Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Zarik arrived to Marcovera by mid-morning. He’d flown across from Quacia on Kleine’s Sohr Khal form and he thanked the Lotharro, then bid him farewell. He hitched his two travel packs on his shoulder. He might’ve packed too much, but he required more clothes to choose from in the town than whatever he could find at the Mayor’s estate.

He headed along the path that led past the beach and paused to stare at the ocean. The irises of his eyes flashed gold. He felt like he had a headache. Zarik closed his eyes. He shook his head. Then he continued onto Marcovera.

The fresh air felt nice on his lungs. A sea breeze drifted up from the coast that made the Biqaj feel renewed. He had fallen in love with Marcovera and he felt glad to be back, even if it was on his own, as Alistair still proved as busy as ever with his gradual negotiations with the Tirano populace. Zarik needed to get out of Quacia for a bit though, and what better than to check on his first ever dominion, the place that he was titled Lord of – even if it was only due to his marital relation to the true leader of the people.

He had a plan: he would drop off his belongings at the estate, then he would grab something to eat, then he would visit the orphanage and check on how the children were doing – especially Hazel – and he would talk with the headmistress about the state of their resources. He required carpenters to make new beds, but most of Marcovera’s wood-workers had died between the attacks. Then he would go around and visit with the townsfolk, those people he knew well from cleaning the streets of bloodshed together.

Zarik smiled as he walked past the new gates. The wooden perimeter was being reconstructed, this time fortified with stone and metal, not mere timber that could be splintered apart. It was a slow process, but he was impressed with how far the new structure had come along since his last visit. He waved to the workers, happy to see a couple vaguely familiar faces.

He’d almost gotten to the street where the Mayor’s Estate was… when he saw an odd and out-of-place sight down the way. Zarik dropped his bags. He peered at the silhouette of an athletic and lean man. Something about it didn’t seem right.

Zarik slipped into the nearest alley. He scaled a house, then crouched on the roof. The Biqaj carefully snuck along the edge, then leapt to the next roof to get a better look at whoever it was.

Once close enough, he recognized the tattoos. He knew that man… though he didn’t know why the man from Lair was naked in Marcovera. Zarik wondered if he might be hallucinating. His mind had been feeling off lately, and he didn’t know why… The blond leaned over the edge of the roof and gave a shout as he recalled the Lair crawler’s name, “Dosan Saito! I see you!”

He smiled slightly, not wearing any mask to hide the expression. Unlike the nude man, he was tightly dressed in various gray-colored layers of breathable cotton attire. His black leather gloves gripped the edge of the roof. His ice-blond bangs hung low, needing a trim and covering his eyes when flat, but with the leaned over posture… the Mark of Faith thinly carved red on his forehead showed obviously. Zarik asked, “Do you remember me? What are you doing in my town of all places?”

Dosan had hardly looked at him before the spry Quacian scaled the building and then reached the rooftop. Zarik reluctantly let himself be embraced in a hug. He might’ve resisted it, if he wasn’t feeling so shocked by what the other man wore and the strange fact that he was in Marcovera at all. He hoped the Quacian hadn’t come to spy for any of the Guilds.

Zarik shrugged at the recollection of his fake name. His gaze flickered over the… snake underwear… his focus lingered on it and so when he felt the faint kiss that stung the wound on his forehead, he startled somewhat. The surprised jolt ran through his body, but he remained where he was instead of taking a step back like he wanted.

The Mark of Faith on his forehead had been bleeding since he’d woken up. It didn’t want to seem to heal, though the blood was slow and just enough to smear. It was a mixture too of silver and crimson, which was strange as Zarik was Biqaj. His blood was meant to be purely silver and yet, the mark on his forehead had a surface color of scarlet red. In response to Dosan’s kiss, he felt a thin trickle of crimson roll alongside his slender nose. He tapped against it with his glove, tried to wipe it off, but only managed to smear the red blood across his cheek.

“Not exactly,” he answered honestly about whether Marcovera was his home of origin. While he could have lied, he didn’t see much purpose in doing so. It was better that Dosan knew the truth, unless… unless the Lair crawler was there as a spy an- “Fridgar?”

