Ibel let out a tired sigh as his trembling hands fell from the shoulders of another petitioner. It had been months since he'd first arrived here in the freehold, yet in that time he had been anything but lazy. As a matter of fact he had been quite busy performing the work of his lord by taking the burdens of those around him onto himself, though he hadn't expected it to go quite like this. Things started out small as they so often did. A few people reconnected here and some quarrels resolved there, nothing too noticeable. But, despite his best efforts to maintain a relatively low profile, word of his gift had quickly begun to spread and so to did the problems with which he was faced. Jilted lovers wanting to leave the bitter sting of betrayal behind, veterans who wished to forget the horrific brutality of war, and even some of the more illicit members of the small Toraan community who wished to have all record of their illegal deeds erased from public view, all had come to him with issues only his master could solve. And while he was glad for their willingness, he was beginning to question the toll it was starting to take on his sanity.

He could still see the memories after all, relive every minute second of them until the day of the gods return, and could do nothing but languish beneath their weight. Yet he had known this from his very first day here had he not? It was his burden to bear, that much his lord had made clear, but he'd be damned if it wasn't a difficult one. Stretching somewhat, Ibel turned his gaze upwards to look for his next petitioner, only to heave a huge sigh of relief when his eyes were met with an empty square, the townsfolk who so often frequented it having packed up for the day. Leaping down from the crate upon which he was perched, Ibel let out a lengthy groan as he raised his arms up to the sky, his back popping pleasantly. Doing his best to stifle a yawn, the man stumbled back to the inn and up the stairs that led to his room, forgoing the need to pay. He'd already done more than enough for the freehold as it was and that bought him quite a bit of influence, unintentional as it might have been. Bracing himself against the door as he shoved it open, his body crying out in exhaustion and pain, Ibel made it about three steps in before collapsing into a motionless heap on the floor his mind quickly falling into the realm of dreams.

And all the while Viris watched, the thinnest ghost of a smile cutting its way across his nonexistent face...

All according to plan...

It wriggled.

It had wriggled often. It was, in fact, one of its most common and favorite pastimes. Though the dark depths of its slumber were cold and cramped they had been more than enough for the immeasurable deity. And so the massive, tentacled entity wriggled. For uncountable amounts of time it had done so, drifting aimlessly in the depths-that-was-not-water, lost in itself. There was an emptiness in that pool but, as vast as that dark crag was, the creature seemed enough to fill it. It had, of course, enjoyed more spacious accommodations when it had first awoken in that dark abyss; as time went on, the abyss seemed to shrink and the thing within only grew.

Now the dark depths that served as its abode were not enough to drift in, a small puddle compared to the ever expanding form that resided in it. To the lidless, staring eyes of the enormous bulk the stygian embrace of the deep place seemed eternally timeless; somewhere in its forgotten minds the creature recognized that it was, itself, the creator of its watery domain. It had spawned that abyss, for the abyss, to reside in the abyss. A contemplative thought that the immense tentacled thing had struggled with in its forgotten age but became an ever more thought on subject as it lost itself in its many minds. Now, as it dwarfed the abyss and its numerous eyes began to perceive the realm of its own creation, the creature once more ruminated.

It, as the endless Old-Growth-Below had come to realize for the second time in its life, was Klaarungraxus.

All half-dozen orbs that served as eyes for the Deity of the Deep rolled in their sockets, finding common cause and a singular interest. They focused on the tentacles floating before them, twelve perfect limbs that grasped at the pseudo-ruins that marked the center of his watery realm. This was Saxus, that much was certain, or so his many-minds explained. It felt as if it had been eons since he had looked upon it, despite his immensity having been spread out across its hallowed and buttressed walls. Now under complete control of the primary-mind, eyes peered outward into the comparative darkness of the shadowy depths.

“What year is it?”

A dozen voices chimed inside the primary-mind of the great, vast bulk that was Klaar. The question was a simple one, a recognition that time must have passed. In mere moments Klaar devoured the information provided by his subminds, flooding his sentience with recognition that time had passed. Each, of course, provided different answers. How troublesome.

An awareness of two separate minds entered the Great Fish’ mind, distant and nearly separate. After moments passed they pinged back awareness, as if waking up to the hive mind of their own. Two separate minds, almost unique but not quite reaching individuality, had been in pseudo-stasis on the other side of the worldly realm. The ping clicked back with names, separate designations for each; Mawar and Tewaka. They once had the designation of limbs, Left-Forward Two-Down to name one of the pair. They had been active for some time after loss of overall sentience from the whole but had, eventually, lost power. With connection to Klaarungraxus reengaged, the two demigods awoke once more. The flush of knowledge and memories from those distant sources confirmed Klaar’s fears; he’d slept awhile.

“Unfortunate tidings and red tides bear rotten wood,” rumbled Klaar, his alien “voice” vibrating the water around him into a roiling tide, “Much time has been lost and here I am, sleeping…”

For the first time in decades, perhaps even centuries within the depths of Saxus, the Old-Growth-Below moved. Seaweed and coral, lichen and barnacles, and entire colonies of life shook and shuddered upon his mighty hide. In every way Klaarungraxus appeared a true deity of the sea. Saxus had shrunk in his mind’s absence, thought the vast god of life, rolling through the tunnels and passages of his realm while he mused. Or, rather, he had gotten larger. Leaving the seemingly ancient structures at the heart of his undersea realm, Klaar hunted for the edges of his realm, where the eternal darkness of the deepest void overtook what little light he provided. There Klaar could reach into the world.

His mighty tendrils reached into the emptiness, losing solidity and mixing his mind with the very matter of reality. From there he could observe what had become of the world. Six heavy, glowing eyes sank into their sockets, half-blinking with the puckered flesh of his thick hide. As they peered inwards, turning around on themselves, Klaar stared into the void and reality stared back through the other side.

Much had changed, that much was certain. The Gods had not remained idle while he slept, making his disappearance and quieting from the world unique. The sound of a million separate prayers cycled into his mind, in voices and tones he never heard before. Mortal voices, not those of his chosen Vrool or their drowned kin. A million more joined them, the voices of Akua and Vrool who prayed to their creator-god, asking for boons or for love or for riches. Oh, they were perfect! Most of all, he heard the voices of his beloved warlocks; while he slept they had not stopped in their works. Now that was thoroughly pleasing news. Then, in a breathless instant, the apple of his many eyes appeared; the One-Good-Orb still hung in the sky.

“Perfect.”

All was right with the world, though the surface had become most full. Even the oceans now seemed alive with life not meant for its surface or below. The All-Sire could not disdain them this pleasure, of course; who wouldn’t wish to enjoy his great seas? The oceans teemed with life and fed the creatures both above and below. This was a success. The mortal creatures had forged for themselves the means to travel upon the surface of the sea, bringing goods and treasures to be kindly given to his numerous spawn. Surely, this could only be good.

“Ah! Such wonders and marvels,” howled the Creature-God, a scree of both glee and rage, “Thou hath missed much, beloved self! We must address such loss accordingly.”

The tentacles-that-weren’t-tentacles that made up his mind drew inwards, expanding their minds into the meat-puppets that served as his avatars. In mere moments all sense of self disappeared in the creatures, temporarily wiped of thought and turned into welcoming vessels for a far vaster intelligence. Klaar rumbled in the depths of Saxus as he felt the waters of reality once more wash across him, his beloved sea with the light of that thankless orb echoing into the deep. Oh, how he missed the great expanse of his magnum opus; one day he would feel it on his own hide again, this he promised. With that Klaar turned twelve eyes outwards, two dozen tentacles churning the oceans of Galbar with passion and drive.

There was much to see...

“What’s that?!” Rima-Tinrur froze mid-air, her feathers rustling in the warm desert breeze even so high up. She gazed, wide-eyed, across the great barren expanses to the far-off hint of blue.

“The sea.” The kayhin sang as he levitated near her with a wind song.

“I... I think I’ve heard echoes of its song before. Water as far as the eye can see.” The witch’s eyes sparkled as she looked at the old man, her spirit echoing memories of nights spent on mountain peaks watching the stars and listening to the distant, eerie whale song of the waters. “Can we go there?” She breathed; eyes wide. Her excitement was contagious — but it seemed to cascade about the impenetrable kayhin and rolled away without leaving a mark on his visage.

“We may if you wish — but it will be taking you away from home.” The kayhin intoned, gesturing behind them to the far-off eastern mountains. “I am sure there will be time enough and much travelling in later years; you have a long life ahead.” Rima looked back at the snow-peaked mountains far away, biting her lip, and then towards the equally distant tinge of the sea.

“You promise we will travel to the sea afterwards?” She asked.

“No, we will not. But I am sure that time will inexorably carry you towards it. There is a sea-song that calls on all who go wandering from home and it cannot be long denied.” Came her idda-ta’s song.

That gave her pause and her brows furrowed. “You... you will leave me?” She looked at him, though knew not to seek answers on his painted visage.

“All things are destined for separation.” He recited, and her brows unfurled as she nodded in understanding. He had taught her that. In a sense, she had always known.

“If we go to the sea first, can we travel together for longer?”

“Perhaps. But it will mean that your journey home may take a very long time, for you will have to abide by my rule of companionship.”

“What is that?” She asked. The kayhin turned to her with closed eyelids and face of paint and ink.

“No kawnnisaj.” He intoned. She frowned for a few moments, feeling the surging power around her. “For if you do then you shall journey with me no more and will have to find your way home alone.”

“B- but why, idda-ta?” She asked, lips pursed and brows knotted.

“You are a woman now, Rima-Tinrur of the Jungle-folk.” He crooned gently, almost regretfully. “It could not be helped,” he continued, more to himself. She straightened suddenly and looked from the kayhin to the sea. He never called her by her name, always my dear or other terms of endearment. He had not done so since they departed, however, and it... saddened her.

“What if I need to use it?” She asked.

“There is no such thing — if you need to use it then you are simply not thinking well enough. The creative and innovative mind is the greatest kawnnisaj. Use it.” He sang.

“Alright then,” she agreed, “no kawnnisaj. And though the journey home will be long without it, it will be more time with you, idda-ta. Consider me yet your needful disciple.” She paused. “Consider me yet a foolish teh-mi.” His face remained deadpan; eyes closed.

“If that is your wish. But you must know that I am not, and that after a time I will not be.” There was a softness in his voice hidden from his face.

“I know,” she smiled with eyes downcast, “I know. But... just while we journey together.”

“Then let us head down. We have a long walk to the sea, my blossoming rosa.” And so saying, he began descending like spiralling whirlwind towards the red earth below. Though there was yet a sadness in her eyes, Rima laughed then and her joy caught on the chromatic heavens, which seemed to laugh also, as she descended after her idda-ta.


“Are we headed straight to the sea?”

“The journey is long on foot. We will have to secure some supplies for you first. Perhaps a camel,” Rima’s eyes lit up at this, the sunrays darting around playfully in them, “so we will be making a stop at the oasis-town of Miha-Rad. It is two days away.”

“So… there will be people there?” The young witch breathed, a smile helplessly growing on her face. In all the thirteen years she had known, she had never seen a person beside her idda-ta. She had kept pets, that was true — birds, insects, small mammals. They had been her friends and she had wept when their short lives elapsed. Her guardian kayhin had gently rubbed her tears away and told her all living things are ephemeral, my dear. They will pass and you will remain; that is the burden that accompanies divine patronage. She did not listen the first time and cried again when another of her tenderly nurtured companions gave up the spirit. She had attempted to keep their souls from going away, but her idda-ta had taken her hand gently and spoken of the dangers that lay down such roads, and in time she had sadly let them go.

“Yes, there will be people.” He affirmed as their quick bare feet deftly navigated the hot sands and rocks. Sparks of excitement bounced from her eyes at his words, causing the kayhin to pause and turn his head towards her.

“I know I know, no kawnnisaj, don’t worry idda-ta.” She assured him, hurriedly waving the overexcited sparks away. He turned back wordlessly and continued walking.

“The people of these oasis towns — and there are many such towns all the way from the mountains to the sea — originally lived in the highlands. Why they came down to these forsaken wastes perhaps an ancient stone or hill can tell you, but they did. They roamed for a time as nomads, but then discovered the wondrous art of trading.”

“Trading, idda-ta?” She asked.

“Yes, trading. If I have a thing you desire, and you have a thing I desire, then we can simply exchange them. In that way you get what you want and I get what I want. Those ancient people realised that there are things out on these wastes that people elsewhere would give much to have, and so they collected them and travelled back to the mountains and beyond to trade them. They did this for so many years — perhaps hundreds — and the journey grew longer and longer as they ventured further and further into the redlands. Soon it was so long a journey that you could not travel it in days or weeks but needed months and years. And so, some of these traders stopped travelling and started settling around oases instead, caring and providing for the passing traders and trading with them. That is how these oasis towns came to be. Now near the mountains there are no oases, but the people there live on the rivers and have made the desert bloom even as those who live on oases have. On the coast, where the land meets the sea and where we are going, is the great town of Birba-Ida.”

Rima-Tinrur listened attentively, her curious starry eyes ablaze as she drank up all her idda-ta said. “Th- that’s incredible. They are so daring and innovative.” The old kayhin made no response to that and spent some time afterwards answering the inquisitive young woman’s questions.


They were spotted by a passing ten-man patrol on camel-back some half a day’s trek from Miha-Rad, and the group approached and respectfully hailed the kayhin. “Great diviner, knower of truths and communer with the song that is all; our people are in need of you. The mugahtir would speak with you.” The leader declared.

“That I know, brother of Miha-Rad.” The kayhin chanted. “Have you water and vittles for my companion?” The leader appeared visibly surprised at the request and looked more closely at the oddly-clad young woman, who was gawping wide-eyed at him.

“She is not a kayhin?” He asked — for it was well-known that kayhins neither needed food nor water. The gold-faced humenaki shifted in his saddle as the girl continued to stare, then grinned easily at her from beneath his hair-like headdress.

“No, she is not.” Came the kayhin’s cold intonation, drawing the leader back into the present.

“Uh, of course, great diviner. Jur-Boh, bring the honoured lady a waterskin and some sherku with tehr.” The rider in question was swift to make his camel sit and, rummaging through his pack, brought the waterskin and food to her. She took them and stared at the features of the relatively young man beneath the strange wig headdress — the long, beaded fibres of which reached the upper back and mimicked dreadlocks. Unlike her, he was dressed in a long, square, beautifully patterned woollen sheet that only had an opening for the head. Seeing her beholding the garment with no small degree of wonder, he quickly drew it over his head, “here, this will better protect you from the sun and...” he looked at her for a few seconds, his gaze flickering across her neck and chest and causing her to instinctively bring a hand to her shoulder in some attempt to ward it off.

“Take the benaak and thank the young man for his generosity, my girl,” the kayhin murmured.

“Oh! Ah! Sorry! Thank you!” Rima babbled, then half-laughed and frowned anxiously towards her idda-ta as she took the poncho and slipped it on with some degree of relief. There was something in the eyes of these men that made her feel oddly self-conscious and distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps it was that she was unused to being looked at — her idda-ta never opened his eyes, and when he did they had been inky black, not great staring things that seemed to hold the night sky within them. And there was no strange song of desire that emanated from her idda-ta as it did from these men.

“It’s our duty to serve the friends of the great diviner, my lady,” the young man said, “duty requires no thanks.” And with that he returned to his camel. She looked curiously at the woven rattan vest he wore over what appeared to be a thin layer of goatskin. His now-exposed arm muscles bulged slightly, but like the others he was slender and tall. When he moved it was with a noticeably quick and graceful gait.

“Would the young lady like a ride, great diviner? We will arrive sooner if you are not on foot.” Came the patrol leader’s voice. Rima looked at the great camels with apparent anticipation, and the kayhin let out a sigh and nodded.

“That may well be for the best,” he chanted as the wind gathered about him and lifted his form from the ground. The patrol leader looked to Jur-Boh again and gestured for him to see to the woman. The lithe young man quickly brought his camel up beside her and sat it down with a few dramatic exclamations and some tugging at the reins.

“I could have just come over, you know,” she laughed, “the distance wasn’t enormous.”

“Well, I’m here now, so I’ll have to beg your forgiveness,” the youth raised his shoulders helplessly.

“Oh. No no,” Rima hurried to say, all flustered, then paused and looked at him for a few seconds as it dawned on her that he was joking. “Oh! That... that was funny...” she chortled in surprise. Her idda-ta never joked.

“Well,” he laughed, “it was alright, I guess. I cou-”

“Jur-Boh! Stop dallying about!” Came a shout from the moving patrolmen, and the youth quickly stopped talking helped Rima settle into the saddle behind him. The world felt as though it were falling for a few seconds as the strange animal rose — her heart hammered in panic and she instinctively placed a hand on the young man’s back, the fibres of his headdress surprising rough, and another on the saddle behind her to steady herself.

“There now, nothing to fear. Can’t be your first time on a camel now.” He said over his shoulder.

“Uh. Well. It can...”

“Hmm, strange. How did you get so far into the desert just on foot?”

“And who said I was on foot? Maybe I flew.” She quipped. “But anyhow, I’ve always been here. I guess idda-ta carried me when I was too little to walk or remember.”

“Oh, he is your idda-ta? Odd, always thought that the kayhins don’t marry or have children.”

“Well, I don’t know... it’s probably true, I never really asked. He is not actually my idda-ta, but he has always cared for me.” The youth scratched his forehead, and she instinctively knew he was frowning.

“That... means you are touched by the gods, right? Kayhins don’t just take little kids like that — only special ones. You weren’t joking about flying eh? I guess you will be a kayhin yourself one day.”

“Me? A kayhin?” She looked up thoughtfully at her airborne idda-ta. “That... heh. I like the sound of that, uh, Jur-Boh, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. And you?”

“I am Rima-Tinrur... of the Jungle-folk.” It was odd saying it herself. It sounded strange... but it caused her chest to swell somewhat, as though it were an achievement. She liked it.

“Jungle-folk huh? That’s a long way off.”

“Oh? You know it?” She asked, leaning forward.

“I mean, I’ve never been there or anything — that would take, gods — years? I don’t know. But the caravanners tell wild stories about the jungle and the people there — vicious warriors who wear fahupki skin and use their claws and tails as weapons. They are the bane of the fahupki — and the bane of near everyone else too!”

“W- woah. Really? They’re like that?” she paused for a few seconds, “and, uh, what are fahupki?” The young man looked over his shoulder with a laugh.

“My, you’re really sheltered aren’t you.” He said. She blinked, opened her mouth to argue, then realised she did not know what that meant and closed it again. “They’re giant insects, terrible flying things that come in all shapes and sizes. I know the caravanners trade with some of them, but the only ones I’ve ever seen wanted to tear my head off.”

“You’ve said that word a few times now, what does it mean?”

“What word?”

“Caravanners. Who are they?”

“Oh, they are merchants, traders. They’re the nomads of the wastes, travel all over the world and have all sorts of tales and treasures. They made the Great Caravan Route- uh, you probably don’t know what that is right? It’s this great road of sorts — but not literally a road — that goes all the way from Birba-Ida to the great city of Qabar-Kirkanshir. Thousands and thousands of camels as far as the eye can see. They say that the first camel in a caravan enters Birba-Ida just as the last leaves Qabar-Kirkanshir! Crazy, right?” He looked over his shoulder with a smile and found that Rima had a far-eyed look on her face.

“Yeah...” she murmured, “it is... remarkable.”

When they finally arrived at Miha-Rad the sun was beginning to descend in the west, but one of the patrolmen had ridden ahead and so all Miha-Rad’s family patriarchs were assembled to welcome them. “We salute you great diviner and bid you welcome to Miha-Rad. You have alighted among your people and are greeted as a son long gone from home.” One of them declared once the kayhin had descended.

“The ornament of wealth is generosity, contentment that of the poor.” The kayhin responded cryptically as Rima came up beside him. The patriarch’s all wore headdress-wigs with impressive fibre dreads not dissimilar to those of the patrolmen, only that theirs boasted colourful feathers and were the sandy colour of sand as opposed to the brownish or black ones the warriors wore. The one who had greeted the kayhin wore the most prominent headdress of all — his dreadlocks were red and a crown of eagle feathers ran along the front.
As Rima took all this in, to one side drums were beaten and the melodic trilling of women rose. One of them stepped forward and began singing, and she was followed by the others. They danced around the guests, bidding them welcome in short melodic couplets and sprinkling water on them from bowls, trilling and ululating loudly every time a couplet was rendered by one of them. Rima was quite visibly captivated by the whole affair, and the power of the sung couplets seemed to build up to a breaking point that the ensuing ululations and shrilling alone could answer; till those died down that another couplet may arise.
This went on for a good while, until the women began slowly retreated one by one and danced away. One remained behind, still spraying them with droplets of water from the bowl. When the others were some way away, she gestured to Rima and went dancing after the others. The girl looked to her idda-ta uncertainly, but he nodded to her reassuringly and so she stepped hesitantly after the women — who were now disappearing into tight alleys between enclosed compounds of beehive-shaped, sun-kissed earthen homes.

Rima took one final look back at her idda-ta, who was now walking into the town with all those older men, and followed after the women. A few of them took her by the hand and helped her from her clothes, giving the rags she wore beneath the poncho quizzical looks as they helped her out of it. “My, you can’t be wearing these my girl. We will get you something suitable for a beautiful young woman like you.” The speaker was an older woman who sat on a small bench and leaned on a stick. Like the men she too wore a wig-headdress; hers was red like that of the patriarch who had greeted them, and not only were colourful beads interwoven into the shorter dreadlock fibres but so too were metallic copper rings, pearls, and cowries. Rima’s brows furrowed, and she glanced at her clothing. She had felt that the men thought them odd before, and now that was confirmed.

“They... are not good?” She asked hesitantly as the young women seated her on a stool and brought a bucket full of heated water and slowly began pouring it over her head and body with a bowl. Rima blinked in surprise and then shivered at the odd sensation. “Oh!” She murmured. The younger women, Rima noted, wore brown or black wig-headdresses, like those of the warriors — only that, again, their dreads or braids were far shorter. She could not deny that there was a certain aesthetic to them.

“No, they are not good my girl. A woman must cover herself properly, or else she invites shame upon herself.” The older woman piped. A few girls came with steaming buckets and handed the old woman an assortment of sweet-smelling herbs and flowers, which she sniffed at and crushed before throwing them into the buckets. The younger women then stirred the contents and carried them over to where Rima sat on the stool. They ladled the sweet-smelling water over her head and scrubbed her down, cleaning out her crown of feathers and rinsing her short hair. Rima could not say she did not like the feeling of warm water — and the sweet scents were unlike anything she had smelled before — but she was not quite used to this kind of manhandling or attention. She looked over at the older woman, who was smiling approvingly. “The kayhins may be blessed by the gods, my girl, but they are utterly mad — they don’t understand how civilised society works. But don’t you worry, we’ll make a woman of you — learn from old Huna-Miwe, I’ve seen it all.” Rima furrowed her brows slightly but then found herself giggling and leaping to her feet as one of the girls scrubbed beneath her armpits.

“Oh! Not there!” She squealed, disentangling herself from the others and shaking droplets of water everywhere. The other girls took this as an opportunity to empty what remained in the buckets on top of her, and Rima stood blinking water out of her eyes and blowing bits of herbs and flower petals away. “Nice.” She whispered, more to herself. She was not left standing there long, however, for fabrics were quickly brought and numerous hands set to drying her with them before soft garments were wrapped and tied about her crotch and chest, followed by a long rectangular woollen skirt and poncho, both intricately patterned and beautiful. The old woman inspected her and clicked in approval.

“See, now anyone who lays eyes on you will know you to be a maiden of the highest pedigree — if, as the kayhin says, generosity is the adornment of the rich and contentment of the poor, then modesty is that of youthful maidens, my girl.” She extended her arm to Rima who, after a moment of confused hesitation, took it and walked with her. “And you must wear your hair long, my girl. And if you can’t, then at the very least a hikser, I would think you would do that at least.”

“Oh, it just gets so long and blows into my face when it’s windy.” Rima hurried to explain.

“Of course, but that is because you do not know to care for it.” The old woman said. Rima blinked and looked at her oddly.

“Are... are you listening to my song?” She asked. The old woman smiled. “I thought only kayhins could do that.” Rima murmured.

“Well, I am no kayhin, young one. The song is open to anyone who opens their ears. Just like you have done.” They walked in silence for a while until they reached the outskirts of the town and the fields of green there. Rima had never seen anything like it.

“What is that?” She asked.

“Plants — crops. Maize and squash and the like. That is to say — food.” The old woman replied and then headed towards it. Rima looked at the tall stalks in amazement, brushing them with her fingers and taking in their hushed songs of dusk. After some time walking in silence, they turned back and walked between the beehive abodes until they reached a large compound where women were congregated and from where all kinds of appetising smells were wafting. Rima was led into one of the ovular homes and food was laid out — meats, soups, stews, bread, clay jugs full of soured milk, others with water and others yet with stranger drinks.

“Y- you made all this?” the astonish Rima asked some of the women seated around her. “How?”

“It’s all part of being a woman, my girl,” came old Huna-Miwe’s voice as she was aided into the dimly lit house by two younger women and took a seat to Rima’s left. The young witch looked at Huna-Miwe and the others, and there seemed a certain sadness in her eyes — as though something had dawned on her all of a sudden. “Come, eat.” Huna-Miwe gestured to the others, and they all tucked in. A cup of soured milk was placed before Rima, a bowl of soup, meats were torn into little pieces and thrown in. “Here,” the old woman handed her some bread, and Rima watched how she dipped the bread into her own bowl, letting the soup soak in before eating, and did the same.

The strange tastes, smells, and textures of foods she had never imagined existed left Rima wondering if this was not some elaborate dream from which she would soon awaken. She visibly savoured each morsel and sipped at the strange drinks laid before her as though they had descended from the dining table of the gods. And when she was slow or seemed to stop, Huna would nudge her and put something before her, or one of the other women would extend a bowl of something else and insist she try it. “Happy women make happy food.” The old Huna murmured approvingly as she ate, then looked over at Rima. “Remember that, my girl. It’s the first thing I taught my nyaras; when you are making food you have to leave all the bad feelings out of the food. The man upset you? Forget about it when you are cooking. The women are talking about you? Forget about it when you are cooking. Your back hurts? You’ve been standing all day? No one is helping? Forget about it when you are cooking. Happy women make happy food, and happy food makes happy homes, and happy homes make happy women.” The old woman then leaned in conspiratorially. “My nyaras say to me, ‘old woman Huna, you have done some kawnnisaj on the mugahtir and that is why he has not married another woman,’ but I tell them no, there is no kawnnisaj in these old bones — the secret is happy food, my girl. Happy food is the way to your man’s heart. Give him happy food and he will not look elsewhere. Happy food makes a happy man, and a happy man makes his woman happy too. That’s the secret young one.” The women around the table giggled or snickered at the old woman’s words, but she returned to her food and paid them no heed. Rima, for her part, stared at Huna-Miwe with a smile and clear admiration — though she had not understood half of what she was saying, she felt there was something important there and tried to hold onto the words.

“Old woman Huna, when we met the men on the camels on our way here, they said that word too — mugahtir. He is your... uh man?” The old woman nodded slowly. “They said that the people here are in need of something, that the mugahtir needed to speak to my idda-ta. But you all seem so happy – I can’t imagine that there is anything you are in need of at all.” There was silence then, and the other women suddenly stopped eating — though the old woman did not stop, dipping a piece of bread into her bowl and bringing it to her mouth. She chewed for a few moments then smiled.

“It is good to have good ears — and we are blessed by the gods with two of them and only one tongue. Perhaps there is a wisdom there.” Huna spoke, looking at all those seated around the meal. “In fact, some women give this wisdom such great import that they would prefer to do away with the tongue and have a third ear!” The old woman laughed, “well, they must think they’re wiser than the gods, mustn’t they my girl?” She smiled at Rima as she said this, and the girl laughed uncertainly. She was not entirely sure if she was being reprimanded or praised; something told her it was the latter. Huna sighed and leaned back, “yes yes, there is a problem. My foolish son is the problem — see, that one had one too many unhappy meals, that’s what.” She seemed to fix one of the women at the table with a glare, but quickly moved her gaze upward to survey the walls as she spoke. “What’s a mother to do? One son hates the other. What’s the mother to do? Split her heart in two? If it would make them love each other she would, but I don’t know if even the gods can do that. Not anymore anyhow.” She sighed and placed her hands on the table, fixing her eyes on them for a few moments before gazing at Rima from beneath knitted brows. “The problem is not that my two eldest sons hate one another. Many siblings go on living while hating one another. The problem, my girl, is simple: the younger of them, that hotblooded Minir-Huda, slew his brother; and in doing so he broke this foolish old woman’s heart and incurred the curses of the gods. He is out there now, haunting the night, preying on raw flesh and blood like a savage beast — oh! unhappy, unhappy food!” There was a tear in the old woman’s eye, but she brushed it aside angrily. “He sought by this deed the title of mugahtir, he sought his father’s wealth and estates — he’s gained nothing and lost all.” Rima frowned at the old woman’s words.

“I... I don’t understand. He... eats raw flesh? Why?”

“It is a curse that falls on all those who kill,” the woman sat beside Rima explained, “they become maddened beasts of tremendous power who can only survive on blood.” Rima’s brows furrowed and she looked at Huna with pity.

“Th- that’s terrible. Why? Why would he kill? And his own brother...” Rima looked to the old woman, who looked back at her with hard, narrowed eyes. Leaning forward, she spoke.

“It is greed, my girl. Greed. It is the death of all love, the well of all hatred, the pit of all envy. It is the mouth with unquenchable thirst and unending hunger — the world is not enough for a heart brimming with greed.”

“W-why?” The witch asked, her eyes exhibiting a deeply dumbfounded hurt and confusion. And before she could comprehend what was happening, there were tears rolling from her eyes. “Why is that a thing?” She looked down and realised her hands were trembling. Energies swirled around her, the house shook, and dust fell from the domed ceiling.

“My girl-” the old woman began, but before she could go on there was a presence at the door.

“Rima-Tinrur.” Came the voice of the kayhin, soft yet penetrating. “What are you?” The girl looked up, her trembling ceasing abruptly. She gazed at the ink-stained face through watery eyes.

“I...” she sniffed and wiped the tears away. “Clear. Concise. Direct.” She intoned, taking a deep, calming breath.

“Yes, that you are. You should rest now, for you are tired and we must exorcise the beast come the morrow’s dusk.” His calming voice dictated. She nodded, barely restraining a yawn, and realised that she was very tired indeed — though she had not been mere seconds before.

“Come,” said Huna-Miwe, rising to her feet and helping Rima up, “let’s find you a place to get some shut-eye.” The other women looked considerably less composed than the old woman, giving the young witch anxious looks and glancing at each other furtively. “What are you all sat dallying about for?” The old woman snapped, “clean this up and go to your men!” Rima glanced back in a daze, but the old woman took her by the elbow and told her not to pay them any heed.

They walked between the houses, Huna partly leaning on Rima and partly on her stick, until they got to a relatively small compound on the outskirts. “Shala,” the old woman piped.

“Oh, old woman Huna?” The woman called Shala extended her head from the doorway of the compound’s single abode and greeted them. “Ah, our guest is with you.”

“Yes, she is tired. Make her comfortable for the night.”

“Of course, of course. Please come in.” Shala said, and the two stepped into the small abode where Shala was clearing a space against the wall.

“Get me a stool,” Huna barked, and Shala quickly scrambled outside and was soon back with a simple wooden stool. As the old woman made herself comfortable, Shala helped the dazed Rima under the blankets and covered her. “That’s good now,” the old woman said, her voice coming soft. She glanced at Shala. “It is only you here tonight, yes?” The younger woman nodded in the affirmative.

“Yes, Jur-Boh will be keeping watch.”

“Oh, Jur-Boh,” the half-sleeping Rima murmured. “He’s the funny one.” Shala looked at Huna with a small smile.

“Well, I guess he thinks so.” Huna rolled her eyes. Shala restrained her smile, but the older woman saw. “I know what you’re thinking, you sly fox — those were pity laughs, didn’t want to break his confidence. It’s actually how terribly unfunny he is that makes me laugh.” Finding that she was not convincing anyone, she changed the subject. “Anyhow, can we expect a little Jur-Boh anytime soon?”

“Not yet — but the gods are good, I’m sure it will not be long now.”

“Whatever god presides over good humour has spared us for the moment, it seems.” The old woman scoffed.

“You are... he is your man?” Rima, who had just about been following the conversation, asked Shala.

“My, you’re not asleep yet? Enough gossip for you, young lady. Sleep now.” Huna-Miwe ordered.

“Mhmm, yeah. I will.” The witch said, turning over. “Thank you for today, old woman Huna. I... I’d like to be a woman like you said... soon. And make happy food.” The old woman sighed and sat there in silence, listening to the deep breathing of the all-too-innocent young girl. Her mind carried her down the way of memories and past joys and regrets, and every now and then she whispered a song that was lost in the night until, eventually, she nodded off completely. When she did, Shala came over and, gently, half-walked and half-carried her to the bedding she had prepared.

Though Miha-Rad was a town scarred, and though blood flowed fresh and was an open wound in the hearts of its people, the night was peaceful and calm and the moon of Qibbar Husnu shone bright and protective and was to all their grief and pain a balm.

---

The Janusan had seen better times, the outside gardens had been completely trampled much to the dismay of any to feed the loose spearhogs now attempting to eat what remained. The outer walls of brick had stood rather well in the attack, although it wasn’t ever intended for an assault. Luckily, it only had to deal with the raiding groups keeping them locked in before they brought any serious groups forward to breach.

In truth, the walls were intended more to keep the students in rather than keep hostile forces out. There were no proper ramparts in any case either, a makeshift fortification was set up near the gatehouse to allow for some defensive fire to the nearby. The brick buildings of the interior were a little worn but still very functional, excepting a singular student barracks which had been partially deconstructed to build the small rampart near the gatehouse.

Those interior buildings sat relatively squat to the ground, several barracks for students and small houses for the teachers. Two towers sat, a larger one in the center of the compound, while a smaller one of stone sat near the southernmost wall. The two were the only constructions that reached out higher than the walls, the stone tower had been peppered with throwing spears, one had managed to wedge itself between stones, the others had either fallen off, or hit targets on the tower as the small amounts of blood showed.

Nothing was of grand construction here, while the compound was large, a small town or large village in size, the walls did not reach that much higher than a Kitz’lae stood, a few working in concert might jump over. Although doing so in an assault was foolish.

The Janusan was the highest training center for the Janus in Welkos. While every Kitz’lae had a connection to the Lae’nat, the cosmic force that pervaded everything through mana as all good gods-fearing people knew, the Janus were the adepts, the truly phenomenal of will that surpassed the average person in great respect. It was service to the state, whether as a soldier, a civil servant, or another worker, it was of high regard and status for most. Not to mention the expert techniques that many Janus were taught to make even better use of their natural aptitudes.

So to attempt a breach of such a place without full force would have been folly, as the accursed suhrvuj knew in their own dark cunning, nonetheless, the teachers and techniques known by these adepts were vital for Welkos, to survive in the north as a state they would need all the assistance they could muster from the disastrous conflict near Wek-Nor.

After fully driving off the suhrvuj, it took some time to reorganize and regroup before entering the Janusan walls. Renarrib Vos and Hundreds-Captain Cevos both entered with their retinues, the common soldiers had started to intermingle somewhat, searching out those that they knew in units serving or making trades of common goods.

Although in the cities some thought the mingling of Kitz’lae and Kitzon was frowned upon in the eyes of the Great Father, most in the practical disciplines like soldiery cared not. The Kitzon were almost always more numerous than the Kitz’lae, the Kitz’lae were stronger, tougher, and generally the more useful soldier. Generally, the Kitz’lae were more profoundly limited by supply lines to support large numbers, something that any good commander knew well.

