Mythern was a world created from the body and power of a god. When the other gods drew lots to see who would get to place their people first on the new world, the elves won out. However, the world was not truly empty. It was still seeded with the fallen god's nightmares. Nightmares which were no longer bound by his will.
The first war was fought by elves to destroy these nightmares which they called damin (elven for demon). However, they soon discovered that the damin were immortal and were a vital part of the fabric of the world that could never be extinguished. They were a part of the essence that spawned them.
The elven armies drove the damin and their spawn into the core of the darkness from which they were spawned. There they were fought and bound with shards of the fallen one's power at the heart of the world. A few elves were chosen to remain in darkness and guard the wards that kept the essence of nightmares contained.
The victory was not without a price. Those that had fought the damin and those that had channeled the power to form the wards were forever changed. Some were corrupted by the damin and became weapons against us. Some were burnt by the last vestiges of power that layed at the heart of darkness. Some, well, there are some things that are best forgotten. The elves that fought that war and their descendents, are the dark elves. Their afflictions are hereditery and are known among elves as damincears.
_________________________________________________
The ancestors of Granar Anothos were a part of that war. Silvana Anothos and her husband Thaddus fought and bound a particularly nasty damin. While Thaddus was igniting the last of the necessary shards, He was struck down by damin fire. It incinerated his body and fused what was left of his essence and will to the swords he carried. Silvana drew her own sword and raced for her lover's side. It was too late to save him, but she fought through damin fire and set the last of the wards by channeling the power of the local faye through her. It cost her much. She lost: her sight, her husband, and unknowingly changed her children's future. From that day forward, her line would always bear twins. One boy and one girl, both blessed and cursed by damincear. Part of the curse, was that their souls, and the will that guided them, were bound to the set of swords carried by Thaddus. The men of Silvana's line were bound to the Katana and the women to the Wakishashi. Love forever close but forever separated even in death. A damin's curse to drive lover's mad.
_________________________________________________
As the ages passed, the twin blades (Love's Edge and Love's Hope) gathered the will and essence of hundreds of generations. It became a focal point of will, and ultimately a tool that could be used by the Anothos line to tap a power far greater than any yet harnessed. Yet, it was guided by its own agenda.
_________________________________________________
The tradition of the Anothos line was that the men studied the ways of the world and the women defended it. Each generation brought forth a new set of twins. One boy and one girl. So it was, until the gods changed the rules and the Anothos line bore twin.... girls.
The girls were fierce rivals and the elders of the clan knew that they would forever compete with the other for the birth right of the swords. Both seem equally gifted in blade and sorcery. Yet, one bore the gift of leadership and diplomacy, and the other bore the gift of empathy and compassion. She was deemed the weaker by the clan, but was the first to bear twins.
_________________________________________________
Granar and Amildra were born to the Anothos clan on the night of darkness. Both of the twins possessed the utter black hair and features which were common to the Anothos line. Granar sprouted an emerald green lock of hair that crackled and periodically appeared to shift in his thick dark hair. Amildra's lock was classic violet. Granar had violet eyes and Amildr'as were green. There was no doubt that the damincear had touched them both.
_________________________________________________
Granar's aunt, Silvana after the matriarch of the line, became the head of the family after his mother succumbed to a mysterious and fatal ailment. Silvana personally oversaw Amildra's training, and worked her relentlessly and cruelly. A series of near fatal and mysterious training accidents and her relentless abuse and the occasional bizarre ailments made it clear that the twins would not survive to adulthood in her care. Rather than face her, and the power she possessed, their father chose to flee and fled one night with his children and their birthrights.
A great and mysterious storm chased them across the land bridge that joined Skaro with Hamoi Tral. It followed them for two weeks and finally caught up to them at a seaport on the foot of the mount. Granar's father secretly made arrangements with a trading company and chartered a boat to take them down the coast. He chose to remain. Why is unclear, but he was reported dead just after the twin's boat left port.
A freak 'shipping accident' occurred several days into the voyage. As waves and flames sought to consume the small vessel, Amildra, ever the protector, ordered her brother to get into a life boat. Realizing that she didn’t have the swords, she ran back to their cabin, and grabbed the precious heirlooms. For reason's which have never been made clear, Amildra threw one of the swords, Love's Edge, to Granar, and remained behind to face whatever drove her to this action. Granar never saw his sister again. Additionally, he now had a blade he felt he was not worthy to bear, for he was a mere male, and thus a scholar and not a warrior in the tradition of his clan.
