Interludes (Between Part 1 and Part 2)

Interludes -

 Firion, Nathanial, Adi.

A-1 : Firion

The light hit hard against the metal lock, agitation showing as the metal began to bend. His black hands wielded a light from the palms blinding white, a contrast clearly visible. Jette stood behind him with eyes of awe wide open, and the large, rusty lock gradually kept bending until it snapped open.. Firion opened the wooden barn door and it creaked as it did.

 It was dusk, two hours past, and the roads and forests were empty alike. Farmer Qema’s barn was locked tightly, but it was no worry for Firion. 

‘Come on! Quickly now!’ Jette whispered to him. Firion was one of the tallest natural born vicers, only touching the eight foot mark. His dirtborn human friend, who had a pale skin colour and ordinary brown eyes and blackish silky hair falling on his eyes, was born south of Grenoria, just near Ulke. Only Firion respected him among all he knew. Jette was lucky because his closest ally was the last known free Wielder in all of the kingdoms across Layonas. 

He grabbed the saddles of two horses and quickly walked out of the barn. The horses followed him, Strutting free, yet not too fast. He had a hold on both. Jette had three heavy sacks slung across his shoulder, which he rested on the horses’ back, and got onto the saddle. 

‘Hurry now, Firion!’ He called out to his friend, who seemed to be unsaddling his horse. 

A large vicer began to walk towards them, head cleanly bald and a scar covering where there once was an eye.

‘What are you doing with my horses! Thievery! This is a height of nuisance here! Give me my horses, you bastards!’  The farmer screamed, sentence after sentence. Jette tried to keep himself under control, but was almost laughing. Firion although seemed more serious. He looked back at Jette once and then at farmer Qera, with a look of regret. He positioned himself in a Mistac stance, left leg in front, completely straight and a bent right behind. He raised his right arm, closed his eyes and calmly hit a point just behind his hand, with his left. A small beam of white light as blinding as the sun shot out of his hand and hit the farmer. It seemed to almost envelope him for a second like a jacket made of light, and the next moment he fell. A strangely electrical ooze frothed in the farmer’s mouth, as he seized to move. Firion cocked his head towards Jette as if hoping for a nod of admiration. Jette blankly stared at him, as if he was thinking of something. He then frowned for a second but soon nodded.

‘Come on!’ He said to Jette. Firion unsaddled his horse completely and climbed onto its back.

‘Hya!’ He screamed.

‘Hya!’ Jette screamed after. They both rode off and out of Ineren. It was a beautiful city in Grenoria, the capital of it. From there rode off the last born Wielding vicer in all of Grenoria, in his search for supremacy. His time had come.

***

‘JETTE! We are here!’ Firion said. They were in a forest, namely the Grand Pass, right at the border of Ulke—The Land Of Knights. The ending border of the Grand Pass met with a hard stone land. A few leagues ahead, there was a division between two different kinds of mountains. On the left were beautiful spring mountains shaded green with the touch of the purest artist’s brush, and on the right was an enormously large range of mountains, far larger than the spring mountains right beside it, capped in snow, white like a blank canvas in the shape of a mountain range. The sight was indeed as breathtaking as made out to be in common tales. It was Firion’s first time here, at the capital of Knights—Ulke—said to be the most beautiful city in all of Layonas. In between the two different mountain ranges, there was an enormous hole, which continued throughout the enormous mountain range, just a central hole, almost a very large cave, and there was the pass of Ulke. The famed city of Knights. There were many holes atop mountains creating a wide passage of light for the great underpass beneath.

‘This way my friend!’ Firion cried. Jette followed him and the hooves of their horses, which was a silent trot on grass, now beat loudly against stone. Firion and Jette looked up in awe as they saw the difference between the two sides. One was freshly green, and the other covered with snow. Not a league away from each other and the temperatures far different! Here the conqueror shone extremely brightly but still did not throw out much heat. A heat wave was anyways expected in about a weak’s time, before which would usually be the most pleasant weather.

‘That’s m’hometown, Firion!’ Jette proclaimed proudly.

‘You were born in Eleanes, don’t lie to me, dirtborn.’ Firion said. Jette would never get offended when Firion called him that. He would just laugh it off unlike the other dirtborns in Layonas or Erhin.

‘Close enough eh?’ Jette said.

‘Hya!’ Firion screamed, and off their horses went. A few minutes later, the vicer and his friend stopped their horses at the Grand Gate. A guard in a leather uniform stood at the gate, and many others on their horses. Some sat on chairs on the sides, minding their own business. It was truly a beautiful sight. The hole was extremely wide, so wide that when approached, one could not see the snow on the right, or the greenery on the left, just this beautiful city. The people inside seemed busy doing their own work and whatnot. People were leaving the city from a large pass to the side of the gate.

‘Whats y’business here?’ The guard asked Firion.

