj thought fondly, remembering his first time seeing him as a foal. He had seemed so tall and powerful then, like a true conqueror's animal.

He had conquered little in his young age but the skirts of a few girls of the tribe, but he knew, deep within himself, that he could be as great as Drogan, as great as Basil or Luka or any other Holy Progenitor.

[Achievement earned: Stand at the Feet of the Darkwood Forest! (50cp)

Roll failed (Gargoyle, Warhammer 40,000): 50cp stored.]​

The Darkwood Forest rustled in disconcert without a breeze, and he felt his back straighten with something greater than his own power.

He took a deep breath. "In the name of the Plains-Father, I travel to the edge of the Sea of Land a boy and resolve to return a man." He kneeled for a moment, pressing his forehead against the ground and touching his lips to it. It had a rich, fertile, earthy taste – far removed from the dusty lands he and his tribe were used to.

The Forest was spreading. Slowly but surely, what was once arid shrubland generations ago was now deeper and deeper into the encroaching grasp of the Forest.

He turned around, but saw no sign of Morian in the distance, so he steeled himself and walked instead into the forest.

When his shoes touched the true ground of the forest beyond the treeline, he felt changed – charged with a strange power, one that tickled ominously at the base of his head, as if he was being watched. He immediately understood that he was unwelcome in this place.

Serj drew his bow, strung it, and rested an arrow upon it, listening hard for any sounds of the Forest.

He did not dare enter too deep into the Forest, but by that same measure, neither did inhabitants of the Forest (or the unknown lands beyond) broach too far towards the Grass Sea.

His people, he thought with satisfaction, had a well-earned reputation for savagery to outsiders. They were called 'barbarians', they were hunted occasionally in their own lands, and they were slaughtered whenever they tried to leave their endless plains, but for all that this confined them to the Holy Plains, they'd thrived.

And, where they could, the Horsemen took revenge upon those that sought to confine them on a land that grew no plant but hardy grass and supported no life but the harshest. Trespassing in the Forest was the least of these small revenge activities.

He climbed over a gnarled root the size of his knee, keeping an eye out for creatures or men. A lone Horseman without a horse was an attractive target, especially if caught unaware.

He noticed that the leaves dappled the sun, hiding it in bite-sized portions in one moment and then revealing it as he walked. Shadows formed unnaturally often, making him feel as if the darkness rose and fell in this wooded land, ready to swallow him whole should he wander too far from those few spots of light where the sun shone fully.

There was no such thing as true shade in the Holy Plains. Only night, day, and cloud. To see it in such quantity now, for the first time, was unsettling.

He saw no life in the air, other than the plants. No insects or creatures. He'd been told that the Forest was absolutely brimming with fat animals – it was likely that they were just avoiding the ouskirts out of some sense of instinctual fear.

He hoped they weren't too far. If he had to stay here for a few nights, then he'd have to hunt for food.

Traditionally, he'd be able to leave once he'd taken a slave. This was, however, an increasingly large ask as the Foresters grew more and more cautious, so nowadays he'd be accepted with even just an animal or an interesting enough item.

But that was failure and so Serj wasn't interested. No, he'd come out of this forsaken forest holding a chain around the neck of a young woman with a plump body he could show off, or he'd be damn well buried in this foreign ground.

And whomsoever tried to protect their women from him would be feathered with arrows for the trouble they caused him.

He marked his passage back to the Plains in his mind. The level of things here was disorientating – the trees, gobbling up the horizon and blocking out the sun with their too-high-up leaves; the shrubs, bushes, logs, knots, roots, and rocks that choked the ground, making him look down every step. When he looked back, he could see nothing but more trees.

East, he told himself. Head East and you can only ever find yourself in the land of your ancestors. There is no other place.

But it was difficult to believe when the forest swallowed him up like this.

Before long, though, he began to see signs of life. Insects at first – flies, fatter and louder than the ones that bothered the horses back home, and spiders nestling under leaves and inside the cracks of trees. He saw long trails of ants, and when the gurgling of water led him to a thin stream, he saw – in the distance – animals that must have been deer lapping at it cautiously.

A deer's corpse would get me home, he thought. But it bolted the second he tried to pull back his arrow, leaving him to sigh and turn away.

It was for the best. He'd been telling Mari and Nevena up until his departure how he'd come back home with a fat-titted woman to ignite their jealousy over him. Sure, they hadn't believed him, but that wasn't the point – the point was that he'd said it to them, and now he had to live up to his promise.

There was only one other man who had brought back a female slave in the past few decades, and that had been Skugge Long-Arms, who was now with a different tribe (though not before leaving behind a litter of foreign-eyed children for a young Serj to bicker and wrestle with). He'd had his pick of the tribe's women for that feat, and so would Serj.

Eventually, when even large animals became a common sight, Serj stopped his journey deeper into the forest. Never once had its unwelcome whisper left his back, and with night beginning to fall, he wanted to find shelter.

He didn't trust the trees not to drop him if he'd tried to sleep in one, so he collected enough sticks with which to form a workable shelter, found the base of a moss-ridden log, leaned them against it, and shuffled under it, plugging the entrance with his pack.

By the time he was squished under the dubious shelter of the sticks (more to keep him hidden than safe from any sort of weather), he awkwardly pulled his blanket over his body, afraid to move too much lest he knock away the sticks, and tried to sleep.

With the sticks and treetops in the way, he couldn't see the moon, and the forest was filled with strange, exotic sounds – hooting, cricketing, chirping, tapping, creaking, rustling, croaking, every manner of sound that he'd never heard at night in the plains. It kept him awake long into the night, but eventually his eyes grew heavy and the prickling feeling in the back of his neck faded, and he fell asleep.

---

He had dreams of riding Morian. They were so fast that they almost flew, but that wasn't all. He could see his tribe in the background, surrounded by trees like the ones in the Darkwood Forest, and as they watched, creatures rose from the ground and descended from the sky, strange and fantastical beasts which he'd never heard described before. They followed him and Morian, some able to keep up but most not, and he'd laughed as he outraced them.

The ground shifted in a thousand different ways under his feet, sometimes dirt and sometimes sand and sometimes rock or clay or fertile soil but always disappearing under Morian's hooves as fast as it appeared, too much of a blur to be seen by anything other than an eagle's eyes.

He forgot about the dream soon after he woke up, which he thought – in its last fading moments – was kind, since the sense of freedom it had granted him and then taken away with the morning made him feel sour.

Oh, how his body ached! Every single muscle hurt, and no amount of stretching would get rid of the pains. He rose up stiffly, knocking his stick shelter away carelessly, and found even that simple, slow movement uncomfortable. Worse still, his skin prickled in far too many places with sharper, angrier pains.

He saw something scuttle away under the sticks that had housed him, and felt the prickling of something on the back of his neck. He slapped him and brought his hand away to see that there was a small black insect's corpse on it.

A quick check of his arms and chest showed that he was absolutely littered with bug-bites.

