…That thing called home…
What would a home smell like? For some, like a yearning call of metal and oil. For others, it would probably be pastry, cheese, and gold. For the unfortunate, only the stench of decay would be their comfort.
For him… In the beginning, it was a web of herbs and flowers. At night, a hint of salt and sweat was there too.
It was all a sapling could know.
It grew and learned. The forest gave knowledge; the sight provided colours; the smell told him what its home was. Then - one day - an odour of ash and dust came from afar.
Humans were here.
The sapling learned what savagery smells like. In time, it discovered the words to describe it too.
It had the stink of piss and sweat. And dirt, apparently.
…The skirmish grew stale and sluggish. The humans fought with fire and steel, the forest answered with bark and claws. One side came to the land for their own greed. The other side was simply there.
When later the sapling learned of the word ‘irony’, it chuckled. The invaders needed what the forest had - and all the fire became useless then. The ‘fouder’ crystals, the ore deposits - everything they tried to lay their hands on was part of the ancient trees, interwoven and dependent.
Burn the forest - lose the coin. What a damn tragedy.
When the conflict fell tired, the ‘khwoaer’ were born. Once tribal trunks shambling through the island, now honourable ‘citizens’ in the same (uh-huh) league as the invaders they came to despise.
Back during those old times, the Capital was hardly a juggernaut of lights and wonders of technology. Just a big clutter of simple brick and wooden buildings, a fort, and a few bridges made out of boards hastily smashed together. But even then, for a young sapling straight out of isolated faraway land, it was the most novel sight and smell he ever experienced. That small town back then held a flavour of fresh mint and morning dew; so strong was that flavour that the sapling ignored a veiled whiff of rot that touched his tiny antler-like branches.
A year rushed by.
Then a few more. And a few more. The time itself had turned into an endless train passing by. Carriages of old were now roaring like furious beats; gained wings; a belly; and took off into the skies. Wooden shacks fell apart - marvels of stone, metal, and glass rose up in their place. The previously quiet morning skies were now screaming out early news in excitement; with the loudest voice belonging to the biggest flying beast, the ‘Aunt Savage’ as they named it.
The Capital grew. The tree grew with it.
And so did the odour of rot.
Even if the sapling could already walk, he was still a child in human eyes.
They did not hesitate to give a sword to the child. And the child graciously accepted it, blissfully ignorant.
When the time arrived to raise that sword, he was happy.
When he walked amongst ashen remains for the first time, he was overwhelmed.
When he saw humans, rhevalians, and mimics running away from bullets and shouts he was confused but determined.
Only when they stumbled upon the body of the man who was the reason for it all - only then he understood. He understood what smell meant to him and khwoaer all along.
He resolved to remember the stench of chaos he himself brought upon the land - forever. And bring it back to the forest with him, to share what he learned with the old roots, just like his parent - the forest - shared with him.
But then he returned back to the Capital. For the first time in hundred years he was forced to confront himself - how could he ignore the stink of rot that was present in every man, every brick, and every crystal on the streets?
Perhaps he was used to it. Or maybe it became so simple to turn his mind numb to it.
That never really mattered, did it? The child was a man now. Maybe… Just maybe it was the time to grab the reins of fate for himself…
There was no bigger delusion he could have fallen for.
*****
“Thanks for the bloody invitation! I stand here, you wanted me here! Wanna run your mouths and talk it out?”
Too bad he couldn’t wink for emphasis. Good enough still. The smell of destruction was dry and bitter, gross enough to completely drive a lesser khwoaer to madness - but for him, he had nearly two hundred years of waking up with that stench for breakfast. If there was something Alchfrid could be proud of, it was his skill of avoiding an Abyssal Crawler in a room full of spikes on the floor and with oil spilt everywhere. For a pirate, such skill was an essential tool for survival.
For old men, a similar skill was a curtain they used to avoid more headaches and grumpiness.
He couldn’t get any headaches.
The stage was set. The blood-painted moon, the embers of a building; the three ‘mercenaries’ and one clown facing each other. Alchfrid internally laughed to himself - as the biggest joke of the ‘Morning Star’, he was ready to defend his title to the death tonight.
Good thing he didn’t have a lot of competition. He already figured out who the mercenaries most likely were - bloody backstabbing snakes, for one - but kept his thoughts to himself. He would not blame them if they worked for a coin, no hypocrisy there, but he was sure the mercenaries saw a further goal on the horizon. The attack was staged at the time when most of the notorious pirate captains he personally knew decided to put their guns down for once and wrestle with their tongues instead. He also had the honour of almost catching one of the first shots of the night personally with his own head.
One boring way to kill a tree that was.
