Writing Contest: DoN Teaser

[Robodog]

As we near the release of DC5: The Depths of Norhaven, I thought we could do something to occupy ourselves. Zaogao originally created a thread to place character teasers. Let's take this one step further, and make it the first official writing contest for DC5!

If you have posted your character teaser there, please post it here if you wish to enter the competition. All that is required of this competition is to show us a glimpse of your character concept. There is no requirement in length - that is up to you to decide.

All entries for the competition are due by Friday, January 28th, 2011. Prizes will be announced along with the winners- until then, it's a surprise!

[Theorum Of Neutrality]

Neat - sign me up!
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He was beautiful. He knew it, too. Not that he would ever show it, of course. Those who waste away in front of mirrors only invite jealous onlookers who wish to bash the beauty from their skull across the pavement. No, for those of true beauty, the calling came to beguile the senses, and bewitch the heart in spiderwebs of love. Oh, yes. Love was something to live for. Love was among the most beautiful things one could experience. There were those, the cynical and the foolhardy, who claimed love was an illusion - a lie built upon the tears of spurned lovers and the hollowed souls of those bound in marriage.

These fools knew nothing of love.

He knew love like a Lightkeeper knew fire. He knew how a Lightkeeper loves fire because he gently eased past one, the bells hanging from a thin rope around his waste jingling faintly as he walked. The tinkle made the priest turn and look at the young half-elf. The half-elf smiled, sauntering with the gate of a predatory cat up to the young priest.
"How does she burn?"
"Like fire." The boy-priest responded, frowning. His face was blocky and plain, much akin to the rock around him, and not the fire which he so lovingly tended to.
"Oh? What a beautiful answer." The half-elf sighed out, green eyes lidding half-way. It was such a simple answer, so kind and blunt. Not a hammer striking an anvil, but a toe digging into the dirt.
"Uh... Thank you." He responded, turning to look back to the fire. The half-elf didn't relent, as the young priest may have wanted.
"Tell me, my beautiful, why do you love the fire so?" His voice licked the air with the gentle sweetness of honey as he rounded to the other side of the brazier.
"It brings us the Light of Eleudis. As close to the sun as we can manage." He responded, somewhat gruffly. A stern dog being teased by a languid cat.
"Have you seen the sun, beautiful one?" The bard muttered out, his green eyes flickering much in the same way as the fire between the two.
"..." The boy-priest paused, considering his answer carefully. "I've never seen it, no. I've felt it though. In my heart." He said it with such earnest intent that it made the half-elf laugh.
"You don't know, then... You don't know how the sun burns, or how true fire burns... Not like these little pets you and your fellow men and women of the cloth keep. No... Real fire burns indiscriminately. Eat, spread, eat, spread... Eat and spread until naught is left but black and silk." The half-elf waved his hand over the fire, but not through it. The priest didn't answer, but he didn't walk away. The bard knew he had him in his clutches. "Have you ever been burnt, my love?" The bard sighed faintly, looking up with a smoldering glance to the boy-priest.   "No." Was the simple response, the boy-priest seeming fascinated by the young half-elf who spoke like he had walked through fire before.
"Well? Your pet is hungry enough, my love. Let it taste you. You will feel much closer to it."
"You want me to... Burn myself in the brazier?" The boy asked, incredulous.
"I want you to respect that which you love... I want to respect what I love, and I love you. Please, don't make me regret my affection." The bard whispered out.
"Love me? You don't even know me!" The priest cried, throwing his arms out. The bard smiled in response, moving closer to the priest by circling around the brazier.
"That is why I love you, don't you understand? I don't know the messy details of your existence. I don't know the dirty thoughts that you hide from when your eyelids close. I don't know you, and thus I love what I think I know of you; what I see, what I can assume. The roundness of your behind is what drew me in particular." The bard murmured out, smiling a smile that promised much. The boy blushed, and stepped back.
"No! Get back." He gritted out through clenched teeth. The bard tilted his head towards the fire in response.
"Come now, beautiful... Touch the fire. Join your Light with your God. Let us see who burns who." He reached out for the priests hand, guiding him with all that a gentleman could provide - comfort.

The fire had burnt the boy, in the end. The bard remembered the red, blistered flesh of his fingertip, and the wide-eyed look the boy-priest had given him when he sang to the wound, lulling it to sleep and letting the flesh grow back. Beautiful. The shadows in the boy's eyes were beautiful, growing darker as misconceptions he had before were burnt along with his fingertip. This was love, the gentle way he handled the boy. The bard took the priest's hand in his own, and smiled to him gently.
"You look so lost, my love... Come, let us go across the bridge. I will take care of you... Those robes of yours are filthy. Yes. We have much to attend to." The bard slowly muttered, guiding the priest along to the rope bridge that lead to the rest of the priest's life. This was love, and it was as beautiful as the half-elf that created it.

Almost.   

[Zydel]

Ahh, shoot, shouldn't have gone for an experimental sort of writing then. C'est la vie!
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The groans of the weary slaves pervaded the still air. But all was not quiet that night.

Salvatore Bene age 12, lay awake as he heard the hushed murmur of his father and uncle arguing. Salvatore's ears had perked at the sound of his name, but he was otherwise unable to distinguish what the conversation had been about. He was a light sleeper, but the toils of the day stole consciousness from him nonetheless. Would he have stayed awake and crept closer to the conversation, he would have heard important information.

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Rodrick Bene and Cesario Sino were the closest of brothers on any other night, but the present discussion was a troubling one concerning Rodrick's only child. Rodrick's eyes flickered angrily at the makeshift dagger in Cesario's hand. It was crude at best, but the jagged side and pointed tip would make it a passable weapon. Rodrick had meant to bloody his brother's nose just moments ago, but the Draelen that had halted near them put the plan on hold for a few moments. The brothers eyed each other disdainfully, not daring to make a noise. Soon, the Draelen guard resumed his patrol, and departed from earshot of the present conversation.

Rodrick promptly delivered a punch to Cesario's nose, and snatched the dagger from his brother's hand.

"Agh-...you...why...the irony!" Cesario had been scowling, but his brother's violent route made him grin. "The boy must learn!"
"No! He is my only son, and he will not turn down the road you have. He is innocent."
"Brother, times are becoming ripe. The woman has the people in a stir!"
"I care little for your rebellion. We are slaves, and my son is a slave. I would taste freedom, but it is neither mine nor my son's place to fight. You know what killing does to us."

Rodrick's mouth tightened. His bloodline had a well-kept secret. In fact, nobody besides his own family knew of it. As the story went, his bloodline had been cursed by a mage long ago.

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The brothers' ancient ancestors had been fruitful and powerful, and were of a noble birth. They were three men, the closest of twins, and a younger sibling. The twins were mighty and conquered great lands, their wealth was matched only by their greed. Force and intimidation reigned supreme in the blood of these twins, and conquering for the sake of conquering was rampant. They desired the world, and nothing less. In that day, the title used for conquering warlords was "Sino", and so the brothers were both called by this name. The youngest brother, not nearly so mighty, and a pious soul, served to keep the twins from killing innocent people in their conquests.

Now, the rumor that a powerful magician had in his possession a stone of great power had reached the ears of the brothers. This stone supposedly had the power to offer empire-building power to its owner. The brothers made haste to conquer the magician's estate. The brothers agreed with one another to share the power the stone offered, but they secretly plotted otherwise. The twins, consumed by their greed, dreamed of their own supremacy. The first brother planned to use the stone against the second, and the second plotted likewise against the first. But they were twins, and so first they both plotted together against the third brother. The third, a virtuous soul, desired to own the magical stone only to build a righteous empire, built for the good of the people.

But the wily sorcerer, aware of the jeopardy to his estate, plotted to trick the brothers. When it came time to defend his estate, he surrendered, but delivered a warning. He told the brothers that they could have the estate, but that they must not claim the stone, for if they did, they would wield devastating power, but be unable to build the empire they so dearly desired. The brothers paid no mind to the warning, and they searched for the stone. When they had found it, the twins locked the third brother into a cage, and went along to gather their armies.

