Violette, Uncontrolled

UNSTABLE

The Dragon’s Crown was gone. She knocked over a clutch of emeralds, scrabbling behind the shelf for the telltale prick of the Crown. Instead, her fingers came back dusty and glinting. Frustration poured out of her before she could rein it in. A sudden cacophony squeaks and screeches and then– lifeless bodies of an owl, crow and raven thumped to the vault floor. Elsewhere she could sense rat bodies floating among the piles of gold and spiders hanging dead off of half-finished cobwebs.

Breathe. Just breathe through it.

She took in lungfuls of dusty, slightly metallic air and contemplated the corpses. Her magic felt volatile, malevolent. It was hot, frenzied and rubbed her insides raw. This had never happened before. Again, the helplessness and rage bubbled up in her and as before it flung out tearing through the corpses. Feathers fluttered through the air as heads rolled one way and bodies dismembered itself. Blood and guts spewed across the floor and splashed onto her face. She grit her teeth, adamant to gain control without the wand or the crown. This was a process she enjoyed. This was her craft for fuck’s sake.

Her knuckles grew white as she clenched them and sweat pooled at the back of her neck. Her magic extended further than the vault and an unfortunate maid shriveled into husk. She grappled with herself as the kill released something sweet, potent, heady within her. Maybe it’d be best to let go…lovely skeletons to play with. As her thoughts wavered her magic became compliant with almost cat-like coyness. It flowed through her gently, almost lifting her off her feet.

The Wand in its leather holster around her arm grew hot and visions of a smoking, bloodied wasteland enveloped her mind. She almost whimpered at its brutal beauty. The flesh stuck to battlements and wood, blood splattered across walls and grass like large landscape paintings. She wanted that. Wanted to be the catalyst of that. The reason for that.

The edges of her vision turned black, she could feel the imminent explosion of her power. But just as she let go of all control the door to the vault banged open and there was a sudden pressure in her head.

Fuck. The Elders.

And she collapsed, covered in blood, reeking of vitriol.

---

UNREST

Her head throbbed like it had been trampled on by those ill-fated elephant chimaeras. Her throat was dry and there was a faint taste of blood and smoke in her mouth.

‘You need not pretend Violette, I know you are awake,’ said a familiar voice.

That’s not my name. My name was lost to this façade you made me put up.

She groaned and opened her eyes. Sunlight filtered through grey and black gauzy currents dappled on the floor of her chambers. She was tucked into a nest of plump pillows and thick wool blankets in the middle of her bed.

Elder Morgana stood facing the direction of the town, her back tensed.

This is why she liked her dungeon. Nobody dared enter. They thought Death lingered. Idiots.

‘You failed to mention the Crown was no longer in your possession at the last Coven gathering,’ said Elder Morgana, still not deigning to look at her.

She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t know it wasn’t in my possession at the last Coven meeting.’

‘Unacceptable. Violette, you know the power you can wield. The credibility and respect it gives us, as Trinoctua, a Coven that lies with Death itself. You cannot be flippant about the relics of your destiny,’ said Elder Morgana, finally turning around.

Violette saw black again. Rage was a live thing within her.

‘You are right. I know the power I wield. You don’t talk to me that way. I am your Queen,’ she said, though her voice shook. She had never stood up to one of them, not once in all the time she’d known them.

Elder Morgana laughed. A high, cold sound and her expression shifted to one of mirth. The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

‘Child. You may have untold power but you are young. Volatile, with little to no control as evidenced by the events at the vault. I, on the other hand, have the strength of a Coven and the wisdom of time long forgotten.’

The pressure in her head was back, the room became frigid and the light turned a cold, murky blue.

She gasped as Elder Morgana stalked forward and grabbed her hand with icy fingers. The Ring was forced down her finger and her mind was enveloped in sudden calm. Her magic, however, felt like it was being throttled.

She squirmed out of the grasp and tried to remove the ring. It wouldn’t budge. Her magic wailed but her mind willed her to scream quietly.

‘Wha…wha…,’ she started. Swallowed and tried again. ‘What is this?’

Elder Morgana sat beside her and stroked her cheek. Unwillingly, she turned towards the palm as the light went back to muted yellow and Elder Morgana murmured ‘It is a suppressor layered over the Ring’s existing power. It is temporary, only until we find out how to help you learn control or we find the Crown. Whichever comes first. Orwina here is the caster of the suppressor and will be here to monitor its effects on you.’

A figure she had not previously noticed, stepped out from the shadows near her wardrobe and curtsied. ‘Your grace.’

Her power reared and cut through her to no avail. She screamed, long and loud.

You puny, insignificant creature be the watcher, warden of my power, my person? Never. I shall find a way out of this. I shall not tolerate disrespect like this. I am Vitriol personified. I shall bathe in the blood of the Coven if I have to. But I shall be no caged beast.

---

UNHINGED

It had been twelve days since her imprisonment. Oh, they didn’t call it that. They called it ‘care’ and ‘rest’. Her chimaeras were handed off to lesser witches to finish while she ‘recovered’.

But she knew what this truly was. Fear. They were scared of what her power could do. As they should be but they counted on her affections for them to keep her at bay while they found a way to control her. The signs were there.

Orwina came everyday without fail at dawn, dusk and the witching hour to take measure of her. True to her purpose, Orwina constantly maintained the suppressor without it causing any harm but she also performed a multitude of spells that Violette for the life of her couldn’t determine.

Something had to be done. The Ring could calm her but her magic grew restless and tired. It needed to be let out. It needed to cause harm, maim, torture, kill.

On the thirteenth day a thought struck her. She almost laughed out loud. How had she not realized this before?

When Orwina entered her bedchambers at the witching hour it was to find an unusually cheerful Violette.

‘Everything alright, your grace?’ asked Orwina, curtsying.

‘Sensational, Orwina,’ she replied, a smile stretching across her face.

If Orwina felt the back of her neck prick in warning, she didn’t show it. Instead, concentrated on finishing her work.

‘Orwina, did you know that a witch’s spells are tied to herself?’ asked Violette. And continued without waiting for a response, ‘ For example, if I wasn’t so careful myself, my chimaeras could be easily undone by something as silly as a little of my blood spilled. Imagine that! Any do-gooder could achieve that then, if they put their mind to it of course.’

Orwina, surprised at the chatting Queen, shook her head. ‘No your grace. It wouldn’t be that simple. For your creations to fail in that case, they would have to kill you or very nearly ki…’The blood drained out of Orwina’s face.

Violette just smiled prettily up at her. Unmoving.

Orwina tried to get up from her perch next to the Queen. She found she couldn’t move.

‘Just a little paralysis inducing poison I had lying around,’ said Violette conversationally.

‘You wouldn’t. You can’t. I control your magic,’ whispered Orwina as she tried to lift her hands to cast.

‘See? That is what you lack. Imagination,’ said Violette getting up. ‘Who told us the only way to kill is through Vitriol? Knives work just fine, Orwina.’

‘You can’t! It is forbidden! You mustn’t kill another witch from your Coven!’ said Orwina, tears flowing down her cheeks.

‘Now, now Orwina. You must know I don’t like the word forbidden. I cavort with Death itself. What are these rules of mere mortals to me?’ said Violette, a sharp knife caressed lovingly. ‘Did you know that every death adds to my power? True, I used only my magic till now but my Wand calls out to me, assuring me it works fine without using magic as well.’

Violette slowly brought the knife to Orwina’s throat. She could feel it tremble, the pulse fluctuating wildly. Her own pulsed in response. She was almost light-headed with excitement. She closed her eyes, readying.

‘You are a vile creature much like one of your creations, you know that?’ spat Orwina. ‘ You will never know true contentment in this life. Always searching for things, bigger and better. You will be lost in yourself. And if I must die, I am glad that my last words to you will be: I am the one that stole the Crown.’

Violette blinked open her eyes and examined her victim. So the Crown was indeed missing. She shrugged, it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. It was the Elders that insisted all the relics be together. All she wanted was her Grave Wand back.

Violette laughed. ‘True contentment? Do you hear yourself? Contentment was never in the stars for us. We are Demon-witches of Trinoctua. We sow sorrow and wreak havoc. That is our purpose and joy. That is all. About the Crown, I don’t care but my creations are art, you worthless worm!’

Violette slit Orwina’s throat in one. Warm blood surged down her hands and the giddy, gleeful feeling intensified. Simultaneously, she felt her magic burst out of her, free from its shackles.

Now, to make art.

---

UNQUENCHABLE

Elder Morgana came as soon as she heard the commotion. Orwina hung fused to a dreadworm, eyes gouged, arms and legs grotesquely positioned.

Violette sat in front of the creation, drenched in blood. She was humming, an animation spell it would seem. Her magic thrummed, smelling vaguely of blood and smoke.

‘What is the meaning of this Violette?!,’ said Elder Morgana, straining to keep the tremor out of her voice. It would not do to give the child more power.

‘I thought that was rather obvious, Elder Morgana,’ said Violette. ‘But if you want to be dense about it, I’ll explain. In a few minutes, I will awaken this creation of mine. It is, however, not for sale. It is to be a guardian of mine and a warning to you and the coven. I am happy to do your bidding and work for the good of the coven but you have no power over me. And if someone, anyone dares question that, well…bloodlust, once awakened, is rather hard to quench.’

Elder Morgana looked at what she had helped in creating. It stood blinking serenely at her, covered in guts, blood and brain matter. She would scream monster…but who would she point to? Herself or Violette?

---

The Crystal Mirror

Chapter III

When the First sent me,
I brought my heart to this place
Swearing to protect
and tend to this sacred garden
But now,
this damned silence persists
and there are no more songs here
My children…
By the will of some wicked fate
they are gone
They are all gone

- Koam, Wordtree Dreamscroll

---

Possessing the vessel was as cold and unsettling as one might expect of a void-dwelling inhabitant.

Tsami guided the vessel’s porcelain figure forward with her thoughts, all the while observing the boundary of separation between this body and her own left behind begin to blur. Lost to the growing numbness from each cumulative moment spent in a frozen realm.

What is your name? Tsami thought, provoking the vessel to answer.

The vessel drew in a sharp-chilled, airy breath. “Call me that which you are,” he said. “For it is by your being that I am so.”

I can’t call you Tsami though. That’s awfully confusing.

“Then name me from that space from which I was shaped…”

Tsami’s thoughts went to Koam. Poor Koam. She recalled what the Keeper had said to her. About the parts of a person that move beneath the surface of the self. Those parts she had needed to confront; to bind the shadow, to pass through the Crystal Mirror, to arrive here now, in this place where they could seemingly be expressed in their infinitude.

Sapath, thought Tsami.

“While I am of her domain…” replied the vessel, “I am not the moon.”

Right, well…

Tsami discarded her offer and searched for another. Thoughts of her brother, Moth, came to mind, of that day he had seen the vessel in the forest cave, and that evening when they had discussed the matter in private.

He said the vessel looked just like father…

“Anim,” said the vessel for her.

Yes, thought Tsami. That was his name.

“The ancestor…” said the vessel, accepting his name and in doing so changing, becoming more personable, more expressive in his face. Dark hair like Tsami’s sprouted from his head. The reflected, coiled markings around his dead arms faded, and the colour of his flesh warmed across his body, taking on the subtle likeness of Tsami’s primitive memory. “How fitting.”

A vertical corridor of ethereal white light pulsed softly in the distance. Tsami led Anim forward through the black, eyes fixated on its alluring image, until the light revealed the specific shape and details of the structure from which it emanated, and she forgot how long exactly it was that she had wandered.

It was just as Tsami had seen in her vision. Ageless.

An octahedron of shifting stone floating in the abyss. In constant motion fortifying the ascending and descending terraces of its twin ziggurat exterior with huge, tomb-worthy blocks, inscribed with hieroglyphs of glowing spelltongue. Its open, central doorway stretched far above and below the imperceptible floor Anim stood upon, where, beneath his feet, newly inscribed stone blocks exited from the temple’s interior, guided by an invisible hand towards their respective destinations.

Anim looked to the pyramidal height of the temple and Tsami saw that now she had brought him closer to its source she could follow the trail of light out from its centre, making out the distant, euhedral border-panes of crystal above converging into a high ceiling. They held up the realm’s own sky, alive with that violet hue she had so intimately come to know.

It occurred to Tsami that she had come into this place from out along one of these borders, and as she noticed the swarms of dark clouds circling around the temple like restless spirits, she was reminded once more of what Koam had told her.

“There are many doorways beneath the Ethereal Isle,” said Anim.

These… are shadows?

Anim made a sound indicating Tsami was correct. "They wait to be confronted. Sometimes they are. Sometimes they are not. And sometimes, if they are to be confronted, they may return again with an offering.”

For who?

Anim looked out toward the edge of the crystal realm on the horizon and Tsami watched as several of the shadows were summoned out, disappearing beyond doorways just like that which she had passed through, painted all across each of the colossal, triangular panes framing the space. Other shadows flew back from the doorways carrying orbs of faint, icy flame in their barely sculpted hands, passing overhead through the grand doorway of light, into the heart of the temple.

“You wish to follow them?” said Anim.

I do, thought Tsami.

She led Anim into the doorway’s central corridor. Looking between the walls on either side, Tsami observed the waterfall pulses of trickling light down the countless, neatly etched rows of cryptic spelltongue.

The corridor ended, expanding out into the main temple chamber; a rising steeple of zig-zagging stone and a cascading labyrinth of ever-darkening steps beneath the invisible floor. Tsami guided Anim forward towards the chamber centrepiece, to stand before the source.

A gigantic, celestial orb of pure energy, suspended in the air like a small sun, yet radiating the cold dullness of a long forgotten moon. In a constant dance rotating on its axis in a predictable rhythm, though bearing no discernible pattern to its movements. Each time its sphere rolled over, locking the eye of its maelstrom upon a new direction, a beaconous, ghostly figure of energy emerged, leaping forth into action, along a preordained path. When each being came to the end of their respective roads, they conjured, seemingly out of the collective imagination of the space, blank blocks of stone with their white hands.

The flame-bearing shadows who had entered the temple chamber floated over to meet their contrasting counterparts, handing their offerings over to the ethereal ones before fading into the empty backdrop. The scions of the sphere, left holding the icy flames, began to draw out from them the necessary substance to inscribe upon the stone blocks, like ink to parchment or ochre to an Initiate’s Scroll, before sending them floating away at their command to join the exit procession below.

Though Tsami couldn’t tell what was written, or why it was, she sensed each spelltongue symbol was worthy.

And then Tsami heard it.

In the backdrop of such a dazzling scene, the nameless song of her childhood.

The one her brother had sung for her when they had first been brought to the monastery.

The one he had learnt from their father, the real Anim, that he had learnt from his father before him, whoever their grandfather had been.

Beneath the celestial sphere, three figures, three Aeons cloaked in twilight like the birds Tsami had transformed back within the Garden of Songs, knelt upon a triad of facing altars, arms chained to the floor and an object laid in front of each of them. Their faces were locked, staring up into the sphere-light. Their voices engaged in a cyclic ritual of harmonious song…

The one with the mace threaded the bass line, a descending, cosmic unravelling.
The one with the short sword wove the melody, born of ancient memory.
The one with the chronicle finished the tapestry, guiding each refrain toward ascension.

It was the third, the Aeon with the chronicle like Koam’s Sacred Grimoire that caught Tsami’s attention, and as soon as she honed in upon their presence, she felt compelled to lead Anim forward.

"Here is your moon,” said Anim, with a touch of jest reminiscent of Moth.

Though the Aeon was chained, their captivating voice made Tsami their prisoner because her curiosity made her impressionable.

Perhaps they can help me?

She came up the steps of its altar and stood at the Aeon’s side.

The triad stopped singing.

In all the world there had never been such silence.

The Aeon turned their head to face Anim’s and their bright eyes of spiralling starlight saw straight through him, bearing witness to the secret presence of Tsami’s soul.

“Free me,” they said, in a chord emboldened by the voice of the other Aeons.

“I will not,” said Anim, speaking for that small part of Tsami wanting to resist.

The Aeon tilted their head like an owl. “I can help your friend,” they said, “your Lightweaver.”

Can you? Thought Tsami. But how?

The Aeon heard her questions.

“The Ghost Wand…” they said. “Reach for it.”

Tsami was reminded of her own body, of one thawing into two; of duality. That she sat, occupying this deep state of meditation within the bowels of the forest cave, housed in a protective cloak of her own shadow. That there was a wand in her hand. That she could extend her arm and her vessel’s too in unison. The Ghost Wand appeared in Anim’s hand, like a hazy mirage reaching beyond the physical plane for the first time.

She held the meldable quality of this space, of its potential in her mind and pointed the wand at the source of it all; the celestial sphere. Then she linked the strength of the sphere to the chains binding the Aeon and watched as they dissolved, parting into fine mist.

The Aeon brought their hands together and bowed. “Thank you,” they said, on their own this time.

They reached for Anim’s left hand, holding his palm outstretched. Then, with an icy glow illuminating their index fingertip, the Aeon began to etch a symbol, their touch both freezing upon Anim’s palm and faraway burning upon Tsami’s.

Two triangles, their points meeting, reflecting each other like an hourglass laid on its side. With a vertical line straight down through the middle.

The celestial sphere stopped turning on its axis.

It began to rumble.

The cold permeating the temple chamber turned to intensifying heat as the sphere shook, spitting out violent, energetic bursts of red flame. The ethereal workers stopped inscribing, fleeing back into their source, causing the sphere’s heat to swelter further.

Then, like breaking free from an egg of molten iron, a majestic bird of feathered fire screeched as it drew its plumed head out from the inferno. Clawing itself out desperately, it rose high into the air above the sphere, flapping its huge, tasseled wings, lined with precious gemstones, glistening with a rainbow sheen.

Tsami turned Anim to face the Aeon.

They were gone.

Run.

The bird shrieked as Tsami led Anim sprinting out of the temple chamber, back through the entrance hall, past the spelltongue walls. As she tossed Anim out the temple doorway back into the void the great bird swooped past, twirling up into the air above before letting out a cry so shrill, so deafening, it reverberated off each of the far border-panes of crystal.

Anim collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed by the echo’s power. Tsami forced him to stand again and as he stumbled forward from side to side she realised the sound had distorted her connection to him.

“There is no need to run,” said Anim.

What are you talking about?

Anim laughed with a lightness unfitting for the situation at hand. “You cannot kill an Unseen.”

Tsami picked Anim up, forcing him forward with what little focus she had left.

That’s great, but I bet I’ll still feel it.

The bird cried out again, and Anim keeled over once more as it dove down from the height of the sky.

Tsami looked ahead towards the doorway, towards home.

We’re so close…

“Let go, Tsami.”

Like an arrow of lightning the bird passed through Anim, leaving a blazing trail in its wake. Columns of flame burst up, engulfing his figure, and as Tsami released her attachment to the memory she had conjured, the mask of Anim’s persona melted away. What was left of the empty vessel’s figure collapsed into a burning pile of embers.

But Tsami couldn’t detach completely, and a part of the agony of perishing travelled with her severed connection as it flew back across the Crystal Mirror, smashing her physical body over like a fireball, shattering her protective spell and boiling her blood toward fever.

---

Remnant ashes of broken shadow floated about the forest cave ceiling. The Ghost Wand slipped from Tsami’s fingers. The weight of insurmountable hunger descended upon her like a millstone, and when she rolled over to observe the Aeon’s symbol etched on her left palm, she noticed the boney frailty of her arms, the healed scars of the burns coiled around them, the several silver streaks of excessively long hair laid at her side.

A young man with a familiar, pale face rose from his makeshift, spell-lit desk, brushing back his own shoulder of fine hair.

As he gathered the skirt of his opulent robes and rushed to Tsami, kneeling over her, she observed Koam’s Sacred Grimoire belted at his side. In the background behind him, two plainly made beds and an ornate, open chest were set against the cave wall, with a leviathan’s jaw crown sat atop an assortment of treasures.

“Ensun,” he yelled. “She’s returned. Come quickly, Ensun.”

The young man jumped to his feet, unclasped the grimoire, flung it open, and with prodigal speed skipped around Tsami, scrawling forth a resplendent stream of light to form a circle. At its conclusion he brought his hand and breath high up above her at its centre and exhaled softly, adding dimensionality, drawing the walls of the circle up to meet his hand, forming a cone of rejuvenation.

A sun-weathered, sagely old man with a bald head and morning mist, cobweb beard entered the lightfield, joining the young man at his side. He took the time to lower himself with great care to the dusty cave floor before revealing his elegant hand from the loose sleeve of his worn, earthly robe, placing it over Tsami’s heart.

“Sleep now, child” he said. “Your Moth keeps close.”

The last thing Tsami remembered was the gentle wind in the old man’s words, in his exhale, and the mischievous twinkling of the most remarkable, bronze ring on his finger.

The Crystal Mirror

Chapter II

I often wonder
when departing this life,
beyond the rush toward eternity,
if I could awaken again,
but a moment later,
upon the shore of some distant future
Where progeny
is ancestor

Might it turn out
we were never
quite where we seemed?

- Venerable Keeper Ensun, Meditations

---

It was the sixth midnight. The sixth attempt.

Wand clenched in her hand, Tsami etched a circle of violet light in the earth and stood at its centre.

The shadow offered its bond, reaching out from the Crystal Mirror wordlessly, and Tsami inhaled, pointing the wand above her with precision, drawing her attention towards the ceiling overhead. She imagined the darkness of the earth above, and far above it the deathly silence of the forest. Beyond that, her thoughts expanded to hold the world and its own, ever turning shadow upon an abyssal sea, and when she came to an understanding of shade, of its essence beyond the confines of definition, she exhaled, bringing the wand down, pointing it at the shadow’s heart. Channelling her understanding, Tsami pulled at the figure, commanding it out from the mirror in submission onto the cave’s stony floor.

The shadow wailed like a banshee as Tsami drew it towards her circle, and as it cried out so did Tsami, vocalising her own pain in discordant unison.

She would not falter. Not tonight.

The shadow stumbled down the rocky steps, disjointed in its motion, craning its body backwards, twisting its limbs, pulling against her, unyielding. With every tug of resistance the shadow struck a blow to Tsami’s psyche, and one by one her mind spilled forth its secrets. The fear of being alone. Abandoned. Unworthy. And as her emotions swelled, each with their own confronting crescendo, her body began to tremble and her overwhelming tiredness brought tears to the corners of her eyes.

It was only after all this that the shadow struck its final blow. Her failure once more to reconcile it within her circle.

As the shadow breached the invisible wall of the spell boundary it repelled with such ferocity Tsami screamed, losing her composure. The ritual was over. The shadow slipped back behind its glass prison, dissolving as she cast the wand down to the dirt in wild anger, in absolute defeat.

---

In sleep she found oblivion. No images. No words. Not even a whisper.

As the sun rose above the Forest Monastery of Okoru, Tsami rested until her heavy eyelids were a touch lighter, enough to glimpse the silhouette of her brother, Moth sitting across the bed from her, humming the nameless song of their childhood.

“There you are,” he said, smiling devilishly as he threw the blanket off her.

Tsami recoiled, almost hissing as she snatched back the bedding and drew it back over herself in a tight cocoon. Memories of the night, of failure, came back and she groaned at the thought of it all in a hope to send her brother, and her thoughts, far away.

“I know what you’ve been up to, Tsami,” said Moth, loud enough to rustle Tsami’s unease and for the entire dormitory to hear him. “I saw you in the Garden of Waves last night. I’m not a fool. You’ve been going back to that cave, I know it.”

Tsami didn’t know what to say, but it wasn’t as if she was going to admit it, so she stayed silent, hoping her brother would cease his baiting, that she might dissolve again into the warmth of her blankets.

“I’m not going to scold you,” said Moth, congratulating himself, “but if you have been up to no good, then you really ought to see this.” He tore back the bedding once more, offering his hand to Tsami.

Rolling over and seeing the serious look on Moth’s face, a rarity, was enough to rouse Tsami’s curiosity. With dishevelled hair and last night’s robes thrown around her, she followed her brother along the open air corridor into the east wing of the monastery, into the Garden of Songs. Aptly named for the many bells and chimes that hung from the crossing canopies of the garden’s golden gingko trees, and the gentle morning breeze that always found its way meandering through, stirring the small instruments into chorus.

Today the old masters were gathered with the students, both the initiates and children; bunched together. As they approached the back of the crowd, Moth pointed up at the Wordtree, proud ancient centrepiece of the garden, standing against the weathered back wall above the crowd, with a thousand tiny scrolls decoratively encased, tied to its branches or pinned to its trunk there about amongst the chimes; of dreams recalled during the half-woken hypnagogia of the monastery’s students across the years.

But it was not the scrolls that caught Tsami’s eyes, nor the crowd’s, but the birds fluttering from chime to chime, looking for a place to perch but each time being frightened away by the sudden jangling when they came in to land. Something was not right about them. Their bodies were silhouettes of glistening shadow, like the day had come and they had remained cloaked in night. The sight of their shrouded, twilight figures moved Tsami to push through the crowd towards them, to see and to understand. Moth called out as he struggled to chase after her, still impaired nursing his broken arm.

When she reached the front of the crowd she saw Keeper Koam was already there, in her lustrous robes that seemed to glow softly with their own peculiar aura, standing before the Wordtree with the Sacred Grimoire in hand. Unclasping it, the Keeper dipped her free hand into her side-pouch and wrote out a spelltongue phrase upon the page. Shaking off the remnants of powdered ochre, she inhaled and the words illuminated, and as she exhaled, raising her hand into the sky, twin streams of light spiralled up from the page, wrapping around the flock of birds, dispelling the darkness that had swallowed them, restoring their avian features.

As the light dissipated, Koam closed the grimoire and turned, meeting Tsami’s eyes directly with a cold intensity. Before she could react, Koam was advancing towards her, grabbing Tsami’s arm and pulling her aside.

“Away,” she commanded toward the crowd. “All of you. Now.”

The masters gestured to the students and the students obeyed, departing the garden. Only when the last of the students was outside of earshot did Koam speak again.

“Where is it?” she said.

Tsami scrunched her brow. “Where’s what?”

“The wand, Tsami,” said Koam, her piercing golden eyes unflinching.

Feeling as if she had been struck physically by the confronting truth of the Keeper’s words, Tsami stuttered as she attempted to piece together a lie.

“I have it, your reverence,” Moth interjected, producing the wand from the inner pocket of his robe. “Here.”

Tsami reacted, swiping her hands like claws at her brother, but Koam was too swift, producing a cloth and wrapping the wand as she received it, as if to touch it directly were somehow undesirable.

“Tsami,” said Moth, grabbing and jolting her. “There is nothing good that could come of this… this thing.”

Tsami groaned, tearing herself away. “You don’t know that,” she said. She came decidedly to Keeper Koam, kneeling in appeal.

“Please, your reverence, Lightweaver,” she said, then pointed up at the birds, who’d finally managed to settle atop the Wordtree’s branches. “I didn’t do any of this. How could I have?”

Koam knelt to meet her, setting aside the grimoire. “Oh but you did, child. You just don’t know that you did, and that is the problem.”

The Keeper turned to Moth. “Stay with her today, and place a Word for Provocation above her bed. She must dream of pleasantries tonight.”

Keeper Koam picked herself up, brushed the dirt off from her robes before starting out of the garden. Tsami sensed the wand’s presence slipping away from her, and as the Keeper left toward the central courtyard its absence swelled inside her.

She turned to her brother.

“How could you,” Tsami shouted, still knelt on the garden floor. “You stole from me. From your own sister.”

“I was worried about you."

“No you weren’t,” Tsami snapped. “You just wanted to save face with Koam. I know she’s grooming you for Keeper.”

Moth shook his head. “I’m going to act like you didn’t just say that.”

Tsami humphed, then started chuckling to herself. “I can’t believe I let you keep the robe I found. I can’t believe I was foolish enough to bring you along with me. I should have known you couldn’t handle it.”

Now Moth was agitated. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give the robe to Koam. After all, she knows I lied to her now. It’s the right thing to do." He pointed between Tsami and himself. “That’ll make us even. It was playing with my head too, you know.”

“Of course you’d say that,” said Tsami. “You’re so by the book." Tsami hung her head in her hands. “I was so close, Moth.”

Moth’s expression turned pensive. “I suppose… I suppose I am,” he said, reflecting on her words. "But that doesn’t matter right now. Like Koam said, I’m to stay with you.”

Tsami leapt to her feet. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want you near me,” she yelled. “I want to be alone.”

Seizing the opportunity to put as much distance as possible between herself and her brother, Tsami sprinted out of the garden, along the open corridor, feet clomping across the wooden floorboards. When she reached the central courtyard she cut through a class of scrollbearers in deep meditation, bathed in the open sunlight teeming through overhead, then sidestepped, hiding behind a wooden column in the far west corner.

Tsami peeked round and watched as a distressed Moth came rushing into the courtyard, scratching his head, looking about every which way. Deciding to proceed back towards the dormitories, perhaps hoping Tsami would take the obvious route, he navigated around the class on the far side of the courtyard with great care not to disturb them, and Tsami began rotating around the column until she was sure he had moved on. She slipped out from hiding and threw off his trailing by dashing back along the northern wall, back into the Garden of Songs, stirring the attention of the scrollbearers once more with her quick steps, much to their displeasure.

The garden was empty. All mine, Tsami thought. She approached the Wordtree, observing the joyful flutter of the birds above. How could I do something I can’t remember? What did Koam mean?

Glancing back, ensuring she was not being watched nor would she be found, Tsami climbed over the sprawling roots of the tree and came behind it. Facing the moss-coated ancient wall, she tucked herself into the comforting groove of the tree trunk.

There Tsami sat, with her turbulence, with her tiredness, while the hours of the day rolled by without her willingness to embrace them, not even to eat, desiring only to have that which was rightfully hers returned.

In time the students returned to the garden, to study or simply sit about babbling nonsense. On one occasion, the masters claimed the space for discussion and Tsami listened in keenly as they spoke of Master Whisper. Eldest of elders who had long left the monastery to live, or to die according to those less fond of him, somewhere along the east coast of the island. They said he could speak to storms, that he could tame them, and command them with a ring on his finger. One of the masters, who purported to be close to Whisper claimed the ring wasn’t the only artefact held in his care, that he’d spent many years collecting curios from across the eastern continent before coming to the monastery. Not least amongst them a jagged crown crafted from the jaws of a dragon.

Eventually, as Tsami lay there staring at the treetops, listening to the elder’s tales, her head began to hurt. After a while her heartbeat picked up its pace, and though she attempted to calm herself, to be with her breath, the feeling moved through and grew within her of its own accord. Before long it swelled into a full-blown sense of panic.

All Tsami could manage was to lay there, staring up at the canopy, praying for the feeling to pass, as her vision slowly distorted toward hallucination. The Wordtree’s branches began to twist and writhe, becoming animated, beckoning with its chimes like a primordial rattle for the clouds to draw over and block out the sun. With the last of its great rustles, a single dead leaf fell from the tree, curling itself into a scroll of black parchment, gliding down on the gentle arc of the breeze to land softly in Tsami’s lap.

The clouds dissipated. The turbulence within Tsami subsided, and in noticing the absence of feeling, a calmness that could only be found in such contrast revealed itself. Free to move again, Tsami sat up and unrolled the scroll, pressing it out against her tucked up legs.

The page was pitch black. Like staring into oblivion. No images. No words. Not even a marking.

Yet despite this, Tsami could not take her eyes off it, and the longer she stared the more the page invited her to look and her eyes grew heavy with the weight of a week’s wearing, until she was no longer a person staring at a blank page, but no person at all.

Just the deep, slumbering void.

Just experience.

And then she saw it.

Drawing forth out of the darkness, a temple as old as time with no earth to stand upon, terraced like two mirrored ziggurats, one pointed skyward, the other down. A hedron of shifting stone like a serpent eating itself, encased at the far border of its realm in a vast, diamond-shaped structure of crystal. A strange machination from a distant age. Of yesterday or tomorrow, one could not tell.

“Awaken!”

Tsami opened her eyes. Streams of light dancing in circles around her faded. She was standing over a candlelit altar with the wand, her wand laid atop its cloth. Her hand suspended just above it.

She looked back and saw Keeper Koam in a nightgown holding the Sacred Grimoire open with her free arm outstretched, directed at Tsami.

“Your brother has let you down,” she said. “I suppose it was to be expected.”

Tsami rubbed her eyes, unable to make sense of how it was she had arrived in the Keeper’s chambers. “I don’t understand. How could… How did I get here?”

The Keeper lowered her hand. “In the land of my Order,” she said, “to the west across the ocean, the First Enlightened call it Sapath. The Greater Night. That which moves beneath the surface of the self. That is emboldened by artefacts such as this wand you dote upon. You are here because you have entered the Darksleep, that state which it moves through.”

“I saw something,” said Tsami. “A vision. A place. I couldn’t say where… between shadow and void."

Koam nodded. “There are many mirrors, many doorways beneath the Ethereal Isle, Tsami. They are there to trick you. I would ask you to resist such temptation, however as you have already wandered far into its lure I fear it is too late. So I am left with little choice in the matter. I must destroy the Ghost Wand.”

The mere suggestion of the wand’s destruction sparked defensiveness in Tsami. The Keeper flicked her wrist over the page of the grimoire in a flourish, and tendrils of light flew forth from its pages, flailing and reaching out eagerly towards her. Tsami snatched up the wand but before she could react, the light was upon her, coiling and constricting her arms and legs, lifting her high into the air.

“Drop the wand, Tsami,” said Koam, moving slowly towards her. “This is the only time I will ask.”

Tsami squirmed violently in an attempt to free herself. When she refused to release the wand, Koam snapped her fingers and Tsami screamed as she felt the coiled light start to sear her flesh.

Yet even still she would not let go.

In desperation, Tsami closed her eyes to connect with the wand’s presence. She recalled the shadow behind the mirror she had attempted to summon. Two things in likeness she had joined. Shade and shadow. The birds about the Wordtree cloaked in darkness. Likeness taken from starlight and likeness given. The black scroll and the ageless temple. Her reason to resist.

When she opened her eyes again, Tsami inhaled, pointing the wand at the chamber wall, bringing to mind the deep strength of its stone, establishing a connection to its quality. She exhaled and moved the wand, pointing it directly at Koam, and with her last-gasp effort, channelled the blended likeness of stone, of its silence and her own surrender.

The grimoire slipped from Koam’s hands.

It hit the floor with a resounding thud.

Tsami collapsed too.

The vines of light dissipated.

The bedchamber fell silent.

She sat up…

Meeting the Keeper’s eyes, Tsami looked on in horror as the floor seemed to reach up for Koam, capturing the long skirt of her gown, her legs, abdomen, chest and arms in a full-body cast of stone. As it reached up to claim her face, Koam went to speak, to tell Tsami something, perhaps even to warn her.

But there was no time.

Her stunned, golden eyes drew over grey and she was still.

---

It was the seventh night. The seventh attempt.

Unbeknownst to her whether it was guilt, cowardice, craving or the innocent need to set things right that had led her to this moment, Tsami re-etched the circle of violet light in the earth and stood at its centre, facing down the figure of shadow reflected inside the Crystal Mirror.

With the power of a will succumbed to, and embracing of its destiny, Tsami linked the likeness of shadow to the figure reflected back at her, and drew it forth.

No hesitancy. No doubt. This night.

The shadow resisted and as it did Tsami’s eyes were fixated, staring the figure down, and as it presented her fears to her once more, she confronted them. I am alone, she thought. But I am worthy. I must be.

With the wand as her conduit, Tsami forced the figure to the ground in submission then dragged it crawling towards her. When the shadow breached the circle of reconciliation, Tsami lifted the wand with both hands and the shadow’s form ripped apart, transmuted into a drapery of darkness above. Lowering herself to the earth, Tsami assumed a seated posture and brought the shadow down, enveloping her body in its shroud. Her limbs and senses fell away, dissolving into the black, until all that was left was her sight and the pale, vacant image of a man presented across from her in the mirror. The one she had sought. With coiled markings of an icy glow around his arms matching Tsami’s recent burns.

Her vessel.

Closing her eyes, she let her mind cross over the glass, into the unknown.

The Crystal Mirror

Chapter I

I heard them once,
at twilight turn
An echo from
that secret space,
betwixt shadow and void
A song,
most ancient of memories
Yet bearing no melody,
to recall

- Venerable Keeper Ensun, The Subtler Shades of Silence, Chapter IX

---

Tsami struggled to hold herself upright as she crawled around on her raw, wounded hands in the vast darkness of the forest cave, searching for her brother.

“Moth, where are you? Are you alright?” she called, her voice resounding like a ghost’s echo off the damp stone walls, deep into the cave’s earthly heart.

Bats took flight in a bursting cacophony, forcing Tsami to pull the torn, excess teal drapery of her monk’s robes up over her head. As their torrent of wings rushed past her enshrouded figure, beating their frantic thunder, she recited a protective prayer to herself, over and over again in mantra, too afraid to move on from its comfort even after the swarm had long passed on.

That was until she heard a familiar groaning.

Breaking her posture, Tsami moved towards the sound. When she found and tugged the sleeve of Moth’s robes, he yelped in response.

“Sorry,” said Tsami, quickly withdrawing her hand.

"I think… I think I’ve broken my arm,” stated Moth, expelling his discomfort again through gritted teeth. “I’m telling you, we’ll be cast out of the monastery for this.” He raised his head and Tsami could make out the lines of his smeared, powdered face staring up at the cave’s daylight exit, above the steep steps they’d fallen from. “Honestly, I can’t believe I just let you pull me down like that.”

“Yes, yes, it’s all my fault,” said Tsami, unable to rein in her agitation. “Please tell me you can still write though?”

Moth shuffled around in the darkness for a moment, before producing and pushing the Initiate’s Scroll towards his sister with a fine arm. Tsami inched her hands out slowly, receiving the scroll with a kind of serious, weighted reverence for the artifact. “But it’s forbidden,” she said.

Moth roared with laughter before immediately regretting it, adding an equal measure of pain to his expression. “Take a look around you, Tsami. All of it. For-bid-den.”

Sighing, Tsami unrolled the scroll out upon the closest semblance of flat stone she could find. Moth managed to hand his side-pouch of ochre to Tsami, who dipped her index finger into the pouch before writing a single word of spelltongue on the parchment.

‘Light’.

The word responded, illuminating the hemisphere of their immediate surroundings.

Moth tsked. “You’ve always been a fast learner,” he said, conceding a rare compliment to his sister. “Still, we should probably have done this before entering the scary, dark cave.”

Inhaling, Tsami drew the light-source off the page with her hand, first flat in its plane, before expanding its volume with an exhale, rendering it fully dimensional, orb-like between her fingers in a firm clasp. Reclaiming the scroll, Moth brushed the ochre off with the base of his delicate palm, before rolling it up and sliding it back into the ornate holder fastened at his side.

“Shall we?” she asked, coming behind Moth to help him to his feet.

“Watch it,” said Moth as he rose, pointing clumsily with the elbow of his broken arm to the fading torchlight; the cost of Tsami’s split focus and overconfidence. Inhaling again, she drew her attention back toward the energy within her arm and to the light by extension, then as she exhaled, the light came flooding back brightly white in her grasp.

Holding each other close for support, the pair stumbled alongside a faint, trickling causeway that led them deeper into the forest cave. As the light from the entrance slipped away, glowworms began to gleam above, revealing veins of twinkling-blue starlight, weaving an intricate tapestry across the stone ceiling, far on toward its outermost reaches.

“They’re so pretty,” remarked Moth, mouth agape, sounding just a touch delirious.

Eventually the slow procession of their own wandering star came to the natural-end bowel of the cave, into a large, rounded chamber.

The light from Tsami’s hand spread out, growing exponentially, refracting off innumerable facets of jutted crystal. Her face was projected a thousandfold, reflecting from the background of every pane. At the conclusion of their path, embedded in the far wall of the chamber, beneath a high archway of crystal, the glass ran so smoothly down its surface towards the earth, it best resembled a great, clouded mirror.

Moth wandered away from Tsami, ascending the rocky altar to explore his curiosity.

“Do you see it?” he asked, gently pressing upon the mirror with his finger. “There’s something moving inside. Like fog, or a gas of some kind.”

“It could just be the light playing tricks,” said Tsami, hoping for the simplest explanation. She stared down at the chamber floor blankly for a moment, before noticing an object lay half-buried amongst the dirt.

Reaching down, Tsami picked up and shook off a layer of caked earth from the filthy robe. As she brought her sphere of light in her other hand over its dulled but evidently opulent fabric her stomach dropped, and the light fell quickly away from her and each and every one of her stunned reflections.

“Moth,” she called, dropping the robe to tame her torchlight. Hearing the urgency in Tsami’s voice, her brother came rushing back to her side.

“What is it?”

Tsami pointed to the ground.

Moth picked up the robe. “This… this belongs to a master, maybe even a Keeper,” he said in amazement, stroking its cloth. “My word, it’s exquisite. But what’s it doing down here?”

“I don’t know, Moth,” said Tsami. “I’m not sure I want to.”

Before Moth could respond, Tsami turned to leave, and as she did she kicked up another object in the dirt.

A stick? she thought, before making a double-take. No, something else…

Reaching down again she picked up the long, pointed object, turning it over in her hands, intuiting the old grooves and knots with her fingers.

Tsami forgot to breathe. It’s a wand.

The light in her hand was snuffed. The chamber fell back into its natural state of darkness. When she remembered to inhale again, the clouded mists inside the surrounding crystalline landscape began to glow, pulsing an intense shade of ominous violet. One with, and an extension of, the rise and fall of Tsami’s own breath.

“Tsami… dear sister, what are you doing?” said Moth, who now found himself the unsettled one.

Turning to face the mirror wall with the wand held tightly at her chest, Tsami observed the violet mists drawing together in concentration behind the glass directly across from her. Sensing a connection, she extended her arm with wand in hand and watched, to her surprise, as the mists obeyed, drawn to its point, floating away from the mirror, out across the crystalline landscape. She swung the wand in the opposite direction, pointing out to the left, and watched again as the mists crept over in pursuit.

Then, Tsami brought the point of the wand back to the central pane and the mists rushed to gather, but this time they did not linger. Instead they swirled together in a vortex of their own volition, before transforming and crafting a shape; a figure of shadow, staring and pointing its own wand back at her.

“I mean you no harm,” said Tsami, lowering the wand in her hand.

The shadow mimicked her, lowering its own, and it occurred to Tsami that she was the shadow, and when this thought occurred to her there was a moment, a feeling as if she had crossed over, beyond the mere confines of her own body, through the mirror’s glass, and now stood behind the shadow, gazing back out at herself; that distinct, feminine figure, the part of herself which was known.

It was the sound of Moth’s voice in the otherwise silent chamber that broke Tsami’s strange, spiritual tether.

“Father?” he asked with a whisper.

Tsami’s perception flew back over the glass, slipping back into the familiarity of her own body. Staring back at her reflection she observed the shadow once more, and a young man, dressed as she was in monastic fashion, looming in the background in the near imperceptible space beyond.

She wanted to speak to the man, to acknowledge him, to tell him he was seen, because she sensed somehow this was what he wished, what he had always longed for. But for all the will in the world to speak her words would not come, and shapeless utterances of no coherence, no meaning fell from her mouth, so long as she held the wand in her hand as conduit, so long as she held this bond and sought to unravel its mystery.

The stranger’s eyes were hers, not some father’s she had never known, and through them they spoke to her a thought, declaring itself upon her mind…

Beyond the Crystal Doorway,
the first and final dream
Behold the timeless reverie,
through the eyes of The Unseen

Before Tsami could react, before she could answer the call of the cryptic invitation, a whirlwind of colour, of rainbow rushing light came flooding into the chamber from behind, swooshing and surrounding Tsami and Moth, embracing them in a violent tempest, pulling at them with such force they struggled to hold their own footing before being lifted fully into the air. All Tsami could manage was to tuck the wand into the inner pocket of her robe before being drawn out the passage, back under the glowworm tapestry, back towards the cave’s entrance and then up through it, straight into an assault of blinding daylight, and then down, down onto the hard reality of the forest floor.

For the second time in one day Tsami had been thrown against the earth. The first had been no small pain, but the second struck her in such a way that she was reminded of her own mortality. Curling over on her side, Tsami’s dazed eyes adjusted to the sight of a bald, graceful figure in silver and cyan robes standing over her, Sacred Grimoire open in hand. It was then, rolling over onto her back and staring into the afternoon sunlight breaking through the treetops above, that she understood what had happened.

“Lightweaver…” Tsami whispered.

Keeper Koam nodded in recognition, then trekked over the foliage, skirt trailing in her wake across the crushed leaves, to Moth, who was now sitting upright, the robes of similar, albeit dirtied fabric from the cave laid over his lap.

