114 Four Days: Reconciliation; Greed, Mind, Blood.

Chapter 114: Four days: Reconciliation; Greed, Mind, Blood.

/Today is a good day, friends! The time has finally come. After so much convincing, and a rather long process of getting my honor approved, which included wrestling with an orc on a sandy surface, while both of us were covered in oil, I have done it. I have been accepted as one of theirs, and am finally permitted to hear their war drums, without being a target of the rhythm.

Now, let me add some additional information to that. Orcs have existed for a long time on Chronagen, but they have not always been here. Once upon a time, they exited an arch, and grew sentient, aware of their own wishes, and their great champion, the deified Grobash-Yuk, went into the thing and closed it by its own hand. It is a symbol they strive for, to follow in the footsteps of their greatest, to show the same amount of willpower as he did.

And that is what one needs to show the orcs to be seen as an equal. Tenacity. Of course, strength matters to them, and so does Skill in combat, but rarely will orcs respect someone who only goes for easy victories. No, it is all about grit, and the will to get up when knocked down.

That is what I have shown to them, and now they drink and laugh with me as one of their own. The mighty race of furious warriors, now seeing some silly old human like me as their equal. It truly warms my heart. Even the blooded, the most strong and ferocious among the orcs, use their strength for good, most of the time.

They only truly become scary when their war drums sound.

Every beat of them is an homage to Grobash-Yuk, after all. Every moment a tribute of blood and fire. But today, that tribute would not be in the form of human life. Their war drums would sound as respect for me, as respect for my request, and rather than blood, they would spill alcohol on the fire to make it burn high. So high that Grobash-Yuk may see it.

Now, that is enough of an introduction, what you want to hear about is obviously what it really sounded like. I cannot truly note down every sound in these notes, for if I would, and any reader were to use it in vain, the orcs may come for you yet. No, instead of that, let me describe it.

Truly, the beginning of it is a slow build. The drummers' hands move faster than I could follow, striking the thin membranes of the instruments countless times. Contrary to what one might expect after listening to popular tales, they do not use bones. Instead, most use mallets wrapped with cloth or leather, while some use their hands as well.

The strikes ring out, dozens every second, all form one direction, echoing all around you. Truly, if that were approaching you, it might sounds like distant thunder, but standing right in the middle of it, thunder would not be enough to describe it. I felt as though the earth quaked, every bone in my body rattling as the vibrations in the air shook me, and I could feel myself losing my sense of orientation, even that of time.

And then, from one moment to the next, there was silence.

Only one moment of respite was given to the hunted, the target of the war drums, before they begin beating again, much more rhythmically this time, strikes ringing out precise times, with choruses of orcs yelling in between. And yet, it was strangely serene, gaps where there to be filled, and eventually they were.

Not by the musicians, but the bystanders.

The piece was completed by laughter, roaring laughter and the shattering of glass and the crackling of fire, as they tossed bottles onto the pyre erected in the middle. I could tell that it was not the usual sound to fill the gaps. It would be screams rather than laughter, and swords clashing, and I could feel my blood rushing faster.

All around me, the thunderous drumming raged on, yells and laughter all around, and it was an experience I would wish on everyone.

Because I lose myself. In the rhythm of it all, my sense of time disappeared into the flow, my blood moving through my body as I perceived every second on its own. Every moment was unique, to be savoured, and the next was a whole delicacy for itself.

Yet because every moment was special, it was over in a flash, and the drumming subsided. We had begun in the evening, yet when quiet consumed the landscape again, the morning sun was rising. It felt as though, somehow, it was smiling upon me./

A chapter of "Musico Telofio - The Journey", written by Kurt River.

- - - - - -

On Sundan, count I'htar got what he deserved. Now that the spotlight was finally on him, his sometimes cruel loaning conditions were also unearthed. He lied on testimony once, and in exchange, he had an arm broken.

By the end of the day however, that broken arm was the least of his worries. He was scheduled for execution the very next day. All the nobles of Stormbraver had turned their backs on him. It was natural. They didn't want their names dragged through the mud.

A wry smile found itself on the count's lips. He felt strange, lying in his cell. Hungry, logically, and in pain, given his arm, but neither of them were his primary feelings at all. Rather than that, he felt something within him, a strange calm. Maybe resignment.

No, that couldn't be, he shook his head. Him, resigning to his fate? He had fought hard at every moment, for every single dark even, unwilling to give up even the smallest bit. His entire life had been lived in avarice, and truly, if he could, he would go on.

Without hesitation, he'd fight more, become more wealthy, live in more luxury. But it wasn't meant to be. His dreams of greatness, those in which he remained unchallenged, at the top, had crumbled now. He was nothing but an old, lost man in a cell, locked away for anyone to visit. There were no restrictions on that, after all, he was well guarded by seekers.

