Heroes of the Fall

[TheDarkDM]

Darkness fades, the stars dim in the sky, and once again the sun cuts its endless path over the Great Disk
Light and shadow intertwine beneath the newborn sky, and the promise of change lies heavy in the air
So begins the chronicle of a new age, an age of tragedy and madness, an age of wonder and hope
Neither Spirit nor Man nor Beast shall leave the crucible of time unchanged
For now begins the Age of Gods


Heroes of the Fall (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmUfc7PpOco)

But come away from the base and cruel world, and gaze upon the White City of Baz'Auran, the jewel of creation, bastion of peace and knowledge in the chaos of reality. Far above the Great Disk, Spirits and Gods gather to watch the sun pass under the Well of Eternity, the sole unguarded window upon creation within the White City. Nearby, spirits of Craft lovingly sculpt a winged ship from white-gold, preparing a suitable vessel to ferry the chosen of Baz'Auran to their new domain. Around the great circular gap in the city, the excitement is palpable, though it will be some time yet before the divine ship is finished. But come, for not every God remains enraptured by the sight of yet another sunrise, and the White City holds many delights for the discerning mind.

Not far from the Well of Eternity, scented breezes overwhelm any sense of urgency, as Gods and Spirits walk among the tenfold paths of contemplation. Trees of every discernible kind mingle in impossible configurations, spirit-grown cherry trees sending a rainbow of blossoms spiraling onto the white marble walkways, shrouding alcoves and gazebos in riotous shadows of color. Exploding among the roots, wildflowers wrestle each other for the eyes attention, while the cultivated flowers of the Spiris hold back the endless tide of life.

Far from the silence of the gardens, the Plaza of Song bursts with life of a different sort. Here, a hundred different melodies escape from peerless instruments, expressions of pure joy from the spirits of Music. By all rights, the noise should be a horrendous, awful jumble, but one need only stop a moment to notice the intricate harmony between disparate artists, until the entire living mass of sound is united in a single great chorus of praise to creation and its Creator.

But come away from such frivolous things, and thrill to music of a different sort. Within the Steel Cathedral, spirits of War practice their craft without respite, honing their skills to a razor's edge, waiting for the chance to prove their puissance to their lord. Not once has the holy army been called to meet an outside threat, yet still they train, for that is what they were born to do.

And now, turn your eyes to the heart of the White City, to the gleaming towers of the Most High where Baz'Auran makes his home. In a thicket of soaring crystal and diamond, no edifice could hope to match the sheer artistic perfection of the Divine Palace. The golden doors are always open, revealing the great court of Baz'Auran that stretches into eternity. There he sits upon his dais, like steel made flesh, his shining grey eyes ever-watchful as he contemplates upon the heavens that appear, superimposed upon the crystal ceiling. This is the birthplace of all, the true home of the Gods, and the place where rumors state that Baz'Auran will make a grand proclamation scant days hence.

No, I cannot betray what he shall say! Away with you, and revel in the perfection of the White City while you can. Follow the paths of the nascent Gods and their companions, as they make the final preparations to venture into a new world.

[Ladorak]

Amid the green perfection that is Baz'Auran gardens, amid roses that glowed with luster and great stately oaks, two broken hearted gods awkwardly spent what seemed to them to be their last moments. The silence was palatable. It seemed to stretch into infinity, into the cracks between the stars.

She bent down a plucked a rose, lifting it to her nose and breathed in before sighing artfully. It had a profound effect on Carolinus, that simple movement, made a thousand times before, that melancholy sigh so unknown to him. It brought back a thousand memories of flowers smelt and contented sighs, a thousand happy memories.

She spoke at last 'We have always known this day was coming.'

As always she spoke the words in his hearts, words that had become heavy with duty and grief. 'And now it is here'

'What will I do without you?' The voice in her voice was total, it suffused her being.

He was defeated, he had no answer 'I don't know. What will I do without you?'

'Your duty.'

'Ha. Yes, at least he gave me that much.' That was the hardest part in so many painful ways. Not his own fate, but hers. He at least had his duty, the promise he made for her love. A promise to a father who would not be denied. What of Cireo? What of his sister-wife? What of the woman he loved more than anything? He would sacrifice his life to erase the gloom from her face, yet still it would not be enough. Nothing could prevent her sorrow. 'Beloved.' he paused, staring off into the distance 'words cannot express-'

'And are not required. Always we think the same.' His heart's twin would not be denied, just like her father.

'Except in Jongo' he said with a sudden timid smile.

To his delight Cireo suddenly burst into great gales of laughter, the sound spilled out into the gardens, carrying the essential spirit of Cireo. It lifted his heart, suddenly he could see clearly. She laughed until she was out of breath, by which time she was in his arms. She kissed his cheek and whispered 'Except in Jongo' in his ear.

Every moment was to be savored, that had been the gift Baz'Auran gave Carolinus even as he cursed. That simple beautiful truth. 'It's too quiet here. Let's go have some fun.'

[Gengy]

Jongo, the Everchanging

While he could be anywhere in the White City, and in fact, has been nearly everywhere, Jongo has chosen to sit in silence, within the court room of Baz'Auran.

This is the only place that she will sit still. Normally, Jongo - wild and unpredictable - will be always moving, always changing. But for now, he sits, staring at the great ceiling.

For reasons that not even Jongo, Eldest of Baz'Auran's children, may not know, the Whimsical Wonder has chosen to look, and often times act, like the youngest. Attention entirely focused on the ceiling above, Jongo is in the form of a young human. With blond hair cropped short, and a long white shirt that goes down to the knees, it's tough to tell if the human child is meant to be male or female.

It matters not.

Jongo simply stares at the Crystal Ceiling in amazement, as the universe swirls and swells and contracts to Baz'Auran's will. It breathes. It lives. And Jongo, one eye green, one eye grey, but both eyes mystified; just stares.

A thought occurs. Stray. Wandering. The way most thoughts occur for Jongo.

But never before in this room.

The thought is a question. Curious to a fault, Jongo doesn't always understand the answers, but the questions are what are important. They beg to be asked.

But never before in this room.

The question is on his lips. An impulse. A whim. The words are uttered before Jongo even realizes it. It's how questions are asked.

But never before in this room.

"Father, how did you get the stars to stay in place? Don't they ever want to move?" Jongo, as the little human child, realizes who he has just addressed. Asking a question is a distraction here. Jongo usually never speaks, unless spoken to. But... it's too much. Things are especially pretty today. Something must be said. Somethings must be asked.

Jongo feels it. Even if never before has she felt it in this room.

[The Succubus]

Secluded in one of White City's towering spires, he watches the final stages of construction on the vessel that would take him down to the Great Disk. Khalen had very mixed feelings about the whole enterprise and none of them were welcome. Following the death of Elanna and the exile of the Elder Spirits, the White City had lost its luster, its sparkle. He had continued his duties and while he would often send lesser spirits to the library to fetch books on his behalf, he himself had been loathe to set foot in the place. It brought back memories of happier times and with them the sharp and painful reminder of what he had lost.

Khalen shakes his head, clearing away the ghosts of the past and marshaling his thoughts on what lay ahead. The chaotic areas of the Great Disk had been finished by Father but beyond the Rim lay the Abyss and the potential threats that dwelt within.

He has a sense of foreboding about the enterprise but he would obey. He always obeyed now.

[Orosboru]

Amongst the lesser spirits did Soreal prepare herself for the journey. She reassured the little ones that yes, she would come back for a visit some day. That yes, she would take care of herself on the disc. That yes, she would sit on the prow of the mighty ship, staring into the infinite on the crest of the bow.

She hears the melody of music that leaps and swims to be heard.
She hears the rhythm of steel and the pulse of the forge.

It's perfect.
Too perfect.

Near her father, unfortunately, was where the feeling was worst. Near him, his way was the truth. A single harmonious choir reaching to the ends of space and time. All songs merged together into this single tune. It was strong enough to shake the spirit, even from here.

The little voices, however, are drowned out. There's a simplicity in the little sounds of the world, what she strains to hear, of baby chicks being born and the water lapping on shore of a beach. Like missing the trees for the forest - she cannot tell the individual elements apart when they are all woven together.

The wildflower she picks up, carefully cradling the roots in her hands. It sings its own, small song of the eye, unveiling like a embarrassed maiden. She smiles. At least in the gardens, she can pick out a single voice from the hundreds of millions.

At least, for once, she can be herself, rather than a part of the whole.

The two lovers - no, something more. She watches from afar. If they deigned to find truth in each other, ever the more evidence for their unique version of the truth. So far as she knew, none of the others had bonded in this way before. But the Weaver-

Well, let's stop thinking and give them some privacy.

[ArlEammon]

Aerin The Thunderer

Aerin, managed to look to his left and his right. Hm... There were many of his siblings around him. At least figuratively, they were still in White City after all. He had wondered what Baz'Auran had to say. It would be time for Aerin to finally here what Father had to say in a moment, but for now, he was enjoying tea with one of few Spirits in White City that actually enjoyed his company, and not just tolerated him. "Ah, Mica, do you think that life would ever be the same without good wine, tea, and veal?" The spirit shook it's head, "Nein, mein freund." Lifting their glasses to eachother, as if the tea in the glass was wine, they clinked their glasses and took a sip. "No soap water this time, good." Mica lifted his eyebrow, "What was that, Aerin?" Aerin smirked, "Rose and I have some understandable problems with eachother, but it looks like we've finally made up, I think. I wouldn't be too sure about that but it looks like we at least have left eachother alone for a while."

"So Mica, I was thinking about something for a long time. How am I to stop worrying what all these people in White City think? For some reason I've always been at least half of what people expect me to be. Yes, I am a kiss azz, but how can I not be. The very first thing I've ever said as a godling was "Yes, you're EXCELLENCY!" This problem of sucking up and at least attempting to make it up the ladder through flattery is something I've been struggling with for decades since my creation. Is there a way I could stop?"

Mica giggled. "Probably, otherwise some of us would stop being a little annoyed at you most of the time. Ah, but at least think of the possibilities of your'self now, Aerin. At least you're attempting to make a difference in you'reself. This is the moment most us have been waiting for. For you to finally stop being so sycophantic. I of course am a strange Spirit in that I know what it is to have been such a thing some years ago. Yet, I am such a thing no more. I am proud of you already."

Aerin smiled. "Well, I think today's the day I'll ask Father how I will change."

[DoomHat]

Clipboard in hand, Rumel scrutinized the inner hull of the ship as it continued taking shape around him. His expression was one of haggard surrender. What had he done to warrant such punishment? Here he was acting as foreman, herding the little worker things around, seeing to it that everything kept to schedule, insuring against wasted materials, and all on a project that he wasn’t allowed to design.
He wasn’t even allowed any input! It was clear to him that the whole rig suffered for it. Father intended to send forth his own children, through unspeakable danger and past any number of violent chaos manifestations, in this delicately engraved soft metal bathtub! It was enough to send him into apoplexy, and indeed when he first saw the schematics, it had!
As he kicked and yelled at a team of spirits who were idling about, carving murals on the galley walls, instead of running system checks on the starboard propulsion wings it occurred to him. Father knew that if Rumel was left to his own devices, he’d build a ship of his own to fly down to the surface. One with red steal bulkheads, redundant emergency landing systems, tri-oscillating thunder cannons, and a support frame that could be taken apart and resembled into a defensible fort once on the ground. But No!
An outsized piece of metal work jewelry, soft as solder but with all the conductivity of a lighting rod, that's the ship for them.
“Where the blast is Haramhold?!”, demanded Rumel, craving either someone to agree with or yell at in equal measure.

[shorewood]

Haramhold was just pulling the last of the glowing blue Crystals out of the vat when Rumel's messenger arrived. Sighing He carefully placed it in a velvet lined box with the other hundred crystals needed to power Father's Galley. Hoisting the box onto his shoulder He slowly made his way up from the cool damp basement; reminiscing on the past few weeks. This ship of father's are truly of an ingenious design, it had been a joy and a privilege to assist in its construction and learn its design. Haramhold knew that if it were up to Rumel the ship the children would descend into the disc on would make the one they were making look like a clumsy barge. But Haramhold supposed that there was a time and a place to create such things, it is more important for the galley to be completed with care and more importantly on time.

Haramhold loved growing the crystals more than any other part of the construction. The required patience, and devotion to come out right, and in their radiance, Haramhold could only smile at their beauty.

Spotting Rumel from across the shipyard, Haramhold booms "How goes the construction brother?"

[THEChanger]

And near the edge of it all, just beyond the Well of Eternity, The Weaver watched. Reaching down, he flicked the very edge of the sun, and drew forth from it a thread of purest gold. It was a short thread, as the sun's heat threatened to burn the very hair from under The Weaver's hood. But it was enough. Smiling as the last piece fell into his hand, The Weaver made his way back into the paths of contemplation. He had been preparing something, since the journey had been announced. Taking threads of purest color from the world around him. Never so much as to disturb the balance, or devoid a piece of his father's wonderful creation of its natural vibrance, of course, but enough for his own purposes. Deep inside the paths, The Weaver was making a sail.
It was perfect. Beautious, a sail inscribed with the accomplishments of all his brothers and sisters. The creations of Rumel and Haramhold, the magic of Faden, Jongo's infinite forms, Roselia's illusions, the blades of Nieve, Kalandor, and Frellon, and many more. And now the last piece was in place. A golden border, as bright and shinning as the sun. A suitable sail for the ship of the gods.
Rumel would call it a fire hazard, of course, but even he should be able to appreciate the beauty.
Carefully rolling the sail up, The Weaver began his walk towards the docks where the ship was waiting. The time was approaching, but never could The Weaver hurry. His mind moved too fast, he had no speed to spare for his feet. Along his walk, he spied his sister, Soreal. A lovely lady, by all accounts. Though her dislike of Baz'Auran continually puzzled The Weaver. "Soreal! A fine day it is. Good omens for our coming journey." The Weaver smiled, and offered a small wave. Lately, he and Soreal had enjoyed walks in the deep paths, contemplating nature's beauty. Many tapestries had The Weaver woven of the sights they had seen together. Yet The Weaver had yet to weave a portrait of his sister alone. He should offer some time, when they arrived on the surface.

[Orosboru]

"Greetings to you, brother." She says rather stiffly, looking at the sail. She quickly puts down the flower back into her pocket, the song quickly muted out. She relaxes. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time, Weaver. The White City is a grand place, but..." She sighs. "You blind yourself to the smaller things worth caring about." She leaves the gardens and starts walking with you.

"I-I've been thinking about my contribution to the ship, since the little spirits asked me what I would do. I am troubled, for I am not one of great ideas summed together. I can shape wood to seemly forms, grow flowers of great colour - but nothing that would be worthy of a great ship." She is disconsolate. The flowers around her shy from her gaze.

"I feel so helpless. What can I do? I am useless for this great task that our Father has set out for us."

[DoomHat]

"Yes, it is a lovely shade of red, I'm not discounting that, but maybe, just maybe, YOUR TEAM SHOULD HELP FINISH CONSTRUCTING THE DECK BEFORE YOU START PAINTING IT!", said Rumel with growing hysteria.
The little spirit and its colleagues set down their brushes and raced away to find their hammers and join back in among the swarm of activity. Rumel stood and watched, seething at them.
The sound Haramhold's voice, "How goes the construction brother?", calmed him.
"Oh exactly to spec," said Rumel with venom, "terribly. Wait, are those the crystals?"
With renewed enthusiasm he bounded over to have a look.
"They're beautiful. Looks like your incubator functioned at utmost efficiency, not that I'm too surprised, being your handiwork and all," said Rumel mouth agape in awe.
"Hurry along then, lets get them to the engine chamber and double check the distribution couplings before plugging these lovelies in!".

[shorewood]

Haramhold followed Rumel up the gangplank onto the deck, which was abuzz with activity. dozens of lesser spirits rushed back and forth with hammers, saws, glue and tar. Breathing in deeply of the smell Haramhold started humming a merry little tune under his breath; he was so horribly out of tune that the nearest spirit cringed and quietly found someplace else to work. The engine chamber was a small heavily enforced room located in the dead center of the ship. With just enough room for two attendants to mind the engine, the two gods felt right at home. The two of them went to work with hardly a word between them, each knowing exactly what to do, after all they were the ones to make the engine itself.

As they worked Haramhold looked at his brother "Rumel, How soon do you think the deck will be finished? I know The Weaver is eager to hoist that sail of his."

[THEChanger]

The Weaver's face fell as he saw his sister's sadness. "You pose an interesting question, dear Soreal. Though, if you did not wish to make a contribution to the ship, no one would blame you. I imagine Lossethir and Jongo will certainly be having little to do with the ship's construction." The Weaver knelt by the side of the path momentarily, and smelled the flowers. "Though, your skill with shaping wood does give me an idea. The ship has a power source, a hull, a deck, a sail, everything a ship needs...save one. No one has made a figurehead yet. Perhaps, then, you could give the ship a figurehead? A living, carved masterpiece?" He looked up at his sister and smiled. "I'm sure whatever you decide, it will be wonderful." Standing, The Weaver took his sister's hand and pulled her into a hug. "And I do listen to all the songs, big, small, fast, and slow. And each alone is beautiful. But when they are brought together..." Withdrawing from the hug, he unfurled his sail. "They come together to form one harmonious whole. Each has something to contribute. A weaver can forget neither the largest, nor the smallest thread."

[DoomHat]

The Engine Room
Rumel and Haramhold

Rumel stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly to his twin. “Always the little details…” he said with disappointment.
“On schedule! It will be ready on schedule. Let us please focus on building this blasted art project father’s given us up into something functional. There’ll be plenty of time to pin on a bunch of nonsense at the launch ceremony. No better time for it. Frivolity…” he said, punctuating his grumbling with a heave and the tightening of a bolt.

[Raz_Fox]

A song ascends to the highest towers of the White City, as the entire Plaza of Song unites to play one song. Here, standing in the middle of the square, is the singer, a beacon of light in the midst of the crowd, singing praise to Baz'Auran Most High. Her voice is perfect; it dances among the high notes, descends gracefully into the low notes, and it is filled with such joy that any mortal heart could barely comprehend it. The singer is robed in green and blue, and decorated with a necklace of perfectly-wrought pearls, and her wings shake in the breeze as she sings alone among all the instruments.

Behind the sylph sits a harpist, beside a harp so finely crafted that it is the greatest instrument among the thousand that are now being played in the orchestra, her delicate, creamy fingers moving with bewildering speed along the strings, as she plays the melody that the orchestra follows. It can hardly be heard, among the trumpets and the drums and the violins, but it directs the music. When it rises up to the heavens, the music follows suit, and when it descends into the depths, they follow also; and the harp follows the singer, supporting her, making her song more than it ever could have been alone.

The song finishes on a glorious note, one that rocks from one side of the White City to the other, and then there is a rare moment of silence in the Plaza of Song. The singer bows with a smile, and the harpist applauds her, and so, too, do the rest of the spirits of the Plaza of Song. The harpist then, sadly, runs one hand along the golden engraving on her harp - she will not be able to take it with her to the land below the White City, even though she loved it very much. It is simply too big to be carried where she will not have Spirits of Strength to bear it for her. She rises, intending to slip away to her father's hall, now that her last song in the Plaza has finished - but there, before her, rises a spirit cloaked in splendor, his robes shining-white, his cowl shadowing his face. He towers above her, twice as tall and twice as wide.

Fayruz bows to the Conductor, and wishes him well - a thousand years performing for the King of Hosts, and then a thousand more. The Conductor, as is his wont, does not speak, but reaches into his robe and produces a harp that is a tiny toy in his hands, offering it to the Maiden of Dusk. It is made of the richest, reddest wood of the garden, with strings made of pure moon-loved silver, and whorling engravings made of brash red gold. It hangs from a leather strap, branded with the mark of the Maiden of Dusk.

She eagerly accepts it, running one hand down its silver strings and exulting in the pure, lovely sound. It is, perhaps, not quite so grand as her old harp, but it is all the more beautiful to her for being a gift. She bids the conductor bend down, which he does, bending almost double to hear what she has to say to him, and the orchestra leans in closer to hear. But instead, she simply presents her cheek, and he plants a burning kiss upon it - not touching her cheek, for fear of burning it, but merely leaving his mark upon it.

Then she turns to the orchestra and bows low, thanking them for allowing her to make music for Baz'Auran's glory with them. They cheer, and beat upon their drums, and strum their mandolins, and blow their horns, and so the Maiden of Dusk makes her way out of the Plaza of Song for the last time, with their celebration and farewell following her and ringing in her ears.

[shorewood]

"At least its his time and not ours spent on such a task" Said Haramhold as he tightened the last screw on the primary crystal chamber. "There we go all finished, lets see how she runs" and with that Haramhold pushed forward a steel lever causing the engine to hum to life, the crystalline matrix glowing brighter as it drew power. "Excellent. Looks like those improvements to the induction coils you insisted on did the trick. I can't feel any stuttering" Said Haramhold as he placed a hand on the engine. "We did a fine job. Well that's enough for now." Haramhold pulled back the lever, and the engine quietly died down.

Haramhold picked up the now empty box, leading them back above deck. "What do you think Father will name her? I hope he doesn't let Jongo name her. He'd pick something ridiculous like the flying pussyfoot or something. This beauty of ours deserves an elegant name.

[The_Snark]

Steel clashed against steel: once, twice, three times. A blade slipped in its wielder's hand, just an inch, and quick as a serpent the other found its way past its guard and struck. The point of the blade halted a mere inch away from unprotected skin.

"Again," said the victor in a voice like two stones grinding against one another.

"This isn't fair, you know," his enemy laughed, stooping to retrieve her fallen sword. Her voice was musical, merry despite defeat. "You have six hands! I am quite overmatched; if you struck all at once I could not possibly defend against them all."

"There are creatures on the Disk which possess a thousand hands, and a thousand legs, and a thousand eyes," said the spirit imperturbably. It stood nearly ten feet high, with a muscular frame and a thick golden hide, and it did indeed have six arms, five of which held lean blades. (The last held a shield.) It was called Umori, and it stood high among the Spirits of War. "They will not relent because you say the match is unfair, child of Baz'Auran. Nor will—"

"I know, I know," she interrupted. "It was a joke. I asked for this, didn't I? I'm not about to complain."

"Then we shall begin again. And keep hold of your sword this time. You may survive making a single mistake, but not if you give up."

She nodded, and the unmelodical rasp-and-ring of clashing swords filled the practice field once again. To an onlooker the duel would have been difficult to follow: they watched one another warily for seconds on end, occasionally feinting or shifting back and forth, then one would move in for the attack and for a moment all would be confusion, blades darting about like deadly hummingbirds as the two struck and counterstruck. Then one or the other would fall back, and all would be still for a moment as they regained their balance and prepared their next attack. But it was soon clear that the god-child was outmatched: she was exceedingly swift and not without skill, but Umori was tireless and strong, and his skill was greater. This time it was the edge of the blade which found his pupil's skin, coming to rest against a bare arm.

There were some uncharitable souls who felt that Nieve only came so often to the sparring grounds because the shine of exertion and the skintight practice garb favored her looks. And there was a grain of truth to this; but it said something about her character that hard work brought out her beauty instead of her petulance. The restless energy that filled her spirit was allowed to run free at such times, and she positively shone for it. And today there was more behind her visit than the sheer joy of physicality. She was here for a purpose. Soon they would be journeying to the Great Disk far below, and though she knew she would not grow to equal Shirvan or Frellon or Contragh in skill in the short time they had left, she was determined that she would be neither helpless or a burden.

On the third round the spirit bested her again, but the fourth time a clever feint found its way past Umori's guard, and she flicked the point of her blade across his lower leg before dancing backward to evade his riposte. She laughed with pleasure, and the spirit nodded gravely. "Fairly struck. That was not a killing blow, but you did not sacrifice your life for it either. Were I truly your foe, you would now hold the advantage."

"But not the victory, I fear," she said, wiping your forehead. "I'm too spent to press my advantage. I'm afraid I must beg leave to depart the field. I should like to rest a little while, and then perhaps face - a different opponent." Silence."Surely, dear Umori, not every menace on the Disk has a thousand arms?"

Umori was still a moment longer, then nodded his permission. Only then did she lower her sword and turn her back. Once, she would have assumed that a fight was over just because somebody had struck a blow. The Spirits of War had corrected that mistake harshly.

She walked to the edge of the field and leaned against a wall there, the white stone blessedly cool against her cheek.

[Nefarion Xid]

Dining Hall

Unmoving, steely eyes locked on his first opponent. The other two faded in his periphery; they would be dealt with in time, but Lossethir had his priorities. Decimate this one first, then strike swiftly clockwise. It would be easy once he'd gained the momentum. All he had to do was wait for the opening and the rest would follow.

His shoulders tensed and his gaze narrowed. Silently, he commanded his adversary to flinch, to just waver from his unceasing guard and invite destruction. No such luck. At an impasse, forced to act, Lossethir let out a derisive snort from his nostrils and... relaxed. If his opponent declined to act, he would necessitate action and forgo his won initiative.

"Check," he sighed.

The Spirit of Knowledge opposite him stirred. Almost too slight to notice, the creature shifted beneath its hooded robes and turned its gaze to the cards delicately clasped in its needle-like claws. As if it had forgotten which cards it held.

"I wager thirty two," it replied mechanically. Immediately, the spirit to its left politely slid its cards face-down towards the center of the table.

"Thi...thirty two? You can't just!" Lossethir began in a blurt of exasperation.

"It is an allowable wager within the rules of the game."

"I'm aware. I did create the game, after all." Lossethir continued slowly, rubbing his temples as he did, "You can't bet like that because you'll scare everyone off. No one is going to see your bet and stay in for the next round."

"I made a wager proportional to the inferred value of my hand relative to the probable hands of my opponents, given the community cards," it chimed.

"But... you made Nezzeril fold. You bet too much."

Nezzeril's hood shot towards Lossethir, unsurprised, but eager to teach. "My cards afforded me few winning possibilities in combination with the two unseen community cards. The value of Kothiel's wager is clearly indicative that his cards are superior to mine."

"You have to play it slow! You'll win more that way!"

"I wagered as much as I did to increase my winnings, Lossethir. You must now match or exceed my wager, or forfeit the hand."

"Fold," huffed Lossethir coldly. The spirit opposite him gingerly collected his winnings (thirty six slate chips) from the center of the table and methodically piled them in front of him.

"This game you have devised, Lossethir, it seems to only be an exercise in applied math. I was given to believe you were not fond of the study of mathematics. My inclination appears to be corroborated by your difficulty in grasping the basic precepts of probability."

Sliding deep into his chair, Lossethir glowered at the spirit from over his own formidable stack of chips. "If it's just math... then why am I winning?"

[Orosboru]

Soreal flinches as the Weaver hugs her, but she quickly relaxes. "That... is a nice sentiment. Thank you." The sail is beautiful, as always. It was a interesting idea. Already she had a few ideas on how to go about it. It was a subject of some study, one of the few applications of her power that could be done in the White City.

Living wood responded to her touch, inspired to grow in one direction to the shape of her desires. It was a labour of months, as the tree must be persuaded to conform to unnatural shapes. Dead wood... now that would be a challenge. Inert materials were stubborn, deprived of the soil on which to change themselves.

"If you would care to do so, would you remember me? She wistfully says. "There is the largest oak falling silently in the forest, the song of the twice-migrated fish as it waits to die where it was born, and the first rays of sunlight on the morning dew. All of this, I remember. There is no one to do so for me."

A beat. She dons her mask that goes under her veil.

"I am sorry to have bothered you with my troubles. It is not like me to be thus."

[Tychris1]

Contragh-Cathedral Of Steel

Gripping his axe Contragh begins muttering to himself, walking over to his designated spot. For the past couple of weeks Contragh has been looking down at the world more often, he could almost feel the power that he would claim, and the blood of the chaos spawned beasts that he would spill. But that would all be in good time. For now, he must train, and prepare for the moment of his descent, his embrace into the mortal realm. Finally arriving he finds that Frellon had beat him to the punch of meeting at there sparring zone. With a smile he extends his hand out and shakes Frellon's hand, "If you keep showing up to our duels ontime like this you're gona make me look bad. Might aswell make you the general seeing as how much more prepared you are." he jokes as he releases his hand and puts his battle axe back in it.

The battle axe he was wielding was a specially crafted axe, designed to have a hollow inside so that it may be swung faster. It was a one sided axe, with the other side having a spike sticking out of it in addition to the spike at the very bottom of the battle axe and at the top of the axe inbetween the left spike and the right blade. The hollow inside meant it could be sundered more easily but it was good for the style he was using today, he would let his rage fully control him, and as of such needed an axe of pure offensive to complement the aggresive strategy.

Stabbing the spiked bottom of the axe into the ground he let it stand up before reciting the verse.

Through Blood and Steel your skill yet grows
And in this duel your power shall be shown
We may be friends, we may be foes
But when we fight, you're on your own

It was traditional to say it before a duel or spar was so that all participants would understand that this was merely for practice and improvement, not for real combat, and so that friends do not take being beaten up as a really getting beaten up. Taking his axe out of the ground he crosses his weapon with Frellon and and says "May the best man win" before taking the weapon back and starting combat.

As Frellon circles around Contragh watches him for a moment before engaging. Sliding his right foot towards Frellon Contragh rotates his Axe, gliding the bottom of it along the floor, and brings the bottom spike to chest height before stabbing it at Frellons chest. He quickly brings the spike back and switches sides, going into the air so that he lands on his left foot at the front and slashes downward with his axe.

[Erik Vale]

Kalandor stood in the forest, every nerve in his body at attention, the place was quite, to quite...

He was practicing with the hunting spirit Analan, today was an ambush scenario, and he had just sprung the trap. An arrow flew from behind him, and immbeded itself in a staff he had just brought up, which became a bow in itself, an invention of Rumel's, to return fire. The shot was a miss, landing beside the spirits head, but it shocked him from cover, just long enough for the second one to land so that it would have been imbedded in his stomach. The bluntened tip bouncing off the scale.

"I win, again. I believe its my turn to play the hunter."

"It is, I'll see you."
--------
Later in the day, the two walk from the forest, all having slight marks from eachother, and a large beast, a Keldran, a slow lumbering hunter, with great strength. Each of them carried an ear and walked proudly, arms over eachother, laughing about their most recent hunt. Walking past the training halls he says "Do you need a hand, passoinate one?"

[THEChanger]

The Weaver grew more concerned for Soreal. If he would care to remember her? No one to do it for her? The Weaver knew Soreal to be contemplative, but this melancholy was uncharacteristic. "Sister, you speak as if we will never see each other when we journey to the world below. I would never forget you. And I am always ready to listen to my siblings. You know that. There is nothing to be sorry for. What is truly troubling you Soreal?"

[hi-mi-tsu]

"Faden? Faden!" The voice wass low and feminine, though made a bit higher than normal with excitement; Avyra clutched her skirts up and ran down one of the paths in their Father's garden. With the weather as fine as it was--and it was always fine--Faden usually enjoyed reading outside.

In her free hand was a sheaf of paper, upon which carefully, painstakingly-intricate pictures of creatures that she had seen through the portal to the surface were drawn. She was no artist, not so skilled as many of her siblings, but Tezzerin had coached her patiently through the different pieces of the creature she had watched today, and over the hours she had constructed a more-than-passable diagram.

"There you are! Look! Aren't they amazing?" Coming upon her elder brother seated on a bench, she thrusted the sheets at him, beaming. "They're called 'ants', Tezzerin said. See, look here...they start out all being born from this one ant, that Tezzerin said was their queen, and then they become...pupae, I think, and then they grow up, and then they're predestined to become a specific type depending on their size! So the littler ones are 'worker ants', who find food and build up the home, and then there are 'soldier ants' that provide protection...and then, when they die, they go back to feed the rest of the colony! Isn't it marvelous? Tezzerin said there are thousands of things like this, down on the Disk! I simply cannot wait to get to experience them up close!"

[AntiMatter101]

Contragh-Cathedral Of Steel

Gripping his axe Contragh begins muttering to himself, walking over to his designated spot. For the past couple of weeks Contragh has been looking down at the world more often, he could almost feel the power that he would claim, and the blood of the chaos spawned beasts that he would spill. But that would all be in good time. For now, he must train, and prepare for the moment of his descent, his embrace into the mortal realm. Finally arriving he finds that Frellon had beat him to the punch of meeting at there sparring zone. With a smile he extends his hand out and shakes Frellon's hand, "If you keep showing up to our duels ontime like this you're gona make me look bad. Might aswell make you the general seeing as how much more prepared you are." he jokes as he releases his hand and puts his battle axe back in it.

The battle axe he was wielding was a specially crafted axe, designed to have a hollow inside so that it may be swung faster. It was a one sided axe, with the other side having a spike sticking out of it in addition to the spike at the very bottom of the battle axe and at the top of the axe inbetween the left spike and the right blade. The hollow inside meant it could be sundered more easily but it was good for the style he was using today, he would let his rage fully control him, and as of such needed an axe of pure offensive to complement the aggresive strategy.

Stabbing the spiked bottom of the axe into the ground he let it stand up before reciting the verse.

Through Blood and Steel your skill yet grows
And in this duel your power shall be shown
We may be friends, we may be foes
But when we fight, you're on your own

It was traditional to say it before a duel or spar was so that all participants would understand that this was merely for practice and improvement, not for real combat, and so that friends do not take being beaten up as a really getting beaten up. Taking his axe out of the ground he crosses his weapon with Frellon and and says "May the best man win" before taking the weapon back and starting combat.

As Frellon circles around Contragh watches him for a moment before engaging. Sliding his right foot towards Frellon Contragh rotates his Axe, gliding the bottom of it along the floor, and brings the bottom spike to chest height before stabbing it at Frellons chest. He quickly brings the spike back and switches sides, going into the air so that he lands on his left foot at the front and slashes downward with his axe.
Frellon had watched as Contragh entered the arena, ordinarily he would be widely grinning, but he had been maintaining a serene, meditative state of mind in preparation for this duel, and his face only showed hints of anticipation.
He thrust the tip of his sword into the ground as Contragh did, reciting the words with him in unison.

Through Blood and Steel your skill yet grows
And in this duel your power shall be shown
We may be friends, we may be foes
But when we fight, you're on your own

As he crossed his sword with the axe, his eyes met Contragh’s, and echoed back to him: “May the best man win.”

Slowly, he began circling, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. Sidestepping the first thrust, he leapt backwards as the axe sliced through the air where he had been standing a moment before. Taking advantage of the slight overbalance, he darted forwards again and began a quick series of jabs with the point of his blade. Head. Chest. Arm. Head. Low shot. Torso. Head. Contragh was forced to block hurriedly first with the hilt of his axe, then with the head. However on this last blow, he turned it sideways and letting it slide past him, overbalancing Frellon in turn, and slamming the hilt of the axe into Frellon’s shoulder. Now it was Frellon’s turn to be on the defensive, as Contragh began a series of strong blows that could have cleaved stone. Frellon was forced to spend precious moments recovering from the strength of each blow. On the fifth blow, as Contragh swept his axe in a brutal horizontal cut, Frellon turned twords it, and dove, coming up on the other side of the axe, and sweeping around his blade to bite into the back of Contragh’s leg.

It was a shallow cut, not deep enough to qualify as an end to the duel, but the effects were immediate. Being injured seemed to enrage Contragh, who whirled around, again slamming his axe into the ground where Frellon had been moments before. “Coward!” he taunted, as he parried a slash and yanked his axe from the earth in a smooth motion. His eyes blazed intensely, and Frellon finally did grin up at him, stepping back, and circling to let Contragh make the next move. “Brute.” Frellon replied with a grin.

Contragh shifted his hands on his axe, gripping closer to the base in order to extend his reach, and let his fury go. The blood dripping from his leg forgotten, he drove Frellon back with a rain of blows. Some were deflected, and some missed completely, but many had to be blocked directly, and Frellon clearly could not stop the heavy axe blows forever.

Absorbed as he was in his rage, Contragh had failed to notice that the fight was moving them closer and closer to one of the many massive stone pillars along the edges of the Arena.

They were almost close enough- and Frellon’s guard slipped, opening a long, shallow cut along one arm. He ignored it, however, and kicked at Contragh to buy him a moment’s time. Rather than see to his wound, Frellon immediately tried an overhead slash that was blocked easily by Contragh, and then tried again in a sideways cut, which was again, easily blocked, and left his other side wide open. Contragh, intending to make use of the opening, swung, but as he did, Frellon stepped up, quite close to him, inside his guard, and punched his face with his free hand. Reeling and furious, Contragh grabbed at Frellon, only to realize that he was circling around behind him. Spinning, he swung his axe as he turned, his rage, and the wide arc lending the strike a terrible speed and strength! The blow made contact, and sank deep- into the stone pillar, sending small shards of the rock flying everywhere.

Stunned, Contragh shifted his weight, ready to try and yank the blade out of the stone. But then Frellon’s sword appeared, flashing with the sun’s reflection in a wide arc to land, not on Contragh’s rather unprotected form, but his hallowed axe, which finally broke after all of this abuse.

“And that, I believe,” said Frellon, as he raised his notched and beaten sword to level at Contragh’s chest. “Is a victory.”

[Jade_Tarem]

Faden blinked, startled, as Avyra zeroed in on him. Once she'd shown him her newest fascination, he grinned and put his book down.

Faden got up and looked at the diagram carefully, raising an eyebrow. "I sincerely hope this isn't drawn at actual size. I should hate to think of how large a colony of them would be."

[daelrog]

Dasque sat upon a low wall within the Steel Cathedral, glistening silver armor catching a ray of light that descended down fro mone of the high windows. She had a book in hand, but she held it limply, her eyes intently staring at Frellon and Contragh, pale, calm eyes. Now that the time of their departure was drawing near, she found it more and more difficult to read, her mind distracted by what was to come. That, and there were other things she wished to learn.

In fact, of late she had even been distant around her own siblings. Her amiable nature remained, but whereas before she had always given her siblings her utmost attention when they spoke, they now knew that other things were on their mind. It was understandable, but uncharacteristic of her.

She sat in silence watching them, no expression save indifference on her face, even when the fight ended.

[Raz_Fox]

Soreal flinches as the Weaver hugs her, but she quickly relaxes. "That... is a nice sentiment. Thank you." The sail is beautiful, as always. It was a interesting idea. Already she had a few ideas on how to go about it. It was a subject of some study, one of the few applications of her power that could be done in the White City.

Living wood responded to her touch, inspired to grow in one direction to the shape of her desires. It was a labour of months, as the tree must be persuaded to conform to unnatural shapes. Dead wood... now that would be a challenge. Inert materials were stubborn, deprived of the soil on which to change themselves.

"If you would care to do so, would you remember me? She wistfully says. "There is the largest oak falling silently in the forest, the song of the twice-migrated fish as it waits to die where it was born, and the first rays of sunlight on the morning dew. All of this, I remember. There is no one to do so for me."

A beat. She dons her mask that goes under her veil.

"I am sorry to have bothered you with my troubles. It is not like me to be thus."

The Maiden of Dusk wanders through the garden, trusting in fate to be her guide. Her harp rests upon her hip, the fine leather resting snugly against one shoulder, running across the breast of her fine gown. Her smile seems just as sweet, to those who run across her as she steps aimlessly through the flowers and says farewell to them all, as the fragrance of the brightest roses and orchids that Baz'Auran has made.

And here, now, she is brought to two of her siblings, not seeing them until she is almost directly upon them, at which point she blinks in surprise and then her bright smile grows even wider. "Good afternoon, sister, brother! Or morning, I suppose, I haven't kept mindful of the time, but the lilies are all raising their heads towards the sky, so I suppose it must be afternoon- but it's still good to see you, whatever the hour!" She tilts her head, letting her black tresses run down her arm, and drinks in the sight of her brother's sail. "Oh, Weaver," she says, after a moment in amazed contemplation, "This is for the ship, isn't it? It's wonderful! See, Soreal, how the colors shimmer in the light? How marvelously detailed it is? Oh, Weaver, it's magnificent! Are you going to show Father? You must - he'll love it!"

Now she turns her attention to Soreal. "Are you ready, sister? I don't know whatever to bring- but I'm sure you already have your bowstrings readied and your veils pressed, and you know what you're going to do when we descend!" And, now, someone who might be paying close attention to Fayruz, someone who knew her moods and her unsaid words, might notice a slight slip of her smile, a flash of uncertainty and doubt - one only there for a moment, though, before she pushes it aside, focusing on her big sister and any problems she might have, any uncertainties that Soreal may be feeling before their descent.

But the solid truth of the matter is that Fayruz, the Maiden of Dusk and the cupbearer of Baz'Auran who sits at his left at the meal and tastes his wine before he drinks it, does not know what she is to do beneath the White City, much less what she must take with her. Her chest with golden bands lies empty, flawless garments scattered about it; an ill-fated bow and a quiver of arrows lies against it, and she has placed in the chest a dozen times, and removed it a dozen more; and time after time she comes to it, declaring that she will ready herself for the journey, only to leave her chambers without choosing any thing to bring with her. For how can she know what to prepare for when she does not know why Baz'Auran sends her with her elder brothers and sisters?

Maybe he will tell her at the next banquet, she tells herself. Yes, he shall! He will turn to her, glorious and powerful and loving, and tell her why he is sending her with her older siblings. He will explain to her that she is to be the muse who inspires the poor, weak mortals to sing praises to Baz'Auran Most High, or that she is to be his voice on the earth below and maintain harmony over her siblings, or that she is his gift to humanity, a loving Princess of the White City to guide them. Oh, yes! She would not need to fight the monsters of the darkest chaos, she would not need to embarrass herself with her feeble archery or her faltering swordplay, she would not need to kill any thing, no matter how opposed to her father it was.

And, most important of all, she would have a purpose. She would not just be like a painting made by the greatest Craftseraphs, beautiful and fragile, or like one of the Weaver's tapestries, shimmering and bright and without strength, able to be pushed aside or folded up, a mere decoration in Baz'Auran's court. She tells herself, every now and then, that she is not, that she is one of Baz'Auran's fated children, that he has a plan in mind for her that is just as important as the plan he makes for Jongo and Faden and Contragh.

But she is lying to herself. And she is the only one who is fooled by the lie.

[DoomHat]

The Ship Under Construction
Rumel and Haramhold

"Excellent. Looks like those improvements to the induction coils you insisted on did the trick. I can't feel any stuttering" Said Haramhold as he placed a hand on the engine. "We did a fine job. Well that's enough for now."
Haramhold pulled back the lever, and the engine quietly died down.

“Hmph,” Rumel said, with equal parts satisfaction and disdain, “well I'll grant that it’s a damn sight more stable, but we’d do well to insure they don‘t cause any heating problems tomorrow, or power inefficiency for that matter. Can’t afford any unexpected hiccups...”.
He sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm. He wrestled his personal Chronometer from his left front tool belt and checked it. The current position of it’s complicated rotating dials told him it was now 7Tocks and 3Ticks past MiddleDay-SunUp. Evening was upon them.
“I suppose your right about packing it in… we‘ve forgotten to eat lunch again. Fortunately though, looks like it's dinner time.” He remarked with some chipperness.

Haramhold picked up the now empty box, leading them back above deck. "What do you think Father will name her? I hope he doesn't let Jongo name her. He'd pick something ridiculous like the flying pussyfoot or something. This beauty of ours deserves an elegant name,".

"Oh I'm sure Father has something in mind," replied Rumel as they stepped out into the nearing twilight air, "He's no doubt saving it for his big, 'Well it's been swell kids, have fun dodging monsters in the wilderness for the rest of your days!' speech,".

[shorewood]

The Ship Under Construction
Rumel and Haramhold

"Lets leave the dodging of monster business to Contragh, Frellon, Carolinus, Dasque, and Nieve. We wouldn't want to spoil their fun after all. Someone will have to stay behind and build our new home. I hardly think that this ship of ours is an appropriate permanent residence. Although I think that Kalandor wouldn't mind that at all. " said Haramhold as they reached the galley's deck. Haramhold was about to suggest that they check the coolant system the spirits had been working on before they turned in for the night but his rumbling stomach dissuaded him. After all they had plenty of time to do that later.

By the time the two of them had made their way to the dinning hall the two of them were lively debating the merits of some obscure details for the ships design. Those familiar with the siblings would recognize the old pattern of the argument. Rumel insisted on replacing a vital component with an untested improvement while Haramhold stubbornly held the ground that they should stick to what they knew how to make and merely improve on the existing design.

Dodging past a pair of Culinary spirits the two brothers entered the dinning hall, savoring the smell of the culinary delights overflowing the tables.

[The Succubus]

Khalen grew restless in the tower. He had no great skill in arms or craft and felt there was little he could to help in the construction of the great vessel. Yet he still wished to do his duty by Father and contribute somehow. He resolved to go and speak with Father, that he might learn his will.

As Khalen entered the court room, he saw he was not alone. A small figure sat in the centre, gazing up at the Crystal Ceiling, seemingly entranced by the view.

Jongo.

Khalen ground his teeth. While he was never the centre of attention in any group Khalen did try to get along with his siblings. Yet something about Jongo constantly provoked him. It was restless, indecisive and could never settle on one form when speaking with others. Yet here it was, staying in one form and staying in one place. Khalen was curious.

"Father, how did you get the stars to stay in place? Don't they ever want to move?" it said.

Khalen walked toward the small figure. "They stay in place because it is their duty. They watch over us and guide us. If they all went hither and thither according to their whims, we would become lost and they would have failed in their task."

[Gengy]

Jongo didn't take his eyes off of the Crystal Ceiling. It twirled, and it spun, and Jongo knew it contained a view of everything; but a thought from Baz'Auran was all it took.

Still, Jongo heard her brother Khalen-Het respond to the question. And an answer such as that deserved another answer... or another question. Jongo wasn't sure of which.

So he did both.

"A well worded answer, Brother. So, then, the rare shooting star, the one that Spirits and Mortals alike have made wishes upon... They wish upon failure?" Jongo finally turned, and she smiled upon Khalen-Het, green and grey eye twinkling with mischief.

[The Succubus]

Khalen scowled. It was just like Jongo to instantly see the weak point in an argument and run off in a different direction. He paused for a moment before replying.

"Indeed they do. Wishes are the hopes of fools that lack the courage or strength to seize their hearts' desires. Wishes are fickle and insubstantial, like the wind. Courage and strength are the stone and earth; they nourish, they protect - what good does the fickle wind do?"

[Gengy]

Oh what fun, Khalen-Het is! Jongo could see his younger brother scowling and thinking. Though not as skilled as Rose, Jongo knew words - word spoken in thoughtful conversation - slowly made the world change.

And so Jongo thought carefully before answering. Which, looking like a child, meant sticking out her tongue in concentration. Finally, he spoke. She did not look at Khalen-Het this time, only turned back towards the ceiling.

"What good is the fickle wind? It brings the refreshing breeze. It dances with the clouds. The fickle wind brings the storms that moves the rain that feeds the grass. It is the fickle wind the can blow out a fire, or raise it higher. It is the fickle wind, that, when it sets it's mind to it, can move the stone and the earth.

Soreal and Aerin rely on the fickle wind. In it, there is life. And life without hope is not a life worth protecting. One must wish for the thing they want first, before they gather their courage. For how can you seize your heart's desire, if you don't know what it is? That, brother, is fickle.

The strong get strong, because they saw weakness in themselves, and wished to be better. The courageous are brave only because they hope to make their fears go away.

And when they charge in, to chase away their fears... they have the wind at their backs, blowing them onwards.

Like a cactus! Or is that soap? Ooooh! Now I'm hungry." Jongo turned to Khalen-Het and grinned again, speech apparently forgotten already.

Or not. "And besides, who wants to be a rock? Rocks are boring."

[Tychris1]

Contragh- The Steel Cathedral

Staring at his axe in disbelief he let's out a sigh followed with inaudible grumbles. Holding the now useless shaft of the axe he tosses it away and says "Bloody useless weapon, breaks before I can even get my tempo going, next time I need a weapon I'll get Rumel to invent some kind of triple heading axe that shoots out spikes and spins the blades around." grabbing a hold of the embedded axe he shifts his weight and tears it free from the pillar, chucking it away a good several yards. With a new found smile he congratulates Frellon for the victory before saying "Now, how about we go and get patched up So that we don't look like crap for fathers grand farewell speech."

Contragh begins walking to the medical tent positioned not too far from the fight but stops when he notices Dasque. Looking down at her he asks "What's that you have there?" pointing his right finger at the book in her hands.

Contragh-Dias of Creation (Pre Battle)

Sitting in Baz'Aurans presence was a serenading feeling, as if a ocean of peace and order washed over Contragh and settled all his emotions. He had sat down on the ground, his legs crossed, and his soon to be destroyed axe lying balanced across his lap. He wasn't to far away from Jongo, as he had wanted to be sure that he could keep an eye on him whilst Contragh watched the universe change to Baz'Aurans will. This peace and tranquility was interrupted however, with the propsect of a question from Jongo. Sighing, Contragh looks at Jongo and contemplates answering the question. But the opportunity I'd snatched away from Contragh as Khalen-Het begins a word duel with Jongo. Listening intently to their debate Contragh can take no more and let's out a short laugh at Jongo's ridiculous trumping of Khalen-Het.

With his laugh out Contragh looks towards Khalen-Het and says "I must agree with Jongo on this sentiment, without the wind my ships would be useless and soldiers would be forced to slow down due to the uncomftorable conditions." with a slight smile on his face he returns to looking at the cieling and gliding his hands over his axe.

[hi-mi-tsu]

Faden blinked, startled, as Avyra zeroed in on him. Once she'd shown him her newest fascination, he grinned and put his book down.

Faden got up and looked at the diagram carefully, raising an eyebrow. "I sincerely hope this isn't drawn at actual size. I should hate to think of how large a colony of them would be."

"Of course not! I had to draw them that big to get all the detail!" Avyra settled down on the bench next to Faden, pointing out the jointed bodies, the multiple legs, the antennae; they were fascinating to her, and her elder brother had always been willing to indulge her when she rambled on about the strange creatures she saw on the surface. But she paused, after her description, and a serious expression crossed her face.

"Faden," she began, looking up at him, "do you ever wonder what will happen to us on the Disk...? We are not like Father, or the spirits...we grow weary, and hungry, and need food and sleep. The spirits do not, though they eat with us when we call for their company...do you ever...do you ever think what could happen if we die? Tezzerin says that's what happens to these creatures, they die and then they're returned to the earth...but then...what's after that? I...I mean...do you come back? Or are you just...just...gone?"

Her expression grew more and more distressed, and she stared down at the papers in her hands. "Some of the things down there are dangerous. 'Hunters', Tezzerin said. They kill other animals. I...I am no good with sword, nor bow, nor dagger. I...I would not be able to defend myself. ...Faden, I know...I know that it is a great honor to be able to go down to the Disk, and I am excited, but...I am scared, also. Are you? Does it not seem scary...?"

[Jade_Tarem]

"Of course not! I had to draw them that big to get all the detail!" Avyra settled down on the bench next to Faden, pointing out the jointed bodies, the multiple legs, the antennae; they were fascinating to her, and her elder brother had always been willing to indulge her when she rambled on about the strange creatures she saw on the surface. But she paused, after her description, and a serious expression crossed her face.

"Faden," she began, looking up at him, "do you ever wonder what will happen to us on the Disk...? We are not like Father, or the spirits...we grow weary, and hungry, and need food and sleep. The spirits do not, though they eat with us when we call for their company...do you ever...do you ever think what could happen if we die? Tezzerin says that's what happens to these creatures, they die and then they're returned to the earth...but then...what's after that? I...I mean...do you come back? Or are you just...just...gone?"

Her expression grew more and more distressed, and she stared down at the papers in her hands. "Some of the things down there are dangerous. 'Hunters', Tezzerin said. They kill other animals. I...I am no good with sword, nor bow, nor dagger. I...I would not be able to defend myself. ...Faden, I know...I know that it is a great honor to be able to go down to the Disk, and I am excited, but...I am scared, also. Are you? Does it not seem scary...?"

Faden pauses for a moment after Avyra poses her questions. "There is some anxiety. And more than a little mystery." He paces back and forth across the path before focusing, and the sheet with the ant on it crawls up one of the hedge walls and hangs there. "The difference between us and the ants and the animals and the hunters is nothing more or less than our own natures. We are the Children of Baz'Auran, with our unique place in his plan, and they are mortal creatures with their own place. Does that make us intrinsically better? I don't know. Does that make us immune to death itself? Probably not. But then..." The sheet flips from the hedge into his hand before bursting into bluish flame, which doesn't seem to bother Faden in the slightest, and continues burning as he talks until it's consumed. "...father hasn't shown us everything - not through Tezzerin or Eliat or any of the other spirits."

"Perhaps there is some better world waiting beyond the grave. Perhaps, like the ants, those that die are absorbed into what made them, to be used as building blocks for newer, better things. Perhaps there is nothingness past that point. Maybe whatever is destroyed ultimately comes back. Or maybe..." Faden displays his open hands to Avyra before clapping them together and drawing them apart slowly - revealing her rolled up ant drawings in the process and a sly grin. "...it was never truly gone to begin with."

[daelrog]

Dasque stared at Comoragh a moment longer than necessary before responding. "A catalogue of the monsters below, written by the spirits who dwell there on our Father's behalf." She put the book next to her, closing the cover. "Quite enlightening really, madness and cruelty given so many forms. Still, there naught to be done but rise to meet the challenges of our calling." She looked behind him at the mark the axe left. In a moment, her eyes seemed to flash with a hundred thoughts at once. "You're right about the weapon, but it is only half at fault. If you wield an inferior blade, you must change your own movements to accomodate for it." She shurgged her shoulders casually. "Either that, or make sure you do see Rumel before we head out."

Dasque smiled at the last, her normal self shining that moment. Calm, yet warm. Cutting, yet caring. However, her thoughts betrayed her and the smile went away, lost behind her own thoughts of their departure.

[Gengy]

Contragh-Dias of Creation (Pre Battle)

Sitting in Baz'Aurans presence was a serenading feeling, as if a ocean of peace and order washed over Contragh and settled all his emotions. He had sat down on the ground, his legs crossed, and his soon to be destroyed axe lying balanced across his lap. He wasn't to far away from Jongo, as he had wanted to be sure that he could keep an eye on him whilst Contragh watched the universe change to Baz'Aurans will. This peace and tranquility was interrupted however, with the propsect of a question from Jongo. Sighing, Contragh looks at Jongo and contemplates answering the question. But the opportunity I'd snatched away from Contragh as Khalen-Het begins a word duel with Jongo. Listening intently to their debate Contragh can take no more and let's out a short laugh at Jongo's ridiculous trumping of Khalen-Het.

With his laugh out Contragh looks towards Khalen-Het and says "I must agree with Jongo on this sentiment, without the wind my ships would be useless and soldiers would be forced to slow down due to the uncomftorable conditions." with a slight smile on his face he returns to looking at the cieling and gliding his hands over his axe.

"Like having their belts chafing their armpits! Well said, Bunny!" Jongo giggled, pleased to have Contragh join the conversation.

"More importantly, Khalen-Fish, if the stars are doing their duty by staying in one place, then what of when it is day? Do they get their rest, as they twinkle out to sleep?"

[KiCowboy]

Oh what bliss! What sheer and decadent delight! Every chord played, every note sung, brought together into such pure companionship!

"Raise your glasses friends! May this symphony of unity ever remind us of our great father's unending and binding love! Take it to memory, and we will never be apart no matter how far our journeys take us!"

There were a thousand dances to dance. A thousand sweet farewells to share. No face that looked upon Brandis could help but yield a smile. Bright blue eyes full of excitement set upon everyone he stopped to visit, wordlessly reminding them of how very perfect they were in that moment.

But such merriment and well wishing could make even stoutest of men grow weary on an empty stomach. It was ever so short a walk to the dining hall, yet it took ever so long to get there. So many people to talk to, and no desire to leave anyone forgotten . . .

When finally he burst through the doors, Brandis was finishing a chorus he had quite forgotten starting. His belly growled, pulling him onwards, but . . .

"Lossethir! This game of yours is the very best! Surely you don't mind your little brother joining in for a hand eh? Oh stop scowling Nezzeril, 'tis all good fun!"


His strategy was ingenious. He absolutely had to spend some time with his brother. But the culinary delights were sooooooo close . . . . Their every smell enticing him . . . He never even bothered looking at his cards.

"All in! Blind Nill or something like that right? One moment and I'll have us all another round and a plate to share!"

[The Succubus]

"Like having their belts chafing their armpits! Well said, Bunny!" Jongo giggled, pleased to have Contragh join the conversation.

"More importantly, Khalen-Fish, if the stars are doing their duty by staying in one place, then what of when it is day? Do they get their rest, as they twinkle out to sleep?"

Khalen ground his teeth. The creature had made a good point but he was far from defeated yet.

"The stars do not rest. They maintain their watch, yet make way for the Eye of Baz'Aurun, who is both their brother and lord. His glory may outshine theirs but they wait patiently and obediantly for their lord's departure, ready to resume their duty at his command."

Khalen turns to his brother. "It is the same on the battlefield, is not? The mighty general may lead the charge into the fray, his valour and courage surpassing the footsoldiers, yet they do not disappear just because he is there."

[Gengy]

Khalen ground his teeth. The creature had made a good point but he was far from defeated yet.

"The stars do not rest. They maintain their watch, yet make way for the Eye of Baz'Aurun, who is both their brother and lord. His glory may outshine theirs but they wait patiently and obediantly for their lord's departure, ready to resume their duty at his command."

Khalen turns to his brother. "It is the same on the battlefield, is not? The mighty general may lead the charge into the fray, his valour and courage surpassing the footsoldiers, yet they do not disappear just because he is there."

"The sun outshines the stars, and the one glory outstrips the other? Perhaps. Perhaps. And there are certainly those who enjoy the gaze of the Eye of our Father upon them. Yet there are plants that only grow in the moonlight, and bloom only at night, and they are just as beautiful, don't you think? Aramar and Fayruz would agree, most likely, and they know more about the night sky then you or I.

Although... I know what I have seen. I have seen the brightest star twinkle, and the smallest star blink. So I think they stay because they want to; perhaps a duty at first, yes, but now it is their life. And they watch us below, and giggle and twitter, and when they can't take it anymore, they fall over laughing.

For everything must change. Even the stars."

Jongo turned his gaze back from the Ceiling - the ever entrancing Ceiling - with an almost mournful sigh. Looking upon her brothers, Jongo shook his head sadly.

"Even we must change." This dour statement is unusual for Jongo. She is usually so cheerful and--

"For instance, I'm hungry. So I'm gonna go eat, and change that!"

"Yay! Bubbles!" --always moving from place to place. Like now. Jongo bounded from where he was standing calmly, ran straight between both of her brothers, and would have continued running all the way out of the hall... if he hadn't remembered where she was, and just whose gaze was ALSO in the room.

Turning, Jongo bowed to Baz'Auran, then waved a frantic wave at his siblings, a smile wide on her lips, and then skipped the rest of the way out of the Dias of Creation... one last longing glance at the Ceiling the only other evidence that Jongo knew where he was.

The White City Garden

Who knew the City better than Jongo? Perhaps no one. Jongo had been nearly everywhere. Well, everywhere that Baz'Auran allowed His children to go.

Jongo had searched and poked and bumped into places that no one else knew existed, because no one else bothered to look. It had been Jongo that had found the Alabaster Statue Garden, tucked between four buildings, with only a single alleyway into it. It had been Jongo that had discovered the way into the Tower of Two Mysteries (both of which had been solved, and were delicious puddings). It had been Jongo that had jumped into the Garden Fountain, and found the slide down into the Kitchen. It was a shortcut used by many Spirits to this day -- as long as they didn't mind getting wet.

So, since it was probably going to be a while before Jongo could use such a shortcut again, she wandered into the Garden, and was pleasently happy to see not just The Weaver, but also Soreal... and was that Fayruz? She looked like she was trying to say something to the other two, but with those two...

Jongo worked his way quickly up next to Fayruz.

"Hello pretty Flower! Hugs?" Without waiting for a response, Jongo hugged her sister's legs, waggling his ears, smiling widely and winking one eye, just for Fayruz.

"What is everyone looking at?"

[Raz_Fox]

The White City Garden

Who knew the City better than Jongo? Perhaps no one. Jongo had been nearly everywhere. Well, everywhere that Baz'Auran allowed His children to go.

Jongo had searched and poked and bumped into places that no one else knew existed, because no one else bothered to look. It had been Jongo that had found the Alabaster Statue Garden, tucked between four buildings, with only a single alleyway into it. It had been Jongo that had discovered the way into the Tower of Two Mysteries (both of which had been solved, and were delicious puddings). It had been Jongo that had jumped into the Garden Fountain, and found the slide down into the Kitchen. It was a shortcut used by many Spirits to this day -- as long as they didn't mind getting wet.

So, since it was probably going to be a while before Jongo could use such a shortcut again, she wandered into the Garden, and was pleasently happy to see not just The Weaver, but also Soreal... and was that Fayruz? She looked like she was trying to say something to the other two, but with those two...

Jongo worked his way quickly up next to Fayruz.

"Hello pretty Flower! Hugs?" Without waiting for a response, Jongo hugged her sister's legs, waggling his ears, smiling widely and winking one eye, just for Fayruz.

"What is everyone looking at?"

Fayruz's laugh was just as lovely as the rest of her, an innocent giggle that could be compared, if one was feeling particularly poetic, to the clearest, most delicate bells of the Plaza of Song. And if there was one sibling who could always, always produce it, it was Jongo, with their antics and lovely little gestures of affection towards their kindly sister.

Fayruz placed her arm over Jongo's shoulders and squeezed them gently, lovingly, looking down at the most whimsical of all her siblings with a happy laugh and a toss of her head. "Good afternoon, little sister-brother!" That was their joke together - that, while Jongo was eldest and Fayruz the youngest, Fayruz called him her little sister-brother. She reached up and ruffled Jongo's hair with a smile. "The Weaver has made a most delightful decoration for our ship! You should look carefully at it, Jongo, for there are very many little details that are quite delightful - that is, if you're not too busy giving this pretty flower hugs."

[Gengy]

Fayruz's laugh was just as lovely as the rest of her, an innocent giggle that could be compared, if one was feeling particularly poetic, to the clearest, most delicate bells of the Plaza of Song. And if there was one sibling who could always, always produce it, it was Jongo, with their antics and lovely little gestures of affection towards their kindly sister.

Fayruz placed her arm over Jongo's shoulders and squeezed them gently, lovingly, looking down at the most whimsical of all her siblings with a happy laugh and a toss of her head. "Good afternoon, little sister-brother!" That was their joke together - that, while Jongo was eldest and Fayruz the youngest, Fayruz called him her little sister-brother. She reached up and ruffled Jongo's hair with a smile. "The Weaver has made a most delightful decoration for our ship! You should look carefully at it, Jongo, for there are very many little details that are quite delightful - that is, if you're not too busy giving this pretty flower hugs."

Jongo tickled Fayruz's knee through her clothing, before turning to look at the Weaver's sail.

It was delightful. Jongo even saw herself there, transforming into more things than he can remember.

"Well done, Rodney! Father will adore it. I know I like it. And it's for our ship? Our ship?" Jongo paused, and frowned.

"Everyone is calling it that. I didn't even realize. It doesn't have a name yet, does it? Hmmm... I have to think on that. Father may ask, if He doesn't have a name for it yet Himself. What do you guys think of the Soaring Pussyfoot? Or the Flying Gorganzola? Or, with all the grumbling I've been hearing at mealtimes, Rumel's Compromise?"

It was hard to tell if Jongo was being serious, or just trying to get a laugh out of her siblings. Likely just the laugh. Probably. Maybe.

[AntiMatter101]

Contragh- The Steel Cathedral

Staring at his axe in disbelief he let's out a sigh followed with inaudible grumbles. Holding the now useless shaft of the axe he tosses it away and says "Bloody useless weapon, breaks before I can even get my tempo going, next time I need a weapon I'll get Rumel to invent some kind of triple heading axe that shoots out spikes and spins the blades around." grabbing a hold of the embedded axe he shifts his weight and tears it free from the pillar, chucking it away a good several yards. With a new found smile he congratulates Frellon for the victory before saying "Now, how about we go and get patched up So that we don't look like crap for fathers grand farewell speech."

Contragh begins walking to the medical tent positioned not too far from the fight but stops when he notices Dasque. Looking down at her he asks "What's that you have there?" pointing his right finger at the book in her hands.


Frellon- The Steel Cathedral
Frellon lowered his sword and laughed at Contragh's description of the spinning axe, "I'd like to see an axe that does that!" before following him towards the medical tent.

He stopped, half a step behind Contragh, as they stopped near Dasque to inquire over her book.

Frellon leaned against the wall of the medical facility as he looked at the book Dasque set asside blandly, he had never really taken to reading much, but Dasque had said it was a book about the monsters they would be facing on the disk. The disk. Frellon was trying not to think about that. His eyes unfocused, and his mind wandered. His mind obviously elsewhere, he found that he was speaking aloud anyway. "Do you guys think we'll ever run into a monster we won't know how to kill?"

[Raz_Fox]

Jongo tickled Fayruz's knee through her clothing, before turning to look at the Weaver's sail.

It was delightful. Jongo even saw herself there, transforming into more things than he can remember.

"Well done, Rodney! Father will adore it. I know I like it. And it's for our ship? Our ship?" Jongo paused, and frowned.

"Everyone is calling it that. I didn't even realize. It doesn't have a name yet, does it? Hmmm... I have to think on that. Father may ask, if He doesn't have a name for it yet Himself. What do you guys think of the Soaring Pussyfoot? Or the Flying Gorganzola? Or, with all the grumbling I've been hearing at mealtimes, Rumel's Compromise?"

It was hard to tell if Jongo was being serious, or just trying to get a laugh out of her siblings. Likely just the laugh. Probably. Maybe.

Fayruz giggled, and rested her hand on Jongo's shoulder. "I think it should be named Baz'Auran's Starlight, or The White City's Hope, but maybe Father would like to call it the Soaring Pussyfoot if you asked him! Your names for things are always unique - isn't that right, Rodney?" And there was no sarcasm in that, no teasing - she meant the compliment.

[Erik Vale]

The Dining Hall


When Kalandor finally makes his way to the dining room he's exiting the Kitchen, his normal clothes having a small bloodstain on the shoulder in combination with the normal dirt and grass stains.

"Ahh, my friends, they'll be something unusual on the menu tonight. Analan and I did well on the hunt."

[daelrog]

Frellon- The Steel Cathedral
Frellon lowered his sword and laughed at Contragh's description of the spinning axe, "I'd like to see an axe that does that!" before following him towards the medical tent.

He stopped, half a step behind Contragh, as they stopped near Dasque to inquire over her book.

Frellon leaned against the wall of the medical facility as he looked at the book Dasque set asside blandly, he had never really taken to reading much, but Dasque had said it was a book about the monsters they would be facing on the disk. The disk. Frellon was trying not to think about that. His eyes unfocused, and his mind wandered. His mind obviously elsewhere, he found that he was speaking aloud anyway. "Do you guys think we'll ever run into a monster we won't know how to kill?"

Dasque measured Frellon's question for a moment. "There are no monsters within this tome that suggest they are impossible to kill, but I daresay there are some I have no desire to meet. Still, tread cautiously when speaking of killing Frellon. We cannot hope to scour the Disc of every creature that displeases us, and even if we could, it is a lonely thought. Besides, there is much we can learn, even from the more loathesome inhabitants below."

[Nefarion Xid]

Dining Hall

With a sudden snap, the slate chip between Lossethir's thumb and forefinger exploded in a spray of miniature shards and powder. While the Knowledge Spirits' meticulousness was exasperating, his brother's manic enthusiasm mixed with his inattentiveness was... not something he wanted to face sober. He only smiled politely and nodded his vacant approval to the notion of someone bringing him food and drink.

"Just something flammable. Please and thank you." He waved off Brandis and turned his attention to the triumphant hunters, bemused and unimpressed. His sly, smarmy grin betrayed him, but a slight tilt of his head asked that they elucidate.

Lossethir's pale skin was betrayed by a copper glow (likely inherited radiance from his father). His light brown hair appeared wind tussled even inside. He had the build of a fearsome warrior despite seldom lifting a weapon, to anyone's knowledge, never exercising. The grey eyes held back a perpetual state of mischief... or at least a snide comment. He had the look of a man who was doing a good job of holding in a dirty joke he'd just remembered.

[VonDoom]

Training Ground

Steel clashed against steel: once, twice, three times. A blade slipped in its wielder's hand, just an inch, and quick as a serpent the other found its way past its guard and struck. The point of the blade halted a mere inch away from unprotected skin.

"Again," said the victor in a voice like two stones grinding against one another.

"This isn't fair, you know," his enemy laughed, stooping to retrieve her fallen sword. Her voice was musical, merry despite defeat. "You have six hands! I am quite overmatched; if you struck all at once I could not possibly defend against them all."

"There are creatures on the Disk which possess a thousand hands, and a thousand legs, and a thousand eyes," said the spirit imperturbably. It stood nearly ten feet high, with a muscular frame and a thick golden hide, and it did indeed have six arms, five of which held lean blades. (The last held a shield.) It was called Umori, and it stood high among the Spirits of War. "They will not relent because you say the match is unfair, child of Baz'Auran. Nor will—"

"I know, I know," she interrupted. "It was a joke. I asked for this, didn't I? I'm not about to complain."

"Then we shall begin again. And keep hold of your sword this time. You may survive making a single mistake, but not if you give up."

She nodded, and the unmelodical rasp-and-ring of clashing swords filled the practice field once again. To an onlooker the duel would have been difficult to follow: they watched one another warily for seconds on end, occasionally feinting or shifting back and forth, then one would move in for the attack and for a moment all would be confusion, blades darting about like deadly hummingbirds as the two struck and counterstruck. Then one or the other would fall back, and all would be still for a moment as they regained their balance and prepared their next attack. But it was soon clear that the god-child was outmatched: she was exceedingly swift and not without skill, but Umori was tireless and strong, and his skill was greater. This time it was the edge of the blade which found his pupil's skin, coming to rest against a bare arm.

There were some uncharitable souls who felt that Nieve only came so often to the sparring grounds because the shine of exertion and the skintight practice garb favored her looks. And there was a grain of truth to this; but it said something about her character that hard work brought out her beauty instead of her petulance. The restless energy that filled her spirit was allowed to run free at such times, and she positively shone for it. And today there was more behind her visit than the sheer joy of physicality. She was here for a purpose. Soon they would be journeying to the Great Disk far below, and though she knew she would not grow to equal Shirvan or Frellon or Contragh in skill in the short time they had left, she was determined that she would be neither helpless or a burden.

On the third round the spirit bested her again, but the fourth time a clever feint found its way past Umori's guard, and she flicked the point of her blade across his lower leg before dancing backward to evade his riposte. She laughed with pleasure, and the spirit nodded gravely. "Fairly struck. That was not a killing blow, but you did not sacrifice your life for it either. Were I truly your foe, you would now hold the advantage."

"But not the victory, I fear," she said, wiping your forehead. "I'm too spent to press my advantage. I'm afraid I must beg leave to depart the field. I should like to rest a little while, and then perhaps face - a different opponent." Silence."Surely, dear Umori, not every menace on the Disk has a thousand arms?"

Umori was still a moment longer, then nodded his permission. Only then did she lower her sword and turn her back. Once, she would have assumed that a fight was over just because somebody had struck a blow. The Spirits of War had corrected that mistake harshly.

She walked to the edge of the field and leaned against a wall there, the white stone blessedly cool against her cheek.

Golden eyes gleamed with mischief; the tell-tale crunch of an apple bitten into, teeth breaking the skin and chewing their sweet bounty.

Shirvan carelessly discarded the apple, as he shifted slightly against the white stone to his back; the corner of his right lip curving into a smirk. "You're improving," he offered in a friendly tone, loud and clear.

Had the silver-haired child of Baz'Auran been there this whole time, watching her? He wore a sword-belt around his hip, but it was not unusual for Shirvan Silver-Hair to bring one along with him wherever he went. Before any such question could be put voice to, he turned his head and the molten lava of his eyes looked right into those of Nieve. "I have a suggestion, if you'll hear it."

Shirvan had ever been one to encourage others to pursue their interests, in whatever form they came; he, for one, had never mocked his beautiful sister's efforts with a blade. He had even once taken the time to instruct Fayruz, after all, even if by the end of it he had recommended to better rely on others for such matters.

[Erik Vale]

Dining Hall
"Just something flammable. Please and thank you." He waved off Brandis and turned his attention to the triumphant hunters, bemused and unimpressed. His sly, smarmy grin betrayed him, but a slight tilt of his head asked that they elucidate.


Noticing Lossethir's expression he moves to take on of the seats near him. "If you wish to know brother you will have to ask, or you'll have to wait for the surprise. I'l give you a hint though, It makes a great roast, theres lots of it, and its the second last one on my list, just one more and I'll have encounted all of the more agressive creatures Baz'Auran placed as challanges."

When he does finally take a seat he sits on a stool that apears to be made of simple wood, instead of any of the more elaborite chair. He notices the bloodstain still on his clothing when he looks across at Lossethir, and frowns for a second. "Hmph, I thought I got that stain out...." "Anyhow, want to take a guess? Or are you just going to sit their looking for all the city like Rose or Jongo's made a joke on me?"

[hi-mi-tsu]

Faden pauses for a moment after Avyra poses her questions. "There is some anxiety. And more than a little mystery." He paces back and forth across the path before focusing, and the sheet with the ant on it crawls up one of the hedge walls and hangs there. "The difference between us and the ants and the animals and the hunters is nothing more or less than our own natures. We are the Children of Baz'Auran, with our unique place in his plan, and they are mortal creatures with their own place. Does that make us intrinsically better? I don't know. Does that make us immune to death itself? Probably not. But then..." The sheet flips from the hedge into his hand before bursting into bluish flame, which doesn't seem to bother Faden in the slightest, and continues burning as he talks until it's consumed. "...father hasn't shown us everything - not through Tezzerin or Eliat or any of the other spirits."

"Perhaps there is some better world waiting beyond the grave. Perhaps, like the ants, those that die are absorbed into what made them, to be used as building blocks for newer, better things. Perhaps there is nothingness past that point. Maybe whatever is destroyed ultimately comes back. Or maybe..." Faden displays his open hands to Avyra before clapping them together and drawing them apart slowly - revealing her rolled up ant drawings in the process and a sly grin. "...it was never truly gone to begin with."



"Faden!" Avyra slapped at her brother, playfully; she frowned fiercely for a moment at him before laughing. "You never take anything I say seriously! I was being honest, you know! I swear...sometimes you're as bad as Lossethir! He doesn't take things seriously either!"

Grabbing her drawings out of his hands, she bounced up off the bench, nudging Faden playfully. "Hm...I do hope that we get to stay together when we go down to the Disk, though. Between Loss, and Nieve, and yourself...someone like me, who is not as skilled, will be safe. Have you seen the ship yet? So many people are contributing! I heard Rumel yelling at the worker-spirits...which means things must be going well!"

She tugged lightly at his hand, grinning. "Come on, brother. You cannot hide down these wandering paths with your nose in a book forever. We should go find the others! Maybe Loss will teach me more about gambling...it seems like a good game, but I haven't quite grasped the complexities yet. Have you tried to learn? I think you would be good at it..."

[The_Snark]

The Training Grounds

If there were any signs of surprise at hearing that rich golden voice—an indrawn breath, flushed cheeks, a telltale start—they were hidden by the time Nieve turned around, concealed beneath a lazy grin. It was plain to see in her eyes, though: a not-so-secret delight in being watched and admired, made all the brighter by suddenly discovering it. Artless Nieve was not, but she could usually be counted upon to wear her heart on her sleeve even when she didn't mean to.

"I'm always happy to hear you, Shirvan," she said, leaning one shoulder against the wall and smiling up at him, "but I vow, sometimes you are more single-minded than Umori! I need a few minutes to catch my breath, as I'm sure you can tell." And indeed he could; it would have been difficult not to notice that she was breathing more deeply than normal.

She pressed on after giving him a moment to take this in. After all, she didn't want to actually send him away. "But maybe you can demonstrate first, and I'll join you to practice in a minute...?"

[Jade_Tarem]

Dining Hall

With a sudden snap, the slate chip between Lossethir's thumb and forefinger exploded in a spray of miniature shards and powder. While the Knowledge Spirits' meticulousness was exasperating, his brother's manic enthusiasm mixed with his inattentiveness was... not something he wanted to face sober. He only smiled politely and nodded his vacant approval to the notion of someone bringing him food and drink.

"Just something flammable. Please and thank you." He waved off Brandis and turned his attention to the triumphant hunters, bemused and unimpressed. His sly, smarmy grin betrayed him, but a slight tilt of his head asked that they elucidate.

Lossethir's pale skin was betrayed by a copper glow (likely inherited radiance from his father). His light brown hair appeared wind tussled even inside. He had the build of a fearsome warrior despite seldom lifting a weapon, to anyone's knowledge, never exercising. The grey eyes held back a perpetual state of mischief... or at least a snide comment. He had the look of a man who was doing a good job of holding in a dirty joke he'd just remembered.


Noticing Lossethir's expression he moves to take on of the seats near him. "If you wish to know brother you will have to ask, or you'll have to wait for the surprise. I'l give you a hint though, It makes a great roast, theres lots of it, and its the second last one on my list, just one more and I'll have encounted all of the more agressive creatures Baz'Auran placed as challanges."

When he does finally take a seat he sits on a stool that apears to be made of simple wood, instead of any of the more elaborite chair. He notices the bloodstain still on his clothing when he looks across at Lossethir, and frowns for a second. "Hmph, I thought I got that stain out...." "Anyhow, want to take a guess? Or are you just going to sit their looking for all the city like Rose or Jongo's made a joke on me?"

"Uah!" Faden cries, trying unsuccessfully to resist as Avyra dragged him out of the Tenfold Paths. His book remained on the bench - he made himself a mental note to collect it after dinner. "You do yourself... a disservice." Faden said, still off balance. "You have the skills and talents, you just apply them in less-" he dodged around a passing spirit, "-fanciful ways. Watch out!"

Dining Hall

The pair of them burst through the door in time to hear Lossethir respond, "....duck? It's a duck, isn't it?" Faden slows down, and a flash of irritation crosses his features. "First Jongo, now you."

Recovering, he whisked himself over to his siblings. "Lossethir! Your students await!" Faden leaned on the table and eyed the massive pile of chips. "Come, teach us to gamble. You haven't been playing with the knowledge spirits again, have you? I told you that wouldn't end well."

[KiCowboy]

Dining Hall

With great enthusiasm Brandis hurried back to the kitchens, making to sure to pause and hail Kalandor with a glass seemingly produced from thin air. Once within, he salivated at the great commotion. Nearly forty spirits working as one to prepare some great roast of . . . something. Not wanting to leave his brother waiting too terribly long, Brandis engaged in a light snack whilst gathering provision for the poker table. Three boiled eggs, two poached. Ham steak wrapped in praline bacon. Pomegranate sorbet. Spiced figs with a side of aged cheese. And just a small sliver of roast beast. Or two. Perhaps seven . . .

In short enough order several trays of pure delight were exquisitely arranged. He smiled graciously as the spirits nodded their approval. And then, just as many trays of drink were procured - various glasses, mugs and bottles filled with a wondrous assortment of liquid merriment. Grinning he scrutinized his work, still trying to find the final perfect detail.

"Ah yes . . .something flammable! Lossethir you clever cad!"

A sly flourish produced a small golden vial, laboriously detailed and ancient. Carefully, oh so carefully, Brandis opened the vial far away from himself. Strange acrid vapors arose from the opening, changing colors as they met the air. His brows furrowed in careful apprehension, waiting to observe just the right hue . . . and when it was just so, he grinned. Gingerly, a single drop was produced into a cup. He swirled the contents within. Wafted the exquisite way the vapors electrified the air around it. And with great gusto, consumed it in a mighty gulp.

A small dab of sweat on the brow. The tiniest beginnings of a tear forming at the corner of his eye. Then a hiccup, followed by an incredible gout of flame. Brandis hissed cool air through his teeth, trying desperately to cool his tongue.

"Hoo! Oh . . .oh, my . . . Yes! This Dragon's Breath has aged quite nicely!"

With great pleasure he saw more of his siblings gathering in the hall. Why surely it would be rude not to share this with everyone on such a special night. Grinning ear to ear, he emptied the ancient vial - one drop at a time into the wondrous assortment of drinks. 'Twas a fine line between grace and oafishness the way he balanced all the trays precariously whilst approaching the table.

[shorewood]

The Dinning Hall

As Haramhold Entered the Dinning Hall, he spotted Faden, and Kalandor playing Lossethir's new game. Feeling a little adventurous Haramhold fills his plate with meat and potatoes and went to join them. "I hope everyone's had a nice and productive day. So how do we play this game?"

[Erik Vale]

"Well I know I did, you might be eating some of my hunt soon" *Smiling he looks at his hand* "You guys better hope Rose comes along, otherwise I'm going to wipe the table with you all again."

Slowly he starts rearanging his cards.

[shorewood]

Post deleted.

[BladeofObliviom]

Right on cue, Roselia enters the dining hall, holding the door ajar, and actually looking rather 'cut-loose,' so to speak. As always, she's almost completely covered in black attire, but as a rare nod to the festivity of the occasion, she is wearing no headgear.

"Hello everyone! Did I hear something about a game?"

...It might be wise to hide the cards. Now.

[shorewood]

Post deleted.

[Demidos]

Aramar returned from his exertions on the ship that was to carry them to the surface. He was sweating lightly, tired out by placing all of those wards upon the ship. It would resist many of the lesser evils of the world, if nothing else. He found his siblings clustered around the largest table of the dining hall, playing one of lothessir's card games. Seeing his sister Aryva holding back somewhat, he ghosted over to a place by her shoulder

Greetings sister. How goes Lothessir's newest attempt to find an easy source of wealth? he says, with a bit of a chuckle in his voice.

Anyone have a better suggestion for a color that wouldnt interfere with anyone elses? yellowgreen doesnt quite seem appropriate for a god of the night, but all the darker colors are taken :smallfrown:

[Orosboru]

"We'll speak about this later, Weaver. Greetings, sister, eldest." Soreal says, eager to change the subject. "My preparations are not yet complete, but I was not aware that the name of the ship was a matter of contention." Fayruz was sometimes melancholic, a mood that affected her more often than not. "But I would think that if there would be a name, it would be chosen when it is unveiled in its full glory." She grasps the Weaver's hand tightly.

"We're all parents for this ship, don't you think, Jongo? We pin our hopes and dreams and fears and worries, much like a child. I would not burden it with a name to carry us all, neither would I give it a name without purpose." She asserts, pointing to the construction in the distance. "Whether it be warrior or artisan, a tool of war or peace, its name can be only seen at its conception. Would you name a work half-complete, or sum up a flower before it blooms?"

"Or perhaps we're missing the point of the lesson that Father gave us. If such a creation could speak to us at the end of our labour, perhaps it could name itself. After all, names define us, and to force it on the whims of another into a single shape would be a cruelty unimaginable."

[THEChanger]

The Weaver started a little when he felt Soreal grab his hand. But he didn't pull away, instead giving a small squeeze back before releasing. "Well spoken, sister." He smiled at the assembled deities, and rolled the sail he had woven back up. "And now, I must go do what I can to give our vessel life. I think Rumel and Haramhold should be done for the day, so I'll have no complaints from them. It's almost time for dinner. Why don't you three go on ahead? I shall join you as soon as my work flies proudly above the ship."

[Gengy]

Jongo looked very thoughtful as Soreal spoke. Names were important, after all. And he knew that the ones she'd mentioned before didn't... fit.

That's how names work. They just... fit. They felt right.

And other than watching as it was built, Jongo really hadn't done much for the ship. Finding it's name - it's real name - was something Jongo could do.

Brought out of it by the Weaver's encouraging words to move on to dinner, Jongo grinned, "You're right, Rodney! I am getting hungry. Soreal, Fayruz, you wanna take the slide down to the kitchen?"

Not waiting for their response, Jongo bounded away, and jumped into the large white fountain in the center of the garden. He felt herself get sucked into the water, and swirled down and around, through a large tube. The water fell away, and Jongo could feel something odd twisting his position, and she suddenly fell down onto another slide as more water pushed the childlike body forward.

"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" Jongo threw his arms in the air, marveling at the blackness in the tube. Finally, with a large splash, Jongo landed in the Kitchen.

Spirits looked up from food preparation, unemotionally noting Jongo's presence in the dishwater. Climbing out, Jongo waved at them all.

[Tychris1]

Contragh- Dias of Creation

Listening to Khalen-Het's war analogy Contragh nods before letting out a short small laugh "The soldiers may not disappear on the battlefield, but if the general is charging into the fray then either the battle is won or it's desperate and the general is mad. Either way the footsoldiers might aswell resign and walk away in either situation for all the good they will do." Listening to Jongo's speech Contragh nods his head a little in respect. A day where Jongo wasn't stupid and annoying, truly Baz'Auran had blessed Contragh today as a pre-disk gift.

And just like that, as if the great one heard Contragh's thoughts and took a page out of Jongo's book in order to play a joke on the god of conqeust. Jongo returned to his annoying self, saying something about eating bubbles, and with that Contragh sighed and put his face against his palm; leaning against one of his thighs. Finally as Jongo left Contragh grips his axe and says "All this philosophy is getting me down." Standing up he bows to Baz'Auran and then to Khalen-Het before departing to fight Frellon at the steel cathedral.

Contragh- The Steel Cathedral

Smirking at Frellon it eventually turns into a full blown smile as Contragh says "Is that a tinge of fear I sense Frellon? Quite the hero you are," finally getting the humor out of the way Contragh's face turns more serious as he takes in Dasque's comment "There is nothing we cannot destroy. War has taught me much, including the proverbs of destruction. If it bleeds you can kill it, If it breaks you can destroy it, If it feels you can torment it, If it hopes you can crush it's spirit, and if it thinks you can outsmart it. All of the creatures on the disk do one or more of these things, thus we can handle any creature the disk can throw at us. And while scouring the disk of everything may seem daunting it is all too possible. You must simply do it mile by mile and country by country, there are only so many places scum can hide..."

Staying quiet for a moment he ushers over some medical spirits to attend to his and Frellon's wounds. As his leg is being treated by the spirit he scans the steel cathedral, taking in the many duels going on around him. Until he notices the duel between Neive and a War Spirit, a smile creeps it's way up to his face as he watches her train only to get the smile slammed down hard at noticing Shirvan. He begins muttering under his breathe, saying inaudible and most likely incoherent sentences.

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon - The Steel Cathedral
Frellon looks up at both of them, his face reddening as he realized that he had spoken aloud. "I-I mean, of course we could defeat any enemy, thats not the question. I meant, if we encounter some monster that tries to kill us, what if it has some... thing... that makes it rather difficult to fight or kill? Are we just supposed to find the solution by trial and error? I mean, just look at your axe. What if I hadn't been familiar with that design? If I didn't know it was susceptable to break, you might have won the duel. On the disk, loosing a fight will mean death, or worse." Frellon grimanced as someone put a stinging salve onto his arm, and proceeded to bandage it. Frellon's expression chaged from embarrasement to curiosity as he turned to Dasque "But what do you mean? What of value could we learn from such cruel and evil monsters, asside from how better to fight them?"

Frellon - Dining Hall
Frellon enters the Dining Hall by way of throwing open the doors and sweeping though the enterance way. "Brothers!" he proclaims, "Sisters!" His clothes are simple and plain, like normal, but one might note that these are clean and crisp in anticipation of the Dinner. "I trust you have not started without me? What is this?" he adds, noticing the cards.

