Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Escape seemed nothing more than a dream. A fanciful idea to consider in fleeting moments of terrible anxiety. Well-acquainted with such measures to keep a calm countenance, Zarik knew - deep in his heart - that to consider escape was to consider something as likely as Immortal intervention. That was to say, something that would never come. When he’d been younger, around Hazel’s age, he had prayed to rain and puddles, and to streams and rivers, lakes and ponds, so U’frek might hear his pleas. He had wanted the Immortal to bring him back to the sea where he believed he belonged, back to his mother and to his sisters, and to the rest of the ship’s crew he’d known as family in the early arcs of his life. Young Zarik would dream of the water rising up, swallowing him whole, then spitting him out of a great wave onto the ship he’d been wrenched away from.

Such a thing never happened, though. It’d never been more than a dream.

So many moments in his short life, Zarik had imagined escape - to run away and never look at the past he’d left behind. He’d thought about it plenty but he never managed to convince himself to go through with the actuality. Not until recently, that was. Not until he’d embodied the temptation of power, within his sparks, had he realized he was meant for more; more than cleaning brain matter off corkscrews and bloody guts off floors. More than spending his trials risking his life in Lair to buy proper herbs at decent prices to make tea. More than soaking porridge from cave oats or constantly fighting the cold in the little stone home he’d thought to be so wonderful and luxurious…

…but turned out to be smaller, plainer, and sadder than even the basement of the home of a nobleman. Zarik, sometimes in his melancholy, wished he’d never seen the lord’s house. He wished he could have remained ignorant of what life for the wealthy was like. He’d been so content before he knew, or so he believed. Now, he understood the Heaps Commune and the things they said, about when they talked of the nobles and their parties and their extravagant natures while people starved to death in Shanty. He’d thought the Commune was as wild-eyed as any immortal devotee or other followers of various beliefs, but now he realized they only knew the truth of what the noble class got up to behind the protected walls and armored guards. He knew the truth too, now.

Maybe he could learn to be content, on the poor side of the wall, again. Happiness would come as it would, like a bird that visited a windowsill from time to time. Zarik had already learned to enjoy its company when it landed, but to let it go when it wished to. In recent arcs, he’d come to seek the stillness of water instead. The calm of nothingness. If no anger was wrought upon him, if no attention paid to his presence, he felt ever grateful for such respite from the ordinary chaos that was his father and then his husband. Both men had their tendencies toward emotion that Zarik could only draw parallels from. He supposed it was why the nobleman had felt so familiar to him despite their many differences. After finding his father dead, he’d felt so confused about what to do. Return to his fickle husband and beg for forgiveness due to his weak and conflicted heart? Try to help the people of the islands, to save them from further needless destruction?

Zarik, so badly, wanted to help them. He’d done what he could with bringing some of the Helians to Quacia to speak with the King, but he didn’t know if it would be enough. The biqaj felt such guilt for what had befallen the people of Agaperos, and still for the victims of his father as well. Though he’d never drawn a drop of fatal blood himself, Zarik blamed himself for each of these deaths as if he’d twisted the knife or compelled the magic himself. He had never murdered a single soul in his entire life and yet, he felt at fault for the deaths of hundreds of innocents. But what could he do? Nothing. He had no power to stop either Guilds nor Revealed. He couldn't even successfully stop his father, a lone elderly man. And now, he had no claim to anything but a bed and the life that gestated in his Zara totem.

Yet, he didn’t have nothing.

He had Hazel. As he’d promised her, several trials ago, he had adopted the eight-arc-old. He could still care for her. While she was just one little orphan, for Zarik, she already meant the world to him. Her existence meant he hadn’t done everything wrong. He’d saved her life not once, but twice, and he wanted her to grow into the strong, smart woman he knew she was meant to be.

…but he didn’t want to stay in Quacia to raise her. While he adored the city in his own way, he knew it wasn’t the sort of place that a girl like Hazel could grow accustomed to. She’d had a childhood of greenery and beaches, and she harbored a resentment for Quacians themselves - seeing them as part of the reason why her entire family was dead. So when the opportunity arose to leave Quacia, for the northern city known as Etzos, he’d taken the chance with little hesitation.

Perhaps he should have been more hesitant, the young man now realized.

He didn’t know where the rupture portal had taken them, but he knew it was against Jorsie’s intentions, and he knew they were at sea. At sea, but not free. The hold they’d stepped inside was meant to be their prison rather than a foyer for friendly reception.

Now his dearly adopted daughter had to endure the confusion and cold uncertainty of imprisonment within the hold of a ship. No matter how comfortable or stable he managed to persuade the situation, it still made them prisoners to strangers.

Zarik settled with his back to the wooden wall. Nearby, the slave girl Oceta slept. Though she only had done so upon his firm request for her to rest. If she exhausted herself by staying up to watch Hazel, she was no good to anyone - at least, that’s what he told her so that she’d go to sleep without concern that she wasn’t fulfilling her duties.

Hazel had more difficulty with sleeping. Whenever she did drift off, she awoke soon after - startled and about to cry. She was having nightmares. Zarik quietly hummed to soothe her, cradling the eight-arc-old girl in his arms despite her older age. While he blamed himself for their precarious situation, he had no space to bother on self-pity or remorse anymore. His focus had to be on the children under his care.

She nestled against his cloak and whispered the same question she’d asked nearly every trial since they’d arrived on the ship: “Are they going to kill us?”

