《Rainbow Skies: Tales of Aeyalion》 1 - Creation "Some gods are weary, but continue their work. Other gods are empty from their constant personifications. And others still work their way happily through their peaceful existence, to shower the world with good will and love."
CRACK.Thunder rolls through the sky, large raindrops falling as if to drown the world. A hum is heard from a wordless song in a world filled with only a patter, patter, patter. A hand reaches out from ''neath a crown of leaves, four fingered and small. The ruddy color of the skin turns this way and that, that way and this, playing with the drops from the cacophony ''round its roof. Another chuckle from a face and mouth, the owner dashes the rain away with a smile. Eyes the color of the cleanest moss, mouth as full as a shroom. This little, wee thing, why, it speaks! Ever so gently, it sings "My, my, my, a fellow ye be, ain''t ye? My, my, my, I am from the Woad, and the name shall be Croad! My, my, my, I wish not to give a frown, but shall ye not tread on my crown? My, my, my!" This wee, little man, with rosy cheeks and fingers so deft, it crafts a thing within his hands. A creature appears from under the wood, as if to escape, with his knife the key to its cell of grain and earth. "My, my, my," states he. "What a wee little creature ye be!" And yet truth, for he speaks, to the figure in his hands, one with floppy ears and strong legs and button nose, little paws wide to scamper lightly through snow. The figure is dry, yet seeming alive, as if to flick its nose and tail. This wee man called Croad, indeed he seems strange, but in a world of myth and legend all strange is normal. Age need not matter, for beings such as he, ah, they are truly without equal. He was a first and a last, a happenstance and inevitability, unfound yet known to all. A gnome, some would say, is his vocation, but he states, and I quote, "My, my, my, I am just old Croad." This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. With a twist of his knife, the last wood splinter falls, showing the world a figure worth being, thinks Croad. With a content sigh, and a wonder in his eye, alas he breathes a twinkle, just a spark. It enters the figure in his hands, spreads and shapes, pulling energy to complete it. ACRACKandBOOM from above sounds again, yet the figure, it breathes and twists. Fur of brown and red, it''s tail nothing more than a ball. It shakes itself free, small antlers atop its head waving through the air lazily. This wee man called Croad, he looks into its eyes with a smile and says, "My, my, my, what a wee creature ye be. Now go, ye''r needed away from here. To the desert with ye, to be what ye need be." The creature in his hands, once wood and not bone, takes a look towards this man, this Croad. It nods to him, then waits to be let down. Another contented sigh escapes from the wee man, this Croad, as he lowers and places the figure-made-creature to the ground. It bounds and leaps through the brush, soon out of sight, though never out of mind. A sigh, a reach to the rain, and this man named Croad picks up new wood again. 2 - A Tale of Love Year: 1734 The crackling of torches snap at the chilled air. A silence surrounding the glade filled with villagers was palpable and solid, like a wall in reality. Their faces, filled with grim malice, are turned toward a raised wooden dais of collected logs, hewn from the near by trees. A thick-set pole stands tall in the center, an old woman tied to it like a slaughtered pig trussed up for bleeding, but right side up. Her forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck are carved in shallow, angry lines with runes: Selfishness, Greed, Cannibal, Immorality, Depravity, Corruption. The symbols together to describe one of such evil as to cut into the imagination a demon, flying on high to steal one''s soul to torture or devour. The old woman raises her head, eyes half closed due to the bruises swelling on her face from the fists of the villagers. Though her vision was blurry, she looked at each face in front of her. The craftsman, Alvan, so good with his hands he could put together a longboat in a fortnight, faster than any other, eyes once filled with stoicism looked on in unmasked hatred. His wife beside him holding their infant, their oldest son looking on nervously yet silently. The old woman remembered when Alvan was a young man, intense but dedicated to learning his craft. His master took the boy in to pass on his vast experience in metalworking and woodcrafting. And the boy was a fast learner indeed. He would often come to the woman on behest of his master, among the ancient trees of the forest, to ask for the livingwood to make the most important of their projects. She remembered he would always bring runes of thankfulness to her on those trips. She continues to look among the crowd, noting others whom she had known for their entire lifespan, one who was young when she was yet in her early years. They looked on with a sadness that befit one with powerlessness. The corners of her mouth raised just slightly in a gentle smile as she met the eyes of Petre, one of those old men, just yet out of diapers in her memories. He was the baker''s son, and had nearly drowned one early spring. The boys of his youth would run for miles, often playing games of courage. That particular spring, he had made boast that he could sprint across the entire length of a lake without slipping on the icy surface. The ice had cracked halfway across and he had slipped right through, disappearing as quick as if he were a ghost. The other boys had left him to his fate to fetch the adults, but the woman had noticed and asked the spirits to help him from the lake. When the party of adults had come back, they found her kneeling in front of his sleeping form, her deerskull mask obscuring her face. Ah, what a boy he was, so full of curiosity and kindness. There, ah, yes, the youngest shieldmaiden of the village, Korran, one set on the path of being a warrior in the eyes of war gods. Her face was flat and showed no emotion, but the twisted form of disgust were shot straight to the eyes of the old woman, knowing that look was for her alone. Not two springs ago, the woman had stayed by the bedside of Korran, tending the disease that would have eaten away her body and mind and leaving nothing but a husk. For months, she had kept the girl from stepping through the door of Death. When she had finally opened her eyes, all she had seen was the look of the old woman in her mask, back to the window, light shining around her. The young woman whispered to her, so only she could hear, that she would be her matron for the rest of her days. Those once shining eyes filled with awe, changed so much, were gone. The crowd gathered before her was never-ending, faces she remembered and knew better than most, others she had known for their entire lives, some she had saved, and the many who she had helped. These villagers were, in her wizened eyes, her children. She thinks to herself, should she not be angry? Should she not be filled with hatred at the betrayal? Yet she smiled gently at each and every gathered person, filling in her eyes with their faces and histories. The few that were saddened were drowned, however, by the malice coming to her in waves. She sighs shortly, to herself. If her death was to be at the hands of her children, she could not feel badly toward them. They were only children after all. She felt two more sets of eyes, not a part of the crowd. She knew it to be the eyes of He and her protege. Her eyes raise to the treeline just past the crowd, the empathy of her successor''s young eyes shining from behind her antlered deerskull mask, thin robes made of leaves and branches, skin showing like the sun shining through a tree''s branches during the midday. The One next to and behind her, His face obscured by the darkness of His cowl, cloak surrounding Him completely, antlers atop His head massive and filled with points. He was the one who had been the old woman''s patron and the protector of this vast land for millenia. Though she could not see their expressions, she knew that her protege''s expression was one of love and sadness, His expression likely to be gratitude to her loyalty and service to Him, though he would not say as much, even to her. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. At this thought, the crowd parts, and her attention leaves the two, and her gentle smile turns to an expression of intensity. There, a man in the robe of a foreign god, his mask shining gold in the torchlight, shaped like a sundisk and carved with an alien face. His walk was assured with the stance of the divine grace bestowed to him, though he himself with no aura of the divine. A stranger in a land that did not welcome him, welcomed instead by the villagers with eyes of gratitude and gentleness. The low murmurs could be heard, sounds of ''Your Grace'', ''He''s here'', ''We''re saved''. Book in hand, he walked toward the center of the glade where the old woman was tied. The old woman looks down at the creature disguised as a human in front of her, his insignificance obvious to her. The man raises his hand to stifle the murmurs as all eyes save for two sets, her Patron and successor, looks toward him. He beckons silently toward the nearest woman with a torch, Ivina, who comes forth to stand before him. He turns back to the old woman, asking ''You, who have served evil each turn of the season, we who are the creations of Borstunad charge you with laying with daemons. But, fear not, your soul shall be cleaned of all sin through His fire, and though your transgressions be many, Borstunad will have mercy upon your soul, so long as you cry to Him your love and forgiveness. If be you fully corrupt beyond saving, then your soul shall reach the kingdom of the damned, to be awash with the waters of hatred for all time. Your time has come, creature, to answer for your sins. What be your last words, one of sin?'' The older woman listens in silence, no expression save for the intensity behind her eyes. At the end of the man''s speech, she looks toward the young woman next to him, then to the crowd and smiles gently yet again. She opens her mouth and she begins to sing a hymn of her Patron, one she had sung since the beginning of her youth dedicated to Him and known to all in the forest, regardless of race or intelligence. "In the valley, amongst the mountains, Layeth a single monument, to the Forest. Her grace, Her love, blooming, expanding, Like the tree of the World itself. ''Lo, behold, Her beauty we observe. She is the Storm, She is the Calm, She is my Parent, She is my Love." As she sings, the man in the foreign garb quickly takes the torch from the young woman and thrusts it among the kindling inside the housing of logs and sticks. The dry leaves and bark quickly catch fire, taking moments to become a crackling, monstrous roar, the flames rising from the feet of the old woman and quickly licking her knees. Without so much as a pause or change in tone, she sings her hymn, deeper, voice filled with the magic of His domain of all things wild and free. She weaves her spell among the villagers, one of protection and love rather than defiance and corruption. The villagers, without realizing it, began to feel their spirits lift like the wind taking a fog. They began to cheer as she burned, thinking that the evil among them was finally dispelling, but only one among the crowd did not cheer. She looked deep into the eye sockets of his mask and smiled, watching his anger and alarm build. He knew she had lifted his curse among them, and would have to work his entire life to break her protection. Though the villagers may not notice the protections she had weaved for them, they would feel the warm sun among their backs as they worked, the coolness of the rivers as they bathed, and the wind kissing their skin as they danced. Her voice carried itself among the trees, the forest itself, the valleys, and among the highest peaks. Though no words reached the creatures or people among these lands, the protections she weaved were felt. As her body turned to ash, her voice continued long, long after. 3 - Vigil A bell rings throughout the grounds, it''s sonorous chime floating up and into the wind, the bell''s owner stepping lightly across the leaf strewn field. ?Each five steps, a ring. ?Each second breath, a step. ?This was the duty of the Keeper, watching and ringing the bell. ?It was clasped in a gloved hand, black as midnight, no seams or stitching visible. ?The Keeper''s robes made no sound, but ruffled the leaves with each step. Stark trees stood like skeletal hands reaching towards the sky, devoid of life save for the few dying leaves that remained on their branches. ?Stone tablets on either side stood thigh high, the only solemn remembrance of those lain to rest. ?The Keeper knew each name and face, memory cemented deep within the earth itself. ??Some were shaped like crosses, others were long and thin with names carved from top to bottom. ?One of the greatest of the epitaphs was an obelisk in the distance, cracked and blackened, characters describing the brutal death of a common man made ruler by the hands of a jealous minister. Whether those who lay here had been evil or good, old or young, cowardly or courageous, the Keeper cared not. ?The vigil remained, the chiming of the bell keeping the dead asleep and dreaming. ?There were many things in every world, universe and dimension the Keeper had seen from the memories of the resting, things of terrible devotions and intoxicating destruction. ?One had seen the love of his life, sharp and in contrast to the rest of his world, speared through the back by soldiers as his king burned the greatest city in the known world. ?Another, a little girl, watches a flash of light, then cries out from the sudden pain of deep burns, a torii standing tall against the destructive wave while all burned around it. ?Two more side by side, a crowd led by a man with a headdress of the sun chanting, spitting and throwing rocks at the final loving embrace of two women, hooped ropes swinging on thick branches. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. In all of these memories, hatred and fear flows deeply, like a river. ?The Keeper feels none of the emotion, face covered in a deep black hood, ringing the bell of the vigil. ?No soul could leave, no light would beacon. ?This, too, was the duty destined for the Keeper. ?For if there were no vigil, there would be no Keeper. ?If there were no Keeper, there''d be none to ring the bell. ?If the resting heard no chime, then that river would break, swallowing these worlds in black despair for the wrongs committed to these souls. Another step, and the sound of a bell chimes. 4 - Fate of Memories Year: 25637 The deafening silence is broken only by the dripping of water in the abyssal cavern. The knight comes awake against the rocky wall with a gasp, his unlit torch at the fingertips of his left hand, sword held loosely in his right. The grim darkness a veil, unbroken by the meager eyesight of this lowly man. The pain in his head was sharp, but bearable, as he wipes the blood from his mouth and on his torn tabard. He sits forward with a wheezing groan, broken rib crackling. The knight reaches into the pouch at his side and pulls out his flint and steel slowly, as if weighed down by water. He strikes once, twice, the third time setting alight his torch and savings grace. With a grim, shaky sigh he leans back then pulls himself up with a pained gasp, up and up along the wall. The torch, still weak, illuminates the small, open cavern around him, revealing nothing except the continuance of the cave, deeper into the earth, the rock and darkness engulfing and swallowing all. The knight shifts the longsword in his hand, then sheathes it, using the wall to help him navigate. The only sound coming to him was the crunching underfoot and a wind that sounded like a monstrous moan. Caves always had a way of delivering fear in the form of absence, but the knight only knew his mission was close by. He could not stop, lest he fall and sleep for eternity. The blood smeared lion on his tabard, reaching forward through a large circle as if to pounce, was a grim reminder of what his life had been. As he reaches forward another step, and yet another, the darkness brings back the ghosts of his memory. There was a woman and a child, his loves, his world. There was his mother and father, city tanners that aspired only to dream of each year''s mid-winter and mid-summer events. His hardened commander came to him, along with his king and an entire hall dedicated to the group of knights and their mission. The knight winces in pain as the path takes a steep dip, but continues through it, breathing becoming more and more of a chore. The ghosts come back in time, the constant dull pain giving them solidity, memories flooding to him. He had taken this mission only for the glory and money, the promise of his own lands. He was not nobility, but he had risen through the ranks of the military quickly and efficiently. What he lacked in knowledge, he had made up for in diligence and hard-work. The knight''s mentor had taken him under his wing as a squire, seeing the promise of the young man, recognizing someone worth investing in. Years of devotion were dedicated to learn the way of a knight, though whereas some would be twisted and corrupted by the power they wield, his mentor had never allowed him to stray from his path. For that, he was forever grateful. One day he had asked his mentor, ''Thou''st allow thy fellows to tread such dangerous paths. Is''t this not a sin?'' His mentor had looked knowingly and replied, ''Mine charge, thou shall see. Thy peers may sin, ''tis the way oft we see, ''tis true. How''ver, mine Squire, remember this: thy peers are most important to thy life. In battle, twill be times when thy allies ar''t thy only saviours.'' The knight-in-training at the time, young and full of assurance of self, did not know the meaning, but took his mentor''s lesson and asked no more. Three years later in a skirmish between the country''s neighboring enemy, his mentor died from a sword in the back by a traitor he called friend. The knight knew then that placing your life in your ''allies'' hands was dangerous, and peers should be watched. Keep your allies close and your enemies closer, as they say. He sighs deeply, weariness dripping from him like a toxic sludge. It demanded he stop, rest, quit his mission. The Witnesses in the darkness would catch him if he did, though. He had heard their handy work and seen the aftermath enough to know that it would take him a long while before death would claim him. The thought of their flashing claws reminded him of his quarry. A creature of considerable size, the only survivor found of the many destroyed villages in the country had only said a single word: Lisk. The King, in his desperation, had called to arms as many knights as could be spared, calling a reward for the one who slew the Beast. The Third Prince had been given the task to bring the Beast down, of which he had readily agreed. Rumor only mentioned that his motivations were, perhaps, not wholly selfless. ''Greed is''t a powerful motivator,'' he thinks to the emptiness around him. The man comes to a split in the cavern, marks marring the left side of the trail. His chainmail clinks as he illuminates the marks, his quarry''s direction plain and clear. He huffs and continues through, following the damage, blood marking and pooling in parts of the cavern. He notices something along the wall, just out of torchlight. Coming closer, his eyes recognize one of the fellows of his troupe. A large man, he was a knight who knew only living day to day as best he could, loud in personality and appetites. Many a night was spent in feasting, drinking and women. Though the knight didn''t really know him very well, he knew this man to be amiable and kind, well known amongst both the common folk and the nobility and considered a friend by many including the knight himself. Now the only thing he would be remembered for was a torso in pieces, the open horror on his face twisting his once ready smile into an ugly mask of fear and hate. Ignoring the corpse, he continues along the tunnel, his thoughts turning back to the ghosts from his lifetime. Three and a half decades was a long time for many, and he had lived a fulfilling life. His thoughts softened as he thought of his child and wife, so far away now. His child had soft hair of golden wheat, unlike his own grey-streaked black. The little one wanted nothing more than to run in the fields, his bare feet touching green grass. This man, this father, missed his son terribly at that moment, remembering chasing after him, both laughing and calling toward each other. The memory of his wife always watching and sometimes joining, her own golden hair flowing in the sunlight, smile brighter than the sun itself. They were happy, and the time they spent precious to him. The grimness of battle and the corruption of court politics were left behind in that bright home, the healing balm to the stain of life. Tears fall from his eyes, unbidden and streaking his dirty face, a smile of bittersweet anguish showing his naked feelings. He remembers, until his exhausted body demands sleep as he teeters and falls, asleep before even hitting the ground, the clatter of armor deafening in the small corridor. The knight wakes slowly once more within the darkness, the skittering of creatures in the darkness pushing him to get up quickly, reaching for his sword, adrenaline pushing the pain to the back of his mind. The torch that had once guttered hungrily before was out and nowhere near him as he feels around for it. Cursing, the knight pulls a spare from his side and strikes his flint and steel quickly, panicked. At last the torch lights and he raises it all around him, striking out against the darkness, back against the wall. One of the creatures backs away quickly, the only thing that could be seen was long, gangly white arms and legs, eyes glowing a low green in the light. It continues to back away, then disappears altogether as the knight pants heavily, adrenaline coursing through him. A long blood streak was pooled along the floor where something heavy seemed to have been drug, a grim reminder of a torso ripped apart and sitting against the cavern wall. He sighs and continues forward, the ghosts of his memories staying out of his view. Stolen story; please report. The man takes paths further into the darkness for what seems like days, gouges and marks from his quarry showing his way. The memories were his only companions, the creatures just out of eyesight hungry Witnesses of his journey. Though they did not hinder him, they waited for him to give up, willing to save him from more misery and pain. He rests for only short spurts, replacing his torch with another spare, eating while walking, the pain in his chest making every movement difficult. After a time, he shuffles into a large open cavern, bodies strewn about, scorch marks and melted rock marring all sides, chunks of the cavern in broken piles. The bodies of his fellows, squires and knights both, lay soaking in congealing pools of blood and entrails. He surveys the massacre for familiar faces, noticing both enemy rivals and acquaintances that did right by him, side by side to the last man. Half-remembered truths showed themselves to him at the familiar faces. There was Falavel, a lad of only fifteen summers, spending his time as a squire to Sir Baer. Alexxand, a quiet man-at-arms that was touched in the head, but extremely talented with the flute he carried with him. Ser Olivier, a cousin of Duke Bastien, the military advisor to the King. He spies a