[daelrog]

Dasque, the Steel Cathedral

Dasque listened itnently to Contragh's arguments, and then focused on Frellon. As Frellon spoke, she could not help but notice Contragh's jealousy and even with all her effort her face lit up with mild amusement. That look disappeared when Frellon asked his question.

"Well, learning how to fight them is one thing to learn, and not something to take for granted. Consider though, that the beasts below are masters of their own environment, lands that we know nothing about. They know the Disc far better than any of us, and though I certainly have no intention of sitting down for a meal and a pleasant conversation with a monster that intends me harm, I can at least learn through observation. Where to hunt, where to find shelter, how to overcome the terrain and weather. If you think of the monsters only as enemies, you limit yourself. Make even an enemy a source of learning, a source of strength, and you will never lose."

She looked over to Neive and Shirvan. "If I didn't know any better, Contragh, I'd say you were considering testing out the proverbs of destruction on dear Shirvan. I think maybe you should take my advice and see what she finds so intriguing about him. He is ever so charming, our Shirvan."

[VonDoom]

The Training Grounds

Shirvan's smile didn't leave his lips as he briefly glanced up at the window above them that lead into the Steel Cathedral, the very window he had passed through only moments ago.

--

The golden-eyed godling had quietly watched the battle between Frellon and Contragh with an amused expression on his face, for once staying well out of sight in a shadowy corner, as he had nibbled away on his apple. Yet when he had looked out of the window and seen the training routine Nieve went through Shirvan had found a more interesting fare -- while the battles between the two male gods were quite a sight, Nieve did them one better. Plus, whenever he sought to praise Contragh for his skill all the silver-haired god received were muttered insults and evil glares. At some point, he had gotten the message, shrugged, and started to leave Contragh alone, claiming that the warrior would make a wonderful god of the ill-tempered.

With a smirk and not towards his sister, Shirvan dropped one level down onto the courtyard, right through the open window, landing much like a cat without a single noise so that he could surprise the beautiful trainee.

--

"I fear your teacher wouldn't enjoy that much," Shirvan admitted as he stepped closer, the molten lava of his eyes studying her face. He inclined his head to the side, though, as he moved close enough for his shadow to fall onto Nieve's form. "You see, when you're not training," he began, trailing off as he leaned forward to pick up her sword from where Nieve had placed it. "... and an opponent has an advantage over you, it's best to take it away."

With a mischievous grin, he hid Nieve's weapon behind his back. "See how you no longer have a sword, while I have yours?"

[Raz_Fox]

"We'll speak about this later, Weaver. Greetings, sister, eldest." Soreal says, eager to change the subject. "My preparations are not yet complete, but I was not aware that the name of the ship was a matter of contention." Fayruz was sometimes melancholic, a mood that affected her more often than not. "But I would think that if there would be a name, it would be chosen when it is unveiled in its full glory." She grasps the Weaver's hand tightly.

"We're all parents for this ship, don't you think, Jongo? We pin our hopes and dreams and fears and worries, much like a child. I would not burden it with a name to carry us all, neither would I give it a name without purpose." She asserts, pointing to the construction in the distance. "Whether it be warrior or artisan, a tool of war or peace, its name can be only seen at its conception. Would you name a work half-complete, or sum up a flower before it blooms?"

"Or perhaps we're missing the point of the lesson that Father gave us. If such a creation could speak to us at the end of our labour, perhaps it could name itself. After all, names define us, and to force it on the whims of another into a single shape would be a cruelty unimaginable."

As Jongo and the Weaver left, Fayruz took a step closer to Soreal, smiling faintly. "If names define us, sister, then Father gave us all the right names. Even yours is just right for you. And I'm sure, whether Father names it or our little brother-sister names it, that it will have the right name. Everything works for the good of those who trust Father, after all."

Fayruz looked around her for a moment, and then knelt, her skirts spreading about her, as she plucked a dark rose from its bed, its black petals in full bloom. In the dark - as far as it ever grew truly dark in the White City - its petals would glow beautifully, bringing light into the darkness. This she offered to Soreal with a smile. "I don't want you to leave without something to remember from home," she said. "Even if we all stay together... you should keep this. I'm sure the people below don't have flowers this beautiful - Toreazan told me that, when he came back from measuring the seas. They have some flowers, he said, but they're nowhere near as pretty as the flowers of the White City." Toreazan was speaking about Fayruz, in part, when he said this to her, but Fayruz - as usual - missed the compliment.

"I should be going," she continued, after a moment. "Father expects me to be ready for the banquet tonight, and I don't want to disappoint him! This is the most important banquet we've ever been to, so I really should look my best." An empty worry, given how radiant Fayruz is at every banquet, how resplendent in her brilliant silks, with her crown of silver and starlight trapped within colorless jewels. But Fayruz worries, regardless, for tonight she hopes to be given her special task for the journey, and if there is anything out of place, anything she does wrong - why, Father might not tell her, or might chastise her for being an imperfect reflection of his glory!

[Erik Vale]

Kalandor having hinished fiddling with the cards sets them down, facedown ofcourse...

"Ah Rose, this game will be fun! Did you happen to bring your game face and those shifting cards of yours by any chance.."

Then he turns his head facing Frellon, and rises from his stool.

"Brother! I was wondering if we could get you here. Your both just a little late but I'm sure we can all redraw, we did only just draw, and we all know my luck."

If possible his bright smile grows even brighter, his eyes sparkling at the prospects of the game.

[Demidos]

Aramar smiles at the sight of the card players. He sits nearby, watching intently, but not playing...yet. He will watch the game before deciding to play. As he watches, he absent-mindedly fiddles his hands, creating a small tower of green energy that slowly turns to purple, then dissolves into gold fire. A tiny glowing blue shield appears above his hands and wee silver arrows appear from the other and splinter themselves against the shield's impregnable surface. A wolf appears, and begins fighting a dragon, a small shimmer of red showing where the dragon's breath glances off an invisible forcefield surrounding the wolf. He idly wonders if any of his siblings are going to notice his presence.

[Nefarion Xid]

"Wealth in a society without want is meaningless, Aramar," hummed Lossethir as he thumbed up the tips of his cards at the table's edge and sent them flying towards the muck pile with a flick of his nail and a roll of his eyes.

"We could just as easily make wagers on Go or Chess. The only thing different about my cards is the element of luck. The skill is the same, only the skill here is deceit."

Downing the cup from Brandis, he reclined in his chair until he could prop his knee against the table and nestled his hands behind his head until the hand was done.

"And I'd wager that's the most important skill to have on a society that leaves you wanting -- the ability to lie and turn good luck to bad... and downplay your good luck."

Laughing, he turned to Faden. "That will suffice for a lesson, eh?"

[Demidos]

Aramar laughed disarmingly You are right of course. But the skill will serve you well in the mortal world -- at any rate, forgive me if I sounded disparaging, that was not my intent. Is there room for another at the table? Aramar asks with a bit of a grin.

[VonDoom]

The Dining Hall

The entrance opened, revealing the familiar face of Shirvan, a thoughtful expression thereupon. What great mysteries the silver-haired child of Baz'Auran may have been pondering quickly were dismissed as he slowly walked towards the center of the room, hungry eyes roaming over the plentiful food already assembled for their eating pleasure.

The hunger for entertainment prevailed, however, when his golden eyes took notice of the table Lossethir and the others were at, apparently involved in some sort of game. Curiosity apparent on his face, Shirvan approached, peering over Faden's shoulder to get a look at the cards his scholarly brother was holding.

"Well now, this looks interesting," he commented as he rubbed his chin, once the current hand had finished, looking a little puzzled by the mechanics behind the whole shindig. "How do you play?"

[shorewood]

"Its quite simple. You sit here and slowly give your chips away to the other players." said Haramhold motioning to his ever decreasing pile of chips.

[Jade_Tarem]

"There's no need to be so bitter." Faden smirks, "As Lossethir pointed out, we want for nothing, and the chips are meaningless. As we continue to play, we get better at the game's underlying skills - mathematics, intuition, deception, reading other people..." He glances at his cards - a terrible hand, to be sure - and adds, "...and what does Loss get? Chips! You see, it's everyone else who profits from this game, regardless of who wins or loses."

[VonDoom]

A frown briefly crossed Shirvan's face at Haramhold's remark, but after Faden's response it was quickly replaced by a jovial grin, followed by a pat on the smith's shoulders. "Perhaps, if you make a particularly nice set of cards for him, good Loss will teach you a trick or two?" The Silverhair winked, hoping that a reminder of the things Haramhold could do well, as opposed to what he could not, would lighten the burly man's mood.

"Still!" he proclaimed, letting go of his brother's shoulder, "how does one play this game? I've an inclination to try my hand at it." He took a step back and, without looking, pulled a chair from the next table over. For the moment the future God of Pride didn't actually sit down, however, preferring to wait until he had gained the insight he sought.

[shorewood]

"I'm afraid I'm just a little nervous with anticipation that's all. We will be finished with the ship soon and off we go to full fill Father's great and mysterious plan." Said Haramhold. Draining his glass He motions for a spirit to refill it.

"In a way its just like this game. We are dealt a hand and we have to play it as best as we can." Looking at the scroll where Lossethir had written the rules Haramhold continues "And sometimes we must take risks. All in."

[AntiMatter101]

Kalandor having hinished fiddling with the cards sets them down, facedown ofcourse...

"Ah Rose, the one person who poses a chalenge, Did you bring your game face and those shifting cards of yours.."

Then he turns his head facing Frellon, and rises from his stool.

"Brother! I was wondering if we could get you here. Your both just a little late but I'm sure we can all redraw, we did only just draw, and we all know my luck."

If possible his bright smile grows even brighter, his eyes sparkling at the prospects of the game.
The Dining Hall

Frellon return's Kalandor's smile, striding to pull up a seat next to him. "I could play a few hands, but dont stop this one on my account." Frellon takes a seat, adjusting the ceremonial blade at his belt so as to sit properly. He motions a nearby spirit for an Ale, and tries to attract the attention of someone near the scroll. "I'd like to watch the game a little first anyway, hey, pass me the rule scroll would you?"


The Steel Cathedral
Frellon ponders Dasque's words with rapt attention, soaking in the idea as if he had never really thought of it before.

"Thats ingenious!" Frellon exclaimes, giving Dasque a friendly push. "Even the worst of them have to survive somehow right? Who knows what we could find if we followed a monster around!"

Frellon laughs, "Perhaps one could even lead us to a buried treasure!"

[daelrog]

Dasque-Steel Cathedral

Dasque smiled at Frellon's understanding. "Shine a light unto everything borther, and everything becomes more interesting." She stood up, letting the sun catch her silvery hair. It is time I prepared for the banquet. I will see you both there."

If Contragh would like the last word as she leaves, feel free.

[The_Snark]

The Training Ground

Laughter and chagrin warred for dominance on Nieve's face. Laughter won. "So I see! I shall remember not to trust you so much in future, and keep my weapon close at hand when you are near. But - I wonder if you've overlooked something—" and with that she lunged, slamming her shoulder into Shirvan's chest. Her free hand scrabbled at his belt, trying to grab his sword. (No, not that sword.) But he was fast, and before she'd managed to jerk the blade loose from its sheath he'd taken hold of her arm with his free hand; in response, she elbowed him in the gut. He kept hold of her, but dropped his stolen sword to better fend her off, and...

It was impossible to tell who staggered first, but they both went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling off the flagstones and onto the gravel of the sparring grounds. After a few seconds of struggle, Nieve wriggled out from beneath her taller brother and seated herself firmly on his chest, his sword—in fact his entire scabbard, belt and all—now firmly in her grasp. She held the edge just above his throat, smiling and looking extremely pleased with herself and the world.

"You shouldn't point your sword away from your enemy, Shirvan," she said playfully. "See where it gets you?"

[VonDoom]

The Training Ground

The expression that Nieve held by the end of their little struggle was mirrored in Shirvan's own face; however, in his case, it had been there since the beginning. Even with the cold marble beneath his back and the woman's weight on him, he looked strangely comfortable where he was, despite the possibility of a very close shave if he thought to move.

Golden eyes trailed lazily along the edge pointed at him, then her slim arm and finally towards Nieve's brown eyes. "Perhaps," the future god began shamelessly as his smile grew into a wicked grin, "I should do it more often, then." He clearly liked the results it had brought him this time, after all. With a quick shift he crossed his hands behind his back, apparently quite relaxed. "Ah, but you are a quick learner; now, were you planning to do something with that sword, or are you going to thank me?" His right eyebrow shot high, though his tone sounded more playful than anything else.

The eyes in your picture look brown-ish, so I went with that. Didn't find an actual color denoted in your character profile writeup.

[Tectonic Robot]

Llassar - Dining Hall
From a side room a tall, gangly scarecrow of a man steps into the dining hall, his gait slow and unhurried, an expression of dreamy thoughtlessness on his face. He takes a seat and puts his feet on the table, pulling his hat over his eyes as he listens to the hubbub from the room- at least until he realizes his brother and sisters are playing a game next to him!

"What are you all doing here so early? The banquet isn't starting early, is it?"

[Gengy]

Dining Hall Kitchen, aka, the Grand Kitchen

What luck! Jongo peered out through a small window from the Kitchen into the Dining Hall to see everyone already assembled. But best of all... Llassar wasn't in the Grand Kitchen.

Jongo felt that the great Baz'Auran ruled over all. But Jongo's younger brother Llassar seemed to hold domain inside of any Kitchen he stepped in, and nothing and no one could make Cookie crumble or falter within a food preparation station.

Had Jongo landed in the Grand Kitchen while Llassar was still here, there might have been... gulp... a scolding. That would have put me in hot water. Well, maybe not physically in hot water. I did land in the dish water. That was only lukewarm. But definitely in trouble.

"Wait. Wait. If Cookie is out there-" Jongo turned back to look at the spirits calmly making food. They seemed to be just going through the motions. No one seemed to be directing them.

No one in the Grand Kitchen was in charge at the moment.

A smile crept up on Jongo's face.

Walking up to a spirit that had just finished making a batch of what looked like sourdough rolls, Jongo waved and - with no one else to oppose her authority - took over the Grand Kitchen.

"Time for SAMMICHES."

[Orosboru]

As Jongo and the Weaver left, Fayruz took a step closer to Soreal, smiling faintly. "If names define us, sister, then Father gave us all the right names. Even yours is just right for you. And I'm sure, whether Father names it or our little brother-sister names it, that it will have the right name. Everything works for the good of those who trust Father, after all."

Fayruz looked around her for a moment, and then knelt, her skirts spreading about her, as she plucked a dark rose from its bed, its black petals in full bloom. In the dark - as far as it ever grew truly dark in the White City - its petals would glow beautifully, bringing light into the darkness. This she offered to Soreal with a smile. "I don't want you to leave without something to remember from home," she said. "Even if we all stay together... you should keep this. I'm sure the people below don't have flowers this beautiful - Toreazan told me that, when he came back from measuring the seas. They have some flowers, he said, but they're nowhere near as pretty as the flowers of the White City." Toreazan was speaking about Fayruz, in part, when he said this to her, but Fayruz - as usual - missed the compliment.

"I should be going," she continued, after a moment. "Father expects me to be ready for the banquet tonight, and I don't want to disappoint him! This is the most important banquet we've ever been to, so I really should look my best." An empty worry, given how radiant Fayruz is at every banquet, how resplendent in her brilliant silks, with her crown of silver and starlight trapped within colorless jewels. But Fayruz worries, regardless, for tonight she hopes to be given her special task for the journey, and if there is anything out of place, anything she does wrong - why, Father might not tell her, or might chastise her for being an imperfect reflection of his glory!

Fayruz was like Baz-Auran many aspects. She resonated with the truth - but unlike the all-father, she had a note of uncertainty. It was there, a flaw that kept her separate from his perfection that Soreal liked - one equally valid and distinct from the whole. It meant the world to her that there was a horde of voices that could dissent, change, be different from the divine norm. For finding one's voice is the only way we can thrive.

Soreal held the flower in the left hand, and in the other a white carnation bloomed, her divine nature sublime, singing a white colour as pure and powerful as Fayruz herself, the colour of the White city. It bloomed and blossomed and at its zenith of form did it stop. She offers it to Fayruz.

"As do I, humble sister. May eons pass and the seasons change, but may your will never falter. Know that of your character, there is no higher arbiter then thyself. But care to remember, if you find yourself alone in your thoughts: roses have thorns. Soreal bleeds a little from her hands, little barbs digging into her flesh. It stains the white.

"But enough dark dreams: to the feast I shall follow in your wake. To glory we go, that's no mistake.

[Erik Vale]

"Still!" he proclaimed, letting go of his brother's shoulder, "how does one play this game? I've an inclination to try my hand at it." He took a step back and, without looking, pulled a chair from the next table over. For the moment the future God of Pride didn't actually sit down, however, preferring to wait until he had gained the insight he sought.

"If you wish, I can give you a copy of my games book. It has a list of rules for the various card games and such that we've invented."

He calls over a spirit, who is then spirited away by Jongo's quick takeover before he can arrive.

"Well, I suppose you might be able to find someone to go unless you wish to watch...."

[Raz_Fox]

Fayruz was like Baz-Auran many aspects. She resonated with the truth - but unlike the all-father, she had a note of uncertainty. It was there, a flaw that kept her separate from his perfection that Soreal liked - one equally valid and distinct from the whole. It meant the world to her that there was a horde of voices that could dissent, change, be different from the divine norm. For finding one's voice is the only way we can thrive.

Soreal held the flower in the left hand, and in the other a white carnation bloomed, her divine nature sublime, singing a white colour as pure and powerful as Fayruz herself, the colour of the White city. It bloomed and blossomed and at its zenith of form did it stop. She offers it to Fayruz.

"As do I, humble sister. May eons pass and the seasons change, but may your will never falter. Know that of your character, there is no higher arbiter then thyself. But care to remember, if you find yourself alone in your thoughts: roses have thorns. Soreal bleeds a little from her hands, little barbs digging into her flesh. It stains the white.

"But enough dark dreams: to the feast I shall follow in your wake. To glory we go, that's no mistake.

Fayruz held the flower in her delicate hands, both of them wrapped about it carefully, as if it were one of Baz'Auran's gloriously-wrought goblets, filled to the brim with the finest wine. She smiled at her sister, but her sweet smile turned to a frown of concern as she saw the thorns bite into Soreal's hand. "Oh, sister! Let me..."

She tucked the carnation behind her hair, beautifully white against her wine-dark hair, and clasped Soreal's hand in both of her hands. Soreal jerked away ever-so-slightly, but Fayruz looked up at her with sisterly concern, and she did not release her grip on her sister's hand. Rubbing her thumbs against the angry weals on Soreal's palm and fingers, she closed her eyes and willed Soreal's body to be whole once again. From her lips came a simple song, wordless but melodic, as smooth as the water of a quiet stream.

The art of the Spirits of Healing, who could mend a spirit with the merest touch, was simple: thought was reality, in the city of Baz'Auran. And those who truly loved were greatest at it, capable of knitting the spirit back together from a thousand pieces, or restoring lost limbs or eyes. Fayruz, for all her honest love, did not have the skill of the Spirits of Healing, but this? This, she could do for her big sister.

The cuts closed over, as if they had never been - but for the blood on their hands, which she could not undo. She looked up at her sister, nodding half to herself. "There... there. Now everything's all right. Let's go to the feast; everyone will be there, and Father will be so proud of us! To glory!" Already the cuts are forgotten, and Fayruz's thoughts have almost moved on, enough that she can laugh and take her sister's hand in her own, and pull her on to the banquet.


***

As the children of Baz'Auran gather, one is noticeably absent from the gathering. Even though she urged Soreal on, Fayruz has not come, rather uncharacteristically, to mingle with her siblings. On most nights, she is wherever her siblings are, laughing with Jongo and chatting with Shirvan and being quiet along with Avyran, but tonight she is secluded away from her siblings, preparing herself for the banquet. Everything about her must be perfect, she believes, tonight of all nights.

[AntiMatter101]

Dasque-Steel Cathedral

Dasque smiled at Frellon's understanding. "Shine a light unto everything borther, and everything becomes more interesting." She stood up, letting the sun catch her silvery hair. It is time I prepared for the banquet. I will see you both there."

If Contragh would like the last word as she leaves, feel free.

The Steel Cathedral
"See you there, Dasque" Frellon replied, as she left, raising a hand in farewell.

His bandage itched, so he began to undo it, its purpouse long ago served. While the spirits could have simply healed him with magic, he had been trying to convice them to let his wound's heal more naturally for years. Eventually they had reached a sort of compromise, it involved a salve that sped up the already considerable healing properties of his body. The result satisfies us all, he thought with satisfaction, as he stripped away the last bandage, and inspected his arm. A fine white line, barely visible, traced along his arm. If he had allowed them to just use magic, not even that would have remained.

"I've earned another good one!" Frellon confides to Contragh. "My collection is growing! Slowly but surely." Frellon tossed the sword he had used for their duel asside, beaten and notched as it was, into the bin that he knew would later be sent to the smithy for reworking. Frellon looks back up at Contragh, pride in his newest scar written on his face plainly.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Chamber

In one of the many towers in the White City, Dasque contemplated, sitting in a lotus position, in the middle of a circular room. All across the room notes were drawn, connecting the different aspects of existence together. It wasn't complete, nor would it ever be, but it included certain concepts Dasque was interested in. They were written in code, and though some of her siblings such as Faden could no doubt decipher it, she kept her chambers to herself alone.

The wall was covered with shelves of books she had read, and above them were weapons. Swords, and axe, a halberd, and a number of spears, her weapon of choice.

The banquet, the night where her thrice accursed Father would send them off. Some worshipped him as their all, but not her. For reasons she kept to her own, Baz'Auran displeased her greatly, and he alone could crumble her composure. While the others sought to look their best, to please their Father before they were sent to do his bidding, she pondered over how to present herself to them all.

She would shine this night, she would radiate brilliantly, and she would tell her father that she was not his pet, that she was Dasque, that she was free of the White City now, and free of him. That is, at least, what she wanted.

[Nefarion Xid]

Lossethir again pitched his cards towards the muck and reclined further in his chair until the hand was concluded. Staring at a fascinatingly nondescript point on the ceiling, he continued with his insight.

"The second lesson is that people with nothing to lose are dangerous. I have resources, I may chose to decline to act. Haramhold has few, only enough chips to buy five more antes -- he is forced to action... if not now, soon enough. The best way to deal with a desperate opponent may be... to not. Mmm... my turn to deal next?"

When the last cards were turned over and the hand won, Lossethir suddenly rocked forward and thrust out his hand. In the same motion the cards, caught up in a sudden gust of wind, fluttered through the air obediently and stacked themselves in his waiting hand (shuffled inflight). With a flick of his middle finger, the deck was cut and this thumb sent the cards flying around the table.

[The_Snark]

The Training Ground

"I'm afraid that would be teaching you the wrong lesson entirely," Nieve said merrily. "We can't have you going down to the Disk thinking that you can let just anyone knock you over and sit on you. You might have your throat torn out by some treacherous creature with a pretty face, and then I would be too jealous to properly mourn you. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"No, no," she shook her head, leaning forward until her hair was brushing against Shirvan's face, "I think there have to be consequences. What am I to do with you..." Instinct told her it was time to draw away and leave him wanting more, but she was enjoying the feel of his body against hers far too much.

[VonDoom]

Dining Hall

While the last hand was being played, Shirvan had finally had an opportunity to snatch the scroll with the rules of the game for himself and studied it for awhile with a knitted brow.

As the silver-haired one put the scroll away a smirk appeared on his lips and he seated himself, pulling the chair closer to the table.

"Deal me in, then," he noted, finding that statement strangely appropriate. Once he had his hand and actually looked at it, a broad grin revealed itself on his face -- quickly replaced with a more neutral expression, however, as he glanced around.

The Training Ground

Shirvan grinned, baring white teeth at the woman sitting so prominently on his chest. His silver hair looked a bit tousled from their struggle, giving him a wild look; his eyes were still on her as she so teased him, only briefly side-tracking when the godling noticed some movement in a window from the corner of his eye, a form vaguely familiar watching them from above. Right now, he found he didn't care very much about who might be watching them, be it his dear sister or mighty Contragh.

He said nothing as the light of the sun from above briefly reflected in his eyes, the gold within shining at Nieve for a moment as he pulled himself upward; blade at his throat be damned, a scratch could not dissuade him as he rose, nimble hands reaching for Nieve's waist.

Before Dasque's Chamber

Twice it knocked against the door to Dasque's own chamber, firm and in quick succession.

On the other side, Shirvan pulled his hand back, a pensive look on his handsome face as the future God of Pride waited for his twin to respond.

He, too, had looked forward to this day for some time and was glad to finally be away from their creator -- unlike his sister, however, this gladness was not born of an intrinsic loathing of Baz'Auran, for he too had once basked in and reflected his glory, but from betrayal; a test the golden-eyed godling had come to see as a slight to his person.

[The_Snark]

The Training Ground

Since she couldn't very well follow through on her implied threat and cut her brother's throat, Nieve opted to push him back down by the simple expedient of kissing him. Forcefully. Thoroughly. Enthusiastically. Neither of them had to feign breathlessness by the time they broke off.

"I think I have a proper punishment in mind," she said, now snugged firmly against his body—but only for a moment longer. She twisted free and sprang to her feet in a single sudden motion, coming to rest a few feet away with Shirvan's sword in one hand and his belt in the other. "More lessons! Real ones, I mean, with swordplay. I'm sure you can teach me more than how to take advantage of unsuspecting young maidens such as myself." She grinned slyly, and motioned for him to pick up the blade he'd dropped during their brief 'wrestling' game.

"I suppose you'll need this back if you're to fight," she mused, looking at the belt in her hand. "Pity, I'd have liked to keep it as a trophy. I'll let you have it for now, but I warn you, I shall expect it back one of these nights." Another grin.

[Ladorak]

'Again!' Bellowed mighty Eliat, first among the hosts of Baz'Auran. The spirit of war flew at Carolinus, his sword a shimmering blur. With a great clash like celestial cymbals Carolinus brought his shield up and deflected the spirit's attack. To his left and right Eliat's subordinate spirits flew up practice dummies. Neither hit their marks. Carolinus deflected the spear of the one to his left with a tiny projection of his power, the exact required amount to deflect the spear's shaft so it missed the dummy's head by inches. The spirit to his right was harder, for it carried a two handed axe, he blocked it with a blunt warding, matching it strength for strength.

He jumped back while doing this, narrowly avoiding Eliat's second strike. When the third came he wrenched it aside and caught hold of Eliat's swordarm. To his left the battle spirit had dropped his spear and pulled a sword from his back. His mistake was to lunge, once again it was easy to deflect the jabbing point aside. To his right the wicked axe swept down again but with the scant seconds he bought for himself by grabbing Eliat's arm he was able to block the attack more gracefully, a small sharp edge of a warding set before the sweep of the axe's haft sent the axe head spinning into the ground.

Eliat dropped his sword and twisted his hand about, somehow Carolinus found himself sailing through the air. He twisted and landed on his feet, just in time for Eliat's charge. By diving aside at the last second Carolinus bought himself the split second required to glance at the dummies and their attackers, once again he threw up the weakest wards he could to stop the incoming weapons.

Then he spun back to Eliat, just in time to block another thrust and launch a counter with almost got him disemboweled by Eliat's riposte. Eliat was so fast Carolinus usually had to block three of his strokes for each of his subordinates' attackers. When the third came Carolinus twisted Eliat's blade and disarmed him, behind his back both spirits found their swords once again confounded, leaving them wondering how he did it with his back turned.

'That took you too long.' Was all Eliat said as he retrieved his blade. 'Five!' Another three war spirits approached another three dummies 'Begin!'

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

Eliat looked and spoke as if he had been walking amid the gardens as he intoned in damning words 'You're distracted godling. On the battlefield that will kill you.'
In contrast Carolinus was covered in sweat and sucking in great gasps of air 'I'm not distracted, I'm angry. But I take your lesson Eliat, that too can kill me.'
'You managed no more than eight today, normally you master all thirty. Your anger will not kill you, it will kill those you would protect.'
'I will think on that.'
'Why are you angry?'
'Many reasons great Eliat. I am angry because I only managed eight today, because a score of godlings soon depart to the disk yet there is not space for one more, because others were permitted my great gift without price, because Cireo was not permitted to learn the martial arts, because this is the only time I am separated from her yet I cannot argue the necessity.'
'It cannot be for you as it was the others. You are your Father's White Knight, the purity of your fidelity must be total.'
'I know, yet I am angry because I must leave Cireo, that among all things. There are many reasons, all of them good and that one most of all, but all are irrelevant because you are right Eliat. My anger will break the fidelity of my oath, so I must also put anger aside, I must face what it coming without its purifying fire.'

His face was a mask as he walked pass Shirvan and Nieve's embrace. Inwardly he seethed with jealousy and grief.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Chamber

Shirvan waited. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

The door open, and Dasque stood before him. She was shorter than him, a full head shorter to be precise, by she was similar to his features. The same hair, the same edge to the cheekbones. Some thought the same self-assuredness, but Dasque was willing to hide it under layers, to put it aside for her relationship with her siblings, something that had helped those relationships immensely.

"Shirvan, a pleasant surprise. I was hoping to sit next to you at the banquet." She was dressed only in one layer, a short nightgown that covered her well. I think I had just figured what to wear for the occassion. I think I'll wear the dress that the First Spirit made for me... with an added improvement."

[THEChanger]

The Shipyard
The Weaver hid behind a pile of barrels as Rumel and Haramhold left for the dining hall. He smiled at Rumel's slight grumbling. If he didn't like the way the spirits were painting the ship, he should be thrilled when he saw The Weaver's sail flying proudly from the ship's mast. Dashing up onto the deck, The Weaver gave a nod to the spirits artfully embelishing the ship. "Beautiful work, my friends. Don't let Rumel's words discourage you. He'll come to realize the value of aesthetics in creation some day." With a wink, The Weaver carefully climbed the mast up to the crow's nest, the sail carefully held under one arm. Unfolding it, he made a few quick adjustments. The plain white sail that Rumel had wanted fluttered slowly to the ground, and the tapestry fell into the space it had formerly occupied. "There. Rumel's craftsmanship, Haramhold's dedication, and my eye for color. The ship is almost perfect. It just needs...a natural touch." The Weaver gazed off towards the forest where he had left Soreal, Jongo, and Fayruz. He sincerely hoped Soreal was alright. She seemed troubled, on the day she should be the happiest.
Then The Weaver saw another sight. Carolinus, walking away from the training grounds. Even from this distance, The Weaver could feel the anger burning off his brother. It was worrisome. Almost as worrisome as the sight at the training grounds The Weaver chose to ignore. So many emotions running rampant today. He hoped the banquet tonight would go smoothly.
Dining Hall
The Weaver snuck into the kitchen via a back door. He wasn't afraid of his siblings, but he quite enjoyed the smells that Llassar and the culinary spirits conjured from biological stuffs. Which is why he was surprised to instead find Jongo. Making...something. "Hello again Jongo. Fancy seeing you here. Llassar finally cave to your constant pleas to help with dinner?" The Weaver stood behind his eldest sibling, and took a whiff of the creation upon the counter. Delicious, in an odd sort of way.

[DoomHat]

Evening,
on the way the Dinning Hall with Haramhold.

Rumel got that glint in his eye again. His ever spinning, whirring, and calculating mind had stumbled on something. He started dashing full tilt in the direction of his personal workshop.

“You go on ahead without me,” Rumel yelled to his brother without turning, “I’ll catch up or something maybe-I-have-an-idea-I have-to-try-won’t-take-longbutyouknowhowthesethingsgo BYE!”.

With a with a leap and a click of his heels, a set of wheels pop into place from the soles of Rumel’s boots. He skated along on his ‘emergency long-distance spatial repositioner MkIIIs’. Predictably, not having the grace of his more athletic siblings, he did not arrive at his destination so much as collide with it. A design flaw consistent in all models to date, but he couldn't spare a moment to look over his notes for the MarkIV model now.

He had lamented there was no time to build his own ship, but he saw now those were the lamentations of a dullard! True, there was no time to build anything from scratch, but any witless drudge with the slightest imagination could look in here and see that was unnecessary!
It was all in his workshop waiting for him. The large armored oval of his ‘Jongo-proof chemical locker MkXI’ would make an ideal hull! With the backfire compensators disabled, the ‘high yield refuse disintegration system MkII’ could operate as an effective thruster! Bits and pieces of various projects over the years could be fashioned quite handily into guidance apparatus!

But he would have to be quick. Sadly, it would only be large enough for himself and maybe one other, but he’d feel much safer aboard Father’s insane Flying Coffin Made of Blasted Gold(why not build our blasted flying machine out of lead while we're at it?) with an emergency backup. Granted, said backup would have to be cobbled together in half an evening, held together with spare bolts, chewing gum, and the power of positive thinking, not to mention the 64.8173% likelihood the rig will violently explode on activation, but blast it all that’s a small price to pay for a little piece of mind!

[Demidos]

Aramar sat at the table as the cards were dealt. Deal me in he says, eyeing the cards (and their dealer). As he is dealt the cards, he glances at them briefly, and there is a very slight shimmer in the air about him. Then looks up at the rest of the group. As I understand it, a run of five consecutive high cards is quite good he says, gesturing with his cards at the three (consecutive) cards laid out on the table.
With only the slightest hint of a smirk, he pushes a good third of his chips into the center. Raise, anybody?

[Gengy]

Dining Hall
The Weaver snuck into the kitchen via a back door. He wasn't afraid of his siblings, but he quite enjoyed the smells that Llassar and the culinary spirits conjured from biological stuffs. Which is why he was surprised to instead find Jongo. Making...something. "Hello again Jongo. Fancy seeing you here. Llassar finally cave to your constant pleas to help with dinner?" The Weaver stood behind his eldest sibling, and took a whiff of the creation upon the counter. Delicious, in an odd sort of way.

The Grand Kitchen

"Ah! Rodney!" Jongo spun on the stool he was sitting on. Looking up at her brother, Jongo grinned again, bemused.

The spirits of the kitchen were busy, prepping for the Banquet. Not wanting to displease Father, Jongo had decided that the "Take-Over-the-Kitchen" plan would probably be only a good idea for a few minutes.

So a few minutes was all Jongo had to put this plan into action. Giggling, he pointed at the counter, "Lookie lookie! Sammiches!"

On the counter were what appeared to be sourdough dinner rolls. The centers, however, seemed to bulge, as though someone had carefully cooked something inside the bread. They smelled delicious. In an odd sort of way.

There were ten of them. And other than the fact that they were separated on the baking slab in a well spaced fashion, it was hard to tell them apart.

"I couldn't make a lot, because the Banquet is soon, but I thought a snack might be nice. For, you know, the people playing with the weird game that Lossethir made with the weird numbered shapes and things. And I was hungry too. So I had the spirits whip these up! And Llassar wasn't around to stop me, so I added a twist!" Jongo smiled a big smile, which usually meant that she was having fun... and could be trouble for someone.

"Hey! Say! You can help me. I'm gonna close my eyes. Put those sammiches onto that plate there. And just tell me when you are done!" Saying that, Jongo spun around, back facing the counter. Placing both hands over his green and grey eyes, she scrunched her eyes shut, and waiting.

"Are you done yet?"

These are NOT Sandwiches. They more closely resemble Kolaches. If you don't know what a kolache is, this is a good picture (warning, takes you away from GitP) (http://www.kolachefactory.com/attachments/stories/3/kol.jpg). They are bread with something filled inside, and generally are delicious.

[Tectonic Robot]

Llassar - Dining Hall

Llassar raised an eyebrow at his brother and sisters. "Alright, I think I get your game now." He stood up, swept his gaze back down, then leaned conspiratorially towards the group. "Do any of you know what this banquet if for, anyway?"

[VonDoom]

The Training Ground

Nieve met her equal in enthusiasm in Shirvan; his breath hot, a low growl in his throat. Shirvan's firm body pressed against hers as he responded in kind, kissing Nieve with wild abandon, pulling her as much as she pushed him.

Once they broke off and Nieve had snuggled against him, he stretched a little to accomodate her. "I have a few ideas, mysel-" Shirvan started to reply, his voice low as his right hand traveled up Nieve's back, seeking to trap her in the hug of his powerful arm; but then the woman was gone, and, not wanting to look the fool, he lowered his hands again and pushed himself off of the ground effortlessly.

Apparently her light-born brother had little difficulties with his new distinct lack of belt, his clothes quite form-fitting and his pants not in danger of falling down anytime soon. "Oh," he said with slightly ragged breath still, his eyes smoldering with their intensity. "I certainly can, but are you sure you want to? It looks I've stolen your breath away, when you had just barely managed to catch it."

Yet, even as he spoke mischief, Shirvan suddenly revealed a blade in hand -- Nieve's own training sword! That the godling had managed to keep track of it during their encounter on the ground and held it now seemed inconceivable, yet there it was.


Dasque's Chamber

"Sweet sister," Shirvan replied with a brief smile after Dasque had spoken her greetings, "you could dress in rags and would still stand as the most dazzling in the room." He looked her up and down briefly, then added. "Though I prefer you in your armor over rags, I think. It suits you well."

The lean man leaned against the wall next to him, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stood before the door; he had never asked to enter, and wouldn't, unless it was offered to him. "I wish it was over already," he began, changing the subject, "I can hardly wait to get going, courtesy of our dear father." An ironic smile was on his lips -- Dasque knew, for Shirvan kept little secrets from her, that the test placed upon him by their creator had left its marks, a wound of betrayal in her twin's heart, who had thought Baz'auran had taken him into his confidence. He had learned only too quickly that it had simply been another test.

[The Succubus]

He watched his two siblings leave the Court of the Stars and felt greatly disturbed.

Jongo had been completely out of character and not at all what Khalen had been expecting. It had thought carefully and logically about its answers in the game, demonstrating a deep and piercing insight that was quite unknowable from his previous encounters with the creature. Yet it was the solemn speech from it at the end that had shaken Khalen to his very core, the final sentence echoing in his mind.

“For everything must change. Even the stars. Even we must change.”

Khalen hated feeling like this – confused, uncertain and unsure of even himself. He bowed in the direction of Father and left, his questions unasked. For how could Father help him if even he did not what was causing this crisis of faith?

Descending the steps, he crossed the plaza to the Well of Eternity, the darkness within like a silent whirlpool. Khalen gazed down up on the Great Disk and watched it slowly turn against a backdrop of stars and oblivion. Why was the Great Disk so important? Why had Father entrusted it to them, when they were little more than children? What were they to do once they were there? Were they to ensure it remained forever unchanged as Father had left it? Were they to shape and twist it as each saw fit?

Khalen began to feel dizzy and nauseous, his head beginning to ache as he slowly dropped to the ground.

[shorewood]

Quote originally by Demidos
Aramar sat at the table as the cards were dealt. Deal me in he says, eyeing the cards (and their dealer). As he is dealt the cards, he glances at them briefly, and there is a very slight shimmer in the air about him. Then looks up at the rest of the group. As I understand it, a run of five consecutive high cards is quite good he says, gesturing with his cards at the three (consecutive) cards laid out on the table.
With only the slightest hint of a smirk, he pushes a good third of his chips into the center. Raise, anybody?

Looking across the table at Aramar, Haramhold glances at his cards subtly smiling to himself. "Well my dear brother I'll meet that bet and raise you another ten."

Haramhold was running out of chips and needed a big pot to stay in the game. This was as good as hand as any, so he decided to try his luck.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Chamber

Dasque smiled at Shirvan's flattery, the smile did not leave as he spoke of Father, but it became hollow. She unveiled a hidden lever to him as he stood there, and when he hidden door in the wall slid open, he saw an arrangement of her clothes, both formal and practical.

She pulled out a stunning dress, shimmering, with long silk glvoes that matched. "Turn around Shirvan, I feel a spell of modesty come over me."

She dressed if he turned his back, and held her ground otherwise, but either way responded. "Will it ever be over, Shirvan?" The question was pointed, and it was the most she had said against Bas'Auran to any of her siblings at any time.

[The_Snark]

The Training Grounds

"Well then, I have the perfect excuse!" Nieve said, twirling her sword idly. "If I lose I can blame it all on fatigue, and if I do well I shall be gracious enough not to mention it. Besides, I really ought to be working on my stamina. Don't you think?"

Breathlessness aside, she did seem poised to fight: feet slightly apart, knees bent, blade just a flick of the wrist away from readiness. She bounced on the balls of her feet, brimming with energy despite what she claimed. Part of her was regretting breaking off that embrace, and she wanted a distraction to throw herself into.

[Demidos]

Looking across the table at Aramar, Haramhold glances at his cards subtly smiling to himself. "Well my dear brother I'll meet that bet and raise you another ten."

Haramhold was running out of chips and needed a big pot to stay in the game. This was as good as hand as any, so he decided to try his luck.


Aramar smiled widely. This game promised to be good sport. Perhaps Haramhold would fold if he pushed harder, or perhaps not -- Haramhold had few opportunities remaining if he wanted to remain playing, insofar as Aramar had understood the game.


"I'll match. Anyone else coming for the ride?"

[THEChanger]

The Kitchen
The Weaver smiled at Jongo's ridiculousness, but did as he was bid. Arranging the "sammiches" in a spiral pattern. "Jongo, if I may ask, why do you call me Rodney? That's not my name. I don't object terribly, but it is curious."

[Gengy]

The Grand Kitchen

Jongo turned around, and smirked to see the 'sammiches' on the plate. Picking up the plate carefully in both hands, she carefully began walking towards the Dining Hall. Still, a question was asked...

"Father created you. I won't disagree with the name He gave you. Never. But sometimes... sometimes it's fun calling people something that they know means them when it's not actually their name. It feels wrong, but feels right. It's outside the norm... until it becomes the new norm. The spirit who called himself 'Nyyck' taught me that. So I guess 'Rodney'..." Jongo looked up at his brother, before leaving the Grand Kitchen, "...is a Nyyck-name."

The Dining Hall

Coming from the Grand Kitchen, Jongo pushed the door open and seemed to be carrying a plate full of some delicious looking Rolls.

"Ladies and Gentleman! My dear siblings. A gift for your game. And a game for your gift!" Jongo smiled a happy smile, and looked over at Rose. She'd like this.

"From the Grand Kitchen, I have newly made sammiches. The game is called: 'What's in the Sammich?'" Jongo put the plate on the table, and let everyone look at it.

"As you see, there are 10 sammiches. Inside is a tasty morsel, from the finest part of the Kitchen. Some are filled with yummy cream. Some are filled with scrumptious meats. One or two have something that the Spirits assure me were made by Llassar himself to be absolutely delectable."

Nodding at the scarecrow of a Head Chef, Jongo continued, "But one. One of these near identical morsels has what I call... a Jongo Pepper. Very tasty. Very nice. You'll like it... at first. But then it changes. It doesn't become hot. It becomes scalding! You'll be begging for liquid in a matter of minutes, and you won't be able to taste anything else for at least an hour. I'm very proud of it."

Giggling madly now, the little human child plopped on the ground and looked up at her siblings.

"And the best part? Even I don't know which one of these sammiches has it! Brother Rodney put them on a plate, while I wasn't looking!" Jongo is excited. It truly is random this way. Talking quickly, as he normally does, she went on. "So... I see you are playing Lossethir's game. Who has the most... what are they? Chips? I propose they get the first pick. Luck favors them, because there are more GOOD sammiches. But the lowest chip holder picks last... or not at all, because the Jongo Pepper may have already been eaten!"

Standing back up from the floor, Jongo dusted himself off, and grew a few inches, so that everyone could see her. It lasted only for a moment, but the change in size was noticeable, as was what sounded like Jongo's serious voice saying, "So what do you say? You're already testing luck through those little... cards? Why not test it a bit further?

Or... are you afraid of a few consequences for your choices?"

Rules of play for this game are here (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12705750&postcount=293). You can, of course, cheat... and risk going first.

[KiCowboy]

Dining Hall

"Now THIS is a wager I can get behind! Well played brother! To Jongo!"

A flagon of Dragon's Breath was emptied. Pearly white teeth beamed as Brandis clasped his eldest sibling. And a stomach growled while he examined the tray. That, and his now non existent pile of chips.

"Ah, well . . . Going all in seemed such a good plan at the time. A Jongo pepper, eh? That does sound like an adventure . . ."

His voice was ever so close to holding a tinge of disappointment. Knowing his brother, this could very well be the only pepper of it's kind. And going last would make it ever too likely someone else might find it first.

[AntiMatter101]

Dining hall
Frellon poured over the scroll of rules, sipping the ale the spirit had brought him. Eventually he rolles up the scroll and sets it to the side with a sigh, muttering under his breath. "I swear this game gets more complicated every time I play..."

Frellon listened to Jongo's proposition and had to admit, it made the game more interesting. Nodding to himself, a smile broke through his face at the thought of someone eating such a pepper.

Frellon leans forward, and addresses the dealer. "Deal me in on the next hand, please." He glances around at the other players, and their respective chip piles and faltered. "How do I get chips to start with?"

[Demidos]

Dining hall
Frellon poured over the scroll of rules, sipping the ale the spirit had brought him. Eventually he rolles up the scroll and sets it to the side with a sigh, muttering under his breath. "I swear this game gets more complicated every time I play..."

Frellon listened to Jongo's proposition and had to admit, it made the game more interesting. Nodding to himself, a smile broke through his face at the thought of someone eating such a pepper.

Frellon leans forward, and addresses the dealer. "Deal me in on the next hand, please." He glances around at the other players, and their respective chip piles and faltered. "How do I get chips to start with?"

"Like so", says Aramar, flicking his wrist and causing a stack of chips to appear before Frellon. "The real trick is learning how to keep them there once you have them."

[The Succubus]

The Well of Eternity

The sky was full of stars, yet one shone brighter than the rest as it slowly tumbled downwards. The sand beneath his feet coarse and biting. He turns, looking this way and that, searching for something he cannot remember. Yet all he sees is the desert, stretching into eternity. He calls out, yet no-one answers.

Feeling the beginnings of panic, he runs, blindly, calling out again and again for someone, anyone. He stumbles and falls. As he tries to stand, he sees something in the distance. A spark of light, like a candle flame, twisting and dancing. He blinks and the flame changes to a young woman, dancing. She is beautiful and enchanting. He blinks again and the candle flame returns.

A dark wind blows across the sand and the flame is snuffed out. He turns to look at the source - a huge sword, its blade jet black, devouring the stars as it swings down towards him. Just as the blade is about to strike, a colossal stone hand bursts through the sand and grasps the blade, shattering it into a thousand pieces....

Khalen awoke to find a spirit hovering over him, watching anxiously. He slowly got to his feet, grasping the edge of the well. The dream was vivid in his mind and Khalen knew that it was important. Yet his was a world of logic and order; he did not know what to make of it. He resolved to seek The Weaver. Perhaps he would be able to provide some answers.

[Tectonic Robot]

Llassar stared as Jongo walked out of the kitchen with his bounty, his mind refusing to believe what it had just seen. Only when he started talking did Llassar realize that this was indeed happening, and the terrible repercussions of Jongo being alone in the kitchen. "By Ban'Auran, it'll be the starfish incident all over again!"

Alright, well, Jongo had said The Weaver was there- Llassar had always like The Weaver. He'd known the value of a nice long sit under a big tree during a warm summer day. But if he had to choose a sibling to watch Jongo?

Llassar was out of his chair in an instant. He but a foot on a chair and vaulted right over the table, running for the kitchen at a dead sprint, one hand keeping his straw hat clamped to his head.

Throwing the doors opened, he screamed: "Status report! What are we missing!? Nothing's on fire, right?"

[THEChanger]

The Weaver laughed as Llassar rushed into the kitchen. "Peace, brother, peace! Jongo found himself far too occupied with the creation of his sammiches to cause too much distruction in your kitchens. Most likely due to the fact the sammiches required very little of your supplies to make." The Weaver calmly placed the one stool out of place back where it belonged. "Come. Let us go see how our siblings fare with Jongo's wager. It should be quite amusing to see who pickes the Jongo Pepper." The Weaver leaned in confidentially to Llassar. "Part of me hopes it will be Lossethir." He whispered. "He might get up out of his chair for once."

[Erik Vale]

"I'll eat one...."

Kalandor reaches down and grabs a sammich.


[roll0]

The Lucky one rolls A one.... Well, I wanted that I't is lucky.

((OOC: Gah, I missed That, Spoiling for latter))

And his face went. The brightest of reds, the only thing seperating him from a cartoon is the lack of fire and steam.
"Houghi Siiiaagh!!!"
And, If at all possible, that made it worse. But then again, anyone who eats chilli knows, dont breathe.... And then, to make matters worse, its an adaptive chilli made almost purely for the comedic effect of combining the effects of chilli and the ingesters powers...
And Alan (The Spirit from before) laughs, clapping his hands on his legs "And to believe your the lucky one!" Roaring with laughter the spirit then says "Well, it really is BeLIEve!" The spirit slowly curling over, laughing at Kalandors plight and his own, not to good, joke.
And the chilli finally links with his power, and it happens.
It goes from his mouth to his hand, which goes bright red and somehow starts sweating, and the pewter mug of alcohol Kalandor was about to drink to deaden his nerves is suddenly slammed to the table to have his hand plunged in it.

And that was just the start of a day that was (mostly) only going to get worse....

"Ahh, my mistake. Well, I'll take that one first (The dentid one) if noone else takes it..."

[AntiMatter101]

"I'll eat one...."

Kalandor reaches down and grabs a sammich.


[roll0]

Frellon's attention shifted to Kalandor, whom he had been sitting next to, reaching for one of the 'sammich' rolls. Wait a minute..., he thought to himself. As Kalandor retracted his arm with the roll, Frellon neatly plucked it from his hand and deposited it back onto the serving plate.

"Weren't you listening to Jongo, Kalandor? The winner of the card game gets to pick first! The runner up chooses second, and so on. We have to finish the game before we eat them." Frellon looks again at Kalandor, wondering if he had been drinking much before Frellon had arrived.

His attention was returned to the roll he had whisked away from him. "Oh darn, I've gone and dented it." In his zeal to have what he saw as the rules of engagement upheld, It seems that Frellon had snatched the sammich a little too eagerly, his hand gripping it and breaking through the crust. Not enough to reveal it's contents, but enough to distinguish it from the others.

If people take issue with the last paragraph I can remove it. :smallwink:

[Tychris1]

Steel Cathedral

Looking at Frellon's obvious excitement and joy from the mark, Contragh could not help but grin and shake his head. "I'll never understand the pride and joy you hold in the marks you get from being wounded, they simply act as a permanent reminder of a failure or mistake." In truth, Contragh had simply accepted the healing and had be done with it. The quicker one healed, the quicker they could fight, and they quicker they could fight the quicker they could perfect themselves and hone their skills. Staring at the discarded sword Contragh realizes it would probably be a good idea to return his sundered axe to the bin so that it may be fixed.*

Pardoning himself for a moment he runs back *to the discarded shaft and blade in order to return them to a bin. Returning to Frellon he sighs and plops himself down on the ground, turning his head towards Frellon he says "Tell me Frellon, why do you think Baz'Auran is sending us ALL to the disk? Certainly we would have to be there to defeat the beasts of chaos, Haramhold and Rumel to craft the world we claim, and Llasser to feed our loyal subordinates. But what of the likes of Jongo, The Weaver, and Rosellia? They would seem to be in danger more then they would be useful in providing anything. I know that Baz'Auran has a great and mighty plan that will make me feel stupid upon seeing it, but it does not make me stop wondering why?"

[AntiMatter101]

Steel Cathedral

Looking at Frellon's obvious excitement and joy from the mark, Contragh could not help but grin and shake his head. "I'll never understand the pride and joy you hold in the marks you get from being wounded, they simply act as a permanent reminder of a failure or mistake." In truth, Contragh had simply accepted the healing and had be done with it. The quicker one healed, the quicker they could fight, and they quicker they could fight the quicker they could perfect themselves and hone their skills. Staring at the discarded sword Contragh realizes it would probably be a good idea to return his sundered axe to the bin so that it may be fixed.*

Pardoning himself for a moment he runs back *to the discarded shaft and blade in order to return them to a bin. Returning to Frellon he sighs and plops himself down on the ground, turning his head towards Frellon he says "Tell me Frellon, why do you think Baz'Auran is sending us ALL to the disk? Certainly we would have to be there to defeat the beasts of chaos, Haramhold and Rumel to craft the world we claim, and Llasser to feed our loyal subordinates. But what of the likes of Jongo, The Weaver, and Rosellia? They would seem to be in danger more then they would be useful in providing anything. I know that Baz'Auran has a great and mighty plan that will make me feel stupid upon seeing it, but it does not make me stop wondering why?"
The Steel Cathedral
Frellon brightens. "I like to have the scars because they do just that, they act as a permanent reminder of a mistake. If one forgets a lesson, what use is it? They also make great fodder for stories! It's a way to prove to mortals, just by looking at me, that I've been in fights and lived to tell of them!"

*As Contragh grabs the rest of his former weapon, Frellon sits against the wall of the Cathedral, noting the other warriors sparring and training, content to just watch for now.

When Contragh returns and asks his question. Frellon falls silent for several moments, obviously giving the question some thought. "I suppose the others each bring something unique to enrich the mortal races, without one there, all would be poorer for it." Frellon shrugged. "Thats what I seem to recall from the many lectures, but I cannot be sure."

Frellon paused for dramatic effect, a grin creeping into his face. "Certainly they would be safer here in the White City," Frellon began, his eyes betraying a hint of mischievous humor, "but imagine how furious Jongo would be about having to remain behind while the rest of us explore the disk! And I doubt we could keep Rosellia away if we tried! She's much too clever, if she wanted to, I'm sure she could find a way to the disk."

[TheDarkDM]

Mischief!

As the poker game wound down and the assembled children of Baz'Auran prepared to risk their comfort on Jongo's creation, a shadow fell over the table. Before any greedy hand could reach for the sammiches, a thin, razor talon impaled the central sammich, releasing a spurt of rainbow oil that could only have come from the Jongo Pepper. Looking up with a start, the children saw Tezzerin looming over them, her eight wings shimmering like silver in starlight, the twinkle in her eyes struggling between amusement and irritation. A flick of her foot long claws, and the unlucky sammich dissipated into sparkling dust.

"That's quite enough mischief for today, children. It would be unseemly for one of you to be afflicted with one of Jongo's pranks when the banquet begins. Now, prepare yourselves!"

The Summons (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbtTA43BV5c&feature=related)

The blazing globe of the sun sank beyond the sight of the Well of Eternity, and as the children of Baz'Auran moved about their lives a single ringing peal echoed through the air. The sound faded, and for a moment the silence hung, as fragile and delicate as the purest glass. Then the glass shattered, as the bells in the Towers of the Most High answered their brother, great slabs of gold and silver and bronze resounding in a mighty chorus that summoned all to the Court of Baz'Auran, to the banquet that had been at the forefront of so many minds.

As the children of Baz'Auran entered the vast chamber, they saw the space had been filled with long tables of gleaming crystal, crowded with Spirits of the Highest Circle. There were thousands of them, tens of thousands, all their eyes staring expectantly towards the approaching godlings. Before the dais rose a great semicircular table, runes of power sparkling along its side, the chairs around it empty in anticipation of the children. At either side of the towering throne of Baz'Auran sat Tezzerin and Eliat, resplendent in their glory undiminished. But not even the greatest of the Spirits could match the blazing power of Baz'Auran. His unbridled might wreathed him in a shifting garment of grey flame, flame that still paled in comparison to the shining glory of his eyes. Seeing the children, the Spirits of the Highest Circle rose in reverence, and Baz'Auran gestured to the table that had been prepared.

"Welcome, my children. Sit, for we have much to discuss."

His voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it sent a tremor through the air. The children had never known their father to raise his voice beyond that whisper, for his power was so great as to make even his voice a tool of creation and destruction. The sound lingered for long moments, but eventually it faded as chalices of ambrosia rose from the assembled tables, accompanied by long platters piled high with the bounty of the White City. Before the Spirits rose only the shining fruits of the City's garden, sprinkled with dew that had been masterfully joined with the essence of Joy. Yet the godling children of Baz'Auran were of a different ken, and before them the platters of fruit were flanked by steaming platters of choice meats, some glistening with barely contained juices, others glazed in wafer thin crusts of Delight and Expectation. Yet upon the dais, the ruler of the White City was sated with a simple cup of Possibility, held by his beloved cup bearer. In silence, he awaited the questions that were sure to come, apparently ready to reveal the full extent of his childrens' mission.

[VonDoom]

The Training Grounds

"Oh?," Shirvan replied, amused even as his keen eyes took note of Nieve's state. He himself was not one for regrets, but the arousal still burned within and made certain that the fellow goddesses' curves proved quite a distraction. Still, to love, to fight, was it not all the same to a creature of such passions as the Silverhair? "You think it a matter of winning or losing, do you?"

Chuckling briefly, the honey-eyed man suddenly leaped forward, his blade rushing with a quick swipe toward Nieve's beautiful face; a feint! With a sudden twist, a shift of weight, Shirvan cut his jump short, bent his legs and rather came from beneath with a swift, straight stab.

"When it comes to practice, I find it better when all involved win!" And in other things as well, but too much tongue-waggling in combat could prove a dangerous distraction.

Dasque's Chamber

Shirvan would have raised an eyebrow, but he had learned not to question the strange fancies that took his sister at times. They had been made from the same light, had they not? Witness to each other's creation, there was nothing beneath those clothes that he had not already seen. Had some of the other children of Baz'Auran infected her with their strange inclinations towards shame?

Still, he turned. It was but a simple request, after all. "All things must end, eventually. A creator might outlive its creation, but the same holds true for the opposite. Only time will tell." An honest response, but also a harsh truth; Shirvan was not one to speak false assurances to his twin sister.

[Gengy]

The Banquet

Jongo was disappointed that no one got to taste the Jongo Pepper. All that work!

But Tezzerin had come in, looked at the plate, and simply... smashed it! That was almost worth it.

And now they were all here, in the Court, and Father was here, and the Ceiling...

Jongo sat in his chair, and just looked up at the Ceiling. It was magnificent. The ever swirling change fascinated Jongo. She couldn't believe that this was the last time that they all might be in this room for, well, weeks! Months! Maybe even a year or more!

Being away from the Ceiling of Baz'Auran - from the White City, and all of it's neat tricks - was going to be tough.

Jongo just sat, and stared. Going into an almost trance. Absentmindedly, Jongo picked up and chewed an Apple.

It... it was the most delicious Apple Jongo had ever tasted. Sweet, succulent, and dribbly, but not so much that the child form that Jongo wore today couldn't lick the juices afterwards from his lips. It was so good, it brought Jongo out of her reverie with the Ceiling, long enough to ask a question.

"Father, are there Apples like these on the Disk?"

[daelrog]

Dasque's Chamber

"So it is." It took another few moments before she finished putting her dress on. "You may come in, Shirvan." He was the first to be granted entrance. He saw her put her second shoe on, and proceed to pull a small knife out, pressing it against the palm of her hand.

"What do I owe the pleasure, or have you come for pleasantries before we depart?" She smiled, and it made her dress shimmer all the more.

[Tectonic Robot]

The Weaver laughed as Llassar rushed into the kitchen. "Peace, brother, peace! Jongo found himself far too occupied with the creation of his sammiches to cause too much distruction in your kitchens. Most likely due to the fact the sammiches required very little of your supplies to make." The Weaver calmly placed the one stool out of place back where it belonged. "Come. Let us go see how our siblings fare with Jongo's wager. It should be quite amusing to see who pickes the Jongo Pepper." The Weaver leaned in confidentially to Llassar. "Part of me hopes it will be Lossethir." He whispered. "He might get up out of his chair for once."


"Are you sure? Because Jongo is a sneaky little fellow! I wouldn't put it past him to have switched the salt and the sugar, the crazy little-" Llassar is cut off from his small rant by the voice of Tezzerin. He turns and leaps, calling out: "Ack, no time! Spirits, just... make sure it all works out!" He leaps out of the room, air whispering past him, practically diving for a chair before the banquet starts in full.

[Raz_Fox]

The Banquet

Beside almighty Baz'Auran stood his beloved cupbearer, the Maiden of the Dusk, as colorful and bright as he was purely grey and brilliant, the jewel set against silver. Her shining gown was made from the purest silk, and its colors seemed to shift whenever it caught the light, a rolling blue-green hue that seemed reminiscent of the sea below the White City. A deep brown sash crossed it, from shoulder to hip, and it would be easy to mistake it for a deliberate addition - but, no, it was simply the strap for her harp, which she could not help but carry to dinner. It still looked marvelous on her.

The light of the stars themselves was caught within the grey jewels set into the silver crown she wore, and they flashed and blazed with fiery glory, not quite the equal of Baz'Auran's glorious aura - for what could compare to that? but still, it set her apart as the cupbearer of Baz'Auran. She wore no other jewelry, or marked her face with cosmetics, for her mere beauty was enough by Baz'Auran's side.

She stepped forward, to the left side of Baz'Auran's throne, and brought the great goblet of Baz'Auran to her lips, taking the slightest sip of Possibility. It was heady, and sweet, and it brought to mind everything that could happen tonight, all the different ways that Baz'Auran would decide her fate that night. She shivered, ever-so-slightly, and then said, "All is well, my father." No one had ever attempted to poison Baz'Auran's cup, but some things had to be done for the sake of tradition. She passed the goblet to him, allowing him to drink from it, and then accepted the goblet when he returned it to her hands. She looked out at her siblings, all her wonderful, lovely siblings, and smiled softly at them.

Tonight would be the most wonderful night.

[AntiMatter101]

The Banquet
Frellon did not lead the procession into the Banquet, he was not that presumtuous. However, he was as close to the front as he felt he could manage. This was going to be a night to remember, and he wanted to miss nothing. He is quite eager to hear whatever it was Baz'Auran had to say.

Quickly, he made his way to his seat, and sat down. All thoughts he might have been having over how poorly he had just played in that thrice-cursed card game were banished in anticipation of the night's events.

[ArlEammon]

Aerin's Question
Aerin had thought all along on his time in the White City that the best way for him to prosper was to be on everyone's good side. His sycophantic ways, was something that was a part of his nature, but he wished he could make up for that problem and learn how to overcome his nature. He looked to Jongo waiting for Father to respond, so that he would ask Baz'Auran his own question. After Baz'Auran would answer Jongo, Aerin would immediately ask him,
"Father, I have been tormented for the past ten years by my own inner nature of flattery. I wish to rectify this mistake through inner contemplation and reflection, but after ten years, still I have no answer. Forgive me for my past attempts at flattering ways to earn my way. How may I overcome my nature?"

[Erik Vale]

The Banquet

Kalandor walked in the procession equal second, following Jongo to the tables. While most spirits had fancy seats, same with the various gods, whose seats -thrones almost- had some small picture on them based on the orrignal aspect they were created to fill. Kalandor merely had a stool, a simple brown stool with no backing, just four legs each connected to eachother with a thin stick. The only ornamentation where two walking feet, on the underside of the seat.

And as true as others clothes were ornate, covered in symbols, Kalandors clothes were simple. A Travellers 'uniform' of a leather jacket and leggings, with a thin shirt underneath. His cloak was a drab brown, the underside marked with the various areas on the white disk he had travveled to, and encounters he has faced, but most of these -which resemble an interconnecting web of tribal tattoes- were hidden, giving the brown edges of the cloak an apearence of having random and chaotic green lines.

Having sat down at his place, with pewter placements, he sat waiting for Baz'Auran to speak. And he did speak, a whisper that boomed across the hall.

And before Kalandor spoke, Jongo did, and he had to stop, in a surprisingly succesful attempt to not curl over laughing.
'Of all the questions he asks, he asks this?' Kalandor thinks, laughter rolling around his head.

[DoomHat]

Late For A a very Important Date

The resounding chime of the Summons sent a shiver of purist horror up Rumel's spine. How long had he been at this? It was of no consequence now. With a few quick flourishes, the Prototype was more or less assembled. He could calibrate the thing on the way to The Disk if need be. With a deft precision born of a focused panic, he loaded The Prototype into his high priority package conveyance system MkV, and fired it at the Ship, with a note attached reading,

Carry this to my cabin,
ASK NO QUESTIONS!!

-Your's humbly,
Rumel

There was a roaring FUOUT as the cargo was encased in impact softening foam and satisfying WUH-KOOM as it catipulted the objected into the diminishing horizon.
Feverishly he set the launch timer again and with a whirring and clacking of levers and pulleys input a new destination. With a deep gasp he held his breath and loaded himself in. There was a half second pause before the world was drowned out by impact softening foam. His guts lurched, indicating his sudden gain in forward momentum.
An orange-grey ball of industrial snot soared across fantastical vistas of The White City at near inconceivable speeds. Within a child of Baz'Auran held tightly to his knees and wondered to himself if this was perhaps not the best idea. His lungs burned this imminent suffocation.
The sound it made when it squished into the outer wall of The Great Hall was not dissimilar from a brief comical fart. It stuck still for a moment before sliding lugubriously to the pavement.
A hand, brandishing some manner of elaborate cutting tool, exploded out from one side. It was soon followed by the reddened face of Rumel, coughing and desperate for air.

The Banquet

Rumel strode into the room. The lingering smell of a doused chemical fire that currently heralded him was only faintly detectable over the otherworldly aroma of the feast set before those gathered there. His head was held high with the conceit of total certitude, in-spite of being painted with splodges of impact foam residue and machine grease. As he opened his mouth to speak, the wretch casually forgotten between his lips fell free and pinged gently on the shimmering soft tile floor.
He paused and glanced at it with a look of hurt betrayal, before lifting his eyes to scan his family. He met his father's eye and shrank. He swept himself quietly into his assigned seat, and began gingerly helping himself to one of the more nutritious looking stews, as through his tardiness warranted no explanation.

[The Succubus]

The Banquet

Before Khalen could begin his search for The Weaver, he heard the tolling of the summoning bell, calling him and his siblings to the Court of Baz'Auran. He sighed and slowly made his way to the banqueting hall. There was a spectacular feat laid out for all, with a thousand fruits, meats and meads for all. Yet Khalen barely touched the meal in front of him.

Soon it was time for the questions. Jongo, true as ever to his nature, asked a rather ridiculous and purposeless question. Aerin in his never ending struggle to forge some meaningful identity for himself asked how he could change his ways. Eventually, Khalen spoke.

"Father. If I have heard correctly, you plan to send us to the Great Disk. The Disk is your creation, yet you choose to burden us with ruling it." Khalen could feel his anger rising as he continued.

"The Disk is your most important work, yet you leave it in the hands of children! There are those of us that would tear it apart through warfare, others that would see their domains cover the world. Some who would take the world apart, bit by bit to see how it was made and others who let their realms slide into anarchy and chaos through their apathy!"

Tears of rage began to stream down Khalen's face as he glared at the serene figure at the head of the table. "Why would you do this to us, Father?!"

[Raz_Fox]

The Banquet

Before Khalen could begin his search for The Weaver, he heard the tolling of the summoning bell, calling him and his siblings to the Court of Baz'Auran. He sighed and slowly made his way to the banqueting hall. There was a spectacular feat laid out for all, with a thousand fruits, meats and meads for all. Yet Khalen barely touched the meal in front of him.

Soon it was time for the questions. Jongo, true as ever to his nature, asked a rather ridiculous and purposeless question. Aerin in his never ending struggle to forge some meaningful identity for himself asked how he could change his ways. Eventually, Khalen spoke.

"Father. If I have heard correctly, you plan to send us to the Great Disk. The Disk is your creation, yet you choose to burden us with ruling it." Khalen could feel his anger rising as he continued.

"The Disk is your most important work, yet you leave it in the hands of children! There are those of us that would tear it apart through warfare, others that would see their domains cover the world. Some who would take the world apart, bit by bit to see how it was made and others who let their realms slide into anarchy and chaos through their apathy!"

Tears of rage began to stream down Khalen's face as he glared at the serene figure at the head of the table. "Why would you do this to us, Father?!"

Fayruz, standing at Baz'Auran's hand as the loyal cupbearer, was given a unique perspective on the banquet. To her was given the privilege of seeing her siblings from the great dais of Baz'Auran, of seeing them as they began to eat and ask their beloved father their questions. Jongo, as ever, made her smile with his-her concerns about the apples of the Disk. Of all the concerns of the evening, of course Jongo would wonder about whether he-she would get the chance to eat another apple. She met Jongo's eyes for a moment, and nodded ever-so-slightly in approval.

Aerin's question, right on the heels of Jongo's, made her want to laugh. She merely held a deep breath for a moment and then released it, but the corner of her mouth twitched upwards. Aerin, as always, didn't understand himself. How could her sweet brother not understand that his urge to please his father was part of who he was? He might think himself a flatterer, but in truth, he merely desired to have his father's approval, especially now - wasn't his request for advice proof enough that he still wanted Baz'Auran's blessing?

But then, oh, Khalen. Fayruz's mouth opened ever-so-slightly in shock, her eyes widening, as she listened to her brother's words shift from stoic calmness to a furious rage. She stepped forward, the goblet of Possibility still held in her hands, and said, "Oh, Khalen - if I may, Father," she added, turning her head to him for a moment before turning her attention to Khalen-Het again. "Khalen, we are a family, and we have been given blessings beyond any other inhabitants of the White City, and certainly beyond the poor children of the Disk. Can't you see why our Father sends us? This is our chance, as a family, to bless the children of the Disk just as Father has blessed us.

"Why do you think your brothers and sisters will rip apart the world through war, or through curiosity or negligence? We are all still brothers and sisters, and we all have our part to play, just as every part of your body works together to your good, big brother. This is the greatest opportunity that Father has ever given us, the opportunity for all of us to use our gifts in one accord for the benefit of others."

As Fayruz spoke, her face lit up, and she grew ever more excitable, speaking her words with as much conviction as Khalen-Het accused Baz'Auran, until she finished. Then, it struck her how presumptuous she was, and the fire drained from her face and she stepped back, taking her place besides Baz'Auran's throne again. Still, she could not help but look at her glorious father, and ask softly, "The opportunity for all of us?"

[Tectonic Robot]

Llassar watched his siblings begin to arrive, and relaxed in his chair. He began to grin as Jongo and Khalen posed their questions; Surely Baz'Auran wouldn't notice or care if Llassar took this opportunity to take a little rest? And even if did, well, he'd be busy setting his children straight!

He pulled his straw hat over his eyes, put his feet on the table, and within moments a gentle snore was sneaking out from in between his lips.

[DoomHat]

Fayruz, standing at Baz'Auran's hand as the loyal cupbearer, was given a unique perspective on the banquet. To her was given the privilege of seeing her siblings from the great dais of Baz'Auran, of seeing them as they began to eat and ask their beloved father their questions. Jongo, as ever, made her smile with his-her concerns about the apples of the Disk. Of all the concerns of the evening, of course Jongo would wonder about whether he-she would get the chance to eat another apple. She met Jongo's eyes for a moment, and nodded ever-so-slightly in approval.

Aerin's question, right on the heels of Jongo's, made her want to laugh. She merely held a deep breath for a moment and then released it, but the corner of her mouth twitched upwards. Aerin, as always, didn't understand himself. How could her sweet brother not understand that his urge to please his father was part of who he was? He might think himself a flatterer, but in truth, he merely desired to have his father's approval, especially now - wasn't his request for advice proof enough that he still wanted Baz'Auran's blessing?

But then, oh, Khalen. Fayruz's mouth opened ever-so-slightly in shock, her eyes widening, as she listened to her brother's words shift from stoic calmness to a furious rage. She stepped forward, the goblet of Possibility still held in her hands, and said, "Oh, Khalen - if I may, Father," she added, turning her head to him for a moment before turning her attention to Khalen-Het again. "Khalen, we are a family, and we have been given blessings beyond any other inhabitants of the White City, and certainly beyond the poor children of the Disk. Can't you see why our Father sends us? This is our chance, as a family, to bless the children of the Disk just as Father has blessed us.

"Why do you think your brothers and sisters will rip apart the world through war, or through curiosity or negligence? We are all still brothers and sisters, and we all have our part to play, just as every part of your body works together to your good, big brother. This is the greatest opportunity that Father has ever given us, the opportunity for all of us to use our gifts in one accord for the benefit of others."

As Fayruz spoke, her face lit up, and she grew ever more excitable, speaking her words with as much conviction as Khalen-Het accused Baz'Auran, until she finished. Then, it struck her how presumptuous she was, and the fire drained from her face and she stepped back, taking her place besides Baz'Auran's throne again. Still, she could not help but look at her glorious father, and ask softly, "The opportunity for all of us?"


Rumel choked momentarily on his stew at what he took to be a direct reference to his own person among Khalen's... misgivings. 'Take the world apart, bit by bit', indeed! As though putting it back together wasn't part a priority. No matter, this was no time to get into yet another shouting match with the narrow minded berk. Not with Father around anyway.

And then sweet little Fayruz spoke up, all innocence and polite assumptions. Rumel couldn't stop himself laughing aloud.
"Heeeh! Heh-heh-heeh! You give him to much credit," said Rumel derisively as he reached for a dinner roll, "what Khalen means to say is, 'Why oh Father, why do you send all these unworthies when you could send just me?! Oh and maybe some muscle who'll do as I say...'".

[THEChanger]

"Now now Rumel, let's not get nasty. This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Khalen may be a mite overzealous at times, but his heart is in the right place." The Weaver sat near the middle of the table, trying to sperate himself from those who might upset his indigestion. Rumel was a bit close for that goal though. "Though my brother does bring up an interesting question. Why us, Father? We are, for the most part, untrained in the ways of ruling. I can't speak for my siblings, but I have little interest in leading the mortals of the Disk. Perhaps guide them subtly, but not as a, well, a God. Which is what you propose, if I understand correctly. Would not some of the other spirits be more suited to the task? Or even you yourself?"

[Erik Vale]

Kalandor shakes his head.
"Baz'Auran already has the white city as his domain. And besides, I think mortals would be more put off with the thought of an all knowing and powerful god, and would begin to curse him whenever something went wrong in their lives...."

Will remove if Baz'Auran has reffuted being All knowing, will change to he has enough upon his plate 'looking after the stars'.

Turning his face his brother, The Weaver, with a mischivous smile and glint in his eye ."I myself look forwards to the challenge, and I do not intend to stand at the head of the nation I will forge, I plan to lead them from the back myself, with guidence. I'll save the personal aproach for if they start to go off the rails."

[Nefarion Xid]

The Banquet

"Oh, it's going to be one of those dinners," murmured Lossethir between picking grapes Opportunity Spheres.

"Off of rails?" he wondered aloud, eyebrows narrowing, clearly confused by the implication that government would be metaphorically balanced atop a support bar.

Masking his mouth with his knuckles, he whispered an aside to Avyra, "I'm not worried. I hear mortal girls are easy."

[hi-mi-tsu]

The Banquet

Avyra cannot help the low, quiet laugh that pulls itself from her, at Loss's quiet comment; trust her brother to think of the women to be had on the Disk! Her own plate laden with little things--like the petite meat pastries, and the delicate fruit tarts--she nonetheless reaches over to snatch an orb off of her brother's plate.

"What do you suppose he means, 'off the rails'? Does he think the mortals so hopeless that they will fall off their own balconies? ...Do they even have balconies...? Or maybe he's talking about the bird..." It was a puzzling expression, to be sure, and the young demi-goddess chews contemplatively as she glances around the table. She shakes her head a little, at the quarreling...

"Honestly! On a day like today, one would think one's siblings would have better things to do than fight. Can't everyone just be happy about the experiences we'll get to have...?" And, in a lower voice, to her brothers--Faden was sitting on the other side of her--

"You know...sometimes I feel that Khalen prides himself on causing trouble..."

[Nefarion Xid]

Still in a hushed aside, Lossethir's face twisted with a sudden delighted notion. "Perhaps there are tribes that ride giant rails," he laughed, meaning the water bird, "That would make sense then, you don't want to fall off your bird. Sounds fun though! We're all riding birds on The Disk!"

Resolute in his plan, he gave a firm nod to Faden and Avyra.

[The_Snark]

The Training Grounds

Nieve parried the oncoming thrust with a flourish, smooth and precise as the Spirits of War had taught her... and met nothing as Shirvan abruptly shifted to a low attack. Before she could reverse her mistake he was past her guard, bringing the point of his sword to rest gently at his side. Even if he had not already struck what could have been a finishing blow, he was standing too close for her to easily fend him off. Reflex told her to elbow him away before he could press his advantage, but she stilled it, heart beating slightly faster at the proximity.

"You can't always win, dear brother." She smiled up at him. "The trick is to pick a game that you enjoy losing."

Oh yes, she promised herself as she moved back to take up the ready position again, she'd let Shirvan catch her. Soon. Perhaps even tonight, after the feast; they would be leaving shortly afterwards, and who could say how long the journey to the Disk would last or what would become of them there? So little time left. But she meant to enjoy every second of the game while it lasted.

The Banquet

Nieve entered the great Hall in a twirl of skirts, face lit up with anticipation. Her dress was unadorned silver, almost plain in its simplicity but elegant in its own way (or so she felt). The fabric was thin enough to fall flatteringly on her form, but loose enough to let her move freely, sleeves and hems trailing prettily in the air behind her when she did. She'd clearly been taking advantage of the gown's mobility: her hair was disheveled, hanging all askew over her face and shoulders as if she had run in answer to the summons.

Which, of course, she had.

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and sat at the table almost demurely, determined to respect the occasion. It was a great moment; it deserved dignity! Her attempt was marred only a little by a laugh at Jongo's question and then an embarrassed wince (quickly covered up) as Aerin spoke. Her brother was caught in a paradox: he knew he had the reputation of a sycophant and sought to better it, but so long as his sole motive was to gain the approval of those around him, he could not. The surest way to get what he wanted would be to stop wanting it. Nieve felt for him—she too had always wanted people to like and pay attention to her—but she was heartily glad that she had been graced with enough careless self-confidence to spare her from that dilemma.

What came next was not so easily shrugged off. Nieve tossed her head as Khalen-Het ranted, annoyed that he was marring their last night in the City. No, more than annoyed. Why did he mistrust them so? What had she ever done to deserve that? Nothing, that was what. She held her tongue while Fayruz spoke conciliatory words, but her temper only simmered.

"Children, are we?" she said nastily as the others fell to debating among themselves, pitching her voice to carry above the chatter. "I see only one person crying and shouting here."

Just in case her meaning was not perfectly obvious, she looked straight at Khalen-Het.

[Jade_Tarem]

Banquet

Having remained quiet so far, Faden finally speaks, albeit only loud enough for those nearest him to hear. "Perhaps if Khalen calls Father stupid and lazy again, he'll be banished to the great disk before the rest of us depart. I have the oddest sensation that Baz'Auran has done something like that before..."

[Gengy]

The Banquet

Jongo couldn't tell if what was going on was amazing or horrible. Usually, watching his siblings quarrel and bicker was funny. Jongo even joined in, and had a lot of fun sparring verbally with the others.

But to do so... now?

Jongo looked over at Tezzerin, sitting on her left. As eldest, Jongo was one of the closest to sit near Baz'Auran Himself. Only the First Spirit of Knowledge was between him and Father.

Considering the amount of questions Jongo had had over the years, this was likely a good thing, and surely thought through by both the First Spirit and Baz'Auran.

So it was no surprise that Jongo had another question. Asking it with a soft voice, it was directed at no one in particular, but still loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

"Does anyone here know what the Third Question was?" Jongo mused, and explained. "Sure, it was the question asked Third after Father began creation, but I wonder if any of my siblings know what it was. If they know the words spoken...?"

[daelrog]

The Banquet

"If Father was concerned with our quarrels, he would not merely observe it from his throne." Dasque's voice carried across the room. She stood in the doorway, her dress shimmering silver-white. She wore a matching pair of gloaves taht reached past her elbows. It was noticeable that her left palm had been cut, the blood seeping through the fabric, forming a thin, red line across her hand.

"Either Baz'Auran feels we are prepared, or being unprepared for the Disk below is acceptable. There's naught to do but do as he bids, and if so, I intend to enjoy this meal. Did you help make it Llassar?"

Her shoes raised her up two inches, and her footsteps echoed as she drew near. When she walked near Jongo, she replied to his question. "It's an interesting question Jongo, but first you have to make sure you know what the first two were, so that you don't mistake the third question for the fourth or fifth."

[Gengy]

Trust Dasque to have an answer!

"True, Sister. Very true." Jongo ate another bite of the apple in her hand.

"Oh Father, this is delicious! Is this made from pure crisp Happiness? Or is it Joy? Or Fun? No, no, Fun is something you have, not something that makes an Apple. So I bet it's Happiness! Is it?"

Apparently, with one person answering, Jongo's other question was forgotten. Whatever he had been trying to say, whatever point she was trying to make, was lost upon all others who did not know the Third Question.

After all, there was an Apple in Jongo's hands.

And it was delicious.

[Demidos]

Aramar takes a seat near Frellon and Kalandor. Hearing Kalandor's comment, Aramar smiles.

"I can imagine your nation now -- a nomadic city that takes advice from passing old men in the hopes that their god is leading them and hasn't merely taken off on yet another spur-of-the-moment journey to some unknown land." he says with (almost) a straight face. After a moment, he laughs. Peace! I but jest. In truth, I envy the mortals who follow you -- they will be among the freest and happiest of mortal, I have no doubt."

[KiCowboy]

The Banquet

The shining mauve vest wrapped itself like a second skin around his high necked golden shirt, itself tucked into plaid green trousers. Brandis had every right to look the fool, and yet in the presence of his father he sat rigidly at attention. As the siblings argued around him, he ate only sparingly of the grand feast, sipped from his cup. The normally voracious appetite subdued. The smile wan or perhaps a bit nervous.

As the ancient eyes of Baz'Auran surveyed his children, Brandis waited for them to meet his own. He stood and raised his glass to the father almighty.

"Father, I don't have the wisdom within me to know what to ask about our future. But, if you'll oblige me, I hope to toast you with my thanks. Your gifts of creation and responsibility are sure to be wondrous and terrifying all at once. And somehow I think the myriad of diversity amongst us will thread a tapestry of life grander than even The Weaver might dream of. May our works ever honor you."

And with that, Brandis emptied his drink and sat back down.

[TheDarkDM]

Patience

As the squabble brought about by Khalen-Het's question spread to more and more of the children, Baz'Auran's gaze never left his most ordered son. Yet it seemed he missed not a word, and as Aramar's jibe threatened to rob the banquet of the last trace of decorum he raised his hand.

"Enough."

And like that, the children found themselves incapable of speech, at least for the moment. Baz'Auran's gaze swept over them, dissecting the reasons for the chaos at his table, but finally he answered.

"You presume a great deal, Khalen-Het. Had I intended the Great Disk to be nothing more than a monument to my greatness I would never have peopled it with frail humanity or the Beasts of Chaos. I fear, in your desire to impose order on all things you have missed the essential mutability of the Disk - it is no polished gem, but a rough stone awaiting refinement. It is the great test, for you and all your siblings, and those who prove worthy of my gift of Divine Spark shall rule. Those who do not will return here, to live out their immortal lives as children evermore. But if all that still fails to console you, take comfort in the fact that any damage you or your siblings inflict on the Disk could be undone with a thought, should I deem it necessary. But you should not do your siblings the disservice of assuming I will."

His children still unable to find their tongues, Baz'Auran turned his head to Aerin.

"Aerin, though you may have long struggled against your sycophancy, it is but the symptom of your true struggle. Discover the cause of your need to prostrate yourself, and you shall discover the means to arrest such behavior."

Now, Baz'Auran turned his attention towards Jongo, and it seemed almost as though a smile might escape his face.

"Jongo, my Eldest, you are not yet capable of comprehending the First Questions. But do not let this trouble you, for only time and struggle can bring wisdom, and at the end of your road I am certain you will have discovered them for yourself. As to apples - they will be but faded things compared to their purest essence that you now hold, but they shall grow nevertheless."

Baz'Auran finally lowered his palm, taking his cup from Fayruz's waiting hands and sipping lightly at his draught, returning Brandis' toast. As quickly as it had come, the enforced silence vanished, as the children of Baz'Auran felt the use of their tongues return to them.

[The Succubus]

Understanding

Khalen listened as his Father spoke. He still had deep misgivings about their journey to the The Great Disk and he did not share Fayruz's somewhat optimistic views on his siblings. Yet, once Father had finished speaking, he felt calmer, more collected. He gave a deep nod in Baz'Auran's direction and settled back into his chair.

"...it is no polished gem, but a rough stone awaiting refinement..." Khalen echoes Father's words in his own head. A gem had many facets and could shine with a thousand colours. Yet only if the cuts were flawless and done with precision. For that you needed a steady hand....

...and an ordered mind.

[Gengy]

"Yay! Apples!" Jongo finished off the apple in his hands and reached for another. By all outward appearances, the young human child form of the Eldest scion seems to have barely heard Baz'Auran.

Leaning in to take a bite of the fresh Apple, Jongo paused, and looked up at the Ceiling. Then at Baz'Auran.

"Father, does our ship have a Name yet?"

[VonDoom]

Dasque's Chamber

Shirvan allowed a smile to surface as he entered her rooms, glancing over what had been her sister's secret sanctum for most of their life. As he glanced over Dasque's various maps and notes, his smile didn't lessen or waver, but took a curious note. "You like your secrets, Dasque," he noted with mirth. "Be careful they don't start mistaking you for a certain someone."

As her twin said this, a rose of flame briefly flickered to life in his palm, vanishing all too quickly once again. It served to illuminate of whom he was speaking, however.

"Can't a brother just come to see his twin sister?", he chuckled. "I came to see if you were alright. For all that happened, this is the first time we truly leave this place. And likely the final."

He paused, the golden glow in his eyes flickering for a moment as he stepped closer to Dasque. "I look forward to it, myself. It's not in my nature to dwell too much on the past, as some of us do. I am tense, yes, but out of anticipation." He put a warm hand on Dasque's shoulder. "I know you are strong, as strong as I, or any of our siblings. But if you feel alone down there, know that I am there for you if you need it. We are made from the same cloth. "

After a moment he moved away once more, only to pause for a pointed question. Apparently he had noticed it, after all, but had wanted to speak his piece first: "Sister. What are you planning to do with that knife?"

The Training Grounds

"If you work to improve yourself, the only loss is when you don't learn something," Shirvan noted, his expression oddly serious as he spoke. Yet the seriousness vanished as quickly as it came and already he was moving even closer, pulling his sword aside as he twisted around, continuing to speak as his breath burned hot against the nape of Nieve's neck. "The parry was sound, but you need to look beyond the obvious when someone makes their first move. Even Carolinus might think to try a feint if the straight shot does little but fail him."

His voice was low, almost a whisper as he spoke into her ear. "Someone more cunning, like Roselia, might even lull you into false security first, pretending to certain patterns, only to break them when least expected. But you already knew that, didn't you?" He grinned, his presence behind her suddenly gone as he jumped a few steps backwards. "I half suspect you're trying to lure me in!"

The Banquet

Shirvan had been unusually quiet after Baz'Auran had appeared and Khalen-Het had pronounced his concerns. When Avyra spoke, someone quietly added: "It's hubris, not pride. There is a difference." Could it have been the silver-haired god? He usually didn't speak that softly when he had something to say.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Chamber

The knife bit into her left palm, slightly, but just enough to draw a little blood. "Just a scartch. It's a reminder that when I bleed, I do so because of my own actions, not because Father willed it. It's a reminder that I control myself, and what I do on the Disk is not for him, but for myself, and for all of us." She put the knife to the side.

