Channa Mokart, 2nd ND, of Fourthmonth, 413 V.C. (pages 5-7)

The lack of planning in my spontaneous decision began to bare its teeth as Sandbark sailed away from me. Since the first time I'd sailed towards the Everglade with mom and my siblings, I'd contemplated how difficult it'd be to swim from the mainland to Delphajor, or if I'd succumb to fatigue halfway and drown. All the analysis in the world hadn't given me an x yet, and I wasn't keen to find out so I was glad the ride was not a long one by boat. Delphajor was visible from the mainland. The galley crested on wards, ignorant to the parasite clinging off of its oars for survival.

Describing the pain my body was wracked with seems pointless and impossible, not due to its intensity (though it was, in a word, agony) but due to the intriguing sensation that a writhing muscle provides. Naught like a cut, naught like a lash, and naught like a bruise, the rising crescendo of my muscles' violent protest rose to a deafening pitch; each fiber strumming a dissonant note that only pain could harmonize - the only vocals in this ensemble were the grunts and gasps spluttering from my mouth. The oars had achieved synchronicity; they now cut the water smooth like a dull knife - and, a quiet knife. It was a wonder the consorts couldnt' here me groaning.

By the time the dock to Delphajor grew more distinct, my entire body felt as if I'd been dealt fifty lashes. Each joint hissed in disdain, each muscle throbbed. Despite the pain, I could fall back on the fact that I'd bested the Consortium, and I'd bested the dock man's false sense of authority. The both of 'em can get fetched.

That being said, I still hadn't a clue how I was going to make a safe landing without raising a ruckus. Surely nobody upon Delphajor’s docks was expecting a dripping (albeit unarmed) swordsman to be hanging off the ship. They would point fingers, Consortium members would follow the fingers with their eyes, and I'd be discovered. Promptly killed, too. Or worse.

Yet, that was the least of my worries.

The wind had been gentle today; the only sounds - aside from the occasional blatting of a lazy gull - was the churn of the oars, my own haggard breathing, and the whisps of conversation I'd overheard from two Consortium members who'd wandered below deck to scry on the slaves.

“Not something they deserve. Not this many."

“Hush yourself. Our orders are our orders.” Classic words to suit anyone who was more than happy not to have to think for themselves.

“It is too powerful. Too unholy, this imbusion.” Imbusion? A term I’d never heard before. One that I now wish I had never heard at all.

“Yes. Dangerous if untamed, and incredibly powerful if used properly. This is where we come in, brother. We are the tamers of imbusion.”.This was where my worry stemmed – a massive group exacting the wishes of holy fanatics, of the Militia, claiming to possess wild and dangerous powers. If anybody but the Consortium had spoken those words, I would have dismissed them as a fool.

A consort was born into impunity - to my knowledge, a civilian could not join the Consortium. The Militia? Sure, but not the Consortium. The Consortium was tightly tied to the empire and - prior to what I'd seen earlier - were never known to even speak to citizens. Perhaps the man who'd spoken to the dock man earlier had served as the group's messenger; perhaps the dockman was more connected with the Empire than I’d thought. They had to communicate somehow. Regardless, the Consortium were engraved with scars of executions, relocations, kidnappings, and the ensuing ransoms. The recruitments for Vistah's Militia were enforced by the Consortium. If the King wanted something done that went against his own facade of morals, the Consortium would do it for him.

Everyone had something of a different opinion of the Consortium’s doings, but the general consensus was they had grown into blasphemous murderers. Alas, these days we weren't even to speak badly of the Consortium – Impugned as they were, a Consortium member could take any utterance of their actions as an act of conspiracy; those who were accused could be apprehended, beaten, or slain on spot. Aye, most sane men would stay silent about the Consortium, and even more silent around them. If even these pages were discovered, I would certainly be jailed for conspiracy.

Our fears were not unfounded. It would not be strange to turn down a different street if a consort walked your way; to keep your doors locked for a day or two after you had heard they were in your village. Where the Consortium went, death would follow. They left misery behind them like a streak behind a slug, and the story was sure to be the same here. At least, these days. I heard tell that when I was a child, the Consortium had not been as bloodlusted as they are now. They'd served as something of a discreet security force - not the King's mercenaries, but a national source of safety. Their hands had always been stained with blood, but years ago, it had been for just reason. At least, it had seemed so.

“It is as good a place of any, brother. We have come to a village with a disposable population.”

Disposable? “You speak as if their lives are worth less than any others.”

"They are, Maluk. The King has decreed as such."

A dejected sigh was the only response.

I didn't like that, and I didn't like how much sense it made.