_________________________________________________
A half dead Granar was rescued by a fisherman off the coast of Kaskaid. Upon reaching the shore, Granar chose to apprentice himself to a local harvest wizard and learn the ways of western sorcery. Yet, as his training progressed, his magic took disastrous forms. He would summon a flame to light a candle and the heavens would rain fire on the nearby crop for a week. He would summon the power to read an ancient tongue and a nearby village would lose the power to make speech. Only when the sword was in his possession did he have any chance of success. He went through six masters and three schools before he mastered the most basic elements of sorcery. As his skill increased, he learned to use his gifts and the sword to shape common magic to his will. His mentors were both in awe and jealous of his talents. He didn't belong and it was only a matter of time before word of his infamy reached one of Silvana's informants.
_________________________________________________
Upon completing his apprenticeship, Granar chose to be honorably discharged from the sorcerer's guild. In truth, the guild was glad to see him go, as his talent for trouble had far outstripped the innate talent that he had shown for the mystic arts. His master had provided him with a few paltry coins, a standard spell book, a hunting bow with an empty quiver, a backpack with some rations, a water satchel, and a sealed letter of introduction to the mercenary guild known as Steel. This, along with the silk wrapped, ancient, pitted, blade bundle was all that Granar carried from the towering walls that had been his home.
Granar's unusually immense elven girth and his exotic foreign look drew the usual stares from the visitors to Kaskaid. The locals had long been accustomed to a diverse variety of foreigners. Most of these who were drawn to the opportunities that only a trading city like Kaskaid could provide. Still, he stood out even in a rather large port city like Kaskaid.
_________________________________________________
Granar's hand gently stroked the hilt of the blade he could never wield. His mind drifting to the chain of events that brought him to this point and this time. His father's foolishness had overwhelmed whatever honor his mother had managed to accumulate in the clan's eyes. His actions had later killed his sister, and ultimately would lead to the end of the legacy of the Anothos clan, for one of the blades was forever gone. His own inability to do what honor demanded weighed heavily on his spirit. He had chosen to stay. Had sought refuge from his duty to return in the teachings of a local guild. He enjoyed his time there, but it was clear that he had neither the skill nor the desire to remain. Where the other students saw a mere stone of a particular type. His mind saw the quarry from which it was drawn, the fires from which it was formed, and the potential it had within. Such trivial minutia had caused him to almost fail numerous courses that his masters considered mere fundamentals. Where his peers poured through ancient dusty tombs and spent countless hours reciting long boring phrases to memory, Granar sketched. He drew everything, especially the flow of power that seemed to emanate from everyone and everything. Its interaction with his peers fascinated him. When they drew upon those long boring carefully practiced ancient phrases to summon a pin prick of magic, the flow was disrupted. Their actions forced something new to exist in its place. Their will brought forth a power that was not of this world. To Granar, it was like parting an ocean to place a single drop of ale in its place. His peers did not appreciate these thoughts and none of them seemed to see or believe in the flow. It didn't exist for them, but they were part of it.
_________________________________________________
The Steel's headquarters was a tavern called the Dew Drop Inn. It was a common enough appearing establishment, with thick, bare, stone walls that served to keep the mercenaries business private. The bouncers were burley surly men that looked like statues with roaming eyes. They seemed to take everything in, but contributed nothing to general ambiance of the room. Every once in a while, one of the 'statues' would bark a single word or utter a short phrase in some unknown tongue. What stood out was not the language itself, but the structured flow of power that came with the sound. It reminded me of the flow that I saw around one of my masters when he got too excited and spoke too fast. His eagerness to convey meaning far exceeded his vocal ability to relate. He searched and searched and searched for a way to convey more information faster, but the language complexity was not sufficiently complex. Apparently, the Steel had found a way around that problem. I wondered how long it took to teach someone. Conventionally I mean.
_________________________________________________
I walked up to the bar and presented my sealed letter of introduction to the pretty young thing behind the bar. Before, I even opened my mouth, the woman told me that the sword and bow would have to remain with her. I tensed and debated my options, when a man with wings drew all attention away from me and my heirloom. Several words flew back and forth from the statues as this strange addition approached the bar counter. His wings twitched as he walked within the close confines of this room. It was clear that closed spaces made him uncomfortable. However, what drew my attention most was the field flow around him. Never had I seen it form patterns like it did when he moved. Never had I seen it change so fast.... The bird man squawked a sound that made every eye in the room turn to him. His voice was pure emotion. Even the minstrel who had been playing it the corner stopped dead. The silence that followed was one of the longest of my short life. The woman's drool ran down her chin, as she escorted the two of us to a corner booth. Suddenly, the sword I carried was no longer a point of concern, for this woman. I doubt she even remembered it. She hadn't even bothered to take my letter.
