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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Nine: A Small Favor

“How much longer do you think we should keep looking?" Kirsta asks.

“How much longer do you want to be out here?" Trellan retorts, glancing back at her.

They've wandered the streets of the eastern section of town for nearly five hours. The sun is past its zenith, slowly slinking toward the horizon. Kirsta pauses in a vacant intersection. She looks around, realizing that they've covered this ground before.

“... Maybe we should just go back?"

Shocked, Trellan turns toward the human, looking down at her with an expression of perplexity. Kirsta doesn't seem heartbroken over the loss of her friends.

“Don't you want to find them?" He asks, speaking softly and stepping closer.

“To a point." She replies.

“To a point? ... Don't you care what's become of them? Weren't they your friends?!"

“Trellan... We'd only just met Valan, the human, a few days before you. That Jaliscan girl? She showed up the night before last, and only Valan wanted to help her. We really weren't that close."

“What about Irzain and Mairlynn?"

“Mairlynn I also hardly know; I just know that she's a passion-starved wench of an elf woman. Irzain is different... I made a promise to someone important..."

Trellan appears surprised. It's clear to him that he's misjudged their bond, infusing his own past with their situation. Shaking his head as it dips forward, he brings a hand to his brow.

“Fine... You aren't close, but you are a person, and you have feelings. Imagine what's going through their minds, right now. If they're alive, they're likely injured, cold, hungry, and very, very afraid. All they can see is the open ocean for miles around, in a ship with no mast and a current too powerful for one man, able-bodied or otherwise, to row against. Could you sleep at night, knowing what they're going through?"

“Eventually." She retorts.

“Unbelievable..."

“Look, Trellan, I appreciate your help and your concern, but you must understand that Valan, and that other one, are far less of a concern to me than avoiding the crown's soldiers. I'm doing this primarily to appease Irzain and Mairlynn, who are both far more attached."

“And the other one?" Trellan grumbles, disgusted by her bigotry.

“She's of no concern to me."

Opening his mouth to speak, Trellan seems to hesitate, as if his anger has robbed him of his speech. His brow furls and he shifts his eyes. The old Vizhek follows something in the distance. Turning around, Kirsta can see a large set of masts in the stone harbor. A galleon has moored. It must've been there for some time, as a squad of soldiers march through the streets, heading directly toward them. Are they aware of who they are? Not taking any chances, Trellan clears his throat, regaining Kirsta's attention. With a subtle motion of his head, he directs her down a different street.

They walk past a few houses before ducking into a small alley. The crown's soldiers, however, are clearly not interested in them. Perhaps they don't even realize who they are. In the middle of the men is a Helngar, guarded by other Helngar of similar stature. All of them wear armor, including the warrior in the center. His armor, however, is uniquely marked. Red paint is spattered across the shimmering, silver metal of his breastplate. The duo notice, as the group shifts with the curving road, that the central Helngar with red spattered armor is shackled, both at his wrists and ankles. Even his tail bears a strange belt, which is attached to a chain around his waist, and keeps it from moving away from his body.

“Ready to pay for your crimes, traitor?"

“My name's Steingar..." The prisoner grumbles.

“I'll tell you what, traitor! I'll remember your name when I watch them behead you!" The soldier laughs. “Not much longer now, you traitorous bastard!"

Emerging from their little alley, Trellan and Kirsta step slowly down the lonely street. Their eyes stare at a corner, which the soldiers have long since passed.

“Did you hear that? He's a traitor." Trellan remarks with a pleased grin.

“It looks like his time is about over." Kirsta snickers.

“He's a 'bloodforge', too!"

“A what?"

With a raised eyebrow, Trellan glances back at her.

“Did you never leave your island?"

“No." She shakes her head.

“I see... A 'bloodforge' is a warrior who's seen real combat and has verified kills. The minimum requirement for the honorary title is ten kills. They must be made in either a single battle, or at least five kills per battle, for two battles. No other combinations will qualify. To make it more interesting, the Helngar prefer to only count hand-to-hand kills; he's a tough one."

“And he'll be dead soon."

“Maybe..."

Glancing back at her, a strange smile crosses his lips. Suddenly, and without warning, Trellan takes off, swiftly dashing in the direction of the soldiers.

“Trellan! Wait!"

