Chapter 3: Journey Through The Unknown.
Episode 1: The Truth In All Fortunes.
Lonspear OxHand plans to move through the entirety of the Whetstonedivision on horseback. They'll find a merchant's ship and dock the mainland of the nation, north east of the island. They'll sail into, 'The Scorched Isle'. He wants to keep helping as much people as they can on their way there. It's Escaflore's modus operandi and he wants to help. It's going to be a long journey and a long time before they get to the docks. It's now lesser autumn and much of the snow is beginning to thaw. The sun is taking dominance and prominence over the sky. The leaves are just getting their brown, branches are slightly withering and seeds are entering their incubatory phase ready for the escalatory subset.
Both men and horses move stride in stride. It's been a long journey through the lush wilds before they find the first of several merchant towns littered in the Island. They travelled through the Wilder Forest, three days of endless forest, taking the dry murram makeshift road, the Merchant's Pathing. They camped through the nights in the trees and travelled through the day on horse avoiding even the hub of rest the merchants built midway, the Merchant's Hold.
Three days after leaving the Fisherside village, they come into view of, 'Dosh Minerva', the glory and wealth of Old Pershi evidently vivid to the locals of this nation. It's a sight to behold, witnessing structures made for sun scorched deserts and wind made dunes, leaden with melting snow. A city of white and gold. Of blues and hues. It's in the middle of the day and the symmetrical design of the whole, shaped as a crown, is canvased by the orange sky. Glorious, transcendentory and imposing. A crown crowned by frost. The first real city Escaflore has witnessed in person. It's better than the paintings and orbed limages he witnessed before. Experiencing reality firsthand, over a starforger scope in hand is worth its weight in gold. Sharpening his senses, he can experience and feel the vastness and variety of the city in hand much better than most ever could. He can perceive and gain awareness of innumerable obscured mysteries, hidden horrors and brewing wonders shielded away from the sight of many men. He can hear multiple tongues foreign and alien to the locals, however, most in his forte of linguistic knowledge. He can make out some and others are new even to him. He can hear sounds of beasts he recognizes and other's never sampled even by the Scholar's capital. He can smell multiple natural odors that are bizarre, contradictory or fascinating, their scent wavelengths shifting or lacking a consistent pattern, an event he never learned was physically possible. Through his skin he samples the wind by touch, experiencing various arkana expressions and arkane interpretations foreign, alien or illegal to ordered-magecraft. Dosh Minerva, he realizes, is a city of countless secrets. Of true unknowns.
The city structures spans vast cultures, multiple religions and inspired nature in detail, glistening like a mother of pearls. All the buildings and houses are made of glazed brick giving them a deep blue, green and yellow accent amid the star like shimmer. Escaflore is curious of how many blizzard cycles they can take before they crumble like sunbaked bread. Even know their drenched by the snow like porous sponges.
The crowned jewel of the city takes the most of his attention while admiring the sight. It's referenced as, the Mosaiq. A structure used by the Lishal faithful majority, in prayers. Measuring 48 meters in height and 156 meters in diameter, it's one of the largest manmade structures in the world. A ring enthroned and exalted over a mountain of treasure. It's cylindrical in shape and has a massive golden dome, born of glazed limestone, topping the wonder. Dome architecture was just recently discovered and the Pershis predominantly use it in all their macro designs. The entire town is accented in Pershi architecture and aesthetic, reminiscing a history of forged grand alliances, forgotten by most of the people alive today. A history of great defiance. 'The faith wars.'
There are all sort of races of people and species of wild life Escaflore has never seen before first hand. Lonspear isn't too amazed though, possible insinuating he's been here one too many times already.
They move through the city on foot holding their horses' reins in hand. A strange feeling mesmerizes Escaflore as he walks through the relatively empty snow drenched streets. An impulse, defiant of his own will. He's filled with a sense of familiarity. A haze in his mind. He has to go through a certain corner and interact with a certain crone. An act fundamental to his foreseeable future. Ignoring it would be worse than death. It's a control he tries to defy, but the defiance of the control to his own free will outmatches his own. He suddenly takes a turn to the right and Lonspear yells at him to stay next to him. It's a horrific experience. Having his will revoked. Like a direct lobotomy in the scorching sun and freezing cold. Lonspear reroutes and follows him.