_________________________________________________
As I sat with the bird man, I pondered the irony of us sitting together. Two foreigners as foreign to each other, as we were to the rest of the room. To break the oppressive silence, I looked around for a wench to bring us a couple of drinks. It was then that I noticed the harlot that was making her way around the room. Between her and my companion, just about all eyes in the room were fixed. She danced her way through the patrons, no doubt in search of the few remaining coins that lined their purses. Her body shimmied and swayed and I heard one of statues begin to talk in what passed for broken common. Apparently, their condensed tongue did not include a way to convey lust. My table companion seemed uninterested in the woman's gyrations. Apparently featherless women were not to his taste. I, for one, and ashamed to admit that my lustful eyes dallied on her for far longer than was appropriate. My smile from ear to ear no doubt inspired her to draw nearer to us.
It was then that she greeted me, by name, in Tralen, my native tongue. My mind instantly focused on her, as I searched for a spell that would allow me to exit quickly. Assassins had been sent once... "THIEF!!!!!" An ogre by the door suddenly shattered the table which he was sitting with his fists. YOU ROB ME. PERTY BIRD AND DARK ELF MUST DIE. Apparently, my curse was alive and well. At least, for another few moments.
_________________________________________________
As part of my mind searched frantically for how sleep spells were cast, I surveyed my potential adversaries. There was the ogre of course who was obviously considering using my body as a club to beat the feather duster next to me senseless. There was the feather duster of course, who, if he was a thief, was one that no one would miss or forget, and there was the harlot. She concerned me most, for I had seen the bulge in the back of her shirt which could easily be an assassin's dagger. More troubling was her knowledge of my name and my tongue. Yes, she was the real threat. KLUNK.... The ogre was dead before he hit the floor. One of the two statues had decided to plant their blades in the ogre's back. One down.... As my mind turned to focus a spell on the harlot, a gentle voice in my mind told me (and her) to stand down. Her name was Tye, and I had somehow heard her acknowledgement to stand down, but had missed the instant when she had drawn her blade. The minstrel resumed his play, as Tye joined our table. A bag of gold, tied just under her skirt, jangled as she sat. This woman was deceiving us, of that I had little doubt.
_________________________________________________
Two others, a rather buff woodsman who proudly brandished a holy symbol of Surlein the Silverone and the minstrel who had been playing joined our table before a rather sullen dwarf approached our table with the female bar tender. The dwarf's words were carefully chosen, and well rehearsed. We were being considered for conditional membership into the Steel. We were on probation. Our first job was to escort Shayla, the bar tender, to some northern city I had never heard of. We weren't to ask questions. We were to go there and await directions. Although I missed most of the details of his monotonous dialog, there was no way I could miss the bag of gems that the dwarf laid down. Half now... Half later.
_________________________________________________
My family had long had ties with mercenary guilds such as this one, and I was no fool. I needed money to survive. Far more than I currently had. Survival is expensive especially for one on the run. As I walked up to the table, and felt the gemstones fall into my hand, I could not help but wonder where this road would lead. This was a job of necessity not a career. I was not prone for adventure. I was a scholar. I was wrong.
_________________________________________________
Shayla wanted us to leave immediately. She said that we would pick up some traveling supplies at an outpost north of town. The structured flow of the field around her cautioned me that there was an underlying reason for our hasty departure. It was clear we weren't going to be told what that was though. I had already thrown my cards. I had to see this through.
_________________________________________________
As we walked through the streets of Kaskaid, I pondered the logic of sending this band of misfits to escort anyone. Subtlety was not exactly our strong point. We had Arok, whose name had been spoken by someone, but I remember not who. His wings gave us sight from the sky, but his presence was as unique as my own. I thought of that for a moment, and decided to get some more scroll ink to cover the lock of emerald green hair that ran through my black hair. My mother told me that it was the mark of our heritage of our damincear. She told me it was a badge of honor. I have always hated it, and have hid it many times, but it always burns through whatever disguise I employ. Subtlety. No one will ever notice us.. Right. The minstrel from the bar played a soft slow tune on his lute, and the harlot danced, as we walked towards the main gate. All we needed now was for Arok to sing, and I'd put out my bag to collect a few more coins. The woodsman and I marched on in silence. He had been gracious enough to lend me a few arrows for my quiver, so that I wouldn't feel totally defenseless. Of course, he didn't know what was in the bundle that I kept carefully strapped to my person. At least, I didn't think so. The arrows he gave me all had the mark of Surlein the Silverone boldly engraved on the arrowhead. They weren't silver though. Apparently, the woodsman, priest, acolyte, or whatever he was didn’t have deep enough pockets or enough influence to acquire the true silver arrows that his priests employed. All of this led me to our charge. We were escorting a... bar tender. A bar tender who spoke the language of mercenaries. Right... I felt the corner of my mouth smile, as I wondered how long it would be before her skills or our true mission became... The first arrow struck the ground by the harlot's feet. A second pierced my water satchel. I cursed silently as the cold liquid drained down my leg. I wondered if the assassins had found me, or if this was related to the job. At least, I had a cover story. I grabbed Shayla's shoulder and dived into the nearest doorway. Even as the floor reached up to bite my knees, I felt hair grow under the hand on Shayla's shoulder. She was transforming into something more dog-like than human-like. I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to wake up with that in your bed.
