Moziah 1, Scene 1

Moziah

Moziah meandered to the platform’s ledge slowly, as he peeked over with great trepidation. All about his body the sky, and only inches in front of his feet also sky underneath. They were west, in the City, the second quadrant of Caelborn, centered in the rundown and abandoned district. Around them, the prying eyes of the City-folk blank and boring, the tall, vertical buildings surrounding them blocked any potential intrusion into this daunting and perilous upcoming event. Moziah’s cold, soft hand wavered amidst the gaping drop, but his eyes deceivingly remained stern and brave.

“Not terribly far of a fall, is it?” Moziah remarked in an exceptionally high pitch.

“I’ve descended greater distances many times in my sleep. Quite aplenty admirable flying feats in fact. And there’s what separates us. I’m accomplished and established. Noteworthy and acclaimed. You on the other hand are a cowardly drunk. Your sole redeeming quality is absurd wealth,” Ladner remarked.

“A man of means is more than he seems, as the old saying goes, Lad. Insulting doesn’t suit you. No one points out a fellow’s faults directly. First day apprentice knowledge my friend of cutting down a man’s ego. Though rumor is about you excel at cutting in other ways,” Moziah’s pitch remained as high as the distance from where he stood to the ground below. Ladner hmmphed.

“There is little chance you will die. The wings you carry, clumsily,” Ladner readjusted the wings on Moziah’s arms, shaking his head. “.. are some of the finest on the Stem. Well, aside these,” he gestured to himself.

“Your counsel is very reassuring,” Moziah responded right back.

“I thought you admired honesty,” Ladner snickered.  

“Well, I do in most instances. But this is a different thing entire...” and then he was weightless as Ladner pushed him fervently off the platform.

Moziah felt so alive. His long, coarse dark blonde hair wavered, his mind was sharp. The weather was clear, but colder than Moziah had anticipated. Caelborn was particularly bright that dawn, an odd marriage of a dominant orange and a submissive pink. Moziah had grown up “in the clouds away from the ground,” as he had called it, for all twenty-four years of his life. The whole city, built upon The Great Stem, was a flotilla of liveliness and business. It looked like a giant stone tree, with large branches and leaves representing various regions and neighborhoods of the city. The highest point was well on its way to touching the end of the atmosphere, and even the lowest point of The Stem was a kilometer high. Everything in this great, bizarre city was vertical, tall, and hollow. Even the people.

“It will be hard to see once we fly ten kilometers below,” Moziah remembered Ladner’s lecture. “The beginning stage of flight is the simplest, but the stage following, the hardest. Leave your recklessness behind my friend. Only fools think they can fly.”

As Moziah recalled these words, he saw the edge of the lowest platform of the city far from his view to the west. Even in the sheer adrenaline of free-falling, he knew exactly what the gargantuan oval shaped metal hoop was attached to a rack below. The Arradian Soar was only weeks away, and it was Moziah’s favorite time of year and favorite part of the city. He always wanted to try a hawk-stall, to be like Yaston the Cleft-Wing, the greatest Radiai legend, ever. He read the scrolls, imagined the spin hundreds of times. How difficult can it really be?

Ladner dropped a few moments after Moziah and noticed Moziah's changed course of action. As Ladner quickly soared past Moziah to Moziah's desired destination, he spun slowly, after already swooping ahead of and above Moziah, and drew Moziah’s arms to his chest tersely. They both fit through the rung barely, a slight ping cracking a piece of Ladner’s Thrakian leather.

“I would have landed!” Moziah said abruptly, his hands clutching on Ladner's torso for dear life.

“Your body, yes, but not your soul,” Ladner responded loudly. “Aramis would be disappointed,” Ladner finished with a deep, slow voice

“He would have a large line ahead of…” Moziah’s mouth was brazenly but briefly shut by Ladner, altering their course in the process. Their trajectory had changed east, towards the Credenar River. Ladner quickly twisted his flight back west, while Moziah vomited profusely. 

“So, are you going to let me loose? Or will I spit up my stomach as well?” Moziah asked impatiently.

“I will soon. But this time, however, follow my instructions. Or else, I'll tell your father,” Ladner irked back.

“You wouldn't!” Moziah shouted whilst looking below.

“Or your brother,” Ladner smirked in spite of being five kilometers from the ground below.

“Even worse!” Moziah peered above and glared intently at Ladner.

And again, Moziah was weightless. He was free. They were nearer to the ground then before but had a long flight ahead of them. “At least one quarter of an hour, if not more,” Ladner explained.

