Ariamus

It was… Ordinary. Painfully so. The sky was blue, there was a faint breeze, and it was warm. You could even call it nice. This was an irrefutable fact, tucked into his memory of that day, fifteen years ago. He could even believe it was real, if not for the cloying, sluggish feeling of the dream. If he were to throw a punch at the soldier, in gleaming silver plate that walked towards him, stalwart and grim, it would have no weight behind it, and he’d likely pass straight through the man, despite how real it all seemed. He stood, surrounded yet alone near the centre of the city. A large fountain sat at the crossroads, with the roads leading along each cardinal direction. If memory served, north led to the dockyards, busier than even the largest bazaar in the eastern islands. East and west both held housing districts, and led to the gates that encompassed the city, and to the south was the guild district. Money flowed like water through the guilds, and the city benefitted from such opulence. He could remember the city like it was yesterday, but could not for the life of him, remember why he was stood by the fountain.

He gazed up at the sky, as a cloud formed above the city. For a second, he could swear he’d seen the edges of something, floating far above them, something not quite corporeal, but arguably, there, if his eyes were to be believed. And then the heavens opened. Deafened, and blinded by the pure white light, pain coursed through him, as he slipped further and further from where he stood.

And then he was awake, shot up from his place in bed, as if he were a corpse, struck through with lightning, and forced into the upward position. He panted heavily, sweat dripping from his brow as he stared at his hands, resting in his lap. He started to slow his gasping, breathing through his nose, trying to force a sense of calm over himself he would not have had otherwise. After a few moments he began to faintly recognize the hubbub of the docks drifting up to the window, where a pleasant sea breeze cooled his heated body. “So… That sort of day.” He spoke to himself solemnly as he nodded, climbing out of the bed, the rough material of a rented bed scratching at his legs. For a few coins a night above a busy pub on the street that connected Val Maris to the sea, he would not complain about bedding.

The room itself was quaint, rough wood flooring, plain white walls, with exposed wooden beams that held the room together. Definitely worth it for such a small price. He made it to the open window, resting his elbows on the windowsill as he gazed out to the docks below. A large trade ship from Lanaste in the west had arrived, and sent the docks into well ordered chaos, with a mix of orders and arguments catching his attention. Among the hardworking ship hands and sailors, men and women in robes of fur and silk stood watch, counting shipments of all sorts, from food stored in ice boxes, to crates of materials, from the mundane to the mystical. Merchants guild officials, no doubt about it, they reeked of opulence, none of which they broke a sweat for.

He pulled back from the windowsill, stretching his arms up over his head, grunting a little at such little exertion, feeling his bones complain at the early morning movement. He shuffled away from the morning breeze and into the bathroom. Bathroom would be a bit too kind, it held a large bathtub to wash up in, hooked up to a shower unit, and that was it. For a toilet, you’d have to make your way downstairs to the bar portion of the inn, but it was hardly worth complaining about. After stripping out of his nightwear and showering, he dried himself off and began to dress himself, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Messy brown hair, not long enough to be considered long, but nowhere near short enough to be short. Green eyes stared back at him, mixed with a vague grey. His skin was peachy, not quite pale, but not tanned either. He was frustratingly middle ground, in all aspects it seemed. He tugged on a black top, over his decidedly average chest. Not lean, like most travellers were, but not portly, like most comfortable merchants were. Once he had put on his grey, baggy pants, a belt around his waist with a vaguely ornate clasp, and his boots, he went about searching for his jacket and personal effects. He moved from the bathroom to the room, quickly finding it laying unceremoniously on the chair by the small desk. The jacket was only slightly shorter than his top, and was made with brown leather, with reinforced leather shoulder spaulders. He slipped it on and picked up the belt of pouches and dagger sheaths that lay beneath it, hooking it around his waist. He returned to the mirror, looking himself up and down before nodding to himself. That would do. His eyes moved back up, meeting his own as he sighed. Soren Leverett, home again on the isle of Esthame.

Once he was sure he had packed up everything into a satchel he slung over his shoulder, he left the quaint inn room and settled his payment with the barkeep downstairs, keeping his voice down as to not wake the drunken patrons who had gathered in the corners of the bar from the night prior. He was thankful for the sharp scent of sea air that replaced the heady mixture of smoke and alcohol that seemed to seep from the very walls of the inn. Once he was out onto the street, he had to orientate himself, it had been almost two years since he had visited Val Maris after all. Surrounding him was tall, grey bricked buildings, lining the road, with dark wooden beams supporting them. From the dockyard road on the western side of the city, he would travel east, pass the marketplace and out the eastern gate. He was not planning on staying too long on Esthame and hoped to make it across the island in a day or two.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the merchants guild wagons approaching down the road. He quickly moved out of the way and towards the edge of the road, making his way along it. He picked up fragments of conversations as he went. Gossip about bar fights that had gone on the night before, discussing life back on Lanaste, and the growing unrest in the desert nation of Ayerre to the east, before the mainland. He did his best not to eavesdrop on the citizens of Val Maris, feeling bad for being so rude, but on the other hand, he was just drifting through, he doubted news about a missing cat would impact him too greatly.

