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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode One: The Unknown Shores

Rushing waves cascade over the wooden beams, remnants of what once was. The cool water smears the leftovers of the old vessel, pushing beams together. Striking the leather sole of a boot, a man is roused from his sleep. The salty mist of the tumbling waves shocks his system. Opening his yes, he takes in his surroundings. Icey water runs over his legs, chilling him through his soaked clothes. Lifting his head from the wet sand, the man blinks several times, nearly succumbing to the pain in his head. With a grunt, he pushes himself up, resting on his hands and knees.

Staring intently at the sand beneath him, a droplet of blood runs from his wound. Reaching back, he carefully feels his head. Instantly, he groans from the sensation, wincing from pain. Slumping over to one side, he rolls, sitting atop the ground as he attempts to gather his bearings. Looking over his hand, it's covered with blood. How did this happen? Scanning the land around him, he finds himself along the shores of a vast beach. The remains of a shipwreck stain the land, with beams and crates and burnt wood washed ashore. The debris surrounds him like a picture frame.

Rising to his feet, he stumbles, dizzy from his head wound. He reaches out and grabs hold of a portion of a ship, stabilizing himself. Walking slowly, his boot-clad feet shuffle through the water. Where is he? What was this ship? As his eyes scan his surroundings, a horrifying realization passes over him... Who am I?! Blinking hard, the man struggles to recall his own name. With eyes shut tightly, he turns his head down, feeling the blood running from his wound and down his neck. Leaning forward, he opens his eyes. Cocking his head, he furls his brow as he examines the softly rippling water.

A man with a fair complexion and strong features stares back, looking at him with emerald green eyes. Short brown hair, soaked in blood, covers his head; a full and somewhat bushy beard, with a streak of gray in his chin, covers his face. The man is not young, but he is not quite “old" either. He is on the precipice of both, and simultaneous neither. A long, thin, and pointed nose has a stream of dried blood on one side. Who is this man beneath the sea, who stares back at him?

It takes but a moment for him to remember what a reflection is. Kneeling down, he places a hand into the water. It's cold on his skin. His breathing hastens. Why is his own face foreign to him? Where has his memory gone? The throbbing of his wound distracts him. Using his own reflection, he turns his head and attempts to examine his injury. His head, caked in blood, needs to be cleaned. Without anything but the ocean, he carefully reaches down, cupping his hands together and scooping water into his palms. With a splash, he pours the water over his head.

“Ahh!" He cries out.

Grunting and groaning, he takes a labored breath. With another splash, he clears some of the blood. Splash after splash, he washes out his hair and his headwound. Seeing the deep gash, he fears his own death. Looking around for anything to aid him, he discovers a shattered mast, with the remnants of a sail still attached. Using a seashell near the wreckage, he cuts a long strip from the sail. Slicing several more from the mast, he folds pieces into bandages. After a second wash, he uses his reflection in the water and bandages his wound.

Sitting back and resting, exhausted from the pain, he wonders what he should do next. Should he make camp? Should he scout the island? Will he even recognize the land around him? He takes some time to slowly explore the wreckage, opening a few crates and examining the contents. Most are strangely empty, while the others contain only scrolls, their contents washed away from being soaked in the ocean. No food. No drink. No tools. With his clothes slowly drying, and the sun dipping toward the distant horizon, the man decides that he has only one hope; he must walk in-land and see if he can find help.

With a brisk wind blowing in from the sea, the chill reaches his very bones. Walking slowly and carefully, he makes his way from the beach, moving ever deeper into the temperate forest beyond the sand. For over an hour he trudges through the dense brush, being careful to avoid bumping his head on any of the low hanging branches. He pauses to rest, leaning against a slender tree with white, flakey bark. A familiar feeling slowly creeps into his core. Looking down, he rests a hand over his grumbling stomach.

“Well... At least I remember hunger." He softly chuckles.

Listening to the wind and the birds in the trees, he marvels at the tranquility of the land in which he finds himself. It nearly hypnotizes him. Before he can break nature's spell and continue his journey, a sudden but distant noise catches his attention. Screaming in the distance echoes throughout the land. Moving swiftly yet carefully, the man makes his way toward the sound. Perhaps he can help whoever is in trouble? Perhaps they might even know who he is? The closer he comes to the noise, the more he can discern it. There's more than one voice; dozens are crying out. Some sound angry, while others sound frightened or pained. What's going on?!