“Seems it was a worthwhile venture to skip one’s practice,” said Koam, raising her brow.

Visibly sore, Moth slowly keeled over, bowing in reverence. “Forgive me, Keeper,” he said. “It was not my intention.”

Koam stared down at Moth, holding the silence for a moment longer than felt comfortable. A slight smile formed in the corner of her mouth.

“You are honest,” she said, “and not the first monk to go wandering off the beaten path. Did you find anything else on your journey below?”

Moth sat up and looked to Tsami, whose wide eyes said more than they needed to.

“No, your reverence,” said Moth, swallowing the truth of it. “Though I do believe I managed to break my arm.” He held up the sling he’d managed to form by tucking his elbow into his sleeve. “We were in the dark for some time, you see. I couldn’t write, so we were sort of stuck there. I’m sure you’re aware Tsami is yet to receive a scroll from one of the sacred texts, so it’s not like she could perform any spelltongue, nor could I teach her. Not that I would, of course.”

The Keeper’s rich, golden eyes searched Moth’s, making sense of his story. She let out an audible, disappointed sigh. “Very well,” she said, closing the open grimoire in hand. “Come then, we’ll sort this arm of yours back at my residence.”

Tsami went to stand, but quickly found she was still better off sitting. Her legs gave in and she fell back on her bottom while reaching out with her arms, almost flailing to grab the Keeper’s attention.

“If I may, your reverence,” she said, “how did you find us?”

Keeper Koam made a knowing smile. Tucking the grimoire under her arm, she assisted Moth to stand. “Knowledge is light, and light is my knowledge, child,” she said, beginning back through the trees. “As it is for all who dwell within these sacred grounds.” She indicated to Tsami, to Moth, and to the wild overgrowth of the forest around them. “I know well the Words for Finding, especially when it comes to lost students.”

---

That night, after dinner and after tending to the communal duties the garden monastery required of its residents, well after both student and master had retired to their respective dormitories and chambers, Tsami snuck along the open corridors, footsteps to floorboards with the intention of a feather, headed for the southern courtyard.

The triad moons above reflected brilliantly upon the various waterscapes of mosaic, shallow ponds scattered about the stone garden as Tsami made her way towards the monastery exit. When she passed under the triumphant archway she turned, half expecting to see Moth standing there, ready to drag her back home. But there was no one, just still water and silent stone, and so she smiled at the thought she was left with, of her brother sleeping soundly.

Reaching into her pocket she produced the hidden wand and pointed it out towards the far off heart of the forest. She breathed in and felt one with the wordless, windy sigh of the trees, and wondered how she had never known such a feeling. Then she took off, running almost gleefully into the night with the violet wand-light to guide her, in pursuit of answers, against her own better judgment, back towards the forest cave.

The song of boy uruk

Every morning Boy Uruk drank a cup of tea and looked at the sword above the fireplace.

It was long and slightly curved. And it was old, the steel scratched and rusted, the leather hilt faded to a dull gray. To some, it would seem like any other long sword. To others, it was legendary — passed down and down, and lost and found again and again over the ages.

In songs, they called the long sword Meadowlark.

The sword, the hovel, and the forest surrounding it was awarded to Boy for his bravery at the Battle of Blur Creek. After thirteen days of brutal fighting against a clan from the Farlands, Boy walked out of the woods alone, the only survivor on either side.

Every morning Boy drank a cup of tea and looked at Meadowlark. Until one morning in late autumn, when he decided he couldn’t look any longer, ripped the sword off the wall, and hid it under his bed.

To Boy Uruk, Meadowlark was a curse.

---

A few days later, his mother came to visit. If Boy would have known she was on her way, he might have kept the sword in place. She noticed it right away, the empty space, and it was the only thing she wanted to talk about.

“Meadowlark is meant to be seen, it’s not meant to gather dust under a bed like an old sock.”

Esmer laid on the ground with her legs up on a short table, stretching her back. She was a very large woman, but surprisingly nimble. She made the journey from Yilitin in under two days. On the first day she was attacked by a rabid fox and managed to kill it with her bare hands. This was the story Esmer told Boy as she unloaded her bags, took off her walking shoes, and noticed Meadowlark was missing.

Boy didn’t believe a word his mother said.

“What about your visitors? They come all this way to see you and the sword.”

“I can take it out if you want to see it.”

“Not me. Your visitors. Your fans.”

“I don’t have visitors anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t have visitors. You’re the first I’ve had in months.”

“How is that possible? You’re still the talk of the town.”

“Am I the talk of the town, or do you just bring me up in every conversation?”

“Did something happen? What did you do?”

“Maybe people are bored of me.”

“Bored of a hero? Nobody gets bored of a hero.”

“I’m not a hero.”

Esmer finished stretching and sat up straight to look at her boy.

“I wish you didn’t feel that way, Boy. I’m proud of you. A lot of people are proud of you. They admire you, look up to you, aspire to be you. The other day, I saw a child play-fighting, calling himself Boy Uruk, the Blur Creek Miracle.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t think that happened.”

“Why would I make it up?”

Boy didn’t answer.

Esmer was suddenly tired. She began gathering her things. “At least put something in its place. Your walls look a little bare.”

---

While Esmer napped, Boy went out to one of his gardens to clip wildflowers.

There were four gardens. One for fruit, one for vegetables, one for grains, and one for flowers and herbs. That spring he’d planted several apple trees, and he was drawing up plans for an orange grove. The gardens surrounded the hovel on three sides. Fruits and vegetables got morning sun on the east, the grains got afternoon and evening sun on the west, and the flowers and herbs were strategically placed in the back, under the kitchen windows. The apple trees, knee-high at this point, lined the dirt path leading to the door. He hadn’t yet picked out a place for the orange grove.

Most of the land given to Boy was heavily wooded. Most of it was flat. There were some hills, and some caves, a few clearings, and a few slow-running streams that met in a small pond. The hovel sat on the southern edge of the land. It was perfectly round, built in the old-style generations ago, and the uneven and multicolored thatch on the roof made it look like it was falling apart. Originally, they told Boy, it was a hunting lodge for the royal family. He confirmed this bit of lore one night when, by candlelight, and in a fit of madness, he found a crate of dry and shriveled elk hearts buried under the floorboards.

Esmer wanted to know why he took the sword down and hid it away, and he said it didn’t look good, that it was old and in need of repair. She didn’t buy that, so Boy stumbled through something about how it reminded him too much of the friends he lost in battle. Which was partially true, and therefore slightly more believable.

He couldn’t tell her the whole truth, what really happened at Blur Creek, why he didn’t deserve the awards, why he rejected and resented the thought that he was any kind of hero. He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t sleep, even though he spent his days in the sun, working the land, or that he was afraid of the woods at night. He couldn’t tell her that every so often he thought about falling on Meadowlark, thought about taking it down, sharpening it, going out somewhere near the pond, getting up on a rock, placing it between the second and third rib on the left side, and falling, and bleeding out, the blood pooling, running in little streams through the dirt and meeting again in the pond, a thin, blooming layer on top of the water, blood dissolving in the water, blood drying in the dirt, body relaxed and mind clear, no guilt, no shame, nothing.

Boy gathered the wildflowers into a basket. The wind rose, and shook colorful leaves from their colorful trees. It was cold and quickly getting colder. He turned up the collar on his coat, got to his feet, and wiped the dirt from his knees. Little bits of sunlight came in through the trees, warming his face. He came around front of the hovel and saw, some way before him, down the darkening path, someone approaching on foot.

He was young, younger than Boy, maybe seventeen, and he had a limp. He wore rags. He didn’t wear shoes. The only thing he carried was a military trumpet.

“The Blur Creek Miracle,” the stranger said, smiling. His eyes were shot with blood. He looked hungry, sick. “That’s you, right? Boy Uruk, the Blur Creek Miracle? What a name.”

“What do they call you?” Boy asked.

“They never called me anything but my given name.” The stranger didn’t elaborate. He surveyed the land, the gardens, the pond a ways off, down a slight hill.

“Which is?”

“Rian.”

“Rian, the Trumpeter.”

“I’m nothing special with this thing. I know the marches. Learning, though. Learning songs, I mean. Actually, that’s part of why I’m here.”

“To play me a song?”

“To write you one.”

“About what?”

“Boy Uruk, the Blur Creek Miracle.”

Boy laughed.

“I’m very serious.”

Boy looked at Rian, and suddenly felt like this might be a trick, a pretense, maybe, for something more sinister. “Play something.”

“I’m very serious.”

“I know.”

“I’m just learning songs.”

“A march, then.”

Rian took a deep breath, raised the trumpet to his lips and played a somber battle cry. He hit every note. He lowered the trumpet and, breathless, asked if they could continue the conversation inside.

---

Boy lit a few candles, made a fire, and got to work on a stew of fresh-picked vegetables and herbs.

Rian sat on the floor beside the fireplace, wrapped in a wool blanket.

“I come from Northwest, out Rum River way. You know it? That’s where I grew up, I mean. I don’t come from anywhere anymore. My home is everywhere, I guess. Wherever I am. I’ve been walking for a long time now.”

“I don’t leave Yilitin much.”

“You left for Blur Creek.”

Boy pushed diced tomatoes into a pot with his knife. He grabbed a handful of potatoes and lined one up for chopping. “Where did you hear about me?”

“The first time was in a small village without a name. Somewhere in the Farlands. From the mouths of your enemies, maybe. Yes, way out there. Outside of a tavern. One night, or early morning. Can’t recall. But I heard your name and story, and took them on the road with me. Some folks I talked to didn’t know from Blur Creek. Others, most folks I would say, knew your name and story. It was funny. They all had slightly different versions. Of the story, I mean. The number of sides to a story is the number of people who tell it.” Rian stopped looking at the fire, and looked at Boy. “I said part of why I’m here is to write you a song. The other part of why I’m here is to get your side — the hero’s side — of the story.”

Boy brought the pot over and set it in the fire. He watched the stew for a moment, then took a seat on the sofa and gathered a quilt up around his legs.

“Where do you keep Meadowlark?” Rian said, adjusting his wool blanket. “I thought it would be proudly displayed.”

Boy didn’t respond. Neither said a word for a while. The fire cracked. The stew cooked.

“I’m going to feed you, Rian. Give you clothes, if you like. Then you’ll be on your way.”

Rian smiled, as if this were a common refrain, the quick hospitality, the blunt goodbye. He closed his eyes and said, “The stew smells fantastic, Boy. I can’t wait.”

Rian ate slowly, politely. He complimented the stew more than once, remarked upon the freshness of the vegetables, asked what kind of herbs were used, apparently no longer preoccupied with Blur Creek. After supper, Boy found Rian a pair of pants, a shirt, an old shawl, and an old pair of boots. Rian thanked Boy, then set out into the cold night.

Boy blew out the candles, went to the window and watched Rian go, watched him stop and look at one of the knee-high apple trees, watched him look back over his shoulder, watched him find a spot just off the path, watched him sit and stare at the hovel, blank-faced, stone-still.

“What are you doing in the dark?”

Boy jumped.

Esmer was picking through the flower basket on the kitchen table.

“I don’t know,” Boy said.

“Who were you talking to?”

“You hungry?”

“So many questions,” Esmer said.

Boy found a vase in a storage cabinet, wiped away the dust and handed it to his mother. She filled it with flowers and arranged it on the mantle above the fireplace.

“Who were you talking to, Boy?”

“Someone passing through. I gave him supper, and some clothes.”

“I bet he wanted to see Meadowlark.”

---

Esmer woke up, took a few long deep breaths, and stretched her neck. She slept well out here, better than she did in Yilitin. It was quiet, the air was cool and fresh, and she felt a certain comfort being around her only child, knowing he was nearby, safe and sound.

She went out into the main room and found the door open. The fire was out. Boy always made a fire first thing in the morning.

“Boy?”

Esmer made a fire, then put on a storm-cloak and a wool hat and went outside. It was cold and windy, and the sky was bright and gray. It felt like something had changed overnight. It felt like the first day of winter.

She found Boy in the vegetable garden, on his hands and knees, staring at the dirt. The vegetables, all of them, were dead – rotten and withered.

“All of my gardens.” He looked at his mother. “Everything is dead.”

After tea, Boy and Esmer hiked out to the north end of the property. It was Esmer’s idea. She thought it might take his mind off the spoiled gardens, being in nature, working up a sweat. Boy didn’t say much, half-listening as Esmer talked endlessly about everything going on in Yilitin.

They ate lunch near the pond. Boy still hadn’t said much, preoccupied, scanning the trees.

“What are you looking at?” Esmer asked.

“You see the willow there, upstream, hanging over the water?”

Esmer looked.

“See it? Just after the bend? Now, look at the little open area directly west of it. What do you think about setting the orange grove there?”

The rest of the afternoon was spent on chores. They cleaned the gardens, picked and weeded until all that was left was dirt. They piled the scrap in one of the larger clearings. Esmer took her afternoon nap. Boy took a fishing pole upstream and caught a few trout for supper. Near evening, they went out to the clearing and lit the scrap on fire. Boy let it burn, then cooked the trout over the coals. They ate and listened to the insects, under the black and starless sky.

---

That night it rained.

Boy couldn’t sleep. He threw a pair of logs on the fire, and sat by the window. Was it a coincidence that the same night he turned away a helpless stranger, his crops failed? Was this some divine punishment for making the young man leave? He had looked for Rian that morning, and kept an eye out all day. But there was no sign of him anywhere. What would Rian do on a night like this? What happens if a trumpet gets wet?

Boy looked out the window and saw Rian at the tree line. Rian must have noticed Boy, because he waved, slightly, then started toward the hovel.

---

They were a picture of the night before. Boy on the sofa, quilt around his legs. Rian on the floor beside the fireplace, wrapped in a wool blanket. Boy had given him a dry set of clothes.

“So…” Boy cleared his throat. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Start what?”

“My side of the story.”

Rian stopped looking at the fire, and looked at Boy. “Wherever you think is best, I guess.”

“How much detail do you need?”

“Whatever you think is important.”

The rain fell, and a strong gust of wind shook the hovel.

“I was working as a mill hand when the conscription started. Inspecting the grains. Turning the wheels. I knew it was a possibility, conscription, war, but didn’t think it would actually happen. Wars happen in other places, not here. They sent me to Bispo. I was assigned a battalion and a platoon, and I trained, learned to use a sword. Soon after, maybe a month, we set off for Blur Creek. We were in reserve, camped a few miles south of the fighting. We trained, and otherwise hung around doing nothing, talking about the Farlands, trying to understand what we were fighting over. They never really explained that, you know? Nothing besides ‘the Farlanders broke a treaty.’ What treaty? I don’t know. But they broke it. We got the call and came in from the south maybe five days in, six days. No clue as to how the battle was playing out. Were we winning? Advancing? Were we losing? Suffering heavy losses? No clue. They didn’t tell us. It turns out we had lost a few commanders, and the new leadership had never led before. We retreated too late, charged too soon, reinforced the wrong areas.” Boy paused, looked out the window. “From here on out, I don’t remember much, sorry to say. It’s all kind of a blur.”

“But Boy, what happens next is the most important part of the story! The part I’ve heard so many different versions of.”

“Those versions are probably better, anyway. Surely they’ll make a better song.”

“But they aren’t true,” Rian said.

Boy got up and went over to the window. “Songs are meant to entertain. Does it matter if they’re true?”

Rian stopped looking at Boy, and looked at the fire. “I could tell my side of the story.”

“Your side?” Boy said, turning to him. “What about the truth?”

Rian laughed, a laugh that wasn’t friendly.

“How’s this, Boy? I’ll tell you my side of the story, then you tell me if you think it’s true or not. I promise you, once we’re finished with this, things will be better for both of us. I’ll start where you left off, because, as far as I know, everything you’ve said so far is true enough. You didn’t kill any Farlanders, Boy. You didn’t fight until you were the last man. Your brothers ran to meet the enemy, and you ran the other way. You survived because you were nowhere near the battle. You survived because, by the time the beast came down from the mountains, you were back in Yilitin Provence.” He saw the look on Boy’s face. “You didn’t know about the beast, did you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Am I telling the truth?”

Boy didn’t say anything. He felt light in the head.

“Do I speak the truth, Boy?”

“Who are you?”

“Rian, the other Blur Creek Miracle,” He said. “Here’s what happens next. The people of Yilitin have heard my side of the story. They’ll come to hear yours, after the rain. I imagine there will be a crowd. You and I are going to write your song, and perform it for them. You will tell them the truth, Boy, about what kind of hero you really are. If you don’t do this, your mother will die in thirteen days, and you’ll be made to live forever with your shame. I have cursed you, Boy.”

“Why…” Boy stammered.

“Do you understand what I’m saying? Is it clear enough for you?”

“I’ll give you this place. I’ll give you Meadowlark.”

“I want your song.”

Boy felt dangerous, outside of himself, out of control.

He charged Rian. Rian, still on the ground, tried to scoot away, but Boy was too quick. Boy tackled him. They rolled around, grunting, wrestling, until Boy got the advantage, got on his knees and pummeled Rian across the face. Rian took a few punches, then saw his trumpet, reached for his trumpet, reached and reached and got hold of the mouth piece, swung the trumpet around and hit Boy in the side of the head, stunning him. Rian staggered to his feet.

“Now he wants to fight,” Rian said through bloody teeth. He hit Boy again with the trumpet. Boy’s nose cracked, sprayed blood. Then a great, golden light filled the room, and a sword shot through Rian’s chest. He fell to his knees, dropped the trumpet, and slumped to the floor. Esmer gripped the old hilt and slid Meadowlark out of Rian’s back. His body shook. His blood ran.

“Does the curse stand?” Boy asked, nose bleeding, blood all over his face and shirt. “Does the curse stand if you die?”

Rian stared at Boy, blank-faced, stone-still, dead.

Esmer opened the door, then dropped the sword and sat on the sofa. Boy got up and went to the doorway to cool down. The rain fell, and the wind was light and gentle.

“What was that all about?” Esmer asked, looking at the flowers above the fireplace.

Boy told her the truth.

Fool’s Errand

Part 3

Six fingers interlaced with five. Leif opened his mouth to speak, not quite knowing what he would say, when he was interrupted by a booming voice from outside the grotto.

“Human! Come, face me and meet your death”

The voice was so loud that it made the mirrored walls shiver. An eyeglass was shaken loose from its moorings and fell to the ground, smashing into pieces. Rojin gave a squawk of indignation as they rushed over to it, and became almost immediately absorbed by the task of picking up the shards. They crouched, their cloak of feathers spread out around them, and gingerly began sorting the shards into five little piles, according to a series of criteria that were apparent only to them.

Leif, still stunned at Rojin’s proposal, dithered for a long moment before he picked up his sword and peered cautiously outside the entrance.

Outside stood a monstrous toad demon, as tall as a hawthorn bush. He was dressed in the traditional winter garb of his kind: a thick, ornately embroidered robe of living moss fastened up to his yellow throat with carved acorn buttons, and a cap of mouse fur. His enormous eyes, as pearlescent as two liquid opals, held sideways pupils within their depths which widened when they landed on Leif.

“Aha!” the toad boomed. “So the rumours are true! How the willows touch the waters, eh? Ha! I have come to slay you, little Prince!”

Leith readied his sword, and immediately dropped it.

“Whoops!” he said. Then, “What rumours?”

“An unprotected little tadpole, sent into our depths! How the bubbles rise!” The toad flicked his moss robe aside, revealing his weapon of choice hanging at his hip – a large and ornate flyswat. He brandished it menacingly. “You’re a right little royal gift, eh? A little offering from the Order of Perspiration!”

“Protection!” said Leif, rather hotly. He picked the sword back up and waved it about thoroughly. “My family serves the Order of Protection.”

“That’s what I said. All those human orders, they’re all the same thing really, ain’t they?”

“NO,” said Leif, indignantly. He gave the sword another good wave about. “And I’m not a gift! I’ve been sent out on a mission, as it happens. An important mission! Not that it’s any business of yours!”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. How it all ripples out, eh? I’ve heard they want you dead!”

“What?!”

“Dead!” The toad raised the huge flyswat above his head. “Say your prayers, little prince! The pond shall dry around you!”

Leif, seeing that a conflict was inevitable, squared himself. He pointed the sword directly at the belly of the toad demon, and held himself quite still. The blade was heavy and dull, but the clouds had parted, and a thin beam of winterlight seemed to strike its edge just so and set it gleaming. A feeling of great dread and heaviness seemed to settle on his heart, but with it came an intense stillness – and below the stillness, the knowledge of something unseen, tumultuous, seething below the surface somewhere. But rising, rising -

At this moment, Rojin stuck their head outside of the grotto.

“What’s all the racket?”

“Rojin!” said the toad. He lowered the flyswat.

“Oh! It’s Nigel! Hello Nige! How are the kids?”

The toad demon touched a great webbed finger to the brim of his fur cap. “How do! Didn’t think you was home! Look what I’ve caught!” He gestured affably to Leif. “A little snack! Want some?”

“Oho! Watch yourself! That little snack is my fiancé!” Rojin said. They hopped out and came to stand next to Leif, their chest puffed out with pride.

Leif lowered his sword at last, his heart pounding. The strange, still feeling had broken with the moment and disappeared.

“This little snack’s not for eating!” he said, pointing to his chest. He wished that something a little more impressive had come out, but there it was. He continued, hurriedly: “And it’s got no quarrel with you! I’ve got no quarrel with you.”

“Goodness!” said Nigel, peering down at him. “Well! How the lily drifts! Fiancé, is it? You and Rojin - undecideds?”

“That’s right,” said Leif.

“It’s true!” crowed Rojin.

“A human fiancé! Well, I never! And a royal to boot! Well, Rojin, it’s about time! Congratulations! Ha! Ha! Ha! And here’s me about to make a little elevenses of him! Ent it lucky I didn’t swallow him up, eh?!”

Both Rojin and Nigel laughed heartily at this thought – even Leif joined in, although a little uneasily.

“Apologies, Prince Leif,” said Nigel. “I had no inkling you was associated with Rojin. As the rushes bow to the wind, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Leif. He was rather struck that Nigel appeared to know his rank, and even his name. “Have you heard of me, then?”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Nigel, with a careless wave. “Well now, you absolutely must come and meet the missus! And the little hoplings have been asking after you Rojin, won’t you both come for a spot of supper?”

“The thing is,” said Leif, a little timidly, “I’m on a mission. I haven’t found a single Divine Relic yet, and I really should try and find just one, just to get started.”

“Leif’s looking for calamities,” said Rojin, cheerfully.

“Is that right? Ent you humans funny! Well, why not ask my ma about them? She’s lived round these parts for over a thousand years – if anyone knows about calamities, it’ll be her! Come, she’d love to meet a human! And Rojin’s undecided, to boot! You must come! Say you will!“

And so, they went. It was not a long walk. Nigel lived beside a pond nearby, not more than a couple of miles, so he led the way and was very talkative, entering into a lengthy monologue about his family history, which could be traced back over fifty thousand years. Leif and Rojin walked behind a little ways, listening. They were a little shy with one another and did not speak very much at first.

“It’s good you didn’t kill Nigel,” Rojin offered, at length.

“Yes!” said Leif. “Yes, that would have been awful, wouldn’t it?”

They walked along a little more in silence.

“I’ve never been betrothed,” Leif blurted out, unexpectedly. “My family didn’t think it was proper, what with my constitution. I have the falling sickness, you know – I’m much better with it now, but – well. I thought you should know. I was unwell for ever such a long time, as a child. They sent me away to the seaside for many years, for the good air – so I really haven’t seen much of the world. I’m a little stronger now, and better, and I haven’t had a fit for many months. But I did think you should know. In human circles, at least, I have not been judged to be suitable husband material. And I would hate to mislead you. And I would understand completely if you withdrew your proposal.”

Rojin stopped dead. “What!” they said, aghast.

“I know,” said Leif, miserably. “I can’t apologise enough, I would have said so at once, but we were interrupted.”

“This is quite wrong,” said Rojin, seriously. They put a hand on Leif’s shoulder, and looked hard into his eyes. “You are very fine husband material. Understand? Very fine. Who has told you this thing?”

“I have the falling sickness,” Leif repeated. “I have fits, sometimes, Rojin. I’m afraid I’m not well.”

Rojin stared at him in disbelief. “Not well? Many of our finest shamans and witches have this gift! What’s it to do with being a husband?”

Leif stood mutely for a moment, twisting his hands together. “I’m not very strong,” he offered, at last.

“That’s alright!” said Rojin, brightly. “I’m very strong! Strong enough for both. Anything else?”

“I might be unwell, sometimes,” said Leif, very quietly.

“So might I be!” said Rojin. He patted Leif’s shoulder. “Everyone gets unwell sometimes! I’ll look after you, and bring you little mirrors if you like. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” said Leif, thickly.

“What! Are you sad? Oh dear! Are you crying?” In their alarm, Rojin flew into their small magpie form, up to Leif’s shoulder, to his crown, to his other shoulder, fluttering their wings in agitation.

Nigel came back along the path to see what was happening.

“Deary dear, what’s all this then?”, he said, when he saw Leif’s face. He patted his pockets and pulled out a large green handkerchief. “There, there, little human,” he said. “Are you sad about…” he paused, consulted his knowledge of humans, and hazarded a guess. “Weapons?”

Leif could not immediately answer.

“You’ll have lots of weapons soon, I expect,” said Nigel, soothingly. “Lovely big swords and things. You’ll like that, won’t you?”

“I don’t know why he’s sad! He was only telling me he has seizures,” said Rojin, greatly perplexed.

“Well! A real all-rounder, isn’t he?“ said Nigel. He looked at Leif with renewed respect. “You’ve done well for yourself there, Rojin. Now, what are you crying for, eh? What’s the matter?”

“I’m happy. I’m just happy.” Leif rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

Rojin flew into their human form in order to peer closely and anxiously into his face.

“Yes! He’s just happy!” Rojin announced, with great relief.

“Goodness me, you young things! All sunshine and storms, eh! Come on, it’s not far now – Ma’ll have tea on.”

Leif and Rojin walked hand in hand the rest of the way.

Soon they reached the toad demon’s dwelling, which was set below ground in a hollowed out burrow beneath an enormous boulder. The boulder was set at the edge of a fishpond, and stood many spans high. It was covered from the bottom almost to the top with the painted outlines of many hundreds of webbed hands in varying shades of green and yellow paint.

“My ancestors,” said Nigel proudly, seeing Leif’s interest. He stooped and pointed at some of the faded handprints at the bottom of the boulder. They were much larger, and the webbed fingers had the suggestions of talons at the ends.

“Periphemus the net-weaver,” he said, modestly. “Yes, THE Periphemus! We were much larger back then. There at the top – that’s my oathmark, and next to it there’s my wife’s.” His own handprint was smaller than the huge prints of his ancient ancestors, but just as distinct. Next to it, in yellow paint, was the more slender print of his wife – an unwebbed marking with rounder toes.

“My girls are too young yet, but come next season their oathmarks will join the rest!”

As if on cue, a little crowd of young toad demons came clamouring and hopping out from under the boulder, having heard their father’s voice. There were four in all, and although they were still children each one was as tall as Leif. Being children still, they all took the form of natural toads, lacking the inclination to adopt the more tiresome, upright demonic form of their father, and lacking the sophistication to adopt a human form, which was a very complex and unnecessary business. They preferred to clamber and jump around as little toadlets, and so they did, each little demon still retaining their tadpole tail as a mark of their young age.

“Papa!”

“Papa’s back! Papa come and look!”

“Oh look, it’s Rojin! Rojin’s come to visit – Mama! Mama, Rojin’s here and they’ve bought a- a-!”

A sudden hush fell across the pile of toadlets as they all stared at Leif.

“A human!” Rojin announced.

One of the toadlings gave a little shriek, turned tail and scrambled back beneath the boulder, wailing at the top of her voice. A second followed quickly, after giving Leif a long and doubtful stare. The third hopped forward excitedly –

“A human! Like in the stories? Is it a real one? Does it have lots of weapons with it? Is it true it can’t transform? It’s much smaller than I thought. Humans only have FOUR fingers papa, plus a toe! Humans can ride on the backs of horses! Papa, did you know that? Horses aren’t scared of humans – that’s right, isn’t it?” She addressed Leif directly.

“Yes, that’s quite right,” said Leif, mildly. “They’re not afraid of us, once we tame them. We can ride camels, too. And donkeys. Even elephants.”

The toadling gaped. The fourth toadling, who had been mute up to this point, came forward and gently but quite determinedly took Leif’s elbow into her mouth with the intention of eating it. She gummed at it a few times before Leif politely extracted it.

“He’s not for eating!” exclaimed Rojin. “Now, can you guess why I’ve bought him to visit?”

The toadling considered. “Is Nana to cook him first?”

“Children, children,” Nigel said sternly. “The human is Rojin’s guest – I want you on your best behaviour. His name is Prince Leif, and he’s not for eating. I do apologise, Prince,” he said as an aside, “we’re not used to seeing humans around these parts. You’ll forgive us, I’m sure. These are my girls – that’s Mully, the peckish one’s Buss. That was little Nullrush and her sister Shrulia what just ran inside.”

“That’s quite alright,” said Leif, and put his hand out. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle,” he said to Mully, using the high tongue.

Mully stared at the hand, then burst into a peal of laughter. Buss seemed to be debating inwardly whether it would be appropriate to attempt to eat the hand – she opened her mouth tentatively and cast a querying look at her father, who shook his head.

“Now girls, that’s a proper human greeting!” said Rojin, delighted. “Come, shake his hand! That’s what the humans do to say hello! Take his hand in yours – no, not with your foot, your hand, your hand – that’s right!”

Leif gravely shook the large, webbed hand of Mully, and then of Buss, to their extreme interest and gratification.

A slender newt demon put her head out from under the boulder at this point - a tearful-looking Nullrush and a wary Shrulia could be seen peering out from behind her.

“I’ve bought company, dear!” said Nigel, and went to kiss her. She was a very beautiful newt, with feathery gills around her face and an orange-spotted throat the colour of a satsuma. She was dressed from head to tail in dark grey mole-velvet, and wore a long, narrow cloak of woven dried rushes along her dorsal crest. Nigel must have murmured a few words of explanation to her, because she came over to Rojin at once with sparkling eyes and embraced them, and Leif heard her say a few quick, soft words.

She then came and greeted Leif with wonderful composure, although she had never met a human before and must have been exceedingly curious about him.

“Welcome, human!” she said. “I am Lucellia, of the Deep-Waters-of-Golden-Rushes-Below-The-Open-Stone-Hand-Where-The-Duwla-Lily-Flowers.”

“The human placename is Hemmemskän,” Rojin supplied. “North from here. Quite far North.”

“I know it well!” said Leif. In truth, it hadn’t occurred to him that any realm on the island would be called anything other than the human-given name that he was familiar with. He glanced rather guiltily at the oathmarks on the boulder, stretching back fifty thousand years through generations of demons. His own recorded family history stretched back just three hundred years.

“Any friend of Rojin’s is very welcome here!,” said Lucellia of the Deep-Waters-of-Golden-Rushes-Below-The-Open-Stone-Hand-Where-The-Duwla-Lily-Flowers. “Come in out of the cold, and join us for supper.”

The space beneath the boulder was not what Leif had expected. He had judged from the outside that the toad family had dug out a bare earthen burrow beneath the rock, but as they neared the entranceway he perceived that this burrow had actually been lined with an enormous drawstring bag, the gaping open mouth of which they stepped into by way of a front door.

Then something ineffable and slight seemed to shift as they crossed the threshold; it was as if they passed through the surface of a bubble, and Leif saw to his amazement that the interior of the bag was impossibly huge, and contained a great, old wooden-style manor house and grounds within it. The path to the front door, and all the gardens either side of it, were submerged comfortably under a foot or so of water, and bog strawberries and pond lettuce were being cultivated in the submerged beds. Leif waded gamely onwards, his boots gradually filling with water. Looking upwards Leif perceived a sky that appeared to stretch up endlessly, and a sun that shone down but seemed somewhat veiled, as if it were being viewed through a piece of silk.

The manor itself wallowed indulgently among the lilypads; a low, massive, ornate building made of carved teak. As Leif waded inside, he saw that the entirety of the manor had been carefully flooded inside also – this was precisely how the demons liked it. The family splashed inside in a jolly mood, chattering away. There was no natural light, but the manor was illuminated throughout by a strange and beautiful green light, emitted from hundreds of domesticated glow-beetles.

In the sitting room there sat an ancient old grandmother toad demon with a tadpole on a sling at her back, sitting on her haunches in the water and stirring a bubbling pot that sat upon an elevated hearth in the centre of the room.

She raised her eyes when the party entered, and nodded contemplatively.

“Rojin has bought a human with them today!" She croaked to herself, or perhaps to the sleeping tadpole on her back. "My, my, my. How the lilies drift!"

"Good afternoon, toad-grandmother!" said Rojin, and bowed very low, not straightening again until she croaked "that's all very good. Come and sit." She patted the surface of the water beside her, sending out ripples.

Rojin did not come and sit, but instead touched a hand very lightly to Leif's back, indicating discreetly that he too should bow. Leif, perceiving that he was in the presence of a very ancient and very respectable demon, knelt in the water at once and kissed her webbed hand, an action which was met with much interest from the toad family, and which was received with grave dignity by the grandmother.

"What's he doing that for?" Buss asked, staring.

"The humans have many greetings," croaked the old toad. "As many as a day of mayflies. They have greetings for children, and for friends, and for elders. And for mates. Is not that right, Rojin? Heh, heh, heh. I speak the truth, do I not, Prince Leif Berranek?"

"You do, madam," said Leif. He rose, dripping - a little startled at being so directly addressed. "May I ask - how is it that your family knows my name?"

"Hm, hm!" said the old toad. "Your coming to this realm has been foretold."

The fire crackled and spat. The smoke rose to the high ceiling in a thin, grey column, and hung there, stirring softly about upon itself.

"Foretold in a legend?" Rojin asked, in hushed tones. "Foretold in a dream?"

"In a pamphlet," said Nigel, coming to sit down with a splash. "They’re in all the pubs."

"What?” said Leif, amazed. “What pamphlet?"

Lucellia remembered suddenly. "We got one in the post the other day, didn't we love? Nullrush, be a minnow and see if it's still in the recycling bin, won’t you?"

Leif and Rojin and the children sat themselves down around the cooking-pot while they waited – Leif lowering himself rather gingerly and wincingly, for the cold water immediately soaked through his trousers and submerged him up to his waist, while Rojin threw himself cheerfully down with a splash.

Nullrush soon returned, triumphantly holding a slightly damp pamphlet aloft.

Leif took it and read it.

"FREE MEAL!" The pamphlet read on the front. Inside, there was an engraving of Leif, captioned "the delicious Prince Leif Berranek"

It outlined, briefly, that a young prince would be entering the region around the first day of Icewhile, dressed in low quality armour and armed with a blunt sword. Readers were assured that this was a limited time offer and were encouraged to "snap him up while he's good and fresh!"

Leif read this with the greatest confusion and perplexity. Rojin, looking over his shoulder, became immediately very excited and snatched it up.

"What’s THIS!" they exclaimed. “There’s a picture of you, Leif! There’s a picture of him! Have you seen the picture of him, Nigel?"

Nigel assured him that he had.

"What a likeness! Did you see, Lucellia? Here, just take a look!"

The pamphlet was passed around and the likeness was greatly admired.

"I shall cut that picture out!" Rojin announced, smilingly. “I will carry it with me! Can I borrow some scissors, Nigel?”

Nigel went off to get some scissors.

"But the content," protested Leif. "Where did this come from?"

“There’s no author marked down.” Lucellia turned it over, thoughtfully. “But it came in the post by seabird, and ours is all delivered by bats, usually.”

Leif turned pale. Several different sorts of birds were used across the island to send letters between human-kind, depending on the length of the journey required, but seabirds were the exclusive couriers of the Order of Protection.

“You’re quite sure?” he said, faintly. “You’re sure it was a seabird?”

“I’m certain.”

“I… I see.”

Lucellia saw that he was dismayed and shocked, and wished to comfort him. She went directly to a dresser in the corner, rummaged around and returned at length with a large blade. “I know you humans like weapons,” she said, tenderly. “Would you like to hold this for a bit?”

“Um. Thank you,” said Leif, had been raised with very good manners.

The knife was demon-made, and to Leif was as large as a broadsword. As Leif hefted it over towards him he became suddenly aware of a tremendous power surging through the handle, and was so surprised that he almost dropped it.

“This blade –“ he stammered.

“It’s only an old butter knife,” Lucellia said, apologetically. “We don’t really have any weapons around here. But it’s got a blade, and I know you humans like those!”

Leif stared at the butter knife, the blade of which, although quite blunt, was glowing fey-hot. It crackled softly with the fire of a thousand suns.

“It warms the butter up lovely!” said Nigel, who had returned with some scissors.

To Leif’s great consternation, Rojin at this point reached over and actually picked the knife up by the blade to admire it for himself. Rather than spontaneously combusting, he said “oh, it IS warm! Good for crumpets!”

“It’s hot!” cried Leif, excitedly. “It’s blazing hot! This sword is a divine relic, I’m sure it is!”

The children giggled – the old toad grandmother laughed softly to herself, and shook her head. “Sword!” she chided. “You humans see everything as a weapon. It’s a butter knife, is what it is, child. Demon-made. Now, if you humans had forged it, I’m certain you would have made it into a sword, or a helm, or something else to carry into a battle, as sure as the pond is deep. There is a reason we call them calamities when they are human made.”

“This is a calamity!” Leif took the relic up cautiously by the handle to admire it more closely– he could not touch the metal as Rojin did.

“In your hands, perhaps,” said the old grandmother, severely. “In ours, I assure you, it is a butter knife.”

But Lucellia was charmed by Leif’s obvious delight, and by the quickness she observed in the changing of his mood, which was believed to be a very human trait. “Oh, just look how happy he is,” she said coaxingly to the grandmother, and she came over to help serve the bubbling stew into bowls. “I tell you, that old butter knife never made me so happy!”

“Hmph!” said the old grandmother, but she did glance at Leif from under her furrowed eyebrows, and indeed saw how radiantly happy he was at that moment. She saw, too, how Rojin shared in his delight. She huffed.

“There is a tradition among our kind,” she said, as she passed around the bowls of hot stew. “We shall make you a gift of that little butterknife, if it pleases you so. In exchange, we ask for the gift of a story.”

There was a general outbreak of delight and pleasure at this pronouncement, particularly among the children, who ribbeted and splashed and chattered all at once –

“A story!”

“A human story!”

“Will we give him the butterknife -?”

“It’s only an old one –“

“What sort of story?”

“What’s he want old cutlery for?”

“Quiet now, dearies, settle down!” said Nigel. He was feeling very proud that his wife had so deftly chosen such a perfect thing to comfort the human. He kissed her as she sat down. “What do you say, Prince Leif?”

Leif smiled around the party with shining eyes. The mystery and unpleasantness of the pamphlet was quite forgotten: a problem for another time. For now, he held victory itself in his hands! No matter that it was demon-forged – it had certainly been forged from a true Divine Relic – altered, a little, but there was no mistaking its power. The relief that he felt was indescribable – he would be able to send this home to his royal house as proof that his mission was underway – he had not failed, not yet!

“Thank you,” he said. “It would be an honour, a real honour! Yes, I agree with my whole heart! As for a story….” He paused to think for a moment.

“A human story,” said the children, eagerly.

“He only knows human stories,” Rojin remarked, with a touch of pride.

“Let me tell you the story – the human story – of how the Divine Relics came to be.”

And so, he began.

Inquisitor Mortward's Journal

A Scroll from The Archives of Ämetatilelël - Scroll #766

The final few pages of Inquisitor Mortward’s journal, found in the town of Lunnon.

[[ Mentions - Queen Violette of Vitriol, “Demon Shout” The Grave Wand of Vitriol ]]

[[[ Notes by Röe - Evidence of Queen Violette’s continued effect on the realms after the tower was fell ]]]

__

~ Eve of the 6th day of Icewhile

This town freaks me out. The folk here are strange. Feels like the life’s been drained out of them. They walk in silence and keep their heads down… If they talk, they mumble. They won’t even look each other in the eye.

Lunnon, of Pintat. A sad and sullen town. It’s been years since the tower was toppled… and still, not a bard in sight. They’re broken here. In ruins… just like the tower.

The Queen may be dead, her sick, twisted reign may have ended, but her presence still lingers. Not just in their minds, but in their malformed bodies and missing limbs.

Well, the sun’s waning. The streets are empty. It’s time to go for a walk.

---

~ Eve of the 7th day of Icewhile

Everyone I spoke to today seemed to know someone, or know someone who knows someone who’s been abducted. Never to be seen again.

Her twisted abominations still terrorise the town. Remnants of her foul, unholy army. I remember the fear they wrought. The souls she tarnished… No wonder the town can’t move on. The heroes came, but clearly they didn’t clean up.

The officials told me no one knows how or why her chimeras still roam. Why they only come out at night. Where they come from, or where they go.

They told me whenever one had been abolished, another takes its place…

They told me they just keep the job pasted up on the board.

---

~ Eve of the 8th day of Icewhile

Third night and so far, I’ve encountered nothing.

The nights have been still, and silent if you don’t count the groans and cracks from the sewage below. That rotting stench… I swear, I could taste it on my tongue.

I saw limp, disembodied hands hanging off railings. Splintered bones lay between the cobbles and deep red stains the streets like she stains their memories. Not even years of rain could wash away the remains of her reign.

They tell me the last incident was seven nights ago. Maybe tonight is my lucky night…

---

~ Eve of the 9th day of Icewhile

Today I met another traveller. A witch. But refreshing nonetheless. She was on her own quest, in search of the Grave Wand.

Another necromancer, looking for the wand that took millions of souls. The wand that raised entire battalions. The wand responsible for these rotten remains of a town… She told me that the Queen’s corpse was never found in the ruins.

The witch also told me that like most witches, the Queen was conceived from ritual, but unlike most witches, conceived with demonic blood. She told me that she wasn’t born into royalty. That she stole the life of a Princess. Along with her name. Violette…

Surprisingly, the witch’s story doesn’t surprise me. A real Queen wouldn’t do this to her own, even if they were a witch… But a demon?

I told her it’s not been as bad since Violette’s reign ended, but I still spend most my days cleaning up after necromancers. The irresponsible ones, the reckless ones, the mad ones. I told her stories of their tests of power, their corrupted experiments, their loss of control. I told her my Tome is usually all it takes to clean up - I told her there’s not many ways to kill something that’s already dead, but it seems these books really pack a punch.

I hope she heeds my warning.

---

~ Eve of the 10th day of Icewhile

I bumped into the witch again this morning. I never thought I’d see the day a witch and an inquisitor get on. I guess in this town, I’d take any pleasantries I can get. We ate bread, shared leads, rumours, myths…

She said some folks swear the Queen’s still alive, they say her corpse was never found. Some reckon her corpse wouldn’t be found because Death took her personally.

I told her others seem convinced another has already claimed the wand. They reckon the wand corrupts, and the abductions won’t stop until it’s destroyed.

The witch said whoever might claim it, won’t necessarily have the demonic talent to turn the dead like Violette did.

She even told me she met a group of children who told her people only get abducted if you misbehave.

Is this how myths are born? Suffering, tyranny, death… distilled into cautionary tales… in order to get children to behave?

---

~ Morn of the 10th day of Icewhile

I saw it! My hands tremble as I write this. This one was different.

Still, a concoction of limbs. Limbs grafted together. Limbs from corpses of monsters and men. Twisted and contorted. But…

It moved too fast. Much faster than the ones I remember. And with purpose. Intention.

I couldn’t abolish it.

This one was different. But, familiar. Something more sinister.

Something more… sophisticated.

---

~ Eve of the 11th day of Icewhile

They told me a child was abducted last night. I reported what I saw.

I told them I hadn’t faced her abominations in years but this was not a remnant of her army. It was different. But still… Familiar. I asked them straight up - is she really dead? Other necromancers don’t twist and graft like the Queen. They aren’t capable.

They couldn’t answer. They admitted they never found her corpse in the rubble. But no one in all the realms have reported seeing her since the tower was toppled. They said they’ve searched the town. They told me there’s only one known way out of this town and no one’s ever reported her leaving…

I know this town smells of rot, but something smells off here.

I searched all over for the witch today, but I couldn’t find her. I was to demand a séance - if the Queen is dead, a witch would be able to contact her, right?

The mood in town was even more sullen today. Everyone knows, but no one’s talking about it. Only the parents are searching, knowing they’ll never find her.

I understand the demoralisation, the unwillingness to move on from the past. The bones in the street. For this town, the terror never really stopped. For the rest of the realms, the tower falling felt achievement enough, I suppose…

Well, the sun’s waning. The streets are empty. It’s time to go for a walk. My Tome, and I.

