Chapter 20: A Elf that Survived
One, we are not new. Our stories are older than when the eagle landed on the rock of Civitus. Two, a lot of us are here because the Oligarchy was there. Three, once any group of people becomes a part from the whole, it’s no longer a question of how those people over there are doing or whether or not they’re making it.
We are saying to the rest of the Oligarchy, “We are you, you are us, our fates intertwined, perhaps to a degree that makes you uncomfortable but that doesn’t change the fact that our fates are blended”.
That truth requires all Iozians to change what we think of this land. No longer as Kai Ren, Sanguian, or Matigas thing that ended up incorporating or absorbing other cultures, but as a continent sized country that was ghostly at its birth.
Skaldi is that same type of ghost, pushing against any indecency whether it be adversary or ally. Vega was neither.
“Do you wish we could have stay-stayed?” Vega asked. The party all rested inside the wagon, wearing wool blankets and feather pillows they bought passing by towns.
It was the same story as Jinmai and Vein Xinyuai. Either bandits were bleeding the places dry or they had recently been sieged by Tripolians.
“What, you wanted to stay in the snow for longer? Please, Vein Xinyuai is overrated.” Skaldi asked, wide awake and looking off into the purple sky.
Both the elf and the scarecrow remained awake in the night, much to Amir’s disappointment. The Tripol made hurricanes with how angrily he was blowing through his nose. He had hoped Vega’s attempt to sleep would work.
To say Vega went to sleep would be a lie. She TRIED to go to sleep, much like how you try to eat healthy even though you don’t know how.
She tried closing her eyes, didn’t work. She tried putting a pillow on her head, didn't work. Following that she decided to hug the sleeping actress, that just made it harder to sleep.
Turns out being a fucking scarecrow means having to rest is impossible.
Who would have thought?
“By the way can you stop using my hand to brush your hat, it's weird.” Skaldi pulled his hand away, now looking at the echoes of stars.
“Sorry, it's just… I want to know-know how ya feel-feel.” Vega closed her hands on her knees.
“Feel? Don’t you feel?” Skaldi chuckled.
“Nope.”
“Why not? You can think… Well, I don’t know about thinking, but you can understand ideas, right?” Skaldi insulted, trying to get Vega to be angered and make some fuse that would cause Amir to turn her into another pretzel.
“Kinda.” Vega rubbed her bandage nose.
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“But ya still haven’t answered the question.” Vega turned onto her side looking directly at the redhead’s eyes. Skaldi wished he couldn’t think about the town. How vulnerable they were. How vulnerable he was. How weak he was.
“It’s okay that we didn’t get to finish the ceremony.” Vega broke his anxiety. Skaldi still chose not to look at her but his ears were still open.
“What matters is that-that we tried to make a world with less suffering.” Vega smiled a toothless grin and looked out to the nearby city.
Even there, Skaldi couldn’t quite believe Vega. He had lived for twenty odd years and never saw his acts of kindness repaid. Bolato’s just ways never yielded anything. Skaldi sadly believed that such actions only existed in comics and fairy tales.
“Speaking of which, look-look!” The scarecrow pointed across the horizon.
Another city, except it wasn’t recovering from the siege. There was no need, for it had already been conquered.
“~Son of a bitch. Wake up!~” Amir slammed his fist onto the wagon, with both the sleeping girls yelping in response. Bolato remained asleep. Florato fluttered her eyes open, annoyed by the yelling.
“What? What’s… oh son of a bitch.” The actress agreed, noticing the distinct signs of war. Large so that they could be felt but foggy enough to be misunderstood. Mild inconveniences that spiraled into wounds. One such wound was the Assembly, it wasn’t open at this hour.
It might be a bit of culture shock to the scholar reading this, but the Iozians had a great and robust legal system. They had lawyers, divorce courts, and clear motives for their lawmaking. All laws were meant to extract and enhance the good of the people so long as they as well were controlled by the ruler.
A way of doing this was employing the heir of the Oligarch, overwhelmingly men, to study and interpret law in the Assembly. Not only this, but learn how to respond to problems no matter the hour; the reason for the Assembly always being open.
From the physical symbol of justice not being able to access was borne additional dents and injuries.
Amir tore off Bolato’s naval badge and applied a quick lather of green makeup for good measure. Looking up at the entrance, the party saw guards of Tripolian origin. Not well armed for an army, Amir could quickly tell this was a raiding clan. The Tripolian knew without a doubt that the Oligarch of Periatus didn’t care, for this city had strong fortifications. Why they weren’t in use was beyond him.
“~Hey! Do you bring business!~” A guard with a thick beard with an shaven upper lip ordered Amir. He looked sixteen, probably hasn’t even killed anyone yet, Amir thought.
“~Yes. I am a trader. I can give food.~” The Tripolian was careful not to suggest that they had any other services. He pulled his turban over his scarred eye. He didn’t want them to think they were all buddy buddy.
