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aredpainting · 2 years

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freewrite 09/25/21

EJS

Morgana

Ocean Yamai wasn't entirely sure why his station across the harbor deemed so important to his superiors. In truth, he figured he belonged better in the gambling rings, where his magic could scope out any potential schemers or moonlighters, ready to doom the den with their fist of justice. Instead, he heard his comrades murmur something about how his rounds around the clashing waves, the call of seagulls and sailors seemed fitting. Of course it does, he thought to himself as he placed his rifle against the rough of his palm. He found his mouth in a frown- a deep frown, unsettled and irritated. He wanted to call out to them earlier, his comrades- damn, he hated that word. Comrades, barely; they were not brothers to him. The men that crowded the Peony Publishing House, the men who acted as the local witchwatch, did little to stir his loyalty. Ocean remembered his real comrades, back in the war. It seemed so long ago. So long ago, another war took Raecan by its hair and drowned her beauty into the deep, unforgiving waters.

It took Morgana nearly five years to rebuild after Saphria's wrath. In Mogǎian, the native language of Raecan, they called her the i̊kǔn. The Bloodhunter. Sometimes they would refer to her in a more distinctive way, the way anyone would recognize her- the Homunculi, or the Alchemist. He shuddered. Ocean tried to remove the talons of her destruction from his mind, but it became difficult over the years; he watched friends and family alike fall apart. They struggled to find financial stability after Morgana's shops- shops that they all worked for, most of them employed since birth- became nothing but rubble amongst her army. Or their homes, once warded to keep the i̊kǔn at bay when she was only a legend. All of it, the foundation of life as they knew it, snatched away from their fingers. And he felt sorry through all of it. Most of his time in the Second War he spent as intel. He watched his brothers in arms come back into their make-shift hut, created by faulty elk skin and dried wood, all battered and bloody from combat. When he was younger, he would've cursed himself for being weak. But his strength lay with his affinity for water; from the hut, across the shores of Awuna into the Gorge, he could feel every pull from the waves. He'd been granted a high position among the Raecan Navy Forces, but mostly to direct ships and such into the correct ports. And now, as Ocean stood over the harbor, his clammy hands now deep in his grey witchwatch uniform, he felt smaller than he felt before. His comrades must've realized this, as a fat hand clamped over his shoulder and shook him from his reverie. "Yamai," his comrade said in a thick Khemeian accent, "we're switching off now." One glance into the Khemeian's dark eyes, full of humor and life, made Ocean nod sheepishly. He said nothing, but he trapped his rifle across his back and started for the street across the Peony Publishing House. But before he could stagger another step towards the gravel road, his unfocused gaze met an open window. At first, he imagined the gamblers in the House needed fresh air- a waft of the sea breeze could clear anyone's mind. Of course, the Publishing House wasn't truly a home for books; but a poor front for the local cerulean-clad gang, the Pearled Oysters. The witchwatch, a city-council made unit, became the biggest bribery known to Morgana. Their Commander's faith lay in greed, and in greed the men followed. Most of Ocean's comrades were freshly released prisoners, and they applied to the witchwatch as an opportunity to turn their lives around. And it was honest work. Ocean told himself many times that it was not illegal to work as guards for the second-most feared gang in Morgana. They worked under a contract, a contract overseen by the City Council of Raecan. So it was fine. Then another window opened. Ocean shifted his weight onto his left leg, and he craned his neck in hopes he could see the interior of the Peony