But the plotting soon came to fruition, and the twins turned on each other. The first twin took the stone and fled to gather his army. Each recruited those loyal to him, and a great war began for possession of the stone. On the eve of the breakout of war, the stone was reported missing from the first twin's treasure. Convinced that a thief hired by the second twin had relieved him of it, he flew into a rage. The next day, The Great War of the Sino Brothers began. The war ravaged the land, and the fortune of both twins soon came to ruin. But their lust for power could not be deterred and so they eventually wore their own forces down to only the two of them. In a final battle, they took the life of the other, the stone in the possession of neither.

Now what had really happened was a thief had indeed been hired, but it was the sorcerer who paid him. The third brother, still locked in the estate, was approached by the sorcerer after the fall of the Sino Brothers. The stone was given to this brother to build a glorious empire, for the good of the people, on the condition that the sorcerer could keep his estate. Before the brother left, the sorcerer warned him of the true curse of the Stone of Schism. The brother and all of his descendants would live one of two ways. If he or his offspring did not take the life of another with his own hands, that person would live untouched by the stone's curse. However, if he or his descendant did take the life of another, the unrelenting desire to keep killing would consume him. The third brother then went out, recruited and army, and never personally killed a person. With armies, he conquered many lands, and built a huge empire. He was a good ruler, and his people loved him. He came to be given the title of Bene. From that day forward, his descendants that did not kill took this name, while those that acquired the curse were named Sino.

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Rodrick Bene, looked at the stone dagger in his hand and shook his head.
"You want to rebel against the Draelen? Fine, but I-..."

The Draelen cudgeled Rodrick in the back of the head, cracking his skull. Rodrick's dagger skittered several feet away. Mortally wounded, Rodrick lay on the cold, stone floor. He was of no danger to the Draelen, who now turned his sneer to Cesario.

"Both you rebels will die tonight."

The Draelen lunged toward Cesario, but the brother was able to wrestle the club away from his assailant. The two tussled on the ground, punching, biting, kicking. Cesario, try as he might, was bloodied and battered, and no match for the Draelen. The guard soon had closed his calloused, merciless hands on the human's throat. Cesario fought for air, his breath leaving him, and the world beginning to fade to black. Suddenly, the grip of the Draelen guard relented, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he gurgled. Cesario pushed him off, and dropped his jaw at the stone dagger now lodged into the back of the deceased Draelen's back. He glanced to his left, and saw the boy, Salvatore, standing wide-eyed.

Rodrick, with the last breath of air in his lungs was able to manage only one word.
"Sino."

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Ten years later, Salvatore Sino sheathed his dagger. With a crossbow on his back, and fresh blood on his hands, he made his routine midday prayer to Eleudis. First, for guidance. Second, for the memory of his father, who had died the night he had made his first kill. Third, for the memory of his uncle, who had died in his arms during The Massacre. When he had finished, he looked to the corpse on the ground. Kneeling over it, he closed his victim's eyes, and murmured his signature phrase departing prayer.

"May you be without chains. Amen."

[Thalidus]

The air was thick within the large leather tent. The spare, dim light produced by half a dozen candles, and the gleaming ashes of a burned down fire in the cooking pit cast flickering shadows on the walls, and the surprisingly extensive interior. Besides a simple table and three stools, there were several shelves, trunks, barrels, and even an overloaded desk harbored in here. Aside from those, a very flat and unimpressive bed in the far corner. It smelled of cold and moist stone, faintly of roasted fish, a lot of dust, mixed with more, older, more mysterious scents of the treasures spread in the tent, the leather of the tent itself, and old sweat.

Shadows danced across the faces of the two men in the tent. Both of them human, yet they could not have been more different. The first man lay covered by a layer of furs inside the bed, the blankets heaving faintly every now and then with weak, yet deep and regular breaths. His lips were dry and cracked. His grey hair stuck in long, greasy strands to his wrinkled and aged forehead. Wrinkled and aged as his whole body. Merely his green eyes were that of a young and vital man. Eyes that had seen a lot, and endured even more. Eyes that had seen through decades of life, and were now looking towards the shadows within the tent like a foresight into a new era. They seemed to him like silent guides, calling and beckoning him, patiently waiting.
The young man had barely seen a quarter of a century. Perhaps not even that much. His youthful face had no similarity with that of the old man. His features were handsome to look at, even now, while his lips were pressed together so tightly they were a mere thin line in his face, and with a storm of emotions unleashed in his blue eyes. While his hair had a wild and rebellious cut, it was not greasy, not even dirty, just of a plain brown. All of this belonged to an equally youthful yet grown up body, sat on a small, wooden stool, his back crooked while he leaned forward. His left arm was draped in a lax manner across both his knees. His right hand was extended downwards, clasped with the boney, dry, and yet feverishly hot left hand of the old man. No word had been spoken for a long time, while the men stared at each other in silent communication, and for a long while this had been enough. It was the young man who felt urged to break the silence which threatened to suffocate him. His lips turned into a slight, ostensible smile. There was no humor in it.

“You are not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

The old man returned the smile just that his was indeed honest, and his eyes gleamed up with amused mockery.

“Have I ever made anything easy for you?”

Involuntarily the smile of the young man grew. No, indeed not. The old man might have been many things, but never easy. He had been a strict, impatient, rough, queer, grumpy, and often enough smelly, old geezer. And yet he had been his mentor for the past five years. Five years in which he taught him to read and write, taught him languages, forced a sheer impossible amount of knowledge onto him, a fact for which he had often enough cursed him, and tossed his damned old tomes at him. Five years in which he had been bleeding, aching, where he was tormented as the old man turned him from a scared youth into someone who at least knew on which end to hold a sword, and at least use it somewhat properly. Five years where he had discovered his talent and love for poetry and music. Fond memories. Five years where he learned how to present himself, how to change himself within moments. Several, hundreds of infuriating, humiliating, straining hours and days. Five years in which the old man had taught him more, and turned him into more than he had been for nineteen dreadful years before. No, those years had at only the most exceptional moments been easy. But they had been his.

The eyes of the old man turned to a barely lit corner of the tent. Mere shadows of what was placed there pierced the darkness.

“You’re not going to neglect your lessons, are you? Don’t think just because I am lying here, you can get through with your defiant hothead”.

The young man arched an eyebrow at the request, but stood after a moment. They both knew he had never neglected one of those lessons. Of course, impatient as he had been, he nearly had done so in his first year, more than once. Beginning was never easy. Success was something one had to be working for. Time and time again. A lesson he had to learn the hard way.
His clothes rustled as he sat back down. He held the simple violin in his arm crook, as if he was cradling a baby. His chin nestled up against the smooth surface like it was the naked shoulder of a woman. He closed his eyes, set the fiddle bow on top of the strings, and for the next few minutes shadows, smell, and gloomy thoughts were forgotten. Nothing but the calm and serene melody filled the tent while he played the wooden instrument tenderly, but yet so powerfully there was no room left for anything else. When the melody ended, the magic of the moment seemed to linger inside the tent for a brief moment, then the shadows, the smell, and the truth returned, not surprisingly, but yet with such intensity he felt suffocated once more, and had troubles breathing.

The old man nodded approvingly, the most acknowledgement he could have hoped for as he had learned.

“Good. One should not break with traditions without having a very good reason. But enough of this sentimental banter. My time is running out. Fetch my bag.”

The bag in question was made of leather (and at least as old at the old geezer himself). It was simple enough, but the young man carried it with such care and respect as if Avera’s holy bones themselves where inside this bag. The content was of a different sort though. Seven gems, none bigger than a fingernail, each of a different kind and colour, and each bearing a runic inscription.
The old man reached for the bag. As the young man extended his hand though, he grabbed his fingers with surprising force, and closed them tightly around the bag.

“Do you remember the chant?”

The young man was concerned with silently lamenting his tortured fingers, and covered the old man with less than charming names in his mind, and generally did everything to not let the meaning behind the words reach his consciousness.

“But…”

“Do you remember it!?”

The voice was angry, nearly a snarl, and impatient. An impatience of a sort he had until then not yet experienced in his mentor. And never would again. His first, and usual, reaction was a defiant frown and glare at the way he was addressed. If it hadn’t been for the painfully thick rock in his throat, preventing him from speaking (where in the world had this thing been coming from all of sudden), he might even had been able to successfully lie to himself. He nodded slowly.
The old man sunk back into his blankets, and exhaled. He was tired. Of this stubborn boy, of the twilight straining his eyes, of everything. So tired. Peacefully tired.