_________________________________________________
Shamaass... The word flowed to my tongue like blood from a wound. It meant shape shifter... Lycanthrope... Stealer of Children... Demon. Yet, as the transformation became complete and I stared at the white wolf in front of me. I felt none of the evil that I had been told. Yes, there was rage there, but it was not the rage that one associates with evil. It was the rage of a hunter who has become the hunted. It was the look I had seen in the mirror countless mornings before. The wolf leaped back through the doorway for parts unknown. An arrow smeared with my blood reminded me that this was not the time for passive thought. Then again, maybe it was. I was feeling light headed, as I started the incantation that would allow me to target the sharp shooter assassin with a sleep enchantment. Sweat dripped from my brow and the walls seemed to pulse, as I started my spell. It was then that the world turned to violet fire. A thousand pins struck at me all at once. I was the violet fire. I was the emerald storm. It was the first time in a long time that my damincear had surged without warning. My body melted under the relentless tide of pressure and pain that sought release from within. Release through Love's Edge, and ultimately through me. It was too much, and my world slipped to utter blackness.
When I awoke, I was in the back of an unknown covered wagon filled with supplies. I wasn't sure how I had gotten here, but the driver of the wagon was the minstrel with the harlot Tye riding beside. Both of them were oddly still and silent. A combat bandage and a minor shard of pain sparked a thought that arrows and magic and thighs do not mix. I had no idea how much time had passed or what had transpired since I had passed out. It was obvious that they hadn't killed me and that we had survived and had made our way to the outpost.
I sat there in pain for some time, before the roughness of the road sapped what remained of my strength. I reached for my waterskin, the unfortunate victim of the first broad head arrow. It could have been far worse.. As the world began to fade, I heard the bard mutter. "He put the entire town down... All but us..." The only answer I heard was Arok's cry and a wolf's howl. I was out for several hours at least.
_________________________________________________
When I awoke again, the woodsman was standing over me. His hand glowed softly, and I felt the wound in my thigh heal at an impossibly fast rate. I never complain when someone heals me. I also never forget who does it. They say not all healing magic is the same. I have only been exposed to but two types in my life, and they were both different. The first was from one of the priest's employed by our clan. I had been accidentally injured during a training session between my sister and my aunt. Even now, my shoulder still aches as I think of the sword swipe that removed a chunk of my shoulder. It was my fault. I had stood too close to the practice ring. Silvana made me suffer for three hours before the priest was allowed to heal it with a torch. The healing was less than pleasant. They burnt away the injury with the pain and glory of fire. When the ashes were removed from my shoulder, I was healed. I ached for weeks, but I was healed. Silvana said it hurt because I wasn't worthy. She told me that I was worthless and should have never been born at all. She said other things too... I shuddered as these memories filled my mind again. NO. NO. This healing was more like the cool feel of a river flowing over your feet on a warm day. There was no pain at all. Just relief. I would remember the woodsman for a long time.
As he finished the job, he asked me if I had burnt an item. An item? Yes, you knocked out the entire city block. I haven't seen anything like that, in, well, forever. I said nothing on this, and thanked him for healing me. He took my hint. I wasn't ready to talk yet. I was ready for supper though.
Shayla had 'found' a deer in the nearby woods, and had turned it into a great stew. I had some weariness about eating meat killed by a lycanthrope, but my stomach won out over my paranoia. We ate in silence for all of an hour before the bard started complaining about, well, about everything. He played great music, but he had to be the most unpleasant bard I had ever met. From his ranting, I had determined that he had once belonged to a famous troope, but had fallen on hard times after a miserable bit of luck at the palace. This job was going to pay off a debt he had acquired there. I also found out that he thoroughly hated snakes. I have never seen a bard use his instrument to bash snakes. This one smashed his instrument on a pile of grass that rustled loudly. I guess this musician was known for breaking his instrument on stage and off.
Arok refused to eat the Lycanthrope's stew and settled for some berries that he had found when he was on patrol. It was now obvious that he either had difficulty with common or simply didn't understand it. How he had come to be in our little group was a mystery to me, but it was the least of my worries. Tye, our well dressed fashion consultant, communicated with him frequently in his native tongue and had somehow found a new dress for dinner. She was dressed to kill. Especially with that belt of daggers that she now sported across her chest. Each blade was tied to the flow in a different way. This was no ordinary belt. I knew better than to ask.
