“I don’t understand,” the Wanderer huffs as the two of them make their way through the winding streets of Miraya. They finally come upon the main road running through the middle of the city. A large wooden board stands at the corner of the street they are exiting, and features a map of the City of Miraya in all of its symmetrical beauty. “What exactly are Guardians?”
“Have you still not regained your memory of such matters?” Lahab asks him, leading the way with her sack slung over her shoulder. “These are not trivial things to forget.”
He frowns in irritation, adjusting the leather straps of the heavy pack he wears on his back. Lahab made sure to purchase supplies before they finally headed out, and he had offered to carry them in an effort to be useful while accompanying her. He studies the map of Miraya for a moment, trying to commit it to memory. After all, it is the only place he knows – and even then he knows very little of it. It is a large city, with an interesting design – circles upon circles, and winding roads passing through clusters of buildings and homes. It seems a place of many opportunities.
Map of the City of Miraya, featuring the cliff's edge over the sea to the south. [https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EHCUIYaRCQw/YSFWsRYySTI/AAAAAAAAAq4/BSou3cPyicsi_DKS_Km1NqMqcTdZkL7BACLcBGAsYHQ/s1599/map%2Bof%2Bmiraya%2Bcity%2Bfinal%2B-%2Bhybaiswriting.png]
Will he ever return? A small part of him wishes he could just stay here, but there is nothing for him here – no friends or family, nobody he can trust apart from Lahab. He knows no one else – except for Deletrear – and he certainly doesn’t know anything about Guardians or spells or drains or anything else that seem to come so naturally to everyone in this world.
He is completely and utterly alone – and it unsettles him that this emotion is not strange to him. But he has to admit that he is already feeling much better – stronger, as though he can do anything – and that, at the very least, is a comfort.
“Perhaps I should refresh your memory,” Lahab offers. They maneuver their way through the crowded road, passing horse-drawn wagons and wooden carts pulled along by people. “Do you know what a Noble is?”
“Not in the slightest.”
She hums, and as the two of them make their way down the main road at a comfortable pace – headed, according to the map, to the Sisters of Miraya, the name given to three great universities world-renowned – the Wanderer listens intently as she explains.
“A Noble is someone whose main endeavor in life is to serve and protect their community,” she says simply. “They are chosen by their community, and given the title for demonstrating their willingness to be of service to their people. It’s quite straightforward, really. All Guardians must first be Nobles, but not all Nobles can be Guardians.”
“Straightforward for you, perhaps,” the Wanderer mutters. “But I think I get the gist. Are you a Noble?”
“Yes,” she says, winding her way down the road. This part of the path is full – merchants and travelers passing through the gates, guards checking their wares for anything illicit. It is a familiar sight, and while he doesn’t remember where he’s seen something similar, the feeling puts him at ease.
“So, you’re committed to protecting and serving your community,” he says, and she nods in confirmation. “Only… What exactly is your community?”
“The Ildenwood Forest,” Lahab tells him. “Everything within its borders is my responsibility. The fauna, the flora, and even the visitors passing through.”
Which makes him her responsibility, too. He still cannot remember how he found himself there in the first place -or, as it were, how he lost himself there – and who else might have been there with him.
Who else might have left him there… To die.
That is what it was, in the end. With a drain as potent as the one he had – with a curse as cruel – whoever left him behind knew that he did not have much time left. Knew that he would not – could not – remember anything.
Who would despise him to such a degree?
His grip tightens on the straps of the pack he carries. All will be revealed. His memory is returning, bit by bit. If those flashes of memory are anything to go by, Deletrear’s words are true. The more time passes, the more he will remember – though he still doesn’t know if he wants to remember it all.
He thinks back to the small glimpses of his memory that have revealed themselves. The severed head. The monster. The grief and anger and yearning. He is scared what he might uncover now that the memory block has been removed.
By now they have reached the Sisters of Miraya, and he can’t help but wonder at the gigantic architectural feats as he passes them by. They are so large, it seems only natural that people should want to travel here to see them. Windows spanning three or four floors shine like mirrors in the early afternoon sun, and murals adorn the exteriors of the buildings, each with their own themes, styles, and motifs. One in particular catches his attention – a stylized portrait of a young man and woman with striking silver-white hair, looking quite important as they gaze off into some far-off distance. The image moves something in him – some nudge of memory – but he still can’t seem to reach it.
All kinds of people mill about the area, some simply there to enjoy the refreshing green park walk and glittering fountains located in the middle of the rounded area in which the universities stand. Others – students, undoubtedly – carry about scrolls, books, and stacks of papers as they hurry along from one place to the next. The very air here seems charged with productivity.
The very air in the Garden of Three Sisters seems charged with productivity.
You have gained +2 Energy.
Sure enough, the Wanderer experiences a small rush of energy flowing through him, and he cannot deny that he would like to stay here a little while longer, to soak in the ambiance of the place. But Lahab moves through the park, set on her mission. Does she feel as energized by this place as he does? He cannot tell. Lahab’s strides are confident and sure. She knows where she is going. By comparison, his strides are uncertain and hesitant, because he is still lost.
