Cole

“We’ll head southwest until we find one of the Serpent Paths.”

Rerume spoke like he was the leader of the group. Cole supposed he was, given he was the one who knew where they were going. Still, he could ease the terse tone.

It was barely morning. Rerume had gone about waking the four men from their respective resting places. Cole was the last to be woken on account he was curled up behind the chapel. Rerume had kicked him awake before grunting something about “moving out before the sun grew harsh.” Cole couldn’t remember ever waking at this hour before.

“Serpent Paths?” Frost was quite awake and full of energy.

“The roads built by the Empire.” Rerume growled, speaking to Frost like he was a child.

“They connect from every major city and every coast. A marvel of labor.” Cole explained between yawns. “You’re not too familiar with Athshin, are you?”

“I knew it was the homeland of the Tecuani and Evaki, but not much else.” Frost always made eye contact when speaking to someone even when he lowered his head in shame.

“The Tecuani stay to their jungles. You won’t see any of them.” Rerume replied.

Lyr came up to the cart. He was in an amicable mood this morning. His hands were occupied by twisting the electrum band around his right ring-finger as his eyes flitted to each member of the group.

“I thought I’d do the honor of seeing you off. The other three are prepping for our own journey. Heading to Ramuf right? You’ll do good to avoid the lizardfolk of the area. They can be eager to jump on isolated groups like yourself.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Cole thanked him. It was pleasant to see Lyr so conversational. Last night he had been so distant, even to his own allies.

“We’re armed enough to face any threat.” Frost mused. He flashed the short-sword he had taken from the barbatus salvage.

Azeroth approached from behind. Cole only saw the swift jerk of his hand and knee, but the result was Frost disarmed and stumbling back in shock.

“‘Any threat’ seems an overstatement. I’m barely awake.” Azeroth vaulted into the cart with a single motion.

Cole’s mouth gaped slightly. He had almost believed that he had imagined Azeroth as he was.

Frost took his sword out of the dirt. He regarded Azeroth with a level of mysticism. “How did you do that?”

Azeroth made a short grunt. He reclined in the cart with his eyes shut. Frost took his place next to the orc, intent on forcing an answer down the line.

Cole climbed into the cart next. He held his quiver close so it didn’t poke Azeroth’s legs. He counted his javelins for the fiftieth time. Four. That was all he had as a means of defense. Maybe in Ramuf he could buy a proper saber. There were swords in the salvage cart, but none were designed like those he had trained with. How he’d buy a saber, he didn’t know. That said, the idea of learning how to use a foreign weapon such as these javelins was exciting to him. Maybe he’d only keep the sword as a last resort.

Bréag poked his shoulder. A silent command to move over. Bréag had been massaging the saurian, “Mall,” as he called her. After their talk last night Cole was certain that Bréag wasn’t his real name, but Cole wasn’t going to pry until the man was ready. He preferred the mystery.

“I hope your group has success in your mission.” Cole said to Lyr as he moved as far over as he could.

“We’ll find a way. I hope we can meet again.” Lyr forced a smile.

“Athshin is vast.” Rerume was stretching his legs. He was going to walk alongside the cart, since he knew the way to Ramuf and could direct the saurian.

“It is, but there are only so many cities.” Lyr was now tapping his nails against the metal ring. “Dirk’s a big believer in fate. Me? Not so much, but sometimes you can’t deny how things tend to work out when you need them to.”

“You think it was fate that freed us from those bindings?” Cole asked cryptically.

“No. It was my muscles.” Azeroth spoke with his eyes shut.

“The sun will be cresting soon.” Rerume’s tone sought to end the idle chatter.

Lyr took the hint and gave a final gesture of farewell. The town of Devil’s Rest was still asleep. As the cart jerked into motion Cole took the time to remember as much of the town as he could. Any number of details could be useful when describing this adventure to his peers at the academy. Ran’Jan always held attention when she talked about her expeditions in the Mantle of Ice, but perhaps this time Cole would win the game of stories.

“The three of you missed quite the competition last night.” Frost was walking astride the cart as well. Cole assumed the expression he displayed was supposed to bring intrigue, but it looked more like he had gas.