Beside Tye was a strangely engraved object that she had been studying, It didn't fit in with the flow. In fact, It didn't have a pattern at all. It was a void in the field. Again, I knew that her openness to display the item was not an invitation to ask questions about it. I also wasn't sure if she knew who I was, or who she was. We were in a band of mercenaries, and she did speak fluent Tralen. I didn't think it was wise to advertise the bounty on my head.
After Dinner, I tired to communicate with Arok. I wanted to know if he saw the pattern, like I suspected that he did. I worked with him on basics. Things like tree, rock, road, enemy, and friend. I clearly wanted him to know that I was a friend. I didn't know if there was much I could do if he decided otherwise from 400'.
As part of my mind searched frantically for how sleep spells were cast, I surveyed my potential adversaries. There was the ogre of course who was obviously considering using my body as a club to beat the feather duster next to me senseless. There was the feather duster of course, who, if he was a thief, was one that no one would miss or forget, and there was the harlot. She concerned me most, for I had seen the bulge in the back of her shirt which could easily be an assassin's dagger. More troubling was her knowledge of my name and my tongue. Yes, she was the real threat. KLUNK.... The ogre was dead before he hit the floor. One of the two statues had decided to plant their blades in the ogre's back. One down.... As my mind turned to focus a spell on the harlot, a gentle voice in my mind told me (and her) to stand down. Her name was Tye, and I had somehow heard her acknowledgement to stand down, but had missed the instant when she had drawn her blade. The minstrel resumed his play, as Tye joined our table. A bag of gold, tied just under her skirt, jangled as she sat. This woman was deceiving us, of that I had little doubt.
_________________________________________________
Two others, a rather buff woodsman who proudly brandished a holy symbol of Surlein the Silverone and the minstrel who had been playing joined our table before a rather sullen dwarf approached our table with the female bar tender. The dwarf's words were carefully chosen, and well rehearsed. We were being considered for conditional membership into the Steel. We were on probation. Our first job was to escort Shayla, the bar tender, to some northern city I had never heard of. We weren't to ask questions. We were to go there and await directions. Although I missed most of the details of his monotonous dialog, there was no way I could miss the bag of gems that the dwarf laid down. Half now... Half later.
_________________________________________________
My family had long had ties with mercenary guilds such as this one, and I was no fool. I needed money to survive. Far more than I currently had. Survival is expensive especially for one on the run. As I walked up to the table, and felt the gemstones fall into my hand, I could not help but wonder where this road would lead. This was a job of necessity not a career. I was not prone for adventure. I was a scholar. I was wrong.
_________________________________________________
Shayla wanted us to leave immediately. She said that we would pick up some traveling supplies at an outpost north of town. The structured flow of the field around her cautioned me that there was an underlying reason for our hasty departure. It was clear we weren't going to be told what that was though. I had already thrown my cards. I had to see this through.
_________________________________________________
As we walked through the streets of Kaskaid, I pondered the logic of sending this band of misfits to escort anyone. Subtlety was not exactly our strong point. We had Arok, whose name had been spoken by someone, but I remember not who. His wings gave us sight from the sky, but his presence was as unique as my own. I thought of that for a moment, and decided to get some more scroll ink to cover the lock of emerald green hair that ran through my black hair. My mother told me that it was the mark of our heritage of our damincear. She told me it was a badge of honor. I have always hated it, and have hid it many times, but it always burns through whatever disguise I employ. Subtlety. No one will ever notice us.. Right. The minstrel from the bar played a soft slow tune on his lute, and the harlot danced, as we walked towards the main gate. All we needed now was for Arok to sing, and I'd put out my bag to collect a few more coins. The woodsman and I marched on in silence. He had been gracious enough to lend me a few arrows for my quiver, so that I wouldn't feel totally defenseless. Of course, he didn't know what was in the bundle that I kept carefully strapped to my person. At least, I didn't think so. The arrows he gave me all had the mark of Surlein the Silverone boldly engraved on the arrowhead. They weren't silver though. Apparently, the woodsman, priest, acolyte, or whatever he was didn?t have deep enough pockets or enough influence to acquire the true silver arrows that his priests employed. All of this led me to our charge. We were escorting a... bar tender. A bar tender who spoke the language of mercenaries. Right... I felt the corner of my mouth smile, as I wondered how long it would be before her skills or our true mission became... The first arrow struck the ground by the harlot's feet. A second pierced my water satchel. I cursed silently as the cold liquid drained down my leg. I wondered if the assassins had found me, or if this was related to the job. At least, I had a cover story. I grabbed Shayla's shoulder and dived into the nearest doorway. Even as the floor reached up to bite my knees, I felt hair grow under the hand on Shayla's shoulder. She was transforming into something more dog-like than human-like. I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to wake up with that in your bed.
