Diary of Channa Mokart, pages 3-5 - 2nd ND of Fourthmonth VC413

I paddled as smoothly towards shore as I could, barnacles mocking me from beneath mossy beards and thick laughter sinking to meet me beneath the dock. I stood on the shore and shook myself like a mutt. The dock man was still recovering from his bout of hysteria; once he finished I made eye contact and made to leave. Him and the veiled man regarded me as I trudged towards the grass - a beaten soldier, swimming once again towards a sea of wheat declining to meet a less-than-lush forest. Once the last member of the consortium had boarded the boat and the dock man had occupied himself with other contemptuous thoughts, I dropped into a crouch and made my way through the underbrush in hopes he was too oblivious to suspect anything of my movement. I was naught more than a few waving blades of grass.

Mmm.. Stock photos

I crept back towards the beach, shielded by golden grass. The journey to the beach wasn't long, though it would have been shorter f I could have ran.

The boat itself – no giant, by any terms: the use of the word ‘galley’ was debatable – could support some thirty-odd people on the top deck. A lower deck supported ta dozen prisoners that had been rented from the king, enslaved to row the thing. She was no beast, nay, but certainly no shrimp. The galley was  intimidating – two times my height, threatening me with its creaking plywood entirety - but at least it obscured me from the dockhand’s view. A few hooded heads bobbed in and out of sight overtop the ridge that secured the sides of the top deck. They were too distracted – plotting, conspiring of Delphajor’s future. I would have burned them all.

Dripping and pissed off as I already was, the steps I took back into the sea failed to bother me. I swam along the side of the boat, an edgy eel snaking between oars. The thick wood stretched upwards towards the deck, perforated by a series of small openings. On the opposite side of these openings sat slaves or prisoners that I couldn't waste my time sympathizing for; I had my eyes set on my goal. The galley's portholes had become receptacles for the oars, and each one protruded like a pointing finger into the water. Beneath each of the dulled portholes was a protruding ridge, punctured with lines of small holes that looked like sufficient hand holds. The galley had a dozen oars, six on each side, and sixteen portholes. That left two unoccupied portholes on each side, and about twenty feet between me and the closest one.

A dozen lunges towards the ridge had me feeling optimistic, but before I reached it, the oars began to move. Slowly at first, they moved with a power that rendered my body quite useless. Like massive, angry whales, they pounded the water rhythmically, sending the sea around me into a broiling soup of splashing seaweed and confused pike. I grabbed ahold of the nearest oar before it could swing me under the water - a current produced by a slave would not suck me to my death.

The strain on my arms was immense, but the strain on my mind was much stronger. Propelled by the oar, I reached for the handhold. Iron wire tightened into the very fabric of my biceps; my body waved through the water like a fan being flapped by a geisha. The oar swung forward and my fingers brushed against solid wood before I was pulled back; I hissed to distract myself from the agony. Settling both hands on the oar, half-blinded by the whiplash of water, I hoisted myself up another foot closer to the boat. The oar swung 'round again and I reached out. My hand gripped solid wood, my feet simultaneously dislodged from the oar and I found myself hanging from the handhold. My feet hung in the ocean; the current stole one of my leather footwraps. I was able to pull myself up and rest my elbows upon the ridge, gasping while air fought the seawater for the occupance of my lungs.

Here, I hung like a sloth.

Channa Mokart, 2nd ND, of Fourthmonth, 413 V.C.

Missing men, lost children, burned crops, stolen texts. Rumours were always gilded with some sense of truth, and I wondered what rumours would circulate after the Consortium's  departure from the Everglade. Two of the others who'd been waiting earlier had fled into the forest when they'd seen the Consortium and hadn't returned - perhaps they'd retreated from whence they'd come. Cowards - if they had family on the Everglade that they'd abandoned, I'd be sure to kick some sense into them.

The Everglade was a tiny islet, and thus Delphajor was a tiny town - a fishing village by label and a lethargic enclave in reality. Half of the population in Delphajor had inherited wealth from vast family fortunes across the country and stumbled upon the small city by word of mouth; few had heard of it, even fewer had bothered to explore it. The ferry was privately funded by one of the town’s more wealthy components – though the dock man had been hired by the King to tax the ferry’s patrons. Aye, Delphajor was tiny – its inhabitants quiet, its history bland, and its presence incredible. I relished my every trip across the inlet on the boat – to see the docks and the market pier arise from the sea would relentlessly bathe me in nostalgia. This said, I am certain the Consortium didn’t value Delphajor’s aesthetics. Neanderthals.

These are thoughts I add only to this journal, for they certainly weren't in my mind at the moment – my thoughts were doused by the boiling heat sizzling in my heart. I could not relax - some would say breathe deeply, I would tell them that meditation is a failed pursuit that clouds my head with smog as it pollutes everything bright in my soul. I did not care what the Consortium wanted – or I did not want to know – I only knew that I wanted to be on the island.