bluish tint along the ground at intervals, the blood of his quarry staining the rock. The trail continues along through a large tunnel going yet deeper, causing him to sag visibly. Squaring his shoulders, he forces himself deeper into the earth''s gullet. The knight steps closer to the opening, a small gasp comes to his ears, and he looks toward the far wall, noticing one body leaning against the wall, another collapsed on his lower half. He shuffles over, his torchlight illuminating a familiar face, but not a friendly one. A rat-like profile shows itself to him, the man in front of him known to be a coward and traitor, but an unproven one. The contempt on the knight''s face twists his bearded mouth into a snarl. A small, stringy voice issues from the thin lips of the man. ''Y-you there! H-h-help me! I-I-I dun want tae die! M-mine back, it hurts sa'' much.'' A whisper comes to the knight, deep from in his mind. This man...this creature was a sniveling wretch, a traitor only good for fodder. He hadn''t a scratch on him, and had probably hid from the quarry, but was thrown against the wall in the confusion, the man on top of him thrown against him, breaking the coward''s back. He hears a shuffling behind him as a Witness comes just outside of torchlight, its gangly arms scratching the corpse under it, watching the two of them. He turns back to the mewling creature at his feet, sneers and reaches at his belt. Pulling his knife, he buries it into the fodder''s chest just off from the heart, an old blood feud settled. This filthy animal would die slowly while the Witness took care of the rest, the man hoping that the Witness wouldn''t be too quick. He takes the coward''s supplies, then turns and follows the wall back to the cavern, shrill inhuman shrieks following at his back while the gnashing of teeth could be heard even well after exiting the cavern. The knight could see the bluish tinted fluid splashed more and more frequently, as if the creature were badly wounded. His motivations cemented as he fought through the pain in his body, reaching deeply within himself. He would find the creature and finish the job his fellows had started, his memories once more coming to take their place as his silent companions. They appeared before him once again like phantoms, never quite within reach, but like a painting that moved. His next memory was one of his parents, poor yet happy. His father was a hunter and tanner, his mother was a weaver, but preferred to work alongside his father tanning hides he caught, working them into beautiful crafts. Every once in awhile, a merchant would buy their work and pay well, allowing them to survive throughout the winter in relative comfort. As a child he would help his parents by toiling away with his hands working the leather into a well formed suppleness, or spend his days hunting with his father, learning survival and tracking that other city children would never learn. He learned quickly and was always efficient, thanking his quarry for their gifts that he would use, following the teachings of his father. After each day, nights were spent amongst each other, learning songs or telling stories. He even told some of his own that he had learned from merchants and travelers in the market. Market Day was always a special day for his family, as they could sell what they had made for good prices, and every ranking of caste would see their product and buy what could be afforded. He learned honesty in most everyone was surface only, and deep down most wanted what others had, electing to cheat where they could. His father was not one to be cheated, however, and his shrewd business strategies were passed to the young boy. His parents had been surprised to learn that he wished to enlist at the barracks, his father proud yet sad as he left behind their simple life behind. The knight was forced from his reverie as a pained snarl came from in front of him, deep into the cavern. The blue liquid covered the floor in giant pools, his boots stepping through the gore and tracking his progress forward. The knight pulls his sword from its sheath slowly and grimly. What was the definition of his life, he wonders. Was it this moment? Was it the past that he had come to know and leave behind? Would he be remembered by his family and those surrounding? He had the intense feeling that these grim memories and thoughts were important, the calm happenstance of him being here a product of his own imagining. He steps forward to the ledge in front of him, the entrance of the large cavern in front of him widening more and more, bottom unseen and enveloped in darkness except for a gleam of silver striking at a golden figure down far below. He looks to either side and notices a narrow path leading downward to his left which he takes, increasing his speed as fast as he''s able, picking his way down so as not to fall. The figure seemed to be holding its own, the large creature lumbering, wounded yet still deadly. What is the purpose of this, the knight asks himself. Why should one be willing to sacrifice all for pride and glory when death is just the barest of lines, easily crossed within a moment''s notice? He had no gain from this. He could turn back, head back to his family and simple life. The feelings of cowardice arose higher within him, catching in his throat. His limbs refused to obey, continuing down. The memory of the sniveling creature at his feet, knife buried deep in his chest, emerged from the chaotic sludge of his thoughts. These thoughts steadied him, allowed him to see his own failures and continue downward without a second thought. ''I will not die a traitorous dog,'' he mutters to himself, all attention devoted to the path in front of him. The knight reaches the bottom of the cavern just as the large creature rears back and slams its tail against the Prince''s golden visage, throwing him far backwards with a cry of pain, his torch dropping to illuminate the ground and the creature''s scaly barbed appendage. He runs forward, his sword held defensively, ready to strike. As he approaches, the creature''s scaly head turns toward him, its silver eyes smiting him with its hatred and rage, blue fires seen deep within the sockets. It approaches slowly, the Prince''s torch illuminating teeth as long as a man''s forearm, its metallic muzzle deeply marred and bleeding the same blue fluid found in the cavern. The grinding of gears could be heard within the creature''s body, damaged but still miraculously operating. It roars at the knight as he rushes forward with a war cry, his thoughts no longer frantic, no longer baiting. Only one thing occupies this peasant knight''s mind. ''Mine memory lives.'' 5 - Unbridled Giants His thumping heartbeat drummed with every step, legs extending and contracting, gravel shifting under his light boots. The path spirals forward and on like a long snake sidewinding through sand. The mountain air crisp and cold, his breath misting in front of him. With a deep breath, he jumps and clears a log covering the path. The trill of the wild and thrum of life a cacophony to the vast skies and forests around. The path slopes up and up, like the smile tugging the corners of the man''s mouth. The trees thin as he reaches the top, like the hair of a balding man. He clears it with a gasp, breathing deep the wind strewn scent of pine and maple. All around a light fog covers the area, a white cloud blanket amongst the slumbering giants, a soundless snoring blowing through the canyons. Like curled toes, peaks rise up, a dream of airy delight. Canyons like legs, crooked but direct and simple. A large pot belly mound, trees swaying as by a massive breath, followed by another, and another. Rivers like arms, lakes like hands and streams like fingers, honest and callused, waves gentle and lapping in the wind. At the apex, a curved slope, sharp and defined, like the face of one slumbering in eternal bliss. For miles and miles, the mountains continue in the range beyond, both quiet and effervescent. Every morning he greets these marvels, his friends. Each day, they caress his body with their dreamer''s breath. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ''Ah,'' he thinks. With a wave and a flash, the man leaves behind him a glowing wake of memories for the sleeping, slumbering giants. 6 - Skalds Tale 1: A Scaled War ''Dragons?!'' Duvan slams his tankard down. ''Ye''ve gone insane, ye ''ave. Dragons don exist, Farrat. They be STORIES, hand''d down ta scare the wee lil'' ones. Are ye a wee lil'' one, Farrat?!'' ''Nay, Duvan! Aye, me own ears heard the flappin'' o'' their wings and screechin'' o'' their cries!'' Farrat spits out to his brother, his own tankard sloshing and threatening to spill across the scarred table. Duvan snorts and harrumphs loudly. ''Pah, Farrat. Ye''ve been bewitch''d, ye have! Dragons. Pah! Nary a dragon has been seen ''cept in stories and myths of all-seeing Gorin an'' his children.'' ''Wi'' teeth the, the, the SIZE o'' me raiding sword, I bet ye! Tails long, an'', an'' scaled! T''aint no dream Duvan!'' Farrat''s face becomes more flushed as he continues to speak. The two argue for hours, drink flowing between them like a river, voices gaining in intensity and volume. A different voice, quiet and old, speaks from the corner of the longhall, ''So ye think ye know dragons, do ye?'' Though quiet, the two brothers heard its murmur as if it were next to them. The two turn their heads to the corner of the hall, red cheeked from ale and the heat between them. An old man wearing a long, hooded cloak sits in the back corner, rough hewn walking staff in his hands. The two brothers stare at the old man with open mouths, not realizing there was another here with them. The old man adjusts himself, fingers drumming on his staff. A smile can be seen from under his hood as he coughs. ''Dragons, me dear boys, are terrifyin'' creatures, that they are.'' He walks over to the cheery fire and crouches in front of it. The two men watch as he shifts the ashes and the logs, then adds two more to stoke it to greater life. The flames greedily lick at their prey, charring the sides and throwing their embers into the chimney. The two men watch the embers as they twirl and dance, like sprites happy in life. They twirl and the two brothers squint at them. An image could almost be seen, deep in the flames. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ''Tis said that a single dragon was the bane of longboats in the sea. E''en those massive sea serpents themselves, so fearless n'' hungry, knew better than to surface while one was prowlin'' the sky. For as large as they were, dragons twere larger, with teeth longer than yer arms, eyes nearly as keen as Baelir, n'' wi'' strength to rival the giants of Shaana. Aye, even Gorin himself avoided fighting them if unneeded. They had become so power''d, however, that he n'' his siblings Sivi n'' Kori locked the wretch''d creatures within the ice at the edge o'' the world.'' The embers sped up, twirling more rapidly and happily. With a wave of the old man''s hand, they scattered and reformed, continuing their chaotic waltz. ''Ev''n now they say ye can hear the cries from on high, deep within the mountain passes. They prowl n'' wait, impatient n'' angry. For Gar?ll will be their release, to again hunt the lands with their scaly, evil kin.'' The two brothers listen as the old man finishes his tale, uttering not a peep. Duvan, being the older of the two, clears his throat and laughs with a fake bravado. ''Ye''ve been drinkin'' too much o'' that mead, old man! Tha''s quite a tale indeed!'' Farrat looks toward his brother, white faced and uneasy, before draining his tankard in a single pull. With a gasp, he sets it down on the stained and scarred table. From outside, the sound of thunder is felt more than heard, deep and vibrant. It resounds through the stones of the longhall and through their bones. They jump up from their seats, tottering slightly. This did not sound like their kin''s war gear for it was too deep, too loud. During the call, another sound could be heard, far and away to the north of their hall and beyond the mountain passes near the tallest peak. A screeching, like that of a blade on a sheet of metal. Farrat turns to his brother with horror in his face. ''Duvan! I told ye! I TOLD ye!'' The two turn to the old man who stands. He raises his face to the two brothers, a terrible smile carved into it. His stark, fiery blue eyes glittering madly amidst olive skin, anticipation shining deep within. ''Me boys,'' he speaks. ''Our time has come. To arms, for our battle has begun.'' 7 - Comforting Despair An old woman groans as she slowly stands from her kneeling position. She places a tea kettle on a hook just above the young fire in the hearth that was beginning to crackle merrily. Hobbling over to her cupboards, she hums while placing her hands on the jars, her fingers brushing different symbols. Eventually her hand stops and she smiles toothlessly, pulling the jar from the shelf. Opening it up, she inhaled deeply, the scent of juniper and mint filling her small house. Feeling for a bowl on the counter just below, she leans closely to hear herself pour the leaves into it. Shaking the jar carefully, a satisfied look crosses her eyes and mouth as she finally hears the amount she desired. She replaces the cover on the jar and puts it slowly and gingerly in it''s previous place before closing the cupboard. Taking the bowl, she hobbles back to the fire, the tea kettle now bubbling happily. Pouring the contents of the bowl into the fire, she grabs a wooden spoon and stirs the dried herbs into the kettle. She then feels her way to her chair, her knobby, old fingers coming to rest on the soft upholstery before leaning carefully into the seat, sighing with relief, the cushions accepting her plump frame. She begins to hum, the only other sound in the house besides the fire and the kettle. ----------------------------------------------------- The crunch of boots in the snow pervaded the dark woods around Nevie. He had been traveling for weeks, scavenging where he could and stealing when he was able to. He cursed his luck for the fiftieth time since he had run from the king''s guards. He had been part of a band of brothers and sisters that captured elves, orcs, halflings, humans, and more, and delivered them as bounties to work camps. It was hard work, but they had a good paying gig going. He didn''t know where the rest of his band was, but he was determined not to get caught and suffer the fate the scarred inquisitor had in store for him. Compared to an executioner, an inquisitor of Everly searching for slavers was less a job and more pleasure, and this inquisitor was one known to be especially vicious and mad. He shakes his head. ''Either way, it''d be nice ta know where tha blast ah am,'' he mutters to himself. Looking about himself, all he could see was black woods and skinny, leafless trees. Drawing his cloak tighter around himself, he continues to walk in the direction he had been going. After what felt like hours, he came across a trail of boot prints. Excited, he rushes over and studies them. His excitement drains, however, as he realizes that they''re his. With a shiver that wasn''t entirely from the cold night around him, he sits against a tree and lowers his head down, wrapping himself tight in the cloak. ''Fuck, ah''m lost...'', he says with a shaky breath. ''Where tha fuck do ah go...'' Looking up, he stares straight ahead, his expression one of uncertainty. He stops for a moment, before standing up slowly. Just ahead, the faintest hint of light seemed to be speared through the trees. Hastily, Nevie begins to stomp his way through the snow, the thought of comforts and warmth unbearable. The closer he got, the more perceivable the light became. The man''s face cracks into a wide smile, as he forces his way through the snow and bushes between him and his salvation. Getting closer, he sees through the trees what looked to be a small cottage. The snow seemed to also get higher and higher, it had already gone from being ankle deep to hip deep, and now was up to his chest. Nevie gasps, sweat freezing as soon as it appears. Soon, the snow had gotten past his head. It felt like he was trying to dig through an avalanche, with no end and no beginning. As soon as he felt his body collapsing from the struggle against the snow, he steps once more and trips into a small clearing around the house. He falls forward onto his stomach, and crawls forward gasping hoarsely. Looking back, where Nevie expected a massive mountain of snow, it was instead just ankle deep again, light and fluffy. He stands up slowly, using the side of the cottage to support his weight, exhaustion in every cell of Nevie''s body. He walks over to the fogged window nearest him, stepping onto a stack of wood to look in. Wiping the fog, inside he could see an old woman sitting in a cushioned chair, smiling at a cheery fire. That must have been the light he had seen from where he had been. Looking throughout the cottage, he could see hanging meat, herbs and vegetables. He could see a bookcase, a table, cupboards, and a door on the far side away from him. ''Bedroom, mayhaps..?'', he thinks while chewing on his cracked lip. He steps down and away, and makes his way to the left side where he is greeted by a plain, sturdy door. Nevie shivers uncontrollably for a few seconds, making his insides ache. ''Blasted cold'', he mutters through gritted teeth. Stepping up, he pounds loudly on the door. An additional pounding and what seemed like an eternity later, he could hear the latch undo itself. He waits for the door to open, but no one answers it. He attempts the handle and the door swings inward on rusted hinges. He pauses before stepping up into the cottage. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The heat inside the cottage blasted him and made his limbs come back to life, filled with pain from being numb for so long. Closing the door behind him, a voice whispers from the chair in the middle of the room. ''Bar the door, dear. The winds...they are strong these nights. Then come around.'' Nevie hesitates before latching and barring the door. He then warily steps slowly around the side of the chair, watching for any sudden movements. What greets him is a wrinkled, old face, scraggly white hair, and pure white sunken eyes. He could tell the woman was very, very old, possibly the oldest person he''d ever met. A bubbling pulls his attention to the kettle, a sweet smell coming from it. His mouth waters, before he looks back at the old woman. He jumps slightly as he finds her looking directly at him, smiling a toothless smile. ''Welcome, dear, I''m sure it''s very cold outside this time of night'', she says with a raspy, unaccented voice. Nevie bobs his head and says, ''Yes''m ma''am, frightf''ly so. Felt ah almost lost me limbs in tha snow amongs'' tha trees.'' The older woman''s smile widens as she says, ''Well, that wouldn''t do at all, no, not at all. One must have their limbs, and not leaf them behind.'' She cackles loudly, the sound of it strange to Nevie''s ears. The older woman suddenly stops her cackling, her smile almost plastered to her face. ''Are you hungry, dear? We old folks don''t generally eat much, so there''s more than enough to share.'' Nevie''s stomach betrays him as a long, low growl erupts from it, his face contorting into a desperate grimace as he nods emphatically. He catches himself, clears his throat and says, ''Y-yes, ah''d very much appreciate tha''.'' The old woman''s face doesn''t change as she looks back toward the fire and stokes it with an iron rod. ''Very well, dear. You take a seat here, I''ll go get something from the cellar and we''ll have a fine meal'', she says. The old woman pulls herself up from her chair and moves toward a hatch in the floor. She bends down slowly and pulls a rope up, the floor hatch creaking loudly. Feeling her way down, she moves out of sight. Nevie moves toward the opening and peers inside, but the darkness was too complete for him to see past it. He moves back toward the fire, stripping his jacket and cloak off, letting them fall to the stone floor with a wet thump. He removes his shirt and falls to his knees in front of the hearth, basking in the intense warmth, tears rolling down his face. ''Ah''ll never take this fer granted again, ah swear on me life,'' he cries softly. Curling on the warm stones, he faces the fire and stares deeply into it, taking every movement of the flames. He had actually thought he was going to die out there in the darkness, his body becoming food for some wild animal. Or worse. He shuddered at that thought, and rubbed his hands toward the fire. The warmth he felt began to fill him up more, until it almost seemed unbearable. He yelped and scrambled back, the heat in his body suffusing his skin. He screamed as he felt and saw flames ripping up from his skin. Beating at the flames, he tried to put them out but they just continued ripping through. All of a sudden, the flames on his skin went out, and he sobbed in relief, tears streaming his face, pants wet from pain and fear. As looked toward the hearth, he noticed that the fire seemed to get lower and lower. Feeling the chill of the night, he scrambled over to the hearth and blew on the dwindling fire, poking at it with the iron poker the old woman had left behind. The fire ignored all of his efforts as it eventually dwindled down to the barest of flames, before guttering out entirely. Darkness flooded the room, and the heat he had so desperately been afraid of was replaced by a bone chilling cold, as if he had never left the snow laden ground outside. Shivering, he picked up the firestarter in the bucket next to the hearth and attempted to strike a new fire to life, but nothing would catch. Reaching into the hearth, he found it to be cold ash, with no semblance of there having been a fire there before. He stood up wearily, stepping back before looking around. Seeing only the chair in front of him, Nevie moves with his arms outstretched toward the kitchen. As he steps forward, his head hits something feathery and heavy. He clutches his head with one hand and a groan, stopping the thing swinging in front of him with the other hand. He discovers the rotting corpse of a bird clutched in his hand, his breath catching sharply in his chest. Looking carefully toward the counter that was so clean before, he touches something tacky. Pulling his fingers away, he smells the substance, recognizing the smell of blood. It smelled like...human blood. Nevie''s face went white as he looked closer at the counter, knives and what looked like meat covered it. A squalid smell began to permeate the air, making him clutch at this nose. Backing away, he lightly hits something boney. His heart slamming in his chest, Nevie looks behind him slowly. A long arm was coming out of the darkness above. Peering along the length of it, he looks up and up and up, practically craning his neck. He peers, wide eyed, to where the arm was coming from. A face loomed from the darkness toward him, its four eyes blinking at him with amusement. A seam opens in the face, and a smile shows itself. Nevie, too afraid to move or scream, stared up in horror as the mouth opened wider and wider until a massive mouth filled with teeth, mixed with both human and razor sharp incisors, laughed in a bass-filled inhuman voice. "Are you ready for dinner, dear?" 8 - A Hunting Year: 18456 "Fan out! Stay in twos and within torchlight of each other!" The voice belonged to a mostly armored figure, calling out in a feminine voice to the thirty soldiers within earshot. The soldiers all begin to move quickly and in unison, pairing then lining up along the entrance to the snow-capped evergreen forest in front of them. The