The rising sun had just begun to burn away the clinging mist as the Ironclad, In Time Forgotten, arrived at anchor five hundred feet off the coast of the Manor Isle.
At little more than a glance the Trinity Isles lived up to their reputation, Alarion had decided. There were, in fact, three of them. Elena had told him little of the islands, other than that they were secure and that she hated visiting them for what were now fairly obvious reasons.
This left him to do the deductions himself.
The island nearest was the so called ‘Manor Isle’ and it was, again, easy to see why. A four story brick manor house dominated the island’s surface, surrounded by a twenty foot tall curtain wall. Two main towers on either side of the gate served as lighthouse, gatehouse and lookout.
Each was decorated with a unfamiliar banner of teal and violet, depicting a swirling vortex. Above those flew a much more recognizable banner. This one was red, white and black, an abstract image of an octagon with three small slivers seemingly cut out of it at random.
Everyone recognized the flag of the Numbered Empire.
The island to his left proved quite different. Much larger than the other two, lush and green, it contained a thick forest the likes of which Alarion had never seen. It felt somehow sinister, too shadowed on a day where the sun shone so brightly overhead. Small pathways seemed to dot the edges of the wicked woods, and even at a distance he could see hints of short, rapid movements.
Something lived on that island.
The last of the three seemed inhospitable in its own way. Unlike the other two which were largely flat, this island looked as though someone had plucked a mountaintop from some distant land and dropped it down into the Middle Sea. Its surface was green but covered in jagged grey outcroppings of rock. Stranger still, portions of that stone seem to have been struck away, or perhaps blasted away by powerful forces.
“Alarion.” Elena’s word was as much a command as a call for his attention.
“S-sorr-” He began to apologize before be thought better of it and simply hopped over the railing to meet her on the ship’s lower deck.
That drew curious looks from the nearby crew, but Elena barely paid his haste any mind. He’d been hustled onto the ironclad while Elena and her husband, or the Ordinate projecting the Governor, had exchanged words below deck. Whatever the conversation, she had come back nearly as pale as she’d been for much of the previous day.
“They will be taking us ashore momentarily.” Elena explained without preamble. “While I had hoped to be there for proper introductions, I am… expected in the manor itself to discuss our arrival. Are you comfortable beginning immediately?”
Something about the fierceness of her gaze made Alarion hesitate, but only for a moment. Elena had been clear that his presence as a ward of her House came with expectations. “I am.”
“Good. Ezekial will greet you in the courtyard for introductions. He has been with the House for an age. Do not disappoint him.”
With that they moved to the tender boat waiting alongside the Forgotten. If the rougher seas affected Elena during the short journey to shore, she didn’t let it show. Her gloved hands were already balled tight in her lap before they got underway, and they remained as such until the moment they reached the small dock.
Elena disembarked without a word to him, a number of laborers following on her heels with all of her property and the supplies they had brought for an extended stay. This left Alarion alone for the first time since… likely since they found him. Someone had always been nearby during his time at her estate and during the voyage. People were still around here, a guardsman on the wall, a groundskeeper tending to the trees but not one of them spared him so much as a glance.
He liked that feeling of being overlooked, ignored. It was familiar. Reassuring. They were times of hunger and of deprivation, but those were troubles he knew well. Ones he had adapted to. This new world, full of dangers and expectations was an altogether different and perhaps more challenging beast.
One he had to contend with. Much as he might fantasize about disappearing into the waves, ignored and forgotten, that was then and this was now.
He wanted to be of use.
His legs were surprisingly shaky back on dry land. Alarion had taken to the sea with relative ease, but the transition back to his natural state was more difficult than he would have thought. He kept expecting to have to shift his weight, to shorten or twist his step to account for the movement of the ground.
You are suffering from Disembarkation Sickness.
Movement reduced by 30% for two minutes.
AGI reduced by 30% for two minutes.
The sudden appearance of the ‘helpful’ notification at the top of his vision caused Alarion to trip over his own already unstable feet. He tumbled to the ground in a heap, prompting an additional message:
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You have suffered minor bludgeoning damage. HP -4.
Someone up in the guard tower ahead began to snicker and on the ground Alarion braced himself. Would it be Mental Damage? Psychic Damage? Pride Damage? Because the laughter hurt significantly more than the fall.
The alert messages were something he was still getting used to. An Ordinate, the first one he’d met back in Ashad-Vitri, had shown him how to activate this sort of passive notification and how to customize and tune the Status interface to his liking. Changing the color, the font, the types of messages that appeared, the duration and so forth.
Elena had recommended that he leave most notifications on to begin with, and then pare them back as he became more accustomed to the sudden intrusions. Notifications such as an explanation behind a sudden illness could be the difference between life and death, or so he was told, but a notification every time he burned his tongue on some soup would be intrusive to say the least.
Alarion gathered his legs beneath him, along with what little remained of his pride and pushed himself upright once again. His legs felt rubbery, but the notification ticking down at the corner of his view reminded him that this was temporary. He’d be back in full form long before it mattered.
