Anthologies

Post all your epic tales of your characters here! If you have any questions about what you're allowed to do with the world, let me know. I'm reasonable, and will probably ask permission to use your ideas in my own quests and world info. Have fun!

Shattered Jewels

Lliliean had barely woken from her recovery, Schi had missed her greatly during his fortnight's journey beyond the fortress, when Dainya had summoned her to the Supply Chamber. She dressed quickly and ran for the Chamber, only good things came of the meetings there.

Her arrival at the chamber was met by thirteen solemn faces, her sisters seated in an arc towards her. "Sit Sister Cloud," Dainya gestured towards the cushion that rested within the arc, "There is much we must discuss." Her robes rustled quietly as she waved her over.

Lliliean obliged quietly, her eyes scanning their faces for some hint of what was to come. Their faces revealed nothing except a deep sadness. She looked at them, starting from her left, and realized that the arc was ended to either side by the Marderete sisters, thier heads bowed in prayer. Lilianka, Llili's constant companion, could barely make eye-contact, her eyes flittting in escape whenever they met the lakes that were Lliliean's eyes. "Sisters, what is going on?"

Clashna raised her hand to the girl, "Shush, the answer will come, but it is not one easily spoken." She sat to Dainya's right, the second eldest jewel among them. To Dainya's right sat Lyveera, a new sister, but the third eldest, she was of a different race than the others, shorter by far than even Lliliean. Clashna bowed her head and began a prayer of mourning. Lliean remembered it from that first meeting in the chamber when she, Lilianka and Dainya had all prayed for Lliliean and the life ahead. One by one, the other sisters bowed their heads and prayed the mourning prayer of her homeland until only Dainya and Lliliean sat looking at each other, the chamber reverbrating with the many voices.

Dainya reached behind Lyveera and Clashna and presented Lliliean with two vases. They were of bisque texture, clay that had only been fired once and never painted. "These, my dearest sister, are your keys from the fortress. Lyveera and Fiora have taught you well in the craft of the swordsmen, I believe your mother would be most proud to know that the warrior's blood courses through your veins as it did hers. However, your skills are useless against Schi's army, you are but one fair child, they are many savages whose hearts have long forgotten the meaning of mercy. That is why I had these created."

"But, Jewel Dainya, how, how can they help me where Mellanor cannot?"

"Mellanor is but a blade dear child, to be used when fighting from the outside, these vases are meant to be used from the inside." She raised her hand, "Listen with your ears before you ask with your mouth. We Jewels have decided that you will not die in these chambers, suffocated by the Schi when you are meant to blossom under the light of the moon, within the embrace of the breeze, under the gaze of the sun. I cannot tell you how, but we will help you eachin our own way, but you must first powder these vases. Yes, you must destroy them untill they are little more than dust, but do not breathe it in, please do not."

The warning swam in Lliliean's head, they were poisonous, the vases! "No! I can't allow it! You can't kill yourselves, not over me, we can leave together!" She screamed and cried as she crwled to Dainya's lap and laid her head thre, "I can't let you, I won't!"

Dainya ran her fingers through the girl's hair, it was a lot to ask her, to allow a young woman to watch as she lost another family, but it had to be done. "Child, you have no choice, this was our choice, our gift. It is okay that we might sacrifice ou lives for yours, you hold more value than you know. It will be done." Her declaration rang through the chamber, the prayers had ceased suddenly, the sisters now staring at the young girl. "It must be done."

Lliliean nodded and painfully began her task. She grasped Mellanor and inhaled deeply as she raised the sword high a bove her head. "Drop the sword!" Clashna cried, her arms raised, "tie a scarf aroud your mouth, it is all pointless if you die now!" Lliliean looked at her, realizing that she was right. She took the scarf that Clashna offered her and tightly wound it about her head, covering her mouth and nose. "Now, you may continue." She said before she and the other Jewels cover their own mouths with various scarves.

Lliliean breathed deeply and raised Mellanor once more, the blade nearly touching the floor behind her. Exaling, she brought the blade down upon the vases, splitting them cleanly in halves. They had been softer than she first thought. She swiftly continued her work untill piles of clay lay where there had once been vases. Her tears had soaked the scarf bound round her face. Dainya strided over to her and pulled Mellanor from er grasp, "I shall clean her and make her ready for your battles, you forget this, all of it, and say nothing of the coming days."


Lliliean had listened to those words and said nothing as she watched Schi's Jewels die one after the other, each one taking a hellion with her until only she and twelve of the hellions remained of Schi's companions. The night before her death, hers was to be the last, Clashna told Lliliean to go to the chamber immediately after Clashna was found with Il-Lior, Mellanor would be waiting. None of the sisters had said good-bye, each had saved that sentiment to wish Lliliean the luck of her homeland, and the eyes of her Gods.

Lliliean begged Schi to allow her passage into Dainya's chamber, insisting that she would not die as the others had none of the gurads would hurt her. He reluctantly bade her go, his eyes misted with the loss of his precious Treasures.

Mellanor stood waiting for her, leaning against the far wall of the chamber. Lliliean knelt before the sword and prayed every prayer she had heard from her sisters and her family. "It is in your honor that I may live, under your guidance that I may fight, and with your help that I shall prevail." She grasped the swords hilt and turned to the chamber's entrance.

A prize for the taking.


It was spring, the scent of earth bound flowers and freshly cut grass drifted through the meadow. Isles of green grass swayed on a breeze, dancing. Ipswan of Gy-ait watched the scene before her, her body flowing through the grass as though she was liquid. Her body was crouched low her eyes fixed upon a single target.

Get the child, mothers voiced taunted her thoughts. She could not let mother down not like the others. The sister who had sought out one being over the course of many years. They had proclaimed that no such child existed. They had lied to cover their faltering service to the god Kull the carrier of souls, but Ipswan’s beloved mother had seen through their guise. Now the sisters were nothing more then ashes on the wind.

The child was sitting on a large rock, her light blue eyes fixated on several clay figurines. In her play they were climbing a mighty mountain. A man and woman Ipswan noticed.

Ipswan moved closer. She knew the girl well, her name was Nadala Celeste she was ten years old and her she wanted to be a princess. It was just to bad the Gy-ait had other plans for her.

The Gy-ait needed to be attached to the spectre realm to draw magic from it. They could do this only through another person firmly attached by a fey host residing within their body. Nadala was a perfect choice young enough to be taught and born under the correct moon. Her ancestry had connections with the dead Fey that was to reside in the child’s body.

Nadala looked across the meadow to where her mother was gathering long grass for thatching and Ipswan knew it was time to move. She closed in on the girl choosing her path carefully. The child unaware returned to her play. Ipswan rose like a serpent from her hiding place in the grass gripping the girl with one arm so her hands were held firmly to her sides the other hand moved over her mouth. The girl wriggled under Ipswan’s grip but the fight was futile and the girl soon understood it her body becoming limp in her grasp.

Up ahead in the grass other sisters moved in silence weaving towards the woman who cut the grass. The woman disappeared yanked down into the grass, there was no scream from her. Ipswan knew her blood was now staining the earth. Back at the house the rest of Nadala’s family would feed the earth with their blood. The girl in her arms would be the only one to survive.

Kull had blessed them this day, gifting them with precision. With there hands and weapons so blessed in his favour nothing could go wrong. Ipswan cast a shadow spell and moved more freely through the grass. Nadala had turned her head looking up at her, her eyes full of fear. Ipswan sneered at her. There was no need for kindness. The girl was nothing to her, yet…

*****

Rhue struggled through the grass his vision hazed by anguish. One moment he had been atop the small farm cottage the next a magical blast had knocked him over the other side. He had trained since he was a boy for the kings army, but nothing had ever prepared him for such a blatant attack. A nineteen year old boy, who had not seen the likes of a battle the instinct to run had kicked in. Rhue looked about the grass his concussion muddling his gaze.

“Nadala,” he screamed the words foolishly. Terror trembled down his spine in a cold shudder. “Nadala, Ma,” still there was no answer. The grass rustled behind him and he gripped the handle of the hoe he had picked up tightly bobbing down into the grass. He slid through to the next isle just as the legs of another came into view.

“Go back,” a voice called “I’ll finish the last boy.”

There were no more words just the legs stomping through the grass cutting at it with a large two handed sword. Terrified, Rhue tried to still his breath, tried desperately to hold back the tears. His brother’s were dead as was his father. His mother and youngest sister had vanished from the meadow. The quiet existence they had lead suddenly came to a screeching halt. Rhue listened carefully for the sound of the feet adjusting his position as they grew closer. He withered further back knowing well that the hunter could see the grass move. He lifted the hoe carefully. The hunter waded through the grass and Rhue rose to his feet swinging the hoe. A sickening thud assured him that he had hit his target. It was a woman, she stumbled back and Rhue looked at her overly muscled form in disdain. A Gy-ait? Rhue had only heard stories about them. He stepped back taking a defensive stance as the woman recovered and moved into an array of heavy attacks. Rhue parried the blade praying the wooden handle of the hoe would hold, then he feinted. He swung the hoe in knocking the heavy sword out to the side. Then in a swift movement swung the hoe in from the side the heavy blade sunk into flesh and Anger over rode Rhue’s common sense. He twisted to hoe and tore it free watching as blood gushed from the wound in the woman’s abdomen. The two handed sword was dropped. Rhue threw the hoe and lunged in to grab the blade before the woman couldn’t claim it.

“Where is my sister,” he roared.

The woman laughed at him chided him. “She is gone, think of her no more she is dead to you. But your mother she is over there soaking the grass with her blood.”

Rhue could no longer the woman’s leering face. He swung the sword down on her bare neck severing it from her body it rolled so the eyes faced down upon the grass. Then he stomped away.

Hours passed, Rhue had searched for other Gy-ait intruders they were gone. As he walked the meadow he called out for his mother and sister. He cursed as he tripped on something, looking down he cried out in horror. His mother’s body laid at his feet her chest torn wide open. The flies had already taken the invitation and flitted across the drying blood.

“No, no,” Rhue moaned sagging down to his knees. “No,” he managed again resting his head against his mother’s cool forehead. Rhue wept his hand clasping his mothers. He clung to her turning the Gy-ait’s words over in his mind ‘she is gone’. Never a mention of death, simply the vibrant little girl was gone. His legs weak he struggled to stand up, in the distance a bright light caught his eye. The farm cottage was on fire.

He staggered towards it, watching as the flames wavered weaving their way skyward. It was to late now, there were none to live there.

Rhue stared towards the town his eyes flashing with determination. He would find her, he would find his sister and they would start again.

Columns of sunlight filtered from openings in the ceiling into the stone floor. They shone in a circle, their seven presences casting the chamber in a pale white light. But even amidst their rays, shadows loomed in the corners, lurking and waiting. Waiting to claim the light in their embrace.

In the center of this circular array of beams, there sat a lone man on the floor. His legs were crossed and his hands were folded, his forarms resting on his thighs. His head was bowed slightly, looking down at an orb of crystal resting on a delicate pedestal. His eyes were wide and staring, but glazed over in deep concentration.

The orb was not that which granted him his sight. It was merely the focus; the area in which the power within was manifested. The orb sparkled slightly as light caught it, but to any passerby, it was inanimate. Lifeless.

To Tyrus, however, the orb was alive with images. At first, hundreds of them assaulted his senses. Random traces of past, present, and future from every realm in Ardus. This was the most dizzying aspect of The Sight. Indeed, many of those who had tried to master it had gone mad. The images cared not whether they were of peace and harmony and beauty, or of grotesqueries and death. It was all blended together in a flickering kaleidoscope of everything. Such rapid changing preyed upon the emotions mercilessly, bringing one from elation to despair and back again in a moment.

But Tyrus had learned to find the fabric behind the images; the threads that bound space and time together. And from here, his own Sight was selective. He could see what he wished, from where he wished.

And the future he saw now was clouded in darkness. Like the shadows in the corners it was seeping out of its holes, closing in on the light. In the present, armies were moving. Creatures of death were moving into the peaceful realms, driven by lust for glory and power.

But the future, though dark, was obscure. None of the images were clear, save a few. He saw glimpses of an army...an army of dark creatures. He saw hideous orcish faces, bound by a power not their own. He saw a dark land, raped and ravaged by the evil Spectra unleashed upon it.

However, Tyrus' sight kept returning most strongly to one place. A place less dark, that he did not know. A small town on the coast of the sea. And within that town, a building. A tavern.

There were people there. More images flashed. A man with blond hair and a beard. Tyrus' spirits lifted when he beheld the man. He didn't know who he was, but he had a pure soul...and he was deeply in love. And the object of his love returned it just as thoroughly and sincerely as he gave it to her. Tyrus sensed something yet unseen; something ominous and troubling. Something that he felt compeled to return to.

Another man; like unto the first, who was also in love. But his love was bound to a soul in torment...a soul crying for release...a soul who clung to him.

There were others. A tall, dark traveler with a glorious, but buried secret. A beautiful woman, half-elven; quiet and lonely, looking for something she didn't know. A bard pursued by darkness. A spirited man who now was ready to give his love truly to a woman whose wounds were slowly beginning to heal.

Tyrus tried to see the paths of these individuals, but was lost in a tangle of shrouded images and possible futures.

With a gasp, he blinked, coming out of his Sight and back into reality. The orb glimmered before him, but he now saw nothing within it. He rose quickly, heedless to the weariness of his mind. He pushed through the doors of the chamber and walked out into a large corridor, his robes flowing around his feet.

He rounded a corner and was met by a man, the one respected above all in this place. His face was very old. But the spirit in his green eyes beamed with youth and power.

Tyrus halted fell slowly to his knee, bowing low before the Headmaster.

"Rise, my friend." Nairel said. Tyrus obeyed, coming back to his feet.

"What have you seen?" The old man asked.

"The future eludes me, Lord. So much depends on decisions yet to be made."

"Have you no counsel?" Tyrus hesitated. He knew Nairel respected his gift of Sight, and he knew the old one would act on whatever he told him. This seemed so small; so vague.

"There is a group of travelers in Raytha, who at this moment are attempting to find a lost soul." Tyrus shuddered visibly. He could still hear the screams... "Their actions will set in motion the events that will determine the fate of the world." Nairel paused long as he considered.

"Who is in this group?" He asked at last.

"I recognized no one, my Lord. The leaders were two; both human. Brothers, I believe." The Headmaster closed his eyes for a long moment. He opened them again.

"There is another. The traveling knight with them may hold the fate of the world in his hand." Tyrus blinked. He had caught brief glimpses of the one of whom Rainel spoke, and knew there was some great secret hidden with him, but nothing to indicate that he would play a large part.

"I saw him, Lord, but I did not believe him to be significant." Rainel's eyes narrowed.

"All are significant, my friend. We must find out about this group. It seems all our destiny hangs on their actions." Tyrus nodded, his gaze going to the floor. As if sensing his weariness, Rainel spoke again.

"Rest yourself, my friend. You are weary." Tyrus bowed again, lower.

"Thank you, my Lord." Nairel nodded, and Tyrus left, returning to his chamber to allow his mind to recuperate after its efforts.

Bobby’s World! (Secret Origins)



Bobby stood tall, confident, and proud. He was the eldest after all, and thus the biggest, and strongest. At least compared to his other seven siblings. He had an inch on all of them at the least. Two on the runt, his youngest sibling Samantha, or Sammy, she usually stayed close to him and today was no different. They had been allowed to wonder a bit away from home today.

He watched as his oldest little brother leapt through the air and landed solidly missing his intended target of a rabbit that had stayed still to long. Bobby snorted to himself, he bet silently that he would have caught it if he had tried. Bobby always seemed to stand aside and watch the others. He felt responsible for them, and he felt it was his duty to appear to be more mature by not jumping after rabbits and such.

“Bobby!” Sammy shrieked, and Bobby turned to look in the direction that her voice had come from. She was backing up carefully, in front of her stood a desperate looking wolf. Knotted hair, skinny, the kind that would risk its life for a meal, even one as dangerous as the one it had chosen to stalk.

Bobby’s knees bent, all four legs ready to spring him into the sky, his wings raised, and his neck bent up bringing his head closer to his body. He unleashed his mightiest roar. Not very impressive, he was only a foot long though, it came out at a much higher pitch than he would have liked, and not anywhere near as loud as his parents would have. You see, Bobby and his siblings where Dragons, very small ones, but still dragons. To wolf turned it’s attention to Bobby for only a moment before turning back to the still fleeing Sammy.

Bobby didn’t hesitate, he launched himself towards the wolf, wings flapping with full strength. He reached the wolf just as it’s head turned again to see what the flapping noise was. Bobby struck the wolf’s side, claws digging into the wolf’s side, teeth locked onto the wolf’s back. The force of his hit made the wolf stagger to the side while letting out a whine of pain, still the wolf had size and strength on Bobby and shook fiercely sending Bobby flying off of him and landing hard on the ground.

Bobby laid still dazed, knowing that he had to get up quickly or the wolf would rip out his throat. He looked up, unable to keep the world still long enough to stand. He could see a blur of movements, and hear the wolf whimper. As things cleared he watched the wolf fleeing into the woods, blood dripping from it. His family had come to his protection as he had come to Sammy’s. Sammy was near him, she looked worriedly down at him and Bobby raised his head to hers and rubbed his dark brown chin against the top of her rose colored head as he stood. “I’m fine.” He said, and noticed that the rest of his multicolored family was approaching.