“Good. Don’t you dare to forget it. And now listen up. Are you listening? Good. Don’t cry for me. We both knew this day would come someday. It comes for all of us. There is no reason to cry. Five years ago our shackles as slaves of these Draelen bastards were broken. Your last shackle is an invisible one. One that I placed on you when I began to teach and train you. With my death this last shackle will be broken, and you will be truly free.”

He tightened his grip on the young man’s hand, his voice growing adjuring.

“The land, however, is not free. Too many are still enslaved. This whole land is. Grehta castigates us all. Freedom is the most precious good we have. Defend it with your life. Don’t stop learning, don’t stop questioning, and never stop seeking. Gather knowledge, keep digging, and you will find a way to stop this curse. But don’t forget your lessons. This world will not, and cannot, be saved by one man alone. Use what I taught you, improve it, and you will find your way.”

His boney hand squeezed the fingers still clasping the bag with the gems inside.

“You have much to learn still, and I regret I cannot teach you more. But you know what you must know to teach the rest to yourself. Learn to use them. The powers sleeping within them will be of great help to you, and others. I see hope in you, and your generation.”

His gaze held that of the young man for another moment. Then his grip relaxed, and so did his expression. He exhaled, and sunk back, smiling slightly, and speaking no further word. For another hour the young man sat beside his bed, and held his hand, before the furs stopped to heave and sink. 
No word was spoken afterwards either. The shadows kept flickering. The thick, suffocating atmosphere remained. No muscle moved in the face of the young man. He remained in his crooked position for a long while. But he would not have been himself, if he had not defiantly ignored at least a part of his mentor’s orders. His fingers slowly tightened around the leather bag in his hand while silent tears ran down his cheeks.

[MM]

Native to the area around Norhaven, Thavonir refused to give in to the cold that has driven most other races from the surface. They continue to wander the frozen landscape, their natural elven resilience allowing them to survive temperatures which would harrow all others. Consequently, this has turned them into cold and distant loners who sometimes set out across the surface never to return. There is something faintly whimsical about a Thavonir, whose mind always seems to be half on the conversation at hand, and half elsewhere. They are unsocial creatures with a very abrupt manner. Most do not care for their past and are content to leave it buried beneath the snow.

She merely appeared one day. Briefly noted by the keen and observant at Greendell Market as yet another normal anomality of the Depths. Others of her kind had been seen before, the blue skinned Thavonir weren't that uncommon, but they tended to keep to themselves even whilst visitng larger communities. This one, by the name of Vanya, clad in worn and torn secondhand robes with an obnoxiously large hood, had apparently arrived to browse through what passing caravans and lowly merchants had to offer. She came to purchase new robes similar her own, two of them infact, as if knowing their lifespan in her use was limited.

As she was restocking in makeshift healing supplies, or ingredients to compile such, an entreprenuing person came to offer her a wide selection of daggers and other small weapons. The ice elf must have felt rudely interrupted, as she gave the slim, slick human a flat look, and from amidst her robes and beltpouches, she flipped out a pocket knife of her own. Her immediate vicinity was suddenly revealed by this dim blue light, similarly radiating from the rune encrusted dagger as it was from her eyes. She remained poised until the opportunist slunk away. Vanya then turned back to the traveling merchant, giggled briefly, and finished her business along with a nod, before heading off towards the direction of Darkthrone Den.

[Dinean]

Sure; I'll repost here to play. 
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The fire was dwindling by the tent; the dried roots used for its fuel were dangerously low in supply; and the grubby paws that were tending to the flame were shivering with a glossy coat of ice around the backs.  He had just caught this day's meal, and returned to add more roots to the life giving fire.  As he managed to get the flame up again, he grabbed into a clay pot to which he held his catch, a medium sized trout still flapping around.  Almost loosing his grip, he grew frustrated and smashed the fish onto the cave floor, the flopping then ceased with its head partially caved in.  Then he set the now limp fish onto the burning roots, and waited for it to simmer...

Growing excited at the luscious aroma from the cooking fish; he reached into the flame... singing his fingers and letting out an angry yelp; as he pulled his hand away in quick pain, the fish landed on the cave floor. The excitement still filling his heart though; his other hand reached for the fish and he took a quick bite from it, another, blood dripping from the fish to his lips as he passes the burnt exterior and into the barely cooked innards.  And then as he took his next bite with such ferocity he subsequently let out another yip... half of his tooth falling from his lips....

He spent much time then by his tent, whimpering from the pain of his tooth.  Waking many times from his rest with the pain, he grew quite miserable.... and went well into the next hunting period without even getting out of his tent, though the hunger began to dwell on him.... the rumbling stomach aching to be filled; convincing him that his tooth was really not that much of a matter.  After all he had many ore of them and he knew that.  But the pain... slowed his start.  He grabbed his knobbly spear, and his tattered net then set off to the water's edge.

When he started to search for the ideal location to step in, he heard a yell and a splash... the yell seemed odd, much like those humans he have seen on occasion... as he looked over he saw a small boat with two people flailing their arms, and he tried to see why..... then he spotted it, slashes in the water and two small arms... a little head.... a child that obviously was caught in the current of the water.  He raced along the water's edge, trying to keep up with the boy.... attempting to get close.. dropping his net.... then his spear... and he leaped in!  The water was very cold... and he was submerged in it... but he was used to the water so he knew he had only a short time.  A little further, yes, he reached the boy!  Now what though... yes, must get the boy to the water's edge... so he grabbed the flailing boy and started to back peddle... but the current is too strong... and the boy was struggling. 

He clobbered the boy on the head, then bit down on the boy's shirt and started to swim back with both arms and legs... this worked much better, now he was winning the current!  At last they are at the water's edge, and the others have come to meet him; he is proud indeed... pulling the boy to the cave floor.  And he places his head to the boy's, the boy breaths still.  The two humans in the boat look angry and start yelling though, but he gets behind the boy... and their raised arms lower; loosing some of their intimidating appearance.  They claimer out of their boat and onto the cave floor near the boy; and he raises up the boy in his paws, lifting him to the two... they appear shocked.  Taking the from him; the one with the large bumps on the chest holds the boy comfortingly; and the other then looks to ready a strike against him....but the comforting one takes hold of the other human's shoulder and shakes her head.

After a bit of a talk; the human kneels down and pulls a dagger from his belt.... then he places it into his paw.... he looks to the human with a toothy grin and gives a yip yip cheer that only a kobold can.

[Gothic Rose]

The tooth flew through the air, guided along a jet of crimson before it landed in the muddy, snowy, upturned earth.  The man who once had a full set of teeth shook his head, reeling and clenching at the wooden truncheon in his numb hand.  His vision swam, and suddenly it was not one foe, but two, two men closing in on him, two sets of steel-grey eyes filled with both battle-fury and something else, something the man could not place.

The four steel eyes closed in, and the reeling man still could not exactly place that other emotion that was in them - it was something rarely seen among the Volsk, and its name was on the tip of his tongue.  Quite suddenly the four eyes became two and the young warrior realized that if he did not move, his opponent was going to smash his head in. 

Both warriors were armed the same way - simple truncheons and small wooden shields.  Neither wore aught but pants, their torsos naked and covered in a sheen of sweat.  The dark haired man was the worse for the fight, his jaw swollen, blood oozing from his mouth and his also-swollen nose.  The steel eyed man bled from a tear in his arm, and his shield hung only loosely, the hand strapped behind it numb from the beating it had taken. 

About the two warriors was a large, loose ring of onlookers, cheering and jeering at the blood sport - and at the trial, for this was no simple duel.  One woman was not cheering, her downcast eyes fixed on the steel eyed warrior.  In her heart she prayed to Damihra, to grant her champion swift victory - for it was on his shoulders that her fate rested. 

The dark haired man leapt away from his opponent just as the wicked truncheon swept in, the blow barely missing.  Breath panting, the challenger, the suitor, stepped backward again and again, his footing precarious in the slippery mud.  The steel eyed champion swept in again and again, silent and grim-faced amid the chaotic chanting of the crowd.

