Every meeting of import in this life comes with it the shadow of a bitter farewell.
- Attributed to the playwright Vlan di Panoli.
Vasileios Bakirtzis had married into wealth. Serious wealth. The man enjoyed a lifestyle that would many emperors and princes cry in abject envy.
As the eldest son of a Quassian factor and University-trained, he had always enjoyed a privileged position. Though he couldn't hear the Song of Mana like some of his peers, nor did he possess the sharp mathematical mind or fine features of his younger brother Dimitrios, he had something that set him apart from the rest: luck, vision, and an ironclad tenacity.
Vasileios had pushed, persuaded, and even begged his friends and family to support his bold venture—a company dedicated to the singular purpose of importing one extraordinary substance at the exclusion of all else: the intoxicating and near-magical Dust of Al-Lazar.
With the Tears of the Goddess, the rains that blessed the Grieving Lands, poured down endlessly. Relentlessly. Now, the Green Road was no longer open for just a few months each year. The need for an expensive Water Mage to cross the Whispering Wastes had vanished.
Everyone thought he was mad, but their skepticism only fueled his resolve. He would not give in to their condescending know-it-all tone. It sharpened his will to a razor’s edge, transforming it into defiance.
And he, in a fashion, succeeded. He made landfall in Aranthia and made his way through the kingdom's duchies, exchanging stories and news of Quas for hospitality from the minor nobility as he traveled with his company. He bit on a fruit, savoring the flavor as much as it brought back old memories.
Journeying ever south, he came to the vast lake that had once been the plains of the Grass Sea. There he had hired boats and guides from the Children of the Tides. Though many of their people had perished in the floods, many more had embraced the blessings the rains had brought.
For the Children of the Tides, it was a return to a way of life they had believed lost to the ages. They gave thanks to their goddess, for once again, they enjoyed a maritime life, albeit on the waves of a tame inland sea. Or so, Vasileios liked to imagine, seeing the crew’s gap-toothed smiles aboard his commissioned vessel.
Next, he crossed the great desert of the Whispering Wastes—or so he liked to boast to the wide-eyed guests he invited to dinner on occasion. The Green Road had transformed a great swathe of the once barren sands, nurturing greenery and young forests that seemed to mock the burning, bleached bone sands of the Wastes.
He had seen with his own eyes that already, much of the former desert was being tamed, with settlers from Aranthia and the Empire claiming this new and fertile land as their own. Through irrigation, they pushed back the desert, planting foreign crops on the once inhospitable sandy soil. Here, the young Quassian believed, humanity was winning the battle against nature, driving out the dangerous creatures that once roamed the deep deserts.
Many people had laid claim to this new area, and there was a rumor that conflict was brewing on the horizon between Aranthia, the Empire, and the city-state of Al-Lazar.
Added to this, not all welcomed this intrusion of these new and foreign interests. The Nas Al-Rimal, tribes of the deep sands, had not taken kindly to the nascent civilization growing along the banks of the Green Road, launching violent raids on the growing strip of farms.
He traced a line of scar tissue where a tribal’s blade had cut through the tough leather of his riding glove. Silly sun-touched savages. All that time under the blazing sun had more than likely cooked their brains and had made them most belligerent, he thought, reliving the memory. It had been a lesson that some people could not be swayed by gold and sweet words alone.
Between the raids of the desert tribes, common bandits, the remaining opportunistic wildlife, and the general lawlessness of the area, made the strip of green that cut through the desert a most dangerous place.
Despite these and many other tribulations, he finally reached the fabled city of Al-Lazar. Trading in the Dust, however, was no simple matter. It was here that the young Vasileios truly began his quest in earnest, using every ounce of his charm and remaining resources to gain an audience in the court of a minor Holder House.
He sighed, lost in pleasant memories.
It took only a moment for him to fall in love with the shy daughter of that Holder House. Yet, as if mocking the fleeting moment, their love endured—still burning brightly to this day. Of course, given the vast difference in their stations, Vasileios could only join the House matrilineally, a fact his brother delighted in, as it meant Vasileios had to forfeit his inheritance in Quas.