commanding figure takes her shield from her horse and reaches into a bag for a vial. She smears the contents of the vial on the shield, muttering a few words. Light springs forth from a briar-wrapped moonflower emblazoned on the shield. The figure checks to make sure the line was formed before yelling out, "Forward! Find the quarry! Bring him alive!" As one, the unit marches forward, grim eyes of veterans peering into the darkness. Each one of them was hand picked by the inquisitor herself, mixing together both royal guard and three of the Church of Everlyn''s best hunters. She had been requested specifically from the Shield Mother of the church to answer the royal call of aid, pulling the other three from their duties for their tracking and skills. Joshua was a bit of an annoyance who preferred to warm the beds of others than to do his duty, but when called on was like a hound to the scent of blood. His tracking ability was the best in the church, if not the land itself. He was quick to a smile, his wrinkled face obscured by a hooded jacket, long red and white hair spilling from it. Valerie, on the other hand, was one of the Silent Ones, able to move through entire warzones and enemy encampments as if taking an afternoon stroll, unseen and unchallenged. And finally Mevan, a large, stoic figure. He had been trained to be a druid as a child, before leaving the service of his circle for the ability to actually help people rather than shut them out. Using the druidic circle secrets, Mevan was able to change parts of himself to be more beast than man, and was even able to speak to animals as if they were humans. The inquisitor herself was able to speak to beasts, but preferred to avoid it if at all possible. She shifts her grip on her shield, scarred and calloused hands setting it more firmly on her arm. Her foot slipped into a deeper snow drift than she had expected, but she continued onward without removing her eyes from her surroundings, focus unmoved. This man was a degenerate that didn''t deserve to be called human. A creature that had sold all manner of beast and person, regardless of race, age or ethnicity. Sea dwellers, mountain kin, humans, dwarves, halflings, elves, it didn''t matter as long as he could turn a profit. His outfit had been wiped out, all of the survivors hung in front of the capital city of the kingdom of Tiver, Yumin. The royal family themselves strung up the offenders, ending their lives by their own hands. An hour of marching goes by, the team communicating by whistles to make sure everyone was still in line, when a whistle calls out to the inquisitor''s left, two pairs down. The whistle was long and loud, then short and low, and then short and loud. It seems Joshua had found footprints. She whistles once, long and loud, telling everyone to join back in. As she moved toward her left, she could see torches between the trees circling a single tree. She steps between the trees to be greeted by the sight of Joshua crouched as close to the ground as possible, inspecting a spot at the base of one of the trees. He looks up at the inquisitor, nods once then says, "It''s ''im. ''e sat ''ere fer a time. Mayb'', mm, twe''y minutes." The soldiers move out of her way as she stomps through the calf-deep snow. "Where''d he get to," she growls. Joshua shakes his head. "Tha''s the thin''. Can'' find ''is trail. Jus''...dis''ppears." The inquisitor looks around for Mevan, spotting him as he comes up from where she had come from along with one of the soldiers. She inclines her helmed head toward him wordlessly, to which he nods. With a cracking sound and a grimace on his face, veins popping out, Mevan''s face began to change. With a pained snarl, his nose was replaced with one much like a bear''s. He snuffed the air a few times at the site, eyes following some unseen trail. He beckons toward further into the dark forest, taking point ahead of the rest and staying just out of torchlight. She whistles once, low and sharp, and the group began to file after Mevan. The inquisitor murmurs under her breath, "Val." Instantly, Valerie appears toward her side, walking as if she had always been there, veiled face only showing her mouth. She stepped through the snow as everyone else, but behind her was undisturbed snow. "Scout ahead, formation 3." Without a response, Valerie stepped quickly into the forest on the inquisitor''s left side, melding into the darkness. She would move just ahead of Mevan in a diagonal line, making sure he wouldn''t fall into any traps. The problem with many of the forms he could take, they gave him some benefit only to have something else to be taken. In this case, she thought, it''s fortunate Valerie can give him sight when he''s sightless. Moving forward, the snow seemed to be undisturbed, as if neither beast or person had ever been through this part of the forest in its entire, timeless lifetime. On top of that, for following the trail of a man who left clues of his whereabouts like shining bread crumbs, this was strange indeed. The inquisitor grits her teeth, but contains her thoughts. Mevan''s massive frame stops ahead of them and hunkers down in the snow, looking forward. Putting out her light with a wave in front of it, she signals to the others behind to cap their torches and stay low. Near instantly the order was perceived and carried out, the area enveloped by darkness. Moving up next to Mevan, the inquisitor peers forward into the darkness ahead with Valerie coming up next to her, crouching. As her eyes became used to the darkness, she could almost see a silhouette just beyond, amidst a clearing. Moonbeams pierced the thick canopy above and filtered down to the snow in the clearing. She could make out what seemed like a medium sized cottage in front of her. Waving forward slightly, Valerie moved, crouched, to the wall beyond. She stepped up onto an object in the dark, peering into what looked like a window. Stepping back down and keeping low, she silently ran up to the side of the cottage and peered around the corner, before coming back to the inquisitor. She murmurs under her breath, imperceptible from any save the inquisitor. "I see nothing. The inside is empty, and looks dirty and unkept. As if a monster dens here. No sign of the slaver." The inquisitor nods before waving to all to follow slowly and quietly. Moving forward, she discovers the window Valerie had peered into but passes by it. She moves up to the left corner of the cottage and sees a door, the snow lighter than anywhere else. She stands fully, unsheathes her sword and leads the group to the door. On one side, the soldiers'' captain takes up his position while Joshua takes the other. Grasping the door handle lightly, Joshua nods to the captain. Receiving one back, he yanks the door toward him and the captain enters the cottage quickly, brandishing his sword in front of him. Two more soldiers enter, followed by the inquisitor. The smell was one of rotting meat and vegetables, a chair and small table set in front of the hearth. The kitchen on the right had what looked like old bird carcasses and rotting vegetables hanging from the ceiling. Hooks and knives cluttered the stovetop, old blood dried along the counter, floor and washbasin. The inquisitor signals to two soldiers to re-light their torches as more soldiers move into the cottage and begin inspecting every inch. In the light, she could see a door on the far side and signals for three more to go check it. She moves next to Joshua who was crouched in front of a floor hatch. He tugs on it, but it doesn''t budge. He reaches into his belt and produces his lockpick set and starts to work on it. Soon the catch springs and he lifts the hatch just enough to peer inside, seeing steps leading downward. One of the soldiers comes back from the room and motions for the inquisitor before moving back into the room. She follows only to be hit by a horrid stench as she gets close to the door. Gritting her teeth, she enters the room. A large bed greets her, it''s sheets foul and covered in a dried sludge. A broken mirror stands against one of the walls, a broken dresser next to it. Just beyond, the window was caked with dirt and more sludge, the once clear view now yellow and nearly opaque. One of the soldiers stabs his sword gently into the sludge on the floor, breaking it open. The smell of old blood permeated the already horrid room, the rust colored liquid seeping onto the floor. The inquisitor steps out of the room quickly, hardened eyes looking around. In one of the corners of the room, she spots a small totem of bones with a rat skull on top of it. She hisses, "Yanir! Step away from the hatch!" Joshua''s curious face sets to alarm and he hisses down into the cellar. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The inquisitor grabs a torch from a nearby soldier, brushes past Joshua and rushes down the cellar before stopping at the landing, an open door in front of her. In the torchlight, she sees one of the soldiers standing limp, a wet smack and groan coming from him. The body is pulled to the side and lowered, revealing the massive toothed maw of the yanir. It''s body consisted of a thick, straight torso, limbs twice as long as its body and gangly. Its fingers were long and ended in sharp claws, one of which was holding the soldier up by his throat. It''s four eyes embedded into its skull peered maliciously at the inquisitor, the creature''s lanky, thin hair falling around it. Dropping the soldier to the ground, it stood up to a low crouch, it''s head brushing the stone ceiling. Reaching through the door, it grasps the portal of the door and slowly moves its way through. The inquisitor thrusts the torch into the yanir''s face before turning around and flying back up the steps. It screams and tears at its face, trying to brush away the burning ash, its skin blistering heavily. She hits the landing and yells, "Prepare yourselves, it''s a yanir! Royal soldiers, surround the sides of the cottage, throw the furniture outside. Mevan, Joshua, Valerie, prepare yourselves!" As she speaks, the yanir thrusts its arms to either side of the hatch and pulls itself up and out of the cellar, snarling. Turning its horrid visage to the soldiers surrounding it, it screeches and grabs the nearest one. He screams as he stabs at her limbs before being ripped apart by the creature. He tries to gurgle a bloody scream, still stabbing at the creature before going limp and dropping his sword to the ground. The yanir throws the top half of the body at the soldiers on the far side of the room before being charged by a group. The screams of men and creature filled the air as the inquisitor rushes forward and stabs upward into the yanir''s body. Mevan howled deeply as his body changed, his arms becoming that of a bear and his face the muzzle of a wolf, his eyes ravenous and deeply yellow as he charged the yanir from the front. The yanir swats the inquisitor aside, her shield taking the brunt of the force while she backs away quickly, hitting the wall heavily. The creature takes Mevan full force, slashing, clawing and biting each other, before he grabs a hold of it and throws it against the wall. Joshua''s barbed arrows thud into the yanir''s body and one of its palms, pinning its hand to the wall. From its side, Valerie slips her knife into its side. Before she can slash with her short sword, it yanks its hand from the wall, grabs Valerie and throws her across the room where she crashes and lays still. The yanir faces back to Mevan and kicks at him with a large foot, its arms pushing against the wall. Unable to dodge or catch the foot, his chest makes a sickening crunch as he''s thrown to the ground, howling. The creature scuttles along the wall killing each soldier too slow to get out of its way. The royal guard captain body slams it before attempting to slash at its neck. The yanir grabs his blade, yanks it out of his grasp and cleaves him in two. It passes by the hearth and smashes one of the windows, reaching through to pull itself out. Before it can pull itself fully out, Mevan moves forward with the inquisitor, grabs it by the legs and pulls it back through, the glass gashing open the creature''s skin. The inquisitor shouts out to the remaining soldiers and rushes with her blade digging deep into its foul torso. The soldiers move forward, screaming as they rush at it, slashing and stabbing. The creature reaches for soldiers and tears apart what it could reach, many of its efforts stopped by Joshua''s arrows tearing into its palms and joints. Mevan continues to heave it through the window, before throwing it to the floor heavily. As he steps forward its arms dart forward and its hand stabs deeply into his chest, claws reaching through his body. He coughs blood from his muzzle and bites down hard onto the hand, grabbing onto its arms with his massive paws to stop it from moving. The inquisitor shouts at Joshua as she moves forward and slams her sword into its other hand all the way to the hilt, blade biting deep into the stone, before slamming into it with her shield to keep it from biting or getting up. Joshua moves forward from the door to the creature''s head, pulls back hard on his bow and looses a barbed arrow between the eyes of the creature. It gnashes its teeth a few times, before its massive body stops moving entirely, maw gaping. Mevan pulls its hand from his chest, then gasps as his body changes back painfully. Blood splatters the floor as he drops to his knees, breathing harsh and ragged. Joshua comes up next to him and helps move him back while the inquisitor went over to Valerie. She checks to see if she was still breathing, and finding a pulse, picks up the unconscious form into her arms. Taking stock of those remaining, she counts four of the soldiers who had survived, the rest of the cottage was awash with blood and gore, bodies both headless and torn apart into pieces. The inquisitor sets Valerie down outside in the snow against the wall of the cottage, gently probing her head, neck and back. Finding no damage other than a gash on the side of her head, she unlatched the veil on one side then lifted the hood back just enough to be able to treat the wound. She washed it carefully with snow, Valerie''s uncovered medium, goldenrod hair matted with drying blood and sweat. Finding the wound was no longer bleeding, the inquisitor took a small jar from her belt and lightly smeared the wound with a plaster she had made herself from herbs. She carefully pulls Valerie''s hood back into place, latching her veil onto it. Placing her cloak around her, she reenters the cottage and moves to Joshua and Mevan. An empty jar sat next to Joshua, Mevan''s chest wound sealed but heavily scarred. His breathing had become mostly steady, and he seemed to be mostly conscious. Joshua looks up at the inquisitor and nods, before returning back to poke at the healing flesh of Mevan. She puts a hand on Mevan''s shoulder before moving to the four remaining soldiers. Two of them were gathering personal effects from the piles of bodies, while the other two were moving their comrades'' bodies to the center of the room, swords on their chests and hands gripping the sword hilts. For the ones whose rigor mortis was too set or who were in pieces, the soldiers arranged them in a way to show dignity. They went on their grim tasks silently, acknowledging the inquisitor. One of them, an older soldier, finishes taking the last personal item from the bodies he was working on and works his way toward the inquisitor. He salutes and says, "Ma''am, we''re read''eh teh ligh'' tha fire, jus'' gotsta git Yorge''s body down in tha cellar thar." She nods and responds, "Are you the highest ranking of your troop?" The soldier nods curtly. "Ah''m a sergean'' lady inquis''tor. Ah''ll be takin'' ova from tha cah''ain." "Very well, as soon as we can move on, we''ll leave," she responds. She steps away from the sergeant and moves back toward the hatch, sergeant in tow. Relighting her shield, they step carefully down the stone cellar steps, coming back to the door. Stepping through the portal, the inquisitor looks around while the sergeant carried the body back up the steps. Hanging from the ceiling were body parts, some seemingly having been snacked on for a while, others freshly cut. Moving into the cellar, she finds the freshest one, its clothes in the process of being ripped away. The head was sitting next to it, a look of horror filling its lifeless eyes. Pulling a parchment from a pocket in her jacket, she unfurls it and looks between the drawing and the head. Seeing it to be a match, she searches the clothing and comes away with a simple iron key. The design inside its circular head was one of a crow, sitting as if on a log. She pockets the key and grasps the head by its hair before taking it away up the cellar steps. As the hatch slams closed behind her, she moves toward the yanir''s corpse. Taking out her knife, she digs it deep into its chest, slicing down through its bones. Grasping either side of the incision, she rips open the chest cavity and looks inside. Runes carved along the ribs and spine were etched crudely deep into the bone. Without a word, the inquisitor left the body behind, her sword still stuck into its hand and the stone floor. As she exits the cottage, she notices Joshua holding up Mevan a few meters from the door, his eyes and face neutral. Mevan himself seemed to be breathing fine now, but obvious exhaustion and pain shuddered along his body. The inquisitor kneels down in front of Valerie and, wrapping her better in the borrowed cloak, picks her back up into her arms and moves toward the other two. The four soldiers were waiting outside, the sergeant placing the last soldier''s item into a large sack with the others. He lights a torch, walks toward the cottage and throws it into the darkness, illuminating the bodies within. The fire catches onto oil that had been poured on and around the bodies. Flames engulfed the corpses, and the yanir''s lifeless maw almost seemed to be silently screaming at the searing flames. The blaze would rage for a few hours, as the oil they used was special, meant to be a cleansing fire for the deceased to find their way to the embraces of their gods. They watch the fire rage for a short time, before turning away. Snow begins to fall lightly from the canopy above as they slowly move their way back to the horses left behind. 9 - Myth: The Kokkorran Within the epoch of an age of gods long ago, a forest god walked his demesne, listening to his domain around him. The swish as trees swayed in the wind, the dancing of the grass and leaves under foot, the beautiful, chaotic sound of life''s growth, death and regrowth. Small creatures burrowed through the ground, larger ones ran fleet footed from cover to cover, and still others of all sizes chased the ones running. The forest god watched, unemotive, his hooded head motionless, antlers reaching toward the trees, as life started, died and continued around him. But something was missing. It was quiet for all of the sounds of life in the forest. The panting of beasts, the foraging of creatures, the scuttling of vermin, it was sound, but despite its own beauty it held nothing for itself. The god thought and thought for days, considering the ancient growth. Individual animals came and went, passing generations while he thought. At last, he realized, there was missing that which would call toward the skies and earth, that would flow from branch to branch, that would cover the trees with its homes and music. The god began to move then, pulling leaves from each tree, tufts of fur from creatures both newborn and elderly, the aggressive zeal of beasts, and the wings of vermin. He began his work then, fashioning a creature as had never been seen before. After ten days and nights, he finished his work. Taking the creature in his hands, he breathed softly into the face of the creature. Although he was no expert in creation, his nature flowed over the creature''s features, making the thing shudder and demanding its first breath. Stolen novel; please report. It stood in his hands, its figure many more times larger than the average hare, but many times smaller than the average beast. The leaves that he had taken fashioned into rainbow fringed plumes covering its body, the tufts of fur he fashioned into a warm covering on its chest leading down toward its talons. The personality of it was imbued with the zeal of beasts, but with the love of life and sky. Its plumes were long and broad, its tail a collection of longer plumes. The creature took its twentieth breath, opened its beak and cried out. The cry was sweet and beautiful, a trill that rang through the forest air. The forest itself and all of its denizens stopped , mesmerized by the music. The god, satisfied, preened the creature with one impossibly long, gnarled finger, and whispered its name to it: Kokkorran. The Kokkorran shook itself, settled and tested its wings. Lifting his arm up, the forest god waited until the Kokkorran took flight, its broad, beautiful plumage shining in the sun rays breaking down through the canopy. He watched as it flew and threaded its way deftly through the thick tops as if it had always known how to do so. He continued to watch as it broke through into the sky well above the dark forest, its music ringing into the world. The god then walked his demesne once again, revelling in the music of life. 10 - Benevolence Year: 11289 With a wheeze, an old man drags himself up in his bed and weakly throws the thick, plush covers off of himself. He drags his legs exhaustively off the side, where his feet land heavily on the cold, smooth stones underfoot. Grasping the post of his bed next to him, he pulls himself up, legs shaking from the effort. To his right, he takes hold of a cane and, putting his weight on it, limps his way to the large, windowed doors covering the wall. Grasping the silver-coated handles, he swings the two doors open, the two swinging soundlessly outward. Snow fell heavily on the balcony in front of him as he took a deep, shaky breath into his lungs, then exhaled. The soft cold of the evening was like a clean bath, washing away the cloying sweat and heavy atmosphere of the room behind him. Without looking backward, the old man limped forward onto the wide balcony, the thick, stone balustrade coming up to his waist. He leans his cane against it, then grasps the edge with his hands, looking outward to the vista in front of him, snow beginning to dust his short, thick hair and silk clothing. His vision was awash in color, markedly grey from the gentle winter season. From the castle proper was a sheer cliff downwards, reaching far below where at the base of the mountain side was a sprawling city, and beyond the city walls he could see farms along a river''s edge. Beyond that was a vast mountain range in the far distance, snow covered and stoic. The sinking evening sun could be seen through a small break in the clouds, which washed the snowy landscape in soft yellows and oranges, the mountains themselves splashed with the golden, fiery light. In the city below him, he could see the people of his capital walking in the streets. Those vendors that sold in the day were shutting their shops, those that sold at night were just opening theirs. Guards could be seen patrolling and interacting with the populace, breaking up a fight there, settling a dispute between laborers here, playing with some of the street children there. Nobles, commonfolk, travelers, adventurers, they all came to this city, HIS city, for any and all reasons, some even staying to set up their own lives and make something of themselves, like he himself did two lifetimes ago. The old man contentedly sighed, long and deep, seeing what he had grown with his own two hands. Taking his cane up, he slowly limped over to a snow covered chair, dusted it off then sat heavily, cane between his legs. He leaned forward, both hands resting on the cane head, and just watched the land, reminiscing. He was a young man, not even sixteen years old, when he had left his home to the north. He had been raised in a small village of simple folk, following the ways of the people who had come before him. He traveled one day to a wandering trader, who herself had stopped at her usual place, a place set in a meadow half a day away. She came every two weeks, and sold so many wonderful, interesting things. She would buy their charms, their produce, meat, alcohol, and anything else they had an abundance of, and in turn would bring them metal, glass, and crates of goods from the cities beyond. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. He had spent the night listening to the older woman''s stories, his young mind filled with the adventures of the road and the glory of the world beyond, before taking off in the morning. He had driven his cart back to the village proper, only to find it ransacked and pillaged. The people he had known all of his life until then littered the streets, their blood speckling petals of flowers, pooling in dirt, and clotting in the rough grass. He hurried with the cart then, the old horse pulling it unsettled by the rank smell of spilled blood, rushing to his home in a panic. As he got up to the farmstead, the reins fell from his hands, tears tore from his eyes and rolled down his horrified, stricken face. He had jumped unsteadily from the cart, walked up the drive to in front of his home and collapsed to his knees in pure grief, wailing out to a lonely world. His family were nailed up on poles, their decapitated heads placed facing away from the house. His mother and sister''s clothing were ripped to pieces, his father''s body with countless, massive holes oozing congealing blood throughout his torso, as if something thick had been pierced into his body, twisted, then yanked out before being plunged in again. He hadn''t known how long he had stayed there like that, but eventually he got up, took care of the old draft horse, then began to bury the dead. He spent days clearing a nearby area of roots, bushes, small trees and more. He set himself to work so he wouldn''t break, and dug graves for each person of the village. Twenty three souls he buried, making markers for them, using the small amount of lettering he knew to mark who was where. Men, women, children, even newborns were unspared. Overtime his tears dried up, his face set, and he stopped feeling sorry and guilty, and a new feeling settled in the abyssal grief in his heart: rage. The boy had finished his duty before long. He took everything of value from the village he could find, mounted the old horse and left the soulless, lonely village behind, pointing his way to the trader woman''s usual place. He waited for her there, and she had been surprised and happy to see him, before seeing the hardness in his face. He had changed, he knew he looked like it, but seeing her reaction had truly driven it home. He had followed the woman away from the wilderness, pointing toward civilization, and made his claim to never look back and, eventually, get his vengeance. The old king sighed again, the bite of the memory long since faded, leaving only a small bitterness behind. His thoughts turned to how he had gathered together a small, ragtag army, hunted the raiders responsible, and settled the land where his home had been. He was nearing two hundred and fifty years old now, well past a normal human''s time, his longevity increased by magics arcane, divine and profane. The descendants of those that had joined him were now multiple generations in, while he was still there. His own children came and went, his great-grandchildren having grandchildren of their own now. He was beloved by all in his sprawling kingdom, having lifted the poor, destitute and needful to healthiness and happiness. Shaking his head with a smile, he looks back up toward the land beyond, to the people all throughout. He settles back, watching as the sun dipped down below the horizon. ___________________________________ That night, a cry went out among the city, one of sadness and grief. Messages spilled across the land to every corner of the kingdom, marking countless faces with tears and grief, with prayers of love to any and all deities to make the way for such a beloved figure. Stories of how such a beloved man could watch and love all within his embrace, no matter what style of life they had chosen, ran long into decades past. "King Delvyn has passed!" 11 - Childrens Story 1: A Plague Tale A girl walks down a forlorn road, with a whistle and a skip to her step. This road, one of pebble and dust, carries no living body, with a breeze floating along the grasses and trees. This girl, she steps and dances along the track, with a wonder and a grace befitting the fae. Before her is beauty and life, verdant and green. An old man approaches her from the front of the road, and she greets him. "Hello, young sir!", she says. "Hello!", says he, before his confusion sets in. She turns her gaze from the old man and continues to walk, the sound of a body hitting the dusty trail behind her. Next, a noble woman approaches. "Hello, o radiance!", says the girl. "Good morning!", says the noblewoman, before her face flushes. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. She turns her gaze from the noblewoman and continues to walk, the sound of a body hitting the dusty trail behind her. She comes to a wall with a gate, plain and strong. She calls to the other side, asking "Hello! May I come in??" A boy, no older than seven summers, opens the massive door, timid and curious. He looks at her, not recognizing her, but he looks past her. His face doesn''t change, but he shuts the door, and says "you may go." The girl once again calls out, "Please, may I come in?? Young Child, I so very much wish to come in!" The boy does not reply, shaken from what he had seen. He knew if he opened that door, his mother and father would scold him. "Little boy? Little boy!" She cries out, more desperate than before, before eventually being silent and still. And yet, the boy still did not open the door, for he very did not wish to be scolded. Five days and five nights pass by, and he finally opens the door, peeking beyond. No one could be seen, but the entire landscape, once green and verdant and beautiful was now dead and rotted, ashen and twisted, like a poisonous fire swept through the land. Three skeletons lay in the dirt, mangled and twisted, broken and torn. The boy shudders all down his spine, and closes the door. As the door shuts solidly, he hears a cheery whistle behind him. He turns slowly. There stood a girl, whistling cheerfully. 12 - Legend: Idolatry Gods have always come in all shapes and sizes. From the lowliest of worms to the highest of mountains, gods have been or dwelled. The other races, well, they each believe in their own set of gods, and very few of them believe in the original ones. But unlike their own gods, these are ever present. Some walk in the deepest, darkest parts of forests and oceans, others run along plains chasing the wind, and still others climb and fly among the highest and greatest peaks. Often where you feel the most primal of urges or fears or joys, these gods often walk touching life in their own way. One of these gods had always roamed the bluest and cloudiest of skies, freedom being its choice of existence. It was happy, believed itself unfettered and clean. Whenever it would be troubled, it would abandon that trouble into the clouds nearby, turning them black and creating maelstroms. One day, after having given its troubles away, it glided over a deep, black chasm. Below, sitting at the mouth of the chasm, was an extremely attractive figure, staring down into the black below them, feet crossed and swinging. The god had never cared much for what was below them, only of what was in front of them or above them. The world of solid ground was distasteful to them, but the urge to dive toward this figure was more than just powerful, it was intoxicating. So, doing just so, the god stopped near the figure and asked with a curious smile, ''What are you doing there, Chasm Watcher?'' The figure looks at the god, whose heart caught at the throat. Four eyes looked back at them, the figure smiling gracefully responds, ''I am seeking.'' The god had never seen one so absolutely alien yet perfect. The figure in front of them couldn''t be pinpointed, as if they were ever changing. There seemed to be a void as deep as the sky at night without stars within those eyes, yet the god only got the feeling of absolute freedom from the figure. As if it lived in a world without troubles, worries or problems, where it could float along any eddy it wished. The god came forward, closer, and sat on the air next to the figure cross legged, looking downward into the chasm with it and asks, ''What are you seeking, Seeker?'' The figure looks downward again and says, ''I''ll know it when I see it, sky dweller.'' The figure then got up, walked away and into the deepening gloom, as if they melted into the darkness itself. The god stared in sadness and left, floating away. But their thoughts were still stuck upon the figure, at the delicate, alien posture, the way it moved, the way it spoke, the look as those eyes fixed on them. Shuddering with a strange pleasure, they flew through the open sky. Each day, the god would come to the same spot, and find the figure still sitting there, it''s form different each time. It would be dangling appendages down into the darkness, those same four eyes locked onto the darkness below. And each day, the god would converse with the same questions, receive the same answers, and repeat their farewells. On one of these days, the god met with the figure and asked, "What are you doing there Chasm Watcher?" The figure, as was it''s normal, smiled and responded, "I''m seeking." The god asks, "What are you seeking, Seeker?" The figure, instead of replying as it normally did, said, "Would you like to come with me? To discover it?" The god was surprised, hesitant. The figure was a near constant for them, a reminder that no matter how free the god was, there was an even more free world out there. Without another second, the god nodded, curiosity and greed reflected in their eyes like the sun on water. The figure''s smile seemed to almost twist, before settling back into its usual demeanor in the blink of an eye. It raised what looked like a paw toward the god and said, "Then grasp tightly." This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The god clasped the appendage without hesitation. The figure''s paw instantly slithered and changed form until it latched throughout all of the god''s arm, weaving its essence into the flesh of the god. The smile twisted again, this time encompassing most of the figure''s face, teeth of the purest, most sickly green shone, the only constant besides the figure''s eyes. The god cried out in intense fear and attempted to wrest itself from the figure''s control, without avail. The god flew backward as far as they could, but the figure was unmovable. As the god wailed, the figure laughed, one of a strange timbre that was pleasant, like a crystal bell and then like the laugh of lovers in bed. The figure shoved off from the chasm edge into the abyss, dragging the screaming, struggling god along with it. They both fell deep, deep into the earth. Past the dirt, the rock, and ever deeper into the chasm. After what felt like an entire millenia, the two landed within the inky depths, as if floating through pure darkness itself. The god whimpered, eyes screwed shut and attempting to curl into itself. The figure''s appendage weaved throughout the god''s arm pulsed lightly as the figure seemed to almost melt into the surrounding black. The eyes continued to shine, the mouth and teeth twisting throughout the abyss. It spoke to the god in a breathy, smug voice, "You wanted to know. And now you do. You will be mine." The god stayed in that abyss, listening to the soft, maddening voice, mind eroding over countless eons. Though they didn''t know when, the god eventually started to speak to the darkness that would never speak with them, only speak to them. And countless time went by, eventually the god stopped speaking, and only listened to the creeping black. Their mind shattered, a twisted smile upon their face, they floated for all the rest of time. Eventually, the god and the darkness had progeny, born from their bodies and minds, flooding the vast chasm, leading to twisted, dark things. As their progeny broke through the surface world, they destroyed and consumed all in their wake, until eventually being destroyed by the other gods of that primal world. The rest of the gods came together and sealed both the darkness and the mad god themself, cast deep, deep into the earthly plane. While sealing the two, however, they found the smallest mote of light. As one of the gods touched it, they realized it was the essence of the very best of the mad god, having torn it from their essence before it could become corrupted from the madness. A last desperation as the darkness took over the god entirely. And so it had floated in that darkness, shining and implacable, incorruptible. The gods took this mote of light and, before taking it with them, took the smallest piece from it and weaved it into a net of rainbow light, keeping the sealed god and darkness in their prison. At the conjunction of this net where all lines both ended and began, they placed the piece of essence they took and connected the lines to it, allowing the essence to continue existing, impervious to those that railed at their prison. Taking the rest of the mad god''s essence, they made the first of the races. The ones they placed on the plains they called Watchers, those they placed in forests were called Sentinels. Those deep within the earth were called Guardians, and those within the mountains the Builders. Within the desert sands they placed the Arbiters, and the tundras were the Hunters. Finally, deep within the oceans they placed the Dwellers. The rest of the essence they took and kept safe and hidden from the world, knowing its very existence would entail the very best of the now mad god would continue on. Over time, these gods were abandoned by the races they created, their creations themselves changing over eons, but never once did these gods waver in their vigil. 13 - Bestial Guardian 1 "You''ll pay me what you owe to me, Uporin!" A massive, long-fingered furry fist slams down onto a thick, wooden table. The force makes the table shudder and splinter. The owner of the fist leaned forward, both paw-like hands pressing into the tabletop, claws sinking easily into the wood. Her teeth were grit tightly in anger, her long canines gleaming in the soft light shining from the prism floating above the table. The bear-like humanoid in front of her wilted from her anger, cowering from her intensity. Uporin''s ears twitched quickly, his eyes hesitant and darting from the nevorin in front of him to the stairs behind him and back. Swallowing and taking a shaky breath, he speaks up timidly, "Jeshin, p-please, t-the shipment didn''t m-make it to the d-d-drop off. I-I can''t sell merchandise I d-don''t have at t-the..." Jeshin snarls loudly, throwing the sturdy table against the far wall, pieces of it flying across the room as it slams into the stone with a crack. In a blur, she crosses the distance between her and Uporin, grasping his neck in one hand, muscles rippling as she lifts him high into the air. His eyes widened completely, his paws clutching at her wrist. Uporin wasn''t a short kulam, standing at nearly seven feet tall, easily weighing as much as a large horse, but the nevorin in front of him had lifted him to where his feet dangled and kicked, and as if he weighed nothing more than a heavy stone. Her eyes shined dangerously in the soft light as he gasped, eyes rolling panickedly. She snarls again, tightens her grasp on Uporin''s thick neck, claws digging deeply into his hide, arms and shoulder flexing heavily. Uporin''s struggling became less and less energetic, his eyes glazing over and breath all but stopped, before Jeshin threw him against the broken table, his back slamming painfully against the wood, one of the legs catching his side and splitting it open, blood spilling on the dusty stone floor. He gasped and sucked in air, lungs pushing and pulling as much as they could of the sweetness in the stale air. The stench of vomit, cockroaches and rats, normally gag-inducing, was the best thing Uporin tasted all month. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Jeshin aggressively grasped his face, palm and fingers covering his short snout and most of his face, and stepped in close, the tip of her nose nearly touching his cheek, her hot breath promising barely-restrained violence. She speaks so low into his ear as to almost be a whisper. "Uporin, your excuses are as stale as your tavern''s beer. I expected my payment days ago, tempering my impatience, and you have the absolute gall to cheat me..?" The kulam''s body shook hard from his fear. He shook his head robotically, as much as he could in Jeshin''s grasp. She lifts her palm from his mouth, claws instead digging into his face as she turns him to look at her. "Then where. Is. My. Shipment," she seethes at him. "I-I-It was taken! The shipment was taken," he shrieks. "Please! Don''t kill me!" His sobs echo through the bland chamber. Jeshin softens her grip. "Who?!", she snarls. "T-t-t-the Black Kamber! T-They raided the shipment on Herin''s Road," he sobs out. "The guards w-were flayed a-alive, o-only little Yupo made it out. P-please, Jeshin, don''t kill me! I-I can get it back! J-Just give me s-some time!" The nevorin sniffs in displeasure. "You''re right, you WILL be getting it back. You and I are going to go get what''s mine. Get up. Get ready to go." Uporin''s mouth hangs open, surprised. "Wh-what?? M-me?? B-but, I can''t leave the tavern unattended!" As he finished his sentence, his words are cut off by Jeshin''s fist smashing into the remains of the table next to his face. "You fail to realize, I don''t care," she snarls. "You let MY property fall in the hands of a merc group, you''re gonna be the one to get it back. Find someone to take over your tavern, or don''t for all I give a shit. You''ll be ready to go by tonight or you won''t have to worry about your rathole ever again." Uporin swallows, paws damp with fear-sweat, then nods emphatically. She steps back from him and he scrambles clumsily toward then up the wooden steps, bursts through the door above, and disappears from view. Jeshin surveys the room, growls low, then proceeds up the steps. 14 - Bestial Guardian 2 Jeshin reaches the door hanging slightly ajar at the top of the steps, opens it the rest of the way then steps through the portal. The sounds and smells of the seedy tavern take over the smell from the room in the basement. She hated this place. It''s name, The Burned Garden, was an accurate depiction of both the inside and outside, having gone unrepaired for years. She could hear Uporin screaming at his staff to her right, then rush out the back of the tavern. She narrowed her eyes. He knew what would happen if she had to come find him tonight, but that didn''t mean she trusted him. If his kin saw him like this, a coward and cheat, they would have taken him to a deep cave and beaten him to death when he came of age. Honorless cowards don''t deserve life according to the kulam. She dismisses Uporin from her mind, then steps through a doorway to her left, entering the main room of the tavern. It was half-filled with people either drowning their misery and themselves in terrible beer, or making underhanded deals. Jeshin strides past the bar, making her way toward the front door, pushing a fat human who stumbled in her path out of the way, making him collide with a table and set of chairs where he lay, groaning. The old, weathered waitress screams at the man, eyeing and avoiding her entirely. Jeshin passes by a table as a man with a cowled jacket seated at it flows from the bench and follows her out of the tavern and into the morning light of the city streets. Without breaking her stride, she continues northward toward their inn. The man follows her, breathing the cold outside air deeply before turning to Jeshin with a large grin, cowl covering the majority of his face. "Finally, I was getting sick of that place, it smelled like the arsehole of a cow mixed with liquified stinkcap! Granted, a stinkcap is infinitely more enjoyable to smell than that of unwashed fur and skin, but I digress." Jeshin looks at the man unamused but replies, ears twitching slightly, "Stinkcap is a delicacy in some places. You do it a disservice, Joshua." Her response makes him grin again. "So captain, what''s next?" She cocks her head as she walked through the throngs of people, before sighing. "We''re going to take that slug Uporin and get what''s ours back. Tonight," she growls. Joshua claps once and says, "Sounds like fun! Who''s got our shit?"She smiles humorlessly. "The Black Kamber group." Joshua stops walking for a second before continuing following Jeshin. "Ah. Well, that''s interesting," he says contemplatively. __________________________________________________________________________ Jeshin and Joshua enter the door of their inn, the Jaded Gnome. Joshua takes his leave and approaches a table with a well-muscled elf and a thin, floating creature that looked like a mix between a dwarf and a sea-serpent, a di''vash, as Jeshin ordered a meal and drink, then accepts a letter from the tavern keeper. The elf woman, Vara, was laughing at a joke that was told by Kor''lo, both of them in stitches, the mix of gurgling hissing with normal laughter drawing the heads of curious people. Joshua grabs a chair and turns it around, sitting on it lightly, his long, red hair spilling out of his cowl as he leaned in to listen, his body frame both covered and accentuated by his clothing. He was wearing his cowled jacket and simple, dark blue breeches. Kor''lo was covered in bluish-green scales and wisps of extremely thin seaweed-like hair hanging here and there, a simple, thin robe covering his body. His beard was thick, consisting much of the same seaweed-like follicles. It twitched as he laughed his gurgling hiss. Vara had a diamond patch of hair on her head, spanning from her widow''s peak to the nape of her neck, which then left off as an extremely long braid. She wore a loose fitting silk tunic and cotton shorts, one leg of the shorts longer than the other. The rest of her legs were covered in an armored skirt, completely open in the front to provide mobility. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it The inn attendant came back with the requested letter and a tankard of shevim, a drink much like mead but made with berries which had been only partially fermented. Jeshin preferred the sweet taste to the heady taste of beer or the cloying one of mead. Leaving her subordinates behind, she climbed up the stairs to her room. She went to the doors of two other subordinates and pounded on their frames. Norvor, a dwarf woman with short brown hair, opened her door wearing only her underclothes, a handsome, naked young man sleeping soundly in her bed. Cossack, a tall, ebony-skinned man, stepped out of his room, reading glasses on his nose and a book in hand. She notified them of the plan for tonight, then left them as they went back to their own devices. Jeshin unlocked her own door, slammed it shut and threw the letter on her writing desk with annoyance. She stretches, her back and arms popping with relief. She approached the wash basin in the corner of her room, dunking her head into the deep bowl before throwing her head up, using her hands to smooth back her loose mane of hair. Looking up, she stared into her small mirror, it''s sheen reflecting her annoyance back at her. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths until she was under control, then reopened her eyes and inspected herself more clearly. While she may be called a nevorin, she was really only half, while her other half was, itself, that of a human-elf mix. Compared side-by-side to a full nevorin, she didn''t lose by height or weight, but she was poignantly less bestial by far. Her features weren''t delicate by any means, but they were very much more humanoid, covered in scars all across her body. She had even been called beautiful on plenty of occasions. Her irises were of a bright green, ringed on the outside by a golden amber color. Unlike the thick fur of a nevorin, she had an extremely thick, long mane of loose fur-like hair running from her head and neck, which hung loosely down to the bottom of her back by her tail, the rest of her body covered in a light, short bluish-grey colored fur, with white along her underarms, belly and face. Her wolf-like ears were adorned with earrings and studs of gold and silver, her hair itself glittering with moonstones and topaz beads braided in the strands. Her arms and legs were closer in ratio to a human, but she still had a long length akin to the nevorin, finger tips nearly reaching down to her knees, but instead of humanoid paws of her kin, hers were fur covered human-like hands with long, powerful fingers that ended in short claws, her feet much the same. A simple gold ring adorned both of her middle fingers, each connected to a complex, thin net made of gold on the back of her hands leading to golden bangles on her wrist, the net moving with her hands as if it were like regular skin-tight leather gloves. Further up along her left arm, a flat, flexible ring of coiled whitegold fit snugly between her shoulder and bicep, moving like a snake as her arm flexed, staying in one place. Her tail hung down, swaying to the sides slowly. More silver wire, this time adorned with the moonstones, threaded through the tail''s skin and fur. Her clothing consisted of an unlaced silk shirt and specialized leather corset, with black, scaled leather shorts that reached down to her knees, and custom made boots for her feet that had buckles to replace the normal leather cords. Two scale leather belts hugged her long waist loosely, metal clips riveted on them to hold scabbards or pouches of tools. She shakes her head lightly, earrings clicking together and her hair glittering in the soft light, then pulls away from the mirror. She strides to her desk, takes up the letter and opens it, reading its unsigned contents. You asked from Us We provided the Answer Remember it A Child of Will Eyes a Fiery Embrace Blades Dipped in Familial Blood Lo, a Traitor''s Head to Roll Jeshin frowns, clicks her tongue, then throws the letter on the desk. She sits on her bed, unbuckles her boots and kicks them off before laying back. ''What the fuck does that mean...'', she thinks to herself before turning to the wall. 15 - Bestial Guardian 3 A loud clattering and angry shouting outside of her window awakens Jeshin from her sleep, the orange light from the setting sun sending soft rays against her door. Swinging her feet lazily, she yawns and stretches with audible pops. Standing up, she strides to the door and looks out onto the street, seeing two vendors yelling at each other, a cart half filled with crates of vegetables overturned in the street. Onions, carrots, potatoes, and cabbages all rolled down the slanted street. The merchant that had knocked his cart into the vegetable merchant''s cart was red faced and gesturing wildly, the vegetable vendor himself screaming back, spittle flying into each other''s faces. A young child was running after the spilled vegetables, panickedly putting them back into their crates. Jeshin snorted at the scene, then looked up toward the city. Their inn was located halfway up a hill, streets packed on either side with buildings, business signs and residential homes mixed together in an amalgamation. The winding street was connected by dozens of side streets going in random directions, as if the one who planned it all had just thrown lines of ink against the wall. The thing Jeshin liked most about the Jaded Gnome was that it was three stories, an entire floor higher than most everything to its sides and below it. She could see over the rooftops down into the massive city, as well as the valley beyond, all the way out toward the snow-capped mountains in the distance, the sun dropping down between a massive break between them. Crows alighted on the many rooftops in the city, cawing at each other and the passerby underneath. A lucky sign, she thinks to herself. The children of Ma''liksa, the god of luck, chance and virtuous wealth, were always welcome by the populace. Especially when it came to freelancers such as herself. She hums a wordless tune to herself softly as she watches the world go by. Eventually the vendors leave, still spitting venom at each other, a few of the city guard coming by not much later to question the passersby. She watches as the sun finally dips below the horizon, then pushes herself from the window to put on her boots, grabs the letter on her desk, then leaves the room, locking it behind her. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. As she walks down the hall, she notices Cossack leaning against his door frame. He was dressed in his normal dark blue robes trimmed with golden thread, his staff, capped with obsidian-colored veerwood on either end, strapped across his back. He falls in behind her silently as she passes by, and they descend the steps down into the common room below. At the bar she could see Norvor and Joshua drinking and laughing with the barman and other patrons, the others at their normal table in the front corner speaking quietly amongst themselves. She strides toward the table, catching the eyes of Norvor and Joshua. They leave their drinks and coin at the counter and follow. Jeshin steps past the table where Kor''lo and Vara are talking. "Kor, come on, you can''t be serious! That trip would take at least seven days and cost at minimum seventeen silver. And that''s not including lodging!" Kor''lo shakes his head quickly and speaks in his gurgle voice, "No, no, Vara, lissten. If you usse normal transsportation, ssure. But Kor''lo is talking about sspecial travel! If you hire a kre''kua, you''d get there in a day and a half, maxx! And the cosst iss far lesss!" Vara frowns and speaks, annoyance in her voice. "A kre''kua? Isn''t that the huge flatfish? How do you suppose I even find a handler in the first place? Not just anyone can hire them." Kor''lo grins toothily. "Not to worry, dear Vara. Kor''lo hasss their connectionsss. The isle of Bru''la is waiting! Thhink of the vacation we could have! The island fruitsss make Kor''lo''ss mouth water." The two stand up as Jeshin passes by and continue talking, Vara now contemplating the logistics of Kor''lo''s proposal. As the six of them exit the inn, Jeshin turns to the left and goes back toward the rathole she had left this morning. "Uporin better be ready," she growls to herself. "I''ll drag him by his little fur if I have to." Joshua and Norvor laugh, while Cossack''s eyes scrunch up with a smile. Vara glances at her then snorts and turns back to her conversation with Kor''lo. 16 - Bestial Guardian 4 As the group approached The Burned Garden, the meager pole lanterns cast a grim light on the streets. Those few populating the streets kept away from their group, some melting away into the shadows, scurrying to their holes like the vermin they were. Even so, the group kept keen eyes on their surroundings. No sense in inviting the desperate to take a shot. Jeshin strode forward toward the door of the tavern, the slits through the window boards dark and unlit. She pounded heavily on the door, shaking it in its weak frame, her face an impatient scowl. After a few moments, she pounded again, harder, before the locks on the other side started to turn. The door cracked open, and the muzzle of Uporin could be seen, shrouded, his eyes filled with fear and suspicion. Jeshin throws open the door, catching the kulam by his shoulder and tossed him into the street. The kulam screamed as he was yanked through the portal and thrown onto the dirty stones in front of the group. He scrambled to his back, scrabbling to gain purchase and footing. Jeshin squatted in front of Uporin, her nose wrinkled from his stench. ''Get up, wretch. It''s good you didn''t run, you wouldn''t have enjoyed the chase as much as me.'' Her teeth flash, her smile unamused. ''We''re leaving, start walking,'' she says as she points toward a wide, western street. The nearest gate was in the south west of the city, where the rest of their people were camped outside the walls. Uporin trembled, but got to his feet, shaking. He hunched forward, hands wringing, as he began walking toward the intersection. Every now and then he looked back, but would quickly turn to the front with a squeak when he noticed a pair of green eyes following his every movement. Now I have to babysit..., Jeshin thinks to herself with a sigh, her annoyance palpable in her eyes. The group turned into the intersection and continued through the winding streets until spilling out into a massive street that ran to the south west and north east of the city and far beyond the walls, winding out of sight of even the tallest tower. The High Run road was an ancient one that was built thousands of years before by an empire that built itself from humble beginnings over countless generations, until eventually it vanished altogether, as if it were never there to begin with. The only leavings of its passage were various ruins, massive and imposing, and the High Run road they currently walked. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. They marched to and through the towering multi-gate that stood before them, the guards posted in front of it watching them with expressions unknowable in their deep helms. The group could feel their eyes follow them, and Joshua winked at one as he passed. The guard shook his head lightly, then continued his vigil. They headed to the nearby stable outside of the walls. Pounding on the stable doors, they tasked the grumbling, sleepy stablehand to saddle and ready their horses. In the case of Jeshin, she preferred to stay on foot. There were never any horses large enough to handle her frame, and she preferred to run alongside anyway. Vara took the reins of the heavy draft horse that Uporin sat upon, tying the kulam''s fat hands to the saddle horn and his waist roped to the horse itself. Heading out, the group silently set an easy gallop, Jeshin running alongside the group, her breathing slow and easy. The trip to their main camp took them all of fifteen minutes at their speed, the fires seen through trees from the roadside. The group veered toward it, before slowing and being greeted by the rest of the encampment. Seventeen men and women, all elves, dwarves and humans, made up the Voiceless Ring mercenary group, not including the other five lieutenants and their captain. Joshua dismounted with an easy grace, running into the arms of his lover. The man grabbed Joshua into a large hug, kissing him, before setting him down with a laugh. Vara waved at the encampment and dismounted, but threw Uporin in the corner of their camp with a heavy grunt, then sat watching him. Cossack took the group''s horses to the encampment''s makeshift stable area and, getting help from a grizzled man, fed them then began saddling the rest of the horses. Others from the group got up and began to pack up their camp to only the essentials, awaiting the inevitable command from their captain. Kor''lo and Norvor walked away to pack their own things, they themselves in a heated discussion about the ethics of a society that relied on sex to settle disputes instead of intellectual debate. Jeshin stamped heavily to her tent, yanked open the flap, then turned and shouted at the camp, a bestial excitement in her voice and eyes. ''We leave in twenty! We''re going hunting tonight, my Ring!'' The tent flap closing behind her did little to lower the din of cheers from the camp. 17 - Bestial Guardian 5 The moons were high in the sky, shining their soft, silver light across the forest clearing where the Black Kamber were camped. Jeshin watched down at them from a small rock outcropping, the light of the moon showing them in full features. The few guards on duty were picking at their teeth or yawning, boredom etched into their bodies. Jeshin knew the commander of the group was hiding somewhere. Probably porking himself some poor village girl in his tent, she thought to herself with disgust. She had met him a few times before, when the various mercenary groups vied for contracts from cities. He was middle aged and was starting to bald, his short-cropped black hair covering his skull like a sad moss. He had been utterly calm and disciplined, but you could practically see the violence leak out of every pore. There had been reports that week in the city, of three prostitutes found in different alleys near where his mercenaries were holed up in. They had been covered in bruises, bodies broken like dolls. The third one was found alive and rushed to healers, but seemed completely incapable of speech or even recognizing those around her after. The group had denied all involvement with laughter. Jeshin continued to look on, noting where they kept their resources and their horses. She could see one of the lieutenants in a dark corner of the camp, away from prying eyes, watching inside a tent. She couldn''t quite remember his name, but she knew it was something strange. ''Yur-something,'' she growled to herself, quieter than a whisper. Joshua sidled up to her side in a crouch and looked. ''Yurda,'' he says dispassionately. She looked at the hooded man, his nose wrinkled in disgust. ''His name is Yurda. He''s a disgusting thing, has orctish and something else in him. Makes him look like he''s been living in catacombs his entire life,'' he says with a derisive sniff. ''He doesn''t talk much, but I guess he likes to watch people go about their lives, like he''s waiting to drag them off into some dark hole in the ground.'' Jeshin inclined her head. ''What''s he looking at now, I wonder...'' Joshua frowns at that, silent. Jeshin moves to a different vantage point on the outcropping, keeping Yurda in view. She slid closer on her belly, squinting, as she sees the opening Yurda was looking through, her disgust writ on her face. In the tent, she could see a large, brown-furred nevorin riding a naked human. His arms and legs were tied to stakes in an X-form, but his right arm had been torn off, the stump cauterized by what she presumed was a heated brand lying in coals next to them. She sucked happily at the blood oozing from the limp arm, her teeth delicately plucking pieces of meat from the bone, chewing then swallowing with relish. The human was gagged, and she could only just hear the sound of his heavily muffled screams from where she perched. The nevorin rode the human harder, throwing the arm in the dirt as her teeth tore at his neck, his gagged screams immediately cut off as she seemed to howl in climax from the death and blood below her. Jeshin heard the rest of their encampment cheer at the sound of the nevorin''s climax, then cheering harder when she strode out of her tent, her fur and muzzle matted with wet blood, fully naked, the man''s head gripped tightly in her hand. The head''s mouth was open in a scream, the wound looking like it was torn from the torso. The camp laughed as she played with the head before licking the oozing blood, her tongue smearing the fluid across the deceased man''s face. As Jeshin backed away from the lip of the ridge back to Joshua, he was frowning. ''That one is Telura. She''s a piece of work. Only thing she loves more than slaughter is bathing in the blood of her enemies, which I hear is a thing for nevorin like her. They''re called....Yishui. The Chosen, right?'' She turned one eye to look at him, then snorted without a word. She knew first hand of those that called themselves Thidros'' yishui, the Chosen, but to see one so brazenly laughing in the face of Wielvel, the Hound of Death, was an affront not only to all nevorin, but to the various yishui throughout their kin. Her face was twisted into a feral snarl, but she carefully backed away from the ledge, then snuck back to where the rest of their band were waiting. The faces that looked at her as she came back into their view were set and grim, the previous smiles gone and replaced with the expectation of battle. She hand signaled ~bows first~ to the group, and nine of their band came forward and snuck up the ledge where she had left Joshua, their bare feet making them seem they were floating up the overhang like ghosts, followed by Kor''lo, he himself truly floating. She directed Vara to one side of the overhang, taking six of their number including Cossack, while she directed Norvor and the rest to follow her around the other side. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. They snuck, slowly and carefully, toward the encampment, staying low and in the dark of the trees, not more than three or four feet from the nearest guards. She couldn''t see the archers from the ridge, but she knew they could see her. She raised one arm slowly, fingers spread out, then snapped her fist closed. Two arrows immediately pincushioned the guard, one in the throat and one in the heart, as one of her party grabbed hold of the guard and pulled him out of sight of the rest of the mercenary group. Moments later, the figure came forward back into sight on the other side of the entrance. Jeshin raised her right arm slightly, then with one finger movement, the group went forward into the camp, hiding behind tents, boxes, barrels, anything large enough to hide them from sight. Jeshin took a shallow glance from her position and noticed Telura stopping mid-performance for the camp, then turn with a frown toward where they were hiding. She sniffed once, twice, then her face twisted into a savage snarl as she snarled heavily. The rest of the camp stopped what they were doing as she threw the head into the campfire behind her. ''Come out, WORM,'' she screamed with a howl. Jeshin shouted a command, pulled a throng holding her greatsword strapped to her back and stepped forward. Arrows began to snap into soldiers in the camp as Jeshin and Vara''s groups surged forward toward the center, spears piercing through padded armor and swords slicing open the bellies of their enemies. The female nevorin grabbed a large, nearby staking hammer and wielded it in front of her, meeting Jeshin''s greatsword. Jeshin was smaller than the massive nevorin in front of her, but she was able to easily keep in time with Telura, the nevorin''s snarling muzzle opposing her own human-like one, snapping at each other. The brown nevorin''s teeth caught Jeshin at her shoulders time and again, teeth catching her cheeks, while Jeshin''s own teeth got underneath the nevorin''s jaw, doing damage but unable to gash open her enemy''s thick hide. Jeshin twisted her sword to push away Telura, then slammed the hilt into her stomach. Telura sputtered as she jumped back, watching Jeshin in a crouch, her stomach wretching from her open snarl, bile spewing from her jaws. Jeshin flit her eyes quickly about the camp, noticing it had sprung to life in the few seconds of combat. Swords and pikes in hand, armor hastily slapped on from those that had been sleeping in tents, mercenary soldiers streaming from the tents around them. What the Black Kamber lacked in quality of mercenaries, they more than made up for in numbers, easily tripling the Voiceless Ring themselves. Nearly a third of the camp had been taken out before they began fighting back, and while there were many of those in black garb, there were some of the blue and green of her own band lying still in the blood soaked ground. Vara wielded her waraxe easily, helping to defend her fellows with a light heater shield. Her clothes were soaked in the blood of others, and she attacked as much as she supported those next to her. She was facing against a balding man in heavy armor and wielding a longsword, a kite shield blocking and parrying Vara''s axe as she did his sword.The arrows from Joshua''s group had begun to slow, from using all of what they had, Jeshin considered. Even with Kor''lo''s support, they could only kill so many. And although she couldn''t see Norvor or Cossack, Jeshin could hear the unmistakable sounds of a staff cracking bone and the laughter of the dwarf woman cleaving her way through humanoid to humanoid. She focused back on Telura in front of her, narrowly parrying the flying staking hammer with her sword as it veered into one of the tents causing it to collapse, the feeling of her arms going numb from the impact. She looked back at the nevorin, only seeing her hunched over, eyes turning a pure amber. Her fur began to lengthen and stand out like hackles, her teeth elongated and grew thicker, her paws and muscles growing to double their size. Her howl of rage and bloodlust curdled those around her, friend and foe alike. Jeshin took one last look at the camp around her, noticing that her group was cleaning up the rest of the Black Kamber, taking those that surrendered prisoner. She noticed Vara break her shield on the leader''s sword, raised her shield high with the sword stuck in the shards of wood, then jammed her axe into his neck, surprise and anger flooding his face. The snarl in front of her made her brace herself as she felt the impact of the nevorin colliding into her, pushing her back. Telura''s muzzle snapped at Jeshin''s face rabidly while her claws dug into Jeshin''s armor. She cried out in pain and kicked at Telura''s knee, before being lifted and slammed into the dirt. Jeshin used her greatsword to block the nevorin''s teeth inches from her face, before Telura hooked her claws into her armor and ripped it from her body with ease. She got her knee scrambled to her feet, Telura''s bloodcurdling howl piercing the night around them. Jeshin threw her greatsword at Telura, her huge form narrowly dodging as Jeshin snarled at her. Reaching deep into herself, she pulled that maddening howl from her belly, to her throat, and out into the night sky. Her "prayer" to Thidros was long and savage, as her body responded. Her eyesight burned on the edges with a green color, veins spidering along her vision. Her own muscles grew, her hair grew out along her back, and her humanoid face turned more bestial and savage. Her mouth widened across her face quickly, her jaw feeling stronger than before, like she could bite through stone itself. She abandoned herself and rushed toward Telura, grabbed a hold of the nevorin and bit her shoulder, tearing out a furred chunk and making her howl in pain. The two slashed and bit and slammed each other into other objects and people. Jeshin slammed one fist into one of Telura''s ears, causing her to stumble. She grabbed a hold of the nevorin''s throat in both hands and ripped it apart, blood spattering the two of them. Telura gurgled as she fell backward as Jeshin fell on top of her. She repeatedly slammed her fists into the dying nevorin''s muzzle and head, crushing her skull into a misty pulp, her rage unspent. Eventually, Jeshin could feel herself stop, the thing''s face below her entirely mush, chest caved in and ripped apart, limbs scattered about. She snarled and snapped at the corpse, then howled once, long into the brightening gloom. 