Publishing House. He heard stories of its magnificent leather seats and velvet throw pills. The pretty girls who worked the bars, the men who walked in with bags filled with gold and women who dressed themselves in real fur coats. All of them hoped to make some impression in the upper-levels of Morgana. Ocean one day wanted to be apart of that, if his luck granted him. And before he could divulge into a deeper daydream, three windows opened, then the front door, followed by a winded scream. The hairs on his arms bristled, and his fingers found their way over his bandolier. He awkwardly threw his rifle into his hand, his thumb set prematurely onto the trigger as the rest of the stationed witchwatch fell into a fighting stance. "Help me!" cried out a voice, deep and smooth, like a siren's call. No one moved- not yet. Another window slammed itself from its hinges, and the force allowed the glass to give into its pull; clear shards fell from the second floor. The day-lit street grew quiet. The shoppers and tourists paused to watch the scene; but the eerie silence and the cowered cries from inside the Peony Publishing House only seemed to grow. "Help me!" The voice called again, but this time closer. Ocean braced himself, and he cursed under his breath because he took the clearest position across the front door. "Help me!" From the threshold limped out a girl- no younger than his comrades, fresh into their adulthood. Her cream hair fell over her shoulders and pooled across her chest, and her bronze skin looked pallor. Her palms, flat against her tattered dress bunched the fabric together as she came into the sunlight. Patrons across the street gasped, some grabbed their children and fled further from the House. "What is your business," said the Khemeian as he pointed the mouth of his rifle to her. Her honeyed eyes turned wide. "No- no, please! I mean you no harm- please! There are slavers inside, they have come to take me away again. Please, please!" The girl scrambled onto her feet, approached the Khemeian and opened her hands to him. "You keep your wits about you, girl. There are no slavers in Morgana. Only rich men and women who pay for their indentured servants." He raised his boot and crushed his heel into her stomach. Ocean winced. She fell back with a thud, her head slammed into the gravel as the Captain approached her. His heel found its way to her forehead, and he pressed. "Now return to your House, qengkhů." Ocean continued to stand, shaken by the cruelty and ashamed at his own fear. He wanted to interfere, to show the qengkhů kindness, but he could not possibly risk his rank for a stranger. "Yamai! Escort her inside." He swallowed hard, nodded and walked towards the head of white hair. With his rifle turned onto his back, he reached a hand for her- a hand for her to stand up. But she didn't move. Apart of him wondered if she fell so hard, she became unconscious. And as he crouched to move her body upright, to see her if she were awake, her body folded into a knelt position. Her breathing became harsh, and the hand that was once outstretched pushed onto the ground to stand. "Good girl," his Captain said, satisfied. Ocean pursed his lips together. He didn't know what to do. Strangely, while he anticipated her to burst into another plea, he knew deep inside his heart another i̊kǔn was released into the world. Or perhaps... something worse? "I have been sent here by the Codex." Her deep voice, once filled with silk and earnest evaporated. An ancient rage, one Ocean could not place, started to reverberate through his bones. "You are a fool. The Codex has ceased to exist. Now stand do-" The Khemeian Captain jolted up. His chest heaved, and he rose from the ground. Ocean watched as the girl's hands lifted into the air, her fingers curled together. The Captain's neck split. Creamy bone peaked from his flesh as blood started to stain the streets. "I have been sent here by the Codex," the girl repeated as her arms fell to her side. In a timely fashion, so did the Captain's corpse. She looked to Ocean then, her gaze far away, "And I see no future for this town." ---

