Northward (Solo)

[Alkor]

"Salvar"

Chiefest among the Althanian countries in terms of population and sheer landmass, Salvar lies in the cold north. The furthest reaches of the nation are navigable only by the most hardy of travelers, and even then, those who traverse the harsh snows have little impetus for doing so. Bordered to the south by impassible mountains, the land itself is a fortress.

More imposing than the land itself is the religion that the Salvic people vaunt. Paralleled in dogma and xenophobia only perhaps by the Cult of Suravani, the Church of the Ethereal Sway holds the continent in a deathgrip. Through their faith, many I have come across have resigned the woeful conditions of Salvar as penance for their own sins, the sins of their forebears, and the sins of those to come. It fascinates me to no end, these philosophies of self hatred and how they so easily beguile and entrap their followings. In a sane world, humanity might even reject such fallacies as preordained guilt and acceptance of fault without the burden of proof.

But this is no sane world we live in.

This is the world you strove to protect us from, Father. I understand the foolishness and the kindness of your intent in careful duality. Men fall on each other daily in the snow-scarred hell, and women bear their naked flesh to the gods in supplication, despite the howls from heaven. I watched a father cheer the execution of his child today. Is that how you felt, father? When I failed you utterly and your precious swords were lost, did you thank your whore Suravani to be rid of your insipid son?

I dare not hope otherwise.

Salvar has shown me the folly of hope. Daily they begin their rituals with prayer. A few of them sing songs to blessed Denebriel for deliverance, that through their blind faith they might one day see the frost melt and spring return to the land. Every day begins with a winter storm, and the death toll rises.

Does it remind you of the desert, father?

-A.D. Kiljak

Brown stains flecked the parchment as the penman dribbled ale across his letter. An annoyed grunt escaped him as he smudged the letters in a hasty attempt to wipe away his blunder, but to no avail. "Fuck," he muttered lowly as his work was ruined. He deftly crumpled the paper and lifted it up, then watched as it caught fire in the lantern. Smoke billowed lazily upward and the paper recoiled as it blackened. The last vestiges of flame licked his fingers, but he gave no indication that he noticed.

"Another failed attempt at letter writing?" The lass placed another pint before Alkor, who glanced up at her gruffly. "That's the third one this week you've burned. Startin' to think you're one of those starving artist types, I am."

She was a plain girl. Brown hair framed her face in a straw-like, straight mess. She lacked the flowing tresses of a porcelain desert beauty, and her plain brown eyes lacked the ephemeral beauty of starlight. Those were things Alkor noticed now, since he no longer had Elissa to enjoy. He would never know her sweet warmth again.

To think, Salvar's people believed they knew something of penance.

"What's your name?" Alkor replied to her for the first time since he had arrived, just three days prior.

She stopped short. "Seven take me, he does speak!" Her lips twisted into a saucy smile as she sat down on the edge of his table, arse pointedly close to his face. "Raphella, if it please you, sir," she gave her name. Alkor nodded slowly as she looked him over, the starving gaze of a harpy searching for a meal. "'Ave a name, do ye?"

His gaze did not return to her; instead, he drew out another piece of parchment and readied his quill and ink well. "Kiljak, I'm called." He dabbed the paper with a few strokes, and her eyes followed his movements.

"So? You a writer?" she asked, interested to see if her suspicions were correct.

"Hardly," he replied. "I have been away from home for a long time. I mean to write my father, if ever the words come to me."

They will never come. I love him, yet I hate him. What then should I say?

"Well, tell him you miss him," she suggested, "or that you hope to see him again soon. Tell him about the things you've seen on your journey. If I hadn't seen my da in a while, I'd want him to know that I was alright."

Alkor considered the girl for a moment. In an instant, she went from bar wench to letter consultant. His eyes searched hers and her lips curved up in a sweet smile. While she was no Elissa, Alkor wondered for a moment what it might be like. "He wouldn't want to know that," he informed her after a few seconds of awkward silence. "He would want to know how my search is faring, and if I am any closer to bringing home his fortune."

Raphella frowned. "Come now, I can't believe that," she answered with a wagging finger. "He's your da, and he has to worry over you sometimes." She pointed toward the bar. "My old man hired me after my sixteenth name day, so's I wouldn't need to marry some merchant or swear my soul to the Church. There's good in them all, I promise. Some just show it different."

Typical, but endearing. I swear, there was a time when I loved my father that way.

"I appreciate your input," he said with an air of finality. He reached over and grabbed the flagon, which dripped down his chin as he slammed back an unhealthy portion. With a quick gasp for added, "I'll let you know when I need another drink, Raphella. Thank you."

