Owain & Quinn

            The forest is thick with silvery fog. A gentle breeze drags the clouds of mist across the underbrush and deposits them in torn, tangled masses at the base of the trees.  The sky is shot with the golden rays of early morning sunlight which trickle down sparsely to anoint random patches of grass or long stretches of bark covered trunk.  Eventually, the sun will burn off the heavy moisture.  For now, though, it cloaks three hunters in a dewy blanket as they each crouch at the foot of a separate tall conifer.  The two smaller figures, boys who have reached that gangly awkwardness of impending manhood, wear soft leather pants and heavy woolen jackets tailored in mellow browns and greens.  The third member's larger, far more muscular frame is clad from head to toe in velvety black.  As he hulks five spans behind the boys, clinging to the shadows, it is difficult to make out any particular feature.   A pointed beard mirroring steeply arched brows melts into the mist.  An errant ray of morning light lands on craggy features, the sharp bones casting angled shadows on the plains of his ruddy face.  And although the boys are focused on the beast they have been tracking, the man's dark eyes never leave the young pair.

           

            Their quarry is a mere thirty spans upwind.  A mature hart, sinewy neck angled down as it nibbles at the grass, has no idea he has been stalked for the better part of the morning.  The two young hunters are very adept at tracking and following any number of creatures which call the Voldaar Forest their home.  They have worked hard to perfect their skills.  Over the past six cycles, they have tracked, trapped, hunted and fished, and at the young age of sixteen, have spent as many nights under the stars as under a roof.  Today will prove to be the culmination of all their training, for never before have they taken down anything larger than a boar.

            His cheeks flushed with cold and heart hammering in anticipation, Quinn, the larger and darker of the boys, curves a steady hand to the quiver at his waist.  Quietly, with as little movement as possible, he raises a tidy crossbow to his chest, silently locks the bolt in place, and expertly takes aim.  He does not blink.  He does not breathe.  Focusing every cell of his being on the vulnerable spot at the animal's chest just behind its foreleg, he visualizes the energy of the great beast's heart as it pounds out the primal rhythm of life.  With the gentle, steady pressure of his finger against the trigger, he begins the simple motion that will end that cadence.

            "Quinn!" Partially muffled and eerily falsetto, the shout has him randomly firing the bolt as he whirls toward his companion.

            The sight that greets him curdles his blood, and the bow falls from his numb fingers.  Owain, Prince of Voldaar and lifelong friend, is on his back where he must have fallen, placing himself in the most vulnerable position possible as his shadowy assailant advances dagger point first.  Initially, the scene makes no sense.  What in the Greenfather's name is Cathal doing?  Why would their hunting and tracking trainer draw a dagger and move in on Owain? Quinn pans his eyes around the forest, eliminating any other menace, before the truth can be forced on his mind.  Catching the telling green glint from Cathal's dagger, everything falls into place, for there on the flat of the blade is the King's mark.  Not the crowned Lion and Shield of the rightful bloodline, of course, but the Snake and Spike of Hamish the Usurper, the putrid animal's evil eye set with a green gem, as is commonplace.

            Quinn does the only thing he can think to do to when confronted by an opponent three times his size.  He runs.  Straight at the aggressor.  Head tucked, shoulders rounded, and knees bent, he hits the man hard and low, like a small boulder, knocking him to the ground.  Bouncing off the solid man he rolls agilely to the side and up to his feet.  Being smaller and younger has its advantages, and Quinn knows each and every one of them.  More importantly, he knows how to use them.

            Owain has taken the opportunity to right himself, pull out his meager belt knife, and is ready to enter the fray.  Quinn cannot let that happen.  One or more of them will die today in the thicket, and Quinn will not allow the Heir Apparent of Voldaar, brother of his heart, to become a casualty  in this skirmish.  Already, the wolfish, leering assassin has turned himself again toward the Prince. 

            "Owain, no!  Be gone from this place."  Quinn's order brings Owain's furious purple eyes to lock with his.  With a small shake of his delicate head, the Prince readjusts the knife in his palm and lowers his stance, readying for combat.

            "Owain!  You must not stay!"

            The assassin's cruel bark of laughter breaks in on their battle of wills.  "Yes, Owain.  Run away.  I'll make a quick job of your confident little friend here and be on you soon enough, no matter how far your spindly legs carry you.  So run, and make my business here with this bothersome pup all the easier!"

            On those words, Cathal turns, redirecting himself at Quinn.

            "Your Highness.  For all that is sacred, run!  Flee!"  Surprisingly, Owain does.  With one last angry look into Quinn's black eyes, the prince turns and runs.

           

            Twisting to look over his shoulder, the assassin rumbles with derisive laughter.  "Well, would you look at that!  The little rogue left you to me.  I was sure he'd come in to try and poke me with that little toy of his if I gave him an unassuming target like my back."

            "You'll never know what it took for him to do that.  He is honest and true through to his royal soul, everything you can never be.  Which is why I will not let you have him.  One day he will be King.  And his kind heart and keen mind will bring Voldaar to new heights.  It will be a reign unlike any other.  So, do what you will.  I will not let you leave this forest today with your black blood still beating in your hollow heart." 

            "You will not let me leave?"

            "That's right."  Making those his final words, Quinn pulls his short sword from the black leather scabbard at his hip and commits himself mind, body, and soul to his first and last battle in this lifetime.

            Cathal cackles at the ludicrous sight.  Quinn, one third the size of the assassin, cannot possibly think he will win.  Nevertheless, he has his feet planted as firmly as any warrior, grips his sword as steadily as a veteran, and the determination on his face surpasses any the blackguard has ever come across.  Cathal believes it will come down to size and last only a few moments.  So, tapping the flat of his dagger blade against his open palm, taunting Quinn with his easy, casual stride, he slowly advances, hoping to drag out a few more moments of tortuous pleasure.  Two cycles of training these boys in the mundane have worn his patience thin.  He seeks revenge for that boredom as much as for the audacity of surviving the coup perpetrated by his lord and master, the Voldaar bloodline living on as an inevitable threat to the usurping king.

