Excerpt from Uprising

The next morning dawns bright and sunny, and he waves his master goodbye, slinging his rucksack over one shoulder before making the short walk into the city. The guards take one look at his unremarkable clothing, and barely pay him a second glance. After months of wandering the wilderness, sometimes even being the only sentient being within miles of the place, it takes him a while to adjust to the sheer number of people milling about the streets of District Promenade, and the mild claustrophobia that the crowds bring him.

Erik hasn’t survived six years of travelling without some degree of adaptability, however, and he makes his way through the winding paths and narrow alleys without any difficulty. Fondly, he recalls the days long past when he was a mere child running up and down these very alleys, barefoot more often than not. Time has flown by, and now these paths seem much smaller than he remembers.

His contact isn’t there when he arrives at the designated meeting spot. The letter told him that he should expect “an Ambassador of the Guild”, a rather prestigious title if he thinks so himself, so he settles down for a wait, slouching against the wall and scanning the crowd for his potential contact. He doesn’t see anyone remotely fitting his assumptions of a stereotypical ‘ambassador’, but he does notice a girl searching the crowd the same way he is. A moment later her gaze settles on him, a brief flash of contemplation crossing her expression before she makes her way across the crowd to stop before him.

He looks her up and down.

She's... exotic, he decides. Pointed chin, rosebud lips, hair as dark as the midnight sky. Her eyes are equally dark, and the almond shape of them holds a slight slant reminiscent of some Sylvari he had met in the Grove. Yet she's very evidently human, albeit rather different in appearance from what he's used to. Her high-collared red and black garment is sleek and striking and decidedly not of Krytan style; twin slits up the sides of the knee-length dress bare a tantalizing hint of golden-pale skin. A pair of striking crimson ribbons hold her hair up in elegant twintails, fluttering in the slight breeze. Erik wonders if she’s from one of the lands across the sea, what with all the tales he’s heard about the Canthans and Elonians and their vastly different cultures. Her staff, strapped to her back, stands taller than she does, an elegant column of sculpted bronze topped by an elaborate spire within which a dormant amber orb rests.

She makes for an imposing picture, Erik thinks, if not for the fact that she's also adorably, almost delicately tiny.

If it weren't for the blazing spark in her eyes holding the promise of painful retribution, he might have thought it would be funny to pick her up with one arm. As it is, he lets his gaze travel over her slight build, noting how the crown of her head barely comes up to his chin. She's slender, what one would call fine-boned, even - he wonders vaguely if she is in fact more child than woman. What is the Academy thinking, sending a girl-child as a representative?

In the midst of his contemplation Erik realizes that he is not the only one sizing the other up; the girl takes in his grubby, weathered garments with a critical eye, nose wrinkled in distaste. His boots are muddy and his cloak is frayed - her gaze pauses at the twin scabbards strapped to his back, a tiny frown pulling at her delicate brows.

"Are you a thief, Erik, or an assassin?" She asks finally, rolling his name off her tongue like she was testing how it sounded. One of her eyebrows are raised with obvious disdain. "I was told to meet with a well-travelled human mage here, though it would seem as if there’s been a mistake." She sniffs. "The only Academe of Magic in all of Kryta is here in Divinity’s Reach, and I don't recall ever seeing you or hearing of your name."

A brief flash of annoyance shoots through him - unlike most of the snooty Academy students in Divinity's Reach, he has actually taken to the roads alone, and fended for himself throughout his journey; his garments are proof of all the times he’s fought for his very life. He might not look the part, but he’s just as capable as the rest of them, if not more - Krytan spellcasters weren’t known for travelling alone. "Then perhaps I've been mistaken as well," Erik replies smoothly. "I was under the impression that the Academe welcomes knowledge from all parts of Tyria, and when it comes to the art of magics, not all is always as it seems." He smiles blandly. "I expect you'll realize that as you grow older. Having said that, don't you have classes to attend? Run along now. If the Academe sends half-grown younglings to act as ambassadors, that says a lot about their chain of command - or lack thereof. I’m not sure I want anything to do with such an institution."

He knows he's hit a nerve - her eyes flash with anger, and for a moment her aura flares hot and intimidating. "Don’t patronize me," she hisses. "I am a graduated scholar, qualified master elementalist of the Phoenix division and ambassador of the Krytan Magician's Guild. Do not assume that I am a child merely because I don’t fit your expectations of appearance."

There is a beat of silence, as her words hang in the air between them. "Then perhaps you’d extend me the same courtesy as you expect from me," Erik replies amiably. She stills at that, caught; dark eyes flick up to meet his, deep and searching. He holds her gaze steadily for a long moment, challenging her to contradict her own words; finally she ducks her head, a tiny smile pulling across her lips.