‘We come here on holiday.’ Firion said. The guard raised an eyebrow, looking at Firion and Jette.

‘Why’s a Grenorian vicer and a dirtborn coming to Ulke for a holiday, eh laddie?’ The guard shared a laugh with his fellows and opened the gate for them.

‘Welcome to Ulke!’ He said. Firion nodded and smiled.

inside, it was as beautiful as everyone always said. It felt nothing like a cave, because of the natural holes in the mountains giving large passage for light. It was well lit. There were market places, homes, men and women walking around, it acted as a completely normal city, but it was a cave in truth! The grandest cave, the home of the Knights. 

‘I hate this place.’ Firion said. Jette opened his eyes as widely as he could and cocked his head towards Firion.

‘What?!’ He cried.

‘We’re taking the mountains. Come on!’ Firion said. He turned his horse around and out of the gate. Jette followed.

The fekh’s wrong with him? he thought.

He too exited the gate and caught up with Firion, asking, ‘What’s wrong with it? It’s one of the most beautiful places in all of Layonas.’

‘I hate it.’ Firion said, still giving no reason. Jette simply listened to him and followed him.

Their horses trotted for leagues until they stood at the base of very large green mountains, upon which were crawling all kinds of animals and insects.

‘Better.’ Firion said. He jumped off his horse and pocketed a small pouch. Jette did the same, carrying Firion’s sacks and cutting the saddle off his horse. Firion looked back at Jette, eyeing him. He simply shrugged and they moved on. They began climbing the mountain.

‘Okay what is it?’ Jette said.

‘Huh?’

‘Why do you hate Ulke so much.’
Firion grimaced and moved on. Jette caught up quickly.

‘Why? Isn’t it amazing?’

‘No.’ 

Jette just rolled his eyes and moved on along with Firion. The mountains were large—enormous—but Firion was simply taking this route without consideration anyways, why? Why did he hate Ulke so much?

***

A few hours later, Firion and Jette arrived at the summit of about five mountains down from the first. They were moving towards Central Kaandor, taking a path which was in the opposite direction of Hothras, to avoid the war completely. 

Jette stretched his body, wincing, panting.

‘Firion! Can we stop for a moment, please?’

‘Why?’ He asked back. He seemed to not be tired at all. He just wanted to move on. 

‘I… I can’t go on.’ Jette said. Firion rolled his eyes and walked over to the dirtborn.

‘Brother… We don’t have a choice, do we?’ Firion said. Jette looked up at him with glaring eyes. He was right. This trip; the meeting; this was their last chance indeed. They didn’t have a choice but to pursue it. Farm-life wasn't for Firion, or Jette in fact. 

‘So come on.’ Firion said. Jette picked himself up and again they began to pass through the mountains. There were trees and fresh fruit everywhere and market places atop the mountains near the holes which people from Ulke had set up using ladders, chain mechanisms, and other advanced metallic machinery. They walked for a few hours, until they stopped at a market place.

Firion walked up to the old stall-man, who seemed to have the trademark whitish grey hair of Kaandor and a small build. The market man had white eyebrows and a balding head. Firion asked for 4 rundlets of water. 

‘Alright then lad, out in a minute.’ The stall-keeper said. He walked over to what seemed to be a small hole in the mountain.

‘LADDIE! 4 RUNDLETS A’WATER!’ He screamed at the top of his lungs. A small chain lowered down. Moments later four rundlets strung one beneath the other came attached on the bottom end of the string. 

‘Ooomph.’ The man sighed whilst lifting the rundlets, letting out a loud sigh. He carted them and gave them to Firion. 

‘Ah… that’s four Kleps.’ The old man said, straightening his back out.

Firion looked at Jette and sniggered. He slowly walked toward the man, smiling. 

‘Listen M'ro,’ He said, frightening the shopkeeper as M'ro was an Erhinian phrase, ‘You give me these rundlets, and I give you one klep.’ The old man was frowning at Firion’s threat and just nodded. Jette handed Firion a coin and he handed it to the stall keeper. 

‘Bastard.’ He said, with a stern face. Firion looked at him, enraged from the inside. He opened his hand and bent his knee, positioning his foot. With a flick of the wrist, a ray of light shot right out of his palm, onto a latch on the small stall the old man was managing. Its hold on the grass loosened, and  it began to tilt. Shopkeepers near by began to watch. 

‘Oh no no no no no no…’ The stall-keeper shouted aloud. Firion and Jette got on their way. Moments later Firion heard the old man curse aloud. Firion looked at Jette and laughed. Jette didn’t seem very entertained. 

‘What you do that for?’ Jette asked. He was always blown away at the sight of Firion’s magic, but when he used it to commit acts of evil like this, Jette wasn’t impressed. He was a simple boy with a simple mindset.

