Living Room Games

[The_Emperor]

Participants:

yukongil (Protagonist | Plot)
etherial (Plot)
Jpwoo (Protagonist | Antagonist)
Kappa ()
Loswaith (Protagonist | Plot) *I think I know who this she is that you don't quite mention, but if I missed my guess let me know via pm*
Cabor (Antagonist | Plot)
cpdebugger (Protagonist | Antagonist | Plot)
Mataxs (Antagonist | Plot)
Maragrik Darkhorns (Protagonist | Antagonist | Plot)


Note: I added Cabor and swimmingwolf based on responses to the original thread. If I am incorrect in my guess that you wish to be added, let me know and I'll take you off the list.
_________________
Joe Chan
Living Room Games, Inc.
pr@lrgames.com

[yukongil]

scrit, scrit, scrit....scrit, scrit...

It seemed such a small and pitiful thing to him at the time. A little hovel dug into the side of a hill on some long forgotten stretch of mountain in Southern Barsaive. Hardly worth his time, perhaps a quick massacre he thought, take a few of the workers, leave their bloody and desecrated remains behind and drink in the pain and horror as the others found their missing friends and loved-ones. Still barely worth his time he mused. Oh, but what's this? Panic..Terror...Ah yes very sweet, he thought. He looked about the stony hillock seeking the source of the workers terror, angered slightly that it wasn't himself. His keen eyes, powerful enough to see through the boundaries of reality and into the astral dark, saw nothing. Not even the weak forms of his lesser brethren that were starting to infest the world, could he sense. Then his broken and terrifying visage narrowed as the understanding of their fright dawned upon him. The Scourge. Yes so simple it is, these fools race to dig their own tombs. To hide from it as if it were some simple beast, awaiting nightfall so it could steal in and take their lives. Their panic caused the beast to chuckle slightly, a terrifying sound, devoid of mirth and goodness, filled only with the promise of everlasting pain and torment. They sought to race the Scourge, to complete their safe-haven and throw shut their doors to keep the monsters like he and his brethren at bay. The fools. The stupid cattle. They had already lost the race, in fact they and their parents and their parents' parents as well. He and his ilk had walked in this world for sometime now, manipulating events from behind the scenes and steering the world in their chosen direction. They had given them secrets of great magics and in their childish race to acquire the power to use it, had hastened their own doom.

scrit, scrit, scrit....scrit....

Perhaps not such a waste of time the dark-man thought. The panic he was feeling from the hurried workers was almost intoxicating in it's potency, and all this from a few dark clouds and fire-side stories of monsters and horrors from beyond the veil. These people have potential, he thought. Perhaps with the right...motivation, their terror could be truly grand. Beyond anything the dark imagination of his twisted brethren had ever dreamed of before. Yes perhaps not such a waste of time.

scrit, scrit, scritt...scrit...scrit, scrit...

For weeks the Horror watched the workers and soon-to-be inhabitants of the Kaer. Each tremble of arm or worry of mind, the Horror saw and remembered, these were his keys that would unlock the gates to the hearts of his victims. These little signs of weakness, were all the cracks in the wall the Horror needed.

Within time, the dark watcher had chosen his select group who would grant him access to the Kaer. A guard, his pattern filled with distrust, suspicion and fear. A perfect canidate for the twisting words of the Horror. A simple encounter, encouraged the guard to turn a blind eye towards anyone marked by the Horror. It had always amazed the monster how quickly the cattle turn on each other, especially when confronted by the possibility of being cast outside your sanctum, left to the ravages of the Scourge by your fellow dwellers after they have found you to be marked. Better to serve the beast than be its dinner he darkly mused. Several other arranged meetings found many others who fell prey to their selfish spirits, and choose themselves over the other people of the Kaer. Their fear will be the sweetest. They will sit back as the Kaer starts to tear itself apart right before their eyes, believing themselves safe, having made a pact with the beast itself. Then as they are rent limb from limb, the terror and surprise that they shall feel, it would be as sweet ambrosia.

scrit, scrit...scrit, scrit...scrit, scrit...scrit, scrit, scrit..

Soon it became time for the great doors of the Kaer to be shut and sealed. Having long ago breached its meager defenses, the Horror watched with great anticipation for the foolish mortals to take their refuge and grow comfortable in their sheltered lives. For half a generation the beast waited and watched. During that period the beast even became protector of the Kaer, of sorts, destroying several meager and weak horrors, that dared breach his “banquet hall”. This feast he would share with none other.

In this time the beast took skin and with it made a body to walk amongst the people of the Kaer. A visage so that they might tremble in fear at his passing and seek to remove their eyes instead of gaze upon his vile face. The body of the beast was tall and skeletal in appearance, with dry blackened skin stretched taut across the warped and broken bones underneath. Along the length of its arms and legs bled great wounds that poured its foul black blood which defiled everything it touched. The face of the beast was no less terrible, gaunt with starved feral features. Small black bone shards bristled from its face like a macabre beard, which always seemed darkly wet, as if covered in thick blood, which its long serpentine tongue covered in cuts and sores, would occasionally snake out, from behind its rows of crooked teeth, cleaning the filth from its face. Long pointed ears, which crooked at the tips held back white wisps of matted hair. The only sign of life to the beast were its eyes, though only because of their movement in their sunken sockets. They showed no joy or warmth, no honor or compassion, only death, dark and painful. This terrifying form it hid underneath a robe of tattered rags, each soiled in the blood of innocents, taken by the beast in ages past. Its head it covered in a great wide-brimmed hat, made of a black leathery skin.

Scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit,.....scrit, scrit

Many a night, he would walk the streets of the Kaer, listening a doorways and watching from the many shadows cast by the great light quartz crystals in the high ceiling above. In these walks he learned many secrets of the Name-givers, what they fear, what they hate and more importantly what they cherish. Children, nothing brings more joy to the heart of these week little bugs, than the laughter of a child, and nothing brought more dread and worry than when one of these little dears were hurt. And the fright of the children, so young and innocent, so pure and undiluted, just sheer genuine terror. So the beast took to preying upon the children of the Kaer, luring them away with the visage of a lost playmate or beloved animal. From there he would lead them to the dark places under the earth, places littered with gore and filth of the beast. But the beast was clever and his mind devious, he knew to take the children may draw the wrath of those above and that they might suspect him and seek to hunt him. That he did not fear, for he feared no weapon or magic held by any of the Kaer dwellers. But that his grand feast would be prematurely interrupted, this gave him pause. So return the children to their loving parents he would, or at least their bodies. Their minds and souls he kept for himself, drawn out in terrible and loathsome rituals, so that he may feed on their eternal torment and fear. In its place was his black foulness. It walked like the children, it talked like the children, it even had the memories of the children, but inside it was evil incarnate. Soon dark days consumed the Kaer and its inhabitants. Days filled with blood and despair, misery and torment. But those days are long past and their memories are no longer the province of the living.

Scrit, scrit, scrit...Scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit...Scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit, scrit...Scrit, scrit, scrit....Scrit, scrit, scrit....Scrit, scrit, scrit....

Such a delectable meal. A feast of proportions befitting the devourers malicious mind, if not his thin and seemingly frail body. Remembrance of the horrors that befell the Kaer still brought a rictus grin to face of The Thin-Man, even in his current state. Few things awoke his consciousness these days, but the torment he visited on those who sought refuge in this grave of True Earth, could always bring a smile to his wicked face.

Scrit...Scrit...Scrit...
_________________
Where's me bear?
~Yukongil

It's not the finding that's the hard part. It's convincing him to put on the dress.
~Yukongil, when asked what's the hardest part of Bear Wrangling.

[etherial]

The bellows pumped and the fire burned, and throughout the hall, the constant tink tink tink of of smithing could be heard. In one corner, Mikal Ironhearth wrestled with an armour dummy. "Blasted thing", he muttered, kicking the base of its stand. He pushed up with his arms, trying to hold its shape, but the fabric just sagged. On the floor lay the scraps of leather and bits of metal that would form the beginnings of a suit of armour - if the dummy would ever cooperate. The tools of his trade lay about Mikal's portion of the workshop, but the hammer lay cold and the anvil unused; he had been distracted for some time.

Mikal fumed and resolved that, this time, things would go more like they were supposed to. He glanced into the nearby stalls, wondering if maybe the magic had suddenly gone out of the Universe, and he was simply the first to notice. Saemmheth was stewing a shard of living crystal, soaking it in dye to find its natural breakpoints to facilitate its forging into ringlets for armour. Juldea held a sword between her hands. It floated, glowing the palest of blue like moonlit fog. She concentrated, meditating, looking at the item, but not at the metal that made up the sword. She was looking at the magic that made the metal the sword it was. She was looking at its pattern.

Mikal sighed. The magic had not left the Universe. He could feel his Talents, threads of magic knit like invisible muscles over his body. He felt them flex, the magic within him as frustrated as he was. From every direction, he heard the tink tink tink of hammers and it frustrated him that his own hammer lay silent. What was a Weaponsmith, he wondered, when he wasn't smithing? He stomped down the corridor, unable to answer his own question, when a bumbling Troll nearly stepped on him.

"Easy there, little Dwarf", Mikal heard from somewhere above him. Even members of taller races found Trolls mountainously big, but this one seemed downright dizzying in height, he had to be nearly ten feet tall to Mikal's four. "You shouldn't be walking about daydreaming", the Troll said, shifting the weight of the anvil on his shoulder, "you're likely to get squished". Mikal hated the way everyone else seemed to think that Dwarves were always "strolling" or "meandering". They were always too caught up in their own world to consider how bothersome it was to walk on short stubby legs.

