Vast is The Universe, or Saerium, and the planes within; the planes of Merthand, Imecir, and Daecaerilan. Mortals, Gods, and The Dead, respectively. There is, or rather was, a plane known as The Aether, but Merthand long ago replaced it. The Aether still lingers, however, seeping its magic into Merthand.

-Saerium Historia;

Anapholiam, Lord of the Gods

THE SALTY SWEET SMELL of the Tarfen sea whipped at Fringirra's face. She was used to the sea lapping at the shores next to the Sethter estate, but the isles were burning now, the victim of a pirate raid. In a hurry, Fringirra, her father, and a Sethter knight had launched from the docks on a new boat, freshly bought off the Mach'reid factory and powered by a newly developed coal engine. Her father, Duke Farothar Sethter, had insisted it was the fastest ship. It was out of control, and the Duke was holding the seats for dear life. Fringirra glared at the only other passenger, Sir Casther Lepto, and decided it was time to take initiative. She grabbed hold of the tiller, attempting to steer it somewhere, anywhere, but it resisted her effort stubbornly. She looked around for a switch or mechanism.

Sir Lepto wobbled his way over to her side of the boat. “My lady, please let me handle this. I have a little more experience—”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sir, please take the tiller conveniently at the moment I’ve decided to take charge.”

Farothar slapped his hand against the side of the boat. “Fringirra! Do as the knight says. You’re barely 20, you don’t know how to steer a ship.”

“You’re one to talk,” she said with a snort. She reluctantly handed the tiller over to Sir Lepto. 

He rotated the tiller, and with a click, it unlocked itself, allowing him to steer. He then reached to the main engine body, slowing it down slightly, but still keeping it at a healthy pace. With a thunk and a sigh, he sat down.

Fringirra gazed back at the orange glow in the distance; Colb, Mellis, Lebir… all the isles she knew were in flames. She turned to Farothar.

“Father… why did they burn our home?”

Farothar sighed. “Well… they wanted—”

At this, the ship crashed, prow first, into a jutting rock. It swung around the rock like a fulcrum and lever, and the engine smashed into another rock in the reef. It detonated. The boat blew into splinters and chunks; all Fringirra saw before hitting the water was Sir Lepto flying through the air and hitting his head on a rock. Brain matter oozed from his gaping skull, and the salty water surrounding the rock was now sullied with blood.

Her dress, heavy with water, began to drag her down into the depths. I wish we’d had time for me to change out of this thing, she thought. As the air in her lungs began to dwindle, she saw a sharp piece of bracing from the boat sinking down with her. She struggled over to it, and as she managed to grasp it, it cut her palm. She kicked off her shoes and started to desperately cut off the longer parts of her dress; her vision was darkening fast. Finally, most of the bottom was gone, and she began to swim up, her aching and cold muscles struggling to pull her weight. When she got to the surface, she bumped her head up against something, a piece of the boat. She scrambled on to the top of it, gripping the edge with her uninjured hand, while curling up around the cut one. It was stinging from the seawater and bleeding like there was no tomorrow. The new Duchess of the Sethter Cartographers fell into sleep from the combination of blood loss, cold, aching muscles, and depression.

 
***
 
 
She dreamt of a cave, darker than the night, and yet she could see dimly. A figure strode back and forth in front of her. It was about to strike her down, and she reached for something, anything; a glimmer, a thud into her hand, she grasped, she cut, and in her anger and anguish, she screamed in a voice that was not her own:

"Child of Taran. Do not despair. Lead the legions of your siblings in arms. You will rejoice by the end, Fringirra of the Undying Blade."

 
***
 
 
She jolted awake, and thought about her not-voice's words. Taran? Legions? Undying Blade… Then, as she slowly started to take in her surroundings, she saw beams. Wooden beams, with unlit lanterns hanging from them, but she still felt the rocking of the sea. This was a ship. She felt cold metal on her wrists, and began to panic. How did she get here? Where was her father? Sir Lepto might be dead, but what about Farothar? She decided that for now the only thing to do was try to sleep. Try to regain her strength, maybe escape. Maybe. She closed her eyes and put her head down.

Half an hour later, she was still trying to sleep, and failing miserably. She then heard footsteps. They got closer and closer, and it sounded like two, maybe three people. They approached, standing around her, and she felt the butt of a spear poke her in the shoulder.

"It still sleeping?"

"Watchu think, Marco? Think it's medita'in'?"

'I dunno, but them Kesties do astrange things when they's in trouble."

"Ay, you got a point there. Hey, look at that! It's breathin' weird. Can't be sleepin'."

"Well, poke it again."

The man with the rod poked her in the chest. Hard. Her eyes jolted open, and she gasped at the shock.

"Didn't your parents ever teach you manners? Anapholiam above," she said, with painfully false confidence. Her eyes darted around the room, looking at the two men standing over her. They had ripped, baggy pants that barely reached their ankles, and one had no shirt, while the other had such an ill-fitting shirt that he might as well not be wearing one himself. Both had scars covering their bodies, and each wore a scowl.

