Breaking Utopia

Chapter Eight | The Pink Summit

Frelka Frie was a fascinating subject to the quartermaster. As a self-proclaimed aficionado of history, he found himself pestering the poor woman on all things Severos, writing line after line in a small leather book he once used as a ledger on the Weeping Jade and now formed into a sort of semi-biographical tome of knowledge no one has on Severosian life. Though sometimes reciting her life story and explaining what fruits were and were not in a Severosian Mead, and the difference between a Crocothaw and a Snow Gator were an easy and fun new pastime, it did become wearing on the Lady of Clan Frie.

It was then that she would find herself with a different guest from the Weeping Jade. Who took well to the frosty coastline of the Elder Island where the Summit sessions took place at the crack of dawn each day. The Captain of the Weeping Jade enjoyed looking out across the waves to his old ship. Frelka would stop by his resting place along the cold beach and have a swig of his favorite Salkayvian rum. She would tell him tales of her late husband and of the days hearing in the Pink Tower. The one place in all of Severos that all tribes held sacred. Quartermaster Goborn asked Frelka on the ride to the island about the Summit, its rules and history, the significance of the island and the tower, who were Elders and why, the developing migraine kept her from thinking of the cold that brushed her cheeks.

"Jarl-less jit of a leader!" The large and grotesque looking man whom Frelka saved the crew of the Weeping Jade from said as he spat and walked by the Captain and the Madam of House Frie. She called him Farouhk when the captain first laid his eyes on him, and she continued to call him this now.

"Move along, Farouhk." She said from her seat along the coastline. Marx noticed that a group of his underlings arrived behind him bearing their rancid decaying fangs alongside his.

"Once you finish playing with your northern meat, send it my way. The least you could do for wasting our fucking time!"

"Listen to Lady Frie and move along, Gulechs." A proper, yet odd voice sounded from behind the mangy group. It was a warrior, for sure, but compared to the raggedy, cannibalistic Gulech clan, and the traditional and honor bound Frie clan, this man did not fit in. Farouhk gripped his bald head and knocked on his skull with a snarl before guiding his men away.

"Sarason Neftar, of the Neftar Clan." He gave an odd rigid bow as if he was mimicking an old memory of what a bow was.

"Marx....Captain Nard Marx." The captain was distracted by the clean black leather armor that seemed to have painted, pinned ears where medals would go on an Arkin uniform. Sarason seemed to stand idle, waiting for some sort of cue. His eyes looked towards the ship and back to the dizzy captain. Through the liquor Marx was able to somehow put it together. "Oh, yes...Of the Weeping Jade!" He said raising a bottle of rum in the air.

"Forgive me, but your accent seems off for an Arkin." Sarason questioned.

"I could say the same for you." Marx said, presenting the bottle to the rigid clansman.

"The Neftar have a fascination for your employers." Frelka explained with a glare as Marx slowly pulled the bottle back to his chest, nulling the offer.

"Employers? Are you not of the north?"

"Way more north, friend, and a little west, really, bit of a trip!" Nard Marx answered the rigid man's curiosity.

"Those bodies you saw floating in the waters, they aren't always dead. Sarason's great grandfather, Jarl Desot Neftar, saved one. They learned a lot about the north from them and the result of which is this." She flicked her palms out in frustration at the sight of Sarason and his makeshift Arkin suit of armor.

"We hope to be above the bloodiness of the other clans, that's why we hope that Lady Frie will change her mind on the summit floor soon and allow us to work with the great northern Arkins."