Sunward, Tartarians, and the Legacy of Kings: An Elysian Story

[Mr Odin]

Sunward, Tartarians, and The Legacy of Kings

A story weaving an ancient enemy, unlikely allies, and legends come to life together into a tale of blood, justice, revenge, and kingdoms.

Incense permeated the air inside the sanctum, delicate wisps of smoke drifted from braziers that glowed with the faint orange light of smoldering coals that smelled of sage. The morning daylight spilled through opened, glassless windows as did the gentle sea breeze that carried the sound of waves that crashed against the cliffs below. Those waves were also what filled the air with the taste of salt and were the source of the low vibration that always rang through the cliffs of Antigall like distant thunder. All the people of the coastal village called Antigall were packed into the temple’s sanctum by morning, on that fateful day of the Gods. In Antigall the only stone buildings were the Gods Temple and the Lords Watchtower, the later scarcely used. The Gods Temple was a thick walled building with heavy blocks of granite, soapstone, and sandstone stacked and interlocked together. The temple’s walls were four feet thick at the base and narrowed to half that as they rose higher than all but the Lords Tower. Each joint in the wall was sealed with a bone white mortar made of gravel and chalk that had held since the village elder’s grandfather’s grandfather had built the Temple. The ten foot high walls held a timber roof that was thatched with dense peat and heavy furs, the beams that held the thatching were said to be the remnants of the ships the ancient men used to cross the Leviathan Sea, and were older than any man still living in Antigall.

Inside the temple a simple round entry greeted worshipers; a spirit fire, to which penitents could come and sacrifice that which made them sinful, danced in a simple hearth on the left wall. Opposing the spirit fire were deep alcoves each with a life size ivory statute of one of the five Gods of the Stars standing watchful over the worshipers as they entered. Past the entry and within the sanctum the rough hewn stone pews were full, each woman and child of the village seated and each man and boy standing with their families in solemn expectation. Before the worshipers on the stone pews was a great alter shaped from the bones of a Leviathan taken from the sea by Dallox Farseer, a great hunter, seaman, and leader from generations past. The tremendous ribs were lashed together with strips of sealskin leather and formed an alcove behind a dais built from the creature’s polished skull and supported by its immense vertebra. Candles of every color covered the bone alter and its surrounding stone tables, streams of wax ran and formed intricate patterns before falling to the floor in great pools. In some places the pools of wax had piled so high and the leavings of the candle stretched so far that they resembled the stone stalagmites and stalactites that grew within the cliff side caves near Antigall.

Before long the heavy wooden doors to the temple entry were closed by a young acolyte, hooded and robed in deep purple cloth sashed with a cloth of black and devoid of any ornamentation. After sealing the doors the acolyte passed the alcoves of the five Gods making the sign of each at his passing and continued down the center aisle between the pews, quietly speaking prayers in the Gods tongue as he past the pews to take his place to the left of the alter. Two players, one with a giant drum made from the bones and stomach of a whale and the other with a horn made of that same whale’s rib began to fill the sanctum with music, slow and ominous like the coming of a storm. From a spartan room secreted behind the bone alter the village priest shuffled forward. The old man leaned heavily on a cane of gnarled driftwood as he walked and was dressed much like the acolyte, in supple purple robes sashed in black that seemed to engulf a frail, withered body beneath. The old priest had only one trapping setting him apart from the acolyte, a heavy chord of braided greenish metal, deep water steel, around his neck with five disks hanging from it, each marked for one of the Star Gods. The twisted cane he carried struck the floor in time with the shaking bass of the large drum as he approached the pulpit and even the sound of the waves, barely distinguishable over the drum and horn, seemed to crash ashore in time with the rapping of the priest’s cane. As he settled behind the pulpit the priest lifted his arms and the people of Antigall began the ceremony that took place on this day, the first day of summer, every year, and the day of the Gods began.

***

Summer seas carried the four ships that comprised Skalian Iornhand’s fleet down the craggy north coast, just out of sight of land. Each ship was of the same make, Tartarian galleys. The galleys bows were sharp as knife points, curving upward at the stern, and wide amidships, each with two decks of oars, a single central mast with a square sail, and a deep hold. All the hulls had been coated in pitch and tar before they left the islands of Dugar three weeks ago, each ship black as night with little ornamentation. Aboard each forty-foot long ship were sixty men each one a rower, sailor, killer, and raider… quintessential Tartarians. The Tartarian people were known for little more than being superb killers and arch-traitors, bastard folk, stripped of all claims and titles, considered outside the grace of Gods, Lords, and men alike. The Tartarian’s were exiled and confined long ago to the miserable Dugar islands for their ancestors crimes. They were a people thought to be long isolated from the common lands, most if not all claimed by the fearsome storms or the deadly beasts that plagued the Dugar islands.

Ten generations ago the great King, Leon the Just, campaigned in the Ash Wastes far to the south of his Kingdom, the Sunward Lands, for gold and glory against the savage Dune Tribes that slaughtered traders, innocents, and warriors alike. During the campaign one of King Leon’s trusted Lord’s and brothers in knighthood, Lord Tartarian betrayed him, wounding the King on the field of battle and decimating his armies after falling in league with the Dune Tribes. Lord Tartarian returned to the Sunward Lands, the seat of King Leon’s Kingdom, murdered the King’s heirs and claimed the Throne. The details of the story are lost to time but it is known that King Leon survived his wounds in the Ash Wastes and returned to the Sunward Lands to slay the treacherous Lord Tartarian in single combat within the throne room of the Solius Castle in the Solar City. Wounded but triumphant and with the treacherous Lord Tartarian slowly dying at his feet King Leon called his court to assemble and brought every member of Tartarian blood before their dying scion. It was in this manner, before the entire royal court the King Leon pronounced his judgment upon not just Lord Tartarian but the entire Tartarian bloodline. A clean death for those that wished to atone for their households crimes honorably and exile to the Dugar islands for those that wished to live in shame. Nearly every Tartarian, once known as a most honorable house, submitted to the Kings justice for their Household Lords crime. A small number of those Tartarians that had been most closely related to Lord Tartarian refused the honorable death and fled to the Dugar islands in shame, hounded, harassed, and attacked by all those whom they had wronged. Those that chose death, more than two hundred, were executed with a sword to the back of the neck upon the battlements of Solius Castle’s east wall. Their blood ran down the towering stone walls and to this day the wall remains stained with Tartarian blood.