---

The Amaranthine Scrolls

A Scroll from The Archives of Ämetatilelël - Scroll #739466

Letter found among the belongings of a late adventurer, Raven of Nakkum

[[ Mentions - Queen Violette of Vitriol, “Demon Shout” The Grave Wand held by Queen Violette of Vitriol, Amaranthines]]

__

I know not how long I have left, but the wand compels me to leave this for you, dear adventurer.

It is not uncommon for holders of this wand to have visions from the mind of the witch demon. The one before me kept meticulous notes of every vision they had, looking for clues to find some of her other possessions. They believed that holding all of them would let them connect to the witch’s spirit like never before.

I, on the other hand, concerned myself only with some of them.

The ones that portend great terrors for the Realm. The ones that haunt me. This one in particular.

~ o ~

The Wand leads me back to the ruins. It’s been a long day. I sink onto the flat ground where my Tower stood tall just a few nights ago.

They were right. In the end, I failed. I failed them. I failed myself. I failed my destiny.

How could I have let this happen? How did I not see it coming? What did I miss?

The familiar feeling of bitter vitriol washes over me.

No. I haven’t failed entirely. Not yet. I may not have seen them coming, but the fools only took down the Façade. They didn’t find anything important. They didn’t take anything True.

I dig my fingers into the rubble, into the ground and tune my heart and my mind to its strength and my true home within.

Darkness.

Relief.

The floor dissolves momentarily into ether to let me in.

Home.

This place knows magic unlike any that we practise. How can it restore me so, as soon as I enter? How can it drive the world outside so far away, making everything else so unimportant? The dungeon. My home. My sanctum. All that’s interesting to me in the universe is now held between these walls. Comfort and adventure all at once.

Like you, Death.

The bitterness of the wand strikes a comfortable balance with the soothing smells of Death.

Peaceful, calming, welcoming but also brimming with mystery and potential. Not everyone sees you that way, do they? I feel bad for those who are scared of you. For those who don’t know or understand you as intimately as I do. Well, fuck them! I’m grateful for your company. For all the things we create together.

For Amaranthine.

The coldness of the Grave Wand seeps through me into Amaranthine, lifting her from her resting place and drawing her to the workbench.

I don’t need to make her for them anymore, do I? You took them all. Maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. Maybe they did me a huge favour. How did I not see this before? The Tower is a small price to pay for this freedom. I can make her how I want now. I can take as long as I want making her. We can make her beautiful, Death. We can make her unique. We can make her interesting.

Her body contorts into strange shapes that I had never seen before. Strange, but also somehow familiar?

A lost, forgotten feeling finds me.

I can do anything I want. They don’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore. There are no rules.

A violent surge of energy passes through me into her. She disintegrates into a thousand pieces and grafts herself back together onto a pair of demon wings.

Are you excited, Amaranthine? How shall I make you? I didn’t think of this when I named you, but did you know, in another world, amaranth is a shade of violet? Did you know they called me Violette? Violette. The woman I never wanted to be. The woman I don’t have to be anymore. But if I’m not her, then who am I? Could I have been you? Maybe. But who are you, Amaranthine? A child that has ceased to exist. The child I could have been if not for them?

I recognise the shapes her body is making.

I dreamed them up in that graveyard, the longest time ago. When I first found you, Death. Do you remember? When I ran away from them. When I was hiding from them. Why did I go back?

If it was just peace, just happiness, just goodness that you took from me…… You took more. I’ll never know what I could have become.

Amaranthine. A mystery.

Are you a monster too? You’d think I wouldn’t have become one if not for them, wouldn’t you? But no. I think I was always going to become some version of this. This. The “Other”.

A darkness enters her and spreads through her being.

I should make more of you, shouldn’t I, Amaranthine? From more children that have ceased to exist. For every trick, every game they played, the child that could have existed had they not. For every -

Her eyes.

What?

No.

That’s not possible. I’m imagining things, aren’t I?

But something flows from me through the Wand into her, forming dark red questions in her eyes and forever lost to me. That was a mistake. I’m losing focus. I break my bond with the Wand.

~ o ~

I try to grasp at that memory like a madwoman every time, desperately trying to hold on to what I saw in her eyes. But it slips through my mind into the far ends of my consciousness, every time, lost to me as it was to her. But I remember how it felt. That bone-chilling sense of dread. Hysterical sense of power. I cannot ignore it like she did. There is danger there. I am sure of it.

---

A Scroll from The Archives of Ämetatilelël - Scroll #9890

Pages from the notes of late adventurer, Morana of Ha‘ule‘u

[[ Mentions - Queen Violette of Vitriol, “Demon Shout” The Grave Wand held by Queen Violette of Vitriol, Amaranthines, Queen Violette’s Silver Ring ]]

__

12th Day in the season of Icewhile, Year of the Great Unification

Vision 32, Trigger : My sister’s grave

~ <> ~

Darkness.

Silence.

The calm, numbing coldness of the Grave Wand finds me again.

Death.

I haven’t had a real conversation with anyone but you, Death, in a very long time. Everyone I bring home with me is so busy fearing you, they have no time for me. I wish, for once, one of them would actually talk to me. Say something worth hearing, for once. If they had anything worth preserving in them, I wouldn’t so easily give them to you. But they’re all the same. I wonder if there’s a way to keep a part of them in the piece, just an echo of what made them them. I’ve never let the supplies inspire the creation before…

What of you, little child? What makes you unique? Is there any part of you worth keeping in Amaranthine?

My awareness reaches out through the Wand, searching the echo of her consciousness.

Fear. Horror. Panic.

They told you to fear us, didn’t they? I know known terrors seem safer than havens unknown. The monsters we call family seem safer than those they call “the Other”. But trust me, Death and I will be kinder to you than they would have been. Ask Violette. She’s thankful I took her place.

At the back of my awareness, I feel her stir. The girl whose name and life I stole. The girl that would have been Violette if not for their games. She never really left me, but without the Wand, I wouldn’t have known. She’s good at hiding at the far edges of my consciousness. I think she felt bad for me. I’ll never be sure if it’s pity or vitriol that kept her from moving on. But I know she agrees with me on this - she’s the luckier one.

Another child that didn’t get a chance to exist. I wish I knew where they hid your body, Violette. It would have been so perfect for -

A blinding flash of pain shatters the bond.

~ <> ~

This creation seems more like an expression of emotion. Usually, her thoughts are about its functional aspects and efficiency. She also sounds oddly relaxed. Why is this one different?

In all her other visions, her connection with Violette was very weak. But that flash of pain when she was thinking about Violette’s body. It almost seemed like Violette was actually responding? Did she want the witch demon to find her body?

She had all the items. She still has the ring in this vision

---

A Scroll from The Archives of Ämetatilelël - Scroll #112

Pages from the Journal of an adventurer - Origins Unknown

[[ Mentions - Queen Violette of Vitriol, “Demon Shout” The Grave Wand held by Queen Violette of Vitriol, Amaranthines]]

[[[ Note by Master Elök Etrelpas Of The Elders, Deputy Archivist - the journal mentioned in this scroll could be Inquisitor Mortward’s Journal from Lunnon (see scroll #766 )]]]

__

I need to write every detail of this down before I forget.

<><>

The Wand answers my call and we wrap our minds around each other.

The Mind is a place where rage, fear, and loneliness meet. The Body is where movements for life are brought together. Your Body and Mind work together to allow for some limited expression of what is happening in your Mind.

Amaranthine’s body and mind contort at my command, but all I can see is hideousness.

Every attempt of this is garbage. What am I doing wrong?

Bitter, blood-curdling hatred seeps through me as I look at her.

I thought the body was the problem. Using Violette’s body didn’t make it better. Using a woman’s body is not making it any better. That’s not it. The artist and the subject of the creation are vile, how can the creation not be.

I reach out through the Wand into her mind.

I’m Death. I’m madwoman. I birth affairs in which GREEN is the key to slaying me. I am a madwoman because I love death. I love the feeling of pointy things Vs. pushing vs. being combined into a one single entity. I love the feeling of wind into my body, accelerating my own growth. I love the feeling of something lives inside of me, despite its being017 I love the feeling of death myself. I love the way my wonderful layers are taking form around me. I love the feeling of being in control. I love the feeling of being written. I love the feeling of being theinkerthing.

I break my bond with her and the Wand in disgust.

I’ve had visions of her using the Grave Wand, making necrotic chimeras before. But did I just see her reaching into the mind of one? And did I just see its thoughts??

<><>

I did some digging.

I couldn’t find much about Amaranthines. But there are rumours. Disturbingly more and more, over the years. Some say it was a failed experiment. I think it was a failed attempt at a self-portrait.

Her creations are almost always talked about as mindless. Almost. But I found something else. A journal of an investigator found decades ago in Lunnon. He writes about encountering one of her chimeras. He said it made calculated moves. That it moved with purpose. With intention.

But surely, that’s not possible? A witch, even one with demon blood, no matter how powerful, cannot create a being like that? One that has its own mind? Has thoughts??? What does this mean? Does it have a soul?

Visions such as these are known to get slightly altered each time it is recalled by an adventurer. Maybe this is just one that has been recalled a lot?

---

A Scroll from The Archives of Ämetatilelël - Scroll #19812

Pages from the notes of late adventurer, Morana of Ha‘ule‘u

[[ Mentions - Queen Violette of Vitriol, Queen Violette’s Silver ring, Amaranthines]]

__

21st Day in the Season of Icewhile, 2nd Year of the Wolf

Vision 294, Trigger: Boneflowers around my sister’s grave.

.:0:.

The world is a wild, wild place. There’s no consistency or order to it. Only the wanderlusts and momentary insights of the moment tug at my heart. I’m constantly connected to the Great Zoo of the Bobolens. My skin is my own15 inch inch mirror bewteen fields canary yellow fields towards the brink of black. I’m an amaranthine. The world is an amara. Only the madwoman Amaranthine can be mad. The world is a wild, wild place. And the madwoman Amara must be something other than an amara. She sometimes thinks of the birds in her backyard as she views the wildflowers in the garden. She occasions celebratory coffee in her garden, with chickens, beforeOTOating onto the day’s findings in her head. She is an amara. SheConstantly thinks of the birds in her backyard as she sees the wildflowers in the garden. She occasions celebratory coffee in her garden, beforeOKOating onto the day’s findings in her head. She is an amara.

.:0:.

I’ve been getting many visions like these recently. They started when I found the ring. Is it from her childhood? When she was an infant and couldn’t form coherent thoughts? But no. She didn’t have the ring that young. Did lunacy take her at the end? But it doesn’t feel like her mind. There’s an echo of her in there somewhere, but something about the mind felt …. unfinished?

---

Fool’s Errand

Part 1

The Eastern Island of the Order of Protection, in the Year of Our Lady Selnol the Ragged, day the fourth in the season of Icewhile. Dawn had not yet broken, but a pale light was rising to lap at the brink of morning, and the stars were fading one by one. A single magpie could be seen in the blanching sky. Against the grey half-light, the black and white feathers seem incongruously vibrant. The bird seemed to tear a path through the paper of the sky, leaving fleeting, wing-shaped impressions of something on the other side that was by turns pure black, pure white.

This island was ceaseless and horizonless; devoid of hills or mountains. One could travel across its entire breadth and length without walking up or down any sort of incline whatsoever, which was why travellers called it the flatlands, or by its ancient name, The Levelle.

The oldest stories about The Levelle spoke of a great demon who rolled the land out flat with his rolling pin and baked bread upon it, the crumbs of which became the first stars. These stories were not well remembered any more by the peoples of this land, and many had been forgotten entirely, along with the ancient songs, although the demons and wildfolk still knew them by heart.

In these days, the rulers of the Order of Protection placed a great deal of emphasis on peace and stability, and so the people of the Order of Protection did too. They worshipped the God Mooth, the great orator, and considered themselves to be accordingly blessed in the gifts of speech and diplomacy. By the year of Our Lady Antzuma, the Levelle was a nation of stability, well esteemed for its skills in peacekeeping and reconciliation, with ambassadors and advisors well established in almost all corners of the world.

When the fourth day of winter finally broke, the morning light spilled out from its bowl in the sky and eventually touched a wild corner of the island, far from the royal castle, where the young crown prince Leif Berranek was journeying. His hair, when the light touched it, was as pale as boneflower; his eyes reflected perfectly the grey weight of the dawn sky and seemed to hold no colour of their own at all. They were bright with that peculiar, luminous quality that is often seen in the eyes of sleepwalkers or people who are not quite well – pensive and dreaming by turns, gazing at nothing and everything. Now his face was quite calm and composed, although his eyes glimmered with the unsteady quality of starlight.

Although his complexion and bearing were princely in the highest degree, his dress was somewhat peculiar. He wore the garb of a hunter, though rather badly. His plain hide armour had an enchantment on it that had either been diluted to start with or had faded with age: it glowed queasily in the gloom with its own faint, greenish light. It seemed too large for his slim frame, and as he stood to stretch and gather up his bedroll it was evident that he was clumsy beneath the weight of it, and moved awkwardly. His boots and gloves were dogskin, and at his side hung an unadorned silver sword with the symbol of the Order of Protection at the pommel.

Then, alongside these unremarkable – some might even say unprincely - articles of equipment, he wore an ostentatious filigree crown worked delicately out of real lumin, and dripping with diamonds. The prince’s initials, LB, had been picked out in opals at the front, so there could really be no question of his identity, even though a glance at his features was sufficient to mark him out as a son of Queen Berranek. This crown sat like a beacon on the young prince’s head, glittering his family connections out into the world for all to see. Inexplicably, it held no powers or enchantments whatsoever - neither could it be of any use as an actual helmet, being as delicate and light as a sugar decoration on a wedding cake.

This was certainly a strange state of affairs, given the dangers of the wild territory that the Prince found himself in, which was home to more demons than humans, and was far from the protection of the castle. It was difficult to fathom but Prince Leif himself appeared unperturbed, and stood gazing westwards towards Wuulwemul with a mild, thoughtful expression as the sun rose.

He was not far now from the Mirror Grotto - the lair of the demon Rojin and the great store of treasure that it hoarded there. Among the riches, fiercely guarded, were rumoured to be a number of Divine Relics – the name given in that land to items bestowed with rare and mysterious power. The Prince himself, it should be mentioned, was in possession of one such Divine Relic, which had been bequeathed to him by the Queen Antova on the day he came of age. It was an Amulet of Protection; a golden locket in the shape of two cupped hands hanging on a golden chain around Leif’s neck.

This amulet, contrary to its name, did not afford the young Prince any form of protection at all, but was blessed with the curious trick of being able to magic into existence an endless supply of seeds of the royal tree of the Order of Protection. The existence of this Divine Relic and its possession by the royal family of the Order of Protection perhaps explained the family’s ancient pledge to shade the land and feed the people, which the holding of this relic neatly fulfilled. Prince Leif unclasped the locket now, and although the amulet would not have rattled had it been shaken, a small reddish brown nut now sat in the hollow of the golden hands. He stooped to plant it in the soil at his feet.

Royal pledge fulfilled, the Prince straightened to gather his knapsack, and saw the magpie. It was perched on a low branch of a nearby lanya tree, and although it had been assiduously wiping its beak on a cluster of leaves before, it now stopped as if embarrassed, and, turning its head aside, looked narrowly at the Prince with one bright berry-black eye.

“Good morning, master magpie!” said Leif, mostly to himself. It was considered good luck on the island to greet a magpie when you saw one – this was an old folk tradition, the origins of which had been lost to time.

The magpie ignored him. It was looking at his crown now. It turned its head to the other side in order to assess the sparkling edifice more properly with its right eye, and then cocked its head again to inspect it with the left. It craned its neck to get a better view. It leaned forward on its branch and stared, its beak slightly open and its eyes bright with diamonds, until Leif broke out laughing.

This startled the bird briefly into flight – its wingbeat, stammering, tattooed the air between them with bands of black and white which resolved when the bird landed in the velvet shade of the lanya tree’s upper branches.

“Sorry,” Leif said, still half laughing. “Aren’t you beautiful! What would you like?”

The magpie peered down at him.

“Would you like something to eat? Here, have this! And keep me from bad luck, won’t you?” Smiling, he took a second nut from the little golden amulet and tossed it to the ground beneath the tree.

The sun was high enough now to travel by; he would easily reach the Grotto by evening. There was treasure to be retrieved and a powerful guardian to be reckoned with - and if the demon Rojin was as fierce as the stories suggested then Leif would need all the good luck he could get. If the thought of this coming battle troubled him at all, it did not show. The young Crown Prince, as he wandered westwards, could be heard singing a hymn under his breath – his eyes were the colour of the wide sky, his expression mild and far-off, as if he were remembering a place from his childhood as he sang.

Veil thee with many veils,

It hideth not your fire

But rouseth thee to bright desire

To speak thy sacred tales.

A faint clapping of wings could be heard. Back at the lanya tree, the magpie flew to the ground in a zoetropic stutter of black and white, and somewhere between the sky and the earth it found a new shape and became something else. The pale sun continued to rise; the air was quite still and cold. In the deep shade at the foot of the tree stood now the demon Rojin, dressed in a cloak of dark and pale feathers.

They stooped briefly, and when they rose they held between their thumb and forefinger a nut of the royal tree of the Order of Protection. They held it up to their black eyes and examined it closely. They looked at the retreating shape of the Prince in the distance, and smiled hungrily, showing all of their teeth.

Fool’s Errand

Part 2

Mirror Grotto was a little observed wonder in the realm of Juwnedon-Wek on the south stormshores of the Order of Protection’s principal island. Very little was known about it, partly due to the wild remoteness of the region and partly due to the density and great variety of the demon population there, who deterred most travellers and ate the rest. The earliest historical account of the place is also the most detailed – a short passage in Phasros the Elder’s Vestigo, reading:

“Of the so-called ‘Grotto of Mirrors’ near Ninnolzhew, which may be the same wonder as the Knoll of Bones, it is said to be a demon-made construction taking the shape of a low hillock upon the landscape, the inside of which is lined with splendour and the outer with gore.”

Most later texts do not mention it at all, although there is an old song of that region which praises “yon shyning hill of bones,” which likely refers to the place, there being no real hills or mountains in that region at all. It does not feature on the majority of maps, lacking the extraordinary usefulness of The Exalted Basin, or the tragic history of The Exalted Maple.

How Prince Leif Berranek had managed to make it there unscathed was anyone’s guess. His armour was mismatched and poorly made, his sword was dull, and yet he carried with him an astonishingly rare map from the library of the royal family, printed on demonskin. This map, strange to say, had been gifted to him personally by the very same royal personages who had seen fit to send him out into the world wearing dogskin gloves. It depicted the island in wonderful detail, accurately charting a number of regions that were thought to be entirely uncharted, among them Juwnedon-Wek, the realm of the Mirror Grotto. The map had been marked for him to show the reported locations of a number of Divine Relics - those rare and curious pieces of equipment that were sought by all those who sought power, and which granted their bearers strange, wonderful gifts.

Prince Leif stood just a few paces now from the Grotto, dressed in his strange garb and bejewelled crown. He consulted the demonskin map one last time. The wonder had been depicted as a low mound, and a small golden X had been painted on to indicate the presence there of a possible Divine Relic. In black ink above the mound was another tiny symbol – a six fingered hand, the mark used to denote the presence of a great demon.

Leif put the map away and looked the grotto. Phasros the Elder’s Vestigo and the map had both depicted the grotto as a sort of hillock, but both sources were ancient. The Mirror Grotto had grown since those days. It jutted up into the sky now like a giant skeletal thumb, pale against the pale sky. It had looked uniformly white from a distance, but now that he was closer Leif saw the innumerable bones and skulls and ossicles that had been picked clean and pressed into the walls of the structure. The bones near the bottom of the towering structure had bleached white in the sun, but those nearer the top were newer, and were dark with blood. Above, a magpie circled.

No demon came to tear him limb from limb as Leif approached: no challenge answered his tentative, questioning call. Still, it was with great trepidation that he entered the grotto, almost holding his breath as he stepped through a doorway that no living creature but the demon Rojin had passed through for centuries.

It was cool inside, and quite silent. The high walls reached up to an open circle of sky far above through which the light poured in, breaking itself on the way down into a thousand points of brilliance, for the walls of the grotto were lined with glittering treasures from the floor to the ceiling.

So kaleidoscopic and dazzling was this effect that it took some time for Leif’s eyes to adjust, and then with a racing heart he stepped further in and began to gaze around in search of something resembling a Divine Relic. Here, he began to have his first misgivings. On closer inspection, the items lining the walls did not appear to be treasures at all, but rather a large collection of carefully curated pieces of rubbish.

There was a pair of broken spectacles, with a crack across one of the lenses. There were innumerable pieces of magenta and turquoise coloured glass – the hues commonly used in that region for ale and rootwine bottles. There were shards of mirrors, and not only shards but entire hand mirrors, wall mirrors, and (Leif shuddered to see) hundreds upon hundreds of traditional handheld demonglasses. These relics were commonly carried by villagers and poorfolk, and consisted of a piece of smoked mirror set in a little embroidered frame at the end of a stick – it was believed that they warded off demons. They clearly had not warded off the demon Rojin, who had plucked these mirrors from the bodies of the villagers, and had been setting them in the walls of the grotto for centuries. The demonglasses nearer the bottom of the walls were quite ancient: their mirrors were hexagonal instead of circular, and the surface of the mirrors were engraved with words in the old language, a practice which had died out more than two hundred years ago.

Leif stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to get a better look at the items higher up. Beetle wings; tin foil; silverware; what looked like a great cracked lighthouse lens. And as he stared in growing dismay, a dark shadow fell across the entrance to the grotto.

There in the entranceway stood the great demon Rojin themselves. They had taken the form of a giant magpie, so large that their head would not fit through the doorway of the grotto. They stooped and pressed their enormous eye against the entrance, peering in.

Leif, trembling from head to toe, drew his sword and promptly dropped it.

“Whoops,” he said.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” said the magpie, in a great croaking voice like a cracked bell. The demon’s eye nearly filled the doorway. Leif hastily backed himself up against the furthest wall, and tried to think of something to say.

“I am Prince Leif,” he said at last, for it seemed as if the magpie really was awaiting an answer. “Prince Leif Berranek, of the royal house of the Order of Protection.”

“A prince!” The eye scrutinised him in silence for a bit.

“I like your grotto,” said Leif, weakly.

“Do you?”

“Oh yes! Yes… there’s ever such a lot here, isn’t there? Gosh. And er, the decoration. Is it all… er… This sort of thing?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Bottles? Bits of glass and such?”

The eye at the entrance narrowed.

“Well!” said Leif, nervously. “It’s all marvellous, I must say. Jolly good stuff. Lovely bottles.”

“I collected it all myself.”

“Goodness! Well! My word!” Leif cleared his throat awkwardly. “Is - is there anything more powerful here, perhaps? My map said there might be-“

“I have spec-a-tacles,” said Rojin modestly. “Many pairs. Human made.”

There was a pause.

“Do they – are they – do they have any sort of, er, powers?”

“Light catching,” said the magpie. “They catch the light. Look!”

Leif looked, dutifully. They did indeed catch the light rather nicely, but it was becoming evident that there were no divine relics to be found in this place. Rather, Leif had entered the lair of a demon that had been killing humans for centuries for their sparkly things, and he had entered it wearing an incredibly sparkly crown. He straightened it now, nervously, and watched the enormous demon eye track his movement, and remain fixed on the crown after he had put his hands down.

“Are there any more of those seeds left?” said the giant magpie, conversationally.

“P-pardon?”

The demon turned, and poked their enormous, sharp beak into the entrance of the grotto. The beak was long, but not quite so long that it could reach Leif, pressed as he was at the furthest end of the grotto, with a collection of cracked pince-nez digging into his back.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY MORE OF THOSE SEEDS LEFT?” the beak said, very loudly.

Leif stared blankly – for a moment he could not make the slightest sense of the question. Then he remembered.

“Are – are you – the magpie from earlier?”

“Yes,” said the magpie from earlier.

“And,” Leif hesitated, thrown into sudden doubt. “You are the demon Rojin, are you?”

“Yes,” said the demon Rojin.

The beak was very alarming to look at, this close. It was as black and wicked as a flint’s edge. When it opened to speak (which was also alarming) it revealed a sharp looking tongue, as black as onyx.

“The seeds,” the beak prompted.

“Oh! Yes! I have more,” said Leif. “Many more. An infinite supply. My amulet can make them.”

Rojin removed their beak and pressed their eye to the entrance again to have a good look at the amulet. Leif could see himself reflected in the great oil-dark eye. He looked very anxious. He tried to make himself look less anxious by putting one hand on his hip in a nonchalant manner, but the results were mixed.

“Did you say infinite?” asked Rojin.

“Yes,” said Leif. “Infinite.” And then, remembering the razer sharp beak, he added hastily – “but only I can operate it. Th-there’s a knack, you know. So, you wouldn’t want to kill me for it.”

“No,” said Rojin, rather vaguely. The eye was so large that it was hard to know whether it was staring at the crown, the amulet, or Leif himself.

“No,” said Leif, firmly.

“Give me one”, said Rojin. They thrust their beak back through the doorway.

Leif looked doubtfully at the beak. “Well... alright. I was just thinking, perhaps, if you did have an item of power around here, perhaps you might consider trading it for some seeds?”

The beak opened as much as it could in the low entranceway, which was not very far.

“Ahhh!” the beak said, expectantly.

Leif unclasped his amulet and rather gingerly placed one of the acorn-sized seeds into the open beak. The beak clacked shut and withdrew. There was a pause.

“W̵̠͉̽̈́̽H̷̢̘̳̪̯͌̎͋͘͝A̶̼͇̙̙̅͂͋̅͘͝͝T̵͚̪̮̱̠̬̝̑̌̑̒͗?̷̨̧̧͈̹̰̀͝?” roared the demon Rojin, in a voice like ragged thunder.

Leif eyed the open doorway in alarm, through which he could just see a pair of enormous black scaley bird legs, and the white feathered underbelly of Rojin. If he ran now – if he ran quickly and darted out of the way, perhaps he could escape – but before he could put this thought into action, Rojin had put their eye to the doorway once more. The eye looked annoyed.

“That was TINY. What a tiny little seed. Where are the big ones you gave me earlier?”

“Th-these are the same ones,” said Leif, faintly. “There’s only one kind. They’re from the royal tree.”

“WHAT?” cried Rojin. “Where are you hiding them? Where? Why? Give me one!”

“You were much smaller earlier,” offered Leif, timidly.

There was another, much longer pause.

“I know that,” said Rojin, haughtily. “I was much smaller earlier. Yes. I was in my smaller magpie form, wasn’t I? Yes.”

The monstrous form at the entranceway seemed to fold itself inwards somehow as if a drawstring were being pulled, and Rojin, in the form of a little magpie, hopped pertly into the grotto. Leif, who had come forward a little bit, shrank sharply back against the wall again.

“Give me another,” cried Rojin. “It wasn’t as good when my beak was big. It tasted very small. I’ll have one in my small beak instead.” They opened their small beak, demonstratively.

Leif wondered whether he should place a seed directly into the beak, or whether that might be presumptuous.

“Wait,” said Rojin, and rose, and grew, and in a sudden was in human form, in their cloak of black and white feathers. Their eyes were very bright and very black, just as the magpie’s had been, but were far more expressive, and regarded Leif with much curiosity and interest. Leif, for his part, was quite speechless, having never seen a demon change forms before, and having not expected such a very human looking Rojin to approach him with hand outstretched.

Rojin’s face - their human-seeming face - was a remarkable one. They wore stripes of black and white facepaint, white beneath the eyes; black beneath the mouth. In their face there was a suggestion of immense pride and cruelty, but at the same time something confiding and very full of simplicity. The contrast was what struck Leif at that moment, as opposite as the black and the white feathers. The overall effect was unusually lovely, a very strange beauty – Leif opened his mouth to speak and could not think of a single word to say.

“I’ll try one in this form,” said Rojin. They were standing far too close. “Please.”

Wordlessly, Leif unclasped the golden locket, took out another seed and dropped it into Rojin’s open palm.

The demon tossed it into their mouth at once, and crunched it rapturously. “Wow,” they said. “Wow. Wow.”

“Good?”

“Good. Very good. Yes. The raiment, the gifting. So far, very much.”

Not knowing quite what to say to this, but observing that he did not appear to be under any immediate threat from the demon, Leif said – “about that trade…”

“There are more seeds?” said Rojin.

“Yes, of course.”

“More seeds for me?”

“Well,” faltered Leif, “If… if…”

“You are good,” said Rojin, nicely. “You are very nice.”

“Th -thank you,” said Prince Leif.

“Do you suppose,” said Rojin, “that I could have another seed?”

“Could I have a divine relic in exchange?” said Leif, bravely.

Rojin parsed this for a moment, then leaned in without any hesitation whatsoever and kissed him. It was a keen, thoughtless, fleeting kiss - and it was the first time that anyone had ever kissed the crown prince Leif Berranek, although he was almost twenty eight years old.

“Ah,” said Leif.

Rojiin looked pleased. They looked at his dogskin gloves, and his patched boots, his glowing armour, his golden locket and his sparkling crown. They looked at his wide, pale eyes and his parted lips and his wheat-coloured hair.

“Would you like another?” they asked.

Leif appeared to be struggling with how best to answer this question.

“That’s alright,” he said at last, with some effort. He gazed at Rojin, lost for words. At first, when the demon had come up so close to him, he had become as pale as death; but now the blood had rushed back to his cheeks. “The thing is… I was actually – I was looking for items of power, you see… there may have been a misunderstanding.”

“Items of power?” Rojin cocked his head to one side. “Afbrigði?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re talking about the calamities, aren’t you? Abrigði. Calamities. The singing swords and the burning cloaks? The little bits of talking jewellery?”

“Yes!” said Leif, excitedly. “That’s them! Only, we call them Divine Relics!”

“What!” Rojin rather unexpectedly burst out laughing. “You call them the same word as a kiss! How funny you humans are! Ha! Ha! Ha! A kiss, I like that!”

“Oh,” said Leif, blushing again. “Well. We don’t exactly –“

“I understand,” said Rojin, serenely. “You like the calamities. You’d like some for the nest?”

“The nest?”

Rojin gestured around them at the grotto. Seeing Leif’s dumbfounded expression, they added hastily - “It’s not finished. It could go much higher than this. This is just for starters. Lots of room for Abrigði.”

Leif gazed around, distractedly. He looked rather flustered – his blush had not disappeared yet, and he spoke quickly and self consciously. “So there are none here? Well, that’s alright. I’m on a mission, is all. It isn’t going very well so far. I’m supposed to collect them up, as many as I can -they’re dangerous, you see. I’m not surprised you call them calamities in your tongue! Well. I’m to send them back to the castle to be destroyed. It doesn’t matter that there aren’t any here though, after all. Hey ho! It was only a rumour. I thought that Dread Grasp might be here.”

“Never heard of it,” said Rojin.

“You’ve never heard of Dread Grasp? The gloves of protection?”

“Never.”

“What, you must have! Dread Grasp! From the song!”

“Not at all! What song?”

“Grasping the heart of forgetting,
Holding firm the threads of dream,
Gath’ring the stems of oblivion
Stitching closed the broken seam”

Leif paused, embarrassed. His voice, as clear as birdsong, rang out against the eyeglasses and the mirrors and the broken bottles.

“It’s about a pair of gloves,” he said shyly, aware that Rojin was staring.

“That is a human song, I think. Could I have another seed?”

Leif gave them one. The demon ate it very slowly and consideringly, looking at Leif all the while with their bright dark eyes. When they had finished it, they said,

“I accept.”

“You do?” said Leif. Then, “accept what?”

“The gift was good. Very good. I like the gifts very much. I like very much that there is an infinite supply of gifts,” said Rojin. “I liked the song very much also. Yes. The crown is precisely to my liking. I like you very much, prince.”

Leif looked at the demon gravely for a moment, as if he were unsure whether he were being teased or not. But seeing that Rojin’s expression was quite as serious as his own, he suddenly broke out smiling.

“Oh! I think I like you too, Rojin – you are not at all what I thought you would be. I am a great believer in destiny – I don’t know if demons believe in a thing like that, but – that is - it seems as if we were supposed to meet. I had a strange feeling when I first saw you. I almost felt as though I knew you; as if I had seen you before, in a dream perhaps.” He stopped, confused. Rojin looked at him inquisitively, but did not laugh.

“And you could help me collect Divine Relics, you said? That’s the very thing I’ve set out to do!”

“There are no Abrigði here,” the demon said. “But if those are what you like, I shall help you get some. Yes! In return for your song and your gifts and your raiment. And then you’ll see how powerful Rojin is! A strong bird! A builder of tall nests!”

“Is that so?” murmured the Prince, a little nonsensically.

“You don’t have to decide now, of course,” Rojin said hastily. “Three moons is traditional. You can wait. You can see.”

“I see,” said the Prince. “And - after three moons?”

Rojin placed Leif’s hand into their own and laced their fingers together, six against five.

“We can marry!”

Lost Order of Chad - Encyclopedia Entry

Order of Brilliance Archives

Encyclopedia Entry

The Mythic and Legendary Possessions of Adventurers

By: Scholar Atrius

There are many paths that a warrior may walk.

Some choose to master a weapon, whereas others forge their bodies and souls into a weapon.

These masters are the ones whose names and feats you know well. The Epic of Talius and the Phoenix Tear to cure his dying wife of an unstoppable plague, or even the feats of the Emperor, sundering the universe to create a Portal to Plouton with his Armageddon Bender Wand.

Their possessions remain forever inscribed with the feats they achieved, the Divines themselves taking note of mere mortals. The sheer powers that these items wielded ranged from a curious trick to outright mindboggling destruction as if the stars themselves had been called to battle.

Often, the weapon itself was enough of a deterrent to any would-be bandit or thief, for of the millions of weaponry, enchanted jewelry and armors, only a few would achieve such greatness, and the owners of them would treat their loss as they would that of a family member.

A wand would be thought lost to time or battle, and then mysteriously find itself in the path of a novice magic user who had suffered unjustly under a cruel regime. Some of the greatest Mages stories begin with the slightest of observations, but the truly heroic, the ones whose names you hear in any tavern tale, every last one suffered the greatest of loss or grievous mistreatment.

The Divines play with mortals as the elderly play bones, betting on the deaths, adultery, and whatever other drama that may amuse them, and these great weapons and armors would often be a focus for their scheming.

Those who study the blade often find themselves receiving a more practical lesson than they desired, in the shape of an arrow or warhammer. A Katana wielded by a Bladedancer follower of other Orders, particularly the more esoteric or sedentary ones, is often found later sticking out of their bodies as a cruel jest by their victorious foes.

A Brother trains their mind, body, and soul to be a lethal combination of brute force and speed, their prowess in the application of force second to none but the Sisterhood, although they specialize in the application of that force from a distance, and with decidedly less collateral damage.

The greatest Weapons and Armor of Plouton have long since been eclipsed by what we have found here, in the new world of Realms. Even our Emperor’s most sacred belongings only scratch the surface compared to the Order of Brilliance Head Armory, and indeed that is where they lie now. The Armageddon Bender Wand

A Divine Swordsman is a blessing (or curse!) on the battlefield, but for a scouting team?

No, their strengths would only see them fall behind or meet an untimely demise in the back alleys of a foreign town.

Of all the greatest warriors, hunters, and mages of the Realms, a scant thousand or so can lay claim to more than one legendary or mythical item. The mightiest of foes to face on any battlefield and armies of one, capable of decimating a regiment with but one swing of a mighty axe, or a particularly destructive spell.

As an adventurer progresses in their experience and training, they may be able to wield weapons that they could not in years past, or armor that would have previously restricted their mobility too much. A seasoned veteran adventurer with poor quality equipment (it happens to the best of us!) is still easily capable of putting a hot-blooded youth in their place.

In my years of studying this phenomenon, the most consistent source of growth has appeared to be immersion in dangerous situations and triumph (or perish!). These tribulations affect item and wielder alike, with the greater the struggle or loss being correlated to the power gained.

The atrocities committed by power-hungry despots and tyrants are what lead to some of the names of the less savory historic items that we all know and hate. Should a bearer of these items be spotted, it should be reported to the Order High Command at utmost haste.

---

Three songs: The Numbs; Hole in the Sky; You, My Light

THE NUMBS

Momma

What do the numbers show?

You’ve counted rose petals for days

And you’ve shit through your clothes

Momma

What do the numbers show?

Why do you count the sun?

There’s only one, one, one, one, one, one,

Momma

How do the numbers glow?

You’ve been digging holes underground

And lining up stones

Momma

What do the numbers hold?

Can you see my face? one none one one none one none one one one one none none none none none one none none none none none none one one one one none none none none none none one none one none one one none……….

---

YOU, MY LIGHT

I’ve walked from Ptit to Abnus

I’ve drifted across the ocean floor

I’ve circled round the heavens

To find you, my light

I’ve killed all my past selves

Bloodbaths are murmuring in my dreams

But I’ll die another death

To find you, my light

Outstretched, I’ll meet you naked

Raw pink and howling in the breeze

I’ll lose my mother’s name

To find you, my light

---

HOLE IN THE SKY

Sunrise

I followed you up the mountain

At the peak you told me fall to your knees

And look me in the eye

You grabbed my hands

You told me I am your sun

And as long as you hold me

I’ll hold onto you

But I can’t help feeling like you won’t hold on

Daylight

I followed you to the water

You told me wash off your scabs

And drink before it dries

I’ve walked from realm to realm

As far as the eye can see

But the light is beating down

I’m burning up inside

I need to rest

And curl up in a ball

I can’t help feeling like I can’t hold on

Twilight

You’re following me through the trees

You tell me come out of the dark

Or I’ll fall out the sky

But my skin is charred

I’m digging holes in the earth

And I can’t see

Can’t see it in your eye

Would you fall from the sky?

Then what should I do?

Should I hold onto my melting hands

Should I promise that I won’t let go

I can’t just pray to the sun

And ask to be whole

Cuz if you’re not holding out for me

Its not holding out for me

Nothing’s holding onto me then

Help me

I need to know

I’m frying

Oh help me

If I let go of my sun?

Will I let go of my soul?

Nothing to hold

Out in the gold

Of my soul

Am I soul?

Am I soul?

White light

---

A Cruel Fate

Leilen was a shared mythology, an idyllic past that I never lived but that I remembered all the same. It was the smells of a childhood that I didn’t enjoy and the laughter of the brothers that I never met. It was a common history of the things that I knew, and all the things that I didn’t know. For me, Leilen was my past, present and future, it was all I knew and all I needed to know. See, Leilen was an ideal that never truly existed, but it didn’t need to. I was a romantic; we were all romantics back then.

We signed up for the war together, on the same day, at the same place. He was the first in line and although it was my idea, I was the last one to sign my name in ink. It had been three years since the war started and everyone was tired. The boys who weren’t killed were now grown men, but you wouldn’t think so when you looked at them. Some had barely grown any hair and a few others hadn’t even started to grow, yet they had spilled more blood in a few days than their grandfathers did in a lifetime. Mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers, cousins. Leilen demanded sacrifice from all. Leilen is a generous land, but a thirsty one as well, and it would drink from the blood of its children until its belly was full and her thirst was quenched.

My uncle had served, my father as well, and when it was my time, I felt the call of Leilen deep within my blood, urging me to join the crimson banners. But I was weak and afraid. That’s why I spent one week convincing Bellwin to join.

Bellwin was strong, Bellwin was agile, and he was fast. He would make a great soldier, but more than that, Bellwin was my friend. He would be there to comfort me if I would cry at night. He would be there when I would be so exhausted from the strain, that I wouldn’t be able to stand up. He would be my laughter and joy. He would be the strength inside of me that I wouldn’t have. He would be a piece of home, he would be my talisman, my protector, and guardian, but more than anything, Bellwin would be there. I needed Bellwin more than he needed me. No. He didn’t need me. He was strong and fast, he didn’t need anyone, but he didn’t feel the call of Leilen in his blood. His uncle hadn’t served, his father hadn’t served, and his mother would rather keep him by her side for all eternity instead of relinquish him to the jealous embrace of our thirsty land.

I spent one week following him, clinging to him like a remora does to old ships. He was a good man, which I think is why he never blew me off. For seven days and seven nights I pestered him. Every day I would perform the same routine, I would visit his house first thing in the morning and knock three times at the door, his mother always answered, I would ask if Bellwin was home and she would close the door, and cry “Your friend is here” in her unmistakable lowland accent. For seven days I woke at dawn, ate breakfast, went to their house and waited patiently for Bellwin’s mother to open the door and command him to meet me.

I first tried to convince Bellwin using stale rhetoric and images of a distant past that probably never existed but for the fantasy that lived in my mind. I tried to appeal to his sense of duty (trying is the key word, for I am sure that not even I believed my own words) and I exaggerated the atrocities committed against us and downplayed the ones we inflicted. I talked about everything and nothing, I only wanted my friend to join me in a cause that I did not understand but felt obliged to join. It was in the evening of the seventh day that Bellwin accepted. By then I had almost given up hope that Bellwin would join and we had spent the day remembering our early childhood, and thinking about the days before the war. We were sitting atop a small hill overlooking the big valley below, when he told me he had made a decision. He looked down to the river and without looking up he said “Be honest Arthur, do you think we will make it back?”

“I would like to think so” I said, but I knew that the chances were that we wouldn’t. He laughed and looked up at the sky and told me “I think you are lying, but you are either convinced this is the right thing or you really do believe we will make it back. Either way it would be better dying doing what’s right than living with the guilt of having avoided that choice.” He could see straight through my lies, and yet, he accepted to join.

We signed up the next day, and got assigned to the fourth land brigade. We thought it was a good assignment, because the fourth land brigade had never been deployed to any front in three years. However, a week after our training ended we got our orders: we were to join the third army in the west.

The western part of Leilen was mostly empty, it used to be a lush floodplain, fertile and full of life, but centuries of overgrazing, erosion and war had left it a barren wasteland. Its only use now was as a natural defense against any invading force foolish enough to dare cross it. We survived the desert march at Anarat and joined the third army as they advanced through the pillar of Jarat. I can’t imagine we were what General Lammond, the leader of the third army, expected when he was granted his reinforcement request, but a brigade of starving children was better than zero brigades of starving children. Anarat was an open tomb. Life itself gave up once the sandhills to the south turned to rocks, dunes and dust. The plateau’s only permanent inhabitants were the bleached stones that marked the way for the caravans, and sometimes for the armies.

We were told that the third army had been deployed to cut off any potential access to supply routes and protect the western flank from a potential surprise attack across the sandhills. We were to provide additional support to their rear so that they wouldn’t be vulnerable in case the Salrican cavalry decided to show up. When we met with them it appeared as if we were the army and they our reinforcements.

Our brigade leader was a man called Batista, he was a stern man, but a good soldier, he was the most impacted by the state in which the third army was when we arrived there. Most of us had never seen combat in our lives, and we had never seen what a field army looked like, but Batista was a veteran and he had served with the first army in is youth. When we had left three weeks before, we were told that we were going to join a large defensive force protecting our west flank. Once we got there however, it was obvious they were too few of them, even unexperienced recruits like us knew they were hardly enough to even fake a stand against a direct push.

That night we unpacked and set up our camp. After we were settled, the brigadier took me, Bellwin and three others with him and we headed over to general Lammond’s quarters. I can only imagine that the brigadier was in dire need of answers, any answer and he wouldn’t wait until dawn. The general welcomed us, and let us join him in his tent, he invited us to join him at dinner and he looked happy enough to see us, but the brigadier wasn’t one to waste time. Batista immediately asked Lammond if the army had separated back at the dunes of Anarat, or if they had survived an ambush, he even asked if their soldiers had suffered dysentery or a bad fever outbreak. Lammond was confused by Batista’s questions and he didn’t seem pleased with the brigadier’s tone. “I don’t believe I understand what you are implying, brigadier” was his first answer. “The third army is as complete as the day it left the capital. We have lost three men, good men, but their demise would hardly constitute heavy casualties. We have not been ambushed nor have we been the victims of disease. I don’t understand why you would make such accusations.”

“This force is no army! It can hardly be considered a defense regiment, how are you going to guard the entry into Jarat with such a meek force? Our own brigade is barely enough to fight more than three divisions. You…we will get massacred if the enemy marches here” Batista replied to the general.

“Yes, we would. But the third army is not a defensive force, brigadier. On the contrary, we are an exploratory one, and we have found our quarry. That is why you are here now. Not to defend the pass”

Batista was surprised at Lammond’s words. His superiors had clearly lied to him, lied to us and lied to the whole country. The official story was that the third army had been deployed to intercept and fend off the advance of one of the main enemy columns that were heading towards the western pass. They were to guard this chokepoint and use the sandhills as territorial advantage. That is why they weren’t in the frontlines fighting with the rest of the forces, they were guarding our exposed flank. But according to Lammond, that was a lie. The third army was never meant to guard Leilen, and they also weren’t equipped to engage enemy forces. That was abundantly clear when we arrived, as our brigade outnumbered the army two-to-one, even calling them a battalion would have been too kind. This was not an army, and yet we were all told that they were meant to protect us from a surprise attack.

