Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Chronicles of Estra: Elemental ❯ Setting the Scene ( Prologue )

Prologue

Setting the Scene

 

Contrary to popular philosophical bullshit, perspectives do not alter reality—they are affected by reality, by the parts of it that we encounter. Thus, someone who is exposed to the very worst of what people are capable of will have different opinions than someone for whom life is a never-ending procession of puppies, cake and hugs. Their mindsets will be different, their views on society will be incomplete—and therefore, wrong.

 

The first sign that a person has no actual points to make is when they start reaching for sentences such as “It is and it isn't, if you know what I mean,” “It's right but it's wrong,” and personal favourites such as the classic all-purpose doublespeak line “I don't disagree with you.” When they start prefacing their arguments with that sort of pointless drivel, it's undeniable proof that I've torn their pointless debating circle-jerk a new anal crevice.

 

Human nature has always been to distrust and manipulate one another, while still perceiving ourselves to be 'good' through other means—yearly donations to charity, perhaps, that appease our own sense of guilt and shame at seeing those who live far less comfortable lives than ourselves through the act of throwing money at smug has-been celebrities and praying they choke on it.

 

While most would consider themselves to be good people, the reality is exactly the opposite - we are selfish by nature, considering our needs and desires before those of others, and the only times people are ever selfless is when guilt and shame drive them to do so, out of a desire to see themselves - and to be seen by others - as good people. The rest of the time, we're perfectly happy to think the worst of everyone we meet, see or even hear or read about.

 

“A leopard never changes its spots”, we say. “Once a criminal, always a criminal.” Those who struggle to prove they can change, those who attempt to repair the damage their mistakes have done, are told they must redeem themselves—yet forgiveness and redemption are nothing more than tricks born of distrust and used to manipulate people. “Do this,” people say, “and we will forgive you. You will have redeemed yourself.”

 

The path to supposed redemption lasts well beyond the death of the one seeking forgiveness, a never-ending series of tests and challenges that may or may not be impossible—and the slightest mistake or failure results in everyone coming down on them like a ton of bricks. Even if they aren't called upon to cut down a tree with a herring, though, they'll never make it—because even if they think they've been forgiven, they haven't. Even if they think they've redeemed themselves, they haven't.

 

It's nothing more than a tool used to control their actions and prevent them from ever having an opinion that differs from that of the person or people doing the forgiving, and to get a free pass for the forgiver to perpetually claim moral superiority. “You're a terrible person! I'm better than you, so my opinion is more important than yours!”

 

There can be no other explanation for the way ex-criminals are treated like shit. It's no wonder so many of them revert to crime—after all, there's no point being anything but a dick if society insists on treating you like one until the end of time. The same can be said of those who are falsely accused, especially men who are accused of rape. Even if their trial ends in their favour, they still carry the social stigma of the accusation, and if accused of another crime the previous accusation will inevitably come back to bite them in the arse.

 

People will whisper behind their backs, look at them like they're about to commit some heinous crime, and many will be convinced that they actually were guilty, but just got lucky in court. Eventually, the victim's attempt at rationalising all this reaches its logical conclusion:

 

“There's no point trying to claim I'm not a rapist, because everyone treats me like one anyway—and if they're all going to give me the shit that comes with it, I might as well become a rapist so I can get something out of all this.”

 

Replace “rapist” with “murderer”, “burglar”, “arsonist” or “pickpocket” if you wish. You'll find it fits at every level—if people are going to treat you like you're a dick, you might as well get the satisfaction that comes from actually being a dick. I should know, I've been accused of murder—not to mention terrorism. I've experienced for myself the shit that comes from being universally hated, and it's shown no signs of ever letting up.

 

My name is Yezzik Oren, and this is my story. Don't worry, I'll start at the beginning. Do try to keep up. Six years ago, I was nothing more than just another guy looking for a job. I'd left my home village of Thell, travelling south past the Midlands to reach Krenya. According to letters my older sister Ahma had sent back home every so often, the Krenyan Empire was a place of prosperity where almost anybody could make a living.