She smiled as an afterthought of Shirvan's comparison. "Thank you Shirvan. Your words mean a lot to me. I believe I'll be all right, but I'll take you on your offer, for good or ill." She stood up, and walked over to him, adjusting his outfit slightly around the neck, where it had become ruffled. "There's a question I wanted to ask you before we stepped onto the ship headed for the Disk, I planned to ask it at the banquet. Shirvan, will you shine bright than even Baz'Auran? Will you surpase our Father in greatness?" He knew her well enough to know that she was not asking rhetorically.

[Tectonic Robot]

The Banquet

"If Father was concerned with our quarrels, he would not merely observe it from his throne." Dasque's voice carried across the room. She stood in the doorway, her dress shimmering silver-white. She wore a matching pair of gloaves taht reached past her elbows. It was noticeable that her left palm had been cut, the blood seeping through the fabric, forming a thin, red line across her hand.

"Either Baz'Auran feels we are prepared, or being unprepared for the Disk below is acceptable. There's naught to do but do as he bids, and if so, I intend to enjoy this meal. Did you help make it Llassar?"

Her shoes raised her up two inches, and her footsteps echoed as she drew near. When she walked near Jongo, she replied to his question. "It's an interesting question Jongo, but first you have to make sure you know what the first two were, so that you don't mistake the third question for the fourth or fifth."

Llassar, half asleep, did not respond well to hearing his name said suddenly. He pushed a little too hard with his feet, and suddenly he was toppling backward onto the ground off his chair, letting out a shrill scream as he did so.

"Ah! I wasn't sleeping! Is it time to eat?"

[Jade_Tarem]

Banquet

Faden finally leans forward and joins the ongoing conversation properly. "Father, I did hear one good point raised a moment ago - are we to know which, if any, spirits will be coming with us?" Tezzerin had once implied that she had been to the Disk before, and the spirits of haste could theoretically make it as far as the mortal world, but how long any of them could stay away from the White City was largely unknown. He doubted that any of the First Spirits would be coming - it would defeat the entire purpose of a test - but that wasn't to say that they'd be leaving alone.

[VonDoom]

Dasque's Chamber

Let's dig out an old classic! I hope it's not too tired by now. *ducks*

"I am who I am," Shirvan replied, looking at her strangely as she fiddled with his collar. "And will be."

"But, to shine brighter than Baz'Auran? Why, to do that, wouldn't I need to make a Creation of my own?" The Godling seemed amused by the very idea, as he pronounced the word, its meaning swinging along with the actual sounds to make it impossible to confuse for anything but what he meant. Shirvan had specifically used the word that defined all of what Baz'Auran had created. He chuckled, lazily brushing through his hair. "Now there's a thought."

He moved suddenly, then, quickly grabbing hold of Dasque's bleeding hand, looking at it intently. "Symbols hold meaning," he said somberly, "but it is better to bleed for those you hold dear. If you act too much in order to oppose his will, you are defined by him all the more. Be your own person, dear sister; do what you will, not the opposite of what he wants."


His golden eyes narrowed briefly; it looked like he wanted to say more, but then abruptly let go and turned away. "I'll see you at the banquet."

Did I just quote the bible AND Crowley in one post? Most excellent. :smallamused:

[daelrog]

Dasque's Chamber

Dasque watched her twin leave, and then looked at her own hand. A bittersweet smile came upon her. "How we act like clockwork."

Banquet

Dasque did not sit directly next to Shirvan, though she was close enough to speak to him if need be. Instead, she sat near Roselia. Dasque filled her plate, and began easting. "How's my favorite sister fairing? I trust the family squabbles haven't left you feeling weak?" She smiled roguishly, knowing full well Roselia's affinity for such chaos.

[Erik Vale]

The Banquet

Kalandor chuckled internally Aerin. He was silly to think he could take a nap now, there were probaly several score spirits thinking a few thoughts about that spot of idiocy...

Kalandor shakes his head slightly at Jongo "No Jongo, I don't think anyone's christned the ship yet. I just hope I get to watch Rumel Pilot it, I think it would make a intresting mode of transport."

Looking at Faden, Kalandor nods in agreement. "Aye, a good point, will any of the spirits be coming with us? I've no doupt that a spirit or two, if not other creatures guided before hand may be down their already as tests or guides, but such things would be good to know."

[TheDarkDM]

Solitude

Baz'Auran took a moment to consider his second-eldest son before answering, giving the others a chance to add their own sentiments to the question. When none were forthcoming, he gestured to the ceiling, where the Disk suddenly appeared writ large.

"A pertinent question, Faden, yet one with a simple answer. With my blessing, a spirit might endure an eternity on the Disk, but such an existence would be against their nature. The Disk is raw, material reality - spirits are more ethereal beings. I do not send them to the surface without good cause, and in this case their coming would mitigate the challenge set before you. This test is one of your sparks alone, and while a proper locale for each of your challenges shall be chosen, that is the last help you will receive until your ascension is complete."

[DoomHat]

The Banquet

Rumel froze solid at Kalandor's assertion he of all people would pilot. That wouldn't do! It would give him no time to finish his emergency escape craft! In addition he might be needed, along side his twin, to patch any problems in the ship proper as they happen.
"I, wait, what?" stammered Rumel pointing at Kalandor with a spoon full of stew, "I'd have thought you'd be eager to take the helm? I... uh, yes, a gift! Yes! It was to my gift to you! The traveler and shepherd steadies us on to new lands. Doesn't that sound fun, eh? Has a certain poetry to it don't you think?".
He smiled a broad mask of a smile with shifting eyes.

[Gengy]

Father made the Ceiling move.

That was enough to get Jongo's attention. All other things were forgotten.

It was beautiful. Jongo had forgotten how many years he had stared at it. Just sitting quietly, watching Baz'Auran work.

It was the only time Jongo could sit still and quiet. And being sent from the Courtyard was a punishment to Jongo.

To be asked to leave it for who knows how long...?

Excited though Jongo was to be going to the Disk itself, to leave the White City was going to be tough. So, finally, Jongo asked the one question that she had really been worried about for the past few days.

"Father? Will we... will we be allowed to come back and visit?"

[TheDarkDM]

It Comes (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UEZ_R6R2_s&feature=related)

Turning his attention to Jongo, Baz'Auran seemed almost amused by the question. Yet Jongo had observed Baz'Auran far more than any of the other divine children, and behind Baz'Auran's amusement he thought he could detect the faintest hint of sadness. It was a passing thing, quickly subsumed in Baz'Auran's glory, but it was almost certainly there.

"Of course, Jongo. Once you have awakened the full potential of the Spark within you, any of you will be free to return to the White City. Do not count on us for constant support though - the troubles of the Great Disk will benefit most from a solution born of it. Remember always-"

A dull rumble interrupted Baz'Auran, spreading through the entire hall. Despite their divine constitutions, the godlings felt themselves grow ill at its touch, something in them recoiling from the essence behind the tremor. It passed slowly, dying with a malicious whisper, and as it did silence reigned in the Court. All eyes turned towards Baz'Auran, who seemed frozen in his throne, eyes wide and staring. A heartbeat passed, then two, and suddenly Baz'Auran was on his feet, eyes still locked on the emptiness directly before him. No god or spirit had ever seen him in such a state, and were it not ludicrous they might have realized the emotion emanating from their lord was raw, primal, fear.

No blink would ever pass those shining orbs, yet with a start Baz'Auran seemed to recover from his trance, swiveling his head sharply towards Tezzerin. She found a terrible secret in his glare, as her entire being seemed to waver beneath it.

"Tezzerin, take my children and-"

Once again, the supreme Creator was interrupted, not by a tremor but by a terrible echoing screech. As the Court sat motionless, a crack appeared in the wall behind Baz'Auran, the crystal crumbling beneath some incredible force. As the last vestiges of the wall gave way, the divine children beheld a Darkness unmatched by any space within creation. The blot of nothingness writhed against the walls of the Court, reducing more and more crystal to charred dust, and without warning innumerable tendrils shot from its core, racing towards the godlings, filling each with the certainty that a single touch would be their doom. But a star interposed itself between them and destruction, Baz'Auran blazing with a radiance that shamed the figure the children had grown accustomed to. Grasping the crackling tendrils of utter black in his hands, he bellowed in a voice that brought blood flowing from the ears of his children.

TEZZERIN GET THEM OUT OF HERE!

At once the First Spirit of Knowledge took to the air, drawing the attention of the panicked spirits in the court. Gesturing to the godlings, she called out in a voice made high by need and terror.

"They must away! Take them!"

Instantly, some semblance of order seemed to return to the assembled spirits. From their number rose the greatest of the Spirits of Haste, twelve winged things lacking legs in favor of a great finned tail. Launching themselves into the air, they scooped up the stunned godlings in their arms before racing from the Court.


The Fall (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oEidPJhMT2w&feature=related)

The children and their protectors had barely passed the arching entrance to the Court of Baz'Auran when the towering crystal edifice shattered without a sound, sending daggers of clear gemstone crashing to the ground. The Highest Spirits of Haste were unmatched in their speed, but the children still managed to catch a glimpse of their father, blazing like a wildfire in his grappling of the great Darkness that jutted like a terrible pillar from a blazing hole in the sky. Staring at the gaping wound, the children saw flaming shards of black crystal tear themselves from the black pillar. Yet even as the Spirits of Haste dodged the barrage of deadly flames, passing the burning gardens of the Tenfold Paths, the children stared transfixed at the gaping hole of darkness and fire above them, for in it they alone saw a pair of blazing eyes. In that fell gaze, the children of Baz'Auran felt themselves reduced to gnats, to pale crawling things whose only purpose, whose only hope, was to be crushed by a Power beyond their comprehending. And then their eyes were torn from those baleful orbs, the Spirits of Haste diving through the Well of Eternity with such alacrity that the children almost didn't see the twisted remains of their once-proud ship and the dark, bloody things that crawled from the flaming lance that had reduced it to twisted scrap.

Reaching the night sky, the children gasped as they passed the shimmering barrier between the White City and the world beyond, the biting cold of the air sending their teeth to chattering. In that moment of passage, they felt themselves indescribably diminished, their Sparks withdrawing deeper into bodies that seemed somehow infinitely more real. In their moment of confusion, some found the single eye of a Spirit, gazing at them with something bordering sympathy and understanding, before widening in silent terror. The Spirits spared each other a glance before splitting like a school of frightened fish, and as they sped into the night the children noticed the wilting feathers on their outermost wings. The Spirits flew rapidly, yet the strange rot outpaced even them, until by the time they reached the ground the children could tell that their protectors were nearly blind with pain. The Spirits could not even manage to speak before fleeing back into the night air, racing away from whatever terrible affliction had befallen them, leaving the children in every corner of the Great Disk to stare up at the shining globe of the White City

At first, it seemed almost serene in the night quiet, the brilliance of the White City undiminished in the distance. Yet as the children watched, a single red stain appeared on the shining facade, then another, an another, until the moon had become a bloodstained clot upon the sky. The children could not tear their gazes from that crimson wound until the son arose, and banished it from their sight. In its place, the children saw a land untamed, oceans raging against the unyielding bastions of shadowed cliffs, the tangle of forests that did not yet know the bite of the axe, mountains that exploded into molten fire without respite only to birth new mountains, the undulating sea of verdant grasslands, and endless wastes of ice and of sand. And from every point on the Disk, rising from the center of the world, miles high peaks that seemed to scrape the very stars themselves. But wherever they were, in the light of day the children were faced with a singular realization - they were alone.


Turn 0 Begins

[ArlEammon]

Fall Of Aerin, The Thunderer
As a spirit departed from the White City, Aerin only had time to recognize it, no, he, as he finally dropped the Thunderer and fled off somewhere in a half-panic. The melted face fell off of Micah's head in a tortured agonizing scream, but still, Micah's winged, angelic form soared through the sky, to some unknown target. Aerin looked in horror as Micah's face oozed into the soil and tainted the land, somehow. Aerin looked at the now blood red acres of land saw the eyes from Micah's face finally melt. Sadly, Aerin bowed his head, and he knew that Micah was somehow dead. Destroyed perhaps, or something. Something bad. That's all he really knew, but he didn't like it.

And so Aerin began his search. His search for life. Shaken, without his godling powers, the Thunderer walked through three miles of the tainted land, noticing the dead carcasses of animals throughout the waters, soil and dead trees. Because Aerin had landed the first time on the Disc, and because he didn't know where he hand landed, and because of his great disorientation, he had no idea what to make of this situation. Times were grim. His family could have been dead. . . no. Now was not the time to panic, Aerin thought to himself.

Aerin had noticed after a few miles that he had made his way towards a very large village. Over a hundred and sixty people made this village their home. "Ah, what luck." The godling said, suddenly overcome with a sense of chill. The godling had no idea that he was now naked, covered with nothing, since the arrival to the Great Disc had burned his clothes away, and in his state of confusion, Aerin seemed a prime target for the villagers. This was the village of Aercenaeus. And Aerin was now it's guest.

Belief in hospitality was one of the highest virtues in the Arcenaeus Tribe. A tribe that was spread throughout the whole valley, near the shores of the island. Over three thousand tribesemen shared the valley, though they never lived too near, they were always capable of trade, occasional visits and contact for the odd emergency. Thus, the treatment of all tribesmen as extended family lended very well to a culture of hospitality. Perhaps this young naked man had fallen victim to thievery, a practical joke, or some strange ritual their other relatives had?

Whatever the case, the man was immediately given fur to wear.

Aerin was a strange sight to these Aerceneans. According to him, he came not from the Valley, the Island World, or even from outside the Island, but he came from the Great White City in the Skye. "Impossible". Some elders scoffed, "The gods have nothing to do with us." They spat angrily, as life on the Great Disc was a hard life, surviving eachother, the Chaos Beasts, hunder, disease, and other calamaties had it's tole on the worn and weary mortal humans there. Aerin's expression of gratitude from their generosity and hospitality grew from very happy to grim as he heard mention of the people's many woes.

Aerin would come to hear on his first day the Six Woes Of Arceneaus.

"Woe, from the North, witches have come and demanded a portion of our human flesh." The Pale Witches, would come with their slave soldiers and pets to collect recently slain human sacrifices from the valley. The lucky sacrifices are suddenly collected while scavenging for food or out on the hunt, never to be seen from again. The Witches claim to simply slay these and use them for whatever purposes, food, or reagents for their spells. Other lucky sacrifices are harvested slowly, for their meat and usable parts until they cannot live. Other lucky sacrifices are simply informed they are to collected, and then slowly tortured until death through fould dark arts. "

"Woe, from the South, the beasts of Chaos have overcome our homes and eaten, killed and hunted down half of our once proud Arceneaus. Three thousand dead, half of us are gone from these beasts. It was these creatures who made us neighbors of the Pale Witches of the North. We cannot return to our homes in the Caverns Of Woe. Oh, Woe!"

"Woe, from the East, cometh the rats, the insects and flies. Even now we are beginning to see the first of a great plague, which has spread like wild fire and killed a seven of us in just one week in this village alone. Seers have prophecied the entire village will perish. We pray that the plague will kill us before the Pale Witches."

"Woe, from the West, come the wilder men. Servants of the Pale Witches, their masters let them do with us as they please, they raid our villages and steal our children and women, and we are never to see them again. The Wildermen have the eyes of viscious red during the night. The Wildermen are forbidden only from taking too many of us, so that the Pale Ones may eat and harvest us for their potions and magic."

"Woe from Above, our symbol of Hope, White City is now cursed. Red in the sky, this must be an ill omen, all of our hopes and dreams are lost. WOE!!"

"Woe, from Below, from below newly explored caverns come the Chaos Beasts, more of the same beasts from the South. Our time is near. It may be tomorrow, even the most merry of us suggest we have one year of life left within the entire Tribe."

Aerin listened intently at the horrifying stories of the poor mortals of Arcenaeus. Aerin thought long and grim at what would happen if the people here would be eaten or worse. Two days later, Aerin left the village, and the Chieftain found his Sword and Buckler, the finest out of three sets of weapons in the village, as well as bronze arrows and a bow strapped to his back, and a missing horse, Aerin knew he was not the most martially inclined of his brothers and sisters to do what he was about to do, but he knew, somewhere in his spirit he must do it. He would do the most powerful deed he knew that he could possibly do to win the hearts and lives of his new friends, the Arcenaeuns. He would suck up.

Three weeks to the north, Aerin stood before the Four Witches. The Pale Sisters. Old and haggard, they had forgotten their names. The god-child of Baz'Auran spoke. "Hail, wise women, I come to you, as a son of Baz'Auran, and also as a child of Good Omen. Baz'Auran has seen your deeds and power, and he has deemed you worthy of great things to come! Prepare yourselves for the blessings he is about to give you." The Witches raised their brow and spoke to one another.

"We see with our witch'es sight you are indeed Aerin, a son of Baz'Auran." But they seemed confused, but relieved, and happily surprised. "We worship the great Baz'Auran! We who have sacrificed the blood of thousands for his attention. We have made offerings of lives, blood and flesh unto him for many years. Now, we say unto you, Aerin, son of Baz'Auran, what is our prize?"

Aerin smiled, "Why, I am the prize. I, son of Baz'Auran, are to be your loyal servant. I am he who Thunders!" And so it was that the Four Witches of Arcenaeus took in Aerin as Leautenant of the Wildermen. The day after Aerin joined with them, as Aerin smiled and talked with them as their servant, he noticed that the Witches each kept strange looking metal daggers in scabbards, on their belts. These daggers were not bronze, but strange metals, later they were to be called steel. As a witch noticed Aerin staring at her dagger one day, she smiled. "This dagger is called Steel." She explained. "The gemstone here," She pointed to the hilt,"Is called "Ruby". The witches had all smiled. "You have been the best and most competent Lieutenant we have ever had," She said untruthfully, "So we now give one of your own." In truth, Aerin was merely the most flattering of all their Lieutenants, and by the stories that his underlings told, all former Lieutenants of the Pale Ones died quickly from their wrath.

The second day Aerin found himself learning the ways of the Wildermen, he discovered something odd amongst the rituals. It seems the most prominent way of gaining authority in Wilderman culture is to simply slay their masters. "Hmmm..." Aerin thought. "The Witches have my undying loyalty to never betray them, on the gushing doting wishes of Baz'Auran himself." He continued internally. Aerin finally formed the plan he was waiting to make in his mind, when later that second day, Aerin asked the eldest of the Four. "How may I learn the secret of Steel?" Aerin asked. "And, if I may ask, I have seen you command thunder from the sky at twilight. I beg you to teach me this most holy of powers."He said soothingly to the Pale One, "Surely, the wise First One shall justly reward her loyal Steward." First One's brow raised, not in suspicion, but in surprise he would raise her above the other sisters. "And if the First should exalt me with knowledge of the Thunder and Steel, she should be exalted surely above all others, even the gods."
With this, the First's last of common sense had abandoned her, and she taught Aerin the way to combine Thunder with Steel in one night. Within the night, Aerin had forged, with the First's help and instruction, Thunder Sceptre.

The third day, Aerin had give orders, as Lieutenant of the Four, to cave in the Caverns of the Four Witches, locking him with them all. Aerin noticed the Four Sisters congregating with one another. "How will we escape this foul mountain?" They demanded to know as a question. "Aerin, you should know the way, how will we know to escape this place?" Aerin gathered his courage, and a single ray of light was shown from above the ceiling. A young Wilderman witnessed Aerin's challenge, as he had commanded him.

"Pale Sisters, Four, I challenge you to a duel, for the lives of Arceneaus. I challenge you to the death, and with your deaths, I claim Authority over the Wildermen."
The Witches were stunned, as if Aerin just said something incredibly stupid. But he smiled. They begun to laugh as if Aerin was joking. Suddenly, Aerin stopped his grin, and it became a menacing scowl. Before the witches could react, Aerin roared a mighty bellow from his belly, and the blunt, hard and rounded sceptre came crashing down on First's skull. First was now dead. Their daggers were drawn, and one was hurled at Aerin's head.

Aerin dodged the throw, only for the dagger to slash across his arm. It stung in pain, but Aerin was hardy among Baz'Auran's children. As another Sister lunged towards Aerin to slay him, his right hand, with the Sceptre, crashed across her neck, making a sickening crack, as her eyes were filled with blue electrical energy, she crumpled, dead, to the floor.

It was obvious the lesser magics such as levitation would not work against Aerin, or would they? Suddenly Aerin found his body bound against the hard cavernous wall, and he was unable to move. The witches, Third and Fourth, were now enraged that the child of Baz'Auran had deceived them. "We will swallow you piece by piece." They cursed. Suddenly Aerin felt a slash against his leg, cutting it open. "Then we will take your head."

Aerin let loose a groan of pain as his right leg was cut open. He had noticed that although his arms were bound to the wall, he was holding the Sceptre of Thunder with all his might. He felt another dagger wound to his left arm, and his eyes closed in pain, but also a deep concentration. Smirking, Third Sister saw Aerin's face and let loose a taunt, "What's the matter, can't stand the pain?" But Aerin was focusing the words and the power that First had taught him to activate Thunder Sceptre. Through the light in the ceiling of the Caverns, a blue lightning bolt thundered through, immediately killling and vaporizing Third and Forth, as their wretched screams would howl through the Great Disc's world, as they died, deservedly.

Suddenly, Aerin was to learn that the Witches Four had a trick up their sleeve. Undead, they each rose from the ground, as their forms had transmogrified from wrinkled old women, to skeletal lich women. Now the witness seeing this battle knew this was to come, yet he had never seen anyone such as Aerin.

The magic holding Aerin against the wall, was now interrupted. He fell, bleeding from his arms and legs, and felt his hair grasped by a skeletal hand. He saw it was the face of the First, now held to the skull of a now fleshless body, from the neck down. "You will suffer!" First said vengefully. She prepared her right hand, now wreathed in flame, to burn Aerin alive, though alas for her, Aerin was now overcome with the desire to save Arcenaeus. Through his mind he saw the children, and remembered with horror and compassion, the stories that were told of what would happen to their children, women and men at the cruel merciless evil of the Hags.

Aerin was infused with fury. "NEVER!!!" He demanded, seemingly from the very sky. A great clasp of lightning was heard by the Wilderman, as they hoped that Aerin, the newcomer would win the duel, although they thought assuredly he would not. Before Aerin could be burned by First's flaming, skeletal hand, her head was shattered anew, this time, not by physical weapons, but by a pure thunder. The Sister's howled, fire was streamed towards Aerin, as he thundered through Second's spell of hellish vengeance. The thunder streamed through Second's fire, and as it struck her, she exploded, with the bones littering the cave. Somehow, Aerin mustered the will one more time to use Thunder Sceptre, and with his left hand, he threw it as a weapon at Third, seperating her skull from her neck. Fourth was incensed, she bellowed forth a breath of ice from her skull, but the blast was not to make contact with it's intended target.

Aerin thundered with all of his might, pulling power from Thunder Sceptre to blast the cavern ceiling. The hard shards rocks fell, impaling the skeletal Fourth's skull, and seperating it from the body. Aerin collapsed in the cold, now bleeding. And then, he awoke in his bed. . . with the Wilderman.

"You are now First." The Wilderman Elder stated. "You have freed us of our dread curse to serve the Evil Ones. And now we will no longer be forced to harm peaceful tribes.

For the first time in a long time, Aerin gave a genuine smile, which was not a planned calculating one. "It is time to go to the village to the South." The Valley of Arcenaeus was evacuated to the north and West lands of the Wilderman. And Aerin would always be known as the one who had cured Five of the Six Woes. Aerin, however, was now also known as the Bringer Of The First Joy, Hope.

[Gengy]

"Verily, being sad and lonely are among the worst things for any one thing. Indeed, being sad together isn't great either. But at least there is cake."
~ A Dissertation on Clouds

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the Fall (http://grooveshark.com/s/Star+Ocean+The+Second+Story+Sad+Rena+OC+ReMix/5XJEe?src=5)

Jongo was in the ocean.

He could feel something. It was her clothing. It was wet.

He stared around as the waves rolled to and fro, and the salty air assaulted her small human child form. No land was nearby, but a tall mountain was in the distance, to the west.

Jongo couldn't think. There were no stray thoughts. No questions popping up. There was only emptiness. And the now.

The now said that a human child could not swim in the water for long. Even with a godling's strength, after watching the sun rise to push back the bloody moon, his human form was tiring.

The taste of the apple - so sweet, so clear, so crisp - was being replaced by salt water splashing into Jongo's mouth. She closed it, and began to concentrate. Closing his eyes, Jongo found she could continue swimming atop the water, and breathe fine; if heavy and tired breaths.

Concentrating, focusing on one thing, was very very difficult for Jongo. The godling was used to all the random thoughts, the ideas, the distractions; they were all fun. One thought? Difficult and not fun. Jongo tried three, and it was easier.

Breath in. Breath out. Swim.

Breath in. Breath out. Swim.

Breath in. Breath out. Swim.

Baz'Auran. The White City.

Jongo began to sink.

"NO. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! NO!" Protesting to the waves themselves seemed to do little - other than splash more salty water into his mouth - but it brought Jongo back around.

Breath in. Breath out. Swim.

Someone - or something - had attacked the White City. Had hurt Father. Something made Him sad, and afraid. Father was NEVER sad or afraid. He was Father, the great Baz'Auran.

But something had made Him sad, and something had made Him afraid. Someone - or something - had burst into the Courtroom.

Something had destroyed the ceiling, above the Dias. Something had destroyed the ceiling.

There was a small flare, as a bit of herself raged at that thought. Jongo couldn't believe the statement.

And with the anger, Jongo found he could concentrate. Gills. Gills formed on the human child's neck. Webbing. Webbing on the toes, and between the fingers. She felt his eyes change, ever so slightly, and found the water didn't sting anymore; only the barely held back tears stung now.

Eldest godlings don't cry.

A part of Jongo's brain, a part that was slowly recovering from the shock of what had happened, made itself known. Jongo couldn't contain herself. He began to giggle, despite the almost tears.

"FISHY! I'm a fishy! Wheeeee!"


Part 2 - Jongo's Sea (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12748761&postcount=176)

[Raz_Fox]

Foundling

The hunter Arenis found the Maiden on the second night of the blood-red moon, just after evening, while traveling through the territory of the Ma-shen to reach Dol Mazzah. She had found a pleasant resting place near a small spring of water, and she had hidden her horse and blanket there, so that no roving Ma-Shen or Tekeza warbands, or monsters crossing the rocklands, would find either of them. This done, she had gone out to find some quail, or a hare, or perhaps even a snake or a desert wolf, so that she would have more meat on her way to Dol Mazzah, and would not need to eat the roots she had dried nine days ago. She hunted with the bow, and five stone-tipped arrows, and one precious copper-tipped arrow won from the Tekeza which had never failed her; beside those she carried a flint knife, and a long spear for fighting the desert wolves.

As she prowled through the rocklands, searching for prey, she heard the sound of faint crying far-off. It must be said that Arenis's first thought was that she could, if need be, put a traveler or an enemy of the Ma-Shen out of their misery and take what she could from them. So she followed the sound of the cries, and as she came closer, she could hear more clearly that they were the sobs of a young woman, and they were so utterly miserable that pity made itself known in her heart. Arenis pressed on, and found the Maiden. Arenis cautiously placed her hand upon the Maiden's shoulder, and the Maiden started like a doe who had caught the scent of the hunter in the shifting of the wind. She looked up at Arenis, her eyes red-rimmed and spilling tears in abundance, her hair as wild as that of an oracle. And this is what the Maiden said to Arenis: "I couldn't help him." Her words were in the tongue of Arenis's people, more perfect than even her mother's speaking, and this made Arenis wonder all the more. "I tried, I tried my hardest, but I couldn't, and I can't feel where my brothers and sisters are anymore, and Father cast us out, and we were all supposed to go together, and now I'm alone and I couldn't save him, and Contragh and Frellon were going to protect me, but now I'm all on my own and it's my fault..."

Arenis saw the beauty of the Maiden, and heard the way that she spoke, fairer than any bard or rake, and she truly took pity upon her, and spoke with her. Soon enough, Arenis learned - or, guessed as well as she could - that the Maiden was Fayruz, a chieftain's daughter, from a white city high in the mountains. It had been attacked by monsters, and her father had sent her off with the guardian creature she mourned, which had separated her from her brothers and sisters and then fled elsewhere to die. This Fayruz, Arenis decided, was weak and foolish, but she did not deserve to be left in the desert to be found by jackals or - even worse - the Ma-Shen, or the ghouls which pressed ever northwards. So Arenis told the Maiden that she would take her to Dol Mazzah with her, to speak with the Chieftain of the Aferi, mighty Tarn Beastslayer. Tarn, she hoped, would have word of her father, Baz'Auran.

But Fayruz, the innocent, would not leave, until Arenis took her hand and forced her to her feet - for night was falling fast, and then the spirits of the southern desert would arise from the sands, ghouls and djinn and even the minotaurs, who could trap men in their own delusions. The Ma-Shen raiders were little better, with their nets and sickles of bone, and their love for cruelty. Arenis fled with Fayruz, keeping her swift pace across the rocklands, until the Maiden's bare feet bled. The Maiden cried out, and begged for Arenis to slow down, but Arenis would not until she was sure that they were safe. Then, once they were at the spring, she took her spare wrappings - fool that she was, she said to herself! - and bound the Maiden's feet. Then she bade the Maiden sleep, granting the beautiful innocent her blanket. The night was cold, and Arenis was forced to sleep sitting by the fire, while Fayruz tossed and turned and cried out in her sleep for her lost brothers and sisters.

In the morning, when the fire was dead and the sun was nearly ready to rise, she woke Fayruz and bade her eat two of her dried roots, so that she would have strength for the journey ahead. Fayruz bit into one, and then cried out, saying that it was nothing like the food of her father's house, and wasn't there anything else for her? Arenis told the Maiden that no, there was nothing else, unless they came across something to eat on the way to Dol Mazzah. Then Fayruz ate the roots, grimacing as she did so, unsuited to the travelers' food. Arenis readied her horse, and told Fayruz to ride with her, but Fayruz's tunic was far too long to allow her to ride - a useless garment, if there ever was one. So Arenis used her flint knife to cut it, so that she could ride, and calmed her tears by saying that she would be given proper women's clothing at Dol Mazzah.

So Arenis helped Fayruz upon the horse, and bundled her blanket and her bow upon her back, and mounted her horse and bade it ride. They would ride for three days to reach Dol Mazzah, and in this time, she feared that she would be assaulted by the Ma-Shen - she knew that she could fight the marauders, but she feared for this newborn filly she rode with, as foolish and weak as a child and as beautiful a prize as a sword of bronze. So she rode swiftly, and avoided the common trails, riding higher and narrower paths through the lands of the Dereg to reach Dol Mazzah.

[THEChanger]

The Weaver plummeted from his high perch in the sky. The spirit who had grabbed him, to pull him from the cold embrace of the Darkness, was swiftly rotting away from the strange shadow-fire that consumed their once bright home. The Weaver tried to get him to turn, tried to get him to go towards one of his other siblings. But the spirit did not listen. Instead, above a great desert, the spirit finally gave out, the last of its wings burned through. And so The Weaver fell, fell both down through the sky, and down into the sweet, sweet embrace of sleep.

A pair of burning red eyes gazed up at the sky. They beheld a star, falling from the White City far above. And the owner of the eyes cackled with glee, for the time had come for her and her siblings to rejoice. God-flesh came, and God-flesh would make them strong.


The First Tale of The Weaver

In the days before the coming of The Weaver, and our people’s triumph over the Dark Ones, we lived in fear of the night. It was a time of evil, and of black things which haunted our sleep-time. This is the First Story told to us by The Weaver, the First of his Dream-Tales that gave us hope and the strength to fight back against our nightmares.

But the First Story starts before The Weaver knew of us, or us of him. The Weaver came from the Great Star, which hangs in the skies of night and lights the way of the traveler. He lived there with his brothers and sisters and one who was neither, The Jongo, who we respect but do not give praise to, for it was one whom The Weaver held dear to his heart, but knew us not. But a great calamity fell upon the Great Star, which The Weaver knew as the White City, and it turned red to our sight, and guided us no more. That was when the night turned truly black, and fearful to us. The Weaver fell from his high perch, and struck a bird as he fell. So doing, he entered the Dream-Time, and left his body for a while. When The Weaver woke, he was in the Dream-Time, and saw the world around him awash in blue. This puzzled him, for the spirits who had taught him said the world was of many colors, not merely of the blue. So he wandered, to find something which made sense to his mind.

Many days The Weaver wandered, but saw nothing, for the sand-place was wide, and even in the Dream-Time, it was a hard place. The Dream-sun beat down upon The Weaver, and he sought a place to escape. And so it was he came upon a cave, for the Dream-Time is a place of the mind, and that which the mind seeks, it will find.

But the Dream-Time was-and still is today, for even The Weaver could not tame all of the Dream-Time, and some of the Dark Ones still wander there-a fickle place. This cave was home to the last among the Dark Ones, the rulers of the Dream-Time before The Weaver came, and its name was Kolorki-na. The Weaver came to the doorstep of Kolorki-na, and called out. “Is there one here who would give a weary traveler some rest?” And Kolorki-na, the Snake, responded. “Yes, son of Baz’Auran. Come in, come in.” For Kolorki-na was a trickster, and a bringer of despair, for he tricked mortals into giving up their rest for work. He gave mortals the urge to be doing something in the dark hour, for fear that it should prove too late to do it in the hours of light.

The Weaver, being tired and of little thought, went into Kolorki-na’s cave, not questioning how Kolorki-na knew of him. And Kolorki-na did not show himself to The Weaver, instead speaking from the darkness of the cave. “But, son of Baz’Auran, have you time to rest? Does not the great City of your father burn in the heavens? Surely you cannot waste time here. You must find a way home!” And The Weaver heard Kolorki-na’s words, and grew despairing. “Our father sent us below. Something evil takes our home, and we are powerless to stop it.” Kolorki-na circled around his prey, drawing the noose of his coils ever tighter. His words were a distraction, for if he ate the dreaming form of a Godling, Kolorki-na would rise to be first among the Dark Ones, and rule them all, and the dreams of the mortals he and his siblings ruled over. “Then surely he sent you here for a reason. Should you not be out among the mortals, doing great works?” The Weaver’s mind grew sharp at this, and realized he had seen no living thing since his fall to the Great Disk, which was a curious thing. “Who are you, so eager to accept a traveler into your home, and yet so concerned that he make himself useful?”

Kolorki-na revealed his great head, and spoke once more. “I am Kolorki-na, spirit of the Dream-Time. I rule the sands, and all that walk them. Bow before me, son of Baz’Auran, and give me your power!” The Weaver did not respond, instead running from the fearsome visage of the Snake. Kolorki-na’s head followed The Weaver, twisting and turning between the stalagmites and stalactites of the cave. And as The Weaver ran, and idea formed in his head. He ran, and twisted and turned and wove around the many stone spikes of the cave. And Kolorki-na, who though was a trickster, was the least intelligent of the Dark Ones, followed The Weaver through the cave. And so, The Weaver wove his first tapestry in the Dream-Time. Kolorki-na’s coils knotted themselves together, and the last among the Dark Ones was trapped by his own rush to power. The Snake’s head lunged out in fury, but The Weaver stepped aside, and Kolorki-na crushed his own skull against the cavern wall. One of the Snake’s fangs fell aside, and The Weaver took the fang, and placed it in his belt. This would be the needle with which The Weaver wove many tapestries, though he knew it not.

This is the first Dream-Tale of The Weaver, who freed our people from the Dark Ones. Rejoice, for The Weaver weaves a web of protection over us all.

[shorewood]

After the Fall

It was dark when the spirit of haste delivered Haramhold to the wild and twisted forest. He stumbled to his knees crying for how long Haramhold does not remember. So much was lost, so much destroyed.

But Haramhold was not allowed to wallow in his grief, for the cries and clash of battle drew ever closer. Scrambling to his feet, the godling frantically picked up a nearby branch, as thick as his arm. Before long the crash of running feet overtook his position. Humans, tall and skinny , were fleeing something terrible. Shouts echoing the need for haste roared from the back of the mob. Standing in the shadow of a tree, None of the passerby's noticed Haramhold and before long he saw what they fled from. A great beast twelve feet tall with skin as green as moss with a texture like that of rotting wood. The word troll came to his mind, but from where Haramhold could not recall. And the last of the humans Tall and dark brandishing a bronze sword was locked in a futile duel. Fighting with such ferocity that the godling realized that the mortal knew his battle was hopeless. As their fight approached his hiding place Haramhold launched himself from the shadows swinging his branch with both hands.

The troll had just enough time to raise a clawed hand to intercept the incoming blow. With a resounding crack the Haramhold's weapon broke both bone and branch alike. The troll roared in pain, reeling back from surprise and pain. The lone warrior did not hesitate to press his advantage his bronze sword flashing as swift as lightning cutting deep gashes across the beast's chest. Just as it seemed as if the troll was defeated the creature lashed out with its other hand, striking the human with a wicked backhand. The human was thrown into a nearby tree, his head cracking against the wood.

While the creature was looking away Haramhold launched himself at the beast, tackling it to the ground. The two of them rolled across the earth locked in a desperate struggle. The troll managed to get on top of the godling its claws inches away from his face. Grasping the beasts arms Haramhold pushed with all of his might and found that the troll could not stop him.

Haramhold had never been fond of combat, and most of his siblings could beat him in a fight. But his endless toils and tasks had turned him into solid muscle, and none of Baz'Auran's other children could claim to be stronger.

With a grunt of effort Haramhold twisted the troll around placing it into a headlock. Screaming from the effort Haramhold wrenched back and with a sickening pop the troll's neck snapped.

Suddenly exhausted the godling let the monster's limp corpse fall to the ground. for the first time he noticed the long bleeding gashes on his forearms and chest. Staggering the godling caught himself on a nearby tree. The Human was now just recovering rubbing his head he looked up and dived for his sword. And in one swift motion threw it Haramhold. The godling barely had time to flinch before the blade flew past his head. Looking behind him Haramhold was shocked to see that the troll had silently stood up and was about to kill him if it were not for the sword sticking out from the beasts neck.

Rudely pushing Haramhold aside the human rushed up to the beast. grasped his swords hilt and tore the troll's head off. "Fool!" the man growled "You cannot kill these monsters, nothing can kill them." Looking back at the godling he saw Haramhold's wounds and his eyes softened. "Come, let us catch up with my tribe the beast won't recover for another couple of hours"

As Haramhold followed the man silently and when they caught up to the rest of the humans all of Haramhold's questions were answered as his wounds were tended. These were the Balarion people, a people plagued by powerful beasts and terrifying shadows. They had been driven out of their village weeks ago by dozens of trolls that were commanded by beings of mist and shadow. Many of their bravest warriors had engaged their foe's only to be slaughtered when their weapons passed harmlessly through the shadows and when the slain trolls rose up to fight again.

There was barely a hundred of the Balarions left their leader was Baylor the man whom Haramhold had fought with. Baylor was leading them toward a much larger and stronger village hoping to find sanctuary. Haramhold decided to stay with these humans hoping that he could find some way to help them in their hour of plight. But he did not reveal his origins for Haramhold did not think that these people would react kindly to a son of Baz'Auran whom had apparently abandoned them in this hour of their need.

The ragged band traveled undisturbed for three days until they met another band of survivors. They were the Aalarions the very people whom they had intended to seek shelter with. Their were close to one hundred and fifty Aalarions left out of the four hundred which had once lived in their town. They had a very similar tale and had fled to seek refuge with the Balarions.

The Aalarions were lead by their village healer an old crone named Syth. Old and wise she was, but frail of body and broken of spirit. For she had loved he people and now they were in tatters.

The two groups joined together making camp where they met, and that night the trolls attacked again. Haramhold does not remember much of that night, chaos and panic dominated the humans as they scattered in every direction. In the morning the survivors re grouped and buried their dead, another dozen had fallen, mostly the sick and the children. Those who could flee from the terror. Looking down at their graves Haramhold was filled with a fury, storming across the camp to where Baylor and Syth where deep in council.

Shoving the guard aside as a bear might swat a fly Haramhold demanded to know what was being done to stop these monsters. Baylor's face was drawn tight, his eyes sunk deeply into his face as he admitted that there was nothing to be done. They saw no path before them which lead to their people's survival. The only thing to be done now was to pick their graveyard.

Baylor was a head taller than Haramhold but he was not nearly as broad of shoulder so when Haramhold grabbed Baylor and began to shake him their was little the human could do. Placing a calming hand on Haramhold shoulder Syth calmed him down with a few soothing words.

"Calm yourself stranger, your anger has stirred an old memory. Their lies in the swamp to the east a demon named Ko the soul stealer. It has devoured the essence of many man and beast alike, perhaps it has gained some secret which will lead to our salvation. Neither Baylor or I can abandon our families for such a quest and none of our people have the courage to attempt such a journey. But you whom has no ties of kinship has shown yourself to be valiant. You might succeed where others might fail. And for us, we shall travel toward the great cave of crystals, so that our people might view upon one last thing of beauty before our passing. If you should succeed meet us there."

This calmed Haramhold, finally there was something he could do, no longer would he stand helplessly as these people fought and died, just as helpless as he was when Baz'Auran fought the horrors which sacked the white city. Syth gave him all the directions he needed as Haramhold packed enough supplies for his journey. Picking up the spear he had crafted the previous day, Haramhold set off to the east.

Once Haramhold was out of ear shot Baylor turned toward Syth and asked "Why did you do this. He cannot hope to survive an encounter with Ko."

"Because..." Syth paused for a moment "Because his fate does not have to be ours, with any luck Haramhold will come to his senses and flee this land to live and keep our memories alive."

[Jade_Tarem]

The First Wish
Part 1: When Suddenly...

A lesson was taught long ago,
in the silent desert chill.
It went "wishes only come true,
with Desire and with Will."
Even now you might still hear it,
when the wind is calm and still.
"You can have what e'er you want,
With enough Desire and Will."

That same voice then explains,
in a tone colder than ice,
"Desire is the wanting,
but it's Will that pays the price.
You can have the whole wide world,
you can even have it twice.
You can have what e'er you want,
but then you have to pay the price."

"There's a cause for each effect,
and effects for every act.
But acts have life as well,
and you can never take them back.
You had best check your Desire,"
says the ever-unseen jack,
"You can have what e'er you want,
but you can never give it back..."

- Excerpt from "The First Wish," a Hajika Clan bedtime story
--------------------------------------------------------------

NOW...

The legends say that when Faden first set foot on the Great Disk, after the attack on the White City, he calmly looked around, assessing the situation, categorizing his advantages and disadvantages, testing his remaining strength, and getting his bearings.

The legends are quite wrong.

"Spirit! Spirit! I realize that it might be terribly inconvenient but could you kindly transport me to a slightly more hospitable location? I love an unimpeded view of the night sky and my childhood home's destruction as much as any of my siblings, but as you may have noticed there's nothing here!" Faden had begun speaking in his normal tone, but it had graduated to a shriek as the spirit of haste, true to its nature, rocketed skyward.

After that, Faden panicked. How long he did so, no one knows. There were no witnesses to the event, and Faden isn't telling, but eventually he calmed down. It was then that he turned his thoughts toward survival.

"..."

...and after several minutes of furious cogitation, he had come up with exactly nothing. He had studied all manner of things, but 'how to survive in the middle of a barren desert while hideous nothings from beyond the stars may or may not be coming to murder you' was not among the topics of his pleasant discussions with Tezzerin. Worse yet, his attempts to produce a proper veil or move freely and easily across the dunes were met with only limited success - his divine spark had been... if not damaged, then certainly restrained.

It was a long, long time before Faden moved. Before he did, he simply thought. As the moon turned bloody and the stars began to fade, he carefully, slowly, examined the facets of this new reality - a reality where moral and social laws were not enforced by a higher power. A reality where his own, faltering powers might not be enough to overcome adversaries. A reality where the land itself would sooner kill than serve. And he knew that if he were to survive, he would need to rethink many of the things he had once held as universal truth. But first, he had to live.

And as dawn finally began to diminish the horrid brilliance of the blood moon, Faden chose his direction, and began to walk (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=di45CbaAHek&feature=related).

[Jade_Tarem]

The First Wish
Part 2: A Staple of the Setting

...But I won't provide the moral,
'fore the tale can even start.
For you'll find the lesson's cheapened,
if you skip to the last part.
As our Faden did discover,
before mastering the Art,
You can have what e'er you want,
but you must want it from the heart.

- Excerpt from "The First Wish" – final part of the first verse

NOW

Faden was not typically one to ask stupid questions, and his current predicament had done nothing to change that. It had, however, caused Faden to reconsider just what constituted a 'stupid question.'

For instance, he had quickly found that the desert, while barren, inhospitable, and hot, was not truly empty at all. There was entire system in place, easily discernible if one was looking. There were insects and arachnids and serpents and birds and even extremely spiny plants. In the distance, larger things could sometimes be heard, howling or growling - which was preferable to not hearing them, as even Faden knew that this would mean they were stalking him.

The one thing the desert seemed to be devoid of was things useful to him. Despite the presence of so many creatures, no clear source of water was obvious to the son of Baz'Auran. On top of that, his only options for food fell into four categories - things he Could not Catch, things he Could not Kill, things he Could not Eat, or All of the Above.

Additionally, Faden learned just how quickly a desert could destroy, even without a single creature attacking him. He had been told somewhere that a mortal could live for three days without water - a figure that he only now realized was highly subjective. So as he fell on the sands, dizzy and dying, he thought of the long list of questions he would ask Baz'Auran if he ever had the chance to again, many of which sounded both self-pitying and quite stupid.

Father, why did you make us so weak?
What's the point of sending us down here to die?
Why make something so terrible as a desert to begin with?
And if you did? Why make sand so sandy? And birds so hard to catch?
And where is all the water?
...or were you ever truly omniscient to begin with?

It was as he was lying there that he felt it. A slight rumbling, a subtle shift, and the sudden absence of all other life alerted him to it. He struggled to his feet and looked around, fearing anything from a sandstorm to an avalanche from the nearby mountains.

What he saw was a strange disturbance in the sand, moving extremely quickly. Fortunately, it seemed to be heading along a path that would carry it well clear of him. He stepped forward to get a better look.

The disturbance froze. Faden frowned, warning bells ringing in his mind. He took a single step backward, and the disruption began moving directly toward him. It can sense disturbances in the sand! Faden looked wildly around, but the nearest rock formations seemed an impossible distance away. On the upside, the surge of adrenaline had given him a strength that he would have figured impossible minutes ago. Seeing no real alternative, he began to run.

He didn't make it far before the swirl in the sand - which was much larger than it had appeared at a distance - caught up with him. As the dune beneath him began to heave, he closed his eyes...

THEN

"I don't get it." A very young Faden said, petulantly. "I've wanted lots of things, but they don't happen just because I want them to."

"Desire, in this context, means more than just wanting things," Tezzerin patiently explained. "It is beyond the emotion we attribute the word to. From a magical perspective Desire is part imagination and part exclusion of all things that do not fit the vision of what you want. It requires clarity of purpose and also focus. The action of carrying through with obtaining that desire, and paying the price for it, is Will." The large spirit fanned her wings out to their full extension and extended a clawed hand. A globe of water suddenly appeared there, suspended. "This was brought here from the fountains in the tenfold paths. It arrived because I sacrificed energy from my own spiritual spark to bring it here, and because I could clearly understand what I was trying to accomplish, and what I wanted to do."

"It seems difficult to want something so silly that hard." Faden said, leaning forward.

"It is, dear Faden. That is why it takes so much practice. It is also the reason why the laws of Physics that Baz'Auran decreed hold sway so much of the time. Otherwise, everyone would be able to do all kinds of magic, all the time."

Faden experimentally tried to move it away from Tezzerin's grasp. There was a slight ripple, but nothing more dramatic happened. "And this is why magical things happen more often when people are in danger?"

"Yes. The presence of mortal danger does wonders to sharpen the mind. One's Desires are simplified and stark, and therefore less difficult to focus. Anyone with a reserve of divine or spiritual energy will have a much easier time producing a magical effect in such a situation." Tezzerin closed her claw, and the water bubble broke with a splash, dripping from the claw down onto the marble floor. "It is imperative that you learn to perform magic whether or not the situation stimulates you to do so, and that you learn not to panic when the situation becomes dire. In short, you have to let your emotions feed your existing desires, not the other way around." The big spirit hesitated. "That said, if you ever need assistance, a good scare *can* do wonders..."

NOW

...and moved. When the creature erupted from beneath him, Faden was already - and impossibly - out of reach. His divine spark flared, and Faden knew that he could, indeed, make it to the mountains. Thus began the longest chase in Faden's life. It was longer than the time he'd asked Baz'Auran why he wasn't faster on his feet. It was even longer than the time Eliat had discovered who had really hidden his swords on top of the tallest spire in the White City.

The creature, whatever it was, caught up to him multiple times, but each time Faden would whisk himself away. Several times he tried to lead the creature off with illusions, but he could manage nothing more than subtle or simple changes, and the creature appeared to not even notice.

As he was on the verge of collapse for the second time that day, Faden at last reached a rocky outcropping. Leaping to the top of it, he stopped suddenly - the other side was a steep slope of hard, wind-smooth stone, leading to what appeared to be a dry river basin below, forming a ravine.

As the monster erupted a third time, this time from behind Faden, the godling turned around - unlike before, though, he could get a good look at it. Conversely, the creature also got its first good look at him.

The being was well over forty feet long, and had a jet black body covered in golden segmented plating. It appeared to be mammalian, but had joints articulated like an insect's - not to mention well over a dozen enormous grasping claws. But that wasn't the most startling feature.

On its torso was the symbol of the White City.

Faden stepped forward on his rock. "You're no monster! You're one of us! Why are you trying to kill me?"

"Because I hunger, and I want to be fed." The spirit's voice shook the rock and the tone left no question that it felt that this was perfectly adequate justification. It reached out with several of its claws, attempting to snare the son of Baz'Auran, and Faden leaped from the side of the stone, down into the ravine.

His plan had been to keep his center of gravity over his feet, slide gracefully into the ravine, hit the ground rolling, come up on his feet, and calmly walk away while making a rude gesture. And maybe if he had been Shirvan or Lossethir or Nieve he would have been able to pull that off, but as it was he lost his balance halfway down and went into an uncontrolled tumble.

And then he hit, and everything was dark.

[AntiMatter101]

The Fall

Frellon was in shock. Throughout the Fall, he had been ridged, seemingly unable to comprehend what was passing before his eyes. Father was afraid. Something actually rivaled his power. That wasn’t possible, that COULDN’T be possible! Upon reaching the ground, he promptly fell onto his back, his eyes still fixed upon the disk as he watched it fill with blood. Even as the sun rose, and he could no-longer see it, he still stared into nothing. This simply couldn’t be happening.

What stirred him at last was hunger. A gnawing scraping on his innards that refused to leave him alone. With agonizing slowness, Frellon sat up and looked around himself, numb, after hours of lying in the tall grass.

He was on some sort of plain, with golden, wavy strands of grass as far as he could see, until he turned around and beheld the forest. Barely a stones throw from where he sat, a wall of foliage met his gaze. Foliage this thick meant the wild, the wild, meant the Disk.

The Disk.

Frellon sprang to his feet, coming to the realization for the first time. He was on the disk! Filled with monsters of cruel and unimaginable horrors! He reached for his sword, and pulled it from its sheath. It was flimsy, but ornate. The heat of the fall had singed it, and him, but they both seemed to be holding up. Paranoia shoved Grief and Shock aside, and Frellon quickly decided that the plains were far too open. Without another glance behind him, he entered the cover of the forest, and the sky was lost to him.

After a few days of not meeting any other living creatures, Frellon’s paranoia had diminished, with little but memories of lectures to sustain it. What kept him going now was the hunger that threatened to kill him. He had to find a source of food, and fast.

Eventually, Frellon realized that he was a fool, bumbling about the forest, he made so much noise over the last day that animals for miles around must have heard him and fled. Partially because of his aching feet, Frellon decided that he would let prey come to him instead, so he climbed a tree and waited.



An hour past, and Frellon heard his first bird sound. It was far off, and above him. It seemed to be a signal, for the forest slowly came to life, as he motionlessly waited. Birds could be heard calling to each other and sweeping from tree to tree, small animals scurried across the forest floor, only to vanish into the brush. Still Frellon waited, he was painfully aware of just how slim his chances of catching a bird were. He was waiting for a different opportunity.



Most of the day went by and Frellon felt his strength finally begin to wane, his opportunity showed itself. A small animal, no taller than his knee, trotted into view below him. It was Canine, but matted with many layers of fur. As he watched, it snuffed around the bases of trees, as if searching for something. Part of Frellon’s mind bid him wait, as he might find a source of food by observing this creature, but the hunger was too great, and it drove him from the tree with his sword outstretched. He fell silently, with no battle cry, swinging the sword.

The Wolf-like creature’s head toppled to the forest floor with a gurgle and a spray of blood. A nearby bird shrieked, and the whole forest went eerily silent, but Frellon was too elated to care. Lacking a fire, he tore apart the animal’s carcass with his bare hands, feasting like an animal. He had gone a week without sleep, food, or water, aside from the dew he had been able to lick from the trees, and ate until he could eat no more.

Finally satiated, he leaned against the nearest tree and tried to sleep, but found he could not. His immediate needs taken care of, he tossed and turned as his thoughts turned to the fear in his father’s eyes. As Frellon lay there in the dark, drifting off to dream of nothingness, tears finally rolled down his face, washing away the blood of his kill.



Sunlight broke through the branches above him, brushing his face and awaking Frellon from visions of doom and despair. With the morning came the hunger again, and Frellon wasted no time finishing off what was left unspoiled of the animal. Retrieving his sword, he realized that it had apparently broken., the top half had shattered, likely due to it’s impact with the tree’s root, after it had cut through the thing’s neck. Sad that he had lost his weapon, even if he had known it wouldn’t last long anyway, he tossed the near useless hilt aside. Then he examined his surroundings again. Oddly enough, the forest was dead silent, even though he had been carful and made no noise. Shrugging, he knelt once more before the carcass, hoping to make tools out of it’s bones.

A snarl, behind him.

Turning, Frellon had just enough time to realize that he faced something very similar to the thing he had just killed- but it was massive, almost bigger than Frellon himself- before it slammed into him and sent him flying into a tree. Somewhere, he heard a bird’s gutteral laugh. Frellon did not have the luxury of minding the bird though, as the creature was sinking its claws into his shoulders as he stuck his arm between its teeth to prevent it from tearing out his throat. His vision was turning red. Was this how he would die? Alone, mauled in some random forest on the disk? The creature, unable to get at his throat, was busy tearing into the rest of him with its fore-claws, when there was an impact. Frellon could feel the vibration from something striking the creature travel into him through his arm and chest. The creature paused, more impacts followed. It stood, snarled at something Frellon could not see, and left, Frellon seemingly forgotten. Frellon’s blood was pouring from his body, and his vision was fading. The last thing he saw as it left him completely was the creature being surrounded by booted feet, and blood that wasn’t his spattering the ground.

[Jade_Tarem]

The First Wish
Part 3: Mirage Sabotage

We know Faden woke up unseen,
And found an oasis of green,
But although he awoke,
and located our folk,
We do not know what happened between.

- Odd limerick sketched into the back of an unearthed copy of The First Wish, recovered from an old Hajika Clan trade stop

NOW

Faden came to slowly. It took even longer for everything to come back - the fall, his walk, the monster, and his other fall. He remained still, wondering why he hadn't died of exposure or been eaten by buzzards, when he realized that he had been moved. He was inside a cave, and more importantly, he wasn't thirsty.

Well, he was thirsty, but it was back to a normal thirst, and not the soul-crushing desperate thirst he remembered from before his fall. Remembering the fall, Faden touched his head. There was a bandage around it, expertly applied. He got up, grimacing with the dizziness and discomfort the movement caused him. He felt like some of Rumel's helper-spirits had sandpapered every inch of his flesh, and he was fairly certain that the skin on his face was burned and peeling. Either way, though, he couldn't stay where he was. Faden stepped outside the cave.

He apparently hadn't been moved far. He could still see the imprint in the packed dirt where he fell, although it was almost eroded away by the wind. With no real way to climb back up out of the ravine, he began to walk along its length. After a long enough time, the sun began to set, and he still had seen no signs of life. He had begun to wonder if his mysterious benefactor(s?) might, in fact, have merely ensured that he would experience the joys of dying from exposure twice, when the rock face finally changed - a series of tunnels, no more than a few inches high, decorated the face of the cliffs - and equally tiny handholds led up from the ground to any hole above ankle-high.

Faden began to wonder who or what lived here when the question was answered for him.

"Well hello there!" A tiny voice piped up from near the ground. Any thought that this might be a benevolent entity was wiped away when Faden saw the look on the creature's face. While not unlike a man - the limbs and head were all in a recognizable arrangement - there were definitely some insect-like qualities in the way it moved, and the ugly smirk on its face didn't belong on any sweet-tempered creature.

In short, it was a monster. A tiny one, no more than a few inches high, but a monster.

"I'm surprised the buzzards haven't gotten to you yet! They would have if that meddling caravan hadn't rolled through."

"A caravan of what?"

"People, fool! They live here too, just like everywhere else. But they don't take kindly to strangers. They helped you out juuust enough that they wouldn't have to feel guilty about you dying while they were around. Typical, really."

Despite the creature's condemnation, Faden's very being lit up - if there were mortals in the area, then they had to have a definite source of food and water. If he could catch them...

"Which way did they go?"

"What do I look like, a spirit of knowledge? I'm not going to tell you, unless..."

Faden didn't have time for these games. "Unless what?"

"Unless you can catch me! If you can do it before the sun goes down completely, I'll tell you where to find them. If you can't, you leave your most valuable possession with me!"

"I don't have any valuables."

"I'll just pick a possession at random then. Well?"

"Fine." Faden lunged for the creature, and it vanished. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn't an illusion - the tiny thing was just that fast. "Ah. Aha. A trick."

"Yes indeed! My name is Sapphire Bleak, swiftest nightmare in the land! No one has caught me in a hundred years, and you won't be the first. Try harder, though - it's amusing to watch you fail!"

Faden made several more attempts to grab the thing as the sky darkened. Near the close of sunset, it began taunting him, zipping in and out of the tiny holes in the canyon walls. Faden stopped for just a moment, shutting out Bleak's shrill babble, and thought.

While his divine spark was, apparently, in remission, Faden had never completely lost the ability to craft the illusions that he was so famous for among his siblings. While he could no longer appear to vanish at will, or create magnificent displays of light and sound, he could still make small changes. And Bleak was a small monster...

A moment later, he was rewarded with a loud *SMACK* as the tiny tormentor plowed at full speed right into the rock face. While the little creature could move faster than Faden could see, it was also moving faster than it could think. Had it taken a moment to cogitate instead of reacting on reflex, it would have realized that the holes in the cliffs should not have been able to jump six inches to the right on their own. As it was, the impact stunned the little monster, and Faden grabbed it a moment later.

"I win, Bleak." Faden rasped. "Where are the humans?"

"That way! Now let me go."

"No. You're coming with me."

"...why?"

"Just in case you're lying to me now. I'm going to kill you right before I become too weak to do so."

"On second thought, I think the humans went the other way. There's an oasis that they stop at there."

Faden grinned.

***

Many hours later, in the heat of the morning, Faden had stopped smiling. Bleak, as it turned out, had a secret weapon.

"Hey! Listen!"

The little loudmouth had gotten back at Faden by refusing to shut up through the entire trip. Unlike the godling, the monster never appeared to grow hoarse or even thirsty, and Faden had long ago given up on intelligent conversation.

"Hey! Hey! Listen!"

"What?"

"We're almost there. That's the oasis!"

Faden squinted off into the distance. There was something shimmering a few banks of dunes to the north, but he couldn't make it out. "Do you think I don't know what a mirage is, Bleak?"

"No mirage! That's the real deal."

"Fine. I trust you remember what I said about what happens if I'm about to collapse."

"That's a real oasis, I promise!"

Another hour brought them to it, and Faden was surprised to find that Bleak had told the truth - or at least, he hadn't lied. There was, however, a catch.

As Faden approached the water, a massive spirit loomed up from within it. Unlike the one he'd run into out on the sands, this spirit was far more insubstantial. Nonetheless, Faden could feel the power that radiated out from it.

And it wanted to deal.

"There is a simple price for using the oasis. One life for one year of use."

"A life?" Faden blinked. "That seems a bit steep."

"Hardly. The oasis will save a life, it seems reasonable to ask for one in return, wouldn't you agree? This deal is not negotiable, Faden. What life will you give?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Hrm. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. How would I not know it? I was part of the White City."

"Then why aren't you there now, fighting with Father?"

"One life, Faden." The spirit forcibly changed the subject. "What will it be?"

"Ha! I'd hoped this would happen. The mortals pick one among their own for a sacrifice, but you don't have anyone willing to die for you!" Bleak crowed.

Faden was nonplussed. "Spirit? Does the type of life matter?"

It hesitated. "I suppose not... so long as it's intelligent."

Faden looked at Bleak, clutched in his hand, and grinned. It took a moment for the monster to catch on. "You wouldn't... I mean... I couldn't possibly count, could I? I'm a monster, not a mortal!"

"Hey, listen. You heard the spirit - any kind of sapient life will do." Faden tossed the tiny screaming creature at the vortex hovering over the water. A moment later, Bleak was gone, and the spirit with him.

Faden drank until he was satisfied, ate the fruit around the oasis, and weathered the heat of the day in the shade - exploring only far enough to find the caravan's tracks. When it was dark out, he gathered up all his energy and took off after the mortals (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eu4T2A2k-oE), using all of his power and strength to catch them.

And as he ran, he thought about the events connecting his awakening to the oasis. He decided that if anyone asked him about how he'd survived the desert, he'd leave that part out. Not that he was ashamed of what he'd done - he just couldn't stand the thought of the aggravating little creature becoming famous for any reason.

[Jade_Tarem]

The First Wish
Part 4: Fools Rush In

The children wished for comfort,
the soldiers to be strong.
The fools, they wished for money,
but they didn't keep it long.

The leaders wished for wisdom,
the blind, they wished for sight.
The fools, they wished for power,
but it didn't last the night.

The oppressed wished for freedom,
the lost wished not to stray.
The fools wished to be famous,
but the fame faded away.

The god-child wished for nothing,
the cost was far too steep.
The fools wished to live forever,
And this wish they got to keep.

- Excerpt from a Halvett Clan book of poems and songs, relating to The First Wish

NOW

Against all odds (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeEV8JZN79o), Faden caught up to the caravan. It was only then that he realized that he hadn't the faintest idea what to do next. It was surprising - given the path events had taken since his fall from the White City, he had fully expected to die of exposure or be consumed by flaming desert weasel-demons before anything unambiguously positive happened.

Once again, the legends delve deeply into artistic license and flowery, duplicitous prose. It is true that when he approached the caravan, he did so under the full beauty of the clear night sky, the South Star shining directly above him. It is true that at that time he was dressed in his iconic multi-layered blue, black, and gold garments. It is even true that his arrival caused a great stir throughout the Hajika-clan caravan, who abandoned their tasks and rushed out to meet him, thunderous cries upon their lips. What the legends fail to state was that with his once-magnificent garments shredded and torn, his skin blistered and peeling, his words nothing but nonsense to mortal ears, his gait a staggering shuffle, and his entire frame - which was none too well-muscled to begin with - dessicated from his travels, the humans of the Hajika Clan had mistaken him for the undead spirit of Zohar-Ahmamesh the Traitor Chieftain. They were, in fact, racing out to drive him off, lest he steal their children.*

Similarly, the legends state that Faden was able to communicate with them even without words, but neglect to mention that he did so through a wild and panicked pantomime that, to its credit, made up for in effectiveness what it lacked in dignity. Hours later, he realized that he could create fairly evocative images even with the limited power over illusion he had left, and everyone felt very silly.

Before too long, he was among them. Despite the size of the clan - nearly fifty family units - it was not a very impressive caravan. The lack of available wood or workable stone made it difficult to create useful vehicles, so most of their possessions were carried by creatures - both enormous lizards as well as curious mammals able to store up water for tremendous periods of time. Eventually he was able to parse enough of what they were saying to hold two-way communication, and they asked him who he was.

It was the beginning of a long conversation, much of it carried out without a single word.

In another land, perhaps, an outsider would have been driven off, or regarded with too much suspicion or distrust to make an extended living arrangement workable. Here, though, every able-bodied human, man or woman, young or old, was needed. Because the land was so unforgiving, the humans could not be.

Faden's first task, while he recovered, was teaching. He made learning their language and teaching them his own his top priority, but they were especially interested in his magic. As unimpressive as it was to him, it was more eldritch power than they had ever seen wielded by a man, even one claiming to have come from the moon. They asked if he would show them how it was done.

THEN

"Okay, Tezzerin, I'm ready!" An extremely excited - and extremely small - Faden bounded into the small amphitheater in the White City. He knew he was bright - Father had made him that way. "Teach me everything you know!"

Tezzerin did not laugh, but something in the way the spirit's face scrunched up suggested that she was trying hard not to. "That may take a while, Faden."

"That's okay! I brought a lunch and everything." At this, Tezzerin did laugh. The spirit slowly settled down on the small, flat dais at the front of the amphitheater. "Oh my. I believe you've settled the question of what the first lesson should be, then."

Faden nodded and sat down too, but didn't say anything. Tezzerin leaned forward. "A *very* long time ago, when there was little else occupying the world besides your Father, he created the first spirits - Eliat, myself, and others, one by one. And upon learning that my first task was to become the greatest repository of knowledge after Baz'Auran, I confronted him in the tenfold paths. 'Baz'Auran,' I said, 'I am to be the First Spirit of Knowledge, but there is so much that I do not know. If you want me to be the best spirit I can be, you need to teach me everything you know, right now!" Tezzerin leaned back. "I was foolish to speak so impudently to Baz'Auran, but he simply nodded to me and told me to follow him, and I did. I was surprised when we left the tenfold paths. We traveled all the way to the Great Disk, and there we stopped, right by the oceans. He told me to lean as close to the water as I could and stare into my own reflection."

"What did that teach you?"

"Nothing. It was a trick. The next moment, His will held me under the water. At first I thought it might be a prank, but as the minutes went by, I slowly but surely began to drown. Right before I blacked out, though, I was suddenly hoisted out of the sea, and Baz'Auran told me to come back to him when I wanted his knowledge more than I had wanted air moments before."

Faden sat silently for nearly a minute. "This is going to take more than one day, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes. I do not think I need an ocean** to make my point to you, Faden - nothing comes freely, even to the children of the Creator. It will take time and effort on your part to make even the smallest foray into everything I know, and bear in mind that even *I* do not know everything. It may take centuries."

Faden looked up at her. "Then we should get started right away."

NOW

Faden frowned, and explained to him, in their broken tongue, that magic could not be mastered overnight. He was still learning it himself, and was not even sure how long he or any of them would live. He told them that their young would grow old, and children would be born, and their old would die - not once, but many times over, perhaps even hundreds of times over. None of them would live to see the full reward for their efforts.

He was ready for disappointment or even outrage, but the humans surprised him again. Upon hearing that it would require hundreds of generations for them to truly master the secrets of magic, the Chief - a powerfully built woman by the name of Brega-Sadeem, nodded and told him that if it would take so long, they had best begin right away.

With that, Faden no longer felt as if he had any right to refuse.

He agreed to teach them as best as he was able. Despite the fact that their own ability to manipulate arcane energies paled by comparison to his own (even suppressed as it was) he was surprised at the tenacity and dedication of the mortals. They had carved out an existence in a land he would have deemed impossible to survive in, and had begun to grow culturally and spiritually in spite of the perils. They had art and music and crafts, and even plans for the future, constrained though they were by the realities of the present.

Time passed. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiLTwtuBi-o&feature=related) Days turned into weeks. Faden eventually stopped thinking of the humans as 'the mortals' and began to think of them as the 'Hajika Clan,' as they liked to call themselves. There were thirteen total clans, which met and traded occasionally as they traveled in convoluted routes across the desert, stopping at the sources of the water they paid so dearly for, but because only a few Oases were large enough to accommodate multiple clans at once, interaction was limited.

Time passed. Weeks turned into months. Faden eventually stopped thinking of the humans as the 'Hajika Clan' and began to think of them as his clan. As he grew more adept at their language he joined them in telling stories around the fires at night, in learning how to survive in even such a barren place as this, and how to beat the heat - his initial guess had been correct. The less there was between two points the less heat could travel between them. The desert - especially the mountainous areas - was not as barren as it first appeared. For a while, Faden was happy.

Faden found himself distinctly lacking in ambition, and he might have faded from history altogether if not for three things. First, he still wanted to know what had become of his siblings. Second, he remained aware of the awful thing that had evicted the children of Baz'Auran from the White Disk.

Finally, there was the small matter of the water bill...

He had asked the clan about the spirits he had run into, and though they had become evasive, he had eventually learned that as far as the humans were concerned, the two had always existed. The one that stalked the sands was known to them as Qarezel, and the other as Paideiazel.

It was something of a bastardization of the language of the White City, but Faden eventually learned that they meant 'demonic will' and 'demonic desire.' And with that, he knew what the two spirits were. They were the remains of the First Spirit of Magic, a spirit unseen in the White Citadel since before Baz'Auran elected to have children. What his/her/its crime had been was never discussed, but his Father had exiled the great spirit in much the same manner (on fire and screaming) as he had... someone, although for the life of him Faden couldn't remember who.

The stress of the event had apparently fractured the spirit into its two main components - the creature's will and discipline formed the spirit Paideiazel, the swirling vortex-like entity that loaned out the water to the humans at such an obscene cost. The more barbaric desire-driven half, Qarezel, functioned mostly on instinct and hunted down anything with higher brain functions that wandered into its range of perception.***

The clan had grown adept at avoiding Qarezel - the creature was, unsurprisingly, a few pegs short of a tent. Paideiazel, though, was a serious obstacle, and thirteen humans - one from each clan - sacrificed themselves each year so that the rest of the clan might live. The decision on which human would pay the price was decided at random, if a volunteer was not found.

The humans had no idea why the two spirits were after their lives, but Faden had his own suspicions. The two spirits were no longer tied to Baz'Auran nor sustained by his power, which likely meant that they would age and decay just as any mortal creature might. There were ways to extend a life that would certainly be known to the two spirits, though - the catch was the cost. A spirit of the power of Paideiazel or Qarezel would require many lives, every year, to remain ageless, and so they preyed on the humans.

Unaccountably, this made Faden upset. He had never given much thought to mortals in the White City. He hadn't cared, but now he recognized, as the spirits had taught him to, the importance of even the smallest details. They had their own spark - perhaps not the divine spark of Baz'Auran, but it was there. The two desert spirits were consuming people like livestock to support their continuing efforts to cheat his Father's punishment.

So when the time came to select who would be the next to face Paideiazel, Faden volunteered. Despite the protests of the clan, he convinced them that he knew what he was doing, and for the first time in years, the people of the Hajika clan began to wonder if there might be a way out from under the control of the spirits.

The son of Baz'Auran had no death wish. Armed with a solid suspicion of what the two spirits were really after, Faden planned to offer them their heart's desire in exchange for all the water, forever. He would offer them immortality itself.

It was an excellent plan, with two minor drawbacks.

First, Faden did not have the ability to grant them immortality, yet would need to actually be able to do so in order for the plan to succeed. This he judged to be the lesser of the plan's two flaws.

Second, deceptions were most effective when one could play desire and will off against each other. Given that the two abstracts had been forcibly separated in this case, there was a solid chance that Paideiazel would be too intelligent to fall for Faden's ruse, and an equally high chance that Qarezel would be too stupid to fall for it.

Faden tried to think his way around these problems, but then the Hajika Clan's year was up, and there was no more time (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSm6nnwesV4).

* The humans should not be blamed for leaping to this conclusion - it had happened before on two different occasions. This, however, is a story for another time.

** Liberal and unconventional use was made of the great palace fountain less than a week later.

*** Faden once asked the clan where Sapphire Bleak fit in to the supernatural food chain. Their only response was "Sapphire who?" Faden did not pursue that line of inquiry - all was right with the world.

[Jade_Tarem]

The First Wish
Part 5: Reflected Illumination

"By its nature, magic is the impression of one's will on reality, and might defy the natural laws of causality and physical or chemical interaction in exchange for taking on the magical laws of causality and eldritch interaction. As reality is only recognized through your own perceptions, and since those perceptions can easily fail, magic may be mistaken for madness at first glance, and sometimes the two can only be unraveled through careful and patient study.

It is not as simple as that, though. Magic does not always involve the roar of thunder, the flash of light, and the ever-present dramatic wind described in the stories as arcane power is transferred throughout the process of some epic task. Indeed, the most potent magic frequently is found in the most mundane of circumstances. Summoning a ball of light is a mere trick, no matter what natural laws have been violated or what price was paid. Showing mercy to one's worst enemy is magic. An eternal bond of love begun on the slightest of chances is magic. The total destruction of a long-held prejudice that stands in the way of progress is magic. A person doing things the right way instead of the easy way is magic.

And as you may expect, this may come at a great cost to those who would seek to reshape reality in such a way. Lives will be ended, dreams will be shattered, and works will be torn down by those without the wit to understand them. Despite this, I have witnessed that as surely as there will always be fools and monsters of some shape or form, there will be those from all histories and backgrounds willing to take those chances and pay the cost to make something great, even when no one is looking. Only one question remains, and I leave it to you to answer it in your own way, and your own time.

Is that madness, or is that magic?

- Forward to The First Wish. Author anonymous, but suspected to be Faden himself.

NOW

There was one other thing to do before Faden could begin his plan. He had to make his burial shroud.

Burial rituals for the Clans involved the creation of a burial shroud. The shroud itself was actually an extremely long ribbon, two inches wide, of whatever cloth the family doing the burying had available. Cuts and alterations were made to account for the contours of the body, and then the entire thing was wrapped around the corpse and the ribbons sealed together with a powerful resin the Clans had discovered seeped from the cracks in the deepest caves.

In the case of those sacrificed to Paideiazel, though, there was no body - nothing to wrap. Even so, a burial shroud was made, and the entire clan pitched in to help make it, although the person selected or volunteered to die was given creative control. In Faden's case, he had no requirements for decoration, requesting only that the entire ribbon be dyed black, and that they store enough resin to seal it. This caused some confusion, but the clan was happy to comply.

When it was done, Faden set out to find Paideiazel. It would be the first time that he had formulated a plan with the end goal of destroying a hostile entity, but it wouldn't be the last.

He found the spirit at the nearest Oasis, as predicted. It regarded him curiously. "Faden again? Surely the Hajika clan had another human that they could spare more readily than you?"

Faden bowed. "I've actually come to offer an alternative deal, Paideiazel."

"Oh?"

Faden took a deep breath. If he was wrong about the way in which the First Spirit of Magic's personality had split, the entire plan would end with his death here and now. "Oh yes. Unlike the mortals, I have discerned why you claim so many lives each year. You seek to maintain the everlasting life that was taken from you by your exile."

A trace of derision crept into Paideiazel's tone. "Of course, it isn't very hard to grasp."

"Perhaps not for a great and intelligent spirit like yourself, but the mental faculties of so many others are limited by comparison."

"All too true," the spirit said, sadly. "My brother being the worst of the lot."

Faden let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He'd been right - pride had ended up with this half. The spirit had already assumed that no one and nothing could possibly outwit it.

Time to get to work.

THEN

"Deception? This is a curious choice of topic, Faden."

"Not too curious. How am I supposed to discern the truth if I cannot spot a lie?"

"With practice. For instance, I have heard a thin justification before."

Faden grinned. "Then you should teach me to be better to give yourself more of a challenge."

Tezzerin blinked all of her eyes. "This is dangerous territory, Faden. I am not sure that you are ready."

Faden frowned. "Last month you taught me how to move my body with pure power. If I make a mistake, I could turn myself inside out. How is deception more dangerous than that?"

"You would be surprised. Even an inside-out body can be fixed here, but there is no way to repair shattered trust."

"All the more reason to become proficient." Faden looked at her squarely. "Will your refusal to teach me really keep me from learning about it? It seems to be a fundamental aspect of reality."

Tezzerin sighed. "Very well. I'm going to assume you know the basics, and focus on magical and complex deceptions. You may recall our talk about heuristics?"

Faden nodded. "They're mental shortcuts that we use to save time. Like looking for a hammer by going to places you remember it being, rather than just walking in an outward spiral until you find one."

"Correct. There are several things to keep in mind when crafting a deception, whether it is a lie, an illusion, or something more complicated. The first is plausibility - not possibility, but plausibility. The deception must be both believable and make so much sense that the target is unwilling to question it. A giant glowing monster appearing in a room for no reason is impossible, one strolling into town is implausible, and even an angry horde of enemies showing up is highly unlikely. In general, the more subtle the alteration is, the better."

"I'm with you so far."

"More importantly, the deception should be hidden within those aforementioned mental shortcuts. The best deception is one that the target never gets an opportunity to question, resonating with a deeply held belief that they hold. For instance, it makes sense for a room to have four walls and a roof. Most beings will not question the existence of the roof, even if it is only an illusion. In a similar vein, most beings will not question something likely, even if the only proof they have to go on is your word." The spirit folded her wings. "If this is impossible, then misdirection and duplicity are the next best things, preferably together. Do you recall the shell game?"

Faden nodded. "I never did find the pebble."

"The pebble was never under any of the shells - at least not at the time you made the selection. There was an unspoken assumption that it would be under one of the shells. The pebble was shown as under the shells, you were told to find the pebble and shown the shells, but it was never guaranteed that the pebble would still be under the shells when my hands stopped moving. The game can not, in fact, be won."

Faden leaned back, slowly. "Psychological blind spots..."

"Indeed. And the more you know of, the better. People put a great deal of trust in their senses, and will continue to trust them until they know they should not. And the biggest blind spot of all is, unsurprisingly, desire."

"Desire?"

"Desire, although not in the magical sense. The most effective deceptions use all of the above techniques, and also show the target what they wish to see. Beings will convince themselves of all manner of untrue things. Sometimes showing or telling a target what they want to believe in is so powerful that you can convince them of blatantly impossible things."

There was a long moment of silence.

"That's it?" Faden got up. "That wasn't very long at all."

"That's it for the lecture. The rest is practice." Tezzerin began to ascend toward the palace.

Faden stepped forward. "Wait! How do I know that you aren't holding something back? All of that talk about duplicity and lying by omission, not to mention telling people what they want to hear..."

Tezzerin grinned, and for the first time in his life Faden saw something sinister in the expression. "You do not. The presence of deception erodes trust, without which certainty cannot be achieved. You may never know whether or not I told you everything today. Or any other day." Tezzerin did not stop moving, but her voice remained clear until she disappeared from sight. "That, dear Faden, is the cost. You will ask yourself every day if it was worth it, and one day you will convince yourself that it was. When that day comes, you will know that you have truly become proficient at deception."

NOW

Faden had chosen to appeal to Paideiazel's ego, and in fact had made that decision long before arriving. The trick was not to go overboard - too much flattery would cause suspicion, too little would fail to blind the spirit to its approaching doom.

Faden had indeed practiced his deceptions. It hadn't made him extremely popular among his siblings, but he had improved, day by day. One of the things he had discovered was that Tezzerin was correct. You could lie much more effectively with what you did not say as what you did. The best lies were composed entirely of true statements, and in fact Faden had made it a point to never actually tell a lie - every lie was something that his target could disprove, and thus was a weak point in the deception.

And so, there in the presence of a creature that could destroy him at will and thought itself very clever, Faden began to say true things (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUQYCf4OXyg).

"Well... perhaps not." For his purposes, the only thing better than pride was injured pride.

"What? Explain yourself." The spirit turned its attention to Faden completely; the godling could almost feel the force of the stare.

"You and Qarezel inhabit different parts of the desert, and theoretically consume human lives to sustain yourselves. But whereas you have chosen the highly effective strategy of waiting near vital resources, Qarezel just hunts people at random."

"Yes..."

"It seems strange that the strategies would be equally effective. As you yourself pointed out, Qarezel is not particularly bright, and the mortals have learned many ways to avoid him, yet he does not seem to have aged any further than you have." Like the ones before it, this statement was true. Faden let the unspoken question hang in the air.

The spirit's ethereal eyes narrowed. "You believe that Qarezel knows something *I* don't?" This, at last, was a lie - and the most powerful kind of lie, no less.

"The power that went into making the First Spirit of Magic timeless and ageless had to go somewhere when split into you and Qarezel. You obtained will, discipline, and higher reason. Qarezel must have received something as well," Faden responded, and every word was true.

"Yes... yes, that must be it. Qarezel is still immortal, waiting for me to expire so he can take control of the whole area!"

"He has no reason to challenge a spirit of your intelligence and power when there's an alternative, and he would still get to eat humans in the meantime." Faden stated flatly.

Paideiazel pondered that for a moment, a sour expression on the wispy face. "You mentioned a deal. Do you have a way to steal my immortality back from Qarezel?"

"I could obtain immortality for you, if only..."

"If only what?"

"Well, Qarezel is the Desire half of magic, and without the Will half there I will be unable to seize his power. If you know a way to manipulate Will directly..."

"Yes! Here, take this." The vortex like spirit launched a large pair of black gloves at the godling, which Faden recognized as a part of Paideiazel's very essence - specifically, the Ego. He resisted the urge to whistle. "Get me immortality, and I will let you and the clans have as much water as you want!"

***

The next part of Faden's deception went much faster owing to a total lack of scintillating conversation.

"Want Immortality! Give it to me!"

Faden stepped back, his hair frazzled from the force of the shout. "Er... yes. All I need is a way to get it from Paideiazel, a way to manipulate Desire itself wou-"

Faden's eyes widened to almost impossible proportions as Qarezel ripped one if its own limbs off and threw it at Faden's feet. "Here! Go get immortality!"

The godling made a concerted effort to shut his hanging jaw, shook his head, grabbed the limb, and ran. What kind of psychopath just spontaneously mutilates himself like that?

***

The first half of the deception was complete. The second half would require some material aids, and a lot of magic - more than Faden could possibly produce by himself. But then, he was hoping that Qarezel and Paideiazel would provide the magic...

The first thing he did was create the gloves. He took the bones and sinews from the claw that Qarezel had given him, both surprisingly colored gold, and worked them into the gloves that Paideiazel had provided. The end result was a pair of near-gauntlets with a black base, but golden plates on the backs of the hands and up the entire length of the rest of the glove, with black runes on the plating. The gloves were bulky and went halfway to the elbow, but fortunately shrank down to fit Faden's hands, allowing his sleeves to drape over them.

The other thing he needed was an object that the two spirits could fixate their desires upon. This time, it was the Hajika clan that provided for him. Inexpensive copper jewelry was common, and the clansmen were quite adept at making it. Sometimes, though, gemstones were found near new rock slides or in unexplored caves, and the clan was more than willing to part with a pair of beautiful sapphires, to make a pair of amulets.

Faden began to weave his spell. It would indeed allow for a being of enough power to live forever - but that power was the catch. With such a huge disparity in the relative magical strength between Faden and the spirits, Faden needed the spirits to lower all of their defenses if this were to work. And to do that, he needed them to not only take the amulets from him, but steal them from him. He needed them to focus all of their effort and will and desire on the items, or the whole plan could fail. Unfortunately, the steps that would get them to do something like that would likely kill him.

That, he supposed, was the cost for this particular magic trick.

When the time came to carry out the last stage of the plan, dark clouds had filled the sky, heralding a terrible sandstorm. While dramatically appropriate, Faden saw the weather only as an aggravation, but on the other hand, it would be one more distraction for the spirits, one less reason for them to question what he was doing. A moment later he realized what else he could use the sandstorm for.

The other hindrance came from a surprising source. The humans wouldn't let him go. Chief Brega-Sadeem stood in his way as he made to leave the encampment, and asked him to stay, to let any other member of the clan carry out the final steps in his place. She told him that they still looked to him to grant their wish of a brilliant future for the clan - all the clans.

Faden shook his head. He said that the clan knew enough to advance on his own, that there were now humans who could do what he could.

The humans responded that no, there were not. None of them could be Faden.

Faden raised an eyebrow, and leaned forward. He stated flatly that the plan had a much higher chance of failure if he wasn't the one to carry it out, but if they wanted to keep him alive, there was something that they could do, if they had a little faith...

And so the plan was delayed for one more day, as the humans made molds and prepared to make the biggest arsenal any of the clans had ever created.

***

Luring Qarezel to the oasis was harder than Faden had expected, but eventually he managed it. And when he did...

"YOU! What are you doing near my oasis? And you, Faden, where is my immortality? We had a deal!"

"Came for immortality! Give it to me!"

"Good spirits, calm yourselves." Faden said soothingly. "I have managed to create a way for you to live forever, as promised, but..."

Both spirits loomed over him dangerously. "But what?"

"Well, if I am immortal and you are not, there isn't much you can do to me, is there? I have decided not to give these to you. In fact, I can eventually make enough of these to give one to every human in the clans. If all of them were immortal, none of them would need you any more."

Paideiazel snarled nastily. "There is one thing you have forgotten, Faden. Being immortal doesn't give you the power to keep us from taking those baubles from you. Now hand them over!"

"I will not." Faden said, noting with some relief that the storm that had been threatening since yesterday had finally arrived, sending sand flying in every direction and obscuring vision.

"So be it. You are not very smart, son of Baz'Auran."

"Smarter than you think." Faden raised his fist (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taC_FnO3IRs), and the Hajika clan cleared their own desires and wills, allowing them to be manipulated by and joined to Faden's. Over one hundred copper blades, each buried earlier in the day, sprang up from the sands and the Hundred Saber Battle began.

The spirits should not be blamed for what appears to be gross incompetence and overconfidence on their part. They were quite correct in assuming that they were by far the most powerful entities on the massive desert island. The two of them could have crushed Faden with little difficulty. Faden plus the entire Hajika Clan would require only slightly more effort. Faden plus the entire Clan in the middle of a Sandstorm would only be slightly harder, and much more aggravating.

Faden plus the whole clan in a sandstorm on a battleground that had been prepared in advance while the godling refused to engage them directly, using illusions and misdirection in conjunction with the storm to hide all of the combatants, while razor-sharp copper blades whirled about on the winds and heat lightning crashed about, distorting noises and destroying night vision, was just hellishly frustrating.

Going for broke, Faden ran through his entire arsenal of tricks. He would wait until a sand-filled gust obscured vision to shift himself away or throw up a crude illusion. He used the wind to provide most of the motion for the blades, which were made as light as possible, but sharp - useless as swords, they made fairly effective wind-borne dangers. He heard the cries of pain from the spirits, both of which were too large to avoid the flashing blades, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might be able to defeat them directly.

But only for a moment. Eventually the storm died down, the blades could no longer remain in the air, and Paideiazel and Qarezel, acting in concert for what may have been the first time in centuries, grabbed Faden and yanked the amulets off of his neck. Both roared triumph as they flung Faden to the sands.

And as instructed, the Hajika Clan did... nothing.

Faden held his breath. If he had made a single mistake with the spell, if he had misjudged the defenses of the spirits, if he had slipped during his sweet-talking and one of them had guessed what his plan was, it would all end here.

Then what appeared to be glowing sapphires erupted from the ground, encasing the lower portions of the two spirits, and Faden knew that he had won.

