“Egh, she’s not dead,” said a voice. Versa slowly opened her eyes. Nerkyl, Daedrok, and the elf whose name she didn’t know were standing above her. She tried to move but was immediately paralyzed by pain. Immobile, she laid strewn on a pile of debris.

Nerkyl spoke, “The Heart exploded, but the machine itself didn’t, resulting in a much smaller explosion. That’s good I suppose. I didn’t actually know if breaking the Heart would work or not. But it worked, and power to the rest of the machine was cut off.” Versa tried to speak but found she couldn’t; her lungs were tight. All the while, Daedrok loomed over her with his axe in hand. Versa felt utterly helpless, a worse pain than her body could ever cause. Nerkyl grew angry as he continued, “The colossus is dead, sure. The force of the fall scrambled its insides. But now we have no Heart, no machine, nothing! Months of work and planning wasted!” Entering a full tantrum, he pointed a gnarled finger at Versa. “If you hadn’t of stuck your nose where it didn’t belong, none of this would've happened! Wretched woman. Daedrok, end her. Smash her head in!”

Daedrok stood gazing at Versa with a strange, solemn stare. He didn’t move. After a few seconds, he concisely spoke. . . “No.”

Versa blinked her eyes in disbelief. Boiling with rage, Nerkyl shouted, “No!? What do you mean no!? Kill her! Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about when she blocked that stupid sword? So she saved your life one damn time - big deal. Have you forgotten how much trouble she’s caused us!? Hmm?” Daedrok looked at Nerkyl in silence, resolute, as though one answer was already enough. Nerkyl shook with frustration and finally threw up his hands, giving up. “Fine! Have it your way. But if we run into her again and she tries to kill us again, just remember - it’ll be your fault!” Flailing his hands about and muttering, Nerkyl turned and stormed off toward the exit, grouchy as ever.

The golden-haired elf walked next to Daedrok and took a final curious look at Versa. She could only lay there and look back. He had a scar across his cheek now. A few seconds passed, then he too ran off to catch up with Nerkyl. Daedrok was the last to leave, still staring at her from beneath his darkened helm. Finally he spoke, his voice deeper than the ocean depths, “Debt. . . is. . . paid. . .” At that, he turned. And calmly, he marched toward the exit where Nerkyl and the elf were already easing themselves into the water. Daedrok’s hulking metal figure soon disappeared, and their voices (namely Nerkyl’s) not long after. Then, she was alone.

Versa laid stoically on her back, gazing up at the ceiling far above and listening to the sound of distant waterfalls. She felt a moment of peace - despite the pain. She’d stopped the plans of her enemies and the city of Herrod was saved, and nobody would ever truly know what happened here. But she didn’t care about the fame. Her task was done. It didn’t go as smoothly as she’d hoped, perhaps even making mistakes along the way, but it was done. And she was alive.

She uncurled her fingers. It hurt to move. Clenching her jaw, she fought against the pain and gradually moved her arm. She reached into a pouch at her waist, and with difficulty, pulled out a small vial - a special medicine made by elvenkind. ‘Only for emergencies,’ she’d told herself when she acquired it. Now was the time. With one hand, she broke the top off of the vial on a nearby stone and drank what she could. She felt tired. The broken vial dropped from her hands and rolled away.

Versa closed her eyes. It was over. And all she wanted was a short rest. Sleep came almost immediately. She’d never been so tired.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:06, Sun 22 Mar 2015.

“Lady Versa, how are you feeling?” Versa opened her eyes. She could feel the fire nearby and its soothing warmth. Father Tylister sat in a chair next to her bedside. Versa then realized she was indeed lying on her own bed at the Temple of Sophia. Her head and shoulders were cushioned by a mound of pillows.

“Better,” Versa softly responded. “How long have I been asleep?” Father Tylister gave her a cup of water to drink; she only then noticed how incredibly thirsty she was. She took the cup and drank heavily. “Two days,” he replied. “Brother Bernard was about to go down and look for you that night. He was halfway through the graveyard when you stumbled out of the crypts, and you fell unconscious on the grass.”

Versa listened as she started to check the state of her health, feeling the parts of her body. She felt fine. Father Tylister noticed and continued, “And I must say, you’ve recovered faster than any wounded soldier I’ve seen. Your internal bleeding disappeared, and your wounds have almost faded. A miracle I’d say. Truly the Goddess watches over you.” Versa lifted herself upright, sitting up against the bedboard. They had removed her armor and changed her clothes with a nightgown; there were still some bandages wrapped around her chest underneath. Versa leaned to set her empty cup on the bedtable and saw the waste basket, nearly full with blood-soaked bandages. Yet she felt as good as new now. As the Father had said, Sophia watches over her faithful.

While she stretched, Father Tylister hesitantly asked, “Was. . . was your quest successful my Lady?” She smiled and replied, “Yes, I’d say so. The danger is no more. And-” Her smiled disappeared as she began to remember the events more fully, thinking of one in particular. “What is it my Lady?” Father Tylister asked. Versa thought quietly for a moment, going over the event again and again in her mind. Finally she said, “And I also learned something else, something I didn’t expect.” Father Tylister watched patiently, listening.

Her tone was soft and uncertain, dreamlike even. “Daedrok. . . has a heart.”

“What does that mean?” Father Tylister asked. “I’m not sure,” she replied. It was the truth. Light dimmed as the logs blackened to charcoal. Father Tylister picked up another from a basket and placed it on the fire. It soon caught flame and brightened the room. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked. Versa eased herself off the side of the bed, lowering her bare feet onto the stone - it was cold compared to the blankets. “Those adventurers aren’t a threat anymore, at least for a little while. I now know if I meet them again, I’m going to need allies. But for now, there’s something else I must do. I’ll confess to you Father that the danger posed by those adventurers wasn’t the only reason I came to the Isles of Mercia; there was another reason, a selfish one. But it's something I need to do.” She gazed at her feet, mixed feelings rising within. “And what is that my Lady?”

Versa gazed over at the fire which steadily crackled, memories swirling in her mind. “I intend to find my daughter.”


“Veloth’s going to be upset. Hell, I’m upset. That was a lot of lost time,” Nerkyl said, standing on the pier with Hendemir. Overhead, stars dotted the night sky. Daedrok walked down the gangplank of their ship and joined them; they were departing tonight. “I’m sorry,” Hendemir decided to say. “I’m know I’m not as strong as Veloth. If he were here-” “Don’t be sorry kid,” Nerkyl replied with a strangely understanding tone. “It’s not your fault. In fact, you did pretty damn good. It wasn’t Versa, nor me, nor this big lummox that defeated the colossus down there - it was you. You’re actually a clever one.” Hendemir was both surprised and delighted, for he’d never received a compliment from Nerkyl before, nor heard him give one.

He continued, “From now on, you’ve got my approval. So be happy about that.” Hendemir didn’t reply but simply accepted his words, knowing a sentimental remark would rub him the wrong way. Even Daedrok nodded in a silent gesture of acceptance. Hendemir felt uncommonly warm inside, proud of his accomplishment. They stood watching the dark blue sea and its steady waves.

After a while, Hendemir said, “I’ll admit to you guys, something happened to me down there. I felt more, well, alive. Being somewhere no one had been in ages, the danger - it just woke up something in me.” “That’s the adventurer’s spirit,” Nerkyl replied. “You’re like your cousin in more ways than you know, when he was younger anyway.” Hendemir looked out across the bay and saw the other side of Herrod; fireplaces and lanterns lit the windows of countless houses. Hendemir continued, “It’s a shame we have to leave tonight. Honestly, I wish I could stay. I’ve never been so far from Galia - some exploring would be great.” Nerkyl glanced at him, smiling, “Well why don’t you?” Hendemir blinked. He hadn’t considered such a reply. “What do you mean?” “Daedrok and I can sail back to Galia, tell Veloth what happened. That we can handle ourselves. If you really want to stay, then stay. Go explore. Best to get these experiences when you’re a young anyway.”

Hendemir didn’t know what to say. He reconsidered if it was something he actually wanted to do. After a few moments, he finally said, “Ok. Ok, I will!” Excitement swelled up in his stomach; he was really doing this. “Thank you, for everything.” “Don’t get sappy!” Nerkyl snarled. Hendemir realized that did sound sappy and laughed.

Nerkyl glanced at Daedrok and said, “Alright, let’s get on the boat. Time to get out of here.” Nodding, Daedrok marched up the gangplank; at the top, he gave Hendemir once last glance as a goodbye before disappearing onto the deck. Nerkyl followed behind. When he was halfway up the ramp, he turned toward Hendemir on the pier, “Goodluck kid.” Hendemir waved. Wasting no more words, Nerkyl continued hobbling onto the ship, leaning on his staff as he always does.

After a few minutes, the ship’s anchor had been hoisted and was slowly drifting off into the night horizon. Still standing on the pier, Hendemir watched it set sail, growing smaller as time passed. Something stirred within him. This was the start of something new. And for the first time in his life, every Isle of Mercia was at his fingertips. Out there waiting, was a world of adventure.

THE END

This message was last edited by the GM at 03:16, Sun 22 Mar 2015.

Black Knight Part 1

“Hadric.”
The voice was there, like a whisper but heavy in the blackness. His ears were all he could rely on. “Hadric.”
The voice came to him again. He tried to look around, but the room was completely black. He could feel the presence of someone though. They were maybe seven feet from him. Hadric opened his lips to return the call of his name. The words did not come easy. His throat ached from the reverberations of his voice.
 “W-who are you?”
he questioned the darkness. Feeling was returning to him slowly. His head throbbed, his back was naked, and he was on his knees. He could feel cold iron on his wrists. The smell of stone and decay. The one thing that could not return was his memory. The voice came back to him now.
“You do not remember?”
 Hadric could hear the smile in the owner’s words. Some lightweight steps sounded on the floor, and the chained man could feel the darkness’s breath on him. The figure crouched, letting loose a grown from his clothes. Leather armor of some kind. The darkness spoke with a soft and near feminine voice There was the slightest familiarity in his voice, but it was felt faraway in a time and place he could not call to mind. The voice was here again, so close to him. “It is no matter. You will remember soon enough.” Anger leapt up in him for but a moment, but Hadric could not place an origin to it. Suddenly, there was a flash of bright light in the darkness, but it came with a pain. An incredible pain. Hadric felt the floor rush up to meet him and fell into an even deeper blackness. This was familiar to him. The cold. The unconsciousness. This was safety. It was here he couldn't feel the blood and piss on his body, the bruises didn't hurt. It was here he could see, and at times, remember. But when he would awake it would all be bits and pieces. If not gone.
The smell of horses. Sunlight, sweat, dirt, and blue skies. Young hands grasping the earth, curling the soil up beneath them. His head ringing.
“Get up.”
No, not the voice from the darkness. Another. Old and demanding. Hadric did as he was told, pushing himself up off his knees, and onto his feet. Before him lay a dirt field, a large and armored man before him, pauldrons illuminated in the glow of the midday sun. A visor was lifted above his helmet, revealing a middle aged face decorated with a silver stubble and a sneering mouth. He hated that mouth. In the armored man’s hand lay a wooden baton, wrapped in thin fabric and filth. The boy before him stood three feet beneath his height, and was clad in only a pair of heavy pants and boots. His forearms and knuckles were wrapped in tape, and his hands too clutched a wooden club. His chest rose and fell slow and heavy. Hadric was getting tired. The bruises were making themselves black and quite apparent his ribs and skull where the instructor had taught him. Still the youth stood, angry as ever. “Come on boy.” The old man barked. As he sent slapped his visor down.  Hadric raised his club in front of him at a 45 degree angle, shifting his feet into a strong position. He circled the armored man like a dog about a corpse. With a quick snap of movement he lunged in, but this time halted midstride. The instructor had already begun his swing. Hadric waited until the club  zipped past his face before continuing his stride forwards. He brought his weapon up in a strong arch straight into Vastion’s helmet.  Loud bang rang out in the sky. Vastion stumbled forwards a bit, so Hadric gave him another blow to the head. He was tired of playing games. The wood reverberated satisfyingly as it came down upon the metal brow once more, but the youth was too drawn into the fun of bashing in his instructor’s skull to notice his armored gauntlet sending itself straight into his gut. The place just below the ribs. Hadric felt the metal knuckles mash into his bare flesh, forcing the air out of his lungs in one instant. The boy fell to the ground, sprawled out like and gasping for oxygen. His fingers clung desperately to his belly as Vastion walked up to him, his large form blocking out the sun like some omnipotent giant. God, he hated him. Several coughs later, the precious air returned to him, and a metal hand reached down with the words, “You’re learning.”
Hadric ignored the hand and rolled to his side before regaining his feet. Vastion stood looking down at him as always. He raised the visor up from his helm and spoke to the kid. “Enough for the day. Meet me at the stables. You have ten minutes to rest.” The armored figure spun about on his heel, dropping the club to the disturbed earth unceremoniously in a motion all too smooth for a man in fifty pounds of steel. The air reeked of horses and energy spent. Hadric stood still in the arena, watching his instructor plod off into the daylight, armor singing it’s clumsy metal song. One day he would wear it, he knew. But that would be years to come. The youth looked down at the clubs that lay in the soft earth. One day he would have a real weapon to call his own. He had already begun training with real blades. Just not in the ring. It was sticks and only sticks. Fighting the other boys was much more pleasurable. They didn’t have armor and he won(most of the time). But Vas was a challenge. The armor made it quite impossible for Hadric to submit him with a cudgel. But submission was not the point. There was no better practice than with an enemy that could not be defeated. All one could hope for was to survive against them, and maybe lay a few clean hits here and there. That was the lesson in fighting Vastion. The man could move. He was old but spry, and his strikes were clean and quick. Hadric knew that the old man could kill him with one of those accursed sticks had he put his mind to it. That fact drove him crazier than anything else. How could he hope to be that good himself? Hadric didn’t like trying to answer this question by himself. Too frustrating. Instead he plopped himself in the dirt and stared at the sky. The earth was cool on his back, and the smell of horses seemed to not follow him this low to the ground. No clouds tainted the unending blue. In the distance he could hear the sounds of the Keep. Metal hammering steel and iron, animals being moved from place to place, people milling about their little grubby lives carved out of rock and earth. It was a wonderful symphony. In the distance the Southern Ridge shown it’s jagged points proudly to the sky with an unmatched defiance. The hills surrounding the valley were green and lush with flora. Spring was here. But his time was up. The youth sat up from the dirt, feeling the sun slowly cook his shoulders. The stables were calling.
His boots ran through the soil and his arms vaulted his body over the ropes surrounding the arena. He could feel the air moving over his shaved head. And the light was gone.

Hadric opened his eyes to the darkness that had become far too familiar. His hair was tangled and matted, and a grisly beard had made an emergence on his face. There was cold stone kissing his cheek, and a touch of pain on his brow. He flexed his forehead, feeling the dry blood crack atop his flesh. Where had he just been? Vastion. That he remembered. The mustachioed bastard. A pile of bones now. Was he not? Hadric couldn't remember. He brought himself up to his knees. The chains gave off a weak rattle. There was thirst on his lips. The room was silent. His head was not. Hadric’s mind scrambled and struggled to get back to reality, pushing all the memories and images aside. He was here in the dark room. The smell in here was cold and bitter. Nothing like the scent of the earth from the dreams. How long had he been here? That voice. He knew that he knew it. The owner was buried somewhere in the dreams. Somewhere in the past. If he could only see a face. If he could only see. Perhaps he was blinded. There was no pain in his eyes, but everything felt numb. Hadric shifted his wrists to make sure they were still there. Bruised and healing flesh cracked with his movements as the chains rattled. There was no sound in the room, save for his steady heartbeat. Hadric attempted to look down at where thought the chains may be. The prisoner flattened his palms to the stone feeling all the bumps and cracks until he found it. The bolts that anchored his short binds to the floor. They were rusty, he could feel the oxidation on his fingertips. Still the bolts were plenty strong, and he was plenty weak. Or was he? Hadric couldn't remember if he was strong or not. He felt large, but his ability to truly judge that was skewed. Hadric grasped what little chain was available. He breathed out, and sent blood flowing into his muscles. He cranked up, wards, arching his back. The metal stretched and ached. The manacles on his wrists dug deep into his flesh, sending a jolt of fire down his arms. God how he hated nerves right now. He grunted a pathetic cracked sound but the chains did not budge, what did change was the stones beneath them. The tiniest of cracks sounded, forcing his eyes bright and wide open. But his energy was spent. The prisoner relaxed his grip, there was maybe seven inches of chain between his wrists and the floor. Hadric brought his hands up as far as his bonds would allow, and took another breath. He slammed the shackles down onto the pegs with all his might. The darkness rang with clash of metal and a broken scream of Hadric’s pain. He jerked on the chains again, grimacing into the darkness, but the progress he made was slow. And loud. He did this for a few minutes before realizing that his wrists would shatter before the stones. The prisoner let out the air form his lungs. Before dropping his shoulders. Maybe there was a reason he was here. It would take days for him to crack the stone enough to break free. But time was all he had left. Wasn't it?

Days passed, or nights. Hadric could not truly tell. When he had the chance, the prisoner would continue his routine, knocking and chipping away at the stones beneath the bolts. Occasionally a door would open, but no light would come with it. Only sound. There would be a presence, not that of the light foot man, but of a heavier creature. A grim hand would grab his jaw and force grimy water into his mouth. The prisoner took every drop he could take. No food was offered in the coming days. The man who came to deliver the water smelled of fungus covered up poorly by an unknown fragrance. How could he find him in the blackness? Who was he? But the fungus man could answer no questions. That much Hadric knew. Instead he left him to rot in the internal night.

There were dreams. Nightmares and memory. Hadric could see again, this time he had no body. Or did he? The prisoner could not tell. The red mists of melee filled the air, the stench of sweat, blood, piss and shit tainted the air, fighting the blaring screams of metal and voices for dominance of the senses. It was glorious. The sense of death was heavy hear. Figures rushed amongst the reddish clouds, some armored, others not so much, their bodies clashing like thunderheads, blades, warhammers and spears swinging into one another with the ferocity of a storm.
 There was no telling friend from foe in the chaos. Hell was here, and made by man’s own hands. As the melee oozed it’s way amongst the field a single warrior strode out proudly from the steel storm, a gray cloak tattered and hanging behind him. Perhaps it was white once, but no longer. His armor was chipped and scratched and the helm on his head was dented and battered.
Still he strode on. A straggler from the melee broke free, rushing his side. The knight pivoted sword in both hands, and sent the silvered blade skittering across his foes throat. The ragged attacker spun backwards onto his face, sending a perfect red arch to join the red mists. The sound of his corpse embracing the tainted earth was drowned out in the violence and madness that could bear only one name. More men joined behind the lead night, forming a glinting steel wedge around him and pushed further forwards, swallowing up the clearing with their forms. The air suddenly lit up with the cry of a single word, trumping over all other sounds.
“NOW!”
A hail of bolts ripped across the field and into the ragged phalanx with brutal efficiency. Before the phalanx could recover, the air exploded with the roars of their opponents. There was a rush of movement and metallic destruction. At the head of the charge, a knight in black, The remains of a red cloak streaming from his armor like the blood that would undoubtedly fill the air in mere moments. He was first to hit the crowd of armored bodies.
 A spiked steel pauldron shattered the face of a grunt, sending teeth and tattered flesh in all directions. The warrior in black pushed in wards, sending his heavy mace into a sea of flesh and leather, ripping through anything in its path. It did not take long before both forces were scattered and back to the melee. Some fought only with iron daggers, others scythes and pick axes. Anything would do.
It did not take long before the knight in black found his quarry. The gray cloak. He rushed through, deflecting a rouge blow with his mace, and promptly returning the gesture in full force. A cry leapt out of crushed chest cavity before its owner fell to the ground gurgling hopelessly. His armored boots stepped over what was soon to be a corpse. Their wearer slammed his mace against his breast plate calling out his opponent. The gray cloak. No name was said other than,
“YOU!”
The swordsman stood in the field, visor drawn  and expressionless. The call was answered, and soon the armored form was speeding towards his aggressor, blade glinting in the sunlight for a few shimmering seconds before being raised into the air. The warrior in black ran forwards, screaming maniacally, jagged gauntlets grasped around his mace with white knuckle tightness.
 At the last second the warrior in black sidestepped and through his mace in an upper cut. The jagged device flew from the ground and up into the breastplate of its target with a far too satisfying slam. The energy continued, sending the swordsman tumbling over and flat onto his back. The aggressor didn’t let up. He recovered from his stroke, heart racing with adrenaline. The rush. Yes. It was here. He raised his weapon high to the sky. The swordsman lay on the ground, breastplate torn asunder, lungs free of air. His eyes glanced up through the visor at the blue steel mace glinting in the sunlight. The man in black sent his weapon down.
But Hadric’s eyes opened before the impact. Darkness. His old friend. When he awoke he felt sweat upon his back and neck. It chilled him. Was it a memory or dream? He couldn’t tell for sure. It had all seemed so real, but he didn’t know where he was in the battle, or if he was just flying overhead. It was all blurring together all ready. The last one had been a memory. That was sure.
He could recall the mustachoed bastard. Vastion. Yes that was his name. Vastion. The prisoner pulled himself back to his knees. Hadric felt an anger brewing inside him, or something else. He raised his arms as high as they could and pulled at the bolts. He could feel them just starting to give. The flesh on his wrists was raw, and most likely infected, but that didn't stop him.
Hadric's heart beat strong. His tears rolled down his cheeks in silence, and soon the bolts gave just a little bit more. His muscles relaxed, the chains rattled, and Hadric bowed his head. The door opened, the smell of the fungus man filled his nostrils. Heavy footsteps made their way across the stone floor. A gloved hand shot itself to his jaw,  and turned the prisoner's head upwards. Hadric glared up the blackness.
The water came next, tainted with the taste of aged leather and iron. But water none the less. The fungus man took the flask away and left the room without so much as a word. Some time passed, and he pulled again at the bolts, this time he pissed a bit as he strained to move the chains. He didn't care at this point. The sound of steps appeared once again in his ears. Soft boots. The door swung open once more. And that presence was here again. He could feel him. Someone he most definitely knew.
“Hadric.”
There it was. That voice. Soft. Despicable. He felt his heart race at the sound of it, pumping rage and anger into his veins.
The prisoner glanced up, gritting his teeth like a dog to a cruel stranger.
“What do you want.”
The response ran like water.
“Ah…. Your voice. There’s the Hadric I knew. That fire. Thought you’d lost it. You remember then now, I guess?”
Hadric’s mind was still far from put back together.
“Remember what.”
The slightest spike of annoyance sounded in the darkness’s voice.
“Who you are. Who I am.”
Hadric responded best he could.
“I am Hadric.”
A snap sounded through the air, a flash of light across his eyes. The soft voice was cracking, raised to a higher level of volume and strain. Hadric’s ringing head could barely hear the darkness scream at him.
“YES! BUT WHO IS HADRIC!?”
The prisoner attempted to speak but was struck again.
“WHO ARE YOU!?” the soft voice demanded. It was far from soft now.
“REMEMBER REMEMBER REMEMBER!”
Hadric kept his body low, and protected his head the best he could with his forearms. Who this man was, he did not know. What was clear, was what he would bring down upon him when he was free.Soon the strikes halted, and the air was filled with the sound of heavy breathing. The voice soon cooled back down to its standard smoothness and tone.
"My old friend, you will remember, and then you can understand. You will know."  The prisoner’s forearms and head ached with the memory of the blows.  Still he could feel the fire in his belly.
“THEN TELL ME WHO I AM!TELL ME!” The darkness remained silent a moment, calculating a proper response to the chained angry man.
“No no no. That is for you to come to yourself. I want to see you fall to little pieces Hadric.”
There was the sound of movement and the prisoner could feel the smooth man’s breath on his forehead. “Because that is what you deserve.” A spark leapt up in the chained man, and he took his oppurnity. He snapped his neck back and forwards, slamming his aching skull straight into his captor’s nose. Cartilage shattered and ripped against his bone. A shriek leapt up from the blackness, and the sound of a body smacking to the stones filled Hadric with a sense of glee. If he wasn’t chained. He could see himself now, sending his heel again and again into smooth man’s throat until only paste remained. But the bolt’s remained firmly in the ground. The door opened and there was a rush of movement. The fungus man was here, and someone else. Lighter. Cools steel rested upon his neck and his heart leapt a bit.
“WAIT!” the voice screamed.
The room fell still and silent. The smooth man continued on speaking.
“We cannot kill him now. Not yet.”
The edge soon left the prisoner’s neck. A firm hand shoved his head down wards, sending his face into the stones. He decide to stay down. To not move. To be just as the stones were beneath him. Cold. Silent. Still. Dreams. Yes. They could come soon. Hadric was tired, and in sleep there was no pain of the body. Only the pain of the heart.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:25, Fri 15 May 2015.

