Faces

More men in green dragonhide armour converged on the dark elf. Each brandishing various weapons – morningstars, poleaxes, and wicked scimitars.

“Mercenaries,” Morohtar muttered with disgust.

“And we're collecting the bounty on your head!” on of the mercenary spat as they lunged towards Morohtar and Shierra.

The dark elf danced the Crimson Blade about and parried blow after blows with precise agility and speed. He would duck under a wide swing of the brute and while the mercenary was caught off-balanced, a swift kick sent him crashing into another brute lunging in.

Morohtar glanced at the bewildered half-elf girl, and saw fear in her eyes. At that instant he knew that she was not accustomed with melee combat, or even mild aggression at all. He grabbed another phial and smashed it to the ground. Another blinding flash and noxious smoke held the gang of mercenaries at bay, and Morohtar dashed towards Shierra pulling her away on quick feet.

“What's going on?” she shrieked.

“ I don't know your part in this, nor knows why there's a prize on your head. But what I know is, you have got to get to safety. Get out of this town!” Morohtar screamed, and shoved Shierra away.

Shierra ran as fast as her elven feet could carry her. All around her, more men in green dragonhide armour sat fire to the houses and shops of the town. Fieri will not be quiet tonight.

She took on last look and saw Morohtar swinging his sword and daggers furiously. Crazed. His Crimson Sabre almost glowed in eerie red in the night. Shierra took to the shadows and alleys, and looked for the exit, but found that some men stood watch over the city gate, standing over the broken bodies of the pair of gate guards.

“Where's the girl?” shouted a brute. “She was with that silver-haired freak just now. Find her!”

Shierra assessed the situation. Her exit was blocked, and it was only matters of time until the mercenaries caught up with her. From the far side, she saw the Rumbling Din inn still untouched. A renewed hope sparked some strength in her, and with another lungful of air, the half-elf dashed in the dark for the in.

A hand grabbed her in the dark, and pulled her into the stable. A woman's hands.

“Quiet. They're in the tavern,” the woman told her. Shierra took a look and recognized that it was the barmaid. Rianna, recalling what Dash called her.

“Dash!” Shierra suddenly remembered. “Rianna, where's my friend?” Shierra asked her.

“Uncle Dash? I never saw him since last night. Barkeep said he was off this morning,” Rianna told her. Fearful tears welled up at her eyes. “We're all caught unaware, and we're all simple townsfolk around here. I heard that they were looking for you. Why?” she continued.

Shierra shook her head, “I don't know. I never saw those men before in my life!”

Suddenly footsteps were heard outside of the stables – heavy footfalls from armoured greaves. Rianna pulled Shierra to a corner of the stables. She quickly brushed away the bed of hay to reveal a hatch hidden underneath. She pulled the hatch open and beckoned Shierra inside.

Shierra looked inside and saw that the hatch led to a very small space underneath it, with room for only a person. She shot a terrified look at Rianna.

“We can't fit inside!”

Rianna literally threw her into the space. She looked at the half-elf girl and drew a saddened smile.

“We can't, but you can. Listen. I'm going to close this hatch and cover it up. Just promise me that no matter what you heard, never open this hatch.”

Shierra suddenly felt a surge of emotion taking over her. She couldn't describe it – and she was overwhelmed at the act of kindness this simple woman offered. Her apparent sacrifice made Shierra lost at words, as if her tounge has failed her. Shierra only managed to nod.

Acknowledging, Rianna smiled on more time and shut the hatch. Shierra was plunged into the darkness, and could hear Rianna laying and kicking the hay back into place to conceal the hatch. Soon after, the stable doors was heard splintered open.

* * * *

Three mercenaries stormed into the room. One stood taller and bulkier than the rest. He saw Rianna cowering in the dark corner of the stable, and thundered to her.

He seized Rianna roughly with his gloved hands. Rianna cried at the pain as the thorny dragonhide bit into her soft skin. The brute dragged her to the middle of the stable, and examined her face under the single lit lantern overhead.

“She the one, boss?” one brute asks.

'Boss' grabbed Rianna's face and dug his fingers into her cheeks. He tilted her head to see her ears.

“Nah, tis' not an elf. Prolly' the whore of this decrepit place,” he said.