Kloadou

Sonja

Sonja Linch wasn't entirely sure how she arrived at the run-down, mildew infested tavern. The clock struck half past three in the morning, but the life of the small building looked to be immortal. She snorted to herself, silently amused by the drunkards who stumbled and slammed their scarred fingers against the birch table. They'd been so far gone, she supposed they looked past the compact mirrors of the woman beside him. She looked to be a natural thief, gifted with the sleight of hand and a bold demeanor. The type of woman Sonja admired. The type of woman she'd typically arrest. But tonight, she was off-duty. After her week long travel across the globe, from Aurium back home to Raecan, she swore to herself when her feet hit land. Sonja could remember her initial thoughts when the muggy city of Morgana came into the horizon. She gave her thanks to the Deities who listened, and she promised herself never to embark on another sea-wrought voyage. And now, as Sonja settled into the poorly dyed leather chair, her gloved hands splayed across the bar, and her eyes fervent to the patrons around her, she felt the vague yearning for the sea breeze and the salty air. As much as she loved her home, she loved to travel. While Saphria's wrath took hope and lives from the majority of her country, Saphria gave her an opportunity. Naturally, Sonja would never admit this to her peers, or even her closest relatives. They'd brand her as an extremist, link their as i̊kǔn heritage together and make do with her as they did with all sympathizers. She would spent her long, long lifetime in the Wyvern's Mouth. Then they'd say she committed treason of the highest degree, and any chance of normalcy would escape her. In any case- the Bloodhunter did give her a chance at a new life. Previously, Sonja worked as a Colonel for the International Enforcers of Magi. They did little against the ruins of the worlds, its cities, towns and farmland alike. They failed. In turn, Kara De la Cruz, the Overseer and Controller of the Magi Council deemed their services... useless. A brutal way to end her dream career, sure, but Sonja never had the guts to aspire for something greater. It was fun, sometimes, when she'd run around the metropolis of every large country- she would catch criminals, fugitives, felons of the highest degree and conspirators against the Somnum Deities. Whatever that meant. Sonja took a swig at her cognac, sighed in relief and craned her head to the clock. "Little bastards are late," she muttered to herself as she waved the barmaid for another drink. Sonja propped her cheek into her palm. Three years ago, in the midst of the country's reconstruction, Sonja spied three monsters that would change her life forever. Maybe four monsters, but Neryee Lloyd Song had been a constant pain in her ass for as long as she could feel the thrums of blood course through every living soul on Somnum. The three troublemakers, her trouble makers- as her Lieutenant would say- arrived at the front door of their Embassy. They looked crazed, dazed, but worst of all, they looked alive. From her window on the second floor, Sonja could make out their features; they looked to be in their late teens, possibly pushing eighteen to nineteen. She remembered how young they looked, how fragile and rosy they seemed compared to the hardened Lieutenant and his stern expression. They came to the Embassy in