The soldiers in the Janusan had been very tired and seemed primarily to be Kitzon at this point. It made sense given they were essentially the remnants of a proper Hundreds-Army. Rations were often exchanged, those that had been at the Janusan sharing food and such things that had been stored in the cellars and taken to help keep the soldiers well, dried and salted meats, or bread, those that had been marching freely sharing the goatskins of watered beer. Most of the time ‘watered’ was the case in more than one soldier's goatskin. Any commander who had been in the field long knew that too.

Vos turned away from Cevos, he had spotted the Vissoon, she who led the Janusan. An older Kitz’lae, one could tell easily enough from the shape and health of her scales, and the walking stick too, no doubt from the withering of age. The old burned-scarred scales on her left shoulder no doubt bespoke more of her occupation as a Janus rather than age. She croaked out as he approached.

“Forgive if I do not kneel Renarrib, my old knees could not bring me to rise again should I do so.”

“Vissoon, I have known you from my minor-majority, you have used that excuse every time, nor would I have you do such a thing.”

She sighed with a soft smile, replying, “Alas you never were much for the court formalities chik’vun.”

Vos smiled a closed mouth smile before getting a bit more serious saying, “We will need to evacuate to the North, we have to spend time to gain the forces needed to push the suhrvuj out, they have Wek-Nor, the Janusan will have to be evacuated.”

“You know best about such things chik’vun, the commanders here were worried that none would come and we would have to break through the suhrvuj ourselves. Most of the Janus here aren’t ready for such work.”

Vos nodded, they continued speaking about the logistics and where they could integrate the Janus students as they would need to move soon. Elsewhere in the Janusan, Hundreds-Captain Cevos had sought out who had been in charge, coming across a Kitzon Tens-Captain, at least a decade senior to any of the other remaining Tens-Captains. They had exchanged some brief talk, a goatskin.

The Hundreds-Captain stated, “I saw that rampart made up near the gate.”

The Tens-Captain, his name was Hkev, replied nodding, “Yes, sir. I have to admit it was a junior officer who proposed the idea. A Kitz’lae from Kres’hai, his family did repairs on the third walls there, Kres’hites like their walls sir.”

Cevos grinned closed-mouthed. He said, “I appreciate the honesty, a full unit?”

“No sir, three out of every five died, down to about a score or so in that. Three other units could be merged from Kres’hai and that would fill it out sir.”

“We’ll look at that,” Cevos patted the older Kitzon on the back. “We have a lot to discuss but we also are going to be needing to move on soon enough, any wounded?”

“Most died on the journey, the suhrvuj let up as we got further away from the river sir.”

Cevos nodded and they continued.

In truth it wouldn’t even take till evening for the Janusan to be abandoned, students never had much and soldiers were often prepared to march whenever. The evacuation north would begin thus so, they would continue from the reserve camp. Resting only a small time before heading further north, abandoning ground as suhrvuj scouting parties became more and more common.

It would be some time before they could comfortably stop.

A strange sight approached the gates of the castle. An old man with a long, white beard. Completely alone. Seemingly having trouble walking. Supported by a straight and true branch. Wrapped in a long, heavy green cloak. To say that he was walking would be an insult to walking. It looked more as if he was dragging his own body. Yet he kept moving from the distance. Strange but only slightly. Yet as he came close to the great gates he looked up and pulled his hood away. Revealing two rainbow colored eyes, glowing visibly even in the midday sun. He looked up with a rather content smile. “Hail denizens of Caisteal Na Grèine.” The man spoke with a gravel-like but distinctly mortal voice. “I seek entry to your sundom.”

Three heads looked over the wall, each with long, golden locks that drifted lazily in the breeze as a bird might. All were women with curious eyes.

One of them eventually spoke up, "Hail stranger! What business might you have here?" She shouted down.

The stranger’s smile brightened. “I’m here to visit a very old friend.” He shouted back up. “She goes by the name of Lucia. But I believe you know her as the daughter of the sun.” Well, he wasn’t entirely sure that’s what they called her these days. Maybe it was just one of the many names she had these days. Still, anyone who laid eyes on Lucia would grasp what he meant.

The three exchanged looks and then two disappeared. "Give us a moment good humani!" She shouted down again. And indeed, it took several minutes before the other two returned, stealing away the stare of the woman who had remained. There was another quick exchange and there was some muffled shouting on the other side of the castle walls. Before long, the gates began to open and Lucia waited in the growing gap, wearing plate armor. Her eyes narrowed when she saw him.

"You say you are my friend but I'm sorry, I don't think I've ever seen you before. Is this some sort of trick?" Lucia asked, eyeing him down.

For a second the stranger frowned. Looking confused, but then realization dawned on his face. “Ah, of course, of course.” He said as he looked down to himself. Seemingly observing his own body. “Mortal bodies can be terribly constricting.” He held out his hand forming a cup as if he was to catch water. Above it appeared a bright orb with endlessly shifting colors on its surface. The surface shifted to that of a sun. Glowing and warm. Then it turned into a miniature moon with its white, dust seas and deep, grey craters. Once more it shifted and turned into a statuette of Lucia, made from the same stone of the Sunlit Temple that was so far away from here now. But then the shape cracked and crumbled in a hundred little pieces. All of them carried away with the wind as if it was ash. With the demonstration over, he looked back up at Lucia with a slightly challenging grin on his face and asked: “Can you do that now too?”

A slow realization dawned upon Lucia's face, becoming a grin. She outstretched her hand and from it came her own mini sun. It shimmered and changed colors. From yellow to red, to orange and green. Then she closed her palm and the light vanished.

"It's been a long time." she smiled.

The stranger smiled bright as he saw the fruit of Lucia’s skill. She had grown proficient to be sure. “It has been, but that was excellent.” He said as he leaned forward. Looking like he expected to move but his feet remained firmly on the ground. When he realized he wasn’t moving he looked down and once again a dawning look appeared on his face. “Oh right.” He said as he took a step forward, looking as if he just relearned how to walk. “I swear, I don’t know how you mortals do it.” He said as he stepped closer, with still that awkward walk as if he was dragging his own body. “Would you mind if we find somewhere to sit? I really have chosen the wrong body to control. It feels as if it’s collapsing on itself. Everything feels so.. loose.”

Lucia walked over to him and looped her arm around his own and helped him walk. As they walked, the gates began to shut behind them. "Come let us find a quiet spot." she hummed then commented, "What a strange avatar you've chosen, Qael."

“Would that this was an avatar.” He said, sounding somewhat strained. Though the help of Lucia was deeply appreciated. With the inkling of divine power he had to use the body would cease aging, but that wouldn’t help the aching joints or fatigued muscles now. “I can see the merit of choosing a more corporeal envoy like my brothers and sisters chose to make.” But still, his Winds had their own strengths as well. Besides, he just wanted to use this form to explore the world from a more grounded view. “But enough about me, tell me. What have you been up to? I see you’ve made yourself an odd home here. I never figured you for a queen if I’m honest.” With curious eyes he looked around the place.

Lucia laughed and his eyes wandered to many curious faces. Up close the golden haired ones were very tall and they walked with wings upon their backs. Many were doing mundane tasks as they walked by them and a few were training with weapons of light here and there. All gave them, or perhaps Lucia, a nod of respect. She then spoke, "A home this is for now, but by no means permanent. I am not a queen either… More of a person in charge sent by my mother. It’s a bit complicated. This place is war torn, the land I mean, and my mother feels to blame because she helped the people here. She asked me and my wife to build a lasting peace in her stead. To prevent further bloodshed. We have the support of one major player here and some smaller ones, and we are reaching out to others. I am optimistic we can achieve our goals by next winter at the latest. Hopefully.” She said a bit quieter, as they walked down a long hallway. ”How are.... Godly things? Oh! How is Orb?” she asked.

“You are describing a queen, my dear.” Qael playfully noted as he walked beside her. One could hardly become more worthy of that title. But he didn’t push the issue. Some just didn’t want the crown. He kept an attentive ear as she talked about the lands around them. A small smile formed on his lips, as he knew another faction would join Lucia soon enough. Though he doubted she would notice in the beginning. And then, of course, there were the Cenél. Those stubborn, proudful people that he was growing fond of. He wasn’t certain when they would send their envoys. They had already struck up a deal with the Dûnans. It was only a matter of time before they would come take a knee before the daughter of the sun.

“Orb is good.” Qael said as he tried to keep pace with Lucia. “He’s far away from here sadly, but he has several hundred pupils now. None of them will grasp magic as well as you, but they are good students and are making great strides in magic.” Every few weeks a new god-forged spell was hooked and mastered. Bound to glyphs, phrases and moves. To his own delight, the Mystics seemed to have no problem with sharing their knowledge so far. For a second he opened his mouth to say that he misses her. But that would be a lie. Orb was, despite his sometimes living demeanor, still simply an feelingless automaton.

“Other godly business…is good as well I suppose.” He then continued, his mind pulling towards his twins. “I…discovered I have genuine children. Two daughters. Soleira and Auriëlle.” He smiled even at the mere mention of their names. Was this what love was?

They entered a modest looking room. There sat a large bed, some nice furniture with clothes strewn about on them and a cozy nook with a few tables and a fireplace. ”Daughters! Why isn’t that wonderful!” Lucia beamed, guiding him to a chair next to the fireplace. Lucia then threw some logs in it and shot a beam of light that scorched them into a blaze. ”This place is very warm as it is, so I don’t really know why Solus made fireplaces but I think it acts as a sort of novelty really.” she lulled, taking a seat across from him. She folded her hands and then asked, ”Tell me about them, these daughters of yours! What are they like? Where are they now?”

“Oh you would love Soleira! She quite like your blond-haired winged companions that roam around here. Though she has two pairs of wings.” Qael said, looking rather impressed are her luminous magical abilities. Even though Lucia was right and the room was already comfortable, the god of magic felt the body enjoying the increased heat. Out of habit, it stretched out its arms towards the fire. Letting the digits warm up as well. “She’s back in the Luminant, that colorful realm your mother made. You’d like her, much like you she’s resisting becoming a queen of the land. The human folks adore her, as do the animals. Thanks to your mother she can talk to them. It’s been quite a boon. She’s lacking when it comes to magic, but her heart is on the right place.” When he spoke he was beaming with pride. But then he got a little downcast. “I hope she can fulfill her destiny and heal that place. The Luminant War has scarred more than the land. The Oraeliari and Neiyari are suffering. And I don’t know if she is strong enough yet for the task.” His voice betrayed an almost uncharacteristic worry. In truth Qael’Naath didn’t care for Oraelia and Neiya’s petty squabble but it was weighing upon an untested and untrained Soleira. Alas, should the worst come to pass, he would intervene again but he wanted her to succeed.

”She sounds lovely, Qael.” Lucia said, smiling a bit. ”I’ve never been to the Luminant, but from what these Oraeliari told me, the war was basically over when they left to come here. Rhiona, my mother’s newest avatar, she takes things very seriously… I’m confident Soleira will be able to endure and if not, she has my mother and you.” Lucia said with confidence. ”Okay so how about Aurielle, was it?” she said, ”What’s she like?”

“She…” Qael paused for a second. Visibly searching for the right words. “Magic becomes her. In the past few years she has grown very, very powerful. Unleashing sorcery I had not thought possible yet. Magic that no normal mortal could unleash.” Once again he beamed with pride that vanished. Not so much out of worry but something else. “You would hate her.” He finally confessed. “She’s destructive. Hateful. Arrogant. It was her who broke the walls of Ketrefa and sacked the city of Teperia. Rhiona herself came down to Galbar to curse her.” For a moment the god of magic wondered if it was a tragic tale yet. Despite the horrible things she had done, Qael did not speak of her with any pain or malice. He was simply stating the facts. “But she’s no longer around. So you’ll have nothing to fear.”

Lucia's lips turned into a thin frown. "I'm sorry to hear that. I had no idea what was going on over that way. It seems there's a war everywhere." Lucia sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Then she said, "But despite everything she's done, you love her still. Don't you?"

“Not despite.” He admitted. He wasn’t sure which had come first. His idea of her becoming a destroyer or her own thirst for power turning her destructive. Maybe the ruining spirit came with the inkling of power she was given. Or maybe it was there since birth. Those were questions for much later though. For now though, he needed her to be a destroyer. A weapon, even though she was his daughter as well. And for now she seemed to keep choosing that path on her own as well. None of that he could admit to Lucia. She was very much the daughter of Oraelia.

Instead he tried to switch the subject a little. “The return of me and my siblings have brought many changes. For better or worse.” Without the supernatural senses, he could only see fire and the walls around him. If the human body he ‘wore’ right now had any divine senses though, he knew bright light would lit up all around him. “So how will you do it?” he then asked as he turned towards Lucia. “Peace here, in Ha-Dûna? And what will you do after?”

Lucia shrugged, eyeing Qael. "Gather leaders, chiefs, elders. Bring them together and talk instead of fighting. Who knows how long it might take but I have Sanya with me and my mother. After that… I'm not sure. Perhaps gather our things and live out the rest of our days in my mother's realm. It was so peaceful there." she lulled.

The god of magic was not convinced peace in the area could be achieved so quickly. At least not a lasting one. Resources were scarce and some wounds ran deeper than most knew. It would take a generation at least. Yet he kept mute on the subject. It wasn’t his place to offer up the opinion. “You really want to live away from Galbar for the rest of your life?” He asked with a meek smile as he watched the fire. No longer warming his fingers by the fire but actively making the flames dance atop the wood. “This world will miss you… And if it could speak you’d hear it call for you.”

”I can still hear it…” Lucia whispered, looking down at the table in front of them. ”Like faint echoes and calming whispers. Sanya and I… We are tired of fighting. All we want is peace and we found that in my Mother’s realm. We’ve been here for so long… Now it’s time for a change.” she said almost in a whisper.

“Maybe you’re right.” Qael said as he turned to peer into the flames again. Lucia was after all a mortal, as was her mate. They had lived for two thousand years. Each no doubt doing their best to keep the world at peace. What more could the divine ask of them? Still, he knew they were needed in this world now more than ever. A faint, melancholic smile appeared on his lips. But then his mind trailed towards what he had seen in Antiquity and the horrid things unleashed at the Luminant. “I hope your mother’s realm remains as safe and peaceful as you desire it to be.” He rose up again and with it his somber appearance vanished.

”So do we.” Lucia answered.

Then in the palm of Qael’s hand a white owl statuette appeared. It was small and seemingly insignificant. “This world, and us the divine, have asked many things of you already, Lucia. I hope we won’t have to ask much more.” But fate was a fickle thing. He took a step towards her. “In an effort to return faster, I offer you this. Present it to the Cenél. They will follow your every word then. I promise you that.” He put the statuette upon the table. “And now… I think I should be heading out.” He looked around for a second. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way to Mydia.”

Lucia eyed the small owl and then picked it up, rubbing her fingers over it. She then turned to Qael and shook her head. ”I’m afraid not. I’ve never been off this land, that which is out there is unknown to me.” Lucia paused, then set the statuette back down. She then went and hugged Qael. ”Thank you. I will remember this and the Cenél.”

He hugged her back, the body closed its eyes as a reaction. It felt good. That in of itself was also a strange feeling. When they eventually broke apart again he took a step back, and brushed a strand of hair behind the back of her ear. “I’ll be seeing you, Lucia.” He said, after which he took another step back, and then turn around to walk out. He was still moving awkward. Getting used to having only one pair of knees and lifting his knees. But as he touched the handle to open the door he stopped and said: “When you hear of her… tell your mother I’m grateful for what she did for my Auriëlle. She’ll know what that means.” And then he left.

Lucia pondered those words for a time, then went to go find Sanya.

_{KhoSauce Productions Ltd. presents:}
“When in the days of the black fog winter ruled, my children, there were no Uirda - you Yaka, you Rayi, you Kaltalai, you Raikal, you Niccai, you Aippak, you Tumanta. There was no earth. There was no sky. The winter ruling in the black fog ate the world.” The shaman, face whitened with crushed chalk, goatskin hide covering his chest and kilt his nethers, tapped a goatskin drum with his forefingers. “And in time the Great Mountain saw that this was an evil state, and it rose - that great self-created stone - and tore fog and winter alike. What did it do, my children?” The shaman tapped the drum again and looked at the many gathered youths of the seven Uirda clans expectantly.

“It tore fog and winter alike, aipikka.” They recited. The shaman nodded and continued.


“The mountain rose, the rock was formed, it was the heart of the world. Atop it earth grew, a soft warm heart against winter’s rage. On that grass and trees; then all the animals. Then the goat. Then we, the Uirda; you Yaka, you Rayi, you Kaltalai, you Raikal, you Niccai, you Aippak, you Tumanta. The Yaka from the mountain peak where winter is most severe, and so Yaka skin is as snow, eyes as ice - but the heart is a passionate flame. From the sunrise on the plains, the Rayi, and so Rayi skin is golden, eyes amber. From the dusk on the mountain, the Raikal, and so is their skin as gathering night and their eyes as coals; and when the cold is greatest it is by the flame-heart of the Raikal that the cold one may kneel. From the rock of the moons, and their light, the Niccai; and so the skin is fair and the eye as lilac. From the song of the stone were the Aippak born, and that is why we hear best the mountain’s thrum and command, and that is why the great-masked ones of the world-voice, them who are draug, sing with us. Then from the blood and horn of the great mountain goat were the Tumanta, and that is why their herds are greatest; they know the heart and way of the goat.” The shaman spun slowly and walked among the youths as he recited the great origin of their people. Now and then he stopped and raised the drum high and loosed a wail before spinning and continuing, his feet striking the earth rhythmically with the drum.

The youths, all young boys fresh from their tenth winter, and so grown men, watched him pass. “Gather your herding sticks, my children, you are men now. Gather your herding sticks, my children, gather your spears, gather your hides and gather the herds. The sun awakens now; and the flesh of youths is strong and craves the mountain's heights and crashing waves. You have ventured out with your old man before, but come is the time to relieve your great-father from the toils and burdens of the mountain’s peak, come is the time my children. The mountain greets you and you are babes, and when next you descend you will be men.” And so saying, the shaman passed the gathered youths and spun and drummed his way towards the adults stood far behind, and as he did the youths all rose and followed. And the shaman danced and spun his way passed the men - all old and white of beard, for they were all grandfathers and these the grandchildren who would now take over the summer herding in the mountains on their behalf.


The old men, long staffs in hand - some sharpened or boasting boneheads -, greeted their children and handed over the sticks. “The land is good, my children, know that well,” chanted the shaman as he continued spinning and walking, “and in the summer youths will roam; so winter's bite will bring them home. Round the fire they will sing with glee when the draug comes from the sea; for the long and dark winter nights will bring dances and song's delights.”



How long they had dwelt betwixt the mountains and the sea no one could say; but the Uirda knew that they were born of the mountain clay and had been here from the dawn of the earth’s first day. And they knew of no other people but themselves - and the earth was great and rolled ever onward, perhaps the Mountain had deemed to create none but them, or perhaps it had created other than them. That only the god knew, and the beautiful draug of beautiful song who sang of people near and far, across the waters and in the waters. And the Uirda beheld the songs with wonder and contentment - they never sought out those far people. The tales awoke the imagination, and the imagination inspired the tongue to great epical feats on long wintry nights when the draug was gone.

But they could not hope to forever stand alone in the world. One summer there were none, and the next they streamed from every hill and vale, fearful and dishevelled, dressed strangely. The Uirda could not understand them, but watched them as they settled in clumsy camps, raised their voices against one another, sometimes attacked each other individually or in groups. Some of them hunted, some could not. Some attempted to steal Uirda goats. The youths scared those thieves off, but word spread and the Uirda became wary. Yet watching them, the Uirda could see that when winter came many would die - some already were. And they spoke to the shaman, and he communed with the Mountain, and the great god bid them open their hearts and homes to these strangers.

“But know this, you passionate youths: your hearts are fair prey to their womenfolk; but beware you maidens of the Uirda and tie well your hearts, for their menfolk are not made lawful to you.” And so it was; the Uirda helped the yortbraho, gave their menfolk of their herds and showed them the mountain ways, showed them to dig homes into the earth so that soon they had a village all their own. They married of their womenfolk and brought them into their homes where they quickly learned all the duties of the good wife; while the youths herded in the summer the women cared for the home and saw to the needs of the greatparents who, having toiled in youth and the middle-years, now rested, as was well-deserved, and nurtured their ties with their grandchildren and taught them Uirda ways and Uirda laws.


And then, one day, the yortbraho who came were not seeking shelter. It began with an elk, not too unlike those observed by the braves who dared venture beyond the mountain passes and witness the rolling hills below; atop it sat a woman in leather and fur, intermittently speckled with sheets and scales of glistening stone, or was it a rare sort of animal skin, catching the sun in its golden hue? She seemed genuinely surprised, breath-taken by the fact that the Uirda had made these mountains their home, as though she hadn’t even imagined the possibility. Behind her followed both menfolk and womenfolk, dressed much in the way she was, though the odd scales could only be seen on one or two of them - the rest stuck to layers of fur to keep out the cold of the mountain and season. Their language was both a work of music and a grind of stone, coarse consonants and broad vowels dancing together to sound of melodic tonal shifts, and they pointed at the Uirda approaching them and exchanged looks and gasps.

The youths of the Uirda were confident and brave, curiosity carried them and they stood with bone spears in hand and dogs at their feet - unafraid of these newcomers.

In the distance, however, those yortbraho who had come many winters before saw the elkriders and gave cries of surprise and fear before turning and running away. That was the first sign to those brave youths that something was amiss, and they frowned to one another and whispered, and when the elkriders made to ride past them they shouted and ran about them and signalled for them to stop, their dogs barking and growling in warning. The elkriders pulled at the primitive reins commanding the animals, footmen rushing forth with glistening, yet quite lumpy weapons in hand, but their commander obviously barked for them not to escalate the situation. She regarded the youths who had stopped them, and then raised her gaze to scowl at those who had come all those winters ago. She shouted threateningly and pointed after them, the melody of the language suddenly as stiff and brutal as a march. One of the first yortbraho squealed and shouted in the Uirda language: “NO! Don’t let them take us! They’re going to take us away! Help us! Please!” Some others, keeping their distance, wept pleadingly in the language of the elkriders, at which some of them scoffed mockingly and retorted even harder than before.


The youths frowned at one another, some giving the shouting elkrider a wary look. A few turned from the strangers and shouted to the yortbraho with gestures leaving no space for doubt as to their meaning: you go now. After a few moments of tense staring at the elkriders, the band of youths turned and walked away with a confident slow gait, spears over their shoulders, allowing the yortbraho to run off. A few trailed behind and others walked ahead, and now and then one of them glanced behind at the elkriders as if to say we see you, but seemed to have little interest in them beyond that. The commander pursed her lips and frowned as though rethinking her strategy. She dismounted, a fellow warrior coming over to take her reins and golden helmet, letting her unleash her sweaty, auburn hair. She calmly offered her band a few sentences and then approached the Uirda youth, gloved hands raised in peace. Carefully, she moved one of them to her chest, patting it gently, yet rapidly, to draw attention. She said a word, then repeated it as she studied the surrounding faces to gauge their understanding. Until she could spot the flash of realisation in every one of said eyes, she spoke the word over and over.

“Materix.”

The youths murmured to each other, gesturing to her and repeating the word. One of them, perhaps particularly quick, stepped over and patted her on the shoulder. Her guard tensed up, but she waved them away, offering the lad a greeting nod. “Matrik,” he assured her, before turning about and gesturing for her to follow. The youths muttered amongst each other, some still confused - Matrik?; hil hil, Matriks!, eeehh, Mechriks? - and moved on ahead. They appeared to be arguing, but the one who had spoken to Materix seemed to assure them eventually. He trailed behind, his dog panting at his feet, and looked back at her, stopping and gesturing for her to follow once again. He pointed further off and spoke insistently while looking back at her, and then started walking again. She nodded slowly in quiet understanding, took a few hesitant steps, and then turned to face her following again, barking at them what was presumably more orders, for after a bit of back and forth between her and some of the others dressed in golden scales, they took a few paces back and rolled out furs to sit on in the mountain snow. There, they waited, though not all seemed equally happy about it, particularly not the scaled. The commander then turned back to the lad and kept following.

The youths seemed in no hurry, continuing at their lazy gait. They laughed amongst each other, and when they passed by a lake or stream they stopped for some minutes while some took a drink or just waded in for the fun of it, while others yet leaned on their spears and watched the others idly. The youth who had spoken to Materix remained near her, however, smiling or chortling in her direction whenever his companions wandered from their route for whatever reason. At one point a dog was heard barking in the distance and a few of the youths perked up before breaking off from the others and sprinting away towards the sound. Materix’s youth clicked his tongue and flicked his wrist at them, signing for Materix to follow him and walking at a quicker pace. He shouted to one of the others, who went running ahead and soon disappeared beyond the crest of a near hill.

When they arrived at what appeared to be their destination, the youth who had run ahead was there, along with a number of older men and a few recognisably yortbraho women. A strangely clad man with a painted face stepped forth as Materix approached with her youth. The shaman said something to one of the women, who came up beside him and looked uncertainly at Materix. The youth greeted the shaman respectfully and said a few words before gesturing to the newcomer and loudly declaring, “Matrik.” The shaman, for his part, surveyed the stranger for a few moments before turning and speaking to the yortbraho woman he had called on. After listening to the words of the shaman, she turned to Materix.

“Uh. This is the aipikka Muir Aipik, the mountain-shaman of the mountain clans, and these here are some of the greatfathers of the mountain clans. They greet you and bid you welcome and, uh, assure you and those with you that you will be provided for and afforded goats that you may live and prosper like everyone else.”

Materix eyed the translator curiously, then offered her respect to the shaman by placing a palm over her heartspace and taking a knee. She spoke for the translator to convey: “In the sight of the Eight and the Seven, I, Materix of Dûna, daughter of Boudicca, True Daughter of the Dûna, of clan Metsep of the Gaardskarl tribe, offer my greetings to the hainpirke Mirh Hainpirk. May we exchange bread and salt in siblinghood--” She then looked around as though breaking out of a trance of decade long practice and performance, a clear cultural schism present on her face. She cleared her throat. “May our exchange be one of good siblinghood, I mean.”

The translator’s eyes seemed to light up when she heard Boudicca’s name, though some of the other yortbraho women further behind gave Materix wary looks. The shaman nodded sagely as the words spoken were translated, and then made a slow, enunciated response, betraying no small degree of experience when it came to ceremonious speaking. “The aipikka wishes it to be known that he salutes the Eight and the Seven in the name of the Great Mountain, the great self-created stone, and salutes also Boudicca and all her kin of the Metsep clan, and the Gaardskarl people. A ram will be slaughtered in your honour, and the honour of the Gaardskarls.” She paused as the youth who had led Materix whispered to the shaman, who closed his eyes and nodded before speaking again. The translator then continued: “He is told that some of the mountain people who are newly arrived from your lands showed fear on seeing you, and that there was a less-than-happy exchange. Aipikka Muir Aipik wishes you to assure him that there is no acrimony between you and those of the yortbraho clan.”

Materix pursed her lips. “Forgive my ignorance, but what is yortbraho?”

“Ah, apologies théin Materix; the mountain clans are seven, and they refer to us who came from the Dûnlands and settled among them as the yortbraho, the clan of those who came later.” The woman clarified.

Materix frowned at the translator and eyed the yortbraho women in the back. She remained kneeling, but a quiet growl threatened to banish the softness in her voice and replace it with the coarseness of old hatred. However, self-control managed to limit the tonal shift to a mere increase in sternness. “You don’t say… Then, with respect, please inform the great and wise hainpirka that me and my band recognised multiple faces among these people, a few of whom are in the back there,” she pointed at the wary women, “and we did so because they are criminals on the run, guilty of the darkest treason and blasphemy in the eyes of gods and people in this world and the Helgensmund.”

The translator winced at the words and turned back to the shaman and spoke softly. The shaman considered these words for a few moments, and then spoke again. “He says,” the woman translated, “that neither he nor the people of the mountains know what drives the southern people to fight, and he says also that when the yortbraho first came they fought amongst each other too. The slaughter of goats and the sharing of good meat can drive away old hatreds and feuds, and criminals who repent are criminals no more if in repentance they are sincere. He bears witness that the yortbraho have repented sincerely and have been peacemakers and doers of good for many winters now.”

The commander rose to her feet, arms crossing firmly over her chest. “Tell the shaman, once more with all due respect, that -they- have committed crimes that cannot be repented, regardless of their recent deeds. As per the law of Dlíbók, our codex of justice, they are to be brought back to Ha-Dûna to stand trial and be judged under the sights of Fìrinn, Taeg Eit, Reiya and Selesta - the gods’ punishment alone can absolve their souls of their grievous sins.”

When these words were translated, the shaman stepped forth and there was a smile on his face though his eyes were as stone. He spoke to the théin slowly and without faltering, each word immovable. When the translator spoke, it sounded considerably less impressive. “Uh, he says that. Well,” she paused and frowned in thought, “he says that the laws of Ha-Dûna and of its Eight and Seven gods are due all respect, but that out here in the shade of the Mountain, and along the highland paths, the law is that of the Great Mount. They who seek protection in the shade of the great earthen god have found it, and the Mountain’s protection is as rock to those who keep to its laws and ways. The yortbraho have been true and so they shall not be cast from the great shade of the Mountain.” She paused and the shaman spoke a few last words, which seemed to surprise the translator. “He also says that the yortbraho are as one with the mountain clans, our blood has intermingled and we have sired goodly progeny of one another. If you are to take one of them while they are true to the Mountain, then you must of certainty come up against us all - and that would be folly, for the sea does not come to the mountain.”

Materix drew a slow breath and backed away a pace. Swallowing, she eyed the faces staring her down around the clearing and then slowly lifted her hands. “I must beg your forgiveness - the journey has been long and arduous, and my mind is not at its best right now. If I may ask that my band may be allowed to camp here for the night, and that we may share our tales with one another over ale and… Over meat and milk, then we would be most grateful.”

After listening to the translation, the shaman turn to the white-haired greatfathers and spoke a few words, and a number of youths went scrambling off at the gruff commands of their elders, drawing knives of stone as they ran off. “That is good,” the translator said to Materix, “there will be meat and milk, and water pure and sacred from the highest mountain springs.” The youth who had brought Materix stepped forth at a gesture from the shaman, who spoke a few brief words. “Young Thum Yakui here will guide you back to your band.”

Materix made hard eyes at the other yortbraho for a split second, but quickly shifted back to the shaman again and touched her heart. “I thank you, on my bands’ behalf and my own.”

When the théin and her band arrived later, they found that a number of goats had already been slaughtered and were being roasted on rudimentary spits and that there were now considerably more of the mountain people about - women, men, and children tarried here and there. Women laughed as they watched the fires, now and again smacking a foolish child for getting too close to the fire; some held babes to their bosoms as they added wood to the flames or chatted with their fellow clanswomen. The men idled about, watching the strangers curiously - and the youths in particular approached the odd elks and looking them up and down or stroking them. Now and then one of them went scrambling when an older woman shouted at him to go do something; but in all other ways the people here seemed relaxed and at perfect ease. Whatever concerns and tribulations life held seemed to be carried on their collective shoulders with no one left to bear their burdens alone, and so they all seemed the happier.

When the food was ready, it was laid out before the guests on goatskin hides, and communal wooden beakers full of water or milk were brought forth along with small empty bowls for scooping from them. The shaman sat opposite the théin, grey-bearded greatfathers around him, and gestured for her and her companions to eat with a smile. One of the greatfathers took an empty horn from his side and scooped some water, supping at it in small amounts and watching the strangers.

The foreigners made no self-driven effort to mingle with their hosts, with the exception of their leader and two others who wore very distinct clothing compared to their colleagues, leather and furs reduced to simple woolen robes of a whitish beige, kept warm in the mountains with the help on much more colourful woolen scarfs that seemed more like capes. When the children touched them and asked what they were called, the wearers, upon understanding their inquiry, answered, “plaithe”. These two were particularly friendly, telling what could be presumed to be stories in their language, complete with sketches on bark and stone drawn with charcoal from the fires. Expert performance skills enchanted the listening children even if not a single word came across, the stories carried by powerful and spontaneous gestures to all the elements of nature and the self. The children, for their part, appeared enthralled by the performance and from then on referred to the oddly dressed pair as “draugmihra! Draugmihra!” Realising that they were before performative masters, they immediately got to showing off their own imitations of the trolls - though were not quite as impressive as the draugmihra at doing so.

Opposite the fire from the elders, the théin sat cross-legged upon a sheepskin. Beside her, she had a flat of skin, upon which laid a selection of strange tools and artifacts she and her band had brought with them: Their axes weren’t bladed with stone, but with a darker form of gold with hints of green; the commander herself revealed a biface not fashioned from stone or flint, but of gold, as well, only with surfaces as polished as those of clean bone; they had medallions and rings fashioned from all sorts of strange, glistening stuff, adorned with stones of every colour. She showed them texts from her home and works of glass, explaining their use for the translators to convey.

The translators did so, and the greatfathers looked at the strange axes with knotted brows, turning them over in their hands and swinging them back and forth. They tapped at the strange metal with their fingers, and the translator seemed to explain what it was - gesturing to the mountain and then to the fire in her explanations, and all the while the greatfathers nodded and muttered this or that gruffly. The translator showed them how the medallions were worn around the neck, the rings on the fingers, and one of the old men took the ring and, gently catching a lock of the translator’s hair, tied it there and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. He muttered something to the théin and gestured to the ring, and the blushing translator turne to her.

“He says he likes the ring and would like to trade you a goat for it.”

The théin knotted her own brow and offered the translator a lopsided frown. “Do they trade in nothing but goats? Is their whole society founded upon their woolen backs?” She then pursed her lips and took an intricately whittled and carved wooden pipe out of a satchel, pinched a clump of dry grass from the same container and patted it tightly into the bowl. “You may tell him that it’s his. Consider it a gift to symbolise a budding friendship between our two peoples.”

The translator spoke a few words and caused a number of the greatfathers to chuckle. They then spoke at length as the translator conveyed his words. “He says that the goat is life, and to give over a goat is to give milk and cheese and meat and goatskin, and the good-haired goat provides the softest goathair; these are the good things of life. A goat is a companion - and an intelligent and caring one at that. Of its horn one can make music or craft a drinking vessel,” at this one of the greatfathers raised an ornately carved drinking horn hanging at his side and extended it to Materix for inspection while another brought a musical horn to his lips and released two sharp blows into it, followed by a long third.

The sound brought immediate silence to the great gathering for a few moments before everyone returned to what they were saying or doing. “And of its skin a drum to go with your horn; if you wish for leather its brain is all you need. Everything that a man may need he can find in the goat - the bone for the spear, the teeth for the necklace, its sinew the finest thread. When we make masks - as the singing draug taught the aipikkas of bygone times - the head of the goat is an aid. If you wish to carve, the bone of the goat is ready and yielding. There is no need except that in the goat is its answer. And if the goat cannot provide, then the earth is good - stone, wood, herbs, berries, mushroom, chalk. The waters of the mountain springs, fish on the goatbone spear, fire to warm the heart and song to warm the soul. When you wish to please your woman’s heart go to the sea and bring her cowrie shells - kiss her hair, bless her eyes. If chalk is not what you seek, the plants are many and dyes all yielding. Bring the aipikka a feather and place your name on his headdress. So yes, we are a mountain goat people, made of stone and sinew, and have no desire to be anything else.” The translator stopped speaking at last, a small smile on her face. Then she added of her own accord, “I admit it was a bit weird at first, and you miss the things you had in Ha-Dûna, but then this whole thing really grows on you. It was our way of life before…” her words trailed off and she said no more.