With the screams and shouts just beyond his vision, he moves slowly, creeping cautiously through the dense brush. Peeking through the foliage, the man is shocked by what he sees. Leather clad warriors bear swords, spears and axes, while several have bows and quivers slung on their backs. The archers resort to close quarters combat, joining their comrades, who fight in a small field before the shipwrecked man. With two distinct sets of clothes beneath their armor, the warriors belong to two different groups, fighting tooth and nail with each other.

Unsure of who to trust, if he can trust any at all, the nameless man waits in the bushes. Watching the action unfolding, the group wearing ruby red garments beneath their clothes suddenly turn back, racing over the crest of a hill. Pursued by the warriors with turquoise garments beneath their leather armor, they appear to flee. However, moments after racing over the hill, the turquoise warriors pause.

“Retreat!" A young, female warrior commands the others.

Racing down the hill, the ruby warriors give chase, shooting arrows from their bows and slinging stones, as several with swords and axes attempt to catch up with the fleeing warriors. As the nameless man watches from his position, he's horrified when the turquoise warriors suddenly turn, heading in his direction. Standing to his feet, the pale female warrior, who issued the order to retreat, pauses at the sight of him. Her long and flowing blonde hair flutters in the breeze as she stares with her sapphire eyes.

“Ambush!" She yells.

Looking behind him, the nameless man is confused to see... No one at all. Did she mistake him for a combatant? Turning back, his eyes grow wide as the woman, half his age, chases him with her sword drawn. Spinning around, he runs through the forest, racing back for the shore and the familiarity of the shipwreck. He is no match for the young woman and her soldiers, however. Rather than spear him with her blade, she tackles the injured and confused man to the ground. Rolling him over, she holds her arm out, the tip of her sword hovering over his neck as she prepares to plunge it into his flesh.

“Who are you?!" She demands.

“I-I don't know!" The nameless man replies.

Furling her brow, she lowers her arm. Is he serious?!

“Kirsta!" A warrior shouts. “They're gaining on us!"

“Damn... Let's go!" Kirsta demands.

“What about him?"

“Bring him with us." She instructs.

“Are you sure you want to do that?!" Another warrior asks.

“He might be a spy! We take him! If he slows us down... Kill him."

Fearing for his life as he's ripped from the ground, the nameless man decides then and there that he's not going to fall behind. He's not willing to die, not without a proper name. Joining the turquoise warriors, they make their way to a trail, running at full sprint before slowing to a brisk jog. The shipwrecked man's side aches as he runs beside the younger warriors. Clearly, whatever he did before did not require much exertion. Glancing back, it's clear that the ruby warriors have since given up, but Kirsta and her warriors don't stop. They continue to run, as if their lives depended on it. Maybe they do?

He examines the woman, “Kirsta", who leads the others. With long, wavy blonde hair that reaches to her bust, Kirsta is a moderately tall creature, with a pale complexion and vibrant blue eyes like polished river stones. He then examines her group of turquoise clad warriors. Their armor, made of dense leather, is a rich, brown color. Their swords seem simple, as do their axes and daggers, all of them made of iron. Kirsta's armor, along with the armor of two other females, is specially formed to fit their breasts. Kirsta's is further enhanced, with iron studs roughly an inch in diameter. The metal bits are densely packed over her armor. They're painted black, probably to prevent them from rusting.

After running for what feels like an eternity, they finally stop to rest. Nearly keeling over, the nameless man rests his hands on his knees, gasping and panting for breath. His clothes are once again soaked, this time with his sweat.

“He's not a very good spy." A warrior remarks.

“Terribly out of shape... And old!" A woman adds.

“Your mother is older!" A third chuckles.

“Well... Still!" The woman insists.

“Perhaps that makes him the best kind of spy?" Kirsta suggests.

Drawing her sword, she rests the flat end of the tip of her Messer beneath his chin. Applying a bit of force, she turns his head up, swiftly gaining his attention.

