Cole

Cole’s body ached. His head rung from the impact it had made with the ground. His heaving breaths rushed unwelcomed dust into his mouth. He felt tired and embarrassed. The source of his current state, Frost Wildoath, stood over him with a leering smirk.

“Your footing is weak. That’s why you keep falling over.”

Cole wondered if getting up was worth it. Frost was just going to throw him to the ground again. When Frost asked that Cole spar with him Cole thought it would be a straightforward duel, the kind he had done many times in his fencing classes. One of Cole’s javelins was dulled to uselessness making it a useful practice weapon for close range encounters. He had expected Frost to use his own mock weapons, but instead the wecher kept tackling Cole.

“My footing is fine for traditional combat. Not...whatever this is.”

“Amarok wrestling. We force our opponents into submission through strength and firm grip.”

Cole found the courage to get onto his feet for what might have been the seventh time in the last half-hour. He skipped back before Frost’s hairy hands could seize his shoulders like he had before.

“At least let me get my weapon.” Cole pleaded. His javelin sat where he dropped it just behind Frost.

“No. You have to get it yourself.”

Frost’s face jutted out further than a human’s, though nowhere near as far as the snout of a coatlmade. When the light caught it right Cole questioned if it was an optical illusion caused by Frost’s thick cheekbones and the shading of the fur just beneath his eyes. This assumption was dismissed when Frost smiled as he did now, which enhanced the effect in a way no illusion could. It was likely a cliche to say, but there was no other word for the smile but wolfish.

Cole felt like he was being bullied. He was quick enough from panic to avoid Frost’s reach. When he attempted to circle around he was tackled from the side. The ground was uneven and Cole landed on his left arm hard. Frost did not hold him there, though he easily could have. He retreated back to his position over Cole’s weapon.

“Why do you insist on this?” Cole caught a tremble of frustration in his voice.

“Because it works. You can’t expect every fight to be traditional as you understand it. This traditional for my people.”

“You tackle each other to death?”

“Not to death, to submission. Killing is not necessary to proving who is superior. Amarok tribes fight with blunt instruments that bruise, even cripple, but never kill. My father made his name on the day he defeated the nine brothers of the Rimepelt tribe. They wanted him as a hostage so that the Wildoaths would forfeit their hunting grounds. My father forced each of them to the ground with his favored bole-pole. He was found standing calmly in a circle of their groaning bodies. From that day forth he was known as Tiktak Wildoath, the Sculpture in the Circle.”

Cole flipped himself into a cross-legged position. He shook the pain out his arms and caught his breath. Across the field of merchant camps he could see the blue and white pavilion of the Order of Suffering. He had not seen any of the members since they returned this morning. Azeroth had claimed to have seen a collection of Order members leave on horseback while the others were in the market buying a fresh breakfast. Cole’s eyes drifted back to Frost who looked eager, and expectant, for Cole to attempt standing once more.

Wiping dust from his face, Cole scowled back at Frost. “I’m sorry, but this style of attack isn’t something that was covered at the academy. You’re not going to imprint it on me through brute force.”

Frost’s lip curled at Cole’s refusal. He did not relax his position, and Cole was still no braver to attempt standing with Frost watching him like a stubborn scavenger.

“This place you keep referring to, ‘the academy,’ I understand what it is and yet I don’t. It's a concept not known to my people.”

Cole let a rush of air out the side of his mouth. Frost had asked many questions pertaining to concepts he didn’t understand. He was a foreigner to both Athshin and Cole himself, hailing from a culture treated as a rare sight in most places. Of the five of them, Frost had perhaps the fewest points of shared reference.

“It’s a big school,” Cole improvised a vague gesture to mean “school.”

“—But a school I live at. All activities are built around a new lesson or refining a skill. I have fencing lessons, history lessons, lessons in performance and public speaking...”

“-And all that’s necessary?” Frost reeled in disgust and shock.

Cole had to think about what Frost was really asking. Did he mean necessary for life, or necessary to Cole?

“It is to become a bard.”

Frost was now more wrapped in conversation than he was the training. He dropped to a position of sitting on his knees. Another canine feature: Frost’s head tilted when he was curious. “I have only met one bard in my life. He was a dwarf in the town of Three Riverbeds. When my tribe’s tanner was pregnant, my father would take my siblings and I into Three Riverbeds to contract the leather worker there. For a year we would carry the hides of our recent hunts into town for the leather worker to tan, then return in a month to collect what was finished.”

