They were slow, cold, hesitant - but they spoke.

"Sorvul," said one of the doomed children. "Aj. Kendeth. Gordon. Ulan. Broatd. Uatl. Xerx," said the others.

"Kasper," said one of the murder victims. "Toor. Murd. Uaxtle. Porgros. Notdl. Tactk."

"Louk," said one of the soldiers. "Garnath. Zel. Azn. Tabon. Char. Yellis. Actas."

The silent, noble ghosts did not speak.

One ghost - separate from the rest, smiling, perhaps trapped of his own volition - bowed at Hirsu. He wore deep grey robes, a wild mane of hair and a startling green and gold crown.

"Touched by the Dead - Lord of Life - a gift.."

The ghost bowed, placed his own crown at the feet of Hirsu.

"So long.. since it has been within.. the Elan.. you are worthy, Hirsu.."

And with that the King of the Trapped was gone.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:50, Thu 03 June 2010.

Hirsu took down the names as they were spoken, writing them each carefully. When the spirits were finished, he turned to the final spirit, the King of the Trapped. He didn't speak to him, he instead listened with respect. As the spirit departed, he gave it a soft smile.

He knelt upon one knee, set down his book, and picked up the crown. He grasped it gently in both hands, and turned it about. He lifted the crown, and placed it upon his own brow.

He stood once more. His eyes scanned the crowd of spirits, until his eyes fell upon Sorvul, the first who had dared to meet his request. "Sorvul, you will be the first to serve. I need you to locate the royals who are sick, and lead me to them. Beware the royal sorceror and prince Surhal, as they likely have the power to harm you. The lives of many are on the line. Be brave, and be quick.

"The rest of you, I will keep my word. You will each get your chance to serve, and to earn your freedom."

"Yes, friend, yes," said the child, nodding madly. He gripped Hirsu's hand and the feeling it gave him was cold and damning and almost froze his soul. He pulled Hirsu towards a wide hall. "This way. Follow."

The other ghosts nodded.

Hirsu fought down a shiver from the touch, and was suddenly far more relieved that he had dealt with these spirits rather than trying to combat them. Such beings were suffering greatly, but the suffering they could impose with but a touch was terrifying to contemplate.

He silently rallied himself, and allowed the child to guide him to his goal. This day, the royal line would be restored, and his realm would begin the slow climb to greatness.

The boy wandered down the corridor, and instinctively, Hirsu knew, understood the layout of the magnificent palace, but held no respect for conventional, physical barriers. He stepped through doors and sideways, passing walls with ease, and as long as Hirsu held the boy's hand he slipped, too, as incorporeal and invisible as the ghost itself.

Very soon they were within a chamber filled with shadows, illuminated only by tiny crystalline globes filled with silver light. It was filled with books and papers - scraps of knowledge regarding mysticism, ancient healing, hidden wisdom, the magic of nobility - and was dominated by a single bed, itself hidden beneath dozens of furs and blankets. Above the bed was a wretched, shifting thing, with terrible teeth and hundreds of glinting, beady eyes. It was a spirit of death and it hovered above whatever wasted being was held in the embrace of the bed, minutes away from the inevitable, perhaps to devour the poor soul as it emerged or to ferry it to Below..

Hirsu frowned, and but knew he couldn't hesitate. Not in the face of that thing. He released Sorvul's hand, and walked to the bed. He stared at the specter of death in the room, meeting its gaze without any fear in his own. He could deal with such a being, if he wished to. For now, though, he had larger concerns.

He stood at the bedside, and examined the occupant. He studied the person's life-force, and let his gaze drift over any exposed parts of their body before settling on their face.

The spirit of death, sent to ferry the nobleman to his waiting Ahemait, ignored Hirsu. It was a skeletal, terrifyingly silent thing composed of ash and dust, a dirge to the Realms beneath.

The person's life-force was very, very weak. It had been gnawed at over a lengthy time - probably by plague, Hirsu deducted. He saw the nobleman's face, young and yet creased by an unnatural age, the aging of the disease, long hair turned a frosty white. The nobleman's eyes were filled with the delirium of those caught by pestilence, and he did not react at Hirsu's presence.

