Hurtful Homeland

[Izvilvin]

((Solo))

Ettermire assaulted Izvilvin's senses with its splendor.

The scent of oil and machinery was entirely unwelcome, entirely unfamiliar despite the drow's childhood in the city. He recognized the buildings that reached to the sky, he recognized the blackbrick roads, but this smell was something he simply didn't recall. Had Alerian Elves come so far that they'd created an entirely new kind of fuel that Izvilvin had no knowledge of?

There were too many senses for the warrior to manage. The dim sunlight washed against the citizens, but it didn't light them up or make them brighter, it simply lightened their hues. This wasn't the sunlight he was used to, the sunlight he loved. Everything was darker here.

He collapsed against a bench by the side of the road as if he'd been walking for years - he buried his face in his hands and a waterfall of white hair fell before him. This was his first return to Ettermire in fifty-nine years.

He sat this way for some time. Nobody who walked by seemed to notice or care. Izvilvin looked the part of one of Ettermire's residents, though one who was especially well-armed. He might have been a mercenary or a guard, for all they knew.

Finally, he looked up. Ettermire's sky was different than Fallien's, than Corone's. It was darker, filled with some smoke that was unnatural and unlike the clouds he was so accustomed to. What kind of home was this supposed to be?

[Izvilvin]

As much as he wanted it to, the feel of Ettermire's roads didn't give Izvilvin any sense of familiarity. It was as he was visiting for the first time - it was as if he wasn't a drow at all. He'd been born here, yet a surreal detatchment accompanied every step he took.

He was obsessed with the smog above and how it clouded the sun. Did the Ettermire citizens not notice what hovered above them? The beauty of the sky was entirely lost, here. It was like a thin, brown sheet surrounded them, dulling the light.

He inhaled deeply. The air was different, but it wasn't a significant enough change to bother him. At least that was bearable.

A loud cracking sound unlike anything Izvilvin had ever heard suddenly jerked him from his thoughts. In a flash his swords were in his hands and the drow was turning toward the source of the noise, a short drow by the side of the road who held an item in his hand, smoke billowing from it.

"The Gang of the Old Alerian Army declares this a national day of mourning for Elvak Van, Etterian hero!"

Izvilvin winced. He'd been hearing the dislodged dialogue of Alerians since he'd arrived, but only now bothered to pay attention. The Alerian accent was much more thick than he'd anticipated, granting the drow tongue an even more jagged edge, as if the words had been spit from the elf's mouth.

Another crack broke the sound of Ettermire's chatter. Now, Izvilvin saw a flash of light from the thing the drow was holding.

"Elvak Van, who fought the Kyorl with vigor seen only in late General Vortudin!"

[Izvilvin]

So much time had passed since Izvilvin had sworn to kill general Vordutin. How was it that only now, decades after his escape from Alerar, he learned of the general's death?

The warrior's homecoming was seeming more and more like a mistake, but Izvilvin kept himself moving. There was no point in letting himself dwell on those many years when he'd kept himself sane, dreaming day after day of killing the general with his own hands. General Vordutin had been the reason he'd joined Step, an organization who controlled his life for many, many years and made him commit atrocities he would regret for the rest of his long life.

Learning of Vordutin's passing was only one reason why Izvilvin was making his way down a busy road toward what he assumed was a tavern. These roads were the same in every city: flanked by short, organized buildings and splashed with booths containing vendors by the side of the road. A tavern was never far from the bazaar.

The Bottomless Pit. An interesting name for a tavern. Izvilvin didn't notice the sign before he stepped through the saloon-style doors.

It was a dingy place that filled Izvivin's eyes, ears and nostrils with all manner of irritants. It was loud with the boisterous noise of drunks, all of which looked seedy and unpleasant and stunk worse than Tarry Wheeler's rotting carcass. A bar seemingly constructed of half-rotted wood greeted him right at the entrance, behind which were lined fifty or so bottles of liquor, many of them doubles or empties clearly claimed from a nearby landfill to lend the place some illusion of supply.

The tables were dark, but not in a way that showed the quality of their wood. They seemed black with dirt and soot, and Izvilvin could only imagine the sticky feel they would leave on his hand if he touched one. Each seat in the place was taken by someone, whether he was a stocky dwarf or an irritated dark elf - not that Izvilvin would have chanced sitting on one.

He moved through the place slowly. Not even Radasanth had presented such a challenging clientelle. Below a lantern stained with, he hoped, alcohol, Izvilvin leaned toward the bartender, a human with one eye and a bloated, unshaven face. The man regarded him with a disdainful look - the kind he might have given even to his mother - and leaned over curiously.

