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In The Mist Of The Erie Isles

By Mantrid Brizon

Episode Two: There Was A Man

Screaming in absolute terror, Irzain rushes across the burning deck of a modest ship. The fear is palpable as he's thrust into the railing by the powerful storm that envelops them. He can hardly see through the maelstrom, the chaos of the sinking ship. Why is it ablaze? Did a powder keg explode? The ship begins to break apart, and the fear of death overcomes Irzain. Gripping tightly to the rails as they split, one hand each now holding a separate piece, he hopes for a positive outcome. He cannot die without absolution. A loud creaking, louder than the roaring flames, growling storm and the screaming crew, catches his attention. Turning around, a mast and tattered sail are bearing down upon him.

“Ahh!" Irzain shouts, sitting up in bed.

He gasps, his body drenched with sweat. Climbing out of bed, Irzain stumbles toward a table with a polished metal mirror affixed to it. Taking a cloth from the table, he sets it into a bowl filled with water. Soaking the cloth and ringing it out, he dabs his skin with the damp rag, washing away his sweat. Standing in the candlelit room and looking into the polished metal mirror, he notes how well his head wound has healed. Elder Matius' expertise in Halcyon magic is a blessing. After washing the sweat from his neck, face and body with the cloth, he returns to his bed.

Lying awake, he stares at the ceiling. As dark as it is, he knows that he should rest. Irzain, however, cannot return to the dreamworld, not after such a terrible nightmare. Climbing out of bed, he begins to dress himself with clothing that the Merzarians have provided. His old clothes were nearly in tatters after his shipwreck. Returning to the table and wash basin, he looks into the polished metal mirror. His fingers glide through his beard as he examines his own image, still growing used to the face that stares back at him.

“Already? It feels like I just shaved a few days ago."

Standing before the table and the polished metal mirror, Irzain collects a shaving kit, gifted to him by elder Matius. Holding the razor, Irzain draws the brass crescent upward, running the outer edge alongside his flesh. With his neck swiftly cleared of excess hair, he pulls the razor over his cheeks, thinning his beard until it only just frames his face. Grasping the longer hairs with his fingers, he carefully trims them with a small, stone knife. He quite naturally shaves his beard in this particular manner, though he doesn't know why. Elder Matius suggested that these were memories from his past life, before the head injury stole them.

It's been five days since he was shipwrecked, and Irzain still has no recollection of who he is or what he once did. He doesn't seem to have any skills of value to the Merzarians, to everyone's disappointment. The only skill that he has shown them is the ability to read and write with considerable competency; the Merzarians admittedly sparse library, formerly readable only to the elders, holds no secrets from Irzain. This has led elder Matius to believe that Irzain must've had a more high-end position, living and working in the cities of the other islands.

Without the knowledge of who or where he is, and with proof of his claims discovered by Kirsta and her warriors on the same day that they'd found him, Irzain was permitted access to the library and the courtyard. By the third day, they didn't even bother to bar his door anymore. Still, however, he's forbidden from leaving the Merzarian clan-house. Once he's finished grooming his beard, Irzain cleans the brass crescent razor and stone knife, before wiping his face with the damp cloth he'd used earlier. Heading across the room and toward another table, he takes a seat.

Collecting a pitcher, he pours himself a drink and unwraps a roll of bread. Looking at the barred windows, the sun hasn't risen yet, but the glow in the distance is the harbinger of dawn. At least he managed some sleep this night. With the candles that he was only recently permitted, Irzain eats his early breakfast and explores a large book. Though a somewhat older print, it's still the newest tome in the humble library, at roughly a decade old. It's an encyclopedia of the world in which he lives. Somehow, his wound stole nearly every memory, even of the Erie Isles, and the elven kingdom that rules it.

Elder Matius was quick to remind him, mostly in jest, that he was lucky he didn't need to be taught how to eat, or to wipe himself after using the privy. Taking his pewter mug, filled with the weak ale he'd poured into it, Irzain sips the brew as he reads. How fascinating this world is to him! Turning the page, he continues to read about the elven kingdom of the Vizhek, the native peoples of the Erie Isles. Unlike the humans, such as himself, the Vizhek are much taller, slender creatures, with long and pointed ears, blue flesh of varying shades, and silver or golden hair, with eyes to match.