Frost told stories like he was wandering through his own memories and relaying every detail he found. He looked to the few buildings of Ramuf that poked above the wall, though they were obscured partially by the midday smoke.

“Me and my siblings would take every visit as an excuse to explore the town. It was smaller than this but we had known only our tribe’s forest camp. Everything we found warranted curiosity. That is where I met the bard. Granden Thatch was his name. He claimed he was the oldest being for miles, and knew a story for every month he had lived. If there was coin leftover from the leather worker, then my older brother and I would pay Thatch to tell us a story, any story, so long as we hadn’t heard it before. It was from Thatch that I heard about Athshin. He was born here and spoke of it in such powerful terms. Ancient he called it. I wanted to see a place that was ancient.”

Frost looked wistful. He was lost in the memory of an elderly dwarf talking of his home. Cole took this as a chance to scoot closer.

“Does it live up to expectation?”

Frost had to do a small shake to pull himself out of his memories. Now he looked sideways to the ground as he dwelled on Cole’s question.

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“This is an ancient land, but I realize now that means little when you have no attachment to the history. Still, I look at these walls that have stood for hundreds of years and wonder if my people would ever construct something like it. Our homes are rarely permanent. We are not nomadic like Ptesan, but we move with the caribou and the seasons. I have known dozens of homes since I was born. We are a bit like the Phyrn in that way.”

Cole sensed that this was a topic Frost devoted much thought to. He spoke like it was a prepared speech he had rehearsed many times. Before Cole could probe deeper, Frost made abrupt eye contact. When Frost’s pale gold eyes were wide like this he looked more like a wolf than when he smiled.

“Stories have power. I came to Athshin on a story. If that is a bard’s purpose, then it is a good one. What you learn at your academy is important. I saw how the Phyrn fought, pinning opponents to the ground like a bloody version of amarok wrestling. I worried you were unprepared. That is why I insisted on this exercise.”

Cole’s smile was brittle, but it held. “I see. Yes. Survival like that is important, but tell me that first before you start treating me like a sack of flour. It also stops people from thinking you’re assaulting me.”

The last part was a joke, but Frost still looked around nervously. His anxiety left him when he saw Azeroth returning from the market with a pair of red striped melons.

“Lunch.” Azeroth explained.

Frost handed his cleaver to Cole, who carefully carved the first melon into equal parts. The flesh of the melon was soggy, offering no resistance to bites, but the juice had an undercurrent of spice that made Cole’s tongue tingle. Kindlemelon had that effect, which was why it was used more as an ingredient than a straight meal. Today the exotic taste was welcome. Cole realized that until this point in his life he had never gone with such long gaps between meals. He didn’t feel hungry though. Azeroth was always good at acquiring market food that was cheap and filled a man’s body.

Azeroth reached for his own slice only to be halted by Frosts thick hand. Azeroth was half-expectant/half-annoyed by Frost’s behavior. Frost was surprised by his own forwardness. He stalled to think of how he wanted to say what he wanted to say.

“It has been many days since our last competition. I wish to challenge you for the grizzly’s share of the melon.”

Azeroth’s expression didn’t budge. He sighed with enough force to match the blowing wind. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Wrestle me. I want to see how I match your unarmed strength.” Frost couldn’t contain his excitement.

“No. Pick something else.” Azeroth spoke quick and brusque.

Frost’s excitement shifted from shock to disappointment then to hope. He opened his mouth to propose an alternate challenge, but words failed him. Azeroth waited expectantly, but his hand moved ever closer to the slices of melon.

“What about push-ups?” Cole suggested.

Cole was getting better at reading Azeroth’s tells. When he stared unblinking at someone who had just spoken it meant he was thinking.

“I can do that.” Azeroth drifted his hand away from the melon.

“What are push-ups?” Frost inquired.

Cole and Azeroth looked to each other. Cole was once more reminded that not all concepts were universal. While Cole tried to capture the words to describe push-ups Azeroth simply dropped prone to demonstrate. Frost watched intently, but soon frowned as if he was expecting more.

“What’s the challenge then?”

“First to collapse loses.” Cole explained.

“Ah! It’s endurance. I see.”

