Rain skirts along the dark, stacked basalt of the dozen or so squat, square towers in Fyrkat’s niþroh. Cold, it glazes the jutting uneven edges of unmortared stone with clear clean ice. Along those glimmer-tracks, the rain races and leaps into a muddy rill, normally a fine dirt path when the weather is fair. Fair it is not, flanked by a fist’s depth of dank, stinking, soot-tinged snow. So today the road wends wet through the fishing village like a tributary of the nearby Tofyrvin, itself, even now, at the start of the thaw, more a babbling brook than a river; narrow, just sufficiently deep to support passage of the lateen-sail rigged dhow traveling northward and seaward.

Like nests atop the towers, precarious hunch single room shelters of unfinished timber gable-capped with shaved bark shingles, mostly fir. There is a square hole in the side of a particular one, passable as a window. Two sets of intense black eyes, large and luminous, peer out and contemplate the overcast, mist-mantled village, the rain, the dawn fast approaching, the forceful lethal current of the river that, at this hour, must sing to better without eyes be seen.

“It has been nine nights since we’ve seen the twins of day,” chirps a masculine young voice, agitated.

“Skolt, we trust they follow the paths they always have, in time with timeless time,” chirps back a female voice, crisp, anxious.

It is the way of things in Fyrkat, to express a fear without giving it a name—without breathing into it evil life. Their mother, absent these nine nights, her fishing voyage taking her north upon the Tofyrvin, out to the coast, to the great western water called the Kvelhav. She was due back three nights ago. The nest felt empty. Worse, it was nearing, the day of anticipation, of day of departure. They didn’t want to leave not knowing her fate, not bidding her farewell.

“In time with timeless time, Pite,” assents Skolt, echoing the litany.

He lifts his black, broad wing and drapes it over his sister’s round, sloped shoulders, although neither feel cold. For warmth, they have their cloaks, scarlet and violet. They have a clay stove with lump of coal burning in its belly. They are well-fed on carp and barberries. They have hope, auspiciously audible on the wind. A melody, a chirp, a call. The birdsong of their mother paddling against the current with the help of her living boat-dragon Vanptadra.

Willis examines his hat, turning it in his hands. It has turned to a black fedora. He aims it at an oak tree on top of a grassy hill and throws it like a frizbee!

Thunk! The fedora smoothly shoots into the oak and firmly wedge itself into the tree trunk. The oak catches on fire and burns down.

"Oh gosh, what am I doing? I am destroying nature from sheer boredom! If I don't find civilization soon I'm going to go crazy!" Willis mumbles to himself as he nimbly crests up the hill, to the charred remains of the oak tree. Underneath a pile of ash, he retrieves his perfectly unharmed hat, which have turned into a pointy wizard's hat. Willis blows off some dust on his hat, puts it on his head, and scans the area around him on this summit with a hand over his eyes.

It took nine days for the Red Witch to finish her dream.

First she molded a heart from phosphene sparks in the black of sleep, then she hammered a body from the incoherence to house it. Like weaving rope from sand, she shaped her dream, sculpting forms out of incense that rose off censers full of burning mugwort and smoldering sage.

For more than an age it had been rare for the Sidereal Sisters to share the sieve of their dreams, but in the communality of their vision they saw themselves as they were in times older than the kenning of men, when they ran wild through primeval forests alight with their stories and song. Nadira heard many voices in those dreams, though only half-remembered. Words relating signs and portents and prophecy.

Then silence.

In the hinterland forests far to the north of Stavkat, long days of rain turned the earth into treacherous mud. Water hung in gossamer threads from pine needles and tree branches, spiderwebs glittering across every surface where the light caught them. Great conifers and other towering gymnosperms spread their arms in a canopy of spruce and fir a hundred meters high.

Precious little light broke through to the underbrush save for here or there in heavenly rays, and all was quiet in the darkness save the steady drumbeat of the storm skald whose thunderous laughter rolled through the land at intervals in the downpour. The shadow of wings swept through a shaft of light, razor talons cutting through the silence and the life of some small woodland creature too slow as it scurried to safety along the forest floor. Tiny black eyes peered out from the harpy eagle's gray-white plumage, and water slid off the black brim of its flat-topped capotain.

Mantling itself with its great wings, it tore apart and devoured its prey, a vole or some other rodent. It stood beside a tomblike niche dug in the soft mud, half-hidden by leaves and rocks, covered in the scratchmarks of fox claws. Next to the raptor a stream babbled softly as it coursed over smooth stones. The air was heavy with the aroma of burning rosemary and coriander.

A fox creature washed the smell of smoke and ritual from itself in the freezing creek, then slipped into a traveling robe. It turned to peer through the shrubs at its companion and Nadira's eyes gleamed golden in the half-light.

"Dear Ykka, my dreams leave me ill at ease. There are whispers in the Court of odd things stirring," she said. "We'll make to depart once you've finished your meal. The road to Lundros is long and, from the looks of things, wet."

Upon the bow of a ship crashing amongst choppy waves, sat a towering beast of a figure that others on the ship were mindful of distance of. She whittle away at a piece of drift wood she had brought with her while her mighty weapon sat beside her, a warhammer that was nearly as tall as she was. Red eyes concentrating on her work while ears twitched listening to whispered conversations around her. Kerbera was use to being an oddity, an creature that brought as much attention as view of disgust depending on those that eyed her. Of course a quick growl and flick of her tail got the point across to mind their own damn business when one felt the need to get to close.

The ship was bound for a port midway between the villages of Fyrkat and Stavkat. A small land bridge connecting the two large landmasses of Islund. A small blip on any map but a perfect place for her to begin roaming. She was a long way from the small chain of islands to the south that had been her home since she was young but having no clan to call family made the break away easy enough. Her unusual last name of her own choosing the final choice she made before departing her homelands. The only issue seemed to be that at the point of time, the other weary travelers on the fated cruise seem to have little knowledge or witness to either gnoll or dragonkin, let alone one of mixed blood, making most stare at first when her towering form climbed aboard. One could hope the rest of Islund would be a bit more subtle with their disbelief and curiosity.