With the longest lifespan of all of the various races, the Vizhek kings often rule for one hundred and sixty years of their potentially two hundred years of life. So long are their lives that a single king typically marks an entire dynasty, rather than a familial change in leadership, like the other race's kingdoms back on the mainland. Coincidentally, a new dynasty has begun on the Erie Isles, and only a few weeks before Irzain's shipwreck. The tome is far too old to carry this information; elder Matius informed him of this, when intruding on his studies the previous day.

Examining a drawn image of a Vizhek, Irzain marvels at their average height of six feet and six inches. Irzain himself is only five feet and ten inches. Turning the page, he briefly pauses at a drawing of another race he'd read about earlier. The Falmun, another elven race, are much more akin to humans. With an average height of barely five feet and four inches for the males, and even less for the females, the Falmun share hair and skin colorations with humans. Their eyes, however, while often the same color as humans, might instead have shades of red, pink and purple. Only this, their smaller stature and frames, pointy, elven ears, and average lifespan of one hundred and twenty years differentiates the two races from each other.

Turning the page, he pauses and stares intently at a vastly different image. Irzain marvels at the Jaliscan, an exotic and rare race in the Erie Isles, but commonly seen in a land hidden deep within the mainland. With the average height of a human and a lifespan to match, the expertly drawn sketch of the creature is as exotic as anything he's ever seen, to his limited recollection. With a long, thin, whip-like tail, and a short, feline snout and nose, but tall, rabbitesque ears crowning their head, the fur-covered Jaliscans are bizarre creatures, complete with wild color variations and patterns.

The book, however, is clearly biased, describing the Jaliscans as unintelligent thieves and highwaymen. While it discounts their intellect, it delves into detail about their sexuality, painting them with a distinctly resentful brush. Elder Matius has reminded him that the Vizhek are less than welcoming to every race who've migrated to the Erie Isles, even the Falmun. Irzain turns the page, viewing the next race and rereading their details. Irzain commits the Helngar's image and information to memory. Another race that's covered in fur, the Helngar are a sturdy and imposing species, and the most populous of the non-elves and non-humans within the Erie Isles.

With a height nearly matching the Vizhek, the Helngar are from a colder climate, far in the north of the mainland. Dense but soft fur covers a slender but muscular frame, concealed further by their slender waists, triangular chests, and long legs with large, three-toed, digitigrade feet. The Helngar's long, tapering tail, with the dexterity of a mainland monkey's, further masks their incredible strength. A sharp nose matches the steep angle of the creature's face, which appears similar to an inverted trapezoid. Long, sleek and triangular ears sit at a rearward angle, and near the back of the head.

Possibly as a result of their time in the north, most Helngar have lightly colored fur, often with shades of blue in their typically simplistic patterns. The book itself speculates that this coloration may be partially why the Vizhek, as segregationist as they are, are closest to the Helngar, even employing many of them in the king's army. Several pages of the book are dedicated solely to the Helngar's culture of honor and combat, as well as their prowess in battle. It extolls their virtues, saying in no uncertain terms that they are what the Jaliscan should strive to be.

Turning the page yet again, he examines the last of the known races within the kingdom of the Erie Isles. While these aren't all of the races from the mainland, there are no others with significant numbers to merit entry into the book. The book itself has said as much. Irzain's eyes scan the detailed sketch of the Lahnyt, a strange race with similarities to many of the others. The Lahnyt have long, tapering tails, like those of salamanders, but feet like humans or elves, though they're capped with sharp toe-claws. Their heads are like men, but with an angular bridge leading to a blocky snout, which is longer than a Jaliscan's but shorter than the Helngar's.

Nostrils sit atop their snouts, near each side. Their ears, however, are much like the Vizhek or Falmun, being long and pointy, and sticking up past human or elf-like hair. Though they appear lizard-like, the book makes it clear that they have no scales, nor do they shed their skins. Their dense but smooth hide comes in a wide array of colors and patterns, making them a sight to behold. Their average height is roughly the same as humans and Jaliscan, and like the Jaliscan and Helngar, their life expectancy also equals the humans.