He comes to a stop right before an old hag, hidden in bags of sac and cloth. Escaflore can sense her presence. Suppressed and hidden for ages. She's no ordinary hag, that much is certain. What she is though, not so much. The compulsion drives his mind. Controls his speech and manipulates his heart. He shows the hag his eccentric living coin, straight from a pocket in his attire and the hag laughs. An almost reminiscent laugh, looking back to the good old days.
"A reading he wants. Free of charge he demands. No coin to toss to your witch heeh. Ye a miser of men and stinger of women. That's no way to behave before a lady ye just met, young boy. Take me lesson to heart before you end up taking a knife in its stead."
"Do give thy tell, my lady. When destiny drives the carriage, ye fortuned to be passengers ought to listen or fortunate is the last thing ye could dream of being."
"Ah. A gentleman of renown speaking from experiences. A Ser born of a woman's heart. Then tis my will to take the heed, before thine tits, fall off for mine heels. A word of advice, it be greatly beneficial if the boy was taught to have such a flatterers tongue. Add it to his face and the many maidens in the Knightdom would be weak kneed, gushing straight from their waist."
The lady in cloak wakes from a rotting wooden stool and moves into her kiosk of fortunes. The little shack has many a teller's apparatus, of variety and for precision. For the skill and art of foreseeing the strands of time to give an accurate telling. No tell can be perfectly accurate so a great estimation is the best the magik can give. A teller's skill, technique, experience, intelligence and effort help increase said accuracy. It's one of the hardest sub-subjects in arkana to master and specialize in. The lady sits Escaflore in a stool and has Lonspear stand right beside him. Escaflore is quiet. Everything feels subject to a high from a drug dosage. The lady, facing him straight in the face, begins her tell. Without any apparatus. Without any conditioning. She reads him instinctually.
"Oh, Whetstone, ye Whetstone,
Ye mistress of shadow,
Ye cloaked from humiliation,
To mask thine infidelity,
And shield thine crimes.
Of allegiance thy vow was born,
Yet, thine husband would keep you from the light of days,
From the eyes of men,
And the ears of dames,
Thine envy for the lawful wife,
Lays cause for the birth of a curse,
Lays ground for the vilest of plagues,
To forever be thine scourge of the married,
To forever take prey of thy offsprings.
The offsprings born in the light of day,
And in the glare of the sun's ray.
Legitimate and surborn they say,
While yer womb, withers and melts away.
Oh Whetstone, killer of babes,
Oh Whetstone, tormentor of tots.
And from such a curse was drawn a boy.
Though ye offspring he be not,
By yer hands he was raised,
And by yer claws, he was grazed,
A hero ye sought to make,
To impress yer husband no doubt,
But much more did ye do,
How much, I should ask you.
A braggart has taken count of yer deeds,
A con has written down yer yields,
A robber of coins he is,
He prowls in malice during the days,
And howls in bloodlust during the nights,
Ye predator of predators,
Ye scavenger of scavengers,
Ye carrion to carrion,
How long till he comes,
Only a teller could tell.
Oh, Artorica, ye Artorica,
Maiden to all maidens,
Holder of all Knights,
Creator to Sers of renown,
Enabler to the renown of Sers,
From the slavers ye came,
From the dragons ye was saved,
Yer husband, the one Knight true,
By yer hand, wedded himself to you,
That all might know freedom,
That you might be the world's beacon,
That ye heal the wounds of the world,
That ye persevere the burdens it hurls.
Oh, Artorica, the heart of hearts,
Oh, Artorica, the healer of hearts,
Be thy strength for the loss that must be persevered,
Be thy healer to ache that must be endured,
Give ye well to fate,
As fate gave well to ye.