Versa's Diary

15th Henam – I'll confess I've never written in a diary before. Not even when I was a young girl. The Captain of this ship, Jorino, I think his name was, was kind enough to allow me to purchase passage south, and not being short of money, I paid well enough for a room of my own. The previous occupant of this room was his own daughter, who he would take with him on his trading voyages around Mercia, but he told me she died of a fever two years past. Shame, for the Captain is a good and true gentleman, and has supplied me with many provisions to make my journey comfortable; including this empty book, a diary he had purchased for his daughter but was never given. I felt somewhat reluctant accepting it, knowing it's intended recipient, but he told me that it could only make him happy knowing it's being put to use by a beautiful woman. Looking back, I wonder if that wasn't a subtle attempt to flirt with me? If it was, I didn't notice, nor would I respond. I have too much to think about already; perhaps writing in this diary will help with that. My own daughter is still alive. And I'll do whatever it takes to find her. ...even if she doesn't want me to.

15th Henam - Later, evening – My writing was interrupted earlier as one of the ship's boys brought me dinner, which was a pleasant meal. It's almost night now, and I can see the lurid sun sinking beneath the Tigryn Sea outside the porthole of my cabin. I'd better recount the day before I forget all that's happened, something I shall try to do as objectively as I can. Perhaps in doing so, I won't overlook any clues as to my quest. ...That's a lie. I don't know why I lie to myself, in my own writings, who I doubt anyone else will see. I know I'm writing as a comfort, to the lonliness of my travels, and to unravel this tangle of emotions that has only become more entangled since I began my search. But I digress, and will begin as I intended.


After recovering from my trials that took place beneath the city of Herrod, and with many thanks to the priests who aided my convalescence, I set out to question the various harbor masters and find a lead to the whereabouts of my daughter. The piers of Herrod are especially lively places, where ships come and go with great frequency, and I knew that finding information on a particular person who came and went would be unlikely. But the Goddess must be watching over me for as fate would have it, after a few unfruitful conversions already, I finally encountered a harbor master who remembered her, though perhaps not for the best of reasons.

I approached this harbor master on the northern side of the bay. He was a pudgy man, who had clearly made a sizable amount of money from his position, more than his position alone would imply. His attire, a velvet waistcoat, velvet cap, and leather trousers to match, all of which were slightly too small for his chubby limbs, were a testament to the wealth he had gained. I suspected this was due to rich fees he earned from the pirates I hear so much about, but I had no time to be concerned by this. I gave him a description of my daughter and his face immediately twisted into a scowl. He responded something like the following:

"That girl. Yes, I remember her. Deserves a whipping that one."

I was thrilled to hear that someone had seen her and that my search wasn't a futile one, but at the same time I was distressed, even angry, about the last remark. Obviously I hadn't told him of my relation to her yet, and decided that it would be best to keep silent on that point. Masking my ambivalence with a polite smile, I continued with my inquiry, "Can you tell me what happened, and where she went?"

He added an incongruous smirk to his scowl, and said, "If you want to know that, you got to pay the fee. Such things ain't free in this town miss." He outstretched his hand, expectant of a bribe; I now knew where his additional revenue came from. I was appalled by the behavior of this fat and greedy man, but, knowing I must hear what he had to say, and not wanting to risk losing that by attempting another means of persuasion, I reluctantly gave him a gold coin.

Without hesitation he accepted it and began to expound, "I remember that horrible girl well. She came this way a month ago, approached and asked me where she could find a ship to Terrignis Mare, that Isle down south. Naturally, I ask for my very reasonable fee first. And instead of being a civilized person, like yourself, she threatened me and waved some weapon in my face, demanding the information! Wretched thing." Upon hearing this, I found myself sympathizing with her completely, and briefly wondered if I shouldn't have done the same thing. There was still the opportunity to do so afterall. What he said next brought me even closer to the latter option as he finished, "I thought of sending her onto a slave ship instead!"

Rarely have I felt that fierce protectiveness a lioness feels for her cub, but at the thought of such a cruel fate for my child, my motherly ire had become fully ablaze. I fear I did not fully contain my emotion when I asked, "Did you?" If only he knew how much his response mattered. However, I don't think he noticed the lapse in my restraint, for he unhesitatingly continued, "Unfortunately no. None of the slavers were headed there that day. I gave her the name of some merchant vessel and sent her on her way. Good riddance." It soothed me to hear that she was well, at least when she left Herrod, as well as her destination.

After this, I asked him where I might also find passage to Terrignis Mare, to which he replied, "Going after her? I hope you're a bounty hunter of some sort; and she gets what's coming to her. There's a merchant vessel on the far end of the pier that's leaving this afternoon, captained by a man named Jorino. They make a stop at Terrignis Mare."

"Thank you," I replied in a stilted tone, trying to disguise my displeasure at such want to see my daughter harmed.

Normally I would have walked away, having felt a strong inclination to depart from this despicable person quickly. However, at this point I felt such dislike for the harbor master that I was reluctant to leave without having my contained anger satisfied in some way, after having to bear all the terrible remarks concerning my daughter. I considered making a display of my sword, for it was apparent he had a coward's heart; but I knew this wasn't a fitting thing for a knight of my status to do, especially being a paladin of Sophia. And though he was a despicable person, he was not so evil as to merit such a brazen reproach. So I did the next best thing: to his complete surprise, I shoved him off the dock and into the water! It was truly satisfying. The corpulent little man fell in with a splash and bobbed back up fuming with vulgar insults and whining over his ruined clothes. While he still floated in the filthy water I said a second time, "Again, thank you," as formally as I could and departed, leaving the very upset harbor master as he was.


At the end of the pier, I eventually found the ship belonging to Captain Jorino – the vessel was named Gilbretta – and spoke with him about passage to Terrignis Mare. To my relief, he was nothing like the harbor master, and he made the impression of an honest man on me. I told him of my relief, and he also confessed his dislike for the harbor master here. Hearing this, I decided to further share my concluding interaction with the harbor master, to which the Captain laughed buoyantly. I think this fact sealed the Captain's favorable opinion of me and and ensured his assent to my request for passage.
We set sail a couple hours later, leaving the city of Herrod behind and beginning on the trade route down the coast of Perdane. The Captain informed me that a direct route to Terrignis Mare would take 3-4 days, but due to the frequent trade stops they'd be making, it would take approximately a week if the weather fared. So I'll have ample time to write in this diary during the voyage. I've already grown accustomed to the gentle rolling of the ship as it moves across the sea. Night has completely fallen now, and I've been writing the latter part of this entry by candlelight. Time for sleep, and may my future days be just as satisfying and unimpeded as this one.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:15, Thu 30 July 2015.

In reply to Adwonus Swillman (msg # 36):
Black Knight Part 3

“We can’t,”  it came to him like a hammer. </Red> “You know we can’t.”</Red>
Hadric stood there, heart aching. His eyes were closed, but he could still feel her presence. Her scent filled his head with peaceful thoughts. Quiet and soft meshings. His head was bowed, and the time when sticks were his weapons was years behind him. “Open your eyes.” There was the slightest hardness to her voice that made him obey her. And only her. The warrior lifted his brow and stared into her eyes. Gold like the sun, a trait from her elvish mother no doubt. Her skin glowed with  healthy bronze and her hair fell in pale strands. But her eyes. They were a world unto themselves. Today it was a world wracked in sadness. They could have made him cry. The two of them stood on wooden floors, a straw mattress in the corner, heavily ruffled, blankets thrown carelessly across the floor. Over a decade or so had passed since the early days, and Hadric had grown strong and heavy. But here, in this moment he felt small, like a crab at the shore of the sea. No clothes adorned the two lovers. The past hour had seemed to last a small eternity, and at the same time less than the blink of an eye. She took his hands in hers. They were strong, the hands of a sculptress and potter. Just that little touch made his heart race, his chest cavity expand with a anticipating breath. She raised them a bit, massaging his palms with hers.
“You know what will happen.”
Her words stung like fire. Hadric let go of her palms and grabbed the half elf’s bare hips. Speaking softly to her ear.
“and you know I can’t let you go.” He felt her breathing increase again with his, their hearts beating in unison.  She pushed his hands down from her hips and back to her hands, clasping them tight. The quiet of night around them. “You have already broken one vow… should they discover you, you will be cast out.”
Hadric looked to her with longing eyes. His heart on the verge of cracking away. He could feel her slipping away from him, fell her teetering along the edge.
“I am not the only to take a lover. There are others, have been. But they go with whores. I have found something special, and I cannot just cast it away.”
She sighed.
“I know what we have, Hadric. This hurts me so much that you will never really know. But Hadric, You’re going to have to make a choice, and I feel that it may be made for you.”
Her hands playfully held his, rotating them gently left and right, she continued.
“I know what you are. You’re a warrior.” She gave his hands a gentle squeeze,
“And nothing can take that from you. Not even me. What will you do if they discover you and cast you out? Become a sellsword, roaming, killing for gold?”
There was fire in her voice. He loved it. The knight Pulled her closer to him.
“Who says I have to fight. I could be here, with you. Making things instead of breaking them.” He could feel a wall building around her, brick by brick and did his best to keep it down. “I love you, Laurenth.”
He made the words clear and true as he could. They were legitimate, but she had to feel that truth in her bones. In her heart. They were close again, he could feel her skin against his. Her lips looked up to his eyes and she whispered to him.
“You don’t think I know that? That’s why I’m telling you this Hadric. The Order is a chance for you to fight. To do some good. Violence is evil, but it can accomplish good things. Without a just cause a warrior is no longer a warrior. They are an animal. A killer. I can’t let you lose that purpose.”
She started to push him away. Hadric held onto her elbows instead, gently smiling. He kept the façade up best he could hiding his sheer panic. She could leave him tonight. Never see him again. No. He spoke softer than he had ever spoken before. “You are my purpose. You are my cause. Not the Gods, or the men who follow them, but you are what I fight for.”
He held her still and strong a moment, continuing to speak. “Yes the order took me in, trained, me clothed me, but they didn’t give me a chance to go on my own. To think. To love.”
“They do this to protect you. I know the redirect, Hadric. Attachment beyond the order will make you weak.” Her voice was hard, but her body was soft. She did not push  away from him. She wanted him and She knew it. He knew it. Hadric held her close, letting her feel his strength. “No. You make me stronger. You give me fire. You give me a beacon to come home to. That is why I cannot let you go. That is why the order is wrong to deny this. Could you imagine if everyone of them had a heart to fight for and not just a banner? Not just an old book of words and metaphors?”
She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Then they would be too busy making love instead of fighting.” Her voice had lost its edge. She was won over. But Hadric could still sense the doubt in her heart. Or was it his? The knight could not tell. Her lips moved to his and they exchanged soft sounds and feelings. They stopped before going too far, only one round tonight. He was expected back at the keep. She lay her hands on his chest, and playfully pushed him away. The warrior bent his head and kissed her on the neck, stopping at her belly before returning to his feet. “I have to go.” He hated to say the words. She smiled at him in a way that only Laurneth could. “Get dressed then so I don’t have to look at your ass.” She joked.
“You know you love it.” Hadric smiled sarcastically at her as he put his trousers back on, and as she did the same. Soon they were dressed, and Hadric stood at the door of her bedroom, wishing his feet would turn to cement and keep him here forever. But there was another life he was to lead. His hand rested on the handle and opened it to the back room of Laurenth’s simple shop. The smell of clay and growing things filled his nostrils. He loved that smell more than anything else. Amongst the shelves were dozens of pots, all of different purpose and paint, some in elaborate patterns, others simple and plain. Flowers grew in a few, waiting to be purchased. With reluctance, he kissed Luarenth goodbye one final time and departed out into the cool night air. A long and narrow street of cobblestones and forgotten earth lay before him, ducking into crossroads and bends. The lover took a final deep breath and plodded back along the stones.

22nd Henam – The voyage to Terrignis Mare has been an uneventful one, for which I am glad. I would have been displeased to see any harm befall the Gilbretta or its Captain, Jorino. Many evenings I spent dining at the Captain's table, and he would tell me many stories of his travels. These I were anxious to hear, for I know so little about the Isles of Mercia. I shared some of my own tales of travel, throughout the continents of Cathyria and Kaudos, though I refrained from mentioning any of my more dangerous endeavors, for I preferred for him to think of me as a simple lady rather than a knight. He was very impressed by this and the vast distance I had come. And I'll admit, I've traveled much farther than most people shall ever go in their lifetimes, from the northern point of the world all the way to Terrignis Mare, which might as well be the southern point.

After departing from Herrod, we made several stops along the southeastern coast of Perdane, gathering many types of cargo and selling a few too. I was surprised to see how many towns and villages sit upon the ocean shore, though I did not get a chance to explore them very well. The ship rarely docked longer than a few hours, enough for me to hastily walk about the town before I had to be back; if I weren't back before the new cargo had been stowed, they may well have left without me!

We saw several pirate ships on our route as well, which Captain Jorino pointed out to me. To my eyes, they looked like every other ship, though they often donned some strangely colored flag. However, none of these ships bothered us, for apparently, Captain Jorino had already paid his dues to the pirates by way of the merchant's guild, of which his ship is registered. It pains me to see extortion so ingrained into a society. I would have gladly fought off any ship that beset us, by myself if need be.

For two days we followed the Perdane coastline, and then we launched into the open sea. So for another two days after that, there was nothing but blue horizons all around. The seas were especially rough near the midpoint, where the waves are exposed to the every whim of the wind, but it wasn't anything the Gilbretta couldn't overcome. After this, we reached Ridgepoint Channel, one of the main waterways to Terrignis Mare. It is named Ridgepoint due to the large promontory which bends the channel into a crooked shape; this I clearly saw for myself when we passed it. Ridgepoint Channel was particularly scenic since it passes by the southern coast of Kabariya, a wall of exquisite mountains which enclosed that side of the passage. From the deck of the ship, I could gaze at the snow-covered peaks, sometimes straining my neck to do so. I also noticed when we passed the ridge, the one for which Ridgepoint is named, that atop the cliff lay the ruins of an old watchtower. I pointed this out to Captain Jorino who had never noticed it before, for it was high atop the bluffs and overgrown with vegetation; something to remember should I ever go that island.

The Ridgepoint Channel took a full day to navigate, for it had more than a few rocky islands and shallow parts. The sailors had to lift the main sails and let the current slowly move us, for if we ever lost control of the ship, it could easily have been smashed into the cliffs. But Captain Jorino knew what he was doing, and we made it through with ease.

Then, it was a final two days crossing the Ardens Sea, as the inhabitants of Terrignis Mare reportedly call it, and now, even as I write, I can see the coast of the isle from my window. Another hour or so and we'll be docking, so all my belongings are prepared.

I'll be getting off at a town called Porthladd in the country of Rhyfel. Captain Jorino told me the country is currently at war with its neighbor, Salutem, but apparently, they've always been hostile with each other, and that I should not worry too much this far from the border. Of the inhabitants, he also described them as a strange mixture between barbaric and civilized, having built decent communities and towns but also beset by frequent violence, creating a tight sense of community between some groups. I suppose I'll see for myself soon enough.

Wait. I think I see something in the distance outside my window. It looks like a bright star rising out of the sea, by the horizon. I need a better look -

-- I was right! I ran up to the deck of the ship and sought the lookout who confirmed it. It's a ship, drifting straight for the town of Porthladd. And if neither I nor the lookout is mistaken, the ship is on fire, fully ablaze!
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:23, Tue 28 July 2015.

22nd Henam - Later, evening – As we neared the coastline of Terrignis Mare and the town of Porthladd, we also neared the burning ship, sailing at an angle to us. Smoke rose from it in plumes as it drifted directly for the town, carried by ocean currents. But the town it seemed was prepared for such a plight, for we watched from on deck as two small, oar-powered boats set out from the docks. They hastened side-by-side toward the approaching ship, now fully ablaze. It wasn't until we sailed closer that we noticed they carried something between them, a bundle of chains. Once near the floating mound of fire, the two boats split apart, stretching a wide chain net between them, and then cast anchors fastened to the chain overboard and into the sea. The blazing ship rammed into this net and slowed to a halt; stilled, it burned to ashes safely in the water and eventually crumbled into the sea.

I would later learn that this blazing ship was one their own, that is, belonging to the country of Rhyfel, that had been captured by their enemy neighbor, Salutem. Apparently the practice of sending captured ships aflame toward the enemy was an ancient one, meant to inspire fear and intimidation. I also learned that the Rhyfellen men who previously sailed the ship (at least those who were captured alive) were likely bound and tied within it, doomed to burn or drown. Horrible. Both countries know the isle's ocean currents well, familiar with where ships will end up once given to the sea, and so they only need to jam the rudder and release it in the proper location to have it go where they wish. Even then, it's likely the arsonists did not set the ship aflame until they were fairly close to the shore; meaning we might well have passed near them on our way here.

After observing this terrible war tactic, our own ship finally reached the docks of Porthladd. Even at a distance, our merchant vessel was recognized as friendly, for Salutemian ships are built in a distinct style. We docked in the harbor without any trouble.

Captain Jorino had told me what he could of Rhyfel and the culture here, so I had some idea of what to expect. However, it was not until I gazed upon the landscape that I grasped the harsh conditions that faced those living here, and the reason for such a thin boundary between civilization and barbarianism. The town of Porthladd, as well as the entire eastern region of Rhyfel, was surrounded by a vast grassland abundantly filled with large, protruding rocks and hills. The shape of it resembled a sea in the midst of a violent storm, frozen in in the form of earth. I couldn't see very far in any direction before the view was blocked by some gargantuan crop of boulders or a grassy mound, but I knew at a glance this terrain continued for many, endless miles.

I was also informed that the western half of Terrignis Mare (and thus the entire country of Rhyfel) receives almost no rain at all, nor scarcely any clouds, due to the strange ocean currents of Mercia. Above, I can see only a single faint wisp carried by fast winds, but otherwise, it is a solid blue sky. In addition the isle of Terrignis Mare is very far southeast compared to the rest of Mercia; in fact, it is almost the farthest any isle can be, making it distant from the hot ocean currents that flow into Mercia from the west and which warm the whole archipelago. The result of these contrasting features of weather is a savage dichotomy: a scorching, unimpeded sun during the day; and at night, I'm told the temperature falls so low, that any man who can't find shelter before sunset may easily be found dead come morning, his lungs frozen. Yet never a flake of snow.

Another result of this contrast is a lack of vegetation. I have yet to see a tree or shrub large enough for even a child to sit beneath – merely rocks and grass and jagged hills. I'm told that farther west, toward Rhyfel's capital of Rhuddlan, that even the grass disappears and all that remains is sand, dirt, and stone – a badlands. I'm marveled that people survive in environments such as this. At least here in Porthladd I can see flocks of sheep on the hills, along with other livestock I can't make out. I'm certain their thick wool and furs keep them warm at night, and there's definitely plenty of pasture for such creatures outside the town.


The town of Porthladd itself is built entirely of stone. Small wonder, for stone is something in large supply here. The buildings are fairly square and tall; most are built two or three stories high. I suppose this feature of architecture is based in their culture. Some buildings have an occasional spire that soars twice as high as everything else. These all have a needle-like point on top with strange objects along the needle. I think these are religious in nature.

I would continue my description of this strange, new place, but I hear the crew now beginning to unload their cargo, and I must make arrangements for my next course of action. I have asked, with some subtlety, the sailors of the Gilbretta of who in Rhyfel would be skilled at finding someone, with little more than a description to guide them. Most knew little of the country let alone its people, but one older sailor had heard of a man who could help me, and that he could be found in a village called Lloches a few days travel south of here. He said this man used to be an ex-member of some group called the Specters, whatever that is. He gave me a name: Dracio Ahijira...

23rd Henam – My last night on the Gilbretta was a cold one. The wooden hull of the ship was constantly battered by the cold winds of Rhyfel. Thankfully the sailors had purchased thick, wool blankets from town that day. If they hadn't been kind enough to lend me one, the night would have been unbearable.

When the sun rose, the cruel iciness of the night was swiftly dispelled. In fact, the transition from cold to hot was so swift and sudden, that it gave me a headache for nearly an hour after; everyone assures me that this will go away once I've spent a few days on the isle. Gathering my things, I said farewell to the crew and to Captain Jorino, who gave a heartfelt goodbye and an assurance of his friendship from here out. Finally, I left the ship, and stepped onto the isle of Terrignis Mare.

