#aeosa

A Shadow Over Yhorn

The old oak doors of the king’s study were thrown open, shattering the peaceful solitude of the lord of Yhorn’s private sanctum. The impact of the wood frame and metal handles against the weathered but sturdy stone of the castle walls echoed down the halls, giving many servants and attendants momentary pause. King Rhone de Lusia set down his tea and sighed. There was only one person in all the Halidom of Yhorn who would dare throw open his doors without invitation.

“Madness! Madness has struck you, father!”

Rhone waited as his furious son marched between him and his hearth. The metal chains and buckles which held fast rugged traveling gear and thick furs glimmered against the flames behind him. He looked as though he had barged right up from the harsh snowfall outside.

Crown Prince Craven de Lusia was by all accounts, the model Yhornishman. In hardships and dangers, he endured and persevered; his firm but fair hand toward both nobles and commoners had earned him much respect throughout the Halidom, if not adoration. Any other father would brim with pride at having sired such a stalwart man, any king comforted that his throne and crown would fall into such capable hands.

The king kept his composure in the face of such a display of disrespect.

“You disturb me in my most private of chambers, hurl insults at your own father after disappearing for days, and you call me mad-struck?”

Craven’s enraged expression remained.

“I’ve seen the temple, father! I’ve seen with my own eyes the blasphemy you’ve wrought! The bridge destroyed, the island defiled, the altar of the Lord of Winter defaced; what else could it be but insanity?”

“You still hold fast to the faith of the pretender-gods, my boy?” Rhone scoffed.

Ever since his youth, Craven had been obedient and pious, a true believer in the Aeosan gods and follower of the Life-reaper, Sethis. For generations, since the Halidom’s formation, the shadowed god of death and cold had been their chief deity. What other god would bless the souls of such a frigid and inhospitable island?

There was a reverence in Yhorn for the cold of winter, and the death that came with it; no other people had so embraced and made peace with their own mortality quite like the Yhornish. While so many of the mainlanders feared the Black God’s grip, the people of Yhorn called him friend, and in return, death became a part of them. Sethis brought to them the ancient art of necromancy, to make death their strength, so long as no Yhornish ever grew fool enough to try and cheat him of his prize.

The soul was to be kept pristine, untouched and pure. The body? The body was a temporary vessel. A box of meat. Once empty, it had other purposes.

Many called Yhorn backwards and barbaric for their unorthodox views on death, but it had kept their Halidom alive for over a century and a half. Craven knew this. His father seemed to have forgotten, poisoned by lies.

“I follow the true gods of this world, father. It was that woman, wasn’t it; she whispered her spell into your ear and ordered you to sack the temple.”

Rhone narrowed his eyes, staring his son down.

“Choose your words carefully, boy. I am your father, your king; none command me. Lady Victoria has shown me the truth. Pull from my eyes the veil of age-old dogma and revealed greater gods than the child usurpers the rest of the world has been fooled into revering.”

“She lies! She has filled your mind with fantasy and…and tall-tales! You are wiser than this father; I beg of you, turn back from this doomed course before it is too late. She means to bring you and your people to ruin. Already you have cut off trade and travel to the south, banished House Wolfram from our shores –our best defense against the orcs that roam our mountains— the temple is only the latest and most heinous of her manipulations, and I fear she is doing much worse behind your back.”

The king shot up from his chair and met Craven. The boy had grown tall, able to look his father eye-to-eye even as they both towered over six feet each.

“A doddering old fool, am I? Blind to the goings on within my own realm?” he sneered. “The south and their corrupt preachers are not welcome on these hallowed shores, nor are those cultish Wolframs, and the temple is a relic of a bygone era. Lady Victoria will help me lead this land to a shining future, an enlightened future. I had hoped you would be a part of that as well, but if you are too blinded by false faith then go! Rot in your precious temple for all that it be worth now.”  

Rhone turned to sit once more in his chair, but Craven stepped forward to implore his father one last time.

“There are people going missing, father! Noble and common alike; they vanish without a trace, and all of them good and faithful to Sethis and the gods. There has been…there has been talk in the city…rumors from the mountain towns about strange, hooded figures riding deep into the forests. Cries and screams echoing in the distance and suddenly going silent. I plan to set out in the morrow to investigate.”

“You will do no such thing. You will remain here, in the castle, and cease this pointless interference.”