“~Emperor be with you. Come in!~” The raiders opened the gate, taking breaks to sip wine.
A set of pink-faced Tripolians ordered Amir to hand off supplies. He took steps to prevent them from seeing all of their gold.
How did he hide it you ask?
He just stuffed it into Vega before they had entered. And it worked!
Rolling into the city streets, it seemed that the less than attractive nature of Periatus was still going on despite being raided. Tea parlors crowded by young couples celebrating the countdown to the Feast of Lovo, creating a cloud of spice. Terribly, all of them were growing skinner, hungrier, and they didn’t seem to care.
All of them also appeared to be drunk. Also the raiders. With the turning of the corner, it seemed an entire payload of military wine and liquor had been captured.
Hundreds of carts littered the streets and only a couple dozen soldiers. On one of the carts read ‘From Suncatch, with love’. Not even meant to be drunk, it was meant to be mixed and blended with spoiled water. But the people didn’t care how it was supposed to be used anyway.
“Well, this ain’t good.” Skaldi looked all around him. He knew in the morning there would be a lot of shouting and misery. The elf knew the routine. Drink for now, not for later.
“Wha…what ain’t good?” Bolato finally awoke.
“Hubby?” Skaldi’s hand shook, as he went to brush his hair using his thumb.
“Yeah sweetie?”
“Promise you won’t get mad, but I think the Tripolians just captured a city.” Skaldi said it as if he was the one that did any wrong.
“Huh.”
“Not very good.”
“That’s the idea.” Bolato agreed. Funnily enough, the only part of the city that wasn’t active was the red light district. I’m sure that the young student reading this has no idea what I’m talking about, but let me clear this up.
It’s where the people go to rub flesh parts together for money.
Prostitutes from their curtains looked out at the wagon. None of them went to seduce the men. A few were growing a tad frail, as the famine had been hurting them hard. Skaldi didn’t dare to approach, he felt too guilty at their form since they reminded him of his own skinness, his own insecurity as a man. He didn’t wish to court mirrors of himself.
But the scarecrow decided to court them instead.
“Hello! How is everyone doing?” She said sweetly, almost like a kid talking to their toys. All of them were in awe both at Vega, but also at the fact that the party wasn't drunk.
A plump serpentine lady exiting a corridor was the first to approach. Heavily clad in makeup but not as exposed as the others, she was clearly the head of commerce in terms of… you know... The prostitutes held on the curtains of their brothels and simultaneously held a breath.
“We’s is doing good.” They sighed in relief.
“We’s offers girls for fivity brass. We’s offers boys for seventy.” All of them groaned at the fact their boss was still trying to make a profit.
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“No thanks! I already got a girl-girlfriend.” Vega held the arm of Florato who obviously was embarrassed. Not unhappy that Vega considers her a friend, but… come on. The boss wasn’t impressed.
“Are you’s gonna purchase or are you’s gonna-”
“No! No, no one’s gonna pay for anything. In fact, I'd much prefer to get our bearings.” Skaldi wasn’t having any more of what Vega was causing, and decided to interrupt the boss. “Look, can we just, I don’t know, all hang out and talk. You’re the only people here that aren’t drunk, right?” The people looked at each and one by one nodded.
“Cool! Then let’s eat.”
A rose garden was the only thing maintained in the city. It was also the only bit of beauty that prostitutes were able to enjoy in their daily lives as that garden was connected to the boss’s estate.
Unpacking all their supplies, the party shared whatever they had. Roughly a hundred men and women of all species and races ate and drank together. Sitting on crates filled with Siliphum, the workers conversed and hung out.
Most of the food they ate was so foreign they began creating names for these alien delicacies. The boss in a vain effort to entice the men brought out her own supply of food.
This had been the prostitutes only bit of respite in months.
“How long have the Tripolians been here?” Bolato asked with Skaldi at his side.
“Abouts three days.” The boss spoke. Vega was at her side recording the conversation so they could refer to it later. Although the words were unreadable to everyone except the scarecrow, she did write with great efficiency.
“Where are the guards? I thought this was called Fort Jao for a reason.” Bolato was pounding his fist into the table. Skaldi held his hand in an effort to calm him down. It worked for the moment.
“Theys received orders to pull backs to the Yutai Basin. I don’t knows why, but the soldiers did seem to be’s in a hurry.” Bolato concluded that the Oligarch of Periatus was a complete idiot. He’s definitely not wrong.
“Well, they must have left some people. Where’s the fortress?”
“You’s in it.”
“Not Jao, I mean the actual fortress.”
“Yes. You’s in it.” The boss affirmed. The soldier slowly rose in his seat and it all started to make sense. The red light district had been stationed on top of the hill and the boss's estate was clad in battlements and machicolations for archers to rain arrows. In fact, Bolato now noticed the modest guard the boss had.