"sayteujpaida fohohlesyah," she muttered in gnollish tongue before placing the piece of semi carved wood away before standing to head below deck and get rest before eventual landfall.

"...he heard the song of arrows in flight, and the night sky grew as bright as day as they rained from above, a thousand shooting stars falling upon the plains. The Huntress burned bright like the sun, her bow firing again and again, faster than the eye could see. Every arrow found its mark: straight through the heart of the twintail warriors. Those who did not die fled, running back into the guts of the earth, never daring to set foot in her sacred lands again."

The soft rhythm of a drum accompanied his words, both of which rolled low and soothing in the warm night air. He spoke to his fellow travelers, drifting or already dreaming, around the dwindling campfire; he spoke to the guards at the edge of the light, their eyes watching the darkness for hunters; he spoke to the pack animals curled up safe and asleep; he spoke to himself. He lay on his back, his instrument on his chest, staring into the vault of the sky, and spoke to the heavens themselves.

"Where those shafts lay, the faithful built monuments to her swift justice, just like the one we're camped by. It's said they placed those sacred arrows inside each statue of the Huntress, blessing the stone and the land. It's also said that anyone who tries to steal the relics - thief or heretic or just stupid - will soon find themselves in the sights of her bow. It's a good reminder that we should be godfearing, even out here in the wilderness."

Roan breathed in deep, filling his nose with the scent of woodsmoke and wildflowers. The crackle of shouldering logs, the beat of his drum, the murmur of his voice, the hoot and call of night birds, the dull roar of the wind across the tall grass sea: this was the world complete. There was no tomorrow and there was barely a present; only the past mattered here, in this bubble of time by the fire, these songs of antiquity.

"This is the story of how the Huntress saved her people, and how we came to call them these lands the Arrowfalls."

With that he slid his drums carefully off of his chest, resting them at the side of his bedroll. There was no applause - it was too late for all that - but he heard the satisfied sighs and shuffles of his audience. Smiling at a job well done, he reached up to his mouth and delicately plucked a strip of well-chewed leather from his mouth, then tied it next to the others on his heavy necklace. The wet, coarse texture felt unpleasant on his skin as it dried, but in a few hours he knew he wouldn't even notice.

Sniffing, he picked the drums back up, his eyes never looking down from the constellations and the oldest sagas. He should sleep, but he was entranced by the moon and her daughters. And who could resist just one more story?

"This one some of you may know if you grew up out here on the plains, and maybe even if you didn't. It's called How The Wind Found Its Love. Once upon a time..."

People milled about in crowds, walking the streets with little care for the world around them. It was time for Festival, and people flocked to the city of Lundros from the surrounding countryside. They brought their wares and their stock, things made and things grown from their farms. Stalls lined the main street, turning the whole central area of the city - normally reserved for a park - into a massive marketplace which sprawled as far as the eye could see in every direction. The city center, circular in design to facilitate the flow of traffic, lined with merchants of all types. The more affluent and strange of them taking center stage in the midst of everything. The more mundane, normal merchants lined the streets. Many storefronts lined these streets, and most of them were open - though their owners had stalls of their own.

The denizens of Lundros were engrossed in their own worlds, focusing on their shopping - buying pretty jewels and trinkets for their lovers and their children. Many cloth vendors sold their best silks and linens. Dressmakers sold the gaudiest of things. Blacksmiths made shoes for horses and weapons for the rich, farm tools for the poor. It was a time of joy and happiness for most. For some, though, it was just a pain in the ass. The people in the city were mostly good, wondrous people who came simply for the happiness of festival. But some, though, some came for more nefarious purposes. During the time of Festival, crime in the city nearly doubled. Mostly petty theft and cutpurses. It disgusted Cerwin.

He sat on his balcony, feet crossed and his hands cupped around the back of his head. He looked out over the crystalline railing, fingers laced together watching the suns move through the sky. The commotion below in the marketplace annoyed him, but not enough to ruin his good mood today. Even the thought of the cutpurses who made his job harder than normal couldn’t spoil his mood today. Just the night before, in the blackness of the night he’d made a killing. Of course, the town watch was up in arms about it. They couldn’t figure out who’d robbed The Shining Gem, a high-end jewelry shop.

Cerwin pulled the gems from his pocket, figuring they were worth at least a small fortune. In fact, he knew they could pay for his house a thousand times over. The problem with gems, though, was finding somewhere to sell them. He couldn’t offload them in the city, not yet anyway, the heat was too much. And besides, the only person who could reasonably afford to buy them happened to be the one he’d stolen them from to begin with. Of course, he didn’t steal them for the money. He had plenty of that, more than enough to feed a few hundred families for a few years.

He stole them for the thrill of stealing them, in fact, he was already contemplating how he could return them without being caught. He’d only stolen them to prove he could, after all. The braggart made unfounded claims that his security couldn’t be beaten. His people were the best, he said, unable to be outwitted. The magic protecting his house couldn’t be breached! Cerwin proved that wrong, in about fifteen minutes of his time. He tossed the gems into the air, deftly catching them before placing them back in his pouch - which he buried beneath the dirt in a flower pot by the balcony door.

Looking back over the city, Cerwin sighed. It had been harder than necessary, though, the guard was pulling double duty with the influx of visitors. Actually breaking in took him no time, but escaping and getting back home without being caught was a bit harder. Still, he’d managed it - and now he was up bright and early despite the late hours he kept. His meeting for the day should be arriving any minute, and while not the most important meeting - it was a meeting he agreed to a week ago.

“Isla is our friend here, yet?” He asked.

“Yes sir, he arrived five minutes ago. I thought you might want to take a few minutes to prepare before I let him and the Banker in.”

“Yes, yes. I’m ready for them, Isla. Send them in, I’ll see them now.”

Cerwin settled in at his desk, pulling some papers and a quill out. His feet didn’t even touch the floor in this chair, he hated it - they didn’t really have the equipment for him when he furnished this place. The custom order was almost done though, he’d been told. Settling in comfortably, he folded his hands around one another. Isla, tall and slender and beautiful in her own way, showed the two men into the office. They each sat across from him.

“Good morning, Gentlemen. I know we’re here to discuss funding for a new development of land outside the city walls, yes? I’m assuming you both have taken the time to study my offer for funding, since you’ve decided to take this meeting.”