All too soon for the dark haired challenger, the mud beneath his feet gave way, and he slipped and fell, losing his truncheon.  Curling up with the fall and half raising his shield to ward the blows that would surely rain down on him, he closed his eyes against the oncoming pain...only to find that it did not come.  Grimacing, he looked up, to find his steel eyed foe three meters back.

"Get your weapon, pup, and come at me.  Or give up your suit and let my sister be."  The steel eyed man barked out.

Marshaling himself, the dark haired man pulled himself to a sitting position, eyeing the steel eyed champion.  He spat blood to the side, and worked his swelling jaws.  "You could have already won, Algrim, why do you not attack?" Every word caused the man pain, but he had to know what was behind that look in the other man's eyes.

"Aye I could have, but I'll nay strike a man, even a worm such as ye, when he's without a weapon, on the ground, and sniveling like a sodden wench.  Now get ye up, pick up your weapon and have at me, or yield, and ever-more leave my sister be.  She does not fancy ye, Thorval.  And she does not appreciate your attempts to swive."

Thorval, the dark haired man, slowly rose to his feet and scooped up his truncheon, his body aching.  As his hand clasped the weapon, he spoke.  "You are a fo--oomph!" His words were cut off by a shield smashing into his face.  The dark haired man's body went slack and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.  Above him stood the steel eyed warrior, who spat on the unconscious man's body. Around them, the crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, and soon began to part, the trial at an end.

"I said I'd nay fight ye on the ground without your weapon, ye stupid oaf.  Maybe next time ye will learn to look up and not assume."  The man looked up and around.  "Thorval Vilmarson has lost this trial and by the Thane's Law may no longer pursue my sister.  This is at an end."

The man moved towards his sister, and the two made their way through the dispersing crowd.  Overhead the sun was soon lost in clouds that meant only one thing - a blizzard was coming...

[FeyNight]

Sat on the rock, back to a larger stone, seeming to all the world to be focusing on the sword she is cleaning.  The male in the clearing seems to be meditating, the comparison of their features more than showing them as related.  She subtly watches, watches him, watches the ways into the clearing.  It’s her duty....One of her duties to watch him, to support him, to protect him.  No matter that he is the elder, he is druid, he will be Coven thus her duty is to walk his side and protect him. 

She shakes her head a little, snorting quietly.  Duty.....The joys of being elven bring with it the joys of duty.  It is hardly her fault that the Draelen are elven, it’s hardly her fault her family, ironically ended up in Avera’s Hope and it really isn’t her fault he’s a damn druid!

She knows they will walk through the Hope again soon and she will weather the covert glances of those who distrust for her features, for her connection to the damn Draelen but she will smile, she will not react, she will not cause issue for the family....all for the family.

She knows it’s not his fault, he never asked to be druid either but it set the course of both their lives.  She wonders if she should dislike him for it but it’s a fleeting thought.  Her thoughts are over run by the joy of her childhood with him, the time and care he always showed her.  She smiles, looking to him again.  She might put up a show of complaining at her duty but she’d never want to be anywhere but walking at his side, her swords to protect them both as he shapes the spirit of nature.

He seems to sense her gaze and breaks his meditation to smile and wink to her.  She rolls her eyes in return as if sitting here waiting has been such a hardship, slipping the blade she pretended to clean into the scabbard at her side, the twin of it on her other hip.  Taking the hand he offers her to pull herself to standing, all the while the subtle glancing around.

He continues to smile to her, bumping her a little with his shoulder as she steps past him, moving to take the front, the younger yet always the protector these days.  She once again glances to him, rolling her eyes and he is reminded of her as a child, simpler days for them all.  The future holds many unknown things but their first loyalty is to each other although they would never admit it so they will endure together. 

[Terimos]

   A single candle slowly burns down, casting its light down onto a desk, the soft words of a chant rolling through the surrounding chamber with a dully repetitive note. The flickering light illuminates a figure, settled at the edge of a simple runic circle, hands extended downward onto the floor, knees uncomfortable digging into the hard stone below. A slight hiss frees itself from a gemstone focus at the center of the circle, steam rising as the spell works its way inward from the edge of the ring, energy following the paths cast by the rhythmically moving arms of the man.

   With a final hiss, and then a slight crack, the gem peels outward, rather like an onion. Its exterior layers falling away, the center glowing with increasing intensity before reaching a zenith, the room now fully lighted as the energy gathers in the center of the gemstone, now hardly larger than a child's marble from any of the colonies.

   However, just as the gem seems on the edge of some breakthrough, as the light reaches an intensity so great that it surely cannot be contained within such a small object, the fact is proven true. With a sickening crunch the gem splits in two, the energy dissipating with just the slightest waft of heat. Coming to his feet, dusting the blemishes from his coat, the mage walks to the desk, where the candle is now nearly out, its flame wavering on the boundary between wax and air. With a gentle swipe of his quill, the man draws a line clean through an entry in the log, before moving unwaveringly on to the next.

[ZaoGao]

Early in the journey of life I awoke in a silent cave, the path inward lost to me. These many years later it is hard for me to tell what it was like, this savage and stubbornly dank cave (the thought of it brings back all the irrational fears of childhood), though I can still well remember the bitter taste of the air. Death itself could not have tasted so vile.

How I came into that cave I could never say; I had become so sleepy in those early days, ignorant of truth and embraced always by calming ignorance. Circumstances were not so poor for me as they might have been for my neighbors; my parents lived, I ate, I learned. Still I was lost. Here on this day change came to me in striking fashion. On this day , still so vividly etched in my earliest memories, I began to re-walk the ill path and start off in the proper direction.

Clamoring to my feet, knowing that I should leave the undesirable place, I moved towards what seemed the obvious escape. The tunnel before me was well lit and was sure to head in a civilized direction; the movement of the air at the mouth of that path suggested quick and easy departure. And yet the the terror that had started to subside in the lake of my little heart began to stir again so soon as I noted the obstacle between me and freedom. Horrible monsters. I could not bare to look upon them, much less ever consider an attempt to confront or pass them. Just two of them stood in my way, but as a young child so mislead and without courage, I turned away.

Retreat was not enough, as the two wretched things began to pursue. They slithered down the tunnel to the opening of the silent cave, poised to strike. Just a young girl, this misfortune was enough to seize my heart and eliminate all hope of returning home to safety. As emotion began to overwhelmed me, my sobbing was interrupted by a hand upon my shoulder. The voice was but a whisper, but the tone so sure and firm that to this day I have never questioned its authority. It said:

“If you ever hope to leave this ignorant wilderness, you must take a different path. I will show you.”

I did not turn to ask questions, nor did I hesitate to comply. The heavy hand spun me in a direction and in that direction we went. That first hasty departure is difficult to recall; our pace eased and quickened, the corridors twisting then turning. The slope was always upward, my footing never sure. It was an arduous trek, but the reward was great. Where we stopped was not home, but still a place familiar to me. It was a building I had never entered, one I had always had a passing interest in, though my curiosity had to that point never been satisfied. We entered.

Confidence regained ground within my heart as the monsters behind me quickly faded from memory. In this place I saw neighbors, and they saw me. Sparing not even a glance to my guide, these people I knew welcomed me with solemn nods and a priceless handful of smiles. They ushered me wordlessly to a seat among the many rows, and filled in the spots around me.

We did not wait long for a robed figured to appear before us. A cowl thrown back, her face was revealed. I do not remember how she looked, or even what she said. It was surely an hour of sermon that we absorbed, and not a word of it settled into my ears. At this impressionable time I was focused on but one thing; my neighbors. They all sat wordlessly, reverent of this woman before them. They bowed their heads and nodded when she was profound, clenched their fists with resolve when she was demanding. Each and every one of them listened to this woman, and believed firmly each word she spoke. It was wonderful.

The hand at my shoulder tightened, and that firm and certain voice was at my ear once more:

“This is hope. This is your escape and your salvation. I will show you more.”

My neighbors stood in unison, but still without words, eyes remaining fixed on the woman before them. This was the first I spared the time to look at her. Small and frail, yet her voice boomed. She was not pretty, and it seemed she was not strong in body. But every single person listened. That is what mattered. What mattered more was the only thing I heard her say that day, a phrase I now utter daily to my neighbors.

Eloth watches!

