Ernest's Site

Erior Senza left in the night. The sky was clear, the atmosphere crisp. Above his head hung a blanket of stars, each one shining and twinkling with the wind. The houses were covered in last night’s snow, fresh and white, pure, clean. Everything sparkled under the stars and lamplight.

A bitter wind– the land breeze– blew. Despite wearing his heaviest coat, the blade of the wind struck straight at Erior’s heart. It blew the powder off the roofs and into his face, revealing the dirty, rotten slush beneath. It brought the feeling of things far beyond, strange and ancient, the unknown and the unknowable.

He was standing at the edge of a pier, looking out across the river. In front of him ran the ice-cold canal, flowing placidly by. A boat, the Herodotus, was tied up; his father, Carric, was making final preparations. Behind him stood several people: what passed for a going-away crowd at this time of night.

Maria, his mother, a human with rapidly graying red hair, sat nervously on a bench. She was wrapped in a thick cloak and wore a long blue scarf and cap. She watched the proceedings with intensity, examining the people around her. Sometimes she was on the verge of tears, then other times she was calm and serious. Sometimes she was just cold.

Away from the crowd stood an old mottled dragonborn, her scales paling and back bending. She had draped several cloaks and capes over herself of foreign make. She leaned on a solid wooden staff, intricately carved and vividly painted. It was Chorel, Erior’s friend and magic tutor.

Suddenly, Carric climbed out from the hull of the Herodotus and rapped on the side. “Eri, we’re ready to cast off,” he called to his son. That seemed to snap Erior out of his reverie, and he turned and walked over to the group. After saying a few quick goodbyes, he went over to Chorel, who stared down at him.

“I don’t know what else there is to say,” he said. Chorel blinked at him.

“Then do,” she responded. Erior snorted.

“I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here, at night.”

“When I was a professor, night was my favorite time of day.” Chorel looked up at the stars for a while, then turned back to Erior. “Come back alive.”

“I will.”

Eiror shook Chorel’s hand and walked away, over to Maria. She greeted him with tears in her eyes and a wavering voice.

“You know what all mothers say when their children leave. My little boy, all grown up!” she exclaimed.

“Mom, I’m thirty-five,” Erior said. Maria sighed.

“To a human, you look twenty-five.” Erior let out a short laugh.

“I’ll come back alive,” he told her. Maria looked seriously at him.

“You better,” she replied. With that, Erior hugged Maria, before walking back, giving one final wave to the group, and heading to the boat.

Carric was standing on the deck. His elven body belied his strength as a fisherman, though he was dressed for such a role. His short-cut black hair was wrapped in a royal purple bandana. Despite the harsh winter night, he wore a few thin shirts and a pair of breeches. As soon as Erior was aboard, he cast off.

Erior walked up to the bow and looked forward towards their direction of travel. He had let his fiery red hair flow free tonight, which complemented his full and rowdy beard. He wore a burgundy overcoat and deep green winter trousers, wrapped in a night-black cloak. While he normally travelled with a felt hat, he had left it in his luggage tonight. The last view of his hometown deserved to be unrestricted.

Once the boat was moving, Carric joined his son on the bow for a brief moment. “To the sea!” he announced, and upon seeing no reaction from Erior, returned to the wheel.

The plan was to sail to a port town further south, where Erior would transfer to a commercial vessel that would take him the rest of the way. This would save on travel cost, and would let Erior abort his plans should he get cold feet. So, as the Herodotus glided through the quiet night, Erior intoned to himself,

“To Bristlecone.”

–

Carric Senza and Maria Wyndless met in Drahdzna one summer’s evening, over pints of cider and plates of fish. He was a fisherman elf fleeing his magic-obsessed family; she was a lonely human unconcerned with her family’s sorcerous history. They hit it off immediately, and were married in less than two years.