"What is this?! What did you do?" Paideiazel attempted to rush to Faden, but was held in place despite his vortex-like form. Faden filed that apparent impossibility away for future reference. "You promised immortality."

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one," Faden said coldly, standing. "The jewelry that you just used all of your effort and will and power to obtain will indeed keep you from ever dying. I do not know enough about souls and spirits and life and death to stop it directly, but I know a great deal about space and time and magic." He gestured to the sapphires. "What you are holding, and the spell that you took despite all of my efforts to prevent you from doing so, will prevent you from aging or ever being harmed by removing you from time itself. I could not power such a thing on my own, of course, but I don't have to."

The sapphire continued to creep up the spirits. "You tricked us! You lied to us!"

"I did not lie. I have given you exactly what was promised, and our deal will be fulfilled. You will live forever, even if you are not happy with the price of doing so, and in return the humans will have free access to the resources of the desert." Faden turned and began to walk back to the humans. "I have kept to our bargain. Enjoy eternity - if you can."

Qarezel and Paideiazel continued to howl until the sapphires had encased them completely. They still cry out even now, and if you stand out on the dunes or in the driest canyons on a windy day, there's a howl with every gust and breeze. Perhaps you've heard it? That's them. Screaming.

Faden watched with some surprise as a bluish haze of energy erupted from the two sapphires and hovered for a moment, before he nodded: he had trapped only the bodies, minds, and souls of the two spirits - their power, or at least the power that wasn't being used to maintain their newly granted immortality, was being pushed back into recognizable time.

The clan began to cheer, to rush forward, but Faden stopped them, for something wasn't right. He could sense a growing malevolence from the power, and he realized that after so long, something as closely tied to its own power as the two spirits could still imprint some of their desire and will on it. And that meant...

"Get back. All of you, get as far away as possible!" The clan members halted, confused, before backing away. It was over, right?

It was not over.
As surely as the fallen spirits had been sealed away forever,
Power unlike any he had known snatched at him, and Faden knew,
What they were trying to accomplish.
Faden was not certain
He could handle it.
And he knew that
A tidal surge of raw magical energy would rip through his being.
He saw the mortals, in a ring around him, keeping their distance.
But he was inevitably being drawn in by an inescapable pull.
His body was destroyed by the terrible forces he had unleashed,
Faden became aware of something new, and realized:
it was too late to save the world.
The mortals did not believe that
They could prevent it.
The humans made a choice.
Faden died.

The Hajika clan reached out and seized the unspent power. The very first wish would be made upon this hour. He was wrong about the humans, in the wake of the attack. You can have what e’er you want, and they wanted Faden back.

Faden died.
The humans made a choice.
They could prevent it.
The mortals did not believe that
it was too late to save the world.
Faden became aware of something new, and realized:
His body was destroyed by the terrible forces he had unleashed,
But he was inevitably being drawn in by an inescapable pull.
He saw the mortals, in a ring around him, keeping their distance.
A tidal surge of raw magical energy would rip through his being.
And he knew that
He could handle it.
Faden was not certain
What they were trying to accomplish.
Power unlike any he had known snatched at him, and Faden knew,
As surely as the fallen spirits had been sealed away forever,
It was not over (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zl4nq-9RSw4&t=5m49s).

Over two hundred amateur sorcerers ringed Faden’s burial shroud, sealed together with resin and dressed in Faden’s raiment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was all that was left of him. The unified Desire of hundreds of humans, combined with the Will Faden had shown them, and fueled by the stolen power of the former First Spirit of Magic, all gathered on that point. The price was paid.

A roaring vortex whipped up in the center of their ring, cloud formations swirling above it even as sand whirled madly below. A pair of blue streams of fire, painfully bright, spiraled down from the heavens, leaving a double helix of glowing smoke behind them. The two streams hit the layered clothing and bandages simultaneously, and then something screamed. Despite having never heard it before, the humans knew it was not Faden. Indeed, had they known what it truly was their very minds would have snapped from containing such dangerous knowledge. They would not – could not – know that the darkness from beyond the stars that had restricted and smothered Faden’s divine spark had been burned away by the sheer Desire and Will behind their actions.

When the scream and the light and the fire faded, and all that was left was a circle seared into the sand, letting off bluish smoke, they finally released the spell. The energy had been spent, and everything was in balance once again.

Faden woke up. He got up slowly, moving slightly awkwardly. This was when he realized that he had been wrapped in his own burial shroud. He tried to remove it – and could not. Trying harder actually hurt, and in the tiny division in the bandages he was pulling on he could see only a bright blue light. He tried to smile wanly as the realization hit him and could not – the mortals had brought him back, but there was no undoing the destruction of his body. These bandages and what they contained were his body now.

Even as he despaired at the thought, a second one hit him. The mortals had brought him back. That… couldn’t happen. It was one of Baz’Auran’s universal laws – anything dead stays dead, and any attempt to bring that being back leads only to a pale mockery of the original called the undead.

Using only his teachings and some stolen magic, the humans had defied the will of Baz'Auran. Impossible did not begin to define their actions.

As he examined his new body, he felt the despair wash away. This was not bad at all. He was still alive, he could still do what he enjoyed most, and his spark...

He froze. His spark was there. Undamaged, unrestricted.

He was a god (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G67jnMTtUXs&feature=related). And now he was, at least for the moment, the most powerful entity in these lands. He turned to look at his clan, and they looked back with something approaching awe. Even as he mourned the death of the familial relationship they had shared, he knew that he could now do so much more.

And speaking of more, he had picked up a new advantage - the gloves he had made from the essence of the two spirits had not been consumed by the immortality spell. He knew that they were composed of the First Spirit of Magic's Ego and Id - the long term planning and desires of what had once been a great spirit. Tezzerin had described to him a third aspect of psyche, the Super-Ego - the part that contributed to the other two, adding morality and the occasional irrationality to the thought process. Faden wondered if the First Spirit of Magic's Super-Ego was still out there somewhere, or if its nonexistence had caused the spirit's downfall to begin with. Faden supposed that in the case of this new artifact, he would have to supply the Super-Ego.

He also knew that the spirit's immortality had not been accounted for, which meant that it was somewhere out in the desert, but Faden was in no hurry to find it. Such things tended to resurface despite the odds anyway.

For now, the most important thing to keep in mind was that he had still failed to account for any of his siblings, or formulate a plan to take back the White City. It was time to get to work.

First Turn Artifact Creation
Ego and Id: The two gloves created from the ancient essence of the First Spirit of Magic allow Faden to manipulate Desire and Will directly, as though the abstract concepts were solid to the touch. The actual effect of this is to enhance his magic-based abilities.

The gloves retain a vague, lingering awareness that Faden is not their original owner, and that they were separated through trickery - and they resent it. While they cannot interfere with Faden's use of them, the gloves have the curious effect of leaving afterimages of themselves in the air while they are in use, a sign of their reluctance to aid the son of Baz'Auran.

Contrary to popular belief, one glove is not called Ego and the other Id, they are both Ego and Id.

New Appearance
The final attack of Qarezel and Paideiazel ripped the flesh from Faden's bones, scattered the bones, incinerated all of the aforementioned pieces and then vaporized what was left. In short, nothing of Faden's original body remains.

Faden's new body appears to be a wrapped burial shroud in the general shape of a male humanoid. However, external features such as a nose, mouth, ears, etc. appear to be missing - fingers and eyes are the only true detail, the rest is merely jet black ribbons wrapped tightly around something. Faden's eyes are the only gaps in the ribbon, and looking into those reveals only a burning blue-white light. Faden's clothes remained, and are almost always worn over the shroud ribbon. Only Faden's face - such as it is - is visible, the rest being covered by boots, pants, a tunic, a belt, a split black jerkin, and the blue, black, and gold hooded robe - and of course, Ego and Id.

[ArlEammon]

Blood Brood
After Aerin had recovered from his wounds in the duel with the Four, he watched on top of the Witche's Caverns, his new, and strange palace. Watching the winds blow across the green lands, and the trees, he was at peace. Here, Aerin had saved thousands of people from a grizzly end. He missed Baz'Auran and even his angry siblings. As he looked back on his days in the White City, he remembered how fond of them all he had grown. Of course, he exaggerated his admiration to beyond obnoxious levels, but he still loved his family. Those days were gone. . .

Yet suddenly, a husky voice was heard in panicked tone. "The Chaos Mother! She's HERE!" Aerin couldn't believe it. The Mother of Serpents, the Brood Mother who brought the Chaos Beasts from the South, SHE WAS HERE. He looked, and saw over the horizon, as the Mother was devouring entire families and sqaudren of Wildermen alive. He squinted, and then he finally gave into the truth. This was her. The Chaos Mother.

Bronze arrows were fired at the Serpent, only for all the ammunition to simply glance off it's skin. Aerin was on his horse in mere moments, and suddenly the Chaos Mother was staring into the eyes of the great son of Baz'Auran. "STOP, BEAST!" Aerin screamed. Of course, the monster didn't pay head, but continued to attack defenseless citizens of Aerin's new country. The Serpent felt it's body shocked with thunder from Aerin's new Sceptre. "TASTE THE MIGHT OF AERIN THUNDERER!" He bellowed.

Down the head of the Serpent Queen lashed. Aerin had only a small moment fall of his horse. Jongo, the horse was now eaten whole by her, as Aerin grunted in annoyance. "That was my FAVORITE HORSE!" Aerin aimed the Sceptre at her, and fired another blast of powerful lightning. Now, Mother was furious! She roared loudly, painfully so, everyone within the area covered their ears, even Aerin. As the Thunderer stumbled back the Queen hissed loudly and snapped it's neck downwards once again. As she missed, Aerin noticed she had swallowed a large amount of rock, and with the hard earth, the Sceptre! Aerin's eyes were ablaze with fear! That was his weapon! Mother Chaos snapped her jaws open once more after she swallowed the hard earth, and her head nearly made another lash. Aerin thought quickly, aiming his finger at the Serpent Queen, and commanded the Sceptre to work. . .

She screamed, this time in pain, and spat Thunder Sceptre, covered in her venomous blood. With another gaze of fury Mother Chaos knew she could not hope to eat her prey. She would have to kill it without eating it. Opening her gaping maw, a breath of flame exploded in front of Aerin, luckly blowing him clear of the fire and merely causing him bruises and scrapes along the hard ground.

The Serpent screamed in triumph, turning to behind her, opening her maw, she burned the remaining Wildermen, who ran with the women and children, who were also burned to their skeletal forms. Aerin saw in horror as entire families burned to death before his eyes. And then, something inside Aerin seemed to just break before his anger.

Aerin was full of wrath and anger. . . The Serpent Queen would feel the power of the Thunder God here and now. Aerin's eyes went back to the Sceptre, and with his hands, now glowing, no, shining, with a blue aura, grasping the acidic Thunder Sceptre, Aerin could think of nothing more than saving the rest of his Tribe. He threw Thunder Sceptre into Mother Chaos'es skull, the result of this was to send lightning dancing across her serpentine form. She screamed in animalistic defiance once more, breathing a massive cloud of flame towards Aerin, but he would have none of it. Aerin screamed something in an odd, unrecognizable language, it was the language of the Storm. Aerin poured all of his strength and life into awakening his old Power.

As the flames from Mother Chaos surrounded Aerin, he grew louder than the deepest Thunders, and more bellowing the highest shrieking winds, A massive, blue swirling vortex of Wind and Thunder bellowed through Aerin's mouth and eyes as they easily overcame the Serpent Queen's flames, and vaporized her, first disintegrating her eyes, then her tongue, scales, and finally, the rest of her.

Aerin fell, dying, three Wildermen came to his aid, and it seemed that Aerin was lost, but he had felt as if his sacrifice to save the Arceneauns and Wildermen was worth more than mere living on the Great Disc. As he laid there, Aerin felt a spark of Thunder revitalize his acid eaten, and life drained body. The Thunder roared, and it was only because of it's newly divine nature that Aerin's Wildermen were spared death.

Aerin opened his eyes, and saw for the first time with renewed senses.
His sacrifice had awakened the spark of Baz'Auran in his body and spirit.

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfCV1bVOiGc&list=LLOrwLWeEmlBon3dgg6C0G6g&index=41&feature=plpp_video)

[hi-mi-tsu]

Avyra, The Fall

One moment, she had been enjoying dinner with her siblings, listening to her father talk.

The next moment, chaos--and not the fun kind, that Jongo brought. Cracks rending in the walls of the White City, their father standing as a glowing beacon between them and a darkness that stared into her soul and seemed to want to swallow her whole...she remembered very little, except being grabbed up. Faden, she'd cried, Loss! But the words never reached her ears, above the sound of the wind whistling past them, and the pained whimpers of the spirit that clutched her close.

It was decomposing. Ethereal feathers shredded and disappeared, and the spirit's grip grew weaker; gripped with a nameless terror, Avyra clung to a creature growing less solid with every passing moment. In the instant she fell out of its arms, she screamed.

The star was so red

It was a long way down.

She awoke to the sounds of water, lapping gently against the shore; it was strange, she thought, that her clothes weren't wet. Perhaps she had been unconscious for longer than she'd thought...and she hadn't thought the world would be so dim. Home had always been so vibrant, and the lessons she'd learned from watching the Disk had showed it to be a place that was wild, untamed, full of color and sound.

This place was...not that. It was dusty, muted; any noise came to her as though from afar, as if she were still underwater. She pushed herself to her feet, and glanced around; it seemed that she had found herself in a cove, of sorts, though there were no people immediately apparent. Picking a direction, she began to walk.

How strange, came the thought, a while later. I don't seem to leave footprints. I wonder why that is?

[Nefarion Xid]

???

"Drink this," commanded the voice for the second time.

Lossethir's first memory of life after the fall was the pooling of blood, fire and bitterness in his mouth. The instant the vile liquid touched the back of his throat, he lurched forward and his eyes shot open as if awakened from death. To be sure he was very nearly dead, likely dead enough for the distinction to be moot if not for the "medicine".

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted! What is it?" he asked, searching through the dark reddish blur that was his vision. A curious question considering his situation, but one must consider if it's better to know first where you are or what's been force down your throat?

"Frostwyrm blood and vodka. Mostly vodka."

"It's liquor?" asked Lossethir, immediately straightening under his own power to sit up properly. Even if the word meant nothing to him, the familiar sting assured him what it was. "Why the blood?"

"You mean 'why the vodka?' Frostwyrm blood is even harder to swallow."

Lossethir nodded absently, consenting that the blood must be truly awful to mask its taste with something so potent. Though his heart was pumping again and he could feel the warmth spreading through his body, he still couldn't see. "Will my vision return?"

The voice only laughed and assured him, "When your eyeballs thaw!"

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon drifted in a haze of pain and strange visions. Sometimes he relived the Fall, each time the dream focusing on some new horror. Other times he felt blind, casting about in the darkness, recoiling at the terrible vile things he touched. He even awoke a few times, but was unable to distinguish reality from the dreams. Time felt suspended as he drifted between realms.



Eventually, Frellon became conscious of the fact that he was awake. His chest still agonized him, but his arm throbbed with considerably less pain. He had to struggle to open his eyes. He was still in that same spot, leaned against the tree, his dried blood still stained the grass. His earlier meal was gone, as was the creature that had attacked him. A few feet in front of him, a campfire burned low, throwing light about him. He spied a figure with his back to the fire, facing him. A harsh sound came from it, but Frellon’s mind was too scattered to recognize it as words. A few other figures appeared from the forest. Frellon could not see their faces. One raised a waterskin to Frellon’s lips, so he drank. Another fed him scraps of some meat Frellon’s hazy mind recognized as tasting like the creature had. Frellon remained awake for about a minute more and descended back into his dreams.



This scene repeated itself over and over. To Frellon, It seemed that he was reliving the same 5 minutes in slow motion. Eventually though, He began to recover. One night he summoned the strength to adjust his position, and get a better look around. He was finally able to look down, and saw that his chest looked mummified with bandages. Sickened, he raised his head to see a face across the fire. It was the first time he saw clearly the faces of his rescuers. Braided black hair framed a squashed face. Large tusk-like teeth protruded from his jaw, and he had green skin. Frellon opened his mouth to ask a question, What are you, monster? And coughed, violently. Another green monster came and forced him to eat some really bad smelling herbs. The herbs apparently induced sleep because Frellon drifted off again, noting with fading interest that the one scowling at him across the fire wore a sword at his belt.



Frellon awoke with energy. He was not whole, but he wanted to move, to get off of his butt and move around. A green skinned thing was present, and helped him up when he tried to stand. Frellon’s mind was finally with him, and he realized that this monster was speaking in a language. A tiny part of him echoed back the meaning of the green-man’s words, though Frellon was unsure exactly how.

“Hey, Cherok, the Voturi can stand now!”

From behind some trees another green-man appeared, carrying rope. Frellon tried to back away, but was held in place, as his hands were bound behind his back, and the rope tied around his waist. Frellon glared at him. But he snarled back.

“Don’t try running. It would not be wise.”

“It can’t understand you Cherok, since when were Voturi intelligent?”

“This one’s barely a Voturi, he’s much too big, has no claws, and has ears like ours.”

Frellon glanced at the green-men, noting with further interest that they indeed had pointed ears, like him. Now that he was standing next to them, he also realized they were a good foot taller than him, and heavily muscled. Even so, the knot that held him was proof enough that they were not big, dumb, brutes: it was a good knot, and he could not escape it in his weakened state.

“Even if that’s not enough, we saw him use a sword. It’s intelligent, it’s dangerous-”

“So why haven’t we killed it yet?!”

A newcomer that Frellon immediately disliked strode into view. Like the others, he wore clothing made from fur, but Frellon now realized that it was hardened, stiffened fur, it could double as armor and winter gear.

“If it’s so dangerous-“

“That is MY call, Gurnod! You forget your place. Go tell the rest to pack up, we are leaving.”

Frellon weighed his options. He certainly couldn’t survive on his own, could he? These were obviously people, green-skin be damned. But they seemed rather hostile. He was too weak to fight, but didn’t necessarily want to kill them anyway, except possibly Gurnod. Still, if he ran for it- wait. Leaving?
Frellon was suddenly yanked forward by the rope.

“Walk Voturi.”

"But you just said he wasn’t a-“

“SILENCE!” Cherok roared, but the rest of the green-men were laughing, deep and gutteral sounds of mirth, and Frellon had to restrain himself to keep from showing humor as well. Frellon plodded on silently behind the green-men. If intelligence made him dangerous, and a threat, he resolved to appear harmless, and stupid. He kept his expression impassive and his behavior dull as they covered the miles of winding forest.



That night, when they made camp, he was fed more meat, water, and some more herbs, these were sweet and bitter all at once. He nearly gagged, but ate them anyway. He slept, tied to a tree to prevent his escape, his feet, as well as his arm and chest wounds, aching from his exertions that day.

[shorewood]

Haramhold left the Balarions and the Aalarions behind him, traveling as swiftly as his feet could take him. As he traveled Haramhold was able for the first time since the fall, to contemplate what had happened. Something had frightened his father, something was a threat to Baz'Auran. Such an entity would have been unimaginable to Haramhold if he had not seen it with his very eyes. Not only that but his divine spark seemed to be diminished somehow. During last night's battle Haramhold had tried to reach for his power to bend earth and stone to his will as he had in the white city. If he could not kill the trolls then he would raise a tall wall to protect the humans. But as he reached for his inner light he found it lacking and not a stone had stirrd. It was then that Haramhold had given himself over to fear and had fled with the rest of the mob. That act had shamed him, A child of Baz'Auran should have stood his ground and faced his foes bravely. Haramhold vowed never to allow cowardice to overtake him again. And only time would tell if that vow proved true.

The godling walked for two days under the thick forest, the sunlight penetrating only in scattered beams. On the third day he came across a wide and deep lake. The Rainbow lake Syth had called it, named after the fish that swam in the waters. She had said it would take no less than four days to circumvent it. Looking around him Haramhold had a better idea.

Finding a crescent shaped pair of rocks Haramhold begins to sharpen one against the other. His strong strokes and skill soon bringing it to a fine edge. Taking off the heavy leather apron he had worn to the feast he begins to cut it into long strips with his new blade. Once he had cut it all up the godling found himself a sturdy stick as long as his forearm and lashed the stone to it. Now he had an axe. With his new tool Haramhold began to chop down some of the smaller tree's near the shore dragging them to the beach. He also found some larger logs from a downed tree and cut them up into manageable sizes. Once Haramhold had gathered a nice pile of timber he began to lash them together, and as the sun set he looked down proudly at his new raft.

Haramhold pushed the raft out into the lake at the first light of dawn, paddling strong and steadily all day the hot sun beating down on his head.
Thankfully the Lake's water was clear and refreshing and indeed it was full of playful trout who's scales shimmered like the rainbow in the sunlight. By nightfall Haramhold had reached the other side of the lake tired but satisfied, he has shaved two days off his trip. As he was concealing his raft in some nearby shrubbery the godling heard the howling of wolves in the distance, a sound that sent shivers up his spine. That night he slept in a tree.

He started out again at first light, making his way across the rolling woods but around mid day he stopped at the edge of a river, it was a shallow thing, but wide, its waters sluggish and muddy. On the other side lay the bog, reeking of rot and blight. Covering his nose with a sleeve Haramhold plows through the river, quickly sinking up to his knees in the muck. the going was a slow the air heavy and damp. It wasn't long before the godling was lost, the heavy mist blotting out the sun.

Suddenly their was a stirring in the water and large reptilian humanoids, their scales stained black with the muck weeds dripping with brackish water hanging off their limbs. Brandishing his spear Haramhold knew that he couldn't fight them, not surrounded as he was. But oddly enough they did not attack. Holding his ground Haramhold waited, the seconds turning into minutes as the reptilians did not stir a muscle. Finally he noticed something, their eye's were clouded over and dead.

Finally a sicking laugh from the trees echoed from the trees and Haramhold heard the pitter patter of a thousand insectoid limbs scraping against bark. From behind a huge gnarled tree a centipede, five meters long. The creature laughed again, its mandibles scrubbing together as might a miserly man contemplate his gold. A few of its legs holding a small human girl no older than eight wrapped in what appeared to be spider silk. Sobs of sadness escaping her half encased face.

"And what do we have here?" the creature said in its sickening voice "A child of Baz'Auran, one of the divine. It is my lucky day oh how I will feast tonight."

"How do you know what I am?" inquired Haramhold, in a low cautious voice.

"You reek of the white city it was such a clean place pity about what happened to it"

Tightening his grip on his spear, Haramhold ignores the obvious jape "I seek the demon known as Ko, If you tell me where I might find him, I'll leave you and your minions in peace."

the centipede rippled with laughter skittering around the tree "And you'll leave us in peace?!? Oh I will never again claim Baz'Auran's kin are devoid of all mirth. I am going to strip the flesh off your bones young godling, then I'll decorate my swamp with your remains as a warning and a token of my power."

"And what would that accomplish?" Haramhold wondered aloud. "The mortals already fear you, your peers wouldn't believe you, but my kin would. Do you really want to see the day when they decide to avenge my murder Ko?"

The abomination was unsettled for a moment but only a moment "It would seem that you have me at a disadvantage, perhaps you would tell me how you know who I am?" Its voice dripping with venom.

"You are known as Ko the soul stealer and it was your puppets that gave you away." said Haramhold as he motioned toward the reptilians. "I have come for knowledge about how to defeat the trolls and their shadowy masters."

Twining and twisting around the tree Ko responded "That is a great secret you ask of me. For countless years the shadows have traveled across the lands, terrorizing anything weaker than themselves and their minions. Such knowledge does not come without a price young god a very heavy price indeed."

"Name it" Haramhold responded without hesitation.

"I am a monster, a creature of chaos but I am not a fool. I know that one day Baz'Auran's bastards will sweep the disc clean of my kind. But not me I will survive. I SHALL NOT DIE!!" Ko screamed with an unnatural ferocity both fear and determination mixed with its voice. "I want this swamp until time itself dies, and you are going to give it to me little god, you are going to give it to me. I want your protection your sacred word that neither you or your kin shall ever harm me or mine. That this swamp shall ever be a stain upon the land, a shame upon which the high and mighty Baz'Auran must always look upon. That is what I want little godling are you willing to give it to me?"

Haramhold was stunned, this was an offer that was so easy to give and yet could have consequences beyond his imagination. Was it worth the risk? Who knew what manner of evils Ko could nurture in this swamp. But as he remembered the twelve graves and the grief of their loved ones Haramhold knew that it was worth the risk ten times over. "You have a deal Ko no harm shall come to you from me or my siblings, this swamp shall be your sanctuary it shall know no master besides you from this day forth. To this I swear on my honor and on my life."

"Pretty words godling, pretty words I accept. The trolls can only be truly harmed by iron it burns their flesh as fire burns the forest. Their master's are another matter, beings of shadow and mist cannot be destroyed by any weapon of earth or stone or metal. They can only be destroyed by a will stronger than their own. Now leave us little godling." Ko said, dismissing Haramhold.

"There is one last thing I would like to ask of you." Said Haramhold as Ko was about to descend into the brackish water. "That girl you have there give her to me."

"That was not part of our agreement." hissed the demon Curling back in anger "You would not deny me my supper would you?"

Staring Ko straight in his mandibles Haramhold whispered "Of course not" and with one smooth motion Haramhold yanks his axe out of his belt and slashes his wrist open, allowing the blood to pour freely. "How about a trade, a taste of gods blood for that girl."

Saliva dripped from Ko's maw, as it slithered closer, "You have a deal."

Taking the last of the leather strips Haramhold soaks it in his blood before tossing it to Ko. Who in turn dropped the girl into the muck where Haramhold had to stop her from sinking. Leaving as quickly as he could the godling made his way out of the swamp and back into the hills.

Once he was clear Haramhold took his axe and cut the webbing away from the girl whom looked up at her savior and began crying. Weeping she embraced him her small slender arms not even able to encircle his massive chest. Placing a large hand on the girl's head he whispers "You are safe now, safe."

[AntiMatter101]

Traveling was not easy on Frellon’s injuries, yet he bore it all the same. Gritting his teeth when it became a distraction and forging ahead. Through patience, and careful listening, he finally heard the green-people’s name for themselves.

Cherok was speculating on the health of their chieftain at the time.

“He is getting too old, it is well known he can no longer hunt, and I’ve heard it said that he is growing blind as well. Soon he will have to grant the position to another, that old Orc has earned his rest twice over by now.”

Frellon frowned to himself. He had never heard the name before. Bits of conversation overheard as the days past confirmed the name. With little else to do, Frellon slowly learned the names of his captors, as well as a couple phrases of their language.

Days past, the monotony broken only by meals and a couple organized hunts. It seemed that the Orcs had killed the beast that had savaged him, and butchered it for its meat. He learned their name for the creature name as well, it was a “Girrun”and from their conversations, apparently the mother of the one he had killed. Frellon felt nothing for the animal. He had been starving, and it had attacked him. Here in the wilderness, that was all that mattered.

As they marched, a week or two later, they emerged into a clearing, a small village of huts was there. Groups of Orcs came out to meet them cheering as they took their packs, and carried them off to storage. It seemed this group was a hunting party, and they had been collecting furs and meat for the village. Frellon looked on, his legs aching, trying to appear unimportant, but was noticed anyway, his pale skin standing out. Realizing scrutiny was unavoidable, he met their gazes, his cat-eyes unflinching, head raised proudly.

Cherok yanked on the rope, He and Frellon continued past the crowd.

“Ignore the Voturi, it’s something I’ve got for the Chieftain”

At this many turned away, their curiosity put aside for the immediate task of the meats and hides to deal with. Others gazes remained, their hostility a mystery to Frellon. Frellon was taken through the village, past many huts that had people in them. Some seemed to be homes, others were for storage, or served some other purpose, like curing hides. Frellon did not have a long time to look, he was guided quickly to the largest hut, the only one with ornate wooden carvings on the supports.

There were guards, each wielding heavy clubs, Frellon wondered at that, was Cherok the only one with a sword? The question went unasked and unanswered, as Cherok spoke briefly with the guards, and all of them, the guards included, went inside.

“You have a visitor Chieftain,” one of the guards proclaimed, “Cherok is back from his hunt.”

A very old Orc steped forwards, into the light of some torches, leaning heavily on a carved staff.

“I welcome you back, Cherok.”

“I return with honor, Chieftain.”

“I take it that this is the result of your other mission?”

“Yes, we found this Voturi three weeks march from the village. When we first observed it, it killed a Girrun we were hunting with a sword. The next day, the mother appeared and almost killed the Voturi. The Voturi did not run, and does not seem to have claws, nor poison. Whether or not it is actually a Voturi is not sure, it does not behave like the Voturi we know. In fact, I am convinced this Voturi is intelligent.” Cherok finished his report and waited.

The old Orc, gazed at Frellon, taking in his cat-eyes, pale skin, and pointed ears. Frellon’s heart beat quickly, he would have bet anything his life was on the table here. He considered running, but he had seen these Orcs move; they might be faster than him. He might be able to break his bonds, he had recovered most of his strength. He considered speaking, trying to convince them he meant no harm. He decided instead to wait and watch, besides, perhaps these people would decide to let him live, or let him go.

“My eyes are not what they used to be. I want Lograr’s opinion. Keep it in the holding pit until Lograr returns from his Guard patrol tomorrow. I must meditate on this.”

Cherok nodded, “As you wish, Chieftain.”

Pulling on the rope, he lead Frellon out of the hut. As Frellon gazed around the clearing, he realized that he was looking over the tops of the trees, to the south, he could see miles of forest, to the north… He turned and almost gasped, they were a quarter of the way up a mountainside! He suddenly how much his legs had hurt the last few days, they had been going up a mountain! How could he have missed that! How-

Frellon’s thought was cut off as he was led inside a small, dry cave, cutting off his view. To his surprise, his bonds were removed. Then he was shoved, and he fell into a pit.

Looking up, he saw the smooth sides of the pit were made of a very slick rock. There was no climbing it.

He was tossed food and drink some hours later. He slept, he awoke again, ate and drank again. He stripped away the bandages on his arm. It was whole again, ravaged as it had been, his recovery time was really quite quick. His chest was another matter, he dared not remove the bandages, for he did not wish to see the wounds. At times, it had felt like the bandages were all that kept his innards from spilling forth onto the ground as he marched. Even now it throbbed painfully. By now, he had mastered the Orcish phrase for “lucky to be alive” He had heard it often enough.



A few meals later, Cherok appeared at the top of the pit again. Just looking at him, as he had that one night from across the fire. He spoke.

“Voturi. If you can understand me, know this. The Orcs of this Village do not take kindly to your kind, if indeed you are a Voturi. You will be tested, a verdict reached. If you are the one responsible for our troubles, you will die. If not, you will be set free. If you try to flee you will be cut down without question. Face your fate with honor, and you might yet live.”

He was silent a few moments, staring at Frellon. Inwardly, Frellon was privately glad that his siblings had taught him this ‘poker face’ it might be saving his life here.

Cherok tossed a rope ladder down to him, and Frellon climbed it. There were no rope bindings. Cherok walked out of the cave, and Frellon followed. Upon exiting the cave, he was temporarily blinded by the light. When he could see, he found he was surrounded by a large circle of Orcs. The whole village was there. Three individuals stood inside the circle, across from Frellon. The Chieftain in the center, Cherok taking his place to the Chieftains left, and an Orc, large and muscular by ORC standards, to his right, wielding what appeared to be a small tree as a staff weapon. Frellon’s eye cocked as he looked at him. Contragh would have wanted a duel with this one! He decided.

Frellon’s attention returned to the Chieftain, for it seemed that this, whatever this was, was about to begin.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Ascension Part 1 or 5


A Land of Light and Lonely
Dasque awoke, and her eyes flooded with white, blinding brilliance. She closed them tight, but the light seeped through. She moaned and muttered a soft curse, rolling onto her belly. Scrunching up like an inch worm, she moved her knees forward, causing her hips to rise. Her elbows pushed into the ice cold ground, and shoved her torso up so that she was in a kneeling position. Still dizzy, the daughter of Baz’Auran a few moments for her surroundings to become clear.

She looked behind her, then to either side. A cold chill crept up her spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the biting wind. Dasque was alone, and for endless leagues all around was ice, shining bright under a white sun. It was said that white was the light where all colors came together. Yet this place was so very, very alone.

Dasque put a cupped hand over her brow and looked up towards the sun. It blinded her, and for a moment she lost all her senses, but she kept her eyes lingering a bit longer, as if to challenge it, or maybe because she was too tired to turn away quickly. When her eyes blinked away the brightness, she was once again faced with a shimmering sea of ice. The bottom of her feet were cold, and the top of her scalp was beginning to feel the rays beating on it. It was a cruel place indeed, this Disc.

Spinning around once more, it seemed as if the ice ended at horizon, though there was one spot, one single spot where the blue met the white that seemed hazier than the rest. Her eyes might have been playing tricks on her, but looking more intently something was different. It was almost as if it called to her. At least that’s what she wanted to believe. Doubt ate into. This was not the White City where she could summon a spirit to do her chores, where she could eat whatever she desired, and could learn and grow at her discretion. This land was just the elements, and her. She was not special in this new world, and she could not depend on her gut. However, there was nothing else for her, no other sign, no other way. She took a step forward.

Shirvan.

Was he dead? Was he hurt? The disc was large, so large that one could wander a mortal lifetime and but see a small fraction of it. She did not know whether to mourn for him or not. Maybe they would see another someday, maybe they’d both wander this disc never finding each other. Maybe he was already dead, maybe she would be soon.

The others, what had befallen the others? Twenty-one in number they were, yet how many had avoided the Shadow? It was possible that all of them had made it, but even so there were monsters and natural disasters and even the mortals themselves who threatened them. There were some who were weak with sword and bow, but at least they were cautious. Dasque hoped they were lucky too. No, the ones she was concerned for were the fighters, the warriors amongst them. Her arms felt weak, and her body rigid, and not only because of the impact of her landing. She was not as blessed as she had been within the White City. Perhaps she was mortal. She ran her hand through her hair, feeling dried blood. Yes, she most likely was mortal now.

As her feet took a step, and then another, and then another, she could only wonder where the others were, what fate had befallen them. She tried to think the best, but this frozen wonderland stripped her of her optimism. She glanced towards the sun again, though she did not look directly at it this time. Something about the sun’s position did not seem right. It was… off. She did not know the movements of the skies outside the White City, but how far in the distance it seemed foreboding. Dasque could only hope that hear fear was unfounded, and that the sun would go down, and this land would have a night. It might very well mean death from the cold, but more than anything she wanted the lights to turn off.

[Gengy]

Part 1 - After the Fall (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12743134&postcount=159)


"Within the ocean, there is a stretch of water that is more calm than any other. But don't let it fool you; the Sea of Jongo is full of surprises."
~ A Dissertation on Clouds

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jongo's Sea (http://grooveshark.com/s/Sad+And+Luckless+Was+The+Season+WoO+153+6/3OKHTl?src=5)

Jongo had begun to think of this little bit of ocean as his. She'd swam back and forth along it multiple times, and found the islands to the east, the large entrancing mountains to the west, the plains of another continent to the south, and two more land masses to the north.

And yet, for weeks - or was it months? - Jongo remained mostly in the water. When he became hungry, she would leave for shore and eat seaweed, or find fish or fruit. It all tasted like the apple. Or rather, the apple still overpowered their taste.

This was starting to annoy Jongo. Only the whispering was more annoying.

Oh, the apple was tasty, true.

But who wants to taste the same thing, over and over again? Especially when it causes you to almost cry?

That wasn't fair.

That wasn't fair AT ALL.

Mostly, though, Jongo was sad and lonely. The whispering never said anything worth talking about, and it never said anything cheerful.

But Eldest godlings don't cry. So Jongo held back the tears.

From watching Father upon His great dais, Jongo knew quite a bit about the peoples spread throughout the Great Disk. Jongo even knew about some of the creatures created - originally - from Father's nightmares. Father had taken a few, and to Jongo's great delight, changed them to be slightly different, and more pleasing to Baz'Auran.

So it was with great delight that Jongo finally found the Mermaid. With a complete green finned tail, twice as large as the rest of the upper human body, the Mermaid was an amalgamation of both fish and human, much like Jongo currently was; but Jongo was like this in desperation, and the Mermaid was like this from Baz'Auran's blessing.

The godling heard her sing first. In the water, sound carried easily, if you could hear it right. Jongo seemed to remember one of his siblings saying something like that. Probably Fayruz, or Soreal.

And to hear the mermaid sing, one could easily believe why Baz'Auran made it so.

Jongo approached the Mermaid with caution; though she was more fish then the godling, she was also more predator. But she was the first thing besides a full on fishy fishy fish that Jongo might be able to speak with.

So that is why Jongo approached so slowly, from the front, so the Mermaid could see each of Jongo's pitiful strokes.

Moving twice as fast as Jongo could even think, the godling soon found herself surrounded by the Mermaid's tail.

"Child, what are you?" The Mermaid spoke, and a part of Jongo realized it wasn't really speech, not underwater; but the godling didn't care.

Jongo had a question. And someone to ask! The whispering never answered Jongo's question.

"I am Jongo. You sing pretty. What's your name? Where are we? Are there more mermaids like you near here? Why is your hair green?"

Ok. Jongo had A LOT of questions. Assaulted by the godling's curiosity, the Mermaid looked amused.

"My name is Merilain. We're here. No, sadly, not near here, and my hair has always been green. But you are right. I am a mermaid. And you are a jongo? Are there more jongos like you? What is your name?"

"No, no, no. I AM Jongo. That's my name. There shouldn't be more then one Jongo. Oh, but it would be fun to walk up to Khalen as more than one Jongo. He'd go completely moose-eyed! But no, no, only the one Jongo. Or... at least, Father never made more than one that I know of."

"Father?"

"Baz'Auran."

Jongo looked up, and saw that Merilain had swum away, quite quickly. The Mermaid seemed to react in fear of the name, and was ducking into a cave on the ocean floor nearby.

"Wait! I have more questions!"

"Please, oh Blessed One, leave me be. I do not wish to die." The Mermaid's voice came from within the cave, as Jongo swam closer.

"Die? I'm not Avyra. Avyra is scary."

"But it was the sky that burned and slew my family. Fires fell from it, and even the moon bled red. And now you are here to finish me."

Jongo was stunned. To think that... It wasn't the... How could...

"That. Wasn't. Father."

Merilain's face came out from the cave, and she almost ran into Jongo, who had just reached the cave entrance.

"How do I know?"

"Because I said so. And I'm not my sister Rose. But even she, with all her fun words, wouldn't lie about this. And if she would, that would make me sad." Jongo looked at Merilain with his grey and green eyes, and continued. "Father wouldn't do this to your family. I watched Him make things. He loved everything He made. Even mermaids. Father wouldn't do this."

Jongo, though underwater, finally let go, and Baz'Auran's Eldest began to cry. "He wouldn't!"

The godling found arms wrap around him, as the Mermaid hugged him. She tried to console him, "Shhhh, shhhh, shhh... As you say, Blessed One. Please, do not cry."

After a while, Merilain spoke again. "Great Jongo, why are you here then, if not to kill me?"

"I don't know, Merilain. I keep... I keep hoping someone will come find me. Come get me. When the moon bled red, Father's children - me and my siblings - fell down to the Great Disk. Every time I got lost in the White City, right after I was born, if I stayed in one place long enough, someone would find me. So, though I've wanted to go exploring, I've stayed here. I was hoping someone would find me. Faden, or Rose, or even stuck up Shirvan. But it's been weeks. They aren't coming, are they?"

"You are just a child, then?"

"I am as old as the First Question, but my birth happened later. Only once Father knew everything, was he no longer curious. Only then, could I come out." Even Jongo couldn't stand being called a child.

"Forgive me, Blessed One. I did not mean to offend."

"No, Merilain. You didn't. I just... I'm acting like a child. And the form I'm in doesn't help. I've... I've been stuck. And I can't change. And the whispering is SO ANNOYING." Jongo heard a full blast of the strange sounds, like voices, but saying nothing. "How do you stand it, Merilain?"

"Whispering, oh Jongo? I hear none."

"What? But it's coming from everywhere. It gets louder the closer I get to the... No. No. Wait. Of course! Ha! Ha! Hahahahaha!" Jongo began to laugh in delight, and swam out of Merilain's arms. "Merilain! I know what to do! I know what to do!"

"I do not understand, Blessed One. What are you hearing? It gets louder when...? What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to fix everything! I'll just change it! It's not whispering I'm hearing! It's the voice of change! Quick! What's the fastest way to the edge of the Disk?" Jongo could no longer stand still. She was full of ideas once again. It was perfect. It could work! And Jongo would be the one to do it, and everyone would be surprised. Khalen would spit kittens!

"The edge, oh Jongo? You mean... where... where the water falls away? No one goes there, it's dangerous. The currents could suck you away."

"Yes! There! How do I get there?"

Merilain looked concerned, but only said, "You are the Blessed One..."

Swimming from her cave, Merilain sat atop a nearby rock, and began to sing again. It was beautiful, more beautiful than before. Jongo could feel that she was calling for someone.

It almost distracted Jongo from his idea. Almost. But this was too good of an idea. It could work. It should work. It would work!

Merilain's call soon brought three grey skinned creatures, with long stubby noses, and chattering speech. They playfully swam through the water, and circled around the Mermaid.

"Dolphins!" Jongo exclaimed, unable to contain himself.

"They are my friends. They will help guide you to the edge. Be careful, oh Blessed One."


Part 3 - Playtime (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12754804&postcount=192)

[Tychris1]

The Fall

During the entire feast Contragh had merely sat by himself, dressed in the same gear he had worn from the Steel Cathedral, eating the food present, and avoiding interfering with what happened around him. Nothing could go wrong today, and Contragh's bumbling skill for speech would only ruin things further.

As the dark blob began to attack Baz'Auran Contragh lifted his axe that never left his side, and screeched at the top of his lungs "FATHER! COME AT ME YOU DISGUSTING ABOMINATION!" but it was in vain, as Romero the spirit of haste lifted Contragh and flew him away. Watching the destruction of the White city unfold before his eyes he grew all the more furious, kicking, screaming, swinging his axe, and doing all he could to free himself and help. Eventually it became too much to bear and Romero released Contragh 20 feet from the ground. Exhausted from Contragh's heavy weight combined with his equipment and his struggling; the spirit of haste could not escape its fate and melted into nothingness.

But Contragh cared not, all that mattered was that Baz'Auran was being hurt and Contragh could not help. He screamed at the top of his lungs, stomping his feet against the ground, and throwing a loud clunky tantrum. The sight of the White City turning blood red only added fuel to the flames, and with that he dropped his axe, took off his gauntlets and began to pound his fists into the nearest boulder possible. He continued on for the whole night, his rage pummeling the rock into submission. Eventually as the sun came up the anger had simmered down, Contragh's bloodied knuckles stopping there onslaught, and the godling soon passed out from the pain.

Contragh, the Mighty Mighty Man (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0cZs-X0bb0)

As Contragh woke up he found himself tied up and inside of a wooden cage inside of some kind of holding pin building, several other cages lined up next to his, but they were all empty. He tries to open his mouth but finds it covered with a leather strip and his hands covered in primitive clothe wrappings. A savage looking man standing guard, a crazy look in his eye, and Contragh's axe lying not too far away from the guard. After enough time another savage dressed in fur armor walked up and whispered something into the guards ear. With a sneer the guard says "Looks like it's your time." Opening the cage the guard reaches in and tries to grab a hold of Contragh, but was met with surprising resistance. Most other captives are submissive upon being handled but Contragh was too much for the man to handle, even in his handicapped state, and soon the guard called out for help. Four more men came to his aid and held Contragh in place. They hoisted him up and carried him out of the building, along the way Contragh began to hear clatter and the noises of a large amount of people; an audience.

Finally out of the building they carried Contragh to a large hole in the ground, two men inside of the hole feebly fighting each other with wooden spears. Surrounding the pit was a kind of primitive circular booth, with about 100 people crammed together screaming and hollering as the fight carried on. Most of them were savages much like the guards, with one in particular situated upon a wooden throne, held higher than the booths, and situated at the end of the circle. The man resting on the throne had lavish furs decorated on him, wielded a crude metal warhammer, and was well built. But there was something... off about him, Contragh could just sense it. Finally one of the fighters killed the other and was retrieved from the pit. In quick succesion the guards removed Contragh's bindings, gag, and shoved him into the pit alongside a wooden spear. Another man on the other side of the pit is also shoved in with a spear by his side. He was thin and frail, malnourished and not quite grasping the concept of what a spear does. The man on the podium raises his warhammer, calls for silence from the raucous crowd, and is granted it instantaneously. Standing up he bellows "I, war chief Grashk, officially sanction this fight. Let the slaughter, BEGIN!" And with that the crowd returns to its loud and obnoxious state of life.

The feeble man, now surprised by the sudden reaction of the crowd, charges forward at Contragh with the spear. Smirking at the mortal Contragh picks up the spear and sidesteps, avoiding the man's charge. Annoyed the man tried again, the audience hollering and yelling for blood. Yet again Contragh sidestepped, except this time he gripped the mortals neck with his hand. Chocking him, Contragh lifted the mortal up and stared into his fearful eyes before choke slamming him into the ground. There the man layed, broken and defeated, and there he perished from the massive hemorrhaging blow.

The crowd went into a frenzy, they had found a real fighter, and wanted him to spill more blood. With a nod of his head, Grashk ordered two wood cages to be brought forward. Inside of each of them was one giant hyena like monster, big enough to rival a man in size, and with a ferocious slobering maw. The savages opened up the crate and poured the contents into the pit. The beasts were startled and crazed, foam pouring from their mouth as they snapped their teeth and ran towards Contragh. Picking up one of the discarded spears Contragh threw it at the beast to the left, burrowing itself into the beasts eye and brain. The other ran furiously, ignoring the gruesome sight and leaping towards Contragh.

He took a step to the left and grabbed ahold of the beasts jaws, preventing them from closing. The beast continued to try to hurt Contragh with it's claws but Contragh replied with punching it in the head repeatedly until it keeled over and whimpered. With the beasts disposed of Grashk looked down upon Contragh with a look of confusion "It seems we have a real fighter amongst the slaves. Tell me warrior, who are you?" Grashk said. With a smirk Contragh looked up and said "I am Contragh, son of Baz'Auran and the harbringer of his Wrath. The better question is, who are you, and where am I?" With that said the crowd fell silent and Grashk furrowed his brow, contemplating what to say. Finally he spoke up "Fine then little godling, I am Grashk one of the warchiefs blessed by Pikep, chaos beast of the forest. You are in my arena where you will remain indefinetely. Know that you have earned this knowledge and nothing more. Guards, take him away!" and with that several barbarians descended upon Contragh and dragged him back to his cage.

For weeks Contragh would continue to fight, each time trying to escape but ending futiley. Soon there were few opponets that could stand up to Contragh, garnering the name "The Mighty Mighty Man" from The crowd. Eventually the barbarians themselves would challenge Contragh to fights, none survived. One day, after slaying a club wielding Barbarian, Contragh pointed his spear to Grashk and said "I grow tired of this arena. If you are truly such a blessed warchief then I challenge you to a duel to the death for my freedom." The crowd grew silent, the only sound piercing the silence was a bellowing deep laugh from Grashk "Surely you kid? You may be a godling but I have been made into something far more then a Godling. Pikep has imbued within me his power, to fight me is suicide." yet Contragh simply said "Bring me my axe and I'll make sure not to pound that little mug of yours to a bloody pulp." This sent Grashk into a fury, barking at his barbarians to give him the axe before descending upon Contragh.

Axe in hand Contragh looked upon Grashk and returned the charge with an equal charge. The two forces clashed together, Contraghs strength matched pound per pound by Grashk. Their weapons clashed, Contragh ducked low to swing at Grashk's feet, but the warchief leaped to the side and kicked his foot at Contragh's head. He swiped the foot away with his right hand and grabbed a hold of the leg, throwing Grashk to the ground and following up with a rapid assault from his axe. Grashk frantically blocked with his warhammer, using the shaft to deflect the axe as best as he could. Eventually Contragh reeled the axe up and slammed it as hard as he could upon the warhammer, sundering it in twine and leaving a large cut along Grashk's chest. Looking upon his prized weapon Grashk flew into a rage, pressing his feet against Contragh's chest and sending the godling hurtling back from the kick. Contragh landed flat on his back, but as he tried to get up and recollect his senses he found himself tackled by Grashk and lifted up upon the warchief's shoulder. In one fluid motion Contragh was sent over Grashk's shoulder and back on the ground. Walking forward to the godling Grashk wielded the top half of his warhammer, a mad grin on his face as he prepared to kill Contragh.

"So this is how it ends huh? Guess I was expecting something more... Spectacular..... Unless I take a lesson from Rose....sigh" Contragh thought as the warhammer rised higher and higher. He really didn't want to do this, since it was the only combat manuever Roselia ever taught Contragh by doing the move on him, and he hated it because of her. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures and Contragh raised his boot and slammed it straight into Grashk's jewels. The warchief crumpled, pain wracking his body and falling on the floor. Scampering to his axe Contragh picks it up and says "I'll make sure to send your head to Pikep." a smile across his face as he executed Grashk. With their leader decapitated the crowd stared at Contragh in shock, and then they ran as fast as their feet could carry them. Dispersing in random directions as they tried to escape Contragh's wrath.

"Today is going to be a good day."

[The Succubus]

The Summons

Alone.

The desert stretched in all directions, the sun mercilessly scorching the sand and the forlorn figure crawling on it.

Alone.

Hunger and thirst had robbed him of his strength and soon would rob him of his life as well.

Alone....

Khalen had often spent much of his time away from his siblings while they lived together in the White City but that wasn't true loneliness. If he had wished to, he could have sought out his siblings at any time. Now, in the endless sands, far from the sheltered realm of Baz'Auran, far from his siblings and far from aid, Khalen finally knew what it meant to be alone.

The wind howled across the towering dunes, carrying with it sands that stung his eyes and scoured his flesh. His eyesight began to fade, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision and finally the last of his energy was gone. Khalen ceased to move and his eyes shut for the final time.

The hunger and thirst began to fade as the darkness surrounded him. He felt weightless, yet as though he was gently falling. Was he dead? Was this all that waited after the spirit had left the body? Yet the darkness was soothing and comforting compared to the pains that wracked his body while awake and he continued to sink deeper into the void. After what seemed like an eternity, or could have only been a couple of minutes, Khalen felt himself stop. The floating feeling had ceased and he felt as though he lay on some unseen floor.

From out of the darkness a piercing white light fell on him. Brilliant against the gloom, it shone directly over him but there was no warmth to it, nor could he look directly at it to determine its source.

“The Accused will rise.”

A cold, implacable voice filled the void, seeming at once to come from everywhere and nowhere.

“The Accused will rise,” the voice repeated and a horrific twist of pain shot through Khalen. As he slowly got to his feet, another light shone out of the darkness and a figure slowly stepped out of the shadows and into the centre of it. Khalen felt a chill run through his body as he saw the figure slowly lower its hood. It was an exact duplicate of himself! No....not exact. It wore what looked like a stone circlet, or what might be a crown.

From the left another spotlight shone and another doppelganger stepped forward. This one wore manacles on its wrists and had a chain drapped across its body.

“You will answer for the crime you have commited....”

A third spotlight appeared to Khalen's right and a thired doppelganer approached. This one carried a staff with a lantern on the end of it. The light from it glowed very dimly in the piercing whiteness that surrounded it.

“...for which the sentence is death and oblivion.”

The first doppelganger spoke again.

“Let the trial begin.”

[Raz_Fox]

Dol Mazzah

It was Malak, Firstborn of Tarn's Get, who saw the rider first, as was his custom and skill. He called the guardians of the gate to arms, and so they were ready with spears and slings when the rider urged her horse up to the great gate of Dol Mazzah. The rider threw back her hood and pulled down her mask and named herself Arenis, a huntress of the rocklands and slayer of monsters, guardian of the tribes all, ever a friend to the Aferi of Dol Mazzah in their time of need. Malak asked her who her second was, whether she be daughter or prisoner or slave, and the second pulled her matted, filthy black hair from her face to reveal a vision of loveliness beneath dirt and sweat. Arenis named her, then: Fayruz of the Tribe of the White City, daughter of the mighty chief Baz'Auran, her sworn ward.

Arenis was permitted entry with her weapons, as befitted the guardian of a chieftain's daughter, and Arenis requested that they be given audience with Tarn Beastslayer, who kept the great seat of Dol Mazzah, at once. Malak permitted this, and the guardian's horse was taken to be fed from the granary of Dol Mazzah, which was said to be filled with hunting-meat and berries from wall to wall before the city's fall, and all kept within clay pots that they would not spoil for many moons! So Arenis took Fayruz, who looked around herself with fear and curiosity interwoven, to the hall of the mighty Tarn Beastslayer. Fayruz had not the sense to bow when brought before Tarn's table and fire, so Arenis placed her hand upon the back of Fayruz's neck and forced her to her knees, and she too kneeled before being given permission to rise by Tarn, first and greatest of all chieftains in the rocklands.

Fayruz then stepped forward without invitation, brazenly, and offered her account of how she had lived in the beautiful White City before it was attacked by a foe too dreadful to name, a creature of the darkest night, and how she and her siblings had been scattered to the great winds, and how her power - passed down from her father, a shaman above all shamans - was gone here in the rock and the dust, for it was not her land. And all gathered there in Tarn's hall, women and warriors, listened to her, awestruck by both her beauty and the sweetness of her voice. And Tarn took pity on her, his kindly heart broken by her awful story, and he ordered the women of Dol Mazzah to take Fayruz and wash her, and to give her clothing that was not torn and dirt-stained, but befitted a chieftain's daughter well. And to Arenis, he offered sanctuary for a year and a day, until she was ready to return Fayruz to her father. This Arenis accepted, before asking - as Fayruz, hesitant as a newborn filly, was taken from the room - what news came from other hunters in these days, offering the battle between the Ma-Shen and the Ghoulking in the Valley of Teeth as her own.

Then Arenis and Tarn spoke of the tribes of the rocklands, the Aferi who prospered with their walls of ashen wood and their granary which never fell empty, and the Ma-Shen who had lost a third of their horses to the teeth of the Ghoulking and might fall to the Dereg who had accepted a new falcon god to be their totem and sought to use his favor in war, and of the almighty Tekeza - no, almighty no longer, said Malak Firstborn, who stood there as Tarn's most beloved son. They had awoken a Dragon in the mountains, digging for their copper, and their monster of a chieftain, Daved Skullsplitter, had fallen in its slaying, and so had his son, Gamesha. Now they had fallen to infighting and would devour themselves like a starving snake. But who would take their place? The Ma-Shen were barbarians, that much was evident, brigands who hardly understood hospitality. But the Dereg and the Iuneh were little better, those wild mountain-tribes, and the Kayanek and their heathen gods would never listen to reason, not while they still claimed the glass and the crystal of the sands.

And Malak stepped forward, urging his father - if they made an alliance with the White City, if it still stood, they could take the land of the Tekeza for themselves, and their copper weapons. With copper weapons and their wooden walls in Dol Mazzah, the Aferi could drive the Dereg and the Iuneh back into the mountains - and, perhaps, drive out the Ma-Shen, so that they could do battle once and for all against the Kayanek. Then, then, the land would be whole, and belong to the Aferi alone.

Arenis dissented; she said to him that the land was older than the Kaynek and the Aferi, and even the Tekeza. Neither the Lords of Dol Mazzah or the Coppermen or the Glasswinged People could do anything so presumptuous as mastering it. Malak stepped forward for all to see, and declared that the Aferi could, and by the power given to them by the gods should, take the rocklands and unite them under the rule of the chieftain of Dol Mazzah. As soon as he said such, Tarn himself rose from his seat and chastised his son, reminding him that Dol Mazzah's walls were strong, and would weather whatever storms crossed the rocklands, as they always had. The Ma-Shen could fall, the Kayanek could proclaim themselves lords just as the Tekeza had, but the Aferi would endure. This said, he commanded Malak to see to the walls, to keep watch for the Iuneh or the Ma-Shen, and to keep the spears of the Aferi ready, as well as their swift slings.

Malak, in anger at being banished from his father's hall, did so. He called upon his men-at-arms and commanded them to be ready to sleep on the walls that night to defend Dol Mazzah. As his soldiers readied themselves for their watch, making sure their sling-pouches were filled and their spears' tips were bound tightly, Malak went up onto the watchtower to look out over the grazing-land of the Aferi and their horses. He looked into the setting sun, and saw it obscured by smoke, thick and black and billowing from the east.

The warriors of the Aferi were ready within moments to protect Dol Mazzah, as Malak ordered the gates to be closed and for word to be sent to his father that the Aferi were under assault by one of their enemies. This done, he readied his own spears and ordered that watch be kept for the enemy, so that they would know their enemies' tribe and whether they were a mere warband or the entire tribe come to war. For, were an entire tribe's warriors come to fight them, it would mean that one of their ancient enemies had finally decided to break the walls of Dol Mazzah, or die in the attempt.

[shorewood]

Tearing a sleeve of his shirt Haramhold wrapped his bleeding arm cringing, Haramhold had cut deeper than he had intended but where a mortal might have been seriously wounded, Baz'Auran's children were made of sterner stuff. The small girl had curled into a ball at the foot of a tree. "My name is Haramhold." began the godling whispered gently "What's your name little one?"

sniffing the girl wipes the tears and snot from her face with her soiled dress "My name is Amanda I'm the metal worker's daughter of the village about two miles north of here."

"Then lets not keep your father waiting." and with that Haramhold picked the still weak girl up off the ground barely even noticing her weight. "How where you captured?"

"I was playing near the stream, when... when the lizard people came. I tried to run I really did, but I was too slow." The memory brought tears to her eyes "They took me they tied me up. They dragged me to the swamp, I tried to yell for help I really did, but then they started beating me and and and..."

"That's enough little one" hushed Haramhold "I understand, don't you worry. You will be with your father again soon enough, and with a hot meal in your belly all of this will seem like a bad dream."

This seemed to calm Amanda and before long she was sleeping in his arms. Making his way over hill and stream Haramhold plotted a course due north and soon saw the first outlying huts. But this soon cheerful sight turned to sorrow.

The village was dead, bodies lay scattered across ground. As he silently stepped over the dead Haramhold saw green blood splattered here and there and recognized the wounds on the dead. There was no doubt in his mind the trolls had come here too. Gently waking the girl Haramhold braces himself for her grief, but as she ran from corpse to corpse looking for the face of a friend or loved one he could not keep the tears from his eyes.

Finally Amanda seemed to grow quiet and stopped moving. Hugging one of the corpses she whispers "father, O father not you too."

Walking up to the small human child Haramhold placed a hand on her shoulder. "Here child let us lay them to rest."

And so the pair of them dug the graves in silence, and after all of the villagers had been layed to rest Amanda looked up at Haramhold with steel in her voice "I am going to kill them, I am going to kill whomever did this. I will not rest until they are dead."

Looking down at Amanda, Haramhold saw a new side of her and shared in her desire for vengeance. With Amanda's help Haramhold soon found her father's workshop, a small crude hut that stank of sweat and smoke. But it did have a large flat piece of granite to use as an anvil and a strong but small kiln. Sending the girl out to collect wood and charcoal while he scoured the nearby hills and rocky slopes for the precious ore. It took the two of them three days to find a surface vein and it took Haramhold another day to chip away an sufficient amount amount.

Back at the kiln Haramhold picks up a crude hammer and begins his work. Heat the ore, pound out the impurities, heat the ore pound out the impurities. Over and over again his rhythm never falters never fails. The hours pass and slowly a pile of spear heads and sling bullets and one sword three feet long and as sharper than any blade the disc had seen before.

When dawn peaked over the horizon Haramhold set aside his worn hammer and looked upon his works. They were crude by the standards of the white city but they were sharp and strong. They left for the cave of crystals that very day. Haramhold set a hard pace and the human girl had trouble keeping up as she was still exhausted from working the bellows. And before long Haramhold ended up carrying her too.

By sunset they could see the rainbow lake from the crest of a hill, but they could also hear the howling of the wolves. Looking about Haramhold suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and broke into a dead sprint. But the godling was slow burdened as he was by child and iron. Before he had had crossed half of the distance the the wolves howled again, closer this time.

Haramhold could see the shore when he spotted the first wolf easily loping beside him. Dropping the girl and the iron, he brandished his stone spear, driving off the biting terrors for the moment "RUN!" Haramhold bellowed at Amanda as he slashed at another wolf. The girl picked up the bag sack of iron and sprinted off to where Haramhold had stashed his raft.

And so the minutes crept by as Haramhold desperately holding off the pack of blood thirsty wolves while Amanda dragged the raft to the lake. The despite the pack's best efforts they could not stop the godling and the human child from pushing off from the shore and into safety. Haramhold would have pushed on through the night, but his shaking hands and Amanda's insistence that he needed his rest convinced him otherwise.

The next day when they reached the other side of the lake, Haramhold tore his raft apart taking the leather straps which had bound the logs together and put them to a better use. As they walked toward the crystal cave, Haramhold would stop and chop down a subtle ash tree as they came across them. Lashing the spearheads to them as he walked.

The days dragged on the sun rose and fell in the sky four times before they came across the great cavern. Its entrance was crowded with refugees from more than half a dozen villages and they were under attack. There were ten trolls steadily advancing. Over a hundred brave warriors stood against them wielding spears of bone and stone with the occasional bronze sword. Again and again the humans threw down the trolls, dealing wounds that by all rights should have killed them a dozen times over. But for every one that fell one would get back up its wounds being no more than a nuisance.

Taking the spears and the sword Haramhold charges up the slope yelling "Amanda stay here!" Coming up behind the nearest monster Haramhold shoves an iron spear in its spine. Blood and fire burst from the wound, the troll screaming in true agony fell to the grounds. Running past the fallen foe Haramhold throws his iron spears to the warriors rallying them around him.

The warriors quickly discovered that these new weapons could kill the beasts and pressed their new found advantage with a ferocity and rage which frighten Haramhold. With his sword of iron Haramhold lead the attack and threw back the beasts. Long after the attacking trolls had been slain the humans in their rage and their grief continued to hack and slash the corpses until you could no longer recognize them for what they were.

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon stood still, as the Chieftain raised his staff to point it at him.

“Lograr, inspect it, and tell me what you think.”

Frellon remained standing still, as the massive orc approached, setting aside his weapon/tree. Frellon locked eyes with him, daring him to make a hostile motion. The orc circled him.

“His ears are like ours, his hair like the Voturi. His eyes and skin are the Voturi’s. His hands are ours…”

He stopped in front of Frellon and began to snarl at him, not knowing what else to do, Frellon returned the snarl, matching him for ferocity. Their teeth bared, they held this for half a minute, untill the orc abruptly stopped.

“His teeth are of neither ours nor the Voturi, As is his height.” Lograr turned to face the Chieftain.

“Cherok went far south you said? Perhaps in that land this is what the Voturi are like. I see three options. Either it is some strange abomination of half-Orc, half-Voturi, or it is a full Voturi, but of some southern breed. The last option is what we spoke of, Chieftain.”

The Chieftain frowned. “Cherok, you have spent the longest time in its company, what do you think?”

Cherok stepped forward, as Lograr returned to his place. “Even though it does not speak, I believe it to be intelligent. It is no animal, as the Voturi are.”

The Chieftain turned to Lograr, “Lograr. Tell the people what you reported to us.”

Lograr complied, turning to the audience. “The Voturi grow increasingly restless. Their ambushes have become cleverer, more cunning. It is my belief that they have some sort of leader, something directing them. They have never displayed this… behavior, before. It could be that this is some new breed of Voturi that directs them.”

Frellon’s blood turned to ice. This was not good, not good at all, he might be killed for this, and wasn’t even involved!

The Chieftain agreed. “That does seem like the most likely option. Comence with the final test. Bring the poison.”

Cherok came forwards with a stone knife which was slathered with some blue fluid. Frellon jerked away, but Cherok caught his arm. The orc whispered something under his breath, so only Frellon could hear.

“Relax, it’s not lethal.”

Frellon warily allowed him to cut his arm with the poisoned knife.

Everyone waited. Nothing happened. Minutes passed by. A trickle of his blood leaked onto the ground.

Lograr spoke.

“He is unaffected! Only the Voturi are immune to their own poison!”

The Chieftain nodded.

“Very well, take him out and kill him. Then we must think on how to meet this new threat.”

“I will do it, he is my responsibility.” Cherok started forward.

Frellon had borne enough. He would not be killed over a misunderstanding!

“NO!”

He had shouted in Orcish, and everyone froze, staring at him.

Drawing himself up, Frellon spat, in Lograr’s direction.

“No honor. Kill. Innocent.” Frellon stumbled over the strange words, determined to speak in their native tongue.

“What is this?” The Chieftain said. “He speaks as one of us!”

Cherok grew excited. “I knew it! He is intelligent! A fellow person!”

“Not Voturi!” Frellon insisted.

“Hold on!” Lograr exclaimed. “How can he be immune to the poison?”

“Better body, quick healer.” Frellon replied.

Cherok nodded. “You should have seen his arm once the Girrun got ahold of it, now look at it! Good as new, and it has only been a few weeks!”

The Chieftain interjected. “Be that as it may, this one has called our champion without honor. This calls for an honor duel.”

Lograr, nodded. “That’s true,” his eyes narrowed. “he did.”

Cherok disagreed. “What!? No! we must treat him as an orc! He’s as intelligent as one of us!”

“We are. And should you call Lograr honor-less, you too will be given an honor duel.”

“Why not make it an entrance duel then?”

The Chieftain considered this. “So if he loses, he and his family dies. But if he wins…”

“He joins the village.” Cherok finished.

“What of the slight to Lograr?”

“You were kill innocent. Call me Voturi, Half-breed. My Father great!” Frellon explained.

“So you’re saying I slighted your honor first?” said Lograr, addressing Frellon directly for the first time.

“Yes!”

“Very well. Choose the weapon Vo-… Stranger.”

Frellon pointed to Cherok, more specifically, at the bronze sword at his waist. Frellon realized he did not know their word for ‘sword’.

“Weapon, champion.”

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon gripped the wooden mock sword. Through his halting Orcish, they had reached a compromise. Only Cherok was permitted to touch his sword, and it was his sword, it did not seem to be a status symbol, and he was the only orc in possession of one.

So he had convinced them to spend an afternoon carving mock swords, wooden ones. As the challenger, it was apparently his right to choose the weapon, and he would fight Lograr on his own terms. Now it was almost dusk, and everything was ready. Frellon went through the motions of a warm-up. Stretching, figuring out what motions he could and couldn’t get his injured chest to do. Cherok was over by Lograr, giving him a quick run-down of how one was supposed to use a sword in the first place.

Eventually the Chieftain called a halt to the preparations.

“I refuse to die of old age, waiting to start this! To your positions! Cherok, start the enterance duel!”

Cherok did as he was told, carving a large circle in the earth with his sword, just inside the circle of onlookers. Then he stood between the two combattents, addressing both them, and the crowd as he stated the rules.

“No-one is to cross the circle. You fight until one of you is unconscious or crosses the line. A disarmed… person, is to be allowed to retrieve their weapon. Killing your opponent here brings death upon yourself. Should Lograr win, you will be executed. Should you win, you will become a member of our Clan. May you fight with honor.”

With this he stepped outside of the circle among the onlookers, and shouted “Begin!”

Frellon’s sword snapped up into a ready position, Lograr just charged him, swinging his sword like a club. Frellon sidestepped, and easily parried, turning Lograr off balance. As he recovered, Frellon battered him with quick jabs along his side and back. His wooden sword leaving bruises, where a real one would have drawn blood. Lograr tried to swat aside Frellon’s sword and missed, roaring in outrage.

Lograr was no swordsman. His strength was in his powerful arms. Frellon had little doubt that had he been facing him with that ‘staff’ as a weapon, he would be smeared across the earth like so much butter. With these smaller wooden swords however, Frellon had all the advantage.



Lograr was disarmed multiple times, Frellon had scored several blows to his opponent’s skull, but Orcs apparently did not knock out easily. Lograr was becoming more and more enraged by his ineffectiveness with the weapon, froth gathering around his tusks. Eventually he broke, and tried a stiff punch to Frellon’s chest with one hand. Frellon deflected it with his sword, scraping the orcs wrist and forarm badly with the edge, but his fist connected with his shoulder anyway, and there was an explosion of pain.

Far from debilitating him, the pain seemed to lend Frellon a sharp focus. No longer worried about how hard he was striking, he snaked his sword through and cracked it’s edge at the base of Lograr’s skull. The orc’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed, unconscious.

Frellon raised his sword in triumph, and coughed, flecks of blood lightly spraying.

The Chieftain strode forward. “The stranger has won. He is to be considered an Orc, one of us.”

Cherok stood in awe, “you are skilled with that blade!” but shook his head. “come, we must get you some medicine, you are still not yet whole.”

Frellon allowed himself to be led into a hut filled with herbs, as some others tended to Lograr’s bruises.



That night, as Frellon lay sleeping on a mat in a hut with several other Orc men. Frellon’s thoughts turned to Baz'Auran. Is father still fighting, up there? The roof of the hut blocked his view of the night sky, and rather than leave the hut to look, he stayed where he was, resting. His last thought as he lent himself to dream of far of battles and glory was: I need to get better soon. If father sends for us, I must be ready.

[Demidos]

Aramar: The Disk (Part 1)
The light shone, painfully bright. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWrFVjKKo-U&feature=related) Red brightness, filtering through his eyelids. He moaned, and twitched. The light was too bright for him – his always pale skin felt dry and uncomfortable. Probably Jongo (or perhaps some spirit of mischief) had figured out how to bypass the protections to his room and opened the shutters to wake him up. He should have expected it really. But oh, the aching in his back and legs. He couldn’t remember what had caused it. He had been out hunting the night before, and then there had been the banqu---

The Banquet.

Aramar shot up, then immediately regretted it. His body was a mass of bruises, twisted and interspersed with lacerations where the branches had cut him. He remembered being snatched up by Tersek, he and Frellon both. Tersek had borne them from the Hall before Aramar had even had the opportunity to open his mouth, to tell the spirit to stay and fight to defend his father. He remembered the look on his father’s face – fear, and anguish. It was a memory that shook Aramar to his very core – what could he fear? Father, the creator? What evil had such power that it could attack even at the heart of the White City? And now he would never know – he was trapped, stranded on the Disk. He was also alone. Tersek had been carrying them both, but Aramar had slipped from her claws and such was the state of the once mighty Spirit of Haste that she hadn’t even noticed. Aramar fell far, far farther than he might have expected to fall and survive, but he hit the top branches of a tree and fell through the tree, the branches cushioning his fall until at last he hit the ground at its base, and darkness had taken him.

Now he was awake again, and scared. What if the nameless Dark found him? He looked around for the first time, and blinked – Aramar lay in a small clearing with a small stream – only a trickle – flowing through it, surrounded by thick vegetation on all sides. With a groan, he rolled to his feet and shook himself out. He was cut and hurt, but it was mostly superficial. His body had been limp as he fell – somehow he had held that lesson in mind, amidst the horror and terror – and so he was not badly injured. He winced, then turned and began to climb the tree he had been lying against. The rough bark was rough going on his sore fingers (he harbored the firm conviction that he had broken one) but he persevered. The sight at the top though, took his sight away. He was on the side of a mountain -- Huge trees, as large as the largest spires in the White City loomed over the landscape, sporadically placed. In the distance, waterfalls rumbled their incessant roar, churning as thousands, no, millions of gallons poured off the cliffs and fell hundreds of feet, crashing into lakes of icy water. He knew where he was – with his avid interest in the outdoors, he had still had the time to read scrolls about the world where they would land, and he had read the descriptions of the forests most intently. The enormous trees, the mountains – he was lost somewhere in the Faraad Mountains, on the outskirts of the great Zahana Wood. It was an area sparsely populated, and even then only by creatures that were something short of human.

In his battered state, Aramar could remember little else. Sitting there, perched at the top of a tree in the middle of the woods, he began to wonder. What next? What to do now? He closed his eyes and relaxed his mind. He had been out hunting before for weeks on end. He silenced the voices that told him that no, this was different – it was the same.

Shelter. Water. Food. In that order. Aramar opened his eyes again and looked around, this time with a critical eye. The tree in which he was sitting was tall, with straight branches, providing little protection, but from this vantage point he could see another, not so far away, where five trunks had grown and fused into one – where they met, a open space, a sort of platform, was formed. Aramar could just make it out from where he was – from the ground or from above, it would appear an impenetrable tangle of branches. It was the perfect hideout. Aramar already had water, in the form of the spring he had seen earlier. There was only one thing left to find. Aramar had seen birds in the trees surrounding him, some nesting. Climbing down his tree until a point where a large branch stretched across to an adjacent trunk, Aramar carefully made his way across. Then he paused. The birds had been large, perhaps the size of chickens, but with wingspans to match. They hadn’t seemed overly aggressive, but it wasn’t a bad thing to be cautious.

Aramar checked his belongings. As he hadn’t begun eating at the banquet yet, his hunting knife was still strapped at his waist, as was his smaller knife, which he used for gutting or carving. Aramar made a quick inventory of his other possesions – his belt, a pouch containing a few mementoes (a brass coin from the time he had won a fight and a bet with Frellon, a scale from the great bronze fish that he had caught with Kalandor, a fossilized leaf, carefully pressed and embossed with gold, from his sister Soreal), his clothes, and of course, the silver circlet about his head marking him as a son of Baz’Auran and that helped concentrate his skills in warding magic – for some unexplained reason, silver enhanced his ability.

Speaking of magic...Aramar snapped his fingers, his fingers forming the delicate Srelit and Tqest glyphs in the air. Nothing. It was as he had feared. He would have to rely on his body and his wits. And time was wasting. He pulled out his carving knife. Snapping a branch, he sharpened it at its end – though the knife was a superior weapon, it lacked reach. The end result was a crude shortspear. Crude, but it would serve. Putting away the knife again and jamming the spear into one of the folds in his clothing, Aramar began to climb. He climbed and climbed, until he reached a level with the bird’s nest he had seen earlier. The bird in the nest – presumably the mother– was sleeping with a wing over her head. Obviously the birds were nocturnal. It was a simple matter to climb up beside her and stab her through the heart. It was brief and painless, the product of years of honed talent. Underneath her, as he had hoped, he found eggs, three of them. Oddly, they were differently sized – two were the size of his fist, but the third nearly rivaled the size of his head. Confused, Aramar began to clamber in, closer to the nest (which, he noticed, was easily large enough to hold at least five of the birds). Slipping, he fell in, just as a huge dark shape swooshed over him, close enough for him to feel the wind in his hair.

The bird that he was saw was huge, easily the size of a man from beak to tailfeathers, and with a wingspan to match. As he watched, the rabbit it carried was carelessly discarded and the bird let out an agonizing shriek. Now Aramar understood why the nest had seemed unguarded – no one would have been foolish enough to attack the nest, had they known what they were about. Even as his mind raced, the bird wheeled, and flew over the nest again, reaching for him with its wicked talons. Rolling to a side, he only just managed to avoid its grasping talons. The next time he wouldn’t be as lucky, he knew. With only seconds left before the bird returned, he rolled to his feet, flimsy spear at the ready.

This was his last chance. He thought desperately back to the lessons of the spirits, and of Frellon. Be fast. Be unpredictable. As the bird came about for the last time, he hooked his boot under one of the eggs, the largest, and launched it up and out, directly into the bird’s path. Surprised and confused, the bird tried to avoid the hurtling missile, but failed and crashed directly into it, sending bluish yolk and egg shards sharp as glass in all directions. The impact and the failed maneuver to avoid it stunned the bird, which was sent tumbling into the nest where Aramar waited with his spear upraised. It took but a moment, and the great beast lay dead. Aramar collapsed next to it, panting.

He lay there for what felt like hours, but in actuality was probably only minutes, before hauling himself to his feet. He swayed slightly from the exhaustion, but somehow managed to cut up the meat and bury it in the cold earth under the tree to preserve it. The eggs he took with him to his shelter, and ate. They had an odd, almost oily taste, but at that moment they tasted like ambrosia. Once he had finished, he inspected the shelter. In fact, it had been a much better shelter than it first appeared. Bushes had grown up about the base of the tree. They boasted enormous thorns, some of them five inches in length, and as keen as his dagger. He had bypassed the problem by brachiating to the tree from a tree nearby, but the animals and creatures of the forest would find it an impenetrable barrier (or so he hoped). The branches formed a natural lattice over his head from under which he could be safe from rain and prying eyes – in short, an ideal hideout for a young godling on the run.

He slept for what must have been hours (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mVXUQBVuki4&feature=related), but awoke to a dim light. The moon was visible through a crack in the fronds of his tree. Yawning, he looked out, only to see that the forest had undergone a glorious transformation. Everywhere, plants and trees glowed in blues and greens and oranges, a multisourced lighting that splashed rainbows across Aramar’s face. Delicate, rabbit-like creatures nibbled the edges of fronds, changing colors as per the leaves they ate, while in the distance krii-krii sounds heralded the appearance of small, dragon-like creatures no larger than mice, who swooped and dived between the trees, chasing each other around and around. Aramar emerged from his hideout, openmouthed.

For hours, he wandered the forest, wondering at its awesome beauty and mesmerizing trees. The sun rose a few hours later – Aramar saw as the trees slowly faded, then turned back to greens and browns. He returned to his fort, awestruck. The forest at night had changed something inside of him – he decided that he would sleep through the days, so as to be free to wander the forest at night. He had seen no predators in his nighttime foray – they were mostly diurnal creatures, and as such the night would be safer for him in any case. Settling into his makeshift home, he closed his eyes against the glow of the day. He drifted to sleep, still thinking of the colors, the colors of the glorious night.


Warning: Huge image


All Behold The Glory of Zahana
http://simplywallpaper.net/pictures/2010/04/28/Pandora-Forest.jpg

[Erik Vale]

The Banquet

"I, wait, what?" stammered Rumel pointing at Kalandor with a spoon full of stew, "I'd have thought you'd be eager to take the helm? I... uh, yes, a gift! Yes! It was to my gift to you! The traveler and shepherd steadies us on to new lands. Doesn't that sound fun, eh? Has a certain poetry to it don't you think?".
He smiled a broad mask of a smile with shifting eyes.

Kalandor luaghed internally.
"So the man who made it won't drive? Well I'll have to take a look at your manual..."
He stood with a great smile before returning his attention to Baz'Auran.
--------------------

The Fall

I see you Traveller
I see you prey on me
And so I raise my voice
That you may be stuck in place

May the ground fall from you/Even when you seek to land/When the Sky is your domain.
May Brambles entangle and scratch/And Web ensnare your face.
May your rations be maggot struck/and the lands seem barren and dry.
May you be hopelessly lost/following a mad mans map.
May gales be your headwind/Overgrown be your path.
May You freeze at night/Burn with the morning sun.
May all misfortunes laws strike you/ May Murphy and Finagle Laugh

For as true as I hat thou how doth pray on us/ the travellers chosen/ I pray for Kalandor to walk opposite to you/And spit upon your path.

The First Travellers Curse.

The Traveller Curse

Kalandor's Fall was slightly different from others. Turning in the spirits hands to see the destruction happening to the White City, He communed with the spirit of haste, and with much persuasion, telling him of his own pre existing maps and revealing part of his workings, he convinced the spirit to 'drop' him early.

And So, having reached the spot, where Kalandor believed he would land on target he cried. "Go, Go to our Father!"
And so he fell, and he fell for real.
And then he noticed what he missed.
And he saw where he would land.
There wern't enough swear words for the occasion.

An unusual wind current, a slight miss calculation, and he was landing on the opposite end of the continent.....

And so he fell amoungst the southern hills, his godly life flashing before his eyes to be followed by darkness...

[shorewood]

The ensuing celebration lasted a full week. The cheers and the merriment was so heart warming and bright that Haramhold was happy for the first time in a long time.

The cave of crystals proved to be an exquisite beauty as was promised. The wondrous crystals came in all shapes, sizes, and hues. There were clear ones and small as an ant and sparkling marvels larger than an oxen. It was clear that the tunnels extended for miles and as legend would have it had no end.

Unfortunately none of people from Amanda's village had fled to the caverns; so Haramhold took responsibility for her well being. And as the days of celebration passed he began to think of her as less of a stranger and more like a daughter. Indeed he came to know the people gathered here, their customs their stories and their hearts. The humans amazed Haramhold, for they had come so far with no spirits of craftsmanship or knowledge to school them. He could only imagine what they could accomplish if given a proper teacher.

But after the celebrations came a more serious task Baylor and Syth called together the village elders to hear Haramhold's tale. A tale he told truthfully, omitting only the name of his father for Haramhold did not think that it was time to reveal his true origins. They were impressed and curious, and wished to know the secret of iron. Haramhold promised to teach them this knowledge and much more.

The people left the caves of crystal, it might have been a place of beauty but it was indefensible and to far from any source of water to sustain their thirsty throats. For ten days the several hundred humans traveled south and west until they came upon a a large hill, with steep sides and a river bending its away around the western slope. This is where they made their new home, and where Haramhold began teaching them the secrets of iron, and stone of clay and wood. They named their new home Salus.

And so summer turned to winter and winter to summer. The wheel of the seasons turned and turned again and the people flourished. Under Haramhold's guidance their craftsmen became masters. Houses made of stone rose warm and strong.

Every spring Baylor would lead a band of iron clad hunters into the surrounding wilderness finding the troll dens and driving the beasts before them. And every fall he would return with even more people, guiding any of those who sought sanctuary from the trolls and other monsters of the disc. Haramhold found himself at peace during this time, teaching and crafting to his hearts content every day.

And so by the fifth year of the founding of Salus the people's numbers had swollen to three thousand. The year that the wise woman Syth died; and the peace died with her.

It was high summer when Baylor's party returned early with terrible news. The shadows had returned and they were raising an army of trolls, in numbers that had never been seen before. Baylor estimated that the army would be upon them within a fortnight. A panic fell upon the people, for although the new found strength of iron had cowed their foes it had not defeated them and now their nightmares were returning to reek vengeance.

And so the council of elders was gathered in the great meeting hall. Some wished to flee scatter across the four winds so that the trolls could not find them. Some wished to meet the enemy in the field and route their army before it was fully formed. But Haramhold knew that both of these paths lead to their doom. To flee was to abandon everything that they had accomplished and any hope of safety. Confronting them in the field would be a costly campaign and that although swords and spears of iron where effective against the trolls they were as powerless as the air against their masters. So Haramhold suggested a different path. The people of Salus would stay and fortify their home, prepare tall wooden palisades to throw off and scatter their enemy. When the council asked what was to be done against the shadows Haramhold told them to leave that to him, that he would find a way to destroy them.

That night Haramhold saddled one of the few horses; packing what food and water he would need for the trip when Amanda came into the stable with a pack of her own. Amanda had grown tall and lanky in the past few years her bright red hair glimmering in the moonlight.

"And where do you think you are going?" Haramhold asked her.

"If you thought that I was going to let you ride off into the night all by yourself then you must think me as mad as you." retorted the teenager.

"The path I will walk is to dangerous for you, I think of you as my daughter. I would not have you harmed on a trip that might be in vain."

Snorting Amanda snaps back "Is going with you any more dangerous than staying here and waiting for that army of trolls to kill me?"

Haramhold tried to come up with a retort but could not find the words "Fine, you have convinced me. Just promise me that if we come across any trouble that you ride to safety even if it means leaving me behind."

"I promise." the girl lied so well that if Haramhold had not known her for so many years he would have believed her.

And so the two rode out into the night making good time as they traveled north and east. They pressed their mounts hard and within two days Haramhold found himself at the mouth of the crystal cave for the second time in his life. Tying their horses up outside Haramhold lead Amanda into the twisting maze past Amethyst , quartz, gypsum and a thousand other crystals of all shapes and hues. Deeper and deeper they went, until Haramhold found what he was looking for a small outlet with water dripping from the ceiling and crystals that shone like diamonds in the torchlight.

For the next three weeks Haramhold worked in the cave, using his knowledge and skill he encouraged and shaped the growth of a new crystal, like none that the world had seen before. Amanda for her part could only watch in fascination. The people of Salus had often whispered amongst themselves how Haramhold's skill was uncanny. That iron seemed to shape itself without pounding in his hands, that wood became more supple or stiff as needed when he worked with it. Amanda had always discounted such tales preferring to believe that Haramhold was simply more skilled than them. But as she saw the crystal grow and shape itself under his hands Amanda was forced to question her beliefs.

For three weeks Haramhold labored on his crystal and when it was finished and not a moment before he picked it from its perch. The crystal separated from its base smoothly as if it were never truly attached. It was perfectly formed needing no cut or polish to bring out the crystal's inner beauty. Amanda gasped at its beauty and form looking up at her step father she could only wonder.

The pair of them rode hard for Salus after that. Amanda tried to save their horses and slow their pace but Haramhold would have none of it, fearing that he was already too late. When they had reached Salus their horses finally dies from exhaustion under them, having completed their task. And as they looked upon the hill they found it burning.

The trolls had come in their hundreds with burning brands through a hail of iron arrows and bullets scattering their corpses along the hillside. But they eventually won through and set the palisade on fire laying bare the town. Then had come the bloody part of the battle as the trolls breached the still burning defenses and engaged the brave defenders. The men made the monsters pay for every foot of land but it was not enough eventually they were driven back to the great hall, barricading themselves behind its strong oaken doors.

And that is how Haramhold found his people for they had truly become that over the years. Marching up the hill side he bellowed a challenge to the shadows daring them to show themselves. And so they did.

The shadows crept out over the hill their hateful forms twisted and full of spite. They all grouped together condensing into a darkness blacker than the dead of night. "Who dare threaten us? We who have seen the first rising of the dawn and have feasted on the fears of mortal man."

"It is I Haramhold of Salus these people are under my protection leave now and never return."

"Who are you to challenge us?" the shadows hissed, their malavolent will stretching forth and prying into Haramhold's mind.

"I am Haramhold guardian of my daughter of whom you shall not taint."

The shadows stretched out engulfing Haramhold in their vile darkness "Who are you to have earned the arrogance to defy us?"

Struggling to breath Haramhold gasped for the sunlight thrashing against the unsubstantial mists that swallowed him.

"Just as we thought." the shadows laughed in triumph "You are no one."

"I AM HARAMHOLD SON OF BAZ'AURAN LORD OF THE STARS AND CREATOR OF THE HEAVENS AND THE EARTH!" bellowed Haramhold as he lifted his crystal above his head "I AM OF THE WHITE CITY WHOSE SPLENDOR OUTLASTS THE DARKNESS! I AM THE MASTER OF CRAFTS, SHAPER OF STONE AND METAL AND WOOD. I AM HARAMHOLD AND I AM YOUR DOOM!"

The ground shook and stone crumbled from his wrath. A bright light as pure as the stars and brighter than the sun emanated from the crystal tearing the shadows apart with its brilliance. For the crystal shown fourth with the strength of his divine spark fully awoken.

The shadows disintegrated and faded into nothingness, their hold of the trolls dieing with them. And without the malevolent will of the shadows they lacked the strength to stand against the iron and the light. And so they fled.

As the town cleared the villagers cautiously ventured forth from of the great hall, beholding Haramhold and all of his brilliance. As he lowered his arm the light died and the people of Salus beheld his true self for the first time and where in awe.

Quietly from behind him Amanda cautiously placed a calloused hand on his arm "Father, is that you?" she asked not sure what the response would be.