Frost unburdened himself. Stripping off the padded leather clothes they had just bought in the market. He put himself onto his stomach and mimicked Azeroth’s movements. It wasn’t a perfect push-up, he kept buckling his knees out of habit and he brought his long face too close to the ground, but he kept at it. Azeroth did push-ups like he was born doing it. It didn’t seem fair to Frost, but neither had Frost’s treatment of Cole earlier.

Cole subtly grabbed an extra slice of melon. He wished he had a few graphite sticks for sketching the anatomy of his companions. His painting teacher had a fondness for drawings of exotic bodies. Cole had been removed from her lessons for being disruptive. If Cole presented her with a drawing of an orckin and amarok locked in a contest of manliness, then she would undoubtedly let him return. Cole retrieved one of the sheets of parchment he had been chronicling his adventures in Athshin in. The aged ink and quill he had been writing with wasn’t good for detailing, but it would serve for outline. Frost was easier to draw because of how he lingered on the crest of his push-up, but Azeroth moved faster leading to some guesswork from Cole.

“What do you think about us going to Outpost Onx?” Cole couldn’t help asking even with his companions otherwise distracted. The question had been on their minds since they had paired the details Azeroth learned with those from the Order of Suffering.

“I’m against it. If we provoke its guards it would be a pointless battle.” Frost spat between breaths.

“-But wouldn’t it be a tremendous pointless battle?” Cole was against it as well, but he was surprised Frost was.

“A battle’s greatness is determined by what is being fought for, not the number of participants. Even if what was stolen is at the outpost, it isn’t worth fighting for. Things can be replaced. Life cannot. When we fought the barbatus, we fought for our lives.”

The wecher stretched the speech out by only speaking at the crest of each push-up.

“What about the phyrn?” Cole asked.

Frost said something, but it was unintelligible between labored breathing and how quietly he said it. Cole would swear he heard the word “mistake,” but it wasn’t worth pursuing, Cole wanted to articulate his own thoughts.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to leave Ramuf. There’s still some of the local flavor I need to soak up.”

“Given how you smell of duende, I’d say you’ve soaked up plenty of the flavor.” Azeroth commented.

A low blow, but Cole allowed it. He couldn’t deny that he had made an extra stop when they visited the market this morning. He would have to try a different approach. “I certainly lost some valuable items that will be hard to replace, but I’m not going to fight for them. There’s only five of us. We can’t pay sellswords and the Order doesn’t seem to be around.”

Azeroth and Frost were still doing push-ups. Cole wondered how many the two had performed. Azeroth released a guttural exhale as he brought his arms to full extension.

“I’m done.”

Frost’s eyes went wide. He kept going in the chance that this was a trick, but Azeroth went to the cart to grab a single slice of melon. Frost pushed himself back to sitting position.

“You’re not tired.”

“No, but I am done. I thought you’d forfeit sooner.”

Azeroth made a small shrug. Frost accepted this victory, but recognized it was hollow. He took his larger share of the kindlemelon.

It was soon that Bréag and Rerume returned from the Vulture temple. Bréag had his mask tied so stiff the breeze couldn’t move it. Rerume looked as if he had twenty different thoughts on his mind.

“We were just discussing the outpost.” Cole admitted.

“As were we.” Bréag’s purple eyes flitted to Rerume.

“Bréag has convinced me that it is our best course of action for reclaiming what was lost. Among other things.” Rerume said.

“But there’s only five of us…” Cole reiterated.

“We’ll scout the location. Confirm that it’s where our stolen items were taken. We may even find a weakness to exploit.”

“-Or a reason to not fight at all.” Cole nodded. He was still against going, but at least the plan sounded safer.

“I’m going regardless. The four of you are welcome to join.” All heads turned to Azeroth when he said this.

“Why? What do you hope to find?” Frost asked. He took any opportunity to express interest in the mystery that was Azeroth.

Azeroth answered in his Azeroth way. “Something that can’t be replaced. Something that can’t be forgotten.”

That made the decision three to two. They had an unspoken agreement to majority rule. Once the second melon was consumed they would set to the market once more to haggle for supplies. Cole suddenly felt like asking Frost to resume their sparring. When Cole looked to Bréag, he saw hope flash in his purple eyes.

They would leave at dawn tomorrow.