Interlude
Ferris & Octavio
Year 4256 | 4th day of Olfaccium | Morning | Collab with: @HokumPocus@Pezz570 The role of bodyguard was nothing new to Ferris. Since the role was a broad one with many different definitions and job descriptions, there was a good chance every mercenary had played some sort of a bodyguard at some point. In Ferris’ case, it was just a matter of the pay and the person paying; if the money was good and the person wasn’t overly difficult, he was inclined to accept.
For today in particular, it was information he was after, not money. He had a decent grasp on Malkev and his role in town by now, but what of the Kharu-Natjer? Though the Kharu appeared to possess significant power, influence, and wealth, he also seemed to operate entirely from the shadows. The questions Ferris wanted answers to how and why the Kharu maintained such a role, and the alternative to asking for the Kharu’s goals was examining his actions. Serving as bodyguard to one of his servants was a lesser extension of that given that the Kharu’s servants were cogs in an overall machine. Every servant would fit into the system somehow.
Today’s outfit of choice was a hooded cloak, which was testament to the secretive nature of the task. The plan was the same: Three bodyguards would accompany the slave on their tasks, one keeping step with the slave and two bringing up the rear from afar. The plan was straightforward enough that there wasn’t reason to provide a map. The guards were simply to accompany and protect the slave, keeping their eyes on the crowd and the crowd’s eyes off the slave as they moved.
Floral and woody scents swirled in his scarf as he waited in the designated bend in the tunnels, the group’s meeting spot marked by a trio of jade candles nestled on a tunnel ledge. Spotting two hooded figures moving down the tunnel towards him—the slave and one of Malkev’s guards, most likely—Ferris straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall. He had his scarf today, at least, and a hood wasn’t too poor of a replacement for his hat.
Octavio approached the meeting spot with an ever familiar pang of adrenaline. It was a feeling he embraced, however. The man had spent enough time relaxing to the point it was beginning to feel strange. He figured a career that involved putting yourself in constant danger did that to a person, if the many warriors he had met throughout his life were any indication. He assured himself that it wasn’t the case with him, that he’d just take part in some quick task to entertain himself, nothing more. There’d be no hollering of blood and battle, especially not with the fine set of robes adorning him. However, he settled on a more utilitarian appearance for today, swapping out the usual finishing touches with either nothing or intentionally bland accessories. The heavy cloak that would only rest on his back was now hitched on his shoulders, covering a wider area of his body. It wouldn’t do to dress so extravagantly with a slave at one’s side.
The slave. It didn’t bother him as much as it should have, as it wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with them. It was easier to enact his warped sense of justice on a noble, he figured, when you weren’t spending every waking moment fretting over the well-being of every cook and maid. He avoided eye contact with it, instead treating it like someone’s expensive possession.
“I take it we´re ready to go?” he asked, fidgeting with a pouch on his necklace. He’d stored his earrings in it, and was tracing the hard lumps with his thumb.
The guard looked to Octavio and then the slave. The slave, a young male in his late teens, frowned at Octavio’s words. The boy’s head was mostly shaven, save for some hair towards the back of his head, tied in a knot.
The slave shook his head. “Freshlanders...” He said. “All same.”
His words were crude, adding extra syllables where there were none. The slave walked passed Octavio, bowing his head just barely as he did so. Silently he positioned himself towards to the front of the cart and pulled out what appeared to be a small crystal from his cloak.
The crystal was quite odd. It was clear as water, yet at the same time it reflected light much like a mirror. The slave clenched his hand tightly around the crystal. His eyes closed as if concentrating. His appearance wavered for a split second. And then…
The boy’s skin no longer had that orange hue. Instead it was a light tan. And his hair… it had become black as soot. The crystal had vanished. Seemingly merging into his body.
The slave opened his eyes and looked to the guard. The guard nodded back.
“Now go.” The slave said.
One of the guards positioned himself to pull the cart, but the slave raised his hand stopping him. “You.” He said, pointing to Octavio. “Cart pulling need be. Your job.”
