A tower of bones stands in silent vigil, its gaze fresh and virgin.
Spring grasses wave a cheery greeting against an ossuary foundation,
Gales hurl and rains abound, before the sun returns.
A tower of bones stands in silent vigil, its gaze hard and flinty.
Bright earth beneath storm-wracked skies, life flourishes beyond its reach,
Green against bleached yellow, but flecks of red emerge.
A tower of bones stands in silent vigil, its gaze alight and blinding.
Earth cracks and fingers grasp, fortifications rise once more,
A field of death, a sanctuary of life.
A tower of bones stands in silent vigil, its gaze forlorn and empty.
Snow settles on ravaged ground, to hide from mortal sight,
White layers red, the cycle continues, to turn forever more.
- ‘Lonely Vigil’ by Althus C Winter, published in ‘Poems of the Lost Age’, transcribed circa .134
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“Welcome to Colchet, adventurers!”
The cheerful words echoed in my head as Jorge began to withdraw items from his storage device, Vera approaching to do the same and laying them out on nearby tables, hastily cleared of their previous loads by the eager trader.
Was that we were? Adventurers? I wasn’t really sure – I’d travelled so far in just a few months, through at least three distinct ecosystems and across multiple territories. It didn’t feel like I’d had much adventure, mostly just training and travelling, but I’d fought living skeletons, wild animals of all stripes, and supposedly dropped into the realm of a dead god on one occasion. Perhaps ‘adventurer’ was an apt description after all.
The grey-haired trader moved several objects to the side on each table, clearly indicating what he was interested in. Meats, pelts and various spices and herbs that I hadn’t even realised Jorge was carrying filled one table, alongside some well-made but fairly standard long knives and short-swords.
The trader never stopped talking as he moved, listing out prices and asking Jorge and Vera for other items they might be carrying. I was surprised by the lack of gold and silver, although couldn’t pinpoint why that might be. Perhaps gold and silver served a purpose in my old life beyond jewellery or decoration?
Vera produced some beautiful vases, delicately brushed with soft, chalky colours, and the trader practically buzzed over to examine them. He offered to take all she had, and she steadfastly refused, allowing only a half dozen to be set aside on the traders ‘procurement bench’ as I was coming to think of it. Nathlan even joined in, clearing half a table to lay out scrolls of various scholarly ancestry to be examined.
After the whole charade had gone on for far too long, the trader and my companions eventually came to an agreement, and a series of wooden sticks were handed over, notched at various lengths and bearing a particular rune carved into the handle of each. Jorge passed a number to Vera, a couple to Nathlan, and stored the rest. The trader nodded to us, gave a final list of directions and advice that made my head spin, and then departed, shuffling away excitedly as if he’d just made the score of the century.
“What was all that?” I asked when he’d left. Nathlan looked back at me with surprise, before a look of realisation passed across his face.
“Sorry, I’d forgotten this is your first time in a large settlement. Most large cities have their own internal currency, and we’ve just traded with one of the guards’ quartermasters for a price in the local currency. It’s a bit cumbersome to trade this way, as these tarrots are not a truly circulating currency and aren’t used for much other than taxation and commercial debts, but it’ll be accepted by most establishments at least.”
“Oh really? I’d thought they would just use barter I guess” I said.
“How would that work? A hundred thousand people bartering with each other, like for like? That sounds like a nightmare.” He shivered just thinking about it. “No, most cities use a complex arrangement of debts with one another. It works on a personal level in nomadic or ‘primitive’ groups - that’s an academic term by the way, not a value judgement - but coins or taels or tarrots etc. are used with outside traders. When you get to the level of a city like this, it’s impossible for each person to know what the exchange rate is for each service or good they need, and so a local currency springs up.
“It’s actually quite interesting how these currencies are created; you see, Rosenbaum wrote some seminal work on this and posits that currencies are created by states only in times of war – they need a way to leverage debt to pay for a large standing army, and low-level exchange between personal groups doesn’t encourage large surpluses to be created and then traded, so by forcing a universal medium of exchange and then leveraging small taxes, the state can encourage everyone, regardless of role, profession or class to work on creating surpluses that feed into this growing economy. The state can then-“
“Thanks buddy” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, trying to interrupt him before he could go further off-topic. “So, these notched sticks are a medium of exchange? Why wouldn’t everyone accept them then?”