"I need information," remarked the warrior in common tongue.

The bartender balked. "Git the fuck out of here."

[Izvilvin]

It was Izvilvin's turn to recoil, both from the response and from the wave of hot, meaty, ale-flavored breath that struck him full-on in the face. He paused too long for the bartender to bear. The human reached below the bar and produced a long, narrow device Izvilvin compared to the flashing item the proclaimer outside had used. He didn't know what it was.

Now the bar had quieted significantly as the patrons watched. Those who didn't notice were slapped and beckoned to look. Izvilvin backed off a step, slowly.

The bartender cocked the pistol, an action which had him wincing momentarily as he pulled back the hammer. Izvilvin wasn't sure whether to turn and flee or to try and rush forward and sieze the weapon.

"Hey Mart!" called someone from the middle of the bar. "Check him out! Maybe throw him in the arena with Akvil!"

Izvilvin looked over. It was a tan-skinned drow with rounded features and humanlike ears, whose eyes were muddy-brown and deep set in his face, giving him a tired look. His command of the common tongue was flawless, without a hint of the drow accent.

'Mart', as he was apparently called, seemed instantly keen on the idea. He swirled something around his mouth and then opened it, releasing the floodgates. "Akvil would tear this skinny 'un apart with 'is bare hands, i'bet, but this skinny 'un's got sum steel aroun' every part o' 'is body, if he kin use it, could be a fun 'un! Fuck knows we bin short 'un good brawls since fuckwit Kinta shit out a brick 'n killed Lillafafoo two weeks ago!"

Izvilvin was confused by the exchange, but Mart lowered the firearm in a sign of goodwill. The warrior didn't know it, but The Bottomless Pit was a popular place for citizens to gather and watch illegal fights in the basement, where a pit was set up for just such a purpose.

"SHIT OUT A BRICK!" yelled Mart, a look of utter seriousness on his face as if he was discussing his own mother's recent passing.

The tan-skinned drow rose and sauntered over to the pair, eye-level brown hair just barely kept in check by some supernatural power. He was surprisingly short, up close. "You beat Akvil Bannon and you can have whatever information it is that you want, little black-skin warrior. If we've got it, that is!"

They were still speaking in common, but Izvilvin was following well. His expression grew more and more incredulous as the dialogue continued. Were they serious? Not even on his most violent day did the warrior simply enter a bar, say a sentence, and find himself in a battle.

He scoffed and stepped back again. This was only his first stop. Surely even the most common of Ettermire's citizens could give him some basic information on General Vordutin and the present state of the city, even if Izvilvin had to fill their pockets with a couple of golden coins.

And yet, just as the thought entered his head, Mart raised that strange weapon once more...

[Izvilvin]

As much as he tried to escape the fate he'd been dealt by this life, Izvilvin constantly found himself in situations where he was forced to hurt others.

He was standing in the basement now, having been coerced into this upcoming fight. It was dingier than one would expect of an underground arena, which is saying something. The walls were grey and cold, and the east side showed signs of ivy and/or mold invading from the outside through some cracks. Along the walls stood the audience, too excited to sit even if chairs were present to provide them with the option.

The ring itself was crude, elevated on wooden planks and with a springy floor. It was matted, but white fleece sprung up from various rips. Blood stains and sweat marks colored the floor an odd yellow-brown, and a crude steel fence surrounded it, though it was bent and warped in some areas and many of the links were broken, so jagged points pointed inward.

Across the way, but not within the ring, stood a dwarf of surprising height. He had a braided grey beard that drooped down to his feet and a large claymore strapped along his back. He wore shining silver armor and colorful clothing, a green-and-yellow-plaid shirt tucked into bright red linen pants. His eyes were the color of a draconian faerie's blood. So, red.

"Awright awright!" Called Mart. The room had been filled with chatter, called bets, taunts, and all manner of noise, but it was silenced with that one call. To these gathered individuals, the warped purity of the fight was of the utmost importance and honor. It was the best thing that they had in the entire world.

"Afore this 'un kin take on dear Akvil," Mart motioned to the dwarf Izvilvin had just noticed, summoning uproarious applause that lasted just an appropriate amount of time, "Samil gets a shot ta make up for 'is last performnnnnce in the ring, so he kin go ahead n' get up there. If the new 'un, er..."

Mart prompted Izvilvin with an upraised, confused hand. "John," the warrior responded.