When he had gained the attention of all four other people present, Frost explained that he had challenged Azeroth to a drinking competition. Trub from the Lion’s Claw had negotiated for the free flowing of his cheapest ale to ease the nerves of the survivors. Frost and Azeroth quickly became the center of attention when Frost became determined to challenge the half-orc over something. Evidently the choice was between drinking or sparring. The barkeep wouldn’t have them bothering the other patrons, so they set in a competition of matching drinks. Before he said it Cole knew that Frost had lost that particular battle. Orcs had two livers and had difficulty intoxicating. Then again, Azeroth was a half-blood. Perhaps he didn’t have the extra liver. Questions for later.

“It would’ve been more of a challenge if you didn’t lose all control after your second cup.” Azeroth picked at a brown substance in his ear.

“It was a stronger drink than I was used to.” Frost was quick to dismiss the claim.

Azeroth made intentional eye contact with Cole. His expression told Cole that Frost might not be as seasoned a drinker as he claimed. Another thing Cole would have to probe about in his new companions. This was actually a good time to examine them, now that they were still and close and the lighting was clear.

Frost was a thicker built than Azeroth. His faded black hair was cut to a mullet-like design. His hair was distinct from his fur, which all wechers had. Frost’s fur was short and stiff and gray like rain clouds. It didn’t cover his entire body, as there were large sections on his arms and face where pale orange skin was exposed. Really, it seemed the furriest part of him was his ears, which were pointed like a fae’s, but rounder. Frost even showed some level of control over them, but it was nowhere near the level of manipulation an Elden like Bréag could perform.

Bréag himself was keeping himself small and unnoticeable, which only drew Cole’s intrigue more. The mask he fussed over hid less than he probably wanted. It was impeded by his long, firm nose, the slope of which was the only blunt feature he had. Elden Fae are described as having “sharp” faces and Bréag was no exception. His features looked crafted from goldstone, except he didn’t glitter.

It was a firm contrast to Azeroth’s face, which was round and laced with bruises and cuts that might never heal. His jaw seemed a blunt instrument in it’s own right, surely capable of breaking down castle doors. Pure-blooded orcs were green like pine, but a half-blood was lighter in color, more like sea-foam. That was how Cole knew.

Azeroth’s were shut, but they slowly formed a frown. Cole could not say why, but he felt that he was responsible for that expression. He swiftly turned his attention elsewhere.

“Rerume, what business do you have to do in Ramuf?” Cole asked their silent guide.

“Clergy business. I have been summoned to a small council of the Vulture Mother’s faithful headed by the Eldest Cleric. What is to be discussed, I do not know, but it must be necessary based on the tone of the summons.”

“Your opinion carries enough sway to be involved?” Bréag had settled himself enough to engage in conversation.

Rerume caressed the feathers on the back of his head. “That is part of my confusion. I live in the Dune Seas and have little exemplary to warrant such a summons. Perhaps it is my status as an Avenger, but I doubt that is enough.”

“An Avenger? What do you avenge?” Frost asked.

Rerume did not give an immediate response. It took Cole a moment to realize that Frost didn’t actually know what an Avenger was and was asking purely on the word as he knew it.

“Avengers swear three oaths in our lives: The first is our Oath to Avenge. It is what binds us to our chosen gods. It is a promise that justice will be served. The second Oath is of Enmity. It is a fluid oath that shifts depending on who stands in our way. The third is the Oath of Finality. The declaration that our duty is fulfilled and that we will never take up arms again.”

Frost was silent for a beat, then left the cart so that he may walk beside Rerume. “But who do you avenge?”

Stolen story; please report.

Rerume was silent.

“I assume the defiled dead. Is that right, Rerume?” Cole was also curious.

“Neither of you have earned the privilege to know.” Rerume answered through clenched teeth.

Frost froze in his tracks. When the cart passed him he summited into it once more, exchanging a dire look with Cole. Both were shocked by the sudden shift in tone. "Fair enough,” was all Cole could say in terms of diplomacy.

The conversation shifted to Frost himself. He talked about his people, the Wildoath Tribe, and their home in south Anchorrome. He spoke of his journey through the Northern Continent, during which Bréag contributed some questions. Cole listened intently. The only time he had met any wecher was when he was very young. There was a tribe of Amarok that came to his parents’ trading post for supplies. They arrived once every autumn for three years. Cole could clearly remember watching them from between the posts on the stairs. Young Cole asked his parents what kind of “monsters” had visited the shop.

“They’re just people,” his parents would benignly reply. That’s what they said about everyone that passed through the post: “They’re just people.”

