The Steam Machine

[Olivan]

[Solo Quest]

*Tink* *Tink* *Crack!*

*Tink* *Tink* *Crack!*

*Tink* *Tink* *Crack!*

This was the sound of the hammer. This was the sound of the shovel. This was the sound of humdrum, soul-destroying labor that stepped in awkward rhythm with the deep, weighty, and exhausted breaths of the disheartened slave flock. Armored masters sat idly on aged food crates, observing their cattle, only rising to their feet to crack cold whips across weakened flesh to increase work production. Olivan had felt the snap of the ruthless cord on occasion, but managed to avoid its punishment most of the time due to the soldiers that oversaw the frozen dell that he toiled frigidly on everyday being occupied with some of the more lethargic workers scattered about the area. Still, young St. Donomar drove his muscularly challenged frame well passed its physical limits, refusing to fall behind in work load, and consequently in the wrath and range of the sinister tendril and its wielder.

The agony of such hardship could be read on the face of any serf held captive on the fief. Located in Skavia, it extended from the northeastern part of the Lorach Forest to deep into the mountains that surrounded it. Each and every slave had been confined to the “Den”, which was a massive section of the forest that’d been marked off as slave grounds by the nobles. The Den fed its inhabitants with indefinite tribulation, forcing them to swallow and digest the struggles of living in the hilly and evergreen filled terrain. Nothing was provided for them, and despite having a plethora of competent builders, the nobles severely regulated how much of the natural resources the serfs could use for their daily lives. This lack of free raw material led to the construction of shoddy log shantytowns that were no more effective at buffering the frigid temperatures than camping tents.

The restrictive geographical space had also served an added trial to the shackling regulatory standards set in place by the elite. Since families lived in close proximity, crime was always a constant problem. The soldiers that policed the slaves dealt with this dilemma occasionally but more often than not, they focused on ensuring that the slaves did the required work of their masters. Penury indeed reigned supreme, and as the slave and crime count increased, so did the strength of destitution in the Den. Yet as difficult as life was for the serfs, not in the least bit did the aristocrats care.

The domain of the patricians was within the valleys between the sierras. Though seemingly a peculiar choice of residency for them, the contrast of terrain was intentional for it made it easier for them to keep themselves separate from their slaves. Moreover, the security that the natural barriers offered them could not be overlooked. Businesses that operated within the valleys also found the location to be ideal in these times, considering the fact that war was sprouting up all over the world, devastating lives and commerce everywhere. However, the terrain of the elite was not without its problems either. The weather was considerably colder in the mountains so much so that during the winter season roaming outside can become a matter of life and death. Yet this dilemma did not remain crippling. The long pockets of the wealthy commissioned a myriad of aeromancers to work daily in order to alter the weather. Never were they able to emulate the kind of climate that one would find within Uroda, but their magic produced temperatures that were more favorable and manageable than what was commonplace in Skavia, albeit still wintry. This in turn though, allowed for easier commerce. Lumber and stone were the abundant commodities of the mountain dales as well as the Lorach Forest, and the nobles took full advantage of that.

On the backs of their slaves they built lavish and sturdy estates for themselves and their families. Grid-like layouts of the affluent communities were structured in a way that allowed for easy travel amongst those that dwelled there. Each street was cobblestone laden with beautifully decorated wooden signs to direct the path of the familiar resident or the unfamiliar visitor. Slaves considered the job of doing work on noble grounds to be both a blessing and a curse. The splendor of what the wealthy possessed was certainly something that they desired to have, but upon completing their respective task, they were always purged from the nobles’ paradise and sent back to their crowded habitation, realizing that they would never escape their bondage.

Despair in the Den was indeed a foul warden awarding no soul relief or probation, but rather a gaze into an indefinite future of enslavement. The anguish and distress that seized so many others would’ve surely seized Olivan as well, had it not been for his renewed hope. His mind could not part with the memories of the machine hero that’d descended from the clouds on that arctic day like an angel, serving godly punishment to the armored oppressors. Though many witnessed the defeat of the savior, there were whispers traveling throughout the slave grounds claiming that the hero was still alive. Olivan didn’t know if such claims were true, but leaned on the side of those claims being false, since it was widely known amongst the commoners that rumors like that were often formulated and passed from ear to ear in an attempt to throw the guards off and somehow allow willing slaves to successfully escape the fiefdom. Yet despite all of that, the young serf found himself more interested in the label that fief officials had given the mysterious hero.

Insurgent.