Free of the silent cave and emboldened by the sermon, I followed the curving street in languid fashion to my home. Still sleepy, but eyes opening, I resolved then to follow my guide to escape and salvation. The only answer was Eloth.

[Dwarfare]

     The creature sped through the brilliant blue sky, cresting the mountaintop and dipping into a valley of green painted with all the colors of the rainbow.  As it soared past in the joyous exhilaration, the fields of flowers were shocks of color along the mountainside blurred into streaks as if by the brush stroke of a divine hand who knew he could do no wrong with such marvelous hues.  The creature took stock of itself, recognizing thin arms layered with long, vibrant feathers of a deep emerald green through which the light of the setting sun set dazzling shoots of violet and blue to glinting.  It's body was likewise cloaked in shorter but no less fantastic plumage, and designs of yellow, red, blue and violet ran riot down the long, flowing tail feathers that trailed it's expeditious flight.  It sensed a dark speck on the horizon behind it, a large and ominous shape that hung in the air opposite the sun, but so light and swift was he that such things had never a hope of catching him, spiraling through the air as a testament to that assurance.  Such troubles were far behind, and not to be worried about.  And so it sped onwards, dipping through valleys and soaring between peaks of the magnificently painted mountain range, chasing the setting sun as it great brighter and brighter and brighter...

     The old dwarf awoke to find himself staring into a candle flame, head resting on the hard pillow, laying on his side in the large bed.  He knew a moment of pure contentment, followed by a feeling of muted disappointment that the dream was over.  He breathed a heavy sigh, and the huddled shape beneath the heavy blanket next to him said in dwarven "So you had that dream again?"

     He rolled over and brushed her red hair from her face to give her a kiss.  "Yes, yes...  Bah, what kind of dwarf dreams of flight?"

     "The kind I love.  Come now, Kraggor, don't give me that gruff facade you play at with the townsfolk."  She smiled at him knowingly, and he returned it in kind. "Now, tell me of it again, before it fades.  You never tell it properly." 

     He smiled at her as he spoke in happy yet hushed tones.  "Ah, 'Kessa, it was glorious!  Speeding through the sky-"
 
     "Like a dragon?" she asked.

     "No no no, not at all like a dragon.  It was a feathered wonder, a being so vibrant and glorious that it could only exist in the perfection of a dream, and speeding over a landscape of green, not some barren and frozen wasteland, zooming past fields of flowers that looked like painted streaks upon the mountainside, of blue and red and yellow and violet!  Ah, and heading towards a pink and orange sunset through a sky as blue as those beautiful eyes of yours."  He smiled warmly at his wife.

     "You're a unabashed flatterer, Kraggor dun Fel'marock," she said as the poked the tip of his nose in mock rebuke.  "It sounds wonderful, like your paintings." 

     The dwarf's response at that was to blush, the scarlet creeping up his cheeks.  "Don't go telling anyone about those paintings.  That's secret.  Besides, they're not quite right yet."

     She only laughed in reply to that. "I had no idea I married such a shy fellow!  But still... they're wonderful paintings.  Between them and your words, I can almost see it.  Take me with you, next time."

     "Would that I could.  The only thing that could make it more perfect would be if I shared it with you."  And with that, they turned to sleep once more, hand in hand, wedding bracelets pressed against one another.  Robbed of the dream, however, sleep did not come easily to him.  He tried to force his mind to wander towards the dream, but his efforts proved fruitless.  His thoughts turned somber.

     The only surviving true son of the Fel'marock clan and now in the twilight of his years, he was still robust and as healthy as he was in his youth, though he spent his energy more wisely these days.  Of himself and his wife, there were no surviving children.  Three grown sons he had had.   The first was a proud warrior like his father who joined the Oarthsworn but was killed in his first battle by a stray arrow without even the chance to swing his axe.  The second a smith of fair talent and a fiery temper, killed in a cave-in while inspecting a vein of ore that was found.  The third was of a softer heart than his brothers, with ambitions to be a healer (which his father, to his regret, never understood until it was too late) but in an effort to please his father, grief stricken at the loss of his other, more traditional sons, he donned the arms and armor of the family to became a soldier and went afield, never to return.  He had a daughter as well, but the poor little child was born still and cold.

     In the winter of his life, all the old dwarf had left was his loving wife Ro'kessa.  She was his world, since their dreams of children and grandchildren were unmercifully snuffed out.  And even now, he prayed fervently to the Four that nothing would happen to her.  During the past few years, she had lost weight.  The rosy cheeks he so loved to kiss had started to have a sunken cast to them, and when she would send him out on sudden errands, he would wait just outside the door as he shut it and listen to hear her cough.  It had been getting worse, and this terrified him more than words could tell and tore at his already battered heart.  No matter how strong he was, he could not bare to broach the subject to his wife.  In his mind, if he were to acknowledge this, that would make it real.  Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, a dour dwarf's pessimistic view of the world.  So he carried on with life, unchanging, in the vain hope that maybe if he settled into a routine deeply enough, so would the world, and this would be his shield against change.  Change had never been kind to the dwarf, the very thought of it filling him with fear, for change was a foe he could not keep away with an axe, nor ward away despite his most fervent wishes.  His worry for his beloved wife now gnawed at him constantly.

     Beneath the heavy blanket, the dwarf gripped his wife's now thin hand a little bit more firmly, a little more desperately and begged for the release of the dream.

[Avion]

He breathed in for the first time and rancid decaying air filled him; he breathed in the foul air again and coughed up phlegm, water, and the burning liquid they had forced down his throat.  The cough echoed back immediately and was accompanied by the rattling of bones displaced by his coughing spasm.  Sensation returned in the form of pain, pain around his wrists and legs where their ropes tightly bound him – though mysteriously the ropes were now gone - pain from his scream-raw throat, and pain from the bone prodding into his back.  He shifted slightly and exchanged one bone painfully prodding him for many bones painfully prodding him; thankfully none of them appeared to be his own – a puzzling revelation.  More sensations, a sticky substance clung to his body which he realized was now completely nude.  With a groan he raised an aching arm to wipe the sticky substance from his face so he could see more clearly – the sticky substance smelled rancid.  Deep Mother, where am I?  He lay on a massive bone heap, some skeletal hands still clutching useless knives, others in vain to religious symbols, a few to each other.  The vacant eye sockets of hundreds of skulls peered at him as he rolled over on to his hands and knees and began to crawl-slide down from the top of the refuse pile of the dead.  Bones clattered over each other as they were dislodged by his movement, some disappearing with a splash into the waters of the lake they were next to, some rattling to an untidy rest against the roughhewn rock walls of the cave, one clanged against something embedded in the far wall.  With time and effort he made it to the bottom of the bone pile and crawled to the water’s edge, there he dipped a hand into the clear water and got a bone-freezing chill in answer to his earlier questioning thoughts.  The water was icy cold, only the monstrous beast’s rancid mucous had prevented him from freezing to death once it had regurgitated him here.  Despite the rancid smell he refrained from removing the rest of the mucous covering his body.

Turning away from the water he began slowly exploring the walls of the cave.  The walls were roughhewn, and as his hands explored the stonework he felt their ancientness, the work of ‘those who came before’ as the Elothi called them.  This part of the ruin had not fared as well as those still underwater and the smell of decay filled the cave.  His progress was slow and with each step the decaying bones of earlier sacrifices cracked and snapped beneath his bare feet lacerating them and painfully adding to the host of pains he already endured – even if the water monster did not return he had suffered too much hurt to survive for long without aid.  From somewhere, Unnai-Dayuhan, he managed to summon the strength to move on.  He reached the first corner and turned to brace his back against the wall while he gathered strength for the next stretch.  He looked back along the wall he had followed away from the lake, the lake was beyond sight now but every so often he would here a loud plop of water falling from the cavernous roof high above and hitting the lake surface – otherwise all was silence, no light, no spirits, just a long emptiness that reached into the mind.  The light he could live without, his people had long ago adapted to life in caverns where the eternal night never left, the absence of spirits was bothersome – a pact could have provided a means of escape, but the darkness pressing into his mind was maddening.