_________________________________________________
Shamaass... The word flowed to my tongue like blood from a wound. It meant shape shifter... Lycanthrope... Stealer of Children... Demon. Yet, as the transformation became complete and I stared at the white wolf in front of me. I felt none of the evil that I had been told. Yes, there was rage there, but it was not the rage that one associates with evil. It was the rage of a hunter who has become the hunted. It was the look I had seen in the mirror countless mornings before. The wolf leaped back through the doorway for parts unknown. An arrow smeared with my blood reminded me that this was not the time for passive thought. Then again, maybe it was. I was feeling light headed, as I started the incantation that would allow me to target the sharp shooter assassin with a sleep enchantment. Sweat dripped from my brow and the walls seemed to pulse, as I started my spell. It was then that the world turned to violet fire. A thousand pins struck at me all at once. I was the violet fire. I was the emerald storm. It was the first time in a long time that my damincear had surged without warning. My body melted under the relentless tide of pressure and pain that sought release from within. Release through Love's Edge, and ultimately through me. It was too much, and my world slipped to utter blackness.
When I awoke, I was in the back of an unknown covered wagon filled with supplies. I wasn't sure how I had gotten here, but the driver of the wagon was the minstrel with the harlot Tye riding beside. Both of them were oddly still and silent. A combat bandage and a minor shard of pain sparked a thought that arrows and magic and thighs do not mix. I had no idea how much time had passed or what had transpired since I had passed out. It was obvious that they hadn't killed me and that we had survived and had made our way to the outpost.
I sat there in pain for some time, before the roughness of the road sapped what remained of my strength. I reached for my waterskin, the unfortunate victim of the first broad head arrow. It could have been far worse.. As the world began to fade, I heard the bard mutter. "He put the entire town down... All but us..." The only answer I heard was Arok's cry and a wolf's howl. I was out for several hours at least.
_________________________________________________
When I awoke again, the woodsman was standing over me. His hand glowed softly, and I felt the wound in my thigh heal at an impossibly fast rate. I never complain when someone heals me. I also never forget who does it. They say not all healing magic is the same. I have only been exposed to but two types in my life, and they were both different. The first was from one of the priest's employed by our clan. I had been accidentally injured during a training session between my sister and my aunt. Even now, my shoulder still aches as I think of the sword swipe that removed a chunk of my shoulder. It was my fault. I had stood too close to the practice ring. Silvana made me suffer for three hours before the priest was allowed to heal it with a torch. The healing was less than pleasant. They burnt away the injury with the pain and glory of fire. When the ashes were removed from my shoulder, I was healed. I ached for weeks, but I was healed. Silvana said it hurt because I wasn't worthy. She told me that I was worthless and should have never been born at all. She said other things too... I shuddered as these memories filled my mind again. NO. NO. This healing was more like the cool feel of a river flowing over your feet on a warm day. There was no pain at all. Just relief. I would remember the woodsman for a long time.
As he finished the job, he asked me if I had burnt an item. An item? Yes, you knocked out the entire city block. I haven't seen anything like that, in, well, forever. I said nothing on this, and thanked him for healing me. He took my hint. I wasn't ready to talk yet. I was ready for supper though.
__________________________________________________ __
__________________________________________________ __
__________________________________________________ __
Shayla had 'found' a deer in the nearby woods, and had turned it into a great stew. I had some weariness about eating meat killed by a lycanthrope, but my stomach won out over my paranoia. We ate in silence for all of an hour before the bard started complaining about, well, about everything. He played great music, but he had to be the most unpleasant bard I had ever met. From his ranting, I had determined that he had once belonged to a famous troope, but had fallen on hard times after a miserable bit of luck at the palace. This job was going to pay off a debt he had acquired there. I also found out that he thoroughly hated snakes. I have never seen a bard use his instrument to bash snakes. This one smashed his instrument on a pile of grass that rustled loudly. I guess this musician was known for breaking his instrument on stage and off.
Arok refused to eat the Lycanthrope's stew and settled for some berries that he had found when he was on patrol. It was now obvious that he either had difficulty with common or simply didn?t understand it. How he had come to be in our little group was a mystery to me, but it was the least of my worries. Tye, our well dressed fashion consultant, communicated with him frequently in his native tongue and had somehow found a new dress for dinner. She was dressed to kill. Especially with that belt of daggers that she now sported across her chest. Each blade was tied to the flow in a different way. This was no ordinary belt. I knew better than to ask.
