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Sel Maishan absently twirled an archwood dagger in his hands as he meditated. The small, curved blade was made of the exotic, steel-sharp wood. The dagger’s original purple hue has distorted along the blade edge as it slowly absorbed the shaman’s dark, cyan blood. Sel’s chest was bleeding. He wore nothing but a wrapped cloth over his hips and a thin chain wrapping along his forearm, ending in a small, wooden talisman by his palm.
“Mnima, wilenkae ‘Mnemosyne’ io acte orae, fil’mnim io oraka. Elde’ir io orasae.” A prayer in an archaic, ancient language habitually fell from Sel’s lips as he fiddled with the dagger. He prayed no louder than a whisper. “Gor’ki rok, io dan veila. Iro, eld’ir dan vellos.” Three cyan caterpillars of blood crawled down his chest towards his abdomen, but then curled back up towards the source of his wounds. His green magic twisted and congealed the lines of blood into small circles with tiny notches in them. They overlapped similarly shaped scars that already lined the shaman’s chest. “Mnima, wilenkae ‘Mnimosyne’ io acte orae, Iro orake alda’ir Nuil’se ek Shamu’rak, etmesai.”
Finishing his prayer, the blood began to writhe and dig itself into the shaman’s chest. It congealed and plated over, then burrowed in again, cutting deep. Sel understood the pain was intense, even torturous, perhaps, but he did not feel it. When he had first stored such magics, only storing a single half-node at that, he had cried during the entire ordeal. Now, his mind ignored all but the worst pain- although he knew he wouldn’t look forward to the soreness that would follow him around for the next day. As these circles dug in, they shimmered white hot for a moment, then solidified into three hard, blue-green nodes.
The shaman’s eyes flashed open, opaque and green. For a moment, Sel thought he saw shimmering, emerald shapes all around him, dancing and twirling into symbols that branched and flowered off from a single line. That line punched through the air around him, like an inconsistent, ethereal ribbon, one end falling into the stone ground and the other into his chest. Then, the spirit visions faded away. The dark green blood drained from his eyes in stinging, painful tears, leaving only bloodshot whites and two massively dilated, hazel irises. Sel slumped back, panting, the lamplight seeming much too bright and blurry.
The shaman wasn’t sure how long he laid on the stone floor, exhausted. The small chamber was two stories underground, and only the faintest din of the tavern above ventured this far down. The smell of moss and a briny dampness filled the air. It was entirely dark except for the small lamplight beside the bed and the flickering lamplight of the hallway beyond, refracted through the multicolored, bead curtain in front of the fluted archway.
Quick, padded footfalls echoed through the hallway, forcing Sel to turn his head. The wounds on his chest had sealed up, leaving only white, vertical scars, and the cyan blood had all but evaporated from his body, leaving behind a dark green powder in its place. Sel brushed the powder off, and then leaned up onto his elbow.
The shaman saw a pair of small sandals stop in front of the entranceway, hesitating. The feet made a step towards the curtain, then nervously back, shifting from heel to heel anxiously. Sel smiled, pushing himself all the way up to knees.
“Good morning, Abvi.” Sel called out calmly, sheathing the archwood dagger in a leather holster by his side.
The shuffling outside his door stopped suddenly. There was a brief, confused pause. “Good morning, Mr. Sel.” A high-pitched, boyish voice echoed back.
Sel waited for a little while, but the boy didn’t say any more. Finally, Sel called out again. “May I ask why you are here, Abvi?”
“To see if you are awake.” Another pause. “Are you awake, or are you still sleeping?”
Sel shook his head, pulling a hand through tight rings of black hair. “Abvi, of course I am awake.” He responded, finding his way to his feet. He was surprised to see his knees were still shaky.
“But you sleep while sitting down.”
Sel frowned as he slowly moved over to his bed. He yanked on his robes over his head- a messy, travel-worn set of brown robes with the left sleeve torn away. “It’s meditating.” He said. “It’s not sleeping.”
“It looked like you were sleeping.”
Sel tilted his head. “Wait, were you watching me?”
An awkward pause stretched between the two. “No.” Abvi’s voice was higher than before.
Sel sighed, and began tying the Zandai sandals to his feet- one of the few pairs he had found in the city. The bamboo that islanders use for the soles is rare in this desert. A few annoyed retorts flashed through his mind before he shook them away. “Come in.” The shaman finally called out.
The first thing that pushed through the bead curtain was a wild head of light brown hair, beneath which a smaller, freckled face looked around suspiciously. As Abvi’s wide gaze settled on Sel, it froze. His mouth was half ajar, one of his wide front teeth newly missing. The boy didn’t move further in.
Sel rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the green dust from around his face. “Come in.” He repeated calmly. “I don’t usually bite.”