Bobby felt proud for them. Even a full sized wolf was not match for them as long as they stayed near each other. He was about to say just that as the sound of massive wings beating above him announced the arrival of his silver scaled mother. This was no open field but she landed none the less, knocking a few trees down as she did it. She looked around, her eyes fierce, challenging any animal that dared to harm her brood. “What happened!” She roared. Bobby noticed a few of his siblings cower, his mother was a force to be reckoned with, to be sure, but he knew she wasn’t mad at them. Bobby was about to speak up when Sammy did.

“A wolf attacked me.” She said and leaned close to Bobby, brushing affectionately against Bobby. “Bobby saved me, and then the others chased it off.” She explained. Mothers face relaxed, Sammy had always been her favored child. Perhaps because of her rare coloring. Silver was rare, but Rose was ever rarer. Still, Bobby half thought it might be that she was the smallest. The baby of the family. Still, she was the favored child.

“Oh,” His mother said and looked around as if she wished the wolf would dare to return so she might finish it. “Good work then, but it is time that you all returned home.” She announced. “You turn eight today and you father and I have much to discuss with you.” She said and launched herself into the air. The strength of her wing beats pinning all of the others to the ground.

They soon followed after, keeping a safe distance from the hurricane force winds that her wings produced. They would soon learn that their time together was at an end, and that they were to be sent into the world alone, and in disguise. When asked why they simply quoted that it was tradition, and that there would be no changing their minds.

Bobby didn’t even try, he was more excited to explore the world than anything else. He was worried about Sammy and the others, mainly Sammy. She had always relied on him to keep her safe, and alone she might get herself in trouble.

“We wish you luck on your journey, but remember what ever you look like you are dragons, and keep that knowledge in your hearts as you grow in this world. Be proud, be strong and we will see each of you once you have learned enough to cancel the transformation.” She said. Father as always was silent, watching the proceedings. He didn’t talk much but surprised Bobby as he approached the opening of the cave in his new body by stopping him for a moment with his tail.

“Son, you are my eldest, my strongest, and you have the potential to become a great dragon, do not die.” He said. Bobby nodded and his father moved his tail and Bobby walked out into the world, clothes, a pack, and adventure on the horizon.

Lament of the Vargergiest

Prologue, A gift called interventionThe Vandantie Citadel was located within the heart of Risina. A merge of nature and the skill of elvan magic. The Spire was made many old trees. With time they had overlapped and knotted forming the great structure. In the hollow of the tree stairwells spiralled upwards towards a glass domed roof. In the sunlight it revealed vast collection of tomes some as old as time its self. These books came from all over the world and formed a knowledge to the Elder elf’s that was greater then gold.

Within the centre of the spire on a platform atop the spiralling stairs there is a pedestal made of white marble and cushioned with lavender velvet. A crystal with more facets then any would care to count levitates above the cushion.

It’s presence ore inspiring. Many who had been allowed the chance to gaze upon the crystal would shudder at it. The thought of what was inside terrifying. An ancient creature known as the Nandoki, Keeper of secrets. Elves often argue if this creature is a demi god or simply a beast the gods gifted the Elder elves with. A gift called intervention. The guide of the tomes was called Sol. She had seen three centuries and the most honoured of the wise. Her apprentice was called Arcye a young shadow elf of only one and a half centuries.

Arcye often spent nights guarding the tomes. In his eyes there was nothing more wonderful then working with the great spire of books. While he took the evening watch he would take time to fill his mind with the knowledge of the books.

One evening Arcye rose his eyes from the book he was reading noticing the glow of a candle. The lady Sol was descending the stairs garbed in a translucent white gown thick with spider lace. Not wanting himself to seem disrespectful to the lady Sol Arcye turned his gaze back to the book he was reading, every so often watching the lady with a fleeting gaze. She didn’t seem to notice him, engaged in her silent walk through the halls.

Arcye had seen her do this often of late. The lady Sol would vanish into the thick woods around the Citadel not returning until late in the noon. Or she would stalk the steps at night like the fleeting ghost of a sorrowed maiden. At times Arcye would catch sight of wisps of fur or see the reflection of a disfigured human move across the floor. When he looked up there was nothing to be found.
Arcye had not been to troubled by these incidents until he had began to here the elvan woman talk at night. Whispers of blood and the destruction of Raythia, of all the lands that held the legacy of human beings. Arcye shuddered at the thought of the woman’s words. Bitter and twisted full of horrific suggestions.

When Arcye looked up the Lady Sol had vanished, but Arcye could hear her voice.

“Kill, kill the two legs yes, yes,” her hiss was harsh. A snarling sound followed her words.

Cautiously Arcye put the book down and tip toed towards the noises.

“Two long the greedy ones have had our lands. Two long their greed like a plague has struck us,” a course male voice hissed.

“Yes, yes, kill the two legs,” lady Sol whispered again. Her low voice was filled with passion.

“Then you will give us the Vargergiest and together we shall end them? You alone can save the elves save us,” the course voice replied.

“Yes, yes, yes kill them smite the furless rodents.”

“The Vargergiest,” Arcye whispered to himself. Hidden behind a pillar made of a wiry tree trunk he peered out and stifled a shocked gasp. Before the lady Sol stood the largest Taggagora he had ever seen. The human like wolf towered over the lady Sol who swayed her body radiating a silvery aura of magic. Tufts of fur floated about the Taggagora and his slit yellow eyes stared upon his knew found ally with appreciation.

Arcye’s heart felt as though it had lurched to his throat. He moved away from his hiding place as quietly as he could, for he knew well that the Taggagora had sharp hearing and weren’t shy of eating scrawny elves.

Arcye knew no stealth or magic, nor could he fight with blade or fist. So slowly he slunk towards the shadows, pausing at each knew noise terrified. His shaking form weaved carefully towards the steps. He ascended them carefully. Listening as Sol and the Taggagora below spoke in excited whispers.

Midway up the spiral he misplaced a step his boot hit the step. He fell forwards putting his hands out to save himself. His ribs fells against the ridge of a step knocking the breath from his lungs. He bit his tongue but the noise had been enough to disturb the pair fraternising beneath him.

“Whose there?” the Wrog snarled.
“It‘s the apprentice,” Sol hissed. “Kill him?”

“Yes, before he alerts anyone of what his heard.”

Arcye shoved himself upright pain shot through his ribcage. Wincing he pushed himself forwards racing up the stairs. Below him he could hear the Wrog’s claws clicking against the floor. Arcye’s legs began to ach as he continuously pumped them to climb the steps. They seemed never ending he looked upwards to the platform above the towering cases of books that lined the spire. It was getting close, then again so was the sound of footfalls behind him. Arcye felt air rush at his back as the Taggagora took a swipe at him and barely missed. The Taggagora swiped at him again catching his shirt and tearing the back of it wide open. Arcye reached the top platform of the spire and dashed towards the Vargergiest pedestal. He grasped the Vargergiest in his hand and turned ducking just as the large Wrog swung at him. He moved towards a shelf of books and rocked it until it toppled down landing on top of the large Wrog. Arcye moved down the spiral stair case knocking over shelfs on his way down to keep the wrog busy. He skittered out into the night, his eyes wide against the darkness, he had to get help.

The first contract, first blood

Odin pulled herself through the window and stepped onto the carpeted floor silently. It was soft and made the task of remaining silent a lot easier. Despite the boots she wore she could tell it was lavish and expensive. His wealth was evident and that was one of the criteria of why this man proved a threat to them. She adopted a crouched position falling into the routine that had been drilled into her oh so naturally. Key aspect as well as an awareness of noise shape should be considered, a smaller presence was harder to spot especially when masked by the relative darkness.

She surveyed her surroundings looking for any kind of threat and found it curled at the foot of the bed. She produced the long curved dagger from her boot twirled it once in her hand, the weight of the weapon all to familiar almost a natural extension to her hand. She rolled to the side coming out and executing a slashing movement that lacerated the large dogs throat, a blood hound if she wasn't mistaken from her reading. It left the dagger coated in blood dripping on to the carpet that readily absorbed it. The weapon was held next to her ear now where she had drawn it up ready to stab downwards once more if the movement had not been sufficient to kill the creature. She had nothing against the animal but she didn't show remorse, if it had made a noise it could alert others which would endanger her and her families reputation. Interestingly that was probably of more concern to her than the conflict that could ensue.

Her lineage had always been assasains and they weren't just the run of the mill contracters. She'd spent 100 years in training from the moment it was possible to throw her into the dark lifestyle. They left without anyone been aware of their presence until it was to late. This contract was meant to be obvious that the man had been slain so she didn’t have to worry about making it look natural. They were making a point. A political statement as such. They would not be challenged. They were the superior race and did not take kindly to inferior beings trying to rise themselves above what they could never be.

She rose up from the crouched position and while she was of small statue the sight of her was truly intimidating and the shadow that loomed behind her, the darkness that consumed the side of the room behind her and crept up the ceiling moving with the flickering of the candle on the bedside would be enough to traumatize any witness for some time.

She moved towards the bed her right hand hovered over his throat the crossbow that was strapped to it lingered over him. The cold metal harshly corressing the indentation where his adams apple was.Her black gloved hand clamped over his mouth causing him to wake up but preventing too much noise from escaping.

She had drawn close so that his gaze was taken up by her face. In another situation perhaps he would have admired her beauty, been pleased to awake to such a sight but alas that could not be the case for him. The words she whispered to him where not that of the pillow talk anyone would wish to awaken to.

“You have been deemed a threat and as such are to be terminated.” The man's eyes widened, he was awake in an instant, she felt his mouth move to open to scream but she didn’t let that happen. She flicked her knuckle up which triggered the crossbow that hung point blank over his throat. The bolt tore clean through it and hooked into the mattress beneath it. She removed her hand and pushed his head to the side as he coughed up a blood on to the pillow. She stared into his eyes as the life from them drained. She didn’t bother to remove the bolt, she used barbed ones to make sure that wasn’t possible without causing more trauma to the body, she would leave it there as a calling card. The linen sheets began to turn crimson as blood sepped down from the wound. Satisfied with the kill she stepped backwards towards the window. She was careful not to turn her back keeping an eye on the door and the dead victim. You could never let your guard down, arrogance only brought injury.

Her first contract, her first test. She seemed to have passed. Only now did she turn as she looked out the window checking it was still an appropriate escape point. It was. She leapt out the window and fled into the night heading for her steed in order to vacate the city before news spread of the events when morning would come. She pitied the maid that would discover the grisly scene and whose screams would send the guards running. Their failure to protect the man of nobility could well cost them their lives as well but that was not her problem. She had executed the contract with no direct collateral damage. The denizens of the town should be grateful for that.

Long after the battle had concluded, he remained there, down on one knee, drenched in the blood of his enemies. The sun was drawing low on the horizon, painting an eerie glow on the overcast skies above. Soon, night would fall and hide this grim scene from innocent eyes.

Evander Leonheart, the lone mercenary, rose to his feet and dragged himself away from what remained of the wrecked coach. Its four horses lay dead on the road, their throats slit. Its occupants -- three men in dark coats and masks -- had met a similar fate. Their gold lay strewn about the roadside. In accordance with the contract, Van hadn’t touched a single coin of it. Passersby would know this was no robbery. This was payback -- divine retribution for their sins.

With his mission complete, Van left, keeping a loose grip on his trusty sword. Its enchanted glass blade was on the ground, broken into razor-like shards. Only moments ago, he had summoned those same fragments to eviscerate one of the many men guarding the coach. Now, the pieces trailed on the ground at his feet, following him as he walked, magically drawn to the hilt in his hand. He called them together, forming the blade of a sword, and then put away the weapon, wrapping it in cloth and tucking it under his coat before entering the nearby town. There would be no talk of the man with the glass blade. Not today.

Still, he got strange looks from the few people who remained in the streets. His blood-soaked armor; his scarred visage; the dissatisfied scowl on his face that always followed a murder. He never derived pleasure from these kills, though so many deserved to die and their deaths paid well. He made the streets safe for the average citizen, yet they looked at him as though he were a wolf among sheep. Fortunately, the light patter of rain on the cobblestone streets drove them away. It grew to a torrential downpour, washing away the crimson stains on his black clothing and rusting armor, and clearing the streets of prying eyes and judgmental minds.

He opened the door of an unnamed tavern, stepped inside, and immediately spotted his contact: a short, fat man seated in the corner. The man’s eyes grew wide as Van, still dripping, slowly made his way over.

“That was quick,” the man said as Van took a seat at the table, which was already occupied by a number of empty tankards and bottles. “They said you were good, but no one told me you were fast. The two don’t always go hand-in-hand.”

“I never rush, but they were eager to hurry to their deaths,” Van said, in a deep, gruff tone. “They won’t be causing trouble in this town anymore. The deed is done.”

“You know, there’s not a lot of people who accept these sorts of jobs,” the man said, drawing a sack of gold from beneath the table. “They’re gonna come after you, so I suggest you hold onto this gold; don’t spend it all in one place. A little pocket money is useful when you’re hidin’ from these people, you know.”

“I hide from no one,” Van replied, taking two handfuls of gold and dumping them into his own coin purse. “Keep the rest,” he said, shoving the sack back toward the man. “Consider this a charity case. I don’t accept full pay for wiping out thugs and criminals. And if they want to come after me, tell ‘em I’ll be waiting.”

“Well… that’s a bold statement,” the fat man said as he donned his overcoat and hat. “You’re gonna draw trouble the way s*** draws flies… so I think I’ll stay as far from you as possible.” He stood from the table. “I’m glad to see the great Evander Leonheart is twice the man I heard he was… and half the price.” After a quick goodbye and a handshake, the man was gone.

Van made his way over to the bar, took a seat on an available stool, and flagged down the bartender. The man approached, with a tankard in hand and quizzically looked Van over. “Hey,” the bartender said. “Aren’t you… uhh… you’re the guy rentin’ room number six, right?”

“Yeah,” Van said with a slow nod. “Why?”

“Some lady came to see you,” the bartender went on, “about an hour ago. I told her you’d be back later, but she insisted on waitin’ upstairs in the hall.” Van eyed him skeptically. “An’ she was real pretty too. A shadow elf... don't see many of those around,” the man said. “A lady-friend of yours?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

“Don’t have any,” Van said coldly. “Whoever she is, she can wait. Now gimme a glass of your strongest stuff,” he added, throwing some gold and a generous tip on the countertop.



“Where is he?” she pondered aloud, pacing in the second-floor hallway. She paused to peer out a window at the end of the corridor, but a thunderclap drove her away. The dark, rainy scene offered little amusement or comfort, so she returned to trampling the well-worn carpet in front of door number six, with her arms folded and an uncharacteristic scowl on her face.

A sudden sound from the stairwell caught her attention. She froze and stood with her eyes glued to the landing. A dandy young gentleman in fine clothes ascended the stairwell with the aid of a jewel-encrusted cane. Is it him? she pondered as the man approached. Certianly not.

The young dandy stopped when his gaze fell upon the beautiful creature awaiting him. “Oh my,” he said in a smooth, seductive tone, tipping his hat in a gentlemanly manner. “How fortunate I must be to find myself in the presence of an angel on this dark and dreary night.” A crooked smile filled his face.

“Who? Me?” she replied, blushing innocently as the man approached. He reached out to take her by the hand, but she gently drew back.

“Now, now, don’t be so modest,” he said. “And don’t be afraid. I'll do you no harm.” Somehow, he found room on his face to make his already enormous smile disturbingly larger. “I’ll do you good,” he said. “Real good.”

She looked him over from head to toe. “Hmm,” she said, placing a hand on her chin. “You seem to be doing quite well for yourself, whoever you are. But there’s nothing you can do for me.”

“I can do plenty for you, baby,” he said, reaching for her again. She took another step back. “I can give you the world. Diamonds? Gold? Name your price.”

“You don’t have what I want,” she said taking a step around the man, who seemed to be attempting to corner her.

“Now, how can you know that?” he asked, his suave tone suddenly gone.

“Because he has it,” she said, pointing to a filthy ruffian coming up the stairs. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed the dandy gentleman. “Away with you, foolish human. I have important matters to attend to.”

Despite the anger in his eyes, the 'gentleman' knew when to call it quits. He drew a room key, retreated to the far end of the hall, and disappeared into one of the chambers.

Meanwhile, Van Leonheart -- who was a stumbling drunk by this time -- paused at the top of the stairwell as he was met with the most beautiful sight a man could hope to see in this backwater town. The shadow elf, Arwyn Clyne, stood before him. His eyes traced her figure, from her shining black hair, past her pointed elven ears, violet eyes, and pale blue skin, before coming to rest at her chest area, concealed behind a low-cut evening gown of pastel purple.

“And who are you?” he grumbled in his usual harsh tone.

“Arwyn,” she replied, extending a hand. “Arwyn Clyne. And I presume you are the legendary Evander Leonheart? I’ve searched a long time to-”

Van pushed past her, disregarding the handshake and the speech that accompanied it, and made his way to his room. By the time she got over the shock of being ignored by a mere human, he already had the door open and was halfway inside.