Kirsta races to catch up to him, though his strides are considerable and she struggles somewhat.

“What're you doing?"

“I'm thinking about helping that man." He coolly answers.

“What?! Why?!"

Stopping at a corner, Trellan steps back, bumping into Kirsta. Leaning over and past him, she can see the soldiers leading their prisoner into a small building. There is a sign above the door, which she can't read, but an image is carved beneath the strange letters. It's a ball and chain; they've just led him into the town's jail. Trellan reaches out, grabbing Kirsta's biceps. She turns her head up, looking into the old elf's shimmering, silver eyes.

“I'd like to break him out. You should help me."

“By the Seraphs in Heaven, what are you thinking?!" She asks in a loud, angry whisper.

“Several things. First, I'm thinking that by helping whoever that Helngar is, it'll teach you a valuable lesson in selflessness. Second, it'll piss off the crown, and that's one of my favorite things to do. Third, you and your friends are on my ship, so if I want to rescue that imprisoned soldier, you either need to help me, or find a new ship."

Trellan's lips curl into a sinister grin. It's obvious to her that he's deadly serious.

“Help or swim... But what if I took a third option, turned on you, and stole your ship?"

Trellan chuckles, taking his hands away from her arms, though he doesn't act as if he's afraid, or even remotely worried about being attacked.

“You could, but you'd be an idiot to try and operate the Arona-Dahl without me. I spent over thirty years building and modifying that ship; she's the only one of her kind in all of the Erie Isles, and someone such as yourself, without the knowhow, would fail to even board that ship again."

His confident boast isn't a lie, and she knows it. With her hands effectively tied, she motions with a hand toward the town's jail.

“Thank you." He grins.

“I feel obligated to remind you that we don't know who he is or what he did. For all we know, he murdered several of his own men and raped their corpses in an insane rage."

“You have a very dark mind, girl."

Following his lead, Kirsta keeps a low profile as she and Trellan walk by the town jail. The jailors outside seem blissfully ignorant as to who they are. They don't even give the blonde female a second glance. Turning a corner, they take their positions. Trellan perches himself atop an old barrel, peeking around the corner and watching the jail from a safe distance. Kirsta leans against the adjacent wall, crossing her arms beneath her bust and resting her head against the old wattle and daub. The whitewash of the old shop wall is hard and cool. With an impatient sigh, she turns her eyes toward the sky.

“So... What's the plan?"

“Plan?" Trellan smirks.

“You have a plan... Don't you?"

Glancing back, the old elf's grin grows wider. The wind flutters his faded pewter hair, and his shimmering, silver eyes peer through his squint.

“Why get bogged down with unnecessary complications?"

“Unbelievable..." Kirsta rolls her eyes.

“Relax. Making plans is a good way to make the Seraphs laugh. We'll sort it all out in due time."

The pair sit and watch. First, they watch the jail, and then they watch the sun as it crawls over the horizon. The time passes by, and after what feels like an eternity, the jail's front door finally opens. Emerging from within, two human soldiers wipe their hands with an old cloth.

“Do you think he'll ever talk?" One asks.

“No." The other replies.

“You were going at it like you thought he might."

“I just really wanted to hit him." The soldier laughs.

“Yeah, me too... Do you think he has a crew?"

“If he did, we probably would've caught them... Come on. Let's get a drink before we report in."

Walking along the road and directly towards them, Trellan shifts atop the barrel, leaning against the wall and picking up a putrid, wooden mug lying nearby. He pretends to drink, while Kirsta sits on the old cobblestones of the alley, her knees pulled to her chest, arms around her legs and forehead resting atop her knees. The soldiers pass by, not even giving them a second glance. Looking away from the empty cup, Trellan leans over, peeking out of the alley.

“Kirsta... Kirsta." He whispers to her.

Kirsta doesn't respond. After a pause, he softly tosses the cup at her, bouncing it off of her left leg.

“Huh? What?" She grumbles.

Lifting her head, she rubs her tired eyes.

“Let's go. I think they're the ones."

Rising from the ground, Kirsta follows Trellan as he walks the road. They stalk the soldiers like mountain lions, waiting for the right moment to strike. The soldiers move left, down an alleyway. Are they going to a soldier's only tavern? Trellan slips a hand through a slit, cut into his oversized and simple, navy tunic. Grasping an object on his belt, he pulls out a homemade blackjack. Gripping tightly to the leather handle, he raises the iron ball high into the air. Kirsta grips the handle of her sword. Making his move, Trellan smashes the heavy weight against the back of a soldier's head.