“Tell me more,” he says in an attempt to move past his thoughts, and comes up beside her, matching her speed. “Tell me about Guardians.”
Lahab’s fingers run down her side braid as she considers for a moment. “Guardians are also sworn to protect and serve their communities, but they have far heavier burdens to carry than Nobles.”
“How so?” he asks as they leave behind the Garden of Three Sisters and its giant buildings, standing tall and sturdy like immovable sentinels. They are on the northern road leading to Sowarr, or so a large wooden road sign tells him.
“A Guardian must pass a test of character and mastery of skill,” she explains. “They must demonstrate that they are prepared and willing to be Guardians – but a Noble can only become eligible for the tests if they are nominated by one or more Guardians. As with the position of Noble, it is action that speaks louder than words. There are none who can avoid the toil and dedication that is required of a Guardian, and those who are nominated and wish to claim the position must first pass a series of tests.”
“Do Nobles not pass tests, too?”
“Yes, but that is a less formal evaluation. All a person must do is demonstrate their ability to take action to serve and protect their community. People take note of those who help – of those who are always there, reliable and true, and who have the best interests of their societies and environments at heart. And that is the test for a Noble. They must earn the trust and respect of the people through action, and are then voted into the position by their community.” She switches shoulders for the sack she carries – the one that always looks empty but seems to be more important to her than anything else.
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“A Guardian has to accomplish all of that and much more,” she continues. “The test for a Guardian looks to their inner character – their integrity and determination. It cannot be passed through deception. One cannot simply perform their way into becoming a Guardian. If they do not have a true conviction and good intention, they will not pass the tests. If they do not have a record of significant deeds for their community, they will not pass the tests. If they cannot demonstrate mastery in their chosen skills--”
“They will not pass the tests,” he finishes, nodding. “Are you a Guardian?”
“Indeed. I am the Noble Guardian of Ildenwood. I have been for two years now.” Whether she is proud of this is not evident in her tone. She says it as though it is simple fact – as though she is speaking of something that has nothing to do with her, as though she is simply saying, Yes, the sun is very bright.
“You passed your tests, then? All of them?”
“Mine was a special case,” she says. For a moment, she opens her mouth to say something else, but thinks better of it, clearing her throat and turning away to stare at the large industrial buildings that now enclose upon both sides of the road.
This part of Miraya, it seems, is where one finds all the factories. They pass a grainery, large wooden water tanks, and many more buildings that, when peered into, reveal a range of different items and foodstuffs. Most importantly, they pass the large area dedicated to the refinement and packaging of salt, which is undoubtedly the area’s most profitable trade.
“Part of the test could not apply because there are no people in Ildenwood – no one to testify on my behalf with regards to my record. Apart from the test for character, I was most heavily evaluated on my abilities and skills.”
There is more to it – her behavior has made it clear – but for now that is all she will give him.
They finally reach the gate towards Sowarr. As they pass through the gate, two notices materialize before him.
You have left The City of Miraya.
You have entered The City of Sowarr.
For a while, they walk in silence. He mulls over her words. Nobles. Guardians. None of this seems in the remotest familiar to him. Miraya had not seemed familiar to him, nor had the forest. He runs his hands through his curly dark hair. At the very least, he has more time now to remember it all – for it must be there, in the back of his mind.
While they are technically within the borders of Sowarr, the walk to the city itself is long and tiresome. It takes all day, and by the time they have arrived, they have passed dozens of farms, fields, and groves. Now, they have arrived at yet another building with a flag upon it. It stands at the edge of the city, almost as though to lead the army of homes and buildings standing behind it, and gives the Wanderer a bit of an ominous feeling. Perhaps it is simply the matter of going new places and meeting new people – perhaps all it is is nerves. After all, the building itself it quite unassuming and simple. One might even call it cozy. The flag that hangs upon the building is different from the one hanging outside Deletrear’s workshop, but, as Lahab explains, a Guardian’s flag all the same.
“Each Guardian has their own flag – their own crest,” she tells the Wanderer, coming to a stop outside the homely structure at the edge of what looks to be a sprawling city. “This one belongs to Zerban, the Noble Guardian of the City of Sowarr. It is likely he is already expecting us. We shall speak to him before going to a nearby inn to rest for the night. It is a courtesy, you see, and it would be rude of us to pass through without stopping by.”
She raises her hand and knocks firmly five times. While they wait, the Wanderer takes in the structure. It seems to be a comfortably large residence made of the same bricks that serve as the building blocks of Mirayan buildings, now sparkling dimly in the sunset, their usually white surface bathed in orange and pink. The wooden window shutters – painted a striking blue – are closed, though thin strips of light escape from within the house.
The door – also painted the same blue – opens suddenly to reveal a thin, cleanly-shaven middle-aged man. His eyes meet the Wanderer’s uncertainly for a moment, and in that moment a strange feeling tingles in the back of the Wanderer’s mind, but then the man’s eyes flick over to Lahab, and his face breaks into a smile. “The Guardian of Ildenwood graces me with her presence,” he greets her, and moves aside to give her access. “Please, enter.”
You have been invited into the home of
Noble Guardian Zerban of the City of Sowarr.