The general didn’t seem too worried about their lack of troops, and although he was clearly happy to see us, he was not expecting us to provide much of a back-up. He must have sensed the concern in the Brigadier’s voice, because he then told us what the true purpose of the army was.

“A few months before the war started, our ambassador, ambassador Rayel, heard a rumor about a special regiment that had been sent to the sandhills near Jarat, not far from where we presently stand. According to her sources, this was not a scouting regiment, nor a border guard; instead, she said her informants specifically told her it was full of engineers and sappers. As a precaution, we reinforced the border guard and increased the number of patrols, but nothing ever happened. To this day, the sandhills are as devoid of life as they have been for ages. However, some months after the first battles began, we started to hear stories from returning soldiers, stories that hadn’t been told by those returning from the frontlines before. They were telling stories of supernatural foes in the battlefields. They talked about rabid warriors who would keep fighting even after being stabbed multiple times in their guts, they told stories about sorcerers who could conjure storms in broad daylight and bend thunder, wind, and rain to their command. They even told stories of knights wielding weapons so sharp that they would cut straight through armor, pierce cloth and hack limbs in one fell swoop. We dismissed these stories, we dismissed all of it as old tales and superstition mixed with the fear and agony that only a soldier who has been in the battlefield understands. We kept hearing these stories though. Once we heard them from people returning from different fronts is when we started to worry. We were also losing. A year and a half of fighting and the dead were pilling higher than what we ever expected them to be. Leilen had always thirsted for blood, but this type of butchery was unheard of. We suffered more casualties in the first six months of the war than all our losses in the previous one combined. We were not prepared, and neither were the common folk. We couldn’t keep asking them to send their loved ones to the slaughter like we had before.

So, the High Court gave an order. We would retreat from open combat and all enemy combatants were to be taken for interrogation when possible. We hid in open fields and our soldiers turned from honorable warriors to backstabbing thieves and kidnappers, but it was worth it. We stopped our own bleeding and we started to get information. We must have interrogated hundreds if not thousands of Salricans, unfortunately, most of them told us what we wanted to hear, and not what we needed to know. This went on for some months, until last year, when we struck gold. We captured someone that had been part of the same engineer regiment that got sent to the sandhills. After a few hours of interrogation, he told us that the engineer regiment had been sent to the desert to dig for something, he said he himself knew only his own orders, and that every other member of the regiment had been told only what they needed to know as well. According to him, once the regiment had returned from the desert, senior field officers in all parts of the Salrican army had been given new armor and weapons, he said they called them “regalias” and that some of those officers had been sent to fight deep in the lines, directly against our soldiers. He also told us something quite interesting, he said that those regalias were not made by any artisans, but that they were found.

That engineer regiment had been sent to the desert to dig, and what they found were these “regalias”. We didn’t know if the regalias were connected to the stories our soldiers were telling, but the timeline was relatively close to when we first started hearing the stories, and if they believed that digging in the desert was worth it, we needed to keep up with them. We still don’t know why the engineer regiment stopped their work, our prisoner only said that they received orders to return after they sent the first set of regalias back and that was it. That is how the third army came to be. We were created for the sole purpose of finding out what was hidden here, in the desert. We were tasked to find whatever it was the Salrican engineers found and if there was anything left, something they didn’t find, recover it and take it back to Leilen. We couldn’t justify diverting any force away from the frontlines to go on a fool’s errand digging up sand in the desert, it would have been political suicide – so we started to circulate rumors of a western column marching towards the Jarat pass and it gave us the excuse to send a small but specialized force here.

You are here because we finally found what was buried beneath the sandhills. We have found our own regalias.”

General Lammond then took us to a heavily guarded tent in the eastern part of the camp where they had stored the regalias and once we were inside, he showed us what the treasure was. They had found thirty-two sacks, each one had a silken cord that ran along its mouth and allowed it to be closed, and they were all made of velvet. A final flourish of golden thread ran along the mouth of each sack, accentuating their elegance. Eight sacks were dyed in an indigo color, eight more were dyed in emerald, and sixteen sacks were dyed in a crimson shade, an auspicious sign as crimson was the color of Leilen. Each sack contained 8 different items and they appeared to be random in nature, however all sacks contained one weapon, a full set of armor and two pieces of jewelry. All of the items were as pristine as if they had been made that very same day.

Bellwin and I were awe-struck at the beauty of this treasure. I could see that these regalias were rare and powerful beyond measure – although I couldn’t tell you why I felt that way. But I’m sure Bellwin felt the same as I did. I’m sure anyone who placed their eyes on top of the regalias would have felt the same. The craftwork of the armor and the jewelry was unmatched by anything that I had seen in Leilen up to that point. The weapons were certainly far deadlier than our own equipment, and if the enemy had set their hands on something like this, it would explain the stories that Lammond said our troops were telling.

The following morning, brigadier Batista and general Lammond discussed what their next step would be and how to best utilize our combined forces. Marching had been difficult, and I wanted to rest, but I was happy that we were not joining a fighting force. Even though the sun never ceased to shine, and the heat was so oppressive that breathing was painful, even though I had been driven to exhaustion more than once, and that the nights were so cold that we had to sleep with our horses to keep us warm, I didn’t have to worry about fighting. I was safe, and Bellwin was still by my side. So if we had to march back across the desert, or if we were going to be running errands instead of fighting, I couldn’t care less. I had fulfilled the obligation demanded by my bloodline, and I had been spared the wrath of our foes. I was not going to be look a gifted horse in the mouth. At noon, Batista and Lammond explained the new orders.

We were to take the thirty-two regalias back to the capital and deliver them to the High Court as fast as possible. The whole army would not be marching back as it would take too much time to mobilize all of us, and it could also alert enemy scouts of our discovery; having our combined forces suddenly march back across the desert just forty-eight hours after being reinforced would be too suspicious. Instead, a hand-picked cavalry unit composed of thirty-two riders, one for each sack, and guarded by two guards each for a total of ninety-six riders would ride back and deliver the regalias by hand. Brigadier Batista would lead this unit to the capital, and he himself was supported by four lieutenants as well. The last member to join was the lead engineer of the third army, he was to brief the general command of what they had found and possibly discuss how to further continue their exploration once the war was over. In the end, this special unit consisted of one hundred and two soldiers, and they were to make a journey that took us three weeks, in five days.

I was not selected to be one of the one hundred and two riders at the beginning, but after Bellwin was chosen, I asked to join him as one of his guards. The brigadier was not convinced I was strong enough to complete the trip in time, but I swore to him that I would not leave Bellwin’s side, and I promised him that he would not be better guarded by anyone else. I was the weakest of the group, that was evident, but Bellwin managed to convince Batista, he said that I was the reason he was there in the first place, and that I had family in a border town so I knew the terrain - this was of course, a lie - which could prove useful in case we needed to change our route or worse, get ambushed.

As promised, I never let my eyes off Bellwin for three days straight. The way back to Leilen was as empty as it had been the first time around, the only signs of life were the tracks that we had left before and had not been swept by the wind. We rode as fast as we could for three days straight, we rode until dusk and woke up before dawn, we rested the absolute minimum, and as soon as the horses were awake we edged them on. Even if we didn’t need to make the trip back in five days because of the regalias, our horses would have surely collapsed on the sixth day.

It was when we had reached the edges of Anarat that the earth shook.

The earth pounded beneath our feet as if it was a massive drumhead. The pounding started slow, loud and severe, and then it grew faster and louder, each beat closer to the next, until the drumming resembled marching steps. The earth vibrated as if an army of giants was marching towards us, it pounded and pounded with such a strength that it scared our horses so much that some of them threw their riders off and they ran into the desert. And then, just as sudden as the beating of the earth had begun, the desert air went still and a humid heat fell upon us. Dark clouds replaced what just a minute before had been arid, cloudless skies.

With the thunderclouds came a great sandstorm, and I saw a figure clad in black rise above it. Bellwin then murmured something that chilled me to the bone, “there is no wind” he said. He was right, there was no wind blowing, and yet we could see the desert dunes being shaped like clay and the sandstorm growing larger in front of us. Suddenly, the black figure twisted in an unnatural way, contorting itself like a rag doll and bending its limbs in impossible angles. It hung motionless in the sky for a moment and then it fell back to the earth, plummeting behind the stormdust.

The next thing I remember is Bellwin slapping me awake, and the sandstorm raging all around us. Our whole unit had been swallowed by the dust and I could only see what was directly in front of me. Bellwin was next to me and I had grabbed hold of his arm, Loric, Bellwin’s other guard was behind me, and we could hear Batista screaming somewhere in front of us. We were trying to follow Batista’s voice when we got hit by the first volley. An arrow pierced Loric’s shoulder and a few other fell directly in front of my feet. I then heard Batista’s voice grow louder, and then the sound of steel clashing against steel. The sandstorm was too thick for us to see anything, but the fight was loud. I knew they must have been fighting close to us. Loric, Bellwin and I moved into a triangle formation as our training commanded and we drew our swords, ready to face an invisible enemy. We were standing back to back when an arm grabbed my leg and pulled me down into the sand, I fell into one knee and stabbed the ground frantically, trying to kill whatever had dragged me, but as I did, more arms shot through the sand and grabbed hold of me, trying to pull me down into the dunes.
Bellwin and Loric ran to me and cut two of the arms clean. I stood back up and prepared for the next attack. Loric kept slashing at the arms and with each slash the sand turned redder and redder, until a scimitar pierced the sandstorm and lodged itself in Loric’s chest.

After Loric was killed, I instinctively sought to guard Bellwin. As I turned to protect him I saw a second scimitar come from the side and slit his throat open. When Bellwin fell, he was still holding his regalia. He had been given one of the crimson sacks, and he had held it with him ever since we left the third army, he said the crimson color was proof that it belonged to Leilen and he never let go of it until his very last moment. When the sack fell to the ground, I felt the very same ground shake. I ducked the next attack and grabbed the regalia as fast as I could. I ran away from the sand ghosts until I couldn’t run anymore. The fighting was raging in all sides, through the thick sand I could hear the screams of the dying, the sound of steel cleaving meat and the splash of the blood in the dry sand. When I finally realized what had happened I cried to the heavens, I cried and begged to any god who would listen to my pain, my anger and my rage.

I got no answer, no one would listen to my anguish, no one, except Death. She had listened, she had been there since the start, she had taken the sandghosts, she had taken Loric, and Bellwin, and who knows how many of my fellow comrades. Madam Death had been here, and she had listened to me. There is a saying in Leilen that a man is not done being created until the day he is dead, I knew then, I understood what I had to do. I ripped opened the regalia sack and took what I needed, I had lost my sword and shield while I was running away, but now I was not running away anymore, I was running into battle. The regalia was a mix of polished black and silver steel with deep engravings that I did not understand. I put on most of the armor, what fit me anyways, and I grabbed the bronze maul that was inside, a Warhammer would be a better description. I had never trained with a hammer in my life, but when I picked it up, it felt like I was born to wield it.

I turned back and walked into the sandstorm, I went searching for the sandghosts that had killed Bellwin and Loric, I wanted to crush their heads under the weight of my hammer, I wanted to feel their bones break and their blood paint the sand red. I soon found one of them, I swung my hammer and shattered his scimitar in a thousand pieces, he looked at me like a frightened deer before I pierced the front of his skull with the back of my hammer, blood spilled and I felt the grace of Madam Death fell upon me. More sandghosts followed, and more bodies piled behind me. I was sworn in steel and pledged for revenge. I kept marching, swinging my hammer at anything that moved, I swung it hard, and I swung it fast, each time that my hammer struck true I felt a raging pleasure fill my heart. I marched on and I crushed every single body that crossed my path, I was never hurt, not a single scimitar cut my skin, not a single arrow pierced my cloth.

I only stopped when I saw the brigadier’s eyes looking back at me from behind his shattered skull. I had bludgeoned his head so hard that his skin stuck to the hammerhead and I had to pick the pieces away one by one. It was not only Batista, but half of the sandghost I thought I had killed, were the members of my own unit. The brigadier didn’t even lift his sword against me. He thought I was there to help him. I didn’t even see him until I had to clean his brain from my weapon. I thought about stopping, but I hadn’t found the sandghost who killed Bellwin, that was all I cared about, Bellwin was only there because of me, and I had promised, I had sworn to protect him, and I didn’t. Worse yet, I fled as soon as I had the chance. A sandghost had slit Bellwin’s throat and all I did was take away his prized sack of loot and run away like the coward I was.

Leilen was the idyllic past that I never lived but that I remembered, but Bellwin, he was the brother I never met, he was the laughter of my childhood, he was my past and he could have been my future. I heard the silence fall upon the red battlefield and felt scared. I wanted to be with Bellwin, I wanted to meet him and hold him once again. I cried to the heavens and I begged for death. When I went back searching for him, I saw him in all of them. Every single one of them wore his face, they all had his dark hair, all their eyes gleaned with the same green hue. I encountered a hundred Bellwins, a hundred mirror images of his warm corpse. I ran into each one of them, looking for deliverance but no one would embrace me. They all rejected me, lashed back with their swords, poles and daggers, and I killed all of them in turn, each one of them. I killed Bellwin a hundred times, and a hunred times I mourned him. A hundred times I lunged myself at Death, and a hundred times she rejected me that day. It was her reward for becoming her avatar in this world.

At some point, when the bodies ran out, the fighting stopped and I stopped seeing him. I couldn’t find him anymore. It was then when I realized I had lost Bellwin forever. Once the sandstorm finally stopped, I turned back and walked again into the sandhills. I don’t remember much of what happened after. I suppose you must have captured me a few days later, I would have died from thirst otherwise.

Until the day I find you again, I will feed my revenge

Until my heart stops, every breath of mine is yours

---

Master Elök Etrelpa’s Report and Assessment

Report by Master Elök Etrelpas Of The Elders, Deputy Archivist of The Scrollhouse At Ämetatilelël, Realm of Ën Ümel.

ASSESSMENT ON THE ONTOLOMAGICAL STATUS OF THE ACCOUNT GIVEN BY HRËND LAKLO ON THE EVENTS AND FINDINGS OF MIDDLEDAY THE FIFTEENTH.

Background: three days preceding the holy day of St. Ïpït, Hrënd Laklo, son of Ilkren Laklo, claims to have discovered a bag of items nearby the pond of an abandoned farmhouse a day’s ride outside of Äkulel. The bag reportedly contained a range of “magical items”, including a Robe, that Laklo frothily described as “rare” and “Divine”, gloves, presumably made of dragonskin, a ring, made of Titanium, which Laklo characterized as “absolutely perfect”, and a wand made of what appears to be bones of canine origin, such as a wolf or a fox, though Laklo inexplicably insists on it being “clearly of the Fox”. The bag contained some other items which this report will not bother to expand on, as we shall find that the nature of the items is anything but what Laklo claims they are, and we have a more parsimonious explanation for the bizarre series of events that did indeed seem to occur on that day.

Robe: This report does not deny the existence of so-called “magical robes”, even though the vast majority of them are nothing more than expensive and ostentatious clothing. This is not the case with the Robe in question, which is in fact a genuine article of magical power. It is not, however, a particularly powerful item, and its effects are mostly limited to making the wearer look more attractive and commanding.

Gloves: These are, as Laklo correctly surmised, made of dragonskin, and are thus quite valuable. They are not, however, magical, and their only purpose is to protect the hands of the wearer from cold weather.

Ring: This is indeed a titanium ring, yet we do not share the assessment of “perfection”, given the limited epistemological meaningfulness of such an assessment.

As for the events that followed Laklo’s discovery, we will first attempt to summarize these from a purely perceptual point of view, in other words, as it must have appeared to the rather simple minds of the witnesses on that day.

Upon opening the bag, Laklo first took out the ring and put it on his finger. He then proceeded to put the Robe on, and take out the bone wand, at which point he said some words in a language that no one present could understand. Laklo then appeared to have started to emanate a sort of glow, and his eyes turned “orange”. He then levitated off the ground and started to float around the area of the pond.

From the perspective of those who witnessed these events, it would have appeared as if Laklo had indeed discovered a bag of magical items, and that these items had imbued him with magical powers.

However, we must remember that Laklo is a known pathological liar, and that he has been known to invent stories in order to garner attention. In light of this, it is more likely that Laklo simply put on a show, using mundane items to create the illusion of magical powers.

The most likely explanation for the glowing and levitation is that Laklo used some kind of light source, such as a lantern, to create the illusion of magical powers. As for the orange eyes, this is most likely due to Laklo wearing paint on his eyelids.

It is also worth noting that Laklo’s story changes depending on who he is speaking to. For example, he told the farmers that the Robe made him feel “divine and special", as if he "had been granted special access to commune with others of similar standing”, yet he told the Elders that the Robe made him feel “as if I could fly”. It is clear that Laklo is simply making up stories as he goes along, and that he is not to be believed.

Further, Laklo has no magical experience or credentials whatsoever, and is not registered with any known guild of sorcery within the Realm, so even if he had indeed found a bag of magical items, it is inconceivable that he would have any idea how to use them.

We should also not make the mistake of not carefully examining the merit of our witnesses, as they are, for the most part, farmers with little to no education, and whose testimony must thus be taken with a grain of salt. For example, the shepherd Röplin Hlarbert, when questioned by Master Flololömen on the very evening of the day of the event, was unaware of the role of The Archive’s Elders, and mistook Master Flololömen for a “scribe or a monk". His wife, Lïsbren Hlarbert, even called Master Flololömen a “moronic codger” when he found her to be completely unable to bring her outrageous testimony in line with the Third Ontic Principle. Their boy, Fërdin Hlarbert, was the only one of the three who seemed to be telling the truth with respect to a complete absence of magic in the matter, though his testimony is nevertheless too confused to be of investigative value, claiming that Laklo’s “floating around” did indeed not involve anything magical, as he was “simply flying like birds do, which have no magic to them either”.

In conclusion, it is the opinion of this report that the events of Middleday the Fifteenth, as related by Hrënd Laklo and witnesses, are to be considered apocryphal, and that the items in question are nothing more than mostly mundane objects with negligible magical powers. This report therefore recommends that no further public investigation be made into the matter of the event itself, and the items be kept in the Archive’s vault to avoid any further mischaracterization of their nature.

Lastly, and unfortunately, it must be noted that some items seem to have been stolen or lost in the aftermath of the investigation. Specifically, the bone wand, the robe and the ring seem to have gone missing sometime between the original event and the subsequent delivery of the entire bag to the Archive by Master Flololömen. It is our opinion that they were clearly stolen by one of the witnesses or even Hrënd Laklo himself, which is further corroborated by the fact that Laklo seems to have gone missing himself after his interrogation. We recommend that a search be made for Hrënd Laklo and the missing items, and that he be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law if found guilty of theft.

---

Step into the Rift

Codigo Simian wasn’t exactly what I would call an ordinary fellow. He was raised in a village with no name, near the barely-named town of Tuygi. His mother was an underrated seamstress, and his father died in a pointless war when he was 10. Though, none of these things were really out of the ordinary.

Those things weren’t what interested me in Codigo. It was the way he’d just sit and watch a stream for hours on end, observing the ripples and eddies form and disperse over and over in different ways each time. Or how he would look at the sky and smell the air, and know to take the long road around the canyon before it started to rain and flood. Most of all, it was when he first picked up that bag, and started noticing ME.

So I called to him. It was time we had chat.

---

I was compelled to act. The first couple of weeks with the bag, I would rush home from my journeyman post with the smith, and pull out the Warhammer from the bag to go patrol the road to Tuygi from town. My old fear of the bandits and ghouls that would take to the road through the forest, was replaced with a sense of purpose. Now they had something to fear.

On my eighth night patrolling the road, I noticed it. I was resting at my fire when a squat ghoul tried sneaking up on me, but I heard his clumsy approach. Just before he could reach me, I spun and launched my Warhammer towards the sky and through his face. As the life was leaving the ghoul, I felt it. It was as if I was being watched, but from all directions. As if the air noticed what I just did. Not a sense of judgement, but a sense of knowing. It was unsettling and invigorating all at once. What was IT?

I kept to my nightly patrols, with my senses tuned to suss out this strange force. I would feel it now and again. When I would escort a lost merchant to safety, or find a group of bandits that hadn’t gotten the message that this road isn’t safe them.

A collapsed into my bed after a patrol one night. That’s when it called to me. I didn’t dream, but had a vision. I saw the entirety of my world enveloped and connected by raw energy of power and light coalescing into a single point. It looked like an hourglass, but instead of sand it was the world’s EXPERIENCE funneling into a single point. Every action was contained and observed. At the bottom of the hourglass was a vast temple, absorbing the energy. It was the most glorious sight I’ve ever seen.

Just as quickly as the vision came, it left. I woke up shaking in bed, skin colder than the Ik Nupay mountains. Mom was there to comforting me. She was trying to hide it, but I could tell she was frightened.
I barely had the energy to say, “I’m sorry, I have to go find it.”
“Find what?!” She cried.
“The Rift.”

---

I left home 40 or 42 days ago. I can’t really remember. I didn’t exactly know which way to go. It was more of a feeling. That feeling took me northwest, away from the sea and in to the desert. Every time I slept, I would search for this place, this rift, but I found nothing. All I had to go on, was the feeling that I was closer.

Now I was fully in the grasp of the desert. I only had provisions for twelve days when I entered it, and this was my ninth day of hiking into its heart. Had I really just walked my way into my own death? Maybe this bag is just a curse, and the exact same thing happened to the unfortunate that found it before me!

Night was falling, and I was exhausted. I reserved most of my travel for the night time, as I figured it was safer to sleep during the day, but the warm night was too much for my beaten body to resist. I laid down on my bedroll, and began to close my eyes. Then on the horizon I saw a faint glow! I just laid there and looked at it for a few minutes, partially to soak in what I was seeing and partially to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I finally got up, I didn’t bother packing up my little campsite. I just grabbed my bag, and walked towards the light.

---

I walked the entire night, as the glow took up more and more of the horizon. When the sun rose, I saw what looked like a structure miles away. It was real! I increased my pace, but was certain I couldn’t keep it up much longer.

By dawn, I had arrived at the Rift.

I saw a large stone temple with light emanating from the top. Or was the light coming in? It had long, seemingly endless, steps going up to its entrance. The stone was etched with what looked like hundreds of different languages, including common tongue. It read, “…ENTER AND KNOW AND ENTER AND…” repeating over and over.

I walked towards the steps, and placed my foot on the first one. Next thing I knew I was inside of the temple. I stood at an elevated doorway. In front of me was an atrium, the light was flowing from above and concentrating in the center of the space. Behind me was a long hallway that led to the temple entrance, at least I assumed judging by the desert beyond. Surrounding the atrium were dozens of similar doorways connected to similar hallways, but there wasn’t desert beyond those hallways. The few that I caught a glimpse of, each led to a different looking place. And yet, that was barely an afterthought compared to that light. I stepped towards it.

Just as I had decided to step towards it, it began to amass at the center of the atrium. It started to take shape, to form into something. The light stopped flowing from the sky, and the shape before me formed into a large hooded being. I dropped my bag, I was petrified! Not because the being looked frightening, but because I had never felt the presence of pure power. Instead of a face, the hood contained eternity.

This is what brought me here.

“HELLO CODIGO SIMIAN,” it whispered like rolling thunder. I didn’t hear the words, they just echoed through my mind.

“Who are you?” I wasn’t surprised it knew who I was.

“I AM THE RIFT,” it spoke in my head.

“Isn’t this place the Rift?” I thought.

The Rift echoed, “WE ARE ONE. WE ARE THE NEXUS OF EXPERIENCE. CLOSE YOUR EYES AND SEE”

I thought back to my vision those many nights ago. The entirety of the world’s actions and experiences condensed to a single point, this very place. The vision in my mind’s eye started shifting and evolving, I was no longer in control. The condensed world expanded in every direction, taking up the entirety of my vision. I was high up over the earth, I could see faraway lands in every direction…it’s so big. I flew close towards the earth and floated over a landscape. In the horizon to the east I saw the sea and my village. Across the horizon to the west were rolling hills dotted with other villages, and in the far west were the dead lands. Connecting all of it, was the same glowing energy that created the Rift. The villagers tilling their land caused the light to glow a little brighter over them. A pair of adventurers fighting the ghouls from the dead lands had even more light over them. And brightest of all was the light coming from the top of the craggily mountain.

The vision began to morph again, the sun began to rise and fall over the landscape faster and faster. Time was accelerating! I could see the light over the pair of adventurers split, they went their separate ways. The first one went back to one of the villages and stayed there for years, their light grew only a little over that time. The other seemingly sought out the energy. They grew their light by venturing into crypts and caverns, and patrolling the roads just as I had! Eventually, their light was the brightest one I could see. Then the light over the mountain stirred, and out burst a red dragon flying straight towards the adventurer…

It all made sense now! The whole world is connected through its experience! That experience is power that anyone can harness. I just have to seek it out.

That’s when I opened my eyes, and I was back home in bed. It was daybreak. I stood up, grabbed my bag, and stepped outside. I saw the light. Now my adventure can begin.

---

Something More than Loot Itself

Parts 1&2

Whenever the bell rang, a man died, and Muirin found herself lying all over again. This time it was in the village green, presided over by the carnations and daffodils. It was often held in the village green actually, she supposed that was for the same reason her cottage faced the sea. They stood in a line, on a dreary march, all the villagers, and Muirin kept herself towards the back. There she would count the town marks she had clumsily stitched into the folds of her dress. Three coins. Just enough to pay, but equally enough to seem poor. Of course, she’d have to beg, but in the end the coins would be enough.

The first scream came earlier than expected. It was a man, as far as she could tell, who had been in the middle of a high-pitched wail when his timbre choked out. Then it was just silent. Commotion broke out in the line, but nobody broke from the line, it simply moved forward, and everyone took a pace closer. Muirin could see the people fidgeting nervously, most with near-empty pouches, others just twiddling the lining of their straw hats.

When she came close enough to see, she saw it was much the same as usual. It was her. The woman sat in a seat of gnarled branches as the villagers approached her. Out of the corner of an eye you’d mistake her for a young woman, elegant, even beautiful, with snowy locks raining down her shining cheeks. The vision only faded when you stared directly at her, making way for something older. You couldn’t call her a woman, she was more like a creature of the dark, a hobbled over old thing with deep lines accentuating her face and a grin that was pure with malice. That laugh was what gave it away.

Muirin came into the green and saw for the first time that day, what she could see any other time she wanted, the statues. The chiselled crude stonework of people caught in the moment, half-contorted in fear, while strangled screams still wait to escape from their mouths. There had only been one addition today, which was unusual. It was an older man, Muirin recognised him as a farmer who kept a farm near the old forests. The passing winter had obviously done him no favours.

Approaching, Muirin ruffled her dress so she could place herself down on her knees. They creaked beneath her weight, as old bones were bound to, but she managed just fine. Without a word, she placed the three marks before the authority and kept her head down. It would be enough, she assured herself, but only just. Tayv, as the villagers called her, simply stared, as if trying to see some truth in Muirin.

It didn’t take long for her to reach out and snatch the coins. Not a word passed between them, a fact of which Muirin was grateful for. When it was done, she pushed her way through the forest of statues and back on the path that led home. Muirin was eager to get behind closed curtains before the sun had fully retreated.

The cork came stubbornly from the bottle, but the rum poured like a fine wine. When she had first come here, she had been content to drink from the bottle itself, but as the years had grown on her, she found she preferred a glass. Sitting on the edge of her room, rug curled up in the corner, Muirin hefted up the whining trap door. Inside, a sizeable chest, which took more than a bit of groaning to heave next to her bed.

A swig of rum and she had the key in hand. Muirin unlocked the chest and threw open the lid. There, inside, coins and jewels more than a person could ever count. Muirin ran her fingertips over the tally marks on the inside of the lid. There were three hundred and twelve of them, she had counted each mark herself. She took another solemn sip and threw the extra coins, from the folds in her dress, into the chest.

Muirin had the dagger in her hands even before the creak at the door. The boy couldn’t have been more than five, rubbing his eyes for the stinging light of her candle. With a small grin and a light chuckle, Muirin replaced the dagger in the concealed sheathe at her waist and brought the boy into her embrace. Placing the lid closed, she easily scooped the scruffy adolescent up and helped him back to the room directly next to hers.

There were two beds inside, one was occupied by a girl a little older than the boy, currently sleeping sweetly. Muirin placed him in the next bed and stayed with him a little while they glanced out of the window. Beyond its fragile panes the sea came gently in and then gently out again, leaving only an impression on the sand. That was all the boy needed to be seen off into the night, and he did so without a worry. Muirin was different.

You could hear the rowdiness across the village in the local pub. That’s how it often was on the night after the tithing. What little marks the villagers could get away with, they’d spend on drinks and jubilation and then be worse off in the months to come. Muirin had always longed to go to them, in the same way she used to. To drink the place dry, to fight until her knuckles were nothing but bloody stumps, and to shame any man who could claim she was hers.

What had she been then?

Muirin had not been to the old forests in some time and thought there not a day better in recent memory for the journey. The air was stale, yet pleasantly warm, and from here you could continue to listen to the ocean. At some moments, you could even see it. Muirin didn’t like to be out of sight of the water, and she’d prefer it if she could see the waves. The two children ran excitedly about, not a care in the world, and went at the task of finding mushrooms for dinner. She couldn’t help but smile at them, in the proud way only a mother could.

At one point, they went out of her sight, and she kept to her own basket. They followed the path right through and the children knew how to keep to it. On Muirin walked, slower than she would’ve liked to, but almost came to a stop at the sight of the woman walking towards her. Another older woman, not an uncommon sight in the village, but one she knew by name. The woman wore a sombre expression, as if tears threatened to break any moment, and walked with an imperceptible limp.

It was the farmer’s wife, the recent addition to the village green.

Like a stranger on the street, Muirin elected to ignore her, content to hold up her chin and simply stride by without a word. The widow had other plans though. As soon as she was within an arm’s reach of Muirin, she began to spit a vile string of words at her. Muirin stood there, indifferent.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I know who you are,’ the woman snapped back. ‘I know what you were.’

The second of silence portrayed more than Muirin would’ve liked to control, but she shrugged, ignoring the irregular beats of her heart. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about?’

‘You could’ve saved him,’ she spat. ‘You could’ve saved a lot of people. Where is it now? Where is the gold you’ve taken?’

‘You’ve got me for someone else,’ said Muirin. ‘I’ve lived here all my life.’

‘The only place you’ve lived is the sea.’

Muirin had been keeping her mind on her dagger but had never bothered with her hand. People around here were fraught for justice, and in the absence of good leadership, they took it in any way they could think to. A body in the woods would bring unwanted attention. While she knew she could slit her throat, she decided against it. It would only prove there was more to Muirin than she wanted there to be.

That’s why, when the widow pushed her, Muirin fell backwards almost voluntarily.

The way down was steeper than she had expected, more of a short hill. She tumbled past trees and through loose branches, over rocks and between stinging nettles. A rough fall for what seemed a long time, before landing, twisted on her back, right at the bottom. It took her a moment for her senses to come back to her. Muirin heard nothing of the widow, but that was a problem in of itself. Had she really been recognised and how?

With a groan, Muirin pulled herself up. Aches flooded her body now, screaming at each of her joints. She’d landed roughly on her back, which was now overwhelmed with the scrapes and scores of the stinging nettles. It would be a long climb back up, if she decided to go that way, and her children would be none the wiser.

Finally, she took the moment to look around at where she had landed. It was an overgrown nightmare of weeds and branches. Roots shot out from the ground here and up the steep rise she had tumbled down. It harboured an odour as well, and she didn’t think she’d have to travel far to find a bear’s den.

Muirin caught her first glimpse of it as she found her feet. It was an easy thing to miss, hidden beneath the unkempt wilderness, but unmistakeable when you saw it. There was a woven sack, a bag, sitting there as if it had grown there. As if it were another fruit within the forest. At first, Muirin thought it might had been thrown from the path, a bag of something rotten given as a gift to the weeds. And then her curiosity came to her.

The bag was far heavier than it had any right to be. Opening it gave her an immediate sense of unease, as if she had stumbled upon something forbidden, something not meant for her eyes. There were items inside. Many items. Some looked mundane, others looked exotic, but they all felt strangely powerful. It seemed as if they shouldn’t all fit within the same space so comfortably, but they did so without complaint.

Muirin reached for a falchion, a familiar weapon in her hands, and held it aloft to the sun. She didn’t know how, and she couldn’t guess at why, but this was no ordinary falchion. Nothing in this bag was ordinary. Although meetings with magic were rare in her life, she could say with some certainty and without a lick of training that these items were magical.

Muirin sent her girl towards the village first and only approached after she was sure there wasn’t any angry mob waiting for them. Returning, they found a pleasant welcome amongst the locals. A traveller couldn’t tell that, only yesterday, most of these people had been scared out of their minds. Things had resumed as normal. Those that knew Muirin and her children greeted them amiably, but always Muirin kept her eye out for the widow. She wasn’t in the village green, near her recently petrified husband, which meant there was only one other place she could be.

The day was waning but not dark when Muirin arrived home alone. She had told her children to visit with the baker woman nearby, who had children of her own close to their ages. Muirin opened the door and was not at all surprised to find her home ransacked. The furniture had been flung in every direction, cups and plates smashes, the walls bruised and dented, and any pictures that had been hanging from hooks were now on the floor in pieces.

The widow was sitting in her bedroom, legs crossed, with a grieved look upon her face. ‘I know it’s here somewhere.’

Muirin already had the dagger in her hand, she entered slowly, cautiously. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What have you done to my home?’

‘I remember seeing daddy when the first arrows hit.’ The widow seemed away from them now, away from the room, lost in the swirling nepenthe of her memories. ‘They stuck him like a pin cushion, then the rest of the crew. I hid beneath the netting and the crates, and I don’t think you ever saw me, or ever cared to see me. I can remember your face.’

‘I’ve seen you moving about the village,’ replied Muirin. ‘If you think something of me, why hasn’t it come to anything before now?’

‘First time I saw you I was sure,’ she replied simply. ‘Next time, I was less sure. For years this went until your face faded into the others around you. Then when…I started remembering the rumours about you. A small cottage, never bothered near the sea, with only one small orchard and a band of clucking hens to provide for it.’

‘You’re just looking for a face for your misplaced anger. I ain’t nothing to you.’

The widow stood up then. ‘You’ve hidden whatever you have well enough. Is it hidden from the prying eyes of magic though? What if Tayv were to look for it instead?’

Muirin’s knuckles went white around the hilt of the dagger. ‘Are you saying you mean to do something foolish now?’

‘Not unless my memory is right,’ replied the widow. ‘And that your ill-gotten gains are shared.’

Thinking on it for a moment, Muirin lowered the dagger and stepped aside for the widow. The woman strode confidently past her and had no way of knowing just how fast Muirin was. The woman had the widow’s forehead struggling against her hand in the next second, and the blade of the dagger running across her throat in the second after. There hadn’t even been enough time to scream. Statues screamed, Muirin thought to herself as the widow’s weight collapsed beneath her, corpses were silent.

The last strike of the shovel came some hours into the early morning. The hole in the sand was sizable and waiting for the widow. There were benefits to living in the last cottage towards the sea, it gave you an easy access to the beach and the waters below, but dragging the weight and then digging out the sand had more than tired Muirin. She worked with a sweat to get the body in and buried. In the dead of night, at least, she was sure no one would see her, the real problem would be digging it deep enough for the seagulls not to know it.

Her boy was waiting on her bed when she returned. Muirin had already retrieved the children from the baker and put them to bed, telling them with no shortage of discipline that they were not to leave the house or wonder where she had gotten to. The boy, as sleepy-eyed as ever, continued to yawn and looked on the near verge of collapsing.

Muirin put him to bed with the view of the beach beyond the window. With daylight’s approach, it was easy to see the boy off, but she still had work to do. Once again heaving out the chest, Muirin first added another tally to the end of her marks with the dagger, three hundred and thirteen now, and then dug through the coins to find the map.

Rolling it out on the floor, it presented the local area. The forests, the coastlines, and most importantly, the other villages and towns that could be reached by a few days on the road. Of course, Muirin needed somewhere along the coast, so she could keep her eyes and ears on the sea, but there were plenty of villages north. The further the better, but it would be a costly trip.

Counting out her coins, she found that she still had a favourable amount, but not nearly as much as she would’ve liked. A new cottage would be costly, supplies would be costly, money was needed for bribes and then there was the matter of living a comfortable life thereafter. Here, she had more than enough to sit well into the end of her days, but elsewhere she’d need a greater savings.

The bag was still lying in the forest, unmoved and unharmed. Apart from the widow and the former farmer who had moved along that path every day, she was sure no one would find it but by chance, like her. It had been tempting to bring the sack with her, but in broad daylight it would rouse too much suspicion. She needed to be careful with it. Especially with Tayv’s eyes everywhere and her reaching greedy fingers. Still, the solution might lie in that assortment of strange items that Muirin was sure could be magical.

Muirin would need to be smart, especially with two young children to carry, she would need to come up with a plan.

The strange bag in the woods could wait while she made the preparations. The widow was dead and buried, but she didn’t trust life enough to keep the body hidden, and if that were to happen, she wanted to be well away from the town. Muirin knew that no one would care enough to track her down, especially with Tayv watching them, but they would be hunting for a quick justice in the borders of the town’s region. Muirin couldn’t be here for that.

It was a firm leash by which Tayv controlled the town. The witch, as that’s what Muirin had always thought of her, was determined to keep the townsfolk inside and working. It was the only way to ensure a healthy stream of coin towards her waiting fingers, as well as crops and whatever else of value the villagers had. Of course, to keep the coin coming, there needed to be trade, and for trade that meant people had to be able to come and go as they needed.

The merchants were about the only people that benefited in the town, as when the month came to its end, and that wretched bell rung out, they could be miles away planning their next meal. For every other villager though, they were stuck here. Tayv made sure of that. Guards inspected everything coming in and out of the town and were even diligent enough to create comprehensive lists that were check and rechecked when the merchants moved through the gates. Smuggling people, no matter how much they paid, was difficult, but smuggling something else was a lot simpler.

It had been rumoured, although if true Muirin couldn’t be sure, that there was some enchantment on the people here that allowed Tayv to track them down if they did escape. That would be another problem to consider on another day though, if indeed it was true, right now Muirin was only in need of a merchant.

The merchant was about a foot taller than her, and three feet wider, he carried himself as if he was always on the verge of bursting into a giggling fit, and kept himself warm in a ghastly green cloak that had seen far too much of the road. Muirin knew him well, but he had never seen fit to give his name, which was understandable, as any sordid business in the village was usually done through him. She approached his stall, leading her two children by the arm, and tried her best to blend in. Today it was a bread stall, last week it was fish, next week it’ll be something else.

‘Ah, now tis a fine day,’ he said, arms wide. ‘I was gettin’ ta wonderin’ if you’d gimme the pleasure a callin’ for me, Muirin my lady.’

‘I need something from you.’ Muirin whispered it straight to the point, while gently sliding over a small bag of coins, one she had gathered that very hour. ‘I’ve procured some special items and I need you to reach out to one of my contacts.’

‘This ain’t a friendly call then?’ The merchant took the coins and briefly looked inside, then sighed with something of an exaggerated grimace. The burly gentleman pushed the coins back. ‘Not enough.’

‘Not enough?’

‘I’d barely be outta town before I’d spent it,’ he said. ‘Prices go up, my costs go up, just good business.’

‘How much?’

‘Well, another bag like that one ought to do it.’

‘Fine.’ Muirin thrust the bag back over. ‘Take half now then and I’ll bring the other half tomorrow.’

‘No, later today only.’

‘Fine.’

Before setting off for the modest market of the village and gathering the marks needed for the bag, Muirin had taken the time to craft a note. She knew of one person, and no more than that, in the surrounding areas that might both know about these strange items and be interested in buying them. A man on the outskirts of two towns over that made a modest living selling weapons. Muirin had met him before, many times, all on occasions when she had a need to sell things quickly. They both knew a coded language, as was the way, and this was how her note was written. In it, she had described what she had found, even going as far to list the individual items with modest descriptions, and what she think they might be worth.
The merchant took a look at the note, which would appear meek in his eyes, and slid it into his pocket. ‘I’ll see it done, if ya get me one more bag.’

‘I will,’ she promised.

Once again, Muirin had relied on the kindness of a stranger to look after her children as she made another foray into the woods. Again, they had been left to play with the baker’s own children, and she knew they would be well looked after until her return, which shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours later. The day was still bright, just past midday, and she’d marched off at about this time purposefully to keep within the sun’s light.

It wasn’t difficult to find the strange bag of treasures in the woods. Muirin slid, more than fell, down the bank this time and discovered them exactly where she had found them. Sighing with something of relief for fear of the bag being found, she brought a rope to it and fastened it tight. The rope, something she had brought hidden in a sack of her own, was tied to a tree at the top of the bank and would provide the right leverage for the sack to be lifted without outright relying on her tired strength.

As she pulled, she once again thought about the collection and how it had come to lie here. The most reasonable explanation she could muster was that someone must have dropped it here along the path above. The why of that though was difficult to comprehend. Perhaps it was a stranger on the run, which seemed likely, a thief who had thought to drop off the bag of loot before they were caught with it. Little good that would do them around here with laws not stretching further than a town’s boundaries.

Inside, on the second glance, she had found both plate mail and a heavy looking set of greaves that seemed to radiate with holy light. Two items that, on their own, would make the bag impossible to lift, even with the aid of a pulley. Yet here she was, lifting it. They must be magical then, was her only thought on the matter, to be as light as they were now. It probably wouldn’t be a hard task to get them home either, especially if she made her way there through the beach.

She had opted for the daylight over the night, as if she were found carrying the sack in the darkness, that would do nothing but rouse suspicion. At least in the day, coming from the woods she had once frequented, it might look a little more innocent.
Once satisfied that the dragging bag was sitting comfortably at the top of the bank, Muirin decided to go and join it.

Something was waiting for her at the top though, sitting on the edge of the bank and tentatively sniffing at the bag. Muirin saw the fir first before she knew the creature by name. It was a brown bear, a resident of the woods no doubt, and it was sitting lazily near the bag as if it thought there might be food inside. Not daring to move an inch, for fear of stirring the creature, Muirin kept her hold on the rope and hovered just a little below the creature’s eyeline.

It was a curious animal. It would paw at the bag, every now and then, as if trying to guess what was inside. The minutes though paced on, and Muirin was beginning to grow more anxious about the time. The bear and the bag were sat right off the path. Any stranger walking by would have a hard time not seeing them.

Suddenly, as if encouraged into motion, the bear took the bag up in its maw and began moving further into the woods. With no other choice, Muirin forced herself up and towards it. There she started shouting obscenities, screaming towards the thing, and it became confused. The bear arched its back like a scared dog, looking around for something that could explain why this fearful woman had appeared.

Muirin casts her arms wide, trying to make herself as large as possible.

This though seemed only to agitate the bear. It dropped the bag from its mouth and stood to its full height. There came a roar then, a deep bellied roar that would strip the skin from a stranger, but Muirin stood taller against it. She roared back, though not as loud, but enough to make the creature question her.

It came upon her, and she had no choice but to run. Fortunately enough, she had a good spot to run to. Muirin backtracked towards the sloping bank, rushing towards it, as the bear paced after her on all fours. She slipped down and the creature slipped after her. Then, in the way each villager is taught from a young age, she ran down the slope while crossing over her feet, moving over one way and then the other, trying to cause the bear to spill.

The wild bear tripped over its clumsy feet and fell forward into a roll. It was exactly as Muirin had hoped, but there was something wrong. She had failed to estimate her own position and found herself running in the path of the sudden furry boulder. In her younger days, she could have simply dodged to the left, roll out of the way, and probably laugh at the asinine bear as it slammed into a tree. These days though were different. In trying to jump out of the way she felt her left ankle twist in a painful way, not enough to sprain, but enough to lose her precious seconds.

The pair tumbled together.

Muirin hit the ground first and the bear tumbled after her. They both landed within ten feet of one another, each groggy in the head and slow to realise what had happened. Luckily, it was Muirin that came to her height first, pulling out the dagger and eyeing the bear very, very carefully. The creature came to next and gave her an equal gaze of contempt. She stared at it, and it stared at her. There’d be nowhere to run, not now they were in the thickets. If the bear chose to fight her, Muirin would have no choice but to do the same.

There was a moment of silence between the pair as calculations were made and muscles were braced.