Mikal resumed his fuming and stomping, reminding himself that today was a long time coming, that Jeoram was finally getting what-for. He passed quickly - and without any further interactions with members of overly large and pointed races - how could Trolls *stand* having those damned horns poking out of their heads at odd angles, anyway - and signed the guestbook for the Smithsguilder's Office, discreetly labeling the purpose of his visit as "Equipment Maintenance"-related. He didn't have to wait long before the office door opened and the Smithsguilder greeted him exactly as warmly as he always did, which was neither very warmly nor very often.

"Ah, Mikal, just the man I was looking to see. I hear you've been working on a shirt of mail for one of our Arm Captains." The Smithsguilder shook Mikal's hand and led him in. Most of the rooms in the hall had no ceiling, they were simply made of walls and floor to increase ventilation and make it easier to transport bulk materials. The Smthguilder's Office, however, had no actual forge in it, and Mikal had always suspected that private meetings of some sort had been held here frequently, taking advantage of the deadening of the sound within.

"Actually, sir, that shirt of mail is the reason for my visit. The work hasn't gone very well since-"

"How is your sister?" The Smithguilder asked, sitting in his chair and perusing his stock of liquor and smoking herbs.

"Er- she's doing fine, sir. They're trying for another baby, she really can't bear the thought of being stuck with so few children."

Jeoram had latched onto a bottle filled with a brown liquid that Mikal had always suspected was bottled smoke mixed with a dash of liquid vileness. "Yes yes, I had always feared she had married too late. She may never be able to raise the necessary army of grandchildren when the time comes. When are you going to start doing your duty to your family, anyway?"

The Smithsguilder and Mikal's sister traveled in circles that believed it was only a matter of time before the King's line died out and there would be a power struggle between the Noble Houses. They always joked about forging an alliance, but Mikal had always secretly wished that she would dispose of the Smithguilder. He had feared for some time now that he wouldn't be promoted any other way.

"I'm always on the lookout for the right woman to marry, but you know how focused I am on work-"

"Quite right", the Smithguilder muttered, taking a sip of his drink.

"As a matter of fact, work is the reason I came here, I-"

"And your brother? How is his mining operation coming?"

Mikal was tired of being interrupted at this point. "Stop being polite and let me talk! You're asking about every one of my affairs except the one that concerns you! And it happens to be the reason I'm here. My armour dummy has stopped working. I think the magic has finally gone out of it. No matter how many times I try to reshape it to work on that Captain's Mail, it falls back out of shape. I don't think he'd appreciate armour fitted for an obese T'Skrang woman."

The Smithguilder took a gulp of his drink. "Now, Mikal, you know there's no room in the budget to get you a new armour dummy."

"Saemmheth got a new one last month!"

"Yes, which means there's no more money for-"

"And Juldea has a new anvil!"

"Look, Mikal, you know that budget requests are filled based on Seniority...Anyway, we're taking you off that armour project."

Mikal was now angry and confused. "What?"

"We've had a most intriguing item brought to us by an Adventurer, and we want you to look at it." Mikal hated Adventurers. They were smelly, self-centered, poor, and always got treated better than everyone else. Jeoram continued his pitch, "He's a rather charming fellow. He found this anvil that seems to be rather magical. I'm surprised you didn't bump into him on your way over, he's setting himself up in your workshop right now. You can't have missed him, we don't get many Trolls this deep into the Kingdom-"

"I quit."

"What?"

"I'm done. I'm going to go get my things and go find a Kingdom that appreciates me." Mikal stood up and got into the business of leaving.

"There's no Kingdom like Throal! You can't just walk away from us and expect to do as well anywhere in Barsaive!"

"You keep saying how the Nobles will be at war with each other sooner or later. Even the mightiest Kingdom can fall apart. And anyway, once I step foot outside that mountain, there's nothing keeping me in Barsaive either." Mikal Ironhearth hurried out of the passages of the Smith's Guild's offices and practices with a light spring in his step. Fresh air greeted him as exited the tunnels that comprised the mighty Kingdom of Throal. He tossed a copper in the air, figuring that wherever its face would lead him had to be better than here. Off in the distance, he could hear the tink tink tink of the smithy. It sounded like chains being broken.
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"Take good care of my ship." - Alaria Festryl, First Circle Elven Thief, who had no business owning a riverboat

[Jpwoo]

The dwarf's eyes scanned the ground for the copper. He found it heads up, the portrait of King Valorous staring up at Mikal with accusing eyes and furrowed brow. He picked the coin up wiping his thick thumb over the coin taking the thin layer of dust off the face. "Well king were you more careful in appointing your guild master, we wouldn't be having this argument, now would we?" He replied as his eyes scanned the horizon. Sharp young peaks cut upward into the blue skies. As he looked to his right he saw the meandering smoke of Bartertown in the distance. To his left he could see the faint outline of the road that moved west, away from Throal, away from Bartertown. That was the direction the coin had picked.

Mikal started down the narrow road outside the gate door. The sun beat down on him, his eyes squinted tight to fight the glare bouncing up off the gray stone. He was leaving Throal, his home his country his nation.

When the Therans had showed up slavering on the borders, his majesty had asked him to give his all. They asked him and the other weapon smiths to give teeth to an army. He had thrown himself into the work. Everyone did, the guildhall roared with the flames of the forge and the thunder of the anvil all day and all night. He had learned to sleep to the lullaby of hammers falling when he was allowed to sleep. His waking hours were filled with working iron. Not as a weapon smith but as a blacksmith. There was no time for craft and creativity, only a need for volume. Six hours a day working billets, six hours a day hammering blades, two days of his week churning the bellows. It pained him to watch the imperfect blades pulled from his anvil to sent off to the front. Swords, spearheads, axes, hammers, a flood of substandard arms. The royal army was certainly pleased, but Mikal was left feeling hollow by the whole thing.

He could only imagine all the malformed, blades he had created, sharp but misshapen. The western battlefields must still remain littered with them. Armies of dwarves, orks, men, and elves bound together in ugliness of war. A blade serves one purpose and that is to take a life and protect its wielder. Mikal had always thought that the taking of a life should be something not to take lightly and as such a blade must not be crafted lightly. As any warrior should think hard and long before taking up his weapon, a weaponsmith must also take those long hours of consideration in creating the tool of battle. The weapons of war however were not finely crafted, they were crude and effective. The soldiers on the field would give no more than a passing thought to the sword in their hand.

Worse yet, after the war the great glut of weapons available drove down the cost of even the most finely crafted of swords. This had the unpleasant side effect of taking money out of the moneybags of the forgers guild. A tight budget was ultimately the blow that drove Mikal to leave. So he couldn't consider the situation all bad. After all Mikal was now free to work his craft as he pleased. His apprenticeship long over, it was now that he truly felt that his Jouneyman’s voyage was beginning. Now here the war was over, he was finally free to get back to doing real work, but the guildhall just didn't feel the same anymore. The guild master didn't help at all either. Mikal had done his part to win freedom and now he was going to enjoy it. It wasn't that he was no longer a loyal subject of Throal, his love of his lands ran deep within him. Mikal wasn't ready to admit to himself the real reasons that he had left the under mountains.

Two days down the road Mikal was enjoying his freedom. Freedom in this case was what was left of a piece of dried meat and some stale bread. His feet were sore, his forehead and neck were burned from the sun. A long sigh slowly escaped his lips as he slumped against stone. He chewed quietly, grinding some of the salty meat in an attempt to convince himself that he was ready to swallow it. A fly landed on his bare neck and he reflexively swatted at it letting out a pained yelp as his burned skin flared. Another long sigh escaped him.

He pondered what to do next. He looked down the road, the worn beaten dirt wisping dust upward. Promising to coat Mikal's sweaty brow with another fine coating of dirt, and not a healthy coating of grime like soot, just a plain unpleasant dirty one.

He closed his eyes and waited. He considered going back to the guild hall. Broken armor dummy or not at least he had a working forge there. He considered stopping at the next town and setting up a shop there. He certainly had the skill to do so. It was too bad that he hadn't seen a town on this road yet. Behind those closed eyes he saw the road stretching out in front of him forever. Looking ahead he could see open plains, rivers lacing back and forth across the road, sunrises and sunsets, stars whirling over his head. A sensation of vertigo washed over Mikal as his vision rushed down the long road. Towns rolled by, flashes of steel and the pounding of irons rose and fell in his ears. The pounding grew louder and louder until there was a great clang. Mikal's eyes snapped open and he jumped shocked by the sound.

The air was chill now on his burned skin. Over his whole body gooseflesh crawled. Darkness had fallen all around him, he must have fallen asleep. He saw one thing present that wasn’t there when he fell to sleep. A single small anvil.
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Runebearer: An open system fantasy game

[Kappa]

Mikal stared at it, utterly perplexed. He looked around, hoping to find where it had come from, and gasped. He wasn’t on the road anymore; he was in a small stone ruin in a forest. The anvil had not appeared; he’d come to it. But how? More importantly, how was he going to find his way back? The heavy trees cast deep shadows over the ruin, and a nervous chill crept up his spine.

The smith stood up, determined not to let anxiety overtake him. The situation was disturbing, but if he kept calm, he could figure it out. He began to walk around the stone ruin, looking for hints as to where he was. In the room where Mikal stood, and in those around it, were a small few items of his own trade, battered and worn beyond use. Walking further out into other rooms, what few items he found were likewise ancient, broken tools, of all manner of craft.

