Word Journeys

Guilt and Truth

2009-04-11T17:54:00.005-04:00

Reynald was a Witch Hunter in Warhammer: Age of Reckoning.

I

I'm writing about my life in an ill-lit, dirty cell by candlelight. I won't be living much longer. The best part of the situation is that I have the freedom- the absolute freedom- to tell the truth. Not the self-serving platitudes, the after-the-fact philosophies that we all adopt to our circumstances. But the truth.

The truth is never a pleasant thing, reader. Look inward upon yourself, and make peace with that fact. A witch hunter homily on judging not, certainly worth a laugh to the cynical.

But it's the truth. And that's all that matters in the end. Stop reading now if you don't believe this.

~~~

I am Reynald. I am the son of a minor duke in the Empire. Which dukedom doesn't matter, they are much the same when it comes to that kind of thing. The Emperor at Altdorf knows my father; and while he is but a minor figure in the Empire, my father is respected as one who can be relied upon to give one a no-nonsense view of things. This is probably the one thing I share in common with him. Or perhaps I'm more like him than bears thinking about.

I was the youngest of 4 sons. My older brothers were much more engaged in holding the reins of power than I was. Perhaps being so much younger, I was indulged more.

When I came of age, I begged my father- who I would only see occasionally- to take my place in the dukedom. He really didn't have anything left for me to do that my brothers weren't already doing, however.

One day in the main town of our dukedom I saw a free company passing through. The cavalrymen were a grand sight to see; little is more romantic to youth than soldiering.

So I asked my father for the right to petition for a free company that I would raise from the townfolk across our district. Being noble-born, I could purchase the title of Colonel in the Empire; I could equip and pay for my own regiment. My father assented.

That year raising the regiment was the finest of my life. Recruiting, equipping, supplying and training the ill-disciplined rabble consisting of mostly poor townfolk and country peasants, molding them into a reasonably competent fighting force. I took outcasts in, including prisoners given one last chance to redeem themselves. Those that adapted to the discipline did well enough; those that didn't were drummed out. A few incorrigibles were hung.

I played the role of Colonel to the hilt. I had several uniforms in different styles that I would wear on different occasions. I was respected by and large; those with a title and money generally are, at least to their face. What was said behind my back I can only surmise- a boy-soldier at play- but that mattered not. Why would it?

Then came the time for fighting.

We moved up to the front. The location doesn't really matter now; for all I know the front is still there, at that precise place. A land torn by war, deserted by normal folk. Everyone there was either wishing they were elsewhere, or, if they hadn't been there long, looking forward to battle.

I looked forward to the fighting with a passion. From my camp near the orderly rows of tents where my soldiers were, I looked out upon the landscape at sunset. Across the broken farmlands towards the enemy.

And that night, my life changed forever.

Through the darkness, the beating of Goblin drums could be heard, and the shrill skirling of flutes. The enemy was near; I left my tent to call my officers to me, when it hit me- an overwhelming sense of dread. It staggered me. I was seized with a panicked fright. My body-servant had finished placing my cuirass on me and had saddled my horse when the flares burst in the sky, adding an eerie orange glow as tendrils of light slowly fell...

In front of my gathering regiment, I panicked. I vaulted up into my saddle, and instead of leading the fight, I wheeled and galloped away, confused shouts raised in the night behind me. In my panic, I nearly rode over a sentry. A gun discharged behind me as I rode fast away from the
starting battle. I felt a sharp pain in my left leg, though I kept on riding.

I rode up to the sentries in a nearby village and fell out of the saddle, unconscious.

I awoke in a bed a day later; a man in the brown finery of the witch hunters sat next to me, and would not answer any questions that I had. My leg had been struck by a fusileers's bullet; I had lost a lot of blood, but would survive.

That wasn't necessarily good news, it turned out. It was a wound from one of those that I had failed. I thought of little else.

I was transferred to a town via horse litter, under guard. Nobody was talking; I couldn't find out what was going on. I asked about my regiment. Nothing.

Then my father entered the room I was being held in.

I knew it was bad because he wouldn't meet my eyes at first.

What he said during that visit really didn't stick in my mind. Only the fact that his eyes shied away from mine when he came into the room.

It turns out that my regiment was lost in a savage attack shortly after I had inexplicably fled in the night. My father said he was working out a deal. There was to be a court marshal.

I couldn't respond to all of this; I was in shock. Father didn't ask about anything. I couldn't think of anything to say.

I was a coward. What could I say?

The day came when I was ushered into a small room at a tavern; 3 impassive Empire officers heard facts read to them about my case. When it came time for me to speak, I had nothing to say. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Describing a fear deep in your body that caused you to abandon your men would not have went over well in any circumstances.

I was found guilty and was to be remanded over to the intelligence service indefinitely. This must have been the deal that my father had spoken about, to avoid the gallows. Two witch hunters escorted me out of the building. I favored my injured leg as we walked to the stables.

"What is to happen now?" I asked.

"Why, you're going to learn to be one of us milord," said one, then nothing more. The other grinned. The silence stretched past the point of being uncomfortable.

As we rode out of town, my thoughts were tangled.

I was to be a witch hunter.

II

Witch hunters, people call us. That's a small but dramatic part of our job. Most of the time we're engaged in watching the watchers- making sure local bailiffs are doing their job, enforcing order- and keeping the population in line for the Emperor. We call ourselves the internal security service, or just the service. 'Witch hunters' is a much more dramatic name, and we're fine with that. Our reputation does half of our job for us.

It's the war effort that causes much of the strain. Sure, there are standard criminal cases, but our main job is to keep the people focused on who their true enemy was. Or, depending on your viewpoint, focused on the external threat, to avoid internal dissent.

My trainer was a man named Halden. He was grey-haired and thick-bodied, and had been a witch hunter for many years. He was looking forward to retirement when I was partnered with him. He was not a man who I would have naturally made friends with, but he treated me better than most others in the service.

Halden also had the look of what many thought of as the buffoonish, petty civil servant- he was careless in his grooming habits and his dress. The kind that were the butt of jokes in many a tavern (when there were no witch hunters around, of course). The service was despised by more numbers than those that respected it (or should I say feared it); corruption was not unknown, as in all areas of life. No one liked having their business scrutinized.

I understood that perfectly.

He cared not that I had been a nobleman. That fact seemed to poison others' opinions of me more than anything, sort of a payback in a strange way. A certain pettiness that said, 'you are one of us now, how do you like it?' As much as witch hunters were laughed at behind their backs by some, the nobility were reviled much more widely. Much of this was simple envy, resentment of a hard life transferred to those that knew little of such things. I was the victim of many slights and pranks. And of worse.

Not from Halden. I assume this assignment was no reward for him, either. But he showed me who to talk to, and what to look for when talking to them. How you could tell much about a person from just observing them. Early on in this training, I didn't care. One day while he was going over the finer points of gaining information, he stopped talking. I looked at him.

"Reynald. Routine is the cure for adversity. Embrace it, it will get you through."

"What if I could care less?"

He looked at me, then stood up and pulled out his pistol.

My eyes widened.

He handed it to me, butt-first.

"Might as well save all of us the trouble then."

I looked into his eyes the longest time. I eventually broke his gaze and looked away.

"Rationalize the truth, Halden? Why?"

"The truth?" Halden snorted. "Is that what you think I've been training you to get to?" He laughed harshly. "The truth- what have you done with it, lad?" He looked at me with that piercing gaze of his. "Truths and falsehoods alike are as common as leaves. What you make of them, that's what counts."

We stared at each other. Eventually, he put his pistol away.

I thought about what he said all night. I understood the message applied to my training, but that it was really aimed much closer to the bone.

What had I made of it?

That night, I decided I'd try.

III

Halden, the agent who taught me well, was a shrewd man. His unkempt image and general demeanor caused others- both in and out of the service- to underestimate him. He was often pegged as a time-server. He took advantage of this. Believing you know your opponent when you really don't leaves you at a clear disadvantage.

I saw him conduct interviews with people who clearly thought they were his superior. He subtly played on this and used it to trap them. Then he came on hard and pushed them. I saw many a suspect crumple under his examinations.

I learned from this, and applied it to my situation.

I was known as Your Highness within the service, for obvious reasons. I played to this to a certain degree towards those I despised. To the general populace I was known as the Limper, due to my leg injury that never quite healed properly. Once again, I played to this, emphasizing this characteristic for dramatic effect when conducting certain interviews. Many were the tales I spun about how I had received this wound, often dramatic or mundane- but never the truth, of course.

That wouldn't do. I had better uses for this condition than telling the truth about it. Convenient? Perhaps. Useful? Yes.

I questioned and interrogated many people after becoming an agent. Most were frightened, which was sensible if not terribly helpful to their case. Many were obsequious, almost embarrassingly so; often simple working people and peasantry were like this. One had to learn to weed out what people would tell you because they thought that was what you wanted to hear. Some witch hunters- typically those who were less skilled, or simply lazy- would take much of this information at face value. Many a man or woman would turn in their neighbor for imagined or invented reasons, just to get the attention off of them. Particularly if that neighbor was someone that they didn't like. And particularly if someone was joking or complaining about the way things are being run in the Empire.

This is why witch hunters have a bad name with much of the populace. Easy accusations, quick arrests and hearsay trials. Informers taken at face value, motivated by pettiness, vindictiveness, or greed.

There are those witch hunters like Halden that want nothing to do with this way; but they use it as a tool to get to the truth they are seeking, just the same. Fear is a motivator; it is a complicated world. Smile at this simple phrase, and think it convenient. But it is the reality we have to work with.

Feel superior and aloof from this mess behind the shield of your own beatific inaction. Those that judge and do nothing else hold forth the purity of being irrelevant to the world. Theirs is the victory of doing nothing. For if you act, even justly, you add to the mess, because nothing is pure.

Would that I were afforded this view, this fantasy purity. To truly believe that would be to ease the mind.

But it would be false. The truth? What have you done with it.

IV

State your name and where you live.

I am Norbert Strong, your Grace, I live in the town of Felde.

{stony smile} I am not to be addressed as 'your grace'. 'Sir' will do. What is your occupation?

I am a teamster, a waggoneer, your gr- Sir.

Good. For the record, state where you were in the evening 3 Saturdays ago.

I was at the Blazing Sun Tavern Sir, and after that I went home. You can ask-

{interrupting} The Blazing Sun Tavern?

Yes, Sir. I often go there Saturdays to meet with-

From what I understand, you go there more than that.

{scattered laughter from the room}

Y-yes, your- Sir. I'm a simple laborer, and go there, uh, I go to be with friends and-

I understand, Norbert. You work long hours, and go there to drink. With friends.

{pause; Norbert looks uncomfortable}

That eve...aside from the usual banter with your friends, did anything happen of note? Did any other guest attract your attention?

{a pause} Yes, yes Sir. There was Nate, the town crier, that night he was-

I've spoken to Nate, Norbert.

{uncomfortable silence}

{casually} Anyone else?

Yes, Sir...{fidgets}

{sharply} Well?

{suddenly} Aldus, Sir. It was Aldus.

{pause}

What do you mean, Norbert? It was...?

What I mean, I meant that Aldus was the one who said it. Sir.

{pause; the quiet grows}

Norbert.

Yes Sir?

{deliberately} What did Aldus say, and to whom? Pretend this is the first time we are speaking to each other.

{abashed, reddened} Sir, Aldus is the one who said he'd sooner see the Emperor in Hades than-

Yes, go on.

I- I'm sorry, Sir. I mean sorry for saying it.

We all understand, Norbert. It wasn't you who said it. Go on.

He said he'd sooner see the Emperor in Hades than send any more lads to fight.

{silence; the room is quiet}

Thank you, Norbert. You may go. Bring Aldus out, if you please.

{a small man sits in the recently-vacated chair; he looks impassive}

State your name Sir, and where you live.

{pause} Aldus. Of Salzenmund.

What do you do, Aldus?

I am a town councilman of Salzenmund. Or was.

{smiles humorlessly} Very good. Did you say, 3 Saturdays ago-

{interrupting} I said it.

{quickly} Repeat it. For us.

I said I'd see the Emperor in Hades before I'd send more Salzenmund lads to be bled white in this infernal war.

{puts foot up on a step; leans forward upon his knee with both hands} Explain to me why you said this.

{observing his interrogator} That must be your good leg.

Sir, what was-

{continuing} They call you the Limper.

{silence}

I said it because, Sir, I was drunk. In my cups. Thoroughly soused.

{nervous laugh turns into a cough at the back of the room}

{straightening, his cloak flowing down around his legs once more} Are you drunk now, Aldus?

I assure you I am not.

I have three others who will attest that you said what you said, but since you have conveniently admitted to us what-

Do you want to know why I said what I said?

Aldus, I don't care.

I said it because my godson was killed in the fighting-

I said, Sir, that I do not care.

That is the problem with the lot of you. And why it goes on.

Sir, I assure you, this is not the place to debate foreign policy; look what it gained you. Guards, please take Aldus back to his cell. We can move on to the next case-

Have you never done anything you were ashamed of, Sir?

{startled silence}

I am a fool and a drunkard, but I admit it. I'll face the penalty. But my godson was worth more to me than my comfort, and I'll not send any other man's son off again. What of you, Sir? Limper?

{the guards hustle Aldus back to his cell}

{the silence carries on, as the Limper ponders his thoughts}

{Jaema steps up and speaks in a brusque, firm voice} The next case. Calling Martin of Grimmenhagen to the stand, in the name of Emperor and Duke, and of the Town Council.

{the guards present Martin to the proceedings, and the procedure returns to normal with Jaema leading a sharp and merciless interrogation, erasing all thoughts of Aldus and the Limper}

V

Jaema, a fellow witch-hunter. Self-assured, poised, deadly. So alive. Very good at what she does. And does it with a personal flair. I sometimes would just watch her. I often did, when she was asleep. You cannot lead a false life and not have it show in your sleep. I would toss and turn restlessly at night. I'd often get up and stare out a window. Jaema slept like a cat; like everything else she did, she immersed herself in it, enjoyed it. She rested deeply, with a smile upon her face.

I can't decide if I'm horrified or if I envy her greatly.

I tell you about her, because she saved my life.

~~~

We were in Grimmenhagen, investigating a handful of minor cases. We split up to get the interviews done in a more timely fashion. Most of the people we would talk to were alarmed enough to be questioned by one witch hunter. Two at a time was reserved for the hard cases.

My last case of the day was a woman who was reported by an informant for 'general suspicious words and actions', which was pretty much four fifths of our cases. The particular informant who had reported this case was one I knew; he was not the typical petty nobody that eked out a bit of coin by turning in those they didn't like. Informants were often worse than those whom they informed upon, but we were looking for disloyalty, not spitefulness. Half the citizens of the Empire would be guilty of the latter, were it a crime.

The upper classes would be completely decimated.

The woman was of middle age and ran an apothecary shop. I entered through the front door, setting a little bell ringing above my head. No one was within the public area; the smell of herbs was strong. There was the sound of footsteps, and then she appeared through a doorway behind the main counter.

I removed my long gloves- a typical move to give me time to size up my case, and to emphasize my occupation. I strode into the shop with my usual limp.

The woman smiled at me from behind the counter.

I knew right away something was wrong.

My hand instinctively went to my pistol- it would have taken too long for me to draw my sword. The pistol was easier to put into play rapidly.

Then there was a brilliant glow, and I came to my senses laying face-up upon the wooden floor, unable to move.

The woman walked around me, and laughed. A cold, harsh sound.

Intense fear ran through the marrow of my bones; I had a brief vision of galloping wildly away in the dark on horseback, blood soaking my boot.

She knelt down next to my head. Her plain wool dress rustled against the floorboards. She looked intently into my eyes. I couldn't speak.

"You've been Touched, you have," her voice said in a strange melodious tone. "The Touch has been upon you for years." She drew a knife from a sheath strapped to her lower leg as she spoke to me. "Not many have survived the Sorceress's Touch." She stared into my eyes, knife in hand. "All these years, it was not you. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, more of a dip of my head. I felt peace spread through me.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then raised the knife.

Then, a pistol shot and shattering glass. The woman hunched her back; her head whipped around to look over her shoulder. Blood dripped onto the floor next to me.

Jaema crashed through the door, sword drawn, yelling in a fury as she charged. She had finished her rounds early and sought to join me on my last case. She had seen through the shop window and had fired her pistol into the witch's back.

The glow once more- this time not as intense- and after a minute, Jaema leaned over me, breathing hard, her blood up.

"Reynald, are you hurt?"

"No," I said weakly. "The witch?"

"Blinded me. She's gone." Fury danced in her eyes at her quarry escaping.

As she helped me out of the shop, I game a short laugh. Jaema looked at me in wonder.

"How many times do we find an actual witch?" I asked her.

She looked at me ruefully, shaking her head as I leaned upon her shoulder.

But that was not the real reason I had laughed.

The real reason was that I could live again.

VI

I lay in bed in the room at the inn, gazing out the window, watching the glow of the setting sun dim. Jaema was out there, attempting to track the witch. When she had left, I saw the color in her cheeks- the hunt was on. She was in her element, a Goddess of Wrath, accoutered for battle, as she smiled at me before closing the door. That smile was full, attractive, and feral.

I was weakened by my encounter with the witch; yet my mind soared, brimmed with thoughts. I had not thought this rapidly in years. I knew that I was not guilty of cowardice, after all of this time. The enemy had cast some glamor upon me, to which I succumbed. And yet this personal knowledge would not change one thing for me. The incident was years ago, and who I was to everyone was set in stone; the Limper, a fallen noble's son who spent his life trying to redeem himself.

But I knew the truth. That made all of the difference in the world.

As I gazed out the window in thought, soft glowing blue lights appeared in the darkening sky, waxing greater as the sun disappeared. Curious, I watched them swirling in the heavens, slow, sinuous movements of plasma...

...and then, all at once, I was standing in the Inevitable City.

I had never been there, of course; I simply knew it was that place. What other place could it have been, really- the monstrous black stone architecture, the open sky above full of the chilling blue corpse-lights of Destruction.

I stood in a courtyard, facing a table where 3 enemy sat. One was a large barbaric man clad in furs; scars showed upon his face and arms. His eyes glittered with malice. Next to him a dark elf woman, clad in a clinging gray dress, her eyes dramatically yellow and unreadable. And next to her was a goblin in leather gear. He grinned at me like a fiend.

Upon the table at which they sat was an urn. In front of each person was a pair of pebbles, one black, one white.

I knew at once that they were to judge me.

Next to their table stood an orc, looking curiously nonthreatening without his armor or the various weapons his kind usually carried. He spoke to those seated at the table. And though I could not understand his tongue, I sensed the tone. He kept looking at me, gesturing towards me. I knew he was the prosecutor. And I could guess what my crimes were.

And when he fell silent, somebody cleared their throat next to me. I turned and it was Halden, the man who had trained me to be a witch hunter. The man who had trained me to think.

Halden had retired years ago, and now he was dead, died peacefully in his bed from what I heard. I had visited him once at his modest farmhouse. You see, he became a farmer when he left the service with his modest pension. He had told me, 'raising crops and livestock is a more honest living, my lad. To create rather than to destroy, that's for me in my twilight.'

The fact that he was dead now did not impinge at all upon the almost hyper-reality of the situation. I cannot explain; it all seemed to fit together, anyway.

I looked at him and he smiled back, dressed as he ever was in his witch hunter's regulation finery, shabby as ever. He winked at me.

I knew I was in good hands. And that Destruction did not condemn others out of hand. Anyone at that table would have less of a chance in the Empire if they were in my shoes.

Halden spoke to those at the table at length, in their tongue. I had not the knack of knowing Chaos Speech, but understood enough of it to piece together what he was saying.

"...follow orders...duty...all understand...just as you do."

They looked at Halden as he spoke, the occasional flash of a glance to me. He was playing upon their duty to Destruction; I had but done what they were asked to do in the great struggle with Order. Whether on the battlefield or rooting out subversives and spies, it was all the same. To do one's job well was what counted; therein lay honor.

When he finished, he walked back to me and I clasped hands with my mentor.

"Dear Halden...what have you done with the truth?"

He smiled at me, remembering that day many years ago when he had asked me the same thing. We held hands for a long time.

"You didn't forget my advice for quitting the game, did you?"

"No, friend, not at all."

He nodded, then turned and walked out of the courtyard. He seemed to fade as he reached the door.

I turned back around and watched as the three seated figures conferred in low tones with each other.

"Excuse me," I said.

They all looked up at me.

"I'd like to say the truth, now."

Even though I spoke in my tongue, they seemed to understand.

"I am guilty- as guilty as each of you are, of the same crimes."

Silence filled the courtyard.

"What I have done over the years has been of my own volition. We are all locked in this war, not of my making, not of your making, and each and every one of us-" I looked in each of their eyes- "all of us decide what we will do. Orders work only when we follow them. We all think what we will of each other, of the ones who do not do what we would do. But it all comes down to each of us, our own actions, what we do. This is not mitigated by the fact that there would be consequences for doing otherwise. I did what I did, just like you; but I do not blame others for this, though I may despise them. I was good at what I have done, though I have not enjoyed it; the same can be said for yourselves, perhaps. Judge me."

They stared at me. I could think of nothing else to say.

The orc behind them said a short sentence, and then the three picked up their pebbles.

Slowly, one by one, each dropped a single pebble into the urn.

The orc stepped up and reached in the urn, and pulled out a white pebble.

"Guilty," he said. I knew that word.

The human's dead eyes bored into mine. Dead eyes.

The orc reached in again, pulled out another.

A black pebble lay in his palm.

"Innocent." I assumed that was the word.

The goblin grinned mirthlessly at me.

The orc then reached in and pulled out the last pebble.

I took a deep breath.

Another black pebble.

"Innocent."

The dark elf's eerie eyes were steady upon mine. I thought of the witch.

The moments stretched out as I stared at the pebbles, laying upon the table.

The orc said, "You- free. Now."

I sat bolt-upright in bed, heart hammering.

I looked out the window. The sun was rising. There was a clamor out in the street below. I threw off the blanket and opened the window, leaning out. The town crier was calling out:

"The witch is taken! The witch is taken!"

As I leaned upon the sill, I noticed 3 pebbles there- 2 black, one white. I felt an energy, a force emanating from them, a surety of power.

And after a while in deep thought, I knew what I was going to do.

~~~

Jaema had caught the witch. I knew that she would catch her if it was possible. She relentlessly tracked her down, not even pausing to sleep. Blood loss from the superficial pistol wound had enfeebled her quarry, and had caused the witch to attempt to hide rather than flee far.

I walked to the Grimmenhagen jail, a black pebble clutched in my palm.

I was allowed access to the cell area. I am a witch hunter, of course. Two guards stood near the cell where the witch was. She was a disheveled, bloodstained mess, hands shackled, gagged to prevent and spell words from being spoken, sitting on a cot.

One guard spoke as I approached. "Limper, she's not for you. She'll be burned soon enough, no fear there."

I raised my fist, uncurling the fingers to open my hand; the pebble glowed on my palm. I knew not what would happen; yet, I knew something would happen. I was certain.

And suddenly, the guards were immobile. It was as if time was frozen.

The witch stared at me. The eyes reminded me of the dark elf sorceress who had judged me.

I took the keyring from a guard's belt and opened the cell.

I removed the shackles from the witch, took the gag off, and then I just stood there.

"I thank you," she said in a quiet voice.

"I thank you," I said back.

Her eyes searched mine, and after a time she nodded. She then limped by me and took a cloak from one of the immobile guards, wrapped it around her. I knew how she felt.

At this moment, 3 men entered the hallway, an official and two town militiamen. They looked stunned seeing the witch before them.

She whirled the cloak around her, and in a flash disappeared.

The guards started, and were mobile once more. A shout was raised. Then all turned to look at me.

~~~

"Tell me," Jaema said.

And so I told her the tale, from the cot of my very own cell. She had had glimpses of the background before, and knew my thoughts were not like hers on all matters. She had respected me as a witch hunter for the talents that I had exercised in our cases together. This made it more important than ever for her to try to understand. I could see it in her face.

I talked a long time, in a low tone.

She listened well; I could tell there were times when she wanted to say something, when emotion ran strong. But she let me finish the story.

When it was over, she looked guarded, thoughtful; and before she left, she kissed my cheek. There was so much I wanted to say, apart from what had happened; but she would not, could not hear it. Jaema was a witch hunter; she was what she wanted to be. I understood that. In a way, so was I.

As she waited for the guards to unlock the cell, she turned to me and said in a low voice: "I'll miss you."

And so I finish this writing. I have not long left to live, as my crime was high treason to the Empire.

~~~

Today is the day that I go to the gallows. A guard unlocked my cell door and tossed in my witch hunter's hat onto my cot. "Might as well dress right today, Limper." He cackled as he left and bolted the door.

I picked up the hat; a note was tucked beneath the band, in familiar handwriting:

'A memento for you'

Folded within the paper was a black pebble.

I smiled.

Now I prepare to walk away from it all, when they come to open the cell to hang me. I'm glad that I listened to Halden all those years ago, and tucked away some coin in a hidden place for emergencies. That will be the start of a new and authentic life. There are many isolated hamlets that have been deserted because of the war; I've seen many where no one lives now. Perhaps I'll try my hand at farming, like my old mentor did.

I'm done with it all.

I'd lost myself, now I've found myself.

Incident at Raven Hill

2009-01-22T16:41:00.003-05:00

Inspired by an actual incident at Raven Hill at the end of 2008 in WoW.

Mor'ladim slowly stalked the grounds in total silence, a massive glowing sword in its skeletal hand. Encased in plate armor, its glowing red eyes sought out the living. It had walked these grounds for many years in the same pattern, only pausing to slay anything it encountered in its path. The lesser spirits infesting the area could not hold a candle to Mor'ladim's might; its monomaniacal focus was legendary among adventurers who only whispered its name in well-lit, noisy taverns. Mor'ladim and death had much in common; to the people of Darkshire, they were one and the same force.

~~~

"Who do you think he is?"

"Is? Was, more's the like of it. Statue's all pitted and weather-worn."

The two grave-robbers were leaning on their shovels in Raven Hill Cemetery, vests undone, sleeve rolled up. They were gazing up at a statue, resting temporarily from their exertions.

"Must have been a mighty mage, or a priest, with a robe like that," the woman said, studying the corroded plaque at the base. She frowned, unable to make out any letters.

"History's not my strong point," the man said dismissively, looking for another grave to violate.

"Oh but it is, Charles," the woman said in a low voice, groaning as she shouldered her shovel and followed. "History is what we live upon."

"Harrumph!" said Charles. He said that a lot.

~~~

Eldoren the Druid did not much care for human graveyards, and yet here he was, on another quest that the rather gloomy people of Darkshire had sent him upon.

As a Night Elf, he'd been treated well enough, but the inhabitants of the town had a guarded, edgy way about them. And half the population seemed to be guardsmen, striding slowly among the buildings, torches in hand.

Raven Hill Cemetery was a large graveyard north of the road that led to Westfall. It had fallen into disuse, and was well upon the way to being fairly described as 'ruins'. The whole of Duskwood was like that, Eldoren thought, carrying his staff in one hand as he looked for any movement among the shadowed tombstones. Why would the people of Darkshire want to stay, anyway?

Rusting iron fences bordered the large grounds that were covered with leaning, weathered tombstones; the occasional mausoleum stood, cold marble nearly luminous in the moonlight. Cenotaphs, underground ways, large webs scattered among the trees...

There. Another Rotted One; or was it a Flesh Eater? Slowly shambling among the graves. He'd seen plenty of them, as well as Bone Chewers. Skeletal Fiends and Horrors- perhaps former victims of the aforementioned shamblers- dotted the graveyard, animated bones possessed of some strange undead magic, making their eternal night-time rounds. 'How could there be so many Flesh Eaters after all these years?' Eldoren spontaneously thought. He concentrated upon his target; it was getting too close.

Eldoren cast Starfire; a pillar of white light descended upon the Flesh Eater, wracking the creature with nature magic. It started to lope towards the Druid, whom cast a Moonfire spell and then hefted his staff. The creature, damaged by magic, tore at the Night Elf; he dodged the attack, and smote the creature down with his staff until it lay twitching upon the ground.

Suddenly, thick strands of sticky web enveloped his legs. Stumbling, he turned to see the looming presence of a Carrion Recluse spider, its green bulk moving with swiftness towards him, mandibles clicking. Eldoren cast Wrath, the blazing bundle of energy splashing against the arachnid, but the spider struck with its clawed legs, slamming the Druid against his leather-clad chest.

A blur of motion, a yell, and the singing of a heavy sword as it hacked into the body of the spider startled Eldoren. By the time the spider expired, it was obvious that his savior was a mail-clad Paladin. He bowed to the man.

The Paladin chuckled in a high-pitched voice and ran off through the night, hopping as he gained speed.

Eldoren raised an eyebrow and shrugged philosophically. He cleared the sticky strands still clinging to his legs with great difficulty, searched for loot, and then looked around the area again.

~~~

"Notice the scratches upon the grave there. Probably a weakened Flesh Eater was worrying at it. Means this one's fresh. Well, fresher than others. Fresh means more likely to have some loot. Grace?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You're not listening again," Charles said in a self-important voice.

Grace rolled her eyes. "Yes, Charles."

"Harrumph!" Charles glared at her as he started to dig.

"What supports all of these Flesh Eaters, anyway? That's always bothered me. There can't be enough flesh left to go around here."

Charles pointedly ignored her.

Grace looked over his shoulder. "Charles," she said in a preoccupied voice. "How fresh is 'not dead yet'?" Charles paused in his labor, staring at her. He then followed her gaze.

~~~

Eldoren moved through the trees to another section of the cemetary, one where no webs were in evidence. Might as well cut down on that risk anyway, he thought. He paused, seeing the pale figures stumbling among the graves in front of him.

Footfalls sounded to his left, and as he turned he threw up his staff two-handed to block a shovel that was swung in a furious overhead blow. Eldoren steadily walked backwards as a rain of shovel blows fell about him that he could barely parry. Two grave robbers attacking him!

The furious melee temporarily let up as a wild laugh sounded, and once again the form of a mail-clad Paladin intervened in the fray, sword flashing in a wild circle. The female grave robber shouted as she ducked the whirling blade.

Just as this complicated 4-person battle was settling into a rhythm, a looming armored giant form interrupted with an earth-shattering voice:

"ALL OF YOU MORTALS SHUT UP! THIS IS A GRAVEYARD, FOR THE LOVE OF MOLOCH!"

The four said mortals turned to look at the towering red-eyed horror advance upon them, huge glowing blade in hand. Four jaws dropped.

"Harrumph?" said a grave robber in a very nervous manner.

The Paladin giggled in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.

Sounds of blows, desperate struggling, and cries of despair rang throughout the dark graveyard. A lone figure ran full-speed to leap over a half-fallen iron fence and ran down the road, never looking back. This place is crazy! Let the citizens of Darkshore do their own desired deeds!

Back in the graveyard, all was silent. The huge armored form resumed its patrol through the grounds.

Several Flesh Eaters came to investigate; they found what they usually found.

The Murlocs

2008-12-21T17:48:00.000-05:00

I'm sure there are a good amount of World of Warcraft players out there besides me who hate the Murlocs. It got me thinking about the premise behind this story.

Gramm the warrior rode hard into the Lakeshire on his magnificently caparisoned mount, scattering humble citizens and young adventurers alike along the boardwalk facing the scenic lake. Clad head to toe in dark iron plate, all angular projections and rippling waves of crafted metal across his chest, he pulled his helm off of his head and squinted up at the afternoon sun while his charger reared high upon hind legs.

He was a magnificent sight, attracting admiring stares from many in the lakeside town. But he seemed not to notice.

"Boy," he called out to a lad next to the inn. As the lad hurried up to him (though not too near that horse pawing the air with its front hooves), the warrior tossed him a gold coin. The lad's eyes widened at the object in his palm.

"A tankard of the tavern's best ale for me, and keep the change," the warrior's deep voice commanded. The lad stood staring slack-jawed at him for a second, and then took off running as fast as his legs could carry him through the door of the inn, nearly bowling over a startled fisherman who was just leaving.

The lad returned a minute later, a brimming tankard clutched in both of his hands. The Warrior, who had been surveying the vista across the lake, took it and quaffed the ale down in one long, gulping draught. Wiping his mouth upon the back of his glove, he hurled the tankard into the lake, and then spoke, to both everyone and no one in particular:

"Today is the beginning of the end of the Murloc race."

~~~

After the warrior had rode off to the east of town along the lake's shore, a small group of townfolk gathered to gossip.

"Seem's he's taken a vow I reckon," said a blacksmith.

"I seen him some years back when we wasn't so high an' mighty," a fisherman said. "He passed through here lookin' worse for the wear."

"Do tell!" exclaimed a clerk. "Perhaps he will rid us of the aforementioned amphibian actors."