“Yes sir, and we do have an issue with the time frame for repayment. The interest rate is a little steep, as well - but we can live with that. However, a one year repayment plan seems kind of short-lived. We’re not sure we can make the payments that kind of frame of time gives us. Can we, maybe, negotiate for a longer term?”

“I suppose that could be considered, given the undertaking and the project you’re taking on. See, the problem is, your upfront payment is kind of small. There’s no guarantee your project is going to pan out, and I have to be sure I’m going to get a return on my investment. I definitely need something of value, if you want to extend the loan term and make smaller payments.”

“I have some family heirlooms. Things of value they’ve gathered over the years. Jewels and the like. A few swords said to have magic properties that the Lore Wardens have said we could keep. There’s even some…other things. I’m not sure of their value, but we could look through them and you could judge. I’m hesitant to speak to much of them currently, though. I know you’re a collector of…antiques, yeah?”

The way he said it piqued Cerwin’s interest, canting his head to the side and thinking about it for a moment. “Yes, yes I am. If you happen to have some of these antiques, I would very much like to see them.”

The details of their next meeting were sorted quickly, a dinner between the two of them later that evening. In his home, of course, as Cerwin didn’t enjoy leaving his home after dark the other man knew. In fact, the whole city knew. Leaving at night was dangerous, especially with the festival coming through the city. Notorious cutpurses and ne’er-do-wells roamed the streets in the cover of darkness.

Cerwin smiled as he shut the door behind them, reaching into his pockets for a moment and feeling the gems he’d procured the night before. Pulling the few stones he carried on him from his pocket, he tossed them into the air and deftly caught them one-by-one as they began falling. “Isla, I need you to handle something for me.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Take these gems, and the few buried in the secret compartment on my desk and return them to their rightful owner. And make sure you get the reward money, for yourself of course. You’ll come up with the usual excuse, I assume? Something simple, but effective. Can’t have you getting yourself locked up, and the watch is hot after these things. They spent the better part of an hour and a half chasing me through the streets last night. Well, they think they were chasing an urchin twice my height, but you know how that goes.” Cerwin laughed, remembering the foot chase through the streets.

As Isla gathered everything, Cerwin walked back to his main living space - settling down and sipping on his tea. He thought about the night before, and then he thought about the coming dinner. Antiques and collectibles were things of value, things he could definitely take as collateral on the loan. Especially if they were anything like what Cerwin wanted them to be, what he longed for.

His fingers ran along the edge of his table, flipping the hidden level which pushed the two halves apart and lifted the platform from inside. A bit of a hidden stash, books lined the interior of the table - held perfectly in place and preserved by his limited amounts of magic. He looked through them, touching the pages reverently and carefully. He couldn’t read them, the language was foreign and ancient. But, he knew what they were. The most valuable assets in his whole collection, though not ones he could often speak about. The collection and keeping of these books was taboo. One of the most heinous crimes in the land, even. They were relics of an age long before his life, or of any living creature currently walking the streets of Lundros.

Hopefully, the books his new friend brought tonight were akin to these. Relics from before the Breaking. Eventually, he might learn to read the books and find out the true history of their world. What caused the world to break and change, and become the thing it was these days. He knew, in times long past, the people’s magic was far stronger - and their tools far beyond their current comprehension.

“Gods, I need to find someone that can read these.”

The Pale - a colloquial impression of the gulf - swallowed the sunlight as the morn braced for itself. A fluorescent nimbus hung itself out to dry, casting a great tone of grey across the path they'd been taking. It was a fantastically numb expression that the gulf had made mere mention of. Elsewhere in the mist, there were mechanisms of sail-ships and the beating drums of fishermen oars wading towards their delightful existence; a flotilla of colourless drabs, departed from time to remain in their endless repetitions. Thus, it'd been titled The Pale - and nothing else, disregarding the aeons of geographical nomenclature given to the great northern gulf - by many a weary Trespasser. Where said faux-tradition had stemmed from was quite incomplete. There weren't any records of who'd first titled the watery expanse, and so it was often declared that it had always been The Pale: that hollow body of water, where Trespassers had let their memories be swallowed whole on far too many occasions.

Vildrel Könire laid eyes on the mist from atop of a coastline hill. Faintly did her eyes glint in the misty morn, and as such, she was easy to find by those in her walking pack. Adorning a brown cloak, she sat with her hands folded between her crossed legs. The softness of the grass cushioned her as the grey sky was willowed by the peaks of valleys and hilltops. The great trees promised her shelter should the day turn to rain, but she was confident otherwise. A grey sky is but itself. It was in the winds where she could feel the skyward sea come close.

Of course, she was no natural druid. Such guessing games were simply fun to speak of.

"Könire!" Came the tendrils of the wind, a chastising voice that disturbed the morning prayer. "Könire - bloody hell...Könire!"

"Here!" After a ghastly sigh, she'd given the familiar voice the beckoning retort. Further downhill, awaiting for her arrival, the hobgoblin Harao Iskra maintained his juvenile sense of authority, placating their endless time for company. "What's the fuss, Iskra?"

"What isn't - we've a delivery in thirty. Get your arse down here and we'll just make it on foot." She didn't protest afterwards. There was little point in it. The specific pluck of her wayfaring sortie waited for her at the foot of the hill. She took great, dainty care as she descended the way down, wrapping around the knolls and pitfalls of the steep, winding path as she did so. Four of them had elected themselves for the minor tradesman's journey. Short-lived, often the way she enjoyed such menial tasks, the two day journey had seen them haul a pack of cattle each cradling a rope-hooked knapsack. Inside, a series of trinket goods had found their way inside, flanking the odd gem, high quality tool or depowered tome rooted out by past Trespassing. None of them were of any use to the Crisa Sect, for any real legitimate form of economy was quite beyond them, until of course they'd visit any form of a city. Each Trespasser carried with them a handful of coins at most. Their true goal, however, was to secure another batch of food, staying ahead of the curb of a later-year's climate.

"Think we'll make it?" A short dwarf humbled his anxieties with such doubts. She disapproved of such, and had been vocal about it, but she wasn't one to press the matter so deeply.

