Chronicles Of Enduwin Chapter 1: The Adventure Begins.




The breeze blowing was a subtle one. It was noticeable but tickled Shankee's skin in a delicate way, like a soft touch. It caught the smoke spiraling from his pipe and whisked it away into the coming twilight. The chair Shankee sat in was an ornate rocking one built from the trunks of trees felled not to far away, in DuFair. The chair sat on a small outcrop of rock outside of Shankee's hut, and the storyteller himself in turn sat upon the chair. It was a calm evening, only a few flaky clouds dotted the sky. Sitting forward in the chair slightly, Shankee reached into the pouch that was on his lap. Reaching his spindly fingers in, he removed a clump of Eel Bane and lightly dropped it into the top of his pipe.

Shifting in his seat, Shankee groaned lightly. Puffing on his pipe he noticed something which hadn't been there a moment ago. A faint flickering light seemed to be hovering before him, about ten metres from where he sat. His right hand slid from where it was on the arm of the seat to grasp the staff that had been laying against the chair also.
"Damn wisps." He grumbled to himself.
"Always at this time of the year, same thing again and again. Hungry little ba..."
Shankee's words and movement both stopped dead in their tracks. What had been a single glowing orb was now several dozen orbs slowing shifting and somehow solidifying into a more corporeal form. Shankee raised the pipe, which had remained in his hand the entire time, and took a long steady drag. The light began to fade leaving an undeniably humanoid shape in its wake. The figure seemed to hover somewhat in the air. The strange individual took a step forward and the light vanished, revealing her.
Before Shankee now stood a naked woman, much taller than Shankee himself. Much of her body was wrapped lightly in vines and moss, and the ground seemed to rise to meet here feet.

"No." Muttered Shankee. He had spent enough time buried in books and learned enough tales to know who and what this was.
"I am.." Boomed the woman's voice.
"No. " stated Shankee again, interrupting her mid-sentence.
"Naduir." He finished her sentence for her.
She seemed taken aback. Presented before him was a Goddess, one of the nine embodiments of Enduwin itself and yet Shankee seemed nonchalant, even irritated.
"I know why you are here." He said.
The Goddess smiled softly at him. The Farrg were a fond creation of hers. Also, no mortal had ever reacted like this to her presence. It was quite amusing.
"Ha ha!" She giggled.
"Is it so little storyteller? Then do tell, tell me my own story." She laughed.
Shankee grumbled a little, unsure if the Goddess was mocking him or not.
"You want me to do something. You're going to proclaim some great evil is besetting us and what not. Then beseech me to be an honorable being and stop it."
"Indeed." Naduir stated, perturbed by the mortal's attitude.
"And knowing what I know I'm going to guess it's to do with this necromancer who's the talk of half the world right now."
"You really are a clever little mortal aren't you!" Naduir said, only half jokingly
"Well I'm assuming that's why you chose me."

Taking the longest drag yet, Shankee stuffed his pipe back into one of his many pockets and turned his back to the goddess. He began walking back towards the chair.
"Where are you going storyteller?" Questioned Naduir.
Stopping at the shack's door Shankee spoke over his shoulder.
"I am old. I am going to need to get my things first."
Naduir smiled, feeling they had chosen well.
"Go the centre of the Plains Of Origin." Naduir stuttered as she felt her vestige in the world wand.
"You must lead them in..." Suddenly, the Goddess's grip on Enduwin slipped and she was to Neyav once more.
Emerging from the shack a few minutes later, Shankee looked around. Then he gazed up at the night sky. Laughing very softly to himself, he thought 'finally, a story for the storyteller.'

The irridescent feathers of a predatory bird were jammed carelessly between the jaws of a large crepuscular cat. It had managed to catch the poor avian when the damned sound of a mans scream had spooked the flock. Between lofty leaves and tangling vines, it could almost see the red-haired woman attempting her best to break her hand on the poor bastards bloodied face.

Her jabs at this point were fatiqued and ineffective, and she could barely keep herself upright in the sitting position on his chest. Whoever the man was, dressed in leather regalia with a moleskin cape, he was almost certainly dead. If he wasn't, nature had a habit of consuming and reusing the dead. She was almost certain she'd seen some form of Jaguar nearby.

Lifting herself from whatever the name of the bloodied pulp below her was, she reached into her cloak and removed a folded map. The sun, as much of it as she could see from the lower canopy, seemed to have moved forward at least three hours. There would be many stragglers at this point and she had at least a few moments before she'd need to meet again with the others. It was foolhardy to be alone at night in these woods, many of the preternatural forces and nocturnal wildlife were far more active at that time. Dusk wasn't nearly as deadly, but certainly not safe.

It was hard to tell in the murky brown waters of the lake whether her face had any blood of it. It was almost certain, so she washed her face off anyway. It was a small comfort as the mosquito's wouldn't leave even if you asked politely. She drank from the water, refilled her flask, and walked off from the mushy sedge of the shore. When she had returned the mans body was gone, from the looks of it he was dragged into some brush nearby. He was either bleeding out and dragging himself off, or the Jaguar had found him.

She walked along the trail of blood and crushed foliage. Eventually, in a few minutes time, it led to the man slumped against a tree, an arrow pinned through his chest. Looking up, Jovalyn saw her brother, Rodrick, who hailed her with a simple wave. He had wavy red hair and thin stubble, with ghastly pale skin. Through a series of complex maneuvers and flips, he found himself on the ground floor. He was quite the acrobat, though Jovalyn herself found it far too impractical for her tastes.

Rodrick grinned and gestured to the corpse, “Found this bleeder trying to make his way back to wherever he came from. Looked like someone had bludgeoned him.” This reminded Jovalyn that her hand still hurt. “Anyway” Rodrick continued. “How'd your hunt go?”

Jovalyn looked at the body, then back at Rodrick and said, “Not badly.”

“I will be your judge, I will be your executioner. Your corruption will not be tolerated for as long as I live…”

The Exiled Knight was kneeling, as if mocking how one would go about praying to the Gods on the road, whispering to himself an unusual -and certainly not holy- lamentation. Six town militia guard surrounded him, weapons in hand, intent on capturing the rogue knight.

“Oi!” Shouted one of the militia men, who was clearly in charge of the small and unruly bunch. “Didn’t you ‘ere what I fuckin’ asked ya’?”

“For the good of Human Kind, your influence must be burned from this world through through blood and steel…”

“Oi!” The militiaman shouted again, obviously agitated at being completely ignored by the one he was trying so hard to intimidate. “Stop prayin’ the the fuckin’ Gods, they ain’t gonna’ help you now!”

Eeiys’ lips snapped shut, and his head snapped up to meet the eyes of the agitated militiaman, his henchmen still had their weapons ready, waiting to strike at any sudden movements. A cool breeze followed Eeiys’ gaze, which was colder than ice, striking a little more than fear into the ringleader’s heart, though he tried his best not to show it.

“I am not praying to your petty Gods,”

The ringleader was taken aback for a mere second by the frankness of his response. “I.. you.. You know how much sum’ people will pay for ya’ corpse? Yar’ a pretty damn wanted man, yano’?” He sneered while leaning in a little close to Eeiys. “And me and the boys ere’ are more than willin’ to provide, heh heh!”

Eeiys took to his feet. Whatever chant he had been doing either could wait, or was finished. He rose slowly but surely, not doubting himself in any way, despite being surrounded on all sides by men who had clear intent to kill him. This situation was not new to him, outnumbered combat was a simple process once you knew how to handle your footwork.

“In case yer’ didn’t catch that…” The ringleader let out a gurgling laugh, one that would be more suited to that of a drunkard, “We’re gonna’ kill ya!” The militiaman drew his sword, and brandished it, pointing the tip to the still un-armed knight. “Got any last words, mate?” he sniggered.

“Are you a godly man?” He asked, still as nonchalant and cold as ever.

“Wh.. Yeah. I am. Now time to die, I hope you’ve made ya’ peace,”

“Then there is no hope left for you,”

The militiamen began to move in fast with their weapons, several taking premature jabs at Eeiys before he was in their range, and the ring leader took a careless swing, as if he were fighting a common peasant who had decided to resist. Eeiys swung himself under the arc of the blade without any effort at all, and moving himself in to position behind the ringleader, and using his shoulder to barge the man off balance and into the small horde of advancing militiamen. In one quick move, he was no longer surrounded, but rather being advanced upon by six badly trained town guard. Eeiys may have smiled under his helm, but he made a point of staying completely stoic in posture, not giving away anything.

“We’re gonna’ fuckin’ get you, you shiny piece o’ shit! You think you can hit me and get away with it?!”

“My Name is Eeiys of Uacteir, I was once a Winter Knight, but I have seen the summer. In the name of Human Kind and all that is good in this world…”

“Get ‘im lads!” The ringleader screamed, prompting the mass of guard to break into a sprint towards the Knight.

“…I sentence you to die”

Eeiys drew his sword faster than the eye could follow and gripped the handle with both of his hands to provide more stability in the oncoming rush. The first militiaman to reach Eeiys made a clumsy swing while running, hoping to use his momentum to make a quick kill. Instead, Eeiys spun on his heel and lowered his body, using both his and the militiaman’s momentum to extend Frost which immediately tore it’s way into the man’s abdomen, almost completely cutting the man in half; a splash of blood soaking it’s way into the dirt underneath, and another choking it’s way from the man’s lips to signal that he had been instantly killed.
Eeiys ripped Frost from the limp corpse’s belly and shifting himself into a one handed stance as a second militiaman came at him with a flurry of uncoordinated strikes. He parried the first with a circular sweep, the opening he created left enough time to make a backwards stab under his arm, directly into the heart of the guard who had attempted to get behind him, before sweeping his sword back around to make an upward cut into the still-stunned guard in front of him. The blade cut clean and there was an explosion of thick, red blood as it severed a major artery, causing the eviscerated man to fall backward, limp, onto the ground. The fourth guard was met with a riposting stab through the neck, the fifth had Frost driven upwards through his chest, and out through his eye, leaving only the ringleader, who now had breeches wet with urine and stinking of shit.

“No! NO!” He screamed, backing himself away, dropping his sword in panic. “Get the fuck away from me, I don’t wanna die!”

Eeiys approached slowly, thoughtlessly traversing the bloodied corpses of the rest of the guards, stepping over them without ever breaking sight of the gibbering wreck of the man who would have had him dead.

“I do hope there is something for you beyond life. The Gods will not help you now”

“Please!” he screamed. “Don’t do this!”

“I am sorry, but there is no hope for one such as you in the new world.” He grabbed the ringleader by the neck and pulled him up. “On your knees!”

The Ringleader knew it was pointless to make further pleas, even though he didn’t acknowledge that fact that to the Knight who had just decimated his entire squad without breaking a sweat. He just kneeled in the blood-soaked dirt, sobbing to himself, maybe whispering prayers. Eeiys didn’t care.

“You will not be granted any last words. You deserve nothing.”

Before the ringleader could even acknowledge what Eeiys had told him, the blade was already speeding down through the air towards his head. He didn’t even have time to scream before Frost split his head completely in two, leaving his body to slump back down with the rest of his comrades.