“I am not following you in there!” she snapped, standing on the threshold. “I don’t know much about human customs, but I know it’s frowned upon when a lady follows a man into his sleeping quarters. I demand that you return here at once, that I may speak with you.”

“And I didn’t ask you to follow me anywhere,” he said, attempting to shut the door in her face. But she quickly shoved a foot in the frame before he could do so. He groaned at the sight of her persistence. “Look, I don’t know what you’re selling, but I know I can’t afford it,” he said. “And you don’t look cheap, lady.”

Offended again, she glared at him. “Fortunately, mercantilism is a custom I am well acquainted with,” she replied. “Rest assured I am not here to sell you anything, rather you have something that belongs to me. Now, hand it over, you mindless savage!” she said, extending an open hand. But the awkward silence that followed made it clear he still didn’t understand.

“The sword. It is mine. Give it,” she said in small, easy-to-understand chunks. But, still, he did not respond. “I had heard that the great Evander Leonheart was a noble swordsman, but I guess I was wrong,” she went on chiding him. “You’re nothing but a petty thief. I was willing to forgive the theft of my property, but I simply cannot forgive having the thief refuse me to my face. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I’m no thief,” he said opening the door. He drew the sword and snatched off its covering. “Is this it?” he asked. Her eyes immediately lit up with delight. She reached for it, but he snatched it away, tucking it under his coat. “I didn’t steal it,” he said. “I found it on a dead guy, buried in the sand, in the Badlands. There’s no stealing from dead guys. You must have this sword confused with another.”

“What kind of a fool do you take me for!?” she snapped. “I poured myself into the construction of that weapon. Everything I knew, everything I had, and everything I wanted went into it!”

“So?”

“Ugh! With your inferior human mind, you can’t possibly imagine what that’s like. It was intended for… for someone else… not you,” she said, becoming choked with emotion. But she quickly replaced those weak sentiments with anger. “I’ve searched a hundred years for this! It’s been calling out to me from afar. And now that I’m this close, you dare deny me what is rightfully mine!” she hissed as she summoned forth Spectral flames in the palms of her hands to incinerate him with.

“A hundred years ago?” he asked lazily as she gazed upon him with rage in her eyes. “For an elf, you’re not too smart. I wasn’t even alive a hundred years ago you dumb broad.” The flames suddenly vanished as a stupefied look washed over her face. “And don’t you ever threaten me with magic!” he said raising the sword and placing the tip an inch from her throat. “You have no idea how much I hate wizards, mages, sorcerers -- whatever the hell it is you people call yourselves these days! I got this sword specifically so I can kill people like you, and I won’t hesitate to use it.... So, watch yourself, witch. I don’t have much patience for that s***!”

“Okay, okay,” she pleaded as she backed away into the hall. “You’re no thief. I'm sorry for accusing you of that. But… I… I need that sword," she begged. "I’m incomplete without it.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” he said, lowering his weapon and preparing to shut the door. “You’re an elf. You can wait another hundred years and pry it from my cold, dead, fingers, the same way I got it from the last guy…. Unless you wanna fight me for it, here and now? I don’t think I’ve ever killed a shadow elf before. It’ll be fun.”

“You've got yourself a deal,” she said. Without further warning, he charged at her, weapon raised. “NO! NO! Wait, I meant the other one!” she cried, stopping him within inches of slicing her in half. “I was agreeing to the other option. I’ll wait. I don’t like to fight. I’m a pacifist," she said. "You already called my bluff once. The turth is, I hate to see bloodshed.”

“What?” He lowered his sword. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why would a pacifist make an enchanted sword?”

“That’s no concern of yours,” she said, regaining her composure and with it, her arrogance. “You’re a disgusting, idiot of a man, but I think I can stand following you around for a couple decades if it means getting my beloved back. Besides… at the rate you’re going, you could die any day now.” She grinned malevolently.

He palmed his face and slammed the door shut in hers. "You better not be here in the morning," he said from the other side.

“I will. As long as you carry that sword with you, you can’t hide from me, Van Leonheart,” she said. "I’ll always be there… ‘til death do us part.”

In the layer of Spectra that blankets parts of Ardus, the pure energy form of Ora, Queen of Lights, danced like the aurora borealis would if it had a particular destination in mind. She searched for another being of the same spectral nature as herself but very different, his colors appearing in onyx and blood.

When she found a stream of souls, still in anxious flux from their recent cutting from mortal flesh, she sent the call and it caromed off of the ether around them.

Kull

There was no response at first. Then those dark colors appeared, opening like a malevolent wineflower as he looked up. Outside the dimension they inhabited she saw that he had been watching a battle, gathering the souls that left it. But now he moved toward her, curious.

This is unexpected.

His essence wound around her briefly before it slid away, making her feel a little ill. Nevertheless, now wasn’t a time to show her distaste.

Come talk to me, she invited.

There are places within the spectral plane where the gods take physical form. Ora chose her favorite one, under a arch of pure white energy, a fountain burbling from in some greenery while fantastic, impossible birds of a gaudy blue-green and red preened and splashed in the pool at the foot of the fountain.

She took her physical form, her pale hair and clothes floating around her slender glowing body. Kull likewise took form, in shape bulking and hooded, dark, the antithesis of the goddess’s brightness.

“I can only think of one reason that you would seek me out.” Kull’s voice was deep in timbre but cold as stone, his face spare with one sardonic eyebrow raised within the recesses of the cowl, “You must need a favor.”

Characteristically blunt, Ora thought, with exasperation. Not one for small talk, that was for sure. She settled on the edge of the fountain, reaching out to smooth the feathers of one of the birds.

“I suppose that’s a fair assessment.” Her chiming voice was nearly as cold as his, only hers held the chill of the black spaces that separate the stars.

“Good.” Kull said, moving toward her with the sinuous movement one might associate with snakes, “let’s get right to the negotiations. What for what?”

Turning to the fountain, Ora touched the surface of its lowest pool with one long pale finger. A picture formed on the surface of people, the scene skimming by at speed. The group battling the Gy-ait, the wrogs, riding peacefully through a cold sunlit forest, the shipwreck…and the images slowed, Merri framed within the scry.

“A gift.” Ora said.

“A bribe.” Kull’s gauntleted arms crossed.

“A trinket.” Her voice was silky as she touched the pool again, now showing Merri as she had been on the deck of the ship as she fought the mercenaries, “and a pleasure. She has raw potential.”

“For what?” Kull’s voice didn’t betray his earlier interest in the same girl, “I have many servants already who carry the Fey.”

Ora waved that away.

“Indeed you do but look at this one’s joy in battling, her satisfaction in the kill. She is, or could be, and objet d’ art, a great masterpiece.”

“And why the sudden gift?” The gauntleted arms remained crossed, the face in deep shadow. The voice, however, had taken on a tone of amusement, “I know you well enough, dear Ora, to know that if you are in a generous mood, there is something you want...Wait.”

As Ora reached to touch the pool again his hand arrested her, holding the slender wrist.

“Let me.” He touched the pool, bringing the picture of Merri sleeping back into focus. The picture moved, following the direction of her outstretched arm, the hand clasped with Teele’s and continued until Teele was framed in the pool.

“Lucky guess?” Kull’s voice was arid.

Ora watched Teele sleep, the same feeling that she had before catching at her.

“Yes, he’ll be my part of the deal. A finder’s fee.”

“That poor devil,” Kull stated, “I won’t even speculate on what you want with him.”

“Good.” Ora said crisply, her bright cloud of hair swirling about her slender shoulders as she stood, “Because you could never understand.”

“I can’t understand attraction?” Kull took a step closer to her, his dark figure towering over her slender one as he invaded her personal space and stared down into her eyes.

Ora moved away quickly, ignoring his chuckle.

“Attraction, yes. You can’t begin to fathom what I want.” She looked at Teele’s face in the pool again, relaxed in repose, his hand holding Merri’s even in sleep, “But he can.”

“The poor devil.” Kull said again and Ora let the insult pass.

There was a small silence broken only by the small wet sound of one of the birds as it plopped into the middle of the fading scry, plashing around as it bathed itself with fannings of its wings.

“Do we have a deal?” Ora’s voice was cold, her hands clasping nervously.

Kull thought, doubtless his own observances of Merri and the delicious possibilities of having a new kind of slave tumbling through his mind.

“We do.” He said shortly.

“Good. Because I have a plan.”

((To be continued in the story thread. Be watching for the machinations of the gods!))

Twenty One Circles

Introduction: Sparring

Steel met steel, again, and again. Erlend knew he was putting pressure on his opponent, trying to force a mistake. Not his style, not at all; he preferred a single precise strike in the neck or torso, a quick death for his opponent. But the man he faced was no threat, not really. The man’s attacks were slow, almost clumsy, and had Erlend felt like it, he could have ended this fight long ago. Instead, he took a step back, holding his glaive in front of him, inviting the man to strike at him again.

For a moment, his opponent hesitated. Then man threw his own weapon to the ground. “It’s over.” Erlend stared at him for a moment before stepping closer, faster then one would believe possible for a man his size. He kept his glaive inches away from his opponents face, yet the man didn’t as much as whimper. At the very last moment, Erlend grinned and swept the blade downward. He didn’t draw blood, but instead cut trough the man’s thick beard. They watched several strands of hair fall to the ground.

“That, Reinn, is for wasting my time.”

The man in front of him was large, well muscled. Dark hair, with a hint of red. Deep blue eyes. Tanned skin. A true Derian. Reinn managed a small smile as he plucked at his beard. “Sparring with your older brother is a waste of time? How rude.”

Erlend’s grin widened. He stood nearly a head taller then the other man, yet his brother insisted on reminding him that he had been born first. “I am sorry, my lord. Should I throw myself on my blade for insulting the future lord of Skjalgi?” Reinn winced as he gathered his discarded weapon.

“Don’t call me lord. As long as father sits on the throne, I’m just his son, like you. Actually,” he added, “not like you. While I’m trying memorize every damn thing that ever happened in… well, the whole of Deria, you can go out and actually help people.” With ‘ helping people’, he meant Erlend’s duties for their father. Protecting Skjalgi from anything that might threaten it’s people; polar bears, raiders and, gods forbid, basilisks.

“Must say, Erlend, I envy you. Actually going out there. Seeing the world, well, parts of it.” They walked inside, to the comfortable warmth of the keep. Reinn placed his weapon in the rack at the door, while Erlend hung on to his own glaive. To his brother, it may just be a lifeless piece of steel, but to Erlend, his weapon was a part of his soul. He and his glaive were intertwined, bound by spectra, never to be parted.

Reinn wasn’t done talking yet. “While all I can do is sit in the tower and study, or watch father deal with what ever is presented to him. Sometimes I wish our roles were reversed. That I was born second, and you first. You the scholar, the future lord of Skjalgi, and I the warrior, charged with the protection of our people.” The man let out a deep sight.

Erlend recognized his brothers mood. It was not the first time they had this conversation, and Erlend doubted it would be the last. “You worry to much, Reinn. Had you been born second, you would have never learned to read, you would have never learned numbers or the history of our lands. Would you really give all of that up for the sake of my life? I should envy you, brother. In your time, you will do great things.”

“Erlend, my time does not come until after father’s death. Is that something I should look forward to?” Reinn’s voice was passionate now, and Erlend regretted bringing it up. Yet there was no turning back now. Either he lightened his brothers mood, or the man would spend the rest of the day brooding in his room.

“You’re an idiot.”

Reinn stopped for his moment, staring at his brother’s back. “Thanks.” Erlend let out a small laugh, but kept walking, forcing his brother to catch up. They had reached the hallway that led to the common room, and the air was getting warmer. The smells of tonight’s dinner reached them, and Erlend’s stomach growled its demand for food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, skipped lunch to spar with Reinn, and the smells of stew and warm bread were hard to ignore.

“You do not really believe that I want father to pass away. Yet I deal with death, Reinn. I have seen my share of it. And although the gods forbid father dies in battle, he will die at one moment. He knows he will. I know he will. Hell, everyone knows he will, including you. Yet you’re to damn stubborn to acknowledge it.” Erlend slowed his pace, than turned to his brother. “And when father dies, people will need a new leader. And that will be you. So until that days come, until the day where people will turn to you for guidance and leadership, you study. So that when the day comes, you are ready.”

Reinn gazed at his brother for a moment, then punched the large man in the face. Not a gentle push, not by far, yet not an attack that was meant to do any harm either. Even so, it was enough to send Erlend staggering a few steps backwards before grabbing his jaw. “Damn it Reinn, what was that for!

Reinn grinned wickedly. “That, little brother, was for cutting my beard.”

*****

Vandrad hersir Prudi, Lord of all of Skjalgi, one of Great Lords of Deria, sat on his chair, staring into the crystal bowl of water in front of him. He was growing old, weary, tired even. Using his spectra to scry took more effort then ever, and after a few minutes, he let out a deep sigh before pushing the bowl away. Nothing. Well, enough, but nothing useful.

Once, long ago, he had been able to see the future so clearly. Yet in the years after that, he had neglected his spectra in favor of his other duties. Governing the seventh largest strip of land in Deria required devotion. For a moment, he almost pitied his oldest son. Reinn would learn the hard way. Such a troubled soul, always worrying, always thinking. Traits of a great leader, or a man to old for his age.

Not at all like Erlend. Perhaps it was the difference in spectra; Erlend’s weapon symbiosis made him a formidable warrior, and as such, he excelled at what he did. Reinn, on the other hand, had no such luck; he had inherited a gift that was much like his father’s; the gift of foresight. Yet it was so weak in Reinn, so weak it wouldn’t help him in his duties. Reinn would have to pull trough on his own strength, whereas Erlend could rely on his bond with his weapon.

“You look troubled, good lord.” Vandrad sat up, somewhat startled, staring at the small man who had seemed to appear out of nowhere. Small, that was, nearly 5’10, yet small compared to any Derian. This man, however, was definitely not Derian; light hair, light eyes. Pale, as well, a sign he didn’t get out a lot.

“Emmin. I thought I asked you to stop appearing in my room.” The other man merely smiled at the moment, then head to one of the book cases. Books, and paper in general, was rare in Deria, and Vandrad was proud of his collection of books. “Have it your way. How are things in the Brotherhood?”

“The Brotherhood is doing as the Brotherhood is doing. The state of the Brotherhood is of no concern to Skjalgi, yet the state of Skjalgi is of concern to the Brotherhood.” The man picked up one of the books, read a few lines, then replaced it and picked up another. Vandrad didn’t like the man, yet members of the Brotherhood of the Rose were to be respected and welcomed. In that order. For even if there was no Brother around, there were always agents, and an ill word about the Brotherhood could lead to a rebuke, or worse. Far worse.

“Will you be having dinner with us tonight? My sons and I thought about having dinner in the common room. It would be good to mingle with some of the servants.” The insult was not as perfectly hidden as the old man had wanted it to be, but it would have to do. He was to weary to come up with anything better.

“No thank you, I have business to attend to.” The man took up yet another book, then smiled approvingly. “The Tales of Grundir, Slayer of Basilisks and the Promise of Life for those Unloved. I wager that this was hard to come by.” It was, but Vandrad held his tongue. Either Emmin didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. “Do you know what my favorite part is? Where he confronts the two foreign brothers, both unloved, and tells them to care for each other if nothing else, because else, and I quote; ‘No love as true as one brother for the other, no hate as deep as the loss.’ Cryptic, don’t you think?”

The pale man replaced the book, then gave the lord of Skjalgi a small bow. “Goodbye, my lord.” With that, he vanished, leaving no trace. Vandrad relaxed, suddenly realizing how tense he had been. What had the man wanted? The Brotherhood never visited without a good reason to. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up and unrolled a small scroll that had been lying on the edge of his desk.

Raiders had been troubling a small village, not far from the keep. Nothing to do with basilisks, nothing to do with life for the unloved. Then why had Emmin quoted Grundir. Vandrad hesitated for a moment, then rerolled the scroll and got to his feet. It didn’t matter. Erlend would remove the raiders, without fail. He would present him the mission during dinner. He head for the door, wondering what the future held for his son.

As the worrying old man walked down the stairs, the water in the crystal bowl, still standing on the man’s desk, stirred. An image appeared, a woman, smiling gently. But just before the image faded, the woman’s smile turned into a wicked snarl.

Night fell on the Vandantie Citadel, deep in the elven forests of Risinia. Their task complete, the brave adventurers mounted their horses and turned their backs on the dark spire. After a long day of battle and hardship, it was no surprise they were eager to leave. Most never wanted to see this place again and secretly wished they had never come. But two particular members of the group remained behind.

Van paced beside his black steed with his arms crossed, his armored shoes leaving bloody footprints on the unblemished white marble floor. The battle hadn't been kind to him; he looked as though he'd been mauled by a bear. Blood still flowed from his fresh wounds. He paused for a moment, feeling lightheaded, but refused to sit or lie down.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said in his usual gruff tones. “I don’t wanna stick around here any longer than we have to.”