There was a pause before Mart continued. "Yeh, if John here kin beat Samil, Akvil will defend 'is title. An' if John beats 'im too, he kin leave with 'is face still pritty."

Roaring laughter. Jeers. Chants. The crowd was starved for flesh and blood and carnage.

Samil took this as his cue. He emerged from the crowd to Izvilvin's left, stepping forward and making his presence known as he entered the ring via a crude little door on rusted hinges. He was a drow with presence. Izvilvin's height, Samil's muscles dwarfed the warrior's own, as corded layers of muscle wrapped about his exposed arms and legs. He wore no armor, but had a small buckler on each forearm that was about the size of a blade. Precision blocking.

His face was a library of old war stories. He must have been centuries old from the look of his skin, which was tanned and leathery, stretched awkwardly as if being pulled against his face from behind. His hair was long and black, patchy but pulled back into a ponytail. Izvilvin couldn't count the scars on his face.

Most irksome was the thin, short blade he held in his right hand. He held it with an ease and comfort that told the history he had with it.

Roaring cheers.

"Awright! Awright!" Mart's distinct bellow froze the room. "Git to it!"

[Izvilvin]

Samil's appearance could have kept his speed a secret until he unveiled it, but Izvilvin was too seasoned a warrior to expect a slow start from legs so conditioned. He was prepared for the drow's dash.

Samil's feet pounded against the mat and his sword flashed left deceptively before cutting right. Izvilvin dipped left with the feint and drew his blades with their opposite arms, putting Icicle in his right hand and Mjolnir in his left. Dragging his left foot back into a sideways position, Izvilvin drove forward as Samil came at him, deflecting the strike aside easily as Mjolnir came in for a counter strike at the attacker's right calf.

Not only did Samil lift his leg to avoid it, but he managed to bring his sword, a three-inch-long layer of ice along its blade, up into a diagonal slash that threatened the back of Izvilvin's right shoulder. The warrior shifted his momentum suddenly and leapt forward in a roll, ending up in a crouch facing Samil, who spun nimbly to face forward as well.

Samil was upon him almost instantly, slashing diagonally down and to the right. Izvilvin met it with Icicle and drove the attack aside, the blade catching on the ice that had already been created on the steel sword. He drove forward with Mjolnir, knowing that it wouldn't connect, but forcing Samil to retreat backward and pull his sword back. The warrior struck with Icicle in quick succession with short, controlled slashes, forcing Samil to parry repeatedly and giving him no chance to counter. Each strike created more and more ice on the blade, however. Samil was backtracking into a corner.

Izvilvin suddenly slashed low with Mjolnir. Samil didn't get his sword down in time to parry, as it was suddenly heavier than he was used to. It didn't matter, however, as Izvilvin purposely came up short, slashing a half-inch in front of Samil's torso.

As if to dissuade any further attempt to fight him, Izvilvin shifted his weight to put all his strength into his right arm, slashing upward with Icicle with such force that the echo of the blade's movement bounced off the walls. A splash of blood hit the ceiling and Samil fell to his knees in sudden shock. Akvil, who watched beyond the fence, suddenly staggered backward as well.

Samil's ear had slapped him in the face.

The crowd was aghast. They were used to drawn-out brawls where combatants took their hits and kept coming. After Samil displayed his speed, however, Izvilvin overcame him easily; Samil had no fight left in him after being so embarrassed. The warrior who stood in that ring, with a sword of ice and a sword of lightning, burned through Akvil the dwarf's head with his eyes.

Akvil Bannon, a moment after regaining his composure, wiped Samil's ear-blood from his face. "Nah fukkin' way!" he proclaimed. "Nah fukkin' way, ya muddy elf! Not tudday! Ya ain't worth th'energy I'd be wastin' breakin' yer blades with me own!"

The dwarf had made his intentions known. His colorful self began to make its way to the staircase which led back up to the tavern and, mercifully, outside.

"Awri... Awright!" bellowed Mart, drawing that flintlock pistol from his impressive belt. "Ye git back 'ere an' honor yer title, Akvil! Samil's an old shit, no surprise a sprat lil' elf with shiny swords made 'im shit bricks!"

Akvil was already up the stairs, but sent a roaring reply nonetheless. "Put yer damn gun away! Ya ain't never shot nobody in yer damn short life!"

[Izvilvin]

"You can call me Artimil if you like. Or Art. Or whatever you like, really," the tan-skinned drow told him. His command of his native language was no less impressive than his command of common. "People generally do that."