“What the-?!"

The other solder barely glances over his shoulder before Trellan smacks him across the face with the blackjack. He stumbles. Kirsta, fearful that he might fail to incapacitate his second target, draws her sword. She slams the pommel into his temple, knocking him unconscious as well. Before she can run him through, Trellan grabs her wrist, stopping her.

“Don't. They'll have headaches, but they don't need to die... Not today... Help me move them. Over there, behind that wood shed."

Sheathing her sword, Kirsta grabs one of the men by his breastplate, lifting and pulling with all of her might. They drag the men behind the woodshed, where Trellan finds several ropes, binding them by their wrists and ankles, before binding their ropes together, hogtying them. He stuffs cloths into their mouths, before tying rope over their faces, to help hold the cloths in place. She watches as Trellan examines the men's unconscious bodies. From a pouch, he retrieves a seal of some kind. Kirsta doesn't recognize it, but Trellan clearly does; it's a naval seal, given to high-level soldiers as proof of their rank and authority.

Stringing and wearing the seal as a pendant, he then takes a moment to look over the soldiers. It's obvious to Kirsta that the old boatman is formulating his plans in the moment. Scratching his chin, he cocks his head.

“Now what?" Kirsta whispers, breaking the silence.

Kneeling down, Trellan begins unbuckling the straps that hold a soldier's breastplate and back cover together.

“Do you like costumes?" He asks, looking over his shoulder.

Emerging from the alley, Kirsta adjusts the breastplate, which sits rather uncomfortably over her current leather armor. She follows Trellan's lead as he walks calmly toward the jail. He couldn't comfortably fit the armor of the second, larger guard, but instead claimed his seal. It's all that he'll need. Reaching the jail, they find the front doors unguarded. Did they change shifts? To Kirsta's shock, Trellan grabs the latch, lifts it up and pulls open the door, without any hesitation.

“Halt!" A guard draws his sword.

“You'd better lower that blade and address me properly!" Trellan growls, the seal dangling from around his neck.

The human's arm shakes as he looks up at the towering Vizhek, whose old eyes glare angrily at him. The seal hangs just above his brow, taunting him with its power. His blade slowly drifts toward the floor.

“That's better... Now! ... Where's my prisoner?!"

“The saboteur?"

“Who else would I be here for?" Trellan grumbles.

“Apologies sir!"

The soldier sheaths his sword, leading Trellan and Kirsta through a hallway. Several guards, including the two originally guarding the front door, watch the pair curiously.

“You look familiar, ma'am."

“Humans all look alike." Kirsta retorts in an eerie monotone.

“That armor looks familiar..." Another guard remarks.

“Shut it. You know all armor looks the same!"

“I was just saying-"

“You just want to see her tits." The other laughs.

“Ugh..." Kirsta rolls her eyes.

“I've never seen a lieutenant dressed so... Plainly before." A man comments.

“I work for a living, soldier. My vasariks are spent on sword oil, and powder for my matchlock." Trellan smirks.

“I-I'm s-s-sorry sir! I d-didn't mean to-"

Lifting a hand, Trellan silences him before continuing down the alley. Kirsta watches the old elf, swiftly realizing that this is less an act, and more a return to his old form; he'd must've been a soldier at some point in his life. Reaching the end of the hall, the nervous guard presents a cell. It's different from the others, with sturdier bars and a thicker wall. Perhaps it's been designed for high level criminals, with a higher risk of escape?

“Well, well, well..." Trellan says with a sinister grin. “How nice it is to finally meet you."

Sitting in the tiny cell, atop a wooden bench that also serves as a bed, with no headrest, blankets or padding, a Helngar glares at Trellan with vivid, golden eyes. He lifts a hand, wiping his bleeding lip, while the other already grasps at the jet-black flesh of his nose, at the front of his snout. The poor creature has been stripped of his clothing and armor, sitting nude atop the bench. His body is covered in medium gray fur, with a two-tone pattern. Burnt orange fur blankets his chest, moves between his legs, passed the endowed, black flesh of his manhood, and runs along the underside of his long and tapering tail. Specks of blood are visible through his fur, revealing the extent of the beating the guards gave him.