About ten archers clad in chain mail as well packed with ammunition. They were disciplined and neat; one was even braiding another archer’s hair.
“This… is all they left you?” Bolato waved his hand towards the archers.
“...sadly, yes. The good news is that I’m stills offering a discount on the girls-” Bolato stood up in dramatic fashion and stepped off into a dark corner of the garden. The serpentine bowed to the remaining table and excused herself as she went into her home.
Both Skaldi and Vega looked at each dumbfounded. Skaldi didn’t know whether to leave or stay. Vega didn’t know how to write the word fortress.
“Do ya think calling her a snake is racist?” Vega asked.
“The fucks a racist?” Skaldi leaned backward but quickly shook his head, ignoring the surely made up word Vega created.
“Is there nothing that disturbs you about this? About all of this?” Skaldi agreed with Bolato. Something had been wrong with Periatus the moment they had gotten there. None of the roads to the Veins were garrisoned. Towns like Jinmai had been sieged, but there were no people. Did it at least disturb Vega?
“Nope. But when I find that thing I’ll be sure to-to tell ya.” Vega was having a fun time in the company of the prostitutes.
Amir and Florato were not. The Tripolian didn’t have fun constantly shifting his eyes so that he wouldn’t see the low cuts of shirts or the high cuts of skirts. It was debauched and he took care of this by forcing Valiato to wear a blind fold.
“~Can I look now, Ari?~”. The kid held a hand to the knot of it.
“~No~”.
“~But everyone is laughing and having a fun time. I want that.~” Valiato said, like a toddler would when demanding sweets.
“~Remember what I said about sex workers?~” Amir quizzed.
“~That they don’t deserve respect?~”
“~Exactly.~” Amir rubbed the head of the kid.
The actress had a hard time understanding the words of Amir, but could tell that the conversation turned insulting. She knew the nasty tone, judging them for a job that they didn't want to do.
Florato however, was troubled by the appearance of them. She expected them to be rotten looking, bruised, and upsetting to look at. But what they looked like was… the most accurate word I could describe them would be… people!
Of course not all was well for them, very few prostitutes genuinely find pride in their work. And many have turned to substances to fill that hole in their souls. But in terms of success, they seemed to be doing as good as everyone else in the city.
These prostitutes being able to live even squalid lives is sadly uncommon, but not to the point of being unbelievable. These folk however showed remarkable degrees of success.
Not always does the victim stay victimized.
The actress took time to understand this truth. All her life she had heard prostitutes were comparable to ghosts. Tools of pleasure, props. Not even deserving of sentience.
An apple shaped woman appeared behind her, giving a hard tap at the shoulders.
“Miss. Would you likes some water?” She said in a neutral voice, not knowing the confusion she was causing for Florato. The actress took in her pores, her hair, and her body. She wasn’t some seductress preying on the hearts of weak men. She was that, a woman doing a job no one wants to do.
“Y-yes. Yes and thank you.” Florato stuttered out. Perhaps she was wrong about a lot of things, the actress knew.
Skaldi couldn’t believe it, as he analyzed all the parts of the workers. All of them held an accent similar to their boss, and plenty adopted her mannerisms of swaying at the neck or holding out their forearms. Disturbing to him, some were even smiling.
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
“What-what doesn’t?” Vega asked while drawing on the list.
“How are they… able to be like their boss and still be happy?” Skaldi’s shoulders sank down as his eyes closed.
“Ya feeling sad? Don’t worry, I got this!” Vega leaped from her side and onto an adjacent table.
Vega, the gregarious entertainer she was, grabbed the attention of the people and began her standard fair routine. Speaking loud and proudly about the Concert of Combat. Moments passing further and further by, the crowd was held in awe and love by the scarecrow. How she constructed such beauty in a world that didn’t offer to them was heartwarming.
Skaldi loathed this, he wished he could have eased the others. The redhead’s jealousy burned in his soul.
Wandering and wondering, Skaldi hoped he could crack the mind of Vega. How could she live so easily like this? All she was and all she could be was a prop, Skaldi believed.
Each step he took was each rupturing insecurity in his mind. How they didn’t belong yet had a community. It was infuriating, and the redhead took to visiting the parts of Fort Jao to calm down. Corners had groups of men joking and laughing together.
Streets had the raiders taking the supplies from a bakery or another kind of place for food. Crates full of Silphium were the main target of their robberies.
However, there was one street where he saw Tripolians taking people away. They were being led by a priest but the elf was in too somber a state to really try anything. It wouldn’t be worth it.
Repeating and repeating, over and over. Eventually he found a street where there were no people at all, not even the buzz of flies. Only every hour he encountered a sober aristocrat with gladiator bodyguards. And every hour they would spit in his direction.