"The what?" said an old man.

"The Murlocs," said the clerk, somewhat crossly.

"Oh, the Murlocs, of course," the old man muttered. "That reminds me. I better get going. Work to do, you know."

The clerk scowled at him.

~~~

Gramm rode along the shore of the red sandy landscape. 'Blasted grit,' he growled, rubbing his eyes.

Redridge was a geographic outcrop of reddish sandstone near the Elwynn Forest. It was not known for its tourist appeal. Tribes of orcs and gnolls plagued its upper reaches, and of course, there was the Murlocs.

Murlocs, Gramm said in a silent snarl.

Gramm was a jaunty lad years ago when he came on foot, adventuring in Redridge. He left with a scar along the ribs that ached in rainy weather, and the taunts of other warriors ringing in his ears.

It was that damned tribe of creatures in their lakeside huts,Gramm thought. I was merely in search of plunder and renown-

They are a plague upon civilization!

He scanned the east after topping a rise.

There. The huts.

I'll start here, Gramm thought grimly.

He rode ahead, loosening his sword in his sheath over his shoulder.

He dismounted and tied his horse to a bush behind a rocky outcrop, then strode forward, unsheathing his sword.

The sword was a long, dual-edged hand-an-a-half blade that glowed with a silvery glint, even in broad dayllight. Wrested from the loot found in a mage's tower, it had served him well for a year now, always keeping its edge.

A honking bellow went up from the huts. Small colorful finned figures scuttled to and fro, clutching sticks and nets.

Gramm laughed at them. He was a renowned warrior now, very skilled and well-equipped. He advanced into the small tumbledown hamlet.

An eerie high-pitched horn sounded behind him. He turned, seeing a Murloc blowing through a large shell.

A stick glanced off his shoulder.

It was actually a javelin, but it was harmless. Gramm walked forward among the huts with their piles of fishbones, wrinkling his nose in disgust-

Nets flew from several huts, entwining about his legs.

As Gramm slashed free of the nets, a swarm of the multicolored beasts jumped upon him, stabbing with knives. He kicked one, crushing the life out of it, and hacked another in half. But the others were gripping his body now, their knives seeking chinks in his strong armor-

He felt the sting of drawn blood.

He roared and tossed Murlocs left and right with his free hand, stomping them into the dust with his boots. He sliced them to quivering bits with his blade.

More high, thin horn calls were sounding nearby. He looked around and saw several groups of Murlocs running towards him with their peculiar loping gate.

Gramm straightened into a warrior's fighting stance and hefted his blade, awaiting them. The stings where the daggers had found him were burning a bit; his muscles felt leaden, arms tiring of holding his weapon.

When the flurry of nets wrapped around him, he reacted slowly this time to slash them, fumbling as the javelins arced through the air at him.

~~~

The old man walked along the shore, complaining to himself about his aches and pains, the uneven landscape, and the climate. He leaned upon a walking stick as he moved carefully.

"Heard them horns yesterday," he muttered. "Should be over."

Rounding an outcrop of rocks, he came within sight of a Murloc hamlet. A pile of Murloc corpses lay near one hut. He imagined the hamlet's treasure chest stuffed with coin, armor, a glowing blade-

He shook his head and walked away. He was no fool to get any closer.

"Here we are," he said, finding the trail of hoofprints. He walked around the rocks until he heard the whinny of the horse.

"Now now, stallion! Here's some nice apples for ye. You like apples, I'm sure!"

The horse stared at him, nostrils flaring. But it had not eaten nor drank in a day, and was eager for the apples the old man proffered.

The old man gradually came closer and won over the warhorse. Not much later, he led the animal back to Lakeshire, leading him around behind the blacksmith's shoppe.

"There's some good gear here," the blacksmith said, looking through the saddlebags. Horse, tack, gear, call it 2 gold pieces."

"Worth much more!" The old man groused.

"Of course it is. I can sell him to a shady character I know. We don't want questions being asked, or angry relatives showing up. Would hate to lose a going concern, you know."

"Going concern?" said the old man.

"The Murlocs," replied the blacksmith.

"Oh, the Murlocs, of course," the old man said.

A Dwarf and his Keg

2008-12-06T00:59:00.004-05:00

Dunborne is a Dwarf Engineer in Warhammer Online. Yes, he is over the top.

The squat engineer, dressed in a greasy blue padded jerkin, bent over the grenade turret, spanner in hand. A tall, regal-looking but somewhat nervous Elf stood behind him.

"Now jest like I tole you when we were lookin' for that Gavin Sherer, 'anytime them camp officers send ya out ta find some human what's lost his way, might as well start lookin' fer the body in the grass, 'cause you'n me both know that Norsca be fulla the clueless'. And was I right? Was I right, laddie? Didn't we find him trussed up like a plump sausage in that spider den? HAH!" A raven lighted out of a nearby pine tree, flapping wildly for the horizon at the explosive punctuation of the Dwarf's story. "More'n half the people they send me out ta find have met their Maker." The Dwarf unscrewed a bolt with a grunt.

"Master Dwarf," the Archmage said, unconsciously straightening his fancy robes with nervous fingers, "we seem to be awfully close to the brigand camps..."

"Basket of food, crate of swords, now- the keg a whiskey," the Dwarf said with an alarmingly white grin that split his oil-streaked face. "That there camp seems ta have a keg next to the big tent. See how it has a guard sitting next to it. Now THAT is whiskey or I'm a Goblin!"

The Elf nodded his head in a convulsive birdlike spasm.

"Now ye might not have much experience with whiskey," the Dwarf turned to the Elf and laughed, a booming sound that rolled over the grass, startling a deer in the brambles. "'course ya don't, bein' whatcha are. Stick with me an' it'll all be well..."

The Archmage in his impeccable robes looked worriedly as He saw a brigand sentry staring at them in the distance, his mouth hanging open. The sentry turned and strode quickly towards the camp of tents, built around a central fire.

"This be a Mark IV Grenade Projector, mass-produced in Ekrund by Dwarven craftsmen," the Dwarf said in an over-loud voice. "I call her Henrietta. She be a sturdy piece a machinery, but they've always had issues with a smooth feed in fast-operation mode!"

The Elf cringed at the Engineer's deep rumbling voice as he belted out a series of technical improvements that were needed. As the sentry reached the central fire and tossed a thumb over his shoulder towards them, he saw heads turn in their direction by those gathered around the fire.

"Lord Dunborne! It appears that we have been noticed-"

The Dwarf snorted loudly and with such force that the Archmage readied a heal. "I be no lord, laddie," the Dwarf said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, rearranging the grime located there. "Talk to them fancy-pants merchants what sit in the mountain-fortresses and issue proclamations all day long without puttin' in an honest day's tinkering like your hands-on Engineers do..."

The Elf was alarmed now to see a group of brigands gather at the fire, preparing their weapons as the gazed incuriously at the two interlopers.

"Now, as I was sayin'-" Dunborne shot the Archmage a black look for the interruption- "that the Mark IV's biggest issue has been the longish fuse required a the ammo. What good is a grenade turret when your enemies are aswarmin' all over ya and it's projectin' rounds that lay there in the grass for precious seconds before explodin?" The Dwarf rapidly unscrewed grenades and tossed out short fuses as he bellowed out his mechanical version of The Way Things Should Be, a practical philosopher with black crud under the fingernails.

"You're- you're taking out the fuses?" the Elf said in an alarmed voice. He gaped at the approaching brigands, grins on their faces, weapons at the ready.

"OK laddie! Ready them heals now!" The Engineer slammed shut the launcher cover and flipped the main switch. The turret buzzed and spun, acquiring targets. The Dwarf hefted his black-powder rifle, squinted down the barrel fiercely and jerked the trigger, the huge roar of the buckshot round causing the brigands to cower back as they were showered with hot
bits of bolts and shot.

The Elf waved his arms in a frenzy, blue energy swirling around him, as the grenades clunked out of the short stubby barrel of the launcher, tumbling into the crowd-

There was an immediate huge series of explosions, brigands vanishing in the blasts as the grenades exploded nearly as soon as they left the barrel. The launcher fell over onto its side, turret spinning wildly. The clouds of choking gray fumes covered the suddenly-silent field.

"AHAHAHAHA!" the Dwarf emerged from the thinning smoke, covered in soot, tunic ragged from shrapnel hits. He hefted the whiskey keg on his shoulder, turned the stopper, and craned his neck so that the flow of brown liquor ran directly into his mouth.

"You're- you're INSANE!" the Elf sputtered. "Never have I seen such a crazed display of-"

The Mark IV Grenade Launcher buzzed loudly on the ground, its feed tray clicking as it attempted to feed more shells.

The Elf shouted in fear and ran as fast as his dignity and flowing robes would allow him across the field.

"Elves," Dunborne said, wiping his mouth with his filthy sleeve. "Well, it worked agin. Time to add another keg to the wagon, Henrietta!" The Dwarf sat down the keg with a grunt and started to lovingly disassemble his Mark IV.

Gore-Crows

2008-06-08T09:45:00.003-04:00

A tale inspired by Lord of the Rings Online.

Rory huddled deeper into his cloak.

Through the flames of the campfire, he watched the scary old Dwarf speak.

"You may think you're far from the Shire," the squat, bristle-bearded figure said, "but you don't have much farther to go before you..."

He turned his gaze towards Rory, sending a shiver down the Hobbit's back. The old Dwarf wore an eye-patch.

"...see amazing, unearthly...things."

The full moon rose over Adso's camp along the road to Bree. An owl called from the nearby woods. The group of travelers- mostly Hobbits- were sharing the warmth of the fire with the disturbing Dwarf, who was far, far from his home in the mountains.

The stout one-eyed storyteller went on.

Roric Heathertoes, called by everyone in Stock Rory, son of a local baker, had decided to go on an adventure. His knapsack and cloak, old family hunting bow and dagger were all he had besides the clothes on his back. He'd show those stodgy Hobbits that he could do more than deliver loaves of bread! Old Rory had some vinegar in him!

He wasn't far from the Shire, but he was starting to think that he might be taking this too far. Sleeping on the ground, snagging your clothes on bushes, poorly-prepared meals...

"You there!" The Dwarf said hoarsely, snapping Rory back to the present. He blinked at the finger pointed directly at him, wavering in the heat of the fire.

"You think you've seen the world, little one? Ready to go home?" The one-eyed speaker snorted. Rory shifted very uncomfortably on the log he was seated on.

"South of Breeland, there be the Lone Lands," he continued. "Many odd things happen there, past the farthest inn. You've heard a wargs, boy?" The Dwarf's eye gleamed in the firelight.

"Or the...gore-crows." The speaker stopped; only the crackling of the fire could be heard. The listeners sat, frozen. The silence went on so long that Rory opened his mouth to ask-

"GORE CROWS, YES!" the Dwarf sputtered wildly, and Rory recoiled, sliding off the log to fall upon his bottom in a patch of weeds. "Foul winged carrion messengers of the Enemy. The Enemy, aye. I won't name 'em. You know who I mean." The Dwarf lit his pipe and blew smoke-rings, his eye crinkling with the small smile on his face.

Rory got up in a huff and marched off a ways to the edge of the firelight to bed down for the night. That dratted Dwarf! Why did they all listen to his ravings! He shook out his wool blanket that his aunt Ida had made for him, and lay down. He took a long time to fall asleep.

~~~

He wandered up the Greenway and explored the ruins of stone walls and towers there; the wolves howling at night were alarming and reminded him of the talk of wargs.

He visited Bree and bought a helmet that seemed to slide around on his head a bit too much. He debated heading back to the Shire, but decided to head south, towards the Lone Lands. He wanted adventure!

~~~

"Rory, just keep on. You need to just keep on, and it will be alright."

Rory walked south along the road, the land rising ahead of him, the large mass of Weathertop upon his left. He straightened his helmet, licked his lips, and he kept on.

The Forsaken Inn was a pleasant memory of 2 wonderful nights sleeping in a bed, and several meals. The cook was very good, almost good enough for Stock! He almost had headed back towards Bree, but had decided that 'this was your moment, and you'll not come this far again, Hobbit!' So Rory was walking down the road, bow in hand, pack on his back, that ill-fitting helmet-

He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, and he whirled around, arrow in hand, drawn from his belt quiver.

Nothing. Or something perhaps in the treeline to his right.

He walked on slowly at first, then gaining speed; he sang a drinking-song, and took a draught out of the bottle in his pack as he walked, good ale from the inn. As he sang, he knew that something was watching him. Cold sensations flashed up and down his body, but he kept on as if nothing was out of the ordinary. If everything seemed normal, perhaps it was. No.

He marched along with a swift gait, gaining a rise and cresting the hill-

And he threw himself into a set of bushes to his left, nocking his arrow.

"Steady, Rory, steady..."

A grotesque flapping black thing flew over the rise, Rory's heart leaped-

The bowstring hummed, and the bird was plucked from the sky by the arrow in a puff of ink-black feathers.

"I'll be a Took!" Rory exclaimed, rushing over to where the bird lay. "A gore-crow!" He laughed. "Naught but a creepy bird. Now why did I think they were MUCH bigger!"

Rory affixed some flight feathers to his helmet, beaming all the while. He started scanning the skies eagerly, fingering his bow.

"Wait 'til the Hobbits at the Golden Perch hear about this!"

Gore-crows!

~~~

Travelers along the great road noticed it even if they did not voice it to anyone- the gore-crows were becoming scarce in the Lone-Lands. Good news!

A few even noticed the little Hobbit running about, helmet rattling on his head, bow in hand. And smiled.

~~~

Forli the Dwarf trudged along the road, east through the Lone-Lands. He looked forward to seeing Gloin and his kin once more, and he was in dire need of a new sturdy set of Dwarf-boots, his feet were aching after a long day upon the road-

Forli heard a swish and then a wild yipping sound. He threw himself flat in the dust of the road.

A squawk to his right, and a Hobbit breaking into a run from the brush to his left, clutching a bow, an oversized helm rattling around upon his head with a fringe of black feathers.

"Well met, storyteller!" the Hobbit cried as he ran by Forli in the dust. As the Dwarf rose to his feet, resettling the pack upon his back and grumbling while beating the dust off of his clothing, the Hobbit re-appeared, clutching a gore-crow by it's feet, holding it upon high, grinning.

"I see you've been at work, young master," the Dwarf said somewhat crossly.

"Wait until Stock gets an eye-full of the gore-crow cloak I'm making!" said Rory excitedly. "Adventures are wonderful things!"

Suddenly, a wave of cold passed over the two figures; the sun darkened, and all of the sounds around them of the natural world ceased. As if in a trance, the two figures turned.

Behind them rose a large and foul reptilian beast, bat-like wings beating silently in the air, with a sinister tall figure perched upon its back in flowing robes, dark as the blackest night.

"Where are my scouts?" said the figure in a low, hissing voice.

"Now that," said Forli in a subdued voice, speaking to the gape-mouthed Hobbit next to him (who's helmet had blessedly slipped down over his eyes) because he was never one to miss the moment, "is NOT a gore-crow."

Aluric Hadaul's Tale

2007-02-14T21:39:00.000-05:00

Aluric is a character from Vanguard: Saga of Heroes.

I

All places are different, and yet all places are the same. It has taken me a lifetime to learn this truth.

In my youth, I wandered the hills around Derogar's Post as many a young restless Varanjar has done, and will do. The yellow plains stretched far away, even when seen from the highest hill. Halgarad, home of clan halls and the Jarl of my people, was a day's walk away. Dakhnarg, home of the Vulmane, lay further away to the south. Half Giants were a not uncommon sight, making even the brawniest hillman warrior look small. Far, far to the west lay the rest of what other peoples far away called Thestra. The occasional caravan came and went, but most of my people were content with the hills, the plains. The clans.

But youth has its own impulse, questions that those who are older smile at or shake their heads.

"Why are clans so important? Aren't we all Varanjar?"

"You sound like a drunkard in The Stone Mug. Now that is a 'clan' for you!"

My father was a trader, away often. My earliest memories are of imagining myself riding on horseback across Thestra with him, though he had little time for such things. My love of travel more than likely comes from his example. Mother was kind, soft-spoken, particularly so in the rough-and-tumble world of the clans. From her I received the love of learning, Druidic Knowledge, and of speaking when you knew it was time to speak. Eventually learning that...

We were of the Hadaul clan.

Hadaul is an ancient game among the Varanjar, and our clan has from early times been judges and devotees. The game is not so common now as it once was, and the clan is not one of the foremost. And clan position is often one's destiny among the people of Halgarad.

It was mine.

The Young Hunter's Tale - Shadowglen.

2005-02-20T10:02:00.000-05:00

[This is a series of tales inspired by events while playing World of Warcraft.]

The young Hunter's last day in Shadowglen dawned brightly; scattered sunbeams penetrated the canopy of leaves high above, illuminating the little village nestled against the hills near Aldrassil.

He stood, his face burning red as the people of the village turned out to wish him well on his journeys. Unused to the attention, he was a quiet lad, more used to his own company than that of others. He smiled awkwardly, his golden eyes upon the ground in front of him; he was a tall Night Elf, clean-shaven, gripping his ashwood bow in one hand, his other hand resting on the back of his Nightsaber cat, his constant hunting companion.

He was given small gifts as he walked through the people whom he had known from infancy, the village that had raised him as an orphan after his father, a Hunter of some renown, went off to the continent of Kalimdor and was lost there; his mother had died of grief a year later; he had been very young, and only had vague memories and dreams of the faces of his parents.

He placed the offerings of food and the copper coins into his satchel. He walked to the road that led away from home and to the rest of the world.

Beside the road was Elthania, the old woman who had taken him into his care after his parents were gone. She leaned upon her walking stick, the heaviness of age bending her back, but her smile was bright and happy for him; he went to her and took her frail body in his arms, holding her close.

She broke their embrace and stepped back a pace.

"Elune has blessed me this day, to see you as a fine man off to see the wide world."

He smiled. "Elune blessed me years ago, Elthania, with a fine mother when I had lost my flesh and blood."

Her smile widened; he felt warm inside, yet sad, knowing that he may very well never see her again.

She bent down slowly, picking a bundle up off the ground at her feet.

"This is for you, my son. I have kept it all these years for this day. It was your father's, long ago, when he was young."

Curious, his heart beating, he unwrapped the rags in his hands, to reveal a large fighting knife, angled forward, heavy yet balanced in his hand as he hefted it. Sunlight glinted off the burnished steel; the blade had an edge like a hatchet. The wooden handle was worn smooth from use. 'Father held this', he marveled.

"Elthania..." he started to say.

"Go now. Any more words would make me want to keep you here. You are too old now to be nursed, you know."

The young Hunter stuck the War Knife of Stamina in his belt, and embraced his foster mother once more, his eyes closed, heart aching.

"Elune be with you, my son." Elthania turned and shuffled back up the street towards her cottage, turning away just in time to hide the trickle of tears that coursed down her face as she left the young man who she had raised as her own.

He called a blessing out to her, then turned away, his throat tight with emotion. He looked up at the road's path, winding gradually upward towards the pass leading to Dolanaar, and hence on to Darnassus, the capital of Teldrassil, and the heart of the Night Elf nation.

"Come, Furtig!", he said, and his large cat fell in beside him as he strode briskly up the familiar road, leaving behind Shadowglen, his world, never to come back this way again.

The Young Hunter's Tale - Ban'ethel Barrow Den.

2005-02-20T10:00:00.000-05:00

The Druidess wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her forearm.

The dark cave was lit only by occasional torches in holders along the wall. In front of her upon the stone floor was the body of a Gnarlpine Defender, lay sprawled in death. She crouched, searching the body for any items of use.

She had been moving in circles in this maze of darkness for an hour now; she searched for the fourth and final Relic of Awakening- the Sapphire of Sky- to bring back to Athridas Bearmantle in Dolanaar. The fetid air, the foul monsters guarding the cave, most of all the oppresive gloom- all weighed upon her spirit.

She stood, gripping her staff resolutely, and whirled around in a half-crouch, ready to swing- she had heard a small sound behind her.

An old Nightsaber cat came up the corridor behind her, its left ear shredded with an old wound, its eyes showing that it was friendly to her and no threat. Following it was a Hunter, bow held at the ready, arrow on the cord; a young Night Elf, looking as tense as she was.

"Blessed Elune", the Druidess said softly, and cast the Mark of the Wild upon the Hunter and his cat. He bowed to her, and they spoke words of greeting.

"I am seeking to release the Druids held in the Emeral Dream, and only lack the Sapphire that is hidden within this maze." Being fiercely independent, she would not ask for aid, though in truth this barrow was oppressive...she had always been strong, and proud.

The Hunter nodded slowly, stroking the fur on the back of his great cat, who looked uneasily around the darkened surroundings. He spoke.

"I have heard of the Emerald Dream. None should have to spend eternity here..." His voice lowered. "The Gnarlpines have claimed this den for their own for too long."

She told him she was seeking a small cavern where the Relic should be found. It was unspoken, the fact that they would both seek it. The Nightsaber cat nuzzled her hand, and she scratched behind its one good ear. She felt confident now.

They moved along the darkened corridor; the cat prowling ahead, them behind. It seemed like an hour before the cat came back to the Hunter and gave a low growl in its throat. The Hunter nodded silently to her, and nocked his arrow once more.

They stepped out of the corridor into a wide cavern, dim smoky torchlight showing a foot-bridge leading over a chasm to another cave. Two Gnarlpines paced back and forth at the far end of the bridge. The Druidess nodded to the Hunter, indicating she would take the right-hand creature.

The eerie green fire of the bolt of nature magic called Fury struck the Gnarlpine, and a split second later, an arrow buried itself into the shoulder of the other guard. The creatures rushed over the bridge; the Druidess shouted a Word of Power, and the harsh white glow of Moonfire leapt from her target like a shaft of vengeance up to the top of the cave; as the cat tore at the other guard, and the Hunter thrust a large knife into its body, the Druidess slammed her staff into her weakened foe thrice, and then all was still.

They walked over the bridge slowly. As they neared the opening in the cave wall, three Gnarlpine Shamen appeared at the entrance, chanting alien words of sorcery. They were caught in a field of energy; the Druidess called upon Elune in a clear loud voice, and the spell was broken, and the fight was hard but brief, staves and knives and teeth flashing in the death struggle, ending with the death of the Shamen, one throwing himself off the edge of the chasm before oblivion took him.

The Druidess bent down, entering the small doorway into a round chamber. A totem stone glowed in the corner, illuminating a sturdy metal box upon the floor. As she opened it and gazed down at the gem, she smiled for the first time in two days.

Afterward, when she stood triumphantly in front of Athridas Bearmantle with the Relics, she realized that the young Hunter that she had parted ways with as they left the Barrow Den had never told her his name.

The Young Hunter's Tale - The Pools of Arilthrien.

2005-02-20T09:58:00.000-05:00

The young Hunter knew that it would be any time now.

He kept pushing the knowledge out of his mind, putting it off. But the signs were there.

Furtig, his Nightsaber hunting companion, was old. He kept falling behind as they wandered through the forest, and he would have to wait for him to catch up.

This day he waited, and Furtig did not appear. He slowly walked back the way he had came.

The old Nightsaber cat lay upon the ground, his head upon his paws. His shredded ear twitched when he saw his master, but he did not get up.

The Hunter sat down next to the great beast, ran his hand over his coat of fur, and remembered:

Growing up as a child, riding on the back of the hunting cat who was his father's oldest pet...learning how to hunt, his feline companion stalking ahead of him, flushing out prey for him to shoot...the hunt on which a giant spider attacked him, and Furtig seizing the creature, dragging it off of him, allowing him to put an arrow into it.

The old cat raised his head, his eyes vacant. He turned his head and licked the Hunter's hand.

As the afternoon lengthened, he still sat next to his pet, stroking his fur, singing in a soft voice the songs of adventure from his childhood.

Over the land he went to find
His destination true,
And by his side his faithful pet
Wandered with him too.

He felt the old cat stop breathing, and he cried, burying his face in the shaggy coat. His last link with his past, to his father, his childhood, but most of all a friend- was no more.

The next day, he buried Furtig where he had died, using his knife and his bare hands to carve out the hole in the ground. It took a long time.

When he resumed his journey to the capital, he felt strange without the great cat at his side. He hummed as he walked to ward off the silence, the loneliness.

Once the one that led me here
Spoke of farther lands,
I heard and followed in my youth
Now alone I stand.

He was on his own.

The Young Hunter's Tale- Darnassus.

2005-02-20T09:56:00.000-05:00

Darnassus, the capital of Teldrassil, was not like the crowded warrens of Kalimdor or Azurath. Dwellings were built into the ancient trees that towered into the sky. Wooden buildings clustered in the trade district, and the impressive Temple of the Moon stood at one end of the city. Ponds dotted the central area.

Into one such pool the young Hunter awkwardly cast his fishing line. Having recently learned the trade, he thought it wise to be able to catch his own food as well as hunting it.

Clear laughter rang out behind him.

He turned to see a young lass dressed in leather, a Druidess by the looks of her, fishing pole in her hand, smiling at him.

"You have not fished before?"

His face flushed. "I'll admit to this being my first time."

"It shows, Hunter. Watch me, and learn?"

He nodded to her and observed her cast expertly into the pond, move her bait around in the water, and suddenly pull in a grouper, thrashing on the end of the hook.

He was watching her, though, and missed all the finer techniques of her skill, in favor of enjoying the movements of her lithe form. Such is youth, regardless of race, or time, or place.

Her name was Jassilis. As they fished- she expertly, he poorly- they talked of what brought them here, to the capital. Youth and the desire of adventure seemed to walk hand in hand under the bright sun of Teldrassil on this day.

She was an expert fisher; for every fish he caught, she hauled up several, to his rueful observation. He told her that he typically spent his time improving his leatherworking skills.

"Oh- a leatherworker!" She gazed down at her worn leggings. "I have been in need of a new piece of armor for a while now..."

His face reddened, and he vowed to make her a better pair this very day. She smiled and protested, but he would not take no for an answer. He gathered up his pack, and telling her he would return, he set out for the city gates.

He roamed the wooded shore of Wellspring Lake, hunting deer. He struck down three fine does with three expert bowshots, and set about skinning the hides, using the magic passed down for millenia to cure the hides at a touch, and then he began to sew the leather, fitting it in the well-known pattern that he had done many times.

He returned the next day to the capital, and he was surprised to meet her at the Warrior's Terrace. He took the leggings out of his pack, and handed them to her.

She smiled and laughed, and started loosening her belt. His face burned red and he turned his back while she changed into her new armor.

"It is wonderful!" she exclaimed, standing proudly in her new garment, giving him a dazzling smile, and she hurriedly told him that she was late for an engagement , and turned and ran off between the marble pillars.

He started to call her back, his heart sinking. Instead, he waved and yelled "Fare well" as she disappeared down the broad avenue leading towards the Cenarion Enclave.

He sat upon the magnificent stone terrace, lost in thought, a conflict of emotions welling up inside of him. He sat there still as sunset came upon the ancient unchanging capital, the shadows lengthening across city.

The Young Hunter's Tale - The Veiled Sea.

2005-02-20T09:54:00.000-05:00

The young Hunter sat on the grass on the heights above Rut' theran Village, watching the sea.

The village was at the extreme south end of Teldrassil. It faced south over the Veiled Sea towards the great and wild continent of Kalimdor, a land that had drawn many an adventurer, and would draw many more.

The sea. The young Hunter had heard of it, and now he looked upon it for the first time. He watched the waves wash rhythmically against the shore of the sleepy little village, as they had for millions of years. It was hypnotizing. Overhead, gulls cried as they wheeled in the sky, looking for fish.

The ship made its way to the dock. He picked up his bow and his pack, and strode down the path through the town and out onto the pier. A few others awaited at the end of the dock for the large sailing vessel to halt. Rut' theran had a Gryphon station, but, like others, he lacked the funds for the flight by giant bird. And so, the ship.

He stepped up the gangway to the vessel along with three others. As he found a place along the railing to set down his gear, he studied his traveling companions.

And an odd assortment they were. A tall Night Elf Warrior, shield slung over his back, was a journey-companion with a Human, a Rogue dressed in dark leather armor, bald pate shining in the afternoon sun. He had seen Humans before, but this was the first time he had seen one up close- the man had a sly look about his face, and a brace of deadly fighting blades at his belt. He made the young Hunter feel unsettled.

The third was a Dwarf Hunter- squat and powerful, with a full beard- who traveled with his pet bear. The young Hunter had only heard tales about the master craftsmen and skilled fighters of Ironforge before this day. He was the natural focus of attention from the others. He spoke in a curt, booming voice:

"Name's Hurten, and a curse on all boats! A Dwarves' feet belongs on solid rock!"

The Elf Warrior said that his name was Moonwarden. The human just smiled as if to himself, but later on his companion called him Remi. The young Hunter spoke his name, and said that this was his first voyage by sea.

"Ya will get use ta it lad", the Dwarf said gloomily. "Just stay near the rail acase you be ill!" The bear snuffled and pawed a mop-bucket on the deck.

The Human spread his cloak out upon the deck, and his companion and the Dwarf played at dice. The young Hunter walked along the railing, looking up at the billowing sails, trying to stay out of the way of the crew as the ship got under way, moving out into the Velied Sea.

The trip was a brief one, Kalimdor being separated from Teldrassil by essentially a strait. As the afternoon lengthened, a rocky shore with gloomy pines became visible to port. Darkshore, as this coast was known.

The young Hunter gazed at the land that meant many things to him- adventure, danger, mystery...life. He already felt he was changing inside, as if a door was closing behind him, yet splendid gates were opening ahead. Strangely, he felt the urge to tell someone about his father, and what this journey meant to him.

Up ahead, the docks of Auberdine appeared. As he went to retrieve his gear, he heard the Dwarf growl, which was answered by a near-roar by his bear.

"I'd a known it. The boat leavin' for Khaz Modan leaves about now from the same docks ahead! I need ta make that boat!"

The ship pulled up to the long pier stretching out from the shore. Across on the far side of the pier, another ship was docked, yet the sails were being unfurled, in preparation for getting underway.

Remi, laughed. "A silver piece says that Master Dwarf shall miss his ship! What say you Moonwarden, and you, Sir?"

The Warrior Elf grinned and took up his bet. The young Hunter shook his head smiling, saying his coin was in short supply.

Hurten look ill-humored about the wager, but then again, he seemed to always be ill-humored, perhaps.

As soon as the ship pulled up to the dock, the Dwarf shouted out to his bear and leaped powerfully onto the dock before the ship had even stopped. Stumbling a bit, he ran towards the other ship at the end of the pier, his short, powerful legs moving his body along as fast as he could. His bear lumbered after him.

Remi and Moonwarden laughed and cheered, yelling out comments to either move faster or slower, depending upon their wager. The young Hunter stepped onto the dock, watching the Dwarf run in the distance.

The ship suddenly lurched away from the dock as the anchors were pulled up. Hurten kept running grimly, but it was over- he ended up plopping down upon his bottom at the end of the pier, chest heaving with exertion, as he watched the ship sail away. His bear came up and sat next to him, the duo looking comical, both sitting, their legs splayed out in front of them.

Remi applauded and demanded his coin from Moonwarden, who passed it over with a wry look. The Hunter smiled and nodded to them, and walked down the dock towards the village of Auberdine.

As he stepped upon the shore of Kalimdor for the first time, his heart thumping in his chest, he turned around and waved at Hurten the Dwarf still sitting on the pier in the distance, chewing his beard in vexation.

Reynald's Tale

2005-02-20T09:53:00.000-05:00

Reynald is a character from World of Warcraft. This is his life story.

I

"Reynald, it is time."

The boy came out of the doorway, looking uncertain, alone.

The careworn lady in the frayed dress smiled slightly, walked over to him and took his hand, leading him away from the cottage and towards the awaiting wagon. The driver sat, looking at the boy sadly.

When the two of them reached the wagon, the lady bent down and kissed the boy's cheek.

"I'll miss you, dear. But you will be cared for in Stormwind- you'll even be within walking distance of the Cathedral of Light!"

The boy said in a quiet voice: "did they know my father there?"

The lady's eyes softened.

"You know he was a fine carpenter. Someone working for the Cathedral bought a piece of furniture your father made, and admired his work. This man says there is a place for you to help around the household of Light there...he sounds like a fine man."

The boy had heard this before, but nodded, wanting to be reassured.

The next thing he said burned right through the lady's heart;

"Can I come and visit Pa and Mother's graves? And you, Elora?"

Her eyes brimming with tears, the lady knelt down and hugged the boy tightly, and spoke.

"Yes, when you grow up into a fine man, you can come visit me, and we can visit them as long as you like."

She let the boy go, and stepped away from him. The wagoner, taking goods into the capital city, helped the boy up into the bed of the wagon, sitting upon bags of vegetables and grain.