“Did you have to take his clothes?" Kirsta asks.

“What's it to you, soldier?" The jailor snickers.

“Did you have to take his clothes? And don't you dare sass me." Trellan inquires.

“Well, we wanted to make sure he had no weapons on him, stuck where the sun doesn't shine."

The nearby guards chuckle at the jailor's crude joke.

“Well, he doesn't have anything, and I'm not parading him back to my captain like that. Give him some clothes." Trellan calmly instructs.

“Oh... We, uh, burnt them. The garments of a filthy traitor after all!"

Spinning around, Trellan grabs the jailor by his leather breastplate, violently slamming him into the wall.

“Get him some damn clothes, you tiny, human shit-stain, or I'll skin you alive and sew him something new..."

“R-r-right away, s-s-sir!" The jailor trembles.

“Good... You'd do well to remember your place." Trellan slowly releases the trembling human from his clutches.

“Y-yes sir! I'm sorry, sir!"

Dashing off, the jailor slams into one of his own men before stumbling away in a rush. The others look fearfully toward Trellan, who displays all of the authority of a battle-scarred General. Kirsta looks toward him, seeing the confidence in his appearance. If she didn't know any better, she'd think that this wasn't an act at all, but a bizarre attempt to reminisce. She looks at the Helngar, who wipes the blood from his nose. He looks so pitiful as he hangs his head, his swept back ears lowering. Steingar trembles; is that the cold wind blowing in between the bars, or is he afraid? Approaching footsteps draw her attention away from the prisoner.

“Here." The jailor growls.

He throws a pair of old, black breeches into the cell, which land in a heap over Steingar's large, three-toed, digitigrade feet.

“Put those on." Trellan speaks quite softly.

“Hrnnn..." The Helngar grumbles.

“Didn't you hear the Lieutenant speaking to you, Steingar?! Are you deaf to, you filthy scum?!" The jailor growls.

“Piss off..." Steingar grumbles.

“Hah! This will be more fun than I thought... Let him out."

“Sir?"

“Let. Him. Out." Trellan demands.

“You're taking him now?!" A guard in the background cocks his head.

“We're moving him right away. Because of the nature of his crimes, we'll interrogate him further, on our way to Vaspania."

“Is that a wise decision, sir? I mean, I wasn't made aware of-"

“Are you questioning your superior?" Kirsta suddenly chimes in.

“No, ma'am!"

“Then be a good soldier, and do as he says!" She snarls.

“Right away!"

With a shaking hand, the jailor collects a large keyring. He fumbles with the keys before finding the correct one. With a loud 'clank', the lock turns and the jailor pulls open the door.

“Alright, you! Cover yourself, before I geld you!"

Rising from the bench, Steingar stands an impressive, six feet and seven-inches-tall, even taller than Trellan. He squats down, collecting the breeches. He notices right away that they're designed for human or Falmun legs, and do not have a specially tailored hole for the thick base of his tail. He glares at the jailor, who quietly snickers.

“That's all we had. Sorry." He chuckles.

With a frustrated sigh, Steingar slips his legs into the comically undersized clothing, forced to leave the buttons on the lower legs undone so that they'll fit. He pulls up the breeches, which barely fit over his considerable manhood. The tightness of the garments is visibly discomforting to him, as they very clearly put pressure on his testicles. Taking out the shackles and tail strap, the jailor and his men lock Steingar back in his chains. Taking a step back, and while no one is looking, Kirsta swipes a second keyring from a hanger on the wall, near the unlit, ensconced wick.

“There you go! All ready for your trial and beheading!" The jailor chirps.

“Steingar, is it?" Trellan ask.

“It is..." Steingar grumbles in a deep, bellowing voice.

“Come now, Steingar. You don't want to keep us waiting."

Kirsta and Trellan lead the warrior out of the cell, pushing him along before leaving the jail. Heading outside and walking along the cobblestone streets, Trellan looks down at the chains enveloping the Helngar. It's clear that he's worrying over their removal. Kirsta lifts a section of her leather underarmor, near her waist. Pulling out the keys she'd stolen, she can see him breathe in silent relief. They march along the streets, purposefully avoiding as many people as they can, while gradually making their way toward the docks.

