Alosaka (prime)

Alosaka Race [[Human]] Culture [[Seareach]] Class Healer, Storyteller Profession Empath Religion Devotee of Kuon Affiliation(s) Member of the Landing Defense Irregulars

[[Category: Human player characters]] [[Category: Seareach player characters]]

Alosaka is a young empath and storyteller hailing from a small coastal village near the Sea of Fire in the northern Turamzzyrian county of Seareach. Following the events of All That Remains, during which Socius Leiffen led monstrous armies in assaulting Wehnimer's Landing, Alosaka became involved in the town's defense, and later placed a bounty on Socius' head, precipitating the events of Equilibrium.

He is a member of the Guardians of Sunfist, and as his thesis project for mastering developed extensive maps of Grimswarm encamping strategies across the western half of the world.

Stories and Fables

Although his primary avocation is healing, Alosaka is more widely known for his stories. Although their subject matter ranges widely, most trace their origin back to fables or allegories native to his home county, and deal with moral lessons such as loyalty, ephemerality, duty and friendship, with characters often personified by animals or spirits.

All That Remains and Equilibrium

Night Letters

A strange storm blew through Mist Harbor last night.

It left in its wake not floods or drifts of snow, but thousands of tattered, yellowing papers, fluttering like leaves in the gentle breeze drifting from the ocean. Enough of them lay scattered across the town to pile in feathery heaps against the houses, to collect like snakeskins in the gutters, to cling damply to the trees. Their sepia tones and dry, rustling murmur lend a sense of autumn to the harbor, though summer has just arrived.

Two local icons have come in for particular attention from the nighttime pamphleteer. In the commons, in the grand square where traffic flows from the port to businesses and back, the gorgeous marble fountain is hung with hundreds of the papers. Little daubs of tar glue them in place and leave dark stains when torn away. Wet shreds of them float in the fountain’s basin, slowly turning back into pulp.

The Stumbling Pebble Bar has been likewise decorated, though with far less care. Pages are crammed into the seams between the timbers. Shoved roughly under the door. The windows are shrouded with them, though these leaflets face inward rather than out. One is nailed to the door with a dagger.

The leaflets are all the same. Printed on the paper so cheap it tears rather than folds. The pulpy fibers can barely hold the ink, so what script is printed on them has already smeared. But if one gathers and compares enough of them together, a message emerges.

“WANTED,” it screams in letters that cover half the page. Below is a sketch of a middle-aged man, done in pencils and graphite, with exaggerated shading and a malicious sneer. An ugly scar traces its way from the man’s bald head down to his right cheek. Beneath, in smaller font, “SOCIUS LEIFFEN, 5 MILLION SILVERS.” In the bare inch of space that remains, a tight, cramped scribble offers a few final words for those who care to squint.

“Socius Leiffen, known as the Butcher of Darkstone Bay, slaughtered thousands of innocents during his recent invasion of Wehnimer’s Landing. This monster, who has found refuge here, is wanted in that town for trial. A reward of five million silvers is offered to anyone who returns him to the Landing and its authorities, to be paid at the conclusion of the trial. A lesser, negotiable amount will be paid for indisputable proof of his death. Contact Alosaka for details.”

A final word is appended beneath all this. It is not printed – it has been hand-written, apparently on every single one of the thousands of leaflets now mouldering across the town. On many the word is barely legible, as though written by a hand so cramped and numb that it could barely hold a quill.

“Please.”

Loose-leaf

It takes Alosaka several minutes to realize the sculpture hanging on the wall is alive.

It holds a place of minor honor, just inside the front door and to the guest’s left. An elk, he thinks, though the difference between an elk and a deer has always escaped him. A polished cedar body about the size of both his hands outspread, with a grain so fine it seems to have been drawn with a razor. Its slender, graceful legs flow seamlessly up into the muscular body and its proud head, and only when he sees the antlers and the tiny green buds at their tips does it become clear that this is not merely carved wood but a still-living tree, coaxed into this shape. Tiny, hair-like roots extend from the elk’s cloven hooves and grip the oak wall, stabilizing and nourishing the artwork.