            Quinn waits, sword at his side, giving no sign of the cool thoughts flowing through his heated mind.  He waits while the overconfident assailant brings himself inside the range of his sword arm.  He waits while the dagger bounces loosely in a careless rhythm against the assassin's meaty palm.  He waits until the devil is close enough and sure enough and yet still unprepared enough to react when Quinn tosses his sword from his far right arm into his close left, swinging his right leg in an arc to land against the dagger, inappropriately gripped, and thusly dislodged to fly with a clatter against a nearby tree.  Quinn spins through the kick and brings his sword to slice violently, unexpectedly, against the monster's ribs.  Just as quickly, he ducks and reverses his momentum, placing his back in front of the wounded man, to strike again. This time he swings low as he rolls past the man and takes out the well muscled thigh encased in vulnerable black wool.

            Howling in anger and pain, the wounded man presses a hand to his thigh.  A greasy spot spreads across Cathal’s black shirt under his arm.  His vile fluids drip from his leg to land on the ground cover in an angry red trail as he lumbers awkwardly after Quinn.

            In the trees beyond Cathal, Quinn spies the flutter of Owain's green cloak.  Rather than moving from the battle, as would be the wise and proper move for a threatened member of the royal bloodline, Owain has returned with the misbegotten notion of aiding his adoptive brother. Quinn watches in horror as his stubborn friend advances, quickly and stealthily, upon the unsuspecting man.

           

            Cathal catches the odd shudder of fury that passes over Quinn's face.  He turns at the last possible moment to knock Owain's knife out of an over handed grip.  The prince's arm, which had been confidently hurtling toward the assassin's back a mere second before the stunning blow, now hangs useless and weaponless.  Cathal, on the other hand, has managed to move surprisingly quickly for one of such size and leaking so much blood.   He reclaims the prince's small knife as his own.  Freshly armed and grinning the feral grin of a cat right before it sinks its jagged teeth into a defenseless mouse, Cathal closes the two steps needed to bring himself within striking distance of his original target.

            Time thickens and spreads out on the heels of panic as it floods Quinn's mind.  He watches Owain, helplessly rooted by terror, close his eyes as the assassin's arm begins the arc that will surely cut the Prince's throat and end his life before his rag like body hits the ground.  Quinn has one opportunity.  The battle has shuffled the players so that Quinn now stands adjacent to Cathal and the Prince, who face each other in the final steps of this deadly dance.  With each tic of eternity, Cathal's weapon comes closer to ending the Lion's reign forever.  Quinn launches himself and matches that countdown beat for beat, so that when the assassin's blow finally lands, the knife burrows deep in his tender chest, missing the Prince altogether. 

            All three are stunned and stand for a moment, their harsh panting the only sound in the forest, before Quinn falls first to his knees and then his side, the dull handle of Owain's knife protruding from his chest.  There are no words of undying friendship as Quinn takes his last breath.  In the time it takes for his heart to pound out one last beat, his eyes glaze over in death.

            Dropping to his knees, the prince sobs one word, over and over, at first so quiet it doesn't part the air, turning into a scream so violent it shakes the forest at the roots.  "No.  No, no, no!"

            He is filled with anger that burns to fury, first consuming him and then feeding something primal deep inside his soul.  He can feel every hair vibrating, every inch of his body burning with an icy power, building and filling him so full he will surely explode.

            Cathal decides the game has gone on long enough.  Spying his dagger lying at the base of a nearby tree, he retrieves it and returns to carry out his villainous task. 

            He takes three steps before Owain turns and looks at him.  The prince's mouth is gritted tightly shut, etching a grim line beneath his furiously glowing purple eyes. As his young fingers ball into fists on his thighs, Cathal is abruptly halted by an unseen force and chained in place.  A burning agony begins in his heart and resonates through his chest.  The icy heat fills him completely, ever expanding, stretching his veins to capacity until they wriggle like snakes under his skin.  His mouth opens in a silent scream as the air is crushed out of his lungs by the pressure of his own fluids.  Blood drips from his nose.  When he brings his hands up to cradle his head with swollen purple fingers, he finds a sticky, wet trail leaking from each ear.  A humming begins and matches the tempo of his rushing blood.  He has no time to determine if the noise is originating inside his skull or without.   Before he even has time to complete the thought, his body explodes, landing on the forest floor in a gruesome puddle of death.

Valdaris

                The meeting hall is constructed entirely into a vast expanse of softly glowing ivory marble.  The pillars, floors, and walls blend with the tooled wooden benches and tables that have been worn to the smooth patina of frequently used and highly waxed wood, creating a serene atmosphere conducive to rich and productive thought.  Indeed, the entire backdrop is starkly at odds with the roiling sea of black robed figures, gyrating and gesticulating in a primitive dance fueled by unabated anger.  All logical argument is lost high in the vaulted ceiling where it is distorted into a mind numbing buzz and projected back down to mix with, and then overpower, a ruthless, staccato hammering. 

                Seeing that his efforts are worthless, the livid dwarven Head Minister throws the useless gavel down on the table and plops back to his bench with an inaudible humph!  Crossing his arms and strumming his fingers against the smooth fabric of his robe, he stews and fumes as he views the Ministry Hall from beneath thick brows bent in disgust.  His steel grey gaze pans around the room until it lands on the Governor, a slender elf with a similar bend to his dark brow and an equally molten brown stare.  The Head Minister takes the opportunity to communicate a series of jabbing signals with his stubby fingers.  This earns a weary nod from the elf, and both men rise and mount a steep flight of stone steps carved along the front wall of the Ministry Hall.  They come to rest on a platform just under a huge obsidian gong.  In the wall beneath the enormous disc are a series of eight rods--four bronze and four silver--attached at various heights.  Shaking his head in disgust, the Head Minister grasps a bronze rod in his wide palm, closes his grey eyes, and begins concentrating.  Although he cannot see his elven counterpart, he knows the Governor has wrapped his slender fingers around the matching silver rod when an icy current shoots through his compact frame.

                The hum is unnoticeable at first, merely a vibration in the background.  Eventually the noise reaches a crescendo that has the ministers grabbing their ears, robes billowing in black clouds around weakened knees as they fall onto the wooden benches. 

                Absolute silence and stillness greet the Governor and Head Minister as they descend the steps to take their seats.  The dwarf clears his throat and many of the black robed figures jump, their senses left raw by the recent magical assault.