He returned at last to the anvil. Comparably, it was in superb condition. A magical anvil; the second one he’d seen that day, he realized, remembering the troll from the guild. Should he take it with him? Could he bear its weight?

“Who are you?” The voice snapped Mikal back to his current situation. He span around, coming face to face with a blonde elf, wearing a steel breastplate emblazoned with golden runes. He carried a large sword, the blade longer than Mikal was tall, and as wide as his hand-span. It too was covered in large golden runes.

Mikal stuttered, trying to recover from being startled, but no words came. “Forgive my rudeness,” the elf said, trying to placate the dwarf. “I am Saiar Keidance, a Hunter of Throal. This place is dangerous, you should leave.”

---

The audacious one would pay. The creature could not remember pain, so long had it been; but it hurt now. Exquisite, this feeling, it might’ve been a quaint feeding if the creature weren’t seething with rage. Centuries it had spent in that place, making it its own, feeding on the innocent and the foolhardy; all laid to waste by the audacious Name-giver. But it would have its revenge. It was sluggish and starved from its long slumber, and injured now as well. One victim at a time, it would restore itself. It must be patient; too many victims at once, and it might be discovered too soon.


The night was kind to it. A man and his daughter walked the road alone. It lured the girl away into the woods and made her soul its nourishment, and her body its puppet. The man found her, and the creature drank his anguish when she attacked him with tooth and claw. It laughed a dark, evil cacophony through the woods as he tried to carry her to sanctuary, to ahealer, while she peeled away pieces of his flesh.

…scrit, scrit…

One at a time, until it grew strong again. Then it would hunt the audacious one, the invader who dared to strike him. The one with the skin of a Name-giver but a heart like a well of eternal darkness, as though he had swallowed the essence of Horrors to add to his own power. Yes, the creature would have its revenge against the elf in the gold-rune armor.

…scrit, scrit…

---

The crash of thunder shook the walls. Kai snapped upright and, without thought, threw the dagger at his side at a faint glint of light. The blade flew and connected; there was a sound of shattering glass. Kai sat still, breathing heavily. It had been two and a half years since he had died and he still relived his demise in every dream.

Rain beat heavily against the walls outside; wind whistled through the stone arches of the temple. Kai's eyes adjusted to the darkness. The Cathayan dagger was imbedded in the backing of his broken mirror. "Damn. Runa's not going to be happy about that," he muttered to himself.

Kai yanked the thin wire attaching his finger to the ring at the end of the dagger's hilt, returning the blade to his hand. He dragged his fatigued body out of bed, knowing that the scant couple of hours were all the sleep he was getting for the night. He dressed himself, and splashed some water from a basin onto his face. He held up a piece of the broken mirror and looked at his bedraggled visage. "Y'know, you used to smile a lot more," he said to himself. He tried to smile at himself; the attempt looked so ridiculous he laughed. Success!

Feeling slightly more awake, he decided to find Runa and tell her about the mirror. As he pressed open his door he heard exclamations from distant voices. Curious, he moved quickly down the dark torch lit hallway, following the sound.

He passed through the main hall, made a brief sign to the statue of Garlen and continued toward the commotion. It was coming from the entrance corridor. A shriek sounded through the large oak doors between the halls and Kai broke into a run, his boots clattering against the stone floor. He was at the door in a moment and through it in another.

As the door swung open, he saw before him the gathered clergy of Garlen being attacked by a small figure. Some fled; others tried to fend it off. Blood stained the walls. The creature fell upon a dwarf and sank teeth into his throat, loosing a flood of red across the floor. Kai ran forward, knowing it was already too late for the dwarf.

Kai leapt at the creature, thrusting the dagger imbued with Thief magic; it would cut deep if he caught the thing off-guard. The creature came to its feet and turned at the sound of Kai's running footsteps. Too late. The blade sank deep between the creature's eyes.

It was a human girl, no more than ten years old. There was a strange, sinister shadow over her eyes. Kai understood. The undead were second nature to him now. This creature had nothing left within of the young girl it once was. She was just a grim reminder of why he was in service to Garlen: protect the innocents he once abused and his damaged Pattern would slowly be restored, until he was a complete, living human once more.

The girl went limp, but did not fall. She just stood there, motionless. Those in the hall did the same, staring at the child, waiting. She smiled and began to hum; a repetitive, lulling melody. She started to sing, the echoes in the stone hall giving a haunting harmony to her eerie rhyme:

We can't get out, they can't get in
The stone walls keep us safe inside
They can't get in, we can't get out
Behind stone walls we wait and hide

We can't get out, they can't get in
But he already waits within
There's nowhere to be running
They can't get in, we can't get out
But now our hearts are filled with doubt
The Thin-Man is coming

And with that, she fell.
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"Bitch, that's cheating! I'm not dead yet!!"

[Loswaith]

“I am Mikal, Weaponsmith of Th…“ Mikal quickly cut off his last words, so easily they had once come to his lips that old habits almost took over. “I am a Journeyman Weaponsmith.” Saiar raised an eyebrow in recognition and repeated the statement, “This place is dangerous, Mikal, and you should leave.”

“Where is this place?” Mikal replied. His question seemed to fall on deaf ears, for no response came from the Elf. Mikal watched the elf for a short while noting the craftsman ship of the armour and sword, however the curiosity of the anvil niggled at his attention. Rationalising that if the elf wanted him dead he would be a corpse now, he gave into the curiosity and inspected the anvil further.

Mikal sat close to the anvil, peering at it’s gleaming black surface. He inspected it with his trained eye noting that it bore no markings of maker nor of use, no scratches, no dints, no scuffs and no flakes of metal embedded in tis surface it was if it had just been created though he just knew it had been used.

Ignoring the damp environment about him soothing his burns, he focused of the anvil and his own breathing; he could hear the sounds about him and the gentile breathing of the elf in comparison to his own heavy breaths. His vision focused on the anvil.

tink, tink, tink…
Mikal could hear the so familure rhythm of the smithing hammer working
tink, tink, flash…
The flash and sparks from a beaten blade started to fill his vision
tink, tink, flash, crackle…
A blade started to form in his vision, the hammer beating down on it causing flashes and sparks, as his vision cleared more he could see the blade resting on the small anvil.
tink, tink, flash, crackle…
A calloused hand worked the hammer, while a second heavily gloved hand held the blade in place on the anvil, Mikal could not make out who the hand belonged to, however he was certain it was either dwarven or human.
tink, tink, flash, crackle…
A faint haunting tune started to creep through, a child’s voice perhaps
…they can’t get in..
…stonewalls keep us…
…can’t get in….
Behind stone walls…
..cant get out…..
..he already waits…
..nowhere to be running..
…we cant get out…
Suddenly a face of a small child with hollow eyes flares up from the working blade, a dagger embedded between her eyes, her lips move with the last words she utters,
But now our hearts are filled with doubt
The Thin-Man is coming

Mikal, shocked back to his surroundings and breathing heavly, he looks about the ruins and remembers where he is, the elf had barely moved, the anvil lies at his feat.

The lingering thought of the haunting image lies emblazoned on his mind, he looks again to the anvil. Should he take it with him? Could he bear its weight?

----

He sits up startled, sweat running down his forehead, his breath ragged and short. It takes but a moment to reorientate himself in the darkness. He labours to stand his muscles groaning in response to being worked again after so little rest.
A crow with black feathers and piercing brown eyes lands on his shoulder, and drops a small bundle of berries onto his awaiting hands.
The man plucks them from their sprig and gobbles them down hungrily, a small amount of juice trickles down his dark skin from the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and scratches the crow under its chin, and flicks the sprig away.
He wanders over to the stream and crouches beside it. The warped reflection shows a dark-skinned human in brown greaves, his hair tied back in a small warriors tail, many scars show across his uncovered musculare chest and long new wound can be seen running from his left nipple to the base of his ribs.
He scoops up some water and splashes it into his face and then vigorously rubs his damp face, his green eyes sparkle in the warped reflection and his face has a long encrusted pained look about it. He again scops up a handful of water and rubs it over his chest and his new wound, he scoops a second and third time before slowly inspecting the pink newly healed injury, and seems satisfied with the way it has healed.

He slowly crouches and places his lips to the water sucking in great gulps, then he stands and returns to his makeshift bead and gathers up a pack, a sword, and a number of smaller weapons.

“Well Jeskar, it seems she has shown us our next task, and after we find our current hunt we will move onto that, for I still need time to ponder But now our hearts are filled with doubt, The Thin-Man is coming”

The man and crow walk off a short distance and look to the ground, he wipes his hand across his eyes and feels the usual infusion of power as changes his sight, the earth and trees now glow as if they are alive. He crouches to the ground and gestures his hands in odd patterns, and a form begins to glow on the ground, two claw like imprints either side of a large drag mark, more claw marks slowly appear and the drag mark lengthens.
Man and crow follow the direction of the trail, through the glowing landscape and off into the darkness.
_________________
Loswaith

Henceforth mortal, remember...

[Mataxes]

The knot in the pit of Melinda’s stomach grew as she waited for her audience with the Prelate. Under normal circumstances, Runa’s garden courtyard would have provided a relaxing respite from Melinda’s duties.

These were not normal circumstances, and the gentle rush of water in the fountain sounded to Melinda like the hiss of a viper. Unable to contain herself, she stood and began pacing. The hem of her cream-colored robe swept the granite flagstones. On her third trip past the fountain, she caught a look at her reflection in the water.