Oh, Centralis, ye Centralis,
Ye leaden with strive,
Ye pregnant with drive,
One ye begs to be,
Unified and whole ye craves to feel,
But underneath lies great distraught,
Underneath lies defiance without a doubt.
Ye a mirror forged whole,
Broken and shattered into a hole,
Mended to unison,
Then divided by the unholding cracks,
By the valley of faults,
Ye imperfection wishing for perfection,
Ye insecurity wishing for security,
To be broken or be whole,
Through a clash within,
Ye hope to find which it is,
Through a war of personas,
Ye wish to find your persona.
But the truth lies in both,
Both the broken and the found.
To forever be trapped in strive,
Forever a dance of blood and wine,
Both war and peace be ye forte,
Forts and fortunes be ye cup of tea.
Truth in identity can never be denied,
It can never be escaped,
It can never be retried,
That is your destiny,
That is thine fate,
To fill yer capacity,
With both blood and wine,
Till thine masses grow irate.
But in the chaos lies a hope,
A balance between the awful and the dope,
The bad giving value to the good,
The good giving value to livelihood.
Be ye lively, oh subjects of war,
Be ye lively, oh bearers of peace,
For in the dark that holds and retains,
One can find the love to ease all pain.
Oh, Erath, ye Erath.
Ye bastion of wonder,
Ye fountain of beauty,
Ye holder to horrors,
Ye benefactor to terrors,
Ye maestro of secrets,
Ye conductor to mysteries,
Ye adventure of all adventures,
Ye one of a kind in three of a kind.
Ye a loyal serv to the bearer of coins,
Ye a loyal slave to the order predesigned,
Can there be identity to the faithful,
Can there be identity to the enslaved,
Defined by a string of words,
Confined by a block of commands,
Preordained and predesigned,
Predisposed and prerefined,
A serv or a slave,
I leave that for you to say.
Divided are yer,
First into three,
Then into two,
The first division clear and simple,
Evident for the world to see,
Should it be able to,
But the second, invisible to even you,
Devotion and hubris,
The names to the blindfold ye shield thine eyes,
And the plugs ye clogs the ears,
The first or the second,
The obvious or the obscured,
What chooses thou.
To see and wield both.
Or to be ignorant and wielded by either.
It is thine choice to make,
It is thine identity to define,
If it ever came into the truth of,
The division in perception.
Oh, Written Realms, ye Written Realms,
Invisible to all denied of grace,
Nonexistent to all denied yer awareness,
Forged by men, greater than all men,
Forged by gods, greater than all gods,
Countless lives against a stroke of a pen,
Countless existence against a brush of a brush,
Truth boiled down to whims,
Reality reduced to feels and decisions,
To gods that tire and sleep,
To gods that drink and eat,
Lest they die and we with them,
All of existence reduced to a sick joke,
All of existence reduced to a comedy of coins.
If it lands on heads we might live yet.
If it lands on tails we are finished.
And do not forget the last option,
The forgotten one,
The defiance to flip the coin at all,
Or the chance fate lets it land in the middle,
Neither heads nor tails.
What then happens to our lives,
What then becomes of existence.
Who knows,
Not even a teller could know.
But we are who we are,
Even it be defined by those beyond us,
Take the strength of a Knight,
And the courage of a Hunter,
Take the wisdom of a Mage,
And the values of the Abstract,
Take the heart of a Bard,
And the ambition of an Explorer,
Take the devotion of an Assassin,
And the serenity of the Divine,
Take the sacrifice of a Paladin,
And the revolt of a Berserker,
Take the decisions of a Scholar,
And the faith of a Cleric,
Take the hopes of the Mer Ruids,
And the glory of the Royals,
Take the shrewdness of a Merchant,
And the passion of a Martialfarist.
Take the willy of an Outlier.
And the meekness of a Peasant.
Be thine strong,
Be thine perseverant,
Be thine focused.
Endure child. Endure for as long as it might take.
Be prepared forevermore for the day,
The day that a decision must be made.
That is the truth in all fortunes.