‘Fekh off, you laughed with me.’

‘Well… I— I changed my mind, yeah?’ 

‘Well, you always do.’

‘Well… I— it’s because the poor man didn’t need that much threatening! Y’got to learn to control yourself, Firion!’ Jette calmly said. Firion just rolled his eyes, and they walked on. 

‘Ha! He thought I was a banished vicer from Erhin!’ Firion came out of the blue a few minutes later. Jette showed irritation and said, ‘This again?’ 

‘Listen! He thought I was banished cause I called him M'ro! Older ones really are the babies, aren’t they?’ Firion asked. He was into laughter, Jette succumbing and joining him in a merry mood. 

‘Firion, ha ha! Oh you know how to crack a joke don’t y’?’ Firion smiled back at him. Jette suddenly frowned and said, ‘How did you get your power?’ Firion looked down at the grass, with eyes of regret, that night, all that while ago, when he truly was, banished. He didn’t like to talk about those days, the accident, that moment. The young child. His father. The queen’s brother—all of it—was extremely unpleasant to think about.

‘Leave it be… Jette.’ 

‘I want you to tell me! Now—’

And with a flash, all of it was gone. He was not in the pass above Ulke, he was in a cage, wooden and steel handles expertly crafted together, and from a distance, he could see another vicer—his father—in a cage too. They were in a majestically large room, with other cages—all empty except his cage and his father’s. 

‘Papa—no!’ Firion screamed. His father, an older, shorter 6 foot vicer lay on the ground with his legs stretched out. His face’d been beaten to a pulp. Red everywhere—blood all over his face—he was near death. 

‘PAPA!’ Firion screamed in agony. He beat his hands against the metallic cage bars. His palm was being cut by the loose—but sharp—fibres of wood interwoven with the metal. He beat with his hands and knees, tears streaming from his eyes. He kept yelling ‘papa’ over and over. 

A door lock clanked open, and footsteps were audible. Into the prison came a boy not more than twelve years of age. 

Where are the guards? We can be free! This short-haired pale skinned boy who had glaring, brown coloured eyes walked up to the cage where Firion’s father was kept. He muttered something which seemed like an insult and then began walking towards Firion. He was wearing a long over-shirt and a white pair of pyjamas. He had long, curling, and pointy shoes on his feet. He had his hands behind his back and a wore a judging look on his face. He came up to Firion and looked at him as if he was some kind of dog. He began walking away.

‘Just because I am a vicer need not mean I’m a dog.’ Firion said. 

The child stopped and turned around, ‘What did you say?’ 

‘I said, just because I am a vicer, need not mean I’m a dog.’ 

The child walked up to him again. He sniggered, and then without warning opened the cage door and ran right out the room. Firion opened his eyes widely. Months… several months he’d been locked away, seeing his father being beat everyday. 

‘PAPA!’ He screamed. He kicked the door open and ran to his father’s cage. He opened it. They were free. We are free.

‘Come papa, come!’ He eagerly said. His father looked drowsy, completely exhausted; he had red all over his shirt and a trickle of blood down his nose. There were several swollen bruises on his arms, legs and face. His son, who was far taller than him, stood over him, pleading him to follow, but the father—the father was in no state whatsoever.

‘Son, you go. Get out of here, and return when you get your power.  Then you can … Avenge me.’  He said, as if he knew something in the future. ‘But papa, I can still—’

‘I… son, go. Leave me be.’ 

Firion looked down at the stone floor with deep regrets, but tightly embraced his father and walked out of the cage. 

Rage.

Rage filled him with a storm of emotions… he felt nothing but rage and anger and depression. This was a destiny changing moment—Firion was a different man now. He would never be the same. 

He had a confident expression and a frown, walking tall. He walked towards the door of the room, until it clanked open again. A guard dressed in colours of green with a cape which had the ren-call of house Rolan—the Crocodile— stitched onto the back side of it. The guardsman held a spear in his hand and had a large helm on. He walked into the room, and saw a giant prisoner-on-the-loose walking towards him, with a look of fury in his eyes. The guardsman stumbled back in fear and called out for his fellow guardsmen, ‘GUARDS! GUARDS!’ He screamed. Firion grabbed the guardsman’s neck with his large hand and began to strangle him. The guardsman choked, and Firion screamed in rage. Now all kinds of emotions enveloped his insides. Tears flooded his face as he strangled the guardsman to death. As soon as the guardsman’s breath died out, he dropped him to the floor. He looked down at him, and oddly enough saw a small burn mark on the right side of his neck. He’d have sworn it wasn’t there before because it was so obvious and large. The mark had a strange shape to it—as if it were the letter of some foreign language. Nevertheless, he ignored it and continued walking. Emotions flooding him… leaving his father behind at second request? He completely regretted it. 

I can’t! I must get him back. 