hopes of mentorship. Sanjeet Mayhews, the Lieutenant General of her brigade laughed in their faces. He slapped a hand into his knee, ushered the children back onto the front steps and told them to leave when Nornya, the capital city of Aurium and home to the Embassy, needed demolition men. Demolition men because they couldn't keep their wits about them. Something in their youth made them frenzied, earnest and hungry for action. In the Embassy, they would find none of that. Only paperwork and hard labor; the occasional monstrous protocol, but the field magi deployed by the Creature Council often took the limelight. But the damned pests had been relentless. Even when the notorious Nornya fog cloaked the streets, haunted the shops and dimmed the Enchanted street lamps, they arrived at their front steps. When the fog grew so thick, it looked like a fire had started in the forest, the thunder and lightning would roll in to emphasize the bad weather. Only when they were soaked, and when Sanjeet could hear their teeth chatter beyond the door, did he provide them shelter. It had been a particularly slow day at the Embassy, so Sonja felt silently grateful he allowed some entertainment into their cave. When their days looked gloomy, or impossibly burdened because of the Magi Council's incessant paperwork to terminate their services, those three troublemakers always seemed to make their days. The eldest of the three, Tess Yang, a winged boy gifted with the power- or perhaps curse- of foresight, broke the air of familiarity when he walked in with broken wings. His friends, Lesley and Ecru arrived before him, already warm in their coats and steamed milks. They looked bewildered- more than usual- when Tess bursted into tears. It amazed Sonja how vulnerable he appeared to be. She could feel his heart break and the tremors of pain consume him with every wail and write in Ecru's arms. "Who did this?" Lesley finally asked wher ehen the room went quiet. Lesley Abe, the apparent leader of their ragtag crew, had created a particular reputation for himself around Nornya. "Who did this?" He repeated, his words now laced with anger, fear and grief for his friend's loss. Sanjeet already rang up the local healer to mend Tess' wings as best as they could. He only hung around the threshold, his huge arms crossed over one another in an observant manner. His chiseled face had been set into a look of sympathy. The faintest look of rage pinched his expression when Tess started to speak, so mangled and somber. "I didn't see it coming. I was out by the Alma Mater, I only wanted to fit in with the students. I got in trouble for mingling with them, the Head Boy scolded me when they seen I was dressed like a commoner." Tess frowned, tried to flex his wings but instead winced and continued. "I said sorry. I said I was going to go, but they pulled me by my feathers and-" "You don't need to say any more, Tess," Ecru interrupted, her voice soft. But even with her indecipherable face, she wrestled with the fury that bubbled from her eyes. "It will be all right." She reached out to rub his shoulder, and he murmured something in Aurlish that only they could understand. "It will be all right." Only Lesley stood from his seat. His burnt hands bunched into fists as he moved from the lobby into the foyer. He grabbed his coat, flattened out his auburn hair and said to no one in particular, "I'll handle it." ---