“What's your name?" Kirsta calmly asks.

The shipwrecked man stares at the young woman, whom he'd guess is barely twenty-years-old. Gulping, he wracks his brain for the answer. It only makes his headache worse.

“I asked you a question, mister."

“I-I... I really don't remember." He says, his eyes closed tightly.

“How can you not know?!" A warrior scoffs.

“See that bandage? Maybe he was wounded in a previous battle?" Another suggests.

“That wound is fresh... Where are you from?!" Kirsta asks.

“I... Don't know." The nameless man sighs.

He prepares himself for his death, realizing that he doesn't have any answers, for himself or the turquoise warriors. Kirsta cocks her head. Her brow rises and she pulls the sword away.

“Well... We'll see who you really are, 'Mr. Nobody'." She remarks, sheathing her sword.

Grabbing hold of his arm, she continues to lead them, now walking at a comfortable pace. Minutes into their walk, the trail turns, two hills blocking his view of what's beyond. As they round the bend, he's taken by an intriguing sight. In the distance is a large complex, a single structure of unusual design. Several stories high, he counts four tiers to the structure, which is rounded. The walls, smooth and gently curved, seems to form a large circle. The roof of the structure is made of curved, clay tiles, while the outer structure is covered in a fire-retardant plaster. Even the shutters of the windows are covered in sheet metal.

“What is that place?" He cannot help but ask.

“Home." A warrior says with a delighted sigh.

“That's our clan-house." Kirsta replies.

“Clan-house? What clan?" He asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“The Merzarians."

“Fascinating!"

The Merzarian warriors lead him to the structure, which grows larger and more impressive with each step. Looking over the clan-house, it's at least three hundred feet across, and fifty feet tall. Reaching two, iron plated doors, which are curved to match the structure, Kirsta gives a special knock. She pounds on the door in an obvious code. A slit, roughly eye-level to the group, opens up. Viewing the warriors and their amnesiac captive, the slit closes and several latches and bars are heard being removed. Opening slowly, four men push open the doors, two behind each door.

No sooner than Kirsta, her warriors and the shipwrecked stranger enter, the four man pull the doors closed. Glancing over his shoulder as he's pulled down a long entranceway, the nameless man watches the four men placing the sturdy, iron bars across the doors and latching it shut. His eyes scan the entranceway, roughly twenty feet long. Murder holes sit above them, with empty vats ready to be filled with oil, and large rocks or arrows dropped onto them. Passing beneath a raised gate, they emerge in a courtyard. Tiny farms and a few dozen domesticated animals roam about, tended to by civilians wearing turquoise dyed clothing.

The men, women and children, unarmed and innocent in their appearance, watch the stranger with curiosity. Many of them wave to the group, greeting Kirsta and her warriors, who're clearly a staple of the Merzarian clan. Walking through the courtyard, several men appear from the shadows, holding unusual weapons. Metal tubes are attached to wooden shafts with brass mounts. A smoldering rope is held between two jaws of a hammer mechanism, attached to a trigger bar that sits just before the men's fingers. Drawing their swords, axes and bows, Kirsta and her warriors hand over their weapons to several men with outstretched arms.

“Who's this you've brought back with you?"

“We're not sure." Kirsta begins, keeping a single dagger in hand. “He may be a spy. We'll let the elder decide."

“Elder?" The nameless man raises a brow.

“Keep moving!" Kirsta growls, shoving his shoulder.

Pushing him along, Kirsta leads him into a room that extends partially into the courtyard. Glancing back, the shipwrecked man realizes that he's alone with the young woman, who still wears her armor. Turning his emerald eyes toward her, Kirsta scans his features with great apprehension. She clearly doesn't trust the man walking before her, though she doesn't seem afraid of him; both know that she is far more dangerous than he.

“Forgive me. I know how badly this will sound, but... Aren't you worried that I could overpower you right now?"

A little smile forms on Kirsta's thin lips. Stopping in the middle of the hall, she turns the man to face her. Holding up her dagger, she places the sharp tip just beneath his chin, applying a gentle pressure.

“I would... If you could." She says with a sinister giggle. “Keep moving, down the hall." She motions with her head. “The elder, Matius, will want to speak to you."