Hirsu nodded gently to himself. The man was weak, his mind nearly gone, but he could still be save. Perhaps.

He calmly and gently pulled back the covers, so as to expose the man's chest. He gently laid his right hand on the man's chest, and his left on the man's fevered forehead. He slowly began channelling his divine power into the man, bestowing upon him the gift of health and repairing the damage to his ravaged system. As his body slowly grew healthier, he channelled more energies into the man, opening the floodgates so a trickle became a stream became a river.

"Your end will come, but not this day. You have too much work ahead of you, and you've avoided it long enough."

A long time passed. An hour - more. Silence filled the room as Hirsu worked his Yggdrasil-given duty. Much more time than usual passed. This man had already been claimed.

Suddenly, the booming filled the room. The terrifyingly silent creature of bone and dust and ash and dread lookedm upon Hirsu, and he felt fear.

"No," it said. And that was all.

Hirsu could continue - the man was far gone, and would continue to die, but he knew he had the capability to save him.

Hirsu gritted himself for the battle of wills to come. This man would not die this day, and the spirit would just have to accept that. This was his land, his people, and while these spirits played a vital part, his word was final. "Another time, spirit."

He poured more divine power into the healing, resolute in his desire to save this man.

The spirit looked at Hirsu, the pits of darkness upon its face reflecting horror upon the God of Life. Hirsu shook uncontrollably. Fear rose from within his gut.

"Take," said the spirit, the messenger and the guide to the Ahemait and the Realm of Rivers. And then it was gone, a shadow against the wall and then nothing.

There was a hacking cough from the bed, and Hirsu knew the greater part of the battle had been won. He had now only to heal the man and his work was complete. He felt exhausted, however, the trumping of the spirit of death tiring him.

Hirsu nearly dropped onto the bed in exhaustion, but he firmed up his back and continued to lean over the sick man. Healing energies continued to flow through him, through his hands and into the man in the bed. He filled the sullen husk with life, that it might fulfill a different destiny than the one planned for him by others. Sweat poured from his brow, and ran down his arms. He felt the weight of his robes plastered to his body. He felt the wall, the limits of his capabilities.

With a growl, he shoved through it, tearing past exhaustion and leaping over the height of his limitations.

The mortal would be healed, or he was no god.

Slowly, beautifully, the man began to stir. The delirium slowly left his eyes, and as Hirsu weakened he felt the man strengthen in turn. Finally, Hirsu collapsed with a sigh. The man snored softly. The presence of the spirits of death had vanished. He had completed his work.

Hirsu let himself relax, finally. He sat down next to the bed, resting his back against the wall. He still had a lot to do. Mortals to confront, mortals to track, and gods to interview. For now though, he was simply too tired.

He used the power of his crown to transform into a serpent, and slither under the bed. He curled up there, resting to regain his strength.

Several hours passed, and neither nor the healed noble did more than snore in that time. Hirsu suddenly awoke to the coughing of the healed noble and to the voice of two other people in the room:

"Royal Sorcerer Pactsal, know that I am most - most pleased," said the slightly arrogant voice of a young woman. "You will not go unrewarded. Uncle Froct is completely healed!"

"Yes.." whispered the voice of the healed noble, Froct. "It is a miracle.."

"A miracle," agreed the woman.

"No, um, miracles," said the Royal Sorcerer Pactsal. "Magic. Sorcery. I can, your Highness, heal your father and mother, just give me time.."

Hirsu shifted slightly, his sinuous body uncurling and gazing out at the sets of feet in the room. He twsited his thoughts into a different direction, and touched the lines of magic in a new way. Peering at the Sorceror, he gazed deeper, and read the man's thoughts.

Hirsu found that the Sorcerer's thoughts were clouded - shielded from him. He could not access them. Nevertheless, Hirsu had fine technique, and learned that the Sorcerer himself was mortal - but not from the Realm of Elan. It was an alien, a foreigner come seeking the Royalty..

"You have as much time as it takes," said the woman, whose voice was cold. "Just know that if my parents are killed by this affliction.. you will pay with your magic, your wealth and then your life. Do not forget the hold I have over you, Pactsal."