The bear charged first, drawing to its full height and striking out at Muirin. Three dagger-like claws dug into the side of her head and sent her to the ground. It was like getting hit round the head by a boxer on their best day, the strike knocked the sense from her, made the world dizzy and blurred, and left her with just enough reason to brace herself after she hit the floor.

Muirin brought the dagger up, knowing what would happen next. Her head was bleeding, it was coming down into her eyes, and the bear had finally decided that she wasn’t a threat, no, she was a meal. It pounced on her, maw first, and Muirin brought the dagger down.

Men, woman, bears, they all could die the same ways. The point of the dagger went into the bear’s eye first, then penetrated right through to the creature’s brain. It let out a wounded howl and retreated a little back. Muirin had the sense of mind to pull the dagger with her hand as it moved away. It’s not that easily to kill a bear though, and even more enraged now, it came back upon her.

Muirin brought the dagger through the other eye, which both stunned and blinded the beast. She had just enough mind left to bring the dagger to the creature for a final blow. This time through its thick skull. The dagger didn’t do much though, it couldn’t pierce the bone of the thing, and simply bounced off. It flew from her hand and into the wilderness around them. The right damage had been done though regardless. A moment after the dagger had disappear, the creature slumped and found its way on top of her.

Under the weight of the dying bear, Muirin allowed her injuries to guide her into unconsciousness, sure that in addition to the blow on her head and the cuts on her face, the bear had just broken a few of ribs when it collapsed on top of her.

It was night when she finally opened her eyes. She couldn’t see much of it through the trees, but the shadows were enough for her to be sure of the fact.

The bear was dead, but she was far from danger. Every inhale of breath was accompanied with a sharp pain in her chest, it hurt to breath, squashed underneath this thing, and her head was thumping like a hammer against an old board.

Using her hands to help move the dirt around her, Muirin managed to pull herself out from underneath the beast. She stared at it once before struggling back up the slope. It seemed smaller than the thing she had fought somehow, more a baby than a bear. Grimacing, with her lips tightening into a thin line, she whispered, ‘Three hundred and fourteen.’

The bag was miraculously still waiting for her at the top of the slope, but the combination of night and the rasping of her breath would need to change her plans completely. Muirin couldn’t carry the bag, not in its entirety, and she had to be very careful heading back to the village so as not to be seen either. Then there were her children. Whatever would they be thinking now with their mother gone so long? They’d be sick with worry, although she was sure that they were still safe with the baker. The baker was good like that.

The bag would need to be taken in multiple trips, she decided reluctantly, and perhaps the next trip would need to be a few days away. Muirin’s chest was in shambles and her head was still buzzing from the bear’s mighty blow. Not to mention the blood now soaking her dress. She’d just have to risk the rest of the bag’s contents being discovered.

From the assortment of items, she took the lighter items, which included a strange hood, a ring, a necklace, a sash, and finally the falchion, which she wove into the belt of her dress. Muirin kicked the rest of the bag down the bank, hoping it would roll far enough not to be seen by strangers, and then steadily made her way back.

She found a large branch and fashioned it in a crutch, which she leaned on for the rest of her journey. It took her an hour to move through from the woods to the comforting sight of the sea and the sand. The sea air seemed to soothe her somewhat, but it was still a while to her cottage over the treacherous rocks.

Muirin didn’t go to her children. She found she couldn’t. They were safe enough, she reasoned, and she needed a moment to rest and to clean herself. Just as soon as the items were pushed beneath her bed, just as soon as the bloody gashes down her face were stitched, just as soon as her dress was off and thrown into a bucket of water, she allowed herself to fall into the folds of her welcoming bed and sleep.

There had been ten men with her, she remembered, and not one of them had brought a present. They had gathered about in her quarters, her most loyal servants, but they had guessed ahead of time what she was going to tell them. That’s why she was taken aback by their reluctance to bring a gift. It felt appropriate they bring a gift. Muirin couldn’t remember what had been said, but she could remember the swaying of the ship, mixed with the fresh sea air, and the sounds of the lapping waves against the bow. It was a good time to be on the sea, but a better time to leave it for the news.

Muirin woke with a start and breathed through the pain of her chest. She winced. The ribs were definitely broken and seemed unsettled. She found that she couldn’t breathe deeply without letting out a groan of pain, which meant the bones were digging into her lungs. Or at least she reasoned they were. She’d have to take it slow and make sure she bandaged the area well, which she did shortly after rising, and keep as much heat there as possible to ease the pain.

With a struggle, as she found herself so weak now, Muirin placed herself in another dress and made sure she was presentable. Her wounds were still bleeding, she’d never been very good at dressing wounds, but she found that a change in her cloth bandages were enough to quell it for now. She’d need the right stinging ointment.

Without even struggling through her breakfast, Muirin anxiously paced towards the baker’s house, just a little down the row, so she could retrieve her children.
There was a darkness on the village today, she saw, in the form of storm clouds on the horizon. There was something else too. Something old, but familiar. Suddenly she was picking up her pace and rushing to the bakers. Muirin hurried past the intoxicating aroma of new loafs, still in the oven, and pastry goods, and rushed inside of the house attached to the shop front.

She was met with an empty home. Muirin called after her children, sudden fear rising in her gut, but there was no answer. Not even the baker, who should be spending the morning preparing the meals, or even her children, answered their names when called. There was something in this, Muirin realised, but she didn’t know it for what it was until she checked the back door.

A note was stuck to it with a dagger.
The dagger was bloody and was hers.
The note was familiar, scribbled in her own handwriting, and written in a code.

The bell rang shortly after, calling the villagers to the square. For the most part, Muirin ignored it, instead electing to go back to her home and keeping a careful watch over her back. At about the last twist of the road before she came to her cottage, she saw him, peering out from around the corner. The man who had been following her. How she hadn’t noticed him before she could only ascribe to her being sloppy.

Keeping natural, Muirin entered her home, ignoring the still ringing bell, and went straight for her room. There she thought for a moment on where she’d choose to hide if needing the choice. Quietly, she reached under the bed, wincing at the pain it did her, and pulled out the falchion. She examined it only for a second before, just as quietly, climbing out of her bedroom window.

She found him lurking around the corner, his eyes were square on the front door with no clue as to her approach. When she pushed the tip of the blade into the small of his back, he let out a short yelp before raising his hands like a sheepish child caught in the act of something vile but innocent. He was a tall man, gaunt, with fading hair and a smell of putrid onions. It was a wonder she hadn’t noticed him before.

‘You’ve been following me.’

‘I was told to,’ came his reply. ‘She told me to.’

‘Why?’ Muirin asked. ‘Why me and why now?’

‘The farmer’s widow went to her, told her about you.’

‘What about me?’

‘About your former life.’ He shrugged. ‘She thought the widow was desperate, wanted proof, but had me follow you to make sure.’

‘The widow met me in my house, and I killed her.’

‘I know, I saw you bury her.’

‘Why did nothing come of this then?’ Muirin teased the blade in a little more. ‘When you had a reason to suspect me?’

‘I told her, I did, but she said it was fair,’ replied the man. ‘The widow had gone to you, no doubt to cause trouble, and you’d killed her out of justice. She wanted me to keep an eye on you, to see what you would do next.’

‘You followed me into the markets, didn’t you?’ said Muirin. ‘You saw me hand the note to the merchant.’

‘He was easy to get the note off, when you didn’t show up with the rest of his marks.’

‘You got the note after then,’ Muirin realised quietly. ‘And then you followed me into the woods.’

‘I saw your horde of items; you must’ve been squirreling those away for years.’ He turned then, slowly, so as not to awake her falchion’s anger. He had something of venom in his voice. ‘It’s true, ain’t it? No one has a horde like that except for—’

In one swift motion the falchion met his throat, strangling the next words from out of his mouth. Muirin, with no sense of sympathy, moved past him as he struggled and fell to his knees, all the while trying to hold back the tide of blood.

‘Three hundred and fifteen,’ she said as she wiped the blood of the blade. Muirin turned her attention back to the village, she knew exactly where she would find children now.

There was no line of villagers patiently waiting to pay the tithing. The local guards had moved them all aside, so that the street was clear for Muirin’s entrance. She came like a legend, the sea at her back, taking each step without a single betrayal of her true condition. The village green was ahead of her, and although none of the villagers truly knew the circumstances, they seemed to know it revolved around her. They were, after all, the ones that had shared the rumours.

Muirin saw them and knew them. Each of them. There was the baker, whose children played with her children. The merchant, who sheepishly looked away from her. A man she had sold apples to in the market. A teacher who taught her children. A woman who had sold her the dresses she wore every day. Men who had helped to build her cottage. A community of people that she had come to know over the last decade of her time in the village. All of them, living for the past few years, under the thumb of a cruel hag who wouldn’t even let them flee from their predicament. Not even send a note.

Tayv was waiting in the village green on her gnarled throne, a grin sprawled between her ears.

‘How did you manage to escape my notice?’ She said to herself, leaning forward with interested as Muirin entered the green. It was empty, except for the two of them, unless of course you counted the many statues still frozen in place as recompense for past debts. ‘How have you avoided recognition for so long?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Muirin replied, pointing her falchion squarely towards her. ‘Where are my children?’

‘You’re not looking too good.’ Tayv stood up from her throne, moved a few graceful steps towards her. She moved rather like a puppet that had lost its strings, it was unnerving to watch her. ‘Do you think you have the strength for this?’

‘You know who I am,’ replied Muirin. ‘Or at least know what I am.’

‘I’m starting to believe it,’ said Tayv. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘Where are my children?’

Tayv clicked her fingers. Only once, but that proved to be more than enough. A guard stepped forward and revealed her boy and her girl, both tied up with rope and kept on leashes like dogs. They looked scared, Muirin noticed, they had been crying. Her falchion wavered a little. Tayv approached closer, a matter of six steps away now.

‘Should I turn them to stone first?’ She asked, politely. ‘Or I guess what I’m really asking is this, would you like to watch or be watched?’

‘Neither.’ The falchion dropped to the floor with a rattling clang. Muirin went down to her knees slowly but shortly after. ‘I’d prefer to make a deal.’

‘A deal?’ Tayv half-laughed, almost a cackle. ‘From what I’ve heard about you, you don’t make deals.’

‘Times change.’ Muirin took a deep breath. ‘Turn me to stone and let them go. I’ll go without a fight.’

‘Now, isn’t that interesting?’ Tayv came closer, even beginning to pace around her like a tiger on the prowl. ‘Has motherhood really changed that much? I’ve heard things about you that make even my stomach turn. The things you’ve done for gold and treasure go beyond what earns a person an eternity below.’

‘Please, just spare the children, they can’t do anything against you.’

‘I’m touched.’ Tayv reached out her hand towards Muirin and she didn’t struggle against it. Her creeping fingers burned, like a scorching hot pan against her skin, and she fought the urge to shriek. Instead, Muirin shouted, screamed, towards her, as her skin began to stiffen and crack like worn stone. ‘SWEAR IT!’

‘No.’

Without a sense of hesitation nor intention to succumb to the burning sensation writhing across her skin, Muirin took a hold of the falchion before her knees and still within reach. It all came down to speed in the end and she found herself drawing on a past life then. Her muscles, though aching, remembered her years spent swinging the sword in a flash and a flurry. Of killing hundreds before they even knew what had happened.

Tayv had seen the deception but had little time to dodge it. The falchion went up and through her chest as easily as a knife through butter. It all happened in the instance of a second and the stone veil followed after it. It crept up Muirin’s skin, flowed across the blade of the sword, and into the witch that had first summoned it. They were, both of them, becoming nothing but rock, unmoving ornaments like the others.

‘What have you done!?’ Tayv squealed, her fingers grasping the blade.

Muirin wasn’t concerned with her though, she was too busy looking over towards her children. The stone claimed her, as it did the witch stuck on the length of her falchion, but she had enough strength to utter one thing more before her eyes became like rocks and her smile caught in shimmering grey. ‘Three hundred and sixteen.’

---

The Cognoscenti Hand Guide (First Edition) - Misc. Facts from the Genesis Era

The Cognoscenti Hand Guide - First Edition

==========================================================================
The discovery of the loot bags shortly before the attack is not a coincidence; the attack was a facade.

Our society worships those who wielded the loot items to save us, the Genesis Adventurers, but this is because they don’t understand the true nature and purpose of the loot items.

The items in the loot bags are secretly infused with one of sixteen mana spirits. As the loot items gain experience, this spirit grows in power. The spirits are currently immature, so their influence on the items’ abilities and adventurers is inconsequential, but the spirits are rapidly growing in power.

Adventurers that wield eight items of the same mana spirit will be more effective in combat but risk having their sovereignty overpowered by the will of the mana spirit.

More time is needed to understand the specific nature and will of the 16 mana spirits, but for now, we strongly advise all adventurers to wield a mixture of items, with at most two items of the same spirit.

Please refer to the Cognoscenti Mana Spirit Identification Guide for instructions on determining the mana spirit infused in each of your items.
==========================================================================

---

The Fall of Wiglaf Lumens

One should not seek adventure when misfortune is at the door. — Sannis Proverb

Dragon hunting is not an endeavor for those in polite society, but Wiglaf Lumens never adhered to the rules.

Born to a wealthy family of Mum Nis who made their fortune exporting ignium, from a young age Wiglaf grew tired of the dinners and galas and the empty conversations of the elite that were the hallmark of such events.

“Someday you will be the man of this house,” his father told him, often. “You’ll come to understand the importance of these conversations, how they help our family keep our station.”

But Wiglaf wanted none of it. His mother, Estrid, would be forced to take him by the ear to the palace entryways, warning him to mind himself inside, or else. But as soon as she was preoccupied in conversation, Wiglaf would slip out into the night.

Outside, in the crisp air drenched in sea salt, Wiglaf felt free; he cast aside his formal clothes and transformed. There, he was unencumbered from haughty society and able to use his imagination, adventuring to far off places where he would engage in sword fights, search for treasure and, best of all, battle dragons.

Inevitably, Estrid would notice that Wiglaf had once again snuck out the back door, right under her nose. She’d excuse herself from a conversation about shipping tariffs or piracy through the Tides of Tears—particularly near the port city of Schlel—to go look for her son.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When Wiglaf was 14, he and his family were among the gentry gathered at the mayor’s residence in celebration of the Feast of Tas Tis. On that moonlit night the boy soon escaped the festivities, stealing outside to climb the gnarled trees that dotted the mayor’s lawn. Hoisting himself up a branch and sitting in the nook of a great oak, Wiglaf began daydreaming of dragon-hunting adventures in the countryside; he was soon swept up in an adventure of his own making.

He imagined himself journeying deep inside the desert plains of the Order, decked out in the finest studded armor, a falchion at his side, searching for a beast that had taken up roost in the hallowed Divine Den. The dragon had prevented many pilgrims from completing their journey to the crypt to honor their ancestors. Wiglaf knew that he alone could destroy the creature.

During the ride, Wiglaf felt the sand striking his face, his mouth went dry from the heat. “That’s odd,” he thought, puzzled at being puzzled within his own dream, “I’ve never felt this hot in Mum Nis before.” But he was too enraptured in the fantasy to give it a second thought; the real world and the Feast of Tas Tis faded from his mind like the desert sun bleaching out the finest of hues from cloth.

His body perched in the tree, Wiglaf rode on in his mind, nothing but dunes in sight. He was completely lost, unsure if he was even on the right path. The sand became denser, stinging him on his face as if he’d fallen into a patch of nettle; the sun shone hotter, like a focused ray of light burning the center of his chest. But Wiglaf refused to give up, he charged on towards the crypt—even as his steed floundered, its knees buckling.

“Very well, I shall go on foot the rest of the way,” the confident boy thought.

As he trudged through the dunes, an immense sandstorm swirled in front of him. The cerulean sky was scrubbed out. The small amount of light that found a path through the granules cast an eerie, earthy hue that was foreign to the boy so used to the deep blue waters and skies of his port city.

Then, the chaotic sand somehow became more ordered; it stopped swirling and started to stick together in the sky. Wiglaf could make out the formation of claws and a tail, then wings and a snout. “So, this is the beast that has plagued the crypt,” he realized, with some fair amount of trepidation.

The boy felt an intense pain on his chest and a shudder of fear as he looked down to find that he was once again a weaponless boy in party clothes instead of armor. Wiglaf was paralyzed with fear, unable to make his feet move to run away. With a menacing grin, the dragon approached him and, instead of breathing fire, shot a focused blast of sand at his heart that caused Wiglaf to scream in agony and black out.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When the boy came to, he found that he was no longer comfortably sitting in the tree’s nook but splayed out below on the ground. Every fiber of his body ached, his face smarting with stings. There was nothing imaginary about the blood running down his cheek—somehow, the battle he’d waged in his mind... Around Wiglaf’s neck was a pendant he’d never seen that burned hot on his torso, but froze his hands with an intense cold that stopped his muscles from grasping it.

Utterly disoriented, the boy tried standing but stumbled, unable to catch his balance. As he fell back down he saw her, his mother Estrid dead on the ground, holding a blade of Ignium and bleeding from her chest. Next to her was a dark mage, face down with blood on his back. The wand that the mage had used to enchant Wiglaf and deal the mortal blow to Estrid lay next to the evil sorcerer.

Overcome with grief, Wiglaf clutched his mother, tears streaming from his face. The pendant burned with gloom, biting away all the joy that he had ever felt, as his mother took her final breath.

Young Wiglaf Lumens, the would-be dragon slayer of Enlightenment, was lost in the void of darkness. He grabbed the ghostly wand and ran.

---

Featured Lootverse Items

Genesis Adventurer #447: Wiglaf Lumens an Adventurer of Enlightenment.

Realms (for Adventurers) #7330: Sannis of the Order of Power. Mum Nis is a port city of this realm, Tas Tis is a region denoted on the map that the festival was named after and ignium is an export of this realm.

Realms (for Adventurers) #26: lel Kúbklor of the Order of Power. Schlel is a port city of this realm and featured in the story of Hrothfeond Evermorn.

Crypts and Caverns # 3174: Divine Den of Enlightenment. This is the crypt that the dragon is guarding.

Prose from a Realmsman

The stack gets higher and higher, and I am forced to scroll further and further into my
ramblings before I find something worthy of my opus. Here are the musings and
half-thoughts that I write when quills and papers are within reach.

Agehood of a Lad

When I was young they called me Brilliant
Curious and knowing I pursued knowledge
I ate understanding with ferocity
And my appetite would not be stayed
Through teachings of all my town had to offer
The larger cities
And citadels still
I stood with my father when they proclaimed me Enlightened
And I felt as if I stood under the brilliance of the gods
And that is where the darkness snuck in from the shadows their light cast

Aghast! The Fallen

Would that I could tell you
Of my first night as Enlightened
That all my brain had absorbed was spilling forth off a silver tongue
Impressing kings and seducing maidens
But I sat alone
And the only thing that spilt that night were tears

How Reality Looks to a Fraud

I have read scrolls that have travelled further than I could even dream
I studied scriptures copied from voices recorded on peaks of mountains
I can reference legend and lore from before my time
I’ll tell you all there is to know of a plant genus I’m hinged on faith to believe exists
I can tell you all of these things and more
And from my tower of books, I am a fraud
For I have not seen anything I speak of with my own eyes
Ne’er felt with mine own hands
Tasted
Only ever heard, and read
And so I sit amongst legions of learned souls
And feel a fraud
And pointless

Abscond with the Truth

Father,
I’ve packed my bags in the night. I send a raven rather than dove so no treachery will
befall her while she flies through inky skies to bring you these words. You have given
gold, and even more, precious, time, to see that I become educated, and my hand
trembles to write even this. To tell my father that all he has given is not enough. The
heart can only hear about the world so long before it drives the body to action. I’m to
set off as an adventurer. I bring with me my inkwells and quills, my tomes and
scrolls, so you will hear from me.
So many before me have written the information I have consumed thus far. It is time
I offer something to the future more than my understanding of the past.
I must taste the earth if I am to free myself of the musty libraries. I will record the
present and leave truth and knowledge for the generations to come.
Do not search for me, I do not intend to stop long enough to be found.

Set Off!

The guards nod off in the painters light of morning
I am a fox underhill
Dew licks my leather boots, pristine from unuse
Set to work for the journey ahead

Ponders of an Adventurer

How long before I drop my name
And take on a moniker more suited
I’m a wayfarer a nomad or how long until then
The spirit of adventure rumbles in my tum
And I realise I have not eaten since dawn

Blast these Critters

I brought with me rations of course
And traps for hares and birds
It takes a steady hand and gentle touch to bag a buck
Drat, I snapped another line
I have with me not weapons nor the will to kill
But I know every berry, leaf, and fungus available to me by site
It is possible herbology was not pointless coursework indeed

A Bedroll in Thickets

How best to fend oneself while asleep?
Why crawl beneath a thicket bush and nature shall preserve you
Even a thief knows not to stick their hands in a thorny thatch
But remember where you are when you wake
I’ve torn my face by rising too eager

Red Roofs like Amber

I’ve done it!
A day’s journey to be had
Travelling further on foot than I’ve ever dared
A harvest and bounty of berries and elm
I’m a survivor of the night and approach this town a stranger

Outsider, Outsider

A night as black as the banner that flies,
A moon as sharp as the banner that flies,
My stomach rumbles and I smell mushroom stew
Emanating from the windows of the boars head tavern

What is Money if not Everything

I have with me some gold, from clerk work as one does
But how far can I get… I wonder…
As a rogue or vagabond
A pinch of bread and cup of ale can’t be too hard if the drunkards get to it
Just casually reach out…

Pain as Experienced by a Thief

They are upon me sooner than I touched the crust
Where pummeling bare hands beat down on me
With staffs they thrust
I’m winded and wounded and left for dead
But I’m a derelict now, I secured my feast
I have stolen some bread

Wayfarer

Wayfarer,
I’m sure you’d be way fairer
had you studied sleight of hand

Recovery Comes Quick

When you black out in the alleys
Between the houses of a homoeopathic banner
I dream of trees, mushrooms, and berries
And wake in the fields with rations full
There are fairies in the air at dusk
That glow and ebb to darkness

Distance

I have gone the farthest I’ve ever gone
Far from my father and his throne
And looking back I cannot see a reason to stop now

Agehood of a Man

My lip is split and eye is dark
I stand cliffside and yell into open void
I am beat and broken and for it all the more alive

End of Chapter 1

---

Prose from a Realmsman II

I'm run thin on parchment! I'm scratching my words in charcoal on soft bark. Here are the jotted and hurried that I write when adventure is upon me!

Barrenness and Envy

Father,
I have been travelling for many months now, my once lightly scuffed Leather Boots have traversed mud, clays, canyons, and woods, and are no longer recognizable. I carry with me always, the crest of our family, and I have not forgotten the face of my father. I hope he has not forgotten the face of his son. I yearn to hear from you, but cannot stay more than a night any which way. I have tasted the journey and by the sweat of my brow, I shall continue. The realms are so much larger than I could have imagined and less empty than you'd think. Already I have collected peculiar, timeless artefacts wrought with history and a will to explore of their own. With each item, I have grown to covet the discovery of adventurers. It is not enough to be a bystander in the great story and it is time my narrative was told.
I include here with this letter a Silver Ring of Twins, I found in a pair, with a sigil so similar to our arms. I wear the other and remember you. I know you are a steadfast man but hear your son for he sends you truth and truth again.
And father,
I have finally seen the sea.

A life taken

T’was just a fish
a boy taught me how to gut
and to flay
As the Short Sword blade separated bones from fishy flesh
I realise we unmake it the same way Deos made them

Wanderfül

Only when we're lost
does wonder turn to worry
and all the beauty we had beheld
turns bitter in our minds.
Take a moment to stay those thoughts
that have you quaking in your shoes.
When familiar footing finds you
and enchantment returns and surrounds you.

Maternity

We know the earth provides for us, as a mother would
Her back would break to give us stones
Her eyes will cry for us to drink
Her spirit lives embodied and I have found her hearth
The Mother Grove exists to tend, and mend our broken limbs
just crawl beneath her hollowed elm and listen to her healing hymns
I dare not mark no map to say
This is where you'll find
Celestial Peace in the garden of eve
For fear of human's axes
And urge to conquer

Realistic Comparable Sizing

Ho! Take the Kraken
Forget the Kraken and take the sea!
For all the earth I've walked
To think
That evermore is covered in water
With creatures as large as Krakens
Who call it home

Seasickness

My tilting world
balanced on the pin of the horizon.
As nature battles nature,
the pure rage of the sea rocking
ill people floating on dead wood.

Missed Meals

A seamate
still green behind the gills
makes use of his Leather Cap
I lost my lunch off the prow
And it found its way onto the captain’s Dragonskin Armour

Gathering Strength

On a cloud-covered night
with tumultuous waves,
and thunderous winds
I shiv-iv-er-er
I p-pray
Having given what strength I had
Having only a w-will to see more
The clouds break and a celestial beam extends her hand
Haven found when strength returns to my jellied legs
and I learn to ebb with the moon

Feeling at Home

The sea forgives you,
eventually.
The ship finds favour in the tides
and waves really do greet you
like an old friend.

Waving Glass

On a molten glass sea
Moonlight is beautiful
And Sunrise is blinding

Shoreline

Finally,
I suppose
I'll sleep
forever
I won't sail for weeks
And find myself in the surf the very next day.

Isthmus

Before I left home
I thought I lived on an island,
landlocked,
and the forest stretched into the ambit.
I'm moored on the isthmus,
clothes baking in the sun,
landlocked,
as if I were home again.

Victory and Valour

I'm once more pressed against the ropes of a sailing ship
With sugarcane and fruit cargo
And a Pendant I had won in a foot race
Slowly I piece together my bag
And ready myself for adventure

Familiar Docks

To return to the port
A changed man
With more salt in your blood
And fish in your belly
I waltz through the wharf
And trip over a cleat into the green waters

A Stranger in a Strange Cloak

Drying off fireside
Warming up with a bowl of hot stew
I saw an aged gentleman
in the shadowy crook of the Stow Away Bar
We didn't get a chance to speak
But when he walked out through those doors
The way the moonlight caught his robes was divine

End of Chapter 2

Fallen Cavern

The ants were making words again. Avanesh watched them crawl across the basalt of the cave and, with wretched slowness, assemble their horrid yellow bodies into the letters of a message.

“Just ignore them!” bellowed Bahadur from the darkness. He was down there somewhere, pressing his own body against the walls, systematically touching the tips of his fingers to each square inch of every edge and surface of the neat, cubical columns containing them both.

Avanesh had slept twice since the ambush, which was his only way to measure time inside the hellish tomb that had swallowed them. He hadn’t observed Bahadur sleep at all – Bahadur had been doing nothing but diligently inspecting the cavern ever since he’d heroically sealed their only exit.

Bahadur stepped into Avanesh’s torch light. He was naked except for his crown, wrapped, as ever, around his forehead. He was utterly filthy, as if every particle of dirt trapped in with them had been smeared across his broad body, caked with unending sweat. His eyes were bright as swans on a lake at midnight, and they dipped down to Avanesh, sitting where he had left him on the cavern floor.

“So, what did the ants say?” he asked, almost jovial. Avanesh swept the torchlight over to the tiny blackened balls that the ants had become, though it would have been impossible for Bahadur to see them.
“You said to ignore the words, so I burned them,” Avanesh said. The close heat made it difficult for him to summon even the strength to speak, but Bahadur responded with an actual roar of laughter. What a luxurious way to spend their air and their energy.

“That will teach them not to write you love letters,” Bahadur replied, smiling. “But I’ve got one of my own for you. It says: Avanesh, I hope this finds you well. I have some good news!”
Avanesh stared at Bahadur, a towering heap of impossible muck and muscle standing above him. He recognised this tone of delivery and tensed against the inevitable but good-natured dashing of his hopes.

“Turns out you were right all along. This part of the Deep Mountain is full of adamantine. My clever crown has sniffed out a seam of it big enough to choke the sea.” He tapped his crown with a swollen, sensitive finger and it chimed prettily. “When we find a way out, we’ll come back here with the men to dig it all up and we can retire early to the Glistening Crests. Much love, Bahds.”

He laughed again and rolled back into the stifling dark to resume his search for whatever sign of escape he hoped his Crown would turn up.

Avanesh remained quite still in his damp little patch of ruined clothing. He wondered at which point, exactly, that Bahadur’s plan to go surveying for adamantine in the Realm of Vitriol had become his plan, but he accepted that was how it was going to be remembered between them now that Bahadur had changed history with a simple statement. He was never sure when Bahadur was deferring credit or deflecting blame.

Avanesh brought his eyes back to the streak of soot on the cave wall. A new battalion of ants was marshalling their forces to create a further message. He knew he wouldn’t ignore it, as he hadn’t ignored the last one. If he closed his eyes, he could see every squirming letter of it as if it was still there on the wall.

“WE ONLY WANT THE CROWN.

KILL HIM AND WE WILL RELEASE YOU, AVANESH”

---

He didn’t know how the mage was making this happen. He thought he had seen a mage of some sort in the brief altercation at the cave’s mouth. She had been surrounded by a flash of colour, something reflective on her chest, a certain twirling of wind at her face. All he knew for sure was that he’d hit someone very hard, hard enough to break their helm, but then was knocked down. Then he had some missing time, not much, but he had been lying on his back when he saw Bahadur, daubed with blood, raise his grandmother’s sword and bring the roof down. That mage must still be lurking out there, carefully organising the ants through sixteen feet of collapsed rock.

And the ants continued to crawl. There was something sickening in how the message resolved itself, how what was a seething mass of insects one moment was a clear thought in the next. Avanesh considered whether the mage was controlling the ants or controlling him. This interest in the craft of the thing was enough motivation to move Avanesh towards the wall, pluck an ant from it and inspect it closely. His demonhide gloves jolted internally as the ant made contact with the palm of his hand. A faint ringing in his mind called up something about the potential the insect had as material.

As an experiment, he groped around for an ant that had not been press-ganged into the forming of words and held it for a moment by one of its long, spindly legs. This unconscripted ant made him aware of the leathery chitin of its hide, the tinting of metal possible through a certain concentration of the formic acid it held in its convoluted poison glands. It wasn’t a strong feeling. How much could one possibly build out of an ant? But the messenger ants from the wall gave him the sense of songs, of persuasion, of thought projected. They were possessed of a different sort of material, the material of language.

He retreated to his nest of rags opposite the wall. While it was possible for a mage to influence a mind at a distance, Avanesh’s gloves could not be fooled or befuddled or swayed. The only control the mage had over him was from the words on the wall. He braced himself for the next message.

“HE DOOMED YOU BOTH.”

_

The heat of the Earth seemed to flare more intensely within Avanesh’s face for an instant. Brave, fearless Bahadur hadn’t thought much of the risks of trespassing, of robbing precious metals from under the noses of people who would take that as no small slight. He never knew what it meant to feel invincible, but being with Bahadur had allowed him to inhale those vapours from time to time.

“BUT WE WILL RESCUE YOU.”

_

He remembered feeling confident, before his first sleep, that the crown would find a way out for them. Bahadur could train it to see the gas mixture of fresh air, or the green of a leaf, and then it was a matter of homing in on the signal. But this optimism fell in time with Bahadur’s ever deeper plumbs of the cavern. If his sword hadn’t been buried under the rocks, then maybe they could have broken through to another passageway. Without it, they were forced to hunt for an exit that could not be found.

“OPPORTUNITIES COME BUT DO NOT LINGER”

_

That was a surprise. Avanesh had assumed their attackers had been of Vitriol, since theirs was the territory on which they were prospecting. But here was a line straight out of a sermon from the Order of Power. They had even less of a right to be here than he did, owing to recent events. So why had they been there?

“YOU ARE AN OPPORTUNITY FOR US

MASTER CRAFTSMAN OF PERFECTION”

_

Avanesh allowed a flicker of pride to light the space under his ribs. So their work had been noticed. Quite far afield. Bahadur had sourced the finest materials for Avanesh to forge into tools of exquisite manufacture, and at some point the Order of Power had been made aware. He tried to recall the fragmented details of the ambush. Had it been an attack or a heavily negotiated recruitment drive?

He thought about what the Order of Power could do with Bahadur's crown. With their resources they could turn the world inside out. All that was buried and hidden would be brought to light, where it could be seen and studied. The useless would be transformed into the useful.

“WHEN WE SEE YOUR CAPTOR’S PULSE STOP WE WILL PULL YOU OUT.”

_

Avanesh wondered about the truthfulness of the messages. He didn’t know what powers the mage had at her command, or if she had confederates with her now. He entertained a thought, then crawled forward and grabbed a handful of ants out of the word “WILL.” They were unusually still in his cupped fist. He focused on his gloves and searched for a sense of what he could make out of the word. He was surprised to discover that the word was solid, it was dependable. He scooped up the ants making other words, finally coming round to “CAPTOR,” which made his heart sink lower than he thought it could go.

He slumped to the rough floor. The words were true. It was clear from the point of view of an outsider that Bahadur had been the first to strike the delegation from the Order, had imprisoned them behind the rocks and was going to kill him while frittering away their few remaining minutes on a futile search for nothing. He remained almost motionless until the ants skittered from his hand and returned to the wall.

“WE HAVE MADE THE DECISION EASIER FOR YOU.”

_

Avanesh let that thought run up and down his overheated mind. The message dissolved and its constituents went about their usual ant business. The distribution of pain and numbness in Avanesh’s body, as well as the scattering of debris from his final torch, told him he had been watching these messages slowly form and fade for hours. He gradually became aware that Bahadur was calling to him.

“Come here and look at what we’ve found!”

Avanesh unfolded his body, massaged out the pain and groped about in the fading light for his maul. He told himself that he needed it as a crutch for his unsteady legs, but mostly he was trying to think of how hard decisions could be made easier. He didn’t have to stumble much of a distance towards Bahadur’s booms before he heard the water.

Bahadur was bathing in a thin trickle falling from the roof of the cave. The accumulated muck of the underground was streaming from his body, leaving rivulets of his umber flesh to reflect the torchlight. Avanesh smelled brine and iodine. That was seawater coming in. As he leaned heavily on his maul and watched Bahadur clean himself, he saw the trickle become a stream, and then a flow.

“It’s a bit less warm than we are, and that’s refreshment in my book,” he beamed. “Cool off and you’ll get your strength back.” Bahadur moved out of the water, his bare feet slapping on the stones. “Come now, cause we haven’t long before the entire Vibrian comes down on us.”

Avanesh froze. The mage had started a flood. They no longer had the luxury of waiting for the air to run out or to die of thirst. A torturous, abstract death had been replaced by a very sudden and very material one. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He felt the mist and doom and dark of the atmosphere that submerged him. He felt the rising water and the dead end before them. He felt Bahadur’s hidden panic and his own hidden fury. He felt the way out and he felt the opportunity.

He stepped towards the shower and then spun towards Bahadur. His maul made contact with Bahadur’s crown and it fell from his head. It fluttered and gasped on the wet floor, spraying Avanesh’s shins as it tried to tie itself into knots. He had dropped the torch and stared wide-eyed into the dark where Bahadur had been. Then he felt gentle pressure on his forearms and Bahadur’s breath falling on his face as they sank together to the ground. Sat face to face with Bahadur, Avanesh twisted his weapon hand free, raised the maul again and closed his eyes.

And Bahadur brought Avanesh’s empty hand up to his face, so Avanesh could again understand the material he was working with. It was flesh and blood and thought and love. There was hope he could use and help he could take. “The water, the water made it easier to focus,” whispered Bahadur. “I found a crack in the ceiling, Avvie.” Avanesh dropped the maul. His mouth opened in a silent, dry yelp of anguish. “You could wriggle through, and find help maybe,” slurred Bahadur.

Avanesh allowed himself to be led a short distance in the darkness, to be lifted, and pushed. His hands found a sharp edge in the rock and, as he felt its interior, his gloves told him how to turn this passage into his escape. Suddenly his feet were dangling. Bahadur had sat down again with a small splash. The pale light from his crown cast a formless shadow of Bahadur, a blot of ink to punctuate their time together. He was saying something, but Avanesh could not hear him over the rushing of water.

He pulled himself up. The rocks pinned him tightly and scoured his skin. Opportunities come but do not linger. The water rose and rose and rose.

---

Report from Area of Interest 1854 (Fallen Cavern)

by Procurer Sayadaw to the Judge of the Reliquary of Power.

_

Our will was diverted.

Agent Kader is injured. Removing her to the infirmary in Kezkiisch.

Crown of Interest remains to be recovered in this Area of Interest.

Demonhide gloves of Interest remain in possession of Avanesh Tipanis Angle, at large in Realm 2889 (‘Nuiknaauiena’)

A long sword of Extreme Interest has been identified in this Area of Interest.

Request for permission to redouble will towards this Area of Interest, with related request for necessary resources.

The will of Power be done.

---

The Painter

(A Loot Story) Part 1

1. Kinney

“Paint!” a woman’s voice called. It was coming from up the narrow road leading towards a small cluster of houses. He sighed. It was Grelda, his neighbour of nearly fifteen years. They lived next to each other in a place called Kinon, affectionately called Kinney by locals. It wasn’t big enough to fly a Banner, but Kinney was well known throughout the realm of Umlom for its kind and welcoming people. Grelda and her enthusiastic greetings were the embodiment of that.

Grelda continued to move hurriedly down the road. Stout in stature, she moved in a manner that was anything but discreet. Yet she continued to go unacknowledged by her neighbour as she approached.

“Paint!”

The harmless greeting caused his eye to twitch and his upper lip to snarl ever so slightly. He was aware but unable to prevent his reaction. The best he could do was to try and conceal the base instinct. The name Paint bothered him, but he never corrected anyone. He had been a painter, after all, but couldn’t bear to explain why the name haunted him. Instead, he quickly repressed the feeling and carried on. That was how it had gone every time he’d been addressed as Paint over the past five years. He thought of himself as a traveller now, albeit not very intrepid. Relaxing his face, he looked up from tending to his horse, Tolo. Then he greeted his neighbour, who was now upon him.

“Morning, Grelda,” he said politely but with little invitation to continue the conversation. His attention was fixed on his saddle straps and bags, preparing to be away for at least a few nights.

“Are you heading to Onny again?” she asked, referring to Onlomum. It was a good day’s ride and the nearest place of note. The journeys only ever lasted three or four days, and a few small packages were all he ever had to show for it.

She was nosy, to be sure, but not so inquisitive to ask what he returned with each trip. The man had covered his windows from the inside, figuring Grelda might try and peer in. They’d been like that since Kahriah left.

“No. Not this time,” he replied, knowing he was about to hear a request regardless of whether Onny was on his route or not.

“Well, if you see it, would you pick me up some dragonleaf while you’re gone?” she asked. Dragonleaf was a spicy melange of several herbs that added a nice kick to harvest stews. Toward the end of summer, merchants in larger port towns like Onny would often have it available. It was a simple request, but the look on her face suggested it was one Grelda knew he wouldn’t remember. Whatever these excursions were, he usually returned quite crestfallen and distant. More distant than usual.

“Sure,” he replied, not really making note of her request. They smiled at each other. Grelda, in her kindness, wouldn’t bring it up when he returned empty-handed.

He went back into his house to grab the last of his provisions, tucked them in saddlebags, and stuck a boot in a stirrup. Mounted, the tall and sinewy man’s head would barely clear a ten-foot gate. A mess of dark hair framed his patchy, bearded face, creating a broody demeanour. His clothes were simple except for haphazard splashes of paint. Though not sloppy or unkempt, he certainly wasn’t one to be concerned with appearances. On a horse, he was quite a skilled rider, despite Tolo getting on in years. She was an older horse of below-average size and had a dark brown coat with large, white irregular patches. Tolo wasn’t fast, which suited the man just fine. With no schedule to keep, he moved at a deliberate pace most of the time, not testing his riding skills or his horse very much. He gave Grelda an obligatory wave as he headed off.

The traveller pulled a book out from his saddle containing sketches and notes of Kinney’s surrounding areas. These observations were a record of where he had been, and the boundary he did not travel beyond.

Munum was to be his first destination on this particular journey, and most riders could make it there in a day; it would take Tolo and her rider two. They went slowly and frequently veered off the trail, covering at least twice as much ground as needed. The simple town surrounded by farms was due west of Kinney, but his route twisted and turned through every manner of forest and field. Most of the day was spent paying close attention to his surroundings with little regard for progress. As sunfall approached and Munum was still out of reach, he made camp in a secluded grove of bloodfir trees. For most, the idea of sleeping outside among the creatures and renegades might make for a restless night, but for him it wasn’t a concern. With Tolo securely attached to a tree, fed, and watered, rest found him easily enough. Though his body lay comfortably, his mind raced with scenes from his past.

2. The Traveller

The man rose with the sun, dutifully packed up his simple camp, mounted his horse, and set off. To allow his eyes to adjust to the rising sun, he had Tolo trot even slower than usual.

Later that day, with the sun directly overhead, he arrived in Munum. This was the first town he’d visit and the one he most looked forward to. Just like the dozens of times before, he rode through the town’s rugged stone gates en route to the bookbinder. He secured Tolo to the hitching post out front and pulled open the shop door.

Over the last several hundred years, bookbinders had become a depot of all things enlightened. Art supplies, musical instruments, vellum and parchments, inkwells, and the like were all stocked– in addition to the namesake service they provided. Being in a bookbinder shop--with the smell of ink, oil, and leather--was one of the small, fleeting joys the traveller still had. A memory of simpler times.

“Hello again! It’s been a while since you’ve been in town. How have you been? Three each of smoke, sky, moss, and lapis?” The bookbinder peppered his not-so-new customer with questions. He was an older man with wireframe spectacles, and though completely bald on top, he had combed his wispy, white hair from one ear to the other in a terrible failure of concealment. He wasn’t much taller than the counter he stood behind.

“Yes, more of the same, please,” the traveller replied, ignoring the other questions. This dance had become somewhat familiar to the both of them.

“Need anything else?” asked the bookbinder as he handed him a small wooden box.

“No, thank you.” The traveller gave the bookbinder a small coin purse of lords. Neither man bothered to confirm the amount inside. He’d bought the same thing regularly from every bookbinder in Umlom, and neither the price nor his procurements ever changed. Just as he was about to leave, an apprentice popped out from the back. He was in his thirties, short like his employer, and had the first signs of a receding hairline. He, too, wore spectacles.

“Hi!” he said with enthusiasm. “Any new work to show?” The question was innocent enough, but the traveller’s reaction was similar to being called ‘Paint.’ His eye twitched, and he could feel his canines scrape along his lower lip.

No... Nothing new, he thought to himself.

“You come in and buy paint every few months, but I’ve never seen any of your work. I must admit, you’re a strange painter, ser!” The master bookbinder shot his apprentice a glance of disapproval.

“I’m not a painter,” was the traveller’s first non-transactory reply since he’d entered the shop.

“Well, your clothes betray you, my friend.”

They both glanced down at his paint-splattered trousers. The traveller realised he was no better at hiding his vocation than the bookbinder was at hiding his baldness.

The apprentice abruptly changed the subject, still unaware it was conversation in general his customer was trying to abstain from.

“Have you heard of Yunekvin from Nlamkás? Apparently, he’s the most talented painter in generations. His painting of the Sanctuary of the Ancients is supposed to be sublime. I heard folk talking about it a few weeks ago. They say he’s a descendant of halfgods, but you know how people exaggerate...” The continued attempts at conversation still didn’t elicit the response the apprentice was craving. The traveller gave a thankful nod to the master bookbinder before turning and exiting the shop.

The traveller secured the newly purchased supplies in his saddlebags and offered Tolo an apple in exchange for her patience. Tolo accepted these terms and he made his way on foot to the local tavern, only about fifty yards further into town. The place was more than half-full with patrons, which pleased the traveller as he surveyed the room from its crooked entrance.

While he hadn’t been to this town or tavern in a few months, his routine was the same here as it was in each of the several he could visit. Enter, survey, sit in the middle of the room, and sip on a single drink for as long as anyone mingled about the place.

He focused his eyes and ears on various parties, hoping to glean some information. This clandestine endeavour was his attempt to gain knowledge about the world outside his small village. He hoped for news, or something he’d be able to go on. The patrons on this day talked of the wonders, and with their voices lowered, something about a group called the cogs. They boasted of dragon hunting and violent tempests at sea, but today, like every tavern in every town for nearly five years, there was no news. No leads.

I’ll figure it out, eventually. I have to.

The tavern’s drinkers and diners eventually got up, paid for their fare, and made their way into the afternoon sun. With no one left to eavesdrop on, the traveller did the same. From the tavern, he headed straight to the message board at the edge of town and pored over every word in every notice, hoping for something to catch his eye. But like every time before, he was left dejected, with no more information than when he’d entered town.