Despite the earlier laughter, neither the spear wielding guards at the gate, nor the two men up in the tower said so much as a snide word to Alarion as he passed beneath the raised portcullis. Their breastplates were emblazoned with the same symbol that flew above the keep, and they had the same ice blue eyes as Elena. Both were signs that a Vitrian was from one of the numbered houses, a ‘true’ Vitrian, rather than a foreigner who had earned citizenship, let alone a provincial subject like himself.
Only the best guards for a Governor, it seemed. Even the porters had those same eyes, come to think of it.
The area just beyond the gate opened into a vast, and largely empty rectangular courtyard. The cobblestone road leading to the gate gave way to a stone floor so smooth and level that it somehow once again threatened Alarion’s balance. The ground was matte and textured, clearly designed for function over form though ringed by a few feet of greenery and trees around the edges of the courtyard, to give the area some semblance of aesthetic appeal.
Alarion had never seen a training yard, but even he understood what he was looking at. The outer boundaries of the yard were laden with racks containing all manner of weapons both practice and practical. A half dozen suits of armor were set up along the left side of the courtyard, each on its own custom mannequin. At the opposite end were an equal number of straw combat dummies and, oddly, a full sized brass statue standing with its palms pressed together, its head down as if in prayer.
His attention piqued, Alarion moved closer to examine it.
What had looked like a single piece statue at a distance grew much more complex the closer he walked. There was separation between the plates, banding running down its torso and arms. Most joints had a sort of cylindrical screw or hinge, as though a person would be able to pose the statute to their specifications.
Closer still, Alarion was taken aback by the sheer horror of its face. The details were intricate as the rest of it, humanoid in appearance, but that of a maimed human. Its ‘face’, such as it was had been sculpted as though it had been raggedly cut away. The nose, lips and most of the cheeks had been carved out to reveal painstakingly crafted metal cartilage, sinew, flesh and teeth. Paradoxically, the damage left the creature with a sort of rictus grin. That even carved up, with its head bowed in silent contemplation it looked as though it were grinning from ear to ear, a smile that twinkled in the green crystal lenses that passed for its eyes.
“You must be Master Alarion.”
You are frightened. -25% to all stats for the next five seconds.
The notification was, if anything, an understatement. If Alarion were to have described his condition in that moment, he’d have gone with something closer to: ‘Your soul is attempting to escape your body’.
To his extremely minimal credit, Alarion didn’t topple over backward in his haste to backpedal. It was more luck than skill, but he even managed to put his hands up in front of him in a sort of instinctive combat stance.
Upon seeing this, the brass reaper cocked its head to one side and spread its hands wide. “Hand to hand? Already? I thought we would start with introductions.”
“Introductions?” Alarion repeated. Something about that word. “Ezekial?”
“Zepher Technologies Educational Kombat Encounters Trainer Model Three.” The metal man agreed, as though that was remotely similar to what Alarion had said. As the boy still looked confused, the machine held up a clenched fist to show the designation written on the back of its palm, the words slashed through with a line and replaced with the word ZEKE. “You may call me ZEKE, or, if you must, Ezekial.”
Alarion looked at what he was rapidly growing to understand was a machine with skepticism. “I only learned this language recently, but wouldn’t your name be ZTEK? ZTEKETMT?” He paused, frowning, “Wait, isn’t combat spelled with a C?”
“If Zepher Technologies were still extant, I am certain they would value your feedback. As it is, I can say they provided exceptional work, but not always exceptionally useful acronyms.”
“Ah.” Alarion nodded as though that made any sense. “So you’re… a machine, then?”
“Quite astute, Master Alarion.”
Alarion gave Zeke a dirty look.
“Shall I reduce my sarcasm, somewhat?” ZEKE asked in a way that suggested it would do anything but. It was only as the terrified condition fully abated that Alarion noticed how utterly normal ZEKE’s voice was. A strong baritone in keeping with its broad chest and powerful physique, but not metallic as one might expect. “You are correct. More specifically, I am a Zephyr Technologies Artificial Humanoid. Most commonly we are referred to as ‘Steelborn’, though the metallic composition is far from correct in my case.”
“You are going to be my instructor?” Alarion asked. It was perhaps not the most pertinent question, but his mind was abuzz with so many different trains of thought that it was very much first come first serve.
“I am indeed. As I was Mistress Elena’s tutor, during her youth. And her mother’s, and her grandmother’s.”
“You have been with them for a long time.” Alarion noted.
“Three Hundred and Fourteen years, serving the House of Hunger.” ZEKE said with neither pride nor regret. “Though in all that time, you will be the first non-Vitrian I will have trained. I am eager to see if there are any insights I can glean from your training or technique.”
“I will probably disappoint.” Alarion admitted. “I don’t have much of either.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am sure it will be elucidating regardless. There is only one way to be sure.” The lenses of ZEKE’s eyes shifted from a gentle green to a muted red as the Steelborn crossed his arms. “Please, young master. Attempt to strike me.”