The town of Porthladd was filled with tall, stone buildings and spires, and all surrounded by a great stone wall, which had crumbled to pieces in some places. Everything looked very old, and there were few signs of any recent construction. But at last I was able to see the people up close. About two-thirds or so of the people I saw were human with tan-colored skin. Almost all of them wore long, wool robes and a headscarf that hid everything save their face; this was no doubt to protect them from the sun during the day, and from the frozen winds during the night. The other one-third of the people were elves! This was rather surprising for me, because I had never known elves to live in such an extreme climate. I've traveled almost all over the world, and always, the elves cling to comfortable places – like the tropical forests of Galia or Noanatu or Shan-tai, or the seasonal forests of Kaudos and southern Cathyria – never a barren land like this! I wonder if there is a reason for so many elves living here, and perhaps Terrignis Mare at large? I suppose I'll learn this in time. In any case, the elves were dressed fairly similar to the human population, except that their wool outfits were more decorated, embroidered with designs and small ornaments.

I explored town for some time looking for a means of passage south, one that would take me to the village Lloches. However, I was met with an immediate problem - most people refused to the common tongue with me! I'm certain that they knew it, for most all people in the world do, and Terrignis Mare is no isolated place; but whenever I approached someone, they would always respond to me in a tongue I didn't understand and scowl.

After enduring several encounters like this, I finally came across a caravan preparing to leave town, and spotted a white-skinned man among their number and approached him. For the first time, I received a friendly response in a comprehensible language and we exchanged courtesies. His voice had a rich Kabariyan accent. He introduced himself as Habstat Viz, a Styrien trader who had settled here. I told him what my intentions were, and that I'd be willing to pay for passage; but to my surprise he laughed! I'd soon find out this was because of my lack of understanding toward Rhyfellen culture, something I'm sure I'll experience again. He said, "I apologize for laughing my new friend. It is only that you are such a strange sight that I do! You see, it is unheard of for Rhyfellen women to handle money or discuss matters of transaction; this is always done by the men of their tribes, or at the very least their husbands. You are lucky you found me! I may well be the only one here who would understand your conduct is normal outside Terrignis Mare. Come, come! I would be happy for you to join my caravan. It would be my honor as a Styrien to aid a lovely woman such as yourself, as well as to converse in civil tongues once more. Come, come! We shall soon depart!"

This was relief to me, for it now seemed the wind was blowing in my favor again. And I didn't mind letting my feminine charm help either!

Within the hour, I took my place among Habstat Viz's wagons, and the caravan set out the gates of Porthladd. He told me that it was essential for travelers to leave in the morning, for they had to reach their destination or campsite by dusk, or they would never find it and suffer a full night of frozen winds. Knowledge of the various campsites and safe havens was a valuable currency among travelers, with some being well known and others kept secret. According to Habstat Viz, the place we are supposed to take refuge in tonight is well known by the locals but rarely used as a campsite by them. This is because it's supposed to be cursed, but he tells me this is merely local superstition and that he's used it many times. Tonight, we are to camp at the ruined city of Adfail.

23rd Henam – later, evening – It was a full day of traveling after we left Porthladd. The caravan could only move so fast due to its size. Our convoy numbered ten covered wagons and about thirty horses, and it paused only every two hours or so to rest. In addition there were about twenty-five men, most of whom worked for Habstat Viz; there were a few other independent traders, but their number of horses and goods were much smaller.

I traveled alongside Habstat Viz in one his wagons. I recall being interested by the material used to cover the wagons, for it was stretched to extreme tightness. Pressing my finger to the canvas, it wouldn't budge an inch; no doubt it was made to withstand the harsh winds when they came. However, we almost always traveled in the vales of rocky hills, so the wind didn't hinder us too much.

There was very little to see on the journey. As I expected, the crops of stones and rugged grassland continued for miles in every direction. Habstat Viz told me that if we were to head farther east though, that we'd see the tips of the Vulnerian Sky Mountains by nightfall; this is the mountain range that separates Rhyfel from their hostile neighbor, Salutem. Most of the trek I spent conversing with Habstat Viz, for which I was glad. He explained much to me that had previously been a mystery. For instance, he explained that the Rhyfellen people do know the common tongue, but this is considered a trade language with the other isles - not something used in everyday life – and that the Rhyfellen people don't have one native language but three! There is the standard Rhyfellen language which is used in most all towns and cities (simply called Rhyfellen), but this is a relatively new language, arising no more than ten generations ago. Then, there is the old language (or languages) called Cyndadi. Apparently this is a broad group of related languages still used by the smaller tribes and nomads; they're mostly similar but vary in dialect between tribe, which can make communication difficult sometimes. Lastly there is the elven language, Iagua, which is pretty much the same among all Rhyfellen elves.

Habstat Viz taught me some useful words and phrases in each of the languages. I gave my full attention to this, for I wanted to have some way to speak in a normal fashion, as well as understand what they are saying! By the time we reached our campsite, I could make a small amount of conversion – though as Habstat Viz liked to joke, I sounded like a child!

But finally we reached the ruined city of Adfail. And indeed there wasn't much left of it. Built on a plateau, all that remained were numerous stone walls and pillars scattered across a wide space. Most of it had long crumbled away, leaving lonely walls and incomplete structures in seemingly random places. In between them were many mounds where the grass and dirt had buried debris. The structures spread over a fairly large area, marking the size of a city that was once, perhaps, larger than Porthladd. It was only near the center of this area that a substantial cluster of ruins still stood. It was there that we were to make camp.


All the horses were guided into the shelter of the ruins while the wagons were parked in front of any gaps where the wind might intrude. The men immediately made camp, setting up low, rounded tents. None of the ancient buildings possessed a roof anymore, but the walls were high enough the break the cold night winds.

My tent was prepared for me by a few of the men, and I've just entered and arranged my bed, which is more comparable to a pile of wool and furs than an actual bed. I look forward to sleeping tonight. I'd say things have gone well so far. And each day that passes, I move closer to my goal – closer to my daughter.


23rd Henam – later, some time at night – It's the middle of the night, and I'm far from sleep after what's happened. I must start this entry from the beginning.

After we made camp, the men made a fire and served the dinner meal, which consisted mainly of lamb and kind of doughy bread. I also used this chance to socialize and test some of my new language skills. My mispronunciation of some words entertained them pretty thoroughly, for, as I learned later, some of my misspoken phrases had more lewd, alternate meanings!

But when dusk came, everyone retreated to their tents to escape the coming chill of night. I climbed under my wool blankets and fell asleep for what I am guessing was two hours or so. Then something awoke me.

Lying in my bed, I could hear the fierce winds blowing overhead. They didn't disturb the tent much, protected as it was by the walls of the ruin, but the howling sound still pervaded the campsite. But it was not only the wind I heard. I could hear voices too. I couldn't imagine who would be awake at this hour, especially with how exhausting the days were, so I decided to step out my tent and see what was happening. Naturally, I took my greatsword and slung it on my back, which had long been my habit. Wrapping myself in a wool blanket, I exited my tent; my lungs felt a little painful as they inhaled the first, sudden breath of icy air, but I ceased to notice this after a few minutes. I walked out into the campsite and looked around for the source of the voices but saw nobody awake – everything was dark and the only sound I could hear was the wind. And then the voices returned.

It sounded like faint, distant whispers. I could not tell what was said, for it didn't even sound Rhyfellen in language. It was both quiet and loud as the same time, as though someone was whispering right into my ear. I searched and searched for any people nearby and again saw no one, but it seemed to be coming loudest from a passage not far from me, a roofless hall leading away from camp (and one of the few gaps we had not blocked with a wagon). Knowing I would be unable to rest without seeing for certain whether this was my imagination or not, I stepped into the passage and left the tents behind.

A cold breeze seeped from above into this part of the ruin, numbing the tips of my ears and fingers. I walked for about twenty feet until the hall opened into another spacious part of the ruined city. Like our campsite, broken walls and pillars littered the area; by the stone on the ground, I presumed it was once a city plaza. The starlight alone illuminated this place of debris and forgotten things; and there, in the midst of it all, I saw shadows.

Black silhouettes of tall figures moved, barely discernible from the rest of the night. They could only be seen by being slightly darker than the blackness of the ruin. Even now, I wonder if I truly saw anything at all. The shadows seemed to whisper to each other and move and dance, as though they were living out a scene long past. Hearing this dead speech brought chills in me that the wind could never cause.

Suddenly a hand grasped my shoulder. My greatsword was half unsheathed by the time I turned, only to see the face of a Rhyfellen man from our campsite. I knew him to be one of Habstat Viz's workers.

He frowned at me and spoke something in Rhyfellen I didn't know. Seeing my blank response, he resorted to using common and spoke again, "What are you doing?" His tone was curt. "I heard voices," I replied. "And look," I gestured to the ruined plaza where the shadows still danced, still whispered their ethereal conversations. But the Rhyfellen man only glanced at them before he returned his gaze on me. "They are ghosts of this place," he said. "We no bother them. They no bother us. This is best. Come, we go back to camp."

He began to leave but moved slowly, wanting to ensure I left as well. I considered my options and decided to indeed return to camp. I was not afraid of ghosts, but if there was a chance that my investigation of this could cause trouble for the caravan, it was not a chance I would want to take.

So I followed him back and he departed without a word, I assume to go back to his own tent. I returned to mine and here I lay, writing all this in my journal, for I was in no state to fall asleep. But writing all this has finally made me tired, so I think I'll stop here. --The whispers have stopped...
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:04, Wed 05 Aug 2015.

24th Henam, morning – We've departed the ruins of Adfail and are on the move again. I'm sitting in one of the covered wagons now. We left bright and early this morning with the dawn, for as soon as the sun rose, the winds eased up and terrible cold vanished. The daylight is certainly valuable here.

I read over the entry concerning the events of last night. I'm glad I wrote it all down. I fear I would've dismissed it as a dream if I hadn't. Speaking of dreams, I just remembered I had a strange dream last night as well. I can't at all remember what it was; I only know that it happened, and that it was strange. I suppose that's rather typical of dreams. In any case, now that we've left the ruin, I expect my nights will be more normal once again.

Out in the grasslands, things seem very much at peace. Now that I've become accustomed to the steady sound of wind, I almost don't even notice it anymore. And as a result, I've been able to appreciate the landscape here more than I first did. There really is a kind of beauty to it – the grass-covered hills, the crops of boulders larger than houses, the cloudless blue sky to brighten it all – it's both desolate and peaceful at the same time. It could be called a wasteland, for few crops seem to grow here (I assume the cold and wind kills the seeds, and the rocky ground would making plowing impossible), but it could also be called a place of rest. Everything's so simple. The animals and grass and shrubs - they're all adapted to this cycle. The wind, no matter how brutal, causes little more than a gentle ripple through the grass, whose roots grow far deeper than grass found elsewhere. The animals hibernate at night, barely stirring an inch; and they awaken the moment sunlight peaks over the hills, as fresh and spry as could be. Despite such an extreme climate of frightening wind and cold and scorching sun, everything here has found a harmonious way of living.

Look at me! Being fanciful and poetic. I think I'm getting the hang of this diary thing. Anyway, I'm off to practice my Rhyfellen with Habstat Viz.


24th Henam, evening - Note to self: avoid saying the Cyndadi word "gledr." It means staff, but apparently it has an alternate meaning as well, one I need not mention.


25th Henam, evening – Yesterday we traveled from dawn til dusk until we reached our destined campsite, a gorge between two steep hills. Although it didn't protect from the night winds as much as the stone ruins of Adfail, the night was much more restful (and free of strange happenings!).

When morning came, we set off again southward. Throughout this time I practiced my language skills with both Habstat Viz and the workers who drove the other wagons and horses. There was little else to do except converse, so this was the natural pastime. Having put considerable effort into listening and learning all I can, I'd say my understanding has grown significantly, and I can now speak in Rhyfellen, Cyndadi, and Iagua enough to make clear all my basic needs.

As we headed farther south, Habstat Viz also aided with my understanding of the local area and how to continue my journey; for as I learned earlier, the caravan won't be travelling through the village of Loches – where I hope to find this Dracio Ahijira – but rather the larger town of Tref which is nearby. Habstat Viz explained that, at least to his knowledge, no caravans passed through Loches, for the village was far too small and remote. So I think I have an idea of what I'll do in mind. When we reach the town of Tref, I'll purchase a horse (perhaps Habstat Viz will sell me one of his?) and hire a guide if I feel it's needed. Habstat Viz showed me his map of the region, and although I could likely find my way, I'd only wish to do so as a last resort; for much could go wrong that would require local knowledge, and getting lost could mean my death.

Tref is about two or three hours away now. Thus far I haven't seen any town aside from Porthladd, and I wonder if they'll have the same comforts as elsewhere in the isles? The warm bed of a wayside inn would be a great relief after three days and two nights of such enduring travel. Rhyfel is certainly a difficult place to carve an existence, and I've acquired a new respect the people who live here. Now that I think about it, I wonder what drove my daughter to come down here? If she is even here at all?

In fact, would if that harbormaster back in Herrod was mistaken and led me astray? No, his description was too exact – it couldn't have been anyone else. But now the doubt is within me, causing a terrible anxiety. Is my whole mission futile? How could I ever hope to find one person amidst the whole world? How--

--I had to take a break from writing and spent some time in prayer. It's been awhile since my thoughts have turned to the Heavenly Mother, Sophia, so consumed they have been with the new world and dangers before me. I must not forget. And indeed I feel more at ease having said my old prayers. I know my daughter is here somewhere. I could feel the Goddess confirm it in my heart. Essra, I pray I find you soon.

Wait, the caravan has stopped--

--I must write quickly! When our caravan passed through the valley of two, stone-covered hills, horsemen appeared on the ridges of both sides; there must be forty of them in total, and each one is bearing a hefty sword. From the shouting and panic among the workers, the horsemen are no doubt one of the small, marauding tribes of the wastes. I now hear their horses charging down the banks! We're in an ambush!
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:14, Sat 08 Aug 2015.

25th Henam – later, evening – Once I heard the hooves of horses charging down the hill, to swarm in upon us, I did what must be done. I unsheathed my greatsword and leapt from the covered wagon, to defend the caravan and my friends to my utmost ability.

Many of the workers had drawn swords and arms which had been previously stored in one of the wagons. Even Habstat Viz was there, carrying a decorative sword of his own. When he saw me, he shouted for me to retreat to safety while they held off the marauders. But I knew he only said this because he perceived me to be a gentle woman, and not the knight that I am. He had little time to give me any further attention, for then the enemy horsemen swept down upon the men.

In this first instant, I saw, to my pain, many of the caravan workers felled, for they were outmatched by the cavalry descending on them, and had no time to mount the tethered, unsaddled horses of our own stock. Nearly eight of our twenty-five companions fell dead in this first stroke.

I lost no time in charging to the fore. Although our foes were mounted, my greatsword was unhindered in reaching them upon their saddles. As one horseman finished his charge down the rocky banks, I bolted toward him. My opponent was briefly startled on seeing me, no doubt at the fact I was woman, but his surprise subsided once I deftly swung my blade and, bashing against his breastplate, knocked him from his horse. He hastily scrambled from the ground and swung his sword at me wildly. He swung many times and missed. I needed only to swing once, and he fell dead with his neck rent asunder.

I turned to the next horseman, who was engaged with one of the caravan workers, and I slayed him as well with a swift stroke. I continued this again and again, dashing between foes and making short work of them, to the surprise of both opponent and friend. Very quickly, the men of the caravan and those of the marauding tribe began to notice the skillfulness with which I moved about the battlefield and the sheer number of foes I had slain. By this time, I must have felled at least ten of the marauders by my own hand,. But even so, the battle was not looking good, for the marauders still outnumbered us by many.

Then, as I slayed another horseman, plunging my sword through his chest as he landed upon the ground, the battle came to a strange and sudden halt. The marauders, though still armed and battle ready, backed away with their eyes focused on my person. The survivors of the caravan, including Habstat Viz whose sword was well-bloodied, held their defensive stance, anticipating another charge. But a charge did not come. Instead, two horsemen trotted forward from the horde until they were about twenty paces from us. One of the horseman was heavily donned with ornaments, with small bells attached to his robe and golden jewelry about his wrists and head.

He spoke in a dialect of Cyndadi that was not fully comprehensible to me. Habstat Viz, now standing a few feet away, looked at me with an uncommon blend of emotion. "He is speaking to you Versa. I don't like what he is saying. Would you like my to translate nonetheless?"

"Yes," I replied, "That would be best."

"Very well." As the ornamented horseman spoke, Habstat Viz translated for my ears. "He says, Woman with hair as red as fire, who fights like a demon of the Redlands, you have killed many of us and have earned my respect. But we outnumber you still, and will defeat you long before you defeat us. A woman such as you, who wields the sword better than most men, is a like a rare jewel to be attained and treasured. I, Chief Odovcor, leader of the Vicnovii tribe, will agree to leave this caravan in peace, on the sole condition that you become my wife, and live at my side among the Vicnovii."

For several moments my mind was a blur, for this request was far from what I expected. Habstat Viz added of his own voice and accord, "And I'll mention I don't approve of this one bit my dear Versa. I'll gladly fight these pigs to the death, rather than barter you away for our own sakes."

"I'm touched by your valiance my friend," I replied. Unfortunately, have surveyed the odds and found them against us, I already knew my answer. In my best Cyndadi, I spoke loud enough for all to hear, "I accept."

Chief Odovcor understood and grinned widely, and a ripple of both shock and relief undulated through the remaining caravan workers, as well as Habstat Viz. Of the twenty-five or so members of our caravan, there were now less than half, and the marauding tribe of the Vicnovii still doubled our numbers, not to mention being on horseback. I was displeased at being caught in this position, but I would never, for any reason, sacrifice the lives of innocents to preserve my own selfish goals.

One of the marauders then brought me a horse to ride. At the same time, Habstat Viz whistled for one of his men to fetch something from the wagons. The man brought me my armor, which I had kept carefully stowed in a bundle. I had been hesitant to wear it thus far or risk bringing undue attention to myself, but now, I fear attention has come to me, whether I wished for it or not. He attached it to the saddle of my horse, and he also gave me a few of my personal possessions, including this diary. Habstat Viz then approached me, handing me a small trinket from his person – a ring – and bade me farewell, "Versa, your ferocity and goodness of heart is impeccable, worthy of any Styrien knight. May this gift bring you luck. You will be honored among us. And, I hope this fate which faces you is not a permanent one."

"Goodbye my friend. Your words will be held dear to me, and, I too hope to find some way to overcome this."

Having said our farewells, I mounted the horse provided for me. Chief Odovcor and his marauders then kept their word and departed. I rode at the front not far from the Chieftain, though I frequently glanced back to catch a final glimpse of the caravan. But very soon, we crested the ridge of the rocky hill and departed into the west. For an hour now we have been traveling, during which time I've written all this into the diary; with dusk nearly upon us, I imagine we'll reach our destination soon. I can scarcely imagine what's in store for me now.

26th Henam, morning – As dusk fell last night, the convoy of marauders, of whom I was now a voluntary captive, entered a wide valley between two rocky hills. In the center of this valley stood what appeared to be an ancient and derelict castle. The highest parts of its towers had long fallen away and were now strewn across the surrounding ground in piles of debris. Beside this old structure was a small body of water, a rare oasis among the wastelands. This hidden place provided a natural shelter and water source for the Vicnovii tribe.


We dismounted our horses, and I was shown into the castle. The base floor of the castle had many wide and spacious chambers with high ceilings. However, it was clear that the Vicnovii did not build this structure, for they used these chambers much differently than their intended purposes. In what might have been a magnificent hall centuries past was now filled with tents, furs, tools, beds, fires, and women and children. It was an entire village. The kids, wearing either wool robes or garments of horse fur, ran about in wild excitement as the men entered. The women were busy with various chores and seemed responsible for all the food, cooking, and other essential tasks.

The main residences of the tribe spread into most rooms on the lowest floor of the castle, and these rooms were usually shared by at least several families. We lingered here for nearly an hour as they brought in some fallen tribesmen (more than a few slain by me) and made preparations elsewhere. I assume they were arranging my living situation at this time. Finally a few men guided me to a staircase which we took to the second floor. The halls and rooms were more sparse of people here; it was clear these were reserved for either special members of the tribe or very specific purposes. At the end of the hall they gave me a room. The room had been newly draped with furs and silks in a more lavish display than the residences I had seen downstairs. Inside were waiting two women. One of the men who had guided me spoke in Cyndadi, which I'll will write in Common from here on out for my own sake. "These women are your servants. They get anything you need."

I nodded to show I understood. With no further cordiality or explanations, the men departed, leaving me to my chambers, for which I was glad. I did not greet the two women but instead went straight to my bed of furs and blankets and collapsed, proceeding to sleep. Thankfully they did not bother me and left me to my chambers. In truth, I was not tired, even though night had fallen outside; I simply wanted to be alone. I had a lot on my mind.


28th Henam – I've been among the Vicnovii for three days now. In that time I've learned much about them. I wish I had remembered to write in my diary more often, for there's simply too much to say!

First I'll talk about the two women bound to me. One is a fairly young girl in her early twenties named Thes, and the other is an older woman named Weisi. Honestly I don't know what I would have done without them in this foreign place. Weisi is a very gracious woman with a motherly character to her. She attends to me as if I were her own daughter. The very first day, after a somewhat depressive night, she brought me numerous new clothes befitting a future princess of a Rhyfellen tribe. Before this, I had always worn my old clothes from the civilized world, which predictably made me stand out. She replaced these with wool robes of elegant shape and design, along with golden ornaments for my wrists, ankles, and neck, to assert my future status among the Vicnovii. With the exceptions of my red hair and not-so-tan skin, I now look like I belonged in the country Rhyfel, and with a royal status no less.

Weisi has also been teaching me the Vicnovii dialect of Cyndadi everyday and has shown terrific patience with me. She insists it's only because I'm such a great student. It's only been three days and I can now speak with excellent fluency, though I still have trouble with some uncommon words.

Thes has been helpful as well, bringing me meals, water, and other necessities, and although I'm always kind to her, she seems to bear a resentment toward me. She complies with my requests but carries them out with a kind of reluctance and an anger in her eyes. This led me to wonder just how much freedom did these women possess? Were they servants or slaves? What exactly was their role here?

So I brought this up with Weisi one night who explained it to me. She said, "Yes and no, Madame." (I translate 'Mret' as 'Madame'. In reality, this word has a connotation of being a part of the Chieftain's retinue and is also used to address his daughters and sisters). "We are, in a way, wives of the Chieftain, though not in the same way you shall be. You see, all women of age must be married to a husband as soon as possible in the Vicnovii tribe; his wives form his retinue and attend to his needs and children, while he is responsible for their safety and ensuring they are well supplied. Should a man die in a certain way, such as battle with an enemy or illness, his retinue becomes that of the Chieftain's. The women become his wives, though not his true wives. It is the same if a father of a child died; his children would become the Chieftain's children." "Like a godfather," I suggested. "I don't know this word," she replied to my use of a Common tongue term. "But I think you understand. However, it is the Chieftain's duty also to see the women of his retinue, who are not his true wives, married off again to other young men of the tribe, as well as give orphaned children to new parents. Or put them to some other duty that he wishes. Otherwise his retinue might become very large!"

