Chapter 3: Can I Bleed?

Progress develops best when the speculative, and disciplined reasoning of the philosopher and mathematician is in closet touch with the working hands of the artisan. Of course, groups of Oligarchs despised this concept. The practical arts were shunned by the majority of the educated (thus, distant) people, as those sectors of society were held to be the work of slaves and the poor.

Though slavery was banned some hundred years ago. Curious, I know. Don’t worry, the slaves became something else. The poor. But in certain counties and regions, study and practice are intimate. Other Oligarchs filled their cabinets of ministers and equestrians, fixated on bolstering their land’s productivity. While concerned with mostly making matter into something useful, like wood, wool, gold, and precious metals, it was a genuine interaction with their populace.

Your title compelling you to war tends to change one's perspective. The land becomes a battlefield, a scythe, a sword. To not imagine a man with a spear and shield was progress for them. One Oligarch, with the praetorium of Suncatch, was shrewd. His members of the administration, instead of priests and nobles, included alchemists and engineers.

He delegated them many tasks to increase the commerce and development of this holding. The writing of treatises on building, an encyclopedia on fishing, the cultivation of herbs, the construction of cities of windmills and watermills, ships, ordering of Tripolian weights and measures, Kai-Ren compasses, draining of bogs and making of dams, and the declaration that he will connect the far most west villages and towns with tools and crops to aid in the ongoing famine. Like the seldom docks of Cold Cavern.

Plenty of his fellow men, lower and upper, demanded both the reason and the means to pay for these parts of state. He answered with a word. Booze.

Cranes and pulleys, drawn by ox, had gone to clear up the abandoned grain factory. Vega gazed at the troops, the hands of the operation, as she tucked on the leash. The donkeys didn’t follow. Piloting two animals is tough with just one hand. Maybe using my five fingers will work, she believed.

“Move-move! I need to see the soldiers.” The donkeys snorted, not noticing the scarecrow. Her fingers pulled, but the drivers were unyielding.

“Please?” Vega mumbled. Wondering how to compel something to act, a thought hit her. Hanging off the side of the cart, anchoring the top with her pickaxe. Quickly she hopped to the back of the cart and opened its entrance. A series of long casket boxes were inside. Hopping in, she checked the various contents. Clay, screws, rope, and plenty of planks filled one.

“Not it.” Seeds of wheat, dried barley, and sacks of brown rice.

“Nuh-uh.” Whips and whistles nested lined in rows.

“What weirdo orders a whip?”

The next chest, she discovers a couple baskets of fruits. Many pears, apples, and pomegranates.

“Boing-go! That should do.” She had begun to raise the pickaxe when an out of place organic caught her eye. It had a cap and a stem, yet it didn’t look like any fruit or vegetables she’d seen.

“Must be a ghost fruit-fruit” Grunting, she had stuffed the object in her pocket. Climbing back to the seat just behind the donkeys, she had made a stick. A leading stick. Made out of a stick and an apple. The stick was made out of her. Stepping onto the arched back of the donkey, tapping and testing if it could carry her. It groaned in perceived acceptance.

“Ya be nice to me. I need to get an operation soon.” She insisted, now hanging on the neck of the donkey, holding an apple just above its nose. Both of them turnt their necks, along with their direction. A minute hoofed by, and Vega was visible to the crew. They were of wide frame, some with sunken skin in their hands and face. Vega, having finally fallen off the donkey, went to unlock the pair.

Ripping off their strappings, the donkeys slowed to drink from the factory’s ruined piping. They were in a happy mood, able to graze and be unchained. The soldiers, in dyed coral shirts and trousers, squat. A rotation similar to their style of warmaking was in order. The crew centurion would whistle, and the next ten would enter as the other ten would leave. Professional soldiers, Vega knew. What mysterious and incredible places they must have been. The people they met and knew, all because they chose to hold a sword for a living. One cutting an apple with a hammer approached.

“Sir-sir, do ya know the direction of the nearest hospital?” Vega took off her hat, having left the spear and pickaxe still embedded in the cart.

“I think. Who are you?” He queried. She wasn’t hostile but he knew she wasn’t collected. How the devil was she functioning.