"If there's a way, we'll be on it."

"Pragmatically speaking - not spiritually." Iskra sneered in jest. A curl enveloped her lips, but she barely made a titter out of the occasion.

"We'll be there."

Phaedra was thin but not frail. Presence very much slender, yet resilient. Bearing the weight of her torment without surrendering, her spirit, akin to wilting flowers in a vase, held both beauty and sorrow in delicate balance. She sat moonstruck at the rail of a bridge overseeing a riverbank. Behind her roseate eyes veiled by her silken, platinum-blonde bangs, her repressed memories resurface, besieged by guilt over the great tragedy engulfing the Luminae Academy of Mystical Arts.

An inquisitive sable darted around the area, climbing up the young girl’s shoulders, foraging through her kinky tresses draping her backside. It ran her pockets for a few nuts. Phaedra paid it no mind. Head tilted, the small creature observed the mourning sorceress and her radiant, almost aubergine complexion bathing in the moonlight. It could tell something was wrong but quickly fled at the arrival of a rumbling carriage.

The doors of a patchy wooden crate masquerading as a luxury coach swung open, ushering a vacuuming vortex, snatching Phaedras's gray sarong with such authority it whipped her around like a roll of paper towels. Wide-eyed and flustered, she caught no glimpse of the inside before it swallowed her whole. The rhythmic clops of horses casually strolling away with her appeared to be in no rush once the doors closed. In total darkness, she felt wedged between a stiff old couch and a rickety chair.

"Hello, odd maiden! Don't mind my get up. Doing a bit of research." A faint amber spark developed, revealing her captors. A jovial wooly-mustached jester passed her a small, blank sheet of parchment and a huge woman whose rotund figure greatly strained the seams of her colorful attire. “Hello, Lovely.” Her overly caked cheeks already left residue on Phaedra's clothes and the liter of perfume she doused herself with did little to alter the fact that the carriage smelled like a hotbox of sweat. “Trust us, we’re not kidnapping you,” they said in unison. It was hard for Phaedra to lower her guard completely, but her gut surmised there was perhaps some method to their lunacy.

The paper forcefully planted in her hand burned with an ongoing script of orange text, spelling out the message, “The Kaiage of Knowledge.”

The strange woman introducing herself as “Alegora'' placed her forearm and hand of many rolls on Phaedra's left knee, meeting Phaedra’s upturned eyes with a concerned heterochromatic gaze. Finally getting to the meat and potatoes, Alegora revealed “We know the attack of the Karnagebeast wasn't a natural occurrence. We have reason to believe many of your classmates are still alive and not only is High Chancellor Seldora complicit, we suspect she is a doppelganger.”

Nothing exemplified Phaedra's fear over the subject more than her deafening silence.

Once again confronted by not-so-distant traumas far from being healed, the young woman’s quixotic quest she steadily ran from presented itself to her in yet another way.

Her eyes shut. Reliving phantasmagoric nightmares, the dawn's sky resplendent with hues of pink, and orange whimpered out as tenebrous clouds ran roughshod over any ray of hope the new day provided. To the untrained eye, a storm brewed. Phaedra lamented the times itself as came lighting, thunderous roars existing only as the product of unchecked imagination followed. On this Lundros morning, she awoke from one nightmare into another. A tangle of Wyrms, exterior like oiled scale mail interwoven in a sinister dance, descended upon the enchanted spires of The Luminae Academy of Mystical Arts, unfurling their twisted serpentine forms in an act of indiscriminate terror. They sodomized the school’s mullioned windows, razing the corridors, invasively rattling the entire dorm with a faint hum like the presence of an unseen stampede. Low-humming until it wasn't, with a deafening crash, the sound overtook Phaedra’s capacity to think let alone speak. The entire wall on which her door was hinged ripped away with the raiding serpent leaving behind a jagged maw of destruction–

“Or so, that's the theory, Ha-Ha-Hahaha!” Alegora's boisterous laugh rocking the carriage to the point where it startled the lugging horses brought Phaedra back to reality.

Eyes wide, dumped on her ass in the middle of a cobblestone pathway, Phaedra realized she was no longer in the carriage but set right in the middle of the path leading to the cursed academy she had been running from. The horse carriage that transported her trotting in the opposite way left her a parting message.

“Keep that card close. You'll know where to find us as well as the others there, beloved.

Their message was pretty blunt. Go to school. It was something Phaedra already knew she had to do in order to save her classmates but now, knowing she perhaps wasn't carrying the weight alone, the task felt less daunting.

Being out in the wilderness felt rather relaxing as a beast, but not so much as a human. From a purely logical point of view it probably was a weird thing for he should have known the place and its lack of dangers all too well, but the increasing darkness around him triggered an almost discomfording level of alertness. Was there a big bear hiding in the shadows ? A boar who could try to run him over in a panic or an act of aggression ? The fact that there was still some morning haze left surviving in between the tree trunks didn't make things any better.

It's just a dense forest... Vodilic tried to calm himself, but his senses, partly animalistic still, kept pushing their findings into his mind: a suspicious cracking here, the smell of a small creek there, and hadn't he just trampled over some animal trails ? Part of him wished to swap places with his horse at this point. It was commonly said that these were runaway animals, right ? Then why was it perfectly relaxed and he was the one on alert then ? Okay, maybe it was just happy about the break as well.

Yet there was absolutely noone to blame than Vodilic himself. He had made it his very own choice to keep of the proper roads in order to take this 'shortcut', but the more he ventured on the more it dawned upon the lycanthrope that sheer distance alone might not be the most appropriate metric to judge how far away a certain destination was. He'd return to some more beaten path as soon as possible, that was for sure!

Carefully, Vodilic wrapped his padded fur cloak tighter around him. It felt rather frigid and it also was. Good thing he had taken his good boots for this, otherwise he'd already have ended up with wet feet and a cold. Part of him hoped to find some company while another part of him hoped for the opposite. Both had their pros and cos and he just couldn't decide yet. Maybe this would change once having seen another soul again, but maybe he should just try and turn and move forward on four paws instead of two feet ? Could make things a lot more efficient, but also more dangerous in some way...