“So... What'd you do?" Kirsta suddenly asks.

“You already know." Steingar grumbles.

“Maybe..." Trellan stops in his tracks. “Or maybe not."

Steingar looks back at the pair, his brow furled with confusion. Kirsta withdrawals the keys from their hiding place.

“Shouldn't we take those off? We're far enough away, now."

“I suppose you're right. Go ahead and unlock him, Kirsta."

Steingar watches in shock as the two, whom he'd assumed were soldiers of the crown, swiftly drop their act and release him from his bindings. The shackles, tail strap and waist chains fall free. No longer must he take short, methodical steps; he's free to run away, should he so desire.

“Who are you people?!" He asks, feeling his wrists.

“I'm Trellan, and this is Kirsta."

“Steingar."

“We know." Kirsta murmurs.

“You could say that we're the enemies of your enemies, assuming that's the crown." Trellan continues.

“It is." The Helngar nods.

“Then I guess we're friends." The old Vizhek grins.

“So, what's the plan, 'friend'? Hide in the dark forever?" Steingar facetiously asks.

“You're going to want to stick with us, at least for now, until we can get back to our ship." Kirsta replies.

“Ship? I came in on the only ship in the harbor." Steingar retorts.

“There's another ship. My ship. Are you coming or not?"

A sudden shouting catches their attention.

“Where are they?!"

“I don't know!"

“How could you let them go?!"

“We thought they were your people! The Vizhek had a seal and everything!"

“You stupid bastards!"

To their horror, the two soldiers that Trellan and Kirsta had knocked unconscious have awoken. Not only that, but they'd be released from their bonds by guards who'd found them. In a matter of moments, the entire town will likely be on alert.

“It's almost time to return to the others anyway. Let's just go and hope they're there." Kirsta suggests.

“Right. We don't have a choice now. Are you with us, Steingar?"

The bloodied, humiliated, and formerly shackled Helngar looks between the old Vizhek and his young, human female companion. It takes him half a second to nod in agreement. Making their way through alleys and down the most isolated of streets, the trio slowly make their way toward the docks, without arousing any suspicion or being seen by the alerted and patrolling guards. With the docks in sight, Trellan and Kirsta recognize Irzain and Mairlynn, who sit atop crates and barrels, near the entrance to the smaller wooden docks in the harbor. Before making their way, however, Trellan pauses. He spins Steingar around and draws his hidden dagger.

“What was your crime?"

“Are you serious?!" Steingar chuckles.

Trellan pushes the tip into the Helngar's sternum.

“Answer quickly and honestly, or I'll have to run you through."

Realizing that he's serious, Steingar sighs.

“I... I was caught trying to blow up a ship with a powder keg, the ship I came here on... It was my own ship, which I'd served on for years..."

“What for?" A curious Kirsta asks.

“I'd come to believe that my men and I were being manipulated by the crown; they're using the Helngar like slaves, dumb warriors to do their dirty work. We're not dumb warriors, and we're not animals. My people don't deserve that... I was hoping that active sabotage would sow the seeds of rebellion."

“Even if that meant dying alongside them?" Kirsta asks in shock.

“Don't think that he was going to die, Kirsta." A grinning Trellan sheaths his dagger.

“What do you mean?"

“If he blew up his ship, no one would ever know. It would just be another ship lost at sea... You allowed yourself to be captured, didn't you?"

“I believed it worth it, at the time." Steingar shrugs his shoulders.

“Good enough for me!" Trellan chirps.

Making their way toward the docks, the old Vizhek and the human woman wave to Irzain and Mairlynn. Though they're first elated to see them, they swiftly realize that the peasant-looking Helngar is with them.

“Who's this?" Irzain asks.

“This is Steingar. He's a new friend." Kirsta replies.

“Oooh! He's big!" Mairlynn chirps.

“Pleased to meet-"

Steingar pauses mid-sentence when he realizes that Mairlynn is staring at the very visible and rather detailed bulge in his breeches. The small female, who appears to be a pre-teen human girl, bites her bottom lip as she stares intently at his groin, with a desire only appropriate for adults.

“Hey!" Kirsta taps the small girl's shoulder.

“Huh?" Mairlynn regains her focus.