He pounded the wall with his fist, focusing on the new pain until the darkness receded, then, pulling away from the corner with a tearing sensation that sent pain lancing across his back, he began stumbling along the second stretch of wall.  He fell and found himself next to an intact skeleton propped up against the wall, a dagger was caught by its hilt in the lower ribs of the skeleton where it had been thrust upward into the chest cavity by the skeletal hands that lay in the skeleton’s own lap where they had dropped after the body’s spirit had fled.  He pulled the dagger out and let the skeleton collapsed to the floor – it was a feeble weapon but it would serve.  He pushed himself back to his feet and wobbled as a wave of nausea washed over him – his sight blurred, the room spun, the darkness pressed, but he staggered on.
 
He was so dazed by the struggle going on in his mind that he did not recognize the metal object embedded in the wall when his groping hands came across it – only the clink of metal on metal caused by the dagger in his hand made him pause.  The object was smoother than the rest of the wall and felt icy, like the lake water, and unlike the rest of the cave the area immediately around it was clear of bones.  He focused on it and meaning slowly began working its way into his pain-numbed mind.  He brushed his hands back and forth across the surface of the icy metal object – they encountered a metallic ring which he pulled and twisted around releasing screeches and squeals of rusty metal long unused.  The terrible sound of the tortured metal shattered the silence and he fell back, into the waiting grasp of the bones behind him, as the metallic ring broke free from the door.  The darkness washed over him threatening to engulf him completely and with a surge of anger he kicked out at the door – click.  He kept on kicking as with each kick the door grated open a fraction of a space, then when his rage-born strength was spent the door stood ajar.  Again he resorted to crawling on hands and knees as he shuffled through the open door into the tunnel beyond – Blessed Mother, here the spirits lived.

He called to them feebly, no more than a whisper of breath in the cave-tunnel – the voice of rock rasping painfully from his scream-raw throat.  The spirits moved around him and through him and then were gone as the whisper died, but their faint touch was enough to revive him somewhat.  Then he saw the reason for their flight - a weak point of light approaching from down the tunnel, and the light was carried by walking bones.  He could faintly see the aura of the spirit animating the walking bones and inwardly groaned as he pushed himself up against the half-open door to confront it.  To his dismay he felt the door rumble closed behind him, as he put his weight against it, and with another faint click it disappeared as if it never were – leaving only the featureless tunnel wall behind him.

He looked glumly at the small dagger in his hand and then at the approaching walking bones, at least they still wore some raggedy garments – more than the nothing he possessed now.  His mind set he pushed himself further into the rock wall and waited.  He had to strike first to sever the spirit from the bones – he would only get one strike as he did not have the strength for another.  The walking bones came closer and the small flickering candle it carried in one skeletal hand revealed the garment to be a robe.  The skeleton had no weapons, save for a metallic box dangling from a metal chain across its shoulder, but the clawed skeletal hands would be more than enough to finish him. 

Spirits guide me – he struck aiming for the faint spirit aura pulsing in the chest of the walking bones.

How the spirit writhed as the dagger pierced it, he could feel its control release as the bones collapsed to the ground and their motion became ever more disjointed and feeble; slowly the spirit ebbed away leaving only a warm sticky blotch beneath the now still bones – but this rapidly cooled as the spirit escaped.  The robes and few oddments belonging to the skeleton were now his.  He left the bones and the spirit-stained dagger in the dark tunnel where they fell.  He was not free of the Elothi yet but, for the first time since he took breath, the darkness was lifting.


Silence returned to the darkness as the Unnai shuffled away, but the spirits only slowly returned after they were gone.

[ColoredPencils]

EDIT: I moved the dedication to my teaser post. It doesn't really need to be here.

If the Gods Forbid We Should Ever Grow Up

"Perhaps it's kind of like water..." Kimil suggested while he examined the twisted bunch of dried leaves that were smoldering between his fingers. Tendrils of smoke wisped and weaved in tight, twisting patterns before dissipating into the cool, damp air. His dark, obsidian eyes watched with relaxed interest as he lounged in a rough alcove of rock.

"That's dumb." Lyndir, sprawled out on what looked like a very jagged and uncomfortable collection of stone a couple feet below Kimil, retorted bruskly. His body, scrawny for one of the Thavonir, was bent at odd angles over his rocky bed that only a youth such as himself could recover from. Chopped, pale blue locks were tousled and stood on end - probably from some uncomfortable squirming. "If you dump water on the ground, it spreads out into a puddle."

"Yes, but you can see the puddle..." Kimil reasoned, leaning from his throne of stone to peer down at his friend. He brushed a bit of cerulean hair from his eyes with the fingers that held his smoke, coming dangerously close to lighting himself on fire. "The water sticks together, it doesn't just disappear."

Lyndir peered right back up. He was idly rolling a pair of rounded stones around in the palm of his hand, fingers grown so accustomed to this habitual motion that the stones did not even touch as they circled eachother in their tight quarters. "I think there are tunnels in our auras around us and it can only escape through them..."

Kimil should have expected something so stupid to come from Lyndir's mouth, but he couldn't help snorting a laugh anyways. "You're an idiot, Lyn."

"Hey, think about it!" The poor elf looked dead serious as he twisted from his rugged rest into a sitting position, those rocks still rolling in his hand. "A big bonfire burning on its own just billows away, but if you smoke those weeds... the smoke has to go through your aura."

"I can't believe how... I can't believe I'm friends with you. I don't know you anymore." Kimil disappeared from the ledge above Lyndir and curled back into his corner. A tickled grin pulled at the corners of his mouth, however, and he shook his head as he went back to watching the smoke rise from between his fingers.

"Hey, don't be disappointed you didn't think of it yourself, Kimil." Lyndir snorted, feeling insulted and a little sheepish that he couldn't think of a better response.

"You put us to shame, Lyn," came the response from above the ledge, "You put me and Djenn to shame! Isn't that right, Djenn?"

There came no response, however, and both sets of elven eyes turned to their temporarily forgotten friend and the final member of their little trio. A boy with shocking platinum blonde hair, who appeared to be about their age (at least physically), sat at the very edge of their private alcove with his legs dangling over the side. His eyes were plastered to an old, worn book in his lap.

"Hey, Djenn..." Kimil repeated, watching his friend intently.

"Djenn..." Lyndir chimed in.

"Djenn."

"Djeeeennn."

"Djenn!"

"Djenn!"

"By Djimdir!" Yes. That was a combination of their names. "I swear!"

"Ughhh..." Lyndir groaned and shifted from his bumpy seat, edging over towards the distracted boy. He leaned in close and looked between Djenn's stoic face and the book he stared so intently at, then drew his lips to the gently pointed ear shrouded in blonde hair and shouted, "Oy Djenn!"

Djenn didn't make a sound, but he did jump abruptly in his seat and nearly toss his  book down the slant of rocks they had climbed up on earlier that day. Fortunately, he kept his balance and didn't go tumbling down, himself. Wide, pale blue eyes gave Lyndir a bewildered look. Though Djenn was pale, and one would swear they could almost see a blue tint to his skin, and he was about the same height and build as his two friends, the bright blonde hair and slightly pointed ears made it quite obvious that he was only half elf... and his friends were full.

"Look at you, Djenn!" Lyndir carried on, pulling on a false expression of incredulity (and an overly dramatic one, at that). "You weren't even actually reading. Your eyes weren't moving! Are the thoughts in your head really that much more important than our conversation?"

"And it was a very important conversation, too." Kimil added in.

Recovered from the initial shock of being disturbed from his deep thoughts, Djenn offered his two friends a sheepish and playful grin. "I'm afraid I couldn't muster the sense of any dire importance in your discussion on the pretty shapes that smoke makes in the air..." His tone was surprisingly composed for having just been lost in thought.

"I'm hurt, Djenn." Kimil huffed. "We treat you as a brother, and you dismiss us like... like infantile idiots!"

"That's because you a-" Djenn started, but was quickly cut off by Lyndir grabbing the book from his lap.

"What are you reading, anyways?" The darker-haired elf questioned, turning the book over and then announcing out loud, "The Depths of Norhaven: A Complete Guide. Volume One!"

"Djimdir, Djenn," Kimil laughed, plucking up a pebble and pelting his blonde friend in the head with it. "Haven't you read that... five times?"

