A new chapter of Scars is here!
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“How did you come to meet?” Harvallas asked. He sounded genuinely curious. “Was it in Jherland?”
“No,” Justir replied. Harvallas had noticed his evasion, the comment a reminder that he wouldn’t let go of it so easily. He paused, remembering back through the years. “Are you familiar with the city of Ophela’s Landing?”
“The Republic of Bresvael’s, capital. Yes, I am familiar.”
Justir nodded. The Republic of Bresvael was north of Kallef. A country of large flatlands and rolling hills, renowned for the fertility of its lands. It had only a small coastline, hard-won through generations of conflict with its neighbours and only a single moderately-sized seaport, but its largest city and center of commerce was the city of Ophela’s Landing, sitting on the eastern shore of the great lake Concordance. The lake itself connected to the sea through the wide, deep Concord River. Named for the sister of its founder, Ophela’s Landing had become an important inland port for Bresvael’s overseas exports of livestock and crops and imported goods.
Ophela’s Landing was also used by several southern nations as a way to get their goods into Pacis Ara’s heartland countries faster, sailing their ships up Concord to Ophela’s Landing and setting out overland from there. Land-locked nations used the port in a similar manner, sending caravans and trade convoys to the republic for access to ships.
Some countries used Ophela’s Landing as a port when the harbours of other nations were closed to them. Valmira and Kallef agreed on precious little these days, but they were united in their hatred of Namersa and would not allow their traders or goods access to their ports or ships. Bresvael, however, gladly accepted shipments of slaves from the southern kingdom, using them as labourers tend to their vast farmlands and as soldiers for their equally expansive armies. In return for these workers and the first pick of Namersa’s tobacco exports, Bresvael kept their southern trade partner well-fed and provided their merchants with access to the interior of Pacis Ara.
“There were a series of murders there,” Justir explained. “Not unlike what was happening in Allona, but these killings had not escalated as far as the Ripper’s had – yet. I was on my own at that point. Hearing of the misfortune, I travelled to the city in hopes of investigating the matter. Khy-kala was there for a similar reason and we crossed paths.” He smiled a little at the memory.
The point of a sword hovered under his chin. The tiniest flick of the she-elf’s wrist and she’d open his throat. Light from the burning dockside warehouse made her eyes gleam like those of the thing they’d been hunting. “After a, ah, slight misunderstanding,” he added, “we were able to put a stop to the killings.” He’d thought she’d been the killer. She’d thought he’d been after her.
Harvallas regarded the mercenary with a bit more curiousity than before. “Who was responsible?”
“Not precisely a ‘who’, marshal. It was a demonhost.” The corners of the Kallefain’s eyes tightened. “He had been hollow for some time, perhaps since the Scarring.” The red-haired man hesitated. Those memories didn’t provoke amusement like his first meeting with the she-elf did. “Completely mad. What little control he’d had eroded, replaced with murderous insanity.” Some demonhosts could hold on to their sense of self, either merging symbiotically with the dread thing they’d accepted into their body or fighting it for control. With the ravages to the mind, body and soul left by a departing demon, there was even less for them to hold on to. They might, though. For a week, a month or a year, a demonhost might hold themselves together, but sooner or later either the thing inside them or the gaping emptiness it left would consume them.
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