The Forest doesn't like me, he thought, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the itchy stings on his body. That's okay, I don't like it back. It thought that throwing some bugs at him was enough? Ha!

He kicked the log. He trembled before no Forest nor its pesky insects.

Serj took a moment to drink from his waterskin, and found it nearly empty. Time to refill it, it seemed. There had been a stream nearby, somewhere in the direction of…

He looked around, and saw no distinguishing landmarks. He looked up, couldn't find the sun in the face of all the foliage, and sighed, rubbing his head.

It seemed that, in his sleep, he'd forgotten the exact path he'd taken from the stream to his current location. Well, he'd just find a new stream, then. They weren't rare here like they were in the Plains.

Picking up his pack and bow and making sure he had everything, he chose a random direction that seemed somewhat familiar from last night (lest he see the back face of the direction he'd already travelled from as new, and accidentally retrace his footsteps) and began to walk. The occasional features that he vaguely remembered from yesterday quickly vanished, leaving him quite convinced that he was on the right path. When the tree cover cleared some, he saw that he was walking generally away from the sunrise, which was good enough for him.

It took half a day of cautious but rapid walking for him to finally see something of interest.

Tracks. Giant, deep, deliciously enticing tracks.

Those are no woman's tracks… but perhaps they lead to something better. He wanted a woman for status first, babies second, and house-keeping third. These tracks were almost human, but far too large – each footprint at its thinnest was as wide as his foot as if he were standing in it sideways, and he could comfortably take a small step within the imprint of its tracks.

He wouldn't be able to drag back whatever creature made these tracks to his tribe, but if he brought a trophy – its head, or its tooth or hand – he'd be hailed as a hero…

First, he had to find it. Then kill it. He hefted his bow, deciding that, in combination with his wits, it'd be adequate.

He was Holsus Serj, son of Taimo Serj, and he knew no fear.

Taking care to walk lightly should the creature double back, he sneaked to a place in the trees where he could observe the tracks from a slight distance, and began to follow them. They were far too unsubtle to be easily missed from this distance, and he had no trouble tracking them over kilometres.

His thirst was forgotten. The insect-bites were forgotten, and it felt like life flowed back into his muscles with fresh eagerness. In the plains, he'd felt like a brother; in the very edge of the Darkwood Forest, a young warrior; but now, he was a hunter. And he found that he liked the role a lot.

Eventually, after hours of following tracks and the tentative encroachment of thirst, he heard a sound from ahead. A crackling, splintering crash, like a tree being torn apart. Serj hid immediately behind a thick trunk, kneeling down and looking around him.

When in battle and with time, take stock of yourself first, your surroundings second, and your enemy third. Thus, you cannot lose. This was the wisdom of Kazron the Nightcrawler, and it echoed in his head as if he was hearing it from a tribal elder for the first time as a young child.

I am surrounded by strong trees which can be used to hide from arrows, he thought, examining them. I can see the sun overhead and judge the direction East to run back to the Plains without getting lost further in this accursed forest. I can run in the path made by the tracks if speed is more important than stealth. My pack can be abandoned in a great rush: I can run better with just my bow and a few arrows.

He peeked around the tree. With the amount of low branches, fallen trees, and small mounds in the landscape he hadn't even noticed at first (not to mention he'd been busy looking down at the mysterious footprints), but buried underneath thick layers of moss were stacks of large boulders, each easily twice as large as him. Not one, not two, not four or five or six but, he realised with a slowly dawning sense of awe, an entire valley of them, some so covered by moss and lichen that they seemed untouched in generations, and others covered with a fresh layer of dirt that was still slowly dripping soil and roots before his eyes.

There was the sound of a massive boom, as if a horse had kicked a drum, but deeper and rougher, and – were it possible – louder, far far louder. Then, out of nowhere, a massive, hair-raising, ground-shaking masculine roar, one that made Serj jump and grab an arrow out of instinct.

There was another crash. It was shortly followed by a roaring cry and then some smaller, higher-pitched shouts.

The source of the roar must be my prey, he thought, for a moment filled with indecision. It was such a loud creature, and its footprints… could he take it down with just his arrows and a knife?

Then it roared for the third time, angrily and with an intonation that he'd recognise anywhere. It was being injured, it was in pain!

My prey! He thought furiously, nocking his arrow and leaping to his feet.

A man who rides a horse broken in by another man has surrendered his masculinity, Serj recounted as he sprinted to the boulder and pressed his back against it, looking around. There was no sign of the creature or whatever was causing it pain. He looked up at the boulder, his heart sinking as he realised its height, and then he did the only thing he could: he put the arrow back in its quiver, dropped his pack on the ground, slung the bow around his back, and leapt as high as he could, grabbing onto an old, dry root.

It held long enough for him to haul himself up, grunting and panting, to the top of the boulder. There were a few more to go. Just a few more.

There was another roar. It sounded weaker.

No, my precious, don't succumb yet! He thought in horror. I'm so close. Let me kill you myself!

There was no attention paid to the danger of the situation. He cared not for whatever was harming his creature. He only wanted to get onto the scene and kill it first, so that he could steal a tooth and take it with him as a glorious trophy, one that would last, admired, for generations and generations. And the only way he'd take a tooth, was if it belonged to him in the first place – by right of him killing the creature whose mouth it was in.

The higher-pitched shouts, he'd realised, had never stopped. There were many of them, and they were masculine, feminine, and not quite high-pitched when compared to anything other than the sounds the creature had made.

Foresters, he thought grimly. A thousand waterless leagues upon their foul lands.

He scaled another boulder, and then another, and found himself at the top of a small hill, looking upon a scene inside a ravine that made his heart ache and clench.

There was a massive man-like creature in the centre of the ravine, peppered with arrows and cuts to its thick, grey hide. It was at least five times as tall as any man, and its head was almost as large as Serj's torso. It had long, flapping, droopy ears, and was grotesquely fat, with a bulging stomach that spilled over its ratty leather loincloth. It held no weapon.

Foresters swarmed it. They were just as cowardly as the stories had said: working in teams to attack the creature from all sides, most of them from a range, though some wielded hammer-like weapons, and others grand axes which they swung with the force of a stampeding stallion towards the creature's dirt-caked feet, making it stumble back.

Most of the Foresters wore leather, but one was wearing armour with metal plates and strips in places. She – he could tell it was a female, not just from her long black hair (few Forester men grew their hair long as Horsemen did, Serj had been told as a child) but also because of her attractive womanly shape.

This ugly cow is stealing my kill! He thought, outraged. He pulled his bow off his back and aimed an arrow at her, only to be disturbed by a significant and ominous sense of glorious purpose, burdening his stomach with hesitation.

[Achievement Earned: See Your First Outsiders! (10cp), 60cp Total.

Rolling… Failed (Basilisk, Final Fantasy)]​

His hand was stayed for a moment.

It was, perhaps, a good thing that she performed her next action before he could let loose, because it undoubtedly saved her life. She raised her hands as if she was going to shove a door in, and then, with a great shout, released a bolt of lighting out of nowhere.

