Turin Samosi's page

The sun was just beginning to rise as the group of refugees shuffled their way up the mountain pass, bringing a slight frown to Turin’s face. A shuffle of chain on fabric jerked him from his brief foray of thought, and he turned a questioning glance to his traveling companion. “What?”

The older man smiled wearily. “Nothing. You just reminded me of someone, is all. You holding up alright? Heard that some of your…old family were at that last slaver’s hold we hit.”

Turin’s scowl darkened, before he seemed to realize what he was doing and shifted to a far more familiar half-smirk. “’Course I am. Most of ‘em wouldn’t pay me any attention anyways; just another bastard’s war trophy anyways. Should be asking about you; figure all this walking can’t sit well with someone use to fluttering around on golden birdies.”

The man laughed openly at that. “If only! Though at this point I’d say any golden bird I lay eyes on had better be from roasting slow over a fire. But I’m not worried about me.” His eyes grew serious as they gave the boy a quick appraisal: clothes increasing ragged, eyes red and slightly watering, hair brown, grey, and other, darker colors. Bruises visible even through his darker skin tone, and a half-healed cut on his face that would clearly lead to yet another pale scar to join the near multitude already lining his face. “It looks like that last info run we sent you on was…” he paused, looking for something that wouldn’t be too obvious a pander to the boy’s ego, in hope of working out the truth. “…involved.”

The unimpressed face he got in return told him his efforts were in vain, and Turin shrugged, taking care to hide the slight wince of pain as his shoulders protested the sudden movement. “No worse than anyone else, sir.” He said quietly, unconsciously falling into the tones of an after-action report. “Besides, all I got were a few beatings. That lot,” he said, jerking his head back to the lands they were rapidly fleeing, “save all their good tricks for the truly faithful.” Turin spat at the ground (hiding his relief that there wasn’t any red this time; Kal wouldn’t let him back in the field for a week at least if he saw that) and made a rude gesture to the east. “Self-loathing soul sucking bastards! Die under a rock where you belong!”

“Watch the tongue kid.” Kal said lightly, as a few of their fellows began to look on nervously. “Most of them don’t know what you’re saying when you start speaking shadows.”

Turin smirked back, his eyes lighter now with mischief. “Of course. Can’t let the civvies think I’m gonna take their babies or something, right? Don’t they know the brave valiant Sir Berne will protect them?”

Kal knocked him lightly on the back of the head. “I am. By sending you to Tsura to get cleaned up, and to get some food in you. Now be gone, darkspawn, before sunrise comes and I have to hold your hand to get you there.” Turin stuck his tongue out and turned to go, only for Kal to catch his shoulder. Turin flinched slightly, hating himself a bit for it, only for that to fade at Kal’s words. “We got a lot of people out from the Kuthites thanks to you. Hear one of them’s even a magic user; gods know we could use more of that on our side. I’m proud of you, kid.”

For a wholesome second, Turin grinned unabashedly at Kal’s praise, but as others turned to look at the pair stopping the progression, he stiffened, then relaxed back into his usual smirk. “Hell, it’s not like we can send you.” Turin scoffed. “Ain’t anything been shinier than you since the sky fell again. You’d stick out like the Slanting Tower.”

Walking back to the brightly covered wagon at the rear of the progression as the wind kicked up, Turin glanced along the line of slaves they’d broken out, his frown returning. Breaking that hold had been the right thing to do, he supposed. And it got them back supplies of food and intel, both crucial to the guerrillas fighters so desperately against Nidal’s own raiders. But with so many survivors, the supplies wouldn’t go as far. He wondered again, why he’d bother to mention the holding pens. The supplies were what they came for, and they’d lost at least three decent guys for the motley group they were bringing back. In his mind’s eye, he saw Kal’s disappointed face and scowled harder; shoving his hands in his pockets and stalking further down the line. The former Eagle Knight meant well and all, but he was going to get himself killed trying to save all these…

“Monster!”

Turin crashed against the ground, barely getting his arm up in time to deflect the worst of his attacker’s follow-up blow. A staff cracked against the hard earth beneath him and splintered, but his assailant wouldn’t be denied, gripping the shorter remnant of his walking stick like a short blade and throwing off his companions’ attempts to hold him at bay. Turin now saw it was an older elf walking towards him, murder shining in his eyes. ‘What the hell did I even do?’ Turin wondered blearily, rubbing a hand across his head…and realizing as he felt hair slip through his fingers that his hood had fallen back in the breeze. White eyes widened. ‘Oh Shi…’

A wave of force snapped his arms and legs in place, lifting him up slightly as the elf spat something in a language Turin couldn’t place, before dropping the jagged piece of wood and drawing a dagger. “I saw you, back at the Zuthite’s prison camp. You enjoy yourself back there, Dark One? Did you watch while my family was butchered?!”

“Can’t say I saw them.” Turin gasped. “Seems like they missed one though.” The elf’s eyes flared, and Turin redoubled his efforts to break free. “You would be the magic user we were hoping to find, wouldn’t you. Wish Kal had told me; I’d have kept quiet.”