He leans forward, so close that his breath fogs the polished wood, and jumps back when the quiet sound of a polite throat clearing breaks the silence. He spins around, blushing, and bows so quickly that his head swims for a moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I’m, uh, Alosaka. You are Llilaurel? I was told—”

“Do you like it?” The elderly sylph gestures at the artwork. Not that Alosaka can tell the difference between an ancient sylph and one his own age, any more than he can tell the difference between an elk and a deer, but there is something refined about the man’s movements, the grace in his hand, that seems to speak of a thousand years practice with the limb.

How clumsy we must look to them. He pushes the thought into the back of his mind where it joins the clutter of other distractions. “It’s… it’s gorgeous. Sublime.” He lets out the breath that has been digging at his lungs for escape. “Was it hers?”

The sylph shakes his head and leads them further into the home. More sculptures hang from the walls, all the same living trees – a redwood king salmon, an ebony dragon in mid-flight, a bathing elf maiden pine – that lend the hall the air of a forest. It even smells like the woods after a rainstorm. They come to a small parlor, already laid out with cushions and tea, and take their seats.

“Most of these are mine,” Llilaurel says. He picks up a tiny porcelain cup, barely larger than a thimble, and sips at the tea inside. There is, fortunately, a normal sized cup in front of Alosaka, and he takes it up. It smells of jasmine and is bitter. “Saphielle was by far the better arborshaper than I, but I know the basics. I’ve tried to carry it on, to remember her.”

Right. Saphielle. The only sylvan resident of Wehnimer’s Landing known to have died in the Butcher’s assault. He takes another sip of the tea to wet his lips. “I hope you don’t mind. I know it hasn’t been long, but I need to ask about them while their memories are still fresh.”

“I will never forget her, of course.” Llilaurel raises a hand to forestall Alosaka’s apology. “But I know what you mean. Life is so fleeting, and the temptation to forget is so strong. So, go on.”

Alosaka nods. “Tell me about her?”

For almost an hour, Llilaurel talks without interruption. How he met Saphielle during his first trip to Ta’Illistim, over eight-hundred years before. How they spent a decade courting, negotiating with the other’s parents, and when that failed how they simply eloped as all sylvans eventually did. How, after centuries together, the draw of a new adventure broke through the staid lull that engulfs so many elven lives, and they pioneered across the Dragonspine to the new town on Darkstone Bay. How they found peace here, somehow, in this mad town, in this melange of all tribes and peoples. This playground of gods and monsters. How Saphielle perfected her craft, the barely understood sylvan art of arborshaping, using not knives or wires or magic but the gentle touch of water and the ghostly weight of sunlight to coax an acorn into any form she could imagine. And, of course, that fateful day just weeks ago.

“I don’t think she suffered,” Llilaurel says. He gazes down at his tiny teacup, refilled for the ninth or tenth time by now. “We were running from the square, trying to get to the barracks, where the guard was making a stand. I was holding her hand, and we were running, and then I felt something tug at my fingers, and when I looked again she was gone.” His gaze shifts to his hand, and silence fills the space between them.

How much was left of her story? A queasy, hot anger builds in Alosaka’s chest. It bubbles up, trying to escape as a scream, but he pushes it back down into his heart and latches it shut. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Llilaurel shakes his head. “It is not your fault, young man. You know, except for my neighbors, you’re the first to even come and ask about her.”

Alosaka nods. “I’m collecting their stories.”

“Ah.” Llilaurel sets the teacup down and leans back. He looks more at ease now, some of the lines of grief in his face erased. “How many of them?”

“All of them, I hope. Eventually.”

Llilaurel freezes for a moment. He tilts his head. “All of them? That must be hundreds.”

“More than a thousand. Some are… shorter than others.” The family of three on Wisraith Lane, of whom nothing remained but blood on the floor of their ruined house. The girl who collected silvers from the fountain in Erebor Square. “I’m glad Saphielle’s story was so beautiful.”

“Not half as beautiful as she was.” A long sigh escapes him, sounding like a wind through the trees. “I wish you could have met her.”

“So do I.” Alosaka stands and folds his hands awkwardly. The art of farewells still escapes him. “Did… were any of these sculptures hers?”

A tiny smile tugs Llilaurel’s lips. “Only one. You’re standing in it.”