It zapped forwards faster than the eye could see, leaving him blinking its afterimage out of his eyes. When he looked again, he saw that the creature was roaring in terrible pain, clutching its scorched and bubbling stomach.

A weirding woman! His bow promptly changed course to aim squarely at the creature, should it threaten her. That strange feeling in his gut came to mind, and he realised that it wasn't the intrusion of hunger or thirst – it was the very nature of magic in the air, whispering to him of glory. This woman will be a far greater prize than any old creature's tooth. I will be the first in centuries to bring magic to the Lao Lake tribe – and it will be as a bound slave!

He had seen a weirding woman once, as a child, but she had been travelling and quite unfriendly. To have one as his slave…

She had a womanly figure about her too, he thought, observing her as she panted (the heaving motions did quite wonderful things to her chest, things which made a touch of a blush appear on his ears).

A slave this beautiful, and with magic no less… he'd be hailed as a glorious hero.

The lightning-magic had obviously taken a great deal out of her, and as he watched, two other Foresters flanked her protectively, dressed lightly and wielding swords whose lengths were half their heights.

The creature was not to be outdone. Roaring in anger and pain, it wrapped its arms around a nearby boulder that Serj's entire tribe and their horses would not be able to pull with all the rope and strength in the world, and – ignoring the hail of arrows that immediately studded into its curved, hunching back from the fresh barrage of Forester attacks – picked it up.

Serj's mouth dropped open as the disgustingly strong creature lifted the boulder square above its head – the enormous rock was just under half its size! – and, with little preparation or warning, threw it at the weirding woman.

My slave! He thought in anguish, though she was pushed out of the path of the speeding boulder and her guards barely dodged it as well. Then he noticed the way the retaliation from the Forester cowards around the creature kept on firing at its back, making it shout and swipe an ineffectual hand at them. Oh, my poor creature as well!

He could tell which way the winds were blowing. The creature was being worn down.

It picked up another massive boulder, hefting it on its shoulder for a second to get a better grip, and then threw it at a Forester that couldn't quite get out of the way in time.

"Ouch," Serj muttered sympathetically when he saw what was left – an arm and a mucky red paste on the ground, mixed with squished clothes.

The boulder thudded to a stop against the hill that Serj was on, leaving him to scramble back into hiding for a second, thinking quickly.

There was no honour in stealing a trophy from a creature killed by a gang of Foresters – he might as well mount a filly and call himself an accomplished seducer. But, if it was a Horseman to deal the final blow, or even the property of a Horseman – say, a new and beautiful slave who would soon love her new life under the Lao Lake Tribe's most legendary figure in recent memory and lavish upon him much praise and sex…

He peeked his head back up the top of the boulder, looking with avarice upon the weirding woman. A tingling sense of delight overcame him, starting in his brain and reaching his balls and not nearly stopping there. It heralded a sense of glorious, unstoppable purpose. He knew what he must do, why it was him that was observing some fight and not some poor fool child of Skugge Long-Arms or another man of the tribe.

He knew, suddenly, what he had to do to succeed in killing the creature. Invoking the Plains-Father's name had led him to it, to a weirding woman as well: to claim then, thus, he would have to pray properly.

"Holy Plains-Father, creator of the Grass Sea and all within it, I thank you for the blessing of your eternity, the speed of my steed, and the glory of my tribe," he muttered as quickly as he could, scrambling down the boulders and jumping down the full length of the last one. He dropped to his knees as soon as he was able, pressing his forehead against the ground repeatedly and imagining that it was the Plains rather than his disgusting, fertile soil.

The trees hissed angrily, and a boulder whistled overhead, smashing a distance away from him, no doubt thrown by the creature. It must have been terribly distracted to miss the Foresters by such a great amount, but Serj suffered under no such distractions.

"Holy is the fruit of your seed, which gathers us when we are weak and disperses us when we are strong," he continued, rushing through the ceremonial prayer. "Reward my eternal devotion to the tending of your fields and closure of your creatures with a greater wealth of certainty in your rule over the world." He pressed his head against the ground, kissed it, retched at the taste, then said:

"Guard my trophies jealously from those who would seek to steal them, guide my arrow so that it may lead my to glory, and keep my steed from faltering when faced with war-drums and arrows." He jumped up, positive that the feeling of holy elation would engulf him momentarily, and scrambled back up the hill.

Just before he cleared the tallest boulder, there was a female shout, and a burst of light so great that it nearly blinded him even as he looked down to find his next handhold.

When he reached the top and peeked over the moss, he saw the creature was on the ground, its cranium replaced with a massive scorch-mark. It wasn't even bleeding.

But its teeth! He thought. Its mouth was open, and he could see even from this distance a massive tusk, thrice as thick and three-quarters as long as his forearm, and felt the overpowering urge to grab it.

The Foresters began to cheer their victory. The weirding woman – and it had undoubtedly been her to kill the creature, meaning he was completely entitled to the spoils as her imminent owner – fell backwards onto the ground, staring at the sky and heaving.

He inched backwards in case she saw him, thinking desperately about how to recover both the tusk and the woman.

The Foresters congratulated each other, and the ones wielding the hammers and axes especially being patted on the back by a four or so of the archer Foresters, who sprang out of the trees to take their shares of the spoils.

One of the Foresters wielding a massive sword left the weirding woman's side to, it seemed, command them – for he pointed with his sword at something in the distance, indicating at it, and then swung his sword around towards Serj--

He jerked back under the cover of the boulder.

They did not see me, he thought – hoped, rather – upon hearing no surprised shouts, nor a sudden silence. But still, he slid down the boulder-mound quickly, grabbing his pack from the ground and searching for a place to hide.

In this forest, there was a surplus of them. He dived into some bushes and saw one of the long sword-wielding Foresters and all of the arches come over the hill, pointing into the direction of the tracks and speaking to each other confidently.

They took their time sliding down the mound, making Serj fidget in impatience, before finally going onto the trail, not looking back.

From his vantage point, he could almost see into the valley in which both his prizes lay in wait. If he was not mistaken (and he was rarely mistaken about things like these), there were only a few heavy weapon-wielding Foresters and another long-sword-wielding man.

A sense of greatness began at his stomach, but soon bubbled upwards towards his heart.

[Achievement Earned: Stare Down an Angry Ogre And Live! (50cp), 110cp Total.]

[Rolling… Success! Bullfango, Monster Hunter (10cp remaining)]​

The sense culminated there, and he found upon its metaphorical surface, a sense of wild, untamed primal-ness – like a small piece of the Grass Sea had been taken with him in his body, and he could access it at any time.

And in there, he saw, closing his eyes, was a creature – a boar-like thing with massive curved tusks and a powerful head that seemed to yearn to slam into the bodies of Serj's enemies.

This animal is mine, he thought simply, not knowing how he could tell so confidently but being nevertheless entirely sure that it was true. It will follow my commands to its death, as I would the Elders'.