Like every time before, he answered, “Not if I can do anything about it. I won’t let them hurt you.”

The promise didn’t seem to ease her concerns. She sniffled, then buried her face in the fabric of the cloak. He ran a hand over her hair, but it was no use. She’d started to cry again. Zarik allowed her to do so for a couple bits, then lifted her to a seated position on his thigh. He looked into her eyes, his own irises glowing a pale periwinkle hue through the dimness of night.

“Hazel, you’re a strong girl. No matter what happens, I know you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want you to die, Zarik,” she said.

“I’m not going to die,” he insisted for what felt like the hundredth time. “Not here anyway… Don’t give me that look. Say, say, why don’t you tell me about your dreams?”

Her eyes grew wide. She shook her head in refusal.

“It’s okay if they’re scary.” His halo dimmed and darkened into a shade quality rather than illuminating light. “Sometimes it’s good to speak of it…”

“I don’t want to,” she retorted. “I just won’t sleep.”

“That’s not a…” Zarik sighed. “Okay. I won’t sleep either then.”

“What?” Hazel sounded unsure. “But you love sleeping!”

“Do I?” inquired Zarik. He had slept quite a bit after he’d taken her to Quacia, leaving her mostly in Lucretia’s care while he spent breaks upon breaks in Emea with his new colleagues. He made an expression of determination, his dark brows furrowed and his gaze upward. “Well, it doesn’t matter if I love it. If you’re not sleeping, neither am I. That’s just that.”

A low whine sounded from the girl. He glanced at her, and tried not to smile at the obvious discomfort she felt at the idea. It was nice to know she cared.

“Unless…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “No, no, that wouldn’t…”

Hazel pulled on his cloak. “What is it? What? Unless what?”

“Perhaps I might be able to… send a guardian to your dreams to protect you,” suggested the biqaj, then he waved a dismissive hand. “But no, no, you wouldn’t want that. You’re not going to be sleeping anyway.”

“W-wait,” stammered the girl. “A guardian? You can do that? Would he be strong enough to…”

While she didn’t finish whatever she wanted to ask, Zarik answered regardless. “Oh yes, it would be the strongest guardian because he’d be your guardian and you’re one of the strongest little girls I know.”

“Oceta is strong too,” said Hazel momentarily, even going so far to point at the resting slave girl. She sniffed and added, “For a Quacian.”

“Yes, she is,” he agreed. “Now, here, lay down and I’ll tell you about this guardian.”

Zarik gathered one of the burlap sacks that he’d filled with more burlap to make a small pillow. He settled Hazel to lay on it, then took off his cloak. He tucked the cloak around her until she was snugly fitted underneath. She stared up at him with expectant eyes, awaiting him to tell her more.

He began in a quiet, lulling voice that he kept a gentle rhythm to match the rock of the waves against the ship: “The guardian has eyes of blue like the ocean. He stands taller than any ordinary man. His sword is sharp and his club is strong, and he never misses his mark, not ever-”

“Does he have wings?” asked Hazel.

“Uh… yes, yes he does.”

“Like your’s?”

“Do you think he would?” he inquired. His gossamer wings fluttered, then folded down against his backside again.

“No,” she said in a thoughtful tone as she turned onto her back and stared up. “I bet he has great feathery wings like a bird. I saw a man once like that, mama said it was a… a… a bird man. She said they weren’t very nice and to stay away, but it was neat, the way he flew about. I wish I could fly. I’d fly away from this stinky old boat.”

Zarik stroked her hair, and tucked a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. He smiled slightly, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. A faint light glimmered under his lips, then sunk into the girl's forehead with little notice from her other than she squinted at him. He nodded and said, “Yes, then, the guardian has great feathery wings like a… like a blackbird.”

Hazel grinned and added, “And he has a horn on his forehead, to stab things with.”

“Wha-oh okay,” said Zarik.

“And, and, his skin sparkles like the water when the sun hits it,” she added. “But he has lots of armor on, so you can’t really see it, but you know and his armor is the best ever in all the world.”

Zarik watched as she started to move to sit up. He ran a hand over her shoulder, to attempt to calm the child and settle her back to lay down. “Yes, all those thin-”

“And his name is Sir Birdhorn! Or wait, no… uh, Sir… Sir Water-Bird, or…” the little girl struggled to come up with a suitable name and she turned onto her side with a pout. “Sir…”

“How about Sir Crow?” he offered.

“Hmm… I don’t know… it’s kinda…” she glanced at him, then shrugged. “I guess it’s fine enough. It’s not his real name anyway, just what people know him as.”

“Yes, now let me-”

“And he has a cat!”

“What?” he blinked a couple times.

“Sir Birdhorn, he has a cat,” she repeated.

“…Sir Crow, please.”

“Oh, Sir Crow, right. Sir Crow has a cat.”

“Okay,” said Zarik. “He also has a cat and close your eyes, please, and I’ll-”

“The cat’s name is Trip.”

“Uhm…”

“Because the cat puts tripwires to catch the bad guys before they show up,” she explained.

“I see.” He nodded. “That’s very clever of the cat.”

“She’s a clever cat, yes.”

“Ah, she.” Zarik smiled at the realization of why there was suddenly a cat to accompany the guardian. “Yes, well, let me tell you a story about Sir Birdhorn, I mean Sir Crow, and his clever cat, Trip…”