Her recent long hours in the archives had left their mark. Faint circles shadowed her brown eyes, and her short, reddish-brown hair resembled a sparrow’s nest. She rubbed at a smudge of ink on her cheek and sighed. I really ought to have taken a moment to clean myself up, she thought, but what I’ve discovered is too disturbing…

“You wished to see me, Sister Melinda?”

Melinda suppressed a startled yelp. The Prelate stood there in her white robes, white hair hanging unbound down to her waist.

Melinda bowed her head, her face burning. “Prelate Runa, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you arrive. Garlen’s blessing on you this day.”

“On you as well, sister.” Runa’s warm smile did little to ease Melinda’s discomfort. “Do not be troubled, Melinda, I understand you have been researching the cryptic rhyme sung by the unfortunate child?”

“Yes Prelate.” Melinda didn’t quite trust her tongue to more words. She nearly always felt a degree of clumsy inadequacy next to the Prelate’s easy grace, and her embarrassment only amplified that feeling now.

“Then please, child, come in and share what you have learned.”

Runa waited while Melinda retrieved the bundle of scrolls she had left on the nearby bench, and the two entered the Prelate’s sitting room.

The room was filled with the aroma of brewing tea. On a low table, beside the steaming teapot, was a plate loaded with honeyed oatcakes. Melinda’s stomach rumbled.

Runa laughed. “So lost in the archives you neglected your stomach again?” She crossed the room, knelt on a cushion, and began pouring the tea. “Please, Melinda, sit and refresh yourself.”

Melinda’s hunger overrode her discomfort. She crossed to the table and looked for a place to set down the scrolls she carried. Not finding anyplace suitable, she set them on the floor and sat cross-legged across from the Prelate. Runa handed her a cup of tea, and Melinda closed her eyes, taking a moment to let the smell ease her mind.

It brought back memories of her first days here at the abbey. When memories of her village’s destruction would keep her from sleep, Runa would sit up with her, brewing tea and helping ease the girl’s sorrow.

Melinda reminded herself that while Runa might now be Prelate, she was still the same warm and caring woman who had inspired her to become a novitiate.

The Prelate’s gentle voice brought Melinda out of her reverie. “What did you learn, Sister?”

Melinda opened her eyes and took a drink of tea while she composed her thoughts. “Not much more than we had guessed last night. There are many examples of Horrors using children to shock or terrify potential victims. Sending an undead messenger as a kind of harbinger is also a common tactic.”

Melinda retrieved one of the scrolls from the floor beside her. “The rhyme the girl spoke was a children’s song from before the Scourge... or at least, the first verse was. The corrupted second verse implies that, like many lost kaers, the people locked themselves in with a Horror.”

She shook her head. “None of this is particularly surprising, but there are some incongruities that troubled me. I expect the ‘Thin Man’ mentioned in the last line is the Horror that was trapped in the kaer, but it doesn’t quite add up. ‘The Thin Man is coming’ would seem to indicate that he isn’t the one behind the girl’s unfortunate state. If that were the case, the rhyme could actually be a warning. But if so, who is sending the warning?”

Melinda took a bite of honey cake as she thought further. “I can’t get it to make sense. I can’t help the feeling that there will be more innocent victims like her.”

“You’re not wrong in that feeling.” Melinda’s face paled at the male voice from behind her. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Kai lounging on a couch in the corner. She hadn't noticed him when she first came in the room, and felt a momentary flash of anger at the Prelate for not revealing his presence.

“Runa, I have a rather... intimate familiarity with the undead,” he began. He noticed Melinda’s shudder, and smiled at her. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You almost never encounter just one.

“The question is,” he added, “did the Sister here learn where the girl was from?”

Melinda took a deep breath, and tried not to let her discomfort show. “I did, actually... at least generally. The embroidered designs on her clothes are similar to the ones used by the Wind Bears in the plains south of the Tylon Mountains. They’re a mixed tribe of orks and humans who emerged from their kaers after the Scourge and, like the Dinganni, took to a life of wandering.”

Kai nodded. “Their territory is only a couple days travel from here.” He got up from the couch and moved toward the table. “With your permission, Runa, I’d like to head down there and see what I can learn.”

The Prelate nodded. “Of course -- on one condition. You take Melinda with you.”

Kai looked the dwarf girl over and then said the very thought running through Melinda’s head at that moment. “You can’t be serious.”
_________________
-- Josh Harrison -- The Lore Merchant

Contributing editor for RedBrick, Ltd.
Visit earthdawn-classic.com for more information.

[Maragrik Darkhorns]

Melinda was exhausted. Her feet ached, it was unbearably hot and she hadn’t bathed once since leaving the Sanctuary. With the sun already at its zenith, the constant dust and persistent flies didn’t make an afternoon’s hard trekking any more of an inviting prospect. She struggled to match Kai’s pace as he casually strode over the parched terrain. “I thought that the Wind Bears’ territory lay only a few days travel away?” she called out to his back several yards in front.

“It was,” Kai replied over his shoulder, “as the airship flies. Of course, I assumed that I’d be mounted and travelling alone.” he said, looking down at the dwarf girl lagging behind. Without the need for rest, Kai thought, I should have made this trip in half the time. His body’s reduced requirement for sustenance was one of the few advantages of being half-alive. A pity that it wasn’t keeping the damn flies away too, he mused.

“So did I,” she retorted emphatically, “Garlen only knows the reason why the Prelate insisted that I accompany you on this expedition into an oven.” She stopped and gestured with both arms outstretched to encompass the savannah surrounding them. Here and there, large and scraggly thorn trees sprouted haphazardly, their leafless branches offering minuscule respite from the relentless summer sun, whilst long golden grasses concealed iron-baked earth littered with rocks the size of broken half-bricks. One careless step could easily result in a broken ankle, an injury notoriously difficult to heal and impossible to walk with. Under this intense heat, that would only lead to a slow death by thirst, condemning her carcass to be picked clean by vultures, its scavenged bones to lie bleaching under the cloudless hinterland skies.

“Slow down! Not everyone has lanky legs like yours,” Melinda said curtly as she lumbered over the intervening ground, “It’s too hot, I’m covered in dirt, and what’s more, I stink like an ogre’s armpit!”

Kai stopped and turned, giving her time to catch up to him. The comment he was tempted to make – that his lanky striding ahead was intentional to keep her downwind – died along with his burgeoning smirk at a harsh glance from Melinda. She was tired, he suddenly realised, and this was all new to her. She wasn’t an experienced adventurer like himself, and while he knew he could travel swiftly without her, he wondered if he would, in fact, accomplish this mission by himself. Being dead had cramped his social skills somewhat, and the tribal peoples weren’t noted for their enthusiastic acceptance of strangers, least of all those who’d been Horror-touched. Despite the clamouring of his thief magic to recognise the pragmatic solution – to be reliant upon only himself and discard this hindersome dwarven dead-weight – he recalled the pledge he’d made to Runa and the Sanctuary, his vow to serve Garlen’s ideals: Healing. Hearth. Comfort. Compassion. If the Passion had given him a second chance, then wasn’t young Melinda worth a first?

With a gentle sigh, he squatted down and reached out, offering his canteen with a subtle shake of the wrist. The contents sloshed invitingly, indicating it was at least half full. She looked up at him and halted, hesitating a moment searching his face, before approaching and taking the flask. She raised it to her lips and drank deeply, delighting in the chill of the fresh water washing away the dryness in her throat and cutting straight to her thirst. The canteen was obviously enchanted with elemental magics to keep its contents cold and pure. Tipping her head back she poured some of the water over her forehead, splashing it into her face to wash away the grime and sweat. Refreshed, Melinda handed the canteen back over to Kai. She flinched when he clasped and held her hand in his as she did so. Startled, she reacted to his concerned scrutiny with an involuntary shudder, her body betraying her fears as the touch of his flesh reminded her of the cold and lifeless corpse he had once been. Was still close to being.

“Sister Melinda, I know that you feel uncomfortable about my… condition,” Kai began, “but that I cannot help. I know not why I still walk and breathe once more among Name-givers, but rest assured that it is Garlen’s will.” He momentarily glanced up towards where her constellation lay. “To what end, I cannot fathom, but I am honour-bound to pay off that debt by whatever services I have to offer. Runa trusts in that fact, and that I will protect you, or she would not have insisted you undertake this task. Who knows, it might even be that she sent you to protect me.”

Taking a deep breath, Melinda closed her eyes and held it for a moment, then another moment longer whilst listening to her heartbeat, the pulse of her lifeblood, and concentrating upon the essence of her Passion’s ideals. Slowly, she released it from her lungs, allowing her anxiety and frustration to seep from her body with it. It was a simple meditative technique, the first she’d learned from the Order, but effective nonetheless. Feeling a little more relaxed, she opened her eyes and met Kai’s gaze. “So anyway,” she said with calm acceptance, “we’ve been walking for almost a week now, and there’s still no sign of them. Where are they?”

Releasing her hand, Kai stood up straight, restoppered the canteen and slung it over his shoulder. “Well… they are, as you yourself so studiously discovered, a nomadic people. With it being the height of the dry season, I expect them to be constantly moving, following their herds.”

Shielding his eyes with his hand he scanned the southern horizon. “Grazing in the hinterlands is poor this time of year, so I’m navigating us towards where there’s water. The Wind Bears usually claim the pastures around the northeastern spur of the Tylon Mountains. There, lush green forests are shady and abundantly full of game.” …and bandits. he silently added.
_________________
From Language comes Knowledge; From Knowledge comes Understanding; From Understanding comes Wisdom

[etherial]

"There." Kai pointed to a spot not too far ahead. "We're setting up camp there."