“Not exactly. They are more of a measure of value. Most larger establishments and businesses will regularly use tarrots to pay their taxes and any debts owed to the city lords, but the smaller and/or less-than-legal groups won’t have any use for them. Very few people inside the city pay each other with any actual physical tarrots – most transactions are either in the form of informal debts or exchange of goods and services directly.”
“Isn’t that just barter though?” I asked, feeling confused again as he continued.
“No, a fisherman won’t exchange a barrel of fish to an innkeeper for a barrel of ale and call it quits. Rather, both will know the approximate value of their goods in tarrots and agree to an exchange with any excess value leveraged as debt. The fisherman gets the barrel of ale and 50 tarrots worth of debt from the innkeeper. Next week, the fisherman gets a barrel of ale and 25 bags of flour from the innkeeper, and the debt is cancelled.
“Most of this is actually to account for seasonal changes. Farmers tend to act as debt holders during the harvest season and live off those debts throughout the leaner months. This way, the economy isn’t thralled to seasonal work and can run year-round in a fairly steady state.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Cheers for the explanation.” I said, and Nathlan beamed.
There was something about sharing knowledge that seemed to light him up. I wondered briefly what could have happened to him to push him from his previous path of scholarly work into seeking – and eventually obtaining – a combat class like mine. I knew something had happened with his noble family, but the details and context were still unknown to me.
I added it to the list of burning questions in my mind, the mental bookshelf already groaning under the weight of the tomes I’d filled with as-of-yet unanswered queries.
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The inn we were staying in was lovely. Nathlan and I were holed up in our room, enjoying the warmth of thick blankets on clean skin, and idly munching on a tray of carrots, hummus and olives, courtesy of the kitchen. One of the servers had taken a real shine to Nathlan, and I wrestled down a twinge of jealousy when I caught a glance at the extra helping of fine cheeses I saw on his platter.
I crunched on the food as I read the scroll I’d propped against the headboard, detailing the history of the Breeze-Born rebellion in Colchet and how its impacts were still felt today. It had been a fairly dry read that I was close to putting down, until the section on Markath Breeze-Born and the further discussion on how his unique class inspired a wave of copycats to take up his mantle, culminating in a city-wide rebellion and an end to an expansionist era within Colchet politics.
I could tell I was not a particularly political or historical person, the details always feeling far too boring and intertwined for my liking, but something about the magic of this world, the system’s classes and even the pre-system unique magic and creatures that existed on the peripheries of civilisation instantly drew me into what would otherwise be a completely uninteresting topic.
As before, my surprise at some of the details told a story of its own about the world I had previously lived in, and from what I could tell, it was a sad one. Conflict didn’t surprise me at all, and while the visceral, in-your-face nature of the violence I’d seen was shocking, I was not at all surprised by its existence.
Taking for granted the place conflict had in my life and the wider world no doubt implied a similar state in my old home – no differences there then. But the magic, the system, the titanic creatures and impossible scale of the world and its hidden depths…there was mystery there and a wonder that I craved with such a deep longing it sometimes hurt. I came from a world where violence and conflict were normal, and magic and wonder were not. It was no world I wanted to return to anytime soon.
The conclusion was one I had been edging towards for weeks now; desire for my memories fading with each passing sunrise and every beautiful sight I took in. Still, expressing it in my mind so clearly hit me with an unexpected surge of emotion. Not grief exactly, but a sense of loss, of moving forward. I was letting go of my old life…and moving onto something better.
The words on the page before me blurred and ran together as my eyes misted, and I blinked away the tears before they could fully form. A knot within my chest I hadn’t even been aware of lessened and slipped away, leaving me feeling lighter.
I took in a shuddering breath, masking it with a cough when Nathlan looked over at me in concern. I waved him off and stood, muttering something about training as I hurried outside and in the direction of the courtyard.
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*Nathlan*
Nathlan shrugged as Lamb strode briskly from the room, ignoring his curt tone. It was easy to see through the cold shoulder after all. Lamb may be many things, but actor he was not, and it was plain to all that he was carrying a burden.