It was a story told all over the Kingdom, in villages like Antigall, to frighten children and as a lesson of prudence and loyalty. It was told to Skalian Iornhand as he grew up on the Dugar Islands to remind him of the brutality of the mainland Lords, of the hate they bore those of Tartarian blood, of the heavy handed punishments that Kings called justice. For twenty-five years he had survived on Dugar’s main island unlike so many of his family. Storms filled his every day, torrential rain, lightening that scorched the ground, and waves that flooded the inlets and shores and destroyed anything the men of Tartarian blood tried to create. For twenty-five years he and what little family he had, all Tartarians, fought the creatures that lived on the islands. Twisted beasts comprised of tentacle and tooth that rose from the flood waters and consumed men and women whole, abominations of wing and claw that screeched down from mountain side nests and snatched up sons and daughters with talons as long as a man’s forearm, and monstrosities that prowled the rocks and woods, stalking Tartarian prey, eviscerating anyone they caught in the blink of an eye. It was no secret amongst those that lived on Dugar, the Tartarians were dying off.

So Skalian had set off into the storms, the last hope of the Tartarians to be free of Dugar. He had sailed off with three score more ships, every vessel the Tartarians could manage to build before the storms or beasts destroyed them. Within the first week the fleet had lost six ships to the savage storms that wracked the seas around Dugar. Krakens had attacked their fleet nearly every day and consumed four more ships and two had gone missing in the black stormy nights, lost and off course, consumed by leviathans, or capsizing due to storms. Four had made it though; four Tartarian ships had made it past the Sea of Storms around the Dugar Island, to where no Tartarian had been in generations, Kingdom waters. As night was settling Skalian was on the forecastle of his ship “Lords Wrath” and could see the lights of bonfires and hearth fires off towards the shore. Shrouded in a boat cloak made from the mane of a manitcore Skalian took a moment of time and enjoyed a world free from the torrential rain that he had endured his whole life. For once in his life the boiled leather armor that covered his scarred body was dry and the thick mantle of onyx hair on his head grew wild in every direction unburdened by soaking rain. As his thoughts returned to the present his body shook with anticipation and barely contained rage upon having sighted the fires far ashore. A handful of miles were all that separated him from the descendants of those Lords and Ladies that exiled his family to an existence of dreary death and brutality. A sadistic smile twisted Skalian’s lips and dried as they were by the sea, they cracked bleeding instantly and he relished the taste of blood as he turned to the lower decks and his oar master.

The oar master for “Lords Wrath” was a twisted thing, born of too many generations of isolated Tartarian blood. Twisted of spine the oar master was still a head taller and five stone heavier than Skalian, all the weight being heavy slabs of misplaced muscle. How this relation to Skalian had lived and was not sacrificed to Kyakos or Ayreon at birth was a mystery to Skalian but his rough grayish flesh, pocked and scarred all over, spoke of the struggle every Tartarian endured. The same breeding that had granted the oar master prodigious strength and size had also made him a simpleton, fiercely loyal and easily manipulated by the right person. Skalian moved across the deck toward the oar master and placed a heavy mailed fist on the twisted oar masters shoulder when he spoke. The mail was an heirloom, rusted by the rains but meaningful to the owner “Make them row hard oar master and do it now…” his voice guttural and low from where a rock raven had once nearly torn his throat out on Dugar. “…if I am not bathing in Kings men blood by two hours passing then I’ll feed you to the Krakens, a piece at a time.”

[Dominus]

The incense that hung about the sanctuary reminded Cross of the pipe smoke that typiaclly crept around the tavern ceiling in the late nights. The pungent aromas both assaulted and assuaged his nostrils, as if unsure whether or not to be offensive in one moment or pleasant in the next. Which, in a way, fit quite well for the setting. The God's Day ceremony was both ominous and celebratory, the telling of end times and great disaster mixed in with the settling of affairs and general festivus, all set in a somber environment. Cross had many times found the sanctuary and altar of his little town to be intimidating, the bleached white old bones of the monstrosity creating a sinister atmosphere that was reinforced by the vascillating incense and ominous drum beat of the musician. The clergy in their cloaked apparel both appeared as if they could have been speaking with the God of the Underworld himself just moments before. The priests age gave him an unnatural appearance, few people lived to be as old as he these days. If illness or disease didn't take you, some predator in the depths of the ocean or the forest would. Cross wondered if the priest was older than the Kraken for a moment, before deciding he didn't want to know the answer.



As the old man took his place in front of the pulpit, Cross felt a tiny hand take his and squeeze tightly. He was seated next to his youngest cousin, a girl of only eight years with short red hair, lily-green eyes, and the sweetest disposition he imagined that could only be rivalled by the Great Mother herself. Such a nice girl, this place must still frighten her. He let her hold his hand, remembering his own fright at the first couple occassions he attended at the sanctuary. He had been told stories for many years about the horror of the creatures of the ocean, tentacled things that would tear a man in five pieces in a heart beat. Imagine his fear when he came face to face with the remains of such a thing! To know that the stories are not just stories, as his Aunt had put it, gave any child reason to not wonder into the ocean before his time. He smiled down at the girl, as the priest began his message. This particular service was pretty much a cut and dry ordeal, the real entertainment of the day would begin with the settling of arguements and singing. The arguements were occassionally fun to watch, neighbors having land disputes or whatever issue was brought forth often gave the village something to talk about, and the young adults in the crowd typically listened to pick up good arguements for the future. As for the singing...Cross had been asked to sing this year. The Priest had not mentioned any specifics, but he had not needed to mention that drinking songs would be innappropriate. Being the creative, cooperative guy he was, Cross had crafted a simple dance tune that would be pious enough to be sung in the sanctuary but lively enough to dance to. Unfortunately, this made him somewhat nervous, his heart was beating in his ears and his hands felt as if he the nerve endings had been tweaked. He squeezed his cousin's hand once more, for comfort's sake.