Filled with a strange sense of calm, he checked to make sure that the split party of Foresters had left, then drew his bow once more and nocked an arrow for a final time. He sprinted to the small valley in middle of the collection of boulders, and spotted one of the weirding woman's guards standing there, patting her back as she bent over and threw up on the grass. The other Foresters, three of them, were quartering the animal.

My tusk!

He raised his bow and drew back the arrow. He filled his lungs with humid Darkwood air. A Forester could turn at any time and see the sharp glint of metal peeking out from behind a boulder, right in front of a narrowed black eye. But they didn't. And so he let loose.

The bow's height went from well above his head to below his waist. One of his arms was fully extended to hold it out, and the other was drawn back to his ear. There was enough force in that thick string to break a bone, should he release it in a way that would make it slap against the forearm of the hand holding the bow.

When he let go, the arrow flew straight and it flew true, piercing through the guard's cranium without trouble and taking him along with it as it emerged from the other side, slamming into the ground. A feathered shaft poked out of his head as he lay on the ground, having been thrown down by the sheer force of the heavy arrow.

The weirding woman heard the sound, turned around to see what had happened to her guard.

Go, my holy creature! May the Plains-Father bless you as he blessed me! Serj thought, a crazy grin on his face – and suddenly the creature of his heart was on the ground, coming up to his waist and charging forwards without hesitation.

The weirding woman screamed – a loud, wailing, sobbing cry of a lament, grabbing the ruined head of the guard. Serj's holy beast charged past her, missing her by perhaps four feet, and straight towards the startled Foresters, who had turned around to see their commotion and were grabbing their weapons far, far too late.

The woman could only look as the beast dodged one axe-blow and then gored another Forester before he could so much as raise his weapon, its tusks frighteningly quick and powerful. Perhaps she heard someone run up behind her or perhaps she turned away as the second one was gored as well, but either way, she saw Serj run up to her, knife drawn from his pack and in his hands.

She raised a hand, electricity dancing on her fingertips. For one terrible moment, he thought that this would be his last sight.

At least, he thought, he was going out in glory. His beast had been bashed over the skull by the final Forester, but it speared his groin in exchange, shaking its head and mutilating the man. The fallen creature was behind it all like a massive decoration, dripping a few small droplets of blood from its exposed skull. The other two Foresters had fallen, clutching their stomachs or thighs where they had been gored.

And in front of it all, the weirding woman. Sat next to a corpse on one side and a pile of her own vomit on the other, sweating down her face and with a trembling arm. Her leather armour ill-fit her, but he could still see her flaring hips and thin waist, her strong arms and powerful legs and the significant swell of her chest. It was her face that attracted him above all.

Raven-black hair – so long and thick that he was regretful of his own baldness, and thought that when he went back to the tribe, he'd be able to grow his own to be just as long and beautiful. And her face, sharp and pointed, with a small nose and strong blue eyes, their shape unlike his own.

The emotion in them! The disbelief, the confusion!

He prepared himself to be smote under her power, but the Plains-Father, it seemed, still cared for him, for there was a crackling sound and the lightning disappeared from her fingers. Her eyes rolled backwards and she slumped to the side, a curl of smoke coming from her fingertips. She landed against her guard's corpse, unconscious.

He looked at her for a moment, then at the ogre. The final Forester was missing his balls and had a gaping hole in his stomach, but he'd stuffed a thin dagger in the eyes of Serj's beast in exchange. Nevertheless he was dead, and his companions dying.

Serj approached the dead ogre, memorising with awe and reverence the size of its massive, flabby stomach, the thickness of its arms. Its legs and thighs were like tree trunks, and it was absolutely feathered with arrows and cuts, a merciless amount of them.

He dropped his pack, glad that there was a small amount of space there, and stuffed the dagger that had killed his boar into it.

He froze in surprise when the boar evaporated in a shower of golden particles, but when nothing else happened, he shrugged. There was, he sensed, a baby boar in that small plains in his heart, stumbling to its feet and looking around, sniffling at the ground wetly.

He smiled at the thought of it.

When a wild horse comes, it is with a pack, he thought. Drogan proved himself as wise as ever: the Plains-Father's blessing was more permanent than the boar's single life, it seemed.

From the ground, he picked up the hammer-like weapon. It wasn't bloodstained, but it was quite scratched. Then he went over to the creature's mouth (its jaw reached almost to his knee, but it was its single, glorious tusk that he was interested in) and swung against the base of its tusk with all his might.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The base of the creature's jaw, and a good portion of its tusk, shattered. The largest chunk fell into its mouth: he picked it up reverently with both hands, abandoning the hammer.

It was glorious. There was no other word for it. Yellowing, scratched, chipped, and with a chunk missing from its lower half and hairline fractures extending from that part like a spider's web.

Beautiful. A trophy that perhaps wasn't all that well-earned, but the Plains-Father obviously did not mind, judging from his favour.

He put it in his bag and walked back to the weirding woman, slinging her over his shoulder with a grunt of exertion.

Laden down with a pack on his back, a quiver on his waist, his bow in his left hand and his new slave held onto his shoulder by his right hand, he began the long march home, determined to get there before the other Foresters returned and saw the death of their people.

Each step summoned elation to his suddenly weary and quenched heart. I am victorious! He thought to himself. The feeling of the woman's thighs beneath his grip was delicious; her hips over his shoulder, so close to his line of sight, excited him, and it was all he could do not to look.

You are a man now, he thought to himself. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine as he finally realised the full, glorious depths of his achievements. And you are entitled to this woman. She will please you eagerly and happily, as is the way of things. Do not lower yourself to touching her when she is unconscious.

After all: a man must learn to control himself as he controls his steed. Drogan.

[Achievement Earned! Defeat a Forester Party (50cp), Claim Your First Slave (100cp), 160cp Total.

Rolling… Failed! (Gargant, 700cp, Earth Defence Force)

Rolling… Failed! (Crab Monster, 300cp, Attack of the Crab Monsters)]​

I am blessed by the Father, Serj thought, feeling the warm glow of bliss in his heart. I have defeated my enemies, taken my trophies, and enslaved a weirding woman. No man could ask for more: I am complete, this young in my life.

He did not worry about where to go next, either physically or metaphorically. He merely looked up, noting the falling sun, and began to walk east.

To home, to glory and the envy of the tribe. To where happiness awaited.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4 (Carlos Viggoson)

4th of April

 

His father’s pipe puffed with smoke as he considered the ship’s guest.

This lower portion of the Platiya Varia, being firmly underwater, was lit by flickering candlelight. The room was occupied by a refined circular table and some emergency supplies stored in barrels; around the wooden table were Viggo, his three children, and their guest.

“There are cheaper pirates to hire,” Carlos’ father said eventually, exhaling a cloud of thick smoke, roiling like the ocean’s waves, into the air. It drifted to the top of the room, watched pensively by the guest.

“Less reliable, though,” the guest said, making Viggo tip his pipe in acknowledgement.

