The Protagonist is Going to Win in the End

[Ithermoss]

He checked the mysterious letter again for what had to be the fourth time in the past half hour. How it had gotten into his hands was entirely beyond him, the whole living under a mountain thing usually got in the way of correspondence. Somebody knew his name, and understood his difficulty with reading as well. It was half a list of instructions, and half a letter in confidence. The warrior really didn't know what to make of it, and despite refusing ask a few bystanders what certain words meant, he got the essentials. Mostly.

"Rakh,

We recently got your name through an associate of ours who mentioned something about your distinct interest in the old Thayne faith of our forefathers. It has come to our attention that relics are said to exist within Minas Teradryn, also known as the Obsidian Spire. These may or may not be ones pertaining to your faith, but we felt you might be interested. We also have an interest in the contents of the old supposedly abandoned tower. Enclosed is a set of plain clothes for you to assume a meager disguise. We ask that you search the tower grounds, and possibly inside if you can manage. We understand this is dangerous work, and upon successful completion of this task, the privileges within our small organization will be available to you.

We would recommend first learning as much as you can about the tower before exploring it. Your method of gathering information, of course, is purely up to you. We have no contacts for you and no other leads besides a rumor.

Keep in mind, it is said that Minas Teradryn is an exact replica of Velicë Arta's central tower. Perhaps scouting the area would be of some use. Perhaps not. We request simple reconnaissance be delivered as soon as possible.

Sincerely,
A friend."


And so, it was on this day that Rakh found himself wearing the clothes of a villager. A simple shirt and trousers, along with something to hold back his hair, were trappings he wasn't exactly comfortable wearing; the feeling of cloth against his back made his skin crawl. Nursing a bit of a hangover, the warrior was standing in a line of applicants in front of Istien University. It wasn't exactly some elaborate scheme of his. In fact, he just got in the first line he came across and hoped it was the right one. Just being in Raiaera again reminded him of his seemingly never ending trek through the Black Desert. Nevertheless, Rakh waited his turn to speak with the head of admissions.

Name please."

"Eagert Snivelingston."

The commoner in the front of the line sounded out his name as if he was rehearsing in front of a mirror. He was scruffy looking, the kind of scruffy that one would expect working for a wheel and wainwright. His earthy smell and grimy fingernails weren't exactly offensive to the tribal, but were something that definitely set the man apart from the other high-browed applicants to Istien University. The provost squinted at the simple man and nodded. "In what school are you enrolling?"

"Turlin, sah," the man boasted, puffing up his chest.

"Very well. Please speak with Linwë Séregon to schedule your classes. I might recommend Survey of Hygiene, one of our beginner courses. If you don't have your health, you can't expect to sing effectively, can you?" Punctuated by a staccato of chuckles from short line of applicants that day, the magic of the provost's remark was wholly lost to the tribal. Eagert nodded apologetically after receiving his welcome brochure and free tunic.

The fragile looking elf standing in front of him was just about as smelly, but in a different way. She was wearing far too many different fragrances; be it from the perfumes in her hair, the flowers in her tunic, or even her breath - heavy with honey and berrywine. Standing behind her for a half hour was like being trapped in a prison full of old ladies, sans flabby arms and sunken, toothless mouths. When she gave her name, Rakh only really caught the first couple syllables of it before she started vocalizing sounds that he couldn't make (not with his mouth, at least). She felt she was more attuned to the school of Ost'Dagorlin, defensive and offensive magic.

"Next," the Provost said expectantly. Rakh found himself at a loss for words as he approached the desk. "Your name?"

The disguised tribal took a breath.

[Ithermoss]

“Lief o’ the Shields,” the warrior managed. He figured his haggard appearance would warrant a low-born name. It would curry more respect than a name like Rakh every would, despite that being not only his name, but his soul’s name. Besides, he had heard grim tales of magic users being able to evoke the name of a man’s soul, and through him, do terrible things. Knowledge of such a name would be to his great disadvantage in a place like this.