As the Priest continued on with his message, what seemed to be a retelling of the Star God's beginnings, Cross's mind began to wonder away from monsters and dark temple caves to the more practical things in life, like his home and weekly schedule. He had been so busy the day before reinstalling the shutters on his Uncle's home that he had forgotten to remove the hammer from his belt before he had rushed off with his family to the sanctuary. He could feel it even now, five or so pounds of wood and steel hanging from his belt like the executed criminals he had heard about from the soldiers who occassionally came. He would be needing that the day after today, Samdus Kamdell, the town blacksmith would be showing Cross how to make nails on an anvil with naught but a hammer, the molten metal and a mold set in the blacksmith's hammer. Cross was seriously considering apprenticing under the man, blacksmithing was a valuable skill to have both economically and practically. He supposed he would be decided by the end of the day today. After that he hadn't much to do save tend to the crops and fish until the night began to crawl in like a morning frost. This week he would see about the total cost of materials he would need to buy for his house as opposed to making them, and how much time it would take to finish such a thing. But all that was for another time, today he needed to focus on enjoying the day off, and maybe even attracting the eye of one of the several village girls roughly his age.

[FiroIV]

Kain was and never will be a man of worthless, merciless and fruitless anger. Even to the kings men he was never spiteful towards them then again he had never really met them personally. The only knowledge he knew about the kings men were the information that was passed down to him, but still he was not angry even after he was told of their blood soaked history. Everything about the whole ordeal was not something he cared for. He understood it, but he did not care for them. It was just something of the past and it will always remain that way, an event in which he did not take part in. The only thing that made him related to these people was that they managed to keep their blood alive through means of running away. The fact that they did run away made them repulsive to his eyes and he hated the fact that he was related to them. This act of self hate was what made him care for them less, the fact that he was related by blood to people who considered to even run away from death was just shameful and deserved no amount of pity.

Kain was distant with the other Tartarians and very people knew of him personally, but then again very few Tartarians knew of each because they were selfish in a way. They knew of his existence and the strength that he possessed and in a sense people admired him, but from afar because Kain was never with them, in both locale and mindset. The only time people approached him willingly and with action and plan was when people wanted him to join with them on an expedition towards revenge against the King's men. The man who invited him was someone who worked under Skalian. He asked and waited for a reply. Much to his surprise Kain agreed. The man didn't know why, but Kain did. It was his own reason and was not something he wanted to share, but it was also something he needed to hide. His reason was that he was bored and not much else, not that he knew of anyway.

Kain was honest with himself in a sense that he was bored. He was bored with the fact that everything around him was easy, the hunts were not thrilling the people were lousy and weak, and time stood still. He was tired of it all and the thought of being able to explore a place farther than this place was an opportunity. It opportunity was just too great to pass up and so he did not. He agreed to the offer and joined them on their revenge. He was ready to experience the things that were laid out for him. The moment that the ship sailed out of the place he knew quite well and simultaneously bored him a sense of danger and fear surrounded him. It made him proud that there was a smile on his face. The only thing that bothered him was that some people around him was defeated by the sea of storms.

The sea of storms was properly named as it was cold, rough, relentless, stubborn, and angry because it simply was. It was a great sea especially for Kain who, even though he did not know it, wanted the challenge and the obstacles. He was on board a ship full of men he barely knew and he did not care about them, only himself. The first day of their trip a ship crashed towards reefs, no one survived and he was not sad one bit because they were weak and failed at the challenges that were brought to them; much of everyone else felt the same. The following days remained the same, tough, hard and brutal. Some days they battled sea monsters of various kinds, from the sharks that lunged at them like rocks to the sea snakes that coiled on the ship until it cracked and sunk to the bottom of the cold sea. The danger was thrilling for others and Kain especially. It invigorated him and maybe it made him more proud, but the danger was too great for others and they died. There was no pity for the losers and no matter how coincidental their deaths were, they were not mourned over because failure was not something they tolerated and cared for.

[Mr Odin]

*** Nosis ***

"And so it was that the Ancient Men, those who were the beginning of us all, came to Vostaria in the days before the Age of Blood. They had survived the Great Corruption that seeped from a wound deep within Jormnthral, from within the blackest reaches of the blighted jungles covering that distant land, the Ancient Men had endured where others had perished, had crossed the great expanse of ocean, and landed upon these rocky shores." Nosis was old by any man's reckoning. He was only a few years younger than the Village Elder here in Antigall, at eighty-eight years of age Nosis was an oddity in this world. Not only was he a holy man that had settled down in the small village of Antigall, instead of a cloister or monastery, providing its people with constant guidance in matters of faith but he was past the age of sixty and still living for all intents and purposes.

Age had taken the handsome features of his youth, it was true, but his mind remained and his body was doing better than most any that was equal in years to him. Over the years he had grown near skeletal, skin pulling tight over bones that ached with the passing of time and changing of weather. His hair had turned from a full black set of curls to a few silver strands that held on to a head spotted with liver stains and folded skin. Most of his teeth had left him and the ivory replacements he had begun to show age and wear. His back was curved and his shoulders slumped with the weight of the knowledge he had accumulated over the years forcing his to lean heavily upon his cane or pulpit. It was true his body was feeble but his mind was sharp as the crack of a whip and his voice was a gift from the Gods. Even at this age Nosis Farseer had the ability to project his voice so that the whole of his village could hear him when gathered in the temple. The tone, the inflection, and the pace of his speech varied at all the right points; it lifted and fell drawing a listener in and never once did it waver. He did not have to scream, for his voice carried, with the authority of conviction to every ear that would listen. It was a gift he intended to use until the All Father took him.

With his left hand Nosis gripped the edge of his bone pulpit which was a gift build by his great ancestor Dallox Farseer. The boney fingers clutched the smooth edges of the polished bone breaking some of the colored wax pilings that then fell from the edge to the floor below. With his right hand he lifted the deep water steel braid that hung loosely around his neck free from his shoulders. Once over his head and held high the icons of the Five Star Gods clattered with the motion and shimmered in the light of hundreds of flickering candles. The purple colored sleeve of his robe slid down his arms reviling the heavy black tattooed bands that circled his feeble arm. The skin had been thinned and splotched by age, the tattoos closest to his wrist were nearly faded away, lighter then the spots of liver stained skin but the bands above his elbow were darker and fresher, each band recognized five years in service to the Star Gods, anyone in the Temple could see that Nosis had fourteen bands around his arms, they filled his arm wrist to shoulder. "It is these kinds of beings that we are descendants of!" His voice was rising in an epic manner, coming to the conclusion of this tale. " We are all the blood, bone, and being of the Gods! We are their children! It is for this reason that to sin against your fellow man, to sin against your family, your friends is an affront to the Gods... a sin against the Gods!" Nosis jammed his fist holding the braided metal and icons into the air to emphasize his point. "We are the children of Gods and to harm each other... is to harm those that gave us life." His voice fell at the last part, it returned to a grandfatherly tone, a tone that implored the people of Antigall not to do such things. Before he spoke again he mustered all the effort he could and tossed the icons to the floor in the center of the room. The braid clanged loudly skidding to a halt short of the circular fire pit that smoldered in the center of the temple. When Nosis spoke again it was as if he addressed each and every member of the Village, as if the All Father himself had taken Nosis's voice to carry his message.