Melinda muttered a prayer to Garlen, thanking her for swaying Kai's hand. He had been keeping them up later and later into the night and she needed a good long rest. The sun had only just begun to set, she'd have plently of time to cook dinner before going to bed.

----

R'Katha Stonetalon eyed the interlopers carefully through his spyglass. He had been following the Wind Bears for weeks, waiting for the right time to strike. They needed to have just the right amount of fatigue, the right mixture of hope and desperation regarding their new feeding grounds. On the other hand, his men were growing weary themselves, sharpening their daggers, but having little to practice on besides dinner. Yes, it was a fine line between caution and recklessness that he had to walk, but plunder didn't just walk into anyone's hands, now did it?

He squinted, trying to make out any new details. It was a human and a drawf, and by the look of them, they weren't lifelong companions. There was a certain discord between them that he could recognize, but meaning was hard to grasp. Were they master and apprentice? Guide and Tourist? They had been following his raiding party for 2 days now, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into a trap very similar to the one he was setting up for the Wind Bears.

Still, any pair of Namegivers walking alone this far into the wilderness fell into one of three categories. They could be young fools, rich fools, or Adventurers. It was only that last group that gave him pause. Young fools could easily become new recruits for the raiding party. Rich fools could easily become victims to sate the bloodlust and empty pockets of the raiding party. Adventurers, though they carried far more wealth than they deserved or could defend, were dangerous enough that the morale damage of fighting them could hurt more than the profit could gain.

The pair had begun to set up their camp, and he scanned the horizon for a place for his own group to spend the night. He pondered for a moment, thinking of what the raiding party needed and how long he could wait to tell his men. He liked to keep them guessing, keep them on their toes. That’s why they didn’t know his Discipline. Some weren’t even sure he was an Adept. He knew raiders wouldn’t follow a Warrior, so he made them wonder. He played at being a Thief, at being a Cavalryman. They would never be able to see the grand designs he had for them. He pointed to a shallow area in the next hill. That spot would be shielded from view and give his men a place to rest. He wanted to make sure they had ample time to prepare for tonight’s scouting party as well as the attack on the intruders.

Inside his tent, R'Katha eyed his weapon rack. The fire in the middle lit glittering tapestries, posh cushions, the extravagance of a bathtub, and of course his armoury. Trollswords, Dwarfswords, Rapiers, and an assortment of other common weapons gleamed back at him. His tail thrashed behind him, wordlessly giving its disapproval of common weapons. He opened the trunk where he kept his more specialized gear. As a child, he had fancied himself to be the first T'Skrang Beastmaster. As he got older he realized that he idolized the ferocity of an animal in battle, and cared little for the beasts themselves, thus ensuring that he, like the rest of his lizard folk, would not follow the Way of Beasts.

The Tailblade would sing as it cut into his foes, and then his claws would silence them. R'Katha tightened the noose that held the Tailblade on, then put on the gauntlets that struck fear into his foes. He hadn't learned their full story, but he knew enough. They were living crystal, or close enough to it, but their tan colour hinted that they were something else, and he liked to claim that they were Obsidmen's Teeth. The sheen of the Tailblade reflected his green scales, the tan of the gauntlets accented the dusty yellow of his underbelly.

R’Katha drew his battle plans in the air with his finger, talking aloud to his lieutennant. “The Wind Bears will reach Bitterroot Pond tomorrow just before dusk. They’ll spend that time resting, celebrating, and gathering the roots that grow there to make Bitterroot tea. It’s quite delicious, you know, if you brew it long enough. While they’re distracted, our main force will push in from the north. When they try to mount a defense, they’ll find themselves flanked by our two scouting parties that have been tracking them this whole time. We’ll slaughter the ones who resist, recruit the ones we can, and we should finish just as the tea is done brewing.” He ran his hand through the air, as if erasing the map to hide it from prying eyes.

“Krenjek, find the men most in need of a fight - but make sure they’re still sharp enough to make no mistakes. We need to whet our appetites with those two fools that have been following us.” Krenjek only nodded, leaving her position at the entrance to the tent, opening the flap as wide as possible to allow her massive Troll body to exit. Krenjek was his most loyal and possibly his smartest servant. He knew better than to ask how her left horn had been sawed off, but secretly hoped she’d tell him when he Initiated her as a Warrior. He had few Adepts on hand, and they tended to be the ones least inclined to do what was best for the raiding party. She would be different.

The south face of the tent began to cave in, and the flap tore open as Krenjek fell through it. Her face was purple as she struggled to breathe and then passed out. He sprang forward, clawing into the darkness, wiping his stone claws across something cloth but not catching on anything. The human began to run through the camp, following a trail of unconscious bandits.

R’Katha shouted alarum, “Wake up, you fools! They’re inside our camp! Close the perimeter!” and quickly ran north through the camp, grabbing anyone he saw as he passed. He planned to beat the human back to the his own camp, and kill or hold hostage the dwarf. When one of the orks fell and broke his ankle, none dared to help him back up. “Leave him!” was all R’Katha had to say.

He leapt out of the shadows at the Adventurer’s camp, his Tailblade tearing into the Dwarf’s belly, not even letting her have the chance to scream as he clawed into her throat. He felt his claws tearing into the bundle beneath him, but earth, not flesh, was rent by his gauntlets. He pulled the blanket off and found only a pile of dirt and rocks beneath it. He howled into the night air. “They’ll curse the day they crossed R’Katha Stonetalon, the Bandit King!”

----

“Wake up, Melinda, it’s time to go.” Kai was already checking her gear, stuffing her things back into her bag.

“What? You still haven’t explained why you made us move camp in the first place.” She threw off her blanket, standing up. There was an urgency in his voice that she knew better than to disobey.

“I’ll explain later,” he replied. She doubted that. “I do have good news, though. When we save the Wind Bears from those Bandits, they’ll help us in any way they can.”

Melinda stopped. “Wait - what bandits?”

Kai grabbed her arm and started dragging her behind him. “I’ll explain later.”
_________________
"Take good care of my ship." - Alaria Festryl, First Circle Elven Thief, who had no business owning a riverboat

[Jpwoo]

Saiar didn’t know why he had stopped here, at this small pile of stones that barely made up a few rooms, and the scattered bits of a broken forge. Its walls were broken and the ceiling was long gone. The elf had stopped here to rest, though he didn’t sleep. He had sat down back to a wall, his long blade resting across his knees. He had been sitting quietly among the old stones, relaxing, watching the slow growth of the trees through the open ceiling. He despised trees, still he liked to watch them grow.

He suspected that trees felt superior to name givers in some way. They lived so long that the lifespan of a namegiver meant nothing to a tree. Saiar was an elf however. His race lived long enough to watch the trees grow. This is what led him to believe the trees disdain for namegivers. His own people had a similar attitude though most would never allow themselves to admit to it. But then again Saiar wasn’t really an elf anymore either. Perhaps physically he still was but he no longer felt kinship with his people. Indeed he didn’t feel kinship with any name giver. The only creatures he felt any kind of bond with were ones that he was sworn to destroy. But then again, if he wasn’t an elf, if he wasn’t really even a hunter of Throal anymore, was he bound to his oath?

It was a surprise when the dwarf entered the forge. He walked in almost silently. Eyes half closed, perhaps sleepwalking perhaps compelled. Saiar couldn’t tell. It took the elf a moment to bring his thoughts up to full speed again. His hand moved to his sword, and with the slightest tug its oiled blade started to slide silently from its scabbard.

The dwarf looked strong, he had rough hands and soot dyed wrinkles on his face. His hair and beard were dirt brown but that was common of those who lived in Throal. He wore traveling clothes of a straight and slack cut. A slight slinking noise and some added bulk under the dwarfs beard indicated that he might be wearing some kind of chain under his clothes.

The elf watched the dwarf walk over to the small anvil in the ruin. The cracks between the flagstones of the floor were choked with weeds everywhere, except for around the anvil. Maybe that was what had drawn Saiar here, a sign that what he sought but had missed on his first look over the place. The dwarf stopped before the anvil and seemed to wake from his stupor. Saiar watched him for a moment, he could see in the dwarfs face, in his expression a kind of curiosity, a look of determination, anger? Or was it more jealousy? A dangerous combination in a place like this. Saiar’s teeth held tight together for a long moment as he considered his options. He choose to at least warn the stranger. He drew his long blade silently, and he broke the silence, “Who are you?” Saiar asked.

The dwarf jumped and turned to stare at him. The small thick mans mouth gaped. Saiar’s lips felt the desire to smile, but it had been so long they refused. It was clear that Saiar wasn’t going to get any response soon, so he added “Forgive my rudeness, I am Saiar Keidance, a Hunter of Throal. This place is dangerous, you should leave.” His tones smooth this time as he drew further into the moment.

“I am Mikal, Weaponsmith of Th… I am a Journeyman Weaponsmith.” The dwarf responded with some hesitation. Of course he was a weaponsmith, Saiar should have put that together instantly upon seeing the man. The Elf’s eyebrow quirked upward, this Mikal was apparently no longer of Throal, a cast out, an adventurer, someone who had shamed his family,or perhaps even a murderer or a criminal of some sort. Perhaps there was some use to be had of the smith.

“This place is dangerous, Mikal, and you should leave.” Saiar repeated, testing.

“Where is this place?” the dwarf said, still confused. Saiar looked at him blank faced. He hardly knew why he was in this place of evil anymore than the dwarf did. So he waited, not moving to see what the dwarf would do. Would he do the smart thing and turn to leave? Instead the dwarf turned to the anvil, running his stubby fingers along it. Then the dwarf froze up again, only his breathing sped up, pulling in deeper and more urgently.