They were back upstairs now, in a room Mart called his office. Artimil and Izvilvin sat on opposite ends of the cleanest table in the building (likely due to non-usage), while Mart sat bewildered at one of the sides between them. He was still in a bit of shock over what had happened downstairs. The room's walls were plastered with signs and posters advertising upcoming fights in the arena. Upon first entering, Artimil was quick to mention that due to the questionable legality of the arena, Mart had never posted an advertisement outside of this office. Mart was a strange man.

"Samil is not a vengeful drow?" Izvilvin asked, though he sensed the silliness of the question as it left his mouth. "Nevermind," he continued. "It has been some time since I've been to Ettermire, I've... missed much. I want to know some things."

Artimil hushed him with an upraised hand. "First things first, dear John! One can't be expected to be so forthcoming with someone so... unforthcoming, right? John?"

Art's eyes drooped obnoxiously. Izvilvin didn't want to share his real name, but when he didn't immediately come up with another fake, he exhaled loudly. "Izvilvin." The warrior had never been quick on his feet when it came to this sort of thing.

However, if the name meant anything at all to either of the two who heard it, it wasn't shown. "Very well, Izvilvin! A remarkable name, that, filled with the promise of valor and glory and aloft in the air with the trumpets of war, and, well, it's just very nice. You see, the trumpets hold the name aloft, and such. With air."

Artimil's left eye twitched subtly.

"Er, what was it that you wanted, then, information-wise? I recall you mentioning a desire for information before Mart revealed his pistol and pointed it at your face!" Artimil winked and looked to Mart for a moment, but the man didn't react.

Izvilvin stood, his patience at its end. "You can't possibly help me with a thing! If anything, just tell me the nearest tavern that isn't this one!"

"The Swilling Willow!" Artimil replied hastily, a cheerful smile on his round little face. Izvilvin waited for more information, but Art didn't volunteer it. A moment passed where Izvilvin thought he might lash out in frustration, until Artimil opened his mouth to speak again. "Ohh, did you want to know where it was, also? You have to be careful with your words, trumpet-floating Izvilvin! Language is so, so powerful and important."

The warrior's teeth clenched. Rather than respond to Artimil, he turned his focus to Mart, leaning down close so that their faces were inches apart, forcing the grotesque human to acknowledge his attention. "Do not ever point that pistol-thing at me again."

Without giving Artimil another chance to speak to him, Izvilvin swerved around the table and pulled the door to the office open, his feet pounding as he made his way out of The Bottomless Pit.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin no longer noticed the smoggy sky above the city or the feel of the road beneath his feet. His neck was stiff and his fists were clenched, and his steps were furious as he made his way deeper into the city.

As much as the warrior had learned to control his emotions in the heat of battle and in the process of a hunt, he had never been able to control himself when the adreneline of those moments wasn't running through him. The truth of that was obvious when he'd killed innocents to protect Khalxaen from Step, it was true when he'd met Rheawien, the warrior elf, and it was every bit as true now. The Bottomless Pit might have been an exercise in maintaining his sanity, but Mart would have surely known anything Izvilvin could have asked for.

Izvilvin eventually turned off the main road and onto another wide, more residential street. It was then that he finally, really noticed the Valshath d'Isto, the Dark Palace. It was a monstrosity to him, a representation of corruption, manipulation, of government and posturing, and yet he couldn't deny its imposing effect even as he denounced it. Surely Alerar had a division of its government similar to Step, a branch of Corone's, comprised of spies and assassins. Moreover, if Corone's government had a group as devious as Step, how much worse would Alerar's be?

He sighed. This city was draining him.

"Do you really not know what a gun is, Izvilvin?"

The warrior shook his head. He should have had the foresight to chain Artimil to Mart's desk before he'd left. "Go away."

"'Pistol-thing'? Really?" Artimil glided up by Izvilvin's side and stepped in front of him. He was only an inch or two shorter, but Izvilvin imagined squashing him like a fly, anyway. "It's obvious enough you didn't grow up around here with that horrennndous accent, but come on. Pistols have been around since before either of us were born, surely. Surely. 'Pistol-thing'?!"

"I want you to leave me alone right now," was all that the warrior could muster at that moment. Artimil had a way of digging under his skin, fingernails and epidermis all at once while burrowing through his eyeballs.

Artimil ran a many-ringed hand through his hair. It fell back into its exact same position, barely to his eyes and just messy enough. "I told Mart I'd get you to go back there in the morning. When you left he snapped back into a sensible state. As sensible as he gets, anyway. You know."

