Part 1

"Please sir, can you spare a coin?" Clearly needing to be somewhere else, the man keeps walking, pretending he never even heard him. This has been the boy's entire life.

The boy leans his back against a granite wall, and people pass by in front of him as they perform their daily routines. They become a blur after a while, the hustle and bustle of life. In the past, he used to study them; the life of an orphan can be quite boring, but no one ever mentions that. He'd watch one woman walk to the river each day, for she'd always take the same road out of the city, the winding street between Horsefale and Gilder. She was one of many faces he'd see everyday, becoming familiar to him; they were like a family who'd never know he existed. He'd spend hours like this, pretending he knew what their lives were like, what they did for a living, and what kind of person they were. There were a few people who always dropped him a coin on their way to work, often the same people each day. One he knew was a mason since he'd always be covered in brick dust on his walk home in the evening. The boy always managed to exert an effort to smile at these people, even if he didn't feel like smiling. At the very least, their generosity kept him from stealing.

A sea breeze constantly washes over the city, a permanent scent of salt and ocean air. If it wasn't for that, this place would probably smell something awful, being one of the largest cities around. This place is called Herrod; built on the coast of an island (notably, a very large island - it'd take you weeks to take a horse to the other side), people say it shines like a jewel when you look at it from on the sea. That's how it got its nickname, 'The Jewel of Herrod.'  The city is special in other ways though, partly because it seems to have everything. The shops are filled will all sorts of trinkets from far away lands, since ships come and go from almost everywhere. And like the stuff, the people are just as varied; if you looked hard enough, you could find anyone from anywhere. However, the people that actually are born here, who live beneath the large castle on the cliffs, they're of two kinds: the nobles, and everyone else. The castle is where the lords, ladies, and so-called important people do apparently important things. They must be important since they don't have to worry about starving.

Getting on his feet, the boy walks through a narrow passage between two buildings to another road. He wasn't having much luck today. He walks into the Bazaar which is likely the most interesting part of the city. Built right along the docks, the entire area is just one large mass of shops. Shops mean customers, and customers have spare money; this is the logic the boy comes to. The boy sits down on a comfortable corner. It's probably not the best spot for begging he recognizes, being further from the main road than he would like, but from here he can get a clear view of the castle across the bay, something to watch as the hours pass by.

A couple coins are tossed near his feet, nothing special. After awhile though, another kid walks up to the boy with a big smile on his face, maybe one or two years older, wearing a unique grin that only this kid seemed able to do. The boy smiles back, but not just out of politeness or anything – they know each other.

"Hey mate," the kid says quite happily to the boy.

He simply responds, "Oh hey Kevin." The boy doesn't mind having company, but he's not entirely thrilled to see Kevin either. Lately, the boy's been trying to avoid that group of kids. They're not bad or evil or anything; they're just orphans like himself. But recently they've been working instead of begging, and that's dangerous stuff.  Beggars, poor people, and orphans can always make money being tattle-tales, eyes and ears for important people. They also run errands that no decent folk would run.

Kevin seems to be in a good mood though, "Watch'ya doin?"

"Just watching my future house," the boy says with a smile as he nods at the castle.

"Is it behind mine?" he replies with a joking tone. The boy always liked this kind of banter with Kevin. They often did it at the orphanage together before they went to sleep when they were younger. When the grown-ups would turn off all the lights, the two would sneak out back into a small courtyard where kids would play during the day. From there they'd watch the city lights and make jokes about the adults.

Kevin sits down next to the boy and continues to say, "Ya know I saw this real ugly pirate today. He lost one of his arms, so he only had a stump!' he laughs a bit. "Saw an elf too, they're a lot prettier than ol' humans I think."

"Even if they lost an' arm?" The boy responds.

His eyes look up a second having to think, but then he says, "Yep, definitely!" The two giggle at that. The boy especially liked these jokes since they distracted him from everything else, like starving. They grew silent and watched the castle for a bit, which towers over the entire city. A large bay of water sits between them and the castle; further inland is a river that leads to the rest of the isle. Ships sail over the castle's reflection in the water.

The boy turns to Kevin, "Do you think we'll ever actually live in a castle? Well, maybe not a castle. But like a castle?" He meant to speak it like a joke, but it didn't come out quite like that. There was a twinge of sadness to it – something he tried to bury, but failed.

Kevin leans back on the wall, his eyes still watching the ships slowly move from one peripheral to the other. The light dims as dusk nears. He doesn't respond for at least half a minute; the boy nearly forgets about the question when Kevin replies out of the blue, "No...I don't think we will."

The city looks beautiful tonight.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:29, Sun 10 Aug 2014.

Part 2

"Ok, I'll do one."

Kevin replies, "It's not hard or anything, usually just talking to someone or carryin' a letter. You just gotta not be stupid."

"Then how are you still here?" says the boy with a sly grin.

Kevin grins a his signature smile back and hit the boy in the arm, "C'mon mate, don't wanna keep the lady waitin."

The boy rubs his arm and runs after Kevin. The two kids take the alleys, avoiding most contact with the crowds. There are lots of alleys in Herrod that people don't know about, because most folks simply can't use them. Cracks between many of the buildings are so small, only a child could get through them. It's practically a requirement that orphans in Herrod are familiar with these alleys, since they tend to be safe places where adults can't follow. The boy had to use them a few times as escape routes. Once a noble's bodyguard chased him; apparently the noble thought the boy had stolen a ring of his (which he probably just left at home or dropped). When the boy ducked in one of these, the fat guard nearly got stuck trying to follow him.

They reached the end of the alley and crossed the street to a wider passage on the otherside. In this place, a couple of adults stand in a circle, talking. They're dressed in normal clothes, but the boy catches a glint of a chain armor underneath. No doubt they have a weapon concealed somewhere as well. The group of adults glance at Kevin and the boy; they nod before returning to their conversation. Clearly they know Kevin's face.

The two kids squeeze past the adults, keeping as much distance as they politely can. They walk into the shaodw of the building, and at the very back, they come to a door; Kevin just goes right up to it and knocks; he's apparently done this a number of times. A slothole opens up near the top and a pair of eyes looks down on them. Standing behind Kevin, the boy isn't the slightest bit afraid of all this. He's been around worse folk.

Light creeps out from the door as it opens and Kevin, holding the boy's arm, brings him through. Inside is a man standing next to the door, looking rather bored, and a woman with short brown hair tied up in a tight bun. She sits at a small table against the opposite wall, reading something intently.

Rielle puts the letter down and examines the two kids. She looks at Kevin and nods, then at the boy. Smiling wide, she says in a friendly voice, "Hello there."

The boy replies with a natural confidence, "Hello ma'am." Half-way through, his confidence shakes a little as her eyes meet his. They pierce him like a spear.

Chuckling a bit, she continues, "I like you. So, you want to make 10 silver pieces?"

"Yes, ma'am," the boy replies without trying to sound too eager, knowing to be mindful of his words.

"Tell me," she says, "What did the guys out front look like?"

He stops and thinks a moment, then responds, "One wore a green shirt, chain underneath. He had a mole on his left check and a scar just under his ear. Brown hair, round nose, ugly, an-."

"That's fine," she interrupts. "Now, I want you to be just that observant for me someplace, think you can do that?"

"Yes ma'am," the boy says simply.

"Good, now I want you to go to the Boar's Tusk. Talk to the innkeeper and say 'R sent you'. He'll take care of you while you're there, probably make you a bus boy or something. I want you to work there a few days, keep an eye out and tell me anything interesting you see," she starts to go back to reading her letter, then turns back to the boy for a final word, "You know where to go?"

"Yes ma'am," the boy replies for a third time.

"Good. Now go on. The innkeeper will give you food and a spot to sleep while you're there, and when you get back you'll have a little money in your pocket." Rielle gives a gentle smile, seeming to remind herself that she's speaking to children, and returns to reading, indicating she's finished with them.

"Thank you ma'am," the boy says straight away. At that, Kevin and him run back out the door.

The boy contemplates all the safe routes to the Boar's Tusk, that's a dangerous neighborhood if you don't them. Kevin speaks, "Good job. Ya know, the lady's real nice once you do some more stuff for her. I haven't had to beg for food in weeks! I gotta go now; gotta run to the other side o' town an' all that. Goodluck mate!" At that, Kevin takes off through one of the alleys, leaving the boy to himself.

Alone, the boy starts walking toward the Boar's tusk. He's never upset about being alone, for that's something he's had to deal with his whole life. It's the trouble the comes with being alone that bothers him; people think you're an easy target when you don't have friends. All his life he's had to dodge trouble, but this time he may have gone searching for it, getting caught up in this kind of work. But still, 10 silver would be more than any kid could beg for in months.

Feeling more determined, the boy runs off to do his quest. Who knows... perhaps this is the start of something new!
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:45, Mon 11 Aug 2014.

Part 3

The innkeeper places three mugs of something strong on the boy's tray. He'd acquired a decent measure of  balance the past couple days, learning to dodge drunk and unpredictable patrons (because if anything dropped, it'd be his fault – no matter what). Tonight was especially busy though; people could barely move through the tavern, and it took ten minutes just to reach the other side.

The Boar's Tusk wasn't necessarily the cleanest tavern either. Located in the heart of the slums, the business reflected its customers: filthy and probably killed someone in the past month. The boy often wondered how anyone survived the food which (to make things worse) smelled the same as the people. The walls we're ancient. Apparently this tavern was build many decades ago, and has passed between several business owners. The latest innkeeper said he won the deed to it on a bet. The boy was smart enough not to ask what they were gambling on.

The boy ducks beneath the flailing arms of a patron with impressive grace, the drinks still balanced on his tray. Finally he reaches his intended table and places them discretely between the patrons in their chairs. Replacing empty cups with a full one, the table of men don't even take notice of him, except for one. A man with short black hair smiles and ruffles the boy's hair with his hand, "Thanks lad." Normally the boy would have dodged when someone reached out toward him (it's a dangerous place), but the guy seemed alright. The boy's good judgment pays off as he's handed a small silver coin as tip. There's a few scratches on it, but it's still good. Slight smile on his face, the boy darts back toward the bar – back to business.

Like Rielle told him to, he's been watching everything intently and keeping an ear on people's conversations. He's already accumulated a number of interesting rumors on nobles she might find interesting. But lately they've been talking about Kelden Delcor. One band of people that regularly come to the inn seem fervently on his side, talking about political intrigue (whatever that means) and the future. They liked talking about the future.

Climbing behind the bar, the boy washes his hands in a tub of water. "Crowded tonight," says the innkeeper, catching his breath near the boy. "When you've washed, go pick up the dishes at that table over there, by the firepit." The boy nods, letting the innkeeper know he heard.

Another voice calls the attention of the innkeeper, "More ale here!" Some guy with blonde hair and a light beard waves the innkeeper over; his Karbariyan accent cuts through the noisy tavern. The innkeeper goes back to duties while the boy leaves the safety of the counter once more. Grabbing a bin from the kitchen, he dives back into the crowd. Oddly, this job seems well suited for a small boy of his size, cause only someone this small could dance through the legs of a hundred drunk people.

Quickly cleaning off the table, he rests for a moment while it's still unoccupied. The boy finally realizes the minstrels are playing Irene's Fall in the background, a tune he used to hear the sailors sing by the docks. Almost at the end. Shame since he's knows all the words; he could've sang along. The last line rings through the tavern – this song always gave him chills – and he takes that as a sign to get back to work before the innkeeper sees him. He grabs his bin of empty dishes; some leftover ale washes around the bottom of it, which the boy finds rather gross, and he heads toward the kitchen.

Suddenly the boy hears a vicious crack which echoes through the tavern with an immediate effect upon the crowd. It's not the kind of crack you'd hear from metal or wood, but only the sound that bone can make. A splash of blood lands near the boy's feet, and his body freezes up; instinctively, he looks toward the sound. He sees the body of a patron collapse off his chair to the floor; nearly headless, bits of flesh smear across the ground in a horrific display of violence. A man with a mace stands over him. The boy is stunned; he's never seen anyone die before. The death is quickly followed by shouting as the deadman's companions jump up from their table and draw arms. Another group of people draw weapons in response, which seems to have a ripple effect across the whole tavern. Nearly everyone who has a weapon unsheathes it. There's no hesitation as the groups proceed to kill each other.

The boy drops his bin of dishes to the floor, some of which shatter on the ground, and he bolts for the door, knowing enough to run from these kinds of things. People are fighting all around him. An axe flies dangerously near his head as two half-orcs fight to the death. They seem utterly focused on killing each other while the boy runs behind their legs, leaving the sound of sheared flesh behind him. He dodges another pit of fighting, at least eight people involved, as he sprints toward the door.  Sweat stings the boy's eyes, but he doesn't have time to wipe it away, much less think. A nearby man swings his sword, missing his opponent and clumsily follows through behind him. It catches the boy's neck... The blade slits his throat; the man probably didn't see it happen nor even feel the blade. The boy falls on his back, clutching his neck as warm blood pours down his chest, still trying to grasp what's happened. There was pain for a few moments, but then it went away. And the world got quiet. The boy couldn't help but think dying was a lot easier than he expected. It wasn't until his vision had nearly gone dark that he saw it: a castle of his own. The flow of blood from his neck slowed to a trickle. He died.

The innkeeper found the boy as he ran toward the front door. Carrying the body, he forcefully pushed his way out of the tavern, looking back only once to see his bar go up in flames. A fallen torch was all it took. That and one dead man to destroy his business. Breathing the night air, the innkeeper set the boy down on his back. He wasn't entirely sure why he burdened himself with it; the child wasn't his responsibility. Despite this, he cried. He was surprised at himself, not expecting this kind of breakdown.

A waitress who had escaped, standing outside the tavern, recognized the innkeeper and walked over, presuming the worst, "I...I'm sorry about your loss sir." She spoke with as much empathy as she could for her old employer; he was always kind to his workers.

He responded, "I didn't know him." The innkeeper continues, almost bewildered at the dark humor of it all, "In fact... I didn't even know his name."



This message was last edited by the GM at 13:20, Thu 14 Aug 2014.

They traveled along the river during the night, letting the sound of rushing water guide their way. Stars lit the road just enough for them to see; there was nothing else for them to fear. The trees did not threaten them with monsters or bandits, nor did they echo with the haunting cries of ghosts. This was a peaceful place, and fear was forgotten.

Sidd picked up a stone from the dirt and tossed it into the river, disturbing the soundless calm. He could only delight in stillness for so long before he felt compelled to leave it; his mind was restless in this way. That same restlessness brought him to the road in the first place, as if he'd never had a choice. Life called unceasingly, a beckoning of some kind leading him on. If he ever stopped to think about it, he just may come to realize the whole thing was rather silly. But he'd have to stop first, and that was impossible.

He touched Brynda's shirt and nodded toward the river; they stepped off the path and crouched by the water's edge. Brynda dunked her waterskin into the current, disappearing beneath the black surface. Sidd splashed his face, desperate to stay awake. They were too tired to remember where they were going or why, but both knew they needed to be there by daybreak. Sidd fell onto his back, risking a doze to soothe his feet.

The night removed color from the world, and Brynda's blonde hair seemed white; kept short, as she likes it. Sidd could not have contrasted more, with dark brown hair, made black by the stars. Clouds moved aside and unveiled the moon, whom the evening rains had hidden from the world. More light flooded onto the river bank, but no color came with it. Yet the moon's glow lit up white skin from the river's other side. Sidd sat upright and Brynda gazed in silence. Pale as the moon itself, a woman crouched over the water across from them, drinking with her hand as a cup, naked as any forest creature. As though made of the same colorless light, its bare skin shined without flaw.

Sidd resented his capricious mind, urging him to beckon the creature over, for certainly this was no human thing. To his surprise, Brynda's voice did so first, "Fair creature, what are you?" The pale woman ceased her drinking and stared like a wary deer with not a sign of understanding. Sidd looked in unbridled curiosity, for the majestic white glow of its skin if not for the beauty elsewhere. As if instinct deemed them dangerous, the pale woman ran into the forest behind, its footsteps not making a sound upon the leaves.

Brynda searched for a path across the river to follow but found no such bridge. Cold water and uncertainty convinced their minds to turn away, and they left the river's edge, looking back in remembrance. Their feet carried them farther apart from the riverbank, and Sidd turned to look once more. More likely it was starlight upon a damp stone, but he liked to think there was a face, pale as the moon, watching them leave.
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:24, Sat 20 Sept 2014.

Courage

          Atop my flying steed, I surveyed the city beneath me, ablaze. To my left lay the destroyed half of the castle tower, protruding from its partially destroyed castle, resting supremely atop its high peaks, hundreds of feet up. The purple, storm-filled sky swarmed with the invading, mutilated, servants of a merciless devil. Dense smoke partially surrounded me, its heat pervading the atmosphere and my armor. My eyes scanned for our foe amidst the exposed throne room, found at the top of this great hall. I flew closer into the dense smoke.

          The smell of brimstone mixed with burnt timbers, blood, and steel once again greeted my nostrils. The sound of clashing armies far beneath me and the roar of the burning castle filled my ears. Suddenly, I spotted our enemy in the smoke, but alas he spotted me first.

          The dark armored figure waved his hand and almost effortlessly from it sprung forth a tidal wave of force. In an instant I was thrown from my steed, by this unseen force, to the edge of the remaining great hall. It felt as though I was hit by a giant. With a loud crash, I felt my right side hit the hard stone floor and as I looked up I saw my adversary's weapon raised high above me. Instinctively, I rolled quickly my armored body to the side as my nemesis brought down his jagged sword. With a deafening clang its vicious teeth bit the stone floor. My mighty brother roared as he charged headlong to my aid, distracting the black master for just a moment. I seized the opportunity, rolling beyond my enemy's reach. Suddenly, I no longer felt the hard stone floor beneath my steel shrouded stature and my heart nearly froze as I looked on the rubble hundreds of feet down. I was free falling from the man-made precipice! My stomach tightened as I felt the acceleration downward to the rubble filled courtyard and realized with a new immediacy where I was. Just as suddenly I saw a shimmering white flash before my eyes and a jerk as my body's direction was abruptly changed. A familiar scent of warm sweating horse and saddle leather pervaded my nostrils as I began to regain my bearings. I searched rapidly for a handhold and foothold as I felt myself pitch and yaw. My hands found a saddle horn and my feet a stirrup. I fought to re-wright myself in the saddle. I was comforted, if only for a moment, to realize I was once more in a familiar place atop my faithful mount.

          I expected my adversary to try to dismount me from my flying companion. Thank God, I was over the tower when he did!

          I looked on from my moving vantage point. My small cousin sprinted across the open floor positioning himself for a good shot behind a large fallen support. My brother slashed at our adversary with speed and fury. Our opponent was dodging or shrugging off the mighty blows like nothing would stop him.

          Surprisingly, even in the midst of this, I was not especially concerned. God always showed himself strong, especially in our times of greatest need. He had built our trust through time after time of faithful answer. Our years of experience were evidence to the truth: no matter how grim things looked at the moment, it would always turn out well in the end. We are created for this. This is our calling.

          Suddenly my cousin, Thybll, was ripped from behind the fallen pillar. I saw him as his small being was flung through the air, crashing to the unforgiving floor at the villain’s feet. There the black daemon began to mercilessly strike at him. I knew that Thybll's magic rings and spells could protect him for a moment, but only a moment. He was not an armored combatant, he was not prepared for this type of punishment. Flame exploded from the sword of our enemy, and with each blow it spewed forth its infernal rage. My brother shielded his eyes as it belched forth its burning wrath. Cries of agony reached my ears, and my cousin collapsed unconscious.

          My cousin's life hung in the balance. I remounted my steed whilst attempting to lead him upward in order to rush to my cousin's assistance. Without warning, a great gust cooled my sweat only to give way to a burning, the smell of acrid poison filled my nostrils. I turned to see behind me a black dragon, the servant of the vile fiend. Its great maw opened and began to spew forth a green vaporous liquid toward our 4th companion and dear friend, Ryin, who was moving to help my cousin. He leaped out of the way, acid steaming off the glance of his enchanted plate mail.

          Fear tried to grip my heart, but I acted in spite of it, pulling my angelic warhorse into an even steeper climb.

          I looked on with a pounding heart. My cousin’s blood surrounding him, my brother fighting amidst a cloud of flames. My friend now staring down an acid breathing dragon many times his size. I continued my climb for just a moment before leveling off and positioning for the descent.

          I was prepared.

          I drew my lance from the side of my equine companion and reset it once more in its familiar home, locked in the practiced grasp I learned from months of combat. All the elements of my being were in harmony as they found focus in a single point.  My stomach slightly churned as I led my steed into a near vertical hairpin turn. My eyes caught sight once more of the burning city and memories of the innocent screams flooded my ears. The wind rushed past my perspiring face, as I spurred my mount into a descending charge. I felt the force of gravity lessen as I sped forward and downward. I shouted a battle cry calling out to my ever present help in trouble, as I dove forward to end this wicked reign of terror. My muscles were filled with a holy fury. My adversary was engaged in combat with my brother and so he never turned to meet my charge. I leaned forward in the saddle, and felt a great jolt as I witnessed as in slow motion my divinely guided lance drive into my dark opponent's side. So perfect was the blow that he was thrown backward, his body and armor inseparable, now both skewered by my lance. His sword fell to the ground, now losing its vicious infernal consciousness.

          In a flash it was all changed. The black acid-breathing beast behind me froze before being blown away as ash. The armor of the beast's master fell to the ground in a hollow clang as his formless being was released from its cursed prison. It was merely an empty husk now, drained of its heinous intelligence. The city still aflame, but no longer did we hear the unearthly screams. The sky was cleansed of the flying hell spawn. Victory was ours!


          It all came down to this. A single roll of the dice. A single attack. In the balance, hung five years of work, five years of memories shared by friends. The wind howled outside, as my friends all looked at me in earnest, in the dimly lit room. I had to choose: charge or hold back. My decision had already been made. I knew the choice well, for I had encountered it before. My five years of experience had brought benefit after benefit from this wisdom. I knew that this was not the time to hold back. This was the time to meet my foe head on, in a fearless charge. Fear has no place when brought before the bond of warriors we share.

          The candles were flickering. The model castle cast a long shadow across the grid representing our battle field. It was my move, they were all depending on me. The blood in my veins was pumping, and my ears were oblivious to almost all else, but the sound of my heart beating. The smell of hot wax hung in the air. My palms, sweaty, were shaking from the adrenaline. My stomach had that familiar feeling, not of dread, but of excitement. The music was beckoning me on. I picked up my dice and declared my attack. It was time.


          This is friendship, ones you entrust with your life. This is brotherhood, the lives you protect without thought to your own. This is faith, the strength of the One I depend on more than my own. This is trust, for without risk there is no victory.




About the Essay:
    This is a personal account from Sir Codithumas from the Battle for Ascalon also known as the Final Battle. It was the "Final Battle," concluding the Campaign of Obsidian, a reign of terror which saw the destruction of most of the civilized "western" world and metropolises. This in part affected substantially the number of adventurers and prevalence of magic in the known world. For more information see the Lore Thread.

    It was also the conclusion of a 5 year DnD campaign. The "Final Battle" as it has been labeled, occurred late at night in the upstairs of our cottage. The scene is well described in the Essay. The Campaign was with Ryan Persha, Cody Krueger, Carson Krueger, and Jonothan Decker.

    It was written 23 January 2014
       last edited 14 September 2014
This message was last edited by the player at 03:56, Tue 11 Nov 2014.

Versa set her sword on the bed. She brushed her fingers over the blade, feeling the perfectly sharp edge. She would spend hours sharpening it to perfection, grinding her whetstone to a pebble. Beautifully carved runes danced along the broad center of the blade, each flowing into the next without any line overlapping nor ending in a strange place. If one looked closer, they could see the finer details of it, meticulously chiseled to a degree that no ordinary person would notice. Her armor was still on the ground; she hadn't taken the time to put it away properly.

It took her six weeks to travel back to Feldauris by horse. Her steed was nigh exhausted by the time they passed under the city gates. If she'd ever seen an expression of relief on an animal, it was then; the moment when he sat down in the stables stocked with an endless mountain of hay. The white horse's legs were brown with dirt, thrown up from the long roads. For awhile, Versa would take him to a stream every couple days and wash him, but he'd end up looking exactly the same just an hour later back on the road. She decided to let him be, and simply promised an exquisite bath when they got home.

Finally, on the second day of the sixth week, Versa saw the spires of Feldauris from across the fields. A life around the world never bothered Versa, but even she wasn't immune to that moment shared by all travelers, the sight of home after a long journey. Passing beneath the archway into the city, there were no crowds nor welcoming committee waiting for her, but that wasn't their fault; they didn't know when she'd be coming. She'd sent a letter to her father informing him of her return but couldn't say exactly when she'd arrived. Her life was unpredictable by nature; she was a warrior after all.

She stood up from the soft bed, its lush red cushions and blankets already spoiled with dirt. She was too tired last night to take a bath. Guilt crossed her mind as she thought about the maid who'd have to clean that later, but she concluded that she'd earned the respite of comfort, after all the hardships.

Versa opened the armoire and searched through elegant dresses and clothes inside. When she was a little girl, she'd have been elated at the sight of most of these. In fact, she probably was for each at some point since most were gifts, from nobles, ambassadors, and other councilmen acquainted with her father. Her father was a member of the council that wrote the legislation for Feldauris, so he often had to entertain visitors or host dinner parties, usually striving for some political goal in the end. It was the setting she grew up in.

Her fingers rested on an elegant but simple green dress with a gold trim along the sleeves and bottom. It wasn't the most extravagant one she had, but it matched her green eyes which were just a little lighter in color than the dress. Not much she could do about that. It didn't take her long to put it on; she'd done it a thousand time in her youth. Slipping off the nightgown she somehow managed to put on last night in her exhaustion, she pulled the dress over her and let it fall gracefully along her body. She lifted her long red hair out from the neck of the dress and it too naturally fell into place. It'd be proper for her to style it, traditional for noblewomen and ladies of the court, but she didn't want to take the time. She wanted to see her father.

Versa stepped into the hall and walked down the familiar stairs. Everything in this place has been the same for generations, every room and stone. Although Feldauris had a castle of its own for the royal family, her family's estate was practically a smaller version. Stone walls surrounded the entire manor, shielding the courtyard and lush gardens from the outside world. The ballroom could've been built larger than the castle's but they didn't out of deference. All the tapestries and paintings have been in the family for atleast four generations, each archaic and elaborate in their design. And after all this time, things stayed the same; it was one of the subtle reasons she left.

She opened the doors into the dining hall where servants who had been talking casually sprang into action. In a well-practiced dance, they began to arrange silverware, plates and beckon the chefs in preparation of a breakfast. But the room was empty of anyone else.

"Wait!" Versa said to a servant, expertly folding a napkin cloth into something exotic.

He bowed and responded with a simple, "Yes my lady?"

"Where is my father; I thought he'd be here."

The servant's face contorted slightly, "I'm sorry my lady, but he was called early to the council chambers. Do you wish for something to eat?"

It was a lie, but a polite one, expected from a good servant. Versa could see what had happened: her father was avoiding her. He'd never approved of her life, of leaving the family wealth and responsibilities behind, and now he dealt with it using the only mechanism he knew how. It's true he had to be vocal and forward as a council member, out-debating his opponents and defending their attacks, but when it came to his family, even when mother was alive, he could never manage to find the words when something troubling arose. Always he'd go into his study or office in the council chambers and not come out until everyone had forgotten what the issue at hand was. It was how he dealt with things most personal to him.

The servant was still waiting for a response. Versa finally replied with a sigh, "A profiterole and some fruit."

Smiling, the servant said, "With powered sugar?" He remembered her favorite dish, something she'd always get as a young girl when she felt like spoiling herself or needed cheering up.

She grew a slight smile, "Yes please."
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:03, Sun 09 Nov 2014.

"Again."

Sword outstretched, he lunged at Versa. She deflected the blade with her own while stepping into the attack, until her face was mere inches from his. Grabbing his arm, she locked the joints, and the sword fell from his hand. "Alright, that was good!"

"Forgive me ma'am, but my arm is a tad sore from that last one." The soldier she convinced to spar with her gripped his elbow, rubbing along the tendons. He tried his best to keep a smiling face, expected in the presence of a noblewoman, but Versa could see the look of strain attempting to escape.

