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

At the Mass Memorial Ceremony -- Shortly after the events of All That Remains.

A drop of hot wax fell from the candle onto Alosaka’s fingers. It broke the reverie that had consumed his thoughts, and in the ensuing startled reaction a whole stream of wax dribbled over his fingers and splattered on the cobblestones, forming tiny white flowers between his feet. He cursed under his breath, mindful of the silence and solemnity the moment called for, and tried to peel the wax off his skin without looking anymore like an idiot than he already had.

“Here. Give it here.” The voice was a dry, breathless whisper, as though the speaker’s lungs were paper mache. The old man beside him, an ancient, stooped human with a cragged face and hair like snow, took the candle from Alosaka before he could do any more damage. “You have to hold it so the wax drips off instead of running down your fingers.”

“Right. Thank you.” He took the candle back and cradled it gingerly. The candle – a plain white votive from the cleric’s supply shop, like the others in the crowd around them – wasn’t meant for holding. It was supposed to be in a candelabra or lantern or atop a bier. But when thousands of people needed thousands of candles for a hasty ceremony, you took what you had. Even if it meant a few burned fingers.

At the front of the crowd, in the shadow of the massive temple of Lorminstra, the priest was saying something. The wind stole her words before they reached more than halfway through the mass of humans and elves and giants and others all squeezed into Erebor Square, but Alosaka didn’t need to hear them to know what was being said. Pieties about faith and sacrifice. Remonstrations to remember the fallen and their families. The importance of fighting evil, et cetera, et cetera. He stopped trying to follow along after a while. The breeze blowing through the linden trees lining the square mattered more.

“Did you lose anyone?” The old man didn’t bother to whisper. Quite possibly he didn’t realize the priest was talking. He too stared at the trees and their dancing leaves.

“No.” Alosaka shook his head. He kept his voice down, in deference to the mourners around them, though like the old man they seemed unconcerned. “No. I was fortunate. And, um… yourself?”

The old man grunted quietly, and that was it for a few minutes. Off in the crowd, someone wept. Odd – just from the timbre of her tears, Alosaka could tell it was an elf. The same way he could hear when someone was smiling.

Finally: “My son. And his son. They were posted on the west wall.”

Ah. Alosaka tried to speak, realized his throat wasn’t working, and swallowed. Silence was better anyway.

The Landing was a human town, and humans preferred to bury their dead. But this disaster hadn’t left many bodies. The monsters were jealous with their kills, stealing all the parts of their victims away as pieces for their macabre play. What scraps the town recovered – a foot, a hand, a sleeve of skin – were generally indistinguishable. Unsuitable for individual plots or even funerals. Thus, this day. A mass ceremony for everyone who had been lost or lost someone. It seemed like half the town had packed into the square. Up ahead, in the shadow of the temple, the priest lowered her head and raised her arms in prayer.

“It was my grandson’s idea,” the old man said. “The town put out the call for volunteers, and… I was young once, like you. I know that urge. Better to die on the wall than cowering in your home.”

“He sounded very brave,” Alosaka said. He fixed his gaze on the tiny dots of wax patterning the stones between his feet.

“And my son, my angel, my little Daniel, he went too, to keep him safe,” the old man continued. “Took my old crossbow. They found it later, you know. The crossbow. Had my name on the tiller.”

Alosaka nodded. “I’m glad you were able to get it back. A way to remember—”

“I tossed it in the bay.” The old man jerked his head toward the docks in the distance. “It was covered in blood.”

Right. Well. Wasn’t this what he’d come to the ceremony for? To join in the mourning? He took a deep breath, and then another, and eventually the buzzing in his ears went away, replaced by the rustle of the wind in the linden trees.

“I’m sorry,” he finally managed. “But we won. The people who did this are dead or gone, and someday we’ll catch them. We’ll justice for your family.”

Silence again. It stretched out, filling the space between them, growing like spilled ink. And when at last Alosaka was certain hadn’t been heard at all, the man began to shake. A wheezing rattle bubbled out from his throat, grew, and he laughed out loud. Around them, townspeople turned and stared. The distant weeping trailed off.

“Justice?” The old man rasped. The candle shook in his grip, and a great globule of wax splattered onto the cobbles. “Justice? This is justice, friend. This is the justice we get. A ceremony for us, and tears for the dead. And soon enough no one will remember either.”

People grumbled. A giantkin behind Alosaka squeezed his candle so hard the wax deformed, spilling out like oil between his fingers. Further away, the elf started her crying again.

They didn’t speak any more. A few minutes later, when the ceremony came to its end, the priests passed out little pastries dusted with sugar and nuts. A local tradition, Alosaka later learned. An offering of sweet memory in the mouths of the mourning host.

It tasted like ash.

Night Letters -- The bounty that precipitated the events of Equilibrium

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.

The Fire Next Time

The city’s taverns have seen happier nights.

They are not, to be fair, happy places most of the time. Crowds of drunk, resentful men rarely are. But the past few days have been especially rough. Men cradle broken arms. Smashed noses make drinking the weak ale a challenge. There are, on average, fewer teeth per patron than one would expect. Such are the wages of attempting to claim the bounty on Socius.

It hasn’t been going well. One man, that half-krolvin Erikson Eriksonson over there, came pretty close last night. But it turned out that ‘Socius’ was actually a gang of halfling muggers and Erikson Eriksonson was in fact incredibly drunk, and it ended about as well as you would expect. He still has all his fingers, and that’s a kind of victory.

Most nights, the grumbling is over how difficult Socius has proven to corner, much less take down. But tonight the grumbling rises from a different complaint. Many men clutch fliers in their grimy fists, or wad them up and toss them on the floor. A stack of fresh copies sits on the bar.