'The heck’d you say to me, Kestie?"

She gulped, and looked around the room for an escape. There was a porthole in the corner, but no way to get to it. It led into open sea anyway.

"Wait, Durst. 'Er ears ain't knifey like a Kestie's. Not one point to 'em."

"Hm. You got a point there, heh. What're you, exactly?"

"My name is…" She hesitated. They would probably hold her for ransom if they found out she was the daughter of a Duke. But, who would they ransom against? She doubted her father was back to the isles… if he was even alive. "Is Fringirra Sethter."

"Def'nitly don't seem like no Kestie to me. Whatchu think, Durst?"

"I say we do the test. Grab the silver. That oughta make 'er talk, if'n she's a Kestie."

"Right." The one called Marco walked over to the back of the room, grabbing a lump of silver from a little barrel on the other side of the hull. He walked back over to her and reached over, silver in his hand and a cruel gleam in his eye. He pressed it to her forehead. Fringirra raised her eyebrow, as it did nothing. Nothing but feel like cold, hard metal. Marco slowly pulled it back with a similarly raised brow, and turned towards Durst.

"This'un ain't no Kestie. She din't react nothin' to the silver."

"Right. Guess she's safe then. Bring 'er up to the Cap'n."

"Aye."

Marco grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up. He reached behind her, undoing the manacles, and, seeing her chance, Fringirra bolted away, running up the stairs onto the deck. Her feet were bare, and splinters lodged themselves inside them. She reached the top, and skidded to a halt on the rough deck. The whole crew was on deck, an assortment of men and women, each equally rough and ragged. There was a score and a half, and they each turned towards Fringirra, eyes blazing. The sun beat down, the waves crashed, and suddenly every sound was louder than the last. Fringirra screamed, covering her ears, and collapsed onto the deck, with tears falling to the deck. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for it all to end, and fell into darkness once more.

"Sleep and wake, child of war. Despair not. Salvation is upon you. Despair… not."

 
***
 
 
Fringirra awoke covered in sweat, lying face down on a soft cot. She immediately sat up, looked around, and noticed that she was in a much nicer place of captivity than before. The wood was lacquered, the lanterns plated in silver, and the walls were lined with glass bookshelves full of books. The cot she was on seemed to have been added there specifically for her, as it stuck out like a sore thumb with its dirty sheets and rough-hewn frame of oak. A voice came from behind a dressing screen in the corner.

"Ah, I hear that you're awake. Just in time, as well; I just got back on the boat. Are you comfortable?" The voice sounded rough… but the kind of rough that a silk gown gains after years of use.

Fringirra, a bit dazed, nodded her head. Upon realising that the person probably couldn't see through walls, she said in a rather hoarse voice, "Yes, I guess. Who…" she coughed, "who are you?"

"I am Captain Ferenard Arschteck. But you can call me Fern." At this, the Captain stepped out from behind the dressing screen, and his clothes were a stark contrast to that of his crew; dull crimson trousers, with shining steel greaves with gold inlays of the waves. A green tunic, tied with dark brown leather, with a light grey gambeson underneath. His bracers were the same as his greaves. A sword hung at his side, a curved, short scimitar. It had a leather wrapped handle, worn with use, and a single jewel on the pommel, a blood red ruby, which glistened in the lantern light. He had a well groomed, short beard, which was obviously once a deep red, now shot through with grey and white, and long semi-unkempt hair.

He rolled his shoulders, and began to circle her slowly, as if inspecting her. "Those clothes on you aren't cutting it, girl. Ah, and…" He paused in front of her. "What's your name?"

"Um… my name's Fringirra."

He stopped circling his eyes staying on her a couple seconds longer; a slight smile touched his face. "Yes, that will work. Alrighty then, BOYS! LET THE COMMANDER ABOARD!"

At this, the clunking of a ramp could be heard outside the cabin, and multiple sets of footsteps made their way towards the door. It opened, and a woman in a long blue coat came through the doorframe. She looked inquisitively at Fringirra, and then back at Fern. "Who's this?"

"I'll introduce you two later. Now, Fringirra, go and put this on." Fern tossed a light blue dress and a pair of plain wool breeches at her, and motioned towards the dressing screen. "Go on now. We're leaving the room for a bit, so you don't have to worry about privacy."

As she stepped behind the screen, she heard the door close behind them. She peeled off the ruined remains of her old dress, stiff with saltwater and sweat, and slipped into the new dress and breeches. The feel of soft fabric was nice; a good change of pace from the uncomfortable tightness of the corset and courtly dress her father made her wear.

That thought caused a pang within her; where was her father?

Yet the more she pushed the thought from her mind, the deeper it dug in. She walked out from behind the screen, pacing in the middle of the room, and taking deep breaths. She looked towards the bookshelves, and found herself wandering towards them.

She walked over to them and peered through the glass, hoping to find something that piqued her interest.