Izvilvin was about to protest, or simply walk away, but Artimil spoke first. "I won't be there, no worries. Mart says he'll help you out for giving the guys downstairs such a thrill, he thinks he might actually make rent this month! Goddamn. Go home, get yourself some rest. I've got to get some ale in my system before my stomach starts grumbling!"

Artimil gave a courteous bow and was gone, slipping through the crowd back toward The Bottomless Pit.

Izvilvin thought for a moment and looked to the east. Home...

[Izvilvin]

It was dusk by the time Izvilvin reached his childhood home. Though the smog dulled down the orange effect of the sunset, it still cast a welcoming glow about the black wood of the building. Two stories of solid, dependable blackwood, the home filled the warrior with conflicting emotions.

He'd made no attempt to contact his mother or close relatives since leaving the military and Alerar itself. Izvilvin and his mother had been distant since Vordutin became general - giving them a solid three years of good mother-son time. Izvilvin's father was forced to undergo rigorous re-training because of the new general's policies, and it tore their family apart.

He tried to remember her. Mayarra Mizzurm. Pretty. What else?

A long sigh escaped him and he made no move to approach the porch steps. He somehow knew that the third one would creak if he stepped on it.

Several minutes passed, but Izvilvin did eventually climb the steps, bypassing the third. The house had a porch that ran the length of the building. At the end of it was a pair of chairs and a small porcelain cup by the base of one - he went to pick it up, and on his way back, peered into the living room window. The house was alit with large oil lanterns, but he didn't see anybody.

Alerian elf society had a few customs, one of which being that elves very, very rarely moved. This home had been in the Kazizzrym family for generations. The only way Mayarra wasn't inside was if she was out or dead.

After an eternity of standing in front of the tall, heavy doors, he forced himself to reach out and knock. He heard the sound of his own fist as it pounded against the door and found it deafening. Moments passed until the doorknob suddenly turned - Izvilvin heard the unlatching of a lock, and the door opened. The scent of spice and bread escaped from within.

The drow female, to an untrained human eye, might have been the same age as Izvilvin. To his own, her eyes had a calmness that showed maturity. Her skin was black and smooth-looking, complimented by a neat cut of fair white hair atop her head tied up into a bun. Her ears were long and slanted backward. He remembered that detail about her, somehow.

They locked eyes. Identical, lavender eyes. An amazing rarity among dark elves.

He knew that she recognized him, but she didn't say anything. Perhaps she knew that they'd met before, but couldn't imagine it was actually her son. Izvilvin held out the cup he'd picked up from the porch, and she took it silently, holding it close to her busom.

Slowly, her eyes tore away from his to look at the rest of his face. She looked down his body, to his weapons... the many, many weapons. He was clad in black, with stains of blood on his clothing and tears in his shirt and pants. It had been a long road back from Scara Brae, the first place he'd lived after escaping from Kachuck.

"It's me, mother." he said, unable to stand the silence any longer. "I..."

He didn't know what to say. Did he explain first how he lived in the Kachuck Mines for so long, or how he escaped to Scara Brae? Did he talk about Step? Did he seek absolution by apologizing for letting himself be coerced into killing innocents? Did he apologize for focusing on his anger when he was younger, when his mother probably needed him? There was no way he could have prepared for this.

His thoughts had brought his eyes to the ground. When he looked up again, she was sobbing.

[Izvilvin]

They were soon sitting opposite one another at the kitchen table. It was the same one he'd grown up eating at, made of amber wood and waxed to a glossy shine. Candles sat between them, and for the first time in many years all of Izvilvin's weapons sat in the corner of the room, his swords leaning comfortably against the wall. This was the first time in a hundred years that he didn't have a weapon within arm's reach.

Even his armor had been shed, folded by his mother and placed on a countertop in the kitchen. The enchanted breastplate could stop a sword's strike without a problem, but folded as easily as cloth. He would try to explain it to her, eventually.

In his hand he gripped a warm piece of spiced bread. "I'm sorry that I never sent word, or came to visit. I should have found a way to let you know that I was safe, but I was afraid... if the army had known I'd deserted and was still alive, they might have hurt you."

"You're here now," she responded. Mayarra had a melodic voice for a drow, a comforting tenor. "And we've both lived far too long without each other. I am still your mother and you are still my son, and you've become a warrior with, no doubt, many tales to tell."

Izvilvin offered a sad smile. "Sometimes I fear that's all I've become, mother."