“You stand to make a significant fortune,” the guest said. A thick gold coin rolled its way onto the table; Carlos’ brother Sieg picked it up, pinching it between his thumb and fingers and bringing it closer to the flickering candlelight to look at the design. A reflection of gold swam in the black pits of his eyes.

“But whose fortune?” Viggo asked reflectively.

The guest shrugged. “Money is money, no matter whose coffers it comes from.”

“You’ll find our ancestors disagreed, back when the Ring was still land,” Carlos spoke up.

“My ancestors too,” the guest said, smiling slightly.

The coin was rolled to Viggo, who picked it up and examined it for a moment before flipping it back towards the guest. It wasn’t picked up. “And yet we’re the ones in the Ring.”

“It’s a simple thing,” Carlos’ older sister Camila said. “We want to know who we’re killing, and for who.”

“Truth and piracy are strange bedfellows,” observed the guest.

“Much further than pirates and politicians… or even merchants.”

“Ha! Yes, true enough.” He shrugged. “There are plenty of other crews in the Ring. Your family is good, Viggo, but you’re not the best. Let’s not waste each other’s time: will you take the money, or not?”

Viggo stole a lungful of smoke, sighing deeply. The guest – a tall, thin-faced man – shallowed out his breathing slightly to keep himself from inhaling too much of the vile, acrid stuff. It made his throat itch and his nostrils burn.

The children seemed used to it.

“Point us to the ship you want sunk,” he said finally, offering his pipe to the guest. “Provide some of the payment in advance.”

“Excellent.” The guest gingerly took the pipe, watched with barely-hidden amusement by the teenagers, and took a delicate breath that resulted in a hacking cough.

Camila laughed.

Viggo took the pipe back and leaned his massive, hairy frame against the wall, spooking the shadows and making them jump and flicker. "Give us the details of the ship. Who's running it? Where and when can we find it?"

"Ahh..." the guest shuffled. "The target should set off from Port Lord on the 5th. He--"

"This month?" Carlos interrupted, more than a little surprised. People willing to pay massive sums of money to see their enemies destroyed usually didn't leave it until the last minute. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he confirmed curtly. "It's a ship under Blackwell or Tundra; it'll be the one running without escorts and flying a wheat sail."

"It's a tricky business, attacking wheat sails," Camila pointed out.

Sieg shrugged. "But we took the deal, and it isn't the first time."

"I suppose..." she said uncomfortably.

"We meander from the point," the guest said. His tone was like that of a spider; coiled in the corner and quiet, but commanding a crawling sort of air. "It'll likely be a relatively defenceless ship, but carrying cargo precious to the enemies of my lord. It should be sunk, without survivors, before it gets into port. Loot it before sinking it if you wish; its contents are yours. We don't care where it ends up as long as it's not in the hands of our enemies." Here, Carlos recognised, he spoke for his lord, and he felt a flash of curiosity about just who that was. It wasn't often that they took jobs from unknowns.

"Sinking it won't be much trouble," Viggo rumbled, chewing his pipe in thought. "The killings, though... We don't operate with honour, but usually men are given a chance to surrender. It's good for business."

"Your payment should smooth any moral troubles over," the guest said.

"It's not a moral concern, it's a practical one," Carlos said. He was beginning to start disliking this. There was something about this man that he didn't trust; something about his oily mannerisms and strange motives that he just wanted to get away from.

"Your reward will be a talent of silver," the guest said.

"Alright," Viggo said, instantly convinced. Carlos found it difficult to disagree; that was a large amount of money for a small family by any measure. It suddenly smoothed over a lot of the concerns he was beginning to feel, and a glance at Sieg and Camila showed that they were thinking along similar lines: namely, that's a lot of money. "Your ship will be sunk long before it makes port. Any other requirements?"

"Just that there are no survivors, or witnesses," he said. "You shouldn't run into any surprises on the way, but if you do, you'll be compensated."

"How compensated?" Viggo asked leadingly.

The guest's response was short. "Appropriately."

"I'm satisfied," Viggo said, standing up with a small grunt. His frame seemed to fill the room, and Carlos noticed that, for all the man's indelible hair-raising mannerisms didn't survive the experience of being stared down by a massive, infamous pirate. It left him feeling somewhat safer. Who could stand up to his father? Nobody that couldn't be wiped out by a cheerful cannonball, that was for certain. “My children will escort you out. How soon can we expect the down payment?”

“Within the hour,” the guest promised.

The pirate captain’s face soured slightly. Evidently, he preferred his employers to be a bit more uncertain and fearful of him. “You were confident in our employability, then.”

“My lord would prefer the term ‘optimistic’.”

“Hmmm.” Carlo found himself doubtful, but stood up nevertheless, soon accompanied by his siblings. They'd been hired for a large sum of money to do what they'd be doing anyway; slightly suspicious nature of their latest job aside, there was little to be unhappy about. So why did he feel a crawling sense of unease? “Please, follow us to the deck.”

“This ship isn’t that big, lad,” the guest scoffed, standing up and following the three teenagers as they opened the door and indicated to the ill-lit corridor beyond. “I won’t get lost.”

“It’s not the size,” Sieg said, the sentence finished by Camila.

“It’s the guards.”

The guest slipped a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hands with it as they walked. “Ah, yes. Your…” his nose wrinkled. “Undead crew. Quite the way to remain competitive, as I understand it.”

“It’s an unpopular measure to be sure,” Viggo called out from the room, chuckling deeply.

The guest sniffed in offence and began to walk, flanked closely by Carlos and his siblings. “I hardly see the humour in this desecration.” The successful employ of Viggo’s ship had, it seemed, loosened his tongue and relaxed his inhibitions.

“Our father enjoys his puns,” Carlos said. “Unpopular; an populairen; an populen. ‘Against the people’ in the old Loran tongue. There’s little more against the people than killing them and enslaving their corpses, don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” their employer said tightly. “You are an educated band, I see.”

Carlos felt the condescension radiate from the man and remembered, for a moment, how grateful he was that he hadn’t been born as a soft, directionless, traitorous Ringlander. Life on the sea was tough and unapologetic but it was a life of freedom and adventure – something more than any Ringlander, trapped in his roles and duties, would be able to understand.

“We try our best,” Sieg said with a serene smile.

A guard of the ship, attracted by the noise, approached them. It was tall and shuffling, wrapped in rags where its fraying clothes did not cover its cold, rotting grey skin. A cutlass was held perpetually in its hands and currently, it was staring hungrily at Viggo’s latest employer. Only its eyes was visible, the rest of its face and head being wrapped in scores of cloth that left just a few strands of blonde hair loose.

“Back to your post,” Carlos commanded, infusing his voice with a touch of corpse-command. The guard turned around and shuffled away, not glancing backwards.

“Are you alright?” Camila asked their employer, slightly mockingly (not, Carl believed, that he noticed).

“Quite,” he said with a grimace, lifting his handkerchief to his nose. “Though it was… fairly malodorous.”

She shrugged. “We get them to scrub each other sometimes, but usually it’s easier to just toss them overboard when they begin to smell too much. Less hassle.”