Not learning anything on his first pass, he scanned again, looking for any decent lord-paying work. A few days of ploughing fields, picking vegetables, or clearing brush would do. He needed only enough lords to purchase a month’s worth of paint and the few foodstuffs he wasn’t able to secure through hunting or foraging.

Certain he hadn’t missed anything, he left the message board and rejoined Tolo in front of the bookbinder’s shop. He climbed into the saddle and trotted up and across town to the southern gates. The town’s Banner hung beneath the centre of the archway and gently flapped in the soft afternoon breeze. The green and black Banner was emblazoned with the elements of bear, snake, and mountains. The people who lived in the valley town of Munum had flown this Banner for millennia.

With the Ancient Banner at his back, he headed south on the sloping road toward Inrunson. On a good day, it was no more than a few hours away, but the plodding traveller would again be sleeping under the stars before he made it to Inrunson’s gates.

After a short stint on the road, he left the hard-packed dirt and ventured off through the woods and highlands lining his route. Despite the vast rolling lands to the west, he made certain not to veer too far from his course. Years of traversing these parts made him acutely aware of what his limits were.

His pace through the forest trails slowed even further as he observed the world around him. It was easier to search with dusk looming. The time between when the diurnal animals went to ground and before the creatures of the night started their watch. Every so often he heard a sound and brought his horse to a stop to investigate. Empty-handed, he and Tolo continued their methodical trot. Much of his progress was marked by frequent veering to the west and meticulously recording his results.

After several hours, mostly southbound, he emerged from a thick brush and found a suitable place to make camp for the evening. He wasn’t far from Inrunson, but night had fallen and he wasn’t in a rush.

The next day, much the same as the one before, he woke and rode into town. Inrunson didn’t have a bookbinder, so he headed straight to the inn to break his fast and engage in harmless spycraft on unsuspecting customers. A few hours later, and long after he had finished his meal, he made his way to the message board filled with the same glimmer of hope he’d had the day before. The scraps of paper and rusty nails didn’t reveal anything on this day, either. On his second pass, he made note of someone in Onny looking for shore clammers. With his next job decided, he remounted his horse, heading for the edge of town. From Inrunson, it should take no more than a day to make Kinney, but like every trip, he stretched it into an overnight endeavour.

No matter how much variety he tried to add to his trips, they were all some combination of Inrunson, Onlumum, Munum, Runman and Tunum. Beyond those towns, a painful pounding would beat inside his head. He tried several times to visit Munpun, and had even reached the city gates, but despite being steps away, he was unable to go any further. It was as if he had reached the end of a leash. A reminder he had ventured too far.

---

Long after dusk, four days after he’d left, he finally emerged from the woods south of Kinney and picked up the last leg of the road through town, to his house on the outskirts. He slumped in the saddle after the long trek and under the weight of yet another failed trip.

He walked Tolo around back, where he had an apple and a handful of oats for her. It may have been another failed mission, but she had done her part well, loyally aiding in his futile reconnaissance. Tolo lowered her head, letting him remove the bridle, and whinnied in approval of his patting. Procurements underarm, he entered through the back and laid them on the table. It was pitch black in the house and he fumbled to find a candle. Even the faint moonlight couldn’t find the interior of his house, as the windows were covered from edge to edge with old canvases. Under flickering candlelight, he carefully unpacked the items from the bookbinder. There were fresh canvases, neatly rolled and ready to be stretched. With the lid pried off his box, light danced on the twelve glass jars of paint carefully nested into wood shavings. Each hue was quite familiar to him. Tucked between the jars were three new horsehair brushes, his preferred tools of his trade. After carefully setting the jars of paint on the table, he laid the brushes beside in deliberate fashion. He prepared a canvas, set it in the easel, and stepped back to look over his set-up.

I wonder what I’ll paint this time...

His attention turned to the walls of the house, once a happy and bustling place, now lonely and quiet. A variety of his paintings had once covered nearly every square foot of wall space. Now spectres of the past hanging on cold iron nails looking down. He fiddled with his ring. Kahriah used to joke that you could only see the walls if he had sold a piece. The walls were still covered in his paintings, but he hadn’t sold any. It wasn’t for lack of skill in the commerce of art; it was that he hadn’t painted anything original in over five years.

3. The Masterpiece

“Get up already!” he heard from across the small house.

The man opened his eyes and found his wife shaking his shoulder. A smile erupted across his face, remembering the accomplishment of the night before. He’d gone to bed late and had fallen asleep in his clothes and shoes, both covered in the trademark paint drops of an artist in the prime of their brilliance. It wasn’t just him; the entire house was a paint-stained studio. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and joined his wife and son in the kitchen. The boy’s cheeks were full of eggs and bread as he gave a muffled, barely discernible, “Morning, Father.”

He gave the boy’s hair a scrub, sat triumphantly at the table beside him, and broke off a large piece of bread. He did this a few more times, with little regard for breathing between bites. Satisfied with the fresh bread and himself, he leaned back in his chair.

“What has gotten into you?” his wife asked. “You have far more energy than someone who only slept a few hours should.”

“Behold!” he pointed to the smallish canvas sitting on the easel near the hearth. The fruit of his late night’s labour was dry and complete. He had hoped his son or wife would have noticed it, but his excitement was palpable and he couldn’t wait any longer.

The painting was a truly beautiful work. The kind that could hang in the Altar of Perfection with other masterpieces from across the realms. It was a painting of the sunny pond not far from their house, but on the horizon were ominous, dark clouds. Just looking at it transported the viewer to one of those few times in their life when they were in the middle of a thunderstorm and it was raining, but the sun was shining. It was both heartwarming and disturbing at the same time. Intentionally conflicting. There was no way to know if the storm was coming or going. A perplexing piece, forcing the viewer to examine their own outlook on the world.

“It’s wonderful, Father. I love how you captured the contrast of light and dark,” his son said dryly. He was only eight, but Thesdon had overheard his dad talking shop with merchants in nearby towns. After the age of about five, he started taking his son on small trips with him. The boy was whip-smart and had a good sense of humour. “There’s not enough sunshine, though,” he said with squinted eyes as he examined the painting.

“But that’s the whole point, my boy! The critics are getting tougher, Kahriah! A regular cleric of perfection here,” he boasted to his wife, winking at her. Kahriah was a tall woman, and stood nearly as tall as her husband. She had light-auburn hair tied in a thick braid with a strip of colourful canvas. She was impossibly good-hearted and sent a contented smile back at her husband. He and Kahriah had tried to have more children, but it wasn’t to be. They were disappointed, but found themselves grateful for Thesdon and their life together.

“Until your masterpieces start fetching sums matching their beauty, there are still chores to do around here, Ser Paint. Go around back and fetch some wood. Grelda said it’s going to start getting cold soon, and her bones don’t lie,” his wife commanded him, but she did it with an endearing and appreciated affection.

He made a sarcastic but loving face towards her and left the house before she had a chance to rebut. There was a scant pile of split logs behind the house that he began to stack on his arms. Grelda was outside, too, hanging linens to dry in the cool morning breeze.

“Morning, Grelda!” he yelled across the yard to the stout woman who’d been his neighbour for more than a decade. “You sure do a lot of laundry, I must say.”

“Oh, I know. Not sure what else to do, I suppose. Comes a time in everyone’s life when the days are all the same. Though, I’ve the cleanest sheets in the realm!” She found joy in the simple life and resumed her task and the banter simultaneously. “Oh, I forgot to tell you; Marell is engaged to be wed to a boy from Tunum. He’s a baron of the house Helm Stag Bare Hands. There will be a big ceremony just after the winter,” she boasted with pride and joy. Her husband had passed a few years ago after falling ill, and Marell was their only child. The house of Helm Stag Bare Hands was from Tunum, and they were good people. The painter was happy for Marell and for Grelda.

“Sounds like the gods are smiling on Kinney these days.” He paused and thought of Grelda alone in her house before offering, “Come by for supper tonight?”

“Sounds lovely. Sure,” she responded.

“Great!” he said before moving back towards his house with a meagre pile of logs. “I had better get some wood back inside before Kahriah sends the boy looking for me.”

He walked with a bounce in his step and joyfully re-entered the house.

Moments after walking through the door, his pile of wood crashed to the plank floor. His wife quickly looked over to see her husband’s face had flushed red and wore an expression she hadn’t seen before.

Thesdon was sitting in front of the easel he’d boasted of just minutes before. The boy had picked up a wide brush and was placing generous streaks of bright, golden-yellow paint opposite the dark, ominous clouds. He managed a few more strokes onto the freshly dried masterpiece before his father could get a sound out of his mouth.

“Demon’s hearts! What the...!” the painter screamed, searching for words. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

Startled and alarmed, Kahriah rushed over to see what her son was doing, confused by the unusual anger from her husband.

“I...just...thought I could add some sun...like you’ve been teaching me...” the boy blubbered between laboured breaths. His cheeks were already glistening from his tears. His father had never raised a hand before, but for the first time in his life, Thesdon flinched and raised his arms in defence.

“This was my masterpiece! Do you know how many a painter has in a lifetime? One! If you’re lucky! There’s a blank canvas right there! Why didn’t you paint that?!”

He kicked a bag out of the way and pointed to a fresh canvas tucked between two cabinets. The painter had a habit of stretching canvases and having them at the ready all over the house should inspiration strike. He paced as the veins in his temples pulsated. He saw the glass jar of yellow paint on the table and hurled it against the far wall. It shattered and left a giant splatter, as if someone had gored sunshine itself. His wife shrieked in fear, and Thesdon bolted across the room and out the front door. Kahriah ran to the door just in time to see her son disappear into the woods up the road from their house. She walked back inside, her surprise and fear replaced with an anger of her own.

“What is wrong with you!? He’s eight years old,” she scolded. “He just wanted to help. He was trying to show you he’d been paying attention to the lessons you’ve given him.”

“This was the best thing I’ve ever--!” he started to yell in response, but his wife slapped him before he could finish.

“It’s just a painting. Take a walk to clear your mind and then go find your son.” She turned her back to him and went back to preparing herbs. The father was still in shock, both from the fact that she’d struck him, and the fact it had actually knocked some sense into him. He didn’t know where the rage had come from, but it was unlike anything he had experienced before. Whatever he had become in that moment, he certainly didn’t like it; the vile energy rushing through his veins had scared him. Finally collected, he stood and left to find his son.

Grelda called out to him from her garden.

“Everything all right, Paint? I heard a bit of screaming...”

“Yes, sorry about that. Young boys...” he explained without breaking his stride. Figuring Thesdon might head to the pond from the painting, he pressed on and entered the woods. It wasn’t far from their house, and he and the boy had spent many days there. In the summer, he would string a line for his son and have him fish while he painted alongside. It was a special place for them. A thing he wished he’d remembered before reacting so intensely to the unwanted addition to his painting.

The pond’s surface was glasslike, and the birds perched around the shore had not been recently disturbed by anyone. No one had been there. He looked around and checked behind some of the twisted elms his son liked to climb and hide in. No sign of him. A slight tinge of fear entered his gut, faint as it was.

The boy is only eight. He cannot have gone far. He probably just wandered down the trail a bit, thinking about how he might make it up to me.

The painter started down the trail, calling his son’s name. With each passing call, his panic increased. He increased his pace to a jog. When he was about a quarter-mile from the pond, he sprinted back and started the same procedure down the path on the other side of the pond. Sweat poured from his brow and chest. His head swung from side to side, trying to glimpse any visual clue. A footprint, a bread crust, a paintbrush...anything that might lead to the boy’s location.

“I’m sorry, Thes!” he yelled. “It’s just a painting. I like it much better with the sunshine you painted!” he pleaded. “Come on out. Let’s go home and finish it together!” The invitations went unanswered.

The faint unease in his gut turned into full-on terror when he saw it. On the trail ahead, almost on display, was a shoe.

He raced toward it and picked it up. Thesdon’s. It was marked with the same paint drops as his own, including fresh yellow ones. He instinctively circled the location for more clues.

There’s no blood, so it’s probably not an animal. Did someone take him? Or maybe he fell somewhere... But there’s nowhere to fall, no cliffs. Maybe he drowned? Where is he?

His thoughts were as erratic as his breathing.

I shouldn’t have screamed at him.

Doesn’t matter now. Get help.

“More eyes. Need more eyes.” His thoughts became audible as he spoke himself into clarity. He bolted back to get Kahriah and anyone else within earshot of their house.

He burst through the door and told his wife he hadn’t found their son, but had found his shoe. She immediately joined him, her anger replaced with the same fear as her husband. More time passed with no sign of the boy. It wasn’t long before word spread, and almost the entire town turned up to help. Most of them knew the boy, and everyone who did, quite liked him. He was polite and quick-witted, the kind of child grown men and women enjoyed talking to because he seemed intelligent beyond his age. The townsfolk formed a line and combed the forest in a formulaic way. At dusk, they lit torches and the intensity of the search increased.

As the morning sun broke over the horizon, the townsfolk started to come and go in shifts. They were tired, but still moved with a sense of duty to help the couple find their son. This routine continued for another two nights and days. Weary townsfolk were relieved with fresh ones, but as the likelihood of success waned, so, too, did the number of searchers.

The town had put everything they had into the search, but after six days, no one gave a boy of just eight years much chance of having survived. Grelda’s bones had been right, and there had been a chilling frost the last three nights. The search went on, covering more ground than any eight-year-old boy could have covered on his own, but it ultimately produced nothing more than the single shoe.

As days turned into weeks, the painter and his wife were the only ones left searching. The people of Kinney watched them enter the forest every morning with pity. Even more when they returned at dusk, haggard and exhausted. No one talked to them much because they didn’t know what to say. It seemed out of place to talk about the mundane, and too recent to talk about the boy. Their only interaction with the couple was to leave food on their doorstep most afternoons. They did talk amongst themselves, though, coming up with all sorts of wild theories about the boy’s disappearance.

“Demons appeared outta nowhere, grabbed him, and disappeared just as fast,” one said as an explanation for the lack of tracks and clues.

“No, it was a youngling dragon. Mistook him for a sheep and snapped him up in his talons. Boy was probably bent over tying his shoe,” another said.

Other theories included bandits, a bear, a werewolf, dark sorcerers, and spectres. There were all manner of suspicions, but none of them provided any useful insights into where the boy might be. Eventually, the snows came and quieted the land and the theories alike. The footprints of the sullen couple were the only signs of hope remaining in Kinney.

4. Spring

On the morning of the first fairypetal bloom, an illness overcame Kahriah.

“I can’t go today... I--” she said, lying in their bed.

“It’s all right. I’ll go,” the painter interrupted. He left the house as he had for the past several hundred days and ventured out to find his son. Just like every day before, he returned home at dusk with nothing to show for it.

Kahriah was sitting at their small table when he walked through the door that night, looking gaunt but not ill. She sat facing the front door, as if waiting for her husband to return. He explained he hadn’t found anything and sat down with her.

“I’m leaving,” she said after a haunting silence. The painter’s eyes drifted, and he noticed a bag packed with a few belongings. It stood out in the otherwise barren room. For the better part of a year, they had sold whatever they had to buy sustenance so they could continue the search. Every painting that had hung on the walls was now gone, sold to anyone who’d take them for whatever price they would pay. Just empty nails and a giant splatter of sunshine remained.

“He’s gone,” she said. “Call it a mother’s intuition...but I’ve known for some time.” Her voice faltered as she spoke. “I can’t stay here. With you, or in town. Around Kinney, I’m just the poor mother who lost her boy. And every time I look at you, I see him. I can’t do it anymore.” She leaned across the table and put her hand on his cheek.

Pity, blame, sadness, warmth, and resentment all resided in a single look. Kahriah had always said how much the painter and his son looked alike. This was the first time either had touched the other since she’d slapped that same cheek back in late autumn. The husband wanted to protest but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He respected her greatly, and knew she was probably right. Suffering the rest of her days, living with the reason for their son’s disappearance, was not something he wished for her. He slumped into his chair and cupped his head in his hands. Kahriah wiped a single tear from her face and left. She was only a short distance down the road when she heard a cry of agony from behind her.

He frantically looked around the house before finding a blank canvas tucked between two cabinets. He yanked it from its nook and slapped it onto his easel. In the next cabinet were his paints and brushes. They hadn’t been touched since his masterpiece. Half-finished premium paints weren’t worth much in a small village like Kinney, or he’d have sold those, too. He thrust the paint on the table and angrily poured his palette. A painting was started for the first time in over half a year, though it didn’t seem like he himself was painting. It was his arm holding the brush, but something else was guiding it. It was similar to the trance he’d felt when he’d painted his masterpiece, but this time, it was a different sensation. Darker.

In a couple of hours, his work was complete and he sat back down in the chair. The brush fell out of his hand onto the floor while he stared in disbelief. There on the smallish canvas was the pristine pond glimmering opposite the ominous clouds, either creeping in or retreating. It wasn’t just similar; it was identical. Every stroke in the same place, the contrast of light and dark captured expertly, just like it was before.

How can that be? It was a masterpiece... You don’t get two, let alone do the same one twice...

It wasn’t a masterpiece, you fraud. It was no better than some huckster at a market.

An anger, similar to the one that had sent Thesdon running, filled the man. The hearth fire roared when the broken canvas was cast into it. Then it was gone.

The house was uncomfortably silent when he awoke the next day. After a few seconds of rummaging, he found another blank canvas stuffed under his bed and prepared his palette like the night before. He wasn’t in control, and after a few hours, he sat gobsmacked in front of another copy of the original.

His masterpiece, the culmination of his years of toil, experimentation, and honing his technique, had just been recreated two days in a row. It tore him up inside to look at the piece. He felt shame for being so proud of something that wasn’t miraculous. Guilt for taking Kahriah’s life away from her, through no fault of her own. Deep, burning regret for Thesdon.

5. Umlom

The painter made one last, long brush stroke on the canvas to smooth the pond’s reflection of the tumultuous sky above, though he found no joy in its completion. For nearly five years, creating this familiar picture had become a torturous routine. Looking at it no longer elicited any of the conflicting emotions from when he’d first painted it. He knew what direction the clouds were going.

He could more or less paint it with his eyes closed. Despite the bathetic completion of the work, the painter still moved with care as he lifted it. His walls were now crowded with replicas of the pond, the clouds, and the previously uncertain storm. The only abstention was his signature. Otherwise, each was a near perfect facsimile of the one before it. Each ready to receive the sun Thesdon had so innocently added to the original.

“Another masterpiece,” he said to himself as a matter of fact. He had indeed run out of room on the walls and leaned the canvas up against a cabinet. The only piece of wall not covered by a replica was the giant splatter of golden-yellow paint. The canvas-covered walls had come to feel like a prison cell, and the yellow paint was evidence of his transgression.

With the day’s masterpiece dried and his brushes and paints ready for the next painting, he set about his puttering for the day. His wife’s words still rang in his ears. He’s gone... He knew she was probably right, but he was unable to move on. The odds his son was alive somewhere were unlikely, but he’d spend the rest of the day poring over different routes in his notebook.

The painter had long since stopped his daily treks into the woods near his house; every square inch of forest had been covered many times over. His search radius had expanded further across Umlom, where he’d first discovered the phenomenon of his perplexing headaches.

Uncertain of their cause, he attempted different routes, trying to find one where he didn’t feel like he was being pushed back or pulled home. He wasn’t sure which it was, a push or a pull, only that he hadn’t found a way to extend the search for his son into other realms. Even parts of Umlom were unavailable to him. Despite the helpless trials, the man still held out hope.

It was shortly after Kahriah left that he first discovered his tether. He’d heard a mage was in Susnakuni in the neighbouring realm of TidTid. It was a rare occurrence and an opportunity to discuss his masterpiece condition with someone who might understand. Mages didn’t take appointments, but the painter would think of a way to be seen on the road. He readied Tolo and pushed her as fast as he could, for once, putting her to the test. She held strong for several hours, but it was her rider who ultimately failed.

West of Inrunson, about an hour outside of town, his head was consumed by throbbing pain as if someone was scraping the inside of his skull. He pulled the reins, doing everything he could to stay on his horse. Tolo responded quickly to the command and pivoted before trotting back in the direction from which they had come. With each retraced step by Tolo, the pain subsided in the painter. Bewildered, he turned Tolo around again and started back toward Susnakuni. Within strides of where it had started before, the agony resumed.

On his next attempt, he lashed himself to Tolo, took her back about fifty yards from the boundary of pain, and brought her to a hard gallop. He lowered his head to her neck, closed his eyes, and braced.

He awoke sometime later, still strapped to Tolo, who was dutifully transporting him back towards Kinney.

After that, he repeated the experiment in every direction with the same results. On several occasions he’d even hired skiffs, but the sea offered no exit from his confines either. Neither the terrain, time of day, mode of transport, nor the weather made any difference. For over four years, the painter’s systematic experiments yielded nothing except the circular shape of his prison. Despite the wide variety of routes, he always stopped in the same five towns and returned home with the same painting materials. He tried to fight the urge to paint, but he couldn’t help himself. It was either an act of self-atonement or a feeble call to his son to finish it.

It typically took him about a month to use up his supplies, which served as his calendar, marking the time for travel.

The closer he got to travelling, the further he pushed the words of his wife from his mind. They interfered with his futile optimism and pragmatic cartography. In the moments leading up to a trip, he believed he might learn something. A note. A conversation. An odd look from a stranger. An opening in his boundary. A change in the nature of the headaches. Anything.

6. The Letter

On the final leg of another journey, with the evening light fading, the painter made his way down the hard, packed road that would take him home. As he approached, he saw his neighbour in the front yard tending to her vegetables.

Odd time of day to be gardening...

Normally he would go out of his way to avoid an interaction such as this, but she lived next door and he couldn’t go undetected if Grelda was outside. He readied himself for conversation.

“Hiya, Paint,” she said gleefully. The painter should have been used to it, but he felt his eye twitch and his lip snarl.

“Good evening, Grelda,” he replied politely after allowing for a reset of his facial expression. Like most of his life of late, everything seemed to have happened before. Grelda ignored the awkward greeting and revealed the reason for her late-night adventures in horticulture.

“There was quite the rider waiting on you earlier today. He banged on your door, but I told him you were out, likely not back till past dark,” Grelda said, giddy with excitement and curiosity.

She doesn’t miss anything, does she?

The painter was once again perturbed both by how predictable his trips were, and how precise Grelda was in her estimation of them.

“He was quite the specimen. Tall as oak. And his horse!” she exclaimed, looking skyward. “A beautifully pale creature. White as milk. The man and his horse were both outfitted like nothing I’ve ever seen. All his rigging was gold. His armour was brilliant shining silver. He wore a deep hood, though. Couldn’t get a look at his face. Not sure why you’d ride around in that sort of regalia and hide your face.” She laughed and then took a much-needed breath, hoping the intermission would compel the painter to fill it with details. She was left wanting though, as the painter got lost in his own thoughts.

Grelda went on describing the brilliant white rider, though the painter paid her little attention as he unpacked from his trip. He turned to walk around back to stable Tolo for the night. Having been her neighbour for fifteen years, he knew Grelda wasn’t about to stop. He patted Tolo on her neck as they started walking.

“Probably a mistake,” was his only offering. “Well, goodnight, Grelda. I’ll be turning in for the night.”

There’s no reason for anyone of import to call on me.

Just as he was about to slip from Grelda’s view, she continued.

“Not so fast,” Grelda scolded him pleasantly, shuffling towards him. “The rider left this for you.”

Grelda handed the painter an envelope. The seal was vibrant purple and the symbol was like nothing he had seen before.

He scratched his head and again said goodnight to Grelda, who lingered, expecting more. He turned and walked Tolo around back. If he’d been paying attention, he might have heard Grelda huff and grumble before shuffling back to her house.

He sat down at his table and inspected the letter before opening it. The material was soft white, and even as a purveyor of the visual arts, he couldn’t make out what it might be. He carefully sliced open the envelope and found a note with just one line of text.

Check the spot where you keep your last original piece.

The blood drained from his face.

How could they know about that? And where I keep it?

He stood slowly and moved towards the far side of the room. The now solitary man who’d spent the last five years by himself, suddenly didn’t feel he was alone. He moved a bag to one side, pushed a wooden chair to the other, and removed a loose floorboard near the corner of the house. Reaching inside, he pulled out a rolled canvas. Emotion poured over him before he could unfurl it. He held one end with his left hand and slowly worked the roll upward with his right. As he went, the familiar painting of the pond with the gloomy sky began to appear. However, on this one, there were large swaths of yellow paint, more vibrant on the picture he held than on the wall, though they were of the same jar. This painting had been safely stashed away from the ravages of time for nearly five years. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at it. It was ugly and beautiful and comforting and agonising all at the same time. It had stayed on the easel until long after his wife had left. When he’d finally taken it down, he’d carefully removed it from the frame, rolled it, and stashed it safely under the floorboards. Though he never looked at it, the painting was his most treasured possession.

Still lost in his emotions, he remembered why he was looking in this spot: the letter with the unfamiliar seal. He stuck his hand in further and fished around. The first thing his fingers met was a plush-velvet purse full of lords. With the drawstring loosened, he peered inside. There was a kingly sum and many times more than he would earn in a lifetime of message board labours. All of a sudden, he felt quite strange, having such a fortune. With his shoulder nearly level with the surface of the floor, he found another letter, this one with the same strange, purple seal. Sitting at the table, he opened the envelope and found another note inside.

Greetings,

This letter serves as notice that you have been officially commissioned. The sum you find yourself with represents one third of the total remuneration. The final two thirds will be paid upon your completion.

We will send a ranger for you tomorrow. Be packed for a long excursion and be ready to depart just after dawn. There’s little time to waste.

The letter wasn’t signed, and other than the purple seal, there was nothing to reveal its sender.

“A commission?” he said to himself. “Who in their right mind would hire me? To paint ponds?” He went back over every word.

You have been officially commissioned.

We will send a ranger for you tomorrow.

The more he thought about it, the less he felt like he had a choice in the matter. The combination of the wording and the fact they seemed to know very private details of his life made this seem more an order than a request.

The word ‘we’ had him perplexed.

We will send a ranger for you tomorrow.

He looked around the house at the countless copies of the same painting. Each was a memory of his very last moment of lived happiness, the exact moment when the dark clouds revealed their direction and came straight towards him.

If they know about the painting, they know I’m not well. They know everything, and they still want to hire me. Who are these people? Who is ‘we’?

He tried to come to a sensible conclusion. Pacing the room, his thoughts moved from the clandestine nature of the job to where it may take him.

They’re sending a ranger...

His first feelings of reluctance and confusion subsided, and he was filled with an unsettled feeling. The term “ranger” came with many implications, but leaving his boundary was the first that came to mind. Everything was a complete mystery, but it offered him a new approach to break his confinement.

He resolved to go.

Already packed from the trip he had just returned from, he grabbed the satchel his wife hadn’t taken and tossed in what few items and food remained in his possession. He thought back to the day his wife left and her heartbreaking stoicism. With thoughts of his former family, he carefully rolled his son’s painting and reverently placed it in the bag. The idea other people knew about the floorboards made him uneasy, and if he was to be gone on a long excursion, he wasn’t about to leave it behind.

He surveyed the house once more. The chair in the corner, the kitchen table, and hundreds of masterpieces were all that remained. He thought about hiding his work, but there was nowhere to put them. It had been a long day, an intense evening, and his body called for rest. Despite the mystery the next day held, he lay down and drifted to sleep.

7. The Departure

“Good morning,” he said with more nervousness than excitement. He’d heard the wagon wheels coming down the road and had made his way through his front door. With a bag in each hand, he was carrying what amounted to nearly everything he owned. It didn’t matter if it was a request or a threat; he was aching with the prospect of leaving.

The two-horse wagon was driven by a single man, though the ranger was not dressed nearly as well as the messenger Grelda had described the day before. His clothes were almost entirely black; they were quality garments, but clearly made for utility as opposed to pageantry. He didn’t appear to be overly tall, and seemed to the painter to be of average build. The ranger didn’t reply from under his dark hood.

“What’s your name?” the painter asked.

In place of an answer, the ranger nodded, motioning for the painter to climb up to the seat. The wagon was fairly simple, but the horses were quite magnificent. They were as black as obsidian, with white accenting their eyes and feet. Each one stood a full head taller than Tolo, and would certainly outrun her. The painter tucked his few belongings--careful with the bag containing the masterpiece--into the bed of the wagon and obliged the ranger’s gesture. There was little hesitation from the painter, but he motioned to the ranger he needed a minute. He darted behind his house, untied Tolo, and led her across the yard to Grelda’s. Unsure when he might see her again, he gave her a loving pet on the nose and gently scratched her ears. With Tolo secure, he walked between the houses to the waiting ranger. Unsurprisingly, Grelda was in her doorway, taking in the second strange visitor in as many days.

“Grelda, I’ll be gone for a few days. Can you see to Tolo?” he asked as he was making his way to the wagon. In that moment, he wished he’d remembered the dragonleaf, but knew he could count on Grelda to take care of his equine companion. He didn’t linger long enough to give Grelda much say in the matter, and quickly climbed up onto the wagon. The ranger gave a tug of the reins and they were off.

This is going to drive her mad, the painter thought to himself in one of the few moments of levity he’d experienced in years.

I’ll regale her with stories of my trip when I return, he promised in a moment of fondness for Grelda.

After an hour on the road, the silence started to gnaw at him.

“So, where are we going?” he asked the ranger, who again offered no response. “Look, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m troubled. I can’t paint and I can’t go very far,” he confessed. “They seem to have gone to a lot of effort to come to me...” He stopped mid-sentence and swallowed hard.

They seem to have gone to a lot of effort to come to me... he repeated in his mind. Then it came together in a flash of clarity.

They want me precisely because I am troubled. They want a painter with nothing to lose... His mind raced now.

Do they want me to creep into a werewolf den to paint them in their natural habitat? Or maybe the spectres of the Omen Graves in Goshshkug? Or have sorcerers sit for portraits in the Temple of Dread?

But they must know I can’t leave…

The painter didn’t say anything for quite some time after that realisation. He quietly stared at the road ahead, trying to puzzle together the mysterious task before him. It was nearly sunfall, and he had spent most of the day quietly thinking.

He was off in his own thoughts when the ranger took the wagon off the road and brought it to a stop. Though he had lost track of time, the painter thought they must be about halfway to Tunum.

Damn it. I should have been paying more attention…

While the painter was working out their location, the ranger reached under the cover in the back of the wagon, pulled out an impressive bow, and slung a quiver over his head. The bow was black as night and gave off no shine whatsoever. He walked softly into the field of tall grass lining the road to the east. The field of light golden grass was moving ever so slightly in the late afternoon breeze. Without taking his attention off the field in front of him, the ranger pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and pulled the string back. The singular fluid motion was a sight to behold. His bow panned slowly to the right, and the ranger let loose the arrow.

A soft squeak came from out in the grass, but it wasn’t clear what the ranger had bagged. Just moments after the sound, the ranger had nocked, pulled, and let loose a second arrow, which was met with another squeak. Then the ranger lowered his bow, slung it over his head, and marched out into the grass. At roughly a hundred yards, he bent over and picked up his two trophies. As he walked back, the painter could make out two fully grown false hares. They roosted in fields and were nearly impossible to see during the day, let alone at a hundred yards.

Those shots were not made by an amateur.

The ranger motioned to the painter to make a camp while he went to clean their game for supper. An hour later, they were eating roasted false hare and sitting silently, the fire and the odd bone being spit out the only sounds. The way the ranger ate was unsettling; he didn’t seem to consider his food or enjoy it. After finishing their meal, the ranger stared into the waning flame for quite some time. Eventually he lay down, his back to the painter, and slept.

8. The Bookbinder

The next morning, the two men fell into a routine. The ranger spoke through gestures and nods. The painter obeyed, and would, on occasion, ask a question that would go unanswered. He hoped the ranger might slip up and speak, but it wasn’t to be. They climbed into the wagon and were off.

For the next several hours, the painter tried just once to engage his companion in discussion, but to no avail, so he sat quietly, trying not to think of his aching backside. His mind tried to chart their course while his body shifted from side to side, but neither endeavour was successful.

At some point in the late morning, the ranger once again pulled the wagon off the road. He reached deep into his robe and produced a small lord purse, then pushed it into the painter’s chest. He then motioned with a nod toward a tree some twenty yards off the road.

Even if he doesn’t talk, he sure gets his point across.

He took the purse and hopped down off the wagon, much to the relief of his backside. Heading toward the tree, he tried to imagine what he was about to procure.

Maybe ten minutes later, he heard the sounds of a rider approaching. The painter squinted to get a better look, and as they approached, the painter’s fears abated. The rider was forty-ish, wearing spectacles, and was dressed well enough not to be a labourer, but certainly wasn’t highborn either. She was rather nondescript, but entirely familiar. To the painter, she looked as unremarkable as one could be, and more importantly, not a threat.

The rider pulled her horse to a stop, dismounted, and led the stallion by the reins towards the painter.

She’s a bookbinder, the painter realised.

The short woman extended an arm up to pat her horse on the neck as she walked.

“Sorry for insisting we meet out here. My instructions were pretty clear,’’ she said to the painter as she brushed herself off and reached up to unlash a saddlebag. “If anyone in town had seen this book...” She didn’t finish the thought. It seemed she thought the painter could assume the rest.

“What kind of book is it?” the painter asked.

“The kind you don’t show to anyone, hence why we needed to meet out here,” she continued hurriedly. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to get back.” The painter offered her the lord purse and the bookbinder handed the painter a large tome, wrapped and bound.

Of course it’s wrapped.

Its weight surprised the painter, and his inattention nearly caused him to drop it.

“Listen, stop by my brother’s shop in Kidkam,” the bookbinder said. “It’s about a two-hour ride from here. Three in a wagon. You’ll know you’ve come to it when you see the large, purple-leafed tree at the fork. You can’t miss it. Just keep this book hidden from prying eyes.”

He thought back and remembered the large, violet juniper from when he was a boy travelling across the realm of Zhuasschazh with his father. It grew sideways and had stretched out almost fifty-feet then. Forty years later, he could only imagine how impressive it must be. Kidkam was the second northernmost town in the realm neighbouring Umlom to the southeast. The painter was stunned, realising he hadn’t left Umlom in almost four decades. He thought longingly of his previous life in Kinney with Kahriah and Thesdon. There was little need to leave, and it was only after his son had disappeared that he had actually tried to. His thoughts were cut short by the bookbinder.

“Finally, Illuminator,” the woman started with a final instruction.

Illuminator? That’s a new one, the painter thought, but offered no reaction to the strange moniker.

“You can visit any bookbinder across the realms and they’ll resupply you, no questions. They’re expecting you. We’re not a formidable bunch, but we do pledge to the idea of recorded knowledge. You’ll not find us in every town, but where you do, you’ll be well taken care of. Now I really must be on my way. I’ve a very long journey of my own. Good luck.” She leapt onto her horse, turned, and broke into a gallop down the road in the direction the wagon had just come from.

It seems she knows more than me. Why didn’t I ask her more questions?

The painter scolded himself and put the heavy parcel under his arm, turning back toward the wagon.

“Can I open it?” the painter asked. Knowing he wasn’t going to get an audible response, he looked to find the ranger giving him a definitive “no” with the subtle sway of his head. Unsurprised, the painter stowed the book in the back with his other belongings and among the assortment of crates.

Unmarked crates, the bow of a realm-class archer, and now a tome of complete mystery. What other secrets does this man have in the bed of his wagon?

He was inclined to ask, but he knew the response already.

They’ll tell me what is going on when they’re ready, I suppose.

The ranger and the painter rode in complete silence for the remainder of the day until the ranger pulled the horses to the side of the road and began to unhitch them. The painter did some arithmetic based on what the bookbinder had said.

Three hours to Kidkam on a wagon... We must be less than an hour now, but we’re stopping here... This is very near the end of my tether...

“Making camp for the night?” the painter asked, but he already knew the answer. In an effort to be helpful, the painter gathered some sticks from nearby and arranged them to make a fire. In complete silence, the two men set up a rudimentary camp and ate, this time packed provisions instead of wild game.

I don’t think I’ve even seen this man’s eyes yet...

Possible explanations for this strange adventure played out in his mind, but none seemed entirely plausible. He drifted to sleep in spite of his racing mind.

9. The Parting

The next morning, he was awoken with a stern kick to the ribs. Peering over him was the ranger. The morning sun was right behind his head, blinding the painter and spoiling the best chance he had to look the man in the face. He coughed gently, stood up, and stretched. The ranger had already hitched the horses back to the wagon and was climbing to the seat. He nodded in a “come here” motion, but the painter waved a single finger and went to relieve himself behind a tree. As if trying to postpone his imminent encounter with the painful boundary, he took his time. The meaningless delay stalled nothing, and he was soon seated in the wagon as well. They were off, the ranger knowing exactly where and what they were doing, the painter not having the slightest idea of either. He had tried to go to Kidkam about three years ago, and again about a year ago, but had been incapacitated both times. No matter how slowly the wagon travelled, he knew he was close.

They rolled along slowly for another forty-five minutes and the painter began to sweat. Not from any actual pain, but from the expectation of it. Grimacing in anticipation, the painter clutched the edge of his seat, awaiting the blaze of agony.

Another fifteen minutes passed with the painter feeling like the wagon seat might splinter in his grasp. His brow glistened and his jaw ached from clenching. Eventually, they crossed a small bridge spanning a stony-bottomed creek. The bridge was unfamiliar.

Have I crossed? Surely it couldn’t be this easy. He turned his head, looking anxiously back down the road.

For five years he’d been rendered immobile by piercing headaches if he tried to stray too far from his home, and today, with the ranger, he was able to casually ride through his invisible prison walls with no issue.

I’m finally free... For the first time since his son had bolted out the front door, the painter felt optimistic.

His mind raced with nervous excitement about the world outside Umlom. Of the places he’d read about, he wondered where the ranger might take him. The Doppelganger houses could be found across the continents and were notoriously reluctant to welcome outsiders. Maybe they’d travel to the mysterious wandering towns that flew the Celestial Banners and didn’t show up on any map. Perhaps they’d visit the swamplands of the poison houses.

Just as the bookbinder had estimated, they quickly came upon the violet juniper the painter remembered from his childhood. It towered sideways, its stunning purple leaves creating a shadow over the fork in the road.

“Hey, there’s the tree. Let’s go into town and say hi to the bookbinder’s brother,” the painter suggested. The ranger seemed to ignore the request, but turned in the direction of town.

Ha! Maybe I’m finally getting through to him!

Just as they were about to pass through the stone archway that framed the road into Kidkam, the ranger pulled over alongside the town’s walls.

“What are we doing?” the artist asked with a tone of irritation. The ranger paid no mind to the painter and began to unhitch a horse. He rearranged the shaft assembly, centering the remaining horse. The other he took to a post near the archway, wrapping the reins around it. The painter followed the ranger and sensed this was to be their parting.

10. The Illuminator

“What about the commission? You haven’t said a word to me!” he argued, beginning to feel uneasy and getting louder. “What am I supposed to paint!?”

The ranger took two saddlebags from the back of the wagon, threw them on the ground, and pulled a dagger from beneath his robe. It was ornate, and clearly well maintained.

Divine’s sake, I didn’t notice that before.

The ranger took the blade and slid it under the lid of one of the wooden boxes in the back of the wagon, prying it off. The painter was relieved to know the dagger’s intended use. With an open hand, the ranger gestured toward the boxes. The painter approached. Inside were glass jars of the silkiest, most vibrant hues of oil paint he’d ever seen. He grabbed one, holding it up to the sun to admire its opacity. His delight quickly turned to confusion, but he stuffed the saddlebags with supplies, anyway. The ranger opened another crate containing a palette and the finest horsehair brushes the painter had ever seen, birch handled and clamped with silver.

If the gods painted, they’d use one of these.

While the painter grabbed as many as he could and stuffed the bags, the ranger tossed the painter’s sparse luggage on the ground. The painter’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the satchel with his original masterpiece hit the dirt. He shot the ranger a look, and any fear he’d had of this mysterious ranger evaporated for a second. His face began to flush and his eye twitched, but a look at the dagger kept his canines at heel. He turned his attention back to the painting supplies and set them aside with more care than the ranger had shown. The ranger, successfully unloaded, adjusted his robe to the side and twirled his brilliant dagger back into its sheath. Remarkable proficiency with at least two weapons had now been displayed.

“What am I to paint?!” the painter asked, his arms open in exasperation. The ranger tossed the heavy book and it thudded against the painter’s chest. He did well to catch it, and himself, before either fell. He laid it carefully beside the saddlebags while the ranger climbed aboard the now single horse wagon, and began to trot away. Still confused, the painter jogged to catch the wagon and grabbed the shoulder of the ranger. The ranger’s head swung around and his hood pulled back just enough to reveal his face for the first time since they’d met. His skin was a greyish tone and his eyes were pure black. No whites or pupils, just solid dark from lash to lash. The painter stumbled back. Either by chance or by intent, the sun caught the hilt of the ranger’s dagger and the painter took it as a sign to stand down. With hands raised in surrender, he started backward slowly.

The ranger reset his hood and pointed to the top of the stone archway. It was no engineering marvel; it was a run-of-the-mill town arch with a Banner hanging from it. In fact, the arch looked like it might fall down if something bumped into it. Other than its mediocre construction, this one was like nearly every entrance to every town the painter had been to, as small a sample as it was. The ranger turned his head back to the road and flicked the reins.

The painter turned back to the archway and collected his saddlebags and the book. With his back leaning against the wall, he took the tome into his lap while the ranger disappeared around a bend.

The painter cut the binding and peeled back the wrapping. Inside was an impressive tome, easily a thousand pages of precisely cut parchment. It was bound by a leather he had never seen before, and had ornate inlays of gold, silver, and titanium. There were even a few metals he couldn’t identify.

Still unclear about his task, he furrowed his brow and opened the cover.

The Banners of the Realms


He read on.


A visual guide to all twenty-five thousand houses, towns, and families, great and small.


At the bottom of the page,

Illuminated by Lohmen Dreisler

He hadn’t seen his name written in years, as he no longer bothered to sign his masterpieces. He flipped to the next page and found it nearly blank except for evenly spaced numbers. At the top left of the first page was the number 00001. He took a deep breath, looked up at the stone archway, and had a chuckle to himself.

You’re not painting the archway, you dolt. You’re painting the Banner.

He flipped to the last page. 25000.

You’re to paint all of them.

Clarity and recollection overcame the painter. The handsome sum in his floorboards and the promise of two-thirds more wasn’t his biggest commission. It was several years’ salary.

The book sat blank in his lap for some time. He hadn’t painted anything new in over five years and wasn’t sure if he could, let alone travel entire continents by himself. But up until this morning, he hadn’t been able to travel this far, either. Whatever had been troubling him, whatever had tethered him, must have been released. He was finally free.

His thoughts turned to his son.

I’ll be able to search everywhere...

He still hadn’t decided whether his commissioners were benevolent in granting him the means to search for his son, or vultures preying on his situation. He was certain they knew of his loss, but it didn’t matter to the painter-turned-illuminator, for he had renewed hope.

He found a suitable rock in view of the Banner and grabbed the saddlebags filled with paint. He picked out the required colours and poured small drabs onto his palette. Then he dipped a fine brush and began to paint the Banner of Nymph Skull Crown. House 00001, a single-point Banner with a field of bright gold.

The Painter

(A Loot Story) Part 2

11: The Apprentice

Lohmen waved a hand at the Nymph, Skull and Crown and admired the tome’s first entry. It was unlike his previous works, but being able to paint something different was a relief. Most importantly, it felt like a step closer to Thesdon.

The task was immense, and he knew it, but that didn’t matter. It was a chance to search, and he’d paint the Banners thrice if it meant finding his boy. Lohmen pushed the enigmatic scope of the task from his mind, letting hope and opportunity wash over him.

One final brush stroke to her long, flowing hair was all it needed. Profiled and looking dexter, the mythical nymph reigned impassively over the skull and crown below her.

When the paint was dry, he closed the book of Banners and set about reorganising his luggage. He stuffed as much as possible into the saddle bags to make room in his large rucksack for the weighty tome. Next, he tucked his smaller soft leather bag, the one with Thesdon’s masterpiece, into the larger bag. Finally, the pragmatic traveller scribbled a note into his cartography book, now a log of progress.

After lashing his saddlebags to the horse and throwing his pack over his shoulder, he led his new mount through the gates into town. Meandering along the wide streets of Kidkam, a jaunty Lohmen saw the village with fresh eyes. A wide-eyed man with a big pack would appear to anyone as an intrepid traveller but little did they know he was only a couple days’ ride from home. Though each building, person and smell were familiar, they were delightfully foreign to him.

Kidkam was a bustling town nestled at the end of an inlet, like Onlomum, but too remote and shallow to be a port. The briny water did have its benefits; Genesis Adventurers first discovered the region and found rich pockets of pearl containing mollusks in the Grasp Fjord. The iridescent treasures would have attracted more speculators were it not for the Kraken paralarvae.