Escaflore wakes up from deep sleep, the dream engraved on his cornea. He's already been in Dosh Minerva for three days now.
Episode 2: The Rumor of Bleeding-Fiction.
Escaflore is walking in the deepest of nights through the 'streets of Fye', the very nape of Dosh Minerva, orange lit with vividly warm tones, juxtaposed against the cold blue hue of the melting ice. He's treading through forlorn pathways, encapsulated in grand loneliness, navigating through orange bricked roads, dim as brass, reflective of the shinning orange of well-lit lamp polls. Serieprigs, violet accented, dim glowing flowers, line the corners of every road and perpetuating pathway. Escaflore can feel it, not even needing the serieprigs as proof of deduction. He can feel the magik filling the air in essence. Feel it through bare and exposed skin. Varied, inventive and overbearing, traversing and diffusing through the medium of open air. Endless wakes of arkana expressions and arkane interpretations, clog the city like a blocked drainage pipe. The city is a hive of secrets, trapped in the stillness, mystery and temperate of a fresh corpse.
He's moving towards Dosh Minerva's rearguard fort hoping to come across a lucrative hunting contract. He moves across numeral parallel street polls, housing colonies of arcane luminescent algae, emanating their usual wavelengths of bright orange or vivid blue, sizzling with every drop of moisture that lands on them. The rays of starlight, moonlight and lamplight trace though rising fogs of ice, seeping the streets with moods of isolated beauty. The night of town, bare and deserted, is patrolled by the nights watch and hunting bats. The bats presence is especially vivid. He can hear their otherwise impossible to hear blasts of echolocating sound. He can feel them reverberating on his skin too. Countless scouts of energy, assessing his every nook and cranny, hundreds of times in just seconds.
They need a lot of money, paid in 'gales', to sail to 'Mainland Artorica'. The starting funds, granted as gold, during Escaflore's graduation from the capital church ran dry. The wealthy merchant's in this city present the perfectly needed opportunity to get just enough. They both plan to stay in this city and take on a few contracts for some weeks. Lonspear searches during the day and Escaflore takes duskshifts. Lonspear isn't good with the cold of moonrise and the wetness of the melted snow while Escaflore isn't good with crowds of people overwhelming his every sense in the day. He plans to go to the porter of the town, stationed at the rear city gates, looking for any leads. Even in the deepest nights the porter is still inspecting everyone coming into the city with diligence.
"Well, I'll be. Who knew a no name protector of gates such as I would live to see one of yer kind. The names 'Kasemere FerretBroth', of the bloodhouse, FerretBroth, at yer service." Escaflore recognizes the thematics of the bloodhouse, FerretBroth, and guesses he's from a middling-bloodhouse. Some steps ahead of outcasts and peasants. A family of local game hunters perhaps.
"You're not so no name to me. By virtues of being surless, by the whimsies of society, I'm the bottommost bottom of the barrel. The names Escaflore the surless. Nice to meet you." He tries pulling off more wit in his conversations. Lonspear told him that he needed to have more approachability with people to better handle his job and had been instructing him on the curtseys. It feels like he has improved but not quite yet near Lonspear's charm.
"We'll color me surprise. A gentlefolk too. Yer kindness really doth flatter kind sir. Being the city's potter be a bore and anticlimactic at times a many, but of the few times, I get to witness wonders scarce few could ever believe. You be eth in the latter. I know not of any debacles that require a Hunters keen toolset but I'm willing to help with any suggestions that thoust would give. So how can I Kasemere be of help to you." Kasemere FerretBroth, the random porter he just met, already has a lot more charm than him too. It's going to be quite the effort till he gets there.
"I have a great deal of gratitude for your trying, and for suggestions, maybe point me to your superior in command. A captain of the guard I believe is the title I studied, and I would double the gratitude I hold for your hospitality." Lonspear also taught him to start adding a lot of 'yer, ye, yah, tis and ah' in his wordings. It's common way of tongue for non-nobles who didn't have the most leading education in speech mannerisms throughout the whole continent. Yet again it's also a habit that needs time to ferment.