He turned around and ran back to his father’s cage-cell. The footsteps of several guardsmen were audible, Firion guessed there were at least ten or so. He pushed the already opened cage-door. Inside he just found his father peacefully sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out and staring blankly upwards. The guards’ footsteps got more rapid and more loud. Looking down in regret, Firion walked into his father’s cage. He raised his hands and touched his father’s soft eyelids and closed them.

He turned around, expressionless again. He was ready to take on the ten guards. they rushed into the cage. One guard—who was taller, broader, and more muscular than the rest—rushed in first. He brought his spear down on him, but Firion easily dodged it by simply taking a step to the right. He bent his legs and swiftly snatched the guardsman’s spear out of his hand. The fight began. With first shot, Firion simply stabbed the spear hard into the first unarmored guard he saw. Blood sprayed out from the other side of his back and onto the shiny metallic armour of the others, the unarmored bait of a guard fell to the ground dead. He then turned around towards the guard from whom he stole the spear, and threw it from a short distance right into his face. Blood poured down his eye. A guard swung his sword at him sideways, he ducked down quickly, and another tried to stab him with his sword, which he grabbed by the sides, turned around and pushed it back into his gut. These men were not going to defeat him. He learned the Grenorian way of swordsmanship.

 The spearman with the spear in his face was still standing. Just as he was about to fall, Firion grabbed the spear from his mutilated face. He turned around, still expressionless, facing the seven guards.

These men were going to suffer.

       ***

Ten men now lay dead in the prison chamber, and out walked an eight-foot-tall vicer with a spear in his hand, a helm on his head, and tears in his eyes. He began to run as fast as he could, looking for an exit out of what seemed to be a small compound. Firion heard many men’s calls out for guards, and oh lord did the guards rush in. Five more stood in his path. He bent his right leg and straightened his left behind, and raised his one hand with the spear, the other up to his head for guard. The killing frenzy began. Rage. The dying light inside him kindled again for this moment. He swung his spear to the left, to the right, upwards and down, blocking shots, throwing shields off and slicing body parts out. Blood leaked from bodies—counting five—all over the floor, litres on top of litres.  An arm over here, a leg over there, it was a gruesome killing. He couldn’t care less. Rage was the word in his mind. He ran ahead, looking for an exit—still—and guards came his way, which he took down with ease. He looked to his left, and to his right, but he couldn’t seem to find an exit out of this wretched building.

And then he saw a small gate right down front. And so he ran. He ran as fast as he could before more Crocodiles could arrive. It wasn’t a very well guarded facility. Criminals like him and his father deserved far worse. They deserved to be locked up in a well guarded, remote facility—maybe this was remote—and they almost even deserved to be dead, here in Erhin at the most. Firion opened the door and saw the bright light. More Crocodiles approached from behind, spears at the ready, but again; he couldn’t care. He ran straight ahead. A hand tugged at his shirt and he flew to the ground. A man in gleaming green armour walked up to him. He had a shiny—sharp and long—metallic sword in his hand at the ready, and a large, beautifully crafted wooden shield in the other. He kicked him in the gut. Firion cringed in pain. He quickly stood up, holding a tight grip on his gut to try and lower the pain he was feeling. He soon let go and looked at the man. The man had long, blonde hair. He was white skinned. Guards backed him up, two or three, in green armour, and behind; a man on a horse held the banner of the Crocodile. It was some kind of criminal facility. The whole compound barred off with long metal cages. This man whom Firion faced was surely a Rolan. Behind the whole scene, that same boy—the very boy that released him—was getting told off by an elderly man. He slapped him across the face, hard, and the boy fell. He focused his attention back onto the swordsman that stood in front of him. 

‘Get the fekh back in.’ He said, pointing his sword towards Firion. ‘I’m only going to ask you once.’ 

‘If I am such an important prisoner to you,’ He said with a squeak in between the words, tears flooding his face, he quickly brought himself together, ‘Then why we-were your guards trying to kill me?’ 

The man frowned at this and pushed his guards back in.

‘Fine. Be that way.’ He said, pulling his sword back and readying himself. Firion stood with his spear’s pointy edge pointed towards the sky. He took a deep breath and let the sadness rest away. Rage filled him once again. The rage in his body almost felt like an energy.

 This man was going to die.

Firion threw his spear at the gap in the man’s helm, but he shielded it. He took a swift step in front and stole his spear back, anticipating the armoured man’s—who seemed to be a knight—next move. He ducked low; the knight swung from right to left. He looked at his leg, where there seemed to be a small opening. He stabbed his spear in and out very quick, blood streamed down his thigh and into the armour.