“That’s a man’s body you’re talking about!”

They reached the trapdoor leading to the deck of the Platiya Varia by now; Sieg muscled it open and Camila went first, followed by their employer, Carl, and then Sieg himself.

“His spirit’s not there to care,” Carlos said. “Besides, if he didn’t want to serve us in death, he shouldn’t have attacked us in life.” He shifted his thick coat to expose the insignia on the breast of his shirt: a man on his knees, arching backwards and with a sword through his spine. “We honour our enemies’ surrender, but what luxuries do you expect us to grant our attackers?”

“Be that as it may,” their employer muttered, seeming greatly disturbed. Carlos found this curious; something of the man's aura seemed to have been lost as he left that room. He seemed diminished in some way, and it was especially visible as the man hurried to the gangplank, feeling watched by more than three teenagers. When his feet touched dry land, he let out a little sigh of relief, and turned around.

“One hour from now,” he called out, drawing a few glances from dock workers who quickly went back to their work, knowing when it was time to eavesdrop and when discretion was the better part of nosiness. “The details will be with the forward payment.”

Carlos shivered in the wind. He looked down, saw the water bubble for a moment as if there was a creature below. He couldn’t think of what; there were almost no sea-creatures in the Ring.

[Achievement Earned: Get Tangled In The Landmaker’s Schemes! (300cp)

Rolling… Roll Failed (Fairy Village, Breath of Fire).]

Camila leaned on the Platiya Varia’s bulwark, swaying with the ship’s natural movements. “You won’t leave us high and dry, right?” She asked him, pouting.

“Of course not,” he said stiffly. Then he turned without a word, walking away. A few dock workers watched him, then glanced at the teenagers, trying to glean their reactions. They glared in return until the dockers went back to picking up barrels and hauling them away, and then the siblings returned to the below-water decks of their ship.

“Rude bastard, isn’t’e?” Sieg asked, unimpressed.

Carlos shrugged. "You know how people get sometimes. I'm more concerned about his trustworthiness, but I trust father's judgement."

"He could always be wrong," Camila suggested.

“Father’s no fool.”

She grinned lopsidedly. “No; he’s just a man.”

“What a cruel thing to say,” Carlos muttered, drawing a grin from her.

“I can hear you three bastards!” Viggo shouted from further in the ship. There was a thump, an exclamation of pain, and then the door opened, revealing his unamused face.

Sieg leaned against the wall to let an undead cleaner walk past them mindlessly. The smell barely even bothered them any more. “Then you’ll explain what’s going on? Negotiations usually take longer.” Not to mention they often featured neutral middlemen.

“Yes, that occurred to me too,” Viggo muttered. He glanced at his elder son and asked him, “What do you think, Sieg, lad?”

He shrugged. “Sink a small ship for that much silver? I don’t see why not.”

“Despite not knowing who the man is, where the money comes from?” Camila pressed. “You’re usually more careful to accept jobs from Ringlanders.” And the man had been a Ringlander, there was no doubt about that; he had the accent, the bodily sway of a man unfamiliar on water.

"He was vouched for by Sven," Viggo assured.

"Sven!" Camila and Carlos cried out at practically the same moment. It was Carlos who complained louder, though. "You let that one-balled bastard set up your meeting? Are you drunk, Dad?"

"He bought me drinks," the man defended. "And I've known him since he was a lad."

"You've known how untrustworthy he was since he was 'a lad'!" Camila said, slamming a fist against the wall. "The little shit has screwed us over a half-dozen times, Dad. And you accept a job from him because of drinks? What did he bribe you with? Silovian rum?"

"No, he didn't bribe me, he..." Viggo scowled, then tugged his beard in distress. "He... damn it! Why..." he trailed off, stared into space for a moment too long. Just when Sieg and Camila began to glance at each other, he shook himself awake. "I don't have to explain myself to you three."

"Dad," Sieg said flatly.

"Fine!" Viggo snapped. When it came to his children, he was softer than a felt blanket. "Fine, damn you! He invited me to the bar and got me some beer. We talked, he mentioned an associate who'd made his family some money, and he pointed him my way. He seemed earnest."

"That doesn't explain anything! Why would you accept a tip from Sven of all people?" Carlos had played with the boy when they were young, and even then, he'd been an untrustworthy weasel-like untrustworthy, with a thin chin and darting eyes. Carlos' old toys had frequently gone missing in that boy's vicinity, and he didn't fail to notice that his belongings miraculously stopped disappearing when the boy went far away. His father and Viggo were old friends, though -- perhaps not good friends, but certainly old friends, and that gave the boy a lot more of an in than any of the three siblings were comfortable with.

"The boy's got a magic voice, apparently," Carmila said scornfully. Their father stilled, an expression of deep discomfort sliding over his face. Then, slowly, he began to pat his pockets, and then brought out a coin placed in a conspiciously deep pocket, and he stared at it with a look of suspicion.

"Dad?" Sieg asked, bemused. "Do you need a drink?"

"Sven tossed this coin to me," Viggo said thoughtfully, looking at it intently in the dim light. Carlos examined it from a distance. It glinted with a dull, sickly sort of yellow that splashed against their father's eyes. "A tip, he called it... Then he left. Funny thing, isn't it?" He passed the coin to Sieg, who examined it, then sniffed it with a grimace.

"Smells funny," he complained. "Where did Sven stick this thing?" He tossed it to Camila to examine, but it was snatched out of the air by Viggo, who clutched it tightly, rubbing his thumb over its surface.

"Sieg, lad, go fetch the coin our new employer left on the table."

"But--"

"Just do it." Their father's voice brooked no argument, and with a sigh, he entered the room and then came out moments later bearing the coin.

"There." He held it up. "What about it?"

Viggo held out an expected hand; when the coin was dropped into it, looking tiny against his massive calloused palm, he held them side-by-side. They looked practically identical. No, they were identical, down to a small scratch wrapping around the rim on both. He sniffed them. "They both stink."

"Our mysterious employer doesn't seem like the type to stick coins into himself," Camila volunteered. Despite the strong, sarcastic suggestion of 'unlike Sven' in that statement, her expression was starting to betray worry and unease. Carlos felt no different. Their father was acting unusual; this whole situation was unusual. It was just a few coins, surely? 

“It’s a strange thing,” Viggo said, almost to himself. He was staring at the coin as if enchanted by it. “I usually don’t touch Ringlander gold until it’s been cleansed in blood.”

Cleansed was perhaps too strong a word, Carlos thought, but it wasn’t too far off a self-assessment. Viggo did not like Ringlanders; he did not quickly touch the things that they touched, especially not minuscule, arrogantly-tossed tips. And Sven may not have been a Ringlander, but their employer blatantly was.

“But I did touch it,” he said to himself. “And then I agreed. A curious thing, don’t you think?”

Carlos spoke up, with Sieg nodding along to what he said. "I thought it was just your instinct."