Dreams of trading the Dust and returning to his old home had evaporated quickly, like spit on a hot desert rock at noon. But this was a small price to pay for the luxurious life he now enjoyed.
Pampered and indulged, he had become a trophy husband—an exotic ornament his sweet wife proudly displayed when the fancy took her. For Vasileios, the antidote to the poison of a lost purpose was raw and almost unbridled hedonism.
His journey had led him to become a connoisseur, even an expert, of one of Al-Lazar’s bloodsports: the Festival of the Undrawn, not as a participant, of course, but as an avid spectator.
Today, he sat in a shaded box, puffing on a glass water pipe, positioned just above the arena’s edge. The mixture of Dust and other intoxicating herbs sharpened his senses, enhancing his focus. As he breathed in deeply of the aromatic smoke, he petted the feline that sat snugly on his lap. His Sandcat, Lady Puffsbottom the Third, purred lovingly at the attention, her large ears twitching in appreciation. Lady Puffsbottom was the only female that his wife allowed to have a portion of his affection.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He looked at the gathered multitude. The entire city seemed to have gathered here today, the crowd's murmuring roar rising with each moment as they watched these early, usually uneventful bouts.
Many ignored this stage of the contest, but Vasileios was a seasoned veteran of these competitions. The Quassian took particular pleasure in trying to predict who would survive this winnowing phase and how far they might go in the later rounds. He fancied himself to be like a jeweler finding diamonds in the rough.
His eyes scanned the pairings as more and more contestants were eliminated, his efforts so far yielding no gold, no real talent, in the sifted common dirt that had made an appearance this year.
With a sigh, he leaned back into his velvet-cushioned chair, wondering if any exceptional talent could be found among this year’s dross. Secretly, he was a fan of the Alim girl, having followed rumors of her prowess. Before even reaching her thirtieth year, she had already risen to prominence, representing her House. Kanaia of the Alim had, by all accounts, become a force to be reckoned with.
It was both a shame and a relief that she had been seeded, allowing her to bypass this stage of the competition. A shame because he would not see her display her art earlier, but a relief because he did not want to see her wasting time on these louts.
Suddenly, there was a great cry. A massive man, nearly the size of an ogre, hurled his opponent far out of their designated fighting area to the roaring approval of the crowd. Bearded and blonde, he raised hands the size of shovels to soak in their praise. He was a perfect specimen of a man of the Everice, the name that the people of Quas had given the frigid, extreme north of the continent.
Yet, Vasileios was only mildly intrigued—he had seen this type before. The big muscle-bound fighters did well until the middle rounds of the competition. There was truly no substitute for speed and skill.
The Festival also attracted many like Vasileios, those blessed to varying degrees by Mana’s song. Those who could channel the arcane energies of the world were rare—perhaps one in a hundred—yet many of these rare few seemed drawn to this contest. The rules of the competition prohibited the use of weapons, a restriction that many spellcasters thought they could circumvent. Oftentimes, thinking by grit and willpower alone they could overpower those skilled in the way of fist and feet.
But every year, the majority of them suffered for their conceit. Without their staffs, the foci of their power, these would-be champions took an eternity to summon their magic, and what magic they could summon would be diminished in scope and power. This, more often than not, made them easy prey for their ruthless opponents.
Of course, there were exceptions, as with most things. He raised a viewing glass to his eyes. A pretty blonde girl, perhaps no more than sixteen, was deftly dodging the spinning kicks and attacks of a muscular man nearly twice her weight while chanting a spell verse. The level of focus she displayed was far beyond Vasileios’ meager talents, and he found himself on the edge of his seat, rapt with attention.
Suddenly, a ball of water shot out of seemingly nowhere, striking her opponent from behind. Though the water ball did little damage, it succeeded in distracting him. Seizing the opportunity, the blonde girl swept her opponent off his feet with a precisely targeted kick. A ruthless punch to the throat ended the bout to some scattered applause.
