Interview with an Usil Elf

Cultural Studies- San Elves- Individual Profiling as per Commissioned Project 9874A by decree of the Spurian Council. 29th day of the 9th month in the year 321 ACSubject Profile-     Female San Elf, alias Tabitha Moore     Actual name- not known     Occupation- (left blank on initial form)     Payment status- (To be completed upon conclusion, the sum of 200 gold) The lights were dimming outside the thick mullioned windows of his office, and city guards began to light street lamps as they began the new shift out in the shadowed thoroughfares of the merchant district. He was restless and tired, his absorption and interest in his task waning at this point of his day, the colorful parade of individuals coming down to this last one. A San Elf. He sighs and tries to school his perceptions,  striving for the objectivity he has always prided himself on possessing. He had dutifully recorded and profiled various individuals for the past week. It had been a rag-tag succession of Go-blinals, Hithuals, Humans, Firian Elves, Flerians and Psycians. He had enjoyed his discussion with a Frontacian and been entranced by the whimsy of a Secian. Near teatime, he had ventured out of his office to speak with dragons, certain to record the personalities found through a spectrum of stages. He had yet to speak with an Imperial, and was not all that certain what to expect from a fully-fledged dragon. He was scheduled to continue the battery of interviews in the week hence, and was still pensive about interviewing the Arachs. He glanced briefly at his schedule and was relieved to note Pentathians had been scheduled several days after, barring any opportunity for conflict. The Leuians and Monitanians should fill the gap nicely. He hears his secretary put away his files and tidy up before peeking in to make certain nothing further is required of him. He bids the gentleman a good evening, deciding to wait for this final interview a while longer. He had a tight schedule after all, and could not take a chance at backlogging his calendar. A brief frisson of irritation enetrates his disciplined mind as he ponders how utterly typical of a San to show a complete lack of respect for another’s time. He idly underlines the agreed payment price listed for this particular profile on the clean sheet of parchment, considering whether or not he could penalize the woman for her tardiness. “Well, let’s get this done. I have things to do.” The Usil Elf glances up, startled, his heart fluttering madly in his chest at the abrupt comment. There across from him, curled on the lounge, is his final appointment of the day. He knows he probably looks foolish, his mouth dropped open and eyes wide. He is shamefully aware he had almost cried out. He is quite certain she finds amusement in his reaction, and likely even intended to startle him. Bloody San Elves. This last thought causes him to armor himself once more in his habitual composure and he begins to note the specifics of the woman’s appearance even as he summons a polite smile. “Ah…Miss….” He consults the sketchy initial profile once more, fully aware of the information therein, but making it a point to let her know he doubted its authenticity. “…..Miss Moore, is it?” He smiles, lacking any genuine warmth, beginning to take brief notes. He doesn’t bother with a handshake or a formal bow, there being something infuriating about the expression on her face as she in turn seems to evaluate him. Perhaps it is the smirk curving her lips. Soft lips and very red, he noted. His quill pauses mid-stroke and he frowns. Where had that thought come from? She was not tall. Few of her race were. She is  clothed in a voluminous hooded cape of black velvet. He glimpses a crimson bustier beneath it, and well fitted black pants. From the look of them, most likely leather. Her boots are heeled… ridiculous choice for city streets filled with missing cobblestones waiting to twist an unwary ankle…yet she seems quite comfortable in them. He notes opals upon her fingers and around her neck, and a glimpse of muted black jackal embroidery around the  hem of her cloak. He scratches a note near the margin of his papers, writing out the word ‘Setite’. Lovely. He was alone in his office in deepening evening with a woman that had affiliated herself with the God of Thieves. He frowns again, seeing her curl her legs over the arm of the settee and leaning back comfortably, having no qualms about making herself at home in his office. Her voice is full and rich, mocking, as are her glistening obsidian eyes. Sanene eyes had always made him uncomfortable.  Something about not knowing quiet where they are focused, no pupil to pinpoint what was being studied. Just the inky void of endless night, though admittedly this female’s were luxuriantly fringed and exotically shaped. The smile on her lips grows more pronounced as she watches him look at her, and she shifts slightly, allowing the cloak to slide off a slender, creamy-chocolate hued shoulder. He frowns yet again and clears his throat. “Yes. Well then. As we have had a late start of it, let us get this done with, shall we? As you know, you have been retained for your contributions to a scholarly work meant to give insight to the personalities and cultures…” She interrupts with a long drawn out sigh and makes an elegant, somewhat lazy gesture of dismissal with her hand. “Yes, yes…I know why I’m here…” Her dark eyes flicker to the highly polished nameplate at the front of his desk and a playful smile reveals a dimple at the side of one flawless cheek. “Laurence, is it? Well then Larry…let’s skip the hot air and lay this out so I can collect my coin and be on my way.” Even as he bristles at her familiarity and the subtle insult of the nickname, he makes note of her apparently effortless capacity for barbed speech. His quill scratches away and his thin lips press firmly together. She stretches slowly on the lounge; glossy black hair lit with subtle flame, cascading onto the cushion beneath her, slender form radiating a nearly overwhelming sensuality. He swallows briefly then stares intently at his sheet of parchment, adding another word to the side, this one with a question mark after it. Courtesan? He clears his throat and gathers his dignity about him, glancing down his nose at her. “Yes well. Are you native to the     Spurian Sanene populous, or have you immigrated here from elsewhere? Please do be specific…and truthful. You have after all agreed to be forthcoming with this information.” The last he adds as his own subtle insult, watching her with a complicated mixture of annoyance and irritation…and something he cannot bring himself to acknowledge. Her dark eyes gleam as she considers him, for all the world like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream before a low laugh escapes her lips. She sits up at this point, stretching lithe, well-formed legs out in front of her and embarking on a matter-of-fact recitation of her background. He cannot determine if there is a word of truth to it, yet he finds himself drawn into it more and more deeply. Soon he is hunched over his papers; several sheets set aside to dry, quickly recording the specifics of the interview. He is fascinated. Born in Muldavia. So she was pure, undiluted Sanae. He wondered if her Clan had been in servitude to the Muats, or had stood against them? He indents there, marking his place to return later for more questions on the matter. She ceased speaking of her father early on and he surmised the fellow had either died or abandoned her. He nodded and smiled when she mentioned she had been raised in Houses of Indulgence, and circled his earlier scrawl that had noted her familiarity with a courtesan’s arts. He notes with interest the cold that enters her voice when speaking of ‘Pride Khats’, and the steel beneath velvet syllables when she mentions a childhood friend’s betrayal by a scion of the nobility, and the girl’s subsequent suicide. Very briefly she touches upon an odd occurrence early in her life in Spur, suggesting a stirring of psionic powers with something terrible resulting. She is vague about this and reticent, and he does not probe too deeply, sensing it unwise to do so, though he is tremendously intrigued. At some point he finds her inclination for subtly scathing rejoinders to his prompting has lapsed and her voice has become introspective and soft. He hardly dares believe his luck as the woman speaks of her feelings about the three loves of her life, and their betrayals. He is caught up in her explanation of a fourth incident, absorbed in how she simply dismisses the interlude as an act of revenge and retaliation against another Sanene female – the gentleman’s wife, apparently- who had tormented her upon her arrival to Spur. He wrote quickly in the margins, musing upon the identies of these three men who had so deeply affected her. The first had to be a Bard. The second unclear..Priest or madman- Psycian? And the final, perhaps a thief or a Spurian Noble? Or was he both? Yes, she is Setite. Her words on the matter reflect a profound devotion to her faith that surprises him. He returns to a previous page of his notes, underlining the reference to a priest that had interceded early in her life…at about the time she had ceased to speak of her father. She is watching him, her expression wistful, her manner companionable. “Have you ever noticed how quickly things change here amongst the shorter lived races? I was only gone for…four years. But when I returned. . .so much had changed.” Her voice is soft and a little sad and he feels an immediate upsurge of compassion for her, something that startles him profoundly. “Where was it you went?” His question this time stems from personal curiosity, not at all given in the format of an interviewer or analyst. He regrets the question almost as soon as he speaks. He watches her close up utterly, her dark eyes flickering briefly with something he would have sworn is fear and perhaps pain? Then she is back as she had been, aloof, faintly mocking, disinterested. He realizes suddenly how late it has become. “Well then. This is more than enough. Quite a tale, one that should give much insight into the peculiarities we are looking for.” He starts to gather his papers and sets aside his quill, briefly rubbing the tips of numbed fingers together to restore sensation. He can sense her watching him and something in the steady observation makes him aware he is alone in the office with her. She smirks, a flash of perfect white teeth behind full, soft lips. “So…Larry. What have you learned about ‘Sanene tendancies’ from our little chat?” He bridles at the tone of her voice and folds his fingers together on top of the parchments. In his most professional mien, he gazes at her and answers. “I haven’t the slightest idea how any of you people manage to coexist long enough to maintain a culture, let alone to produce offspring. You are prone to violence, you have sociopathic tendencies, and you have a lack of morals that would be shocking to most of the populace of the Spurian jail. Something I have found, once again, to be typical of your breed.” He pauses, tapping the edges of his paperwork into a more orderly pile. He looks at her, aware of her silence, and offers a condescending smile, free once again of the seduction of her voice and her tale, and deeply annoyed at having succumbed to it. “You also have an unhealthy attraction for male counterparts and relationships that will never succeed, more than likely the result of your deep seated anger at certain betrayals you have experienced and a bizarre daddy complex. You are self defeating, self destructive, and inclined to make a shambles of anyone’s life that does have the misfortune to come into close contact with you.” He continues in clipped tones, refusing the awareness that he is being unduly rough, ignoring the faint guilty realization that he is rewarding her forthrightness with censure and judgment, not really knowing where his reaction is coming from. He simply knows he needs to sever the connection he had made with her, and put her in her place. He is truthfully appalled at himself in some small corner of his mind. So much for clinical observation and detachment. He lowers his eyes. Just for a moment. When he looks up again, she is gone. He feels a surge of shame that he has verbally attacked her and caused her to flee. Halfway up from his chair to look for her and perhaps to apologize, something slams into his back. He gives a startled cry, eyes going wide, unable to process what is happening to him. He half sprawls over his neat stack of notes, spilling his inkbottles. For an instant he feels the agony that accompanies the mortal stab of a dagger into his back, then there is nothing. His eyes remain wide open however, despite his inability to move. He does not feel the lightning slash of the wickedly curved dagger to his throat, but he watches as his blood floods out in a crimson glut to mingle with the black ink seeping into the stacked parchments on his desk. Distantly as his sight begins to fade, he registers resignation that all his records will be lost now. Then he sees her, a shadow…no, a woman. Definitely a woman, a low, mocking laugh touching his fading senses as he sees her clear his safe of gold, and hears her final sneering comment as his vision goes dark. “You apparently have learned nothing at all, LARRY. Never, ever piss off a Sanene woman with a dagger.”