“Father, the people are scared! I—”

“I will hear no more of this!” Rhone shouted. “Impudent, faithless boy! Leave my sight!”

Craven stood rigid for a moment, seething in his helplessness, before giving his father a curt nod.

“As you wish, your grace.”

Not waiting for a response, the prince marched out of the study and down the hall. Clearly, he had been in error to attempt to appeal to his father’s sense. He was too far gone, too steeped in the witch’s venom. He would have to proceed with more caution; that mysterious woman from shores unknown would surely hear of his open suspicion from the king.

If Craven’s theory was correct, and he was certain it was, then his life was soon to be in danger. The castle was no longer safe, and neither would the city be. He would have to leave that night.

How could he have let it come to this? To where he now feared his father would take his life? It had not always been this way. Craven could recall fondly the days of his childhood, looking up to his father as a symbol to all, the model of the man he wished to grow to be. All that was gone now.

A shadow had fallen over Yhorn.

Temples never jived with Varis. He believed in the gods, sure as the next guy, but he wasn’t a fan, per se. All the ceremony and worship, all the codes of conduct and rules to be followed; he liked to keep his options open. This irreverence always made him feel out of place in holy buildings. Sure, he was an outcast in most places, but it was places like this where he felt his ability to blend in with the background did him no good. He always stuck out like a sore thumb. The irony of it, that he lived with the three most religious people in the whole of Daarastil.

The warm breeze of the southern River Ward faded as he stepped through the entrance gates to the city’s temple to the Star Mother, Asa. In its place was a cooler, if more stagnant air, with a hint of humidity. The temple was built onto and along the River Yua itself, and used a sort of water power and network of aqueducts that Varis didn’t really have an interest in researching, to provide the building with naturally cooler air.

Still, it was the place the be during the summer. Probably why worship turnout was so much larger that time of year, he figured.

Varis’ sturdy boots caused his footsteps to echo against the marble floor, drawing the attention of the otherwise hushed main antechamber. Priests and acolytes, in their white and blue fabrics and silver trimmings, recognized him even at a distance. Their looks of disapproval was clue enough.

He shrugged them off. He was used to getting those looks. Besides, what could they do to him? The general clergy might not care for him, but the two most important people in the city’s religious sector were coming his way, all smiles. Two elves, a man and a woman, both with flowing auburn hair and soft, rounded features; the true mark of full-blooded River-folk.

“Varis, my boy, how does the day find you?” greeted the man.

Varis gave a slight nod. “Tevlan. Just glad to be out of the heat, Spring’s on its last leg.”

“So it is.”

“We appreciate your punctuality, Varis,” said the woman. “I know the temple is not among your favored places in the city, but we have matters to discuss with you that we felt best done here.”

“Mya,” spoke Tevlan, “let us take this to the Riverwalk. The antechamber is a bit too public.”

She nodded in agreement. “Of course. Come, Varis.”

In the years that Varis had known Tevlan and Mya, they’d never been ones for secrecy. If anything, he found them almost dangerously open and honest. An Asa thing.

Anything they felt the need to be hush about was important enough to catch Varis’ attention. He followed them out of the antechamber, and onto the temple Riverwalk.

Daarastil, being the southern-most River Ward city along the Yua, was a vital trade stop between the elven Wards and the kingdoms of Celym to the southeast. The city’s lifeblood was its coast, and from the temple’s Riverwalk –an ornate walkway of statues and carefully manicured miniature gardens which doubled as a private wharf– one could view the daily bustle of the city’s docks and trade-district.

Tevlan and Mya walked on either side of Varis as they traversed down the relatively peaceful wharfs of the temple.

“Varis,” started Tevlan, “for the last seven years, you’ve been a welcome member of our household. The city’s clergy and citizens may have their own opinions about you, but know that you have our complete trust.”

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

Mya laughed, and placed a reaffirming hand on his shoulder. “You’re not being accused of anything. Rather, we have a task for you. One we would nary hand to another.”

“It concerns Sariel,” added Tevlan.

“I’m listening.”

“Over thirty years ago, my wife and I beseeched Asa, the blessed mother, for a child. A child gifted with wisdom, kindness and strength. She saw fit to answer these prayers, bringing to us our beloved daughter and your precious friend, Sariel. In return we have given the whole of our lives to Asa since, built this glorious temple from the foundation up, all in her name.”