The man grimaced and squealed slightly in pain. He moved back, bringning himself back into a fighting stance. He moved forward, bringing his sword down on Firion, who again anticipated it and moved to the left, which was his mistake. The knight slammed him with his shield, and he could not dodge it. He fell to the floor, bloodied up, teeth jutting out, gasping for breath. The man raised a sword to his neck. His dying moment was here, but he raised his hand, his palm right towards the knight, and remembered. His father was dead. His brother was taken, and his friends slaughtered in front of him. In the South of Erhin he’d seen and faced a lot worse than a sword on the neck—so no, this was not it. The edge was with this man, physically and mentally, but deep down, he searched for the energy, his palm up. The knight took his sword back and thrust forward, but a small and faint light emitting out of Firion’s palm pushed the Knight down to his feet. The guards’ eyes were wide in astonishment. Firion brought himself back onto his feet, and aimed his spear right at the opening in the knight’s helm.

He threw.

The spear vibrated slightly on landing, but the tip was completely bloodied. The knight stumbled backwards and fell to the floor hard. He was dead, blood pouring out of his face and his leg, he was done for. The shining armour and his guards let him down. This poor unarmed vicer single handedly caused total havoc. The boy looked and screamed in pain and sadness.

‘UNCLE!’ He cried. Tears filled the boy’s eyes. The guards approached Firion—their spears up—but all Firion could think about was the death of his father, and what that brought to him.

And with a flash, he was back. A faint call came from his friend,

‘Firion! Firion!’ He said, holding his shoulders and trying to shake him back to his senses. He blinked a few times and looked up.

‘Firion! I—What happened?’ Jette asked. Firion looked around for a moment, finding himself atop the peaks of Ulke. Beautiful grass blossomed underneath his feet, the conquerer shone brightly, and market-men looked strangely at the two mean. 

There was a few moments’ silence.

‘What happened? What happened is that I found out why I have this power.’ He said, showing his palms to Jette and glaring into the depths of his eyes with anger.  He began walking again. 

A-2: Nathanial Rolan & Adi Walkman

‘Do you wish to plead any further?’ The formally dressed man asked him. 

He sighed and shook his head, walking out of the grand home of Tristan, the king of the Wielders and Gr’Erhinians, the men living in the Northern-most country in Erhin. Gr’Erhin is a kingdom, which many years ago was encountered heavily by many Wielding vicers. They taught their powers and gifts to the men living in Gr’Erhin, who ultimately betrayed and banished these vicers to the Southern part of Erhin, stripping them of all power and titles. Since then all the gravest criminals have been deported there.

Guards escorted him out, after yet another disappointing attempt at trying to be taught the ways of the Wielder.

Nathanial Rolan was the second-oldest brother of the three, he had pale white skin and very long, blonde hair. His eyes were a very light green. He was not as tall as his brothers, but he was the most well built. His brothers were slender compared to him. Of course, he didn’t know what his lost, younger brother would have turned out to look like at twenty-six, which he would be the next month.

As soon as he stepped out of the king’s home, he cursed.
Why can’t they just teach me the ways? He thought to himself. The hall was wide and filled with paintings, antique vases, and other artistic works of the sort. Nathanial rushed through it in rage, hands in a fist. He had a hard time controlling his temper when he did not achieve what he set out to. One thing that set him apart from his brothers—even though Rothrin was the most responsible—was the fact that when he decided to do something, he’d stop at nothing. He did not reason like Rothrin, nor did he make rash decisions like Lothar. He was the most driven by action and accomplishment out of the three brothers. The most impressive specimen of all. That’s why he was next in line for the throne. It is also why Rothrin had been handed the position of chief commander of the Crocodiles—the most powerful coverlord in all of Loazer. He would also be Nathanial’s right hand man, but as of now, nothing mattered to Nathanial other than learning the ways of Wielding. He was willing to give up his succession to the throne to Rothrin for it.

A few months ago, he had arrived in Gr’Erhin with the sole object of convincing them to sign a peace treaty for a no war policy between Loazer and Gr’Erhin, which he succeeded at getting done in no time; however, along the way, he was mesmerised by how he’d seen the King himself and his few Wielders bending and manipulating light to their will. Nothing else mattered to him from the moment he saw their power. That was the soul thing he wished to learn. He’d even mastered the Ora and Mistac stances. The two main stances in Wielding—out of seven—but he never got results. The King refused to Enlighten him.

Gr’Erhinian guards operated some sort of mechanical device on the side which opened the majestic gate of the palace for Nathanial to make way. He walked out and into the snowy courtyard with hard and fast footsteps. He was angry.

‘Fekhin ruins above! Krilin save me; this man won’t now!’ He cursed, pointing back to the palace. A few Crocodiles received him outside, and the Gr’Erhinian king’s men went back inside. A seemingly important individual who a confused expression on his face, and the green colours of Loazer on his clothes, stepped up to Nathanial and said, ‘He failed to comply with your logic yet again, my lord?’