                "This arguing and childish loss of control will solve nothing. Maintain yourselves or I will move this to a private session." Although barely louder than a gruff whisper, the admonition reaches every ear in the room.

                The head Minister brings his hairy knuckled hands up to absently smooth the chest of his robe as he rereads for the hundredth time the writing on the sheet of parchment in front of him.  His brow creases into a scowl as his fingers cease their stroking.  After a moment of stillness, he begins tapping them in a thoughtful rhythm.  Gravely, he looks over to the Defender's table.

                The dwarf takes in the utter stillness of the convicted elf.  The alabaster skin and silver hair glow like the marble of the hall and combine with a motionless pose to create the illusion of a finely crafted statue.  He is waiting.  Waiting inside his stone armor to meet the sentence he knows is inevitable.

                Preceded by a resigned sigh, the words are nonetheless spoken with conviction.  "I can see no other solution.  I support the proposed sentence.  Governor?"

                The convicted elf raises his head and for the first time, the Head Minister sees hope in the dejected gaze as it slides past him and over to the Governor, hope that is dashed as the elven minister's face contorts with the pain of a tormented soul. 

                "Nor I.  Let the sentence stand." As the Governor sails from the room on the wake of his decree, the hall once again fills with stunned voices.  Four dwarves move to secure the newly sentenced prisoner.  They could have saved their efforts.  Daltrath Valdaris, Arch Mage in the Blue Order, is bound to his chair in overwhelming shock, barely able to move with the unimaginable weight that grows in his chest and constricts his throat.

                This time, the piercing demands of the gavel bring immediate order to the assembly.  "Let the records show, then, that Daltrath Valdaris, by popular vote with a margin of one, has been condemned to lifelong exile after being Stripped.  The details will be wrought between the heads of the races, namely myself, Greyson Goldorn, dwarven representative and Head Minister of the City of the Stars, and Gravin Valdaris, elven representative and Governor of the City of the Stars."

                It seems as if Greyson cannot wait to bang the gavel one last time and escape out the side door.

*    *    *  

                 The Head Minister's private chamber is as still and quiet as a cave.  The earthy atmosphere of warm woods and woolen carpets is a welcoming contrast to the starkly formal marble of the meeting hall.  Governor Valdaris, hunched over a massive wooden desk with his head in his hands, makes no move as Head Minister Goldorn enters the room and pulls the door shut behind his stocky frame.  Muffled movements-- first footsteps, then the dull clink of glass on glass, and finally a thunk as a glass of amber liquid settles on the heavy wooden desk--go unnoticed by the soul-sick elf.  In fact, until the dwarf rests a rousing hand on Valdaris' dejectedly rounded shoulder, he is unaware that he is no longer alone.

                "Drink."  The single word rumbles from between whisker clad lips as the dwarf makes his way around the wide expanse of deeply stained wood to his own matching chair.

                "C'mon.  Drink.  It may not warm your soul any, but it will do wonders for your constitution."

                The stout glass is wrapped in a shaky grip and transported to numb lips, where its entire contents are emptied in a single swallow.  The brown fingers are much steadier as they return the glass to the tabletop.  The dwarf was right.  His soul still aches hollowly, but an angry burn has begun in the vicinity of his heart.  With every beat, his blood is heating in anger.  Anger at a brother who put him in this position to begin with.

                "There you go, Gravin my friend.  Your pretty elven cheeks are once again tinged with the pink of roses."

                There is a sardonic twist to the dwarf's lips as he deeply searches the other man's eyes, which are no longer hopeless.  They are an angry black, as cold as the obsidian of the gong hanging in the Meeting Hall.

                "It is flattering that you notice such things as the pink of my pretty elven cheeks, my friend."  Gravin's smirk is met with a snort which ruffles the heavy fringe of golden whiskers beneath Greyson's nose.

                "I've known you for fifty cycles.  Never once have I seen you as grey as you were when I came in here.  Are you sure you want to continue?  A suitable replacement will be easy enough to find."

                "No.  Now that we have come this far, knowing that what we must do is necessary, do you really want to start all over again hashing out the details with a reluctant replacement?  Although the sentence will stand, there are many ways the Elven Ministry can drag its feet and prolong the inevitable, while the situation continues to worsen with every passing day."

                "Well then, let's put our heads together and get this business finished.  The sooner we are done, the sooner you can begin to put this behind you."

                "Oh, my dear friend.  As long as the blood of my father runs in my veins, I will never move past what I must now do to my brother."

*    *    *

                It was decided that the ceremony should take place as soon as possible.  So on the third day after the sentencing, representatives from each  of the four orders stand in a line on the top floor of the Tower of Magic, all easily identified by colorful robes.  The two elves are clad in blue and green, while the two dwarves wear brown and white.  Daltrath, seated at a side table adjacent to the colorful line of mages, appropriately wears the grey of a neophyte.  During his first visit to the tower he was dressed in grey, just as he is now for his last.  Those two visits are separated by a lifetime.  The eager young man dressed in the rough robe his mother bought, filled with excitement and ready to begin his life, grown now into the bitter Arch Mage recently humbled by his magic, filled with dread as he hopelessly waits for the ceremony that will effectively mark the end his life.

                The Tower of Magic is the tallest building in the City of the Stars and was erected at the farthest point from the eastern edge of the outlying farms.  Its needle-like shadow falls on a manicured green garden in the morning and a silvery stone courtyard in the evening.  Everything about the grounds is beautiful from the twinkling fountain to the sculpted bushes at the gate.  Closing his eyes, the silver haired mage remembers walking the garden path hundreds of times, first robed in grey, then in a rich blue and finally in the sapphire studded silver of a Blue Master, never fully appreciating the view.  He would walk past the fountain, unseeing, as his mind spun, trying to evaluate the details of some new formula.  What was the figure at the center of the fountain?  Was it a goat?  He distinctly remembers long legs ending in hooves, but it seemed taller...distorted.  A hind?  How odd that he can't remember the fountain.  He passes it every time he travels to the out buildings that house his alchemy lab.