 

Even orcs such as her and myself were welcome there, “magically altered humanoids” and “marvels of science” as we are. Well, were—at least in my case. Anyway, the Empire's big on science and technology; it's their whole shtick and the reason they're no longer a tiny backwater country always on the verge of getting dicked over by larger countries looking to steal its dinner money.

 

And by “dinner money,” I mean “hyper-advanced technology our ancestors buried in a mountain.” Presumably they did it so we wouldn't kill each other with it. Well, that plan didn't get them—or us—very far at all. Krenya's got all the technology and the Council of Magic has all the, well, magic. We—sorry, slip of the tongue. They aren't a country as such, they're an international organisation, ostentatiously dedicated to preventing people from misusing magic.

 

As such, that means they take it unto themselves to police its use, doing everything from teaching people how to not accidentally blow stuff up and declaring the use of certain spells illegal to hunting down dangerous magic-using criminals across international borders and attempting to prevent other countries from invading their land and ruining their shit with diplomacy, magical superiority and a military presence.

 

And then there's the seedier stuff—the stuff most people never find out about, because the knowledge is deemed “too dangerous” for the public to know. In my experience, “too dangerous” is merely code for “We know this shit's wrong, but this shit helps keep us in power.”

 

I'm talking about using the same illegal spells they ban other people from using. What sort of spells? Anything you can think of, really. Normal Illusion spells merely project images or sounds or otherwise confuse and befuddle the senses directly. The more dangerous spells create an illusion by altering reality itself.

 

Even something as innocuous as a “Shield” spell, normally used by Divine-attuned spellcasters to prevent themselves and their friends and allies from taking damage, is deadly in the wrong hands. It's essentially the creation of a solid barrier of magic. Sounds cool, doesn't it? Now imagine that same barrier being made opaque to throw your vision off.

 

A little tweak to the spell, and all of a sudden no oxygen gets in and no carbon dioxide gets out. No prizes for guessing what happens next. Or perhaps the barrier doesn't get created around you, but instead through you, slicing your body in half for all your disgusting internal organs and bodily fluids to go splattering around the place. Once, I even saw a guy compress a Shield he'd created around an enemy, crushing the unfortunate sod into a tiny ball.

 

By contrast, my magic was pretty tame. You generally know what to expect from Fire spells—burning, melting, cauterising, heating, dicking around with smoke... nothing special. There's relatively few ways to use Fire magic in unique or unpredictable ways, at least compared to the other Aspects. And for every normal person who starts casting, there's another working towards anarchy or tyranny, trying to reshape society to fit their vision of how it should be.

 

Every paranoid conspiracy theorist you've seen ranting and raving about how “magic will be the death of us all” was right. If anything, they were too lax in their psychotic vigilance. Granted, the Council does a very important job—it helps keep the nutjobs in line—but having seen what I've seen, having done what I've done, I'd say all we've done is swap anarchy for tyranny.

 

Anyway, to business. It's alright me ranting on about shit you probably don't have a clue about, without putting it in some sort of fucking context. Let me start from the top...

 

-

 

Like I said, I went far south to the Krenyan Empire in search of employment. Normally I'd have tried to get a job closer to home, but I spent months trying to do just that. Couldn't find one at all. I couldn't go east to Mancurio, there's still too much bad blood between Mancurians and us orcs.

 

According to the stories the elder tells, the first orcs were once humans, but were transformed three hundred years ago when the Council's now-immortal leader accidentally discovered magic. I always called bullshit on that one, but there's at least some truth to it.

 

From what I know of magic, it reacts to thoughts and desires and is controlled by willpower. That means it has the power to reshape reality given enough magic, desire and determination. As the elder puts it, the first orcs—mostly tribal and rural communities, which meant a great deal of superstition—worshipped a deity they called 'Orcus'.

 

God of the Hunt, Tamer of the Wilds, the Grand Protector... Orcus had a lot of names, but what's important is his appearance. His skin was green to provide camouflage in the forests, and his body was the absolute pinnacle of physical capacity. These remote communities often prayed to him for the strength to defeat their enemies and provide for their families.