“I thought so as well. Strange, strange.” He clenched both coins in a single fist, then withdrew them slightly bent. “Did I ever tell you the tale of Ronan the Smith?”

“Dad—” Sieg started, only for their father to hold a hand up.

He tugged his beard, said: “This is a true enough story, from before the Ring. There was land then, mountains and forests and all the things we despise now. This Ronan fellow was a good smith – an outstanding smith, even. They said he forged fast and strong, and his services were well sought-out – and he knew this, and charged high.” Viggo’s lips quirked upwards for a moment before he continued.

“Well, Ronan went and fall in love with some woman whose name the stories don’t mention. And he’s proper in love, ready to give her the world if she but asks for it. And so he sets to making a wedding ring, a most beautiful and expensive wedding ring the likes of which the world has never seen.” He paused. “Or at least, the land on which the Ring was formed. But, ahh!

“One day, a woman appears. She asks him for his services, says she’s in need of a good smith and Ronan’s the best for hundreds of leagues. Well, Ronan doesn’t accept, of course, his time is taken by making the wedding ring. She wishes him luck but asks him to reconsider, and gives him a jewel as a token of her need: a beautiful, shining jewel that belongs nowhere else but at the top of this wedding ring, to complete the declaration of Ronan’s undying love for his girl.

“But curiously, Ronan doesn’t complete this ring of his immediately. In fact, he accepts the task and keeps the jewel by his side constantly, refusing to give it to his love. He forges for the woman, first one thing and then another and then another for no payment, ignoring his love and his village.” Viggo, seeing that his audience was getting impatient, shrugged. “Ahh, whatever. You’re not little children any more, and this isn’t your bed time. Long story short, the woman’s a witch and that jewel is not a token of her eagerness or a gift or anything of the sort, but rather, a cunning trick: a physical container for a curse, a curse of agreeability or service or slavery or however you want to look at it. It’s that there jewel that, once touched, enslaved brave, valorous, fair Ronan to an evil witch, at the cost of his love.”

Viggo looked significantly at the gold coins resting on the lines and bumps of his hand, and the idea that had clicked in Carlos’ mind since the second he heard Ronan ignore his beloved came tumbling out before he could second-guess himself. “The coins are enchanted.”

Camila recoiled, as did Sieg. Their father just shrugged.

“Well, maybe,” he said. “I know one thing for sure. I haven’t spent that coin Sven gave me on drink yet, and I haven’t chucked this new one, either. In fact, Sieg, lad, would you mind kindly tossing it out of this here ship for me?”

“What, an enchanted coin? No way!” Sieg stepped backwards. “You do it!”

“Strange that I’m not, isn’t it?” Viggo said, breathing calmly. “Suspicious, smelly coins; I'd toss them into the sea without a second thought, especially when we have a talent of silver on the way for an easy job. But they're still here, on my palm, sitting smugly.”

Carlos looked at Sieg, waiting for him to sigh, pick up the coin and toss it out. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at it in slowly mounting horror.

“We’ve been bewitched,” Camila whispered, an expression of fear and revulsion on her face.

“Surely I can just call a corpse to throw out the coin, or use some tongs,” Carlos said, trying to inject reason back into the escalating conversation.

Viggo jumped to his feet and Sieg surged forwards, making him flinch in instinctive fear. “No!”

They paused, looked at each other, and sighed.

“No,” Viggo said, more softly, sitting back down, more heavily and tiredly than Carlos had ever seen before. “I… I believe that we can use the coins to find out who’s behind this, or even use them as proof in a case to the more influential Ringmen. To throw them away now would be foolish.”

Sieg nodded along.

“That’s the witchcraft speaking, father,” Camila said grimly.

“Perhaps. Does it make a difference? I feel I won’t let you toss them out regardless.” Viggo stared upwards. “I would try my best to know that they are in my presence.” He looked at them. “Such a fickle thing, a coin. One among countless.”

He’s asking us to steal them when he’s not looking, Carlos thought, suddenly sure of it. He glanced at Camila, saw her return his gaze knowingly.

It seemed that it was time to mutiny in some small way, for the safety of their father and brother.

“If these coins are indeed enchanted,” Viggo said heavily, “Then it may well mean that witches are once more trying to probe into the Ring.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” Sieg snarled, but he was silenced by a look from his father and a flat gesture towards the coins.

“Their genocide hasn’t weighed on their memory heavily enough, it seems,” Camila spat. “Perhaps we ought to repeat it.”

Viggo put the coins back into his deepest pocket. “Those coins, they’re better proof than the word of my children and I could ever be. Perhaps this is just coincidence, a one-off chance, some magic that seems unnaturally close to witchcraft but isn’t. It should, after all, be impossible for witch’s magic to function near the Ring.”

“And perhaps they’re not,” Carlos said. His limbs felt heavy.

“In that case,” his father acknowledged, “There is someone organising this behind the scenes, and they do not know that we know that they exist.” He paused. “We’ve been hired to destroy a ship, bewitched twice to make sure we accept. But --" and here, his tone turned encouraging -- "There's something that the witches didn't consider. We're the descendants of their vile ancestors' killers, and the trick didn't slip past us. You know what? I say we race towards that ship and see what’s in there that would make them risk revealing themselves to get us to sink it, and we keep quiet, should the witch have spies or agents. And, when we recover this threat they feel must be removed, we go to someone with knowledge, perhaps Old Woman Varna, and get her to back up our case, along with the coins and whatever we salvage from the ship.”

Silence flooded in for a moment. The ship rocked uneasily. If they were going to set sail, then they'd have to pick; Old Woman Varna, or their target. They couldn't do both, not on the time-scale that they were working on. Had that been factored into their vile employer's plans? Had he been trying to rush them, to get them to fulfil his bidding before they realised anything was wrong? It seemed, Carlos thought, more than likely.

“I wish we could throw away the rings and be done with it,” Sieg eventually muttered.

“I know, lad,” Viggo said sympathetically. “Me too. But we’ve been thrust into this situation and we’d best get our bearings. Then we can find out who to kill.”

“This ship will have some bloody high status new undead soon,” Carlos promised, his fingers twitching with a desire to slit the throat of any witch who dared poke her wet nose into the Ring and turn her into a mindless beast.

“There are bigger matters at hand, such as how a witch’s magic even works in the Ring,” Camila said. “It should be impossible, according to every single legend. The coins are proof enough: I say we take them to Varna right now and let the ship sail to wherever it’s going to sail to. Just put the coins in a pouch, give it to me or Carlos to guard, and let's go get help.”

“There must be a clue in that ship,” Sieg said immediately, stepping forwards protectively. He didn’t seem to even realise – and Carlos noticed, uncomfortably, that his hand was straying close to his cutlass.

Time to back off and let them scheme, he thought, catching his sister’s eye. We’ll snatch the coin and break its hold on them when they’re not looking, else they might try to fight us…

He was beginning to feel confident about seeing what was on their target ship, but what about what came after? When they sought out Varna, why would their father relent and let her take the coins rather than trying to protect them still? It seemed like they were doing nothing but kicking the problem down the road... unless they stole the coins before that happened. How they'd do that, Carlos had no idea, and from the helpless look settling over her, he could tell that Camila didn't either, but at the same time... it felt like they had little choice.