"You're not gonna be rid of me so easy," she retorted, and she took a seat across the table from him. "Tell me your story. Where you're from, what you're looking for. Why you're so mad at your da."

His gaze stopped on her, and she shivered. "You've got cold eyes," she observed. "Colder than Salvar."

"Fine," he placed his drink back on the table and pushed it away. "I'll tell you. On one condition."

"Name it," Raphella smirked.

[Alkor]

"This," Raphella began, "was not what I expected when you said there was a condition."

The blistery gale of Salvic midnight railed against her as she shivered inside many layers of fur. White and gray blurred her vision on every side, and she could barely see Alkor only a foot away from her. "Stay close to me or we'll end up buried. There's a reason people don't travel by night, you know."

"It's better this way," he replied simply. "Besides, if it's as close as you said, we'll be back before the coldest hour falls."

"What business 'ave ye got with a wyrd witch anyway?" the brunette asked worriedly. "If'n the Eye were to fall on us, we'd both hang for certain." She crowded him for warmth, though her gaze was accusatory and distrustful. "You're not some kind of cultist, are you? Do you plan to sacrifice me to your pagan god?"

"There's strange powers at work in this world," he told her. "Powers beyond the understanding of most men. Because they lack for reason, humans are wont to place stock in religions and mystic entities. Your Ethereal Sway, for example." He gestured with a sweep of his hand back toward the dim firelight that was her small village. Raphella frowned. "They preach fear and intolerance towards things they do not understand, but in turn, that hate feeds their power."

"I'm sure you have a point," she spoke slowly, "but I'm missing it. All that thoughtful shit is beyond me. I just serve beer and piss poor food, and I keep my head down. I don't want an early grave, Kiljak."

His lips perked up in a thin smile. "Thus do the shepherds keep their flock."

"All of this abuse just to hear your life story," she complained. "I'd just as soon've let you stick it in me than put up with a near death experience. If the cold don't kill us, the witch don't eat us, then we're just as like to get Inquired about."

"Coitus hardly validates trust," Alkor drawled blandly. "It's a dull man who thinks with his cock before his mind, Raphella. Remember that, and mayhaps one day you'll take a halfway decent husband." The swordsman, Raphella noted, hardly shied from the cold. His pale flesh bore the hellish frost as snow alighted on it. If ice floes ran in his veins, Alkor did not show it. "I came to the north in search of something," he decided to indulge her, since she risked a great deal by guiding him. "I have heard that the wyrds weave spells of farsight. If there is even the smallest chance this witch can find my prize, then I will gladly gamble with my life."

"You want to find whatever it is your da sent you out for," she pieced together the hidden meaning quickly enough that he glanced sidelong at her.

"Yes," he answered evenly.

"It is so important to you that if you fail, it would be no different than death?" Her expression was one of incredulity as she folded her arms and stopped. "I hardly think that your father would place some quest above your life," she started, "surely if you return to him and explain-"

"He is not like your father," Alkor snapped. "He is an unkind and cruel man who chose some trivial duty over his son." For a moment a fire raged behind his eyes, but it quickly faded. "I only ever wanted to be worthy in his eyes, by my own ability. He saw my preference for skill over magic as weakness. My brother and sister slaved in the tomes he praised. Now he is dead, and the gods only know where she is. All of this, and my father cares only for where his damned swords are."

Raphella searched his face as he spoke and tilted her head in concern. "Swords?" she asked absently. Alkor could tell that she had followed only part of his speech, and the small portion she did understand baffled her. "You're looking for swords?"

"Two very specific swords," he answered. "Both relics of an age gone by. My father kept them as part of a familial duty."

"What kind of swords were they?" Her eyes sparkled with interest as she ate up every detail he fed her. Like a small child with a craving for adventure, she bobbed up and down excitedly. Alkor jabbed a finger into her chest, and Raphella grunted.

"Focus on your end of the deal," the Fallieni man chided her. "You're supposed to be leading me to this witches' hovel."

Wind moaned again as it blasted them with wintery breath, and Raphella clung to Alkor desperately. "Not far," she told him. "Gods, the wind at night is brutal." She pointed to a spot that seemed to appear suddenly, a fallen tree laden with a bed of fresh snow. "Under there," she bid him, "knock three times. Ysoldra is a kind woman, but she prefers her privacy."

"I'm sure she does," he muttered. "I would too if every person in Salvar wanted me dead."

"So about the swords," Raphella smiled brightly.

"After," Alkor held up a finger, "your friend tells me what I want to know."