 

And when the solidified form of magic—some kind of wall of light, apparently—flooded over their villages, the terrified villagers prayed to Orcus for the strength to defeat something that they seemingly couldn't stab or bludgeon to death.

 

Now, as magic entered the world and expanded to fill every direction with itself, it grew weaker and weaker—which was a good thing, as at its strongest it annihilated everything it touched. Entire villages that happened to encounter it before it began to peter out simply vanished, their inhabitants completely obliterated.

 

Some were too far away, and their bodies became infused with magical power—but they didn't transform. That was the key part. Those villagers who prayed to Orcus for protection, who were exposed to enough magic to transform them but not close enough to die instantly, they were the unlucky ones.

 

At first, they started getting sick. Then their bodies began to twist and distend, presumably extremely painfully, turning a sickening shade of green. Word of both the sickness and the physical mutation got back to the Mancurian leader at the time, some idiot called King Rorland the Magnificent.

 

Naturally, of course, he assumed the worst. And when those he sent to investigate reported 'green-skinned demons' in place of normal townsfolk, he assumed the villagers had been eaten or possessed or something else equally ridiculous.

 

Given that there was this newfangled thing called 'magic' being mentioned—according to legend, he first found out about it by setting his court jester on fire—he had reason to believe it wasn't all just bullshit. So he did the only thing he thought he could do—he ordered the 'demons' slain, and sent a portion of his army to make sure the job got done.

 

Long story short, the villagers didn't take too kindly to having someone try to kill them. Some escaped the first attack, fleeing west to bring word to other local settlements who had shared their transformation. This wouldn't have been anywhere near enough to drive off the Mancurian forces, except they had an ace up their sleeve: Fiona Parfu, the woman who had discovered magic in the first place, and who was now the most powerful person on the planet.

 

I'm talking serious shit here. There's three types of magic—Arcane, Divine and Elemental. Some people don't have any, whether by genetics or where their ancestors chose to live... or in some cases thanks to Krenyan technology, but that's a tale for another time.

 

The three types of magic seem to repel one another, which means normal people are only attuned to a maximum of one type. Arcane magic produces itself inside the body like blood, hair and sweat. It's even got special organs it created in our bodies just to ensure its own survival and effective 'procreation'.

 

Elemental magic is everywhere but the body—well, except in certain special cases... Either way, there's plenty of theories on where it comes from and how much of it there is, but nobody has a fucking clue where Divine magic comes from. It just sort of gravitates to people, based on how many people there are in close proximity to one another.

 

That's why healers in big cities are the richest of the lot—they have far more capacity for their spells, which is essential when you have to do things like rebuild entire limbs for your patients. I've been mana fatigued before, that shit's painful—especially for a magical being like myself. That's like trying to live without fucking blood.

 

Anyway, I couldn't go to Mancurio, someone would end up killing me simply for being an orc. I didn't want to try the Midlands, that's where everyone goes—Giji used to be called the City of Gold because it was a great place to make a living, now it's called that because mugging all the refugees and idiots who go there trying to make a living really adds up.

 

It's said that crime rules there, and that could even be true. Certainly, it does enough trade for there to be a booming black market, especially since it's pretty much the trade capital of the world. Hell, almost all the trade routes—at least, the ones that don't use Summoning spells to create wormholes to cut down on travel time—go there.

 

That's the whole reason it was founded in the first place—it was at the centre of everything, it seemed like a good place to set up shop and try to fleece some merchants. That said, it's now got the world's largest market, and the Tournament they hold every few years is pretty good too. Up until recently, I was banned from participating due to my... rather unique nature. Now I'm banned from participating on account of my imprisonment and apparent penchant for terrorism. Go figure.

 

So, I couldn't go to Mancurio and I didn't want to try the Midlands. That left two places: Krenya and Durrol. I didn't want to try Durrol just yet, my older sister Ahma went there and I didn't want it to seem like I was trying to follow in her footsteps. I wanted to be my own man!