They had a son, Alfred, two years into their marriage. A little bundle of energy, Alfred was hard to keep a hold of. Naturally, eleven years later, they had another. Carric named him Erior, after his great-uncle. Maria gave him the middle name Erick, after her great-uncle.

When he was six, Erior saw a traveling bard as part of a fair. He performed incredible tricks of magic and whimsy, singing songs of the old and the new. It was the highlight of the event, and a touchstone for the little half-elf, lost in a world that ill wanted him.

Erior wanted to do the same.

Unfortunately, the parent’s jobs only covered the living expenses. Both boys had their dreams of higher education cut short.

Alfred finished school at 16 and immediately joined the Kraehvan military. He didn’t see any action, and left after one tour. He came back with a new religion and a new lease on life, finding work as a mercenary and leaving Drahdzna soon after.

Erior, on the other hand, went to work with Carric’s fishery. Working on boats and hawking the day’s catch. But on one stormy day, an errant rope wrapped around his left leg. A slip and a tug, and he hit the deck with a leg he couldn’t stand on.

It took him half a year to recover, though it was never as sturdy as before. The experience pushed him off fishing, and his selling skills weren’t enough to keep him employed.

And so Erior Senza had nothing.

–

Three knocks and Chorel opened her door to find Erior, standing in the freshly-fallen snow.

“Hey, Chorel,” he said. The dragonborn looked over his shoulder.

“A little early, are you not?” she replied.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m leaving soon.” Chorel turned back to Erior. “I’m heading to Bristlecone,” he continued, “I’ll probably be leaving tomorrow night.”

“Bristlecone? Really?”

“I can’t just ignore the letter, it’s the only lead on Alfred I have!” Erior said. Chorel pinched her eyes and closed them. They both stood there for a beat.

“Leaving tomorrow night…” Chorel repeated.

“Yeah, I find it easier to walk at night.”

Chorel turned her gaze back to Erior, drilling holes in his head with her eyes. “You’re going to walk to Bristlecone?”

“I’ve walked all over Kraehva, Chorel. I can walk down the continent.”

“You’re going to fucking die,” she said as she stepped towards Erior, “and you’ll take your brother with you, provided he’s not a corpse. It takes you a month to tour Kraehva? Whatever food you’re going to pack– and I’m sure it’s not a lot– will run out and you’ll be another stupid pile of bones along the side of a road.”

“Chorel, I don’t have-” Erior tried to interject.

“Do you have a death wish? Even if you can make it, do you think whoever sent you this letter isn’t out there, looking for you? On your own, you don’t stand a chance.”

“Chorel, I don’t have the money!” Erior replied as he stepped back, out of her space. In response, Chorel felt around her belt and pulled out a small, jingling pouch.

“I’m not watching another student– another friend— perish trying to extract their idiotic fate from this blasted planet.” She shoved the pouch into Erior’s chest. He tried to protest, but he looked in her eyes and relented. They were full of fear and anger, of the ghosts of a life too long.

“Take a boat,” Chorel said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Erior responded, looking down.

Cowed.

–

Erior Senza didn’t have nothing. He had picked up the viol to accompany his friend, and that same friend now dragged him along to local taverns to perform. They gained some notoriety, and when the friend left, Erior began to tour on his own. A single viol isn’t much of a performance, so he added more: storytelling, singing, acting. He’d swap stories with the people he’d meet and weave them into his act.

It was a hit, as much of a hit he could be. He soon began to earn money from his performances– some tips there, a few coins here. As he made a name for himself, various locales began to open up, and would sometimes offer a paying gig. By the age of twenty, he was joining troupes for local tours.

Over time, his circle of touring increased until he was taking multi-week and solo trips. And in a small, forested town, he found Alfred. It had been a while since the two brothers had met, and Alfred had changed. He was now a mercenary, taking on adventuring jobs for coin. And since Erior had a free day, it was proposed that he could join Alfred on a simple job.