"Quiet yourself," Arwyn said calmly. She was kneeling before a reflecting pool, staring into its moonlit waters and concentrating on the smooth surface. "If you try to travel in your condition, you won't last another hour. Give me time to gather my spectra so I can properly heal you. Then we will leave this place.”

He continued pacing, in silence. Not a word passed between them for the next few minutes. The calm was finally broken when she cupped a handful of the cool water and splashed it on her face, signaling the completion of her meditation. “Come and have a seat,” she said pointing him to a spot beside her near the edge of the pool. “I’m ready. And there are some things I would like to discuss with you.”

Van grumbled his displeasure, but obeyed. “I ain’t interested in talkin’ with you,” he said as he removed his overcoat and sat down by the edge of the pool. “Just fix me up so we can go. And what’s with all the meditating? You never did that before.”

“I’ve never had to bring a man back from the brink of death before,” she said. He looked slightly puzzled by that remark, but not deeply affected. “Tell me, Van, don’t you feel anything?” she asked, placing her hand on his forehead to check if he was feverish. He was a mess, covered in the blood and grime of war. His clothing and armor looked like Swiss cheese.

“I feel fine,” he said, shoving her hand away.

“And that’s the problem,” she said as she rinsed her hand in the pool and passed him a wet rag to cleanse himself as well. “You were stabbed in the back nearly twenty times, struck by arrows, sliced by swords, and you’ve lost nearly half your blood.” He glanced up from wiping the dried blood from his face, wanting to hear where she was going with this line of thought. “And yet you don’t feel a thing,” she said. “Doesn’t that seem the least bit strange to you?”

“Anybody with more than half a brain knows I’m the toughest son of a b**ch ever to walk the earth. I thought you’d have realized that by now,” he said with a smirk. He attempted to laugh, but immediately broke into a fit of hard coughing.

After his breathing steadied and returned to normal, Arwyn shook he head in pity. He just wasn’t getting it. She sighed and began the healing process, gathering an orb of spectra in her hand and pressing it to his chest. He was unnaturally cold, like a walking corpse, but the spell slowly began to warm him and return the coloration to his pale skin. It further reinforced the point she was trying to make a moment ago.

“Tell me the story about the wizard,” she requested after the healing spell was well underway and no longer required her full attention. “You know, the one who supposedly stole your spectra,” she went on. “I’d like to hear it again. As of today, it has suddenly become very relevant to me.”

“Oh really?” he said. His tone was harsh, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity in him as well. Why did she want to hear it again? He’d told her that story a hundred times or more and she always dismissed it. He used to brag about how he was ‘the greatest swordsman of all time’ until this mage defeated him and cursed him. But she always said he was delusional -- he was never the greatest anything and this encounter with a so-called mage who allegedly cursed him and stole his spectra never happened. It was a major point of contention between them and always ended in a heated argument.

But he could feel the healing spell taking effect. His lightheadedness subsided. The pain in his body began to diminish. She'd chosen the perfect time to ask; it’s hard to be angry at someone who’s saving your life. But why does it matter now? he thought as he peered into her eyes. They shined a beautiful shade of purple, sparkling under the moonlight. They had been traveling together for months and not once had he found the courage to look her square in the eyes like that. He’d looked his enemies in the eyes plenty of times, but he always killed them afterward. To him, this felt… wrong.

He soon averted his gaze to the clear waters of the meditation pool. “I’m not in the mood for storytelling,” he said in a low voice, “so I’ll give you the short version.”

“I require details,” she said quickly. “I’m trying to confirm a theory, if you don’t mind. It’s about your curse.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but went on anyway. Might as well, he thought, before taking a deep breath, glad to feel his lungs were capable of doing so. Then, he began his tale: “It happened about five or six years ago, down by the north coast of Iathe. I was just passin’ through, looking for troublemakers to rough up, when I came to some town I don’t even remember the name of. I overheard a rumor about some guy -- a bandit, they called him -- who was givin’ the local folks grief. They said he was kidnapping women and children and lockin’ ‘em up in his lair, torturing them and whatnot.

“Naturally, I wanted to find this guy and pound his face in, so I got one of the locals to help me sniff him out. An elf farmer volunteered to gimme a hand and after a few hours we found his hideout; a dirty little cave down in the swamp.” Van paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before going on. “We lit our torches and went in… and… and there were people all over the place -- dead, alive, and everything in-between -- chained to the walls, the floor, the ceilings, everywhere. I swear, there were at least a hundred of them. And every one had their tongue cut out; they couldn’t say a word.

“But the guy I was with told me to leave ‘em alone,” Van said with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Somethin’ about them being cursed or tainted and they needed to be purified before we set them free. I never met a farmer who knew magic like he did. I shoulda known somethin’ wasn’t right… But I took his word for it and let them be. How the hell was I to know?

“We went deeper into the cave, but never found the bandit,” he said. “There was no bandit. We kept going until we hit a dead end; a big, round room with an altar in the middle. Dark, with places for candles all around it.”

“That’s enough,” Arwyn said, giving him a gentle pat on the back. “You don’t have to finish this if you don’t want to. I understand completely.” Van was enraged. He hated sympathy. A pat on the back was like a slap in the face. But he stomached it somehow. “I believe you,” she went on. “You’re no liar, Van. I would never accuse you of intentionally delivering a false account, but I know your ignorance of spectra can sometimes cause you to misinterpret magical phenomena.”

“Are you trying to say I’m too stupid to know what happened to me?” he snapped. “Do I look like a f**king idiot to you!? A wizard stole my spectra! I ain’t gotta be a god***ed genius to see that!”

“I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken,” she said. “He was not a wizard, he was a necromancer. He disguised himself as a local peasant, lured you down into his sacrificial chamber, and placed a hex on you.” Van was shocked. How does she know? He’d never gotten to that part of the story. “It happens all the time,” she said. “Sadly, he’s probably packed up and moved on to another town by now. The chances of meeting him again are slim.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Van grumbled. “He stole my spectra. I'll kill him for it.”

“Once again, you’re mistaken,” Arwyn said. “There is no way to permanently ‘steal’ someone’s spectra without killing them. Ever since the moment I met you, I’ve wondered why your spectral presence is so weak. You’re nearly undetectable. On top of that, you can’t seem to sense spectra at all. Nothing gets in or out. Even the demon we fought today couldn’t establish a link with you. Now, I finally understand. Your spectra isn’t gone, it’s locked deep inside you. That is your curse.

“I think the necromancer’s intentions were to stop you from practicing magic,” she said. “You can’t access your own spectra, therefore you can never cast a spell. Fortunately, you have no intentions of being a mage, so this isn’t a problem for you. I suspect he knew that.” She smirked, admiring the genius of it all. “That necromancer knew what he was doing when he ‘cursed’ you. Spectra binds the soul to the body. If your spectra is locked in, your soul is locked in. Your spirit stubbornly refuses to leave your body, even as your physical life support begins to fail you. That’s why you’re so hard to kill, Van. You can take far more abuse than the average man. He made you a worse mage, but a much better warrior. It’s a gift, not a curse.”

Another long silence passed between them. It was quite a lot to swallow, discovering that your nemesis hadn't 'cursed' you, he'd 'helped' you. While Van pondered all this, Arwyn completed the healing process and gave him the ‘okay’ to stand. After rising to his feet, he moved around a little, testing his limbs and joints before picking up his sword and giving it a few practice swings. “Thanks,” he muttered, “for everything.”

Arwyn hid her smile by turning away. “You’re very welcome,” she said. “And be mindful of that sword. It’s rare to find an enchanted item powerful enough to draw spectra from a locked vessel. Keep it close to heart and it will serve you well,” she said, gazing at the full moon in the cloudless night sky.

“I will,” Van said gravely. His mind was too preoccupied to notice the undercurrent her words carried. Why would he give me a curse to make me stronger? he thought, still reflecting on the necromancer. This was no accident. He wants to pit might against magic. He's toughening me up for another fight. Van grinned at he prospect of battling that necromancer again and grinding his bones to dust. Arwyn noticed the look on his face and slowly shook her head disapprovingly.

“I ain’t seen the last of him,” Van said, brandishing his sword. “He wants a rematch? I’ll give him a rematch. Just you wait.”

***This is the story Adali told to Jak on his first day in Soara and thus earned Jak's respect and a glass of Adali's native drink, firewater****


The sun was hot that morning. I could tell because the rocks I was lying on were making the air swirl with the heat. The clouds hadn’t bothered to come out that morning preferring to remain in whatever residence they inhabit. Their decision seemed like a good one and so I decided to emulate them and lay back on to the makeshift bed I had set up. I closed my eyes but I found sleep eluding me. There was a disturbing crash of metal on metal somewhere to the south. That is the problem with mountains, they amplify the sound from valleys sometimes miles away. By the time you reach the sound it has already reached the nearest city and ordered a beer.

I tried to ignore it for as long as possible, but the battle didn’t seem to be ending. I had originally assumed it was a bandit raid, but it was rare that they chose targets that could fight back. This battle seemed like must have been far more interesting, so I gathered my supplies, packed up, and set off chasing the sound of men dying.

Slowly the sounds of screams increased as the sound fighting began to fade. I heard the last ring of sword against metal before I had even run two miles. It was five more miles before I stumbled across the scene of the battle. Bodies were left carelessly across the trail. Both horses and men had already begun to fill the bellies of the local raven populous. There was one area that must have contained most of the fighting. I saw no less than 10 dead bandits but curiously I could see none of the uniformed guards that lay strewn across the rest of the grisly field. A wagon had been overturned and I could hear some whimpering from underneath it. As I went to investigate it my eyes were treated to a most unwelcome scene.

A man, from his ornate dress I guessed he must have been the wagons owner, lay trapped beneath his onetime wooden servant, now turned captor. The wagon and his crushed legs must have been the least of his worries. His right hand was missing, probably claimed as trophy by one of the bandits, and through his blood soaked tunic I could see the white of his ribs poking through. This man was dead, he just hadn’t accepted it yet.

I greeted him, because even death is no excuse for poor manners. “My poor, poor man, I’m afraid the time of our meeting is most unfortunate. If I had come upon you earlier perhaps we may have become friends but as it is there will be no time for such a relationship. No, no don’t talk. Save your strength for the questions I would ask of you and while you have been denied my friendship you will not be denied my assistance. I will grant you one last request to the best of my ability, as every man should be given a chance to settle his affairs before his death. Is there a wife you wish to inform, to tell of your love? Perhaps you have one last parcel you wish delivered for the sake of your honor? Would you have me track down a friend so that you may call him the offspring of a goblin and a sheep one last time? Tell me now, what is your last wish?”

I leaned close to the merchant’s mouth as he whispered his life’s dream. “Revenge.” My smile, present even in such a sad scene, turned into a scowl. This was an ugly deed, hardly worthy of a man’s final action. I was committed tough, so after ending the man’s misery, (he seemed far less grateful for this then I thought he would) I set about the work of finding the bandits trail.

It wasn’t hard work. There was a practically a stream of blood leading to their hideout. They must have taken captives for I found pieces of tattered fine clothing caught on bushes and hair that spoke of years of brushing and care in the low hanging branched of the ancient trees. It wasn’t long before I found their owner. A young woman lay in trail, her beautiful blue eyes staring sightless up at the sky. She looked almost peaceful, if one ignored the slow pumping of blood from her open throat. There was blood in her mouth and on her hands. She must have fought too hard for them to ravage. I knelt and closed her eyes for the final time. This sight had finished destroying my usually cheerful disposition. I set forward again with a purpose.

I crested a hill and stared into a clearing. Below were twenty or so brigands, dressed in motley clothing of greens and browns. These were not the brightest of warriors having not even posted a watch. They were far to absorbed with some activity I couldn’t quite see going on in the center of their makeshift huts.

As I descended the slope their source of amusement became clear to me. Tied to a pole, with a gag in his mouth, was a youth, barely old enough to call himself a man. In front of him a man with a fresh burn on his cheek was taunting the boy. At times he would lash out with a foot or a fist. In one look I could tell the captive was a fellow Yanthian and a mighty warrior indeed. He was most likely responsible for pile dead bandits back at the wagon.

I decided it was time to end their fun before it turned deadly.

“Hail to you brothers. What have you got there?”

Instantly 20 weapons sprouted in 20 hands. My smile returned. I was going to enjoy this after all.

“I come in peace, though if you seek yet another fight I will be forced to guide you there. How many more of you are fighting with injuries, I wonder? Are you tired men really looking for another battle after so many of you have fallen too one man? What if I happen to be that man’s equal or even his better?”

A look of doubt crossed some of the faces and a few of the men began to look around as if to assure themselves they could handle one loan traveler. The majority kept their eyes directed at me, tight lips promising all sorts of painful deaths. We stood like that, me, smiling at them leaning relaxed against my spear; them, grim faced holding their assorted blades with white knuckled grips. Finally the burned man broke the silence.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t have my men kill you?”

I turned towards him and began to walk forward with a leisurely pace. “I’m willing to pay the ransom for that boy you have tied up over there. Why else would you have taken a captive if not to ask for ransom?”

The apparent leader did not seem to like my proposal. His face had spoken of anger before and now the part that was still covered in flesh flushed with rage. “That wretch is not for sale. He killed 13 of my men with a demonic flaming sword and gave me this wound before the battle was over. There is no ransom for him, though we will take your money. He will suffer before he dies.” He turned away from me then and added as an afterthought “So will you.”

I reacted before his men did though. Hefting my spear and yelling a battle cry I rushed towards the organized mob. The whole of the group froze, partially from fear, but more from surprise that one man would charge 20. Before they regained their senses I was before them. I lunged with my spear, but not into a man’s chest, into the ground. I used the shaft to propel myself over the awestruck eyes of my would-be slayers.

Landing in a roll I pulled an arrow from my backpack and came up running at the man who ordered my death. He was quicker to react then his men. His left hand darted to the knife at his belt but he was too late. I had reached him and I bowled him over, trapping his weapon with my free hand. I landed on top and quickly mounted him and placed my arrow to his throat.

I smiled in his quickly paling face. “If you kill me, you can’t receive your payment. I will grant you the ability of the man that has wounded you. In order for my magic to work though I must mark you with a tattoo made of both his and my blood. We must both be alive by the time the tattoo heals for its power to remain permanent.”

The trapped man seemed to turn my offer over in his head. Finally he spoke “Why should I trust you?”

In answer I stood up and pushed my way through the crowd that had formed around me. The men were far to cowardly to try striking me. I had shown my dominance and even though any two of them could have likely killed me, they backed away as if I were their leader, not the man I had just been negotiating with. I came to a fire pit and with all eyes on me, including the hopeful ones of the man that would soon become my little brother, I stuck my arm deep inside. I held it there for a count of ten and removed it unharmed. I pointed to the tattoo of fire I wore on my chest.

The leader approached me with a wolfish grin. It was then I knew I had him.

“You said you need this son of sheep’s blood? Well then I’ll let you have it. Here boy let me mark you as you marked me.” Those words were the only warning the boy had before the vicious man began to cut at his cheek. I’m not sure how long the marking took but it was far longer than needed. The man wanted to boy to suffer. I wasn’t sure what was worse, the screams or the sight of flesh slowly parting before steel. When he was done there was a crimson X on what had once been a baby face.

“Sit down. It’s time to begin.” I pulled out my razor and opened the only recently healed scars that covered my wrist. I let my blood pour into the pool that had formed beneath the boy’s head. He was glaring at me as if I had just raped his mother. He hated me for giving away his power to such a undeserving recipient. He would learn though. He was still too young to see the truths of the world.

It took hours for me to finish. The sun had set long before I was done. I had to cut myself thrice more before I had enough blood for the whole work. I was weak from the draining, but at last my task was complete. The leader brandished his newly decorated arm before his cheering band. A spiral fire wound its way up from his fist to elbow. Almost the entire fore arm was covered with its flames.

While they were busy with celebrating I began to untie the boy. He had fallen asleep long ago, but the instant the last rope was free he came alive. He tackled me to the ground and began to choke me. I could barely manage to gasp the word out. “Watch.”

He turned to look where I pointed in time to see the leader try his new found power for the first time. As his fist came alight his face’s glee was illuminated and he seemed nothing more than a demon at that moment. Within seconds that glee changed to horror though as the flame continued up his arm and soon his whole left side was on fire. His screams were far worse than the ones the boy had been yelling earlier.

“He didn’t wait for it to heal as I knew he wouldn’t. He is a dead man. We must leave now or we shall soon join him. Help me, I have lost too much strength.”

Propped between his shoulder and my spear I managed to hobble out of the clearing. By the time the camp settled down we were well away.
“Who are you that would risk his life to save a stranger?”
“I am called Adali Tithis. I’m a shaman without a tribe, so I serve all of the Yanthian people.”
“Brother Adali, you have my thanks. My name is Dragon's Bane, but you may call me James. I owe you a life debt so I will travel with you until it is repaid.”
“Brother eh? Yes I like that. Little brother James, you already have by helping me escape from the camp. Now I think I shall sleep for a week or so. Do not wake me for any danger unless it is to inform me I have already died.”