The théin look hardened, and she turned the horn in her hand with a fomenting slowness. “Yes… It -was-. Please tell the greatfather that--”

It was in the midst of all this that, in the distance, the great blast of a horn sounded and caused even the now-placid shaman to become instantly alert. The greatfathers glanced at one another with deep frowns and rose from the food. In the resounding wake of the blast there came the abnormally loud yet light clapping of free and loose hooves against the mountain, and in the gathering darkness there seemed to be a singular light far off on the mount that wavered momentarily then completely disappeared.

There was silence then for a time, and Uirda all gathered about each other and whispered to one another. There was the light of excitement in the eyes of the children, the knot of worry in that of the elders. And the reason for it became apparent when - with great suddenness - the earth melted away some way from the clearing and a great light erupted from the ground, followed by the light but insistent sound of thundering hooves. The light approached at speed and soon manifested itself as a creature unlike anything known to mortal eyes - other than those of the Uirda, for they knew to honour the great mountainson.


Before them, with standing ears and great branching antlers between which was nestled a radiant halo of almost-blinding sunlight, stood a cervitaur of considerable size. His face, once child-like oval, was now angular where it was not bearded; once-flowing green hair had yellowed with age and was now formed in great winding dreads. There was an unearthly beauty to his visage, his eyes seemed to glitter, his features - though scars ran across his face and muscled form - seemed delicate and refined. In one hand was a spear tipped with a foreign silvery metal and at his side, wrapped in leaves and vines, was a sheathed sword. He looked upon the southern strangers with grave eyes of forest-green and on his face was no smile. Many of the Dûnans removed their hats at the sight; others instinctively took to their axe shafts and spear staffs, but stayed frozen in caution beyond that.

The Uirda all whispered words of humility and and lowered their heads in honour of the divine being. With nostrils flared he passed the translator and his hand alighted on the metal ring. Deft fingers loosened the hair and the ring fell into the cervitaur’s hand, and he looked on it with displeasure before whispering a few words in the Uirda tongue. The greatfather who had tied the ring into the translator’s hair stepped forward and spoke. The cervitaur handed him the ring and responded brusquely, and in response the greatfather approached the théin and placed the ring into her hand wordlessly.

“I see more of you southerners have come wandering north,” the cervitaur spoke with an unplaceable accent as he approached the théin. It was not even Dûnan, and yet… they could somehow understand it. “You have brought metal. It is forbidden upon the Uirda. You will nevermore bring it here.”

The théin looked into her palm and then upon the creature. Its mighty presence and powerful aura brought her eyes to the ground, her auburn hair hanging around her face like a veil. Her pipe still smouldered in her hand, for the shock of the new arrival still held too much power over her for her to put it away. “F-forgive us, mighty being. We did not know - we meant only to show them our crafts so that they, too, may know the freedom from stone and instead embrace something hardier, more efficient.”

The cervitaur leaned back and gazed at the gathered mountain clanspeople, garbed as they were in their primitive leathers and hides, bone- and stone-tipped spears in hand, knives made of the same at their hips. The children hid behind the legs of their mothers or grandmothers and stared out curiously at the strange mountainson - some were afraid, most were only curious. The greatfathers wore knotted brows and glanced from time to time at the shaman for reassurance.

“More efficient.” He repeated, turning back to the woman. “And what, pray tell, has your efficiency brought you? What have you gained through freedom from stone? It is your people who flee here, not the Uirda who flee to you.” There was a certain anger in his voice, a level of contempt, and he kicked at the earth and stirred it up to make known his displeasure.

By this, the théin seemed insulted. The cervitaur’s words had knocked her out of her fearful passiveness, and she assumed the proud, powerful stance of her mother, though she stood only half the creature’s height. “If it’s ‘our people’ you want gone, we will gladly take them with us - they have no place here; they belong on the temple fields of Ha-Dûna, working the fields and tending the herds as atonement for their sins. For yes, -that- is the efficiency given to us by the freedom from stone - our hoes part earth like fingers through snow, and our sickles cut straw as though they were air. Our armour has kept hundreds of us alive in our battles against the rebels in the South and West, and our weapons have allowed us to grow into the mightiest force in the region.” She gestured to the hills. “We have been welcomed here, certainly, but we have seen the sort of life these people lead - it is simple, complacent; they are content in their mountains, and see no further beyond them. A lifestyle such as this…” She silenced herself before she could go on, glaring up at the beast still. “We will leave if we are not welcome.”

The cervitaur’s nostrils flared and he stepped forth, bringing his face down so that his nose almost touched the insolent woman’s. His eyes of green, which bore no warmth and seemed more rock than plant, bored into hers. “Atonement. Sins. Temples. You have created out of the paradise you were granted a living hell. Armour, weapons, battles - what, for power? Do you think you are eternal to claw at power? You are a thing that is nearly dead; I have lived longer than your species has walked the world. Your weapons, your wars, your sins and crimes and punishments; they are as naught. Of all these trapping the Uirda are free, they do not kill and do not fear being killed, they do not impose themselves where they are not wanted. If a clan wishes to leave, it can leave - do you see them raising spears against their own? They hold onto the only thing that matters - their joys. You would do well to learn from them, for they are the more refined ones here, not you.” He raised his head and looked at the other southerners. “Go home, there is nothing for you here. Consider the ones you think to punish, dead; consider this land not here. If you come with metal and strife, come not here at all.”

The théin nodded in silent understanding. “Then leave, we will. We were pleasantly surprised when there were people here; a shame their master cannot see reason.” She turned to the yortbraho translator. “You. Tell the elders this - perhaps the sea may never come to the mountain, but us who live by the shore have seen terrible things arise from the waves to wash in over the land. If the fish of the sea can walk on land, then what stops the wolves of the woods from climbing into the hills?” She turned back to the creature and flared her own nostrils to the degree possible. “Will you be there for them when, in a thousand years, a cruel force numbering thousands come thundering over the mountain tops?”

The bearded cervitaur scoffed at her barely veiled threats. “Whatever the case then, you will certainly not be,” he paused then and his hard features softened. “Go to your man, woman, see to your young, wander the hills and laugh some. It is all that matters now - and when death wanders a handspan from you, it will be all that ever mattered. You would be wise to learn from my words now rather than regretfully learn when it is all too late.”

The théin glared sharply back and turned. “Osotorix, prepare my stag. Rangers, pack up. We are going home.” Many of the Dûnans sighed in relief, while others hastened to finish their meals. A few offered a final scowl to the yortbraho, but all in all, the majority just seemed happy to be leaving, hastily gathering their belongings and walking towards the mountain pass with hurried steps. At the tail of the host rode the théin, closely followed by the two draugmihra, who were the only two to look genuinely upset at this whole ordeal - they took their time saying goodbye to the children, offering them flower petals from the lowlands in memory.

The cervitaur watched the draugmihra until they had finished saying their farewells to the understandably saddened children, and then he gestured for them to approach. They seemed reluctant at first, looking over at their leader for permission. However, with a quiet nod, she granted it, and remained at the mouth of the pass with her warriors ready should her druids be caused any harm. The two obeyed the cervitaur’s request and approached, both bowing with their hands over their hearts. “In the sight of the Eight and the Seven, we greet you, child of Boris,” they chorused.

“Be at ease, draugmihra. I thank you for bringing the children of the Uirda joy. They will remember you, of that I am certain. Know this: the Uirda have no interest in the crafts and metals of the south, but there is nothing wrong in the sharing of happiness; tales and laughter, song, playthings and pastimes. These are good. Perhaps I have spoken harshly to the woman, but that is so you may know where the line is drawn. Should you ever come into the shade of the mountain bearing joy and forsaking metals, you will be welcome as friends. Let your leaders know this.” He hefted his iron spear and, gripping it horizontally in two hands, extended it to the two. “Take this with you, a gift for the woman. I do not think she will be returning to her children soon - it will be of more use to her than to me until then.”

The druids shifted in their stance upon accepting the weapon, one of them taking it in her hand and testing its weight. She swallowed. “This is of quality make - I have never seen anything like it. The, the théin Materix will be most grateful for this.”

“We have been honoured to be given this opportunity to share our stories and culture, and to learn from theirs. If, if I may be so forward as to ask - would any of these people like to come with us? To visit the south and, and learn of us as we have learned of them?”

The cervitaur lowered his head at the question, his lips pursed. “I do not like that any clansman or woman should leave the shade of the mountain. But as you have asked it, it is for them to answer.” And with that he turned and spoke in a loud voice that seemed to reach all, and his words caused the mountain clanspeople to talk among themselves. Frowns and shaking of heads was met with loud rebuttals and gesticulation. When this had gone on for a time, one of the greatfathers turned to the cervitaur with a question - as though seeking reassurance. The cervitaur nodded and spoke a few words, and the greatfather visibly relaxed. “Guik Kalta!” the greatfather said, and the youth who had accompanied Materix to the clearing stepped forward. The greatfather gestured to the translator too, and the clanspeople huddled all around to bid the ones who had been chosen farewell.

“You will wander from the mountain’s shade, Guik Kalta,” the cervitaur spoke in that strange tongue that was neither Dûnan nor Uirda, yet was fathomable to both, “the first of your people to do so. You will see much on their behalf, and you will be the face of the Uirda to a world that has not known you before. Walk upright, like the mountain, be strong of heart; and return with tales that will warm and regale your kin round the flame of winter.” The cervitaur stepped forth and placed one hand on the young man’s shoulders. Rummaging in his thick belt of leaves and vines, he emerged with a strange mask of stone, intricately carved and decorated with thick mane-like hairs from the wild mountain goat. The youth accepted it and lowered his head respectfully, and then hefted his spear over his shoulder and turned with a smile to the two draugmihra. The translator came up behind him and placing a hand over her heart and briefly taking a knee.

“Guik Kalta and I, Herla, lowly child of the Clennon Fen, will be honoured to accompany you.”

The draugmihra exchanged wary looks. “Before you do, we must verify…” One of them took her staff in both hands and touched its tree-branch tip lightly on Herla’s forehead. A drop in space rippled through the air like in a pond, and the druid lowered her staff again. “... In the name of Fìrinn, the truthful one, do you swear that you have renounced all faith in the cruel and wicked Sigeran, the great devil and antithesis of the Eight and the Seven?”

“Ah- I. I never…” she seemed uncomfortable and flustered for a few seconds. “I never took up worship of Sigeran, fathers. The Eight and Seven alone know I have been true - and the mountain, for surely there is a god in it, bears witness that in its shade Sigeran’s name has not been spoken by me in worship.” The ripples faded, and the draugmihra looked at one another again.

“Her account is true. We are honoured to have you with us. Worry not - should our people harass you over this misunderstanding, we will vouch for you in the name of Fìrinn and Taeg Eit. Any child of the Dûna is always welcome home…” The speaker smiled up at the cervitaur, “... Even if it is just for a visit.”

The cervitaur for his part almost smiled. “The mountain holds none prisoner. If you - who was once Herla of the Clennon Fen - wish to stay amongst your people, none will hold it against you. Though your man waits upon your return, his heart will mend in time I’m sure.” Herla glanced back at the greatfather who had tied the ring to her hair earlier and smiled, but said nothing. The cervitaur looked to the draugmihra and Guik Kalta as he turned away. “May the one who built the earth guide your steps always.” And with that he trotted away and, as suddenly as he had erupted from the earth, disappeared beneath it once more.

• Summary [+]

  Introducing the Uirda, a mountain people on the north-western boundaries of the Dunanlands. Dunan refugees have flowed into the region, where the Uirda have generally been welcoming - while they are an endogamic people, they do partially intermarry with the Dunan refugees - Uirda men are permitted to marry Dunan women.
  One day Materix comes along with a band in search of Sigerans they can bring to justice, But the Uirda are not willing to hand over any Dunan refugees.
  Matrix and her band are welcomed with a feast and there seems to be the beginnings of a potentially good trading relationship… before a cervitaur (Aeinwaje) crashes the party and tells the Dunans to take their metal and be gone. Things end on a bit of a bitter note as Matrix and her warriors depart.
  The cervitaur, at the last moment, speaks with the druids accompanying Materix and they come to a limited understanding of sorts. He gifts them an iron spear for Materix, and a young Uirda youth and a young Dunan refugee woman accompany the band back to Ha-Duna - for exploratory purposes.
• Might [+]

  Consecrate Ironheart (Spear)
  

  Take Heart I (1DP => 0DP with Inspiration disc.): The person who owns this spear strikes an inspirational figure to all others, who are filled with conviction and purpose when following them.

  
  Consecrate Visage of the Mountain
  

  Break, Evil (1DP => 0 DP with Wards disc.): This mask acts as a ward against misfortune, unfavourable omens, injury, disease, suffering, unnaturally induced desires, magics, and other harmful influences and evil. Its effects take place while worn or while present on one’s person. As it is a general ward, rather than a specific one, its power is not great - it will generally alleviate the worst effects rather than fully warding off particularly powerful influences, while lesser influences are completely warded.
• Prestige [+]

  +5 to Aeinwaje - 11 total

---

Above the skies in a shining and glittering shape came flying in fast, only coming into great detail as it came close. A barge of sorts, although this one was golden in its entirety and the aforementioned fact it came flying to the island was a bit of a change from the other method of flying transport.

It was a pleasant enough day, not terrible winds nor storms. The sun was out and it was warm enough, perhaps a bit too much for everyone's tastes but such was life on the many isles of Mydia. This was a rather special isle for what lay upon it, and undoubtedly what the Serpent triple-headed creature holding an orb had come for in some aspect. This was a place of science. It was a place of magic. And now such a creature and a shining orb one that was faceted not as a purely smooth orb but rather a gradually sloping series of plates, each in turn shining out soft invisible beams of divine energies.

The creature set out inland, having jumped off the barge a scant few meters from the ground where it stopped in the air from its careening journey.

It had arrived at one of the few orchards the Omniversity knew. Delicious peaches, pears and apples grew from the branches. The trees were spaced out, allowing the vibrant sun to create pathways of warmed grass. While the bigger trees offered a shady respite. Some would claim the orchard moved, ever so slowly. As if the trees were locked in an eternal slow, spinning dance. The great buildings of the Omniversity laid beyond it.

Left unseen by a blind Auriëlle who sat against a tree eating an apple she had managed to pluck from the constantly blossoming trees. She knew the way back. Almost. If the trees moved they luckily did it slow enough so Auriëlle’s mind was able to adapt. She knew she had to walk about five minutes in that one direction until she came upon those sun-soaked stone path which glowed so pleasantly underneath her feet. Then she had to go right and slowly follow the curve and then take those five steps up to go inside. Or was it six steps?

She felt the gust of wind hit the side of her face and looked in that direction out of habit, though of course she couldn’t see anything. For a second she wondered if someone was there. Though she quickly looked back in front of her. Seemingly staring towards nothing. Assuming the gust of wind was just that.

Then a sense of serenity washed over her, it was in part unreal, most of all other feelings were present but somehow pushed to the background as the wave of serenity seemed unending. A gentle breeze flowed and no other sounds came with it for a few long seconds.

Then came a soft snap from a tree and a crunch of an apple from the same direct of the breeze. A voice followed. "Pleasant day?"

“I suppose.” Her experiences with Nalla made her realize when her mind was being toyed with. She was blind now. Sitting alone. Far away from home or anyone who could protect her. She shouldn’t feel so peaceful when she heard a voice speak that she hadn’t heard before. But she was. Any instinct that told her to run or get up and fight for her life was suppressed and she knew it.

Auriëlle took another bite from her apple. “I haven’t heard your voice before.” She noted, still staring off into the distance. It would be a good pass-time maybe. A conversation with a stranger. Maybe he would know the way back to the Highlands.

"No I suppose you haven't, but I do know you, or rather I know of you as no doubt many speak to such things. You may call me Kiim, I have two of my fellows here with me, Jaav-"

"Yes, hello, these are quite good, would you like an apple? Perhaps a pear?" Another soft snap and the softer crunching of fruit continued.

"-and the other is Guul."

"A pleasure."

"You suppose it is a pleasant day, that is a fair enough way of putting things I would say from your position. We did not expect to find you outside in all truth, but it does make things easier."

Well, she did hate the insides. It was cold. For the first time in a long time she realized how cold stone could feel on bare feet. And there were the others. The high voices. The laughter. It echoed around. Dazing her. Outside was open. Easier. More alone. Few of the people around here wandered through the orchards.

“Are you here to kill me?” The forced serenity seemingly gave her a casual tone. As if she just asked someone for a hand. In truth, even if she hadn’t been forced to be at peace with literally everything happening she would’ve used the same tone. Blind like she was now, with the branch laying over her lap, she knew sooner rather than later someone would use the opportunity. If not the strange, four-fingered slick creature that gave her the branch, then maybe these three odd-sounding people.

"So despondent are you already." There a soft thump of something large being put to the ground. "We are not here to kill you, would you like to be killed?"

She turned towards the voices and smiled as if she could see them. Yet there was something off about the smile. “There are many things I want, but I don’t want to die just yet.” She had business to finish. Finish something that was only just slowly brewing inside of her. “It’s just that these days, most people who meet me want to kill me. Can’t say I blame them.” She had killed a lot of people herself. It was only a matter of time before someone came around for revenge. Then she turned back to face forward. “So what do you want then?”

A soft exhalation followed, not a sigh not a laugh not quite anything easy to tell before the voice continued. "We have already got what we wanted. To find you and ensure you had all the necessary components that had been given. In truth, it was quite the worry that you had been sent away or abducted by much the same ones of evil that has inflicted this burden you so fearfully keep onto now."

The crunching of fruit suddenly ceased and the second voice, Jaav, spoke. "Getting the Focus to you had been quite difficult in the first place after all, let alone finding you and sneaking past all these such prying eyes back then. This was comparatively easy and we do enjoy some such simpler tasks. You know Mydia is quite nice this time of year I have to say, perhaps we should enjoy time here more often?"

"Yes, well, in any case, you may grasp that we have been around you for quite some time even if we have not met. Not exactly our interest, well Jaav liked you but personally I much preferred not so much engagement. We serve our master as he wishes in any sort of case regardless."

Quietly Guul spoke, closer and coming from a direction far lower than the other two voices. "And what do you truly want?

Mydia? What the hell was Mydia? She never heard of a name like that. Was that what they called the rainbow land down south? And the Focus? She hadn’t even gotten her puzzlebox yet. Which was weird considering she could ruin just about every mage she knew. “None of you are making any sense.” She said, and then kept quiet. Hoping whatever spoke couldn’t read her thoughts.

In truth she wanted to see again. And when she could, she would blind every worshipper of the wretched sun goddess. Around her the world would burn. People would get slaughtered, and even blind nobody, absolutely nobody could best her. What she wanted, was to be the strongest again. So strong not even a god could torture her like. So strong that one day she could raze the heavens.

“I want nothing.”

"Aw, you are a very cute mortal. In any case, you know the Focus, little golden amulet with a symbol of an eye? Has kept you alive more times then all the gods could count, hmm?

"'You're making no sense', I like that even a mortal can see that, eh Kiim?"

"Shush. Do you know how you arrived here Miss Aurielle?"

“Not Miss!” She instantly snapped as she even turned her head towards the one called Kiim, which was a weird name. She had gotten used to some weird names already, but that one was the weirdest. All three of them had weird names. But then her mind made the click, and touched the metal disc that still dangled on her hip. Her fingers running along the eye. She frowned. “I just… found it.” She said, seemingly looking away from the three. Despite it just having been some random disc found on her nightstand, she had kept along. Feeling some weird connection to it. The three their words started making sense. Slowly. “Who… is your master?”

Jaav continued eating the various fruits loudly as Kiim replied. "He has many names, I'm not sure of any that you would recognize. But I can describe him well enough, or I can even show you if you like."

"Best to do both really, they always choose the most difficult path, that Night Elf King was half ready to be taken it to Him when he stepped aboard, both is best."

"Hmm, how about this Aurielle daughter of Frankert and Elliénne. I will tell you of my master, and if you do not know of him, I will show his visage to you. How does that sound for the procession here?"

"I wonder if any others here might be of use. We should check that out after this business is done."

A small smirk grew on her lips. Show her? She was blind. All she had now were taunting memories of a better time. Apparently the three either hadn’t picked that up or were just playing with her. Whatever the case, it was a way to pass the time. She sat up a little more. Faking attention. “Very well. Tell me of your master.” She said with a slightly challenging tone.

"There we go, that's a good start there." Jaav interrupted and Kiim responded with a soft huff before speaking.

"Our master is a strange one lets say. He doesn't like the current state of affairs, and he is very powerful indeed, powerful enough to maybe change things. However, there are others who are powerful like him, some you have come across yourself, they are a mixed bunch, some agree with him, and others disagree."

"Awful temper too, doesn't like being challenged, let me tell you. We will either explain to you in great detail how you are wrong, or will get you back into line more directly."

"In any case, he has taken a particular like to you, has aided you and kept watch over you. Showing him to you should generally explain the rest."

"Perhaps give her a name first? One of them at least, perhaps the same as he gave to that Vampire Queen?"

They knew the vampire queen. Auriëlle perked up with her mention. They knew her, which meant they had heard of her at least. That was her way back.

“You’ve just described my mother.” The sorceress said. Auriëlle had no fond memories of the woman. All she knew was pain and tears. Feeling as if she failed her every time she couldn’t summon a candle flame. Those deeply disapproving eyes had a way to make her so small. They had crushed her heart. In the end, she put her in a shadowy corner to just write on parchment. A stain upon the bloodline of the great Simain Flameweaver. “But I doubt she would’ve send for me after all this time.” As powerful as Elliénne was, she could not have made the Focus, or gain servants capable of bending the mind.

"Hardly," Kiim scoffed, "We would not answer to some insignificant Acadian. You think too small."

"In truth most Acadians are frighteningly disappointing, you would think given the state of that city they would be more moral and yet they always find a way to fall short."

"Ekh-Rus, to put a name to a power beyond your knowledge."

“Never heard of it.” Auriëlle responded, truthfully so. “But considering how haughty you talk, I will assume he is a god.”

"And she got it. Ready to be shown? Or would prefer not to know one of your benefactors?"

"I should ask for seeds to plant from these trees..." Jaav ending his speech with another soft plucking of fruit and subsequent crunching.

“You could just name his domain.” Another voice spoke. Auriëlle recognized this one. The headmaster. “The trees here were shaped by the gods themselves. I could give you the seeds but the trees would be no different than any other.” His voice became louder. No, not louder. Closer. “You make odd friends, Auriëlle.”

The sorceress remained quiet, still curious how the three would show their master when she was blind.

"Unfortunately our Master gave specific instructions on this matter. We may only speak specifics after showing."

"A shame at that, it must be good health, something which is rare outside of the careful crafting."

"You are one to talk of strangeness indeed. Do you have kin? You are apart from even the long forgotten in form, new or alone?"

A muffled reply of Jaav through another set of crunching, "Perhaps both, many gods are fond of such things.

“She’s in a…delicate sta-“ The headmaster was cut off by rock breaking the earth open in his general direction. Auriëlle couldn’t hear him for a second, but knew he was still around. Her strongest sorcery couldn’t touch him. “Very well.. if you insist.”

“Show me.” Auriëlle said.

"We will speak more after." The three fell silent, even Jaav stopped eating, Aurielle felt the lightest of touches on her hand.

An idea, or memory, a vision perhaps? Whatever it was it was in her mind, skipping past whatever barriers to sight had been constructed. She was in a foggy place, a place of smooth stone as far as could be seen. Strange towers of seeming unending heights stretch across the horizon.

The fog roiled in upon itself and then she was no longer where she was. Still in this vision a place of stone and fog, but there was a mountain that was not of stone, or dirt or anything of Galbar and the earthen land there. Corpses, of every kind, every race Aurielle knew, and many she didn't. Animals, plants, trees, all dead made up this mass.

Then it moved, shifting towards where she viewed it from, an eye flowed across the mass, one contained in a circle of spikes and as large as she was in her entirety. It stared unblinking when it set upon her.

Her mind was bombarded with thoughts, ideas and concepts in fragmentation. Her mind tried to make sense of it all.



Each came with sensation, with fragments of images, of other ideas that slipped past. It ended with a finality on the last.



Then she was back, her mind was her own and the soft touch retracted from her.

The visions faded again, leaving her blind. At first she was embracing the bliss but something inside of her moved against it. Made her realize the wrongness of it. About everything she had seen. For a second she was calm, and then suddenly, frantically, scrambled to get up while she grabbed the focus, ripped it from its bindings on her hip and threw it on the ground.

She felt sick in her stomach. No, no she was not some favored servant of death! She killed… yes. She killed a lot, yes. But she had no love to die herself! She didn’t want that peaceful tranquility. She looked up as if she wanted to say that. As if she wanted to defend herself. Words fell short though. So instead she turned around and tried to stomp away as best as a blind girl could.

The Headmaster moved quickly in between the Three and her as he picked up the Focus. “She will want this back… sooner rather than later.” He assured them. “And when she will, I will return it. That is my solemn promise.” He looked up to face them. There was no fear on his face. “Now I would imagine your master wants her to return to her duties. I cannot let you take her though. My own master will not allowed it.”

"I did say that revealing such was bad to Him did I not? They never do understand even if they've been set out."

Kiim turned to Jaav sticking a tongue out before replying to the Headmaster.

"In truth our master was more concerned that her soul had been stolen away by one of the immoral ones. Assessing her current state and presenting our Master was secondary."

Guul broke in, "Would it be possible for us to receive a tour? In not now given what may be urgent, perhaps in sometime when things are more free?"

The Headmaster looked almost elated when the Three told him their master did not want her back just yet. She had only just started on the path. She didn’t see it yet, but there were bigger things written in her destiny than perhaps even the gods realized. “Her soul will be safe for as long as she stays on this island. My master will see to that.” He swore to the one called Kiim.

Then he turned to the one called Guul. “There are, indeed and sadly, more pressing matters I must attend to.” Though those pressing matters were not Auriëlle. “Perhaps should you all return in a few years’ time? When a few more mortals have taken residence here and the Omniversity can be witnessed in its fullest glory.” He proposed with a friendly smile. “It will be an honor to guide the avatar of a divine through its hallowed halls then.”

Guul nodded as Kiim replied, "We shall return then."

They stood up from the resting position they had adopted, Jaav spoke before anything else.

"One last thing, although you may know of such things in general terms, it may be of some interest to the specific for your records and times of future when your pupils or theirs grow hungry in desires of the mind. A person of your talents might find interest near the canyons of the great Eastern Isle, a place stands most visible that houses a great thing there."

“All I teach can already be found on this island.” The headmaster said with a friendly voice. “So I have no need to endeavor beyond here.” He let the words hang in the air for a second before continuing: “But if the place is as interesting as you say it is, the Lady in the Mists has doubtlessly already put clues on this island pointing towards it.”

Kiim and Jaav turned, as did the whole of their body, Guul replied before turning her head with them. "As long as such is known, the Lord of Mana's hand was most appreciated in the creation of the matter of interest to your kith."

Kiim spoke as the three walked back to the barge aloud back towards the headmaster, "Perhaps you'll gain kin too at some such time."

The headmaster just smiled but kept his words to him. He didn’t need his kin to return. In truth he didn’t really remember anything about his life before waking up. The tomb seemed to have siphoned his memories of his life before. When he woke up, he was the only one to do so. That night it was strange to reseal tens of coffins. Each containing the husked remains of what might’ve been family, friends, a lover. Yet feeling nothing for them. “I bid you farewell for now.”

The triple serpent avatar returned to the barge, an easy divine leap up the few meters to its deck and they were off once more, the Golden vessel rapidly receding from the skies near the Omniversity.

---

Far beneath the protruding skein of the world to the bedrock of the ocean, past great trees of stone, in the darkness of the deep a silent susurration dwelled. Like an unseen predator, it expanded its domain, filling the ocean with its siren song and a deadly, imperceptible embrace. From it, lifeforms fled, and those who failed fell upon the world’s floor and drowned in its crushing hold. It was a great pressure, an unseen blinding blackness. At its center was a shaft of oil-slick stone, a pearl of angst and discontent thrice pressed into Galbar’s stolid stone. With time the darkborne life of those forgotten ocean currents came to accept its presence and adapt and though few Vrool lived in that unbroken occlusion, some remained, their many-minded limbs coming to begrudgingly fear and revere that strange place.

Whisper of the All-Sire, bite not upon mine limb. Grasp not at my bell, bless me from afar.

Their hides--so long-held apart from even the gentle light of the One-Good-Orb--shaded darker, so that dark water was indistinguishable from the pitch of their slick flesh. Many creatures, pale or dark of scale, adapted to the greater pressure of the strange artifact. Akuans--those drowned in the place--gained a subtle resilience, letting them recover from the crushing pressure of its far-flung touch.

Decades stacked upon themselves and with their passing, those mortals who gathered beneath the vast continent, in the deepest depths, began to build and linger. A clan of Akua, the Kha’ Anaku Rae, formed amidst the columns of that dark place, and so schools were corralled and controlled by their hands. Coral and oceanic flora were sown in repeating frequency upon the soil and that pillared bedrock of Khesyr and eventually they took root. Ever so slowly, in the pressure of those depths, a civilization formed, and a faint light pierced the vast Drowned Forest of Anatsa Kest.

A century passed and a great expanding ring of bioluminescent reef formed to encircle and protect the great column of pressure. While some wildlife swam unaffected within the killing embrace of the Trident, the Kha’ gave it space and revered it from a safe distance. Only their dead were given unto its great pressure.

Splits in the clan erupted, and after a period of discontent and war, the united split thrice--as if to reflect the Hadean idol. So that Kha’ Anaku Rae became the Kha’ as one, each taking their own titles to separate themselves from their former kin.

The Kha’ Wae remained in the central band of the Anatsa Kest, their get was the largest, and so they kept their grip on much of the holdings that the three had built together. Delving deeper, the Kha’ Kū’i made their home beneath, so that all which drifted down--forgotten--might feed them and theirs. Perhaps those lost to memory might rise up once more and retake their domain of eld. Their numbers were least amongst the three, and yet with few predators and fewer rivals in those depths, they claimed the most, carving their homes into the pillars beneath the sea, and growing black jagged coral. They came to rely less upon their sight, developing their hearing--and the reach of their voice--above all else. Among them came to be born many to whom deepspeak came more naturally. Yet, far above both fled the Kau Kha’ Tai and theirs were a numerous breed with far-reaching sights and ambition. Though their territories were smaller than the others, they spread out far and wide, connected by patrolled currents like great highways beneath the ocean.

Between this triquetra of Kha’ hate simmered, but time heals all wounds and so through the influence of centuries they became almost united once again. With their strength and numbers, they spread far and wide and while allies, they each held their own territories spread out across the vast tides of the hidden ocean beneath Khesyr’s stone.

Still, even with the sprawling luminescence of coral and stone, and the strength of many Akuans, the sacred peace that remained about the great Trident could not remain forever. For it had been wrought by He-Who-Spawned-the-Oceans, and so twas destined to be wielded. Yet, no Vrool had yet managed to pass the hardy defenses of the Akuan Kha’. For their numbers were great and their cleverness a thing spawned from the collective of many minds in unison. In their histories, carved in libraries shaped like stone columns was held a history of slavery and obeisance.

These Kha’ they had tasted freedom...and they were not soon to give it up. Not without a fight.

Of course, with two millennia behind them and countless battles triumphed, the Kha’ perhaps grew too arrogant in their strength. So it is that the tides of change slowly creep upon them, coming from a place of light where no longer are they fit to dwell. On this, a calm day, same as many before it, arrives a Vrool of a different sort.

On this day--within the outer reaches just beyond the Undersea of Khesyr--arrives a Vrool of truly royal blood and with Krem’s arrival...change is just past the next reef.

---

The young prince of Aopoa gazed into the dark abyss that stretched out beyond him in all directions, the inky depths of that dark and distant realm. His journey from the realm of his father, the All-Tyrant Kaarn, had found him buffeted and driven to the far reaches of the world. Gliding upon the western currents leading from the Tyrant’s reefs, Krem had wandered from the benthic domain of his spawning to find himself among the strange edifices that held aloft the oddling continent of Khesyr. Though the surface did not interest Krem farther than he could throw it, the gentle whispers of the ocean called the princeling deeper and deeper into the veritable forest of basalt columns that stood ominously in the stygian confines below. He had slowly delved deeper into the dark realm of Anasta Kest, a name unknown to him before that day. To the Vrool in the capital and the Akuan slaves who whispered of it, it was Kexestarxa. Accounts of the place had always been scarce and the weakness of the local vrool alongside the scarceness of food had kept the armies of tyrants well from that place. And though they would not admit it, Tyrants feared that place; tales of supernatural things emanated from there and all wise Tyrants gave wide berths to such alien things.

Obvious why… asserted the laconic internal monologue of the Thirteenth-Spawn as he glided through the depths.

His journey had taken him deep within and although the darkness was now becoming more than even he was commonly prepared for it was not enough to dissuade him. He had learned from a diminutive vrool at the outskirts of the continent’s depths more of the Akua who dwelt within. Strange folks, oddly colored, and of poor demeanor; they had no love of the vrool or even their distant kin. Nevertheless, the princeling delved further onwards. That had been nearly a week of travel behind him now and Klaar had begun to regret his choices. In this dark realm even his predatory skills were put to the test; he had to admit to himself as well that he had never truly needed to hone those skills to the razor edge his race was built for. The prey here was skittish and clever, prone to fleeing even at the first sign of threat, and those that did not remained due to a considerable sense of security in their own defenses. He had been able to win over a carcass from a relatively small Deep Drake, a deep-diving whale slain by the monstrosity, but had abandoned the corpse after only some feasting when a far larger sea serpent caught wind of his rapast.

Now with his stomachs gurgling ferociously and demanding sustenance even to the point of consuming himself, Krem knew he was in danger. Given much longer his body would begin consuming his own muscles to maintain his life and weaken him further. The life here that he found easiest to capture and devour were too small to sustain him indefinitely and required patience enough to keep him from continuing on his journey. The idea of remaining longer beneath the continent seemed even more deadly than simply starving in his travels so Krem had continued unabated. Worse still, he noticed two days prior that he was being stalked. Though they likely believed him unaware of their presence, Krem was no measling spawn of this fetid place; he might be smaller than his siblings but he was without equal among the vrool these Akua had faced. Gripping his thrusting spear of sharpened black coral and bone in one tentacle tightly, he had continued ever onward into the murk. A voice yet called to him and no manner of distraction could pull his attentions from it; he had to know its source.

It seemed though that the lurking sightless shadows of that murky deep abyss had other stark intentions for his most regal, ostentatious fate. From afar something disturbed the currents as they passed across Krem's skin, perhaps alerting him to a more dangerous incursion that was likely soon to reach him. Then, despite that warning, a wave of chaotic currents struck at Krem and the almost soundless droning of some far off singing sea-thing reached the water-treading Krem.

Kremmesxaturl recoiled away from the currents, allowing their forcefulness to move him; it was never wise to simply stand against the tide. Spitting out a curse in the Holy Vonu, a riptide formed around Krem that pulled him from the path of the deepspeak assault. All twelve tentacles jumped to position, forming a cage of defensive, dexterous tines to strike out at his assailants. All but one were emptied save for one of his lower tentacles baring the dangerous coral barb he wielded as a weapon. As he waited, eyes peering out into the depths, a gentle hum escaped his bell that sonorously echoed off his surroundings. Though most vrool might have announced their intent for violence then and there, challenging their hidden foes, Krem was far more patient; if it had been a vrool he would not have been ambushed, after all.