“I’m Vega. The Scarecrow. If you have a crow as a pet, it would be best-best to hold them when I’m around.”

The soldier heaved out a groan. He pressed his mouth to his cheek, trying to show that was very much unhappy with the pun. Like… unbelievably unhappy.

“Albertus! Keep Foto in check.” He blasted backward.

“What's wrong? Did he steal the wine again?” Strident and confused.

“Nah, just got a scarecrow here is all.”

“Oh. Well, put it in the bean field if you want.” The thick man took a slice of apple and sucked its skin off.

“Gotcha you lady. We got crops that need protecting for a little bit while we take care of this facility. Protect it, and you’ll get your directions. Hell, I bet the crest won’t mind if we help you with your drivers.” The soldier didn’t care enough to haggle at Vega’s existence. All he needed was a little entertainment and he was in a good mood. Raising his arm at the field, Vega saluted.

“Understood-stood.” She marched, picking up a log on the ground as she went. Guarding the sprouts and the thrush would be a task complete. Every time she encountered the corner of the field, she’d present an arm and log, then move onto the side beside her. Branches were barren, dropping the last bit of leaves.

Must be harvest time, Vega knew. Harvest festivals were something she had experienced, being the mascot and all. Although she wasn’t allowed to engage in others, she was strictly required for Harvest. To tell stories of vampires and witches to the tourists. The day the guard saved a girl from a ghost. The time a girl would not stop talking about why you call a fish a fish. Good times.

“I wonder-wonder. Do they hold parties at the hospital as well?” She tried to rub her chin but she whacked herself in the face. Her face had a deep indent, and she struck the back of her head to even her skull out.

“Hey Vega! Are you done?” The apple man probed.

“Sure-sure! I’ll…” Something is wrong. A shutter was heard. The field was hale. The trees were jagged and staving. Not of them showing any deviant or assassin. Vega took to the brush behind her.

A new feeling struck her. However, this was now permanent. A spill churned in her belly, and her grin simmered. Fear. Pushing herself forward, she wrenched part of the bush open. Staring into the unknown she saw a simple thing. A single rusted bit of chainmail. That’s reassuring.

“Oh. I thought a snake-snake was gonna bite me-” A corvid crashed into her chest. Vega, being of lightweight, was almost pulled off the ground before being planted upside down in the field. Rooting herself out, a crow sat beside her foot.

“Huh. That’s new.” Squinting to examine the bird, it saw a small bracelet on its ankle. It seemed to have an engraving.

“Ya must be a royal bird. Sent to aid me in finding that weird voice-voice.” Vega heard a distant shouting match. One was masculine, one was more masculine.

“Smart pet. Must pet.” The crow shifted its neck and quickly nuzzled up to the hay lady. Flying up to the remaining shoulder of Vega, it chirped.

“Sun.”

“Yes the sun is out.” Vega agreed, noting its intelligence.

“Sun.”

“Yes?”

“My name is not Sun.” The crow corrected.

“Ah. Ya want a name?”

“Yes?” The shorn, shaven, and definitely not craven corvid answered. Vega took to thinking. What would be an interesting name for a royal raven. John? Nah, what does that even mean. Marcus? Too noble. Like a wise man trying to be smart. Damocles the Destroyer? Nope, that's too lame.

“Ah! I got-got it.” She brushed the neck of the bird, a ceremony to its coronation.

“Ya are Kaliba.”

A man, wearing a linen gambeson, sat on the far end of the factory floor. He noticed the stranger enter. The bird on its shoulder kept on saying sun.

“Hey Scarecrow. What are you doing with that payload?” He cornered her, noting Vega’s marks and cuts.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I get paid?” The scarecrow responded.

“No.”

“Ok. Can I get paid?”

“Focus. Why are you the one piloting that cart?”

“The trader ran away because he wanted to give it up for some reason.” The commander, confused, let go of his demeanor and became more casual.

“And he ran away, why?”

“I dunno. Maybe it was-was because of those weirdos on the cliff. They gave me a spear. And took-took my arm. It was a good trade.”