Elora waved as the wagon slowly drove off, the boy waving back at her.

Sometimes, the kindness of one person can change a life. Elora, a poor farmer's wife, had spoken up for the boy who had been orphaned by the Plague. Instead of making him an adopted farmhand as others wanted, she pushed so that he could get away from the poverty of the tiny hamlet. She had known the boy was different; she had seen him telling stories to the other children. And so when the request for another piece of furniture had come, she had written back to say that the good carpenter was dead, but that his young son, who had promise, had survived the Plague that had carried off his family. The man, a minor official with the Cathedral, asked the household steward if there was room for a pot-boy or a floor-scrubber. The answer was yes.

Elora had planted the seed.

II

Steward Aldon looked up from his ledger; the noon bells pealed
outside.

He got up from his beautifully carved desk in his office in Cathedral
Square and walked to the window and looked outside. The Brothers
walked by in their somber robes while the City Patrol, resplendent in
their silver and blue plate, watched the square. A few servants of the
Light came and went from the Cathedral. Orphans played next to the
fountain.

Aldon was nearing the end of his career. Many years he had
been in charge of the buildings in the square, keeping them clean and
provisioned; he was proud of his job, though few really noted him or
felt him part of the Cathedral. He never really cared about that; service
to the Light came in many forms. What he did care about was the
dilemma he faced currently- his son.

His son worked under him with quite a few others. He had got him a
job as a minor clerk, but showed him no favoritism. "Tom," he had
said on the day he had given him the job, "I've helped you all I can. It
is up to you now how you fare." Young Tom had always saw himself as
becoming a mighty Paladin, fighting the Horde in the name of the Light.

Truth be told, Aldon knew, he was more suited to figuring sums, like
he was. And now he had a decision to make.

Every year, the Steward, by tradition, was able to name one of his workers to attend the Cathedral as a student Priest or Paladin. The fact his son worked for him- an expected thing- made speculation about who would be named to go to the Cathedral rather short. The Steward would name his son, gossip said.

But Aldon knew it would not be the best choice to make. He loved his son, but understood he would not make it through the Cathedral's training. His son had a future, but a different one than he expected.

He had overheard his son speaking one day to another, boasting that he would be a Paladin soon. It troubled him. He had talked to Duthorian Rall, a Paladin who had seen long service in the Cathedral. Duthorian had looked sympathetic, and told him that he must pray to the Light on it.

Aldon had gone that eve to pray in the Cathedral. When he had arrived there, he saw a boy standing in the dim candlelight- and recognized the orphan whom he had employed, the son of the man who had made the finest desk in Stormwind for the Stweard. The boy had his eyes closed, head bowed. He backed slowly out of the Cathedral and went back to his bed.

Reynald had been assigned as a cleaning-boy, scrubbing the flagstones, washing the stonework, sweeping the dirt from the concourses. The boy was quiet but dedicated to his duties. Aldon remembered the day that the Horde Rogue had been slain upon the Cathedral steps- while the others talked excitedly about what had happened, Reynald had been scrubbing the stains of death off of the stones.

Aldon returned to his desk and found the paper he had already signed. He wrote the name that he knew he must write upon it. He then called a messenger-boy in and had it taken to Lord Grayson.

He knew his son would never understand, that his wife, a good woman, would be angered. But he couldn't in good conscience keep one from what they deserved for the doomed chance of another, even if the other was his son. He would speak with the boy this eve, and tell him he was welcome to stay as a clerk, and that perhaps he would be Assistant Steward soon. He would tell him he loved him, and that one day he would understand why a young man with a lame leg must have courage of a different kind than most, a harder courage to face.

He looked forward to retiring.

III

Reynald learned many things at the Cathedral; not all of what he learned was taught on purpose.

He grew up, being trained in the Way of the Light. He got along with most of his fellow students. Very few of them were from the same commoner's background as he. Many were the sons and daughters of servants of the Light, city officials, or well-off merchants. Some of the highborn students looked down their noses at those of common stock. He hardly noticed, because that was not important to him.

He did note that while his teachers taught him respect, there was not always respect for those not of the Light. Often the guards would send people on their way who did not belong in the Square.

Reynald often spoke to Duthorian Rall, a Paladin whose duties frequently brought him to the Cathedral. He was a smiling, friendly man that Reynald looked up to.

"Duthorian...why are people sent away from the Square by the guards?"

Duthorian thought. "Lad, people can come see the Cathedral when the Brothers open it up on holy days."

"But...if we are serving the Light, shouldn't we serve the people as well?"

Rall chuckled. "Well young lad, to be properly trained, you need to follow your instructors, not have every hedge-Mage that wanders the City performing simple tricks for coin filling your heads with distractions! And also...the Way of the Light is not easy for everyone. Mayhaps the Brothers don't want you thinking of other things, before you've been trained well."

Reynald thought that over, and decided Duthorian Rall had a point. Perhaps it was his commoner roots, but he still felt that the Light would serve better being closer to everyone, hedge-Mages or farmers included.

One day his class spent the day at Lake Everstill in Redridge; they had hiked out to the lake from the City, it was a grand adventure. As they were sitting upon the docks, watching the fishermen, he heard a shout from the shore.

"She's gone under! Help!"

Reynald kicked off his shoes and dove in the water, without a thought. He had learned to swim in the Canals in Stormwind, when the weather was hot and the waters cool. The lake was colder still; it was a shock to his body.

He saw the girl sinking in the water ahead of him, thrashing blindly. He grabbed her, still struggling, and swam for the surface.

She was his age, with fiery-red hair, dressed in commoners clothing. She coughed up water as he watched her, concerned. She looked up at him.

"Good job, lad," said Brother Sarno, laying a hand upon his shoulder. His classmates teased him as he strode back to the dock, putting his shoes back on.

"Catch a fish, Reynald?"

"Just a wharf raggamuffin by the looks of it!"

Reynald blushed and laced his shoes up. When he had walked back to the shore, the girl was gone. He was curious about her- why had she been in the lake if she couldn't swim? Was she a local fisherman's daughter? Did she run off for some reason?

Years later, he would meet her again. And he would remember Duthorian Rall's words.

The Fall of Feladan; a tale from the Age of Lamentations

2005-02-20T09:49:00.002-05:00

A tale from the historical background to Horizons.

The Withered Aegis was on the move. Having taken Rachival, the city of the Gnomes, Torrin Macalir's forces of terror and evil turned slowly south. They despoiled the land, and Blight grew not only upon the earth, but in the hearts of all of the races of Istaria.

In the forests of Elvenkind stood Feladan, home of the Elven Council. The city was magnificent then, full of ancient trees, cascading fountains, and aglow with the light of thousands of magic lanterns. The Council consisted of many magnificent Elven lords, all accomplished in their various fields, master craftsmen and renowned warriors. The King was the traditional head of the Council; his powers much diminished from olden days, yet the King was still a powerful symbol to the Elves.

The King at this time was Andomyrr, a warrior past his prime, though in his day he was a renowned commander, and had brought peace to the Elven forests. Andomyrr had of late ignored the troubling signs of the Withered Aegis, for he loved the hunt, and, after days of tracking beasts in the woods, would return to a great banquet that would last into the night. It was said that the King never failed in bringing back meat of wild boar or great stags which he had personally slew. In doing so, losing himself in the woods for days on end, King Andomyrr sought to forget the fact that he had no son. For his marriage was barren.

His Queen was Celenia, an Elf maiden of unearthly beauty. From all over Istaria, she attracted those who made pilgrimages for the mere chance to gaze upon her face. Songs were composed in her honor, and the Elves looked upon her as if she was a goddess from the ancient times. Beautiful she was, yet her heart was troubled; for she could not give the King, who loved her, the thing he desired most- a son or daughter. As the King had started to grow older, he grew restive and stayed away on the hunt. The Queen suffered to know that he could not bear that they were childless. Though she was revered by all, joy was not in her heart.

Another of the Council was Halgoras, famed warrior and companion-in-arms to the King. Halgoras had fought in many a battle next to his lord, and was never far from Andomyrr's side. Though he was a fighter in his soul, he saw within his King and Queen, and knew how they suffered; one, alone in her room, the other, prowling the woodlands restlessly. Halgoras had been through blood and fire next to Andomyrr, and never spoke of what he saw to him; but he did speak to his Queen, once.

They were in the Hall of the Council one day. Halgoras, due to leave with the King on a hunt soon, took the Queen aside to one of the many green gardens nearby. He showed the Queen a wren's nest which had fallen to the path, the eggs dashed against the ground. He looked up, and pointed to a small bird singing strongly in the sunlight upon a branch.

'All is not lost, Milady. The little one has lost something of itself, yet it sings in the sun. It knows the happiness of its true nature cannot be taken away.'

As the Queen looked upon the singing bird, there awoke in her heart a warmth that had not been there in many a year. She turned and smiled to Halgoras, and she saw a proud warrior sworn to his King, yet alone and serene; for he had never taken a wife, such was his dedication. There awoke in her heart an acceptance of life, and she became happier, with Halgoras as her inspiration.

The Council worried about the Withered Aegis, for finally word had come that foul things were about in the land. The Elves had not the forces to oppose this evil alone; Men had sent some aid, yet they too eventually retreated back to their lands to protect their homes.

One day upon the hunt, the King and Halgoras came upon a troop of Skeletal Warriors; they and the King's Guard cut them down, and returned to Feladan. The alarm was sounded. The King gave orders for the common folk to head towards Tazoon for refuge; bitter were the tears on many Elven faces as they left behind their beautiful city for the last time. The Council was to be relocated; yet the King would not leave.

Many were the arguments of those illustrious members of the Council to have the King go into exile with them; yet nothing swayed Andomyrr, who, approaching the autumn of his years, saw no honor in living at the grace of the generosity of Men or Dwarves. He ordered his Queen to go with the Council, as he ordered the city's defenses with Elven warriors who fought what they knew was a delaying action to save their people as they escaped to safer places.

Celenia, sensing something in the King's heart, begged him to return to her after the battle. He charged Halgoras to see her safely to exile in Tazoon, and set out the the northern edge of the city.

The Withered Aegis had sent Skeletals and Zombies by the thousands through the forests; Elven scouts had slain them by the score, but still they came on. The land was Blighted by the foul march of the Undead.

At the edge of the city, Elven warriors stood in their ranks with their battle-banners, legacies of many a successful battle. Yet a pall was on their hearts, for they saw the enemy in all its numbers bearing down upon them. Huge, shadowy beasts full of unearthly magic reined fear down upon them, Wraiths and other unspeakable entities swarmed upon the Elves, who fought hard and long, giving and receiving no quarter. And their King was in the forefront of the battle, his greatsword flashing like a scythe, cutting down everything in his reach.

Yet the fight went ill. The Elves were pushed back into their city, yelling in despair as Skeletals bearing torches fired the fair trees, and zombies smashed the magic lanterns. Many a stalwart Elf fell dead, fighting for the fair city that was being defiled as they died. Soon, the King alone was left, pushed back into the Council Hall. A cloaked figure stood in the doorway.

'Who is it?' cried the King, raising his sword.

'It is I, Sire', answered Halgoras, 'the Queen is safe with the Master of Scouts and his men, on their way to Tazoon.'

The King grasped the hand of his old friend and looked into his eyes. Halgoras had made the last decision of his life; he left behind him Queen Celenia, the only woman he had ever loved from afar, left behind a life with her to be by the side of the man who he had served all his life, even though he had disobeyed an order to do it. The King saw all of this in his eyes, and they squeezed each other's hand tightly.

The final fight came at last. Evil creatures roamed the city at will, casting the Blight upon all that had been fair. A troop of Zombies threw open the doors to the Council Hall to see two Elves awaiting them, greatswords drawn. Andomyrr gave a great cry and hewed through them with a whirling blade; Halgoras defended him, hacking off limbs raised to strike his King. The Zombies were slaughtered, yet Skeletals took their place; fell Wraiths entered the Hall, and after much struggle, the King lay dead upon the floor, mighty Halgoras standing above him, slaying all who came hear the body of his lord. As foul magic struck him, the last word on his lips was the name of the Queen.

The City was aflame, black figures rushing about in the dark, as the Blight started to grow upon everything.

When the Queen, now in exile, learned of the fate of her husband and her friend, she wept bitterly. When told that their brave deeds would be remembered forever, she said in a voice full of emotion:

'Bravery and honor and duty, yet not love...I have lost the only two who matter to me.'

Celeria shut herself away from everyone, until one day, after hearing birds singing in her garden, she lay down upon her bed and refused food and drink, and died after a time.

The Elves to this day have much to mourn; Feladan is a fearsome place of Blight; the trees are stumps, the lanterns dark, and the birds are gone, singing no more for now.

[This story was originally published on the Horizons Vault Website.]

The Change - a Horizons tale

2005-02-20T09:44:00.000-05:00

A blinding flash of light.

Dazzled, gasping, struggling.

A haze over thought, oppressive.

An image of a sword held high.

A face, lost too quickly to identify.

Darkness again.

~~~~~

'Daddy!' a small voice yelled.

Arond smiled, and gave the reins to his groom, bending down and spreading his arms to catch the little form rushing towards him.

His daughter jumped up and clutched his chest, now encased in chainmail and his lord's surcoat. Arond hefted her up and whirled her around. His companions in arms near him grinned and laughed.

Arond saw his wife watching the two of them, a small smile on her pale, beautiful face. He remembered last night's lovemaking; it ended with Delsea holding him tightly and sobbing into his chest. He had stroked her hair and told her all would be well, there in the dark.

'Little Bird, go give Mother a kiss, will you?' he whispered in his daughters ear. He sat her down on her short legs, and she raced off to hug his wife's legs. Delsea held her as he smiled and turned back to mount his horse.

'Look for me this time next month, Goddess willing!' he called to his family. As he waved to them, his wife tried to smile; her face showed her fear plainly.

Arond galloped to catch up to the column, riding eastward to face the greatest enemy Istaria had yet seen.

The Withered Aegis was on the move again. Towards them.

~~~~~

Pain, bursting through existence; nothing but pain.

A gradual realization that the searing feeling was normal and could not be escaped.

A sound?

Raising a feeble arm, the mud not wanting to let go of its grip.

The body stirring. Thrashing suddenly.

Sitting up, senses dulled.

~~~~~

'There! The Undead come!'

Lord Randal gestured at the shambling forms emerging from the trees across the field with his longsword, astride his horse.

'Fight, as you never have fought before! If we fail, our homes will be overtaken by this abomination! Death to the Withered Aegis! Our Goddess shield all true men! Forward!' He held his sword high as his warhorse reared up, then charged.

The men listening to their Lord gave a terrible shout, shouting to drive out fear, to embolden them in battle, as they rushed forward, horses galloping, men-at-arms running. Lord Randal and his banner-bearer rode in the forefront of the assault.

Arond shouted, and spurred his mount. He leveled his lance as he sped across the field, aiming towards a zombie that was shambling towards him. 'Delsea!' he screamed as his lance spitted the undead creature, throwing it off its feet, gutted and thrashing, pinned against the ground. He left the lance in the creature and drew his sword.

He wheeled his charger around, and came up behind another zombie brandishing a warhammer, hacking its arm off. The limb spun off through the air, still clutching its weapon.

That was when the arrow, fired by a skeletal scout, struck his horse.

He went tumbling off the stricken mount, landing hard upon a grassy hummock. Dazed, he sat up, picked up his broadsword and started to rise.

Two zombies rushed at him, as another arrow flashed by his head with a hissing sound.

Struggles were happening all over the field. Lord Randal's banner was down. None of his friends were close to him.

He staggered to his feet and parried a blow from a zombie's blade at the same time. He slashed the monster's chest with his sword, opening a wound that no ordinary man could survive. Still the zombie fought; its companion moved up with an axe, taking aim at him.

He swore an oath and hacked again at the first zombie. An arrow struck him.

~~~~~

A dull feeling; thought moving very slowly.

Staggering upright, swaying.

Breathing.

Standing bent forward, clutching a broken blade.

A flash of confused imagery; past, present, future, all are one:
An axe strikes with bone-jarring force.
A woman, tears streaming down her face, stands in front of a window, gazing out in sorrow and fading hope.
A yell of agony.
A man holds his young daughter to him, ready to ride off to war.
Voices yelling to retreat.
Blackness.

~~~~~

He took a first, hesitant step forward; testing his legs. They moved slowly.

He looked up into the rising moon, the rent mail upon his battered body hanging in pieces.

Thoughts took forever. But compulsion drove him on. He was called by a force to move westwards.

He moved with the forces of the Withered Aegis, as if against his will; having been slain only made it easier.

He was one of them now.

[This was intended to have a follow-up story; Arond, in his Undead form, was to go back home, to see his family.]

The Search- an unfinished SWG tale

2005-02-20T09:43:00.000-05:00

[A brief biographical sketch introduces my old SWG character, then his story starts]

Glawen Etzwane

Human male, looks to be approaching early middle age...that just might be the way he looks, though.

Glawen grew up on a backwater planet in hard circumstances, which he rarely discusses. He got off-world by joining a Mercenary Outfit, and traveled to far places, doing things that he would rather not remember now; combat changes a person, rarely for the better.

He was invited to Tatooine by Starke, an ex-Merc friend of his, who offered to cut him in on a business opportunity. When he arrived at Mos Entha, he could not find him. For what followed, his story will be told in installments on this board.

To summarize, Etzwane is proficient with a carbine and plans on mastering the Scouting and possibly Ranger professions. He has an interest in tinkering with Weaponscrafting as well. He is normally of calm demeanor, and often seems to be thinking; unkind persons would say: brooding. He has been known to have mood swings. Apparently, he has a lot to think on. Or, conversely, a lot to forget.

~~~

The Search

I

He threw the mineral surveyor across the camp.

"Damn junk!" he shouted. He sat down hard on the packed sand,
wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He looked around for his satchel,
breathing hard. Surveying and sampling was one way to make some
credits, to keep himself in gear, to keep the search going.

He got slowly to his feet, strode a few paces, and then crawled inside the
bubble tent. He pulled the water bottle out of the bag, and drank deeply,
his sweating face upturned towards Tatooine's twin blazing suns.

I will find you.

----------

Hours later, both suns were down. He was in his tent, laying atop his sleeping bag, moving restlessly. His mind was a turmoil of thoughts, of plans. He faded in and out of consciousness.

It was a glamorous life to those who had no idea, no clue, what it meant to be boredfor days, weeks, and then to frantically move, and to find oneself in sudden life-and-death peril, to face danger, to kill another man or to die, and to justify it, to rationalize it, 'it was him or me'. Mercenaries. The reality was far from the holovid images of adventure, where battles were some kind of honorable test of right and wrong. Firefights were short, ugly, and the aftermath was sickening. But it beat working in the mines, or spending one's life in a warren of poverty and despair. He even knew some good men who were his fellow Mercs. Starke, for one.

They were on a backwater planet, guarding a forward position in a ruined town in some dirty civil war, far from Imperial law. Who knew which side was right and which was wrong, who cared. It was combat pay. Him and Starke had been on sentry duty when the fanatics came screaming out of the dark, brandishing their old-fashioned slugthrowers, and when it was over, he was alive and Starke was too, just barely. Starke had taken a slug in the left hand as he fired upon and killed an attacker that had been drawing a bead on Glawen's back. Starke lost the hand. Glawen was grateful, and, when the plasteel hand proved to be unsatisfactory for further combat duty, Starke had resigned from the outfit.

Glawen gave him half of his credits and made him promise to stay in touch. A year later, Starke had emailed him, and had transferred 5 times the credits Glawen had given him from Tatooine. Starke urged him to come with him and be a business partner with him.
Glawen jumped at the chance.

----------

The next morning, he worked on the mineral surveyor until he got it working. He set off in search of a concentration of ore. His mind wandered.

When he had arrived in Mos Entha, there was an email awaiting him. It was the last contact he had had from Starke. 'Many have looked for the Krayt Graveyard, searching for the Dragon's Pearls', he had written. 'I seek a Jawa named Corba who I have heard has knowledge of this place. Wealth beyond our wildest dreams, Glawen. Hurry here.'

That was all. Glawen did not find Starke. Some of the people he had questioned seemed...frightened.

----------

He was losing patience.

At the rate he was sampling, it would take him months to gain enough credits, credits he needed to make people talk. Talk about Starke. He was still handy with a carbine, and had supplemented surveying with hunting, selling hides and bones in Entha to the artisans.

But he would not lose sight of his goal.

Find Starke.

A little voice in the back of his mind laughed at him, and told him it was the Dragon's Pearls he really sought.

Glawen rubbed his face with his hands as he walked through the desert.

---------------------

II

"Al'halek, Talahnn."

"A'halek, Glahwenn!"

Glawen nodded to the old Trandoshan sitting near the entrance to the cantina. Talahnn, stranded on this backwater wasteland, was a fixture here, begging for a coin or a drink when the Imperials were not around. Glawen had fixed his crude datapad that had been fractured in a drunken fall, and the large Trandoshan considered him a friend.

The cantina was dimly lit, and his eyes took a minute to adjust from the brilliant sunlight of Tatooine. The crowd was small this afternoon; he sat at a table towards the rear, and ordered a drink. Greelik's band was playing again, performing a lively tune.

"Good to see you back", Saundra said as she sat at his table.

Saundra was a dancer that Glawen had talked to on many occasions; she knew quite a bit about who was who in Mos Entha, and, seeing he was a good tipper, had struck up the occasional conversation with him.

"Thanks. How's business these days?" He drank from his glass.

"Not bad. Thinking of traveling to Bestine once more, there seemed to be more money flowing there, if I can find some stage time."

Glawen nodded and watched the band.

"Any word of Starke?"

Glawen shook his head; a group of boisterous prospectors came in the door, talking loudly to each other, and sat down in front of the stage.

"I know it's your business, Glawen.." began Saundra, but Glawen shook his head.

"I came here for a business opportunity."

"Is that all?" she said. "It seems that you care for him, very much." She looked into his eyes briefly.

Glawen watched the band, and finally spoke; "I owe a debt to him", but he never got to finish his sentence. A man dressed in dusty work clothes walked up to the table and looked at Glawen with a challenging stare.

"Please forgive me." He nodded to Saundra. "I wish to speak to your friend for a moment, if you please."

Saundra got up from the table and walked into the back. The stranger seated himself.

"I know of this man you seek." He sat, contemplating Glawen.

"You do." Glawen finished his drink, careful to act casual.

"Aye. He and I had worked together on...a project. Seems that all didn't go as planned. He is gone now."

Glawen shifted in his seat.

"I can prove it to you- I have an item of his you may recognize."

"Let me see it."

It's in a storage locker at the Starport, friend." The man stood, a small smile on his face. "Shall we?"

Glawen stood and followed the man out into the bright and brutal daylight.

As they walked out, Talahnn caught Glawen's eye. The Trandoshan made a
quick gesture, and then looked away. Glawen instantly became alert, and nodded slightly.

As they passed through an alleyway, Glawen heard the footsteps coming up
behind him. In one fluid motion, he gripped his vibroknuckles from a pocket and wheeled around to see a thug approaching, armed with a long knife. As he turned, the man he had followed out of the cantina reached under histunic; Glawen lashed out with lightning speed, and left the man gasping and grabbing his chest as he fell.

The knifeman approached, tossing the blade back and forth between his hands; Glawen took up a defensive stance, and walked slowly backwards. This lulled the confident thug into action. As he sprang forward, Glawen lunged to meet him, raking the vibroknuckles along the man's arm that had grasped the blade. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then he drove his elbow against the man's ribs with force. His attacker dropped.

Glawen knelt in the street, picking up the knife while he looked for the first man. He looked up the alleyway just in time to see a man in a junior officer's Imperial uniform pointing a blaster pistol at his chest; two Stormtroopers stood behind him at port arms, their deadly carbines glittering blackly in the unforgiving sun.

----------------------------

III

A man trotted slowly through the nighttime wastelands of Tatooine. A heavy pack was slung over his back, and he wore a satchel along his left side. He gripped a carbine in his hands. He wore a jacket and fatigue pants; upon his feet he wore Tusken Raider boots, light but sturdy, well-adapted for the desert.

He navigated by bright starlight; every few hundred paces, he knelt and pulled out an image intensifier unit from his satchel, and carefully scanned the landscape for thermal readings. Scattered about were small animals, who ran at his approach; larger creatures he steered clear of. Once he saw a lone prospector's camp, and gave it wide berth.

The Imperial Leutenant sat back in his chair, staring over the table at Glawen.

"Glawen Etzwane, Mercenary." The way he said 'Mercenary' made it obvious his feelings for that profession. "A small enough datafile...what brings you to this hellhole of a planet?" Though the officer was relaxed in appearance, his eyes were alert, reading Glawen, judging him.

"A business offer", Glawen said, and the officer smiled ironically.

"Yes yes, business. I'm sure. We have more than enough 'business' to keep track of here." The Leutenant stood suddenly, and walked over to look out his window upon the streets of Mos Entha. "I was assigned this post", he said reflectively. "Its part of my career path. I couldn't imagine coming here because I wanted to." He turned to look at Glawen.
"To be honest, from what I saw, you acted in self-defense. You disarmed your opponent without lethal force. I can't hold you on charges for that- there's enough scum in this city to worry about as is. But, I want to make this clear." He stared into Glawens eyes.

"I don't trust you. And I'll be watching."

The man found a large heat source on his viewer to the northwest, giving off readings indicating non-biological origin. He jogged slowly up a rise, and found a ridge that he layed down upon, focusing on the readout of his intensifier.

He had been DNA-sampled as standard Imperial procedure when questioned. He knew that he had to avoid further attention from the local outpost, small enough as it was. They had a large smuggling problem to deal with, and organized crime; most likely they didn't have the resources to keep track of him. As long as he didn't give them any further reason to. He never found out what happened to the knife-wielding thug after he was taken into custody; the man in the dusty work clothes had ran off and had eluded justice, both from the Imperials and Glawen himself. He wondered just what the hell was going on.

The man rose, and walked carefully down a steep rock-strewn slope. As he entered a broad canyon, the brilliant starlight showed an even darker mass against the canyon wall ahead of him. He heard the hissing of escaping steam; the smell of hot lubrication oil, and petrochemical exhaust fumes filled the air. The closer he approached, the more massive the great machine grew, towering into the sky, corroded metal radiating heat from the previous day, massive tracks sunk in the sand. No life was evident around it. Fighting down a primitive fear of the massive metal beast, He placed his carbine in his pack.

Glawen approached the Jawa Sandcrawler carefully.

He stood by the forward entry port, and was suddenly bathed in a brilliant electric blue glow. He shielded his eyes from the light, and, removing his pack, he placed a quantity of metal he had been harvesting in front of him, and stood back.

"A'halek" he said, and gestured to the case of metal in front of him. "Corba?"

There was silence for a few minutes. Then a hatch slowly opened. A Jawa waddled down the ramp, clad in the simple brown robe that was their common uniform. Unlike other Jawas he had seen, however, this one had an object dangling from its belt, an object that caused Glawen's heart to hammer in his chest.

A plasteel hand.

[Stopped playing SWG before I finished the story, though I still have a rough draft of the rest, involving a Bounty Hunter, an Imperial Probot, Rebel spies, and the Dragon's Pearls.]

(About the tales)

2005-02-20T09:36:00.000-05:00

[This is a brief comment upon the original stories I wrote for Dark Age of Camelot in my storybook at Nimue Crossroads.]

Story-Book Ending:
I hesitated to include this, being an early work that isn't that good. The exact incident happened on Albion Percival in-game; I had a Friar and was playing with a Theurgist lass. I thought that the disappointment at the end of the adventure would make a different kind of story.

The Trackless Forest:
I thought a story about a totally selfish group of adventurers on a quest would be fun. No real heroes here.

Chirelith's Ghost:
My first RP story. I am always inspired to write by strong emotions and certain people who I RP with; there is a lot of things in here that are both painful and real that happened.

The Tower:
Not really a story at the beginning; I was trying to work through an incident that happened with a dear RP friend, and a story grew out of the allegory.

The Forgotten Battle of Jamtland:
My one humorous story. I am drawn to tragedy in writing; this was a conscious effort to lighten the mood for once!

Honor; part 1, The City:
The first of a planned trilogy of linked tales, dealing with the concept of honor- what it is, how it is lost, how it is regained. I have a rough draft of the continuation, but am not satisfied with it yet.

Devotion:
An elaboration of a story alluded to in After the Battle part 2; the details don't exactly match, but I thought the idea made for a story worth revisiting.

Possession:
A very brooding and dark tale; I think it came from an image I had in my mind of a Norse Chieftain sitting in his great hall, holding a poisoned blade. Tried to keep it as atmospheric as I could. I got more comments on this one when it was originally posted on the VN boards than any other story.

After the Battle:
This series of linked tales grew out of a single idea that grew and grew; I write intuitively, I never know where the story is taking me, but it often thankfully comes together somehow. It is like having something flow through one, more than creating.
The mysterious and unearthly woman, dancing among the dead on a battlefield, was an image that started it all. These stories, in hindsight, are about loss: how does one deal with the pain? Probably my favorite stories.

Elendion's tales:
Elendion is a Siabra, a rather unpopular type of Elf. But he is not your typical Siabra. Or is it an act? Only Arrylle knows for sure. He occasionally roleplays on Nimue.

Fateful Voyage:
A 7-part adventure talking place in Albion. The longest tale I've written. Caddan the Paladin can be found on Percival sometimes; Trema used to be there, but is no more.

Innocence:
A first-person tale from Malthrig again. I keep coming back to him as a protagonist. This story tries to look at what war does to people, how it changes them. The theme of sleep runs through the tale.

The Fall:
This story was based on something that really happened in Thidranki one day. It was a wonderful, and ultimately sad, time. Thank you K for inspiring me.

The Vision:
Darker than normal. Keep coming back to the theme of characters choosing whether to let another live or die.

The Gift:
Brea, your words inspired the tale.

I hope i didn't bore you all to death. I really feel that I can't take any credit at all for these stories, or if they deserve any. They just happened, and I wrote them down. They are emotional seizures, I think.

(Verse)

2005-02-20T09:33:00.000-05:00

No Greater Fear

'No greater love'
A phrase that resonates,
for love is everything to us,
all we can hope for, long for.

Who of us hasn't loved,
or desired love,
or even been in love
with the idea of being in love
it fills us so.

Love and fear.

One once asked me: what do you fear?
She who asked had lost a love,
and I told her:
No greater fear I have
than to love,
and then to feel my heart wither and die,
the emotions, the feelings,
for if they die in my heart
then I alone am left to blame
for abandoning love
and my sadness is of my own making.

Sunset Thoughts

A red sunset upon the waters,
seen through the green blades of grass.

The wind brings tidings
of colder nights to come-

But I am not afraid.

For that just means that you and I
shall lay together for warmth
in front of the fire,
and think on the summer that
shines in our souls.

Lady Rose.

She grows gently, and was tended not,
Yet her life is vibrant and warm
And she holds my heart in her hands.

I, who had not seen her before,
Who had been blind to such beauty
It was I who truly saw her.

Caught between the cares of the Earth,
And the freedom of Heaven;
She is my Lady Rose.

After hard words.

Quite lost, unsure.
There is no measure, no way to see myself
There is no direction for my heart to turn.
When you're not here, after hard words,
I have to remind myself why I am
And the hole in me is large.
Is something wrong with me?
Or do I love you as truly as I said?

From afar.

I wonder what you are thinking now,
Distance is a real and a symbolic thing at times.
My thoughts can't reach you-
Or can they?
I recall our last conversation,
A snapshot of a place, a time, a state of mind,
That is all I have to go on, to remember.
Here and now my feelings are all that I can have,
And I wish you well, with all my heart.

The real me.

Where is my heart?
Can it be without another?
Where is hers?
I do not know.
I walk among those who know me,
But they do not see inside me,
know the real me.
She did, so long ago.
But now I'm adrift,
unsure,
without her heart by mine,
Nothing is certain,
all is seen through a veil,
and I am here,
yet I am not,
for I have lost the part of me
that was the real me.

Late one eve.

After telling tales of you and I,
Trying to sleep late in the eve
I feel there is someone in the room
And I can't sleep.
I get up and ask-
Is it you?

It was never my intention
to hurt you,
or to be hurt.

The Gift

2005-02-20T09:31:00.001-05:00

He stood by the trellis in the Palace Garden, holding a delicate
bloom in his hand. His care-worn face looked lost in thought, as if
he were elsewhere. He had donned one of his finer outfits; one he
had worn off-duty when he was a Frontier Captain. He was clad
all in black, finely-cut material, with a light grey fur-trimmed cloak.