Neryee

"What do you mean they're missing?" Sonja hissed, her teeth barred when she slapped away the muslin divider. In the Fortuna, there was no telling what hallway would lead to door, or a divider. Neryee enjoyed the open space. "They're missing, love," Neryee replied as her gaze set along the sharps of her nails. A vermillion red, her signature color, the color of her Fortuna and her power. "Lesley darling hadn't checked in this morning. I sent my girls out for a sweep over the town. Nothing over Kloadou or Morgana. Do you understand?" She set her nimble fingers over the desk. "It's out of my control now." "Well, how long have they been missing? Perhaps only Lesley's gone out for holiday." Sonja pressed, her gloved hands a stark contrast to the manicured set across from her. She knocked her knuckles into the oak, desperate for an answer. "That would be unlikely, Sonja. You know it." Neryee sighed, impassive and eager to dive into her paperwork. A rare occurrence, but she had no time to deal with the emotional outburst Sonja throttled. She felt nearly nothing for the children who wound up as her minions in the Fortuna. Sonja would have corrected her, told her they were not children, they were young adults who wanted to fight for a cause. Perhaps not a good one, since the Fortuna operated as the biggest gang across Morgana and Kloadou. She kept merchants, councilmen and the witchwatch across villages and towns in her pocket. She had no time for heroes. Neryee Lloyd Song was a criminal, through and through. With every han that fell into her pocket, another life became indebted to her. And with every life, meant more han. There was no time for affection, no tenderness or love in her life. All that mattered to Neryee was riches and more riches. "Can you do something about it? I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't concerned, Neryee," the Blood mage asked, her voice quiet. Rarely did Sonja plea. On better days, Neryee would've enjoyed it. She liked to see her former enemy, the holy Enforcer, on her knees. But apart of her, the part that lived in humanity and cherished every thrush of emotion, felt sorrow for Sonja. They lived completely different lives now, and if Neryee wasn't so consumed in her own work, she would've believed that Sonja began to lean on these children for support. Ever since Sanjeet passed away in the Second War, the Blood mage was lost. She prayed every night, asked sages of every kind to cure her ailment- the ailment of a broken heart- but nothing quite helped. Only when Lesley and his small crew returned, she saw a semblance of light in her eyes. And maybe when she had humanity, when she wasn't so captivated by greed, Neryee would've liked to be the cause of her recovery. But things were different. Before the Second War took all of their lives in an impossible grasp, Neryee imagined a quaint and quiet life with Sonja. Even when they nipped at one another's throats, she loved the bravery that shone in her eyes. She had been deeply jealous of Sonja's friendship with Sanjeet, and she hated to admit it, but they completed one another. If soulmates existed, if souls mattered in the grand scheme of things, Neryee could acknowledge how fated they were to be in one another's lives. It crushed Sonja when her brother in arms, her mentor and her best friend died in the Second War. Not only him, but his family, too. Neryee likened Sonja's panic now to the last thread of her sanity; if not for Lesley, Tess and Ecru, she thought Sonja would go mad. And she looked to be on the brink of madness. After a long pause, Neryee tossed her golden hair behind her shoulders and sighed. "Fine." She waited for Sonja's reaction, a habit she formed when they were closer. All she could hear, with her eyes averted to the window, was a breath of relief. "I'll send my best tracker, but you're indebted to me now, Linch." She smoothed out her surname like a drink of whiskey and smiled to myself. "We'll discuss payments later, but I'm sure you'll be happy to sign my contract now." A single snap of her fingers and a wave of her hand summoned a smooth sheet of paper and pen onto her desk. Small remnants of flame danced at the edges, a token of her magic. Sonja said nothing, hunched over the contract and started to sign her name. "And another favor, Neryee. I'm sure you've heard of the commotion up in Morgana, no? Your biggest rival just fell out of the market. Have you heard why?" The question lingered in the air. Neryee turned in her chair, retrieved a slender cigarillo from her draw and lit with the tip of her index. "Another Codex zealot, but with a killer's instinct." She replied and huffed out smoke from her nose. "I like to stay out of sectarian news, you know that. I figured you wouldn't care either, seeing how you got cut from the Magi Council." "It would be nice to have another Blood mage on your crew, zealot or not. If you'd be able to recruit her, you'd have the entirety of Raecan tied over your finger." "I appreciate the kibitz, love, but I don't need another Blood mage. You would've been fine, or if Ecru ever continued her studies with the sages, I would be satisfied. But my girls don't need another witch to rely on. They need to focus on their smarts, their guts and their fists." Neryee sucked in her teeth, lowered her cigarillo from her mouth and contemplated her next words. "And it does matter if she's a zealot, by the way. The Codex does not exist anymore, and even if it did, I make my own fortune." When the gentle scratches of the pen's blade ceased, she threw her hand up, and the contract disappeared in a whimsical flame. "Now, leave. I'll keep you updated on your brats, but you must let me work." Sonja said nothing. She shoved her hands into her pockets, bowed to the back-turned Neryee and slouched out the curtain. Stupid Neryee, she thought to herself when she escaped the pangs of music, the ambience of laughter and dance and stood outside the grand Fortuna. I would've liked to stay for a chat.