Saiar watched him carefully, wondering if a horror that had been here long ago. His hands gripped tightly around the hilt of his great sword. This time he managed to smile in anticipation. Soon the dwarf snapped out of his trance with another start. He stared at the anvil for a long moment, fear and desire easily read on his face.

“What did you see?” asked Saiar curiously.

“It was what I heard” Mikal whispered, “The thin man is coming.”

The Thin man! Thoughts rushed over the elf, it had been years, decades even, since Saiar had heard that name. The old days, the bad days when things were open and free, he remembered the kaer, the children, the blood, the terror, and most of all the bone forge. Of course he hadn’t recognized this anvil, it wasn’t covered in slick red.

He looked around the ruined forge again with new eyes. He saw the discarded tools left out for years, something few weaponsmiths would do. He saw scars of white stone where blows had landed on the walls. He couldn’t be sure but he could image what had happened. Some explorers from Throal had found the abandoned husk of Kaer Ostind. The found the anvil and had brought it back here, knowing that nobody would let them use it inside the walls of Throal. An argument perhaps had occurred, or something worse, and the intrepid explorers left this earth, leaving behind the anvil.

Most importantly to Saiar, it meant that the Thin Man still walked. He looked hopefully down at the dwarf. “Mikal, Journeyman Weaponsmith” He said coolly, “Do you want to serve your fellow namegivers?”

MIkal stood there dumbfounded for a moment, but he said “Yes of course.”

Saiar smiled, “good, then take up that anvil and we shall get going. The Thin man isn’t coming, we are going to him.”
_________________
Runebearer: An open system fantasy game

[Kappa]

Mikal turned to look down at the object. He had a terrible sense of foreboding about the entire prospect before him. Whatever the anvil was, it certainly didn’t seem good. “That thing? How far do you expect me to lug it?”

The elf smirked a bit. “It won’t be an issue; it’s lighter than it looks. Trust me.” With that Saiar turned and began to walk out from the ruin. “Do be quick, though. I’m short of time, and if you can’t keep up you’ll be on your own.”

The dwarf looked at the elf as he began to stride away. Despite his misgivings, he conceded to himself that he really didn’t have enough experience in the field to survive on his own. The shadows about the ruin crept and slithered with things he could not and did not want to see, and he knew it. He turned to the anvil once more, now one of the greatest sources of his discomfort.

“You know, I didn’t leave the Kingdom to be ordered about by some adventuring, pointed-ear ne’er-do-well; and least of all to wind up carrying you around,” he said to the anvil. “Just my luck, I suppose. But since we’ve been acquainted…”

Mikal reached out a hand to touch the surface of the object. As he put his hand upon it, there was a flash of pain in his palm. “Gaah!” he yelped, and drew his hand away. Though he hadn’t touched anything sharp, his hand had been cut open, and his blood had spilled onto the anvil. He looked down on it, and watched in horror as the blood slowly disappeared, seeping into the metal as though it were drinking it. Glowing orange runes burst into life all around the edges and base of the edifice, their color like that of hot embers. Mikal could not read them; the script was entirely foreign to him. One large one stood out, alone on the middle of the striking surface. Below it was a glowing orange handprint, his own from when he’d touched it.

Against his better judgment, and every other voice in his head as it happened, he laid his left hand on it and pressed it down into the print. The surface of the anvil turned the color of dried blood, and lost its shape. The runes faded, save the large one on the surface, and the mass of dark red fluid flooded into Mikal’s hand through the open wound. It was painful, and the intrusive feeling was entirely unnatural. Mikal convulsed as the thing entered him, but in moments it was mercifully over. The wound closed and sealed, and the primary rune glowed into existence on the back of his hand, burning hot. His hand felt heavy, as though the bones themselves had been replaced by solid lead. He looked down at the rune, feeling suddenly rather nauseous. “Passions save me, I fear I’ve done something terribly stupid…”

Making an effort to put the grim experience out of his mind, and mostly failing, he gathered himself together and took off to catch up with Saiar. He found the elf leaning against a partial wall at the edge of the ruin, waiting. “You didn’t tell me the damned thing was going to crawl into my hand!” he yelled.

Saiar looked at him coolly. “You didn’t ask. Besides, I was right, wasn’t I? For an anvil it does make rather light carrying.” Mikal wanted to yell something else at him, but whatever it was couldn’t quite seem to find his mouth. Saiar looked expressionlessly into Mikal’s angry eyes, then turned and began walking down a cleared path through the woods. “Keep up,” he said. Looking up at the sky, Saiar quickly calculated the hour. “It’s getting late. We can rest for the night as soon as we’re clear of this dark place.” Rest. What a joke. He didn’t know the meaning of the word anymore, but he knew the dwarf would be tired. This was the kind of hindrance he had invited along, but if the Weaponsmith could unlock the secrets of the forge, it would be worth it.

Mikal did his best to keep stride with the elf, but his dwarven stature wasn’t taking the idea kindly. After walking for an hour without any further conversation the dwarf could stand the silence no longer. “So who is this Thin-Man?” he asked.

Saiar did not respond. There was a lot of story to tell, and he wasn’t going to bother until he had a chance to explain in full. Moreover, he wasn’t going to risk scaring the dwarf away until he knew the dwarf was brave enough to face a Horror, or until he had found some other means of convincing Mikal to stay in his service. Mikal waited patiently for an answer, but when it didn’t come, he gave up on conversation. Typical adventurer, he thought.

After another hour, they broke from the woods out into the open meadow. In the distance, over the trees, the mountains stood tall. Mikal sighed. “Ah, Throal, I think I’m starting to miss you already.”

Saiar raised an eyebrow. “Throal? Those are the Tylon Mountains.”

Mikal hadn’t thought he could find it in him to be surprised again that night, but that did it. “Tylon?! But I’d left Throal only this afternoon! How could I… you know, forget it. That’s it for tonight. Are we making camp now?” Saiar nodded, and within a few minutes they had set up their tents, and built a small fire. Mikal had meant to find out how to summon forth the anvil and spend some more time studying it, but once he got a look at the bedroll he realized how tired he was. He fell asleep as soon as he laid down.

Saiar waited by the fire until he heard the telltale sounds of dwarven snoring. At that, he got up and wandered from the camp back into the perimeter of the forest. Sitting under a tree, he drew his sword and thrust it into the soft soil, and opened his mind to it.

“What do you want, whelp?” the words echoed in his head, the voice of the vile being within his blade.

“I have some questions, Akunzhar,” he replied within his mind.

“I figured. What is it this time?”

“The Thin-Man is about, we found the old anvil. Where is he?”

“Hahaha!” the thing’s laughter echoed hard and harsh in Saiar’s head, threatening to crack his skull open from the inside. “You drove him from his kaer in your last fugue, you fool!”

Saiar was quiet a moment. “I had a blackout? How long?”

“Two days,” replied the voice. “You were on the verge of discovering the entrance, don’t you remember? Then the hunger took you… took us. Your psyche was shut down for about fifty hours, long enough to thrash the beast rather hard. He’s quite angry with you, you know? All the dead children that have been lying dormant spilled out of the kaer, he’s tracking them down, rebuilding his force, and finding new victims to restore his power. After that, he’s looking to tear you limb from limb. Hehhehe!”

“Good, that will work out well. How many of the fallen children are out? How many has he reclaimed?”

“Let me see… nearly two-score rose from the care, thirty-eight to be precise, I believe. Of those, he’s gathered twenty-nine, eight still roam, and one has perished.”

“Perished at whose hand?”

“A young human boy, an Adept Thief. He’s… unusual. He’s not quite alive, but he’s clearly not undead… not like the kind we make anyway. He’s headed near here, trying to meet up with the Wind Bears. As it happens, he’s about to run into an old friend of ours. The man with the crow.”

“Really? Thank you, Akunzhar, that’s all I need for now.”

“Feed me. Let me eat the dwarf. Companions aren’t your style, anyway.”

“I’ve spent two hundred-fifty years keeping you and your brother in check, I’m not about to let you start feeding on innocents now.”

The beast chuckled darkly. “Your blackouts are getting longer and more frequent, it’s only a matter of time before I can claim your body when the psyche has finally withered completely away.”

“Unless my new companion masters the forge, then I can bend you to my will once and for all, demon,” Saiar responded, calmly.

The voice chuckled again. “I’d like to see you try that. But in the meantime, you do owe me blood.”

“Right you are.” With that, Saiar gripped his hands around each side of the double-edged sword and slid them to the ground hard, cutting open his hands to the bone. Somewhere inside his weary being he wished to the Passions that it still hurt. It didn’t.

Saiar thought about the Thin-Man. It made him hungry.
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"Bitch, that's cheating! I'm not dead yet!!"

[Loswaith]

Man and Crow watched as the boy moved up to the bandits camp, his eyes watching his every move, ‘he is good’ the man thought, ‘but no match for our eyes, though I suspect he would be harder to notice if he knew we were here’.

As the man has suspected the creature had planed to make a quick meal of a few of the bandits, but the setting off the alarm by the boy, had put a halt to that, the creature wouldn’t risk taking on a large group like that.
The commotion had managed to distract the beast enough to let the man get the drop on his quarry. He dealt with it quickly, his blade flashing and spinning in well-trained hands, he made short work of it, but not before it managed to get in a good bite itself.
The creature itself was a hulking thing, slavering jaws, beady black eyes, and two powerful for arms, its body had dragged behind it, and ended in a long, spined tail. It had likely once been some kind of reptile much like a crocodile, but the corruption of some horror had left obvious signs, enough so that it could never be mistaken for anything other than some horror’s plaything.
He knew he didn’t have long till the creature’s venom would render him unconscious, but he needed to find a safe place, and send the message.