“ATTENTION,” the headline screams. It continues in smaller type: “In consideration of good-faith efforts by the people of Mist Harbor to recover the CRIMINAL and MONSTER SOCIUS LEIFFEN, the bounty of FIVE MILLION SILVERS offered by ALOSAKA for the return of Socius to Wehnimer’s Landing for trial is temporarily suspended. As such, no bounty will be paid prior to the sixth day of Koaratos for his return. Individuals who seek to claim this bounty after the sixth day of Koaratos are reminded that he is extremely dangerous, and to avoid harming innocents to the greatest extent possible.”

The message, it seems, is not being well received. The offer of five million silvers was like a dream for too many of the town’s underclass — an honest-to-gods shot at making something for themselves. And now… stolen from them, like so much else. The air is filled with sullen talk and growls. More than one of them wonders how anyone would know what day, exactly, Socius was taken.

Bounties, it seems, are a bit like fires. Easy to start; harder to put out.

I Dreamed a Little Dream of Thee

“You said you were going to bring him back here,” the little human girl says.

She looks to be about eight or nine years old, with the serious expression that always comes across as charming when worn by young children. She sits across the small table from Alosaka, a tiny little teacup held in her delicate grip. The table is set out with the rest of the tea set, and stuffed animals sit at the other chairs. There is Mister Bear, with a missing button eye, and Madam Purrfect, the tortoiseshell cotton cat. The table is too small for Alosaka to use a chair, so he sits cross-legged on a blanket. It’s a comfortable position for him.

“To face justice, you said,” she continues. A little frown appears on her lips, and she sets the teacup down on its saucer. “Well?”

“I know it’s not perfect,” Alosaka says. He considers his own teacup, filled with some cloudy concoction that doesn’t resemble any tea he is familiar with, then looks back at the girl. “There will be a trial in Mist Harbor, and then he’ll be punished there. It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“No!” She smacks the table with her palm, rattling the tea set. To the side, Mister Bear tumbles out of his chair. “You said here! You lied!”

Kuon help me. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. A faint headache is already building there. “I know. I know what I said. But this is still justice. Everyone agreed—”

“They agreed because they know they can cheat!” she interrupts. “Did you see how Faerinn was smiling? Because he knows! I’m surprised they didn’t all burst out laughing when you said yes!”

“I…” The headache is building. A buzzing sound seems to build from somewhere, like a thousand cicadas singing in the trees outside. He stares down at his teacup and its dark contents. “How… how do you know that? You weren’t there.”

“And Naamit.” A look of true fear passes across the girl’s face. She looks over her shoulder, as though the woman might have somehow snuck up on them. “That town is her home. You think they’ll care if she just makes you vanish? They’ll give her an award! And you’re just going to walk back there?!”

“This… this is wrong.” The buzz is louder now. The little teacup spills out of his numb fingers and discharges its cargo of blood all over the table. “You weren’t there. You’re not even here—”

“You promised!” the girls shrieks. She climbs up onto the table, and her arm fails, falling apart where the reapers’ teeth carved it away from her torso. A slick spur of bone protrudes from the gore. Still she continues, crawling across the table, pieces tumbling away with every inch, until all that remains is a three-fingered hand that grasps at Alosaka’s tunic and claws its way upward. In his head, in between the buzzing of the cicadas and his own horrified screams, he hears her still. You promised. You promised!

YOU PROMISED YOU PROMISED YOU PROM—



He tumbles back, away from the table, and lands on the sanded cedar floor beside his bed. Sweat-slick sheets tangle around his legs, and he kicks them away with a desperate cry. A word, a gesture, and light fills the room, blinding like the sun in its intensity, until his night-shocked eyes adjust and the glare resolves itself into the simple, hard shapes of his room in the Empath Guild’s dormitory.

He lays there, panting, wedged in the small space between the bed and the wall. He is of high enough rank for a notionally private room, with its own desk, but there is no door, only a plain white sheet split down the middle, offering a small measure of separation from the hallway and the hospital beyond.

Footsteps intrude on the silence, and the curtain across his doorway parts, revealing a gnomish attendant. She looks at the room, looks at him, then sighs and vanishes.

A few minutes later she is back. Her little arms have more strength than one would expect, and she hoists him back onto the thin mattress. He’s not wearing much, not at night in the summer heat, and a flush crawls up his chest and face at the realization. But then, she’s a healer – it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.

“Here.” She presses a small cup into his hand. “Drink.”

He takes a sip. Milk, hot, and a tang of bitterness. He lets it sit on his tongue for a moment. “Laudanum?”

“Just enough to help you sleep. Drink.”

He does. After a moment his tongue gets used to the unusual bitterness, and all he can taste is the milk.

“Thank you.” His words slur. A fog seems to fill the room, and he realizes he’s looking up at the ceiling. The attendant whispers an arcane phrase, and the light vanishes as quickly as it came.



There are no leaflets this time. Perhaps their novelty was wearing off. Or the scrivener was simply closed for the day.

Instead a man stands by the fountain in Gardenia Commons. He has a bell in one hand, and rings it regularly. When, after a few rings and enough people are staring in his direction, he raises his voice and shouts to all who will hear.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” His voice is hoarse from hours of this, but he is still enthusiastic. He must be getting paid well. “Rejoice, citizens of Mist Harbor! The criminal and monster Socius Leiffen has surrendered for trial, for the murder of countless innocents! Now, at last, our own town may be free of his reign! We need no longer fear his dagger! And the bounty placed for his capture is cancelled!”

The crier’s words generated mixed reactions. Most are neutral, their faces barely betraying any expression except curiosity. A few laugh and slap their friends on their backs. But a fair number glower darkly at the news. Whether they are friends of Socius’, or merely hoped to claim the bounty for themselves, is known only to them.