                The grinding of the sliding stone door pulls Daltrath from his memories.  The black robed figures of his brother and the Head Minister enter the room, followed immediately by the Arch Mage of each order.  These are his closest colleagues, men and women he has worked beside for the last twenty cycles.  He seeks out the face of the silver and blue robed elf.  It is Maurina.  She is strong and talented and will make a good figurehead for the Blue Order.  She was also not one of his close pupils and never worked on any of his projects with him, which he knows to be the full reason why she has been appointed to his seat over the much more capable and highly gifted Rogan.  Nodding his head in her direction he seeks out his brother's resolute gaze.

                Gravin looks worn and drawn.  The light gray peppering at his temples brings out the hollows in his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes.  Looking into that deep gaze, Daltrath searches for any morsel of forgiveness or understanding.  He merely finds a cold wall, so he looks down at his lap.

                Head Minister Greyson's voice scratches out a query to the colorfully clad representatives.  "Is all in order?"

                The brown clad dwarf steps forward, russet beard bouncing on his chest.  "It is, sir."  His words are accompanied by the nervously bobbing heads of his companions as they wordlessly support his assertion.

                "Then let us begin."

                The four representatives escort Daltrath from the antechamber into the candle lit Ceremonial Hall.  In the center of the room on the floor is an inlaid obsidian disc.  Much like the gong from the Meeting Hall, its purpose is to amplify magical energy.  Around the disc are silver and bronze plates, four of each, arranged at regular intervals.  The representatives deposit Daltrath on a small ivory stone platform at the head of the circle and then take their places on the metallic plates, arranging themselves in a semicircle facing the grey robed mage.  The Arch Mages are the last to enter the room, and they seat themselves in rows of stone benches behind the semicircle. Greyson pulls the door shut and remains in the shadows at the back of the room along with Gravin,, hands solemnly clasped and heads reverently bowed.

                One by one, the mages close their eyes and concentrate on sending their energy through their feet, into the receiving plate.  They begin a silent chant, mouths forming the ancient words that fly through their minds as they focus in on Daltrath's life force.  Delicately--magically--they separate the portion of his being used to control the natural force, known as the Power.  Each mage grasps tightly to this wriggling ribbon which has been used in such atrocious ways.  The tighter they hold, the harder Daltrath fights, his mind attempting to obliterate those probing fingers.  It is a silent battle, but one as strenuous as those fought with a sword.  Foreheads are wet with perspiration; ragged breaths are ripped from the surrounding air which has gotten noticeably hotter.  The candle flames begin to flicker and weave, the shadows they cast against the walls playing out the battle raging silently in the minds of the five people at the center of the room.

                Soaked and panting, Daltrath grits his teeth and releases a low, keening growl which modulates itself into words as he loses ground against the assault.  "You...cannot...have me!"

                With one last guttural, wordless scream, Daltrath's mind collapses and he sags in his chair. Just before he sinks into blessed oblivion, a memory of the fountain fills his thoughts. 

                "A winged horse."

*    *    *  

The Forgotten Ones

               She appears frail. Lyrical limbs and delicately turned features peek from under a shrouding cloak of strangely glimmering cloth, which hangs heavily to the top of her soft grey leather boots. Her platinum hair cascades around a gently pointed face and completely down her back in an ethereal nimbus. When they are open, her eyes are like quicksilver and flit about, easily distracted. Floating along on choreographed movements, she takes no prolonged notice of the forest in which she travels. Or so it seems.

                It is all masterfully crafted illusion. Her strength and grace are that of a hunter rather than a dancer. And as a hunter she moves lithely on silent feet, her athletic body along with a large quiver of arrows hidden beneath the strange cloak. The silvery curtain of waist length hair camouflages the most obvious signs of her heritage: softly pointed ears and a burled wooden bow. Her eyes dart from shadow to shadow, moving on so quickly it appears that she could not possibly notice much. They are the trained eyes of a Tracer, however, and she notices everything in minute detail. Indeed, she spies something and her airy footsteps pause. A dark figure hulks out of a copse of trees. In one fluid motion, she reaches across her back for her bow and to her hip to part a slit in her cloak. Again, liquid movement as she grabs an arrow from a quiver hanging at her thigh, strings it, and lets it fly with perfect aim into the throat of the man sized wolf that is her target.

                She moves purposefully forward, her leather clad legs visible in the side vents of her cloak now that she has lengthened her strides. And although she still maintains the silent glide that is peculiar to her race, her knee high boots scrape along the twigs and needles on the forest floor as she crouches next to the mangy corpse.

                Her voice is unexpectedly sultry and resonant as she cracks the silence with one word, "Lupen."

                It is as if the forest hears her: birds panic into the skies, squirrels chitter into their nests, the very trees seem to curl up, drawing in their branches.

                She stands and grips the silver shaft of the spent arrow. Twisting, she violently yanks it out of the crumpled creature and brazenly wipes the remaining traces of vile juices on its own matted fur. She looks over her shoulder as she returns the arrow to the blue leather quiver.

                "Are there more?" This is spoken to the large grey tiger as it pads from between two trees and over to the lupen, sniffing at the oozing wound in its throat. Slanted green eyes make contact with round lavender ones before the cat lopes back into the trees with the huntress bounding behind.

                They do not run far. The cat stops abruptly at the edge of a clearing and growls a complaint into the air. The girl can smell it too. The metallic stench of many dead bodies wafts around the clearing as if confined by the ring of trees encircling the meadow. It is colder inside the ring, and even though there are no trees to shade the sun, it appears darker and more dismal than it should. This is what she has been tracking for three days. This eerie coldness. Five times she has crossed its trail. Each time a small collective of one of the lesser races was butchered, the gruesome pieces left strewn about a confined area: twice a gully and three times now a meadow. Since the Lupen live in the forest and the Orcan live in the hills, the gullies and meadows are the ideal places in those habitats to stage an ambush. But what could butcher these creatures like this, using no apparent weapon?  The bodies appear to be torn apart. The only race large enough and smart enough to stage the ambush and carry out the violent rage would carry off the bodies for feasting, not leave them lying to rot. And she has not heard any of the drunken rioting that heralds a Grogan war party.

                The hairs prickle at the back of her neck. Icy fingers weave down her spine. The cat can feel it, too. Fear has become foreign to this pair, yet she sees it mirrored in the green eyes of her companion. It heightens all of her senses and what she hears weakens her knees just as the cat crouches to the grass.