He heard a soft footfall, and turned to see her. His eyes lit up,
looking upon the woman who was not his wife.

~~~

He rode through the Frontier, his mind heavy with thought, brow
furrowed. The day had finally come.

He had resigned his post as Frontier Captain...after several good
years of doing what he had loved to do best: lead men in battle.
He had not done it lightly. Many had tried to dissuade him; they
had all failed. Even though they were his companions, with close
friendships formed in battle, there was one thing more important
to him then the life he was born to live for as an Officer of
Hibernia.

He was going home to her now.

As he rode, deep in thought, he never saw the Scout draw an
arrow as he passed his hidden blind. And yet the Scout paused,
staring at the man, and slowly unbent his bow.

The man continued to ride, never knowing just how close he came
to death, on this, his last day in the Frontier.

~~~

His name was well-known to professional fighters in Hibernia.
Teran the Bold, Captain of the Hibernian Raiders. He was a Celt,
lean and spare, who was in his early middle age, and he was a
good swordsman, but even better, he was an excellent leader. He
knew how to inspire others, knew how to think on his feet, change
plans at a moment's notice to give his troops the maximum chance
to win a fight. And win many fights he did.

Less well-known to the fighting community was his wife, Deliana.
She came from Connla, of a good family, and was known far and
wide as the most beautiful maiden south of the Silvermine
Mountains at the time. All expected her to marry into another
good family, to do the predictable thing, but she had other plans,
plans that had included a young, gallant Officer in the Army.

There was quite a scandal when they were married, her family
essentially disowning her. But that mattered not to her, nor her
husband. They were happy, and following their hearts.

~~~

Teran rode up to the East Gate of Tir na Nog; he hailed the
guardsmen there, who knew him on sight.

"Captain! Good to see you!"

"Greetings, Anrad! How is your wife and son?"

The guard stood straighter, smiling. "Doin' well, Sir. And thank ye
fer askin."

He continued on through the Gate, turning his horse in at the
stables. He slung a satchel over his shoulder, and walked the main
avenue, sloping upwards, following a street that branched off to the
left. The crowd thinned out in this part of the city; he soon came
to the familiar house, looking at the upstairs window.

He knocked, and after a while, the door opened.

"Marra!" He bent to kiss the elderly Lurikeen woman on the top of
her head. "You look good as ever!" The woman smiled sadly.

"Would that I felt that way, good Sire...I cannot get around much
at all these days. But you knew that, and I am most regretful-"

Teran shushed her. "Take this, Marra. I saw it in a shop in
Howth, and thought it just the thing for you."

He had pulled a parcel from his satchel, and unwrapped it. He
unfolded a little Lurikeen dress, dark purple in color, holding it up
to her.

Marra smiled in delight and held the garment against her. A tear
gleamed on her cheek, and she hugged Teran as best she could
around his waist. He smiled. "Thank you for all you've done for
us, Marra. If there's anything I can help you with, you need but
call on me."

"I'll be going to stay with my relations in Bri Leith, Sire...perhaps I
kin make it back for a visit sometime..."

He talked with her a little more, then he ascended the stairs, up to
his wife's room.

She lay just as he had left her, weeks before, in her bed, her head
turned towards the window. She looked pale and drawn. He
forced a smile to his lips, walked in, and sat on the bed next to
her, leaning over to kiss her brow, and then holding her hand
tightly.

When she saw him, she smiled brightly, her eyes alight. Teran felt
a stab of memory, of happier times; his insides were wrenched by
the past.

"My husband, you are back."

"I am back for good, Delia. Marra is too old to look after you now,
and I resigned my post on the Frontier."

She reached out her arms feebly to him, and he lay next to her as
she embraced him; her arms trembled, she had barely the strength
to move them now, he noted.

He buried his face in her hair. Remembering.

"But what of your career? And-"

"We've discussed this, love. I'll seek a position with the City
Guard, and will doubtless find something to do. And I'll be here
with you, finally, after all these years."

He sat up again, and his hand caressed her cheek.

"You look well," he lied.

She smiled again. "I've felt like sitting up and reading lately, not for
very long, but sometimes for a few hours."

He smiled down at her in return; he kept his voice carefully bright,
forcing himself to be cheerful.

"That i wonderful! I shall go to the booksellers soon, to find you
more titles." A butterfly, brilliant yellow and black, fluttered in
through the window.

"Oh, look!" she said, seeing it. "It reminds me of the Connla
countryside..."

"Perhaps the countryside will come to you, my love." He smiled
down at her.

~~~

The Guard Captain was a petty man.

He'd seen his type before, especially in the city posts, vindictive,
resentful of those who actually did the fighting.

But he was given a position of Guard Sargent; he was too
well-known, had served too well to be denied.

The men he worked with wanted to hear stories from the Frontier;
he finally gave in and would tell a story here and there. He could
also see the looks some of them gave him- what was he doing here?
Why give up what you had?

It irritated him.

~~~

He went into the fields outside the East Gate, and searched .

He looked carefully at the plants along the edge of the woodland,
and found, more often than not, what he was looking for.

He would bring the cocoons back to her room, still hanging from
the foliage they had attached to. She was delighted; when not
reading, she would watch the cocoons, and every now and then a
butterfly would emerge, wet and feeble, gradually gaining strength,
flexing its beautiful wings, and would flutter away.

He sat by her bed often, talking to her, watching the butterflys.
She was unfailingly bright, determined not to let her illness drag
her down, or, more importantly to her, not to let her drag him
down. She knew how much he had given up to be with her, and
when he was not around, tears would course down her cheeks,
tears of love, of pain, and rememberance of days past.

The days went by. Teran grew restive, missing his command, the
Frontier, the fighting. She knew he tried to hide it, but saw it
anyway. That was who he was. He, like many men, felt that he
was what he did, what he had accomplished; she, like many
women, loved him for who he was, the person inside, the man that
would bring her handfuls of butterfly cocoons, red-faced from
having people gawk at him as he carried them home to her.

Teran dozed by her bed one evening; he remembered:
They were young, passionately in love. She had left her home and
family, running away with him, riding across Hibernia, seeing
fantastic sites on the far side of the Silvermine Mountains that she
had never seen; she marveled at it all. He knew how much she
had given up to be with him- a life of great wealth and ease. He
loved her with an intensity that amazed him when he thought
about it. The things they shared between one another, the
laughter, the lovemaking under the stars at night. Often she would
dance around him, for the sheer joy of it, and he would join in the
dance, until they collapsed, laughing, into each others arms.

One day, as they rested against a large tree-trunk in the wilds of
the Cliffs of Moher, she kissed him tenderly. It was about time for
him to go to the Frontier, resume his career after his leave of
absence. He had been somewhat distant from her, thinking of it.

"I know you have to go, and I'll be here for you when you can
return to me," she said, looking in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, "will you marry me?"

She smiled and nodded, then curled up in his arms.

"I give you the gift of my love, what you do with it is yours to
choose," she said, murmuring into his chest.

He stroked her hair gently.

"You make me want to be the man that you think I am."

She smiled up at him.

"We take the gifts we are given and we do the best with them, it's
really all we can do..."

They embraced, held each other for a long time.

Teran awoke from his sleep; Delia was asleep as well, her book
laying upon her chest, her face looking troubled. She could not
hide her thoughts while asleep, he thought, even though she
always is bright and cheerful when I am with her.

He caressed her cheek softly.

"It is really all we can do," he echoed her words from that long-ago
sunny afternoon.

~~~

He had gone on to win fame on the Frontier, and rise to the rank
of Captain. Delia had become unsteady on her feet, and had
shrugged it off for a long time; then came the day when she had
fallen down, and had to struggle to get up. She begged for word
not to reach her husband, knowing it would distress him greatly,
just when he was at the height of his career. Eventually, when he
had returned home on leave, he had discovered that she could get
out of her bed only with great difficulty. None of the physicians or
the learned men he consulted could find an answer to her illness.
He arranged for Marra, an old soldier's widow, to look after her.

~~~

Teran drank.

He had taken to drinking after his guard duty, at one of the various
inns in the city, before returning to Delia. He would sit in the
corner, thinking of the past.

One day, a soldier came into the common room, and noticed him
in the corner.

"Teran the Bold?"

Teran looked up, and nodded. He recognized the man.

"Let me buy you a drink! God's Fury, it's been ages since I served
with you!"

The man talked of the current fighting in the Frontier, which Teran
was greatly interested in. Then the talk turned to past battles,
back when Teran was in command. Teran grew silent, irritable,
got up and excused himself.

"You were the best Captain on the Frontier, friend," the soldier
said. Teran walked through the door, and out into the dark. As
he walked home, he brooded.

Nothing! He was nothing now! He smashed his hand against the
doorpost to his house.

He went inside, and walked up the stairs to see his wife, his hand
throbbing with pain. She lay there as always, head turned to face
the wall.

"I missed you today" she said, head still turned away from him.

"I am sorry, Delia. I met an old friend."

He stood there for a while, looking at the cocoons upon her
dresser, and then came over to attend her.

"No, I'm fine, really," she said.

He went into his room.

~~~

He led his men in single-file down the steep goat path through the
hills, towards the encampment of Mids. All of their gear was
muffled, bound with strips of cloth to keep the noise of metal
against metal from alerting the foe; they walked deliberately, slowly.

He held up his hand, and all gathered around him at the boulders
at the bottom of the hill. The Rangers were sent to the far side of
the encampment, and the Heroes and Champions, along with the
occasional Warden, gathered on the near side.

He felt the rush of adrenaline as he filled his lungs and yelled out,
"Hibernia!" and the arrows flew, taking the sentries by surprise,
and as the men in the encampment fled into his men, he drew his
sword and laughed, rushing ahead of his men to get in the first
blow as they cheered him on-

Teran awoke. He sat up in bed, and stared at the wall for the
longest time.

~~~

He was out in the fields, looking for more cocoons. It was getting
late in the season, and they were harder to find; autumn was
approaching. He went to his knees, searching through a small
tangle of plants...

He glanced up from his search, to see her.

She was beautiful.

She stood nearby, watching him. Her long golden hair hung down
her back; she was dressed in elegant clothing, with a richly-dyed
golden cloak. He tried to think of something to say.

"Hello," he said, coming to his feet, conscious of the cocoons in his
hand. She had a golden pin on her cloak, wrought in the shape of
a butterfly.

"It is easier to find butterflies after they have flown," she said,
smiling. Her voice sounded musical; her eyes...

"...though not as easy to catch."

Afterwards, he could not remember the conversation they had,
only that it felf very familiar, easy, very natural, as if they'd known
each other for a long time. They walked along the field, stopping
here and there, looking for cocoons. She never asked why, it was
as if she knew. He did not bring it up.

It has been ages since I walked with a woman, he thought.

Finally, they stood in front of the East Gate.

He started to say something.

She reached up and placed her fingertips over his lips. He froze.

"I can be found at the Palace Garden at times." Her eyes held his.
"If you come there, you can tell me what you need...your need is
written upon your face, Milord." She turned and walked through
the gates; he stood there, watching her go.

He stood there for the longest time.

When he returned home, he found his wife half-asleep and weak;
she couldn't speak much. He gave her a sip of water, moved her
gently to one side to prevent bedsores, and used a damp
washcloth to wipe the sweat from her brow. He looked at the
cocoons upon the dresser, and then selected a book from a shelf.

He then read to her from The Histories of Atlantis , one of her
favorite books; the light left the room, and he lit the oil lamp on
the table next to her bedside, and he sat there, watching her, until
he fell asleep in his chair.

~~~

He stood by the trellis in the Palace Garden, holding a delicate
bloom in his hand. His care-worn face looked lost in thought, as if
he were elsewhere. He had donned one of his finer outfits; one he
had worn off-duty when he was a Frontier Captain. He was clad
all in black, finely-cut material, with a light grey fur-trimmed cloak.

He heard a soft footfall, and turned to see her. His eyes lit up,
looking upon the woman with the golden hair and the butterfly
brooch.

He walked up to her, his hand going out insitinctively to touch her
hand; suddenly, she was in his arms, the fragrance of her hair, the
warmth of her skin, filling his senses. He looked into her eyes, they
had a golden gleam to them...

"What do you need, Milord?" she asked, her voice sounding distant
in his ears. His eyes never left hers.

The bloom slipped and fell from his hand.

His mind suddenly took him back to the night when he and Delia
ran off together, to start their life together. They sat near a small
campfire, beneath the Silvermine Mountains, and everything lay
ahead of them, all of the laughter and the sorrow to come.
Suddenly Delia leaped up and danced around him, and he
laughed...

...he leaned in close to her, held her to him, she felt alive, so alive...

...and he stood and took her hand, and he bowed to her, and she
curtsied in return, and they danced a courtly dance in the
flickering firelight as the stars came out...

...and he brought his lips to her ear, and whispered to her what he
needed, the only thing that he could have said, and the Palace
Gardens grew hazy, indistinct around him as he raised his head,
and looked into her eyes of liquid gold.

"We take the gifts we are given," she said in an unearthly voice,
"and we do the best with them, it's really all we can do."

The world washed out around him, as he found himself standing in
the road, and though the grey mists, thicker than he had ever seen,
he could see his house at the end of the road, and though he
thought it strange that the streets were silent and deserted, he
walked slowly towards his home, his heart beating in his chest...

...and then he was outside of her door; the fog pervaded the house
too, yet underneath the door, a golden light shone, and he threw
open the door to see her standing there, laughing, dressed in a
golden gown, and she laughed; the air was filled with butterflies, all
of the cocoons had hatched, and he ran to her as she held out her
arms to him, and they embraced, and then he took a step back and
bowed, a smile upon his face along with his tears, and she curtsied,
and took his hand, and they danced, danced in the golden glow,
with the butterflies floating through the air around them.

They danced forever.

The Vision

2005-02-20T09:29:00.001-05:00

His name was Skiorh. It was a name he chose for himself. He wanted nothing that the persons who others would call his parents had given him, which had been little enough but beatings and abuse, anyway. But few others knew that name, almost everyone knew him as Deathcloak, including the enemies he stalked from other Realms. He had a peculiar habit of sewing onto his cloak some memento or keepsake from his kills, when he could get at them. Usually he could, for he mostly operated alone as a Scout-sniper for Albion, a loner, liking the silence, not wanting to hear others talk or laugh or ask questions about him.

Once, a fellow Scout asked why he had all those items sewn into the back of his cloak- mostly coins, but also the occasional small pouch, or ladies' handkercheif that some romantic lad he had slain with an arrow had wore upon his breast- and he had looked at the man hard and said, 'It will be a reward for the man what kills me; and asides, keeps me close ta death, where I belong.' The Scout had turned away and had never spoken a word to him again; he liked it that way.

He was used to spending days out in the field, nestled in a series of carefully camouflaged shelters. He would move slowly, silently, from one to the other, looking for any Hibernians or Midgardians to happen along. Stragglers, messengers, even fools who thought themselves brave enough to go it alone. They all fell to his worn, black longbow, and specially crafted black clothyard shafts. He would always leave the area immediately, and go to another place altogether. They would eventually be found by their comrades, dead upon the road or in the woods or upon the fields, with something missing from them. And it would be said that Deathcloak had killed again.

His cloak was heavy with the mementoes of many kills. He would return to town eventually, sometimes even to Camelot, to get his new prizes sewn into his cloak, to drink ale, and to visit the whorehouses.

As he awaited his turn in the parlor room of one house he was fond of, he heard a girl wailing and screaming upstairs, and then saw a pale little creature run down the stairs, barefoot, her ripped gauzy dress clutched to her body as she sobbed with terror. The madame of the house took her head in her hands and talked seriously to her, in businesslike terms. He was speechless, his body frozen. She reminded him Neesie...

...and the girl in the gauzy dress, hair very much like his Neesie, was overcome by the terror of what was happening to her. His mind was flooded with horrid memories, black despair; he loathed it when he thought of his past, the pain was always too much to bear, as he stalked out of the whorehouse and into the filthy streets and wretched into the gutter again and again, hand propped against a wall, body trembling. He left the city immediately for the Frontier.

He built several blinds along a road, far away from the usual areas of conflict. He sought to calm his mind, sought the familiarity of gripping his longbow, the sounds and smells of the woods around him, the escape that blanking his mind would bring him.

The next day, in the late afternoon, from one of his blinds, he heard a horse coming down the road. He peered between two branches of his shelter, and saw the Celt, a man of early middle age, dressed in scale armor and fancy cloak, riding at a slow canter down the road towards him., an easy kill for certain, possibly a messenger or traveler.

As he placed a clothyard shaft against his bowstring, he looked at the man's face, saw that he had a care-worn expression, and was deep in thought...

...and, suddenly, Skiorh saw a perfectly reproduced image in his mind, as if he was seeing it happening in front of himself. He saw the man, leaning over a bed, kissing his wife lovingly upon the forehead, his wife who had a wasting disease, could not arise from her bed, had been that way for years, but the careworn man loved her, stayed with her, cared for her, remembering the carefree happy days when she was vital, alive, would dance around him laughing, just for the amusement of it all, and Skiorh's mind reeled, he was sighting down his arrow in his drawn bow, but slowly released the tension as he lowered his weapon, watching the man ride past him and recede into the distance, stunned at the vision he had seen when he looked upon the man's face.

He sat and thought for hours about what had happened, going over it in his mind, how the vision had seemed so vital, so real.

He thought: what did it all mean? What was the purpose?

Why had he reacted in such a way?

The darkness grew around him, and he composed himself for sleep.

He dreamt of Neesie; he hadn't done that in years. In his dream, Neesie cried out to him, pleading for him to save her, and he tried, he tried his best, but it wasn't good enough, again. He desperately tried to awake, to get away from the memory. He tossed and turned in his sleep, crying out. He awoke with a start, and lay there, unable to return to sleep.

The following days, he hunted in the Frontier, avoiding places where he typically found others.

One day, while hunting, he suddenly came upon a Firbolg sitting on the ground, his back to a tree. By reflex, he fitted a clothyard shaft into the bowstring, drew it back...

...he was the only son of aging parents, from a poor hamlet. and he sent most of his army pay back to them, and his folks shared the coin with their poor friends, the whole hamlet looked up to him, when he visited, they all welcomed him, held a poor banquet in his honor, which embarrased him, but gladdened him to know that he mattered to others, since he had no woman to share his life with...

The vision siezed his mind once more, he saw with utter clarity inside the mind of his enemy; he slowly backed off, disappeared into the woods.

He traveled swiftly to Camelot, trying to keep his mind blank.He went to one of the many Inns there, and drank, a subject he knew a lot about. He tried to forget the visions. He could not.

He went to one of the whorehouses he frequented, asked for Mirella. She came to him smiling, embraced him, and walked up the stairs to her room with him.

He sat upon the bed, staring at the wall. She was puzzled, sat down next to him, placed an arm around him.

It all came out of him, he told her about the visions, told her he couldn't kill the enemy, how worried he was.Mirella held his hands.

"Have you considered that perhaps it is all in your mind?"

"No. It is real, more real than you. I am certain."

"You should rest, spend more time in the city. You can come see me more often."

Skiorh looked at her, the one person who he let inside, even a little.

"I don't know what i happening to me. Killing is what I am. It is all that I am. If I stop...who am I?"

Mirella held him to her closely; she held him for the better part of an hour, then he stood, laid silver upon her dresser.

"Come back to me."

He nodded at her, averting his eyes, and left her room, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.

He soon tired of the city, grew weary of other people, of the crowds, the activity. He went back to the Frontier.

Back in the woods and fields, he felt almost at ease again. He set up his blinds, hunted some, spent nights looking into the night sky, counting the stars.

He dreamed again; it was inevitable.

Neesie was crying hysterically as the two men dragged her out of their hovel, his drunken parents cursing at her to shut up and begone. She was being dragged off by the landlord's men, his sister, given by their parents into indentured servitude because they had no money for the rent, they drank all the time, and never had money for anything else. He ran at the men, swinging wildly at them with his balled fists, enraged. A guardsman, dressed in studded leather armor with a mace in his belt, seized him and took him, struggling, into the nearby copse of trees. He sat him down and shook him roughly until he stopped struggling.

"Boy, your parents are scum. I see the likes of them all the time. I am right sorry about your sister, but things cannot get worse for her, no matter what befalls her. You understand me?"

The guard cuffed him to get his attention. He stared sullenly at the man.

"I grew up much like you, boy. You need to get away from them, before it becomes too late for you." The man's eyes softened. He looked around, and then reached in the pouch at his belt and took out a few silver coins, suddenly pressed them into his hand.

"I might be nothin' to anyone, but damn me if you don't have a chance now. Take this, go to Prydwen Keep, my brother is Bailiff there," he said, a twinkle of pride in his eye. "Tell him Skiorh says hallo, and mayhaps you'll find a place to work there for Lord Prydwen, away from the filth here." The man squeezed his shoulder, stood up, and walked away, without looking back.

It was the only kindness anyone had ever shown him. He left the next day, having not been able to save his sister, but starting a new life of his own.

When he had reached Prydwen Keep, they had asked him his name. He told them he was called Skiorh, standing straight and proud, the dirty barefoot little boy from nowhere.

He sat up in the dark, awaking from the dream.

He thought a long time.

The next day, he set out, making his round of the blinds.

He heard the sound of distant battle, the clanking of steel upon steel, and prepared himself for the inevitable stragglers and refugees from the battle.

After a while, a Celt clad in scale armor, limping along with a leg wound, came out of the trees towards his blind. He drew back his arrow, looking at the man...

...and saw nothing but a fightened Celt, in pain.

He was puzzled. No vision. Perhaps...this man was not a good man. He drew back his bow further, sighting down the arrow, aimed at the man's chest.

Perhaps he did not need the vision anymore.

He thought, if I looked in a pool and saw my reflection, what would I see?

He slowly lowered the bow. The Celt collapsed in the grass, groaning, holding his leg. He strode out of his blind, over to him.

The Celt looked up in panic.

"Deathcloak!"

"Quiet, and don't pull that sword," he said, tearing off a strip of the man's cloak. He then sat about tying off the bleeding wound as the man looked at him in wonder. When he had stopped the bleeding, he picked up his bow and raised the man off the ground, placing his arm around his shoulders, stumbling with him to his blind. He lay him down there, where a water bucket and half of a roasted rabbit was in easy reach. He turned to walk away.

"I thank you," the man said. He paused, nodded curtly, and walked away.

"Why?" the Celt called after him. He kept walking.

He slept well that eve, and when he awoke in the morning, he hung his famed cloak upon a tree branch, leaving it for good.

He would make blinds, see men from all Realms as they passed unaware of him, but he never saw a vision again. He did not need to.

He watched others, and he learned how to be human.

The Fall

2005-02-20T09:29:00.000-05:00

The smell of burning filled the air.

He stood on the roof of the keep, looking out through the shattered gates of Thidranki Faste. He saw the red banner waving in the air; swarming shapes moved up outside the walls, edging up to the gates once more. Several bodies- Norse and Troll- lay where they had fallen in the courtyard. The battle had raged day and night, and many of Midgard had fallen to the ragged Hibernian defenders. Elation now gave way to inevitable defeat, much as an intense love grown cold until it was but a memory with little force.

Suddenly a Ranger appeared, bow drawn, and shot a Valkyn just outside the gates. The Valkyn yelled in pain, and ran back towards the bridge below. A ragged cheer went up from the exhausted few left on the walls.

He carefully made his way to the parapet, and then down the wooden stairs. He moved along the wall to the spot near the keep steps. There it was- the little patch of garden kept on a whim; growing things, life, in the midst of destruction. He broke off one of the few rose blooms left upon the wall trellis, and went back towards the stairs.

A Shadowblade, a Norseman dressed in black, watched him curiously from the shadows; on impulse, he let the man go, watching him as he ascended the steps, flower in hand, a rather homely Celt, the expression on his face showing that he was...elsewhere.

Warhorns sounded, and the red banner advanced, along with the Midgard host. He slipped back into the keep, through the thick oaken door.

Inside, the narrow corridor was packed with the dead and the dying. Moans, talking, prayers filled his ears. He picked his way carefully down the corridor.

"Sire?" a voice said to him as he passed by, a hand reaching out to brush his leg. "Is it true that the Red Banner flies? Will we all be put to the sword?"

He paused briefly, looked down at the man- a handsome young Hero, sitting propped up against the wall, with both legs, crippled and useless, outstretched before him.

So much suffering and waste, he thought.

He nodded briefly at him, smiling slightly, and then continued on.

He found her where he had left her, laying upon an old blanket, his pack under her head, used as a crude pillow; still silently sobbing, the tears coursing down her cheeks.

~~~

He had first met her, months ago, in the Spraggon Den. She was a Bard, lending her songs to all for inspiration to fight. When he joined them, she greeted him with a curtsey and smiled. As a Druid, he had assisted her in healing the Heroes and Champions as they battled the strange monsters found deep within the earth, in the eerie orange glow of the rock corridors. They had spoken briefly of the healing arts; she was vital, happy, alive.

By the end of that day, he had fallen for her.

Many a day he thought of how to tell her. He painfully wrote out what he would say, then discarded the words, and started over. He had learned from the past that he was inadequate to the task. One woman had actually laughed in his face when he had tried to recite her a small verse he had composed for her. Not being a handsome man, he had turned towards words to attempt to make up for his looks. But apparently his words were as plain as his face.

After days of thinking, of writing, he finally realized what he had to say would not make her feel one way or the other. He sought her out, trying not to get his hopes up, but inside his chest there was a bright burning spark, of hope, of longing, of love; so much to give, to feel, to say, never shared with another.

He found her on the riverbank near Ardee; she was with someone else. As he strode up to her, he saw the handsome Champion fastening a flower in her blonde hair as she looked adoringly into his eyes.

They turned to him; the smile was still upon his face, but the light in his eyes had dimmed, as the spark in his chest extinguished, and he felt cold, cold, as if he had died but his body had not realized it yet.

He spoke a few inconsequential words to them, and he saw that they knew; he saw the pity in her eyes, the gentle sadness in his expression, and he turned to leave. The Champion called out to him; he invited him to join them in a hunt the next day. He realized that the man was not only fair of face, but also good of heart, and knew inside that he was the best man for her. He nodded and smiled, and turned once more to leave.

He was often in their company following that, and became friends with them. Having never had many friends before, he appreciated them very much. His bittersweet feelings he accepted, realizing what they had together was more than he could give, more than he was.

~~~

He sat down beside her. She stared sightlessly at the roof, face wet, and spoke his name yet again.

In the fierce fighting, her Champion, the best man that he had ever met, had gone down, slain by warriors of Midgard. She was devastated, grief-stricken; he had had to drag her away from his body, back to the keep.

As she cried, he tenderly fastened the rose in her hair. But she looked not at him; she was thinking of her love, shutting out the rest of the world around her in the agony of her grief, as her life slipped away, bereft of his touch, his fair words, his reassuring presence.

Downstairs, the battering ram crashed against the keep door repeatedly. He would not let her fall into their red hands; it would be his first and final gift to her.

He mixed the poison into his water-flask, and took a long drink.

He then held her head up, placing the flask to her lips; she drank automatically, still not aware of what was around her, in her grief.

As the door splintered downstairs, and he felt the cold of the poison work its way through his body, he recited to her the words he had planned to say to her, on that long-ago, sunny, hopeful day along the riverbank. The words flowed out of him, and he smiled as he told her in hushed tones of his feelings for her as he stroked her hair, how wonderful she was, how just being near her made his life complete.

She gazed into his eyes, a slight frown upon her tear-streaked face; startled, she raised her hand to touch his face with her fingertips, and she saw love in his eyes, and took what comfort she could in his love, though she thought of her Champion with her last dying thought.

A tear fell from his cheek and landed on her face, and their tears mingled together as their bodies grew cold, and the door was smashed in down below.

[What follows is the response from a reader who had read my original story at Kelryck's DAoC Role Play Community site; his name is Gaberiel Godslayer, and he retold the story from a different point of view. He wrote very well:]

Reply to 'The Fall'

I wanted to say that I thoroughly enjoyed reading your story. I mean no offense by offering up my own version of the story. You inspired me, and any merit I might be able to garner from the story I have written is therefore wholey owed to you.

I only hope that I can do you some justice by posting it.

-----------------------------------

He watched.

His blades, both polished and gleaming when he was alone and relatively safe in his room back home, were blackened with grease tonight to prevent them from catching the light of the torch fires.

Sitting, waiting on a parapet, feeling the cold stone beneath his leather clad feet, he watched.

The kobold who was once as a young boy in his home village, there jokingly nicknamed 'the old wolf,' felt the breeze pull at his darkened cloak, and peered up at the half full moon, bit into the cold night air, and felt his grip tighten on the two leather wrapped and oiled blades. There was horror to be wrought here this night.

Oh how far things have come, he thought.

The defenders were exhausted. Days upon days of siege had worn even the hardiest of fighters inside the keep thin. Their faces were haggard; their eyes were locked on things that were not there. They each wore the blank look of the damned. Despite how hard they still fought when the arrows flew and the rams came charging for the door, when the lulls in battle came, he saw how truly drawn the defenders were. With nothing physical to defend against, they turned their thoughts inward, and battled themselves.

He watched as a single celt wandered by him, not a few arm's lengths away, holding a flower in his hand, walking like a man in a dream or a nightmare. The shadowblade could not decide which.

The Old Wolf put a staying hand on a fellow shadowblade, calming his bretheren and letting the celt go. On a whim, the norse obeyed, and began to stalk other prey. The Old Wolf turned his attention back to the wandering celt.

He watched.

A day ago this very celt in this very keep had dragged a screaming and distraught young woman from the dead body of a fallen champion. The Old Wolf had been there then, working the parapets of the keep, sowing chaos and fear. The sight of the young woman had made him stop in his tracks. He momentarily lost his pull on the shadows around him and became visible for a split second he was so struck by the plight of the woman before him.

A male celt dragged the female inside forcibly, firmly. He saw such grief as he had never expected to see on the face of his enemy. He thought back to the woman he had left behind in his village. The memory of her face was fading slowly from his mind, but a lock of her hair he kept hidden in his pouch reminded him constantly of the sweet smell of her. The male celt got the young woman inside to safety just ahead of the onrushing horde, and he didn't know what he should feel. For an instant, he completely lost the will to fight these people from Hibernia.

A lurikeen defender had no such reservations. Noticing the inert kobold in the shadows, a nightshade materialized out of nowhere and thrust his blade towards The Old Wolf's heart. Had he been locked on the sight of the sobbing celt a moment longer, the kobold would have gone to meet his ancestors that day. Regaining sense enough to survive, the Old Wolf evaded the assault that the lurikeen was throwing at him, climbed a nearby battlement, hopped over the wall, and disappeared into the night, the image of the young woman's cries over the fallen champion still fresh in his mind.

That same shadowblade now watched the celt that had pulled the young woman into the keep. Curiously, he stared at the man as the celt's thoughts wandered. The female was nowhere to be seen, and this was strangely troubling. The celt walked past and the shadowblade felt a growing unease.

Behind the shadowblade, over the walls, the horns of the horde were sounding, and the red banner was flying. His brethren were setting themselves upon the keep with a renewed and primal fury, like wild animals that have taken note of the scent of blood. Troll and norse roared in unison, and the Old Wolf suppressed a shiver.

Across the courtyard, the tower keep itself reeked of rot and death. The Old Wolf knew this would not be a day of victory for those from Hibernia.

He watched as the homely celt went to the tower and entered the inner keep. On impulse and against his better judgment, the Old Wolf decided to track him further.

Inside the hushed tones of tired men and women could be heard. Strange words, none of the recognizable, all easily understood. He had heard the sounds of defeat a hundred times. Most of his brethren on the field who cried their battle cries but did not have the talent to get so close to the enemy had no idea that the sounds of despair and defeat were indeed universal. The horde made such a furious din that they were scarcely aware that the enemy breathed, let alone sobbed, cried, wailed, or prayed. The shadowblade was keenly aware of it.

Oh how far things have come, the Old Wolf thought with a sigh.

He could not find a way into the tower keep, as was normal for the defensive structures he was used to. The stone was far too smooth, and the overhangs were far too pronounced. The guards of the keep also seemed to posses a keen and almost supernatural sense of their surroundings, and not even the shadows could protect the Old Wolf from their notice. So he went looking for a window or hole instead of an entrance, and found a crack in the stones and mortar that showed his celt once more, leaning over the prone form of the young woman.

He watched.

The young celt sat hunched with his back to the Old Wolf. He seemed to uncork his water-flask and take a drink, and then offer one to the young woman. To the shadowblade's surprise, the prone form of the woman came alive, and took a drink of water. The Old Wolf had thought her dead. Then the celt said some hushed unintelligible words to the young woman, and they both looked at each other. Her hands reached up and touched his face as he caressed her hair, the raw emotion of the exchange bringing tears to the kobold's eyes.

The door below him was beginning to splinter, snapping the Old Wolf back into focus, and the shadowblade made up his mind.

'It will be quick for both of you, I will make sure of it. You deserve no less,' he whispered with as iron a will as he had ever had.