She replied, "Oh, sorry about that. Yes of course – you may rest."

"Thank you m'lady." He exited the small arena in search of something to drink, that wasn't water. Versa glanced upward at the sky which had grown cloudy over the course of the afternoon. The city barracks was mostly deserted; soldiers were either on duty or deliberately avoiding an embarrassing defeat by Versa, whom none could hope to beat with a sword. She meandered to the edge of the wooden training circle, reaching for a cup of water.

A familiar voice asked, "Picking on the recruits again?" Versa turned, her face blooming into a smile.

"Suunak!" she hopped over the fence. The Orc warrior returned with a charming smile, something his face naturally rested in. Suunak embraced Versa in a hug, towering over her by a foot in height. Red hair clashed in color with his green skin. He then lifted off a horned helm.

"Versa, it's been such a long time!" Despite having small tusks, Suunak possessed a very likable complexion. Such charisma did wonders for him in the Kingdom of Feldauris which was predominantly Human. He nodded toward the arena, "Poor lad. Don't shame those men too badly." He heartily laughed.

Versa glanced in search of her sparring partner, but he had seemingly vanished. "I don't intentionally," she pleaded, "But it's been some months since I've seen combat. I must stay well-practiced."

"Yes, yes – Versa the great adventurer! Hah, I can't imagine a foe you couldn't handle."

"I recall yourself being quite a challenging opponent when we were younger!"

Suunak chuckled, "Aye, that was a long time ago. You've certainly gone beyond me, having done so many heroic deeds since then. I often hear tales of you! Whereas I've been here, traveling only between Feldauris and Da'ak!" Indeed Versa had left the kingdoms while she was young, nearly fifteen years ago now. Secretly, she had some guilt about doing so, for she left for very selfish reasons then. But Versa had changed, fighting for the welfare of others nearly her entire life; perhaps some things should be forgiven.

"What have you- what happened to your eye?" Versa asked. Suunak's right eye was nearly hidden by scarred skin, though the wounds had been healed over. However, his pupil still peaked through, permitting him a small measure of sight.

Suunak felt the marred skin with his hand, "Ah yes, you weren't here for this. Happened here in Feldauris."

Versa was rather surprised, "What? I thought Feldauris was in a time of peace; I haven't heard of any recent conflicts."

"It wasn't with any of our neighbors. There was an attempted kidnapping on one of the Councilors a couple years back; Others and I rescued him, but one of the bastards got a lucky hit on me." He chuckled, "There went my good looks. Anyway, the bunch were hired thugs, and unfortunately they all died in the fight. We never did found out their employers; I suspect it was the Miner's Guild."

Sighing, Versa said, "I can't believe the Miner's Guild is still around. I still remember how corrupt they were when I was a child."

Suunak continued, "Yep, and they're still same, constantly trying to take control of politics. I've seen many laws passed rewarding them with absurd land charters and financial gain, obviously bribing or threatening the right people."

Thunder crackled lightly above, signaling the coming rain. A few droplets fell on Versa's skin. "Best we go inside. Let's get something to eat at my family's house." Suunak cheerfully nodded, fondly remembering the dinner parties at her home, something he'd not attended since she left. Together, they hastened away from the small arena, a calm drizzle of rain following in their footsteps.

Servants took away the plates. Suunak leaned back in contentment. Over the centuries of relations between Feldauris and Da'ak, both Kingdoms had learned how to cook for the other. Humans preferred their meals well-cooked and seasoned with different spices and flavors; notable chefs often boasted of their skill, as well as the many exotic flavors they'd import from Shan-tai or Bishapur. Orcs had a very different sense of taste. They preferred raw meat and all different kinds of fruit; in fine cooking, their meat would often be mixed with chopped roots and dipped in traditional sauces. Although human stomachs were not adept at handling such food, Versa admired the simplicity of it.

Versa's household chefs prepared a raw goat dish for Suunak, something that visiting orc dignitaries in the past had often complimented. Suunak did so as well by the expression on his face. Versa finished her own plate. She'd noticed her manners had not lessened throughout her travels, when they were needed of. The proper behavior of a Lady was drilled into her repeatedly during her youth. As a young girl, she detested the strict lessons, but they came to her aid many times in life. On numerous occasions, she'd eaten at the court of Kings and noblemen, some even in her honor. She was appreciative then.

Doors clanged a few rooms over, and Versa's father walked into the dining room. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, not realizing they were here. Suunak stood, "Good evening Councilor Talseen, nice to see you again." Versa noticed her father's hair was now entirely gray, having been brown the day she left. It bothered her this was the first time she'd seen him. And that it was by accident on his part.

"Oh. Hello Suunak," Talseen said. His voice lacked the ardor of his youth, becoming dryer, a politician's tone. He continued, "Versa. Your home. That's good." Versa had conquered many difficult encounters in her life, vanishing foes and preforming great feats, but she was entirely defeated now, unsure of how to respond to her father. She felt they should embrace, as that's what fathers and daughters did after long periods apart. But they didn't, and indeed a simple hug seemed inappropriate. She settled on the thought that if something was going to happen, it should come from him, "Hello dad."

Suunak anticipated the possible tension, well aware of her thoughts on him, and immediately began conversing, "How are the council chambers these days? I heard there was considerable debate on the recent tax changes." Talseen replied, "Yes, I swear some of those blasted politicians have gone insane." He spoke with frustration; clearly the recent arguments had been something weighing heavily on him. For a moment, Versa entertained the thought that perhaps he'd gone to the chambers this morning for good reason, that he hadn't done so to avoid her. Her rational mind knew better.

Talseen continued, "They wish to give even more taxes breaks to the Mining Guild! And I'd hardly call them a Guild. More like a few men who bullied through way into controlling the quarries. Hmph. I've been trying to strike those out, even undo some old ones if I can." "Ah, the Mining Guild. Versa and I were talking about them not too long ago." Suunak had laid a verbal trap, obligating Talseen to speak to his daughter. Versa noticed what Suunak had done; he'd been around humans for far too long. Talseen spoke to her, "I see he's catching you up on local affairs. Does this mean your staying long?" His tone was bland, and Versa couldn't tell whether that something he did or didn't want.

"Not too long," she replied ambiguously. "It's been some time since I've been home, so I want to enjoy it for a little while. But eventually, I'll be heading south, to the Isles of Mercia." "I see," Talseen said. Versa noticed a slight frown on the fringes of his mouth. Was he upset to see her leave? Or simply disapproving? . . Perhaps both.

"Everything's been largely the same here. Some new servants now. Not much has changed really." "I noticed a few new faces," Versa responded. After a slight pause, her father said, "I need to return to work. You'll be here for dinner Versa?" "Yes." "Alright. Farewell Suunak." Suunak bowed as Talseen left down the hall. When he was gone Versa glanced at Suunak, "Don't think I don't know what you did there." The orc smiled, donning his pleasant look. He knew what he did was right, and so did Versa. That agitated her for some reason.

Versa brushed her long red hair. Her eyes were unfocused, lingering thoughtlessly on the mirror. The curtains in her room were wide open, unveiling a clouded night sky. Although the morning rains had passed, a heavy gray lingered on, and now, it blocked out the stars. Earlier that evening, dinner had gone as she expected. They talked of recent events and the welfare of distant family members, but little more – father took no interest in her travels. She'd spent the remaining hours in the library, reading from the books and tomes she'd often perused as a child. Without brothers or sisters or a mother, childhood had its share of loneliness; during such a time, the heroes named in song became her best of friends.

Servants had prepared the fireplace in her room. Versa took comfort in the blanketing warmth, while the fire crackled, popped, and lit the walls with dancing shadows. She set down the brush and searched the cabinets. In the past, she'd owned an ivory comb, encrusted with gold, but felt it best to leave behind. Something like that was never meant for the hard road of a warrior. The cabinets were empty. No surprise, Versa thought. It had been fifteen years since she'd been in her room; it may have been stored by her father, stolen by a servant, or simply placed elsewhere beyond memory. She couldn't expect things to remain the same.

An unexpected voiced rasped, "Don't worry, you look lovely already,". Versa abruptly stood, turning sharply. A hooded man walked from the curtains, a second one following, climbing in through the window. Their faces were veiled like bandits. "Looks like we stumbled on something extra," he said to his companion, who simply chuckled. "What are you doing here?" Versa spoke. Her voice was commanding, strong, though the intruders regarded it humorously, as they would any threat from a woman. "We're all here for the old man. No one told us he had a fine mistress though." Versa decided to play on their ego a little further. She spoke in her best whimper, "How many of you are there?" Predictably, he reveled in the sense of dominance. "Heh, enough. Lucky for us, we got the best window. . ."

The hooded man drew closer, his hand resting of the hilt of his sword, sheathed at the side. That was enough information. Versa smirked, "Lucky huh?" To their surprise, she stepped towards them instead. "Sorry boys, but I think I'm out of your league." He replied, "We weren't giving you a choice." "Actually," she continued, "I meant that in more ways than one." They glanced at each other in confusion.

The gardener was just outside, wondering who'd trampled a patch of his flowers near the windows. Needless to say, he was quite surprised when two men fell from sky, obliterating whatever was left of the flowerbed. Their bones made an unpleasant sound as they thundered to the ground. The gardener glanced up in shock, seeing Versa leaning outside her window several stories above. She yelled, "We have intruders! Call the guard!" He nodded feverishly and ran off in direction of the guardpost. Versa hastily stepped back inside. On the bed lay her sword. With no time to change out of her nightgown, she pulled her sword from its sheathe and dashed through the door. They were coming for father. . .

Versa ran through the halls, cold on the bare soles of her feet. Sprinting in full, she took the stairs to the upper floor two steps at a time, just in time to see her father, who was bound, gagged and carried by three other men. "You'll be coming with us Councilor Talseen. I don't expect you'll be coming back," one said cruelly. Versa shouted, "Unhand him!" They looked at her, short swords drawn; only their eyes were visible but they were stupefied and humored by the command. Admittedly, Versa did not look very threatening in her lavender nightgown.

She continued, "I am Versa, Servant of the Goddess, Savior of Cormont. By fear of wrath divine, you shall surrender, or face justice." One spoke to the others, "Oh shit guys, that's Versa." "Who?" replied another. "Versa! She's a paladin of Sophia." "So what, she's a woman." "We'd best run for it." "What!? You're out of your mind. I'm not running from some bitch! Draw your sword fool, we get rid of her." They unceremoniously tossed her father on the ground, a muffled moan of pain escaping. Versa would not forget that. They charged.

Versa rapidly spoke beneath her breath, "I am Servant of the Goddess, Wisdom gives Herself to all. But She is unstained and chaste and people are through Her transformed into Wisdom. Thy soul embrace, and truly one is union with holiness, and purity." They arrived. Without honor or respect for the fair fight, all three came upon her. She lifted her runed blade and parried each with ease. Overhead followed a furry of blows. For each strike they attempted, Versa thwarted, handling all three attackers. Versa swung over her shoulder in an arc and found her target. The edged slashed across his chest, leaving a streak of red through his black leather armor. He collapsed to the ground.

Another made a sweeping cut, missing Versa's side, but grazing her arm instead. The sleeve of her nightgown was torn, and red stained the silk edges. Such clothing made for poor armor. Versa spun around her foe, ignoring the cut, and kicked his legs out from under him. As the sword was flung from his hand, fallen onto his side, he quickly replaced it with a dagger destined for her leg. She severed his arm with a second stroke. Fluid, elegant, moving to perfection - her sword glowed as she plunged it into his chest; light traced the runes along the side, dancing through the lines from one end to the other. It always radiated light when putting evil to rest.

The third and final attacker dropped his sword. "I surrender! I surrender to you, Lady Versa!" She watched him fall to his knees, hands lifted, and she lowered the blade. Never would Versa slay an unarmed opponent. More footsteps echoed up the stairs, but these were welcomed, for guards spilled onto the floor, as well as Suunak. "Versa, are you alright? What happened?" Hastily she said, "They were after my father." "Councilor Talseen!" Versa glanced toward the survivor, "Arrest him. He should be promptly questioned."  As guards seized and shackled the assailant, Versa ran further down the hall, to her father's side. Pulling off the gag and cutting the binds, she could see the bruises on his face and neck, implying even more across his body. "Father! . . Daddy!?"

He opened his eyes, his voice struggling, "I saw you fight." He coughed. His mouth curled into a weak smile. "I was afraid. . . " Eyes closed shut, and he fell unconscious. Versa laid across him, her red hair sprawled across his chest. She began to pray. Her hands glowed. . .

Several days had passed. Versa ate breakfast in the dining hall this morning, the table adorned with flowers. Apparently, some of the flower gardens had been uprooted and needed to be put to immediate use. The splendor of colors brightened the chamber, as though each meal was a grand occasion. She poured herself a glass of taranian juice from the pitcher; the sweet yellow berries grew everywhere in the Kingdom of Feldauris. Footsteps echoed near the door.

Talseen, her father, stepped into the hall. Versa smiled, "You look so much better now!" His faced still had a few cuts, but they were nearly mended. The doctors had been astounded at how quickly he recovered. Almost as if it were magic. "Yes, much," he replied. Talseen seated himself across from Versa, and servants promptly placed a plate of warm food in front of him. "May I join you," another voice spoke. Suunak entered, respectfully holding his helm to the side, looking pleased with the upturn of events. "Of course Suunak. We invited you after all!"

As he took his seat, Talseen asked, "So any word from that prisoner?" "Yes councilor," Suunak replied. "They were indeed sent by the Mining Guild as we suspected." Talseen scowled, "Those bastards. Kidnapping me from my own home?!" "Apparently, they were trying to make an example of you and intimidate those who'd oppose their legislation. But with the testimony of this prisoner, we may finally be able to bring their actions before a magistrate and put their corruption to an end." "That'll be a grand day," Talseen spoke while nodding, "I'll be giving my full support to the matter. Not to mention increasing security around here!"

Suunak chuckled, "I think you have little to fear with Versa here!" "Yes, I'd think so, but. . ." Versa pleasantly continued for him, "But I won't be staying." She'd told father of her plans beforehand. They had a long time to talk while spending the recent days at his bedside. Suunak raised his eyebrows in surprise, "Really? Where are you going?" "I'll be going to the Isles of Mercia." He chuckled once more, "That's quite the distance! What's so important down there?" She took a brief sip of taranian juice. "In short, I'm needed. People you may not know – Veloth, Daedrok, Nerkyl. . ." Suunak shook his head, not recognizing the names, ". . . have all migrated to the Isles. I'll be needed to stop whatever they're planning, for destruction always follows them."

For a long time Suunak had lived in Kaudos while Versa adventured the world; he had no intention of sitting this one out. "A noble quest. And when I finish what I started here and bring the Mining Guild to justice, I intend to join you!" Versa placed a gentle hand on his arm, "That'll be nice. I'll see you there. I'm certain you can find me." She turned to her father, "I'm sorry I have to leave again father. . ." "No, it's ok," Talseen replied. "If this is what you think you were meant to do. . . I'll get used to it. Though you'll always have a home here." "Thank you Dad."

Versa gazed upon her father. He still wasn't happy with the idea of his daughter as an adventurer, born a noblewoman – something she could understand. It was clear that he'd never believe it was the best choice for her. But after his near-kidnapping, for the first time he was forced to think about death, as it stared him in the face. . . Pointless grudges and disagreements - these things fell away, and all that remained was a new sense of value, of what's truly important. Talseen knew that his daughter, Versa, was important. Versa looked into his eyes and no longer saw a lingering disapproval or distance between them. Instead there was trust. There was faith. And that was enough for her.


End of Beneath the Spires, 5/5


This message was last edited by the GM at 15:22, Sun 16 Nov 2014.

Blue sky peaked through the canopy. The leaves formed a mosaic of green shapes above. Sidd spoke, "You said it was this way?" "Yea, an old ruin on the hill," Brynda replied, breathing heavily. Sidd pushed a branch out of the way, Brynda following close behind. "Saw it when we entered the valley." "I think I've heard of it actually," Sidd added, "Back in that village a few days ago. Old timer said it was an ancient church or something. . . I think he also said some other adventurers passed this way just before us. Maybe they already cleaned the place out? Might not have anything worth our time." Their legs had grown sore from the uneven and inclined ground. Without a path, the two made slow progress, branches and underbrush constantly snagging at their clothes. Brynda ducked beneath a low-hanging limb, "Maybe. But we have pass through the valley anyway, so we might as well take a look."

Together, they marched forward, hoping they hadn't gone off course. Getting lost would cost more time than they had to spare. A welcomed relief followed when the forest dissipated into a clearing, a stone ruin visible on the ledge above. "And you doubted me." said Brynda with a playful smugness. Sidd replied, "Hey, it still might be empty and a complete waste of our time." She laughed, "Odds are we'll get lucky; it's been long enough since our last find." "I believe that's called false hope." "Oh shush." Sidd smiled at his small victory.

Facing a steep slope, largely covered with thin grass, they dug their boots into the side and got started. With hands, feet, and knees, Sidd and Brynda climbed toward the top; chunks of grass and dirt fell below them, easily crumbling beneath their footsteps. By the time a drop of sweat formed on their foreheads, they stepped onto the top of the ledge, viewing a small flat spans of land on the side of the valley. A plain of treetops matched the level of their feet growing out of the valley basin. Built on the ledge, abandoned long ago, was half of an ancient building. The other half was merely piles of broken stone, scattered around the terrace. Moss and vines grew across the crumbling gray walls, as though only the plants held it together.

"Come on," Brynda said, leading the way. The entrance was still intact, an open archway in the front. They walked through. Most of the roof had collapsed, and the upper portion of one wall had fallen away, the remains spewed on the ground outside where vegetation slowly buried them. Sunlight brightened the interior, a bland stone room, empty aside from scattered piles of rocks from the collapsing roof and a large boulder near the back, cut into the shape of a primitive altar. Sidd peered into a heap of nearby stones and pulled out a clay pot. He held it for Brynda to see. "Oh wow, look at this valuable artifact," he said sarcastically. "I'm sure clay pots make a fortune these days." Brynda rolled her eyes, "We just got here. Let's. . ." the ground suddenly vibrated, followed by the distant sound of something breaking; the sound echoed through the old ruin, as though it come from a cave. Brynda gasped, not expecting that in the slightest. "What was that?" she asked. Sidd wandered toward the rear of the church.

Sidd spoke in a hushed but excited voice, "Brynda, come over here. Quick!" He gazed downward at something she couldn't see. With soft footsteps, she joined him. Behind the altar stone was an opening in the ground, leading to a hallway beneath the structure. Apparently, the boulder had previously covered this hole, hiding the square-cut opening, but it had recently been pushed aside. Torn moss and freshly moved dirt made the disturbance obvious. Sidd whispered, "I think something's down there, a something at least strong enough to push this rock, altar-thing out of the way." "Perhaps," Brynda replied, "But hey, hidden tunnels beneath the church! Usually that promises something valuable." Sidd lightly chuckled. It was usually true that people only hid things worth hiding. And there was no way they could leave such an interesting mystery untouched. Sidd smirked at Brynda,  "What are we waiting for?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:25, Fri 28 Nov 2014.

Sidd eased himself onto the floor and dropped into the underground hall, landing comfortably on his feet. There weren't any stairs, but the low tunnel was an easy jump down. Brynda followed, accepting Sidd's helping hand. Sunlight breached into the underground hall around the opening, casting a diffused light further down. The hall only traveled in one direction. "This makes things easy," Sidd said. He had no taste for mazes. The air was stale, dry, with a peculiar smell. Brynda closely followed Sidd as they crept through the hall. After a minute, slowly stepping along the dim passage, Sidd held out his arm, preventing Brynda from going forward. He glanced cautiously at their feet. "Look," he said. Several steps away was a pit, as though a section of the floor was simply missing, and it cut deep into the ground. Brynda peered into the blackness, "I can't see a thing." She squinted, measuring it five or six feet across by eye. "At least it's short enough to jump over." "I'll light the lantern. We'll need to lookout for more things like this anyway." Sidd pulled the lantern from his pack and lit it. He held it above the pit, and both looked curiously for the bottom. Shattered rocks reflected from the base, at least the height of three grown men deep. Dust from broken stone clouded the depth.

Sidd figured it out, "Looks like this pit was a trap, covered by a false stone tile. . . Recently sprung too. I bet this is what we heard upstairs." "Traps don't spring themselves," Brynda added, "There may be other people ahead." "If there is," Sidd smirked, "Maybe we can team up with them." "Would if they're not friendly?" He shrugged, "We can handle ourselves." Undeterred, they hopped over the pit and continued. The further they traveled from the entrance, the older the air became, leaving an odd taste in their mouths. Many of the walls were cracked from age, though it was in much better condition than the ruin above. Only a stone throw from the pit, they caught the sight of a room just ahead. Abruptly, the sound of voices started from it, reverberating off the walls, though too muffled to understand. Their pace slowed to a silent crawl.

Sidd & Brynda moved closer, hoping for a better look at their company. Suddenly Sidd's foot struck a small rock which slid noisily across the ground – the voices from ahead ceased. Brynda's face scrunched up in disapproval, "Oh Sidd. . ." After a moment, someone from the room called down the hall, "You! Come here!" Brynda sighed, "So much for stealth. Well. . . let's go say hello." Sidd's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. He knew the value of asserting their strength. As always, he'd let Brynda do the talking, for she was admittedly much more likable than himself - even moreso when they were men, and she could use a hint of seduction. They turned the corner. And whom they saw was far from expected. Indeed the two adventurers before them were men, but Sidd no longer thought that'd make a difference. Sidd suddenly felt on edge.

Crouched on the ground was a heavily-armored warrior, clad in charcoal-colored platemail, and his face completely hidden by a horned helm; he was the largest man Sidd had ever seen, and held a massive, double-edged axe to match. Next to him was a goblin who did all the speaking. Although he was bald and half the size of the warrior, the goblin's green skin and yellow eyes gave him a frightening countenance. A torch had been propped on the wall, casting tall shadows across the room. The goblin nonchalantly spoke to the man, "Excellent timing, this'll make things a little easier. . . or be entertaining at the least." The hulking warrior nodded in silence. "Now, we'll let them go ahead, and afterwards. . ." "Uh. . . hello?" Brynda said, tired of being ignored. "My name's Brynda. Who are you?" "Silence girl," snapped the Goblin. He immediately resumed discussion with his companion, but Brynda continued, "Wow. . . rude. We were going to ask if you wanted to team up for this dungeon, but now I'm starting to reconsider."

The goblin glanced at her with a twisted smirk on the corner of his mouth, "Actually, you're going to go inside for us. There's something we desire past this room, further down the tunnel. You are going to get past the traps and bring it back to us. . . Alternately, you'll spring the traps and die, letting us pass safely. Either way works for us. . ." Sidd grew angry, "Just who do you think you are?" "I am Nerkyl, and this is Daedrok. And you WILL do this," he said with a clearly threatening tone. "And if we refuse?" Sidd asked. Nerkyl coldly replied, "Then we kill you, and you die anyway." Defiant, Sidd continued, "How about you taste my steel? . ." Brynda hastily grabbed his shoulder. She whispered, "Wait! I've heard of these guys. We might be out of our league here." Brynda's eyes pleaded with Sidd. He whispered in response, "If we get them whatever it is they want, they'll probably still try to kill us. You know that, right?" Brynda responded, "I know, but. . ." "Shut your yaps!" Nerkyl interrupted, "See that hall across the room? Go! If you survive, we'll instruct you further."

Sidd whispered frantically, "Die if we fail, die if we succeed – these options aren't favoring us are they?" "No," Brynda replied, "No they aren't. . . time to run. . ."

Brynda whispered, "Run." "Alright," Sidd replied, "When?" "Now!" "Are you-" "RUN!" she shouted. They bolted at a sprint back down the hall. The goblin laughed maniacally back in the room, his voice reverberating after them through the tunnel, haunting their steps. Sidd & Brynda ran in stride, as fast as their legs could go. Sidd felt chills from the goblin's laughter, knowing that wasn't a good sign. After only a few seconds, the tunnel began to shake. Small grain-sized rocks broke off the ceiling and landed on their heads, and the stone tiles around them seemed to shift. Suddenly, dark tendrils burst out of the cracks, flooding the hall like water through a broken jar, a scene from a nightmare. They were tree roots. And they grew and grew to the size of beastly limbs, lashing at them with malice. One slithered around Brynda's ankle, curling around it like a snake. "Ahh, get it off!" Sidd pulled his sword from the sheathe and slashed at the root. He severed it from the ground, but another instantly grew in its place. A massive root wrapped around Sidd's waist from behind; this one had the girth of a human thigh. It squeezed – Sidd let out a groan as it pushed the breath out of his body. It didn't stop squeezing. If Sidd had the breath, he would have shouted. He felt his bones fracture.

"Sidd!" Brynda screamed, overcome by panic. Sidd gasped, "Lea- eeave. GO!" She never had the chance. More roots climbed around her hands and legs, ensnaring her in a spider-like web. Despite the futility, she struggled to escape. The malevolent plants merely tightened around her limbs, cutting into the skin. Sidd's sword dropped to the ground as he fought the pain. Suddenly the roots ceased moving, trapping them in place. Brynda writhed in her bonds, but they refused to break free, hardly moving at all. Heavy footsteps approached. Daedrok walked through the hall, casually and unbothered by the roots, catching up to the adventurers on his own time. He stopped arm's length from Brynda. "Let us go," Brynda cried. "We'll get your damn treasure. We'll do what you want." Daedrok stepped even closer to her. From this distance, she could see a single red eye faintly glowing through his helm. It watched her, unblinking, inhuman.

Daedrok stood before Brynda and lifted his hand, gently stroking the side of her face with his gauntlet. She shivered at the cold metallic touch. She gathered her confidence, "You have us. We said we'll help you. Just let us go." Daedrok silently stared at her, listening to her plea with dispassion. Slowly, he set down his axe, leaning it against the wall. Sidd saw the slightest relief cross Brynda's face. Daekdrok lifted his freed hand to Brynda's other cheek, holding her head with both hands. Daedrok spoke, his voice like the crackle of embers and deep as the ocean, "Too. . . late. . ." He squeezed. Brynda had only a few seconds to scream. Daedrok pressed both his gauntlets together with Brynda's head forced between them, crushing; her skull buckled beneath his strength with a gruesome crunch.

Sidd's heart plummeted to the darkest reaches of the world, his eyes wide, incapable of comprehending what he just saw. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't supposed to happen, not like this. Daedrok removed his hands from Brynda, her body hanging lifelessly in the tangle of roots. He approached Sidd, his gauntlets soaked and dripping with red. Sidd had nothing to say; his mind was a blank, empty, overwhelmed. His sanity was rent asunder. Daedrok wasted no time and gripped Sidd's throat. The roots ensnaring him unwound, releasing him from their grasp. Daedrok lifted, holding Sidd above the ground with arm outstretched. Sidd couldn't speak, breathe, nor think. Daedrok walked a few paces further down the hall, roots making way for him as though they feared to touch even his armor. The red eye gazed steadily at Sidd, without the slightest hint of compassion, empathy, or humanity. He stopped.

Sidd glanced down, seeing himself held over the pit they crossed earlier. He remembered the heap of broken rocks waiting at the bottom. Decisively, without a hint of hesitation, Daedrok muttered, "And you. . ." He released his grasp, and Sidd fell straight into the hole. No thought nor fear entered Sidd's mind during the fall. He had ceased to hold on to anything; anger, despair, revenge – all of it fell away with Brynda's death, his mind plummeting into an empty dream. Daedrok watch Sidd's body crumple up on the rock, dying swiftly.

The roots slithered back into their cracks, retreating from the hall, leaving empty new holes in the wall and shattered blocks of stone. Nerkyl walked toward Daedrok who stood over the pit, silently gazing at the corpse below. Nerkyl glanced down into the hole, losing interest in the whole affair. He said, "Was a fun break, mildly entertaining. Come – I want to finish this dungeon before the day's out." Daedrok grunted in response, following Nerkyl back toward the room. The goblin muttered, "Some adventurers are useless. They don't belong in the wilds." Daedrok consented with a nod. He continued, "Can't believe I had to waste a spell this early in the day. Meh, I suppose it's fine. Did you see that girl's face after? And I thought humans couldn't get any uglier!" He cackled with laughter. Nerkyl and Daedrok soon disappeared, delving deeper into the ancient dungeon. . . leaving behind two young adventurers, who'd never again see the sun rise.