“Hmm...” he paused. “Not on our list,” the proctor peered down at him. “Did you file your admission with the proper office?”

“Of course, sir. Might it be that there could be some mistake? As soon as word hits paper, there’s bound to be a lost detail somewhere.”

“That’s the truth,” the wizened old elf chuckled, raising a bushy eyebrow in good faith. “I’ll go ahead and sign you up as a write-in. Since you’ve not been to orientation, just make sure you get to your class on time.”

“Thank you s-“

“And what school would you like to enroll in, Mr. o’ the Shields?”

“I was looking more for the defensive sort. You know, the kind that perfects parries or blocks attacks,” the tribal nodded happily. Little did he know that such knowledge was forbidden for one of his devotion.

“Thank you. Please follow the steward to your mentor after receiving your welcome packet.”

A brochure was pushed into his knotted hands, one he wasn’t able to read, along with a complimentary tunic which he certain was going to simply identify him as a newbie to more opportunistic senses of humor walking around. He could imagine being duped into thinking there was a free luncheon on the Headmaster’s tab, or a seminar in the women’s robing area. He was never really the sharpest knife in the flatware drawer. He wasn’t even on the cognitive level of a spoon. He didn’t know things; but he knew how to use what little he did know, wisdom making all the difference at times. These thoughts ran through his head as he was ushered into a room with a crowd of other students - one of them the spunky and rather aromatic elf he’d seen earlier. Mostly, he thought about spoons.

The conductor started class as soon as everyone found their previously assigned seats, which meant Rakh, not having one, was sitting in the back of the room next to the freckle faced ogreling with the breathing problem. Every time his cavernous nostrils took a labored breath, his fat jowls would make the oddest sound - one Rakh couldn’t quite pin down as any one thing. For hours he got to sit there while the conductor went over the rules and introduced himself, and finally they got to their first lesson.

“Everyone sit straight up in your chairs. No slouching. How do you expect to defend yourself with bad posture?!” the conductor cried, popping one of the students on the front row with his baton. “Now, we’re going to practice the first chord.” The conductor motioned which parts of the room he wanted to sing which note. Rakh hadn’t the slightest clue what a note was, however, and when the choirmaster began, it became clear that, apart from the elf, nobody else did either. The result was a cacophonous warble of varying intensities. After a quick correction, the conductor continued.

“Again!” The chord sounded better. The class seemed slightly more in harmony with each other, although it still wasn’t right. The chubby ogreling kept on snorting through his note, thus earning Rakh’s corner of the room an array of dirty looks. His stand-mate didn’t care, though. He just kept on snorting, huffing, and botching any and all attempts at a solid note. Rakh’s rather untrained singing was by no means spot on, and at times, he was almost yelling his note simply to be able to hear himself next to his stand partner.

An odd thing happened then, despite the lack of solidity their collective chord had. A purplish, translucent wall melted into the material plane before their very eyes. As unstable as it was, certain portions of the barrier being more solid than others, what Rakh began to see was the base chord for the lesser Ostlin spells visually manifested. As amazed as he was, he wasn’t quite prepared for what was to happen next.

[Ithermoss]

Homework.

The very concept turned his stomach. The home was a place meant for relaxation and scheming, and in past lives, hoarding material possessions; not for work. He knitted his eyebrows at the thought of sitting at a desk and stumbling over note after note of song. He’d have preferred that, however, to what was coming.

An older dark elf piped, “homework? Eh awright, we can’t ev’n manage a solid note between us, let alone a ‘ole foggling song!”

“The assignment, Mr. Mouser,” the conductor cut in, “isn’t an entire tune. Trusting students to their homes with a completed musical phrase would be disastrous, at least in the Dagorlin school. No no, what you’ll be doing is much more basic.” A few students fell back in their seats, relieved. Rakh included. “You remember the chord we’d been working on? I want you all to go home, and reproduce it, all three notes sung at the same time.”