I'm told that I wear a face when I'm bottling my rage; a dark-eyed, sullen stare that obscures the soft glaze that often covers my pupils; the orbs seems to boil; my lips - taut as they normally are - curve in the most subtle of leers; the fork of Satan's tail arisen in my sulk.

It was this face that I'm sure I wore now as I sat, alone on the tree stump, feeling each heartbeat fuel the thousand suns burning inside me like a great bellows pumped by the hands of Vistah. I didn't have the mental capacity to question why the Consortium was travelling in such a large group - or, if I did, I was far too preoccupied thinking about slicing them up to care. Anger is quite efficient at masking clarity of thought.

My gaze locked on the horizon, refusing to acknowledge the galley and the oars that would soon began to churn the water around it. Delphajor waited, erected barely in sight on a tiny island in the middle of the inlet, forever unchanging. The village stood as patiently for my arrival as it always had. Two more hours until I'd see this boat again, two more hours that I risked my rage bursting into a hemorrhage, two more hours until I was going to get the fuck off this rock and back to Delphajor.

I had never been prone to blackouts, but my there is a gap in my memories between the time I sat stewing on the stump and the time when I stood back on the dock with my knife out. There was no fear in the dock man's eyes as I pointed my dirk at his chest – I saw only a reflection of my own rage. Was I being irrational? Doubtful.I didn't have time to think about rationality it before I felt an arm wrap itself around me from behind. I'd neglected to correct my stance and neglected to notice the consort standing on the ramp that led from the dock to the boat. It didn't take lot of strength for the Consortium crony to toss me off the edge of the dock. An arm coiled around my throat and a jab at a focal point behind my kneecaps was all it took to send me tumbling into the water to make myself some slimy new enemies.

Water and seaweed quickly took up residence in my throat and left me spluttering too hard to be angry; I had a brief moment of thoughtless appreciation for the fact that the water was warm and I'd dressed lightly. Had I worn heavier clothes, I would have sunk to the sea floor and had to shed my gear, crawling back onto the seashore entirely exposed to the laughter of the dockhand and the Consortium. I did not know if the Consortium had a sense of humour or not, but I had a sense of dignity that I intended to maintain.

My sword had vanished, its sheath floated limply by my side like a lazy piece of kelp. Dampened by the sea and by the humiliation; I gauged it unworthy to dive in search of my blade. The water was murky and deep. Besides, I had a boat to catch.

Diary 1, pages 1-2

Channa Mokart’s diary –

These words are written beneath flickering lamplight and beside aggressive snores in surely the most decrepit of Courtlock's inns. The second Nightsday of fourthmonth, V.C. 413

"I’ve seen two bloody ships come, dock, and leave again. I’m sick of waiting." I’d grown up next to the ocean; the sweet salty smell of it was often reassuring. Right now it pissed me off.

"I'm sorry sir. Civilians will be issued discounts once the vessel is available; the Consortium and all entities sanctioned by Tiranon III reserve priority. You know this.”

The dock hand would have been a fool not to notice the anger festering in my sidelong smirk. The Consortium could get fucked. People had family on the Everglade, people had appointments on the Everglade, people had shit to do, on the bloody Everglade. Shit that was going to be severely affected by the Consortium's presence. Heads would roll, let it be known, if I lost another family member to the hands of the Consortium.

Never mind that I was one of only four people stuck here at Sandbark's dock– the Everglade was hardly a popular travel destination – or that I personally had no deadlines meet. Nevermind that the galley usually only departed twice a day. This did nothing to quell my rage; and my rage did nothing to quell the inkling of fear it was trying to stifle. The Consortium was not a sight any civilian south of Salenon wanted to see. Nobody had ever complimented my sanity, but if I’d been in my right mind I would have sliced up the dockman and boarded with them. If the Consortium was heading towards the rest of family, then I, too, would follow them. Delphajor (aye, the Everglade had but a single village but its residents were still stubborn enough to give it a separate name) had a population wildly unfit to fend off any members of the Consortium.

The dock hand’s words fell flat, and my hand relieved its habitual grip on the hilt of my dirk (I often wondered whether my absent-minded wringing of its hilt had done more wear than my grip during actual battle. My brother, Cybil, would have scoffed - doubting that a deathmatch with a deer or dog could be called a battle.) I realized that accepting defeat was the wiser choice. Slicing the dock man certainly wouldn't improve the speed of traffic; if anything it'd guarantee that I'd never get home because I'd end up battered and beaten in one of the Salenon's shitty rural carriages, with a one-way passage to stew in the Capital’s dungeons. Or perhaps not - if I was lucky, they'd throw me into a labour job on the boat itself and I'd be forced to perpetually row back and forth from my destination until my sentence was served.