 

Valoria Braq- Human Cleric of Odarous

The dust rose from under creaking wagon wheels and plodding hooves to indiscriminately coat human and beast alike. Valoria took as deep a
breath as she dared and shifted restlessly in her saddle, reminding herself sternly that a Inquisitor’s daughter did not complain about such things.

She concentrated on appearing cool and forbidding, picturing Sardonia in her mind. The very thought of the woman aided her efforts and she
shivered despite the dry heat. She was everything a priestess of Taath should be; Tall, graceful, dark and sinister. Her gaze proclaimed a familiarity with power and terrible secrets, and to draw her attention was to feel their whisper across your flesh. In short the woman who was her sponsor was everything Valoria was not.

As was the usual progression of her thoughts, her mind proceeded to mull over what was an enigma to. Her father was such a contrast to
her tutor. She could not think of someone being more atypical of a Taathian, at least in her eyes. Thraxon Sworddancer was tall and golden with an easy grace and a likable way about him. It confused her that those of her Clan, and even those of outlying tribes seemed to fear him.

The crystal blue eyes she’d inherited from her father grew thoughtful. She was close to him in a way peculiar to only children–more so
perhaps as he was her only parent and she his little girl. It somehow made her more uncomfortable than proud to overhear campfire tales of his power and the Dark Lord’s favor. Yet still she pictured him far from the ‘perfect Taathian’–he was not dark or brooding…she did not see anything in him to fear.

She blushed slightly, suddenly glad for the dust upon her skin as the thought crystallized. Her father was an Inquisitor of Taath, a powerful priest of great power, yet she found him lacking because he did not fit her 13 year old romantic ideals. She who was not even a novitiate follower
yet–who knew little of her clan’s religion.

She was ashamed of her betraying thoughts and tossed her head in rejection of them, long coppery locks swaying in response to her irate
gesture. She was unaware of the envious looks cast her way by several of the women, and would not have understood the content of male eyes that found her slender mounted figure. That they hastily looked elsewhere as naked fear closed upon their faces would have confused her further.

Not for the first time Valoria felt the ache of sadness as she wished for her mother. Not even the thought that such childish yearning was
inappropriate for one soon to be Dedicated dampened her longing. Her mother would have understood. She would have held her, or brushed the long coppery curls so like her own as she listened to her daughter pour out her heart. And  somehow as she finished, her spirit would be soothed and everything would be right with the world. Valoria furrowed her brow slightly as she remembered the night her mother had disappeared, now almost three years past.

She’d been agitated, a strange emotion in her eyes when Valoria had come into their tent that night. Instantly alarmed, she’d gone to
her mother, knowing something was very wrong. She remembered how her mother had looked at her with tear-filled eyes, the thin white shift on her tiny form making her appear little more than a child herself. As she always did when they were alone, Valoria had reached out a hand to touch the white dove that glowed on her mothers pale skin.

Flinching as if the gesture had pained her, her mother had gathered her tightly in her arms, trapping Valoria against her trembling body.
Crying now from the sense of something being horribly wrong, Valoria held her mother close, inhaling the perfume of her soft skin, listening in growing confusion to her mother’s words.

“Tonight, my dear one, we must leave this place. You are in terrible danger– I’ve been such a fool–blind for so long. Not everyone can be saved through love. Sweet goddess I was warned–Rinanni forgive me for taking so long to admit it. And now I have endangered you with my vanity.”

Valoria had been suddenly thrust away from her mother’s warmth and held at arms length. The beloved green eyes were intent as they looked into her daughters, a shadow falling across her face as the eyes of her husband stared from her daughter’s face.

“Say nothing–upon your life…nay your very soul–say nothing. Do not even pack, else they will know. They watch me already. I must go to him now, but will return when he sleeps. My temple is not to far from this camp, and Rinanni willing, by morning…”

Her mother had crushed her close once more, saying softly, “They shall not have you…”, then released her so quickly, Valoria had staggered back against the tent pole. With wide eyes she had watched her mother grab a cloak and disappear into the night toward her fathers tent. Though she’d waited all evening and into the next morning, she had not returned. Instead, Sardonia had come for her that day and told her in precise
terms, that Valoria was to learn her role as daughter of the new Inquisitor. Her father had gained the favor of Taath with an example of great devotion. Any questions about her mother had gone unanswered, at the most evoking strange looks or muttered words from her clansmen.

In frustration she sought her father, only to be repeatedly told he was too busy to see her. Finally her persistence paid off, and she had been allowed an audience. Careless of her mother’s warning, she told him everything. He’d listened to her quietly, not looking at her, his eyes chips of
ice, until she faltered, suddenly fearful. Then he’d glanced at her and smiled, abruptly warm and sunny again, though allowing a touch of sadness to color his voice.

“I would not speak to you of this in length. All you need to know is that your mother decided to leave us. She did not agree with my plans for you, but has seen she will not take you from me. You my princess, will be dedicated to Our Lord and follow my path three years hence. It has been
pre-ordained. I have been granted a vision of you and the power you shall wield.”

He had hugged her tightly and told her not to mention her mother again. And she hadn’t for something in his words had chilled her and
penetrated even the haze of hero worship through which she beheld her father.

Now, three years had passed, and she rode with her clan to the gathering. There, she and several others would receive the Dark One’s mark,
and begin in His service. A sudden chill grazed her skin at the thought, a fear her tutor Sardonia said was fitting and even desirable when one thought of their Lord. This evening the ceremony would commence, and she would do everything in her power to make her father proud.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sardonia finished the prayer of preparation and blinked slowly as her eyes came back into focus. She studied her charge calmly, her gaze holding no warmth. Valoria hardly dared breathe lest she disturb some intricate part of the ritual.

Sardonia turned away after a final appraising glance, putting the oils and herbs back into the black dragon skin case. Thankful for the brief respite, Valoria dared a glance at the silver mirror standing at the far end of the tent. She blinked, hardly recognizing herself.

A red satin gown licked like a flame at the newly developing curves of her young body, the neck slashed revealingly down to her navel, the
back dipping to the curve of her buttocks. A gold chain served as a collar and sole ornamentation, carved onyx runes spaced along its length. Alabaster skin glowed under scented oils and perfumes, and fiery hair was gathered in a silken braid that fell further even than the plunging neckline down her back. A slight movement of her hips parted the slit in her dress to reveal a graceful length of leg, and golden, onyx beaded slippers. She was an offering worthy of the Dark One, and would be so this night.

She glanced away from her reflection only to find herself again under the scrutiny of her tutor. Blushing slightly in embarrassment,
Valoria braced herself for the cruel words that were never far from Sardonia’s lips. Instead there was silence, only the clatter of armor and complaint of horses providing counterpoint to the sounds of a camp gearing for festival. Surprised, Valoria timidly raised her gaze, only to recoil from the naked hatred she saw there. In marked contrast to her usual colorless tone, the priestess spoke words filled with poison.