“But it took three groups to make that chord,” protested the ham-fisted ogreling between a throttling punctuation comprised of snorts. Rakh made a mental note to ask to be moved down a row next class.

“That is correct. What I’m handing out now,” he said as he walked around the room, passing out a something-or-other bundled up in a wad of leather, “is a set of three sorts of sand. All you need to do is take a bit of one kind of sand between your thumb and forefinger, and rub them together. What this does, is makes a single note. Practice this note first.” The tribesman, today dressed in simple clothes, glared at the ogreling who received his sand, and promptly ate it. Rakh took his and stuck it in his pocket. “Once you’ve learned the first note, do the same with the other two containers of sand. Practice singing two notes at the same time, and then three. It takes time, but it is possible, despite what some of you may think.” A few students began rustling their papers and collecting their things, the conductor giving them all a nod of approval. “Class dismissed.”

Rakh, a great deal older than most of his fellow students, stood from his chair and approached the conductor who was preparing for his next class. Under a set of finely kept eyebrows, the bard addressed his student. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Lief o’ the Shields,” the warrior said, extending his grubby-nailed hand.

The conductor reluctantly accepted and shook it, replying “Flygglan De, at your service.”

“This might seem a rather odd request, but is there any way I could change seats?”

The conductor smiled and grimaced at the same time. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any other vacant seats, and I doubt any of the other students would be able to manage in your place either. What I will do, however, is give you some incentive to assisting your stand partner’s,” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “problem.”

Rakh gave a quizzical look. “How do you mean? The lug’s breathing could rouse a mountain from its sleep.”

“That is up to you. He has approached me, and said he would be up for about anything save removing his nose. I have another class in five minutes, so I’ve got to run, but give it a try. We’ll make it an extra credit assignment.”

“Thanks,” Rakh said as the conductor was making off. “I guess.” The day was turning out not quite as planned and the warrior went to a hostel with much more on his mind than sheet music. He had homework of his own to start considering.

[Ithermoss]

Rakh went to the hostel that day with ideas falling out of his tattooed ears: ideas about effectively unclogging the young ogre’s nose, ideas on how to troll for information about the Obsidian Spire, and even ideas on how to make three sounds at once. Incidentally, the tribal hadn’t a clue what the first idea was called before he consulted the university’s clinic elf…

“I’m having trouble with a medical term.”

“Yes sir,” the squat elf called from knee-height, peering up from his bushy white eyebrows as if he was shouting at a treetop.

“What do you call it when you help an ogre with a chronic snorting problem?”

The wizened little elf thought for a moment before consulting his volumes on Developmental Ogre Medicine and Ogre Anatomy, the smallest section of which being the typical ogre’s diet: anything that goes crunch, squish, or makes a screaming sound while being masticated. In fact, according to the text, there exist a great deal more things apt for mastication that most people don’t consider – things like wagon wheels, elflings (at which the squat elf gulped), or even cobblestones. But eventually, the short lesson on Ogre-ology came to a halt as the striped-sock-wearing clinician came to his eureka. He cleared his throat after balancing his multi-tiered quadrifocals on the tip of his red nose.

“That is referred to as a Snogglectomy, the verb form, to de-snoggle.”

“De-snoggle, huh? The things you learn from books.”

Back to the quiet room in the hostel, the tribal was hard at work trying to figure out how on Althanas’s fertile soil one would go about desnoggling his ogre. The concept was beginning to sound a bit ridiculous, and he was kicking himself for not asking, off the record of course, how one would go about the desnog… the operation safely. He didn’t want to damage the ogreling in the very least, just silence his nasal passages. He wasn’t at all qualified in any kind of medicine. Neither was he even remotely familiar with alchemy, nor impromptu nasal procedures of any sort whatsoever.