Disappointing. The trader had to hire the help of a spirit, left it alone to deliver the supplies, was harried by the Falconers which now had gained additional men. At least the scarecrow was in good health, seeing at its obvious sarcasm. The commander chuckled.

“Shame he left you. Well I appreciate the work you’re doing.” Vega smiled beamed and her short brows raised in understanding.

“You did your work in the field, so I’ll help you. But then again, I do have a weaver here-”

“No-no thanks. I don’t want to get infected.” The commander was taken aback. He was a veteran, this factory repair was his break. Not too many people in the Oligarchy would even see spirits and supernaturals.

Like how one will never see a crocodile. And if you never did, you would believe it to be a dragon. The commander had been privy to all unnatural events, spirits he met at least one every five years. This one he couldn’t classify. But then again, healing is the pursuit of priests and doctors.

“Understood. Well, the best I can do is give you this here map. Take the mountain pass, cross the tundra glacier and you’ll see its spire behind some trees.” The commander’s curiosity took him.

“Where you going by the way?”

“To find something. A voice.” Vega didn’t look up at him. Must be the work of the other Oligarch in the neighboring province. Letting their lax government lead to the roaming clans of criminals. At least station some men there, the commander hoped in his mind.

Most Oligarchs had a seasonal war schedule. Half a year and so on, with regents to govern in their absence. Seasoned and elder rulers fueled the war effort with only four or three months of warmaking, spending the rest delegating and molding their lands into a furnace. Producing ever growing rations, iron, and solid boots and sandals for war. Foolhardy or teenaged Oligarchs aimed towards glory and gold, spending increasingly more time to war and less time to the people they were titled to protect.

Periatus, the bordering state, was helmed by such a staunch idiot. The commander hoped this spirit would be able to cleanse and act as a drug to its corrupting system. His skin looked cleaner and younger after meeting her.

“Well, good luck, miss. Be sure to check out the concert when you gets there, its something to love!.” Vega exited the grain factory, and found the donkeys connected to the cart. Climbing on, she tapped the rear of the donkey to continue her journey. She waved, and the soldiers waved back before returning to their tasks.

“So Kaliba. What-what do ya like to eat?”

“Sun.”

“Sorry, I don’t got one of those.” Vega replied.

“Idiot.”

“Yeah, I know.” On a steady straight path, Vega was confident. The donkey’s were fed, she made a new friend, and she was going to get an arm surgery. From a real doctor. Then it struck her.

“Wait-wait. Do I have insurance?” She had heard the term when the Captain's tugboat broke when he was collecting crabs. He appeared mildly upset at the fact that the Mayor didn’t supply him with an ‘insurance claim’, whatever that means. That must mean he could be entitled to a new boat, Vega thought. So if she didn’t have arm insurance, she would have to pay for a new arm.

“Darn. I lost an arm and the worst part is that I have to worry-worry about paying for it. This has been the worst trade deal in the world.” A new emotion inhabited her. Anger, in a soft and gooey voice.

“Those weirdos were trying to help, but-but now I can’t pay for help.”

“Idiot.” Kaliba encouraged.

“I know!” It had only been just a day, but they had become quick friends. “Well, at least the spear looks neat. Must be-be from a place past out east.” Vega pondered the spear. How a weapon of war could look so elegant distracted her as she went along the road.

Mountains made the path steep, with falling pebbles striking both animal and construct. Misty fog blocked their vision, but the donkeys in their strength, pulled them through the hurdling earth. Hours passed, and they had finished their hike to the last mountain. Landmarks caught her eye. The glacier, swimming in the frost sprinkled pool that was Lake Vortorus.

“They misspelled Victorious.” Vega scribbled with red crayon, changing the map, smiling on completion.

“Too bad it still got ice in it. Could have used a bath-bath before applying for insurance.” Donkeys shivered, and crow took to coughing on Vega’s lap.

“Don’t worry Kaliba. Ya are a royal bird. So the doctor will treat you for free.” She hugged the bird. The road over the course of the day shifted from tossed sediment to cleaned paved roads. Vega enjoyed the stability of the journey. It was becoming a real quest, she thought.

“I should write this down, maybe-be I can write a book-book.” Setting Kaliba beside her, she unraveled her spindle and took out her paper. She noticed something, an odd bit of journal.