"How can I.. how can I forget? I will continue my work," replied the Sorcerer.

"Yes," said the woman. "I am pleased by my uncle's sudden recovery. It seems he has fallen asleep again. Perhaps it is time for us to leave."

With that, Hirsu heard the two slowly leave the room.

Hirsu's tongue tasted the air. It seemed things here were much more complicated than he had hoped. A shame. Still, it seemed that the sorceror was not, in fact, trying to kill the royals. He could give the man some time to stew, to try to figure things out. For now, however, he had another obligation he had to fulfill.

Hirsu opened a small portal, and slithered into the Valley of Mist.

There was a crash of thunder - the fluttering of butterflies - and the crops this season were all dead -

and he was there.

Hirsu returned here, and looked around, taking in his surroundings.

He was caught in thick jungle, the cawing of the red-birds heralding dawn. It was still night this low in the growth, however, and the path he had followed was overgrown and filled with the poisonous, pink-flowered weed that killed so many children each year.

It was cold, in the jungle, this close to the rising of the sun.

Hirsu looked around him, somewhat surprised he hadn't reappeared where he'd left in the palace. He gently stroked Coatl's head, and silently cursed himself for leaving, hoping he could get around the wall without the guidance of his teacher. He dared not risk the sideways ways without more learning, or a guide. With his previous guide passed on, he would have to wait for a time.

He wove a shield of Life about his body, protecting himself from the vagaries of Death magic. He then opened his mind, and Saw the Order of his arrival at this place and time. To arrive on a path filled with poison, at the herald of a dawn that did not reach him, there was an Omen there, and he sought to comprehend it fully.

The omen..

The jungle represented events, and Hirsu's control over them. He owned them, sure, at least those affecting him.. but they could not adequately be controlled, manipulated. In fact, quite the reverse was true. They may be destroyed, but only at massive personal cost.. Hirsu knew that he was out of his depth in certain areas of his life.

Pink-flowered weeds.. do not trust, Hirsu, those who seem totally innocuous. Those who might seem without reproach are often the puppet-masters behind the scenes, and there are no complete innocents in this world. There was a betrayer, or betrayers in his mist. Traitors. With further prodding, though, Hirsu knew that this didn't directly involve him, but instead his organization.. the Conclave. It was filled with rats, with spies, with defectors. He..

A vision: a white-haired, perfect-featured God, mighty in power yet soft spoken, commanding the mists as one commanded the servants.. he wore shackles wrought of cold steel and a crown of forbidden red iron. The steel was wrought of lies, the iron of psychism..

There were others, but they were unclear.

The sun would not reach him for a very long time. A battle was coming, a triumphant cataclysm, and all would be caught up in it - especially Hirsu. A plague from another world, strange stalkers from beyond the Void, the pollen of the mad..

Suddenly, he was himself again, and the visions were gone. It was hot, and the sun had pierced the leaves high above. Hirsu had spent at least an hour crying frantically in the dirt.

Hirsu took a few moments, resting and catching his breath. He let the sorrow run its course, slowly reeling it in until it was no longer overwhelming. He slowly stood up, testing his legs, and breathed deeply of the jungle air. The moist air tasted warm in his mouth.

With a gesture, he washed a gentle spray of water over his face, then ran his fingers through his hair, cleaning out tangled dirt and leaves. Disaster was coming. And he wasn't sure there was anything he could do about it. But even if it was the end of everything, he wasn't going to go out without a struggle.

He oriented himself instinctively, and began walking towards his people's city. The Xin needed to hear him.

As he walked towards the City of the Xin, the God of Life stumbled and fell. A river poured about him, completely content to go over his body; fish swam about him. The birds above chirped but did not deign to help him. He seemed utterly defeated... and yet -

The water of the river chilled his bones, but they gave him clarity of mind. The fish nibbled at his flesh, and gave him clarity of purpose. He had stumbled, yes, but was now surer than he'd ever been that his path was true. Omen or not...

A King crowned in red iron. The symbolism seemed obvious, and yet he could not piece it together. What did it mean... ?