Beside Tye was a strangely engraved object that she had been studying, It didn't fit in with the flow. In facy, It didn't have a pattern at all. It was a void in the field. Again, I knew that her openness to display the item was not an invitation to ask questions about it. I also wasn't sure if she knew who I was, or who she was. We were in a band of mercenaries, and she did speak fluent Tralen. I didn?t think it was wise to advertise the bounty on my head.
After Dinner, I tired to communicate with Arok. I wanted to know if he saw the pattern, like I suspected that he did. I worked with him on basics. Things like tree, rock, road, enemy, and friend. I clearly wanted him to know that I was a friend. I didn't know if there was much I could do if he decided otherwise from 400'.
________________________________________
________________________________________
________________________________________
The next few days were uneventful. We rode northward, along well traveled trails. Thrice we saw long caravans of refugees heading westward. In each case, there were scorched wagons, with scores of injured. I would have chosen to keep our distance, but Tor, our woodsman, would not hear of it. We healed as many as our supplies would allow. We fed more than we should have. We gave them little comfort, for they had no place to go, and we had no place to send them. In the end, Tye promised that the king would hear of their plight. If I ever had any doubt that she was more than she seemed, it was gone now. Pieces were beginning to fall into place.
The source of the waves of the refugees was a massive buildup of a sub human army in the low lands of the south east. It was hard to distinguish the facts from the fictions. Some of the refugees claimed that the eastern horned devils (my homeland) were preparing a massive invasion force. My first clue that this was a widespread belief with little fact was the fact that they didn't decide to hang me out of principle. There were also stories of great flying ships and wyvern riders. Worse yet, they reported organized legions of orcs, giants, undead, and lycanthropes eager to devour men and children alike. There was also a report of an entire continent that had appeared from beneath a fog to the south. There were other stories, as well, but what was made perfectly clear was the fact that these people were scared. Something had attacked them in force. A large group had scared them from their homes, and the truth, whatever that was, did not bode well for the people of Skaro. One of the refugees, a deserter I think, talked to Tor and gave him some arrows that had been shot into the back of the wagons. I didn?t recognize the design, but the metal clearly could have been of Tralen origins. It also had a glyph on its head that clearly had once been infused with power.
_________________________________________________
As the days passed, the woodlands gradually thinned, and the land became more ragged. The refugee caravans faded into our memories and our thoughts settled on how much longer this journey would last. Only Tye and Shayla seemed to know our final destination. Only the bard and myself seemed to care. Arok had shown his talent with a needle and thread and had repaired my water satchel. His ability to communicate with me increased with each day, and I had learned that the continent to the south was no myth. Although I am unclear as to its origins, Arok claimed to have fled from there, much as the refugees had fled from the humanoid and undead hordes. What caused him to flee is still unclear, but I know he suffered a great loss, and hopes to find... something. It either doesn't translate, or the the emotional wounds are still too fresh. Arok showed considerable indifference to the glyph on the arrow. It is still a mystery to us. I did ask him about whether there were many more refugee caravans, heading our way. He seemed hesitant at first, as if unsure as to my meaning, and then nodded. It was then that I realized that he meant there were more refugees coming from his homeland, not from the lands to the south and east of Kaskaid.
_________________________________________________
In the quietest hours of the night, I awoke suddenly by Arok's cry in my mind. We had been taking shifts and his eyes had spotted something ominous in the darkness around us. I quickly threw the still hot ashes of our cooking fire onto a pile of kindling he had gathered in case we had need of a quick bonfire. Tor was quickly strapping on his leather vest, as we both surveyed the dark hills around us. Tye and Shayla had vanished, and the bard, well the bard was still asleep and snoring loudly. His snores were the only sounds to reach my ears, which was my first warning. The sounds of a typical calm night were missing. In the next instant, a dozen arrows came close to ending our snoring companion's singing career. I wondered if waking him up was worth it. Tor chanted a short prayer and I suddenly felt, more than saw, the outlines of our foes around us. There were seven of them, and they were encircling us. Two of these disappeared suddenly, as I heard a wolf's howl. A third popped into view and engaged the still chanting Tor. The outlines of the others which hid more than they showed gave me an idea. As quietly as I could, I slipped away from the crackling campfire. It was making me a target and I didn't need it for a figment spell. My thought was to bring into existence the sounds of a dozen armed warriors. It was my hope that the illusion of a squad of Tor's brethren would be sufficient to break the morale of our attackers. I wish I could say that I knew what I was doing, but I had never before attempted an audio illusion. I had never really attempted an illusion so complicated for that matter. It was foreign country to me.