“Even in that gown, you are so much like your mother. Innocent, trusting…” she spat the words, her fingers curving into claws
as her eyes narrowed. “He refused to have you Awakened according to tradition. No…you are to be a ‘Special gift’, to go to Him innocent of the
Torturer’s skills,” Sardonia sneered at Valoria.

“The others are dedicated in fear and pain…and you remain unscathed. You who are less than any of us, whose blood is tainted by
the Dove.”

Sardonia moved swiftly, grasping Valoria cruelly by the jaw, long crimson nails glittering threateningly against pale skin. Something dark
and rotting and insane moved deep in the black eyes, and she spoke softly.

“You weaken him. You make him soft and cloud his judgment. Like she did. But let me give you a final lesson, shall I? Let me tell you what became of your mother. Yes…you will go to Him in pain like the others. I will see to it…”

In an odd parody of the affection Valoria had always craved from the woman, Sardonia gently caressed Valoria’s cheek with her other hand,
eyes avidly devouring every emotion that flitted across her young charge’s face. Sardonia smiled, a gesture that froze Valoria’s blood, and trapped her like a terrified rabbit beneath the approaching talons of a stooping hawk.

“Your father, my dear… know you how he gained his favor? With his own knife he cut out her heart, redeeming himself–taking me while her body was still warm and her dead eyes watched. I gloried in her blood upon my skin and the dark radiance bequeathed your father at such an
offering.”

Valoria was suddenly unable to breathe, an invisible fist squeezed her chest as the truth of the words struck deep, shattering something
within her and changing her life forever. Yet still her mind thought to deny the truth which her heart beheld, grasping in vain at the shelter of childhood ripped away too soon. Shock blanketed her senses, and she welcomed its enveloping numbness, clinging to it as her pain overflowed her spirit in a soul wrenching scream and she crumpled to the richly carpeted tent floor. Sardonia watched with interest, the creature that gazed from thin concealment behind her eyes feasting upon the waves of agony flowing from Valoria’s wounded psyche.

A bell tolled in deep resonance, shattering the tableau, and Sardonia suddenly blinked, the darkness leaving her eyes as it returned to its
roost in her soul. Once again cool and unemotional, she drug the listless, unresponsive girl to her feet, and pushed her through the tent flap.

The camp had quieted and was absent of all moonlight. Even the stars hid themselves behind a thick cloak of low lying clouds, as if to
spare themselves the sight of what unfolded below.

Dazed, her motions automatic, directed by her tutor, Valoria took her place with the other girls inside the obsidian temple’s antechamber.
Her shocked, pale face found reflection in the others who had been “Awakened” this night. Innocence was not valued by the Lord of Demons, and for these girls, its ending had been as abrupt and painful as possible–a gift to He to whom they would Dedicate this night.

The bell rang again, its deep, somber voice echoing through bodies and Temple alike. The black armored knights and wild eyed berserkers
moved their charges through the archway and down the aisle toward the altar. Many of the girls cowered in terror as the sinister spirit of the temple encroached upon them, eager for the residue of pain they carried. It was a living thing, lapping at their bruised spirits, caressing them with shadowy claws to heighten their terror and deepen the flavor. Those that fainted were summarily drug the rest of the way, then abandoned at the altar to the priests and priestesses who gathered there.

The clansmen and women also gathered to witness the dedication, robed as one in unrelieved black. Unmoved, they watched their daughters, sisters, and granddaughters as they were herded to the altar, fanatical fervor burning in their eyes.

Valoria stood emotionless, her eyes blank, her slight form unmoving, but back rigid among her companions who cried out or lay in supplication and terror on the cold stone floor. Before the altar stood her father resplendent in crimson black and gold, his blue eyes afire through the
holes in his obsidian mask. He glowed with an unholy light, nearly crackling with power, strong, tall and handsome.

His voice rose to fill the temple as his lips spoke ancient words, somehow no longer his own. She moved closer to the altar upon which
rested an ornate sacrificial dagger. In her mind she saw the cruel blade plunging into her mother’s body as her cries were viscously silenced by the man she had loved with all her heart. Her soul cried out, and darkness crept into the void of pain as her hand moved towards it. All attention was upon her father, and none saw as she took the blade in hand, hiding it in the deep sleeve of her robe. She watched as her father turned his attention to each girl in turn, as each was guided through the ceremony, the words of devotion spoken through fearful lips. As they spoke the words, shadows came upon them, piercing their skin, causing them to writhe on the cold stone floor as the mark of Taath rose upon their skin. When it was over, and the next girls’ induction had begun, they were helped to their feet, and taken away by a priestess to reunite with kin as newly accepted adults.

Slowly the temple emptied as families went to welcome the young women. One by one the newly devoted were helped away, until only Valoria
remained. She stood unmoving, an alabaster and crimson statue carved by a master, even the shadows shying from her stillness. Her eyes never left her father’s face, and he paused as he looked over her, his expression hidden by his mask.

He gestured at the priests and priestesses who remained, and with unthinking obedience, they bowed, and departed the sanctuary. The warriors
who had escorted the dedicants nodded, and moved back down the aisle, leaving their Inquisitor and his daughter alone.

When they had all gone, Thraxon removed his hideous demon mask, and placed it on the black stone altar. He smiled at her proudly, and
took her unresponsive hand in his.

“Today my daughter, you will come to Taath like no other. You will be a bride to him as the others are merely servants. To you I
bequeath the leadership of our clan when I am gone. You shall lead them as a priestess and queen, and our enemies will fall before you like ripe
wheat.” He smiled at her, a father’s pride mingled with something darker in the expression.

He raised up his hands, and once again the ancient words resounded in the blackness, and when her turn came to speak the words of
acceptance he looked at her expectantly.

Deliberately, unblinking, she spat upon the enormous altar. With satisfaction, she watched as her father paled and staggered back, as if
felled by a tremendous blow. In that moment she was on him, the dagger flashing in the darkness. She screamed in rage and grief, a soul in torment as the blade sunk into her fathers flesh. He fell before her onslaught, his hands raised defensively, blood bright upon his robes. Sobbing in exhaustion, she fell to her knees at his side, her spirit bowed by agony and horror at what she’d done, a dangerous lassitude creeping into her.

Weakly at first, then with growing strength, her father began to laugh. Startled from her stupor, she raised a disbelieving gaze to his. Hands covering deep wounds, he lay against the altar, and laughed harder at her expression, blood flecking his lips. In dread she watched as his wounds
began to close, and something inhuman rose in his eyes, eyes that were so like her own. He stood, still laughing at her, no longer recognizable as her father, shadows flocking to his side, nightmares twisting in the corners of her eyes. A voice no longer human, spoke.

“You look just like your mother did that night. She looked at me the same way as I cut her heart from her body and held it out for her to see…”

He smiled a terrible smile, his mouth stretching impossibly wide, his teeth small and sharp, his eyes slanting as he shed his humanity,
something palpably evil transforming his body. A primitive instinct brought her to her feet and propelled her back and away. She stumbled against a stone bench, unaware of the sharp pain, her eyes transfixed on the man she’d known and loved as a father. Still he laughed as he watched her.

“You have made me proud as I knew you would. The Dove’s blood does not tell. Come, my fierce little one…come and take your place at
my side…! Your hatred and rage are His gift to you…you are favored….come….”

He beckoned to her with a clawed hand, his face elongating into a snout, back hunching as his spine curved. Hypnotically she took a step
forward, the voices in her mind screaming at her to run growing fainter. Then it happened.

Valoria looked up at her father and was caught by his eyes. Her eyes. Looking at her from the face of a monster. She blinked, the spell
broken, her mind shedding the paralyzing blanket of shock and fear. “Never. I renounce you and everything you stand for. I
will not become what you are.”

She took several steps back, shaking her head in denial. She cringed as a crash of thunder shook the walls of the temple, an agonized howl
issuing from the thing that had been her father. The voice of self preservation shouted in her mind again, she turned and fled from all she had ever known.

She saw nothing in the darkness, and could not say how long she ran, or how many times she fell and cut herself upon sharp stones, or how
many thorns tore at her as she raced from the looming Temple and the army of campfires where her people celebrated. Her only thought was escape. Escape from what she’d done, from who she was, from the truth of her mother’s death.

When she fell, and could go no further, they found her. There were five of them– five men of her fathers guard who came upon her in the desolate wilderness, five men who mocked her and tore what remained of her clothing, who beat her, and inflicted upon her body every manner of torture and humiliation that thier lives had taught them. As the last began his assault upon her something broke free deep inside of her. Something wild and dark, something that wanted blood and death and pain…that made her oblivious of all but the need to strike out and kill.