"Er. Seven, actually..." Djenn admitted, knowing well enough to look embarassed about it. "It's an interesting read and-"

"If you're reading and walking again tomorrow when we set off for the top, your mother is going to go nuts," Lyndir interrupted with a warning.

"His mother's already gone nuts," Kimil stated casually, sliding from his perch above the other two. "I know we've a reputation for being flighty and distracted, but you take it to an extreme, Djenn. You don't even like going with the caravan to the surface. Your mother practically has to force you."

"What you lack in wanderlust, you certainly make up for in absentmindedness..." Lyndir added with a snort of laughter, rapping his knuckles on the top of Djenn's head. Djenn ducked and rubbed his abused cranium.

"And you two are insufferably social... and at least I don't fill my mind with things like holey auras and peat puppies," Djenn shot back, causing Kimil behind them to burst into a fit of laughter, and lightly elbowed Lyndir.

"Hey, those peat puppies were a great idea!" Lyndir defended in a huff. "You just wait and see. People will come around! ... Now stop reading and talk to us!"

Djenn yelped as his precious book was snatched away and tossed out their alcove, sent bouncing down the jagged slope. It was no wonder the piece of literature was in such poor shape. "If it lands in a puddle!" There was the slightest hint of warning in Djenn's tone as he popped to his feet and started stumbling down the slant after his book, but no real threatening conviction.

"If it lands in a puddle, I hope you drown in it!" Lyndir shouted after him, looking proud and smug. Kimil kept laughing hysterically.

--------------------------------------------------

Once, Djenn would have firmly refused to believe anyone who might tell him his two friends would be dead within a couple years. Kimil and Lyndir had been there since he was born amidst the traveling caravan of Thavonir, and they had quickly become a comforting constant to him. He would have firmly refused to believe it, even though he knew how likely it was. They lived in dangerous times and their family was in a dangerous line of work. On top of that, Kimil and Lyndir were both foolish and reckless young elves. They lived in the moment and they ignored all worry and regret.

He would have firmly refused to believe. And even after the event, after losing them and dealing with what he wished could have been an impossibility, he knew if it were to happen all over again... he still would have refused to believe. But that was just who Djenn had become: an idealist who still held firm to his ideals, despite the fact he had long learned them to be unrealistic.

Somebody had to believe in the impossible. Somebody had to hold onto hope.

[Ampersand]

Hadley Harper was cold, tired, and bleeding. She traveled lightly - only the most basic supplies she needed, and of course, the tools of her trade. Her crossbow hung at her side, a set of short blades as well as one more imposing weapon, and a few alchemical supplies. How long had she been chasing her quarry now? Hours, it felt like - and the amount of distance she had covered from the Den to Gauth only lent weight to her estimate.

Gauth... not a place she would want the chase to continue to. She worked better in the caverns, where she was at an advantage. The cities posed an extra set of unique challenges too. The people of Gauth, understandably, tended not to like outsiders distributing their own brand of justice in their city. Without a doubt, those back in her home would be upset if the situation were reversed - though those in Avera’s Hope usually had a different view on things. If two strangers came into Hope, and one tried to drag the other off... well, Hadley could already hear her mother’s words echoing through her mind.

“All are created free and should neither take nor hold slaves.”

She was not after a slave, though.

She trudged on. Waving her torch through the air to light the dark cavern she found herself in, Hadley instantly recognized where she was. Her prey - a lowlife with a talent for the arcane who used his skills to mug unsuspecting travelers - had made his way down a dead end. His track clearly led here, and the passageway was too narrow for him to have doubled back unnoticed. Hadley tossed her torch a few good feet ahead onto the ground as she mentally prepared herself. This would not be her first skirmish with her prey, though she would be certain this time would be the last. In one fluid motion she grabbed the crossbow with one hand, and with the other began to trace a glyph in the air. It would not be difficult to temporarily sever her enemy’s connection to the mirror, leaving him vulnerable and -

She did not have time to finish her thoughts, or the glyph. Out of the corner of her eye, Hadley saw a bright flash. A fireball sped its way toward the hunter, who reacted on instinct. Abandoning her glyph, she shot off a bolt as she dived out of the way. Her first action as she hit the ground was the oldest lesson she was taught: never lose sight of your target. Looking to where she believed the origin point of the attack to be, she saw the mage dive back behind the rocks the must have been hiding behind.

Pain shot through Hadley’s leg, ad she did a quick assessment of her injuries. No burns, though a singed set of boots - she managed to get away in time, it seemed. What she did notice though was a long cut across her left shin, likely from a rock launched from the explosion. She growled a string of curses.

She could not help but recall her Mother’s voice again, repeating the tenets of Eleudis.

“Be compassionate, as All are part of the Creation.”

She would kill him. No – she wouldn’t kill him, he was wanted alive, but she would make him hurt.

“You shot me in the leg!” a man’s voice cried out.

Well, that’s a start, Hadley thought. He would have difficulty moving around – that gave her a significant advantage. Another shot, say in the arm, would severely limit any spellcasting he would hope to do. Hadley slowly stood up, taking cover behind a thick stalagmite as she planned her plan of attack. She knew where her target likely was, she could circle around and try to take him by surprise.

“ Look, hey…” the man’s quiver voice bounced around the cavern walls before Hadley could make her move. “I don’t… I don’t want any more of this! I’m bleeding – I can’t keep running away! I give up!

Hadley could hear the man’s desperation – it seemed genuine.

“If I come out and surrender, will you promise not to hurt me?”

Hadley contemplated this for a moment.

“Let no lie hold sway of your tongue, for deception is the realm of Evil.”

“Yeah, sure.” she muttered, jamming a new bolt into her crossbow. “I promise.”

[Daimondheart]

 

Heritage
 

Darkness, complete and utter darkness, like many parts of the world we live in. There is no sun; there are no stars, nor a moon to bless us with radiance. What light can be found must be earned either through mineral, devotion, or study. Nothing is free in this world. Everything comes at a sacrifice. And so it matters little if my eyes are open or closed. Darkness, complete and utter, is all that greets me.
 
Silence is also in this room. I can easily hear my own breathing. Silence and darkness go hand in hand as both are capable of rendering our most used senses meaningless. Usually I find this combination uncomfortable but not now. I need time to think. I need to be alone. And this setting is perfect.
 
But as is the won’t for my desires as of late, I sense the failing of my sanctuary as the sound of dry wood scratching against stone floor touches my ears. Two stars fill the black void of this room and I see my tiny veins of blood shining through a crimson hue. My eyelids flick open and I wince slightly as I adjust to the intruding light while my visage is filled with will-o’-wisps and two stars.
 
One star to the north and the other to the south, they are the poles of an unseen vertical line, but then each star shines brighter and their rays extend to each other. Further and swiftly they stretch down and up until at last they meet in the middle and form the shape of a distorted hourglass. But the light and the glass turns to a widening band as two more rays, one at each star, begin to extend to the west.
 
My head throbs slightly as my eyes continue to adjust as more light washes away my perfect darkness. Chatter from beyond the light filters in through the crack and destroys the silence. One soft voice rises above the din as it speaks into my room.
 
"Deos, it’s time."
 
Faster than I can answer, the will-o’-wisps lead a charge into the room as more light floods in behind their tails. Like the crest of an ocean wave, the ghosts and the light rush across the gritty, gray stone floor and up the rusted bronze bars at the foot of my bed. The mass hops over the bed knob to hover over the white sheets for a second before skittering forward. It slithers up the legs of my black trouser at a pace that would put a serpent to shame. Upon reaching peaks of my knees, it lunges across my white tunic and towards my face but no blood is drawn as the light kisses my brow.
 
My room is now completely filled with light and I sigh at the bombardment to my senses. "I know." My head pounds as the colored will-o’-wisps fill my vision. I slide my hands out from beneath my knees and straighten my legs as I turn to slide over to the edge of the bed. Hands gloved in brown leather curl down and sink into the hard mat as I push myself up and off to my feet. I feel light headed and swoon as I stand but manage to maintain my balance. I turn to face my sibling as my right hand reaches up to brush the short trimmed bangs of my hair, a brown so dark it may as well be black, to the left side in a loose part. "I’m ready."
 