From the formless deep a silence seemed to reach and grasp, but its hold could not last for long as more deepspeak was unleashed, its sound like a far off gurgling gasp. It came at him from below, but its threat was ponderous, and so something else reached before it glanced against his hide. The rippling waves of its passing deadened by forces most arcane, an unknown shape struck out at Krem, flinging forth a long, bladed shaft, which aimed for any gap in his net of arms.

With a keening howl Krem rotated to fight against the attackers though he knew full well he had stumbled well and truly into their ambush. Though he had no time now, there would be curses saved for later to sting him for not acting sooner. Sounds of two currents crashing against one another, the emanations of a school of fish being parted by a predator diving into their wake, and the din of forceful waves crashing against the seafloor roared from Krem. The deepspeak chant produced a tight area of violent, opposing riptides that struck the lance on either side and dashed it in either direction, robbing it of momentum. With the women deflected Krem launched himself away from the center mass, having seen Akua hunt large game in a similar manner; he would not be their prey, that was for certain. His intense burst of speed brought him towards one of the great pillars, the princeling intent on using it to anchor at least one side of himself from the ambush. As he arrived at the pillarous cleft he spun about, baring his weapon and tentacles with two lower limbs grabbing hold of the wall to aid in movement. With beak bared, Kremmesxaturl prepared for the next strike to fall.

Left-to-right and right-to-left high pitched noises of indecipherable nature shifted across the flesh of his bell, alerting him of some unknown communication. Then, from ahead, a slowly turning current began to manifest, as if a whirlpool had been sucked beneath the ocean and made to against him press. The discarded thrusting implement was pulled off by the swirling current and soon vanished from all perception, not that it was lost.

---

Chittering arguments and calls of circumlocution swept between the members of the Kha'.

"Do see how big tis? It's grown fat from far-off crop!"

Another voice slipped swiftly through the tides, almost undetectable to their prey. "Foe-down nine. Foe-left ninety. Foe-face twenty--shut up Tis Tha', you echo much."

"Ah, what's harm then, mmn?" Tis Tha' shot back, her query followed swiftly by their shifted coordinates and an utterance of action.

---

A blast of narrow force struck out, passing through a gap in limbs, to strike at Krem's side. The sound of its speaker was lost before it struck. The attack was not followed up, but the strength of the growing, churning, riptide continued to grow.

Krem’s eyes darted back and forth from the enemies hanging in the murk, their silhouettes too difficult to make out consistently in the extremely low light. He counted at least a half dozen of them, though that could easily have been a false appraisal. All the vrool knew for certain was that he was starving, outnumbered, and reacting. To continue to follow at their pace was folly; he needed to gain the initiative. Two more tentacles joined the pair already pressed against the pillar, the double brace of limbs tightening up into thick coils as he pressed himself ever closer to the stone. He waited patiently for the next communication, an errant cry of well-channeled Vonu that kept their voices directed to specific areas. When at last one spoke more freely, perhaps talking to more than just one of its comrades, Krem rotated. The hulking body of the vrool propulsed itself from the column with tidalwave force, immediately tightening and lengthening out to make for as hydrodynamic a projectile as possible. The terrifying amounts of energy generated to allow Krem to close the distance sent spiderwebs of cracks dancing out in all directions from his launching point on the pillar.

Two tentacles surged forward ahead of his torpedo-like assault, one wielding his thrusting barb while the other simply waited behind the forward guard. In less than a second he was on top of the assailant, now clearly seen as an Akua. The creature’s eyes went wide in horrified surprise at the rapidity of Krem’s dive, attempting to paddle back while thrusting forward with a spear. Kremmesxaturl’s well-trained tentacles set about their business with a literal mind of their own. The tentacle wielding his barb batted the head of the opposing spear aside just enough to miss his body by centimeters while the second rapidly enveloped the haft of the spear, tugging it with contemptuous ease from the attacker’s hands. In that instant of disarmament four more tentacles dove inwards, grasping at outstretched limbs to gain purchase and tug the foe towards Krem’s gnashing beak.

”Change your course,” blurted out the princeling vrool, both towards his acquired hostage and the surrounding Akua; if he could not see them, he could at least let them hear him. Unlike vrool Akua cared for the lives of their kin and now Krem was betting everything on that sentiment, ”Or he dies.”

Struggling vainly for but a brief moment, the Kha’ found that he was soundly caught and so fell into utter stillness. Unable to move of his own volition, Tis Tha’ released a short string of high pitched noises--far more grating upon the senses up close than they’d been from afar. Turning then to face the deadly beak of the vrool, the Kha’ swallowed and spoke in halting tongue more familiar to Krem’s mind.

“They. Leave me here to die. Come back later. Kill,” he said, no hesitation in his tone. Yet, in the akuan’s body there was a subtle tension which to Krem would be palpable against his limbs. Tis was lying.

Far off high-strung noises, their directions shifted by deepspeak’s insistence, pinged against the vrool’s many tentacles as the unseen others spoke.

”Then I will be fed.”

The Thirteenth Spawn’s threat was palpable, rippling through the waters like the aftershock of a deep-sea quake. It was clear as day that he couldn’t pass this chance by. If he did the risk to himself would be far greater, his gambit having brought him far out into open waters once more. Further still, despite the captured Akua’s best efforts to disguise his lie the deception was clear as day to Krem; though he could not hear their words exactly, the others of this one’s ambushing party were worried.

”We need not fight,” came the surprising followup to the previous threat, ”I seek the voice below.”

There was a very visible release of tension around Tis’ limbs, a metaphorical slackening of the leash that indicated willingness to follow through with the promise. Though they could tighten down in an instant, even snap bones with ease with enough effort, the tentacles hinted gently at freedom. As he spoke a second throughline of his voice carried the conversation outwards towards the others, rippling Vonu riding upon verses of its own making to distant ears.

Insistent echoes argued 'cross currents like subtle whispers, barely heard, then fell silent in stark resistance to holy Vonu's call. Tis' limbs relaxed briefly, then stiffened. A great pressure built out of sight. The akuan swallowed nervously and though he could not sweat, a look of clear discomfort slipped onto his visage.

A moment passed, tension building somewhere in the murk, then capitulating, Tis Tha' let out a pleading bark.

"Stop!"

The pressure fell away, Tis relaxed, his eyes eyeing the vrool's closed maw with pleading nervousness. Still, he did not speak further, almost as if waiting. Around them, faintly illuminated particulate--stone, sand, and flecks of blood--drifted through the undersea. Then, when silence had almost outworn its welcome, six more shaded shapes drifted into the reach of vroolish eyes. Two of the strange akuans held weapons, while three more were black as pitch--barely silhouettes in the dark, their eyes glowing faintly.

One let loose their weapon, and it drifted gently in the waves. Unburdened, she swam forth and gestured to their friend.

"Let go," she said, her accent light and lilting where the paler Tis' was thick and rough. She spoke Krem's tongue with clarity, lacking indecision, her tongue familiar with its taste. "You are proven now. Few need fight among the maiole."

She paused, her azure eyes falling on his bloodied limbs, lips twisting downwards at the sight.

Her words tinged now with crashing waves and deep flung ocean's might, she further clarified.

"You will not come to further harm." Casually she drew one taloned finger across the outside length of one arm from shoulder down to hand. Blood as black as volcanic silt slipped out gently as if at her command.

Two of the others spoke in their strange high-tongue, looks of faint disbelief on their faces. The rest remained unmoved.

Krem’s senses devoured every input the strange Akua provided, from every tentacle’s sense of touch to his two forms of hearing and everything in between. They truly were like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Though the princeling himself had better control of himself, sub-minds pinged back rampant curiosity; their language in particular was keenly sought after, the statocysts dotting his body responding to the high pitched tongue with considerable intensity. It did not take much for him to realize what the behavior meant, at least vaguely enough, and he took the woman’s behaviors as a clear sign of the honesty behind her words. Kremmesxaturl offered up a brief prayer to the All-Sire for his luck; if these had been vrool he’d been ambushed by, he was confident he would have been slain.

”Then we are alike,” he responded in Vonu while watching with fascination at the woman’s actions. The drawing of your own blood was meaningless in vrool culture, perhaps even a sign of early onset insanity, but the heir of Aopoa was wise enough in his few years to think otherwise. He trusted the same was not required of him, blood always leaking from a light wound received from the initial ambush.

”I seek the voice below,” reiterated Krem then, unwilling to allow the lull in activity to potentially sour his chances further. A rumble rolled through his body as the extra exertion reminded him of just how hungry he truly was. ”And a meal.”

The woman nodded faintly, a regal air about her, before she turned from Krem and gestured to her kin. The others let out small noises of acknowledgement and shifted back into the mire of shadows.

Swimming to the edges of vrool vision, the akuan leader took hold of her strangely wicked weapon, then turned back to look 'pon Krem. Her eyes glimmered faintly in the murky dark, unwavering as they met his many-eyed gaze. A small smile quirked her lips, "Come, maiole, swim with me." Then, without further hesitation, the akuan turned and darted off into the black.

Krem groaned deeply, entirely displeased with the game he was fairly confident she was playing. Unlike most vrool he knew the emotional cues of mortal species well and that smile told him everything. No matter. With that he used what energy he had to keep up with her, surging through the water in tow. He trusted their words that he would go unharmed, more out of desperation than anything. A twinge of guilt came over him as one of his subminds spoke back realizations of new options arising; if they were not completely honest, he could simply eat everyone in their village.

Driving the thoughts from his mind, Krem swam onward. If nothing, he would at least have a chance to get closer to the voice that called to him in the distant depths. With that he continued to swim forward with the Akua, keeping pace with them with relative ease but feeling the sapping of his energies deeply.

---

In the inky depths of the Drowned Forest it was difficult to tell how long one had been swimming or how far they had come, and with dark water stretching out in all directions Krem could scarcely tell--after a brief time--which direction he had come from. Nonetheless, he and the Kha’ hunters traveled for some time through the waves, but after an indeterminate period had passed, the vrool might notice a faint change in the waters, as if an unseen light had touched his flesh. Moment passed and the hunters took up formation around him, with the woman swimming just ahead of him.

Slowly the gentle pull of a deepspeak current tugged at his body, easing his way through the depths. The Kha’ speakers had begun to guide his path. Where once silence had reigned, the gentle tonal hum of deepspeak now droned on and at the very edges of that undersea horizon, the illusion of illumination began to make itself known.

The woman swam ahead some, her voice reaching back through the waves to reach him. “Your name, maiole?”

Krem swam onwards, stunned by the surprising change in scenery. The thrumming vonu could be heard by anyone educated enough to listen for it and Krem himself was no mere foundling at its use. The light that began to illuminate the space before him wasn’t true light, that much Krem knew, and he had seen such acts of vonu accomplished by warlocks for their hidden laboratories. It spoke of this community’s skill with the holy tongue of Klaar and the princeling found himself surprisingly humbled by their unity. It was only then, as he praised them, that he realized he had unintentionally ignored his host.

“Kremmesxaturl,” he responded, dispensing with his heritage both out of general disinterest and a sense that it would do him nothing but harm among these Akua, “Or Krem.”

A moment passed as his eyes moved separate from one another, devouring the information they could glean. Even his tentacles seemed to be acting on overdrive, their statocysts rumbling in tune with the vonu. This was, for all Krem could perceive, one of the most unique places he’d ever experienced in the sea. Not that he had seen much. Even his precocious grasp of laconic communication seemed overwhelmed, driving him to speak more than he had in the weeks of his travel.

“Where are we? What is this place?”

There was no response for a time, as if she perhaps had not heard his words. Before it could drag on, one of the other Kha' took up the slack, giving him a toothy lopsided grin. "D'nah mind Tae-nā Olūra, she is ridin' za path," the warrior said in a rather lyrical accent, the sound perhaps more familiar to the vrool.

"Name's Uak nimu," he explained, unbidden, swimming in synch with Krem, seeming undaunted by the vrool's greater size. "Ya seein' za song woven through our tides maiole. The gentle glow o' masterful Vonu ent za subtle glow of far off--ah, was za word--...." Nimu fell silent, a frown warping his features before he seemed to dismiss the issue, "Kha' grow food. No bright orb. Down 'ere it makes its own light."

That said, he fell silent, side-eying the vrool with a glint of amusement.

Krem returned the side-eyed glance with three of his own, staring at so-called Uak quizzically. His accent was thick, that much was completely apparent, but Krem was able to muddle through. Though his dialect was distinctly different from that of his keeper, Kaia, the shared inflections of the Akuan tongues spoken in Vonu were similar enough. The description of it all fascinating the vrool as he swam ever onward, now allowing for much of the movement to be driven by the current.

”I see.”

Krem retreated into his mind's-eye as the descent continued, his gaze turning away from the oddling Akua and instead towards the numerous sights about his personage. All six eyes moved separately, creating nearly a 360 degree image of the space. It was unique, to say the least, and nothing like anything he’d experienced on Aopoa. To him it was almost like going onto the surface, so different it was from the world of his birth.

Nimu bobbed his head with an appreciative smile, and returned his gaze forwards. The only sounds from then on were the occasional bursts of high-tongue and the far rarer stumbling depth of Nimu’s accent, talking idly of simple things if only to fill the time. It was a long journey, it seemed, but from time to time the hunters would dart off and return with a glowing morsel or some strange floran delicacy of the deep. Once, Olūra herself departed, returning with something larger than the rest as if not to be outdone. She ate little of it, discarding it behind her after only a few measly bites, as if to say that she was above such things as hunger. However, held within that casual carelessness was an understanding of their guest, for the leavings remained untouched by the other Kha’ and instead drifted well into the reach of Krem.

Perhaps, if he were paying close attention, he might have noticed a single furtive glance from the leader of the party.

Nonetheless they continued on for some time and though it was blacker than the foulest of Klaar’s darkest moods, the young vrool would notice that at times they strayed around entire patches of ocean as if skirting the edge of some unseen territory. The perceptive Krem might even catch the faint rumbling noises of some unknown beast lurking far off in the depths. With each league of currents crossed it became more and more apparent why no vrool legion had managed to conquer the Kha’. It was a sobering thought to consider that the akuans managed to survive this place at all, let alone thrive within it and thrive they did.

As they crossed some unseen boundary, the ghostly lights on the horizon grew markedly in brightness and number. Around Krem, the akuans seemed to collectively relax, as if before they had been ready for an attack from any direction and now they could finally breathe. Splitting away from one another, all except their leader and the two blackfleshed akuans swam each in their own directions.

For her part, Olūra slowed the pace of their reduced party before turning to regard Krem. After a moment of intensity, a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips and she spread out her arms.

“Welcome, maiole, to Anatsa Kest.”

As the words left her lungs and bubbled through the shifting currents of the blackest sea, they passed through another unseen barrier and revealed to Krem was a vast sprawling city. Coral of all types--and plants yet unseen by the vrool--protruded from almost every available surface, turning each endless column of stone into a glowing menagerie of life. With each sweeping pass of his many eyes more details would reveal themselves to him. First the sheer vastness of the settlement, then the lush bounty of the thriving undersea metropolis. Though it was hardly bright, the ghost-like lights that danced to-and-fro in the gently shifting currents of the undersea made it seem as if the illumination itself swam alongside the akuans who called this place home.

In every direction, branching towers of coral, their growth seemingly guided by a cunning intellect, forging from their organic forms pieces of incredible artistry like spiralling towers and twisting structures--some closed off, and others with many perforations. To one side a group of akuans flitted in and out of a coral structure, gathering up--or returning--what could only be weapons. The building was full of long curving entryways and resembled a cage more than any enclosed sort of thing. As he watched an argument seemed to break out between a group of akuans who had seen him.

Hearing the commotion, Olūra burbled softly, seeming to laugh at their foolishness. The displeased Kha’ rushed the armory, but just as they neared it, the entire structure twisted and a hollow thrum shook the water. The coral had shut itself and--apparently--it had been grown in such a devilishly clever manner that the motion created a deepspeak utterance, for the would-be assailants were sent tumbling back through the waves. They were soon gathered by another group of akuans, chiding them and leading them away.

Olūra shook her head, her mantle drifting lightly in the water. “Some suffer at the sight of your kind. Their pride is fragile. Worry not. Despite them, you are safe and welcome here, maiole...Kremmesxaturl.”

The other black-scaled Kha’ shared a glance, then looked to their leader, letting out a number of barely audible vibrations. Olūra nodded in response and waved them off. They departed together, darting away with surprising velocity. Casually, Olūra gestured to him, turning to swim at a more leisurely pace.

“If you have questions…” she trailed off, letting him infer the rest of her statement.

For his part, Krem had observed with intensity unequaled by species of simpler and lessened senses. Every inch of his body was dotted with some form of sensory organ or nerve bundle, each new morsel of information devoured and digested by numerous minds. Though his kind often suffered from slow wittedness Krem felt no such compunctions, his cognizant mind active in its consumption of the raw data left out for him. In this time he had seen things unlike anything he had trapped in the realm of Aopoa and even more that was far more similar than these Kha’ Akua would like to believe. Even their response to him, their aggression in the face of his danger, was more alike to vrool than otherwise. Despite the potential danger posed by an angered populace, however, in this low light, more than enough for voracious vrool eyes, he was king. He had fed well off what they had provided, enough to feel energy roaring in his veins. What was far more interesting than their reactions, however, was that of the structure itself.

His mind acted quickly, picking apart what information he had gleaned. The city itself was large, though dwarfed by the sprawl that spilled from around Aopoa, but lacked the design of mortal planners. It was alive, that much was certain, and this concept alone played at the fantastical in Krem’s thoughts. If he was right, and he was sure he was, he knew this Anasta Kest was one of the great wonders of Klaar’s world. Words from Olūra, his guide and patron in this place, brought him back out from the oceanic depths of his mind.

“It thinks. How?” His question came simply, thunderously, as if there was now something powering his interest forward. Another thought burst through his brain, rippling out into words, ”Where is its heart?”

The waves rippled out from the thunder of his question and though the bustling of the Undersea’s greatest city took paltry notice, it was as if the currents about them had been struck to utter stillness. A tilted head, widened eyes, briefly parted lips, then a guarded expression, and a wary gaze. Olūra searched his visage for a time, allowing the silence to stretch between them, forming patterns that revealed the importance of his question. Still, though she was faced with a vrool of royal brood--his size speaking of many conquests, his words speaking of a deep and calculating intelligence--the Kha’ woman did not seem daunted. A small smile touched her eyes.

“You are like coral turned inside itself. Soft outside, but sharp within,” she regarded him a moment, then frowned. “No...perhaps the suppleness of your flesh is an illusion as well. You are more like a javelin. The core of you is sharp, and though the rest is smooth, it is just as much a weapon.” She nodded, satisfied with her simile. To this Krem offered no thanks, simply a continuation of his glowing, six-eyed attention.

Turning briefly, high-tongue casting out into the waters, Olūra increased her pace, facing him once more. She navigated the corridors of the city with the ease of one who has made it an extension of themselves. Without looking at her path, she spoke to him, assured that she would get where she needed to without the aid of her eyes.

To Krem she said these words. “It is customary to treat guests--our new maiole especially--with a small feast and honors for their accomplishment. However, I see that the sharpness of your curiosity will cut unnecessarily if it is not first sated.” She gave him a small, if winsome, smile, as if to tell him that she knew the hunger of his mind far outstripped that of his belly.

“Still...you must obey my words here as if I were your…” she paused a moment, searching for a word, “...mmn All-Tyrant.” She nodded to herself, satisfied that she had remembered this thing. A flush of iridescent color spread from her cheeks over her black-scaled hide, before vanishing with the shifting of the light and her mind’s focus.

“Will you agree to this maiole-Kremmesxaturl?” Her gaze then was heavy, as if behind it was held the weight of responsibility far outshining the light of her individual existence, or even that of Krem’s royal blood. There was a formalness to her tone as well, a somberness in her manner. Further, he would realize that she had stopped speaking in a more familiar akuan language, but had said the words in High-tongue and Holy Vonu both. Several akuans around them glanced in their direction, but quickly turned away--as if pointedly ignoring them. Some of them seemed more startled at the sight of Olūra than by his magnificent many-limbed form.

“In this, at least, you must submit yourself,” she clarified. “I will not betray this trust. I swear it on my name-entire,” she continued, pressing a hand over her bosom, three fingers together so the thumb and pinky made the two smaller tines.

Then, dropping the high tongue, she spoke her name, a regal air about her, its like expressed in perfect Vonu which few might achieve.

“Kha’ Kū’i Tae-nā Olūra Mai Kotoa, by this name I swear.”

The currents about them swirled and churned in a display of her conviction, speaking against his smooth flesh the essence of her seriousness and--to some small degree--her very nature. As the currents stilled, he would notice that those Kha’ nearby now either gawked at the display...or had fled into their coral abodes. Regardless of their actions...there was utter silence, as if every one of them now held their breath, anticipating his reply. Olūra did not blink or waver. She simply held his gaze and awaited his response.

“I obey.”

The ease with which his answer came may have startled others, the nature of the vrool opposed to such quick willingness to give up their individuality. To Krem, this was an easy thing to give. He had spent his entire life under the vast shadow of his father; to follow the demands of an Akua, temporarily at that, was something that would not gall him greatly. In the end, she had sworn as well to not abuse his oath; if she did, it would be on her head. Half-a-dozen orbs of blazing light stared down at the woman, lightning dancing in the confines of his skulless head. In the depths of his mind an awareness had electrified itself into existence. There was more to Olūra than a simple hunt-leader and Krem intended to find out what.

From her there was only the briefest hesitation as she looked the vrool up and down, before nodding. “So sworn is it by blood and blood; by Klaar, and by a current not of sire, but greater in its adherence to every oath ancient and newborn both.” She lightly made a sign as if slashing over her heart, then nodded again and turned.

“Follow.”

With a sudden burst of energetic movement she swept forwards, a trail of muttered Vonu casting out behind her, ensuring he could follow her path, even despite the confusing mire of the great Anatsa Kest.

Path-to-path they swam within, each a great throughway, while others branched out and were soon forgotten. They moved ever inwards and a sense of density and grandeur grew with each passing league. Though they were swift of limb within the water, and all others parted before them, it took a long time to reach what Krem could only guess could be their destination.

She slowed, a certain carefulness in her actions, a reverence in her strokes. Before them was the largest coral structure in the city, stretching vertically far beyond their meager mortal sight. She stopped then for a moment, muttering a Vonu chant that might evoke a sliver of remembrance. The worship of his father, perhaps by akuan servants who might see him as a greater entity. A respect earned even among all those many vrool who fought and clawed their way upwards at risk of life and limb...ever seeking the pinnacle of existence. Whispered words of old and gnarled sorcerers, ever scheming as they sought to make return the ocean’s prodigious sire, in all his magnificent mass and magnanimous majesty.

When she had finished she bid him lower his eyes from the great monument that spiralled up and out of so many pillars of stone, intertwining in a beautiful rising column, glowing to the point of blindness as if to hold fast against the cloying dark. Into this great throng they went, and though the colossal edifice was spacious, they found few residents therein. Those they came upon merely bowed or gave brief, quiet, words of respect, before passing on their way. By and large, Tae-nā Olūra ignored them, though when the occasional elder spoke to her, she gave to them motions that were surely those of respect.

After a short time the paths opened up and both were afforded room to stretch, the vrool especially. Here Olūra paused and flicked her limbs, swiveling in the water to face him. Behind her was a long stretch of gradually reduced illumination, all held within a truly cavernous corridor. The position of each glowing flora were grown in specific locations, and when seen together elicited an impression of twisting currents or an expanding shroud of tentacles. Strange imagery, given how insular the Kha’ seemed to be--and further, how they held the vrool largely in contempt as revealed by those would-be attackers at the outskirts of the city.

Olūra spoke, “Weapons. Belongings of any kind. Let them drift,” she gestured, her hand opening to show that he must leave them here. “This is a sacred place,” she gestured around them, taking in the whole of the structure, then especially the great corridor before them. Meeting his many eyes again she nodded, “The temple, it is Tuhin-ga O'mua.” The words--though vaguely familiar--had totally alien meaning, despite the fact that she had taken to speaking only the holy Vonu.

She glanced behind her meaningfully to the open maw, which seemed to descend into deeper and deeper darkness. “In the temple we speak quietly, but here…” she trailed off, a gentle care in her voice as it drafted to him upon the almost placid currents.

“Here only those through which the Vonu flows, may speak.”

Slowly she began to traverse the darkness, knowing he would follow. The deeper they went, the more familiar the place would feel to Krem as the interplay of unearthly power began to ripple through the water in the form of deepspeak far beyond that of mortal ken.

Throughout the entire journey into the depths of the Tuhin-ga O’mua Krem had remained silent. Each new order had resulted in action, his scant-few weapons left behind in some distant passage. Though his eyes had looked on at each passerby with some level of vague curiosity they too he had mostly ignored; his focus had moved on to darker things by then. He continued to follow in the dark waters of that stygian temple, eyes peering into the lightless depths with razor focus. A gentle, throaty hum began to emanate from his bill that rumbled out in the form of a vonu interplay with the symphony of sound rolling out from all around him.

”We are close,” spilled the thoughts of the princeling aloud, awareness of proximity to his goal intensifying.

There was no reply, only the darkness and the silence. They swam for an indeterminate amount of time and with each stroke the pressure of the water--and the murmur of arcane Vonu--grew in intensity and volume.

Finally, they passed from the great corridor and into a huge chamber filled with a tower of water that disappeared in both directions. Beneath them, far far below, the sound of something familiar spread.

“Behold,” she whispered, reverence thick in her resonant Vonu, “The Stygian Column.” Her words shook in the calm water and were swallowed as if by a great maw as their resonance was utterly subsumed by the immortal hymn of the unseen edifice.

Krem’s eyes followed the column downward, the glowing orbs marveling at the sight below. Every one of his senses was on fire, devouring the voice of the distant pillar sitting at the deepest point of the pit. At the farthest reaches of his perception he noticed his tentacles twitching with fascination. The voice of the depths spoke to him on a level he could hardly understand. A gentle hum escaped his bell, the deep tongue rolling from his body to echo back the call of the deep. With that his lower tentacles set him off from the deep, pushing his form into the open waters. Now lost to the world around him, Krem descended slowly into the darkness.

Likely lost in the call of the black-water edifice, Olūra called out; the strength of her Vonu writ with anxiety and fear. Behind him, beyond his attention, she swam forwards before he entered the Column and she could not follow. Her fear was not for what he might do, but for what might happen to him. For upon his entrance into the Column the pressures of those far-flung depths they twisted at his flesh, begging for his death.

The first waves of pressure emanating from the pillar struck Kremmesxaturl, his bell warping from the powerful waves of force. Telluric energy drove him downwards while Krem’s many-minds railed at the challenge. Tentacles struck out against the unending pressure of the Trident, fighting to grab purchase onto the pillar, ever being kept inches away. Again and again those mighty limbs thrashed at the water around him, kicking in all directions to push him every centimeter he can earn. With immense strain and struggle his first tentacle grabbed onto the pillar, immediately pulling itself about and tightening down to drag Krem closer. His rumbling form rippled like crashing waves as it fought upwards, one tentacle after the other snagging onto the edifice to begin the ascent.

Seconds turned to minutes and those dragged ever onward, stacking up as Krem battled his way upwards. By now his brain had lost nearly all blood flow, his hide paled by the pressure dragging him backwards. Despite all that difficulty his soul roared, fighting for every inch. The top of the pillar, where the Trident roared its gravitational power, seemed so distant even as the last few feet were closed. Beyond the worst reaches of the Trident swam Olūra, gaze locked on the path of the Vrool princeling.

Inches from the top, his prize just outside of reach, Krem slipped. The basaltic rock of the pillar gave way, crumbling beneath tentacle, threatening to drive the royal Vrool downwards to the very bottom of the pillar. With a roar of defiance, his voice opening up into a throaty song of the divine tongue, Krem struck back. The Holy Vonu poured from his beak and bell, vibrating the water into a violent roil, two immense forces battling between one another for reach. With a single moment of pause in the oppressive barrage of force, Krem lashed out with one powerful limb. The tentacle shot through the water as a thunderbolt, emanating the very same gravitational force exuded by the trident; in that moment, everything stopped.

Clinging to the trident’s shaft, just where that black pearl handle met the deadly tines, Krem’s reach held with flesh-whitening tightness. The immense gravitational forces of the trident abated, the anger and rage poured into it by its creator calmed in the hands of a new master. Krem rose in the waters, freed from the troubling force of the dread polearm while his eyes gazed with fascination down at its form. With one simple tug the Hadean Trident came free, the deadly weapon unleashing one rumbling echo of Vonu to assert its new-found loyalty. The Hadean Trident had found its fated master and at last Kremmesxaturl had come to collect.

---

They remembered. Dying that is. It wasn’t the least bit pleasant, they didn’t have any intention of doing that again. They didn’t know why they were back, or where they were, nothing here reminded them of how things should be. The hills were the first thing, these weren’t like the hill where they were from, these were older, had been enacted by the elements more. The forests were another, back where he was from hill snakes were a real problem, hadn’t seen a single one yet.

The sky was the same, but little else. The trees were similar enough, that was a good bet that the winter would be as harsh as back home, wherever this was. Perhaps it was the far east? They had heard strange tales from the east where the trolls lived. Maybe that was why he was back.

At the same time that didn't quite make sense, there were river people here. They wouldn’t survive out east. They remembered that from back home, while there were always a lot of river people they were shorter and less prepared than proper highlanders. Always so many river-people.

They had spotted trails through the forests, they had waited and seen strange river people, they wore strange clothes and even rode the Elk instead of hunting them like one was supposed to. Regardless they were river people still, they had stayed away from them, you could never trust river people. Still, they made spears and a bow, stronger than they needed for hunting proper. It was easier than it should be, they were much stronger than they had known. This new body still surprised them sometimes.

They had fitted stone heads to their spears, sharpened and fitted with resin and twine. They knew a trick or two, they knew such things several times over at that. They had been proper highlanders, now they were a proper highlander alone if they could be named that. They had located water, seen food, although they never got particularly hungry, they still chewed and ate occasionally. Still-water had been found easily enough, gave a good idea of what they looked like, they were larger than they had been.

It wasn’t that big of a surprise as things had gone. Now they sat cleaning their tools and trophies, after all, they hadn’t much to do but what was needed. Perhaps they would find a river person's place and see what they knew. After all the river people did know much, that, and their numbers, always made them dangerous. They had come across another bunch of the Elk Riders the other day. It was a foolish thing perhaps but they had come out to talk if they could.

Unfortunately, they spoke only river gibberish. Also unfortunately they were most aggressive and unreasonable. That was strange, after all, river people usually only got scared when you came upon their homes. They supposed their form was disturbing, it did come across as rather grotesque they had to admit.

They had fought, had little choice, the elk riders had come at them with throwing spears. That was when they learned something else, nothing much hurt them. Oh, it did penetrate their body, but it didn’t hurt as much as it should have. They had been stabbed before, plenty of times. These didn’t hurt right, beyond that their body healed far faster than it should, didn’t even bleed properly. Although what was appropriate for this body was a rather bit different.

It was rather fun to use their new body they had to admit, wrestling an elk to the ground was not something they had experienced before. Of course, they killed the riders too, river people always tried to come back if you let them. They had some interesting things, beyond the cloaks and good goatskins with beer. They had known metal before, the river people were fond of it in excess they knew, they knew how to work copper well enough themselves. This was different, better. The throwing spears were tipped with it. They knew not what it was but clearly, it helped explain why the river people here did so well, to have such a metal. They had made knives and axes and even little plates to protect themselves.

River people were fairly ingenious in making such things, they needed to be, after all, they weren’t as good as proper highlanders and these were no different. It had taken a bit of doing but they had managed to patchwork the cloaks and armors together to fit themselves. It wasn’t as difficult to wear as they had expected, and the knives were very useful too. It took some time to find a good stone to sharpen them on as the one they had been using for their knives wasn’t good enough.

They did find one though, and being able to properly sharpen them they had cut up the elk riders’ belts to keep the pouches and loops to connect for their own kind of storage vest. One needed to be properly prepared in all skills to survive. River people didn’t know that, they liked to make their women do some work and their men do the other, it made both lesser.

The skulls they had taken from the elk riders were still red with blood and would have to wash those again later. Regardless, they had spotted a river person village and hoped that they might find someone who could talk properly there. Else their plan was just head northeast, try to find a druid as they always knew well and might be able to help them. Or might even know what had happened.

It was a plan at least. They kept sharpening their knives, for now, they would need them later when they went to the village after all.

---

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---

---

The lord of Lethe let the shimmering visage of the inn fade from his mind as he shifted his attention back to his realm. There was quite a bit of work ahead of him given what he had planned, so he couldn't spend all day watching his avatar faff about. Withdrawing from the vision of Galbar as he moved deeper into his realm, Viris soon found himself at its center. So, gathering his vaporous form together as tightly as he could, Viris started work on his grandest project yet. The creation of what he called an "oversoul." A massive fracture from the infinite whole of his divine self, but not one to be cast down and used by a mortal as in Ibel's case. No, this was to be used by many, for he had heard his servants unuttered pleas and would leave them unanswered no longer. Thus would he take this part of himself and keep it here as the spring from which others would draw, not only so Ibel might rest, but also so he could more broadly enforce his will. With that done he could eliminate more knowledge than ever before.

It was the perfect plan, yet one minor flaw still nagged, gnawing at the back of his young mind like a malnourished rat with a seed.

Just how was he was to bestow such power to his mortal followers?

He assumed that the rest of his siblings did so through blessings, as that seemed to be the most straightforward choice, yet he was not as fortunate. Perhaps it was because of his inexperience, the fact that he was still relatively weak in comparison to everyone else, or his very nature, but he simply lacked the ability to influence the mortal realm in such a direct and impactful way.

So what was he to do?

Honestly he had no idea, not presently anyway. So, seeing no immediate solution, the conceptual returned his attention to finishing the creation of the oversoul for the time being. Looking within, he carved a rather sizeable chunk out of his own essence and cradled it in his hands, watching as more of the multicolored Lifeblood rushed in to fill the hole that had been left behind, just like before. Lifting this fragment on high, Viris gradually began to mold it into a spherical form, compacting it firmly until it held the shape he desired. With that done he bent over to place the fragment on the ground and, balling his hands into fists, slammed them into the barren earth, causing it to fracture and crack before rocketing up into the air where it remained

A monolith of change in a land of consistency.

Snapping his fingers, the god of forgetfulness observed the orb as it flew into the air, its interior pulsating with deific power. It hovered there, suspended by some unseen force, as the glow within slowly grew stronger, flooding the realm with a cobalt tinged radiance. Satisfied with his handiwork, Viris moved to the edge of the pillar and jumped, becoming one with the roiling fog below...

When the sun was highest in the sky and beat down upon the badlands like a great unceasing deluge of heat, the kayhin hovered above the small oasis townof Miha-Rad and began a song that wove the sunrays into blistering sunlight ink. The liquid gleamed as it was sung into little, fist-sized pots of clay that were then stoppered shut, and the thirty or so inkpots were placed into a reed basket which the old kayhin put over his shoulder as he and Rima-Tinur left the town to search for the kiwbur.

The heat hammered down on them and Rima was glad that old woman Huna had given her one of those wig-headdresses. “It will do you until I can sit you down and show you how to make your own.” She had assured her, “no self-respecting woman would keep wearing just any old yeh-to,” she had added with an almost-offended scowl. Somehow Rima suspected that it was not so much the idea of wearing an ill-fitting headdress that inspired her irritation. It was surely taxing on the heart to watch a kayhin making preparations for the... exorcising of her son. Rima needed no explanations to understand what that meant.