‘Krilin but that man deserves to be impaled!’ He screamed loudly. A few of the king’s men turned towards him and frowned. The guards felt more embarrassed than Nathanial, who was oblivious to his ruckus because he was focused only on one thing. 

‘Well, my lord, I fear that he is more unlikely to help you with this matter now more than ever. It does seem to me that you may have upset him.’

Nathanial frowned slightly, looking at him, ‘Do you know who you’re talking to, lord Daren?’
Daren—one of the Crocodilian coverlords—began nervously trembling… fearing what Nathanial would do to him.

‘I—I’m sorry, m’lord.’ He said, shaking, he bowed and stepped back.

Nathanial slowly blinked and turned to face Tristan’s home. The old, wrinkled, yet long haired man couldn’t care to fulfil Nathanial’s request, each time he asked.

‘You’ll give in soon enough.’ He sneered. He turned back around and began walking towards a carriage awaiting him.

***

About a twenty-fourth later, Nathanial’s carriage was stopped outside of a grand home. A Loazian guard came running from a gate just outside and opened the carriage door for him. It was snowing tons here, but a house marbled in white and brown stood apart from the snow quite magnificently. It was large and had two wings on the sides and one main entrance. He stepped down from the carriage, and looked at the home—he had all that one could ask for, luxury, power, intelligence, good looks—but he would discard all of those for only one thing he wanted since he came to Gr’Erhin; to be able to Wield. There was a large range of mountains in the backdrop, and an enormous palace, where mighty Krilin was said to have once stayed in himself! Nathanial’s house was right on the border of King—the capital city of Gr’Erhin. On the border, a few leagues away was Krilin’s Palace and the Fang mountain range. It was a very large stretch of snow-filled mountains; no one dared ventured there, but from what Nathanial had heard was that there was a strange folk that lived among the Fang mountains, and a large peak called the Central Peak was where this strange folks’  king resided. But Nathanial thought untrue of these rumours. He thought board men sitting by the bed came up with these tails to entertain themselves in mean-time.

Lord Daren walked beside Nathanial, running a list of errands by him.

‘Oh, and we’ve got news of a prophesier entering the country side as we speak.’
Curious, Nathanial thought about it, looking at Daren.

‘Someone who can see into the future?’ Reminds me of my mother.

‘Precisely. It’s said that he’s said the only prophesier from Earth. 

‘Earth?’ Nathanial asked, surprised. 

‘Yes my lord. Word’s out he’s going to talk to King Tristan as he enters—’

‘No no no—you and the guards make sure he’s escorted here. I’ll take the carriage back and get King Tristan.’ 

‘But it is a Royal—’

‘Get it done.’

‘As you wish my lord.’

***

‘Biv, this is spectacular! I… I—how?’

‘I told this to you already have I not? Inter-dimensional travel through my boat!’

‘I…I understand b-but it’s a lot to take in at once!’ He said in his British accent with extreme joy. Leaving his horribly lonely life behind and finally getting some purpose—this meant a lot to him. This, what has happened to him, was more meaningful than anything that’s ever happened to him, or to anyone on Earth, he reckoned. 

Adi looked up as he felt a tremendous chill. It was heavily snowing. No wonder the boat has been moving in the water so slowly; it was on the brink of freezing.

‘To be here, you will have to learn the ways of the people. For example, the name of this city is King!’

‘K-King?’ Adi asked. 

‘Yeah! Nice name for it, no?’ 

Adi shrugged and put his mug of ale in the cabinet, besides the tiny barrel of what now contained a whole void of emptiness. Adi’s head was slightly aching, but it was a small barrel, maybe 10 litres maximum, shared two way between Biv and Adi. About fifteen pints each, Adi figured.

Adi was wearing a simple plain white shirt and a pair of shorts and slippers, because Biv had just picked him up from his room when he was resting.

‘Your life is about to change.’ Biv said. Adi smiled at his comment because what was his life? For the last seven years, he’d been sitting idle with absolutely nothing. He’d lounge around watching television—barely exiting his apartment. His family never visited him in London. They just sent him small cheques to manage himself. They treated him as if he was not aware of anything—as if he did not know what his purpose was. Seven years since moving out, and absolutely nothing but his television to develop his humanity. No friends, no family, no job. All he had left which even mattered to him were his dreams and Olivia. She nurtured him. She raised him, even though she was just a little child. 

But dreams are just dreams at the end of the day. He thought. 

Olivia shaped his humanity. Then of course years of very little talking caused him to develop his speech disorder. He never spoke—or barely did, at least. He forgot the ways of speak and developed a disorder. He had no associates, and the only places he ever went to was the grocery store, other compliance stores to fix broken things, and a tiny wooden bench in Grosvenor Park in Mayfair. He’d sit there and feed the birds, watch the children enjoy playing football, and read his books. Every time he went, he wore his grey track suit. His life was less eventful than even an old retired man living on pension, and whenever he’d have to suffer human interaction, he would try his best not to show the misery that had been suffering the last seven years of his life.

