Of Magicken

[Crystal Tears]

Hey all, I've decided to try again with posting stories and such in Fanfic. I hope you all enjoy, just a warning though, this story will contain sexuality (not much), profanity (nothing extreme), and violence/gore.

And now the story!

Of Magicken
I

Rain was pouring down on the cobblestone roads of the upper Arcadian streets almost like a waterfall. No one was out there; no one dared step out of their homes. As their city was safe no longer, Kaiser Cavendish, the long beloved ruler of Arcadia had been pronounced dead only a day before. Because of this, the city of the province Soca had lost whatever old world charm it had, and now was completely enveloped by what Prince Lucien called ‘Imperial Arcadia’.

I will tell you this, I am no friend of Lucien’s, nor am I a fan of his new empire, but when he vowed to find and bring his father’s killer to justice, I believed him. Who could not believe such a passionate young man? I am, like so many youth in this dying city, captivated by him and his essence. Trinity City beware, for if Lucien has his way, and I have no doubts he will, you’re province Aselic will be obliterated in one swift strike of fire and might.

My name is Iain Farquhar, I’m not an aristocrat; I’m a noble. That simply means that, seemingly I’m not as important to the royals, and have a greater grasp on reality than the ones above me. My family name is both frowned upon and admired because it was the Farquhar that was the first ‘poor’ bloodline to rise up above the 6 lower levels and become comfortably situated on the 9th. But my history is not important, in fact, this tale of my line holds no importance to you who are reading this, so why am I bothering?

Because I want someone to listen, Nabreus, the beloved northern continent of Amasia is not the picture perfect place many would want you to see it as. Arcadia, or rather, Imperial Arcadia through its province Soca, has strengthened its hold on its neighbour Nahara and its President: Erik Kortzfleisch. A good man, or so says my father, but he (Erik) unfortunately chose a very powerful and controlling ally. I need someone out there to realize that the less fortunate in this friendship (if that is what it can truly be called) are being crushed under what would be called progress… My pride and family name reminds me not to care, and if they really wanted change, they would be able to grasp it.

But something just doesn’t sit right to me, how can the people being overwhelmed by Imperial Arcadia and it’s might change their fortune when no one is willing to show them the way?

~ Iain Farquhar


The rain proved to be little more than a nuisance to Iain. He never did mind the rain, nor the thunder or the lightning that often accompanied a storm like this. His brunette hair, which was darker than most, was soaked and thus by consequence black. His eyes were a slick, and rather rare dark-grey, bordering on stormy. Iain looked cold, drenched by the frigid fall rains of Nabreus, yet he wasn’t.

It will take more than a little rain to deter me… He mused, noting how his once beautiful white shirt was now drenched because he had absentmindedly forgot his coat back at Juliet’s. The man frowned, rounding a corner only to see three Arcadian guards pushing a beggar back into the lift, so they could put the peasant ‘back where he belongs’. Iain respected the guards unwavering faith to Arcadia, and had to admire the armour they wore for their homeland. Each suit of refined steel and adamiun had the crest of Soca imbedded into it, and the higher the rank someone was, the more armour they were forced into wearing. But hardly impressed by the practicality of it, it lowers their speed, leaving them open.

But what did Iain know of combat? He had quit the academy when he was twelve and knew only the basics. Perhaps there was some trick the soldiers of the Empire had.

He doubted it though.

The soldiers glanced at him for a moment before continuing with their duties. The beggar was on his way back to the lower levels. Iain quickly headed for the rather large building at the end of the street. Before he was even up the steps to the entrance the door was open, a man dressed entirely in black had the door open, bowing his head respectfully as Iain entered.

“Lord Farquhar, I regret to inform you that your father has already left.”

“Hmm..” Was Iain’s reply as he entered and stretched. “Robert, has there be any word from my mother?”

“I am sorry sir, but no.” Robert, who was an elderly gentleman, had tired eyes and a sad expression. “I believe the storms that plague the east have temporarily shut down communications.”

“Of course…” Iain sighed, “Why would anything go well for the world?”

“Sir, if the world were perfect it would be a boring place.”

Iain smirked at the old man as he entered the living room and flopped down in a rather large and comfy armchair. “Ever the optimist Robert.”

“Sir, I would be more optimistic if you were cease to sit in the most expensive piece of furniture while you’re clothes are soaking wet.” The man’s eyes narrowed, and the boy (at least compared to Robert’s age) smirked.

“Lets hear it than.”

“I’m sure once your father hears of the troubles the east is having; he will send an airship to retrieve her.”

The lord of the house tilted his head somewhat in a curious manner. “Airship? Why do people insist on referring to a balloon filled with gas as an ‘airship’? Airship implies grand, powerful, remotely important… A blimp is none of those things.”

“Sir.”

“Yes?”

“You are still sitting in the most-“

“Expensive piece of furniture, yes, yes, Robert I got it the first time.” Iain rolled his eyes as he lifted himself out of the chair.

“Sir, if I may ask… Are you attending the funeral for the late Kaiser? Your father hopes you are.”

“My father only wants to further his own ends by becoming best of friends with either Prince Lucien or General Schramm. Preferably both if it was up to him…”

“Is that a no sir?”

“Indeed it is Robert.”

* * *

Is that a trumpet?