Xurio

Copen

Esra

In the grand scheme of things, as Neryee liked to say, nothing truly mattered. When Esra was no younger than ten, he'd been recruited by the Fortuna. He found himself in Morgana with only ten han to his name. The slavers who carried him from Xurio and somehow managed past the Raecan borders told him he'd be no good in the whorehouses, gambling dens or even as a runner because of his ugly mug. He didn't understand then, because the men spoke only Mogǎian. It was quite different from his own language, the standard language that most Xuro spoke. Mogǎian sounded rough and gritty. It lacked any particular roundness. If he'd been kept in school longer, Esra thought he might've learned the bare bones of Mogǎian. But he only spoke Xurohan. So the slavers dropped him into the heart of Morgana. They kept his clothes, his shoes and even his hair. Esra couldn't survive on the streets for long; even as a boy, he knew that. The winter in Morgana felt like a mild summer compared to his home in Copen, the second largest city in Xurio. And it made him feel grateful, because despite the terrible reality that awaited him, he could at least feel safe when the cold pinched his cheeks. It took a week for Esra to wind up in an alley, dehydrated and starving. He used his last han on a glass of milk. For days, he couldn't stomach food, so he survived with cups of milk and the occasional drink of water. Esra could remember the cement beneath his ribs, his clothes so thin that even his hardened Xuro skin could not battle the cold. He felt a gentle nudge against his back. And when he looked up, the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his entire life stood before him. She looked to be as old as his eldest brother, probably fifteen or so. Her conic amber eyes pierced through his frail body, and the waves of blonde washed out her pale complexion. A hand moved in his direction, and he felt arms thrown over his body. "Take him to the carriage." The girl said in perfect Xurohan. She sounded like a princess. Or an evil step-daughter, like in the fairytales. "I want him cleaned and dressed before father comes home. Tell them I've brought home a new tracker." She only spared him one last glance before she disappeared further into the alley, followed by armed men of the witchwatch. "A tracker?" Esra managed to say when he arrived at the Song Manor. In the carriage, they fed him pieces of bread and cheese, careful to watch his ravenous feast. They didn't want Neryee's new prospect to keel over from food poisoning. He didn't know why he didn't fight when they grabbed him. Perhaps he understood that the Reaper waited for him, at the end of the alley in where Neryee glided through. That if he didn't take the opportunity that thrusted into his lap, he would die. "You're Xuro, yes? Xuros make excellent trackers, this is known across the world, boy. Your kind have a special connection to mana. They didn't teach you this in school?" His kind? Esra hopped out of the carriage. His fingers felt warm when the handmaidens took them into their gloved palms. "I didn't get to see a lot of school," he replied softly. "The slavers took me when I barely finished my third term." The handmaidens didn't reply. They entered past the doors, and Esra was greeted by the sickly-sweet smell of cinnamon. The whole manor- cinnamon. There stood ivory pillars around the foyer, the floor glistening with marble so clear, he saw his reflection. Around him, servants, maids and butlers of every kind walked through the grand halls; they dressed in chiffon, a special linen guaranteed to make them feel and look wealthy. Esra gawked for hours when the handmaidens explained to him his new life. Esra's life would be indebted to the Song clan. While he was no slave, he was an indentured servant. But the handmaidens reassured him that this was the best servitude that one could dream of. A well-cared for life, where everyone was fed, clothed and shared a brilliant roof over their heads. He would undergo special lessons to enhance his tracker abilities, and he would learn the art of combat, stealth, learn to read and write. Most importantly, he would speak not only Xurohan, but Mogǎian, Khemeian and Aurmese. Only his freedom would be taken, but there was little freedom in the world, anyways. By the time Neryee sent word of his new mission, he finally arrived home to Copen. He spent the next eleven years under her; as her spy, her intel but favorably, as her tracker. He looked to her as nothing but his boss. He knew she only remembered him when she needed someones' hands to get dirty. And he could live like that. One day, he would tell her that she saved his life, but Neryee didn't like theatrics. Which was why the letter she sent him that morning took him by surprise. Neryee wrote to him: "My underling, Your newest mission is dear to my heart. Sonja Linch requests your services in finding her kin. Their names are Lesley Abe, Tess Yang and Ecru Belmont. You're expected to return them to