"When will the fishing fleet return? I have been waiting since the fog settled and now it has lifted. Damn. I might as well lie down and let the fish have me instead." He spoke with a voice hollowed by boredom, sitting idle, his chin propped on a mooring post near the dock, waiting for the large sea-creature haul. In his hand, a great knife, his gaze fixed upon the sea ahead.
"Wait on then. You didn't complain a lick last time did you? Come down here and help me. That'd be more useful than sittin' up on a barnacle pole. Get a move on." One of the fish gutting men beckoned him over, one hand braced on the shoulder of a hooked-toothed shark. The air thick with the rank odor of fish and the faint blue corrosive blood that stained the wooden pier. The crowd of buyers, ready with steel and wooden crates, waited to take the fresh catch for butchering and sale in the suburb of Senifort.
A Suburb of Silence and Shadows
Within this suburb the quiet reigned, the shade deep and cool. Most of the traders were wandering souls from other realms bordering the magical lands. Many came to be fishermen, harvesters of sea blood, or even deep-sea navigators—all livelihoods fraught with danger beneath the dark blue expanse beyond the bay. Sometimes they'd wake from a sound sleep and still hear the cries of the giant stingrays, a mournful sound like a wounded white whale. A low, sad vibration in the skull. Even asleep, the hunger and the avarice kept the sound ringing in their heads, stealing their rest.
Storm gulls wheeled around the townspeople, circling the heavy clouds. Folk rushed to gather their things along the stone path behind the great ship basin. Those at the bay's edge stood fast, for though the rain began as small drops before turning to a waterfall pouring from the heavens, the lust for the sea-creatures was a primal hunt. More than even the craving of some jungle trappers. They would not be swayed by a squall such as this.
"It's raining fast now. All these birds. What kind of haul do you reckon we'll get for carving up this time?" A butcher, a wooden trading crate on his shoulder, asked another who was smoking a cigarette, slicing raw fish for others to eat.
"I'd bet on the white whale. Not the long-clawed jellyfish. Too dangerous." The sound of the great gutting knife chopping against the wooden block—the familiar metallic clang against flesh—blended with the hissing of the heavenly tears and the men's words. Laughter shared among the butchers in the downpour. Footsteps sounded on the wet wood. Slow, deliberate steps, like two planks falling against each other in a rhythm. Gentle, yet defiant.
"I wager this time they'll bring fish smaller than you expect." The aged sage said this. His feet, corroded and pierced by roots as if cursed, walked toward them, unannounced. Many stared as if they had seen an apparition, for the sage's eyes were sometimes clouded and dull, like one partially blind, yet they would shift back to the normal jet-black of the locals.
"Don't look at me like that. As if I were a bounty hunter." The old sage spoke softly, picking up a piece of the butcher's fish and gnawing it with a crunchy sound.
"What are you doing here? Aren't you a sage of the Kingdom? Or have you come to trade fish? The market's not that steady right now. You'd be better off eating fish in your fancy rooms." Everyone nearby chuckled, finding the words amusing. But the aged sage only smiled faintly, then raised his gaze to the sea, where the rain and wind howled,
soaking them all through. Still, the sage's eyes did not leave the downpour. He spat a bone from his mouth, his voice dry yet firm, like a master addressing his students.
A Cold Warning
"It is more important than that. For soon, perhaps, you and the people in the suburb may need to leave this place." The chilling, skin-crawling voice cut through the relentless rain. Many storm gulls flew low over the masts of the anchored fishing vessels. The frantic leaping of long-finned silk eels was seen, like flying fish. People within the suburb's gates, behind the strong pine wall, came out from their homes to take shelter beneath the eaves, looking at the black rain clouds and the many gulls circling, blotting out the sun. Some children still played near the bay, unafraid of fever—for a child's fever in this world was an escape from the nightmares of sleep.
"These things will not last. You should prepare yourselves, provision a vessel for a journey. This is no mere caution. For my single warning will arrive with the ship you await to receive the sea-creatures."
Oooht! The sound of a horn, a sea-sled shark's horn, echoed, reaching the ears of those at the bay. The waiting folk rose heavily, every gaze fixed outward from the bay. They cheered wildly as they saw the massive ship slice through the thick fog. But the aged sage, the Master, only smiled calmly. The wind whipped the rigging of the two colossal ships drawing near. When the masts swayed in unison, a sign that it was time for exchange, something of a blood-red velocity shot forth from the water, soaring into the sky. A woman cried out like an eagle as it passed the Master's right shoulder, alongside a huge, mastless ship. It looked like a ten-thousand-year-old sea monster, long forgotten and never recorded.
"There it is. The warning I spoke of has come. A band of warriors from a kingdom whose location no one knows, or one so pitifully forgotten. The warriors of the Kingdom of Santaya-Nacron." The aged sage spoke as if recalling distant days. A war like hell itself. But for the old man, the Master of Senifort, that hell was home.