The Mage in the middle didn’t move a muscle. They certainly were both aware of what the other side had going for them - and Alchfrid was not keen on taking chances tonight. A Mage was like a Threshold ship in human form - you could only guess what was inside the hold by looking at the outside profile and never realize what kind of firepower lies in wait, hungry for you. A significantly powerful Mage would surely possess the skills to match that level of destruction.
But Alchfrid had a few tricks to shake up his opponents’ wariness.
“Hey, bald fellow!” he shouted to one of the trio. “I still have a few items on the list I need some help with! You and your friends shut the shop too early - I actually saved all of my gold thanks to you! So, by the law of the Empire, who is gonna cover all of my grievances, huh?”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Why me though?!” The man in question recoiled back. “Tell them about that - I liked the place too!”
He pointed an accusing finger at his companions. The man with unruly hair only blinked and threw his gaze around him, looking for a potential ambush.
“Your friend says you run this race, midget,” Alchfrid wasn’t going to let him keep the attention off himself.
“Midget?” the man shuddered. “I am of average height, at least for those parts of the world. Do I look that way to you?”
“I am a tree mate, I wouldn’t know. Does that pass as average in the tenth century?”
“Yet you insulted him all the same,” the bald man interjected, with a curious expression on his face. “How old are you truly, captain of the Morning Star? I’ve heard stories - surely they are false, right?”
Alchfrid shrugged. The moonlight reflected small embers of excitement in his yellow eyes.
“Take your own age and multiply by four... or eight. Should be close enough. In truth…” he paused and reached for his coat. The bald mercenary only whistled while the second mercenary jerked his hand downward. “…I am way rustier than this treasure here is.”
“What is that… wait.” The mercenary’s hand stopped midway. “ ‘Gemilio Claret’?! The original?! Nah… can’t be, right?! In this hole?!!”
“You’re oddly excited for someone who wanted to drill a new hole in our dear foe just a moment ago,” the bald man smirked. “Is this a real deal, cap?”
Alchfrid hummed. “But of course. This genuine article was produced out of grapes grown by the caring hands of Gemilio province, by now sadly stomped into the ground by rhevalians and living only as a memory in dusty history books, handpicked and gently undressed from stems, one-by-one, until the perfection is not only seen but felt, then crushed into must by rugged, burly men, then laid there with the finest yeasts under the night sky for hours on end, each step noted and watched by the finest winemakers of Gemilio province, by now sadly destroyed by ravenous rhevalians and having its name remembered only by forgotten boring history books, then left in barrels for several dozens of years, then sold to the few money bags who could afford it back then, with the rest left in the barrels for another dozen of years waiting to be sold, then the province gets burned into the ground by the meddling cats and forgotten by the clueless peasants, then the barrels are discovered by the artifact hunters some seasons ago, then the bottles with the wine are sold at the auction for truly obnoxious prices simply for being some kind of hundred years old rotting liquid produces in the place nobody remembers the name of that was turned into ash by some lizards with fur, then…”
Even the Mage had a hard time keeping their head straight as the drowsing voice of Alchfrid continued on and on and on and on. They shook their head and threw their hands up, instantly cutting off Alchfrid’s lecture.
The Captain wasted no time and dashed forward, sabres drawn in a blink. The bald man and the wild man only now woke up from their half-slumber caused by Alchfrid, but before they could even move a powerful gust of wind grabbed them both and tossed them over the treeman right into the archway where the gate was. The Captain only caught a tail end of a fading ‘fuuuuu…!’.
The sabre clashed with the Mage’s arm, releasing an angry clank. A fury of bullets charged from above, slamming into the Mage with all their might, only to meet the same fate. The enemy paid no attention, kicked the second, rising, sabre away, causing Alchfrid to step backwards and let another kick fly by; the Mage ripped their sword out from the sheath in a fluid motion and clashed with a sabre that was already at their neck. Alchfrid heard a quiet ‘Tch!’.
The foe barely managed to push the blade away before jumping back. The Captain saw Mage’s fingers form a sign and swung the left sabre at the ashes scattered on the ground. The grey clouds rushed from below with implacable force, joined by the hail of shots from the wall. A literal arm of fire grabbed empty air near Alchfrid who leaned to the left, dodged the Spell and slammed himself into the Mage - only for his shoulder to graze the foe instead of sending them tumbling onto the ground.
He had no time to stop. His sabres, bloodthirsty and sharp, revelled in the relentless assault. He didn’t give himself the time to think. He couldn’t give himself the time to think. A Mage at the distance or at close quarters were two different beasts, both extremely lethal - but his weapons left him little choice, and he would prefer keeping it intimate anyway. He would never let the trickster regain their focus. All of his thoughts tunnelled into a single mission - interrupt any and all gestures and movements that he could, and make his enemy forget how to breathe.