On the way to the eastern gate, he stopped in front of a church, gazing up at the weathered spires. While it may not have been a grand cathedral, like you’d get in the cities of Lanaste, it still inspired a sense of reverence. Churches were common throughout Esthame, and by extension, Lanaste. The island was owned by the nation of Lanaste, as a colony closer to the mainland. The churches were primarily in worship to the Triumvirate, a central religion to most humans. A sad smile crossed his lips, but he shook his head, continuing to walk, passing the church, making his way through the marketplace.

“Soren? Soren Leverett?” Came a soft voice, from a stall. He looked around, following the voice to a small wooden bench, filled to the brim with herbs and flowers, which almost knocked him back with the intensity of the fragrance. A kindly, elderly woman moved one of the pots of flowers, peering up at him. “It is you, you’ve barely aged a day!” She said with a mirthful chuckle. He found it hard to tell if the good-hearted comment was tinged with jealousy.

“Mrs Cargrove, it’s so nice to see you again.” He wore his signature smile as he greeted the woman, setting his satchel down as she fussed over him. Back when he was younger, Mrs Cargrove was close friends with his guardian and as such, helped keep an eye on him. She was like an aunt to him, and as such he politely chatted with her, listening to her stories of the recent goings on in Val Maris, and he traded scant pieces of information on what he’d been up to in the past two years, including his work on the eastern side of the island.

“Have you gone home yet? The old man misses you. Two years its been.” Her voice turned stern, and he suddenly felt sixteen again, being told off for lifting a bread roll from one of the market stalls. It was hard to feel defensive against such a woman, who was clearly worried for him. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, shaking his head.

“Not yet, I only arrived last night, but I’m on a tight schedule, I need to reach the archives in a day or so.” He told her, already dreading the disappointed tirade she would no doubt unleash. Her frown was enough, eyebrows knitted together as she watched him. She relented and nodded.

“I understand dear, but make sure you pop in and visit him, he misses you.” She handed him a small satchel of dried meats, coated in a fragrant mix of spices and herbs. “Now off you go, don’t let an old woman take up more of your time.”

Soren steeled himself, forcing a smile as he ignored the desire to break down in front of the kind woman he remembered. “Thank you, I appreciate it, I’ll be sure to visit when I’m back.” He told her, and turned away from the stall, making his way from the marketplace to the gate. The walls of Val Maris may not have been grand, or manned by soldiers day and night, it gave a sense of safety. In a time of peace, it felt strange to yearn for such safety. Soren strolled through the gates, gazing out at the horizon. In the distance, he could see a tower, carving its’ way upwards through the sky, imposing itself on the land. Before the tower, there was a vast stretch of land he would have to cross before he could reach Al Kathra, the sanctum of mages that made up the magical authority in the archipelago Esthame was a part of.

“Sir! Taking this path is dangerous, even in sunlight. The ruins have been active as of late, and the path past Ariamus has been affected. I suggest you wait til’ tomorrow, a caravan of carriages with city guards will be travelling across to Val Rheyne in the east.” Soren had turned halfway through the guards’ warning of the dangers, listening to the speech that the guard had no doubt been ordered to memorize.

“No need to worry, I travel this path a lot, and I need to visit the ruins anyway, but I appreciate the warning.” He turned on his heel, tapping on the pair of daggers, sheathed in a cross on his lower back, hooked to his belt. “I’ve dealt with monsters before, Ariamus is no worry.” The guard was clearly conflicted and caught up with Soren who had begun walking away. Soren decided to humour him and turned back around, looking him over as he reached him. The armour of Val Maris’ guards was nice enough, beige fabric with pieces of metal covering parts you’d rather avoid getting stabbed in, with splashes of green fabric now and then. The man wore a metal helmet which obscured most of his upper face, with only his blue eyes and blond beard still visible to Soren’s discerning eyes. There were tendrils of blonde hair peeking out under the brim of the metal helmet.

“I cannot stop you from travelling the path but take caution. Demon hunters are active in the wastes so do your best to stick to the path, and the clerics of the Triumvirate are set up in the ruins, attempting to quell the current activity. Check in with them if you need supplies.” Soren was taken aback by the unerring kindness. Of the guardsmen he knew, many were lazy, and there for payment rather than for the protection of civilians.