“Is there no way to fix this without doing that, idda-ta?” She asked as they left the town and its people behind them and wandered out into the desert. Jur-Boh and several other patrolmen had told them that Minir-Huda dwelled in cave system to the north, seeking shelter there during the day, and so that was where they were headed.

“If the dead can be returned to life, perhaps then a kiwbur can be made back into a humenak being.” The kayhin hummed lowly.

“Does that mean... you’re going to kill him?” Silence followed her words as they continued walking at speed.

“Did he not kill his brother?” The kayhin asked her, at which Rima frowned and nodded, thumbing at her bone staff. “Does he not yet prey upon the people here?” Rima released a tense breath and nodded again. “Is it not so that he can only endure by hunting down those who not so long ago were his blood and kin?”

“Y- yes.” The witch whispered sullenly.

“Then what other way is there of ridding these people of their plight?”

“Maybe we can reason with him. Maybe... I don’t know. There must be some way to show him that what he is doing is wrong. There must be some way of showing him that this kind of thing — this violence and killing and all this... this pain — is unnecessary and meaningless.”

“And do you believe one who slays his kin can be reasoned with?” The kayhin questioned her. The witch looked ahead and thought back to old Huna’s words on greed.

“Can greed not be reasoned with? Can it not be shown that it is a terrible thing? Terrible for the one who bears it and terrible for all others too? Surely he sees it as it is now — now that he has lost everything.” She glanced at the kayhin.

“Perhaps it can be reasoned with.” The kayhin intoned simply. “We will not know until we try.” Rima eyes brightened and a smile lit up her face. She came up by his side, locking an arm into his as Huna had shown her the night before, and was in all ways pleased. “But do not be sad if things do not happen as you like, my dear. It is the way of the world.” She pursed her lips regretfully and nodded in but said no more.

Soon enough the crimson sands and cacti gave way to blood-red rock. Rocky hills and buttes emerged from the red sands. The bare feet of any other peoples would have blistered and cooked on the scorching ground, but the soles of their feet were made thick by the gods just so they could walk the deserts and climb the mountains without fear of harm. Why, had a bed of thorny cacti laid itself out before them as far as the eye could see their hardened feet would carry them safely across.

Amongst the buttes and rocky outcroppings small cave entrances could be seen and the song that rang out from them was neither warm nor comforting but whispered of endless miles and worlds entire beneath the surface of the earth. Rima was not unfamiliar with such caves — for she had grown climbing mountains and navigating their dark, endless interiors. “The caves are as great as the deserts,” the kayhin had told her, “and if you go wandering you may lose yourself and find you are worlds away. Have patience; you will wander plenty when you are ready.” And though she was a curious child, she had been tempered well by her guardian.

The kayhin paused now and again as they wove their way over the exposed bedrock and buttes, turning his head here and there as though listening to something before changing direction ever so slightly and continuing. An hour or so of this passed until they came before a gaping crevice at the base of a great butte, and the kayhin stood listening for a few moments. Here and there the red rock betrayed a red stain, little trails, marks where claws had been dragged through stone. “He is in there?” Rima asked, and her idda-ta nodded. “Are we going in?” She questioned, and the kayhin nodded again. He reached into the basket of clay inkpots and picked one out, and the inks emerged with a whisper and he laced it on her face and neck and hands before doing the same to himself, smearing some across his naked chest, back, and legs also.

“Minir-Huda, we have come to make peace with you.” The kayhin chanted aloud, “so come forth into the mountain-shade and let us speak.” Rima gripped her staff tightly and watched the great crevice for what felt like long minutes. She glanced at her idda-ta, but he was not moving. Then something stirred in the darkness and tenebrous tendrils sloughed from Minir-Huda as he emerged into the semi-darkness of the cave entrance, revealing unnaturally toned muscle, shadowed eyes, and angular features.


“I have no quarrel with you, kayhin. Take your peace and go elsewhere.” Minir-Huda growled, his lips barely moving.

“And does this all please you, my son? The blood of your kinsmen is on your hands.” The kayhin chanted.

“Of course it doesn’t please me!” The kiwbur growled, the darkness beneath his brows deepening. “But it is done. And I only prey on those whose hubris matches the mountains. I am the punishment of the gods — upon myself, first and foremost.”

“Why did you kill your own brother?” Rima suddenly blurted, causing the vampire to turn his head towards her. “Why would you break your mother’s heart like that?” Minir-Huda clenched his fists and smashed the stone-headed hammer he held against the rock wall to his side.

“My brother was arrogant, gloating, cruel. He was not worthy of succeeding my father — may his years be many and joyous. None were safe from his scheming, no woman secure from his roaming hands and eyes. Such as he do not belong among the living, let alone in positions of authority. I saved my people and would have been worthy of leading them. But the justice of the gods is blind, and I accept my punishment with a contented, if heavy, heart.”

“Have you made yourself a god, slaying whom you please and sparing whom you please?” The kayhin asked. “Have you opened up the hearts of men and peered within to know who is good and to know who is not?”

“Spare me your moralising, kayhin, for I have accepted my punishment and have no need for you to drive a spear into the open wound.”

“You were punished for the killing of your brother, but you have not wearied of killing or repented yet. Will you not cease this?”

“So long as vultures prey upon Miha-Rad, I shall not cease.” Minir-Huda’s nostrils flared as he made his unfaltering declaration.

“Will you not do it for your father? Will you not do it for your mother? You have brought difficulty and shame to your near of kin and they suffer even now.” The kayhin intoned. Minir-Huda ground his teeth and snarled, throwing something he had kept hidden away in the darkness towards them. Rima watched it roll to the kayhin’s feet and her eyes widened in horror when what it was dawned on her. The eyes were gored, the skin bloody, the mouth contorted and neck torn and abused, but there was no doubting that it was a humenaki head, perhaps his latest victim.

“I will not grow weary of death until death, at last, grows weary and comes for me.” The vampire hissed.

“You’re... you’re evil!” Rima cried, tears in her eyes. “You have left all the good that life affords and turned to killing and causing conflict and birthing pain!” The world around her shook, the earth trembled. “And you’re not even remorseful!” She screamed, sending a great shockwave towards the vampire, who ducked away and gripped his hammer. The voice of the kayhin tore through Rima-Tinrur’s anger.

“Calm yourself, my dear, and remember the rule of companionship.” She clenched her fists and knitted her brows, and with difficulty brought calmness to herself. The vampire rose, his dark eyes shifting from them to the distant setting sun as it disappeared at last beyond the horizon.

“You come to my home and throw falsehoods and lies at me, and you attack me at my door. You have torn the peace you professed.” He stood tall, flexing his muscles and revealing the fangs kept hidden behind his lips. “I have no quarrel with those who profess to commune with the gods, but you have now quarrelled with me!” And with that, he exploded from his place and was suddenly above them, hammer drawn back over his head. With a monumental heave and roar, he brought it crashing down upon the kayhin, who raised his arms above his head protectively. Just before the stone hammer landed, however, it came to a sudden halt — as though crashing against a boulder.

The vampire landed just as Rima shoved him in the stomach with the butt of her spear. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow, before grabbing the spear from her hands with unnatural speed and power and skewering her right through the stomach. Her eyes widened in shock and a gasp spurted from her lips as she stumbled back in pain and confusion. With that dealt with, Minir-Huda turned back to the kayhin, whose usually deadpan face was marred by knotted brows. He reached into the basket at his side and drew two inkpots, launching them both at the vampire in one motion. With a scoff, Minir-Huda smashed them both with a swing of his hammer, and his eyes widened as sun ink splayed out. He dropped the hammer and immediately disappeared, distancing himself from the lethal substance.

“Sunlight,” he hissed, giving the kayhin a wary look. Without response, the naked kayhin — dripping with ink and paint — raised his arms. The basket at his side exploded as a great deluge of ink emerged and flared all about him as though they were the tendrils of the sun. One such tendril snaked out towards Minir at speed, but the vampire was quicker and rapidly retreated towards the cave entrance and disappeared beyond. With the monster gone, the kayhin leapt on a breeze and was immediately by Rima’s side, whispering to the staff and bloody wound.

“Does it hurt?” He hummed. She looked at him, sweat on her brow.

“Th- there is no pain.” She whispered stoically. The knot in the kayhin’s brow unravelled and he almost smiled.

“That is good.” He murmured. He took a deep breath and paused, and then began to whisper a singing prayer to the wound. “I call on you, Ura ʿAliaa, who is the balm of wounds, to lend my voice a healing word that’s with your will attuned. The blood is surging outwards now, the flesh lies broken by, and if your favour does not fall then watch her spirit fly. She is a girl, great sunlit god, her life beneath the sun... is not yet over nor are her years of wandering done. So bless her heart and kiss her flesh and let her rise anew – I of myself can do nothing; such power comes from you.” And as he sang the flesh began to fold on itself, the blood to wander back, and all that remained to speak of the wound was the hole in the poncho — there were not even bloodstains left.

With that, the kayhin rose and made his way towards the cave entrance. “It may be better for you to wait out here, my dear.” He said as Rima came up behind him, her staff in hand.

“No, I want to come with you. I will keep calm, I promise. And I won’t use any kawnnisaj.” She insisted.

“Very well.” And placing the sun ink before him to light the way he stepped inside, and Rima followed. Things were always more blurred in the dark, but beyond that it was no more difficult than seeing in the light. The kayhin seemed to know exactly where he was going as they descended further and further into the earth. The trickle of water could be heard, far off droplets echoing through the winding routes of the caverns. Insects and worms writhed beneath their feet, and their song of darkness rose muffled in this their earthy shelter against the sun. But the sun had come into the darkness, and it was all they could now do to escape.

Eventually the cavern route opened up into a great chamber at the heart of which was a small pool of crystal-clear water. Stalagmites rose from the ground, stalactites hung above, and by one pillar-like stalagmite stood Minir-Huda. He glanced over with a frown, before leaping across the ground towards them. He heaved a rock without pausing and flung it right at Rima, but tendrils of sun ink shot forth and plucked the flying thing out of the air, setting it safely on the ground. The ink itself was no longer quite as bright as it had been outside and was clearly starting to lose some of its heat. The coolness and darkness of the cave were causing it to lose its qualities at speed — for ink was not meant for this kind of usage and usually held its properties for far longer when kept out of adverse environments or set to something.

Inky tendrils whipped out at the vampire, closely followed by swirling orbs that dashed at him. Minir-Huda leapt behind stalagmites or dodged the lethal strikes with inhumenaki speed. His clawed fingers ripped through rock and sent projectiles flying at Rima and the kayhin, who slammed them away in his swiftly decreasing sunlight ink. Minir-Huda seemed to see this, and came out into the open, dodging more of the ink as he swiftly leapt towards the kayhin, the glint of death dancing in his eyes. At the last moment, however, he changed direction unnaturally and his fingers hooked into Rima’s clothing — avoiding her ink-laced neck. She was torn from her feet as the beast of flowing muscle dashed away without stopping and found shelter from the ink behind a rock. The girl struggled in his grip and attempted to tear herself away, but he held her down and remained alert, listening for the whistling of ink towards him.

After a few seconds, he realised that the girl had stopped struggling, and he glanced down just in time to see her bring her spear to bear and strike out towards his face. Twisting his head away with a grunt meant the spear missed it but tore through the right side of his neck. He glared down at her for a few seconds, and with one movement caught the spear in his mouth and tore it apart. He grabbed the useless stalk left in her hand and smacked her across the face with it, eliciting a shocked gasp and causing blood to burst from her cheek, before launching it at the kayhin and leaping behind another stalagmite, his blood and her blood dripping everywhere and sun ink raining all around.

He nestled himself in a small crevice, his nostrils flared and eyes on her odd iridescent blood. She raised her hand to grab his face, and he immediately detected the sun ink there. With a lazy movement he grabbed her by the wrist and placed it against the bedrock above, then hooked her other hand and settled it alongside the other. Bringing his mouth to her cheek, he noted the ink interlaced with blood there, and roughly wiped the offensive stuff away with the fabric of her poncho. Before he could do more, however, the kayhin’s whispers reached him from close by. A shadow fell on them and Minir-Huda looked up to find the kayhin floating above, an arrow of sunlight hanging before him. There were a few silent seconds, and then it tore towards the vampire at near-point blank range. Yet with tremendous agility and strength the beast rolled over and brought the girl between him and the arrow, and it splattered harmlessly against her back.

The kayhin seemed unfazed however, and a deep chant emanated slowly from his mouth. The cavern shook from its weight, the rocks trembled, and Minir-Huda felt his body stiffen and move against his will. Before he could comprehend what was happening, his body left the ground — the girl was torn from him, his grip on her forcibly relaxed by the kayhin’s strange magic. He levitated before the kayhin, scowling furiously at the expressionless painted man and striking out at him with audible grunts. But he was simply too far. The kayhin reached into his basket and emerged with an inkpot. Minir-Huda’s scowl deepened when he saw it, and he ground his teeth in fury. “No!” He barked. “I’ll not die here kayhin!”

“All things are fated towards termination.” The impassive kayhin chanted. The vampire’s struggling increased, his screams of frustration echoing through the chamber until his eyes fell upon the girl who was staring at him with pity and anger. His eyes snapped to the fingers of the kayhin as he removed the stopper and drew the lethal ink out.

“W-wait. I...” he glanced back at the girl. “I will repent. I won’t kill anymore. I will make peace.” The naked kayhin did not stop drawing the ink from the clay vessel and seemed to pay the words no heed, so the vampire directed his words at the girl. “I only wanted to make the world a better place. I wanted to rid it of evil, not bring about evil. But I can see that I was wrong. I was blinded by my anger. You must believe me — I will make amends.” He looked desperately at the now approaching ink, and shrunk back. “No, please! Tell him! Tell him to stop! I will make peace like you wanted — tell him!”

The girl looked to the kayhin uncertainly. “I- idda-ta,” she whispered hoarsely. He did not look at her, but the sun ink ceased moving towards the vampire.

“His song unveils the lie, my dear. You must listen closely.” The kayhin crooned. She glanced at the vampire.

“Even so, I want to change. I don’t want to be a killer — I never wanted to be.” The vampire pleaded, glancing between the two of them.

“You promise to kill people no more?” The girl asked him.

“Of course,” he nodded.

“The gods hear all, Minir-Huda. Those who are to their oaths untrue earn ire over ire.” And with that he was set down and released from the song’s grip. The kayhin turned away without a word and floated off. The girl looked at Minir-Huda with a slight frown, and the muscled humenaki looked at her. After a few moments, he approached and extended a hand to her face — she stiffened and took a wary step back, but he hushed her calmingly and traced the breakage in skin across her face. He brought her shimmering blood close and inspected it, sniffed at it, then tasted it. He frowned, retched, then spat it out.

“Tastes divine. Reeks of death and kawnnisaj.” He said. “Why didn’t you fight back? You’re no normal girl if that’s what flows through you.” She glanced behind her, where her idda-ta had disappeared back into the passageway they had emerged from.

“I wish you peace, Minir-Huda.” She said, ignoring his question. With that she turned away and went scrambling after the kayhin.

“Wait. Girl, woman, whatever you are. Tell my father and the other patriarchs that I wish to speak with them and make my peace.” She turned back to him, surprise on her face.

“You weren’t lying?”

“Well, not entirely. And now... not at all. I do not regret killing Anar-Huda — my brother was evil, not I. But I have no wish to be away from my people and shunned from them. I will make my peace, whatever the cost.”

“Then come,” she smiled and ran back to him, taking him by the hand and pulling him behind her.

“Gods, you’re a weird one.” He muttered but did not resist.

---

The great crimson sun hung in the many-hued heavens of the western wastes of the Kubrajzar. It seemed to eat up the skies, which were different hues of orange and yellow and red, as though there was not even the possibility of coolness in sight. The desolate redlands took the beating of the sky with the patience and fortitude of two thousand or more years - who could know? Were these wastes not eternal?

But there was a being here now whose like had never wandered the deserts and vales of the Kubrajzar. Malri was far from home. Yet as he wandered in the oppressive heat that baked his armor and cooked his skin, turning his wings to what felt like flames, he knew he never truly had a home. The Luminant was but a distant memory… The snow wastes, oh the snow wastes, they were gone too. Even the ocean was nothing more but a desire now. A distant want to escape the heat. It was torture. For he could not die. The bands kept him imprisoned to his flesh, healing his burns as they burned, fueling his rage. Not even thirst could keep him down. It was as if his mouth and throat were the desert and his tongue a shriveled, dying plant but it didn't stop his slow march. He was a wrathful spirit, consumed to the core.

Every now and then his mace would poof into existence beside him, only to be abandoned again as he walked and only for it to reappear. Time and time again. He lost track after the tenth time, for his mind wandered frequently and his vision was haunted by a red haze. This fate was not fitting for him. He had been conqueror, a king! He had been a God! No he was a God!

Right?

Did Gods tire? Did they get punished for being cursed? Did they thirst and hunger? Feeling their insides starve and be replenished? Did they become consumed by rage? Over and over and over and over and over and over…

No sooner had he begun to think that the suffocating heat of day could do him no more harm - that his body had taken all its ardent rays and emerged victorious - then that great crimson sky-orb slipped behind the sandy horizon and the twin-moons came riding the night on wings of bitterest cold. The chill would have raked at his very bones, perhaps, but he laughed in the face of the night. Such as he no longer feared the cold. His laughter did not last long however, for even if he was warmed by the stone, it reminded him that this was not a place of pleasant airs. Extremes on both sides, never just a pleasant day. It made him angry.

Everything made him angry and as he quickly found out, that anger could do nothing but keep him alive. Coupled with the bands, it prolonged his suffering. Such as Malri was too vengeful to die in such a place. Truly, he could use his anger to escape and then punish those that had wronged him. He would endure to enact his revenge against the Litus tribe and that damn giant. For in this place he could keep his anger sustained forever. The heat and cold… The never ending cycle… It took a toll even on him and added fuel to the fire that burned inside of him. Like hot coals begging to be ignited into a roaring inferno.

So he kept walking, sluggish now, each anger filled step, feeling like his last. There was no direction in mind, for his mind was taxed to the limit on just surviving. Besides, it wasn't like he had any idea where to go.

There was just the endless walk towards his enemies or the nothingness that haunted him. Of a revenge never given. He preferred the latter. For seemingly endless cycles of day and night did he wander, the redlands spreading out before him in all directions. Sand and rock spread out as far as the eye could see, here and there great towering rock formations shot up like gravestones. Their shade, at least, provided some relief. He was in such a state of rageful delirium that he almost missed it one day - that something was different.

On the distant horizons there was something not red. At first it seemed like the sky had forgotten to be red or orange or some other torrid colour, but after his eyes passed over it a few times and it did not disappear he knew it was no illusion. There on the horizon was greenery and the promise of life.

Where there was green, there was water and water brought food. The idea of such necessities was tantalizing. It brought him renewed vigor or the illusion of it as he scrambled closer. It ushered forth in his mind an all consuming drive. It was the essence of surviving or death would claim him. Day by day the greenery got closer and closer, and soon enough it was but a handspan away.

Before him, as far as the eye could see, were wrinkled husks of trees and plants - there seemed in them no sign of life; their only feature was that they glowed green and so gave the illusion of life. There was no water to be seen, no coolness from the eye of the sun. The wasteland remained - only that now it was green.

As he came to a stop before this trickery, he did not want to believe it. He could not believe it. He walked so far and for so long and this was what awaited him? This… This false hope. He felt his anger turn to rage, and his rage began to bubble. The all too familiar sound of his mace arriving next to him was too tempting, and so, in a burst of speed that had eluded him before, Malri picked up his mace and swung. He swung at the plants and at the trees, roaring and cursing. It wasn’t fair! They would suffer as he suffered! He would make them feel his pain and as a particularly large husk was felled, Malri stumbled and fell forward. A great bloom of dust erupted from the ground as his body- no… His carcass found it’s resting place.

His rage subsided, growing dull as it did but leaving a reminder of its presence in the back of his mind. It wouldn’t let him die. That was his curse. He was too angry to die. What was left but that? Nothing but a nagging to keep moving on. The drive that came over those that faced death. And so, Malri began to drag himself. He would show them just how strong his will was. No matter what it took.

Yet these barrens - for all their lifelessness - were not quite devoid of life, and in his rage and in the great cacophony of his whirling mind, Malri almost missed the subtle sound of… buzzing. Looking tired towards the sound, he found that in the distance a great dust cloud was blowing wildly and violently, eating up all about it and approaching at speed. Only that - on closer inspection - it did not seem to be a dust cloud at all. The way its particles moved seemed too free to be the simple work of the wind. And as the buzzing grew louder and more incessant, and as the cloud grew ever closer, it dawned on him that the approaching cloud was in fact alive.

It was an endless vespian swarm, no doubt drawn by the great fury he had unleashed upon this deceptively verdant mirage. He growled, pushing himself to his feet as he watched the approaching swarm. His mace was not far and he walked to retrieve it. The rush began to flood into his senses, awakening them once more. He had heard of these things from the Litus tribes but had never actually seen them. Still… He wondered if they were edible.

They came screeching and hissing, armoured vicious things with abnormally large scything talons and stingers; and they seemed to care for little but him. Mindlessly they came, and mindlessly they were cut down - and still they came, blotting out the light of the sun, swarming from all directions, cutting at wings, at lefts, at arms.

His armor could only do so much and every cut, every sting, every bite that he felt was a dose of rage. He felt his wings be torn to shreds, he felt them be reduced to bloody stumps of flesh. He lost himself in the pain and his rampage was never ending. They came and they died. They cut him and he healed. They bit and stung him and he healed. He felt something hot run in his veins, only for it be purged with the inferno that was his core. His mace was a bludgeon and it became coated in sickly green, as well as his armor. They did not seem to be afraid of him and he welcomed it. It meant they would die by his hand.

And parting the swarm of little things came red and brown giants, winged and maned, and they struck out with claws and seemed, to Malri, to be directing the smaller ones so that they acted in greater synchrony - for now they seemed to see where he was weakest and target him there. Healing wings were struck, aligning limbs were scythed again and again. The swarm seemed as relentless as it was endless, day had become night beneath their sheer number, it seemed neither a step forth nor a step back could be taken except that they were there.

He began to grow tired of the game they played. The small ones were not a challenge, but a nuisance that did not end. It was time to go after the bigger prey. Try as he might however, his wings were gone and the swarm would not let him have a moment of peace. So Malri was forced to break the smaller ones, over and over again. Their bodies began to pile, turning the very ground wet with liquid. Malri pressed on.

There came a moment - he sensed the change immediately - when the swarm seemed to realise that there was a great futility to this for they very suddenly they began to back off - one moment he was cleaving them left and right and above and even below, and the next they were out of reach. They observed him for a while, watching as he attempted to reach them but buzzing just out of reach, and then they turned and left just as swiftly and in just as great a cloud - though Malri liked to think it was somewhat reduced - as they came. He watched them depart through the adrenaline, the world around a great vespian graveyard.

He fell to his knees and ripped off his helmet, then wasted no time in picking up a broken bit of chitin with what he assumed was meat, and took a bite. The mere taste was enough to repulse him and he gagged, spitting it out. In a fit, he punched one of the fresh corpses and it exploded on him. He wiped the gunk off his face and then grabbed his helmet, rushing off after the swarm before his adrenaline faded. He could feel his wings beginning to regrow and it would not be long before they were strong enough to fly with. He needed to see where they were going. Perhaps they had food and water. It was the only lead he had.

As soon as his great black wings were in a ready state, he beat them on the torrid air and went flying after the swarm. By air the distances that required endless nights and days on foot were eaten up as easily as lovers whispered sweet nothings to one another; and as easily as Malri planned to consume whatever eatable, drinkable vittles these sorry insects led him to. When he made landfall, it was within sights of a great oasis; real greenery and real water. But it was clear that it was not unoccupied - the very vespians, it seemed, called this place home. As he made his way towards it, hellbent on doing to them just as he had done before, a small group came zipping towards him and stopped some distance away.

They all looked the same to him, but if they could look different then perhaps these ones were, in some insectoid sense, more refined, cleaner. And they did not come at him in a swarm. “Hail, Vespslayer.” One stridulated, “we are the hWebi-Vesp, traders and resource gatherers. We have heard of you in the cries of those more barbarous kin of ours - we have no wish for strife or war.”

Malri hung in the air, inhaling their words with each beat of his wings. He had not thought them capable of speech, nevertheless capable of being traders. From behind his helmet, a very rare smile appeared upon his lips. “Those that do not wish for war and strife often find themselves in it’s midst.” he said, voice raspy and dry. “If these kin of yours told you about me, then they will have made mention that I was unkillable, yes? Now listen closely, for my patience for your kind is thin. I require food and drink and answers. Provide these and I will not harm you.” They stridulated amongst themselves for a few moments, and then the one who had spoken before turned back to Malri.

“There is no need to speak of harm, we will feed you and quench your thirst, and we shall give you answers too. In exchange we ask little - we are traders still, and we ask something easy and of little value. We too would like answers. Food and drink in exchange for our safety from your wrath, and answers from us for answers from you. It is a good trade.”

Malri was in little mood to argue with them, as much as he thought them inferior. Besides, spilling blood in the water would ruin it. Probably. After a moment of silent contemplation, he flew closer and uttered but one word. “Agreed.” They watched him with their jewel-like eyes for a few moments, before stridulating their approval and zipping off into the air, towards the oasis-hive. The trees that grew around the oasis were all fruiting - palms, figs, apricots, peaches, and other fruits. Fabrics and banana leaves were laid out in the shade and clay bowls of fruit were brought before the black-winged Neiyari, as were jugs of water from the oasis. A fire was lit nearby and an ibex placed on a spit.

“We prefer it raw, but the redmen do not like such things - if you wish for it raw, Vespslayer, simply tell us.” The one who spoke hovered above the ibex for a few moments before zipping down and sitting on his thighs before the winged being.

Malri could hardly believe the bounty of food that was laid before him. He removed his helmet post haste and set it on the ground next to him. The flame flickered and danced over his impassive visage. The first thing he did was grab a jug and bring it to his parched lips. He drank until it was empty, then did so again. Next, he grabbed a fruit, not caring what it was and began to eat. The sweet flavors erupted in his mouth before being swallowed up like a wolf.

Between bites, he managed to say, “Cook it.” and glanced towards the meat. He then went back to drinking and eating the fruit, the aromas of meat seducing his nose, making hum hungrier. It felt as if years had gone by since his last meal. When at last the meat was cooked he took while still hot and ripped into the flesh. The meat was gamey but he would not complain.

The hWebi-Vesp watched him as he tore through fruit and meat alike, and fresh bowls of fruit and jugs of water were swiftly brought forth to replace empty ones, which were carried off. As he began to slow down, however, jugs of a strange, sweet-smelling liquid were brought forth. “Date wine. The redmen like it.” The speaker explained. “We don’t. Meat and water is sufficient - meat raw best.” The creature paused as it poured some of the wine into a cup and placed it before him. “Where did you come from, Vespslayer?”

He took another sniff of the date wine before taking a large swig. The taste was far too sweet for his liking but it was something different and he downed the cup. He licked his lips as he turned to the speaker Vesp, narrowing his eyes. “Where is here?” He instead asked.

“Here is the redland - it is redland from the north sea to the south sea, wherever that may be. It is redland from the west sea to the mountain, and it is mountain from the north sea to the south sea, wherever that may be. That is what is here.” The hWebi-Vesp answered simply. “How did you come to be here, Vespslayer, without knowing where here is?”

Malri pondered the words of the speaker. Never before had he heard of such a place or its unique description. His eyes flashed with anger. Where had that damned giant sent him? He took a breath. “Have you heard of a land of golden grass, teeming like the oceans with life? Stretching as far the eyes can see and then further still? Or before that, a land of ice and snow, where the cold would freeze you solid? Or perhaps a place of light, more colorful than any field of flowers or the setting of the sun? These are the places I am from.” He grimaced, gritting his teeth. “Then I was cast out of them, one by one. Finding myself wandering an empty red land of cruel heat and bitter cold. That is how I came to be here.” He spat before drinking some more water.
“And what could be powerful enough to cast out the like of you, Vespslayer? Not once - but again and again.” The same speaker asked. “It is certainly not something that dwells in this land or anywhere that we know of.”

He eyed the speaker, his expression souring. “Surely you’ve heard of the divine in this forsaken land? The Gods? They have cursed me time and time again and for what, you might ask?” His words grew angrier. “For being alive, for existing. For asking questions and demanding answers. I was king. Warrior. Wanderer. Conqueror. In this place… It all begins anew. Starting with Vespslayer.” He tore into another piece of meat. The speaker looked to some of her gathered companions.

“And do you think it wise to defy the gods, Vespslayer? If it has played out like this so many times, do you not think it… appropriate… perhaps, to do something differently this time?” She paused and let her words settle. “Perhaps there is a way to achieve what you wish without gaining the ire of the gods. You are sat here eating as you please, delighting in the shade, hearing from us as we hear from you. You have gotten what you wanted. You could have, if you wished, slain us all, taken what fruits and meats you wished for, forced one terrified hWebi-Vesp or another to answer your questions. You would have gotten what you wanted too - though I would say you would have been the poorer for it, and so too would we. Is there no way for you to gain what you want while avoiding divine ire? Many have managed it - why not you?”

“I still could.” He said with a deadpan stare. “Kill you all, I mean. It would be easy, like breaking twigs for a fire. I would feel nothing doing it.” He rolled his head, something cracked in his neck and the giant let out a sigh. “The Gods are fickle things. One could rape, murder, pillage and slaughter a whole nation before they deem it appropriate to act. Is it wise to defy them? No, of course not. You think me a fool do you not? You are inferior to me, just as we are all inferior to the gods. Does a bug not fear a boot? I will do as I please, for they made me this way and the only way they can stop me is if they kill me. They’ve had their chances and each time they send me on my way. Now, tell me of these Redmen and about this land. If you know not where I come from then I am truly forgotten.”

The speaker buzzed in agitation at his words, but then settled down on her thighs. “The gods do as they will. It is not the place of - as you say - bugs to question the boot. If you slay us all it shall, of course, sadden us greatly - but we have no illusions about our own greatness. A god created us and dropped us from the heavens - why? We could not tell you. Perhaps it thought it fun. We do not ask why - it created us and can do as it wants with us. But we think we have a good trade with you. We have given you no reason to slay us - and you have given us your word, have you not?” She paused for a few moments. “Redmen, yes. Two legs, two arms, a head, oddly placed thorax - like you actually, but no wings. Feathers on the head like a crown, hair also. Often the colour of the desert, sometimes dark. They live on the oases, on the coast, in the mountains. Some trade with us - they like many useless trinkets, give good food in exchange. They go beyond the mountains - they say it is all trees there, that there is so much water that it is a snake. They say there is water there as much as the sea, only sweet. Those are the redmen.”
“Humani?” He said to himself after a moment of contemplation. He then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yes, yes. Gods and greatness. What else exists within these lands that speaks and has thoughts of their own beside the redmen? What are the dangers besides this desert? What do you trade?” He asked leaning back. The speaker clicked and cocked her head.

“Ah, yes. Humen… humenak. They call themselves that - humenaki.” She paused and rubbed her face in thought. “No other sapients on the land. On the sea in the west are waterkin - ugly tentacles, sea-redmen too. They bring treasures from the sea - they bring treasures from distant lands. Powerful tentacle-leader - powerful magicker. But redmen have powerful magick - keep tentacles off land. So they trade instead. Trade is good.” She paused again, clicking her mandibles and rubbing her head as she got her thoughts in order. “Many dangers. Flying men and magickers. Demon-magickers wander the redland. Redmen bring thought-fiends - too much worrying. Faeryfolk can be nasty - but make good trading. Wild vesps are irksome - always after our water, raiding trade. Redman hate us because of it, but hWebi-Vesp do not raid. That is all we know of.

“As for trading - we give poisons, fruits, wild meats, faeryfolk things, salts and copper-rocks, demonbits and trollparts, inks and dyes, weeds and herbs they think precious. We make their food too - grains and earth-things, they give animals. We can’t herd - kin too wild and volatile, can’t herd animals, only kill. But planting we can do - see, fruits and grains that redmen love. They bring camels and goats; delicious. The hides we sell back. We make pots for them too,” she picked up the bowl of fruit, showing off the ornate handiwork, “good quality, yes? We know what redmen like. Many other things. Every useless thing we find, the redmen take.” She stopped there and rubbed her face once more. “See, we give good answers. Why these questions? Do you… plan to rape, murder, pillage and slaughter?” She rubbed her head in agitation. “You are powerful. There is no need. Trade is good. Trade is powerful.”

“Very good answers.” Malri mused. “You speak of many things. Many unknowns. You are useful, that much I can see with my own eyes. And these questions are of great help to me, being a stranger in a strange land after all. Full and ripe for the taking, if one knows where to look for it. And you have looked for it and you have come to your conclusion- That being trade. You trade to live and live to trade, this is plain to see. But are you powerful? You must be if you can maintain this oasis in a desert of death. Protect and maintain, yes. Trade keeps you alive and you are content to always trade then? Is that where your aspirations died? Perhaps, perhaps. Now do tell me, one last question, do these redmen travel to you, or do you travel to the redmen?”

The speaker clicked her mandibles and rubbed her antennae. “Redmen are forbidden here - they come far, travelling back and forth. But here they don’t come. We go to them - they are easy to find, they know where to stay until we come. We are powerful enough to keep them away. Powerful enough to keep our wild kin at bay. More powerful than you? No. But the gods have made you powerful, and so you are. The gods made us weak, but we made ourselves powerful - more powerful than our kin, powerful enough to tame the redmen and stop their aggression, powerful enough to make them bring food to us. We survived. Now we thrive. Maybe one day trading will no longer be good - maybe then we will need to find other things. But now trading is good, and we will keep to it until it isn’t.” She paused again and then gestured to his armour. “Your clothes - odd. Metal? Not copper. How is it done? The redmen will like it.”

Malri gave a bemused smile. “It was forged by a god.” He picked up his mace and displayed it. “Forged by a god.” He set the mace back down. “It cannot be done by mortal hands. There is none like it in all this world. Now, I shall sleep for several days and several nights. Do not disturb me, do not touch me, don’t even think about trying to slit my throat. It won’t work. When I wake, you shall take me inland, towards the mountains. I have no wish to see this sea with its dangers.” He stood up, and looked down upon them. “Since you are fond of trades, I shall offer you this.” He clapped his hands together and a glow came from within. He began to pull back his hands, revealing the glow to be that like the sun’s light. It was blinding but was over in a flash. In his hands there was a red hot blade, unlike any metal seen within the land. That he was sure of. The sword, more of a large dagger to him, was straight like an arrow with a small hand guard and narrow hilt. He showed it to the speaker and the others. “A sunlit blade. Let it drink the sunlight everyday and it will not disappoint you. So, do we have a trade?”

The hWebi-Vesps seemed dazzled by the strange thing, and a few lifted off and backed away from the sudden burst of light. The speaker, however, remained in place and eyed the offered sword. “We never go to the mountain… but for a trade like this, we indeed have a trade. You have nothing to fear from us - and we have nothing to fear from you. Trade is the cure to war and hostilities, and we are trade partners now. Sleep well, Vespslayer.” And with that, the speaker lifted off on her wings and buzzed away with the others, disappearing into a subterranean burrow by the far side of the oasis with the sword in hand. Malri grabbed his helmet and put it on, then took the mace and found a better spot with shade. He rested against a tree, mind abuzz with many hateful things, until at last sleep came.

The Court of Meliorem was a tradition established shortly after the Lady-in-Waiting had departed from Cadien’s realm. Without the Lady-in-Waiting available to direct them, Cadien himself had to take a more personal hand in things. And so, pillars of the Song community as well as those who Cadien favoured would assemble in Meliorem’s hall at least once a month to bring issues to the God’s attention, and aid in the planning of events.