"Sure thing, kind boy. Oh, and before ye gone, a story for you I have. A story and nothing more, since its neither proven nor brought vindication. Just a rumor well mongered by the passersby. A rumor of 'bleeding-fiction'." Escaflore is stunned when he hears that word. It isn't a word you expect to hear from just anyone. The phenomenon of bleeding-fiction is one of the rarest and most dangerous 'natural-events'.
"I'm all ears. What's this rumor about." He tries to pry more information from Kasemere, out of genuine worry and curiosity.
"Tis about a mystery and a horror. About action and an adventure. Tis even about a romance and a tragedy. In a stage long set, come the actors script written by fate. By its union with destiny, comes the playwright of unparalleled regality. The drama to end all drama, improvised and without dramaturgy. The players as named are;
The Dragon, fierce and cruel.
The Prince, chivalrous and true.
The Beauty, regal and feeble.
The Beast, Jugal and trueborn.
The Huntsman, frugal and corpseborn.
The Wicked Witch, sterile and feral.
The Farmhand, upright and uptight.
The Stableboy, dependable and unethical.
If ye got a keen eye, then a familiar find should be coming into thine mind." Familiarity hits Escaflore like an arrow to the kidney.
"They're class pieces of a very popular game in Artorica and the surrounding nations, made about half a decade ago." The realization worsens the prospect. It's involving a populace piece of fiction. It's very possible someone is trying to pull an artificial fiction-bleed. Remembering the card game makes him remember the past. Remember his childhood. The game was one of the only good things he had and the man who brought them to him was the only good man he ever knew there. It's good memories, but they draw the bad in too like fish bait."
"Aye. A keen eye he has indeed. Tis called 'Hearts of Stone'. A game of the cold-hearted facing down the strong hearted. Many years past and the game of cards is more popular and more relevant than ever. The secret be in its beauty and regality. Made of the finest paper and the most advanced print manufacturing. A leap for science indeed. Sicro stitching, they call it. Indistinguishable from real magik." Escaflore can feel the passion in his voice, hear the racing of his heart and see his eyes dilating in excitement. The potter is very excited about having someone to talk the game with. It appears not a lot of people are enthusiastic about hearing it. He does like the game though and genuinely wants to know more about it.
"The card game, tell me more about it." He makes an attempt to prod more than needed information from someone for the first. He only works with the little information he has since it efficiently cuts out the need to have prolonged interactions with people. It appears he is changing, ever so slightly.
"Intrigued are yer. Luckily for you I am the grandest collector in the entire Knightdom. A fanatic of the art I am. Just be careful. Once I start talking about it there will be no end of the world for you to escape to. Tis a game of cards where two opponents face each other, representing two sides each. The first, the side to wage all wars and win all wars. The wielder of 'the chalice of blood', by right. The second, the side to conjure all peace and make all merry. The rightful wielder of 'the chalice of wine'. By defeating the opponent through the destruction of all their fielded characters, by rule, their opposing chalice is granted as spoils of war. From the two, the greater chalice is formed, 'the chalice of blood and wine', and with it the right to mold the next age in history as they see fit. It's a game inspired by the rule of violence and the defiance for peace. By non-defied powers and the dreams of endless rest. The unending cycle of nations a many, in our realm and beyond." Escaflore can see why it's so popular and relevant throughout the continent.
Even now, Centralis is enthralled in one of the biggest conquest wars in its history, 'theassimilation wars', thestrive of blood and wine.
"I can see why it's relevant in our nation. I loved the art on the cards by a great deal. They were to me the only way to feel alive when it felt like the world was closing in on me, fast." He tries to be open to the potter. Finding friends was something that he didn't want to do at first since leaving the church, but on trying it, he didn't mind as much.