End of Temple of Clades, 3/3
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:34, Mon 01 Dec 2014.

Name: Imbellem Tueri
Class: Cleric
Age: 23
Key Characteristics: Oh boy, where to start...
Normal clerics: short hair, passive temperament, rarely cause trouble, strong build, but not necessarily bread for war if you catch my drift. Me? Longer hair, I cant keep up with it. Passive? I suppose I can be at times, some things can set me off, but if I see wrong being done to those undeserving of it - I will intervene. Rarely cause trouble? Hah. Good thing my Lord is Forgiving.. Because we all have our share of wrongdoings. Not for myself of course, but to help others as best I can. I have a bit of an anger issue and at times I don't always make the best choices.. I'm a rough looking guy, not very big, but certainly not cleric material. My manners aren't the best. Now I'm not saying, I don't try to be a good man; I do my best, but sometimes, the law of the land takes too long, and its people need help swiftly, and with a strong arm. I'm a traveler, taking work as I find it, healing, blessing, getting cats out of trees that sort of thing. The most common thing I hear is, “Well you don't look like a Cleric..” yeah I know. I get that a lot. Its probably because I was a convert, not a pure bread cleric, but one of choice, by parents who wanted the best for their child in a cruel and violent lifestyle I started with. But I get ahead of myself, lets start from the beginning.

My mother and father have an odd past.. They don't talk about how they met. But from what I can remember, my father was a high-ranking crewman on a ship of pirates pillaging between the isles of Mercia and Bishapur. My father, in the past, was referred to as "The Wall". A fitting name really, for he was very large, and exceedingly strong. Not one for words though, he spoke with fists and force over conversation. My mother was.. I'm not sure really. She was just kind of... On the ship? I think she was a "prize" claimed by the pirates, but I don't know for sure. She doesn't talk about it. Bibbidy bobbity boom, I was born. Originally on the ship, the "Hull Piercer" I think it was called, but my mother was taken off the ship and brought to a large city as an act of the "good hearted" captain.. the bastard...

Father would never show up, leaving money on the stoop for assistance for the living conditions of me and mother. She tells me she used to be a skilled huntress for her village, gifted in agility and speed. I took my fathers body and short fuse to anger, but the clever mind of my mother. She was gifted with a sharp, silver tongue, finding ways to get deals at local markets, or get out of trouble is she had to steal to keep us fed. She never stole for herself, and always told me never to do the same, and that she should be ashamed of her. How could I be? She was my mother, I loved her no matter what she did.

My father rarely spoke. And if he did it was grunts or groans, I believe he was not well educated and was embarrassed in his lack of knowledge. Mother was very smart. This made him feel like he was less of a man or something, and always left in a hurry, if he ever stood in the doorway to see me, never speaking.. Just kind of, looking at me. It made me feel strange.

One day, around my eighth birthday, Mother and I were eating a small cake she made for celebration by candlelight. It was dark out and raining heavily. I couldn't have a party, but the small cake and smile of ma was enough for me. In a sudden, shocking moment, the front door swung open, hitting the side wall. The wind from outside blew out the candle so it was hard to see, but that body was hard to misplace, it was my da. He opened the front door, without knocking, and just stood there, hunched over, beard and long hair covering his stone like face. My mother, fearing for what he might do stood between the two of us. "What do you want, what are you doing here?" she asked, raising in volume and intensity as his demeanor didn't change.

And then he took a step into the house, soaked in rain, and reeking of alcohol
mother pushed me back and drew a small blade from the sleeve of her gown, telling him to get back, swinging madly. This did nothing to stop his advancement toward us. He stopped just out of her arms reach, and looked up for the first time since he came there that night.

And there, for the first time in my life, had I ever seen my father cry, or speak more than three words. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. Forgive me?.." he said with hand outstretched. A small wooden cross charm dangling from his wrist.

Needless to say, he was forgiven, and allowed to visit more often than just dropping off money for my welfare. Even getting along with my mother better. I could wake up at night to hear her teaching him to read, and after a month or so I learned that he found the error of his ways when he drunkenly stumbled into a temple. And they spoke to him. Well, not just him, more like his soul. It pierced him in a way no blade ever could, and he turned his ways. Even changed his name to Walt. A play on speech. keeping his Wall like origin, and the temple welcomed us with open arms. I have never been shown such kindness. The children there were.. for lack of a better word, babies. They didn't know how to joke around. I was in trouble a lot.. I couldn't understand how you couldn't have fun and learn about Grace and Eternal salvation and protection at the same time

A few years passed and.. well.. this is where my life took a rather unsatisfactory turn.

The group we were with were mostly evangelical. Meaning they would travel and help spread the word of the Lord. No weapons were brought, only the means to grow food, or scare off wild beasts. I was 18 years old, and we were at Noanatu, the jungle lands of the more tribal goblins. We had set up a semi-permanent temple in a safe location and I was instructed to begin creating a garden.

I heard raised voices, things breaking, glass, wood, valuables. I took a peek from behind the barn window to see a group of goblin natives who claimed we had invaded on their land. Father Albus insured them he meant no disrespect and that we would leave immediately. A shimmer of metal, blood, and the last wisp of air in his lungs leaving his body was all I could hear or see. The commander had stabbed Father Albus for interrupting him, leaving him on the ground, blood beginning to stain the green grass.

Fear struck me, I hadn't seen violence like that sense the beginning of my life on the ship. But that memory is foggy and probably misplaced. Mother was hidden inside with the children and other mothers, but my father Walt stood amongst the monks, not saying much, for fear of angering them on accident. I couldn't hear well from my distance, but they were yelling at the other brothers. The brothers were pacifists, not using weapons, only there to serve, heal and provide what services they could to help the locals. One spoke, only to be cut of a suckerpunch, knocking him unconscious. It seemed as if anyone spoke, they would be hurt.

Some of the other brothers had already begun to heal Father Albus, but his bleeding was becoming too intense to be able to stop. The goblins began to kick them away from him, decreasing the healing capabilities and laughing. One healer left. A goblin, low rank I would assume based off of his lack of armor, laughing, took a running jump to kick the last healer away from Father Albus.

His laughter was short lived.

Da had enough. He was silent, praying for peace of mind to not kill all of them himself. He caught the leg of the goblin, setting him cautiously back on the ground and taking a step forward, saying, "Please stop, we are men of peace, we mean no harm." I had moved closer at this point, still clutching the hoe I'd been using to create the fields for farming with white knuckles, fighting my rage the commander thought this was not okay, punching him in the stomach, intending on him falling to his knees, but father held his ground, exhaling slightly. That's when the beating started. With a nod to the others, they all jumped atop him, punching and kicking wildly as father knelled, in prayer for peace, not even defending himself.

Their cackling laughter still keeps me up at night. The sound of their shrill laughter and the sounds of beating my father were unbearable, and I will never be able to forget.

I saw a shine.

One of the goblins from behind had drawn his sword and began walking toward him, intending on killing him in front of all of us.

You know how they say that, “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree?" Well its true.

Rage overtook me, I ran from my cover, rake in hand swung as hard as i could at the goblin's head, sinking all of its short prongs into the helmet, flinging him though the air like a ragdoll, crashing into the wall beside me.

All eyes turned to me, fists up, eyes full of tears from fear and anger. "You know what you did boy?" said the captain. "You just prepared your people for war." In their nature, acts of violence against one of them, means violence against the whole tribe. "Life must be taken in repayment for life," he grinned. A groan bubbled from the goblin with the rake in his head. He sat up, taking off his helmet to inspect what happened. The prongs were just short enough to not pierce his skin, but only send him flying due to the impact on his helmet

"Well looky who lucked out!" cackled the goblin chieftain. "Payment must still be given,” saying with a demented grin. He nodded at two goblins to his side, and they immediately grabbed me, on on my left arm and one on my right. "What'll it be boy" he said, drawing his rusted, poorly made sword. “What are you talking about?.." I asked through my teeth, still struggling with the guards. "Your arms? Which one do you like the most?"

My eyes widened, and I heard nothing. Fear overtook me, and I was in shock. In their culture, "eye for and eye," is very well-practiced, and seeing as I attacked with my hands, one must be taken from me in payment. "But you-I- I don't understand- that's not fair- you cant do this!" I said, fighting through the lump in my throat. "Oooh but we can though," he said smirking with both my arms held level on stumps from trees I had only cut down not two hours ago. Ironic.

"Now pick!"

I was frozen with fear, unable to speak. What could you say in this situation? "Ah, both seems fair eh boys?" Followed by a chorus of cheers and agreeable goblin-y sounds. I hadn't moved. My life was over. How could I survive this? I would bleed out for sure.. and what about work? I would be invalid for my whole life.. What about- My thoughts were cut off.

"Right," a deep voice said.

A look of shock and confusion overtook the goblin chieftain, who spun around violently "WHO INTERRUPTED ME THIS THIS-" My father, Walt, The Wall, stood towering feet above the small goblin.

"Take my right arm."

They all laughed and argued about how that was not the agreement, but I was still in too much shock to hear what was happening. I was told most of this after it had happened.. When my father knelled down beside me, rolling up his sleeve showing the tattoos from his life on the sea, they laughed at him, called him names, and it had finally occurred to me what was happening. I was tossed aside, no longer deemed a threat.

"Da?.. what are you doing? This is my fault, don't be stupid! I did this, I want this! Not you!" I shouted at him, the words beading around him like water off of the back of a duck. "I've had worse," he said. "This won't kill me. It's okay boy," he said sternly. "But this isn't fair, I brought this upon myself! I should pay for it!" I argued but he would not hear it.

"I brought you into this!" he shouted, his voice sharp. I was taken aback, for I didn't understand. "I was a bad father," he confessed looking down at the small cross in his hand resting in his lap. "I missed out on most of your life, and I wont let a something stupid ruin your future. You need to be better than me." The rusted sword rose above his arm as the chants began to grow in volume..

"Promise me boy. You'll be better than I was. Help people. Don't hurt people for selfish reasons. Defend the defenseless. Make something of yourself."

"I.. I promise da.." I said, as the sickening chop of bone, flesh and steel collided.

His arm was gone, and my self worth was gone along with it..

He didn't cry out in pain, or hardly even flinch. It was quickly wrapped by the fellow brothers and the bleeding was kept under control. I had nothing left. I sat feet away from my father, and an arm that he used to use to pat me on the back when I helped him, or would point at me if I disobeyed mother or himself. Apparently though, the goblin chieftain didn't find this enough payment.. If I were in clearer mind, I would have killed them with my bare hands.. But I was broken. I agreed, and I did as he said. A super heated piece of metal was shaped into a cross, the symbol of our Lord, crudely, and as a joke. Laughing in unison, one held my hand on the bloodied stump next to where my father was currently laying, unconscious at this point.

“This is your gods sign eh?” the goblin chieftain said with a notably obvious overtone of sarcasm and mockery. “It goes like this right?” he asked, holding it upright, the way it was supposed to be. Tears in my eyes, I said nothing, simply nodding. “Well that's dumb, it's used like this when its made as a joke,” he said, spinning the red hot brand upside down. “Your god doesn't like being mocked does he?” his face contorting into a fully-sharp toothed smile. Nothing I could say would sway him - he was right. The upside down cross has often be used as the symbol of the anti-god, worshipers of the absence of him, as mockery, or just plain spite. The mark of the devil they say. I felt something fall on my lap, and through  tears I looked down to see a small wooden cross. It was my father's. I looked over, and saw him barely conscious looking right into my eyes.

“Its okay” he said softly, barely clinging to consciousness. His now stump of an arm had stopped bleeding, and they were now pulling the skin so it could heal properly. “He wont think any less of you, it's not your fault. You didn't do this, it's okay,” he kept trying to reassure me.

The searing pain and smell of burning flesh and hair overtook me and I cried in pain. They cursed my body with the sign on the devil on the back of my hand. Throwing the brand while it was still red hot at the women and children, luckily missing them and hitting the post of the doorway, he mocked, saying how my worship would be in vein, how I would never be allowed into heaven. And I believed them. I had done terrible things that day.

The brothers didn't allow me in the temple for the next few days while they decided what to do with me. My body was impure, marked only with mockery of the God I had devoted my life to. Mother gave me a black leather glove to cover my hand, after she had seen me outside, staring at it for hours. I contemplated cutting it off, just to be forgiven. She would sit with me for hours, not speaking, just holding me and keeping me from looking at the inverse cross on my hand. It was my fault. the temple agreed that violence is unforgivable, even in an act of defense. What i did was wrong, and the pacifism of the order, and I was removed. Forced to leave my home and all i knew, I had to find my own order.


Then I heard word of a dwarven artisan. He makes limbs. Not like, real flesh and bone limbs, but arms, legs, hands and feet of metal, that can greatly assist the lives of those who lack them. Most of my money goes to help local temples I find on my travels, or people in need. But I will find this man before I die and give my father at least some part of his life back.

I was taught by traveling holymen different ways to control my rage (to a point) and to not hold a grudge against an entire race for the fault of an evil few. Yet goblins still bring out the worst in me. I was taught to heal, to call on miracles, to assist the helpless. Im not allowed to see my family anymore, or the ones I grew up with, but I send them money as often as I can - always anonymously, so it wouldn't be thrown away on account of my shame.

I am full of rage, I distrust most people, questioning their reasons for any action, and often react un-accordingly.. But thanks to the Lord above, and the teachings of fellow faithful, I believe I can defeat my demons and meet with my father again. I owe him a great favor I could never hope to repay.

So now I travel, taking work where I can find it and helping all those I can help. Often alone, I've found myself in troubles I had been lucky to survive, but I can't continue this by myself.. I need people I can trust to travel with. Or maybe even become friends with someone again.. at least until the dwarven artisan, and I can thank one who deserves it. This is my story.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:43, Sun 08 Feb 2015.

My blood.. Its taste fills my mouth.. iron.. Not to be confused with the barrel of the gun held in my mouth by this blurry figure standing before my broken and kneeling body.. I think I hear laughter, but with the beating I had just received, I'm surprised I am able to string together a sentence. The cool sea breeze, accompanied by the cleansing mist of ocean water as it strikes the side of our vessel on this cold, dark night is the only thing that relaxes me.

The barrel of the gun is cold, and hurts my teeth, or what few teeth I have left as the natural shift of the boat changes the its location in my mouth. Something is bitter.. Gunpowder I assume. It is difficult to get a reading on things outside my own mind at the state in which I find myself, though, last I recall, my ship was on patrol off the west coast of Perdane. Unfortunately, my thoughts  are a little foggy at the moment.

I hear mumbling.. Someone trying to speak to me I think. It must be me, since most of my crew is dead, and all of my lieutenants had been executed before my eyes while my legs were broken, keeping me from rushing to their aid. The barrel is removed from my mouth. Thank the Gods, that was getting old. Suddenly, my head is knocked yet again leaving all I can hear to be best described as a bee buzzing; my vision darkens and quickly comes back into focus. A man stands before me. He's not exceptionally large, but I recognize him. He is the one who almost singlehandedly slaughtered all of my men.

“Aye, maybe I hit the small doll-boy too hard eh boys?” he says, followed by a chorus of chuckles and laughter. “I hear you, ya bastard,” I say in retort. My life is over anyway - why not throw a bit of sass his way before I go.

There it is again, the gun barrel in the mouth. This time, he isn't nearly so gentle, tearing at still fresh wounds and broken teeth. The blood mixed with metal and soot; it doesn't taste so bad once you get used to it. The familiar click of his flintlock pistol carries its vibrations up to my skull. It tingles.

“Watch yer tongue Mr big hat,” he says, seemingly in a full rage at this point. He was right about the hat thing though, Captains of the land of Perdane did have ridiculously large hats. "Ya musn't have a clue who yer conversing with, aye?” I look up through my blackened eyes, pushing the gun barrel aside with my tongue so words and blood can fall from my mouth. “Ahm asshuming itsh no-” I stumble. "Oh right, sorry mate," he laughs, pulling the gun from my mouth, “Couldn't understand ya there, try again please.” More laughter from the filthy sea rats, as if anything this man says is just the funniest thing they've ever heard.

I cough, spit and clear my throat to speak proper language to these unschooled ruffians. “I'm assuming” I say, with emphasis, to make sure I was heard, “It's not the captain I'm speaking to. You're awful small to be called a lord. Unless it's the lord of the ships day care center for your bastard children,” I say, smiling, secretly bracing to be struck again.

Good gracious was I right. Without missing a beat, the man takes a step back, beginning to spin to kick me in the chest with fearfully well mastered technique. This man, who I can now see more clearly, not more that 5'5 wearing a bright red coat upon his shoulders, arms free to wield both sword and pistol at the same time. Not to mention those lovely boots he wore, black leather, gold straps. Must have cost a fortune. I only noticed those because that's what struck me with shocking force as he quickly turned to kick me with the heel of said lovely shoes, sending me flat on my back.

Current assessment: Broken arm, both legs, cracked ribs, perhaps punctured lung, missing more teeth than id care to count.. overall, great shape. Oh look, its that gun of his again, pointing in between my eyebrows this time.

Click. “Game over, big hat,” he says with a smirk.

“Did I say that was allowed Anshil?” a voice calmly asks from my quarters. The gun lowers, but the frantic, psychopathic look remains on the face of the man. “My apologies ser," he states stepping off of my shattered ankle as he makes room for the man. “Nice shoes by the way,” I cough in laughter, “What do those pumps give you, an extra three inches?” I didn't bother to look at his face, but I could hear by the exhales and puffs of rage that I hit a nerve. Sucker.

“You'd best forgive my friend here, he's a bit 'short' on patience.” says the man, crew now in an uproarious laughter. The man leans over me, kneeling down, hands on his knees to get closer to my face. I know this man. I've seen his face in posters. We use it as the bullseye mark on the practice targets for the trainees. “I know what you're thinking,” he says, tilting his head slightly to the side with a smile. Dressed sharply in a black and blue jacket with gold trim, I notice he has no weapons on him. “Why all of this trouble for something so small? If you'd have simply given me what I'd asked for, all of this could be avoided." “I am the captain of the Ship ser," I reply boldly, trying to sit up, only to be reminded of the the current 'rib' situation - I decide laying on my back is the best option. “I do not make deals with rats.”

The man stands up, a look of shock, and sarcasm emblazon his face as he playfully puts his hand up to his mouth “Rats?” Turning to the bodies my men, some dear friends. “Rats are filthy creatures,” walking toward them he continues, “Spreading filth, disease, and most of all disorder. I hate rats.” He continues on as his serious, yet rather playful tone of voice beginning to darken, spinning on his heel to look at me again.

One of my men, still alive, slowly reaches for his sidearm, out of view of the captain halfway through his speech. “I simply wish to create order. There is no need for such violence.” My crewman solidly grips his gun, trying his best to take quick aim in his weakened and shaky state. Noticing the subtle movement out of the corner of his eye, the man leaps in the air, twirling his jacket in the process. The height he reaches is almost inhuman, as well as his agility, as he directs himself above my crewman, twisting and contorting his body to land harshly on the gun wielding forearm of my friend, breaking board as well as bone beneath the heel of his boot causing a scream of pain to be cast upon this forsaken dark night.

Giving a nod to the small man who has a thing for putting guns in mouths, the strange man removes his foot from the broken arm and begins to walk away, never to turn back. His lieutenant smiles, laughs deeply and begins stomping over to the man, with a now shattered arm and drawing a small knife from one of his (tall) boots. He takes a lick on the blade as he crouches over the man, now in a trance of horror as the deep laughter from the small man intensifies,and at the climax of his laughter, he begins to stab wildly at the chest, neck, and whatever other body part he saw fitting of his small knife.

I could not watch. The man had shown far too much bravery to be murdered so horrendously.

“Anywho,” says the man, stepping away from the stabbing massacre mere feet away from him. “Will you please give me the new trade route map so I can be on my way?” he asks, ringed fingers extended toward me. I laugh.

“I recognized your ship. You have a bit of a reputation as a cruel man, Ser Ishtal. One of the pirate lords.” A smile creeps upon his pale face, hair cut back, neat and precisely. He could pass as a noble if not for this thirst for power and lack of a normally functioning brain. ”The map has been lost to sea. I threw it over myself. Better to be lost forever than to be in the hands of a monster like you."

“Pity,” he says as he begins to make way back aboard his ship, leaving me among the wreckage. “You seemed like quite the jokester; could have made a fun prisoner out of you.” One of the his men hands him a bar of soap, which he quickly uses to scrub his hands and then proceeds to throw into the ocean beneath us.

“Anshil,” Pirate Lord Ishtal says calmly, barely turning his head to face this crazed lieutenant, soaked in blood, still currently stabbing the man who dared to stand against his lord. “Shoot the captain. He's been though enough.”

A sigh can be heard from the insane lieutenant as he steps off the corpse of my once good friend. “Aye sir..” Pouting like a child, he steps before me. “Any last words?" he says cockily while raising one of his guns toward me, pulling back the hammer on his pistol.

I look at the ship across to see Lord Ishtal turned to face me, with a straight face, and arms crossed. “I do,” I say, voice strong, and unwavering. “..Well what is it then? I ain't got all day ya know.”  I lean forward, pressing the barrel of the gun against my head, “I'm fairly sure your boots are a women's make.”

Lord Ishtal smirks, as Anshil's face contorts with rage “Why you filthy sack of sh-” Click.


This message was last edited by the GM at 23:37, Wed 31 Dec 2014.

Words fail me. I had nothing to say. No questions, nor any logical reason for why a man I once deemed my friend lie before me. Its strange, seeing a man with no body, head impaled on a pike larger than any human man could wield and see him look back at you. Unable to speak, due to lack of according body parts, like a throat or chest I'm assuming. He is in a state of undeath, but completely aware of his surroundings. We lock eyes for what seemed like days, and finally I leave again, following this dead trail of leaves framed by wilted black trees. No light ever shines here. I place my hand on his forehead as I wish him farewell, and sorrow fills my heart. I feel no happiness here. No positivity. Only pain, sorrow. Lacking all comfort such as light, warmth, the presence of another being to share my woes with.. but I digress. Something is indeed here with me, and after what feels like months, I feel I am coming close. I can hear the dripping of blood and deep metallic breaths through the mouthpiece of a helmet. A large helmet indeed. I turn to see what this is that torments me to be met with the most unholy sight a man should ever have to witness.


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“Ive done it!” A guard shouts, “Ive taken down the great Walben Tigersoul!” The cheers of his group begin to echo, dull and fade as I feel myself dying. The bastard. I'm not dead yet. If I could.. just swing my damn.. sword I'll chop your knees off. Ah well. I had a good run. This was peaceful. I heard no more, I saw no more, and I felt no more. It was as if I was floating, or submerged in water, with that weightless, near comforting feeling. All this was okay, I never worried about the afterlife. Didn't care much for religion. If its like this forever I suppose I could get used to this. A smile began to creep along my face, or should I say soul, for I knew for certain I was now dead. All this was short 'lived' however. I began to feel again. I did not particularly like what it was I felt either, It was as if something brushed against my back, and followed along to the back of my leg, only to submerge itself again in this floating purgatory. My eyes opened. It was dark, but being deep beneath the water was the best way to describe it, my long black hair was floating with arms and legs spread. Far above me I saw feint light, but it was as if I was so deep in the water, light could no longer penetrate it. I felt again, this time I saw what it was, long, unearthly arms leading to hands with fingers with far too many knuckles to be any being I had ever seen. There were two this time. Simply brushing against me, my legs, chest and one along my face. I did not like this, I began to panic, trying to move, to 'swim' up to the surface of whatever it was I was in only to be restrained by a cold, strong hand. One by one, my limbs began to be clutched tightly, feeling as if my bones were breaking beneath their grasp. And then the scratching. It was as if there were angry rats inside my lungs, cutting though and scratching and biting at my ribcage, hoping to gnaw their way though. I could not breath. All I felt was pain, constriction, and fear. Suddenly, thousands of arms shot up from the darkness. Long, almost tentacle like in appearance, I gazed in confusion as they all turned and directed toward me. All hovering mere feet above me. Just sitting there. Motionless. Until suddenly, all at once, they shot down to my body, many shooting though me like spears, dismembering me, ripping off my arms, legs, ripping out whatever was inside of my chest and pulled me, screaming in agony into the abyss beneath me.

My eyes opened. I was.. What? I quickly sat up and looked over my body, all parts where there were supposed to be as well as my swords and clothes I was wearing mere moments ago as we decided to raid a caravan that just so happened to be guarded by some elite bastards. The memory of the darkness flooded back to me, filling me with dread and causing me to grab my swords and quickly stand up, to check for the unholy abominations. As I looked frantically around me, I noticed I was in a wooded area, there was a thick trail, covered in dead leaves, and lined with wilted, dead black trees. It was strange, the path before me was clear, but outside the line of trees, It was raining heavily and incredibly foggy, I couldn't see more than a few feet in it. But the sounds. The sounds hit me like a cannonball. Screaming in the distance, the skittering and crashing of creatures in the fog, I could not see what they were, but they could see me. I stood, ready for a battle for hours, until I realized that there was nothing to be done simply by sitting in one location, so I began walking the dead path. I remember very little, deeds of my life flashed before me. Everything I had done, every murder, every piece of gold I stole, every woman I took advantage of. It felt heavy in my head, and I could remember nothing other than the 'evil' things I had done.

The trail began to broaden. I heard dripping onto the dead leaves from behind me, I turned quickly to be greeted with nothing. Perhaps this place was getting into my head.. there is nothing here I thought to myself. As I walked along the path, I began to see strange things. Weapons, bits of armor, a limb or two, but everything was destroyed. As if an intense struggle happened, and ended fruitlessly for those wielding the instruments strewn upon the ground around me. I still hear the skittering and crashing through the undead woods next to me, but I no longer care. I wished for something to come after me. Give me something to do, a fight, at the least kill me and end this torment.

It feels like I have been walking for months now. My body screams for food and water, I want to die. I can find no solace in this unholy place. My body aches due to this constant movement. Surely, there is no comfort in a place like this. I had my swords, I tried, countless times to end my own life, piercing my chest, slitting my own throat, I felt it all. The pain, I saw the blood, I felt my lungs fill with it, only to blink or avert my gaze and have the wounds vanish. Truly, there is no hope in this place. This is my torment. As I walk, pieces of armor, limbs, broken weapons, even bodies are a common sight. Bodies, some torn apart, some still in one piece, just lie there in the dead land as more screaming can be heard echoing from the fog. As I walk I begin to notice heads of warriors, common folk, even nobles on speaks, huge pikes. At first it didn't bother me, until I saw them look at me. I drew my sword and pointed it at the head. I walked closer to get a better view. The eyes were not grey and dead like the common corpse have seen through the course of my life. They had color, and as I lowered my sword, I noticed the eyes follow the blade down into its sheath. All these heads, as if in a line to watch me walk past, were living. Unable to speak, unable to end communicate, unable to do anything but stare in whatever direction the pike deemed they look. The first good thought entered my mind sense my entrance to this awful place. “Well, at least that's not me.” Swiftly however, that happy feeling was gone as I was reminded of the sounds I had heard, and worry filled my chest as I now realized that at any moment, that could happen to me. I clutched my swords tighter from that point on.

I have learned to simply keep walking, there must be a point to all this. Many times I heard breathing, slight laughter.. and that gods forsaken dripping noise behind or next to me. At first I turned quickly, ready for battle, but now I care not. I turn slowly, if at all. It seems whatever the master of this land wishes of me  is being fulfilled, I am tormented. I wish for death. I cannot have it, anything. Even the constant rain that is just out of my reach reminds and taunts me as I continue to die of thirst. I tried to eat the arm of a man I passed at one point. It took almost no thought at all, I simply knelt down, and took a bite out of the dead forearm, only to have its flesh turn to ash in my mouth, causing me to cough and throw the limb in anger as a deep guttural laughter was heard. Damn be who created this place, and damn be the gods who put me here.