"Touche," she accedes, straightening and clasping her hands primly in front of her. Her voice softens to what he expects is her formal tone. "Forgive me, we’ve started this meeting off on the wrong foot. Allow me to start over." She bows slightly. "I am Misaki Yuino, designated representative of the Academe, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance."

He copies her, clasping his hands and bowing, and she watches him with a curious eye. "Erik Maelstrom, at your service. Forgive me as well for presuming your station, I didn’t mean to offend."

A twinkle appears in Misaki's eyes at that, and her lips quirk into a small smile. "It's only fair, seeing as how I did the same. You are sharp of mind, Erik. I'm beginning to see a little of that potential my superiors keep talking about. Walk with me."

He falls into step beside her. “Only a little?” he teases, feigning offense. “They can’t have sent such a high-calibre elementalist to meet with a mere vagrant like me. Be honest with me now, you all think I’m a legend.” He mock-preens, pretending to dust off his coat. “You can tell me, I promise it won’t go to my head.”

“From the looks of it, it already has,” Misaki replies tartly, one fine eyebrow raised, but there’s a hint of a laugh in her voice. “We’ll see what else you have in that pretty head of yours; wit and charm only gets you so far as a mage.” 

Erik grins. A step in the right direction, at least.

---

Over tea and some pastries, they talk. People mill about near their table - it’s a popular cafe in the Western Commons, and their pastries are absolutely delectable. It might seem to others around that they were courting, Erik imagines, as he banters back and forth with the petite brunette; if not for his dull garb in contrast to her vibrant finery. He learns that she is, indeed, not of Kryta in the strictest sense - she’s a member of House Yuino, a minor Canthan nobility that branched out into Kryta several decades past. Not one that he’s heard of before, but she assures him that she is better known for her Academic prowess than her family name.

“-graduated at the top of my class, hence the guild leaders offered me a position as an Ambassador, in recognition of my ability.” Misaki takes a sip of her steaming tea. He notices how the blueberry tarts on the table are disappearing steadily without any action from his part.  “I liaise with external contacts and other guilds when I’m not needed on the frontlines. And in such times of relative peace there is rarely a need for an accomplished elementalist such as myself on the battlefields. So here I am.” She gestures at him. “And what’s your tale, pray tell?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Just a nobody, street kid, met some people who taught me how to fend for myself.” He gives her his best winning smile. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

Misaki raises an eyebrow. “I applaud your skill for ambiguity in a situation where the aim is to introduce oneself,” she deadpans. “I expect your weapons of choice originate from similarly curious streams of thought.” She eyes the daggers on his back pointedly.

“Oh, these?” Erik unsheathes his daggers, and lays them on the table. “I’ve acquired them during my travels - gifts and keepsakes from the people I’ve met.” Misaki notices, offhandedly, that they don’t match at all. One is wrought of polished steel inlaid with silver filigree, a blade of quality workmanship that seems exceptional even to Misaki’s untrained eye. The other is made of some dark metal that she can’t identify - the dagger looks like fire and brimstone incarnate, a swirling groove running down the jagged ebony blade, revealing what seem like embers and fiery streaks within. Together, along with Erik’s street-rat clothing, they make such an incongruent image that she’s slightly thrown off. Such terrible taste in fashion, if nothing else.

“But why daggers?” she asks, and gestures to her staff, leaning against the wall next to her,. “Why the weapon of a thief when you could bend the elements to your will? Surely a channeling medium would serve the purposes of a mage far better than cold steel ever could.”

“Ah, but what makes you think I can’t bend the elements to my will using steel?” His eyes twinkle with amusement and challenge, as he returns the blades to their scabbards. “Perhaps the Academe doesn’t know as much as it claims to. Can’t have that, now can we?”

Her curiosity is piqued - he can see it in her steepled fingers, the focused, calculating look in her chocolate gaze. They knew he was a wild card, that’s why they would have contacted him - although now he’s beginning to suspect that they didn’t expect this much of a wild card. This is going to be fun. “You’re a curious creature, Erik Maelstrom,” the tiny elementalist muses, resting her chin atop interlaced hands, her head tilted slightly. “Curious indeed.”

“I’m glad I’m now elevated to the status of ‘creature’,” Erik replies dryly. “Would you like to see a demonstration from said creature, then, milady?” He finishes his drink, and stands up, offering her a hand.

Her gaze intensifies, as she places her hand in his and rises from her seat. The smile on her rosebud lips is almost catlike. 

“But of course.”

---

A blazing fireball razes the ground as Erik dives out of the way, and he swears under his breath when he feels the heat licking up the sides of his boots. In hindsight, challenging a master elementalist to a duel before scoping out the extent of her abilities doesn’t seem as great of an idea, especially seeing how she’s giving him a run for his money. He’s keeping up, though, if her furrowed brows are anything to judge by. He has the advantage of knowing what to expect, while she doesn’t. 