Eeiys wiped the bloodstains on his sword off on one of the dead guards’ clothing before resheathing the weapon and looking around him. In the heat of it all, he had not noticed the sizeable crowd of civillians looking on in total shock, in total fear. He knew he could not stay there any longer, or the Winter Knights would find him. He just needed to find somewhere or… someone… where he could find respite, if only for a day or two. But with any luck, someone would come to him…

Sam's hands moved and his wrists twisted as he walked down a dirt path toward the next town. Wearing nothing but a simple tunic and ragged pants, his feet marched one right in front of the other, toe to heal, swaying ever so slightly so his clothes seemed out of place. There was a small skip in his gate, a gentle, lilting and happy gate. His face was rather emotionless despite the way he dances while he walked. Some random passerby would think the site almost unworldly, some peasant looking man carrying a large bag and dancing his way to the next town.


"Aaaa, Honezv ah jabc,
Cnezi am uc,
Jeyi uc vauw zehi,
Ba map puwm orov hwan uc
Ri miib vau mar
Ca cnezi am uc."


He sang a rather haunting melody, an old Naeri prayer. The air around him would seem rather thick to anyone who would walk right up to him because of the way his voice worked with his magic, but you'd have to be paying attention to even notice the change in the air.

He wasn't some great Mage, but the little magic he had made it seem like his singing could charm a dragon by itself, but of course it was his magic that made it seem that way. Sometimes he thought maybe he didn't have magic and his voice literally stirred the life in the things around him, but that idea was rather arrogant. He was pretty sure he could simply speak and nature would bend ever so slightly, but he didn't try it, to do so would take away the mystery. He liked mysteries.

After awhile he saw the town and his gate went from his dance to a light run. His stomach growled and he wanted to see if he couldn't glean some new songs or stories from the town bard. The bard in this town was named Cun'Niv (Soon-Neev) and was of some exotic Elven race up north. His skin was grayish purple and his ears seemed pointy enough to impale a small bird. Sam thought the man was very odd to look at, though he was sure Ol' Cuni (as Sam called him) was handsome to the women of his race.

Sam saw the old Elven creature playing a wooden flute on the corner of an inn as some little girls out on errands watched him in wonder with their big, youthful eyes. Sam snickered rather loudly and it seemed like Cun'Niv caught it and he skipped a note on his song as if he had just coughed up some water he had been drinking. Cuni's eyes lifted up to Sam and stood waiting for the rogue to make a greeting.

The little girls figured soon the song was over, and took off in a hurry, giggling madly at Sam as they passed the disguised Naeri.

"You again, how long has it been Sam, four months? A year?" Questioned Cuni, putting his flute away in a bag at his feet as his eyes stared down Sam. Cuni's eyes were large and black, with dark grey irises.

Sam smiled mockingly. "About a year Cuni, your town wasn't too kind last time I was around, shame, it's one of my favorites." He said, referring to how he often stopped by this town in the past at least twice a month. He had earned quite a reputation in this one,

"What do you expect Sam? You stabbed someone in a bar fight and sang a garden in the middle of town to show off to some kids." He groaned, rolling his eyes at the rogue.

"Hey, that Garden took an hour to sing, and it wasn't even a yard wide. Those were the prettiest damn Lillie's this town has ever seen anyway."

Cuni snorted, "I suppose they were. What is it you're here for anyway?" He inquired, walking away and motioning for Sam to follow.

"Oh nothing, just looking for some stories." He said, following Cuni with a trollish grin.

In truth, Sam was looking into an occurrence that happened when he was fifteen, He heard Cuni might have some information.

Violent vermilion light bore it's way through the vines and splayed out like a fog far above, to the rotten reminder of what was once a creaking wooden walkway. The smell of smoke soon followed, meeting with Jovalyn and Rodrick climbed across the vines that had served as rails. They reached the moss mottled side an ancient tree. A series of vines of their own accord curled and slithered their way around the trunk like a snake, forming a climbable path to the ground floor.

A group of figures in moleskin capes sat around a pyre, throwing the cloaked covered dead into its effulgent embrace. One of the many, a stocky man with a thin beard, walked off into the surrounding brush to relieve himself. Jovalyn traipsed after him, removing a thin wire from her pouch and wrapping it around both wrists. The man finally stopped, his sigh of relief suddenly stopped by a pressure around his throat. It sawed into his neck, until blood pooled out and the light of the pyre faded.

Jovalyn unspooled the wire from her wrists and set it back into the pouch. She rejoined her brother and removed the bow from his back, shoving it into his arms and pointing at the haggard woman who was throwing the bodies into the fire. She removed a arrow from his quiver and handed it over hurriedly. The haggard woman toppled over -jagged arrow in back- into the pyre mid-carry, with the three remaining removing their sheathed blades, fire reflecting on glossy steel.

The two Wardens left, silently deciding it'd be better to attack later than risk a direct confrontation now. They eventually found a cave entrance draped in foliage, which creaked aside for their passage. It was a uncomfortable place to sleep, glowing red eyes on the ceiling notwithstanding, but it was certainly safer than the troll infested outer reaches. Say what you will about hard rock, it won't lacerate you to death on purpose.

The next morning they went over the map after a light breakfast. Noting the location of those killed and last seen Warden camps, they decided that they'd need to resupply and eat again if they were to get anything done. Plus there was the matter of Jovalyns hand, it seemed she had broken a few finger bones. Rodrick was fine, as he was evidently allergic to handling things in a manner similar to a man, and instead chose to hide in trees.

They emerged from the cave into the morning dew of DuFair, which while notably less frightening than dusk, still had a few less than pleasant surprises. Most notably were the Man-Eating Plants, which was actually somewhat misleading as they ate pretty much anything that went within chomping distance. Active from when the sun rose to when it reached its highest-most point, it made traveling around ground level something of a chore. They could see a particularly verdant green one chomping on a Jaguar with spear thorns serving as teeth.

Frowning, Rodrick quipped, “Almost makes me regret leaving the cave.”
Jovalyn sighed, “If it means we can kill more of those bastards, I'm more than happy to watch nature run its course.”
Rodrick gave Jovalyn a look, the look that she hated that suggested a mix of indignation along with less than hospitable contempt, “Well, sure, but I'd rather not...you know, that was a perfectly fine Jaguar just a moment ago. Now it's more of a perfectly fine mass of mush!”
“And?” Jovalyn asked tartly.
“You know what? We're not going to talk until both of us...especially you...get something resembling a meal. Come on, there's a camp not too far from here.”

The moon sat high in the sky reflecting Solas’s light down upon the night, for the moment free of the clouds sweeping by. Amongst a copse of trees a blond haired dwarf sat sharpening his axe sitting upon an outcropping of rock the only sounds were the rustling of trees and the whisper of a whetstone on steel. A large fire was before him much too large for a single camper, the tips of the flames seemed to list toward the dwarf as they burnt out. A pony whinnied at the edge of the trees looking up from his lazy grazing.

The dwarf stood up suddenly alert returning the whetstone to a pocket in his leather armour and hefting his axe in both hands. He scanned his surroundings from atop the rock giving him a greater height than his dwarven stature would. The fire seemed to die down allowing him to see a little further into the night. The only sound the pony’s worried cries and the crackle of the fire. He dare not move from his position which only really gave him the height of a man, but it gave him a defensive position from the centre anything that wished to get to him would have to climb the rock to reach him.

The warrior saw nothing but slowly the sounds of whispers crept in seemingly from everywhere and nowhere at once. Then in the darkness lights sprang up not wisps but embers. A sense of dread filled the dwarf and he knew something great and terrible was about to happen. The embers centred on the dying fire and suddenly it sprang up to a greater height than before singeing the trees and giving off a heat that instantly caused sweat to spring up on the dwarfs skin. The flames formed themselves into the shape of a man and the dwarf fell to one knee a fist upon his chest as he spoke a single word, “Lasair”.

“Yes, Slayer I am he, Lord of Flame, God of Rejuvenation...” He trailed off for a moment as the flames eddied in the wind, “And you are one who would be my avatar in the lands?” He posed the question to the dwarf as if expecting only one answer, for the flames never really gave a choice, they burnt who they pleased.

The dwarf hesitated for a moment and in that moment the flames grew hotter and brighter so that the dwarf could hardly stand it. He gave the answer that lead to life, for a least a little longer. “Yes, my Lord Lasair what would you have me do?”

The god laughed and odd mix of a man’s deep voice and the roar of fire. “I would have you do nothing, Arnack. The world aflame at my dark brother’s hand would be wondrous, but alas he would go too far.” He sighed, the sound of a log sagging in the hearth. “He wishes to end the cycle forever and so you must go to the Plains of Origin, there you will find the storyteller my sister chose. Go with haste lest the fires dim before you can act.” With that the flames rushed upward burning a hole in the canopy and disappearing off to the east. The fire pit was naught but ashes gone cold not a cinder left burning. A deep cold pervaded the air in the fire god’s absence as if trying to erase the flames for good, or so it seemed to Arnack Clarn, Proven warrior of the Slayers, now tasked with preserving the flames of life.

Arnack wasted no time in clearing his camp and when it was done he returned to his pony strapping his bedroll and tent to her back. Then he holstered his axe in a specially-made sheath on the pony’s shoulder within easy reach of her rider. He moved her over to the rock he had stood on before and from there clambered into the saddle as only a dwarf could. He clicked his heels to the pony’s sides and gripped the reins for dear life; riding was something he would never be used to.

They headed north-west and despite his fears Arnack urged the pony to greater speed as the pair flew toward the Plains, as if a wildfire licked their heels. The moon gave just enough light to guide the way.

To some, Bolecawn was a horrendously hot and dry place, the activity of volcanoes having scorched and destroyed much of the natural foliage that grew there. To others, particularly those that not only endured but flourished in the heat, the island was a blissful place to exist.

Lava ran over the edges of the mouth of the volcano that Sariloth used as her nest while magma pushed up from beneath the surface, running along underground chambers and, finding cracks in the rock, lazily melted its way through.

and evaporated, burned from existence by the heat that surrounded her. Talons rustled and wings stretched, returning to rest against her back as she moved, never waking. She dreamt of flying, soaring above the clouds and feeling the wind whistle past her head; the brilliance of the night’s stars stretching above her head and all around her, she flew until her wings ached, still flying more.

It was nothing for Sariloth to sleep for days at a clip, her breathing slowing until her chest seemed to not rise at all.

Above her, the morning sun tried to breathe life into her slumber, but fell short, as its nurturing rays did on most of the island. The dragon found comfort in its rest, and continued to do so.

---

Vish’Kar, the Black Mountain Keep, was a terrifying place to all that were not borne from its innards. The orcs kept no prisoners and, instead, drove their heads into place atop the wooden fence, which was laden with iron cross braces that bundled long stretches of it together, fortifying it against attack. This wasn’t simply to ward off unwanted company: as the heads rotted, their disease spread and infected each of the skin piercing spikes, causing rot to infest an intruder whose steps were not carefully chosen.

The keep’s outer wall, which spanned three sides of the fort, separated the orcs from the outside world. Inside of its embrace, families dwelled in huts and stone homes. Smoke rose from chimneys and shingled roofs. Fires raged and the smell of searing meat mingled with that of molten metal. A stronger wall, twelve feet in height, protected the fourth side of the encampment, a steep cliff that disappeared into the smog and clouds above.

Travelling inside, one found two paths to take, both seemingly the same. If one was taken, it led down into the mines; the other led up to the spire of the keep, where the barrack s and armories lay, along with the stronghold’s main feasting hall. Connected to the left of the hall was the throne room. To the right lived the war room. Vrikdarok was in the latter.