The gods be damned, he thought. If they oppose me on this, THEY deserve no less.

The door exploded inward below him, and he raced to get to the front of the onrushing horde. Ignoring the defeated and prone bodies of the soon to be slain defenders, he rushed as fast as he could ahead of his brethren, leaping over bodies and dodging feeble swings of myriad weapons, racing to spare the two celts the slow and painful death at the hands of the horde.

When he finally came to the small room with the two young celts, he stopped dead in his tracks. His stomach sank, his breath caught, and the gods laughed at him in all his shame.

Walking over to their still bodies, he felt the artery under their chins, sensed no life in either of them, and felt his legs nearly buckle beneath him. Regaining his balance with an effort, he noticed the rose in the young woman's hair, and once more felt his eyes water, though he could not reason why.

Feeling no more appatite for blood, he passed back through the halls of the keep. The occasional jeers of one or two of his brethren followed him as he held a small rose in his right hand. They roared with mocking laughter as he wrapped himself in the comforting blanket of the shadows. He said nothing in return as he suppressed a shiver and left the keep.

Oh, how far things have come, he though, as he placed the rose inside his pouch, next to the lock of hair. Oh how very far indeed.

Innocence.

2005-02-20T09:27:00.000-05:00

I am Malthrig, a Celtic soldier and hero of Hibernia. I have seen many battles, and have fought hard for my homeland; I have served as an officer in the Army, have seen my own fortunes rise and fall.

Many grand and glorious things I have witnessed; many base and shameful things, as well. War brings out both the best and the worst in us all. And yet my thoughts often go back to my first year in the Army.

My father was a simple farmer, a plain man; he was a good man as well. He told me the night before I left on my first campaign, "Do the right thing. The right thing is the simple thing, always. A man has to live with himself, and be able to sleep at night." I had always looked up to him, and I told him that eve that I would do as he said.

The next day, full of excitement that only those who have never fought before can feel, I marched into the frontier with my fellow soldiers. Some in my group were veterans, others were new to war as I was. Nervously, I watched those with experience, and tried to do what they did.

After a while, our patrol met some scouts from Albion. The first thing I knew, arrows were flashing past, making hissing sounds as they cut through the air. One of us, a man named Coalan, was struck down by the deadly clothyard shafts. As our rangers responded with their bows, those of us with spear
and sword charged, raising our shields. An arrow glanced off my shield, and I ran forward, finding a Briton behind a tree, nocking another arrow. I slammed him with my shield, sending him to his knees.

"I yield!" he cried haltingly in the Celtic tongue; he had dropped his bow, and was clutching his bleeding head in one hand. I put up my sword, kicked his longbow away, pulled his short sword out of its sheath, and stuck it in my belt. I was elated; I had captured a man!

The brief skirmish had ended with the rest of the scouts running off; I took my captive back towards my group at swordpoint. Tadc, a veteran, scowled fiercely and drew his dagger, advancing upon us. I stood next to the scout, shaking my head at him.

"The bastard killed Coalan, boy," he said in a low voice; "I mean to make him pay, blood for blood."

"He is a prisoner, by rules of war," I heard myself say.

"There's no rules out here, boy," said Tadc, sneering at me. He gripped his dagger and came at the scout, who stood sweating, his face pale.

I stood in front of him, sword at the ready. "You shall not harm him. He killed in battle, what you seek is murder." The others stood by, watching; some looked on with interest, others looked away, as if seeing nothing.

Just then, more Hibernians came up from the rear; I shoved the scout towards them. The man nodded grinned at me as I turned him over to the guards. "If it were me capturin' you, I'd a slit yer throat" he said. He had dead eyes, he was all dead inside. I shivered, and turned away. When I returned, Tadc looked at me with hatred.

"You'll pay for that. Protecting an Alb." He spat at my feet.I said nothing, looking at him impassively.
"Sleep lightly, boy," he said, then turned to talk to two of his stupid, cruel friends. They stared at me stonily.

I hardly slept at all that night; the next day, I could sense the contempt from some of my fellow soldiers, outright hostility in Tadc and his friends. I kept to myself, always aware of who
was around me. But one eve, I fell into a deep dreamless slumber, and awoke, a knife at my throat. In the dim firelight I sensed figures around me.

"Alb lover," Tadc hissed, and kicked me savagely. "This is for Coalan," another said, and I was beaten mercilessly by them.

When it was over, I could barely rise; my eyes had almost swollen shut, and I could feel broken ribs grating in my chest.

It took me a couple weeks of light duty to recover enough to return to my group; nothing was asked nor said about what had happened to me. When I was back with my unit, some men, Tadc and his friends, grinned at me; others looked away. One or two gave me pitying looks.

I worked very hard at soldiering after that incident, and though I made a friend here and there, I mostly kept to myself. I had lost a certain amount of faith, while at the same time understanding what had happened to me. I talked to no one about it. Something had changed inside me. I threw myself
into the Army life.

Months afterwards, I had been recognized by the officers for my hard work, and was made a subaltern, a minor group leader. I was secretly gratified; a little bit of my faith in the Army came back to me. Tadc's crew scrutinized my every move; I treated them just like the rest, determined to do my duty well.

By this time, I had been in several small battles; I knew what it was like to kill a man. I was finding out quickly that war is very little glory, and much ugliness. I fought hard against Hibernia's enemies, but saw little difference in the soldiers on either side; a man is a man.

Then came a big battle, out in Emain Macha. A large force of Albs had attacked through their milewall; we fought them back, step by bloody step. Suddenly, they broke, their forces streaming back through the milegate, towards their keep.

In the rout, my group ran down a knight and his squire. The knight's horse had been downed with an arrow; his squire was attempting to get him to his feet.

I advanced upon them, my men close behind; "Yield!" I yelled, knowing full well that a knight would fetch a good ransom for us.

The knight was sitting upon the grass, his greatsword laying upon the ground out of his reach. His visor was up, staring at me, I could almost see his thinking. His squire, a lad younger than me, looked very scared. The boy had red hair, and wore a handkerchief upon his surcoat, a memento of some young lady whose honor he fought for. The boy raised his sword and stood in front of his lord.

I gestured to him to put the blade down; the boy, pale and breathing hard, raised his weapon, guarding his charge. The young fool was going to fight several men. I knew his honor required it; I felt a tightening in my chest.

"Throw down your arms!" I yelled, advancing. I couldn't allow a delay; at any time, a group of Albs could burst upon us. The boy looked back at his lord, then quickly turned back towards me, holding his sword high in preparation to fight. I looked at
the knight; suddenly the squire ran at me, shouting a name.

I parried his cut easily; an arrow took him under his arm, an expert shot by our ranger. He fell to the ground.

I held my sword to the knight's chest as he took his helmet off, saying "I yield." I looked back at the boy upon the ground; blood bubbled out of his mouth, his white face had a terrified expression. I turned back to the knight, who smiled slightly, saying "You'll get ransom for me. My squire was brave."

I backhanded him with force, my scaled gauntlet smashing against his face. He reeled back, his cheekbone broken; I grabbed him roughly by the arm and said, "You should have made him yield!"

My men behind me smiled grimly; the boy on the ground choked out his life. I was furious. "Take him away," I said, bending down to the boy.

His eyes were wide, filled with fear. I placed my hand upon his brow, and as he expired, the knight said, "Honor has been satisfied." I looked up at him, and Tadc had to put a hand upon my shoulder in restraint.

I don't remember much about afterwards; I was reprimanded and lost my subaltern status for striking a a prisoner of importance. Tadc and his friends took to me after that; I ignored them. I could care less for the punishment, too.

I lost something that day, something more important than a minor officer's status.

Over the years since, many things have happened to me; I have seen greater sorrows, and tasted grander victories. Yet sometimes in my sleep, I see the boy laying upon the ground; sometimes, he has my face. Those are unquiet dreams, and I awake fatigued afterwards, having slept poorly.

Fateful Voyage; A Tale of Albion - I

2005-02-20T09:26:00.000-05:00

He lay upon the grass, trying to rise, but falling back down heavily to his hands and knees. He was weary, making even the pain a distant thing. He looked over and saw his notched broadsword beside him, reached out, and gripped the hilt.

The familiar feel reassured him.

He rolled over and laid upon his back, staring into the sky. It all slowly came back to him. His heartbeat pounded in his ears; he felt feverish.

"I remember", he said to himself through cracked lips, thinking back to the beginning. Suddenly it wasn't his heartbeat pounding, but bells, a great tolling and clanging...

I

The bells pealed, ringing loudly across the city of Camelot. Inside the Holy Church, the very center of the Realm of Albion, many richly-clad bodies were packed one next to the other, all kneeling, abasing themselves towards the altar as the Bishop blessed them all in a loud voice, nearly drowned out by the bells sounding above them all in the cathedral towers.

Caddan McClannad knelt, close by other men-at-arms in one of the back rows. He wore the cloak and surcoat of the Brotherhood of Griffins, and the Templar Cross that showed he was a Paladin. He was a young brown-haired Highlander with striking blue eyes, and a face quick to smile; and smiling he was, looking at his friend Sheymus next to him, who was winking at him and gesturing at a comely lass in a purple robe in front of them. Caddan shook his head, and once again looked towards the floor to try to pray; but he kept on grinning nonetheless.

The crowd was there to be blessed for an upcoming voyage, a voyage to extend the power of Albion in the name of Arthur Rex. There was a curious mix of people in the Chruch that day, many of them men-at-arms and Clerics, Highland Griffons like Caddan; but there were also a smattering of Britons, Mages or Elementalists mostly, a scattering of Scouts, and here and there, a lean Saracen Infiltrator, inevitably dressed in somber colors.

And then the Bishop finished his prayer, and all rose to their feet. The bells had stopped ringing, leaving a vast silence that was almost as deafening to Caddan's ears. Councillor Shaw strode up to the dais, impeccably dressed in an ermine-fringed robe, his medallion of office around his neck.

"I see many proud man and woman of Albion here this day", he said in a clear voice, echoing through the ancient Church. "And like the good Bishop, I wish to add my voice in praying for your success, and eventual safe return."

Shaw went on talking, as Sheymus nudged Caddan. Caddan ignored the big bluff Highlander, but was nudged again, twice. Finally he looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye, to see Sheymus lean over and whisper "Bet ye a mug a ale I bed her". Caddan kept his face carefully neutral as he whispered back, "A beauty like her'd sooner bed a decrepit but rich Duke" and Sheymus chortled until he was kicked by Red Donald in the row behind him. The lady in purple probably did not hear them, Caddan thought, thankful for small favors. The heat from the packed bodies in the Church was stifling.

Eventually the Councillor was done, and all filed out of the great Church of Albion; the sky was clear, deep blue, and the Brotherhood of the Griffon gathered across the way, Highlanders young and old, resplendent in their blue surcoats, surcoats that Caddan knew would be splashed with all manner of alcohol before too much longer. He joined a small group of companions, Sheymus and Red Donald among them, and they all strode down the cobbled street towards Ye Mug.

The inn was crowded and boisterous; they took a table near the back, after dragging a passed-out sot off of it and laying him on the floor. "Hey, hey!" a saucy Briton lass called out, carrying a tray of mugs, "Out to the street with that one!" as Carfryd laughed and dragged the insensible man towards the door.

They drank into the eve, telling tall tales, speculating on the fighting they might see, wondering what being on a ship, a big ship, would be like. Sheymus had pulled the saucy serving lass into his lap and was kissing her neck as she squealed when
Caddan first noticed the man in the corner, alone, a wineglass in his hand.

The man was a Briton, with a trimmed beard and moustache; he was dressed richly, in a fine tunic and dashing cloak. He looked familiar...the man noticed his stare and motioned him over to his table. Caddan rose and took his mug over, turning back to grin as Sheymus was bopped over the head with a serving tray, and the room roared with laughter. He sat down, across from the man.

"Ahhh, a Brave Griffon", the man grinned, leaning back and signalling for two more drinks. "You were at Hurbury, then?" His voice was urbane, cultured.

"Aye" Caddan replied, remembering the retaking of Caer Hurbury three moons ago. Glory and Honor, the words rang once more in his mind, as they stormed the battlements...he suddenly knew who the man was. "Councillor Merton".

Merton chuckled and drank the last of his wine.
"Ex-Councillor is a more appropriate term." He nodded and smiled to the serving girl as she brought another glass and another mug. "It seems we will be shipmates" he said. Caddan set down his mug. "Shipmates?" he said. "Yes," Merton leaned in closer to the Paladin; Caddan realized the man was drunk. "Do you find it strange that I would be joining you?"

In truth, Caddan thought it strange. Merton had been removed from the Council not long ago, for alleged 'improprieties', though wild rumors flew about just what had happened. "Certainly you noticed more than a few troublemakers at the Church today?" the ex-Councillor continued. "Outcasts, the inconvenient...even the unfortunately brave, such as the Brotherhood of the Griffon?"

Caddan thought he knew what the man meant. The Griffons, young Highland upstarts, had outshone the Regent's own Golden Lions that day at Hurbury, causing many a scuffle since. He drank, and looked at Merton.

The ex-councillor raised his wineglass. "Surely you don't think that we were chosen for the expedition because of our honor!" Merton laughed, and leaned back once more, smiling. "Young Highlander, this voyage is our death sentence." He drank down his wine swiftly, while the revelry continued around them.

Fateful Voyage; A Tale of Albion - II

2005-02-20T09:25:00.000-05:00

II

The next morn, there was many a hangover gathered around the East Gate of Camelot. Horses were being readied for the journey in the large courtyard; Brave Griffons strode or staggered around upon the grass, depending upon their state of consciousness.

In the nearby hamlet of Cotswold, not far from the great drawbridge, was a modest inn. Upstairs, Caddan looked out the window of a modest room, and after washing from a basin in the corner, pulled on his tunic, and buckled his swordbelt on.

Trema sat upon the bed, drawing off her nightgown and pulling her breeches on. Caddan watched her with a slight smile as he laced his boots; he enjoyed watching his love dress.

As she stood up to button her top, he took her in his arms once more and kissed her lingeringly. She responded, and then when the kiss ended, she smiled and tightened his swordbelt for him.

"Was hopin' ye'd take it off again, like ye did last night." Caddan's eyes lit as he leaned forward to hiss her hair. "None a that now, Caddan McClannad", laughed Trema, her red hair tumbling free down her back. "Yer already late, an' I don't want ya branded a deserter for one more fling in tha bed!"

"Twould be worth it lass," Caddan said in a low voice. They smiled at each other, and kissed one last time, a gentle, slow kiss.

They gathered up his gear and walked down the narrow stairs, walking out of the Inn towards the East Gate of the capitol.

Several Griffons halloed at Trema, she being a popular Highland lass, known for standing toe to toe with Caddan in arguments and tongue-lashing every fool in sight, which when the Griffons were around, seemed to be many. They loved her feisty spirit as much as Caddan did. Caddan noticed Merton off to one side, dressed in an elegant riding outfit, attended by a servant; the men nodded wordlessly at each other.

As he readied his horse, Trema gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Bring 'im back to me in one piece now," she said to the Griffons. A chorus of shouts assured her they would, and Caddan kissed her one last time and mounted up, moving out with the column of riders moving out the East Gate.

The day was a fair one, and they made good time, crossing Prydwen Bridge and heading towards the Salisbury Plains.

Caddan rode with his group of friends, in the main body with the Griffons. They boasted, they lied, they joked; the usual fare of Highland conversation.

When they stopped to water the horses and stretch their legs at West Downs, Caddan noticed some stony looks from the Briton guards and merchants there. As he fed his horse, his mind wandered to what his father had told him when he had come into his maturity.

His father had told him the night he had left Humberton to take service in Camelot: "Don't let them in the City look down upon ye as a brute as some a those fancy-pants Brits are wont ta do. Be proud a who ye are, and what ye serve. Be loyal and honorable, and show them what it means ta be a Highlander, a man of his word."

He had striven to follow his father's advice; as a guard stared at him, he smiled and nodded his head. The guard turned away, and Caddan laughed. "That one there by the trough, looks like he keeps his spear up his arse" he told Sheymus, who was drinking from his wineskin and blew a froth of wine out of his nose as he choked with laughter. Red Donald yelled for a Cleric, and the Griffons nearby broke into loud laughter.

'See how they like the laughter,' thought Caddan. But he knew the difference between a good and a miserable man had nothing to do with his race, and everything to do with what was inside of him.

They continued on, across the Plains, stretching on for miles. Caddan saw the faint outlines of the standing stones of the fabled Barrows in the distance, shimmering in the noonday heat.

"What be the name a the bloody boat we are takin' agin?" a voice called out from behind him.

" 'Lyonesse Victory' , of the Regent's Fleet" another answered.

"They have an inn aboard, do they?"

"Jest what they need, half the Highlanders fallin' overboard!"

A laugh broke out up and down the line of horses.

By mid-afternoon, they had passed the great cairns where the undead roam at night, and then a tower was visible off to the left of the road, and a great line of trees stretched out as far as the eye could see in front of them.

"Campacorentin Forest," Caddan said to no one in particular.

The forest was very dense, very large; full of strange beings, giant spiders, ruins, and Arthur knew what else. Fortunately, the road, although narrower in the wood, was well-worn. Caddan felt the air cool around him as they passed under the trees; he inhaled the damp, moldy, ancient smell.

As they rode, Caddan was suddenly aware of a horse and rider that had joined the party; a featureless figure, dressed in woodsman's green and brown, with hood raised. What looked like a wolf followed the horse. Some nearby horses whinnied and shied away.

"Hunt, Wolf," the rider said, and the animal bounded off into the woods. Caddan realized the rider was a woman.

After a while, as evening swiftly approached in the dark wood, lights were visible up ahead."That be Ulfwych!" Red Donald cried, relief obvious in his
voice. Many of the Highlanders felt uneasy in the wood as night closed in upon them.

The tower and castle of Caer Ulfwych stood in a clearing at a fork in the road ahead, its torchlit battlements revealing a few guardsmen, a woodsman or two returning with fresh kills slung over their shoulders, and several adventurers clad in bright outfits. Ulfwych was the nearest settlement to Keltoi Foghu, the deadly labyrinth away to the southeast. A small village with merchants had grown next to the castle; not a large place, but a welcome sight for a weary traveler not wishing to face the Forest at night.

As the party dismounted, trumpets were blown, and Lord Ulfwych himself appeared to greet them at the gates, and made arrangements to stable their mounts. They were welcomed into the courtyard, where there were basins of water set out to wash up. The castle Steward informed them of a dinner in the main hall to be held in their honor, and a small cheer went up from the Griffons, who never were ones to miss a free feed.

The dinner that night was more of a feast to Caddan's mind. Ale flowed, and there was venison and quail aplenty, plain fare to some, but satisfying to the Highlanders. The large room was set with extra tables and benches so that the whole party could fit; torches lit the room, and fireplaces blazed merrily. Talking and laughter filled the hall.

Suddenly, a man in the livery of Ulfwych stood and called out, "Livia! A tale!"

Heads turned, until all were looking upon the lass who had joined their party wordlessly in the forest; she was plainly dressed in woodsman's garb, and had been eating by herself in the corner. As she looked up, Caddan saw she was a Briton, plain of face, and seemed not used to the attention.

She spoke in a clear voice. "Good Thomas, you interrupt these Brave Griffons at their feast. None would be interested in a simple huntress's tale."

The man shook his head and smiled. "A simple huntress? I think not. Livia is well-known in the Forest, good Sirs, being of sharp eye and good wit. These gentlemen have not heard how you came to have a wolf from Midgard as a pet!"

There was a stir in the room as all there looked to see Livia; she reluctantly stood, and smiling briefly, she spoke:

"Good gentlemen, I will keep this short, as you have had a long journey, and would rather drink ale than attend to my ramblings. I am Livia, and have been a Scout in Albion's service for years now, finding the solitary life in the woodlands to my liking. I supply the towns and castles with what I bring down with my bow, and have occasionally taken service in the Frontier."

"It was on such a foray, not a year ago, that I found myself in the snowy wilds of Uppland, near Fensalir Faste, scouting out the forces of Midgard for a raid by the Golden Lions. Ever brash, they had wanted to strike the foe at Svasud Faste itself, the gateway to the Frontier for the northern races."

"I think I'm in love, Caddan McClannad" whispered Sheymus next to him. Caddan knew the reputation of the area she spoke about, and knew what kind of skill it took a lone Scout to penetrate all the way through Uppland.

"I had made a small snow-cave in the brush alongside a steep hill for shelter, and was leaving it to roam the area once more. I heard shouts and the clash of steel upon steel, and ran towards the sound. I saw a troop of Golden Lions fighting the foe, Norse and Trolls, in the snow. I slew two Norse who never saw me until my arrows bit deep."

"And then I saw the blood in the snow. I followed a trail to see a little Kobold lass, leaning against a tree; a mortal wound had caught her, and she was dying. She had dark purple skin, and I could not understand her words. But she smiled at me, and with the last strength she had left, she conjured up a wolf, as her kind are skilled to do. I raised my bow, but she pointed at me, and the wolf came to my side and stood there panting; I reached out and stroked its rough fur, and it licked my hand.
The Kobold Huntress laughed a bit, and then she died."

"Ever since, Wolf has been by my side, and a good hunting companion. The dying gift from one woman to another, so to speak." She drank from her mug, and scattered applause rang out for her tale, as others toasted her. "To womanhood! To Livia!"

After a round of drinking, Caddan felt tired, and climbed the stairs to find one of the rooms set aside for the Griffons. As he looked down the stone corridor, he saw a door open at the far end of the hall; a man was framed in the light of the doorway, and another figure joined him there. The figure walked out of the room, the door closing behind her. Caddan suddenly recognized the purple robe and cloak of the lass in the Church. As she walked by him, she gave him a smile; she was absolutely beautiful, blonde hair spread over her shoulders, blue, penetrating eyes; and an air about her that bespoke...promise? Or was it mockery? She strode past him, and he smelled the scent of lilac. He turned to look, but she had gone into another room.

Caddan found a room, with two other Griffons already snoring off the feast upon the rushes on the floor. He lay down, removed his boots, and wrapped himself in his cloak.

He dreamed that night, and in the dream, he was at Hurbury once more. As the gate was breached, he raised his shield against the storm of arrows from the desperate defenders. He was one of the first to burst into the courtyard. Purple energy played over the Griffons who were charging wildly, the energy of Celtic magic, but it merely slowed them, their ferocity and the spells from their own Mages bolstering them. Caddan hacked down a shouting Celt armed with a maul. As the Griffons cleared the courtyard of Celts, the Golden Lions arrived and pushed through the gates. Caddan once more saw their commander, a fierce frown upon his face.

Suddenly, Councillor Merton was at his elbow, taking his sword arm, pointing towards a guard tower along the wall. Caddan ran into the tower, and he was confronted with a beautiful woman, her blonde hair streaming, beckoning to him, a mocking smile upon her face...

Caddan sat up with a start, sweat upon his brow, realized he had been dreaming, and lay back down. Sleep eventually took him once more.

Fateful Voyage; A Tale of Albion - III

2005-02-20T09:24:00.000-05:00

III

The next day, they departed Ulfwych, and continued on, through the Forest.

Caddan kept a careful eye out upon the column; he saw Livia towards the front, riding with a pair of other Scouts. He rode back down the road, and pulled his horse up next to Merton and his servant. The Briton nodded politely at him.

He asked the man if he had seen the blonde woman in a purple outfit; Merton smiled faintly.

"I haven't seen her on the road; but I saw her in my chamber last eve. You speak of Lady Ulrika, otherwise known as the Ice Witch."

Caddan had heard the name; once rumored to be the Regent's consort, she had spun a web at Court very artfully, but the web was too complicated, eventually leading to her banishment. It was said that the Ice Witch was as ambitious as any Councillor or Bishop, with the additional weapon of her beauty. Men in high places had lost everything on a gamble for her affections. Some were no longer alive.

He didn't ask Merton about his visit with her; it was a man's own business, he figured, and Merton wasn't speaking about it. He wheeled back down the column, rejoining Sheymus, Red Donald, Carfryd and the rest.

By mid-day they had come out of the Forest, the willow trees and pools showed that they were at the edge of the Avalon Marshes. They stopped briefly at Adribard's Retreat to pay respects to Lord Adribard, and then rode to the Portal.

The Portal was a shimmering blue-white oval of energy. They rode through it, and instantly found themselves in Gothwaite Harbor.

Gothwaite was a bustling seaside town, full of merchants and dwellings, with ships pulled up to the piers. Castle Gothwaite, large and looming, looked down upon the port from atop a high hill.

They were met at the Portal by Sir Ward Wallace, Commander of the Brotherhood of the Griffons. He had been busy arranging supplies and berths for his men on the ship. The Griffons greeted the old Highlander heartily; he was a popular leader who knew each one of them, and always had time to speak to every man.

After a meal and short round of speeches at Castle Gothwaite, the Griffons and their fellow voyagers went down to the docks, to find their berths and stow their gear aboard their ship.

The 'Lyonesse Victory' was a large ship of three masts, painted red and blue. The Highlanders looked at her in awe, most not being familiar with ships or the sea. The ship was an impressive sight to them; but to those who knew their sailing vessels, she had seen long service, and was old. Her crew was mostly Britons and Saracens, smaller men with a peculiar swaying gait upon the land, indicating a life normally spent at sea. The last of the gear and provisions were being loaded by porters; Caddan walked up the gangway onto the deck.

He looked up to the sterncastle, and saw Ward Wallace speaking with an older man. He found his way belowdecks through a ladder hatchway, and was directed to one of the rooms where the Griffons were berthed. it was dark and crowded; he placed his gear in a sea-chest next to a hammock, one in a long row that ran the length of the low room.

He went back up on deck, where the Captain, an older man dressed in grey, was addressing crew and passengers.

"I'm Captain Wyndam of the Regent's ship 'Lyonesse Victory' . As you know, we will be heading out to the New Lands, sailing along the shoreline to claim lands for Albion. We will be looking for good places to start a colony, and seeing who inhabits the lands there. We will be accompanied by the Regent's own 'Phantom' , a war galley that will meet us off of Avalon Point. There has been a sighting or two of longships in the area, so the 'Phantom' will be our escort."

"I know that many of you are not used to being at sea. If you feel sick, lean over the rail. Most get used to it after a while. And accomodations will be somewhat tight. Let's all make the best of it. Get settled in, and we will sail at first light."

Caddan joined the Griffons in finding a tavern in Gothwaite to celebrate their departure in the morn. "Nothin' like a hangover on top a bein' seasick" he chuckled to himself as he drank.

After a few drinks, they all headed back to the ship, climbed awkwardly into their hammocks, and fell asleep.

Early the next morning, the cries of sailors and the rattle of the anchor chain awoke them; they climbed stiffly to the deck, to watch their departure. The townsfolk stood on the docks, watching as they slipped the ropes off of the quay. Suddenly, a familiar figure was spotted, running along the dock. Caddan saw Sheymus dive headfirst into the water and grab a rope flung to him by a sailor. Behind him on the dock, a buxom wench, her bodice untied and barefoot, yelled curses that made Caddan turn red as Sheymus was hauled up on the deck.

"What's this now?," Ward Wallace demanded of the soaked Highlander.

"Well, Sir Wallace, I fear I nae had enough coin fer the sweet lass," Sheymus said, looking down at his feet. The Griffons broke out in a roar of laughter as Wallace took a small bag from the pouch on his belt and tossed it over the rail at the wench, who caught it deftly and opened it to see the gleam of silver. She immediately started blessing the knight, whereupon the crowd upon the dock and those shipboard clapped and cheered. The sailors grinned, thinking it a good omen for the start of the voyage.

They sailed with a fair wind, in sight of the coast. Caddan stood at the rail, chuckling at the occasional Griffon who leaned miserably overboard. The weather was grand, and the sailors went about their labor as their passengers walked the deck.

"Don't know if I'd want to be doin' that, now," said Red Donald, watching a sailor scamper up a mast and shimmy out onto a yardarm to untangle some lines.

"I hear ya" replied Caddan; a door opened upon the afterdeck, where some of the more spacious rooms were, and the Ice Witch strode out upon the deck. She was dressed in a black gown this day; an Infiltrator, a lean Saracen also dressed in black, his face impassive, walked with her. Men bowed to her as she walked by; she inclined her head to them, a small smile upon her face.

Caddan watched her walk along the deck, and then ascend to the afterdeck, and speak with the Captain.

He suddenly heard a deep thrumming sound, and turned. He saw Livia the Scout, dressed in her hunting outfit as always, shooting her bow at a padded target set up against the foredeck for practice. Her Wolf was at her side, seeming not to mind being at sea. A small group of Griffons gathered around her, Sheymus among them. Caddan shook his head and chuckled.

"That one with- Milady- is called Blackhand."

Caddan turned to see Merton, looking tired and a bit pale, standing next to him, elegantly clad as usual. A wine goblet was in his hand. "Blackhand...sounds familiar," Caddan mused.

"Poisoner and assassin for the Guild of Shadows," Merton returned, frowning slightly and turning to lean upon the rail, looking out to sea. "He is her pet of the moment, apparently. Her favorites don't seem to...be around long."

"An' were you one, once?"

"Yes. Won't deny it," admitted Merton. "And don't regret it, either. He got a faraway look in his eyes. "Pleasure. And pain. Both like you never dreamed of...you knew you were alive, with her. Alive, but under her control. Be careful."

Caddan started to speak, then stopped. He looked up at the afterdeck once more, and saw Lady Ulrika looking down upon him and Merton; when their eyes met, she smiled that incomprehensible smile of hers he saw that eve in Ulfwych, and then she strolled away. Blackhand stood for a moment longer, staring at him, and then he followed, his dark cloak swirling behind him. Caddan remembered his dream.

The next day, the good weather held; they were making good time, according to Sir Ward, and were due to meet the war-galley 'Phantom' . Livia continued her archery practice upon the middle deck; Sheymus had took it upon himself to retrieve her arrows for her, which she accepted with a blush, causing grins among the Griffons.

Caddan saw Avalon Point approaching, a wooded headland jutting out into the sea; suddenly a lookout halloed, and he saw a swift, low galley appear from behind the Point, rowing towards them. It took only a few minutes to reach them, using its sail as well as oars; as it pulled alongside, Caddan saw the catapult and the scorpion upon its deck, ready for action. From its prow jutted an iron ram. This was definitely a warship; he saw soldiers upon its deck.

A small party of officers came aboard the 'Lyonesse Victory' to talk with Captain Wyndam and Sir Wallace. Caddan gazed upon the deck of the
'Phantom' , and thought to recognize one of the soldiers there, but the man went belowdecks before he could be certain...

The next day, the weather was clouding up, but the wind was still in their sails, as they turned course out to sea, towards the New Lands. Griffons, getting used to the rhythm of the swaying deck, practiced at swordplay with each other, using blunted weapons.

After dueling with Carfryd a while, and working up a good sweat, Caddan stripped to the waist and washed himself in a barrel of water set upon the deck. As he pulled his tunic on, he felt a soft hand upon his shoulder; he turned to look into the eyes of Lady Ulrika.

Her eyes were the deepest blue Caddanhad ever seen. The scent of lilacs washed over him; her hair blew freely in the breeze, as she smiled at him. 'That smile,' Caddan thought. Blackhand stood behind her, out of hearing range, arms folded upon his chest.

"You fight hard, Paladin." Her voice was low, almost musical.

"Thank ye. Lady Ulrika, I am Caddan McClannad."

"Oh, I know," she said, her eyes flickering down his body for a moment, leaving Caddan wondering if he had only imagined it. "Paladins are...a special type of man." She smiled into his eyes again. "But men, nonetheless. I've heard tell that you were one of the first through the gates at Caer Hurbury."

It was a statement, phrased to sound like a question. Caddan was still mulling over her previous words, and snapped out of his wondering. "Aye. It was a hard fight that day, the Celts were fierce." He thought it stupid what he had said, and felt the blood rising to his cheeks. He felt like a lad talking to a maid for the very first time.

"Fierce...but you were fiercer. Would you like to join me and my friend this eve for dinner in my cabin to tell us about it? Afterwards, I am sure we can," she leaned in a bit closer, "entertain ourselves." Her eyes were fixed upon hers; he felt his body respond, and at that moment he knew why they called her the Ice Witch. Her eyes were inviting, but inside them...they were cold. Hard.

"I am sorry, but I have a lass back home," Caddan said in a low voice, feeling an odd pang inside of him, one of regret. The Ice Witch smiled back at him, but her eyes were not smiling, Caddan thought.

"How- quaint," she said, drawing back from him a bit. The spell broke, and he later could not remember what they said in parting, but she walked on along the deck, stopping to speak occasionally with another, followed by her pet; 'Blackhand's as much a pet to her as Wolf is to Livia', Caddan thought. He went belowdecks to his hammock, and lay there, thinking.