Her untutored hand claimed a sword carelessly cast aside in their sport, and she swung, the darkness inside her giving her inhuman strength. The man fell, his shock wide in his eyes as blood spewed from a severed neck, his hand clutching helplessly at the gaping wound. Without
pausing she turned to the next, and the next, hacking and slashing mindlessly, her eyes wide and staring, teeth gnashing, foam bubbling from her mouth, her lips stretched in a rictus of hate and rage. blood coated her nude figure more intimately than had the crimson gown, the gore of death her only ornamentation.

But the last two were ready now, her luck had run out. Though she traded blows with each, and one fell and the other was wounded, her
strength left her and the blackness receded, leaving her aware of only pain and the approach of her own death.

Her last opponent spat on her as he bound his wounds, taunting her as she lay dying, refusing to stop her agony with a merciful blow.
He left her there instead, beneath the wide open sky on the red stained earth as the first touch of dawn filtered through the clouds.

Still she clung to life, passing in and out of consciousness, though she wanted only to die. She woke at one point to find her father and
several priests standing over her. Though she had thought it impossible to feel any more pain, it burst afresh upon her as she saw the cold contempt on his face. He crouched over her, and for a moment she felt hope that he’d come to save her, to heal her pain. She tried to tell him she was wrong–that she would come to Taath now, that she was sorry. But she was too weak for the words. Instead he reached down with a dagger and cut the long, blood matted braid from her head, then stood once more. He stared at her, speaking the ritual words of tribal death in a tone far removed from that of a father for his little girl.

“No longer are you my daughter or member of clan. I cut from you your birthright so you shall die nameless and roam alone for eternity
in the Void. The ancestors turn from you, and the Great Wolf shall feast upon your spirit, sundering it from this world. You are dead.”

And with that he turned and walked away without a backwards glance, her severed braid clutched tightly in his hand as the priests closed
around him and were gone in a flash of red light.

The pain in her heart burned brighter than the pain of her flesh, and she lay still, closing her eyes, welcoming the oblivion that flooded
her. She breathed once more, then was still.

The morning brightened, and the clouds scudded away in the gentle wind. The golden meadow grasses swayed and small birds trilled from
their depths. The blood dried on the dead girl who lay like a broken doll left by a careless child. Those she had killed had been left behind, and ironically seemed to guard her now in death. Her tiny hand remained clutched around the sword by which she’d cut the strings of their life, mute testimony to what had taken place.

From a scrub forest to the east came a party of mounted figures. Their voices were carried in snatches by the wind, their laughter
proclaiming them friends before their features were even visible. Light danced from snowy white and silvery armor, a golden eagle glaring proudly from shields and embroidered cloaks. One of the party abruptly reigned his mount to a halt. The others responded in kind, their voices stilling, hands going to their blades as they looked askance at him from the corners of their eyes. The first figure raised furred hands to the hood that cloaked his features, removing it as catlike eyes scanned the area, nostrils flaring as he tested the wind. Amber eyes narrowed as he stared at the place where the grasses were oddly flattened. At the same moment, another of the party, a delicately built female with pointed ears and upslanted eyes, swore softly her eyes catching the first glimpse of a delicate ankle and blood sprayed grasses. She quickly dismounted
and made for the scene.

A powerfully built man with white hair and long drooping mustaches called out to her sharply and dismounted with surprising agility in
one so heavily armored. He needn’t have worried however, for it seems the woman’s shadow was a hulking creature of low brow and deep set eyes that carried an enormous axe like a child’s toy.

The others followed their example, and also dismounted, an oddly featured human gently nudging a lump on his shoulder. The lump moved of
its own accord, blinking tiny red eyes, and smiling sweetly from the first as it saw the one who carried it so carefully. It nuzzled the cloaked figure and stretched slowly. Gossamer wings unfurled and it rose into the air, hovering quietly as it looked around questioningly. Without saying a word, the human-like figure with a reptilian cast to his features pointed toward the carnage. With a small cry, the secian darted after the elven female, her draco cursing quietly and following after her, sword drawn.

They approached cautiously, ready for an ambush. The elven female stood in the center of the slaughter, eyes thoughtful as she read the
story of tracks and battle. Her gaze rested sympathetically on the young girl, as she turned to the others and gave words to what she was able to read. They stood quietly as they listened, the little secian trying in vain to wash the blood from the delicate featured human child, her tiny tears tracing a path through the dried blood as her draco stood helplessly behind her.

“Taathians.”

The single word spoken by the white haired knight encompassed all the disgust and suspicion and centuries of enmity which lay between their two temples. A middle aged man in white robes knelt next to the girl, an odd expression upon his face as he looked closely at her. His eyes
became distant, as if for a moment he was elsewhere, then he looked up sharply at the others.

“Quickly. It is not yet too late. Gather round and lend your prayers to mine.” The human knight looked at the man carefully even as he moved
closer, speaking with deference, and obvious reluctance.

“First Warder. I would not question you…but she is of their blood…we would be doing her no favors in any case….”

His glance took in what was left of her ceremonial robes and the broken Taathian prayer chain.

The First Warder returned his Champion’s look chidingly, causing the other to blush and shift uncomfortably like a school boy.

“Look you closely Drathor–she does not bear the Vile Ones mark, and she died in battle fighting those that do. Think you that one is
Taathian from birth? Nay…it is a choice as is any other. Obviously she did not choose it.”

He furrowed his brow slightly then as he looked at the knicked blade clenched in the dead hand and spoke softly, “And besides…Odarous calls to this one….”

The others glanced at each other in surprise, only the draco distancing himself, stepping back towards the horses, but still looking on with
a clinical interest. They knelt in close circle, the secian gently brushing the girl’s close cropped hair from her pale face. The First Warder bent over the girl, laying his hands gently upon her cold flesh, and spoke ancient words of power, a blinding light washing over girl and priest as the others spoke prayers of devotion and praise, different races united by a burning devotion to their God, the power of faith shining from their eyes.

The brightness increased and the secian glanced worriedly at the lines of fatigue that deepened on the First Warders face, tiny hands moving
in intricate patterns as cool blue light flowed from her, renewing the Priest’s energies. Softly the little one spoke into the girl’s ear, calling to her,
soothing the battered spirit that cried out in fear and loneliness and pain, the empathy that was a part of her being taking on the child’s anguish.

A breath came sharply from between blue lips, released with a cry, then another, and warmth returned to the cold skin, and brilliant blue eyes flew open, filled with torment. The First Warder released the power, ignoring his fatigue as he watched the girl. The elf maiden opened her eyes as the words of power faded, then hastily removed her white cloak and covered the girl with it.

Wordlessly Valoria looked up at the faces that surrounded her, still lost to the memory of pain and death, confused by the gentle encouragement coming from these strangers. With a dry croak she spoke the one thought that repeated over and over in her mind.

“I am dead.”

They glanced at each other, then shook their heads in denial. The older man who knelt closest to her smiled.

“No longer. You have been raised by the power of Odarous, Lord of Battle, Honor and Law. He would see you live longer child, so
you have rejoined us.”

Again she repeated the words, anguish and despair trembling in her raw voice.

“I AM DEAD!”

The little secian female murmured comfortingly as she caressed Valoria’s cheek, and the First Warder frowned slightly. The hulking
Thugian stepped forward, dispelling with his movement what similarities he had otherwise had with distant mountains, his deep voice rumbling.

“Da girl know she life now. She ded nuther way. Clan def.” He peered closely at Valoria’s cropped head then at the wolf head emblem on the dead soldier’s tunics. He moved forward slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.

“You in better clan now. You in our clan. Da eagle clan. We make you strong ‘gain.” He nodded solemnly.

Valoria watched them with eyes much older than her 13 years, still and quiet, the horrors locked away for the moment. She looked down at the
sword in her hand, and released it, slowly sitting up, the grey haired man moving to help her, the secian doing her best to help also. She stared at the dead men that lay cold around her, then down at the sword.

“Your God is god of Battle?” she asked quietly.

“Yes. But that is not the least among Honor and devotion to upholding Law”, replied the First Warder.

Valoria looked directly at him, her eyes eerily calm. “I am tainted by battle rage. I sought to kill my father. You know not who
I am. You should have left me to death.”

The tall knight in silvery armor frowned at her slightly upon hearing her words, but the First Warder returned her calm look.

“Our Lord would have you to his service, if you so choose. I would not question what he sees in you, child.”

The hulking thugian beamed at her. “Da Lord like doz wid da zerk. We strong and kill many bad tings. It ’cause He touch us when we
id in da mama’s belly. It present to us, nod whud you say–nod taint.”

Drathor glanced at the Thug and rolled his eyes slightly, then smiled gently at Valoria. “Though he has an interesting perspective,
our friend here means there is no dishonor in being touched with battle rage. That will not bar you from service to Our Lord.” He glanced at the First Warder who nodded agreement.

The elf maiden stepped forward briskly. “With respect, First Warder…I believe she has time to learn of Odarous….later. She has
endured much and needs rest.”

The First Warder blinked, and actually looked embarrassed for a moment before he stood, helping Valoria to her feet.