Iain’s right eye cracked up just enough for a sliver of dull, grey light to shine into his pupil and practically blind him. The man groaned, turning over in protest. He was right though, it was a trumpet sounding, and no doubt from the neighbours. Oh how he hated them and their love of music at the crack of dawn. Who in their right mind gets up before the sun has risen to blow air through a twisted piece of metal? He thought sourly, though in the back of his mind he noted how this morning’s tune sounded much better than it did a week ago. At least that had improved.

“Sir?” Robert’s voice was muffled by the solid wood door, but it suddenly became far more persistent and annoying as the butler opened Iain’s door and stepped inside. “Sir it’s eight o’clock.”

He continued to face the wall.

“Sir-“

Robert furrowed his brow as Iain grabbed one of his pillows and covered his head. “For the love of Arcadia Robert, God isn’t even up yet.”

The Butler rolled his eyes and noted how dirty Iain’s room was. He refused to move into the master suite, and remained in his smaller, closet of a space that seemed to collect discarded clothes, books, and dust faster than a maid. Robert made mental note to have the cleaning woman come through here with a vengeance. “Sir, God never sleeps, he is kept from his bed to make sure your room doesn’t claim you as it’s next victim.”

“Oh… Aren’t you the joker…” Came a sarcastic and bitter reply. Robert smirked; Iain had never been a morning person. “And just who was the first victim?”

“That would be your mother’s prized hare, who met an unfortunate end when your bookshelf came… Oh, what was the term you used? ‘Tumbling down’?”

By this time Iain has rolled over but was still securely under his pillow, Robert could just see one silvery eye gleaming out at him, much like a cat that was hiding underneath your bed.

“Just why are you waking up now anyways?”

“Sir, your father has personally requested you attend the late Kaiser’s funeral.”

“I politely decline.”

The elder man rolled his eyes. “And what is your reasoning?”

“To sleep.”

“You would sleep rather than go pay your respects?”

“That, my dear friend, would require having respect to give.”

The butler let a small smirk break his usual stone face. “Liara will be there.”

Iain threw the pillow towards the Butler who easily dodged. “I will NOT be tempted!”

“I heard she was talking about you…”

“Never!”

“Her dress will expose her shoulders…”

“DAMN YOU!”

* * *

“Iain, you made it.” Spoke a rather tall, bulky man. Iain nodded, smiling only a bit to make it seem like he was actually grieving. His father patted him on the shoulder roughly as he sniffled, though it sounded more like a snort a pig would make. “I’m just so…” The others around the two nodded solemnly and moved on, leaving the men alone in a hallway.

“Father, they left. You can stop acting like you heard your chair turned to ashes.”

Iain’s father, Somerled Farquhar, was a man who had a fine eye for rare items and trinkets. Because of this he had been making money left, right and center, saving up to move himself (and eventually) his son up to the famous 10th level. The man, who was going on fifty, glared at his son and huffed.

“I care a great deal about the Kaiser.”

“You lie.” His son smirked, and crossed his arms. He had not gotten dressed up in this fancy get-up and left his precious jacket at home to listen to his father’s lies. “You care for the profit and fame father, nothing more.”

“And you seem to have forgotten you profit from it.” He snarled. “Don’t patronize me, boy, you’ll regret it.”

Somerled and Iain had a quiet stand off before the son gave in. He didn’t want to deal with this; he had just spent 3 hours standing around a coffin that made his own home look like rotting box in the first level. “Have you spoken to Lucien yet?”

“PRINCE Lucien…” Somerled growled. “And no, I haven’t. But I did speak to General Schramm; he seemed disappointed when I mentioned you quit the Academy…”

“God forbid I displease-“

The smack was quick and hard. Iain’s eyes burned into his father, who looked quite proud of himself he had drawn blood from his son’s lip. “You dare to use the Lord’s name in such a manner?”

“If I spoke how I do at home, your ears would bleed.”

“Blasphemer…” The father growled, and struck his son again, who only curled his hands into fists. “Learn some respect.”

Bite your tongue damn it… He thought, he’ll only hit you again, probably harder- “I give respect only to those who deserve it.”

You idiot.

Somerled didn’t know exactly what to do, but beating his son to death had certainly become an option.
“Lord Farquhar.”

That voice belonged to the prestigious and royal Prince Lucien Cavendish. Both men turned to see a rather elegant man, a little older than Iain (who is 22) striding down the hall. Everything he wore, even his expression, was black. The son had to feel a little sorry for the man, Lucien had rumoured to have been very close to his father, and the emotions he felt were spelled out on his face. Sorrow, grief, perhaps even guilt, all tied up into one sad facial expression.

“Prince Lucien,” Somerled greeted, bowing his head, and holding back a sigh Iain did the same. “I’m so sorry for your loss…”

The man, who was to any sex, quite attractive, even when sad, brushed a dirty blond bang from his face and nodded. His ocean-blue eyes fell upon Iain.

“Iain, I did not expect to see you… You didn’t know my father very well did you?”

“I am here to pay my respects Prince, he was a great emperor.”

“Hmm…” The prince nodded, and fiddled with the gold ring on his middle finger. “They say I am to become Kaiser…”

“I’m sure you’ll be a fantastic leader.” Somerled spoke.

Lucien looked at him and barely managed a smile. “I don’t share your optimism, Lord Farquhar.”

“You should.” Iain said. “You were by your father’s side every step of the way, you have learned from the best and many people seem captivated by you, Prince. You have the entire province standing at your side that should count for something.”

The Prince merely nodded, and perhaps a bit more confident, but he just seemed so broken and vulnerable. “Oh Iain, I almost forgot, Liara was looking for you. She’s by the fountain.”