“You have stood by her ever since you came to Daarastil,” continued Mya. “For that, we trust this request to you alone.”

Varis averted his gaze from either of them. Dirty looks and insults he could deal with just fine, but praise was all together foreign. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it.

“She saved my life, what else could I do? Dragging somebody bleeding out in a gutter to safety deserves a little more than a thank you and some flowers.”

“Exactly, she is special. More than most realize, but you’ve seen it first-hand,” Tevlan pointed out. “Clerics must train their minds and bodies decades before the gods grant them their boons, yet Sariel has healed the people of Daarastil since her teenage years. It has come to her as naturally as breathing, and her strength is nothing to be balked at either.”

“What is it you’re getting at?” Varis asked.

“Sariel must travel north to Elkora,” Mya explained. “There, she will undergo judgement at the holiest of Asa’s temples. She will prove before the Prime Astra  that she is the next chosen champion of Asa.”

Varis stopped dead in his tracks.

“Her champion?”

Even one as theologically illiterate as Varis knew the weight of a god’s chosen champion. They were the end-all enforcers of a god’s will on the mortal plane, the avatar of their virtues and values. Not to mention some of the most powerful people to walk the world.

Tevlan and Mya both stopped, their eyes showing only solid resolve and unshakable certainty.

“…What does it have to do with me?”

Tevlan’s gaze softened, and worry shifted onto his face. “A chosen champion she may be, but she is still young. Inexperienced. She has never left Daarastil. You, though, Varis, are a man of the world. You’ve traveled Celym, made your way here.”

“Watch out for her,” Mya pleaded. “She has a great destiny ahead of her, I’m certain, but she will need guidance. Perhaps even protection. You will do this, won’t you? Accompany her on her travels?”

Varis looked between the two of them. Seven years he’d lived with these people, ever since their daughter had dragged his sorry ass out of the streets and sealed up his gushing torso. In seven years they’d never asked a single thing of him. He complained about their temple, caused mischief all over the city, and all they did in response was feed him and give him a bed.

He was a punk, a thief, a liar, but he’d be damned if he didn’t have a sense of gratitude.

If this was their idea of cashing in their seven years of hospitality, this one thing, he had no business refusing them.

Besides, Sari would walk face-first into every gods-damned road-post if he weren’t there to keep her focused.  

  “When do we leave?”

*****

When Sariel needed time to herself, the first place she would go was the temple’s underground cistern. Built a bit further inland, away from the coast, it was both a fresh-water storage area, and a place of ceremony, used in purification rituals.

It was an hour past sundown, and officially it was closed, but that had never mattered to her.

Even as he snuck down the stairs leading to the giant, still pool, he could hear the plunks and plops of tossed stones. Sure enough, there she sat, facing away from him, tossing small circular rocks into the water, watching the ripples continue on across the length of the cistern.

She looked nothing like her parents, which he supposed helped their case when they claimed she was sculpted by Asa herself. She was certainly not how most people imagined River elves to look.

There was no roundness to her, and the warm auburn hair was nowhere to be found. Instead, her hair and eyes both were stark silver, and her features were almost unnaturally symmetrical and proportioned. It went past beautiful into almost unsettlingly perfect. Varis wasn’t sure how much of the story he believed, but there were times when even he had to admit his friend looked less born and more designed. Crafted by a steady hand.

The more he thought about it, her being Asa’s champion just fit.

That said, champion or no, she was still just Sari to him, and best friends were supposed to fuck with one another.

“HEY SARI!”

A shrill shriek echoed throughout the cistern. The unsuspecting girl had to stop herself from falling right into the water.

Varis found endless amusement in her mild suffering.

Sariel whipped around after her small heart-attack, and angrily pouted at him.

“Don’t DO that!”

“You gotta be more observant,” he shrugged, taking a seat at the edge of the pool next to her.

She sighed, and rolled one of her stones in her hand.

There was a brief silence between them.

“My parents spoke to you today?”

“Yup.”

“You know what’s going on? With me?”

“I don’t have to call you “your holiness” now do I? Because I won’t.”

A giggle was coaxed out of her. “Please don’t.”

Another plunk as she threw her stone.

“I’m glad you’re coming. I’m nervous.”

“Well yeah, you’ve never left the city before. The world is scary.”