Eventually, the bookbinder’s shop revealed itself, and Lohmen tied his horse outside. A small man looked up from his work and greeted Lohmen as he entered. A younger man of similar stature huddled over his work and paid no attention.

“Hello…” Lohmen started with an unsure, almost nervous tone to his voice. “Your sister recommended I come by your shop.”

The bookbinder removed his glasses and squinted at Lohmen, who plopped his hefty pack on the counter.

“You’re the illuminator!”

Lohmen looked around the empty shop and raised an eyebrow at the man. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“What’s that sister of mine up to these days? Let me guess. Secrets, cloaks and daggers? Ha!”

“I didn’t see the dagger, but yes, actually….” Lohmen started.

“Don’t pay her any mind. True, you need to keep the tome away from prying eyes, but you’re fine to speak freely among us bookbinders.”

Lohmen fiddled awkwardly with his ring. “Say, do you remember hearing about a boy from Umlom that went missing?”

Off to the side, the apprentice stopped working, and there was a silence before the Master Bookbinder spoke. “I did, yes, must have been what… four years ago?”

“It’s been five. Yes.” Lohmen pressed. “Do you remember anything?”

The bookbinder furrowed his brow and frowned. “No. I remember hearing of it, but…awful thing that. To lose a child.” He cupped his chin with his hand.

“Alright. Well, thank you, if you think of something or hear anything, please let me know.” Lohmen turned slightly but paused. “Your sister, Tomeeera, was it? Where was she going?”

“Only the Divine know. She’s always off on some mission or another. She’s an emissary of the bookbinders, helps organise things for fancy and powerful folk. I suppose delivering books might be dull if not for her imagination.” He laughed. “Do you need anything else?”

Tomeera’s promise rattled in Lohmen’s mind.

“How about some of those birch brushes and a jar of golden yellow.” Lohmen took out his lord purse and palmed a few coins.

“Ohh! I almost forgot!” The bookbinder said excitedly while grabbing a stool. “By the foxes… you’re to have all you need free of lords, and you’ve no way to identify yourself?” He chuckled as he climbed the stool and retrieved an item from behind a stack of books. “Tomeera, too busy for her own good.” He descended and presented the wrapped object. He pulled the burlap fabric away, revealing a cold, iron pin shaped like a palette. “Pin this on the shoulder of your hood, painter, and you’ll be looked after by any bookbinder you meet.”

“Thank you,” Lohmen said, admiring the detail of the miniature version of the tool he’d used earlier that day. “But I’m not a painter….”

“Well, your clothes betray you, my friend.” The apprentice turned to face Lohmen and placed six brushes on the counter. His boss placed the jar of golden yellow paint beside them while the apprentice gestured at Lohmen’s trousers. It was faint, but Lohmen recalled the first time they had this exchange.

“Yes…I guess they do. Don’t you work in Munum?”

“I do, but I’m an apprentice. My family runs all the binder shops in this corner of the Realms. This is my uncle’s, and it’s my father’s in Munum. I split time between all of them to learn the craft. It’ll be years before I shed that title, and decades before I’m a master bookbinder with a shop of my own. Until then, I’m in a new town every few days.” He offered much more detail than Lohmen had expected.

Lohmen nodded. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

“No worry. It’s Yerik. Before you leave town, you should stop at The Heavy Head. They’ve boarchops on the menu. I’ll join you in an hour when I’ve finished up here.”

The apprentice’s invitation was unexpected but he considered the suggestion. With the brushes and paint stored in his pack, he bid them farewell.

Just before shutting the door, Lohmen looked back. “Heavy Head, right?”

12: The Heavy Head

Lohmen spent the next hour or so taking in Kidkam. The new people and buildings should have excited him, but his thoughts kept circling back to the meal with the apprentice. They could have dined together any number of times over the past five years. Why now? Perhaps Yerik knew his commissioners.

To help pass the time, Lohmen perused produce carts and engaged in light conversation with the merchants, something he had avoided in recent years. Their wares were no different than other towns in Umlom, but on this particular day they felt exotic.

“Is this drakebud?” Lohmen asked the spice pedlar. He brought a bunch of short bushy leaves with small, orange flowers to his nose.

“You’ve a good eye! Main ingredient in dragonleaf, but careful with that! Too much and b’fore long the Dragon’s Ass will getchya.” The rotund man replied with a chuckle.

“Understood,” Lohmen replied, smiling. Kahriah had loved making spicy stews but went easy on the Dragon Leaf; her ancient southern upbringing made her more accustomed to exotic flavours than Lohmen’s northern constitution.

Eventually, the hour of the boarchop arrived, and Lohmen made his way to the tavern.

The Heavy Head was spotted quickly enough; the sign depicted a woman wearing an oversized crown canting to the side, though she looked more jovial above the door of a tavern than her stoic counterpart at the town’s gates.

Lohmen pushed through the doors and headed for the middle of the room. His custom for over half a decade. No sooner had he sat than the apprentice walked by and nodded toward a more secluded table in the corner. Lohmen stood and followed. They made odd dinner fellows, the tall and slim, the shaggy painter, and the short, plump and balding bookbinder.

After sitting quietly for a few awkward moments, Yerik broke the silence.

“So what way are you heading? Have you figured out an itinerary of sorts?”

Rusty in the art of simple conversation, Lohmen responded, “I’m working my way east, painting the Banners as I go. I figured I’d try and get to the eastern ports first.”

“I’m on an eastern route as well. I’ll head as far as lu Kipa and then work my way back before starting it all over again.” The apprentice said before the pair fell into another silence.

“I know it’s been five years, but my son….” Lohmen struggled with the next part. “If he’s alive, my son, he was taken. If he was taken, they’d have to leave by sea. This continent isn’t that big.”

The apprentice just nodded solemnly.

“Can I ask why you wanted to meet?” Lohmen asked, more hushed than he had spoken previously.

“I was told….er, heard about a grand commission. They don’t really tell an apprentice much. But then you showed up, the painter whose son disappeared.”

Lohmen was captivated and just stared at Yerik.

“I knew Kahriah.”

Lohmen froze and looked at the apprentice. “How?” A single word laced with confusion.

“She and I had become friends over the years. I never met Thesdon, but Kahriah would always check in when she was in town.”

“She had that effect on everyone, I think.” Lohmen smiled longingly. “You said you heard about the commission….” Lohmen steered the conversation.

“Yes. The commission seems simple enough. A grand tome of census.”

“I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve only just….” Lohmen trailed off, unsure how to explain everything that had happened over the past five years. “What did you hear about it?”

“Not much, I’m afraid, but I saw Tomeera meeting with a mage a few months ago. I was heading back to Munum, and they couldn’t see me. The mage handed Tomeera a package and then departed. The mage just upped and vanished.”

Yerik saw the look on his companion’s face and fell silent. The pragmatic painter who spent five years trying to connect dots had just been given another.

“Maybe if you figure out who the commission is, they can help you find Thesdon. Book Binding is a modest trade; tomes like this aren’t requested often. Somebody should know something. Let me ask around the shops and see what I can uncover. No harm in that. We should be in Ponshmun in Kunnan at the same time. We can catch up then.”

“Thank you,” Lohmen said sincerely. “The commission I…It has helped me branch out to find Thesdon, but I don’t have any clues. So truly, thank you.” He said with grateful sincerity.

“But why would you help me?” When Lohmen asked, a fond but worried look washed over Yerik’s face.

“Ten years ago, my newborn daughter was afflicted with ghoul pox. We hadn’t even given her a name yet. We thought…” He took a quick breath through his nose and paused for a moment. “Kahriah had been in town tending to an elder from one of the high families. As she was packing to leave town, I found her, and she agreed to come. She knew of the affliction and rode out. A few days later, she returned haggard but with herbs and plants I’d never seen before. Kahriah worked all night mixing, checking, mashing and giving my daughter all kinds of compounds and concoctions. My wife and I just prayed. The fever broke the next morning. Dawn is 11 now, and the happiest child you’ve ever seen.”

A father’s smile washed over Yerik’s face.

“Kahriah brought my girl back. Least I can do is ask a few questions on your behalf.”

Lohmen sat back in his chair. “I remember that trip. Or rather, I remember her being gone…she returned home and slept for two days. She told me of the young girl and asked if I could paint something for her to take the next time–”

“The Morning Sky,” the apprentice interrupted, “I think you called it. Sun breaking over the horizon. Violet, crimson and orange washed over the land. It’s beautiful. It’s been hung proudly in our house ever since.”

“I’m going to help. Without Dawn in my life…” the apprentice stopped himself. “I will help you find Thesdon.”

The two men got up, and Lohmen paid for their fare before Yerik could reach into his pockets.

“It’s the very least I can do.” Lohmen proffered to his dinner companion.

“That’s quite a sum you carry around, Lohmen. You should get to an iron bank.” Lohmen nodded at the suggestion.

Halfway to the door, a rather imposing patron bumped into Yerik, who was believably out of the man’s view. He was not quite as tall as Lohmen but dressed in worn plate and had a greatsword hanging at his hip.

“Watch it, you sarding dwarf.” The man said in a heinous tone.

“I’m not a dwarf. You bumped into me!” The apprentice rebutted nervously while the other man clenched his fist.

Lohmen put his left hand across Yerik’s shoulder, creating a barrier between him and the stranger, who immediately stepped back. Lohmen hardly gave off an imposing demeanour, but his presence seemed to tame the situation.

“Now, gentlemen, there’s no need for a fight,” Lohmen said, attempting to quell the situation before the big man could win any ensuing altercation.

The man looked at the hand and then at Lohmen.

“I’m sorry, brother, let the red runneth over you.” The stranger tipped his helm and let the two men pass. The apprentice and Lohmen glanced at each other in mild confusion before continuing to the door.

Outside, they shook hands and confirmed their meeting in Ponshmun in nine days. They’d meet at middleday, at the Bard & Bass. Lohmen looked to the setting sun and figured he’d be able to get halfway to the next town before moonrise.

The town’s message board called for a quick detour from his route just down the thoroughfare.

No longer looking for work, the weathered papers still held a faint chance of clues, but not this night. Having read everything, he returned to the bookbinders, where a gaunt old man sat in the dirt outside the closed-up shop.

“You alright, ser?” Lohmen asked him.

“Um-hum. A bit hungry, but no worse for wear.” Was his reply, smiling. Lohmen reached into his pouch, tossed the man double the meal cost, and pointed to the Heavy Head.

“Boarchops. They’re quite good.”

“Thank you, Stranger.” The man said with graciousness and esteem.

Lohmen readied his horse and prepared to ride east to the second Banner.

It would be just after dark when he made Kilgial, so he’d spend the night at the Inn and paint their Banner at first light.

The unfamiliar, unnamed horse trotted toward the town’s entrance with a gentle tap of the heels. Though his current mount was impressive, Lohmen thought longingly about Tolo, despite her comparative shortcomings. As the pair clopped along, the afternoon sun at their back, Lohmen couldn’t help but remember the day he got Tolo. He was lost in fond memories when a branch whipped across his cheek and snapped him back to the present. He’d have passed right under it on Tolo.

---

His path followed the southern coast through the rugged lowland realm of Lukos, before starting upland toward Zelzel-Mog and Likali. Those two realms bordered at Saltroar Point, a hazard-laden stretch of water that had claimed even skilled maritimers who sailed too close. The account had come from a chatty barman at the Long Shot tavern in bek-Rim. The town of bek-Rim was set inland, and looked like a quaint little fishing hamlet, though they flew three weapons on their Banner.

Lohmen recorded the house of Trident Catapult Morning Star on a green field with black trim into his tome. As the barman told it, large timbers from the surrounding forests were worked and formed to make the namesake war machines sought by armies from all over the continent. A quaint little fishing town with a booming industry of destruction nestled within. The sage snapper Lohmen ordered didn’t last as long as the oral history from the barman, but Lohmen found the story captivating. With a full belly and a new tale to think about on his travels, Lohmen mounted and set off to illuminate.

13: Three Fires

It must be close. He said it was in the valley around here.

Lohmen trotted along the dusty trail, and a town of sorts came out of hiding behind a ridge. Just like the barman in bek-Rim had promised, Kisilimli wasn’t so much a town but more of a campsite. The inland village was a stunningly broad collection of yurts only appreciated fully by soaring birds. His subject, the Banner of Fire Horse Fire, waved at him from a thick standard driven into the ground. Were it not for that, this place wouldn’t have had a definitive entrance at all.

“Hello!” said a happy child, around nine or ten-years-old, as he approached Lohmen.

“Hello. I believe I’ve arrived at the House of Fire Horse Fire. Am I correct?”

“Yes! Though we name ourselves Horse Two-Fires.” The young boy inspected Lohmen, his horse, and his bags as they exchanged pleasantries.

“This is an ancient house, right?” Lohmen recalled Kahriah telling him about the Ancient Banners. Any houses bearing only animals and items of the earth were the oldest houses, some with histories dating back thousands of years.

“Yesser, here since the Strangers. And long before the mythical or weapon houses.” He made a disapproving look as he mentioned the more modern Banners.

Lohmen recognized the look; Kahriah had the same disdain for the houses of the sixteen orders. He started, “My wife feels the same way. she–”

“Is she with you, too?” The question came before Lohmen could finish. The childlike innocence cut through him like a dagger.

“Just me today. But say, I’d like to paint your Banner in my book, if that’s all right?” Then he added, “I’ll be sure to mark its ancient status.” Lohmen smiled, and then reminded himself of warnings to keep the tome hidden.

He’s just a boy.

“Oh, yes, but make sure to capture the pride of the horse. I will inspect your work when you are done if you like.” The boy was delightfully precocious. Lohmen took a deep breath through his nose to abate emotion.

“Who should I ask for when I’m done?” Lohmen played along, forcing a smile despite enjoying the banter.

“My name is MoShar.” Before Lohmen could say anything else, the boy took off with a pack of other children darting through the yurts.

The house of Fire Horse Fire was his first Ancient Banner and, given its place on the standard, the first one he could see up close. There was no wear or fray. He tried to recall the previous thirty Banners, but they had been hung much higher on town and city gates. He didn’t recall any wear or age, but it hadn’t become apparent until he ran one through his fingers.

Peculiar.

With no stones or gates to rest upon, Lohmen sat cross-legged in front of the standard and prepared his tools. An hour later, he lowered his brush and blew softly onto the tome and its thirty-first addition, which yielded a proud smile on the face of its creator. He picked up the brush and added one more feature to the horse: a slight bend in his brow to signify the determined pride MoShar had required. Even with a well-defined subject, Lohmen found ways to infuse his imagination and talent. The pure satisfaction of his work never lasted long before it became sheepish approval laced with shame for letting himself enjoy something.

While waiting for his work to dry, he did some basic arithmetic in his head.

Banner thirty-one…of twenty-five thousand. I’ve been on the road for three days…

It will take…twenty-five-hundred days to paint them all…? That can’t be right.

He now had a sample, which was slower than he had initially estimated. Tomeera had said there was no time to waste, but it hardly made sense to rush such a great task. He pondered her haste while closing the tome and safely slid it back into his pack. Lohmen had settled into an old routine: reconnaissance under the guise of dining post-illumination.

Every Banner is one step closer to Thesdon.

And Kahriah.

And Tolo.

Since Lohmen had packed all his belongings and broken the tether, the commission was an opportunity for him. A chance to search the world for his loved ones.

If I deviate from my course, what’ll become of me?

Will they send that mute Ranger to twirl his dagger in front of me and set me back to task?

Another question for the man with too few answers.

The community didn’t have a bookbinder, a tavern, or any discernible buildings, just the circles of yurts. They were arranged around a core where Lohmen found a massive fountain-like structure that would look at home in even the grandest of cities. It wasn’t carved from marble or twilight quartz but made from countless stones of varying sizes, skillfully arranged into a communal structure. And it wasn’t water in the fountain: it was fire. Not a giant inferno, but a collection of many low fires burning independently of each other.

Built into the circular structure were several inlets furnished with everything from metal grates to flat rocks and spits, ready to roast the spoils of a successful hunt or harvest.

Thick wood stumps were strewn around the fire-fountain used as chairs and tables. Beyond the stumps, a set of posts were driven into the ground with short pieces lashed across them. Lohmen saw a horse tied to one on the opposite side of the fire-fountain and did the same.

An old woman sat by herself on a stump and gestured to the one beside her. She smiled, and he sat, placing his pack to the side. “I’m Lohmen.”

“It is nice to meet you, Lohmen. I am NaaShar.”

“Kisilimli is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like this place.” The woman smiled in response to him, her wise eyes disappearing under old skin.

The painter dispensed with the pleasantries. “I’m looking for my son, NaaShar. He disappeared five years ago in Umlom. Do you remember hearing of it?”

“Five years is a long time, child.” She went on slowly,

“Why do you only search now? Umlom is not far.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I see. I did not hear of a missing boy, but I will ask my cousins in the house of Three Fires. They live quite far, but we have other means to converse.”

“What kind of means?” Lohmen was genuinely curious.

“I cannot say, nor would you understand if I did.” She went on, “When you come upon a house of fire, ask for news of Umlom, and they will tell you if there is anything to know.” Lohmen pondered this but wasn’t convinced. Shar picked up his scepticism and laughed.

“We cannot see visions in flames, Lohmen. Do not worry. Though we are an ancient people, we were not the first. We are descendants of the house of Three Fires. It has existed since creation itself. They live on a Continent of Detection, as you might know it, but that is a more modern name.”

Lohmen cursed himself for getting into a conversation with an old woman that began at the dawn of time, but he paid attention to learn more about conversing over great distances.

“The Three Fires have burned since the beginning and were lit by the sun itself.” Pride of history beamed through her voice.

“One day, a thousand years ago, there was a violent tempest. It raged hard but was not long. When the clouds cleared, a flame had been snuffed for the first time. The same day they found a Stranger washed up on the shore. He had no clothes, no weapons or possessions. Not even a name. The Three Fires took the Stranger in and treated him as one of their own.

“But the third flame would not light. The Flamekeepers tried different woods. Different oils. They tried praying to the sun gods. Nothing would relight the third flame.”

Lohmen looked up as a boy brought a large dish of meat and root vegetables, and NaaShar offered some to Lohmen. The arrival of food renewed his interest in seeing the story through to the end.

“The Stranger stayed with the Three Flames, though many believed the extinguished fire was his fault. Soon they came to blame him for any misfortunes that befell the village. What else could it be?

“Then, one day, a brave little girl dove into the waters near his landing and retrieved a bag from the seafloor. She brought it to the inner fire and showed it to the Flamekeepers. They did not know what to make of it, but the Stranger saw it and told them it belonged to him. He did not know how; only that he knew.

“After much debate, they allowed him to dress in its contents. When he put them on, they fit as if made for him. The third flame re-ignited when he hung his blade on his belt.”

Lohmen smiled as he ate but failed to see any relevance.

“The Stranger had become one of the people, received the kiss of the coals, and stayed for a time. When dressed in the things from the bag of the sea, he developed strange new abilities. It was then we learned to communicate over great distances. And short.

“But the Stranger did not stay. The world beckoned him. Some people travelled with him as he crossed the realms. Some settled along the way. That is how we are here.” She smiled.

“Very interesting. I look forward to visiting the house of Three Fires someday.”

Her gaze hardened.

“You do not listen, Lohmen. They were searching for answers at the flame itself. Just like you search for clues and disturb the meals of old women.”

Lohmen took another bite and thought.

But they didn’t know they were looking for a bag; the girl just happened upon it.

“But if they had searched where the Stranger landed as the girl did, they would have lit the third flame more quickly. Where did your mystery start, Lohmen?” Her face softened as she leaned back.

Lohmen stopped chewing.

How did she do that?

“I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”

Lohmen sat silently and ate, trying not to think ill of the woman. He thought of his son and the years spent searching before the commission letters.

“Maybe you have more than one mystery.” She propounded.

He thanked her and stood. She refused his offer of coin, and the boy who had brought the food was nowhere to be found. Lohmen walked to the fire and picked up a cold piece of charcoal well away from the flames. On a page torn from his cartography notebook, he sketched the harmonious scene at the fire fountain, the old woman appearing in the foreground wise and smiling. He tossed the notebook back into his bag. After scribbling his initials at the bottom of the page, he handed her the piece.

“I will cherish this, Lohmen,” she said when he gave it to her. “Thank you. May the fire be your friend.” He nodded and left her to finish her meal. A cough came from near the woman. MoShar had appeared and looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Right, of course!” He pulled out the tome and held it on display for inspection.

“Very good. I like how you captured the eyes. Where will you go now, painter?” The boy asked.

Lohmen smiled at him with sad eyes before stowing the tome away. The question hung on him for a moment before he answered.

“I’m not entirely sure yet, but I’m going to see a bookbinder.”

14: The Herbalist

Kahriah unhooked several bunches of dried foxbane from her lines and set them into a woven basket at her feet. She moved to the side and unhooked another bundle of herbs, this time giantroot. Kahriah continued to pull various plants from her lines until she was satisfied, then squatted to pick up the basket.

“Are you heading out?” Grelda called from inside her low, stone fence.

Kahriah gasped and gently put her hand to her chest before smiling and turning to look across the yard toward Grelda.

“Didn’t mean to scare you!” Grelda said in apology.

“It’s quite alright! Yes, there’s a sickness going around in Onny, a ship’s crew. I’ve been called to help.”

“Oh, that’s awful…is it contagious?” Grelda asked.

“No, likely a waterborne malady from Slug’s Bane. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I suppose a herbalist from the ancient house of Frog Mushroom Tree might know a thing or two.” Kahriah explained, then paused for a moment.

“Would you like to come with me? The Merchants always send spacious carriages. Likely plenty of room.”

“That would be great! Thank you. Say….” Grelda started slowly, “could Marell come too?”

Kahriah nodded in approval. Grelda was well-meaning and entirely likeable, but she was ever-present. Kahriah scolded herself for her unkind thoughts, mild as they were, and turned to the opportunity having an audience with Grelda would provide.

“Carriage is to be here tomorrow at dawn,” Kahriah explained as Grelda beamed and went inside to tell Marell and her husband.

With the basket pressed against her belly, Kahriah walked back to her house and entered through the back door. Deep in thought in front of a half-finished canvas, Lohmen was precisely as she’d left him.

“Are you heading somewhere?” He asked without looking up. She had told him several times, but he was often somewhere else when painting. Kahriah rolled her eyes and explained the illness from Slug’s Bane.

“Infections–” she was cut off.

“Kill more men than steel.” He finished her mantra of sorts with no tone of mockery.

“Is it that Captain again?” Lohmen asked.

” Yes,” she flushed ever so slightly. “I’ll put together a few remedies, and one of them should suit. If not, I can pick up what I need there.”

“Umlom is lucky to have you, Kahriah….” Lohmen exclaimed playfully, but the praise wasn’t in jest.

“Are you sure you should be travelling in your condition?” Lohmen asked with concern.

“My condition?! I don’t have a condition.” she scorned. Immediately, Lohmen knew he had chosen the wrong words.

“Is there any harm in a pregnant woman travelling such a great distance?” he offered with more tact on his second attempt.

“Women have been carrying children since before the Strangers. A posh coach ride isn’t going to be a problem.” She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Ser Paint.” She continued into their bedroom to grab some things for her trip but talked louder so Lohmen could hear.

“You should be worried about an unwed woman with a talent for healing going off to the big village!”

Lohmen didn’t miss that part and fired back.

“Careful, Kahriah…while you’re gone, I could just run off with Grelda.” Kahriah poked her head out of the room with a look of victory in her eye.

“She’s coming with me!” She giggled and went back to collecting her things. Lohmen laughed to himself while his mind turned to another matter.

“We should wed when you get back…I don’t like the idea of a son out of union.”

“And I don’t like relying on some almighty Order to tell me what I can and cannot do. We’ve been offending the light for four months now.” Kahriah made an exaggerated show of her belly. “And how do you know it’s a boy?”

Lohmen shrugged his shoulders playfully in answer and moved on.

“I’ll try and be here when you get back. The Shimmering Violettes should be gracing the skies in the highlands with the new moon. I want to have some work to send to the gallery in Kalkaltal.”

Lohmen was asking, but it was unnecessary. Kahriah had always supported his work and was as generous with her praise as she was with her critique. All of which had made Lohmen a better and more prolific painter in the short time they had been together.

“I don’t mind at all, Lo. You know that. However, when this boy comes, I’ll need you around. You’ll have to start painting things a little closer to home for a while.” She teased.

Lohmen stood and walked into the bedroom where Kahriah was folding things on the bed. Lohmen hugged her from behind, ran his hands over her stomach, and kissed her neck. Kahriah had closed her eyes and leaned back into the painter’s embrace. He paused and gently whispered, “You know it’s a boy too.”

Kahriah swatted him away lovingly and went back to gathering her things.

---

Lohmen was still lying in bed when Kahriah kissed him on the cheek. He grabbed her arm before she could slip away and pulled her in for a more passionate one.

“Sure you don’t have a few minutes?” He offered provocatively, still in the fog of new courtship.

“Despite your rousing performance last night, I’m certain. I’ll be home in a few days. Besides, we’ve been together four months now; are you not sick of me?” She kissed him again. A hummed ‘nu uh’ came from within the liplock. Laying naked in their bed, Lohmen drifted back to sleep while Kahriah gathered her things and left.

Grelda and Marell were packed and ready, beaming with excitement on the cusp of adventure. Kahriah smiled at Marell, who looked exceptionally lovely this morning, her dress clean and sharp. Her hair was styled, but a novice and heavy hand seemed to have blushed her cheeks. Kahriah leaned closer to Marell.

“I didn’t find Lohmen in my village either.” She whispered, and Marell giggled.

Their carriage clattered down the road and pulled up to the three women. It was a modest ride drawn by two healthy-looking horses. The driver sat perched at the front, and two benches behind him were covered with a dark cloth to block the sun.

“How are you, m’Lady?” The driver asked. The driver was an older man with a well-kept, white beard. His clothes were old and frayed, but everything was in its place. He was well past his prime but would have been quite the specimen in his youth.

“You know it’s Kahriah; I’m no lady, Bernock.” She corrected the man. “But, fine, thank you. I’ve a couple of companions this morning. Hope that’s alright, Bernock,” Kahriah answered.

“Of course, Ms. Marashan. Makes no difference to Bender & Whisper.” He offered with a chuckle and a gesture to the pair of mounts. “But you’re too modest. Had you not brought yer medicines to my village years ago, I wouldn’t be out here driving today. My family still sings your praises.”

“I remember. How is that cousin of yours? A strapping, boisterous lad if I recall.”

“Strapping he was, but stupid too. You pulled him from the brink of death then the dumb bastard died a few months later. Tried to pick a fight with a Highlands Troll. I suppose your healing fed the beast for the night! Ha!” he laughed to himself and trailed off.

“There’s a positive side to most things, I suppose.” She said, trying to respond to the macabre demise of the cousin. “I hope you have more stories for us on the way.” She turned to Grelda and Marell. “We ready, ladies?”

Marell looked like she would burst with excitement if they waited any longer. Bernock hopped down from the seat with surprising agility and placed a step for the three women from Kinon. They climbed inside the carriage, Grelda and Marell on one side opposite Kahriah and her baskets.

“Do you think there will be any duels on the docks or grand balls to attend?” Marell asked with exuberance.

“Oh, I don’t know, Marell. We’ll have a few days while Kahriah works. We’ll see what trouble we can get up to. Kahriah, how long will it take to tend to the sailors?” Grelda asked.

“It should be quite simple. I’ll look them over to confirm the maladie and whip together a concoction. I’ll need to stay nearby for a day or two to ensure they’re on the mend. We’ll be celebrating Lohmen’s firstday soon, so I suppose I should find a gift for him.”

“You’ve already given him a gift, my dear,” Grelda said sarcastically. Kahriah gave her a strange look for a moment and then laughed in agreement.

Grelda continued. “However, you should get that man of yours a horse. He can’t be marching into the woods for days just to find the right pond or tree to paint. Honestly, legs as long as his, and he’d still lose a footrace to a bookbinder.”

Kahriah chuckled. “You know, I said the same thing to Lohmen just yesterday.”

“Aye,” said Grelda. She crossed her arms in resolute triumph. “In any event, we appreciate you letting us tag along. I hope your employer doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all. Carriage is going anyway. Might as well be full!”

“Tell me about this employer Ms. Kahriah!” Marell inquired.

“Well, he’s a Merchant-Captain from Rozmros. Came from across the Dommian but made his name running goods up and down the Black Seas,” Kahriah explained. Marell rolled her eyes and flopped back in her seat.

“I meant, what does he look like? Did he ever fight a Kraken?”

“He’s handsome, I suppose, but I don’t think he’s ever fought a Kraken. Even though he flies one on his Banner. I don’t think anyone lives to tell the tale.” Kahriah said to the unimpressed young woman.

The women talked of politics, theology, cooking, creature anatomy, children, and childbirth. Marell was particularly horrified at her mother’s detailed recounting of her firstday.

The day waned, and so too did the conversation. They had sat in silence until the gentle clatter of the horse and carriage was abruptly interrupted.

“Onny!…look!” Marell exclaimed, with her head out of the carriage window taking in the city as it appeared.

Onlomum wasn’t the most populous city, but it made up for it in grandeur. At one end of a forked inlet, Onny sprawled along the cliff crests and right down over them, as if spilling into the sea. Half the city was built into the cliff face, the other half perched proudly above.

As they approached from the north, they couldn’t see the cliff houses of Onny. It was those of Easlomum on the opposite fork of the inlet which arrested their attention. Easlomum was virtually identical to Onlomum, and most people considered it just another part of Onny. The towns had sprawled to meet each other over the past thousand years, and now, they formed one majestic district. Onlos, its citizens, had built an intricate system of switchbacks, tunnels, and lifts down the three hundred feet to the docks and beaches below. Onny had become a preferred port for many merchants delivering to the smaller island continent of Reflection. Her docks were tucked into a bay from the weather that battered the larger eastern port realms like Iu Kipa and Tauptimai. It took longer to get goods to market from here, but it was a small price for her benefits. Good-weathered, good-natured, and pretty to look at– made Onny a choice port for the older, wiser captains. The easy clamming on Onny’s shores also made it cheaper for captains to feed their docked crews.

“Where to first m’ladies…I mean, ladies?” Bernock asked.

“Let’s head to the courtyard at the eastern docklifts first. That’s where I’m to meet Captain Thammasorn.”

15: The Captain

“Kahriah! My dear!” a man’s voice called out from behind a crowd of sailors and merchants milling about the square. Kahriah squinted toward the call and saw a tall figure approaching. “Welcome back to Onny!”

“Captain Thammasorn, how are you?” She asked warmly. Thammasorn was a tall man, taller even than Lohmen, and more muscular. He wore simple sailor breeches and a linen shirt barely laced in the front. A thick, black beard streaked with grey met glossy ringlets of hair to match. There was a rugged handsomeness to him, and he smelled like the sea.

“Keeping well, I suppose. My whole crew is shitting buckets down on the ship, but that’s almost a certainty when you sail the Slug’s Bane. I’ve seen it a dozen times. A standard case of Dragon’s Ass. I’d mix the medicines myself, but then I wouldn’t get to see you.” He took a step back and moved his gaze from head to toe and back up again. He stopped at her midsection.

“Are you with child?!” He exclaimed.

“No, I’m not…, and I might remind you never to assume such a thing about a woman.” Kahriah retorted, and the Captain paled.

“I…I didn’t…I, just thought….” The same Captain dripping in confidence just a moment ago was now an awkward, clumsy mess. A smile crept across Kahriah’s lips as she watched him squirm.

“You dungwraith!” he exclaimed… “You had me…truly! Tell me, who made an honest woman of you?”

“His name is Lohmen. He’s an artist,” she said defensively. “But we’re not married.”

“He’s a lucky man either way.” Thammasorn’s confidence had returned. “You are positively glowing. Come, let’s head down to the ship. I’ve got stoves and tables set up for you. We can skiff any potions out to them.”

“I don’t make potions, Thamma. You know that.”

“Of course, of course. We’ll skiff any concoctions out then.” He put his arm over her shoulder and led her out of the square.

Onny had strict vessel quarantine policies, and the ill seafarers were not allowed ashore. The Captain was only allowed because he wasn’t sick himself. As a Captain, he tended not to partake in the same rations as his crew while at sea. Dining alone in his quarters wasn’t an exercise in classism but rather in prudence.

“I’m not sure what’s worse, a ship full of sick sailors or the Dragon’s Ass itself.” Thammasorn opined.

The two made their way down a small staircase cut from the stone cliffs at the square’s edge. They landed on a large, wooden platform where one of the many beach lifts was located, transporting passengers to sea level and back. They waited for it to arrive and let two people exit before entering the wood and iron cage. The Captain handed a couple of lords to the liftman, who shut the door behind them. He flipped a flag on the railing signalling the lower liftman, and slowly the lift descended from the platform to the beach below.

“It’s good to see you again, Kahriah.” The Captain offered in a moment of vulnerability, visibly unsettled with the rattling lift. “There aren’t many people you can count on in the realms today. Everyone’s got an angle at best and a knife to your throat at worst. Commerce is trickier than it’s ever been. Port bribes, Ranger contracts, protection garrisons…I swear, I’d retire if I didn’t need the lords. But being able to call on you, who’ll perform her magic without tax or deceit. It’s refreshing.”

“It’s not magic, Thammasorn, just herbalism.” she correctly sternly. “But I know what you mean. Something… something feels different about the Realms. Like there’s a charge in the air before a thunderstorm.”

The Captain nodded in agreement while the lift slowly passed by open windows of homes cut into the rock. Some had smiling Onlos, others just plants. They rode the rest of the way quietly before the lift hit the platform at sea level with a soft thud. The lower liftman raised the cross-board and opened the door. Kahriah looked back and marvelled at the cliffs and lifts, despite having made the descent many times before.

The two meandered their way to the merchant pavilion, where she unpacked her herbs and oils in a large room, appointed just as she’d requested. Ordinarily, she’d investigate the affliction, but Thammasorn had included the list of symptoms in his call to her.

“I’ll be an hour or two, Captain, but come back with a dozen glass vials, and your men will be better in a few days. Have them each take a mouthful tonight, and I’ll come back tomorrow and brew a fresh batch for the morning.” Kahriah instructed, and the Captain nodded and left her to her work.

On time and as instructed, the Captain returned with a case of glass vials, and Kahriah carefully filled them with an equal amount of her pungent tea-like concoction. She corked each one and placed it back in the case.

“See that they drink this in the next hour or so. The longer it sits, the less it works.” She said.

“I’ve already a skiff waiting, thanks, Kahriah. A drink later at the tavern?” He offered, the glint in his eye on full display.

“No drink this time.” She said as she made a show of her belly.

He made an understanding face and handed her a lords purse. She took it and peered inside.

“Captain…this is too much.” A puzzled look on her face.

“I pay more than that in bribes at the eastern ports. You deserve it.”

16: The Stables

It was still only late afternoon when Kahriah had finished her treatment for the sailors, so she made her way to the lifts and decided to explore Onny’s topside. As she stepped out at the upper lift platform, she asked the operator for directions to the mountyards.

“Head to the northern part of town, and you’ll find the stables and horsemen.” The teenager said politely. Kahriah tossed him a lord for good measure.

Heading mostly north through Onny, the buildings got a little less crowded, and the smell of manure grew a little stronger. Turning a corner, she noticed a large barn-like building ahead with a steady stream of horses of all shapes and sizes coming and going, some ridden, some led. On her way to the barn, she stopped a friendly-looking woman leading a grey stallion.

“Who would I speak to about procuring a horse?”

“Well, my dear, you’ve come to the right place. Head over there to the right and down the path. Horses on offer today are all in those stalls there. Make note of the horse number, then see the horseman at the next tent. Match your horse to the seller and negotiate a price.” Kahriah nodded thanks and made her way across the path of horse traffic to the selling area.

“I knew you’d buy a horse for that husband of yours!” Kahriah turned around and saw Grelda shuffling towards her. Kahriah managed a half-hearted smile.

“Well, you made a good point, Grelda. Lohmen will need to be able to get around faster.” She agreed. “But he’s not my husband.”

“Yet!” Grelda said with boastful enthusiasm, and Kahriah feigned a laugh.

“Speaking of betrothals, where’s Marell?” Kahriah inquired.

“Oh, she’s gone off to watch some mummer’s shows. We were in the bazaar, and this gangly kid started talking to her, and then they were off.”

“You’ve gotta watch out for the gangly ones.” Kahriah joked. Grelda nodded excitedly and followed her toward the sale stalls.

They started down the pathway and admired the variety of horses among the rows of numbered stalls. Young boys and girls with charcoal chunks ran around and updated numbers as horses entered and exited. The pair slowed as they passed an impressive horse with a thick brown coat. Its back was much taller than Kahriah, and its hooves looked larger than her head. A remarkable beast but far better suited to farm duty than painter transportation. The woman who helped her earlier was further down the aisle and was feeding her stallion a handful of oats.

“Hello again, beautiful horse. Can you tell me about him?” Kahriah asked.

“Sure. He’s two years old and fast as the wind. A bit wild yet, but that’ll settle down with age.” The woman said as she patted him on the shoulder.

“And how much? I’ve never bought a horse, so I’m not sure of the going rate.” Kahriah said as Grelda kicked her. The scolding was obscured from the horsewoman’s view by the fence. Kahriah looked over at Grelda, who was subtly moving her head from side to side. The horsewoman hadn’t missed anything, however.

“This one’s 5000 lords; he’s a highborn steed. Some lord or lady will buy this lad and use him to galavant all over their lands. Then they’ll have him sire offspring and sell those too. This horse is more suited for investment. Are you looking for an investment?”

Kahriah smiled pleasantly, appreciating the question. “No, no... Just looking for a reliable mount for my husband’s painting adventures.”

“Head towards the end of the path, and you’ll find some suitable mounts there. 600 lords should get you a perfectly suitable horse for getting around.”

17: Disturbed Rest

Lohmen set up camp as he’d done the night before and noted so in his log. This was to be the second night he’d spend outdoors since he and the ranger parted ways. The proximity of Banner-towns and the small fortune had allowed him to stay at inns since he left Kidkam. He was a few hours outside of Lasiksi in the realm of Snaspakisnum. Dubbed the Strong Arm of Reflection, Snaspakisnum’s most notable feature was a long natural jetty extending from the otherwise even shore.

He felt like he’d been making good time, though he had no history to use as a comparison. Travelling directly from one place to another was much more efficient than when he had been testing his boundary.

Almost a week had passed since he broke through his tether, but that was still as much a mystery as Thesdon’s disappearance. As were his Masterpieces.

He tried to work out how all the pieces fit and frame what NaaShar from the fire had told him.

He thought of Thesdon running, but the only clue had been his shoe. For five years, he’d solved nothing except mapping his prison, a near-perfect circle around his house and masterpiece. Until the letters from his commissioners.

Staring into the fire, Lohmen ruminated about who put the Banner book into motion. Along with everything else he owned, he now carried the letters with him. He had evidence in his hands and was soon to meet with someone in the commerce of paper. The unusual material and strange symbol would undoubtedly strike a bookbinder as odd. Tolo’s bill of sale, the only other document he carried, was folded and put in the back of his cartography book.

From his larger pack, he pulled out the soft, leather bag and tucked his gloves inside. He set the bag aside and gave his fingers a flex and a stretch, then laid down using his pack as a pillow. It was a far cry from a feather bed, but he welcomed the rest. His hood, folded and layered on top, provided some much-needed softness.

His hand silhouetted against the dancing flames of his campfire, he thumbed at his ring. It hadn’t come off, despite Kahriah having left five years ago.

If it weren’t for Tolo, I wouldn’t be wearing this ring.

The sound of a branch breaking in the forest jolted him from nostalgia. He sat up in his makeshift bed, squinting over the fire, trying to locate the sound. Lohmen stood and tried to peer into the darkness. It was hard to pinpoint sounds in the forest over his pounding heart. Lohmen’s fears materialised when the figure of a large, barrel-chested man emerged from the forest and walked towards the fire.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Lohmen asked meekly, facing the intruder but slowly backing away. He had never met anyone in the five years he slept out in Umlom.

The man snorted at the weak demand and moved closer. Lohmen took another step back and bumped into someone else. A daggered hand reached over his shoulder, and Lohmen felt the cold sting of steel at his throat.

“To rob you, of course.” The big man said.

“I…I have lords. Take them and be on your way.” Lohmen said, strained. The offer didn’t get a response. But the man holding the blade at his neck reached and pulled Lohmen’s healthy purse from his belt and threw it to the other man.

“You’re quite a stupid bastard, m’lord?” He mocked. “We saw you leave Lasiksi and knew you’d need to make camp before long.” He spoke with cocksure certainty. “It’s our life made easy when a toe-head like yourself carries a big bag of lords and sleeps out.”

“You have my coin. Please, leave me.” Lohmen pleaded, fearing for his life.

“Every mark tells a story,” The barrel-chested man exclaimed as if in a play. “Let’s see who you are, wealthy traveller. Don’t do anything stupid, and you might survive the night.” He bent and let the fire illuminate his face for Lohmen. He was a thick man and built for power. A deep scar ran from his forehead to the corner of his lips, which made his mouth sit lopsided on his face.

He bent to pick up one of the saddle bags, and Lohmen saw the man’s woodcutter’s axe, its blade caked from use. Lohmen stood motionless, the dagger pressed to his neck by the second assailant. The big man stuck his arm inside and pulled out vials of paint. He studied them briefly, and then hurled them to the ground– breaking as they hit roots and rocks. Lohmen winced as they smashed. The axeman ripped out a few paintbrushes and a palette and let them fall to his feet.

The man with the dagger kicked Lohmen’s bag, the one with the masterpiece, to his partner. The big man grabbed it and pulled out Lohmen’s mapbook first. After a brief inspection, it fell to the forest floor.

“Ah…this is better.” His eyes lit up.

Out came a pair of heavy gloves with a pendant tangled in their fingers. The pendant he put around his neck and the gloves got tucked in his thick belt. He turned the bag upside down, and a rolled canvas hit the ground beside the two commission letters.

“What’ve we here?” He picked up the three pieces and opened the letters first, then flung them dismissively to the fire. The third item caught his attention; the canvas.

Lohmen swallowed hard and clenched his teeth. “Leave it!” An uneven smile crept across the big man’s face.

He roughly worked the twine off the scroll and opened it.

“What the troll-scat is this?” he said with a furrowed brow. “You’re a dreadful painter, lad. I’d be doing the realms a favour killin’ you.”

He looked at Lohmen as he tossed the painting into the fire. Lohmen’s nostrils flared. His eyes twitched, and his canines bit into his lower lip. He started toward the fire but was quickly reminded of the blade pressed at his throat. A warm trickle slid down Lohmen’s neck.

The disfigured axeman chuckled with delight as the flames engulfed the canvas. Lohmen’s chest started to heave.

A surge of adrenaline erupted through Lohmen’s blood, like dragon fire ripping through an army. The gangly painter hadn’t been in a fight since he was a child, but in that moment, a fury soaked him to the core. He took a deep breath, grabbed the daggerman’s arm, and pushed the blade away from his neck. The captor’s strength was too much, so Lohmen pulled the man’s arm and ducked. The blade sliced through the painter’s cheek before lodging in the captor’s throat. Lohmen broke free of the man and bolted toward the fire.

The painting.

The daggerman pulled the blade from the soft tissue in his neck, and blood began to seep. The tall, bald man fell to his knees.

Lohmen dove to his knees at the firepit and tried to pull the painting from the flames. Only small scraps of his masterpiece with glowing edges floated in the air. Lohmen let out a deep rolling groan. It sounded like agony at first, then turned to anger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the raised axe. Lohmen’s hand plunged into the fire and shovelled a heap of hot coals in the axemans’ face. A high-pitched howl bellowed out of the big man, and the axe fell to one arm at his side.

Lohmen glanced to the left. The bald man had regained a knee and made to stand, still holding his neck with one hand and the dagger with the other. Lohmen turned his attention to the barrel-chested man, and his legs exploded underneath him. He charged the axeman, burying his shoulder into the midsection and driving him back. Unable to raise his weapon, the axeman beat down on the painter’s back with his free hand. Lohmen kept pushing until he overtook the axeman, and they both hit the ground in a tumble. A giant empty gasp left the axeman’s mouth, and the axe clanked to the side, free of his hand.

Lohmen rolled off the man and picked up the axe. From his side, Lohmen swung hard for his head, but the big man had managed to roll partly out of the way. The blade buried deep in his shoulder instead.