His hands, hidden behind spiked gauntlets, traced trade routes through Enduwin, highlighting the ones that the troops had recently hit, ones that were fortified, and others that had been left to ripen through assumed safety. His hand stopped, resting on one that drew his attention. He tapped it and one of the commanders nodded, needing no verbal explanation of his duties. The orc, smaller and less formidable looking, though terrifying to most humans, snapped to attention and his armored hand came across his chest, pounding it twice before trotting out to gather provisions and soldiers.

Some may have referred to taking trade routes as cowardice or unbecoming of an armed force, but Vrikdarok knew better. To survive, one must eat. To eat, one must hunt. And what better way to keep the forges burning, the women producing offspring, and the men content, than to pluck it from the hands of the undeserving?

The orc’s hand reached to the left of the maps he had been looking at, grabbing a leg of what could be assumed to be some sort of animal and thrust it to his mouth, tearing through the flesh and muscle with powerful tusks and razor sharp teeth, chewing it with a slightly open maw and swallowing the rest whole. He followed it with a drink from a tankard, and set both back to the table. He strode across the long, undecorated room and through the feast hall, whose great table lay barren of all but candelabras metal plates, empty before next meal time. He moved through a gap in the table, his pony tail swaying in rhythm with the sway of the wolf pelt cape, which mimicked the footsteps of the large statured orc.

He did not take movement to sit on the steel and iron adorned throne, but to move to the right of the room, careful to check his surroundings before moving anymore. With the palm of his clawed hand, he thrust one of the bricks into a hollow recess behind the wall, which triggered a switch and caused the wall to hang loose, easily opened. The orc lord slipped through, closing it behind him.

An altar stood, stoic and well preserved, in the center of the room hidden beside the throne room: A perfect sculpture of Dúv, or what the ancients had carved the god to look like. Vrikdarok came to stand before it, bowing his head and taking a knee, his chest breathing heavily, as if each breath was labored and hard to find in the presence of this relic. He did not speak, but obviously he was praying; perhaps for those that he sent to meet harm, but more likely for a swift return of bountiful goods so that the existence of his people could continue for generations to come. The orc stayed like this for a great while, his head hung low and his left hand pressed hard into the ground, the right resting on a bent knee, the spikes of the gauntlets drawing lines across his rough skin: spots where they dug in and crimson life force ran free in rivulets that became drops that splattered the floor of the prayer chamber.

When vermillion pools greeted the darkness of the room again, Vrikdarok rose immediately and paced the length of the room, leaving through yet another passage, never looking back to the way he had come.

---

Rupert grazed on the luscious grass that covered much of the Plains of Origin, his hooves softly ‘clomping’ against the soil of Enduwin’s alpha land. As dusk was falling, Oscar was nearby stirring a fire from what kindling and dried brush he could find. It was only moments before the imposing dark burst into sparks and oranges and reds and yellows as flames spat back at the man’s equally bright hair. “Aha!” the man exclaimed and clapped the air, and broke into a small dance. “I told you Rupert. I bloody told you!” The horse snorted.

Pointing an accusing finger that jutted out in Rupert’s direction, the leather bound swordsman jabbed at the horse’s direction once, then twice before huffing and waving the equestrian creature away with a portrayal of disgust. “Like you know what it’s like to have to create fire in these damned plains.” Oscar kicked the ground but immediately regretted it.

The voice boomed, hard and angry, from absolutely nowhere. You dare to damn the lands that the gods have given to you, mortal? Oscar, unlike the storyteller, stumbled and fell away from… well, nothing. If you believe Rupert’s account of the story, he pissed and shat himself, though Oscar denies it firmly.

Rupert was not so much taken aback by the voice as he was by the calming that it produced inside of him. As a being born close to the gods, one not separated by knowledge or belief in self, he knew to whom he listened. Tintrayach’s voice was soft and merely a spoken word to the horse. “W-w-what th-…” Oscar began, but was abruptly silenced by the god’s voice.

“I have others to visit and I do not have time for your rambling. If you weren’t birthed on my isle, another would be here to greet you. So silence yourself and listen to my words.” Oscar nodded, the wafting scent of feces and urine surrounding him. “Good. Since you are already here, you do not need to travel far. He will find you as I have found you, but you are looking for your guide. You are needed. For what, I can only tell you this: a dangerous task that falls on the shoulders of you and several others like you. When you see this guide, you will know. Now go with haste. Forget your pitiful fire-…” Rupert neighed with a sound that almost sounded like laughter, “and go. Clean your drawers first, though. You stink.” A firm gust of wind blew across the plain and killed Oscar’s fire with its breath and then there was absolute silence for a moment. Rupert’s feet kicked at the ground, rutting it up impatiently.

The man hurried to his feet, brushing his backside off. He cleaned himself the best he could and washed away most of the stink with several canteens he kept after almost dying of dehydration in the desert of Trayig’s Soul. When he was suitable to ride on Rupert’s back, the horse tilted his head forward and let the red haired warrior into the saddle that was strapped to his back. “Where to buddy?”

Rupert neighed again and charged off into the darkness that encompassed them, his hooves slamming against the ground and guiding them on a path that only he knew. Oscar trusted in his steed, and let the animal guide him. Unbeknownst to the man, Rupert followed a path marked in his brain by the god Tintrayach.

"What is that infernal racket?" Dssialii opened the shutters of his room and glared alternately between the blinding sun that streamed in to disagree with his slowly-adjusting eyes and the scene in the road before his rented house that was slowly becoming discernible as something other than too much light. Ah, it was just wanton murder, nothing unusual there. He stretched lazily, shuffled his position on the box that he'd had to slide over so that he could get a good look out the window, and with a yawn settled his head heavily on his arms. Might as well not pass up the show that... hmmm, he knew this fellow, didn't he? Another traveler, then, give him a moment... ah, yes, Eeiys. He tested the name sibilantly; for a non-goblin name, it had a nice ess sound that he could draw out without ruining the flow of the name.

But sadly, one of the performers was far better at his work than the others put together, and so it wasn't a very long show (though he did like Eeiys' monologue, it was always interesting to listen to that one rabble on in his self-righteous manner about whatever it was had made him decide to kill things this time). As things cleaned up, or rather Eeiys cleaned things up, things being his sword (he was probably going to leave the bodies there, what a shame), Dssialii loudly made his presence known by calling out raucously and clapping his hands together.

"Oh yes, good show! Encore, my good friend, encore! Find another heathen to slay, it was just getting good!" He smiled widely enough for his teeth to be seen from the road below, and once sure he'd caught the knight's attention, hopped down from his box and then down to the first floor, where he unlocked the door and then backed away. His invitation was clear; in fact, he had once extended it to this particular acquaintance in almost exactly the same way a few months previous. And Eeiys was sure to recognize his distinctively-long esses.

"Well, well, one would think that you were on the way to ssee me, what with the dead soldiers being so conspicuously close to my doorstep, Eeiys." Dssialii modestly put on his glass-blower's apron (though it didn't do anything to cover up his back, and he really doubted that Eeiys cared one way or the other, anyway. "So what will it be? A bauble for a girl? Want me to take a look at that sword of yours again and tell you to stop so-carelessly sharpening it with skulls again?"

Collab with Kiddo

Eeiys had only just finished wiping the blood off of Frost, as he always did after making multiple, bloody kills. The blade component of the weapon was deathly cold to the touch, and if stains were left too long, they would be almost permanently frozen to the metal, which could rust the blade and make it dull, and, therefore, ineffective. Eeiys was not going to risk losing the edge which kept him one step ahead of the Winter Knights. He pulled himself up slowly, drawing the weapon across the tattered cloth of one of the fallen militia, smearing it clean with each draw. It took him several moments to notice just how peculiar the silence had become; he had become used to scaring off small crowds with his little crusading displays on an almost weekly basis, but he did not ever think he could become accustomed to how quickly the world can go from echoing the sounds of clashing metal and screaming onlookers to… nothing. It was just like being back at The Gate. Silent as winter.
The ruckus he was capable of causing was usually a fairly good signal to let the one he was looking for know that he was in town, but he didn’t seem quite on the ball today. maybe it was because they hadn’t seen each other in… how long was it? A year? Two? Eeiys could hardly remember. He had been on the run for longer than he dare think about. There weren’t even any birds chirping to give the now deserted plaza any semblance of ambience; one could easily hear the beating of their own heart if they tried hard enough. He was beginning to think that his contact wasn’t th-

"Oh yes, good show! Encore, my good friend, encore! Find another heathen to slay, it was just getting good!”

Eeiys, though stoic just moments before, dropped his head and began to chuckle, sliding Frost back into it’s sheathe and he turned his head to locate the source of the sound, coming from somewhere above. He lost the trace of the sound for a mere moment, before a door clicked behind him, and creaked open with a telltale enthusiasm.

"Well, well, one would think that you were on the way to see me, what with the dead soldiers being so conspicuously close to my doorstep, Eeiys."

Eeiys watched with warming familiarity as the Goblin who had emerged from the doorway extended his invitation.

"So what will it be? A bauble for a girl? Want me to take a look at that sword of yours again and tell you to stop so-carelessly sharpening it with skulls again?”

“I’m sorry, old friend!” Eeiys called out in response, quickly striding towards the small, but friendly looking bipedal creature in the doorway. “Did I wake you?” he asked with another small chuckle, before extending his hand to the small creature.

"Yes, in fact you did. You see, this is something that some people call a 'weekend'. It's meant for wonderful pasttimes like sleeping in until the sun begins to go down, and maybe not firing up the kiln at all!" Dsialli took the armored man's hand and then waved him into the building. "No point in waiting for some proper soldiers to show up, is there?”

Eeiys never really knew how to feel about being led around by a Goblin. By the hand. Like a child. it was especially unusual given the proportions of the two and the disparity in their height. Still, Eeiys didn't want to offend the creature, Dssialii had been one of his very few remaining friends since he had been exiled.

"You're right. Wouldn't want to add more bodies to the count. Besides, I think I may have stubbed my toe on one of those corpses. They're always in the way”

"And, with all the orc raids around these parts, you don't want to leave these poor villagers completely defenseless. They might not be the smartest soldiers, or the best at picking their battles and, uh, not dying, but they are still soldiers all the same." Not that Dssialii was particularly scared for himself; he'd once sat on his balcony smoking his pipe while an orc raid had gone on in the streets below, and had even struck up a chat with one of the raiders (a pleasant fellow named Vlekovsky or something of the sort, who'd lost an eye at some point and was pleased enough to buy a beautiful glass replacement with some of the spoils from their raid), though he'd kind of had to leave town after that whole thing. Not only was there not much work for him anymore, but those people who were left didn't take so kindly to his "conspiring with the enemy".

"But it sounds about time to invest in some proper socks. You ever get out of that armor these days? From what I've heard, nobody's seen your actual face since that whole shindig went down." Dssialii let his guest off at the human-sized table in the dining room, and quickly cleared the metal instruments that covered the surface so that they'd have some place for their elbows. Climbing up onto the stool on the other side of the table, he smiled across at his old friend. "I bet you smell horrid in there.”