She continued, "I was not actually born in the Vicnovii tribe but of the Fasnach tribe. The Vicnovii raided us and took me away when I was a young girl, and I was married to one of my captors the next day." "That's awful," I uttered. Her voice became tinged with melancholy, "Yes. It was especially terrible, for my captor was the same man who killed my husband-to-be among the Fasnach, a boy I loved very much." She sighed, then she weakly smiled, I expect for my sake. "But this is the way things are done among the small tribes. Men prize wives from outside the tribe, for they bring new blood. Otherwise family would be with family after a very short time. This is why Chief Odovcor desires you so. You are very different, and he hopes your skill as a warrior will pass into his children with you." I had to restrain a shudder at the mention of this. She did not notice. "My husband has died - I confess this did not bother me so much, for he was a very cruel man - so now I belong to the Chieftain. Thes is the same, though unlike me, she was born among the Vicnovii. And the Chieftain then gave us to you, though we are still of his retinue. So we must do as you say until the time comes we are given to another man of the tribe. So we are not slaves as some might be, but if I wished to return to the Fasnach and see my brothers and sisters again, I would not be permitted to. However this is not so different for most women of the Vicnovii."

This was certainly a strange culture to me, and I disapproved at the lack of choice the women seemed to have. I decided to ask the question that had been haunting me. "When am I supposed to marry the Chieftain?" Weisi replied, "All Vicnovii marriages are done on the full moon day, when the gods are closest. This is ten days from now."

Ten days, I thought to myself. So this is how long I have left to escape this place.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:19, Mon 17 Aug 2015.

29th Henam – I've been thinking at length on how to escape, and the task has proven more difficult than I expected. The frozen winds make travel extremely hazardous at night, and although this would be the ideal time to sneak away, I could not even leave the castle. Most can only make it a few miles in the open wasteland before the body freezes and fails, followed by death. I could steal one of the horses, but I doubt I could rouse them from their nightly hibernation; during this time, their bodies become as still as stone, and their hearts too slow and silent to even feel.

So a nighttime escape is impossible. I could steal a horse and flee in the evening I suppose, but I don't know the surrounding terrain at all. I don't know where I could find a safe shelter for the night in time before the sun sets, and my fate would be the same as before.

If I had a full day to travel, I think I could trace my way back to the place of our ambush and find my own way to the village of Loches. So at the very least, I must leave this place in the morning. This, however, is made difficult for other reasons. The foremost reason is that the entire tribe awakens at dawn. And during the full course of the day this ruined castle is teeming with people. Even if I successfully sneak or fight my way to the horses, steal one, and successfully flee, I'll then be pursued, and the Vicnovii know their lands far better than I do.

The constraints are clear. I need to find away to leave in the morning, with a horse, and on peaceful enough terms with Vicnovii so that they do not pursue me. I have my work cut out for me.


1st Dynam, evening - Much has happened today. I'll start from the beginning.

Today is seven days from the day of my marriage to Chief Odovcor. So today, I was to be introduced and displayed to the entire Vicnovii tribe. In the largest hall of the castle there was to be a great banquet, and the every member of the tribe would be there. Weisi and Tres, my two handmaidens, came to my chambers early and began the process of readying me. This process lasted many hours.

First I was bathed, and they were very thorough. It had been a long time since someone else had bathed me or seen me naked, not since I had been in the noble house of my father, in the Kingdom of Feldauris, where he kept many servants for such things. That place is so far away now. While I soaked in the pleasantly warm waters, they meticulously combed my hair, attended to my nails, and more. I'll admit I enjoyed this, despite the occasion of the evening looming over me. Once I left the bath and dried myself, we immediately began the next phase of my preparation. First I had to lay unclothed on my back on a prepared space. At this time several more women entered the room, carrying with them pestles, powders, water, brushes, and other little tools. This was much less comfortable for me and was a novel experience.

For three hours they painted my entire body. It took one hour to paint the front of me, then another hour leaving me to dry, and finally, I had to rotate onto my stomach so they could paint my other side. Every inch of my skin was painted gold followed by a few ocher-colored stripes around my shoulders. I wish the Vicnovii had mirrors. No doubt I looked like a statue when they were finished.

When the paint dried they finally dressed me, after being naked for nearly half the day. I was donned in lavish robes that had been cut to reveal much of the gold-painted skin, as well as ornamented with golden bracelets and other jewelry. I didn't look human anymore, which I suspect was the point. It must have some religious significance - perhaps I'm meant to resemble a god? I'm not sure.


But at last the process was finished and the banquet ready to begin. I was guided downstairs to the largest hall followed by the retinue of women who prepared me this morning. The chamber was flooded with tribefolk. The entrance we came through was near an old, crumbling throne with three seats. In the center seat sat Chief Odovcor who watched me with greedy eyes. I don't think he had seen me since the day of my capture. I sat in the seat to his left while the third seat remained empty. Weisi and Thes, as well as a few other women I didn't know, sat on the floor atop furs beside me, so close I could touch them without bending.

Chief Odovcor made a speech then, and to be honest, I don't remember a word he said. As I stared out into the sea of foreign faces, I felt overwhelmed by this strange culture. I could only think, how did it come to this? How did I get caught among these barbaric Rhyfellens? There was fear in me, fear that my goals and future might not come to pass. The anxiety twisted my gut, and I suspect some sweat smeared the paint on my brow, I guess too little to be noticed. Chief Odovcor's speech was something about my grandeur and being a future queen and other things that, as he said them, filled me with dread. When he finished there was a roar of satisfaction from the men while the women cheered with a high-pitched yipping. The feast then began in earnest.

They played music from flutes, drums, and small cymbals in the background. The tribefolk gathered food from a few large tables before sitting in crowded circles among the fur-covered ground; the tables were laden with horse and lamb, all soaked in their unique kind of herbs, along with other plants and vegetables that must have taken a long time to gather. Round tables with prepared dishes were carried to the Chieftain and I. I ate with care and delicateness, but even so, I could taste the paint on my lips as I ate.

This continued for some time, followed by dancing, allthewhile I sat in stillness upon the throne, as I was supposed to. Then, there was shouting from somewhere in the crowd. People moved like a ripple as they expanded into a ring around two men who shouted and cursed each other vehemently. This continued until one shouted, "YDROWEIR!" The music stopped, but the people still cheered, delighted by whatever was going on. I didn't know this word.

I touched Weisi's shoulder and said, "Weisi? What's going on?" "Ydroweir," she replied. "It is a fight of honor." "What it is over?" I asked. "I do not know Mret*, but it does not matter. Once the challenge is made, the other must accept – he cannot say no. A challenge cannot be made to those afflicted with illness or recovering from a wound; this is not allowable. But they are healthy. And so they must fight. Not even a Chieftain can undo it." The circle around the men widened. The tribefolk seemed almost ravenous for the violence. The two men drew broad, curved swords from their sides. I questioned Weisi once more, "When does it end?"

She seemed surprised at the question, and I soon realized my naivety. She replied nonetheless, "Ydroweir cannot end until one is dead..." The Vicnovii roared with bloodlust as the two men charged each other.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:50, Sat 22 Aug 2015.

1st Dynam, evening - continued... Not even knowing the reason for their conflict, I watched these two men attack each other like wild animals. They swung their swords at a fast and savage pace. I was appalled by the clumsiness of it; they would strike with little regard for timing or wisdom, and as a result, would receive cuts and wounds while delivering them as well. It reminded me of two wolverines in my home country, desiring to kill to the other with no concern for their own safety. Very soon, both men were equally scarred and bloodied.

The crowd of tribefolk cheered and urged them on with a bloodlust not found among civilized people. Their guise of civilization, their robes, jewelry, and codes of conduct, all melted away beneath a hunger for violence and delight in cruelty. This redefined my perception of the Vicnovii.

Finally one of the fighting men landed a blow on the other's chest which sent him to the ground. While the other laid helpless, he finished the job with a few, crude hacks, swinging his sword from overhead in an executioner's stroke. For, as Weisi had told me, the fight could not end until one of them had died. The victorious man stood triumphant over his mangled opponent, not looking to be in much better shape albeit alive. Although the tribefolk cheered and yipped, the combatant stood slumped and dazed, for his wounds were severe. Then, he too fell over in a heap on the ground.

Yrdoweir was officially finished, and the other tribefolk could now go and aid the severely wounded victor, who was not dead but fairly close. From my throne next to Chief Odovcor, I watched this madness. I glanced toward my supposed future husband's face and saw the glee and delight. I did not share his enthusiasm.

Thankfully the feast ended soon after, and the people of the Vicnovii returned to their huts and chambers within the castle. I was led back to my room, followed by my entourage of women, who drew up a hot bath to wash the gold paint from my body. Once I was clean and could see my pale-colored skin once more, most of the women departed. I bade Weisi alone to stay with me, allowing Thes, who still seems to bear a silent dislike of me, to leave early for the night.

"What was the point of all that violence?" I asked her, feeling weary in both body and spirit. My eyes met her face upon which the wrinkles of age began to set, but they could not hide the compassion of understanding. "It is the way of things," she replied. I didn't realize the depth of her response and, at first, I thought she was defending them. "That's no excuse for such barbarism," I uttered in disgust. I'm so grateful for her patience.

"It is the land which makes them barbaric and cruel. There are no pleasures to be found in the wastelands of this country. There is no beauty nor sweet things like what you've told me of in kingdoms beyond. So they find delight in the only thing there is plenty of, and that is blood. There is little water and food, but many children are still born. This is no different for the Vicnovii. Although they are a small tribe, they still have more people that they can possess without suffering. And so they fight and kill, and if folk die, they do not mind. In Yrodweir, they risk death in search of honor. And the winner gains the belongings and honors of the slain."

"But their wives and children!?" I responded. "Their thoughts do not matter," she replied. A melancholy sigh escaped her. "The women will go to new husbands within a month or two, and the children will stay with them. It is not so bad for the children, for they do not know their father so well. It is the mother who tends them always while they grow. Some children will know as many as five or six fathers by the time they are a man, and so they grow cold to death."

I did not show a reaction to this, but I could feel the pity in my heart. I could not bear to live among these people much longer. I had to get out of here. I decided to take the risk I need to take. "Weisi. There's something I'd like to talk to you about." "Yes, Mret?" she respectfully answered. In her wisdom I could see she anticipated what I was going to say. I continued, "I need you to help me escape."
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:50, Mon 07 Sept 2015.

2nd Dynam – I couldn't describe how relieved I was when Weisi agreed to help me. I know she is filled with a motherly compassion and I couldn't see her doing me harm, but I didn't know for certain how she'd react to such a burdensome and daring request, one that asked her to risk her own life for my sake. Not that I'll leave her here when the time comes. No, she will come with me; I'll be sure of that. I couldn't bear the thought of her wasting away here, as a slave. They call her a wife but a slave is what she, and the others, truly are, no matter what guise of a name they put upon it.

Last night, we contrived a plan of escape. Weisi, so brave she is, is going to bring me the clothes of a village woman, to replace my fine and princess-like robes, and some of the paint ingredients that took part in making the gold which covered me just yesterday. However, instead of gold, together we shall make a tawny-brown paint which resembles the skin of a Vicnovii. If I should try to escape merely dressed in common robes, one glimpse at my pale-skin, whether on my face, hands, or legs, or anywhere else that might slip into view, will at once reveal my identity and doom us.

In five days, the day before my wedding if the Chieftain should have his way, the men are scheduled to go out a hunt for some beast, a ritual done before such an occasion; the fact the Chieftain shall be with them as well makes for all the better. This is the ideal time for escape, for there shall be the least number of men to oppose and gain suspicion of us in the lower halls as we pass through.

Then it will be a clear walk to the horses and a fast gallop away from this place, with Weisi as my guide and companion.

The timing could also not be more perfect, for it shall take Weisi several days to obtain the necessary ingredients for our paint, and so the two reasons for delay perfectly align. To make the proper shade of brown requires the ground roots of a certain kind of shrub, which she says she can gather, but that it will take time to gather the needed amount.

For now I need only to be silent and discrete. I should be unbothered here in my prison of a room. I am supposed to be a princess of sorts, and yet, should I try to leave it, I'll be hastily returned and the Chieftain warned. Nonetheless I feel better now that a plan is in motion. It provides a vision of hope that I had not before.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:38, Fri 25 Sept 2015.

Versa's Diary 12

5th Dynam – It's now two days from the date of our escape. As Weisi had promised, she worked tirelessly to wander about the surrounding hills whenever she could, and pluck the roots of a dull brown-colored shrub. She'd bring the pieces to my chambers hidden in her robes where we'd cut and store them in an unused vase in the corner. And in the solitary hours of the night, when I'm certain that I'm alone, I grind them in a morter and pestle until they become a fine dust. This I hide away elsewhere until the time comes to mix it. Everything's going according to plan.

The only person I worry of now is Thes, my other attendant, who I don't think I can entrust with the same confidence as I do Weisi. Weisi agrees with me here and we place great care in keeping our work secret from her.

During the day, things have been fairly normal, though the lower halls of the castle having been teeming with preparations, in anticipation of a wedding that shall never occur. Yesterday, I was permitted to walk the upper halls – escorted of course – and I caught a glimpse of the lower chambers through a gaping stair; but then I was shied away by my watchful escorts. Apparently it is unseemly for me to be seen by the common people, for I, as a true wife of the Chieftain, am regarded with a kind of holiness. Only on special occasions and in the finest garb am I allowed to 'grace them' with my presence. I suppose this isn't overly strange, for the same etiquette is found among royalty in civilized lands; but it is nonetheless inconvenient.

But now, I secretly possess a set of common robes, and in tandem with the paint which shall consummate my disguise, I should be able to walk through the halls unimpeded at the opportune time. After which, all that remains is taking a horse and departing unseen. This will be challenge too being an act of stealth, but at least such stealth is not altogether foreign to me.

I recall an adventure of mine in the cold, forest lands of Cathyria, outside the city Cormont; and in the forest there lived a tribe of ogres. With the appearance of eight feet tall, primal humans of discolored yellow-ish skin, such brutish creatures can sometimes be found in the cold, less-inhabited parts of the world. Although these creatures rarely bothered the citizens of Cormont before, they took to the sudden habit of assaulting their travelers and farmers and anyone else who was passing through and not sheltered by the city walls, effectively cutting off the city from the world. Thankfully I was passing through at the time as I traveled to Poughton, and, as I slept in the forest that night, a band of ogres saw my horse and attempted to assault whatever unwary traveler there might be, namely me. But hearing them as they came close, I slipped away unseen. My horse however was taken by them, likely for the purpose of being butchered and eaten.

I then followed these brutes back to their encampment, initially for the reason of recovering my horse; but as I encroached upon their camp, I saw therein several human men and women being held in great wooden cages, as well as their Ogre King, who sat upon a throne of bones before a large bon fire. This changed my goals immediately, for no longer could I just recover my horse and leave. And yet, there were too many of these brutes to fight on my own. I had to be creative.

Which I did. Sneaking behind the throne of the Ogre King, I began to speak in my most spectral and mighty sounding voice, imitating that of a spirit. I knew ogres weren't the cleverest of creatures. "Who dares abide in my forest! Who dares disturbs my rest with fire!" I roared. I did the best I could to throw my voice toward the center of the encampment. And my ruse worked to great effect; sure enough, the ogres suddenly became terrified, and they glanced about into the woods in primal fear. Even the Ogre King sat on the edge of his seat, looking unnerved.

The Ogre King replied in a guttural voice, like two rocks rubbing together, "Are -oo spirit? -Ee no anger." "You anger me!" I rebuked instantly, not letting my ruse falter. "You who trespass on my domain! I shall bring a plague unto you all!" "No do dat!" The Ogre King replied, his tone becoming reverential and stricken with fear. The other ogres began to huddle and quiver near the fire, as though its radiance was their only protection. "No 'arm us big spirit!" The Ogre King continued, pleading. "-Ee do enyting!" "Then!" I thundered, "You shall do this! If you do not wish to suffer my wrath! I demand a sacrifice. Leave your human morsels here and go; begone from my forest and do not enter again! Or I shall feast upon you too!"

The ogres, including the Ogre King, lost no time in grabbing their clubs and things precious to them and fleeing into the woods, no doubt to migrate some place far, far away. They did not bother to free their prisoners, but I did not need them to. Once I was convinced the ogres were far enough away, I broke from my hiding place. The humans in the cages at first were afraid, for I think they too believed there was a spirit, or at least, something no better than ogres. But when they saw me, I had never seen such a fast transition from fear to joy. They would have cried out with happiness if I hadn't beckoned them not to; instead, I told them to cry with horror! So that the sound might echo to the ogres and make them run all the faster, and keep them from regaining the courage to return. And so everyone cried out their best screams of horror, which they did with great joy and smiles on their faces – it was a scream of victory.

I recovered my horse too, and together, we traveled to the city of Cormont. Upon seeing their loved ones returned and hearing that the ogres had left, the city threw a banquet in my honor. I also learned that one of the women I had saved was an official from the Cathyrian capital of Ascalon. I was declared the hero of Cormont after that, and given a fair reward too.

Such was one of my successful experiences with stealth.

But as for the present situation, I do not think posing as a spirit will strike the same fear in Chieftain Odovcor's heart, as it would some primitive creature; nor do I think such a ruse, as to convince them to leave me here, would be to great success either. Things are more difficult than that. Like before, I am greatly outnumbered – I could never fight through all the warrior men downstairs – but I have my wits still. Perhaps I can outwit them all the same.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:23, Mon 05 Oct 2015.

6th Dynam – In preparation for tomorrow, we went ahead and mixed the paint today, turning our raw ingredients into a fine, tawny-brown liquid. We already have brushes and tools, so we'll be ready tomorrow morning without delay. We have just about everything we need. All that remains is for Weisi to find and bring me my sword. My greatsword was separated from me when I first arrived, and I've no idea where it went. I trust she'll be successful, for I'd hate to leave without it.

But putting aside the task of recording events, I am rather excited about tomorrow – or is it anxiety? I'm terrified, but I'm also excited. This is a daring feat and will make for quite a tale to tell my daughter Essra when I find her; of course, I'm also scared about what should happen if it all goes wrong; then nothing will happen, for I shall never see her again. It's that uncertainty which fills me with fear. I just have to be strong. It will all be over soon. Tomorrow will come, and so will the day after that; and as the Goddess has taught me time and again, the sun always rises the next day.


7th Dynam, morning – Weisi arrived this morning. She couldn't find my greatsword, nor find where it might've gone to. This distresses me. I've traveled much of the world with that sword. And I would feel a lot more comfortable with a last resort at hand, should everything go wrong. I guess we have no choice now but to persevere.

Weisi came in the early hours, just before dawn peaked over the world. I barely slept last night, so I hope my mind is sharp enough for this. We have do everything and leave before more of my attendants arrive around the hour of breakfast; it wouldn't do to have anyone interrupt us. Already knowing which parts of my skin would be revealed by my disguise, we painted only that which we needed to. Retrieving our hidden brushes and supply of paint, she carefully covered my face, and then, with a tad more haste, my hands up to my elbows, and my feet up to my knees. Less attention were given to these, for they will be the least noticed. We waited a few minutes for it to be somewhat dry, dry enough so that I could don the robe without smearing anything. The robe was a plain one of dull green color and made of wool, and it hung heavily over my body; rather different from the fine fabrics my other robes were weaved of. Lastly, my red hair was tied and hidden in a shawl over my head of a slightly lighter green color, a common style for women of the tribe. I imagine I now look exactly like them, save for my green eyes; but there's nothing I can do about that. I assume no one will give much attention to me.

It's now only a little after dawn. Now, we have a half hour or less to spare, until the men leave on their ritual hunt with the Chieftain. Even now we can hear them moving and saddling the horses downstairs. They will leave soon.


7th Dynam – later, evening – (The first several lines of this entry are scribbled out).

I must start from the beginning. I don't feel like writing; but everything makes more sense when I do, as though the words make reality less blurry. I must keep writing.

This morning, after my disguise was finished, we waited for the right time. We could hear the men downstairs equipping their horses and strapping their bows and supplies to the saddles. Then, after the the last band of red in the dawn sky vanished, they left out the front of the ruined castle in a great cavalry of a hundred or so men. It wasn't every man that went on the hunt, but only the Chieftain's closest relatives; and since he was considered a father and pseudo-husband to many by tribal custom, that made for many. Thus, we heard the sound of four hundred hooves depart out of the caste and fade into the wasteland hills. It was exactly what Weisi and I wanted, that the strongest and most loyal of Chieftain Odovcor's men were absent while we made our escape. Finally, we put our plan into action.

We each carried a ceramic vase, as though we were carrying some water or grain, but in reality they were filled with our few belongings. The thought occurred that it was good I did not carry any sword or armor with me, lest we ruin our charade. We stepped out from my chambers on the second floor and headed down the ancient stone hall. All the stone used to build the castle was of a beige color with a tint of red, very different from the dark gray of far away lands. There were no decorations, for the tribefolk had no interest in such luxuries, though they likely didn't have the resources to do so either. No one else was in the hall yet. As I mentioned once before, the upper level was used only for special purposes, one of which was to house me, along with other socially-elevated persons; I believe the Chieftain has his own chambers on the floor above this one, as though sleeping physically higher than others made all the difference in the world. The floors and towers beyond the third level were uninhabited, having crumbled away in many places; and as a result, the fatal draft of the wind howled through them constantly. I suspect the Chieftain's quarters were not a quiet one.

We neared the wide stairs at the end of the hall, nigh twenty feet in width, which curved downward in an L-shape to the ground level, the most spacious of all the levels; and where the tribe built huts and tents within, having creating a whole village therein. Once we approached the top of the stairs, we encountered a man coming up, already nearing the top. This was our first test. Certainly he knew Weisi who had been with the tribe for many years, or at least knew her as a kind of servant, but for me, I would have been an unrecognized person. But this man, who had a short black beard and a youthful stature, merely gave us a glance then passed us by. He continued into the halls behind us.

Weisi whispered to me as we headed down the stairs, "That was Cyfred, one of the big war leaders. His room is on that floor. It's strange though that he was not invited to the hunt. Perhaps he did not wish to go." "Mm," I replied in a low murmur, accompanied by a nod. I didn't say more than that. I think I was afraid that by even speaking I risked exposing my identity; which was rather silly, since I doubt any of the tribe has even heard me speak. But I suppose they could hear my accent, so it may be less silly than I thought. Either way, I remained silent.