'Boss' lets go of Rianna face and shoved her to the floor. Rianna's face reddened with anger. She swiftly got back up. Jerking her head backwards, she then propelled a throaty spit that landed square on Boss' face.

“I'm not a whore! And you men better leave us alone!” Rianna yelled.

Wiping the sputum of his face, Boss hammered Rianna's face with his heavy gauntlet. He balled his left fist and smashed it into the girl's guts.

Rianna doubled over in intense pain and dropped to her knees, gasping for breath. A thundering kick landed on her chests, and Rianna landed on her back to the floor with a heavy thud. Rianna could not bear the pain and lay unmoving, save for the heaving of her chests under laboured breathing. She could taste the metallic tang of blood in her throat.

Boss look down on Rianna. He lifted one heavy boot and landed it on the girl's left bosom. Rianna gurgled in pain.

“Boys, I like the way this feels. Why don't we 'leave her alone'?” Boss said.

The two brutes cheered and hollered. With evil in their eyes, they set to work on the hapless girl.

Underneath them, hidden in a dark space Shierra clamped her mouth shut. She is quivering with tears and was unable to shut the horrendous sounds that she's hearing all night.

The hollering of the brutes ravaging Rianna.

Her cries of pain.

The sound of wood splintering, and the fires that crackled to consume them

The shouting of the mercenaries as the ripped the town apart looking for her.

The sounds of panicked men, women, and small children.

Haunting faces appeared in her mind, of Rianna's last smile on her last act of kindness. She saw the brazen face of Morohtar that fought for her safety. The sneering face of the goblin. She saw Dashiel, and hoped that he makes out alright. And last of all, she saw the face of her mother – and all she saw was a look of disappointment in her mother's face. Perhaps due to her weakness, her inability to save herself, let alone others. It was not her fault - she was too scared.

“Mother, what kind of test is this?” Shierra whispered, amidst her sobs.

The chaos around her continues.

Crimson Blade

Morohtar drew his blade. The three-foot sabre slid out with a steely hiss as the rogue held it out in front of him. Silver moonlight through the window slates glinted along its length, the blood-red grip and guard glowed faintly.

A dark aura lingered around the blade, and a macabre history it held within. Among the dark circle of thieves, assassins, and cutthroats of the Undercity, this blade was spoken in hushed whispers. Many a name it has been coined – Assasin’s Edge, The Final Shadow, and The Swansong – but the true name was indeed, the Crimson Sabre.

* * * *

It was told that the sword was forged by the elves for a grand mage, and the hilt, guard, and handle was ornately inlaid with the finest rubies cut by the dwarves of Brimholt. The sword was meant as a gift from the elves for service repayment the mage was engaged on.

Upon ownership, the mage has enchanted the sabre with his magic. No one knew what exactly has been enchanted upon the sword, but something went terribly wrong. One night, an aide crept to the quarters of the mage, on the top floor of an ivory tower. The sable doors were ajar, and beyond it the aide saw his master working furiously on the blade. He waited for awhile, and watched as his master entered a deep channeling trance, drawing mana for the enchantment. Silently, the aide drew a silver stiletto, and crept towards his master from behind. The enchantment was violently interrupted as the blade plunged deep into the neck of the mage, thus the mana channeled burned within. A hearbeat later, the mage imploded violently, showering the aide, the quarters, and the sword with a crimson bath.

Blood-soaked, and with the blade in his hand, the aide descended the tower one floor at a time. At every floor, he slew other mages and students of magic with the blade of his fallen master. Many were caught by surprise, but those few who stood and fought for their lives has been fighting in vain. The Crimson Blade was enchanted to be a weapon of anti-magic. Spells were broken, and mana bolts hurled by the desperate mages were drawn to blade, and the sabre consumed it all. That night, the pristine ivory tower was soaked with blood. Every life within has been extinguished, save for the crazed aide with the deadly sabre in his hand. He stepped out of the tower into the cool night. He sets his eyes on the City of Magi. With a weapon crafted to defeat magic, he would be invincible. He would force the mages to bow down to him. He is young, and eager to take over those greasy ancients, and he would–

His thoughts were interrupted as a wave of nausea consumed him. His vision swam, and he staggered. The hand clenching the bloody blade was trembling. He felt a dull throb at the base of his skull. Reaching his other hand at the back of his neck, he felt the cold steel of a tiny dart. He pulled it out, and tossed it to the ground.

His legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees on the ground, bracing the earth with his trembling arm. A cloaked figure stepped around him.

“Even among thieves, what you did was dishonourable,” whispered the figure.

With a bout of rage and desperation, the aide launched himself up and lunged at the figure, swinging the sabre wildly. With a fluid move, the cloaked figure merely stepped aside. The aide was stopped dead upon the tip of a dagger impaling his chest. His vision darkened, and he crumbled to a heap on the grass.

The figure drew back his cloak, revealing pointy ears. He bent over and withdrew his dagger from the dead man’s chest. He wiped the dagger across the aide’s shirt and returned it to a sheath on his boots.

He picked up the bloody sabre and cleaned it as well. He knew that the Magis were watching and was satisfied with his work. As per their dark dealings with him, he can keep the sabre as the payment for his dark service.

* * * *

Morohtar held the Crimson Blade as it was but an extension of his arm.

The glowing orb of Shierra’s staff waned slightly. Morohtar muttered under his breath, and the orb of the mage’s staff shone brightly again.

“Listen, don’t get too close to me, or my sword will suck your mana!” the rogue told the girl. Shierra nodded.

“I’ll skin you alive, Kraevan!” Morohtar shouted at the goblin.

The doors burst open, and a band of men wearing green dragonhide armour swarmed in. Morohtar immediately launched himself in the air above the man. His feet landed on the shoulder armour of one of the warrior, while the Crimson Blade landed through his helm and into his skull. Vaulting off the crumpling warrior, Morohtar swept the sabre in a wide arc, slitting the throats of two warriors in mid air, and parrying several sword blows as he landed.

Shierra was casting a firebolt spell as a throwing axe spun her way. Losing focus as she ducked, the firebolt was shot wide, and blasted the wooden walls beside them. Fighting in retreat, Morohtar yanked the girl’s arm and headed to the newly-formed exit.

He took out a vial from his bandolier and smashed it to the floor between him and the advancing warriors. A bright flash flowed by a loud bang dazed the warriors, awarding the two momentary seconds to egress the battle. Outside, men on horseback were torching the wooden houses and shops of Fieri.

The night broke into chaos.

A Tale.

The light from the scant coals in the fireplace flickered across the goblin's creased, ancient face as he spoke.

"Your father lived in this town in a time long forgotten, back when it was a bustling center of trade, and not this sorry excuse of a horse's watering hole. But I suppose you knew that, didn't you?" He peered sharply at her.

Shierra nodded briefly. "My mother spoke of this place once, when I was but a child. I believe she has forgotten that she ever mentioned it, but I never forgot. My father was born and raised here, and it was not far from here that they first met, whilst she was on her own pilgrimage all those many years ago. But I know nothing else. All I know was that, being a human, his life was brief, and that he was no more long before I was old enough to remember him."

"And you came here, hoping to learn more about him, I suppose?" Morohtar asked. He scrutinized her face carefully. She appeared to be telling the truth. He was still rather distrustful, although Kraeven apparently knew her. If he had his way, he would have slit her throat the moment he had shut the door behind her, no questions asked. Better safe than be the sorry receiving end of another assassin's knife. But the goblin apparently had other plans, and he grudgingly complied. It was not his abode, and therefore not his place to interfere, however decrepit the place might be.

"Yes... I did," Shierra said, replying his question. "I thought I could find some hint here, some clue as to who he was, what he was like. But it was so long ago, not even the oldest man in this town would be able to remember him. Human memory is so short-lived." She turned sharply to face the goblin. "But you tell me you knew him."

"Indeed, I did," the goblin said, making a horrible sound that may have been a chuckle or a snort of derision - it was hard to tell. "Back when he was nothing but a village wiseman of sorts, treating people for warts and curing diseased crops. He used to come to me to purchase... ingredients." His black eyes glinted, but he spoke no more of the nature of his business. "Hah! All that changed after he met Kirriana."

"My mother," Shierra gasped, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Indeed." He grinned at her, his sharp teeth displayed to their fullest. "He felt he had to prove that he was somehow worthy of her... some nonsensical human notion. Of course, any kind of relationship between a human and an elf is a ridiculous idea to begin with. But he studied the arts more diligently after that. Your mother taught him a few tricks, but he eventually became so adept that he came up with more of his own."

