Vagabond

Soot.

Reis hated the smell. But what he saw around him made him quiver with anger. As he made his way through the small town, houses and hovels lay in ruin to his left and right. The occupants were either dead or sat slumped against the burnt pillars of what’s left of their home, weeping at their loss.

Reis urged his steed towards the town center. 

He could see some folks mulling about, and as he drew closer he saw some dead bodies that lay in pools of blood. The townsfolk looked at him, and Reis saw a mixed bag of expression from their eyes – the look of anger, anguish, and bewilderment. He dismounted and walked to a group.

“What happened here?” Reis asked. He did not receive a quick reply. Folks averted their gaze, and some stared at the ground. An elderly approached the knight.

“Some men came during the night.” He said, pointing at the dead with his walking stick.

“They came suddenly, ransacking every house as they went. Heard that they were looking for someone.” The elderly explained.

Reis nodded. He walked towards the pile of dead bodies to examine them.

“Dragonhide.” He muttered to himself. He noted the weapons that they carry, and the personal marks that some individual marked on shoulderplates to signify counts or tallies to a kill, but no emblem nor insignia to denote allegiance on any of them. Reis counted thirteen of them, dead with clean sword wounds.

“They were not mere mercenaries. They were too uniformed and organized, and well-equipped.” Reis muttered again. He recalled his lessons in heraldry, and his studies of factions within the Realm. No army wore dragonhide armor. Most kingdom in the realm armored their troops in chainmail as it was easy to be mass-produced, and it was cheaper to equip huge armies with. The wealthier kingdoms had their army clad in scale mail. Private armies, or the King’s personal guards wore plate mail. The most elite fighting force were afforded with full suit of plate armor, as do the knights. On the other hand, mercenaries and militias make do with armor of reinforced leather, made from tough bull hides of local tanneries. Dragonhide however, were very rare. Partly due to the rarities of actual dragons in this age, and the prohibitive price. Wearing an armor made from dragonhide is more of a status symbol than anything, aimed to intimidate opponents.

Apparently, the wearer were not worthy. The absence of any garrison in Fieri meant that there were no actual defender that offered resistance, and the townsfolk were pacifists.

“So who killed them?” Reis wondered. The elderly approached him.

“Some saw a figure, cloaked in dark clothing fought them, and killed every single one of them.”

“One man, against these?” Reis asked. He received a nod.

Reis threw his gaze to the Rumbling Din, and the stables. Suddenly, he remembered Rianna.

Reis dashed into the tavern, and saw the place ransacked. The barkeep lay in a heap in the middle, but Rianna was nowhere to be found. He went upstairs to check the rooms but found no one. He ran outside towards the stables, through the splintered double doors that hung askew from hinges, then stopped dead in his tracks.

Rianna was lying on one a pile of hay, unmoving. Her dress was in tatters, revealing delicate fair skin that was mottled with bruises and cuts. Reis’ heart sank at the sight. He walked slowly towards her, fearing the truth to be seen.

The girl’s head was facing away from him. Reis gently held her cheek and turned her head towards him. Dried blood caked her lips, and her eyes were closed. Rianna looked as if she was sleeping, but in a slumber that she would never wake up from again.

A wave of anger welled within him, and Reis felt the hatred grew. But In his anger, he had forsaken his sensory awareness. All of a sudden, a wave of pain engulfed him, sending him stumbling forward. Reis willed his accelerated healing to help remedy the pain, while his hand found the hilt of the broadsword at his side. Reis spun in a rising fury to face his attacker, drawing the blade in a menacing flash of steel.

“Get away from her!” a voice screamed from the shadowy corners of the stable. A female voice.

Reis steadied his stance as he detected a surge of energy drawing around him as his attacker prepared to cast another spell. A flash of light flickered and a bolt of energy was shot at him. In a split second, Reis willed the Light to imbue his broadsword with strength. His prayer was swiftly answered, and he parried the bolt with the broadsword, batting it back towards the caster. Not anticipating the move, his attacker was struck with her own spell. Screaming in pain, she toppled backwards.

Reis took giant strides and raised his sword to deliver the killing blow, but stopped short when he had gotten a good look at her.

“You!” he said. Reis knew who she was. He remembered bumping into her on his way out of the supply store yesterday, and recalled seeing her with a gnome companion in the tavern the day before that. 

Groaning in pain, the girl was recovering. Reis felt a pang of sorry for her, but remained cautious nevertheless. She looked young, but Reis knew that age could be deceiving. He saw her staff a few feet away from her, confirming that she was a mage. Not the most powerful of mages, but still, a mage. Reis was thankful for that, at least. He pointed the tip of his sword at her.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Reis demanded. The girl sat up slowly, and turned her head to look at him in the face. Reis saw a pair of eyes that was red and swollen with grief, with tears that were welling in her eyes. Her features and skin complexion was very fine, but it was her pointy elven ears that gave away her identity.