"I don't know how much you saw of that whole fiasco," Eeiys began to exclaim "But one of the guards actually ran into Frost. I don't think they'd have much luck again an Orc raid. Definitely not fit to fight off an actual warband. Trust me, I did the town a service,"
Dssialii had lead the knight to an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar, curiously human sized table set down within it, which he immediately and instinctively took a seat at, unclipping Frost and it's sheathe from around his waist and laying it flat on the surface.
"And you know you make a comment about my socks every time I see you? Is that just a Goblin thing?" Eeiys shook his head. "I'm sorry, if your custom is to enquire about my socks, you can ask away. And no, you'd be right. I've made a point of hiding myself from the rest of the world. You never know when it might come in handy to take off the helmet and become totally invisible, but for now I do think i'm safe."

Eeiys stared at the goblin on the other side of the room for a moment, in what would seem an extremely stern manner before slowly lowering his head and raising his arm and taking a very obvious and exaggerated whiff before exploding in a fit of fake coughs which quickly devolved into base laughter. "It really has been too long, how is Rssilant?”

"It's only as much a goblin thing to ask about socks as it is for you to complain about constantly stubbing your toes. I'm telling you, socks are the answer! But I think you just like to have something to complain about."

The goblin eyed the sword on the table and carefully pulled the scabbard toward him, unsheathing the blade just two inches to have a good look at it and to touch the oddly-cold blade in reverence. This thing belonged to a goblin. Or, rather, as all magic should, this thing should have belonged to a goblin. In fact, he wouldn't have minded too much if he were the one to end up with it. Maybe some day he'd convince Eeiys to leave it to him in a will. But for now, he sheathed it all the way again and pushed it back across the table, eyes dancing as he smiled at Eeiys' dramatic little coughing fit. He shoulda been an actor, what with his love for overacting and monologues.

But his eyes stopped smiling at the mention of his wife's name, though his smile remained frozen on his face. "Ah, yes, you haven't visited since... her Ceremony.”

"You know," Eeiys continued "I only stub my toes so much because corpses keep appearing in front of me. It hardly leaves enough time to step over them. I'm telling you, i'm cursed,"

Eeiys winked under his helm before realising the Goblin would be incapable of seeing his eyes. Instead he watched intently as Dssialii examined the blade intently, like he always did. Staring at it in a way that only a Goblin would. If it were any other species, Eeiys would have considered his friend completely insane, but a Goblin's lure to magical objects was well known, so he let the infatuation slide. He knew his friend had eyes for the relic, but he playfully pulled it back towards himself once he was done.

Eeiys' heart dropped the second he heard that word: 'Ceremony'. He let his head hang slightly, and he let his eyes hang slightly lower. "I.. I didn't know." The knight reattached the sheathe and Frost to his belt. "I'm really sorry," He began to rummage around in the small pouch that rested by his sheathe. "I shouldn't have brought it up, but I think I may have found something you would be interested in,”

"If the mailman could find you, you'd have gotten an invitation. Though you probably just randomly killed him when he was trying to tell you." Dssialii hopped down off his seat and walked over to the kiln, glancing in and then grabbing his pipe from the mantle.

"Alright, be there in a moment." He knocked the bowl against the furnace and then pulled a coal from it and some ground plant from a bag that lay open on top. It was no wonder his hands were so burnt if he handled coals like that so casually. He lit up, took a puff, and spat into the fireplace, tossing the coal back in and then returning to his spot. "Southern blend of mage's weed, pretty strong stuff." And in fact, it was; mages only used the stuff sparingly to assist in vision journeys, but the effect was, as with all magic things, very muted for a goblin. He offered the pipe across the table with a raised eyebrow, daring his companion to take a pull and chuckling when he saw that he wouldn't. "Fine, suit yourself."

"So what you got for me?" He pulled a jeweler's glass from his pocket and set his pipe firmly between his teeth to have both hands open, holding one across the table to take whatever it was Eeiys had brought.

It took Eeiys a moment to find the small object without emptying the satchel and all of it's contents on the table. He hated to leave his friend waiting (even if he was puffing away on a particularly potent pipe), so he fished through as fast as he could. Finally feeling the small, long, slender object, he wrapped his armoured rangers around it, being careful not to grip so hard that the brittle material would shatter, and swept it from the small waist-satchel. It was an incredible pale, cream hue, with a small pattern of grey surface cracks scoring the otherwise smooth surface. Eeiys knew his friend would perk up the moment he produced the object.

"Dragon toe-bone."

He looked at it for a moment, holding it up to his face to examine it before laying it on the table so Dssialii could take it.

Dssialii had time to snap impatiently a few times before he finally got the bone in his hand, and then placed it under his glass. "Toe bone? Why isn't that exact language. Where'd you find it?" Would have had to be a small dragon, just from the size of it, unless Eeiys was claiming it was from a goblin dragon, which would just be silly since they never died anywhere near any place that such a knight's presence would be acceptable.

He snorted out a red-colored cloud of smoke in another little laugh. "Not even, though. Ankle bone. Musta been a miniature." He put down the jeweler's glass and smiled across at Dssialii. "You trying to spin me some tale of slaying tiny dragons now? Isn't that brave of you.”

Taken aback by the flurry of questions, Eeiys almost recoiled. But he supposed when it came to magical artefacts, this Goblin was a little... odd.

"Found it on one of the pilgrims heading North, on my way down here. He claimed to be destined to ride a dragon, or the.. next king of the dragons or something silly. Anyway, one thing lead to another and then it was my bone. I don't have any use for the thing, but I thought you might like to.. do whatever it is you do with magical remains. Eat them, right? But maybe you should save it for later, I don't think I want to see,”

"Naw, thing's too old. Nothing left here worth eating, if there ever was." He tested it against his teeth, cracking off a bit and tasting it before shrugging. "Yep, nothing left. Thanks for thinking of me, though?" And of course he hadn't slayed the dragon himself, Dssialii could already tell just from looking at it that the bone was at least 300 years old. "You should sell it to some poor pilgrim claiming that it'll make dragons obey him or something. Or make a die of it, world could always use more gambling." He rolled the bone experimentally across the table and glanced at it before letting his face become disappointed. "Ah, a seven, luck isn't with me today."

"So no glass baubles? Haven't found a nice lady iron golem who finds your cold exterior especially dashing?”

"Well," Eeiys stuttered "That is severely disappointing. I guess a pilgrim wouldn't be carrying a dragon bone; not a real one anyway. That said, you would have loved the guy, he was so sure that he was some new-age prophet and that he would be reborn as a dragon. Highly amusing stuff, you know."

He scooped the bone back into his hands and slid it right back into it's satchel. He figured he could sell it to some bartender who wasn't a Goblin, or at least was slightly gullible.

"No... no baubles for me today. My iron-golem lady seems to have come down with the chills..."

Eeiys looked Dssialii right in the eyes, this time with a serious air about him.

"You know I wouldn't be here unless it was urgent,”

Dssialii took a long draw before nodding. "Yes, social calls aren't your thing so much anymore. So what's it this time?”

Eeiys took in a deep breath. He knew this would sound crazy.

"Something is following me. And it's not the Winter Knights. Something... bigger.”

"Like... dragons?" The resentment had left Dssialii's voice just as quickly as it had snuck in. "Well if you find an actually dragon toe bone, I would be interested. Though I'd really prefer the whole corpse." He winked over at Eeiys, but sobered up again, seeing that the knight was still serious (which was a strange thing to be able to tell, since he couldn't see any of the knight's face, but Eeiys had become accustomed to wearing his emotions in body language, and Dssialii wasn't bad at reading that, either).

"Alright, shoot, what do you think it is?”

Eeiys knew he had no way of describing what the presence he felt was. He had searched for the words throughout his entire trek to the small town, and still his mind remained blank. He was at a loss for words. All he could think to describe it as was... cold. He knew how illogical his thought pattern was, and how illogical it would sound if he just spouted those same processes to his much more magically-inclined friend. He shook his head.

"It's... something. Nothing human. Nothing goblin. It's like a magical force but stronger,"

A sudden chill came over Eeiys. Not even a faint tingle down the spine, but rather a deep-seeded bitterness that seemed to cling to his soul.

"It's..."

Eeiys flung himself of his seat, unsheathing Frost as fast as possible, cutting it through the air and nearly slicing the table in two, taking good care to not accidentally clip Dssialii.

"Her."

Eeiys pointed Frost at something frighteningly unusual. A hooded figure, likely a woman, standing directly behind the Goblin. There was no indication of her entering the house at all, no signs of forced entry. Neither he nor Dssialii had heard her come in, yet her presence was undoubtedly the same that and been following Eeiys on his journey.

Dssialii felt her as soon as Eeiys did. But for him, this wasn't a feeling of cold and bitterness, no, he was suddenly filled with life. And it, whatever it was, was right behind him! He spun around on his stool, respectfully pulling the pipe out of his mouth. This was magic like he'd never felt or seen before. There she was, with a power that seemed to him like it must combat that of the gods, for he could not imagine anything more. His skin flushed a brilliant purple, and his mouth fell open in a stupefied expression.

"Woah... master," he muttered, just about ignoring Eeiys' opposite reaction.

"Dssialii!" Eeiys shouted at the top of his lungs, screaming for the Goblin to get away from whatever that thing was, but it was evident that he could not hear his cries. He instead turned his attention to the figure, and tried to lock her gaze in a vain attempt to ascertain exactly what the hell was going on. Dssialii had begun to flush an extreme shade of purple, indicating that whoever this woman was, she was more than just a powerful mage. Magic was literally exuding from her in all directions, an aura of brilliant power. Eeiys resisted the inexplicable urge to fall to his knees, though a man with weaker conviction would have fallen immediately. He approached slowly, Frost still angled at the woman's neck, ready to strike at any second.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you here?"

She remained silent for a second, before meeting Eeiys' gaze. her voice was like that of... Eeiys' mother. From long, long ago. he barely remembered her as he was taken in by the Winter Knights before he was even old enough to open his eyes.. but he knew it was hers.

"Oh my sweet child, where did you lose your way?" she asked, placing her hand on Frost and walking towards him, gently pushing the weapon aside and moving in close to the knight. She was stronger than Eeiys could have imagined, he could not resist the strength of her gentle push. "Where did you go wrong, sweet knight? What path did you stray towards?"

"Stop! Stop it now! You are not my mother!" he screamed, trying his hardest to bring his blade up to her skin and end her life, but he simply couldn't not fight her immense strength.

"You may not see it now, but this land needs you, sweet knight, sweet child,"

"I will kill you if you say another word! Do not use her guise!"

"I am sorry, my dear, sweet child. But you are meant for more than this."

With one last bout of strength, Eeiys lifted his blade, using all of his might to connect the frigid blade with the woman's robes, then there was a flash of light. And… just like that, he was gone as fast as e had arrived. Only Dssialii was left in the room with the mystical being, with a small patch of Ice where the Winter Knight had stood.

Dssialii took too long to recover from his trance. By the time he had, all that was left was a patch of... ice? He snapped shut his mouth, but then, threateningly, opened it up again. "Hey! You!"

The cloaked figure turned to him with that same soft smile. "I'm sorry that Trayig could not be here to send you on your way. Instead, that now rests with me."

"Now look, wa-" But then everything distorted around Dssialii, and his vision exploded into light as he was overwhelmed with a feeling of vertigo.