Green gulls, they fly with the weight of tradition. Fleeting, their appearance tells a story. It starts beneath the watchful ward of the Starburst Chamber, itself atop a grand black tower rising from the Court of the Dawn-Spring. In an underground eyrie, it is rumored they hatch after a year long cycle. So it has been for hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Watchers care for them until they grow strong enough to fly or, perhaps, craft them using arts ancient and arcane, then turn the great underground wheel, open the grates of the plaza floor, and let the birds fly — to where is unknown. Most meet their doom. Yet their image can be seen in the sky all across Island, telling the tale that the Festival of the Breaking fast approaches. Faster, word of their appearance throughout the land on the tongues of troubadours and skalds.


A ray of light vanquishes a clot of fog, exposing fresh blue sky to the two young kroca perched in their stick-stack abode. Lit therein is a sign. It sits atop the tallest structure in the village, a wooden clock tower in the menroh. A courthouse. At the summit, a weathercock. On the weathercock, a massive green bird. Wings flash like underwater emeralds, and it flings itself off and vanishes into the fog. They follow the ray down to the river, and there see a familiar dragonically-inspired craft near.

“Mother!” celebrate the twins.


In the foothills of the mountains north of Stavkat, a dream ends with a vision. High above, a shadow, unique in its dashing of the heavenly rays. No harpy eagle full on its snare of an ill-alarmed vole. Too fleet for most prey, but provacative enough to catch the keen-sighted birds attention and beg forth its scream. Then, all too suddenly, absent. A cry above, one of battle, a dash of wings, a clash of talons, and then a shout of shock. Around Nadira, a shower of emerald flakes.

Nadira is long-lived, and has seen the green crystal rain before.

It bodes the death of a gull and, if one so wishes, a bid to travel.


Landbridge turned port, Porjkat is abuzz with news of the sighting of green gulls. Of course, it is an annual — expected. In this ostensibly modern era, timekeepers and skywatchers track with precision the passage of time. So, even before the sighting, the small town’s hostels, alehouses, and whoredens burst with boisterous foreigners from the southlands. A brief influx of wealth and violence, bawdiness and brawls. Then an overland voyage to Lundros — for most, heavy-laden with exotic wares, a crossing of a fortnight.

For some, who merely wish to attend, to be there when the Starburst Chamber’s crystal roof gleams in the light of a weird new star, it will be far briefer.


Sleep descends on the Arrowfalls long after night reduces vision to the bronze flicker of flame and ember. Almost too soon it burns out, the long shadows of purple morning splay out in their stead. For those light and brief to slumber, the urge for relief strikes in that predawn. A quiet place, a strand of dry stones bordering the small rivulets running near camp, born of the mountains. Some feed into the west branch of the Yanvin while others fill the handful of large lakes separating Arrowfalls from Mirynkat. This morning, they shimmer a vibrant emerald green.

If that urge strikes Roan, he is likely to notice; else, another, less familiar with the strange dust glittering in the flow might request a breakfast song explaining the unfamiliar sight.


“There you are, just the volunteers I am looking for!” declares a young man.

Board hanging around his neck and a bag pregnant with pamphlets, he knows words aren’t enough these days to catch an eye, so he grabs by the hand Cerwin and Phaedra as they, by pure coincidence, cross paths on a busy Lundros street, perhaps out for a morning stroll or departing café-style breakfast.

“A dashing gentleman such as yourself and a lovely scholar are perfect pair of volunteers, nay, organizers! to make this the most fabulous annual festival in a thousand years!” he proclaims, relinquishing his grip, but leaving in their palms a strip of paper embossed with a salutation and address that they might recognize as that of the Iron Word’s guildhouse.


Fog dense and light thick, scintillating, and light gray — almost white — floods the gulf and adjacent fjords taken together as a region of Islund dubbed The Pale. Therein, it is impossible to see the green gulls. Impossible, except atop Mount Leirstyg. Thereup and year-round, a wind-watcher and weather-scryer can easily see the passing of these majestic creatures. On that annual, she blows into her alphorn, and roll a long undulating drone into the gulf. That tradition echoes from ship to ship, filling The Pale with the vibration of expectation for those who wish to make the trek to Lundros and partake in the celebration.

It rolls over Vildrel Könire, Iskra, and others along the rocky hillock.


Thump-thrump, thump-thrump, a wagon loudly makes its way along the riverside road that weaves through the forest of the Yanvin Valley, heading first to Ghilros and then to Lundros. It is the lead in a procession long enough to deepen ruts that already cut down to bedrock. Cheerful chatter boasts of profit to be made at the festival, of how this annual is special, of how this man or that woman personally saw a green gull and spread the word throughout their village.

Of course, the noise carries through tree and branch to Willis.

So too does it drift up the hillside and touch the ears of Vodilic, bidding him depart from his shortcut turned sojourn.

If they desire to attend, perhaps they will march alongside the line of merchants, sightseers, and celebrants.

The village was a daft existence of isolation. Yorahal had the character of a husk, a humble existence of astonishing forgetfulness that aptly persists despite all protests of time. Each soul subjected to its tormented existentialism was unbothered, filtered out by a fog that sounded like the batting of gull wings. Few smiled for the entrance of the Trespassers. The fact of it all made Vildrel frown but a small amount, for it was the only place they weren't truly trespassing on.

Iskra handled the delivery without much grace. He spoke the tongues of tradesman better than she did, as did most of her sect's own skillset surmount to. Her ways were in the eyes of her beheld patience. Something bristled in the wind, in the trees and gentle brooks that had gotten lost on their way to the river. Marshes vanished behind a mirage of hills and mildews, whilst the rolling passage of time seemed to tread around the village as though a stain on a city's pavement. Yorahal welcomed them with a silent stare, but it wasn't unfriendly. That much she could be grateful for. Eventually, an echo seemed to bellow through the fog - a herald which drastically called her without even saying Vildrel's name.

"Festival...of Breaking..." The words left her mouth like liquid fascination. Of course she knew the name. In a life before a life, she'd heard it as a dream of elders' part time stories. There was endless dreams in the frost that it promised to glisten. Wherein the thoughts, she found her fingers become delicately warm against the frostbitten shroud. She tightened her cloaks and indulged in her furs evermore.