“Did you say Fridgar?” he asked again. He didn’t know that the two men knew each other. His thoughts raced at this change of events. He’d vaguely known that Fridgar had gone to an island, to help with the efforts, that Kaelrik was with him, but he didn’t know about Dosan. “I… oh… I wasn't aware you knew him also.”

He collected his composure, brushed his bangs over the mark to hide it from quick view so the townsfolk wouldn’t wonder about it. At the thought of Fridgar, he supposed he should’ve worn something over it like the blindfold that the Protean wore, only for his forehead. He looked at Dosan again, then chuckled, “Zarik is my true name, by the way. No, I don’t come from Marcovera. I am lord of this town.”

It was an odd thing to say, on a rooftop with the Wounded God’s mark slowly bleeding on his forehead while talking to a tattooed Vahanic man who stood in what amounted to a snake thong. Still, his posture stiffened. He realized that perhaps Dosan might think he was lying about it. He said, “Where is Fridgar now? And is he the reason you’re wearing that?”

Zarik gestured for the other man to follow him. He’d left his bags in the street and didn’t want to leave them discarded for long. He climbed down the building with ease, then jogged over to where he’d left the two canvas travel packs. Zarik picked them both up, turned to look at Dosan, and mentioned in rough Vahanic as he tried his tongue with the language, “I’ll give you a tour, yes, but only after I place these somewhere safe. The house is just up that way.”

Dosan explained how he knew Fridgar… and… Zarik stared at the man. That was… a lot to process at once. He’d know Fridgar for longer than he did, much longer. Dosan tried to kill himself? He loved Fridgar? Zarik felt a bit dizzy for how much information had gotten packed into essentially agreement that they both were mutual acquaintances with the same man, though it seemed that Dosan was more than a mere acquaintance and… Zarik’s eyes flashed orange briefly. Fridgar had another man, all this time? Did Alistair even know?

He inquired where Fridgar was, partly hoping that the Becomer wasn’t in his town. Not at the moment anyhow. He’d be returning soon, though, shared Dosan. Zarik weighed his options: whether to talk with the Protean or not about this new information he’d stumbled upon.

First things first, though, he had to get to the mayor’s estate and drop off his belongings. He felt a sense that Dosan was watching him closely, though he didn’t know why. He spoke to the other in his crude Vahanic, then smiled when Dosan complimented his attempt anyway. Zarik said in the Quacian language, “Thank you.”

He returned to common, “I’ve been trying to include it in my studies. It is difficult though, practicing from books however. I fear my pronunciations aren’t the best and I can only imagine my accent is… heavy…” he slowed his words – as Dosan took off the only thing that’d been covering the tattooed man’s nether regions from sight.

A silvery-blue blush rose to his cheeks. He stared directly at the place where the snake underwear had been and… he realized that he was staring. He looked away to the sky instead and said, “So-sorry, uhm…”

Dosan tied the snake skin around his forehead, to cover the bleeding Mark of Faith. Zarik hesitated. Did he… was the… his underwear was now on Zarik’s head. The blond’s mind reeled at this for so many reasons. He wanted desperately to take it off, but he paused when Dosan took a bag from him. It seemed a friendly gesture? The Quacian asked him about Marcovera.

They started on their walk to the Mayor’s estate. Zarik itched at the snake skin, barely able to restrain himself from taking it off. “I… uhm.. Dosan, you can’t just walk around here like that. You’re naked!”

“So, that’s probably the first thing you should consider when it comes to the culture – clothes. Clothes are a requirement. Did you not have to wear clothes in Lair? Because everywhere else in Quacia, you must or else the Tribunals would flog you,” he said swiftly. He felt certain this had to be Fridgar’s influence. That Lotharro didn’t even know the proper currency to buy shoes with. A sense to change this in Dosan overcame him.

“Follow me, we’ll get you some suitable clothes,” said Zarik as he walked up the steps to the largest house on the street – and arguably the largest home in the entire town. He retrieved a key, unlocked the front door, then led Dosan into the foyer. He gestured the Quacian toward the stairs, “Up and to the left, there’s the wardrobe past there. We’ll set these bags down in there, and also find you something you can wear.”