The dagger suddenly found its way to his throat. “Not another word, Dark One. When the Nirmathi find out what’s been lurking in their midst…”

“What going on here?” Turin, carefully, breathed a sigh of relief as Kal came rushing through the small crowd that had gathered around himself and the elf, his own weapon at ready. Eyes taking in the scene, he sighed and lowered his rapier, raising a hand toward the elf. “Arcanist Fendarin, I should have though to inform you about Turin sooner, and for that I’m sorry to the both of you. He’s with us.”

Fendarin didn’t turn an eye from the struggling elf in front of him, nor lower his blade. “Are drow a common part of the Nirmathi militias? And from the scars on this one, Zuthites as well? If so, it isn’t likely you’ll last the winter. Their treachery is legendary, and inevitable.”

“Think I’d have tried to get to that part before you got to the knife-play then, don’t you?” Turin spat back, still fighting against the elf’s enchantment. “Besides, I’m only a halfie. See, mostly normal ears! So it’s more like a coin flip if I’ll stab you in the back or not.”

“Turin, enough!” Kal snapped, and to some surprise, Turin looked away with a hint of shame on his face. It quickly faded as his eyes darted back up to the elf holding him at knife-point.

“Fine. I’m sorry. Make him let me down?”

The former Eagle Knight sighed and looked to Fendarin. “Will you release him? He’s my responsibility, if that assures you any of his intentions.” The elf’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he lowered the knife, and with a flourish, dismissed the spell restraining Turin. He fell to the dust, this time unable to bite back a cry of pain as his sore arms and back protested the rough treatment. “Turin!” Kal startled, and with a sharp look at the unrepentant elf, moved toward the recovering youth. “Are you alri…”

“I’m fine!” Turin snapped, then hissed slightly and brought a hand over his eyes as the sun broke briefly through the ever-present cloud cover. The elf snorted, looking to the other refugees and guerrillas with a faint look of satisfaction. Turin balled a fist and quickly got to his feet, storming away from Kal’s touch and the heavy stares of his ‘fellows’. “Should have left you in the shadows, you knife-eared bastard!” he hissed over his shoulder before running off into the rocks lining the pass.

Fendarian started, and rose his hands to begin casting only to have Kal lift his own to stop him. ”Don’t worry, he wasn’t casting a spell or hexing you; that’s Shadowtongue. Turin was born in Nidal, ran away and has been helping us here ever since. He’s the reason we knew which camp to bust you out of.” Kal leveled a glare at the older elf. “You can lay off of him; he’s owed that much at least.” The elf hesitated, but nodded briefly and walked back to the group of refugees. Immediately, another man approached, a grizzled Nirmathi veteran who’d been fighting invading forces back when Kal had been playing Eagle Knight with the children in his village. Kal smiled dryly; he suspected what was coming. “Pieter. What can I do for you?”

“You know you can’t go after the boy.” Pieter said gruffly. “He wants to throw a tantrum and run off, I won’t stop him. Hell, after that, he quite deserves to. But we’ve got to get these folks across the border fast, Fendarian especially, and we’re still a days march away. No time for our best man to go running through the brush after a kid who should know better.”

Kal sighed. “I know. He’ll likely follow along off the path; I’ll give him space until we settle for the night.” Looking through the departing group, he called out to an elderly Varisian climbing into one of the wagons being used to carry injured and supplies. “Tsura!”

The old woman looked back with a smile and wave. “I’ll keep an eye on him, whenever he shows up! Don’t you worry!”

Kal let a trickle of relief run through his mind. Turin would be fine, at least physically. They sent the boy into Nidal slave encampments and Zuthite prison caravans; he’d survive a day in the mountains. Tsura would make sure there was food for him when he came sulking back, and the two could talk then. Everything would be fine.

** ** **

That night, as Kal rammed his rapier through yet another drow raider, he swore his optimism. Of course it wouldn’t be fine.

Between Fendarin and Turin’s intel and observations on the Nidal border, it seemed that drow mercenaries were becoming more and more common in the country; he supposed the similar preferred ascetics had something to do with it. What they hadn’t known was just how bleeding many of them there were. The group had just made it within sight of the Shining River and reinforcements when the dark elves poured out from the sides of the mountain pass. Kal barely had time to call orders to cover the refugees retreat and protect the wagons before combat was upon him.

Shoving the drow from his blade, he hacked his way through the melee to reach the center wagon, where Tsura and the most crucial of the recovered goods were located. The wagon was swaying slightly, only to come to a stop as Kal rushed into the entrance. A shuffling noise had his blade readied, only to see the profile of Turin, blood-soaked and shaking over the corpse of a drow while Tsura held a scarf over her own bleeding torso. “It wasn’t me, I swear! I saw the fighting from the hill, came to make sure you were alright, he was killing her, I didn’t know what else…”

Kal stopped him. “Turin, I believe you! Stay here, help Tsura, I’m joining the others!” Waiting just long enough to be sure the half-elf had heard his orders, he rushed back out into the night. As the entry to the wagon fluttered shut though, he could swear he heard the ghost of a whisper, saying “Please. Be careful.”