She left with a note on Iskra's lap, detailing that should she have returned, the venture of her lifetime may never have been worth it at all. She had every intention to return home, to the homeless nomads, but in her sense of endangered curiosity, she had ventured into the fallows with un-neat white hair, with her heart alight and a golden glisten in her eyes. Somewhere out in the world, a figure prayed for her, and she felt the breath of each verse make for her soul. How beautiful, it said, and she agreed wholeheartedly.

Willis strains his eyes and ears on an overlook, at the head of a sloping hill, where a worn road curves along the foot and stretch across the forest on either side. A small dust cloud approaches from one end of the road, and Willis watch as it grows bigger and bigger, carrying the sound of drumming hoovebeats, clattering wheels, and a smattering of voices:

"...250% markup for furs and salt..."
"...told you about the green gull dropping a turd in my cousin's mouth..."
"...hold on, who is that madman waving from up yonder?"

Willis yells, "OVER HERE!!!" and vaults over the precipice, digging into his heels as he slides down the slope with his back brushing against the grass. He lands at the bottom with his clothes covered in dew and he turns to look at the caravaneers but his wide-brimmed hat flops onto his head and blocks his vision. He snaps his finger and sparks leaps out of his hand into a small bush, setting it ablaze.

By the time Willis reaches the head cart his clothes is completely dry and his hat has turned into a top hat. He takes it off in a greeting and asks where these fine people are going? "Why, to the Festival of course!" Cries the coachman dressed in a fine white-and-blue vest, grinning at Willis with a huge crocodile smile. He snaps the rein of his horse and pulls over curbside to speak with Willis, allowing the carts and wagons and even a rowdy troupe of performers behind him to rumble by. "I'd trouble you for a favor, my friend, as you see I am a lost adventurer who is heading to the Festival to try my luck, can I hitch a ride with y'all?" Willis asks, patting his hat as he speaks. "I have prepared my own rations and I know my way around arms, which I will gladly lend to your defense." The coachman coughs and looks him over, "Where's your weapon?" "In here!" Willis shakes his hat. The coachman scratches his head. "Well...I reckon as long as you mind not to set my wares on fire, I'll take ya."

"Deal!" They shake hands and Willis climbs aboard the cart. He makes a cot among bundles of fur, and lies down with hands folded behind his head and his hat on his side, staring at the small strip of open sky choked on both sides by oaks. "What's yer name son? Mine's Rod." "Willis, at your service." The coachman laughs and mumbles something, before kicking his horse to action. Willis closes his eyes and sighs contently as they pick up pace. He tries to drift off to sleep, but the rough road jostle him around a bunch, so eventually he just sits back up, and reach into his hat. He pulls out a pouch of sweetened nuts and chews on them idly as he chat with the coachman.

"Rod, how mush mowey dew you blan on maging dish chwip?"
"Rod, hab you been dew da gapidal before?"
"Rod, how shafe ish dis road? Hab you sheen any bandishs?"
"Rod, are we dere yet???" He asks this a dozen times between mouthful of nuts.

Vodilic's red mane waved in the wind as the lycan stepped up his pace significantly. The sound of people chattering and wagons rumbling along had reinvigorated him, causing the spontaneous decision to just screw this 'shortcut' of his that had failed anyway. Almost bursting out of the forest, the rather short man found himself surrounded by tall grass reaching almost up to his hips. In the distance, he could see the merchant caravan and instantly knew he had to hurry.

If any of the people on the caravan would have turned their head in the right moment, they would have been able to spot a figure blasting down the gentle slope on a horse. Who knew when the next crossing would be and he thus would be in danger of losing their track before reaching them! That being thought, Vodilic noticed that he was almost going too fast for his own good and was near to just falling off. Luckily though that didn't happen and, some rather dangerous minutes later, he got close to the last wagon.

Vodilic had put on the best clothes he had been able to find back home for the festival. His padded fur cloak was still somewhat clean, looked quite new and had the little secret of actually containing some of his own fur. Why spend precious coin on something else if one had the ability to grow that stuff oneself ? His werewolf shape had a lot of it! It looked almost like something a noble would wear in the public with individual strands almost glistening slightly, especially at dawn or in the moon's light and also in a similar color. Beneath that was a thin, dark brown layer of leather in the form of shirt and pants. It wrapped somewhat tightly about his body, revealing his slight, soft belly and the fact he did not seem to have that much muscle. His figure really was rather small even compared to some of the merchants and he left ample room in the saddle, but still his horse breathed heavily as if just having finished a long race.

The big question was: Why on earth had he just had to pass by a burning piece of bushwork ? There was no forest fire anywhere to be seen and also no open fires on any of the wagons, at least as far as he could oversee them from behind. He pushed forward a little until reaching about the middle of the caravan, then knocked gentle at one of the wagons in order to gain some attention from its driver.

"You don't mind me tagging along for the festival, do you ?"

The driver looked more like a merchant's assistant than being a man of trade himself and almost snapped back at Vodilic: "You, too ? Just had a weirdo with a fancy hat joining us. You two belong together ?" The man pointed towards one of the other carriages further in front of him.

"No, but... thank you."

Maybe he should see who this other guy was. Apparently his 'shortcut' had failed in even another way, that of keeping him a bit away from other people...

Eventually Kerbera found steady ground from the boat she had been trapped on for the last few weeks. A port city dubbed Porjkat from what she gleamed in passing conversations while on board the ship. There was a steady hustle and bustle of people, those coming off the ship and workers who were going on board to collect whatever supplies that were brought along for trade purposes. Kerbera followed along with other passengers to where the docks met the actual land where soon she was somewhat forced to be interrogated by some underling of the port master to gain knowledge of those entering the country itself.

"Name?" Came the short one word question from a small, stout man who seemed to have more interest in the book he was writing in over whoever he was speaking too, making Kerbera sigh in irritation before answering.