Valoria paused, and looked down at the sword which had fallen across an oddly clean tunic emblazoned with the snarling wolf’s head.
She reached down and picked up the blade. An odd look crossed her face and she bent to retrieve the tunic as well, clutching it tightly to her.

“This is who I am. I will not forget. They haven’t the right to take it from me.”

Her companions nodded solemnly at her, the draco watching her with interest, the Thugian grinning broadly at her.

“Den youz have two clanz now. Da Eagle and da Wolf.”

The First Warder watched her closely, his eyes once again distant, his head slightly tilted as if listening to something far off.

“Nay. She will be His Wolf.” He smiled then, once more seeming just a simple if grizzled veteran of many battles. He took her arm
gently, guiding her as the others closed about her protectively and returned to their horses. Drathor offered the girl his mount, and they turned back the way they had come, returning to the temple and distant city they called home. Valoria rode straight and tall, her eyes fixed on a distant light, while high above them, an eagle soared as if in benediction.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Time passed for the young woman. Those of the city, and even some of her beloved Temple looked upon her as an oddity, refering to her as
‘that red haired barbarian lass’. And indeed, there was something in her that remained wild and remembered the ways of her people. She grew in strength and skill, and was taught the ways of Odarous, willingly taking His mark and heeding His call once she came to know Him. Raised equally in the Holy Temple itself and the wild lands beyond city gates, the time came for her to strike out on her own. Though she loved her God with all the innate passion of her spirit, her heart bore the shame of what she thought of as her Taathian birthright, her father’s final gift to her. The battle rage consumed her when sorely pressed, and animal rage would possess her muscles and mind and she became intent on destroying her foe at any cost.

Waking from a dream one night as she camped beneath an ancient oak, she saw a huge white wolf watching her from across the glade. She
followed the snowy wolf for days, eventually finding herself at the gates of a city called Spur, far from her homeland.

It was in this enormous city she finally found her home. Another refugee from the harsh battles of life, she became one among many, and
those of the city judged her soley on her own merits. She developed friendships, even as her fear of what was within her made her enemies within the Taathian temple of the city.

Then darkness again came with all its destructive force into her life, changing once more the path she followed. Plague came to the land, an
evil said to be unleashed by Moloch himself. Death found many, and their Gods called them home even as others suddenly forgot all they knew and became again as they had been as children. She left the city, as many did, making her way to her homeland. Feverish and weak, she collapsed into the arms of those who had first saved her.

For many months she lay ill, nursed by those who loved her. Then in what seemed her final hour, a radiant eagle flew in her window and perched
upon her bed, awaking her with a piercing cry. Her illness loosed its hold on her and with it the shadow that had lingered in her heart. The berserkers curse had left her, and instead she felt a wondrous power filling her.

“Heal my Temple,” she heard in her heart, and the eagle was gone in a flash of light.

The tall, red haired woman returned to Spur, a wolf at her side. But this time she knew in her heart she was what her father had seen and feared it not. She was indeed a priestess of her God, and moved within the grace of His power and love.

Shaidara Tango- San Elf Thief of Set

She looked through the slats onto the dark street below. Careful, as she had been taught, that no light shone behind her, and no movement would be noticed should one of them look up.

She could hear them speaking in that odd manner they had- a language comprised of purring consonants and deep chested pronouncements.
Shaidara had no idea what they were saying, but she heard the dreaded thickness of alcohol affecting their speech and the age-old hatred they seemed to hold for those that lived on these streets. They were hunting alright. Hoping for an unwary stray.

She shivered despite herself, the deep-seated terror of the Leuians below pricking at her nerve endings and shadowing her delicate featured
face for a moment before she managed to hide it. She had seen what became of anyone they would catch. Anyone they considered a thief. Even a youngster with a Setite godmark was fair game. In this city, the Serpent’s mark on His followers could be a death sentence. Only when protected by a guild and trained in survival skills did most openly dedicate to Set.

She kept watch still, staying motionless at her post, knowing that other eyes and ears were watching the threat from every darkened
shadow in the ghetto. The group of Leuian sailors reluctantly moved on. The sound of rough laughter and splintering wood reaching her as one vented his aggression on a random doorway, one careless swipe of a massive clawed hand reducing it to kindling.

She could feel the unnatural quiet in the ghetto ease, and somewhere a baby cried. Voices once again filtered through the night air, somewhere the sound of music again picked up its interrupted wheeze. The threat of outside danger had passed. For now.

Dark eyes watched down the streets as she hunched against the weathered sill. It was a game between them, her watching to see if she
could find his shadow slide along the street as he made his way home. Rarely would she spy him, not seeing a trace of her father until his hand landed on her shoulder from behind, startling her from her sentry, laughing and teasing her when she pouted.

But tonight she watched in earnest, as she had the night before, and the night before that. Miteanas Tangolandrah had not come home to
his daughter.

She watched unmoving until the sun opened its eye somewhere below the dark line of the Southern Deeps, the ruddy glow tinting the shadows
and picking out shapes along the street. She watched as doors opened and men and women began the day’s pursuits, the smells of cooking mixing with the unceasing dankness of the alley. It occurred to her then. She was 14 today.

They hadn’t lived here forever. She still had memories of another place, beautiful and cold even to the recollection of a child. She remembered elegant ladies and richly dressed men, the smells of exotic perfumes and a sense of being safe. She remembered her father far different than he had become, bold and obvious in his powers, unassailable by any foe. She held the image of a woman in her mind, more beautiful than a goddess, whose laughter still remained in the memory of her daughter.

She remembered a night of fire, screams of the dying, desperation and grief on her father’s face as he took her bundled form swiftly through ravaged streets to a ship waiting to sail somewhere on the dark waters below. She still remembered leaving Muldavia.

She leaned against the wall of the room that had been their home for the past month. They moved a lot, never staying long in one location,
though they never went far from the harbor city of Maldraas. Instead they moved from room to hovel to tent, and periodically into one of the hotels that dotted the city. She loved those times, pretending to be the spoiled daughter of a rich Sanene gentleman, pampered and doted upon, silks and rich brocade clothing her instead of the subtle, simple dresses she otherwise wore.

It was a game; one her father played well, one he promised wouldn’t be necessary anymore, after this meeting.

A week passed. Not once did she give up her watch, or her faith in her father’s return. She buried the rising panic and fear deep inside
as she had been taught, refusing to acknowledge it. The landlord came, wanting his fee, eyeing her appraisingly as she stood back from him explaining her father would be back any moment. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, and she knew her father would have slit the man’s throat had he seen it.

Her food ran out, and she ventured into the ghetto to purchase more with the emergency coin that was always left to her. Coin she had never before needed. She headed straight to the large gray stoned structure that seemed to anchor the sprawl of the ghetto in place. It was here her father had told her to come if anything ever happened. She huddled against the cool stone near an entry gate, her cloak’s hood pulled up as she watched those who came and went. The desperation and poverty seemed to lose its hold on those that gathered at this place, the smells of food wafted from a building within the compound, and a group of mixed raced children laughed under the supervision of a smiling Psycian teacher.

She stiffened as something poked her in the back, turning quickly to find a greenish skinned go-blin-al staring at her suspiciously.

“Whaz you doinz juz standinz der?” it asked as she stepped back.

“I am supposed to go in,” she answered in Common, aware of the awkwardness of her response.

The gobbie squinted and scratched under his armpit, eyeing her a moment.

“Den youz come wif me.”

He pulled her along by the hem of her cloak, and she followed, too scared to do otherwise, entering the ornate serpent adorned iron gates, then passing the two enormous black marble jackals that stood watch at either side of the entrance to the temple grounds.

The gobbie talked to himself, grumbling and muttering as he led her through the crowd, grunting or screeching at various Setites they
passed. Several eyed her and she knew there was whispering and more heads turning to gaze at her as they made their way to a quieter part of the grounds.

A man in simple black robes stood with his back to them, surveying the city below, his hands clasped behind him, though she was certain
he had been aware of them before she had even spied him. The gobbie paused, releasing her cloak, then stood blinking at the priest, fidgeting a bit, suddenly ceasing the accompaniment of indecipherable commentary altogether.

The priest turned, nodding at her companion, smiling with genuine warmth as he regarded her.

“Shaidara Tango, I presume?”

She didn’t correct him, she knew it was her father’s guild name. She nodded once, a flush warming her cheeks, for some reason uncomfortable with even this minor deception. There was something about this small statured man that invited her total confidence, a perception in his blue
eyes that assured her he would understand anything she told him.

His smile remained, reflected in his remarkable eyes and he patted the gobbie on the head then placed his arm around her shoulders. He
smelled of fresh bread, incense, and honed metal.

He walked with her, the gobbie leaving them and scampering off, taking her to a cool shadowed grotto where beautifully carved fountains
cascaded sparkling water into deep basins, drowning out the sound of distant voices.