** ** **

Five hours later, Turin was sitting outside the office of the region commander at Skelt, playing pretend. Pretending that he had any interest on the harrow reading Tsura had insisted on doing for him, in exchange for her life. Pretending that he didn’t hear the argument going on inside. Apparently, the stupid elf was someone pretty important to the higher up in Nirmathas, important enough that they listened when he said that he was responsible for the drow attack at the border. Kal was yelling back just as loud, but he could tell it sounded right. There had been plenty of drow looking for merc work or slaves to take back to wherever they’d come from at the camp he’d snuck into to find Fendarian. Who’s to say he hadn’t been bought over himself? Or that his running off into the wilds wasn’t simply a ploy to pass information? Apparently the fact that he DIDN”T DO IT wasn’t enough. He glared at the floor with enough force to blacken it. “Bastard.” Now Pretending he didn’t see Tsura jump slightly after he spoke.

The door next to him slammed upon, scattering the cards Tsura had insisted on reading for him and causing him to jump to his feet, his mangled nerves alight once more. Kal looked over to him apologetically. “Sorry kid, didn’t mean to spook you. Might want to put that away though.” Turin looked down to see a blood-stained dagger in his hand. He quickly stuffed it back into his shirt, just in time for Fendarian and the commander to emerge from the room. The elf took one look at Turin and walked off, while the Commander sighed and waved the two into the room, notably not looking at Turin. His heart clenched.

Before he could walk in, Tsura caught him by the shoulder. “Listen young man, whatever happens to you in there, you saved my life, and many more with what you’ve done for us. Anyone who matters won’t forget that.” Turin bit back a smile and looked away, only for her to press a piece of paper in his hand. “Here you go. It was your center draw. Remember what I said about you, and Desna’s eye on your journey.”

Turin looked down at the slip of paper to see it was a card, and turned up to ask a question, only for Kal to grab him and pull him into the office. “Can’t keep the commander waiting, can we?” he said with false cheer, before pushing the boy into a seat. Across a deck covered in maps of the border region and numerous reports from the field, a tired looking bald man in dull plate looked evenly back at him. “Turin Samosi, am I correct?”

Turin nodded, looking down at the floor. “Yes sir.”

The commander sighed heavily and continued. “First of all, I want to thank you for all that you’ve done for us. The information you’ve gained from inside Nidal has been crucial for us.” Turin felt his heart grow tighter, and felt Kal tensing up beside him. “However, it appears that you’ve been comprised on this last mission. Some of the prisoners we captured seemed to have been looking explicitly for you. Do you have any ideas as to why?”

Turin swallowed. “I…I can do some magic. More than what most halfies can do, from what I remember. I remember hearing I’d be a useful trade, back to the dark elves. That’s when I ran.”

The commander looked over to Kal, and thee man wasted no time. “Sir, there’s no proof that Turin did anything to put us at risk.”

“I know. But the risk now remains. Much as a bastard Fendarin’s been about it (prompting a slight snicker from Turin), it doesn’t change that truth of it. He can’t be a spy for us, not anymore.”

“I can fight!” Turin proclaimed, jumping up from his seat. “I fought when they attacked! I…I killed one.” At the last part, Turin wound down a bit, and looked fairly sick. “But I can do it again. I’m better than them. Please, just don’t send me back.” Kal’s hand on his back was a slight comfort, but the commander’s eyes continued to weigh heavy.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm.” The commander replied carefully, “And I can’t deny we need more fighters among us. But you’re not ready for that, I can see that. I do have another idea, though.” He gestured to his right, and Turin looked to see there had been a third person in the room as well, a woman with ghostly pale skin and a regal bearing. She seemed oddly interested in Turin’s hands, and upon seeing that she had the boy’s attention, extended her hand.

“A harrow card, correct? May I see that?” Wordlessly, he handed it over, and the woman turned it in her fingers, examining the card’s face closely. She then set it face-up on the commander’s desk, revealing a dark figure, standing over blighted subjects. “The tyrant. A ruler who brings naught but ruin, knowingly or not. Tell me, was this aligned or askew?”

Turin shook his head. “I don’t know, Tsura said it was a center card?” He looked at the card, turning the woman’s words in his head, before looking back at Kal. “I didn’t hurt anyone! I don’t want to!”

The foreigner looked at him, and Turin could feel the weight of the dagger in his shirt like it was a greatsword. “When aligned in the reading, the Tyrant is a herald of suffering, but when misaligned, the ruler is put in check. Who rules you, Turin Samosi?”

Turin glared back at stranger. “I’m Nirimathi. I rule me.” But even as he said it, he wondered. If Kal hadn’t asked him, he wouldn’t have said a word about the refugees. Fendarin was a bastard, but when he just lost his family, he mocked the man, even at knife-point. Hell, he’d still gladly toss him back to the Kuthies given half a chance. He looked back to the floor. “I do.”

The woman smiled. “Well then. I may have an opportunity for you, young king Turin. There is a school…”