"Sharnell Historia… Sekel's Dictionary… Orcestral: The Language and History of the Orcs, Abridged… Tarania, Goddess of War… Tales from Beyond the Grave: Daecaerilan, Land of the Dead…" She looked back at the fourth book. The name Tarania sounded familiar. She remembered it from her Imecillic studies, of course, but it struck a different chord as well. She tried to open the bookcase, but it was locked. The key must be around here somewhere… she thought, and crept over to the large desk that sat facing the back window. She tried to open the drawers, but they too were locked. She looked out the window, realising she hadn't seen where they were. The ship was docked, and outside she saw the unmistakable design of the Carnes Imecireon, the largest building in Sharnell. It loomed over the rest of the city, and an air of religious fervour seemed to emanate from its tiled roof and shining windows.

"Carnes? Great. Simply wonderful." The last time she'd gone to Carnes, she was in the company of her father and his entourage, riding through the muddy, sewage filled streets of the so-called 'Jewel of the World.'

She heard footsteps once again, and she rushed to sit down on the cot. The door swung open just as she sat down, and Captain Fern strode in. "Ah, you're dressed. Good. I have some shoes for you; the muck isn't pleasant on bare feet." He handed her a pair of leather boots, mostly practical but still a bit stylish. "Go on, put them on. I hope they fit." They were a little big, but they did. Beside Fern was the woman from earlier; her hair was long and dark, and she had practical, almost military clothing underneath her blue coat. Her eyes roved over Fringirra. Fern gestured to the woman. "This is Commander Lanstrome. She manned the main trading lines between Saenine Forest and Carnes from 3874 til 3881."

"How do you do? That is my title indeed, but you, dear lady, can call me Milián."

As Milián bowed over Fringirra's hand, she saw the raised cheekbones and larger eyes that marked a half elf, or Kestie. She had the unmistakable acrobatic drawl that told her origin: the Saenine Forest, home of the elfs. She towered over Fringirra, at somewhere over two metres.

Milián turned to Fern. "Lead on then, Fern. Weren't we going to Hamial Square?"

"Ah yes. Come then, Fringirra. Follow us, we'll go to the Alderman's Ale Tavern and… discuss. We're meeting an associate."

Fern and Milián walked out the door, and Fern motioned for Fringirra to follow them. She stepped out the door, and the sun was far brighter than she was expecting; it shone down like it wanted to cleanse the stench emanating from the city nearby. The stench, more specifically, consisted of a couple of things: The dockside marketplace was right next to the ship, and the variety of scents coming from it confused the nose. The smell of perfumes and baked goods mixed and mingled with the smell of week-old pickled fish, fresh pork, and, bizarrely, orchids. Sewage dumped into the Tarfen sea, and the wind seemed to always blow its scent in one's direction.

They stepped off of the boat, and down a ramp. Fringirra thought about running away, but, noticing Fern's hand on his Scimitar, decided against it. Her eyes began to wander; she'd ridden down this street before. It had changed much since then, almost every building had a different colour than last she remembered.

"Beautiful buildings, eh Fringirra?" said Milián. "Lived in that one there a year or two ago," she said, indicating a dilapidated building with peeling green paint. Its door was bright red, despite the weathering around it. "Ah, good times. Have you ever been to Carnes before, Fringirra?"

Fringirra blurted out, "Yes! …or, no. But, I-"

"Not to worry, dear. I know exactly how you feel. You just met us, you're in a new place, you're nervous. Let's just get to that tavern, I'm thirsty."

They walked through the Tatter district, and, as they passed an abandoned but seemingly once-rich house, they heard some loud commotion, yelling and clanging. "Keep walking, the Ratatat is the last place you want to attract attention from," muttered Fern.

You're one to talk, thought Fringirra, glancing at his Scimitar.

As they walked, the smell of aether-steam filled the air. It was like a mix of peppermint, pine needles, and burnt hair. It was coming from the factories on the far side of the city, processing the raw metal and wood that was shipped in from the sea. Fringirra coughed.

They reached Hamil square—which was, in fact, more of a lopsided pentagon— hustling and bustling with people buying, selling, performing, drinking, eating, puking, and a myriad of other things. The tavern was across the square and had quite a few people inside, getting some drink and breakfast in their stomachs before heading to their jobs.

"Hmmm… not very private in there. We might have to rent a room," said Fern, peering in through the window. "Well, let's go in; don't want to keep our friend waiting."

They walked through the door, and Fern led the way towards a grizzled dwarven woman sitting in the middle of the room. "Helepta! So good to see you. How long has it been?" he exclaimed, giving the woman named Helepta a hearty thunk on the shoulder.

"If you're any louder, the mountains will wake, you buffoon," She responded, although Fringirra could tell she was holding back a smile.

"Well, let's rent a room, eh?" said Milián, to which Helepta shook her head.

"Already taken care of. Follow me."

"Wonderful! What a blind eye sees, eh?" said Milián.

Helepta hoisted herself up, and led them upstairs to a room with a severely burnt door. She opened it, revealing a room with an upside down bed in the middle, to act as a makeshift meeting table. They sat down on the four chairs surrounding it.

"Well," said Helepta. "I think we have some business to discuss."