In the morning, they found Merton dead in his bed; the ship's surgeon was puzzled, seeing no signs of illness nor violence. He was buried at sea in a small ceremony; Caddan bowed his head and said his own prayer as Captain Wyndam said some words, and wondered who would miss him among the living. Sadness clouded his thoughts.

That afternoon, he practiced more with sword and shield with different Griffons. He was restive, still unsettled. He tried to think on Merton, but ended up thinking of Merton's words of Lady Ulrika. He felt...regret? He wasn't sure. He trained harder, trying to clear his mind.

By late afternoon, he finished his training, and washed up, sitting down upon a pile of rope, watching other Griffons spar, shouting occasional advice. Livia was shooting her longbow once more, the sound of the shafts speeding home to her target cutting though the clank of metal on metal.

Suddenly, he felt a soft hand upon his shoulder once more. He looked up, and saw Lady Ulrika standing above him, looking down at him. She wore a crimson robe today; Caddan was snared by her eyes. She bent down and whispered to him, "My friend and I missed you last night."

Suddenly, Caddan remembered Ulfwych, remembered her coming out of Merton's room, and his eyes saw Blackhand a distance behind her, with a faint smile upon his face. He remembered Merton's love of wine, and who the poisoner for the Guild of Shadows was. Anger flashed in his mind.

"Milady's bed is rarely cold, I hear," he heard himself say. "Could Merton show ye no new tricks?"

Her eyes hardened; she turned and walked away from him as he pondered what he had said, marveling at himself, cursing himself for not joining her, becoming hers, as he stood and walked towards the mast to gather his sword and shield to go belowdecks.

"Insult Milady, Highland dog?" a soft voice said as Caddan bent over to pick up his shield. He heard the soft whisper of steel unsheathed, and as he started to react, heard a deep thrum and then a wet smacking sound, and a shriek of pain.

Caddan whirled around, seeing Blackhand standing behind him, his hand pinned to the mast by a clothyard arrow as he yelled in pain, pulling at the shaft; his long dagger clattered to the deck, and Caddan thought to see a dark ichor upon the blade. He looked across the deck and saw Livia standing still as stone, another arrow nocked in her bow, and Sheymus behind her, gaping at the sight. He bowed low to Livia, and, as sailors called for the Ship's Surgeon, he strode belowdecks. The Ice Witch was nowhere to be seen.

Fatefeul Voyage; A Tale of Albion - IV

2005-02-20T09:23:00.000-05:00

IV

Caddan stood before Captain Wyndam and Sir Ward Wallace in the Captain's cabin. As the two older men talked in low voices, he gazed out of the glass window that showed a view of the sea from the stern of the ship. He thought of Trema, and wished he was back in the Inn in Cotswold with her.

"We've sent Blackhand over to the 'Phantom' ," Wyndam said to him, his face showing no emotion. "And from what we've heard from those on deck, he drew steel first."

"However. I will not tolerate any disputes aboard 'Lyonesse Victory' . Do I make myself clear, lad?" Caddan nodded and said "Aye Sire, ye do."

Ward Wallace winked slightly at him, and as Caddan left the cabin, he thought he had gotten off lucky. He walked along the deck, and spotted Livia, standing with her Wolf looking out at the waves. He walked up next to her and stood facing the railing, looking out upon the view with her.

"Thank ye, lass."

"It was all reflex, Sire."

"Bah, Ward is the only Knight aboard! Call me Caddan. And I'm sorry I got yer bow taken away."

Livia smiled slightly and stroked Wolf's fur. "It is only a temporary situation. We make landfall soon."

The sea gently rolled, gulls flying over the surface; here and there, a flying fish leapt from the water, through the air.

"I thank ye just the same. Iffen you need anything, count on the Griffons to back ye up, lass."

Caddan strode towards the hatchway to go belowdecks. Red Donald called out to him.

"Well now, McClannad! Ya make pretty good bait, ya do. Who's next gonna try an slit yer throat?"

"Watch it, Donald! Yer like ta get Sheymus after me, since he can't gather up Livia's arrows for her no more!"

Sheymus turned red as several nearby Griffons laughed.

The next day Caddan was in his hammock, sharpening his broadsword, when the cry rang out above. "Land!" The word spread belowdeck, and all, including Caddan, climbed the ladder to get a glimpse of the New Lands.

As the shoreline loomed larger, Caddan noticed how dense the forest grew, right up to the strip of beach. He saw no sign of inhabitants. The two ships turned course to sail along the shore.

Later in the afternoon, a small bay was sighted; two skiffs, small lateen-rigged ships, were anchored there. As they headed for them, a good-sized wooden fort came into view upon the shore, made up of tall logs spaced closely together; blockhouses were at the four corners of the square structure.

"Deliverance Bay," a sailor said as he was hauling in a rope.

Deliverance Bay, so named because its discoverers had been sheltered within its waters while a storm crashed against the coast. Caddan looked into the sky; clouds were forming for a storm of their own, it seemed.

The 'Lyonesse Victory' and the 'Phantom' dropped anchors in the bay, and the ship's boats were readied to transfer people to shore. Two boats came out to meet them from the shore near the fort as well.

Fort Deliverance was a shabby place. Everything was made out of rough-hewn timber, soggy due to frequent rains. Refuse lay in heaps in the yard. Guards walked the parapets and stood in the guardhouses; they looked as shabby as the fort. There was no sign of the fort's leaders.

As the Griffons moved into Fort Deliverance, Sir Ward motioned for Caddan to follow him. They walked out of the gates, into the field that had been cleared of all trees and brush for a space around the wooden pallisades.

"Lad," Ward said, "there's rumors about this place I don't like. And I'm not talkin' only about the warbands out in the forests. Keep the Griffons on their toes. Wyndam's a good man, but there are others round that don't wish us well. Many a the garrison here are outcasts and impressed petty criminals, and I am not sure I like the officers much more. Keep your sword close."

Caddan nodded wordlessly.

Back in the fort, the Griffons discovered their accomodations to be straw pallets in a long low shed against one of the fort's walls. "This looks more a stable!" said Carfryd. It looked to the Griffons like their former ship's hammocks weren't so bad, after all. They would be at the fort at least until the weather cleared up before sailing on up the coast to search

That eve, Caddan was out in the yard of the fort on an errand when he spotted the Ice Witch; she was in the two-story officer's house, looking out a window, an oil lantern glowing behind her, giving her an eerie look.

The next day, a drizzle was falling from the darkened sky. Caddan was up on the parapets huddled in his cloak when he heard a yell from a blockhouse; men ran along the walkway at the top of the wall.

In the field in front of the gate, a man limped into view. Two guardsmen left a sally port in the gate and ran to him, carrying him between them, as those on the walls looked on.

Sir Wallace appeared in the yard. "Griffons! At the gates!" The Griffons ran to comply, and the gates were open enough to let them out. As they gathered around, Red Donald yelled, "Shieldwall!", and the men fell into a broad formation, those with shields overlapping theirs with their neighbors. Several men ran off to the edge of the field in the direction that the limping man had come from; Livia and two other Scouts faded into the trees, Wolf close behind them.

Caddan stood in the shieldwall, next to Carfryd and Sheymus. He looked up; the sky was boiling now, the wind was picking up, and the rain started falling harder. Suddenly, the day was split open by a lightning bolt flashing across the sky. As the thunder rolled away, he heard shouting and the clank of steel in the woods ahead of them.

Suddenly, the men who had dashed into the woods ran back into the clearing; one was being supported by another. "Advance!" came the yell, and Carfryd nudged Sheymus and grinned from under his helmet. The shieldwall moved forward.

From the edge of the clearing, visible through the rain; dark figures appeared; short javelins flew suddenly towards them, most rattling off the shields, and then many skin-clad men suddenly darted towards them, holding wicker shields and spears. The Highlanders in the shieldwall gave a yell and surged forward; the clash was furious, with the Griffons sending the other men reeling back, spears and light shields splintering under Highland steel, a few upon the ground, dead or dying as the Highlanders stepped over them. The rest retreated back into the woods; Caddan saw one man fall, an arrow protruding from his side. The others ran off in the woods.

"Halt!" cried Red Donald. The Griffons stopped at the wood's edge. "Caddan, Derval, take a look lads," and Caddan was off, along with a tall Griffon. They advanced slowly into the trees; they found two dead warriors, and a third maoning. As Derval rolled him over, his eyes went sightless. Livia strode up silently, Wolf at her side, her bow at the ready. Caddan nodded to her.

They backed their way into the clearing, where the shieldwall stood down. "Headin' into the woods ta fight on their terms, I think not," Red Donald was saying as they headed back towards the gate. It was pouring rain now; the men ran for shelter. A few searched the bodies of the dead.

Back in the barracks, Caddan heard Red Donald telling the others: "The man who made it back ta the fort...he was the only survivor of a patrol, apparently. Sir Ward said he was let go by someone known as 'the Avalonian', to send a message back."

Someone asked him what the message was; Red Donald smiled and said, " 'Leave or die.' And we sail soon as the weather clears ta look for 'em."

Fateful Voyage; A Tale of Albion - V

2005-02-20T09:22:00.000-05:00

V

Caddan sat next to Red Donald and Sheymus, watching Sir Ward Wallace, standing next to the bonfire, speak with the one they called the Avalonian.

They were in the center of a village, up the coast from Fort Deliverance. The Griffons had sailed there to meet the enemy, under a flag of truce. The village itself was of a modest size, but filled with fierce warriors with wicker shields and spears. The Griffons were in full armor, weapons at their sides.

The Avalonian was a tall, otherworldly figure, dressed in a simple dark robe; he had long white hair tied into a braid. Caddan had seen few Avalonians before- the man's appearance was very striking. How he came to be in this land, he couldn't begin to guess. He was speaking in a deep voice.

"You are the interlopers here. Albion shall not have this land. Go back from whence you came, and tell your masters so. And take this one with you."

The Avalonian raised his hand, and two warriors entered a nearby hut. They returned, a familiar figure in between them.

"Lady Ulrika!" said Sir Ward. "What in the name of-"

"She was sent to persuade me to see Albion's side," the Avalonian smiled. "She wastes her time and efforts with me."

The Ice Witch said nothing, her face neutral. She was dressed in a richly-hued blue woolen dress with a matching cloak. Caddan stared at her, wondering where Her Pet was, wondering-

Sir Ward spoke up. "Caddan, Sheymus, escort Lady Ulrika back to the 'Victory' ."

Caddan and Sheymus moved to her side; Sheymus said softly, "follow us, Milady"; the Ice Witch ignored Caddan, nodded her head slightly to Sheymus. They walked off towards the ship.

As soon as they were away from the village, she spoke:
"There is a boat hidden in the cove, not far from where your ship is anchored. Take me there."

"Milady, Sir Ward said-"

"I know what Sir ward said," she almost spat the words. "There are two men waiting there who are in peril if they do not know that I am returning."

Caddan thought this over; he nodded curtly, and set out in that direction.

They ended up on the further side of the cove; a boat was pulled up in the brush just off of the beach. Caddan cursed and drew his broadsword when he saw the bodies sprawled, bloody and lifeless, next to it.

From the other side of the cove, horns sounded. Men yelled.

"Quickly!" Caddan said, running back the way he came. Sheymus drew his sword on the run. Caddan forgot the Ice Witch, forgot everything with the impending feeling of dread washing over him. As they ran along the shore, a Highlander in armor, bleeding from a cut upon his arm, crashed out of the trees near them.

"Carfryd!" Sheymus yelled. Carfryd looked around wildly, saw them, and ran to them, wincing in pain, gripping his injured arm.

"Bloody assassination! Someone fired a crossbow bolt into the Avalonian during the truce!"

Caddan's mind reeled. He thought immediately of Blackhand. Her Pet. Lady Ulrika was not to be seen.

"When he was struck, his guards attacked in a fury. Sir Ward went down in the first rush," Carfryd continued. "Red Donald tried to rally the men, but before we could form a shieldwall, they were too many. Griffons scattered, running for the ship-"

Along the beach, groups of warriors had emerged, running out of the forest.

"Back the way we came!" said Sheymus. "Let's find Lady Ulrika and take the boat out to the ship! We'll never make it along the shore!"

The three Highlanders ran through the sand along the beach, back towards the boat. They saw nothing of the Ice Witch, however. As they pulled the boat down towards the water, Sheymus called out.

"The 'Phantom!' "

It was the war-galley indeed, turning into the cove from the open sea. As they readied the boat, Caddan kept an eye upon the 'Lyonesse Victory' . He saw Griffons run out into the water, casting their armor aside, trying to make it to the ship. Others had jumped in the boats along the shore and were rowing; many others fought hand-to-hand with a growing swarm of warriors who surged onto the beach. Caddan cursed, burning with rage that he was not fighting beside the other Griffons.

As the war-galley sped swiftly into the cove, a gold and red banner was hoisted upon its mast- the flag of the Golden Lions. "What in the name of..." Caddan trailed off.

The 'Lyonesse Victory' had taken on some of the Griffons and was setting sail out towards the ocean. The ship's boats fished men out of the water.

What they all saw next caused them to stop what they were doing and gape in disbelief.

The 'Phantom' , rowing swiftly and under full sail, rammed the 'Lyonesse Victory' amidships with its long iron ram.

Men fell screaming out of the 'Victory's rigging. Men milled around the deck in panic as a volley of crossbow bolts was fired from the 'Phantom' into their midst.

The 'Lyonesse Victory' heeled sharply to starboard as it took on water. The 'Phantom' backed oars, raking the decks with more crossbow fire; its catapult and scorpion fired deadly projectiles that cut men down upon the deck.

"Bastards!" Sheymus yelled, and shook his fist. "The Golden Lions!"

A group of warriors burst out of the woods, and ran at them. The three Griffons turned to fight them.

Carfryd went down first, cursing; the wound on his arm had slowed him. He buried his sword in a warriors chest as he was struck down.

Caddan and Sheymus fought back to back; they had slain three warriors when still more figures poured out of the woods. Thirty men surrounded them. One man gave orders, gesturing, and the warriors reversed their spears, using the butt-ends of their shafts to beat the two men to the ground, through force of sheer numbers. They were disarmed roughly, arms tied behind their backs, and marched back towards the village.

As Caddan was marched off the beach, blood pouring from a scalp wound forced him to close one eye; with the other, he gazed upon a terrible scene.

The 'Lyonesse Victory' was sinking; bodies floated upon the water. The 'Phantom' could be seen in the distance, rowing out to sea. Upon the beach, dead Griffons were strewn upon the bloody sand. They had taken many warriors with them, Caddan noticed with a savage pride. There lay Red Donald, with six of the bastards ripped open around his body. Caddan laughed bitterly.

One of the warriors guarding him smashed his spear-shaft across Caddan's mouth, busting a lip and cracking a tooth; Caddan spat blood as he eyed the man evilly. He was prodded at spearpoint onto the path towards the village.

Caddan and Sheymus were brought before the Avalonian, who sat upon the ground beneath a tree; a woman dressed his chest wound with some kind of herbal broth and was bandaging him up. Before him on the ground lay Blackhand, a battered bloody mess. A moan came from his lips.

The Avalonian looked up at them, smiling grimly. "The Saracen fired true, but the Elder Gods protected me. I am their messenger, and Albion shall be cleansed from these lands." the fire of fanaticism was in his eyes.

"Tie him to a post; we shall see how long it takes a truce-breaker to die under the knives of the warbands." He gestured at Blackhand, and two warriors dragged him off. "Ulrika," the Saracen croaked in a pain-filled voice, a statement, or perhaps a question.

"She made it, lad," Caddan heard himself say, as if from a distance. He was beaten to his knees with spear-butts for his words.

"These two shall face the Gauntlet. Make preparations."

Caddan and Sheymus were marched to the edge of the village. Women and boys surrounded them, taunting them as they were stripped of armor and clothing; warriors argued over who would get what piece of loot. Caddan looked impassively straight ahead; his mind was far away. He thought of Trema, how her smile had always warmed him, how they had made love that last night in Cotswold, the look upon her face as-

"Hope Livia made it," Sheymus said, smiling at Caddan. His face was a mass of bruises from when he had fought his subduers with his fists and teeth.

Caddan smiled back at his oldest friend. "If anyone could, it would be her and her Wolf."

They both watched a double line of men forming, every one of them carrying a club. They understood what was to happen as they were shoved, clad only in loincloths, towards the gauntlet.

Caddan looked at his friend the last time and took his hand in his, squeezing.

"Sheymus, let's show em how a Highlander lives and dies, shall we?"

His closest friend, the man who had saved his life twice in battle, who had been there for him through thick and thin, always with a smile on his face, squeezed his hand in return, and laughed.

They both took off running fast, barefoot over the grass. The warriors were caught off-guard; the captives were running the gauntlet before they were told!

Caddan yelled, "Run like ye ran from that wench on the docks at Gothwaite, ye old horndog!" Sheymus laughed wildly as he picked up speed, outdistancing Caddan, his large body flying between the lines of men.

That is how Caddan remembered his friend; laughing in the face of death, so full of mirth that the bastards who beat him down with their clubs could not take away the man's spirit, even though they took his life.

Sheymus had ran ahead on purpose; most of the warriors rained their blows down upon the big man, as Caddan took less blows. Caddan was slammed with blows upon his back, his thighs, his shoulders; Sheymus, ahead of him, was beaten to the ground. As he lay face-down, the warriors continued to beat him.

"You call yourselves men!" Caddan screamed, shrugging off the blows, and crouched over his friend, shielding the body with his; pain exploded inside him as he was smashed across the head. He felt a bone break in his arm, and he fell forward upon Sheymus; but the big Highlander was already gone.

He couldn't tell how much longer he was beaten; he heard a voice say something in a language he could not understand, and suddenly, he was picked up and thrown down upon the grass at the edge of the village. He was battered bloody, every nerve in his body screaming; broken bones grated upon each other. He could not move.

He faded in and out of consciousness.

It was morning suddenly. Caddan lay where he had been left; a warrior stood over him, looking at him. When the man saw his eyes move, the man nodded at him, and said awkwardly; 'Brave, you.' He held a waterskin to Caddans lips. Caddan drank greedily, but coughed most of it up. He became aware of a terrible screaming in the distance; he remembered Blackhand, and then he passed out once more from the pain.

Fateful Voyage; A Tale of Albion - VI

2005-02-20T09:21:00.000-05:00

VI

The warrior had been impressed with the Highlander's strength of will, how he clung to life. But the reason that he had dragged Caddan into the woods on a makeshift bier to the Old Woman's hut was this: Caddan tried to shield Sheymus' body from the blows of the gauntlet. The warrior once had a friend who looked like Sheymus. His Gods had spoke to him and told him: let their will be done. And he had done so, having proper fear for the Gods.

A silent shadow watched from the trees as the warrior left Caddan, laying upon the crude bier of branches, at the front door of the small isolated hut. As the door opened, the warrior fled running. The shadow, barely visible, reached out and stroked the fur of the wolf who stood quietly at her side.

Caddan faded in and out; he had no concept of the passage of time. He sensed he was in a small enclosed space, ill-lit by a small fire. He felt a presence near him often. Once he awoke long enough to see an old woman standing over him, her hands glowing blue with a purifying, healing force. He looked up at her face, and saw she was terribly disfigured. Leprosy. She turned away from him when she saw his gaze upon her, and slowly walked away.

Caddan slept. He dreamed, and he remembered.

He was at Hurbury again, in the courtyard, dead Celts around him and his comrades. His chest was heaving, he felt truly alive; he had faced death and won. For some reason it felt strange to be able to walk, to talk, to see his friends; this was disquieting in the back of his mind.

Then the Golden Lions entered the gates; their commander was upon a magnificent warhorse, dressed richly in cloth of gold finery. As he watched himself turn to the man on horseback, Caddan wanted to cry out a warning to all the Griffons in the courtyard, but he could not; all his comrades were talking excitedly of the battle. All of them would be dead a few moons later. He could only watch what happened. It was set in stone now.

Lord Braxton looked down upon him from his high horse, once again. A sneer was on his face. The Golden Lions were an elitist lot. Caddan saw himself grin and say, "Better late than never, Milord!" Red Donald hooted with laughter nearby, and the Griffons took up the mirth. Braxton scowled at him.

Caddan realized then: it was me. What I said doomed my friends, my Guild. I am responsible.

He drifted out of consciousness, feverish, uncaring. He cared not if he lived or died.

The Old Woman brought him back with her healing magics. She who was shunned as one touched by the Gods and Goddesses, an outcast, brought him back.

He dreamt of the Griffons. Sheymus, Red Donald, Carfryd, Sir Ward, all of the others. They stood silently, their death wounds showing plainly.

He dreamt of Lord Braxton. All he saw was his hateful face.

He dreamt of Trema. He heard her say things to him, conversations he had forgotten, things of no consequence. But they gave him something to hold onto, to remember. He started to heal.

He awoke with the Old Woman wiping his face with a damp rag. He lay upon a crude bed, naked, two blankets over him. He looked up into her disfigured face, and suddenly reached up to touch her cheek lightly, caressing it. She lowered her eyes; he thought to see tears welling there before she turned away.

As he grew stronger, mended by the strange magics of her, he walked around the hut. He could walk a little more each time he tried. He was soon walking in the woods nearby, and then was building his strength by chopping firewood with a crude hatchet. He made large piles of kindling for the Old Woman, who kept to herself in the hut, away from him.

He was chopping wood one day when Wolf appeared out of the trees. He looked up, startled, and saw Livia appear at the wood's edge. He smiled at her, then kept on chopping.

She walked up to him; Wolf nuzzled his leg.

She looked into his eyes; what she saw made her blink, and then she placed her arms around him as the tears leaked out of his eyes.

"It was my doing. All are gone, save me."

"Caddan, we must go. You have your lady to return to."

"I am the reason for this."

"What is her name?"

"Trema." He stood quietly; she stared at him.

"I am taking you back," she said, turning back to the woods, and then returning with a bundle. "Clothing,
a hauberk, a sword." She pressed the bundle into his hands. He looked down at them. The clothes came from a Griffon.

He stood, staring at the clothes, for a long time. Then he quietly put them on, along with the mail hauberk. He fitted the bastard sword's sheath over his shoulder.

He carried the last load of firewood to the hut, placing it against the wall. Then he went through the door. The Old Woman was nowhere to be seen.

They left, walking through the forest.

~~~

Guilford arose late that morning, head pounding from the sour ale he'd drank to much of. He gathered his gear and walked slowly out of Fort Deliverance, down towards the beach.

He didn't like the new troops that were at the Fort; Golden Lions. He snorted. They were arrogant, liked to order you around. He had no use for men like that. Give him a good Captain though, and a ship to sail, and he would gladly sail the seas; the life of a sailor was better than that of a peasant, by far.

Hugh joined him at the boat, muttering a good morning. They rowed out to the skiff, and started to inspect the rigging. they had some minor repairs to do today. Hugh said, "Too bad there was no room for berth upon the 'Phantom' ." Guildford nodded and replied, "Back to Gothwaite for them, lucky sea-dogs." Guildford wondered where the guard was-

Suddenly, the hatch leading to belowdeck crashed open. Guildford saw a remarkable sight; a gaunt Highlander, eyes burning, clutching a long sword appeared; followed by a woman scout with an arrow nocked in her bow, and a wolf! Hugh gave a cry.

"You will sail for Avalon Isle. Now." The Highlander's tone left no room for questioning. Hugh started to say something, but Guilford placed a hand upon his arm in warning.

"I'll set the sail," he said. "Hugh, haul anchor."

It was hours before anyone noticed that the skiff was gone. There was much shouting in the fort, and the two remaining skiffs sailed off in pursuit, with Golden Lions aboard.

Fateful Voyage; A Tale of Albion - VII

2005-02-20T09:20:00.000-05:00

VII

"Faster, damn you!"

The Sargent, dark cloak streaming behind him, stood upon the bow of the skiff. He was dressed in the golden armor and livery of the Golden Lions; he had a crossbow in his hands.

Though he was yelling orders to the sailors behind him, he kept his attention focused upon the skiff ahead of him; it was swiftly approaching Avalon Isle. He wasn't in bowshot range yet.

Behind him, his men loaded crossbows. Sailors trimmed the billowing sail. But the skiff they were chasing would beat them to the shore, a barren place near Drakoran encampments. Foul beasts, the Sargent thought. Always hated them.

After a while, he saw a man jump into the water, wading in towards shore. His men crowded around him on the bow, watching. They were slightly out of range.

He saw a slim figure upon the stern of the skiff head of him; as he cried out a warning, a blurry object flew by his head, hissing in his ear. Behind him, a man screamed and clutched a clothyard shaft that had sprouted from his chest; it had pierced his armor with ease.

"Down, everyone!," the Sargent shouted, crouching low. A man next to him raised his head above the prow to take a long shot with his crossbow; another clothyard shaft took him in the eye. He was dead before his body hit the boards beneath his knees.

Everyone lay flat upon the deck, including the sailors. There was no sound save for the water sloshing against the hull as the skiff sailed, unmanned, towards the shore.

Finally, after some minutes, the Sargent worked up enough courage to peek over the prow, mouthing a silent prayer to God. He saw the skiff beached upon the sand, and two sailors waving at him. He saw no sign of the damned female and her longbow, nor the Highlander.

"Up, up! They run! We will have them now!," he shouted.

His men prepared to debark as they closed on the beach.

~~~

They ran up and away from the shore, Caddan in the lead, Livia keeping an eye out behind them, her longbow and an arrow in her hands. Wolf sprinted ahead, obviously glad to be off the skiff. They ran into a patch of tangled trees.

Suddenly a deep roar sounded from ahead. Wolf howled, and backed slowly towards them.

The Drakoran burst from the brush ahead of them, looking like a scaled demon from the pits of Hell. Its small eyes glittered with malevolence.

Livia's longbow sang; an arrow glanced off its armored hide.

Caddan drew his blade from the sheath over his shoulder, holding the hilt in both hands.

As Wolf lunged at the beast, another shaft from the longbow pierced the Drakoran's right arm; it grunted in pain, maddened. Wolf grabbed its leg as Caddan swung his sword as hard as he could downwards, slicing into its shoulder, hearing bones break.

The beast screamed and bowled Caddan over, shaking Wolf off its leg, and it fell upon Livia, just as she shot it point-blank in the chest.

Caddan dragged the twitching, dead beast off of her; Livia looked pale. Her leg was slashed open; she was losing blood fast.

Cursing, Caddan tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his shirt and tied it around her leg tightly; she moaned and told him, "Go, go. No time." She called for Wolf and held his head in her hands; looking into his eyes, she pointed to Caddan. Wolf turned and looked at him, then looked back at Livia. She nodded, and closed her eyes. Her face was very pale. Caddan picked her up, draping her arm over his shoulders.

The blood ran freely down her leg; an artery was hit. He knew she would die soon. Still cursing, he dragged her along. They heard shouts behind them.

"Against that tree," Livia gasped; he took her there and she propped her back up against the trunk, nocking an arrow in her bow. Caddan felt helpless.

"Take them from behind as they come for me," she said in a weak voice; he looked at her, and she smiled a small weak smile as he nodded curtly, saying "Lass-"

"No time," she said. He ran off through the brush to the side, doubling back; Wolf followed him, but he stopped and pointed back to Livia, swaying against the tree-trunk. Wolf ran back to her.

~~~

Livia winced at the pain, he body trembling; but she held her longbow straight as ever, arrow pointed at the path where it emerged from the brush.

Suddenly, half a dozen figures appeared, wearing golden armor and dark cloaks. One gaped at her, raising a crossbow. Livia put an arrow in his stomach and swiftly nocked another arrow, sending another clothyard shaft into the forearm of another who pointed a crossbow at her. He shrieked and dropped his bow as the others charged.

The one in front of her had a shield and sword; his shield was raised, so she put the shaft into his thigh. He tumbled to the ground, cursing. That was when Caddan appeared out of the brush. She smiled at the sight of him, then everything turned to black as she slumped to the ground.

~~~

Caddan leapt out upon the path behind the men; with volcanic fury, he yelled "Griffons!" as he thrust his blade through the back of the man in front of him. His sword burst through his armor and the body fell bonelessly to the ground. Caddan saw a man with an arrow in his leg crawling towards a crossbow; suddenly Wolf leapt upon him, tearing at him.

The three men remaining turned to face Caddan.

He looked at the three men, laughing at him, insulting him. He looked at them and smiled, with a dead-calm certainty that he felt flow through his soul, and as he brought his sword up, held in front of his face, he told them in a clear voice, sounding strange to his own ears; "Ye are goin' ta die, each one a ye. Which one be first?"

The taunts died upon their lips when they saw his face.

Caddan leaped forward, smoldering with fury. The first man threw his sword up to turn Caddan's cut; as the others moved towards him, he gave a savage backhand cut at the man that bit into his side. The man groaned, clutching his wound, as Caddan thrust his blade through his armpit. He barely got the sword out of the body in time to parry a huge cut aimed at his head. He threw himself backwards to avoid a sidehand slash by the other man. He stumbled.

The second man followed up with with a thrust that glanced off Caddan's hauberk. The third man, an older veteran by the look of him, hacked at him; Caddan parried the force of the blow, though the sword gouged him on the shoulder. Bright pain flowed through him.

He counterthrust at the second man, his sword slicing open the man's upper arm. The man yelled in pain and fell back.

The third man, the veteran, hacked at Caddans side, bursting his mail, the edge of the blade tasting Caddan's flesh. Caddan weakly dealt a backhand blow that the veteran parried, smiling.

The second man gripped his upper arm, and raised his sword to attack once more. Wolf leapt upon him, pushing him to the ground, screaming.

Caddan was feeling faint. He knew he had to end the fight now. He fainted a blow aimed at the veteran's head, then whirled around sideways, sword in both hands, swinging with all his might.

His blade crunched through the man's armor at the same time Caddan was struck again by his sword.

~~~

He lay upon the grass, trying to rise, but falling back down heavily to his hands and knees. He was weary, making even the pain a distant thing. He looked over and saw his notched sword beside him, reached out, and gripped the hilt. The familiar feel reassured him.

He rolled over and laid upon his back, staring into the sky. It all slowly came back to him. His heartbeat pounded in his ears; he felt feverish.

Wolf stood over him, licking his face. "Livia," he said, and suddenly sat up. Blood flowed under his armor.

He stood, using his sword as a crutch to prop him up. He walked around the dead Golden Lions at his feet, limped over to where Livia sat, eyes, closed, back against the tree. She was unmoving.

He collapsed to his knees next to her, and touched her arm; her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled wanly.

"You made it home to Trema..."

"Lass, I'm goin' ta carry ya on my back. Let me-"

"No," she said whispering, and smiled. "Wolf is yours now. Remember my tale, at Ulfwych?"

Caddan leaned forward and took her hand; she passed away as he stroked her hand.

He sat there until he felt the overpowering urge to lay down.

He knew that he would die unless he made it to Anniogel, not too far away.

He pushed himself to his feet, using his sword once more. He looked at Livia once more, tears in his eyes, and he stumbled down the path.

His mind faded in and out. Wolf walked next to him, holding his hand in his jaws gently, urging him forward. He fell once; Wolf licked his face and he managed to stand once more, to walk forward.

Sometimes he thought that it was Livia walking next to him; other times, it was Sheymus, looking at him, grinning. Then it was Trema, telling him to come home to her or she'd come out here and haul him in by his ear. Sometimes he sang.

He came to his senses when he heard the shout. He looked around him, and saw the fort ahead; a guard was shouting, drawing his bow. Wolf was hit by the arrow, and collapsed. "No," Caddan said.

He fell to the ground next to the beast, holding it, burying his face in the fur. "No, no" he repeated.

"I thought it was attacking him! It's a wolf!" yelled the guardsman, as his commander cursed him and told him that was Livia's pup.

Caddan felt the men leaning over him as Wolf feebly licked his hand, and then he knew no more.

~~~

Lord Braxton hated these events.

He sat upon his horse at Prydwen Keep, reviewing the new company of Golden Lions. They marched by him, resplendent in their gold and black uniforms.

He watched them, bored.

After the ceremony, he told his officers he was going down to Prydwen Bridge for a time, and would be back.

He trotted his horse out the gate, east towards the river. He thought about the recent business with the Brotherhood of the Griffons, and smiled grimly. At least they were out of the way, and no one the wiser. Councillor Shaw assured him there would be no questions asked.

He dismounted under a willow tree by the riverbank, not too far from the bridge. All was peaceful and warm.

He saw two mounted figures approaching; they rode up to him and likewise dismounted.

"Lady Ulrika," he said, taking her hand.

The Ice Witch looked cooly upon him. "Your rivals are destroyed, Braxton. I am sure you are happy." The young man next to her was unfamiliar to him; some new toy of hers, an Infiltrator no doubt.