Sari shook her head. “It’s more than that. I mean…look, I don’t mean to sound conceited, but I’m Asa’s champion. It’s not a matter of thinking, I just know. My healing, the way I look, I…I’ve talked to her. Asa, I mean. She speaks to me. Sometimes.”

“If it was anyone else, I’d call them mad, but you’ve been a freak since the day we met, so I believe it.”

“Thanks…I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

Varis stole one of the stones in Sari’s pile, and tossed it against one of the far pillars.

“Besides, look at it this way; you’ll get to see more mermaids while we travel up the Yua.”

At the mention of mermaids, Sari perked up.

“You’re right! Oh, I love mer people. Their scales are so shiny.”

“And maybe you’ll meet a werewolf.”

Now her eyes sparkled.

“Oooooh, Varis, you think?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Maybe I was thinking about this the wrong way. This could be exciting after all.” Varis gave her arm a pat as he stood up.

“Come on. We’re leaving at the end of the week. We’ve got a lot to do before we leave, so we should rest up.”

She nodded back at him.

“Yeah. Lots to buy and plan. You’ve got my back, right?”

He laughed and playfully bonked her head.

The Golden Lady of Catae

By

Owen of the Silver Strings

 The Golden Lady came from far, she came from far away! Away, away, beneath the shade of quiet and green Catae!

She ventures ‘cross the roads and plains, deserts, mountains too! ‘Cross all Aeosa she hath trekked, with stalwart party true!

Four corners of the world she drew companion’s loyalty! Thieves and knights would follow her, as easy as royalty!

Hey! Ho! Our Lady of Catae! Aye! Yo! Golden Lady Fair! Hey! Ho! O, blessings on your way! Aye! Yo! No hero can compare! The Golden Lady came from far, she came from far away! Away, away, beneath the shade of quiet and green Catae!

Her sword aloft and shield strong, she vanquishes her foes! The lives of free-folk she protects, from evil darkness sewn!

Far and wide her deeds are known, from Sten to Daarastil! Demons fall and tyrants fear her staunch and iron will!

Yet fame and glory matter not to our fair Lady, nay! Her heart be kind, and still resides in quiet and green Catae!

*****

“The Golden Lady of Catae,” a bardic ode to the Aeosan folk hero T’lia Elisar, was written in the year 171 of the New Era. The song was composed and first performed by Owen of the Silver Strings (sometimes called by simply Owen Silver-strings) in the Celym city of Ursius. The specific inspiration behind the song is disputed, but there are many sources that confirm that there was a period that Owen spent traveling among Elisar’s company of companions across central Aeosa, from territory in Celym through the Rykon Woods.

While “The Golden Lady of Catae” is not the oldest song written in honor of this iconic elven hero, it is the most popularly known among the common peoples.

The Westwild Coast, the vast coastal jungle and swamp-land of southwest Aeosa, was one of the few regions in the world which still stubbornly held ancient secrets in the face of ever-expanding knowledge.

Within its deep and treacherous foliage and waters, lay a remote temple, standing proud among the shattered ruins of an ancient city, its name long forgotten, its inhabitants ages dead and passed. A temple devoted to the god of nature, and the hunt; Bakuna.

None trespassed within the Westwild. The jungle was his domain, and guarding it were his most loyal acolytes; the Rangers of the Westwild. Their numbers, their tactics, their names, all unknown to outsiders; some even doubted their existence.

But they were all too real. From all over Aeosa, from Yhorn to Nezerin they had come in one way or another, for one reason or another, to serve the reclusive god. Tasha Korva, a Yhornish woman who long ago ventured from her homeland to the south, had risen years ago to lead them, and she bore the scars of that struggle.

Her face and body bore the scars of both blade and claw; she had felled great beasts and fearsome warriors alike.

But as the captain of the Rangers looked down on their youngest comrade as he performed his morning drills with his bow, she thought of how he greatest deed may be what she had slain, but the seed she had planted.

It had been twelve years ago, in the dead of night. The Rangers were each attuned to the jungle, its ebbs and flows, the songs of the birds and howls of the wolves. Any disturbance was sensed, and she had felt it that night.

Her compatriots at her side, they became one with the shadows and the branches, and slipped through the darkness to investigate. It didn’t take them long to discover the camp fire, and the crowd around it.