We continued and reach the bottom of the floor, and then made our way into the village proper. The women of the tribe were already awake, no doubt moreso due to the demands of the hunt and aiding with that. Busily, one washed a pile of dusty wool robes in a basin of water, just outside her hut; which could be better described as curtains of fur and fabric stretched over a frame of wood in a box shape. It resembled a house in someways, though not many of these huts had roofs, and some were not square either. Shanties, would be an good word.

Several women were huddled together in a cooking area. Near them, a fire in a ring of stones heated a round metal skillet the size of a shield (in fact, it might have indeed been a shield turned upside down), and various vegetables and meat cooked in the center, all stained with a orange-ish color due to the strong herbs used. Some of these women waved to Weisi, who, with noble composure in this undertaking, waved back with a smile, and continued with me on our way.

Children too wandered about the edge of a couple huts. But the morning was still early, and they were not energetic; instead they moved slowly, not straying far from their mothers.

Steadily, Weisi and I traversed through the village until we reached the throne room; we had to pass through it to get to where the horses were housed. This was the same chamber where I was presented to the tribe and sat through that awful ceremony. That time I was painted in gold; this time I'm painted brown. Never have I entered this room in my own skin.

We entered the chamber and found it barren. It was a very spacious and elongated chamber; large enough to hold the entire tribe. Its length, with the throne seats at the head, must have extended nearly from the rear to the front of the Castle. We crossed the chamber in front of the thrones. As before, there stood the grand seat in the center, with two less majestic ones on both sides, including the one familiar to me. Immediately it struck me as strange that this chamber would be empty, for even when the Chieftain is present or not present, I felt like the village would still make good use of all this space. Then, I saw Weisi's face, and realized she shared my worry and apprehension. She glanced about, also searching, also surprised no one else was here. I knew then my perception was not born of ignorance. Something was wrong.

The chamber was suddenly filled with noise. Shouting and yipping burst into sound from the halls behind and ahead of us, as well as from farther down the hall, as though a pack of hyenas approached from all directions. From the farther halls, we could already see people spilling from them into the chamber – warrior men of the tribe – with broad, curved swords drawn, moving toward us at a sprint. So too men came from behind us, and from ahead, all yipping like cheerful dogs, happy to have surrounded their prey; even if it was not prey they intended to kill. I cannot lie – my heart sank. My whole body sank. Their yipping, though a primitive and tribal kind of battlecry, filled me with terrible pain at every sound, simply because of what it meant to me. Everything, my Essra, the escape, was lost. And Weisi; what would happen to Weisi...

The men surrounded us in a circle, a hundred of them, and, I, with only my bare hands, had nothing. Even in my heart, I felt like I had nothing. To feel truly defenseless, is a pain I can hardly bear; but there, I felt it.

Nobody attacked us but merely encircled, keeping a generous ten foot distance. We were the center of attention. Then, they parted to make a narrow passage for an approaching man; and who else could it have been than the Chieftain, my fiancee, Odovcor. Leaving for the hunt had been a ruse; they must've simply rode the horses behind a hill and came back. He knew.

At his gesture, a couple of the warrior men came up from behind me and pulled off my shawl – and none too gently. My red hair fell untied down my back. There was no mistaking my identity to them now. The ceramic jug I carried holding my belongings fell to the ground and shattered.

The Chieftain frowned deeply and muttered this, "Treacherous wife." I glared at him. Although my skin was painted brown, my green eyes were still mine, and I hope he felt them. I defiantly replied, "I am not your wife." The Chieftain had the nerve to smirk, "No. But very soon you will." My despair mixed with a well of other feelings; anger being among them.

I was at a loss at how they knew of our plans. Where did we slip up? But this was soon made clear when the Chieftain looked behind him and beckoned another unseen person to his side. From beyond the crowd of men came a woman, and it was none other than Thes, my other attendant. Even then, she looked at me without guilt, but instead with eyes carrying a silent fury. I knew then she must have eavesdropped upon Weisi and I at some point and learned of our intentions. She betrayed us. But why? Why did this woman bear me such malice? The question burned within me, almost manifesting tears in my eyes.

Just then, the Chieftain spoke again, "Thes, you did right by you and saved me a bride." He then turned to Weisi, whose wrinkles of middle age seemed to deepen beneath stress; yet she showed no sign of breaking down nor lapse in dignity. I suspect even then, she had already accepted what was about to come. "You," said the Chieftain to Weisi, "Are no member of this tribe – not in blood nor in spirit either. You traitorous thing, who would subvert me. Your punishment shall be great."

"No!" I shouted. My tone was mixed, both bold and strong like a command, yet, on the verge of breaking. "Don't you dare harm her!" "Silence you!" replied the Chieftain. He motioned to the men around me and said, "Take her back to her room and make sure she stays there. We shall be wed as planned, and she shall learn her place. Seize the other wretch; hold her." "NO!" I screamed. I lunged forward to stand in front of Weisi, but the men had already grasped me by the arms. I writhed in trying to break free from their grasp; and if there had been any less than the four men holding me, I would have succeeded. "NO! DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!" I screamed once more. Weisi stood in resigned silence, her gaze upon the ground; I then saw a tear fall from one eye which brought me to further pain, as if that were even possible.

But it was futile. The men, forcefully, dragged me away, intent on returning me to my chamber. I switched my gaze to Thes, glaring at her through my teary eyes. I didn't understand. How could she do this? And so I screamed, "Why Thes!? Why?" The Chieftain raised a hand to pause the men dragging me, and answered for her. "Have you not learned?" he said, seemingly amused at my ignorance. "Do you not remember the battle in which you fought? The men of our tribe you slayed, which earned my affection for you? Young Thes's husband was among them. And you killed him. I thought it only fitting she become your servant then; after all, she is your spoil of war!"

"What..." I uttered barely above a whisper. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know. That day, when the Vicnovii came as marauders to assail our caravan – there, where I fought to defend my companions – Thes's husband was among the slain. It was for this reason she was a sub-wife, and thus a servant, of the Cheiftain... Of me. And must have become so the same day I arrived here. There was terrible guilt in me.

"Thes! I'm sorry!" I cried. I had no chance to speak more than this; for then the Chieftain gestured to my captors to continue, and I was dragged from the scene. My eyes remained on Weisi as long as I could keep them, who remained standing in silence, until I was taken from the throne room and my vision of her lost. With no dignity, not making it easy for anyone, I shouted and fought as they carried me through the village of the castle halls, making a spectacle of myself. I didn't care anymore, and certainly not for their customs. I hope it pissed off the Chieftain. And finally, I was brought back to my quarters, my prison, where they stationed two men on the inside of my room, to keep eyes on me until my fate was sealed. I did not care anymore what they thought of me. I sat and buried my face in cushions. There, I cried...


7th Dynam – later still, evening – Weisi is dead. She was executed in front of the tribe. They made me watch. That's all I wish to say.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:32, Sun 18 Oct 2015.

8th Dynam, morning – I thought about killing myself. I'm going to be married soon. Women have come and gone bringing cloth and makeup to put on me, but I hardly notice their existence. It looks like it's going to happen. I could put up a struggle I suppose. But I feel tired. So tired. Weisi is gone, on account of me; she suffered and did so much for me with a compassion and courage not found among most. I know it isn't my fault, and this isn't the first time I've lost friends in my duties. But this time feels different; because it isn't just Weisi. It's everything. It feels like I've lost everything. Where is my daughter now? I don't know. I have no idea really. Yet, in my selfish quest to find her, based on small clues, I've gotten Weisi killed, took a husband away from Thes, and who knows what other harm I've done. And now I'm trapped here, in the middle of this wasteland. I've made so many mistakes...

But I won't. I guess it's not worth dying, for there's still that slight ray of hope. Time can be long, and things change; perhaps in the future, some opportunity to escape or do some good shall arise. Or perhaps, after yesterday's attempt, they might just keep a watchful eye on me for all my days, and I shall be a prisoner queen. I don't know.

There are still guards watching over me, standing at the entrance of my room; they're watching me write. I don't think they even know how to write. They look bewildered at what I'm doing. I suppose this journal will be my only comfort in the lonely days to come.

I haven't seen Thes since this morning, and I doubt I shall. I think if I did, I would command her away. I don't wish her harm anymore – despite her actions – but I don't think I could bear her near me either. Most likely the Chieftain sent her elsewhere, and gave her a new, advantageous husband for her deeds. What can I say of that? Nothing I suppose. At least now I understand why she did what she did.

More attendants have come; they insist on dressing me in my wedding gown. Must pause writing for now-


8th Dynam – later, afternoon – I must start from the beginning. The temptation to start at the end is great, but for the sake of continuity, I must constantly restrain myself.

Attendants came and dressed me in my wedding clothes. I was not painted gold like before (they said something of how I must be true before the gods, but I wasn't listening to them). Listlessly I stared at nothing in silence, and in sorrow; for this was my defeat. They dressed me in silk fabrics of gold and white around my body, and of embroidered red silk around my head and back, in the likeness of a cloak. They were robes worthy of a princess on her wedding day. But I was no princess, and I had no wish to be a queen. The attendants left, leaving me dressed in my garb while I waited for the appointed time. In less than an hour I would be escorted to the throne room, and there it would be done. Like a new widow in mourning, I sat in dignified but empty silence; I did not weep nor feel anxiety, but rather, my heart was hollow of all that once filled it.


There was movement about the entrance to my room as two new guards came to replace the previous ones there. These would be the guards to, eventually, escort me to my wedding. I usually paid no heed to the change of guards, or servants, or anyone – not since last night – but, meaninglessly, I glanced at the two new faces. Though I did not know them, and their brown tribal faces meant nothing to me, I suddenly felt a bolt of life rush through me; for one of these guards possessed strapped to his back something which was quite meaningful to me – my greatsword.

I stood. My delicate and fine robes swayed about my ankles and body as I moved; their gold and red color made it seem as though I were a living flame. Calmly, I walked toward these two guards, who eyed me curiously and proceeded to block the path of the entrance. Ignoring the other, I stepped straight up to the one carrying my sword. I couldn't tell you what was going through my mind at this moment. There was no fear, no concern, no plan; it was like an instinct, or a reaction, as though there was no choice in the matter at all. Perhaps this was the Goddess acting through me.

The guard in front of me spoke, "Isn't time to leave yet Mret. They are still-" "That's my sword," I interrupted, speaking straightforwardly. The guard smiled, amused; being nigh six feet high, he looked down on me. "You won't be needing this Mret. This my new sword now, given to me by-" He didn't finish speaking, for, without warning, I jabbed him in the throat with my fist.

The guard recoiled and clutched his neck in a desperate gasp for air. The one beside him was stunned, his jaw agape, for he did not expect such a sudden and violent event; and so he did not react for several seconds, having no idea what to do. I gave them no time to figure out what, not that I had much figured out myself. With no plan in my head, and feeling as though I had nothing to lose, I spun around the guard in front of me and pulled my own sword from the sheathe on his back. Finally we were reunited. After weeks, its familiar handle was again in my hands. There was nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Leaving my dumbfounded guards, I bolted in a sprint away from them and down the hall.

I was leaving this place. And this time no one was going to stop me.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:29, Mon 19 Oct 2015.

8th Dynam – later, afternoon – Continued... My silks fluttered in countless ripples like the leaves of trees in a windy gale. I sprinted through clusters of attendants and tribefolk on the second level as I ran through, not heeding them at all, and they leapt from my path to avoid being knocked over; they stared at me in shock and disbelief, for everyone knew who I was. I reached the top of the stairs and began trodding down it at a rigorous pace. As rational thought trickled back into my mind, I began to think of the need for a plan. Little came to me. The dangers were the same as before; the castle was teeming with men, who outnumbered me by far, and, even if I reached the horses, how could I hope to outrun them on their own territory? -and if I was recaptured, no doubt Chieftain Odovcor would take every measure to make sure I never again escaped, even if he had to shackle me.

As I entered onto the main level of the castle with the village area before me, I heard shouting from above at the top of the stairwell. It was my guards, howling that I had escaped. Likely the entire village, with its men, women, and children, all heard the cry, echoing through the stone chambers of the castle. In front of me, there were already many tribefolk about – busy preparing for celebrations of the wedding; my wedding – and they, pausing in their duties, raised their heads and stared at me. Their eyes were wide in shock, never expecting something quite like this. But I didn't care. After Weisi... I just didn't care. I was done with their pomp, their culture, everything. I bolted through them. With a sword in hand, they gave me a wide berth.

I ran through the halls and was drawing near the throne room when a band of six men came from a perpendicular hall to block my path; each carried a drawn sword. As before, in the original plan made by Weisi and me, I knew I needed to cross the throne room to reach the horses; I suppose there was no choice but to test my fate in fleeing. When the six men sprinted to block the entrance to the throne room, one shouted, "It's the Chieftain's bride! Halt! Or else we subdue you!" They expected me to stop, or at least to negotiate. But I didn't. Not for a second, from even the moment they entered the hall, did I slow or pause my run. I intended to run through them. For their sakes, I could only hope they got out of the way.

Initially, they didn't. This was a mistake on their part. I had no time, nor desire to talk with these people anymore; I knew that wouldn't get me anywhere. I swung my greatsword as I ran, coming point blank of them. In a mighty arc around my person, the heavy blade overpowered their trembling swords, knocking their blades aside, and cut across the chests of the center two in a single swing. They were dead instantly. The other four, two on either side, leapt backward to escape my arc, and, myself leaping over the falling bodies, I continued into the throne room without losing a second of my pace. They were going to get out of my way, whether they wanted to or not.

Some blood had sprayed onto my robes and spoiled the silk with a line of red blots. But due to the already gold and red coloration, it hardly seemed out of place – though I cared not. Looking like this, I entered into the throne room...

Only to find myself surrounded. On every side of me, there were men and tribefolk, all who had been waiting for the imminent wedding. They expected a bride to come with a retinue of attendants and a wake of flowers; but instead they received a bride wielding an immense sword, blood stained, and followed by a retinue of  men wielding swords and giving chase to her. This was going to be a memorable day for them, no matter what. And standing near the throne, governing the last minute preparations, was none other than the groom, Chieftain Odovcor, who glared at me with a scowl.

The four men I left behind caught up and blocked the route behind me, and at least fifty others in the great chamber drew swords. Though they looked bewildered in their expressions, and cautious in moving, for I expect they did not know what to do. Here, was their soon to be queen, bride of the Chieftain – were they supposed to harm her? And yet, she wielded a sword, and by appearances, had already used it to slay others. I could understand their predicament. I was forced to stop, for even if I slayed all before me, I could not even run through the bodies.

So I glared at Chieftain Odovcor. I did not forget Weisi fate. And I will never forgive him for it. "Murderer!" I shouted at him. A thought then seemed to occur to him which made him forget his scowl; instead, and to my fury, he began smiling, following by boisterous laughter. Even though his eyes were focused on me, he spoke loudly to the tribe while gesturing at me with his arm, "See? You see? This is why I must have her for my wife! See her fire! Her strength! How she, a woman, cuts through larger men with ease! What excellent children she shall birth. Our children shall carry that same fire and strength, a make great warriors. At first I was angered by this, but now I am glad! I should have expected no less from such a bride!"

He then gestured to the men around me, "Seize her but do not harm her – not so much as a scratch!" The men around me, warily, began to close in on me; and in response, I shouted a fierce and authoritative command. "STOP!" They stopped; perhaps only by the tenor of my voice, and how I uttered it like a royal person to their subjects; but regardless, they halted their advance. I pointed my greatsword straight at Odovcor. "You! Odovcor! You have done wrong, have harmed the innocent, have held me against my will. I challenge you to YDROWEIR! -Lest you be so cowardly that you tremble even before a woman! Lest be so great a disgrace to your status as to run and hide from me, and cower behind your subjects like the pitiful thing you are!"

The assembly froze in their breaths and now only watched. The challenge of Ydroweir, a sacred act, had been made. The Chieftain lost his smile. Not only that, but he visibly became very very unhappy, his mouth turning into an enraged frown. A man of the tribe near him spoke, "Never in all my days have I seen such a great humiliation of a Chieftain as that. There can only one response to keep one's honor." I recognized the speaker as the man called Cyfred whom I saw yesterday. The Chieftain's mouth quivered with fury, for he knew what must happen next. There was no way he could say no. Ydroweir was sacred; and by their own laws, he couldn't say no. And he also knew (as well as I did) that he lost no matter who was victorious. If he won, he lost a wife; if he lost, he died. Both options were displeasing to him, a ruining of his plans. He had reason to be furious.

"Sword!" he finally shouted with vehement rage. A young male attendant quickly brought him his sword, a large scimitar. He drew it forcibly, and, his rage indiscriminate, kicked his servant away in a stomp to the chest. Sword in hand, he moved toward me from the throne.

The tribefolk around us backed away until a large circle was formed. They did not cheer with such enthusiasm as the Ydroweir I saw once before. This was serious. Something like this had never happened before, or at least was very rare. I held my greatsword outstretched, still pointing the tip at the Chieftain in defiance. The weight of my blade did not affect me, for this sword was, truly, mine; it could never weary me. The Cheftain approached and stood at his end of the circle, spinning his scimitar in hand with a motion of the wrist. He uttered in a spiteful tongue, "Versa. Treacherous wretch. Ungrateful! Perhaps you are too much trouble to be a wife! Better to cut you down now!" I raised my greatsword above my head, inviting him to attack. I replied in a similar voice, "You are a coward, who enslaves and kills women, who raids innocent travelers, with no regard for virtue or goodness! You are unworthy to be husband to me!" His eyes narrowed on me. I was embarrassing him even further in front of the tribe. His visage was like that of a demon in terrible anger. He roared, "AGGHH!" and charged.

He wildly swung his sword, to which I answered with my own, blocking it. The ring of steel echoed through the chamber. The battle had begun. He gave me almost no time to reply in his attacks. In the fighting style of his people, he attacked furiously again and again like a beast with its claws, with little time between swings. But unlike the men I witnessed fighting before, his strikes were not so clumsy; they possessed precision, skill, and did not seem to weary him any. He had become Chieftain for a reason. Viciously, he continued his assault. I blocked repeatedly with my greatsword, which, to due its size, had difficult keeping up with his lighter scimitar. To compensate, I had to dance around the edge of the circle, using distance to stay on top of things.

"You call me coward, and you run!" he spat, not used to opponents who evade – it was not the Vicnovii way. I did not answer. In fact, by speaking, he offered a slight pause in his attack; which I capitalized on with a sudden, offensive strike. I pierced the side of his abdomen. I could sense a ripple of feeling through the spectating tribe.

But it did not slow the Cheiftain much. Instead he became increasingly angry, frustrated by the pain. He then leapt at me with his sword coming downward like an animal's pounce. I didn't expect such recklessness. It was so unexpected that I failed to raise my sword in time, and the edge dug into my left shoulder. I avoided a deep cut by falling backward; otherwise, it may well have dug into my heart. I gasped at the pain but I had no time to feel it. He pounced again. I rolled backward still, and hastily scrambled onto my feet. I held my sword outward, but my grasp was weaker now. My wound affected some muscle or tendon leading to my arm.

He attacked again, and I managed to answer. We parried each other, the clang of steel being the dominant sound in the chamber, now surrounded by hundreds of deathly silent onlookers. This would be a fight never forgotten by anyone. I backed away again. I was getting tired now, but this beast of a man seemed tireless. He seemed no less exhausted that when we began, as though endless adrenaline fueled him. But I could feel it. I was on the wane. And I was losing. That thought was like acid to me, painful to the touch. My daughter, avenging Weisi, everything... What was I thinking earlier? That I had nothing to lose? I have everything to lose. And not only that, but I am a Paladin. I have a duty to the world. The world needs me. I've fought in countless battles. And here, here was this cruel and savage man of the wastelands. To fall here... No. No! NO! I WILL NOT FALL! Not here.

Strength coursed through me, and I lunged at the Chieftain. My mind was a blur. I could think only of Weisi; and Essra; and my hopes for the future. All of it depended on this. There was no other option. I swung again and again with a pace somehow outmatching his. Now, he struggled to defend against my enduring assault, until I backed him into the center of the great ring in which we fought. I wasn't going to lose to this man. I didn't care about my own life anymore. It's not so important. But I care about others; especially those who mean so much to me; and even their memories. For them, I fight on. I live on. The Goddess. The Goddess gives strength. This passion – it's from her!

As I continued swinging in righteous fury, something new happened. My sword began to glow a lurid red. It felt as if my feelings took on a life of their own, manifesting into something beyond emotion. I could hear murmurs of fear and awe from the tribefolk around me, though they seemed distant in my state of mind. And then, the red grew brighter and brighter; and most marvelous of all, like the birth of a new star, my greatsword burst into bright flame. The metal sword was still there, but now, from the to hilt to its tip, it was wreathed in a spectacle of blazing fire. This was my fury made manifest. I suspect the tribefolk were freaking out then, but I did not notice; in fact, I barely even gave attention to the miraculous change in my sword. My eyes and trance-like focus never left the Chieftain. And my heart and thoughts never left those who I was fighting for. I think I was crying then, but I'm not sure; everything was somewhat blurry -it might've been my rage, or something else. I don't remember.


My blade, fully ablaze, met the Chieftain's scimitar in a final clash close to his chest, and I continued pressing forward with all my strength. He held his sword against mine in a desperate defense, unable to move it, lest my blade pierce straight through him. I could see his eyes. He was afraid. Although I myself felt no heat from my flaming blade, mere inches from my face, I have no doubt he did feel it, for sweat poured from his brow; and I could see his skin beginning to scorch as the sword came closer and closer by hairbreadths at a time. However, it wasn't because I was overpowering him. But rather my sword was slowly melting through his.

I spoke. "Chieftain Odvocor. You have sinned. You have slain the innocent. You have enslaved the weak. Judgment has come. In the name of the Holy Mother, Goddess Sophia, and by all that is righteous in this world, I, Versa Tamrien, her Paladin... sentence you to Oblivion..." As I concluded the final utterance, my flaming sword finished melting through his. His face donned a final look of horror as my sword continued its journey, and, as though it passed through mere water, seared through his body.

The Chieftain's brown eyes became empty. He collapsed onto his knees; I pulled out my sword as he did so. There, he remained in repose on his knees, his head hanging downward and facing the ground. Chieftain Odovcor was dead.

The flame on my sword suddenly disappeared, like a candle blown out by the wind. With the consummation of my vengeance, so too came the cessation of my anger, and the power that came with it. Still, I held my sword at the ready and turned to face the tribe. I didn't know what was going to happen next. The hundreds of surrounding tribefolk of every gender and age all gazed upon me in a stunned, frozen silence. Until after a few seconds, one, Cyfred in fact, warily approached me from the crowd. He held a sword in his hand; and I readied myself for whatever might happen. But instead, to my surprise, he planted his sword on the ground and knelt on both knees.