The Bard and Jester – The Tale of Adali and James meeting

A Merchant, a Bandit, a New Friend

(this is a prologue to Addicted's anthology of finding me, but he never titled it so I did the honors.)

The sun was coming over the mountain ranges when James first saw the wagon along the dust beaten road, he was coming to meet a very important merchant who needed to be escorted over the veranda over to some city to the west. James walked over to the wagon,

“Greetings friend, I’m your escort for the day. I hope you’re ready for the exciting adventure ahead of us.”

The old man in the wagon looked to James warily, he wore a tunic and some amount of gold, amethyst and emerald rings adorned his bony and worn fingers, he pointed them to one of me, his prune like face only getting more pruner as he crinkled it.

“I never realized,” he said in a gruff voice, “that they would send me someone as young as you.”

James laughed, “My friend I am young, but more than capable of doing a job such as this.”

He put his hand down, “I hope so for your sake boy, now get in the dammed wagon and let’s set off.”

James wasn’t too happy about being called a boy, but he was still 20 years old at that point so it still somewhat accurate. He simply shrugged it off and entered the wagon, they immediately set out. They didn’t do much talking, the merchant was simply counting his money, and James looked to him disgusted. In his life not too many things bothered him; a man so greedy with his money was a disgrace and always was the one to die. James had money, but not the amount the man had nor would he achieve that amount in his entire lifetime.

For 8 hours they traveled along the road, the man still continually counting his money. After the 8 hours of travel James was expecting something to happen, but with a shoddy looking cart like this and no guards, excluding himself it was no surprise. Upon entering the town the cart started short and suddenly, James curious to find out what was going on looked to ask the driver why he had stopped so suddenly. To James’ surprise the man was dead, blood seeped from his mouth, and an arrow was through his heart.

James quickly receded back inside narrowly dodging another arrow, he looked to the merchant,

“there is trouble about, stay inside,” he started to walk out, “this won’t take long.”

The old man looked startled, he quickly gathered his money locking it into a chest and locking it up, he grasped it with all his might, he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

James looked about, his cloak warping and twisting in the fierce wind, he shouted to the heavens, “show yourselves cowards!”

Suddenly an arrow shot through and James took a kunai chopping it in two, then throwing it he was satisfied with the scream that took after. Two more men showed up in green and brown clothing, masks over their faces.

“Bandits,” he drew two more kunai, “typical of you people to show up.”

“What do you mean your people?” He had a heavy English accent.

James looked to him, “you know, Bandits,” before allowing them another word he threw his kunai their jugulars immediately getting sliced open, they were on the ground before they knew what hit them.

More showed up at least 7 surrounded him, James looked to them and got into a defensive stance, his hands raised high. He looked about him the angry faces only proving their incompetence. One started to charge his blade raised high, James sidestepped and smashed the man’s face in, the crunching of bones followed under the blow and the man was dead before he hit the ground.

Another came up this time with a spear, James jumped just as the bandit tried to lunge into him, and James spun around kicking the man in the face and effectively snapping his neck, the man twisted around and stabbed his comrade in the heart, the blood splurting out the men fell to the ground together.

3 more charged at him, he grabbed the first breaking his arm and spinning him into another man smashing the man’s blade into the other person, and jumping over the third he snapped his neck. The final bandit standing alone was scared, fear striked in his eyes, and like that he ran off. James taking a throwing star threw it across the village and the small blade sliced across the man’s throat and he fell to the ground, dead.

3 more men appeared, one of them appeared to be the leader,

“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble boy,” he said with a sinister snare, “you’re slowing my payment.”

James returned the comment, “as are you causing my payment to be slowed.”

He growled, “you’ll pay for killing my men,” he pointed towards James, “get him.”

The two bandits were tough and were probably the guards, James took off his cloak and it blew off with the wind, he drew his blade, the dragon head a menacing figure, gathering his spectra heat started to emanate from him, in case he would have to use his fire abilities.

The two charged and he deflected both attacks, his blade clanged against their two swords, they struck at him a few times, but he would still strike back. For now they were only draining each other’s blood, and James started to feel weak. Finally it was the moment they tossed him over and he was nearly about to be impaled he activated his fire abilities.

He spun around on the ground sending a wave of flames from his position and knocking the other two backwards. He got up the flames surrounding him, he bathed his blade in the fire the dragon’s eyes giving off an enchanting glow. James leapt and shot a wave of fire at his enemies, they dodged the shots and he landed on the ground. While distracted from the fire he took his blade and slashed it into the first the soldier, the fire burned over his body and he screamed in pain. James lunged over at the second and stabbed the blade into the man putting the full force of the fire into the man’s body and burning him from the inside out.

James was winning battle, but the bandit leader grabbed him from behind, James struggled with the man, the air to his lungs being blocked under his crushing grip, then James grabbed his face, “Burn you bastard!” he ignited his right hand effectively burning the man’s face, the bandit leader screamed in agony as the flames engulfed his face. Others came to his aid and others started to fight James. He was too weak from the fighting to continue, and was beaten down by the other bandits.

James was taken prisoner and as he was being dragged off he saw the villagers and his client brutally cut down. He would remember this day, for it would haunt his memories for the rest of his days. Then while fires, blood, and agony reigned on James’ world went black, the sounds dimmed and faded, then there was no sound at all.

Erlend and the Vargergiest

So, how long are we going to sit here and stare before you do what we both know you are going to do?

“Shut up.”

Erlend was kneeling in front of a small boy, a mere child who couldn’t be older then ten, maybe eleven. He stared at the boy’s eyes, red from crying and wet with tears. Blue eyes. Happy eyes, now filled with fear, as pure as Erlend had ever seen it, and he had seen his share. Simple fear, no hate, no awe, just fear. A child’s emotion.

Erlend reached behind him for his glaive, still wet with the blood of both his previous victims. He held the glaive in front of him, and the child closed his eyes, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks, leaving small wet stains on the boy’s white clothing. For a moment, the Derian hesitated. Then he shook his head and placed the glaive on the floor in front of him.

Do it. Do it!

Pain erupted on his back, two circles worth of torment, but after mere moments the pain seized again. Erlend smirked as he recovered his breath. The pain of his tattoo was spectra bound, and when it flared up, it hurt both him and the spirit he housed. The Nandoki was no fool, and he was holding of the pain for his own comfort as much as Erlend’s. “You got a temper.”

You are a fool. Erlend felt the demon’s spectra shift within his own, a sensation much like one feels when he is being watched. This child is rich with spectra. I want it. That was our deal; you harvest the spectra, I keep the pain away, and once I am restored, I remove the circles. You can live the rest of your life as you are supposed to; a god amongst men. A wolf amongst sheep. A warlord, a champion, a leader. The Nandoki fed the images to Erlend as he spoke, but saw trough them.

“And in return, you live.”

On my own plane. Until I find a body on this plane that is meant to house me. And then, it starts again. And this time, I will not be imprisoned. Erlend saw the memories, not his own, but the ones of the Vargergiest. The ritual used to imprison him, how wonderful it’s body had once been. The elven bitch that had burned his latest body. He would have her, he would.

But before he could do anything, the Vargergiest needed spectra. A lot of spectra. To be harvested through Erlend’s own spectra; his glaive. The Derian’s weapon symbioses made it possible for the Nandoki to drain his victims spectra as the human would breath it’s final breath, as long as the weapon touched the body. In the eyes of the Nandoki, Erlend was the vessel of his recreation.

Not that Erlend cared. The rebirth of the Vargergiest were not his concern. But the demon had promised to free Erlend from the shackles that kept him from taking his rightful place in this world; the Twenty-One Circles tattooed on his back. The removal of that curse was worth the resurrection of a hole armada worth of Vargergiests, as far as he cared.

The Vargergiest’s quest for spectra had let them north, from Lady Sol’s spire to a nearby elven village, then to the sea, then over the sea to Raytha, where the demon had lead them to a single cabin in the woods. The man had been outside, but after throwing a single glance at Erlend had run inside. At first, Erlend hadn’t understand why, but a single glance at his glaive clarified things; were spectra normally invisible to the naked eye, his spectra in combination with that of the Vargergiest created what looked like a thin layer of grey mist around his body.

Erlend had dismissed it, walked into the cabin, and had murdered the man and woman without to much trouble. The cuts they had dealt had been healed by the Vargergiest, and now he sat here, in front of their true prey; a small crying boy. Even Erlend, untrained in sensing spectra, could feel the boy’s aura rage around him.

It is the humane thing to kill him. He has no father or mother left. He is all alone. Alone, and with that spectra, he will attract unwanted visitors. Erlend snorted. “We are the unwanted visitors.” Just kill him. Erlend sighed as he got to his feet.

*****
“Where are we going.”

We are getting close to Soara. For the first time since the Nandoki had spoken to him, it sounded exited. And scared. Erlend knew that the nandoki had read trough his memories, and would know of the Tavern. The place his slayers and enslavers would probably have gone to after abandoning Erlend in the Spire. You are hurt.

Erlend shook his head. “They did what I would have done. They couldn’t stay, there was no need to stay, and there was no way to know if I were still alive. For all they knew, I were dead, in which case it would have been folly to stay and look for my body. And if I lived, they trusted me enough to believe I could make it back on my own strength.”

That is just your rationalisation. You like to think that they trust you, because the alternative frightens you; they never gave a damn, and you were just another mercenary. More images, the man with the glass sword, the assassin, Nadala’s cold glances. Erlend merely smirked as he forced himself to remember other moments; they had saved him when he had tumbled of a cliff, Merri and Teele’s forgiveness after he had lunged at Merri, Merri supporting him aboard the ship. They cared. And they trusted him.

The Nandoki wasn’t impressed. We need to get going. The Tavern as you remember it is a place rich of spectra. Erlend shook his head. “They would notice you. And if they did, I don’t doubt they would kill me. Or at least try to.” Without the pain, with his spectra raging at full force and the aid of the Vargergiest within him, Erlend doubted if any of his companions could even touch him, let alone kill him. He snarled, then regained himself. Folly.

They won’t notice me. Think of your spectra as a jug; they could see the jug, but not what is inside of it. The Vargergiest vanished, only to roar back alive again seconds later. Not unless you take of the lid. Erlend hesitated, then nodded and started to run north. “Hide well then. I would hate to have your elven bitch tell her human play thing to drive that sword of his trough my back.

I think I heard a scream. I don’t know where it came from. I was busy falling to my death. The wind burned my skin as it whipped me harshly as if a mistress displeased. Sure, I could use my powers to create a shield that would take the brunt of the force but that would be pointless. I would perish anyways.
Rolling in the wind was simple. I was surprised at how easy it was and how slow I seemed to be going. Ah. I almost forgot about him. My hands reached out to snap his neck but the sound of the bone cracking wetly in my hands would be lost to the roar of the wind. Besides, the death awaiting him, awaiting me, was perhaps more deserving to him.

My laughter was eaten away as I looked at him. A ridiculous sight to behold; arms and legs pin wheeling against the inevitable. Snot and saliva leaving strings wriggling thickly and the whites of his eyes had eaten away most of his pupils until they were pinpricks of black against the red veined white.
Bastard. He deserved to die. To take a life before it’s even had a chance to breathe air and killing the mother in the process… I remembered the knife. Had they intended to use that same knife against Nadala? A knife that was now long gone, probably swallowed by the ocean. It had been thrust towards me. Got the damn blade in my kidneys; do you know how painful a knife to the kidneys is? By the Gods it hurts. But better it me than the squirming mass that will be born soon. Borne into what life? The thought was whisked away from me as I came closer to the rocks that will render me apart.
The bastard who had killed me, and yes, I realize how weird that sounds, gave one last shriek and I could surprisingly smell the sharp scent of urine before he splattered onto the rocks. His body twisted and torn, his face no longer a recognizable thing. I understood then why the ocean was like a mother. It was just cleaning up.

As I slammed into the rocks, I think my soul left my body. Only for a moment; then I was back and the pain wasn’t even there anymore. Rolling my eyes up, I noticed the pale toes wriggling in my blood that was beginning to mix with the salt water. I looked up as everything phased in and out. A little girl stood beside me. Dressed in a white shift, her dark hair curling around her cherubic face; looking as if she had just stepped from some sort of painting. She looked up at a tall man. I thought him to be the child’s father.
He knelt beside me and I looked into his eyes. “Sleep my daughter. You are going to need your strength.” The last thing I saw was his hand reaching out to me

Five years.

Five years since I died and realised that I am something more. Yeah, right. More like something less. My Father is Gideon, God of shadows and darkness. I am his daughter, demi-goddess thanks to being half mortal. I can control shadows, bend them to my will, control and either destroy or create. But that doesn't make me all-powerful. Some of my powers have been bound by the other gods, gods jealous and angry that mortal blood has tainted their mountain.

My father taught me much. Taught me how to fight and how to control my powers. But he cannot prepare me for life back in Ardus. I am being sent back there because I am apparently needed.

I laugh in the darkness of my spartan room. I am stronger, faster, heal faster and my senses have hightened. I know that most will be halved as soon as my feet touch mortal soil, but I do not care. I am not looking forward to going back. Going back to a world where my kind is looked down upon, abused.

I roll onto my side and shift to get comfortable. Tomorrow will either be the worst or the best day of my life. I am Fayte, Demi-goddess and daughter of Gideon. I am hated by both worlds where the gods and man hate me.

Now I must live out my extended life with the burden of never belonging to either world. I curl my lip in a sneer and think that I will never sleep well again.

Twenty One Circles

Chapter One: Cold Blooded, part One

There is Yanthian saying, that states that only the thick, the deluded and the Derians travel trough raging blizzards, and that of those three, only the thick and deluded have a reasonable excuse. It is true that in the cold north, blizzards are more likely to kill a man then the raiders or the creatures that call Deria their home. But to one who knows the lands, who has lived on the icy plains all his life, going out during a snowstorm is like diving of a cliff, into the sea; you might just survive, but even in the best case scenario, you’ll end up cold and wet.

And the gods knew, Erlend hersir Prudi was cold. And wet. But he had been born in these lands, he had travelled through these lands, and he knew where he was heading. Three days ago, his father had assigned him a mission; renegades were raiding nearby villages, and so the Lord of Skjalgi had send out his youngest son to deal with the problem, like he had done dozens of times before.

Through the blinding white of the snow and ice raging around him, Erlend saw shapes, the flickering of a town’s beacons. A town. A sight for sore eyes, to; Erlend disliked travelling through this kind of weather, but stopping and waiting for the storm to pass was never an option; these kind of storms could last for days, weeks even. And although his father hadn’t given Erlend a time frame, he knew that he couldn’t afford to wait weeks, or even days; people, his people, were in danger. And he would protect them, in the name of his lord that was his father, and in the name of his lord-in-waiting that was his brother.

Despite the fact it was less than half a mile to the village, by the time he got there, the light had faded. Weary of a day’s travel, cold, wet and hungry, he finally reached the wooden wall that surrounded the cluster of houses. Such walls were not uncommon, despite the fact that trees were scarce. Deria was not the safest place in Ardus, and the gods knew what lurked out there in the wilderness. There were worse things than raiders and polar bears in the cold north.

Erlend knew them. He had witnessed them. Basilisks, family of the dragons of legends. Cunning, vicious. Nearly three thousand pounds of claw, teeth and rage. Once, he had faced one. They had trapped it, impaled it with pikes as thick as his fist, then attempted to crush it with boulders that took two men to roll. It had went according to plan. But even so, of the twelve man that had been with him, only five had survived the encounter.

Yet the slaughter of the basilisk had earned honour for the men’s families, and Erlend’s name had been sung in song and told in tale. He had been a hero. Nay, he still was a hero. How often did Reinn not complain that the people of Skjalgi loved Erlend more then they loved him, their lord-in-waiting. Thinking of Reinn, Erlend felt a pang of regret; his older brother had wanted to accompany him. Father had forbidden it, of course. Reinn had more to learn, to one day follow in their aging father’s footsteps as the leader of their people. It was Erlend who would protect them. With that in mind, the glaive wielding Derian rang the bell next to the metal studded gate.

“Who’s there.” No ceremony in this place, it seemed. The voice was that of a man, gruff and hard. Erlend opened his mouth to respond, but after three days of silence in the icy weather, only a raw cough came. Erlend held his gloved hand to his throat, made some sounds, then tried again. “A weary traveller seeking shelter from a storm.” A moment of silence, then the sound of wooden beams being moved, followed by the sound of cracking leather as part of the gate moved, giving Erlend enough space to step trough.

Derians were no architects, but years of experience had thought them how to create shelters. The houses within the wall stood close together, none were more than two stories high, and Erlend knew that if he walked in to any of the houses here, he would find that the attic served as storage space, while the living and cooking was done in the basement.

Erlend turned to the man that had let him in and gave the man a nod of gratitude and respect. Standing guard was a formidable task, as it would keep one away from the fires that warmed the houses. “My name is Erlend hersir Prudi, son of the lord of Skjalgi. I have come to deal with the raiders that have been troubling you.” The gatekeeper nodded. No man would claim to be the son of their lord unless it was the truth. Even though Erlend was hardly a public figure, he was well known throughout these lands, and one of the few Derians who claimed mastery over the glaive; most countrymen preferred the sword, axe, mace or other weapon that allowed them to exploit their strength.