Korva listened well as they crept closer.

Pirates. No, not just pirates, but merchants as well. Not uncommon that close to the Warlildru Sea; desperate mercantile crews would often flee ashore to the jungle in the hopes of avoiding capture or worse. She could sympathize with that.

The merchants were being held at the tips of swords. Ransom no doubt. Many gave up gold or jewels, others fabrics and spices. There was one man among them, though, with nothing. Nothing of worth or value to give them, and a boy clutching his pant-leg at his side. Korva took aim at the pirate collecting valuables, and would have shot him dead that very moment, had it not been for what the ragged man did next that took her aback.

He pushed the boy forward, offering him up in place of material goods. It was then that Korva was able to see him clearly in the moonlight. He was thin; sickeningly so, with bruises on his arms and face. The poor thing looked terrified, and immediately tried to return to what she assumed was his father, but he angrily slapped the boy aside, and pushed him back to the pirates, who seemed content enough with the offer.

Korva had no qualms, no regrets, when her arrow took flight and found the pirate’s neck. As he lay dying, choking on his own blood and the shaft of her missile, she had already struck down another target.

It was an abject slaughter. None of the pirates had even the chance to investigate where the arrows came from before they all lie dead on the sand. Only then did they emerge from the trees and the bushes, surrounding the trembling merchants.

They said nothing. There was nothing to say. A Ranger tossed them their gold and trinkets, while Korva approached the boy.

Despite being closer, he was somehow smaller than before, huddled on the ground. Shaking. Sobbing.

Yet the closer she came, the more the light of the full moon seemed to almost…intensify around him, until it was like a lance of light from the heavens pointing her to him. She had never seen such a thing before.

She looked up. The moon seemed larger and brighter than it had before. Korva knew immediately it was a sign. A sign from Bakuna, who was master of the moon and whose arrows are said to have been crafted from its light. She touched him with as much gentleness as she could muster, and his shivering stopped. She offered him her hand. He stared at her, eyes tired and filled with confusion, but he took it, and she helped him to her feet.

There was a shout. She didn’t even need to look to know it was his father. She didn’t remember what he said, but she did remember his screams after she anchored him down with an arrow through his foot. In the commotion, the Rangers, one by one, melded back into the night, Korva carrying the boy away.

He was a quiet one. Never spoke unless absolutely necessary, and tended to work alone if he could help it, but he would follow Korva around like a puppy. It took years before he trusted another Ranger, but under her tutelage he proved to be a prodigy with a bow, at one with the shadows, and in perfect synch with the beasts of the wild; it was as if he were born there.

There was no way for her to prove it, but she believed. She believed he was the one, the next of Bakuna’s champions.

He had come such a long way in such a short time. It wouldn’t be long before he surpassed her, she thought as she watched every arrow set free mark its target with machine-like efficiency. No, not long at all.

The Laughing Imp tavern was the premier dive in the outer city of Tal’Kora. Established 210 NE, Grok Stoneshaker was both owner and proprietor; a new venture to fill the void as he retired from his adventuring. His body was aging, no longer swinging his hammer as hard or fast as he used to, no longer as swift of foot or quick of mind. As his hair grayed and his skin lost its deep green shade, he set his weapons aside in favor of mugs of ale and slabs of meat.

Every so often he’d get a fresh, young faced rookie adventurer come through. Grok liked to think of himself as a teacher, showing the new generations the ropes, give them a place to stay and food for their bellies.

And, of course, once in a blue moon, one of his customers would get just a little too mouthy, too handsy with his staff, and Grok would put his old muscles to work. Age might have kept him off the road, but no self-respecting orc would ever let their punching arm go soft.

As Grok polished a glass behind the front counter, one of his waitresses, Eressa, a half-elven maid, grumbled as she took a tray of food.

“Trouble, lass?”

She sighed. “Table closest to the hearth is getting…grabby. It’s the dwarf. Being so close to the ground makes flipping skirts easy, I suppose.”

“Hrm.”

He set down the glass onto the wood of the counter firmly, drawing the glance of everyone sitting at the bar. The regulars knew what it meant and turned their attention deeply toward their meals and drinks. Eressa moved to intercept her employer as he marched around the counter, tossing the rag over his shoulder.