                "Dor landa, Nightfang! Dor landa, et sirda vandadas!" 

               

                Never before has she uttered that command. But what she feels has her screaming it at the cat.  "Run, Nightfang. Run and do not come back."

                Years of training have given them the focus to think under pressure. Years of conditioning have given them the strength and agility to accomplish whatever feat they must to survive. Years of drilling have honed the skills that are now instinctive. They do not worry or hesitate. They act.

                Taking off in a dead sprint in opposite directions, weaving high and low through the trees and brush, they flee. As long as that icy keening can be heard, they will run. It grows louder and seems to follow in the two directions that the girl and cat choose, north and south.

                Her breath is heavy, but not ragged. She is terrified, but in control. She does not see the ravine in time to alter her course, so she tucks her legs up and rolls down the rocky face gathering bruises and cuts with every bump, but as soon as she slows, she gathers her feet back under her and continues running. She is well past the ravine when she realizes that she is not being followed. The keening has stopped and so does she, with her hands on her knees, examining her battered arms as she settles her breathing. She begins walking, taking note of the sun filtering through the treetops. The chill is gone. The smell of fear that seemed to seep from the forest floor is gone, too.

                She makes her way to a stream. Examining her tattered cloak, she locates a portion that doesn't appear quite as filth riddled as the rest and tears it free. Crouching, she soaks it in the cool water and then begins tending to her numerous wounds. It isn't long before she needs to tear another piece from her cloak, and then another after that. By the time she is clean and the oozing from her injuries has stopped, the sun is falling from the sky. Pushing the remnants of her cloak under a bush, she resumes her trek. This time, she heads east. The cat will also return to the village. 

                As she jogs, her tired mind returns to the scene in the meadow. The chill. The bodies. The keening. She has never come across anything like this before. It seems as if she was chased away. The pursuit did not last long., just long enough to put distance between her and the clearing. She has been confronted by many angry mother bears and that is what this feels like. Something was protecting that clearing.

                The daylight ebbs and her curious purple eyes can be seen glowing in the dusk. Night vision is unique to the Elvan. It allows her to continue her fast pace and she reaches the village before the third moon makes its appearance.

                Nightfang is crouching by the gates as she approaches the settlement. He trots to her and brushes against her smooth leather leggings. Smiling, she bends to rub one hand between his ears and the other under his chin.

                "I am glad to meet you again, as well, ma fal'onda."  And she climbs the ramp to the village in the trees.

*  *  * 

                "I am telling you, Falon, we were chased."

                "Lyrrica, sister, I think this comes from too much time spent cavorting with that cat in the wilds.  It is very understandable that you panicked. A scene that gruesome would instill fear and paranoia in the most seasoned tracker. You need a warm bath and a heavy meal and a night under a roof. Then, tomorrow you can take Jalyth and his Band out to investigate with a clear mind."

                Falon never gave his sister credit. She was his younger sister. But she had seen 14 cycles since she was inducted into the elite group known as Tracers. And like all Tracers, she had been a village tracker for 10 before that.  She had shown such talent, the village had nominated her for the position of village tracer, and she had traveled to Dorvaan for five years of extensive training. There were only three tracers per village at any time, and she was the youngest. She was also the best. It was a distinction Falon chose to overlook when dealing with her.  In his eyes, she would always be the skinny, accident prone younger sister in constant need of guidance.

                "Falon, I am hungry. I am tired. I have spent 12 moons 'cavorting with that cat in the wilds', as you put it. I would like nothing more than to push this off on all of that. But I know what I felt. I had been tracking this…whatever it is. The scene was not new to me. And yes, tomorrow I will take Jalyth and the Band out to see what they can make of it.  And most likely the thing will be absent as it has been the four times previous. But that doesn't undo the fact that I was pursued. Nightfang, too. He was as scared as I.  You mark my words, there is something in the woods the likes we have not seen before. And since it is attacking and butchering the creatures that live here, we should take it seriously. And that is my professional opinion." 

                She couldn't resist reminding him. It always made his eyes go wide and sometimes he even turned a mild shade of pink at the reproach. But even at this grave time, she said the words with a gentle light in her eye and a delicate half smile on her lips. For all his bossiness and presumption, he loved her and she treasured that.  It was a tough world and had been for as long as she could remember, so it was nice to be looked after and fussed over every once in a while.She wouldn't change her brother for anything in the world. She just needed him to take her seriously from time to time.

                "I still think you are looking at this with weary eyes. And that is my professional opinion."

                "Yes, Dr. Falon." She stretches on her toes to gently brush a sisterly kiss on his smooth cheek.  And he grudgingly reaches over and ruffles a hand against her silvery hair.

                Grabbing an apple from a nearby bowl, she leaves the room on tired legs.

*  *  *

                The man draws the stump of arm closer to his nose. Or maybe it is his eyes. It is difficult to tell exactly what sense he is using to examine the macabre evidence. He seems to hold the hunk of decaying flesh close and scan it with his whole body before abruptly standing and dropping it to the ground with a dull thud.  Clearly it has told him as much of the tale as it is going to and serves no further purpose to him.   

               

                "I see no sign of a weapon, either crafted or natural. There is minimal bruising which points to a death before the bodies were sundered, however there is no sign of what actually killed them. Strangely, nothing has entered this meadow since you were here, Lyrrica. The dry season has resulted in many hungry predators willing to eat anything to survive, yet nothing has attempted to feast on these remains even when the stench of death can be smelled almost to the edge of the streams."

                "Also…" and here his brusque voice wavers. He becomes visibly uncomfortable. For Jalyth to be uncomfortable  is unheard of.  He clears his throat and begins again.

                "I must mention that I feel something…cold. Unnatural?  Yes, distinctly unnatural."

                He again falls into the act of speaking and regains his confidence, peering through his thick ebony eyebrows at Lyrrica, "And that is impossible here."

                The enormous forest and all of the surrounding border are naturally blessed. One might even say enchanted.   It has been this way since the beginning of time. Well, at least since the Greenfather declared the Elvan the most treasured of his children and rewarded them with the Six Cities. Each one of the Six Cities is buried deep in the center of a forest that holds anything unnatural or potentially threatening at its border. It is futile to attempt to journey into such a place, for the paths will mysteriously dump the trespasser out again at the entry point. To be accepted into the forest, the traveler must be native, marked, or escorted.

