Monday morning I return to the Adventurer’s Corps. A small queue is out front again. I see two that might be interesting: a shifty gnome, a human ranger. I walk in carrying all I own, ready to begin the patrol as soon as orders are handed out. In the back, the new groups are being assembled as members filter in. I am the first among my group so I sit and wait. I don’t have to wait long.
Approaching me is human fighter with banded mail armor and about twelve straps too many criss-crossing his torso. The straps don’t appear to hold any combat purpose so I can only assume it is decorative. He is average height but broad chested and meaty. Scars on his arms and legs reveal that he is no stranger to battle, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s killed. Slung on his back is a hand-and-a-half sword in an ill-fitting scabbard, which shows the blade is polished but worn. His brown hair shags in his eyes and he continually adjusts his gear rather oddly. I don’t quite know what to make of him, only that he seems a capable fighter.
He is introduced as Rakatha by the young man with him, whom I recognize.
“Hi! I’m Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong. This is Rakatha. Nice to meet you.”
Is that whole thing is his name or is he a stuttering imbecile? This is the presumptuous child officer who wanted to call in the High Priest to regenerate his friend’s missing eye and hand at the siege of Nodkis last summer. Though still lean, he’s filled out a little from what I remember and he carries himself well. His wide smile and apparently effervescent personality are decidedly youthful. I hope he has matured underneath it all. The short military cut he wore the year before has grown out and is bound into a shiny, black top-knot. He is dressed in clean-cut town clothes but wears a longsword at his waist. I wonder if he knows we are going into the field today and there is the possibility for combat.
“I am Zer Khaldun.” I am sitting so we are roughly eye-to-eye.
“Anyone else show up from the group yet?”
I point at the two of them.
He nods, “All right. So what’s your thing?”
I don’t care for his casual manner. “I am a wizard.”
His eyes go wide and he turns to Rakatha, “We get a wizard!” Vong turns back to me, “Can you rain down fire?”
I don’t bother responding but simply stare impassively at him. I can see where this is going already and I have no intention of being this man-child’s entertainment.
“What about crushing bad guys with boulders or um, summoning dragons!”
I glance at Rakatha. We do not share a look of dubiety. He seems quite complacent with Vong’s antics. I catalogue that tidbit for later reference, if it comes to be important.
Vong’s questions are interrupted by another member of the party, and I begin to question the threads of fate. Voella’Tien Etentulla—the elven cleric who, I remember, had been subjected to Vong the year before—meekly steps into the group space and looks around apprehensively for a chance to introduce herself. She doesn’t need to, however, since Vong does it for her.
“Voella! How’s it going? Are you in my squad?”
His squad? To my knowledge, party leadership has not been determined yet.
She nods, “Yes, Orvan asked if I could look after you until a corps cleric can be recruited. I’m not actually in the guild.”
“Orvan?” Vong’s head tips to the side in questioning. Like a dog.
“Oh, right, of course. Corporal Level.”
I note that the corporal’s full name is Orvan Level. Names are important and I endeavor to always remember how people are called.
Vong gestures to Rakatha and then me. “This is Rakatha. He’s a pretty intense fighter. He joined my squad a couple months before Druumshallt. And that’s Zer, he’s a wizard.”
Vong makes the usual mistake with my name that I have had to correct continuously in my time in Elysium. Here, the manner of address centers on the given name as the core identity of an individual. Oftentimes even nicknames are bestowed, as either a shortening of the given name or some defining characteristic. In Varasht, the given name and family name are two parts of a whole—oneself and one’s family—and it is disrespectful to address someone without acknowledging both. It is never shortened and almost never used separately, even among enemies. The given name, or mother name as we call it, is an intensely intimate form of address reserved only for one’s mother and the mother of one’s children. Vong is neither my mother nor my bride, so his use of my mother name is profoundly rude.
“Zer Khaldun,” I correct.
Voella’Tien gives me a polite nod that tells me she remembers me. By face, if not by name. That recognition does not seem to put her at ease and her body language suggests that she is uncomfortable near me. She stands close to and slightly behind Vong so that he separates us.
“Vong, you are also skilled as a fighter, isn’t that right?” she indicates the scabbard hanging from his waist.
“That’s right. I’m more of an agile kind of fighter than Rakatha here, but I’ll make sure you’re protected, no matter what!” Vong puffs up and juts his jaw out, casting Voella’Tien a dashing grin. “I’ll scout for enemies, too. No surprise attacks.”
I wonder if Vong knows that she is probably two-hundred years his senior.
Scanning the yard, I try to guess who will be our last member among those waiting for their designations. Whatever guesses I have turn out to be wrong as Corporal Level strides up to the party.
“Hey, glad you guys seem to be hitting it off. Listen, we had a no-show but I didn’t want to delay you so I’ve come up with a bit of a work-around.”
Vong seems really excited, his eyes are like saucers, “Are you coming with us, Level!?”
“Oh no, I can’t. But I’ve just signed up this gal and she fits the bill.” Level steps slightly to the side and I see the gnome from the queue outside. She is tiny, blonde, and pinch-faced, wearing studded leather armor at least two sizes too big that is stained with blood. Relatively fresh, by the looks of it. She has two daggers tucked into her belt that are worn and rusted. Her diminutive frame shifts from side to side as if ready to strike at any moment, but it comes off as comical because she can’t seem to pay attention more than a second or two. She just looks like a confused child. My brief read on her earlier was much too favorable. On closer inspection, she has likely murdered someone recently for the armor and has no regard for her craft—whatever that may be. I wouldn’t trust this one.
Level continues, “I know it’s last minute and she hasn’t been briefed but I thought you might be okay with it since some of you have worked together before. It’s your first time out anyway.”
Before I can protest that the gnome is not cut out for this, Vong exuberantly agrees to take her on. Corporal Level explains that she is to go with us and then walks back to the front.
“Hi there, I’m Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong Vong, but you can call me Vong. That is Rakatha, this is Voella, and over there is Zer.”
“Zer Khaldun,” I correct again and sigh inwardly.
“What’s your name?” Even Vong can’t help kneeling down to talk to her like she is a child.
She stops shifting and looks directly at me with an intense stare and says, “Gala Lightfinger.”
Do I know her? The name doesn’t ring a bell and I would recognize her if we’d met. What a strange person. I shrug it off. But not completely. I will keep an eye on her.
“So what do you do, Gala?” Vong asks earnestly.
“I um, can fight some and look for things or um, undo traps like are in ruins or things like that.”
I wouldn’t have guessed she could figure out a trapped mechanism, such as a hidden crossbow triggered by a trip wire, and her statement of such a skill does not change my opinion. Good thing we are going to be walking through forest and field instead of dungeon delving.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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