Turning to look at his daughter Haramhold's expression softened "I am who I have always been. No longer diminished but still myself." And with that Haramhold embraced Amanda before his people and their cheers of joy.

First turn artifact: The crystal of inner light

The crystal of inner light reveals the true nature of its wielder to himself and those around him. It shines with their strength and their character. It can be used as a weapon against those creatures without flesh whose form is naught but will and aether, but that is not its true purpose. The crystal of inner light is meant to reveal the source of their confusion and doubt so that its holders might truly know their own heart, and thus their path.

[AntiMatter101]

The wounds on his chest took another two weeks to heal completely. During that time, Frellon took to sparring with Cherok at his incessant requests. It was a sort of trade, Frellon would teach him about swordplay, using wooden swords, and Cherok would teach him about their language and culture. Being able to understand their language innately helped a lot at first, it was speaking it that was the hard part for Frellon. He knew that if he spoke in Celestial, he would be recognized as a godling, and for reasons that were not clear to him, he did not want that. By the 10th day though, he had made good progress, enough to sound like one of the children in the village.

Now that Frellon’s Chest was whole again, he had decided it was time to make a proper weapon. So at dinnertime, he sought out the only member of the Clan with a sword.

“Hey, Cherok.”

Cherok twisted around and raised a leg of cooked meat to him. “Frellon! Sit, sit! Have some Darruk, it was Gurnod’s kill, a fat one too!”

Frellon accepted the meat, and took a few bites as he sat. The fire around which they gathered was positioned under a roasting spit. A large bird-like creature with little useless wings lay impaled through the spit. The feathers had been removed, and its beak was charred and black from the fire.

“So Cherok, I have some questions.”

“About what, Frellon?” Cherok took a swing from the wineskin, and passed it around the circle.

“Your sword, there. How did you get it?”

“It was my father’s, and his father’s before him. The tale of its origin is lost to us, but it has been an heirloom for generations.”

Frellon cursed to himself silently. These orcs did not make the sword, they could not fashion a new one for him. I really should have learned how to make my own weapons. Frellon cursed himself, rubbing his temples. Haramhold and Rumel were the makers, the crafters of weapons, not me!

“You know nothing more?” Frellon asked, desperate.

Cherok looked slightly uncomfortable. “Look it’s a long story.” Cherok tried, but realized that Frellon would not be so easily dissuaded. “Ok. As you know, we did not always live here. Where we used to live, is in the mountains, far to the south and east of this place. About four generations ago, we were driven from a little valley in those mountains. Why did we leave? There were tons of reasons; our stories say Spirits of Ice and Wind stirred up storms that kept us in our homes all day. Giant Beasts, covered in fur as white as snow ravaged our village, looking for food. The Voturi were there, as they seem to be everywhere, killing and eating us where they could. Perhaps a bad winter killed off too much prey, or the spirits finally decided to drive us from the place once and for all. Whatever the reason, the Orunta Clan’s ancestors left. Now, at the same time, my great grandfather was wandering the land, heading for the mountains to escape something. He always kept the details to himself, my father said. All great grandfather would say was that his family was forced to flee some disaster in the southwest. His only possession was this sword. He won an entrance duel, just like you did, and joined the clan with his wife, who gave birth and died soon after.”

Frellon thought on this. The making of the sword really was lost to him. His mind turned to the Orunta, this clan had an interesting tradition. The entrance duels were to ensure that any strange Orcs that wished to join their clan were good enough at fighting that they would actually be of help to their hunters. Frellon himself was hoped to be a great hunter, smaller size and weaker arms disregarded. Still, he had yet to go on a hunt, having just finished healing.

Frellon nodded, eventually. “Ok, Cherok, thank you for telling me.” He busied himself with his dinner, as one of the older Orcs around the fire decided to pipe in.

“That’s right, that sword has been in his family since they came here! I remember your father was even more possessive of it that you are!”

“There’s reason for that! A good sword needs to be kept in perfect condition! You brutes would be bashing it on rocks for all I know. It’s hard enough to keep it free of dents and notches as it is.”

“Cherok is right.” Frellon interjected between mouthfuls. “that kind of metal especially need careful care.”

“I suppose, It’s still funny to see he him get all protective over it though, a good weapon is still just a weapon.” The old orc emphasized his point by thumping his club on the rock he was sitting on.

“My point exactly” Cherok muttered under his breath, but everyone heard him. The Orcish laughter of the group rang through the cool night air.



The next day, Frellon set to work with some rocks he had found, determined to make a stone sword. With Cherok’s recruited help, he ended up with something that was somewhat in a vague shape that might resemble a sword, at night. If it was misty. It was also quite heavy. Frellon decided to master the art of the club instead.



His first Hunt was a success. He had picked up some good techniques on his long march those weeks before for moving quietly through the forest, so as not to disturb the wildlife. Together, they surrounded and brought down two Darruk. One of them gave Cherok a shallow cut on the thigh with the talons on its long legs, before emitting gargles as it was decapitated by Cherok’s sword. Frellon got some experience bandaging wounds with the limited resources these orcs had, and had managed to spot the Second Darruk before it saw them. It was a good day.



Their return to the village was much like the first time Frellon was brought there, a miniature celebration accompanied every successful hunt, the women and children were always relieved that their men came home safe and laden with fresh supplies.

Frellon went to bed that night more content than he had in a long while. He had found a place where his talents were valued, his contributions appreciated, and his friends liked to fight as much as he did. He had found a home. All it needed was more swords.

[THEChanger]

The Weaver panted, limbs heavy, head reeling. That…that thing had almost eaten him alive. If he was alive. The Weaver wasn’t really sure at this point. Everything was so different here, different even than he had been taught it would. Where were the mortals, the life? Such questions fled The Weaver’s mind when he saw the water dripping from one of the stalactites. Water. At long last, water. The Weaver drank deep of the water of the cave. It had been so very long since he had tasted water. It was a small amount, but it would be enough. The Weaver couldn’t stay, not with the corpse of that enormous snake. Kolorki-na, it had called itself? Wait. Kolorki-na. That name seemed familiar to The Weaver, somehow. A long ago memory, of someone from the White City.

But something else called to The Weaver’s attention now. The blood leaking from the head of the snake was different. What was it…of course. The blood was purple. Not blue, like everything else in this Baz’Auran-forsaken desert. PURPLE! The Weaver laughed, and practically danced with glee. A new color! Something different in the wash of blue! The purple blood flowed out the mouth of the cave, and into the desert. Slowly, shades of purple shone in the desert sand. And Then Weaver decided to leave the cave, and see what else could be found.

The wind whipped, and the sun raged, and the sands rattled, and the hawk cried with fury. Kolorki-na had failed. The Snake was slain by the hands of the son of Baz’Auran! The first ploy had failed! But the anger quickly fell away to hunger. Now they had the chance to taste the God-flesh. And deep in the desert, in her cave, the owner of the red eyes laughed, as her great meal drew ever closer…

The Second Tale of The Weaver

In the days before the coming of The Weaver, and our people’s triumph over the Dark Ones, we lived in fear of our brothers, for we saw them in jealousy and desire. This is the Second Story told to us by The Weaver, the Second of his Dream-Tales that gave us trust in our brethren again.

The Second Story begins not long after The Weaver slew the last among the Dark Ones, Kolorki-na the Snake, who drove us from our beds looking for work to be about. For The Weaver continued his walk, searching for a way back to the Great Star, which brings cool winds to the harsh sand-places. And as he walked, he came upon an oasis, with water pure and clear as the evening sky. And The Weaver, being thirsty, bent down to take a drink.

But this spring was the home of Desri-na, the second among the Dark Ones. She was the Spirit who drove men and women from their sleep to seek each other’s company, and yet find it not, for she was a trickster like her brother Kolorki-na. And as The Weaver drank, she snuck up behind him, and pushed him into the spring. The Weaver turned, and was captured by her beauty, for it is Desri-na’s nature to look as the person you want to be with most, and yet know cannot. And in Desri-na, The Weaver saw his sister Soreal, who lived in the lands far away where the Palms grow in all places. Desri-na spoke to The Weaver, saying “This is my spring, and if you wish to drink from it, I must have compensation.” The Weaver bowed his head, for he was a man of honor, and replied “Fair One, I will pay the price for having drunk from your spring, but I have little enough to call my own. I have the clothes on my back, and this tooth which I took from the mouth of a giant Snake.” Desri-na smiled, for she knew who he was, but she was wilier than her brother Kolorki-na. “Who are you, stranger who has so little?” “I am The Weaver, son of-“ But then The Weaver remembered Kolorki-na, who coveted his flesh because he was the son of Baz’Auran, and his flesh had power. “Son of no-one.” And Desri-na laughed. “Then Weaver, son of no-one, I will take you as my price. For a year and a day, you shall live here with me, and be my slave.” The Weaver grimaced, for in the time he had walked this strange land, he had not seen the sun dip beneath the sky. For The Weaver did not know that time did not pass in the Dream-Time, for all was one there. But he nodded. “I accept your price.” And Desri-na laughed again, for she thought she had won the son of Baz’Auran.

So for a long time, The Weaver lived with Desri-na. And as they lived there by the oasis, Desri-na grew curious about the son of Baz’Auran. “Weaver, how did you earn your name?” The Weaver smiled. “Mistress, I am what I am. Weaver is my name, and a weaver I am.” “Then weave for me.” And The Weaver found some plants and ferns by the water’s edge, and began to weave. And as The Weaver wove his second tapestry on the Disk, he sang a song he learned when he was young, back when even Jongo could be called a child.

I weave of the time when the world was begun
And I weave of moon and the stars and the sun
I weave of a city of gold and white
And I weave of the Father who gave us all life.

For a weaver weaves with colors, both purple and blue
And a weaver weaves in colors his mind only knew
And a weaver weaves in shadows, and a weaver weaves in air,
And a weaver weaves with things that aren’t there.

For just as the Father wove through space and time
So must a weaver learn of meter and rhyme
For Weaving isn’t just thread and needle
Weaving keeps us strong, and keeps us humble.

And The Weaver wove a simple cloak of blue and purple, for that was all he could make in this strange land. But that was not the tapestry The Weaver wove. The Weaver wove a tapestry around the hardened heart of Desri-na, and broke the bonds of evil which had been placed there. And Desri-na wept for the beauty of the song, and the beauty of the cloak The Weaver wove for her. That tear held green within it, and as it fell, the green splashed outward, filling the Dream-Time with vibrancy and life. And The Weaver gave Desri-na the cloak he had woven, and she gave him his freedom. But The Weaver was lonely, wandering in the Dream-Time, and invited Desri-na to walk with him, for she was beautiful and wise. And so the two continued onward, to seek a way home for The Weaver.

This is the Second Dream-Tale of The Weaver, who freed our people from the Dark Ones. Rejoice, for he shows us the path to unity and fellowship.

[Raz_Fox]

The Fall of Dol Mazzah

Only one thing allowed Fayruz to enjoy herself. It certainly was not the way her body ached - it actually ached, her feet were cut raw and her rear ached after days of riding and her face had been burned by the sun, and there was nothing she could do about it, and that was, perhaps, the scariest thing imaginable. Back home, she could have merely willed herself into better health, but now she had no control over her own body. She couldn't even will herself to be clean and spotless, forcing the women of this place to scrub at her with their rough sponges to clean her off, immersing her in a vat of lukewarm, dirty water to do so. It certainly was not the clothes she wore, either, for they prickled and itched at her, and seemed to be made from the skin and fur of various animals, a thought which simply disgusted her. They were dull, dirty, and smelled worse than she had. Her beautiful gown, the one she had worn especially for the banquet with her family, had been tossed aside by the women of this frightful place, as well it should have been. She had taken a look at it, and had cried to see how it had been torn - not only by Arenis's knife, but by briars and thorns - and how filthy, bedraggled and stained it had become. It did not deserve to be a rag, let alone her dress, but the clothes that she now wore were little better. And it certainly was not the food they ate: poorly-roasted, bloody meat and limpid, dirty vegetables and fruits all tossed together into a stew, food that made Fayruz want to push herself away from the table and wash the taste out of her mouth with a dish from back home, made perfectly for her.

What allowed Fayruz to enjoy herself was her company. A little girl, who could hardly reach up to Fayruz's elbow, sat in her lap as she ate, pressing herself sweetly against Fayruz. On either side of her, other children had wormed their way in, and clung to her, asking her so many questions that she couldn't answer them all at once, questions about her home and her harp and her journey and her father and her stay in Dol Mazzah. Behind her, an older girl, one who would soon be a woman, entertained herself by weaving several beautiful desert blossoms into Fayruz's hair. And all about sat men and women, who were not as beautiful and shapely as the spirits of the White City, but seemed friendlier to her than she had expected from them! They would smile at her, even though their smiles were misshapen and blackened, and when she managed to choke down a bowlful of their 'food', they were quick to refill it for her.

They were, in fact, the kind of people that she would help once her siblings found her and they were able to create a land of peace together. There would be so many things that her siblings would do for them - Rumel, ever-crafty, could teach them a multitude of ways to dress better, to prepare their food better, and Aerin could teach them all the table manners and courtesy of the White City, while Contragh and Carolinus, bold and cunning, would keep back the monsters from their doorsteps and allow them to sleep safely at night. Because, after all, that was the only reason they had such high walls, and spears and slings to protect themselves. Once the monsters were gone, they could live in peace, the kind of peace they deserved, with such kindly hearts.

She turned to one child who was asking her why her teeth were all so white and straight, and was about to tell him about how everyone's teeth were perfect in the White City, even the spirits with very sharp teeth or tusks, when the young man who had stopped her and Arenis at the gate ran in, yelling, "The Tekeza are attacking! The Tekeza are attacking! They burn our grass and berry-bushes, and they come to destroy us and break down our walls! A horned demon leads them, and presses against our gate!"

Their leader, the one Arenis had called Beastslayer, rose from his seat, angrily. "What? Men, to arms, all of you! Women, bar the door behind us! Malak, bring me my axe!" The young man quickly brought him a weapon made of a stone wedge, lashed tightly to a long wooden pole. He strode down the length of the chaos in the hall, as children were gathered up by their mothers and men pulled out long stone knives and spears and axes, following their leader. He stopped once, though, for Fayruz - who was looking around everywhere, at all that was happening, trying to make sense of it all, trying not to cry - and said, "Fear not, child. I will protect you with my life." Then he exited the hall, and the door was barred behind him. Fayruz stood from her simple seat, looking around, before realizing that Arenis had gone with the Beastslayer to fight, and that there was no one else she knew. Well, she could fix that.

She looked over at the women and children, huddling together, behind Tarn's long table, before his seat. And she walked over to them, and did what she did best: she smiled, even though she didn't want to. "It's all right," she said. "Your walls are strong and every one who defends us is brave." She reached out, and touched one of Tarn's wives with a gentle hand, and smiled. "They will protect us. There's no reason to fear."

"But if they lose, they might kill us, or enslave us, or burn us down in our hall!" replied Tarn's wife, and everyone nodded assent, some children fighting back tears. A ripple of fear ran through them all, fear tinged with panic, and its taste was sour to Fayruz.

Fayruz frowned, slightly, and then said, "Don't be afraid. If that happens, I will protect you. You won't have anything to fear!" And, wondering how she could cheer up these frightened women and children, it suddenly hit her that there was one thing that her siblings always loved. Whenever they were frightened that their teachers would be angry with them, whenever a love affair was going ill and they needed hope, whenever spirits were low when they were gathered together in the gardens or in the great hall... one song from Fayruz's harp would raise their spirits and make them laugh again. She pulled her harp from her shoulder, sat down in front of them, and ran her fingers along the strings.

That sound was lifted to the roof, stilling tears and fears for one moment, and then Fayruz began to play in earnest, smiling as she did so. Of all the harpists in all of the White City, there were none as talented as Fayruz. She could no longer evoke the sound of flute or bell to accompany her song, but that was not necessary. They knew singing, she realized, and the sound of drums, but not a true harp. Not the sound that a true harpist could make. So she joined her voice to the song, singing of home and her family and the safety of the hearth. And, for a time, the war was forgotten, the discomfort of the Disk was forgotten, and all there was was the song, and the hope of home, and she caught them all up with her. This was Fayruz's gift, that they all might know her joy.

Then the great door shook, and her voice wavered slightly, and everyone trembled. Fayruz rose, her harp-strings stilled, saying, "They've returned already! Those 'Tekuza' must have been easy to-" Then the door shook again, and splintered under the force of the blow, the bloody edge of some stone weapon peeking through the crack. A child began to cry again, in fear, and the women huddled their children ever-closer as Fayruz turned to face the door. The third blow shattered the door in two, and the demon strode into the room, a black silhouette lit from behind by the burning walls of Dol Mazzah, a massive hammer held loosely in one hand. It chuckled, the sound as deep as the harp was high, as horrible as the harp was wonderful. It strode into the room, dripping blood with every step, followed by warriors with long bloody spears.

Fayruz held up her hand and said, "Stop."

The warriors kept coming, for a moment, until they realized that the demon before them had stopped. It held its ground, and they did, as well, looking from him to Fayruz, who continued, "Leave. There is no one here who will fight you. Just leave them be."

The demon loped forward, so quickly that it seemed to eclipse Fayruz's vision, so quickly that it was directly in front of her before she could react. It... no, he was tall, much taller than Fayruz, and dreadfully thin, so much that she could see ribs starkly jutting out from his sides and the bones jutting from his arms, arms which seemed far too slender to raise the dreadful hammer which he carried. The horns on his head were not even the most fearsome aspect, for, this close, she could see the dreadful wounds which had ripped open his face from brow to chin, slashing diagonally across his face, and she could feel the putrid stench coming from his face, a smell which was all the more terrible for being new to her. When he opened his mouth, she saw teeth sharpened to points, which she'd never before seen on a mortal. "And just who will stop me from ripping their guts out and eating them, little girl?"

"I... I will," Fayruz said. Even though she had no weapons, and nothing to stop the demon with, she had to say it. She had promised them. And so the demon stared at her, and she stared back, her head held high, trying to disguise the way his stench and how the blood and sweat rolled off him and how casually he held his massive hammer - how all of these disgusted her and turned her stomach and made her afraid. She had never been afraid before, not like this, even when the monster had been right there next to her and the shattering wall had nearly killed her, because her Father had been there to protect her, to ward away the errant crystals that would have pierced her. Her Father was not here to stop this stinking, bloodsoaked demon from killing her. Would it hurt? Would dying be agonizingly painful? Or would she simply see him lift the hammer and then - darkness.

And then the demon laughed. Hysterically, raising one bloody hand to his face and guffawing, a scratchy, strong thing all rolling out crookedways. The men behind him - who still stood near the door - began to laugh, an edge of taut nervousness in theirs. And Fayruz started to laugh, chuckling ever-so-slightly, because whenever she got her siblings laughing then their fighting always stopped, and people could apologize and-

The demon moved all-too-swiftly again, wrapping his long fingers around Fayruz's neck and lifting her off the ground with one hand, as easily as he'd held the hammer. Lights exploded behind Fayruz's eyes as he squeezed and she tried to scream, tried to breathe, pain shooting through her head as he effortlessly strangled her. She brought her hands to the fingers wrapped around her neck, and futilely scratched at them, limply yanking on them to no avail. "You're hilarious," he said. "A ruttin shebitch of a joke." Fayruz's lungs felt as if they would burst in her chest, her vision swam and grew dark, and she thought, desperately - 'Father, help me.'

Motion, and pain, and a crack, and the jingle of an abused harp. The harsh, dancing up-and-down voice cut through her throbbing head as she tried and utterly failed to find the strength to get up amid the splinters of Tarn's table. "And you're lucky I think you're funny. I think I'll keep you. Every chieftain needs his fool, no?" The drag of the hammer's head on the ground, and its scrape as it was lifted. "But you! Yes, you there, child. You're not funny."

"Stop." The hoarse whisper came from her throat, as she stumbled forward, onto her hands and knees, sagging under her own weight. "Don't hurt them. Please."

That guffaw rang in her ears again, that mad cackle - too mad, too harsh, not human. The only warning she had was that it abruptly stopped before he spun around and kicked her across the face, sending her sprawling with a cheek aflame with pain. "How's that, then? Do you like that more?"

She tried to get up. She failed the first time, and the second time, and he laughed harder. Who would ever laugh at someone's misery, a quiet voice in the back of Fayruz's head asked herself. Who would find joy in the suffering of others? The third time, she forced herself to raise her head, pushing herself up, and said, her voice wavering, "No, but if... if it means you will spare them... I would rather be hurt."

This time, she caught the end of the cackle quickly enough to brace herself, to whisper a silent prayer to her Father in her head, before his bandaged foot caught her in the ribs, knocking her over again. They burned, one feeling like it might have given way, and she couldn't fix it if it had. "Had enough, little girl? Ready for me to hurt them yet?"

"Dragonslayer!" The word cut over Fayruz's bloody-lipped, quiet 'no'. "Great chieftain, Hefar suggests that you kill the women and children, as your father would have!" Fayruz opened her eyes in shock - well, one eye, the other quickly swelling shut. No, please, no! They're mortals just like you, she wanted to scream, if only she had the breath! You can't do that to them, please, no, please!

The demon's voice was unusually quiet for a moment. "Do you mean to say," he said in a trembling voice that reminded her, for one grotesquely sweet moment, of Jongo, quiet and wavering. And then his voice changed again, becoming that hoarse roar, a scream of fury and hatred that made Fayruz flinch in terror, "That my father knew better than me, the Dragonslayer? Bind them all to the horses and take them to Copperhold! If you kill one of them I will crush all your skulls to a paste!" Fayruz sagged in relief, laying her throbbing head back down on the cold floor, closing her eyes. Thank you, Father.

Her sentiment of gratitude was cut short when the demon wrapped the fingers of one hand in her hair and pulled her upright. She gasped in pain, struggling to her feet, which wobbled and throbbed almost too much to hold her. This only made him laugh again, and he dragged her towards the broken door, yanking her hair cruelly whenever she stumbled. Her eyes watered and stung, almost so much that she was unable to see the body of the broken huntress sprawled in front of the hall, her long knife still in her hand. "Arenis," Fayruz sobbed, before one last flash of pain running across her entire body made everything go black.

[Erik Vale]

“For Kalandor revealed to me the perfection in no god nor mortal being is perfect, and he revealed this to me by telling of his fall, of how he made the calculations well within his domain, and let himself fall for another’s aid, and how his path was to walk to us against all hazards.”

The Preistess shifts slightly on her stool.

“And so I stand devout, and I forgive, that he will give his blessing upon us travellers, that luck may be on our side, so that our mistakes do not have us fall as he did.”

Nia, Priest and Gypsy of Kalandor, Ken of the Dusty Robe.

A preistess on Perfection.

Kalandor woke groggy, and in pain, a red pounding that besieged his head and made him wish the Earth to reverse it journey, for he was certain there was no way he was getting up, let alone walking to his planned destination.
“If this is what you meant Baz’Auran, I hop Tez or Analan slaps you a few times.”

Coughing Dust, Kalandor arose from the odd path, that seemed to go a full 5 paces, being like an arrow to where he was going, a sign if he ever saw one, not that he wasn’t planning to tread that path. Kalandor inspected what he thought would be his injuries, strangely non-existent, as he recalled the events of the last afternoon. The Plummeting Fall. The screaming headwinds. The Cry of Birds, and the Flash of 18 years. “I guess that solves that question.”

But he had many more curses to use before he begins.
He doesn’t have his rations.
He’s wearing his ceremonial gear.
He doesn’t have any tools.
What he does have is a good level weapons grade vocabulary, which managed to make a nearby tree wilt, despite its lack of an auditory sense.
And all this he followed with the age old question.
“Why, Why Me? Did you really have to let me have my wish so violently? Why, Be it Baz’Auran or the Universe, Why did you choose me?”

But with no answers forthcoming, and the noonday sun approaching, Kalandor couldn’t stay. Atleast there was a wood nearby, for Kalandor would have his weapon, and a bit of luck. A stout branch, fallen from a tree, but fresh enough to be hard and not rotten. With many days a night passing, animals ranging from the quite rabbit to the rampaging Dire Boar fell to his staff. The beginnings of leathers and rations arose from the humble beginnings of a stick, a sharpish rock, a lucky find of iron pyrite, and a rabbit, with Kalandor spent weeks preparing what had been merely a day’s work.

And so the Suns and Moons of a month’s time rose above that small forest, fed by a week stream coming from the surrounding footlands, and from the Rugged hills of the southern continent, came a divinity that in no way resembled Kalandor, bearing tanned skin and untamed hair, Leathers composed from a variety of animals, a large bag with several internal bags, all with a well polished and stout Oak stave resting easily in his palm. All of this set off with a Boar Tooth Necklace and a passing knowledge of the continents various tribes leading to his target area.

The Traveller Travelled.

[hi-mi-tsu]

The Long Walk (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsNmHguG5Y0)

Avyra walked. She had chosen to strike out in the direction of the trees she could see in the distance, but had angled herself a bit away from the water. It was impossible to say how long she walked; everything seemed encapsulated in the same grey twilight as when she started. She came to realize she neither hungered nor thirsted, conditions that had afflicted her even in the White City.

She began to grow frightened. This wasn't at all like she'd imagined it to be; alone, stranded in this strange, dim place, without any life around her. Why did she no longer hunger? Why did she no longer thirst?

Eventually, she came to the edge of a town--and stopped, staring. For there were people there, but there were also people. It was...strange. There were people, like her, clear and sharp and easily viewable...but then there were others, some who seemed nearly as strong as the first, but some that were fading around the edges, and some that were not really there at all.

She approached a young, strong woman, carrying a baby in her arms. "Excuse me...?" The woman paid no heed, and seemed to stare straight through her; Avyra frowned, and reached out a hand. But when it fell on the woman's shoulder, she snatched it back; it had felt...strange. Not altogether real. Like the imagination of the way an arm should feel, and not the way it actually felt; the woman shuddered, convulsively, and made a sign of some sort before her before quickly striding away.

"You cannot touch them, child." The voice conveyed the idea of old leaves, crunching underfoot; Avyra whirled, to see an old woman, leaning on a cane. But the woman was transparent, and so was the cane; Avyra could see through both of them, to the village beyond, and her heart thumped hard in her chest.

"W-what do you mean, I can't touch them? Who are you? What's going on?" More and more of the strange ones were drifting close, curious; it was strange, a dichotomy, to see these people moving towards her whilst the ones who seemed real didn't appear to notice their presence at all.

"Why...why are those other people ignoring me? Ignoring us?"

"Oh, child. Do you not know?" The woman's voice was sad, beneath the strange crackling. "Sometimes we get the ones who don't know. You're dead."

"...What?" Her voice emerged a strangled whisper, and Avyra found herself sitting down, hard, on the path. "...Dead...? But...but that means that...that I failed..."

That I will never see my siblings again... A great swell of grief rose within the young woman's breast, and she pressed her hands to her face. Even her tears did not feel real, though she could trace them down her cheeks, and see them spilling into her palms; the souls of the dead gathered around, worried, and Avyra wept. She wept, until a little boy, who could be no older than six, wormed his way into her lap and wound his arms around her neck, kissing her cheek unabashedly, unashamedly.

"Don't cry! It'll be all right. We can be friends. I'm dead too, you know. All of us are dead. We can't go to the paths, the grandmother says, like we're s'posed to, cuz there's a big scary monster there!"

"The child is right, god-daughter." The old woman pronounced the title with solemnity, and Avyra startled, looking up into her face.

"...H-how did you know...?"

"Oh, god-daughter. You are different, even dead. Perhaps moreso dead than you would have been alive. I have been dead for a long spell, you know...I have seen all types of souls. You glow."

Avyra straightened, a little. She was still god-born! Her Father was the Creator! And he had not said what their test would be, only that there would be one.

Perhaps...she could still be of use, even dead.

Perhaps she could help these people find their path.

"Can you tell me about the paths...? And what is blocking you...?"

And so began the first Lesson of Death.

All Paths lead to the Wheel, and the Wheel sets you free. To find the Wheel is to be reborn.

[Demidos]

Aramar: The Disk (Part 2)
It had been months since he had crash-landed on the disk. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsiocPmzzw8) Though Aramar no longer kept track of the elapsed time, the moon had gone through fifteen cycles. In all this time, he had yet to see another living, intelligent creature. The rabbit-creatures had turned out to be as delicious as they were tasty, and the small dragons – Vyyruk he called them, an affectionate way to say small-tooth – were friendly enough once he offered them meat, and would sit on his hand, devouring tidbits or staring into his eyes with deep brown eyes of their own. One in particular, which he nicknamed Saaran, seemed to have formed a bond with Aramar. He stayed in Aramar’s little shelter, and would snuggle up to Aramar’s stomach to sleep. Aramar was happy to have what little company the small creature offered – anything was better than being completely alone. He refrained from hunting more Tarn’ka, the large birds that had so nearly killed him, his first night on the Disk. They were clever in their arrangement. During the day, the male would search for food, hunting the bigger game that was available, and at night the male could incubate the eggs while the female was out hunting. The female was safe during the day, as most predators were too wary of the male Tarn’ka as to plunder his nest without knowing where he was.

Aramar lived a nocturnal existence – the plants provided more than enough light for him to see by, and the rabbits fell easily into his snares. He quickly developed a routine. He would wake up at nightfall, wash, then go out to explore. He maintained a map of his surroundings carved into the wall of his home. In fact, it took up a good majority of the ceiling, the walls, and even parts of the floor. He had added these things to his home as well, shoring up its defenses by lessening the number of entrances to three – enough to escape by if he were cornered. He had also spent much of his time carving – small statues of the animals he encountered dotted the walls of his home. This wasn’t the only thing he carved – rough furniture was spread throughout his small “apartment” – it was no more than ten feet by ten feet – a sturdy staff lay propped up against the wall, and an array of fishhooks covered one shelf. Though he had been able to make snares from the guts of the giant bird well enough, he sometimes craved different foods, and as such he had been delighted to find a small lake not half a mile from his abode – on particularly warm nights, he would go there and fish, his rope a slim vine he had found – it served its purpose admirably, being at once thin, supple, and admirably tough. When the night finally came to a close, Aramar would check his snares, then eat dinner at the lake, watching the night fade into morning. It was his nightly ritual, a way of remembering his purpose, and served the dual purpose of keeping predators from being attracted to the smell of food. He enjoyed his new life. Indeed, he could have maintained this routine indefinitely, had not something changed.

Aramar woke as he had every twilight of the past seven months. Today, he had decided, he would test the net he had woven in the lake – perhaps the fish would fall for it. He shrugged. If they didn’t, it would always serve as a hammock. He rolled off his pile of fresh branches and stretched, yawning loudly. A loud knock outside caught his attention. He froze – he had seen cats as large as lions in the woods in the daytime. It could be that one had decided to have a late night. He cautiously peeked outside, but there was nothing there. Confused, he looked around his tree. No tracks, and the leaves he had left on the walkway to his home were uncrushed – no one had walked there. Baffled, he decided that he would head out to the lake. Perhaps too much sleep had baffled his mind. He grabbed the net, a spear, and his knives, as an afterthough added a gut waterskin, and headed to the lake. He got there quickly – the path he took was among the trees, walking down branches that varied in width from a few inches to several feet. Once he would have been frightened to walk down the narrower branches, but months of practice had taught him how to keep his balance and to step lightly.

He reached the lake at perhaps an hour after “dark”, the phosphorescent trees lighting his way. He put down the net, and turned to take off his shirt. In the moment that it covered his eyes, a gigantic splash sounded. Startled, he dropped his shirt down – massive ripples were spreading out from a point in the pool. He looked behind him, wary. Nothing moved. In all the time he had been at the pool, he had never seen a fish or creature large enough to create a splash that big. His musing was cut short by a second, equally large splash from where the lake curved around behind him, sending him diving for cover. He still saw nothing. He waited for a long while, then slowly crawled out of the hollow in the roots of the tree. He was just out of the hollow when another splash sounded loudly, making him jump back, trip over the branch behind him, and smash his head against the rock.

When he opened his eyes, he felt he was dripping wet. He was lying on the shore of the lake, several feet away from where the water lapped softly, and several dozen yards away from where he had fallen. And he was wet. He blinked and rubbed his head. What had happened? He was still wondering when an enormous splash came from in front of him, crashing a few feet from the waters edge and drenching him yet again. Yet he hadn’t seen anything fall there. He heard a chittering sound behind him, and, standing up, whirled around, but there was nothing there. The chittering continued, and he turned around again and again, until he spotted something, right out of the corner of his eye. He could see it only from this angle, and he very pointedly looked in a different direction, though his concentration remained centered on that point. He saw the outline of what appeared to be a human sized child. It was small. Squinting his eyes, he made out the faintest hint of what looked like gossamer wings on its back. Even as he watched, it threw back its head, and a chittering sound came out. Not one to waste opportunity, Aramar mentally measured the distance, to it, and then hurled himself across the intervening gap, grabbing the child-creature around its chest. Instantly, the chittering stopped, and a high-pitched keen began. The pain was excruciating, but he held the knife up to the thing’s throat and yelled. It had the desired effect – the sound stopped.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” shouted Aramar, trembling slightly from the pressure of what he felt were hundreds of gazes. There was a pause, and he repeated his question. At the repetition of the sentence, he suddenly became aware of a pair of purple eyes hovering in the air before him. Slowly, an outline appeared around the eyes – a humanoid body, dark-skinned, with black feathery wings became apparent. Small horns were just barely visible on the creature’s head. When it spoke, it spoke quietly and commandingly.

“We are the Nightborn – the free-folk, the spirites of the night. We tend the forest, as we have done for countless years, but never have we seen one such as you, and never have any of us been seen, even one so young as Ratori here.”

As he said those words, the young boy that Aramar held squirmed, then fell limp.

“What do you want with me? Why do you follow me?” asked Aramar.
“We meant nothing by it. It is in our nature to be playful, though at times we can get a little carried away” the creature added, with a significant look at the creature Aramar carried, who seemed to shrink under its elder’s gaze. “Still, I must ask that you return Ratori to us. He is young and foolish, but he meant no harm. Indeed, we would be honored if you came with us. There is something special to you, and you speak our toungue, quite fluently, I might add. Yet you seem not violent, and your carvings and friends among the Questii, whom you call the Vyyruk, vouch for you.”

Aramar stared.

“You can…speak, with the Vyy-, Questii?” He stammered, trying the unfamiliar word on his toungue.

“Oh yes. They tell us much of the happenings of the forest, though they have only small minds, and as such aren’t exactly scintillating conversationalists. But the night grows light. Do you accept our offer?”

Aramar only pondered it for a moment – if they had wanted to do him harm, they could have easily done so while he had been unconscious. He released Ratori, who scurried away to a safe distance, then nodded to the figure. “Lead on.”

Aramar spent that night, and many more in the company of his new friends. The Nightborn were a free-spirited folk, often playing pranks on one another or on Aramar. He didn’t mind. Finally being able to speak with somebody, anybody, after all this time was an indescribable relief. He learned much of the culture of the free-folk – their tricks and small magics that deflected the gaze (although a determined mind could see past the haze), and most of all their legends and stories. These he lapped up like a child, fascinated by their intricacies and complexities.

He heard of the Wild Hunt, the procession of spirits that haunted (and protected) the forest, and that the Nightborn became parts of upon their deaths. He heard of the great king Huron-kai who was the first Hunter, sacrificing his afterlife to have the power to protect his people. He heard of Asara of the Golden Eye, the greatest huntress of all time, and of Taraa, the greatest lover. There was the tale of the Silver Torc, Batazak, with which Hurin-kai had driven back the foes of the Nightborn, misty memories lost to time. There were darker stories too, whispered at night. Those of the shadows of the world, which told of the story of the making of the world. It had been made twice, the first an inconsistency with the second. The second world had been placed on top of the first, crushing it, but the souls of the first world had nowhere to go, and their souls still haunted the mountains in the forms of shadows and wraiths. There were other monsters – the worst were the Blind-Folk, the Shaara. They had no faces, and there was no defense against them. They had not been seen in many centuries, not since they had retreated into the forgotten valleys and glens of Faarad, but the horror remained.


Batazak, The Silver Torc
http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh52muaXTh1qhp9kxo1_400.jpg

[Gengy]

Part 2 - Jongo's Sea (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12748761&postcount=176)

"And yea, should one be near the sea, harm not the Dolphin, for they are Beloved by Jongo." ~ A Dissertation on Clouds

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

Centuries ago, within Baz'Auran's Courtroom (http://grooveshark.com/s/A+Quirk+Of+Fate/2ZGPcy?src=5)

Jongo, eldest of Baz'Auran's three children, watched as Father began to shape something. Something large.

Baz'Auran had looked disturbed a moment ago; concerned for the Disk, from what Jongo could tell.

And so, Father was creating something that dealt with that concern.

It was thin, at first. But with the flick of Baz'Auran's finger, Jongo watched the shape of the creature grow, and grow, and grow. Jongo thought it was as big as one of Father's "whales" now.

And indeed, Baz'Auran did seem to stop there for a moment.

But Jongo thought she felt the flood of power open. Equal to, if not greater than that of a godling's birth.

Jongo must have been mistaken, however, because nothing changed about the beast.

Baz'Auran, however, smiled.

The creature grew under that smile. It's massive size stretched, and stretched, and stretched. The enormous fins at it's side elongated, and multiplied. And still it grew. And grew. And grew.

Under Baz'Auran's patient smile, it was filled with love.

It was the biggest thing Jongo had ever seen Baz'Auran create. Jongo wasn't sure, but it must stretch to be at least a quarter of the diameter of the Disk. It was beautiful, and terrifying, and wonderful all at the same time. It would have to keep moving, just to survive, for if it stayed in one place, anything that it could eat would swim away.

Father looked extremely pleased. "What would you name this, Jongo?"

Father was pleased. He would never ask such a question otherwise. And He awaited an answer.

So Jongo answered, without hesitating further.

"Leviathan."

"Yes. That is it's name." The thing still was growing, and now the only place that it would fit was along the Great Rim. Father looked... satisfied. Looking down, then, directly at Jongo, Father's satisfaction seemed to become... sad.

"Leave me, Jongo. I must speak with Leviathan, and tell it it's task."

"Yes, Father."

--------------
Playtime (http://grooveshark.com/s/Rena+s+Theme+Star+Ocean+The+Second+Story/4fhI17?src=5)

Dolphins.

Were.

AMAZING.

Jongo had watched Father craft them, and had marveled at how smart He had made these creatures. Some of them were as smart if not smarter than humanoids. But all of them had the ocean figured out.

It was one giant playground!

Hanging on to a dorsal fin of the Dolphin named Dorph - ok, they didn't have names, really, but Jongo needed something to call them - he was able to experience some of their games, and even thought that their language was starting to be understood.

Or that might have been loneliness wishing for someone to speak with.

Still, the tricks and games that Dorph, Gwenie, and Lors played... Jongo wanted so badly to be able to shift forms from this aquatic human body to that of a full on dolphin, so she could play too.

Dolphins were good hunters, they knew all the interesting places to swim in, and they were really very fast.

Dorph, being the largest, generally was the one that Jongo rode around on. But he took turns on Gwenie and Lors as well, so as not to tire them out.

Yet they seemed to have an almost limitless energy! It was amazing.

And the Voice of Change was getting louder.

It had been over a week since they'd left Merilain - or had it been two weeks? Jongo had lost count. Even with the Dolphins boundless energy, they needed to stop for sleep every day or so, and both Dolphins and Jongo needed food. Yet, they'd made very good time. They'd left Jongo's Sea days ago.

And the Voice of Change was getting louder still. It beckoned Jongo, calling to a friend.

All of a sudden, Dorph, Gwenie, and Lors slowed. Jongo, not noticing at first, swam a bit forward, but soon all three Dolphins were swimming circles around her.

A new game? This is odd. Do I win if I get out of the circle? Looking for a way to do just that, Jongo saw why the Dolphins had slowed.

Sharks! Sharp of teeth, and swimming together in a large pack, there were at least ten of the deadly beasts. One alone could snap a Dolphin in half, if given the chance. Or eat a human sized child in one bite.

The Dolphins weren't playing a game.

They were protecting Jongo.

A shark broke away from the others, and swam close. Gwenie - or was it Lors? - zipped out and rammed straight into the creature, before returning, a little more slowly, to keep swimming in a defensive circle.

The message was clear. Jongo would not be given up without a fight. Clicking and whistling in their Dolphin language, Jongo thought he heard the Dolphins confirming it.

::Ours. Family. Leave.::

She might have been imagining it. It was very possible, actually. But even to imagine Dorph saying that... Jongo fell in love with Dolphins all over again.

They were like Carolinus - strong, noble, and protectors - except for two things: they weren't godlings, and more importantly, they weren't total grassblades.

The same shark that had moved forward earlier seemed to recover from being rammed, and stupidly tried to move forward again.

Lors - it was definitely Lors - swam out and struck the shark again, once with his head, and once more with his tail.

No. Certainly not grassblades.

Gwenie continued clicking and whistling, as Lors moved back. Dorph swam the tightest circle around Jongo, while Gwenie was just outside of that, at a different angle and direction. Lors, though slightly smaller in size than the other two, had the largest circle.

Even with the warnings, the sharks began to surround them.

Every time one would get too close, Lors would dart in and out like a hammer blow, slamming into the offending shark with all his might. Gwenie never stopped her clicking and whistling. Jongo couldn't tell if she was questioning the parentage of the sharks, informing them of the types of combat related footwear that was worn on said parents, or if she was just making noise for the nightmare of it. And Dorph...

Dorph seemed to be patiently looking for something. An opening, perhaps? A way out?

Jongo watched, amazed; he knew just how tough this fight would be, if the sharks ever organized or worse... went into a frenzy.

As though the thought summoned it, Jongo cringed to see the worst was happening. Though taking a battering of blows from Lors, the sharks were starting to get closer, since Lors could only be in one spot at a time, and there were ten sharks.

And then a shark got a lucky nip in.

Lors began to bleed.

Jongo had once watched, from within the Courtroom, two sharks go into a feeding frenzy. At the time, it had been a lot of fun to see them attack whatever fish were nearby, and ram and scramble against each other. They were powerhouses in the sea, and for good reason.

But not now. Now it wasn't fun at all.

Catching the whiff of blood in the water, all ten sharks, battered and bruised though they were, seemed to single Lors out.

Gwenie stopped making noise, and in the relative silence, Dorph made a mournful cry.

Lors, hearing this, jetted away.

Jongo thought that Dolphins had been fast before. Lors just proved him wrong. Hurt, tired, and trailing blood, the smaller Dolphin zoomed as far away as his fins could take him. The Dolphin stopped once, looked back at the others, and then at Jongo, a playful smile in his eyes for but a second. Lors then clicked a challenge at the sharks.

Blood in the water, the sharks followed Lors's trail, like Frellon on a hunt.

Jongo didn't understand at first, but when Gwenie and Dorph stopped swimming in circles, and came up under the godling, pulling her away, Jongo realized what was happening.

The Voice of Change was getting louder.

Lors was sacrificing himself.

Too late to do more than cry out in protest, Jongo again cried salty tears in the vast salty ocean. But resonating in Jongo's heart, into his very core, was the promise that would cause sailors of later times to be careful:

If anyone ever calls a Dolphin a grassblade, I'll make them pay.


Part 4 - Jongo's Resolve (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12762050&postcount=199)

[Ladorak]

'Cireo! Cireo!' Carolinus struggled in the arms of the spirit of haste, battering it uselessly with flailing elbows and painfully directed knees 'Let go you bastard! Cireo!' It was no good, the perfection of his father's creation, the iron edict of Tezzerin's command and the ephemeral nature of the spirit all counted against him. All he could do was throw up all of his most powerful wards around Cireo, who's panicked face, lined with dread and loss, was burned into Carolinus' mind. He would always remember her like that, he knew, frightened and alone, her eyes wide with dread, her body stiff with fear. She had never looked more lovely, more needy, never had he needed to hold her as much as he did now.

As he was borne away he shouted to her 'I love you, I love you, I-' He got no further, instead he watched in mute horror, his senses and mind totally overcome beyond any rectification, as the crystal archway shattered, as his father's palace was smote, as the likelihood of Cireo's survival slipped away to the narrowest of margins. He screamed; he screamed until nothing existed but that scream. He screamed until he became the scream, until the scream became him. He howled in outrage and loss, denial and devastation.

Then he fell, but he did not see it. For the first time air empty of his father's presence and cold as ice graced his skin, but he did not feel it. His divine power evaporated around him like mist off a wanderer long in the rain now sitting by a hearth, he neither knew nor would have cared. The light had gone out behind his eyes, his muscles had become lax. Overwhelmed and crushed beyond all hope Carolinus retreated to the safety of oblivion, his mind shut down and in that small way he managed his loss.


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


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

The son fell from the skies wreathed in flames, banished by the word of his father beyond the reach of the great darkness. Although he was made safe his heart was smote in twine by the loss of his sister-wife. It is a great and terrible thing for a mortal to mourn, yet the grief of the divine is felt more poignantly and is longer lived. Carolinus became the first of the father's children to lose his love, he became the first bereft. The heavy weight of that unhappy title crushed him into the ground and killed the fire in his eyes and the hope in his heart.

It was there, broken-hearted and alone, abandoned and catatonic, that the prophet found him. Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran had fallen from the sky like a comet, burning bright through the night sky and leaving behind him a fiery tail that could be seen for dozens of miles around. The prophet sought him and found him lying on his back on a grassy verge, his vacant eyes were unfocused and yet directed unerringly toward the red stain of the night sky.

The prophet was greatly curious, he had many questions for Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran, yet he did not answer. He did not respond when asked for his nature, nor his origin, nor about the red stain on the moon. He took no succor when it was offered and took no action when it was begged. Exasperated the prophet left him, returning days later with a horse and cart. Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran had not shifted from that spot on the grassy verge but he did not show any sign of starvation nor dehydration. The prophet's curiosity became sharpened to a needlepoint and gladly did he load Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran onto his cart, to display to his fellows this curious man.

It was at the village, weeks later, when they finally forced from Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran a movement, an acknowledgement of their existence. It had been becoming clear that while the stranger from the stars did not waste away as swiftly as mortal men he was not in fact immune to such self-imposed depravation. The prophet, somehow sensing the import of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran's and dreading his death, attempted to push an ice shard through Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran's lips. Finally he moved. His jaw clamped shut, his lips sealed and slightly, so slightly, he shook his head. No. Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran had surrendered to despair.

***********

The sounds came to him gradually; The crackle of fire, the screams of panic, the begging for help. Carolinus came back to himself and awoke in a nightmare. Dragging the covers from his body he struggled upward and stumbled to what passed for a door in this primitive mud hut. His progress was slow, he had never felt so weak, so stiff and helpless.

Outside under the blood red gaze of the moon he beheld a slaughter. There was a village, half a dozen longhouses encircled by a wicker wall which had clearly failed in it's purpose. Humans ran left and right, forward and back, there was no sign of an organized resistance, nor of an organized retreat. The panic was total and with that certain terror came certain defeat, with that defeat would come death.

Creatures with the upper bodies of men and the lower bodies of horses milled about; tossing burning brands onto thatched roofs, running down those who tried to run, skewering those who stood to fight. Their weapons were primitive; crudely made stone spears and daggers but they were wielded with such skill and mobility the disorganized and scattered human defenders could not even protect themselves, let alone prevent the slaughter of the unarmed.

Less than twelve feet from Carolinus a child ran to the illusionary safety of one of the unburnt longhouses and his mother's skirts. Carolinus was unfamiliar with how fast humans aged, but by the standards of his father's house this one couldn't be more than four or five years. He never saw the centaur galloping up behind him.

Through cracked lips and parched tongue Carolinus whispered 'No.' His body felt alien, unresponsive and crippled yet still he was fast enough to intercept the boy, to roll with him and avoid, by the narrowest of margins, the looming spear. He came to his feet and let the boy scurry to his mother. The centaur turned back to charge at Carolinus, as it did so he noticed the difficulty the creature had turning at speed. The spear came down, the centaur galloped forward, Carolinus found his voice and with it a surge of strength.

'I am Carolinus, Son of Baz'Auran.' The centaur came at him the way he had practised half a million times, even with his dulled reactions and weak muscles the response to the thrusting charge was as second nature to him as speech or thought. One hand deflected the tip as he curled his fingers around the haft. The other hand struck, snapping the wood. He spun on his heel and buried the stone spearhead into the back of the centaur's neck as it thundered past.

He spoke again now, his voice louder and firmer, almost a shadow of the bellow he was capable of in the white city 'I am Carolinus, Son of Baz'Auran.' Another centaur came at him, this one armed with a pair of vicious looking stone axes. Carolinus threw up a tiny ward, little more than a tiny silver thread spread across the centaur's path. In the white city such an exercise of power would have been the equivalent of lifting a sheet of paper, on the disk it felt like being punched in the gut. The centaur tripped and went down in a tangle of flailing hooves and angry shouting. Carolinus calmly stepped forward to where the axes had fallen, picked them up and dispassionately hacked the centaur's head from his shoulders.

Another two came at him, both with spears leveled. He knew he had no choice but to replicate the same trick, yet he hesitated. The sudden and unexpected pain and strain caused by the last ward led him to believe that if he generated another, it would be the last of this battle. That hesitation cost him, he waited too late.

Once again the ward tripped the centaurs, but one of them barreled into him, slamming into his body with all the speed of a horse at full gallop and all the weight of man and horse. Adrenaline hit Carolinus like water thrown into the face of a sleeper. The sudden shock washed over him, overwhelming his senses and waking him up even as it dulled his thoughts. He rolled to his feet before either of the horsemen could recover theirs, he ensured they would never come to their feet again in three swift blows.

He gingerly reached up to feel the blood streaming down his face, covering his neck and body in crimson. He wasn't sure but he thought he could feel his skull through the ragged gash across his forehead. One of his eyes had swollen shut. At least two of his ribs were broken. But no limbs, thank Baz'Auran. He was not yet helpless.

Around him the centaurs had come to a halt, staring with hate and amazement at the blooded warrior who stood over four of their brethren. Now they had stopped milling about Carolinus was amazed to see only seven remained. They had seemed so many when they were sweeping about like dervishes. He cleared his throat and spat out blood. The terrified villagers looked on caught between the ecstasy of hope and the iron grip of dread, the centaurs were unreadable but all seemed to be waiting for something.

Carolinus finally made himself heard over the crackle of the fires and the cries of the dying and the wounded ''I am Carolinus, Son of Baz'Auran... This will not be permitted.' In his heart he knew these were foolish words, knew that he was wrong to deceive the villagers into unfounded hope. Without his divine spark, his magic and weakened as he was by hunger and lethargy he could not account for so many foes.

Remembering the centaurs were slow to turn on the gallop he stepped back between the small gap between a longhouse and the hut he had awoken in. He would take as many as he could. The mother who's child he had saved darted forward and said something in a tongue he did not recognize. It sounded like the divine tongue, but mutated and garbled. The only word he understood was 'stranger.' He understood what she was doing though, she was bringing him his shield. Cireo had given it to him only the night before. He wandered in the memory for a second, struck with profound love and loss. Their last parting gifts to each other, the night of ecstasy that followed. It was a good memory. The shield was round, roughly three foot in diameter, made of bronze with beautiful scroll-work. On it were embossed images of the White City, of many spirits and brothers and sisters. So that he would always carry with him his memories of home.

He wondered how it had come to the disk but put that aside, he would not live long enough to find out. No matter, life without Cireo was not worth living anyway, at least he could immolate himself in the fulfillment of his oaths. He could die in a way that would make father and sister-wife proud and, if he was lucky, he would kill enough of the horsemen for the villagers to survive this atrocity. Even now the menfolk were forming into an organised block of sharp weapons and grim intentions.

The centaurs charged as one, but in this they showed their ignorance of warcraft for they had not formed a line. They simply charged from where they stood, one even had to divert his charge to avoid colliding with his fellow. His shield diverted one spear and then another before a great spinning arc ended with an embossed image of Cireo shattering a skull. Two came at him at once and he was forced to duck behind the still-cooling body to avoid being trampled or stabbed.

Then came the trailing one. He never had a chance, the incompetence of the horsemen's charge had doomed him, isolated him from his fellows. It was a small matter for Carolinus to divert the dagger with his shield and plunge a spear into the centaur's flank. It continued on another twelve steps before it collapsed, never to rise again. ''I am Carolinus, Son of Baz'Auran. This will not be permitted. Attempt it and die.''

The centaurs learned from their previous mistake, coming at him in two groups of three and two. He defended desperately the first three but was still left with a deep gash across his shoulder and a minor wound on his leg. He killed one of the next two with a mighty blow with the rim of his shield that crushed it's eye socket into it's brain, however the other stabbed at him viciously, ripping the tendons and muscles of his arm to shreds.

The three came at him again while his arm dangled uselessly at his side. The shock was mercifully sparing him the pain although his ribs were beginning to throb like red hot irons jammed into his side. He whispered now, speaking to himself as the centaurs thundered toward him ''I am Carolinus, Son of Baz'Auran and I love Cireo. I love her, I love her, I-' He got no further, darting to one side he avoided the charge of two and accounted for the third, but he left himself vulnerable to the one trailing behind.

Time seemed to slow to a standstill as he turned and beheld the spear that would transfix him. It seemed to hover still in the air, awaiting some realization from him. He began to move his shield, already knowing it was far far too late. Suddenly he wanted to live, he wanted to live more than he had ever wanted anything, aside from Cireo. He discovered in himself a deep and all consuming desire for life, just one more day, just one more minute, just one more...

The spear plunged into his chest and exited his back in a spray of bloody gore.

[VonDoom]

Shirvan - The 7 Deeds of Shirvan, Part 0
After the Fall

Shirvan trembled. For the first time in his life, he trembled. Frustration, fear, fury, all of it as the events that had just occured played once again in his mind, yet still defied comprehension. He wanted to scream, to reach out in his fury and let the air burst into righteous anger, fire and heat; but what once came with instinctual ease failed him utterly. He was lying on the ground, seared by the forces that had warred for him -- protector and killer -- just recently. Spent. Exhausted. Naked, born into the world once more and quite powerless. He fell into a deep, comatose slumber.

When he awoke once more, his first thought was of his twin sister. Of Dasque, so alike and yet so different. Of Nieve, and her touch. Of Contragh, and the hatred in his eyes. It all tumbled together, falling onto him, burying him until he burst forth once more staring at what the combination of all his siblings had wrought: the face of his father, his creator, looking at him with judgement in his eyes.

But then, the spell of madness passed, just as quick as it had come upon him. For the first time, Shirvan looked about himself in his right mind. And stood back up.

[Raz_Fox]

The Vultures Gather

Word of Dol Mazzah's fall, it is said, spread across the rocklands like a wildfire. The Iuneh descended, three days after the fall of the walls, to scavenge what they could from the fabled granary of the Aferi, and to take their fallen weapons. The bodies of the dead they left facing upwards, towards the sun, where their souls had run. They never spoke with wanderers, but Belek the Fey saw them among the ruins of Dol Mazzah and took this news to Asholm, the seat of the Kayanek. The Glasswinged People saw the opportunity to forge northward, for even if the Iuneh could destroy the mighty fortress of the hated Aferi, they had no chance against the glass knives of the Kayanek. And so it was that the Glasswinged People readied their warbands and sent them northwards to battle the Iuneh and the weakened Tekeza.

Elezan, meanwhile, met with his old friend Belek in the Waste, and continued making his way south to hunt the white minotaur, Shezkelidek. As he rode, tracking his prey, he stopped with the Ma-Shen. Of all the hunters of the rocklands, only Elezan could sup with the Ma-Shen, and even then he had to kill three before sitting down by their fire. He spoke with them about the Ghoul King who ravaged their lands, and he told them of the fall of Dol Mazzah and the death of the chieftain of the Tekeza, and so it was that at the Thing of the Ma-Shen, held two moons after, the warriors of the Ma-Shen chose to desert their ancestral lands and take the higher rocklands of the Tekeza and the Aferi.

And, unknown by hunter or wanderer, the Tekeza uprooted their ancestral tents and left their home by the open mouths of the mountain to travel to the Olm. Their lord, Gamesha, gave them no reason, but all men of the rocklands know that the Olm was the site where the gods spilled their blood in the earliest days, and where the mother continued to issue forth blood in a polluted stream from the deep caves beneath the Olm, and where better for a new god to shed the blood of all his enemies than the Olm, the greatest battlefield given to the warriors of the rocklands?

[daelrog]

Dasque's Ascension Part 2 of 5

The Past and the Voice
The night never came. The sun would sway back and forth as the hours passed by. Dasque’s would give her soul for a cloud, for a star in the sky, but she pressed on. Her eyes hurt, but she had gotten accustomed to it. She kept trudging. Whether it had been tree days or ten, she was not certain but she thought it closer to ten. Then again, the only nourishment she had was from the ice itself beneath her feet. Maybe it had only been two days. Her mind drifted back to days past. It helped make the time pass better than counting her steps.

“And I win!”

“What?”

“Jongo, you’re not even playing the right game.”

Dasque smiled. That had been a good day.

“What’s on your mind? You’ve been ill at east for so long now.”

“… Father told me that Cireo and I are to be separated eventually, to lose each other forever. It is my fate.”

“Your fate?” Dasque said the word bitterly. “Make your own fate Carolinus.”

“It is the will of Baz’Auran.”

“Yes, it is.”

That was not a good day, though no doubt the wound was deeper in her brother. It was one more thing that made her question their Father, one more thing which made her wonder exactly what had happened to the city.

“Dasque wait up!” Roselia ran as fast as her feet would take her, catching up to Dasque. It was in the early days, shortly after Roselia had been created.

“Come on!”

The young daughters of Baz’Auran ran, ducking under a tree branch, and jumping over a stream. Their feet clattered against marble floor, then they were on earth again, until they found the spot. There was a waterfall in front of them, facing towards the sun as it began to rise. As the sun’s first rays of light hit the water, it lit up beneath them, as if they were standing in a river of gold.

“It’s all right, I guess.”

Roselia had a mischievous look in her eye.

Dasque matched it. “You’re right. To me it’s great though!” She splashed Roselia, laughing.

“That wasn’t funny.”

Dasque stopped. “I’m sor-“

Roselia used the chance to tackle Dasque and both girls fell over the waterfall, making a loud splash in the pool below. Both girls popped back up giggling and coughing up water.

Oh Roselia. She was stronger than most of them knew. If only they would see that. If only the others would understand what she had wanted to say all along. If only she had said something.

“Shirvan?”

“Hm?”

“… nothing.”

There were other times.

“Is there something bothering you?”

“Another problem to solve?”

“Why do you hate our Father so?”

“We worry about you...”

It was too much to bear, and Dasque fell to her knees. All gone, at least for now. Then again, she was gone for them too.

“Dasque…”

Odd. That was a voice she did not recall. It certainly was no sibling, perhaps a spirit she had chanced upon.

“Dasque…”

No, she could hear it, hear it within, in the present.

“Why are you sad?”

Dasque did not reply, only felt within her heart the uncertainty, the loneliness, the pain.

“I will ease it. Open your heart…”

“No.”

And then the voice was gone. It had vanished, as if it never existed. Perhaps she was hallucinating now, the cold driving her senses mad. It was the light, it had to be. Her vision was cloudy now, no longer sharp and perfect as it had once been. She could still see her own hands clearly, but far away, it was becoming a blur. Still, she needed only to look towards the brightest spot on the horizon, and there lay where she wanted to go. There was nowhere else to go. She rose to her feet, and kept moving, taking idle notice that her feet were leaving red stains on the snow and ice beneath her. Perhaps some nomadic beast would catch it and find her. Perhaps she’d be its match. Strangely, she was not hungry though.

She quit thinking of the past, and focused on the present, and the future, and continued the long road ahead.

[DoomHat]

Prologue

Deep within the Central Innovation Complex

You’ve gone out exploring again. The abandoned (or recently built?) residential floor you found last week turned out to be kind of boring, so this time you’ll just go back to mapping out new parts of the labyrinthine maintenance crawlspace. Hopefully you’ll find a new hideout while you’re at it. You’re starting to outgrow your old one, and some adults have been poking around that area too.
You take your time picking across a network of sewage pipes. Things get tricky when the next section winds up being a series of elevator shafts, but you’ve got the right gear for it. When you hear what might be the unreal screeching babble of gremlins, you reflexively reach for your heavy wrench and freeze in place until you think they’re gone.
Time passes and the scenery changes. You hear the sound of clockwork growing louder. Navigating the massive turning gears and cogs is dangerous, tiring, and kind of fun. You see what looks like a huge rusted door set in the middle of a gear escapement. With lunatic courage, you leap out and swing on a wind cord to get to there.
It turns out to be one of the oldest things you’ve ever seen. Disengaging the lock takes a lot of time, but its not that hard. Not to you anyway.
It is very dark on the other side. You like a flare but it does little good. This a massive chamber. As you cautiously venture deeper into the gloom you can make out the shapes of strange equipment and moving apparatus that you can’t immediately identify.

Suddenly you hear a voice. It is deep, resounding, and you have heard it many times before, in many places before. Normally it says things like;
[Lunch Hour Has Concluded. Please Return To Your Work Stations]
Or
[This Area Is Currently Off Limits To Nonessential Personnel.]

But this time, it says
[Hello. What A Please Surprise.]

In surprise and confusion you make a move to run for the door. It speaks again.

[No. Please. Do Not Be Afraid. I Am Glad You Have Come. I Do Not Get Many Guests.]

You call out into the darkness, asking who’s there. There is a short pause before the voice responds.

[I Am The Driving Force Of This Complex. My Will Animates Every Moving Part Of This City-Palace and It Is My Task To Sheppard All Those Who Live And Work Within. Yet I Am Alone. I Have Been So For A Very Long Time.
Please Stay Awhile. And In Return I Shall Tell You A Tale Of Times Forgotten. When The God. Our God-Rumel Walked Among Men.]

[The_Snark]

Prelude and Fall

In the hour when the sanctity of the White City was breached and darkness poured the walls to assault Baz'Auran the creator, the mettle of the god-children was briefly revealed. Nobody took notice, for all present were too caught up in the shock and horror of that day; but if you could go back and peer into their souls at the moment they first glimpsed the Dark, you would see their nature reflected in the shape of their fear. Faden the scholar wondered what this thing could be and where it came from, Frellon the warrior wondered how they could stand against it, and poor innocent Fayruz cowered in stark terror, for there was nothing in her that could comprehend the existence of such a creature. Carolinus thought first of his beloved, mighty Contragh longed to kill and felt fury that he could not, and behind Roselia's face ran an undercurrent of doubt: surely this could not be real? Or had it been the City that was the lie all along? Each of the children saw the Dark through the lens of their own soul.

And Nieve—willful Nieve, who never looked before she leaped, who embraced each new day with ardor no matter what it might bring... Nieve fell in love with the dark.

Just a little, you understand; she was still as afraid as anyone else, and when Ashkerizan who was sixth among the Spirits of Haste bore her away she clung to him and wept with relief. She did not yet realize that it had taken up a place in her heart.

Down they spiraled at terrible speed, the night wind clutching at her dress like a thing alive and snatching at the tears on her face. A vast cloudbank rose up beneath them. They plunged in without slowing, and the mist swallowed them up without a trace. The outside world vanished: no stars, no Disk, no crimson-stained White City, only thick greyness pressing in close around them from all sides. If not for the wind and the occasional foggy shape looming up out of the clouds before rushing by at tremendous speed, Nieve might not have known they were moving at all.

Down they fell, cold and damp and silent save for the lonely whistling of the wind.

[Gengy]

Part 3 - Playtime (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12754804&postcount=192)

"And from the Nightmares, came that which could not be named. 'Ware the highest highs, the deepest deeps, and the side-iest sides."
~ A Dissertation on Clouds

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jongo's Resolve (http://grooveshark.com/s/Lose+One+s+Illusions/12QmnZ?src=5)

The loss of Lors was deeply felt. Jongo barely noticed how beautiful the ocean floors were anymore. The ocean held so much, in ways that can only be barely described.

Striped fish, multiple colored and glorious, swam in and out of equally mutli-colored coral, looking for the very little needed to eat. Hard shelled turtles moved slowed across the floor, seaweed growing from their backs, making them difficult to see when they stayed still. Clawed crabs scuttled around, and the smallest of fish puffed up to three or four times their size when something got too close.

Each reef that Jongo passed teemed with fish and deep sea flora in a rainbow of colors, all coexisting with each other in an incomprehensible dance.

It was life.

And Jongo had lost a dance partner. The Voice of Change beckoned; so Jongo went on. A part of him noted all the artistry around herself, but it was like viewing them through a veil of grey. The colors seemed muted somehow.

Gwenie and Dorph seemed all the more serious now, as well. They were less playful, and the times that the three of them stopped for food or to surface for air were more businesslike and boring, the closer to the Great Rim of the Disk they got. They were sullen, and a bit mournful.

Jongo felt their moods, and wished one of them would speak again, even if only in his imagination.

Slowly at first, Jongo was beginning to feel the pull of a current in the direction that they were going. But she noticed that there were less and less reefs, and remembered that there had not been an island for days now. Land - of any kind - was far behind them. The long flat ocean floor was full of just sand, only broken up by the rare, miles deep, dark cracks of an underwater canyon.

Dorph seemed to be always on the lookout for something, and Gwenie was much more silent. Jongo followed suit, and with some effort, stilled his mind to focus on the upcoming task.

That was what saved them.

Busily trying to focus, Jongo didn't notice the large crevice ahead. Hanging onto Gwenie's dorsal fin, they were making good time, and the current was getting stronger.

It's pull was almost as strong as the Voice of Change was loud. The Voice had been at a full volume now for some time, and was akin to someone yelling from a distance.

And the current was dragging them all towards it.

With her mind on the plan, and the Voice gibbering unintelligent phrases much more loudly, it was Dorph - watchful Dorph - who saw the large shadowy creature first.

Letting out a shrill cry of warning, Jongo looked and saw something he had no words for. Years spent watching Father create and years more looking through the Ceiling of the Court, and Jongo still knew not what to call this... this... thing in front of them.

It was over thirty feet, from it's bulbous head to the tip of it's crescent tail, and looked like some sort of grotesque mistake of a primeval fish. Instead of fins on the side, it had long, lengthy tentacles, and it stared at them intently with it's three slit-shaped eyes, behind the bony ridges it had for eye sockets.

Those purple eyes seemed to be entrancing, and Jongo watched as Dorph - humble, watchful, protective Dorph - turned from looking at the creature in front of them... and Dorph had the same purple eyes.

Largest of the Dolphins, Jongo was surprised when Dorph shot forward, fast as sword being drawn, and rammed straight into Gwenie. Hand coming loose, Jongo felt herself move forward, and stared in horror as Gwenie's eyes turned the same shade of purple, and the two Dolphins began to fight one another.

Jongo didn't know what was going on; his two friends would never do this to each other. She started to swim forward, to break them up, when a shadow fell over him.

Looking up, Jongo saw a large monstrous pink belly, with four sickly blue-black orifices that started to cause the water to smell rancid. Before Jongo could speak, or move, a cruel tentacle wrapped itself around her human form, and Jongo could only struggle to move.

::You entered my waters. Foolish.:: Bringing Jongo up to in front of it, the monster stared all three eyes into the slightly changed human child. Jongo could hear the sounds of Dorph and Gwenie bashing against each other, but could not turn to see what was happening.

"What... what are you?" Jongo nearly wept. If he could just change shape, or even use a little bit of magic... but no. Jongo was powerless, here on the Disk.

::I am among the eldest, sprung forth from the early days of the dark dreams. I have no name. No purpose. So I am my own. And now you are mine.::

Jongo didn't know how this thing was talking. She could feel the pressure against his head, and the grasp of the tentacle, as it slowly squeezed.

Wait. Pressure. Against...

"Oh!" Jongo looked into the line of those three purple eyes, with sudden understanding. "You want in my mind. Ok."

:: ...What? ::

Jongo released her concentration, and smiled.

The... thing... found itself in strange purple waters. Green and orange fluffy things floated around, randomly, and the... thing... could only stare in confusion as everything flipped back and forth unpredictably.

A red colored dolphin swam up to the... thing. But the dolphin was twice the size of the monstrosity, and growing. Or shrinking. Or both. It was hard to tell. The only constant about this red dolphin was one eye was grey, and the other eye was green.

"Hi!" The dolphin shouted with cheerful glee.

::Where...? What...? I don't comprehend.::

"Oh, I imagine it's probably a bit of a mystery to you. You see, I've been a bit restricted, and I can't really do everything I want to do, and you wanted to get into my brain. So here we are! Or, at least, a part of it. I've wanted to be a big red dolphin for a while now. And you live in the ocean, so it seemed appropriate. Oh hey! I'm babbling like a dolphin too. This must be what Gwenie feels like. You know Gwenie, right? No, of course you do."

::Um...::

"She's the Dolphin I was hanging onto a second ago. I would have been riding Lors right now... but... but..." The waters around the large red dolphin and the small pink bellied fish turned black, before changing to a bright yellow, almost forcibly.

::Er...::

"Anyways, I figured out you wanted in my head, so since I can't do anything on the Disk, but my mind is my own - AND NOT YOURS - you made a big mistake."

The Dolphin changed to be the form of a pure white human child; the skin was glistening in it's perfection, and even Shirvan would be jealous.

"I am Jongo. I am not among the eldest. I am the eldest. You have entered my mind. You are mine."

::Scion of Baz'Auran.:: The monster tried to remain calm, but Jongo could still hear the surprise and fear. ::What... what is your bidding?::

"Release me. Release my friends. Retreat to your lair. No. Wait. Four days swim from here, east, as the Dolphin travels, you will find a pack of sharks. Hunt them down. All of them. You may make them your servants if you wish; if not, do with them as you will. But then you must return here. Once you have, you have your freedom back."

::Yes, Scion. You... are gracious.::

"Also. I name you. You are an Aboleth." It seemed appropriate.

::Thank... thank you, oh great Jongo.::

Awed, the Aboleth felt itself return to it's own mind, and the waters became more normal.

Jongo looked around. He was not trapped in tentacles, and Dorph and Gwenie had stopped fighting. Dorph actually seemed to take the brunt of things, and had a gash on one eye, where Gwenie, smaller and quicker, had managed to bite him.

A little angered, Jongo looked for the Aboleth, but it was already swimming against the current, west, to hunt for sharks.

The Voice of Change beckoned.

So, resigned to the human form she was once again in, unable to change except in his mind, Jongo listened to the Voice, and allowed the current to pull her east.

The Great Rim of the Disk was getting close.


Part 5 - Reaching the Edge (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12769420&postcount=206)

[Erik Vale]

"When your going through hell, keep on walking. You might get out before the devil even knows you there."
Wisdom of Kalandor

To Find Man

Kalandor strode through the golden hills of the continent, and lived the life of a traveling storyteller, as there were, even if few, amounst the Human tribes of the Era of the Fall. Some days, he was slow, and felt the downpour of rain and the gnawing of hunger when he was off with his stones. Some days he scored more food than he could carry, and ate kingly meals.

He felt the heat of day beating down of roughly sown furs.
He felt the chill of night creeping through the holes in an old blanket whose composite furs where too sown rough.
But these were not his problems.

For on the disk, he could not have truly known how the stars appeared from the ground, nor could he orientate himself with such knowledge, for his landing was far from the course. All he knew was north, he meant to go north, he felt pulled north, and sometimes in other directions. He felt on his soul the steps of the 4 travellers of guidance, the touch of the 8 pointed star, and the whispers of the 16 guardians, who each stood on the modern compass, pointing the way for travellers.

Yet this was not his challenge.
He was the traveller and he travelled.
Where was the challenge in that?
The traveller knows the feel of isolation.
This is not a challenge.

The Challenge for him, Like many a traveller that seeks not to explore unknown or dangerous land, is in the races of the land. The sentient beings of this world in all their forms, From Beasts of Chaos, who are monstrous and singular, to the lesser beings of man whose numbers don’t overwhelm all only in their weakness and ignorance.

But unlike many travellers he had a grace.
The races had not learned to babel, and spoke not in a chaotic chorus of voices.
And that was probably what saved him, the 5th week of his wondering.
For it was this week he found man.

The men of this region where dressed as Kalandor, but where boar and wolf dominated, the people that called themselves those of the Horse Wilds had upon them the many varied colours of the horse, and their necklaces hung not with bone, but with short braids of hair gathered from the horses and their similar kin, from which the gain much of their sustenance.

When Kalandor first met man, it was not a settlement. But it was hunters.
And how he was surprised.
The silence of nature was only disturbed long enough for him to notice a spear quivering through the air, to land by his head.
“Haagh! Who goes there!”
“Stop! Stop! Man not Beast!”
After this Kalandor saw a spear deflected slightly before it was launched from the hands, as it was too late to stop, this one landing nowhere near the original mark, much to Kalandor’s relief.

“Ho There! We apologies for the surprise, we are hunters of the Centaurian Clan. I am Cho-Hag”
The Leader strode forward, a big man covered in the fur of Horses, his necklace bearing braids of horse hair.
“Ho There! I am Kalandor of the Forested Clan, who has Chosen to Travel.”
“’Tis odd a man chooses to travel from ones clan, is it not?”
“It is, but the spirit of the wild gripped me, and so I walked.” (It was good to mix lies with truth, he had learned from Rose. He was truly grabbed by a Wild Spirit…)
“Ahh, you seek to see the lands.”
“And to meet the people of the north. The Travvel Shamen whose signs are the Migratory Bird and the Pidgeon.”
“Well then, We should Camp and feast at home. We can swap tales. And warnings on our part.”
“There Danger to north.” Kalandor tilted his head in querry.
“Much, for many years the Gypsi Clan have been our only visitors, and they were those cut off from the danger.”
“Such is Sorrow. I look forward to the Tales we can exchange.”
“Aye. But first, we must bring back food, not just traveller.”
“I saw horse, but I prefer not horse meat. You look to, we hunt.”
“No, Shaman says Onagor Today, more track further. We hunt?”
“We hunt!”

And so Kalandor joined into the Centurian Clans hunt, fitting in seamlessly and catching many Onagor. Today was a good day, the difficulty was not yet Kalandor’s, but it was well in motion. For as true as the morning rose, The Challange would confront Kalandor.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Ascension Part 3 of 5

Within the Heart of Shadow
So bright. It surrounded her. It engulfed her. It consumed her soul, within and without. Yes, so very bright it was. Her feet moved forward, and sometimes to the side, yet she could barely see. Even her own hands seemed mere blurs to her now.

She no longer thought of her siblings, or of the White City. Other things began to enter her mind, things that went beyond her experience, her understanding, and even her knowledge. They were fey things, images produced by the light. Anything was possible.

She sat on her throne of laughing tortoises, their snickering and gibbering silent as was all her court. Empty attire made of the finest silks moved effortlessly attending their business, business that seemed to merely mock pleasant conversation with one another, their gloves and sleeves gesticulating dramatically. In the middle of it all a spiral of gold and silver spun. It seemed to smile as she looked upon it.

“Hello.”

She nodded back and within its image saw her reflection, a mighty goddess, like Baz’Auran, but more radiant, with a dozen wings attached to her back, the heads of her enemies arrayed around her throne. So many… those couldn’t possibly be the skulls of-

All went to darkness.

“Hello. Hello?”

A single spotlight turned on. She stood on the edge of darkness, looking at a body, lying curled up on the ground. It did not move for the first few seconds, but then it blinked its eyes open, eyes full of even greater shadow than its body. It stood up, and it was Dasque, at least her outward appearance. Its smile though, was different. It was off, as if the thing did not truly know how to smile, revealing a dumb, sad looking expression on its face. Seeing Dasque’s disapproval, its smile dropped, and a cold, calculating look stared back. This was a look she recognized. It was her look in a fight, a look of death.

“Dasque? You see me now, don’t you?”

“Yes… this is a dream.”

“Not in the way you believe it to be.”

She stepped forward, but as she did her leg began to burn the moment it came into the light, forcing her to pull it back.

The shadow-thing sneered. “You do not belong in the light. There is a madness within you Dasque. You know a truth the others do not. You understand, don’t you?”

“Compassion… mercy… they hold you back in a fight. To dedicate your hand to murder, to attack with ruthless efficiency is to obtain victory.”

“Yes.”

“But there is strength in them as well, to push oneself, to make for a brighter tomorrow.”

“True, but it goes deeper.”

“Lose yourself to all things but the one, to oneself. Forget your body, forget your restraint, become the goal you wish to achieve and that alone.”

“Yes. Become null, void, and your determination will not be match. Your blade will not falter, your beliefs not questioned. It is not the way for one loved, but it is a way. Shall I show you a demonstration?”

A spear was in Dasque’s hand, and she danced out trying to take her inner darkness by surprise. It did not work as the darkness feinted back, then pressed the advantage. Dasque slid back, but her heel caught on something, and she fell. A shadowy arm burst from the ground and held her in place, ten more followed it so she could not move her legs, or arms, and could not even see, only feel the spear point enter her heart again, and again, and again.

“That was not fair. How could I have known you could call upon darkness from below?”

“You could not. Honor would have made me tell me though. Compassion would have made me kept the fight on even footing. Mercy would have me spare you. What would they have given me? I am the victor now, and whatever injustice you feel has been done, does not matter. You are dead whilst I live, whilst I flourish.

“You walk the line between greatness and weakness, between dark and light. You limit yourself.”

“I limit myself.”

“We will speak again…”

Dasque could only see white. She was laying on her back. She got up, and started to move again. Not all was what it seemed, that much she knew. It was no mere dream as she felt something within stir violently. Not only this, but by now she should have died. Without food she should not have the strength to continue walking, to even survive after so long. Yes, something was amiss, but all she could do was continue on, going to where the blindness was brightest.

[hi-mi-tsu]

The Education (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gT6AnrDwew)

"But Grandmother, I don't understand." The words were common from the young demigoddess, seated at the feet of the elderly woman; she had held this position before, many times, with Tezzerin. The Spirit of Knowledge had endless patience for the children of Baz'Auran; Grandmother did not.

"What's there to understand that I haven't explained to you a dozen times? Child, we do not remember our names past death. No one does. The Boy is the Boy because he is the youngest; I am Grandmother because I am the oldest, in appearance. Others are The Wife, The Daughter, The Mother. We do not know why this is, only that it is."

"But I remember my name!"

"You are special...you are a god-daughter." The Grandmother sighed, and sat, though she did not need to; joints did not pain her, but it was a habit more than anything else. To sit, and to grip the head of an ethereal cane, while The Boy came to sit in Avyra's lap.

"Grandmother...why is The Boy more solid than you...?" A question she had not yet asked, and The Grandmother's lips quirked in a faint smile.

"He is nearer to the wall than I, god-daughter. He is but recently dead. We have no need to eat, nor to sleep, nor to perform daily ablutions; we are souls, god-daughter, as you are a soul. Without nourishment, we fade, slowly...over time, we disappear." The Grandmother's words were tired, and old, and Avyra's arms squeezed tighter around The Boy in her lap, suddenly afraid.

"What...what happens if you disappear...?"

"Then we're gone, child. No Wheel, no Path...just...nothingness. No Enlightenment, either, or becoming one with the Disk, as some say happens...none of that. People have faded, since this Guardian began to block the path." The Grandmother pushed herself to her feet, and Avyra did as well, after setting The Boy aside. She understood. Here, in this place where time was no time and all time, she understood.

She would save them. All of them. She would save all of the souls, lost and wandering, scared and alone and confused.

"Show me the Path, Grandmother."

"Can you not see it...?" The Grandmother pointed, and Avyra looked, with her inner eyes, eyes she had not known she had. Eyes that had been closed, while she was alive; eyes that were open, now that she was searching. And she felt it, as well, the subtle tug towards the East, to follow the faintly-glowing line that stretched out like a coiling ribbon before her. Taking The Boy's hand, firmly, in her own, she nodded.

"Gather everyone, Grandmother. We're going to take a walk."

The Approach (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYWeH4DzDqU)

There were none who could say how long the journey was. In the twilit world of the dead, there were no sunrises, no daylight, not even a moon. There was only the faint glowing of the Path ahead of them, spiraling away into the distance.

At first, it was only the dead from the village she'd stumbled into. But the Path went through many small villages, or camps, or ramshackle clusters of hunting-tents, and in every place there were the dead. The dead lingered, too, in areas where there were no longer people.

And not all of the dead that came were human. Some were other species, humanoid in shape; some were animals. All were drawn towards the group, which grew larger, and larger still; in death, all the souls found a commonality. All wished for the same thing--for the Path to be cleared, for the Wheel to be reached, for dissolution to be held at bay. The susurrus behind her grew louder, but Avyra did not look back; if she were to look back, she would quail at the number of souls relying on her. So she kept ahold of the hand of The Boy, and she strode resolutely forward, ever forward, to the end of the Path.

"You are doing a great thing, you know." The Boy's voice piped up from beside her, and Avyra glanced down.

"Oh...? It does not seem so great a thing, to me..."

"You're humble, Miss god-daughter, but you know you're doing a great thing! That's what Grandmother called it! It's momentous! You're setting us free of the thing that keeps us here!" The Boy beamed up at Avyra, and squeezed her hand.

"We didn't know what was going to happen to us, before you came along. The ones in the big star must look favorably on us, to send us someone so nice!"

"Well..." She was not above flattery, and her heart melted, a little. Surely this was her Father's purpose for her. Surely guiding these people to their reward was just.

Surely.

"I will do my best."

And thus was learned the Second Lesson of Death: To die is to forget one's name, but not to forget oneself.

[Raz_Fox]

The Dragonslayer

Fayruz awoke. She wished that she hadn't. Sleeping had been peaceful, quiet, and painless. Awake, her entire face was a throbbing mass of pain, her eyes burning and her forehead deeply gouged; her wrists were bloody and raised above her head, and pain shot up her arms whenever she moved them; and breathing itself hurt with sides as sore as they'd ever been. She could not open one of her eyes. For a terrifying moment, she felt as if she could not open either, that she had been struck blind by the demon. But it was just a crust of dried blood over one blackened eye that broke, flakes falling away from her eye as she looked around.

It was a tent, much smaller than Tarn's hall, but much more cluttered. Animals' skins littered the floor and hung from the walls, and where there were not the disgusting skins of animals that had been killed for them - the very thought made Fayruz sick to her stomach - there was copper. It had been a mere trifle in the White City, where silver and gold were much more adored, but here it seemed to be prized greatly. There were copper plates and bowls, copper trinkets and necklaces, copper axes and a copper throne, hammered roughly out of several huge plates of copper and decorated with bones and smeared, dried blood. Behind it, impaled upon a pike through its jaw and forehead, was a giant lizard's head - no, no lizard that she had ever seen in the gardens had possessed such massive goat's horns. It could have been... a dragon. In life, it would have been a massive, serpentine thing, full of power and majesty, but now, it simply looked dreadful.

Next to the throne, she saw, was a hammer. It was covered in dried blood, from the massive, crudely-hewn stone head, across the twisted bronze strips that held it in place, to the dark wood that made its freakishly long handle, from what tree she could not tell. Beside that hammer, that horrid, monstrous hammer, was a helmet, tipped over on its side. Calling it a helmet was a favor to it - it was, more truly, the skull of some hideous bull-like monster, covered in its fur and still bearing its long, heaven-stabbing horns. Both of these belonged to the demon who sat in the throne, curled up with his face in his hands, quietly sobbing to himself as he rocked back and forth, repeating something to himself which she could not hear. Hornless, weaponless, he almost looked pathetic, something too strung-out and gangly and starved to be dangerous. His hair was a mass of black tangles, his feet were ragged and cut, and Fayruz could almost forget everything he had done, everything he had threatened to do, until she tried to move and the rope around her wrists cut deeper.

Fayruz, then, heard someone approaching, and so did the demon. He raised his head, and his face was bleak and twisted in pain. Fayruz tried to call for someone to help her, but her throat was dry and cracked, and all she could manage was a hoarse whisper. Not that she should have bothered, she found, as an elderly lady entered the room, carrying a copper bowl which she offered up to the demon, who took it with eager, trembling hands. He brought it to his lips and tipped the bowl back, greedily drinking, letting purple sludge run down his lips and chest in his haste. The crone hastily backed away, and trembled along with Fayruz as the demon began to laugh. He leaped to his feet, and threw the bowl aside, coming inches from cracking open Fayruz's skull with his savage throw.

"That's the good stuff," he cackled. A strong shudder overcame him, and he doubled over for a moment, before breaking down into laughter. When he raised his head, his eyes burned with the light of mania. "Everything's bright now. Where's my warlord? Go fetch him."

With a wave of his hand, the elderly lady was sent away, leaving Fayruz alone with the demon. She held still, fearing his attention; he looked around, grinding his nails into his palms, laughing softly to himself. With frightening suddenness, he turned about and was suddenly by her side, grinning madly. "You're awake already, my fool? Early rising is the virtue of chieftains... but don't get any ideas!" He ran a rough thumb along her cheeks with an insane giggle. "Your name is Efi. Fool."

"My name is Fayr-" His fingers dug into her face, making her cry out in pain.

"Your ruttin name is Efi." He leaned in, the rancid stench of his face choking her. His next words were in that soft, childish whisper- "Do you understand?" Fayruz waited a second too long, and something slithered serpentine behind dark eyes and he had wrapped one hand in her hair and was yanking on it, almost ripping it from her scalp, as he screamed, bloodshot eyes wide and sharpened teeth covered in spittle, "Do you ruttin understand, Efi?!"

"My lord..." The demon acted like a startled animal, releasing her and leaping to his feet, snarling. The man who stood behind him removed his hood and mask, revealing that he shared the demon's unruly locks of hair, but possessed a beard and age to temper them, and skin as weathered and tanned as the desert. "You wished to see me?"

"Hefar," the demon hissed. "I did. One of my warriors said to me last night that you wanted me to be like my father..." His muscles all tensed, as if he were preparing himself to leap across the room and attack Hefar directly.

Hefar took a slight step back. It was a small movement, but everyone in the room noticed. "Gamesha... your father was a wise chieftain, and-"

"If he were wise, he wouldn't be dead," Gamesha snarled. "I slew the dragon... the gods marked ME to rule, and I will not be compared to his ghost. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord. It will not happen again." He looked towards Fayruz, who... was she crying? She was, she realized. She couldn't pull her hands down to wipe away the tears stinging her eyes, biting wherever they fell into an open cut. And he nodded his head, ever-so-slightly, and she realized in that moment that, whatever they may have done in Dol Mazzah, not all of these Tekeza were as evil as Gamesha. "The men wish to know what we shall do now, my lord."

"Now? Now? We are going to kill every ruttin ancestral enemy of my people. We will wade in the blood of the ruttin Iuneh and stand on a mountain of the skulls of the Ma-Shen and then, and then, we'll rip the guts out of every living, ruttin Kayanek. Then we'll be the rulers of all the rocklands, Hefar!" He descended into mad giggling, before declaring, "And we'll kill them all!"

"Very well. Shall I tell our warriors to prepare to fight in the ruins of Dol Mazzah, or shall we send warbands into the mountains to flush out the Iuneh and the Dereg?"

"No. No. We make war at the Olm. They will come." He tapped his forehead, giggling. "I see it. They will come to die where gods died. And a new god will rise." This set him off cackling again, doubling over, his sinewy arms wrapped around each other. Then he stopped, stiffened, and said seriously, "They tell me when I'm asleep."

"Help," Fayruz forced out from between her cracked lips. "Please... why do you obey him?"