Shierra listened intently, her attention focused on the goblin. She did not notice when Morohtar left his seat by the dying embers of the fireplace, nor when he disappeared into the next room.

Kraeven's beady eyes briefly followed Morohtar's movements, but he continued with his story. "Once he was able to do more than just cure warts, people started coming to him with more and more complicated problems. Eventually, people wanted love potions, poisons for revenge..."

"Idealistic human that he was, he refused some of these customers, but they continued to grow in number. Eventually, when they realised that he would refuse them still despite the gold they offered him, they became enraged. Rumours started spreading around, and all ills that befell anyone in the town was blamed on him."

"One night, your father's house, which was located on the outskirts of town, was burnt down. Nobody knew who started it, but most people could guess why. Your mother managed to escape, but no one ever heard of your father again after that night. Odd, though. Although the house was located on the outskirts and downwind, the rest of the town caught fire as well. People say it was as though the fire took on a life of its own. And once most of the town had been burned to the ground, any attempt at rebuilding it or restoring it to its former glory has failed."

"Cursed, the humans in this town say," he sneered. "Anyway, I don't think your father ever knew you existed... you were born after the fire, I believe."

"Fascinating tale, o ancient one," a voice sarcastically interrupted. Morohtar had returned to the room. "I had no idea you were such a gifted storyteller."

The goblin cackled. "But of course. I do what I must to earn a living."

Shierra looked up, startled and confused. "What?"

"You tricked me, you foul creature," Morohtar snarled. "And you had me running errands all these past couple of days, making me think that you actually needed dried up old herbs, when all this time you were just buying time until they came!"

The goblin grinned. "What made you realise? Ahh... they are here already, are they not? I can sense it from that panicked tone in your voice."

"Be damned with you. I knew something was up the moment you let her in and fed her some long-winded tale. You weren't much of a conversationalist last I checked."

Shierra had gotten up and backed away from the both of them. "Was any of what you said true?" she asked, her tone desperate.

The goblin laughed. "Some of it, some of it. Maybe all of it, maybe none of it. But what does it matter now? They are here, and I shall have the reward on both your heads!"

Morohtar turned to look at Shierra. "There is a bounty on your head as well?" he asked, surprised. Indeed, she did not look the type. But you could never tell with some folk.

"There... is?" She was just as surprised as he was. What had she ever done to earn a bounty on her head, having lived naught but a quiet existence in her village?

But there was little time to think now. Morohtar raised a hand for silence, his weapons readied. Nervously, Shierra tightened her grip on her staff.

"Here! In here!" Kraeven shouted.

Acquaintance

Morohtar was heading back to the safe house and Kraeven the goblin was expecting him to return with the Direweed. Morohtar was careful to keep himself concealed, as dark elves were not readily welcomed as the wood elves or high elven ‘cousins’. He kept to the shadows of the alleys, when he heard the sound of wood breaking, like the snapping of dry twigs when trodden upon, except much louder. Morohtar quickened his pace as he knew that the sound came from the goblin’s place, and when the safe house came to view, he spotted a lone wood-elven girl by the destroyed gate of the safe house.

He tapped her shoulder, and the elf-girl shrieked whilst swinging her staff reflexively in a wide arc. Morohtar caught the staff in one hand and cupped her mouth with the other, silencing her.

“Shh! Silence, girl,” Morohtar said, releasing his hold on the staff, and removing his hand from her mouth. The elven girl took a step back, and wielded her staff across her defensively.

“Don’t you dare do me harm! I may be just a girl, but I am a mage,” the girl protested.

“I do not intend to harm you–” Morohtar said, then took a look at the broken gate. “– though it seemed that you have indeed struck down this aggressive old gate,” he continued.

“I did not destroy it!” the elven-girl squealed. Morohtar cocked an eyebrow with a bemused expression.

“Okay, it broke when I touched it, but I did not hit it,” she said.

“Fine. But what are you doing here anyway? You’re a long way from home,” the dark elf asked.

The elven girl took a look at him. Under his hood, she noticed his dark, almost purplish complexion and the faint, silvery glow of his eyes – much like her own. At that instance she knew that Morohtar was a dark elf; the warmongering cousin of her kind.