Amidst fatigued muscles and sore joints, anger infiltrated, prompting Olivan to drive his shovel fiercer into the ground than he normally would have. “The Machine Knight......a criminal? Ridiculous. Are not Tyraxen and his henchmen the real criminals!?” St. Donomar’s bottom lip sunk in between his teeth, serving as an involuntary exercise to control his inward rage. The hardworking serf might have been a quiet one, but what was presented on the exterior did not at all match the interior.

“A terrorist attack they called it,” Olivan shook his head the more he recapped the jargon that the local Criers used on the day the fiefdom found out about the machine knight. Though still infuriated, he regained his composure as his body readopted the firm yet controlled work pace that it’d been accustomed to. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks, he is still a hero in my eyes.”

As the boy struck his patch of land for nearly the 2,000th time, the horns were blown. “Oh thank the Thaynes!” Some of his fellow workmen exclaimed as they joyfully dropped their picks, shovels, scythes, and axes. The current set of serfs had completed their sixth hour of toil and had earned the 1-hour break in between their twelve-hour workday. To every slave, this was as close to freedom as they would get while on their respective shifts. Though not nearly enough of a rest period for the amount of nonstop work that they put in, the serfs wouldn’t dare complain seeing how there was a time when they didn’t even have that.

Olivan had heard the stories and every moment he thought about it, it sickened him. “So it took nearly 100,000 people to die of exhaustion for us to be awarded a 60 minute break?” The teenager shook his head again. Everything seemed to irritate him more than usual today.

Making his way back to his abode, he found himself at ease. Despite its dilapidated appearance, the peace of mind that the wooden domicile brought him was greater than anything his previous life of wealth could’ve offered. Being a child of the St. Donomar house meant that one was part of a brand of sorts. The many social outings, invasive media, and affluent life style of the St. Donomar family had always been highly scrutinized. Happiness could’ve never been brought to Olivan under those conditions since their love of family and others had long been subservient to their love of money and power.

“Shell of a family.” Taking hold of his knapsack that was leaning against the wall of his living room/kitchen, he hoisted it upon his table and withdrew the Althanian history tomes that he adored so much. “War of the Black Steppe. I’ve been meaning to get into this.” Yet as he turned over the cover, a voice suddenly startled him.

“Must you always yell through the window like that, Opheliah?” The boy frustratingly asked, though his eyes remained locked on his book, scanning the text as he flipped pages at impressive speeds.

“Must you always say my first name like that, Olivan? You’ve been here for 3 years now and I still have to tell you this? I go by Liah!”

The request of the borderline demanding woman fell on deaf ears. Olivan had gone through this drill far too many times before, suffering the encroaching antics of his eighteen-year old neighbor. However, since the time of his arrival Opheliah had been one of the few to accept him even though he hailed from aristocracy. Many chose to distance themselves from the young noble, stating that because he was cut from elite cloth, the very core of his being would prohibit him from not treating them like second class citizens. Olivan found such claims and crackpot conjectures asinine however, to say the least. The very reason he was even present in Tyraxen’s shantytown prison was because he’d decided to shine favor and respect on all people regardless of their status. Yet even though the St. Donomar son had proven over the last few years that he severed every last cord of his past in accepting his new life as a lowly serf, the same old attitudes from the community remained, with only Liah and a handful of others being the exceptions. Nevertheless, something about the eighteen-year old teenager just didn't make sense.

Opheliah was a young elven woman of extreme beauty, a lovely flower not deserving of the harsh thrashing of her surroundings. Had it not been for the constant labor, her slender, tanned figure would’ve been amplified ten fold. But of all the women that Olivan had observed, the black haired Opheliah was the only one that seemed to embrace this place willingly. Nothing ever seemed to get her down.

“So are you going to waste away your precious break reading a stupid book, or are you going to ask me why I’ve come to visit you?”

The boy’s eyes finally lifted off the pages and toward Liah, but not enthusiastically. “Maybe you should read some time. It might settle you down.”

“Settle down? That sounds like depression! I refuse to look and feel like the rest of these people around here,” Olivan glanced around, shouldering embarrassment.

“Keep your voice down. Someone might hear you!”

“Ugh….stop being such a little girl Donny! It’s not even like I said anything bad! I’m just speaking the truth,” Pausing for a moment, Liah took another look at Olivan’s historical tomes. Sighing, she grabbed the boy by his skinny wrist and yanked him out of his wooden chair. “Listen, I want to show you something real quick before our break is over.”

Without waiting for any type of response, Opheliah had already dashed out of the shack with Olivan’s wrist sealed tightly between her palm and fingers. The young serf boy found his legs trying to keep up with the rest of his body, which happened to be traveling at Opheliah’s freakishly athletic speed. All of this however was of no surprise considering that this was weekly occurrence between the two, with the only difference now being that Olivan had learned to just go with the flow. To him, it was invariably less stressful giving into a hardheaded woman rather than resisting her.