The night hours soon made the elf feel lonely. And he took to his only companion in the night, the flask.
Roaming the hillside district, Skaldi noticed a string of town houses, all of them unlit and unguarded. The elf looked at his feet and chuckled for a moment. He untied his pack and put on shoes with spikes for shoes.
The elf decided he would steal from a manor. Squeezing through the barred gate, he snuck and swam through the water of the courtyard. Swimming underneath the floor, he found a connection to the inside. Rising out of the house pool, Skaldi saw an array of trinkets and glitter, stacked high onto shelves and cases. The house was simmering with the aura of the pool, and it was drowned in the shadows of the night.
Only two drunk and asleep guards were there with him, Skaldi believed.
Anchoring his feet in the wood or stone wherever he could, Skaldi took his time and took his treasure. Sneaking around and carrying enough gold to bury a man, the elf was proud.
He knew he had the abilities to successfully rob a bank, and he knew he was strong. Then he saw her.
In the crystal blue water he found another. A reflection, an elf. She wore the same outfits as the prostitutes did but wore it differently. Her shoulders weren’t exposed, and her boots were tightened. The elf wasn’t particularly beautiful or endowed. Captivating in a pitiful sense, like a puppy that’s been kicked too many times. She wasn’t weak, she only believed she was.
Almost exactly his size. Having leathery palms hardened by work. Skaldi took her image, how vulgar it was. And horrifically, she wore a torn ear.
Further violence against ghosts wasn’t unheard of, in fact, those acts were encouraged. Acid, tar, anything dangerous and painful was used against them.
Ripped ears was also an ironic punishment. Iozians favored the ears and the ability to hear, since all of their military helmets were opened so that soldiers could hear orders.
For the nobility, having notches and scar around the lobes was fashionable. Even Bolato had one. But this elf’s ear was so ruined, only a blackened part the size of a leaf was there.
He didn’t want her to be weak. He didn’t want her to be ruined.
“Hello.” Skaldi didn’t feel scared to awaken the guards, he only hoped that the elf before him would respond.
“Hello mista.” They looked at each for a long time, almost as if looking in a mirror. Skaldi had hair the color of burning revolt. Potenti’s hair looked the color of blue skies before a violent storm, a false serenity.
Skaldi realized she was going to rob the manor he was in. He crouched to the ground and slid a silver trophy to her as an offering. She didn’t accept it.
“Cans you teach me mista?” Potenti’s voice used the feeling of plush silk, adorable and freezing. The redhead’s heart ceased to be strong and assured. He wanted to help her.
The night slept by as the two elf robbed and pilfered the aristocrat’s homes. Skaldi was the more skilled of the two and he made the cramped and narrow spaces that were their entrances maneuverable.
The bluehead observed and noted how Skaldi lifted objects from purses and copied them. Everytime she made a mistake there was a time the elf corrected. In the darkness of the sky an understanding was formed, that both of them were rejected.
A bleaky dark room was their hideout. Packed with loot that would normally be gleaming and yellow turned foggy green in their company. The bluehead held a bit of silver amulet and compared it to her neck’s size. She was content with their success, pleased to have learned so much from one that was similar.
The redhead still wasn’t happy. He knew that Potenti had an inner disease forming in her. He didn’t try to disquiet her moment of pride. But he understood what she was doing. Potenti tried on dozens of outfits, all the favors and fashion that rich women would wear. And everytime she put them on, it didn't feel right.
Once she wore only trousers and a bra, wanting to see what was underneath all the manufactured confidence. She pressed her rough hands to her form, sad but strong if she chose to see the truth. She didn’t.
Potenti’s hands went to her hips, wishing that she had hips that were larger. To her butt, that she hoped would be firm. To her breast, that she wished to fuller. And to her face, that she hoped to be prettier. To be feminine.
Skaldi did the same in the distant past. He was taken back to a time where he was still in the Galtian tribe and when he brought home a brass mirror. His parents disapproved of the act. They have ordered him to destroy it. That it was foolish to constantly look at one's looks. His hand went to his hair, brushing it with his thumb, trying to stay silent.
The redhead kept it hidden, in a lone grove. And after every insult his parents flung at him or when he failed in a military practice, he would go to it, wishing.
Skaldi’s hands went to legs, wishing that he had legs that were thicker. To his arms, that he hoped to be strong. To his breast, that he wished to fuller. And to his face, that he hoped to be handsome. To be masculine.
The elves spoke long into the morning, about their histories, about their spirits, and about the people they loved. Skaldi listened when the lady needed to vent about her struggle. But when Skaldi wanted to relieve his insecurity about his manhood, he was silent.
He made a fake peace in himself, that everything was fine with him. Skaldi believed he had to look strong for the lady, so that she could be strong herself.
No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t insure her femininity, and that made him mad.
“Potenti. What do you want from all of this?”