"People of Antigall, this not our first Gods Day together. We all must have the strength to do what comes next, as the Five Gods had the strength to face their trails. Who will be the first to take up the icons and confess sins against your fellows? The sins you visit upon yourselves, the doubt, jealousy, and rage may be atoned for with a sacrifice to the spirit fire... an offering to burn." Nosis took up his cane and shuffled down from the alter and stood amongst the people motioning to the spirit hearth at the entrance to the temple. "But those wrongs committed against those of the village by another must be confessed in the open. All must hear of these acts and all wronged will be granted their rights while those that have wronged will have forgiveness before the temple doors upon tonight." The priest's tone brooked no argument and as a heaviness filled the room a young girl was the first to rise, bend a knee before the priest and lift the braided metal around her neck.

*** Skalian ***

The oar master had done well. The fleet of four ships moved along the horizon just as the sun was fading and the Father moon began filling the sky. Skalian knew that Lord Tartarian watched him from that moon, alongside the All Father who had granted their Scion the power of Godhood to enact justice upon the King's men. The fact that any of them had survived the Sea of Storms when for generations it had kept them locked away was a sign of their Gods favor. The boiled leather armor creaked and groaned as Skalian rolled his shoulders and dipped his head in a nod to the Father Moon and to Lord Tartarian.

" Pious twit."

Skalian's back tensed when he heard the voice from behind him utter the rebuke not because he feared the owner of the voice, Skalian feared no man, but because he regretted how this would end and held himself back from enacting justice too quickly. He turned slowly the manticore mane cloak pooling around his feet as he turned, the seal leather gloves flexed but did not reach for any one of the six bone knives he had around his waist. Skalian looked his heckler in the eye; it was a man of a size with Skalian though his boxy jaw and mashed nose spoke to him fighting men much bigger. His name was Lorcall, Lorcall Heavy foot... it was said he never ran but stood his ground as if his feet were encased in stone, never yielding to any beast from Dugar that Lorcall caught stalking him. Stories said that he once stood for two days exposed to storms when he found he was being hunted by a Fire Monitor. For two days the giant lizard and Lorcall faced off, the lizard unwilling to commit to striking and Lorcall unwilling to be hunted like prey. On the second day the creature lost its patience and struck at Lorcall and, as the story is told, without yielding the ground where he stood he cut the beast from neck to groin. Skalian was unsure of the whole truth of the story but it was at least partially true, Lorcall wore a cloak of scales from a Fire Monitor.

Skalian spoke to the antagonist, his voice rumbling through the scar tissue around his neck. "You say the words as an insult Lorcall? Why would it be that a man as... unyielding as you would doubt the favor shown to us by Lord Tartarian?" Skalian kept the distance between them but began to walk a slow circle around him, Lorcall turned on the spot to always face Skalian his face twisting as he spoke. "Where was the great Lord Tartarian for our brothers on the eight other ships that set out with us? Where was this watchful Scion then? If he wanted us to enact vengeance on the King's men why kill off three quarters of our men before we even see the old lands? This is not Lord Tartarian's cause. This is your cause; you are a zealot of a madman leading us to our deaths."

By this time Skalian had lead Lorcall's attention a full one hundred and eighty degrees from where they had started. Skalian and Lorcall stood facing each other, each looking as if a moments breath was all that stood between all out violence. Suddenly, Skalian relaxed and Lorcall sagged under the heavy pressure of two giant gray fleshed hands that gripped his shoulders like a vice. Lorcall's teeth clamped together to stifle a cry as thick strong fingers dug into the joints of his shoulders, the man in the Fire Monitor cloak dropped to a knee while the oar master manipulated the sockets of his shoulders like a normal man tears a chicken drumstick from a thigh. Skalian walked towards the kneeling Lorcall and motioned towards two other sailors "Get a grog cup and a rope. Tie one end around Lorcall's shoulders; give the free end to our good oar master here and bring the grog cup to me."

Once he had be given the grog cup and the rope was around Lorcall, Skalian knelt down in front of the man and the knife was out in an instant, buried to the hilt in Lorcall's belly... a slow bleeding wound. Skalian withdrew the knife and pushed the grog cup under the wound against Lorcall's stomach, the blood was black and the smell was foul, Skalian knew he had cut Lorcall's guts open inside. When the grog cup was a quarter full, Skalian stood, walked to the railing, and poured the blood out, dropping the cup and knife into the ocean as well. In the minute it took the oar master to drag the kicking Lorcall to the rails edge a number of bladed fins and begun to churn the water around the spreading pool of blood. Skalian looked up to the oar master who was getting ready to heave Lorcall over the edge and into the water, the Tartarian fleet Captain smiled at the big brute as he tossed Lorcall into the churning water while keeping a tight hold on the loose end of the rope.

"Enjoy the fishing Oar Master, you have earned a spot of fun but when you are done I want you to ensure that no one else would have a mind to question Lord Tartarian's will." The Oar Master smiled a twisted smile and nodded while the rope shook violently in his hands, the sounds of splashing water and snapping jaws hardly loud enough to drown out Lorcall's screams.

*** Aella ***

She was the first to stand this year the weight of her guilt no longer able to keep her down or silent. For too long she had felt the betrayer and though she knew her confession would bring pain to a family, and in particular to a favored son of that family, she could not remain silent. If she did then there would be no turning back tonight. As she knelt before the priest and lifted the braided metal chord around her neck she thought of how she would say this.