He stared past her for a moment, but Mayarra was patient to allow him to continue. "I've seen many, many things. Far too many than I'd have preferred. I've made friends, enemies... I lived in Jya's Keep in Fallien for a time. Dragons... mages..."

There were too many things that he wanted to say. He wanted to show her Icicle and explain the story behind it, how Laix had used the blade for decades before being slain by Sasarai, and how Izvilvin tried to use the blade with respect for his fallen friend. He didn't know what was appropriate to say and when to say it.

Izvilvin didn't know how to talk to this woman, his mother. It was a realization that filled him with sadness.

"Dragons and mages can wait until tomorrow, then," she said, rising from her seat. "Your room is still upstairs... It's a guest room, now, but it will always be yours, too. In the morning we can talk more."

He sensed the trial inside her, too, at that moment. She didn't know what to make of him suddenly appearing at her door, fifty years after she was told he'd been killed in action. She loved him dearly, but there was something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

She kissed his forehead and proceeded to lock the front door. He watched her, and saw her gaze at his weapons for just a second longer than was appropriate. What did she make of him?

The walk upstairs and to his room was a long one. Izvilvin hadn't been in this house for so long, but it was incredibly familiar; even the handrail reminded him of bounding downstairs in the mornings for breakfast. He was beginning to recall just how happy he'd been at home.

Another sigh. He hadn't slept in forty hours or more. That night, he would actually get some rest.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin awoke slowly, his eyes creeping open a bit at a time as they resisted the sun's light.

The room was small and undecorated, with a dresser on the wall opposite from the bed, and a window above a plain wooden table across from the door. There was nary a picture or a plant to be seen, but a thick brown carpet covered just the right amount of the hardwood floor. Sunlight crept through the window and lit up half the room. Considering what the sky outside was like, the brightness of the sun suggested it would be a scorching day.

He sat up slowly, his scarred and muscled back entering the area warmed by the sun. He'd slept well, much better than he'd anticipated, and felt a vigor running through him that came only after such respite. His eyes passed over the dresser, and there he saw some new, folded clothing. A navy-blue cloth shirt and a pair of black linens.

The smells of spice, pastry and hot milk greeted him when he reached the ground level. He could hear Mayarra in the kitchen moving things around, and he went in there to greet her. There was a window above the sink that made her glow in the sun.

He stepped forward and she screeched, spinning and dropping the plate she was holding. It shattered into pieces.

"Mother!" he cried, rushing forward to begin picking them up.

Mayarra held a hand to her chest and recoiled against the sink. "Izvilvin... I'm sorry. I didn't hear you approach. I'm not used to there being anyone else here!"

He cursed himself. Izvilvin hadn't realized just how quiet he'd been descending the stairs. It had taken decades of practice to become so stealthy, and he'd gotten so skilled that he didn't know how to not be.

The dining room table was already set for breakfast, so Izvilvin merely cleaned up the plate and the two drow sat down to eat. She'd baked sweet rolls with hot milk, a favorite Izvilvin could never forget the smell or taste of.

"What have you been doing all these years?" he asked suddenly. He thought to follow up, but realized that he didn't know anything he could ask her any specifics about.

She shrugged and closed her eyes. It was a delicate movement. "I get a pension from the state because your father was in the military. I was also getting payment from the government because of what happened to you, but that only lasted for a few years after you... died. I used to wish I could give it all back just to have another moment with you two."

She sighed. "I would have gotten a job to occupy myself, but there's nothing I want to do. Being a housewife is all I've ever been good at. I have friends and hobbies... I'm happy."

A long sip of milk followed, but she beckoned to him with her free hand, peering at him from beyond the clear crystal. When he didn't immediately respond, he set it down and leaned forward. "My son walks in after fifty years away from home, years when I thought he was dead, and has the gall not to tell me what he's been up to all this time?! Open up, kiddo, and don't be cryptic.

He smirked a little, thought for a little more, and took a small sip of milk. "I was in Kachuck for a time. A long, long time, hiding in the mines. I learned to hunt, to survive, to hide, I sabotaged the dwarves because I thought it was right. I had time to think, and in that time, I realized that a lot of things I believed were not right.

So many years passed that when I had the opportunity to flee this country, I was decades old. I took a boat to Scara Brae, then to Corone, then to Fallien... the desert land. It was there that I met some good friends, joined the Jya's military, and defended the citizens. It was a good life, but I was always thinking of home. I'm sorry it took so long."

Her eyes lit up. "My son. You always had a gentle heart..." she stood, beginning to clear off the table. "Like your father before you."

He, too, stood. "I have some things to do in the city today, but I will be back before dusk."