[Olivan]

Opheliah dashed with exceptional speed through snow crammed trails, cutting through alleyways in between slum cabins and pine trees. Clothing lines were mere hurdles to her, rooftops were but steppingstones, and the steep, hilly terrain that served as the chilly foundation for these dilapidated habitations were treated no different than flattened landscapes. Olivan had released himself of his counterpart’s tight grip not too long ago seeing how at the time, he’d adjusted to Liah’s speed, which had decreased to an aggressive jog. Yet when her pace suddenly increased, the boy’s athleticism was put to utter shame, for he seemed no faster than that of a young child with shoes untied. A myriad of thoughts crossed his mind with his conscience delivering countless messages with high rapidity, suggesting that perhaps it would’ve been a wiser decision to have allowed the girl to continue holding on to him instead of permitting ego to take over because he sought to keep up with her on his own.

High self-esteem seemed to always be at a premium for Olivan due to a life charred in a cauldron of boiling bad life experiences. The recipe of this unpleasant meal consisted of his older siblings treating him like a second-class citizen, soldiers and slaves alike ridiculing him on the dells because of his lack of physical strength, and finally the superior athletic gifts that Opheliah had. Under normal circumstances, the latter ingredient wouldn’t even have bothered him, but it acted as the last spice that transformed a foul stew into a worse one. These amalgamated events freshly circulated in his head, torturously reminding him that no matter how many words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters, or full books he read on the great heroes of Althanas, his name would never be recorded in the tomes of history along side of them.

And this is what hurt him the most.

“Donnie, what are you doing?” Opheliah yelled, with arms impatiently crossed as she stood adjacent to one of the shoddy residences. “Stop daydreaming and hurry up! We can’t mess around when we don’t have time to waste!”
Olivan didn’t respond in word, but hastily followed his companion. For the time being, he was back to being his usual subservient self.

As the two continued to move along, the boy noticed that they had entered an area of the fiefdom that he’d never before visited. Domiciles were swapped for scores of evergreens, while the once heard sound of human chatter had vanished, only to be replaced with frosty breezes and the occasional sound of rustling bushes. “Where…..are we?” The former noble child inquired worriedly, as his first thought led him to believe that they were deep into the northwestern forests, which was notorious for its beasts devouring wanderers.

“Relax Ollie, there’s nothing to be scared about. We’re just a little deeper into the slave territory, that’s all,” Liah smiled, trying to do her best to reassure the nervous Olivan. However, her vague response did nothing but heighten his alarm. “I come here to clear my head from time to time. But on one of my walks some time last week, I came across something strange…..”

“Strange……?” Olivan was now officially worried. Too often when the word strange fled Opheliah’s mouth, something ominous followed. And of course, she didn’t disappoint.

Some fifty yards west of their current position, the duo came to a clearing with a single cabin in the center of it. “Who lives way out here?” The serf boy’s anxiety escalated, imagining a foul demon of sorts that ate human beings whole and spat out their bones like saliva.
“Nobody does. But I’ve seen several soldiers this far out, coming to and from this location.”

“Why would soldiers……”

“That’s exactly what I want to know!” Opheliah said, chiming in before Olivan could finish his sentence. However, the curious spirit in the elven lass reared its head, as the daring Liah scanned her surroundings before inching toward the stray habitation.

“What are you doing?” The panicked hand of the timid serf seized her arm. “We can’t just waltz right up there! It could be dangerous!”

“There you go again with your worrying! I’ll be fine Donnie…just relax!” Opheliah pulled away from Olivan and dashed through the snow until she approached the door of the stray cabin. The structure of the enigmatic residence was quite shoddy and it appeared that the slightest exhalation from the lungs would’ve blown it to pieces in several directions. Nevertheless, Opheliah did not utilize caution and instead kicked the door open as if it were her own home. “Whoa…….what is all this stuff?” Puzzlement washed over the girl’s face as she took in the sight of countless wooden boxes. Olivan shortly followed after his companion and upon laying eyes on the contents, he acquired the same astonishment that she had.

“What do you think all these boxes are for?” A now inquisitive Olivan kneeled down and placed a gentle hand on one of them, touching a strange insignia that was painted on each one.

“I’m not sure, but I can tell you that I’ve never seen that odd smoking sword emblem before.”

The two contemplated on the significance of the containers, but were startled by the sound of footsteps and voices approaching the cabin. “Donnie, someone’s coming!” Immediately Opheliah grabbed her fellow serf by the hand and found a hiding spot deep in the corner of the small living room behind several stacked boxes.