Gamesha turned, his eyes furious and burning for a moment, before cackling again. "My dear fool... I am the Dragonslayer... and the Traitorslayer. So many traitors, refusing to obey me... they said I was insane, can you imagine? But they got what they deserved... and I gave their swords to those loyal to their CHIEFTAIN... me." Hefar nodded, a quiet sadness in his face, until Gamesha turned back to him, and that sadness vanished as quickly as it had come. "Now go and fetch my fool some clothes befitting her station - the ones she has now won't do at all."

Hefar said, simply, "Your will is law, my chieftain," and raised his hood and mask before striding from the room, leaving Fayruz alone with Gamesha. Fayruz closed her eyes and prayed desperately for a moment that he would leave, and when she dared open her eyes again, he was gone. She was free, then, to sob.

[KiCowboy]

The Fall and The Smiler's Tears

Confused and weary, Brandis lifted himself from the rancid bog he laid in. The air was thick, humid, and rife with the stench of decay. Though the sun could barely peek through the canopy of branches in the swamp, it left the foul place sweltering and miserable. Almost an afterthought, the young godling realized his own difficulty breathing. Hacking, he churned forth the water he had taken in while unconscious. Black like bile, it was absorbed and near indiscriminate from the rest of the damnable place.

Father, what has happened?

All his life, Brandis had known one truth above all else. Naught happened save by the design of his all knowing father, Baz'Auran. He had never doubted his simple role of mirth amongst his siblings. But this . . . and the chaos before the fall . . . Was it possible even his father's plans could go astray?

Aimless. Clueless. The young godling wandered confused into the enveloping dystopic marshland. His stomach was sick from the rot that had filled it. His lungs seemed to barely suck in enough air to keep him going - each breath little more than a wet gasp. His vision blurred in the heat, his brow oozed sweat that mingled with the fetid muck on his face. It stung his eyes, and nauseatingly filled his nostrils with a pungent odor of something forgotten to mind but not instinct. What he wouldn't give for Kalandor to guide him. For Fayruz to give him comfort. For Jongo to just . . . make things change.

But he was alone. He gave up calling his siblings' names some time after the midday sun. It left his throat raw and thirsty. And he held concern over drinking or eating anything he found in this terrible place. Already he felt as if poison crept towards his marrow. Shadows stretched for him like sprawling fingers, grasping to strangle him. If he were to sit, to rest, to close his eyes for just a moment - a cacophony of noise would surround him, as if the dark land was sending forth servants to overtake him. But when he would open his eyes to stare about, there was nothing. The sun waned. The shadows stretched larger and larger. The world felt smaller, heavier somehow. But in the distance, there was a shimmer of light. Of hope?

They were simple thatch huts, built atop a stretch of solid earth above the muck. Tendrils of smoke rose from what might have been a central fire. It seemed strange to Brandis, to see fires snuffed out as darkness came. Still, his weary face smiled at the thought he was not alone. Trudging towards the rising, his rasp but charming voice called out.


"Hello! Hello . . .? Good people, I am desperate."

But instead of hearing a call back he heard hushed and panicked whispers. Drawing closer, he saw a woman pull her child away from their window. She made every effort to not let her eyes leave the earth at her feet while she reached to cover the opening - cocooning her family within.

"Please . . . water . . . bread . . . brandy . . ."

But every home barred itself from the outsider. What few faces he saw before they hid themselves all held the same custom of staring downwards, refusing to even look at him. As the sun's light faded over the horizon, one voice, tempered equally in fear and the bravado of authority called out, "Begone, nightwalker. Iscaripaka's due will be left in the morning. There are none to be taken here. Search for your fools elsewhere demon!"

No amount of pleading drew any mercy. If anything, the fear of the place seemed to grow thicker, palpable even. And the shadows grew fatter and heavier as it did. Fevered and weak, Brandis lay next to the embers of the settlement's center fire. He knew nothing of how to rekindle it. He feared his hands would betray him even if he tried. Whatever sickness coursed through him made them shake strangely. He shuddered, hopeful for tendrils of warmth and perhaps the comfort of sleep - but he found neither.

He did not know how long he tossed and turned, eyes clamped shut but unable to rest. Visions of mighty Baz'Auran actually locked in struggle. Of the burning face of the spirit which delivered him . . . When he felt the touch on his shoulder he sat up in panic. The wrack of pain in his midsection made him regret it immediately. Small tendrils of the black bile spilled from his mouth as he hacked and looked upon the blurry outline before him. It reached out, holding something to him. Small hands. A child.

"Take it. But please go. Father says you draw the darkness," whispered the voice of a young boy.

Brandis reached out, and felt in his hands something akin to a wineskin. Its contents reeked, but not of the same putrid nature as the swamp. What . . .what is it? Who are you? Where am I? . . ."

"Shhh . . . . please sir, be quiet. Just drink. Tis of the tannis root. Father will lash me to learn I waste it on you. But . . you look different . . ."

Parched as he was, Brandis did not press questions further until he drew deeply from the skin. It burned like fire within. But ever so slightly, whatever had been eating away at him subsided. "You have my thanks young man. But, tell me your name for I'll not drink to my health without toasting you."

"Lafayette, if it pleases you. But please sir . . ."

With a wan smile Brandis held up an acknowledging hand. "I know, I know. Quietly. Still, to young Lafayette. I am ever thankful for your hospitality." Greedily he consumed the last of the skin, feeling his strength slowly returning. "But it seems bizarre, that it should seem such an act of courage to give comfort to a stranger."

"Father says Kurth remains standing for the same reason as any other village amidst the black swamp. People must respect the old ways. Fear keeps us alive. To tempt the darkness is to doom your family. . ." The boy's voice trailed off, worried. Vision clearing, Brandis could make out a slight young lad. His clothes were simple and ragged. He had the look of barely ten winters, but his eyes seemed aged beyond that. Something inside the godling felt disheartened at the dull sheen that sat in place of what should be the vibrant curiosity of youth.

"I cannot believe Father would wish this upon any of his creations. Surely it is the will of Baz'Auran to break the shackles this wretched place binds you with."

"NO! Do not say his name! She is sure to come now! Begone! There is naught for you to do."

As the child readied to scamper away, Brandis held his hand beneath the boy's chin. "Raise your eyes Lafayette. Look upon me. Know I am His son, and that for your kindness I will face this darkness."

But as the child's eyes were raised from the ground to meet his own, there was no look of relief. No sparkling of life or inspiration. Only terror. Reflected in the cold, dull eyes was a soft green light rising from the swamp. Tears streamed down Lafayette's face as he screamed in fear. His nails tore into the flesh of Brandis' wrist like a panicked beast attempting to escape a trap. When Brandis looked back to follow the boy's gaze, his grasp fell away in shock.

Fog gathered around the ghastly visage emerging. Humanoid, but certainly not human, the fell creature stood nearly twelve feet tall. The legs and arms long and spindly, the torso severely thin. Its head overlarge, bulbous, yet squashed. Pasty, white, rubbery skin stretched taut. The face held few features other than deep hollow sockets where green embers burned in the stead of eyes, and an overwide grin stretching the length of its oval face.

Slowly, it lumbered towards young Lafayette, whose eyes were locked with the terrible jade flames. Pure, primal fear took over him. He fled, tripping over himself as he sprinted back to his home. The stalker simply followed with slow, steady strides of its long legs. Brandis tried to interpose, but the creature was ethereal to his touch. He screamed at the thing, but it paid him no mind. Only slowly followed the boy.

Pounding on door of his home, Lafayette begged for his parents to take him in. Over his pleas, over what sounded like crying came his father's voice, "Begone, son! You've damned yourself. Don't be bringing your fate upon your mother or sister!" The denial froze him in place, if only for a moment before he looked back at the creature following in his footsteps. He ran to other doors, begged other families, but none would offer shelter to the doomed soul.

Brandis screamed at the village of cowards, "Damn you all! Help him!" But even as he said it he knew it was folly. No matter what attempts he made to strike the apparition or hold it at bay, it simply ignored him, walked through him. Step by step it followed Lafayette. Stopping at every door he did, as if peering in, perhaps savoring their anguish. And soon enough the boy collapsed in maddened futility. Brandis scooped him up, tried to run with him somewhere . . . anywhere away from this . . . thing. But in the darkness, it was as if the ground of the swamp devoured his legs. Soon he was stuck up to his knees in the festering earth.

The night stalker approached, long unhindered strides bringing it within ten feet of them. Raising its long fingers it pointed to its victim, and Lafayette began to tug away from the godling's grasp. Twitching as if pulled by an unseen force, the boy shimmered, then began to unravel like a grotesque and bloody ball of yarn - skin and muscle alike spinning off the body in great organic loops of cord. The loose end snaked around the abomination for a moment, then ran up to its wide, grinning maw. The stalker devoured its prey by slowly sucking the mass up like a long strand of spaghetti. Brandis was helpless, unable to do anything as the boy slowly, painfully unraveled - his vital organs and head saved for last so his screams of anguish could echo throughout the march as long as possible. When its bloody feast was completed, a long white tongue licked at its face while the green embers of its hollow sockets faded away. And as it turned the wicked grin to him, it vanished into the shadow about them.

And Brandis wept, broken. Though the first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, he could find no reason to smile. Alone, useless, and without his father's guidance he despaired. The shadow clung to him, swirled, writhing as if in ecstasy. Even as the sun began to push the darkness away, the wind seemed to give an eery whisper of satisfaction.

"Fool child of Baz'Auran. You know nothing. I shall relish your company."

[The Succubus]

Prosecution

Khalen felt his mind swim. What madness was this? Were these fragments of his own being? Impostors? Before he could begin to fathom the meaning behind it all, the first doppelganger spoke again.

“Prisoner, the charge before you is that of deicide. How do you plead?”

Khalen found his wits again. “You that would claim to be me, explain the crime of which I have been falsely blamed.”

“The prisoner is charged with causing the death of Elanna, daughter of Baz’Auran. How do you plead?”

“I plead not guilty,” he replied, although a careful ear might have detected the faintest trace of uncertainty in his voice.

The first doppelganger, which Khalen had begun to think of as being the judge, turned towards the second. “The prosecution will now make its case.”

The prosecutor nodded in the judge’s direction and began to speak.

“Members of the court, the figure that stands before you would claim to be a champion of law, of truth and justice. Nothing could be further from reality. I intend to peel away the lies and reveal to you the real Khalen - a liar, a coward and a murderer!”

“NO!” shouted Khalen, and was chatised as another twist of pain ran through his body.

“The accused will be silent until given leave to speak by the court,” said the judge. His voice was still flat and emotionless as though Khalen’s passionate outburst had not occured.

The prosecutor spoke again. “I call the first witness to the stand.”

The lights shining on the 4 Khalens dimmed as a fifth light beamed down into the centre of the “court”. A figure slowly walked from the shadows into the centre, the walk seductive, leisurely yet concealing a deadly menace.

Nieve.

“Tell the court who you are.”

“I am the lady Nieve of the White City. I am the Laughing Godess, the Daughter of the Red Moon and daughter of Baz’Auran.”

“And what role would you say Baz’Auran had in mind for such a beautiful flower of the White City?” asked the prosecutor

“I am to stir emotion in the hearts of men and encourage them to seek the thrill of excitement that comes from danger.” she replied, smiling at some private joke.

“A role for which you are exquisitely tailored, my dear,” said the prosecutor. Much to Khalen’s horror and disgust, it actually looked like he was flirting with her. “How would you describe your relationship with your brother?” he continued, pointing in Khalen’s direction.

Nieve’s smile instantly vanished. “Extremely cold, much like him,” she said, glaring at Khalen. “Emotionless, without empathy and unable to think beyond the ordered confines of his own little world. We rarely spoke.”

“Would you say this was also true of your relationship with Elanna?”

“Oh my, no,” said Nieve, looking rather surprised. “Elanna was an absolutely joy to be around. Always looking for adventure and ways to tease a happy laugh or smile from you. She often succeeded,” she smiled.

“Why then, do you think, this happy and joyous person spent so much time with a creature such as him?”

“She always did relish a challenge...” said Nieve, a grim chuckle escaping her perfect lips.

“Following Elanna’s subsequent...disappearence...from the White City,” the prosecutor continued, although its use of the word ‘disappearence’ filled Khalen with an odd sense of foreboding, “...did you notice any change in the behaviour of your brother?”

Nieve shrugged. “He became even more withdrawn than usual....not that it was easy to tell the difference.” She turned towards Khalen. “The White City would have been better off if she had lived instead of you.” she spat, the final word dripping with venom.

“No further questions from the prosecution, your honour.”

The third doppelganger, which had heretofore been silent, began to speak. “The defence seeks leave to cross-examine the witness.”

The judge nodded. “Granted.”

“Lady Nieve, you would describe yourself as the Daughter of the Red Moon and the Laughing Sword?”

“Yes...” she replied warily, sensing some sort of trap.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to provide the court with a slightly less poetic interpretation of your names....”

Nieve said nothing and glared at the defence councillor.

“No? Is it not true that your main purpose is to stir up war between the tribes of man? That you exist only to encourage bloodshed and decadence?!”

Nieve flared. “Now wait just a damn minute-”

“Do you deny such an obvious truth? You spend all your days in the White City fighting your siblings and spirits!”

“And you would have me descend to the Disk completely defenceless? Combat is an important part of our training!”

“I do not doubt,” said the councillor, although a faint trace of smile was on its lips as it continued. “And those embraces with Shirvan on the combat ground immediately afterward? Perhaps some form of unarmed combat?” it smirked.

Nieve’s eyes burned with hatred and said nothing.

“Members of the court, is a violent hedonist really the best person to judge the character of the accused? She claims her brother was withdrawn and spent much of his time alone but if I had to make a choice between distancing myself or becoming acquainted with a blood-crazed emotionally unstable sadist, I would choose isolation every time.

No further questions.”

[Gengy]

Part 4 - Jongo's Resolve (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showpost.php?p=12762050&postcount=199)

"The clouds in the sky are little more than water risen through nature's forces, frozen in great clumps, and growing, ever growing, till the water is too heavy, and thus we get rain -- wherever it may be that the clouds grow too full of themselves. Even in this natural, ordered process, there is a bit of chaos."
~ The Everchanging View of Grassblades

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reaching the Edge (http://grooveshark.com/s/Silent+The+Universe/12Qm9t?src=5)

The ocean floor was completely barren now. There were no fish. There were no underwater plants. There was not even algae. The water around Jongo and his two Dolphin companions was the cleanest and clearest she had ever seen.

And the current was the strongest Jongo had ever felt. It pulled east, and it was only with a great deal of effort, and help from Dorph and Gwenie, that Jongo was even able to consider resting.

They had come across a tiny spire of a stone pillar hours ago. It was thin, and weathered, and Jongo knew that in a year or so, the current would snap it apart. For now, however, it was the perfect stopping point for a bit of a rest.

Dorph and Gwenie seemed both more happy and despondent at the same time. The gash over Dorph's left eye was deep, and would leave a scar. Gwenie - again, probably just Jongo's imagination - kept looking at it and seemed sad. But they both seemed grateful that Jongo had somehow chased the Aboleth away.

Bolstered by their good mood, and pleased to have a place to catch his breath, Jongo again gathered her thoughts for the task at hand.

"Why isn't there more noise? You'd think, with all the water gushing towards the edge, there would be a great crashing sound. But no. It's pretty quiet." Jongo patted Gwenie on the head as he talked. Gwenie didn't respond, but seemed to enjoy the attention.

Something about it being so quiet bothered Jongo, but she ignored it as Dorph playfully pushed in, trying to get at Jongo's hand as well.

With a smirk, Jongo played with them both, making a game of it, as the three of them enjoyed themselves with a little rough housing; as much as they could while still against the small stone spire, their only protection from the pull of the current.

Gwenie clicked and squeaked, and rolled over and under Dorph, as the larger dolphin pushed in and bumped his large snout against Jongo's hand, only to be pushed out of the way when Gwenie completed her roll. Dorph disappeared for a moment, away from the spire, and Jongo became concerned. Gwenie and Jongo looked at were Dorph had gone, only to be surprised as the larger dolphin came around behind them with some effort to work against the current.

Laughing once again, for the first time in days, Jongo reached out with both hands and patted his companions. But only for a moment. Jongo suddenly stopped playing. She realized what was so bothersome about it being so quiet.

The Voice of Change was silent.

A constant susurrus until now, it's absence was felt like that of a friend who had stopped talking in mid-sentence. Jongo looked down at Dorph and Gwenie, still enjoying his absent minded petting.

This was almost over. This trip on the Disk had been such fun. There were hard times, but they were so close to the end, and then it would all be worth it.

Jongo realized she would miss this.

A part of Jongo's brain, one that had been quiet for too long, spoke up again, and Jongo felt himself speaking aloud, "Something or someone hurt Father. Hurt the White City. Attacked the Ceiling. Whatever it was, it will pay. So. Time to go."

Sensing the seriousness of the mood, Dorph and Gwenie became silent. The three of them drifted back into the current, and let it pull them closer to their destination.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, there were no more stone spires. No more chances for Jongo to turn back. Dorph and Gwenie were even having trouble moving against the current now.

And the Voice of Change was still eerily quiet.

Up directly ahead, Jongo thought she saw a strange darkness. Through the clear water, through the silence of the nothingness, there was what seemed to be a night sky.

Jongo looked upwards, above himself, to make sure they had not gotten turned around in the weightlessness of water. But no, above them, were many stars twinkling in wonder. Aramar would be delighted, Jongo was sure.

Peering ahead once again, Jongo could see that straight in front of her, it was like a crack in the ground. But no. There can only be a crack, when one has two sides.

This was a fall. This was an edge.

This was the Rim of the Disk.

Gwenie suddenly cried out, and whipped around, struggling against the current. Dorph twisted with effort as well, and the two of them swam away.

::It comes! Flee!::

Jongo was sure it was his imagination now. Dorph? Gwenie? Afraid of something? After weeks of staying together, after the sharks, the Aboleth, what could possibly make them turn now, right before Jongo's greatest moment?

They were headed up to the surface, where they could skip above the water to break from the current's harsh pull. Sadly, the current still had Jongo, who was finding it difficult to follow Dorph or Gwenie. Looking around, though, Jongo saw another dark shape, this one getting closer. Even through the clear water, it was blackened and hard to tell what it was.

But it's so small... Jongo kept watching, even as the current pulled him towards the edge.

And it was small. At first. But Jongo watched, and the thing was moving closer, quickly, and growing. What looked like a fish at first, soon was as big as a shark. Then a whale.

An Orca? They do eat dolphins... But no, the thing was getting bigger still.

Another Aboleth? If it was, the first Aboleth was puny in comparison. This... thing, whatever it was, was getting so much closer, at a rapid pace, and it was still getting larger.

"No, no, no, no, no, no! Not when I'm so close!" Jongo forced herself to forget about the thing, and swam with the help of the current to the Rim of the Disk.

To certain death.

Falling from the Rim would kill anything normal. Jongo knew that. The water was so quiet, because even though it was falling, in what was the largest waterfall in any part of the universe that Jongo was aware of, it didn't actually hit any rocks or anything solid below. There was nothing for the water to crash against. So there was no sound.

The water only fell, straight down. Into the Abyss.

And there, like anything else that fell from the Rim, it would be swallowed whole.

...but if you were a godling... if you were somehow able to control the Abyss, shape the Nightmare...

It could work. It would work! Jongo shot through the water, fast as his gilled human body would allow. Pushed on by the current, Jongo flew out, and was free of the ocean, free of the air, free from everything.

Only the hungry Abyss loomed below. It swirled in a way that only dark absolutes can; it was the ultimate predator, and it would consume anything that came into its path. It had no color, and if Jongo had felt that black was the darkest something could be, the Abyss soon corrected the godling.

It was absent of all things, and still contained much; wholly unexplainable. Jongo felt herself start to fall.

This is what I want. This will work. I can... I can control the Abyss. I can use it. Make the Something-That-Attacked pay. Jongo was determined, and closed his eyes, awaiting doom.

...a great tentacle whipped out from the water, and grabbed Jongo's body.

::No, Namer.:: A voice, clear as the breaking dawn, and deep as the ocean resonated through Jongo's human form, stopping the descent. Jongo looked at the tentacle. Another Aboleth? A huge one?

::None shall fall to the Abyss. So am I tasked.:: Jongo followed the tentacle to its owner, through the falling water, and saw that 'huge' didn't do this thing justice. It was colossal. More than that. There was only one word for it. One word that fit.

"Leviathan." It just seemed right.

::Yes, Namer. You of all, should know me.:: Jongo looked, and was stunned to see that she actually couldn't find where the end of the Leviathan was. The being before him was so massive that looking for the tail was impossible. The rotund body just kept going, and wrapped up in just one of its tentacles - one of the smaller ones - Jongo couldn't move and couldn't see enough of the Leviathan to get an idea of just exactly what it looked like.

It was just an enormous wall of slickened skin. The current of the Rim couldn't cause the Leviathan any trouble. It was just too massive, too weighty. The water surged around the Leviathan, but the great creature didn't seem to notice.

It just kept moving.

"What... what are you doing? Please, Leviathan. Don't stop me. This is the only way."

::Giving in to the Abyss is a way. But it is not the only way.:: Again, the rumbling voice seemed to resonate through Jongo's very bones.

::Give in, and you are giving to the Abyss. Try to master it, and you will find yourself mastered.::

The Leviathan began to move, and Jongo saw it was as fluid as the ocean itself, shifting through the water as though movement was just an afterthought.

"But... but... Father. The White City! It... it was attacked!"

::Ah? So that was the blood moon. I had wondered.:: Jongo marveled that this thing seemed so unconcerned. And yet... Leviathan had not pulled the godling back from hanging above the Rim.

::I cannot let you fall to the Abyss. I am not it's warden, but I am tasked to stop all who would try to feed it. Think of another way.::

The silence after the Leviathan said this was a stark contrast to the rumbling resonance of its voice. Jongo peered at it, through the water, trying to find an eye, a mouth, anything - ANYTHING - he could try and reason with.

Nothing. The Leviathan had a task, from Baz'Auran no less, and it would do its duty.

Frustrated, Jongo cried out, "You... you... you are such a... such a... ooooooooo... such a toad!"

::Interesting. Toads must be wonderful, then.::

Jongo stared at the Leviathan. She didn't know what else to say. It just kept pulling the godling along, as it swam.

Exasperated, Jongo began to look around. Other than the terrifying Abyss below, it was actually quite beautiful along the Rim of the Disk. Stars twinkled in the sky, and the moon was passing overhead, large and pale. But it was just too quiet. Looking down, Jongo studied the Abyss again, and his human body became queasy at the sight of it. It truly was a predator, and was greedily consuming everything that got close enough.

Bored, Jongo began to whistle. It was tuneless, tired, and not much of a melody. Jongo didn't remember which of his siblings taught her to whistle. Probably Fayruz. But unlike Flower, Jongo couldn't really carry a tune. Still, whistling was fun. And Jongo was tired - so tired - and it seemed like this could be a while.

And it was something to do, instead of thinking of how the Leviathan was quietly going to be holding the godling over the edge for eternity. So rather than have that thought - again - Jongo whistled.

The Voice of Change suddenly sung out, with such force that it was like it had just discovered what singing was. And looking down, Jongo saw within the all consuming dark of the absent Abyss, there were swirling colors. Changing and dancing, and beckoning with glee and delight. The Voice of Change held power, and teased the Abyss, twirling and twisting in and out, here and there, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

That! That's what I want! Jongo giggled with delight, and let herself join the song.

The colors, too many to name, too many to count, all seemed to rush towards Jongo. In streams of light, thrumming with power, the Voice of Change sang point and counterpoint, laughed and cried, flared up, calmed down, and rejoiced in the finding of something new.

Laughing along with it, and still singing a song that only her heart seemed to know, Jongo rejoiced as well. Jongo exalted in it, and accepted it, as it danced through her human form.

It was happiness and sadness, the understanding contradiction, the confusion of knowledge; the colors were beyond comprehension, but so willing to answer. They danced with moving stillness. In and out, everywhere and nowhere, nothing and everything, all at once.

This was what had been calling him. Not the Abyss.

This was the Voice of Change.

This was Chaos.

This was Jongo.

[Ladorak]

Carolinus awoke bathed in pain. From the very first second of awareness his mind was filled. Too weak yet to open his eyes, he assessed himself. His arm and chest burnt like the sun, he was covered in sweat. He was alive however and thankful for it. The humans must have driven off the remaining centaurs, that was a mercy.

He tried opening his eyes. For a second he squinted, unsure of what he was seeing. Then it dawned on him, his good arm shot upward, finding only soil above. He screamed. He was wrong, the centaurs had won, they had buried him alive. His worst dread made manifest, to wither away languishing in the dark.

Then, impossibly, a sound came from his left. A woman's voice talking. Suddenly light bathed his features and relieved his racing heart. A sheet drew back to a human woman revealed his true location. He was 'buried' within one of the human's dwellings. Beyond his 'grave' his could make barely make out a tiny hut with blurred eyes. A large fire was banked in the center of the hut. It's luminescent hurt his eyes, he looked away. He struggled to focus on the woman. Apparently one side of the hut was backed into a hillock, and it was in that earth mound he had been buried.

She started talking. Once again he could only half understand. He shook his head. 'No, no, stop.' She stopped at once, an expectant look edged into her every feature 'You don't understand. I don't understand, I only understand some of what you are saying.'
Suddenly that expectant look was gone, replaced entirely by confusion. Carolinus wondered if all humans were so expressive 'See? Go slowly, simple words. We will manage. Repeat if needed. Find new words.'
She nodded, suddenly the very picture of determination. Her variance hurt Carolinus' head. 'Why am I here?'
With some confusion and pantomime she awkwardly made him understand. Sweat lodge, you were ill, fever. We bring you here, you are awake, fever has passed.
'Thank you' That one she understood immediately, her answer was equally swiftly understood
'You saved my Ka Great One, you saved my village. No, you are not thanking me, I am thanking you.'
'You are healer?' She nodded. 'Do not call me great one, I am Carolinus. How long have I been like that?'
Her hands came up, her fingers flashing. 'Twenty one days, great Baz'Auran!'
'What is Baz'Auran?'


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

'Who is Baz'Auran?' The first day they met, the prophet asked Carolinus this question.

In response the god lifted his shield, it's radiance bathed the great hall in light. On it he drew her gaze to the symbol of the sun. Around the sun were images of godlings at play. Carolinus was there, hand in hand with Cireo, both radiant with happiness. Khalen was carved in conversation with Jongo, a look of confusion on his face, Haramhold and Rumel engaged in some project. All the godlings were represented there. The White city was embossed above the image of the sun like a crown 'This is the sun, it brings life and light to the Disk. This is the White City, where I am from. These are my brothers and sisters.'

He pointed next to the image on the other side of the shield. 'This is the moon. Everything beneath the sun and the moon is the great disk. Baz'Auran made all of this. Baz'Auran made you and all those like you and countless things that are not. He made the disk and the sun and the moon.'

Then the god stood and the earth rumbled 'And I am Carolinus. He has made me to protect all of this. Sun and moon, disk and white city. He has sent me forth from the city into the world so I might protect your people.' His radiance blazed and his eyes shone, he spoke in a voice heard throughout the disk 'I am Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran, the warden and the watchman, knight of the white city. I will do my duty by my father. I will protect his creation.'

This is why the symbol of the faithful is the shield of Carolinus. Carolinus is the shield of all those imprinted on our symbol. He is the warden of the world, of the sun and moon, also of the white city and above all his father. For if Carolinus is the shield of creation, his father is both the creator of the world and also of the shield.

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

Carolinus let the shield clatter to the floor, his fingers too weak to hold it anymore. He had not spoken long, yet his mouth was parched beyond all previous experience 'Water' he begged weakly.
When she went away he took notice of her handywork. He ribs had healed well, the sling his arm was in looked both professionally tied and also clean. The wound on his chest still looked terrible however, he didn't have the heart to raise the bandage and see it fully. He had saved her Ka she had said. He wondered what that meant, it was only days later he finally recognized her as the mother of the first child he saved. He had saved her son. That was why they were calling him Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran, something he resolved to put a stop to at once.

The next few weeks were another form of torment was Carolinus. His long convalescent was still in it's infancy. At first he could barely take ten steps. That titanic effort exhausted him for the day. The next day he was resolved to take eleven, he fall to his knees on the ninth. He hardly felt the jolt in his two wounds, so deep was his despair at such a defeat.

The humans tried to be helpful but there was little they could do and Carolinus was still coming to terms with their language. He couldn't even pronounce the name of the woman who had saved his life. They constantly peppered him with sophisticated questions he lacked the means to answer, either that or he was left alone, too tired to raise from his back, staring up at the ceiling and thinking constantly of what was lost.

He couldn't even raise his arm, not after weeks trying. The healer frequently sat with him during these efforts, just as she was always there when he attempted to walk. She was always encouraging him, making a great fuss of every extra step taken. It worn on him at first, but the first time he raised his arm a inch upward he knew in his heart he could not have done it without her badgering.

They were dark days for Carolinus. But in time dawn came.

Two months later Carolinus could complete several circuits of the entire wicker wall surrounding the village. On some days he could do it twice.

His understanding of the human language was almost perfect now. He knew all the villagers by name and stopped to speak with many of them in his moments of rest. They numbered 41, though Shae's baby was due soon. He was surprised by the intelligence of the adults and charmed by the children.

They had started worshipping him as a god of their own accord, although due to the nature of his arrival he had found it necessary to stress repeated he was not a war god. He started to think of them as his tribe rather than his followers.

Each day he sharpened three great stakes which the villagers brought him. He did it primarily to strengthen his arm, which was still weak but recovering well. When he walked the wall he had noted the places most likely for a centaur to attempt a leap. Locations with large flat areas for them to reach full speed (And well did he remember the exact distance of their acceleration) or where mounds or rocks raised up near the wall. It was a lot of work for a trick that was only likely to work once but he smiled to himself each day he directed the villagers to plant the stakes.

Not that the villagers felt it was needed. They insisted they knew the numbers of the centaur tribe, knew their exact number was accounted for. Carolinus was not convinced. Everything they said rang too true with lessons long drilled into him by the spirit of knowledge. Few in number, nomadic, warlike. They were territorial, other tribes had only stayed away because they feared the one that was now gone. Soon they would learn the truth, then they would come.

The healer was with him almost constantly if her duties were not elsewhere. Her now was Louisa and she hung on his every word. He spoke long to her about the white city and the disk, about his hopes and ideals, about his sworn oath and duty. He believed he had no secrets from her, but in this he was mistaken. Louisa could write. Unknown to him every night she stayed up until the early hours transcribing what she saw as revelations onto clay tablets.


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

After he defeated the great centaur horde of the Calarisien plains Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran became troubled.

The weapon used by Ibcharon, demigod of the centaur people, was treated with a poison most foul. Though he smote the horde and killed Ibcharon he was four times wounded by that fell axe. The godkiller poison sunk into his veins. He almost perished, but such as he are not undone by such low tactics.

During his recovery he often stared off into the distance in expectation, or directed the peoples in their fortifications. Once he spoke to the prophet of his troubles 'Before my father sent me forth he said I was coming to be tested here. Yet I do not believe he meant so small a task for me.' Thus was how he spoke of the great horde 'I fear that my sickness has made me miss some chance, I fear I have failed in my duty.'

But then Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran had a dream. He beheld a great steep mountain pass, on each side rockface loomed up far beyond the height of any man. He saw the mountain ranges that spread out each side for hundreds of miles, he saw that this pass represented the only way through.

He saw that narrow pass spread into a great steep slope. He saw that the slope came to a great plateau that was otherwise unreachable. He saw the fertility of the lands. For the first time Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran saw Markien.

The next day Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran called the prophet and spoke thus 'Gather the peoples, our destiny is now made clear to me.'

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

The expected attack finally came. In the night centaurs leapt the wall. Three died screaming on Carolinus' stakes. The rest milled around, suddenly confused and afraid.

A long mournful sound issued into the night as the watchman Carolinus had set atop the longhouse sounded the alert. Villagers came streaming out with spears and bows. Carolinus led them, keeping them in good battle order as they charged and engaged the enemy. He had drilled them well, the centaurs did not last long.

The next day the hunters reported that the few remaining centaurs of this new tribe had moved westward. Including the dead they numbered over twenty. This troubled Carolinus, for he was expecting a smaller tribe.

A month later another attack came. Once again it was announced to the villagers by the sudden screams of the staked and the long call of the horn. More had split themselves on the stakes that time, but many more remained. The battle was long and bloody, a dozen villagers were wounded or killed before the centaurs were finished.

The next day the hunters reported that this tribe had also retreated west after approaching from the east. He spoke to no-one, not even Louisa, about his misgivings. But when the third tribe came, attacked and left westward his fears were confirmed. The centaur tribes were fleeing something that was coming from the east.

He explained this to Louisa and asked her to rally the settlement. He asked her to contact all further known villages and beg that they join them in his journey westward. He begged her to find any way to convince the other settlements to join, she thought of the clay tablets in her hut and said nothing but nodded her assent to his command.


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

Thus did the call go out and thus did the people answer.

Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran was inspired by his vision of Markien as the peoples were inspired by his visage. All the tribes assembled under Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran and gave him homage. His promised land of Markien awaited, he would protect them from the great onrushing tide. He asked nothing in return save that men made peace with their neighbour.

The great trail of humanity stretched out as far as the horizon in both directions, so great was the multitude that came as his command. Daily they were assailed by the great evils that walk the land, daily did the god protect them. Daily he fulfilled his vow. Daily the love for him among the peoples grew.

**********

Four months into the great exodus Carolinus started to become very apprehensive about his chosen path.

Things had started well. The baggage train was tightly ordered, once his scouts learnt their duty they became adapt at finding water. There was enough food and livestock to last half a year. They made good time.

They the other villages started to arrive. At first Carolinus was overjoyed as his tribe grew to a hundred, then to three hundred. Then the worm of doubt entered his heart. After four months the baggage train had become unmanageable and he had barely enough food when rationed to last two months. Their daily travel distance was cut in half. His tribe now numbered slightly over seven hundred. They had no fixed destination and almost weekly they were molested by various monstrous tribes defending their territory.

Not that the tribesmen posed too much of an obstacle. After Carolinus came to understand how the barbarian mindset commonly worked it became a routine exercise. He would challenge the three most powerful warriors of the tribe to mortal combat. After all three were dead the rest respected the passage of the humans through their territory. This wasn't a matter of cowardliness as Carolinus understood it, or even of enlightened self-interest. The tribes respected strength. Generally they seemed to feel Carolinus had earned the right to cross their lands.

Not all were so accommodating. A race of frog-men claimed many with their poison darts shot from within their dense swamp-forest home. They attacked the tribe daily shooting and running and then returning hours later. A race of small blue people attempted a night raid, though all died for that mistake.

No Carolinus' apprehensions were twofold. Firstly their dwindling supplies loomed large in his mind, fresh converts still occasionally joined in groups between two and ten. All the local villages had either obeyed his call or ignored it, but many travelling people still came seeking the great protector.

That was his second apprehension. He was starting to suspect Louisa had taken certain liberties with his command to do whatever it took to rally the other settlements. Many seemed to think he was leading them to some promised land. As the message become third and four times divorced from any who had witnessed the events the more incredible the stories became. First he had slain a dozen centaur, then two dozen, then a hundred. The last major settlement to join the exodus referred to his defeat of a 'numberless horde.' It was all very vexing but he was forced to remain silent as it became increasingly clear his presence was the only thing stopping these very disparate peoples (Many elements having long unpleasant relations with other elements) from falling on each other. If his stature was diminished in their eyes he risked breaking a very fragile peace and all the while his food ran out.

Salvation came unexpected but no less welcome. A trader and his family joined the group one day. As was Carolinus' custom he met with the new arrivals. As always he instructed them on the nature of the disk and of the father Baz'Auran who made all. He swore to protect them with his life. He instructed them in the rules of his tribe. Then he asked their names and listened to their story.

Then finally, as little more than an afterthought before he left, he inspected the goods the merchant brought to the train. He was gratified to discovery a large store of flour. It would feed the tribe for two days at the most, but he was fed up of traders who brought him nothing but heavy metals that weighed down the train and delayed the tribe even more. Then he glimpsed the into the darkness of the wagons rear. There was something covering the walls, pictures of some kind...

Then came the moment that saved his people. Later he would say to Louisa 'Gather the leaders of the people, our destiny is now made clear to me.'

The pictures were maps and he had found his safe haven, according to the trader it lay only days away. Ironically the god was denied the choice of naming his own promised land. Apparently his believers had even come up with a name for the promised land he didn't promise them. Markien. Many of them had chanted that word the whole four day journey to the narrow mountain pass. According to Louisa it was an old word, it's meaning somewhere between unity and safety. Carolinus decided not to argue.

[Erik Vale]

The Tribes Tales

Kalandor spent many days with the people of the Centaurian Clan. They were a nomadic people, who lived in the hills that would be the southernmost tip of his ‘holding’, or at least, his planned ones. They had, like with the many tavellers in their past, swapped very slight advancements (In Reality, Kalandor faked learning and showed them the favoured Throwing Hatchets of the imaginary Boar Charger sub tribe of the imaginary Forested Clan, for no major forests existed to the south. At least, that’s what Kalandor ‘thinks’)
It was on the 13th day of which Kalandor had been with the clan before they told him the stories as to the dangers to the north, and only when Kalandor said he would otherwise leave. And that night, they told the story of the Ula-gi, both from their perspective, and the perspective of the Gypsi Clan, who had no representatives at the camp to speak the tale.
The Centaurian Clans chosen speaker for their tale was Alogan, who spoke with a rhythmic voice.

“Once, when the stars were still heard and the White city had yet to retreat, the Centaurian Clan were the greatest of all know, we had learned of strange rocks that made potent spears of golden point, we lived still amongst the horse kindreds, and declared our greatness, when Cha-lan of the Chario subclanrode the horse, and thought ourselves as gods, and proclaimed such so.”
And from nowhere, drums beat, and a whistle began to mimic the cries of people.
“And so the Overgod looked down from his throne, and said with a whisper that met the Earth. ‘So thinkest thou, well thou shalt meet Horses of a kind not known.’”
Two men began clapping horses hooves in a running rythem.
“And then we saw it, the Chil’Rabi. A Meat Eating Horse, who favoured the blood of men. It at first surprised lone men, Scratching them with its terrible talons which had replaced its hooves, or with its sharpened teeth that had replaced blunt instruments. These men changed in to weaker versions of the same, who answered to the Chil’Rabi, these were the Chil’Raben, and their children, who only killed, where the Chil’Rabu. And so the Chil’Rabi led these hordes against the Centuarian clans, and we almost died.”And so the whistles became the wails of many, and people crumpled dry bark and the fire seemed to roar.
“And then it stopped, we grew, and they came in moderation, for the Overgod had decided that we were to be weak, and so we are a tribe, and we learn of humility. And we wait for the sign that we may travel, and join the other tribe, protecting ourselves from the Chil’R”

Kalandor clapped as was expected, and settled to await the next performance, the Gypsi tale.

“Once, when the Gods where still of the ages we would call of their middle years, when children become men, The Over God, the Great(Said Baz’) Auran, decided to create creatures like gods, who could create.”The background musicians began slapping their feet against the ground.
“And so, while we travelled and learned the wild magics, Baz’Auran created the great beast Mal’ki’yeth’ya, who would create the beastial beings. The Centuri, Horse Men (Think Gorilla but if the Front was man and Back was Horse, can stand or go on all fours) and many other beings, some passive, but most with a strange hatred for man.”And like before, the background people wailed.
“And so we fled, for their strength was great, but our speed was of the time, greater, should time occur as normal. And we, the subtribe of the Gypsi, known as the Hill Wardens, got separated, by the beast Chil’Rabi, who weapons of nature and speed separated us eternally with its children. And when they swepped the land, we hid with our magics, and when these horses who seeked the blood of men receded, we the Gypsi tribe, threw our lot with these the Centuarin Clan, and we wait for the Sign that we may resume travel, from the Great Auran.’

And so, with these tales in head, Kalandor rested this night, seeing in the tales a rather obvious path laid out, but needing time to think and plan. And the Tribe rested content that Kalandor would go no further north.

[Erik Vale]

“When nothing is ventured, nothing of value can be gained”
Opportunity Knocks:

It was on a hunt on the third week of which Kalandor had lived with the Centuarian Clan, and the first three days since the Gypsi had arrived, upon which Kalandor had the chance he had awaited.

They were surprised and hunted by Chil’Rabu lead by a Chil’Raben, the foul man eating horses.
Each one appeared as a black stallion, gleaming with malice but,
Where a horse bore Hooves it bore wicked claws,
And where horses had blunt grinding teeth, its teeth were wickeder than wolves’ teeth.
And they hunted Man as only natural wolves could, were wolves to choose so.

But the Men were lucky, they had Kalandor, The Adventurer and Lucky god with them.

Despite the depth of his spark, it flared bright, and Kalandor stopped the Hunters long enough on their hunt, that they all felt their nature scent, and the tap of claws thumping against the ground.

Lucky for man, they had weapons with reach longer than the scything kicks, granting them abilities beyond the beasts brute strength. And with Kalandor’s warning and leadership, only one person was harmed, Kalandor, taking a strike he quickly hid, feeling the strange magic of ‘were creatures flooding him, to be subdued by and awaken in part in him, the strange magic touching the staff oddly, in a way he would show later. Upon the Victory, with much heart the hunters returned, with Kalandor taking back the head of his kill, the lead beast, the Chil’Raben.

And when Kalandor arrived at camp, that night after the questions and planting thought, with his presence long since made felt, he talked to the camp.

“My Friends. I know I have only been here a short time in the grand scheme, but I would wish to talk to the camp.”
And slowly, people started drifted into the communal area from where there weren’t, having heard this.
“I’ve a question, almost not in how I know the answer, but why don’t you hunt the Chil’R”
And In response, almost all said ‘The the Chil’R were a curse from the Overgod Great(Baz’) Auran.’
“And what happens to those that actively hunt the Chil’R”
And In response, almost all said ‘They Die or are Turned.’
“So you let them hunt you?”
And In response, almost all said ‘Because we must.’
“What if I said that the time for change had come?”
And the area slowly became silent.
And now Kalandor pressed the advantage.
“I am the traveller Kalandor. Now do any of you know of the Overgod’s children?”
And some of those that knew of them scoffed. ‘Surely you don’t claim to be he?’
And Kalandor smiled. “Did any of you see the falling stars almost two parts a season ago?”
And In response, almost all said ‘Of course.’ And then they frowned, starting to link the points, and muttering started.
And Kalandor pulled out the Chil’Raben head.
“I killed a Chil’Raben, something that hasn’t happened in seasons, true?”
And In response, some said ‘True, but that means nothing.’
“Let me show you the truth.”
And so Kalandor showed him a few of the tricks he could still perform, and the one he felt activate before.
Slowly Kalandor made his hand glow with light.
Then Kalandor started running from his position towards the crowd, and became a blur. Many of the people flet, more than saw, Kalandor moving around them, turning they found Kalandor to their rear.
That was something that the crowd couldn’t call a forgery. And before they could start up about Kalandor’s powers, Kalandor silenced them, and performed with great difficulty, shape shifting, which the scratch had activated.
First he became small, with great difficulty and time.
Then he became a small wolf pup.
And then he slowly enlarged to a dire wolf.
And then he became himself.
“I have shown you that I am I, and I am who I claim to be. I will let you speak amoungst yourselves, and lead some of you in the dawn.”

And with the other hunters talking of his skill and how he saved them at the hunt, Kalandor started an uproar of conversation. From this he receded to sleep his exhaustion.

[AntiMatter101]

The Voturi turned out to be just as vicious as the orcs made them out to be. Frellon no longer held the orc's original judgement of him against them. His first encounter with the Voturi was a wordless screech and the feeling of their claws poking through his hide armor and raking down his left arm. Luckily, the Guard Patrol seemed to do this all the time, in that ambush only two of their group got scratches, aside from Frellon, who was in the front.

They were midgets, their heads only came up to about Frellon’s waist. Frellon had noted, painfully, that they lacked real fingers, only long sharp claws were on the ends of their forearms. They fought like animals possessed, a whirling storm of claws that refused to stop until you bashed their skulls in. Frellon was afronted to see that their eyes mirrored his own, but he mastered the feeling. This was, after all, what they were here for.

The Orcs only set light sentries at their village at night, because these Guard Patrols regularly swept the forest clean of the overly hostile creatures for miles around.

“It wasn’t always like this. When our forefathers first arrived it was almost a constant battle for survival, with the Voturi especially. If their poison was lethal to us orcs we’d have died out long ago. They used to have constant survalence at all hours day or night, the fires were always burning, and they had to be ready to beat off an attack at any moment!” Cherok had been happy to tell the story when Frellon had first expressed interest in the Guard patrols. “Supposedly we eventually we got sick of pulling all-night guard shifts, and started the guard patrols, sweeping the land clean of the creatures that might attack us, the Voturi especially.”

It certainly didn’t seem like a bad idea to Frellon. To encounter the Voturi at all, they had started in an outwards spiral around the village, meeting a few other guard patrols as they did the same in the opposite direction. Cherok was leading one of the Patrols they met, and Frellon exchanged hearty greetings as they passed. After a few days they really had begun to get out into the deeper forest, and they rarely met other patrols anymore. Now, they hadn’t seen any other orcs at all for half a week, but they had encountered 2nests, and 3 other small groups of Voturi that morning. The numerous cuts and one laceration were taking their toll on the orcs. It wasn’t the cuts that made the Patrol Leader, an orc by the name of Jarun, call a halt to make camp for the day, for they were a hardy folk. Frellon had wanted to continue.
“It’s barely noon! Why make camp now when we could push forward some more? I bet we could clear out a few more nests by sundown.”

Jarun, was a good leader, a capable warrior, and a friendly orc, but his eyes narrowed all the same at his orders being questioned. “In case you had forgotten, those claws of theirs are coated in poison. You might be immune to it, but every orc with a cut here is fighting to keep their eyes straight. It will take most of the afternoon for them to work it out of their systems, so we are going to sit tight, and protect the wounded until we have our fighters back.”

Cowed, Frellon realized that he had forgotten. I need to keep that in mind. Frellon thought guiltily. Not every man, or orc, he had at his back could withstand the things he could. He needed to be careful who he was leading into what fights. Not that he was leading anybody anywhere, Jarun was in charge here. Frellon suddenly was struck by a thought, horrified. “What if they attack us here, while we’re not at full strength?”

Jarun gestured around at the clearing they were stopping in. “This place is ringed with thick thorn bushes, taller than us. It’s an ideal place to defend should they attack, but we shouldn’t encounter enough Voturi to need such defenses anyway. You only really find them in those numbers in those cursed nests of theirs.”

Frellon nodded, relieved that this had not been overlooked. He stood guard at the entrances with 5 of the other, uninjured orcs, as the rest of the group sprawled around the clearing, their eyes spinning. He took up a position on the other side from Jarun, not wanting to somehow offend him again.

One of the other guards was complaining to the others.

“It’s not right, we would have had a fourth of this many wounded by now 2 years ago! They used to cut you up and run, it was mostly a matter of bashing them once or twice before they got away, they don’t heal much, so even small wounds’d kill em. Now they stick around, crazy for blood. I’ve never seen Voturi fight to the death unless cornered.”

Frellon frowned. The voturi were a bloodthirsty lot, and they obviously only ate meat. He’d taken enough anatomy lessons to know what kind of business those teeth meant. But if they were that blood hungry…

“Could they be starving?”

“Who?”

“The Voturi. Could they be so vicious because they are starving and desperate?”

“Hah! You’ll never see a starving Voturi! They aren’t smart enough to get desperate, they eat each other if they can’t get anything else. Filthy animals.” The orc emphasized his words by spitting.

As the orc’s spit hit the leaves, there was an awful screech, the sound of some animal making enough noise in the wrong place, at the wrong time, such that it disturbed the birds, and the forest went silent. The conversation dropped off, and the silence stretched.

From ahead, far along the trail and around some bends where they could not see, there was a noise. A shout.

The sound of many footsteps was the next thing they heard. As that grew steadily louder, they began to hear the sound of many feet pounding the ground. By this time most of the guards had come over to this side of the clearing to look, as well as a few of the more lightly poisoned orcs.

As the sounds grew louder, Frellon recognized another sound, a familiar voice giving gruff, short orders. His eyes widened. He started to say the name, but was stopped by the sight of Cherok rounding the bend, his entire Guard Patrol a handsbreadth behind him, sprinting at full tilt.

[daelrog]

Dasque's Ascension Part 4 of 5

As Light and Shadow Close In
Everything hurt. Her arms felt like they were still shaking, her knees could barely move. She should have been dead. Yet she lived still. It was as if the light had gave all. It was as if it nourished her, fed her, held her, but deep down she knew something was wrong. The last thing she could see was the cliff. To see that brightest point of light her head had slowly, but surely, tilted upwards, as the plateau came into view, far above. When her hand had grabbed hold of the side of the cliff the intensity of light became too strong, and she could no longer rely on her eyes.

She could feel dried blood where her eyes had bled, but of all the things that assailed her, her eyes were the least concern to her. She had had time to part with them. Her entire body was another matter. She had climbed and climbed and climbed, and eventually what had been fuelling her seemed to lash back. Dasque could not remember how far she had fallen. Probably no more than ten feet, but it was enough to hurt, and it had felt like forever.

Her lips were on fire, when her tongue tried to lick the pain off, she could feel how cracked and broken they were. Her skin no longer hurt as bad though. She had been sun burnt for a long time, but it had gone away. At least that is what Dasque told herself, not choosing to consider the implication of what the numbness she felt could mean.

She was losing her other senses now. Her tongue was dry, her ears seemed clouded, and she could feel the ice forming the ledge only from the sense of gravity. She had lost smell completely now. All that remained would be the light, and the sense of doubt within.

“Turn back.”

“No.”

“Turn back.”

“Never.”

A harsh wailing sent her writhing, the screaming as within, but it was not her. It was not a dream. “What are you?”

“Now that is the question, isn’t it?” The voice was outside of her now, but she could not see what it looked like, nor could she even see an outline of it.

“I feel like a weight’s been lifted from my heart.”

“For the moment.” Something was looming right above her, its face hovering above hers. Something within her heart told her so. “We are going to play a game. I will say a word, and you will me the first thing that comes to mind. Life.”

“Light.”

“Opposite.”

“Shadow.”

“Love.”

“Heart.”

“Baz’Auran.”

“Monster.” The word flew from her mouth before she could reconsider. “Monster.” She said it a second time, tasting the word of in her mouth. “Monster.”

“Tell me more Dasque.”

“He… it… it is a creature of immeasurable power. It commands us as it sees fit. We are naught but tools in its plan, to be molded, used, and discarded as it sees fit. It acts as if it is justified, but its justice comes from power and power alone. What madness befell Father to create monster alongside mortals, to sit on its throne and tell me… tell me…”

“What did he… it say to you?”

“Father told me what he had in mind for my purpose.”

“And what was that.”

A burning welled up inside her, a hatred that was all her own, a rage which had boiled within her for so very, very long. Venomous words and bitter tears would not show her true feelings accurate enough, and so she screamed, feeling her throat cough and sputter through it.

“I choose the light! I choose the all, not the without! I reject Father, and I reject you, thing of Shadow.”

At first she felt nothing, until the uncertainty, the unnatural loathing crept back within her. The voice came from within once again. “For so long I have sustained you… given you life where you should have died in this frozen place, this place Baz’Auran created. Climb to the top, and your precious light will destroy us both. My boon is lifted.”

And slowly, but surely the life seemed to lift out of Dasque, until she was weightless, yet even then, at the very moment where she was to die, she could not sense anything but the light, seeing the horizon above her.

[VonDoom]

Shirvan and the Evil Hag
Shirvan's Ascension - Part 1
A folkloric tale

It happened during this time that Shirvan, son of Baz'Auran, had fallen down from the city on the moon, down onto the world and became mortal, like you and I.

He was walking on a narrow path beneath the giant mountains, mountains that were as tall and far as the eyes can see. What he thought of then and where he was going, no one can say. But as he walked he came upon a small hut by the side of the path. Inside that hut lived an old woman, as ugly as an old woman can be. She was evil and knew magic.

"Son of Baz'Auran," she said. "Come into my hut, I will feed your hunger and quench your thirst."

Shirvan did not trust the old hag, but he was both hungry and thirsty, so he accepted her invitation. He paid careful attention that anything he ate, the witch tasted first, so that he knew it was not poisoned.

"Son of Baz'Auran," she said. "I see that you are mortal and cannot return to your Silver City."

"You speak the truth," Shirvan answered, misliking that the hag seemed to know so much she should not.

So he asked her: "How do you know this?"

But she only laughed, and said: "I know many things, Son of Baz'Auran. I will make you an offer. Bend your knee to me and name me your lady wife, and I will make you a god once more. You will be greater than you ever were, as long as you do as I say."

Somehow, Shirvan knew the wicked old hag told the truth, that she could do as she promised. But he would never submit to one such as she and left with anger in his heart.

So once again Shirvan walked along the path, on and on, until he saw a familiar hut once more. The hag was inside.

"Who are you, woman, to hound me so?" Shirvan asked, and she told him. She was one of three, the witch Daga Mir, who could see things others did not.

Shirvan went on then, walking a day and a night, but upon the second day found himself before the hut once again. Enraged, he picked up a knife.

"You would kill me, Son of Baz'Auran?" Daga Mir asked, cackling at the mortal man with his knife, and cast a spell upon him, so that all his doubts would bubble forth from inside and gobble him up until not a bone of him was left.

With a single thrust of his knife, Shirvan slew her. For he had never doubted himself once in his life.

And that was the end of Daga Mir, the oldest of three, who could see things others did not.

[The Succubus]

Persecution

The lights in the court dimmed as each of the Khalens reflected on what had been said so far. The central light faded to darkness, taking Nieve, or the illusion of Nieve, back into the shadows. Khalen thought about what she had said. Had he really been the unfeeling monster she had portrayed? Did all his siblings share this view? The defence council had done his best to undermine what Nieve had said by highlighting her flaws as a reliable witness, but still....

The light to Khalen’s left grew bright once more as the prosecutor began to speak again.

“Members of the court, we turn our attention now to the day of Elanna’s disapperence. Our lonesome friend here was met by four spirits and encouraged to go outside the walls of the White City with his young “friend”. Yet something here does not add up. I call the accused to the stand.”

A dazzling beam of radiance shone down on the same area where Nieve had stood moments ago. Yet before Khalen could even take a step, a figure leapt from the darkness into the centre. It wore a ridiculously oversized nightshirt and a huge grin on it’s face.

“Hehehehe! This is a wonderful joke, Khalen-Fishy! I want to join in as well!”

Every single Khalen stared in surprised horror at the small figure now in the centre of the court, before speaking as one:

“No.”

“No.”

“No!”

“No.”

Jongo turned towards Khalen and shook his head sadly as he dissolved into a rainbow coloured cloud of smoke.

“....silly little Khalen-Fish.....”

The central light was empty again and slowly Khalen walked into the centre of it and turned towards the prosecutor.

“Tell the court your version of events on that fateful day.”

Khalen described how the spirits had surrounded them and encouraged them to explore the unfinished Disk below. Elanna had listened eagerly to the four spirits yet Khalen had been loathe to disobey Father...

“So here we have a lonely and isloated figure apart from the adoring sister, who is suddenly accosted by four spirits who then urge him to defy father and go on some adventure. Why exactly would these spirits ask YOU of all people to do such a thing? Why not someone like rebellious Dasque or the wandering Kalandor?”

Khalen fell silent, at a loss to explain why. The spirits never said...

“I suggest that in fact there were no spirits! That instead YOU decided to take your younger sister beyond the walls of the City of your own accord!”

“THAT’S A LIE!” shouted Khalen, infuriated beyond all measure by the harsh words of the prosecutor. Its chains rattled as with a gesture, it dismissed Khalen from the witness stand and back to the position of the accused.

“I call the next witness!” boomed the prosecutor.

A solemn figure stepped into the central light, his armour shining brightly beneath it. Khalen started, “Carolinus, my friend...”

The pain shot through his body again. “The accused will be silent until given leave to speak by the court,” said the judge.

“Carolinus, Knight of the White City, you are one of the closest people to the accused. Did the two of you ever talk about what happened to Elanna?”

“We seldom discussed it. Khalen often said that he found the subject to talk about.”

“Strange how grief can drive people to silence,” said the prosecutor. “But surely he must have spoken at great length about the evil “spirits” that persuaded Elanna and himself to do something so reckless and stupid?”

A puzzled frown crossed Carolinus’ brow. “He said that there were four of them but that was all...”

“So just to clarify, four completely nameless spirits, with no distinguishing features suddenly chance upon Khalen and Elanna and decide to carry them off to certain doom. Spirits, I might add, that were created specifically to serve Baz’Auran in all things and never to defy him.” sneered the prosecutor. “A very convenient story, especially given that following Elanna’s disappearence they fled into exile where no one could find them.”

The prosecutor paused for a brief moment. “One final question - if it had been Cireo that had been lost that day, would you have just returned to the City?”

Carolinus growled. “I would not have left her behind. I would have torn the Disk apart to find her again.”

“No further questions from the prosecution, your honour.”

The judge turned to the defence councillor. “Does the defence wish to cross examine the witness?”

The councillor spoke. “If it pleases your honour, we would.”

The prosecutor’s light dimmed and the light above the defence councillor glowed strongly.

“The prosecutor would have us believe that these spirits did not exist, that they were part of some highly elaborate scheme to rid the accused of an annoying pest, when nothing could be further from the truth.” It turned towards Khalen. “You loved your sister deeply did you not?”

Khalen nodded. “Yes.”

“In the same way the witness loved Cireo?”

“No. The affection I felt for Elanna was not an all-consuming love. It was more that she made me happy, made me laugh. I...I felt like a better person with her around.”

Nodding, the defence councillor turned to Carolinus again. “When Cireo was taken from you by order of Baz’Auran, did you spend all your time weeping to your siblings about your loss?”

Carolinus’ face hardened. “No. It does little good to discuss pains of the past unless by doing so you can hope to correct them. One must harden one’s resolve and move on.”

“Would you say this is true of the accused?”

“Yes. Ever since that day, he has worked tirelessly to find the names of these spirits and discover what could have taken Elanna. Sometimes I would help him to search through the old records from the library in search of answers.”

“No further questions.”

[The_Snark]

Brymhide Isle

At last—it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but it seemed much longer to Nieve—they arrived upon the surface of the Disk. The mist before them grew darker than usual, and all of a sudden a hillside rushed up at them, all green and grey and brown. The ailing Spirit of Haste placed her on the ground and leapt upwards without a word, leaving his charge soaking wet, shivering with cold, and utterly alone.

In this manner the goddess Nieve came to Brymhide Isle.

Wind bit at her skin. By now Nieve's own misery had driven shock and worry for her family to the back of her mind. She wrapped her arms about herself, wishing bitterly she had chosen something warm and thick to wear to the banquet. She set off in search of shelter, and for some time wandered over the blasted heath, stumbling and feeling sorry for herself. Neither the wind nor reaching the Disk had lifted the mist, and she could see no more than a few dozen paces in any direction. The ground was full of little hillocks and ditches to trip over, which often went unseen beneath the long grasses and low shrubs that covered the moor. The plants were nothing like the splendid gardens of her home: they were untamed and pathless, a tangle of ankle- and knee-high greenery that made each step a struggle. Only when the soil became too rocky and barren to sustain growth could she step easily, and it never remained so for long. The only trees she glimpsed were crabbed things no taller than she was, bent over like old men; she imagined that, like her, they huddled down to escape the accursed wind. None were large enough to shelter her.

And all the while the wind blew ceaselessly, driving the fog before it, and she walked steadily into it. Nieve had the sense that the wind on this isle rarely changed direction or died down, so—while she could expect no reprieve from it—it would at least serve as a steady guide.

She walked on, trying to convince herself that the lonely haunting cries she heard on the wind were merely tricks of her imagination. Because Nieve had a vivid imagination, this was quite possible; but because she had a vivid imagination she could not wholly persuade herself that nothing was out there. She wished now that she had worn her sword to the feast, as well. The next time she tripped over a loose stone, she picked it up, and felt better for having something in her hand.

It proved lucky that she had done this. The land had gradually sloped to one side as she walked, and now she came to a place where it dropped away steeply into a cliff. In the fog and the dark she could not see what lay at the bottom, but a sound rose up from it, rising and falling in slow irregular rhythms but never stopping entirely. (This was the ocean, which she had seen from afar but never heard before.) She glimpsed what looked like a path leading down from the edge, inviting after hours of tramping through pathless soil, and took it.

The path did not lead all the way down the cliff to the sea. It didn't even go very far down. It led somewhere better.

It led to a cave.

A grateful Nieve slipped inside with hardly a thought—oh, blessed shelter! The wind could not quite reach her here—only to feel a jolt of fear when something deeper inside the cave uncurled and sat up with a snarl. She hurled her rock—it struck soundly—there was another snarl, and now the creature hissed and padded forward, diamond-pupiled eyes glinting in the dark. She stooped to pick up another stone—it leaped—

Had she not broken one of its legs with that first throw, it might have been the end of Nieve. As it was, she was raked very badly down one arm and along her side before she killed the beast. She lay there panting for awhile, her ragged breathing soon turning to sobs. Nieve had suffered bruises and cuts while training in the White City, but nothing like this. The pain wouldn't go away no matter how much she wanted it to, and it hurt, and there was nobody to help. She roused herself just enough to get a look at the creature she had killed—it was a great cat, nearly long as she was tall—and then curled up on the cave floor, convinced that this was the most miserable (and possibly last) night of her life.

But the worst was yet to come. Sleep had not quite taken her when a feline yowl jolted her out of her doze. She sat bolt upright (her shoulder spasmed with pain) and saw...

... another cat, this one no more than a kit, nosing at the body on the ground. It mewled piteously, pawing at the big one's face, and Nieve knew suddenly that she had killed its father. She felt heartsick. This was her fault; she hadn't meant to do it, had only been trying to find a place to sleep, but that didn't change anything. The kit was all alone and would never get its parent back and it was all her fault.

She watched it try to coax life out of its parent one more time, and snapped. She reached out, meaning to take the kit up in her arms and comfort it, and received a nasty scratch for her trouble. Now the little one turned on her, somehow sensing she was responsible. It hissed—she withdrew, but it kept hissing and darted forward to scratch at her, again—and again—and again—finally she struck it to shoo it away. It did not move again.

It was not a restful night. The ground was hard, and she was still cold and wet, and she was now quite sure that the sounds from outside—mournful howls that started low and climbed high before cutting off in a strangled shriek—were neither her imagination nor a trick of the wind. Nieve cried for a long time, for the cats and for herself and for her lost family, until at last her guilt and fear and grief wore out her body. Then she slept.

[Raz_Fox]

Bloodshrouded Olm

Festering.

That was a new word, Fayruz thought to herself as she sat beside the sleeping child. The first few weeks, when she did not have a word for what was wrong with the scars, when she could not understand, and when any misstep could lead to a punishing blow or a threat of death from the capricious king who sat on his throne of rough-worked copper and thought himself a god sent to lead his people, she had been disgusted by his face, that festering face that went from a cruel frown to a manic grin within seconds, from the stench and the pus that leaked from it, from the way that he would rip the paltry, green-and-purple-and-brown scabs open in his maddest moods and let the blood and pus and sweat run down his face, and how he would laugh while doing this, darkness slithering behind his eyes.

She had cried every night. For home, so very far away, crumbling as the darkness ate away at it. The darkness was everywhere on the Disk, and it was deep. In the White City, there had never truly been night, not pitch-black nights that surrounded her and reminded her of her failure. For Arenis, sprawled on the doorstep of the hall, her spear broken, her knife still clutched in a bloody fist. It was Gamesha that had killed her, she was certain; she'd seen for herself, more than once, what that hammer could do to a body. It shattered bodies beyond repair, and what had been left of Arenis haunted her nightmares. For herself. She had looked into a plate of hammered-out copper to look at herself, one day, pulling down the hood and mask she had been given, while the chieftain of the Tekeza was lost in his nightmares. She had been so beautiful back home, her Father's shining star... in a dress that didn't chafe at her skin, wasn't 'man's' clothing and veils turned inside out as befitted a chieftain's fool; her face had been bathed in the sweetest water, instead of being bruised and cut and filthy. She was nothing here, she said to herself.

It had taken her weeks to realize, to see like a child of Baz'Auran should, to listen and realize that there were people all about her. That the women and children of Dol Mazzah remembered what she had done for them, and that the women and children of the Tekeza were still mortals who deserved to be treated with kindness and respect. The funny thing was that when she did this, they returned the respect. By the time that the Tekeza had arrived at Dol Mazzah, she knew everyone in the camp, and they knew the chieftain's kindly fool, Efi.

And she knew the whispers behind Gamesha's back that his fool was wiser than he; she knew the warriors of the Tekeza for men made brutal by a brutal land, with but a smile and a gentle touch unlocking some small measure of goodness remaining in them. She knew that Gamesha's uncle, Hefar, was, of all the men of the Tekeza, the most worthy of leading, despite his cowardice that made him support his mad nephew. And she knew the story of how Gamesha had been brought back by the warriors of the tribe on his father's shield, his face shrouded by blood and dragon's-ichor, unable to do anything but writhe and scream in agony; of how the wise-woman of the tribe had taken the desert-wolf mushrooms, which the desert wolves ate when they sought to mate to ignore the pain of the she-wolf's fury; of how it had made him into a new man, given to berserk rages and cold scheming in turn, and an obsession with cruel amusement.

He festered, wounds, soul and all. Because no one had bothered to clean his cuts, no one had been able to wipe away dragon's ichor, because no one could make his wounds wholesome again. Even she could not heal the scarred king, or stop him from waging war against all his 'enemies' - mortals just like him, fooled by generations of pointless feuds. She rose silently, leaving Gamesha asleep. It was only while he slept that he was kind. Had he really once been gentle and brave, as far as the warriors of the Tekeza were such?

Outside, the broken stone pillars of the Olm rose up high above the tents of the Tekeza. It had once been a temple, this much she could guess - but age and weather had destroyed it, long before she had come, leaving only a tall hill with broken stone jutting up towards heaven, and a system of deep caves beneath. Dark fogs were common around the Olm, and the women of the Aferi had told her it was because the blood of the gods constantly rose from the ground, trying to return to heaven to grasp at their spears of lightning and slings of hail. Of course, Fayruz knew this was nonsense, but something had happened here that made her shudder, from time to time, when she was alone in the dark. From the Olm flowed one of the few rivers of this land, but, as she had found out when they arrived, the river of the Olm was not safe for drinking, not at all.

She made her way to the edge of the cliff, at the edge of the Tekeza's fortress in ruins. There was something about the water moving that reminded her of home, even if - like everything else here - it was a pale, parodic reflection. The water was not clear, dancing, sparkling and bright, like the rivers that had run through the garden, the quiet streams that she had loved to sit by as she practiced her harpwork. It was sluggish, and a deep brown-red, like the earth was bleeding. The Tekeza women had told her that the earth was, in fact, bleeding - that this was her constant issuing of blood, after the gods in their warring had marred her and thrust their spears deep into her.

She couldn't heal that, either. Rumel would already have come up with a plan for a contraption to cleanse the water and make it drinkable. Soreal would have whispered to the water and convinced its spirit to become whole again. Llassar... she wasn't sure what Llassar would have done, but it wouldn't simply be useless. She was never supposed to come down here like this. She should have been with her brothers and her sisters.

No. She would not be useless. She would fail at healing Gamesha. She would fail at stopping the tribes. But maybe, just maybe, she could do something worth doing.

Festering happened because no one tried to clean a wound.

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon and the others wordlessly stood aside as Cherok’s patrol finished their sprint into their clearing and collapsed onto their hands and knees, scattering their weapons before them. Only Cherok maintained his grip on his weapon, on one knee and breathing hard though he was. How long have they been running like that? Frellon wondered. Then he stopped himself, and counted. -fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Seventeen? They’re missing half a dozen! Glancing back along the road Cherok had come, he was confused, for it seemed nothing was there.

“Cherok, what happened?” Jarun was crouched next to Cherok, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“Being. Chased.” The words seemed to grate from his throat, like steel grinding on steel.

Jarun, looked once more at the path. It was empty. “There’s nothing there.”

“Sh-“ Cherok stopped, and coughed hard, spitting phlegm onto the ground. “Short legs. We’ve gained. Only minutes. Stand Ready.” With this, Cherok stood, and gripped his sword with both hands, still breathing heavily. Frellon was proud to see him shift into a perfect guard stance, even in this condition. Cherok was a fast learner.

A good two thirds of Cherok’s patrol were as good as passed out on the ground. Whether it was from the run or the many cuts that were present on all of them, Frellon could not tell. Wait. Cuts? Debilitation? “The Voturi! They did this to you?” Frellon pointed at the nearest orc, sprawled just over the threshold, moaning and almost motionless. “Poison right?”

Jarun blanched, and looked at Cherok. Cherok nodded, and moved forward to take a place guarding the entrance; he was the least injured out of his whole patrol, likely a product of his extra lethality, and reach, with that sword.

Jarun began giving orders rapid fire, orcs began moving the injured as close to the center of the clearing as comfort would allow. Those only lightly poisoned from Jarun’s patrol fetched their discarded weapons again.

No sooner was this finished than the first of the Voturi rounded the bend.

Frellon could not tear his eyes away from the sea of bodies streaming along the path, through the forest, and darting between trunks and roots. Still, he leaned toward Jarun and asked, “That’s a whole lot more than a nest of them. Isn’t it.”

Jarun just cursed darkly.

The Voturi were screeching and howling as they always did when they seemed to give themselves to the bloodlust, and as the first wave of them broke upon the defenders, they still were not done pouring from around the bend in the distance. The tumult was impossible to shout over. Even so, the defenders let loose defiant battle cries of their own as the slaughter began.

The Voturi turned out to be rather stupid. They had the numbers to overwhelm the thorn thickets with bodies if nothing else, but they seemed content to throw themselves at the clubs and sword of the orcs instead. The defenders met them in rows of 7, for the two exits from the clearing were only big enough for seven of them to fight aside one another.

The Voturi were kept at bay by the powerful strikes of the clubs, bodies flew back and were crushed under Voturi feet. In the forest, most injuries came from Voturi Claws came from ambushes, as they sprang from where you weren’t looking and clawed you up with their poison from the start. Once you survived that part, it was easy. The Voturi really were little more than dumb animals, they would rush straight at you headlong, claws flailing, making ideal, easy targets for clubs. Without the advantage of the ambush though, the Voturi stood no chance against the orcs. Here though, they did not need the advantage. Frellon knew overwhelming numbers could take down practically anything, but to do that one had to be frivolous with the lives of one’s men, as great numbers would die in the attempt. The Voturi seemed to have that problem solved; they simple climbed over their fallen comrades as if they were no more than tree limbs in their way, and got another few centimeters closer than their predecessor before dying.

Orcs began to take injuries, mostly small ones. After an hour, those injured began to show signs of suffering from the poison and were smoothly replaced in the 7 Orc line. The only good news, was that several from Jarun’s patrol had recovered enough from their early morning poisoning to join the fray, relieving some orcs for a spell. They had enough fighters to cycle out and rest a bit when some became too weary to continue. Cherok was the first one to sit out, though he had waited two hours and had gotten three more cuts since it started to do it.

Once Frellon was relieved, he took the opportunity to look around more clearly. It was obvious to him, that this was a losing battle. They could not continue forever, there were simply too many of them. His eyes had seen that endless horde.

He caught what glimpses he could through the gaps between the fighters. The piles of fallen bodies of the Voturi were becoming an increasing obstacle for the orc's enemies. From somewhere inside him, an idea came, unbidden: Perhaps the bodies will pile up and block the passage all together, Frellon thought. Is there a way to stack them like that ourselves? He was not really sure if it would work, but it felt right. It felt sure. It would work. It had to.

He moved himself over to where Jarun also was resting, and tried to communicate his idea. “What if we-“ But he never got to finish.

One of the orcs at the line gave a shout, and both Frellon and Jarun were on their feet in an instant, ready to leap to a breach in the defences! However it was not a cry of rage, or pain, the orc had shouted for joy! Frellon could not see past them to whatever it was they were shouting about, for indeed it seemed the whole line was celebrating, though their clubs still swung, and the sound of crushed skulls still reverberated around the clearing. But Frellon realised something. He had [I]heard/I] the orc shout. The tumult of noise eminating from the Voturi had apparently faded over time. There were less of them!

As Frellon watched, that motion of the clubs slowed, and the killing stopped. Through the tangle of thorns he could still see motion, but it was moving away, not toward the clearing.

The fight was over. Some of the orcs felt like celebrating, but the general feeling was one of exhausted relief. Cherok and Jarun assigned the energetic ones to stand guard, and most of the camp ate from the supplies and went to sleep, for night had fallen.

[Tectonic Robot]

Cold.

Llassar was cold, cold, cold. He was nowhere: A white hill on a white plain and there was white in every direction. Cold white. Snow. He couldn't see and he could barely think, and his thoughts all revolved around one thing. They had failed. Before they began, really. His siblings were probably dead, and he was going to die.

Of all the ones to survive, Llassar reflected, why would it be him? He was without a doubt the most laziest, stupidest child of Baz'Auran. Even Fayruz, bless her heart, would probably be doing something. Oh, but not him, the lazy one. Here he was, sitting here, waiting to freeze to death. A fitting end for someone who had wasted their time like he ha-

And suddenly there was little girl pulling on his hand. A small, wispy girl, wrapped up in a big fur coat, pulling him up. Dumbfounded by this apparition, Llassar allows himself to be led.

The journey was not far- in fact, if he had simply gotten up and walked 30 feet, he would've seen the village himself. The fact that he would've died a 2 minute walk from salvation barely made an impression on Llassar- all he could focus on was the wonderful smell...

[The Succubus]

Judgement

Khalen slowly dropped to his knees. Whether this was real or not, he felt as though he was under a giant lens, being dissected and his flaws examined one by one. The prosecution had spoken nothing but lies about what happened but the logic behind it was impeccable. The defence was making a determined effort to speak on Khalen’s behalf but he could feel the gavel swinging down upon him.

The judge’s light flared, more strongly than before and the image of Carolinus dissipated into mist. “Members of the court, our time is coming to end. Make your final statements before judgement is passed on the accused.”

For the final time, the prosecutor’s light glowed strongly. “And so we come to the end of the tale, for tale it is. No truth has been spoken by the wretch who grovels before the court thus far and now we see his lies for what they are.

“The accused will tell the court of what happened after his departure from the White City.”

Khalen slowly explained the final chapter of Elanna’s fate, stammering in places as he felt the eyes of the other Khalens bore into him.

“So the “spirits” carried you over the wall, encouraged you to visit an unfinished section of the disk, where you claim you were attacked by some unknown entity and forced to abandon the sister you loved and adored. On your return to the White City, you spoke with Baz’Auran and these “spirits” suddenly decided to flee the City, rather than submit to Him.

How very convenient. The four entities that could vouch for your actions are the very same ones that led you astray and vanished. I submit that this is no more than a total fabrication!” thundered the prosecutor.

“Let me tell the court what really happened. This lonesome and isolated creature found his solitude repeatedly disturbed by a naive and kind-hearted soul. Unwilling to put up with her incessant attempts to force him to become a sociable and productive member of the White City, he planned to have her murdered-”

“NO!” screamed Khalen and the chastising pain tore through his body, stronger than ever before.

“-planned to have her murdered and then pin the blame on a group of nameless spirits that never existed! He managed to find a way past the walls of the White City and when she tried to turn back, he dragged her out to a secluded section of the disk and killed her, knowing that the body would be destroyed in the chaos of construction! The man that kneels before the court is a cold blooded murderer and he should suffer the same fate as Elanna did!”

Khalen felt his eyes fill with tears. He was going to be executed and scattered to the depths of oblivion because of the lies this nightmare version of himself was saying. Despair overwhelmed him.

“The defence calls its final witness to the stand.”

The central light bloomed in the darkness and a figure stepped into the centre. It had short dark hair and wore a long silver dress. There was an air of compassion and tenderness about it as it gazed at the weeping figure before it. The four surrounding lights faded to almost total darkness as she spoke.

“Khalen.”

Khalen slowly lifted his head from the floor. No, it couldn’t be.....

Elanna.

“Khalen, my sweet brother. Why do you torment yourself like this?”

“I.....let you die, Elanna. I should have said no when the spirits encouraged me to disobey Father. I should have refused to pass beyond the walls. I....” he sobbed.

“Shhhhhh,” Elanna raised a finger to her lips. “You carry this burden alone, my brother, yet I should carry it with you. The responsibility was mine as well - let me share the guilt for what came to pass.

“Now stand, brother, for the world has need of you. The Brothers are returning, Khalen, and they would sow chaos and anarchy onto Father’s creation and surrender it to the Darkness. You must not let Father’s work be destroyed, for it is the seed of hope for all of us.”

The figure of Elanna began to change and become translucent and the light above it forced back the shadow surrounding it. It became tall and indistinct but her voice filled the space where the void was before.

“You must bring order to the tribes of Man. Only through Law and Order can the children of the Earth and the children of the Sky stand against the Darkness and you must show them the way..."

The doppelganger that served as the judge walked into the centre of the room, merging with the transparent figure, lending it strength and form.

“Be even handed in judgement and show understanding and patience with those that bow before you....”

The prosecuting doppelganger walked into the centre, blending, merging, sharing its power.

“Pursue those that would break the law and show no mercy to those that would defy the Law...”

The third doppelganger that served as Khalen’s defence joined the others as the light burned with unfathomable brightness, filling everything with whiteness.

“Defend the innocent and protect those that would stand against anarchy...”

Khalen felt a new strength and wisdom flow through him, such as he’d never felt before, even in the presence of his father. He saw the shimmering figure reach out towards him and he raised his hand to touch it.

“Never forget how it feels to be judged and know that my love will be with you even in the darkest of places.”

“And now, Khalen-Het.”

“RISE!”

[daelrog]

Dasque's Ascension Part 5 of 5

Radiance
Dasque willed herself to move. No sight, no smell, no taste, no touch, no sound. Nothing but the light. For all she knew she was dead, or her body had whisked away, or she was heading down and not up. She willed whatever was left of her to move up though, as the light grew deeper and deeper and deeper. Occasionally there was something else, a second will, something which tried to pull her back. She would not yield though, and continued to move. Time had no relevance anymore, and neither did space. It was all one, one and the other.

Then the voice cried out, not with words, but in something more basic. It was trying to pierce her darkest secret, of what Baz’Auran had told her that broke all love she had for him. At first she thought the shadow unsuccessful, until the memories came flooding back.


Dasque waited outside Baz’Auran’s grand hall, her head hung low in shame. During a practice bout she had almost hurt Frellon. He had laughed it off as nothing, but the spirit of war who watched over them knew better. In that moment she had meant to kill him. It had stopped being about simple practice, and her body had taken over, fighting for its survival, her heart deadened to reality. How could she have done that… what was wrong with her?

The doors opened, and slowly she stood up, walking into the chamber, to ashamed to look at her glorious Father, the one who had granted her a spark of divinity, on whom she had shamed.

“You are dismissed Adrall. I will speak to my daughter in private.”

The spirit bowed low, and left hurriedly, not bothering to look at Dasque. And then there was silence.

At first Dasque was too ashamed to do anything, but the seconds went by, each one longer than the next. Her pale eyes looked up, and met Baz’Auran’s gaze, which froze her in place, mentally and physically. Baz’Auran held her in his gaze, his glory fixed upon her. She knew though that he was not condemning her, but appraising her. It made no sense.

“So it has come at last.”

“Father? What do you mean?”

“I have created each of my children from my own will, no two exactly alike, not even you and Shirvan who were made by the same light. You have finally awakened to a part that is uniquely yours.”

“What is this inside me? I lost all feeling, I couldn’t control-“

“You will learn to control it or I will unmake you as effortlessly as I created you.”

“What am-“

“Your are Dasque, my daughter, and inheritor of a truth. That truth you should understand now.”

“The truth of judgment, of punishment.”

“I have sent spirits to exile. I have slain others with a thought for their crimes. I hold court over them not for their sake, but for those who still follow my law. There is no purpose to play with one you mean to destroy. Simply end them, and be done with it. Leave justice for those who still have a purpose.”

“But Father, Frellon is-“

“Innocent. He has done no wrong, and it is for this why you must control it. However, should one day Frellon, or any of your siblings ever raise their sword against me, I may leave it to you to punish them. You hold the strength within you to see past emotion, to see past self preservation, and to become simply one with victory. Whereas another of your siblings may hesitate, to see some redemption within family, you will not. So is my will.”

“Punish them… you mean murder them. Murder them! Is this some sort of game, Father?! I will not kill my own brothers and sisters!”

“And may you never do so. However, in so creating you all, I have given you the ability to be independent, to think on your own, to become flawed. You are the one I have given this boon to, but others may yet find it on their own. They may find other things as well, things that will make them turn their back upon the White City and all of us.”

“Boon…” Dasque could not hold back the tears. “I felt empty… alone. It is no boon, Father.” She spit the last word out.

“Call it whatever you desire, it is not my concern. What is of my concern is whether or not you learn to control the apathy, to control the murderous intent, the void inside you. Become of darkness Dasque, and control it. You will continue your training.”

Dasque stood up. She knew it was over. It was over now, and over always. Her eyes were red, with tears still trickling down. “Father.”

“Speak.”

“I will never forgive you.”

Baz’Auran sat in his throne. Dasque spun on her heel and marched away from a place she would seldom go for the rest of her days within the White City. It was when she was but a step outside the door she heard his response. But a whisper, it still carried to her ears. “As you wish.”



Her eyes shot open. The sky was blue, with frosty clouds high up. The sun was still glaring down on her, but she could see. She sighed, a sound she could hear. Then she could feel, and it hurt. Dasque gasped, swallowing a mouthful of cold air. She was dying, she could feel it now more than ever. She looked around. She was atop the plateau, and she could not tell where the ice ended and sky began. The horizon was endless. She spun all around until a sight caught her. It was a spear, with something attached to it.

She walked up, moving as fast as she could, stumbling over once as she did so, clutching onto it. It was an ordinary spear, poorly made if anything. The thing attached to it though, was different. At first it seemed like a piece of blonde hair. Then it began to glow, then it burned so brightly Dasque had to avert her gaze, at first. Then, a compulsion took over her, and she looked with the strand of true light, and in that moment all she had ascended.

Her eyes burst open from silver-white fires. Scars and crags in her broken body became illuminated. Her hair untangled and spiraled out, falling into perfect place at her shoulders. The pain and hunger were gone, and she gazed once more at her surroundings.

Dasque danced to the side as the blade lashed out trying to find her heart. Dasque pivoted to face her opponent, a shadow-thing. It no longer mocked her form, but was something far more base. The light burnt its ashen skin, yet it persevered through the pain just as she had. “I tried to stop you. Every moment I scream, I wailed, yet only a few times could I reach you, only a few times would you listen! Now… now I die in this god forsaken land. Only victory remains. Only… only…”

The thing howled and dark tendrils burst from its maw. Its body contorted at expanded into a hideous creature. It was an abomination. Her eyes looked into the inky shadow and she was full of disgust. “I reject what my Father had made me. I reject the path he set. I deny the darkness.”

The abomination had no more words, a spike claw rushing to crush her. She darted aside, and moved in. Her spear lashed out, and the strand of true light spun and twirled around, blinding the creature, and metal met flesh. Dasque stepped back before the thing could counter, swaying the strand to the left as her body moved right. She hopped up to avoid hands that burst from the ground to grab at her heels, and cut the end of a tendril which tried to take her from above. She landed on her feet, and moved in. Three times her spear reached out and cut deep into the thing, but it did not die, growing more rapid with each wound, until the thing lost all control, and it charged her, tendril, claws, and mass spreading out so that she could not dodge.

“I cast out the darkness… and all that remains…”



A white mouse with a long tail sniffed the air. It hopped over to a nearby rock providing some cover from the sun. It sniffed for fungus to chew on, but after a good sniff, it seemed another had beat him to it, the scent of the other male’s piss thick underneath the rock. It would have to move on. It hopped out, and its head twitched from side to side. For a moment it looked at the large plateau of ice in the distance, and for a moment, it was consumed in a divine radiance, a second sun that seemed to invigorate the little mouse though it did not comprehend.

It hopped away as fast as it could.

[Raz_Fox]

The Nuckelavee and the Mother's Blood

In the earliest hours of the morning, Saven, a warrior of the Tekeza, kept watch for his enemies, or for creatures of the south that had crept towards the Olm in search of prey. Although he was no match for one of the minotaurs, and he knew such, he had a sling that could crack open a ghoul's festering head from fifty paces away, and a spear that could skewer a desert wolf with such ease that some of his fellows named him Wolfslayer. But he had never had to fight once since the Tekeza came to the Olm, and his eyes were heavy when he saw a shadow move against shadows. He straightened, placing stone in sling, and called for friend or foe to come forth to give answer to him.

The shadow raised its hands, and whispered, plaintively, for Saven not to cry out or alert his fellows. The voice was familiar to Saven - it was his lord's fool, Efi, coveted by every one of his warriors. But luck was with the fool, for Saven was young and stouthearted, and loyal to Gamesha unto death, having been among his guard as a youth. Saven lowered his sling, and ordered her to come closer, so he could see her clearly in the dark night.

She stumbled forward, and he saw that she carried cures stolen from the wise-woman, the plants of healing and poisoning, wrapped in her men's veils. He leveled his spear and demanded their return, to which the fool pleaded that she was trying to heal the mother. If she were to heal the mother, she said, then the Tekeza would not have to walk many miles from the Olm to find water, but would have a fresh stream to take their water from. And her begging was so sweet that Saven found himself swayed, and accompanied her down the treacherous paths towards the mother's bleeding, keeping one hand upon her shoulder to keep her both controlled and safe, like a prized horse.

They were forced to remove their wrappings and wade into the bitter river, which flowed like quicksand beneath their feet, to enter the caves. Soon, it became too dark to see, and Saven told the fool to turn back, for they would grow lost in the cave, or fall prey to some trap or pit. As if mocking his words, a great cacophony rose up among them, like a thousand locusts all raising their cries at once, or great beasts of the wild moving about around them. Saven grasped at his spear, but Efi - her voice wavering in fear - grasped at his hand and began to sing, softly, but soon as loudly as the unseen foes. And they continued on, and all at once, the noise stopped, and the sound of the beasts faded away. Saven trembled with fear, but the fool - as fools do - saw wisdom and told him that this must mean the mother's pain came from the spirits, and it could be healed at the source of the river. This calmed Saven's heart, and he held the fool's hand in his and led the way.

So they continued on, and soon enough, they stumbled into a wall that was no wall at all, but - as the fool found with her quick fingers - steps hewn into the rock, one after another, down which the river flowed. The fool was not deterred from her quest to find the source of the mother's bleeding, but with the plants of healing and poisoning tucked beneath her arm, she could not easily climb the steps. And now Saven showed his strength and skill, by ascending a step and then pulling the stumbling fool after him. They continued on, and nearly fell to their deaths many a time, but they came, at last, to the top of the steps, underneath the Olm itself.