"Yes, Milady. You did your part."

"I barely escaped with my life."

"I had no worries for you; I know your resourcefulness."

Braxton smiled thinly.

Ulrika looked back at him, impassively.

"The New Lands will take much more than the Golden Lions to subdue. I almost succeeded in killing their leader-"

"Almost," Braxton broke in, "isn't good enough. But the lands there will be my own some day. Perhaps you will be by my side, then." He handed her a pouch, the sound of coins ringing together inside.

The Ice Witch smiled, a brilliant deadly smile, as she took the pouch.

"Anything is possible."

Braxton bowed to her; Ulrika and her companion remounted, and rode slowly off.

Braxton looked out across the water; he walked down to the bridge, and sat watching the water flow under it. He was thinking of how to approach the current problem again when a shadow fell over him.

He looked up, startled. A gaunt Highlander with intense eyes stood over him. Braxton then saw the blade in his hand. Sweat poured down his face; his guards had been left at the Keep on purpose, for the meeting...

"I have thousands of gold pieces at Prydwen. All that and more-"

The Highlander spoke, interrupting him with a curiously soft voice.

"I shoulda done this that day at Hurbury. But as I said then, Milord...better late than never."

Braxton recognized him; "You," he said in a surprised tone, as the blade slid into his chest.

~~~

Trema looked out the window for the twentieth time.

She was back in the very room in Cotswold Inn that her and Caddan had shared the eve before he left, all those weeks ago.

When word of the Griffons' defeat at the hands of the
barbarians reached her, she nearlt went crazy with grief. Every day since was a torment; the not knowing was the worst part.

She looked down the street through Cotswold.

She planned to stay here until her money ran out, or until confirmed word of her love's death reached her. She had told him she would be here when he returned; the innkeeper looked at her sadly each day when she appeared for her meals.

She could not give up hope, no matter how it hurt.

Suddenly, she spied a figure standing under a tree across the road.

Her heart leaped.

He looked up at her, seeing her in the window. She plainly saw the burden he carried upon him, even from up here.

Crying with joy, she ran out of the room, down the stairs. She threw open the doors to the Inn, ran out into the road, and ran into his arms, weeping.

Overheard at Cullin's Inn One Drunken Eve (Elendion's Tale)

2005-02-20T09:15:00.000-05:00

Wherein a character is introduced, indirectly, through the bottom of a wineglass

The door to Cullin's Inn closed with a thump.

As soon as the Elf had left, the talk started. So it is in many a place where ne'er-do-wells benumbed with drink gather.

Rakasan Tshar adjusted his fine purple robe; vain for one of the little folk, he somehow ignored the darker purple winestains that bespattered the garment down the front.

"Well, he don't fool me none! All the smiles and free drinks in Tir na Nog can't change one of them ."

Geron smiled slightly and placed another drink for the Lurikeen upon the bar.

"Hah!" cried Heza, an Elf reeling from the effects of the very strong wine he was partial to. "What do you say when I leave, you tiny tosspot?"

There was a general laugh around the Inn, as Rakasan tried to focus his eyes upon Heza. He finally had to give up, and talked to the wall hanging near him, the only thing he could see clearly.

"Well you aint fresh from the Bog either! And besides, all here know you! But that one, he is all smiles and good cheer, but there's something hidden under all that acting, I tell you...he acts like he is in on the secret, and nobody else is!"

Fethdar, helping out behind the bar, snorted.

Savan Gaidin, a strong Celt resplendent in red and gold armor, and only half-drunk, spoke up. "It is easy for one to pretend they know a great secret. Those who do often are putting up a facade." He drained his mug of ale and signaled Geron for another.

Tempeste, a large Firbolg lass, set aside the bow she was working on. "So let me understand this...if one is happy and cheerful, then they are sinister and scheming?"

Harper Evelyn smiled and strummed her harp.

"Well, that one is!", declaimed Rakasan loudly. He was so drunk that even the other drunks noticed.

Savan spoke up again, fresh mug in his fist. "I have heard tell that he had courted a Celtic lass, and her parents sent her away to relatives. There was quite a furor, supposedly. I think he has not forgotten the affront, yet puts a normal face on for the rest of us."

"But he is Siabra ", wheezed Rakasan in a low voice.

Heza nodded his head soberly. "He is indeed."

Fethdar, cleaning a mug with a rag, called out "If I believed everything I heard about Master Tshar, he would be six feet tall and have enough money to pay his bar tab!"

The room burst into raucous laughter as Rakasan Tshar glowered at the wall hanging, got unsteadily to his feet, and then collapsed onto the floor. More laughter followed as Geron dashed half a bucket of cold water onto the insensible Lurikeen's head.

As Rakasan spluttered and cursed his way back to consciousness, Savan said, "He is in that new Guild that is supposed to be 'reformed' Siabra." He took a long pull on his mug. "I tell you this, friends; oft a proffered golden chalice can bear the vilest of poisons."

The room quieted a bit, as Rakasan re-seated himself at his table, holding his head in his hands.

"And oft a golden chalice can be what it appears, as well" Tempeste retorted. "Men wish to see shadows in the brightest noonday sun. I am no lover of the Siabra, but have never been treated discourteously by him or his own. Might as well say the Celtic race is murderous, because of one murderer."

Savan snapped "More than one Siabra fits that mold", and a hubbub arose as various others tried to outshout each other on this point, until Geron and Tethdar threatened to close the bar, whereupon all save Rakasan Tshar became quieter; the Lurikeen was expounding to the wall hanging about the history of Hibernia and the Elvish race until he was picked up bodily and sat outside the door; he tried to talk to the guards at the entrance to the Chamber of Magic, but they sent him on his way, grumbling and weaving down the street to find another inn.

Wine-Talk (Elendion again)

2005-02-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

Or, thoughts about the Unattainable.

'Show me a man who has had everything he ever wanted, and I'll be looking at a man without a soul.'

The Elf looked up from his goblet in Cullin's Inn, and around at the people seated near him.

Rakasan Tshar, that magnificently drunk Lurikeen, snorted loudly in his cup.

Elendion gestured with his goblet of wine.

'You take exception, noble one', the Siabra smiled and nodded his head at the diminuitive guest.

'Yes, I do', Rakasan slurred, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

The others nearby, regulars for the most part, grinned; Rakasan Tshar was a legendary figure among Tir na Nog's drunkards and wastrels. Where the little 'Keen stored all of his drink, nobody could say. But put it away, he did.

'That is a statement', Rakasan paused to belch, 'made by one who has not had his fill of what he yearns for.' He grinned evilly at the silver-haired Enchanter. 'You seek what you cannot have, and make a virtue out of not attaining it!'

Scattered applause rang out in Cullin's Inn; Elendion smiled slightly and bowed to the little one, his purple and grey cloak swirling behind him.

'But Master Rakasan...would you allow me to use you as an example?' The Elf's smile was ironic upon his lips.

'Only if you buy me another flagon!' shouted the Keen, to chuckles from his fellow imbibers. He bowed mockingly back to Elendion.

The tall Siabra smiled back at him, and called out to Geron the barkeep, who sat another container of wine at Rakasan's elbow. The Keen topped off his glass, and drank greedily.

Savan Gaidin, the magnificently-dressed Celt, sat silently in the corner, drinking his ale and watching the Elf.

'Now that you are properly lubricated, little Master', said Elendion with a nod, 'I shall continue.'

'Rakasan Tshar loves a maiden. The maiden is wine.'

Tempeste chuckled slightly, amused by it all.

Elendion continued. 'Rakasan Tshar has known his love many times. He has found her in her many guises, and has drank deeply of her. He has been satiated often!' He held his goblet high in the air, then drained it. Other patrons followed suit.

He sat down the empty goblet with a thump upon the table. 'But Rakasan Tshar has nothing left to look for, to long for, to...discover. About himself, or another. Rakasan Tshar's life stopped the first morn he awoke, his mistress clouding his mind with heavy wine fumes. He has nothing new to learn of her, or himself.'

The drinkers pondered this.

'I find myself each and every night, at the bottom of a new cup!' exclaimed the Keen.

'More like each and every hour that Cullin's serves you', quipped Fethdar, cleaning a mug behind the bar.

There was laughter, and Rakasan turned a squinting frown at Fethdar, remembered what his bar tab was, and decided not to say anything. He tossed another cup of wine down.

'You try to find yourself again, good Rakasan,' said Elendion in a clear, sad voice. 'You try to find that first wonderful night once more, the first time you found your mistress wine.' His Elven eyes glinted brightly.

Rakasan Tshar snorted again, and gathered up his dignity, what little remained of it in his mind. His robe was spattered with many a winestain. He started to say something, stopped, and refilled his winecup from the flagon.

Savan Gaidin spoke up from the corner. 'And what kind of example would you be, Siabra?'

But he spoke to a closing door. The tingling electric feel of the spell named Superior Effervescence was in the air, and Savan's words fell woodenly upon the rest of the room, to ponder or ignore at their befuddled leisure.

After the Battle I

2005-02-20T09:13:00.001-05:00

Malthrig sat on the ground next to the dying boy.

The lad's face was pale and drawn, and his breathing was more
labored now. The old man gently wiped his face with a cloth
that was dampened with the last of his water from his flask.

"Lad, ye need to save your strength. Don't talk", Malthrig
said gently.

They had been in a group defending Dun Crauchon from an invading
force from Albion. One moment they had been patrolling along a
treeline, and the next a Minstrel dressed in blue chain sped
swiftly into their formation, followed by several Armsmen and at
least one caster. The fight was quick and bloody, no quarter
asked or given- when it was all over, Malthrig, an old and very
tired Hero, was the only one still standing. He had found all
his comrades dead, save one- the quiet lad who had worn his lady's
scarf around his arm as a token of her care for him; a talisman to
ward off harm...

The old veteran shook is head slowly in sadness.

The lad coughed, and smiled weakly.

"Save it for what, friend? I will not be with you to see the sun
set".

Malthrig knew that he was speaking the truth- his wounds were
beyond remedy; and there were no Naturalists alive in the area to
aid him.

"Tell me more about her, then". Malthrig nodded at the scarf,
still tied around the boy's arm. His eyes were filled with
compassion; more than one Hibernian lout had mistaken that for
weakness, and had quickly learned that the old man was as swift to
volcanic anger as he was to easy friendship.

"She did not want me to join my Guild, you know. She knew their
reputation as aggressive fighters..." the lad's face clouded with
a blossom of pain, and the old man could do nothing more than to
pat his face with the moistened cloth, and bunch up the cloak he
had fashioned into a pillow for the boy to make him perhaps a
little more comfortable...

He continued.

"Elasia did not want me to leave her. She wanted me to become a
merchant, and to settle down each night by the hearth with her,
and listen to her play her beautiful music upon her harp..."

Malthrig looked around the area quickly in the fading sunlight.
He knew his life was in danger, but he would not leave this boy
to die alone.

"She sounds like a fine lady, lad", the old Hero said.

"Aye...she had many suitors, but picked me...I never understood
what she saw in me..."

Malthrig took the boy's hand in his and squeezed it.

"She saw a handsome and a caring man, and a brave one. No mystery
there."

The lad smiled slightly and feebly attempted to grasp Malthrig's
hand tighter.

"And you, friend? Do you have a lady awaiting you..." the boy's
words trailed off into weak coughing.

Malthrig's eyes were covered with pain. He was glad the lad had
not noticed, and looked away quickly as his eyes filled with water.

His dear Finnleigh...in his mind he saw her again as she was when
he was a lad, her laughter and that smile that never failed to
kindle his love for her. He remembered their wedding eve, the
look of her body as her dress fell to the floor...the happy days
afterwards, the excitement of her pregnancy, the feel of the baby
kicking in her stomach...and the agonizing grief as the midwives
told him that she and his son had died in childbirth.

He had never remarried, he had lost himself in the ranks of the
Hibernian army, fighting, fighting the enemies of the Realm, but
the real enemy being the hole in his soul, the pain that would
spring upon him even years after her death and physically beat
him to his knees in torment as he remembered...

The old man smiled to the lad, a tear gleaming on his cheek.

"Aye, she is as beautiful as can be lad, I dare say as beautiful
as your lass", he chuckled as he held the boy's hand tighter in
his.

The lad smiled weakly and nodded, and swallowed hard to clear his
throat. "I am glad to hear that, friend...give her a kiss for me
when you see her, would you?..."

Before the old man could reply, he heard a soft sound behind him.
The blood froze in his veins as he turned slowly and looked up.

The Albion Scout had nocked an arrow and was standing thirty feet
behind him, sighting down the barbed shaft that pointed directly
at his chest.

Malthrig looked into the Scout's eyes.

The Scout blinked, and looked into the old man's eyes.

Malthrig, gripping the cold hand of the boy who should have been
his son, waited.

After the Battle II

2005-02-20T09:13:00.000-05:00

Silence had descended over Emain Macha.

It was near dusk, and the setting sun threw long shadows of trees
over the field of battle. Many bodies lay still on the green
grass; the survivors of all three armies had pulled back, forced
to leave their dead behind.

A lone figure moved among the fallen.

She was dressed in long, flowing wisps of pale gauze; her blonde
tresses tumbled down her back, looking like burnished gold in
the failing sunlight. Her movements were slow, otherworldly;
she almost glided over the bloodstained and trampled turf.

She paused; and then, hearing music that only she could hear,
she began to dance.

~~~~~

The Shadowblade, stealthed near a tree at the edge of the field,
stared at the dancing figure. 'She is beautiful', he thought.
'She must be looking for a fallen lover, and has been overcome
by madness in her grief'.

He sadly watched her dance among the dead, and shook his head;
just one more casualty of this endless war, no less than those
laying still forever all around her.

He finished reapplying his poisons to his axes, and waited for
the enemy to come by. They always came by.

~~~~~

The Warden watched the eerie figure in white move among the dead.
He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck; he shuddered,
and turned to his friend.

"Can this be more trickery from Midgard? Rune magic perhaps, to
lure us out and slay us?"

The Mentalist nodded, and spoke.

"I have heard of such trickery...SpiritMasters can conjure many
such things."

The Warden made a Sign of Protection upon his Firbolg chest.
"War is evil, my friend, but more evil still are our foes..."

~~~~~

"What in the name of Arthur is she doing?" yelled the Armsman. His
plate armor was sullied with dirt and blood; his eyes smoldered in
anger.

The Theurgist shook her head.

They were in the forefront of the Albion line, looking out onto the
field where the small white figure danced.

The Armsman, in a fury, convulsively grabbed his crossbow. "I've
lost good friends this day, and she dances! What mockery is this?"
With a shaking hand, he attempted to put a quarrel in the slot of
his bow.

The Theurgist placed a soft hand of restraint on his shoulder. He
flinched, then looked at her. After a moment, he dropped the
crossbow with a thud into the dirt at his feet, and sat down,
miserable. He clutched his head in his gauntleted hands.

The Theurgist sat down next to him, and softly stroked his hair.
She sat gazing at the lone figure, a thoughtful look upon her
face.

"I do not know what she does...but I do not think she is mocking
them."

Her words calmed the Armsman down as he sat looking at the ground;
his voice breaking, he said "The slaughter...my friends..."

She hugged him from behind as he sat there, isolated in his
sadness.

~~~~~

She danced.

She moved gracefully among the dead, her movements light and easy,
the gauze of her dress fluttering about her. She twisted and
turned, and then she curtseyed to them all.

The young Warrior there, lying still forever- he had had no liking
for war, but had fought to make his father proud, he who had
adopted him and raised him with kindness within the martial society
of Midgard.

She bent low and caressed his cheek.

And this beautiful Champion, her brave heart beating no more; she
had hidden love poems under her armor, poems wrote to the Hero
that she secretly admired but had never shared, the Hero for whom
she had perished while trying to defend him in battle.

She knelt next to her and straightened her bloody hair out upon
her shoulders.

And this Scout- he once had let an enemy live, an old man who he
came upon, crying for a dying boy. Compassion had made him put
up his bow and bow to his enemy.

She bent low and softly kissed his cold brow.

She found the good in all of them, for there was good to find in
each and every soul, no matter how sullied or angry or afraid they
had been- there was always something to admire, and to hold dear.

As the sun set, she danced for them all.

After the Battle III

2005-02-20T09:09:00.000-05:00

She played her harp, scarcely hearing the sounds of the tavern going on around her.

The Music she played was her only solace...she had grown up the
daughter of a Bardess, who had taught her the love of notes.
Although she did not follow in her mother's footsteps, she kept
the love of song in her heart.

There was a fair crowd in the inn this eve. On good nights, she
might have a few silver in her cup at the end of the night. It
was not easy getting along, ever since...

She played faster, closing her eyes once more, allowing the music
to wash over her, to stem the tide of pain, the pain of Memory,
that foe who had not let her be ever since she was told of her
newlywed husband's death in battle.

A Lurikeen walked by her and tossed several copper coins into her
cup as he left the tavern.

Her current song ended, and she calmed a bit...she started a new
tune. She looked up from her instrument and looked around the
room. The usual drunkards in the far corner; a party of brightly-
clad Guildsmen laughing and telling old stories; a few lone
individuals staring in their cups; and the old man, sitting in
the back of the smoky room, against the wall.

This was the third night in a row that she had seen him. He had
looked at her, stared even; something that she was used to, yes,
but the stare was not the usual kind she received from men. It
was almost as if he wanted to say something to her...and...

...almost as if he was remembering. Something she had tried desperately to avoid.

She played a fast, light tune that was known by all, one that
made it easy to smile and forget for a moment at least any cares
that might press on one's soul.

The old man stood, and slowly walked towards her. She noted a
limp in his walk, and a scar upon his face; a soldier. Like
many who passed through this place.

He pulled up a chair near her, looking uncomfortable, his eyes
facing the rest of the room like hers.

As she finished her tune, he looked over at her briefly and said:

"You have talent, Milady. It is good to hear soothing sounds,
for not all in this world is soothing."

He scowled as he finished his words, as if thinking better of
what he had said.

She struck up another song, looking straight ahead, her face
carefully devoid of emotion.

"Yes, Milord."

As she played, he seemed to be pondering something...deciding...

A Firbolg, obviously drunk, yelled out: "Dance, woman, dance
for us!" The old man next to her stood, his eyes blazing with
wrath, his hand sliding his cloak aside from the pommel of his
sword. The Firbolg muttered to himself, and turned his attention
elsewhere.

As her song ended, the old man, seated once again, said:

"Play his favorite song for me, Milady. The one he would want
to hear every night."

She was stunned, her breath caught in her chest, something
twisted deep inside her, but she looked at him, her eyes
moist, and saw he looked at her with compassion, a haunted
look upon him, his head tilted to the side as if recalling
something long ago.

She squeezed her eyes shut and wept, and she played her dead
husband's favorite tune, a soft lullaby that was very sweet
and flowing, and she flowed along with the music, face streaked
with tears as she remembered; Memory had caught up with her, and
Memory was her enemy, yes, but it was also a friend, bringing
happiness back to her, though it was shrouded in sorrow.

When the lullaby was done, she opened her eyes.

The old man was gone.

On the little table at her elbow, a scarf rested, a scarf she
had known so well...and resting on top of it was a single coin,
a platinum coin.

She kept on weeping.

Devotion

2005-02-20T09:06:00.000-05:00

The troops rested in the shade of a huge oak tree. They had trained hard that morning, young Heroes and Champions mostly, and sat, glad for the rest, drinking from their water-skins. A Bard, a short Celtic woman dressed in bright green and purple, stood next to the tree.

"I wish to tell you all the tale of Branwen and Ehlar. They served well and true, in this very unit, I may add. Branwen was a quiet Celtic Champion, yet one who did not fail in her unswerving duty."

One lad in the audience whispered to another: "Storytelling! To think this was a part of our training", he snorted. He friend raised an eyebrow and tipped his waterskin back for another draught.

The Bard continues. "Branwen trained hard. Rumor has it that she was an orphan, and had come to the Army upon her maturity. Anyway, she threw herself into her training, and she learned well, becoming skilled with both sword and shield, as well as her magics. She talked very little to others, but, you see, she had someone that she followed after a fashion."

"Ehlar was a popular Celtic Hero, a natural leader, as they say. He was skilled in weaponry aye, but even moreso he was skilled in the arts of leading men and women. Early on, he was known to be a great motivator, one that others would gladly follow, inspiring confidence with his easy manner and his words of encouragement. The Officers of the Army were keeping their eyes on him, well-pleased with what they were seeing, and the rumors spoke of a future General in this lad."

"One day, he had spent a goodly amount of time with Branwen, showing her the finer moves of guarding and protecting others with her shield. 'Remember Branwen' he told her, 'Ye are not guarding a Realm-mate with your shield; you are devoted to their safety. There is a big difference, and please remember that.'

"Afterwards, she trained all the harder, excelling in shield-use. And she would often be seen near Ehlar, listening to his words that he spoke to others, learning from them."

The lad whispered to his friend again: "Now what are we supposed to learn from this?"; his friend gave him a glance, then went back to listening.

"Then, after many months of training, they were deemed ready for combat. Their group was relocated out to Odin's Gate, to patrol Midgard's Frontier with another veteran unit."

One day, a force of Mids offered battle; the troops were sent up to the front. Ehlar was given command of a company, and he deployed it well, and came upon the enemy on a snowy field. The Midgard Warriors and Thanes shook thier axes and hammers at them, dressed in their furs, while the Hibernians, outfitted in green, beat upon their shields and raised their swords and spears high. Ehlar ran ahead of his troops and raised his greatsword, yelling 'For Hibernia and honor!' The men and women following him gave an answering yell, rushing at the enemy."

The Bard paused in her tale and looked over at an old Hero walking by. "Malthrig!" she yelled, running over to him. "Helwyn!" he exclaimed and hugged her. "I was just finishing the tale of Branwen and Ehlar, my old friend, and I would appreciate you telling what you saw there." The old veteran looked sad for a moment, then nodded with a slight smile to the Bard. He walked up to the tree and faced the troops.

"I remember that day well", he started. "In my opinion, they were not quite ready for battle, but the Army needed more troops upon the Frontier." There was some whispering between those in the audience. "If ye don't know me, I be a simple Hero who has no use for the trappings of bein' an officer. I am proud to still be a foot-soldier after all my years in this Army, but I'll call a fool a fool anyday". He looked at them in a half-challenging way, then continued.

"I remember seein' Ehlar leading the charge, his men and women yelling wildly, followin' close behind. The lass, Branwen, she was next to him, guarding and protecting him with her shield as he wielded his two-
handed blade. I remember, even from a distance, I saw her deflect two arrows away from him. Then the groups clashed, the sound of steel on steel, cries and grunts from the force of the blows. Ehlar slew a few
of the foe."

"Ehlar by all I have heard would have made a fine Officer", he continued. "All said he cared for his troops like he would his own family, and that is the only Officer worth his salt, if ye ask me. But fate that day
struck him down, just as it will be for all of us sooner or later."

The troops were totaly silent, listening.

"An arrow struck him from behind, where Branwen's shield could not block. I saw him slump forward, staggered; Branwen reached out to steady him, but the Mids rushed forward, encouraged by what they saw. The Hibernians, well, they were young, and needed more seasoning methinks, and they wavered. Suddenly, it was only Ehlar and Branwen, him swaying, trying through force of will to stay on his feet, while Branwen placed her shield in front of him and held him around the waist."

"I fought like the very devil to reach them, but several Mids blocked the way, and though I slew two, I glimpsed the end for them both as I fought and screamed for our men to rally. Several Mids were raining blows upon him and her, Branwen's shield blocking most of them, but not all. She stunned two of the Warriors, who fell at her feet, but she focused all her energy on blocking the blows aimed at Ehlar, who the Mids knew was a leader. He was hit several times, and I think he was dead while she still defended him."

"Now I saw two old Norse Warriors pulling their men away from them, for they saw that it was all over and there was no honor in slaying the helpless. I'll have ye all know that there be men like them of honor in all of the Realms"- he paused, giving them a challenging look- "because I wouldn't be here today otherwise. Just as there be evildoers in every Realm who would strike the helpless. I have seen Hibernians do that on
occasion."

Nobody said a word.

"It was one such cowardly Norse that sprang forward and ran his sword into Branwen as she huddled against Ehlar, holding her shield over him to the last. The old Norse Warrior buffeted him a blow with the flat of his
axe, but the deed was done. They both lay lifeless upon the snow, dead and wounded around them."

The old Hero looked off into the distance, a solemn look upon his face.

"Later on when we reached the bodies, I saw that someone had combed Branwen's hair out upon her shoulders to do her honor. That was when we found the poems...written on parchment hidden under her armor, telling of her loneliness, and her secret love for Ehlar whom she had never told of her love."

The old Hero looked out upon the troops.

"That is what is known as devotion. I'd serve with Branwen alone rather than a whole Army of those that did not know what she knew and done what she done."

He walked off, leaving all of them with their thoughts.

The Forgotten Battle of Jamtland

2005-02-20T09:04:00.000-05:00

The Hibernian raiding party was encamped between the frozen twin lakes near Glenlock Faste. The sentries, stamping their feet in the cold, could just make out the Hildskialf road in the dim light. They were in Midgard, and, like most of their brethren, they longed for that green and pleasant land they called home.

There was a small group of Lurikeens gathered round a small campfire, slightly apart from their larger brethren of Celts, Elves and Firbolgs.

"How much longer till we hit the keep?" complained Twillim. The tiny Mentalist sat near the fire, shivering in his cloak, his teeth chattering.

"We are only a part of this grand raid", said Dorful in a stuffy voice. "There is a timetable to follow. The Captains will let us know when we act. After all, if everyone knew when and where, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, now would it?"

Twillim looked up in annoyance at the white-haired 'Keen Champion across the flames. "Dorfie surely is full of himself as usual today", he muttered to his cousin Astus sitting next to him. Astus snickered and looked for his wineskin.

"What was that now!" said Dorful suddenly. "Seems you two have some free time on your hands! How about collecting some more firewood before your sentry duty?"

Twillim stalked off grumbling, with the complaining Astus in tow. "What did I do?" Astus whined. "You're always getting me into trouble!" Twillim bent to pick up a dead branch on the ground when the first large, fluffy flake landed on the back of his hand, melting almost immediately. He
looked up in surprise.

The gentle fall of snow came down without a sound. It came down heavily; large flakes filled the very air, obscuring vision, clinging to everything they touched, shying away only from the campfires in a swirl of warm updrafts, to settle in some other more welcome spot. Soon, it was like a peaceful white blanket pulled over the land of Midgard.

The two gathered wood as the snow around their shoes got deeper. Strangely, Twillim felt lighter in mood, the wondrous sight of the accumulation filling him with mischief.

"There's a good branch over there Astus!" he exclaimed. Astus, looking slightly puzzled, shuffled through the snow, towards the stick laying on the ground. He bent down to pick it up.

Twillim had scooped up a big handful of of the mushy white stuff and had compacted it between his cold little hands, a silly grin covering his face.

As Astus grabbed the stick, an explosive impact smacked him in the buttocks, exposed from under his cloak by bending over. He uttered a small squawk and lost his balance, and, arms windmilling, he fell face-forward into the fluffy wet mass at his feet.

Those in camp heard a tiny bellow of outrage, followed by a high-pitched giggling. They looked up in wonder at the sight of a furious Astus, wet from head to toe, chasing Twillim, his red-cheeked face plastered with a huge smile.

Twillim ran circles around the campfire as Astus scooped snow up from the ground, flinging it in poorly-aimed rage at the pint-sized Mentalist. Other 'Keens cheered one or the other on, until Bibby the Enchanter made his own snowball, firing it across the fire at Freegus the Shade, who
evaded the globe with ease. "Dunno why I bothered dodgin' it, you casters don't do much damage to begin with now do ya!" piped Freegus as the others laughed.

Dorful came walking up to the fire. "Here now, what's this?" he asked, shaggy eyebrows arching. Everyone stopped what they were doing for five seconds- and then the air was filled with snowballs speeding at the dour little Champion. He raised his shield and blocked every one of the soggy projectiles, and, though he lost his helmet, he was unscathed. Lowering his shield, he grinned widely at the group.

Twillim bent down quickly and scooped Dorful's helm full of snow. "Looks like ya dropped something, Dorfie!" he exclaimed as he jammed the helmet down upon the older 'Keens noggin.

The look of absolute astonishment on Dorful's face was something that all the Lurikeens present that day would always remember with fondness. Before it was all over, the Little Folk had scurried towards the Big People in the raiding party and had bombarded them as well.

The old Celt Hero in charge of the party shook his head and laughed at the men and women of his command as they sallied back and forth, volleying snowballs at each other. It looked to him as if the Luris were getting the best of the Big Folk, as they called them. Perhaps this would be frowned upon among the Guildmasters of Tir na Nog, but he knew better.
"Praise the Mistress of the Grove, 'tis good to see a break from the killing" said Malthrig to himself, a small smile upon his face.

It was said that a Bard finally had to mezz Dorful to calm him down long enough for Twillim to run off, laughing with joy, among the trees.

Honor, part 1; The City

2005-02-20T08:33:00.000-05:00

He first glimpsed the city from a rise in the road near Cotswold.

Camelot.

The Briton lad put his pack down in the dusty lane, looking at the far towers. He had traveled far, having walked a fortnight from his small hamlet in the Black Mountains. In the eighteenth year of his life, he had been trusted with a task by the people of his village. He had never felt more proud than on that day, when the village elders had given him the pack he carried, containing food and water, plus a letter and a small pouch. He was to journey to Camelot, bringing a humble but hard-earned offering from the poor villagers whom he had lived among all his life. He had been orphaned young, when the White Sickness had carried off his parents. But he was comforted by the fact that they were looking down upon him with great pride from Heaven. He was to bring an offering of money to the Church of Albion, and offer his services to the Realm. The letter he carried was from the one old man who could write; it spoke well of him as a hard-working lad that would take up training to defend Albion from its enemies.

Camelot, the young man thought; the seat of Arthur Rex in the days of old, when noble knights upheld justice and righted wrongs; the city of the Church of our Lord, the center of all that was good, a mighty symbol for all to revere.

The young man hoisted his pack for the last time and walked towards the city.

As he passed through the city gates, he looked around in wonder: Guardsmen clad in bright armor striding purposefully; merchants hawking their wares from stalls; crowds of people jostling through the narrow streets, beggars with bowls in front of them pleading for alms; rough-looking men sizing up others with careful glances; laughing women, immodestly dressed, leaning from balconies and calling to those below. He stepped around a drunkard, passed out in the street. He came to a halt soon after, looking first one way and then another.

"Lost, laddie?" a voice said behind him.

He turned to see a man with a kindly smile, clad in a simple tunic and leggings.

"Yes, good Sir. Could you direct me to the Church? I have business there."

"Ahhh! New to Camelot, are ye? My name's Lummkin, at yer service." The man took off his cap and bowed low.

The lad bowed awkwardly in return. "I am Gareth...I have come to make an offering at the Church, and seek service to the Realm."

"A grand thing!" Lummkin stated. "P'raps you should rest up for a night and get cleaned up before goin' to the Church, yer lookin' on the worn side, friend."

The lad nodded, knowing that was true. "I do not know anyone here..."

Lummkin held up his hands in interruption. "I know a little room where a man ken get a meal, wash up and be among friendly folks! C'mon, lad."

He hesitated a moment, then followed the man.

They moved out of the crowd, down a street past the Guild of Shadows; it was a much quieter area.

Lummkin strode up to a door, and knocked thrice upon it; the door opened, and they were ushered inside a room with a fireplace and a few tables, with flickering lamps hung along the walls. Several men and women were there talking among themselves, many with drinks in their hands.

"Hallo! This here be Gareth, come to Camelot today for the first time!" Lummkin yelled.

A chorus of voices welcomed him; the lad smiled and sat at a table, as Lummkin ordered a drink for them both. He started to object, but was shushed by his companion; a young woman in a russet skirt smiled at him from across the room. His head swam with a rush of feelings.

Lummkin waved the lass over, smiling; the young woman came over to him and sat in his lap, to his great surprise. A mug was pressed into his hand.

"To Camelot!" Lummkin said loudly, hoisting a mug of his own; "Camelot!" came the response from everyone in the room, as all drank the toast. The young man drank deep, and almost coughed at the power of the ale.

Lummkin laughed at him; but he was only aware of the woman on his lap, her arms around his neck, the scent of her...she kissed his ear, his skin tingling as he felt her breath upon his neck. He had never touched something so fair before...

The room started to spin, to lose focus. He slumped forward, the woman leaving his lap suddenly. He could not move; he was only dimly aware of hands seizing him by the jerkin and dragging him out the back door, into a dark alleyway. From far away, he heard voices.

"A pouch in the pack! I've got it!"

"Look through his clothes, the bumpkin might have something on him."

"Bah! A handful of silver! Well, that will give us a few days among the whores, at least. Beggin' yer pardon, Milady!"

There was a harsh laugh. Hands stripped his shoes off of his feet.

"Only a letter, nothin' else on 'im! I oughta stick him for all the trouble he's put me through!"

There was the sound of paper being torn to shreds, and then he was kicked sharply in the side by a booted foot. The pain slowly seeped into his mind.

"Nay Lummie, don't want the guardsmen askin' around. Let's dump him by the fishmongers."

He was dragged off, and eventually thrown into a pile of garbage in a dark corner.

He lay there for hours.

When he regained use of his body, he did not know where he was. Everything he had owned was gone, save his patched jerkin and leggings. He stumbled through the alleys, eventually finding a street. He attempted to speak to a guard, but the man grimaced at the sight of him and shook his spear at him, yelling "Drunkard, begone!".

He wandered the streets in a fever; others avoided him. He did not know what to do; no one would speak to him. He could not make it home without food, or shoes.

Two days later, he desperately snatched a loaf of bread from a merchants cart and ran away. He found that he could take things by guile, or by force if necessary.

He hated those that had robbed him; but he became one of them.

He became a part of the city.

The Tower

2005-02-20T08:28:00.000-05:00

I

It was a moment of thoughtless anger, following close upon a fresh hurt, a tangled web; not of misunderstandings, but of things said that lead to new and frightenlingly unknown emotional territory.

He was hurt, and, knowing full well that what she had done was not intentionally meant to cause him pain, he responded, giving pain in retaliation. He saw the look in her eyes, and knew that his words had hit home with force; he was sickened by what he had done, worse than if he had caused actual physical damage, because he knew that the most terrible thing to do to another is to damage them with words and thoughts. He knew that well.

He wandered off and sat down, thinking. The enemy of peace: thought. Remebering. Playing the scene over and over in his mind, and why? To punish himself?; but that was only known to him- some punishment, he thought. He knew that her grief in unintentionally causing him to be hurt was far worse.

Why do things happen? he wondered, why do we try our best to build a mighty Tower, a Tower of kindness and solace, of reaching out and giving, built stone by stone over so much time and effort, a great and wonderful refuge from the wilderness that surrounds it, only to have it crack, to start to crumble, to lean crazily, to fall thundering to the ground in a tumble of broken stones that once seemed so strong? So permanent? Did the ruins surrounding the Tower ever give pause to the Builders, did they ever ponder what the destiny of their handiwork would be?

But a Builder could no more stop building than an eagle could stop soaring, he thought. Build up higher, place the stones with loving care one by one, and do not look into the distance at the ruins of what others once built. Every Tower was defiance to the wilderness...and yet every Tower is a creation out of the wilderness around it. A miracle.

A miracle, he thought, and far too important for earthly pride to harm.

II

He was sitting in the ruins of a Tower he had came upon. He sat next to an old man who spoke to him:

"Aye, this Tower was a fine thing to behold. I had built it with my life's Love, a finer lass you could not find. Of course, all the Builders say that I realize"- he paused, smiling- "but there are truths that transcend the objective world, personal truths that matter more than what can be measured by a stonemason's rod, or a carpenter's rule. You know that, or ye wouldn't be here in this land."

"Me and her, we spent years working upon this place. I provided the foundations, the raw stonework, which was my talent- the structure. She", he faltered a moment, and paused- "She had the gift of putting all the pieces together into a beautiful whole. Not just the decorations and the furnishings, but in the sanding and the smoothing of the stone blocks themselves, something I had never taken the time to pay attention to."

The old man looked down at his hands in his lap.

"You should have seen it- when it was finished, our friends came from all over the land to the celebration. A finer time there never was; the tapestries fairly alive in the flickering glow of the firelight, the water running through the garden adding a soothing tone, the great feast where the finest food and wine was freely partaken."

The old man's eyes saw off into the distance to a happier time.

He got up, and, after placing a hand upon the old man's shoulder in farewell, he walked out of the ruins. He did not want to hear how it had all ended up as it had. He walked faster, and then, when that wasn't fast enough, he started running.

III

He ran till he was exhausted, and sat down. Looking up ahead of him, he saw a white Tower with pennants fluttering from the top. After resting a while, he got up, and, curious, he walked towards it. As he neared it, he was impressed with what he saw- the fine lines, the fresh whitewash, the solid oaken door bound in bronze.

As he approached the door, it opened, revealing a man in a sable robe with a kindly face, holding a large book. He was invited in, and walked into the main room, a luxuriously furnished library.

"It is good to see another", the man said, providing a modest meal of bread, cheese and a flask of wine. "My chief occupation is reading tomes, stories of the olden days, of the lives and trials of those that have come before. There is much to learn, friend, in this collection"- he gestured at the books on the shelves lining the walls- "and the tales give one much to think upon."

He browsed through some of the large books, reading passages here and there. There were many things that caught his eye. As time wore on, he yawned and stretched, and his host said, "Allow me to show you the guest chamber if you would."

He took his ease in a small room with a comfortable bed. He kept reading a while by candlelight, then, when he dozed, he put the book aside and blew out the candle.

He dreamt that he looked upon a couple, dilligently building a Tower together. Time passed, the Tower grew, and one day it was finished; as the man and the woman prepared to enter the structure, a shadowy figure stood in front of the door. The figure held out a hand, palm forward; he heard a chill voice tell them that for now, they could enter, but the day would come when all would end; the couple nodded to the figure, holding hands.

He tossed and turned in his sleep. In his dream, he tried to warn the couple-as they laughed and chased each other through the Tower, and he followed them, shouting at them: 'Don't you realize what you've agreed to? All will fail! He will come for you, and all will be lost!' But the couple did not hear him, paid no attention to him whatsoever.

Suddenly, the Tower cracked with a splintering crash. He looked up, watching the stone crack and falter; before he could do anything, the Tower was in ruins. He was speechless.

As the dust settled, he saw the man, now old, sitting among the ruins...as he moved closer, the face looked familiar...

He awoke, crying out. He looked around the darkened room wildly.

He got up and left the fancy tower, walking through the night, lost in thought.

IV

He wandered for a long time, thinking.

He finally sat down under a tree along the roadside, a welcome spot of shade in midafternoon. He sat, dozing, when suddenly a loud shout from across the field made him sit upright.

In the distance, he saw a man struggling with an oxen that was yoked to a plough. The man was standing, hands upon his hips, yelling at the animal.

He got up and walked across the field to the man, who was constantly talking to the large animal. "Hallo" he said shortly to the newcomer, and then continued his monologue; "Ye silly beast! the sooner we get the field plowed, the sooner ye will be back in the barn, eatin and drinkin till your heart's content!" He shoved against the animal's hindquarters as he continued. "For the love of Heaven, how can ye get to the end if ye never start?"

He took the reins and coaxed the ox forward, as the farmer, still grumbling away, pushed from behind. After a while, the ox looked back at the farmer, then looked straight ahead and started plodding on.

He jumped back out of the way, and patted the beast's back as it trundled by. "Thank you" he said to the farmer, and smiled as he turned back towards the road.

"Thank you? I should be the one thankin' ye, Sire!" called the farmer after him, but his mind was in another place, as he quickly gained the road and walked with confident strides.

V

He found her once again, and embraced her; they held each other for a long time without words.

In the coming days, they talked of many things; how sorry they both were, what they had thought and done since, and of what they would like to do. There came a a time when, holding hands, they walked across the land, until they found the spot that both knew was the place for them: a pleasant meadow overlooking a riverbank filled with willow trees.

It took them a long time to build; they each found their strengths, and they worked together, building, but at the same time enjoying each day; at the end of some days they were tired but proud of their progress, other days they did little but spent the time roaming along the river or exploring the meadow. Once, she found a caterpillar spinning a cocoon; every day they would pause in their work to check up on it, until one afternoon, they found a newly-born butterfly, with wet wings of emerald and gold, gleaming in the sun. They spent the rest of the day in each others arms, watching the beautiful creature spread its wings, drying them out in the sun. And then, towards evening, they watched it flutter off, its path unsure, but its flight beautiful. They would often spot the butterfly in the meadow for weeks afterwards, moving from flower to flower, becoming more sure of itself.

Their work progressed. Finally, it was done- the Tower that they had built, standing boldly against the sky, complete. It was a fine Tower in every respect- polished stonework, varnished wood, a large fireplace in the main room, elegant furnishings.

They stood outside, looking up at the Tower. A pennant floated in the breeze- she had sewn it herself; cloth of green and gold, with a design of a butterfly in flight.

As they readied to enter the Tower, they faced each other and clasped hands, and said words to each other that they had carefully prepared. They both spoke of how they were two become one, and had built something greater than each one of them alone could do. They embraced, and then walked through the doorway.

He let her walk ahead of him, up the spiral stairs into the bedchamber, as he hung back. For he alone had noticed something that he wished to take care of. Off to the side of the main chamber on the floor, lay the beautiful butterfly, wings spread, dead on the floor. He quickly picked it up with reverence and took it out into the garden and buried it. He hurried back and went to the bedchamber where she was awaiting him. That night when they made love, the dead butterfly was in the back of his mind, like a cloud on the horizon, a bittersweet object that he kept to himself.

VI

It all led up to this, and he had known it would come one day.

After a long time of happiness, he had a dream one night, or perhaps not a dream.

He stood in front of the Tower door in the moonlight, awaiting the approach of a dark figure in flowing robes, clutching a large book in one arm. Finally, the person stood in front of him- the man he had met years ago in the whitewashed tower, with all the books telling the stories of old.

"You", was all he could manage to say at first. The man nodded, and spoke:

"Your tale is in my book. Will I add to it? It is up to you."

He thought.

"Yes", he said.

"And what shall I add?"

In an act that took every ounce of courage he possessed, he said:

"Welcome, my friend. I thank you for the time you have given us. I have learned..."

He trailed off, then, summoning everything that he had, all of his love for her, all of his sincerity, he continued:

"...that without an End, there cannot be a Beginning. Without Loss, there cannot be Gain; without Sadness, there cannot be Happiness."

The man in the sable robes nodded his head, the hint of a smile playing upon his lips. "I have been called Evil, the Devil, the Taker; but do you know who I really am?" He paused, and said: "I am What Must Be." He paused. "And what you have learned does make a Difference." He bowed, then offered his hand.

He nodded, and reached out to clasp the man's hand that was held out to him. As their hands met, a bolt of lightning struck the Tower, and he sat up in bed, startled. All was calm, so he embraced her under the covers and lay there, waiting.

She did not feel like getting up that day; she felt ill, and made light of his concern as he fussed over her. But as day after day passed and she couldn't rise out of bed for anything but the briefest time, they both knew that the end was coming. He spent the day next to her, talking to her, reading from books; or he would go out into the meadow and bring back flowers and tell her in great detail of what he had found: a new rabbit burrow, a songbird calling for a mate from the willow trees, and finally: cocoons upon the plants, soon to hatch.

There came a morning when she spoke to him tenderly of how he had made her life whole, and had been the finest of companions, staying with her through these last difficult months. He told her of how much she had given to him, how before they built the Tower he was unformed and incomplete, but that his life was blessed by having been joined to hers. He held her hand in silence all day as her breathing slowed; and, in the late afternoon, she slipped away, a smile upon her face as she slept.

He sat there all night, her cold hand in his, tears coursing down his face, as he remembered all the happiness they had shared, and the pain too, for as he had told the man who called himself What Must Be: they are two different sides of the same whole, locked forever in an uneasy but necessary co-existence.

The next day he buried her in the meadow, and then a curious thing happened: the air was filled with butterflies, the very sky turned green and gold as the young creatures took to the air, fluttering uncertainly at first, but soon with greater self-confidence as they grew stronger. As he sat next to her grave, several alighted upon the marker he had erected on top of the grave.

As he walked back, through the swirling clouds of wings, he realized with shock: the Tower!

He ran to the dwelling, looking up at it against the sky, grasping the door-handle, looking inside. Everything was solid. Not a crack had appeared in the stones; the Tower stood as straight as ever, unmarred by any decay or disaster.

He spent many a day writing, writing of her, writing about them, writing his own book, putting his thoughts down. The pain of her loss would hit him frequently at first; but as time passed, the pain he noticed was not quite as bad; it would not go away, but it was mixed with the sweetness of Remembering.

One day he awoke and saw that his hair and beard were grey. He heard sounds, and looked out the window to see children running through the meadow, and he invited them in for a drink of cool spring water; they came back in following days, and he would tell them stories of the beautiful Butterfly Lady who had captured his heart. They took to calling him the Butterfly Man, and unknown to them at the time, he taught them many things that later on in their life they realized were true; some were good, some not so good, but he had made the world a little easier to understand.

Possession

2005-02-20T08:27:00.000-05:00

Huldar sat in his chair, a haggard look on his bearded face. He had not
slept for days.

She was dead.

He turned the small black dagger over and over in his hands. The blade
still had a film of green irridescent ichor upon it, no doubt some eerie
Hibernian witchcraft...

He heard sounds outside of his Great Hall: faint shouts, the familiar
clang of worn steel upon steel...

They were coming.

For her. And him.