The structure itself was rather simple. There was a herald, who announced those who attended when they answered. There was a scribe, who recorded all that was said and decided. There was a lawkeeper, who did not judge but was meant to keep track of all existing laws and recall past violations of said laws. A small band, that would provide non-vocalized background music as the proceedings carried on. There was also a committee consisting of seven elected representatives from the Song community. Then there here were the guests; those who were meant to sit in and observe, though that did not stop them from murmuring amongst themselves or letting out suitably dramatic gasps whenever anything happened.

All this, in theory, sounded very structured and organized, but due to the nature of the Songs and the absence of their leader, it rarely went swimmingly. Some of these roles were even mostly ceremonial, as Cadien was fully capable of memorizing details himself, but he felt it necessary to encourage the Songs to take a more active role in managing their community.

The latest addition to the court was Dakari and a group of Black Hussars, who served as a palace guard to make the entire proceedings appear more secure, organized, and dignified. They too were unnecessary, but nonetheless they stood at complete attention, only occasionally breaking discipline to admire the beauty of the Songs seated throughout the room.

Meliorem’s main hall was altered for the proceedings. The Herald stood to the right of Cadien’s throne, and Dakari stood to the left. The lawkeeper, scribe, and the committee members were seated at a table in the center, and the guests sat on comfortable benches at the edges of the room. Hussars were stationed at the entrance and next to the benches.

It had all the makings of a typical court session, but in truth it was anything but. For a new attendant had graced the court on this day, and one who had been absent for far too long: the Lady-in-Waiting.

Through the great double doors of Cadien’s resplendent throne room she came, adorned in a silk dress of flowing satin brocade, woven throughout with golden thread and cut low, as the Lord of Perfection liked, while remaining high enough to preserve elegance and dignity. The sand-coloured lustrous fabric seemed alive with light, shifting and glistening with each of the Lady-in-Waiting’s graceful steps. About her delicate neck hung a collar necklace of gold and jade embossed with pearls and precious gems. Draped around her waist and about her arms was a cream-coloured scarf of lotus flower silk interwoven with mulberry silk of deepest crimson. There was a mask in her hand, and as she walked she shyly brought it up so that it partially covered her lower face.

Coming the last few steps before the god, she glanced up, seemed to lose focus when her eyes met his, and tripped over her own feet and fell flat on her face. There was a collective gasp from all the songs present and a number rushed to the lady’s side and helped her back up, patting her dress down and tidying up her ruffled inky hair. “Th- thank you.” The lady managed, her face different shades of scarlet ink at the embarrassment. Keeping her eyes downcast, she bowed low to the god. “My lord,” came her euphonious melody, and all the songs in the great hall let loose a gentle wave of dulcet sighs. “I cannot convey my heart’s gladness at being once again in your presence. You must forgive me my long absence; I have neglected my duty to you. Our Lady remains sickly and all my attention has gone to seeing to her every need - she is sick at heart and my words have failed time and again to draw her from her slumber.” She paused and looked around at the songs, and then at the guards. “I hope that the songs have not caused you any trouble, my lord? I…” she glanced once more at some of the Neiyari guards with a slight knot in her brow, “I hope their mischief has not forced you to bring in armed guards!”

“Oh it’s not that dire,” Cadien said, waving off her concern. “These men and women are simply my realm’s latest inhabitants, and it only seemed fitting to incorporate them into the proceedings and give them some form of employment. Now then, what has brought about your return after all this time?”

At his question, she loosed a small sigh and made her way to an empty seat to the side. “A number of songs came to me not long ago, searching for missing songs, my lord. The songs of the town are naturally anxious and even now some want to organise an expedition to go search for those who are missing. But before any such thing, I wished to ask you about it - perhaps they are here in the palace and not missing at all?”

“Missing?” Cadien asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. “How long?”

The lady looked at some of the gathered song representatives. “Shae went missing a few weeks back, Wilarda last week, then Meralusa after that.”

The God’s grip tightened on his throne. “Why am I only hearing of this now?”

“W- we thought nothing of it at first, my lord. They could have been wandering anywhere - in the palace, perhaps exploring your beautiful realm, perhaps visiting Our Lady… but now we realise that was not so and we are full of worry.” One of the representatives spoke with a sad note.

“Shae had been talking of seeing the world outside Meliorem for some time before, my lord,” one of the male songs spoke up. “I fear that she may have ventured out without telling us - who knows what she may have found or… what may have found her.”

The God closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “It is true,” he said, after a few moments had passed. “I cannot sense their presence. They are gone.” He leaned forward again. “They must have left while I was visiting other realms, when I wouldn’t be able to sense their departure. Although… not all of their supposed departures align with the times when I was not here to sense them. This is troubling… I will need to go look for them.”

There were worried murmurs and notes of agreements at the god’s words. “Yes, my lord. They must be found before something terrible happens to them!” One song cried. “Who knows which of the thousand fiends and savages lying in wait just beyond the gates of Meliorem may have them!” The chant of anxiety rose, but then the Lady-in-Waiting looked towards the god and it died down slightly.

“My lord… I have been thinking. I know you have promised to take care of us and protect us - and there is no one here who can but sing your praises as far as that goes, you have not fallen short in any way. And yet I find myself thinking that perhaps… perhaps the best protection you can grant us is the ability to protect ourselves. These songs have lost one of their own - they failed their sisters. Should they not be made to take responsibility and carry the burden for finding them? Surely they will learn something of value from this.” The gathered songs were hushed, for once, and then began to whisper melodiously - if nervously - to one another.

“B- but we are delicate beings, not made for the rigours that such a task requires!” One male cried out.

“Pah! Of course you would say that Sabunta - but you have always been a coward.” Came a harsh intonation that caused Sabunta to flinch.

“There’s no need for that now, dearest,” the male said weakly to the siren who had spoken, but she crossed her arms and looked away from him with a huff. The Lady-in-Waiting set her gaze on the god.

“What do you think, my lord?”

The Lord of Meliorem frowned. “I would not object to you becoming better able to protect yourselves, but it is still a troubling suggestion. What shall happen if ten go out in search of three, and those ten go missing as well? Not all realms are inhospitable - many gods are actually quite friendly, if you are courteous enough - but there remain a few who are dangerous nonetheless.”

The Lady-in-Waiting tightened her fist, a certain naive determination there. “A- and should we not be brave, my lord? Are we not to aspire towards your perfection? I think we should be the most terrible of servants if we did not, during our time spent with you, learn some of that essential nobility that makes you as you are, my lord. If we do not learn courage and sacrifice from the one who carved a way through the inks of death for us, then we are unfitting and unworthy of you.” She stopped and took a small breath, “let us prove ourselves to you, my lord.”

The God pondered her words, resting a hand under his chin. “A fair argument,” he nodded, then leaned back again. “You may take only volunteers. They must understand the risks, and you shall lead them yourself. Dakari, can you spare some guards to accompany them?”

“I could,” Dakari said, though his tone implied he had no wish to. The Lady-in-Waiting glanced at the Neiyari, her face blank.

“Very good.” He looked back to the Lady-in-Waiting. “Bring your volunteers here as soon as you are able. Your departure will not be immediate; preparations must be made. Do you have any questions?”

“Of course. Not so much a question but… ahem. M- may we… speak in private, my lord?” The Lady-in-Waiting glanced at the god and then quickly looked away, her gaze passing over the gathered songs and neiyari guards.

“We may,” the God said. “But first, are there any other matters the court must addressed?” he asked the rest of the room.

“Y- yes! My lord!” One of the female songs stepped forth. “I have a complaint against your guards! That one there in particular - he has never ceased from ogling me m-most inappropriately!” She flushed and brought her hands to her cheeks. “I am a happily wed and loyal song my lord, and these lustful looks are just- ah! Inappropriate!”

Cadien cast a questioning glance toward the guard in question, who seemed quite surprised to have been called out. He dropped to one knee. “I am just keep an eye on them, my lord, as is my duty.”

“You stand accused of keeping an eye on one in particular,” Cadien commented drily. “Which would distract you from watching over the rest, would it not?”

“Not so, my lord, I am very perceptive,” the Neiyari said, lifting his gaze to look at the one who had accused him. “Tell me, my lady, would your husband happen to be in this room?”

“Hmph!” The song in question intoned, “if you were as perceptive as you say you would know. You couldn’t pull off an affair even if you tried, it seems.” There was now a small smirk on her face. A grumbling male siren stepped forward.

“My dearest, an affair! By our lord, sometimes you say the craziest things,” he shook his head and, placing a hand on her shoulder, looked towards the accused guard. “Here I am, in ink before you.”

“Would you care for a duel over her?” the Neiyari smirked.

The songman raised a flowing brow and looked at the siren, and an inky smile spread on his face. “Why, that is an ingenious proposition! What shall it be? A match to see who can produce the most beautiful sculpture of this bejewelled rose? Or perhaps a poetic match-up to see who can produce words that can come even close to capturing her beauteous symmetry and flowing grace? Perhaps a battle of dances, to see who can best let his form speak what her gaze does to the heart? I am ready and willing to prove myself to my dearest Saluna.” And so saying he bowed with a flourish and kissed the siren’s hand.

The Neiyari scoffed, and gestured toward his blade. “Battle,” he answered. “What else?”

“Ah, but that is so uncivilised and brutish! Love requires effort, careful creation. Anyone can pummel another into an inky puddle, but not anyone can produce lyrics to gladden a lovely maiden’s heart. Come, produce a verse of love, let that be our battle!” The songman grinned playfully. “Or… are you unable, perhaps? There is no dishonour if you wish to yield.”

“I suppose I’ll have to duel you for calling me a brute as well,” the Neiyari said. “Or are you unable to put yourself at risk for your love and reputation?” He shifted his gaze to the female wife. “A flowery song is all well and good, but it doesn’t mean much if he’s too afraid to risk himself to defend you.”

“Ah, but if it is a matter of defence, if my lady is in some sort of danger, then who am I - humble songman that I am - to pretend at protecting anyone? Who am I to claim for myself what our lord has taken on for himself - our lord protects us, and if my lady’s honour needs protection then it is to him alone we turn. But if this is a duel for her affection, then I am ready to produce all art.” The songman turned to Cadien. “My lord, are you not the stalwart defender of us songs? This here guardsman believes my beautiful siren is in need of protection, we have no aid but you.” And he bowed to the great god. Melodious giggles rose from the gathered songs, all both parts impressed and entertained by the battle of wits both men displayed.

Cadien seemed rather amused by these proceedings. Dakari, meanwhile, watched with clenched fists and was now sending murderous glares at both men, for different reasons. “And what are your thoughts on the matter?” Cadien asked the female Song for whom all this drama had started.

“Well, my lord,” she began, her eyes downcast and hands once more on her blushing cheeks, “this is all so very flattering and both these suitors have shown equal parts gallantry of their own - I would not expect a mighty warrior such as the noble guardsman to accept anything but a meeting of swords; and it would be most foolish for a songman, artist that he is, to accept anything but the clash of sculpting chisels and poetic verses. In this, both stand equal. Ah, I cannot choose based on this, my lord! I can only maintain my loyalty to the one I wed!”

“Perhaps,” the Lady-in-Waiting spoke up lightly, “they should be tested in matters neither is proficient at, my lord. Perhaps a puzzle, or a challenge to discover where a hidden item is with provided clues, or something else of that nature?”

“A sensible suggestion,” Cadien nodded. “Though the nature of the challenge must be decided at another time. Are there any other matters this court feels the need to address?”

Neiyari and songs brought forth various matters, and Cadien dealt with each no matter how trivial or small. And to his credit, he did not showcase any irritation or boredom - though the Lady-in-Waiting had no doubt that such trivialities were likely the least of a god’s problems or concerns. In time, however, court was adjourned and they were at last left alone. “Goodness,” she breathed, “all these complaints and concerns - it is one of the signs of your diligent vigilance that you see to it all personally. Have you never considered to delegate the more trivial matters, my lord?”

“I have considered it, yes,” Cadien nodded. “But in truth it costs very little vigilance on my part. As a god, my attention can be both here and elsewhere at the same time. Besides, your people are quite adept at wordplay, more so than most mortals who pray to me, and listening to their verbal sparring can be quite entertaining provided they don’t get out of hand. Besides, from time to time they do bring up very serious matters, and it’s best that I address such things personally.” The siren nodded, stealing furtive glances at the sculpted god before returning her gaze back to her variegated hands.

“And how are you my lord. You seems so busy with so much - and yet, you seem to have no time for you.” There seemed a sadness to her melodious voice, and releasing a sigh she looked towards the god and did not look away this time. “Or does a god have no needs as we created things do?”

“I need not eat or sleep, if that is what you are referring to,” Cadien said. “But that’s not what you meant, was it? Yes, even gods can become lonely or fatigued, but it takes a great deal. I can always find new activities to keep myself occupied.” He waved a hand to indicate the paintings on the walls, the ones made by his own hands.

She glanced at them and smiled. “Yes, it is much changed since I first visited. It is beautiful.” She paused for a few moments. “But you are right. I may be wrong, my lord, but I do sense… a greater melancholy to you than before I departed. Call it a woman’s hunch, maybe. And that is why I ask,” she paused again, seeming to find it difficult to speak. “It is of course not my place but… if there were something disturbing your peace of mind, I would be happy to serve you in some way - even if only as a listening ear. But forgive me if I have misread my lord, I may be overthinking it.”

Cadien’s gaze briefly shifted to a door off to the side - the one which led to Neiya’s realm. “There are a few things that trouble me, yes,” he conceded. “But you need not concern yourself with them.” The lady sighed and nodded, a small sad frown on her face.

“If that is your wish, my lord, though it pains me that there is nothing I can do to even slightly repay the debt of gratitude I owe you - you eased our troubles, and it is painful to think I can do nothing for you.” She reached into the great folds of her sleeves and emerged with a single sculpted rose - its stem of emerald, the hint of thorns shorn, small peduncles extended at the end of which were leaves of jade and tsavorite. Its sepal was a burst of demantoid that gave way to blossoming red diamond, swirling crimson garnet, flowing pyrope, and gyrating ruby. “I did not forget you, my lord, and in those moments I found myself working on this small thing for you. I-it is not worthy of you, but I thought perhaps your beloved would like it.” She rose from her place and ascended the few steps the god’s throne, and descending to her knees extended the sculpted jewel rose to him. “When one looks into it, it seems to sing of the one most beloved to them. I am sure your lady will remember you fondly when she holds it and is far from you.”

Cadien reached down and accepted the rose, bringing it to eye level and looking into it with a curious expression. The lady backed away and descended the steps slowly. She did not speak, but watched as the god beheld the flower. After a few moments she opened eye mouth, but as though changing her mind closed it and allowed him all the time he needed, undisturbed. She quietly slipped back into her seat and, covering her mouth with the top of her mask shyly, watched the god.

Cadien listened. The rose sung. A song that only he could hear, and about exactly who he had expected. “It is a fine gift, and I thank you for it,” he said sincerely, “though may I ask how you came to acquire a divine artifact?”

She beamed to see that it had met with his approval, though his question brought a slight knot to her brow. “A divine artifact, my lord?”

“This artifact is divinely empowered,” Cadien said, with a raised eyebrow. “Either it was made by a god, or it was granted power by one shortly after its construction.”

“I do not know, my lord. It was crafted by me, none other, and no one has seen it but you and I.” The lady pursed her lips and there seemed a flicker of concern in her eyes. “I- I apologise if it displeases you my lord. I did not realise- I don’t understand how it can be.”

“Strange. Hm… no matter. It is still a beautiful gift. I was simply curious how this came to be.” Something to investigate further.

“I am glad that you find it beautiful my lord. It is but a small token of my gratitude.” She looked away with a sigh, her lips pursed in what seemed to be disappointment, but her mask veiled her lips for the most part. “I am not so sure if I will be able to accompany the expedition, my lord. My Lady is yet ill and needs my attention. Even being here at this time is a great risk. I must ask your forgiveness, I once more find myself a poor servant to you.”

Cadien raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? By your wording, I had thought you intended to accompany them.”

“Perhaps I was carried away by my own excitement, lord. But then the full weight of my duties returned when that excitement died down. I have no doubt that this journey shall do the songs good, even without me. The guardsmen who will accompany them appear in all ways capable.”

“Hm. Now we have a dilemma. On one hand, it would not do to abandon your lady for so long. On the other, the Songs who are to embark on this expedition might lose heart, if they find out the one who was to lead them will not come.” The lady looked at the ground in thought.

“That is very true my lord. Do you think there is anything we can do to avoid such a loss in morale?”

The god shrugged. “If a particularly eager, capable, and ambitious Song volunteers on their own initiative to lead the expedition in your stead, then I suppose there is little shame in transferring command. So long as the other Songs are still willing to follow them, of course.”

The Lady-in-Waiting nodded, reassured. “I am certain that it will be no issue, in that case. I will select a capable leader and encourage her to take up this duty.” She rose and curtsied. “I will not take up any more of your time my lord. I wish you well and can only hope that all your woes are soon lifted. Is there anything more you require of me?”

“Perhaps you might organize a performance, after the expedition is assembled?” Cadien suggested. “I’ve not heard you sing in a long time.”

“I will have it arranged, my lord. It may take a small while to prepare something remotely worthy of you, but I shan’t keep you waiting long.” She kept her eyes low and the mask at her lips. “Anything else, lord?”

“Nothing else,” Cadien shook his head. “You are free to take your leave, and thank you for your service today.”

Curtsying low for a few moments, she took three steps back before turning and moving with swift grace towards the great double doors. They opened before her and the sound of her heels could be heard fading away as the doors closed behind her.

---

It had truly been a time of fascination for Aen'drannan, the place she had been brought to so long ago was filled with souls of the dead. She could see them, their lives, all things within there, those were some of the gifts she had been given by the Great Eye. She had seen the world through others eyes, and it saddened her. So much occurred that simply did not seem to come for any reason, disaster and tragedy, suffering abounding.

There were good moments too, it was worth it in the end. And it varied so much, war and conquest often bringing justice and tyrants in equal chance, suffering in either case. She knew she could do something, was she not strong and large? Could not her power be put to good use?

So she had asked of the Eye, and so she had been shown. Trolls accorded to defend life, falling to the temptations of feed and their own failings. Even in their power overwhelmed by numbers and organization. Civilization as it were, the conflict between all kinds so very pointless as they all struggled in the same system. She talked with the Eye, he was not subtle, he had a point to make and it was that life was not worth it. She disagreed but they did agree in part on the reduction of suffering. He showed her more souls, and more, and more still.

And yet she grew more convinced that something was needed to change. Life was trapped in conflict, civilizations were trapped in conflict, each of the peoples of Galbar seemed to fight with each other again and again. She searched the lives of the souls she could see, she learned their languages, memorized aspects of their cultures, and yet she could not see why it always came to conflict. It didn't have to, she felt it deep inside that she could make things better, she had to try at the very least.

The Great Eye listened, gave one last set of gifts to her and offered to send her to Galbar. To a place of her choice to try to make a change. She accepted.

---

A rift of green flame opened in the sky, the wind only shifted slightly as it grew larger and larger. A portal of flame way above in the sky. The booming voice recognized to that of Sigeran was the only announcement, "A champion of my will to guide and lead."

The massive form that flew down out of the portal, flapping massive wings to lower itself onto its four legs, it seemed all vegetation and plants gave way to the creature crumpling as its form neared the ground. A golden helmet adorned its head, gleaming in the light. It was covered from head all down its body to the last bit of its tail in dark red scales, overlapping like that of well made armor. The creature turned its gaze to the area around it as it landed. Apart from its singing landing area, the surrounding snow-clad hills and forests were devoid of motoric life, apart from a distant kveg herd that had suddenly gotten the instinctive urge to evacuate the area with an uncontrolled, panicking stampede.

However, despite looking largely lifeless, there was a small ruined village not too far from the creature’s landing spot. Lifeless? Apparently not, as a man came peeking out from behind a broken wall and then ducked back into hiding upon seeing the creature.

Aen'drannan flipped her sight into the realm of souls, a gift of her golden helm. She spoke as she kept her head facing towards the village, ignoring the herd for now. "Show thyselves, you cannot hide from me in any case, make thyself known."

Ten shadows soared up from behind the building, carried into the sky by great, black wings. They flew in formation, the one at the front unbuckling a whip of sunlight. Banking hard to the right, they set a path down for the dragon’s back, brandishing weapons menacingly. Over by the foot of the ruins again, there stood five men, six women and some children, and something unspeakable even further behind.

“GET IT, ANNIHILARI!” came a distant yell from one of the men.

Rolling her eyes, Aen'drannan turned head head to the right and opened her mouth, breathing out a blast of green flame well in front of the path of the ten to dissuade them. Her mouth opened again, following it with words.

"Calm thyselves lest I be forced to destroy ye, I am no enemies of your kind and ilk, I come to talk as for your future!"

The angels flapped their wings in panic just to avoid the flame and soared back to the village, one of them needing to be carried due to too many singed feathers. They landed in front of the humans, most of whom had lost whatever courage they had had.

The thing behind them though, had not. It stepped forward upon cloven hooves, a large scythe in its left hand, it spoke outward towards the large winged being ”I...must say...if you wish to show yourself...as a friend...I would not recommend...appearing as you did.” Its voice grating against itself as it spoke.

"Little choice did I have, it was willed as per he you know as Sigeran."

Aen'drannan shuffled her wings and shook her claws to remove the loose dirt from the ground beneath her. She spoke again, clear enough and almost musical in tone.

"It is only my first time being in this realm of Galbar, in the western boreal highlands of Toraan are we not? The Dûnlands?"

The being thought for a brief moment ”Yes...you are…” They briefly turned back towards the humans ”Seems...your god...likes us enough to send...a giant winged death...being.”

“Is it the North God?” asked Sedrick.

Azen shook his head ”No...your...Sigeran…”

The men, women and even the children looked to be feeling a collective shiver. “S-Sigeran,” Coner whimpered and folded his hands together, bowing his head to meet his knuckles. Vegard, Knut and Mack, as well as half of the women did the same. Sedrick fell to one knee along with the other half and the children.

“In death, we live forever,” chanted Sedrick, the others echoing him.

The she dragon mused at what the Great Eye would think of such a phrase before turning to the point at hand and speaking in that same half-musical voice. She dipped her head to the cloven hooved creature, "Dragon is what my kind is called, although I hear there are many such of that name in the far corners of Divine insight."

She turned her gaze side on to the kneeling few and said a few words. "Your faith serves you well."

“We thought we had been abandoned - clinging to our faith like a rope over a bottomless pit. Now, Sigeran sends us you.” Now those who stood also bent the knee. “We are yours to command, great one,” Sedrick pledged.

"Fear not for abandonment, Sigeran is supreme. It is good to see you survivng well despite the depredations of our enemies. Especially the little ones." Aen'drannan, smiled a closed lip smile. The children huddled closer to both the men and the women.

Sedrick approached slowly, gesturing to the children. “Only one of them is related to one of the women here - that’s Little Knut; Teagan there’s his aunt.” The woman known as Teagan nodded to identify herself, holding her nephew close. “The rest are orphans. We’re a gathering of stragglers at best - shadows of the folk we were five years ago. All we want now is a break - an existence that can give us both the excitement of the hunt and the tranquility of peace until the day Sigeran comes to claim our souls. Therefore, we…” He eyed Annihilari, who offered him a frown and a shrug. Then looked at the Hunter’s bony face. “... We hope you haven’t come to draft us into a new war.”

The hunter stepped forward, taking a place next to Sedrick ”These...people...have seen much...those...forces of light are strong...they require...sanctuary...as do…” he turned back, looking at the Neiyari ”I...and...the neiyari.”

“-Just- until winter has passed,” Annihilari specified with a ‘hmph!’

Aen'drannan listened and watched them as each spoke, replying only a few moments after silence had taken form. "There is a good reason why I have been sent. To establish a kind of sanctuary, a haven for all those of the good and proper path against those foes that so surround and entrap all us here now. There are more, scattered and disparate, to survive there shall have to be a place wherein all can stand together and all can live in good peace and order."

"I am to help establish that. To protect and guide to a place most suitable, and defend all of you and your kind from there." Her head, and with it her gaze, turned towards Annihilari. "Neiya is numbered among the progenitors of my people, rightly guided siblings are always welcome to stay as long as you wish. My Master speaks highly of your purpose and people, I am sure we can all come together for what needs to be done."

“A sanctuary… Sigeran has heard our prayers!” praised the humans. Annihilari twitched a brow and pursed his lips.

“Suit yourselves - when first spring comes, I will be taking flight southwards to see my love once more - Aveira, our reunion cannot come soon enough.”

“You two will soar joyously in the moonlight, brother - like swallows in a dance of dark, yet wholesome love,” came a respectful comment from behind him. Annihilari slowly raised a palm to the sky.

“So I pray, sister - so I pray.” Around him, the other Neiyari gathered to touch and lament with him.

Azen chuckled ”Come now...Annhilari...you haven’t warmed...up to us yet?”

“Why warm up when I know leaving will be so cool, hmm?” The other Neiyari whooped in celebration of their leader’s ability with words. The humans chuckled more at the reaction than the phrasing.

Azen smiled as much as his boney face could allow ”you...never know my friend.”

“Great one,” Sedrick broke in. “May we know your name, you who is taking is to sanctuary?” The humans lifted their folded hands to the dragon.

"Of course, you may call me Aen'drannan." The dragoness replied in full musical tone.

“Great Aen’drannan - may we know where this sanctuary will be? Will the journey be long? We have little food and drink, and our clothes are all but rags now; we are still working to assemble our people, who have been scattered to every corner of the Dûnlands by now.”

"Far perhaps, but the journey should not be so bad, there are few enough of you that I can carry you to the promised haven." The Dragoness paused as she turned her head briefly, continuing on a different track.

"You may have some need of preparation for such a journey, I can help with game as I might. In any case, we shall be going beyond the range of Ha-Dûna's might, the edge of its influence. A river shielded by mountains to the east of Grimholt. There should be close enough to serve as a beacon and haven for the scattered faithful and all others of good welcoming, but far enough to be safer from the evils of our enemies. Besides the river should do well for growing. There are no great cities there yet, that will be the work of Sigeran."

“Praise be,” Coner whispered. “Our prayers really have been answered.”

“Told ya they would be,” snickered Mack.

“Great Azen, where can we find the closest game?” asked Sedrick.

The hunter rose his head, sniffing the air, distinguishing between all the various scents that surrounded him. ”That...way” He pointed with his scythe in a direction just beyond the great dragon. We...may...find some...kveg there.”

“kveg, you say? That’ll come in handy - we might even be able to capture a few heads so we’ll have milk, blood and meat for the journey!” Coner celebrated.

“Sounds like a plan,” said Sedrick. “Focus on capturing as many as you can, actually. Dead flesh will spoil, but living flesh will remain fresh as long as its body lives.”

“But how will we feed several kveg, Sedrick?” asked Teagan from behind him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“The kveg will eat what the earth provides,” the leader replied. “There might not be much, but we will keep a close eye on then and tap them for milk and blood to survive.”

“Ugh, drinking blood?” gagged Little Knut.

“Don’t be a wuss,” cautioned Vegard and nudged the young boy in the shin with his spear. “Blood’s good for you, kid. It’ll help you gather strength, something we’ll all need for the rest of the winter.”

“Not to mention the spring, when patrols will come looking for us,” moped Knut.

“Shut up, Knut,” Coner growled and the two exchanged knife-like glares. “Anyway, what’ll the rest of you do while we’re capturing kveg? ‘Cuz it’s going to be us, right?”

“You, Mack and Vegard should go. Annihilari, would you like to send any?”

The Neiyari flicked his chin up like someone had punched it. “Hmph! Since you asked so desperately, little maggot, I suppose we can spare one or two - as you so clearly need our help to do everything around here.” He groaned and turned to his small flock. They looked back expectantly. “Alright, Destrura, Agoniri - you two go.”

Destrura grimaced and raised her hand. “Can’t we put it to a vote, o Sadistic One?”

Annihilari rolled his eyes. “Alright, a vote it is, then. Who wishes to vote that Destrura and Agoniri go?” Unanimously, with the exception of the two involved, the Neiyari voted for. Annihilari threw out his arms and shrugged. “See what that accomplished? Now get going.” Bitter and outmatched by such layman’s democracy, the two losers complied reluctantly and flapped their wings over to the three humans.

“Azen, would you come with, as well?” asked Mack humbly.

The hunter looked up towards the Dragon, then to Mack ”I...shall come...I trust...our newest...ally to...keep watch…” He laid his scythe over his shoulder, before continuing to speak ”I suggest...the rest...gather what they can...from our...temporary abode....and keep their eyes out...for any others of our...cause.”

“As you command, Great Hunter,” Sedrick agreed dutifully and started herding the rest into the village to gather what they could find. Sedrick himself remained, however, turning to Coner. “And boys… No fighting, alright?”

“Y’know, you saying that makes it that much more enticing, actually,” Mack snickered. Coner elbowed him in the side.

“Shut up, Mack, you’re embarrassing us in front of the dragon!”

“Not as much as your face embarrasses the entire human race!” Mack snarled back, and both wound up their fists to punch. Sedrick barely managed to step in between them in time, glaring them down into the soil.

“No fighting. Azen, if they fight, take one hand from each.”

“Wha? That’s some cowshit!” Coner protested.

The hunter chuckled ”Gladly.” he replied. Eyeing down the two paladins with mock hunger in his eyes.

“Great Azen, have mercy,” Mack pleaded with big eyes. “Boys will be boys and all that, right? Right?”

Aen'drannan looked on with an idle smile at the antics of the others, occasionally swiveling around keeping track of nearby souls. She commented, "Try for the ones not preferred, such delays in relearning easy tasks with the unpreferred hand can take some time."

Mack swallowed and held out his hand to Coner. “Truce?”

Coner looked at the hand with spite, but took it and squeezed hard - too hard. Mack whimpered and keeled forward, glaring holes through Coner’s scarred skull. “Truce,” Coner snickered back. “Let’s go, then, lads! We have kveg to capture!” He released the hand, which Mack pulled to himself like a wounded child, and the merry band set off in the herd’s direction. Sedrick, meanwhile, remained still, looking back into the village where the salvagers were gathering resources in improvised skin sacks. He breathed a sigh and looked up at Aen’drannan.

“Great Aen’drannan, could I ask you something? Regarding the great Sigeran?”

”I may not have all the answers you seek but you may ask what you will.”

“Does he truly reward the strong with life after death? Do we truly live forever after we die?”

Aen’drannan smiled another closed lipped smile at the question. ”I have seen the souls of the dead in his very realm, the place of my creation and the creation of my people. I have no doubt all the dearly departed are there, and that all of you should in time when your personal tale has reached the full conclusion, that you should join them.”

Tears formed in Sedrick’s eyes, and he descended to his knees and lifted his hands to the dragon. “I knew we were in the right to keep faith. I knew he would come for us at our lowest… Are the conditions still the same?”

Aen'drannan smiled. It was difficult to speak truths leaving out the context that might reveal so much to them. She didn't like it, but she didn't have much choice to accomplish what she needed to, making something better would take time and sacrifice, a few moderately hard moments would be the least of her concerns. She replied, "The conditions have been as they always have from time immemorial. The standing of Sigeran stands strong no matter what."

“Blessed be,” whispered Sedrick in response.

---

The herd hadn’t run far - or at least, not as far as they could’ve ran. It had topped the hill and hid in its shadow, where all memory of the dragon had faded out of memory and the kveg could once again happily graze on what lichen, grass and weeds still hid under the snow. It wasn’t a feast, exactly, but they had to survive somehow.

It would be interesting to see how much longer they would survive, though, because atop the hill, hiding behind a boulder, the three humans, two angels and one massive wendigo all make their plans for how they would capture the beasts.

“Alright,” Mack mumbled, “I count around twenty heads… One lead… Possibly three lead calves - can’t make that out entirely…”

“Man… Imagine having all those women to yourself, mate…” drooled Coner. The angels looked at him with disgust. Coner noticed them and gaped wide. “No, I meant human women! -Human- women!”

“Swine,” Destrura spat coldly. Coner sank together in despair and shame. Mack ignored them both and looked up at Azen.

“Any ideas for how we should approach this?”

”Depends...do you...wish to capture...or kill these creatures?”

“Like Sedrick said - capture if we can.”

”Then...it would...be in our interest...to cut them off...to herd them...our winged allies can….help in this….we also must...ensure we retain that lead….as the herd will follow them…of course...we must also prevent a...stampede...that would prove....dangerous…”

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Agoniri muttered and took to the skies. Destrura remained a bit longer and gave a shrug.

“Anything specific you’d like us to do when cutting them off? What angle will you be coming from?”

Coner started, “Well, we’ll--”

“Quiet, maggot. Azen, what angle?”

Azen took stock of the surrounding area, pointing to the side-back of the herd ”There...we shall...try to drive them forward...towards the...village.”

“Understood.” Then she took off. Coner stood staring into the snow as Mack and Vegard were about to move ahead; Mack turned to face him.

“Hey, what’s wrong, man?”

Coner blinked in frustration. “Am I really a maggot? A swine?”

Mack and Vegard exchanged looks, furrowing their brows. Mack turned back and pursed his lips. “Yeah, yeah, absolutely.”

“Totally,” Vegard added without a shred of humour. Coner sank even lower.

“That fate would have it that so many good people died and I’m stuck here with you.”

“Other way around, asshole - we’re stuck here with your dumb noggin and broad shovel-jaw. Now come on.” After some back and forth and wary glances over at Azen’s scythe, the men moved ahead.

Azen kept his distance behind them, while the presence of three humans would not be enough to scare the herd, his strange and twisted form would certainly be enough.

Coner, Mack, and Vegard readied themselves, moving to the back of the herd, meanwhile above, the two neiyari prepared to come from above, keeping the herd going in a, roughly straight direction.

Azen swept his eyes over the herd, the kveg lazely grazing, totally unaware, his gaze drifted towards the lead with its large horns, then, an idea began to form in his head.

He turned towards the humans ”I...have...the perfect...idea.” He spoke in a hushed whisper.

“What are you...” Mack tried to question, but he did not get far in his statement before Azen bolted out of the brush and rocks. His speed was incredible, fitting for a being with practically the legs of a deer and years of hunting skills. The kveg had no time to figure out what was going on, the sudden appearance of the twisted hunter was absolutely sure to spook them into running. Even more so when Azen took a running leap, soaring through the air for a brief moment, landing directly upon the back of the lead.

For a brief moment, it was like even the kveg did not know what to do, even the lead, but, after the few seconds of pure bafflement by all involved(beyond Azen), all hell broke loose. The lead bucked and jumped, but Azen held firmly on, with a swat of his hand, he sent the lead carreening forward. The others took the sign, the three humans launched out of the brush and rocks, and the two Neiyari flew close to the sides, ensuring the now frightened kveg ran forward, in the direction of their now utterly confused lead with a massive wendigo sat atop.

Azen couldn’t help but laugh, waving his scythe in the air like an utter madman which, in all fairness, he was. Behind him the paladins could barely keep up with the herd, and soon resorted to the same tactics as their icon, quickly grabbing the sides of the kveg and planting themselves firmly on top. The neiyari couldn’t help but shake their heads at the display. Azen drove the lead forward, urging the herd towards the village, which only grew in size as they neared, quickly showing the forms of the great dragon and villagers sitting within.

“Why did we even come along for this?” Destrura muttered bleakly to the melody of Agoniri’s groan. “We, what, flapped our wings a bit after Azen took control? We could’ve been back here relaxing.”