Even if he escaped, there would be people tracking him the very moment. Adding all the magical and physical seals on him to that? He was being kept in the cell as a spectacle for anyone to visit if they so wanted to see him suffer.

That was what gave him a strange calm. Maybe it was them wanting him to suffer? But he was greedy, he would not give it up so easy. So, he resigned himself to silent defiance.

People came to visit, many of them, one after another. Men and women, children and elderly, everything in between. None of them cried for him. Of course, some people outside were conflicted, but in the light of all the accusations, what could they think?

Thus he remained silent. He stared at those that came to gawk, the fire in his eyes extinguished, but the coals still smouldering. A girl started crying once, some people pointed and laughed. None of the other nobles came to visit, they had no reason to.

But some people who were important did come.

The council sent Gorm Gorm, the old man's eyebrows not betraying a speck of his thoughts. He remained silent too, simply tapping the steel bars I'htar was locked behind with his cane, giving a nod as they rang out the clamor of metal. The count thought the old man would be happy, since many of the city's debts were suddenly gone, and they could confiscate I'htar's wealth. It mattered little to the man in question, he already considered his money lost, and not long after, the councilman left him alone again.

Perhaps to wallow in self-pity.

Of course, more people profited from the count's fall from grace. Foss and Niro, the merchants, came by too, discussing what to do now. Firms were in need of sponsoring, and the loaning business would be expanding. They were already on the move to seize plenty of contracts before some of the city banks could get to it.

I'htar looked at the two with scorn. They profited, he lost. After all, they were merchants. He could tolerate Gorm, after all, the council profited, not the old man himself, but the Merchants' Guild was no such organisation. No, the two of them definitely profited, and seeing the relieved smiles on their faces made his blood boil.

Especially the way they spoke. Arrogant.

"You lost," Nira simply told him, not saying much more to his face. Her partner was less restrained, however.

"Truly count, to lose such a gamble is sad. Why put your loyalty up for purchase? I'd pity you, if you were worth the thought," the chubby man said.

I'htar hoped he'd choke on his food.

They left, and eventually, Avery and Lucia gloated. The two were happy to see him locked up not for monetary reasons like those before, but for justice.

"So, how does it feel to be locked up," Beckham casually started a conversation, hands in his pockets. The count simply stared back at him with anger.

"Yeah, sounds about as nice as I thought," the man said, smile on his face only growing wider.

It was the head priestess who truly seemed ecstatic with this result. She had hated him ever since their first meeting, from the very beginning, seeing him as slimy and untrustworthy. Order needed law, and he clearly did not care for it. That was the same as saying he spurned her entire existence. Seeing him incarcerated surely would please her.

Yet after a long pause, her words were surprising.

"Die a swift death."

And then, the two of them were gone, leaving him again unsure of how he felt.

The final person to visit him was Kaga.

"Hey old man," she said, standing in front of his cell, wide smile showing her teeth. "How are you doing in there? Feeling caged? Like all the time I was working for you?"

She openly gloated at him.

"Really, I didn't mind all the things you did, but you know what I did mind? You restricting my freedom. Come on, we both knew it wouldn't last. Me, a bodyguard? You wanted a dog, not a mercenary. But I'm not a dog I'm..." she paused, thinking on what to say. "I'm free now."

Those words were uttered strangely quietly. Freely.

Kaga giggled for a moment. "Right, yeah, I'm free, what am I even doing here?" she asked herself.

Count I'htar wanted to answer now, but he couldn't find any words.

"I hope we never meet again," Kaga simply said, then walked away.

Only minutes after she was gone did the count know what to say.

"Gods damn it," he muttered under his breath, his greed extinguished like a candle flame on someone else's cake.

Those were the last words he would ever say at all, since on Cluddan, his head rolled.

- - - - - -

In fact, that Cluddan was quite an eventful day, not just in Stormbraver. It was the day on which Mercury first swung a hammer. Of course, he didn't manage to do so in the real world, but it happened in his dream realm. Now, if it was in his dream realm, how could we match it a suitable time in our world?

Really, I don't know why you would ask that of a narrator, but if I were the author of the book, I would say that it simply happened because Mercury only entered the dreaming phase after midnight. Additionally, the times of his dream and Chronagen are linked anyways, so an estimate could be made at the very least.

Whatever the case, he managed on Cluddan.

And he felt incredibly stupid.

The hammer he swung was, after all, not really a hammer in a traditional sense at all. He had been so fixated on the shape and material before that he hadn't noticed he could just change it. After all, in modern day, smiths also used machines to forge, why couldn't he just make himself a contraption to hammer something?

There were so many options, after all. He could simply have a metal tube and a weight he could push up and down, to store potential energy with <Telekinesis>. He could build himself some sort of contraction with springs and ropes and wires, or he could do none of that at all.

After thinking about the material for some days, the mopaaw had come to a conclusion. Why not just make the hammer from himself?