“No, boss, really, it’s fine. I’m a big girl, this isn’t my first—”

“Didn’t walk the breadth of the damn continent and sail the known seas to let no drunken fool disrespect my staff in me own bar. The rest of that patrons get a free round for the mess I’m likely to cause, go break out another cask, would ya lass?”

Eressa groaned and buried her face in her hand. The crowded bar parted around him as Grok approached the table with a dwarf and two humans. The dwarf was in the midst of a deep belly laugh, flagon of ale thrashing about, leaving a puddle on the floor around him.

They each stopped when they noticed the towering old orc standing over them.

“Well, you lads seem to be having just a grand time,” he said, his eyes passing over the three.

His compatriots seemed at least sober enough to be wary, but the dwarf just guffawed anew.

“Aye! Good drink! Warm fire! And bountiful maidens in easy reach, what more does a man need, eh?”

“I’m afraid all good things come to an end, friend. Maybe it’s different where you’re from, but here we keep our hands off the staff. I’ll give ya one chance to pay your tab and leave here peaceful-like.”

The dwarf slammed his flagon down onto the table, causing a hush to fall over the tavern.

“Whassat? Yer throwin’ payin’ customers out? Ya got all these lovely ladies and ye expect us not to—”

“Yes, I do. Pay your tab and leave.”

The surly man stood on his chair, still only reaching up to Grok’s chest.

“Well here’s what I gots to say to that, ye daft old fool!”

It was a sloppy punch, telegraphed a mile away. Grok made no move to step out of the way, and instead caught the punch, his hand dwarfing the fist. In retaliation, the orc brought his head crashing down, slamming it into the drunken slob’s. He tumbled back, flipping his chair over, and dropping to the floor.

Grok knelt down, and picked the dwarf up by his thick beard. He would have yelped in pain if he weren’t nearly unconscious.

“Always did like dwarves. All the facial hair makes em so easy to carry around.”

And so by his beard Grok carried him out, to the amusement of the more respectful customers, and flung him out into the street. His two compatriots had the good sense to be silent, and scampered out after him.

“Come back again, and all your faces’ll get nice and acquainted with my hammer!”

He slammed the door closed behind him, and then turned back to the rest of his patrons with a good-natured smile.

The aftermath of a battle was, in some ways, worse than the battle itself. In the midst of the chaos, adrenaline pumps and your body and mind are worked into a fervor. There exists only the moment, no before and no after; only survival. It was when the after came that the barriers of instinct collapsed and the weight and emotion of it all came crashing down.

The dead were a sorrowful sight, but it was the dying, the helpless pleas and laments echoing out from the fields that haunted the dreams and waking hours of men alike.

The company of T’lia Elisar sat together, alive but weathered, trying to clear their blood and sweat under the setting sun of the battlefield, the heat of the arid north-east of Aeosa finally subsiding. It was a somber silence between them all. Victory had come, but at great cost on both sides. To the warriors of Nezerin, the soldiers of the empire to which T’lia had elected to render their aide, it was a night of celebration. After such a crushing blow, Drakenspire’s invasion had been halted before it began, and they were in position to move to occupy the lair of the Scaled-Kin and end the conflict swiftly.

That would come later. Now, they scoured the bodies, saving who they could, and ending who they couldn’t.

Emperor Duzura himself had come to them after the battle, coated in crimson and sweat and soot, and thanked them personally for their help. They each could see the weariness in his eyes, heard the stilted inflections, struggling to call what had occurred that day a victory. They mirrored his sentiments.

“Has anyone seen Mattias?” asked Sylven, breaking the silence.

“Out there again,” muttered Hurza, nodding further out toward the battlefield.

The light was quickly fading behind the horizon. Sylven stood from his seat.

“He shouldn’t be out there alone.”

The elf, not waiting for a reply, deftly weaved and bounded around the fallen as he searched for the smallest member of their party. Even a thief had respect for the dead.

Sylven heard him before he saw him, and followed the distant words. He recognized them, as he got closer.

They were the final rites of the living.

“…-in her presence, and be delivered unto her embrace on tides of calm waters. Beneath the light of all the stars shall ye live on, and in her grace may ye find comfort and sanctuary for ever and ever. By her love and mercy, I grant ye pardon from your sins, and salvation from your pain. Drift, now, my brother, gently to the heavens…”

Sylven watched, as he approached, Mattias use a glimmer of his divine power granted to him by his patron goddess to lull a bleeding and broken Scale-Kin to a deep and final sleep. They both stayed silent and still as the last breath left him.