Zarik didn’t understand why Dosan felt so comfortable with his body being exposed to the public like that. He hurried to get the man away from the streets and hoped that not too many Marcoverans had seen one of their lords hustle a naked Quacian into the Mayor’s estate… he could only worry about what some of them might think if they knew about it. How could Fridgar just let the Lair dweller wander around like this? Without any chaperone to him?

They went up to the wardrobe, though he let Dosan get ahead of him. In the privacy of the estate, and because well… it was just there, Zarik surveyed the athletic man’s tail. He mentioned, “I don’t think I remember you having that tail when last we met? I feel as if I would’ve recalled something such as that.”

And then it clicked for him with the prior knowledge that had been shared finally sinking in. Zarik set the bags aside, then leaned against the frame of the wardrobe. He crossed his arms and watched as Dosan rummaged through the clothing. He winced when Dosan mentioned the guilds.

“They tried,” he admitted. “Well, one of them did. But they didn’t get very far with the effort. I heard Kephallonia was tougher, yes. I didn’t know you were part of that though… Before then, though, Marcovera had been assaulted by a Saltfetcher incursion. Those beasts slaughtered most of the populace, but… Alistair and I are making things right again.”

He nodded in approval to the pants that Dosan put on. Zarik didn’t move yet, then smiled when Dosan casually lounged with tail swinging. Zarik walked over and sat down on the lounge chair at the edge. He glanced over the tattoos he could see and asked, “So you’re a Becomer, being mentored by Fridgar?”

“What happened to Lair?” He paused, waiting for an answer, and then he added, “You mentioned that you love Fridgar? Do-is that… are you two together then? Have you been?” He couldn’t help it. He was too curious to parse out his questions. He wanted to know exactly what Dosan’s relation to Fridgar was. Zarik, after all, knew what relation he had with his own mentor: Alistair.

A realization occurred to him and Zarik asked, “Has he spoken to you about me at all? Or about Alistair?”

Zarik didn’t answer about the query about smuggling, why he’d met Dosan in the first place. It didn’t seem important to him, and he didn’t want to accidentally be led into explaining how that particular contact had been skinned alive by his father. So, he avoided the conversation entirely and answered about Marcovera’s troubles with the guild.

It was true, though, a lot had transpired since Zarik met Dosan on that visit to Lair.

He sat down beside the other on the lounge couch, then examined the tail by sight. Zarik lightly slapped it away from his face when the tail poked him. The blond reached up and took the snake skin off his head. He tossed it over to rest where Dosan had been before climbing the ceiling. He didn’t care if his Mark of Faith started to bleed again. Zarik fixed his hair and ran his fingers through it.

"...among other things" What other things would Fridgar mentor in that wasn’t Becoming? …killing? He supposed something to do with strength was a possibility, but Zarik’s mind traveled in a direction that made him truly wonder about what the relation between the attractive Quacian and the Lotharro were.

Zarik sighed. So Dosan had abandoned Quacia, to what- to walk around Marcovera? He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it in the slightest, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. An intuitive grasp to his gut, however, told him that it was something that he couldn’t ignore. It was his responsibility to make sure the Marcoverans were cared for and protected, from internal as well as external potential threats.

He asked about Fridgar again, though, and he received what sounded like a sincere answer. Zarik tapped his fingers against his knee, then stood. He asked whether Fridgar had mentioned anything about him or Alistair, which he hadn’t… not even a word. That seemed strange, considering. Why wouldn’t the Protean tell his mentee about someone as important as Alistair? He understood why he wouldn’t be included, but…

It didn’t sit right with him. He crossed his arms and made eye contact with Dosan’s reptilian irises. The biqaj’s own irises were blue. He answered, “Why wouldn’t he mention us?”

“Do you know what a Kindal is?” asked Zarik. He rolled his eyes, then moved to start unpacking his belongings.

“If you crave Fridgar like that, there shouldn’t be anything blocking it now,” he informed Dosan in a clear, steady voice. “He has left his Kindal, separated from him so fully that there is no chance of return. It is recent so perhaps he has not told you yet. But he no longer belongs to anyone but himself.”

Zarik hung up a few of his coats in the wardrobe. He continued, “It isn’t me, but my husband – who he left. Do you also know Alistair? You call him Lord Venora with ease, though I said no such thing as our family name.”