With apprehensive steps, the nameless man's boots thump on the wooden beams that make up the floor. Passing beneath an archway of rough wood, he brings a hand to his head, gently feeling the bandage. With a slight grimace, he glances to the left and to the right. To his surprise, he finds a quaint room. Containing simple yet cozy furniture, wall sconces hold simple candles consisting entirely of wax-infused wicks. A small, cobblestone fireplace, placed in a far corner of the pie-wedge shaped room, crackles and pops. Beside the fireplace is a small, square table, with two bench seats on either side.

Nearest the fireplace and sitting on one of the bench seats, an elderly man eats a simple meal. His skin is tanned and covered with wrinkles, and his nearly bald head glistens in the dim light of the room. He takes a bit of roast, pulling the meat from a two-pronged fork made of tarnished pewter.

“Elder Matius?" Kirsta speaks softly.

Glancing back, the nameless man can see the reverence on her face. Turning his head, he watches as elder Matius sets the fork gently atop his matching pewter plate. Looking toward the pair, who stand just beyond the archway of his private quarters, elder Matius squints his eyes.

“Kirsta?"

“Yes, elder Matius." Kirsta bows her head.

“You know my eyes aren't what they used to be. Come closer, child."

With her dagger in-hand, she pushes the shipwrecked man toward the elder. Stumbling forward, he steadies himself as elder Matius carefully rises to his feet. Reaching out, the elder takes hold of the nameless man's bearded chin.

“And who is this young man?" Elder Matius asks.

“Young?!" Kirsta laughs.

Slighted, the nameless man turns his head.

“Why, he's barely reached the hill, child! I've already rolled over the top, and I'm nearly at the bottom of the other side!" Elder Matius laughs.

“Don't joke about that." Kirsta murmurs.

“So, who he is?"

“I don't know, elder."

“Did you ask him, child?"

“Of course!" Kirsta swiftly exclaims. “It's just that he claims he doesn't know."

“Interesting! ... And I take it you didn't bandage this wound?" Elder Matius asks, examining the man's bandage.

“No, elder."

“Hmm..."

Elder Matius takes hold of the nameless man's arm, leading him toward a different table. Placed near the foot of elder Matius' bed, the table bears many jars and crystals. Taking an unlit, wax candle from the table, Matius lights the wick with the aid of an ensconced candle. The shipwrecked man cocks his head and furls his brow as the old man begins to whisper to the wax candle. The flame burns brighter and brighter, glowing light an inferno and illuminating the entirety of the room.

“There!" Elder Matius says with a little grin.

“I would so love to learn your magic, elder." Kirsta remarks.

“Halcyon is hardly a difficult art to master, child. I've offered to teach you the positive magic."

“I know. I just feel as though I wouldn't be good at it." Kirsta sighs.

“You shouldn't doubt yourself, child. After all, it's not as if I'm trying to teach you Haze! The dark arts are for more complex and tedious." Elder Matius explains.

“Ugh... I detest such vile and insidious crafts." Kirsta growls.

“Every art has its merits. NOW! ... Let's take a look at that head wound, Mr. Nobody!" Elder Matius chuckles.

With the vibrantly glowing candle in one hand, the old man examines the stranger's bandage. Carefully peeling the bloody rags from his head, the nameless man winces.

“Oh! I apologize!"

Bringing his fingers toward his lips and speaking softly, a faint glow overtakes them. Reaching out once more, elder Matius waves his frail, boney fingers over the bandage. The stranger's pain subsides. How can this be?! With his pain no longer a factor, elder Matius carefully removes the bandages, setting them aside.

“Oh my! That's quite a wound! Child?"

“Yes, elder?!" Kirsta chirps.

“Bring me some new bandages from that table."

“Of course!"

Racing toward the other table, Kirsta searches for the new wrappings. Elder Matius examines the stranger's injuries. Setting the brightly glowing candle atop the table beside them, elder Matius uses several bottles of liquids and salves to clean and treat the stranger's injuries. Passing elder Matius new bandages, Kirsta watches as the old man uses his positive, Halcyon magic to seal a gash. He then treats the bandages with more salves, before re-wrapping the stranger's head with the fragrant bandages.