Ferris watched the slave speak. Like some of the others he’d seen, this slave was educated in the language, which meant he was important. Considering that the current group was meant to protect this slave, that made sense, but Ferris was distracted by a familiar, faint, but vexing scent in the air. He’d noticed it first in the bathing area, of all places, but it wasn’t like any scent he’d encountered before. Rather than remaining a definite smell, the scent kept shifting, as if slowly transforming into different smells as the seconds ticked by. The only thing keeping Ferris from thinking he was going insane was the fact that he didn’t always smell the scent. In fact, here was the only place he’d smelled it outside the bath, which kept his attention sufficiently distracted from the slave that he didn’t register the crystal until the scent in the air suddenly grew significantly stronger.
Pulling down his scarf, he watched as the crystal merged into the boy, watched as the boy changed completely. Though his features remained the same, all the colors were wrong, just as the sharp rubber scent in the air shifting into a sweeter, fruitier one was wrong. It was magic, then, not a figment of his imagination or some strange incense burner put out to distract him. Somehow, the combination of the boy and the crystal had resulted in magic. Was the boy himself a magic-user? It seemed unlikely, given that a skill so strange and unique would be highly valued and deserving of more protection than just the three-man crew present. A better explanation would be the crystal serving as a repository or conduit for magic.
The slave spoke, first to the group, then to Octavio. For some reason, he’d nominated Octavio to pull the cart, which confused Ferris for a second. It’d be common sense to delegate the laborious job to someone who seemed better suited for the task, and while Octavio was by no means frail, he was not as built as Ferris or the guard. On second thought, though, perhaps that’s exactly why he nominated Octavio; of the trio, Octavio looked the least familiar with the battlefield, which Ferris knew to be a partial lie. Octavio was just better at hiding his experience, and his magic made him stronger than any stray guard without magic.
“Octavio needs his hands free to use his magic,” Ferris said, looking to the guard.
“Do you have access to magic as well?” Ferris was counting on a no, which would lead to the conclusion that the guard was better suited staying closest to the slave and the wagon since both Ferris and Octavio had magic that allowed them to bridge the distance if they stayed behind the slave. However, it seemed that pulling the wagon meant staying closest to the slave, and Ferris still wanted to ask about the crystal.
“I can pull the cart. My magic doesn’t require my hands to be free,” he said, replacing his mask as he looked to the slave. Separating him from the guard seemed a good bet if Ferris was to get answers to his questions. That said, Ferris had a sneaking suspicion that this slave was not the naive sort and that answers would not come easily in broken words
“Man can be grabbing cart. Man can be release cart. Magic then can use. Job make Man better.” The slave said in matter-of-factly fashion. “You can be help. Required it be not.”
Octavio stood and watched the exchange unfold around him. The only requirements for his magic were sufficient light and the chance to concentrate, both of which he figured would be available. He tried to focus more on the words of others, even more than he’d previously done, as part of his attempts to be more committed to his surroundings.
“If all this’ll be is pulling a cart, then I can definitely summon illusions.” He ran his fingers through his hair in a way that betrayed the humbler choice of clothing.
“I’d rather not, of course. Is it important that I be the one to pull it?”He figured the only realistic possibilities were that the slave chose on impulse, or was given special instructions to choose Octavio. The latter implied a strategic benefit to keeping him occupied, which he found ridiculous. The former made more sense.
“Depends.” The slave shrugged. He turned to the other guards. “Today Men not be wanting moneys?” More than one of the guards eyed Octavio pleadingly. “Replacements be needing?”
The guard who entered with the slave nudged Octavio. “Just play along friend.” He whispered. “They get very stubborn about things like this.”
Ferris listened with some amount of surprise. He’d assumed that the slaves got along with the guards, or were at least intimidated by them. From the looks of it, though, the opposite seemed to be true, which just served to show how much power the Kharu really wielded. Given that the guards seemed to be following the slave’s orders now, it was pretty clear that this was a side job for them unrelated to their day jobs, but how much of that was due to the money?
Looking to Octavio, he pursed his lips. He’d tried, but it seemed that the slave was set on Octavio pulling the cart. Why Octavio was anyone’s guess, and Ferris figured that’d be revealed sooner or later, unless it was actually irrelevant.
The guard beside Octavio met his eyes, shrugging, and Ferris nodded.
“Let’s go.”Octavio wordlessly gripped the cart, eyes focused on the slave. The irony of being a man who defended a familiar raising an eyebrow at a slave ordering someone else around wasn’t lost on him. It’d be an act of total hypocrisy to try and contest the boy’s command, he realized.