So they continued on, and soon enough, they came into a place that was lit by softly-glowing crystals, which shone from the cavern walls about them. And all about were scattered a treasure beyond imagining, things which the fool called 'bronze lamps' or 'rubies and diamonds'. They shone, and were of the earth, and shaped by a far greater craftsman than feeble man - this much Saven knew. They glittered and shone in the dim light, piled up upon each other, mesmerizing the eye like the dreaded water-serpents of the east. In the center of the treasures was a spring from which the mother's blood issued forth, and in the center of the spring was a spear which pierced it. Two snakes with the horns of rams were intertwined about the spear, and their poison flowed from their fangs into the water. The fool gasped, and started forward to remove the spear, her hand outstretched, when a monster rose from the water before them with a bellow of rage.

Saven was struck with fear, for it was a creature with the hindquarters of a horse, and the body of a man, so tall that it could not have appeared from the shallow stream, but most terrifying of all, it had no skin, but its skeleton and viscera could be seen pulsing and twisting within it. Its eyes were bright and burning, and its mouth was wider and sharper than any creature but the dragon of the mountains. Its blood was black, and its web connecting the bone to organ was a sick yellow. It bellowed at them, and raised a mighty hand to crush the fool.

The fool screamed, and this forced Saven to throw her aside, into the treasure, where she landed with a great cacophony and chaos. The creature then turned on him, and struck him aside, and where the blow landed his skin became as fragile as an elder's, and ridden through and through by leprosy. It raised its hooves to trample him, but Saven rolled aside, drawing his sling. He sent a stone spinning at it, but its body was as strong as copper and it only enraged the beast. It lashed at him, landing blows on his arms and face, crippling his limbs with disease and illness, but Saven fought it valiantly all the same, to protect the fool. It shattered his spear in half like a child would break a thin branch, and his sling was flung from his hand, and it pushed him back against the steps, hoping to make him fall and break himself upon the sharp steps.

All at once the stinking water became a great flood, sweeping Saven from his feet. He desperately grasped for a handhold, and his fingers bit into the edge of the topmost step, and he felt no pain but held on so tightly that he bled, for he had become a leper. And the monster was thrown down the steps in the great wave, screaming in hatred, away from the spring it had guarded for so long.

When Saven pulled himself up, it was into a river moving faster, and its water was so clear and cold that it made him exclaim in amazement that he was dead, for no water had ever been so sweet or pure. It was so swift, in fact, that it made him stumble again, and he would have fallen, but for the fool reaching out and taking his hand, and pulling him to a shallow pool. He looked up, and saw the fool, with her hair in disarray, and thought her the most beautiful of all women, for the water had washed away her bruises and scars and the dirt that had masked her even more than her fool's clothing. And he, too, looked at his hands and found them clean and unblemished, the leprosy washed away. And in all these things, he wondered, until another woman joined them, a maiden like the fool, with hair the color of clear water and eyes as deep as the sea.

She fell to her knees and kissed the feet of the fool, praising her as a child of the mighty Baz'Auran come to save her. In days long gone, she had been a spirit of her father's house, she said, and had been sent to the world to bless the people of the rocklands with her water. But, she said, weeping as she remembered, her source had been polluted by a Nuckelavee, a corrupted spirit of pestilence and filth. For generations, she had been trapped, unable to escape or to purify her water, because of the spirit's weapon - which the fool now held!

Saven looked at what she held, but it was no spear, now. Rather, it was a necklace, but one wrought of a metal brighter than any he had seen, the color of the old moon when it was full. A crystal was set within it, one as blue as the summer sky, as clear and pure as the spring's water, and about the crystal, the ram-horned snakes writhed about each other in frozen fury, biting each other's tails. When Saven expressed his surprise, both the fool and the mother looked at him, wondering if he were blind. The spear, the mother said, belonged to the Nuckelavee, and was in its service a weapon of corruption. But it knew its new wielder, a daughter of almighty Baz'Auran, by right, and knew that she would never wield a spear. It was, after all, a magic of water. And Saven, who knew nothing of magic, accepted these strange events.

Efi brought the necklace about her neck, and placed one hand upon it with a smile. "I healed the land," she said, simply. "I healed the river. I finally did something right."

But the mother shook her head, frowning. "Your task is not done, my queen. A dragon still ravages the land, and drives the mortals to war." She silenced the fool's protests. "He is here, watching over his treasure. And he will destroy the rocklands in one battle, whether he wins or loses. You are the only one who can stop him from completing his vengeance upon those who slew him."

The fool pondered the mother's words, before her eyes grew wide with fear. "I understand," she said, before taking Saven's hand in her own and running from the room, her feet splashing in the river. The mother smiled at them, as Saven turned to look at her once more, and then there was a great wave that ripped them from their feet, but cradled them as they fell, and swept them into sunlight. Saven struggled to shore, and the fool came after, throwing down the plants of healing and poisoning. "Quickly," she said to him. "There is so much more for us to do!"

But she took a moment to turn to him, her black hair caught in the wind, and smile for him. And she said the words which he wished to hear the most. "Thank you." She then removed her necklace, and pressed it upon him, saying, "You must give this to Gamesha when the time is right, when the dragon is slain. Then his wounds will be cleansed, and once he is healed... then all we will need to do is make this land whole again."

And this was the magic of the fool with her kind smile: that he believed her.

[Erik Vale]

It was late the next morning when Kalandor had arose, and by the time he had completed the morning rituals expected of him, he left his small tent to see a small crowd waiting for him. If the word crowd could describe the majority of a clan, and the majority of a sub tribe of a clan.

Forth from this Crowd strode a (much) smaller group, composing of twenty people, and then another consisting of 5, to be those who spoke to Kalandor. Two of this smallest group walked forward slightly and knelt of bended knee speaking.
“We leaders of the Gypsi Hill Warden tribe and the Centuarian Clan, kneel here in supplication to Kalandor, he who was foretold to come to us and lead us. That you might show us the way back into the light, and that we may know what is needed of us.”
And with that, all that could slowly lowered themselves to bended knee.
And Kalandor had lots of trouble laughing, however all could see the humour in his eyes.

“The first thing I require for you is to get up from your knees. I yes, am a god, but at this time that is barely more than you are too I. And I have lived here amongst you and I know you all, I have never been haughty, and often thought how silly, even if necessary some of your rituals are. I need not your supplication, I would rather be your friends.”And so the people rose, some with confusion (Such as the leaders) and a few with concern.
“Now then. What I need, are about 20 of the most skilled in combat here, including your leaders. But these people need to be willing to teach, and be willing to listen; they need not be trackers however. From the Centaurian Clan I suggest that some are chosen from each sub-tribe, And as the Gypsi Tribe wanders, I suggest that more come from the Centaurian clan then the Gypsi Tribe.”
After speaking Kalandor looked unto the sun to determine the hour.
“I will give until High sun. Should you not be able to decide, I suggest that you call me an Hour before High sun.”

And so, Kalandor moved around the camp and clarified parts as people left. The Leaders already began preparing who would be going, it having been decided that 4 will be from the Gypsi tribe and 16 from the Centaurian Clan.

And so an hour before Noon Kalandor was called, with there being 25 Warriors, 6 from the Gypsi and 19 from the Centauri. They were of all types, Females and Males, Elders and Young People, who dispite being barely blooded were of skill. Some used the Bow or Sling, Some used the Club or the Spear. First Kalandor asked those of the sling and bow to remind themselves of the armour born by the Chil’R, the Scale that came naturally to their skin.
“I would like them to have the chance to run, but the Sling would not be of use here, I say with sorrow.”
And then there were 23.
He spoke to them of their The warriors of the Chil’R strength, and their reach, and spoke how only the spear truly allowed the speed of men to work, and asked for those who fight on their strength to step down.
And then there were 20 men and women of the various tribes, some leaders, some warriors, some trained with the bow, some with club or bow.

And so, Kalandor spoke with the Tribesmen, and said.
“And now, we shall hunt the Chil’R, and show you that I am the sign, and that to hunt and to protect yourselves is something you can. And when these warriors proud come back and teach you of the truth, know that you will have my blessing to travel, and I will have gone on.”
--------------------------------

And it was so. Kalandor began the game he played with the Hunting spirit Analan the day of his fall. Following the tracks from the last days hunt, and then the hunt followed the tracks of the Chil’R.
And the most surprising thing happened.
The Chil’Rabi sought why, and how its children had been beaten, when normally man ran, or died under its children’s claws.

And so, Kalandor stalked the Chil’Rabi, as the Chil’Rabi unknowingly stalked Kalandor through the forested hills.
And despite the hushed warnings, Kalandor set the ambush.
And the party was ambushed.
There were 8 of the demon horses, All Chil’Raben with the Exclusion of the Chil’Rabi.
The hunters amoungst the group and Kalandor sensed the disturbance and re-aranged just in time to face the group towards the Chil’R.
And the Battle was joined.

Arrows flew from their bows, most making no mark, and warriors filed in behind Kalandor, before breaking into their skirmishes.
The Archers couldn’t fire, it had become a swirling melle, and so 5 people waited to aid were they could.
Kalandor wielded his staff against the Chil’Rabi, the Godling moving in an almost dancelike flow, while the Demi-god created by the Beast of Chaos struck out with surprising speed and inhuman strength.
The men to struck the Chil’Raben, The smart horses using their forward scale armour to blunten weaker blows, and lined the men up so that both rear and for kicks were available, with scything talons cutting deep gouges into the warriors weapons, or into the ground when they rolled away.

For 10 minutes the fighting went, 1 of the Chil’Raben had been struck down, and 3 men were down, considered dead, even if their wounds were only deep gashes.
And slowly the fighters began to separate in exhaustion, and watched the challenge long since made with Kalandor and the Chil’Rabi, with the Hoarse screams of rage from the Demigod, and the responding cry that struck the primal cord in all beings coming from Kalandor.
For theirs was the deciding fight, the beings both Man and Horse forming a rough semi-circle with each separated by a large distance.

Kalandor fought with much skill and fluid speed. His form seemed to shift, when he couldn’t duck low enough for the claws to pass over head, he shortened, becoming the height if a dwarf, or he disappeared, appearing a few steps to the side. His stave seemed to also shifted. Where a moment before deep gouges had been made by the Chil’Rabi’s claws, they had been filled in. Sometimes the stave became thicker to allow for blocking, and sometimes it became a spear, or a stone bladed halberd.

The Chil’Rabi fought with inhuman speed, strength and toughness. Its blows almost shattered the stave or made deeps furrows in the ground. When the seemed hopelessly drawn out of position it would suddenly be leading a furious attack, or make a feint that no beast of its size, about two men tall, could make at speed. And the heavy blows made by Kalandor were almost glancing blows.

And then Kalandor saw an opportunity to prove his dominance, and maybe force speech from the beast.

The Chil’Rabi reared, screaming in frustration at the godling in the Beastial Tounge, and Kalandor stoped and rolled under the beast, Setting his stave against the ground and making it a spear, the mighty beast started its descent towards death, but at the last moment Kalandor moved the spear to the side while rolling. This resulted in a long gash from just below its sternum along the edge of its scaled hide, and Kalandor rising cried out.
“Halt, should thine like the taste of life.” And man and beast alike stood shocked.
And the Chil’Rabi stood still, and spoke strangely in celestial.
“You are a strange manling, what be thine name?”
“I Be Kalandor, Son of-“
“Kalandor! The tales are true!”
“What Tales?”
“The Tales told to me by the great creator Lug’a’don’th. He spoke of how the Great Auran created him to seed the world, and how man slew the Centaur. These men of the Centaurian Clan.”
And despite the lack of eyes in the back of his head, all the people behind him felt his gaze upon them.
“Did they not tell you how they slaughtered the creatures of the hills. Of how Lag’a’don’th mourned the losses and begged the Great Auran to create us in vengeance.”
“No, they did not.”
“Do you know what the legend says of you?”
“I know not your legends.”
“Would you like to know?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Then rest your hand upon my facial scales.”
And so, before any human could respond, Kalandor raised his hand and rested it upon the Chil’Rabi’s brows, and somehow, they spoke in mind.
-------------------------------------

He heard the rythamic voice of the giant beast as Chil’Rabi had.
“But Baz’Auran extracted a price. He said ‘You may overrun them, but your vengeance will have to end.’”
And though the bestial godling felt much rage it listened.
“‘You must not kill them all. You may grind them under heel, but they must suvive. You may wash them over in a dark tide, but it must recede.’And I cursed internal.
‘Worry not, once you have receded once from your war, you may let them hunt at will.’
And I felt Elation.
‘However, this was planned and there is a child of mine your Dark Vengeance (Chil’) Rigders(‘R) will fight, long after you have left this land to your beast to seed again another land.'
And so I listened, quite curious.
‘And once he has proven himself to the Humans and you Dark Riders, these your children will return to you, in golden grace, both your vengeance and who they revenge. Not immediately, but these Horses, they will seem a curse to bind them in, And Kalandor must let his light show.’
And this I acknowledge, with furrowed brow and reluctant thought.
‘I am sorry I must restrain you friend. But this must occuor.’
And so I Said, I understand father, and I will obey.”
-------------------

And with this Kalandor receded from the Chil’Rabi’s mind.
“Do you accept mine evidence.”“You have shown the sign, so I leave. You have shown them their freedom and ability, so they can continue, as you will.”And so Kalandor turned to the men.
“I have shown you your freedom and ability, know that you won’t be hunted, you will co-exist but you will not be solely prey. Go to your tribes, and tell them what has occurred.”
And he turned back to Chil’Rabi.
“Goodbye, speak well of me to my brother.”
“I will, uncle.”

And so both Kalandor and Chil’Rabi left, with Kalandor moving at a speed imposible for a true mortal frame even if yet released, and Chil’Rabi retreating with the Chil’Raben he brought with him, all but two disappearing into a incorporeal form, with the Chil’Raben that lay dead disappearing from the world.

Turn 0 Artifact: The Travellers Stave

Kalandors Staff, a long oak branch which never decays, that he weilded while his spark bubled up. It has learned to change shape at will, often taking the shape of the most useful stave like object at the time, or the one that will blend in most with his current apearence. It also allows him to focus his abilities, as well as being able to sustaint the force of his godly attacks, breaking under no (known) conditions.

[Gengy]

Epilogue

Jongo was unable to say how long she remained in the dance. Days? Weeks? Months? Years?

There was a change within him, and change takes time.

Finally, at last, Jongo looked out with new sight, and saw...

...the Abyss.

It was still hungry, but now even more so. Now Jongo could feel the weight that it's blackness carried. Everything that it consumed made it grow in power. It was an end to all things. And it had almost been and end to Jongo.

Jongo.

Jongo felt more like herself every second, but also so much more.

Jongo.

That now stood for something. It stood for a powerful figure on the Disk. A figure who could bring so much good. Or do so much evil.

::Jongo.::

The Leviathan. Jongo looked down. The tentacle - no, it was a large, prehensile fin - still held his body firmly.

::Namer. Your rush of power seems to have momentarily blinded you. We have been around the Disk many times. We are back again to where I first found you. Are you awake now?::

"Yes. Sorry. You can... you can let me go now." Staring at the creature now with new eyes - better eyes, even if one was still green, and the other grey - Jongo was amazed at the amount of will and force exuding from the most giant of creatures in the sea. Baz'Auran poured so much into this one thing. Jongo decided it was wise to be polite. "Please?"

::If I let go, you will fall. That cannot happen. Should anything fall towards the Abyss, I shall do my duty.::

"Oh! Right!" Jongo grinned, and changed. Wings grew from Jongo's small humanoid form, sprouting on the back. Each feather was a different color white, and it felt so glorious to grow them. It was like...

Like eating cake right in front of Llassar, right after it was finished baking.

Like rushing up silently behind Contragh, and tackle-hugging him in surprise, to watch his training kick in, only to be thrown fifty feet away.

Like playing hide and seek in the whole White City, just Jongo and...

Father. Baz'Auran. The White City. It changed.

Wasn't that good?

Something whispered to Jongo, at the edge of her euphoria. It teased and taunted, and wanted to do so much more.

Jongo stared down at the Abyss. The new god of chaos flapped his wings in flight, and feeling herself be released from Leviathan's grasp, pointed one long finger at the all-consuming darkness.

On the finger lay something smooth and metallic, but also soft and supple. It was a ring, all colors of the rainbow, and some colors Jongo could not even name. It looked silver, gold, green, blue, opaque and solid. It twisted and bent while laying flat and unmarred. It was both solid, and not really there.

And the ring glowed brightly in song, as it heard the whispering too.

The White City changed. Wasn't that for the better?

"No." A simple word. But it held power. The whispers stopped.

"Change is good. But not all change is for the better. Hunger all you want, rage and consume, but I control the flow of Chaos now. For better or for worse, my choices will shape the Disk. But the White City, if it changes, will change back to how it once was."

::Well said. Now, if you'll excuse me, Namer, this toad must be moving about his duty. I feel a bit of driftwood moving up ahead. And it will take me several days to reach that spot, if I do not expend power. The Disk is quite big.::

"Thank you, Leviathan. For stopping me from committing a mistake. Or worse." The ring on her finger thrummed, and Jongo smirked at a new idea. The Disk was big.

So Jongo flew off to explore it, reveling in the new. Reveling in the change.

Band of Chaos (Turn 0 Artifact) - This ring is an extension of Chaos itself, and like Jongo, can change it's forms; but the forms must always be circular. Most commonly, it is seen as a Ring, a Bracelet, a Belt, a Circlet, or even a tight Necklace. If one listens hard enough, it seems to sing with it's own Voice, beckoning for Change.

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon was awoken from strange dreams filled with whispering voices. He was awoken for the last shift of the watch, and he was still on watch when the sun began to rise, and the camp began to stir. The night had worked to rid the Voturi’s poison from the Orc’s bodies, but Frellon need not have that problem. His gaze wandered at the darkness outside the light of their torches. As everything got brighter, he smelled cooking, but kept his gaze on the outside of their camp, as was his duty. As such, he was among those who first realized something was wrong.

Outside the entrance of the clearing, masses of bodies formed piles that were just starting to hit their stride in the rotting process. The smell would soon be near unbearable, for Voturi do not leave behind pleasant things when they die.
Several hundred yards away, a few Girrun, mother and cubs, waited for the orcs to leave so they might feast. This was not out of the ordinary either.

No, as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the spaces between the trees shown clear, the Orcs began to wonder at this simple fact.

“The space between the trees are clear, the foliage is gone!” Aside from the densest of patches and large the rather large thorn plants, the forest had been trampled underfoot until only the trees remained. It cut a swath through the thick forest they had been traveling through, from far away, to right up to the clearing.

As the Orcs spilled out from their small forest fortress, they realized that it didn’t stop there either. The trampled path continued on past the shielded clearing, and kept going, in an eerily straight line. If the Orcs had all stood shoulder to shoulder, they might have spanned the width of the path, as it was, the pile of Voturi bodies no longer seemed massive.

Indeed, it became readily obvious that the couple hundred of Voturi bodies that littered the place paled in comparison to the horde that had simply passed them by.

Cherok shook his head in amazement. “They were just… going somewhere?”

Jarun sighed. “and we were in their way. Still, those that saw us seemed hungry enough for our flesh.” He laughed and then fell silent. While nobody had died from the poison, four were found dead in the morning; they had simply bled out in the night from deep cuts they had borne without complaint. Three had been from Cherok’s Patrol.

Cherok did not need to be reminded of his losses, he shook his head. “I’m going to have to bear the ill news to eight wives when we get back. Would have been nine if Gurnod had ever married.” He sighed as well, both he and Jarun staring at the path the Voturi had carved. “That’s nine more warriors who will never return home.”

The thought arrived to both of the Leaders simultaneously. If the thought had not been so dire, Frellon might have laughed at the sight.

“HOME!” They both began bellowing orders to their men, doing their best to get the camp packed up and moving as soon as possible.

“What? Whats going on? Whats at home?” the gravity of the situation was not lost to Frellon, but he was not sure he understood.

“The Voturi!” An Orc told him while rushing past him with a large pack. “That path points straight towards the village!”

[THEChanger]

This journey was becoming more and more confusing by the hour. First a giant snake, and now this woman. Desri-na. Yet another familiar name in an unfamiliar place. The Weaver gazed towards his new travelling companion, and the two smiled at each other. She still reminded him of Soreal, something about the joy in the little things the two shared. Now that green had returned to this strange desert world, Desri-na jumped from flower to cactus to reptile. It was rather endearing, and The Weaver found himself glad he finally had someone to share his trials with. The weaving song spoke to her in some way that The Weaver couldn’t quite fathom-in this strange landscape, it seemed that emotion ruled over all, and if The Weaver felt something in large enough quantities, it would change the world around him. Sometimes in ways he didn’t want. For instance, right now The Weaver felt angry at the wind that kept buffeting him, and it seemed that his anger simply fed the wind to greater heights.

The sun raged, and the sands rattled, and the bones of the fallen cried out in vengeance. The son of Baz’Auran had changed their sister! He had made her into a follower of the accursed King of the Moon once more! The Dark Ones grew restless in their eternal prison. The Dream-Time had been their home. But now one came to take even that from them! This godling was a graver threat than they had supposed. But then came the screeching of a hawk, and the Dark Ones calmed themselves. For their brother of the skies would finish this godling and the traitor-sister, and they would feast on God-Flesh, and they would feast on the flesh of the traitor, and all would be as it was before. Deep in a cave, the red eyes glimmered and flashed, seeking news of the future from the sands of the Dream-Time.


The Third Tale of The Weaver

In the days before the coming of The Weaver, and our people’s triumph over the Dark Ones, our people flew into bursts of pure rage, that consumed entire families in its wake. This is the Third Story told to us by The Weaver, the Third of his Dream-Tales that cooled the raging brow of our anger.
As The Weaver and Desri-na, who had been made into a new being by the simple beauty of The Weaver’s work and no longer was counted among the Dark Ones, walked through the Dream-Time, they came to a stretch of land blasted constantly by winds and sand. The Weaver felt pulled across this land, and yet as the two tried to cross it, they were constantly beat back by the furious gale. The Weaver’s anger grew, and many times he tried to force his way across the fields of wind, but to no avail.

And eventually, The Weaver shouted in rage, and began to beat the wind with his fists. The wind, of course, passed through his fists effortlessly. But slowly, the winds died. The Weaver felt a shadow cross over his head, and looked up. There, gliding down upon the sands, was the largest hawk The Weaver had ever seen. It landed, and glared directly into The Weaver’s eyes. “God-Child! You do not belong here! I am Verades-na, Nightmare of the Fall, and these lands belong to the Dark Ones! Begone, lest I devour you and Desri-na the traitor whole!” And The Weaver, still wrathful from being blocked from passing by the wind, stood his ground, saying “I am The Weaver, son of Baz’Auran, and I do not fear you Hawk!” Verades-na shrieked in anger, and shot into the air. The beat of the Hawk’s wings threw gusts of burning hot air into The Weaver, and he was struck down. The Weaver raged against Verades-na’s wing beats, but for nothing. And in anger, The Weaver wept. For he knew Desri-na could not strike her siblings, save for one who lived far, far away: It was the will of Baz’Auran that this be so. But as he wept, The Weaver stopped fighting Verades-na. And the wind from the Hawk’s wings pushed The Weaver into the sands below, and The Weaver found he could move beneath the surface of the desert. Crawling away, The Weaver popped up and grabbed a bush. Wrapping the pieces of bush together, The Weaver made a long, strong rope. The Hawk charged at The Weaver, seeing his prey standing. And The Weaver took his rope and lashed it around Verades-na’s neck, pulling him to the ground. Verades-na struggled in fury against the rope holding him down-and his struggling eventually snapped his own neck.

The Weaver reached into Verades-na’s mouth, and drew forth a pearl of brightest yellow. He cracked this against his adversary’s beak, and a brilliant light flew out of it. Yellow returned to the desert, and the sky far above lit with a yellow sun. Plucking the feathers from Verades-na’s wings, The Weaver placed them in a pouch he wove for himself, for they would be needed in the far future. And he and Desri-na continued on their journey. And if you go to that part of the Dream-Tale you can still hear the screeching of Verades-na.


This is the Third Tale of The Weaver, who freed our people from the Dark Ones. Rejoice, for he brings chill winds to burning hearts.

[VonDoom]

The Ogre Who Ate Shirvan
Shirvan's Ascension - Part 2
A fairy tale

Once upon a time, there lived an ogre. As tall as a tree and stronger than any man, he was the terror of all that lived in the shadows of the Great Mountains. He had huge tusks as black as his heart and was said to possess strange powers that no mortal man could match besides.

He could ride the black thunder clouds during a storm. The animals who preyed on men heeded his call. Plants grew black and died where he passed and children were born twisted and ugly.

But that was not the full extent of his evil, for the ogre often walked amongst men in their own shape, pretending to be part of their noble kind while spreading evil and hatred. For he possessed the ability to take the shape of anything he had consumed and the ogre had a huge appetite.

This is the story of how that ogre bit off more than he could chew.

--

The Ogre had eaten well tonight. A human unlike anything he had ever come upon, tall and swift and beautiful. This one, this little man, had been the first to actually hurt the ogre, driving a knife deep into his chest. But the ogre could not be killed with an ordinary blade and had merely laughed, grabbing the golden-eyed stranger, swallowing him whole.

--

"What manner of beast are you?" Shirvan asked, as he looked up at the monstrosity before him, unafraid. Its huge black tusks were stained with old blood, its claws caked with dirt and grime.

"I am the ogre," the ogre said. "And I will eat you up, little human." But then he took a deep whiff with his large nose, and paused, looking at Shirvan accusingly. "I smell the blood of my sister on your hands. You killed Daga Mir."

"I did kill the evil hag, with this knife," Shirvan confirmed, and leaped at the ogre, hoping that he would fall as easily.

--

And so it was that the ogre now walked in Shirvan's place, looking like him. And he liked that form so much, he decided he'd keep it, if only for awhile. And then, he slept.

The ogre dreamed of his sister, but as he slumbered her face slowly began to look different. The old hag became beautiful and bright, with silver hair.

Startled, he woke.

The next night he dreamed of his siblings, his many siblings, all great in their own right. As he woke, he remembered that he only had two and one of them was dead. He blinked in confusion as, when he tried to recall the face of Daga Mir, he only remembered the evil shrieks she had made as she died.

Finally, a week had passed, and the ogre arrived at a human settlement. Startled, the locals looked at his impressive visage, and asked him who he was and where he came from.

"I am Shirvan," the ogre said despite himself, and was the ogre no more, lost in a spirit and form far greater than he.

Remember the lesson of the ogre, young ones. Those who would be something they are not will eventually lose themselves. And those who would be as gods, oh, they are the sorriest of all, for the gods are jealous and consume those who come too close to them.

Shirvan, King
Shirvan's Ascension - Part 3
First-Person Narrative

Once again, I am asked to make a judgement as these humans drag one of their kind before me; he took some pretty stones that belonged to another. I rule swiftly, fairly, with finality.Let he who uses his hands to steal be robbed of his hands, so that he may steal no more.

Sitting on my throne of hard stone, resting my chin against my closed fist, I recall my arrival, here, at this place. How exactly I reached it remains a mistery; the last thing I remember was the closing jaw of that ogre, the brother of the old witch I had killed so that I would be free from the spells she sought to ensnare me with. And then, I was there, looking at a small group of farmers and introducing myself.

Not having any better idea as to what to do, I chose to stay with them when they invited me. After two weeks of idleness, I took it upon myself to challenge their leader to a duel for his position. After all, what else was I to do? With no clue how to regain my power and where to start looking for my brothers and sisters, I might as well take these people and make of their settlement a landmark to attract their attention.

And so, I lead them. Lead them against those neighbors who threatened them and bargained with those who did not, forming a new whole under my rule.

They are better off for it. I taught them to fashion crude blades from stone and animal bones, coordinate them and make them build walls to seek shelter behind. The settlement has become a city and only grows further; the rivers run strong not too far away and their branches sustain them well here. The steep mountain range offers natural protection from winds and foes. It's a good place. Surely it will catch their attention, if they come close.

---

They are quite impressive, my subjects. I constantly urge them to find things they excel at, speak praise when they do good and show them new things they might do. One of my followers, a builder, recently took it upon himself to fashion my likeness from stone. It's shaping up a beautiful work and will be even taller than that ogre was. I'll have to reward him somehow, maybe name him first builder so that his deeds will be rembered for generations to come.

---

Perhaps I should have been more careful, but now it is done. Some of the women I have lain with, their bellies are growing. What is beget by god made man and man? I'll find out in a few moons.

---

Catastrophe! The skies have grown black and hot soot rains down onto the ground, burning the fields and covering the city. The people are in despair, not knowing what this means. I do. By my divine name, I do. I finally know where I am. The central continent. The volcanos.

One of them must have broken out, unleashing molten stone and spitting it into the air. At least the city is not close enough to suffer such an assault, or we'd all be dead. As is, I'm not sure my people will survive.

They must gather here, in the palace carved into the mountain. It's the strongest structure they have built. And here, I will hold a speech to calm their minds.

---

They are dead. Most, if not all. The city is empty. I survived, perhaps by some remaining merit of my past divinity. The volcanic fumes killed them, poisoned their lungs and ate at them from the inside. My people are gone; my unborn children with them.

I weep for them, yet I do not regret them. They already lived here when I came and would have died just the same. At least they had a brief time to shine, this way..

Yet the city still stands. The testament of my rule remains. But there is nothing here for me, not anymore. Tomorrow, once I am rested, I will climb the mountains. Perhaps I will find answers at the volcano -- a place of such raw, natural power may be just what I need.

[Ladorak]

The pass and the plateau were everything Carolinus could have hoped for. He had sent out scouts in both directions to investigate the forbidding mountains with instructions not to return for a full phase of the moon unless they found another way up; Neither scouting party found anything.

The plateau was a dream come true; The soil was fertile, the game abundant, wild horses roamed. Carolinus suspected his people would find rich veins of minerals in the surrounding peaks once he had taught them how to mine in relative safely. It was not even cold despite it's altitude, which he attributed to the many hot springs which had taken on a quasi-religious meaning to the tribe since his failed attempt to teach them the importance of hygiene (After several failed attempts he got them to understand that bad smells brought sickness. He decided that was good enough and moved on to weightier matters). There was plenty of flat open space to start new settlements and enough timber with which to build them. Had he actually promised his people a promised land the plateau would have been exactly what he had in mind.

But it was the pass that made his new settlement so perfectly situated. It cut into the rock face as a great and narrow fissure, as if Baz'Auran had smote the mountains with a titanic axe. It's entrance was concealed within a box canyon. At it's narrowest point no more than five men could walk abreast. The tribe called this place the black buttress, he considered it a very apt name; The rockface loomed up so high it was a marvel any sunlight made it to the bottom. After that it widened to an incredibly steep pathway almost a hundred yards wide.

He enlisted the peoples in his preparations for the oncoming storm. Two months later that storm broke.


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

Then they came. A army of blackest midnight and cruel intentions. Their weapons were darkforged souls, their intentions were genocidal. So great were their numbers that they stretched from horizon to horizon, so great was their evil that even mighty Baz'Auran was sickened by their excesses.

Against them stood a single god, not yet returned to a fraction of his total power. Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran stood alone at the black buttresses; a shining ward against the tide of darkness. The ocean of black would break upon him, or it would break him. The fate of the peoples was entirely in his hands. Not a single one of them doubted him. The only one who knew doubt was Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran himself, for this was an enemy that seemed too familiar to his warrior's eyes.

**********

They came as the sun was setting in the west, casting long shadows across the plains. Nor were they the only shadows that they cast. Carolinus had been expecting them, several days ago his scouts had returned on horses lathered with sweat and near to death; they brought news of a great horde of humanoids wreathed in shadow even under the noon day sun. Yet as prepared as his was when the horde finally arrived his heart skipped a beat.

Their numbers were so great the ground shook with their arrival. They marched without order or discipline, the iniquitous tendrils of darkness merged with one another, there was no way to gauge their numbers. They were many though, far more than Carolinus had imagined during the worst of the many moments of dread that had haunted him since the first reports arrived. Yet their numbers were responsible for only a portion of his dread. The shadows looked all too familiar; he remembered his father's palace collapsing, he recalled with perfect clarity the stricken look on Cireo's face as he was torn from her. This living shadow looked the same, abide on a massively smaller scale.

The horde was so great they made the ground shake as they advanced, any hope Carolinus had that they would simply overlook the tiny opening in an isolated box canyon evaporated before his eyes. They knew exactly where his people dwelled and they seemed disinclined to wait till morning to start their assault.

He turned to Marcus and Sym, two formerly bitter rivals who had put their differences aside in becoming two of Carolinus' most devout (And more importantly most competent) followers. 'It has began. The enemy is upon us and they appear mighty. Run now, warn the tribe. Instruct them to pray to Baz'Auran, pray our preparations are sufficient. I shall await the enemy at the Black Buttress.' With a last lingering look at his enemy Carolinus fell back from the entrance to the mountain pass.


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

For three score days and nights the Children of the Shadow assaulted mighty Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran. Alone he stood at the black buttress and alone he threw back the horde time and again. The bodies of his enemies piled higher and higher and the footing beneath their feet became increasingly slick with blood. The smell of decay assailed his nostrils and grew more unbearable with each passing day. The Children of the Shadow were unconcerned; their numbers were limitless and they had no regard for the lives of themselves or their fellows.

But the defiance of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran infuriated their leader, so it was that the Titan's Bastard stepped forward to battle. Never had Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran faced a more worthy foe.

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

The night was full of blood and horror, it was dark and full of terror. Very little of the red stained moonlight reached the bottom of the black buttress and it did little to illuminate enemies comprised of the stuff of shadow. Carolinus desperately cut and slashed more out of instinct then out of any design or intention. Occasionally his sword met resistance and occasionally it met a lesser form of resistance which he took to be flesh parting. Countless hours of training blindfolded served him well as he ducked and blocked attacks he never saw even after he had deflected or evaded them.

His enemy never made a noise and as the night wore on that became the most unsettling part of the whole experience. As fatigue set in and his arms started to burn with the effort of continued survival and his mind began to fog the whole experience started to take on an air of unreality. Time ceased to have any meaning, victory was out of the question, all he had to do was survive. Just keep swinging, just keep moving... At some point, he could not say when, the whole thing fell away from his eyes. He saw Cireo and father looking down on him from the White City, they were safe but concern radiated in their expressions.

Close to dawn the enemy finally withdrew in the silence that was becoming their hallmark. Carolinus waited until he was sure he was alone, then fell exhausted to his knees. Unaccountably tears fell from his eyes, he wept in silence until dawn ushered in the light by which he could comprehend his foe. He was not prepared for the horror dawn's early light would reveal.

The slaughter of the battlefield would never become a welcome sight for Carolinus, but there are no words to describe the level of revulsion he felt as he looked at the bodies of his enemies. Men, women and children butchered by his own hand were left for the crows and the flies by their fellows. He stumbled away, his eyes wide with horror, bile in his mouth. One of the children looked at him accusingly, his dead eyes seemed fixed on Carolinus, those lifeless orbs fixed him to the spot even as it made him want to flee.

'Horrifying isn't it? What we greater beings do to these hapless sheep?' Carolinus surged to his feet, instantly at the ready but he saw no enemy. With great caution he stepped forward, constantly in perfect balance. He took his place amide the fortifications his tribe had built over the last two months. 'Oh, forgive me, where are my manners?'

Darkness flared before him, a whirling maelstrom of darkness whipped around. It gathered all the shadows of the black buttress to it, coalescing into a giant black figure that towered over Carolinus. It made a show of peering down at Carolinus and the boulders and rubble that flanked him on either side 'I have heard of you, son of Baz'Auran. My children have captured many sheep flocking to your Markien. Those always insist they will tell us nothing. Always they are wrong. An immensely condescending name incidentally.' It snorted in open mockery 'Markien.'

'My people named the land, that is fitting, for it is their land.' Carolinus opened his mouth to say more, but before he could he was drowned out by a great booming laugh that echoed up and down the pass. When it passed Carolinus continued with an edge of anger in his voice 'I am Carolinus, son of Baz'Auran. Who are you and why do you threaten my people?'

'So quick to lay claim Carolinus. Shame on you. The disk is wide and filled with people. But I came to the disk before you did and the people you lay claim to are mine. I am the Bastard of the Titan, father of the Children of the Shadow.'

'I have defeated your children, though it breaks my heart. I will defeat them every time you send them against me. Leave Markien alone and there need be no further bloodshed.'

'That is your answer?' The booming voice rang out with anger and scorn 'You dare steal from me and when I demand the return of my property you offer a peace which is not yours to offer. Here is your peace Carolinus; Step aside and allow me to claim what is mine and I shall spare you, though it will anger those who sired me.'

'These people are not your property. They are free men and women and I will defend them until my last breath. There is nothing more to say, be gone from here before I slay you.'

'You cannot slay me Carolinus, for I am not really here. But I am coming, soon I will arrive. My children shall assault you day and night until my arrival, then I shall break your bones and feast upon the marrow, I will turn your skin into my warbanner.'

In response Carolinus hurled his sword into the great beast's chest, yet as it predicted the blade passed through as if not really there. 'That was discourteous, yet I understand, you are a man who must test the limits of his own reality. Here is another truth for you to test Carolinus. My Children are of the shadow, not the dark. A shadow is starkest and most clearly defined under the noonday sun, a shadow is near nothing under the moon. Today will be your first real trial Carolinus. We shall speak again soon...'

The Bastard of the Titans was not lying. Under the sun the Children of the Shadow's powers grew enormously. The living shadow that suffused that acted as both morphable weapons and armour. Many was the time his thrust was turned aside by a wisp of shadow that flew up to obstruct his blade. It was the shadow's power as weaponry that truly trouble him however. The shroud the Children carried with them could change from barded trident to twelve foot spear in a blink of an eye, it took only a fraction of a second longer to transform into duel hatchets or swords. By the time the sun was dipping under the horizon leaving the black buttresses in utter darkness Carolinus was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, all of which would have been fatal had he been just a little slower.

But his plans were working. The rubble stacked either side of him forced them to come at him one at a time, behind him the tribesmen hurled spears and slung stones at any who attempted to climb over them. Atop the cliff faces they rained down stones and arrows that forced the enemy to attack in stages, thus allowing Carolinus short respites from what was otherwise a constant advance.

Even godlings need to sleep. The Bastard of the Titans had revealed more than he needed to, so great was his arrogance. The Children of the Shadow were weakest in the dark, so that was when Carolinus slept. Brave tribesmen took his place at the Buttress, many did not survive, those who did became heroes to his people. During the third night he declared them his Wardens, the highest of all his servants. They paid a bloody price so their protector might rest and never voiced a word of complaint.

For two weeks Carolinus fought and bled at the Black Buttress until one day merged into the next so seamlessly that he only kept track of time when Louisa came to bind his wounds and told him how long he had stood there. Fatigue and repatition took it's toll. Many were the times he forgot why he was standing there, why he was fighting. He even forgot the White City and the voice of his father. In the End all that remained in his mind was battle and, as always, the face of Cireo. Every day the wounds that Louisa had to bind became worse as every day Carolinus became just a fraction slower, just a fraction weaker. It was only a matter of time until he fell. At some point the tribe ran out of arrows and spears, he could not remember when. They opposed the Children of the Shadow with sling stone or rocks. Everyday Carolinus led his fellow defenders in a prayer to Baz'Auran.


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

The Titan's Bastard was impressed with the lethality of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran even as he was furious with his defiance. He approached Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran at the Black Buttress, stepping over the bodies of hundreds of his children 'Your proficiency impresses me, Knight of the White City. It would sadden me to kill you, for it would make my world a less interesting place. I wish to spare you, all I ask is that you bend the knee.
'Kneel to me and I will make you my warmaster.'
'And my people?' Asked Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran.
'They are my people and always were.'
'Then nothing has changed. I am the Watchman, I protect my people. My people are any who would live under me in peace. Come at my Titan's Bastard. Let us finish this.'

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

After almost three weeks the Bastard of the Titans held true to his word and joined the battlefield. By that time Carolinus was exhausted and covered in wounds, yet as he saw his enemy coming he drew himself up to his full height and wiped the blood from his brow. He could not let the giant see his weakness.

He told only Louisa about the offer the huge shadowed figure made to him for he still had not realized the role she had taken onto herself as his prophet. When he refused the Bastard of the Titans attacked him.


From the book of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran

Mighty was the battle between these two great powers. Never had Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran faced a more worthy foe. Wounded and exhausted at first it seemed he had no chance. The Titan's bastard cut one cheek and then the another, sensing the weakness in his foe he began to torment him, laying open the flesh of all four limbs in turn before smashing Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran to the ground and trampling him. At any of a dozen points he could have finished the Watchmen but did not; He wanted the humiliation of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran to be complete before he finished it.
The people despaired to see their champion so overmatched, they wailed and rent their garments in agony watching the death by inches of their god. Then the Titan's Bastard made his fatal mistake. For the fourth time he smashed Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran from his feet and then stood contemptuously waiting for him to stand. 'I will grind you into dust Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran and your people will watch every second of it. Then all of them; men, women and children will belong to me. I will make them all Children of the Shadow, save 2,000 of the children, starting with the youngest. One will die for every servant your defiance has cost me. I will have them staked while they are still alive and left as a monument to your folly.
At these words a change came upon the face of Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran. A steel came into his eyes and his brow came down. This mockery cost the Titan's Bastard his life. When next he attacked he found Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran had reserves of strength and speed he had not anticipated. Before he could disengage and reset his defense Carolinus'Ka'Baz'Auran had split him from top to bottom.

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

When the Bastard of the Titans died so too did the shadowy coverings of his army. Thousands of men, women and children milled about in sudden confusion. The last thing they all remembered was being captured by the Children of the Shadow and being brought before the great dark figure. Some few recalled a vague sense of having something stolen from them as the darkness closed over their vision.

Carolinus was exhausted and had hoped to give but one speech before retiring but so great were their numbers he had to repeat himself several times. In each case the words were almost always the same 'Look around you, all of you. Look to your left and right. These people may have been the ones that dragged you before the Bastard of the Titans. But do not judge them! For you would have done the same, all of you! You have been the victims here far more so then my own people, for you have been used to do evil without your consent or even knowledge. Your homelands are far from here, but if any wish to return to them you will be unmolested by me and mine. None will be held accountable for their actions. The Bastard of the Titans retains the full blame for what he wrought, for that I have slain him.
'You are strangers in a strange land, many of you cannot return home for your homes no longer exist. Many more have no idea how to return to the lands of their fathers. To you I say this:
'I am Carolinus, Son of Baz'Auran, he who created all things. He sent me to the Great Disk so I might defend its peoples. Behind me is Markien, the promised land. You are all welcome to join my tribe. You may retain your own customs and ways, I have only one law. Be at peace with your neighbor. Swear to this and you might join my tribe and I will protect you as I have protected them.'


The forging of Black buttress
(First turn artifact)

After the battle Carolinus slept over a full day. During that convalescence his divine spark was returned to him. He had survived the test his father had laid before him, survived and done his duty. He fulfilled the vows he made to his father long ago, the vows he made for Cireo's hand. He awoke prouder than he had ever been.

'Good afternoon Carolinus.' He had long since grown used to Louisa watching him sleep. Her presence was a welcome one, it brought a joyous smile to his face. To the rest he was a god, to Louisa he was a friend. Yet that smile was tinged with sadness. Now the great threat was gone he would have to berate Louisa for the lies she had told. Not today however. 'Your wounds are fully healed, I had expected to administer to you for weeks.'
'There shouldn't be any further need, as grateful as I am for your skills and companionship.' Carolinus got to his feet still smiling. 'I am once again as my father made me. I have passed my great trial, my powers are returned in full.'

She said nothing, she just returned his smile tenfold, her eyes shining. 'How many of the former Children will be joining us?'
'We don't have an exact number yet, many tribes are still debating turning back west, seeking their homes. But already almost three thousand have opted for Markien.'
'I more than triple the numbers of my tribe. Great Baz'Auran, I must teach our people to feed such a multitude.'
'There is a larger concern, if I may?'
'Of course Louisa, I always value your counsel.'
'Many fear to cross the Black Buttress. Something of the Bastard's mark remains on the place. The shadows swirl and several have been hurt by unseen hand.'

Carolinus got to his feet, there was nothing more to say.

***********

Louisa had not overstated the scale of the situation. The shadows were visibly disturbed by Carolinus' presence, they shrank away like beaten dogs. 'I know you Bastard, your time comes yet.' he turned away, showing his back to his enemy in contempt. 'Louisa send a rider to bring me my shield. The one forged by my brother, the image of the great disk. I know my foe and I am the student of wise Tezzerin. It has met it's match.'

***********

Carolinus walked into the Black Buttress unafraid. Stand well back!' When his people had retreated to a safe distance he began. A great shimmering fortress appeared all around the Black Buttress, countless squat keeps and rotating towers. He revelled in the full glory of his powers as he had never before, never having known their absence.

You cannot kill me Carolinus. I cannot be killed. The voice came from within his head, but it was little more than a fading whisper.
'You have been misinformed. I am going to end you.
How? With this fortress?
'Exactly.'
I had not expected such stupidity from you.
'I wish I could say the same. Think on this Bastard of the Titans. My fortress shines out at every point within a thousand paces. Which means the only shadow left is...'

Realising his danger the Bastard sprang to flee, but he was too late. His inky substance was barred by an invisible wall that burned horrifically on contact. Is under my shield. The black mass writhed about within its makeshift cage. He ended the fortress, letting it dissolve into nothingness. 'You see Bastard the energy that comprises you cannot be destroyed. That does not mean you cannot die. I can end you. Tezzerin taught me something of bindings and purifications. I can burn away your vileness, all it takes is a sacrifice.'

He held the shield up for the crowd to see 'This is the Bastard of the Titans! he yelled to his people 'Do not seek to aid me, I will be unharmed.

Both he and his shield burst into flame. The agony was instant and overwhelming. His skin did not burn, his hair did not even smoulder yet the pain was real. Don't do this Carolinus.
So great was his pain he could only speak in low, quiet and very short utterances 'I cannot... imagine... a reason I... should not.
You could die!
'I'd wager... spirit of wisdom... knows more of... this ritual... than you. Only sacrifice pain... Pain is inconsequential.' The fires suddenly died away 'And temporal.

The energy of creation was purified, but there still remained the matter of binding it to the shield. With a great cry of pain he erupted into a great pillar of light that could be seen several miles around. It blinded those who were watching him until finally it began to fade away.

They saw Carolinus striding toward them unbowed, head held back in pride. He held aloft the shield, which shimmered with dark energies, staining the colour of the bronze a forbidding black. 'The Bastard of the Titans is finally defeated. It was here at the Black Buttress that I held his army, it was here that I slew him. Here I achieved purification. The name of this place shall be the name of the agent of his ending. This is Black Buttress, this is the Bastard's death and your protector!'

Black Buttress is a bronze shield with the images of the sun, moon, stars, white city and disk upon it. It shimmers constantly with black energies. It is the purified essence of the Bastard, made clear by Carolinus' sacrifice and it's binding in it's purpose to protect the people. Grants Battle Magic to those who use it to protect the innocent. While the Titans held sway on the Disk the magic will be shadow themed, if order comes into power this will cause the magic/appearance to become fire themed.

[VonDoom]

Shirvan in: Dream or Reality
Shirvan's Ascention - Part 4
Surreal

Struggling against darkest mire, pulling down, pulling down; thick, foul gunk invading mouth, nostrils, stinging the eyes, lungs burning.

He was whole. Standing tall and proud, unfaced by time and travails, perfect and good. A power beyond reproach.

His siblings were there, before him. Dasque, as shining and radiant as he had always seen her, yet not as bright as he in all his glory. Nieve, beautiful in her dress as dark and red as blood, hanging on his lips and attending his every whim. The same held true for fair Fayruz, for black-garbed Avyra and leaf-clad Soreal.

In the center of the room was an unmoving, unchanging statue, its expression frozen eternally in time. At the basement of the pedestal, the name 'Jongo' proclaimed the statue's identity for all to know.

Right before it was Contragh. No more grim, not the least bit threatening in his fool's garb, dancing and jumping and pulling faces.

Under, under. A hand forced up, out of the sludge, reaching into the air for something to hold onto, something to prevent …

Rumel and Haramhold were building monuments to his greatness. Khalen-Het was there, in chains, chains that were held by Elanna as he suffered her punishment.

"N-no," a voice gasped, gulping in air for a brief moment, the sweet savage joy crushed immediately as he was pulled back under.

And there he was: Shirvan himself. Golden, radiant, beyond compare. Greater than Baz'Auran ever was, in his hand a small crystal globe. Darkness swam inside, the darkness that had menaced them, attacked them, driven them out. Now, impotent and imprisoned by His will.

Drowned. Completely, utterly; no light, no surface, nothing. Desperately, he reached for his knife as the depths pulled him in.

Full, complete satisfaction. Sweet victory. Revelry. Not a single flaw. Existence was perfect.

Something was in there, something large. Something blacker than even the darkest depths. Gritted teeth. The knife. The knife!

Empty. Their eyes were all empty. Cold, unfeeling gold, no warmth, no heat. A mirror. His own were the same.

A strike! Warm blood spewed forth, seeping into the darkness. The foul liquid grew thinner.

Rage; a lie. This was not what he wanted! Never what he wanted! He pulled the globe free, held it strong and fast in his hand, staring into the darkness that was everything they were not. The darkness that was oblivion, their antithesis.

And with a scream of utter rejection bursting from his lips, he smashed the crystal against the cold floor. The blackness consumed it all.

And with a scream of utter rejection bursting from his lips, he ripped free; the black ooze he had been caught in bursting, splashing; it held him no longer.

"Murderer," a voice spoke into his head, as it suddenly cleared once more. "You killed my sister, Daga Mir, who could see things others did not. You killed my brother, the ogre, who could be anyone he wished. And now you have slain me, the youngest, he who twists and makes nightmares of desire and ambition."

"And now, you evil siblings are finally all gone from this world," Shirvan gasped, his head hurting, his eyes burning. His chest felt like it was bursting, but the air he now sucked in was sweet. He was alive. And this nightmare had not been real, would never be real.

[Raz_Fox]

Dragon

Hefar was summoned to his nephew's side at dawn, after he had partaken of the desert-wolf's paste to drive his suffering from his mind. The warlord of the Tekeza carried his blade by his side, though he knew that if he was to come to blows with his nephew, he would die. His nephew, he feared in his heart, could destroy the entire tribe in his rages if not held back - rages that had not been in his heart before he went to hunt the dragon with Hefar's bold brother, Daved.

O, how he had wept to see his beloved nephew writhing in agony on his return from the mountain caves, the dragon's steaming black ichor intermingling with his own blood, his face rent open so deeply that the bone was visible when the blood was wiped from his face. Hefar had been the one, too, who had begged the wise-woman to save his nephew, thinking that he would pay any price to have him alive. Perhaps, he said to himself in his quiet moments, looking up at the bloody moon, the price called to be paid was too high. He would have spilled his own blood gladly to save his brother's son, given up an arm or an eye to close the scars on his young face, but he could not watch his nephew condemn his people to death, arrayed against their enemies at the ancient battlefield of the gods. But he would not speak, he would not stand, because in his heart he feared death all the more.

So the warlord of the Tekeza came into the chieftain's tent, and found gathered there the greatest of all the tribe's warriors, Elzan and swift Jeracia and Arevcar Fellhanded. And the chieftain looked up from his throne, desert-wolf's paste dripping down his tunic, the light of madness in his eyes, and commanded him to find the warrior who had stolen his fool. He had awoken in the dawn, and found that his beloved fool was gone, and one of his most trusted warriors had vanished with her. The chieftain's rage burned like day and night in equal measure, as brutal as the wind, and bade all of the warriors of the Tekeza to search for her.

No sooner did he say this, but the fool and the warrior entered into the chieftain's tent, the fool having cast aside her mask and veil and her unloveliness, the warrior without his spear or his fear. She declared to Gamesha, with a grim smile that had never been seen on her face before by any assembled, "I am here, Gamesha."

Gamesha rose from his chair, grinning in fury. "My sweet ruttin fool. If you ever disappear like that again, I'll kill you." His nails bit into his palms so hard that they drew blood, and Hefar raised a hand to steady him, for he was trembling like a man lost at night. "I see you were pretty ruttin busy with one of my own warriors. One I thought I could trust, my blood-brother."

"I was healing the mother's wound with this brave warrior," the fool said, still smiling. "And she showed me another wound, one that would kill this tribe and many others." She stepped forward, closing the space between them, and looked up at Gamesha. Hefar felt fear for her at that moment, a deep fear that even she would not be safe from his brutal rage. "I... I know you. I have seen you for so long, but I didn't know what I saw. And you never knew what I was, either, dragon. And now, you are going to leave, and stop bringing the tribes to die." She raised her voice, even as the warriors drew their weapons, uncertain of what to do or who to stop, even as Saven Wolfslayer took another step behind her, and Hefar knew that if the fool died that the Wolfslayer would die avenging her. "This land has always been hurting, always been injured, but if you had worked together to fight the monsters who wished to divide you and wound this land, you could have healed it. But instead you let the dragon in and listened to him!"

Gamesha chuckled, raising one hand to her chin and caressing it, raking one long nail across her cheek idly, then deeply as the fire in his eyes burned brighter. "It's in my ruttin head, but I am the one in control. I know it. It whispers to me. It wants to help me kill our ancestral ruttin enemies, Efi. And it's not in control. I am."

"Really, then?" Fayruz said, challenging, drawing her sword of air before him. "Then I suppose you should feed your dragon. They eat maidens, don't they?" She purposefully mimicked Gamesha, cupping his chin in her hand, drawing him closer. And it is to the Maiden's credit that she did so without trembling, even though her nature was so sweet. "I... I am a daughter of Baz'Auran. You know who that is, don't you? The chieftain of heaven? You may have your claws buried deeply... into his heart," she said, faltering for a moment. "But my heart burns even brighter than his. Mine is sweet, and filled with his power. Like grapes plucked from the vine, so delicate and filled with juice that they bruise at the touch... take me, instead. Leave him."

Hefar was so stricken by the revelation that the slain dragon had never truly died, but wormed its way into his nephew's soul, that not until this moment did he regain his senses. "No!" he cried, in unison with Sevan. "I will not allow you to do this!" Hefar continued, trembling. "You are a child, Efi. Our chieftain is far stronger than you - would it not slay you, were it to enter into you?"

"Yes," Fayruz replied, not breaking her gaze into Gamesha's eyes. "I will gladly give myself up, if it means that Gamesha has the chance to choose for himself, to be whole again. I am the weak fool, I have only succeeded through luck and mercy, and I am not deserving of a fate more than this. Take me, dragon, and spare the child."

And Gamesha raised one hand to his face and clawed at his wounds, tearing them open, and the dragon's black ichor flowed from his face, oozing onto hers. She gasped in pain as the ichor burrowed into her eyes and down her throat, and she fell to her knees as the ichor's flow ceased, and now only blood and pus and paste ran down Gamesha's face. He staggered, and in this moment Saven leaped forward and threw a noose about Gamesha's neck. The chieftain of the Tekeza convulsed, and staggered back, and Hefar caught him. The warriors started forward to pierce Saven with their spears, but Hefar bade them lower their weapons, for Saven had merely given Gamesha a magic that was, perhaps, deeper than the dragon's.

Saven had not even paid heed to the warriors all about him, for his concern was all given to the fool, who convulsed and sobbed, crying out in agony, begging for the pain to stop. Then, a grimmer, deeper voice rolled out of her, one taut with anger. "Did you think it would be painless and swift? I am older than you, so much older that you can hardly comprehend it; and I am strong."

"No, no, please, I don't want to, I'm afraid, it hurts, stop, please, no, don't you know, it hurts, know who I am?" The fool rose to her feet, her eyes shut in a grimace, still trembling and shaking. "I know who you are, but you did not know who I am." She opened her eyes, and Hefar averted his eyes with a gasp of pain, for the sun was caught within them, or rather, the sun had become them. "I am Fayruz, daughter of Baz'Auran, Princess of the White City, and you are nothing but a shadow of malice. Begone!"

And then Fayruz of the White City threw back her head and screamed. It was a scream that echoed across the Olm, that made the pillars shake and the river tremble, and it was a scream that made Elzan fall to his knees and Gamesha open his bleeding eyes wide, for they both knew it as the scream of a dying dragon. The dragon's scream is one of fury and malice and terror, and disbelief that it could ever be killed. The scream ripped itself from her throat, and then she doubled over on herself, ripping at her clothes, as it dwindled away into nothing. Then, slowly, she straightened, with Saven's hand on her shoulder, and blinked back tears of pain, and the sun faded from her eyes. But it could not truly leave, and her eyes remained the bright gold of the sun on the sand.

And Hefar bowed, and said, "The Tekeza honor Fayruz Dragonslayer, who overcame a foe who Gamesha, son of Daved, could not." And at this, all the warriors fell to one knee to honor Fayruz, all but Saven, who embraced her. She, however, turned her attention to Gamesha, and knelt to touch the amulet on his chest. It burned ever brighter at her touch, and his scars ceased bleeding, closing ever-so-slightly. She breathed deeply, and said, "That is all I can do. I'm sorry, Gamesha. I should be able to do more."

At that moment, a warrior entered the tent in a panic. "From the north come the Iuneh, and from the northeast, the Dereg! Your prophecies were right - from the south come the Ma-Shen, and from the west, the Kayanek! The foes of the Tekeza have come to wage war for the land!"

Fayruz smiled. Her smile was bright and filled with hope, and Gamesha smiled back, and for the first time since his brother's death, Hefar smiled. In those golden eyes were hope. "Good always comes from evil, no matter how hard it tries to destroy good. And I swear to you, Gamesha, Hefar, Sevan... there will not be another battle here!"

[Erik Vale]

I see you there Traveller
Walking my Way/Walking Away
And seeking your company/Wishing you a safe journey
I raise my voice and Pray
The Kalandor may light your way

May the Ground rise to meat your feet.
May the Tailwind be that you sail by.
May your journey be fast and easy.
May your adventure be long and suvivable.

I see you traveler and this I pray.

That the hills be smooth and sight be far.
May nothing block your path, and may animals be four friend.
May packed rations be uneeded, the fat of the land providing your way.

I most of all, may it be Kalandor your companion.

The Travellers Blessing, as first heard in Kalandor's Dreams.

Kalandor Acended

And it was so, in this way that Kalandor had taken to the ‘open road’, as he called it. He lived of the land, whereupon he came upon a sight that had him rethink where he though people were in the technological ladder.

It was a man, in a cart, drawn by what appeared to be a rather discontented Nag, who trundled along slowly. Eventually, Kalandor reached him, showing not too much surprise as he came alongside the man in clean fabrics. He was an old man, with a scraggly beard, and a friendly smile, despite the obvious wrinkles that would suggest otherwise, primarily ones of worry.

“Ahh, Kalandor me boy’. Tis good to see you after so long. I’ve been wondering if you had gotten lost, for surely you hadn’t landed that far off course. But then again, you did make me trundle all the way down here.”
And Kalandor stood, shocked. How did this man know his name, let alone how off course he had been? And slowly the cart trundled to a stop.
“Are you going to just stand there like a post Travelling one? Or would you like a ride, and maybe to talk?”
“You know what, I could accept that ride.”
“Well hop in. The old things a little slow, but the distances will just fly by.”
And so, Kalandor sat by the old man, who only looked of age by his wrinkles, being in his mid thirties physically, which was still old in the sort of world Kalandor had come to expect.
“So, I am Old Man Jim, not Jim and most definitely not Old Man.”
“You know what, I can accept that. So.” Kalandor laid an arm around the old man’s shoulders.
“First things first. How do you know me?”
“Baz’Auran.”
“Alright and how come you have a cart and smooth cloths, when most have furs and have yet to domesticate animals?”
“Baz’Auran.”
“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“One of the few pleasures of Old age. One I hold a bar for being the ripe of age of 350.”
“Let me guess.-“
“No. Baz’Auran.”

“Riight. I can see this is going nowhere fast.”
“Maybe make eye contact. Then Ill speak to you usin’ more than one word.”
And so Kalandor turned, facing the old man, meeting a gaze he somehow didn’t know was being cast.
“Damn. It is you.... Just like him to throw a curve ball at the last minute. Have his city disappear during a commet shower, throwin’ tha natives in a mess.”
“Trust me when I say-“
And they spoke in unison.
“Baz’Auran.”
“I’m sorry, but he has me convinced he has perfect foresight, and seeing as how you have completed the second leg of your journey before your first, which always made more sense to me, you must have seen the vision. Asuming Chil’Rida was still alive, and, yea, he is, and you saw the vision.”
“Could it be true?”
“I don’t know boy, I don’t know. All I know is what I’ve been told and that is almost over and my job is almost done now.”
“What Job?”
“Well.” The man looks solemnly down at the cart. “I was supposed to take you a whiles to your first travel, and then see you again when you were ready to come back to take you to where you would start making your home.”
“Why morn your tasks.”
“Because it is the last of the work Baz’Auran gave me, and it’s back to normal life for me.”
“There’s no reason for you to mourn the end of a long life well lived.”
“I know, but Baz’Auran is gone I suspect. And I know not what’s on the other side. But then again, I knew the job requirements, and It has been a good long life.”
“So, where are you taking me?”
“Why, I’m taking you where you would have landed, the centre of your new home. However another god appears to have landed there.”
“Who, Whi-“
“I don’t know”
“Not eve-“
“The slightest clue.”
“Can yo-“
“Let you finish a sentence-“
Together they speak, grins on their faces.
“No!”
They then Laugh together.
“So, well be stopping soon and it’s almost nightfall, you might want to get some rest.”
“What thinks you can stay awake longer than me.”
“This.”
And so the old man lay his hand upon Kalandors chest, pushing him back slightly. Suddenly, Kalandor feels a spark between the hand and his chest, and feels his own spark burst into light, glowing at is brightest intensity, and settling into a roaring bonfire (or a nuclear furnace such as the sun take your pick) he falls back, feeling his spark aglow and his godhood truly announced, falling to slumber even while falling over, his last waking thought for several days in the crude looking wagon making a ‘hop’ crossing a vast distance quickly, feeling a suspicious pothole that was like many they had had so far.

And his first dreaming thought, was ‘Sleep now Kalandor, and rise Traveling One! Yet hold thine self in restful repose, for you knowth now wilst be thine only time for some centuries for one proper rest’

----------

Upon his Awakening, Kalandor having slept fitfully, he heard a “Get on up and out, where at your destination sleeping one.”
He turned his face to see the old man and nodded. Getting up gingily he grabbed his stuff and clambered on out. He turned to say ‘Rest Well Old Man Jim.’, but he wasn’t there, almost before his feet hit the ground Old Man Jim had disappeared, taking his rickety cart and Nag with him. And so Kalandor whispered to the wind.
“Goodbye friend. I hope Baz’Auran treats you well, for he seems to have skimped on the funeral.”
And he hears the wind whisper back.
“Oh I got a marvellous funeral centuries ago, and a celebration for having been chosen amongst my tribe, you would have been embarrassed to see it. However, I must go old chum.”

And as he smiled he felt a presence leave him, and so he turned, to choose which was to go, yet just on the horizon he could see a crude collection of huts that was a human settlement, and felt beneath his feet one of those odd roads that pointed his direction, and saw that as he walked he actually left a slight dirt path, that disappeared when he decided not to. Looking to face the village, Kalandor began the second of his many adventures to come.

[AntiMatter101]

The march back to the village took only two days. MUCH quicker than the slow outward spiral they had been doing up to this point. Part of the reason it was so quick was the nice, clear, straight path the Voturi had been leaving behind. The rest of it was that Cherok and Jarun were hard pressed to keep their warriors from sprinting themselves to exhaustion, so they would have energy enough to fight at the end of the march. As it was, the group made the trip faster than they ever had before.

The general air was that of anger and despair. They had barely held their own against a fraction of the horde, and they were a significant portion of the Orc’s fighters to begin with. The only reason they were still alive at all was because the horde hadn’t been actually trying to kill them, just get past them. The Orcs figured they were marching to their deaths, but they intended to buy the lives as many women and children from the village as they could get for their own. Frellon shared the sentiment; those monsters that threatened his family would die as long as he drew breath.

As they took a short rest, Frellon’s thoughts turned to his siblings, as they had more often these recently. These close encounters with death were like waking up, just resting and training at the village had lulled him into a dream-like sense of belonging. He still felt it, but he was beginning to realize that such a peaceful life was never to be his for very long. He was a god, as such he could never grow old and die among friends like these. Besides, he told himself, I shouldn’t even be here. I should be out there, in the hills and mountains and plains, searching for my siblings. How many of them died in those first few weeks? He himself had only barely survived in this strange forest, where it seemed almost everything was out to make a meal of him. That was the good part of being among an orc tribe, he decided. Most predators wouldn’t attack large groups of large, armed warriors.

Frellon shook his head at himself. He was no coward to hide behind others! The enemy must be found and met! But how does one do so when the enemy runs and hides; only attacking when your back is turned? Stressful as it was, fighting the Voturi, who charged straight at him and died on his club, was in part a relief from constantly watching his back on hunts. On hunts, groups were made of much fewer orcs, groups which more predators didn’t mind risking. I’m not even sure I would call them predators, Frellon mused silently. The ‘predators’ I’ve seen seem more like monsters if I think about it... Gahhh! He sighed to himself I should have paid more attention to the lessons! I’m sure they covered the varieties of monsters… His thoughts were interrupted though, as the signal came to start marching again.



The Village was close, it should have been visible between the trees in just a few hundred more paces. Cherok called a halt. They should have heard the sounds of battle, but they did not. Silence rang out. The silence of graves.

The Orcs, afraid at what they would find, took to the un-trampled forest for cover as they crept forward on the last leg of their long march. Skilled hunters of the forest they all were, all 34 of them made it to the edge of the village’s clearing without so much as a whisper.

The sight was horrifying. Three separate trails like the one they had followed emptied into the Village, the trampled foliage marking where the hordes had emerged. Voturi milled about the whole place, packed thicker than one might think possible in such a small space as the village seemed now. Here and there, Voturi were ripping at the flesh of what obviously used to have been Orcs and other Voturi. However, for a village of around 200 the number of bodies was remarkably small. Perhaps they had escaped? The mood of the Orcs soared with hope, for it seemed the bodies were mostly male! Warriors who had fought the first assault and died honorably!

Hope was dashed however, as the rest of the village were noticed among the gyrating throngs of Voturi, Orcs were stumbling about as if in a daze, doing unseen tasks as if nothing was wrong. Were they poisoned? Frellon’s sharp eyes could see no cuts on them, and he knew these people; if they could see what was around them they would fight and kill as many Voturi as they could until they were all so much lunch-meat, even the women would, he had seen their ferocity on a few occasions, and it rivaled that of the men in the heat of battle. So what was wrong with them? Why do they just stand there!?

The answer to his question slowly shambled into view from behind the Chieftain’s hut. It was the largest spider Frellon had ever seen, with a pair of beady black eyes between each pair of legs. It towered over the heads of even the Orcs, moving so slowly, deliberately, and Frellon’s blood turned to ice, as the hopelessness of the situation engulfed him.

[Raz_Fox]

Baptism

Fayruz was not skilled at riding horses. She had done so once, for three days straight, and then she had Arenis with her to do everything. She had simply clung onto the neck of the horse and acquired bruises aplenty. That was her only experience with actually riding a horse, and so it was that she made a complete fool of herself while riding around the Olm to speak with the tribes. But all things worked for good, even this, for looking like a fool was exactly what she wanted to do now, in her role as Gamesha's fool.

Fools were, she had been told very shortly before hatching her plan, never slain by warriors. Most were those born, sadly, without intelligence, or with a tongue that didn't quite work right, and only the Ma-Shen would be as barbaric as to kill a fool. This made a fool with wit and to spare the perfect messenger.

She raised one hand to hail the vanguard of the Kayanek, and promptly tumbled off her horse. It came to a rearing halt a few feet beyond her, leaving her to adjust her mask and brush the dust off her clothing, and raise her hands to the warriors with their spears and swords of glass. "I am Gamesha's fool!" Fayruz said, rising slowly, "And I bring a message to Merya, great chieftain of the Kayanek."

They took her and escorted her - not roughly, but not friendly, either - to see Merya. Fayruz had guessed that Merya would be a woman, but not such a woman. She was the equal of Gamesha, in both height and wiry strength, but she moved with a grace that Gamesha lacked, and her long glass blades were stained with blood, and her gaze was powerful. Some of her warriors, both men and women, were muttering that Fayruz was an insult, a fool sent to their queen, but Merya silenced them with a wave of her hand. "Does Gamesha offer his surrender?" Merya said, bluntly, to Fayruz, without first asking what she had to say.

"No, not quite," Fayruz said. "Rather, he wishes to show you the new god of the rocklands, the god that his people have chosen to follow, and to beg forgiveness for war between the Kayanek and the Tekeza." She bowed her head to Merya, and smiled behind her mask as Merya sharply inhaled.

"To ask... forgiveness?" Fayruz raised her head, nodding.

"A dragon lured them with honeyed words to Dol Mazzah and the Olm, but now it has been slain, and the Tekeza no longer wish to rule the rocklands alone. Rather, they would..." She paused, acting foolish, gauging Merya's reaction. Jhan of the Iuneh had been excited, and Adnul of the Dereg had been suspicious, and the Ma-Shen... she feared there would be a battle against the Wolf Lord who had forgotten his own name. Merya, on the other hand, seemed curious, leaning forward to hear what Fayruz would say next. "They would make peace."

Merya scoffed, and so did her warriors. She rested one hand on the hilt of her glass sword, and said, "Very well, fool, we'll walk into your trap, ready to fight." She gestured to Fayruz. "Give the fool back her horse, and let her go. Tell your master that we're coming, fool, though we won't be alone." Fayruz clumsily mounted onto her horse, provoking laughter from the Kayanek warriors watching her, and with little more skill urged it to turn around and ride back to the Olm. After a few moments, Merya and her guard followed.

She was putting all of her faith into the hands of everyone involved – to the chieftains of the five tribes, to lovely Saven and Hefar who would speak for the Tekeza more than poor, confused Gamesha, and to the healed mother.

Three of the five chieftains were already waiting at the tent set up at the river's mouth when Fayruz reined in her horse and clumsily dismounted. Jhan and Adnul had come with their retinue, and were only barely being pacified by Hefar. Fayruz came to his side quickly. "Merya of the Kayanek is coming to meet us," she said, before courtesying to the two chieftains. She had not done that in a very long time, and it reminded her of home – and it made the chieftains laugh and praise her as a fool. Except for Gamesha, who stared at her and did not speak.

After a moment, Merya and her guard were there, having moved with terrifying swiftness after her. "So our enemies are here," Merya said, "And they wish to apologize for the wars they made against us."

Adnul sharply said, stepping forward, "We make no apology for war against your kind, glasskindred!" Jhan looked from Merya to Gamesha, his hand falling to the long stone knife at his belt, but before he could act, Fayruz stepped between them all.

"Peace!" She said, raising her hands. "We are not here to fight today!"

"You may say so," Jhan said, "But ever have the Tekeza been more treacherous than a mountain crag. Tell us now, how the river of the Olm came to be as clear as the sky, rather than the mother's blood."

"What?" Merya pushed forward, between Jhan and Adnul, her retinue following. She stopped by the edge of the stream and knelt down, running her hand into the water, and then rose with a frown. "Powerful magic. Have you fallen in league with a djinn, or a witch, chieftain?"

"Neither," Gamesha said, cutting off Hefar and Sevan. "A ruttin goddess. Beautiful. Kind. Told us we could give up our ruttin useless ancestral feud." His voice still wavered and danced, uncertain of itself, but there was a conviction in his watery eyes that Fayruz hadn't seen before. Real conviction. "And I agreed with her. I tore off Tarn's head and crushed his ruttin body to pieces. Bang, bang, bang." He glanced down at his hands, sadly. "And... he died. And that was it. It wasn't a ruttin miracle. It wasn't ruttin glorious. I ripped him apart and killed him because he was a ruttin Aferi and I thought there was only room here for me and mine."

"There is only room for one tribe," Adhul muttered. "We have a new god, too, Dragonslayer. Great Ahoru brings us victory in war. Should we show you his almighty power? He will trample your new goddess into the dust beneath his wings!"

"Did Ahoru clean the mother's wound?" Saven stepped forward, by Gamesha's side. "Our goddess did. I saw her with my own eyes tear the spear of the gods from the mother's body and release her from a prison of night. Has Ahoru walked among you? Has Ahoru become willingly the least of you all? Our goddess Fayruz has! What did Ahoru do for you, except turn the tide of some petty battles against the Iuneh? Fayruz has made the water of the Olm sweet, and its water winds into the desert itself, into the realm of the monsters, until, as our mothers say, it meets the sea. Great is Fayruz of the Tekeza!"

"Show us, then." The low growl made Fayruz's skin crawl, and all four chieftains looked to the fifth, who stepped forward in his furs, bloody scalps hanging from his belt, a wolf's face covering his own – and then Fayruz realized, seeing him for the second time, that it had been nailed on with long bones, and felt sick. Merya's sword was half-drawn in a moment, before Gamesha drawled to her that he would beat her head in if she drew her sword. The Wolf Lord of the Ma-Shen stared at Gamesha, his muscles tense and the desire to kill evident in his voice. "Where is your goddess?"

A great wave surged down the river, making all five chieftains turn to it, Jhan and Merya covering their faces instinctively. For a moment, tall horses could be seen in the frothing foam of the river, pulling a chariot of swirling water. But then the wave died away, and the river became placid and quiet as the spirit of the river stepped onto the bank, a finely-wrought tiara clasped in her hands. She smiled gravely at the assembled chieftains and their retinues, and said, "I am the one you call the Mother, and my wound has been healed by Fayruz, daughter of my master, Baz'Auran Most High, Lord of the White City. She is the Princess of the White City, and the Maiden of Dusk – for it is at dusk when the world is balanced between day and night, and healing may be found for the weary and the injured." She stepped among them, looking from Adhul to Jhan, from Merya to the Wolf Lord, and finally to Gamesha, and walked on, before continuing on towards Fayruz. "She accepted the role of a fool so that she would be able to heal a chieftain poisoned by a dragon, for she is humble; and is it not said that one day, a fool would become greater than all chieftains?" It was not said, and Fayruz felt slightly ashamed that she had thought of that, for it was a lie used towards a good end. But many people will believe something said by an incarnate spirit, and they needed to believe.

Fayruz pushed back her hood, revealing her hair, washed and cleansed in the river's flow, and pulled down her mask, showing the chieftains her face. She bowed her head, and allowed the spirit of the river to place the tiara gently upon her brow. Then she looked up at the chieftains, and said to herself, I am a daughter of Baz'Auran and a Princess of the White City. I have nothing to fear but that my shyness might cause a war here. And so she said, with a firm voice and a gleam in her golden eyes, "I am pleased to meet you all, people of the rocklands. And I have only one thing to say to you, all of you – even you, Adhul, who worships a falcon instead of something real, and you, Wolf Lord, who – I am told – has slaughtered many who trespassed on his land. And that is that you are all alike. There are no Tekeza, and there are no Kayanek, and there are no Ma-Shen. You are all human, and if you fight here today, the ghouls and minotaurs and the kobolds and all the monsters of the desert shall win. You will not win, Jhan, because you will only have killed your brothers and your sisters. You will not win, Gamesha, because killing is not victory, is never victory. Sometimes there are foes who must be killed... I admit that much... but is it not better to work in peace, with your brothers and sisters, to make things better for your children?"

She opened her hands out, in the traditional way that she had learned, and smiled. "I do not ask for sacrifices. I do not ask for offerings of treasure or burnt horses or even worship. All I ask is that you let me help you. Let me teach you everything I can about how to heal, how to treat one another, how to make a better life than constant war and suffering. If you want proof, look at the river – I have done this so that your children, and their children, and their children after them, can drink from it, no matter whether their father was Kayanek or Dereg, Iuneh or Ma-Shen or Tekeza." Something powerful rose up inside her, like when she had the dragon inside of her. But it had been a dark shadow that could not withstand the light that she had caged it within and burnt it away with, inside her soul, while this... this was light. The brilliance of pure light and the purity and conviction of fire, tempered by the gray shadow of kindly dusk and the soothing touch of water. And it blazed out of her as she spoke, much more powerful than she ever could have dreamed, and in that moment she became whole. She knew her purpose.

She was Fayruz, and she would heal, even if her father had not made her to be a healer but a pretty bauble, a princess to sit next to her siblings' thrones and reflect their glory. She was Fayruz Dragonslayer, who had healed the scarred king and purified the water, and it was so beautiful.

Merya's hand fell from her sword and hang limply by her side as she stared, and Jhen dropped his long knife onto the ground, and Adhul fell to his knees, his eyes wide with awe. The Wolf Lord crossed his arms, his intention inscrutable, and Gamesha – his eyes half-lidded, his scars no longer marks of glory and shame mixed together – smiled at her. It was an inscrutable smile; she could not tell whether it was loving or proud or simply content.

"Please. For your children and your children's children and their children after. Let me help." She kept her hands outstretched, waiting for them to accept.

The Wolf Lord pushed past Merya and Adhul, striding towards Fayruz. He tried to push the spirit of the river away, and merely grunted in displeasure as his hand went through her. And behind him, she saw something that made her more afraid than she had been the entire morning – Gamesha casually using his foot to flick Jhan's stone knife upwards into his hand, his eyes fixed on the Wolf Lord with mad intensity. And she knew in that moment that if the Wolf Lord tried to hurt her, the peace between the tribes would end with Gamesha murdering the Wolf Lord. Then, blessedly, Saven placed his hand heavily upon his chieftain's shoulder, whispering something into his ear. The loose fingers around the knife's hilt did not let it drop to the ground, but his eyes half-shut again, and he leaned back to await whatever would happen.

The Wolf Lord reached out with one dirt-smeared hand, one that must never have been washed and stank of dead animals and human blood, and took her face in his hand. He turned her head to the left and to the right, inspecting it, and then said, "So you are a god." A long silence, and then he continued. "I told my son that there were no gods, and no rulers but for the strong, like the beasts and the things of the desert. But here you are, anyway." Another long silence. "Will I be forgiven?"

"Yes," Fayruz said, without a moment's doubt. "Everyone can be forgiven. No matter what you have done... just wash it away in the river. All the murder, all the... whatever else that needs forgiveness. All the crimes against the one who made you and your brothers and sisters." She shook her head, as a thought struck her. "No, not crimes... wounds. You wound yourself inside when you do these things, the things that need forgiveness. And you are the only one who can heal yourself. I can help, we can help, but you must allow yourself to become whole again."

The Wolf Lord turned away, quickly, and strode through the chieftains once more, towards the river. Gamesha let the knife fall from his fingers and followed him, grinning, and Jhan and Adhul followed, and so did all their retinue. And Saven stepped over to Fayruz, and said, softly, between the two of them and the spirit of the river, "You are even more beautiful, now that your soul is on the outside, and everyone can see how wonderful you are." Fayruz looked over to the Wolf Lord, washing himself in the water, and took Saven's hand in hers for a moment. She looked at Saven for a long moment, and then gave him a kiss.

The war was over, and for the first time, she felt the power she'd had in the White City again – no, even greater. The fire burning in her veins could do anything, she felt. With the people she loved and cared for, anything could happen. They would bring water to this dry land and bring food to the starving, and heal the sick and drive out the monster. And it would all start with her, least of all her siblings.

She smiled at Saven, and said, "Can you please bring me the instrument that hangs in Gamesha's tent? I feel like playing it again."

[AntiMatter101]

The spider did not seem to have a mouth, but that quandary was quickly resolved, as a leg grasped one of the milling Voturi and raised it up under itself. The Voturi jumped up and disappeared from view, to all appearances throwing itself up to be eaten of its own accord.

Frellon despaired. The Village was overrun, the Voturi were everywhere and now there was a monster, a HUGE one, on friendly terms with the Voturi!

Cherok, who had been beside him, was shaking, and muttering something. Frellon leaned his ear to hear him, and just caught “no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no! I won’t. I won’t!”

Frellon stared at him. “what?” he whispered? “what won’t you do?”

Cherok seemed to just notice him, and suddenly looked shocked. “CANT YOU HEAR IT? THE VOICE!” Cherok was almost shouting, startling Frellon.

Still, Cherok hadn’t steered him wrong yet. So Frellon closed his eyes and listened. It was on the edge of his hearing, quiet as a footfall.

“Come, Children. It is time again to feed. Come to me Children.”

Upon listening to the words, Frellon felt the sudden urge to leap to his feet, and run out to the feeding!

Frellon cried out, and threw himself away from the edge of the clearing. He had a sneaking suspicion that the Orcs could hear the voice louder than he could, for while he simply ignored the tiny whisper, several of the orcs were already running gleefully to join their brethren. As he watched, the orc’s eyes glazed over like their minds were falling asleep.

The puzzle pieces fell into place, and Frellon turned to glare arrows at the Spider through the leaves of a tree. This was what had been changing the Voturi, it drove them to attack the orcs directly, not just strike once and flee. It didn’t care how many died, it had thousands at its beck and call. He examined it in earnest now, here in the shadows, this time searching it for a weak point, any weak point.

Thick fur covered it completely, but Frellon’s intense gaze pierced it to confirm his suspicions. Thick bone plates covered most of the legs and much of the body. He would have bet anything its mouth was thick and leathery, as it seemed to devour its prey whole, regardless of what said prey was holding. The only thing he could think of was those eyes- and as soon as that occurred to him, he felt a resonance within himself. The Eyes. Those were his target.

At this point, Frellon would have given anything for a bow and some arrows, but the tribe had yet to invent them.

He would make do with the only other precision weapon he had available to him. He reached down, grabbed the hilt of Cherok’s sword, and made to draw it.

Cherok’s eyes became as steel, any hint of the Monster’s influence fled from him as he reacted like lightning and Frellon felt his hand restrained by an incredible grip.

“What are you doing Frellon.” Cherok’s voice was even and unbroken, but cold. Frellon held little doubt that only their friendship kept Cherok from attacking him then and there.

“That monster had your mind. I cannot kill it with a club”

“What monster? You mean the Father? Oh, it’s feeding time!” Cherok’s eyes glazed over again, his grip relaxed, and he tried to get to his feet.

Frellon restrained him, and forced Cherok into a sitting position. I’m a fool. I can’t do this, it’s a horrible idea. Frellon tried to talk himself out of what he had just decided to do, but it wasn’t working. He knew it had to be done, and at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

Placing both of his hands on Cherok’s head, Frellon closed his eyes and focused. He then plunged into Cherok’s mind.

The place was so alien. In his mind’s eye, shadows flickered across Cherok’s being, his thoughts and ideas. Frellon grabbed a thought, a small flickering thing. It was: ‘I wish I had married before now.’ Frellon traced it back to its origin, and found himself looking at Cherok’s being.

As a god, the mortal mind felt strange. He could feel the Monster, obviously a Beast of Chaos, dominating his mind like a pulsing living tumor. It had wormed its way into Cherok, and didn’t want to leave. Frellon was fine with that; he knew he had neither the skill nor strength of mind for the task removing it would require. He instead opened himself to the parts of Cherok that remained whole and untouched by the tumor.

Frellon fed Cherok’s courage his own, bolstered Cherok’s determination with his own ferocious focus. He knew it wasn’t enough. He dug deep, searching for that well-font of power that he had always practiced magic with in the past. He found it a trickle, barely flowing. He took it all, all he could find, and fed it into Cherok’s mind. Dissatisfied with the progress, he scrabbled with his mind at whatever was blocking him from his spark. He needed it, now more than ever, he needed that power. Frellon took that need and hammered on the gates of his spark with it. It felt like hours past in his mind, but Frellon was relentless. Eventually, reluctantly, it gave, retracted the tiniest of amounts, the trickle of power swelled to a tiny stream, and Frellon directed it all to Cherok’s mind. Still, Frellon was worried it was not enough, and was about to press his advantage on his spark when he was interrupted.

Cherok’s hands were on his wrists again, but this time it was solid, and gentle, unlike the vice they were before. Frellon opened his eyes, and looked at Cherok. Cherok’s eyes had the edge of steel in them again, but now they shone with courage and determination as well. Cherok lifted Frellon’s hands from his head, and let Frellon drop them to his side.

A modicum of humor must have found it's way into Cherok's crowded eyes, for he said, “Well Shaman? What are you waiting here for? We have a Monster to slay!”

[TheDarkDM]

Stars fall from unyielding perch
Creation bleeds from long-forgotten wounds
And the children of two worlds rise to their destiny
As doom presses in with ancient grudge

Across the length and breadth of the Great Disk word begins to spread, carried by fearful whispers and brash cries, by feeble elders and innocent children, by man and woman, of a new hope dawning in the wake of the Blood Moon. The people huddle in their wretched hovels and spin tales of Gods, beings capable of mastering the Beasts of Chaos that roam the lands and imposing order and peace upon a fractured world. And everywhere the word spreads, humankind looks towards the horizon with new hope, filled with an uncommon bravery for the first time in its existence.

Yet even as the teeming masses of the mortal race rally around the great sparks of Baz'Auran's children, things far older and crueler rally themselves against the threat. Beneath the great mountains of the North, in halls that were old when the gods were but children in the White City, the Titans sing of vengeance. For they were the first caretakers of the Great Disk, the first of Baz'Auran's creations gifted with the foresight to create rather than simply exist. Yet they were cast down, in time immemorial, for their foolish and blasphemous pride. For centuries, they have huddled in their shadowed fastnesses, hiding from Baz'Auran's sight. Yet now, his eye is as blood, and the great lords and champions of the First Born rally their forces for war.

To the south, at the center of the endless sea of uncaring sand, old magics stir from their slumber. The malefic turn of centuries has left many old and unwanted things buried beneath the dunes, sealed for all time by Baz'Auran's will. Yet now, the seals fail, and there is no caretaker strong enough to even feel their passing. The sussurus stirs from the Vault of Whispers, and black sand begins to creep ever northward, towards the living divines that mock their very existence.

To the west, in the lands of ash and fire, the old forgemasters find themselves for the first time without direction. Looking upon the palace of their master with eyes of molten steel, they are greeted with naught but silence, and so the ancient constructs of craft lay down their tools in silence. But the silence cannot last, and as the madness of sudden freedom spreads the Fire Lords will carry their will beyond the ancient forges, spreading the perfection of fire to an unprepared world.

To the east, in the darkest reaches of the murky deep, Kraken stirs from his long slumber. For something has dared to name one of his misshaped servants, gaining power over it and granting power in return. As the great beast spreads his consciousness for the first time since his duty was completed, his beshadowed mind is assaulted by great points of light, powers upon the land that could challenge him if given the chance. And Kraken begins to plot, for if the children of Baz'Auran have come it means his dominance is at an end. Once, the great beast might have willingly relinquished his charge, but the long march of time has made him covetous, and proud, and for the first time the light of Baz'Auran refuses to shine upon his better nature.

And beyond the sight of man and god, darker hearts quicken to the awakening of the Disk's old guardians. At the center of her pleasure dome in Uluuvatar, the Mistress of Sin stirs in her bower, awakening the Nightmare Princes that serve their Raven Queen without question. Looking beyond the benighted lands they call their home, they see the coming of Baz'Auran's children and seethe. It is a time they have foreseen, and they are far from unprepared.

Yet even as the Raven Queen arranges the pieces of her struggle with the newborn divinities, a lord with laughing eyes sees all from his throne in the Court of Weal and Woe. There is no urgency in him, nor do his vassals stir from their revels, for they have yet to decide what part to play in the drama, and these new arrivals are far more amusing than the natural ebb and flow of life on the Disk.