As he wandered back to a secluded nook where he thought he would be safe. He recalled the time he had learned the trick. It seemed a lifetime ago though it had still been many years. He had been a slave when he met the old man. A novice adept at that time he had been caught by Therans and tied to an oar. Many months later their keeper made a careless mistake and he had managed to kill the Keeper, free his fellow slaves and take the old man to his freedom.
The old man did not fare so well from his time at the oar, but seemed to find something in the young man hidden deep within. So over the old man’s last few days he taught him of the Light, the taught him how to summon a globe of light when it was needed and also how to summon a small creature to take messages that the old man called a light sprite.
The old man also told him of an order of those that follow the light, and that he should seek them out and continue his training.

The man thought perhaps he should follow that up someday but now he had more pressing matters. Before his muscles tightened to much the made the familure gestures, locking two fingers together he moved his hands fingers pointing to the ground, slowly creating a glowing sigil in the air, the flow much like the ink and brush of an artist. As he completed the last details to the sigil he focused a small amount of his own energy into the task, and hoped it would be enough so the creature would complete its task.
Having finished the sigil, it began to blur and formed a small storm of light, it cleared and in it’s place stood a small glowing creature, the man muttered a few words to the creature and it zoomed off shrinking to a minute size.
As the saw the creature vanish from his sight he fell back into darkness, the poison finally finishing its work. It would not kill the man but should anything find him, which could be a different story.

Jeskar watched the bright creature curiously as it zoomed away, and knew his companion would be out for some time, now his work began, he flew off grabbing any twigs leaves, grass or earth he could and dropped them onto his companion, it would take some time to cover him enough but Jeskar was willing to do what it thought was needed.
---
“St….stop…”. Melinda panted, she was tired and could run no more.
“I… I must … rest.”
Kai looked at her irately, he could see her fatigue across her face, and she was leaning forward her hands on her knees panting heavily. They had been making a good pace for some time now. Kai was still not happy however he wanted more distance between them and the bandits, but he couldn’t have her collapse on him.
“We will rest a short while” Kai said gruffly, taking a swig from his canteen. He reached out and offered it to Melinda, how took it and plonked herself on the ground and took a great gulp from it.
It was refreshing and eased her fatigue a small amount. She handed it back to Kai and he stoppered it and slung it back over his shoulder once again.
Kai looked back from where they had come to see if they had been followed, it appeared for now that they where clear of followers, but he didn’t want to take a chance in making a camp, he would give Melinda a few more minutes rest and then they would continue on.
“Alright time to move on” Kai said, offering Melinda a hand up. She grasped hold and was hauled to her feet, her muscles groaning in response. She quickly dusted off the grass on her robes and straightened herself out.
Just as they started to move off again a small prick of light zoomed between them, they paused, looked at each other, it was clearly written on their faces that they had seen something, they both turned to look where the light went, and then again looked at each other curiously.
_________________
Loswaith

Henceforth mortal, remember...

[Cabor]

He was sleeping, he was twisting and gritting his teeth. He had that same nightmare again. He saw that cloak that made his spine freeze when he thought about it. But it was the sound that always woke him up, the sound that bones made, as if they where walking on stone. Scrit... scrit.... scrit... Then he sat up and grabbed his weapons. It wasnt the dream hat had woken him this time. He had heard a scream. Of a man. He ran towards the sound, it took longer than he thought. What he found was impossible. It was a man, covered in blood. He leand closer to the man on the ground.
He was still drawing breath, and he saw that the man had no more skin. It had been peelad way, he also had no eyes any longer. The skin less man startet to whisper something. «my daughter, my daughter she...» then the skinless man passed out.
He knew the man would die soon, there was no hope for him, he would bleed out. So he took one if his blades and pierced his heart. The poor man should suffer no more. No one deserved such a fate.
He returned to his camp. And gathered his few belongings. Then sat down to eat some dried meat and think on what to do now.
He had traveled long since the end of his fighting. And on the loosing side no less. Well he was done with that now, he wanted to return to his homelands. It had been decades since he left. He had sold his sword to many but the Therans paid the most. And he had learned a lot in their service, and he had done what he was paid for. All over their empire he had been, and he had done his job, and by the passions did he do it well, and he liked it... Until his commander had taken him and the company to Barsaive and the rebellion here. These last fights had taken it all out of him, he felt more dead than alive. And his magic didnt feel the same anymore either. He had heard of crisis in magic but never had it happen to him, maybe this was what it was like. And the nightmares had returned when he came back with the Therans, he hadnt had them since he left his tribe for over thitry years ago. Well he was awake now so he might as well keep walking. Damned those orks that killed his horse, he missed it now.
So he returned to the skinless corpse, and found the tracks of the doughter easily enough, as thay were prints of her fathers blood. He followed them most of the day. She had moved very fast for a girl and it got harder as the blood dried up, but he found them leading to a town. Which one he didnt know.
Suddenly he saw a dagger racing for his head, and felt a sharp pain and he passed out.

When he woke up the pain was gone. He sat up and wondered why he didnt have a nightmare when he was out. Then he saw the man and the dwarf walking away from the town. He seemed to think there was something familiar about that man. So he slowly started to follow them, the man had killed the skinless man daughter he suddenly realized. His face grew grim, he didnt like this, the returning nightmare and now this. He didnt like it when his mind was played with. So he set after them, keeping just out of sight.
He had followed them for something like a week now, sometimes he lost track of time. He was trying to forget, but it was hard. He had a lot to forget. Maybe it would be better to keep his mind in the present. He had seen that the human was a man, who seemingly never grew tired, and that he was leading a young female dwarf. He didnt dare to go to close as the man atleast seemed to know what he was doing. They had made camp so he did the same, it would be cold again since he could make no fire, but he'd live.
Again he was woken in the night of men screaming, many men this time. He hurriedly packed his weapons and the rest of his traveling gear. It was little so it was quickly done. Then he silently walked towards the sounds that had waken him again. He heard yelling and cursing from where the camp of the man and dwarf where. And the sound of running in many directions. He drew his weapons, someone where looking for him and it was bad news, for them. There were two coming straight at him, they didnt see him and it was not the man and dwarf. So he struck, the magick still felt strange, but it was suffcient to handle these. The first one didnt know what hit him, the axe hit him in the stomack, doubling him over, while the sword slit his throat. The other saw what happend and lunged for his chest, he caught his blade and turned the attack, as the others defenses was open he let his axe fall again. The man only made a thump as he hit the ground. It had been quick and silent so he walked a way. He didnt like this at all, not the way he felt after killing somebody, not how his magic felt or the things that happend around him since he had returned.

He waited for the morning to break. The sun rose, its light letting the colours of the land show again and its warm rays give energy to his worn out body. The sun seems like the only thing that is as it should be he thought.

He stuffed some dried meat in his mouth and headed back to the site of the fight. The men had moved on and the tracks on the ground spoke their story clearly. The man and the dwarf had moved out during the night and the bandits, if that was what they were had been fooled. He found their camp too, they had broken up and follwoed the man and dwarf. They had some hours one him so he had to move fast to catch up. This had made him quorious, to say the least, especially on his part in it. He had used to revel in the simplicity of things before now. He had alway known what to do, he had done it effectively and he had liked it. He had been an extraordinary tool for his friend and commander, and he had learned new ways to accomplish what ever needed doing. He had become very good. But when he returned to these lands it stopped being simple.
He let his magic power his feet and he moved swift throug the land following the tracks that might let him know what was happening around him. He was getting close and decided to move of their trail and make himself hard to find. He wanted to get ahead of the bandits and see what the man and dwarf where up to. Thats when he saw it, that lumping husk, of something, it made his skin crawl. He looked closer and saw that it had left a bleeding trail, he followed it to where he found the tell tale signs of a fight. He also saw the trail of some one having draged themself away. Most likely a namegiver, not another skinless corpse he hoped, as he followed the tracks. The led him towards a nook. Then he saw a small speck of light flying away, he moved closer to the nook and found a man. «This one still has his skin, but he is in need of help, much more than can be given from one such as me.» he thought. He had seen that the light moved in the directoin of the man and dwarf, so he gathered up this unconcious body and let his magic spur him forward. He soon found the man and dwarf, that was when he noticed the crow, it seemed to follow him.And the man and the dwarf woman was staring after the speck of light.

He stepped into the little claring that the man and female dwarf was, They turned surpised towards him.
«I am Mothog of the Wind Bears.» he tried to make his as little of his theran shine through, it had been many years since he last spoke the dwarwen tounge.
«this man made the light but he needs the healing arts, and I have none. I will not linger, but watch the sky.»
It seemed like the man had stayed his hand in the last moment, but he recognized the dagger in his hand.
«if you continue on your path you might find some shaman that might help him, I will try to keep the bandits of your trail.»
With that he left them as puzzeled as he was, he hoped he would find answers soon.
_________________
aka Olav Wikan
I'm Baaaaack.....

[Mataxes]

“It seems we’re on the right track,” said Kai as Mothog vanished into the darkness.

Melinda didn’t answer. Kai turned to see her kneeling beside the body Mothog had left behind.

The man was dark-skinned, with shoulder-length black hair barely restrained by a leather tie. He wore a pair of brown leather pants, and the boots on his feet were well worn. His upper body was bare and marked with pale scar lines—including a recent one that ran the length of his ribcage.