“Of course.”The slave nodded in approval. “Now be going.” He said.
The guard smiled and walked up beside Octavio. “My gratitude.” The guard whispered. “He won’t have you doing this for long… probably.”
The group set off. The slave at the head with the guard acting as a guide. It was a rather mundane and uneventful walk. A few villagers would stare from time to time, but out of curiosity or cautiousness rather than ill will.
After a time, the guard in the lead fell back, pacing himself with Octavio and Ferris. He nodded to Ferris and looked to Octavio. “Hey,” He said. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” Ferris said, looking to the slave ahead, then to the guard again. Neither of them seemed winded, yet the guard was checking in with him and Octavio. If Ferris had to guess, it seemed like the guard was trying to make conversation, which was rather helpful, actually.
“Do you take jobs from the slaves often?” he asked. From the looks of the villagers they’d passed, it didn’t seem like seeing a group of hooded figures moving together was a common or welcome sight, so the Kharu probably didn’t send his slaves out too often. Still, soldiers trying to pad their income wasn’t a novel concept, and they’d look elsewhere if they couldn’t find jobs with the Kharu.
The guard laughed. “Nobles mostly. Or rather one noble in particular. We are personal guards of Malkev… personal off-duty guards, that is. We’re just here for the extra pay.”
The guard smiled. “To be honest, I’m not even sure ‘slave’ is the best term for these people. Some of them seem to act more like a slave then others... Ones like him though...” The guard smirked. “Well… you’ve already seen how they're like.”
Octavio whistled to himself to pass the time, clearly not content with the mundane nature of his task. He met the stares of the occasional curious villager and tried to internally guess what they were thinking, basing his conclusions more on an overactive imagination than anything grounded in logic. The guard asked questions, made conversation, and he was too caught up in a particularly interesting set of thoughts to answer the man. When he at last wanted to contribute with something else, he realized it’d be a lot more difficult with the slave being able to hear everything that came out of his mouth.
“These so-called slaves are more like messengers or representatives, I take it,” he added, dryly, his words aimed at the slave as much as everyone else.
“Even if he is your typical slave, it’s like something expensive that knows it’s expensive.” An image of Lynx flashed before his eyes.
It was always the more spirited guards that made his former life easy. They weren’t loyal to much apart from coin and beer, so all it took was either a bribe or waiting for one to sneak off for a drink before staging anything. Any not swayed by either would receive a special visit from a voluptuous illusion to compliment arm muscles and ask for directions to places that didn’t exist. This eager guard seemed to belong to the third category.
It’s been awhile since I’ve given anyone the bustling Bertha special. he thought.
“Expensive, is not. Is important. Word is better.” The slave said while still looking ahead. “Freshlander language be small. No good is words.” The guard gave an uneasy chuckle and shrugged.
Ferris listened to the slave quietly, his eyes flicking over the slave’s face and garbs. The slave said he was not expensive, but what did that mean? Was he easy to replace, then, or was it just that the average slave was spare change to the Kharu? As for being important, there were different shades like being precious, valuable, or useful. The word seemed to imply all three of those, but the slave also admitted that the word did not fully convey the meaning, so where was it lacking?
“What language do you usually speak, then?” Ferris asked, looking between the slave and the townsfolk around them now. It was clear that they were not from around here, and perhaps they were not from any of the major lands either. But where, then, did the Kharu source his slaves? Was that how he’d accumulated his wealth and influence, or was he merely partaking in an existing trade?
The slave turned his head ever so slightly. Just enough to give Ferris a look of uncertainty.
“They don’t usually talk much.” The guard whispered over to Ferris.
The slave frowned at the words and turned his gaze back ahead. “Is called Kharu-Nhatkel. ‘Voice’ be kharu. Home is Nhatkel. ‘Nhatkel’s Voice’ is meaning.”
“Kha... ru... Nhat… kel.” Octavio spoke slowly, enunciating each vowel with an unnecessary amount of care.
“Never heard of it.”“‘Kharu-Nhatkel’ word is Kharu-Nhatkel.” The Slave said without a moment’s pause. “Man did be hearing of it.”