 

Well, that and... they probably had no jobs I could do. I used to be embarrassed about it before I knew the real reasons why, but I'm not exactly the pinnacle of physical performance, despite being an orc. Until I bulked up recently thanks to having no choice but to do so, I was actually rather skinny. All the demanding physical labour most people expect of orcs? I couldn't do it.

 

Then again, most people—humans, that is—expect orcs to be stupid and illiterate. It's a self-perpetuating stereotype, sadly. Yeah, as a species we're physically superior to you, but we die out quicker. Our bodies simply exhaust themselves faster. Most orcs reach physical maturity at age twelve, and 'old age' starts at about forty. No orc has ever lasted past fifty, even with today's technology and life expectancy.

 

It's no wonder many orcs choose not to waste their lives studying and learning when they can actually enjoy the few years they have left. This means that many orcs can't read or write, and have absolutely no idea of concepts like politics beyond what they know from their villages—not to mention no desire to keep up with current events.

 

Couple that with our society still being somewhat tribal and therefore being seen as primitive, and the result is the stereotype of the big, stupid orc. Most of us aren't idiots, though. We know the stereotype exists and we know why it exists, but it only serves to get us angry. This is the real problem—when orcs get angry, things tend to get broken.

 

Due to our superior strength and endurance, most orcs—in other words, every orc who isn't me—can easily out-punch and outlast even the most determined of human assailants, at least until the police arrive.

 

And due to cultural differences—we believe violence is the fastest and most direct method of airing your grievances with a person; it's certainly more effective than passive-aggressive bullshit and playing mind games—we're more likely to beat someone to death than rely on the courts to piss precious time of our lives away until they eventually come to a decision that may still end up getting fucking overturned due to what amounts to begging really hard.

 

As such, the stereotype of the big, dumb, angry orc is self-perpetuating. And you know what? The knowledge that it is self-perpetuating is enough to make me angry enough to go around perpetuating it myself! Now transpose that reaction into the mindset of orcs far stronger than myself, orcs who have come to rely on their physical capabilities for their continued employment, orcs who haven't had even an iota of respect from most of society for their perceived lack of intelligence.

 

The results are never pretty, but they all serve to keep the stereotype going indefinitely. Remember that, the next time you choose to laugh at an orc you think is stupid. They may not be book-smart, but street smarts are certainly enough to teach you how to cause arrogant dicks agonising pain.

 

Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. I didn't want to go to Durrol. This wasn't just because my sister Ahma already works there—as a soldier, no less; no prizes for guessing which of us ended up with the 'physical' genes—but because I had a better chance of finding employment in Krenya.

 

Everything in my life seems to come down to statistics; whether it's 'that's the better option, it has a larger number so a greater chance of success' or 'nobody would believe that's the truth, it's far too implausible—which makes it perfect.' My entire life has just been one big mindfuck—and I'm always the one getting skullraped.

 

The Empire's all about science and technology—which means there's always some sort of research going on, especially into magic. An old friend of mine once told me “Magic is nothing more than a part of science we don't yet understand.” For once, I find myself agreeing with him.

 

Magic didn't spring out of nowhere, and despite what Jozam might think, there's no way it's a divine gift. Far too many people abuse it for that to be true. We also know far too much about it to start spewing bullshit about how it's some mystical power beyond rational explanation—and that knowledge was the key to my best shot at employment.

 

Magically-altered beings like us orcs can earn quite a bit of money in Krenya signing up as guinea pigs for various groups of scientists—although ever since the anti-spellcaster riots and uprisings following the Mage War; riots that led to the formation of the infamous Project Spellbreaker, fewer and fewer of us offer our services to the Empire these days.

 

All that reticence, ill-will and hatred really meant for me, though, was that there was a smaller supply of orcs seeking this type of employment—and as a result, higher demand. And higher demand meant a larger paycheck, which was always nice.

 

So I went south to Krenya, and allowed a “research committee” to experiment on my body, presumably in an attempt to learn more about us orcs and how we came to be. I don't think even they expected the disastrous—at least for them—events that were to follow...