                Lyrrica looks deeply into the trackers green eyes and nods. Her lips firm at the memory of those icy fingers of fear clawing at her spine.

                "The noise was one I have never before heard, Tracker. And I was overcome." 

                There is a shameful pause at the words. For a Tracer to be fearful is as unheard of as Jalyth's discomfort.

                "You are humbled, but do not feel ashamed, Lyrrica. I feel the source of your fear. It has unnerved me as well."

                Scanning the collected group of leather clad Elvan he continues further, "I am even willing to be as presumptuous as to speak for this group. There is something here that we all sense should not have been capable of entering.  And whatever it is disturbs us monumentally even in its absence.  I cannot imagine what it would be like to encounter it directly."

                Each member of the tracking party does indeed look nervous. This is yet another unheard of condition since the Elvan are an arrogant, self assured race, seldom afflicted with nervousness or a wavering countenance. The day seems to be filling up with exceptional situations and everyone is unsettled.              

                "You say you have been tracking this for twelve moons?"

                "Yes, Tracker. And each scene is similar to this: bodies torn and left untouched by even the carrion eaters, all occurred in either a meadow or gully,and each time I could make out no mark left by a weapon, crated or otherwise. It is just as you determined."

                "The only victims are the lesser races?"

               

                "Yes." A single, sharp nod sets her unbound silver hair bouncing.

                "And they all occurred far from the outlying villages?"

                "The closest is this one, Tracker." Quicksilver eyes sweep the meadow.

                "So there is no apparent purpose. These creatures have no wealth or cultivated land to fight over.  And although predatory, they simply act as predators, only attacking to protect their territory or to eat."

                Jalyth dips his head in thought. After a moment he tilts it back up enough to look into Lyrrica's childlike face.

                "Pack your weapons and enough food to last until we reach Saadra'naar."

*  *  *

Garvol the Green

His strong hands are short fingered, stubby and square at the knuckles, and more palm than finger. His whole body is built much along the same lines: short legs and arms, a compact frame, every cubic inch densely packed with muscle. His dwarven body is perfectly constructed for the life of labor his people live. In fact, he could easily squeeze the life out of the small kitten he cups in his hands simply by closing them. But his hands are not the hard, calloused and eternally dirt stained hands of his fellow clansmen. His hands are clean and soft palmed and gentle as they carefully cradle the small animal angrily mewling about with its eyes squished shut, oblivious to the nourishment Garvol is offering in the unfamiliar form of a glass dropper.

"Come now. This is it. It was good enough for your brothers, and there they are, curled up in a warm basket with full bellies while you are out here in the cold with pains in your stomach. There is no good sense to obstinance for obstinance sake." And in a gruff whisper as the tiny white kitten finally accepts the milk, "There's a girl. Now isn't that good? It's not the best, but it's what we have and soon enough you'll replace it with those blasted rodents that come in here and eat holes through all my books, won't you? Yes, I think you are going to be a good hunter."

There is heavy pounding at the thick wooden door quickly followed by a booming voice, "Garvol? Are you in there?" There is more insistent pounding which ceases simply because Garvol pulls the door open and moves it out of the reach of the hammering fist.

"Lindol! Come in?" Garvol pulls the door wider to accommodate the sturdy dwarf, and stands to the side in silent invitation.

"Oh, I can't, Garv. I am here to fetch you to the field. There's a problem with the --"

"Mew!"

Both sets of eyes move to the tiny wriggling form pressed into the rough brown sweater covering Garvol's broad chest.

"Oooh, I don't think he likes that, Garv."

"She."

"What?" The dark eyes flash back up to Garvol's pale gaze at the correction.

"She's a she. And what she doesn't like is having her breakfast interrupted."

"Well, what are you doing feeding it breakfast? You are not exactly equipped with the proper mechanisms for feeding baby cats."

Garvol brandishes the dropper with a flourish before he turns and sets it on the rough wooden table that serves as his desk as well as his dining table. The dark eyes follow Garvol as he makes his way to the large basket full of sleeping kittens and ever so gently deposits the squirming white one in with her grey brothers. Inevitably, her agitated movements rouse her littermates to a chorus of tiny mews and the whole basket writhes in demand of another feeding.

"Well, the mother better finish up with whatever has taken her away and get back here. Who would expect such small critters could make such a racket?"

"She won't be coming back."

"Who won't? Oh, the mother? Why not?"

"This is Krilla's litter and she died bringing them into the world." Garvol reaches down to pick the white kitten up again. He holds it in front of his kind face as he remembers a motherless kitten from years past who needed him in the beginning as much as this one needs him now; they are loving memories of a stubborn, white kitten who grew into a grand mouser and helped preserve the integrity of her master's books.

"Krilla was that big white mouser of yours? What a shame. Well, at least you have a replacement so you won't be overrun with these blasted mice. But what are you doing keeping the basket of the rest of them in the house? The incinerating is going on at the heap right now. And that means you are going to have to put up with this blasted noise for another day." Lindol jerks Garvol out of his bittersweet thoughts with this abrupt observation, an observation which might be considered minimally as unfeeling or maximally as completely diabolical by anyone other than a dwarf.

"Yes, Lindol. I will put up with this noisy bunch for the next two cycles. They will not be going into the incinerator."

"But they'll starve! It is much better to end it quickly than to drag it out for weeks." Dwarves may be helpless when it comes to nurturing anything other than their own offspring, but they are not a cruel people. They are all pragmatic and built for survival , and they focus their energies as a community on the tasks at hand to keep the city running as it should. Well, all of them except Garvol. He has untraditional pale hair and eyes, almost delicate skin, and the fact that he uses his uncanny knack of caring for all living things is just as untraditional. Garvol Greyson is an altogether different sort, inside and out.

"It is even better for me to feed them in the absence of their mother and see them all grow into happy mousers. Less death down that path. Well, unless you're a mouse stealing my bread or gnawing on my books!" Garvol returns to the table to refill the long glass dropper with his homemade concoction of kitten food.

"You can't be meaning to feed them again? Not when the mare is foaling?"