But something—something about his routine, something about his peaceful life, something seemed to put it in place. That was his home—as boring and miserable as it may be. 

Biv climbed a small ladder attached to the wooden dock, and signalled Adi to come up. He stared behind, at the ocean—really contemplating. This feat, seeing worlds different, a different race of humans; bending light to one’s will and having powers of his own—was this all really what he wanted? Did he need adventure, or did he just want to live the rest of his days out peacefully.
But peacefully meant alone.

No. Shake it off. Adi told himself. This is what you wanted, a change. This is what you need. When you come back, you’re going to be the most important human on Earth.

But it was a lot to take in. His excitement subdued for a moment… different worlds? Travelling dimensions through a boat? How was it possible?

‘Alright, I’ll guide you, come with me.’ Biv said. He helped Adi up from the edge of the dock, and the pair walked onto the shore—it was a truly beautiful sight. This city—King—was a sight to behold. It was set on the backdrop of the largest mountains Adi had ever seen. He was feeling extremely chilly, wrapping his arms around his body, shivering.

Biv, however strapped on a fur coat already, with leather straps and a buckle around the chest area. 

‘Oh! Almost forgot this things. He ran back to the dock and grabbed a fur coat. He gave it to Adi, who thanked him for it.

Adi took the coat from Biv’s hand and began trying to put it on. Biv was rubbing his hands together, and smiled at the sight of his hometown. He gritted his teeth together for a moment, and began smiling again, looking around. Meanwhile, Adi was still trying to put the coat on. He tried to open the buckle, but the leather was jammed in their pretty good.

‘Here, let me—’

‘No it’s ok I got it—’

‘No, Adi you just have to—’

‘Biv! Let it go I have it in place.’ 

Adi still seemed to be struggling with the coat.

‘I can help if you—’

‘Biv!’ Adi said.

‘Alright little lad, you’ve got it!’

Adi tried to slip the coat on, but it was too tight around his slender breast, and locks of his long, golden hair got stuck on the little stitchings here and there on the fine piece of embroidery. Adi shrugged and took the coat off and held it in his hands for a moment and then stretched it out to Biv.

Biv laughed for a moment and snatched the coat away from Adi.

‘Stupid child.’

In a moment, Adi was comfortable and snug in his furry coat, but his feet were still freezing. 

‘B-Biv, why didn’t y-you tell me t-that it was this cold in your c-country in the first place?’

‘Don’t worry! We make the accommodations for you yeah? Let’s reach first.’

‘Where will I live?’

‘With the king.’

Adi’s eyes widened. With the king? What had he done to deserve this kind of treatment in the first place. It seemed like these people knew him better than he knew himself.

The town seemed simple and elegant. There were beautiful huts and houses made of wood and patterned marble, women walked with other women talking, laughing, men the same. Some with their spouses, other with friends, some carried carts, others were members of what seemed to be an army. People were on horseback and the skies were clear blue. He looked up at the sun—or the wiola in this case—and then something came to his awareness. It seemed as if everyone was in spotlights, and the rest of the town was dimmer. As if each person had a dedicated spotlight following them everywhere. It was actually kind of blinding for Adi. Then he noticed a spotlight was on him too, and so he looked down, and a small circle of light. He looked in front and he could see dust particles in shining light right in front of him. Even the horses had spotlights around them. What kind of light source was this ‘wiola’? Why did it shine brighter on living things? All the spotlights seemed to be coming directly from the sun. All the millions and millions of rays all on living things directly. Everything else was so much dimmer, only illuminated by the light on all the living things.

A strange, strange world… He thought.

Adi had this look on his eyes often. This look of disbelief, at anything even remotely out of the ordinary, his hazel eyes widened, seeming very innocent.

But when Biv looked at Adi’s eyes, in his astonishment, he didn’t see innocence. This was a broken soul—he could see it in his eyes. There was an aura around this man, of uneasiness. Thinking about it gave Biv chills.

And yet his approach was fairly innocent, but it was his body language. The quickness in his walk. The stammering. Biv tried hard to laugh and comfort this man, but he made him feel uneasy. 

A few minutes later, they were on horses, Adi behind Biv because he had absolutely no idea how to ride a horse.

‘How you not know how to ride a horse?!’ Biv asked in surprise.

‘B-Biv. You saw my planet, no o-one r-r-rides horses anymore. We have cars.’

‘I don’t know this cars. Truly fascinating place, your planet is being.’

Adi sniggered and shook his head. All of this seemed too good to be true to him. And why did these people look like they were medieval? Odd, the time difference.

‘W-w-why doesn’t your planet have cars?’