“Father—” she tried.

“You won’t touch the coins until we find out what’s on that ship,” Viggo ordered. “I’m sorry, Camila. But that’s final.”

“So,” Carlos said, feeling a droplet of sweat roll down his neck and trying to break the sudden tension. “Recover whatever the witches are trying to target from the ship, let it go on its way it, then deal with the coin.” His stomach turned at either some part of the plan, or all of it. He couldn’t quite tell.

“I don’t like leaving something magic so close to me,” Camila muttered. “Even if we can’t do anything about it.”

“Perhaps we can’t do anything about it, but we can use it to learn more about what’s going on,” Viggo said, trying to rally his children. “Is this a random artefact? Is it a probe by witches? We need to know what’s going on, and if there is someone behind it, we risk letting them know that they’re discovered if we make too much noise. Let her direct us to her enemies, and let us shelter them to learn about what’s going on; then we can go to someone more suited to dealing with this.”

Who? Carlos wondered doubtfully. There was no King of the Ring, or even a council; there were no wise men here which could guide them through their troubles, or figures of central authority.

Perhaps Old Woman Varna had the knowledge to let them know what they were dealing with, but would she be able to help them do anything about it?

They had a few family friends, certainly, but none that wouldn’t betray them for money, let alone if a vengeful witch (should she indeed exist) learned that the Ring’s people were trying to band together once more…

The last time that had happened, it ended in the formation of the Ring – a massive, perfectly circular sea which utterly obliterated all the land within its area – and an aura of malice that disabled witch-magic for leagues in all direction. That had been a generational trauma upon them, and as far as anyone knew, they still didn’t dare approach the Ring.

But if that was changing… If the strange magic that made them powerless upon approaching was weakening or flickering, if their lust for revenge married opportunity and bore them children of malice and death…

I imagine that as descendants of the ones who killed hundreds of witches, we’d be hunted down viciously, Carlos thought, feeling his heart beat faster in fear. And they’d be far from the only ones to be hunted, but if anyone could conduct a genocide man-by-man, it would be witches.

For a moment, he didn’t feel as a pirate, as the prowling and hated predator of the ocean, his family emblem hated and feared by every merchant that crossed the Ring by boat out of necessity.

No, he felt like a scared little boy, wanting to hide under his father’s beard but, for once, unable to.

 

---

 

The down-payment had been received, and their employer was given no sign to their awareness of his vile master. They accepted the gold with a customary amount of bantering suspicion – and it was Sieg who took the bag and weighed the coins, not Camila or Carlos. The exchange had been far from wordless, but there was a tension there that rended any petty exchanges from the siblings' memory.

And now they were off – having set sail. Already, they were far enough into the immense expanse of the Ring’s lifeless Third Circle (a distance away from their target still, but far out of sight of the ports and land) and moving away rapidly.

“Squawk!”

Carlos looked up to see a white gull launch itself out of the side of the ship. It was quickly followed by a second, slightly larger one. They spiralled upwards through the air playfully, speeding high and fast towards the horizon.

“Good luck, Nina, Nino,” he muttered, looking up at them as they got smaller and smaller in the sky. They’d be trained to perfection, and would be able to spot any ship and return with their warnings long, long before it came into sight. With the reduced traffic due to weather that promised to be traitorous and precise knowledge of where their target would be, the gulls were hardly necessary, but they needed the exercise.

Plus, they were trained with caspite. Too long without that stuff as a reward and, well…

It was good to regularly let them out to do their job, and just feeding them the drug to keep them alive would go against their training.

He looked around. The deck was abandoned, and it seemed sullen and lonely with just him on board.

The Platiya Varia was a marauder, one of those mish-mashed cobbled-together’d designs of ships that had sprung up in the aftermath of the Ring’s violent creation. It had been made by people that didn’t know what they were doing and wanted to see what was in the centre of a brand new sea before it was claimed by traders and (ironically enough, considering what those same people soon enough turned into with most of the region’s resources vanished away and replaced with a massive ocean) pirates.

More proficient trading ships would be stolen in time, and lessons on ship-building would be learned the long and hard way by the locals, but the marauder saw itself a ship type continuously modified, expanded, and improved by its crew to fit their needs.

One marauder could be unrecognisable from another if it had been around for long enough; even the hulls weren’t precisely the same shape. The foredeck was raised and sharp as it sliced the incoming water; it dropped a few steps to a coffin-shaped main deck, which was studded with barrels and chests of food, water and cargo. Around the centre-left of the deck was a trapdoor leading to the lower levels. Towards the aft was a wide cabin, and midship stood the distinctive double-junk rig sported by many marauders.

The secondary, smaller sail-mast was at the front, and it was currently unfurled. The primary sail was at full-mast; a billowing and undecorated blood-red thing, pulled taut against the wind.

A few crewmen stood around, waiting for commands.

“Prepare the pirate sail,” he told them in corpse-command. He was gratified by the way the bodies mindlessly obeyed, starting the slow process of stringing up the second sail and attaching it to the secondary mast.

It would remain furled up until such a time that they saw the ship they were chasing, at which point it would billow to life: jet-black, as if it was soaked in rot, and with a single distinctive emblem rippling proudly on it.

The back-stabbed man of the Viggo Family. The infamous corpse-speakers.

They set sail for their target and its contents, intent on breaking the enchantment set upon them. And, in the small hours of the night, when everyone else would asleep, he and Camila had already agreed in quiet whispers to meet and discuss what they would do once they encountered their target and needed to dispose of the coins safely.

Carlos stared into the horizon and felt the powerful feeling of being a pirate sweep through him.

If it was a witch trying to gain entry into the Ring, then his blood would flow as his ancestors’ had, and all the men and women and children and beasts of the land and ships would be dedicated solely to the expulsion and destruction of that witch.

The first time, mountain ranges and hills and plains and forests had been swallowed into an immense, perfectly circular ocean, the Ring. And if that hadn’t taught them their lesson, then Carlos promised to himself there and then, in the familiar subtle rise and fall of the Platiya Varia upon the short waves, that he would leave the Ring for the first time in his life and hunt down every miserable witch that even thought about intruding upon their land.

Carlos the Pirate Witch-Hunter , he thought, speeding to do a witch’s bidding whilst her trinkets bewitched his family just below the deck. I like the sound of that.

Notes:

This chapter was rewritten because I was originally very unhappy with it. I still really don't like it, but trust me: it was a _lot_ worse before.
My rewrite had the unintended consequence of making it slightly longer than intended, but whatever. It feels way too fast-paced but it's fairly important so I'm just going to roll with it and deal with my mistakes later.
Anyway, this is the final viewpoint character to be introduced into the story; the fourth herald, as it were. After this, we go back to our other characters (and significantly shorter chapters, hopefully).