Aella was among one of the more beautiful girls in the village depending on what the beholder considered beautiful. Xera, her cousin, was more athletic and tomboyish but still pretty, Jala had the most beautiful voice among the young girls of the village and was the best at housework, and many said that Aella would make the best mother. She was young still, having yet to see her second decade though that time would soon come. Her hair was black and unlike most in her family straight as the surface of a calm sea, she kept it longer and bound it up in braids and designs she took great pride in. Her face was attractive, kind green eyes, a nose that sat at just the right point and lips that were the conversation of many a drunken young man. Her body was strong because she refused to be confined to just house work. She had learned to not only grow gardens but to tend crops as she grew up. Her father, having no sons, doted on her as she had grown and she had learned all of his skills along with her mother's skills. The old women of the village always commented that the size and shape of Aella's hips and breasts meant she would birth and raise strong children while they bemoaned her callused hands and dirty clothing. The men of the village, while not immune to her physical features, talked much of her ability to tend a flock, repair any part of a home, harvest crops, and some even said she could trap, fish, and hunt as well. Her beauty was not only in her physical features but in the rugged aura of confidence and self reliance she maintained while still acting as a second mother to her younger sisters.

Today the village as a whole had to hold back a gasp as she was the first before the priest, the first to confess her sin. As she stood and faced the villagers Nosis laid a light hand on her shoulder giving it a reassuring squeeze before returning his hand to his staff. Aella turned and found the Vidalla family huddled around their patron, the only man older then Nosis, and the Village Elder. Closest to his side was the Elder's great grandson Barsus Vidalla it was no secret that Aella and Barsus had been hand fasted at last year's God's Day, they were to be married this God's Day. Aella knelt a few feet from where the Vidalla family was gathering and looked to Barsus, tears coming to her face though she kept from sobbing or openly weeping.

"You are a good man Barsus Vidalla but I have sinned against you by lying. I have not betrayed you with flesh but with thought and heart. I do not love you as I once did and cannot be married to you tonight."

The pandemonium that erupted was greater than any that had swept the temple during any recent God's Day in memory. The Malton Family rose to the defense of their daughter Aella, the Vidalla family began shouting and hurling accusations to which the Malton's responded in kind. The temple began to segregate into two sides leaving Aella and her father in the center as the priest tried to rein both sides into calmer conversation.

[Sev]

A calm wind brought the scent of the ocean into the port of the town of Antigall. A fishing vessel slowly floated in, the waves gently lapping against its hull. The ship was owned by Virgil Merys, fisherman and father of five. On board with him were his four sons. The two eldest, both in their twenties, went about readying the boat and its contents for their arrival with ease. They had been at this for years and were experienced enough to go about their duties without their father's assistance. The third oldest, Eli, sat with his back against the mast and his nose in a book. He was a capable sailor, but wasn't needed at the moment. He wasn't really up to it at the moment either. They had been at sea for a few weeks, and he was looking forward to dry land again. He loved the ocean, but could only handle so much of it. The youngest son tried to help, but often got in the way. This was his first real voyage and despite its success, he still had much to learn.

The sun was quickly slipping below the horizon and it would be dark soon. It was the day before the Gods Day celebration and they had arrived just in time. Eli had feared they would miss it. As the ship pulled into port, Eli could see his sister and mother on the dock waiting for them. They must have seen the vessel coming in. After the boat was properly docked, Eli grabbed a basket full of fish and climbed up onto the dock. He carried the basket until he met his sister and placed it down. The basket barely hit the ground before she embraced him. The two were very close. After an exchange of happy greetings, the women went back to the house while the boys went about unloading the ship. It took awhile, but they had finally finished everything.

Their bounty couldn't have come at a better time. They had managed to kill a decent sized whale that would contribute greatly to the feast tomorrow. They also had a large haul of fish that they had caught as well. The fish would be used more so for the family, but some would be eaten tomorrow. Eli always looked forward to the Gods Day celebration, as did most villagers. It was a happy and exciting time. After the ceremony in the temple, of course. One thing he wasn't looking forward to, however, was his sister's wedding. She was to be given away to her betrothed tomorrow. He could hardly believe it. He was happy for her, but he didn't want her to leave. He felt like he was losing her.

The next day, the whole family made their way to the temple for the ceremony. The temple was a familiar place to Eli. It was were he learned and where he got the books he read so often. Although he had finished all of the interesting books in the small collection, he still liked to reread them. It kept his mind busy, which was something he needed very despretely. His life in the village wasn't exactly the most exciting tale. A lot of fishing and thinking. That was about it.

The family took their seats and the ceremony began shortly after. It was the same thing as the years before. As soon as the old priest began to speak, Eli's mind began to wander. At first he opened his current book, a small one with a tattered brown cover, and read from it. Its faded words described various far off places that had Eli dreaming of travel. The book described exotic places Eli could hardly imagine. From the Whistling Sands to the Spendrix Mountains. His reading was cut short by a quick jab from the elbow of his eldest brother. Eli assumed he meant it was disrespectful to be reading during the ceremony. Eli only partially agreed. Still, he closed the book and placed it down next to him.

Unable to read, Eli moved his eyes towards a window and peered out of it. The morning sun glowed through, preventing the temple from becoming dark and musty. Eli had heard the story the priest spoke of so often. He began to think back to other Gods Day celebrations. When he was younger the stories of the Gods used to be so exciting. He would look forward to the sermon and would take in every word the priest said. That excitement had faded over the years, but atleast he could still look forward to the feast afterward.

The sudden argument broke Eli from his thoughts. At first he was confused, but it didn't take long for him to be able to gather the details of what was happening. As the crowd began to choose sides, Eli and his family moved towards the side in favor of Aella and her family. The Merys were closer to the Maltons, and considering the position of Eli's sister at the moment, were sympathetic towards Aella. None of them spoke up, but they had chosen their side.

[Dominus]

"You are a good man Barsus Vidalla but I have sinned against you by lying. I have not betrayed you with flesh but with thought and heart. I do not love you as I once did and cannot be married to you tonight."