Beyond the basics, the book is startlingly sparse in its details about the Lahnyt. It's as if the authors had limited knowledge of the race as a whole and simply chose to ignore them. Continuing his research, Irzain rereads the details of the Erie Isles, the archipelago that is the home of the Vizhek and their kingdom. Vaspania is their equivalent of the mainland, and the largest of the islands. At twenty-eight thousand, nine hundred and forty-one square miles, Vaspania rivals some of the mainland kingdoms all on its own. According to the encyclopedia, any landmass over thirty-five hundred square miles must have a legal name ending in “ia", of which there are only four.

The bulk of the Erie Isles are comprised of minor and moderate islands. Landmasses with single vowels at the end of their names are moderate islands, ranging between five hundred and thirty-five hundred square miles. Minor islands, like Shemok, the island where Irzain had washed ashore, are below five hundred square miles, and must have names ending in consonants. So numerous are these minor islands, that the book doesn't even bother to list them, even just by name. Examining the book for what feels like only a few minutes, Irzain takes another bite of his bread, finding it hard and crusty.

“Huh?"

Turning his eyes away from the book and at the bread roll in his hand, he is surprised to see a trickle of blue. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds that the sun has risen without him even realizing it. A knock on the iron plated door draws his attention.

“Irzain?" Elder Matius calls out to him.

“Hello, Matius. Come in."

Pulling the door open, the elderly man walks carefully inside.

“Reading again?"

“Of course!" Irzain chirps.

“How many times will you read the same book?" Elder Matius laughs.

“As many times as it takes before it falls apart... Or you bring me new ones... Or both!"

“Well, you just may get your wish, Irzian."

“How's that?" Irzain closes the book.

“I'd like you to accompany Kirsta. I gave her two hundred vasariks to take into town; I need her to run an errand." Elder Matius begins.

“Two hundred what?" Irzain raises a brow and rises from the bench seat.

“I keep forgetting." Elder Matius chuckles.

Reaching into a small satchel on his waist, the elderly man retrieves a small object. With a metallic ping, he flicks an object toward Irzain, who quickly catches it as it bounces off of his chest. Examining the artifact, it's a coin; a form of silver currency.

“Oh, these!"

“Named after the third dynasty king, Vasar, who standardized them, they're the currency of the Erie Isles." Elder Matius begins.

“I remember what they are, just not what they were called." Irzain interjects.

“I see. Maybe your memory is coming back?"

“Maybe..." Irzain sighs.

“Well, we mostly have lower value copper and silver vasariks, but I've given Kirsta some of our golden ones. We don't have many, but there's some important supplies that we need."

“And what is that?" Irzain asks, flipping over the coin.

“Medicine, mostly. Care to see beyond the courtyard for a change?"

“Of course!" Irzain chirps, flicking the coin back to the old man.

“Good!" He exclaims, skillfully catching it in midair. “Gather whatever you think you'll need and meet her in the courtyard. Don't keep her waiting. You know how Kirsta hates that."

“When is she leaving?"

“Right now! It's past noon! ... Didn't you notice?"

“Uhh..."

“Never mind."

Elder Matius flicks the coin back to Irzain.

“Keep it. A silver vasarik should buy you at least two books. Enjoy your little trip, Irzain." Elder Matius says as he departs Irzain's quarters.

“Thank you." A smiling Irzain replies, slipping the coin into a trouser pocket.

Collecting a simple, gray coat, Irzain drapes it over his tunic. Putting on his boot, he returns to the table where he was reading, scarfing down the slowly hardening bread roll and drinking the weak ale in one sitting. Wiping his lips with his coat sleeve, he dashes outside, finding Kirsta and her warriors preparing their weapons and standing near the raised, inner gate. He runs across the courtyard, eager to join her and her warriors. Turning toward him, Kirsta's eyes scan the stranger, whom they've harbored for the past few days. She watches him with a little scowl on her face.

“Are you ready?" She asks with a snippy tone.

“Of course!" Irzain cheerfully chirps.

“You'd better be. I don't want to carry you." She grumbles.

“You won't."

“Keep up, old man." A senior warrior remarks.

“I will, and I'm not that old." Irzain defensively replies.

“Heh. Any older and you'd be an elder. You aren't Matius' long-lost, little brother, are you?" Another chuckles.

“Hell if I know!" Irzain shrugs his shoulders.