"What are you doing?" I asked him, at first confused. He looked up at me and spoke with an almost reverential tone, "You have won Ydroweir. All the slain's honors... are yours now." More of the tribefolk began kneeling. "You are our Chieftain now." I was stunned. I never thought of this. Not once. Then, Cyfred shouted to the tribe in a great voice, "ALL BOW TO OUR NEW CHIEFTAIN. HAIL QUEEN VERSA. HAIL THE FIRE QUEEN!" The tribe, hundreds of them, all kneeled without exception, with heads bowed to me. Like a stone dropped in a calm pond, the tribe ripple in a show of submission on a grand scale. And in unison they chanted. "HAIL THE FIRE QUEEN! HAIL THE FIRE QUEEN! HAIL THE FIRE QUEEN!"

What a day.


This message was last edited by the GM at 18:17, Mon 19 Oct 2015.

Xan Rasa sat upon the stone bench, one of four surrounding a large brass fountain. Only, it was no fountain;- it was a machine. Yet, it resembled a fountain, with its wide basin and central spire, and not long ago its basin contained a pool of water. But now that water was gone, leaving the basin empty. The machine had just been turned on.


The hum of the machine died away, and all was quiet in the garden once again. Xan Rasa sat pensively, his metallic body illuminated by the daylight glow of ten thousand glowing mushrooms, growing all around the distant cavern ceiling and walls, and the even garden where he sat; one next to him had grown to the size of a waist high table, gently radiating its gentle blue light.

For there was no sun here. There would never be sun here. Not in a great cavern like this, deep beneath the surface of the world.

Xan Rasa lifted his mechanical head and gazed upon the stone ruins, the remnants of his city, his civilization, his people – relics trapped in a bubble of earth deep underground, all silent. For a thousand years he had lived with these few structures, watched their stone walls erode century by century, sometimes moving more than he as the decades passed. He was the last of the Maghana. And soon, there would be none; for he was, at last, dying.

He raised his metallic hand and looked at the dark brass fingers, how they could move and grasp and wiggle according to the small gears and rods in his knuckles – his creation – and this he watched through luminous metallic eyes – also his creation. No part of his body was flesh anymore. All of it was his creation, the product of his genius. But for all his inventiveness, nothing would save him now. He had relinquished the most vital element of his body for the sake of others, to make whole the machine, the fountain, to save those others from their own dark eternity; and there was no putting that vital element back. Yes, he was going to die. He had accepted that centuries ago. He was only grateful that his last act had meaning.

In the melancholy stillness, in reflection, he sat in the garden and waited for death. Not long now. It would be only a couple hours before his mechanical body lost power, and then he would enter that inevitable sleep from which he'd never awake.

Then a thought occurred to him. He was having many thoughts as his body changed.

As power slowly faded, old connections – forgotten things – reappeared; the closest he'd get to a life flashing before his eyes. He looked at the machine. It was designed for creatures of flesh, with bodies and minds, to send them far away in an instant. But to move a creature of metal – like him – it would tear him asunder.

Maybe.

Slowly he stood, the gears in his knees and back ticking more audibly as they struggled more than usual; his power was waning.

"Maybe." The thought lingered in his mind.

Every automaton he ever sent in ages past, during the stages of testing, was torn apart by the machine. And yet for living creatures, it worked. Why? What was the difference between the two? The thought became brighter and clearer in his mind, as though floating to the surface from a dark ocean's depth. Appearing in his mind. Mind. He was a machine; but unlike the automatons, he had a mind. Did he have a body? Not a true one, no; not one made of bones and skin and warmth, but – perhaps – this didn't matter. Perhaps, it was the mind alone that held everything together. Perhaps it was the key.

To die here, or die above: no matter what he chose, he was going to lose power and cease to be. To be here with the remains of his people, or be beneath the sun? Would the machine actually send him, or obliterate him instead? He didn't know. But he had to make a choice, and so he made it; and he turned on the machine. It had been a thousand years since he saw the sun.

It began to hum. Xan Rasa stepped into the basin and waited patiently. Either oblivion awaited him, or, he would be cast somewhere unknown above, for there was no way to be certain where with a body as strange as his. He didn't have these answers, but he would learn them soon enough. So he waited. The hum of the machine grew louder and louder. Static lightning danced around the edge of the basin, like being in the eye of a small hurricane. The hum reached its peak, the volume almost deafening. It was time.

Crack.

A thunderous crack echoed loudly through the cavern chamber, bouncing off its spacious walls for nearly a minute afterwards. Steadily, the hum of the machine died away. And in its basin stood nobody. It was empty. For Xan Rasa was gone.

Now in silence stood the ruins of the Old Kingdom, a lonely and empty city trapped in the bowels of the world. And there they remained, a monument to greatness past. All in silence;- save for the footsteps of two automatons, who would patrol that lonely and empty city until the end of time.



This message was last edited by the GM at 23:25, Sun 29 Nov 2015.

(I have an excerpt here from an origin story for a  character I'm playing in a 5e campaign I'm joining this spring. He's quite different than the man depicted in this tale. This is a look to his criminal times before becoming a cleric.  I wanted to share this brutal section from it. Fletch is mentioned, although the campaign is in a different world, I wanted to include the dirty little archer. enjoy)

...The half elf drew his mace and the dwarf his hatchet as the air began to heat up in the building. He could feel his heart marching about his chest as the duo rushed through the deathly still halls. They cut around a hard right corner, smashing into a sprinting guard. Both parties crashed to the floor stunned only briefly. Varrow used the momentum to roll backwards onto his feet as Dorn cursed the gods from the floor. The guardsmen propped himself back up with his long spear and viciously thrust at the half blood. Varrow dodged to the side, slamming his shoulder into the stone wall. His heart was moving too fast to feel the shock of stone on bone. Sparing no time, the guard snapped to his right for another thrust, forgetting just a moment the grumbling dwarf behind him. A thunk sounded, and He arched his scaled back with a reptilian howl, clutching his weapon like a lover. V saw his chance. He closed in, bringing his mace across the dragonborn’s blue jaw, sending jagged teeth on a trip to nowhere. The warrior stumbled back, hatchet in his flank and jaw hanging unnaturally low, all the while shrieking in pain.  The dwarf had gained his footing again shouting at Varrow.
“Well lad, bump the fucker off!”
By now the dragon born was on all fours, staining the once luxurious carpet with the colors of crimson. V stepped forwards, brushing aside the raised claw like a willow branch before bringing his weapon through the top of the broken jaw’s head. A solid heavy crack shattered the air and the body collapsed to the carpet, tail and fingers twitching. The half elf stared a little while, watching the little nerves across the guardsman’s body dance their final dance. The performance was interrupted as Dorn ripped the axe from it’s resting place. “V! Wake up boyo, we’re needed down the hall. Let’s  go let’s go!”
Varrow wanted to thank the dwarf, but he knew the short creature could sense his gratitude. Besides, there wasn’t time for such a courtesy. These were the little things that made up a bond. The feelings, not words that defined connection. No time to linger, there was work to be done. They dashed down the hall, up a flight of painstakingly carved stairs, paying no heed to the various corpses that decorated the floor.
“I hope they did their job.”
 Dorn huffed as they made it to the second floor. The scene that greeted them was the same as they had seen throughout the house, save for on a larger scale. Seven bodies lay crumpled and leaning about the interior, two of which were guards.  Varrow scanned the heaps of his constitutes, recognizing only one, not for her face, which had turned into an eviscerated squash, but for her form. Galia had always been a beautiful girl.
Dorn’s voice floated among the bodies.
“Damn. Looks like these two lads were Xiat’s honor guard. Poor bastards. I only count five friends here V.  We got more in the room. Your time to shine, boyo.”
The duo approached a kicked in door, a thing once beautiful of chiseled oak, now decorated with a fresh white crack running down its middle. Things seemed to slow down here. Entrance was key. It was here Varrow would set the stage on his terms, not Xiats. Dorn held back at the frame, allowing the half elf to pass through on his own. Inside, there was evidence that this may have been a dining room. Ceramic fragments and silver war litered the floor like fallen leaves, bits of meat fruit and puddles of wine copulated with the various colors of spilt blood. Six men stood amongst the ruin, silent and somber. Directly facing the door stood a single chair, a throne of sorts at the head of a flipped table. Inside this seat of steel and wood slumped the copperscale, adorned in flowing silks and furs. Varrow looked around at the men asking,
“Has he let loose his breath?”
A short man with a half shaven head and a grisly shortbow spoke cuttingly.
“aye, that he did. Took Wester right in the eye with that lightin’ breath. Can’t imagine what he shits.”
The others in the room chuckled at the mercenaries words. This wasn’t good. There could be no humor here. The stage had to be set. Varrow looked around then at the slumped Xian. He began his approach, clipping his mace to his belt, making sure each footfall fell with meaning and rhythm. Xian looked up at the half blood and grinned wide. Silk ropes held his wrists behind the great chair and his ankles to the steel legs. A grin was not a surprise. This man had met a nerve worker before, but not one like Varrow. The half elf looked down at the new actor on the stage.
“You know why I’m here.”
“You don’t intimidate me elf. Brothel boy. This is the best Graggar has to offer?”
A forced laugh fillled the air. Followed by a swift kick to the groin. Xian laughter turned to howls, as h bent down into his overstuffed belly. What was next was a no brainer. A knee came up, catching the lizard in his oh so sensitive nose. Xian’s mood swiftly shifted.
Varrow stayed calm. “Normally I don’t start with the touching. I like to keep things clean. I mean, after all, we’re both civilized folk here, you and me? Let’s have a conversation and keep the insults and touching to a minumum. If you think a boot the balls is the worst I’ll give you you’re dead wrong. Now. We need to talk about your payments.”

The room grew earily quiet. Varrow shot a swift look a the half shaven mercenary who simply nodded his boys off. The dark figures retreated from amongst the wreckage and just outside what was left of the door. No words were exchanged between Varrow and his dinner guest.
Varrow remained standing over the fat lizard. Waiting for his response. It came eventually came. Though this time with less volume, less conviction. Good.
“Civil?” he scofed. “You come to my home, kill my men destroy my halls and you call yourself civil? Fuck you elf.  Know that the city watch will have none of this. You think  I am the only merchant to defy that disgusting worm? Bah! There are dozens of us!”
Varrow kept a straight face, although the half elf easily could have smiled at the words this reckless oaf was pouring. To separate fact from fiction was no easy task, but with a creature like this, it was doable. What Xian did not realize was who made the rules now. The lizard mistakenly believed that this was still his house. Varrow stayed smooth, picking up a chair from the ground and unceremoniously dragging the hand carved piece of furniture across the rough stone floor. The elf planted himself firmly in the wood and looked the dragon born in the eye. As he did so, a pair of fine pliers were produced from his belt, making themselves at home within his sinewy fingers.
“What, are you going to rip my claws out?”The old merchant glared at the elf. “Is that what civilized people do?”
Varrow was stone. “No. Not yet. That’s entirely up to you. Xian, you are aware of what fingernails are?”
The merchant remained dead silent as Varrow blathered on. “You see, it’s very painful when a man or someone like myself loses one, but it is not crippling. I’ve come to learn something over the years. Do you know what that is?”
Again, Xian offered no answer. Varrow placed the tip of those thin pliers right at the edge of one of those brilliant copper scales, and within the blink of an eye ripped it outwards. Xian howled to the gods that had abandoned him this night, bowing his head in pain.
“Dragonborn scales are exactly like fingernails.” The elf waited for the howling to subside, and for the ringing in his ears to descend. “Now, are we going to have a conversation?”

---
Dorn waited a good thirty minutes. A few screams rang out in the beginning,  but things grew quieter as the minutes marched on. Varrow appered in the door way, face more ghostly than normal.
“Well?”
Dorn began.
“There is as strongbox with nine thousand coins within it, along with a deed to this mercantile district, and Xian’s mother’s ring. This strongbox is coded with signants. The combination is Fire, Wing, Fire. You will find this strongbox behind a false stone on the north wall of his bedroom. Get to it boys.” As soon as he did, the archer grinned and rushed the room with his fellows, crowbars and hammers at the ready. When they were alone, Dorn went on. “What did he really say? Where’s the meat of it?”
Varrow spoke, slightly shaken. “He said that there were others like him. He gave up a few names. I have them written down here. A new merchant’s guild is rising. Headed by a member of the royals no less. This is serious, Dorn. Graggar’s days may be numbered. “
“The lizard’s bluffing lad. Wants to shake ya fore’ he leaves this earth. Only thing he can do to harm ya.”
 Dorn’s words fell on deaf ears. There had been no lie in the dragonborn’s words. Two scales was all it took. Didn’t even have to move on to the nails. The room erupted with a crash.  A few moments later, two men in black lumbered out the door bringing the heavy iron clad thing to the carpet with a gingerness not befitting to their visages.  A bald man with a twisted nose bent down, a few dragon born warriors stood nearby, watching.
“What was the combo again Elf?”

“Fire, wing, fire.” He said flatly.
The bald man put a thick finger to the first of the three steel rollers. A popping noise cracked the air as a blue spark leapt from the strongbox, blasting the heavy man into the stone wall behind him. The stench of burnt hair filled the hall as the fat man slumped against the wall, hyperventilating with eyes like plates.
 “SHITE!”
The room errupted in laughter.
“Sorry about that, they usually have one spell against an undesirable person.” Varrow stated.
Someone had to have sprung it. The fatman glared at the elf. But Varrow paid him no heed. He was lucky to be alive. One of their dragonborn fellows bent down and flicked the rollers into their right places. A satisfying clink made itself known and the box was slowly opened. Inside lay carefully sanctioned bags of coin, velvet things of brilliant blue, emblazoned with Xian’s unicorn sigil. A few documents and deeds lay among the  coinage. This was a good thing. Varrow looked back at the archer.
“You can kill him now. Remember, make a show of it.”
The archer slinked into the room, his black boys with him. Varrow kept his back to the room as he heard the bows flex. Half a dozen swatting sounds erupted from Xian’s screaming chest cavity. And there was silence. The archer returned, along with his boys. “And our bonus?”
Varrow smiled at him. “Tear the place apart. What you find is yours.”

In reply to Adwonus Swillman (msg # 54):

He felt his eyelids open again. The little moving flaps of flesh were the only indication that he  could see. Her. Laurenth. The name came rushing back and so did her scent. For some reason that was the strongest memory. As soon as it hit him, the stones didn’t feel so cold anymore. The wounds on his wrists and head hurt just a little less. He would find her when he was free. That was the promise Hadric made to himself. To her. Silence was no longer his only companion now. Laurenth was with him. Hours didn’t seem to drag on so much. The black didn’t feel as heavy, Breaths came easier to him, and each day he kept up his routine of pulling at the chains and smashing at the bolts. Sometime in the darkness the door flew open once more. The fungus man brought his scent into the room along with the soft walk.
“Hadric.”
Discontent stirred up like a kicked up river bed in the chained man’s heart with the sounding of those quiet feet.  There was hatred here for the softs-poken man. Hadric knew that he would find the reason for it. No way he could be mistaken. The little man came over and squatted down. This time, out of the reach of Hadric’s head. He was learning. The man spoke again, voice echoing just the slightest bit off the stones.
“Is today any better? Hmm? You remember my name?”  this voice was melodic, but a little congested. Likely a result of his visit to the nose. He smiled a bit. As soon as he did, the darkness cracked with the softman’s voice.
“What are you grinning about?!”  It shocked the prisoner to the core. How could this man see him so well as to a smirk? How could he tell? Hadric couldn’t show signs he had been off put. Instead, the captive kept up the game. He remained silent, and continued grinning, remembering that wonderful shattering of cartilage against his skull. The kick came swift. A pointed leather toed boot directed at the solar plexus. Hadric wheezed as the air was forced from his chest cavity and into the inescapable void around him. His body pulled him to the ground like an anchor of battered muscle, chocking and sputtering. God he hated this man. Not just now, but always. He could feel it. Memory was a funny thing. With a couple heaves and groans, his lungs were back to normal. Stale air circulated throughout his respiratory system, bringing precious oxygen to his blood. His head rang less, he focused a bit. He could feel the two people in the room. The one who smelled of fungus and the soft man.
“Say… My… Name.”
The mantra ran through his ears like a church choir. Hadric did not know his name, and if he did, he would not give it to him. Let the little man be nameless and frantic. The heavy prisoner craned his neck up towards the familiar and nameless presence and whispered. “Fuck. You.”
Hadric waited for a strike,  the sound of a dagger being drawn, a wad of spittle. But there was no such response this time. The darkness became deathly silent and still. For a moment, he wondered if the little man had disappeared into thin air. A good thirty seconds passed before the cold voice returned.
“Have it your way, Black Rider.”
Hadric felt the hairs on his neck stand up, the same way a cat would bristle in the dead of night. As the little man turned to leave, the prisoner narrowed in, silently counting his captor’s footsteps.
One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-Slam.
Seven.
The number rested in his skull. The dry lips upon his face silently muttered the number to the dark. Soon the number seven became ingrained. Instead the words Black Rider took up the seat of his obsessions. When he thought on those words, he felt something. A  flicker of memory. A cool shiver wove it’s away across his shoulders and spine, transforming into a nameless energy in his arms. For a moment his desire to hurt something became nearly uncontrollable. The prisoner clenched his eyes and wrapped his ragged fingers on the chain, pulling with all his might. The raw skin upon his wrists and hands wept at him to stop. The air was shattered by the crisp snapping of chain. Hadric’s eyes shot open like exploding window pains. The strain on his left arm was suddenly gone. He lifted it in his amazement. Tendons and muscles ached at the long repressed freedom. One arm down. One to go.

---
“What’s your name?” the voice was young and almost naïve. Before him stood another man around the same age. Skin as black as the night sky, ears pointed and face thin. The thin face looked away form him with the muttering “Solvious.”  Hadric’s eye narrowed ever so slightly. “So the order hires on Dark elves now?”
Solvious craned his head. “I’m a child of the light, same as you brother. You know the Creed. Race is nothing in the eyes of The Bearer.” His recital of the scripture came clean and annoyingly clear. Hadric bit his biting racism back. He had heard the stories of the Drow. The walkers of the darkness. Throat cutters and poisoners. But apparently here was an exception. A servant of the Light. The two of them continued riding through the darkened prairie against a pink and purple stained sky. The sun was just about gone, and the others had long rode off to separate posts, leaving Hadric alone with the transfer. Most nights he made very little conversation with the others, but this little dark creature was just too intriguing to ignore. He mostly avoided speaking with the others for their piousness. He was an oath breaker, albeit unknown, and ramblings of scripture and righteousness could be tolerated for only so long. The knight, in fact, did enjoy serving. He truly believed in the Light, and wanted nothing more than to conquer in it’s name as the scripture had said. But certain tenants had to be ignored.
The darkened grass shot quickly beneath the hooves of their steeds. A good ride to say the least. Hadric looked up ahead at the horizon line. A single monolith stood amongst the rolling natural black silhouettes of hills and pines.  Whitewatch. His tower. Home.
Hadric turned towards the elf. More questions to kill the time. “How long have you walked?” he did his best to keep his tone clean and free of jagged edges.
“A hundred fourteen years.” Solvious responded  plainly , eyes forward on Whitewatch before adding, “But I’m young by my people’s standard. I tell the girls I’m twenty but it still doesn’t work too well.”
Hadric bit back a light chuckle in the cold air. A sense of humor. Something that was horribly lacking here. “Forgive my suspicion earlier brother. But how does a Drow become a child of the Light?” his voice was nearly drowned out by the horse hooves. Solvious looked on, the tower was relatively close. “Initially, it was a choice of survival. You see brother, I was trained by the warriors of my people to bring war to the high elves. I went upon my first raid, and your soldiers came crashing in, killing all of my battle brothers but me. To be a male Drow is a miserable life. We hold no voice and exist only to breed and fight.”
Hadric snorted. “Doesn’t sound so bad.”  They were very close to the Tower. Solvious ignored the joke and continued. “The moment my brethren fell, I saw an opportunity. I surrendered instead of fighting to the death as I was told. The men of the Light spared me on the terms I would convert and serve them. I swore loyalty, and the next month was spent in indoctrination.”
Hadric looked at him strangely and pondered the words. The elf’s delivery was so calm. So smooth. Many of the knights were orphans of the Scourging Wars, lost and angry souls taken and sculpted into holy warriors. Hadric had yet to meet a convert warrior. Most who converted were given the supportive roles. Armorers, maids, servants, cooks and porters were frequently their destinies. It must have been his combat prowess that had allowed him into the warrior caste. The two of them rode on, unaware of the bond they would create and eventually shatter.
His eyes were open. The chain was broken. As soon as that metal had snapped, and with that sharp crack in the air his breath and rage had returned to him. It had been as if the past week of imprisonment had never existed. Hadric thought on that last memory. Yes. Solvious. That was his name. The elf. That would have explained how the captor could see him so well in the inky darkness of the cell. But still the question remained. What had happened? Why was he here? Had Solvious returned to his Dark elf roots? Of course. More importantly, where was she? The golden girl. Hadric shook the questions away like water off a dog, prioritizing his thoughts. What mattered here and now was that final chain. He would have to break it soon. Right now. The warrior knew not when Solvious and his fat friend would return.
The air filled with the sound of his lungs expanding and contracting. Slow and steady breaths to bring him strength. The final chain lay just beneath his right arm, ready and crying to be broken. The warrior brought himself up to a squat. Fire shot throughout his legs as if they were awake for the first time. The stench of urine emanated as he finally shifted his weight. No matter. He would be free. The final chain pulled tight as he pumped blood into his arms. His right fist clenched as hard as it could against the hammered metal, while the left provided extra support. Heels dug into the stones, grounding his energy and rage into the floor.
As he pulled his mind lulled, drugged by a flood of endorphins and adrenaline. The rush. And with the rush came memory. He was back on the field. The two ragged sides clashing in glorious blood spattered unison. The red mists of melee hung strong about the air, and the scent was metal and flesh and fear. The twin knights, white and black posed amongst the combat came into view. But this time, Hadric had body, and it held a mace. Before him lay the white knight, longsword at his side, breast plate broken. Visor looking up at him expressionless, a gauntleted hand lightly raising for mercy.
The mace came down. Hadric could not remember the sound for his ears were drowned in a flood of a thousand cries. The massive weapon cascaded, sending the impact up the killer’s arm like lighting. Again and again it thundered down upon the metal helm, crushing the fleshy skull beneath. He had been too occupied with annihilating whoever this man was not to notice his forces receding behind him. The rage was in control, not Hadric. A couple more swings fell from his plated arms. The sensation of tears burned down the front of his cheeks and nose, dribbling down into his mouth. The warrior looked up to see his host fleeing into the foot hills, himself surrounded by a fighting grip of ragged combatants that bore the flag of the order, and not the red-rose which he had come to fly. The enemy host began to close on him as a whirlpool of exhausted and bloody bodies.
Leading the pack, another warrior, clad in bits of hardened hammered steel. He bore no helmet, but a head draped in ebon black skin, and hair as white as the plumpest of clouds.
 