Reis slid his sword home, and knelt next to her. He offered his hand to help her up. She looked at him for a long time, then took his hand in hers. Reis helped her up where she stood on shaky legs. Reis willed his healing powers once again, and prayed that Light would help him heal the elf girl. Once again, his prayer was answered, and a warm sensation immediately flooded his body. With his thoughts, Reis willed the warmth to emanate from within him and into her. He willed that the Light would fill her body with the same warmth and heal her wounds. The elf girl looked bewildered at first, but then closed her eyes in accepting the healing. She felt the stinging pain from her cuts and scrapes dulled, and the shock of internal injury from the energy bolt lessen. Soon, she felt well and invigorated.

“I apologize for striking you. I hadn’t known.” Rez told her. She nodded in acknowledgement.

“My name is Reis Alderron, of the White City.”

The elf girl rose to her feet and looked around for a bit. She found what she was looking for and picked her staff from the floor. With a subtle curtsy she introduced herself.

“My name is Shierra. I am from Levianna.” She said. Her voice was shaky and laced with grief. She threw her gaze beyond him, towards the still body of Rianna.

Reis turned around and followed her gaze. He realized that Shierra was sharing the same grief as he is.

“Rianna.” Reis whispered. Shierra heard the name and realized the sorrow on his face.

“My apologies.” She said. “I thought that..you are one of those brutes that defiled her.”

Reis waved the remorse away and walked with slow, heavy steps towards Rianna. Shierra followed him.

Reis caressed Rianna’s face, pushing her matted hair from her face. He tidied her clothing the best he could, then leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead. Shierra looked on with interest. She learned that Rianna meant dearly to him, though she wondered why.

Reis knelt on one knee and cradled Rianna in his arms. With a strong grasp, he rose, lifting Rianna into the crook of his arms. He adjusted his posture, and walked calmly out of the stable. Once again, Shierra followed him as Reis made his way to the town center.

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.

Raze

Reis awoken to the smell of burning wood.

He rubbed his eyes and cracked his stiff neck, after spending the night in the wilds again. He rose to his feet and scanned the horizon. Scant motes of ash were floating in the air, swept by the wind across the meadows. There was no mistake – it was the smell of burning wood, and pitch. Reis walked about to determine the source of the fire. He drew his eyes across the tree lines and soon after, he spotted a column of black smoke rising in the air. He pondered for a second, and he looked up at the sun to decide his bearings. It was then a cold shock grasped Reis like an icy claw to the spine.

Fieri.

Sabre’s lush coat was glistening with the beast’s sweat as both him and the rider tore through the forest, crushing the ground following their trail back to Fieri. As they race through the forest, Reis felt a looming dread hung around him. Whatever lies ahead, it would not be good. He urged Sabre some more.

The smoke got thicker as Reis cleared the forest. Ahead, the black column of smoke gave no mistake to the source.

The town of Fieri was razed.

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.

A Fleeting Moment

“Will I ever see you again?” Rianna asked. Her eyes welled with tears.

“Of course. I’m a journeyman, and I will make haste to see you whenever I’m here,” Reis told her.

The two of them stood by Reis’ mount in the stables. The young knight has enjoyed the civilization compared to the bare wilderness of his travel, but he is a knight errant, and he must move on to his next stop – the Sovereign City-State of Nadaran.

The City of Magi.

Sabre snorted, eager to get a move on. Two days of being hold up in the stable was enough for the horse. He was fed, freshly groomed, and the brass buckles of the saddle burnished. The saddlebags were refilled with fresh supplies, and the armour and everything else Reis possess were in order and accounted for.

“Whatever your quest is, I wish you all the best. I am but a simple serving girl; paled in presence of your lordship, but in my heart, I pray for your safety and quick return,” she told him.

Reis’ never had felt this way. He was suddenly humbled by this commoner who prayed for his safety. In all truth Reis had known that Rianna may has consorted with men before, nor this may not be the first time she has prayed for the safety of the man she has bedded, but somehow Reis has a feeling that what she has told him was more than just a play. An instinct told him that her intention was pure – for him.

“Don’t you say that! God does not listen only to prayers from the wealthy. If your heart is true, God shall grant your prayers – so I could safely, and quickly return to you,” Reis said, as he brushed off a rogue tear from her cheek.

Rianna managed a smile, and took Reis’ hands into hers.

“You are a lot..different from the men I’ve met. You’ve got a good heart, Reis,”

Reis took her into his embrace. The two stayed in the embrace for a few fleeting moment, then Reis let her go, and then mounted his horse. With a last sad look of goodbye, Reis nudged Sabre and the horse trotted once again onto the cobbled streets of Fieri.