“Come to lecture me, thief, for wasting my strength on the enemy?” he said, after a time.

Sylven took a few more steps, and sat next to him.

“A fair bit too winded for lectures today, my friend.”

Mattias, his strength ever-surprising for his size, neatly placed the Scale-kin’s hand over his stomach, leaving him more dignified than those he was surrounded by.

“There were many wounded today, I had not the strength left to save him. Only enough to ease his suffering.”

“Sometimes that’s all we can hope for.”

“I am the champion of the Life-Breather,” he hissed. “So many yet call out for help, and I cannot save them. Not enough of them. Not all of them.”

“You are a champion, but still only mortal.”

Sylven’s eyes turned to the rapidly darkening sky. The stars were just barely visible and the moon was already hanging high. It was such a contrast against the carnage below.

“Mattias…tell me about Asa. Her realm sounded lovely, from what I heard of it.”

A faint snort.

“It is a…a realm of starlight and waters. Flat shores and white beaches give way to crystalline water, purer than the crispest of mountain springs, and warm to the touch, healing all wounds and ails. Her citadel is of marble, glittering with silver, where her faithful live in bliss and plenty, celebrating forever.”

Sylven kept his eyes to the sky, letting his eyes drift from star to star, listening as Mattias spoke.

For a moment, just a brief sliver of a second, he swore he could see it. The moment passed, reality returned to him, and he looked back down to the slain Scale-Kin. Sylven placed a hand on one of its armored shoulders.

“Well…that doesn’t sound so bad to me, eh friend?”

With that, he stood up, and tapped the halfling’s shoulder.  

“Come. You’ve been out here since the battle ended. You’re no good out here anymore; there are other healers and soldiers out in the field, you need rest, Mattias.”

He had already internally conceded that Sylven was right, but was clearly not pleased with the fact. He had the look of a man who still stood by determination alone, and would continue to do so unless he forced him back to camp. He followed Sylven’s lead as the sun was nearly gone.

“Perhaps there’s a decent man in you yet, thief.”

Sylven found it in him to laugh.

Between the arid coast of Nezerin, and the grasslands of eastern Celym, lies the Akasha Desert. Tens of thousands of square miles of heat and sand stand between any traveler and civilization. Few are there who would dare call it home. In the time of the allied kingdoms to the west, and the empire to the east, all that remained were scarce nomads, and intrepid merchants. If any great people had once called it home, they were long swept under the sand and forgotten. Only Drakenspire stood as a single bastion of civilization amid the sand, jealously guarding the rare oasis’ surrounding it.

But among these nomads, among the bravest of fortune seekers who had crossed the Akasha, there was a tale. A tale of the lost temple of Kleon.

It was said that once, the Timeless God, who stood with Asa and Sethis at the dawn of all being and shaped the universe, had a lone but grand temple somewhere in the Akasha. Many took it to be a tall-tale; the Akasha had been mapped long ago by Tal’Koran scholars. If there were a temple, it would have been found.

None could deny, however, the god’s silence. For centuries, since before the peoples of Aeosa had done away with the constants of war, and the absolute power of kings and emperors faded away into the New Era, the all-seeing god had gone quiet. No champions proclaimed, no new temples erected, no worshipers to sing his songs.

The most any had heard, were whispers and rumors of a great and mad sorcerer, adorned in the tattered yellow and white robes of Kleon’s faith, wandering Aeosa, muttering and jabbering to himself incessantly. He appeared in different places; Nezerin, Yhorn, Tal’Kora, Akrium, Daarastil, Ertia, sometimes only days apart, sometimes decades. His presence had been reported from the time of the elven empire, to only several years ago, and many days and years in-between.

Some say he is the lost champion of Kleon. Others, that he challenged the god, and brought ruin to his temple, having endless madness inflicted on him as punishment. Still others believe he is the lost god himself, wandering the mortal plane, struck by some terrible, otherworldly force. Most, though, believe him a legend. A story to be told around the fire of camps and the tables of taverns. Many have tried to unravel the mystery of Kleon’s temple, the wandering sorcerer, and the silence of the god of time. None have uncovered the truth.