More days spent walking. It is impossible to tell how long I have actually been following this trial. There is no sun, no moon. No way to tell time. Everything stays the same. Everything except pieces of bodies and their weapons or armor increasing in number as I continue walking. “Psst” I hear from behind the one large tree in a very open area I happen upon. It has been some time sense I have had the pleasure of speaking. “H-hello?” I say sheepishly to the familiar voice. I see a head peek from behind the large tree. It is a face I recognize, it is my cousin who had passed before me months ago. “Hows it feel?” he says curiously. “..What?..” I say beginning to slowing walk toward him. “Hows it feel to be damned? Or no wait, even better, knowing that everybody you know or love will be here suffering someday as you suffer?” he says as a smile creeps along his dirty, pale face. “What are you talking about?” I question, “I don't even know where 'here' is. What the hell is going on?!” I shout as I close some distance between the two of us. Laughter begins to gurgle from the throat of my one family member. As I round the tree to get a better view I notice something awful. He has no body. I stand, grasping my sword. I notice he is being held up by his hair by a hand, an inhumanly large hand, covered in black iron. It seems as soon as I noticed this, the dismembered head was thrown at me, rolling at my feet, eyes gazing up at me, tearing up at the sight of me. I look up at the tree and run around the to the back side, drawing my other sword. I see nothing.

An awful laugh begins to resonate the fog, the dead trees, even my head. I feel a something hit the ground behind me and turn quickly, looking down, seeing another head. “Who are you?” I shout into the distance “Show yourself you damned coward!” “Damned” A deep, guttural voice rattles though an unholy body behind me. I turn. “Lovely word choice, Walben.”

I drop my swords. This creature, this.. Thing. Stands at a towering height above me, holding heads of fallen men in one hand and a large black iron sword in the other. It has human qualities, two arms, two legs, one head. My eyes are drawn to its face. Eyes glowing like the embers of a fire, and fangs that creep along what seems to be the entirety of its face. Its armor is black, covered in skulls, bones, corpses, held together with chains. This is the creature that bumps in the night. This is fear incarnate.



Flicking a forked tongue at me, colossal monster takes a swing at me with his incredibly large sword, I believe it was intended to remove my head, like all the other poor men I saw strewn about that awful place. Using my two swords, I managed to redirect the swing, missing me entirely and having the large weapon crash into the ground next to me. “Oh my dear boy” Said the being, lifting that ton of iron from the ground and resting it on its shoulder “You shouldnt be surprised, you asked for this.” “This?” I asked, voice raising to a shout “I dont even know what 'this' is! Tell me whats going on!” A quick swipe was all I saw and my right leg was gone, below the knee, I screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Unlike my past self inflicted injuries, this one did not heal. “Watch that tone.” Rumbled the voice, tongue angrily flicking in the air, “You asked for this. You soul asked for this.” It leaned closer to me as I writhed on the ground “Your soul is as black as night” steam crawling from its mouth. “Thats not true, If id have known this was waiting for me.. Things would be different!” I shouted in fear, realizing now that my actions led me to this cursed place.

Another motion, simply too quick to notice removed my left leg, this time below the hip, causing me to scream again in agony, normally wounds like this would cause blood loss to numb pain, but there is no comfort here. It continues to laugh, as if this is all a game to it “Ive kept my eye on you boy, ive seen what you choose to do with your free time. There is no redemption for you. This is where you belong.” “You're wrong!” I shout, tears beginning to fill my eyes as fear overtakes me, “There is good in me, I dont belong here!” as soon as those words left my mouth, my head was gone. I felt it. I felt it all. They say when your head is removed due to the spinal chord, you feel nothing. They lied. I screamed louder than I had ever screamed in my live, to my surprise I was able to make sounds and speak, even due to lack of body parts. My head lie on the ground, as the creature lumbered over toward me, “Im not sure about that one” it says jokingly “You may be getting a little a 'head' of yourself there” “Go to hell..” I growl at the beastly creature. His head lurches up in uproarious laughter, deep and hearty, only to suddenly stop, crouch down and look me directly in the eye. “But my dear boy,” He says, forked tongue flicking my face, “Do you  not realize that is exactly where we are?”

It picks me up. “Hows this.” It says swinging me around by my hair. “I see your soul, you are full of evil, nothing good will come of your life. This I promise” It stopped spinning me, pinching me between two monstrously large fingers to look me in the face. “I dont do this often.” it said, “But im tempted to give you a second chance. Watch you squander your life again. Prove to you that this is where you will always be drawn to, no matter what you do in life. You are a black soul. Damned to be with me forever.” I look at the creature. Not saying a word. For a moment we stare at one another “What the matter” I say “Not much of a betting man?” Its uproarious laughter fills the air once again and he throws me, throws me beyond the trees above the fog, I cant see, im spinning far too fast. However, I hear in my head, as if he were directly next to me. “This I promise you” it said “i will see you again. Soon Walben Tigersoul. You are just as damned as I. Tell your father I say hello..” My head hits the ground and I roll, finally landing against a rock gazing up at the sky. The damned moonless, starless sky.

Oh my dear father.. Please dont end up like me.. Please dont come to this horrid place I think to myself as tears begin to flow from my face. I wipe them off with my hand and continue to lay on the ground.

Oh now hold on.

Shock hits me like lightning. I look down, My body. My whole body lay on the ground, I leap to my feet and quickly look around. I am next to the wagon I tried to take outside the city before I.. before I was.. Fear overtakes me again as I run into the city as fast as I can. I see a building with a cross, the local temple and make straight for the doors. Opening the doors as hard as I can, I see a few brothers of the following look at me in shock. It is late night. I think they assumed I was there to rob them. I stumble up to the nearest one I see. “You..” I say, pointing at the young man. He stumbles backward, slightly tripping on the rug in fear as the other brothers begin to follow up behind him. I grab his cloak. Filthy, soaking wet, cold, covered in blood and now grabbing a Christ follower in a manner such as this. Must have been quite the sight. “Y-yes?..” Says the man. “Help..” I begin to say as a lump overtakes my throat and I collapse to the floor in tears “Help my soul! Please! Dont make me go back!”

It seems like so long ago. I told the brothers everything. Every filthy detail. The fed me, clothed me, gave me a blanket as I refused to leave the alter of the temple for days. They believed me, and assured me my soul could be saved if I believed in the Lord, which I did. Immediately. After a few services of the church, and many, many worried stares from strangers, the kind men of the temple allowed me to join them, giving me a change of clothes and a purpose in life.

That happened twenty years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday. No longer living in fear, I teach the good news of a kind and loving God, so no other mortal man may ever set foot in those dead, damned woods again.


This message was last edited by the GM at 18:20, Sun 08 Feb 2015.

Pt 1

The morning light fills my room. In my half-asleep state, it seemed almost like an explosion. After I realized what day it was, I would have rather that it was..

“IT IS PAST 0700 HOURS!” A deep, roar of a voice reverberates though my head. I sit up in my bed, hair a mess, its best not to disobey him. “ARE YOU AWARE OF WHAT DAY IT IS?!” “I know dad, im sorry I just-” “IM SORRY WHAT DID YOU SAY?!” The large authoritative figure at the foot of my bed bellows. Large man. Bloody large. Elite guard, Yuki Buldor. Bald head, glistening with sweat from anger and whatever foul thoughts brewed in there, large handlebar mustache covering his mouth, which I would assume was always scowling.. His large eyebrows hung over his piercing eyes awaiting my response. “I SAID IM SORRY SORRY SIR.” I shout in response. Loud house over here. “TIME ESCAPED ME SIR. DO I HAVE PERMISSION TO PREPARE FOR MY DAY.” You also have to ask permission for everything in my household. “PERMISSION GRANTED. YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES TO PACK.” He turns, as always at a perfect 90 degree angle and marches out of my room, stomping as he goes. Who marches in the confides of their own home? I sit in my bed, legs off the edge collecting my morning thoughts. My room a mess, what can be expected of a teenager. I always wanted to be a painter, but I was born in the wrong family for an artistic career choice. “IM NOT HEARING PACKING BOY. DO YOU NEED AGGRESSIVE ASSISTANCE?!” He shouts from my doorway, he must have just shut it and been standing waiting for me to start moving. “NO SIR” I shout as I leap from my bed, stuffing all my essential things I will be needing for my year long boot camp. Today is the day I join the ranks of the city guard you see, to make the family proud.

Bags packed, boots tied as instructed by father, hair slicked to the side, standing up straight, I open my door to my father standing, arms crossed looking down at me. “Stand up straight boy,” he says in his ever loving tone. “They are here to escort you to the castle for your training.” As the youngest of three, I am the last child of the home, leaving my mother and father to be.. grumpy or whatever they do. I speak harshly, my mother is a very loving woman. She feels the need to put on a strong face for the sake of my fathers name. My small body barely makes a creak in the stairs as I walk down to my front door whereas my beast of a father make the stairs sound like they could break at any moment under the colossal weight of his body. Rounding the corner I see two city guards, dressed in their full military uniform awaiting my arrival for escort. Thats how they do it here. Its a big deal to be accepted into the guard. I shouldnt have made it. I barely passed my physical exam. Mother sat at the table watching me walk down the stairs, as straight as I possibly could in front of my father, as if I were his puppet. In a way, I was. I didnt want to join the army. I didnt want to fight, to kill.. I wanted to create art, and make people happy. But it wasnt up to me. I was a Buldor. “TSYUO BULDOR REPORTING SIRS” I shout in military fashion followed by a salute. They salute in return. “PERMISSION TO BID MY MOTHER FAREWELL” I ask. A simple nod is all I get from the two men as I turn to face my mother, still sitting on her chair next to the table. I walk up to her. “Im going mom. Ill write you if that's okay.” She nods, standing up, brushing dust off of her dress as she pats my shoulder. Mother was raised christian, as you could tell clearly by the cross she wore constantly around her neck. She was taught that killing is wrong, and father was taught the most effective ways to kill a man. Conflicting upbrining if you ask me, but hey, Im no child psychologist. I could feel tears begin to swell in my eyes. “Look at this you messy boy,” she says, “You didnt lace up your pack all the way” she says reaching over and tightening the strings on my bag. “You'd sure look a fool to get all the way there only to lose all your things." I stand firm, I want to hug her goodbye so bad, This could be the last I ever see of her. I look up, her eyes, dry as a bone, simply nods me to the direction of my father standing behind me. I turn to him and look him in the eyes. “Goodbye sir” I say to him, as I extend my hand to shake his hand as a final farewell. Secretly hoping for a hug or some sort of affection. “Farewell boy. Do us proud.” He extends his hand as well and shakes my hand. I should have expected as much from a father whos proudest moment he had of me was when I.. No wait I cant actually think of an example. He was a very.. He was my dad. Lets leave it at that.

It was a long walk to the castle, I could notice people, other trainees looking at me and whispering to each other. “Thats a Buldor” they'd say. “Oh crap, this is going to be awesome” I would hear. I kept my head down until a door was open. “This is your quarters” one of the escorts explained. “Come down the the main courtyard in thirty minutes for roll call.” “Yes sir” I say as the door shuts behind me. The room is small, a bedroll, closet, chair and desk are all I own now. The closet is already full of full fitted uniforms and equipment for my training. I set my things on my desk and in my closet as an unfamiliar item falls to the floor. It is a letter. Puzzled, I pick it up. It is unmarked, and simply held together with a wax marking, no seal, just wax. I open it up to see familiar handwriting, it is my mothers, She must have set it in my bag when she tightened my strings on my bag. My eyes widen as I fall to a seated position on the edge of my bed.

Dear Yuo-yuo,
Today is your big day huh? Its okay, basic training is only a year, and they allow you to send letters so I expect at least one a week you little rascal. I know this isn't what you wanted, but it wont be forever, just get thought it and you will be okay, besides, after training you only have a required two year contract before you can leave before they call your absence AWAL. By the way, don't try to leave. They'll kill you for sure. Bad idea baby boy. Be strong. You are half Buldor after all. Be brave my son, you'll be okay. I love you.

P.s. I didnt have time to make you a cake, but hopefully this will do.
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday my dear Tsyuo
Happy birthday to you.

I Love you baby boy, be good.
Love,
Mama

My head falls forward, I cant see though the tears anymore. I let them flow. Its just a year.. I can do this. Ill make it back mama. I'll be fine.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:24, Sun 08 Feb 2015.

Pt 2

“THREE CHEERS TO THE BULDOR ON THIS THE DAY OF HIS BIRTH!” I stand smiling, extending my arm toward my fellow initiates, and our superiors, it is my birthday, a  year after I was taken to this place. I have grown, mentally and most of all physically. Like wow, I must have gained a hundred pounds in this place. The second cheer echos though the large halls of the dining area, other guards are on patrol. I have grown efficient with a blade, not quite to the level of skill as my father, but someday perhaps, I will spar him, and earn his respect. This is graduation day, we gain our official guard uniform and begin with whatever tasks they see fit for us underlings. The third cheer is shouted and all men clap and suddenly the room falls silent as they all beginning drinking heavily from their grogs. Moments of silences later, laughter can be heard followed by belches and chatter.

This is the first afternoon of my patrol, and I am to look after the wall. Its a simple job, they gave it to all the new guys, we just walk along the top of the wall.. back and forth.. and scream if we see something. Its a very short distance from one of the towers to the other, so if there were an emergency I could make it to one of those. Of course with all our training, Im sure we could take on just about anything. I haven't gotten in a real sword fight yet, aside from sparring, but I like to think I'm pretty awesome. Boy its quiet today. The usual hustle and bustle of the town not far away can usually be heard, but today I suppose they're keeping it to themselves. Also the gate beneath me is closed.. Seeing as this structure serves as a half sort of separation between locations, its odd to be keeping people away.

*Thck*

I turn my head, a curious sound catches my attention. I look down, oh silly me, my buckle from my boot slipped off. I gotta remember to tighten this crap down better. I bend over, tighten the strap, and continue walking my path. I hear a small rustle over the edge of the wall, and peer over the edge.. Some  deer can be seen running into the distance. Come on man, its your first day. Nothing ever happens on your first day. Especially not on your birthday. Baby.

*Thck*

I hear that sound again, this time from the other side, where my friend Ladfik was posted. “Oi Lad!” I shout, “Everything okay?” I hear no response. My heart begins to race and I run toward his post, turning the corner oh high alert, with hand held on the hilt of my sword, I am met with a most unsettling sight.

“BOO”

Lad shouts at me as he leaps from around the corner into my face, causing me to instinctively punch the side of his helmet, sending him to the ground in laughter. “What the hell lad!” I shout at him as I release the handle of my blade, “I could have stabbed you, you bloody idiot..” “And I am eternally grateful you did not my dear sir” he said, coughing though his laughter as he gets back to his feet, helmet now knocked off next to his feet due to my right hook. “C'mon you ass, we just got started. I dont want to get in trouble on my first day” I say as I turn to continue my rounds.

*THCK*

I hear again, directly behind me as a hear a large thud. I turn around quickly to see lad laying on the ground. “Come on dude. Im not in the mood anymore. Get up.” I say kicking his foot. No response. “Lad. Come on” I say to him as I bend down to grab the collar of his garb, picking him up and bringing his face to the light.

I make eye contact with grey, dead eyes. Blood pooling from beneath his head, an arrow pierced though one side of his head and out the other. I cover my mouth and try my best to not scream. From my location, I am crouched beneath the stone wall, so anyone on either side couldn't see me. This is the first dead body I had ever seen. Shamelessly enough, I threw up, next to him. He was my friend, we just had spoken, and now he lie dead.. I need to make my way to a tower I tell myself. The other sounds I heard. Must have been other people being shot. “I-Im sorry Ladfik.. Ill come back for you I promise” I say as I begin to crawl to the right tower. I see smoke begin to rise in the distance, in the streets of the city below me. What is going on.. I think to myself as I pull myself up to look into the battle. It was chaos, and I didnt know what to do. Suddenly something catches the corner of my eye. A man, sword raised above his head as if to swing down on me had snuck up behind me though the now open door where sounds of battle can be heard. Out of sheer instinct, I grabbed the mans arms, wrestling him to the far side of the wall trying to make him drop his sword. With all the swinging and motions, i had not noticed how close to the wall we really were. Swinging him with all my might, I accidentally pushed him over the wall. I fell back down to the ground in shock as I hear his scream trail off as he fell only to suddenly fall silent.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:52, Sun 08 Feb 2015.

Pt 3

     I sat, frozen. What the hell just happened? Did I just kill a guy? Suddenly one thought pierced my mind like the arrow that just pierced the skull of my good friend Lad, “Tower!” I shouted, as I scrambled to my feet, beginning my sprint toward the nearest tower. I had to get somewhere safe, and to tell people inside what was going on. I saw the forms for people, in my frantic state, I wasnt even quite sure myself what I was seeing. the enemy was on the tower, and three or four of them stood in my path, im not sure how, but due to my thick studded armor and large body, I simply curled my head down and lead with my shoulder bowling many of them over the edge and others crashed along  the edge of the wall. I jumped for the door and begin to bang on it with all my might yelling, while still crouched on the ground to not be shot, that the tower, and streets below us, were under attack.

I waited for what felt like years... Nobody came to the door. I turned to face the other tower, it looked to be miles away due to my state of fear and shock. I stood up trying my best to show courage in the face of this, my first battle. I extended a shaken hand toward the hilt of my sword. “I am a guard of this tower.” I recited to myself as the a light creak of an opening door whispered behind me. I was still far too afraid to hear it. “I will defend this place and its land with my life” I say with a lump in my throat. A cold sharp object at the base of my neck stopped me in my tracks. “You damned guards” a voice said, full of malice and purpose. “This land belongs to the people, I will kill all of you if it means the liberation of this ci-” the voice silenced and the object at the back of my neck disappeared. Coated in sweat, I turned slowly to see the decapitated body of the man who drew his sword in purpose of killing me. A fellow guard stood motioning to me to fun to the left tower, seeing as the invaders have entered this one already. I handn't realized that I couldn't hear anything due to shock so I turned and began to run. Every now and then, I turned to see if my protector was alright, my eyes were met with quite the sight. The man, running and chopping down the enemy left and right, like some madman. He was more than capable of defending himself. I felt like a burden, him doing all of this just for me. I stumbled in front of the sword wielding maniac to an open door and he begins to shout, telling me to get in as fast as I could. It is a barred door that leads into the barracks, a safer location that this to be sure. I nod to the the man and turn from his gaze to begin my entrance to the tower. As I turned to escort my knight in shining armor in behind me, I was only met with the pale face of a man who had lost far too much blood. He smiled at me, and yelled at another man in the tower to bar the door. He turned, and thats where I saw he had be shot. Many times with arrows. He stood on the wall fighting as the door shut in my face. He had done all that just to protect me.. I felt so worthless.. Other men are in here, protected by our superiors, cowering in fear, some injured.

I look around in shock. I as I hear screams and sounds of battle outside the tower. The door I had just dove though was barred, but there were also stairs leading to the ground level. “Buldor right?” I hear a quivering voice peep from the far side of the room, I turn to see a young man, it must be his first night too. “You're a Buldor right? Help us.. Please” he says to me arm outstretched. I look around. All men look at me as if I am some sort of hero. Im no hero.. Im probably not even the main character of my own story I thought to myself. I closed my eyes for a moment, and an image of my father flashed before my eyes. I was reminded of him, and how I wanted to prove to him that I was indeed a man. And then my mother. My sweet, sweet mother. I had to make it home to her. I stood, knees shaking. Grasping my sword, I began to walk toward the stairs, only to hear the enemy speaking, they were in the tower. “These damn guards, dont they know everyone hates them? Theyre ruining the lives of the people. They all need to die. Ill kill em all myself” There were many voices, I couldnt tell just how many, but I did hear one specific whisper “There are some upstairs. The fledgelings.. Easy pickings. World'll be better without em.” I stood at the base of the steps as I see a few men walking up the stairs. They see me.

“Youre going to die guard.” One says “Youre hated by all,” another chimes in, “We're doing the people a favor, youre a plague unto us.” I look around the room to see the other guards, covering their heads in fear, clearly not going to fight. The men now begin to run up the stairs.

“Tsuyo means strength.” I hear in my head as a memory returns to me. “I named you this so that you can be strong for those who cannot be. You are a Buldor. A stone for others to lean upon when they are to weak to stand for those who cannot. That is our duty, to protect those in need son.” My eyes widen as I remember more vividly. “I love you my son. Do not forget this” There it was. The first good memory I had of my father. It was so long ago.. I don't even know where it came from, but courage surged though my body  and I stopped shaking and my eyebrows, now resembling my fathers in their bushy-ness began to frill with rage. I took a step back, only to quickly sprint and hurl my body feet first at the intruders now charging up the stairs, hitting one square in the chest and causing the others to fall behind him. We all tumbled, but due to my location, most of the blows were off of the bodies of the other men, as their bodies hit the stone stairs.

We all landed with a crash as they stumbled to their feet, I; already on mine, began to slash and stab frantically, at the men, I now recognized as rebels, villains of the state, meaning to overthrow the government. I stand, covered in blood. I was reminded of my mothers cross necklace, but I had no time for this now. I look up the stairs to see my fellow guards standing, looking at my blood soaked sword and the corpses of my enemies. I turn to the door to defend the gates, only to notice that I had taken a dagger to the knee. I felt no pain, I was far to enraged and full of purpose to feel pain. Pulling out the dagger, I threw it to the far side of the room and opened the door to the chaos that was the front gate.

Much time passed, and many men had died. I was wounded, but nothing to seriously I thought to myself as I pulled the blade of my sword out of the chest of a rebel fighter. The vision of my mothers cross burned into my mind. “Thou Shalt not kill” That's what it taught. Am I wrong? What am I doing? While I stood in thought, a horrible sharp searing pain seized me. I look down to see the tip of a blade appearing from the middle of my chest. Laughter is heard behind me “Good riddance. One less rat. Nobody needs you. We need no government like this.” As it was pulled from my back I felt a strange feeling. No pain. My vision began to blur. I spun quickly, extending my blade to remove the head of the one who wounded me. The two parts of the man fell. What happens when we die? I thought to myself. Where will I go? Ive killed.. I. Am I hated? Am I damned? My body weakened as I fell on my back, falling amongst the corpses of those slain before me. Staring at the sky. It was like I was unable to die. I could feel life draining, but I was full of fear, what if the teachings were true? Is there a hell? Thats where murderers go.. I don't.. want.. to go... there.. My body went numb and I saw nothing.

I heard voices. I opened my badly wounded eyes to see a man talking with other strange looking individuals, I noticed a cross hanging from the wrist of the one man. I tried calling for him. I couldnt speak. My lungs had now almost filled with blood. “priest.” I tried saying. Not loud enough. Say it louder. “Priest..” I say again.. he turned his head slightly, but not enough. One more time. Please hear me, I'm afraid to die. “Priest” the mans body turns frantically, he heard me. Thank God. I could see him scanning the area for me, I use what little strength I have left and move so he sees me, and black out again. I awaken again to hear him slide on the ground next to me. “Priest?” I ask again, not sure if this is the same man, my vision blurs. “Yes sir, I am, what do you need?” He says. He sounds very kind, like he actually cares. Unlike all the other men I saw this night. Hatred. That's what they had spewed at me. “Do you hate me?” I ask, blood filling my lungs, fear filling my heart. “No I do not hate you, people make bad choices, ill bet you're a nice guy” says the priest. I like him, he seems understanding. I feel death clawing at the back of my rib cage, like claws beginning to draw me to hell. “I'm afraid..” I say, “what will happen to me?..” I tried to say more, but my lungs wouldn't allow it. He understood what I meant.

“Anything you have done” he said “that you believe was wrong, you can be forgiven for. The Lord God will forgive you, and allow you to enter into his paradise.” heh. This guy sounds like my mom trying to convince my father. I was shocked, and rather confused. I thought God hated murderers. “Your god.. Will not forgive a man like me” I said.. ashamed of what I had done. “My God” Says the priest, drawing my attention from falling into the abyss. “Will not look at your past, all you have to do is ask for forgiveness, and accept him as your own.” Forgive me huh. Accept me? I like this guy. This cross he is holding.. It comforts me. “I'm not sure why,” I tell the priest “But ill trust you. Please let me see your God.” “Just reach” says  the priest “Ask for forgiveness, believe him, as the one and only true Lord and trust my friend. He will forgive and accept you” I try to reach for the cross, but my body is dying, I cant make it, fear overtakes me again. The man holds my hand, leading it to the small holy symbol and sets his forehead on mine. And for the next few moments we pray. I ask for forgiveness, the lives I took.. the wrong I had done. I was sorry, I don't want to be punished forever, I want to see my mother in paradise again. And then light.

Such bright light.

I smile. As I feel again, it is warm. I smile at the man as he begins to fade from my sight.

“Wow” I say, blood streaming from the sides of my smile. “If only I had known sooner”
This message was last edited by the player at 20:47, Sun 08 Feb 2015.

The clouds have parted and there’s a quiet now. The ocean has died down to a soft roar and the warm breezes have begun their slow return. There’s movement on the wet sands, caked by a thick layer of tropical flora that sway gently with the post wind. The movement is that of a gull, clumsily swooping in to the shore, feathers soaked from the previous storm. It’s male, white capped and yellow beaked with the tiniest fleck of red. The avian sounds its obnoxious call at the sight of an old blue claw, its carcass left just out of touch of the tides. The bird pays no heed to the position of the food source. Hunger is the drive here. The gull lazily flaps a few feet above the ground, then swoops down upon the blue claw, drawn by the twisted scent of decaying crustacean. It drives its yellowed beak with greedy snapping motions. Others will be here soon to join the feast. The bird continues on its meal, unaware that is studied. The eyes that lay upon it are blue as the brightest flowers, quiet and unnerving. But the gull does not meet with them. The gull is an animal, and it has failed to be aware of its surroundings, driven too strongly by the hunger. That is the lesson of the day that sinks in behind the blue eyes. In the blink of an eye there’s movement. A crack in the air. The gull stumbles, head twisted, a small jagged stone beside it and the corpse. It shrieks and quakes a bit, attempting to move its wings, command them to do what they are made to do but the connection to the nerves is crippled. The only response the wings give is a sad, half-hearted flop. A moment passes and the bird stumbles some more. The others have come, and harbinger their entrance with calls. They do not land. Another is upon the beach now beside the blue claw, not a creature of feather but of sinew and muscle. It’s Blue Eyes. He approaches the wounded gull, a long rod of bamboo in hand. The gull panics, calling for the others to come, but they do not answer the cries. Instead they circle about in the bright sky, bickering amongst themselves in an obnoxious chorus. The rod breaks the air with a crack and the gull is still, wings spread out in a calm and twisted fashion. It’s a good sized one. Blue eyes crouches down. The name his mother called him is locked away, buried along with her. He will not use it until years from now in a faraway place very different from the island. But blue eyes does not think upon the future. He is in the now, the only time that truly matters, and is only occasionally plagued by the time before. There is not time to think on future things.

The youth squats in the sand, unburdened by the scent of the rotting crab he placed nearby. As he does so the belt and pelt he wears squinch ever so slightly. There is nothing else on his form. His greenish skin has long been tanned by the sun to a darker shade then most of his kin. Blue eyes extends a strong hand and grasps the webbed feet, bringing the gull up with himself. An easy meal for an easy day. The crab has done its job, and can give him nothing more. Blue eyes approaches it deftly and clasps the main pincer before hoisting it back to the sea from whence it came. The carcass whisks through the air, nearly set upon by the flock overhead before splashing down into the gentle blue surf. Blue eyes stands still now, watching the other white birds swarm over one another. He picks up his stone, relishing its touch on his fingertips. He unfastens his pouch, placing the stone back in its familiar home.  A bow rests on his back, string tugging against his chest. He saves the arrows for bigger game. They break some times.