"I'm sorry to hear it. On the bright side the past is the past and the present is the present. Yer here now in the present and the one thing the past can't do is usurp that truth. You survived henceforth you won. How about this, return here tomorrow same time and I'll have a collection of cards to show and many a stories to tell. A proper demonstration beats having a strong imagination. And the business of a Hunter should take topmost priority." Escaflore notes just how awfully smart and well-mannered for some random porter. Maybe middling-bloodhouse education is a lot better than it's given credit for. FerretBroth calls for a patrolling guard and asks him to send Escaflore to the captain of the guards. A thought does ring in Escaflore's head though.
"I thought, from what I am familiar with, the game had nine playable classes though. You named only eight."
"Aye, a keen mind he has indeed. The last, the wild card, is only allowed to come into play post the onset of the game.
The Djinn, unknowable and controllable. "
"What exactly is the rumor here. What does it have to do with a game of cards." He's curious to see what's the view point of the local civilians on the rumor.
"The rumor, kind one, is, that tis all real. Real and true. Fiction reenacted in the bosom of reality. Do you believe it?" It's at about half knowledge, he assesses.
"Probably. If time is the counterpart to space, then what's the counterpart to reality? Fiction. They both appear dissimilar but do exist in the same coin. The head cannot be acknowledged while the tail is shunned as foolhardy. Stories and tales of any kind, have great say to the kind of world we live in." The thought of such an event does worry him. A lot of power would be in play to string it together and execute it. Maybe, even enough to challenge him.
"And so do storytellers. Well put indeed. I hope to see yer again on the morrow. I have a feeling of deep kinship forming between the pair of us. Look, here comes the aid I sent. They'll see you to the office of our captain. Goodluck on yer job and remember not even the end of the world should stand between you and my stories, so don't be late." Escaflore nods to the promise, affirming it. He'll be here, soon, probably. He doesn't see the same weight in promises that people do. He'll try regardless.
Episode 3: The Choice of Blind Faith.
Escaflore is lead to the office of the captain on horse carriage. He's wheeled deep into the city's main keep, past several establishments and settlements, to the front of a daunting tower. A tower as tall as a fairytale tower, right in the middle of the entire city, many meters away from the rearguard gates. He walks up the comically many staired vertical structure, the true test of architectural practicality, in great strides and many steps. Apparently, the captain, in learning of his presence here, was more than willing to speak with him. It gives Escaflore hope that he might be able to get a job from him. He walks in on a lot more than just the captain and assesses that he might need to reassess the gravity of the job he might have to undertake. It seems of deadly importance.
The office is well lit by orange-light candles standing tall on engraved bronze lamps. The air in it is still and the floating particles static, having all the windows boarded shut. There's a warmth to it, a simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable experience. The noise of conversation is now turned into a venire of lifeless silence, timed to the arrival of the Hunter. They all expected him. It's awkward and tense.
Escaflore perks up all his senses. Commands them into deathly focus. Commands them into the spy craft of information gathering. He wants to have an advantage on the situation immediately. He notices the armor plating on the prominent one of them, bulking and hulking, almost double the size of the others. On the center, right at the chestpiece, lies a 'Bleeding Bull'. The brandish of a 'Hearts Under Blade' Knight, a royal guards' knight faction. On his left hand, he holds his helm, double the size of the others. It has, on its surface, smelted antlers of a revered stag, embellishing fine patterns of arkane natural incantation, shaped by thousands of years of evolution and magikal adaptation. It's the brandish of the giant man's bloodhouse, the 'BloodRiver bloodhouse', as Escaflore recognizes it from his many studies. One of the major most well-known 'greater-bloodhouse'.
The other two armored Knights embellish a fog-cloaked battlefield as their brandish. A battlefield at the conclusion of a raging strive. On it are battered corpses and scattered armaments, the crawling fog the cause of the savage non-strategic chaos. They're factionless Knights that choose their bloodhouse as their 'knights-calling', as their main brandish, the brandish of the 'FogFraught bloodhouse', a 'higher-bloodhouse' in the nation of Artorica. They're all nobleborn.