But what he did remember, was that Aleranian cuisine always made his nose burn, and to a degree, cleared up any breathing problem he had beforehand. According to the warrior’s neighbor, a particularly itchy old dark elf with a rapture habit he just couldn't kick, the ingredients could be pilfered from the cafeteria easily enough. He had been going to the university since he was a child, and despite never really passing a single class in his time, having over fifty different consecutive majors, and being generations-deep in student loans, the one thing he knew was the rascal’s guide to Istien University.

"Oi! I'm Mousah. The twitchy drow chuckled, "s'wot they pay me for. Seen a mouse in these parts, me pretty lil' China doll?"

"No, but..."

"Yer godsdamn right abou' that! Best damn mousah in this 'owle school, and don't let any-soddin-body tell ya sideways. What do you want to know?”

Rakh has no earthly idea what the strange drow was talking about, but exasperated, asked outright. "What’s the part of Aleranian food that makes my nose burn?”

“Oooh ho hoo! You mean Falxweed! Love that stuff. Don't even burn the ol’ sniffer anymore,” Mouser boasted as he displayed his nose proudly and hooked his thumbs under his suspenders. It really was a huge, unsightly thing; his nose looked like an elbow attached to his face.

“How can I get it from the great hall?”

“…great hall? Mate, where the hells are ya from? Elves don’t eat in halls. We eat in cafés,” he said, holding his thumbs and forefingers together, as if preparing to stretch Rakh’s next attempt at elfish diction into a thin wire. His lack of verbal skill would prove not nearly as ductile as old Mouser had hoped.

“Caaaah . . . faaaaaaaaaays. I must find this cah-fay! Onward then!" Rakh kept to his feet.

“Blimey! You sound like a right-sodding fool when you say it like that. It’s café.”

“Caaahfaaaay.”

“No. Café.”

“Caah-faaay?” he repeated dumbly.

If the drow had been able to turn red, he’d have done so by now, but only slapped his face in disbelief. “Forget it. I can get one of my pretties to get the Falxweed for you, but you need to do me a favor.”

“Caaah-ffwhat?”

Mouser paused. "Nearly got it that time. How about a few pieces ah gold?” Rakh grabbed a handful of drakes from his pocket and dropped them into the drow’s veiny hand, each one almost as much weight as the gangly fingers could handle; Mouser’s face lit up into a crooked smile. “That’ll do just fine. I’ll have it under your door in about an hour or two.”

[Ithermoss]

The tattooed tribal returned to his quiet hostel room with his tongue in knots. The finer points of diction were totally lost to someone like him who had never even analyzed sounds in picture form. The two simply didn’t translate: one was auditory; the other was visual. How an object he can see and touch represents a single sound was a sort of magic that eluded him entirely. Having the drow repeatedly over-enunciate a two syllable word was starting to irk him anyway.

Getting down to business, Rakh figured he would take care of the more pressing issue of the remaining two: the homework the conductor gave them. Now, he wasn’t quite sure about his stand-partner’s method; the designers of the nifty little sand pouches most likely weren’t intending to bestow upon their invention anything resembling edibility. The plainly dressed warrior thumbed at the little pouches and came to the conclusion that such things wouldn’t agree with his stomach, and that they really were supposed to be used as the conductor originally suggested.

Pulling the thong from around a sheet of well-oiled leather, Rakh opened up the first quantity of sand. Pinching a bit, he rubbed the two fingers together, letting the abrasive grains grind against each other and into the swirls of his dirty fingertips. A sweet, constant sound was made, like the rushing of air over an empty glass bottle. Rakh mimicked the tone as best he could, keeping his voice steady and unwavering. Practicing without the sand, he was able to memorize, in time, what this note sounded like. He proceeded this way with the other two bags, one at a time, and eventually found that the three notes harmonized quite nicely.