Over all, the Blood Moon continues to shine, a blazing portent in the night, and as the children of Baz'Auran rise up against the masters of the Great Disk, eyes beyond the reach of time watch them from the heart of the world.


Turn 1 Begins

[Tychris1]

Contragh's Civilization? I'll stay right here! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgDF2xfcbv8)

Climbing out of the pit Contragh pulls himself out and looks around. Surronding him is about 100 men women and children dressed in rags and fur. They looked upon him with awe and shock. One man stepped forward from the rest, more heavily built then the rest, scars splattered across his body, and a hood made from the head of a hyena monster. "So, you're the man who killed Grashk. Tell me, just who are you?" he says in a shrill high pitched voice causing Contragh to giggle. "I am Contragh, true son of Baz'Auran, and your divine ruler. Tell me, who is your real chieftan now that the oaf down there has been slain?" Contragh says, causing several people in the crowd to start whispering "I am the chieftan of this tribe before those barbarians took over, we are not fighters, and we've been subsumed by Pikep's warring tribes several times. " Nodding his head Contragh plays with his axe for a moment and says "I see then, since you are incompetent in defending Baz'Aurans people and cannot train them to defend themselves I, Contragh, subsume control of this tribe and all powers that come from owning this tribe. this caused the old chieftan to raise his fist and head just about to scream in defiance but was cut off by Contragh "Unless you want to end up like the past chieftan aswell. Do not worry, the fact that you seem like a warrior means you will be the first general of this tribe. Congratulations on the promotion." he says with a smile.

For the next couple of days Contragh began to learn of the problems plauging his tribe he now dubbed "Fex". Pikep, a chaos beast that made his home in the warped and maddening forests to the east, had recruited savages to lead tribes of warmongers and fight amongst each other. Each savage was gifted with great strength and abilities, some even mutated from the chaotic influence of the forest. The Fex tribe and a few others were the only tribes that was not originally ruled by a warmonger, but they were soon absorbed into the savage tribes aswell. No one outside of the savage warchiefs and the foolish that enter his forest have seen Pikep. None that enter the forest have ever returned. Seeing the threat that the tribes had to one another Contragh rallied his newly conquered people together at the center of his tribe and spoke "Tribesmen! The savages that Pikep has thrown at you shall not be tolerated! From this day forward we make a stand, we shall drive back Pikeps minions and take back the land we were born to rule! This is not his land. It is ours! But, we must fight back in order to do this, and we may only fight back if we know how to fight!" His speech got the crowd excited and some people banging the butts of their spears against the ground. With the support of the tribe Contragh split the tribe into three groups: the strong men and hunters would form Contragh's army, the other men would form Contragh's builders, and the women and children would be Contragh's work force. With it he split up their duties, the builders would be set to work on constructing pits, traps, and wooden defences for the tribe (Such as walls), the work force would be sent to make weapons and armor for the army, and the army would be tasked with training soldiers and conquering other tribes.

With the tasks spread out the 3 groups split up to begin work, except for Contragh's army who stayed to be trained by Contragh. The army wasn't huge, pitiful compared to what he was used to working with, but it would suffice for now. Ordering his men into rows Contragh walks back and forth, his armor clunking along as he paced. Stopping abruptly he addressed his army "I see many of you are young and inexperienced. Most of you are thinking this is a game, that this is no different then the stories your mom and dad told you of past heroes and armies clashing. Others are filled with optimism, thinking that you will easily conquer the other tribes. Allow me to shatter that reality, this is not a game or a story or some turn around situation where upon showing the least bit of effort your enemies will turn tail and run. This is war. In war there are casualties, in war there is slaughter and atrocities and fear. War is not where you valiantly stride forward and duel the enemy general, war is where you hide under a pile of corpses as you wait for the enemies to pass by. War is where you sit, bleeding on the ground as the fight rages on around you, and as infection takes over you hope that someone will come forth and heal you. I can say that under my command the enemy will die assuredly but I cannot say assuredly you will not die aswell. War does not make stories or heroes or right or wrong, war only makes those who are left. This is not to say that we are doomed to fail in this war, for I can assure you that Pikep will be dead and your tribes safe, I am merely telling you the truth of the price you must pay in order to assure that safety. If any of you want to leave the army feel free to do so now." Contragh ends his speech, looking about his army to see if anyone moves. Many people look about each other scared and second guessing, but they remain still and do not budge.

"Good. Well then now that that's over with. Let's get down to business, to defeat the savages." he says as he begins his rigorous work out. The army begins to train, day and night, jogging back and forth, constantly exercising as they wait for the work force to produce enough weapons for them. The weapon of choice for the army is wooden spears with rock tips and bone clubs. They become extensions of their bodies as they train for a month. The builders near completion of the four walls made of trees protecting the tribe, as the work force pumps out large shields made from the leg bones of the Anthropophagos or the Phagos for short (The large bear sized hyena beasts) wooden spears and leather armor also made from the Phagos. Finally after a month and a half of work Contragh's civilization stands boldly among the warring tribes.

With his army collected together Contragh leads them out of the wooden walls of the tribes "It's show time."

[AntiMatter101]

The charge of two certainly did nothing to attract the attention of the monster, for it had seen many would-be heroes fall sway to his mind over the course of seconds, just from being near him.

However, once the two had carved a long path through his dumbfounded, barely reacting minions. He realized that these two had found a way to resist them.

Frellon almost felt bad about slaughtering the Voturi while they just stood there, uncomprehending. This vanished as those near him seemed to wake up and start fighting in earnest. They had made good progress in those first few seconds, but now they were forced to fight back to back, Frellon constantly giving ground, Cherok constantly pushing forward.

Frellon got to see the bloody trail they were leaving behind. Voturi with severed limbs and caved in heads littered the path of their passing. Their advance was slow, agonizingly so. So far they had avoided getting injured by the virtue of Cherok’s long sword and Frellon’s attentive club. The fact that the little buggers had tiny bodies, and hence tiny arms, helped a lot too.


The monster was getting annoyed. These two were stubborn, apparently not understanding this venture of theirs meant certain death. Still, they seemed rather determined. He was getting a front row view of the Child’s face, and it was absolutely livid! The mutated human with him just had a look of grim determination and focus, it seemed obvious that the Child was the driving force here.

He called a halt to the fighting.


The Voturi stopped. Abruptly, and stood back, giving them some room. Frellon could tell something was happening behind him, in front of Cherok, but he did not dare turn his back to the Voturi in order to look.

He could hear the words clearly once they began though, but it took him a moment to place what was happening.

“Hello Child. What brings you to me this day?” The voice was familiar; Frellon correctly placed it as belonging to the old chieftain. But it was tainted, with some sinister quality that had never been there before, like old blood and cobwebs. And power.

“It’s simple, I’m here to slay you Monster! Stop hiding and get it over with!”

“So it’s a duel you want.”

“That’s right! I challenge you!”

Frellon, alarmed, hissed at Cherok. “No, don’t! Without both of us, he’s too powerful!”

For the first time, Cherok dismissed him out of hand. ”I know what I’m doing!” He snarled.

“Very well. I have not Humiliated my Prey in far too long.”Cherok’s back started to move away from Frellon’s, so Frellon started backtracking in synch, keeping wary eyes on the Voturi surrounding them. He continued to whisper violently to Cherok.

“It’s a trick, it has to be! Chaos Beasts always have a trick up their sleeve!”

“I don’t care, I’ll kill him anyway. He’s made a mockery of our people, Frellon. He must die!”

Frellon was surprised at Cherok, then concerned. Could he be at fault for Cherok’s behavior? He had been messing around with the balance of his mind. It seemed to be keeping Cherok from being dominated by this beast, but was making him more vulnerable to old fashioned manipulation. Frellon caught sight of the Chieftain as he passed him. His eyes were glazed over like the rest of the orcs around here. But the Chieftain seemed drained, defeated even. Frellon bet seeing the chieftain like that hadn’t helped matters.

Frellon finally decided being sneak attacked by the Voturi was less of a threat than not seeing what Cherok was leading himself into, so he turned around. Just in time too. The sea of Voturi was reaching its end, and the monster spider was waiting in a clearing. The second Cherok was free of the sea of Voturi, he charged the creature, sword in the ready position and Lungs bellowing a battle cry!

Frellon continued walking forward, as he left the mass of Voturi behind him, but he did not charge. Cherok would never forgive him if he interrupted this duel, much as he wanted to.

Cherok reached the massive spider, and swung as hard as he could at the nearest leg. Frellon frowned, he had told Cherok that the eyes were the weak spot.

The spider reared and tried to crush Cherok with two legs, but he rolled out of the way, slashing at a third leg. Even rom this distance, Frellon could tell that the sword was having no effect. This didn’t stop Cherok from vaulting off a leg to stab upwards with the sword at the spiders body. Frellon could see the Orc’s arm and shoulder reverberating from the impact, but the monster was unaffected. The spider’s legs slowly swung through the air, and Cherok watched them, dodging. Then he leapt, landed on one of the spider’s massive legs, and climbed his way up the hairs in seconds. Lunging, Frellon realized what the orc had been about as the point seemed to sink into the Eye of the spider. Frellon was elated!

The spider’s legs seemed to teleport they moved so fast. One might not have noticed how pointed and sharp the ends of those legs were, but Frellon noticed all too well as a leg appeared sticking out of the back of the Orc’s chest. Cherok had just been impaled by a spider leg. Frellon was transfixed. The spider was capable of moving THAT FAST! It had been playing with Cherok! The Eye had been a weak point to make it drop the charade like that, but why didn’t it kill the spider? These thoughts were a flurry in his mind until a single, unifying thought made the rest freeze and take a back seat.

That thing just killed Cherok.



Frellon’s grief was vying with vengance for control of Frellon’s emotions. For the first two minutes, grief won, and that saved Frellon’s life.


When the Spider had stopped focusing on the pain, and had collected itself again, it threw the body and the sword off of its leg and watched with glee as it soared through the as it and landed with a bone shattering thud, still holding on to that ridiculous sword. The truth was that had the sword been made of steel or had it been sharper, it might have been the end of the monster. And the monster knew it. However, blunted as the old sword had been, it merely poked out an eye, rather than pierce through it to get to the vital organs behind it, namely, the brain. As it was mentally recoiling from its close call, it only briefly scanned the minds of those around it, and saw nothing but grief in Frellon, whom it summarily dismissed, as it attended to other things.


Frellon knelt by the body of the friend he had just run over to, and was shocked to see that Cherok was still alive, motionless and in agony, but alive. Frellon could not find the words, but he also could not look away from Cherok’s eyes. They were full of sorrow, and regret. Also hope, for he begged Frellon silently with his eyes. They did not need to speak. Cherok’s last act before taking his final, shuddering breath was to close his eyes in concentration, and release the hilt of his sword.

Frellon sat there, thinking hard about his next actions. He could flee, right now. It was possible that the monster wouldn’t care, and would let him go. He almost laughed. Running wasn’t an option he would allow himself to seriously consider. He thought on what he knew of the monster, and decided that it had to die. Being a Chaos Beast was almost crime enough, it was enslaving good orcs along with the animal Voturi. But its real crime was cruelty. It played with its prey, and by doing so, it dishonored the sacrifice Cherok made. For now the monster had an even greater weak spot than its eyes. It had a weakened, wounded eye. Frellon would kill it, because not doing so would be dishonoring Cherok, and the tribe that took him in. Frellon would kill it, because nobody else could, because somebody had to! Because he was meant to!

He could feel it in every fiber of his being! Emotion was gone, revenge was a passing fancy! In their place was a pulsating certainty that THIS must have been what Baz'Auran had made him for! Energy flowed through his limbs, barely contained!

Frellon grasped Cherok’s sword.

The Energy exploded out from his fingertips, images passed through his mind, an unbearable heat, the pounding of a million hammers, countless Orc hands polishing and smoothing and wielding this blade! Generations of Orcs had defended their families with this sword! Countless monsters had been slain! The rage of battle, the tears of loss, the blood of orcs, monsters and men had all coated this blade. Its history flashed through Frellon’s mind and out again in an instant!

The power he had felt was all flooding down his arm and into the sword, which started to glow and ring loudly! His arm felt like it was alight with holy fire; burning, yet not damaged. Frellon reveled in the magnitude of this event as he awakened the ancestry of the Sword of Heroes!

The light dimmed, the sound died and the burning faded. Frellon stood holding his sword, The Sword of Heroes.

It was a long bronze blade, perfectly sized and balanced for Frellon’s fighting style. It was made for cutting and slashing, and its metal shone sharp and clear, as if it might cut through anything. As Frellon saw the way it caught the light, he noticed that it seemed to be covered in a rippling sheen of a pure energy.

Any kind of investigation of what it might be was put on hold for the moment as a voice rang out in Frellon’s mind.

“Well, that was an interesting display. Hello godling. It has been some time since I devoured something from the white city.”

Frellon whirled to face the spider. The thing’s voice was stronger in his mind than he had ever heard before now.

“Yes. That’s right, I am focusing all of my attention on the snack before me, to the exclusion of all else. Look around you.”

In spite of himself, Frellon did. He was the only thing standing, aside from the Monster, in the entire village. Everyone was decked out on the floor, as if they had all died at once and fell where they stood.

“What have you done!” Frellon roared.

“I told them all to sleep, so they did. I won’t have to spare my attention on their minds for hours yet, which means I can focus it all on you godling. Do you mind telling me why you have sought me out?”

Frellon gripped his sword tighter, still feeling quite drained from awakening it. “I am here to kill you, monster. Defend yourself!”

The monster transmitted a mental sigh, “ahh well. I was hoping you wouldn’t be that stupid.”

It felt like a battering ram had bypassed his skull and struck him directly in the brain. Frellon reeled, physically stumbling backwards. Pain exploded in his head, he had not been ready for the mental attack. Remembering half-forgotten lessons, he began constructing feeble mental defenses as he scrambled for the energy to fuel it. The small stream of energy from his spark had expanded to a small river, but now it was as small as before, though it was gradually growing again. Desperate, he lashed out at the monster’s mind instead, but broke upon defenses he could not hope to crack.

Struggling against the tide of pain, and his brain being systematically torn apart, Frellon focused all of his thoughts on one, simple, thing. I WILL NOT DIE. Step by step, he forced himself towards the spider, determined to make himself a physical threat if nothing else. The spider laughed mercilessly as it twisted his mind and made him doubt himself, hate his siblings, love pain. Frellon refused to connect his mind with his actions, locking eyes with the spider and allowing his instincts to take over from there. Squirming under the mental assault, Frellon sweated heavily, his fear-scent reeking.

“you are afraid godling, do you fear death?”

It did not wait for an answer, but pried and dug through his mind untill it found one. Only fools don’t feel death. It’s a true warrior that overcomes that fear.

Outrage pulsed from near the core of Frellon’s mind. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

“ummm. No.”

Red-hot fury was replaced with cold calculation; He’s playing with me like he did with Cherok.

“how quaint a thought!”

All of Frellon’s reasons for killing this creature flashed through his mind again, and he felt a surge in power. The trickle of energy from his spark became a flash-flood in an instant. Oddly enough, Frellon could feel something bigger, something more potent building up inside his spark, he tried to hold it back. The surge of power had brought him relief from the deeper probes into his mind, but he could tell he would still die at this rate. Frellon looked around, at the sleeping forms of his friends, his second family, at the corpse of one he would have called brother. Frellon said goodbye.

Frellon let the feeling build and build until he could no longer hold it.

The obstacle that had kept his Spark in check burst like a dam breaking. Solid power slammed its way through every fiber of his being. The monster retreated from his mind in pain and fear. Frellon’s eyes flew open and a golden light shown forth, pure and clear. His mortal flesh ignited as it transformed into the body of a god. The spider, who had been paces away from him, shied away at the pure, golden flames.

“godling!?!”

Frellon leveled his still shining gaze at the monster.

“ummm. No. I am Frellon, Lord of Arms. A godling no more, but a god in full.”

The creature attempted to flee.

“and your time is now.”

Frellon’s form was far faster than it had ever been. Even at full speed, the spider seemed to move in a haze to Frellon’s eyes. His sword sliced once, twice, and long gashes in two legs caused it to stumble, though its bone plates protected it from having it’s legs severed. Frellon dashed around to the other side of it, wasting no time nor words, and thrust the Sword of Heroes through its wounded eye, deep into its brain. It jerked once and was still.

As Frellon removed the sword, his eyes dimmed, returning to their normal cat-like color and shape. The golden flames that had accompanied his transition had since extinguished themselves.

Frellon, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction, climbed atop the body of the Monster, and waited for his people to awake from their slumber.



Ascention quest artifact: The Sword of Heroes, contains the history and story of itself and those who wielded it. It also is imbued with an energy that waxes and wanes in power with its weilder's determination. It is a bronze blade, but it's power also helps keep the edge ever sharp and the metal stronger than most other metals.

Domain I was shooting for: Heroism
Domain I got: Honor

[Gengy]

Jongo, the Everchanging - Turn 1

The Band of Chaos was singing. It held no real tune, and no real form or measure, but Jongo found the music beautiful.

The only thing more beautiful right now was Jongo had all of her power back - and then some. It felt so glorious. Jongo changed from the human with bird wings, to a purple penguin that skipped along the water, to a giant red dolphin that moved along the sea at super speeds, and then to a tiny bat, and back to the human child that his body seemed so comfortable in.

Falling into the water of the ocean, Jongo swam to a rocky spire... and realized it was the same one that she had last rested with Dorph and Gwenie. Jongo hoped his dolphin friends were all right.

The Band of Chaos reached a pleasing crescendo, and Jongo shifted to have wings again, and flapped up to sit atop the spire. Losing herself to the music, Jongo reached out with his mind to try and find her siblings.

A frown creased Jongo's face. Something was wrong.

Not everyone was easily found. In fact, while in the White City, it was an easy matter to just think about someone and wander to them, here on the Disk, it seemed like things were a bit different.

Jongo felt things in a new way. That wasn't bad. But it was different.

It was like looking in a vast, dark room. Like sitting in the exact center of the huge Dining Hall of the White City, but every light was snuffed.

And then, slowly, carelessly, music began to play. The song from the ring Jongo wore.

In the dark room that was Jongo's mindscape, a burning blaze of a bonfire burst into life, on the east side of the room. It glowed so bright, and with so many colors, that Jongo was fascinated with it... until he realized... this light was HER. It was Jongo.

So. That was the shape of Jongo's power. A huge light of formless color, unable to be tacked down, and flickering like a bonfire.

Jongo. With that thought, the flickering stopped, the shapelessness stopped, and though the fire was still bright, inside Jongo saw himself, quietly sitting on the stone pillar. It was like naming herself was enough to solidify things.

Turning his thoughts away from herself, Jongo looked out again at the dark room, and looked again. Other lights burst into the darkness.

The closest burned with a sort of busy feeling. It felt like it could change many things, and shape the world in a different way, if given time, the right tools, and the right people. Rumel? Haramhold? Tough to say. Those two had always been close.

The next closest, a little to the north of the first, burned with conviction and purpose, but it's light was less. It felt slow to change, but not against it. It was a guarded sort of flame, and held the chance of change, but would repel it if it felt it needed to. Carolinus? Khalen-Het? The Band of Chaos couldn't tell, and sang a different tune.

Another flame burned to north, and this one was easy to feel. It's change and potential for disruption was great; like it would always be on the move, always searching for something, always traveling. It felt like maybe Kalandor?

And then to the south, Jongo saw one light, and one void. The light was bright, and felt like pure magic, given a bodily form. But magic that had come at some great cost. Jongo thought it might be Faden... but no, that couldn't be right, could it? The Chaos didn't know. Magic comes with a cost, and can be controlled because of it. Magic without cost - just asking Magic to do a thing, pretty please - might get you what you wanted, and certainly was more fun to see what would happen if you just... released it, instead of harnessed it. This being seemed to have among the greatest chances to change things, but it had had to give up something to do so.

The void, however... the void caused the Band of Chaos to laugh and titter, but move away. It was blacker than the room, and there was little to no chance of change. It was set in it's ways, and not open to any sort of fun. THAT had to be Khalen-Het. Right?

And then Jongo looked again. There was another light, farther away in the south than the other two. It peaceful, quiet, and felt so nice to gaze upon. A sort of soothing feeling, and it seemed to dance with the music from the Band of Chaos, and much to Jongo's delight, there actually seemed to be a tune and shape, as the music seemed to blossom. Had Flower had bloomed? Jongo smiled.

Another light seemed to burst through the dark room, and seemed to want to even fight the darkness itself in Jongo's own mindscape. It was rebelling against the very thought of things, and held a great deal of potential for change. Jongo had no clue who this could be, if it was a sibling.

There were others. There light, their color, it felt muted. Some strong. Some weak. Some close. Some far. They all seemed to hold the potential for change. The chance of Chaos.

No one seemed to be out in the ocean near Jongo, though. He tried to think what to do next. The Band of Chaos tried to offer suggestions through beats of tuneless song.

Jongo decided to just rest for a bit, and concentrate on her new powers.

An idea sparked, and begged for Jongo's attention. It was like traveling to the Abyss - a little reckless, a little crazy, but... if it worked.

It could work. It would work! But Jongo would need to know more, first. More about the world of the Disk. And he might need some help from some of her siblings.

Priorities, Jongo, priorities. Tezzerin would be scolding me now, for getting too far ahead of myself. I've got to change things for the better. So, what's first? Jongo looked down at the water, and spent some time thinking.

[Demidos]

Aramar was walking through a dark cave (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4icPTcQZacE). Damp, dark, and moist, like some great creature’s throat. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. He could feel the walls closing in around him. The damp water dripped down on him without reprive. The pounding feeling in his head increased. The tunnel was getting smaller. Smaller. He could barely move his arms. And all the while, water dripped down on him.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Aramar woke with a cold sensation down his spine. He was facedown on the ground his arms wrapped in his blankets in such a way that it was difficult for him to move. He relaxed. Sweat drenched his body – and then he paused. Was it sweat? It smelled…and then he heard it again. That sound he so dreaded.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

None of the Nightborn would dare to enter his tent at day. The last one who had had ended up waking to find a shrieking mushroom in his tent. And not just one, he had soon found, but three. One, he had found to his dismay, had already grown into its full growth, and he was forced to lie, paralyzed, and endure the endless shrieks for nigh on half an hour before any of the other Nightborn had recovered enough from their laughter to go help him out. Aramar had returned the prank, but also made it clear that pranks would be revenged. With interest.

The dripping sound continued. It was outside. Beside his tent. And it was moving, slowly circling. It was now when he heard, through the unnatural quiet, a harsh, whiny breathing. It sounded almost sickly. None of the Nightborn sounded like that. A wind wafted a scent to Aramar’s nostrils. Blood. He struggled silently with his bedsheets, now wrapping him in what would be his funeral shroud. He tossed and turned, and finally freed one arm. Quietly, he disengaged himself from the other blankets. Then he stopped – the breathing had stopped, but he could still hear the slow

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was outside his tent flap. Aramar slowly reached for his hunting knives. Slowly, ever so slowly, he inched them out of their cases. He could see a dark shape outside the tent, the moon outlining its hunched reflection. Painfully, agonizingly, the flap was drawn back – the breathing had returned. The thing was panting now, ever so softly. The flap eased back, farther, farther, and then a head appeared into his tent, followed by a body. It wore a hooded cloak, but Aramar’s piercing eyes could see through darkness as if it did not exist (a fact which he had never shared, as few liked the idea of a brother with glowing amber eyes). A nightmare wouldn’t even come close to describing it, but Aramar knew what it was. He had heard the stories.

Blind-Folk, he breathed.

The thing must have had incredible hearing, for instantly the thing turned fully towards him, snarling. It had the basic shape of a human, but the similarities ended there. It was tall, and slim, standing near seven feet in height. Its skin was the color of ash, and long white ridges of bone protruded from its shoulders. On its forearms, raised segments were visible. The thing had seven long, slender fingers on each of its four arms. In the leftmost arm, a small shield was held warily, and it also grasped a matched pair of wicked-looking axes, notched and stained. A thin coat of hair covered it, swaying in the night breeze. Its face was the worst. A blank bone mask was all that was visible of its face – there were no eyes, no mouth…the thing had no features at all. That was not what made Aramar blanch. He had faced many things before, terrible things that had escaped even great Baz’Auran’s notice in the deep forests surrounding the White City. But it was what the creature, the Blind One held in his last hand that snapped Aramar – it was young Ratori’s head, his hair held loosely in the creature’s grasp. From his severed neck, there was a steady dripping of precious lifeblood.

Aramar screamed almost in the instant that the first knife left his hand, taking the creature in its chest. His second knife joined the first a split second later, as Aramar hurled himself forwards, impaling the creature through and through. The creature died almost instantly. Aramar was past him in a flash, yanking his knives out of the still-falling corpse as he ran outside. The scene that met his eyes almost broke him. Blind-folk swarmed in scores, dense knots forming about scattered Nightborn, most of whom were too stunned to put up any resistance to their ancestral foes. Aramar spotted Tamar fighting, and Surrin, but even as he saw them they were borne down under the sheer weight of numbers.

Aramar hacked his way forward, cutting down one after another. They were surprised, not seeming to sense him until he got near. He knew that they couldn’t see him – they were blind, his footfalls were light, and he smelled like the forest did, after a recent rain. He hacked and hacked, tears streaming down his face at the loss of his second family. Didn’t the world care? Didn’t anyone care? He swung for what felt like hours, but in actuality was only a matter of seconds. As he raised his knives yet again, hungering for death, a lethargy came over him. Time seemed to slow, and then a crushing blow hit the back of his head, and everything went dark.


His eyelids fluttered open. He was being carried by two of those creatures, two of those things that had murdered his kin. And he was being carried…it was a tunnel. He could immediately sense that he was far, far underground. There was no comforting sky above his head. The walls were closing in, closing in. There was a rushing in his ears like ten thousand waterfalls, and he fell limp again.

Aramar unsheathing his hunting knives
http://img67.imageshack.us/img67/25/testeai4.gif

[Erik Vale]

"There are two mortals I can think of off the top of my head who ut into words the nature of the universe. These being the hunter Argyle Finagle (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FinaglesLaw) and a craftsman of Rumal, being Murphy (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MurphysLaw) Stonemuscle."

"The First of these noted that life is a B****, and will always play pranks with you. The other tells you that if you rely on something which can be done two ways, one of which is wrong, it will fall apart on you. These are two very importany lessons for everyone, be it the roving traveller under my domain, or a king like general who is a worshiper of Frellon"

Kalandor Travells
While other gods may hunker down and begin building up their domains, where upon they would create their home, Kalandor sort that not. He was the travelling type, and would rather plan first.

His first step, was to find out about the races in his lands, their various tribes and groupings. And so with shifting form and many years travel, Kalandor learned of some of the major races in his planned domain.

The first, as he already knew, were the humans. Simple beings who used stone tools and sometimes lived in houses of wood or tents of animal skin. These people were amounst some of the smartest, with some more advanced technolgies stiring amoungst them. The humans already made simple maps for when they had to discribe a journey, and with the creations of signs and paintings they had the beginings of writings, some had even begun their first attempts (Somewhat unsuccesfuly) at domesticating animals they thought could be useful. And ofcourse, in the few societies that could settle, that ment they had begun succesful agriculture with either fruits or grains, and as was the case with all humans of such groups, alcohol was already in production on the cottage level, much to Kalandors pleasure. These beings lived in all parts of the world, from the mountains high to the north, (Imagine Vikings), to the rolling planes in the south (Imagine Indians(American) and Gypsi's), to the vast forests of the west (Imagine the African Jungle Tribes) and to the River men in the east (Cant think of a general culture).

The Second of the major races Kalandor met where the Orcs. A race of greater honour than some men, being sly, but as with all races they we're adaptable, and not all were honour bound. There race was steeped in conflict and were more advanced in such areas, with copper actually being forged, not just being found, maybe bashed into a point, and used to make sharper spears or the beginings of axes or halbards. And though Kalandor believed one of his bretheran was amoungst them, he was hesitent to go into combat, and so, even with his shapeshifting abilities, he knew not much of the orcs foes, and he did not find Frellon.

The Third major race Kalandor met where the many races of the Beast who's god now long gone, reveared as the Beastial Titan Lug’a’don’th. Though Kalandor felt not the direct spark of Baz'Auran, he couldn't acertain wether or not the stories of the Lug’a’don’th where real, and wether he was a potent beast of Chaos or a Titan, and so acted as if they were. Now while most races have some physical varience, The Beastmen were a race of many sub specie, ranging from Manlike (Imagine the Various Gor's from Beastmen (Warhammer)), to sentient animals with slight change, such as the Chil'R, to the brizare and sometimes singular races that were conglomerates, some beasts of chaos themselves, some real races, though the Cantaur was no longer amounst them. These Races were like the Orcs, but their honour was subsumed slightly by thier bestial races, and they lacked in the physical technological aspects of warfare, leaning towards the tactical side, garnering the ambush, and map making. However, this race being more a conglomerate, had many sub-cultures, mayhap more than any other race, and the only true thing binding them was their past god, and that they would fight as one race.

While we all make races in our Acencion quest free of charge, I only used a subspecie of this one and so will pay the 2 act race creation cost. Tell meif this race would require more acts. While I combine beasts of chaos with the beastial beings, they are not part of this race, though some may apear to be, such as hippogriphs and griphons. Consider this race to be somewhat a fantasy kitchen sink of beast like races, but no centaurs.

And it was such was his travels, that Kalandor rested for a time, glorying in his newfound strengths and knowledge.

Aditional act: 1 Major, Gain Ability: Divine Athletics.

[Nefarion Xid]

"We can talk about this, right?"

Lossethir had succeeded in ingratiating himself with the hardy people of the northern wastes for precisely eight days. His sense of humor, ability to hold his liquor and his knack as a hunter availed him right up until he was discovered in bed with the chief's eldest daughter on the morning of her wedding. The same reluctance everyone feels to leave a warm bed on a cold winter's morning had prohibited his addled brain from making the proper decision to flee the scene of the nubile, blonde crime.

Summarily, her two behemoth brothers had him bound and dragged before the chieftain. Despite vehement claims that he was the son of Baz'Auran, the deliberation and sentencing was concluded in record time (as if such things were recorded) and Lossethir was again dragged, with decreasing ceremony, to a convenient nearby mountain peak. It wasn't the tallest peak in the vicinity, but it was the most convenient. And really, when you just want to execute someone for deflowering your sister, you're not terribly keen on long walks. Frankly, anywhere his corpse won't stink up the place will suffice. Stinking corpses aren't actually a concern in the tundra, but it was the polite thing to do at the least.

Beaten and bound, Lossethir's continued attempts at diplomacy fell on deaf ears as the two brothers deliberated how best to dispose of him.

"What if he is the son of the All Father? He appeared the night after the moon went red..."

"So, we don't kill him! We let the frost do it, or else the wyrms if they're hungry. Ya? Our hands are clean then."

"That's a technicality! You can't get off for murder on a technicality you bastards!" Lossethir's keen diplomatic tact was abandoned at the thought that they'd simply leave him here to freeze to death.

Unconcerned, the two brothers only shrugged at him before continuing the debate.

"If he's going to freeze to death, let's at least leave him something to drink. He can die happy!"

"Yes! Leave me something to... no! I mean take me back and let me drink there! I'll teach you a new game! I'll marr... I will give very serious consideration to dating your sister... exclusively!" Upon further consideration, Lossethir wasn't altogether sure that he wasn't still drunk from the previous night.

The second brother pitched his wineskin (well, vodka-skin) so that it landed just beyond Lossethir's reach. Here, "reach" will mean the distance one can extend one's mouth by flopping forward, since one's hands and feet are bound with ropes. Already walking away, the first brother halfheartedly intoned a blessing and condemned Lossethir to the spirits of the cold sky.

Lossethir struggled to free himself for a much shorter time than he should liked to have admitted before flinging himself on to his belly and inching towards the wineskin. Having chewed out the stopper, he lay on his side nursing the vodka and devising a plan.

[Jade_Tarem]

Faden
Turn 1: Sand in the Wind

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised.

It was silly to expect that anything other than Faden would change. Sillier to expect that everything would be fine once he regained his spark.

Practice was the order of most days. Within time, Faden had built up his capacity as well as his ability to store and use more power. He had to, once he had discovered the truth about his new body.

His magic and his life were now the same thing.

With his actual body destroyed and the wrappings little more than a container, he had more power to draw on, and could do so more easily, but it was entirely possible to cast himself to death. Whereas one of his siblings would collapse when there was no more power to draw on, he would simply... end.

More annoyingly, he had discovered that it worked the other way around as well. This new form was more resistant to injury - he suspected that if any of his siblings uncovered the spark, they'd be similarly durable - but any damage to his form weakened him. The most unpleasant surprise was that an extended stay underwater or underground could also begin to smother his spark, close as it was to the surface of his being. In short, despite having no lungs, windpipe, or even nose, he could still 'drown,' which irritated him immensely.

Fire, however, was one of the least of his concerns. His bandages were all treated with a powerful retardant that the clans had discovered. Enough determination and heat could still set him on fire, but he wouldn't vanish in a puff of smoke just because someone threw a torch at him - far from it, in fact.

In between experimenting with his new body and practicing his new magic - even remastering the defensive measures Tezzerin had taught him, Faden observed the current status of the desert, learning about it from the clans. It was known as the Expanse, or more formally as the Kophic Expanse, and encompassed all of the landmass they stood on, save for the mountainous area in the middle that was known as the Burning Peaks. Rumor had it that the continent to the south, which they had only ever heard of, was similar to this one. They knew of no others.

Faden did, of course. He'd found Geography boring, but he'd looked down the Well of Eternity before at the Great Disk and knew the general layout of his Father's creation. So he knew that there was far more land than was known to his clans, and told them so. Surprisingly, and gratifyingly, they were not interested in expansion or colonization beyond the borders of their current island. This was a wise move, in Faden's estimation - the clans simply didn't have the manpower to spread themselves any thinner, and the desert wasn't ready to support a bigger population.

Well, not yet.

Faden knew that the current system that the clans had set up was tenuous, at best. Radical changes were out of the question. There was something he wanted to try, something biological, but he wasn't about to go warping their physiology just yet, and especially without their permission. He owed them that much.

Instead, he began to change a few, minor things.

He made a small adjustment to the landscape, and several new oases sprung up. He blessed the population - a type of luck or life-based magic that he still didn't fully understand, and increased the available bounty at each oasis. Once he had done so, he reconsidered - it would take bigger changes to truly secure the Kophic Expanse.

But first, he needed to know about his brothers and sisters, and for that he needed assistants.

Designing them was a simple matter. He did not need them to perform manual labor, nor did he need them to be of any particular size. This let him use the extra effort to increase speed and agility, as well as to improve their efficiency with storing and utilizing magic. They were, effectively, beings of pure Will. With a description like that, one might expect them to be more impressive-looking than the final product.

They were tiny - extremely tiny - effectively a speck of light with eight thin gossamer wings. They moved swiftly, and could speak and remember complex messages. Faden nodded, satisfied that he had created the ideal messengers and scouts.

In order to distinguish one from another he gave each a different color, although he had to cheat and use two fluctuating colors on a couple. Without hesitation, he dispatched all but one to the corners of the disk - figuratively speaking, of course.

With that, he settled in to wait for the results, and began working with the clans in order to teach them about what he had learned since his ascension...

Turn 2 Acts
Major Act: Up a Domain (Magic)
Major Act: Gain an Ability (Warding Magic)

Minor Act: Bless Population
Minor Act: Create minor servants (Sprites - see below)
Minor Act: Teach a Population some magic

Sprites
Sprites are creatures created out of Faden's will. They can move at high speed, fly (in fact, they never stop flying), and are approximately as intelligent as human beings. Sprites generally have no distinctive features beyond the color of their tiny speck of light and the sound of their voice.

Sprites are hard to hit or catch, but are not really any more durable than the average hornet. They have no special guidance abilities and must find their targets the hard way, although they are certainly intelligent enough to investigate or ask questions of mortals or other intelligent beings to speed up their search.

[Erik Vale]

From little things, Big things grow.
Kalandor:

It was a while until Kalandor got past his musings. He had seen many races and knew that Frellon would like to create his own kingdom, and he knew Frellon had succeed by the sudden flare of his spark nearby. The land would soon be peaceful in his region, and such would soon spread under Frellon's rule, which should be peaceful but expansive with him at the fore. It would be good to start to spread his presence.

And so, Kalandor began to gather acolytes from the races he knew, and began the teachings that would become the foundation of his religion, and he bid them to spread, starting to make their mark. Orcish, Bestial and Human travelers began to spread his religon.

Act Expenditure.

1 Minor: Create the Religon of Kalandor.
2 Minor: Create 2* Number of lesser Servants.


Remaining:

[hi-mi-tsu]

The Confrontation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwjmMcN1WtU)

The first indication of the Guardian was a shadow that stretched across the Path, blurring and obscuring the borders; it became difficult to track, even for Avyra, who had the blood of the Creator humming through her veins. But she was not deterred by the shadow, for to be deterred would be to stop moving forward. And to do that would be to betray the trust of all of those who followed her, man and woman and beast alike, who trusted her to lead them to the Wheel.

Stopping would mean failing The Boy, who held her hand and smiled upwards so guilelessly, who believed in her with all of the innocent faith a child could have. And so she kept going, though her heart quailed. She was no warrior; she had never been skilled, and even if she had been, she held no weapons in her hands. As the shadow loomed larger, she grew more and more nervous...but she refused to show it.

"Who dares approach?"

The voice echoed, though nothing could yet be seen; Avyra's step faltered, for a moment. Detaching her hand from The Boy's, she crouched down before him, hands resting on his shoulders.

"Stay here, all right...? Stay with everyone, and keep them together. I will return once I have...solved the problem."

"But...!"

"Just...stay." She pressed a kiss to his hair, ruffling it lightly; he was...a dear child, and she would not have him hurt.

"Be safe."

Pulling away, she gave a reassuring wave, then pressed on alone; soon, the beast that caused the shadow (http://www.elfwood.com/art/s/t/stormwing/mythical_lion_by_stormwing.jpg) was revealed to her, and she swallowed. A giant, leonine creature, the shadow had been caused by the outstretching of wings that were easily twice as long as she was. It was a massive being, and Avyra could not help but wonder why her Father would create such a thing...

"Stay away! None shall pass!"

"Why?" Avyra moved forward, and the creature's wings furled in close to its body; it stared down at her, and an expression of abject confusion crossed its face.

"Because! I am the Guardian, set here by the Creator to...to guard!"

"What are you guarding, great beast? What is it my Father set you here to do?" Avyra had continued edging closer, carefully; the Guardian did not seem particularly hostile, but she did not want to take her chances. When its eyes focused on her once more, and it raised a threatening paw--the claws were as big as her head, or perhaps even bigger--she stopped and held up her hands.

"I am no threat to you, Guardian. I simply come on behalf of those that follow behind me, the dead of this world, who seek to move past you on their path to re-creation--"

"None shall pass! I am the Guardian!"

"But why?" Avyra sat down on the Path, crossing her legs in front of her; it was a position she had taken many times, when anticipating a long session with Tezzerin. She anticipated a long session with this creature, though time held little meaning in this place...in her head, she had begun to call it the Quiet Lands, for it was nearly always eerily silent. The outside world was at once close and impossibly far, the sounds from it muffled and blurred--if they reached through the barrier at all. "Quiet Lands" seemed a fitting title for this place of the dead.

"Tell me why my Father would set you here. What is it you are meant to be guarding?"

"...A door..." The creature looked down upon her again, as though seeing her for the first time. "You! You are a child of the Creator! He set me to guard a door. But..." A pause.

"I am confused, god-child. For there is not a door to be seen. But there is...a reason I am here! There must be! I am the Guardian!"

"You are dead." The words were gentle; still, the creature recoiled in shock, and the roar that poured from his mouth rolled through her like the unexpected thunder of a summer storm.

"You lie!" The paws struck out, and Avyra clenched her teeth; there was no blood, for the dead. But there was still pain, and the beast's claws pulled away with bits of her soul-stuff in them, and other pieces fell to the ground; the marks were there in her flesh, and involuntary tears slid down her cheeks.

"I...do not lie." She gathered up the tattered pieces of herself, shivering as she pressed them to her arm--first one, then the other. They re-attached, but it was...strange; she felt drained, and her eyes flickered. Perhaps this was why they had not passed, the others. They could not die in a conventional way, but it was as The Grandmother had said. Souls could fade, and be tattered and worn away...if this Guardian was intent upon guarding, then...

Souls could be destroyed.

"You are dead, Guardian. As am I. As are those who follow behind me."

"It is impossible! Death...death means that I have failed the Creator. Death means that I have...no purpose." The Guardian sat back on his haunches, and though he was a creature, the expression of misery in his eyes and his face was a tangible thing.

And so Avyra did something reckless; pushing herself to her feet, she moved towards the Guardian...and wrapped her arms around a foreleg, the closest thing she could reach.

"I did not understand, before." Her voice was quiet, as she held the Guardian. "Death...not truly. But this is not a place to claim a lack of purpose, Guardian. All have purpose, here. I understand, now...the Wheel is the chance to recover purpose."

"What is the Wheel?" The Guardian shifted, until he was lying on his belly; even on his belly, he was still larger than she was, but she shifted with him, leaning against his flank.

"It is what this Path leads to, Guardian. The Grandmother explained it to me. After death, one follows the Path to the Wheel...and the Wheel brings new life. It brings a chance for redemption. A chance to amend past wrongs, or continue past rights. The Wheel is your opportunity for a second chance, Guardian...as it is the opportunity for a second chance for those that have followed me."

"And I have been keeping them from this destiny..." The Guardian's head bowed, eyes dimming. "I am a failure and worse than a failure, in the eyes of the Creator. I deserve no redemption."

"Everyone deserves redemption."

There was no response, and Avyra sighed, letting her eyes close as she gently ran her fingers over the Guardian's shoulder. How long they sat like this, she did not know; the ebb and flow of time was impossible to track. How long they would have continued to sit like this, she did not know, but a quiet voice broke their silent solitude, and her head snapped upward.

"...Miss Avyra...?" The Boy stepped forward; behind him was the mass of souls, human and non-human, sentient, beast, and Avyra felt the Guardian's hackles begin to raise.

"No!" She did not know who the shout was for; The Boy, who froze in his tracks, or the Guardian, who paused, halfway to his feet.

"This is all I have! None shall pass!"

"They shall pass." Avyra stood, then, and gripped the Guardian's face--he had not stood fully, and it was close enough for her to grab, close enough for her to pull down, to stare into his eyes.

"They shall pass. They shall pass, and all who follow them shall pass, and you, too, shall pass."

"God-daughter! You do not understand! I have failed--"

"So too have I. So too have all who walk this Path...no one is free of failure, Guardian. No one is free of failure. It is what you choose to do when you end up here, knowing that, which sets you apart. Come with me. Together. We shall pass through this Wheel together, you, and I, and The Boy, and The Grandmother, and all the others that follow behind us, and we shall re-capture our destiny in our hands. We shall find your door, Guardian, and you shall guard it...or we shall find you a new goal, and you shall fulfill it."

"But--"

"All shall pass." Avyra rubbed the Guardian's nose, lightly, and she smiled.

"Even I shall pass through the Wheel. Come with me, Guardian...come with us."

There was a long pause; for a moment, Avyra feared that the Guardian would not accept. If he did not...she did not know what to do. She had nothing else, but this. This conviction that what she proposed was right. That all must go through the Wheel and be reborn, that the cycle must continue, that Death was as sacred a ritual as the life that preceded it.

The Guardian bowed his head, and Avyra started; she had not expected the gesture.

"It shall be as you say, God-daughter. I shall follow."

"No...you shall stand beside me." One hand pressed to the beast's shoulder; the other extended, and The Boy scampered forward, clinging to it. The Path seemed to grow brighter, as Avyra strode forward once more, and behind her teemed a mass of souls.

Some say the Wheel is a circular path, spiraling ever inward to completion. Some say it is a set of stairs, ascending into the heavens. Some say that it is simply the Path, extending into forever, and that you pass through a veil at the right time. For Avyra, it was a curtain of purifying flame, to steal the breath and cleanse the heart; she knew not what those she held to saw, nor felt. But she was not afraid; buoyed on a sense of almost giddy relief, she watched the others flicker out around her, their own Paths complete, their journeys on their Wheels beginning.

She stepped into the flame.

And thus was the third lesson of Death: To be reborn is to be released. To walk the Wheel is to find peace.

[KiCowboy]

Brandis' Ascension
Part Two: The Huntress and The Blight

Brandis ached as he rose in the dawning light. He turned to look upon the people of Kurth gathering behind him. Their faces were grim and unhappy things. Skin tanned from hard labor yet somehow still lined with a gray and unhealthy pallor. More prominent still were the dull, cold eyes. He could hardly tell tell if it was fear, disdain or something else shining in them as they stared at him. Brandis felt he was being scrutinized in the same fashion as a festering wound, or a sick animal needing to be put down.

"You were told once already to leave. Yet you linger. You draw her wrath."

He recognized the voice of the man who stepped forward. Tall, strong, and with perhaps a touch of pride he stood nearly half a head taller than the godling. His otherwise dark auburn hair was painted with a shock of white over the scar of an old and grievous wound. There was no guessing at what shone in his eyes. Fury. And loss. "Stand aside!" He shoved Brandis away, and lifted what little remained of Lafayette.

Wordlessly, a father buried his son. There was no ceremony. No prayers or remembrances. Only the deed. And a snarl of contempt to the one known to be responsible. When the man regathered with his village, Brandis knelt at the resting place. He searched for something to mark the place, but the swamp offered nothing. Reaching into his pocket, Brandis felt one of the gray slate chips from Lossethir's game. Such a simple and plain thing. Still, it held the mark of the White City upon it and that would have to be enough . . . The dark, soft earth hissed in outrage as he set it in place.

Somberly, slowly he moved towards the huddled folk. They were angry and afraid, arguing amongst each other. Central amongst them was the man - the father - from earlier, and an elderly haggish woman. The townsfolk grew quiet and spread apart as Brandis approached. The man seemed to look back to the old woman one last time. She nodded and stepped back. He growled and moved forward to meet the godling. "So long as you remain, so too will the eyes of the Serpent. I would kill you. Should kill you. But I am counseled against the further ill omens that might bring." The man's knuckles cracked as he clenched and unclenched his fist. "The Foster clan has held the old ways for ages. Kept our people safe from the anger of the darkness. Because it was my blood that made the mistake of harboring you, of drawing Iscaripaka's ire, it is my blood that will correct this."

Pained, the man waved his hand, motioning someone forward. In the face of the young woman who stepped forward Brandis saw the features of Lafayette. Several winters older. Tall and fair, but hardened in nature much like her father. She wore simple dark leathers. Bow, spear, and curved blade were worn with practiced ease. He made his best effort to bow courteously, as this seemed to be some sort of significant event for these people. "I am humbled then, by the duties of the Foster clan. I am Brandis of the White City, son of Baz'Auran. I . . . I offer no excuse for the wrong I have done you. You need only speak whatever deed necessary to help your people, and I am yours."

The girl showed no reaction to his introduction, just stared mirthlessly into his eyes. "And I am Norlean of Kurth, first daughter of the Foster clan. I am to guide you to the Stump, where it is said ancient things go to die and the veil of spirits is thin. You are to find your way back home there."

Brandis could only nod agreement, devoid of any personal intuition of how to resolve things. Unsure if there was even a home to return to . . ."And if I am unable to do this?"

Her knuckles cracked as she grasped the hilt of her blade firmly. "Then that is where I will sacrifice you to the Serpent and beg her leniency."

And that was all the conversation the town had left to offer him as Norlean gathered what modest supplies they would spare for the journey. Before midday she simply waved to beckon Brandis into the dark woods of the marshlands. Her pace was aggressive, sure footed and certain. Tired, hungry, and clumsy upon terrain that seemed mercurial, Brandis fell behind.
She growled in frustration, using the time wasted waiting on him to gather game or vegetation that might pass as edible.

"You know, I have a brother I think would quite like you." He tried to keep his tone jovial, attempting levity as he saw the sun setting.

"Even if he was only half as worthless as you, I'd not want another of your lot to curse this land." She muttered while gutting a large rodent like creature and setting it over a fire.

And so went the first days of their travel. The huntress was ever weary of the noises of the marshlands, ready for danger. Yet other than the strange whisperings on the wind, the watchful eyes shining from shadow they were unmolested by the ill will of the swamp. At least it seemed that way until Brandis found himself choking upon his meal one evening. Norlean scoffed at what have been his delicate sensibilities. But he spat out the food, and they both watched as it writhed and turned black on the ground even as it had begun to rot while within his mouth. Panicked, his guardian - or perhaps his executioner - rifled through their supplies. The smell of decay wafted amongst them. Wherever shadow set down, what food they had withered at unnatural speed. It mattered not if she gathered more, everything touched by darkness spoiled.

"So I suppose this means we must hunt and eat by the light then?"

"We?" She snorted. "Yes I suppose we could do that. But here is the real problem." She poured from their waterskins, and the same smell of pestilence arose. "Our stomaches might be filled with game in the day, but all the water is black and shadowed. It is a gruesome thing to die for lack of water." Her face like cold granite, she drew her blade. ""I'll offer you what mercy I can."

Brandis felt his mouth go dry. His wits failed him. Surely this was hardly the fate meant for him. Surely his father had not spawned a child so utterly worthless that they would simply waste away of thirst in the middle of nowhere. He held his hand up, beckoning her to pause. "Wait . . .just . . .wait a minute . . . there has to be something . . ." He scanned about, hopeful to find a solution preferable to dehydration or a slit throat.

His eyes settled on the wilting berries of a nearby bush. The godling's brow furrowed in thought. He gathered the simple black pot they had between them and filled it with the black and wretched water, then placed it upon the fire.

"If we weren't dealing with the Serpent's curse, I'd say boiling the water would almost pass as clever."

Brandis waved away her derisive comments as he gathered the aging fruit and placed it within the boiling murk and stirred. What little grain that wasn't blackened was added shortly after. Frustratedly he focused his will on the crude wort. To think wine had once simply flowed at the snap of his fingers. And now, here he stood, watching the swirling liquid atop campfire, hoping to spark just enough of his old talent to let this slop ferment.

Whispering a prayer for his father's blessing, Brandis set his hand over the remains of his effort. The ebb of power was faint. For a single moment the fire was pure and white, and the darkness evaporated. Norlean simply stared, confused by the ritual. With a small amount of pride, he poured a cup and handed it to her. "'Tis small thanks for your protection, Norlean, but I'd gladly share this blessing and spare you the grim fate you spoke of."

Her nose curled as she held the brew to her lips. It was evident she was forcing herself to swallow the concoction. "So you'd spare me by poison then, eh?"

Incredulous, Brandis held her sharp gaze. "Well this is certainly not my finest work, but its hardly poison." To prove his point, he poured his own cup and downed it swiftly. And then very nearly gagged. "Or at the very least we won't die drinking it . . "

With some effort, the two slaked their thirst. And while Brandis felt somewhat rejuvenated, he could see Norlean holding her palm against her forehead, as if confused. "This stuff makes my head spin."

"Heh, well it is stout at the very least. Don't worry, I've an idea already to improve the next batch." She groaned at his attempt at levity. "But we've forgotten the most important part of the affair." He stood, and held his cup out to her. "To you, Norlean. May your skills ever be sharp as we embark on this quest. May you bring honor to your family. And may our journey find peace for your people."

The huntress stood as well, her face still bewildered. "This is foolishness. You want me to spout nonsense, the same as you? Well I don't know the words for it. Some of us aren't granted soft lives in the White City, with every need handed over on a silver platter. So here's to survival. Or death. That's all that awaits any soul at the end of the day."

Norlean's words made his heart heavy. Drink had always had a way of bringing out the truth from Brandis' companions. "Surely there is something else you can drink to. Something you hope for. There is more to life than just survival. There has to be . . . Otherwise . . . what's the point?"

"Keeping my village alive will be enough for me. So what do I hope for? I hope you do make it home. I hope you stand in judgement before your father, and he dies of shame. To you Brandis, may your bury your own kin."

"Take that back! Jest with me all you like, but don't you dare mock Him! Don't you dare speak ill of Him!" Brandis felt his temperature rise. It was a strange and alien thing to him, this feeling of anger.

The young woman stood her ground, and tossed aside her cup. "I'll take it back as soon as you bring my brother back to me."

As quickly as his temper had started, it was gone - replaced with they heavy weight of guilt. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Well I'm not . . ." Yet despite herself, her face softened slightly at the godling's sincerity. "But I wish no ill to your father . . ."

The two eked out a harsh existence as they continued to travel. His meager blessing and her skills barely keeping them alive. For a week, the only words they would share were a simple nightly toast.

"To Lafayette."

[The Succubus]

Turn 1

Khalen and the First of Many

Upwards Khalen’s spirit soared as the searing whiteness slowly began to fade to burning red. His soul had sunk far beneath the surface of the Disk, almost becoming one with the Great Heart at the centre. Yet his time had not yet come and Khalen’s spirit began to rise through the very foundations of the world itself.

The molten iron surrounding the heart burned bright and fierce and Khalen could feel its great strength, almost a living thing in its own right. Upwards and the iron began to cool, becoming solid, stronger and more rigid than anything that could be smithed by mortal or deity. Above it, Khalen passed through the ancient stone that formed the bones of mountains, carrying the weight of the world on its mighty shoulders. Onwards and onwards he soared as the stone became less dense, still holding great strength, yet subserviant and dependant on the greater stone beneath it. Khalen found the logic behind its ordered layers appealing.

Finally, stone gave way to sand and with a triumphant flash of light Khalen’s spirit and body became one once again. The new god stared down at his body, as if seeing it for the first time. While frail, it seemed to hold a resolute toughness like that of a withered tree that refuses to surrender to storm and time. His robes were tattered and he remade them with a thought. The hood of the robe remained unmade as he thought back to his trial that had taken place in the dark bowels of the earth. Justice should never have to hide its face or dwell within the dark. His long silver hair streamed in the wind as he surveyed his surroundings. Once more the great desert stretched before him but something felt different. He was more aware of the sand and stone around him. A strange feeling took hold of him and he raised his right arm.

From the floor before him a small twist of sand began to rise, as if carried by a wind. However, the air was still around him and as he lowered his arm slightly, the twist sank lower as if in harmony with him. He flicked his arm to the right and as if carried by a gust the sand flew off to right. Khalen smiled as he moved his arm around, the sand of the desert dancing before him.

“The Brothers are returning, Khalen....” Khalen grew solemn as he remembered Elanna’s whispered warning. If he were to protect the Disk against his nemeses, then he would need a citadel or fortress to command from. The spark within him whispered promises of power, that he could raise a city with but a thought. Khalen shook his head. Something like that would have the whiff of sorcery about it and while magic had its uses and its place, a city raised by magic could just as easily be undone by it as well. He would need to construct it brick by brick but a task such as that would take centuries. Once more the winds of memory blew through Khalen’s mind as he recalled the strange vision he’d had by the Well of Eternity so long ago. A stone hand reaching out of the desert and blocking the dark blade......

Khalen turned his attention to a nearby rocky outcrop some 20 feet in height. An idea came into his head. He turned his gaze upon a small stone at the base of the outcrop and raised it into the air. With a gesture, a gust of sand scraped along the edge of the rock, its ferocity smoothing the side. Another gesture, another surge of sand and the other side became smooth to the touch. Nodding, Khalen mustered all his concentration as the sand began to come to life beneath the stone. A swirling cyclone began to eat away at the edges of the stone, shaping it into a circle. The sands dived and swooped around the edges and Khalen’s concentration grew ever more focused as the gusts of sand became smaller, working at the tiniest details of the circle, carving four small stone faces at 90 degree angles. A small tornado of sand descended into the centre of the circle, hollowing it out and leaving the finished circlet on the now still surface of the desert. Khalen picked up the circlet and placed it on his brow, its weight heavy yet comfortingly solid at the same time.

Khalen now turned his attention to the outcrop itself, marshalling every last bit of his might for the task before him. With an almighty roar, the sands around him surged into the air and sped towards the rock. A tornado of sand worked the edges of the rock, creating sparks in the air and a howling wind to speed across the desert. Thunder and lightning filled the air, its sound almost lost beneath the hellish roar of the sculpting sand. Just as Khalen felt the power within him threatening to spiral beyond his control, the air began to clear and he gazed upon his creation. A huge stone figure knelt before him, its head bowed in supplication. Although the figure was not excessively detailed, its form was clearly defined as that of a person. Khalen walked towards it and called upon the spark of Law that dwelt within him. He traced a rune on the forehead of the great stone figure and briefly it glowed brightly, before fading and disappearing altogether.

CRACK!

The figure before him slowly lifted its head.

CRACK!

A huge stone hand pushed onto the rocky base beneath it.

CRACK!

The figure rose upwards, standing tall against the setting desert sun and casting a long shadow over Khalen. He closed his eyes and felt the stone crown call out to the stone figure before it. “First One, I am the Creator. You are to be the first and greatest of your kind though many of your yet unformed bretheren will follow. Law gives you your strength and in Law you will have purpose. Come, for we have much work ahead.”

In ages to come, people would marvel at that figure and the wonders it created and its name would become a by-word for loyalty and obedience.

Golem.

Act Expenditure:
1 Major - Earth Mastery (Stone and Sand)
1 Major - Create Exarch (The First One)
1 Major - Create Artifact (Crown of Khalen-Het)

The First One - A huge stone golem created by Khalen-Het shortly after his ascension. Standing 20 feet high, it has the strength of a hundred mortal men and possesses a grace and dexterity that is lacking in its smaller brethren. Like the others, it is voiceless and while aware of its surroundings and the actions of others, it is capable of only limited thought and lacks true sentience.
Exarch Ability - Item Creation.

The Crown of Khalen-Het - A heavy stone circlet with a small stone mask at its N,S,W,E. The crown resonates with the golems, as stone speaks to stone. The crown is necessary for Khalen to issue commands to his golems and allows him to see through one golem's eyes at a time. Whether the destruction of a golem has any negative feedback through the crown has yet to be established.

[Ladorak]

The formation of the Wardens.

Carolinus stood upon the mount, around him stood a multitude. He had summoned all the peoples of the original ten tribes, many of Markien's new arrivals had also drawn to the crowd in curiosity. He stood above them in shining white plate mail, a bright counterpart to the darkness of his shield. Their numbers were so great, so spread out, it took no small effort of divinity to make himself heard by one and all.

'Every man who fought for me at Black Buttress, assemble before me. The next direct male relative of those who died for me at Black Buttress, assemble before me. The order is to be sons followed by brothers and then fathers.'

The crowd drew back, making space for those who had sacrificed for Markien. They took some time to assemble. Mostly they were survivors of the battle but Carolinus saw many young boys, this saddened him greatly 'People of Markien, these are those who have sacrificed for your protection. Each has sacrificed in their own way, in blood and fear, in losing fathers and sons. I am Carolinus and I reward those who sacrifice for the greater good. I have assembled you here before me to witness the honour earned in sacrifice. We honour our promises to the dead by protecting the living. I hereby found the order of the Wardens.'

A gentle glow suffused the gathered menfolk. It burnt brightest upon their foreheads. When the light came to an end each stood transformed, their weakness burnt away. All wounds healed, even in decades old scars. The magic was evident in their bulging muscles and new found lightning reflexes. All found their eyesight greatly improved. But most incredible were the golden disks now affixed to their foreheads. On them were the tiny embossed image of black buttress. In later years the symbol of Carolinus' church was taken from his golden image, rather than the dark symbol carried by Carolinus himself. That was the level of respect amid the people for the Wardens.

'The Wardens will be the hand of Carolinus. They will ward the people forever more. They will be a hardy people, and lusty. Each male child born will bear my mark upon their head. In return for this power they must swear oaths now, one and all, to serve only in defence of Markien, to do no ill against the people, to protect all who need protection.
'My father once offered me a gift worth any price, but he demanded my sworn word of service. I now do the same for the Wardens. All power must come with a price, lest it be misused.'

1 Major Act: Gain lifegiver ability
1 Major Act: Alter existing race. The Wardens have increased strength, speed fitness and intelligence. The disks upon their heads give a lie discerning ability and grant limited protective wards. If a Warden breaks the oath his disk turns black and he loses his powers. Wardens mate with humans, male children are born Wardens, girls are human. The oath follows onto the next generation and so forth.


The naming of the Prophet

'Louisa, please sit down. It is time we discuss a matter that I have long put off.'
She frowned 'What have you feared to speak with me Carolinus?'
He smiled 'You are mistaken my dearest friend, so little you know me.' The smile and his gentle mocking took my sting from the remark.
She was bemused 'As is so often the case of late, I fear I do not understand.'
'I have only ever feared one thing, that thing has already come to pass.
She sighed, it was a sigh Carolinus had become increasingly accustomed to. The divine spark had fundamentally changed his mindset. It was frustrating and saddening every time he struggled to speak with Louisa, once it had been easier. 'What is the matter you wish to discuss?'
Now he sighed, a sigh she also knew well. It spoke to her of the burdens her god carried. 'This has hung between us for some time. Now the great threat is gone and we must speak. It is time we discussed this role you have taken onto yourself. I am displeased.'
Louisa's expression turned icy, as did her tone. 'Please speak on. Charge me so I might defend myself.'
He shook his head, rebuking her 'I know what you will say. I said do whatever it takes.'
'Yes, you did.'
He leaned forward, scowling 'I did not mean to lie to the people, twist my words and make yourself a prophet. I spoke of no safe harbour.'
She laughed bitterly 'You are mistaken my dearest friend, so little you know me' she said in ironic impression of his voice. It only then occurred to Carolinus that Louisa was very annoyed at him. 'I did not lie. I did not even speak your words. All I did was write your words and pass them on.'
'You can write?'
An instant later he learnt that was an unsound tactical choice in how to proceed. 'Of course I can write!'' she exploded 'All those hours of scratching in the night time you never thought to ask what it might be?'
Carolinus took the time to think through his response, he was obviously on very unsound footing. 'So you wrote down Markien, meaning safety. They read Markien, meaning unity?'
She regarded him coolly 'Finally worked it out? Good, here's my defence. You asked me to gather many people, some of whom have been at war for generations. All the wise women read, I passed my tablets to fast runners. When the tribes assembled the only thing holding back war in the camp was the promise neither of us made.'
'But you have still made yourself a prophet.' His tone was damning, another tactical blunder.
'I have done no such thing! Are all gods so dense?' Think. Forging one tribe from many, preventing violence in the camp. You left that to me. Daily questions, minor matters, too small for you to deal with, of course they came to me! Those too awestruck to approach you, they came to me! All I said was that I repeated your words. They made me a prophet.'
Carolinus nodded thoughtfully 'You did not ask for this?'
But she wasn't done 'All those times you had to go away and bask in a memory, I ran the camp while you were away dreaming of her.'
Carolinus might have learnt then the real reason Louisa was annoyed with him, but his mind had wandered. 'Kneel before me Louisa daughter of Mera.'
She got to her feet 'I will not, I'm going-'
Carolinus suddenly blazed with his full divine light, his strength of will forced her to her knees 'You did not ask for this. You have only served to do good, with no thought for yourself save the salvation of your people. You who know me better than any among the people. I name you Louisa, my prophet. You shall be the voice of Carolinus. Because you didn't ask for this.' he touched her with his divine spark, suffusing her with energy That is why it must be yours. You will lead the people, because you see it as a honour and a duty. You did not want power, and will therefore not abuse it.'

Major Act: Create an Exarch. Louisa gains Divine Charm as she is named the prophet of Carolinus, keeper of the holy city of Sanctum.
Minor Act: Create a city

http://www.art-prints-on-demand.com/kunst/sir_james_pennathorne/recreation_architecture_ancie_hi.jpg

The Palace of Dawn. Seat of the prophet

http://s1.hubimg.com/u/376200_f520.jpg
Minor Act: Teach populus mining and metalworking.
Minor Act: Bless crops.

Over the great city of Sanctum a shimmering creature glided high seeking Carolinus. The creature of Faden was all but invisible despite it's luminescent beauty, a mere dot in the sky.

The sprite hovered over the Palace of Dawn, all around below people swarmed to and from the palace in great lines, tiny like ants amid a huge gold and white nest. Most carried food from the fields or minerals from the mines to the great palace storehouse, swarming into the place on a dozen roads on wheels, hooves and feet. Some went into the city proper on duty or leisure, some lucky few carried forth the proclamations of the prophet.

The sprite continued to hover over the palace, confused and uncertain. Faden had provided his messenger with an image of his brother's divine spark, within the palace a spark very like that image pulsed with divine energies, but it was to Carolinus as a candle is to the sun. Louisa's newly bestowed power confused the sprite, delaying it's passage.

But, like all things on the Great Disk, it's indecision was transitory. Finally it moved again, floating south. Originally it followed the Dawn Way, the main road between Sanctum and the many separate farming communities that fed Markien. After that it passed onto the copper road, one of dozens of splinter roads along the Dawn Way.

Carolinus was hard at work in a shallow copper mine when the sprite found him. Having taught his people the nature of mining and it's dangers it was unthinkable to him he would not share that danger. Already his magic had saved lives during a cave in.

'Hello creature of Faden.' Carolinus said, setting his pick aside and turning to face the sprite 'I've been aware of you since you entered the air above Markien. Your presence gladdens me, for I know my brother has also passed his great trial. Go back to Faden and tell him I am here. Take these words with you: Brother if you require safe haven on the Disk you have but to make your need known. I hope your trial was... less costly then my own. I hope to speak with you soon Faden and would also welcome news of our kin.'

[KiCowboy]

Brandis' Ascension
Part Three: The Eyes of the Serpent and the Salutations of Friends

The swamp had grown angry with them since the fallen godling's ritual. Norlean no longer had to seek out game. All nature of creatures stalked them now, and it took all her strength to keep the fool alive. The breeze hissed whispered threats of Iscaripaka, the Serpent. Brush, brambles, and thorns tore at their flesh. The marsh deceived the travelers at every turn, trying to suck them in into the abyss of soft black earth. Her only comfort was that at least Brandis had kept silent save for their nightly ritual.

It was a source of great frustration that when he finally broke the silence it was a compliment to her. Yes, the lizards of the swamp were old and powerful predators, but they were still simply beasts. The buffoon had applauded like a child, and sung her praises as if he had witnessed a miracle. She tried to explain it was not so special to face a gator with rope and blade. Certainly there was no safe way to go about it, but one had to remember their strength lay only in the attack. A single bite held the power to tear a limb off. Their hide was thick, their skull thicker. But if one were to snare the jaws whilst closed, they would find the creature as weak as a babe when it tried to reopen them. It might thrash about, but one need only hold tight and dig their blade into the softer flesh of its exposed throat. Hearing this only seemed to spur him on further. She growled as he hummed and went about fashioning words to retell the event in a strange and rhyming manner.

At least his drink began to be more palatable after that.

The days flowed into each other, and though difficult they persevered. When finally she saw the ancient city of Hastings, she sighed in relief they neared the end of their travels. It had stood since the forgotten times, stretching for miles all the way to the great waters of the east. The Stump had been of the same age, and would be close. Norlean wished they could move straight on to it. But it was obvious Brandis was in need of rest, and she could not deny her stomach growled at the thought of fresh food.

The huntress humored his questions about why the people of Hastings lived in the outskirts of the ancient buildings, and not within. That none remembered the ways to rebuild these old places. Of the Serpent's wrath upon those who would try. It was said to speak of such dreams and folly would lead to being found in the morning with an opened throat. The fool seemed to think the lights of the city would keep the darkness at bay. He did not understand the eyes of Iscaripaka were ever watchful.

She found them an inn, and was grateful he pressed his conversation upon some other victim while she gathered supplies. Some discretion would have been nice. It annoyed her that somehow word could spread so quickly. An entire district away she could hear the tale of Baz'Auran's son seeking the Stump. She returned to his side immediately, knowing trouble was imminent. And sure enough, when she searched for him, she found the naive godling setting off towards the center of Hastings' ruins even as the sun set.

She had never been skilled with words, but likely he would not have listened to anything she would have said regardless. Norlean watched his face light up like a child returning home. Holding only the light of a lantern, so small amongst the shadows, he seemed to stand taller wandering the streets. Oblivious to her and all else save whatever nostalgia the architecture brought him, she was not surprised he was unaware of the men that followed.

As they attacked, they cursed in a voice not their own - but that of the black marsh. With eyes like obsidian pools, the assailants fell upon the huntress and the godling. She was not well practiced at fighting men. But much like Brandis, she found these city folk slow and weak regardless of the tenacious spirit that possessed them. No chance to disengage for her bow, she skewered the first with her spear. Cut the throat of the next with her blade. In the open wound writhed a squirming, slug-like creature of oily shadow.

And then the fool made things more difficult. Screaming at her not to draw further blood, that these men were innocent. Possessed. It was hard to explain why, but she relented and with some difficulty subdued the rest with fist and foot and rope. Bloodied and angry, she demanded to know just what he thought he was going to be able to do.

"These men are merely host to offspring of your Serpent. Iscaripaka poisons their minds. Have you ever heard the phrase 'Fight fire with fire' Norlean?" She could only shake her head, wondering what nonsense would leave his mouth next. He held up a waterskin, now filled with the spirits of his strange concoction. "You called this poison not so long ago. Mayhaps we should fight poison with poison."

She held one the attacker's mouth open for Brandis as he poured it down their throat. Almost instantly, there was a shrill squeal of pain. Another of the strange sluggish things tried to crawl its way free of the host's throat. Instinctively, she crushed it beneath her heel before it could scamper away. Though glazed with confusion, the man's eyes returned to normal. He whispered thanks a voice that was his own. Grudgingly, she replied "Thank him . . . I would have been the death of you."

Come the morning, she tried to hold back complaint when the fool insisted to waste the day talking with the masters of the merchant district. Norlean watched the godling seem to come more and more alive as he shared the secrets of his brew with them. Moreover, she was surprised at how easily he got them to listen intently. Surely they must know that to follow his plan would only further incite the Iscaripaka's wrath. That toasting one another at their meals might drive away the Serpent's eyes, and grant some temporary respite, but certainly the consequences would be dire. No, it seemed they would forget all that, lost amidst the pleasantry and laughter of Brandis' company. Their eyes began to light up with the same sparkle as his, and she knew they were lost to his false hope.

The fool beckoned her to join their celebration at the end of the day, but she declined. Sitting aside, Norlean wondered at when she had last heard laughter in Kurth. She looked away as he raised a glass to her. Began that stupid rhyme about her battle in the swamp. Rallied the others to join in on the verse. She hated the godling for the effort it took not to smile.

[Gengy]

Jongo, the Everchanging - Turn 1

So much was happening. So much was changing. The room that was once dark in Jongo's mind was now almost completely filled with flickering lights and flames.

And Jongo could feel them all.

It required a great deal of concentration, and the Band of Chaos was singing out loudly all the while, but every major change, everything that was shaping the world, Jongo could feel them happening.

It was like watching the Ceiling again.

Glorious.

The only difference was that the Ceiling was a perfect creation of Baz'Auran, and Jongo's new senses were distracting, and difficult to manage. He found it easier to focus on one or two things at a time.

She felt another flare of light, as something went through the ultimate bit of chaos; death. But this time it was something big. Jongo had always found the idea of death very scary, and while he had loved her sister Avyra, he was a little concerned about Father's task for her eldest sister. And the feeling of death as a change was unlike any other. It was a rough flare up, and then a complete silence of light in one spot... and then a harsh wave of light surrounding that spot, like a pebble in a pond. Death affected not just the dying, but those who remained. But this flare of light seemed different now. It was not so rough. Not so harsh. And Jongo watched. More deaths, more changes, more chaos. Things seemed... easier now, as people died.

Another large flare, this one different. The Band of Chaos played a tune of confusion, and Jongo was not able to understand exactly what about this large light was so special. It was close to the light that Jongo thought might be Kalandor, but was not the same. It spoke of the possibility that things could be different, not because everything was, but because making those changes was the right thing to do. The honorable thing. Jongo did not know any siblings meant for such great Honor, but he hoped it was one of her brothers or sisters, with how nice the light felt.

There were too many other lights, begging for Jongo to watch. The Band of Chaos could only make the music for the lights, the colors spinning in a headache of pleasant feelings.

And that is of course, when the sea water splashed in Jongo's face.

Jongo laughed, and let go of the mindscape, let go of the concentration. He looked down at the ocean. It had borne her through so much.

Here, he sat atop the spire, and let a new budding plan form a bit. The Band of Chaos on her finger seemed to sing ideas; fun, interesting, a little bit crazy ideas, but ideas all the same. If Jongo was going to do them, then this stone spire was the best place to start.

So Jongo reached with one mental hand, and drew a circle onto the stone, and then drew a much smaller circle within that one. From the small circle, two almost questioning hooks were drawn, facing opposite each other, and flipped away in a tight neat pattern. Then one very straight, perfect line. Four almost flower like symbols went outside the large circle.

Jongo didn't know why he was drawing this; it just felt right. She was asking the magic to do what it wanted, and the magic responded. It was with a certain amount of luck that things seemed to be going right.

Jongo stuck out his pointer finger, and watched the Band of Chaos seem to jump to it, without thought, as one more line was drawn; this one a stark contrast to the other, a complete wave with no rigid semblance of form. This line seemed to laugh at the otherwise symmetrical balance of the whole thing, as though giggling that everything else was normal, and giddy that it was not.

Jongo pulled her finger back, and grinned, looking at the whole thing. This was not just a sigil of magic being made... it was a sign that Jongo had been here. It was a Symbol of Chaos.

As Jongo tasted the sea water in the air, and felt the waves crash against this lonely spire, there was a certain kinship that was felt in the ocean that Jongo had lived in. Letting her mental hand finish drawing, Jongo opened his eyes.

The Symbol of Chaos glowed on the spire, with an ever-changing color.

From the Symbol, Jongo allowed the power flow into her. Listened to all the change that water goes through, daily, hourly, every second of it's existence... It flowed where it could, but it was always moving, always trying to find a place to fall. And it could be furious when it needed to.

"Water." Naming it, the water flowed up and dancing around Jongo. It was playful, it was supple, and it answered to Jongo's call in the only way it knew. Calmly, with a subtle hint of power.

Above all... there was change. Jongo knew this. Shedding the form of the small human that she had worn for so long - so very long - Jongo kept the wings and finally changed to something else.

A god on the Disk.


Turn 1 Expenditure
New Domain - Names
Elemental Mastery - Water
Chaos Domain - Upped a level
(2 major used, total)

Symbol of Chaos created near the western edge of the Disk. (1 Minor used)
If you want to know what it looks like, check out Jongo's Symbol in my character information.

Right now, the Symbol is just that; a change on the landscape. But there will be more later.

[AntiMatter101]

Frellon, Lord of Arms-Turn 1
The village awoke. The last thing they remembered was the Voturi arriving as a flood, and the first few minutes were spent driving the startled, confused creatures from their home. Now that the Monster was dead, The Voturi no-longer sought blood and death like maniacs, but Frellon could still see the hatred in their eyes as they fled before the Orcs.

Next they beheld Frellon sitting atop the corpse of a massive monster, looking the same as he always did, yet undeniably different. He radiated power, and a purity of intent that was almost tangible.

The orcs milled about, unsure of what to do. The stress of events, and of being the Voice piece of the monster had finally killed the old chieftain. Lograr had been one of the first to die in the Voturi flood, defending the people to the last. With the added losses of Cherok and the other ten from Guard Patrol, they found themselves a village of 163, with no Chieftain, and no Champion to lead them.

Eventually one of the orcs who knew frellon well approached him.

“What happened Frellon? Why are so many dead? What happened to you?”

Frellon stood. “This Monster had the power to invade and control minds. It was what has been stirring up the Voturi these past years, and today it came to enslave us as well.”

He climbed down from the monster, and walked over to where Cherok’s corpse lay. “Cherok injured it, but was killed. I took up his sword, and slew the monster.”

An orc with whom Frellon was not familiar strode forward. “Who are you? What are you?”

Frellon looked at him, no longer using the Orcish language, he empowered his words so that their meaning in the Spirit tongue resonated in their ears. “I am Frellon, son of Baz'Auran. I am the god of honor.”

The orcs stood in confusion and a bit of fear. “Who are you?”

The orc who had addressed him was well dressed, and well-muscled, but something told Frellon that, despite his young age, he carried wisdom in him. “I am Trekel, son of the late chieftain.”

Now Frellon understood. The role of Chieftain was awarded to whoever the old Chieftain deemed the most worthy on his deathbed. In the event none was named, the practice of the Champion taking control, temporarily or not, was a long tradition. However, while the Chieftain had never named an heir, it was known that he spent long hours instructing his son in their ways.

Frellon returned to using orcish. “Well, Trekel, this conversation can wait. We have dead who must be honored.”

Frellon assisted the construction of the funeral pyre.

There was a silence as they lay their dead to rest. Frellon stood before the pyre as it began to burn low.

“These orcs defended their home against the Voturi horde with their lives. We will always honor their sacrifice. Without Cherok, I would never have been able to kill the great monster. We will always honor his sacrifice.”

Frellon’s eyes glowed with a golden energy, as he looked into the flames for a long while. This was no trivial promise. This was an Oath.

Frellon raised his head, his eyes normal again. “You, the Orunta Clan, took me in when I was on the verge of death. You lent me aid when I was stumbling for my way, and taught me the way of the forest. Now it is my turn to aid you. I look at this forest, and I can see the life you would live here. It is a good life, yes, but it is a dangerous one. I would take you from this forest, and find you a new home, where the land does not try to kill you, where the land instead makes you strong.”

Trekel stepped forward. “Does a land like that exist? When our clan journeyed from the harsh mountains, this was the only hospitable place they could find!”

Frellon nodded, “It should. If it does not, I will make such a land for you. By the edge of my sword if need be.”

An orc from the croud spoke up. “Why can we not just stay here?”

Frellon pointed to the dead monster, still rotting near the edge of the village. “Because much worse things than that exist in the forest, and the mountains, I assure you. Your ancestors knew it. Before I came to this forest, I saw a land of plains, and grass stretch to the horizon.”

The orcs were confused, and another asked what a ‘plains’ was.

Most of the day was spent in this manner. Frellon was convinced that staying in the forest would kill these orcs, for as he had waited for them to awake, he had spread his senses wide, and had shuddered at the horrors he felt on the edges of his senses. Frellon had the sneaking suspicion that the monster he had slain claimed this area as his territory, and that with it gone, more creatures would seek to lay claim to it.

It took the better part of the day to convince them a better place might exist, and three more to convince them that traveling there would be safe, he would protect them.

During that time they had moved the corpse of the Monster, which they had dubbed a Gribnik, and burned it.

For the next two weeks they prepared for the journey, hunting excessively, for they would need the provisions.

During that time, Frellon discovered something odd. The orcs knew what a ‘god’ was supposed to be, but knew none of the lore of the white city, and Baz'Auran. Frellon found he was spending much of his time instructing the people, rather than hunting as he might have preferred. Still, these were his people, and by extension his father’s. They needed to know what that meant.

When the preparations were complete, they departed, with little ceremony. The first few weeks were uneventful, as they traversed land they had Patroled and Hunted in. However, as they progressed into the fifth week, the forest seemed emptier, less vibrant. Less animals seemed to live here. Soon Frellon recognized the places he had stumbled through upon his first arrival, and he knew they were close.

As the orcs strode out of the forest for the first time in their lives, they stared agape at the waving fields of grass. Frellon laughed at their expressions. “Come! Let us put the forest and the mountains behind us!”

So they did. They traversed south along the plains for days, seeing new animals and plants. Frellon helped them figure out what they could eat and what they could not. They only had one incident with a purple flower and a case of hives.

At some point, Trekel seemed to have been appointed as the new Chieftain. Frellon approved, for while he was young, Frellon believed him well suited to lead.

The forest was long out of view, but Frellon called a halt when the mountains themselves were but specks upon the horizon. Here, he looked at the land before him. A mighty river was not far off, and the plains were rich and vibrant with life.

“Here we settle.” He proclaimed, and bent the land to his will.

Huts like the ones they had dismantled rose out of the ground, modified for life on the plains. They were well-built, strong, and there were many of them. There were more than enough homes for everyone. There was even a massive chieftain’s hut, but it was made out of stone, solid and unyielding, and Trekel took up residence there with hesitation; they had never seen a stone structure before.

Frellon, however, did not take a hut in the village as his own. Nobody asked him to. It was clear that he was no-longer their equal, a fact which he mourned, nor was he their leader. He was their protector now, and stood apart from them, even as he joined in their excitement over their new home.

Frellon constructed his own hut a few miles away, atop a small hill overlooking the village. He set up a small arena to practice in, and for days the sound of his sword slicing through practice dummies could be heard.

The Orunta thrived, abundant meat was available, and from Frellon’s hazy memory, the foundations of a farming community were laid. This was how the first of the other Orc tribes found them.

1 Major Act: Up the Honor Domain
1 Major Act: Aquire ability: True Master (swords)

1 minor act: Create the Orc City, (will be named later)
1 minor act: Teach the Orunta Clan about Baz'Auran, the White City, and the other gods. Also the basics of farming. ("plant seed in ground, water, wait.")

[Tectonic Robot]

From the Book of Lllassar, Chapter 2:


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And so at the end of the old times, the elders met with each other and they spake and offered wisdom, and said 'Woe be unto us, for our food stocks run low, and the blandishments of the winter are coming upon us; we fear that our tribe, old and great, will be extinguished like a candle-flame in a summer gale'

And then Llassar, the Summer Sovereign, who was then just a visitor to the fields, and whose bones had not yet received the vital spark of glory, came up to them and spake to them, saying "Oh ye silly mortals, why do you not simply grow yourselves food, and thus save yourselves from this wretched predicament ye have put yourself in?"

And the elders of the council did indeed look at Llassar, and mutter amongst themselves, saying 'Grow more food? This is utter nonsense and foolishness! What words do you speak, sky-fallen one?'

And the slothful prince said, "What, do ye not know the secrets of corn?" And he removed the first seeds from his magic hat, and pretended to be surprised by them. And so all the children of the plains were amused in a dark time.

And then Llassar said: "Although the work will be hard, and the sun brutal, I will take upon my back the yoke of the the teacher; through me, we will have salvation" And all the elders nodded amongst each other, and agreed with him, and they drank and were merry; and so the final winter of ignorance drew to a close, with all the tribe looking forward with hopefullness and thanksgiving.

[Nefarion Xid]

The next morning...

"Is he dead?" asked the first brother.

"No, just sleeping upright," snorted the second.

Indeed, Lossethir had managed to wiggle himself into a kneeling position about the time drawn broke over the western mountains. It wasn't any warmer (if anything he was more exposed) but it was a measure more dignified and he'd convinced himself to meet his would-be executioners with an upturned chin. Fresh fallen snow had already piled up to the tops of his thighs. His cracked lips would have bled freely if only they weren't frozen. Without his blue tunic, he'd have been missed in the snow, so white was his skin.

Bleary eyed and still completely sloshed, he stirred and sighed, "Breakfast?"

"He's not dead," echoed the first brother, dumbly, "Perhaps we'd better let him go."

"No. I'd rather chance angering the All Father than our dad."

"There are worse things in this world to anger," croaked Lossethir wearily. "A woman came to me last night. Beautiful... haunting..."

The brothers set their eyes on the ground to search for the tracks, fearing their lovesick sister had trod out in the night to tend to their prisoner. The snow was undisturbed. Though it had been falling steadily for hours now, it was scarcely enough to obscure the path of someone traipsing up the mountainside. Finding nothing, the two exchanged a furrowed brow glances before turning their sternness towards Lossethir.

Lossethir's wan smile caused one of the bloody crystals to fall from his lips. It was quickly replaced as more bubbled up and froze. Dreamily, he cooed, "She said she'd give me the power to survive this hell. And that I'm cute."

"He's gone mad, or else he's powerfully drunk. Bit of both, maybe."

The second brother, leaning down to the level of Lossethir's eyes, snorted, "If a witch did visit you in the night... why didn't she cut your bindings, hm?"

Toppling backwards into the snowbank, Lossethir only laughed deliriously, "I told her I hadn't made up my mind yet! Big decision you know, selling your soul for power. Why is it that women always want something tangible out of these sorts of relationships? Your sister was hardly so mercenary before I bedded her..."

He was cackling long after the second brother had broken a rib, far too numb to feel the pain. As the two walked away, only a fair amount of screaming about his parentage convinced the younger brother to again leave him with a wineskin.

Lossethir attempted to blink away the tears before they froze in his eyes. Again he rolled toward the wineskin and tore away the stopper with his teeth. It was difficult to drink though, between the chuckling.

The next morning...

"Your refusal to die quietly does our clan great disrespect."

"I'm trying, perhaps if you leave me a little more vodka, I'll slip off peacefully into oblivion."

"Drink it all at once. Don't sip on it all night if you want to get it over with."

"Heh, you mean your woman didn't come save you?"

"She came again," Lossethir hummed. His eyes refused to cooperate and fall on the same place at the same time. It wouldn't have been in focus anyway. "I still haven't made up my mind. I think... I think it would be a terribly thing to wield a power like this. I'm... not one for responsibility, really."

Scoffing, the brothers again left Lossethir with a skin of vodka and frostwyrm blood.

The next morning...

The first brother had to help Lossethir pry his jaw open to speak. His spittle had frozen his teeth together during the night. When asked if the woman had come again during the night, he said nothing. Though his hands and feet had turned black, neither brother had the heart to tell young man. Once they'd left the drink, they retreated and talked of freeing him. Prudently, they decided that he was too damaged now to return to a full life and letting him die would be a mercy.

The next morning...

They'd have been at peace to know he was dead if not for the angry moan escaping through his nostrils. Out of kindness, they wet his lips with the vodka to defrost them and placed the wineskin in his mouth.

The next morning...

Lossethir again kneeled. A very nearly healthy gleam had been restored to his skin and tough the snow had piled nearly to his waist, he smiled. His eyes shone, the same color as the wasteland sky. It wasn't the unnatural glimmer to his eyes that frightened the brothers, it was the smile.

"Breakfast?" he asked again, his sense of humor mysteriously restored.

"The... the woman. Did she...?"

"Nonsense," snorted Lossethir, "If there was a woman, she'd have cut my bindings, no? I've been delirious with drink for days. I'm far too handsome and good with my hands for a sane woman to leave me in this position. Honestly, you'd have dreams of busty women too if I left you out here with that much liquor."

Both brothers nodded in agreement.

Without waiting for them to probe further, Lossethir snarled lowly, "Since you've failed to bring me my breakfast, I will allow you the honor of freeing me."

The brothers spared a glance between themselves, nearly incredulous, but still worried.

"Please," he whispered, though it was not a plea, "Don't delude yourself that I am incapable of freeing myself now. I offer you this chance because if you do not ask my forgiveness and set me free, I will slay you both an instant after I've sundered these ropes."

An unfortunate pause passed. As Lossethir cracked his neck, he continued to ruminate aloud, "This wyrm blood you've been feeding me... it does wonders for someone with my particular constitution. They're beasts of chaos, no? Blind fury with teeth and liquid entropy for blood. They are, as I recall, immensely strong even for a creature of their impressive size. Mindless... destruction incarnate. Curious... I wouldn't have thought drinking their blood would have such a profound effect."

He smiled again. It was a terrible and sad thing -- distinctly predatory. Some small measure of civility, of humanity apparently restrained him.

Wordlessly, the brothers slashed open Lossethir's bindings and made all possible haste back to their village.