Izvilvin assumed he would be welcome for another night, at least, but wasn't sure how to broach the subject. Mayarra assured him dinner would be ready and waiting for him, and with that he began to equip his weapons and armor. As yesterday's events had assured him, not even the city was safe to walk through unarmed.

Izvilvin's mother watched him through this process, and watched him as he left the house. There was a sad smile on her face when the door closed between them.

[Izvilvin]

As he'd expected, it was already warm outside of the cool wooden home. Ettermire was a bit more presentable to him today, as if Izvilvin had already forgotten the tribulations of the day prior.

He felt refreshed and his step showed it. It took him a mere ten minutes to walk from his mother's home to The Bottomless Pit, whose doors were locked when he arrived. He knocked nevertheless, and after a few moments, there was a click and the door creaked open. Mart's bloodshot eye appeared in the darkness beyond, and it danced up and down as it examined Izvilvin. The human quickly opened the door.

The tavern's atmosphere was only slightly more pleasant when it was empty. Mart had made no effort to clean up from last night - mugs, ale, wine and finished tobacco rolls were strewn all about. Some looked older than others. How often did Mart actually clean?

"So sorry 'bout last night," Mart murmured. It was clear that he hadn't slept. "I ain't not seen Samil 'mbarrassed afore. He been fightin' in here since... since a long time."

"Mart," Izvilvin said. "I cannot speak your language well, but I need to know things. About Vordutin, about the army and everything in this city."

Mart scoffed, recoiled and coughed. That one cough turned into two, three, and then more, and he was quickly bending over to try and catch his breath. Finally he recovered. "Ya earned yer infermation. I'm-a gonna keep the language simple, but tha's a lot 'o infermation yer wantin'. Gonna need to sit."

Sit they did. Mart cleared a nearby table with an arm, throwing mugs and ashtrays onto the floor with abandon. He plopped his bloated form down on an ill-fitting seat. Izvilvin took the opposite chair, but didn't touch the filthy table. "Vordutin," he said almost instantly.

"Been dead fer... fuck, a bunch o' years."

Izvilvin winced. Had he joined Step, the organization that had done so much to make him into a killer, for nothing? "How many?"

Mart shrugged, unsure. "I'm rememberin' it was big news. I hear lots bein' that I'm servin' swill all th' time to a buncha blabbermouths, but I ain't so good with time."

"Thoracis?"

"Exiled. Bunch 'o years since then, too."

"Let me see your pistol."

Mart was taken aback by the request, but didn't protest it. He set off to the bar and returned a moment later, the gun in hand. He placed it in Izvilvin's calloused hands, and the drow gazed at it curiously.

"Ya don't know a pistol when ya see it?" Mart asked. "They're a big part o' the military, but been easier 'n easier ta get these days. Seems everyone whose got somethin' tuh protect's got 'un."

Izvilvin looked at it in a beam of sunlight that was creeping in from outside. It was heavier than he'd expected, and he imagined it was filled with some magic or some device that created a spark. "It burns who it hits?" Izvilvin tested the trigger.

"WHOA," Mart cried, and Izvilvin stopped squeezing just before the hammer clicked forward. Mart beckoned for the pistol, and the warrior handed it over. "Yer sorta right. Look."

The human looked about as if searching for a suitable target. Seeing a dirty cup on a nearby table, he aimed at it, his tongue poking out of his mouth in a comical display of concentration. A moment later, there was a click, a loud crack, and the cup exploded. Izvilvin clasped at his ears - the gunshot had been extremely loud to his sensitive ears. His eyes, however, were wide open.

"It's got a piece o' metal in there called a bullet. When ye squeeze the trigger 'ere, some powder inside explodes 'n shoots that bullet out. Then ya gotta reload it, that takes a bit 'o time dependin' how quick ye'are."

Izvilvin didn't like the power of the weapon. He recalled, now, meeting a man years ago who had fired a gun at him. Only now did Izvilvin understand the danger Max Dirks had posed.

"Who leads Ettermire now?"

Mart coughed out a laugh. "Fuck if I know. Nothin' I hate more 'n politics, 'specially in this city. Been 'ere since I was in ma twenties, but I remember even then things was fucked. Now we got ten diff'rent groups 'o people who wanta run the city. Old Alerians, Kyorl, the Resistence."

"And who do I speak to about joining the Old Alerian Army?"

Mart didn't immediately respond. It was a question he'd never been asked. "Yer definitely not from 'ere even though ye are from here. I guess ye could go to an outpost 'n see there... I couldn't tell ya, t'be honest. This ain't a popular place for military types."