‘Who knows this thing, Adi? Our planet has its own good things, such as yours has the gun, we have the Wielders. Look child, all your questions will be answered, you come with me, no? Relax, boy.’

   ***

‘Well, my gracious lord, what is the meaning of this calling?’ The King Tristan asks. 

‘I have invited you to my home—well your other home—for we have a visitor—’

‘Adi Walkman. I am aware,’ King Tristan said with a smile and a nod, ‘originally, he was to report to my palace!’ He said in excitement. His face suddenly became dull, ‘And yet you call upon your old king to ride all the way here, at your pleasure?’ He grimaced innocently, as if he was wearing the facade of a troubled old man.

Nathanial and King Tristan stood at the porch of Nathanial’s home, which was more and more seeming to become permanent. Nathanial called upon the king in order to speak with this particular Adi Walkman. The King’s carriages were right outside his porch, guards standing tall in shiny blue armour with the ren-call of the peacock emblazoned on each of them. The King really did bring a large party wherever he went, but that is because he is the last king in any of the kingdoms, of course, since now all kingdoms have moved on to a system of rank-lordship, except Gr’Erhin, which was still a monarchy.

Tristan was dressed in a fine silk robe, blue, with the symbol of a peacock stitched as a design pattern on his robe. He was a humble man, with an old wrinkly face and short, fine hair which was grey. He stood tall, taller than most, and was a confident man with a confident walk. 

Of course, even though the king was here, all eyes were on Nathanial, as usual. In Kenneth, or anywhere in Loazer, Nathanial always had the most respected looks from anyone. His figure made him stand strong. He had long, blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, and his arms confidently by his sides. He wore a large fur cape and a leather vest stocked with a buckle on the front. 

‘My King, I didn’t want to offer you the inconvenience of coming into your home twice in one day, better to have a fresher perspective on things when dealing with an important matter.’

‘Ah! It is naught but logic!’ The king replied sarcastically.

The King and Nathanial shared a laugh, but all he could think about is how the old hag wouldn’t teach him the ways of Wielding. Every time he met Tristan, as sincere a man he was, Nathanial only cared about one thing. He had made it his life’s objective. Learn the stances, learn the patience and mental state of mind it takes to know the ways of Wielding, bending light to one’s will, and he would need the assistance of the king if he were to learn. He needed Tristan for his enlightenment.

Thinking about it made Nathanial frown and put him in a position of uneasiness. The king spotted this and so he walked over to Nathanial.

‘Son, you are a tremendous boy. You are destined for greatness, I see it in your eyes. Your father has put you next in line as lord of the west. Trust in him, that is your path.’

‘My king—Tristan, there is one conquest that I wish to achieve. I want to be a Wielder. Why do you refrain from teaching me the stances? You have said yourself that I am destined for greatness, then help me!’ He said with impatience.

The king sighed, folding his arms.

‘It is not in your path, son. You must trust me on this as I have lived my years. This isn’t what you are meant for.’

‘Oh is that the case? Or is it because you don’t want a Wielder in the west, or more importantly, a Rolan Wielder! Admit it. That is the true reason behind your abstinence.’

‘Nathanial, I can not keep telling you, this is not a road of life you will walk, please I request you to end the discussion.’

Natanial shook his head and walked back to his majestic white stallion.

It irritated him so much when he would not get something he wanted, especially when he worked hard for it. He worked every service for the king he could, and he even advised the king on his behalf, learned stances and other things in trying to convince him, but he just wasn’t able to. Maybe the king was right, Ah maybe Krilin himself decided it is not in Nathanial’s destiny, so be it. He would not be a Wielder, now or even ever. So his expedition in Gr’Erhin was finally over, he decided. He had nothing to do here, and a kingdom to help rule back home which his incompetent father can not manage anymore. The twenty-eight year-old was very persevering, covering most expeditions on behalf of the family name and managing the kingdom back home. He always took help from his older brother Rothrin, but in the end he was always the more logical one to take decisions and help his kingdom, yet not the wisest, for he was quite hot headed.

So he had absolutely no reason to be here anymore.

‘My company and I will depart tommorow, a twenty-fourth past sunrise. I am ever grateful for the gratitude you have shown me.’

King Tristan was taken aback at his words. He had helped him so much, offered his every service possible when required, be it a few extra guards for the king’s army or even personal advice, he was a very smart and confident man who added a whole new dynamic to Tristan’s rule in King, and having a Rolan was a very powerful asset for his kingdom. And so this unforeseen decision led the king to be sort of taken aback.

‘Uh…very well then, Nathanial, it has been a pleasure.’ The king said, with a smile. 

Nathanial ignored him, looking away and back, ‘Lord Daren, make the necessary preparations, I’ve one thing left here.’

‘And that is?’ Tristan questioned.

‘Meeting this famed Adi Walkman.’