Solvious.
The elf spoke, his thin voice mincing across the suddenly silent battlefield.
“Hadric of the Red Rose! You dare to wage war against the order, upon the blood of a whore?! You have done nothing but burn the land in her name, turned against your own god and masters! What say you for this? The man that I could have called friend not too long ago?!”
The mountain of metal shifted, ripping his mace from the gore flaked metal pulp that was once a human being. “SOLVIOUS!” the voice crashed and sounded like thunder. “I COME FOR YOU AND WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME!!”
The armored figure raised his hands, following the scent of loosened bowels, spilled viscera and shattered lives to the heavens. “LOOK AT YOUR WORK MY FRIEND. YOU BLAME THE SWORD, BUT YET YOU ARE THE ARM THAT SWUNG IT!”
With that, Hadric through his form towards the black elf, screaming once again, sending his roar to cascade through the valley of bodies. The words “Take him alive!” sounded and drowned in the resparked chaos. A wall of warrior flesh fearfully moved to apprehend the moving man of bloodied steel several fell, ripped or crushed beneath his strikes, but now the warrior was alone, free from allies or a helping hand. The swarm of bodies became too much, even for him. A half a dozen arms ripped the cursed mace from his iron grip. The rest was history. A few punches and snaps here, but still they came. Hadric looked out the slit in his visor and through a gap in the rumbling chaotic attackers as they covered him. There strode Solvious, proud and grinning. Soon the knight’s helmet was torn from him, revealing a hardened face and ragged beard. Fists and boots flew at the exposed brow as his arms attempted to protect a soon to be battered skull. The word stop blew over the attackers like a cool wind. Hadric found himself pinned to the stained grass, Solvious standing over him with a dozen leering faces and the unmistakable scent of blood on his tongue. . The elf spoke some tones he had not yet heard uttered before. His hand glowed with an un natural light before plunging down to Hadric’s forehead. Electric sensation exploded above his brow before racing down his spinal cord, spreading to his limbs and genitals, followed by a pure blackness of which there was no waking.
Until now. Hadric stood still in the darkness, chains hanging from his wrists in sick mockery of jewelry. The steps came to the door, and he slid to the corner, legs screaming at him with every step. They would be here, soon, and the warrior would have but one chance... He slowed his heart with quiet breathing. The chains settled, along with their bits of stone attached to them. The door swung open, and Hadric’s eyes opened to the darkness. The chains were heavy at his side, but new strength found him. These were his weapons.  The foot steps came and so did Hadric’s chains. The air exploded with a shout of pain and metal crushing collar bone. One down. The other was right beside. The warrior was fighting blind, but the soft foot falls could not be mistaken. The other was panicked at the chaos, and had no time to draw his weapon to defend against the random swinging chains. The first caught his ankle. He felt it shatter like glass, and soon he too lay on the floor beside his howling friend. The screams were all that Hadric needed to see now. The prisoner brought his hands together, clutching both chains as one, and brought them down again, and again, and again. The final strike came thundering down upon its mark. A final cry became a gurgle, and the darkness lifted.
The warrior grimaced, narrowing his eyes. What lay before him was a room lit by a dull bit of bounced sunlight from the door, a place  of stone and iron grated wood. He was in the Tower of WhiteWatch. The warrior knew it well, remembering that fateful night he and Solvious rode their together as fresh friends. The light also revealed his captors. A rather fat drow lay on the floor, ankle twisted, throat resembling a bag of rags. Beside him lay the soft-spoken one. Clutching his chest, inching towards the door.
“You. Dark one.” His voice was but a crackle as he advanced. “Say my name!”
Before the elf could speak, the chains were wrapped tight against his neck. Whatever fire the prisoner had carried with him through those darkened days had become a blaze. Soft boots kicked and squirmed on the stones, black nails demanded release from the flesh on Hadric’s face, but none was given. The Elf fell silent, body resting upon the forgotten stone.
And Hadric wept.
For the little pieces of memory he still had.
For the things that he had done, or not done.
And for her.
He could not remember her name, only the smell of clay and the softness of her skin. The tower was strangely silent, he had expected others to be here. What was clear, is that an open door lay before him, one he intended to take. The prisoner advanced, stumbling about corridors and broken halls. It was not long before he found an armory, quite bereft of many things. A hatchet would break his chains, a tunic would cloth him. He started digging further amongst the forgotten bits of steel and iron until his eyes fell upon a mighty flail. The weapon was elegant, trimmed in sterling silver with in the sigil of the light. The chain upon it was of dwarvish steel, and it’s jagged end perfectly modelled. This one beautiful tool of death sat amongst its simpler cousins and brothers, with  voice far louder. There was no resisting the weapon’s call. His thick fingers curled about the haft and raised it with a new found ease. This was not his tool, nor had it ever been, but soon he would come to own it. He scavenged a few more things, a cracked pouldron, a brutal helm, an old coat of mail, bits of bread and cheese, a waterskin, a few vials of the bitter drink. Such providence had fallen upon him after his trials, but still, the tower seemed under equipped, at least to the best of a broken man’s memory. Clad in his tatters and cruel half plate, Hadric winded his way towards the exit. He had seen only bits of sunlight from the murderholes and windows, but had not granted himself the luxury to look. Not yet. He wanted it all at once. To feel wind and the embrace of the sun and see green once more. And that’s just what he got.
He reached the main gate. Patience was at an end. He had drank his fill of water, and stuffed himself with bread, now only one need remained. The doors flung open beneath his leather boot, the sunbeams retorted with paralyzing radiance. He stepped forwards into the light, for a moment he smelled clay, and his heart soared, but such a sensation was a passing thing on the breeze. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the great green forests before him, things were not how he remembered. Undergrowth occupied the steps he stood upon, in fact, they were mostly grass now. Turning slowly, the warrior gazed upon WhiteWatch. Nothing. The great marble tower was gone, no more than a lump of earth punctured by a few rogue stones. Silence filled him, he knew not what this magic was. The knight expected to wake again in the darkness kissing stone but awareness dare not take him. This was real. It couldn’t have been WhiteWatch. His memory was broken. Perhaps he had thought this fortress to be the old tower? But what stared back at him was no tower. The doors from which he had exited were gone, only a crushed arch stood in their place, leaves blowing at its stone feet. Hadric’s gaze lingered a while longer, and there was a flash in his eyes. He then did wonder the dead elf's question. Who was Hadric?

Quay,

Festival Night in Shan-tai

Trumpets, drums, and instruments Quay didn't know flooded the air with music. An acrobat walked through the crowd on stilts, towering 15 feet high; both grown adults and children gazed up at him in wonder and occasionally darted through his legs for the thrill. Paper lanterns had been stung up overhead, obstacles for which the acrobats had to avoid. The small town was in the midst of a celebration.

Quay lingered next to a stall, arms folded, watching the folk run from scene to scene. They switched their attention between the acrobats and the actual show on stage, some drama being played out with brightly painted and colorful actors. The people of Shan-tai in their native appearance had faintly brown skin and narrow eyes; they were short too. This festival was mostly for them. There were orcs too, talking, eating, enjoying themselves – visitors from Da'ak to the north, an orcen kingdom. Green skinned, tusks, and some nearing seven feet tall, they added to the wealth of diversity, all brought out into the streets by the small festival.

The actors on stage had their faces painted white and black, with expressions painted on as well; an unchanging angry face danced across the scene, gliding and twirling across the tall wooden platform. A group of pursuers chased after him, their colorful robes fluttering along in a choreographed dance. The antagonist was made clear by the face and colors.

Quay handed some coins to the man behind the stall and received various meats on a stick in return, spiced and peppered. Snack in hand she wandered toward the stage to get a better seating and pass the time. She sat on a bench next to a family; their children watched the show intently, utterly drawn in by its vibrant display and colorfully implied violence. Their rapt, young eyes saw everything. Where the red streamers were flung, they saw blood. Where the wooden swords clashed, they saw metal and sparks. Their child eyes saw everything the adults could not. Quay watched too. The actors danced their battles out to the sound of chimes and drums.

When the antagonist was slain and the victors cheering, the actors moved about in their final celebratory dance while the side of the stage crowded with their next event. The actors finished and gracefully left the stage, replaced almost instantly with those waiting on the side. Though they were no actors. A man took the fore of the stage and spoke in a well-practiced loudness; the drums lessened to a subtle rhythmic beat dotted with the regular chime.

"Attention all!" exclaimed the speaker. "Today we celebrate the mighty Hin Xau." Cheers and roars made any more speech impossible; the drums and chimes and other instruments picked up for a moment in a brief cheer of their own, as though adding a period to his proclamation.

At the right moment, he continued, "A hero, who came, and saved us from the raids of the Sho Gang! This day we give him thanks!" The roars rose again, and surged again still when Hin Xau himself entered on stage, waving, basking in the praise. His sharp chin and soft eyes glowed with an aura of strong confidence, his black long hair tied in a pony tail behind him, all bearing the look of a warrior one might find in a storybook of the orient. No wondered they worshiped him so, Quay thought, for he looked the part.

The hero pulled a polearm from his back and spun it in an acrobatic fashion, reaping the sound of awes and ahs as he playfully danced it over the heads of the audience in the front row. They loved it, adored it, going wild with their excitement. The speaker gave more words of praise and they read an honorary poem, and some more to follow. Quay stayed only through the poem and then left, wading through the crowd and away from the stage, back to the more open parts of the village. She walked further away and further still, finally heading back to her inn. Anymore of this and she was going to be sick.

The crowds were thinner amidst the part of town with more buildings; the townfolk had migrated to the festival field this day; the vendors too, abandoning their shops in favor of stalls for a few easy sales. Quay reached the inn, walked inside through the open doors, and breathed in the pure relief of relative silence. The wooden and paper screen walls cushioned the sound of music to a dull roar, like the sound of the ocean on the other side of a dune. It was the closest to peace she was going to find this evening.

The interior of the inn was spotted with low, round tables, some with game boards atop them, some without. Decorative paper shades in wooden frames walled apart another section and it was there she headed. There were only more tables, but this place was more reserved for those who actually stayed at they inn, rather than mere passerby looking for something to eat and drink. She took a seat at her table. She called it her table, only for she had sat there each time the past few days. A mature woman who worked for the inn came, wearing long salmon-colored robes with small white flowers interrupting the fabric every few inches; her black hair was tied up in a complicated but traditional bun. Quay nodded to her, and she left to get her order, for the intelligent waitress had already come to learn what she was going to say. The woman returned and set a tray of tea in front of Quay, a clay pot and empty cup, and then left after a humble bow.

Quay poured a full cup right away, not waiting for it to steep. She preferred it boiling hot, even at the expense of some taste. The tea steamed from the cup in vaporous plumes that were bound to disappear a few inches above; she drank in sips. Tea was something she liked, and they made it well in Shan-tai. She had already become very familiar with it.

She remained there for awhile, seated on the floor – for everyone sat on the floor - thinking things over. She remained there for at least an hour or two. She thought of where she was going next. South is what she concluded but hadn't determined much more than that. The tea became lukewarm as the supply dwindled away. She decided to not have a second pot, for she didn't plan to stay much longer. People came and went through the inn, from the back area to the front and through the in-between where Quay sat pensively. Although there was always such traffic, her sitting area was still the least populated. Random folk from the street would often come in and sit in the front, and there they would enjoy the inn's cooking, acting as both restaurant, inn, and teahouse – a place of general hospitality. Quay admitted they performed their function well and found little lacking. On the other side of the paper screens, she heard a large group come inside, noisy and boisterous. Their words blended into pure noise for Quay who remained contemplative, taking little interest in the affairs of strangers. Or so she would perceive of herself.

After a short while, someone walked to the screened section – her section - and peered inside, standing in the entryway. The man spotted Quay sitting alone. Smiling he approached and took a seat, not bothering to ask if or can.

"I thought I saw you in the crowd earlier. So I do get to see you again after all."

Quay frowned at the intrusion and looked up. As expected, she saw Hin Xau. She continued frowning. "Mm," she grunted.

Hin Xau cocked his head, studying this so different a creature than himself, and he was not referring merely to her orcen features. Her tusks and olive green skin masked her feminine physique with a ferocious visage, accompanied by long black hair which had just the slightest auburn hue, declaring some delicate side to the world. The blend of softness and ferociousness betrayed her half-orc heritage. All this, Hin Xau thought, was not unlike himself; he felt his own warrior strength was softened by his Shan-tai complexion, his black hair also long. No, when referred to her differences, he meant only her temperament, which shied away from everything he strived for. And she understood this difference too.

He continued, "You know, you could've been up there too if you wanted. You fought off the Sho Gang just as well as I did, and killed just as many, maybe more. Say the word and I'll tell them."

"No," Quay replied decisively.

"Come now, it's not so bad. Praise, the money's nice – you deserve something."

"I don't want it," Quay said again. "You can do what you wish. And I'll do things as I wish to do them."

Hin Xau frowned, but didn't leave. He sat there observing, thinking, trying to come up with something new and more profound to say. Quay drank her now cold tea, her face resolute and slightly annoyed, a visage cast in stone. Hin Xau smirked, "Well then join our little party over here. Just strangers and grateful people. You might enjoy yourself, rather than being here all on your own."

Quay didn't reply. There was no point in replying; and there were few things she despised more than redundancy. Hin Xau got the picture.

"Ok then."

He stood and left, welcomed back on the other side of the screen by a modest cheer, his newfound fans waiting for him. Sickening, Quay thought. She was finished here. Silently, Quay stood and and retired to her room.

2

Night fell; the light of the waxing moon shone through the transparent paper shades that covered her windows. Quay laid on the bamboo mat of her room. Her room was two stories above the streets outside. Yet she could here still hear the sounds of the dwindling nightlife, only existing so late due to the eventfulness of the day. Normally the town fell silent once the sun sank beneath the hills. On the streets outside, lanterns illuminated the corners and buildings, not to be put out until much later. She knew this from having seen it all before, spending nights by the window sill and watching people move about below, gradually disappearing to their dreams. Now, she laid with her eyes shut, intent on sleep. She had already made her decision that evening. She was going to leave tomorrow.

The routes of the map traced themselves on the back of her eyelids. The road to Pa'dong, and the ship down the coast of Shan-tai; it would stop here, continue there, frequenting the ports as it traveled along. She could see most of the continent on that journey, and be on her way after a brief stay. She never liked to linger, which contrasted the fact that she had no where specific to go. This was a kind of traveling that had no end in sight, nor a method for ending it.

Quay rotated onto her side. The oriental pillows were stiff and square and not the most comfortable, but she made due. They were tightly packed with some kind of grass, so tight that some had the hardness of a piece of wood. Again, Quay minded very little. Too much comfort was a sin, she was always taught. She placed her foot on top of the other, but now the bone of her hip pressed against the bamboo mat too hard. She returned to her back.

She thought of the townsfolk here, who were nice enough. It struck her how orderly and decent they kept their lives. Each morning the wives and husbands alike did certain chores, always in the same order and at the same time, and did so again in the evening. At the same times each day, Quay, walking on the streets, would always see the same people, following their routines. They were the pieces of a clock that ticked over and over again, steadily each day, each person a gear and in the machine of their community. Things were kept clean; the streets were clean – and she this much she praised them for. They were an admirable people on the whole. But not perfect.

Quay's eyes became heavy, and her thoughts of villages and towns and people acquired a surrealness. The sky changed every few seconds in her mind, never keep the same time of day for longer than she could hold an idea. The people walked this way and that and faded out of existence the moment she stopped paying attention to them, all playing out in the fragmented images of her thoughts. And Quay went from standing on a street to sitting on the edge of a bridge, looking at coy fish circling in the water, their glittering scales of orange and white, pink and black, all swirling in a vortex. It was hypnotic and Quay felt like she was swirling too. She was dreaming now. She watched the swirling pattern become new things for a moment. And then, feeling weak, she fell off the bridge into the pond, into the whirlpool. The water entered her lungs and it was suddenly hard to breathe. And it grew harder and harder. The swirling twisted into the visage of man glaring down at her; the water disappeared. The colors, fish, people, town, all disappeared. She could feel her hard pillow under her head, the bamboo mat beneath her, but the image of the man remained. He was hovering over her, staring at her. His hand was on her face, over her mouth. He was suffocating her. He was killing her.

She wasn't dreaming anymore.

Quay's eye shot open in wide alarm. A Shan-tai man was crouched over her, smothering her to death; she didn't know his face. This was actually happening. Reflexes came first and she moved to sit up, but the man's hand on her mouth and the other on her chest kept that from happening. He was a strong man. Her lungs already began to feel strained, and a feeling of panic she couldn't prevent, instinctively powerful, swelled and swept over her and caused her to tremble. Next she brought up her hands and gripped his wrist, trying to wrench his hand away from her mouth; but it wouldn't budge. He placed all the weight of his body down on her. Her legs began shaking.

Trying to sit up, to pry him away – both failed, and next came the final act in the sequence of desperation. She stretched open her mouth, as wide as she could, and the edge his hand slipped in; she bit down as hard as she could. Teeth made sharp by her orcen blood, she bit over his ring and pinky fingers, and she bit them right off. The man pulled away and screamed. He took off his other hand too and clutched the injured one, two fingers missing, shocked and yowling. Quay sprang up, sitting up on her mat, her fanged mouth darting straight for his throat. She bit, and she pulled away with animalistic strength. She tore something out of his neck. It was his windpipe. The man stopped screaming, which had only lasted an instant, and all that came out was a terrible rasping sound. Quay spit out whatever was in her mouth and mauled him, fists beating the side of his head in a flurry for two, eternity-lasting seconds. He was dead after only the first couple of swings.

Quay ceased her beating and breathed heavily. She had no air in her lungs still and couldn't seem to get enough. Her blood was racing, heart pounding, creating a loud beating of the drum in her ears and eyes. She was sweating too. She swallowed; tasted blood but that was expected. Slowly, steadily, her heart slowed down and her breath came back. The world ceased its swirling. But this was all real. There was a dead man next to her.

Her mind felt wide-awake, despite sleeping moments ago. She was more than awake; adrenaline had seen to that. She crept off her mat, not quite standing but walking at a cautious crouch, and hovered over the body of the man who had tried to kill her. Once again, she didn't know him; but there must have been a reason. She searched his pockets. And in one she found what she had begun to suspect must be there, because she had seen it before. She pulled out a coin. Though not made of gold, the coin had great value to some, for encrested on it was the symbol of the Sho Gang. This was a revenge killing.

Quay breathed deeply. She had suspected this might happen, and yet she didn't expect them to find her, not this soon anyway. She stood, leaving the body where it was, dressed in the moonlight and grabbed her spear, which she'd propped against a corner of the room. She had always used a spear, since the very beginning. A thought occurred to her, that if this man was here to kill her, then that meant there was another in town too, here to kill Hin Xau. She snorted and spoke aloud, "He can take care of himself." She was leaving; earlier than expected but leaving all the same. She packed her things. Then she stopped packing her things. "Damn." Despite what she said aloud, her thoughts said other things. Cramming the rest of her stuff in her pack, she stood and walked out the room, out of the inn, and headed toward where she knew Hin Xau to be staying. Everybody knew where that was, as of today. The arguments traced over in her mind. She didn't owe him anything, not a damn thing; she didn't even like him – but she found herself heading to his inn all the same.





Hin Xau was staying at a popular inn. His room wasn't hard to find; it was the only one with gifts and flowers lining the hall outside his door. Fool, Quay thought. The walk through town was a lonely one, for it had finally rested, the lanterns put out. The assassins chose their timing well. Nonetheless Quay had cleaned her face before heading out; tomorrow morning the innkeepers would find a body and a water basin full of blood. She could stay and explain but had no desire to try. Yet she didn't leave them with nothing at all. Atop the body she set the coin of the Sho Gang square on his chest. A knowledgeable person will know what it meant and could infer the rest from there.

She could feel the exhaustion of the town, the tiredness that came after a festival where all were present; and now all were sleep. It was as if such events united the people onto a single clock, reharmonizing the rhythym to which they all lived. The storied buildings towered, as though giving shelter to those who walked on the streets below. The more ornate buildings had carvings of dragons and other legendary beasts decorating their flared rooftops. Each cast a sharp and varied shadow, silhouettes made of moonlight over everything in a clashing display.

She had found the inn with nighttime lanterns still lit on the inside, casting gentle reflections on over the shaded windows, welcoming the midnight castaway. She had found his room; and now, she stood outside his door, waiting, listening. Murmurs came from inside. He was not alone. She slowly slid open his door a crack, cautious the paper screen did not squeak across the ground. With an inch open, she peered inside. And there was Hin Xau, ropes tied around his chest and legs on his own mat, sitting upright; and next to him a man on a chair, speaking in low threatening tones to him. A dead girl also laid on the mat, Hin Xau's unfortunate company for the night.

So he was in trouble. Quay thought again, she owed him nothing. She knew this. She could leave if she wanted. She grabbed her spear. And she slid wide open the paper screen door.

The man in the chair looked up, though everything was shadowed. Like her own room, there was no light save the for the luminescent moon that escaped through the panes. The man spoke, "That you? The she-orc dead?" Quay could see him just fine; her orcen blood did that. She could she his Shan-tai face, his light wrinkles from middle age, his dagger, his black robes.

She spoke, "No." The man in the chair stood fast, the chair thrown by the very movement of his legs. She lifted her spear over her shoulder and threw, threw the spear straight into his gut. It plunged through his stomach to the other side. For a moment he wobbled, then collapsed on his side almost as fast as he had stood.

Hin Xau spoke, "It's you! I'm glad you're here. Save me!"

Quay walked across the room. She could see Hin Xau's face better too, beaten and swollen on one side. There was desperation. The other man coughed on the floor – he was still alive – and forced an insincere chuckle. "Hah. Save him? Bitch. Fool. He sold you. Told us where you slept to save his own skin." She glanced at Hin Xau. His face become frozen, with fear and with shame. He hid it and spoke all the same.

"He's lying!"

"No he's not. I already knew," Quay answered. Hin Xau's face sank beneath the bruises. He said nothing more; there was nothing more he could say.

Quay went over to the man with her spear. He glared at her, coughed, and continued glaring. She grabbed her spear and wrenched it out of him with the stroke of her arm. The assassin exhaled a heavy breath and died then and there. She turned toward Hin Xau. His face was cast downward but his eyes were wide-open, comprehending his death, his folly.

"You're going to kill me," he predicted.

Quay said nothing.