It was a strange response, one Izvilvin wasn't sure what to make of. He'd figure it out later. "And who is this Artimil?"

Mart, again, showed a bit of surprise. "Him? I ain't never asked 'im anything 'bout who 'e is. 'Round here, that's never much of a good idea."

[Izvilvin]

An Old Alerian outpost seemed to Izvilvin to be the next logical step. If Ettermire was to be his home, he needed a way to occupy himself - joining the same army his father had supported before his passing seemed like a good enough idea. At the least, he could check them out.

The buildings became taller the further west he went. The city was separated into sectors for industry, residences and military residences. All about were various outposts, buildings reserved for military groups to organize and plan. There were towers to keep watch, and walls to protect private property. He was approaching the military sector, he figured, as these towers became more frequent and the citizens wandering the roads dwindled down to just a few. As always, there were armored guards keeping a close watch on things. Because he was armed as he was, Izvilvin was often watched - not a new experience for him.

Eventually he came a one-story buildings that was large in area. Constructed from red bricks and with the Old Alerian symbol on its walls, Izvilvin figured this was where he needed to be. The door was tall and wooden, reinforced with steel. On either side stood a guard with a shield and sword.

"On behalf of the Old Alerian Army, you are commanded to state your name and business," one of them demanded. His voice was deep and melodic, his words terse.

"Izvilvin Kazizzrym. I come for information."

"What information?" Neither elf seemed to recognize his name.

"Recruitment. My father was in the Old Alerian Army and I seek to honor his name with my service. I am a capable warrior with many talents I am willing and able to lend."

The drow who spoke looked him up and down, noting the many weapons. "The Old Alerian Army does not hire mercenaries, only the dutiful, the pure. We are a legion of Alerians dedicated to the old ways - one does not lend to the Old Alerian Army, one gives his talents. He becomes a servant, a tool, a soldier."

Izvilvin thought of Step when he heard the soldier's response. He'd been a tool once, serving a master he never met, saw, or knew the name of. But this was the military, he could have a voice here one day. In the service of his homeland.

"I understand," he responded after some thought. "I would like to speak with someone about joining. I am an Alerian of Ettermire, through-and-through and purebred."

With a slight bow, the guard motioned to his partner and the two stepped aside. Izvilvin slid between them and into the complex.

[Izvilvin]

The outpost's decor was appropriate. The granite walls were covered in Old Alerian paraphernalia - tapestries, scrolls, armors and shields. One particular suit of armor stood next to the front entry, battered and beaten. It must have belonged to an ancient dark elf hero.

"Greetings," Izvilvin heard, and he turned to see an older drow across the hallway. He had a short, white beard and brown, wrinkled skin. He wore a simple breastplate and greaves, both waxed to a brilliant shine. His eyes were grey and sharp, with crows feet. "The Old Alerian Army welcomes you here."

"My thanks," he replied. "My name is Izvilvin Kazizzrym. Is there a recruitment officer here?"

The drow across the hall smiled. His feet were planted firmly on a crimson carpet that ran the length of the hall, leading to a large wooden door. "I am he. My name is Tarek Rivet, guard captain of the industrial sector of Ettermire. I am the one to speak to if you wish to join the Old Alerian Army, however, I must ask you why you wish to join."

"My Father was in the Old Alerian Army," he replied without hesitation. "I seek to honor his name and give myself a new purpose defending my homeland. He died in action against the Raeairans."

"Mmm," hummed Tarek the warrior. "So your hate for the elves runs deep in your veins as well. The Kyorl would have you believe we should forget our past battles. It's no wonder you came to speak with me instead. Of course, we will have to verify that you are who you say you are, that your father was in the military, and that you aren't an undercover member of the Kyorl or the Resistence. You understand."

Izvilvin nodded. He didn't hate the elves as Tarek hypothesized, he understood that the Alerians were the ones who attacked Raeaira and that his father's death was the result of General Vordutin's aggression, nothing else.

"I suppose I don't need to tell you," Tarek said, his eyes darting from weapon to weapon on Izvilvin's frame, "that there is a lot of danger involved. For insurance purposes we'll need to test your ability, train you in proper conduct, provide counselling for you, and keep a day-to-day record of your actions as an Old Alerian soldier. That's provided you pass our screening process that I mentioned earlier. We should be able to talk more in-depth in three days, at the most."

"Very well," Izvilvin replied. "Thank you for the opportunity."