Even so, the boy still hesitated, and Sel could understand why. The shaman’s runescarred body was alien to the Zabiman child, even though Sel had been staying at his home for nearly a full week now. Sel’s skin was pitch black, thanks to his Mnemonic heritage and the dark green blood that pulsed through his veins. At places, his skin blushed to a purple. His green magic also created thousands of tiny, vertical and circular runescars all along his chest, shoulders, and biceps. Even in spite of his rather unimpressive body, Sel still must have seemed very mercenary to the city-dweller child.
The shaman waited patiently, tying the last few cloth knots around his feet, until Abvi finally wrestled up the courage to step through the curtains. “Papa had asked me to ask you to ask Renmi if you are awake.” The scrawny boy announced.
Like most of the Zabi of the Coin Cities, Abvi wore a long tunic over his chest that fell over scuffed, straight pants, hemmed to end just above wrapped sandals. Whatever color the boy’s clothes were originally, his time in the red sun had bleached the fabric to a greyscale. Abvi, nearly a head and half shorter than Sel, was rather small for his age, which Sel guessed at around 10 or 11 years old. Framing his relatively pale face, the boy’s nose and cheeks were always a sunburnt pink.
Sel stretched his neck a bit, still blinking away the shi leva powder from his eyes. “Well, Ren and Mi won’t be back for another few days.” He said. “They’re out of town on a job.”
“Oh.” The boy fidgeted with the side of his tunic.
Sel smiled. “I suppose I’m awake enough now. Come up with me.” He asked in a soft voice. “We can talk on the way. Have you eaten your morning meal yet?”
Abvi looked up at the shaman funnily. “It’s noon outside.”
“Is that why I’m so hungry?” Sel wondered. “A midday meal, then. Come.”
Sel and Abvi pushed through the curtain into a small hall of stone. The ceiling was low, but arched upwards in the center. To Sel’s left, the hallway was dotted with a half dozen multicolored, bead curtains before ending in a barred wooden door. To his right, it sloped into a steep stairwell that led upwards. Small, curved candles were hooked next to each room. A few of their lights were lit to indicate that someone was inside. Sel snuffed out his own.
As the two turned onto the stairs, Sel could hear a small echo of various Estrian tongues bouncing back and forth from the tavern above. More people than he had expected at noon. “Is it a holiday, Abvi?” Sel asked.
The boy shook his head. “It’s their nilvrasind.” He explained. “The Idraka don’t work today.”
The steps arched heavily upwards, nearly at Sel’s knee height. “‘Nilvrasind?’” Sel asked curiously. “I thought it was ‘nausind’ for Estrians?” Sel referenced the third day in the Zabifolk’s calendar week, which was different from the lunar, Zandai calendar that the shaman had learned as a child.
Abvi clambered up the stairs in a practiced way, hopping up them one at a time. “It is.” He piped up. “The ring-priests call it that so that they don’t need to work.”
“Ah.” Sel stifled an insensitive scoff.
The stone stairs began to shorten, until the pair found themselves walking out of the dim stairway and into a brightly lit, half-dome of a tavern. The floor was wooden and stained. The smooth, stone walls arched upwards towards the bar on Sel’s left. Carved into the far wall, another stairwell inclined upwards to a banded, wooden door. A half-dozen circular tables were scattered about at Sel’s right, seating a few of the sand-pale monks of the Idraka temple. They were well into their cups. A few were still carrying their wax tablets and alms boxes from their temple, using them as placemats for their black mugs of ale.
A deep, fast approaching voice twisted the shaman’s attention away from them. “Ah, Maishan, you’re alive!”
When Sel turned to the bar, a massive bulk of tanned muscle filled his vision. The man shoved passed him, nearly knocking the shaman onto the ground. The hulking form of Kamaji ra Vitzalh twisted his head as he moved towards the stone tables. “On the bar, lad, I’ll be over soon.” The large Zabiman called out before turning back to the other guests.
Sel turned and sat on one of the few unsteady stools by the stone bar, but he snuck a curious glance at the man working behind him. Kamaji was something of a curiosity for the fanglings of the Coin Cities. He was wearing a sleeveless tunic and ragged, grey pants that scuffed along the floor, along with a wooden tray laden with sloshing mugs that rested on his stomach by yellow straps around his shoulders. He passed out and cleared drinks from the tray with an expert swiftness. His right arm ended at the wrist, white wrappings meticulously covering its entire length. Sel watched with amusement as he noted the barman’s short hair was now a bright purple. The day before it was pink, and a week ago it was yellow. His next guess was green.
The shaman leaned against the bar, his shaking body thankful for the support. Abvi scrambled up one of the wooden stools. To his right, Sel tensed as he noticed the thin-faced woman sitting at the far end of the bar. She wore the yellow and grey robes of an Estrian Alliance soldier, and bore the matching iron mace visibly on her hip. The bald woman held a long glass of sparkling, clear wine in front of her chin, paying no mind to Sel. A yellow pamphlet was sprawled out on the bar in front of her.