The trail intersected with an ancient road of pearl-colored stones. One of the many Serpent Paths that crossed the expanse of Athshin. Once Mall was set in the proper direction, Rerume joined his companions in the cart. The Serpent Path was not deserted. A caravan of coatlmade merchants in green robes caught up with them. The merchants were eager to talk, especially after seeing the state of the travelers. Cole told the story of their escape, going so far as to act out details of the battle by standing in the rickety cart. It was an action that nearly sent him face-first into the road, saved at the last moment by Azeroth catching the hem of his clothing. The merchants repaid the story with fruit from their baskets that served as the travelers’ lunch. Unfortunately, the merchants’ horses were faster than Mall and they surpassed the cart entirely.

“You talk a good tale.” Azeroth said as he wiped pulp from his stubble.

“I damn well hope. Otherwise the Oran Academy owes me a refund.”

“You paid to learn how to tell stories?”

“Among other things. I’m studying to be a bard, which includes mastery of storytelling.” Cole tapped his chest proudly.

“And what else?” Azeroth asked. His head was tilted back far enough to rest the base of his skull on the cart’s edge.

“Song Arcana.” Bréag said.

“Aye. Spells spoken in the language of instruments or weaved into the verses of ancient ballads. I’m not at that stage yet.” Cole admitted. If he had been born an Incarnate he would already be capable of magic. For now he needed to wait until he was exposed to a source.

“Magic songs.” Azeroth was now cleaning rind from under his fingernails. “Figures the elves would have something like that.”

Frost asked if Cole knew any stories about Wechers. Cole confessed his courses focused mainly on Fae material. The Fae were people of stories, after all. Cole looked wistfully to the merchants up the road. He was still hungry. At least they were going to the same destination. It meant he could talk his way into more free food.

There was a black haze that hung in the horizon. It drifted from a walled city that rose into view. That was Ramuf. Rerume had to assure his companions that the city was not on fire. Legend held that an Enenra, a being of smoke, was bound beneath the soil of Ramuf. The Enenra’s lust for wealth attracted trade to the city. Trapped as it was, the Enenra could not claim the riches above, so all it could do was fume in anger when the markets were at their fullest.

“The Ramuf Market is vast. You’ll find replacements for what was lost.” Rerume got out of the cart again to direct Mall.

“You speak like you intend to break from us,” Frost said.

“I make no promises. Whatever I learn from this council...it may direct me to a new path.”

Their cart was not allowed into the city without paying for a stable so it remained outside the walls with other caravans. Rerume left without a goodbye. He followed a trail of posts marked with black feathers and bird skulls. Bréag volunteered to stay with the cart while the remaining three took to the market with the pouch of coins.

“Proper clothes are my priority. What else do we need for travel?” Cole spoke to the others. The city streets were thick with people of all forms, but Cole was adept at navigating a crowd and talking at the same time.

His eyes watered from the smoke. It was thin enough that it's only hazard was to the eyes. The regulars of the city seemed immune to it. The buildings in Ramuf favored stoutness. Only a handful of important looking structures extended more than three stories. They were made with adobe bricks that featured a nice texture for Cole to run his fingers against. The city walls were made of thick cut stone that bore the visible marks of ancient sieges. Cole wondered if such stone had come from the Teotl ruins he had seen yesterday.

Cole had only visited small towns in Athshin so far. His original journey was to take him to Ciutaflor further northwest, but Ramuf was still a popular destination. Cole’s ears relished the many languages and dialects he heard.

“I desire nothing but basic comforts.” Frost had difficulty breaking the tides of people. He pawed them aside like he was navigating thick underbrush.

“Food.” Azeroth spoke the word like he was casting magic.

The market was assembled in a courtyard adjacent to the Ramuf keep. Stalls were assembled with thick linens and rugs to keep the smoke out. Cole was immediately drawn to a tailor with just the clothing he was looking for. It was fine make, and also costing several more silver than he had as his share. He recalled the bone tokens and offered those.

“Not at this stall,” the old merchant balked. “The only ones who accepted that were the phyrn, and they no longer have a place in this market.”

“Phyrn?” Frost shouted over the crowds.

“The lizards.” The merchant replied with a disinterested expression.

“Do they reside nearby?” Frost asked.

“They are no longer interested in trading. Switched it for raiding.” The merchant laughed at her own wordplay.