"Kerbera Slitherfangs," She replied with was answered with hasty scribbling from the man before more questions came. Ranging from her species, which gave the man pause and finally looked up from his scribbling to see that Kerbera was indeed an amalgamation of gnoll and dragonkin. Once he gave his quick look he continued with asking her reason of visit which seemed to annoy him as Kerbera merely stated travel which was true. Her reason on leaving her homeland felt even mysterious to her. A need or gut feeling that going to Skara was important, but why escaped her. Eventually after mentioning the gnoll goddess Shaar, he simply muttered something about just putting it down as religious pilgrimage. After a good hour of questioning and answering. Kerbera was finally freed from the irritating old man, and given a few helpful directions from a fellow that was just outside the port when asked where she could find a place for supplies, a map, and at least a place to stay for a day if need be. Soon she made her way down the streets uncertain of where the winds would take her next.

---

Willis perks up from the cart, turning to look at Vodilic and his horse strutting along the middle of the caravan. "ELLO!" He frantically waves his arms back and forth, beckoning him closer.

At first, Vodilic was not sure whether the callout was meant for him, but it sufficed to make the werewolf turn his head and perk up towards the stranger. He could only wonder why the merchant seemed to be so ecstatic about him, but also saw no reason not to comply. With a gentle signal, his horse turned into the proper direction and he navigated his way through the moving maze of wagons. "Hello ?" he replied.

"IMPRESSIVE MOVE THERE, MY FRIEND, GETTING DOWN THAT HILL!" Willis yells over the commotion of a moving caravan. "MY NAME IS WILLIS. FROM WHERE DO YOU HAIL?"

"That hill ? Well I was in a hurry, that's true!" Vodilic did not remember any person in his life called Willis, but it probably didn't matter anyway. He probably was as much of a stranger to this merchant as vica versa. "I am Vodilic. Just... Vodilic. Is this caravan headed for the festival ?"

Willis swings his leg over the side of the cart, leaning toward Vodilic to speak. "Aye! This is going to be my first time... I'M SO EXCITED!!!" He yells, then asks, "Have you been to the festival before, Vodilic?"

Vodilic shook his head, causing his hair to flutter in the wind once more. "No. This is my first time as well. Where do you and this caravan come from ?

"Uhh... I'm a hitchhiker too..." Willis says sheepishly. "I'm an adventurer roaming from place to place, searching for work, hahaha." He stuck a thumb in his chest with pride. "They call me Willis the Combustible Kid!" Rod, the coachdriver, glances back with a worried eye. "I have felled many monsters among my travel, from hordes of teeming undead to demons as big as houses!" He raises his arms to emphasize the size. "And you, my friend, I presume is much the same as me, no?" Willis scans Vodilic casually, then furrows his brow. He grabs his hat and holds it in his hand. "Huh... Your horse is looking mighty tired..."

What a perfect example of overconfidence! To be frank, Vodilic barely believed half of Willis' flamboyant barrage of claims, especially not the demon part. "With me ? No, I'm boring!" he replied, assuming to have produced a bit of a lie himself at this point just for the sake of being quit. "And my horse ? Well, we both have a long way behind us already." The werewolf patted the horse's flank.

Willis scratches his head. He could swear there's something off about Vodilic, but what he said makes sense. Shrugging, Willis suddenly slaps his head and points at the coachman driving the cart he is sitting on. "Oh, by the way, this is Rod. We were just talkin' about how unsafe the roads have gotten lately, apparently the uptick in traffic have given rise to banditry as well! Have you encountered any bandits on your way here, Vodilic?"

Vodilic shook his head. "No, I haven't. I did see a burning bush however, but no possible source of fire. The weather doesn't look like any thunderstorm has passed through recently either so it can't have been a lightning strike. Any ideas ?"

Willis grimaces. His eyes darting around before settling back on Vodilic. "Okay, to be honest, that isn't entirely my fault... but sometimes I forget to control my spells and they tend to burn bushes..." He raises an outstretched palm toward Vodilic, and yells, "IGNI!" His hand bursts into flame. "Pretty useful when I need to quickly warm something up... or burn something down..."

Vodilic was surprised enough to feel some shock, but even more so was his horse. As tired as it was, it still had enough strength left to send the werewolf into the dirt in one swift move before rushing forward without a rider, escaping the fire. "You idiot!" he yelled at Willis, now having to try and catch up with the wagon on foot.

"Ah crap!" Willis made to grab the reins, but the horse slips from his flaming touch, setting their tail ablaze as it sprints down the road in a panicked state, disappearing around a corner ahead. "Uhh..." Willis freezes in place, steam rising from his hands as he extinguishes the fire. Rod face palms, stops the cart, and aims a firm stare at Willis. "Out, now!" He turns to look at Vodilic sympathetically. "Young man, I'll send someone after your horse. Hopefully the beast doesn't set the entire forest ablaze... do you need a ride?"

"A ride and a decent slap into your very face if you'd allow!" It was more of a rhethorical question though. Vodilic jumped up the cart which made a small jolt forwards from his momentum, the axle and wheels groaning under the now increased load. He stepped right up towards Willis and looked at him with a quite angry facial expression. "So just you know, there are a few things around here that could also be flammable!"

"Ah! I'm so sorry, I swear I didn't mean it-" Willis lamely clambers down the cart, appologizing to Vodilic all the while. "I'll get your horse back, I promise! I made it so my fire would not harm the horse... I think..."

CRACK! Willis turns sharply at a sharp sound of wood splintering. A large oak, a dozen meter ahead of them, suddenly comes loose, and its tip teeters precariously before toppling across the road with a heavy THUD!, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Another oak crashes down behind the caravan, boxing them in. With cries of alarm, the caravan careens to a halt.

Thunk thunk thunk! 3 arrows shoots out of the treeline, landing at the feet of the cart, startling Rod's horse.

About a dozen bandits drop out of the foliage, brandishing rusty swords and clubs. They surround the caravan, while a few stays in cover behind the trees, keeping their bows aimed at the merchants. One of them steps forward with a large grin on his face and a swagger to his hip, a man wearing an eyepatch with a large bow behind his back, and he marches into the middle of the caravan. He draws a large knife from behind his neck, and speaks with a rough voice: "Alright lads. You know the drill. Hand over your goods and half of your horses, and I'll spare your life. I'll give you all 5 minutes."