“Why are you staring at her?”
“I, what?” Sel blinked at the intruding thought, then saw Abvi staring with his head cocked. The shaman averted his eyes from the Zabi soldier. “No reason.”
“Hmm.” Abvi squinted at Sel keenly.
Sel looked from the edge of the bar, then back to Abvi, then to the bar again. The boy stood still as a gargoyle on his stool, his dust-covered legs pulled up to his chest. A raucous roar of cheer bellowed from the ring-priests behind them, before the monks slammed the iron mugs back onto their wax tablets. Ale fell like raindrops.
Abvi still maintained his needling stare. “What now, kid?” The question burst from Sel at last. The man shuffled in his seat uncomfortably.
“Hmm.” Abvi tilted his head back and hummed loudly, stroking his naked chin as if in deep thought. “She is making you uncomfortable, huh?” He asked.
Sel felt the hair begin to prickle along the back of his neck. “Abvi, why would I be nervous about her? She’s just getting a drink.” The shaman lied through gritted teeth. “You know, I should go pour myself one-” As the man began to stand, a meaty hand shoved him back into his seat.
“Oh, Maishan, you know that’s my job.” Kamaji ra Vitzalh rounded past Sel, stepping behind the stone bar. He slipped off the tray and set it behind the bar. “And I think my son’s got a good point- I could see you staring at her from across the tavern. Why does she bother you so much?” His grin flashed too-sharp, red teeth common in the city.
Sel ran his hand over the side of his face to try and mask the blood rushing to his face. Despite that, his cheeks still visibly darkened to a deep purple. I can’t tell them. The shaman thought, exchanging a long glance at the calm Kamaji and his son. If they knew I was wanted, they would kick me out. Or worse. Sel could only afford to stay here. “I have my reasons.” Was all he replied.
“Hmm.” Both Kamaji and Abvi leaned in closely towards Sel, who bore the scrutiny with what he hoped was a calm face.
“He’s blushing real hard.” Kamaji noted to the younger kid.
A joking tone crept into Abvi’s voice. “Trying to hide it, too.”
“And he’s all tensed up, wanting to run away.”
“Scared.”
“But curious, too, I’d say.”
Sel coughed loudly. “I’m right here.” He said.
“Humph.” Kamaji puffed out a heavy breath before reaching down beneath the bar. Even through Sel’s lowered eyes, Kamaji’s gaze looked towards the shaman’s suspiciously. “Now that I think of it, this is the first time I’ve seen you here without those sisters of yours.”
Abvi offered a sage glance towards his father. “You think Renmi have something to do with it?”
“Maybe they do.” The father said as he pulled out an iron mug and a glass bottle filled a black liquid.
“Maybe they keep him quiet?” Abvi suggested.
“More like scare all them folk like her off.” Kamaji uncorked the bottle, and began to fill the mug. “So that Sel here doesn’t make any trouble for them.”
Sel’s back tensed, and he looked about the bar. Despite the loud analysis of Sel from the barkeep and his son, none were paying much attention- the ring-priests were arguing drunkenly with themselves, and the soldier didn’t even look up from her pamphlet. Sel sighed with relief. “Look, Kamaji, I don’t cause any trouble.” He began to say. “I don’t know what you think I did-”
“-No, don’t apologize, Sel.” Kamaji pushed the mug forwards into Sel’s hand. He gave a wide, sharp smile. “I get your situation, really, I do.”
“See it with Zandai traders all the time.” Abvi added.
“And we know just how hesitant you folk can be, in these situations.” Kamaji continued, leaning forwards across the bar. “You islanders are all very, um, respectful of your women. But this is the mainland, man. Out here, on this coast, that respect is seen as timidity. I understand if you don’t know how to approach this.”
Sel shook his head slowly, grinding his thumbs into his temples. “Please speak plainly, Kamaji.” He asked confusedly. “By Mnima, what in the world do you want?”
“No, my friend,” Kamaji wagged a finger dismissively. “We are talking about what you want.”
“Which is?”
“Her.” Abvi piped up.
“Crudely put,” Kamaji agreed. “But, yes. Her.”
Sel frowned in confusion, his gaze shifting between the mercurial son and bright father, then to the Zabi soldier, until it finally rested on the bar beneath him. A moment passed scanning the granular wood. Then, he understood fully and scoffed, louder than he had expected. “Is that what you think?” The shaman asked, exasperated. “I barely glanced at the woman, Kamaji.”
The Zabi man raised a purple eyebrow, leaning in towards Sel. “Oh, come now, my friend.” He smiled widely, a stripe of white rows. “You don’t ever go chasing after any woman- there are plenty here who would love a chance to see the rest of those scars.” He jabbed a meaty finger at the white lines that ran across Sel’s chest and into the low cut of his robes’ collar. “Even in this trade city, magicians like you are rare. You’re an… exotic creature.”