“I appreciate the warning, really, but I’ll be okay, and I’ll stop in at the clerics base and see if they need any assistance. Thank you.” He was unsure about what he was thanking the man for, but it felt right. The guard nodded and returned to his post by the gate. Soren turned back yet again and made his way along the road. Along the well-worn path, fences of wood, bound with steel, gave a vague sense of safety, with a loose spattering of trees along the road giving intermittent shade from the sun. He had walked this route a lot in his life, but every time it felt different. It was nearing the start of summer, and heat was returning to the isles, making sure his walk would not be too grim. The long walk from Val Maris to the ruins gave him a rare sense of peacefulness, one he had not felt in a while, his lifestyle hardly allowed for it.

After a few hours, Soren had got through a large chunk of the journey across the island, and as he looked up, he recognized the dark clouds that hung over the centre of the island like a pestilence, refusing to dissipate. After Ariamus fell to ruin, the darkness set in and the island had never been quite the same, there was always a sense of foreboding, a strange pressure that never seemed to dissipate. “Stranger, you travel alone?” A voice croaked out, followed by a cough, which seemed to clear the man’s throat. Soren had noticed the man before walking past him, and was more surprised that he had decided to talk to a man with daggers strapped to his belt. Soren turned around, the same smile he had offered Mrs Cargrove.

“Afraid so, I didn’t have time to wait for the official caravan to head out so here I am.” He explained, expecting that the old man was enquiring out of curiosity rather than any actual concern. The man shook his head at the response.

“And what could be so important as to risk your life?” He asked, standing up from his seat against a fallen log along the path. He wore mainly robes, sectioned off by a belt around his waist, and by the straps of leather around his shoulders, part of a satchel of supplies no doubt.

“I work at the Al Kathra archives in the east, couldn’t be late. Also, I hate to be rude sir, but you’re out here alone too, and I’m the one carrying weapons. Why would you risk the trip?” Soren shot back, watching the stranger, who cracked a smile at the quip. The old man shuffled along to an entrance to the path from his makeshift bench, chuckling.

“That’s fair I suppose. My granddaughter was lost in the cataclysm all those years ago, when I got the news, I was away from Esthame. It was months before I could go and pay my respects to the fallen, but I decided I would go every year from then. Like you, I could not miss this.” Soren was taken aback for the second time that morning, by his candour, and it must have shown on his face, because the stranger seemed to frown, obviously worried he had said to much. “I apologize for saying so much, but at my age, there’s no need to be coy.” He said with a disarming smile, trying to defuse any tension he may have created.

“No, no, I shouldn’t have been so rude. I’m Soren, it’s nice to meet you. Why don’t I walk with you? I’ll be passing Ariamus anyway.” He offered, waiting for the elderly man to catch up. The man nodded at the greeting, walking alongside Soren.

“I’m Mathias, it’s a pleasure to meet you young man.” He said amicably as they walked. “So, you’re a mage? I don’t often see mages with a pair of daggers.” He said with a chuckle. It was Soren’s turn to chuckle, smiling a little.

“Nope, not a mage. I can pull off a few parlour tricks, but definitely not a mage. I work as… Asset retrieval I guess, I go and gather materials and relics from places deemed too dangerous for mages or scholars.” He explained.

“Ah, a grave robber.”

“Not a grave robber!” He retorted, shaking his head. “I’ve only been into a few tombs in my time, and those were on official business.” He defended, causing Mathias to laugh.

“I work as a priest of the Triumvirate, I’ve dealt with my fair share of grave robbers, I suppose you are not much like them.” He commented with a wry smile, keeping up remarkably well with Soren’s purposeful strides.

“I heard your clerics are at the ruins right now, something about higher demon activity.” Soren noted, looking from Mathias to the road ahead, and was able to make out shapes on the horizon. Like rocky, dilapidated fingers, thrusting through the earth, attempting to claw their way out. Ariamus ruins.

“Yes, they are.” He said with an air of pride in his voice. The church of the Triumvirate had been combatting the influx of demons ever since the cataclysm fifteen years ago, and the good press could hardly be a disadvantage. “Demonic activity has been fluctuating as of late, but nothing to worry about. The wards in place give us enough leeway to keep their numbers down.” Mathias explained, pressing onward.

“That’s a relief.” Soren wasn’t sure he had managed to convince Mathias that he was relieved, he certainly hadn’t convinced himself. Living on Esthame had become a far more difficult feat thanks to the cataclysm, and the consequent bump to incursion numbers. Towns closed up shop earlier, people were afraid to travel alone. And he knew many that lived in the port cities were eager to leave. Esthame was beautiful, but you couldn’t say it was as safe as Lanaste to the west, or even Kinras, the dwarven nation to the south. And the nation was constantly in the throes of declaring war on itself. The cataclysm had thrown everything into disarray, and that was fifteen years ago. He could see things getting much worse before things got better.