"AU, WHAT?" he yelled into the ground, which now had a texture suspiciously like grass, as he slammed his hands over his eyes to shield them from the light. Slowly, his stomach settled and he could think straight, and he could smell something that was definitely far too fresh to have come from anywhere in the town he'd been making his residence. And he could no longer hear the quiet gasps of passerbys in the street stopping momentarily to stare at the collection of corpses in the road outside, nor taste the powerful magical smoke from his pipe. Where was his pipe? Didn't feel like it was in his hand, or in his mouth.

He carefully opened his eyes, fearful of blinding himself again. But all that greeted him was the ground that he was resting his head against and two dull white walls of canvas close at the sides of his head. What? He sat up, and the canvas fell away, resting in proper collar form around his shoulders. Ah, that was... that was his cape. He took a quick inventory, and yes, everything was there; he was fully packed for a journey, somehow. And he found his pipe, which was good, because this was all far too strange and the last thing that he wanted was to lose that wonderful little piece. He pulled it up (still loaded and smoking, thank goodness), drew in a long pull, blew it out, pulled again, glanced over at Eeiys, and exploded.

"WHAT. THE. IFREANN."

Sam stormed out of the pub. Cuni was a stuck-up ignoramus with absolutely no Naeri-Level sense or memory about him. How could Sam forget that's why he stopped coming here. The idiot elven man had long since become senile in his... middle-age? So confusing. Sam huffed and blew hair out of his eyes as he slung his bag back over his shoulder and exited the town, walking down the path toward the DuFair. He needed the woods right now. There was a meadow he went to often to calm his nerves. Being Naeri he had free passage in DuFair, that and he still had a reputation there. (He would be entering from the north.)

The DuFair wasn't even 2 miles away, the town he visited being one of those who settled near the outskirts, so he wasn't all that far away. It took him about an hour to get to the woods. He took into the trees and paid no attention to the road. He lost himself quite easily in the greenery around him, at the same time a sweet Naeri prayer to Naduir danced through the air as he sang to himself. The woods seemed to open up just a bit as he traversed it. The thickness of it was smotheringly beautiful. When he found his clearing he grinned wide.

He was in this clearing a few years ago when he got captured by that godforsaken woman and her people. When they found he was Naeri they apologized and invited him to stay the night. He obliged, only for them to learn of his way of singing flowers from the ground. He was essentially kidnapped for the next few weeks. The remembrance made him shudder and he quickly put his bag down by the edge of the clearing.

Sam walked to the center and quieted his singing. He held his arms up, restarted singing with another prayer, and became the embodiment of fever. Such dancing was fast-paced and hard to follow, it was also his trademark as the best Rogue-Naeri to be able to dance as fast and ferocious as even the wildest races of Enduwin. His heels almost never touched the ground as his toes spun and traced shapes on the ground, his arms twisting every so slightly at the right times, and all the while his singing voice stayed strong due to years of practice. That and the song didn't require a difficult melody and was simple enough a child could sing it, being primarily percussive sounds in the harsh but beautiful Naeri tongue.

Then in an instant he felt that someone was dancing with him. He flipped in the air and landed on his foot, then went utterly still. His naked Goddess stood in a similar position, a yard or so away. Sam smiled childishly, but also began to shake. His last encounter with this Goddess cursed him for his selfishness. This time he felt like he was going to be given a chance to right himself.

"Naduir."

"Sam,"

Sam slowly released himself from his pose along with Naduir and stood straight-backed. He was shorter than her, so he looked up as she approached with a smile. The normally angst-ridden Sam was suddenly very humble and youthful. He bowed rather awkwardly, right arm held out as he pitched forward, crossing his legs. When he raised, Naduir was much closer to his face.

"It's been a while, Sam. You know, I miss how beautiful you used to be, my most beautiful worshiper. Why you ever provoked me, I don't understand." She said with quick note-like words. She adopted the Naeri tongue as she spoke. "I have a chance for you to redeem yourself, are you interested?" Sam's face flushed, Naduir's hand had touched his cheek with her last question.

"I... Yes." He said, blinking his eyes and turning his head. "What is it?" He asked. But he didn't hear a response. He felt what seemed to be a kiss on his cheek and she vanished. His head quickly snapped toward the direction she had been, and all that stood was a small flower at his feet. One that only appeared in the Plains of Origin.

Arnack led his pony into the depth of the Dufair, it’s darkness anything but fair. He’d passed through here once before on his Proving first trying to go through Olc Cairn after killing the third Orc band he took to the jungle and only got chewed on by two man-eating plants. Turns out they didn’t like the taste of dwarven steel. As the canopy got thicker he reached into his saddlebags and found a torch which he lit with a flint and steel the oilsoaked rags took the flames greedily and he raised it high above his head, axe ready in the other hand.

The light it gave didn’t seem to penetrate far into the thick jungle foliage but it would be enough to scare away any beast looking for a tasty dwarf or pony snack, he hoped. Luckily by this time of night most the man-eating plants were set upon dissolving their kills as he strolled through the jungle eyes and ears alert for any signs of life.

Aside from a few distant roars and a few noises from the trees above nothing seemed to interested in them. He picked up the pace as his pony trailed behind. A roar closer by drew his attention and he threw the torch down and turned even as the first pair of eyes came into view, followed by a lithe body nearly as tall as him. He uttered a few curses and drew back toward the pony as another pair of eyes came into view behind them.

Arnack fainted at the first seeming to give it all his attention, the second leaped behind him silent as a cat can be. He spun round to contfront it axe following through with the momentum from his feint severing the jaguar’s ear clean off. It growlled and pounced at him but he rolled to the side as it’s claws passed through the air he’d stood in moments ago.

Unfortunately there was two of them and the other pounced on him before he could stand, raking it’s claws across his chest tearing through his leather armour and found the flesh beneath. It pinned him to the ground with one paw as it’s teeth went for his exposed face. Arnack’s grip tightened on the axe he still held and shoved the haft down it’s maw unable to bring the weapon to bear on the beast from the jungle floor. It recoiled, choking , giving him precious seconds to stand and before it had time to recover he hefted the axe up and brought it down on it’s neck executioner style, cleaving the beasts head off.

The second one had disappeared into the forest with a whimper off to lick its wound. Arnack wondered if he would see Earless again if it came to avenge its dead friend. He picked up the cats ear off the jungle debris placing it in a pocket then cleaned off his blade on the dead jaguar’s fur.

He picked up the torch which had now turned a patch of ground beneath it to embers, he stamped it out and gathred his pony’s lead once more off into the jungle singing a dwarven diddy.

[Joint with Recently-BornCollectionofon-FireGasses]

Eeiys, although face down in the soft grass, managed to turn his head, fighting through the immense pain to ensure Dssialii was still there, and still alive. It seemed that his Goblin friend had had a much more comfortable journey here than he had. The Goblin had a fully packed cache of supplies and no serious injuries from the fall, by the looks of it. Eeiys assumed this was because of his less than savoury reaction to whatever that was. He didn't imagine Dssialii had tried to attack it like he had. The knight had bruised all over, maybe even fractured a toe or a shin or a rib. To put it in layman's terms, whatever had just happened, hurt.

"What the hell was that? And Where the hell are we?"

Dssialii took a moment to bend down and pick up his spear before making his way over to Eeiys and offering him a hand to help him up (as little as the assistance of such a short, light creature could really help). His color was quickly returning to normal, since apparently yelling just three words was enough to get rid of his extra energy today. "I don't know... grasslands of some sort, so the Plains of Origin or the Zephyr Plains, I suppose." He waited for a few moments, waiting to feel any of the breeze that gave the latter place its name, and after not feeling anything for a few moments, and noticing that the dirt wasn't particularly sandy, he concluded, "Yeah, Planes of Origin."

Good thing he had a map for that! Though looking around quickly didn't reveal any particularly obvious landmarks, he still pulled the map he'd made 7 years ago of this Plain and looked from it to their surroundings. "Well that doesn't particularly help," he muttered.
Eeiys had to take a moment to brush himself down after, despite Dssialii's aid, pulling himself up off the ground. The Goblin's heart was in the right place, but he didn't do much to lift the full-grown man off the ground by himself.

"Definitely the Plains of Origin. Not enough trees to be the Zephyr Plains."
Eeiys retracted Frost from it's sheathe to make sure the blade was not damaged in transit, turning it a little in his hand to inspect it from all angles. Once he was satisfied, he pushed it back to it's resting place and took a moment to take a heavy breath and turn a few times to get his bearings.
"We used to come here at the end of every Pale Crusade. You know, back when I was with the Winter Knights. It's unmistakable, and definitely eerie."
He looked down at Dssialii, who was stood at his side, examining his map.
"Why do you have a map of flat plains, anyway?"

"Mmmmhmmmm." Dssialii was still looking at his map in the vain hope of maybe just remembering where this particular field of grass and minuscule variations in height happened to lay within the larger picture of identical fields of grass and minuscule variations in height, but he wasn't having much luck.

"Well, sometimes maps are nice! And I wanted to try out my hand at cartography. Little good it does us here, though." But actually... he could probably make a pretty good estimate where they weren't, at least, since it wasn't like no one had ever settled on the plains, or that they were completely featureless. And since they couldn't see any settlements or features, they must have been... just about smack-dab in the center of the place. "If I were to make a guess, we are literally," and here he pointed at the center of the map where he'd labeled this particularly-boring stretch of the Plains, "in the Middle of Nowhere."

Eeiys grunted. The middle of nowhere? The very centre of Enduwin? Maybe not geographically, but even the most stout disbelievers in the Gods don't dispute that this was where it all began. He should have been humbled, but instead he was just disgruntled. He had no idea why he was there or how, or what monstrosity had so easily moved them across the very world.
"Oh," he muttered, discontent at the mundane prospect. The plains weren't even exotic; sure they held meaning to the holy and magical types, but to everyone else it was just a vast grassland and little else.
"So, I have another question. I'm guessing you have a better insight into this than I do... What exactly happened back there? I've never even heard of a mage capable of this, and i've heard plenty of tales about the deadliest mages in history,"
He looked down at the Goblin who was still examining his map, engrossed in his cartographical skills, obviously proud of his deduction about their location. "And why here?"

"Ahhhhhhh..." Dssialii rolled back up his map and slotted it back into place on his belt, and then proceeded to anxiously scratch behind his ear. What he suspected had happened wasn't likely to sit well with Eeiys, and not-particularly feeling like souring the mood even further, he decided it was probably best to keep it to himself.

"Don't know. Was certainly magic more powerful than anything I've witnessed before." And he had seen goblin dragons! And the fact that this thing had been more powerful than even that, and had mentioned something about doing Trayig's job... well it didn't take a genius to put the pieces together, though it apparently took someone of a higher-caliber intelligence than he to figure out why they'd been plopped down in the Middle of Nowhere.

"And... well, I'm sure we'll find out why soon enough. We'd probably just get magicked back here again if we were to try to run off, anyway." The goblin sat himself down resignedly, stabbing his spear into the ground next to him so he didn't have to bother with continuing to hold it and wouldn't have to lean down to pick it up whenever the time to get on the move would come.

"Smoke?" he offered the pipe again, figuring that maybe his friend would be more open to the suggestion with all that had just happened.