Vodilic, at first, did not expect anything but a large nuisance when the first oak tree fell in front of them. Maybe some recent rain had weakened the soil or it was rotten and just a very unlucky coincidence ? Then however the second tree fell and it dawned upon him... The red haired man's eyes darted over the couple of bandits... definitely way too many to fight all on his own and definitely not in his current shape. As bad of an impression as this Willis guy had made upon him so far, maybe he would need his help now. And that of his fire?

"I need a few moments for myself without observation." he whispered towards both Willis and whoever of the merchants was in listening range. Transformation was anything but a trivial process and, more importantly now, during it he would be fairly defenseless. He would need to rush it, which meant additional pain...

"My leather skins can hide ya..." Rod whispers back to Vodilic. "Quick, they are getting closer!" He casts another glance at Willis. "You told me you'd defend me, right?" Willis nods, rubbing his palms together, which are glowing red hot. "Gladly!" He looks at Vodilic. "Uh, bro, are you also a mage? I think we should work together on this..."

The bandit leader makes a motion with his hand, and his lieutenants barks orders to their men. They are moving from the middle of the caravan to each end, ransacking as they go, throwing out crates of produce or dragging out screaming women, then severing the harnesses on the horses.

"A mage ? Well, depends on your definition of magic." The situation was serious enough, but still the lycan couldn't resist a small grin as he retreated back to the inside of the cart. Hopefully the bandits would get to this position in the wrong moment.

---

Collaboration with @Fetzen

[THEME]

The harpy eagle Ykka devoured his prey while Nadira performed harumancy with its entrails, exacting her divinations through subtle arrangements of tiny bones and emerald plumage. The green rain cast small ripples through the blood as it yielded its answers to her questions. The twin stars had already begun to enter partial phase overhead, heralding the shift in the Color of the World that would perturb nature and fate alike; it was not the first time Nadira would witness the Breaking. Many powers moved when causality came unmoored from its usual shoring.

Twice before she reached the edge of the forest hinterlands, her path strayed across human hunters taking advantage of new life breathed into the woodland by unseasonal warmth. Training arrows upon a vulpine shadow, they found themselves peering into golden eyes and the womanly face of a Sidereal Sister, creased by a lifetime of secrets into a wrinkled labyrinth. Both men lowered their bows and murmured their forgiveness into the tree branches in the hope the wind might carry their words back to the Witch of Midwinter on the rustling leaves.

Here in the forest that was her roh, all knew to respect the Red Witch Nadira.

In days to come there would be many sightings of foxes throughout the hamlets and small farming communities across Stakris. Children playing in the fields often looked skyward when they found themselves standing in the shadow of the great harpy eagle that soared far overhead. South and east the wind and their will carried them, though not along the usual footpaths conveying trade between settlements. Their journey passed over shrubland and into forest glades, creeping at last up the alpine slopes of the northernmost peaks of the Arrowfalls.

At night Nadira listened to choruses of toads sing to her of upset cycles across the wilderness. During the day she watched butterflies float dreamily through fields of flowers that should not be in bloom. Not even Trespassers wandered this far out beyond the edge of civilization. There was no one to drink from the crystalline streams the Red Witch followed in the forgotten world, one still smelling of moss and animal musk and humming with the mystery of the virgin earth.



As Ykka and Nadira descended towards the primordial lake that loomed pristine in the heart of the small valley, they passed a squat circular watchtower, its masonry evocative of the Age of the Gods. A crumbbling sentinel, extinct from living memory for far longer than it had ever been given a purpose.

Or so it seemed. Beneath the tower a cavern gouged the hillside, descending deep into the belly of the land. Ykka refused to enter the chthonic depths with Nadira, knowing she sought to consult another of the ancient things haunting the bones of the world. Ykka did not trust it, and told her he would seek help if she did not emerge. Afterwards, alone, the old woman's first steps carried her past primitive paintings that gave way to damp stone. The rock told its own story, one of how these caves had been hewn by a great river in a time beyond kenning, and even now Nadira felt the weight and pressure of the lake as she went lower and lower into the bowels of the cave.

The tunnel emerged into an earthen grotto, air permeated with the stench of rotting mud. A green pool of water half-congealed with slime stretched before the far wall. The lair was clearly inhabited, a squalor of rudimentary furniture and curious objects strewn throughout. A short round table occupied the center of the room and upon it rested the implements for drinking tea, two priceless cups cut from the finest porcelain and inlaid in geometric floral patterns. Leaves and herbs rested in the bottom of a vessel at the center of the table.

The Red Witch took her seat and waited. Time passed strangely so deep below the skin of the world. After a time she heard the whistling of a kettle and glanced to the side to see water heating on a clay stovetop, a fire crackling in the oven's belly as it must have been since long before she arrived. Nadira did not rise.



After only a moment, ripples disturbed the stillness of the slimy water. The creature that emerged was covered in the soft pink flesh of a being incomplete in its development, though the Red Witch knew it was older than her by far. The ancient salamandroid hauled itself on many small hands from the brackish water and onto the stone. The worm lizard possessed many segments, its distal half smooth save the long caudal fin atop its vast, coiling body. Massive gill stalks crowned its skull, each covered in filtration appendages twitching as if scathed by the air. A few shuddering gasps convulsed across its wriggling body.

For many long moments it gave no indication it was aware of Nadira's presence, lumbering slowly across the room to retrieve the hissing kettle. After several ponderous minutes its alien face regarded her from across the table, one hand tipping the spout to steep their tea in hot water.

Nadira, it said in syllables stretched long and slow over a watery, wheezing exhalation. A delight to receive an unexpected visit for tea from an old friend.

At some point it brandished an old fashioned pipe and ignited it with a singular fingertap. Her predecessor had brought her to the lair of the amphibious leviathan for the first time when she was a girl, and she wondered how many of the Sidereal Sisters had sat in the cave of the dragon-worm to drink its tea and discuss destiny.

Play the harlequin if you must, but I know you've seen it. The same dream. Nadira gestured so that the vapors rising from the tea leaves suggested the joining of two great lights, blue and yellow, and a million emerald sparks...

You know the Breaking is nigh.