He bade her to sit on a stone bench, hesitating, gently slipping off the hood that hid her features. What she saw in his face was her undoing, the compassion there and the regret, telling her in an instant what she had already known in her heart.

He held her as she cried, murmuring soothingly, her cheek cushioned by his soft dark robes from the hard plates of metal beneath it. She
wept with the despair of a child, until her grief was a hollow burned out place deep in her heart. She listened as he explained what had happened to her father, taking in his softly spoken words, each one filling that burned out place inside her with the seeds of hatred and anger and a new emotion: a growing need for vengeance.

When he was done speaking they sat together, his hand wiping a last tear from her cheek, smoothing back her long dark hair, fingers callused
from the hilt of a sword gentle against her cool, dusky skin.

“You are not alone. There is family here should you chose to embrace it.”

His eyes were kind, his voice the same quiet balm on her wounds as she sat there, at a loss for direction, certain only of one thing. She would payback what had been done to her father. What had been done to her.

He continued, taking in every flicker of emotion on her dark skinned, elven features.

“You are young yet to be on your own. There is a club in town that would give you work and a roof over your head…feed you. I have already made arrangements if you would like.”

She didn’t remember agreeing, more truthfully, she didn’t really care. She was taken from the temple to the lower city, away from the
slums to what her father had always termed a “Gilded House”. She was given work there as a maid, cleaning and working in the sculleries.

It was well kept, discreet, frequented by a rich clientele. For the first time she was surrounded by women. Exotic, beautiful, sensual
ladies of different races and backgrounds, some who instantly tried to mother her, others that ignored her altogether.

She shared a room with a human girl, several years older than she was, named Madeline. It was she that first breached the reserve
Shaidara had cloaked herself in since her arrival. Long whispered conversations after their chores were done for the day, sharing the gossip that was so prevalent in the House. Almost a ritual, Madeline would sit nightly with Shai, brushing her friend’s long dark hair as they spoke.

Madeline was in love, she confided, and the wealthy nobleman’s son promised to marry her and take her to live in one of his family’s estates. She was going to take Shaidara with her and they would dance at balls and dine with handsome lords.

Shai would laugh, shaking her head, amused at the wild dreams, but happy for her friend nonetheless.

It was Shaidara that found Madeline hanging from a rope in the cellar. It seems her young gentleman had married some lady from another
city, and wasn’t about to be burdened with a farm girl carrying his bastard.

Shaidara kept this lesson in her heart along with all the others.

Years passed, and soon it was impractical for the lovely Sanene girl to work in the capacity of house help. She was offered a position as courtesan, assured excellent wages and a regular clientele. She refused, taking her hoarded coin and the lessons she had learned from the women of the house on using her exotic beauty to get what she needed to survive. Every man scammed was a reprisal for her girlhood friend, every coin she got with a winsome smile and fluttering lashes a step to settle an endless tab. Yet still she needed to learn more.

It became prudent for her to leave the city, and without a second glance she did so. She took only her father’s tool kit, stuffed full of
his lock picking tools and makeup kit, a sharp dagger, and changes of clothing. She was off to Spur and a promised education in the guild her father had been a part of.

On a delicate chain around her neck hung a gold ring: a serpent embracing an opal in its scales. It was a final gift from the cleric who had found her and helped her as a girl.

“Take this in remembrance of an old priest. When you are ready, He will be there. Your Family will be waiting.”

Legend of the Muatana-al

29/11/312

Usilin Social Anthropological Project 0058 (Human)
Nomadic
Northern Tribes of Escadia
Director Tamsien Rhondrite MA

TO:
The United Usilin Historian Council
Care of Barandar Fahlaren

Most Respected Colleagues,

Wonderful news! The research of Jhadrian Crondolar was not lost as we had
feared. Several volumes of notes and scrolls were recovered recently by another
field expert upon his visitation to a small Rinannian Temple in the far northern
forests of grid area NH3491. The location of the newly discovered temple has
been added to the catologue as per proceedure.

It seems he had arranged to keep much of his research with the Prelate, but
in the period of unrest in the winter of 293, all items of learning had been
carefully hidden to ensure thier safekeeping. As for the final disposition of
Jhadrian himself, we still cannot say.

As we had predicted, the Oral tradition of the Barbarians has proven to be a
rich source of information of the time before the Conflagration. It is with
cautious enthusiasm that we have found many specifics of their lore coincide
with what we already know. I have marked a specific scroll for your immediate
perusal.

In Enlightnement and Knowledge,
Tamsien Rhondrite, Master Anthropologist

Director of Human Studies
Northern Escadia

*******************************************************

12/12/292
USAP 0058.3 (Human)
Wolf Clan (winter encampment 4)
Northern Escadia
Jhadrian Crondolar
Field Entry wc128 Lore of the
Mutana’al

I have chosen to record the happenings of this evening in a less typical journal format to better capture what it was I observed and heard. It was a most interesting evening. -JC

********************

The ice thickened wind threw itself endlessly against the outside of the gathering lodge, tooth and claw ineffectual against those gathered in warmth and relaxed kinship inside.

Many had put aside the thick furs and leathers that would protect them from the deadly elements of a Northern winter. The central hearth popped and crackled, sparks dancing upwards through the blackened metal of the lodge’s vent hole, while burning logs glowed with radiant coals under a bank of snowy white ash.

The meal had long since been served and cleared, and many lay or sat in the central area speaking in low voices of the past week’s hunt and the usual small gossips of a close knit community. As they spoke, weapons were cared for, clothing and furs were dried, and tribal artisans worked at thier crafts with casual skill.

Children sat at the feet of parents, sleepy eyed and attentive in turn depending on age and the words overheard from adults.

A little girl, not more than five lay half asleep in the arms of a tall broad shouldered man. His golden head was bent to the ear of the petite woman beside him, his lips brushing the coppery wisps curling across her cheek as he spoke quiet words for her alone.

A log crashed in the fire, spraying red-gold embers, startling the little girl awake, even as her mother reached out a soothing hand and smoothed back the hair so like her own. The wind outside howled, slamming the shelter with a frustrated gust of icy rage, causing many of the tribe to pause in their occupation to look to the sturdy walls as they shuddered.

A carved mask fell from the rafters to the fur covered floor with a muffled thud, drawing the attention of a spindley limbed, ancient featured old crone. Her sudden sharp hiss drew many eyes, and she was watched as she painfully got to her feet and tottered over to the fallen mask. A young woman dogged her steps, trying to assist her, though her efforts were impatiently waved off. The crone snatched the mask from the floor and stared at it before hunching slowly back to her position by the fire.

The little girl sat up, suddenly looking wide awake, as did the other children. She clambered from her father’s lap and moved with several of the
smaller children to sit around the wisened one’s form. She was respectfully addressed as Haduma, and a hot drink was brought to her by her young caregiver. Activities ceased in the lodge as the humans settled around her quietly.

Boney fingers clutched the smooth, aquiline featured white mask before she held it up for all to see. Something about it was disturbing, and many shifted uneasily as vacant eyeholes stared from the stark mask, seeming to peer at the assembled audience.

The Haduma nodded, cackling a bit before sitting the face shell on her fur wrapped lap, shadow dancing over its surface as the flames of the hearth flared and fell as if in excited breath. “Kazda Eschtheta Zazpiat Amidora.”

The ancient pronunciation of a lost language fell from her lips, calling the ancestors to gather and witness the tale, to give her the words dusted by time and rooted in the very begining of the Human race.

Her voice took up the cadence of the Human Tongue once more then, as she began to teach.

“Long, long ago, in the days before the burning sky, back when dragons swarmed in numbers so great, they blocked the sun from the sky and brought the first winter, before we learned to follow the ways of the Wolf, the Lion, the Hawk, the Dolphin or the Horse; Human Kind was one Tribe, greater than any nation that has walked the hunt trails since.

It was a time when the Gods remained hidden from the Created Ones, and they instead watched and waited for thier time to come, observing what They had wrought, and resting from Thier labors.

In their absence, mighty dragons grasped and fought for the power to rule over all races, striving to mold the young world to their desires.

Humankind was closest to the Gods in the Firstdays, and in our ancestors was the power of Creation, and in their minds Knowledge. These things were our gift from Them, and in pursuit of their mastery, our ancestors forgot from whence the gift had come. Our ancestors had mastery of a magic that has long been lost, and with it they took the raw things of the world and molded them into fantastic creations.

And so as our people were turned inward in the pursuit of this magic and our own affairs, their attention away from the world, The Dragons achieved a place of power.

The world suffered under the uncontrolled rampage of dragon vanity, greed and lust. The other children of the Gods turned to the Council of the Human tribe, beseeching them to intercede.

The four Great Chiefs of the four Cardinal Paths, answered the Need, and gathered the powers of the Gift in a labor so great, that even the sleeping Gods stirred and opened thier eyes to watch.

When they were done, they found what they had wrought perfect in every way. With their work, they had wrought beings of energy, radiance and simple purity, capable of great feats. They took their first breath under the eyes of the First Children, and were named Llhumior, becoming grandchildren of the Gods.