What? Alosaka turns, confused. All he sees is the simple house, the walls decorated with their gorgeous hangings, and… his eyes go back to the walls, which are wood but have no timbers. The ceiling that has no rafters. The sanded cypress beneath his feet is not planks. The portal windows that, now that he peers closer, seem almost like knots in wood—

“It’s a tree,” he whispers. “The whole thing.”

“It took her decades,” Llilaurel says. He rose at some point, and now stands at Alosaka’s elbow. He reaches out to touch the wall with gentle reverence. “She would be glad to know it survived the attacks. And I like to think that some part of her still lives in it.”

They say no more after that. The sylph escorts Alosaka to the entry, and with a tiny bow closes the door. Outside, the sun has set, and the gloom of early twilight now swallows the town. It takes him most of an hour to walk home through the emptying streets. And overhead, the stars emerge like a thousand ghosts, witnessing the slow resurrection of night.

A Hardening of Perspective

Alosaka sits on the north patio of Misty’s Teas, a cup of slowly cooling apple blossom tea forgotten on the wicker table. Beside it lay several of the tattered fliers he spent hours hanging around Mist Harbor a week before, and atop them the odd opossum-shaped card with its taunting message. He ignores them all, staring out past the patio balcony at the back of the Stumbling Pebble Bar, a bare hundred yards to the north. A flash of movement through one of the windows catches his eye – Greth, perhaps, preparing some meal for a guest.

Well, no point in stalling. He picks up the cards and scans it again, stopping at the signature. Faerinn, Faerinn… He digs through his memories. The name is familiar, but… Oh, of course. The half-elf with the elven name. Apparently a friend of Socius. He takes a deep breath to forestall the bubble of rage trying to claw its way out of his heart. Deep breath in, hold, release. Just like his master taught. And, after a minute, he feels his heart begin to calm.

When his hand is no longer shaking, he pulls out a plain sheet of parchment, and begins to write.

Lord Faerinn,

It seems that we must have different understandings of justice and vengeance. But you are a barrister, a lawyer, a scholar of the law, and I am merely a storyteller. So it may be that my understanding is the flawed one.

I call it justice, to return a killer to the scene of his crimes for trial. You call it retaliation. But you are a lawyer, and I am merely a storyteller, so it may be that you are correct.

I call the man who admitted to leading armies against Wehnimer’s Landing and slaughtering a thousand of its people a monster. You call him an ailing man. But you are a lawyer, and I am merely a storyteller, so it may be that you are correct.

You say that Vlashandra tricked Socius into doing her “work,” which is an odd way of saying “murder.” He did not strike me as a man who is easily fooled, but rather quite satisfied with the job he did (again, by which we mean “murder”). But you are a lawyer, and I am merely a storyteller, so it may be that you are correct.

You call what I am pursuing a vendetta. It does not feel that way to me – I lost nothing to Socius, after all. I had thought that justice was the calling and obligation of all people. But you are a lawyer, and I am merely a storyteller, so it may be that you are correct.

You say that you stole Socius out from under us, spiriting him away to safe harbor on this island. I would call that a fugitive, escaping justice with the aid of his goons. But you are a lawyer, and I am merely a storyteller, so it may be that you are correct.

As I review this list of my misconceptions, it is clear that I could never hope to understand justice as well as you. Perhaps no human lifetime could ever contain enough knowledge and experience to comprehend how calling for a murderer’s trial is revenge, while rescuing him to a quiet, opulent life on this island is justice. Certainly it is beyond me.

So I will ask you, Lord Faerinn, to help me. Explain to me not as if I were a storyteller, but rather one of the many ghosts now wandering Wehnimer’s streets, why this is revenge. Explain to the countless dead left in Socius’s wake why he should not face trial. Address his victims and tell them what is proper, and right, and just. Dazzle the orphans with your brilliance.

Your obedient servant,

Alosaka

He sets his quill aside and waits for the ink to dry. When an hour or so has passed, and the apple blossom tea just a memory, he carefully folds the page into threes, writes Faerinn’s name on the back, and passes it to Misty.

“Would you deliver this to Greth’s?” he asks. “I would myself, but…” he trails off, searching for an excuse, then finally sighs.

Fortunately, Misty understands. She takes the note with a smile, tucks it in her apron, and passes him another cup of tea. He takes it back to the table on the north patio and resumes his silent vigil.