“Oh, do you two -ever- stop complaining?” Coner wailed. Destrura scoffed and stuck her nose to the sky; Agoniri mirrored her perfectly.

“Be quiet, flea. Be thankful we were there to help you.”

“But you just said--”

“HMPH!” With that, the two Neiyari took flight and floated over to the rest of their band, all of whom sat in a circle around Annihilari, listening to very sad poetry. Coner was on the verge of tears, his teeth grinding themselves to sand under the pressure of his fury.

“I will pluck every feather off her wing one day.”

“Coner, pipe it down,” Mack snarled and kneeled before Aen’drannan. “Great dragon - we bring back livestock for our people.”

Aen'drannan watched the herd approach, not replying to the kneeling Mack, before springing herself into the air. Her powerful legs throwing herself upwards as her wings outstretched and took over, calmly circling around to beside the coming herd and unleashing balefire on the ground around it. She circled the group entrapping them in a wall of flame before coming back down a little ways away from it, reaching in as the herd milled away from the green fire to help Azen escape the flame himself. She turned her head back to the group and spoke.

"I'll grab whichever few seem best suited for slaughter, best the Aiviri stay away from lifting them, too heavy for a few and too likely to injury in the beasts' panic and such. You others will need to prepare as much as you can carry for the journey, and of course your fill for our time waiting here. We'll not need the full herd nor can we take all of them."

The humans looked at each other. “Well, we oughta bring some living, as well, “ Coner pointed out. “Their milk, meat and blood will spoil along the way, so we should be keeping a few kveg and a lead, shouldn’t we?”

“Coner, don’t be rude! But yes, we think so as well,” agreed Sedrick. “They graze the plains, so feeding a few won’t be too hard, I reckon.”

“Have any of you maggots ever herded livestock?” asked Annihilari sharply. Two of the women raised their hands.

“I was a shepherd back in Ha-Dûna,” said one of them.

“What was your name again?” asked Sedrick.

“Enna,” she responded. Sedrick nodded quietly.

“Alright, you will take responsibility for our kveg. I take it you know how to raise animals?”

Before she could answer, Annihilari spat. “Sheep. She can raise sheep - that’s what a shepherd is.”

“She’s the best we’ve got - unless any of you have a better solution?”

Annihilari smirked and raised his arms fabulously to the heavens. The other Neiyari encircled him awesomely and struck their own poses to further his glory. “As a matter of fact, our dearest Desolari has herded livestock for decades! -He- will certainly do a better job than some meek squirt.”

“Now listen here, you--” Coner started, but Sedrick grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back, scowling at the magnificent angels.

“Whatever you say, Annihilari,” he mumbled and the Neiyari gloated powerfully.

“Hah! That’s the proper attitude when addressing superiority, you tiny, tiny man. Now, shall we go feast, my sisters? My brothers?” The angels squealed in celebration and took flight, soaring over to the balefire ring to pick out the best targets. Sedrick spat.

“Forgive me, Coner - it’s just that we should not fight before our great master.” He bowed back to Aen’drannan.

Aen'drannan really couldn't say that she blamed the ones here for getting excited about the herd, but it was true enough that she wouldn't be able to completely carry them and the whole herd so they'd have to go over land which would be slower, and carry more risk of hostile forces...

Her head followed the Aiviri as she spoke to those still near, "Bicker as you must, fight not. We all have more important enemies than any small slight of word from those assembled here."

She relaxed back onto her haunches and turned her head back to those nearby. "Do you still have the Shrine?"

“The shrine, your greatness?” asked Sedrick. “We have erected many, as Sigeran commands - which one do you mean?”

"It would have been Golden, appearing sometime with a lot of voices saying of its use into your heads, likely at an inconvenient time?" Aen'drannan replied with dry humor. The humans looked to be sweating, uncertain of how to respond.

“W-we’re not sure we know what you mean,” Sedrick admitted meekly, the others looking anywhere else than at Aen’drannan. “When were we given this?”

"I see. It would have been some time ago, might have been when you were more on the run as it were, there would have been news of the happenings in the western highlands at this time from the voices but I recognize that might still pose issue..." She trailed off standing back up and shaking the dirt from her claws.

“How could we have missed something like this?!” Coner broke out.

“Maybe Ragnar’d heard about it.”

“Well, that won’t help us, will it? Ragnar’s dead, and we’ve obviously missed something very important, haven’t we?!” The humans fell to their knees to grovel. “FORGIVE US, GREAT ONE!”

"Get up, I shall require one or two of you to accompany me to show me where you have been and thusly where the Shrine might be. It is of no use to those without knowledge so we shall not have to worry about others being bonded with it at least. The rest can prepare well enough here for what needs to be done."

The humans got up on the spot and shifted sheepishly. Sedrick was about to step forward when Mack raised his hand. “I will go. I knew Ragnar well - he could have hidden it for later use.”

Sedrick nodded. “Good. Coner, you go with him.”

“Why me?! And why with him?!”

Mack frowned. “Could ask the same, chief.”

Sedrick growled quietly and grabbed them both by the shoulder. “You two need to put your differences behind you and learn to work together, you fools. Besides, Coner, you were close to Ragnar, too.”

“His daughter, more like,” mused Mack and Coner grabbed him by the collar in a flash.

“You mention Frianne one more time--”

“Coner!” Sedrick pulled Mack free. “Mack, don’t mock him; Coner, control yourself. This is not acceptable behaviour before the Great One.” He shook his head. “Now go with her. What should we do while you are gone, Great One?”

"Do as you need and make use of the herd, prepare for travel in all sense available and keep vigilant. I would recommend drying any meats you do not use for travel food. You know well enough what to do in any case. As well, and this is most vital, do enjoy yourselves as able, there is much good coming for you and you should not get so caught up in worry, a healthy amount, a strong concern, or such. If the worst comes I will have to ask aid from a Servant of Sigeran, I would prefer not too but it is possible. This is no defeat, nor fault upon ye."

Aen'drannan turned to the pair speaking to them both, "You should prepare to ride upon my back with whatever you'll need for the flight."

“Depends on whether the neiyar’ll share black milk with us,” grunted Coner. Mack rolled his eyes and turned to Sedrick.

“We’ll take our share of the supplies we have, then - better that, than to wait for the kveg meat to dry for the trip.”

Sedrick nodded. “Take whatever you need, brother. We will head northeast, out of reach of the Dûnan riders. I reckon the Great One’s sight and senses will easily spot out caravan from the sky.”

Mack nodded, Coner having already walked off to take the supplies from the ruins in which they stored them. Once he came back, both climbed onto Aen’drannan’s back. Below, Sedrick waved. “Be respectful, you two! We all’ll have to work together in these trying times - even you two.” Mack and Coner exchanged scowls.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Coner growled. Mack grunted in response.

"Hold on tightly, lest you be thrown." She did not waste much time leaping back into the air, careful to maintain an easier ascent path for the riders to manage. She did not go as high as she could, mindful that doing so might cause quite the issue. The two on her back struggled to hold on, clawing at whatever was grippable on her back. On the ground, the sudden buffet of air cast some of the less sturdy onlookers back.

Aen'drannan spoke to them clearly as they clawed at the ridges and plates of her back, falling into a steady gliding circling pattern around the site. "In which direction do I need to go?"

“West! It must be in the west! Closer to Ha-Dûna!”

“Coner, you madman! We cannot go there - they will see us and resume the hunt!”

“That is where we came from, you fool! We couldn’t have left it anywhere else!”

She silently turned westwards keeping a close eye on the ground below and she made sure to keep steadying her flight for the two passengers. "Hold on and keep watch for familiar landmarks."

The two humans kept spying, and though they weren’t at all used to this sort of travel speed and such heights, they did their best to take it what they were observing. After a while, Coner pointed a carrot-like finger at a distant hill. “There! Mack, doesn’t that look like that one hill with, with the cairn?!”

“The cursed hill of the Minks?! Didn’t we run around it?!”

“No - we stopped, remember? It was the only place the Dûnans wouldn’t look for us! I’m sure it has to be there!”

Mack pondered this for a minute. Then he patted Aen’drannan on her back and shouted, “It’s there! It’s that cairn far below!”

Not feeling but hearing, Aen'drannan circled around setting down a little ways off, the vegetation of all kinds near her dying as she approached only a few meters from the ground. She spoke as she came to a stop, "Where would your Ragnar have hidden the shrine can you think? Search if you must."

The two men skipped off of her back and eyed the abandoned stone pyramid atop the hill, oozing as it was with an invisible evil miasma. The grave pile had an entrance - an arch of stacked stones that seemed less than sturdy, and was littered with skulls mounted on sticks to deter both the living and the dead for disturbing the ancestors of the pyramids makers. Mack started approaching, but Coner remained. Mack groaned and beckoned his companion to follow. “Come on, man - I don’t like it either, but we need that shrine!”

“You know what the Mink say about disturbing the dead, right?” Coner was almost shaking. “Neither the living nor the dead may enter or leave the final resting place of their ancestors, for to do so is to break the barrier separating the Overworld and the Underworld. W-we shouldn’t--”

“How you know more about Mink faith than how to ride an elk is beyond me…” Mack took his hand and pulled him along. “But enough bitching! We’ve been in there once and left, and the world is still whole, is it not?”

“But what has happened to us since we did, man?! The Hunter found us again, and now a dragon of Sigeran himself has become our master! Aren’t they both of the dead?!”

Mack groaned yet again. “Okay, first of all - Aizen found us before we even found this place, so you can dismiss that thought right away. Secondly, both Aizen and Aen’drannan are helping us! Thus in my view, breaking the barrier between worlds was the smartest thing we ever did!”

Coner paused to consider this. “Now that you mention it…”

“Yeah, I know. Now let’s go.” The two ducked into the entrance and descended down into the pyramid’s chamber. The staircase was overgrown with moss and lichen, and the roof even inside the chamber was low and in disrepair. Sure enough, as they had predicted from their memory, there was a shrine here, erected atop a mummified corpse lying on a flat stone on the floor. Around them, remains of what had once been an opulently well-decorated burial chamber showed only the scrap and junk the graverobbers had refused to take with them. All was gray except for the shrine.

The shrine was entirely of gold coloration, it seemed to faintly glimmer if it was fully made of such as well. It was centered on a golden figure standing atop a pile of bodies. Gems and other colorful stones dotted the artifact, faintly inscribing eyes into the base of the structure. It had a mural of scenes even as all ended up supporting the intricately decorated bodies of races and peoples near and far, and some that none here had ever seen nor heard of existing. They all formed a cone up to that central figure, triumphantly standing over the defeated masses even as they were scared themselves. It was just small enough that they might be able to carry it between the two of them, if it were not too heavy. Mack nodded slowly.

“Now I remember… The hunters caught old Briain while he was having a piss… We had to escape and couldn’t bring it with us.”

“Rest his soul, that old fool,” Coner sighed. The two then took hold of each side of the shrine and carried it outside.

The great dragon eyed the two as they came out with the shrine, speaking softly enough to them in her semi-musical tone. "Be careful there, don't hurt yourselves with it there. I take it you know not how to utilize the shrine?"

She had been keeping watch out at the landscape around but now centered her attention more fully on the pair. She was upright, not having taken the time to bother to get into a resting position while on the ground.

The two of them placed the shrine down in the snow before her. “No, we don’t. Ragnar might’ve, but he never shared the information with someone like us.”

"Might as well do so now, place your dominant hand on the shrine and pledge your eternal souls to Sigeran, offer up your bodies to his will and power."

The two men gulped, but they knew they had already given more to him than so. They each did as told and spoke, “We offer our bodies and souls forever to the great king of death and victory, Sigeran.”

There was no flash, no mighty sign of any change outwardly. Nor did they feel any great change come across their body, but something was different. They knew exactly that the shrine was there and it was right in front of them. Not from sight or touch, but something else telling them it was close, and the direction of it exactly.

The two men blinked at one another and then up at Aen’drannan. “What, what happened?”

"You are now bonded to the Shrine and it grants you power through the Will of Sigeran, climb back up, I will carry the Shrine, you are more fragile than it even now. We have to bring it back to the others so that they too may swear." As she spoke she moved to make climbing up onto her back again easier for the two men.

"I will explain more later, but know that such power is not a toy or joke"

Not waiting for her to explain further, the men climbed back on her back. Once they were settled it only took a moment for her to grab the shrine in her claw and leap into the air once more, heading back the way she came to reach the camp as quickly as possible given the limitations on height and speed she had to maintain carrying the two men. Never growing quite used to the sensation, the men held on for their lives all the way.

In that way, landing was quite the nice thing as they finally came back to camp, the two eagerly disembarking as Aen'drannan set the Shrine down. "You have been most useful and should be praised for your assistance in securing the Shrine once more."

She nodded to each of them once before turning her attention elsewhere as she fell into a resting posture, having landed a good few meters away from anything of import. The other Sigerans hastened over to the shrine, Sedrick in the lead with eyes wide open. The Neiyari came, as well, curiously eyeing the artifact while rubbing their chins as one flock. Speaking of flock, the captured kveg that had not been slaughtered for food were still kept inside the balefire ring, quickly growing tired of running around in panic. Sedrick regarded the shrine and then Mack and Coner. “Of course! We left this in the--”

“The cairn, yes,” Mack finished and looked up at Aen’drannan. “Should I tell them or would you like the honours?”

She smiled a closed lip smile saying, "You may tell them."

Mack nodded slowly and turned back to the others. “Very well. Aen’drannan has told us of Sigeran’s will, and we are all to place our hands upon this shrine and pledge our souls and bodies to his service.”

There was a pause. “Is that it?” came a quiet remark from Sedrick.

“That’s it.”

Sedrick looked at the shrine and then Aen’drannan, shrugged and raised his hand. “Alright, line up! Let us offer ourselves to our master and--”

“Now hold on,” came the snide, know-it-all voice of Annihilari, his companions folding out behind him like a fan of cards or a pack of vultures. Sedrick, Mack, Coner and the other Sigerans groaned in silence as they turned to look at them.

“What?”

“That’s my question, exactly,” Annihilari declared. “Or perhaps -why- is a better question. Offering yourselves to your god Sigeran is no simple decision - and certainly not one you should take lightly. Of course, I don’t care a feather or a fig for what happens to any of you, but in my merciful stupor, I simply cannot bear to see something so naive as you humans so thoughtlessly taking such orders unquestioningly!”

“So thoughtful!” cooed his companions.

“A heart of gold!” cooed another before being slapped.

“I do not! My heart is as black as the night itself - it beats only once a year, when I get to see my eternal love, Aveira!” He struck a pose, and the other Neiyari swooned.

“Such devotion! Such admiration!”

The Sigerans, meanwhile, looked back up at Aen’drannan as if begging for help. Sedrick stepped forward and tried to speak over the explosion of praise and pride that was Annihilari’s boasting right next to them. “As it may be the only way to shut them up, can you tell us what will happen once we give ourselves to the Master?”

Aen'drannan watched most of this with silent amusement but with the request to explain she spoke to them all. "Should you give yourself in soul and body over to Sigeran through the power of the Shrine you shall not only appraise yourself to a truly worthy god but more importantly for the more self-interested, you shall again powers two fold."

"When near the Shrine these powers will be at their height, your mortal forms while capable of damage will not halt, you will not suffer greatly from wounds and you will become almost undying in form. Secondly you will always know where and how far from you the Shrine is, the two who have retrieved it have pledged themselves. Do so now, or later, as long as you are pledged and with the Shrine no enemy of mortal make could easily best you from your own protection by the Divine hand of Sigeran."

She lowered her head bringing it close to the face, or more precisely looming over the head, of Annihilari. "I hope that has alleviated your 'merciful stupor', and I thank you as one being of Neiya's helpful creation to another for your close and careful consideration for the followers of Sigeran."

“Oh, it’s the least we could do,” Annihilari thanked as the Neiyari quieted down to observe. The Sigerans, after looking at one another to confirm their determination, each swore their oaths in turn and, one by one, were granted the powers their Master had promised them. Sedrick took a deep breath and grinned at Mack and Coner.

“I feel it… This is just like the blessing at Grimholt.” He took out his axe and chopped himself in the thigh. Blood surged forth, but he stood as though it had been a wasp’s sting. He then pulled the axe out and waited as the others looked on. He paled, and the amount of blood he was losing should indicate that he would be dead any minute, but he breathed and smile for all to see, raising his hands to the air. “SIGERAN IS WITH US!”

“SIGERAN IS WITH UUUUS!” echoed the other humans, and even the Neiyari looked somewhat impressed. As Vegard hastened to patch up Sedrick’s leg and give him black milk to rebalance his fluids, the humans turned back to Aen’drannan for further guidance. “What now, then? Where do we go from here?”

Rushing blood began to slow as the wound was healing slowly, but it was even so more than it should by any natural means. Aen'drannan spoke, "South, along the mountains as much as we can to reach the promised lands further up the river and into a tributary river from the mountains in the east. There is a promised land to the faithful of Sigeran and all those of good alliance and righteous power under true Divine might. There will be where you shall finally rest and prosper."

Act Three, Scene Four: The Hunt Begins

The air was cold, wind roared as it whipped across the blasted landscape, there was no comfort here, there wasn’t even snow, only pure ice and frost. Up here, at the edge of the known world, so far north, ten people had gathered, they were fanatics, the most zealous of those of the North God, they had been summoned here by the voices of the wind and had journeyed through the vast and deadly wastes, all in the name of their god.

Now, amidst the blasted ice and fierce winds, they stood, gathered around in a circle. In the center they had etched a large circle and strange runes as best they could with their bone and stone tools. There, layed in the circle, was a woman, a weike woman, they knew not her name, only that Sikká, their leader, had brought her after capturing her some time ago. They had no need to know her anyway, she would not last long, even if she escaped.

The woman was bound, her legs and arms tied together and to each other by ropes, her mouth and eyes covered by a sack. She was unconscious, to make sure she wouldn’t cause any problems, if she struggled it would take too long, and the North God was never patient.

Sikká stepped forward, she let the darkened hood fall back, revealing her face. It was adorned with choppy, self cut black hair, she was in all instances beautiful with her features and her eyes were a loving blue, but the right side of her face was adorned with a massive burn scar, ensuring only one eye worked, and her old beauty had vanished. No one knew how Sikká obtained this scar, and none of them had dared to ask, for fear of her wrath.

She raised her hand, enforcing the silence that had washed over the gathered cultits, and she slowly spoke.

“Brothers, and sisters,” She began, her voice determined and loud over the sweeping winds, as if almost being carried by it. “Our god, has summoned us here, and today, we shall show our devotion, to the wilds.”

She reached into her outfit, pulling forth a stone dagger, sharpened to a harsh point. She stepped forward, beginning to sing a chant to the North God. The others soon joined, their voices merging with the rushing wind, forming a chorus only the far north would love.

The woman, bound in the circle, began to stir, the noise awakening her. She began to trash around, trying desperately to escape her bindings, but Sikká immediately was upon her, pinning her unto the ground with her own body and weight. Raising the dagger and bringing it down over and over again, blood flying and bones snapping, the chorus only grew as the sacrifice was made, with Sikká singing the loudest.

Soon, the woman fell silent, the life leaving her, the cultists continued to chant as the winds roared and roared and roared. Then suddenly stopped. The cultists, like clockwork, fell silent, their movements stopping almost immediately, even Sikká froze, the dagger raised in the air. They stood there, waiting, and waiting.

Then the voice came.

”While I personally would have prefered, more theatrics, I must say Sikká.” The voice drew close, as if that who bore it was right up against her ears. ”Killing one who you love, is always a way to get my attention.”

The other cultists stood there, silent, daring not to speak up, knowing they would take this to their grave. Sikká merely knelt there, her arms falling to her sides, dagger still in hand.

”To think, they trusted you with everything, even their love, guess that was misplaced, you really, broke their heart.”

Sikká sat there as the wind began to pick up once more, the snow began to collect, forming together into a tall, thin figure, with gangly arms and a faceless head and twisted antlers. Their arm slowly took Sikká’s head in its hand, turning it upwards to look at the figure that now stood behind them.

”Tell me Sikká, are you loyal to me?”

“Yes...yes my lord” she sputtered out, the others could see the formation of tears upon her face. But the figure took its other hand, and wiped them away.

”Come now my dear, there’s no reason to cry,” Their face drew closer to hers, stopping mere inches away from it. ”Afterall, you are such a devoted servant of mine are you not?”

“Of...of course, i’ve gathered them all here, for you my lord.” She stared up at the being with her eyes wide open, the dagger falling from her hand as she brought her arms up towards it. Slowly trying to clasp them upon the being’s own face, but her fingers failed to grasp solid ground. Merely falling through the swirl of snow that made it up. Falling limp through the whirling horror and landing at her sides once more.

A chuckle came from the horned god, echoing throughout the vast northern wilds that surrounded them. Their hands left the sides of Sikká’s head, their lanky body standing up straight as they let the woman fall forward to face the body that lay in front of her. Their head turned to the others gathered there, and they slowly walked the ring of cultists, their hollow and formless head gazing deep into each one of their souls. The cultists stood stone still, fearing what their god would do.

”And tell me,” They spoke. ”Are they all loyal to me as well? I would, hate to have someone not as devoted as you amongst these ranks.” They stopped and stared at one of the cultists, the empty face matching his eyes, he stood still though, not wavering, and soon the god continued.

“Of course my lord!” Sikká spoke up, her head raising once more to look upon her savior. “They have followed me to the ends of the world for you! They are devoted to the path of the North!” She slowly rose, her eyes were wild, this was her dream, her life's work, as it was for many of the cultists gathered.

The god stopped upon the last cultist within the circle, slowly, their hand extended outward, a single finger touching the cultist’s chin, bringing it upward, staring at the man’s face hidden beneath the cloak. For a while they stood there, the other cultists holding their breath as Sikká slowly drew forward, her legs shaking as she did.

Finally, they spoke ”Are, you sure my dear?” In a flash, they had grabbed the lone cultist by the throat, tossing them towards the center of the circle where the dead woman laid. He landed with a thud, the sound of cracking bones sounded out amongst the howling wind. The god glided back towards the center, soon towering over the collapsed form of the cultist, who now clutched his side in pain. The other cultists had looks of fear upon their faces, some falling to their knees muttering prayers. Sikká stood silent, her face fallen into a mixture of fear and sadness, her life’s work now hung on a precipice, she knew the North God hated false devotion, this could ruin her.

For a moment, the god merely stood there, watching the cultist writhe in pain upon the cold stone ground. Then, they slowly lifted their left arm, palm up, towards Sikká. ”Come here my dear Sikká, I have something for you.”

A part of her mind told her not to, to run, to leave this all behind, but she knew she was in too deep. And so, she stepped forward, taking the gods hand with her own. The North God guided her forward, soon she too was standing above the cultist. Then, they guided her to kneel, soon both of their arms taking hers, one by her hand, another by her elbow. Its face was mere inches from hers, both now kneeling closer to the broken man. Those cultists who were not begging forgiveness watched on, hoping this would be the redemption they now sought.

”Sikká...do you trust me?”The god asked, its voice harsh and cold, its jauntyness gone, Sikká knew she only had one answer.

“Yes”

A burning pain soared through her arm, no, not burning, freezing. Its pain was not hot, but cold, it emitted from the God’s hands upon her arm, and crept rapidly up her arms into the rest of her body, she couldn’t help but utter a scream.

The Frozen God kept their hands upon her arm, slowly guiding it forward, clasping it upon the throat of the cultist, his body too broken to fight back. She felt an otherworldly force tighten her fingers around his neck, he gasped and sputtered, fighting back the inevitable.

Then, more screams began, she turned her head upwards, towards the other cultists, who too writhed in pain, some throwing off their cloaks or just fallen to the ground. Then, their forms began to change. Their skin began to turn an icy blue, starting up from their arms and slowly creeping throughout their body, the men sprouted antlers from their heads, and shaggy white hair grew across their body as their faces grew elongated, reindeer like but full of teeth. The women had their hair turn a light blue, their eyes glowed with a bluish energy as spikes of ice began to sprout and grow upon their skin. All had their legs twist and bend, becoming deer like. Covered in white or light blue fur.

As she choked the life out of the cultist, Sikká too began to change, like the others her skin turned blue from where the North God held onto her arm, but she gained her own special changes. Her black hair turned pure white, her one good eye twisted into that of a predator’s with that same bluish glow. Antlers too broke from her head, but they were twisted and malformed, akin to that that stood upon the North God’s head, her mouth filled with sharp teeth. Her legs too twisted into that of a deers, but adorned with a mixture of white and blue fur. And finally, the burnt side of her face erupted with a freezing blue fire, twisting and clinging to her skin, it did not burn her, instead, it felt almost comforting in its cold form.

As Sikká took in her new form as it crept across her, she heard the sudden snapping of bones and gurgling screams. Her gaze shot downward towards the cultist. Her hand had kept its grip upon him, but now, his form was changing as well, spreading outward from his neck, his skin began to become a sickly pale, his eyes had turned black and his hair fell by the clumps out of his hair, his arms and torso twisted and contorted into strange ways, only held down by her knee that had been placed upon his chest. He gurgled and spat, trying desperately to free his neck of her grip.

“What...what is happening?” She asked, her voice wavering in the face of the changes.

”For your loyalty,” The god whispered into her ear ”you and the others are gaining my gifts, new more, appropriate forms, and some lovely powers...as for the traitor, he is, seeing the fruits of your loyalty.”

The man continued to twist and corrupt, eventually, his form twisted to that beyond of any human, his arms now separated into two at the elbow, his legs had scattered, becoming spider like of multiple flailing limbs, his skin flaked off, showing a hard chitin underneath, and his force twisted into a horrifying amalgamation of flesh, chitin, and bones.

Sikká could handle this no longer, mustering up all her strength she twisted her hand and the neck underneath, hearing the cracking of bone and flesh as she snapped it. The creature flailed one last time, before falling limp. She took heavy breaths, her fellow cultists gathering their strength after their own transformations. She looked up towards the North God, readying to ask more questions, but, she saw nothing, the form of ice and snow had vanished, leaving only the howling winds.

She stood, taking a moment to understand her new form, her legs wobbled for a bit and she felt as if the energy had been sucked out of her, but one of the female cultists quickly came and aided her, helping her keep her balance. Sikká took stock of the others, they all seemed fine, beyond the two corpses that now sat in the center. They all stood in shock, soon enough they gathered together in a closer circle, the two female cultists aiding their leader in keeping herself upright. They looked at her, awaiting her instructions.

Before she could speak, they heard another howl, not of the wind, but of beasts. They turned behind them, seeing beyond the cliff they stood upon three chariots, adorned in a light blue paint scheme, with ice scattered around their hulls, looking as if they had been stored in the frozen north for ages. Pulling them were four massive white wolves each, one of them the source of the howl that had drawn them. They could also see piles of weapons with a brown like colouring to them alongside the chariots.

Sikká stood, her two companions aiding her towards the chariots, the wolves merely sat, staring up at her with their icey blue eyes, within the central chariot, adorned with the antlers of an elk at the front, she saw a pale white horn, an icey covering to it. She slowly picked it up, taking it in her hands.

“What...do we do now?” One of her cultists asked, taking stock of the other chariots, with others testing the weapons they had been gifted.

She thought for a moment, feeling a deep calling within her, the North God had gifted them their boon, and now, they must play their tune.

“Simple, we begin our hunt.”

The wind howled as the sounds of chariots sent off into the night. The Hunt had begun.

“You shouldn’t be in the fields all day.” One of the humans said as he looked up to face the four-winged angel working beside him. working through the earth with the same kind of hoe he used. The field around them was being prepared, and the sun-mother willing they would have a bountiful harvest. Again. “You’re our queen. Queens shouldn’t be here.”

Soleira never stopped working. “I’m not a queen.” She said. “Just… someone wanting to help.” The humans around her were insistent. They kept calling her queen or chiefess. She didn’t feel like a queen. She didn’t want to feel like a queen. Working in the field, ankle deep in the fertile soil with sweat rolling off her brow was always a good reminder of who she was. Just a girl, an Oraeliari. One without her halo even. Despite that, several other of her kin had chosen to join her.

Both of them, an all the other human farmers, continued their work in the field. Then when evening fell. “You did very well.” Soleira said as she petted the oxen that pulled the ards through the earth. They just brayed at her in acknowledgement. They were simple creatures, but always willing to help. Having thanked all the creatures that helped her and her people work the earth, they all returned to their homes. Soleras they called it, in honor of her and the sun. Soleira returned to her colorful clay-brick house as well. It was larger, but not by much. Just enough so her four wings wouldn’t push everything off tables and other furniture.

But before she entered, something glimmered on the horizon. Something larger than an Oraeliari or Neiyari. Other people stepped out as well, to look at the quickly approaching figure on the red horizon. Warriors, a necessity Soleira had learned to accept, formed up. Armed with leather, wooden spears and hide shields. A few of the people gasped in fear.

Luckily the figure seemed to descend faster than first though. At that rate, it would land not inside the village but further away. Amid the newly tilted fields. Soleira didn’t take any chances though. She moved out, ready to meet the strange thing outside. Hoping it wasn’t dangerous. In the distance, black spots of crows and eagles flew out towards the stranger. Soleolis’ first line of protection were the animals around it. Like a cloud they approached the thing, then flew away again. Soleira frowned out of confusion. The animals had never let her down.

The figured came closer. It looks animalistic. When it was close enough, dusk had well and truly set. She thought she could see white fur. It came closer. It was large and catlike. Finally, it landed before her, and Soleira could see the animal in its full glory. A leon, though she had never seen such an animal before. Immediately smiled as she extended her hand towards. “Hey there.” She said softly. The animal nuzzled her hand. “You must be far from home. What brings you here.”

“Nothing but an old man.” Something said from atop the leon.

Surprised, Soleira took a step back. Then, appearing from the other side stepped an old, robed man. His long robes were strained with mud and sweat and filthy rain. His beard was an uncut, untended mess. His face was filthy. Yet his eyes flickered with a light she had never seen. Not even in the rainbow eyes of the humans.

“Who are you?” She asked as she still petted the leon, who gladly accepted the attention.

“Just a stranger. My name is.. Kal.” He made a small bow. As much as his body would allow. “You must be Soleira.” He then said with a smile.

“I am. Have you heard of me?” There were some stories of her going around in the Luminant, she knew. Several of the nearby villages had already come paying tribute in gold. Believing that was the only thing she wanted.

“In a way. Would you mind if we spoke some where more… comfortable? My old body you see.” The stranger said.

Immediately Soleira stepped forward to take him by the arm. “Yes, yes! Of course. Apologies. Allow me.” With the strength of an Oraeliari it was easy to uphold the frail human. Slowly they walked towards the village. With the winged lion creature in tow. Villagers were awaiting her return at the edge of torchlight. When they saw their queen helping an old man walk, with a lion walking behind them they all took a step backwards. “Easy! Easy! He’s not here to hurt us.”

The novelty of the stranger faded quickly in the face of the winged, white lion. Soleira stopped for a moment and turned to the leon. “Please be nice to my- I mean these people. They don’t mean you any harm.” The creature let out a grunt and then a long growl. Soleira smiled. “Yes of course.” Then turned to one of the people around her. “Do we have any meat?”

“One of the goats took its final breath just this morning.” The man sounded gleeful about it.

Soleira only felt sadness. “It’s best you feed my new friend over there. He has flown a lot and has barely eaten.” With a nod the man walked away. Assumingly to grab the meat. Then she and this Kal continued to walk on until they were in Soleira’s house.

“I’ve got some fresh water, and the sap of elder berries.” She said as the man took a seat. “Oh and some herbs for a brew. If you want I can make some bread but that’ll take a moment. Sorry, I’ve got nothing fresh. Maybe some berries?” She offered.

The man just raised his hand in refusal, but with a bright smile. “Thank you but-“ His stomach grumbled. “Actually I think I’ll take the berries, and the sap if you’d please. It would appear this body missed food and water more than I thought. Ha! Mortals, how do you keep going?” He joked and laughed.

The four-winged Oraeliari didn’t join. She just raised an eyebrow before gathering up everything. Moments later they were both sitting, Soleira in her special chair that didn’t crush her wings against her back. The man was devouring the berries. Eventually she felt compelled to ask: “So… Kal. Where are you from that you’ve found such a strange companion.”

He liked his fingers clean before answering: “I’m from the far north. A place called the Highlands. Beyond the mountain range there. Do you still call it the Anchor? Well, I’m from a place even further than that. They call it the Dûnanlands now, I think.”

Soleira just frowned and cocked her head, then remembered the stories of the far away Frostlands. Where the bitter winter cold struck for more than half a year. A place of stone and hard soil. Not a kind land, especially not compared to the fertile Golden Fields just a bit to the south-west or the Luminant itself. “You must’ve travelled for very long.”

“I have, actually.” And he looked that way as well. Even smelled that way. “And I guess you now want to know why I am here.” He leaned backwards. Making himself comfortable. Soleira quietly nodded. “I’m here for you?”

“For me?”

“I am what you could call… a prophet. But a crappy one. I’ve only ever had one vision in my entire life, and I’ve gotten it a year ago. When I was in that cold land. In my dream I saw you, standing on an island floating in the large void.“ he pointed up at the sky. “You are destined for many great things.”

She let out a chuckle. “I’m sorry you came all the way here for me but I am not even a queen. Your dreams, however vivid, were just that. Just dreams. I’m not made for greatness. There are others for that. The sun giant maybe, but not me.” She got up and walked over to her small larder. “You can stay as long as you want though.”

“I figured as much.” Kal did not seem to take offense at Soleira’s dismissal. He just raised his cup in dismissal. Seemingly accepting it before taking a sip. The two of them kept talking though. About the Frostlands, the split rivers that ran along the east of the great mountains and the sun-touched, golden lands to the far north-west. Where a temple sat that could cleans everything. He told Soleira about the leons and Lucia, the Firstborn of the sun. The girl took it all in. Alas, in the end both of them were exhausted and fell in a deep sleep.

“How do you do that?” One of the mortal humans asked as they watched Kal simply mutter a sentence and raise his vertically held, flat hand. Before him, the earth opened up. Creating a furrow without ever touching an ard.

Kal just turned and smiled. “This? It’s a little spell created up north. Do you want me to teach you?” Despite his casual toon, glee rose up in the mortal newcomer.

“Magic?” The man said, taking a step back. A few of the people looked anxiously around. “We aren’t mages, sir.” Mages here were still rare. It took study, and there were few opportunities in a world where dreadful creatures could come from the skies and kill you. Even in the relative safety of Soleras.

“Nonsense! Here, I shall show you. Just hold out your hand and say the following words: Tennath, Erak Nee Tiré.” A few of the farmers dared to step forward, closed their eyes, held out their palms and recited the words. From the Winds of Magic high above, Qael could sense the flicker of an attempt. A careful touch of a mortal upon the mana. It remained unresponsive to such a delicate, uncertain touch. “It takes practice.” Kal said, and then joined the farmers in working the fields by hand.

It felt weird, working the fields as a god in a mortal body. Despite the body’s shape, he though he made good progress. Not as fast as the younger men of course, but fast enough. That wasn’t really his point. At night a few words muttered would make him catch up. The village of Soleras wouldn’t suffer because of him. Still, as he took a break at midday he realized how tough it was to be mortal. He looked around, beats of sweat fell from his face. His muscles ached. It was a strange, but not entirely unpleasant feeling. All around him people were working still. Some planted seeds, other just dug. He smiled as Soleira was hard at work in the far off distance as well.

“She’s been a blessing to us.” One of the farmers, an older gentleman though not much older than Kal, said. “Just wished she would start leading us for real.” There was a sense of flustration in the mortal’s words. “I don’t know why she keeps refusin’.”

“Take heed friend.” Kal said as he turned around to face the man and put a hand on his shoulder. “Someday, a god will crown her as empress.”