“Dear Father,

I want you to know that I’m enjoying my stay at the farm. I discovered that the Yita Mountain has a cave with flowing water. It was an interesting place, it helped me study my instrument in peace. Please write to me about how my mother is doing. I am worried for her. I know you are both good at your field but I wish that she is doing well.

From…”

It was finely printed, in an authoritarian black. Vega was at a terrible pause. She was confronted by something treacherous. A vile anger took her.

“What kind-kind of weirdo word is Mother? Sounds like a wiseman trying to be smart.” Vega shouted to the wilderness that surrounded her. “That's stupid.” Taking to writing she recollected her travels. Using what remained of the red crayon, she started.

“Der Mista Mayear,

Eye haviin faun annn tis uesst. Dat oicce is eally od. Butt eye faund a senturee famalee. Dat was cewl. An denn eye faund a crow. Dat was cewler. Laave u.

Framm,

Vagaa ta Scaiircrow.

PeeS

Doo eye havee innsurerance?”

That will show that weirdo, Vega thought. That's how you write something smart.

Ruins dotted this area. Marble and crumbled statues of spirits long forgotten riddled the space.

Up ahead was a mangled cathedral. Cake like in its excessive layers, with vines and overgrowth hung and swung from staircase to staircase. Rusted iron and bronze points flowered out the ground. A square shield covered in mushrooms rested by the still flowing fountain. This cathedral had long since been abandoned. Whether it be from bandits or ghosts, Vega did not know.

“Ah. More ghost fruits.” Vega eyeballed the one in hand. How smart plants are. To grow in places that not only men lived, but Recor as well.

“Nature is pretty neat.” Vega proclaimed.

“My name is not Sun!”

“I know, Kaliba.” Turning to see her bird friend, it stood on the head of the donkey. It shifted its head forward to the scarecrow.

“Idiot.” Kaliba cawed.

“Yeah I kn-”

“How many times do I have to say it? It’s Mistress Lai! Not Sun.” A deep, hoarse voice descended down to Vega.

“Oh. Oh no.” Vega felt the swirling in her belly strike again.

“I hate this feeling.”

“Yes?” Kaliba prompted.

“Gotta to see what they’re doing. Must stop-stop, feeling.” Vega’s cadence quivered. Carefully not to make noise, she pulled the pickaxe out with just a finger and thumb. A donkey snorted, making Vega cleave the pickaxe out suddenly.

“Stop please-please.”

“I don’t get the problem.” A relaxed angel spoke. Shouts bounced along the cylinder cathedral. Smoke roamed out of the top most door. Creeping up the steps, she stared at the arcades of pillars and broken halls this godly place once had. Up fifty feet, the staircase ceased, appearing to have broken off.

“Darn it! Now how am I gonna stop-stop this feeling? Leaving won’t work! That's what birds and tax collectors do when they feel bad.” Gazing at the cracks in the walls, her brows raised. Noting the patterns of talking to shouts, Vega lifted her remaining arm.

“Because it sounds cool!” The dry voice bellowed, and Vega struck the wall beside her, swinging. With each shout Vega swung then slammed the pickaxe into the cathedral. Vega’s face however, turned more and more purple.

“Here’s hoping this-this works.” Heaving the pick into the last bit of wall just before the staircase returned. Flinging her form onto the platform, she put her weapon in front of her.

Two figures, one sitting with his hands on his head and the other giant and proud. Both colorful and exotic, but the huge one wearing a cape and furs. She was noble like, but with roughen hands and attire. Her eyes were burning suns and black eyeshadow made her fierce.

The man was lesser, still bandit-like but not as expensive looking as the giant. His skin was orange and his eyes were a genuine night. He was well protected, having a bronze helmet and surrounding brim, yellowed dyed gambison and a mask to conceal his image. But the lady was more proud, showing her honey brown skin in a show of bravery. Or a sign of immaturity.

“So! Mistress Lai.” He bemoaned.

“Actually-” She went on her toes and pressed a finger to her lips.

“Oh my god-.” The man waxed his forehead for sweat.