Cross was quite surprised. There weren't many good reasons for one to renege on a hand-fasting. the girl was often not hand-fasted again for awhile, after all, who would trust their heart and dowry in the hands of an untrustworthy woman? Besides, it created, without fail, a half-years worth of gossip and drama, and it would not be surprising if the Vidalla's held a grudge against the Malton's for quite some time. What was more, the girl in question was Aelia Malton, a strong lass with a down-to-earth reputation and a comeliness that he had often heard of in the inn. Many young men had yearned for her, whether sober or piss drunk one could hardly tell. while not quite as openly, he himself may or may not have uttered a line of prose about the lass's beauty. something about the whole affair seemed familiar though...he never paid his cousin's chatter any mind, but this announcement caused him to recall a conversation they had been having as he came in from the boats.

"...but have you ever watched them in public? They look just fine!" His youngest cousin had said, fussing with a paper doll she was playing with, a fragile thing with auburn horse hair locks, green shell eyes, and stitches in the shape of a smile. One of the girl's older sisters had been croqueting an oven mitt at the table beside her.
"Aye, of course I have. But that's in public!" She said with a sly grin, tapping one of her needles on the table. "I heard from your little brown haired friend, who heard from Xera, who was visiting at the same time as Barsus, and while she was snooping around a bit, that in private company they appear almost as if acquaintances, worn out their welcome. Aelia appeared stiff and formal, like a confessor talking to Father Nosis! imagine that...The child held up her doll in front of her mouth, trying to conceal her quiet laughter. They had then greeted him and the memory faded.

That was right...it seemed rumor did indeed have it, for once. Before Cross's eyes the temple parted before him, like the wake behind a Leviathan parted the sea. Both sides surrounded Aelia, and her father, waging a vocal battle that, had it been fought with arms rather than insults, surely would have seen no survivors. Some faces were contorted in anger into sweaty masks that could have been the hallucinations of a drunkard, right before falling into the black stupor that accompanied drink. veins popped, teeth gnashed, arrows of pent up anger and suspicion let loose, crisscrossing the air. He realized his Uncle's family had mostly gone to the aid of the Malton's, save his youngest. He felt his little cousin tugging at his hand, trying to pull him to the rest of his family and the Malton's side of the room. He looked around once more before conceding. He let her guide him to the proper side of the room, but only just. He stood his ground on the outskirts of the crowd, near the ivory color bones.

On the matter at hand, he felt divided. He felt for Barsus, in a way. To lose the thing that makes you smile in the morning and throughout the day must be heart-rending. To find that the trust and love had been built on lies and half-truths...it was inconceivable. But that said, his soul resonated with Aelia's. A premier belief in the God's eyes was the importance of marriage. To join another in matrimony that you did not love would be a torturous existence, every service and duty would be a stinging reminder of unenthusiastic passion, if it be called so. It would be courting temptation, and the only end result would be embarrassment and ruin for the family. In addition his emotional divides, one must also consider the divine. Breaking oaths was an affront to the All Father, an insult. But to lie on a matter like love and family was surely an equal insult to the Great Mother. In this debate, he felt that Kreig held the most important card here, barring some convincing argument from either side, or Father Nosis. Cross noticed the tears upon Aelia's face, and prayed that the uproar might die down enough for such a statement might be made, and soon.

[FiroIV]

Kain did not know Loracall on a personal level, actually he didn’t know anyone personally since he never really didn’t bother with anyone else the only people he knew of were the ones that achieved fame and infamy and people like Lorcall had certain accomplishments. He admired few people, but the man was different from other people. Lorcall had a sense of regality and wisdom that not many other Tartarian possessed, but these were not the qualities that Kain saw in him. It was his grand achievements that made him see him in a light brighter than the other pathetic, lowlife, and weak willed men. Only fools were unable to see such talents and Kain was no fool. He was different from others because he saw them from a higher and more powerful pedestal. It was a shame that Lorcall was in the state that he was though.


Whatever reason it was that caused Lorcall to suffer was not Kaine’s business, he was curious though because what kind of man would choose to murder someone who possessed probably greatness. He wanted to know what feeble, justifiable and probable idiotic reason made any person cause such animosity, unless Lorcall did something that brought shame to himself.


“What a waste of talent and skill.” He breathed out his words. “Now he is just as pathetic and helpless as insect.” He watched the man's body thrash around the sea as his body was being eaten by the dangers that they had to face. In Kain's eyes he was an insect that needed to be stepped on.


Kain did hold him in a brighter light, emphasis on the 'did'. The moment he was thrown aboard, hurt and quite possibly dying through physical pain and embarrassment in his current state Lorcall was now an object of pity in his eyes. A pathetic man that deserved to die to shave off the humiliation that his own weakness brought upon him, but then again his own suffering is his death.


The only thing that bothered him to a certain extent was the "who" aspect of all of this. From what he saw it was that ships oar master who now tortured the fallen man, but who would actually do such an act of bloodshed, pain and disgrace. It was possible that it was Skalian the man, who organized all of this, but from what Kain knew about him he had too much pride to step down from his own self righteousness to do something so hands on as murder, but then again he didn't know the man only of his deeds. He may not know what he looked like, but surely a man with such skills should have a certain form of grace. If he had done this, he would have just slit Lorcalls throat or severed his head and then threw his body off the ship, it would have been cleaner and took less effort.

[DotCom]

For the third year in a row, Lyra was late in attendance at the God's Day ceremony.

Oh, she never missed much. She was much too savvy for that. She knew better than to appear outright blasphemous, though the death of her brother thirteen years ago had long since sealed a cold truth in her heart: The Five were dead or indifferent. What man, let alone a god, let a child drown while his young sister stood by, shocked and screaming?

The realization was not without personal gift, but then, Lyra did not claim herself a god.

She had been, that morning, at the house of a neighbor, tending to a pregnant mare, whose foal was promised within the fortnight. The family had allowed Lyra to name the thing, due to her help with the pregnancy, and Lyra had hence been keeping a list for fillies and colts alike. Wick, Cross, Raven, Storm, Meadow, Viola. Alden.

She recited each name with care as she ran to the priest's temple. She was no more than a minute later, but her mother would have her hide nonetheless. Lyra made a face. Moira Oakhart was rather...particular like that, and while Lyra made every effort (or nearly every effort) to heal a wound nearly fifteen years old, there was not much to be done. Her mother would fight it tooth and nail, but it was undeniable: Lyra's signature stubbornness was maternal in origin.