“Let's go!"

With a wave of her hand, they all make their way back to Trellan's small boat.

“I have some important information about Valan and that other one!" Irzain remarks.

Bang! A rifleshot in the distance catches their attention. Several matchlock wielding soldiers, all of them human, race toward them from the far end of the harbor.

“Save it! Get in the damn boat!" Kirsta growls.

Climbing into the craft, Steingar takes a seat. Mairlynn seems to stumble, only to fall back into Steingar's lap. As she rises, she grinds her buttocks against his crotch.

“Sorry." She coos.

A disturbed Steingar holds up his hands, refusing to touch what appears to be a child.

“Damnit, Mairlynn! Not now!" Kirsta snarls.

“Sorry!"

“Don't worry about her. She's a grown Falmun." Trellan says to Steingar.

“Oh! Good!" He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Help me raise the sail! Irzain, man the oars!"

Trellan takes command of the crew as he grabs a board that attaches to the rudder; Kirsta and Mairlynn push the craft away from dock, and Steingar and Irzain get them moving. By the time the soldiers make their way to the dock, the little boat is already over one hundred meters away. They don't even bother to fire a volley, with their prey at such a distance.

“Much better!" Trellan chirps.

“They're just going to chase us in their ship, and this boat can't outrun a galleon." Steingar remarks.

With a strange smile on his face, Trellan rises from the seat. He looks toward Mairlynn, who scoots uncomfortably close to Steingar, who mans the sail; Steingar still appears apprehensive of her.

“So... Steingar, is it?" She asks sweetly.

“Yes..."

“When we get home, did you want to play? Uncle Kobin won't be there." She winks.

“I'm sorry?!" Steingar looks horrified.

“Stop trying to molest him and take the rudder." Trellan interupts.

“I was not!" Mairlynn whimpers, acting like the child she appears to be.

Moving across the small boat, the Falmun woman grabs the board, while Trellan slips his fingers into a slot, cut into the bench seat that he was previously sitting on. He lifts the lid, revealing a compartment with a strange, mechanical contraption, a crank, and several scrolls. He takes out one of the scrolls, raising a brow.

“How did these find their way into the compartment?" He thinks aloud.

“Oh, I found your little chest; I put those there for safe keeping." Irzain remarks.

“Well, keep them away from the propulsor." The old elf says, handing the scrolls to Irzain.

“The what?" Mairlynn cocks her head.

“I'll show you." Trellan grins.

Removing the crank, Trellan plugs it into a port on the strange device. Using the extra space in the compartment, he winds and winds and winds. Within a few moments, the galleon that had brought Steingar to Mernak lumbers out of the harbor like a ravenous beast.

“Uhm... Hurry up!" Kirsta remarks.

“Almost!" Trellan replies, still winding the contraption.

“Whatever you're going to do, do it fast!" Mairlynn adds.

“Patiences is a virtue."

“Not right now, it isn't." Steingar remarks.

The crank clicks loudly as Trellan winds the device to capacity.

“There!"

He sets the crank in its slot, flips a switch and presses a button. Suddenly, the boat lurches forward, propelled by a force other than the wind and the oars. As they become a hindrance, Trellan lowers the sail, keeping it out of the wind, and has Irzain pull in the oars. Closing the lid of the compartment and reclaiming his seat and the rudder, Trellan pilots the craft at a startling speed. They move about fifteen knots, nearly double the speed of the galleon, which disappears around the island as the little boat scrambles away.

“You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Kirsta chuckles.

“I have my moments." Trellan replies.

“What is that thing?!" Steingar asks.

“Just a little invention of mine. The spring tension spins a set of blades, just like those on the Arona-Dahl, but smaller. I wind it up, turn it on, and I've got fifteen or twenty minutes of power!"

“Fascinating!" Irzain remarks, in awe of the machine.

“So, Steingar..." Mairlynn coos, sliding closer.

“You..." Steingar points at Mairlynn. “Just... Stay over there." He scoots away.

“..."

“So, what's this information that you wanted to share?" Trellan asks.

“Let me show you."

Irzain sorts through the scrolls on the floor of the boat, finding the one with the charts he needs. Taking the proper scroll, he leans over, resting it on the central bench seat of the boat and unrolling it.

“I think I know how we can find their missing boat..."