Melinda hissed. “Kai,” she said, “help me turn him over, please.” Kai stepped forward and helped her roll the man onto his stomach. He winced at the wound revealed on the man’s lower back. Several puncture wounds were spread in a horseshoe pattern about two hand spans wide.

More disturbing than the wound itself was the greenish-purple tint of the skin around the wound. Kai recognized the signs immediately.

“Poison,” he said.

Melinda nodded. She reached for her pack and pulled out her spare shirt. “Pass me the waterskin, please.”

She tore a strip from the shirt and used it to clean the tacky blood away from the wound. When the first piece was blood soaked, she discarded it and tore another piece from the shirt.

Kai watched her work with growing respect. As a sister at the temple, of course, she would have had some knowledge of the healer’s arts, but he had let his initial impressions of her cloud his judgment.

Melinda abruptly stopped her ministrations, pressed the bloody rag in her hand to the wound and gestured for Kai to roll him back over. After he had done so, she pried one of the man’s eyes with a thumb and made a puzzled sound.

“What is it?” asked Kai.

Melinda either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore him. She placed one hand on the man’s forehead, closed her eyes, and began a murmuring chant that Kai couldn’t understand.

Since his help was, apparently, not needed, Kai stood and went to the edge of the copse of trees they were in. The wind had shifted around to the north, bringing a chill wind down off the mountain peaks. To the east, a cloud of dust rose into the air, shining golden brown in the late afternoon sun. The bandits were still on the move, and not too far behind.

Kai turned back into the trees, and saw that Melinda had stopped whatever little ritual she had been performing. “Kai,” she said, “help me make a travois for him.”

Kai shook his head. “He’s been poisoned. Since we don’t know where the Wind Bears are right now, he’s likely to die before we find help for him.”

“That’s just it,” said Melinda. “The wound is several hours old, but the poison hasn’t spread as far as it should have in that time. His life force is also stronger than I would have expected.” She looked over at the unconscious stranger. “There’s magic keeping him alive. I think he’ll live until we find the Wind Bears.”

Kai thought for a moment. It made sense. Mothog had said this man made the light, so clearly he had some magical ability.

“He’ll only slow us down. Those bandits I told you about aren’t far behind.”

“Mothog said he would keep the bandits off our trail.”

Kai saw the resolve in her eyes. Rather than fight a battle he knew he would lose, he walked over to cut branches for the travois. He couldn’t see it with his back turned, but he could imagine Melinda’s smile at her victory.

*

R’katha tried to calm his mind with the rhythmic sound of whetstone on steel. Not only had the two travelers escaped his ambush, they had managed to kill several of his men. His tail slashed the air.

One of his scouts, Horag, approached. “The trail heads towards a grove of trees about three miles from here. They’re still heading into Wind Bear territory.”

R’katha nodded, and dismissed the ork. He hoped to catch up with the travelers before they met up with any of the Wind Bear bands. If the nomads were warned of his group’s presence, it would make the coming battle more difficult.

There was a commotion up at the head of the column. A body had just been discovered—another of R’katha’s scouts. A large wound gaped in his chest; just like the wounds dealt to the other casualties they had found this morning.

R’katha ordered the man’s gear stripped and stowed away. When he finally caught up with these travelers, he would take his time extracting vengeance.

*

Kai lifted the end of the makeshift travois, careful not to shift its passenger too much. Melinda had more properly bound the wound, but too much movement could cause the stranger to bleed out before the poison killed him.

Dragging the travois over the rough ground was slow going. They had barely traveled a hundred yards when there was the sound of wings breaking from the trees. Melinda, who was following behind, said, “Well, hello there!”

Kai stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Perched near the man’s head was a large black crow. Kai reached to swat it away. The move was awkward because of his burden, and the crow easily kept out of his reach.

With a muttered curse about scavengers, he lowered the travois and half drew one of his knives.

Melinda’s voice stayed his hand. “Kai, wait.”

The crow hopped closer to the man’s head and rubbed its beak through his hair. It looked at Melinda and squawked.

“Yes, we’re going to get him help.”

The bird turned a glassy black eye towards Kai, and then looked back at Melinda.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s not as bad as he seems.”

The bird looked at Kai again, and then, apparently mollified, settled itself in the crook of the man’s shoulder.

Melinda finally broke the silence. “We need to get moving. Those bandits aren’t far behind.”

Kai slid the knife back into its sheath, hefted the travois again, and the pair set out, the injured stranger and the crow in tow.
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-- Josh Harrison -- The Lore Merchant

Contributing editor for RedBrick, Ltd.
Visit earthdawn-classic.com for more information.

[Maragrik Darkhorns]

“Trees,” said the storyteller, “Wouldn’t be much of a forest without them really.” He leaned in closer to his audience, his aged face illuminated by the ruddy flames of their shared campfire. “That’s the thing about these forests, you see. Full to the brim with trees they are. Beyond counting and always standing there wherever you look, no matter which ways you turn.” He took a puff from his pipe and raised his eyebrows conspiratorially, “And worse still, is that they’re always right there in your face. Hardly get to see straight for any distance, let alone to the horizon. Works on your nerves it does, but not as you’d know it right off. Oh no, takes its toll as you wander onward it does. Gradually creeps up on you. Silently closes in on you like an Aras Sea mist.” He sat back and nodded sagely, “Aye, I’d fair say that’s what it feels like all right. Makes you want to grow eyes in the back of your head, just so as you can glimpse what’s lurking in there before it pounces out on you. Or so as you can watch to see if those trees don’t move as soon as you looked away, hiding your trail like some folks say they’re wont to do.”

Mikal sat and politely listened to the old sailor’s tale from across the fire. He and Saiar had stumbled across this small caravan of travellers earlier that evening, and kindly they had been invited to share their camp. The elf, however, seemed to prefer his own company and sat amidst the shadows outside their circle, watching silently as the human took a deep swig of liquor from a small, dark glass bottle.

“But like I was saying,” the storyteller continued, casually wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, “those trees went on forever. A great wall of green reaching up to the heavens above it was. Like thousands of fingers stretching out to snatch the very clouds from the skies and squeeze out the rains in their mighty grasp. And blow me down if that’s not what they did by our fourth afternoon amidst those giants. Not that I mind the rains my friends, but I prefers to see them coming aways off – and a good hearty squall at that. Not the slow heavy wetness that rolled down upon us and lingered like a starving Kratas-alley mongrel.”

There were murmurs of agreement within the group, although Mikal was hard put visualising such weather of late. The fire’s heat made his sunburn pulse with warmth, though not uncomfortably so, now that they were in the cooler terrain of the Tylon’s foothills. Still, a little bit of rain would make a welcome change. Apparently, the storyteller had noticed his trailing thoughts too.

“Thinking we’d be dry beneath all those branches, my lad? Not as you’ll believe it, but I’d have been drier being keelhauled during a typhoon sonny. All that water gets soaked up around you, like in sailcloth, then drops on you fat and heavy along with it running off every shrub and bush you brush past. Not long before you’re drenched through and through, with no warm place or wind to dry you out either. Least it were freshwater though lads, so can’t say as I’m ungrateful for that.”

He took a slow draw upon the pipe, passing a steady eye over the listeners, ensuring he had their attention before continuing. “By the by though, we came across a clearing, high up on yon mountain.” He jabbed his pipe twice, indicating the nearby rocky spire that loomed in the darkness beyond the camp. “The rains had stopped awhile back and we’d even managed to catch some strange looking ground-fowl for our supper. Captain had us set up camp seeing as how daylight was fast waning from the skies. We’d just got the fire to lighting and those birds plucked and ready for roasting over it, when it happened. Not sure as to what rightly alerted me first – perhaps it were the sudden silence of them crickets’ chirpings, perhaps it were something else in the air, but I’ll never forget the sight of them savages rushing out of the trees like that. Not for as long as I still draws breath lads.”

He shook his head and took another heavy slug from the bulbous bottle. “A score of them there were. Bare-chested warriors, each elaborately tattooed with faces that grimaced and leered like gargoyles from the pits of damnation, their fierce eyes aflame and muscled arms brandishing great war-clubs of bone and wood. Now, afeared not of pirates or scorchers you may be, but I’ll wager when you see such a savage wearing the shrunken heads of Name-givers you’ll feel terror as you’ve never known before…”

Despite himself, Mikal shuddered. What sort of madness would drive someone to take such grisly trophies. Then he recalled tales of those unfortunates who had been trapped outside the shelters during the Scourge. Tavern-talk had it that many such Name-givers survived, yet had degenerated into bestial savagery and worshipped Horrors with dark sacrifices. Glancing about he saw that several others had expressions of shock or recollections of disturbed memories.

“…we put up a brave defence, that we did, but against them numbers we couldn’t win. Orks as big as trolls they were, feeling no pain from wounds and eager enough for blood they began feasting on the bodies of our fallen crewmen. Well, at that, several of us made our retreat, and who could blame us, I ask you? We ran back into the forest all the while listening to the screams of our shipmates and the savages' continuous chanting… Mor-Dak, Mor-Dak, Mor-Dak.”

An uncomfortable silence descended as the old sailor’s words trailed off. His arms hung limply, the liquor bottle fallen empty and forgotten at his feet, and tears ran freely down his cheeks. Mikal stared deeply into the campfire’s embers, transfixed by their glow he contemplated.
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From Language comes Knowledge; From Knowledge comes Understanding; From Understanding comes Wisdom