18 - Bestial Guardian 6 The sun began to break the mountainous horizon to the far south, the light shining through the trees. It shed itself onto the grizzly scene of an encampment covered in bodies, a sea of black clothing, blue and green speckled here and there, armor covering many of the corpses. Jeshin stood up from the corpse slowly, exhausted, her form back to its normality. She looked around, her group looking at her with different looks. Some seemed fearful and others were ashen faced. Vara came up to her side and helped her up, her blonde braid almost glowing in the sunlight. Jeshin leaned on the elf as they walked away from the grizzly scene. Joshua and his team seemed to have been down here fighting with the rest of the group, as he was covered in blood and had a long bloody gash on his arm. He and Norvor were directing members to drag their own dead outside, away from the death-strewn camp, while Kor''lo puffed away at his long stemmed shell-pipe. Jeshin could see Cossack sitting on a large rock, surrounded by bodies with caved in heads and broken limbs. He closed his eyes and gave Jeshin a small, slow nod, his mouth curved in his small smile. Jeshin nodded Vara toward the largest tent of the camp. ''That way. Let''s see what he was hiding.'' ''Alright there, luv, we''ll take our time so ye don''t get winded again,'' Vara said to her quietly. ''Thank you, Vara, I''m grateful. I saw what you did to that bald windbag. He seemed like a handful.'' Vara chuckled. ''Tis nothin'' I''ve dealt with before. Men like ''im are all bark, no stamina. They poke ye a few times and think they''ve won th'' world. My ex-husband was much the same.'' At that last comment, Vara chuckled again. Jeshin snorted and smiled down at the elf. ''I wonder if your husband also got an hewn.''Vara''s eyes glitter as she smiles mischievously back at Jeshin. ''Oh, aye, he went much the same way, luv. But t''was a rope, not an axe, as he got carted off by a particularly *nasty* horse.'' At that, she laughed, the blood and grime on her face belying the humor in voice with the reminder of her morbid profession. Jeshin inclined her head. ''Well, either way, you got the fucker, so it''s your win. Think of a reward you want and tell me later,'' she told the elf.Vara nodded. ''Oh, aye, I plan on it!'' They stopped in front of the tent, and the two brushed the heavy flaps inward as they peered inside. As they stepped inside, Jeshin could see an easel, canvas half-painted of a woman, a large table, and a cot. The woman in the painting was bruised and battered, but staring at the observer with a hesitant expression. Just past it was the woman who had been apparently been in the process of being painted. She peered through her long, dirty black hair at the two of them, curled up against the corner of the tent, shivering. Jeshin waved for Vara to go to her, who then proceeded to go to the woman''s side, gently approaching her and talking to her lightly, with an upbeat tone to her voice asking her name, that she was ok now, and more. Jeshin turned toward the table, which was covered with maps, ledgers and two letters. She perused the maps, frowning at the information on it. A figure that looked like a red knight seemed to be on a road, turned toward what looked like a walled castle and city. The names on the map was one she was familiar with: Castle Astwin and Stovisholm. The home of General Erdvin Astwin, of the Kovash Imperium. When she was young, he had patroned her and helped her to study knowledge in his own home. His wife had died from the labor of delivering their newborn daughter. She couldn''t remember either of their names, but she could remember the newborn''s fiery red hair and the huge smile she always had. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. She took up the letters and skimmed through them. Noticing details, she took a closer look at them, reading them from start to finish, then placed one heavy hand on the table, holding her head with the other. The map made more sense to her now that she looked at it. The red knight was probably Count Gorlan, mentioned often in the letters, a maniac prone to killing on a whim just because it suited his mood. She heard tales of how his "boredom" caused deaths of entire families, chosen at random and tortured. Vara came back into the tent, having taken the woman outside of the camp, and noticed Jeshin''s grim-set face.''Tha'' look doesn''na look good, luv. What''s goin'' on?'', she asks quietly. Jeshin takes a moment, then looks at the elf. ''We''re in for a long ride today. We have a lot of ground to cover.'' As she stands up from the table, Vara hurries to her side and helps her up. ''I dun think you''re quite ready for a run, luv. Even if it''s urgent, ye can barely move as is. Ye need rest first.'' Jeshin shakes her head at that. ''No, Vara, I''ll do my best to keep up, but we need to move now.''She and Vara gather up the map and papers, and with a pause, she notices a small wooden chest with a lock. The chest lid was engraved with the form of a bee, marred but still stark against the grain. She smiles, unamused, and grabs a hold of the chest, taking it with them. They step out of the tent and into the morning light, the looted corpses left to the already-circling children of Ma''liksa. Their own number were already on pyres, burning high up into the sky, tears on some faces, sad smiles on others. As they step outside of the Black Kamber''s camp, they all look toward Jeshin with the ease of veterans on another gentle stroll through the woods. ''Are you all ready for another battle?!'' She yells out to the crowd. Her lieutenants grin, and the rest of the remaining six of their band cheer uproariously, tired but ready for more. ''Then we have a hard ride! Try and keep up, will ya?!'' Jeshin cries out, as she already begins to jog toward the eastern mountain ranges. The others scrambled up the hill and toward their horses, passing by the shouting form of Uporin, his hands tied around the thick trunk of a tree. ________________________________________________________________________________ They traveled for nearly a week, through valleys and across rivers, the hillsides clear and spread far, until they came out onto a grassy plain, plateaus marking the landscape sporadically. Their wounds had begun to heal with the help of Kor''lo''s sea magic, and within days they were fit as if they''d never fought in the first place. The band didn''t stop often to take breaks, but the few they did were spent telling and laughing at stories of their fallen companions. Joshua had been quiet after placing his lover on the pyre, but joined in and began telling a story about how he and his love had once stopped an entire pirate crew from invading a port town, using only their wits and dressing up as immortal ghosts, bent on haunting the beachside. The group laughed when he told the funny parts of the story, and murmured in appreciation at the dramatic ones. No one believed him, but he insisted it was a true story, though he wouldn''t name the port that it had supposedly happened. The woman they had brought with them from the encampment was chuckling along with the rest, smiling gently at the red headed man. Jeshin pored over the map she had taken from the Black Kamber encampment, memorizing every detail, every marking. One of the saddlebags was stuffed with the papers and letters, and she perused them by firelight every night. Each time she read one of the letters, she marked notes on the map, detailing what she had learned. She based the timeframe of their arrival on where they were in relation in the Swaying Plains, the expansive plateaus and grassy plains just west of Castle Astwin. Vara came up to Jeshin and handed her a wooden plate, heaped with potatoes and vegetables, the few pieces of venison they rationed out steaming on top. Jeshin nodded to her, and continued her work, one finger tapping on the small, foldable table they kept with them. Vara sat, cross legged, as she looked at the map with a frown. ''Stovisholm? I''ve heard o'' the place. It''s supposed ta be a good place to rest,'' she says with a thoughtful tone. ''Mm,'' Jeshin grunts out softly, thinking. ''So, if we''re supposed''ta fight, why in such a peaceful place?'' Vara quirks one eyebrow at her, playing with her blond braid absently. Jeshin sighs. ''From what I can gather, a good friend is going to have a bad time, and I''m aiming to be there before it happens. Although, I''m not sure we''ll be there in time...'' Vara nods. ''Aye, it takes some time to get through the Plains. I''m sure we''ll get there just in time for the fun to begin.'' She grins at that, stretching fluidly from where she sat. ''After such a long ride, we could all use a good brawl''.'' Jeshin shrugs, her brow furrowed. ''Agreed..'' That night, the band could see a cheery red far to the east of them, lighting up the horizon on the plains. ________________________________________________________________________________ 19 - Bestial Guardian 7 Two days later, the group came to a stop, the titanic plume of black smoke billowing far above them blotting out the sky. They spent the the remaining of the afternoon and evening going around to the south and east, the towering walls on the cliff side getting closer as they traveled. When they could finally see the main road come into sight, they found one of the gates in pieces, its heavy metal portcullis hanging precariously on a single hinge. The rising sun in front of the group illuminating a burned castle ground, the large castle beyond a smoldering ruin. Going through the gates, they found the bodies of dozens of guards strewn all across the grounds, some in red and orange, while the majority wore the Astwin green and brown. Crows, feral dogs and other scavengers seemed to have been at the bodies for some time, as many of them looked to have been chewed on. Jeshin directed the group to stay behind and motioned for Norvor to follow her. The dwarf woman dismounted and followed the crouched Jeshin through the battlefield, making their way toward the castle. A garden, fully burned to the ground, stood dead and stark against the large pond that it surrounded. Jeshin remembered the garden as being lush and beautiful, something that the general''s late wife had painstakingly taken care of. It was always a wonder she could grow the exotic flowers and fruits not native to this part of the continent. Jeshin could recall the wonder and peace she had felt when she wandered the garden grounds. Now it was nothing more than ash flowing in the wind. A few statues and marble furniture could be seen, soot marring their features, and a gazebo made of seamless, polished granite stood uncharred. They passed by the pond and moved their way north up the road to the castle. Its large double doors were thrown inward, the thick wood blackened on the edges. They climbed the vast steps to the interior, and saw only a smoking ruin inside. Anything and everything that could be burned was long since ash. Some of the wreckage inside the entrance hall was even still smoldering, sending drifts of black smoke up through broken windows. Timbers had fallen, caving in sections of stone roof. In front of them were a small set of stairs that led to another set of double doors, one of them hanging on a hinge, the other knocked down entirely on the floor beyond into what seemed to be a dining room. To their right, an opening led toward some of the numerous towers of the castle. If Jeshin remembered correctly, that way was toward the library, studies and special guest rooms. Their left opened into a dark hall, rubble blocking the way. That way led to the kitchens and cellars, she knew, as it was one of the places she enjoyed going to as a child. The two of them stepped upward into the dining room, the smell of charred skin and meat sitting sickly on their tongues. The large, thick table still stood, barely damaged by the fire, but the dais beyond was awash with burned cloth coverings over high arched windows above the host table and seat, glass shattered and littering the ground and table. Light streamed in through the snaking tendrils of smoke, lighting the main hall in a dreary, drab color. To their left and right were two additional halls, leading upward, to the rest of the castle above. She stepped forward to the front of the hall where the raised dais was. She could imagine herself back as she was, a child standing stiffly in front of the table, her patron, Lord Astwin, smiling at her across it, his figure large and imposing. He would ask how her studies had been going, what she was learning, interested in, and more. And always she was so formal with the man. Jeshin shook her head to clear it, the beads in her hair clicking together. She ran her hand down the chair, looked toward the doors they had come from, and strode back to the entrance. Norvor tossed a broken candelabra she had been inspecting back into the rubble and quickly followed. Jeshin took the outer steps two at a time and marched back to the where the rest of the camp was waiting, her brow furrowed. The two cross the threshold of the ruined gate, and Jeshin whistles once as she passes by the group. Norvor gets a hold of her horse and pulls herself up with ease, as the group trots after Jeshin northward, toward Stovisholm. Many of the fires seemed to still rage, the plumes of black smoke convalescing into a single, dark cloud billowing upward. As they drew near, they could see heads on pikes on the outskirts and through the buildings. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. The group moves into one of the side streets, passing by the bodies of men, women and children laying in the streets, blocking door thresholds, and hanging from their necks from windows and the few trees that made up the intersections of the city. The bodies were hacked apart or sported disfigured skin, as if they were indiscriminately beat on and run through by a battalion of soldiers. Guards could be seen strewn throughout, weapons in hand. Jeshin noted as she jogged through the streets that there were bodies of soldiers in dual crimson and orange colors. The ratio of guards to soldiers was also in the favor of the guards, which made her hum with satisfaction. Good, they fought to the last at least. Glad to see the Astwins never strayed from their roots, she thought to herself. She and the group separated, looking for survivors in this bloodstained city of corpses. The sun began dipping toward the horizon by the time they came back together. As far as they could see, the city was barren. One of the scouts, an elven archer by the name of Ranel, was last to return to the group. ''Ah''ve found a trail! It leads northeast, along Harker''s Road! Ah coun'' abou'' twen''y, mayb'' twen''y two,'' she reported. Jeshin looked toward Harker''s Road. She nodded once to Ranel without taking her eyes off the direction and said, ''Show me.''Ranel turned on her heel and bolted toward the edge of the city, toward the distant farmland on either side of the highway. Stepping off the road to the right, the elf woman crouched down and pointed out indentations in the grass. ''Made from a warhorse, ah''d gather,'' she added. Jeshin studied the markings, barely discerning the path of the band. Standing, she looked at the scout and said in a low voice, ''Find us our quarry.'' Ranel grins and adjusts the hood on her head, then whistles for her mount. The horse came galloping from near the group, and she began to run down the road. Catching the horse''s bridle, she swung herself into her seat with ease and continued the path, watching the road for more signs. Jeshin ran after her, easily keeping up with Ranel, the rest of the group galloping after them. Less than an hour later the sun began to touch the mountain ranges in front of them, washing the grassy gnolls in a soft, golden light. Ranel and Jeshin crested one of the hills, and spanning just off to the side in the distance were soldiers in the same crimson and orange colors, setting their tents and camps. Stepping back off the crest, Jeshin signaled the group to stop and dismount. The two of them watched the camp as a massive tent was being erected by a group of soldiers near the center, each soldier pulling on ropes tied to the thick vertical poles of the tent, other soldiers were looping the guy lines to thick stakes already in the ground. Throughout the camp, fires were getting started and trenches were being dug by what looked like the folk of Stovisholm. Their clothes were stained with dirt, the backs of their shirts torn from lashing marks. Fear was etched into their movements, and cries of anguish would rise from the ones hit with the taskmasters'' whips. A young girl was sitting on a horse, her hands tied to the horn of the saddle, a soldier standing at attention while holding the reins. A man in finery, his shoulder-length hair in a ponytail, was watching the soldiers raise the tent and would occasionally turn toward the girl, speaking to her with a disarming smile. Jeshin took the scene in and focused on the girl herself. She was sitting, ridged as a board, in what looked like a thin dress, massive patches of blood staining all down the front. Her fiery red hair was in a thick braid that reached far down her back and along the saddle, the color contrasted against her complexion. Her face seemed pale in the orange light, but Jeshin couldn''t quite tell from the distance. As soon as the tent was erected, the man clapped his hands once, turned to the soldier and told him something, then walked into the tent itself. The soldier took the girl behind some of the tents toward a small brook, took her down from the horse, then dunked a bucket into the water. He upturned it on her two, three times, her face contorting into a cry, filled it a fourth time and sat it next to her then threw a brush at her. He stood silently as she reluctantly cleaned herself and attempting to hide as much of her body as she could from the soldier. Alexandra, Jeshin thought. The name hadn''t come to her before, but now she remembered the name of the girl. She was the only daughter of Lord Astwin, his pride and joy. She was always bubbly, ready with a large smile, a complete tomboy. Jeshin''s face contorted, veins popped heavily down her neck as she restrained herself from the barely contained rage she felt. She noted the soldier''s face as he took his helmet off to dunk it into the stream and wash off the sweat and grime of the road. ''He''ll be first,'' she said gutturally through heavily grit teeth. Ranel looked at her with alarm, and leaned away unconsciously. Without taking her eyes off the camp, she murmured to Ranel her plan to take the camp. Ranel disappeared to speak to the rest of the group as Jeshin counted the seconds to darkness. ______________________________________ 20 - Bestial Guardian 8 The last of the sun''s rays disappeared from view, thrusting the hills in the surrounding area into a quickly-approaching darkness. The fires from the camp glowed like beacons amidst the blue-purple of the starless night. Soldiers could be seen finishing camp build-up, taking food from the camp cooks, herding the citizens of Stovisholm into makeshift cages, and speaking amongst each other. Jeshin raised her hand slightly, then signaled ~forward~ to the group. They wore wrappings on their armor and light colored clothing to blend into the surrounding night better, sticking to the grass next to the road. Joshua, Kor''lo and another archer stayed on the hill, preparing long-range support if needed. Joshua had put together a special metal bow made of pulleys and fittings, running flat metallic bands into a massively oversized bow that reached his neck when stood on the ground. He screwed a metal base into the dirt of the hill, placed the contraption into the base and fit the string through the pulleys, then wound it, pulling the string taught. Jeshin had never asked where he had gotten the monstrous thing, but she suspected he got it from from an Industrualis in the Iluvin Desert. They were known for their insane devices made of cogs, wheels and metal. The group fanned out through the tall grass, making their way to the camp in a staggered formation, moving with the breeze swaying the surrounding plains. Jeshin could see Cossack just ahead of her, his staff held parallel to the ground, and she could hear the heavy steps of Norvor behind her. Vara was on her way to circle toward the northern section of the camp, while the other six crept closer to the guards on duty. Jeshin hissed low, stopping the group as they came across two guards patrolling the sea of grass. The grass reached up past their waists, and they were marching, slowly and disciplined, around the camp perimeter, each keeping an eye on the other. One of them passed near to Jeshin, and signaled to Cossack. The two of them moved, quickly, and sprung on the two guards, pulling them down into the grass with them. The two silenced their captives, Cossack by slowly building pressure on the guard''s neck, twisting, until his neck made a sickly pop, while Jeshin clamped one hand down on her captive''s mouth and ripped his throat out with the other. He made a gurgle as blood pooled quickly under him, his eyes glazing over. A different hiss this time and the group was moving again toward the camp perimeter. They piled among the various tents, taking down loners as they came across them, slitting open tent sides to stab the occupants within. They moved quickly, leaving no soldier alive. Jeshin darted quickly past tents toward the brook and large tent she had seen before, searching for the guard that had manhandled his charge. She sniffed the air quickly, then began to run full speed, jumping over campfires and meandering soldiers. The alarm was sounded as she and the rest of the group were found murdering the soldier''s companions. The camp sprang alive, and Jeshin ran past soldiers, slamming into one that made him fly backward and fall hard on his back. One of them stepped in front of her with his sword drawn and swinging down, but she stepped backward, snapped her wrist forward and broke the man''s neck with hardly a pause. She could hear combat in full swing now from where she had been, the shouts of the Voiceless Ring mixing with the screams of dying soldiers and orders of the officers. She could see many of the soldiers fly backward into tents, supplies and campfires, large iron arrows buried halfway through their chests. Joshua had joined the fray, she surmised. Many of the people of Stovisholm were running away from the fighting, while others were wrestling with their captors. She flitted past it all, knowing Ranel had done as she had commanded, freeing the prisoners. She broke out from the main sections of the tents into a wide area set in front of the large tent she had seen before. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The guard she had seen earlier was in front of the tent, his sword drawn. However, instead of looking toward the tents she had come from, he seemed to be turning toward the inside of the central tent, confusion and alarm mixed on his face. She stepped forward quickly, making the soldier swing his sword behind him in alarm at her footfalls. She dodged backward, stepped forward and grabbed his sword arm at the elbow, his surprise palpable as he looked up at her. Her rage from before came surging back up to her face as she lifted the soldier up by his arm until his feet were off the ground. He swung his fist at her with his free hand, but she caught his wrist mid-swing. She twisted his sword arm and broke it like dry, rotted twigs. He screamed as she gripped his throat, then tore out his other arm, throwing it far behind her. She heard a man''s pained shout from inside the tent while the soldier continued to scream. She then threw the man into the tent, his body flying through the tent flaps. She stepped through the portal of the tent, her face and arms covered in the guard''s blood, her neck a mass of rage veins. In the center of the tent was the girl crawling away from a massive fur rug she lay on, her hair free and loose, night shift torn to pieces. The man she had seen earlier in the day had only his breeches on and his forehead to the ground, puking on the rug and holding his genitals. He fell onto his side, away from the crawling, bleeding guard, then grasped for a short sword near a large bedframe in the corner of the tent. He got up to his feet shakily, hunched over but keeping the blade between him and Jeshin, mouth and chest covered in his bile. She stepped forward slowly without taking her eyes off the man, put her foot on the guard''s neck and pressed down hard. The guard lay still but twitching, his blood soaking into the rug and tent floor. Her eyes flit to the girl, who hid as much of her exposed skin as she could, the look in her eyes one of both fear and intense defiance. She was shaking heavily, but wound as if ready to bolt or fight. Jeshin''s eyes quickly landed back on the man as he swung his sword at her. She dodged, waiting for an opening. Even though he was off-balance, his sword work was refined and tight. His form and physique suggested he was well trained in combat, his demeanor that of one of petulant nobility. She backed away to a table near the entrance of the tent, dodging his sword, then grabbed an elegant chair. She parried the man''s sword again and again, then caught his sword in the chair legs. She twisted the sword, pushed the chair into him, then quickly raised the chair, disarming him and throwing him off further balance. His face was a mixture of rage and surprise as she grasped the weapon and swung it down. He backed away, his arm raised to protect himself, as she sliced through his forearm, cutting it off just before the elbow. He screamed as his stump bled heavily, but held onto his elbow and backed away to the far side of the tent, toward the bed. He grasped what looked like a statue of a satyr coupling with a nymph and threw it at her. She blocked the object with the guard of the short sword, allowing it to drop to her side before witnessing him cutting a slit in the tent with a small knife. She stepped up to the opening as the man ran into the deep night toward the east, trailing blood behind him. Jeshin watched him run through the waist-high grass, uttering a ''hmph''. She slowly turned to look at the girl at the other end of the tent, covering herself with a found sheet, her expression unchanged from the fear and defiance. Jeshin stepped toward her, her form towering over the shivering girl. She stopped at her feet, crouched and looked into her face. She studied the girl''s face and eyes without expression, before breaking into a wolfish, toothy grin. ''Hello, Alexandra. I see you''ve had a busy couple of days. My name is Jeshin. I lead a mercenary group. I knew your father, long ago. As he took charge of me in my childhood, I''ll see to taking charge of you in turn. Welcome to the Voiceless Ring.'' 21 - Poetry 1: Crisp Morning A red light dawn In brisk, still air. With the chill of morning Comes valiant obscurity. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. An intake of breath Slows heartbeat''s drum. The upturned face Leads to smile''s radiance. Basking in the start Of a new day dawn. 22 - Lost Forbearance 1 Clicking the heavy door open carefully, a small boy no older than seven squeezes into a large, cold room. He shivers as he steps inside, then turns around and closes it again, carefully. The sounds of bubbling could be heard throughout the chamber as small beakers and vials were shown stored on a worktable, some of them over miniscule flames. Half-finished contraptions lay around on other tables, a marble statue partially carved stood in the far corner, and the beams crossing the ceiling of the room were littered with knives, hatchets and even a spatula embedded into them. Snoring peacefully and loudly among the partially completed projects was an older woman hunched over a worktable, a charcoal stylus in hand and a small stone slate in front of her covered in her drool. Her thin, grey hair hung lankly around her shoulders, her robes a stained, wrinkled mess. The boy sighs, before drawing the shutters fully closed and latching them. He didn''t know anything about kings or queens, he could barely deal with his taskmistress, let alone the Ring of the Eight that ran half the continent. His present was more important than the past. ''Damnable wizards...,'' the boy grumbles. He''d had enough at this point, with their enchantments and research. Many of the wizards were clean, tidy and organized, keeping their lives set into place without issue. But not his mistress, he thinks sourly. ''I just had to get a crazy one...'' He patters back over to the fireplace, it''s light soft and dying, the coals glowing cheerily. Taking a few pieces of wood, he places them carefully in the massive hearth, guiding the flames back to a roaring life. His hands and bare feet hurt as the warmth spread through them, and he basked in the radiance before the snoring caught his attention again. Mumbling, he steps lightly to his mistress and pats her on the back gently. ''Mistress....mistress, it''s noon, it''s time to wake. The moons are high in the sky, and the Council are calling all to the Grand Hall.'' She sputters and snorts, her eyes flying open and looking around blearily. The left side of her face was covered in black charcoal print from the stone slate in front of her. It would have been comical, if it didn''t mean that she was working on runes last night and could have blown apart the entire tower. The boy winces, cursing his luck and thanking all of the gods in the sky for letting them all live another day. ''Henri, what in blast...why is it so cold in here,'' she yawns out, giving the boy an evil eye. ''You know how the cold makes my old bones hurt. At least I had enough sense to make sure the fire was going so well!'' Henri says nothing to this, but he thought the vast annoyance was probably radiating from him like the heat from the large hearth. ''Ah, what was it you said? The Ring are calling? Don''t they know how important my work is?!'' The old woman continues to grumble while hopping off of the stool she had been sleeping on, her back cracking as she stood up straight with a groan. She walks over to the tall mirror next to the worktable to look at herself, wipes the charcoal off of her face and turns toward the door, hair still disheveled and robes wrenched all over. ''Well Henri, come along now, we''d best see what those old coots want from us,'' she says in annoyance. Henri grabs a few scrolls, a portable ink pen and a wooden writing surface before hurrying after her, pulling the door closed behind him. The old woman strode quickly down the stony hallway, her shoes scuffing heavily against the solid floor, Henri hurrying after her. Those they passed would pointedly look away from the pair, and Henri couldn''t blame them. Some of the older disciples whispered how what his mistress had was contagious, which was why their masters all stayed far away from her. It seemed as plausible of a reason as any other to him, so who was he to question their vastly broader expertise? He just hoped he wouldn''t get it as bad as she had it. The pair took various flights of stairs, going up, then down, straight across, back up, halfway down and then up again. The staircases never made any sense to him, and the insides of the buildings were far larger than what they seemed like outside. The pair finally got to a massive double door, and a panting Henri cried inside that they had finally made it and he could rest. Without breaking her stride, his mistress flicked her wrist and the doors creaked open heavily, the sound reverberating throughout the hall they were in. Just beyond them was a massive central tower, connected by three different walkways from each of the eight towers surrounding the tower. The brisk air made Henri shiver again, the wind chilling him to the bone this time and making his teeth chatter quickly. The thin, grey robe disciples were given were hardly protective when it came to weather...or fights. His mistress looked askance at him with a blank look before placing a hand on his shoulder. Immediately his body felt suffused with heat, calming and wonderful, warming him to his core. He sighed with relief. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Without looking back, his mistress strode quickly across the massive walkway toward the central tower. Henri chased after her quickly, doing his best to keep up with her long strides. He took quick glances over the side of the stone railing to the ground far, far below. He recalled what he had been taught in his mistress'' lectures about the Ring of the Eight. There were eight towers, equidistantly encircling a central tower that housed a massive crystal called the Aether, which itself contained a swirling cloud of magical energy. Those who were placed on the Ring of the Eight''s council were all masters who pledged themselves on the Aether crystal, binding their entire being with protecting the land it inhabited. The central tower was only accessible from the eight other towers by way of floating stone bridges, each on the top level of the towers. Each of the surrounding eight towers also connected to one another by way of five curved walkways, creating the famous Ring of the Eight. While Henri ruminated about the towers, the central tower quickly got closer and before he knew it, the massive double doors like what they had left behind loomed far above him. These doors, however, were inlaid with runes, glyphs and symbols of power, the tracings themselves made from rainbow-colored *mirin*. He gulped heavily, knowing that to make each symbol, it probably cost the amount of a small kingdom, and there were dozens on these doors alone, with more doors on each floor and surrounding the tower. Again, without breaking her stride his mistress flicked her wrist to the side and the doors creaked open heavily, the sound muted this time compared to the roaring of hundreds of voices in the Grand Hall. The tower was circular, and every inch of the walls was covered in desks to seat the multitudes of wizards, sorcerers, druids, alchemists, rune masters, and more that inhabited the entirety of the Ring of the Eight. The floors extended far below and far up past Henri and his mistress, the tower bowing outward from the center, having an almost spherical shape. The massive Aether crystal shone lazily with a translucent white, the white, cloudy chaos swirling inside it making the rest of it opaque. Threads the color of gold, silver, and brass constantly striated through the clouds like rivers on a map, before disappearing again, only to reform randomly. Just below the bottom of the crystal was a large, round table where the council would sit, the floor it sat on nearly completely see-through. Henri''s master only paused to look at the crystal, as all do, but clicked her tongue and walked toward the middle of the aisle they were at, then sat at the seat heavily, a strangely blank look on her face. Henri stood by her side, trying to be as still as a statue. Normally disciples weren''t allowed into the Grand Hall, but he was an exception as his mistress would otherwise leave to get things and forget about the meetings entirely. However, he had only been in the Grand Hall once before, and had nearly passed out from locking his knees in place too hard and for too long, making him tumble downwards and nearly off the edge. He focused to avoid making the same, possibly deadly, mistake, the mental effort making him lightly sweat. The roar of the multitude of voices were excruciatingly loud, some of them angry, others laughing, some speaking about local or world-wide politics, others complaining about what they had for breakfast. Henri could only pick out a few words here or there from just above his mistress'' seat among the tumult. ''Have you heard, the Chancelor of Geromine surrendered to Villitov!'' This from a guttural, croaking voice. Henri recognized it as the voice of a Di''vash. ''Indeed I have, Tul''kie. It seems the great cogs of the world are moving forward.'' This time a gravely voice, probably from a mountain elf. She was staring forward at the ringed table in the middle of the hall, expressionless, as she crooked a finger to him. He leaned forward close, as she whispered in his ear. Then who are the talent..., he thinks to himself. 23 - Lost Forbearance 2 You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. feel it as it moved, without even touching it. Behind the figures was a strange shimmering in the air, like the pieces of a mirror spinning, turning, and moving. It was what was setting off the bluish-white light in the room, warring with the gold-and-orange light of the sinking sun filtering through the open window. He realized his mistress was speaking to the two figures, as he tuned his attention to her voice. farce! I''m ready to exist within the depths of the Meridian, to join your ranks. Damn this realm and all who live in it!'' She ends her tirade, drool oozing from her contorted mouth, eyes shot red and half-crazed with rage. 24 - Shadows of Generations 1 A light clinking wakes a man, his body suffused with pain. His head felt stuffed and muted, as if filled with wool. One eye was swollen shut, but the other opened carefully, the fevered brightness in it reflecting his pain. He looks around, confused, noticing his body pulled toward the ceiling. He felt disoriented, and sick. He looked toward the floor, only to feel the movement as a painful effort. Looking at his feet, he notices a chain wrapped around both feet, leading toward the floor. Around him, he could see dark silhouettes around him, in the same position and more. What was strange was that on the ceiling, he could see a the shadows of objects that looked like a workbench, a chair, perhaps even a brazier. Realization dawned on him as he struggled to look around. He was hanging from the ceiling, upside down. The disorientation he had felt was slowly disappearing as he came to. He could see a light down a stone hall against a far wall, flickering as it came closer. The sound of a grinding noise could be heard, approaching with the light. He hung still, his single eye filled with fear. A figure came across the open portal way, its features causing his heart to catch in his throat, the cry of fear just stifled in time. The figure was massive, both in width and height. It was vaguely humanoid, but covered in stitches all over its body. Its face was covered in an iron mask, the eye holes and mouth the only openings, the thing''s flesh pressed tightly against the mask, and it''s ears were small against its fleshy, bald head. It had fat arms, ending in fleshy fists, and its legs were much the same, its feet pushed into what looked like boots that were stitched together from various multi-colored and furless leather. In one hand, the creature held what looked like a jagged, wicked butcher''s knife, but it was shoddily made and massive, it''s shape reminding the man of western soldiers'' scimitars. In the creature''s other hand it carried the naked bottom half of a man''s torso and legs, tattoos covering the legs and thighs of the corpse. The source of illumination was a lantern on the thing''s belt, holding up what looked like badly made stained, rotted trousers that looked much the same as its boots. The man screwed his eyes shut and stifled his breath as the thing entered the room. Eventually, it shuffled past the chains and man hanging from the ceiling. It stopped against the far wall, well away from the man. He heard it slam the corpse onto a table with a wet slap, then heard various wet sounds before the thing grunted and ripped something out. It started to shuffle away from him as he opened his eyes just a sliver, watching as it shuffled away into a dark hallway, the corpse''s pelvic bone in its hands. The man could feel his bile rising, but he stifled it. He noticed the lantern was left on a hook by the workbench, the massive butcher''s knife lying bloodily next to it, the corpse in pieces on the workbench. With the illumination, the man looked around him, noticing other naked corpses hanging up like he himself was, chains wrapped around their feet. He noticed his oldest son hanging, his eyes lifeless and whited out. The man''s anguished cry was weak in his mouth, barely a whisper, as he reached out for his son. He cradled the hanging corpse''s cheek with his own dirty hand, drinking in his son''s features, remembering every detail, thinking back to the previous day where they had been tending to their wagon. They had been traveling through a forest, his son slowly taking over the management of their farm and homestead. He had just gotten married two summers past, his features had been happy, his wife smiling along with him in the beautiful summer afternoon. The two were expecting their first child, and the man was old now, excitedly waiting for his grandchild to come into the world, his own wife long passed into the afterlife. Those happy days coalesced with the scene in front of the man, and he cried bitter, horrid tears, choking his breath. He could see other people''s bodies in the dim light in various states of decay, but none of them covered in flies or the like, which the man marked as strange through his anguish. Now that he could see, he looked up at the chains around his feet, noticing that it was just a simple loop, hooked lightly. He pulled himself, painfully and slowly, up his body to his feet, then slipped the hook up, making him fall to the ground with a dull thump against the rough stone under him. He could feel his blood rushing back through his lower body, causing his vision to blur and blacken, and his stomach to wretch heavily. After a few moments, the tingling ran its course through his body, and he pulled himself to his feet, then walked to the table, his body shaking from the emotional and physical turmoil. He took hold of the lantern in one hand and tried to take the knife, only realizing how heavy it was. It was nearly as long as his entire arm, and at least twice as thick at the end, so he left it and turned toward where the creature had first come from. Stolen novel; please report. Taking one last look at his son hanging from the ceiling, he went down the portal way and walked through the hall. There were side passages to the left and right, and it seemed like the hall would last forever, but at the very end, he came to a set of stone steps leading steeply upward. He gripped the wall as he climbed them, slowly, the light barely illuminating the intense darkness above him. After what seemed like years, he finally stepped onto a landing next to a thick, wooden door. He turned the handle and pushed it open with a gasp, entering what looked like a vast hall. As he stepped through, the lantern illuminated a column in front of him. Its base was ornate, the entire column what looked like marble, but chipped and stained with dirt and other unknown substances. The floors looked much the same, seeming almost marble in nature, but covered in various shades of dried and caked old blood and dirt. The man stepped further into the hall, noticing three more columns, spaced in a rectangular fashion, a pair of each on either side of massive, ornate double doors to his left, a massive, dirty half-circular window above them, and a set of large, sweeping steps to his right that led to additional floors. The man raised the lantern to see up the steps and to the other floor, but the dim light couldn''t reach the top of the gloom, as if the ceiling were unfathomably and infinitely high up into an abyss. The old man limped toward the double doors, his steps echoing into the hall. He grasped the handles and tested them. The handles turned, and he could almost open the doors, but something seemed to block them. He put all of his weight against the door, barely making the doors budge, slowly opening. With a final, wheezing gasp he slammed his shoulder against the door and squeezed through the small opening. After he was through, the door swung easily open, and the man tumbled down a set of stone steps to the ground below, the lantern shattering underneath him. He gasped in pain, then looked back as he cradled his shoulder, picking out shards of glass from his skin. Nothing was blocking the door, and it stayed wide open, as if the hinges were greased and well maintained, but he could have sworn the more he had pushed, the harder it was to open the doors. He grasped the stone steps, sat up, then picked himself back up, leaving behind a small pool of blood where he had lain. The sky was a dreary, cold and evil grey color, and the grounds in front of him were dirt, with nasty weeds growing in tufts here and there. He stepped away from the doors, and looked back at the structure, realizing it was a castle. Its shape was foreign to him, but it seemed familiar as well. The windows were dirty, some shattered or boarded up, and he could swear he could see figures going between different windows, but every time he looked at the ones he could see, they were just fluttering curtains. Far, far up above him, from a balcony looking outward, he spotted a white-clothed figure looking down at him, what looked like a veil covering its face. His eyesight was already not good enough to see that far, but made even worse from only having one good eye. He shivered as it looked at him, before he turned and limped toward the end of the castle''s dirt drive. A large metal fence covered the perimeter, its gate ornate and covered in vines and faces. If the surroundings around him were brighter and more cheerful, he would think the detailing would be happy and welcoming, but in the dreary day they just seemed desperate and despairing. He limped quickly to the gate, and pushed against it, attempting to open it, but he couldn''t tell any sort of way to do so. It stayed unbudging and implacable. The way past the gate led downward into a small city, a few people milling around the streets. He railed against the gate, crying out to the people, but no matter how loud he screamed or shouted, not a single one of them turned to look at him, as if they couldn''t hear him or he weren''t real. He continued crying out until his voiced cracked and his lips bled, but eventually the sounds coming from his hoarse throat were only wheezes and gasps, whispers of help that none could hear. The man dropped to his knees, crying, snot dribbling from his face and into his greying beard, when he felt a massive hand grip his head tightly. He tried to cry out in pain, but no sound could be heard from his spent voice. The hand lifted him off the ground and turned him, coming face to face with the creature with the iron mask, its green eyes glistening from the holes, cracked, fat lips wheezing lightly through shattered teeth and an engorged, sickening tongue. The old man could feel himself piss down his trousers as the creature slammed his face into the gate, darkness taking over the man. 25 - Shadows of Generations 2 Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. tears began to break into the air through it. Fingers seemed to grasp through the tearing, long, grey and knobby. A total of eight fingers spread the tearing apart, when another eight fingers broke from the backs of the ones already there, opening the other side, separating into two hands, with two more coming from deep in the chaotic mess and pulling the top and bottom of the warping. A single eye coalesced from the center, which separated into countless more eyes filling the center of the tear. The eyes were white with pits like deep orange and red swirling in the middle. They chaotically spun around to look at the entire room before settling on the old man. thing on the inside, wanting nothing more but to run far, far away. His broken body refused his commands, until he could finally gather his fleeting sanity and throw himself backward, crawling toward the edge of the dais. His broken jaw hung down uselessly, dead arm drug along the stone. His eyes had widened completely, the fear inside him making them bulge and threaten to pop from the sockets, irises like pinpricks. 