Having reached the temple, she slowed, tried (and failed) to brush the mud and horse hair from her skirts--her most loathed item of clothing, but Mother would not allow her to appear in the temple otherwise--and entered quietly.

Her parents were easy to find, if only by virtue of her Mother's icy glare, peering at her over the heads of praying villagers. Lyra stifled one of her charmingly brilliant smiles and stared at her feet as she sidled to her mother. Funny how so devout a woman could be interrupted from her prayers only by the late arrival of her child.

Lyra was just celebrating her own ability to enter the survice unnoticed when a girl knelt on the priest at the center of the aisle, began to speak. Lyra hardly heard the girl's word, as she was trying to place her.

"Xera!" she muttered suddenly. The girl was Xera's cousin, and while she and this girl--Aella, Lyra thought--had never been close, Lyra and Xera had always bonded over a mutual distaste for most things overtly feminine. Before she could go any further, though, the temple had erupted into relative chaos. People were shouting, and Aella was teary, and there was an actual, physical rift. It didn't take long to divine what the dividing factor was. Seeing it was only Aella and her father left in the center, Lyra quickly chose a side, though she hated being forced into such things.

She'd also never seen much value behind marriage. A ceremony, a dowry, and then a life of confinement, all made unbearable if you did not loved the person you'd been...fasted to.

Lyra busied herself with Aella's family, absently plucking at hairs on her skirts and avoiding the argument...until, of course, she looked up to see her mother's haughty glare from the other end of the chapel. Lyra rolled her eyes. Of course her mother--and her father by extension--would be for forcing the girl into something she didn't want to do. Moira had seemed to almost hate disobedient girls since the death of her son.

Sometimes, Lyra suspected her mother blamed her for her twin's death.

[Rulaan]

Dark shapes rose in the horizon, like a single row of teeth that jutted from the earth the way a shadowcat’s fangs pierced through flesh. Tiny glimmers of light were scattered across the encroaching darkness, giving it the appearance of a starry night sky. The sight made Vralgon’s lip curve slightly upwards, his lips bleeding at the sudden movement. Even with one eye, the Ravenslayer was permitted to admire. He drank the sight of land with a grim kind of happiness; a survivor’s happiness.

And a survivor he was. The voyage from Dugar was long and treacherous. As the small fleet made its way across the Sea of Storms, volatile waters threw them from wave to wave as foamy black water smashed against the ships. As the sea danced, so did the ships, and on many occasions Vralgon thought that the ship would sink or he’d be thrown overboard. Storms were common in Dugar, but on the Sea of Storms, the thunder roared like some hellish beast and lightning streaked the sky as if the Father himself was at war with Kyakos. Rain fell in black sheets, hard and heavy, daggers that stung as they assaulted your skin. Vralgon spent much of his time with his head in a pail, his stomach as violent as the sea. He refused to do so overboard, for fear of falling in. And there was what lurked beneath. “Krakens,” explained Mordan the Claw as the two stood watching one of the longships as it fell into the embrace of a kraken. “Wouldn’t dare so much as spit into this fucking sea. Like to be tangled up by one of ‘em and dragged deep into the watery hells of Kyakos.” That much was true. They lost four ships to the demons of the sea, each one consumed by a tempest of wind, rain and tentacles. When Vralgon watched the sea, he could see shadows shift and dance beneath the tides, and the memory of his kin screaming through the night was enough to make Vralgon retch again into his pail.

The past few days were better. King’s waters, Ironhand called them. The ocean here was often placid and cool. The voracious winds around Dugar became wisps of air that gave a mother’s kiss and not a slaver’s whip. Rain became rarer as they continued, and the cloudless days made the water appear translucent. Vralgon spent much of his time watching it, this field of light blue, and the sky above. The sun was the pinnacle of his journey though. When it rose and fell, the sky faded into a myriad of colours that Vralgon couldn’t believe existed. To him, they were the colours of the Great Green. Kyakos does not bully these waters he thought to himself, the bitterness he felt slowly angering him.

“Pious twit.”

He heard the words and turned to the source. Vralgon often vocalised his musings on the gods, though the insult was not directed at him, but at Ironhand. He watched as the confrontation unfolded, as the Oarmaster grabbed Lorcall, and Skallian Ironhand’s blade plunged into his belly. In the sea below, where Lorcall was laid to rest, red stained the blue and the waters churned. The sight made Vralgon sick. Sickness had become him on this voyage. Whatever he ate, it would leave him an hour after. Even after vomiting, Vralgon felt neither empty nor full, but low and depressed. His stomach coiled and shivered, making the Ravenslayer uneasy. It was the same feeling he felt when they first departed, the feeling of a dagger twisting in his belly. It was the voyage that did it to him. Shadowcats and manticores could not compare to the four weeks at sea. The rock raven who gave him his name, the risk of mistaking a mushroom, the sleepless nights and dull greys days, all of that paled when compared to the fleet and the sea and the monsters that stalked them.

And then there were the king’s lands that awaited them. Dark and brooding they appeared, all black and blue and purple. Even the darkness is beautiful here. He watched with his cool, icy eye as the shapes took form, and the lights began to shimmer and sway. He took in a deep, salty breath, and felt his stomach tighten.

For once in his life, Vralgon Ravenslayer was truly afraid.

[Mr Odin]

*** Skalian ***

Lorcall had been a strong man and Skalian was hit by a pang of feeling that was not regret but trepidation, he could ill afford to lose strong men at this point in the journey. The Tartarians had lost so many already. The Krakens had ripped men apart before their shipmates eyes, storms had drowned men that those still living had known their whole lives, and even disease had begun to take a toll. However, he could also ill afford anyone openly insulting him or Lord Tartarian before the crew, with men stretched thin by the four weeks at sea, he had the feeling usurpation of his leadership was a real threat and nothing would deny Skalian the right to bring Tartarian fury to the King’s men. While Skalian wrestled with his thoughts the oar master finished his fishing and dragged an empty frayed knot of rope back aboard the ship, casting it aside, and descending the narrow steps onto the oar deck to return to his duties. Skalian moved towards the aft of the ship, men moving aside as he walked. The lands of the Kings men were before them, all they were waiting for was the tide and nightfall in order to beach the ships at high tide, sack the small village they had come across for supplies, and then be out with the tide. Skalian came across Vralgon, a man he knew from Dugar as capable and driven, even if the trip had proven his stomach less than capable of a long sea voyage.