The wet sand absorbs his green footfalls as blue eyes makes his way down the shoreline. This is home but he is not the master of it. Things lurk in the jungle. The others lurk in the deep jungle and that is their domain. There he does not tread. The leaf man said the time has not come yet. Blue eyes stops thinking about the jungle and more about the bird in his left hand. He’s hungry. Some time passes, but it goes by quick for the young one. The days bleed into each other now, his passage of time is not like that of civilized creatures. There is only day and night. Numbers do not matter to him. Soon the sand ends and jagged rocks begin, standing before him slick with surf and the previous rains. The storm has not made things easy for him. With a quiet pride, the youth strings the gull to his belt with a single thong of leather. The wet feathers against his outer thigh do not disturb him. With practiced motions, blue eyes extends his arms and begins the careful climb. It is not too high. Maybe five hims. That is how he measures things. The rain has made things slick, and his hands grasp stronger than on previous occasions. In due time, blue eyes is atop the stones, grass beneath his feet and wind in his long and coarse hair. He’s started to sprout a beard now and think on strange things, but there is no one to guide him or tell him what to make of it. Not anymore. Up here on the rocks he is safe from the others. The bigger things that own the deeper jungle. They know his scent as well as he knows theirs. The trees up here are safe. He has seen to that. This is his grove. Blue eyes takes the gull from his belt and heads to his safe place. He brushes through, feeling the leaves touch his bare legs. It is a comforting greeting coming home. Inside he comes upon his shelter. His house. It’s smaller than the one before. But he cannot go back there. Only ash remains. The burners are gone. He has seen to that. The house is built of bamboo rods and thick leaves bigger than his body. He only goes here to sleep or escape the sun on the hot days, or too look at his special things. Some trophies decorate the area. The skull of a face peeler hangs over the doorway, bony fangs wet with the morning rains. Once it ruled the roost up here, but no longer. There are other trophies upon stakes in the ground, skulls of beautiful beasts that he has treasured and cleaned. They are his protectors now and watch the house for him while he is away.  The burner is among them too. His skull is not that of an animal but of a creature called man. The eye sockets are dark and hollow, and stare dreamily off into the jungle as if thinking on better things. Blue eyes remembers him. Once he had a shiny tooth, but blue eyes took that to keep with the other special things.

He’s tired of glaring at the vigils now. Instead he goes to the fire pit and lays the gull out. It will be a long time prepping this, but time is the only currency he has to spend. He does not know minutes or hours. Only night and day. Time passes and the bird is plucked and cleaned. The bad parts are thrown from the jagged cliffs to be washed into the sea below, and a fire has started.  The bird is spitted and the hunter waits patiently, watching the flesh seer to a dark color. Sometimes it is hard for him to look at fire. He remembers the first home and a pain appears in his chest. The scar. He always remembers the scar. But the man who gave it to him is a vigil now. A watcher that serves him. Still, as he watches the pink become dark he remembers her. She was beautiful and had eyes like his. Her feet were bare but white like clouds. She would walk beside him along the sands when his toes were little and his legs were short. She smiled and held him. But that was many nights ago. Too many for him to care. She’s gone, just like the gull, her spirit watched by the leaf man.

The flesh is cooked and his belly is groaning. It’s time to eat now. Eagerly he takes the foolish gull and pulls it slowly apart with his hands, relishing each bite. It is not a big meal, but it is an easy meal. As soon as his sharp teeth tear the flesh he forgets about the one called mother and lets his belly tell him how wonderful it is to eat again. The gull is done, nothing but bones and stringy tissue. These will be of use to him. He takes what is left in a greasy jumble in his green hands and lays it out in the open. The sun is highest in the sky now. A good time to rest.

Blue eyes lays down in the soft grass smiling, naked and full. His eyes lull over and soon he’s fast asleep, bathed in the warmth of midday. Darkness overtakes him and everything is black for a while. Then there is light. It reveals the thick leaves of the jungle, the trees twist and spring from nothing forming a Parthenon of greenery. A temple. A quiet place. He’s standing there in the place between places. The dream.  Things are silent in this jungle, not even a bird makes its call. There’s movement, and the silhouette of a horned figure appears amongst the columns of old growth trees. It looks at blue eyes, and out of nowhere and everywhere comes a voice, shapeless and yet full of form. It’s him. The voice sounds.

“Adwonus.”
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:50, Mon 23 Feb 2015.

The Chapel of Corpses

   I couldn't help but smile and hum a tune to myself as I worked out in the garden on such a lovely day. The sun was at its peak, and the younger children ran and played their games, while some found a soft patch of grass to lie on and point out what certain clouds looked like. Many of the younger ones look up to me as their sort of 'older brother' as I am the youngest of the clerics in this small, peaceful town. A few weeks ago, I would be considered a member of their childish ranks, but I just gave my oath and am now a fully fledged cleric, though I have yet to do any priestly duties... The town where our temple is located is very small, and nothing ever happens around here. That is, until the frantic knocking of the large front door shattered my sense of peace. I stood up from my hunched position over the flower garden and wiping the sweat from my brow with my sleeve, I could see a man almost collapse onto the stone temple floor, as some of the elder clerics aided him to a seat as another fetched some water for the weary man. Many of the children peeked in from the open door on the side of the building, myself included. Force of habit I suppose, I was still getting used to the fact that I was at the same rank of the men in the room. “Brother Jure!” One of the men shouted at me as he must have seen the glare off my recently shaven head. “Y-Yes brother?” I stammered embarrassingly as I popped out from my hiding place. I stood at attention as I waited to be scolded, I was the type of person who was unable to hide their feelings by facial expressions. They could tell I felt bad about eavesdropping and was horribly embarrassed. At the young age of 17, I was the youngest cleric to be appointed, I was never quite sure why, nothing about me was special. Very common look, I wasnt large, or stong, or very good with words like many of the other brothers. When it came to any sort of interaction, my intentions were always transparent, and I always wanted to to my best to help, even if I were too weak or lacked the proper words.  “Come here at once, this man has a message for all the clerics.” He boldly stated, and turned his attention to the weary man. As I made my way over, I couldn't help but notice the state of the man, clearly exhausted, full of fear, also the fact that he was a cleric from a distant village who wore a messenger badge on his shoulder.

    It took for what seemed to be hours for the man to finish drinking the water a fellow brother gave him, he must have been on the road for a while. “Something... There's... You have to...” He began, still clearly distraut, face pace and soaked in sweat. “Take deep breaths,” Father Baour said to him, “Just be calm, what do you need from us?” he continued in a soothing tone, placing an understanding hand on the mans shoulder. After a few deep breaths, he finally seemed to have exited the state of hyperventilation. Taking one more deep breath he looked up, eyes full of dread at the father. “There is something...” He began, not sure what to say, “Something... Strange happening, our people believe it to be of an evil nature.” Father Baour looked intently, and simply nodded to show his support and belief in the man, giving him time to collect his thoughts. “I am from the temple in the village of Erast, and as of late... Strange occurrences have been happening. Only when we were sure, they sent me, but we need to hurry!” Shouted the man, clearly overflowing with dread as his pale face drew ever closer to Father Barour, grabbing his collar and pulling him closer. “Slow down son, there is time, Erast is only a weeks travel away, please tell us what sort of occurrences you have seen.” Father Baour insisted as he rested his hands on the mans who grip loosed and hands fell, supported by the Fathers. “Well...” The messenger began, “It started with our animals, you know, like chickens and goats. We found them one morning all dead, couldn't tell why... But then during some nightly services, we heard strange sounds from outside the temple, first like a wolf or something, but then it began to sound as if there was tapping on the glass windows, or scratching along the walls. Sometimes we even noticed some person staring blindly out the window and simply walk outside, without saying a word... As if they were under some spell or something... Its been days, and they haven't come back.” The clerics all looked at each-other, as if to put together a puzzle with a few missing pieces. “The father is missing!” The messenger shouted at the clerics, startling them all, “Hes been missing for almost a month!” Suddenly beginning to chuckle, in a slight hysterical sort of way, “But me... I've seen him... Nobody believes me, but I see him some evenings, along the trees, looking over at me with his head turn a little...” The messenger tilted his head slightly sideways, as if to mimic the motion he was describing and began to laugh again, “Ive even seen him late at night, walking along the town only to enter a house, and simply leave a few moments later, followed by whoever it was he visited...” Father Baours calm face suddenly became more stern and serious. “These events,” he began, hand still resting on the mans shoulder as he sit in the pew, body shaking suppressed laughter, “Began with the disappearance of your head father... Answer me this...” He asked the man, who raised his shaking head and looked deep into the eyes of our seemingly worried father, “Do these things happen only at night?” The frightened man frantically nodded, holding a clutched fist up to his mouth, suppressing more insane laughter, sweat falling from his face and hair. “He... One night... I saw him rip the arm off a man, as easily as if it were made of straw.” He said as his laughter erupted and became more and more insane. Father Baour stood up. “Children!” He shouted to the children of the temple. The small clip clop of sandals on granite floor could be heard as the younger ones came to his call. “Give this man a meal and prepare a bed for him, he is weary from his travel and deserves a safe place to rest his head.” Then turning to the man he said, “Do not worry my son, everything will be okay, we can take care of this for you. Rest easy my friend.” The man began to laugh harder as he was lead away by the children who tug at his overcoat, “Safe?” He said, laughter sounding more like that of a madman as he was taken into the dining hall, “No place is safe! We're All going to die!” his ramblings continued as his voice traveled into the distance. The Father nodded at two of the clerics motioning for them to follow the man, whereas not to scare the children. The bowed and made haste to the frantic messengers location. I was confused as to why I wasn't asked to go, but there I stood, with Father Baour and five other of the older clerics. He then nodded to brother Joseph, who was always  intimidating to me as a child, due the large scar on the top of his head which gave his small rounded area of hair toward the back of his head followed by braided ponytail a silly looking hairline. He also had very muscular body almost as if bread for battle, like many of the stories I have heard of warriors. He was not born in the same land as made apparent by his darker skin, and more almond shaped eyes. He always had a bit of a scowl, I dont think he meant it, some people are just cursed with a resting face that looks angry, he was a good man who worked very hard keeping things running around the temple. Father Baour gave a simple nod to brother Gabriel as well, who hardly ever spoke and was often sent out of the church on tasks nobody was informed about. Gabriel was a very average sized man with fair, soft looking light colored hair that was slightly long, able to cover his eyes when not properly kept. He rarely removed his hands from the sleeves of his coat, in fact the only time I ever saw his hands was when I was reaching for a sack of flour in the pantry on the top shelf and the shelf I had climbed upon broke beneath my feet. I didnt even know he was there, I simply opened my eyes after the tumble to see my head caught by his boot, inches from the ground, broken shelf held up in one hand, and sack of flour in the other. It was a feat that amazes me to this day, and he simply shook his head as a sign 'not to worry about it.' The two men bowed in acceptance and swiftly made way to their rooms, and then the Father turned his attention to me. “Prepare a torch, medical supplies, as well as one of these" he said, making a motion for me to turn around. There stood brother Gabriel, with a short, thick, polished sword.

    “Im sorry, what?” I said with a blank face. Father Baour turned to face the door and slowly walked toward it. “I realize you have never held a weapon my son,” He said as he continued to the open doorway and stood looking to the sky, “And I pray you never have to use it.” He said turning to face me. I simply stood there, completely lost as to what was going on around me. “I-Im sorry father, Im very confused... What is happening?” I questioned as a bag was placed on my back. Im assuming it was either Brothers Gabriel or Joseph, I was simply to confused to care at that point really. “Im afraid the temple of Erast may be in danger, simply as a precaution, I would like the three of you to check in on them." I stood between the two imposing clerics only able to raise an eyebrow. “Woah, now father,” I said as I stepped forward to him, “If something is dangerous why not take Michael? Or even Zealo? Surely they are more prepared for something like this than I am, I've never even blessed a newly married couple yet” I stated nervously. “That is exactly why you are going” Said the father, causing my hands to drop and confusion flood my mind. “You are going with two of the most experienced clerics this temple has to offer. Worry not, they will protect you. Perhaps you will learn something about yourself along the path as well. You have more potential than you realize, my son.” Brother Joseph hastened to the doorway, long black braided ponytail bouncing behind him, looking up to the sky and fully packed for our quick journey to the town. “We dont have long, we wont beat sundown. We need to get there with the least amount of moons possible” he stated to the father, stone-faced and slightly worried. “Go now,” Father Baour demanded, “Those people may be in grave danger, and I worry what may happen if they are left unprotected. Quickly, prepare the horses.” As those words were spoken, brother Joseph began to jog down the road toward the barn where the horses were kept. Suddenly I felt my backpack get slightly heavier as I turned to see the handle of a sword now sticking out as brother Gabriel tightened the straps and gave me a smile, followed by a pat on the back, as he too began his jog down the road. This was too much for me to take in, I stood frozen, slowly turning to the father. I had so many questions, so many excuses to not go, but before I had a chance, he spoke. “The reason our temple was called upon in a time of danger is because of our members.” He told me as he walked up to me, something in his hand. “Those are two of the strongest, bravest and most fierce members we have, you'll be okay. This is a learning experience for you.” He held out his hand. In it lie a very elaborate cross, made of sold silver, and a bright gem in the middle. All I could do is look up at him, mouth agape. “Go now, before they leave you alone in the darkness of the night that claws upon us.” There was no arguing with him about this, his decision was made, and I began to quickly back-step out the door. “Do me a favor?” I asked quickly before I turned around to catch up to my brothers. “Pray for me!” I shouted as I broke out in an all out sprint to catch up, I had a fear of the dark sense I was a child, and I quickly rushed to the comfort of my two brothers and friends. “I will my son...” Father Baour said under his breath, head down in prayer, “I pray for the safety of you all...” The suddenly weary Father turned an sat in the pew, looking outward though the open doors. The remaining brother, who had no specific tasks to perform at this moment, walked up to the father confused, “Why did you sent that young one?” He asked, almost at a point of anger, “You know what this is, he has no experience, I doubt he even knows what it is that he may find there!” “Faith” The father clearly stated without turning to face the concerned cleric, who was caught off guard, anger turning to confused interest. “I've had visions of this youth ever sense he was a child. He will be fine.” Father Baour added, turning his face, with a smile to the brother behind him, “This is his life's purpose.”

****************************************************************************************

    The leaves of the bush rustled as brother Joseph moved branches aside so we could see the small village church. It was a small building, nothing as exquisite as our temple, but the small town did its best and converted a barn into a temple many years ago, and its structure looked near the same, except with the addition of a new floor and cross atop the building. The sun had just set by time we made it to the town, not a soul in sight as we quickly made our way to the temple on the far side of town. Which made me feel slightly disappointed and afraid... I had made small iced cakes to hand out to the people of the town, but not once have I ever seen an entire town completely barren... “No lights inside” He said to us, not turning his head as he stared intently at the small building in the distance. At that moment, he pulled back the sides of his long tan cloak revealing two large blades, which had a handle and a curved blade that followed the underside of his forearm shaped much like a letter 'f', the curve on the top being a cover for the knuckles and the handle placed rightly so. I had never seen anything like it before in all my years. He grabbed the handle of one and made a motion to brother Gabriel, who sat behind me, still not saying a word. He nodded in response and took me a few steps back away from brother Joseph. “Light your torch and hold your weapon.” He clearly stated to me. I had never really pictured his voice sounding quite like that... Deep and authoritative, almost intimidating in tone alone. I always imagined it a bit more feminine and maybe a little mo- “Now” he said in a harsh voice. “Right sorry,” I said as nervously and clumsily struck the flint to light the torch as the illumination from the flame brightened up the area. I noticed that beneath brother Gabriel's cloak he had a long, coiled up whip with a bright silver blade at the end. He quickly reached down and grabbed the handle of the stubby sword and shoved it in my free hand. “Stand between us so we can see everything and make sure you are not left alone.” Brother Joseph said in an authoritative tone as he drew his weapons and stood up slightly hunched over and began walking toward the building. Sweat began to bead down my forehead. “Why do we all have weapons, what is going on?” I asked timidly. “Could be nothing” Gabriel said, uncoiling his whip giving me a gentle nudge to follow Joseph, “But could also be a vampire. Aim for the head or the heart” he continued, just as blankly as the first half of his sentence, no fear in his voice. I did as I was told and followed Joseph, Gabriel close behind, until it finally stuck me what he had said making me stop in my tracks, stand straight up like a dummy staring into the distance with a raised eyebrow,

“Wait I'm sorry, what?”


    Our small party of three began our way to the small building. Nighttime had completely fallen upon us . Our footsteps made a subtle crunching sound as we made way up the dirt road, Gabriel behind me, Joseph in front. They were both hunched down, listening intently and eyes seeming to pierce the darkness. Meanwhile, me in the middle with a torch, standing straight up, arms held close to my chest in a childish manor, quickly whipping around and looking at every small sound or motion in the trees. I was out of my element. I'm a cleric, not a hunter, I thought to myself as Joseph made his way to the large wooden doors. “Light,” He ordered as I promptly skipped up behind him and gave him the light to see the door. What I saw, I will never forget. “W-...What is that?...” I said, confused and trembling as my mind ran wild. “Its blood, and thats a demonic relic symbol.” Gabriel dryly stated from behind. My eyes widened and I dropped the torch, causing me to quickly bend over to pick it up and frantically look into the darkness, fear completely overtaking me. The doors of the temple, which were very large in size, roughly fifteen to twenty feet in height, and a combined length of the same. I stepped back trembling and holding out the torch to get a better look. The light colored wood of the door was now stained with blood. It was a symbol that covered both doors, the ends were curved, much like a circle, but with a sharp turn equally on both sides, appearing to look like a letter 'M' only with the ends curved like a circle, and the pointed, lower section extending in length. As I looked closer, sweat soaking my cloak, I noticed it was applied recently as the blood was still wet and dripping, it was crudely applied. In some areas, you could see in fact that it was applied with a hand as fingers could be seen in some of the beginning and ending points. “Would you stop that please” Gabriel said, quickly and firmly grasping my wrist which held the torch. “There may be survivors, we need to make sure and then eliminate the damned creature” Joseph said in a hushed tone looking into the distance and sniffing at the air. At first it was to the side of the building, but as he sniffed, his nose led him to a gap in the door and he suddenly stopped. He turned to Gabriel with an intense glare, “We're far too late.” He stated. Suddenly I heard the whip of Gabriel from behind me uncurl and snap lightly on the ground as Joseph made a few quick hopping motions and swiftly with a powerful blow, kicked open the front doors which made a horribly loud bang as well as creaking of old wooden doors, and just as before, the silence was overwhelming, leaving me and the two warriors standing in the open doorway of an empty church. Suddenly the smell caught my nose and I quickly covered it with my elbow. “Good lord...” I said, voice quivering, “What is that stench?” “Corpses” Gabriel stated with his usual enthusiasm, extending out a cloth bandana to me. “Whats this for?...” I asked as I slowly grabbed the cloth from his hand, and turning to Joseph as he had one of the same and began to tie it over his nose and mouth. “Helps with the smell. Plus you dont want any blood getting in your mouth” He added. At this point, I just went along with whatever they instructed me to do at this point. Bandanna snugly tied on my face, I lifted the torch to get a view of the room. Unfortunately for my cowardly eyes, the temple was not as empty as we anticipated as the newly lit chapel reviled blood, body parts, and all sorts of unholy sights. These poor souls... What could have possibly done this?...

    I stood in the open doorway simply taking in all of the horror of the massacre before me, where as the other two clerics braved the darkness with no trouble. There were bodies of men, women and children, body parts... Blood... Oh God have mercy on their souls I said to myself, bowing in prayer as sweat began to fall from my brow. Suddenly Gabriel appeared before me, bladed whip fully extended before and making a figure eight motion on the floor, body rocking side to side, and his fair, light colored hair was now a mess which covered his eyes. I stood frozen as I gazed at the man I once saw as a man of peace look like a monster before me. “...G...Gabe?... Buddy?... You okay?” I stumbled over my words as the lump in my throat proved to be quite the obstacle for them. He began to rock side to side faster and faster, making a larger sweeping motion with his whip which kept raising in speed, he lifted his head slightly and our eyes locked, his piercing though to my soul. I began to step backwards out of fear when the back end of my shoe hit something. At that moment, Joseph appeared beside Gabriel. Eyes fixed on me as well, with an expression of intensity and rage.

Hang on.

If they're both there... Then who... These words echoed in my mind as I felt the being behind me breath, causing its chest to bounce off of my back. I slowly began to turn my head. As I turned, I saw one of members of the temple standing behind me, looking down towards either my rear end, or his shoes. I made a sigh of relief, and took a step forward, using my thumb to point at the man behind me, “Hey look!” I shouted with a tone of excitement, “Its not all bad, look he seems okay!” “Look again...” Brother Joseph grumbled as he extended his hand and motioned for me to walk toward him. With a goofy grin still plastered on my face, I turned around to get a full view of the man, who's front was made to look like a silhouette due to the bright moonlight behind him. I raised up my torch to see the husk of what used to be a man, and out of fear I dropped my torch on the ground. The man had no left arm, his skin was pale as the moon that glistened behind him, and as he raised his head, his eyes glowed a slight orange color as he began to breath heavily, sounding like a large dog or wolf.


Suddenly he let out a loud screeching, ungodly sound and began to sprint toward me. I stumbled backwards and tripped over what was probably the man – or I should say creatures dismembered arm. As I hit the ground I could only look up in horror as the creature began its full wild sprint toward me. Suddenly, I saw a shimmer of silver shine above my head. With a harsh snapping sound, suddenly the creatures leg was taken off, causing it to stumble and fall to the ground before me, arm still reaching. Again I heard a harsh snap as something was plunged into to feral things forehead, causing it to go silent for a moment, but still moving. I followed the of the mysterious object back to its wielder, Gabriel. He had used his whip to sever the creatures leg off, and somehow threw the small blade straight into the things head. But as I saw Gabriel, I noticed that Joseph was no longer there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw tan cloth. Joseph had lept into the air above the monster and directing his curved blade that followed along his forearm, came down with a sickening chop, severing the creatures head from its miserable body. Gabriel quickly flicked his whip, removing the blade returning it to his hand. As Joseph stood up after his most violent feat, I stammered. “Okay what the hell, I'm sorry!” I shouted, apologizing to the lord after I cursed, “Was that damn, I'm sorry! Thing?!” Gabriel helped me stagger to my feet. “A thrall,” Joseph stated plainly, “A thrall was once a human, but after being hypnotized by a vampire, or fed off slightly without killing him, becomes a puppet to the master. We do in fact have a vampire problem” “They dont stop at one either.” Stated Gabriel from behind me. My eyes were as wide as they could humanly be and began to adjust to the darkness of the room, as I peered into the darkness of the chapel, I noticed forms begin to rise from the ground and orange piercing eyes looking toward me. I let out a small peep and simply pointed into the darkness, stepping backward, away from those creatures, those Thralls.

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    With shaking hands, I dropped my short, stubby weapon and fell to my knees and began doing what a cleric does best. I began to pray. I knelled with my head down and eyes closed, sweat cascading down my bald head. As I began to pray for the lords protection, asking him to keep the beings away from me and my friends, I heard the whistle of metal cutting though the air as well as the snap of a whip and sickening chops and thumps of what I can only assume would be body parts falling to the ground as my two brothers attacked the creatures, trying to free them from their cursed bodies. I clutched the Fathers silver cross tightly as I peeked as to the events unfolding before me. It was strange, seeing these two men I grew up with leaping around and attacking so many enemies without being touched, it was almost as if they had been though this before. Very few creatures remained, and I had noticed that the torch I had dropped was now fully extinguished. It was as if sound couldn't reach my ears for a moment. I sat in thought, why could that go out? It was soaked in oil and wrapped with multiple layers of cloth... the only way it could go out is if someone put it out. Suddenly I felt my hand being opened by another. I looked down to see a hand using its index finger and thumb to delicately pick up the cross in my hand. I looked up to see the Father of this temple who had gone missing months before. I felt relieved and let out a sigh, as well as a smile as I looked up at him. He looked down at me and smiled as well, but with one unpleasant addition; his smile was inhumanly large, extending from ear to ear, each tooth now appearing as long sharpened fangs. Cross in between his fingers, he averted his gaze to the holy symbol, exhaled quickly with a smirk and flicked the object through a nearby window, with amazing strength, just within those two fingers. The shattering glass brought the attention of my to companions as they looked over to see me kneeling on the floor, with a demonic father above me, showing his teeth in malicious laughter. Joseph stood in shock and stared at the two of us, while Gabriel quickly dispatched the remaining undead puppets.

     “Good evening my sons,” the frightening father stated, as his attention was drawn to the other two more warrior like clerics apart from the two of us. “Can I help you with something?” he playfully asked as his eyes flashed a sudden crimson red color. I sat frozen, looking up at the man as my companions walked closer to us. I lowered my head and began to crawl away, only to have sharp claws from the hand above me firmly clutch my shoulder, digging into my flesh causing me to cry out in pain. It was obvious, I was his leverage in this situation. “It was you.” Gabriel said walking to the far right of him, along the wall, causing the father to quickly, almost with inhuman speed turn his gaze to him, it looked like a blur it was so fast. He stood hunched over like some sort of animal, and smiled still flashing his fangs, as if he thought this was all some sort of game. It was clear that he was out of his mind with power. “The animals, the missing members. You sold your soul for the promise of eternal life.” He boldly stated, extending his whip and beginning to twirl it about on the ground, preparing to strike. The priest raised his head in a deep, cackling laughter. Even the sound of that send shivers throughout my soul. This man was no longer himself, he was a monster. “I suppose it was a bit drastic,” He said quickly and insanely stopping his laughter and switching to a more serious tone, keeping his tight grip on my shoulder. I could feel blood begin to drip from the wound. “I was very ill, had months to live probably. But now,” He added, hellish smile relieving itself yet again as he extended his hand, examining it and then quickly clutching it into a fist, turning to Gabriel with his head at a cocked angel. “I have all the time in the world.” Gabriel walked ever closer, still hugging the wall, “You forsake the Lord, You forsake the cloth, you even forsook your own people.” He said, this time with a tone of anger. This was the first time in my life, I had ever seen a spark of emotion in the man. “You will have no more time on this earth. This is the last moon you will see.” He clearly and boldly stated as the motions of his whip raised in speed. Suddenly and with no warning, the claws that had burrowed their way almost down to the bone had raised me from the ground almost effortlessly by the father, causing me to scream out in pain yet again. “Oh come now, you dont want you little brother here to join me in that now do you?” As he spoke, he raised his other had toward my throat, touching one of his sinister claws on it and pressing lightly, but still causing blood to begin to drip. I was beside myself, sweating, in tears, I didnt know what to do. “Do you think you're faster than me?” Gabriel confidently asked the priest, causing his smile to curl downward in confusion. “Try it” He said again, bending and the knees and snapping his whip as it swiftly moved along the ground, blade cutting at the ground at a frightening speed. The creature laughed, “Of course im faster than you boy,” saying as he slowly dragged his talon along my throat, beginning to cut it. My eyes widened and I looked in fear, begging for help with my eyes at Gabriel who looked almost like a monster himself. Gabriel smiled. “Probably,” he said, “But are you faster than him?” The creature stopped its claws movement along my neck as he tried to figure out what he meant, just then, a flash of silver severed the hand that had me suspended and separated it from it wretched master, causing me to fall to the floor, as I fell, it was as if things moved in slow motion, I saw Joseph as he dove from the darkness behind the creature, freeing me as well as its arm, and roll along the floor and leap one more time, blades extended toward the creatures chest.