"Mist is foaling? Why didn't you say so?"

The easygoing dwarf picks his feet up a bit more rapidly and his grey eyes glow a bit in excitement. "Belinda? Belinda! I am going out and I need your help. Belinda?" He makes his way to the only other room in the house--the kitchen-- and peers around the doorjamb. "Belinda? There will be a fine dinner for you when I return. Chicken! Fish? Belinda?"

Another grey cat, this one fully grown and rather large, arches its back and yawns sleepily as it curls from under the trunk where it was hiding from the loud cries coming out of the basket.

"Garvol, how many cats do you have in this place?" Lindol's voice is full of reproach.

Garvol turns in time to see the grey cat trying to slink under the trunk once more. "Belinda, it will only be for a short time. Please, all you have to do is keep them in the basket until I return...with your fish."

The cat lazily approaches the basket and lays her ears back as the cries intensify. She sits down and flicks her tail against the rug and her eyes seem to tell him that it is going to cost him far more than one fish dinner.

"Fine. Chicken, too then. Just keep them safe and warm until I can take over."

"Garvol Greyson! Who in the world are you talking to? And who is Belinda? You surely are not talking to that cat!"

Shrugging into his heavier jacket and wrapping a dull woolen scarf around his neck, Garvol merely looks into Lindol's hearty brown eyes.

"Oh, Garvol. What is it with you? First keeping motherless kittens to feed for days on end and now talking to a cat?"

"Orphans."

"What?"

"They are orphans. As much so as any of the younglings found in Mother Mirga's shelter."

"I suppose then, that this Belinda cat is the proud aunt?"

"Half sister, actually. And very much more reluctant than proud. If you recall, I had to seduce her to the task with the promise of a fine dinner."

"Half sister? Bribery! Garvol Greyson, I believe you might be mad." And on that note, the mud splattered dwarf twirls and stomps out the door, her long reddish braid swinging in agitation.

"I believe I might just agree with that deduction...if I didn't know better." This is whispered through generous lips shaped into a wry grin. Garvol scurries after Lindol. He also knows better than to dawdle.



* * *


The cat sits, licking her paws and Garvol can hear her purring contentedly from his spot at his desk. He shifts with the sleeping kitten, reaching to deposit her again on top of her brothers. This time, there is no wiggling and crying to wake up the entire basket. Belinda stops purring and cleaning herself long enough to eye the basket warily.

"Never fear, Belinda. I have the night watch. You were wonderful for helping out today, and now you should rest."

The cat moves in to curve her sleek grey body around the dwarf's stout leg, hoping for a scratch behind her ear.

"There, is that the spot?" Garvol absently reaches down to scratch in precisely the spot the cat was hoping for.

"Mrrrrow." Belinda arches her head into his capable hand.

"Of course it wasn't so bad. They are only babies, after all. And you performed wonderfully. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't agreed to help."

Both jump as there is more pounding on Garvol's door.

"Garvol? Are you in there?" More pounding and more bellowing bring the tired dwarf to his feet.

"I wonder what it is this time, eh, Belinda? This late at night it is most likely the sickly Jurgen boy. Or I suppose it could be the old mule foaling early at the Porten's farm."

Once again the abuse of his door stops merely because Garvol removes the bruised surface away from the assaulting fist.

"Garvol, it's the Portens. They sent me to fetch you."

"Hello, Burtrand. The mule is early?" And at the youngling's nod, Garvol again opens his door wider and stands aside to allow the messenger to wait indoors while he wraps his soggy scarf around his neck and tucks it inside his even soggier brown jacket.

On his way out the door, he remembers the basket of orphaned kittens. Belinda is sitting in front of the fire still licking at her paws. Her green, feline eyes look into his grey, dwarven ones. The cat seems to sigh and roll her gaze to the rafters.

"The Portens run a dairy farm. And I am sure they would be willing to part with a carafe of cream for my services." One blonde eyebrow arches in question.

"I am sure they would, Garvol, if you asked them."

Garvol crams his limp hat on his head and looks over his shoulder as he follows Bertrand out the door. "But of course they will." Winking at the cat he quietly shuts the heavy door and once again tromps into a world blanketed in hip deep snow.

* * *

Here is another scene that popped into my head. It is even rougher than the last. i am going to have a bunch of hammering out of roughish spots. But i guess that is what happens when you use the verbal-vomit technique of getting your ideas out.

* * *

His fingers are cold and brittle. Flexing them relieves the ache, and he again dips the pen in the reservoir of ink and begins scratching out another line of stylishly curving text across the parchment page of his journal. The rolling of the ship and the flickering of the primitive light make the task tedious.

The freezing weather is beginning to wear down the crew. Most, like me, are below in their cabins. A skeleton crew mans the ship with shift changes every five hours. It didn't take them long to adapt to the harsh weather and adjust their regimen. We have lost only three since setting sail twenty cycles ago. My ship, the Illustaar, is the smallest and has the fewest passengers. The Cellestria is almost twice the size and carries not only twice as many people, but is weighted down with livestock and starter crops we will surely need when we land.. Berellia is a cargo vessel and has only a few crew mixed in with the building materials and goods that will see us through until we can establish ourselves. All passengers are human, save for myself and Illudraa, the youngest healer. The humans are apparently barren, so the healer was a necessity.

The humans never cease to amaze me with their childlike curiosity and ingenuity. They are strong and hearty and possess rather logical minds capable of solving complex problems. It is my belief that they are relieved to be leaving the City of the Stars. Their eyes are hopeful and they meet each day eagerly, anxiously looking for the land that signals their freedom. I cannot blame them, really. They had no place in the City. They were not Elf or Dwarf, yet they were subject to the laws of both. I think if I had been allowed to stay, their plight would have become my own. I know I could not have lived like that. It is painful enough that I must live at a distance from all that I once held sacred. To live next to it, yet held apart from it would chip away at my soul until I became as hollow eyed as these humans had become. Maybe, as Gravin believed, this will be the chance the humans need to come into their own. And maybe what I have done will not turn to tradgedy as surely as it would have had we stayed in the City.