“Speak for yourself. You’re a long way off yourself. Who are you?” she inquired.

Morohtar looked around, and after certain that no one who would care less is looking, he removed the hood of his cloak concealing his face. A long lock of silver hair fell free.

“My name is Morohtar Darkbrood, a dark elf of the Darkbrood clan from The Sable Glades,” the dark elf said with a curt bow.

“I am Shierra, from the Levianna Clan, on a—pilgrimage of sorts,” she said.

Morohtar knew of Levianna Grove; the fabled home of the wood-elves, sun-elves, and the Elders of the high-elves. However, Shierra’s slighter darker complexion, and her slightly shorter height even for a wood-elf her age portrayed another lineage. Not of elven blood.

“You are headed for this house, I presume?” he asked

“I’m not quite sure. Do you live here?”

Morohtar weighted carefully the question and the answer for it.

“I..am visiting a friend, who lives here. In fact, why don’t you come inside for awhile, out of this bright afternoon sun?” he beckoned.

The elven girl pondered, and then said “I have a friend who might be looking for me, so, I’m afraid I would have to decline the offer and resume my journey about town. Though, I would like to meet your friend.”

Morohtar nodded and led her to the entrance of the shabby house. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but suddenly, the door opened before he could do so. Behind it, Kraeven stood, grinning at the two.

“I have been watching you two,” the goblin said. His beady eyes darted at the two elves. “I hope you don’t make it a habit of bringing strangers to this place. Though this one time, it’s an exception,” he continued.

“Exception?” Morohtar asked.

The goblin nodded. He averted his eyes to the elven girl.

“Because, this girl is no stranger to me as I know her”

Shierra was astonished. “You do?” she asked.

The goblin nodded, and then chuckled heartily.

“More precisely, I knew your father,”

Arrival.

Daylight broke upon the town of Fieri as he entered its gates. Though he did suppose his appearance to be rather suspicious, the guard said nothing and allowed him to pass through, apparently uncaring. It was true then, he supposed, about Fieri being a town open to all, without bias or discrimination. Not surprising all in all, considering that its location was situated on the borderlines of three countries.

Though these three countries were currently at peace, with no apparent signs of war brewing, their citizens clearly had different ideas. As he walked past the pubs and taverns that had closed with the first approaching signs of the morn, he saw the remnants of the previous nights’ brawls being tossed discourteously out into the street, nursing cuts and bruises that they would be sporting for the next few days before they ventured forth into such places again. A few were too drunk to even walk, and simply collapsed unconscious on the street.

The town was not prosperous, having no trade that it could prosper on. The lands it claimed were dry and barren, mountainous, unsuitable for crops. Of livestock they had barely any to boast of, for no livestock would be able to live long without even fresh grass to feed on. Even trade was not a viable option, as the crowd that passed through more likely than not did not care to spend their gold on anything more than a bed for the night and a frothy pint or two.

The town simply existed as a resting stop for weary travelers, with a multitude of taverns and inns scattered in it. The few residences that still remained there contained mostly weathered old folk, tired and uncaring. The younger ones had long left the town to seek their fortunes elsewhere.

Though it was morning, the town still seemed quiet, devoid of the bustling noises usually heard in a town as the townsfolk rose for the business of the day. He continued his way along the streets, wondering amusedly what the place was like during the night, as he listened to the muffled sound of his own footsteps treading the dusty ground.

Feeling somewhat vulnerable, being in an area devoid of people in broad daylight, he hastened his steps until he reached an old house near the center of the town. The place looked abandoned and dilapidated, one of the many older buildings in town that were uncared for and falling to ruin.

It did not seem likely that there was anyone to be found within its decaying walls, yet he swung himself over the rotten wooden fence and walked up the moss-covered stone pathway to the building.

A frayed and tattered rag that may once have been a lace curtain fluttered gently in the only window not boarded up, moved by a breeze that was not there. He smiled a little to himself as he went up to a small door set into the side of the structure, and tapped its dust-coated surface lightly with one knuckle.

The door opened a fraction of an inch, a long, hooked nose poking out from the darkness within. A pair of small, glittering, beady eyes peered up at him.

“Kraeven,” he said, pulling back the hood of his cloak to reveal his face.

“Morohtar,” the gravelly voice of the goblin greeted him, and the door swung open more fully to let him in.