He can feel their capacity in strength too. Their aura of focus is pulsating through the air like a low hymn, announcing their grade of strength as Knights. It is vehemently lower than Lonspear's even at his old age. The thought that Lonspear might actually be a really big deal enters his mind. He feels an estranged sense of pride in that realization, for some reason.
The fourth man in the room is a curious case though. He isn't a Knight, that much is obvious since he emits no aura and knights don't suppress theirs since knights, although full with the capacity and ability to completely hide their emanating aura, they would never do it since it goes against everything they believe in regardless of the faction they abide in. It goes against the ideal of strength. It is what makes a Knight a Knight. Strength hidden is an admission of weakness. The cloaked man, what exactly is he. Who is this man veiled in an air of mystery.
The four men in the room already, are now staring at the stranger Hunter. One of them takes charge of the silence and introduces himself as the captain of the guards in the whole city of Dosh Minerva, 'Vanhell FogFraught', responsible for the nights watch and the gate porters. He then bows in respect. A red flag triggers in Escaflore's head. There is no way an actual higherborn would bow to a surless in profession except if it was that serious and they were that desperate. He introduces the man on his left as the 'constable of the city', responsible for the forts in the city and the city's fortification designs, 'Hellsing FogFraught', his uncle. He is several steps above the captain in rank. He then goes to introduce the massive man on his rightside as the 'Lord Knight', 'Mossen BloodRiver', the man in charge of the administration, defense and functioning of the entire city. The highest rank possible in a city's command hierarchy. Escaflore recognizes the first-name Mossen. His mind enters a race to process and deduct information. Just how bad is the situation here.
Vanhell FogFraught goes to introduce the fourth man but stops short. From his tone of hesitation and facial reaction, Escaflore can tell he doesn't even know his name. Probably, none of the bigshots in the room know his name. It gets him even more curious about the unnamed stranger. Escaflore though, in the manners Lonspear taught him, bows in respect and introduces himself as Escaflore the Surless Hunter. He puts the surless part in there to get them to stop acting so weirdly with him. To jolt them back into the reality of status behavior and rank culture. Vanhell approaches him and cuts to the point.
"I won't waste yours or anyone else's time here, nor can I. Have you heard of the rumor, mongered through the merchant cities, of fiction bleeding into reality?"
"Yes. I know what I know from that. Seems someone or something is keen on splicing a piece of populace fiction into reality. A means to an end no doubt."
"Well assessed Hunter. The situation though be eth far more threatening than hypothetical unknowns. Three days ago, in a keepside long forlorn, deep in the south, a select of distinct people were drawn in, manipulated and coerced through 'arkana enchantment'. They went missing, kidnapped purportedly, and all search parties sent for them fail. Well, one of the persons taken happens to be someone of unimaginable importance. Someone worthy of the risk of death. However, every possible solution runs dry. We are in desperate need of an expert's expertise. Whether it ends in the success we hope for is a matter of blind faith. We ought to try in every manner we can, be it major, be it minor. So, are you willing to the undertaking of this commission." It's as Escaflore thought. It's very serious. For the nobles, at least.
"It'd be a heavy price that I have to charge. I really need the money and you lot look more than able. And I need it to be paid in gales too. Some of the money upfront would also be a great help for the trip down south. So, are you willing to match my demands." The nameless stranger barges in on the conversation.
"That's a great demand for one unproven. What guarantee do you have to assure results. Use terminologies to prove it. I'm an experienced Mage and will recognize most of them. What kind of Hunter are you exactly."
"An omni-affinity Hunter."
"Impossible. Is there even one. I've never read or heard of anything past dual-affinity when it comes to Hunter subsets. Even they are beyond rare. Surely, you jest."
"No. Not really. It is what it is and I am what I am. You are a Mage, so, you should really be feeling it in your skin. My emanation of multiple fields, of multiple variety, all woven with the same skill, capacity and technical innovation. The proof in the pudding."
"It is true. Fine, I stand for your price and your demands. You will find our man of mystery and protect them. I am bound by a knight enforced covenant to not disclose the name of the target, but if you are as good as you claim to be, you should hold the capacity to improvise." It is not going to be an easy improvise but Escaflore still holds that certain confidence in himself. A confidence he has to hold in order to win. Another lesson taught by the need to survive.