The man pointed at one of the houses. “You will find a warmer welcome in there. The chiefs name is Broten.” Now it was Erlend’s turn to nod. No ceremony in this place, indeed. Not that it mattered. Erlend had long grown tired of the feasts and celebrations that accompanied his brother in the rare occasion the lord-in-waiting left the keep. He gave the man a warriors salute, right hand on his chest, before strolling over to the house.

He knocked on the door, and was let in by a woman. Neither spoke as they walked down the stairs, into the welcoming heat of the fire that burned in a small stone heart in the middle of the basement. There were a few men and women here, children as well, no doubt waiting until the storm settled. The quiet conversations ceased as Erlend walked down the stairs, halting at the bottom. All eyes were now on the newcomer, waithing. You had to be welcomed to a fire, even if you were one from the Prudi bloodline.

One of the men rose, eyeing Erlend suspiciously before he smiled. “Broten welcomes his lord’s man to his fire.” As if on cue, the other people gathered in the room turned back to their conversations. Erlend walked over to the man that had welcomed him and sat down. “Erlend hersir Prudi thanks Broten for his generosity. And with that out of the way, I would ask you to tell me the following; how many are there, what did they take and where could they be?”

The man gave another smile, but the man’s unease was obvious. “I will start with the second question; they take very little, only what they can carry. Food mainly, fuel, cloth. As for where they went, they come from the north, and we have had word of them plundering as far as a day’s travel north of here, as well as a day’s travel south of here. It is safe to say they are somewhere to the north, but not far. There are a number of caves less than half a day travel from here, and we believe them to be there.”

Erlend didn’t like two things about the man’s words; one, the man knew far too much about these raiders. Second, he still hadn’t told how many raiders there were. “There is something you are not telling me.” Broten nodded, threw a glance at the other people gathered there, then leant closer. “We know them. They lived on an outpost two days from here. Had a stroke of bad luck last summer, and they blamed us. They claimed the cattle we sold them died within days, and the seeds we sold them wouldn’t grow. These recent attacks, they aren’t as much raids as they are revenge.”

Erlend had tensed visibly. “How many?” Broten opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then stared at the fire before answering. “Six.” Erlend started to get to his feet but the man grabbed his wrists before he could get away. “You have to understand, we never wanted it to come to this. Most of us here are related to them. We didn’t have the hearth to murder them. Forgive us, Erlend, but we couldn’t do it. We know their wives. They are family and neighbours to us, but to you, they are raiders. The gods would forgive you, and even more so, you could forgive yourself.”

It was the passion in the man’s words that made Erlend make up his mind. Slowly, he rose, pulling his wrists free from the man’s grasp. “I will take care of your raiders,” he said, picking his words carefully, “but it does not end there. You will take care of the abandoned wives. It will be so.” With that, he walked to the stairs again. The warmth of the basement had suddenly become a choking heat that made Erlend crave for the soothing cold.

Twenty One Circles

Chapter One: Cold Blooded, part Two

If nothing else, the chief had been right about the time it would take him, for by the time the last of the daylight had given way for moonlight, Erlend reached a rocky plateau, with many inlets and small caves that could serve as a sanctuary for travellers caught in a snow storm. Or as a hiding place for raiders. For a moment, Erlend considered settling down, start a small fire, and look for his targets tomorrow. But every moment he waited, his chances grew slimmer; fighting six men was never an easy task, even for one as experienced as himself. Had there been more, he would have needed to gather men, but after the talk with Broten, he doubted he could have found anyone willing to accompany him.

His biggest advantage now was the element of surprise. But even so, five on one, four on one if he managed to take out two before they knew he was there, those were pretty terrible odds. Especially with him weary from travelling. Even so, there simply was no time to rest. Every moment he delayed was a moment on which they could find him first. And although Erlend was a formidable warrior, he made no illusions of him, or any man, being able to fight against six other men and emerge victorious. Or even escape with his life.

Years of field training paid off as it took only an hour or so to find the raiders. A slight difference in the density of the fresh snow suggested someone or something had recently passed here. The trail let him to a medium sized inlet, and surely enough, the dancing shadows of a small fire inside. Nearly on his knees, Erlend circled the cave until he found a favourable position, a few feet above the entrance.

“... so all I’m saying is that we’ve gathered more than enough supplies to last till next season. We should head home now, stay there, and start over again when the ice melts and the snow stops raging.” The voice of a man, around his age. Someone shifting. The sound of metal on rock as someone steps up. Another voice, deeper then the last. “I disagree. If we go back now, what would we do? Wait until the better season, and then what? We have no coin left to buy cattle or seeds, and when the food runs out, we’d have nothing. We should gather more, enough to last us to the better season, and then some to sell.”

More metal on rock as another person steps up. Metal on metal on rock as someone else sits down. The new comers voice is melodious, as that of a singer. “Friends, nothing we please me more then go home. Be with Inga. Wait until next season, and then start again. But we have nothing to start anew with. Our family, our countrymen, they betrayed us. All we seek is just reconciliation. And they gave us none. So we take it. We are not common raiders.”

Oh, but you are. Erlend leant back, probing the snow with his hands until he found a fist sized piece of rock. Making himself as small as he possibly could, hidden in the blizzard, he hurled the piece against the rock opposite of where he was sitting. A satisfying silence followed the sound of rock on rock, then the sudden ring of weaponry. “Who’s there.” Justice. Erlend snarled, glaive pressed into the snow.

“Must be a bear. Go look.” A new voice, melodious like the other. Then the sound of boots making their way towards him. He suppressed the urge to pounce the first man he saw, and the second. When the third man walked into view, Erlend tensed, hand at the very base of his glaive, connecting mind and weapon like he had done so many times before. No others came. Erlend struck.

The impressive eight feet of reach allowed him to plant the blade of the weapon, sharpened by Erlend’s spectra, firmly in the base of the man’s neck, severing the man’s spine; the man’s death was both soundless and coldly effective. The second man who he came at had no such luck; as Erlend retracted the blade and lunged forward with the tip of his weapon pointed at the man’s neck, he turned. Instead of a quick death, the blade of the weapon sliced trough vulnerable flesh, severing arteries as it went. The man dropped the blade he had been holding and clawed at his neck as he collapsed to the ground, choking on his own blood.

The third man spun around and back, shouting at his friends in the cave. Erlend whirled his glaive around, assaulting the man with a combination of jabs and strokes that forced the man even further back into the inlet. If Broten had spoken the truth, four men remained. And although the man in front of him clearly wasn’t a seasoned veteran, he managed to deflect Erlend’s blows well enough to keep head on his shoulders and his organs in his abdomen.

The other three men came into view, carrying blades and axes, but no bows or crossbows, to Erlend’s relieve. Now all he had to do was to keep them from surrounding him. He changed his pace, lengthened his strokes and began varying left and right, forcing the man to dance from side to side, blocking the approaching men in the quickly narrowing inlet.

Twice, the man dropped his guard, and twice, Erlend landed a blow, neither of which were lethal, but both hampered the man’s movement. Finally, one of other men lost patience and pushed aside the harmed man, attempting to take his place. But instead of stepping back from the second man, Erlend took a single step forward, driving first the tip and then the entire blade into his opponent’s lungs.

Even as the man sank to the floor, the new opponent bull rushed him, and Erlend had to throw himself backwards or risk being pushed over and grappled. The man gave him little chance to recover, as he pushed Erlend to the entrance of the cave, and before he knew it, they were outside.

The other two man were now next to him, swinging blade and axe of their own, and Erlend dodged and deflected steel left and right in an attempt to keep them from finishing him, a wearisome and imperfect process. Flesh wounds now littered Erlend’s body, the results of half successful dodges and failed deflections. But in return, he did some damage of his own; He managed to cut one of the men across the knee, causing him to continue his slicing on one knee, and another of the men was now clutching his side with one hand, warm blood slowly staining the man’s jerkin.

A quick succession of blows forced Erlend to his knees himself, and only his instincts, telling him to block high, kept the one unhurt man from landing the killer strike. The man was breathing hard now, holding his weapon with both hands, raising his weapon as if it were a hammer. Erlend threw himself to his left, glaive high, but the man sidestepped the attack and brought down the weapon. Erlend felt the blade on his back, biting into his muscle. Letting out a animalistic scream, he struck at the man. The dull side of the glaive hit the man on the side of the head, and Erlend heard a faint cracking. The man, still bend over from his last strike, let go of his blade, then brought up a single hand to touch his skull before falling to the ground.

On sheer willpower, Erlend managed to get to his feet, the man he had just struck down spouting out incoherent sentences as his eyes turned upwards. The crippled man lunged at him, a pathetic attempt, driven by fear and adrenaline. Erlend braced and struck the man down with a single downwards stroke across the man’s face, neck and torso. He was only vaguely aware of the man with the wound to his side lying near the cave’s entrance, breathing shallowly, blood still seeping from the man’s side.

Twenty One Circles

Chapter One: Cold Blooded, part Three

“Erlend hersir Prudi, second son of our lord.” The common room grew silent as the youngest son of the lord of Skjalgi walked in and sat down next to his older brother. Reinn rose and before Erlend could object he pulled back the wooden chair for him. Erlend sat down, groaning as the numerous wounds on his body ached.

“Are you certain you are well enough to be out of bed?” The concern was obvious in his brothers voice, and the tone managed to both amuse and irritate Erlend. Without answering, he grabbed Reinns glass and downed the content down his sore throat. Wine. What was wrong with plain water. His brother merely frowned.

“I’m fine, Reinn, stop fussing.” He was far from fine. Only five days had passed since his fight with the raiders, a fight that had left him more dead than alive. It had taken him four days to reach the keep, despite the fact the storm had settled and he had clear skies the entire journey. When he had finally reached the keep, he had demanded an audience with his father. He had reported, then collapsed. Now, after a full day’s rest, his wounds still ached, his back was killing him, but he would live.

Reinn smiled as he poured another glass of wine and offering it to Erlend, who declined. “It’s my right to fuss, little brother. The lord-in-waiting has to take care of his hero. Because, Erlend, that’s what you are. A hero. You came back from the dead, if you are to believe the gossip.” His tone grew more serious as he leaned closer. “Besides, I promised father I would look over your healing process. He is... otherwise occupied.”

Erlend frowned. “What do you mean? Has something happened?” He watched as Reinn sipped his wine, looking around thoughtfully as if he was trying to decide if he could trust Erlend. It stung. He wasn’t one to care about politics, but if something was going on concerning father, he had the right to know. “Spill it Reinn.”

The man sighed and put away the wine. “Alright, alright. It’s the Brotherhood. They want to place someone in the keep, to keep an eye on us. Father refuses, of course. But the Brotherhood has been... persistent. Father has been contacting our neighbouring lands, as well as sending runners to the City of Thorns itself.” Erlend shuddered at the thought. The Brotherhood of the Rose was an influential group, useful at best, dangerous at worst. Masters of spectra, who supported the Derians when needed, but always for a price.

“Father will not allow it.” He picked up a piece of bread, ripping of small pieces and placing them in his mouth. Reinn smiled weakly. “Erlend, you’re being naive. If the Brotherhood wants an emissary in the keep, they will have an emissary in the keep.” Erlend watched his brother pick up a slab of meat and tearing it in two, before offering one piece to Erlend. “One way, or the other.”

“You son of a bitch!”

A small crowd started to form around the two men, most of them cheering and shouting. Harbor folk, always spoiling for a fight. And today, with little work, this kind of distraction was very welcome.

Especially a fight like this; the local blacksmith against the recent arrived stranger. Bets were already being made, and with the blacksmiths reputation of having a short fuse and a pair of iron fists to go with it, the outcome seemed clear. At the inner edge of the crowd stood a somewhat pale girl, shouting the blacksmiths name, begging him to stand down.

“How dare you touch her like that?!”

The blacksmith took a swing at the stranger, who took a clumsy step back, barely dodging the fist and nearly tripping over the strange blue robe he was wearing. His unusual clothing, a skirt for god’s sake, only added to his image of foolish wanderer.

“I just poked her.” The stranger somehow managed to sound offended, sending a wave of laughter trough the hysteric crowd. “You should take it as a compliment. She’s a fine young woman. You are a very lucky man.”

The man’s head grew red, even more red then it had been a few moments ago. Another volley of swing, each one barely evaded until the stranger turned around and ran to the other side of the circle, trying to push his way out. The crowd, however, wasn’t to keen to let him pass.

“You sick bastard! She is my daughter! She is sixteen!” He closed the distance faster then the stranger had thought possible, yet the man managed to evade the bulrush by throwing himself to the left, using the crowd to keep himself standing before skidding away again. The blacksmith gave chase. “And you didn’t ‘just poke her’! You poked her breasts.”

It took all of Isas’ self-control to suppress a bark of laughter. Well, he had truly messed things up this time. Then again, the girl had been eyeing him in suggestive ways. Had she? Didn’t matter. This man was beyond reason, Isas’ type of reason anyway. “This is all just a major misunderstanding!” The fight was slowly starting to turn into a comedy, with Isas running circles trough the amassing crowd and the blacksmith chasing him, swinging his fists.

Finally, the sound of horses. Isas turned midstride and raised his hands in apology. There was only one way this could end. “I mean, she’s a seven, on scale of ten. And if she’s really sixteen, she’ll probably be an eight by the time she…”

The man’s fist connected with his jaw and Isas felt how he was literally lifted of the ground. The problem with going up was that you always came down again. In truth, Isas didn’t mind the punch. It was the landing he hated.

“Piece of outland scum, I’m going to kill you, I’m going to **** kill you, you…” The man was beyond reason, kicking Isas in the back as the man tried to crawl away.

Correction. He didn’t mind the landing. He hated the kicks that always seemed to follow the landing.

***

Isas opened his eyes, and even that small movement send waves of pain trough his beaten body. The man had kicked him in the face then. Well, at least his nose felt intact, he didn’t seem to have lost any teeth, and he could still see with both eyes. In truth, Isas had worse beating beatings before.

Despite his bodies disapproval, Isas attempted to sit up, which was further complicated by the ropes that had been used to tie his wrists and ankles together. He slowly started to become more aware of his surroundings; a small room with wooden floors, a desk, two chairs. An office of some sort, judging by the papers spread around the room.


After a few moments, the door opened and a large man stepped in, eyeing Isas up and down before closing the door again and taking one of the seats. “What’s your name son.” Isas suppressed a scowl. The man couldn’t be more than five years older then him. It had been a long, long time since anyone had addressed him as son.

“Isas Kanako.” The name meant nothing here, and he doubted anyone would ever look for him in a place like this. If they ever came looking for him at all.

The man hummed softly as he wrote the name down, no doubt spelling it wrongly, then returned his attention to the tied up man. “Well then Isas, I am Jenkins, and I am charged with upkeeping the peace in this town. Mind telling me what brings you to our peaceful town, and why did you assault our blacksmiths daughter.”

Ah yes, good times. “I’m travelling for no reason at all. Just another fool who thinks the women are more beautiful on the other side of the fence.” The sheriff didn’t as much as blink. No sense of humour. Or simply a strong sense of duty. The man reminded Isas of himself. “And I was merely assessing the young woman, as part of my, ehrm, studies.”

The sheriff slowly shook his head. Finally, some show of emotion. “You realise that if we hadn’t arrived when we had, he would have beaten you to death?” His voice was stern, as if he was lecturing Isas.

“No, he wouldn’t have.” Isas smiled at the man, despite the fresh jolts of pain the smile caused. He hadn’t allowed the man to hit him until he had heard the sheriff’s horses. If he had fought the blacksmith, he would have been imprisoned. If he had ran, the man would have given chase. This, taking the beating with the insurance that someone would intervene before the blacksmith could have killed him, had been the best available option.

“What are you, some kind of warrior? Think you are untouchable?” Irritation. Not the emotion Isas had hoped for. The man rose and picked up something from under his desk. Isas’ heart jumped as the silver hilt and blue scarab came into view, the white strip of silk still attached. The man placed the sword on the desk. “What I am really interested in is why you carried this weapon, yet did not draw it.

The smile had vanished of Isas’ face as he stared at the blade. “Give me back my sword.”

“No.”

The man was in the middle of sitting down as Isas rolled onto his knees, half kicking and half jumping himself towards the desk. With a shout of surprise, the man fell backwards as the desk toppled over, the sword falling to the floor. Isas cursed, rolling himself onto the weapon. The fall had caused the scarab to drop back slightly, revealing a few inches of the razor sharp blade. With a single motion, his hands were free. His ankles followed seconds later.

The sheriff, in the mean while, had recovered and had drawn his own short sword. He lunged at the outland stranger, aiming for the man’s neck, but before he reached his target, Isas had already rolled to the side, holding the scarab in a single hand, the second hand gripping the hilt.

“I do not want to kill you.” Isas’ voice was emotionless, his face a cold mask of concentration. The sheriff cursed, levelling his weapon. Isas pitied the man, who obviously had fought to many thugs and brawlers in his life. The man had forgotten, or never known, how to fight a swordsman. And even if the man had known, there was still a large gap between your average Rathian swordsman and Isas.