The guard bellowed out a laugh. “Here, I thought you people had no sense of humor. It appears I was wrong.”
The slave glanced back at them. There was a faint look of satisfaction in his eyes. The boy smothered it quickly and looked back ahead.
“Was rude. Is wrong. Proper it be not.” The slave said. “Kharu-Nhatkel not be from freshlands. Be from far lands.”
“Far lands?” The guard repeated.
“Be south-east.” The slave said. “Past sands that rot… Or be through waters that burn.”
“Waters that burn?”
The slave looked to the guard. “Freshlanders not be knowing waters that burn?” The boy asked. The guard shrugged, prompting a shake of the head from the slave. “Freshlanders be Freshlanders.” The slave sighed.
Ferris considered the slave’s words, sharing in Octavio’s lack of knowledge. While he could be said to be well-traveled due to his mercenary jobs, that was only within Saencila, which was self-sufficient enough that he’d never heard of a far-off “Kharu-Nhatkel”. As for the term “far lands”, he had come across it before, as well as the concept of sands that rot. Many people told similar tales of the deeper parts of the Dead Sands, though Ferris had never paid much attention to them. Similar to waters that burn, he’d passed them off as tall tales told by drunk men regaling strangers with exaggerated stories of their youth. Ferris no sooner believed these tales than he’d believed tales of mountains of water or forests of fire, and it was unclear just how seriously the slave was taking this conversation. As far as he was concerned, the slave might have been traded at such a young age that he was only passing along tales he’d heard from others, but then again the Kharu’s slaves didn’t seem to have a sense of humor in general, so perhaps all these tall tales held truth.
More than the introduction of Kharu-Nhatkel, Ferris was caught by the statement that “Kharu” meant “voice”. The Kharu-Natjer, then, meant “voice of something,” and Ferris looked at the slave, wondering whether there was any harm in asking.
“What does the Kharu-Natjer’s name mean, then?”“Not name.” The slave’s tone darken. “Is of The Hemtypt-Natj-” The slave cut his words off and shook his head. “-is title… one of titles...” He said. “Kharu-Natjer never be having name. Lost. Name be cut away...” The slave folded his arms and looked to the ground. For a while he said nothing.
“God...” The slave said uneasily. “Natjer is God. Good, not be word. Is good enough.”
There were certainly a lot of implications Octavio could have drawn from a slave calling its master a god. The first and most obvious was assuming the Kharu-Natjer was far more hungry for power than he had assumed, going as far as commanding his slaves to worship him. Or it could’ve been a cultural difference. He’d read enough about the world to know that some people interpreted one’s given name as something sacred and important, and the whole explanation behind titles and names could have been less spiritual and more about formalities. It was much to think about.
“Is God another title for him?” he asked. It was best to keep his words short and simple, lest he get more questions than answers.
“God word be not good.” The slave said in a firm voice. “Only be good enough.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “One title, Kharu-Natjer be having. Title be Kharu-Natjer.”
The slave looked to Octavio. “Kharu-Natjer be not god. Be only man… He be not first. He be not last... When Kharu-Natjer dead, new slave be Kharu-Natjer.”
The guard frowned. He look more than a little uncomfortable. He obviously hadn’t expected the conversation to go in such a direction.
It was a language barrier, then. A title that signified something close to a god, but bore no relation with the concept of being some sort of deity. This did nothing to satisfy Octavio, as he now began to mull over the implications of the power one had to have if people’s first instinct was to describe you as a sort of god. Even at his most narcissistic and power-hungry, Octavio’s visions of what he’d look like after amassing a dragon’s hoard of gold tended to consist of vapid materialism. That people would go after the approval of others to the point of turning humans into something similar to furniture was something that he had never understood.
“...So the man we know as the Kharu-Natjer used to be a slave?” the words came out with ease, in a light tone that he wore to hide his now ravenous curiosity. He was crossing a line and he knew it.
The slave met Octavio’s and frowned. He did not reply, however.
The slave’s unease wasn’t lost on Ferris, but he supported both Octavio’s questions and the way they were delivered. In a way, Octavio was much better suited to asking such questions than him, given his more direct approach. He disliked the concept of beating around the bush, and although he knew that a gentle touch was necessary at times, he hadn’t been in so many situations where he’d been doing the delicate questioning. Proud soldiers and hardened warriors were his most common conversation partners, and they respected directness much more than others. So, Ferris decided to remain silent, meeting Octavio’s eyes and giving him a subtle nod to communicate his respect and agreement.