The merchant turned her attention to a customer actually able to buy something. Azeroth rejoined the duo with a fist full of seasoned meat scraps. Cole explained that even pooling their wealth would only result in supplies for just one of them. Azeroth chewed thoughtfully. He scanned the crowd until he found a thick human with a scorpion tattoo climbing his bald head. Shoving the last of the meat into his mouth, Azeroth tapped the man with his elbow. When the man faced Azeroth he had to restrain his revulsion at the dirty half-orc staring up at him.

“What?” The human barked.

Many people took notice of the pair. Azeroth did not answer while his mouth was full. After swallowing as loudly as he could, he spoke: “I wager thirty silver that I can knock you on your back.”

This captured the attention of those watching. Murmurs broke out to relay what the orc had said. Cole could sense Frost’s entire body focusing on what might come next. He nearly drooled at the prospect of seeing Azeroth fight again.

“Is this a joke?” the bald man slipped his tongue between the gap in his teeth. “How’s this ‘cadokin walking the streets when the Order is here?”

“Twenty silver.” Azeroth showed no investment. He didn’t even look at the man.

“You don’t have twenty silver.” The man spat. The crowd concurred with his resentment. Cole worried a fight was about to break out, and not the kind where someone won a wager at the end.

“Then you can take a finger.” Azeroth stated plainly. That brought a fresh ripple of murmurs that ended with tense silence. A circle of space was given.

“That orc looks scrawny.” Cole’s ears tuned to the conversation behind him. A human man was talking with one of the coatlmade merchants. “I think six hoe on the mason’s son.”

“You know nothing about how Orcs fight.” Frost was also listening and keen to defend Azeroth’s honor.

“And you do? What even are you?” The bystander scowled at Frost.

Cole saw opportunity here. He lowered his lids and thinned his smile to give himself a sly, smug look. The kind of look you wish to see broken. “What my companion means is that all Orcs are stronger than they look. I think the odds are more even than you think.”

“How even?” The coatlmade woman asked.

“Even enough that I’d be bold enough to wager an entire silver on the orc.”

“Hrm. Perhaps I’ll match you.” The human curled his upper lip. He and the woman produced their bet coins, a gesture that Cole matched with one from the pouch.

Azeroth’s opponent was coming around to the idea. He circled Azeroth, looking for any tricks to this proposition.

“Twenty silver if you win. Your finger if I win.” The bald man repeated. He was behind Azeroth now. His eyes sparked with cruel intent. “Deal!”

He struck Azeroth from behind. A hard elbow to the back of his head. Azeroth only stumbled a single step. Spinning on his heel, Azeroth faced his opponent with his forearms shielding his face. A necessary action for deflecting the swinging blows that followed. The human —the “mason’s son”— stepped back to assess his enemy. Azeroth’s hands jolted forward like vipers, seizing his shoulders. Once secure, Azeroth dragged the man’s upper body downward so that tender jaw met hard knee.

The human dropped to all fours. His head swung dizzily until Azeroth hammered it with his fist. The pain was enough to rattle the man into collapsing. What Azeroth did next was an unorthodox move: Leaping in the air in such a way that his elbow landed on his enemy’s back. The bald man wheezed, all his breath escaping his lungs.

All that was left was to flip the man over.

“On your back. I win” Azeroth said calmly.

The bald man bitterly handed over his coin, but not before spitting a mouthful of blood on it. Azeroth was unphased by the spit and tossed the wet coins to himself. Cole collected from his own wager. The crowd dispersed, but now more eyes were on the trio as they counted their winnings.

“You do that often?” Cole asked Azeroth.

“When I need to.” Azeroth grunted. He wiped his hand on the front of Cole’s shirt, an action that caught Cole by such surprise that he let it happen.

Frost clapped Azeroth’s back. “You must teach me your unarmed talents.”

Azeroth shook his head. Not to Frost, but to himself.

“How’d you pick the opponent?” Cole asked. He was keeping an eye on the bald man behind Azeroth. The man acted like he was resuming his business in the market, but he kept shooting Azeroth the foulest looks.

“Big guy with clean skin. Thinks he’s good in a fight, but never been in one.”

“And the finger wager?”

Azeroth shrugged. “Some freaks like a trophy. Doesn’t always work.”

“Twenty-two silver paired with what we had before won’t get us everything we want, but it's a start.” Cole was separating the coins into small piles on his hand.

“I’m not doing that again.” Azeroth took a silver. His eyes drifted to the direction of the roasting meats.

“How come?”

“Eventually they stop seeing it as entertainment and start seeing it as dangerous.”