She walked behind him, her moonlit shadow usurping his across the quiet room, and lifted her spear. Hin Xau closed his eyes. She thrust down her spear. And she cut through his bonds. Hin Xau open his eyes. He was surprised to move his arms again, wondering if this was all a dream somehow. Quay walked past him and paused in the middle of the room, facing away. Though free, Hin Xau didn't move from his spot; he had no intention to move. Quay said one thing and one thing only, her tone grudging, "Live with yourself," and walked away. She walked out the door and left. Hin Xau stayed there, staring at the floor. He did that for hours before finally getting help. Her words scarred him, and they would burn forever.

Quay, however, did not stay. Into the night, she walked to the edge of town, out the gate. She stepped onto the moonlit road to begin her next journey. She did so with the old phrase repeating itself in her heart, one she had learned over and over. "There's no such thing as heroes."



This message was last edited by the player at 16:34, Fri 26 Feb 2016.

Rhana Arkngthamz sat on a solitary bench outside the Elder Council Building, weeping, rivulets of tears running down her round cheeks, and strands of her long fiery orange hair clinging to the damp trails they left behind. She glanced up at the closest thing she knew to a sky but received no hint of how much time had passed, no hint of whether it be day or night in the world above, for the dwarven city of Stual was built in the heart of a mountain. In a mimicry of sky, tens of thousands of luminous mushrooms grew across the ceiling and walls of the Great Cavern, ever glowing a soft turquoise glow, spotted with purples and reds, but their humble radiance offered Rhana no comfort.

Suddenly the doors to the Elder Council Building opened and out came the ten elders in a line, their crimson robes and aged beards swaying around the level of their ankles. Rhana stood and approached them, and Elder Korenck, whose entire face seemed comprised of a curly white beard and a pair of tiny golden spectacles, left the line to meet her. Rhana wiped the dampness from her eyes, hoping to restore some vestige of her dignity.

"What did you decide?" she asked.

Elder Korenck's eyes were small and beady behind his lenses, but they still managed to offer her a look of deep sympathy. "Rhana, your father has been found guilty and sentenced to death."

Rhana felt her chest go taut but nodded in silence, having expected this.

"He'll be executed by the Oathkeeper tomorrow morning."

Again, she nodded.

"Now go home and get some sleep. You look tired, and it's near the Time of Resting."

In silence, Rhana turned and began to leave, her dignity intact. However, she only made it about two steps before dignity didn't seem all that important anymore, and she spun back around and rushed for the council doors.

"NO!" she screamed as she shoved through the line of elders, knocking over several of the most respected dwarves in Stual. She ignored the shocked looks on their faces as she burst into the building at a sprint. "NO I SAY! DADDY!"

Running through a short hall, Rhana entered the Councilroom, a circular, marble chamber with high wooden chairs around the far edge. She heard sounds through a set of doors on her left, and barged through them into an adjoining room. Inside were four armored guards, their beards all tied in thick singular braids, and being escorted into a far door was her father, his bright orange beard and hair blazing like his head was on fire.

"DADDY!" screamed Rhana, who'd started weeping again.

"Rhana?-"

One guard hurriedly escorted the prisoner through the door and slammed it shut behind him, while the other three overcame their surprise and proceeded to block Rhana's way.

"NO I SAY!" she cried as she charged forward, but the three guards grabbed Rhana's arms and held her back.

She wrenched one of her arms free and punched a guard in the face, knocking him out cold. The other two struggled desperately to hold her while more reinforcements arrived from the rear. It ultimately took six guards to halt her advance, with two having lost consciousness and a third receiving a bloody nose so severe he had to be carried away. She was locked in a room in the Elder Council Building where she waited nearly an hour before Elder Korenck appeared, the door audibly locked behind him by the now much-more-cautious guards. He shook his head in disapproval.

"Am I to be punished?" asked Rhana.

Elder Korenck pushed up his tiny spectacles. "No. We reconvened and consulted the Tome of Laws, but apparently you did nothing illegal aside from hit the guards. Understandably though, none of them wish to testify that ever happened."

". . . Sorry."

Elder Korenck sighed. "However, we do understand why you acted so, and have no wish to keep you here longer than necessary. Your father is in the prison cells now, so if you promise to simply go home, we'll let you go."

Rhana cast her gaze down at the floor. "I promise."

"Good."

Elder Korenck knocked on the door, and the guards opened up. He then escorted her from the room to the front of the Elder Council Building – the guards notably giving her a wide berth along the way – and they both stopped under the mushroom light of the Great Cavern.

"Your grandfather must be worried by now," said Elder Korenck. "The Time of Resting began a half-notch ago, so don't dally in getting home. Goodrest, Rhana."

Rhana nodded, and Elder Korenck returned into the Elder Council Building, the tall, ornate doors closing shut behind him.

Keeping her promise, she headed down the zigzagging road into the city of Stual, a stone town full of spacious terraces, cube-shaped houses, and towering spires, all nestled together in the Great Cavern. She glanced at the Clock as she passed through the central plaza, its metal face held between a pair of fifty foot statues, and saw, as Elder Korenck had said, that the hand had passed into the Time of Resting. She then hastened her pace until she'd reached her house, a simple but large stone cube at the base of the cavern's western wall, next to a glowing red mushroom as large as a tree.

Rhana stepped inside and found her grandfather, Gazeer Arkngthamz, sitting in his red-cushioned chair next to the hearth. He looked at her sadly though his beard, a beard that had turned mostly gray yet remained orange at the tips, as though he had accidently dipped it into a dye. Rhana had expected him to still be awake, waiting up for her, but what she hadn't expected was another dwarf to be sitting in the neighboring chair, one with a black beard braided into three strands and a pointed nose. This dwarf stood and walked up to her.

"Rhana, I know we didn't part on the best of terms, but-"

Rhana struck him across the cheek, causing him to stagger. Then, as he regained his balance, she hugged him, burying her face in his beard. With one hand the dwarf embraced her, and with the other he rubbed the red mark on his face.

"Oy, you still hit like a hammer!"

"Shut it," she whimpered, though not really meaning it.

She released her hug and gave him a fierce glare.

"Where have you been?"

"Working!" he cried.

"You left me here to look after dad and grandpa on my own!"

"I knew you be alright, Sis."

He took a careful step back when her hand curled into a fist.

"When did you get back?" she asked.

"Three days ago, but I didn't know what happened to dad until just now, I swear. I'm sorry I didn't stop by sooner."

Grandfather climbed out of his chair and hobbled toward the pantry. "Rhana, Beremec – why don't you two sit while I get us some brandy?"

Beremec returned to his chair while Rhana pulled up another.

"So you've been working?" she asked.

"Aye," he replied. "As a guide. Plenty of work for guides. Human travelers don't know a thing about the Underrealms."

Grandfather returned with a bottle and glasses and started pouring.

"Why didn't you come to the trial?" pressed Rhana.

"Folk aren't allowed at the trials, you know that," replied Beremec. "You didn't wait outside, did you?

"Of course I did! Someone should've been there, in case. . . in case they let him go."

Grandfather frowned, "The law is clear for Oathbreakers."

"It wasn't his fault though. . ."

"Did you know that humans," began Beremec, "break their oaths all the time and think nuthin' of it?"

"We dwarves have honor," said Grandfather. "Nothing more sacred than an oath."

Grandfather handed Rhana a glass of brandy which she swallowed in one gulp, then slammed the empty glass on the table.

"I don't care," she said as Grandfather slowly lowered himself back into his chair.

Beremec started sipping his brandy. "Well, what can we do about it?"

"I'll tell you what we can do about it!" cried Rhana. "We break him out of that damn prison!"

Beremec spilled the brandy on his trousers. "You sound serious, Sis."

"Who says I'm joking?"

"Couldn't be done."

"Why not?"

"For starters, the prison cells are under the Elder Council Building – no way you could get down there. If you wanted to free him, you'd have to do it during the execution. That would be much easier. All you'd have to do is. . . hmm."

"So you do think it could be done!" accused Rhana.

"Aye, I suppose it could," replied Beremec pensively.

"You owe him, Beremec. You owe him."

Beremec nodded, "Aye, that I do. You might be able to convince me yet, but it'd still be hard. Even if we stopped the execution, we'd have to smuggle him out of the city. We could never come back, and would probably have to leave Grandpa behind – come back for him later."

Rhana glanced at Grandfather. "What do you think, Grandpa? I want your opinion."

Grandfather swirled his brandy around in the glass and watched it come to stillness. "I think such a thought is foolish, dangerous, and unlikely to succeed – so, naturally, I support you completely."

Rhana brightened. "You do?"

"Of course. Lloric is my son. If you think you can save him then who am I to say no? Can't say I've done less foolish things. . ."

Rhana left her chair and hugged Grandfather, kissing him on the cheek. "Then we should do it."

Beremec clapped his hands together, "I'm convinced. A family heist? No time to prepare? Completely spur of the moment? Sounds like a load of fun!"

Beremec leapt out of his chair, left the room, and came back a minute later with an armful of dangerous-looking stuff.

"Alright, let's see what we got here. . . " He dropped the pile on the rug and started sorting everything. "Grenades, flashbombs, smokebombs, a sack of black powder, not sure what thing is – should be everything we need here."

"Where did you get all this?" cried Rhana.

"From my work!" he replied. "You'd be surprise how much you need this stuff in the Underrealms. A cave collapses, you gotta make a new one, or if some beast comes your way. . ."

Rhana picked up a grenade. "In that case, we'll take some of these and attack at the execution!"

"That's the idea," said Beremec. "What's your plan?"

She blinked. "I just told you. We attack!"

"I think we're going to need a bit more planning than that."

"Nonsense! Give me an axe and one of these grenade-things, and I'll get it done!"

Unconsciously, Rhana tightened her grip around the grenade, and Beremec's eyes widened. Cautiously, he took it from her finger.

"Not that I don't think you'd give those guards a run for their money, Sis, but I do think we need to be a bit more careful. This is dad we're talkin' about."

"Listen to your brother, Rhana, "chuckled Grandfather, handing her another glass of brandy that she gulped down immediately.

"Alright then," she replied, plopping back down in her chair. "Plan away if you're so smart."

Beremec fetched a piece of parchment from the shelves and a pen. Moving the brandy bottle and empty glasses to the floor, he spread the parchment across the table and started drawing a sort of map.

"The execution. . ." he began while sketching. "Will be held on the platform outside the Elder Council Building, right? Now, that's on the east side of Stual. So. . ." He added more pictures. "We'll want the hastiest escape possible, out the east gate. We won't have time to go home and pack so we gotta do that in advance. That makes three parts to this plan: One, liberate dad when they bring him on the platform; Two, get us all to the east gate; and Three, make sure our stuff is waiting for us when we get there – if  we're carrying around our luggage during the escape, it's going to slow us down, and that's not good."

"Easy," commented Rhana.

"Hardly," said Beremec. "There'll be guards every step of the way. But first, liberating dad: I propose a flash and smokebomb in the plaza. Cause enough chaos and we can get dad out before they realize what's happening. After that, we'll take a side road to the east gate. But by this point, let's assume they know what's happened and are close behind us. We need a way to slow 'em down."

"That's what axes are for," snapped Rhana.

"Good idea, Sis, but that'd slow us down too, right? We don't have time to stop and fight. Now, there is something else I could do. I go out there tonight and setup a trap, one that I could get-ready fast as we're taking our leave."

"You think that's better than axes? . ."

"And now for the third step, make sure our stuff's waiting. I ain't exactly sure what to do here since there are guards at the gate. Only a couple guards last I checked, since it's facing away from goblin territory, but even a couple could cause us problems."

"You need a trick," inserted Grandfather. "Trick your enemy into being your friend."

It took Beremec a moment, but gradually he got the meaning of Grandfather's wisdom. "Yes. . . Yes, that a good idea! Grandpa, when did you get so wise?"

He shrugged. "Comes with being old."

"Rhana." Beremec turned to her. "Before the execution starts, I want you to take our things to the guards at the east gate!"

"What do I tell 'em!?" she replied.

"The truth! Sorta. Tell 'em that you're meeting me there and that we're going out into the caves, but then say you forgot something and have 'em hold onto our stuff. If we get there fast enough, they won't know we're on the run, and they'll just let us leave."

"What if that don't work?" asked Rhana.

"Then, we'll do axes."

Rhana nodded approvingly.

"One more thing," he continued, "The contingency plan, in case it all goes wrong. . ."

"You think it'll go wrong?" questioned Rhana.

"Something always goes wrong, Sis," answered Beremec. "That's just how things are, and that's why you always need a contingency plan. Let's say we try to free dad but fail, can't get him out of the plaza – then what? You and I, Sis, will be up for arrest, and we'll need to get outta Stual. Best bet is we meet at the Clock and go south. I bet they'll expect us to stop at home first, so I think we could slip out the south gate before anyone notices."

"And leave dad!?" cried Rhana.

"This is only if we got no choice," he assured. "You should always have these sorta plans, you know?"

Rhana grunted with displeasure.

"One more thing," added Beremec. "Be careful with that axe of yours! We don't want to kill no guards on accident."

"I wasn't going to!" she retorted. "Besides, they got healers, don't they?"

"I think that's everything, so best we get started. Guess we ain't getting any sleep tonight, eh? I'm going to go scout the road to the gate and work on that trap. Why don't you start packing some bags for us? For you, me, and dad. When we find a new place to live, we'll make arrangements for Grandpa."

"Alright."

Beremec fetched a big, leather pack of his from another room and left out the door while Rhana started collecting food and clothes and sorting them into bags; Grandfather fell asleep in his chair. Rhana had nearly packed for an hour or so when she dropped a sharp, double-sided axe on the ground and startled Grandfather awake.

"Who? What? We under attack?" he said confusedly, still groggy.

She walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Grandpa. Was just me. You can go back to sleep. It'll be a couple more hours."

He relaxed into his chair. "It's alright. I'm glad you waked me. I always see those ugly Abaxens in my dreams."

Rhana frowned. "You shouldn't still be bothered by that stuff."

Grandfather chuckled. "I may be two hundred years old, but those early memories stick with you your whole life. That war still seems like yesterday to me. . . I still. . . remember. . . everything. ." Grandfather snored back to sleep.

Rhana let him be and went back to packing, and after another hour, she felt like she had packed everything they'd need for a journey through the caves: Waterskins, food that wouldn't go bad, rope, axes (obviously), and more. She figured it take about a week to get to the nearest dwarven city, or two weeks if they wanted to leave the Underrealms altogether and move into the human kingdom. Dad would know what to do.

With a few hours left until the Time of Rising, she laid down on the floor and rested her head on one of the packs. She felt both tired and excited, the anticipation of tomorrow blending with the warm haze of brandy. After a few minutes though, she was roused by a loud clanking sound. Slowly, she leaned up and look around, and saw, to her horror, a towering cloaked figure with long, white fingers looming over Grandfather, its dark metal boots clanking on the floor. Grandfather was still asleep as the figure pulled out a curved dagger. She scrambled to her feet and looked for her axe, but as she gripped the handle, the figure plunged its dagger into Grandfather's neck, and blood poured forth like a river.

"Rhana. Wake up," said Beremec, shaking her out of the dream.

Rhana leapt to her feet with a speed unknown to dwarves and looked at Grandfather – but he was fine, alive and awake in his chair.

"What time is it!?" she asked frantically.

"Don't worry," replied Beremec. "I've been home for an hour, and thought I'd let you sleep a bit. It's time to head out."

Rhana nodded resolutely. "Okay."

"Grandpa," said Beremec as he put a hand on his shoulder. "Once we pick a new city, we'll either send someone for you or I'll come back myself. Will you be alright on your own for a bit?"

"I'll be fine. I'm old, not helpless!" he replied.

Rhana walked up and threw her arms around him. "We'll see you soon, you hear?"

Grandfather hugged her back. "Will you kids stop worrying about me? You're going to go do something stupid and dangerous – worry about yourselves!"

Rhana let him go, and Beremec clapped his hands together. "Stupid and dangerous it is! Rhana, take the packs to the east gate, then meet me at the Elder Council Building."

"On it."

Rhana gathered all three packs – which were heavy, but nothing she couldn't handle for a short walk – and split up from Beremec outside the house. She walked through the city of Stual, which had come to life in the Time of Waking. Shops were open, smiths were hammering, and people were heading to the mines. Rhana cut through the familiar, center plaza, glanced at the Clock – its hand a half-notch past the Time of Waking – and continued across the city until she reached the east gate. The east gate was a thirty foot high metal door set in the cavern wall, surrounded by a thick frame of stone blocks, which, weren't for the lever and system of gears and weights, would have been impossible to push open. Rousing her confidence, she approached the two guards at posted at the base.

"Yes?" said a guard curtly as she set the pile of packs in front of him.

"Hi. I'm meeting my brother here to- . . What happened to your nose?"

Rhana noticed the guard's nose was bandaged and had a purple streaks along the bridge.

"You did," he replied, staring at her darkly over a brown beard. "I had a shift last night at the Elder Council Building."

"Oh!" cried Rhana, vaguely remembering something or another like that. "I, um, I'm really sorry about that."

His tone softened a bit. "Your father was one of us, and we we know that what happened to him could've happened to any of us. So, don't worry about it."

"Thanks. . ."

"So, you going somewhere," he continued, gesturing to the packs.

"Oh, yes. I'm meeting my brother here. He's a guide, so I've decided to leave with him for awhile."

"You're not attending the ceremony then," he replied, politely avoiding the word execution. "Understandable. . . you need three packs?"

Rhana felt a brief surge of worry, not having prepared any answers. She was relieved when something came naturally. "I think that one belongs to my brother's client."

"Ah, I see," said the guard, satisfied.

"My brother is still at the tavern with his client waiting for me. Could you hold onto these while I go get him? We'll be back shortly."

"Sure. We'll make sure no one touches them."

"Thanks," she replied, turning and heading back into the city.

She entered the city streets, surprised that it had all gone to plan so far, and continued to the Elder Council Building, where she entered a small plaza at its southern side amidst a small crowd. A three-foot high platform extended out from the building, on which stood an ornate stone block and a couple patiently-waiting elders. She searched around for Beremec, but she couldn't find him until he had tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

"How'd things go at the gate?" he whispered.

"Fine," she replied. "Wait. . . One of them knew me! Would if he recognizes dad?"

"Don't worry about that right now, but just keep focused on the moment. I'll figure something out when we get there."

"Okay. . ."

Beremec hushed as a side door to the Elder Council Building opened and out came Elder Korenck, followed by a line of several guards escorting their father, arms shackled, whose bright orange beard blazed among the rest. The line was concluded with a dwarf in ceremonial armor holding a large axe, the Oathkeeper, his face hidden under a closed helm. Rhana tensed as Father was brought to the stone block.

"Now?" she whispered, casting an urgent glance at Beremec.

His eyes carefully watched the platform. "Not yet."

Elder Korenck stepped to the edge of the platform a pulled out a scroll. Gazing at it through his tiny spectacles, he read aloud.

"Lloric Arkngthamz, former Guard of the Citadel. Three days past, on the eve of Second Stone, the convicted fell asleep at his post, in negligence, and thus permitted the theft of the Relic Cube of the Founder, Hax Bthalmus. Thus, breaking the Oath of the Guards of the Citadel, allowing such a theft, on the part of the convicted. In accordance with the Tome of Laws, upon breaking such an oath, the honorable form of atonement, is death. This is a sad day for all the dwarves of Stual, and we, the Council of Elders, take no pride or joy in carrying out the ancient laws."

As Elder Korenck rolled up the scroll, Beremec shoved something in Rhana's hand. "Count to five and throw this at the platform," he whispered, then hastened forward, pushing his way through the crowd.

"1. . 2. ."

Elder Korenck nodded to the Oathkeeper who made Father kneel.

"3, 4, 5," Rhana finished hastily, then threw the round object over the heads of the crowd, the heads of the elders, landing near the doors, and after a couple bounces came to a rest.

The heads of elders and guards alike turned toward the dinging sound the object made against the stone, then turned away as it exploded with a blinding flash and a bang that filled everyone's ears with a high-pitched ring. At almost the exact same time, smoke exploded at the front of the platform, evolving the confusion into full-blown chaos. Even though she was farther from the blast than most, Rhana still felt disoriented, caught between the high-pitched sound in her ears and the thick black fog that quickly enveloped the whole plaza. She blinked rapidly trying to get her bearings.

After a few seconds, she felt a hand roughly grab her wrist, and she prepared for a fight.

"Time to go!" said Beremec's voice, and she let him guide her out of the smoke.

They ran out of the blackness, and she noticed he was guiding another with his other hand.

"Father!" she cried when she saw the orange beard.

Father simply coughed and stumbled along. She realized he had been a lot closer to the flash and smoke than she'd been. Together, they slipped behind a building, Beremic pulled out a set of lockpicks, and immediately started working on Father's shackles.

"Father, are you okay?" asked Rhana.

He coughed a bit more. "I'm fine," he rasped.

The shackles fell off.

"Where did you learn all this stuff?" cried Rhana in amazement.

Beremec then took out a folded cloak from his satchel and handed it to Father. "Wear this."

Father nodded, put on the cloak, and Beremec led them back into the streets at a run in the direction of the east gate.

"Over there!" cried a guard, who with several others followed in pursuit.

Beremec guided them down a narrow street Rhana was unfamiliar with. As they passed between pair of older houses, Beremec suddenly crouched by the corner where stood an ordinary looking barrel.

"Keep going," commanded Beremec, fiddling with something as Rhana and Father ran past.

Beremec finished and caught up with them as the guards rounded the corner, clinking in their armor. Then, they heard a click, and Rhana glaced back in time to see the barrel explode into a thick, green gas, which had an odor so repulsive that faint odor made them go even faster, trying to outrun the smell. The guards, however, fell unconscious.

After making some more distance and nearing the east gate, they next stopped at the base of a terrace, and Beremec took something else out of his satchel that looked like a pair of sticks, which he held out to Father.

"Put these on," he said.

"What are they?" replied Father.

"Stilts. Put them on your feet, and the guards at the gate might take you for a human."

"I can't wear these things!"

"Why not!?"

"Why not? I can't balance on damn sticks! You think I'm some sort of acrobat!?"

Frustrated, Beremec shoved them back in his satchel. "Then we're doing it Rhana's way!"

They started moving again, fast but slow enough to not alarm the guards at the gate.

"What's all the commotion down there?" asked the guard with the bruised nose as Rhana approached. He then noticed Father in the cloak. "Lloric!? How are you-!?"

"I'm really sorry about this one, honest," said Rhana as fast as she could, and she punched the guard in the nose, knocking him out cold.

The other guard drew his axe, but Father lunged forward and stayed his wrist. Beremec slipped behind the guard, put an arm around his neck, and choked him into unconsciousness. Meanwhile, Rhana pulled the lever near the door, which sent the gears and weights into motion and gradually opened it. The three of them of them found and threw on their packs, and then ran threw the cracked-open door, forever leaving the city of Stual behind them and plunging into the labyrinthine caves of the Underrealm.