     I hit the ground, causing severed arm to unlock its grasp on my shoulder and my eyes to shut instinctively upon impact, as I opened my eyes again, I saw Joseph frantically swinging both blades, unable to hit the creature who moved at a bewildering speed. It was as if each time you blinked he was in a different location. Suddenly a snap was heard and blood splattered along the far wall. Gabriel had seized his moment and sliced along the creatures cheek, causing him to stop moving and stare directly at the bladed whip wielding cleric. This was a stare of malice, and pure hatred. This moment of still gave Joseph the opening he was looking for, or so he thought. As he dove for the creatures chest yet again, a blinding movement caused Joseph to be thrown into a distant pew, weapons imbedded into the wall beside him, I looked over quickly, to see if he was alright, but when I looked over toward him, he was not alone. The vampire had already moved next to him and grabbed the top of his head, picking him up with his remaining arm before us as a display. Blood began to drip from where the claws had pierced his head. Joseph gritted his teeth and tried to clutch his hands into fists, but the blow from the creature had broken his hands. Suddenly one eye opened and looked at me. “Dont... Loo-” His words were cut short as the vampire quickly and almost effortlessly squeezed Josephs head, causing it to burst and blood splatter all along the area. I simply sat there, mind blank and eyes beginning to blur as Josephs body fell to the floor and collapsed into a heap at the feet of the creature who licked at his hand which was covered with my friends blood, now looking at me. His gaze was like nothing I had ever felt before, I knew I was about to die, just as I gave up all hope, a foot firmly placed itself before me. I followed the familiar boots up to Gabriel, who stood, bravely beginning to twirl his whip again. His cloak was removed, allowing me to finally see more of his body. His arms were wrapped in scars, and it seemed as if this continued on to his back. Perhaps he wore his cloak so often afraid of what others would think... His movements with the weapon this time changed, with blinding speed, cracking down on the creatures cheek, causing it to wince and move at ungodly speed again. This had no effect on Gabriel, who snapped his whip, tearing flesh and cloth from the evil father. I saw something drip before me from my protectors face. He was crying, he was enraged, each snap of the whip and tear of the blade inflicting more and more damage to the creature. It was obvious how much this meant to him now. The snaps and cracks raised in intensity and volume as I sat with my eyes closed. Suddenly there was silence. I opened my eyes to see the creature had grabbed the end of the whip, and showing his damned teeth again, pulled quickly, causing Gabriel to be thrown though the window behind the wreathed thing. The silence was deafening as the two of us locked eyes yet again, the crimson red of his eyes, only looked more and more like jewels from hell with the deep gashes along his body and clothes giving him a much more frightening look. “Now I have to” He gurgled. “With the blood of the living, it grants me their life. Your blood will heal my wounds and allow me to live, cleric.” He stated, harshly stomping at the ground as he quickly made his way to me. I clawed at the ground behind me, trying to drag myself outside without breaking eye contact when I bumped into something again. This time I knew better than to look up. “Ah dammit” I said in exhaustion as look of disappointment covered my face. Speaking of faces, as soon as that curse escaped my lips, a harsh slap struck my cheek. “Watch your tongue.” a voice said from above me. I looked up to see a man, dressed in a long black coat, miscellaneous buckles and pieces of metal shining from the moonlight behind him. His long white hair flowed over most of his face and over his shoulders. “Clerics don't curse” he added with a smile, that matched that of the fathers in its ungodly, fanged appearance as his eyes flashed a deep, blood red. Oh great, there's two now.


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     A demonic creature before me, and another who just appeared behind me. One of my brothers is dead, and the other is... I dont know what happened to him. I simply sat on the blood stained wood floor as my head drooped to the ground, simply overwhelmed with the circumstances that were happening. “Get up” the voice from behind me said, voice cold, eerie, and much deeper than I assumed. My head raised, as well as my eyebrow as I slowly gazed at the large man behind me, red eyes filling me with dread. Without saying another word, he curled his lip, and gave a motion with his head and shoulders as if questioning if I understood him. Completely lost, I looked forward at the evil father, whos eyes no longer were fixated at me, instead, he was locked with the stranger behind me, and though it was dark, I noticed that his regular playful evil expression turned to that of worry, and fear. I seized the moment and scurried to my feet, clutching my shoulder and stood in front of the stranger. I still didnt know if he was going to tear me apart and share me with the father, or simply eat me himself. As my mind ran frantically trying to make sense, his large hand began to slowly extend from his black coat, his hand covered in an elaborate polished metal gauntlet, finger tips pointed into claws. My eyes widened with dread as he moved his hand toward me, and out of fear and instinct, in quickly shut my eyes. Much to my surprise, the hand that I thought would end up violently crushing my head as easily as a tomato carefully set his hand on my good shoulder, and guided me to his side, and slightly behind him. My eyes opened as I now stood behind the second creature. Unable to speak, I began to stutter I stumbled with my own thoughts. “Its alright young man,” the white haired demon said to me “you are safe now.” Reaching into a small pouch somewhere on his person, he extended his closed hand toward me, eyes still locked with the frightened feral father. I held open my hands beneath the large metal gloves, and as it opened, the small silver cross Father Baour had given me before I left dropped into my hands. Before I could question it, the creature inside the darkness of the decrepit chapel screeched, “You are unwelcome in this structure!” He frantically shouted at the white haired man, who stood just outside the doorway. “What is the dog of the church doing here anyway?" I saw his head quickly bob up and down in a small chuckle. “You disgust me. You dare call yourself a vampire. You lost power over this structure the moment you forsook the cloth, priest.” The white haired man began to walk toward the father, leaving me standing outside. I saw a glisten of sweat begin to form on his wounded face. Taking a step back in fear, the father averted his gaze once again to me, a smile crept along his face. The stranger noticed. The wicked father bolted toward me once again showing off his inhuman abilities, it would take a  normal human at least thirty to forty seconds to reach me where I was, but due to his vampirism, it would only take him seconds. Oh yeah, this is going to hurt I thought to myself as I blankly stared at the blur of the creature to lunged at me. Suddenly, mere feet from my face, the metal gauntlet was seen again, this time grasping the creature by the face, stopping him mid stride causing his legs to continue moving, swinging up toward me as the stranger quickly plunged his hand which clutched the head of the creature into the ground with a crash, breaking the wooden floor under its immense power.

     As the impact from this powerful smashing attack caused the ground to break, I was bounced up into the air slightly. It was clear to me now, this stranger, this... other vampire was here to help me. He protected me just now. As my shoes clopped back to the floor, I noticed now weak I was as I fell to the ground, rolling down the dirt path me and my brothers walked up only a small while ago. I shook my head and looked up into the darkness of the open doors. I saw the two creatures locked in combat that was almost too fast for me to keep up with, it was clear that this new white haired stranger was far stronger, and the father was aware of this. His movements became purely defensive, as he must have thought of possible actions. Suddenly they both vanished deeper into the chapel. I heard the splintering of wood and shattering of glass as well as the the occasional thump and crash of a body being thrown to the floor or against the wall. I saw two piercing red glowing sets of eyes darting this way and that in the darkness. Suddenly I heard he sound of impalement, as if someone was stabbed and a loud thud echoed in the darkness. One set of eyes remained and turned to face me, walking out to join me. I smiled, this white haired man was a God-send, it was the most amazing thing I had ever been able to witness. As I rose to my feet, I locked eyes with the owner of the glowing eyes, and my mouth dropped; it was the father, limping toward me. “That... Bastard...” he began as he stumbled toward me, leaving me frozen in fear, “They sent a tough one... Those Temple Dogs... The Gods Devil..” Spitting blood to the side of him, he walked ever closer to me. I stepped back, and the father shook his head, “Dont even bother running, you'll just die tired.” Suddenly, he was behind me, and grabbed me by my cloak, leaving my feet to dangle as I felt his breath on my neck. I heard an excited breath as he opened his mouth behind me, I turned my head to see his mouth wide open, jaw opening far wider than any human would be able to do, causing him to look much more like that of a snake than a man. As his fangs grew ever closer to my neck I closed my eyes in prayer, and braced for death. A deep guttural laugh could be heard from the darkness of the chapel, causing the father to close his mouth sightly and look in shock as the white haired stranger walked toward us, broken wood stuck in his chest. “You missed,” he proclaimed with a smile as he pulled out the long piece of shattered wood from his chest, throwing it into the woods beside us. He pulled it out as easily as if he were removing a sock, or something of the sort, it was as if he felt no pain. I could feel the creature that now held me tense up in shock. “Drop the boy and accept your fate. The High Temple has allowed me the power of jury, judge, and executioner.” He raised his head, white wavy hair messily covering most of his face, save for one piercing, red eye and unholy fanged smile. Dear lord, what are these things? My thoughts were halted as a quick toss in the air followed by a firm gasp on my throat left me unable to breathe. I began to sputter and grabbed the hand had griped my throat. “This has nothing to do with you, let me leave and you can have the boy” proclaimed the father, voice full of dread and worry, as he battered once again for an extend life. The white haired man did not slow his walk, nor acknowledge the creatures request. Suddenly the grip tightened, almost collapsing my windpipe causing a strange sputter and cough sound to burst from my mouth. “I'll kill him!” Shouted the father as he took a step back beginning to shake with fear, “I'll take his head clean off!” The white haired man stopped a short distance from us, gazing downward slightly so the glow of his eyes were no longer visible. “Is your soul prepared?” he asked. The father snorted in a cocky way, “What are you talking ab-” “Not you asshole, the boy” he said, interrupting the father, I opened my eyes to see him look at me. I knew what he meant, there was no way to get to the creature without ending my life. I gathered my courage and looked at the man, a gave a simple nod. He vanished, and I felt my body be pierced.

     After my nod, the stranger burst forward at blinding speed, spearing clawed metal hand through my stomach, and though the chest of the one who held me captive. Blood was coughed over my shoulder by the creature who held me as his grip loosened and suddenly, the arm which had impaled us both was removed, causing me to collapse to the ground, look up at the father, I saw the white haired man holding him up by his throat in front of the full moon, I couldnt see colors, they seemed to be shadows or silhouettes. “Your time has come,” the white haired vampire stated boldly as a demonic smile creeped along his face, “And I am The Reaper.” In one swift moment, the vampire used his second hand and grabbed the upper jaw of the beast, and pulling almost effortlessly, tore the top of the forsaken fathers head off, and throwing it back into the dead church removing him from this world as his body dangled in the clutches of white hair, it became like ash, and blew away in the slight breeze, leaving him simply looking at his now empty hand. The creature stood for a moment, and turned his attention to me. “I am sorry I had to do that my friend,” he said turning and beginning to kneel beside me “The only way to the creatures heart was though you. We dont have much time left to speak im afraid. Can you still feel?” he asked. I felt myself beginning to fade, but the searing pain in my stomach was still very, very real. I nodded, as I had a hard time speaking. He smiled, “Good. Pain is your friend, pain is your ally. Pain tells you when something has gone wrong. But do you know what the best thing about pain is? It tells you that you're not dead yet.” He looked back to the church and continued, “Those creatures you saw as you entered, those thralls. They were drained of blood without consent, dying in fear as the vampiric curse consumed their body, causing them to be much like mindless puppets to the master who created them.” he explained to me. I made a face, as if to question why he was telling me this. “Blood offered however,” he continued as he brushed his hair aside, “Does something very different. If you offer your blood freely to a vampire, you become one yourself. A gift or a curse, it all depends upon those who receive it.” I understood what he was asking of me. “Do you wish to die tonight, or do you wish to continue your work for your Lord and protect those who fear what bumps in the night?” I sat for a moment looking at the moon. I saw what happened to my brothers, the two strongest, and bravest men I had ever known, and even they were powerless against this creature. I couldn't allow this to happen to others, I wish to protect those from creatures of the night. I was nothing special, just a young cleric to afraid to fight and defend his brothers; his friends. I looked at the white haired man who was now inches from my face, smiling crazily. “You wish to protect do you?” he said, it was as if he read my mind, “I can give you that power, do you give yourself to the night to receive this?” I looked at him, gave a slight nod. With my acceptance, the creature looked at me simply said, “They call me Erutrec. My true name is lost to time. What is your name.” “J-Jure” I stated bravely, choking on blood and death. “No longer shall you feel pain young Jure, You will be a weapon unlike any other but now I'm afraid, you must die.” Suddenly he raised his head, looking up to the moon and began to open his mouth, much like the priest, his mouth opened wider, and wider, it was frightening. His sharp fangs glistened in the moonlight, and suddenly, swiftly, they bore deeply into my neck. It hurt sharply at first, but after a moment or two, I began to feel warm, and my consciousness faded, and I faded into nothingness.

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    I sat up swiftly in my bed at the temple, breathing in deeply and soaked in sweat I looked around my room and covered my face in disbelief. It was a dream... everything is fine. A small chuckle was heard from my armchair across the room, “You wish,” said the voice. I raised my head to see Erutrec sitting in the armchair in the far side of my room my room sideways, one leg over the armrest while the other went down the center. He sat with head down and arms crossed, white hair draping over his face. I felt my neck, which was bandaged. It was real, I was bitten by a vampire... “No worries, your fellow brother Gabriel is alright, I collected him after our arrangement and brought you both back here. He is being healed as we speak.” I looked out the window, it was night time again. “How long have I been asleep?” I asked, still looking outside. “Two days,” I got in response, "And dead is a more accurate representation of what you were for these past few days by the way." my cloak was tossed at me which I somehow managed to catch without even thinking. I looked at the cloth in my hand and then looked up the the white haired vampire known as Erutrec who now stood in front of my doorway, arms still crossed. “Come my friend, the night is young,” he stated with a flashing red gaze and demonicly fanged smile, “There is much I have to teach you.”
This message was last edited by the player at 15:34, Sun 01 Mar 2015.

Smoke swirled around his face. Holding the tip of the pipe to his lips, he inhaled deeply and exhaled out the nose. Two billows of smoke blew out his nostrils like an angry dragon. Ming Lo lowered the pipe and let it rest on his lap while he lounged back in the tavern chair. "So what are we going to do now?" he said, feeling at ease again. His companions were mostly silent, for they'd just heard the news. Ming Plus, his older brother, paced by the windows in contemplation. Ming Lo continued speaking, "Our boss is dead. I mean, what are we supposed to do now?"

Mink drank from a mug of ale and droplets trickled down his beard. People often mistook him for a dwarf due to his thick black beard. Always, they were surprised to learn he was a halfling. It was rare enough to see a halfling for they almost never travelled far from their villages, but to see one who could grow a beard (and let it do so) was unheard of. Among other halfings, Mink would have been scoffed at for having facial hair, but the past few years had been spent entirely in the company of humans. And Mink grew annoyed with constantly being mistaken for a child.

"We could go back home, to Shan-tai," Mink proposed. "It's been a long time since I've seen the jungles and rice fields and green mountains. We came to Herrod in search of riches and glory. Well, with the boss Larlben gone, there's not much chance of that happening any time soon. We're practically back where we started, penniless and clueless. So why not go home?" Mink finished the rest of his drink and was already looking around for the barmaid, seeking a refill. And most of his companions intended on doing the same, now that their fortunes had vanished once again.

Ming Lo passed the pipe to Takki who set down his mug. Takki was older than the others by far; most of his hair had already turned gray and left only a few streaks of black, visages of a strong youth. He puffed the pipe, releasing small clouds to drift across the table. "Perhaps," Takki agreed, giving the pipe back to Ming Lo. "I haven't seen Shan-tai for far longer – decades now. But there's not much back there for a man save a small rice farm and a modest wife, if that's what you want. I think there's more in store for us in the Isles. We could travel to Terrignis Mare, where a man is measured by his sword alone?" Mink nodded his head, considering the idea.

"We shouldn't go anywhere yet," Ming Plus interrupted as he returned to the table. "Not until we pay our respects to Larlben's widow first. It's the least we can do for her." Ming Plus sat back in his seat with the others. The barmaid had refilled his mug while he was away. He was thankful for that. After taking a swig, he continued, "The Larlben's have paid and fed us since we arrived in Herrod. We at least owe the family a visit."

"Not really," Mink contested. The others looked at him. "Sure they paid and fed us, but we worked for it. We pulled our weight, risked our necks on a few raids – we earned what we got. It's just a shame Larlben had to slip up and get killed, or we would've gotten some real riches and glory when he gained the Lordship. Would've made a good Lord for this awful city too if you ask me. Pirates, civil wars, and politicians all trying to stab each other in the back - good riddance to this place I say!" Mink shrugged and let his hands fall on his lap. "Let's get on a ship to somewhere and leave this whole mess behind."

The others watched Ming Plus, who tended to make most of the decisions, the informal leader of the group. Ming Plus placed his hand on Mink's shoulder, "You know Mink, you're absolutely right." Mink started to shake his head already expecting disagreement, but suddenly looked at Ming Plus with a mixed expression of shock and skepticism. Ming Plus continued, "This is a dangerous city, and we definitely had to work to survive. And I think you're right that we should take a ship elsewhere as soon as possible." Nodding, Mink looked pleased that his suggestion was being taken seriously. "After we visit Larlben's widow anyway. Cause frankly, you're all forgetting something"

Mink groaned and looked away, "And what are we forgetting exactly?"

Ming Plus smiled and said, "Well first, you're forgetting good manners, the proper way to depart from friends. Don't forget the customs of our people. And second. . ." He glanced around the table as they waited for him to make his point. "We haven't picked up our last paycheck!"


"Sonfred, it's good to see you again." Dressed in a black suit, Sonfred had walked out to meet them at the gates. The sun reflected off the steward's bald head which he always kept polished. Ming Plus walked through, followed by the others, and the gates slowly closed behind them. Once shut, private guardsmen of the Larlben family locked and bolted the gate from the inside. Ming Plus continued speaking, "We heard what happened from one of the outposts, and again from the town criers. We've come to pay our respects."

"Of course sirs. I'll escort you to the Madame," Sonfred replied, his voice stiff. As he led them down the main walkway to Larlben Manor, he further said, "In truth sirs, the Madame Larlben has forbidden most visitors at this time. But the Madame was persuaded to make an exception for you."

Ming Plus raised an eyebrow and briefly glanced at his companions. "Why not allow visitors?" he said to Sonfred.

Moving at an even pace ahead them, Sonfred responded, "Because the last time we did, the Master was killed. . ." Even Mink kept silent in response. "Master Marcus is home as well. It was he who persuaded the Madame. They'll want to speak with you." The group looked at each other inquisitively, curious as to the reason, but they didn't speak of it as they continued toward the estate. Verdant gardens grew on both sides of the walkway, flowers of different colors shaped into patterns across the lawn. Trimmed trees dotted the borders. Larlben Manor itself was a palace compared to most homes in Herrod; three stories high, the beauty of the stonework and the luxuriousness within were both well known. But both the house and its gardens were hidden from the city, for the estate was enclosed within tall, guarded walls that the Larlbens had paid to be built themselves. Despite this, death still found Celus Larlben, the wealthiest businessman Herrod had ever known.

Entering through an ornate wooden door, the group stepped into the main hall of the manor, and Sonfred led them further through a far door and into a small room. Two couches faced each other in the center, separated by a large fire place and a low polished table. The room had been styled as a lounge. Already a tray of tea and snacks were on the table. And sitting on a couch were two people: Larlben's widow, Elizabeth, and his only child, Marcus. Their conversation with each other ceased as Sonfred and the others entered the room. Sonfred announced them, "Madame Larlben, Master Marcus – the Shan-tai adventurers are here. They say they wish to pay their respects."

Elizabeth Larlben sipped her tea and said, "Please sit." Although Madame Larlben was now aged into her forties, she still bore a strong semblance of beauty. Auburn hair would nearly touch her waist if it fell straight, but they naturally curled and so seemed shorter than it was. Wearing a lavender dress, she sat with her son. Marcus looked incredibly like his father. He had dense dark brown hair, and he even styled his short beard the same way his father had. The only differences were that Marcus grew his hair to shoulder length and his eyes were very different. He had his monther's eyes. He too drank some tea as Takki was the last to seat himself on a nearby chair. Ming Plus, Ming Lo, and Mink crowded on the couch across from the Larlbens and waited to be spoken to, as was polite.

"It's good to see you fellows again," Marcus spoke. His tone and words were polite and formal, but Marcus himself appeared grim. In several places his clothing was torn, and the rest was dirtied. He'd clearly been through an ordeal this day.

"And to you," Ming Plus promptly replied. "We'd heard of Celus' passing. We figured that marked the end of things, and we wanted to give our condolences before we moved on. Celus was a father to us all. And there's the matter of our last payment for the month-"

"Do you mean that?" Marcus calmly interrupted. Ming Plus fumbled his speech as he tried to discern what Marcus meant. Marcus solved it for him. "Do you mean that Celus was a father to you all, or are you just saying that?" Spoken calmly while taking another sip of tea, it seemed Marcus was leading up to a point.

Ming Plus looked at the others and saw a general nodding. He then met Marcus' eyes and said, "Yes of course. Your father had done quite a lot for us since we first got here. We've all been through much together."

Marcus replied, "I'm glad, because I'd like to hire you to do one last thing. You've heard that my father was mysteriously killed in the night and the unidentified culprit had escaped. Well that's changed. . . I know who did it." As he spoke, Madame Larlben's eyes hardened and she concentrated instensely on her tea, as though speaking would crack the dam to her fury. "I want to employ you one last time to avenge my father's death."

Looking to his companions, Ming Plus seemed at a loss. He knew what the group's answer was, but he didn't know how to say it politely. Ming Lo stepped in and casually answered, "I'm sorry Mr. Marcus but we were actually planning on leaving Herrod soon. I understand the need for vengeance, but it seems like an awful lot of work and risk for something not that important. I know it's an important personal vendetta for you, sure. For us and most people though, a vengeance kill won't accomplish anything, and pointless assassinations aren't really our style. When we fight, it's always for a real goal, and we don't usually consider personal justice a real goal."

Marcus considered the response for a moment and said, "I know it's not quite aligned with your philosophies, but you were my father's best men. You were always his first picks for the most difficult raids on Delcor's outposts or Steyus' government stashes. And our family needs you one last time. Do it to honor his name. More importantly perhaps, you'll be paid well – better than any quest you've undertaken before."

The promise of hefty payment caught the group's attention. Mink nudged Ming Lo in the side and grinned at him. After a moment of thinking, Ming Plus replied, "How much?" Marcus took out a bank note from his shirt, already prepared, and slid it across the table. The others leaned over to read it. Mink whistled.

Takki finished examining it and spoke, "That'd be enough for a ship of our own. We could do quite a lot with that." A ship fit enough to cross the Isles wasn't a cheap purchase, but the group knew what potential it could hold. They could travel to distant islands, make the lucrative trade run to Olseen, or even sail to Saari and walk the marble streets of the elves. Fantasies started to swell in their minds and take them to far away places.

Ming Lo chuckled and chimed in, "Well, I suppose that's a real goal after all. Eh Brother?" He glanced at Ming Plus.

Ming Plus looked at his companions who all nodded their consent. Ming Plus smirked and said to Marcus, "Ok, we're in. So who killed your father? Who are we putting in the grave?" Marcus was about to speak but was suddenly interrupted by his mother, Madame Larlben. She spoke the names on her lips as though they were poison.

"An elven woman named Pyrra. . . and Adwonus Swillman."
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:18, Tue 10 Mar 2015.

by Ryan Persha

Plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Higher in the sky, they separated into thin wisps and were carried away by the wind. Aside from the charcoal streaks, the skies over Herrod were a crisp blue as though the sea itself stretched beyond the horizon. Herrod was known to be a great city, one of the largest in the Isles. But today, it looked- “It looked like there was a battle over there. What’s going on in this city?” Hendemir asked, watching the dark clouds. “Who gives a fuck.”

Nerkyl didn’t even glance at Hendemir when he responded. “Cities burn. It’s what they do. Now help Daedrok with the chest,” Nerkyl said in his harsh goblin voice. Hendemir turned his back on the smoking cityscape and walked across the deck of the ship. Approaching the chest, he pushed a strand of golden brown hair behind his long ears, the ears of an elf, and positioned himself across from Daedrok. “I’d heard some of the sailors talking about a rebellion and factions fighting each other. Pirates too, or something like that.” “Nothing we have to care about," Nerkyl repeated. "And certainly nothing we can’t handle. Just focus on what you’re doing. We didn’t fight our way through that wretched ruin and drag this thing across the Tigryn Sea for nothing.”

Daedrok didn’t say a word. This surprised no one, for he rarely spoke. To Hendemir, the most astounding fact about Daedrok was that he’d never seen his face. For all the months Hendemir had traveled with them, not once had he witnessed Daedrok remove his armor for any reason. He’d often wondered how the warrior slept, or ate, or shit. After a while, he realized that Daedrok did none of these things. Hendemir knew better than to ask how or why.

Wearing charcoal-colored platemail and a horned greathelm, Daedrok seemed to move unimpeded by the armor. Dark stains patterned the metal. Hendemir grabbed a handle on one side of the chest and lifted while Daedrok did the same; unlike the Hendemir, Daedrok showed no sign of strain from the weight. They carried it to the gangplank and off the ship while Nerkyl walked ahead of them.

For an instant, Hendemir felt bitter that Nerkyl did so little physical labor, but he couldn’t blame him. As short as a child, the goblin was incredibly old with many thin wrinkles over his green face. If Hendemir remembered right, Nerkyl had mentioned that he was the oldest goblin alive. Whether that was true or not, he couldn’t be sure, but Nerkyl was certainly the most elderly he’d seen. Of course Hendemir was far older, by virtue of being an elf. Most goblins die by their 25th year while it’s not uncommon for an elf to see his 500th. But experience was different matter, and Nerkyl exceeded Hendemir on this account.

Nerkyl leaned on his staff as he walked down the pier and the others followed, hulling the chest between them. “When Daedrok and I reached that port in Kabariya, we were expecting Veloth to meet us. But no - he sends his cousin!” Nerkyl spat. Hendemir narrowed his eyes. “Well here I am. Prince Veloth is busy, so he sent me.” Nerkyl chuckled. A goblin’s chuckle sounded like falling gravel to Hendemir. “I didn’t say that because I dislike you. But where we’re going, well, you may very well die.” Hendemir hesitated to respond, uncertain what to make of that statement. “I can handle myself,” he finally said. “You think one of these humans could kill me?” Nerkyl looked back at him with a dark smile. “Nobody said anything about humans.”

Hendemir waited for Nerkyl to elaborate. When he didn’t he asked, “You had said we were going to Herrod. Now were here. Where are we going exactly?” “You’ll see. We’re going to a special place,” Nerkyl replied. “I’m sure we are. But where?” Patient in his response, Nerkyl finally spoke, “You Galians know it by a different name. But most races, they call it. . .’

‘. . .the Old Kingdom.”


This message was last edited by the GM at 00:05, Mon 09 Mar 2015.

Part 2

Her eyes were so gentle, compassionate. Unmoving, she gazed downward at those who would ask for her guidance. Bernard looked upward at her watchful eyes. He treasured the warmth he felt during prayer, for he always felt that she heard him. The statue of Sophia, the goddess of wisdom, had been carved for the temple from pure marble nearly a century past. Its majesty was only amplified by the complete silence. Arms wide open and welcoming, the statue of Sophia was twice the size of any man and stood in the center of the circular domed chamber. Benches surrounded her feet on all sides where the faithful would come to pray and ask and be thankful. For many people of Herrod, this was their spiritual refuge.

Bernard placed his hand on the bench and pushed himself off his knees. He brushed the traces of dust from his brown robes, the robes of an acolyte. The time for prayer was at an end. Father Tylister walked by, his footsteps reverberating off the quiet stone. “Brother Bernard, I hope you are at peace this day.” “I am Father.” Father Tylister softly chuckled and said, “I envy your youth, to able to rest on your knees before the Heavenly Mother. My body can no longer handle such strain.” “You are still young in my eyes Father,” Bernard reverently replied. Despite the light wisps of white hair, Father Tylinster indeed carried a youthful face, a lightness that could only arise from living in serenity and peace. In this way, he was blessed.

Father Tylister then asked, “Tell me, do you know if the crypts were locked by those last visitors?” “I’m not sure,” Bernard responded. “Do you want me to go see?” “Yes. Later we can-” Suddenly, Father Tylister ceased speaking and his face emptied of expression. His eyes lost focus on Bernard, and he simply stared into voidness. Bernard grew concerned. “Father?” Father Tylister’s countenance darkened. After a few moments, he looked at Bernard, “Quickly, lock the doors to the temple.” Confused, Bernard asked, “Why? What happened? I thought our doors were to always remain open, to welcome all who beckoned.” Father Tylister grimly replied, “The goddess sent me a feeling, cold and frightening. The thought arose in my mind that we must close the doors. I think it’s best we don’t ignore this.”

Bernard didn’t answer but listened and nodded. He understood the significance of divine providence. At a hastened pace, he walked toward the wide wooden doors to Sophia’s temple and lowered the metal latch to lock it. No longer than a few seconds after the latch had clicked into place was there a heavy knock on the door. Bernard began breathing heavily; he glanced back at Father Tylister who motioned him to back away. Then came a second knock. “Open up,” a harsh voice called from outside. Bernard stumbled backward. Turning to Father Tylister, he said, “What do we do?” “Just keep calm,” he replied. “Here, we are-” Bang. The third knock sounded as though a metal fist had clanged against the door. The wood shivered.

“Don’t make us put this down,” the voice shouted. Bernard heard the sound of a muffled sigh through the door, then someone speak, “Alright Daedrok. Go ahead.” Bang. The door thundered and shook. Bang. Wood splintered off the center of the door, and chips scattered on the stone. Terror crept into Bernard from somewhere unknown. His mind raced to refocus his thoughts on the Heavenly Mother. But the pounding of the door shattered his clarity. Bang. The latch broke off the wood and clamored to the floor. Both doors flung open.