Now, the hard part. “Sing one note, but think the other,” the conductor reminded the class before they left. The tribal concentrated. After failing miserably the first three-dozen times, he managed to catch on, much to his delight; two notes at once. “Sing one note, think about the other, and whisper the third,” he could still hear the conductor dictating for himself as he scribbled the assignment down on a large slate. The same process as before: try and fail, try and fail. A knock on the tribal’s door signaled the arrival of the powdered Falxweed as it was slid in the door in a fist-sized sack, a wink of Mouser’s eye before it clapped shut and he was by himself again. Rakh concentrated. He focused all his frustration, all his wonder, and even a pinch of hope into his attempt.

He didn’t succeed in making the shield-chord, unfortunately. What he did succeed in, was blasting the window of his small hostel room from its hinges as it went sailing into the night sky and crashing to the world below, the curtains fluttering wildly out the window, as if blown (or drawn) by a tremendous force. He tried again. More of the same, but this time, the entire room pulsed and buzzed with a series of fwips, almost as if a Roc was beating its great wings just outside his window. Trying harder, and this time, louder, the intrigued weregoyle rose his pitch to a shout – a tearing sensation in his throat, like the chord shredded its way through his larynx. The room shook. Fixtures were quaking in their carriages. Bulbs popped, showering bits of glass and tinsel-like filament about the room. Rakh, quite pleased with his achievement, swept the room and went to bed that night. The effect not exactly what he had in mind, but it sure was flashy.

Mouser just pounded on the wall a few times. "Shet up innere!"

[Ithermoss]

Rakh got to class early and took his seat. He had a burning desire to steal a classmate’s chair and spare himself the tyranny of his stand-partner's incessant snorting, but thought better of it. Instead, the warrior set out his sand and started practicing in case they were going to have to demonstrate whether they successfully absorbed yesterday’s lesson. A few others were there already too, pinches of sand already at work between their fingertips. The four-armed Throgglefax was doing quite well with all three collections of sand at the same time, just to make sure her chord was in tune. More or less a mere human among them, and a rather special-needsy one at that, Rakh did his best to recite the shield chord quietly in his seat.

No luck.

He tried again.

Same result.

Clenching his teeth, he remembered the trance he had himself in back in the hostel: the raw emotion he poured into his voice, the feeling of tearing in his throat, the frustration that he felt from having failed so much and so often. He balled his ore-stained hands, the staccato shiver of muscles gone taught echoing up his arm. He stymied the chord well before it left his mouth, but kept the state of mind within an inch’s reach.

He had almost not been paying attention in class, he’d been concentrating so much on the feeling. The conductor had indeed intended to begin the session with a test of performance: starting at one end of the class and weaving his way in and out of the rows, until the entire choir arc had given their own unique chord. Even the ogreling was sitting there, quite like ogrelings strive hard to do, munching on a braided lock of the Spriggan’s hair in front of him in contemplation. Even he was prepared. Rakh puffed his chest out proudly when the conductor began his row.

Most every one of the other students were able to produce a rich violet aura around them, conjuring a sound so peaceful that the whirlwind of emotion inside the weregoyle seemed to soften and subside. That was until the conductor arrived at last to the ogreling next to him. Rakh felt as if he had four pounds of pig-iron in his gut, the bronze tan (or maybe it was just dirt) of his face seemed to just melt away.

The ogreling snorted proudly and stood to address conductor Flygglan. With a full breath of air, he blew the loudest, yet most beautiful “slork” sound from his nose, only to be followed by another in harmony, and then another. The shield aura that formed around him was a pale, milky green that swirled with bits of yellow, not at all the purplish orb that the others produced.

“Well done!” the conductor applauded fervently. “My lad, you have some talent. Have you thought about pursuing a career in solo work?”

“Mmmh… Mum’s tol’ me at’ta corndotters. Mmmmh.”

“The hell I . . .” Rakh mouthed to himself, glaring at his stand-partner in disbelief. With an unconscious shake of his head, Rakh stood reluctantly and prepared to deliver his chord. With a deep but trembling breath, he concentrated on the pang of nausea, the sudden fear that he might have misunderstood the assignment altogether, and even the utter distaste of being showed up by a bumbling ogre. He shook to his very core, and sung out the first note – the base.