“All men is being slave.” The slave said at last. “More slave than other men, some be. Kharu-Natjer? Still slave. Bodyguards? Slave. Packmakers? …” The slave raised his head at the pause. His gaze, expressionless. “Packmakers be slave.”
“Sir,” The guard interjected. “this is the place.”
The slave nodded and raised his hand to signal the others to stop. The group had stopped in the back of an ordinary looking building. It wasn’t very big or old, just… ordinary. The slave walked up to the door and knocked. He waited a moment before knocking again. Still no answer. One more knock. This time the door opened to reveal a hunched over old man with almond shaped eyes.
“Yes yes yes! You’re at the door. Only knocked a dozen times, didn’t ya? Did they take our bribe to-”
The old man paused and adjusted his spectacles. He looked the slave up and down, before taking in the guards behind the slave. “What do you want?” He asked.
“Salt.” The slave replied.
“Salt?” The man repeated flatly. “You’re telling me ya came here with a load of guards just to buy some salt?” The old man shook his head. “Not buying it. What did that rascal do this time?”
The slave sighed and pulled out a large pouch at his side. He loosened the pouch’s string and let it drop to the ground. Gold coins spilled out from the opening. Other than a minor raising of his brow, the old man did well to hide his interest in the coin.
“What’s that supposed to be?” He asked.
“Moneys.” The slave said.
“Oh, yes! Money! Of course!” The man replied sarcastically. “You think me daft boy? I can see it’s money! I’ll make far more than that for the salt once I reach my buyer!”
“Not buyer.” The slave said. “Supplier.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who are you?” He growled.
“Not matter.” The slave replied, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Doesn’t matter?!” The old man spat. The slave frowned at the man’s reaction. He looked to the guard from earlier and gave him a nod. “You come here, uninvited. Asking for my product. Product I haven’t informed anybody of. And you to top it off y-”
The guard pulled the cover off the cart they brought with them. It was full of barrels and crates. The old man’s words trailed off. His eyes widened. Grumpy expression replaced with surprise.
“Supplies.” The slave said, waving his hand to the cart.
“Supplies...” The old man repeated in a whisper.
“Dyes. Paints. Tools. All there.” Said the slave.
For a moment, the man’s mouth gaped in awe. With a shake of his head, he reluctantly tore his gaze away from the cart and recomposed himself.
“Doesn’t do me any good.” He grouched. “Can’t leave the city. They won’t-”
“Moneys.” The slave repeated. Using his foot, he nudged the coin pouch he dropped to the ground. “For bribe.”
The old man blinked. He looked to the slave dumbfoundedly.
“Not be enough?” The slave asked. “Have more.”
The guard approached carrying two more large pouches. He dropped the new pouches next to the other pouch.
“Why-” The man started.
“Not matter.” The slave repeated. This time more insistently. “Salt matter.”
The old man looked to the slave, the gold coins and then the cart. “Let me see if everything checks out. If so, we have a deal.”
It took the remainder of the morning for the exchange to be made. Most of it was spent reviewing the supplies to ensure everything checked out.
Twice, the man tried playing hard ball. Perhaps in an effort to see if he could get something more out of the slave. Both times, the slave pushed back. The second time, he threatened to leave the old man with nothing. That ended any additional negotiation. The old man knew he was on the better end of the deal. Pushing further wasn’t worth the risk. When everything was settled, the man thanked the slave for his business and left the group with a smug smile on his face.
“Trade done.” The slave said to the group. “Back we be going.” He looked to Octavio. “Good, man did. No more be pulling cart. Extra moneys all be getting.”
The guards cheered merrily at that. Many of them patted Octavio on the back as if he were a hero. And with that, the group headed off. Back in direction they came from.
Octavio hid his bewilderment with a skill only someone who had spent the better part of their lives being morally questionable could have. It wasn’t just getting the job done, but additional
moneys? Gold, the lubricant for the soul that made people do bad things. He flashed a winning smile and knew there was no better reply at that moment than to shut up.