Moziah's set of Arradian wings was Ladner's first pair he had ever crafted. Though modest compared to other Arradian wings, Moziah was honored that Ladner would let him wear them. They were lightly coated brown, but with rich red tips. The left wing was partially chipped, so Moziah noticed that his flights always seemed to fade left.

Though he had practiced jumping from one platform a kilometer down to another earlier in preparation for the drop for weeks prior, Moziah felt nauseous. Ladner had informed him of this feeling but he was not ready for it. There was a long way to go; yet slowly Moziah trained himself to ignore the sickness. By the time he had arrived to the 'tipping point,' the landing stage of flight, Moziah readied himself for “the fastest portion of the glide.”

“Tilt up as high as you can!” Ladner exclaimed loud enough for Moziah to hear.

Moziah lifted, with as much strength as he could muster, straight up, and his flight slowly began to lose speed.

“Remember to stay up. Even near the ground, the more you lift your body upwards, the lighter the fall.” Moziah kept his body as straight as he could. Searing pain, however, appeared in Moziah's back, and soon nothing agonized him more than lifting his body upright. It was a slight knot underneath his shoulder, but with every passing second the knot got tighter and bigger. Five-hundred meters to the ground, and Moziah could sense that he could not stay aloft gracefully. His body had no stamina left. His efforts to straighten were backfiring and soon his back became clenched.

Two hundred meters left and Moziah's life was hanging by a thread. Ladner saw his friend in agony and tried his best to glide his own flight directly underneath Moziah's in order to snatch him and take the brunt of the fall.

One hundred meters left, and Moziah knew doom was a certainty. Twenty-five years old, and without seeing the 50th Arradian Soar? Moziah was disturbed. Shortly, flashing images of Ki and Amara flooded his mind.

Fifty meters up and it was all but over. Never before had Ladner, at full speed, been this near to the earth below. When, seemingly out of nowhere, Moziah peered to the left and saw another Glider, like an old Arradian hunt of old, gawking and descending towards him with a terrible fury. He was caught in the air with force yet grace, and somehow the maneuver helped the knot disappear. As Moziah bruffly landed three meters up, Ladner a few meters to his right he turned to look again at his flying savior, but noticed only the brushing of the grass, and a panting and adrenaline-filled Ladner. The moment he was rescued, his rescuer vanished.

“What just happened? Who was that,” Moziah remarked.

“A fan of yours. Or a raving lunatic,” Ladner joked, though his huge eyes and trembling body revealed his fright.

“Perhaps a combination of both,” Moziah responded, affirming Ladner of Moziah's renewed vitality.

“Undoubtedly. Only the foolhardy admire the likes of you,” Ladner smiled, the blinding light of his teeth a stark but attractive contrast to his ebon-onyx skin. 

“What does that say about you?” Moziah replied, grinning, brushing through his messy, shoulder length strings he called hair. 

“I try to recant but I keep crawling back. Or, flying back in this case. Follow me,” Ladner said as he directed Moziah to the east in the yellow grassy plains.

They were both standing on a large field near a sharply steep hill to their east. There were large, hollow woods to their south in the Mochmuro Forest, and the Credenar River due east. Moziah noticed how cold it was on the ground. He saw part of the sun had descended, though it was shrouded by The Great Stem. The then orange-pink sky turned a faint blue color. There was soon something that unnerved him deeply.

Back on Caelborn, the city atmosphere was loud, and there was no place without murmurs of life. From the many clergy (the real “beggars”, as Moziah called them) hailing about the end of days, to shops selling anthologies of old Arradian Games, or The Great Radiai Debate. Everywhere, running, talking, walking, shouting. Everywhere. And at all times. But here, he heard something he never imagined possible: silence. He knew of trees, and of lakes, and of hills, and of mountains, but he had never seen them for himself except afar from a half-blind bird’s eye view. He was overwhelmed and uncomfortable, the assuredness of his thoughts interrupted by the city no longer viable. After he followed Ladner in stilled silence for around two hours along the lightly damp grass, it was dusk, and he looked into the sky and saw stars. He had always been able to see stars, but it was different to see them here. He felt distinctly small, and it added to his unease. Right as he finished his thought, Ladner stopped. He peered about cryptically, solemnly. If Moziah felt strange before, it was much worse now. Ladner then slowly sat, his short, fit frame quickly descended. He sat on the sloping edge of a hill with a tremendous view of the Credenar River flexing its length and perfect slither. Moziah reclined next to him.