As he passed through, the town was the same as the last time Reis remembered it yesterday, save for two differences – Frederick’s store was closed; and as he passed by a few shabby houses after that, one of them has a broken fence. Then Reis felt a faint presence of magic. It was the lingering residue of mana noticeable to those of the mage blood, or magic users. To Reis, the lingering mana is like the smell of a land after a thunderstorm – faint, yet clearly indicated that a magic user was here recently. Like before, Reis paid no heed to it, as he was certain a mage or two passes by Fieri en route to Nadaran to the north.

Moments later, Reis reached the Northern Gate of Fieri and the two guards nodded to him as Reis rode by. In front of him, a long stretch of road lay ahead, and the spires of Nadaran could be faintly seen in the distance, about two day’s journey on foot. Mounted, Reis would made considerable speed, and he liked that idea. Fieri was a charming little town for what was it is worth, but the City of Magi is truly a spectacular visit, and the young knight was very eager to reach it. With that thought, Reis set off towards Nadaran.

* * * *

It has been four hours since Reis has left Fieri. He stopped by a grove by the side of the road for rest. Under a shady tree, Reis stretched out his legs to ensure proper blood circulation after the hours on horseback. His stomach reminded him that it was due for the midday meal, and a quick glance at the position of the sun overhead confirmed that it was slightly after noon. Reis took the saddle off of his horse and let the beast graze on the green grass. From his saddlebag, Reis broke out a package wrapped in waxed paper. He unwrapped the paper to get to his meal – sliced roast beef, and some grilled vegetables.

Reis packed the remnants of the beef into his larder bag. Whilst going through his other bags, Reis found something that did not belong there; a small object rolled in a scarf. Carefully, Reis unraveled the scarf. The cloth smelled of Rianna’s hair, and the object that nested in it was a corked phial. A piece of parchment was rolled around the cylindrical phial. Unrolling the parchment, Reis saw a clear liquid, but upon closer inspection, the liquid was shimmering. The young knight could sense powerful magic infused within the liquid. He inspected the parchment. The package was indeed from Rianna – she knew that the attendant has saddled the knight’s horse for his journey today, thus she has slipped the package into Reis’ saddlebag he was having his breakfast.

There was writing on the parchment. Reis read the lines carefully;

Ancient stars shining the way,

Lighting the road of whence fate lay.

Moonlight’s silver calms the soul,

Sunlight paves the way in gold.

Life chances this fate to me,

The wind sings the songs of glee.

My crying heart sets within his,

Every moment a joyous bliss.

As the rain comes, so shall it leave,

Just another pattern of Fate’s weave.

A solemn heart, left alone,

No brighter shall the stars shone.

A prayer I seek, sincerely for him,

To be the light, when others dim.

For him I gave the Maiden’s Kiss,

For grave tidings when he needs this.

No other treasure I have to spare,

Only a sincere wish, for all to be fair.

His warm heart makes this fire burn,

And this longing heart awaits his return.

Reis read the poem again and again. Again, he felt something which he never had experienced before; he felt a kind of warmth spreading within him, glowing in his inside. The warmth uplifted his spirit, and renewed his vigor. He never felt more determined since he began to set foot on this quest from the gates of the White City. The feeling of being cared for is a wonderful sensation, and Reis knew that when he sleeps alone in the wild country,

he was never truly alone.

Dreams.

Pequat, 10th day of the Nara, year of the 21st Water Lion
Fieri
Note Reference Index: A0001-FE1-A0003

“Seven vials, Frederick. I cannot go running out now, can I?” Frederick knew he was not to cross the gnome with who spouted quick orders and straight to the point requests. Sure, he never skipped on the pleasantries like most customers do, but this one seemed too efficient and orderly. The gnome had come to him from time to time for supplies and always knew what to buy and in what quantities. When he did come, he would work Frederick to the maximum of his capabilities as a shopkeeper.

“Give me two more of those and we're done.” commandeered the short fellow. “Done indeed”, thought Frederick, who had never seen someone buying as many things at once. He had gone through most of the store, choosing an assortment of gadget and weaponry. The reagent drawers had mostly been emptied out and the containers once filled with various potions had been stripped off completely. If one were to enter the store right now, they would have thought poor old Frederick got robbed.

Alas, it was just Dashiel, the scholar gnome, who always purchased as many things as he had required on his long journeys. He would always use the many screws, pins, and pieces of wood he bought to tinker and work on new inventions and he would find ways to mix new potions with the parts from various animals and reagents. Somehow, Dashiel had always found being thrifty to be of no concern, and would often splurge for more supplies everytime he got to another shop.

Once the last vials have been stuffed into the gnome’s giant pack, it marked the end of the shopping spree. “Thank you, Fred.” he says, while flashing a smile to the now exhausted Frederick. “I am one satisfied customer.” Frederick received a bag with a lump sum of gold, and a huge sense of accomplishment. This would feed him and his family for a long time!