Through the entrance came three figures, led by an elderly goblin in front. “Rude to not answer your door,” the goblin muttered. Bernard shouted, “Father Tylister!” “Hurry!” Father Tylister cried. “Get Lady Versa in her room!” Following the goblin came a hulking armored man and an elf. Carrying a chest between them, they set it down on the floor of the temple. Bernard turned and ran to a door at the side of the temple and banged on it frantically, “Lady Versa! Are you there?!” Glancing back at the intruders, the goblin was glaring at him, a glare that became chilling after his cry for help. Bernard shoved open the door to Lady Versa’s quarters. Her bed and chamber were empty; she wasn’t here.

“Father! She’s gone! I think she went this morning to the libraries at the castle!” Bernard said as he scrambled back out the room. He was met by the goblin who pointed his staff at him, inches from his nose. Bernard froze in his tracks. Nothing had happened, but Bernard could feel a tingling in his blood, as though moving another step would set his insides on fire. The goblin stared at him. Fearful, Bernard met the goblins yellow eyes. Father Tylister called out, “Please, don’t hurt him.” The goblin remained still, pointing his staff in the acolyte’s face as though it were the arrow of a bow. After a few moments the goblin spoke, “What name did you say? Who were you calling for?!” Bernard looked at Father Tylister who warily stood before the statue of Sophia; Father Tylister nodded, “Go ahead and answer Brother. You have nothing to fear.” The goblin’s gaze intensified. Bernard suddenly felt nauseous, though whether it came from fear or the goblin he couldn’t say. He replied, “The noble Lady Versa. Paladin of Sophia.”

The goblin lowered his staff and snorted. He turned to his companions. “I can’t believe it. She followed us all the way here.” The elf spoke, “Who?” “No one you’d know. Versa, some human woman. . . If she took residence in this temple, that means she somehow knew what we were after. She knew she couldn’t catch up to us in Kabariya, so she came to the one place where we’d eventually have to take it. Must’ve been here for weeks! Crazy woman.”

It was either stupidity or courage that led Bernard to speak, but he said, “The Lady Versa is a hero among common folk. She’ll return to the temple soon. Then she’ll stop you!” The goblin swung his staff around and hit Bernard in the gut, knocking the breath from him. “Kids these days,” he grumbled. Father Tylister, calm and soft spoken, said, “What is it you’d like? This is but an ordinary temple to the Heavenly Mother. We have no wealth or things to take.” The goblin hobbled away from Bernard and approached the priest. “Oh, we don’t care about this place you got here. We just need the keys to your crypts.” The goblin held out his hand expectantly.

Though he furrowed his brow, Father Tylister otherwise remained serene; his eyes fell on Bernard then returned to the goblin’s. “Very well.” He reached into his white robes and pulled out a ring of keys, placing it in the goblin’s hand. The goblin didn’t retract his hand, continuing to hold it outstretched. “And the other one too.” Father Tylister’s eyebrows lifted; he was surprised that anyone knew about that, let alone a stranger. After a moment he reached back into his robes and plucked out an old, strange looking key. Made of brass, the end of it was not flat but circular, cut in the shape of a gear. He dropped it in the goblin’s hand. “Thank you very much,” the goblin said in a bored tone.

The goblin turned and walked away. Returning to his companions, he said, “Alright, let’s go.” Father Tylister stood silently beneath the marble statue, watching. The golden-brown haired elf then stretched and cracked his fingers, preparing to once again lift the large chest they’d set on the ground. Next to him stood the armored warrior, patient, waiting. Leaning on his staff the goblin hobbled toward a door at the rear of the temple, behind the statue of Sophia, which led outside into the graveyard and the crypts beyond.

Suddenly, Bernard ran out of Lady Versa’s chamber holding a spear. “For the light!” he cried. Lowering the tip, he charged at the hulking warrior from behind who all but ignored him. “Bernard, no!” Father Tylister shouted. It made no difference. Bernard rammed the spear into the backside of the warrior and it pierced him, the tip shearing into his armor and popping out his chest on the other side, straight through him. The goblin and elf stopped and turned toward Bernard, watching. Standing, towering in height, the warrior slowly looked down at the spear tip protruding from his chest. Bernard released the shaft of the spear and backed away. The spearhead was perfectly clean, bloodless, as though it had pierced only air. . .

Horrified, Bernard stumbled a few steps away. Without so much as a cry of pain, the hulking warrior grabbed the spearhead with his metal gauntlet and pulled, pulling the entire shaft of the spear through his chest until it came free and undamaged out the other side. He examined it with a strange curiosity, rotating it in his hands. All in silence. Seemingly bored, he finally tossed the spear aside where it clamored on the stone. He didn’t even glance at Bernard who almost violently shivered with disbelief. “What?- What are you?” he managed to say.

The warrior didn’t respond. The elf beside him abruptly laughed and grabbed a handle on the chest. The warrior did the same. Together, they lifted the chest between them and carried it out the rear door of the temple where the goblin waited. Disappearing through, they casually closed it shut. Then they were gone. Father Tylister put a hand on his head and wearily sat on a bench. Bernard fell to his knees. And he prayed.
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:51, Mon 09 Mar 2015.

Torchlight danced on the walls. The crackling flame seemed loud among the dead, where there was only stillness. Dried and abandoned cobwebs crowded the corners of the ceiling, and Hendemir could feel them clinging to his hair. Hands burdened, he had no time to free one and wipe the strings and spiders off his face. So he ignored them.

Nerkyl walked in front, leaning on his staff in one hand and holding a torch in the other, something he complained bitterly about. “I thought elves were supposed to have good eyes!? Well what good are they if they can’t see in the dark! Now I have to hold this damn thing all the way down.” Hendemir waited until he was finished and stiffly replied, “Elves have the best eyes. But we weren’t made to live in filthy holes, nor would we want to.” “And then one day you’ll walk into a cave and have your head ripped off by a bear,” Nerkyl sharply rebuked, grouchy from the long walk. He snorted. “Elves think they’re so damn special. They’re ignorant of nature, that’s what they are.” Hendemir knew not to retort when Nerkyl was in this temperament. Although he was considered wise by goblinkind, he was still elderly, and like many elderly people he became easily ill-tempered.


Their voices and footsteps were perhaps the first real noise the crypts had heard in centuries. Entering through a mausoleum in the vine-covered graveyard far above, the three had descended deep into tunnels. After they would traverse a level of the crypts, always they’d be met by a thick metal gate at the furthest end. Nerkyl would then take out the key ring and unlock it only to reveal another flight of stairs, going deeper below to another level. It seemed endless. With each level they passed through the stone became older and more wretched. Hendemir counted five flights of stairs thus far; the sun was a distant thing now. He soon realized that there was no way the Temple of Sophia above was built before these deeper parts of the crypt. This was far older.

Hendemir’s mind wandered as he walked. The ancient stonework had grown too mundane for his attention. After some time had passed, he muttered, “How long are we going to have to carry this annoying chest.” His hands ached.

“Not far now,” Nerkyl replied. Hendemir lifted an eyebrow, “You seem to know where we’re going.” “Of course! Do you think we’d just explore down here like a bunch of idiots!?” he snapped. “Veloth was very specific.” Like the steady beat of a drum, the end of Nerkyl’s staff struck the stone as he hobbled along. Grasping the implication of what he’d said, Hendemir then uttered, “The Prince! How would he know?” Nerkyl chuckled, humored by the question. “Because he’s been here before.”

He didn’t elaborate, and they continued to walk in relative silence. Behind Hendemir, the metal plates of Daedrok’s armor grinded against each other, a low screeching. Hendemir felt uncomfortable so far underground. This was suitable for dwarves and goblins and low creatures, not a Galian. It was nothing like the green, lush forests of Galia nor the waterfalls and majestic spires of the elven cities. But he decided to complain no more. It would not do to shame the trust his prince placed in him.

“Finally, the end of the crypts,” Nerkyl spoke. His goblin eyes saw it before Hendemir himself could, but torchlight soon flickered upon the metallic surface. At the end of the dark, decrepit tunnel was a door, seemingly made of brass and iron. It looked out of place compared to the gray stonework. Patterned across the center of the door was a large gear-shaped symbol, etched into the metal. This was not made by those who built the crypts. Nerkyl continued, “This is an entrance to a very special part of the Old Kingdom. Here’s where this comes in.” He pulled out the strange brass key he’d taken from the priest.

Hendemir and Daedrok set down the chest. Walking next to Nerkyl, Hendemir appreciated the feeling of relief in his arms. He glanced at the key and then at the door, seeing there was indeed a small indent in the center for it, identical to the circular end of the key. Warily, Hendemir said, “That priest seemed surprised when you asked for it.” “No doubt. Those priests must’ve held onto it for nearly a century, passing it down. Veloth didn’t fail to mention it,” Nerkyl answered. He wiped some dust off the indent in the door and inserted the key. He turned it. A click resounded through the door followed by the sound of mechanical pieces unlocking and falling into place. A moment later the edge of the metal broke free, and the door opened.

“I still don’t understand,” Hendemir said. “How would have Veloth known about that key, that the priests would have it?” Nerkyl grinned as the door unlocked, stretching the wrinkles in his green skin. “Because,” he replied, “It was Veloth who gave it to them.”


This message was last edited by the GM at 17:13, Wed 11 Mar 2015.

Versa watched the smoke while she walked. Far to the south, dark wisps lingered in the sky. It was on the opposite side of the city; it’d take her hours just to reach it. Taking a deep breath, she slowly sighed. The city of Herrod was going through a troubling time, a rebellion, but what pained her the most was the fact she couldn’t get involved. Her mission had perhaps many more lives at stake. “I have to remain focused,” she told herself. “For the good of all.” With tremendous difficulty, she looked away and fixed her eyes on the road.

Nearly the entire morning had been spent in the castle libraries, pouring through countless books and scrolls. She desperately searched for whatever could be found on the Old Kingdom. There wasn’t much. But since the time she’d left for the castle, the streets had become barren; where the streets could usually be found crowded with merchants and commonfolk were now empty and bleak. Some wagons had been left abandoned on the cobbled stone. Undoubtedly, it was because of the smoke and word of battles breaking out nearby. Nonetheless she forced herself to ignore it and hasten back to the Temple of Sophia, her latest residence.

Red, wavy hair sprawled across the shoulders of her armor, an armor she could never risk leaving behind. When the time came to act, she’d need to be ready. Nor would she want to risk it being stolen, for its beauty would tempt any thief. The steel shoulders had been shaped into the heads of lions, a gift earned from her past deeds. Polished well, the remainder of the platemail glistened beneath any source of light, expertly crafted. She’d accumulated much from a lifetime of service.

Turning the corner, the Temple of Sophia came in view, the temple of her goddess. She’d seen many temples, but the one in Herrod was particularly elegant. Nestled between two unremarkable buildings of the city, its white stone and domed roof reflected the sun overhead like a diamond. At least that’s what she compared it to. Sophia was her world, the source of compassion which fueled everything she did, her livelihood. After all, she was a paladin.

Versa drew near the temple and saw its doors; a sudden blackness erupted in her chest. The wooden doors were broken open, splintered by the handles. “No!” she cried. Bordering panic, she bolted toward the entrance and shoved the loosely hanging doors aside. She frantically searched about the chamber and felt some relief when she saw Father Tylister and Brother Bernard unharmed before the statue of Sophia. They turned and saw her. Brother Bernard nearly leapt to his feet and hastened to her presence.

“What happened?” she quickly asked. Brother Bernard wasted no time in answering. “My lady! Not an hour ago, three men came through here. A goblin, an elf, and an armored figure.” Versa shook her head in frustration, “No. . .” Her nightmare had come to pass; she wasn’t here when they arrived. The shame surfaced in her heart. But it wasn’t too late.

“Tell me, were they carrying anything with them?” Her anxious tone and the acuteness of her question seemed to unsettle Bernard. Father Tylister, slower in his age, caught up with them and replied, “Yes. A chest. Do you know what it is my lady?” Her eyes drifted to the floor, contemplating. “Then they did find it. . . And they brought it here, as the old writings said they must.” She looked up at Father Tylister and Bernard who stood silently, almost fearful. Briefly she considered the fact time was running short, that she didn’t have time to explain. But then she realized, if she didn’t come back, someone had to know what happened here.

Decided, she began to divulge, “A thousand years ago, long before Herrod and the kingdoms of Perdane, was another civilization. We know it only as, The Old Kingdom. They were humans who became incredible engineers, building machines of metal and gears that surpass anything we know today. Jealously, they guarded the secrets of their science, obsessively even. But after a couple centuries, their enemies finally managed to steal something from them, one of their most valuable objects in fact. We don’t know what they themselves called it, but the old writings refer to is as. . .’

‘. . . The Heart of the Old Kingdom.”

Brother Bernard looked worriedly at Father Tylister. Versa continued, “Losing the Heart of the Old Kingdom eventually led to the civilization’s downfall, and after several centuries, the Heart itself was lost.” She shook her head and strands of red hair fell out of place, “I must confess I don’t know what it does. I’d never heard of the Old Kingdom nor the Heart until I learned by chance that these men were planning an expedition for it. I have a long history with them, and I knew that such undertakings could not be ignored. I then began to research it. The old writings I could find vaguely spoke of powerful weapons the engineers of the Old Kingdom would create, and they were only capable of doing so because of the Heart. My research then uncovered the most probable resting place of the Heart, a ruin called the Temple of Clades in the Kabariyan mountains; the people there worshipped it as a holy object, not knowing its true origin. And the descriptions of that object and those of the Heart matched exactly. I also discovered the entrance to the part of the Old Kingdom where the Heart is supposed to be placed, surprisingly from the writings of a long-dead priest from this very temple. The entrance lies directly below us. . . at the base of the crypts.”

Father Tylister sighed, “That much I know. The knowledge of that entrance to an ancient ruin has been passed down from priest to pupil in this temple for generations. But I never thought it was important. There are many remnants of the old civilization beneath Herrod; this one seemed no different.”

“Unfortunately it is,” Versa said darkly. “During the last days of my research, my suspicions and fears came true when I heard my enemies had already set sail for Kabariya. I didn’t know what they planned to accomplish with the Heart, but I couldn’t make the mistake of waiting to find out. After they left, I knew I could never catch them in time. So I came here instead, to wait for them in case they succeeded. . . and I’m failing.” “There’s still time,” Father Tylister insisted. “They would have been slow traversing down the crypts with their chest. You can catch up to them.” His words were firm and full of conviction. Versa heard them and refocused her thoughts on Sophia; she once again felt emboldened, renewed. “You’re right. And I must leave now!”

Versa dashed into her room, just through a door at the side of the temple hall. Moments later, she stepped out with her helmet donned. Although the winged helm was inlaid with gold, it was no mere decorative piece. Her greatsword was slung behind her back. She was ready.

Versa looked at the others and said, “Pray for me.” She then hastened toward the door to the graveyard. “Wait!” Bernard called out. “That armored man with them. When they came, I pierced him with a spear and yet he did not die nor bleed! Be wary of that creature of evil!” Versa paused at the door. For a moment she stood in silence. Not even turning, she finally spoke, “They say he was human once. . . But that’s a story for another time.” Versa then swiftly opened the door and sprinted through. The chase had begun.

He’d never seen anything like it. Gears the size of a wagon’s wheel were visible around its shoulders and legs. The rusted face gazed back at him, long dead. It was a man, or at least it looked like one - a man made of iron. Most of its smooth metal body was marred by rust. It’d been here a long time. Hendemir slowly reached out to touch it. “Don’t do that!” Nerkyl instantly snarled.

Hendemir let his hand fall back to his side. “Why not? It’s dead.” “You don’t know that,” Nerkyl snapped. He angrily struck the ground with his staff. “Away from it!” Hendemir shrugged and walked back to the center of the room. Nerkyl hobbled in front of him and said, “Don’t touch anything while you’re here. The engineers of the Old Kingdom were experts at building things. No doubt many of their machines still work. . . their traps too for that matter. So watch where you’re stepping!”


Grudgingly, Hendemir nodded. Although he didn’t appreciate being scolded like a child, he had to admit the Old Kingdom was impressive thus far. The hall that took them to this chamber had stonework which rivaled the royal palace in Galia. The gray stone blocks were perfectly cut to a degree Hendemir thought beyond the capability of human craftsmen. Tiles along the base of the wall were etched with swirling patterns that continued into the next like a dance, no tile seemingly the same as another. Eventually the hall led them to this chamber, a square stone room. Arches spanned across the ceiling above; each of them was decorated with notches along the edges. As if someone would bother to look up and notice them, Hendemir cynically thought. Then he laughed, for he realized he’d done exactly that. But perhaps the most impressive feature were the two metal men, one of which stood to the side staring at the opposite wall. It held a sword in hand, planted in the ground, as though it was once a guard for this chamber. Now, it was rusted and covered with spiderwebs, but it was no where as wretched as its counterpart, which had apparently fallen over and broken into pieces a long time ago.

“Come on, let’s get going,” Nerkyl said to the others. Daedrok had also been casually looking around the room from a stationary point. What he’d pondered about, Hendemir could only guess. They returned to the chest and lifted it once again; it was becoming routine now. Nerkyl beckoned them toward the only hall which continued forward.

Leaving the chamber, they steadily walked. The sound of Nerkyl’s staff against the ground had become a kind of rhythm to march to like a military drum. Aside from the sound they themselves made, the ancient ruin was still and silent. And then the silence was broken by a low humming from ahead. Nerkyl spoke, “Sounds like. . . water.” Hendemir focused on listening. Indeed the humming gradually became the sound of trickling water, the babbling of a creek. As they got closer, Hendemir was slightly surprised to see the walls of the tunnel deteriorate and begin to crumble. Eventually the ground was littered with piles of rubble and fallen stones. Finally they stepped in water, which trickled down in small waterfalls from several places along the ceiling and walls; the water pooled and became a narrow creek that flowed down the now cave-like hall.

Nerkyl reached down and put his finger in the water, and then on his tongue. “Freshwater. We must be far below a broken aqueduct. I doubt the city of Herrod even realizes what they’re destroying. Oh well.” He chuckled to himself and continued onward, feet stepping in and out of running water.

Hendemir and Daedrok followed behind, still carrying the chest. Daedrok’s steel boots made a loud splash each time he stepped in the creek. Suddenly, Hendemir’s heel slipped on wet dirt! Momentarily weightless, he stumbled and fell to the side, forced to catch himself on the eroded stone wall. No longer gripping the handle, his side of the chest instantly dropped to the ground and noisily crashed. His thoughts froze at the sound. Nerkyl and Daedrok stood silent, staring intensely at the chest as if waiting to see if something would happen. A few moments passed, and nothing did. Hendemir straightened himself out, “Sorry.”

Nerkyl was furious, “Sorry? Sorry!? You clumsy fool. You sorry excuse for an elf! Do you realize what you could’ve done!? Bah!” He waved his hands and staff wildly as he spoke. Hendemir got angry as well, an anger that had been stirring for some time. “Actually no. I don’t know what I could’ve done. Why? Because I don’t know what the hell it is! Damnit, I don’t even know what we’re doing here! You won’t tell me! Am I unworthy of knowing this ‘secret’ knowledge? The Prince, my cousin, himself sent me. Well I’d be a lot more useful if I knew what the hell we were doing!” Hendemir cut himself off; he knew that outburst had been a mistake, even as he said it. These men were allies of Veloth, not subjects. He was supposed to be making a good impression.

Nerkyl shook with anger, but after a few moments it ceased. To Hendemir’s shock, Nerkyl suddenly started laughing, buoyantly. Even Daedrok gave a low grunt which Hendemir could only assume was his laugh. Nerkyl spoke, “So you do get angry. Good. For awhile I thought you were just some elven palace stooge.” He grinned, “Fine, I’ll tell you. But while walking! We’re not going to waste any damn time.” Hendemir nodded and picked up his side of the chest once more; carefully they moved forward. Nerkyl briefly glanced behind, “Oh and don’t drop it again. Or else.” Although he said it lightly, Hendemir didn’t doubt the sincerity of his statement.

Nerkyl hobbled along the tunnel and spoke, “Now, where to begin. . .”

Ashes. Versa traced her fingers along the ground, staining the tips gray. They’ve been here. The descent through the crypts had cost her too much time. Again and again she’d taken a wrong turn and was confronted by a dead end or the tomb of some ancient person. But eventually she found her way, owing much help to the fallen ashes of those whom she chased and their new footprints in the timeless layers of dust.

She stood up from crouching near the metal door and briefly admired the large shape of a gear etched in its center. For months she’d read about the Old kingdom, but now for the first time, she was going to step inside its ancient halls. “I cannot linger,” she whispered to herself. Tightening a loose strap on her armor, she then jogged through the gate and into the forgotten realm. The ground sloped downward like a ramp. Pillars whose edges were decorated with metal and artful patterns supporting the smooth stone ceiling above. Soon after, the floor leveled out and continued down a long, barren hall.


She pried clinging cobwebs from her armor as she moved; the strings seemed invisible in the hall until she was mere inches from them. Her footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Desperately she hoped she was as far behind as she anticipated. If they heard her, she knew there’d be an ambush waiting. Luckily when the hall ended and she entered a square stone room, it was empty.

This descent into the world felt something like a dream. The surrealness of the grandeur and stonework made it seem as though she’d stepped back in time; if it wasn’t for the dimness and cobwebs, the illusion would be convincing. Her attention was then caught by the metal man. For a brief moment she thought it was a person but soon noticed its stillness at the side of the room. Constructed of gears and iron, it stood rusting as the ages passed, eternally holding a sword planted in the ground. Versa walked near it for a closer look. She’d seen the goblin machines of Cliffshore, but they’d never built anything quite like this. “Remarkable,” she murmured.

Suddenly, a stone momentarily scratched the ground behind her followed by a squeak of surprise. Reflexively and swiftly, Versa gripped the handle of her greatsword and sharply turned toward the center of the room, her heartbeat quickening. She turned so quickly that her elbow scraped against the iron man, producing a loud screech. The rat across the room became frightened and hastily scurried along the edge and down the hall to the crypts. Versa ungripped her sword and exhaled. She chuckled at her own tenseness, but she knew she needed to be quick when it was the real thing. Then she heard a stranger sound. It was a clicking that wasn’t there before, constant and clear. “What is tha-”

It felt like a sledgehammer struck her in the back. It hit so hard that her feet left the floor and threw her across the room. She had no idea what was happening as she crashed onto the stone and skidded into the wall. Pain rushed up her back, much pain. Forcing through it, she lifted her head up to see. The iron man’s arm was now raised. Then the unthinkable happened as the metal creature lowered it, and with both hands pulled out its sword from the ground. Its rusted legs screeched terribly as it took a step from its post, then another. Versa couldn’t believe her eyes. Gears around the shoulder rotated as it lifted the sword. The blank iron face turned and stared directly at Versa strewn on the ground; it stomped toward her, the joints screeching with every step.

Versa’s heart thundered in her chest as she scrambled to her feet. She pulled out the greatsword sheathed on her back, exposing the thin and elegant runes carved along its broadside. Composing herself, she assumed a stance. “Come hither!” she shouted in a battlecry. She gripped the handle with both hands, her steel gloves side by side. This was not her first battle, and she determined it would certainly not be her last.

The iron man charged. Its heavy metal feet shook the ground as it approached, and the visible gears of its arms spun as it lifted the sword high. When it neared Versa, she readied her sword. But even then she was caught off-guard. Something mechanical triggered in its arm, and the sword came down as fast as lightning. Versa didn’t have time to think; automatically she threw herself to the side to dodge and tumbled on the ground. The iron man’s sword collided against the floor where she stood and sundered the stone tile in half. Grains and dust rose in a cloud from the broken tile.

Stumbling back on her feet, Versa glanced at the shattered stone and her chest sank. She could feel her heart beating which was now as loud as the machine’s gears. Versa lifted her sword and swung across in a flat arc. The sword struck the metal body causing sparks. She brought back her blade and was stunned at how little damage it left, with only a small dent to show for it. But she had little time to think about it as the iron man turned swinging its massive sword with it, destined for her waist and to sever her in two. Versa ducked as fast as she could. The blade clipped a wing of her winged helm, and Versa watched the tip of it shoot off like an arrow. Better that than her head. A ringing from the helm filled her ears, but she couldn’t wait for it to cease.

Versa spun around the iron man to get behind him. Pointing her greatsword downward, she thrust with all her might into the creature’s metal leg. It sounded like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil. Although it caused little more than a scratch, the power and angle forced its knee to buckle, and the machine suddenly dropped on one knee with an earth-shaking thud. Versa hastily backed away expecting a reply and was surprised when it didn’t come. Instead the iron man slowly, very slowly, used its sword to push itself back on its feet; it looked strained beneath its own weight, almost like an old man using a cane. Watching, a realization struck Versa in a moment of insight. The machine was heavy and imbalanced!

The iron man once again stood on its two feet and turned to face Versa. By then she knew what to do. It was risky, and the cost of failure was great. But her intuition was convinced, and circumstances gave her no time to think it through. Versa sheathed her sword and abruptly sprinted straight at the machine. If is was human, it would’ve been unquestionably caught by surprise, but Versa earnestly didn’t know if a machine could be surprised. She hoped it would. And apparently it did, for she then tackled the machine at its legs, before it could prime its sword to strike. Off-balance, the iron man’s body weight and gravity overpowered the gears in its knees, and it collapsed straight onto its back. The resulting fall sounded like thunder. As Versa fell with it, she rolled off its chest to the side and onto the floor.

Hastily, Versa got back on her feet and stood over the fallen machine. Its arms moved back and forth beating against the ground, as did its legs. But it didn’t get up. Exactly as Versa had hoped, the machine was too heavy and uncoordinated to pick itself up again. And its sword had been flung from its grip, out of reach.

Versa unsheathed the greatsword from her back once more, looming over the metal creature. “By the purity of Sophia I stay true, She watches over me. By union of the Spirit doth guiding light shine.” As she spoke, a light glimmered at the hilt of her sword and began traveling down the carved runes of the blade. Like a firefly at night, it danced along the steel. Versa then concluded, “In the name of the Heavenly Mother, I sentence you to Oblivion.” Standing at the iron man’s side, Versa raised the greatsword high above her head; she could feel the heat it now radiated, searing. She brought it down with all her strength, upon the iron man’s neck. The sound of torn metal filled the chamber as the metal head was sheared from its body. Small gears from within were broken off and forcefully scattered in several directions. The arms and legs of the iron man immediately ceased moving. And the clicking finally stopped.

Eyes lingering on the still machine, Versa slowly re-sheathed her sword. Once again, the chamber was silent, unmoving save for a single small gear on the floor spinning on its edge. After a few seconds, it too stopped and settled on the ground with a brief ringing. Versa took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The sound of her heartbeat lessened, and soon disappeared. Turning, she stepped away from the body of the iron man and toward the hall which continued forward, deeper into the ruin. At the threshold, she took one look back, and only one. It was over. She resumed facing forward and took her first step into the hall. Before long she’d disappeared into the hall and the chamber was empty once again, silent.

Stillness.

“Do you know your own history elf? The history of Galia?” Nerkyl asked while his feet splashed along the creek. The tunnel did not improve much. In fact, it seemed to do the opposite as the walls eroded into bare rock and dirt. Although Hendemir could still feel the stone floor of the hall beneath him, it was now covered with a layer of damp soil and debris. Watching his feet he answered, “Mostly. Elven children are taught as much.” Nerkyl leered back at Hendemir from the front of the group. “And what about Estraeus?”

Hendemir met his eyes and lifted an eyebrow. “Of course. There’s not a Galian alive who doesn’t know that.” “Enlighten me then. I want to see what you know.” Nerkyl returned his gaze forward, listening.

“Estraeus,” Hendemir started, “Er, the Isle of Estraeus, was home to the Estraen Empire. Elves. Both our neighbors and most vile enemy.” Nerkyl nodded as they walked. The sound of his staff against the ground was lessened now by the muddied floor. Over the sound of trickling water, Hendemir continued, “Galia and Estraeus were at war for three centuries. Then a peace treaty was signed. Yet no longer than three months after the treaty, the treacherous Estraen Emperor tried to assassinate Prince Veloth in his bedchamber. Thankfully the Prince fought them off, but not before they had killed. . . killed his bride, a then Princess of Galia.”