26 - When Time Stops A door in an empty street slams open, light spilling through the entry. A half-orctish woman cries out in fear as she tumbles to the dirt lane, scrambling on hands and knees to run away, fighting her skirts. A bottle comes flying after her and smashes against the wall of the neighboring residence as a man drunkenly stumbles to the entryway, screaming after her, ''Gi'' back here, ye bitch!'' The woman sobs, tears running down her scarred, beautiful grey face as the man starts to chase after her, leaving the door wide open. She ran down the dark street before ducking into a side alley, the man tripping, swearing as he followed. The woman squeezed between the alley wall and a dilapidated cart, the small space pushing tightly against her chest, making it hard to breathe. As she tore free of the small space, jagged metal from banding on the cart''s side snagged her blouse, ripping it and tearing open her side. She yelped at the pain, slapping a hand to the wound. She ran to the end of the alley and spilling into the massive main street beyond, she looked back and saw the man was stumbling while climbing over the cart, his pot bellied form too large for the space she had gone through. ''Agelice, gi'' tha fuck back here!'', he screamed toward her, before going over the side of the cart and crashing to the ground in a hiccuping heap, his fat face red from the drink, exertion and anger. Turning away, Agelice hiked up her skirts and ran to her right down the wide street, her shoulder-length, dirty, raven-black hair streaming behind her. To her left was an open set of stairs that descended downward toward the aquifer of the city, Juveris'' marvel that it was known for. She passed by multiple streets on different landing levels, the wide, granite stairs exuding vast splendor, the side streets showing beautiful gardens, shops, residences, and more. At the bottom of the steps, a large marble balcony extended over a crevasse, countless aqueduct architectures extending the gulf between landings. As Agelice reached the balcony, she gasped repeatedly, lungs past the point of burning, fear the only thing spurring her on. The man, Valstier, was slipping down the steps, picking himself back up, then tripping backward again. It was a miracle he didn''t fall forward and break his neck under the pale light of the two moons, one full and the other behind it ever waning. Agelice stepped toward the edge of the balcony and looked down, eyes wide. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Below were countless roaring, raging waterfalls from either side of the crevasse, the softly sparkling water reaching far down into an abyss of the Meridian below. On the peripherals of her vision, she noticed the strange shapes just out of eyesight, the constant sight of it making her slightly sick. The creatures native to Aeyalion always had a hard time in the Meridian due to the fact that it was ever changing. You could enter through a door from a room, turn around and the door could become a wall instead. Time itself had no meaning here in the Meridian, which made things disorienting, but as Agelice understood it, the Meridian was just a mirror of Aeyalion, an undercurrent. One of the native species, the Vairott, had been banished here by powerful beings, and over the time of their existence, they unlocked the secrets of the Meridian, eventually pulling Aeyalion natives through portals. No one knew how or why they did these things, but there had always been rumors of those from Aeyalion being used in experiments, turned into unimaginable creatures. Agelice broke from her partial reverie, looked back and saw Valstier getting closer, then ran to her left toward the Bridge. It was the one structure in this city that was stationary and never changed. As she ran, she looked back and saw Valstier reach the bottom of the steps, gasping. He stumbled toward her, a black rage across his features, a wicked snarl of hatred twisting his mouth. While turning to look at Valstier, she failed to see a change in the granite underneath as it tripped her, her ankle twisting painfully. She cried out in pain and gripped her ankle, already feeling it swelling. The pain shot through her entire body, but she gripped the railing of the balcony next to her, pulled herself up and continued hobbling, her mouth grit tightly. Valstier began to gain on her, and Agelice decided to abandon the thoughts of the safety of the Bridge, ducking down a steep staircase attached to the side of the balcony. The steps went from granite to rough hewn stone very quickly, and were slick with water run-off from the sprays of the surrounding waterfalls. She reached the bottom of the staircase and found herself face to face with a wide, gaping opening into the side of the stone. In the middle was a fast moving waterfall, and small walkways surrounding it on either side. She had heard before that the sewers of Juveris were vast, nearly infinitely so, and contained dangerous things, humanoid and monster alike. The tales of what she could encounter, however, seemed a welcome reprieve from Valstier. She continued into the deep darkness, the light quickly fading as Valstier reached the mouth of the sewers, yelling after her. ''Ye''ll never survive down here, ye feckin'' BITCH! I hope yer caught by the Vairott! DIE LIKE THA BITCH YE ARE! YE DESERVE IT!'' His voice continued to echo long after Agelice, her shallow, pain-filled breathing disappearing into the abyssal darkness. 27 - Mirthless Bog A young woman groaned, raising her head from the forest floor. Her body was heavy, exhausted, as if she had run to the neighboring village a dozen times over. She could feel soft grass underneath her, tickling her face, hands, fingers, and ankles. She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, then opened them slowly. She was lying down in a green clearing, rays of light peering softly down through tree branches. She sat up slowly, her head and body aching, while she looked around her surroundings, her dirty, wheat colored hair falling to her right side. To her left was a small pond, crystal clear, the bottom covered with smooth rocks and extra fine dirt, in a small, gentle copse surrounded by trees. She began to shiver, and felt her stomach lurch as she emptied it into the grass. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she crawled to the pond and drank until her belly was full, her intense hunger abated slightly. The woman dipped her toes in the water, feeling the cool water kiss her skin. Just on the other side of the copse was a small opening in the tree line where it was thickest, the branches weaving to create what looked like a tall, pointed portal, formed as a tunnel of sorts. The woman sighs then stands up, moving her way slowly to the portal. While it was vastly more dark than the copse she had been in, it still seemed inviting in a way, almost protective. Through the tunnel she could see wooden symbols, antlers, bones and other objects hanging from the branches that made up the ceiling. Stepping through, she could see small motes of light coming through the branches, just barely illuminating her way. Passing under and around the hanging objects, she took notice of them and contemplated. She could see a piece of a small, wooden carving hanging from a leather throng, with a local symbol that expressed ''togetherness''. A pair would be carved by two lovers, then the pair would be given to each other, symbolizing the intensity of emotions between the two people. Another was a small knife, one that would be used by a working person to help with daily tasks. Yet another was what looked like a piece of misshapen, dried meat. It didn''t look like any part of any animal she knew of, making her grimace and shiver. Hanging from a silver chain was a large, finely cut rainbow stone, set within a beautiful white-gold frame. The stone shimmered and sparkled in the extremely dim light, as if its light reflection was really its own luminescence from within. The woman was fascinated as the colors it exuded danced across her clothes, face, and hands, and the thick branches on either side of her. She gulped and could only speculate that it looked mysteriously like the stories of mirin. From the stories, she knew even a pinch of the dust of mirin was worth entire cities, let alone a stone as big as her own eye. She tore herself reluctantly from the necklace, and continued on through the tunnel, until she could see a lightening at the end. She moved quickly, her heart in her throat, as she stepped through the exit. In front of her was a large grove that opened up, a large, dilapidated shack amidst the thick tree trunks. Her body trembled and her breathing was quicker, as she carefully stepped toward the building. As she got closer, she could see there were small gaps in some of the boards, the short stairs leading up the door rickety and misshapen. She stepped up to the door, the wood underneath her groaning like the risen dead. She placed her hand on the door, her whole body shivering with fear, before opening it slowly and stepping through carefully. She found the shack as decrepit inside as it was out, large enough to house a family comfortably. Hanging from the rafters, broken ceiling or walls, or placed on shelves both large and small, she could see herbs, mushrooms, meat, bones, antlers, and more. Dirty glass jars and bottles, some filled with powders, others filled with liquids, objects or both, covered shelves ready to crumble to dust. In the middle of the shack was a table, covered in old, dark rust-colored stains, burn marks, and gouges, a bowl sitting in the middle. As she stepped up to the bowl, she noticed it was a dark, silvery color that gleamed bleakly. It had short legs that ended in claws or talons of some sort, she didn''t know what. Her breath caught as she reached out to touch it. As soon as her fingers touched the bowl, words burned into the wood of the table, glowing like the bright embers of a fire, before cooling, a crackle of energy making the words shine. A Thesper True With Heart Of Life Reach Thy Hand Into Promise Deep For Grace Kindling Thine Desire Pass Give Dearest Hope Then Conduit Begin The young woman read the words, chewing her lip. She wasn''t well read, she barely knew her letters, but she seemed to just know what the words wanted of her, like a whisper in her ear. A single payment for a single wish, the price paid to the hag that lived in these woods. There were stories told about the hag, how she would take your first born to make a stew, or rip out your intestines to read your future, cackling as you choked on your own blood on the floor, or take your body for her own to use. There were stories that said she was a beautiful woman with black eyes, or she had the claws of a reptile for hands and her body was a mix of animal parts, or that she was a shadow, ready to take you into herself and devour you whole. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. In all the myths about her, however, one thing was known to all women that shared the stories. She would grant one wish for the payment she demanded, and while a steep payment it was, she honored her deals, if not always to how the person wanted the wish to fall into place, often leading to a gruesome end for the one who wished. While the young woman didn''t know what payment she would have to pay, she grasped the bowl, knuckles immediately going white from how hard she gripped it, bent her head forward so that her hair fell around her face like a curtain, and whispered her wish. No sound escaped her lips, although her mouth moved with each spoken word, a silvery, opalescent liquid dripping viscously into the container. She finished her wish and straightened back up, the whispering fading entirely. She stumbled back from the full bowl, her barely recovered body and spirit suddenly exhausted again. She caught herself on a nearby vertical wooden beam and sank against it, just barely able to keep herself from falling to the floor. She felt a shiver, as if something were watching her, and she looked around her. From the other side of the table, the darker part of the shack shifted, and from the shallow shadow a large figure shuffled toward the table. The young woman''s eyes flew open in terror, her body shivering again with pure fear. The light beams cutting through the gaps in the ceiling fell across the figure, its tall, bulky silhouette illuminated. The creature had a sickly dark green-gray skin tone, covered in warts and pustules. The creature was fat beyond belief, bloated and thick, rolls of its hide or skin layered, its sizable breasts hanging heavily. Its face was barely humanoid, with a wide, toothy grin plastered permanently, its nose long and hooked. The thing''s cheeks were full and bulging, ears sharp and nearly flat against its skin. In place of hair looked like antlers growing straight from its skin and down its back, tangling in a corrugated, chaotic mess, the tips of the antlers often hooking back into the thing''s skin only to thread back out of the skin further down or across the thing''s flesh. Its eyes were a dirty yellow, with pin-sized pupils nestled deep into it. Throughout its face were holes with worms crawling out, through and under the skin. The woman''s breathing stopped as her heart hammered too fast. The creature stepped forward and, with a look toward the woman, stared into the bowl. It picked up the stone vessel, brought it up to its lips and drank deep, the shimmering liquid spilling slightly. It put the empty bowl down and with a long, swollen tongue licked up the last drops from her chin and arm, then bent down to lick the drops from the floor and table, before straightening up and staring at the woman yet again. The creature opened its mouth, and it spoke in a voice that made it sound like it were coming from the woman''s own thoughts and from her ears. She fruitlessly clapped her hands over her ears in surprise and pain which did nothing to lessen it. Although spoken low, the bass of the creature''s thoughtvoice encompassed everything for the woman, sounding androgynous, feminine and masculine all at once. Thine life shines. Dark deeds hath wrought upon you, yet still, thine perseverance persists. She gasps, her hands releasing her ears, instead moving to hug herself, shaking uncontrollably. The creature wheezed before continuing. Thine wish is entropy. Thy soul is bleak. Thine desire is known. Thesper, are thee willing to pay? The woman screws her eyes shut tightly, sobbing silently yet deeply, tears falling heavily, her legs giving out as she kneels before the creature. Her mouth opens, her silent screams unuttered, the stump of her tongue jagged and wet. She grasps her head amidst her screams. The creature wheezes again, its breathing like the groaning of a massive, timeless oak falling. I ask thee again. Thesper, are thee willing to pay? The woman, unable to speak, nods her head viciously, a pain setting deep into her neck at the movement. She looked up at the creature, tears streaming, face screwed in pain. She mouthed yes over and over yes yeS yES YES YES YES YES She screamed from the deepest parts of her spirit, mind and body until it was all she could think of. The creature wheezed a chuckle, the sound of it like metal on a stone platter. Very well. Thine wish shall be granted. Death comes with pain filled wings to drag thy miserable family to the depths of the earth, eternity beset them. I now take what is mine, our deal be done. The creature stepped forward toward her, its massive feet silent, its voice continuing to say the last phrase over and over to the woman. It placed a large hand around her throat, lifting her well off the ground. Taking one sharp claw-like fingernail, it sliced open her belly, the woman writhing in agony. It rooted around in her body, carefully slicing open more flesh. Slowly and gently, the creature extracted a small, fist sized fetus and placenta. The woman''s struggling became weaker and weaker as she stared at the ceiling in horror, eyes wide and empty. The creature pursed together all of the flesh it sliced, all of the wounds closing into jagged, horrid scars. It finally dropped the woman, her body landing heavily to the dirty, wooden floor. The creature held the fetus in its arms, turned from the woman and shambled back to the shadowy part of the building, the woman''s arm outstretched toward the retreating form. It stepped into the shadow, and one second it seemed to be there, and the next it was just a dusty, dark corner, devoid of movement. 28 - Epilogue In a small clearing by a nearby village, the village people gathered beneath the eaves of a massive white silk cloth held up by a multitude of beautifully carved wooden poles, amidst the deep of dusk, countless lanterns illuminating the clearing. Small children ran in between talking adults, nurse maids chasing them, promising the switch and paddle. Women and men clapped and stamped their feet as a couple danced in the middle of them all. The woman''s dress was made of the brightest yellow, embroidered with red and trimmed with green. Upon her head was a woven crown of mother''s glove flowers, symbolizing a joyful, full future. Her clean, beautiful wheat colored hair streamed behind her, almost shimmering in the sunlight. The man dancing with her wore a wonderful red tunic, embroidered with yellow, and trimmed with green. Upon his head was a woven crown of daylight velon flowers, symbolizing calm strength. His smile was radiant, full beard animated with his laughing. The two danced, the laughing, cheering and singing of the crowd roaring with happiness and good fortune to the newlyweds. The couple twirl away from each other, meet back together with their palms together, each one''s eyes shining brightly into the other''s. The crowd cheered as they came together and the music came to an end. The two pause, breathless, before the vile, black liquid spews from the woman''s mouth and onto her groom''s tunic and breeches. Her eyes go wide as she tries to catch her breath, before falling to her knees, more liquid spewing out of her mouth, dripping from her nose, eyes and ears. Her husband catches her and sinks to his knees with her, terror in his voice, calling her name. ''Kelfi! Kelfi, what''s wrong?!'' The crowd screams in horror as two women that looked much like the suffering woman, one younger and one much older, rush to her side. The woman stares up into her husband''s tear filled eyes, before the life leaves her body. Her husband''s body shakes as he holds his wife to him, his screams and crying filling the massive tent. Women turned to their husbands, children were ushered away from the tent, and the bright day descended into an emotional gloom. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The man paused and looked down, his wife''s body twitching slightly. He shook her gently, calling her name, before looking into her face. Her eyes seemed empty as they moved to stare at him. ''K-Kelfi..?'' The man utters her name once more, weakly, as she grasps his throat with one hand and rips it out. He stumbles backward, clutching his throat, blood pouring onto the grass below him. She crawled on top of his shaking form, opened her mouth, and spewed more of the vile, black liquid into his face and exposed throat. He sputtered as he fell back, eyes filled with shock and terror, before his eyes became lifeless. The crowd screamed and began to back away. The woman looked around her and found the older woman nearest to her and sprung for her. The older woman cried out in terror. ''Daughter!'' The thing ripped into the older woman''s face, exposing the muscle, teeth and sinew. She screamed while the creature spewed more of the liquid into the woman''s face. The younger woman sputtered in fear and crawled haphazardly away on hands and knees while the crowd attempted to run away, in their panic forcing many to the ground. The woman stood up from the ground, her arms looking bleached white, veins black and bulging under her skin, her face becoming grotesque and twisted. It ran at the younger woman, tore into her, and forced more liquid into the dying woman''s wounds before moving on into the crowd. Not far away, the man twitched and began standing up, his skin quickly losing its color, his eyes leaking the same viscous fluid before chasing down the crowd, tearing into them with abandon. The older woman followed suit, then the younger woman, and more from the crowd rose from the ground. The bodies that fell in the nearby river did not rise, and the creatures that fell into the water chasing more villagers thrashed violently before falling still, floating down with the slow current. The deep, scream filled night fell to daylight, the light from the sun settling on an empty village. Volume 1 Afterword This was the final chapter for the first volume of Rainbow Skies: Tales of Aeyalion. Thank you SO much for reading, you have no idea how much it means to me that I finished this project. I feel exhausted, yet calm and complete. It''s a strange concept. I know, approximately 30 chapters isn''t a lot, but I''ve spent the better part of the past decade writing these stories, and more like them. I spent nearly TWO MONTHS trying to think of a fitting end to the first volume of Rainbow Skies. I couldn''t really decide whether to continue on with a multi-chapter short story, finish on chapter 28, or what. Ultimately I decided on creating an antithesis to my first chapter, Creation. It seemed only right to do so. All of the early stories were written years and years ago, and I like to think I''ve grown since then. It''s strange to see it unfold, but Aeyalion continues to expand, and I continually write into World Anvil with world events, races, creatures, politics, kingdoms, religions, and far, far more. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. This project, while satisfying, has opened MANY old wounds that I had worked through, making me relive bitter memories. All of my short stories gather parts of my life. They govern thoughts I''ve had, events I''ve lived through, and things I''ve had to survive, mentally, emotionally and physically. I''m hoping you come back to read my second volume, which I''ve already started. At the moment, I''m focusing on my own self-discovery and self-worth, but I want to start posting new stories soon. Many of them will be multi-chapter stories that are more fantastical and exciting than allegorical, but they''ll still be the same old short story format you''ve come to know. If you have questions or comments, you can reach me at [email protected]. Let me know how I''ve done, either here in the comments or by email! I check it every day and would love to hear people''s thoughts! Even if you hated the stories, or have advice on where to improve. Again, thank you so much to everyone who reads these stories, and keep on trotting along your path with determination, love, acceptance, and the knowledge that no matter your life, thoughts or beliefs, you''re valid and deserve joy.