Dashiel too felt happy as he left the shop. He felt wonderful, getting all the things ready for his next adventure. Buying new items always made him feel warm and fuzzy, and made him forget about all his problems. Certainly, he needed to find some calm after the previous night.



* * *


From the starlight comes to thee,
Into woodlands young and free,
Together with the sorrowed knight,
Face the face of evil might.

The words of a short poem echoed into the head of the tired little gnome. He had heard those words before in his dreams and they never ceased haunting his every sleeping moment. But this night was different, and the dream brought upon more meaning than ever before. The dream now showed him clear, what the next path was to be.

Let her meet the goblin!

Dashiel woke up with a cold sweat, like he did every Pequat.


* * *


Now strolling down the quiet streets of Fieri, Dashiel thought back to the dreams that he had experienced. The gnome could never fathom why his dreams could not have come with more details. The fates do love a challenge, he bemused. Maybe it was one of their petty little games with him, or maybe a punishment of sorts. All he knew is that he was to follow these dreams. They had no rational backing, but many things in life do not. Besides, what harm could they do?

But all the dreams had given him this time was one measly new statement. “Let her meet the goblin?” he asked himself. “Well, she does deserve to know the truth about her lineage, about her father and about her powers. Who better than the Kraeven to explain?” he thought further. Many more questions filled his head about this odd turn of events. As he walked toward the abandoned house in the outskirts of Fieri, he wondered why the fates had chosen to assign him three charges this time. One was troublesome enough.

Nevertheless, he quickened his pace, hoping that by the time he reached the house, Morohtar and Kraeven had not already driven the girl to insanity with their revelations.

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,”

Outskirts.

When she woke the sun was already high up, its rays sneaking int her room through a gap in the curtains. For awhile, she lay still in the bed wondering where she was before she remembered; the noisy tavern, the strong smell of tobacco smoke and ale, the unwelcome stares from people who had apparently seen few elves before. The meal she had eaten had been far heavier that that she was used to, and as such she had slept longer than she usually did.

Once she had dressed, she left the room and made her way downstairs. The tavern looked desolate compared to the night before, and there was naught but the odd few people at their daily chores. The barkeep looked up as she came down.

“’Ere, miss. Your friend went out, said to tell you he’ll be back later and that you can do what you like in the meantime.”

She nodded briefly. “If he comes back before I do, please inform him that I have gone to explore the town.”

The barkeep laughed. “Ain’t nuthin’ much to see in this town, miss, other than a few crummy ol’ buildings.”

Nodding curtly at him, she left the tavern.

Sure enough, the town was as empty as the barkeep had said it would be. She wondered where all the people that she had seen last night had gone, and realized that few people lingered in this town for long.

Something happened here, long ago, she mused. Once, the town had been alive and full of people, but after the incident, something changed. There was something in the very atmosphere of the town that made it feel empty, devoid of feeling, a welcoming place for no one. Whatever it was that had happened had marked the town as a place of neglect and ruin.

She walked around the broken remnants of a fountain, gazing at the buildings briefly as she passed by. A few of them had been partly mended, a couple even freshly painted, as though to salvage what was left of the town’s former glory. Her gaze fell upon the window of one of these buildings, a shop of some sort apparently. As she walked by, the door suddenly opened, and a large, well-built man came out, his arms full with his purchases. The proprietor stepped out shortly after, cheerfully thanking his customer and bidding him goodbye.

Shierra was amused. Evidently customers in this town were rare and few in between, particularly ones that would make purchases as large as this. She noted with some interest the man’s garments as he walked off. Although simple, they were well-made; a sure sign that he was of a wealthy family, if the large bundle he had been carrying out of the store was not already an indicator of this. Wondering why such a person would be in this near-forsaken town, she watched him head off in the direction she had just come from, evidently lost in thought.

Her footsteps continued leading her towards the outskirts of town, where the buildings were more derelict.

Which one of these houses was it? She wondered, glancing around at the buildings around her. Is it even still standing? Her father had lived in this town, resided in one of these buildings. Which..?

She leaned against one of the fences, peering at the boarded up windows of one of the houses. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a figure moving inside, past the only window not quite boarded up…

The fence gave a loud, protesting creak and collapsed under her weight, its rotten wood splintering at its base.

Shierra sat up, a little dazed, all thoughts of mysterious shadows banished from her mind. “Why does this always happen to me?” she muttered, picking a few splinters out of her hands. At the very least, she thought, nobody had been around to see her make a disgrace of herself yet again.

Dusting herself off, she got up, carefully examining her staff to make sure that it wasn’t damaged in any way. Thankfully, it wasn’t.

It was just then, as she was pondering what to do next, that a hand landed on her shoulder from behind her. Caught off-guard, she shrieked, swinging her staff around.