A nod is given back to me and my sibling turns and steps back out into the hallway of the hobble my family calls home. My boots clap down on the floor with each step but the sound is drowned out as I enter the chattering that fills the air. The rest of my siblings see me as I step into the light and I’m greeted with smiles and wishes of good fortune. I then suddenly note a frown here and there on some of their faces, but they are gone after a blink. Was it just my imagination? None would dare to openly speak it, but I always wondered if some of my siblings loathed the coming of this day.
 
I shake those thoughts from my mind and do my best to smile in turn. I then feel a tug on my sleeve as one of my sisters beckons me to follow. I nod and we moves as a group further down the hall. Passing many other small bedrooms, we reach two double doors that are stained more from age than finish. They open up into a large room that is more brightly lit thanks to many candles. As we step in, I am greeted by more of my family. Grandparents, fat headed cousins, aunties by the dozens, and even an uncle or two. Some are once removed from one side, some twice removed from another. It matters little for I know very few of them to begin with. All I do know is they are family and here for the same reason as the rest.
 
As more greetings and well wishes are presented to me, my siblings disperse across the room to take their seats; a few together but most with spouses just as young as they. Life has been hard for us for many centuries while we were slaves. Early copulation was encouraged for the sake of the family’s survival and, even though we are now free, tradition dies hard. And so the fact I’m still single has earned me a fair amount of scorn among my blood. Though never publicly spoken, of course, but their eyes always give it away. Regardless, I continue to smile, nod, and shake hands with those that pretend to wish me well.
 
"And here he is!" a voice suddenly booms and brings a pause to the oh-so-touching family camaraderie. All heads turn to face a man that looks like an older replica of myself, almost to the point of it being disturbing. As my eyes meet their twins across the room, my father smiles and beckons me to come to him. Keeping up my fake smile, I make way towards him as the small crowd parts. "The man of the hour! My son…" his voice lowers reverently.
 
After I reach him, we embrace for a moment in what might be a true show of emotion, though I don’t really know for certain. There was a time I admired my father more than anything, but things change as you grow up and your eyes open to the realities of life. How I long for the blissful days of youth when I was ignorant… even if it was as a slave. I sigh and, for the sake of the good memories, I find myself returning his embrace.
 
"And the future of the Ward family!" My father suddenly shouts as he steps back, takes hold of my shoulder, and turns me to face the gathering! I blink as the room is filled with cheers and the stamping of boots on the floor.
 
I can’t help but get caught up in the jubilation of the moment as I smile shyly in response. I’m just being immature. We all have to grow up and face reality sooner or later. I take a deep breath and let my smile widen to something more confident and friendly.
 
The cheers start to quiet down as my father raises both of his hands and pats the air to signal silence. "Dearest family, we have all suffered greatly these last few decades. The Draelen enslavement-"
 
"Death to the Draelen!" a young cousin suddenly shouts out and is joined by several others with a cheer. But when they realize the rest of the room remains silent and notice the disapproving stares, they blush and meekly sit back down in their chairs.
 
"Yes," my father continues with an annoyed tone albeit with an amused smirk on his face. "Death has been dealt to the Draelen and our freedom won, but let us not deteriorate into the common rabble that can be found on the streets, if you please." He reaches up with his right to scratch his brow before fixing his eyes on the gathering. "Now is no longer the time of revolution. Now is the time for rebuilding!" He sweeps his arms out to all those gathered. "As you all know, prior to enslavement, the Ward family was one of the more prominent families. Our ancestors grew in power and renown shortly after the exodus from the surface, but misfortune struck as they were caught in the Draelen’s bigotry! Their homes were burned, their sires killed, and the rest enslaved."
 
Heads throughout the room nod in unison at these words. Everyone gathered knew the family’s history and tragic fall from power. "Nevertheless," he continued, "the survivors stuck together and made the best out of the situation. They labored under the cruel elves for centuries as one generation beget another, doing their best to preserve the blood line from dissolution. In time, some of them managed to improve their by standing out to the slavers, were elevated to better status, and lived rather comfortable lives. Indeed, it is thanks to these ancestors the Ward bloodline was not lost entirely among the rest."
 
My father sighs and runs a hand through his graying hair. "Truth be told, our lot in life has actually worsened since the fall of the Draelen." He waves his hand callously to indicate the den and all rooms lying beyond. The building is nothing more than an abandoned inn we had "improved" after moving in years ago. The den itself used to be the common room. Even now if you looked to the south wall you could see where the old entrance used to be. We just walled in the doorway, knocked out a section of the wall in the old storage room to make a new entrance, and turned that room into an entryway. "We may not have been free, but at least we weren’t living in an abandoned building."
 
My father’s words bring frowns to almost everyone’s face. Heads lean to the side and/or back and soft words are murmured between parties here and there. I grow nervous as I am reminded of the internal power struggle within the family and feel like the prey of some unknown stalker. I lift my right hand up to my chest and tug at the front of my tunic as my collar seems to grow tighter around my neck.
 
"But!" my father cuts in a second later and brings all to silence as his eyes grow fiery. "We knew that nothing was more valuable than freedom! And so freedom had to be won at any cost!"
 
Stunned silence follows my father’s outburst, and then everyone is on their feet and applauding him! "Here! Here!" is shouted among whoops and whistles. I clap as well as I look at my father in amazement. He had done the same thing my cousin had tried earlier but turned it into a cry of victory and a declaration of our sacrifices for the cause instead of a brutal call for more violence.
 
My father lets the cheers continue as he takes a moment to look at me and give a wink. I can almost hear him saying, "That, my son, is how you use your words." He then looks back to the crowd and pats the air to calm everyone down once more.
 
"And so it is thanks to the endeavors of our ancestors that when the day the devils killed Avera, blessed be her light even unto death, we were in perfect positions to bring the Draelen’s downfall! It was the information that we gave our fellow slaves that allowed them to obtain weapons when the guard shift was lax. We were the ones that left the doors unlocked and allowed the fighters to flood in as the Draelen slept. And when it was almost time for the chaos to erupt on that fated day," my father smiles as he pauses to bring dramatic emphasis to his next words, "We were the ones that told them where and when they could find the most prominent figures of the Draelen!"
 
The room becomes deafening as the candor of the family spirit is revealed with screams of cheer and cries for freedom at any cost! Instead of silencing them again, my father raises his voice to speak above the crowd.
 
"Yes! Freedom at any cost!" My father’s eyes fill with rage. "True, my lot has worsened, but what good were all those comforts when the scum that was my master murdered my wife? They were meaningless!" I suddenly feel my father’s hands clap on my shoulders as he thrusts me into the center of attention. "The only thing that saved me from despair and inspired me to rebel was my son’s actions! As I mourned her loss, it was he who took action and paid blood back with blood!"
 
There are wounds that can never truly heal. We block them from our minds, forget the pain as much as we can, and try to move on. But like any wound that doesn’t heal properly, it only takes a small cut to reopen it. And the words of my father cut deeply into my heart. I begin to choke as I fight to hold back the tears as my eyes burn. So much emotion is still tied to the memory of that dreadful day. The day I was forced to throw childish dreams aside and see the reality of a life so cruel! But I mustn’t cry. I can’t cry. I can’t show any weakness.
 
My father’s voice sounds out quietly once more as it begins to crack. "B-but… we m-must move on. The battle wa-was won nearly a decade ago. It is time for us to move on to a new future with a new leader. My time is done and now it is time to pass-to pass on the right of the first born."
 
I hear a faint click behind my head and look up as I see a pendant lower down over me. It spins in the air once and I can see the family crest. "And s- and so, with great pride and honor, I am glade to carry on the tradition of our family and an-announce the passing of leadership from I, Joasem Sano Ward, to my first born son."
 
The pendant is fastened around my neck and my father steps aside, takes my shoulders, and then turns me to face him. As I look him in the eyes, he lowers his voice. "I pass my name to you now as my father passed his to me all those years ago. In this age of new hope, it is now your turn, my son. You are Deos Ward no longer." He then turns me to face the crowd and I realize the entire room has gone silent. "Centuries and countless generations have passed since the fall of our family into slavery. Now that we have won our freedom, it is my son that must build our future and see that the hopes of generations were not in vain!" My father’s hand reaches out towards the family. "I, Sano Ward, now present to you your new leader, Joasem Deos Ward!"