Lohmen retrieved the axe and turned his attention to the bleeding daggerman staggering slowly toward him. Lohmen cast wide swings with his weapon. The daggerman stepped backward, dodging the attacks. He retreated to the fire’s edge and tripped, his backside landing on the hot coals and the dagger falling to the ground. Lohmen advanced, and the bald man rolled from the fire and attempted to scurry away. Lohmen delivered the axe directly into the man’s lower spine as he crawled.

A groan exploded from Lohmen as the axeman charged into his side, sending them to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, but the wiry painter was atop the big man in seconds. Lohmen pinned his good arm down, the other lifeless and barely attached. The painter grabbed a rock and brought it to the man’s jaw. The man moaned through shattered teeth, but Lohmen raised the stone again. Another blow to the side of the axeman’s face. Another crunch. Lohmen watched the rock meet face until no sounds came from the man.

Lohmen stood up, breathing heavily, blood covering his head, chest, and hands. He stumbled backward, his heart pounding. He looked around frantically at the carnage. A hand clasped his ankle and sent another wave of adrenaline through his blood. Lohmen looked down to see the daggerman before shaking free of his weak grip.

Lohmen pulled the axe from the man’s still body.

“Who are you?” Lohmen demanded.

The bald man tried to mutter something but blood pooled in his throat. Lohmen retreated to a rock at the edge of his campsite and sat down. He rested the axe on the rock, and the weight of events washed over him.

How?

Laboured breaths burned his lungs. He touched his cheek and felt the deep gash. The flesh hadn’t separated, and he was spared feeling his teeth from the outside. Barely. A wave of nausea.

His breathing slowed a little, and the adrenaline receded.

I’m a killer.

The realisation hammered Lohmen, the man who’d never hurt anything in his life. Any sentencing for his verdict would have to wait; His hand screamed out in pain. What skin remained was blistered and glistening, and the digit had begun to bulge around Kahriah’s ring. Perhaps from the fire or perhaps from the puss, the ring had a dull glow between lumps of Lohmen’s finger.

He found his waterskin, pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured the cool water over his hand. Any relief he got was short-lived.

Lohmen took stock of his situation, and he forced reason on himself.

They were going to kill me.

Breath.

How?

“Think.” His thoughts became audible as he spoke himself into clarity. “Get your things and get out of here.”

His eyes wide open, the daggerman lay ten feet in front of Lohmen. Lohmen thought the man was dead until he blinked, causing Lohmen to stumble. When he had regained his footing, Lohmen cautiously grabbed the dagger from beside the body, avoiding eye contact, and walked toward the axeman’s body.

18: Aftermath

Standing over the big man, he cut the straps on his flimsy jerkin and flung it open. Had Kahriah not been so adamant about treating his scrapes and cuts, Lohmen might not have had the fortitude to proceed.

‘Infections kill more men than steel.’

Trying not to look at where his face had been, Lohmen grabbed the bottom of the man’s shirt with his good hand and pulled it to his teeth. With the dagger, he cut the garment into several strips. Lohmen then cut the pendant from his neck, stuffed it in his pocket, and pulled the gloves from his belt. With those items and his improvised bandages in hand, he went to a rock opposite the eyes of the tall dying man.

He laid the straps over his knee and set the dagger at his feet. A flood of pain caused him to let go when he tried to pull Kahriah’s ring off his hand. He grabbed a thick twig and put it between his teeth. He took hold of the ring and took rapid, deep breaths through his nose. On the fifth or sixth breath, he wrenched on the ring and pulled with what strength he had left. Blistered skin accumulated in front of it, but his hands had separated. The flesh-coated ring was now in the palm of his right hand.

He was breathing hard again, but it calmed after a long-feeling minute or two. He shook the ring free of skin and put it between his teeth before sliding a finger from his right hand through it. With his son’s painting gone, the ring was now all he had left of his former family. He grabbed the first shirt bandage and began wrapping his left hand.

He stood and surveyed the carnage that had transpired over the past few minutes. Doubled over beside a tree, he wretched. After wiping his mouth, Lohmen poked at the fire, but the masterpiece was gone. Thesdon’s sunshine was gone. He fell to his knees.

We’ll paint it again, Thes.

He wiped tears away to clear his vision, and at the edge of the fire, something caught his attention. The letters from his commissioner were marked black by charcoal but not burnt. The seal had melted away, but the paper was intact. He plucked them from the fire, wiped them on his trousers and stuffed them back in the bag the axeman had ceremoniously upended.

I must show these letters to Yerik.

He stood, raised his head and looked at the camp again. His jaw was agape and chills coursed through his blood where adrenaline had flowed before. He wondered how a painter could be capable of such things. Talking to himself, he forced himself to take inventory. He noted his items, those not broken, and began plotting his ride away from this cursed place.

My horse…

He had forgotten about his horse. The obsidian-black steed was calmly grazing by the tree where she’d been tied. It was hard to make her out; only her white feet were visible in the dark forest, but she hadn’t whinnied or gruffed once during the entire fight.

She’s made of tougher stuff than I am.

Morning was hours off, but he knew no sleep would find him. The spectres of this night would haunt him forever. In desperate need of a herbalist’s attention, he collected his things and tried to repack them as best he could. The mental list he had forced upon himself helped sequester his violent deeds for the time being. He packed the lord purse and any jars of paint that hadn’t broken he put into a saddlebag. The cartography notebook, which had stayed latched, he tucked back into the bag beside the letters. Though it made him uncomfortable, he knew what he had to do next.

He grabbed the axe first and set it beside his bags, then searched for where he had put the dagger. A quick examination revealed it to be less ornate than the Ranger’s, but he could attest to its sharpness. He patted his body, trying to find a suitable place to put it. There was a brief thought about sliding it into his belt, but that would be too precarious for riding.

I don’t know the first thing about weapons…How…?

He looked at the body of the daggerman lying face down in the dirt, the blood pooling at the side of his head, creating a thick, dark mud. The painter squatted down beside him and flopped the man onto his back. The daggerman coughed up blood and his eyes flung open. Without even thinking, the painter plunged the dagger into his heart. The painter let go of the blade and staggered backward.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I need the sheath.”

Lohmen retrieved the simple leather scabbard from the dead man with great anguish and worked it onto his own decorated belt. He pulled the dagger from the tall man’s chest, wiped it on his trousers and slid it into the sleeve. Worse for wear and full of disgust, he stood as an armed man for the first time in his life.

He mounted his nameless horse and began down the road, the larger pack shouldered and the smaller leather bag in his lap. In the dark of night, he couldn’t be sure where he was going, only that he needed to leave this place. The pain in his head and hand kept him awake in the saddle. The makeshift bandages would do for now, but if he had any chance of avoiding infection, he would need to find an Herbalist before long.

19: The Horseman

Grelda and Kahriah moved on from the grey stallion, passing all sorts of horses, even some donkeys and mules. Making their way to the end, the horses got considerably smaller and noticeably less impressive. One horse, in particular, caught Kahriah’s eye. It was black, stood about 17 hands high, and looked in impeccable shape.

“What about this one?” Kahriah asked Grelda.

“I don’t know…something strange in his eyes looks like he’s got some will to be broken yet. Not sure Lo has the temperament for that. How about this one?” She pointed to the second to last stall on the right. Inside was a shorter brown horse with spots. Kahriah remarked on the pattern and thought it quite beautiful.

This one stood only about 14 hands but had sturdy-looking legs and wide feet. Kahriah thought it might suit Lohmen on his off-path trekking. She noted its number, seventy-forty-two, and made her way into the horseman tent to find its seller.

Grelda and Kahriah stood up a little straighter, walked into the tent, and sturdied their faces for the room full of mostly men.

About two dozen sellers had taken seats at the tables, ready to strike deals on their mounts. Some farmers, some travellers. Even some low nobles were among the collection of sellers. Higher lords wouldn’t attend such a market, but their brokers and horseman did in their place. Each seller had a table with charcoal numbers scratched onto milkpine boards out front. A middle-aged man sitting slouched in his chair behind his table was off to the left. He had a wide-brimmed hat and a full grey beard streaked with black. He wore typical riding clothes; leather chausses and vest over linen underclothes. Even though she didn’t know his age, something about the man made Kahriah think he looked older than he probably was. The brown horse’s number was marked on his board.

“Goodday, Ser. I’d like to inquire about horse seventy-forty-two,” Kahriah said confidently, trying to sound like she had done this before.

“Eight hundred.” the man replied as he stood.

“Humph,” Grelda exclaimed and crossed her arms. “Let’s go, Kahriah. This man is trying to take advantage of us.” Grelda grabbed Kahriah by the arm to lead them away. She resisted, but the horseman interrupted before the tug of war ensued.

“Now, now ladies,” he motioned for them to stay, “that’s how these things work. I say eight hundred, you say a number, and we find common ground.”

Kahriah paused before blurting out a number forcefully. “Five hundred.”

“That’s too low.” The seller rebutted. “Six hundred is the lowest I can go.

Grelda reached to grab Kahriah’s arm again.

“Fine. Fine, Five-twenty-five, and I’ll throw in a saddle.” The seller threw his hands up in feigned exaggeration.

Grelda leaned into Kahriah and whispered, “A saddle is worth a hundred lords alone, Kahriah; that’s a good deal.”

“Five-twenty-five and a saddle,” Kahriah said matter of factly, trying to hide her inexperience.

The seller stuck out his hand. Kahriah took it victoriously.

“Come by tomorrow, and we’ll sign the papers, and get you your horse.”

“Thank you.” This time Kahriah grabbed Grelda’s arm, thinking they should leave quickly before the horseman changed his mind. Back out in the open air, Kahriah let out an excited shriek.

“Thank you, Grelda! What a team we were in there. You saved me a small fortune on the saddle.”

“Sometimes I’m a pain in the arse. Sometimes I’m the cure.” She said jokingly.

“Let’s get some supper, my treat. I owe you that at least....”

“Thanks, my dear, but no. I should go find Marell, lest I be a grandmother before my time. I’ll see you tomorrow morning here at the stables. Make sure he doesn’t try and change the deal at the end. You can never be too careful.” Grelda bid good night and disappeared around a corner.

On her feet all day, Kahriah’s back screamed for the feather bed waiting at the inn, but her expectant cravings called louder. She stopped for dinner at the Long Face Lounge for a quick meal of venison stew with dragonleaf, the same meal she had every time she came to town. On this night, however, she dined alone and would forgo their signature bottomless ale.

20: The Mount Registry

Kahriah finished preparing the second dose just as the Captain arrived with the empty vials. She carefully poured them and handed the crate to Thammasorn. It was reported the sailors were doing much better after the first dose, and Kahriah concluded the second would be sufficient.

“You’re a lifesaver, Kahriah. When I retire, I want you and your family to come down to Onny, and I’ll take you on a tour of the sound. How long’s it been since you were at sea?”

“A long time.”

“Well, you might wretch a few times, but once you’re out there…. it’s magical. Really.”

“And just like that, eh? No bravado this morning, no nuances? Do I still smell of venison stew?” She laughed but awaited the answer nonetheless.

“Reliving old memories at The Long Face?” he asked.

Kahriah’s olive complexion turned a shade redder. Thammasorn returned to the topic of the sea.

“I’d like to meet that painter…I mean artist. He must be a great man.” Kahriah was caught off guard by his honesty.

“That’s very kind of you, and once the child is a bit older, we’ll certainly take you up on your offer. It sounds delightful.” She said sincerely. The Captain nodded with a warm smile and then turned and left.

Another twenty-four men and women would be on the mend before moonrise. She wasn’t one to keep track, but when it came to determining the outcome of men’s lives, she was up there with any warrior or king. Dragon’s Ass, if not treated, meant almost certain death in two weeks.

She packed up her herbs and oils, and returned to the lower lift. The one she’d rode down the day before was being repaired after a line broke. The lower lift platform had a pile of cracked wood and twisted iron beside it. There were dozens of lifts dangling from Onny’s cliff top, so she made her way a hundred feet further down the beach to another and rode to the top. Moving at an excited clip, she made her way from the cliffs to the mountyards. It was time to buy Lohmen a firstday gift in horse form.

When she turned the corner, she saw Grelda waiting and looking around. Kahriah watched and enjoyed her first time spying on her nosy neighbour. The moment was short-lived.

“Kahriah! Over here!” Grelda called from the other side of the men and women leading mounts into the stables. A large warhorse passed before Kahriah darted through the equine traffic to meet Grelda.

“Let’s go buy a horse!” Kahriah said, her energy returned after a good night’s sleep. The pair walked back down the pathway taking in any number of more impressive steeds than the one they were about to purchase. At the end, they walked into the horseman pavilion and saw Mr. seventy-forty-two sitting alone at an unmarked table. After meeting their eyes, he stood up and started towards the side exit.

“Follow me,” he said gruffly, not looking back to see if they had. The horseman led the women to a small, brick building outside of the pavilion. The sign above the door featured a horse flanked by a sheet of parchment on either side. He opened the door and walked inside, with Grelda and Kahriah in tow. The room was empty except for an older man seated behind a large, wooden desk. The wall behind him was entirely shelves, each filled with books of the same size, thickness, and design.

“Seven, nought, four, two,” the horseman barked at the older man. He clutched the desk’s wood railing so hard it might splinter in his grasp. The older man only raised his eyes and started flipping through a stack of loose sheets on his desk while the horseman impatiently tapped his fingers.

“A few niceties might be appreciated,” the man at the desk muttered condescendingly before speaking more robustly.

“Seller?” the man asked, holding his quill for the response.

“0113D7”

“Mount number?”

“Seven, nought, four, two”.”

“Purchase price?”

“Five twenty-five.”

“Inclusions?”

“Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, reins. Leather travel bag.” The horseman turned to Kahriah. “I threw in a few extra bags for you. I’ve no use for them now.” He turned back to the registrar. “Keep going.”

“Terms?”

“Payment in full.”

“Buyer?”

The horseman looked to Kahriah with expectation.

“Buyer?” The old man asked, looking up from his paper at Kahriah. “Who is buying this horse?”

“Uh, me…but, sorry. What is this?” She asked, puzzled.

“First-timers…” the registrar said under his breath. “This is the Umlom Mount Registry Office, Onlomum branch. All mount sales are to be registered here.” Kahriah looked at the horseman with a raised eyebrow.

“Is this necessary? I mean…” she started but was cut off.

“Yes.” The horseman said sternly. She turned back to the old registry man.

“People buy and sell horses all over the realm. You’re to tell me they all registered them here?” Kahriah asked, half rhetorically.

“No, there are branches in Tunum and Munpun as well. But yes, there are illegal horse deals and those who perpetrate them are outlaws.” Kahriah laughed at the idea of two farmers exchanging a horse in Kinon being outlaws.

“Well, the horse isn’t for me. It’s for my husband. So record Lohmen Dreisler as the owner, please.”

“Very well.” Said the old man while he wrote. “Each of you signs indicating a properly executed deal.” He put the document on the desk in front of them. “Lady, I’ll take payment here.”

She handed him a purse with five hundred and twenty-five lords, having counted them the night before. The old man counted fifty and raked them off his desk into a drawer. Kahriah heard them clank into the drawer, under the desk, and then under her feet before the sound trailed off. The official handed the balance to the horseman, who grumbled as he finished signing his name. He gave the quill to Kahriah, who signed her name below Lohmen’s and beside the horseman’s inelegant, illegible scribble.

“Just a moment, please,” the old man said as he grabbed two other sheets of paper and replicated the original twice in lightning fashion. He drabbed a thin layer of hot wax onto each of the duplicates and smashed a seal, a stylised ‘M’, into each bill of sale. He handed one to the horseman and one to Kahriah. The original, he filed into a book that looked the same as the hundred others on the wall.

Kahriah again interrupted his procedure. “Is this my replica then?” she asked.

“Yessss,” the old man said, making no effort to hide his annoyance.

“Great.” She flipped the page over, grabbed the quill from the inkwell on the old man’s desk, and jotted a short note on the back.

“Finished?” he asked with raised eyebrows. Kahriah nodded excitedly.

“Kahriah, on behalf of Lohmen Dreisler and Seller 0113D7, registered with the Umlom Mount Registry Office, you have successfully purchased a mount. The horse, all inclusions and naming rights pass entirely to Lohmen Dreisler. Five hundred and twenty-five lords, less a fifty lords administration fee, go to the seller. Your business is complete. Good day.” He returned his eyes to his papers, ignoring the horseman, Kahriah, and Grelda.

The horseman grinned as he left the building and motioned for the women to follow with much more patience and good nature than he had shown before. He led them away from the registry building and horseman pavilion towards another set of stalls where Kahriah saw the horse she had just bought. Lohmen’s firstday gift had been fitted with a saddle, full tack, two saddlebags, and a soft leather bag, rolled and tucked under the cantle.

“Here you are, ma’am. Good Day.” He nodded at Kahriah and Grelda. With a relieved look, he turned and left the women with their horse.

Kahriah and Grelda stood there with their newly purchased mount. Kahriah was the first to speak.

“I don’t know how to ride a horse.” She confessed, and both women laughed.

“I’m sure Bernock can show you the ropes, and I know a few things.”

They walked back towards the gates of Onny, where they were to meet their coachman. Marell was surprisingly punctual and giddy from her two days in Onny. Kahriah had been petting the horse and was quite proud of her acquisition.

“You’re part of our family now, horse.”

21: Bags

How he wished he could have Kahriah to tend to him now. Bleeding, one-armed and ragged, he desperately needed to see an herbalist. So disoriented he hadn’t even noticed the place he’d rode into. Somewhere, he dismounted his horse and collapsed to his knees. A woman rushed over to him, helped Lohmen to his feet, and the two staggered their way into a building.

---

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Said an older man with a shaved head and perfectly pointed goatee. Lohmen was lying in a cot, and his hand had been recently and professionally bandaged. The goateed man sat on a stool at Lohmen’s bedside and laid out a leather roll full of herbalist instruments.

“Hold still. This is going to hurt.” The herbalist was met with a grimace when he threaded a needle through Lohmen’s cheek. “Hold still I said.” He pulled the first stitch through and looped back for another. “So what happened?”

“Two men ambushed me at my camp. I…”

“You made it here. Looks like they picked the wrong Stranger to ambush.”

Lohmen waited for the next stitch to be pulled through before speaking.

“I… I had no choice. They were going to kill me.” Lohmen offered remorsefully, thinking back to his departed assailants.

“Good riddance. Too many bandits and bad folk these days. You did a good thing.”

Lohmen appreciated the supportive words, even if he could not take them to heart.

“Though it’s toe-headed to be travelling with that many lords.” The herbalist nodded toward the purse on the bedside table. He vowed to finally visit a bank, however.

“You see a lot of violence?” Lohmen asked, stilling his face for the next stitch.

“More recently, yes. But your kind seems to be on the winning end of it more oft than not.” He said with disdain.

“My kind?” Lohmen asked dubiously.

The healer stopped before the eighth and final stitch and narrowed his eyes at Lohmen.

“You don’t know….”

“I don’t know what?”

“I haven’t the time, Stranger. If you want, you should read something by Raev.” He was holding a small tin and put it on display for Lohmen. “Apply this salve to your hand every day for a week, and don’t get into any more fights. Off with you now. I’ve got others to tend to.”

“Who’s Raev?” Lohmen replied, taking the tin.

“For Fox’s sake…Raev? The ancient scholar? Ask around. The inn has a few books in the tavern. Check there.”

Lohmen held out some lords, and the healer took them in haste.

“And get to a bank.” The healer left and ducked into another room.

“Thank you,” Lohmen called to the healer, unsure if he’d heard. He made to stand, but felt a bit woozy and clutched the bedpost for support. A moment later, he collected his lord purse and left.

Famished and in pain, Lohmen figured he could only do something about the first. He grabbed both his bags, not wanting his possessions left unattended. Two packs shouldered, he entered the ‘Ole Maul & Chain for food. He’d rest after.

He sat at the edge of the room and tossed his bags on the opposite chair. No spycraft today. A young woman brought him a mug of ale.

“By the giants, what happened to you?” She surveyed Lohmen’s injuries.

“I…I don’t truly know.” His eyes were glazed, the night before replaying in his mind.

“Well, a generous helping of rabbit stew will fix you right up.” She smiled sympathetically. “It won’t, but you know what I mean.” Her dry humour snapped Lohmen back to the tavern.

“Sounds great.” His smile turned to a wince as the stitches pulled taught.

“Worry not. It’s more soup than stew.” The astute girl winked as she started to turn.

Remembering the words of the herbalist, Lohmen stopped his server, “Do you have any writings by Raev here?”

The barmaid laughed at the question.

“Yes, though I read it more often than your kind. Your lot seem to know it inside and out already.”

Unable to form a response, Lohmen sat quietly as their conversation became more one-sided. She left and returned to drop a thick book on the table. Lohmen dusted the cover and ran the fingers on his good hand over the simple embossed title.

Bags.

22: Laundry

Kahriah waved to Grelda and Marell as they exited the carriage and trotted the new mount to her and Lohmen’s house.

“Lohmen? Come on out…I have something for you.” She called to the house, unsure if he was home.

“You’re back! How was Onny?” came Lohmen’s reply. Grelda and Marell waved as they went back to their house.

The door cracked open, and the painter stuck his head out. A smile worked his way across his face as he took in the site of Kahriah on the brown and white horse. Bernock had given her a few pointers on the ride home and, with a little tug of the reins, Kahriah brought the horse about to provide Lohmen the full profile.

“Well, this is something. You bought a horse?”

“Not exactly.” She slipped off the horse, pulled a folded piece of paper from her robe, and handed it to her husband. He took it with a puzzled but playful look on his face.

“Seller: 0113D7...Mount name: unnamed…price: Five hundred and twenty-five. Five-twenty-five Kahriah?!” he exclaimed as she rolled her eyes and motioned for him to continue.

“Inclusions: Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, reins, leather travel bag. Terms: payment in full. Buyer…” he cocked his head to the side. “Did you buy ME a horse?”

“I did,” she said proudly. “Flip it over.” On the back was Kahriah’s handwriting.

To Lo,

My knight in painted armour,

Kahriah.

Lohmen swallowed a lump in his throat and moved in to give her an embrace. He knew what this meant from her. This horse, Tolo, was a way for him to continue his work and be there for her. And soon, them. A gift of deep love and understanding.

“Thank you,” was all he could muster.

"Happy firstday, Lohmen." She replied. “So, you’re a horseman now. What are you going to name her?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never named a horse before.” He looked back down at the note. “To Lo.” He read aloud again. “I’m going to call her “Tolo.”

“That’s pretty good, painter.” She kissed him and left the embrace. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to head inside. Why don’t you spend some time with Tolo and then come in.”

He walked Tolo around their house to the back to give her and her bags an inspection.

“You’re a good girl,” Lohmen said as he ran his hands along her mane and rubbed her neck. Kahriah had now been responsible for his second love at first sight. The brown and white spotted horse whinnied as her new owner showered her with pats and scratches. When Tolo had been tied up behind their house, Lohmen turned his attention to the tackle she came with.

“What else have we got here?” He asked Tolo while rummaging through the various inclusions from the bill of sale. Saddlebags hung from either side of the suitable-looking seat. In one of them, he found a bit of rope. The other was empty. Tucked under the cantle was a rolled-up soft, leather bag containing what appeared to be the previous owner’s laundry. The boots strapped to the bag looked a perfect fit, so he plopped on the ground and pulled them on.

Can hardly wear painter’s shoes when riding, can I?

He looked down at his feet and imagined himself a knight in the cavalry.

“Did she steal you?” He asked Tolo. Fishing further in the bag, his fingers met something that gave him pause. Clutching it tightly in his hand, he pulled it out. He tossed the bag in the saddle and raced into the house. Kahriah was standing in the kitchen unloading her herb basket as she turned to see his face brimming with excitement.

“Kahriah, you won’t believe what I found in one of the bags.” He exclaimed, holding out a closed right hand.

“What?” she asked, looking at the secret wrapped in fingers. Lohmen slowly opened his hand and watched Kahriah’s eyes widen with surprise and bewilderment.

“You know what. This is probably a sign of things beyond my grasp.” She grabbed the simple bronze ring from his hand and knelt on one knee.

“Lohmen Dreisler, will you join me as one till the end of our days?”

“Kahriah, I think I’m supposed to do that.” He argued playfully.

“You know I’m not one for tradition. This is as close as you’ll get. I suppose that’s a no then?” She moved to get up with a wry look on her face.

“No, no, no,” he said as she raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I mean. Yes. I will join you as one till the end of our days.” They laughed as she slid the ring on his finger. He pulled her up, and the newly betrothed kissed.

“Well, that’s a new one. Not sure how I’ll explain it to the bookbinders!”

“Lo, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” She offered as consolation.

“Kahriah, I don’t care who knows. WE’RE TO BE WED!” he screamed so Grelda could hear. “Shall we consummate our impending union?” He asked suggestively but thankfully to Kahriah, more quietly.

“I’ve just ridden all day. I’m exhausted!” she laughed and gave him another kiss before returning to her herbs.

“I’m a lucky man, Kahriah. Thank you.” He said as he smiled at her, even though she had her back to him. “I’m going to go get Tolo set up outback. See you in bed.” As he stepped out the back door, he thumbed his new jewellery.

Lohmen practically danced out of the house. He’d dropped everything when he found the ring. For four months, since the night they had met, Lohmen had wanted to marry Kahriah. He’d asked that night and again six weeks later when they found out she was with child. Kahriah had consistently declined, saying it wasn’t Lohmen; it was the institution she disagreed with. But even she couldn’t ignore the chance finding of a ring.

Lohmen had forgotten about the rest of the inclusions, so he rejoined Tolo in the back and finished his rummaging.

The boots from the bag were already on his feet, but there was more. With his arm up to his shoulder, he pulled out the rest of the bag’s contents. He tucked a pair of heavy gloves into the saddlebags for riding. Then a sizable, deep hood that would cover his entire upper body.

This’ll serve well if it starts to rain.

Folded, he stashed it into a saddlebag as well. Next came a small notebook. Flipping its pages revealed them to be completely blank. Lohmen figured he’d be able to sketch ideas for his paintings. He folded Tolo’s bill of sale into the back of the notebook and slid it into the saddlebag beside the hood. A simple but finely made shirt came out next. Holding it up against his chest, it looked to be a good fit, though out of style, so he threw it over his shoulder to bring inside. Next came a fancy belt with intricate, if not unsettling, embellishments. He threw it around his waist, and the fit was perfect, just like the boots. Finally, he fished out a red pendant with a fine leather string from the bottom.

Ugly thing. Who’d wear such an object?

He threw the pendant back into the empty bag and rejoined Kahriah in the house. Tossing it in a corner, the bag landed softly near a chair. The only sound was a soft click of a muffled pendant hitting a loose floorboard.

23: The Stranger

Lohmen finished his inspection of the impressive book cover and opened it to the first section.

“Better brush up. By the look of you, you’re new to owning one.” She nodded in the direction of Lohmen’s leather travel bag before leaving him to his studying.

Curious what the herbalist and now the barmaid knew that he did not, he flipped through and read a few pages of Bags as he waited for his food.

Adventurers choose to seal much of their life and belongings - everything from treasure and transportation to property and persona - into the equipment itself. Wherever they go, their bags go as well.


The barmaid returned with the hare stew.

“Adventurers?” Lohmen looked at the barmaid with a furrowed brow, pointing at the word in the book.

“Yeah, or Strangers. Some of the ancients call them that. Anyone with a bag, actually. Those whocarry them are Adventurers…or Strangers. Raev was an expert on both, but the Bags especially.”

“People call me a Painter. I’m not an Adventurer or a Stranger….” Lohmen flipped through the pages of the book, reading aloud:

“...bags contain everything to outfit a person from head to toe…

...helms, swords, ornate chestplates, warhammers…

….Ghost wands, Grave wands, Divine Robes...”

“How does this apply to me? I’ve a tomesack and a leather bag full of travel gear. I don’t have any weapons or divine garbs.”

“Keep reading Adventurer. Plenty of your kind carries simple things like tomes and jewellery. Books, belts, and boots too.”

Lohmen spun the ring on his finger as the information sank in. He squinted at its markings that he was sure weren’t there before.

He looked back at the barmaid with a quizzical look on his face.

An Adventurer?

Lohmen slid his plate to the side and continued reading.

She was right. There were all manner of everyday items, among the more elaborate.

Crown, Helm, Hat, Warcap, Hood,

Greaves, Boots, Shoes, Slippers,

Tome, Club, Mace, Book, Katana, Quarterstaff, Warhammer,

Gauntlets, Gloves, Sashes, Belts,

Robe, Armour, Shirt, Chestplate,

Rings.

Sweat began to form under the bandages on his head. Lohmen flipped the pages furiously. He stopped at the passage he’d read before.

Adventurers choose to seal much of their life and belongings - everything from treasure and transportation to property and persona - into the equipment itself. Wherever they go, their bags go as well.

He flipped back several pages.

Eight items covering tip to toe….

“Wherever they go, their bags go as well,” Lohmen muttered.

He opened his pack, pulled out the cartography book and dropped it on the table. He flipped to the back and unfolded a piece of paper tucked there.

Saddle, saddlebags, bridle, reins. Leather Travel Bag.

The leather bag under the cantle…

He rubbed his eyes with his good hand while stress seared at his temples. His breathing shallowed.

Did Kahriah do this?

He hated himself for the thought. They’d only known each other for four months then, but she was carrying his child.

No, she couldn’t have known.

He shook his head of ill thoughts. It had been 13 years since she had gotten down on bended knee, but he remembered that day as if it were yesterday.

8 Items covering tip to toe…

He wore the boots and gloves every time he rode. Hadn’t taken off the ring since Kahriah had put it on his finger. The hood and book were always stowed when he rode. He wore the shirt more than half the time and the belt nearly all the time.

Only seven items…

“I never took it. The pendant had never left the house.” He mumbled to himself in disbelief and fished the thing from his pocket. Holding it in his hand, he looked it over. It was maddeningly unremarkable; a reddish foggy jewel on a severed leather string. Unremarkable except for the barrel-chested man’s blood that speckled its surface.

Wherever they go, their bags go as well.

It was the tether. All that time. It was sitting in the bag in the corner of his house. A gaudy thing Lohmen took for costume jewellery tossed in an old leather bag had set the boundary of his search for Thesdon. By simply packing up and leaving with the Ranger, he had broken his tether.

Lohmen sunk in his chair under the weight of this revelation. His desperate years of mapping, trying to find Thesdon, were all for nought because of a necklace. After a moment, his eye twitched. His upper lip fluttered almost undetectably to anyone who might be watching. Lohmen caught himself and took a deep breath.

He flipped to the back of Bags. His finger traced down, then darted to the right. The pages flew backward to the section he was looking for.

On the Matter of Transference:

Lohmen’s finger moved down the page.

Section 6, Article 4: One may purchase a bag on another’s behalf.

He turned back to the bill of sale.

Purchased by: Lohmen Dreisler. Kahriah’s hand.

Lohmen Dreisler, Stranger. Owner of Leather Travel Bag.

Adventurer.

He looked at the seller column, and there was only a code at the top: 0113D7. The signature below was illegible. The first letter looked like it could be a T or an F, but no further indication.

It didn’t matter. He owned the leather travel bag, whether he understood it or not. In a rush, he put the mapbook back into his bag, threw it over his shoulder and did the same with the leather travel bag. A smattering of coins landed beside the cold rabbit stew where the book had been. The copy of Bags was firmly under his arm.

For the first time, Lohmen felt like a piece of him had been unlocked.

I need to find the Horseman. Mr Seventy-forty-two.

Pushing his chair back from the table a scarred, one-handed, armed Lohmen rose an Adventurer.

THE EYE

When knowledge is preserved, so is our history, and with it, humanity.

When adventurers walked freely amongst the realms, they sought story. It was fundamental.

"As through shared narrative, all our truths are revealed," twas the motto in the County of Prefixes.

To learn about our world, we must reflect upon its past. To learn about its people, we must inhabit the imagined, and interact ensemble. Together, as all these events shape us. We envision and uphold its future.

At the Town Square, crowds gathered in delight as the Lorators regaled story in grand ceremony. It was their duty. But with each pass of an oral performance, the lore itself shifted ever so slightly. Memory can only be so strong.

And with this, the Historians were entertained by opportunity. They devised a plan. In arms, they forged a device to preserve story; to advance civilization. It was learned from the fable of the Fox: progress waits for no one.

They called it The Eye.

Only so few were manufactured, and collected by sacred hands, by those who appreciate the tradition the Lorators beget. It was Codified by its collectors. A missing item from the Mage class, its power unrivaled.

And through the call of the Scrolls, the Historians motivated the community, in bounty and bag, for credited accounts of their lives – for all to decipher, enjoy, and expand upon.

These legends were enshrined, archived, in The Eye – our immutable, illuminating record of runes.

The Eye, a time capsule, will stand the test of time. It is all that will remain, its contents knowingly kept. It will persist through the ages, the generations, and contain inscriptions from the Orders.

For all to see. For all to use. For all to share. To be rediscovered, forevermore. In its Higher Greatness, we prevail.

Divine City Rising

It started early one morning, just after sunrise. I was walking along the battlements and saw someone running across the meadow. This was not a jog. This was full speed ahead. This was a person running for their life. As the figure got closer to the city, I recognized my friend, Owin. Owin was a Guardian. He’d recently been assigned to Uruk Watch. He must be bringing news from the tower, I thought. But there’s never any news from the tower, I thought.

I took off running across the battlements, down stairwells and back alleys, and met Owin just as he entered the city. He didn’t slow down. I don’t think he saw me, or heard me call his name. I caught up with him and asked what was happening. He looked over his shoulder, recognized me, and said between heaving breaths, “An army coming. An army.”

We found Gamling in the Hall garden, on his hands and knees pulling weeds. Gamling Theo was the oldest member of the Council. Years ago he had been its leader. Now, he was more of an advisor, a mentor to younger Council members. He had long hair that he tied up in a series of intricate braids and knots, and wore a slim robe with cutoff sleeves (a story for another time). Unlike other men his age, he shaved first thing every morning. He was superstitious about it.

“How many?” Gamling asked, picking dirt out of his fingernails.

“Sixty thousand. Maybe more.”

“Banners?”

“The flags were black, with a white circle in the middle. The circle wasn’t complete. There was a gap.”

Gamling didn’t reply. He stood there, looking back and forth between Owin and I, and his neat pile of weeds in the flower bed. After some time he said, “Everyone took the day off. Go to their homes. Tell them what you told me. Tell them to meet at the Altar.”

“Do you know the sigil?” I asked.

“Why are you still here?”

The Divine City was a two hundred year old secret. It wasn’t on any map. It wasn’t visible to the naked eye. Spells were cast long ago to cloak it. From nearby peaks, even if you knew exactly where to look, all you could see was a massive mountain meadow full of dandelions and wild flowers. You might have heard of the city. You might have heard stories about demon worship, sacrifices, and world domination. The names people call it are wrong, of course, and the stories are nothing but gossip. Secret things tend to inspire conspiracy and fear.

Secret things also tend to get found out, eventually. The question, now, was how? After two hundred years, how could this have happened? The Order had spies everywhere, and every time someone or some group found some nugget of truth about the city, they were there to muddy the waters with misinformation, and occasionally murder. Surely they would have heard whispers about an army being raised, especially an army of sixty thousand (maybe more)! How could our spies have missed this? How could this army get so close to our secret and invisible city undetected?

“One traitor couldn’t do this. It must have been several. A secret society formed inside of our secret society. A secret, secret society.” We were back in the Hall garden after rounding up the Council, waiting for orders. Owin was pacing. I was sitting cross-legged on a stone bench. “Maybe it was the spies who turned. Or maybe the spies were poisoned, or kidnapped, or cursed with some kind of dark magic that made them periodically forget things.”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“How can we fight if we don’t know anything about our enemy?”

“We pick up our swords. Cast our spells.”

“If they can pull off this kind of surprise, what else can they do?” Owin stopped pacing. He was quiet, staring at the dirt. He looked at me. His face was white, and there were tears in his eyes. “We barely have a standing army. We haven’t fought a war in thirty three years.”

The plan, according to Gamling, was to defend the city, and pray to Origin the shields held. That was it. We wouldn’t go out and fight. We wouldn’t try to slow them down, or weaken them before they got close. Our objective from the outset was strictly survival.

Gamling sent Owin back to Uruk Watch, then said to me: “I need you to go up to the top of the Tower and ring the bell. Ringing that bell will set off the other bells around the city.”

“I didn’t know the city had bells.” I said.

“Our soldiers know bells mean battle, and to report to Tilly Square.”

“And after I ring the bell?”

“Do you have armor? A sword?”

“I have armor.”

“Then I suggest you find a weapon and prepare yourself for war.”

It took me twenty minutes to reach the top of the Tower. As I climbed the narrow, winding stairwell, I thought about preparing for war. I couldn’t help but laugh, at first. There was a reason I was a page and not a Guardian like Owin. I read books. I took notes. I ran errands and rang bells. I’d never even been in a fight. I had armor. But it was old. I hadn’t worn it in years. And it was cheap. I’d bought it second hand, or maybe third. Would it still fit? And where would I find a weapon? I didn’t even know where to start. Important questions, but trivial compared to The Question, the one that started in the back of my mind, and pushed itself to the front the higher I climbed. As I reached the top of the Tower and rang the bell, and as I heard the other bells ring out across the city, and as I looked out into the meadow and saw the enemy soldiers for the first time, so close I could see the incomplete circles on their banners, the Question became the only thing on my mind. Could I kill someone?

The bells rang, and the soldiers made their way to Tilly Square. They filled the square (named for the woman who found Origin and founded the Order), and filled the streets surrounding it. They listened to speeches about duty and honor, about protecting Origin at all costs. They received orders from Commander Remy. They confirmed the orders together in one giant, roaring voice: “By Origin’s Light.” They left the square and spread out along the battlements, fortified weak points in the city walls, and corralled anyone who couldn’t fight to the Keep, an impenetrable stronghold beneath the library in the eastern corner of the city.

I lost Gamling in the chaos. He disappeared in the middle of Remy’s speech and never returned. The Council went back to the Hall. Gamling didn’t. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I knew that if I went looking for him, he would reprimand me for not getting my armor and finding a weapon. But if I got my armor and found a weapon, he would wonder where I went, why I wasn’t by his side. I decided to go looking for him. He wasn’t at home. He wasn’t at any of his favorite taverns. I headed for the library, the last place I could think of, but quickly realized it would be a waste of time. He wouldn’t be there. It was too crowded.

On my way back to the Hall, I saw Owin helping his mother and sister navigate the crowds. He hadn’t gone back to Uruk Watch. He had heavy bags slung over both shoulders, and carried a handful of books. His sister, Caitlin, held a toy bow and arrow in one hand, and her mother’s hand in the other. I looked around at all the other families like Owin’s. Where did all of these people come from? How could they all possibly fit inside the Keep? This question seemed to be driving everyone mad. There was pushing and shoving, fights breaking out between strangers and relatives alike, people running as if the enemy were two blocks away. I looked for Owin again, and saw that he had dropped his books, and was now grabbing Caitlin around the waist, trying to keep her moving forward. She was crying, screaming, trying to push back through the crowd. Her hands were empty. Owin got hold of her, and they disappeared into the pack, leaving Caitlin’s toy bow and arrow in the street.

I thought of my own family, and my own sister, back in Berne Bay. My father would be out in the field right now. He’d have been out there a couple hours already. Even if there wasn’t work to be done, there was work to be done, he would say. I could remember the words, but not the way they sounded coming from his mouth. My mother was at home chopping firewood or rearranging knick-knacks on the mantle. She had a thing for elephant figurines. Or was it roosters? My sister might be in the field with my father, or maybe at the beach collecting shells with her friends. They weren’t mages, they didn’t have special abilities. They were ordinary, and I envied them. No army was marching on Berne Bay.

The room was at least a hundred yards by a hundred yards, and the Altar was in the middle of it, built around a massive hole that reached all the way down to the world-core. This was the source of magical energy called Origin.

The Council (there were fifteen of them, not counting Gamling) was gathered at the Altar, in their robes and protective masks. They turned at once as I approached, in my own mask. They asked me to go to Gamling and give him an important message: “We’re raising the city.” I thought they were joking. They assured me they were serious. They told me not to laugh in the Altar room. I told them I’d been searching for Gamling and couldn’t find him. They told me Gamling went with Commander Remy and his men to fortify the south-eastern wall. I told them I would deliver the message as quickly as I could. They told me to prepare for war.

Was it possible? I’d heard the legends about the early experiments, before the city was a city. Impossible feats of alchemy. It was rumored the near-disaster at Section 370 had something to do with moving large objects long distances. The city itself was built using Origin’s energy – its outer walls were made from a single piece of rock, raised from the earth. Its shield was powered by Origin. Its cloak was powered by Origin. Who knows what else the Order used it for, what kind of experiments they’d been doing.

“Is it possible?”

“I thought I told you to get your armor and find a weapon.” Gamling was digging through a storage shed beneath the south-east tower, piecing together a full body of armor.

“Haven’t had time.”

“Haven’t had time? They’re knocking on the door, man.”

“I’ve been looking for you.” I walked over to the far wall and looked out a little picture window. The air was hot. I could see the enemy soldiers now, individually. Their armor wasn’t uniform. Some wore cloth, others wore leather or metal.

“You found me. You delivered the message. Now, I’m relieving you of your duty. Your duty, from here on out, is to yourself.” He was trying to put on a chest plate, but couldn’t get the leather strapped properly. I walked over and helped him with it. “Now I’m relieving you.”

“The city rising. Is it possible?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would we be stuck here?”

“I don’t know.”

“How would we get down?”

Gamling stopped what he was doing. He studied my face. He must have heard the tremble in my voice. “How well do you know this city?”

“Until a few hours ago I didn’t even know we had bells.”

Gamling laughed. “But you know its history.”

“Yes.”

“Then I take back what I said. I’m un-relieving you. I have one last thing for you to do. For this city, for everyone who lived here, for the people who made it what it is today. And for me.” He grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me square in the eye. “I want you to leave.”

“Sir–”

“I want you to leave, and I want you to tell the world about the Divine City.”

I looked for the wall-mark of the Order, and found it on the north side of Tilly Square, where Gamling said it would be. I whispered the spell he told me to whisper, but nothing happened. The wall still looked like a wall. I whispered the spell again. Still nothing. I reached out to touch the wall, and my fingers disappeared. “By Origin’s Light,” I said.

I stepped through the portal, and emerged in a forest clearing. Gamling said it wouldn’t take me very far. He was right. I soon realized I was somewhere in the Donbor Range. I walked through the woods until I reached a lookout point. I could see the army, alone in the mountain meadow, splitting their formations, spreading out in a wide half circle. It was a strange sight – sixty thousand men surrounding a target none of them could see. But they seemed to know precisely where the city was, exactly how the walls ran. Then, in the blink of an eye, the city was there.

The wind changed, then stopped altogether. The hot air got hotter, expanding. There was a flash across the sky. The world darkened, as if the sun was blown out like a candle. The earth rumbled, and all at once every crack in the meadow dirt, no matter how small, burst, cutting wider and wider, creating yawning canyons in seconds. The piece of rock I stood on shot out from under my feet and pulled me up at least thirty feet into the sky. I lost balance and fell backward. I rolled down this new mountainside, rolled and slammed into a tree trunk.

I had cuts on my arms and face, and the muscles around my right kneecap felt like they had ripped in half. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and surveyed my surroundings. The rock I stood on moments ago was almost vertical now. It blocked my view of the city.

My head pounded. I felt like I was going to vomit. The wind changed again, and caught what little grass was left on the mountainside. I got to my feet and leaned against the tree.

That’s when I saw the city floating in the sky. It was rising up, up, up – connected to the earth below by a single beam of light. I believe the beam was Origin.

The Origin-beam started growing wider and wider. The earth shook. There was a bright white flash. When the darkness returned, the city had completely vanished.

It took me a hundred and twenty-two days to reach Berne Bay. The town was underwater. Like many other places I’d come across on my journey, it was abandoned, and shrouded in a heavy mist. I’d seen flooding, wildfires, cities split in half or swallowed whole by earthquakes. In one region it never stopped raining. There were survivors. Mostly nomads. Peaceful, mostly. That wouldn’t last. A band of scavengers I came across called what happened “The Cataclysm.”

I found a boat in Berne Bay. I found my house, half underwater. Inside, I found the mantle just barely above the water line, and on the mantle sat an elephant figurine.

What appears to be a simple bag of armaments to an outsider is actually a window into much of an adventurer's life. Centuries of war and destruction led to the old proverb: "all that stands will burn", and so the forbidden magick of Deriving was rediscovered.

Adventurers choose to seal much of their life and belongings — everything from treasure and transportation to property and persona — into the equipment itself. Wherever they go, their bags go as well.