Ferris listened to the guards cheer without feeling much himself. While getting paid was nice, money had never been his goal. Still, he’d come along to learn more about the Kharu-Natjer, and in a way he’d fulfilled that goal. He’d learned that the Kharu lacked no money and served a kingdom from far away, but that made his presence in Saencila that much stranger. Why was he here, then? The slave’s insistence on calling everyone slaves of some sort made it seem like the Kharu, too, was serving someone or something, but what? Him helping the Land of Sight defend themselves seemed too good to be true, and Ferris didn’t believe in pure goodness. There was an endgame here somewhere. Ferris just had to find it.
“Does your homeland have entities like the Sightless?” Ferris asked the slave. He was indirectly seeking an answer to his question, but judging by how easily the slave got offended earlier, he figured taking it slow and assuming good intentions first would be good.
Octavio set his eyes on Ferris, noting the lack of attention he displayed towards their reward.
Huh. So he really
wasn’t the type to care about money all that much. He knew that snooping for information about the Kharu-Natjer was their unspoken little goal, but he couldn’t help but wonder about Ferris’ intentions as well. It was something to get in a fight with Lynx about later.
“...No.” The slave said hesitantly. His pace seemed to slow. His gaze turning vacant. “Have… other things… broken things...”
Ferris watched the slave’s body language shift, watched as his eyes turned empty, and figured he’d touched another sensitive subject. The slave seemed to know more than he was letting on, but why wasn’t he talking? From their conversations so far, he seemed to be the type who liked correcting misconceptions and clarifying things for “freshlanders”, yet he was holding back now.
Deciding that he’d try pushing a bit further first, Ferris pursued the point.
“What do you mean?”The slave looked to Ferris warily. There was a troubled look in his eyes. “Nhatkel… land is broken… Horrors everywhere… Bug-eyed creatures be wearing man skin… Steal memories… Devour family…” The slave shivered. “Plants that crawl… they be infecting, eating then infesting… Living mists…” The slave shook his head. “Many things be with powers over mind… turn mind against...”
The slave said nothing for a while. Instead he simply stared straight ahead. “... Nhatkel… Not be wanting to talk more.” He said in a soft voice. “Freshlanders talking too much.”
The slave quickened his pace. Pointedly staying ahead of Octavio and Ferris.
“Sounds like things are bad no matter where you are.” From the man who had spent his whole life running, the words carried a weight that would have gone unnoticed. In a lower voice, heeding the slave’s warning, he continued.
“Then again, if they’re setting up shop during times like these, it makes sense for their home to be like that.”There was much more he wanted to say, to get some ideas circulating with the others. He was well aware that this slave would most likely relay anything important back to the Kharu-Natjer, however, so he held off. He thought of Svephraey, who had no qualms with showing some of her hand within the man’s territory. Did her utility outweigh a risk like that, or was the Kharu-Natjer less aware than he seemed? The recent memory of the pouches of gold rang in his mind. It was the former. Probably.
“Yeah,” Ferris said, watching as the slave quickened his pace. Pushing further hadn’t been the best or smartest move, perhaps, but he’d gotten valuable information from it. Whether the slave would tell the Kharu what they’d been talking about didn’t matter too much. They were curious about who their allies were, which was natural for anyone in their position, especially given how little information the Kharu had given them.
“It makes you wonder whether they were driven out of their home, or if they chose to leave it,” he said when the slave reached the head of the pack. From what the slave had said, it sounded like their home was in an even worse position than Salencia, so it was only natural that they would’ve wanted to leave. Were they truly slaves, then, or was that just a more innocuous label than “settlers” or “refugees”?
“At least we have a better idea of who they are now,” Ferris said, glancing between the slave and the guards, who seemed rather preoccupied with discussing after-work celebrations.
“And we know that they don’t like talking about their past.”The remainder of the trip was uneventful. The cart made it back safely. The slave gave everyone a fair share in coin. And the soldiers said their farewells.
“Get rest.” The slave said, handing Ferris and Octavio their pay. “Big day, tomorrow is being.”
The slave gave the two a nod and turned to make his leave. As the slave left, his features returned to normal. Whatever magic he used to change his looks, now gone.
If anything the venture had been a good distraction. A distraction from the battle that was to come.
Remram
Achronum