The man came at him again, and Isas let out a breath of regret before lunging forward himself. At the very last moment, the blade left the scarab, slicing through the vulnerable flesh of the man’s sword arm. Even before the man came to a screaming standstill, crashing into the wall, the man had already dropped the sword; the weapon and the man’s thumb hit the floor nearly simultaneously.

With a single motion, Isas shook the small amount of blood of the blade of his sword and returned it to his scarab. By now, there were raised voices and the sound of footsteps on the hall, shouting Jenkins’ name and calling for people. He would have to move fast. Opening the door, he was greeted by three young man, holding imperfect blades pointed at him. “Who... who are you.”

“I am Isas Kanako. And unless you hurry, I am the man who just killed the sheriff.” With that, Isas strode to the nearest window and clambered trough it.

***

The Gentle Lamb stood on the outskirts of town, and was by no means a fancy inn. Yet it had been the name that had drawn Isas and a many adventurer to it’s well lit common room. Isas rubbed his temples, as if trying to remember how to smile, before summoning a grin that would have to do and entered.

“Master Isas!” The serving girl was all over him in a matter of seconds, poking the large bruise next to his eye and pressing her body against his painful ribs. He had to be careful around this woman. There were three ways women reacted to his actions; they were not impressed, they were offended, or they saw his invasion as a sign of true love. Clara was the third type of girl. To naive for him to mess with.

“Oyo y, Clara, it’s ok.” He gently pushed the girl away and replacing the hollow smile with a genuine one. “I guess you heard then. Has anyone come to my room?”

The girl gave him a daft look before nodding. Not to bright, this girl. “I know what happened, and the sheriff’s man came by. Didn’t go to your though.” Suddenly, she leant into him again, staring into his face. “You are leaving, aren’t you?”

Isas nodded. “Haven’t made myself popular in this town.” He started heading for the stairs, then hesitated. Turning back, he drew a small pouch from one of his pockets and took out two small gemstones. He held them up to the serving girl.

“One for you, and one for the innkeeper. They’re valuable. Thrynian.” Another daft nod. Isas turned around and headed up the stairs to gather the rest of his belongings. His white haori. The small leather pouch that held his fishing supplies. An even smaller pouch that held coins native to this land. He had a solid amount of gemstones left to sell, and he preferred their small size and weight over the metal coins.

Carefully evading Clara or any of the other staff, Isas managed to sneak into the stables. The chestnut mare he had bought when he had arrived here a week ago had already been saddled. Perhaps he had underestimated Clara’s intelligence. Smiling, he lead the horse out of the small wooden building and onto the road.

He would travel south, into more unknown territory. More women. More chances to make a fool out of himself. And hopeful a chance to leave his past behind him. Briefly, he ran his hand trough the white strip of silk that was tied around his scarab. “You would be ashamed of me, Hanahime.” A weary smile. “But inside, I know you would laugh. And afterwards, you would hit me, and laugh some more.”

Ca'Shyr

Legacy of the Halfblood
Pt I: Heritage

"This is the Lifegrove," Jhael said with a sweeping motion of his arm. Avin stared out from his position atop the rise over the vast expanse of trees below. It was truly a magnificent sight to behold. Each tree was unique from its brothers and sisters, and in their mighty boughs glowed with an otherworldly light that seemed to have no true source. "Every time a Sholeas'Aer comes into the world, a new tree is planted. The child's life force and that of the Tree are bound together. One cannot live without the other."

Avin looked up at his father, yellow eyes shining with curiosity and unasked questions. "It is beautiful."

Both turned their eyes back out over the expanse and stood in silence for a long moment, each simply taking in the majesty of it all. The peaceful glow of the trees seemed to light up the quiet night. In the area of twilight just above the trees, the small flickering lights of fireflies could be seen dancing back and forth. Something about the sight seemed to calm Avin.

"Cherish the sight, Avinnian, for few ever lay eyes on it. It is our most closely guarded secret. If ever our enemies were to learn of its existence..." Jhael looked away momentarily, as if recalling some long forgotten memory. "...the consequences would mean the end of our people." Jhael resumed his silent inflection for a moment until Avin began fidgeting. "Would you like to go down and take a closer look?" Asked Jhael in a lighter tone.

Avin nodded his head and the two set off down from the rise, descending ever lower into the depths of the wood. Jhael was a strong elf. Few in Ellidian had seen or done as much as he, though he had not lived as long as some. His hair was long and and golden hued, much like the light of the trees, though his eyes were the same yellow as Avin's. The elf never lost his temper and never spoke ill of people. On top of it all, Jhael loved Avin's mother dearly. Avin suspected that Jhael's heart was bigger than any elf's.

After a short walk down from the rise and through the smaller, less magnificent trees that surrounded the Lifegrove, they had arrived. Avin stared in awe around him as Jhael led them further down the path. The trees' glow seemed to settle about him with an almost tangible gentleness and a feeling of peace like none he had previously known penetrated him to the core. Soft, almost melancholy bits of song seemed to hang in the air. A sudden movement in the dull light shook Avin from his reverie and he stepped closer to Jhael. The older elf smiled a bit.

"Fear not, little Avinnian. No harm can come to you in this place," Jhael said with an affectionate squeeze of Avin's shoulder.

Avin suddenly became aware that there was movement all around them. Strange, cumbersome, unelfly shapes that still moved with the fluid grace for which all Aer were known. As they progressed deeper into the grove, the growing light revealed the figures more clearly to Avin. They looked like trees, but they moved as though they were people. Avin also noticed that the oddly sad song that permeated the air seemed to emanate from the creatures as they moved from tree to tree, caressing the bark here and spreading water across the roots there. "Who are they?" asked Avin, his voice barely above a whisper.

"They are the Conservators. Treeminders. It is they who watch over and protect the Lifegrove and it is they who ensure that every tree is healthy and strong."

"What are they?"

Jhael tilted his head thoughfully. "None now remain who know in certainty. They have been here, tending the Grove since the first tree was planted. Some think that they are elves too. They say they are from a time before the War of the Gods, when all elves still dwelt in the forest. When the Elder left for their cities and their spectra, it was the Treeminders that remained behind."

"They live forever then? I thought no elf was immortal after the War," Avin said with wondering eyes upon his father.

"I don't think they are elves really. Not anymore. Perhaps, since they refused to join their Elder brothers in their crusade against the Gods, they were spared the fate of the rest of us. After the War ended, some elves took up the old ways again, drifted back into the forests to live among nature once more, as it was in the beginning. The Treeminders have been with us ever since, tending to our Groves."

Avin was silent for a long while, simply watching the strangely majestic beings as they went about their business, seemingly ignorant of the two elves that walked amongst them. Avin then began to listen more closely to the tune that each of them sang. He was sure he had never heard the song before, he couldn't even make out any of the words, but it seemed strangely familiar to him. The notes sunk deep inside Avin and seemed to pluck at something buried within. "What are they singing about? Why is it so sad?"

"Another mystery that only they know the answer to," said Jhael. "Some among us believe it is a lament, an apology for the crimes our people committed against the Gods. If you had been alive as long as they, you too would know untold sorrows Avin. Imagine...these creatures have seen the rise and fall of the elves, countless wars and terrors. They can remember a time when the land was whole and more beautiful than you or I will ever know."

Avin reflected upon what Jhael had told him, silently mulling the ideas over in his mind. "Well...if they have been alive that long then wouldn't they have known great happiness too? Happiness that the elves have come back to the forests or happiness that they are still here to teach us their ways?"

Jhael looked down at his son. "What do you mean Avin?"

"Well...I think that, maybe, they know something more of the world. Like they have seen what is happening outside the woods happen before in their own time. Maybe...maybe they are sad because they know something is about to happen to the world."

Silence enveloped the pair once more as they walked ever further down the path towards the heart of the Grove. "I think you are wise beyond your years in some ways Avinnian," Jhael said and then was silent once more.

As they neared the center of the Grove, a warm light washed over Avin. It was different from the light of the other trees, more calming, more alive. Avin could feel his skin tingling as it touched him.

"Behold," said Jhael. "Si Caes os si Hyr. The Heart of the Woods."

All things Avin had seen before now seemed paltry compared with what his gaze beheld. The tree wasn't tall so much as it was huge. Avin estimated that it was nearly forty feet at the base and its monstrous branches struck out in random directions like the legs of a great spider. The bark was hard and ancient, and Avin had never before seen the likes of its massive leaves. Each one was large enough to hide under during a storm. The most magnificent part was the center of the tree. Pure white light emanated from grooves in the trunk and Avin thought he could almost make out something inside...something alive.

"When the Gods tore the world apart, the land was covered in fire and ash. Not a living tree remained in all of Aravin. All the great old ones had been swept away in the torrent of flame. Yet, the ancient elves...the Treeminders...had managed to save one seed from the destruction. It was this seed that the Treeminders planted and nurtured until it grew and flourished in the fertile soil of the aftermath. Soon other trees began to spring up about the base of the other until a new forest had been grown. When the elves began returning to the woods, they saw this tree in all its glory and named it the Heart of the Woods. Without this tree, Aravin would have remained a desert for several thousand years."

Avin stepped close to the Heart of the Woods and placed a hand on its rough bark. He could feel its subtle and slow thoughts coursing through him, not at all like the thoughts of an elf, but more deliberate and thought out with the benefit of countless millennia of wisdom. Avin closed his eyes and opened his mind to the tree in the same was he would have talked to animals. Of course he didn't really expect anything. Just as he was about to pull his hand away, he felt a slight tingle on his palm. All the trees in the Grove seemed the shudder slightly, as though excited. Then the world lurched sickeningly around Avin and he fell into darkness.

The words were slow and quiet, like a gentle breeze. Do not fear what is to come little sapling. Yours is a strong core that will beget strong roots and branches. Do not let your bark grow too hard, lest the rain cannot make it through to you. Little sapling, we shall meet but once more. Though I will do all in my power, I will not be able to grant your wish. Remember little sapling...we trees survive storms by bending with the wind. We lose a few leaves here and there...but new ones will always arise to take their place. Now go little sapling. Take my gift with you.

As suddenly as the episode had come, it was gone. Avin awoke to find himself flat on his back and breathing heavily, his hands clasped firmly over his heart. Jhael knelt next to him, a worried look so strange on his normally serene countenance. "Avinnian...Avinnian are you alright? What happened?"

Avin looked down to his clasped hands and, bewildered, opened them. Resting on his open palms was a tiny, translucent jewel that glowed as bright as a star. Jhael gasped and fell back. "It...its a seed," he said as though he did not quite believe his own words.

Both Avin and Jhael looked around in amazement to find that the Treeminders had gathered in a circle about the pair. They were silent, simply swaying with the breeze. Then, as one, the they began to sing.

“You wished to see me?” said Jes upon entering his tent. She still bore the sweat and dirt of the day’s fight, the blood stained twin scimitars resting on her hips. The tribe leader rose, slowly crossing the space, his long robes dragging on the ground as we walked.

A prisoner sat defeated in the middle of the space, his arms chained behind the tent’s main pole. Her eyes lingered on him, she had met him on the field of battle that day. A most worthy foe, she had torn him open at the chest, yet he was somehow still alive, and his chest had healed from what she could see, though the scar remained. No doubt some heavy magic was used. The tribe leader approached the prisoner, a grin on his face. He grasped the charm on the prisoner’s chest and yanked it off his neck.

“My daughter, take this pendant,” he said, holding it up to put in around her. A dark green stone, beautiful and unadorned hung on a brown leather string. “It is a gift.”

Jes smiled and turned, lifting her hair as her father placed the charm around her neck, tying it closed behind her. It felt warm to the touch. “Sir…” A spoil from the fight? Perhaps I have finally proved myself. she thought.

“You have earned it,” he replied, placing both hands on her shoulders. “And now, you will protect it.”

“Protect it?” she asked, turning back to face him, not yet knowing the secrets it held.

“It is one of the three stones,” he said. Of course, she thought, the three stones of power. Her brother had already acquired one, keeping it safe somewhere she wouldn’t find. It had to be that way. He would remain out of sight until all three could be brought together and united.

A noise roused her from her thoughts. Jes glanced over her father’s shoulder, the prisoner looking much worse than before, wounds opening, growing bigger, more obvious, and from his groans, much more painful.

“I don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head.

“It’s what we’ve been fighting for all these years. One part, anyway. It must be protected at all costs. It must be kept safe until the final piece can also be acquired.” He smiled warmly, and once again crossed slowly to stand behind her, pulling a thin knife from the oversized sleeves of his robes. “You will be the one to keep it. The final, one of your other brothers will hold, once it is found, that is. One day, when all three stones unite, we will unite these lands and end all war.”

“No,” said the prisoner, his voice barely a whisper. “You must not take it, girl. Your father is blind for power. Do not also be blinded.”

She listened, wide-eyed, as the prisoner spoke. Then without warning, she yelled, the pain. Looking down, a knife’s tip stuck out from her chest, and her blood poured out. Her father pulled the knife back out, and she fell to the ground, struggling to breathe as her lungs filled with blood. “Why?” she asked, staring up at her father and holding the wound in vain. Her father stood, watching his daughter suffer through death… her first death.

“When all three stones unite,” he said, watching his daughter, waiting for her heart to start beating again. “I will be unstoppable.”

The stone on her chest grew hotter, began to glow. Her heart began to beat again, her breath returned, the wound very slowly began to heal. At the same time, the prisoner bled out, died his final death. The two guards took his body away. Jes still lay on the ground, trying to sort out what had happened, still burning with the pain.

“It has bonded with you now,” said the tribe leader. “Now, you will never die. Not until the stone leaves you, bonding with another, can you be stopped. You are immortal. This pendant… is a gift.”

But it was not a gift. This pendant… is a curse.

Legacy of XIII
Tale of the Deathblade

Chapter 1

“I hope you’re ready Captain, today is the big day after all,” the same thought ran through my head over and over again. Each time the thought appeared I responded to it, saying, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

A soldier has entered my room; he salutes, and waits to escort me to an unknown chamber in the castle. A special ritual has been organized to fully initiate me into the ranks of the Dark Templars. A rank held by only 13 officers, I am number 13. As I begin to follow the soldier, down an unfamiliar corridor, to an unfamiliar door, leading to an unfamiliar room, I begin to have past revelations.

My name is Tim Rasinger III, son of the noble, or so they say, Barros Rasinger II. He was a drunken man, a harsh man, an abusive man. I remember the senseless beatings, the abuse of his status, and the destructiveness of his dark powers. I loathed the man, in a way though, I idolized him, and I wanted powers similar to his, to bring him down, to destroy him that is what I dreamed.

Age 13 I left home ran away more precisely, in search of a master to teach me the dark powers. It had been a year since then and I found nothing, no master, no teacher, not even a simple dark hermit. Nothing. In a depressive state I wandered the streets of a little town, I was confronted by muggers. I defended myself, but to no avail, it was then a man came and saved me.

In the end he looked to me, he gave me a smile, and there was a twinkle in his eyes, like he saw something in me. He extended his hand, and I’ll never forget his words,

“Come with me, and I’ll teach you something extraordinary, something powerful, something that in time, even you will comprehend.”

I nodded and grasped his hand; he lifted me up and brought me to a castle. As soon as I was brought inside I was amazed, the craftsmanship, the architecture, more importantly the soldiers.

“Son, welcome to the Dark Knights. This," he spread his hands with emphasis, "is your new home, for the next 6 years you will train under the finest masters to learn the dark arts.”

As soon as I heard that I beamed a smile at the man, finally, I found what I was looking for.

“What’s your name son?” the man had asked me.

“Tim, Tim Rasinger III.”

“Welcome Tim, I am Fredrick Basle, the 4th Primarch of the Dark Knights and ruler of this castle.”

“It is an honor to meet such an esteemed man, or at least I think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“What is a Primarch, what are the dark knights, this is… somewhat confusing, yet, I believe I have found what I’ve been looking for.”

Fredrick smiled at me, “You’ve found your place son, now you shall learn from it, starting early tomorrow, your training will begin.”

From then on I remember the training, swordplay, use of dark spectra. Most of all, I remember… her. Age 15, a year into my training, I met a beautiful young girl. We had sparred together, and she bested me with her blade, the other boys laughed, but felt no shame in the loss, her beauty… was astounding. I remember she threatened one boy to kick him in the balls, everyone fell silent. She helped me up; from then on we were the best of friends.

We sparred together to practice our skills, took training courses together, shared many things with each other. We cried on each others shoulders if bad things happened, we held each other in stressful times, we hugged each other, and one day, we even shared a kiss. We fell in love with each other, very deeply. However duty calls, and as a Dark Knight I must attend to that duty, with a beautiful girl, waiting for me when I would be done.

I am now at the door, I remember my present status and tasks. I’m age 19, I graduated from the academy, I take on difficult tasks to the best of my abilities, I hunt daemons, kill men, annihilate the corrupt and heretical. I am ranked Captain, soon to be ordained as Dark Templar #13, commander of legion 13, which I am given to the choice to name. I have not decided yet, I’m waiting for after the ritual, to have some sort of… inspiration.