"No. Thanks," Eeiys stated firmly, making a pushing gesture as if to repel the pipe. He suspected Dssialii may have been keeping something from him, though he was not sure what. The knight had been the first to get teleported to the Plains, with the Goblin following a few moments behind. He did not care to ask exactly what was exchanged in those few seconds of his absence. Still, if Dssialii thought it a good idea to keep it from him, there was more than likely a good reason. The glassblower was no fool, that much could be said about him. Eeiys pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
"I'm sorry. I should have been more prepared. i let my guard down," He shook his head. "And I don't know if it was following me, or you, or both of us, but in the case of the former, I am sorry you got caught in this,"
Eeiys tensed his hand, flexing and relaxing it several times over just to get the blood flowing. It was as if he was preparing himself for any situation that may arise. "I don't know what or who might be lurking here, and i'd like to get out of here, but I suspect you may be right,"
The knight took to one knee, and then to both, shifting his weight backwards so he toppled a little and onto his backside. He relaxed just a little, stretching his legs out. "But I know you won't leave here until you know why we got sent here in the first place, and i'll be damned if i'm leaving you here alone."

Some may have considered the rumbling coming from the tallest volcano on Bolecawn to be a brewing eruption of magma, but it was the belly of a dragon, which was in the midst of dragging herself out of a cozy, dreamless sleep. The talons gripped at the ledge Sariloth laid upon, each muscle in her body stretched, her maw opening and releasing a lazy roar of discomfort. She didn’t want to be awake. How long had this one lasted? Perhaps a week, maybe slightly longer but that was no more than a flitter of time to the scaled beast. Her head lowered and shook violently, her clawed foreleg rising to scratch at her neck. Sariloth leaned her neck out further, scraping it against the wall of the volcano, freeing small boulders as she did so.

Wings so powerful they created small tornadoes in their wake, tried to open but couldn’t in the restricted space. It was no major issue for the dragon. She sauntered forth to the edge of her cliff, peering down into the glowing liquid below. She dove, head first, towards it, with hot air whipping around her. Her speed increased as she plummeted toward what would be doom for others. Her wings snapped open and the thermal air drove her upward and free of the gaping mouth of her lair. Up, up and away, the dragon ascended with beating wings. She rose above Bolecawn and then glided, banking to the left in a wide, floating turn. She was headed inland.

Hidden above the clouds on this wonderfully warm morning, the dragon played with the wisps of water vapor that surrounded her. She breathed small balls of gaseous matter into her mouth and then released a spark, sending it hurtling through the clouds, creating holes that she could dance between. What exactly did she care if she was seen by a ship full of traders? She’s a fucking dragon.

It was an hour or so before she reached the shore of some land she didn’t know the name of. She didn’t read maps. She didn’t see borders. It was all just land to her: Land that she dominated with a presence unlike any others except for those pesky worms that slithered through caverns beneath the earth. She could see them even now, scooting through one tunnel to the next, writhing bodies that shimmered with magical essence. She had never encountered one first hand and didn’t particularly strive to.

With a long inhale, her nostrils told her that food was close. Without targeting the prey with her eyes, Sariloth retracted her wings and her tremendous body dove at a steep angle, breaking through the cloud cover and gained speed quickly. The thrill of the wind rushing past the two holes behind her horns, just above the round of her jaw, brought exhilaration. She now saw what she smelled: A large herd of white fluff that gathered in a fenced in break in the forestry below. A holding pasture for sheep. Saliva coated her teeth.

The great beast gathered more of the gaseous mixture in her mouth, the glands spreading wide to allow for a continuous flow. With a spark, the gas ignited and spewed forth, the momentum of it expelling in front of her body and striking the ground. The dragon’s wings sprung open and she banked in a tight circle, engulfing the perimeter of the old slash and burn style field. The wings closed again and she struck, her claws extending in front of her form like a King Fisher attacking a fish beneath the water. The sheep hadn’t even moved yet. Two, no, three of the fluffy white animals were clenched between her claws. She landed, slamming the docile creatures into the forest floor. With a flick of her talons, the sheep were airborne. Her maw opened and she snatched them in its clutch, swallowing them whole. More, her stomach cried out. Her snout came to the ground as her massive tail swayed and directed her movements. One after another, the flock was devoured. They could not scatter because the flames kept them in one group. Snarling teeth gnawed at their bones and struck again and again, severing limbs and gutting the peaceful animals. The final one stood cowering beneath the dragon’s form, shitting and pissing itself without control.

Sariloth reached her left talon forward, clutching the baying sheep between two claws. She peered at it and threw it high above her head. Her neck tilted and she sprayed flames above herself, barbequing the sheep before it had a chance to touch her outstretched tongue.

Her stomach quieted, for now. With massive strokes of her wings that snapped the smaller trees into jagged splinters, the dragon was gone. Unbeknownst to the dragon, a farmhand was left to witness the entire event. He quivered, unable to move, thanking the Nine that he was still alive. That was when he passed out, collapsing beneath the weight of what he had seen. None would believe him and he would be charged as a sheep thief.

---

It was plain as day why the smaller of the two companions was unscathed. The goblin seemed to materialize with its feet planted firmly on the ground while the armored one had fallen from nearly twenty feet above the earth. Oscar and Rupert witnessed the entire ordeal as they approached. During the middle of the evening, the red haired, dark skinned man had clambered down from his steed’s back to walk beside him, knowing that the pace the horse had kept until the wee hours of the morning had worn its energy to near exhausted levels. They strolled lazily now, cautiously even, as they came nearer to the two that had simply appeared.

Oscar didn’t have a better description for what had happened. Bam! One second the two companions were cantering along and Oscar was mumbling to his buddy and the next moment a goblin and metal golem of a being were there. “Whoa Rupert,” Oscar whispered to his friend, patting the horse’s flank. The horse neighed and wagged its head, motioning toward the other two, as if to say, ‘What the hell just happened here?’ At least, that’s what Oscar translated it as.

In fact, Rupert wanted Oscar to join them. They had arrived to the meeting place and these were two of the others whose shoulders would bear the weight of this debacle.

The man’s hand reached to his side, fumbling to gain a hold on his sword, which clanked and gave away his position, as if the clomping of his and Rupert’s feet hadn’t already. With his right hand, he extended a hello to the two that lay before him. “Hello there,” he called hesitantly, unsure if he should draw and strike, or wait and greet them. After his hand fell, it reached behind his back and unfastened the shield that lay against his spine. It was round and reinforced with battered steel. It dropped into his hand and came to his front. He set it against his knees, his hand holding the top of it. His left hand never left the hilt of his long sword. “Are you friend or foe?”

Oscar had met and traded with goblins before. He knew their trickery and their lust for magic. Lucky I have none, he thought to himself. This other one, though. He is formidable. No person earns a suit such as that without having first earned the scars to warrant it. Oscar did not present himself as a threat, but readied himself in case one presented itself.

The two had traveled on through the night until the early morning light, only resting when Rupert decided he couldn’t go any further. Hours before, Oscar clambered down from his only friend’s saddle and walked beside him, hands swaying in the gentle breeze that swam across the grassy land. As before, Oscar built the fire for the two and dragged some dried meat from his bag, which still clung to Rupert’s side. He didn’t bother to lay his bedroll down because he knew Rupert wouldn’t let him rest for long.

The man chewed at the cured meat, his saliva hydrating it and releasing the juices that had been stored within. It still tasted like three month old river possum that was unseasoned and gamy. “Ya know Rupert… I bet you taste better than this,” Oscar spoke to his companion, who was busy sleeping. As soon as they had finished, Rupert had neighed and laid himself to rest behind Oscar, who now leaned against the horse’s flank.

Oscar chuckled and closed his eyes after popping the last piece of meat between his lips.

Morning came far too fast for sleep that was hard. The words of the god continued to thunder in Oscar’s sleeping mind, causing him to toss and turn. At one point he thrashed so violently that he had stuck his foot into the glowing embers of the fire. The evidence, holes in the side of his boot, was still warm.

The man dragged himself to his feet and glanced over his shoulder at Rupert, who awoke first and rocked side to side until Oscar arose. “You’re a jerk, you know that?” Rupert simply whinnied. “Let’s go, you oaf.” Rupert lifted himself up carefully, his hooves pawing the ground and his legs stretching. The horse was muscular and well fed looking. Oscar climbed aboard his vessel and the thumping of hooves continued.

It was only an hour or so before the horse began to slow its run to a brisk trot, alerting Oscar of what it smelled on the air. In a distance that was nearly indistinguishable for his human eyes, two figures were present. The horse continued forward. Oscar reached behind his back from the lower left side and removed the thong that held his shield fast. It slipped down and he caught it in the same hand, twisting his arm awkwardly to bring it around his form and grip it against his body. His forearm latched into the first slot, his left fist gripping the second handle firmly. He did not draw his sword. Surely, whoever it was, saw Rupert and he approach. When he came into a distance that he considered earshot, the swordsman called out loudly, “Hello there!” In such an open space, stealth seemed unreasonable to request.

 Tightening the straps of her spear, Jovalyn looked out into the lively DuFair woods with the impression that they seemed only slightly more prolific, dense, and lush than moments before. It was very possible the palpable ecstasy of a full, lavishing meal of flying bull meat had interferred with the her sense of sight. The sun did seem brighter and Rodrick less boar faced. So Jovalyn kicked her leg in the air a bit to make sure the boots were tight enough to not fly off mid climb. Satisfied, she climbed down a vine roped ladder leading to another wooden platform nominally lower than the last, until she heard what sounded like a young girl singing a Naeri prayer.

She'd left Rodrick behind to do whatever it was he was doing, pattering makeup along his eyes probably (which while he may have told her it was camouflage at least twenty times, she refused to believe) so it was up to her to find out who this shrill trilling maiden was and possibly drag her back screaming to the camp. She headed along the strung together wooden bridges, until the smell of brimstone and sulfur began to envelop the air. Which seemed odd, though Jovalyn didn't have the time to ruminate on the fact when a flaming ball of pure hellfire slammed down from the canopy to the ground below, outright destroying a part of the bridge she was now kneeling down in a panic on. Jovalyn screamed, hands on the back of her head as a looming figure of raging heat and cinder eyes rose it's head through the hole it had cut.

Lifting her gaze, only to be met with the flaming figure of what could be called a mans head, it met her far less glorious eyes and bellowed, "Jovalyn! Arise!" wisps of flame flicked from its not-teeth. 

Terrified out of her mind, Jovalyn jerked into a standing position, stumbling back and grabbing onto the vine railing of the bridge. 

The effulgent figure of flame continued, "I am Lord of Flame, God of Rejuvenation!" a bird mid-flight was evaporated then reborn as a Phoenix, "And you!" the air sweltered into a blur of intense heat. "Are to go to a far greater purpose than the mere boundaries of your feeble forest!" 

Jovalyn, eyes wide and trembling, nodded reluctantly. The trees around seemed to become partially aflame with a fire that did not destroy, "You are to travel to the Plains of Origin and meet a storyteller my Sister has chosen. My Brother, dark he be, wishes an end to the cycle." On one tree a lizards skin bubbled and hissed and the skin unfolded to reveal a Salamander who slid out of the melting scales. 

"Falter not, lest the world end in ashes!" Lasair boomed, flames swirling and winding back down to the ground floor, disappearing into a small pile of ash. The bridge itself was still partially destroyed, but the God still had the decency of keeping the trees from harm. A bird made of fire squawked and flew off.

The scream that Jovalyn let out was loud enough for said young girl... man... Named Sam, to hear it. He had been picking up his bag after his encounter with his personal goddess when he heard her scream. A prickle went down his neck as he recognized that scream, and he choked on his own breath. "Bonnep." he cursed. Why did he have to be near HER of all people. 