~~~~~

He had spotted her on the snowy battlefields of Odin's Gate. She was a
lithe Celtic figure, dressed in bright colors, laughing- so unlike the
Norse women that he had known. She was in a small group of Hibernian
invaders,using her lute to cast the magic of speed upon them. She had
looked up, and for a brief second, their eyes had met.

Right then, he knew he must have her.

The moment that their eyes had met lasted a long time in his mind. While
his hands hefted his two-handed axe, his thoughts were drawn into her by
some wierd magic: he saw an image of her running through a field of flowers,
a handsome tall Celt chasing her, laughing. He also saw the faces of several
Norse women he had known briefly and had discarded.

The moment was over- the Bardess recoiled in shock at sharing eye contact and
soul memories with him, and she yelled out to her companions, who arrayed
themselves in front of her, their swords and spears flashing in the cold
mid-day sun, their brightly painted shields raised towards the Sons of Midgard.

The battle was brief.

Huldar's carles had outnumbered the Celts, and one by one, they were struck
down by axes. The last Celt left standing, a lad by the look of him,
crouched in front of the Bardess, yelling over his shoulder in the strange
sibilant tongue of his kind. She shook her head wildly, and continued to play
her magic of encouragement to him, having mezmerized several of his men.

He gave a swift command to Snorri, and the powerful carle hooked aside the
Celtic lad's shield and drove his axe into his chest. As the Hib died at his
feet, Snorri slammed his shield hard against the Bardess, stunning her into
unconsciouness. His carles quickly gathered their gear together, the Bardess
resting limp over Snorri's broad shoulder. Huldar had tore off her helmet and
had touched her raven hair briefly, then had given the command to move towards
home.

~~~~~

She had eaten nothing, drank nothing, locked in his room for two whole days.

Huldar stood in the center of the room, staring at her sitting in the very
corner, the heated brazier giving off a faint red light. She was dressed in
her tattered gear, having refused to even wash up.

She had haunted his thoughts too much...he had even overheard talk among his
carles that he was bewitched by her.

Enough is enough.

He strode over to her and was about to sieze her when she jumped up, a small
black dagger suddenly flashing in the red firelight. He stepped back, but the
blade was not meant for him- she had slid it effortlessly into her stomach, and,
as she doubled over, handed it to him hilt-first, a wild gleam of triumph in
her eyes, as she haltingly choked out a phrase in the Norse tongue: you will
need this as well.

He drew away from her, as he could see the poison glistening on the surface of
the blade. He had fled the room in a panic, and had not returned.

~~~~~

A few days afterwards, Snorri was found dead in the woods. An arrow had
pinned a note to his chest. Huldar had found a Runemaster and had asked him
what the note had said. The message was, 'if she has been touched, it
will take you many months of torment for your soul to release'.

~~~~~

Huldar looked up, a wild gleam of despair in his eye.

He was alone in the Great Hall, but not for long...

A strange purple glow filled the room. Then the swords started beating upon
the door, angry voices speaking in unrecognizable tongues.

He heard what sounded like her laughter echoing in his mind.

The dagger glittered in his grasp.

The door gave way, splinters flying, fierce Celts clutching bloodied weapons in
their hands leaping through the doorway.

A tall, handsome Celt shouldered his way into the room, his eyes searching.

The black, poisoned blade fell to the floor from a lifeless hand.

Chirelith's Ghost

2005-02-20T08:21:00.000-05:00

It was a cold evening at Odin's Gate.

Kirth wrapped his cloak tightly around his chain-clad body. He glanced up from the small campfire to see a young Paladin striding towards him, clad in plain but serviceable plate armor, a 2-handed sword slung over his back.

"Greetings, good Cleric!" said the Paladin. "I had thought that I was alone in reaching this Milewall." Kirth smiled slightly, and motioned him over towards the fire. "Our Stealthers report no activity yet", the young man continued. Suddenly he stuck out his hand. "Aillas at your service". "Kirth Gersen of Darkholme" said Kirth, grasping the young man's hand. He noticed the younger man looking at his disheveled appearance. "I have been gone for quite a while" he told the Paladin.

"It is good to see a strong Cleric such as you here in the Frontier. We all serve Arthur in defending our Realm." Kirth nodded absently, and stared back into the flickering fire.

The quiet grew between the two. Finally, Aillas spoke; "Something is on your mind, my friend?"

"Old memories of those passed away..." Kirth said, trailing off. The wind kicked up sparks in the fire, swirling them up into the air, at first bright, then disappearing. “Old friends, Guildmates long gone…”

Suddenly, the howl of a wolf broke the stillness. Aillas stood, unsheathing his greatsword. Kirth hefted his mace and shield just in time to see several Trolls moving towards them out of the dark. The sound of harsh laughter was heard, as they unslung their heavy axes.

"Run lad!" said Kirth. Aillas chanted a song, as Kirth cast a Smite at the youngest Troll. Blue electric energy danced over its target, causing the Troll to shriek in pain. Aillas leaped towards the stricken enemy, and felled him with two sword blows.

Suddenly, both Albionians were frozen in place, stunned by the magic of Midgard. The Trolls loomed over them, cutting them down with their axes.

---------------------------------------------

Kirth lay in the snow, his spirit having not yet left his body. Aillas lay near him. He lay there, remembering his Guildmates, now gone, who would have been by his side...then he saw the white glow in the trees.

A slim transparent figure of a woman, wreathed in unearthly light, moved towards him across the snow, leaving no footprints. Her long blond hair fell upon her dark mail-clad shoulders. She bore a Chalice in her hands.

Chirelith! Kirth wanted to cry out. He lay hypnotized by the sight of her. She bent over Aillas, touching his brow. Then she walked over to him, a slight smile playing across her face. Kirth could see right through her as if she was a transparency.

She placed the chalice to his lips- the chalice he recognized as the strong magical gift he had given her long long ago. He drank a draught of warm liquid, and he remembered...

...healing by her side in the evil Barrows, telling her how hard it was to keep Paladins healed fully in a fight...
...hunting with her alone in the Catacombs all night one eve, the time when they both fell in love...
...adventuring with her all over the Realm, from Lyonesse to Snowdonia...
...making love with her for the first time on a summer night in a deserted tower in Campacorentin Forest...

The flash of memories dazzled him, bringing a feeling of contentment he had not known in a long time. The moment lasted for a small eternity of bliss.

Kirth strove to speak to her, but no words came. He looked into Chirelith’s eyes, and thought of what he would say. He had told her so many times of his love for her, even after they had grown distant and did nothing but argue. So when he moved his lips, he formed the words: ‘Forgive me’. Chirelith, face expressionless but eyes full of life, bent to kiss his forehead…

…then Kirth’s spirit released from his body. As he was brought back to life, a flash of terrible memories filled his head- the arguments with her; leaving her group in Lyonesse and standing from a distance watching her with mixed feelings; the unforgotten bitterness when their engagement was broken off; the grief when Chirelith was gone, never to return.

Aillas, also reborn at the bindstone at Cotswold, looked at the Cleric as he sat weeping on the ground. "Kirth?" he said, placing his hand upon the old man's shoulder. He got no response. He started to ask a question, but thought better of it. "I must go help my Guild, my friend" he whispered. "Be at peace."

Aillas ran off. It was years later when he saw the old man, for one last time.

---------------------------------------------

Aillas sat drinking ale in Ye Mug, a thoughtful look on his face. His Guildmate Balnorr resumed his questions.

"So, what did you see in the Catacombs to make you so thoughtful, friend?" Aillas continued with his story.

"As I went to ressurect my friends, I passed through the darkness of the lower levels. At one time they had held terror for me, but I have more learning than I did then. I strode past Skeletal Centurions, motionless in the darkness. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an old man in tattered armor along the wall. I was startled, but I sensed something familiar in his pale face. 'Do I know ye, father?' I asked, and then I exclaimed! He was an old Cleric I had encountered out in the Frontier one day, many years ago… he smiled slightly. I strode closer to him, and by the torchlight I could see he was slightly transparent. I drew back, making the sign of Arthur's Cross. 'No need for that friend' he spoke is a soft voice. 'Not all ghosts are evil. Do you remember Chirelith?'

I thought for a while, and remembered an unearthly glow that had hovered over us on the Frontier that night so long ago. 'Yes Kirth' I said, more to please him than anything. He nodded..." Aillas faltered.

"Yes?" Balnorr said. "Continue?"

Aillas took a deep breath. "He told me that this corridor was where he and Chirelith first kissed and fell in love. And he said he was there to remember all the good, and to forget the bad...because someone should remember those who were gone, was how he put it."

“Then I heard a noise, and I whirled around, my greatsword in hand. For a second, I thought I had a brief glimpse of green hills far away- then I blinked, and it had disappeared. I turned back around, but the old man was gone.” Aillas sighed, and put down his cup. "I have never heard of Kirth nor Chirelith", admitted Balnorr. “It is a sad tale. I hope ye don't believe that there are good ghosts my friend, as the Church would frown upon that methinks."

Aillas was lost in thought and did not reply. Later that evening, he went to the Lady he was enamored of and gave her a bouquet of flowers, and spoke of his love for her.

---------------------------------------------

A few years later, Aillas and his Lady parted ways. Many years after that, no memory existed of neither Aillas, nor Kirth, nor Chirelith. The world forgets, but the dead will always remember.

The Trackless Forest

2005-02-20T08:18:00.000-05:00

Kyrelea stepped out into the clearing.

She was a striking Sorceress, dressed in flowing black robes with a matching red-trimmed fine cloak, a gift from a former lover who was a Master Tailor. Her long red hair shone in the pale sunlight that filtered through the break in the vast expanse of Campacorentin Forest. She was beautiful, and she was very annoyed.

Behind her strode a Highland Armsman in green cloak and blue chainmail named Clavis. He stood tall, brazenly walking into the clearing, hand on his broadsword. He cocked his head, looking this way and that, concentration evident on his scarred face. As usual, he payed very little attention to Kyrelea, who wrinkled her nose in resentment.

Bringing up the rear were two men engaged in conversation- a short chubby Briton Friar, and a small, lithe Saracen Infiltrator. "But I saw the drop, I am sure of it Ghazni!" exclaimed the Friar. "Tropel, I do not doubt that you 'think' you saw something", stated the Infiltrator with a calm voice. The Friar started to sputter, and Kyrelea said "Silence! Do we have to inform all of the Forest that we are here?" Tropel looked pained, and muttered "But I saw the Magic Acorns drop, and then they weren't there a minute later!" No one paid any attention to him as they all stood looking across the clearing.

It had all started on the spur of the moment at Caer Ulfwych. The unlikely band, brought together by chance and held together by hope, had left the path, striking out for a rumored spot with rich treasure...and had been somewhat alarmed when they had come across a shredded cloak and several broken weapons lying in the mould. So they had headed out in the direction they had thought would take them back...

...and they were lost. Tropel complained; Clavis was stoic; Ghazni was silent; and Kyrelea glowered.

They had clashed with a few Goblin Hunters and had slain them. Once they spotted some ghostly Druids, and had ran, losing what little bearings they had left in the dark maze of trees.

"I donnae remember this clearin", stated Clavis in his thick brogue. Setting his shield aside, he sat down in the grass. Kyrelea, clearly displeased with just about everything, sighed loudly. Tropel looked this way and that. "If we could just remember where the sun was when we started..." he said. Kyrelea whirled around to face him. "You dolt! We started out deep in this accursed forest! How would we know where the sun was?" Tropel opened his mouth to reply, saw the expression on her face, and snapped his jaw shut with a click. Suddenly, Ghazni appeared right next to him. Tropel jumped back, gasping, while Clavis chuckled grimly. "Don't do that!" pleaded Tropel. "I am nervous enough already!"
Ghazni bowed his head in assent. "I see nothing in the clearing", he stated.

They had all been at Ulfwych when they had overheard a guard discussing a legendary cache of treasure to be found beneath a grove of ancient trees with giant cobwebs woven thick around them. They had settled into a somewhat uneasy alliance, greed triumphing over personal distaste. Ghazni had acted gallant towards Kyrelea, who made a point to ignore him; this just caused the Saracen to smile slightly and to act in a very exaggerated, sarcastic parody of courtly attention to her- for instance, holding twigs in his pinched forefinger and thumb out of her way as she passed, bowing low. Kyrelea thought that the show was in very poor taste. Tropel had made a clumsy pass at her when the two had been temporarily alone- she had cast a shock spell on him that had taken the wind out of his sails, leaving scorch marks in a certain sensitive place on his anatomy. Tropel had not repeated his mistake. Clavis was single-minded: paying no heed to the Sorceress, even after she met his eyes with a seductive look; he hummed a Highland ditty as he moved through the trees, his broadsword ready in hand. For some reason this had upset Kyrelea the most- how dare he act as if she were some drab Highland scullery-girl to be ignored!

Now, as they all rested in the clearing, their minds were not on Kyrelea (Except for Kyrelea, of course). They thought only of finding their way back to Ulfwych, or, in the case of the Armsman, of a faint hope of finding the treasure and then returning to safety.

~~~

They continued on. Kyrelea was fretting about her red slippers being in poor shape when Ghazni held up is hand. Everybody stopped. The Saracen stood, listening intently, barely breathing in his concentration. "Something is about in the woods with us", he finally whispered, loosening his rapier in its sheath. Clavin gripped the hilt of his broadsword tighter. Tropel looked all around them in fear, knuckles white as both hands gripped his staff. A faint clicking noise could be heard.

Suddenly, three very large and very angry giant Spiders rushed at them on fast-moving, many jointed lags. Their black and yellow carapaces shown in the faint light. One bore down on Ghazni, who, evading its first strike, plunged his rapier into its hide- but his blade glanced from the hardened chitinous surface. The Spider then stuck him down to the ground. Kyrelea yelled a Word of Command, waving her arms as her hands glowed with the Forces of Power. Yet this was an unfortunate day indeed for the gorgeous and vain Sorceress, as her Mezmerization failed against the powerful creatures. Clavis was fighting the two Spiders who had targeted him- he broke off the ends of two legs, but was poisoned and failing fast, cursing with sulphurous oaths. "Tropel you fool!" screamed Kyrelea, hurling an electric blast at the Spider who was now coming for her over the body of Ghazni. Tropel, mouth sagging open as he watched the terrible action, finally cast a heal on the Armsman, but it was too little, too late. Clavis went down under the mandibles of the enraged insects.

The Spider stood before Kyrelea as she fruitlessly cast another bolt that did little damage. She turned to run, catching Tropel's eye. Tropel took one look at her and started to run. She cried out in frustration as the Spider siezed her from behind, placing its sharp sting against the back of her lovely neck. She shuddered and was flung to the grass, lifeless.

It took the Spiders a brief time to find Tropel, exhausted, cowering beneath some bushes. SInce he was a large specimen, they decided to take him back to their giant Web- and, as he was being encased in a sticky mass of woven strands, Tropel layed his eyes upon the pile of glittering gems and coins beneath the web he was being bound to...the soft sting of the preservative poison caressed him, and he faded into a slumber of sorts- until later, when the feeding began.

~~~

A chipmunk skittered across the roots of the forest floor. It dashed around a nasty pile of fresh, foul bones, and happened upon a green cloak, somewhat tattered. The chipmunk rooted through a pocket in the cloak, and emerged with its cheek pouches stuffed full with some faintly glowing acorns. It ran back to its burrow, happy as only a simple-minded creature can be, with its new-found treasure.

Story-book Ending?

2005-02-20T08:14:00.000-05:00

Jantiff ran from Prydwen Keep as fast as he could.

'Blasted charnel house of evil!' he thought. The dank labyrinth of the Undead known as Mithra's Tomb was the object of his musings- that, and a tall dark-haired Theurgist named Lady Rihanonn, who lay quiet and unmoving within its depths.

They had been moving cautiously through the darkened corridors when a red-eyed beast had jumped them by surprise, slaying them both. Jantiff's soul immediately released, telling Rihanonn that he would return to ressurect her as speedily as possible. 'Can you make it clear down to me?' was her soul's question to him, and, as a Friar of the Defenders of Albion, he felt he could do it. He had trained well with his staff, and he had learned the Holy art of ressurection recently. 'I shall be back for you!' his mind said to hers. He ran swiftly through the trees and fields towards the Tomb...

"Jantiff Ravensroke!" the old woman called. A little boy came running into the cottage to see his grandmother sitting by the fireplace in her favorite chair. "You fell asleep last eve, little one" Grandmother said, her voice softening. Jantiff smiled up at her, then jumped into her lap. "Now I will finish the tale of the Brave Knight and the Damsel he rescued!" Jantiff listened with rapt attention as his Grandmother told of the Knight who slew the terrible Beast who threatened the fair Damsel. "Grandma, was she grateful?" the little boy asked. "Yes little one" she said, smiling. "They went and lived in a Castle, and with Arthur's blessing, lived a long and happy life together". Jantiff smiled, his eyes drooping, as the warmth of the fire brought upon sleepiness...

Jantiff entered the Tomb.

The foul stench in the palpable darkness revolted him. As he moved downwards, the eerie sounds of the Undead, unquiet in their eternal wanderings, came to his ears. Gripping his staff tighter, he rounded a corner-

And came face to face with an evil spirit! The foul thing rushed him; he swung his staff again and again, laying the evil thing low. He watched it dissolve into the stone floor. 'I am almost there!' his mind called out to Rhianonn. After a brief rest, he moved further downwards, picking up his pace. He turned right at an intersection...

Wrong turn! He backtracked, and went down the left-hand corridor. More Undead crowded the hall. Jantiff sprinted through them. One followed him, raking its nails at his robe. He swiftly turned and tried his new staff style attack on the thing. The spirit crumpled to the ground! Jantiff smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe...

"Father..." Jantiff said haltingly. "Yes son?" came the reply. Jantiff's Father continued to use his carpentry tools upon his latest project upon his workbench. "...I want to be a Knight when I grow up" stated Jantiff. His Father, smiling, put his tools down and turned to his son, kneeling down to look in his eyes. "My son, few of us are called to such a role. Life often does not allow us to play the role we wish..." His Father looked thoughtful. "I shall speak to a friend I know in Camelot" he said, running his hand through his son's hair. "We shall see...but now, please hand me my saw." Jantiff smiled eagerly and ran to get his Father's tool.

Jantiff looked down the corridor with dread.

There were a few yellow-eyed Undead roaming there. Rhianonn was past them, her soul slipping slowly. Jantiff, drawing himself up, strode forward. He broke into a run past the Undead. The way was free!

Then, suddenly, an evil Bleeder Lizard attacked him unawares! He was hit badly, yet turned and thrust his staff forward. The battle was brief- the beast had gotten the drop on him, and his endurance was very low to begin with . 'I fear I am slain, Milady', his mind sent out to hers. As he crumpled to the floor, she sent back; 'I'm releasing'. Jantiff's soul thought bitterly of how close he had come...and realized that he was not living in one of his Grandmother's story-book tales. He released, to sit down in Prydwen Keep once again, lost in thought. Rhianonn was nearby. "I am sorry Milady", he said, looking down at the ground, staff resting across his knees. Rhianonn smiled and told him there would be other days to fight once again in the Tomb. Jantiff nodded, and thought about the tales of the Brave Knight and his deeds, with a tinge of regret.

First Time.

2005-02-20T04:00:00.000-05:00

Having written stories before- and posting them on this or that message board- having a home blog seems a very good idea. I've run across some interesting blogs here and there, and so I'm giving this a try.

I've mainly been inspired to write by playing in MMORPGs- Massive Multiplayer Online Role Playing Games, how's that for a jumble of letters? I will post stories I've written here, as well as new works that come along.

This is about the writings themselves, and how they came about, more than anything else. I guess that would be my main point. Sure, there is me, and the games, and some of the people I've been inspired by- but when it all comes down to it, it is the stories, the ideas wanting to come through. Everything else is transitory, common. The writing is the thing, you could say.

More coming up, of course.