The life of the current Vietryk of the Immortal Mist began almost two hundred years ago, far inland from Floating Barracks, within the ring of the mighty Karrabata mountains, in a swampy region. Little Biaskoncy, then called Zovárd Bogát, was born into the family of the chieftain of the most dangerous tribe of hegins. The only problem was that he was not the first child, nor even the second. The little brown-haired boy was the eleventh child in the family.
As expected of the Zovárds, from a very young age, assassination attempts, poisonings and swordplay became part of his daily life. He could make a poison mixture even before he could ride a horse. Yet despite his perfect education and his efforts, no matter what he did, no one paid attention to him. It was as if he were a ghost in his own tribe.
After a while, when he began to learn the hegin teachings, even the assassination attempts against him stopped. Of course, he knew that he would never have even a chance to earn the respect of his tribe, but if he wanted to be honest, the young hegin did not care what anyone thought of him. As the years passed over his head, he felt that he was destined for more than growing old here within the valley of the Karrabata range.
That may be why when he turned eighteen, he silently took a bundle on his shoulders, then without looking back, he left his home, the familiar landscape behind him, and set off beyond the Karrabata mountains. The world was suddenly full of new wonders, waiting for him to discover them.
Thus, the young boy, under the pseudonym Biaskoncy, traveled the lands of the chüvighs. You could say that it was all a coincidence. He didn't plan ahead with his life and in his wildest dreams he couldn't have even thought about the possibility that happened when he was surrounded by a group of armed bandits on the border of land and sea.
Biaskoncy didn't even flinch when the bandits started making demands. The threats didn't faze him, he had heard much harsher ones at home. These bandits were no better than the twelve-year-old novice hegins. And the Zovárd man had always been exceptionally skilled in combat, even if no one admitted it. If he had really wanted to, he could have escaped, but the Zovárd man couldn't kill his curiosity.
"Do you really want to do what you're threatening, or are you just talking nonsense?" He finally asked the question, interrupting one of the men.
However, this was how he managed to get the bandit group into motion. Although, his attackers did not expect the man to grin broadly when he received his first wound. The unfortunate outlaws had no idea what it meant to face a Zovárd. The hegins knew by now that if you want to defeat one of the most bizarre tribesmen, then no matter what you do, you have only one chance.
You have to win the fight with one move, because if you injure a Zovárd, they only gain strength from the wounds. They start to enjoy the fight when they are wounded, that is when the game becomes exciting for them and no matter how much you injure them, it is as if they do not even feel the wounds that are bleeding. Some say this is because they have so much poison and medicinal potions in their bodies that they no longer feel the pain.
That's how Biaskoncy could have faced the bandits that particular day, laughing out loud, and, not surprisingly for him, finished off his opponents one by one. And when the last hooded figure fell to the ground, the hegin man grimaced and looked over the corpses.
"You could have held out a little longer." He sighed and put his hands on his hips.
"Nice job." The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and Biaskoncy immediately turned around, only to find himself facing a cloaked figure. "You completed the task for me." The figure walked up to one of the bandits and crouched down next to him. "Your technique is quite good." He looked up at the hegin. "What's your name?"
"Biaskoncy." The hegin introduced himself, as he always had since he crossed the Karrabata Mountains.
"So, Biaskoncy." The stranger nodded, then stood up and extended his hand towards him. "I am Atrais and I am currently looking for new members. Would you like to join our organization?" He asked, but Biaskoncy only looked at him suspiciously.
"What does this organization do?" The hegin asked.
"What they ask us to do. We usually deal with things that no one else wants to do." Atrais nodded towards the corpses. "You look like someone who needs a new purpose in life. I offer you this. You will get a new family, a job and freedom. So?" He raised his hand again, which the hegin had already slapped.
"Be it." He nodded to him as well.
"Welcome to the Immortal Mist, Biaskoncy. Believe me, you will not regret your decision." The man smiled at him and in the end he was right.
Biaskoncy did not regret for a moment that he had accepted the hand extended to him out of curiosity. An other side of the world opened up to him that he had never known before. Under the city floating on the surface of the sea, he met his new family and surprised even himself with how quickly he began to attach himself to those around him. Atrais was right, he really did gain a new family for himself.
He enthusiastically went on missions and always completed his tasks perfectly. His companions liked and appreciated his work. Finally, he felt like he belonged somewhere. The Immortal Mist became his life and slowly, as his level rose and he reached the level of táltos four stars, he forgot that he had ever lived beyond Karrabata. He forgot, or rather tried to forget, where he came from.
This went quite well for him, at least until one of the leaders decided to start trading with the best poisoners in the East, or as they were called here, the Szotradokis, or the Zovárds, and since Atrais remembered that Biaskoncy had collected him around the eastern border, he was appointed to handle the trade.
Of course, Biaskoncy was very angry at first that he had to carry out the task, but what could he do, if the order was given, it was his duty to carry it out. So he set off with a group of people back across the Karrabata to meet up with his tribe members again. Although many years had passed since he had last been to Madüjawr, he knew where he was and where he had to go.
Finally, he found himself face to face with his youngest brother, who did not even recognize him and only looked at him with a respectful look and handed him the shipment. And a huge stone fell from Biaskoncy's heart when he realized that he was no longer the useless Zovárd Bogát, but Biaskoncy, the representative of the Immortal Mist, who commanded respect just by his appearance. The Mist had enveloped him and given him new life, and he was determined not to let this gift go to waste.