“How did you ever receive such a terrible wound, Mr. Nobody?" Elder Matius asks, tying the bandage together.

“I uh... I don't recall." The stranger admits.

“I'm not surprised." Elder Matius sighs.

“You're not?!" Kirsta gasps.

“No. I've seen this before, child. Head injuries have been known to cause amnesia."

“Oh..."

Kirsta turns away, as if hiding her shame for disbelieving the stranger.

“I awoke on a shore, soaked and confused." The stranger continues.

“Was it a big ship?"

“I'm not sure. There wasn't much left." The stranger continues.

“What do you remember?"

“I..."

Pausing, the stranger struggles to dig through his own past. Unfortunately, his oldest memory is awakening on the beach.

“What's your first memory, Mr. Nobody?" Elder Matius asks again.

“I only remember awakening on the shore." The stranger answers.

His frustration is audible to both elder Matius and Kirsta, who now looks to him with pity.

“Child?"

“Yes, elder?!"

“As soon as you feel it's safe, would you take some of your warriors and explore the shore? See what you can find."

“Yes, elder!" Kirsta bows her head. “We need to collect our dead anyway. What about him?"

“What about you, Mr. Nobody? What should we do with you?" Elder Matius asks with a cheerful tone.

“I don't know. If you could help me recall myself, I'd greatly appreciate it."

“I can imagine! Unfortunately, Halcyon magic can only do so much. Hopefully, your memory returns with time." Elder Matius sullenly sighs.

“What about Haze?" The stranger suggests.

“Heh-heh... Haze is not normally used that way. Curses and necromancy likely won't raise your memories, Mr. Nobody. Hm... That's not a very good name, 'Mr. Nobody'. How about a new one?! If only for now."

“What would you call me?" The stranger asks with a raised brow.

Elder Matius scratches his short, white beard, squinting as he carefully looks the man over.

“You look like a man I once knew, a long time ago. A good man, who died long before his time. I sometimes still miss Irzain."

“Irzain, the third elder?!" Kirsta gasps. “Surely, you don't mean it?!"

“I do mean it, and don't call me 'Sherley'." Elder Matius grins.

“... You always make that joke? Who is 'Sherley'?" Kirsta asks.

“Unimportant! ... What do you think of your new name, Irzain?!"

With a raised brow, the stranger shrugs his shoulders.

“One name is as good as any, I suppose."

“Wonderful! Would you take Irzain to 'the room', child?"

“As you wish, elder." Kirsta replies, bowing her head again.

Taking Irzain by the arm, she leads him toward the archway.

“Thank you for helping me!" Irzain quickly remarks, raising a hand toward his head.

“Don't mention it!" Elder Matius happily waves.

Entering the courtyard, Kirsta calls out to several of her warriors, men and women who have since removed their armor, wearing only their turquoise dyed gambesons.

“Yes, Kirsta?!" They ask.

“Get your armor back on, and take an arquebus or two. We need to scout the beach. I'll meet you at the gate, shortly." She instructs.

Taking him into another room, Irzain is led into what appears to be a humble apartment. The only hints that this room is not typical are the lack of candles, barred windows being all that allow them to see within, and the solitary door. Made from iron-plated hardwood, and with a metal reinforced frame, it would easily thwart any escape attempts. The only lock is a bar on the outer side of the door. Several clay bottles and a pitcher hold food and water, and only a simple, thin blanket covers the bed. Clearly, they've imprisoned people before, and have perfected their techniques.

Heading deeper into the room and taking a seat on the simple bed, Irzain feels the softness of the mattress. Kirsta sheathes her dagger, glaring at the stranger as she stands in the doorway.

“This will do, I suppose." Irzain remarks.

“I'm glad we meet your standards, sir." The warrior snaps.

“You don't trust me, do you?"

“... No."

“Find the shipwreck. Then you'll know that I'm not lying."

“We'll see about that..." Kirsta grumbles.

Heading for the door, she pauses to look back at the stranger, who has yet to treat them with any hostility.

“Goodbye... Irzain." She growls with distrust, before locking him in.