Three soldiers clad in standard blue armor came through the door of the cabin and quickly shut it against the wintry gusts. One had a stern countenance. Several wrinkles littered across his face signified a middle-aged warrior with a grand collection of war experiences under his belt. Atop his head was no hair, but a rather large “X” shaped scar stretching down each side of his head. The next soldier was of elven heritage possessing flowing locks the color of snow that had been loosely bound in ponytail fashion. Though he could’ve passed for a Raiaeran, exotic azure eyes accompanied by unfamiliar mannerisms portrayed someone hailing from a distant land. The last warrior was a beastly, mountain of a man with a full head of shoulder length black hair that ran smoothly into a thick beard. His body was extraordinarily massive, with powerful and sculpted muscles pack onto his frame. This coupled with the olive green hue of his skin as well as his blood red eyes were indeed the characteristics of an individual with orc and human blood coursing through his veins.

“Ederoy, were you able to confirm his location?” The war-seasoned soldier turned toward his bearded companion awaiting a response as he finished brushing the snow off of his cloak.

“Indeed, Roderan. Tyraxen has delivered him to Frostaxe. Sources tell me that despite his wounds, when he was brought there he lived for a few days before dying. Though the body has long since decomposed, the armor is still locked up somewhere in there.

“The Madman’s laboratory eh,” The elven guard smirked as he glanced out of one of the windows to ensure that they hadn’t been followed. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The mysterious and powerful…Machine Knight descended upon this fief, got himself killed, and has become a mere lab rat for Ein to dissect. This should be quite the fun little challenge.”

“As trying as it may be, we must do whatever is necessary to retrieve the organization’s property.”

“Property?” Ederoy chuckled as he laid a heavy hand on his scarred comrade’s plated shoulder. “I knew you were callous, but to think that your fellow associates are nothing to you but company chattel, even in their death, is really astounding!”

“Though what you say is accurate, this goes far beyond my personal feelings. It was unfortunate how he brazenly came upon this fiefdom a year ago in the barbaric manner that he did, but he received that which he deserved. Anybody that wishes to get ahead of the organization's plans must also be willing to face the consequences of their actions.” Roderan approached one of the boxes and popped open its lid, inspecting the enigmatic contents. “Ulmuri, how are the prospects coming along?”

“Quite disappointing,” The elf sighed, sitting down on a nearby chair. “A quality prospect has not emerged in some time now. Most of them haven’t responded favorably, though the few who have were soon after seized by death.”

“So the usual then,” The scarred one closed the lid back up and turned to his fellow men. “Very well. We’ll just keep monitoring and reporting until we receive further instructions from headquarters. In the meantime, we should see to it that we finalize our plans on cleaning up our friend’s mess. But tread carefully. Though scarce, news regarding the incident is still a topic of discussion in some parts of the fief. We do not need anyone else digging any further into this matter.”

Ederoy and Ulmuri nodded in agreement as they followed Roderan out the door. Alone once again, Opheliah and Olivan looked at each other in sheer bafflement, not having the slightest idea as to what’d just transpired. Yet before a single word could be uttered from either of their mouths, the horns were blown from afar. The time for work was near, once again.

[Olivan]

(One week later)

Amidst the unforgiving climate of the Salvic field, Olivan once again found himself wielding the shovel, arduously trudging through his daily labor like a warrior advancing through a swamp in order to covertly reach his destination. The tasks that his body performed in overwhelmingly trite fashion however, didn’t come equipped with the usual mental chatter that shifted between hope and hopelessness. Even the agony expressed audibly by his slave neighbors could not startle or rattle him in the least regard, for a new defense of his had been suddenly developed against the pangs of slave life.

Mental blankness.

As simple as it was, it quarantined the young Salvarian, though his newfound blessing could not have spread to a fellow laborer even if the recipient were willing. What he had overheard in the cabin had snatched him from his blissful microcosm of fantasy and hurled him into an ominous, dreadful macrocosm of reality. The Machine Knight that Olivan admired had been cast into a light that’d highlighted aspects of his character that did not fit the hero mold that he was accustomed to reading about. The soldiers in the cabin spoke of him as a brash, selfish, and inexperienced warrior that’d seemingly thrust himself into Ein’s fiefdom without thoroughly calculating the risks. Brashness was as good as foolishness in Olivan’s eyes, and to hear that the Machine Knight owned that trait really damaged the teenager’s image of him. Yet there was still uncertainty that rested in his mind. At his core he wanted to disregard any possibility of the knight not being the hero that he so desired, but he could not quiet down the inward voice that parroted over and over what he’d heard from the cabin soldiers. Unfortunately though, until he could come to learn the truth for himself, this internal struggle would only continue.