The Mage’s sword dance was just as beautiful as his. Every strike streamed down the blade, every stab deflected or let past right into the foe’s hidden armour. The Mage wasted no energy to sling Spells around, they were only slowly retreating backwards, closer to the flame wall.
Alchfrid briefly scanned the surroundings. With the remains of the tower on his right, the gate on the left, and the fire in front, he immediately realized what his enemy was aiming to do.
The Mage’s sword flew from the left with flames gathering around it. The Captain dived the opposite way. The sword finished the arc as the Mage shuffled to the right, trying to regain posture - and the murder of bullets banged repeatedly, rhythmically against the metal of their helmet, not letting go even for a moment.
The Mage stumbled and fell down onto their back.
Just like…
Like a sack of dung that they were, Alchfrid briefly thought.
He lunged for the gaps between the arms and the shoulders, where he believed he had more chances to pierce past the protection and reach the actual flesh.
The sudden, sharp bite from the left caused his own posture to waver. He briefly cursed as his sabres scraped the metal desperately. He jerked himself back to recover; yet, the moment was hopelessly lost.
His foe grabbed onto the chance. The ground beneath them both shook and crackled. Alchfrid briefly staggered back, keeping himself up by the sheer force of will. The Mage let go of the earth they clawed into, rolled to the side and straightened themselves up, flashing a bomb in their hand.
A loud plop - and his vision drowned in white smoke. He immediately swung the sabres where he thought the Mage was and he felt his weapons run against something sturdy before he heard distant gunshots and the acrid smell shut down his senses for an agonizing while.
Once outside the smokescreen, he recovered in a couple of blinks. Only to find an empty field, a couple of his companions walking closer, and an absence of the fire wall.
He released the air inside of him, letting his heightened emotions float away with it. The sabres laid back into their place. He inwardly smiled - even if the enemy got away, it was just one shitty conclusion out of the dozens he could think of. Could be even shittier.
He would much prefer to enjoy the rest of his day in peace. Alchfrid simply stood there, staring into the starry skies as Ralf and Xander ambled towards him, leaving trails of footprints on the ashen earth.
The cook furiously scratched his head, “Damn it all… we saw no hounds coming back, yet they still did. The bloody mercs just couldn’t leave their brethren behind, huh?! But it was her, right? Who else could it be, ye?”
The Captain wordlessly moved his head up and down. Why waste words for an obvious answer? Should they continue their course, they would run into her sooner or later again. Now he was sure of it. They only needed some time to sit down and plan some turns ahead of their enemies, just like back in the times of old. That Mage wielded the forces of nature as their second arm, and Alchfrid was confident they were capable of affecting minds too - when he tried to tackle the enemy, he clearly saw and smelled them right in from of him, yet it was but a trick and he missed. Their new recruit even said so - and now Alchfrid could taste their experience himself.
“I say we fish our Joseph guy out of the rubble and return back to the ship,” declared Xander while looking at the ground with his ears drooping. Embarrassed, that idiot. Alchfrid had rarely seen him like that, and each time it was a hilariously refreshing picture.
“You go on ahead,” grumbled Ralf after a moment of hesitation. “Prepare the ship. We’ll catch up.”
The quartermaster threw a surprised look at the big man. Alchfrid only shrugged and began moving his roots away from the scene.
“You don’t want to help, Alch?” he heard confused Xander shout.
The Captain only threw his arms up. “I’ll get in the way. My branches are only good for holding smaller stuff, I’ll have you know. See ya on the ship.”
It didn’t take long before he heard the sound of heavy boots running right behind him. The quartermaster was asking something from him, and Alchfrid retorted that if he wanted him to help, he himself shouldn’t have left Ralf behind. That shut the cat-lizard up on the spot, letting him enjoy the peaceful walk among the ruins of the settlement. Sometimes his thoughts were cut short by the gunfire, shouts, and screams of pain from the sides - he accepted it as natural. Nature goes as nature does, or dies. No different were claws from guns, or wars from slaughtering defenceless animals for food. Only the blood and meat were replaced by coins and big words. The herbivores and carnivores shifted into naive young stallions and jaded old snakes with pencils. Some pinnacle of progress that was.
He put at least some effort into remembering the streets of Ghastly Wail as they were before the attack and the way they were now. Should he ever return back to the forest, the shut-in khwoaer could, if nothing else, enjoy his memories. The entertainment was scarce to find these days - and on his island, the most a tree could get was a trading ship once a month.
Not like for him there was much difference between before the destruction of this village or after. He never liked the place anyway.