“He’d be twenty-six today. The oldest of us,” Moziah ended the minutes long silence.

“The funniest,” Ladner smiled, and Moziah nodded, pulling a few glass cups small enough only for a swiff.

“The best swordsman,” Moziah finished pouring both drinks and placed his flask back to his side.

“And the greatest friend. To Daemos,” Ladner turned to Moziah.

“To Daemos,” and they hit their glasses together. Ladner drank slow, Moziah gulped instantly. 

“This is it, Mo. This is my sanctuary. No Order, no markets, no bartering, no noise. Just the water. And the trees.”

“Also, the extremely large stone city behind us. Can’t help but notice that,” Moziah responded in a teasing manner, though he also noted the land was beautiful.

“Be serious for a moment, friend. We live on the city. Our city, Caelborn. Every moment of every day we live to serve our people. My family has been here since the beginning. As has yours.” 

“Don't be coy with me, Ladner. No one will ever know my real ancestry. The line between myth and history have all been pillaged by my forefathers,” Moziah responded passionately and sharply.

“Wherever our ancestors came from, our lives have revolved around the city. Since birth. But what of these people? In the land separate from the clouds? Who were not fortunate in their birthplace? Their make? Our families have protected them for centuries. Some of our forefathers even perished in their defense. But now, now who are we truly protecting?”

“It is not who, Ladner, but what. We protect the idea of justice. The idea of freedom. We have been so lost in preserving ideas we forgot people centuries ago,” Moziah spoke with a certainty of a renowned scholar. 

“But does it end there? Are you going to acknowledge the lie but not fight for a truth?” Ladner turned to Moziah, his voice raised and sharp. 

“It is not a problem I caused, and it is not one I will solve. The chaos at work here… It will only get worse,” Moziah said quickly in response before continuing.

“The people of Caelborn do not care, my friend. If a populace is enmeshed in apathy, change will only come with calamity or war. And I desire neither,” Moziah finished, but Ladner’s eyes were unconvinced. 

“I would take a war for a chance at peace over a peace that breeds corruption, apathy, and desperation,” Ladner responded. 

“And many of our enemies would agree with you, friend. But so long as the Hanaars, Glimdels, Solmins, and Peragosts remain alive and uninhibited in their pursuits, the city will continue to do as the city does. My sigil does nothing,” Moziah gestured his hand in a circle to himself, without any remorse or shame. “The Glimdels exploit the Aldren for their azerock, the Solmins throw public hissy fits in the city square, removing the possibility of the very thing they crave so desperately, and the Peragosts stand in the middle to keep the wheels moving. That’s Caelborn for you, my friend.”

“But one of the Wheels is running off course. Besides, what of my family?” Ladner said, his eyes squinting and his shoulders tense.

“Well the name says it all. Warric. Damn, it’s as easy as dropping half of the letters in your name. But your war won’t come. Not while we are alive anyway,” Moziah spoke smugly, peering out into the Credenar River’s gentle water. 

“And the people below the Stem? Stuck on the Wheel? I return to my first question. What of them?” Before his body had faced the Credenar River like a gentle father listening wondrously at his son. Now his body clenched like a general’s after decades of fighting a losing war. 

“They will suffer, Ladner Warric, of the Rogue Arradians. And die. Until the Stem falls or the damned Maker returns. They’ll die,” Moziah did not turn to face him, only peered continuingly along the Credenar River, the very river the namesake for his home up on the Stem.

“I can not accept that,” Ladner said, his body still as an axe. 

“I know. Whatever I can do though, to aid you, I will,” Moziah turned to his friend, his own eyes not daring to peer at his friend’s. 

“I know,” Ladner’s eyes returned again to the river. 

Moziah felt guilt. Though it was quite an ordinary feeling. Here was a man he trusted and respected. One of the few left worthy of trust and respect. But he knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could do for him. His eyes returned again to the Stem above him as it blended cryptically well with the deep azure sky. The lights of the Stem were particularly bright that night. The lights...

“The banquet!” Moziah remembered. “How could I have forgotten? Surely it has started by now.”

“But I thought it was not a real banquet until you arrive?” The air between them grew much lighter.

“You are correct my friend. But since when has nobility stopped others taking from the vine and the women?”