As I was finishing my incantation to gather my will, one of the assassins spotted me in the darkness. I heard the whoosh of a spinning blade, as a dagger flew at me. The sound was enough to make me lose my focus. The faye did the rest.
Imagine all the sounds of the world suddenly stopping. Imagine them all pouring through you in the next instant. My body became the source of all sound, It flew from me and the blade exploded in mid air. Solid sound is a potent weapon. Especially, when it is shaped like daggers that lash out and seek outlined targets. Our foes vanished quickly. Each killed, by the sound of a dozen warriors engaged in battle made tangible. Each killed, by a figment of the faye.
As the last of the outlines faded, I heard the voices of my warriors. Their battle cheers echoed through my ears, and I heard part of a conversation that made no sense. It was in Tralen, and it was the sound of a female warrior comforting someone. She was clearly in pain.
"Fear not brother, I will will always be with you, and Love's Edge will protect you long after I am gone...."
A strange sound followed. A choir of half heard voices suddenly joined by another, and then there was silence. A silence only broken by the bard's snore. It was the only sound to reach my ears for three days and three nights. Deafness and Muteness was the price I paid for the faye's aid.
_________________________________________________
Tye and Shayla gathered the possessions carried by the assassins. There were few. A few blades of unknown origin, some ration cakes, a small bag of gems, a blank scroll, and several composite long bows with quivers of arrows of varying types. Two of the quivers had independent pouches of some black liquid at the base of each arrow. My mind told me that these pouches were designed to be pierced by the shooter just prior to firing. A few drops of the liquid within would, no doubt, stick to the point of the arrow. The only question that remained was what was the function the poison and why didn't they use it on us. None of the pouches were pierced. I checked each carefully. Either we weren't worth the expense of the poison, or they wanted us alive. If they wanted us alive, why sprung to mind.
_________________________________________________ Things were getting too complicated, and I was frustrated by my inability to speak or hear. All I had to go on, were a few hints and unrelated clues. I needed to know if these assassins were after Love's Edge, or if this was something else entirely, and I only knew of one way to find out.
After my speech returned, I poured dirt on the blank scroll that we had gotten from the assassins. I then traced the symbol of the glyph on the dirt with the assassins blade and performed what amounted to a 'knowing' incantation. I was asking the faye to show me the pattern that I could not see. There was risk here. The faye has always been unpredictable. If this were to backfire..... But I had to know.
_________________________________________________
The Age of Darkness
When the goddess Tiamat enveloped the world, her children sought dominance over all that existed. The essence of Mythern's nightmares rose up and sought to devour and enslave the young races and remake Mythern in her image. Without the gods to protect them, the races were not equipped to deal with Tiamat's immortal and empowered children, but they were not alone. Moradin's worldsmiths had all but been destroyed, but their creations were not. The worldsmiths had created tools and a subservient demi-race called the amadd to help them shape the world. The amadd gathered and forged the first weapons for the elves and created the artifacts that would free the world from Tiamat's vice. It mostly worked. The elves suceeded in binding the damin to the heart of the world, and the other races managed to weaken Tiamat enough with the worldsmith's tools that Gruumsh was able to pierce Tiamat's heart with his sword and at last kill the immortal beast. Her body would forever rest over Mythern, but it was pierced in a thousand, thousand, thousand, places. Gruumsh was at last able to place some pieces across the face of the world.
Even with the veil of darkness pierced, the gods were unable to overly influence the realms below. Thus, it was that each, but Gruumsh, chose one of their own to ascend and take up the mantle of godhood. These were the new gods, for a new world.
____________________________________________
A 'knowing' or a 'divination' is usually a simple affair. The wizard or priest simply asks the world or their deity for an answer and receives a reply. Sometimes the answer is cryptic, as if the answer is stolen from some deranged mind. Sometimes it is straight forward, much like a journal entry. Sometimes, well sometimes, there is no answer. That is never true with the faye. The faye always responds, and it always extracts a price.
As I sat on the ground and waited for the faye to answer, I noticed that Arok was flipping through my sketchbook. I like to think that there is a little bit of me, in all of my drawings. A little bit of...
Suddenly the trees cast emerald shadows, as the cool, now familiar, rush of the faye surged up my body. Until that moment, I had not realized how much I had missed it. How much I needed... that surge... that feeling... I fought down the urge to give myself to it. To become one with the faye. I controlled the faye. It did not control me. I... A thousand wills seemed to reinforce my own, as the faye failed to bind me, as it had bound so many more. The pattern before me crackled with emerald and violet fire, as the lines shifted, and changed, and grew more complex. One moment it was a pattern on the ground. The next I was looking at a drawing of me. A drawing that had taken on physical form. It seemed this knowing was becoming a know thyself.