The end of Olivan’s shift had come sooner than expected, with the sound of the clamorous horn going off yet again. “Over already?” The teenager had lost all track of time, but was thankful that he’d done so. His strained and exhausted fingers immediately dropped the work tools of the day and reached for the towel resting on his slumped shoulders. A few wipes vanquished the sweat and grime from his face marking a very unpleasant job well done. Trekking back to his domicile, a wave of excitement washed over him as he looked forward to opening his books and immersing himself into the world of the heroes once again. But the presence of Opheliah at his front door obliterated any and all thoughts of him spending the remainder of the day reading. “She must be able to read my mind,” The boy thought as he groaned. “There is no way that a person can consistently foil my plans without that kind of ability.”

Olivan almost greeted her with his usual, pseudo sarcastic and slightly annoyed tone, but Opheliah’s downcast expression froze the young man before he could even open his lips, almost as if commanding his mouth to remain firm and shut. Her garb added to the somber ambiance, with her normal plain attire being swapped for a black dress. The train had small, embedded pearls in it but the grunge present in all aspects of slave-life worked hard in masking the true beauty and elegance of it. Yet unlike most women, Opheliah hadn’t batted an eyelash toward such imperfections. Instead, her eyes set on Olivan. “Hey Donnie, it’s…..that time again.” Even deeper sadness washed over her face as those words sprung off her tongue and into the boy’s ears. He didn’t understand what she was referring to at first, but then he quickly remembered.

“Persephone…….”

The boy’s head sunk low. Persephone Greenville was a dear friend to Opheliah whom he didn’t see that often by design. During the fourth month of his first year on the fief, Liah had embarked on a campaign to introduce Olivan to everyone that she was close to. Since Persephone was at the top of the totem pole of friendship, Opheliah could not wait to acquaint the two. However, when the eyes of her best friend fell upon Olivan, tears of anger streamed down her face. Instantly, Persephone hurled whatever was around her at the Salvarian noble. Naturally he fearfully dodged while his adrenaline enabled him to narrowly escape and avert bodily harm. From that point on, the boy vowed to never set foot in her presence ever again as long as he was a prisoner here.

The Salvarian slave shuddered, trying to shake himself free of that bad memory. “Go on without me. I think I’ll pass…….again.” He simply said, as he walked passed his companion and entered his abode.
“You’ve been saying that forever,” The elven lass replied as she followed Olivan inside. “I’ve tried to explain to you why she’s like that but you never let me.”

“And it’s better that way,” The teenager had flipped open one of the history books resting on his table and began reading while speaking to Opheliah, an occurrence that seemed to happen more often than it should’ve. “I don’t think I want to know the reasons behind such a violent attempt at my life. For my own sanity and peace of mind, its better if I’m left ignorant on that issue.”

Due to the many times that the two had conversations on this matter, Olivan anticipated Opheliah doing what she normally did, which was to become irate with him and storm off in a frenzy. He could hear it now. The shrill voice of an indignant woman coupled with the sound of the door being slammed boisterously. He prepared to weather the storm. However, none of those warning signs came to fruition in the latest rendition of this topic. Instead, well-done eye shadow became liquid with fresh tears being the cause. Opheliah dropped to her knees in despair as both of her hands covered her face. “Donnie, can you please……just this once? I’m sorry for the way things turned out before but please…..I just want you to be there. Both you and Persephone are very important to me and I just want the two of you to get along.”

The elven woman had somehow disrupted the slave boy’s masterful skill of reading and talking simultaneously. This was the first time that he’d seen her in such a delicate state, for on all other stressful occasions, she was always the strong one who faced any bit of adversity and hardship with an iron heart. But perhaps after all of that wear and tear the iron had finally corroded, exposing the true tender essence of the lass.

“Fine. I’ll go if it’s going to make you stop crying. Any more tears and I’ll die of embarrassment.” The young noble grinned as he helped Opheliah off of the dirt-laden floors. She in turn playfully punched Olivan in the shoulder, before smiling and softly uttering the words, thank you. The serf boy's heart suddenly began thumping harder in his chest upon staring into the silver-gray eyes of the the elven maiden. “We should…….. probably get going.” Liah nervously mentioned as she dusted herself off and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Olivan agreed and quickly shifted his attention elsewhere, attempting to forestall any further awkward moments. But as the two walked out of the door, one behind the other, the two displayed a private, subtle smile that conveyed in a small way special feelings that stirred deep inside the both of them.