And they were off. It was very dark, though some blue remained at the bottom of the sky. In order to make it to the Banquet, Moziah and Ladner quickly made north over The Bridge of Mourning, the famed sight near The Scouring and Massacre of Thimamorn which occurred 704 years prior. After walking for around quarter of an hour in the plains, they arrived at the ghastly sight. It was the largest cliff in all of Salmorr, even larger than the Eimera Waterfall, but below were thousands and thousands of dried bones, ancient weaponry and red dust eerily stationed near several hundred small creeks. Normally, particularly at night, it was impossible to see the horrible scene below, but the lit up paths to The Great Stem and the lights on the platforms above gave a hauntingly intimate look into the violent past of the Reclamation War. Both Moziah and Ladner quickly passed over the arched azerrock bridge with a nervous rate and pace. After they had passed the grand bridge, there was a large fifteen feet high portal, much like a massive, translucent window without any glass, before them. They were looking at a Nighteye. Black mist wrapped around the structure like a translucent snake, a harrowing and ghastly sight. As Moziah had never reached the ground, he had never experienced the upward transportation of Nighteyes.

“Stay calm while you ascend is vital. It is like death, but not to worry, only a paltry few have died while passing through,” Ladner explained in a simple fashion.

“You may be the worst advisor I have ever had,” Moziah remarked.

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Don't push me this time.”

“Of course not...” Ladner smirked.

And then Moziah's adrenaline rushed intensely. For a moment, it was entirely black. It was a big nothingness, like his flying experience, but this time, he had no control over his own body. He arrived through the platform nauseous, and vomiting profusely, only a second after being stuck in the black.

“Did you sneak in some ale while I wasn't looking?” Ladner snickered.

“I...” Moziah coughed and spoke slowly, “never want to do that again.”

“You're in luck. We have four more Nighteyes to go through.” Ladner grinned the biggest smile Moziah had ever seen.

Four stages later, Ladner and Moziah were standing in front of The Carolus Plaza. There were torches everywhere, and even though the night sky was entirely black, the platform was filled with light. Thousands of people, donning their best garb and veneer, swarmed to the entrance like ants to a forgotten fruit. Moziah's own wardrobe was tattered, dirty, and had remnants of vomit all over. He was not prepared for the opulence of the 700th annual Plebonian Decree ceremony. But most of all, he was not ready to face the inquiry and disdain of his father and brother over his lateness. He quickly ran towards his large and aloof bodyguard Rumio, whom he noticed outside of the entrance of the Plaza.

“Farewell my friend.” Moziah said to Ladner.

“Farewell. Oh, and by the way, I’ll need my wings back,” Ladner said as he forcibly removed them from Moziah’s back, fraying and scratching parts of Moziah’s arms and shoulders. “I see your stunt chipped my broken wings more in one flight than I ever have in hundreds of flights.”

“I thought they needed a touch-up. I only sped up the process,” Moziah winked at his friend then walked towards the Banquet as Ladner walked away.

Moziah, following his bodyguard Rumio, snuck through to the side of the banquet unnoticed.

“Here's new clothes, sir,” he said.

“Thank the Almight I chose my wardrobe before I jumped,” he remarked to his uninterested protector. He wore an obsidian vest with a long-sleeved maroon shirt. His cloak was dark, but not nearly as dark as his trousers. Such a shadowy wardrobe would draw immense attention, but that was exactly what Moziah intended.

* * *

“Tonight we are pleased to announce the 700th anniversary of Plebonian Decree.” The near 2,000 people in attendance boomed in applause. “We celebrate a continued peace that is reflected in all of the land. For 700 years both the Order and the Nobles have worked together, regardless of difference, to maintain prosperity for all the inhabitants of our great land. We must not forget the sacrifices during the Reclamation War. Piatan was a great man, as was Ravinn the First, and together they ended the bloodshed started by the common men. Seven hundred years later, the Nobles and the Order still work and live together. The Almight has shown favor to us both, allowing each legacy to endure. Let us remember diplomacy must reign supreme. I firmly believe we as men, though different in our ideologies and codes, can come together to reach a better conclusion than we could alone. On this night I celebrate my friend and mentor Ravinn the Third, a man whom I deeply respect and admire with all of my heart. He is accompanied by his two sons, both of whom continue to show the courage and moral fiber of the mightiest of Nobles.” Some laughter arose in the audience at Nilas's comment. “May we live in peace until the end of Salmorr itself. And may the Almight continue to bless Caelborn until the end of time.” Nilas finished his speech with a strong, prominent smile. A large rumble of what seemed to be an endless amount of applause erupted. Moziah knew that smile; he knew the lines in his skin were more than just marks of joy. They were marks of zealous and infinite suavity.