INT: Enter with caution, for something is amiss.
How interesting, the Wanderer thinks as he reads the last part of the message again. Is my guide book warning me? Or – I suppose – I am warning myself?
“Thank you. Zerban, this is my traveling companion,” Lahab says with a wave towards the Wanderer, and he dismisses the floating scroll holding the warning. Should they enter this man’s home?
Lahab makes the decision for him. She steps into the house, and the Wanderer follows, all too aware of Zerban’s gaze upon him. It makes him uncomfortable, and he feels it as though a flame near his skin, warm and distracting. “I take it Deletrear has already informed you of my coming?”
“Yes, he has. I have been monitoring the goings and comings of the city ever since.” Zerban closes the door behind them, and the Wanderer is almost unsettled by the large metal bolt that he slides into place. It is no simple bolt; the bar slides through a maze-like configuration, and Zerban guides it through so quickly that the Wanderer almost doubts his eyes. If Zerban notices, he does nothing to ease his guest’s concern. Instead, he moves slowly – very slowly, almost deliberately – past them, motioning for the two of them to follow him out of the little room where jackets are hung and boots organized against the walls. “Please, come in. Make yourselves at home. I have been expecting you. There is bread in the oven, and I have just put a kettle to boil.”
The Wanderer follows Lahab into a homely sitting room, beyond which he can see a half-wall separating it from the kitchen, and three doors. One leads into a bedroom. The second is closed. And the third opens into a room with a large wooden desk and chair – a study, perhaps.
The armchair that the Wanderer settles into is right beside Lahab, chosen so that Zerban will have to sit across from them. For some reason, the Wanderer dislikes him. For some reason, he is all too aware of the door they have left behind, and the bolt pushed firmly into place. If he is to try and unlock the door, he would undoubtedly spend a while fumbling around with it, attempting to solve the strange puzzle of the bolt – how to slide it out in just the right configuration, how to guide it through just the right paths to finally open the door.
Why such a complex bolt on the inside of one’s home?
And what is it about this man that worries me so?
He glances at Lahab, who is seated calmly in the cloth armchair beside him, looking at their host. She does not seem the least bit concerned. Then again, she has not shown a wide range of emotion in the time that he has known her. “You must know by now why we are here,” she says.
“Deletrear was, as always, vague with the details,” Zerban tells her. “Only that you are being chased by mercenaries, and that you are trying to return an artifact to its rightful owner.”
“...In a manner of speaking, I suppose that’s quite accurate,” Lahab replies. “I am hoping to pass through Sowarr safely. I am trying to reach--” She hesitates for only a fraction of a second, but Zerban’s dark eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “--Aks,” she finishes.
“Aks?” he asks, surprised. “Why did not not take the southern road?”
The Wanderer would like to know, too, since he’s quite sure they are very much not on their way to Aks. He tries not to present any reaction, however. He figures Lahab knows what she is doing, and has a perfectly good reason for lying to Zerban.
“We wanted to make sure we were not being followed,” Lahab says. The Wanderer nods in agreement, trying to seem very much the picture of relaxation, despite feeling very much on edge.
“You needn’t worry about Sowarr,” Zerban tells her. “I keep a very close watch on those who enter my domain. But surely you can tell me more? What is this item that has mercenaries chasing you all the way from Ildenwood and through Samat? It is unlike you to leave your forest unattended.”
“It is not unattended,” Lahab says, and for once the Wanderer gleans a glint of defiance in her face. “Ildenwood is well-protected, and I am more than able to monitor its condition from here.”
“Of course,” Zerban concedes. “I did not mean to offend.”
“You did not.”
“It’s simply that – well, as I’ve said, it’s unlike you to leave your forest. What is this item that you carry? Why is it so important? Perhaps I can aid you – help you with your burden. After all, you haven’t been a Guardian for very long, and you are the youngest--”
“I thank you for your gracious offer,” Lahab interrupts firmly, “but you are already helping. Your hospitality and protection through Sowarr is more than enough. I cannot ask you for anything more.”
“Are you certain?” Zerban asks, leaning forward. “If the item needs delivering, my dear, I can get it done in record time.”
Lahab smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. “Of that, I have no doubt,” she tells the older man. “But you do not know to whom it is to be delivered, and I cannot burden you with a task that has been asked of me personally. It is simply not my way.” She pushes herself off the armchair. “Thank you once again, Zerban. I appreciate your support.”
She makes for the front door and the Wanderer stands to follow, but Zerban is quick. In a blur he is standing before her, blocking her path.
“Now, now, my dear,” he says, looking down on her with his dark eyes. “What’s the rush, young one? Stay a while longer. Tell me more. I’m sure I can help you. After all, Muna is such a great burden for one so small.”
Lahab steps back, her hand reaching into her trusty sack. Everything happens so quickly, it is difficult to process it, but the Wanderer just about manages, his eyes trained on the man as he snatches the sack away from her and throws it aside. Zerban pulls a blade out from his person, grabbing Lahab and turning her around, the glinting metal against her throat. His gaze locks with the Wanderer’s.
“One step, and our little Guardian is no more,” he warns.
The Wanderer grits his teeth, frozen in place.