The Lord Knight stands tall and imposing. He swears his brandish, 'The Bleeding Bull', to the cause and the courage of the Hunter. On success he would grant him the world, if it was his to give.
Escaflore leaves the room to head back to his inn. It's been a long night and he needs to rest in preparation for the morrow. On his way back, he discovers the Mage, who got there before him. This contract is personal to him. He wants to have a deeper conversation with the contractor. To have a deeper knowledge of the Hunter. Have a genuine connection of hearts.
"Tell me Hunter, what motivates you to fight. For what reason would you struggle for others. Is it the weight of coin? Mayhap, your dedicated faith to your religion? Or is it a deep-seated ideal born of personality, embedded onto your heart. Why do you fight for others, oh Hunter."
"Being a Hunter is my religion. It's our hope. A Hunter's life is a miserable and cruel life, of whom the only good caused, is meant for all others but themselves. It is a designed martyrdom. Premeditated cruelty. Orchestrated by destiny itself and signed off by fate. The only good thing we look forward to isthe living dream; a promise of peace and paradise to souls born of wear and bodies brought to tear. I fight to be the best me destiny ordained me to be. A hard life is all I've known from that, but regardless, I hold my hope close to my heart. You want to know why I fight? Because I choose to be the best me possible no matter what, even if all meaning or sense was lost."
"Your answer suffices. I am aware of the torture tactics used against destined children in the Hunter churches of Whetstone. I am aware of how they pumped your kin with every virus imaginable to achieve the world's first higher immunity in humanoids within this reality. I am aware of how they dossed your kind with every drug ever made, to teach you how to control and override that which is born to control and override you. I am aware of the parasites they installed into your sub-species' minds, all to force you into the mental discipline of elder psychers, in spite of you being children, lest the parasite take over the mind and dissolve its host inside out. I'm aware of the pain you had to live through just to stand here, in service of others. I'm aware of the suffering you had to suffer just to endure and tolerate the whimseys of mankind. Awareness doesn't in any way equate into understanding. I'll never understand it. No one ever will. It's easy to give yourself, to give your being to the hope of the well-known. To the patterned control of destiny over unpredictable, conscious free will. But if you were strong enough to survive that. Strong enough to stand here, I implore you to live a life of fighting. To push back against the clogging pain and reverberating trauma. To not be defined by others. Don't live for tomorrow. Fight to live for now. There will always be people worth fighting for. People worth dying for and best of all, people worth living for. Seek out a life worth living, be the defiance to the known design of fate. And to the proven will of destiny." He stops for a second. He's thinking back on his past. On the life he's lived. It almost looks like his life is flashing before his very eyes. He holds no regret in it. Almost, no regret.
He's proud. Proud of the choices he made. Proud of the person he became. Proud of the people he knew. Proud of those he loved.
"I, a stranger, choose here and now, to stake my life on you. Because there are those I found, that matter more to me than the entirety of my life. In exchange I beg you to do what I choose to do. To choose to give your hopes to the unknown. I implore you to choose blind faith. Defy the set standards and face what comes. Defy the slaver expectations and live within the unknown. Determine who you want to be, yourself." The Mage takes a breath of air and readies himself for his next actions.
"My name is Rovenof SheathBorn. A great magus to the only 'exalted-bloodhouse' throughout the Knightdom of Artorica. The very sheaths to the very blades that rule us all. The taken victims are Nelfen BladeBorn, the heir prince to the Nation of Artorica, and, Kinsred SheathBorn, my best friend and the one person I would give the world for. There both my family, far better than the farce of bloodhouses we had to live through. The life and freedom we had as no names, was the very best I have ever known. The very best I'd ever want to know. Tell them both that for me. Tell Kinsred that I… Never mind. Save them, please, my life, for theirs. Choose to have blind faith in me as I choose to have blind faith in you, through the unknown, and beyond."