Loud. Bold. Noble.

The second note – the sub-harmony.

Somber. Dark. Brooding.

The third note – the dominanti.

Something angry. Something furious in scope, seething in tone, and roaring in effect thundered from his gut and caught the room’s frequency of resonance. The note throttled him about like tuning fork; his form was a blur.

The chord subsided.

When all was still again, when all was quiet and calm, there in front and all about lay the rubble of chairs, music stands, and teaching implements. A barrier of radiant blue stood in front of him, gently fading from existence, revealing the rest of the students all huddled behind the pudgy ogre. It wasn’t Rakh who had quaked. It was the room around him.

[Ithermoss]

“Rule number one,” the Conductor announced, “NO DAGORLIN CHORDS IN MY CLASSROOM!”

“Dagorwhatta?”

“Dagor-lin,” he exaggerated.

“Daaay-Gooor-Luuun." Oh Gods – not this again.

"Dagor-lin!"

"Me-hbargplbllblb," the ogre insisted, trying to help.

Rakh paused to give the ogre an incredulous look, and then said the only other thing that came to mind.

"Caaaah-Faaaay!" he brayed. The classroom erupted into laughter. Rakh looked on in dread.

“THAT is IT!” the conductor hollered. “Out of my classroom! Out! You savage! You imbecile! You simpleton! OUT!”

Rakh gathered his possessions, humiliated, and left at the instructor’s bidding. An ornate door slammed behind him; a fitting punctuation to the first class tongue-lashing he’d just received. Kicking at a wad of paper, he loped off down the hallways of Istien University. Great. His first class, and he’d been kicked out. The first class, and he couldn’t make it through the second session without being yelled at and hopelessly embarrassed. He hadn’t even remembered to desgnoggle the ogre. Rakh left the University that day, down on his luck.

He entered the University Student Commons, lined with an array of Alerian entertainment machines. He saw slanted trays jutting out at odd angles with tons of buttons with a little stick at the top. Elflings were crowding around the odd cabinet, their faces illuminated by a sourceless magic.

“The Headmaster’s been kidnapped by ninjas! Are you a bad enough dude to rescue him!?” one of the elflings shrieked, wringing his hands. It caught Rakh’s attention, to be sure. As mesmerized by the cabinet as the young elf was, Rakh was much more interested in the Headmaster being kidnapped. If he was able to rescue him, he might again rise in favor within the Ostlin school. The rusty wheels in Rakh’s mind creaked and sighed under the pressure of prolonged thought.

He approached one of the children, grabbing him by the shoulders, and shook him back and forth. “Where are these nin-jaz?! What is a …” he stuttered, “bad dude!?”

The little one gestured to the cabinet. It was a marvel to behold. The pictures danced before his eyes: one who stood against untold thousands. What fatal furies, what killer instincts drove these kings of fighters on!? What streets of rage were these, that such street fighters were locked in gruesome mortal kombat? Death was dealt in bloody swaths by golden axes and eternal champions, accompanied by triumphant battle music to match - it all reminded him of his pit fighting days. “How does one rescue the Headmaster?” he demanded.

“Hey, I got here first. You wait your turn!”

“I must regain favor with the Ostlin school! Get out of my way!” Rakh elbowed the youngster out of the way, and took control of the rescue effort – his hands blazing over buttons and working the odd little stick. Punch, punch, punch. His enemy was down. Another one had a knife. Punch, punch, punch. So it continued; Rakh punched his way through the hordes of Dragon Ninja for all five levels of enemies. There were none left standing in his way: the last boss struggling to maintain his footing as he winked in and out of existence with a pink outline. A yell of triumph, and with an attempt to enter his initials into the annals of Headmaster-rescuing history, he was officially a Bad Dude. The children stared at him, their faces on the border of awe and blubbering praise. With this breakthrough success under his belt, he made his way back to the classroom. The Ostlin conductor wouldn’t dare refuse his presence a second time.