The Price of Memory
A sweet, echoing murmur of the past. For a time, they fought side by side. But that was only memory. He laughed, the sound mingling with the rain, the waves, and the nearing ships. A colossal shadow fell across the whole bay, drowning it in darkness like night. The ship stopped well away from the bay, yet close enough to startle them.
"What the hell kind of ship is that?" The man with the knife dropped it in extreme panic and bewilderment.
"A warning from the ocean. It will spark a war anew." He thought of the man in the black armor, Commander Chennel...
The old sage spread his arms wide, planting his foot. A cold wind cut through the rain. But as he soared, a shout of annoyance came from another vessel, which was moored beside the ancient wreck and held fast with hooked, chained spears to keep it from drifting. A tall archer, bigger than a moose, stepped out, drenched and irritable as if he had just emerged from a swim. The rest of the crew kept their distance from the archer, as if repulsed or unfamiliar with him.
"I knew it. Nothing but water. What kind of sailing is this? Sunk by a wave and then sunk again. I thought I was sitting inside the boat, yet I'm soaked because the driver can't see the jumping whales? Just dragging one ship, with no Kraken to bother us. A disgrace."
"At least there might be a hot spring amidst a sunflower field here. Near the sea, it'd be a shame if there weren't." A priest followed the archer. The priest's white clothing fluttered alongside the archer's animal skin cloak. Many spirits encircled the men, clinging to their legs, urging them back to their origin. The ramp opened, and they stepped down. Tiny, worthless fish were unloaded onto the two ships moored at the dock and sorting area.
But they parted a path for a man who stood in the corner, a figure who could move, though no one noticed him, nor did anyone interfere, as no one wished to cross the gaunt man. One hand clenched a sword that seemed to loosen, as if trembling, struggling to stillness.
The eagle's cry ended behind the old sage, who was airborne. He jumped down, landing before the archer and the priest. The lithe female warrior, clad in sharp, streamlined armor, tossed her hair and twisted it. She approached the sage, offering him a pale hand, the veins throbbing visibly beneath the skin. In her hand, a burned black feather. The old sage accepted it with a smile.
"Lord Chennel has come to see you, Willefs, hasn't he? No wonder the path led to Senifort from the start. It makes my hands burn." She said this, remembering the face of the man in black armor... Silence fell for a moment. People nearby would not even walk near the group. The spiritual force caused some children's noses to bleed, and even a robust man who tried to walk past immediately collapsed, his body incompatible with the energy. When the silence ended, the elderly sage, Willefs, laughed, his voice a series of low, high pitches.
The Coming Storm
"War will begin. You all know it already. Perhaps, if I am not mistaken, the King of the Cruxmere Kingdom is dead in the ruins of his own royal palace. It is a prophecy from a sage's dream. His right hand appeared in the sacred land of those who seek the light of God. The priest, the former Foundation Stone Sage, has returned to his origin. The only thing that will follow is war. Are you truly prepared to accept this?" Willefs spoke, walking past the three of them. He felt a shadow in his scattered memories—the image of the gaunt man, standing alone in the war.
"Accept it or not, who cares? When the head of that lunatic on the throne falls from his shoulders, by the doing of a single corporeal form containing a million souls or spirits, I care for nothing else that follows."
The aged sage Willefs laughed at Helm's exasperated words before he walked away from the visitors, looking up at the gaunt body he saw in the depths of his confusion and intruded memory. Vionnier stepped beside Helm. All of them watched the back of the aged sage, who turned before leaving, looking at Phorson with thoughtful inquiry before asking: "You have surely come the right way. But perhaps you do not see who you are... The meeting of the sage and the former Stone Scribe, with many pure souls surrounding you—you remember your lessons, don't you, Priest of the Unholy Church?"
Phorson merely bowed his head in acceptance, like a new disciple. The aged sage only laughed heartily. Vionnier remained still. Without her sword, she was without power, for that blade remained with the gaunt man. The surrounding people vanished from the bay's edge. The sea creatures were gone. The water was still, even as the rain lashed down, turning into a storm. Every step, every stride, was pressed onto the wet slope. When the sight of the pure souls vanished, only those who knew what was coming remained. War never ends. And He still stood trembling, his eyes blinking between closed and wide in terror, having been startled countless times. He fell to his knees. When he looked up, one hand gripped the sword he had driven into the ground to rise. The aged sage stood before him…
"Suffering, is it, O soul? Here. Eat this fish head." The aged sage extended what was in his hand to Him, who still shook at the world where the soul was nearly ripped apart. His eyes widened at the image of the raw, multi-fanged fish head. With his other hand, the sage easily pulled the silver-blood woman's sword from the ground. He grabbed the food and ate as if he had never eaten anything in his life. He cried tears of blood.
"You will remain nameless. And one day your name will be pro—"
Thud! Plop...
The aged sage collapsed before Him. The visitors sensed the scent of vanishing soul and mana. They rushed over. Phorson caught the old sage, supporting him so he would not fall again. Everyone was silent, looking only at the one man and the labored breathing of the sage. He smiled at the gaunt figure. No one had anything more to say...