It was easy; a halfling had lent a particular grimoire to a wizard friend of his, and the friend had failed to return it in due time. The client hadn’t the time to visit the wizard’s tower, but was willing to part with some money for the convenience.

It took them only a few hours to get to the tower, a grand thing of stone and brick. The wooden door was set ajar, and a strange stench wafted from it. Erior stayed behind as Alfred opened the door with his foot. Inside was the corpse of the wizard.

Despite the protestations of his brother, Alfred did a brief investigation. He found the grimoire, but not much else of note. They decide to head back and report their findings to the client.

By the time they got back, the client had been murdered. No one knew who’d done it, and the guards reported no leads. Alfred was going to stay behind and investigate, but he forced Erior to go back home, for safety. Erior took the grimoire with him; he had made friends of a retired professor, and was hoping she could decipher it. She’d certainly be more help than but the two of them.

But even the great Chorel Vetzakk was confused by the text; it was written in the Elvish script, but was not elvish, or even close. She held on to the grimoire for Erior and promised to poke around it from time to time.

And so Erior went back to his routine: performing and touring, swapping stories and telling them. But sometimes his story swapping was a little more pointed, and sometimes he made a few inquiries. He found it wasn’t hard to get information from far away if you were willing to synthesize the information– and to put up with people and their tales. He kept an eye on the pulse of the world, searching for anything that he could use.

After a few years, there still wasn’t much. On one wet evening, after a small performance in a tavern, Chorel sat next to Erior, thought for a bit, and proposed that she might teach him magic. Perhaps he’d be better suited to deciphering the grimoire; besides, it could improve his act. He readily accepted the offer. Discreetly– his father never really stated his approval of Erior’s magical aspirations.

–

Erior stepped out onto the small balcony and gingerly closed the door behind him. There had been a tension in the house ever since the letter from Alfred had appeared. Erior spent much of his time trying to avoid triggering his parents; not that they were prone to such things.

The sky was a darkening rose and the clouds formed sheets of wavering gold that stretched across the heavens. A light breeze floated through the air, bringing the scents of the city and the sea. Carric sat in a well-worn rocking chair, slowly moving back and forth. He had a pipe clenched in his teeth, and the smoke swirled lazily above his head. When he heard the door shut, he slid the pipe out and placed it on a stool next to him, where it continued to smolder.

“Hey, dad,” Erior said.

“Hey, son,” Carric said, looking out to the horizon. He sighed. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“You said that,” Erior replied. Carric continued.

“There’s cursed blood that runs through our veins, Eri. Not… literally cursed.”

“This is about your family, isn’t it?” Carric turned to Erior.

“Has your mother told you much?”

“No, she always says to ask you. Which I don’t.”

“They’re all mad, obsessed with power. My grandfather practiced necromancy, and so my father took it upon himself to learn magic to stop him. But he got addicted, started spending time in his workshop, stopped…” Carric looked back out at the horizon.

“My sister fell into a cult, declared us infidels. My brother got into enchantments, made people like him, made people obey him…” Carric stopped.

“Okay,” Erior said, breaking the silence.

“Eri, I have watched my family, one by one, descend into this obsession of power. They all wanted something noble, they all had honor, but where did that get them? Nowhere.” Carric got up and turned to face Erior, blocking him off from the setting sun. “I survived because I fled. I never once sought glory or power, and so here I am.”

Erior stood straight up and faced his father in the eye.

“I think I know where this is going,” he said.

“You’ve been learning magic,” Carric said.

“Yes, I have.”

“Why?” asked Carric. Erior shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s used in some perfomances. Besides, it’s in case I need it,” he responded.

“No. Not ‘in case.’ You need to have a reason for everything you pursue!”

“I can’t guarantee the future! I can’t know it!”

“You don’t need to know the future to anticipate it!” They both paused. Carric looked straight through his son.

“You’re not going to-”

“I’m going to Bristlecone. I can’t just leave this without answers– it’s the first we’ve heard of Alfred in years!”