A servant approached, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone well-practiced in the art of being invisible and unobtrusive. The fresh tray in his hands bore an array of delicacies—succulent fruit, their skins glistening with the sheen of freshness, and light pastries filled with rich cream. Jellies quivered in delicate glass dishes, their jewel-like colors catching the muted light of the shaded box. A jeweled goblet of watered wine was set beside a carafe of refreshing juice, the pale liquid a cool balm against the growing afternoon heat.
Another servant followed in the first’s wake. With practiced hands, the girl deftly refilled the pipe, packing it with a fresh blend—a relaxant this time, meant to ease the tension in his muscles and slow the racing of his thoughts. The pungent aroma of this concoction drifted up as the servant lit the pipe, the first tendrils of smoke curling lazily in the still air. Vasileios smiled at her as he took a slow draw, feeling the calming effects begin to settle over him like a warm blanket, pulling him back from the edge of his earlier excitement.
In a warm haze, Vasileios watched as a man of decidedly average build struggled against a massive block of muscular flesh. The smaller man was unremarkable in every way, save for the hood and scarf that covered his face up to his nose. No matter how much he fought, it seemed inevitable that he would be pushed off the stone stage.
But then, in a moment of supreme luck, the much larger man cried out in surprise as he seemingly tripped and fell. Seizing the opportunity, the smaller man gleefully pushed him out of the ring.
The crowd erupted in boos, displeased with the outcome of the contest. They wanted to see fights and not a pushing competition. Vasileios joined them, standing up and booing like a common man, uncaring of his elevated status. His servants looked away, pretending that they saw nothing. He was glad his wife wasn’t present—she would have been the first to chide him. Lovingly so, but it would have been another of her sharp tongue-lashings nonetheless.
The big man who had lost had been somewhat of a crowd favorite. Vasileios racked his mind for his name, yes, Amir, that was it, he thought. Amir was of middling skill and rank but entertaining, knowing how to work the audience in previous competitions. The masked man, however, simply walked off, indifferent to the crowd's disdain.
No matter, that average, but decidedly lucky man, would only be eaten up in the next stage of the tournament. If he was a gambling man, he would place a bet that he would be beaten to a bloody pulp in the next stage of the tournament. The kept man smiled to himself, sure in the wisdom of his prediction. The Quassian ran a hand through the fur of his pet, allowing the sensation to mix with the drugs that flowed in his veins and relaxing him further.
Lady Puffsbottom gave his attentive fingers a nibble, warning that she had had enough. Jumping off his lap, one of the surprised servants, they all looked alike, had to chase after the rogue feline before it escaped into the crowd.
His attention shifted to another match in the preliminaries. One of the fighters reeked of false humility. The man was just above average height, with a plain face and a modest build. He bowed deeply to his opponent—far too low for what was considered proper. This was a monk of the River God, the only real threat to the Alim’s dominance at the Festival. Rumor had it that these monks, through insight into the present or prophecy of the future, could predict whatever was about to happen next. It was a powerful gift, and the only thing Vasileios considered akin to cheating in this competition.
Vasileios watched the match, knowing full well how it would unfold. As expected, the follower of the River God didn’t disappoint, anticipating his opponent's every move as if he had already seen them. If the rumors were true, he probably had. The monk's victory was as predictable as it was inevitable. And it was boring.
Now, there was a moment of rest before the next stage of the competition would begin. Normally, Vasileios would spend this time socializing with the gathered notables or perhaps talking with some of the fighters. Instead, however, he found himself preferring to take a nap. He liked to imagine that there were only so many spoons, so much energy, that he could spend in a day. Two spoons he rationed aside for bedding his wife in the morning and the evening, another with helping with the accounts, and another reviewing the day’s menu. Tiring stuff.
He really was reaching his limit.
Clapping his hands, he instructed his servants to prepare a divan for him to rest upon. Life was good.