The words prickled at the back of Sel’s neck. He had heard those words before, in that nightmare realm, on that roaming, evil flotilla. “Excuse me?” The man’s words cracked in his throat.
“You’re obviously not from here.” Kamaji was pouring himself a drink in a pewter mug- something silvery with rust-red flecks. “You are strange and black, and not in a way like the Paddyfolk, you see? They have dark skin, but are still very Estrian. You have this exotic dress and manner. Even your shoes- they are made of wood! Who would think of that.”
“They’re bamboo.” Sel said coldly. “It's a weed, not wood. And grows damn near everywhere where I’m from.”
“It’s still weird.” Abvi said quietly, absentmindedly tugging at a frayed corner of his own leather sandal.
“Exactly!” Kamaji nodded approvingly to his son before turning back to Sel. “You see? You may blend with your island people, Maishan, but here you are marked out as different, as an outsider. It must be terrible, so by Yut, use that to your advantage for once! Women fall for it every time.”
Sel flinched. “I don’t want women to ‘fall’ for anything.” He said nervously. “I still can’t believe you can get away with saying shit like that.”
“Come on now, they are just women. How does it go- ‘As sand flows and roosters will cry, what women fancy, they forget by sunrise’.” The man chuckled to himself at the saying.
“Wh-what?” The man blinked. It was the first Sel had heard it spoken so crudely, but it gave words to that thing he had sensed since entering Estrian soil. “That is… san shaki.” Sel replied bitterly, trying to find the right word in Dunespeech. “Completely… barbaric! There’s the word. That’s barbaric.”
A land of death and domination, the man remembered Old Kurata’s words, from back in the civilized islands of Zandai. Back where the world made sense.
“Barbaric?” The purple haired man frowned curiously. “Oh, come now. We don’t have any of the advantages you do, so why do you not use them.” The man leaned back with his stump up in mock surrender. “I’m not telling you to do anything, but those kinds of women love you exotic people-”
“-I am not fucking ‘exotic’.” The cleric growled as he pushed off his stool, leaning over the bar. He shook his head. Something glowed slightly on his chest- the faintest leak of green magic as his body prepared to fight.
Something struck the side of the shaman’s head- not something physical, but a piercing, mental pain, like a plant spreading its roots through his brain. He fell forward, coughing on the bar. Blood on steel.
“Green magic. It appears my research was correct, Cleric.”
The woman had stood. Her mace was pointed towards him- a hollow core humming with the sharp, acrid scent of a spell. “I thought I'd have to tag you for the entire day. Good to see you so eager to flaunt your ill-earned gifts.”
The monks across the room began to get up, reaching for their own batons or daggers hidden under their belts. No one made a move.
Sel raised his hands. “Easy there, ma’am.” He said. “I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“Maishan, the Archwood Cleric.” She addressed him with his adventurer’s name. “You’re accused of abetting corrupt liminality, willingly breaking the laws of Common Fear, and acting in service of Nightmare.”
Not the charges Sel was expecting. He was just a bandit, not… whatever this woman was accusing him of. “Look, lady, I-”
“I am Canna Sa’or, lieutenant of the 21st Allied battalion.” Her voice demanded silence. “You are too dangerous to be allowed to live, Nightmare servant.”
Shit. Sel’s hand rested on his dagger. Kastri took a step forward- but a single look from the woman caused him to crumple to his knees in pain. The brand on his remaining arm- the ring of runes that branded all criminals- burned under the soldier’s magic gaze. He choked out his words through the pain. “Whose orders is this? Bounty hunters are disallowed in Dra Agara’s City!”
“I take no reward from this, except the pleasure of ridding the world of another false adventurer.” Canna took careful steps forward. Both of their weapons were below the city’s footlong limit for personal weapon size. A close-range fight.
Canna’s boot kicked off of the tiles on the ground, shattering them behind her. It was all Sel could to roll off of her and to the ground, his shoulder cracking as her mace slammed across it. He felt his magic pulled towards her, searing his skin as she tried to sap him of that vital essence that rested at the bottom of his stomach. An artificer. He realized, rolling back to his feet. I can’t rely on my spells here.
The woman pivoted on her heel. She kicked down at the shaman’s feet, but he dodged in the way his sisters had taught him. He held the dagger out in front of him. “I don’t want to hurt you, lieutenant.” He growled.
She didn’t respond. A feint with the mace, and punch to his gut. Sel felt the breath leave him.
He was against a table, his vision swimming. He flailed with his dagger, striking something shallowly. Blood spattered across his face as a shadow loomed.
The mace cracked into his skull. Everything went dark.