Yasashiku had given him that hint a long while ago already, but he really only properly understood it now. All of the extra bits were just flavour.

In essence, he needed something that exerted a lot of sudden force on another thing. He'd watched his master forge a few times now, and that was the essence of it. A hammer existed to strike onto metal.

So, all that Mercury really needed was something that hit another thing. He thought about all the hard things he had, and realized that his bones and claws were sadly poor candidates. They could get burnt, and that didn't seem very practical. But what did he have that was very hard and thick but wouldn't burn?

His head.

That's right. The conclusion Mercury came to was to use his stubbornness to whack metal. Of course, that sounds incredibly stupid in the first place. If he wanted to go through a wall, obviously running his head into it wasn't exactly a bright idea. Really, then why need a tool in the first place.

But as with all things, it wasn't quite that simple. Mercury had already ruled out bone and claw, so using skin and fur would be even more idiotic. He meant his mind. He could just shove the metal with his mind, couldn't he? No, well, clearly he couldn't, that's why he needed a Skill for it.

Still, Yasashiku had said the exact same thing. To compress his mind. That seemed to be the key. And that's what he set about doing in the dream realm.

And he was lucky. Because Mercury had actually done very similar exercises before. In fact, he had been working on compressing his mind for quite a few pages now. After all, it was this very mind he used to press against the boundaries of his mana veins, wasn't it? That very mind he had slammed against the stone that made up that intricate network that passed throughout him.

He had so much experience he never realized he could draw on, and now that he did, progress came so much faster. After all, the only thing he had to do was manifest his will outside his body rather than inside it.

Again, that might sounds insanely stupid, but Mercury decided to give it a try in the dream realm for that exact reason. His dreams were part of him, to some degree, after all. Additionally, he had also already realized his will outside his body before, simply influencing mana. All of it was more about believing that one could, rather than actually needing loads of practice.

Confident magician's were common for a good reason.

So, time and time again, Mercury attempted it. To manifest his will outside his body and strike the floor. And, as to be expected, he failed time and time again, too. So many attempts resulted in nothing that it could have driven him up a wall if there were any. He thought about the grass below him deforming, and nothing happened. About the soil being compressed, and nothing happened.

Eventually, he got furious, and with the fury, he became more in touch with himself. He allowed himself to be frustrated, and let the frustration out with his mind. He imagined himself hitting something, really, really fucking hard, and stomped one of his paws down, only to feel a puff of air where there should have been none.

Stunned, he opened his eyes, and there it was. A tiny dent on the floor, maybe a meter in front of him. He'd actually done it, he'd gone and fucking whacked the ground, and to a degree, he had learned how to properly compress his mind. That was the next step, Yasashiku would tell him in the morning. And it was called rijn.

- - - - - -

Finally, the last thing for Cluddan, happened during the evening. As usually during wartime, news travelled fast, and count I'htar's death soon found its way to the ears of king Fulthur of Evlenor.

As he heard of the count's death, the king didn't know how to react. Logically, it was bad news to him. The noble was a supplier of money to them, making sure the soldiers were well equipped and fed. Losing such funding was devastating, and a big hit to them.

They also now would have less information about the state of Stormbraver. Their siege had failed, clearly. They'd been pushed back as soldiers from the front rushed to defend the city. But in that process, that very front had shifted further down south, and more territory was now being controlled by Evlenor.

A few promising seeds had been lost in the confrontation, and seeing his kinsmen die pained Fulthur. It always did. Sending the young ones into war was never fun, and it never would be, but he shouldered his duty nonetheless.

Which is why the death of count I'htar made him conflicted. To hell with all the funding and information. The noble had been a traitor with neither honor nor dignity. It was the count's responsibility to bear that many more people had died in Nevarzahri than Fulthur could have ever hoped to achieve on his own.

Did that make the old king happy? No. Death was a plague, and so was war, and yet he needed to risk one to escape the other. Famine was a cruel drive, yet one he had to give in to if he wanted his people to survive.

And he was happy. Because the noble had died, he had good reason to end the war. They'd pushed south, they'd gained new land, and quite frankly, it was enough. With the final push, they'd caught enough farmland to make it through the next winter if they began sowing now. What his people now needed were farmers, rather than warriors, and he could make that clear.

Even his warmongering generals, and the bloodthirsty young heroes would have to see reason, because they had lost a deciding chip. Their advantage over the aristocracy was gone. They now had fewer troops, and risking anymore people would be a pisspoor decision, that much they had to acknowledge.

The longer king Fulthur thought about it, the less conflicted he felt.

Yes, truly, it was time to stop this war, call back his sons and daughters, and have them command civil operations, rather than brutal slaughters. This land had seen enough bloodshed, he decided. It was time for the war to come to an end.

He could only hope to convince the generals of the same.