“I bet Matius would like that." Another laughs.

“Alright, you clowns! Shut up and get moving!" Kirsta barks.

Falling into formation, Irzain walks just behind Kirsta, kept in between her warriors, probably at her secret order. He knows that regardless of his amnesia and his willingness to help those who would take him in, she still doesn't trust him. Irzain cannot blame her, however. Considering the prolonged feud that the Merzarians have had with the Genarians, he'd likely be suspicious of strangers too. Marching through the walkway and heading for the main gate, guards push the doors open. As soon as Irzain, Kirsta and the other warriors pass them, they swiftly pull the doors closed, barring and latching them shut.

They march for a few minutes, heading down a long and worn trail. It's the same path that Kirsta and her warriors had used when bringing Irzain back from the beach. Walking along the earthen road and kicking a few small stones with his boots, Irzain glances over his shoulder and back at the clan-house.

“Huh... It doesn't look that small." Irzain remarks.

“What's that?" A warrior turns to him.

“The clan-house. It looks much bigger on the outside." Irzain explains.

Walking along the trail and following behind Kirsta, staying between her warriors, Irzain admires the serenity of the temperate island. Birds chirp and the wind whistles, rustling the leaves in the trees. It's a pleasant walk to the town, which sits between the Merzarian clan-house, and that of their rival. The journey takes them several hours, following a well-worn path that winds throughout the forest. Stopping to rest, Irzain leans against a large, fallen log. With a hand on the pommel of her sword, Kirsta's eyes scan the horizon. Leaning back, Irzain lifts a leg and rests it across the other as he rubs his shins.

“Wow..." He sighs. “That's an interesting sensation!"

“Not accustomed to exercise, I see." Kirsta remarks, her scowl ever-present.

“I don't get out much." Irzain smirks.

“Maybe he's showing his age?" A young, male snickers.

“I can keep up as well as any of you! ... I just... Need a little practice!" Irzain replies.

“Then we'd better not interrupt your training." Kirsta chuckles.

With a loud whistle, Kirsta summons her warriors, who ready themselves for the march. Sliding off of the log, Irzain is quick to join them. The sweat beads on his forehead and he masks his shortened breaths, hoping not to disappoint his companions, many of whom are likely half his age. After nearly an hour of marching, the town that is their destination becomes visible in the distance. Irzain is delighted to see it, but his elation is cut short when Kirsta stops the group.

“Scope." She demands, holding out a hand.

Reaching into a leather pouch and taking out a retractable telescope, a warrior passes Kirsta the device. Pulling on and extending the body of the telescope, she brings the rearmost lens to her right eye. The warriors and Irzain watch her intensely, studying her features. They're startled by the expression that gradually forms on her face.

“Oh no..."

“What is it?!" A warrior asks.

“It looks like the town's been attacked." Kirsta answers.

“What?!"

“The Genarians never attacked the town before!"

“Some of their people live there!"

“It's neutral territory! It always has been!"

The warrior's voices collide in Kirsta's ears, frustrating her. Holding up a hand, she silences them. With newfound quiet, she focuses her attention on her vision.

“I don't see any bodies... Shattered windows... Some broken doors... One charred building over there... Lots and lots of blood on the ground... But no bodies!" She speaks as if thinking aloud.

“What do you want to do, Kirsta?" A senior warrior asks.

“We should check it out... Weapons at the ready!" She orders, compressing the telescope and passing it to her subordinate.

Drawing their swords and bows, the warriors prepare themselves for the worst. Archers ready their arrows, and a lone man with one of the clan's few arquebus rifles preps the port with gunpowder.

“Stay close but don't bunch up, and whatever you do, don't get lost. This means you, Irzain." Kirsta orders.

Moving swiftly but carefully, the warriors and Irzain make their way toward the town. They keep their eyes peeled for any potential threats or clues as to what transpired. Entering the outskirts of the town, the group is horrified to see what appears to be bloody drag marks, heading away and into the woods. Footprints are unusually light, as if made by children, though the size of the faint boot prints were clearly made by adults. Walking through the town, the team refuses to split up, instead staying in a tightly packed formation.