I finally dare to hope. I know it will never be as it was for me. never will I again become powerfully filled with the very essence of life and everything beyond as it flows through my fingers and bends to my will. But, I am living. And I will be living the rest of my days in a position to shape the future of these creatures my hands brought into being. For once, I feel responsibility. And it doesn't chafe at my shoulders as much as I expected it would.

Prologue

Alrighty. Here is the first draft. It is pretty rough and i still have to hammer out some awkward bits. DO feel free to let me know what you think:

It is dank, dark and musty, just as a prison cell should be. However, it is not infested with vermin and it has a clean stone floor. A surprisingly comfortable cot is pressed up against one brick wall. Apparently the elves value cleanliness and comfort enough to afford them to even the lowliest of the low: convicted criminals. Unfortunately for its occupant, the standard iron bars don't seem to break any rules of decorum and are firmly in place over all possible exits.
Heavy footsteps stop outside the massive wooden door and the light tinkle of metal against metal signals he has a visitor. There really is no other reason for the guard to worry with the keys. He receives his meals on a tray pushed unceremoniously through a slat in the bottom of the door. And although he is allowed outside three times a day for a walk, it is late into the evening hours and he had met the days requisite of exercise by dinner time.
Sure enough, the clattering of a key in the lock is immediately followed by the creaking hinges straining against the weight of possibly the thickest door Daltrath has ever seen. Clearly, the ironwork at the windows is not the only element the dwarves contributed to the prison. No elf in his right mind would hang such a rough hewn hunk of tree and try to pass it off as a door, no matter what he was trying to imprison.
The visitor pushes the door with both hands to open a hole large enough to accommodate his entry, and then forces it shut again once he is through. Shaking his head at the need for such a ridiculous effort, he turns to fix his eyes on the prisoner. The clear blue darkens to gray in sadness as he takes in his brother's dejected expression and hopeless lavender eyes. The once silver hair has turned a lusterless white. Sagging on the cot, Daltrath looks an eternity older.
"Why did you come?" The voice is so flat it doesn't produce an echo in the bare room, as if it doesn't possess the energy required to bounce from wall to wall.

"You will be leaving in the morning." Gravin's voice is much more vibrant. Even though he speaks in a modulated whisper, the words crackle with power and resonate in the small cell.

"Well rid of me, Brother? Are you feeling a twinge of guilt at the relief my departure will bring? Are you here to assuage your conscience?" The sarcasm ebbs as quickly as it came, taking with it the spark which momentarily changed the eyes to quicksilver and leaves them again a simple glassy violet.

The heat is transferred to Gravin's gentle eyes, turning them the violent blue of a flame. Angrily he jams a hand inside his vest and draws out a long cord. Extending his arm, he brings his muscular brown fist to within a mere foot of Daltrath's nose, close enough for the mage to make out the sparse ebony hairs lacing across the back of Gravin's fingers and close enough for him to see the intricate carvings on the amulet that dangles from the cord grasped in the Governor's fist.

"Possibly well rid of your evil tendencies, but never well rid of my brother. And it is to this brother I offer protection in the only way I can."

Daltrath rises from the cot, cupping the proffered ward in his hand as he stands to look his brother in the eyes for possibly the last time. It is no easier to meet that deep blue gaze than it has ever been. Gravin has always been humble and honorable. Those are two qualities Daltrath frequently has had to step over in his magical pursuits, and when he looks into that judging stare, the mage recognizes the burning guilt he accused his brother of feeling. But it is marked on his heart to carry on the upcoming voyage. It will not be staying in this city with his brother and his people.

"Thank you." He closes his long pale fingers around the amulet, squeezing it for a moment before sliding it into a concealed pocket at his waist.
Gravin nods. "I had our man pack the clothes and other personal belongings from your room into trunks which have been sent ahead to the dock. Nobody knows what to do with your workroom. If you need anything specific, I can arrange to have it brought directly here and held until you board. I am sorry, but the laboratory portion is still off limits, even to me. There is talk of burning it when you are gone."

Waving his hand dismissively, Daltrath sinks back down to the cot as if the weight of his life has grown too heavy. "It is inconsequential." He looks at his hands, first the backs then at the empty palms. Even though they tremble, they are nice hands. The fingers have the fine, long musculature of an artist. They are hands dexterous enough to harness the most powerful force in nature, and they are strong enough to bend it to his will. But now they are bitter, lost hands that tremble like an old man's. Now they are empty. "I will never need anything more than the average man again."

"I am not sorry for that."

Daltrath's head whips up and his eyes flash. He opens his mouth in a sneer, fully ready to unleash the sarcasm building behind his teeth. And just as quickly, Gravin's hand comes up in a warding gesture, silently commanding his brother to hold his tongue and let him finish.

"I am not sorry that the power you chose to abuse has been taken from your grasp. You were warned of what could happen. You made the choice, not as an ignorant apprentice, but as the adept master of the craft that you are. Therefore, the result lies fully on your soul, and no where else."

On a sigh, Gravin takes a step which brings him close enough to lay a hand on his brother's weary shoulder. "However, I am sorry for what this loss means to you. And to me." With a gentle squeeze, he drops his arm and turns to leave.

He pulls the door first with one arm, then with two. Sighing and rolling his eyes, he adjusts his body to cantilever the massive weight of the door and is halted by a bark of laughter from the cot.

With a hand pressed to his delicate mouth and his silver eyes twinkling in mirth, Daltrath takes in the absurd spectacle. "Do not tell me that you have grown so rigid you can no longer appreciate a good dose of irony?"

Gravin's mouth splits in a self depreciating smile. Squaring his shoulders, he pounds on the monstrous door and bellows, "Guard! We are done." His smile deepens as the brothers listen to the grunts and groans and eventual creaking that has the door swinging open under the effort of three dwarves.

"That, my dear brother, is irony at its finest." Stepping around the panting dwarves, Gravin slips through the doorway. His voice, which can still be heard from the hall, brings another chuckle from the pale mage. "Now I suppose you will be wanting to pull the door shut. Well, after a short rest, perhaps?"

this is how dad rolls....or is it buns?

pssst! not really his butt at all, just an unfortunate incident with the cushion.

my heart did stop for about 5 seconds until my eyes explained to my brain that it wasn't seeing what it was thinking it was seeing...and thank the lord and baby jesus for that. amen.