One of the signs of a good craftsman was how they treated their tools.

As he gently ran a rag against his hammer to remove some of the blemishes that had gathered on it over the course of the day, the Craftsman let his thoughts wander. His work in Scawick was coming to a close. The blacksmiths that he had educated and trained and adopted the title 'The Hammers of the Dragon' as a tribute to their new deity Droka had been wonderful students... but they had reached the point where there wasn't much more left for him to teach.

Well, that was a lie. He could teach them a great deal more if he wanted to, but he didn't. Iron would be a major upgrade in the Westfold region, but it was far from the peak of the metalworking craft. After all, if you just gave them everything on a silver platter they wouldn't learn or grow on their own and the stagnation would grow boring rather quickly.

Closing his eyes as he considered where he would travel next once he packed up in a day or so, the Craftsman couldn't help but notice a change in the world around him as it seemed to shift ever so slightly. Opening his eyes, he was not seated in the small, once empty longhouse in Scawick that he had borrowed to stay in during his time in the village, but instead an impressive looking study, lined with shelves covered in books, parchment and stone slabs of all shapes and sizes...

Looking around carefully, he quickly noticed the comfortably roaring fire nearby... but what truly drew his attention was the appearance of Droka himself, seated comfortable across from him in all his radiant glory, towering over him in the form of a dragon. For his part, Droka gazed back down at his Avatar... and smiled gently as he greeted "Aw, good to see you. Sorry for the random invitation, but you didn't seem busy and I felt the need to bounce some ideas off of you. How are you going by the way?"

For the Craftsman's part, he merely shrugged as he relaxed into his seat. "Can't complain. I admit I don't really see why you were so interested in Scawick, but it's not a bad place nor are they bad people. But wouldn't you know that already?"

It was an interesting thing, listening and seeing a dragon chuckle. The scales seemed to glide along their body, glistening in the firelight as Droka's wings seemed to ruffle like a leathery sail in the wind. "I admit, it would be rather trivial for me to figure such things out, but I did rather want to practice this all conversation thing a little before I attempted to speak with my fellow deities and risk making a fool of myself. Besides, I don't believe either of us is in any particular rush so there isn't any harm in taking our time to be civil. Might I offer you something to eat or drink?"

The Craftsman politely shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, but I'm good right now." When all Droka did was make a gesture that suggested 'suit yourself', the Craftsman continued as he asked "So what ideas did you want to discuss?"

"Getting right down to business then?" Droka joked gently... before conceding the point and turning so that he could grab something that had been behind him. "Kind of a minor thing really to start with but... what do you think of this?"

At first, the Craftsman looked at the potted plant that his master had planted in front of him with confusion. The first impression he got was that his Master had taken a living plant and coated it in bronze and capturing the details perfectly, but a closer inspection reveled the truth; The 'Plant' was in truth made out of what appeared to be dozens of strands of bronze, rolled into fine, long sticks of the metal that had been twisted together and shaped. The trunk of the plant, the branches coming off of it, even the leaves were all apart of the combined strands of bronze. "It is beautiful. Is it alive?"

Droka shook his head at the question. "I considered it. Maybe have them grow naturally at metal veins in order to revel where they are located but... I decided against it. Didn't seem right, you know? Besides, considering how deep some metals go it seems like a bit of a tease. But... it does seem too good just to completely abandon as an idea, you know?"

The Craftsman slowly nodded his head in agreement, his eyes remaining on the metal 'plant' carefully as he suggested "Maybe... have them grow naturally only in areas you've decided to offer your personal blessing?"

There was a small moment of silence before Droka made a 'Hmm' noise, clearly contemplating the idea. "Wouldn't be a trouble thing... I'll have to give it a bit more thought first through." Shaking his head softly as he reminded himself of something, the craftsdragon flapped his wings as he moved on "At any rate, this was a minor thing. What I really wanted your opinion on-" Shifting his massive bulk with surprising flexibility and care so that he could pick up a series of parchments and offer them to his smaller Avatar. "-are these. They're still somewhat in the development stage but... feedback is highly welcomed."

The Craftsman did as asked and looked over the designs that he had been given. His eyes widened in surprise.

---

_{15-22 AA | Age 0-7}

Sugaera shib Ravuk was born in the village of Rehna at a relatively peaceful interval during Dehrthaa’s long, drawn-out civil war. He did not remember all too well his early years; Shammur, his mother, often told him that they were good times. His father, Ravuk, was an impenetrable, brooding man. While never unkind, he seemed fixated on ensuring that Sugae was ready, though the young boy never understood for what. He encouraged the energetic child in his son, let him wrestle with the smaller goats and with the slightly older Shidhig, as well as the other village boys. He often took both Sugae and Shidhig to swim in the lake nestled between Rehna’s hills. On some occasions he even took the two with him when he ventured out to hunt, beyond the hills and onto the great plains of the Khadaar. Beyond that, Sugae’s memories of him were of an unsmiling visage and short, terse commands.

“Get those goats.”

“Yes papa.”

“Give this to the baker.”

“Yes papa.”

“Take that goat to the butcher.”

“Yes papa.”

“Tell your mam I’ll be late tonight.”

Sugae was perhaps seven years old, and they were the last words he heard from his father.

---

_{22-28 AA | Years 7-13}

After his father’s mysterious disappearance, it fell to Sugae — often accompanied by his friend Shidhig — to care for the goats, helping his mother to shear the mohair, clean it, card it, and spin it into yarn. It was arduous and time-consuming, and the weaving process afterwards was equally so. The young boy and his mother worked the loom year-round, weaving yarn into fabric. Perhaps it would have taken even longer if it was merely mother and son at work, but their little village of Rehna was a tight-knit community, and near everyone was tied by blood one way or another. Such was often the case with small villages. So the biannual shearing season saw many of Rehna’s youths help with the shearing, and the women helped with cleaning, carding, and spinning the raw mohair into yarn in preparation for weaving.

For these very reasons, however, mohair did not sell well in Rehna. Indeed, Sugae’s mother often gifted much of the produced fabrics to those families that helped. And so several times a year the boy made the trip, with other Rehnites, to the fortified market-town of Zira to sell the fabric. Alongside the fabric, Shammur and some of the other women worked together to weave intricately designed rugs, scarves, and cloaks, which Sugae likewise took along and sold. It was not rare for one local shid or another, or even passing merchants, to inquire after the women of Rehna, and Shammur in particular, and make specific requests for rugs or clothing items. Shammur often said that her secret was in the plant dyes she used, which gave all the mohair she spun an exceptionally rich colour.

When first Shidhig and Sugae accompanied Bori the butcher into Zira, they were both struck by its size and the great number of people streaming in. It seemed to them that all of mankind were gathered there, though Bori assured them that there were places far grander than this. “Psht, this is just some backwater, pup. Pray that the One Who Frowns never causes you to suffer the sight of anything bigger.”

Despite Bori’s words, Shidhig and Sugae took in the novel wonders of the town with relish. The great town square, the grand mansion of the shid, the armed and armoured guards stood like so many fierce lions with their great black hair, the endlessly colourful clothes of the people, the aromatic (and not so aromatic) smells, and the awing presence of the priests who could sometimes be seen marching in stern, solemn processions through the town. While Rehna had Ahnu the priest, such a display was on an altogether different level of splendour and gravity to the rituals priest Ahnu often conducted back home, and Sugae was in any case more used to the mendicant-ascetics who sometimes passed through Rehna and were much honoured and esteemed by its populace.

As it were, selling mohair here to passing merchants and local shids provided Sugae and his mother with a goodly income — enough to live a relatively good life so that they neither went hungry nor wanted for warmth and clothes in the wet season. Perhaps on two occasions, that the boy could remember, a particularly important-seeming person passed by his stall with all his regalia and, disdainfully flipping the fabric that so many had laboured to produce now this way and now that, would pay an exorbitant amount for it as though coins were of little consequence. It amazed Shidhig and Sugae that anybody could afford to be so flippant with money, but such occasions meant that Sugae’s mother could afford to be generous to some of the village’s more impoverished families, which earned her both great love and considerable envy.

And envy was a potent thing, for it brought about the eye of evil, and so there were also times — and those were far more frequent — when particularly capricious militias would find in Sugae a good target for their sport. Unfortunately for him their sport meant that he and his mother would have to scrape by on the goodness of neighbours and near of kin for a good half-year until the goats grew another coat. Bori would thwack the boy on those occasions and throw an assortment of things-within-reach at him. “Why’d you go off on your own you muttonhead! What am I gonna tell yer mam now eh? How’s she going to care for your baabis and your sorry arse?” And if not the militias, then some other lowlifes — bandits and tribal hillmen stalked the hills of the southern Khadaar, and sometimes incursions by raiders from beyond the great river Muhaddir succeeded in plundering those carrying goods to Zira.

As Sugae grew, Zira did not quite lose its splendour, and both he and Shidhig looked forward to the times they could go. For his part, Shidhig also looked forward to shirking his duties to his mother or Palwijtha the smith, accompanying Sugae into the hills surrounding Rehna to herd the goats instead. The bigger lad claimed he was not shirking his duties at all. “I’m working ain’t I? This goat-herding and shearing business ain’t easy.”

“Your mam works her back off in the fields to earn her part of the harvest, wouldn’t hurt you to help her now and again.” Sugae told him, lying on his back and soaking in the sunlight through closed eyelids as he chewed at a twig. The other boy huffed in annoyance and poked Sugae in the side with his herding stick, causing him to yelp and rollover.

“She knows I hate working in the fields.” Shidhig insisted. “And I don’t trust those elephants they have wondering around there.” Gathering his own stick into his hands, Sugae rose to his knees and thrust it in response.

“Doubt she loves it either.” Sugae released a huff as the other lad thwacked the stick away and began to circle around. “And those elephants are harmless, they help with the ploughing.”

“Yeah, but if I go work in the fields, who will look after the goats? You know I do most of the legwork for your lazy arse.” While it was true that Shidhig did work well, to claim most of the legwork was slightly unfair, and Sugae let him know with a swift sweeping strike that would have taken out his legs had he not leapt back at the last second. The bigger boy was quick on the riposte, bringing a powerful overhead strike down at the kneeling Sugae. But the spry boy ducked and rolled to the side with natural deftness and kicked Shidhig’s leg, causing him to grunt and back away. With some breathing room garnered, Sugae leapt up again and put some distance between them. He eyed Shidhig with his unusual amber, almost yellow, eyes from beneath a canopy of night-time locks and Shidhig eyed him with coal-black eyes of obsidian... and then both dashed in once more.

The sound of sticks striking against each other could be heard for a good while in the solitary hills, until Sugae stopped abruptly and glanced around himself. “The goats!” He cried in a slight panic, and after a few moments of looking about in bewilderment both bolted to find where the animals had wandered to.

“Told you to get a damn herding dog,” Sugae could hear Shidhig muttering and groaning behind him.

“I would, but don’t want to enable your chronic laziness.” He yelled over his shoulder, night-black hair blowing in the breeze, and was rewarded with a small stone to the back of the head.

When one of the goats became too old Sugae would march it off to the village butcher, the cantankerous old Bori, who would talk his ear off about how these goats produced meat that was of abominable quality, how they were not even worth butchering, and that he was in all truth doing Sugae a tremendous favour by slaughtering such horrific goats in the first place.

“Psht, I could slaughter the goats myself! I’m doing you a favour by keeping you in business old man — and because I know my late-pa always liked you and considered you a friend.” Sugae once responded, and found to his surprise that the old man shut up and went about his work without complaint.

“You? Keeping me in business? Pah. Yer a snotty little no-good pup is all you are.” He said, and then muttered something about paying an arm and bloody leg as he counted out a few coppers for the boy. “Hushik, Olkiq, come hang this rotting piece of deadmeat you lazy shits!” He barked. Placing the coins carefully into his pouch, Sugae watched with a wide smile plastered across his face as Bori continued shouting profanities at his sons. When the butcher finally noticed the grinning amber-eyed lad, he began cursing the day he peeped out of his mother’s gaping cavity, and Sugae just about evaded a hoof as he ducked out of the slaughterhouse.

But those days of relative peace, for all the corrupt militias, petty bandits, odd raids, and assortment of projectiles hurled at him, belied the fact that the realm was still at war. And Sugae’s little old village of Rehna would soon feel that once more.

• Summary [+]

  Introducing Sugaera shib Ravuk and his village of Rehna, located in the southern Khadaar. The region is experiencing a lull in outright warfare (that last spike having been about 14 AA). He is a goatherd, and his mother and other villagers produce mohair and mohair-derived goods. He often goes down to the market-town of Zira to sell these with other Rehnites. Sometimes he gets robbed or cheated, other times he hits the motherload. His friend Shidhig, who appears to be the smith's apprentice, often shirks his duties to accompany Sugae into the hills and herd goats instead. When a goat gets old, Sugae goes down to Bori, the grumpy butcher, to slaughter it and sell the meat.
• Might [+]

  | 3MP and 3DP | +2 Puppetry | +3 Acting | +3 Music | +3 Dance | +1 Architecture | +2 Sculpting |

  
  Consecrate Sugaera shib Ravuk
  

  “With Something of Mojthaic Light” I - This person wields a subtle yet unearthly charisma - or what seems to others to be charisma - that galvanises people and fills them with conviction and fervour towards shared goals. (Free Title)
• Prestige [+]

  +5 Prestige to Sugae.

Kal sat by the field. His old, frail body broke down some hours ago in the field. Muscles just refused to work anymore. It was tiresome for the god who inhabited him. Something would have to be done about that. Soon. For now though, he relished the spare time he had sitting next to the field while playing with his puzzleknot. Well, the mortal’s puzzleknot technically. The god of magic quite enjoyed playing with his own creations. As he found the personalized challenges quite engaging as he twisted and pushed the parts of the puzzle around. So far he had only opened one layer. He wondered which focus the mortal would’ve gotten. Which role was he destined for in the great designs?

From the corner of his eyes he kept a careful watch on his daughter working with the oxen. The animals loved her, as was evident by the many licks they gave her. She was sweet, nice, kindhearted. It worried him still. A queen had to be just but stern as well. An empress even more so. Her heart would have to be steeled. Somehow.

“Soleira!” A kid hollered from the village. The farmers stopped their work. “Soleira!” The kid repeated as he came to the edge of the field. He was out of breath but still tried to shout: “People! From the south! They’re… They’re coming!” Farmers started to look at each other. Fearful and confused. Soleira handed one of them control of the ard and said her goodbyes to the oxen that pulled it. Then took to the skies and headed south.

Qael really needed to do something about the frail body of this mortal. It made walking tiresome. Still, he made his way due south. Soleira was waiting some distance ahead of the village. Birds were flocking to the skies. Forming black clouds ready to descend upon whatever had entered their domain.

“Who do you think they are?” Soleira asked the mortal she knew as Kal as he finally arrived. Her eyes were still trained on the small dots in the far off distance. Dots that moved closer though.

“No way of knowing unless you ask.” Kal said with a smile she couldn’t see. He saw the worry on her body though. She looked tense. Had raiders tried to attack her people before maybe? He didn’t know. Maybe he should ask someday.

The strangers came closer. They saw three oxen, loaded with sacks. An older man rode a donkey. He looked older than Kal even. In front of the tiny caravan, an middle aged man with a very full beard walked, clutching a staff that looked like it had beaten some animals on the snout before. A few sheep were walking beside them as well. When they were about a hundred meters away, the leader of the group stopped them, and walked forward alone.

“Hail, Soleira. Queen of Soleras.”

Kal could guess her thoughts: she wasn’t a queen.

“I am Ashekan. This is my family.” He introduced them all but two by name and pointed off in the distance. Though kept away from Soleira. Clear as not to appear as a threat. “We have come…” The words were stuck in his throat for a second. “We have come to… beg for a life here.”

“Where are you from?” Soleira asked.

“We have come from the waters south. But the war… the anger. It’s not safe there.” The man said. “Me and my family decided to find a better place to raise our children. They deserve a better life.” The man lowered himself to his knees. Slowly, and with the help of his staff. “I beg of you, Queen Soleira. Allow us to live here.”

Soleira, however, was already looking past the man and at the caravan. That slowly stepped forward out of curiosity. She saw people that didn’t look like the others. Their heads were shaven clean and they kept staring down at the ground. Each had a rope attached to their arm, leading to one of the oxen. “Who are they?” Soleira asked.

The man, confused, looked up. “Those are our slaves, my lady?”

“No…” She said, as she stepped forward. Passing the man without fear. People were taking a step back from the caravan. Afraid of why she suddenly stalked forward. The slaves almost shook in their place. “You’re not slaves anymore.” She said as she took the ropes off their arm. “We don’t keep slaves here in Soleras.”

“But… My lady.” Ashekan said as he came trailing after her. “We have bought these men. They are criminals. They are… They are our slaves?”

She turned to face the man. “Not here. Not in Soleras. Here they are the same as you and I. If they commit a crime, they’ll be punished but I refuse to have my people be slavers.” She turned to the men again. “You are free in Soleras. Go ahead. Make your homes here. Serve the Light, and the people here will help you with food and shelter.”

The two of them muttered their thanks before scurrying away towards Soleras. Trying to get as far away from their former owners as possible.

Ashekan was frowing. Crows and hawks were still high in the air. Their flight pattern became erratic and agitated. Even from a distance Kal could see him doubting the decision to come here, so he stepped forward. Conjuring some of the bread he kept in his cloak. He passed Ashekan and Soleira and approached the mother. “Here. The first gift of Soleras. Nobody goes hungry here.” He said with a smile. One the mother returned. Mortals were so easy to convince. Give them food and they will follow you to the end of the world. Behind him, Ashekan was already softening again.

“They’re calling you Daughter of the Sun now.” Kal said as he sat against rock, toying with his puzzlebox. Soleira was just approaching, and cocked an eyebrow up. She was quickly realizing there was more to Kal than he seemed to admit. For one, he was clearly a talented mage but there was more. Nobody just rode around half the world atop a massive, white, flying lion just to visit some place in the middle of nowhere. There had to be a hundred more mythical places between here and the frostlands.

“Are the now?” Soleira said as she sat down with a piece of bread and some berries. The colorful trees gave some much needed shadow from the burning sun high up. Most of the work these days had to be started before dawn now. Not that she minded. It was a selfish delight to lounge in the afternoon heat but it was a delight none the less. “Well I guess its true. Oraeliara did make all of my kin.”

“That’s not what they mean.” Kal put the puzzlebox down again and looked over the various shadowy spots around the fields. There were a lot more farmers now. Each producing much more food. Some had even traded the hoe for the one earth spell Kal had taught them. They were reverent though. “They praise you. Sure, you and your kin are all children of Oraeliara, but they’ll only call you Daughter of the Sun.”

The two remained in relative silence as they ate. Mostly they just enjoyed the warmth. Until Soleira spoke up again: “A lot of people are starting to look up to you as well. These people never knew much magic. They rarely used it even when I just arrived. But your spell has made working the land a lot easier.”

A soft smile formed on Kal’s lips. “I’m here just to serve. Your people should know their full strength. As should you.”

Soleira stopped correcting him whenever Kal said ‘your people’. After she released the slaves of those first few refugees she stopped pretending like she wasn’t here to care for them. “I can’t do magic. None of my kin can.” She said, looking at Kal and then down at the ground. “It’s for the better. It would just be used in the war. They’re already abusing the light of my mother to harm each other. I couldn’t imagine what they’d do if they could set the world against each other.” Yet she felt that pang of jealousy. In the last year, with Kal’s presence, she had grown intrigued by magic. Especially because of how much it was now helping her grow Soleras.

“You’re right. You’re right. Your kin would use the gift for war and murder. Perhaps that’s the reason why they never got it.” Kal said. “But you have.” And then he took a sip of his water.

Soleira turned to face him. “I’m still an Oraeliari. I can’t do magic.”

“When you fly, do you go faster? Do you feel lighter than you should?” Kal asked with a very casual tone. “Do you feel the hard winds against you when you fly into them?”

For a minute Soleira was quiet. She flapped her wings a few time to feel the brush of the air around her. She never thought about it, but yeah. She did feel lighter and she did fly faster than any of her kin. Was it magic? Or just the fact that she has two pair of wings instead of one? So far Kal hadn’t been wrong when it came to magic. If someone would know… “How do I learn how to control it?”

“You can’t. Not yet.” Sorcery required a certain kind of arrogance. It demanded the world to change for you regardless of your own knowledge about it. Fundamentally sorcery was about altering the reality around you to suit your own desires. He looked upon Soleira and he saw someone utterly devoid of such arrogance. Qael’s daughter had always bend herself to the world. He got up and put a hand on her shoulder. “Someday you’ll be ready to learn.”

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_{Year 30AA, late autumn, Ha-Dûna...}

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As per the new commandments of Dlíbók to better collect, measure, catalogue and distribute state funds correctly, I, Kaer Thian, have been tasked with accompanying tax collector théin Driod of Klan to collect the capital’s due from Ha-Dûna’s people. I swear by Fìrinn that this is a true account of the events that will transpire along this journey, and I swear to Taeg Eit that I will not accept any sort of payment or favours in exchange for muddling with these records. May the Eight and the Seven all offer my oath their blessings, and punish me dearly should I break it. This account will follow the traditional recording style employed by Kaer Mirh, may the gods rest his soul, as early as year 14 before the Founding, with later addendum sections on economy and measurements as outlined by Kaer Myvon and the others at the Ha-Dûna Office of Agriculture.


The mandate given to tax collector théin Driod of Klan covers the collection of taxes on the grounds of the following four chapters of Dlíbók:

The eighth chapter outlines the Law of the Farmer. I am here quoting the paragraph on Taxation of the Farmer:



Then, the tenth chapter outlines the Law of the Earth and Clay. I am now quoting the paragraph of the Taxation of the Craftsman:


The city has two additional sectors that will be chronicled by my colleague, Kaer Teagan “the Crone”. These are the sectors of fishing and lumbery, covered by the following chapters of Dlíbóka. I will add these to the addendum section.

The ninth chapter outlines the Law of the River and Sea. I am here quoting the paragraph of the Taxation of the Fisher:


The eleventh chapter outlines the Law of Wood and Trees. I am now quoting the paragraph of the Taxation of the Lumberer:


As mentioned above, my subject, the théin Driod of Klan’s mission is to collect the taxes owed by the crafters and the farmers of Ha-Dûna.


The above-mentioned paragraphs are all relevant to the region, to be used as reference for myself and for my future readers in the assessment of my work. I will make sure to add additional paragraphs should we encounter categories the above-mentioned cannot satisfy.



We left at first thlénn, beginning our trek through the Workman’s District. While I am already quite fond of Ha-Dûna, nothing makes me quite as satisfied with my home as when the worthy crafters all line up along the street with their goods lined and presented for the tax carts. Below have been outlined the representatives from the workshops we collected from in order of profession, as well as what they offered as tribute and the amount offered.

Potters:

• Potter Brian of Clan Metsep, gaardskarl: Three pots capable of carrying one and a half snes; five pots capable of carrying one snes; five pots capable of carrying half a snes.
  
  Comment:
  I found myself particularly fond of master Brian’s pottery - théin Driod, too, was of the same mind, and asked the man why he had not offered some of his lesser work and saved these masterpieces for his family or bypassing merchants. To this, the good man Brian answered, “Had the gods wanted mediocrity, they would not have founded Ha-Dûna.” To this, théin Driod agreed, and in exchange for his diligence, he was given a voucher for a week’s worth of resthouse supplies for him and his family.
• Potter Ragna, daughter of Ralfe, herjegalling: Two pots capable of carrying one and a half snes; eleven pots capable of carrying half a snes.
• Potter Sienna, daughter of Sienna, gaardskarl: One snes of wheat and one of rye.
• Potter Karl of Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl: Two snes of wheat.
• Potter Pierre of Clan Blanche, brasfortsian: Twenty pots capable of carrying half a snes.
• Potter Ciónn, daughter of Kaer Diónn, clennic: Two snes of wheat.
  
  Comment:
  Potter Ciónn refused to part with her work, and then after the tax collector offered her the option to pay her fithe in grain, she refused that, as well, stating that her family had no such grain to give. Upon inspecting her house, a secret stash of grain was found behind her wall. As per law, she was taken into the street and given sixty lashes. Her grain was taken, as well, as per the law.

Today’s goods were all delivered to the Barley Hall, as that is the closest.

Metalworkers:

• Smelter Tavish, son of Hama, clennic: Thirty bars of copper, ten bars of silver.
• Smelter Enné of Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl: Two bars of bronze; six bars of copper; one bar of silver.
• Smith Oleg, son of Tór, herjegalling: Six five axes; one bar of copper.
  
  Comment:
  After we had left Oleg’s smithy, we found that one of his axes had been shoddily crafted. We returned and théin Driod demanded he give us a proper tool. Oleg informed us that he had no more axes he could afford to part with, and gave us a bar of copper instead.
• Smith Megan, daughter of Kaer Pier, brasfortsian: Fifteen axes; fifteen sickles; thirteen pickaxes.
• Jeweler Giome of Clan du Pierre, brasfortsian: Two snes of wheat.

Woodworkers:

• Fletcher Gaard of Clan Ur-Gaard, gaardskarl: Two hundred arrows and three yew bows.
• Fletcher Vegard of Clan Metsep, gaardskarl. Three hundred arrows.
• Carpenter Vegard “One-Eye”, son of Grim, herjegalling: An elk cart.
• Carpenter Dima of Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl: Two snes of wheat.
• Carpenter Pené, son of Zid, kirinian: Two snes of wheat.

Glasiers:

• Logi, son of Tór, herjegalling. Three vials; one bauble capable of holding half a snes.
• Isutorix of Clan Leona, clennic. One and a half snes of rye and a glass vial.
  
  Comment:
  When asked why their fithe was so small this year, Isutorix explained that her father, the late Déodin of Clan Leona and master of the Leona Glassworks, passed away from the black cough, setting their work back months. The Eight and Seven rest his soul - after some discussion between me, Driod and Isutorix, the théin saw reason to accept this limited tax and move along, on the agreement that Isutorix would pay one and a half fithe next year. She agreed.

Today’s goods were all delivered to the Barley Hall, as that is the closest.


We left once again at first thlénn, this time for the farms beyond the walls. Today would be the longest hoard, théin Driod told me - a two-day long hoard, in fact. It would also be the first harvest in Ha-Dûna in many years; the gods have been good to us in the times since the Reconquest. Of course, this meant, as the théin remarked, that we had to keep our eyes well-peeled, as times of great change may bring unexpected surprises. Below are arranged the clans and family heads of the twenty túns on the eastern half of Ha-Dûna’s arable land, both between and beyond the city and the Misanthir, arranged in order of visitation:

• Clan Metsep, gaardskarl, at the Metsep túns. 12 snes of wheat; 17 snes of oats; 9 snes of barley; 12 snes of rye.
• Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl, at the Tegosep tún. 36 snes of wheat.
• Erimex, daughter of Kaer Obee, clennic, at the Druïtha tún. 20 snes of wheat.
• Egil, son of Halfdûn, herjegalling, at the Druïtha tún. 13 snes of rye.
• Clan Blanche, brasfortsian, at the Blanche tún. 32 snes of barley.

Today’s goods were delivered to the House of the Weary.

• Kyrre, son of Ralfe, herjegalling, at the Mionn tún. 12 snes of rye.
• Clan du Pierre, brasfortsian, at the Pierre tún. 8 snes of oats.
• Clan Ur-Gaard, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Gaard tún. 10 snes of oats; 10 snes of barley.
• Clan Ur-Met, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Met tún. 4 snes of barley; 7 snes of oats.
  
  Comment:
  When asked why their fithe was so small this year, the head of Clan Ur-Met, Old Mother Binya, explained that they had already shipped off most of their grain to the breweries and the mills. The théin explained that this was the equivalent of tax evasion and sentenced the old mother to be punished; however, her oldest son, Frinn, offered to take the punishment for her, and was thus given fifty lashes for his mother’s foolishness.
• The Shepherd family, herjegalling, at the Ur-Met tún. Two snes of wheat.
• Clan Ur-Sikra, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Sikra tún. 11 snes of oats; 16 snes of wheat; 17 snes of rye.
• Clan Ur-Qir, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Qir tún. 11 snes of wheat; 9 snes of rye.
• The Herder family, herjegalling at the Ur-Qir tún. 14 snes of oats; 7 snes of rye.
• Clan Sûr-le-Mont, brasfortsian, at the Mont tún. 20 24 snes of barley; 9 snes of wheat; 11 15 snes of rye.
  
  Comment:
  The clan Sûr-le-Mont offered to pay four additional snes of barley and rye each as compensation for her cousin’s inadequacy. See comment under “Clementine, daughter of Brior” for additional context.
• Clementine, daughter of Brior, clennic, at the Mont tún. 8 4 snes of rye; 6 2 snes of barley.
  
  Comment:
  While reactions to Clementine’s contribution were originally approving, the weight of the sacks proved too considerable compared to the amount of grain supposedly within them. Upon further inspection, the théin found that a good quarter to a half of each sack was filled with white sand. The local théin, Aifric of Sûr-le-Mont, was summoned to give her sixty lashes as the rest of the grain was found within Clementine’s house. The théin Aifric apologised for her cousin’s behaviour and compensated the tax collector by paying her share from her own stores.

Today’s goods were delivered to the House of Pilgrims.

• Clan Ketersep, gaardskarl, at the Ketersep tún. 22 snes of wheat; 4 snes of rye; 2 snes of barley.
• Clan Leothe, clennic, at the Leothe tún.15 snes of wheat; 11 snes of barley; 3 snes of rye.
• Clan Saune, clennic, at the Saune tún. 6 snes of wheat; 8 snes of oats; 4 snes of rye.
• Clan Ur-Dûn, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Dûn tún. 12 snes of wheat; 7 snes of rye; 1 snes of barley.
• Clan Leona, clennic, at the Leona tún. 21 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
• Martha, daughter of Trant, clennic, at the Leona tún.2 snes of rye; 1 snes of barley.
• Clan Ur-Dirr, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Dirr tún. 2 snes of barley.
  
  Comment:
  When asked why their fithe was too small, the father Bron of Ur-Dirr explained that they had suffered a great robbery a week before tax collection. Naturally suspicious, the théin ordered a search of the clan tún, but found nothing. The théin asked why the robbery was not reported to the théin Aifric, but the man refused to answer clearly. To quote: “We tried to, but things got in the way.” He refused to elaborate on the nature of these “things”. Still, as the fithe was, in the end, inadequate, the théin Driod once more summoned the théin Aifric of Sûr-le-Mont to give the father Bron of Ur-Dirr fifty lashes.
• Clan Klan, clennic, at the Klan tún. 6 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
• Clan Vitesse, brasfortsian, at the Vitesse tún. 20 snes of oats; 10 snes of wheat.

Today’s goods were delivered to the House of the Weary, the House of Pilgrims and the South Gate Hall.



While the east and the farms along the Misanthir have a majority population of our familiar Dûnan clans, the resurgence in our civilisation after the Reconquest has one again brought back many of our old friends from the north and south, east and west, all of whom are happy to be invited back into our diverse and wonderful city. The majority of these have settled on the lands by the Farmer’s Market and the Sun Gate, no doubt as these directions manage the channels of traders and pilgrims travelling to and from their old homes. Below are arranged the clans and family heads of the twenty túns and lesser steads and grazing grounds surrounding Ha-Dûna in the west, arranged in order of visitation:

• Clan Laird, clennic. 14 snes of wheat; 11 snes of barley; 4 snes of rye.
• Clan Mogwive, nubveian. 6 heads of cattle; 3 sheep; 3 goats.
  
  Comment:
  After our translator could not seem to convince the matriarch of the Mogwive that grain was our main form of taxed goods, the théin compromised by letting them offer animals instead, despite the fact that this may cost the resthouses great resources if they aren’t slaughtered soon.
• Clan Gorm, herjegalling. 7 snes of wheat; 3 snes of oats.
• Clan Vlok, mink. 12 snes of oats; 2 baskets of eggs.
  
  Comment:
  One of the clan bwobushkyas tried to offer the théin a bribe of oatcakes to take a smaller fithe than what was calculated. Normally, this would have warranted a lashing of twenty lashes as mandated by the Law of Punishments, from the paragraph of Obstruction of Official Duty (See addendum for full quotation from Dlíbók), but the théin Driod seemed reluctant to have an old woman whipped for such an attempted bribe, especially after her sons and daughters begged and explained that she has been growing foggy in her elder days. Their fithe was extracted as planned, and they were left with a warning.
• Clan Muskvit, mink. 12 snes of oats; 13 snes of wheat.
• Clan Misambe, nubveian. 6 chickens; 3 goats; 2 racks of dried mutton; 2 racks of dried elk; 3 racks of dried bison.
• Clan Wowomembe, nubveian. 8 heads of cattle.
• Clan Ur-Gursep, gaardskarl. 12 snes of wheat; 19 snes of rye.
• Clan Ur-Gwynsep, gaardskarl. 10 snes of oats; 7 snes of rye.
• Clan Côte, brasfortsian. 12 snes of oats.

Today’s goods were delivered to the South Gate Hall.

• Clan Sirjin, clennic. 5 snes of rye; 2 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
• Tamba, son of Isogwe, nubveian. 1 sheep; 1 goat.
• Piotr Andreiiwoch, son of Andrei Andreiiwoch, mink. 1 goat.
• Karav Sheevyoiwoch, son of Sheevyo Abariwoch, mink. 4 snes of wheat.
• Dimir Dimiriwoch, son of Dimir Vlariwoch, mink. 2 sheep; 6 sacks of sheep’s wool.
• Sabmi of Núrmi, son of Savas, meike. 8 racks of dried reindeer; 2 racks of stockfish.
• Murtagh “the Scawick”, son of Briain, scawick. 2 snes of wheat.
• Bonursan Yip, son of Bonursan Chirrut, doserung. 1 rack of dried goat; 2 racks of dried mutton.
• Ramansan Nomir, daughter of Ramansun, doserung. 6 snes of wheat; 1 rack of dried mutton.
• Ratinmaar of Bast, son of Ki’ogmaar of Bast, bastian. 2 pots of goat cheese; 2 pots of butter.

Today’s goods were delivered to the South Gate Hall.

• Khammed, son of Isherta, doserung. 1 head of cattle; 2 snes of rye.
• Clan ap Mirh, clennic. 12 snes of wheat; 3 snes of rye; 5 snes of barley.
• Clan ap Angus, clennic. 12 snes of oats.
• Frankois Amoir, son of Julippe Amoir, brasfortsian. 6 snes of oats; 2 snes of rye.
• Clan Yngling, herjegalling. 1 snes of wheat; 3 snes of rye; 6 snes of barley.
• Clan Ur-Lepti, gaardskarl. 6 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
• Clan Shepdur, gaardskarl. 3 snes of oats; 12 snes of wheat.
• Mendela, son of Mugedo, swadi. 2 goats; 3 pots of goat’s milk.
• Kuhbelo, son of Koisa, swadi. 5 chickens; 2 baskets of eggs.
• Ragnar, son of Iver, herjegalling. 3 snes of oats; 7 snes of wheat.
• Clan Fjaering, herjegalling. 4 snes of rye; 3 snes of barley.
• Clan Verite, brasfortsian. 16 snes of wheat; 17 snes of rye; 11 snes of barley; 14 snes of oats.

Today’s goods were delivered to the South Gate Hall, with excess being brought back to the House of Pilgrims in the city centre.


This concluded the two week-long endeavour to gather the taxes in the agricultural sector. May my peers and our descendants judge this account as true, and may any who wish raise any remarks regarding my method and credibility speak up so we may all do Fìrinn’s bidding of reaching an ever truer Truth.

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