In the aspect of the Llhumior, the best of all the races met; the mind magics of the Psycians, the mastery of magic of the Frontacians, the love of all things scholarly from the Usil Elves, and a mastery of nature as keen as that of Fir Elves. More, they had the adaptability and the Gift of Human kind, and the heart of an Imperial dragon.

Here the story fades, the strands of the tapestry snarling and unraveling. Some said one of the Gods was displeased with the creation of Humankind when he looked upon the Llhumior and created in them a flaw. Yet others maintain, that in their creation, the ancestors failed to heed the first law of creation, that for every light in this world there must be a dark, else the weight of the one side could collapse the foundation of Life, and destroy the world.

And so with the first breath of the first Llhumior, something stirred in the afterbirth of God wrought and human wrought life, coalescing and creating itself from the cast off remnants of labor, becoming all that was opposite of the Grandchild race.

The Gods watched as Abomination drew its first breath deep in the bowels of the darkest cave, its first cry of blackest rage, calling to its side the darker children of the Gods. Goblin-al, Oog-ra, Arachnian, and San Elf were drawn to it, and came under its dominion. It’s corruption found its like in them and twisted and warped what had been in balance, changing these races forever. And the Gods watched.

Centuries passed in the falling of a star, and the Children of the Gods tamed all the lands of the world. As they had been intended too, but in a way even humankind had not forseen, the Llhumior indeed defeated dragonkind. Something in thier nature calmed the menace of the great beasts, and brought forth in them the nobler qualities that had lain dormant. Yes, even the great Wyrms loved the Llhumior.

Because of the Grandchildren, dragonkind united and the Dragon Imperium was formed and accepted by the peoples of the land.

But in the places beneath the world, away from the light of the sun, another empire grew. Driven by its nature and its innate hatred of the Llhumior, the Abomination built an army the like of which had never been seen. It grew in strength, and bided its time.

When it emerged, dread filled the hearts of the races, for one of its abilities was the Knowing of each opponents greatest fear, and in fighting IT,
they faced their own demons.

The battles began and lasted hundreds of years, the Foe poisoning all it touched, the land destroyed beneath its feet. Famine, plague, and pestilence followed in its wake, its corruption twisting all it touched.

The Llhumior fought beside humankind, dragonkind, elvenkind, Frontacian, and Psycian, a beacon of hope and unflagging champions, though always the price they paid in battle was heaviest. As much as the Foe was drawn to them, they were to it, and thier conflicts shook the world.

Weakened by the sickness of the land, the Fir Elves turned from the centuries of battle in a desperate effort to heal the poisoned land.

Those elves of learning, the Usils, were nearly destroyed when the Foe tricked the armies of the Dragonlords, and turned instead on their vast
civilization, destroying thier cities and all their institutions of learning and all their great libraries that housed the knowledge of the races.

As the elves left the fight, the Foe pushed its advantage. Rivers flowed with blood and the seas grew red from its taint. Finally, in one tremendous effort, it seemed the Foe was defeated. The cost was dear, for in this conflict thousands of Llhumior were lost, reducing the race to near extinction.

But the centuries had taught the Foe well. For this time, instead of crushing its twin, the Ancient Enemy captured and imprisoned those of the Llhumior it could and returned with them to its lair beneath the earth.

It cannot be said what suffering they endured. But as with all things it touched, the Foe corrupted the incorruptible. It found the single weakness, the one flaw and in doing so at long last saw victory within its grasp.

The Foe made the Llhumior aware of the Gods. It taught them the truth of their creation, and nurtured in them a great sorrow. It told them they were souless, and lifeless, and fostered in them a resentment for their creators, and those that had been wrought by the Gods.

Some, it is said, died of broken hearts. But those that remained, pledged their loyalties to the Foe, for he promised them the secret of Life. Thus were the Betrayers born…the Muatana-al. The Foe gave them command of its armies, and a century after its retreat to its lair they reemerged in renewed strength.

This time there was a systematic destruction that before had been random. The first target, was Human civilization. When the darkness lifted, all that had been made by human hand was lost, save for what remained of the Llhumior.

In a last great effort, the survivors of the races gathered for one final ploy. The Frontacians had spent a century devising a trap of great cunning. As with any trap, bait was needed. Heeding the call once more, the Llhumior answered as one mind and heart, vowing vengance for the destruction wrought on Humankind. They entered the gargantuan structure built by the Frontacians to the last man and woman, and awaited the inevitable appearance of the Foe and its armies.

A festival was announced throughout the lands, whos purpose was to commemorate the victory of a hundred years past. Far and wide tales of the banquet hall were told…a structure shaped like an Octagon. Knowing well the greatest weakness of the Foe, it was also publicized that the Llhumior would be the guests of honor.

The Octagon stood at the bottom of a great valley, surrounded on all sides by sheer unscalable cliffs. Only one way was known into the valley, and it was here the armies gathered for the Final Battle.

Alone in the Octagon waited the Llhumior where the other races thought them safe, only a number of Frontacian mages gathered in hiding around them for protection, waiting to spring the trap. The Foe would be allowed to gain the valley, then be drawn into the Octagon while the Llhumior left it via a portal hidden inside. For within moments of the Foe entering, all other doors on the structure would disappear.

For two days they waited. On a night of no moon, while the armies slept, the Foe came. Its army attacked at the mouth of the canyon and battle raged. Too late, they saw its final cunning, for the valley did indeed have another way in, and it rose from beneath the earth with its dark servants at its side…the Mutana-al marched in its dark calvacade, and the sight broke the hearts of Frontacian and Llhumior alike.

Soundlessly the assasins entered, the Betrayers taking guard outside the entrance while thier Lord gained its prize, howling and capering outside the door. The sound of its voice raised in triumph, reached even those miles away in battle, and desperately the defenders turned to come to the aid of their beloved Llhumior.

The Frontacians blasted the creatures of the Foe with mighty magics, but were filled with dread when the Mutana-al turned upon them. Where before their race had powered magical energies, they now drained life with a touch. Too look into their eyes, once filled with the gentlest of souls, was to find Free Will taken away.

Victory in its grasp, the Foe turned from the waning attack of the Frontacians and entered the Octagon. In the same instant the beat of wings was heard, and a flight of Dragons arrived, carrying troops from the front. With them was the greatest Battlemaster of the Dragon Imperium, a giant gold beast called Reginorak Drakinor. In an instant he saw what had to be done and entered into the Octagon the moment the doors were sealed.

But the combined might of a single dragon and all his magics, and all his terrible claws was not enough to save the fight. In a display of power never before witnessed, the Foe felled all he touched as he realized the Octagon for the trap it was. In a final act of the courage that was an innate part of their makeup, the last band of living Llhumior collapsed the portal that was their escape, locking themselves and the Foe inside.

With heavy heart, High Mage Sinar gave the signal, and incantations were spoken from a hundred Frontacian throats choked with emotion. In a prismatic flash, the Octagon and all inside were gone, a final lingering howl and the roar of a dragon echoing in the void of its existance. The Llhumior, and the Foe, were gone.

All was still in those moment before dawn, centuries of strife come to this final moment. Then from the Human ranks stepped the Keepers of the Four Paths, and from the Mutana-al ranks a tall, pale general who had been known as Parsithanor, and three of his aides.

It is said that between Grandchild and Children, words were spoken, that even then the races sought to save what was left of their beloved Llhumior. But the taint was in them and they rejected those who had loved them, vowing that one day all the Children of the Gods would serve them. As those words were spoken, they struck, turning their twisted powers on the Great Leaders before their allies could act to save them. As the four Keepers died, they pronounced a terrible curse on the Mutana-al. As they chose dark from light, never again would they walk beneath the sun. For the rest of their days they would be cursed as creatures of night.

The Mutana-al broke from the valley and fled, the weight of the curse settling around them as the sun’s first rays pierced gray skies. Those who had not been fast enough to regain the darkness of underground caverns burst into pillars of flame, incinerating in white hot agony.”

The old crone ceased her tale and looked around at her rapt audience, aged fingers tracing the features of the mask, before she stood and carefully replaced it. She then turned and spoke once more, and it seemed even the blizzard outside had quieted to listen.

“Xanacta esqaluna borradoras en vashta. Sasqualah mordredor bayyone.”

Translation- ‘Remember what is said and give the words to the children. In
forgetting is the greatest sin commited.’

Sinahr LeBlanc

Sinahr’s Background

I am Sinahr LeBlanc, late of the forested northlands. I am the daughter of Malthias and Trenna LeBlanc, of a heritage strong in mercantile and ambassadorial history. Minor nobles in a place carved from forest and always shadowed from sunlight, ours was a lifestyle dependant on trade for many basic needs, but rich in their acquisition.