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Clear to Nathlan at least, who had plenty of experience himself wearing guilt and sorrow like a cloak. Vera too most likely. He honestly had no idea what Jorge’s past held, as while the old man liked to play up the mystery, Nathlan didn’t doubt for a moment that there was a significant story there. You didn’t spend your life travelling unless you were running from something, in his opinion anyway. A happy man without regrets would be living on a farm with a partner and a bevy of children by now, surely?
He dismissed his musings and returned to his latest investigation - another attempted rebuttal of Nathlan the Ancient’s thesis on the primacy of the World Tree in shaping imperial ambitions through each successive era. He dove in eagerly, scoffing as he read the abstract but continuing on nonetheless.
He hoped dearly he had a reply from The Scholar himself for this one in his storage device, but given the flimsy nature of the starting arguments, he expected his namesake hadn’t bothered to reply anyway. Ah well, perhaps the next one.
He knew it was a vice. He pretended it was an insatiable thirst for knowledge, but deep down he knew he was at least partially invested in the shear drama of the bickering of high-level academics. Perhaps it was why the scholar-kings of Ashkania loomed so large in his mind. Snuggling further into the blankets, he settled in for a long night of petty back and forth and scholarly discussion – one and the same in many ways.
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He snorted awake, momentarily startled by the feeling of the papyrus scroll pressing into his face. He sat up, peeling the disappointing reading away and storing it. He stretched, glancing at the thin beam of sunlight staining the floor to confirm how long he’d slept for. No more than a bell or so.
He grabbed a final slice of cheese and headed for the door, intent on hunting down Lamb. While he wanted to give him space to work through whatever was going on with him, it was also good to lend an ear…and quite frankly, he was bored.
A glance out the window showed Lamb exactly where he’d known the man would be. In the centre of the small courtyard, spear and shield out and training hard. The clack of wood on wood was muted somewhat by the heavy panes of glass that filled the frame, but it was something that couldn’t be blocked out entirely.
The fact that the owner of the establishment hadn’t raised any protests spoke to how quiet things were in the inn currently. Jorge had mentioned that the Remembrance was a solemn affair as far as festivals go, but seeing first-hand the lack of movement today in the apparently vibrant city was a bit of a surprise, nevertheless.
It was only as he descended the wide staircase and found himself absently admiring the sweeping hand rail formed of a dark, dense wood, appearing to be grown into shape rather than carved, that he wondered over the noises he’d heard.
Hastening his step, he strode towards the courtyard entrance. Surely he wasn’t hitting the tree itself with his practice spear? Not only was striking a stationary target often poor practice anyway, but surely even Lamb – admittedly a bit of an idiot and culturally ignorant in the extreme – wouldn’t strike a sacred tree in the middle of a city renowned for their tree-singing arts?
What a ridiculous question, of course he would.
Nathlan nearly burst through the billowing silk curtains separating the outside space from the rest of the inn, positive he would find the man in the midst of a diplomatic incident, and keen to intervene before anyone took notice. What he found was not quite as bad as he’d feared, but perhaps more perplexing.
Lamb bounced on the balls of his feet from side to side, practice spear and shied in hand, facing the tree in the centre of the courtyard. It was old, gnarled, and sporting a truly astronomical number of branches from its thick trunk. Blue-green leaves hung in their multitudes from the branches, filtering the evening sun into a deeper, more mellow light that pooled around the roughly circular courtyard.
The tree squatted in its ancient majesty in the centre of the yard, another wooden spear propped out at roughly shoulder height between a couple of branches and an old burgh, facing Lamb at a slight angle. He suddenly burst forward in a swirl of motion, spear jabbing out at an invisible enemy’s face to distract as he closed the distance. A shift of his hips and neat piece of footwork later, and he’d flanked the imaginary foe and twined his spear haft around the length of his enemy’s before a slight flick of his wrists nocked the spear free from its perch and clattering to the dusty floor.
The lean man straightened and turned towards Nathlan as he made his entrance, a dissatisfied set to his face. “Thought you’d still be reading.”
There was a slight inflection in Lamb’s voice at the end, turning the statement into a question. Shadows scattered as he propped the spear against his shoulder with a neat spin, showing an easy familiarity with the weapon that had appeared over the last several weeks of training.
Nathlan reached back to retie his ponytail, a nervous gesture he’d had since a child, and only recently started to allow once more. He still caught himself trying to still his hands at times before consciously allowing the tick. Leaving behind the viper’s nest of his homeland would take more than physical distance.