He swallowed his pride and took his bag over his shoulder and ran in the direction of the noise. Sam quickly saw the bride up above him and the woman who once kidnapped him for weeks. He couldn't help but smile at that look of fear in her eyes. "What's the matter sweetheart, get turned down again?" He teased, knowing she's likely throw her spear at him.

Jovalyn looked down at the "sweetheart" comment and stared down at a vaguely familiar figure below. After a moments contemplation, long enough for fear to turn into rage, she unfastened the spear from her cloak and chucked it loosely, more out of spite than an actual kill attempt.

Sam watched the spear hurdle toward him to which he danced to the side rather smoothly. "Charming as ever Jovalyn." He said, leaning against the pole now drove into the ground. "You were screaming?" He inquired, looking at the destroyed bridge. "What happened here?"

Jovalyn pressed three fingers against her temple and closed her eyes and yelled back down, "Give me a moment, I was so busy thinking of ways to end your life you that I almost forgot." She breathed a loud sigh and continued, "A God just told me to go to the Plains of Origin." The Phoenix flew past yet again and screached loudly, spiraling through the air southward. "Yes, and that happened." she mused, turning her head just to notice the thing had defecated on her shoulder, which was also covered in flames. She patted it down hurriedly, singeing her hand.

Sam laughed profusely at the flaming fecal matter, bending over in his amusement. "You too huh? Naduir just said hi to me as well."She was a bit less... Well she left me a flower rather than instructions." He said, pulling the spear out of the ground and twirling it in circles like a flag pole indigenous to certain Naeri Cirks. "I suppose we're going in the same direction." He said, appearing perfectly fine but hiding the fact his blood was boiling with this series unfortunate events

"...Fantastic." Jovalyn said sourly, hopping off the bridge to the closest dangling set of vines which seemed to move down to meet her. She slid down all the way to the ground, walking over to Sam. She demanded, "Spear, mine, hand it over or I swear to Naduir I will use every last inch of it to mount you like a flag."

Sam whistled and shoved the spear in her hand with a forced smile. "I thought I refused your proposal. Mounting me would seem silly." He Joked half heartedly. "I'm gonna go ahead and make my way, I am Naeri, I go where the wind takes me anyway. If you feel the necessity to travel with the man to whom you were once a suitor you can, I don't mind." he offered through gritted teeth, adjusting his bag and stepping around her toward the road.

Arnack trekked through the jungle, left alone for now, maybe the scent of blood on his armour kept them away. He had shed his torn leather breastplate and bandaged his wound, nothing too serious his armour having done it’s job. In the leather’s place he wore his steel one instead, torchlight reflecting off the shiny metal at odd angles. A squawk rang out across the forest a bright light streaking through the trees lighting dozens of small fires as it passed by the canopy. It took a second for Arnack to realise what it was, a bird, a flaming bird, a Phoenix. Legend said they were made from Lasair’s essence. 

Arnack watch the bird as it circled him for then zipped off into the forest seeming to want him to follow him. A guide? Arnack led his pony amongst the brush hacking away at it with his axe and touching the torch to spider’s webs. After a short while he heard voices ahead and the Phoenix zipped off toward them. 

Soon after the voices of what seemed like two girls became clear as he stepped into a slightly clearer part of the forest where two people stood arguing over a spear. He stood by for a short while unnoticed the two seemed preoccupied with getting under each others skin. He observed them, a forest dweller and a commoner arguing in the forest while a phoenix squawked overhead, just an average day. "You wouldn't be heading north by any chance?" he asked the pair.

 Jovalyn stood like a sentinel while Sam traipsed around her. She turned to squint questioningly at the dwarf, asking quizzically, "Are you going north because some personification of a natural force told you to or because that just happens to be where the rarest gemstones are?"

Arnack chuckled at the girl's comment. "No I'm a Slayer seeking beasts and foul men to kill. Although if you've got any gemstones lying round I'll take 'em off your hands". He said with what he thought was a winning smile, probably seeming more like a grimace with his disheveled hair and dirty armour. "North's a good way to go." At this point he was unwilling to say anything about his encounter with Lasair, many people would think him crazy. "What do you say? I've got a cask of ale in here somewhere," he said patting his saddlebags invitingly.

Jovalyn squinted even harder, if that were possible, and asked incredulously, "Where?" and even more incredulously, "An entire cask?" 

To which Sam was compelled to continue, "What manner of Ale?" Being Naeri, Sam had a fondness for alcohol. Drunken fervor worked wonders for certain dances that could literally only be performed if you were drunk.

Arnack nodded solemnly "An entire cask." He said addressing the girl before turning slightly to look at the boy "Anghiem Royal, only the best of course." Arnack told him. "Name's Arnack by the way," he said outstretching his leather, gloved hand up to them.

In the town square a small gathering of people crowded around as Lord Bartle left the town hall, followed by two guards dragging along a man in cuffs. “I am prepared to announce my verdict!” He shouted to the masses, though it was clear that all in attendance already knew what was about to be said. The accused had pled guilty to the crime of murdering Lord Bartle’s brother in law, after the man had raped and killed the accused’s daughter. “Through careful deliberation, and prayer I have found Woodcock Johnson guilty, and hereby sentence him… To death!” The accused was dragged across the square to the place where he would meet his end. The crowd cheered as the executioner marched his way up to the platform upon which Woodcock Johnson had been forced to his knees, facing the axe. However, despite the odds stacked against him, this was not to be his last hour, a robed figure appeared atop the roof of the town hall.

Charon looked out across the square, looking to the dark clouds on the horizon; a storm was brewing. Drawing his blade, he called out, “By my command, I order you, Lord Bartle, to set this man free!” Gasps rang out in the crowd and hushed words were exchanged, as the assembly grew more and more excited.

“Who the hell do you think you are! Why don’t you come down here and tell it to my guards!” The Lord shouted back, daring Charon to make the first move.

“It’s the Stormcaller! Look, the clouds darken at his very appearance!” One man yelled.

“My name is Charon, Keeper of the Storm. I wish you no harm. And yet, the balance must be preserved. An innocent woman has died in this town, and a guilty man has paid the ultimate price, thereby restoring the natural order. So long as this order is upheld, none other need die this day. Should you choose to execute this man however, I warn you, that by my code I shall be forced to collect your own life as payment to the gods.” Charon answered, evenly.

“Damn you, Keeper! Archers! Bring this man down!” Upon receiving their orders, five archers drew their bows and fired at the rooftop. However, by the time the arrows reached their destination, they met nothing but empty air. As the gathering turned their heads to the sky the winds began to pick up, and rain started to fall. Amidst the grey sky was Charon hung momentarily in the air, at the apex of his jump, before gravity took hold and sent him plummeting towards the earth. Landing gently, (thanks to his boots) among the archers, Charon set into a flurried mixture of precise flips, kicks, and slashes, knocking down his opponents and breaking their bows without inflicting any fatal wounds.

Sprinting over to the platform, the Keeper engaged the executioner in combat. Parrying a few light blows from the man’s axe, Charon saw the opening as the executioner raised his axe above his head and brought it down over the robed figure’s head. In a flash, Charon sidestepped the blow, jumped, flung his left arm out, grabbing hold of his opponent and cartwheeling over the his shoulder. Then, before his opponent could turn around, the Keeper put a hard kick into his back, sending the man off the edge of the platform.

At this point, the unthinkable began to happen, as a mighty tornado began to form, sending the remaining guards scrambling away from its wrath. Taking the much needed break in the fighting, Charon freed Woodcock Johnson from his restraints. “Your wife is waiting for you two miles south of the town with a horse and enough supplies to see you safely from this place. Go now, and never turn back.” The Keeper said, giving the man a little push to wake him from the shocked daze that had come over him.

“I don’t even know what to say, I hope someday I will be able to repay you. Thank you so much, Keeper.” With that, Woodcock Johnson ran off to meet his wife, never to be seen again.

Suddenly, a loud voice echoed through the air, “Embrace the storm, chosen mortal. Cast aside your fears and brave the storm. Only then shall you see the Eye.” It called, seemingly from out of the tornado, which was now headed straight for the Keeper. Though at first paralyzed, Charon quickly realized that the only possible conclusion was that he was being summoned. Without any further hesitation, the purple robed figure sprinted towards the buffeting winds and leapt up into the tornado.

It was a long, fitful, night. Bitterly cold, the plains could be almost as bad as the desert for extremes in temperature, a trait which the Orc was experiencing first hand under piled grass. However, it was not this that caused Norak, the heavily armed mercenary Orc, to lose out on sleep. He originated from plains such as this one, the weather was nothing to him, after so many long weeks hunting the beasts that roamed at night. Rather, it was the Seeing, dreams which come to Orcish warriors throughout history who are to embark on great quests. All of the most glorious tales of Warbands descending on civilisation start with a Seeing… yet that does not make it a pleasant experience.

Norak jumped up with a start, sweat beading on his bald head, one huge paw almost smacking the perspiration from his brow. He remained half-sat, one hand supporting him from behind, and considered what he had saw. Smokey images in the darkness, a face, one of many he sought… but still. There was something more to this, and it had all began with a chance encounter with an old friend, who he thought was dead…

Two weeks prior, Norak was wandering the plains for food when he came across a slaughtered deer, the hunter proudly chewing through the choicest bits of his kill. The Ex-Warchief had considered demanding an honour duel over the meal, but age had taught him that battle was not the only way to get what one wants, and so he had talked to the Orc instead. His surprise was great when the hunter turned, revealing himself to be Baruk, one of Norak’s most trusted shield brothers. An Orc he saw thrown from a mountain pass by no less than four humans… an Orc who had earned his place in the halls above, such a death it was… Norak had envied him as of late. Yet here he was, in the flesh, or so it seemed, with advice… for hunting one of his quarries? Norak still couldn’t believe it, and with the dreams he had been having, it was becoming more likely that something he had eaten recently was sprinkled with dried Amarot mushroom. His prey could be found in the Plains of Origin, he’d even drawn a map, simple for an Orc who had ruled in the land for thirty years to find, could the quarry perhaps provide him with the death he sought? Was this Eeiys his end, the man who would carry his legacy?
Eeiys?

Even with his knowledge of the surrounding area, it had taken a while to pinpoint his prey’s position. However, he was sure he had it now, tomorrow he could take his head, or perhaps there was to be more from this? It would explain his visions, certainly. Maybe the end… he had his doubts.

The next morning dawned bright, almost unbearably so, and the worn Orc warrior donned his armour and weapons, strapping his shield to his back and shrugging a pack onto his shoulders. Silhouetted across the near empty plains, the Orc strode forth. When he arrived, he found a small group of them, though his target was more than visible in his metal armour. They were distracted, probably befuddled though the Orc had no way of knowing this. However, he doubted they wouldn’t have spotted him eventually, and stealth was hardly his style anyway.

He half moved to draw an axe, and then thought better of it, as he closed to within thirty feet. He was about to raise his hand instead to issue a formal challenge, when suddenly he was distracted…

Chronicles Of Enduwin Chapter 2: Gatherings ~ Part One




Three nights and three days had passed, meaning that now, as the afternoon light of Solas struck Shankee’s face, it was the fourth day of travel. Four days of travel in row, with little rest. Thankfully though, the storyteller knew that it was coming to end; the travelling that is. Much of it had been done on horseback. It was much quicker, had the old Fargg simply walked around the Olc and to here, the centre of the plains, it may have taken weeks, if not longer. Now though he moved of his own locomotion, having sold the horse, which he bought four days ago, that morning. Brash and curt would be the only way to describe the smithy which he had sold it to. There would have been no use for the horse now, Shankee was sure of it.