Kloadou, alive and well. Do what you must to track these three. Spare me the gritty details, and only report when you've found something monumental. I've added particular descriptions of these brats further in the envelope. Your payout, when you return to Morgana, will be fifty thousand han. Good luck. Best wishes, Neryee Lloyd Song. PS: Keep me updated on that Codex fanatic, will you?" Esra slid the letter into his breast pocket. He lifted his hand there, a reminder of his work and freedom. Fifty thousand han was not enough to pay his servitude, but he saved every payout in hopes to live a life where he could enjoy what he pleased. Where he could thank Neryee for her kindness all those years ago and move forward in life. He owed a rising accumulation of over forty billion han to the Song clan. Apparently, Xuro lives were very pricey. He spent the majority of his day roaming the art district of Copen. Esra felt determined to finish out his holiday with another loop of the city. It was very lovely, but he grew accustomed to Morgana's muggy and unbreathable conditions. And what a shame it was- Copen was is my hometown. But now he could not remember anything about his friends or family. He wasn't sure if they remembered him. Still, he savored the sights. Esra liked the chiseled mythical beasts that danced across the town's square. The fountain that sprouted from the evergreen grass bellowed its crystal water into the grated streets. The water would melt further into the sewer system, then dance again across the sprinklers that would activate every so often. It looked more like a show, and less of a regularly scheduled irrigation trick. Tiny droplets would make their way into the beast's mouths, and they would hang off the mandibles of the stone like frothed saliva. They looked alive every day; throughout the night, Esra would watch them from his hostel window to make sure they wouldn't patrol the streets. Beyond the town's square, the Copen Castles overlooked the town. Its great cobblestone towers protected the patrons from any weatherly disaster. They made for good cover whenever Copen happened to throw themselves into war, too. But the moss that entwined deep within the crevices of the cobblestone was the real allure. Even from a distance, the moss and vines hugged the castle. It looked like a painting, where the pricks of the vines slouched against the bouncy petals of gardenias. Sometimes, they would shift. It was a phenomenon that only Copen harbored. The tourist guides would say that magic lived within the castle walls. The great Deity of Riches favored Copen, they'd say, and that's why the vines moved. Esra didn't know if that were true. He didn't know much about Xurio's history with the Deities, as the handmaidens in his makeshift school only told him of the foundation he needed to know to be a good pawn. It shamed him, a little, because he wanted to feel pride when he watched the tourists gape and contemplate the mystery of the Copen Castles. He finished his cigarette and tossed it into the nearest bin. Esra dusted his hands, pulled on his assigned gloves and started for his hostel. Now was no time for tears, he reminded himself once he entered his room. The payout han he separated from his savings into his expenses made him a very agreeable man in Copen. The hostel was quite nice, fancied with fluffy pillows and bed silks that made him feel like an angel. Even the food and coffee tasted expensive. Esra fell into his bed, his arms outstretched and eyes trained on the angled ceiling. It was autumn now, and soon, Xurio would drop to freezing temperatures. He wagered that tomorrow some snow would come in and coat the beasts and drown out the fountain. In Morgana, where the Fortuna stayed, Neryee would ask some of her girls to ward off the area and warm the roof so no snow would stick around her building. He wished he possessed magic like she, but lämsaaj, or Firewelders were almost as rare as Blood mages. They lived in embers, while Blood mages lived as ghosts. The warmth of his fireplace brought him comfort. His eyes started to feel heavy, but his skin, clad in the thickest wool with three layers, started to tingle. The gooseflesh occurred only when magic touched the air around him. Esra sat up, his hand to the revolver around his waist, and he searched his surroundings with a blank face. "Come out," he beckoned and stood from his bed, "I know you're here." A clatter came from under his bed. Esra froze, took a cautionary step back and clicked the safety of his revolver. How long did the intruder stay hidden? Why wasn't he able to sense their magic- their mana, the very lifeblood that swelled within their body? The thought made him shudder. If his rumination about Blood mages or lämsaaj were correct, they could very well soothe their mana into a quiet line to bypass a Xuro's skill. Once, they called Esra the Tarka, the Observer in Xurohan. But he didn't feel so strong in his legends now. "Come out." "Geeze, will you give me a minute?"

