The Lost Voices (OLD VERSION - New Version to Come)

CHAPTER 1... NEW WORLD (PART 2)

Recording 1: A Murderer

8-12-1620 A.R.

Location: Brickshaw, Terrarin  

As he prepared himself, the dusty outline of his father's personal sword, Domitor, impressed upon Malien the reason for his venture. He would go to the man who did this and take back his father's pain by retrieving that stolen memoriam. That was all and that was it.

He donned his father's old overcoat, from the days when he traveled, covering Malien's muted button-up shirt. Plates of lighter segmented armor rose up the right sleeve, strictly woven into the black cloth. The weight threw him off at first, but before long he was used to its imbalanced fashion. 

Glancing down the arm, Malien could make out the remnants of a shaven off crest, but he paid it little mind as the heightening waves of adrenaline started pumping through him. He went to his bedroom, buckled his tanned pants, and tentatively concealed his revolver in a holster on the back of his belt. Lastly, he gripped the sheath of his personal machine-sword and strapped it to his side using the strong leather ties that interlaced near the throat of the scabbard.

For a moment, Malien drew his sword partway to see into the blade. Fashioned from Oldsteel, a rare ore derived from mines deep beneath Terrarin, it reflected its surrounding world like a scrubbed mirror. Its value centered on its unparalleled ability to both harness and withstand magic, but that reflective nature might have been its greatest achievement. 

How many people had ended their plans by just staring at their weapon for too long? 

Taking a deep breath, he sheathed it, exited the room, and then directed himself toward his father's bedroom. Still, even after it was in his scabbard, he felt as though it lingered in his gaze. Like something between a taunt and a cautionary glance. Shaking it off, he then directed himself toward his father's bedroom. 

Upon turning the knob, Malien pushed himself into the space and took his father's bloodstained timepiece from the desolate bedside table. Unable to stay, he quickly left the room and stepped back into the gallery of armaments, locking the door behind him. The workshop key dropped into his pocket and he found Zoey, who was huddled in a cozy nook of their storehouse.

"Hey Zo, wakey-wakey girl." Her ears perked up and her tail whipped silently at the presence of her caregiver. Then, with a familiarity that drummer boys might know on the march to battle, Malien gently exhaled his request, "I need you to track something for me."

*

After passing through the forest, Malien knelt by Zoey with a sigh of recognition. She gave a quick, gentle whine as he ruffled her head with his hand and scratched her cheek.

"So, this is the place?" Zoey gave a sharp moan. "That'd be a yes. C'mon girl, it's time to find that gear-head and...get that sword." He rubbed her nose as playfully as he could. "Don't worry, I've got some magic under my belt." She barked once and flicked her tail. "Alright, don't give me that now." Zoey looked at him for a moment before licking his chin. He responsively nodded. "Thank you for tracking." Then he kicked out a smile for her. "Good girl."

Before he stood, Malien saw himself reflected in a glassy puddle outside the cave. The person staring back at him was strangely ominous and, as he turned away, he ran his fingers through his dark blonde hair. As always, a few strands never failed to slip over his eyes and he blew them back. It wasn't that he was concerned with his appearance, but something about him needed reminding that he was still himself. Not entirely convinced, he stood up anyway, using the cave entrance for support.

The cavity was impressively wide and located almost two miles into the forest, west of Malien's home, and the sun was beginning to set over the wooded cliff side that lead to the teaming port city below. Over the edge, one could overlook the rest of Brickshaw, the northwestern most state of Terrarin. A makeshift sign cautioning folks of the gear-head was nailed into an outlying tree that reared toward the fissure. Strange as it was to some, the unnatural hatred toward them never crossed Malien's mind. Gear-Heads were the same as humans, they were just born with some naturally, metal tissues. Both races still worked hard, bled red, and laughed.