“I had planned to, yes. But it was…disappointing. I’ve still yet to read a comprehensive refutation of the underlying logic of The Scholar’s thesis, if not a discussion of the historical record. I had hoped…anyway I won’t bore you with the details and ruin your evening too.”
He smiled at the shorter man and was gratified to see a grin split his face in return. Nathlan knew he wasn’t the most sociable person in Tsanderos. His upbringing had given him the necessary skills to at least perform a role, but he’d never felt comfortable, despite outward appearances. Perhaps his thorough education was exactly why he shied away from genuine friendly interaction. Sculpting an heir was not an act of good-hearted charity, no matter what one said in public.
Regardless, his growing friendship with the newest addition to the group was at least out of reach of his past, if not untainted by it. Realising the gap in conversation was in danger of turning into a lull, he decided to ask Lamb what he was practicing.
“Ah, yeah that. I’m sure it looks a little weird, but I’m trying to figure something out.” The man scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as he reached for the words, Nathlan encouraging him with a gesture but otherwise staying silent. “Yeah, so you know how these skills are really awesome for self-guided training; giving you hints and such and pushing you towards refining your techniques? Well, I’m getting hints that don’t really work.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Skills don’t encourage bad habits. The weaker ones may not be optimal in every situation, but yours was potent from what I saw. Jorge mentioned it was a conglomeration of styles and arts, so I would be surprised to hear it giving you poor advice. Perhaps it’s a case of unsuitable styles clashing?” Nathlan asked.
“No, that’s not right.” Possibly hearing the directness of his words, Lamb hastened to add “I get what you’re saying of course, and it’s a fair point.”
He had a strange way of doing that, Nathlan had noticed. Of wrapping up every sentence in layers of qualifiers and polite language. He would have suspected Lamb of some form of a noble background given the unintentional vagueness of his words, if it wasn’t for his simultaneous complete ignorance and disregard of most social rules.
“But that’s not it. I’m working on a particular technique to wrap up my opponents weapon. Works best on a spear, but potentially could be suitable for any long-hafted weapon like a great axe/hammer/maul – you get the point. It’s simple enough on the surface, and Skirmisher of Antiquity seems to be giving me some pretty clear hints to follow. However, one of my other skills is interfering. Its subtle, and I didn’t notice it at first, but I think I’m getting a contradictory instinct from Guerrilla Warfare.”
Nathlan hummed before replying. “It’s been known to happen with skills clashing. That’s one of the main arguments for following a standard progression build that the larger nations offer to their citizenry. Most people will make minor deviations based on their life choices, and no two paths are the same of course, but a baker in one city is likely to have similar class skills to one in another, barring major cultural differences between cuisines. That doesn’t really hold true for the elites though.”
Lamb smirked and raised an eyebrow at that. “Is that what I am then? One of the elites?” He seemed amused by the thought, taking it about as seriously as he would breakfast. No, that wasn’t right actually. Lamb took every meal seriously from what Nathlan had seen.
“Yes. Or at least, you will be.” Seeing the surprise on the man’s face, Nathlan clarified. “You have a combat class, which is already a rare and powerful – if dangerous – choice. Considering it’s a rare quality class in and of itself, you are already well on the way. Factoring in having a system-titled expert aiding in your development…yes, you will be an elite fighter in time.”
His surprise was in itself a surprise to Nathlan, who had assumed the man was at least aware of his place in this new world in respect to his fighting ability, if nothing else. That even that wasn’t true gave Nathlan an unexpected surge of sympathy. The man had no idea where he stood, did he? No wonder he took the name Lamb with grace.
Lamb looked uncomfortable, scratching idly at his arm as he processed the news. To distract him, Nathlan backtracked to their earlier discussion. “My point was, it is unlikely that your skills are openly pushing you in detrimental directions, and both skills you mention seem relatively compatible in terms of a path. They should not be giving contradictory signals. Are you sure you have considered every angle? Run through it slowly to find the exact point at which the…disagreement…arises?”
Lamb nodded, his face clearing as he moved away from the – to him – troubling thoughts of his future competence, and began to move through the motions of the weapon-lock technique.