Checking each house and shop on their way toward the apothecary, they find absolutely no one. No bodies remain, nor any pieces of bodies. It's as if the scene was hastily cleared as soon as the fighting had ended. Finding the apothecary's shop, Kirsta checks her list, swiftly finding the herbs that elder Matius had hoped to have her purchase. She takes the herbs, stuffing them into a satchel on her waist.

“You're just going to steal them?" Irzain asks.

“I don't see anyone here for me to pay, and from the looks of this place, I'd say that we're never going to find any." She answers, rummaging through several drawers.

“Yeah... An awful lot of good stuff just laying around." A warrior remarks.

“Don't get greedy!" Kirsta growls. “We have the medicine that elder Matius needs. Grab some food, and any coin within eyesight, but we're not going on a looting spree. Only take what's on our way out!"

“Yes, ma'am!" The warriors respond.

Following Kirsta as she wanders throughout the town, her warriors obey her instructions to a tee. After a modest search of the town, heading roughly in the direction of the road to their clan-house, Kirsta is prepared to return home. With their coin purses filled and sacks of bread, meat and a few barrels of ale in-hand, the team makes their way along the trail and back to the clan-house.

“What're we going to tell everyone when we get home?" A warrior suddenly asks.

“The truth. Maybe elder Matius will have some idea as to what happened. We're just soldiers who follow orders." Kirsta replies.

With their slowed pace, weighted down with their new supplies, the warriors eventually return home, just before dusk. Everyone is surprised to see them, carrying kegs of ale, sacks full of food and purses loaded with vasariks. None, however, are more surprised than elder Matius.

“What happened?!" The frail elder asks.

“We don't know, elder. The town was abandoned, except for signs of a battle." Kirsta begins her report.

“A battle?!"

“Yes. There was blood, but no bodies... We're not sure where they went." She continues.

“Did you search?!"

“Of course! ... On our way to the apothecary..." She murmurs.

“What was that?" Elder Matius cups a hand around his ear.

“There was no one left. We claimed what we needed and returned as soon as we'd determined that there was nothing we could do." Kirsta speaks louder.

Elder Matius scratches his bearded chin, staring off into space as he struggles to process the new information.

“Y-you did good. Thank you." He murmurs.

“Is there some reason why they'd take the bodies?" A warrior asks, a hint of fear in her voice.

“N-no... It's nothing to worry about." Elder Matius replies.

Slowly turning and walking away, he leaves Irzain, Kirsta and the warriors, who hand off their collected supplies to the citizens within the courtyard. Before her most senior warrior leaves, Kirsta reaches out, grabbing his leather breastplate.

“Keep the archers and riflemen on alert... Just in case." She speaks softly and with audible worry.

“Understood..." He murmurs, nodding his head.

Returning to his quarters, Irzain ponders the missing bodies. Why would anyone take them? What's the purpose? Are they using them for food? But there was food in abundance, left behind. What if they aren't dead? Could they have been enslaved? If that were the case, why take the corpses? Surely, there would corpses, with the amount of blood left behind. Resting atop his bed, Irzain eats some salted pork and a bread roll, which sit on a pewter plate atop his lap. The thoughts race through his mind, refusing to leave him be. Once his meal is finished, he rises from his bed, crosses the room and sets the plate atop a table.

Pouring water from a clay pitcher and into a clay goblet, he sips the refreshing liquid. Sighing with relief, he pauses when he hears a noise. Turning toward his window, consisting only of iron bars across an open, rectangular hole in the wall, he waits and listens. A horrid feeling infests the pit of his stomach, just as a potent stench invades his nostrils. Wincing from the powerful odor, he takes a step closer. What could be making such a foul smell? It's too potent to be a skunk. His boots softly thump on the wooden floorboards as he inches his way closer to the window.

Standing barely a foot away from the window bars, he leans to the left and to the right, peering out of the window. The sound grows louder and clearer. Are those footsteps? Leaning even closer, Irzain stumbles back as a face emerges from beyond the window. Pale and grotesque, the rotting head turns toward him.

“Raaagh!" The ghoul gurgles, jutting a decaying hand into the room.

“Oh no!" Irzain exclaims.

Stumbling backward, he bumps into the table, knocking a candle onto the floor. A scream, followed by an abrupt gunshot steals his attention. An alarm bell rings, as several more gunshots ring out.

“Undead!" A warrior shouts.