We lived in a loose affiliation of townships staggered along the base of craggy mountains that remained crowned with snow yearlong. I grew up well cared for, my every need seen to by doting parents and servants, knowing nothing of hardship or providing for myself. My attentions were
on the immediate, and I gave little thought to the future other than to realize one day I too would be bartered into an acceptable alliance for all the proper returns.

It was expected. So I spent my days with friends enjoying the fruits of  exotic trade, looking forward to the endless balls and parties and socials common to our class. Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, everything changed.

A dark conveyance richly appointed and drawn by a magnificent team of  horses was seen outside our inn. Curious, my
friends and I lingered nearby, hoping to catch a glimpse of the owner. After a time we became distracted and carried on with our usual games and pursuits. We were unaware that it was we who were now watched.

From the depths of the vehicle watched the man who would change the course of my future.

A mansion set apart from the town that had long been abandoned was again taken possession of. For months after, there were tales of dark and
frightening things that took place in that mansion. Hunters noted even the animals of the forest seemed to stay from its bounds.

I began to notice tension in my father when he would look at me. There was long and whispered conversation in my parent’s bedroom late at night when usually they were abed. There was a pall in the town, and many eyes turned in fear to the great stone house on the knoll.

There are stories I could repeat here- Tales of atrocities . . .missing  townspeople. . .strange happenings mysterious deaths among those that had been heard remarking unfavorably of the new tenant on the wooded knoll. And through those months I became aware of pitying looks and whispered conversations when I’d pass.

Shortly before my seventeenth birthday I was summoned before my parents.

With grave faces they informed me we would be joining the Master of the Knoll for a private dinner. Foolishly I was excited by the prospect. No
other that I knew of had been asked to dine with what was rumored to be a very powerful Archmage.

The evening came, and I was bathed, primped, and gowned in the richest I had. I did not understand the odd silence from my parents. I remember my mother looking ill, and how impatient I was with their subdued manner.

I had been raised in luxury. I had seen crafts from all over the world. Art, fabrics, jewels. But nothing prepared me for the splendor in that once abandoned mansion. Magic permeated it, dancing on the edges of my vision, raising the fine hairs along my arms and the back of my neck. It
was in the air around me and squeezed around my heart, making it difficult to breathe. Pictures, small objects, entire collections shifted and shimmered at times even as I watched. What was in my parent’s home refined and tasteful was here so overpowering it bewildered me.

For the first time I was afraid, and in small measure of understood my parents feelings.

Our host greeted us, finally. I will never forget his face, for it has been engraved on my soul. Aristocratic, pale, silver eyed and dark of  hair. Immaculately robed and cloaked. He was beautiful and powerful though not in physique. What radiated about this place was focused and
centered in him. I remember I almost swooned when he kissed my hand. It was not girlish infatuation, though I do not think he knew that. It was the waves of it rising off him like scent from old carrion, and it suffocated me. I was terrified.

I don’t remember that meal or leaving. I do not recall conversation or specifics, even now. But when I woke the next day my parents were gone.
No, not literally. They were still there. But in the simple vacant smiles and mindless commentary I could not find them. A sudden and
abrupt change, I was told what a lucky girl I was, that I would be given to that man to wife. So spectacular a matchI would be the envy of all my
friends.

I was horrified. I refused. I begged and pleaded and cried. I was treated as a child and locked in my bedroom as preparations were made.

In the end it came to escape. I laugh now as I recall my grand preparation. I took fancy dresses. . .pretty trinketsfavorite jewelry. Even, I am embarrassed to say, a favorite girlhood toy. I remember having difficulty buttoning my own gown. I had never so much as dressed myself. I think even then I looked at this in part as a grand adventure, and somewhere in my head was the thought I would be rescued from my troubles by some yet unintroduced hero.

So I left into the night from my balcony with no food, water, cloak, or any other number of things that would be practical. I made it down the road a mile before I tired and sat at the side of the road with blisters from my dancing slippers on my heels and tears in my eyes, and self pity
nearly choking me. But even then I knew I could not go back, so I shed some small part of my treasures, made my load lighter and limpingly
continued.

I did not know where I was going. I think in the back of my mind I believed my parents at least would come for me and see reason. I could
not know that my they were already dead as the price for breaking a pact with our dinner host from the Knoll outside the village.

I managed to avail myself of a caravan a day into my flight and my travel became more efficient. A kind old couple that only smiled when I
told them I was off to visit a cousin in some fabricated destination. . .but I would be happy to accompany them to the first major city?

I began to have nightmares. Images of my parents tortured before my eyes night after night, accusing gazes fixed on me. The voice of my
‘betrothed’ soft and sinister saying he would regain me and I would pay for my insult in ways I could not dream. I woke one morning in grasslands, alone. My travel companions were gone. . .as were all my possessions. I had no idea where I was, and absolutely no idea how to take care of myself. Though my benefactors had been thieves, they had carried me far and left me with my throat intact.

Benevolent I suppose considering other possible fates.

Much of what followed I have blocked from my memory. Starvation, illness and injury riddled with the nightly torture from my personal demon, as well as the sense he was closer. I knew he toyed with me.

On foot I crossed a mountain pass and saw below an endless stretch of desert. It glowed- gold and incandescent to my feverish eyes and the
warm promise of it reached into my ice-encased bones. On the verge of  collapse I found strength I did not know I possessed and each step
brought me closer to this place. . .a place I knew had sheltered others who flew from wicked things. . .a place free of the magic that tugged at
me like a chain and tormented my mind each time I closed my eyes. I did not know my way, and at some point in my staggering progress, I was
joined by a small reddish furred desert fox. I am not sure what she thought of me, but she kept just ahead of my wavering progress, often
looking back at me, and I found myself following her for lack of any better guide.

Somewhere on sun heated sands I lost what was left of my strength. I was content to die there, too tired and sore and sick to care, vaguely aware
that my little companion came in closer to inspect me as I lost consciousness in the sand.

It was not to be, however, and I think even now that Baar looked down upon me and found pity in his heart. I woke in a tent weeks later, cared
for by a dark skinned man with dazzling white teeth and his lovely wife. They cared for me, along with their noisy brood, extending to me all the
warmth and courtesy I have come to learn are integral to the people of this land.

The nightmares had given way in their intensity. . .now they were echoes of my own fears and heartache. The unnatural hold on me was gone and my pursuer nowhere to be found. Perhaps he assumed I had died. At times, I wonder if maybe I had.

I stayed until my 18th year and bade my friend’s goodbye. I had learned much about survival and self-sufficiency, and had a taste of what evil
could do. There is no doubt that the root of it was magic it was dangerous, corrosive, damaging those that touched it. I turned my back on it utterly, reborn in heat and fire and determination to find strength and to somehow make a difference. I found Antioch and was welcomed. I found a Guild and a family of a different sort. I found in a wide array of hearts and minds the same knowledge and definition of evil, and a purpose to remove its taint.

I am harder. I stifle the inclinations that surface at times to be in part the girl I was. I have chosen a life of battle and struggle over the quiet steadiness of small town living and innocence. I feel sun on my head and in my heart, the fires of my faith as hot as this place I  call home now. It is in this willingness to fight, however, I have found I am truly free.

Mud Soup

     So what is this blog about? Hmm, well honestly I suppose it  isn’t a blog in the traditional sense- I don’t intend this to really be about ME or any hot button topics. Instead I decided I would like a cohesive place to collect various creative writing tidbits as I am notorious for deleting, losing or simply not saving most of the writing attempts I have made over the years. I  figured it would be kind of cool to have it all in one place to reference and  maybe share with other hobbyists who might enjoy the ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ concept.

     Most of my writing is reflective of the sort of reading I enjoy most, which I figure is pretty typical of us dabbler types. Though I have ventured into most genres I have to admit I am a fantasy enthusiast for the most part. Introduced to Tolkien in grade school by a much-loved teacher, I grabbed every book of that sort I could get my hands on from that point on. Though I have had occasional forays into horror, science fiction, true crime, mysteries, historical bios and the occasional (should I blush?) romantic novel, my true love has remained very constant.

     So it should be no surprise that most of what is collected here stems from that same interest. Though I still have a couple original efforts at story writing from high school and college, the concept of ‘Character Development’ really came across for me when I ventured into RPG games starting with table top AD&D and later on the internet with text based internet games. I think the hook for this stuff came with the realization that I could create on the fly in cooperation with other people doing the same thing. It wasn’t just writing which can be a largely solitary pursuit, but something that was alive and instantaneous and constantly evolving because of what others brought to the creative mix.

     It’s kind of like a bunch of kids making ‘mud soup’ in dad’s old wheelbarrow in the backyard- everyone is throwing something in and the process is a blast. Just….you know.…actually eating it would be kind of gross. Let’s hope some of the creation process posted here is a bit more palatable!

     As I am married to another very creative gamer/ writer I have coerced my husband to post some of his stuff here as well. I know I enjoyed reading it and since it is how we met it fits that he has his own sections here as well.

Please enjoy your time with us!