“Yeah, see the first few steps are solid, but it’s as I step into the wrap that I feel the ‘signal’, as you called it. Took me ages to get to this point by the way, but yeah as I said; I follow my Skirmisher skill for most of this, but the Guerrilla Warfare skill flares up just before I ensnare the opponent’s weapon with my own. If I ignore it, I get through the whole skill with Skirmisher and it works fine, if a little inexpertly – seems a situational move at best that’s really only useful against an opponent that has a reach advantage over me but is matched with, or beneath me, in physical strength. Given I’m going with a spear and shield though, seems like an unlikely event.”
Nathlan watched the series of movements and tried to see the problem. It was just as Lamb had described though, simply another technique to snare an opponent’s weapon, if unlikely to be used. No glaring weaknesses in the movements stood out to his practised eye, and while Jorge would have to be the ultimate authority on the technique’s execution – being the one who taught it to Lamb in the first place – he doubted there was a problem there. No, this seemed to be a different issue.
“So, what happens when you listen to the hint from your other skill?” He asked. Lamb shook his head warily, as if unhappy with his answer before he gave it.
“I don’t know. It’s…confused, muddled somehow. From what I can gather, I’m supposed to use my shield to catch the weapon and bind it somehow, but the footwork and angles are off to do something like a traditional cross-shoulder spear lock.”
He mimed trapping a weapon between his shield and chest and stabbing forward with his off-hand. Nathlan had seen him drilling that move with Vera before, and it was terrifyingly effective. Not impossible to avoid obviously – what move was – but there was a reason that a long weapon and a shield were a frustrating combination to deal with. The protection offered a degree of safety in most positions that his single-sword focused style did not, and that same safety opened the door to versatile moves that would be too compromising for him to attempt.
Not that Nathlan thought his chosen path inferior in any way, he knew his strengths and had chosen deliberately. The blade called to him. Calmed him. The focus and elegant balance a single straight blade offered was something…
He shook his head, banishing the thoughts before he became even more distracted. “Guerrilla Warfare was a merged skill, correct?” at Lamb’s nod he asked, “what lower skills does it contain?”
A brief pause. “Err….”
“Seriously?” Nathlan asked with resigned disappointment, again surprised by the man’s ignorance despite repeated lessons. “Even your own skills?”
Lamb at least had the grace to look chagrined. He closed his eyes, muttering “Give me a moment”. True to his word, a few moments passed before he came back with an answer. “Simple Traps, Stalking and Improvised Weapons. Wow, okay yeah, I can see I’ve been neglecting some of those.”
Nathlan agreed but felt it only fair to point out his lack of opportunity. “You’ve not been in many wars since you left the valley, then?” Lamb laughed, and Nathlan suppressed his own smile in response, not keen on showing how happy he was that his joke had landed. “So, which do you think is the culprit? Surely not Stalking?”
Lamb absently twirled his spear, flexing his wrist and forearm to spin the weapon dextrously about himself as he thought. “No, definitely not. Can’t see it being Simple Traps either, being honest. How would Improvised Weapons be helping here though? What could it be indicating?”
He shrugged, unable to answer his friend. “I’m not sure unfortunately. Skills sometimes give vague hints like this when something is missing, but it’s hard to figure out what specifically they mean. Most people never do. There are a million hints that you’ll ignore as you level your skills – try not to focus too much on any single one. Only diligent practice lays a solid foundation, not bursts of insight.”
He repeated the words his family’s weapons-master had so often drilled into his head with a fond smile – his memories of the old woman were some of the few that remained untainted by his later discoveries.
Lamb nodded, considering. “I’ll get back to training then. Its gonna bug me all night though, I just know it.”
“Peace Lamb, it will happen in its own time. Enjoy your training, I’m heading back upstairs. I’ll swing by the kitchen on the way – would you like me to request anything for you?” Nathlan moved back towards the door to the inn, looking back over his shoulder before leaving to check for a reply. He saw Lamb grinning at him with a knowing look in his eye.
“Oh no – I think that was an offer only open to you, mate" he said with a wink, and Nathlan winced.
Lamb only laughed harder, and Nathlan turned away to hide his blush. It wasn’t cruel laughter, and he knew the man meant no harm, but Nathlan still struggled to treat the subject of romance casually, given his background. Although...perhaps it was time to change things.
He thought back to the rather obvious looks the waiter had been throwing him earlier, and after a brief mental battle, decided it wouldn’t be the worst thing to see if the man was free later for a drink.