“Lady Lai! That's the one!” She sat down, laying her head on the shoulder of the man. Closing her almond lids, he took the opportunity to raise his head.

“So! Lady Lai and Amber Chakrit, the fierce bandits of the Falconers.” He shot his arm upward, waggling his fingers to the gray sky. A caged hawk gnawed at its cage across from him. “With a grand total of one hawk. Or one asshole more like it.” Chakrit scoffed.

“Calm down Amber, it's only been a month. Plus I-”

“We.” He instantly corrected it.

“We stole from that tax collector payload. And they only leave when?” She beckoned him to answer.

“When they feel bad.” He confirmed lowering his head to his knee.

“That's right! We stole money and we had a moral obligation to do it. We should do that more often.”

“Then why don’t we get a cart and steal from your family’s bank?” Chakrit questioned, passive aggressively.

“No! That's too hard.”

“Ok girl.” He laughed through his teeth.

“I’m not a girl! I am a lady! Delicate and radiant like a cherry blossom you dolt!” She bonked the metal cap of the servant, with him shaking the strike off.

Vega was a loss for words. It was just a giant girl and a tired guy. Her smile returned as she stuck her head by the door frame.

“Why did I feel so-so scared? Well, time to-”

“What was that?” Fear returned. Lai pointed towards the door.

“What do you mean?”

“What was THAT? By the door.” Lai was baffled, standing up and stomping to the ruined entrance.

“Quick! Think-think!” Vega whispered to herself. She didn’t want the bandit to discover her, for whatever reason.

“I got it! Stealth mode, activate!” Returning to neutral position, she clamored onto the floor, going inanimate.

“Oh. False alarm, it's a scarecrow.” Lai took a breath of relief.

“It's a scarecrow?”

“It's a scarecrow.” Lai reassured Chakrit.

“Oh. Well put it by the hawk if you want.” Chakrit chimed, as he struggled to feed the misbehaving bird.

The giant lady kneeled beside the weird farm piece. Having great pride, Lai pressed the weird drawn eyes of the bag head. Turning her head to the hardworking Chakrit, she rubbed her cheeks and her eyes went to the ground. Her mouth opened to say something, but words did come out.

Vega had begun to feel something. Not fear nor anger, a physical need. Her eyes were permanently open for this entire trip if not since she lived in the village, but something changed. A burning, a searing, and a tremendous request from her eyes to shut. To blink. Vega realized this, and struggled.

“I still don’t get it, why have a second name?” Chakrit murmured.

“Because family matters! I know this is a recent change for southerners but this makes sense. What if two people had the same name in the same town? We need surnames.” Arguing, she changed from her bashful knee to a proud stand.

“You’re right, princess of nothing. Your authority on naming conventions is unmatched.” He dryly spoke, shutting the cage on the now calm hawk.

“Whatever.” Lai continued to poke the eye of Vega, reminding her the need. The need. To. Blink. Vega’s eyes felt volcanos spill onto her drawn pupils and boil and melt. Infernos roared across her lids, and all of this could be stopped. If. She. Blinked.

“When we find a cart, do you want to… say hang out for a while Amber?” Lai , her eyes darting from the scarecrow and Chakrit.

“Ah, but we need the money Lady Lai.”

“Alright… how about we do the job?”

“What job? There’s million jobs. There's the river boat casino in Jukinas, the Refrigerator at Haliovid, and the other islands in west and east.” He briefly listed. Lai paused and reclined on the doorway. She bounced her head up and down, in confirmation to release the answer.

“The Lai Bank. We can get there before that redhead tribal does, plus I can sneak us in.” Placing her hand on the shoulder of the diligent man, his eyes raised slightly before closing them.

“That would be nice.” Lai took in the sight. His face was rugged, but had a rustic peace to it. She, a former daughter of a rich family, had learned to appreciate the art of the working man. And of Chakrit’s sour but genuine nature. She loved him.

Vega was now at the point of combusting on the spot. Maybe blinking once wouldn’t hurt, she thought. Going tortoise speed, Vega blinked her eyes. Oh, that felt good. Maybe a little bit more. And some more. And… Why is that giant lady screaming at me?