Skalian approached Vralgon and spoke to him quietly, out of earshot from the other crew men, resting the mailed hand across Vralgon’s shoulder. Skalian’s voice, as ever, seemed to rumble and struggle to get through the scar tissue that wrapped his neck.

“Nasty bit of business back there with Lorcall, but I know you understand.” He said not waiting for any kind of conformation. “This close to our goal we can ill afford dissension.”

Skalian squeezed Vralgon’s shoulder as an affirmation and then removed his hand, looking out over the starboard railing to the jagged cliffs of the shore. Skalian noticed that no form of warning seemed to be going out, no bells rang and no fires were lit. Skalian saw this as a sign that they would be falling on their prey unexpected tonight, after all, how could anyone expect the Tartarians after 1,000 years had passed.

The oar master could be heard bellowing below. The oars of Skalian’s ship slid from inside the hull and dipped into the water, a heavy pull setting the ship into motion. A moment later the other ships that still remained as a part of the Tartarian fleet all dipped oar and began to fall in around Skalian’s ship. Sails were drawn and stowed in order to make the ships smaller on the horizon though it appeared that there would be no chance of any signal going out before the Tartarians reached shore. At the rate the oars were pulling them it would only be a matter of an hour to ride the tide in while rowing. Once beached the men would pour off the ships and lay waste to the village above, taking whatever they so desired in the way of food, coin, women, or valuables. A smile spread across Skalian’s face as the ships plowed closer to the shore with each pull of the oars, with each beat of the oar masters drum.

“I hope you are prepared Vralgon, tonight will be historic… a day to make the God’s take notice. The King’s men in that village will have wished tonight's setting sun had burned the eyes from their skulls when they see the horror we intend to visit upon them.” Skalian’s hands gripped the railing so tightly that the wood creaked and groaned under the pressure.

“Our whole lives we have been punished for crimes, if that is what they were, that were committed a millennium ago. Tonight we even the scales.”

*** Nosis ***

Before the old priest could manage the chaos the temple’s patrons had split into two factions, as they often did when it came to these matters. Shouts rang out and accusations from all families were hurled at opposing families. Nosis stood back for a moment taking the scene in, although it appeared to be only between two families, in fact only two people, it seemed the entire town was trying to have a say in the matter. The rumor mill had been grinding the grits of this story for a long, long time. Before long the girl, Aella, was in tears and the boy, Barsus stood in mute dumb shock, immune to the yelling that was going on around him. Nosis had had enough.

Walking between the two factions the old man with all his might cracked his driftwood cane upon the floor and shouted with a fury that did not seem proportional to his stature. “Quiet! All of you!”

The crowds manic shouting died down in that very instant and even muted grumbles were hushed with a look from Nosis that could have melted the stuff of souls. “This young woman has confessed what she feels is a sin to a man whose feelings may still remain important to her.” He said, his voice calming to that of a wizened priest. He stepped to Aella and lifted the girl from her knees and nodded to her father. “She has brought a sin forth, she must stand alone.” The man reluctantly stepped back, if any other man than Nosis had asked he may have struck him. Nosis looked the young girl in the eyes and gave a gentle grandfatherly smile. “This is a matter for you and Barsus, you have confessed to all and satisfied the Gods in this manner but now you must find forgiveness.” Nosis looked over his shoulder to Barsus and motioned for him to leave his grandfathers side and come to him. The boy complied.

"Barsus, I do not doubt that this matter troubles your young heart but you must decide what sin is worse to commit against you and your family. The breaking of a hand fasting or the lie this young woman would have told you her whole life if she married you without having any love for you.” The boy took in the preacher’s words with a stoic face, the hallmark of his family and nodded to the preacher. Nosis stepped back and took both by the shoulders standing between them as he addressed the temple gathering.

“These two will retire to my study away from your insults and accusations to discuss the implications of young Aella’s confession. Maybe there, away from those of you that would shout rumors, they can get to the bottom of this and come to forgiveness.” Nosis lead the two back behind the alter and to his study. Telling Aella that she was a brave woman for making her stand and admonishing Barsus to consider the weight of a lifetime spent in a lie.

*** The Temple ***

As Nosis returned after leading the two back to his study the confessions continued, some villagers seeking forgiveness for the ugly insults hurled not two minutes ago. The ceremony of it carried on for hours but as the minutes past the confessions became simpler, less severe, and light hearted. The forgiveness came easier as time passed and soon a joyous mood had once again filled the temple. Soon after the confessions were completed and most people were milling about, Aella and Barsus returned from the study. It was apparent that both had wept much but they came out hand in hand and Barsus lead Aella to the alter before all the villagers gathered and spoke in the clear assured voice that his grandfather had once spoken with.

“Aella is an honest woman…” The phrase had multiple meanings to be understood from it. “…and I have no cause to doubt her claim of loyalty to me during our hand fasting.” There was no sound from the crowd as Barsus spoke and he continued fluidly.

“She has done what her heart has commanded; though I love her dearly I cannot be the kind of man that takes a woman as a wife that does not love me as I love her.” Barsus placed her hand on the alter and patted it one last time affectionately. “She owes me nothing less than the friendship she has already given me; she is forgiven any wrong, real or perceived against my family or myself.”

Some of Barsus’s family looked as if they were going to speak but it was the young man’s vehement look and not Nosis’s that made their words catch in their throats. It seemed young Barsus was coming into his own as an honorable man and head of the Vidalla family. Quietly he left Aella and took his place with his family. Aella stayed clinging to the alter until Nosis motioned for her father to come collect her, she fell in the older man’s heavy arms as if exhausted but relieved. With that Nosis took center stage once more. The candles were all but sputtering out, the braziers had long since gone cold, and the musicians had gone quiet. With a final look across the assembled mass Nosis asked.

“Be there anymore confessions to come before the Gods.” None answered. “Then let the summer begin with clean hearts and peaceful souls and may the Gods delight in what they see in Antigall.” Everyone stood still for a moment, as if they had not done this every year their entire lives, as if unsure it was okay to leave now. Nosis rolled his shoulders back and looked at everyone with a perplexed look.

“Confound you people get out there, the festivities await us.” Nosis began shooing them like a man herding cats.