Neither were great alternatives. It was best that I left the dock with its leaning benches and found a seat some distance away on the same tree stump I'd spent most of the last four hours on. The other travelers had mostly given up on waiting – perhaps they valued little in Delphajor, perhaps they were intelligent and did not want to follow the only omen that could spark fear province-wide. The few who remained were scattered about Sandbark, on the beach and the forest, milling around like alleycats and muttering irritated nothings. (Dude from Denderon) was here, his great beard bobbing in rhythm with the curse words he spat – he had a lady in Delphajor, he’d not want her to be trapped on the island with only the Consortium for company.

I unsheathed my sword and let it drop to the ground with the same soft thud it had made the last two times it had coveted itself a comfortable spot amongst the blades of grass - the millions of tiny swords smithed by nature itself. My fists clenched themselves relentlessly under the rhythmic growling that my vocals directed towards the dockman, under scrutiny of a gaze that I hoped would set him ablaze.

Things did not bode well. The Consortium is a harbinger of death; a group of the King's henchmen who served as the empire's mercenaries, blessed (cursed, perhaps) by a right to impunity. Aye, I did nothing to question their presence, but this knowledge lingered in the back of my mind like an ember, driving me to my urge to return home as if I was being whipped by the Consortium’s ominous ties to suffering. I was watching a caricature of the Reaper himself ride the waves towards home. If I was more of a man (or an idiot) I would have swam.

I'd reason to believe the Consortium played part in my father's disappearance and, ultimately, my exile to the bloody Everglade. Well, it wasn't much an exile, more of a responsibility drilled into me by my useless mother - but the rumours that flooded Sanjier after his disappearance would suggest that they'd played a part. That was one of the only times I'd heard of the Consortium traveling in groups. If ever, two or three could be glimpsed in a passing carriage on quiet highways, but ne'er had I heard tell of the entire Consortium traveling together.

Which is why I wanted to slit the goddamned dock hand's throat and board the boat myself. 

Prologue --

Skylan Aviel, of the ex-Consortium 6th Generation

Memories dated 1st Sunsday of fifthmonth, V.C. 505

There was nothing bright this eve.

The night was dark; the skies were asleep. My clothes were dark - the incompetent stars couldn’t shine bright enough to illuminate the bloodstains. My accomplices were dark; veiled shadows hunched under the guise of duty.

Still, the darkness that hung in my heart was far deeper. The darkness in my heart had sucked all but the last flickering torchlight from my soul; the darkness in my heart had sunk over me like a diseased blanket, threatening to suffocate what was left of my mind. Perhaps sleep was not such a bad alternative.

I would never call this place home, but we were here. Padded footsteps thumping against solid earth were replaced by crackling twigs and the sound of fallen leaves being crumpled.  Alabaster, ahead, held a torch, though I could have followed the path with my eyes shut. I’d walked it many times already.

Around a corner, the forest became more evident as ignited lampposts revealed themselves. Beyond, ramshackle tarpaulin tents glowed, mocking us – were we worth so much less than those that we had just slaughtered? Their homes were ornamented with lace furnishings, graced by paintings of ancestors, swimming in soft incenses – our sagging huts oozed with dew, bunking with the last of the summer’s mosquitos and an army of invasive spiders.

A home to none other than my brothers and I, the impugned Consortium. A fetid hovel to the rest of the world, even to the king who so graciously housed us here.

Could we be worth so little? Perhaps we were – dismal, crippled, lost, heartless. The morning sunlight would offer us nothing bright; even the evening’s shadow could not offer us solace from ourselves. There was naught that we deserved.

We got less than that.

A lurid memory flashed through my mind, igniting the sky. They had been so bright. So young and innocent, so fresh. Happy, perhaps – though I doubted I’d ever know the feeling. There had been three, warming themselves around the hearth; the two children – the boy, a darkskin, a nest of black hair perched upon his head, the girl with blonde hair tied in buns - the mother’s soft hair flowed through her fingers as she watched them with an absent smile.

The smile had been torn from her faster than her children had; a life does not take long to sever. How little changes when the breath is taken from a room. The incense still burned, the hearth still smoked, supper still simmered upon it. We had been quick. The mother’s scream was shrill, shriller once we reached for her children. It did not last long, nor would we have worried if it had. The boy we incapacitated quickly before tossing his limp body into a burlap sack and hoisting him over our shoulders.

A drawn carriage awaited us on the edge of town. The boy didn’t stir – from fear or pain, I could not tell. We left him in the carriage – a bonus of our harvest - to be taken to the castle once we’d arrived at the outskirts of our enclave.

The only sentiment of his family’s existence was now smeared into my robe. The King would be pleased.

I crawled into my cot, not bothering to close my eyes. Sleep would never come.

Perhaps it’s better that way. A life like this is better lived through hazy eyes.