‘Ah.’ He muttered to himself.
‘Mmm.’ He added.
Having raised his gaze from his feet for the first time in several hours, he looked at something other than the crook of his staff. What he saw, what had elicited the verbal reaction, was one of the few noticeable hills of the Plains of Origins. Not only one of the few, but the hill. That is to say, this time it was the hill. Another hill could have been the the hill under other circumstances and then this hill would be any other hill; but this was the hill now.

Atop the hill were out-thrusts of rock that had the appearance of being intentionally placed, not naturally formed. From above they must have looked like the petals of a stoney-grey flower jutting up from the monotone flatness of the plain. Shankee quickened his pace slightly, having his destination in sight spurred him on. It was only a matter of moments before he reached the rocks. Up close one could see that they were almost perfectly rounded into cylindrical forms, resembling the struts of a small building. They were arranged in a pattern that seemed to shift ever so slightly every time the storyteller attempted to wrap his head around its configuration. Shankee knew where he was; for sure he knew this was it. The centre of the pattern featured none of the rocks, it was bare earth again but with a noticeable hollow that dipped into the hill it was on.
“The point.” The old Fargg mumbled to himself again.

“It’s the actual point of origin.”
It was only now, being here, after having read of it so many times, having woven tales of it to hundreds of ears that Shankee thought to himself, ‘Why have I not come before?’
He then concluded that even if the thought had occurred to him before, which he didn’t think it could have, he would have been unable to locate this place no matter what. It was a place that was and wasn’t of Enduwin. It was here before Enduwin, it became Enduwin and it didn’t become it. It was an ethereal place. A dreadfully confusing place and one of intense power. Reaching into his small travel satchel, the Farrg fingered a glass sphere, no bigger than a marble, which bobbled in the bag’s depths.

Shankee could see them. The others. Warriors, guardians, adventurers; they were all coming his way and were close very close indeed. Could they see this place? Was it for them too? No. This was why he was here surely. Otherwise why would he have arrived first? It must be, it must have been his first task.

Letting go of the orb, Shankee was physically alone again. Motioning forward more with his body than his feet, the storyteller made his way to the hollow. It was about three times his height across, perfectly circular and around a metre at its deepest. The slop down to this lowest point was gentle and safe. Reaching the lip of the hollow Shankee placed one foot over the edge. Immediately a rush, like fire shooting through his body, spread from the foot throughout his body and seemingly evaporated off him. It was intense, a freezing fire, a numbing stinging painless sensation. Placing a second foot inside the sensation intensified greatly, much more than doubling if the storyteller was correct. Every step after that increased the sensation tremendously. Upon reaching the centre of the hollow it felt as if his entire body was vibrating. ‘It is vibrating!’ He thought to himself. It was pulsing through him, the pulse of origination. The metaphorical and literal starting point of the world.

And then it was gone. As quickly as it had overtaken his entire being, it let him go again, releasing its gyrating grasp. Shankee remained unmoved for several moments. It felt as if he was awaking from a dream in which he was already awake. Gathering his wits, and wrestling himself out of his stupor, the storyteller recalled his task. At least what thought to be his task, for now. Raising his staff up directly in front of him, using both hands he brought it crashing down on the ground before him. Shankee whispered into the cusp of his hands, but the words boomed across the plains.

“This way. Over here now, come now this way.”
The words reverberated across the flat plains, impossibly echoing off non-existent mountain tops. They travelled out to the ears of the approaching adventures and plucked at their heartstrings; beckoning them to the mound.

Eeiys had been somewhat confused by a certain man’s actions when he had watched him approach from a distance, only to heartily greet them with a big “Hello there!”. While Eeiys did see this as an unusual thing for a clearly armed man to say to another clearly armed man and a clearly armed goblin, it would be better than approaching with intention to attack, especially in such open plains. Eeiys had called back hesitantly with a calm “Greetings, traveller. What brings you to us?” all the while keeping a steady eye on the hulking, uncannily Orcish figure also encroaching on their position. The Knight pretended not to keep his eyes trained on the creature; not hard to do given his obscured face. The clumsy beasts were not the smartest in Enduwin, and if it had the intention of attacking (it was more likely in this case because where Orcs go, death surely would follow) he would much prefer it to think it had the element of surprise, than to go headfirst into a battle with it. It was an unusually large one, after all.
It had gotten to about thirty feet, raising it’s hand, or drawing it’s axe, when suddenly….

“This way. Over now, come this way!” A voice boomed. This was no ordinary voice, it was the voice of somebody of intent, amplified by powerful magic. It shook Eeiys for a second, and he jumped up in response with his hand on Frost’s hilt, fingering the cruciform guard and study hilt, refamiliarising himself with his trusted weapon’s every inch. It’s design was flawless, a perfect weapon in his eyes. In his haste to jump up, he did not consider the implications of surprising the Orc who was now clearly visible, though to Eeiys’ relief, he too seemed to be distracted by the voice that had just thundered across the plains. He did not think to look back to see how Dssialii was responding to this, nor the swordsman who had approached a few minutes prior. He guessed it would be hard to miss. That only left him to wonder exactly who was the source of the voice and what they wanted? Was it the reason he was here? Was it another mage of inexplicable power? Eeiys’ mind shuddered at the thought. It had a clear point of origin, a very obvious direction of emission, and the exiled Knight had figured within his own mind that the only logical way to progress from his current predicament was to follow it. He would probably regret it later, but this whole sordid affair had piqued his curiosity somewhat.
He turned his head to the Orc after the last echo had passed them. It was a huge, sickening looking creature, around seven feet tall and grossly muscular, with bumps and veins and scars all so clearly visible against his rugged, furrowed, black-green skin.

“I hope you don’t plan on trying to kill me,” He half-shouted at the beast who was still some distance away. He was still on his guard, ready for the creature to lash out; he just couldn’t help himself with slightly aggressive and definitely dangerous banter. “An Orc tried that once.”
He released the grip of Frost, now feeling a little more confident in himself. If the Orc made a move, there was still thirty feet between them for Eeiys to react. “I felt sorry for him choking on his own blood, so I took both of his hands to balance out the pain. No sense in being too cruel. The poor beast deserved a better death.”
Eeiys began to walk, never looking back at Dssialii for he did not want to break his concentration regarding this Orc who may or may not have been there to make an attempt on his life, and he did something a little unusual. He began to walk; briskly, in the direction of the booming voice moments ago. “I don’t now why you’re here, but if you truly are here for blood, we can do it another time. For now, though…” He spun on his heels to look back at the Orc, “Duty calls.”

Again, he began to walk, searching for whomever could have been the source of such a powerful call.

Long awaited collab from Chrononaut, FrozenEcstasy and I

Ever since shaking hands with that dwarf, Jovalyn's life had been a series of piercing headaches and squawking noises. The dubious reality of the second part was still in question, as whatever distilling process Anghiem Royal went through to produce hallucinations such as making a dwarf seem mildly attractive was even at this moment pumping through her veins.

Arnack leaned an arm against his pony for support his head pounding like he had been trampled by a horse. The Phoenix (which in his drunkeness he named Sir Birdsley the Third) squawked loudly yet again as it passed overhead. The trio and Arnack's pony had left the jungle behind a while ago and the grasslands of the Plains. He had no idea how they'd managed to get so far in such a short time, Sir Birdsley flapping back and forth leading the way. He was pretty sure Sam had danced all the way singing in an unknown language and he had vauge memories of singing along with his own dwarven songs. (Sometimes he'd even managed to sound good!) The rest of the time he shared jokes with Jovalyn, many about Sam's girly manner and grace.

He looked down at the waterskin threaded through his belt loop they had filled with the last of the Anghiem Royal. There was a pitifully small amount left which he finished in one small gulp, at least for a dwarf. He hoped the others did not notice it. Maybe he'd have to get a couple more casks in the next town they passed (although it wouldn't compare to the Royal they had finished) neither of his new companions turned out to be lightweights, regretfully. "Hope we get to stop soon my legs ache!" he complained. "They aren't as long as yours!" he bellowed across the empty plains.

Sam seemed, for the most part, seemed entirely unaffected by the alcohol. In truth it was only because his self-control was like iron, it never wavered. He was actually pretty drunk, however, but you could tell by the way he swayed side to side in his footsteps that seemed to be perpetually rythmic despite walking drunk. His speech wasn't slurred in the slightest either, but his words were a lot less poetically Naeri in origin.

"Stop complaining, Bonnep." He hissed, doing something between a walk and a dance while a few steps in front of the other two, every now and then turning on the ball of his foot to do some random, drunken dance step. Sam's drunk dancing was slightly more impressive than his sobor dancing, Jovalyn and Arnack got to see it a few miles back when he got so happy from the spirit that he HAD to show them the Naeri way of having a drunken caravan. Except you really couldn't call this a caravan. More like two old frenemies and a random dwarf.

All of a sudden the headache inducing sound of an unecho being knocked around by unmountains in a perpetually flat plain rang painfully into the trio's eardrums. Jovalyn took a moment to process just how angry she should be about this, settling on less than amused, and directed herself in the general direction of the sound.

Arnack clutched his head as the painful noise hit him clutching his ears. Now he wished he'd saved the last of the ale. Slowly his aching head made sense of the noise and he knew it wasn't good news. "What in Neyav was that?" he swore. He drew up next to his pony and with all the grace he could summon scrabbled on to her back. "I'll meet you there!" he yelled back at the two as he urged his pony to a gallop kicking up dust and tufts of grass. He may have spent the night drinking with them but as yet they were far from friends. Besides whatever powerful creature was capable of such a call wasn't someone you kept waiting.

Of course, it was the echoing call of the Old Man atop the mountain which had wrenched the Orc warrior’s attention away from his business. His head turned slowly to regard the direction in which the noise emanated; unsurprisingly telling him little, for the speaker was not in sight. However, at such a short distance the old Orc was fully aware that battle could be joined at any moment, which was why he remained alert and was slightly perturbed that the metal-clad human felt the need to half-shout at him. He wasn’t deaf after all.

When asked if he planned to kill him, the Orc’s lips flicked up in a grim smile, and he bared his teeth, but said nothing as the man seemed eager to continue. Talk could be weakness. The Orc’s opinions of his foe were actually improved by his further boasting that he had slain an Orc in the past, though Norak was unsure why he was supposed to be particularly bothered. He had killed hundreds of humans, though he couldn’t be sure if he’d cut any of their hands off. What it did show was that the human was trying to goad him, something only a confident fighter would do. Worryingly, he may also have been attempting to frighten him, which would be a terrible idea, most Orcs replace their fear with anger from a young age. Still, Norak was mildly impressed, hence why he hadn’t immediately drawn and thrown his axe through the cocky warrior’s breast-plate while he stood there. When the knight instead turned, heading towards the originator of the sound, Norak was unsure how he wanted to proceed.

It was then that he took notice of the small goblin and the horseman, though neither looked particularly formidable so his gaze swept over them. For a short while, as the human got further away, Norak remained standing stoically, though observant. Finally, he shrugged.

“We will see who speaks, then we may fight.” The Orc followed the human up, towards the point of Origin…