Because hell if he loses to a prissy know-it-all Academe mage.

Rolling to his feet, he slashes the air with his daggers, sending a burst of frost towards the elementalist raining hell on him from a distance. She swings her staff, and a powerful gust of wind parts the onslaught of frost in a spray of snowflakes. He takes the opportunity in her distraction and the reduced visibility to electrocharge the air around himself, and the hair on the back of his neck rises as it always does when he darts forwards, electricity crackling around him. The lightning brings him to bear in blinding speed right on top of Misaki, who looks up in a panic and squeaks-

Sparks fly as his daggers meet the handle of her hastily-raised staff, and he leaps backwards just in time to avoid getting hit in the face by an arcane shield that bursts in an arc around where she stands. She’s not mobile, he observes, as he neatly dodges the ice spikes she flings haphazardly at him. It’s what he expects of most Academe-trained mages; he can work with that, he just needs to get close-

He catches sight of her tracing a glyph mid-air, a second before a hulking ice golem bursts into existence and takes a swing at him. This time, Erik swears out loud as he ducks, and the golem forces him back, blocking his view. With a deep breath, he spits a torrent of flame at the golem, igniting his daggers in the process - steam fills the air, and his blazing daggers cut through the ice golem like a knife through butter.

Taking advantage of the steam cover, he darts forwards again, anticipating her defenses - but instead of retreating from the static field she throws up, a layer of granite encrusts his skin and he powers straight through it, sparks dancing uselessly across his stone armor. Her wide eyes are the last thing he sees before he trips her with a well-placed sweep, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Her staff clatters and rolls out of reach, and Erik easily holds her in place with his weight, both her hands pinned above her head by one of his.

For a moment they both gasp for breath, nose-to-nose in what would seem to any onlooker as an incredibly intimate position. Misaki’s twintails are splayed across the grass, and her chest rises and falls with her labored breathing, her legs trapped under his. Her hands squirm futilely in his iron grip, but he barely notices as his eyes trace vulnerability in her dark eyes, drinking in the fullness of her cherry lips. She’s quite pretty, but that hasn’t stopped him from winning the duel. Let it never be said that Erik Maelstrom holds the fairer sex to any different standards.

“How’s that?” Erik pants with a triumphant grin. “Not so high and mighty now, are y-”

He’s cut off by something massive colliding with his side and bowling him straight over, knocking the breath out of his lungs in a whoosh. In an instant he finds himself on his back, face-to-face with a hulking black canine, strings of drool dripping onto his face and the overpowering smell of sulfur suffusing his nostrils. A small distance away, Misaki sits up, rubs her wrists and smirks. 

“Beguiling witch,” Erik gasps. In his distraction, he hadn’t noticed that the movement of her hands weren’t futile squirming, but the tracing of a summoning glyph. “That’s not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” she singsongs, and gets to her feet, brushing out the creases and bits of grass in her outfit. “Teymar, heel.”

The hound lets him go and backs off, still growling threateningly even as Erik gasps for some much needed air. “What is that thing?” 

“A Hound of Balthazar,” Misaki replies, giving her summon a scratch behind the ears before dismissing it. “Or a hellhound, so to speak.”

“I didn’t know they were something elementalists could summon.”

“Not all of them, no.” She offers Erik a hand and helps pull him to his feet. “The Krytan Academe has a summoning contract with the Hounds of Balthazar. They feed off of the blood and energy of the fallen, and we give them that opportunity in exchange for their assistance as a battle companion. Occasionally more.”

“More?” Erik asks, dusting himself off and wiping away the remnants of hellhound drool with his sleeve. “What, as a particularly stinky lapdog?”

Misaki laughs. “No, of course not. They’re fair trackers and hunters in their own right, and at times very rarely used as mounts for the small in stature such as myself. Though how much they obey you and allow you to use their services overwhelmingly depends on how strong of a bond the summoner has with them.”

“That’s… interesting.”

“I could say the same for you,” she replies, a quirked eyebrow belying a newfound respect. “It’s not every day that I meet an equal in power as a mage. Your methods are unorthodox, to say the least. But if they work, who am I to judge?”

“It’s nice knowing that I’m a match for one of the Academe’s elite elementalists,” he grins, bowing with a flourish.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Misaki’s eyes gleamed. “After all, I still won the duel.”

“Correction, it was a narrow shave that you only won because of your feminine wiles.”

“You mean, you lost because of your masculine tendencies?” she riposted, eyebrows arched and lips tight to suppress a smile, glancing pointedly at his crotch.

“...Touche.” 

Misaki’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes on a breezy day.