Despite being common history, Hendemir felt a heavy feeling behind his eyes, the beginnings of a tear. He blinked it away. All Galians felt a close bond with the royal family. And for Hendemir it was even stronger, for the Prince was not only his older cousin, but his idol. Hendemir continued speaking; he hoped his companions did not notice the sentiment but he didn’t dare doubt their perceptiveness. Regardless, they said nothing. “Then Prince Veloth led us to war, the last war. And we achieved total victory in seven days, a testament to his glory. The Estraens were wiped out, and he ushered in a hundred years of peace and prosperity for Galia, lasting still to this day.”

Hendemir waited for Nerkyl to respond, but he remained silent, still listening. After a few seconds Hendemir finally said, “That’s about it.” “Is it now?” Nerkyl quickly retorted. “The two elven isles fought for three centuries, absolutely unable to kill each other. And yet Veloth destroyed Estraeus in a mere seven days. How do you think he pulled that off!?” Hendemir replied, “They say the gods themselves felt so much sorrow for the Prince’s loss, that they smote the armies of Estareus in a great fire-” Nerkyl cut him off with chuckling. He looked back over his shoulder at Daedrok and said, “Elves always make these things sound so poetic don’t they?” Daedrok responded with the low grunt that was his laugh.

Drops of water from the damp ceiling had landed on Nerkyl’s bald, green head. He ignored them as he said, “I can say that’s pretty close to how it happened. But there were certainly no gods involved.” “How else could it be?” Hendemir stiffly inquired. “Watch your tone,” Nerkyl rebuked.

“You see, after Veloth's little wife died, he knew that an invasion of Estraeus would never work, not without some new advantage. Something they never had before. So he sought out and quested for a weapon of some kind. His search brought him here.” He lazily waved his staff at the tunnel.

“The Old Kingdom was known for building powerful machines. But what Veloth found was more than he could’ve ever hoped for. . . Ancient and already-constructed, he found a device here in the depths of the ruin, the chamber where we’re headed now. That device. . . was a bomb.” Hendemir gave a confused look toward Nerkyl. All the bombs he’d seen in his lifetime could cause some harm to person or set fire to a ship, but nothing that could go so far as to decide a war. “A bomb,” Hendemir repeated. “Like the fire bombs the goblins make on Cliffshore?” Nerkyl smirked, “Yes, in a way. But imagine one with flames so great, it could engulf an entire army. . . and leave nothing behind.” Hendemir’s eyes widened; he was beginning to understand. “That’s amazing. So Veloth found this?” “That’s right,” Nerkyl replied. “The only one ever known to exist.”

Water from the creek had soaked through Hendemir’s boats and chilled his feet, but he paid it no mind. His attention was rapt on Nerkyl who continued, “When Veloth and the Galian army landed on the shore of Estraeus, the Estraens predictably sent their full army to repel them. Fools. Tens of thousands of elves, all in one place. But then again, Veloth didn’t truly know if the bomb would work or not, being as old as it was. He took a chance. And it worked. Before a single Galian fell, Veloth wiped the entire Estraen army from the face of Tel’Gia, burned to ashes in the blink of an eye.” Nerkyl giggled, “I would’ve loved to have seen the look on that emperor’s face. Needless to say it was an easy slaughter from thereout.” Hendemir walked in awe, both at the scale of the achievement and admiring how much Veloth had done for Galia. That weapon alone spared the lives of countless Galians; without it, a war would’ve dragged on for decades, or longer.

A realization struck Hendemir, “Wait. You said that was the only one known to exist. So why are we going back to this ruin? And with this thing?” He nodded back at the chest he and Daedrok so endlessly carried. Smirking, Nerkyl glanced at Hendemir, “That thing you’re carrying is the key. . . the key to creating another one. . .”

Everything was clear now. Hendemir looked at the chest with a new sense of reverence and purpose. This will change everything.

Suddenly, Hendemir’s ears perked. He caught a strange ripple through the air, as though a loud noise had traveled from far behind. Something heavy falling perhaps. “I think I heard something,” Hendemir mentioned. Nerkyl dismissed it, “I don’t know how you can hear anything over Daedrok’s big feet!” Indeed Daedrok’s heavy metal boots seemed to cause a small vibration with every step, heavy enough that they dug through mud and scraped against the stone beneath. Hendemir decided that had been the source. Daedrok’s toe must’ve struck something.

Hendemir glanced back at Daedrok, and the armored warrior simply stared back at him, the handle of his greataxe visible above his shoulder. Hendemir had almost forgotten about that massive axe slung on his back, the warrior always being behind him. To carry that and the chest without complaint was a feat Hendemir could never do.

Hendemir’s thoughts were then interrupted by a new louder sound, the sound of falling water. At last, the tunnel finally ended and opened into a new chamber up ahead. Leaving the confines of the eroded hall, they stepped into the open, and the sight left Hendemir breathless. He never imagined something like this could exist underground; the cavernous room was immense. Not far from them, a great waterfall poured into the chamber and fueled a wide river below. Foam formed at the base. The creek from their own tunnel also carved its way to the edge and joined them. Like a sapphire, the water was a pure, untainted blue. Over the river spanned a short bridge, and across from that, Hendemir saw it - the gate.

“We’re here,” Nerkyl said in a hushed voice, as though he too revered the end of their journey. “That gate leads to the chamber we seek. Come. . .” He beckoned them with his staff.

“Let’s write history.”

It was unbelievable. The chamber stretched almost beyond view. Over a hundred feet high, the stone ceiling had begun to crack, and numerous waterfalls streamed from them like glistening pillars. Most of the ground was covered by a great plain of water, and ripples steadily danced on the surface. Massive pillars supported the ceiling from end to end, each perfectly spaced from the next with bounding arches between them. Of all the parts of the Old Kingdom, Hendemir cherished this one the most. It awakened something in him.


Hendemir gazed upward at the runes carved high above, remnants of a dead language long forgotten. Although he couldn’t read them, the strange shapes were mesmeric. He followed them to their reflections in the water where they were blurred by the shifting waves. Crouching, he cupped his hands in the lake and drank. His thirst had grown since their last rest.

Some pillars had broken away leaving stone and rubble behind. Pieces of the wall had also crumbled, creating many places where they could walk without being submerged. The ground of the chamber was raised a short distance away. There awaited their goal.

“Follow me,” Nerkyl stated. “I hope you don’t mind getting wet.” Lifting the chest to the height of their shoulders, Hendemir and Daedrok followed Nerkyl into the blue. Short, Nerkyl was forced to swim. For Hendemir, the surface came to his waist where they chose to tread. It looked deeper elsewhere. Water soaked through his lower clothes and felt cool against his skin, but he didn’t mind. He felt better here. The vastness of it all had removed his uneasiness from being underground as though he walked beneath the sky again.

Reaching higher ground they climbed onto a large boulder. Nerkyl muttered, “Well, that is impressive.” At first Hendemir didn’t know what he was speaking about, but then he looked down and realized they weren’t standing on a boulder at all. Instead they stood on the metal face of an immense head. “That’s one big statue.” The remainder of the fallen statue disappeared beneath the lake. Nerkyl climbed over its sculpted beard and became elated by the sight of something. “There it is.”

Chest between them, Hendemir and Daedrok followed him onto a heightened part of the chamber, a stone platform. Nerkyl pointed a gnarled finger toward it, but the gesture was needless. It couldn’t be missed.

Gigantic, the machine had both the shape and size of a lighthouse, a structure built of metal and pipes. The main body of it looked to be an impossible single piece of casted metal; gold-colored, it resembled an enormous, thin vase with a slight inward curvature. Overlaying the main body were a number of pipes which reminded Hendemir of a cage, for they completely encased the vase-like core of the machine. Mysterious levers and gauges surrounded the base.

“Come,” Nerkyl ordered. To Hendemir, nearing the machine didn’t provide any clarity to the layers of pipes. “Set down the chest. It’s time to open it,” Nerkyl said as his eyes studied the various parts. Hendemir spoke, “Do you know how to work this thing?” “I know enough, yes,” he replied. Nerkyl touched some of the levers, discerning the purpose of each from his memory. His attention then settled on a large opening through the mesh of pipes. Like a window, it was a shallow oddly-shaped slot, as though the machine was missing a part. He sharply turned, “Get on with it! Open it up.”

Lowering the chest onto the ground, Hendemir backed away while Daedrok undid the latch. He opened it, flipping the top back. Cautiously, Daedrok leaned into the chest and picked up a large object with both hands and arms, almost the size of his own torso. At first Hendemir thought it was a gem, for the edges were cut like a jewel. He quickly dismissed the notion. Green and orange, various streaks of color gently swirled inside the crystalline object, moving.

“It’s glass on the outside,” Nerkyl answered, seeing the elf’s bewildered expression. “Inside is a gaseous mixture I think. Don’t bother asking me what; that knowledge has been lost for a long time. Even the engineers of the Old Kingdom only managed to create one of these this size, so they say.” The colors moved almost hypnotically, like the push and pull of the ocean. “I could have mistaken it for a huge gem,” Hendemir said. “Many did,” Nerkyl immediately replied. “And many thought it was some magic thing. Hell, scholars centuries later called it a real fancy name, ‘The Heart of the Old Kingdom’. But none of them figured out what it really was. Idiots.” “And that is?” Hendemir asked. Nerkyl grinned, proud of his cleverness. “It’s a power source! The Heart is a goddamn battery! This alone could power the Old Kingdom’s most miraculous machines, their greatest weapons.” He waved his staff at the large, lighthouse-sized machine behind him. “Including this one! Once powered, it’ll create the essential component we need for the bomb. The rest of the device we can build ourselves, but without this, we have nothing. Let’s not waste the opportunity. Now, place the Heart into the machine!”

Daedrok, holding the large gem-like object against his chest, carried it to the opening in the pipes. It looked both heavy and perhaps breakable upon the stone, Hendemir thought. He was grateful Daedrok was the one carrying it, for the stoic warrior moved flawlessly without the slightest flinch. Daedrok heaved the Heart through the slot and it fitted into place, as though made for it. Aligned with the pipes, the Heart now fully looked apart of the machine.

As Daedrok rejoined Hendemir, Nerkyl walked to the base of the machine, seeming to savor the moment. He glanced toward his companions with a wide smile on his face, then placed one hand upon a lever. “Here we go.” He pulled.

There was life. The machine began to hum like a low, manly voice; dials on the gauges flickered and rose. Then the Heart itself seemed to vibrate. Activated, the green and orange colors started to mix and blend into a neon yellow, glowing. Nerkyl pulled another lever, and the entire machine suddenly pulsed with energy. Pipes rattled, gauges moved, and the main body shivered as it begun creation. “It’s working! It’s working!” cried Nerkyl, excitedly hobbling between the parts.

“Not for long!” a feminine voice boldy shouted, reverberating in the spacious chamber.

Nerkyl loudly groaned, “I can’t believe it. Now of all times.” They turned and saw her, standing not far behind them on the stone platform. Versa, the Paladin of Sophia, stood with her greatsword drawn. Water still dripped off the lionhead shoulders of her armor from the swim; her green eyes pierced through a damaged winged helm, hardened by determination. “I won’t allow you to fulfill your plans. This ends now!” she loudly declared.

“I think you need a hobby,” Nerkyl retorted. Daedrok pulled out the greataxe from his back. Heavily-stained, the axe looked as heavy as a man and sharpened on every side. Nerkyl hastily said to him, “I can’t leave the machine, for the process can’t be stopped. Handle her! And Hendemir . . Go stand by the wall!” Hendemir had already unsheathed his sword; he looked at Nerkyl incredulously. “I can fight! I-” “I said no!” Nerkyl snarled. “She is beyond you. Best thing you can do is not die. Now go!” Against his bitter resentment, Hendemir listened and retreated to the wall.

Hendemir anxiously watched as Daedrok slowly marched toward his opponent. The armor-clad woman warily approached him, sword at the fore. Hendemir had never seen Daedrok fight before, and his eyes were fixed on them. This fight he would never forget. They met at the center of the platform. Unable to delay, the woman raised her sword high and swung overhead; Daedrok met her above with his axe, clashing to a standstill in between. Sparks of broken metal rained on them both, frozen in stance. Battle ensued. And this was a battle to the death. . .

Versa stared at her gauntlet. Red was smeared across the metal, shining. Blood. The armor had been rent open, for she could feel the sharp, torn metal when she touched the wound. But the pain was distant. Adrenaline flooded her body and mind. The world oscillated between being blurred and extraordinarily focused, almost to the point it overwhelmed her.

The last exchange of blows had left her hurt. As the world returned into focus, she remembered a dire fact. She was on her back. Above her, Daedrok raised his axe high, preparing to end her forever. Reality snapped into place. As fast as she could, she grabbed and thrust her greatsword upward. The sword pierced into Daedrok’s stomach, screeching through the metal plates. He roared with agony, a voice that sounded like the crackle of burning embers.

Wrenching her blade free, she scrambled off the ground. She only made it to her knees when Daedrok clutched her arm, his metal gauntlet like a beast’s bite. He squeezed, crushing - Versa’s groan of pain changed into a scream. Suddenly, he spun his whole body while still clasping onto Versa, taking her with him and off the ground. He released and flung her across the platform, and she slammed into a pillar at the very edge. It was her back that collided against the curved stone, momentarily bending in an unnatural way. The pain was no longer distant. She collapsed at the base and her head hung off the edge, gazing at the flooded chamber below. Her reflection looked back at her from the shifting waters. Like a sunken corpse, Versa darkly thought. “No,” the word escaped aloud. Defiance arose within, determination that her fate would not end here, not now. She picked herself up and leaned against the pillar for support. Daedrok steadily marched toward her until he was little more than an arm’s length away, looming. Her timing needed to be perfect.

Nerkyl shouted from far away, “We don’t have much longer! Finish her!” Behind the goblin, the gigantic machine was fully functional, and billows of steam and gas furiously spouted from pipes.

Daedrok primed his axe for a deadly blow. With tremendous force, he swung in a flat arc. Versa swiftly crouched and dived past him, tumbling across the ground. In disbelief, Versa watched his axe collide with the pillar where she stood - and decimate it. Going straight through the solid stone, Daedrok felled the pillar with a single swing, and shattered rock spewed out the other side. As Daedrok took a large step back, the broken end of the pillar instantly crashed onto the stone platform. Like a great tree whose trunk had vanished, the stone support toppled in direction of the water, colliding with another pillar in the process and breaking itself into pieces. Boulders the size of wagons rained into the lake, leaving brief geysers of water where they sank. Some crashed onto the head of the fallen statue; a metallic echo rang through the chamber like a gong.

Wearily, Versa stood. She began to chant, “Light of the Mother, Union of the Spirit, with Holy Fire is the sin purged, within and without. Oh Goddess give me strength.” Lifting her greatsword, she lunged at Daedrok while he turned, unleashing a flurry of blows. He swung his axe back and forth, parrying them as they came. Faster and faster she attacked. Daedrok seemed to tire, for his last block came too late. The tip of her sword scratched across the cheek of his horned helm, leaving behind a scar in the metal and forcing his head to turn. Slowly, he returned his gaze to her. And she saw it. A single red eye flared from beneath the black slit in his helm, like a hot coal in a raging furnace. Hatred emanated from it. He poured his fury into a mighty swing of his axe. Versa blocked, and the clang of steel on steel was so sharp that it hurt her ears.

They stood face to face. As the echo of their clashing blades died in the spacious chamber, another sudden screech of metal followed, one that didn’t come from either of them. They backed away from each other. Both immediately glanced toward the machine where Nerkyl also looked perplexed, searching for its source. Another screech came, louder than the first. This time they realized the sound didn’t come from the machine at all - the echo had fooled them. It came from the water.

Then another sound, resembling the beating of a drum; low and bass, Versa could feel it in her chest. The mysterious beating continued steadily. She looked at Daedrok, uncertain whether to continue fighting - he shared her hesitation. Splash. Something broke the surface of the water. Nerkyl shouted, “Is the ceiling falling!?” Splash. Versa gazed out at the lake, and the realization slowly dawned, followed by horror. “No. . . nothing’s falling,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Something’s rising.” Splash.

A massive object suddenly burst from the water in front of them, rising higher and higher. Reaching half the height of a pillar, it stopped. Only it wasn’t a pillar. It was a sword.

The ground shook. Both Daedrok and Versa hastily backed away from the edge of the platform. Metal screeched as though a thousand rusted gears moved. And over the edge of the stone ground came two great eyes - the head of the fallen statue. Which also rose higher and higher. Versa soon realized the drumbeat wasn’t a drumbeat at all. It was clicking.

The golden-haired elf near the wall began sputtering, “The statue! It’s. . . it’s. . .” “That’s no statue,” Nerkyl interrupted. “That’s-” “A Colossus. . .” Versa finished for him. The head of the colossus finally ceased rising, almost near the ceiling itself. Shaped like a man, the machine was larger than the tower of a castle. Its metallic body had longed eroded to a dull, rough gray, giving it the appearance of stone; the head wore a giant crown, continuing into a short metal beard. Metal screeching with each movement of its neck, the expressionless face looked down at the adventurers.


“Maybe it won’t do anything?” Nerkyl spoke. The colossus pulled its planted sword from the ground and raised it above Daedrok and Versa. “Maybe not!” Versa cried. Like a falling pillar, the sword came down. Daedrok and Versa dived in opposite directions as the massive blade landed between them. It severed the entire platform, throwing up clouds of broken rock and dust and leaving a gaping chasm behind.

Versa picked herself up. Thinking she could use this to her advantage, to bring down her true enemies, she leapt across the chasm toward Daedrok. The moment she landed, she attacked. Her greatsword arced toward Daedrok who blocked with his own arm, swinging it outward and deflecting the blow aside. Before they even had a chance to continue, she looked up and saw an immense foot on the verge of crushing them. Once again they were forced to dive for safety. The foot landed where they were, and a violent tremor rippled through the ground.

Having already placed a foot, the colossus fully stepped onto the platform; the top of its head scraped against the stone ceiling. It lifted its sword high above and brought it downward with the force of a mountain. As the sword reached its highest point, the tip pierced the ceiling itself and a new waterfall poured from the hole. The sword missed Versa as she sprinted back toward Daedrok, hitting the floor once again. Trying to turn and follow its prey, the colossus clumsily swung its sword around in a wide circle; despite the distance, the tip reached past Nerkyl and hit the machine itself, leaving a gash through several pipes. Pressurized steam escaped from them, and Nerkyl seemed fearful as he frantically worked the levers, trying to keep them check.

Nerkyl almost screamed across the chamber, “Idiots! Both of you! Stopping fighting each other - kill the colossus!” Versa shouted back, “No! I’ll gladly die if it means stopping you both once and for all.” “Idiot, stupid, ignorant woman!” Nerkyl barked vehemently, flailing his arms in a rage. “Don’t you understand!? If that thing hits this machine one more time, it’s going to overload and blow! And not only will we be dead, but it’s going to take the entire goddamn City of Herrod with us! Tel’Gia itself will swallow every building, every fucking person. Get the point!?”

It was as though her heart stopped beating entirely. Somehow, she knew he wasn’t lying. Versa glanced once at Daedrok, then at the colossus. Everything became more difficult. Her words were barely a whisper, “Goddess, help us.”

Hendemir watched both Daedrok and Versa trying to lure the colossus further from the machine. He felt so useless. Not far from him, Nerkyl was on the verge of panic trying to keep the machine from gaining too much pressure - and exploding. The ground shook constantly. ‘There must be something I can do,’ Hendemir thought. He glanced again at Nerkyl whose attention was distracted. This was his chance. Pulling out his sword, Hendemir launched into a sprint across the platform and toward the battle.

Daedrok was swinging his axe at the foot of the colossus, the only part within reach. It seemed to do nothing, hardly cutting through the thick metal. Seeing the futility, Daedrok retreated while Versa took the giant machine’s attention.


Hendemir neared the fight and took cover behind a pillar, but still a reasonable distance from the colossus itself. “What am I doing?” he said disparagingly to himself. ‘What can I possibly do? If a great adventurer like Daedrok can’t overcome this, how can I?’ The doubts shouted at him in his mind, as though they were trying to talk some sense into him. Willfully, he ignored them. Hendemir searched his surroundings, attempting to figure out some plan, anything. His eyes lingered on a fist-sized rock at his feet. Quickly, he reached down and grabbed it; moving out from behind the pillar, he threw the rock at the colossus. Like throwing a stone at a castle wall, it harmlessly struck the metal body and fell to the ground. Although it barely made a sound next to the rusted screeching of metal and the trembling of the ground, the colossus noticed. It turned its head.

Almost frozen with alarm, Hendemir strained his neck looking upward at the unmoving, metal face. As though registering Hendemir’s existence, it briefly studied the elf with its gray and rusted eyes. Hendemir started to regret his foolish mistake when the colossus began to swing its giant sword his way.

Daedrok and Versa saw an opportunity and capitalized. With an unspoken and tense teamwork, Daedrok grabbed and threw Versa herself into the air toward the colossus - only this time she allowed it - and flew through the air like an arrow. Swinging her sword in flight, she flew past the monstrous man’s knee and slashed it from behind, as a knight would joust his opponent. She landed on the ground past it and rolled. The knee slightly caved, stopping the motion of the colossus in its tracks; it struggled to momentarily support its immense weight on one leg. Versa shouted back to Daedrok, “These things are imbalanced! We have to knock it down! Go and-” She didn’t have time to finish.

The colossus straightened out and immediately pivoted, swinging its sword in a massive arc toward Daedrok. Hurriedly searching for cover, Daedrok hastened backward between two great pillars. Yet the giant sword was swung too high. It either missed Daedrok entirely, or worse, planned on it. The blade collided with one of the pillars, and cutting through it, continued into the second one as well. Severing both massive stone supports, hundreds of boulders and rock poured from the sky like an avalanche. The sound was louder than thunder. Clouds of dust filled the air, and Hendemir was unable to see Daedrok’s fate. With few other choices available, Versa ran back toward the colossus.

The very motion of the colossus created gusts of howling wind. The obstructing dust was soon blown away, and Hendemir could see the wreckage. Piles of boulders as tall as houses laid in mounds like a mountain range; dirt and crushed stone spewed across the ground as their foothills. Suddenly, a metal gauntlet burst free from a pile of rock followed by a horned helm. Daedrok crawled out from the heavy stones that buried him and pulled himself into the open. He didn’t stand. Hendemir then realized, he couldn’t stand.

Hendemir felt anxiety burning in his stomach. Never had he seen nor imagined Daedrok in a weakened state, or being caught like this. Never. The colossus loomed over him. When Daedrok had fully pulled himself free, the colossus raised its sword high over his body, reminiscent of an executioner at the block. Daedrok gazed up at the blade, unable to move. This was it, Hendemir thought in shock. Daedrok was going die.

The colossus brought down its blade. If a machine could feel surprise, Hendemir imagined what happened next would’ve done it. As the blade’s edge neared Daedrok, it was blocked by another sword, and stopped only a woman’s height above him. Hendemir couldn’t believe his eyes. Like an ant holding back a falling tree, Versa blocked the strike, holding her sword over both her head and Daedrok at her feet. Light emanated from her blade.

As though it hadn’t fully comprehended what occurred, the colossus hesitantly lifted its sword. Versa grabbed Daedrok’s shoulder and lifted him to his feet. “Only cause I can’t do this alone. There are other lives at stake,” she said to him. Strength seemed to return to Daedrok as he started to move normally again. Versa continued, “We must knock it down. Somehow. It’s the only way.”

Hendemir listened from the other side of the colossus which was beginning to realize its foes were still alive. From there, he saw it - him of all people. On the back of the colossus at the height of its waist, Hendemir caught sight of a small metal panel, easily missed. His mind raced furiously as doubt, fear, and bravery all competed against each other. Foolishness won in the end. He knew what to do.

Hendemir broke cover from behind his pillar and darted toward the colossus. But this time, Nerkyl noticed, and he howled from across the chamber, “Hendemir! What are you doing over there!? What are you-. Get back here dammit!” Hendemir ignored him. He hoped he was doing the right thing. He reached the heel of the colossus which had begun swinging once more at Daedrok and Versa; they danced its blows and hid using the mountainous rubble that were once pillars. Hendemir didn't have time to watch. He climbed.

Having sheathed his sword, he scaled the back of the colossus’ leg. His fingers and toes barely found footholds among the large metal plates. Nonetheless, he managed his way up. For a moment, it reminded him of climbing the great trees in Galia as a child. But those trees didn’t move. His fingers clung desperately whenever the colossus moved its leg. Finally, he reached the waist of the machine and felt a deep satisfaction when he found his eyes hadn’t betrayed him. The panel was there. With one hand he latched firmly onto a metal handhold while he unsheathed his sword with the other. Having no time to spare, he shoved the blade beneath the edge of the panel and used it as a crowbar.

After several seconds it popped off, and the metal panel sailed to the ground. Hendemir hoped it didn’t land on anyone. And at last, he peered inside the colossus. Gears and axles and more gears rotated and moved within like the inside of a giant clock; he could see very little past the wall of moving parts. But within arm’s reach of Hendemir were also a number of thick cables that disappeared above and below. Like a spine, Hendemir thought. He also remembered what happens when a spine is broken. Taking his sword, he started sawing at the first cable.

The cables were extremely tense; Hendemir only needed to cut a small ways before it snapped and was violently pulled away. Hendemir cut another and another until he reach the final cable. Hurrying, he sawed with a speed that pained his elbows. And suddenly, it too snapped. The cable burst and lashed out; the end struck Hendemir’s face with a force greater than any whip. Terrible pain coursed through him. Dropping his sword he clutched his face and yelled. But no one heard him over the screech of metal that followed.

As the last cable broke, the legs of the colossus instantly became limp, as though they weren’t there at all. With the weight of a mountain, the entire colossus dropped toward the ground at terrifying speed. Hendemir could feel the air rushing past him. His body floated as everything fell, him falling with it. ‘This is my death’, Hendemir thought. He was surprised at how distant felt, a detached acceptance. ‘Veloth will be proud.’


The sound of crashing metal below was deafening. It was chaos.

And moments before Hendemir struck the ground, the strangest thing occured. It was as if the wind itself decided to suddenly change direction. A powerful gust overtook Hendemir in midair, a wind strong enough to pull him away from the collapsing colossus. With the strength of a hurricane it carried Hendemir away from the falling debris; instead of landing on mounds of jagged metal, he was flung into a shallow pile of dirt. The landing was still painful. But he was grateful to feel pain. It meant he was alive.

Hendemir glanced upward from the ground and saw a green, wrinkled face standing over him. “Your welcome,” Nerkyl tersely spoke. Nerkyl had left the machine, and even more shockingly, he'd saved him. Hendemir felt many things in that moment, but he had no time to speak them.

The colossus crashed mere feet away. The machine was so heavy that the ground rippled like an earthquake, and the sound of gears clanging against each other was like a thousand ringing bells. It sounded as the the interior of the colossus had ruptured completely, knocking its countless parts out of place. Pieces metal forcefully broke from the joints and were flung into the air with the incredible speed. Both Daedrok and Versa were running out from beneath the destruction toward the others, dodging flying metal which moved like crossbow bolts.

Then one shattered gear the size of a horse shot over them, over Nerkyl and Hendemir, and soared across the platform - toward the machine. Nerkyl’s face twisted with a flash of terror. It all happened too fast. The metal debris struck the machine with the force of a meteor and tore away an entire section of pipes, as well as ripped open a large gash in the core itself.

Steam whistled violently out the shattered pipes, and the entire machine seemed to shake wildly. Nerkyl screamed, “No, no, no! It’s going to explode!” Versa reached them, her face also overwhelmed with fear, “No, there has to be something we can do!” “The Heart,” Nerkyl said hurriedly, “Break the Heart!” Versa didn’t wait for him to finish. She took off at a bolt across the chamber, moving with all her strength.

The machine thundered and shook as she approached it. Hendemir felt frozen, watching. She sprinted to the pulsing Heart which glowed a blinding neon yellow. Gripping her sword with both hands, squinting through the light, she swung directly at it. Hendemir could hear the sound of shattering glass, but there was nothing more to see. It exploded. Fire and light swept over everything. And the world went white.


This message was last edited by the GM at 03:00, Sun 22 Mar 2015.

“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.