“Sir its time,” a man nudges me, “not having second thoughts are we sir?” It’s Sergeant Voss, a broad shouldered and stocky soldier, his head is shaved, he has few scars and is about the same age as me.

“Not in your life,” I reply with a smirk.

“Then get it done sir, I can’t wait to be under your command, that means you get us free drinks.”

We both laugh, “I’ll make sure too.”

I enter the room, the air is tense. My commander and the Primarch stand in the room, I salute them.

“At ease Captain,” says Fredrick, “do you remember the day I met you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Hmm, you were much younger, but look at you now, a full fledged Templar. You’ll make a fine one,” he walks behind me and snaps his fingers. 13 pedestals raise up from the floor, only 5 have an item on them.

“What are these, my lord?”

“Runes, archaic and ancient, but they are filled with incredible powers.”

“How so?”

“They have the powers of a daemon within.”

“Daemonics are not permitted within this boundary, and I should kill the filth.”

“That is denied Captain, believe it or not, not all daemons are evil, the five you see before you have allied themselves with us.”

“Where are the others?”

“Infused into the other Dark Templars.”

“Why did you tell me this?”

“Because you will be infused with one.”

“I refuse,” a snarl appears on my face.

“You have no choice, Tim.”

“Oh don’t I?” I begin to exit and am blocked off.

“You were tasked with fulfilling the promises of a Dark Templar,” says Frederick quietly, “you’d be abandoning your duty.”

“I’d be abandoning my duty by taking a daemon and binding it to my flesh and soul.”

“As a wet behind the ears Dark Knight, maybe you would. As a Dark Templar, you will take on savage tasks that can only be completed with the help of daemons, the good daemons. Is it not said that a sacrifice must be made for the greater good? You sacrifice your body to be bonded with a daemon, and you will save a world from the most powerful of adversaries. That is the duty of a Dark Templar that is now your duty.”

I stared at him for a moment, “If this will help me, and the cause, then I submit.”

“Good,” he snapped his finger, “set him up on the dais.”

They bring me on a floating platform, and they leave me there for a moment.

“What now?”

“You shall choose a daemon, but not exactly you. It will choose you; you must find the right one though, for it will signal you in the most subtle of ways. It chooses you, and then we will bond you to it.”

I nod my head and look about at the five slabs of stone. I see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. I wonder to myself, was there a mistake? Am I the right one? Am I not acceptable? I was about to give, when I felt a presence snaking itself on me, I turned, and one of the slabs glowed into a dull crimson. No one else saw it, only I did. I pointed to it and my lord nodded.

The two men told me to remove my shirt, which I did so, then they strapped me to a backless table, and set me at a slight 15 degree angle. I see them grabbing a staff and connecting the slab to the end of it. I hear a crackling fire and get a glimpse of them putting the slab into it. They walk over behind me,

“Now, this is going to hurt, a lot, but in the end it will be worth it.”

Two magi start to chant, their voices somewhat calming. I brace myself. Then like lightning pain shoots up my back, white hot fires burn into my flesh, I scream in agony as it sears my flesh. Then the pain slowly dulls, I begin to black out, but I feel something else, something strengthening. I feel my power grow, my spectra flows like an untamed mare. Suddenly, like as though I predicted it, a name for my legion comes into my head.

"Harbingers of Doom," I smile and repeat it for support.

The pain dulls even further, then I feel nothing, and I seep into the darkness.

End Chapter 1.

Meetings and preparations

Many things could be said about magicians, but they did know how to create an atmosphere; the rune circle was situated in the middle of some kind of grove, a small stone altar nearby. The air felt ancient, despite the breeze that moved not only the branches overhead, but also seemed to make the ancient symbols of the circle shimmer whenever the wind picked up. Truly a mystical place, full of Spectra.

The rune circles were not uncommon throughout Ardus, although this one was special; one of a pair, one on each major continent. Way gates. Portals. Teleportation runes. There were many names for rune circles like these, as they were often found in legends of heroes. For off course, a hero could not simply ride somewhere by horse; he needed a means of transportation that was so much more spectacular. Spectra, if possible. As such, every child had heard of these circles that could transport any being across seas or masses of land in the blink of an eye.

In truth, from Isas’ perspective, they were rather dull material. Sure, he had been taught about the great hero Musashi, who travelled the world in seven days by means of a special mat, which contained a rune circle with the runes of the world. But sitting here, waiting for something, anything, to happen, was not as spectacular as he had imagined. In fact he was getting quiet cold, despite the fact he had already put on the extravagant haori.

By the time the moon started to rise he had already checked on the mare four times, but Serene had proven worthy of her name. The only restless soul was himself. Isas slowly shook his head. How unlike him. Finally, he decided to settle against the altar, facing the circle. He started doing breathing exercises, and surely enough, by the time he was halfway through the cycle, the wind picked up.

The whole affair proved to be somewhat anticlimactic; as the wind picked up, the runes shimmered, and a figure appeared. Merely a haze at first, but as the image became clearer and clearer, Isas felt a small smile appear on his lips. The figure that was appearing was tall, almost as tall as himself. Thinner. Hair in a short braid. Pointed ears. An eternal frown on her beautiful face. At her feet were two small backpacks, from her belt hang a rapier, all steel with a mithral hilt.

“Had a good trip?”

The woman blinked twice, then turned to him with a grace he had missed so very much. Without ceasing to frown, she granted him a small smile. “I had some troubles with my gates-man. It would have been a lot simpler if I could have activated them myself.” She bend forward to pick up the bags and stepped out of the circle. It shimmered once more before the wind settled. Brushing none-existent dust of both of her sleeves, she faced him again. “You’ve been waithing.”

A statement, not a question. Not a hint of surprise. Isas returned her smile with one of his own. Pushing himself to his feet, he saluted, then bowed. “Isas Kanako, Captain of the Takezo Home Guard, welcomes Hana Noblet, trustee of house Takezo.” Everything about the bow was perfect, yet Isas made no attempt to hide the bitter sarcasm in his voice as he stated his former title.

“You mean former Captain of the Takezo Home Guard. If I heard correctly, her highness has branded you a betrayer. If it were not for her wise counsellors, she would have send half the home guard to Raythia to hunt you down.” She paused briefly as Isas recovered from the bow and the words. “That said, she has branded you as a Betrayer of the House, to be executed if you ever set foot on Thrynian soil.”

Isas had expected as much. What he had done was hardly a capital offence, but ‘her highness’, as Hana referred to her, had been prone to harsh judgements. In fact, it had been that bratty girl’s harsh judgement that had gotten him into this mess. Well, the little vixen could take his death warrant and choke on it. “How about the others. My family?”

Hana had started to go through the content of one of her bags, and spoke without looking at him. “Your father condemns you, in public, although I think he truly is proud of you. Politics. The same goes for your colleagues and students. Karasi has taken over your role as Captain, so you do not have to worry about that. He’s a good man, and he has enough of a reputation to keep the students in line.” Isas simply nodded and waited for her to finish the ransack of the bag.

After a little while, she seemed content with the way her bags were arranged, and picked them up. He led her to Serene, who was still tied up to a nearby tree. One she had attached her bag to the saddle, she pulled free her sword. A beautiful creation, her masterpiece. Of all the blades Hana had created, this was her most prized creation. Isas never stopped to marvel at the beauty of the weapon.

“First, we need some light.” The sun has sunk past the horizon, and the waning cresent gave of precious little light. Holding out the sword in front of her, Hana spoke, her voice loud and clear.

“So came a day where darkness fall over the lands, and it was our god in heavens that banished the darkness, for He was great, and his light eternal.” Something flickered in the blade as Hana spoke the final words of the incantation. “Aeria Gloris.”

Light erupted from the blade, but subsided swiftly until only a small disc of light remained. It hovered roughly on shoulder height, illuminating a small area around Hana and the sword. She seemed to hardly break a sweat, but Isas knew better; he had seen her use the incantation before, and knew that although the disc of light would shine brightly for another day at least, the ability cost more spectra then many a man held.

After a short pause, Hana lowered the tip of the rapier onto the ground and started another incantation. “Think of the man, so said the witch, and surely you will find him. The small boy nodded, and thought of the man, and found him.” Nothing happened.

Isas frowned. He recognised the words of the fairy tale, but had never expected Hana to make them part of her blade. Of all the stories in that blade... He wondered. But not for long, as soon, Hana trembled and started to collapse, saved only by Isas’ stead arms. She gave him a weak smile. “I overdid myself.”

“What did you do?”

“I forced myself to find him. Not a pleasant experience, despite the fact I knew where to look.” They sat down, and Isas collected a small flask from his saddlebags, which he offered to the woman. She grimaced, took a sip, gagged, and handed it back. Bitterroot sap. It’s name was well earned, as was its reputation of strengthening the body after spending too much spectra. Once the draught had started to take effect, Hana got to her feet, with some help of Isas.

“And now? We look for him?”

The Elder Elf shook her head smiling. “No we do not. A lot is happening at the same time, Isas. In the capital, north of the capital, south of it.” She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. “Ignus Archem.” A shuddering breath as she reopened her eyes. “And we play such a very small role in it. So very small. No, we do not hunt him down, not yet. For now, we prepare, and we wait.”

For waiting is all we can do. And in truth, it is all we should do. Leave deeds to the heroes, leave ruin to the foes. We are all but pawns in a game dominated by rooks and bishops and knights. Let the queen and king oversee what is to come. And let us pray that, when our time comes, we, as pawns, deliver that unlikely blow, or make for a worthy sacrifice.

Let the games begin.

It was almost impossible to capture the beauty of Elidian in words. Poets throughout the ages had tried and failed to describe how the city, nestled deep within the forests, far away from prying eyes, seemed to be grown rather than built from the trees; how shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting a strange play of light and shadow over the ancient, twisted trunks; how, no matter what the season, there were always numerous plants and flowers in bloom, lending colour and fragrance to this sylvan paradise.

The city itself was a place of art and music. Though the Elder elves of Relannas and Risina tended to be condescending and reproachful of their Wilder cousins, with their arboreal existence and minimal spectra, the Elidians still prided themselves on being superior in culture and intelligence. Poetry and music came naturally to them, rolling with ease from their tongues and made even more beautiful by the melodic lilt to their voices.

But to Leander, riding the last few miles through the forest on his white stallion, it was not a place of awe and wonder as it was to so many others. It was his home, the setting of his childhood. He had run through these trees with his friends, here fallen and gained the scar just below his knee, there hung upside down from a branch until he passed out. It was within these woods that he had learnt how to shoot a longbow with the almost unnatural accuracy the elves had long ago mastered and how to wield a sword with deadly grace.

It was also here that his father had strictly and determinedly tutored him in geography, history, politics and languages, grooming him to follow in both his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps as a merchant and diplomat. Which he did, dutifully fulfilling his role as son and heir.

In doing so he had been away from Elidian for many years, travelling through many different countries and rarely keeping in touch with his home. But a week ago he had received a letter that surprised, confused and angered him and now, after seven days of hard, non-stop travelling, he was almost returned to his father’s home.

His rage was fuelled as he saw the destruction that had been wrought on his beloved homeland in his absence; tree blackened and burnt, new clearings formed from the ashes and used as graveyards, homes, buildings and lives destroyed. Yet he could also see that many repairs had already been made, new saplings plants and cultured with the skill of wilder elves to begin to form new houses. Leander could only imagine what the devastation must have been like when fresh.

His father’s house, the tall and proud silver birch that had been his childhood home, was, of course, untouched, softly lit by the setting sun.

After seeing his horse safely stabled, Leander marched purposefully inside. Designed to grow into dwellings, the trees of Elidian were far larger than nature intended. The lower level of his father’s house consisted of three rooms - a living area, kitchen and dining room. The floors and ceilings were all the smooth wood of the inside of the trees, and lavishly furnished with thick carpets, wall hangings and exquisite paintings. A twisting staircase led up to three more rooms - the bedroom Leander had slept in as a child, the master suite and his father’s study. It was in this later room that Leander knew he would find his father.

He roughly handed his cloak and travelling bag to the servant in the doorway, and without a word strode up the stairs and flung open the door to the study. As he had expected his father was there, sat at his desk, back to the door, bent over a roll of parchment.

“You owe me an explanation,” Leander snapped, stopping after only a couple of steps into the room.

For a minute his only reply was the continued scratching of his fathers’s pen, then, slowly, he put it down and turned in his chair to face his son.

Lucien had changed little in the years since they had last seen each other; he still had the smooth, chiselled features of their people, the same cold blue-green eyes that Leander had inherited. The only visible difference was a few strands of silver glimmering at the temples of his otherwise dark brown hair.

“Hello, Leander. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I wrote to say I was coming.” Leander crossed his arms in exasperation. “And as I say, you owe me an explanation.”

His father delicately arched one eyebrow. “Oh? About what, pray tell?”

“You know perfectly well what about.”

“Do I?”

Leander’s eyes narrowed, and when he spoke his voice was quietly controlled. “Why didn’t you tell me that Elidian was under threat?”

“Oh, that.” Lucien waved a hand dismissively. “It didn’t matter.”

“Didn’t matter?” Leander stared at him incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why not?”

“How can it not matter that my home was attacked by orcs? That my people were being killed? That you were fighting for your life?” Leander looked for any flicker of guilt or acknowledgement, but his father remained a study of impassiveness. If it hadn’t been for the slow movements of his chest as he breathed in and out, he might have been made of stone. “You’re telling me you don’t think that matters?”

“I am. There were more than enough fighters to drive the orcs back. There was no need for you to disrupt your work and risk harm to yourself.”

Leander shook his head, running a hand through his light brown hair in frustration. He was unsure if this was his father’s way of trying to protect him, in some twisted sense of paternal affection, or if he was simply worried about Leander losing profits. Whichever the reason, Leander felt nothing but fury.

“That’s not the point, Father!”

Lucien spread his hands. “Then what is?”

“I had a right to know that Elidian was being attacked.” Leander’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides. “Did you even think about what would have happened if the battle had been lost?”

“It wasn’t lost.”

“But it could have been! And even afterwards, you still didn’t tell me. I had to find out in a letter from Samael! Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I really didn’t see the use.”

Words died in Leander’s mouth and he stared at his father. He knew Lucien was not the most zealous of men but this cold dispassion was startling. He had not always been so; once, if he had not been warm exactly, he had smiled and cared. But that was when Leander’s mother was alive. A gentle and beautiful elder elf, when she had died the laughter and love had disappeared from her husband and, to a lesser extent, her son.

Even so, Leander wondered when his father had become quite so impassive.

“Was there anything else?” Lucien asked now.

“Yes.” The main purpose for Leander’s sudden sojourn home, the real reason behind the anger that even now made his blood boil in his veins. He found himself trembling slightly with it, and had to take a deep breath to calm himself before he could speak. “There is something else you’ve been keeping from me.”

“And what would that be?”

Leander’s reply came through gritted teeth. “That I have a sister.”

For the first time since turning to face his son, Lucien’s mask of composure cracked. A brief scowl flitted across his face, marring his beauty with a mixture of annoyance and guilt, but it was only for a few seconds before he smoothed his features out again.

His voice, however, was not composed, becoming low and ugly. “Who told you? Samael again?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Leander shook his head, “Why have you never told me?”

Lucien hesitated a moment, then sighed. “I didn’t know myself. I only spent one night with her mother, years after yours died. I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“But the child, my sister, sought you out?”

“Yes. A couple of decades ago. You had already left.”

“You could have written.”

“And what would you have done? Come home? Trust me, you needn’t have bothered. The girl is half human - an ignorant, clumsy, uncultured fool. A disgrace.” Lucien shrugged carelessly.

Leander felt his lip curling in disgust. “She is still my sister, and your daughter.”

“Hah! Technically. I may acknowledge that she shares my blood but that does not make her worthy to bear my name!” He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “If she had been raised here it might have been different, but by the time she came it was already too late. She is too human, Leander. She knew it herself. She could see she did not belong. It was why she left. And not before time.”

“She came to fight for Elidian. For you.”

“Yes, well, that was her choice. I have made my feelings perfectly plain - I want little enough to do with her, and nor should you.”

“But, Father, surely --”

“I have made my decision, Leander!” Lucien cut across him with the thunderous tone of authority. “You would do well to respect that.”

There was silence for a while, in which they held each other’s gazes and waited for the other to submit. Finally Leander looked down, jaw clenched, his dark expression making it clear that while he would not try to alter his father’s mind he did not agree with it. Lucien leant back in his chair, fingers steepled and eyes appraising his son.

“Is that all?”

Leander nodded once, and Lucien turned in his chair and resumed his work. His son stared resentfully at his back a while longer then also turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. At the doorway however, Leander hesitated and looked back over his shoulder.

“Tell me her name.”

The scratching of Lucien’s pen paused. He didn’t look round, but the silence seem deliberating and then, just as Leander turned to go, he answered.

“Astrid.”

Astrid. His sister. Leander’s fingers curled into a loose fist, and his generous mouth curved up into a determined, triumphant smile.

“You have made your decision regarding her, Father, and I will respect that. But allow me the respect of making my own decision. She is my sister. And I am going to find her.”

Lucien stiffened in his chair, and, slowly, turned again to face his son.

But there was nothing there but an empty doorway.