A Walk Around Town

Years ago, the city had a different name. Most who remembered it were long gone, but Duzura remembered. Much like it, he too used to have a different name, and any who remembered it were long gone.

Today, his home was known as Nezerin, capital of the Nezerin Empire. The empire he’d built.

For just over two-hundred years, he’d ruled the entire east of Aeosa, from Drakenspire to the Ysar Cape. He’d led it through disasters and wars, and pulled it into a time of prosperity, making it the dominant power in the region. His people were well protected, well fed, and industrious.

He saw it every day. In the days before he had a throne and a crown, Duzura resented the wealthy and influential who holed up in their estates and hoarded their possessions. Now that he was wealthy and influential himself, even against the urging of his advisors, he liked to spend time among his people.

No guards, no aides, no crown, just him and the streets he grew up in. He bought from local shops, chatted with the citizenry, tried his hardest to let his people see that he cared.

Even after all these decades, he had to stop people from bowing to him in the street. There were some things about power he would never feel comfortable with. They would always insist, and Duzura would always say the same thing in response:

“Why bow to me, when you could stand with me?”

He truly believed that; bowing, to him, was an act of submission and fear. The Empire was built on the foundation of freedom from submission, to purge the corruption and slavery and constant warring rampant along the eastern coast. His greatest fear was becoming what he destroyed; these walks were to show them he was here for them, that he had built all of this for them.

Still, the anxiety lingered.

He was pulled from his thoughts as he felt a tug at his pants. He looked down, and was met with a young boy, probably not even ten, his hand clenched to Duzura’s pant-leg.

He knelt to meet the child at eye level.

“Hey there. Did you need something?”

“Are you the emperor?” he asked immediately.

Leave it to a kid to be the one to skip bowing and greetings, and get straight to the point.

“You got me.”

“Meshka!”

Both the boy and Duzura turned their heads to see a woman rushing over to them. She grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him close, dropping to her knees and hanging her head.

“I apologize, your excellency; he’s only a boy, he hasn’t yet learned proper respect. Please forgive him for bothering you.”

He raised his hand in a motion to calm her.

“He was only asking a question,” he reassured her. “I’m always happy to hear from the children of the empire. Meshka was it? What were you going to ask?”

Meshka looked to his mother cautiously, awaiting some sort of instruction. She simply nodded and loosened her grip. Now a bit more self-conscious, he avoided direct eye-contact.

“W-well…papa’s been gone a long time…I wanted to ask if you could send him home…”

“What does he do?”

Meshka’s mother chimed in.

“He is a soldier in the Imperial Army, stationed along the trade-route between the coast and Drakenspire, your grace. He serves the empire honorably, I assure you.”

Duzura sighed. “I see…”

After a moment’s contemplation, he placed his hand on the top of Meshka’s head and offered him a kind smile.

“It must be hard not having your father around. If I could bring him home to you, I would, but he has an important job to do that helps lots of people all over the empire.”

At this, Meshka became crestfallen.

“How old are you, Meshka?”

“…six,” he replied, fighting back a sniffle.

“Six. If you’ve been keeping with your schoolwork, you must be getting good with your letters and words then, right?”

He nodded.

“How about this. I might not be able to bring him home, but if you go home and work really hard on a letter to him, I’ll see to it personally that it gets delivered to him. We’ll bring a small piece of you to him; I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

Meshka seemed to be in deep thought about it, but eventually rubbed his eyes and nodded again. Duzura took a pin off his chest and placed it in the boy’s hand.

“Show this to a parcel-runner once your letter is ready, and they’ll bring it to me. I’ll make sure it finds its way to your father.”

“Okay. I can do that, sir.”

“Good. I look forward to passing it on. In the meantime, I’ll let you in on a little secret about me. When I was your age, I didn’t have any parents. I was all alone, looking after myself. Your papa might be far away, but you still have your mother. Stay close to her for me, and don’t make her worry too much, okay?”

“Yes, I promise!”

He gave the boy one last pat on the head before standing up. Meshka’s mother stood as well, much more at ease than she had been.

“Thank you, sincerely, your grace. We treasure your kindness.”

“I wouldn’t be much of an emperor without loyal troops like your husband supporting me,” Duzura chuckled. “It’s not much, but I hope it helps your family.”

She gave one last, much smaller bow, and shooed Meshka along with her. The boy waved goodbye, then disappeared in the crowd of the street.