Sabine

It started when she double-crossed the Fortuna. Sabine wanted to say it was an honest mistake, but she lied to Neryee intentionally. She lied to her sisters, and at one point, she lied to herself. She did it because she wanted to hurt the lämsaaj. She didn't like to see Neryee with so much power. It made her like a zombie. Sabine desperately wished for someone to feel the same as she did. But it was impossible; because either they feared they'd be burned alive, or her disapproval would spread like a plague and infest other gangs, too. No one wanted to be without a home. No one wanted to be without a family. And for once in her life, Sabine felt truly stupid. All she wanted was for Neryee to feel something- feel a glimpse of anger or even disappointment when Sabine sold her loyalty to the Pearled Oysters. Instead, her punishment consisted of a cold laugh and a dismissive wave. Their interaction in her office lasted seconds. Sabine was found deep within the Pearled Oyster's dens, her red hair a sore thumb in a crowd filled with lost souls and depressed monsters. When the Fortuna girls found her and strung her into the Song Manor, a private estate used only by Neryee's inner circle, Sabine swelled with shame. Her head hung so low when she entered the office, she swore it could've fallen off her shoulders. "You've come home," Neryee said to her and drummed her fingers nonchalantly against her face. "I don't want to know why you blabbered my stocks to the stupid men at the Pearled Oyster. I want you clean, dressed and fed before you're off on your next mission." A sigh left the lämsaaj's lips when she finally shooed them away. It had been the first time Neryee lied to her, too. There were no missions to be dressed for, and Sabine felt like a ghost in her own home. When she wandered the moonlit corridors, back to her own room, she listened for the voices of her sisters. No one came. Not even the candle that greeted Sabine when she'd return home from missions lit when she crept through her door. Her exciting life, full of privilege and danger, halted. It stayed like that for months. Her admiration for Neryee started to go sour; every chance she wanted to tell Neryee- explain to Neryee- apologize to Neryee- it always came short. And Sabine hated it. Only when Sonja Linch, a prospect and a dear friend of the Songs, visited did Neryee step out of her office. The girls of the Fortuna were no fools; they could see the long stares they cast to one another. Their lingering embraces, and the soft smiles Sonja would pass to Neryee, only for the lämsaaj to blanche and look away. It filled Sabine with shame when she watched their exchanges. Not only did Neryee prefer the company of an outsider, but she looked to be wholly invested in the news Sonja brought to her only a fortnight ago. And as if the good graces of the Deities heard her confusion, pain and desperation, Neryee came to her room late last week. She stood by the threshold, her arms crossed over one another and her red-stained lips pressed into a tight line. "Sabine," she said and tossed an envelope in her direction. "You're to protect Esra on this mission. Do not interfere with his tracking." She should've felt elated that Neryee even breathed the same air as her. But as she lay so still, still like a corpse, under Esra's bed the following night, she wanted to hit him. He'd been out all day, and he didn't notice- not once- they took the same fare to Copen. Idiot, Sabine thought to herself when she heard his footsteps through the hall. To Sabine, Esra was nothing but a lowly grunt. He was a man, and the Fortuna did not particularly take men. Not when there were plenty of women in the world to carry on their tasks. Despite this, Neryee quite enjoyed Esra; he would often find himself on the most dangerous missions as her glorified tracker, and he would be rewarded with a firm clap on the back from Neryee. To Sabine, she saw Esra as competition. It was almost hilarious when he clamored his revolver once he felt her presence. When she scampered out from his bed, she flicked her nose and lay her hands on top of her hips. "It took you long enough. I thought they called you the Tarka. So much for that, huh? What else are Xuros good for, if not sensing magic?" Sabine brushed off any debris from her wool coat. Esra looked at her with a straight face, his eyes unreadable. He lowered his revolver, removed his boots and kicked them in her direction. She grunted, stomped them away and pointed at him. "What's your issue, Esra? Can't you see I'm here on good terms?" "You're a traitor, Sabine. I know Neryee set you up to this, but you shouldn't have hidden yourself." Esra replied and tossed his tapered vest onto a lone chair. He turned away from her, his dark hair now glistening from the low light of the fireplace. "Now leave me alone, please. I'll draft something up to Neryee in the morning and see to your arrival back home. I want to be alone now." The hairs on her neck bristled. "I'm not a traitor. I did what I had to do!" "And what would that be? How many times have you sold us out to your friends at the Peony Publishing House? How many more times will you jeopardize our sisters' lives?" "They are not your sisters. You don't even belong at the Fortuna." Esra managed a scoff, but his tense shoulders revealed her words hit a tender spot. "Go away, Sabine. I want to be alone." She slammed her fist into the wall, shoved over the chair that stationed his vest and started for the door. "Goodnight, you horrible man." When Sabine met the hostel hallway, quiet and misted with sleep, she could feel hot tears bubble at the corners of her eyes. She didn't know why her exchange with Esra caused her to be so angry. He was moronic, and she couldn't understand why he reached everyones' good graces. Why couldn't she liked be like him?

#fiction #personal work #ejslit #freewrite series #spellbound series

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