“You’re just chasing after ghosts at this point! That forged note will only lead you to the end of a sword.”

“You know what? I can take care of myself, and maybe it’s time I did something more than just put on shows,” Erior responded as he turned to open the door behind him.

“You’re only thirty-five, you need to think about the rest of your life. God, you sound just like a…” Carric cut himself off and quickly looked to the side. Erior stopped and stood with the door ajar. He turned and looked at his father, silhouetted against the sunset.

“Like what?” he asked. Carric tuned and mechanically walked over to and sat down in his chair. Erior closed the door and fully faced him.

“Go on your little quest, then.” Carric said, not turning to speak.

“No, I’m not leaving this here,” Erior said. Carric grabbed his pipe and knocked out the ashes before turning it over in his hands.

“I’m so scared that you’ll end up like your family. That Alfred already has. I don’t know how to save you.” He stared at the last gasps of day.

“I promise you, I won’t become them. If you hear my name, it will be only good news.”

“If I hear your name…” Carric smiled, slightly. “So be it.”

–

A few years passed. Erior continued learning magic, continued touring, continued searching for Alfred or info on the grimoire. Info on both fronts was scarce. Alfred wrote, but he didn’t exactly hand out info. But one on day, he asked Erior to come to the village where they had taken that job and to bring the grimoire.

So he did. Alfred was there, different than before. He was in civillian clothes, though he clearly was uncomfortable in them. He was stiff and formal, tense, waiting for something to happen. He said he had uncovered how to read the grimoire, but it was too dangerous for Erior. That he should be the one to keep it.

So Erior handed it over, and that was that. Alfred stayed a little longer, catching an act, but then he was off. Erior didn’t really think much of it.

But when he got back, Chorel was pissed. She didn’t trust Alfred or whatever he had gotten himself into, and believed that he’d bring the dangers down on Erior. She started expanding his magic training, teaching him more defensive and offensive spells. “Just in case,” she’d say.

But even as she drilled Erior harder, he began to fall behind. He travelled more, toured more, stayed home less. Maria was beginning to show her age. Worse, she was beginning to be worse than her age. Something was wrong with her– she couldn’t keep up her job. Carric’s fishing wasn’t doing well, and he couldn’t afford medication. With what Erior brought in, they could find a doctor now and again. But it meant he had to tour more and more. He even began to take a few odd jobs when he could, out in the world.

But when he was 35, on a blustery winter day, something came in the mail.

–

The sky was white like a silken sheet. Bursts of wind and slush rolled through the city, coating what they could in a wet, sloppy snow. Erior had just come back from visiting a friend and had noticed the mailbox was full. He wiped the slush off the top and pried the hatch open. While it wasn’t uncommon to get mail, they weren’t expecting any.

The envelope was thin and light brown, and it was labeled with dark ink in a neat hand. The destination address was correct, but it had no origin address. Instead, it read:

Alfred V. Senza

And under the destination address was written:

Erior E. Senza

Erior fumbled the letter in his gloves. That wasn’t Alfred’s handwriting, and he never addressed himself with a middle initial. He hurried into the house and into his room, barely making time to take off his boots. He ripped open the envelope, spilling a letter onto his wooden desk. It read:

Erior:

I apologize for not writing. Circumstances demanded my silence. I have sensitive news regarding our little grimoire. I am in Bristlecone, to the south. Visit me at your earliest convenience.

-Alfred

That wasn’t Alfred’s handwriting. But it wasn’t just any handwriting; it was neat, like a notary’s, a writer. Like it had been dictated.

Erior looked out to the window, to the falling slush. Something had gone wrong with Alfred, and he needed help. Besides, a long trip like that could earn the family money. Bristlecone was an up-and-coming economic hub, there’d be work to do and people to entertain. And, hopefully, Alfred.

To Bristlecone, he thought, watching the snow abate.