two characters who have Seen Some Shit, the first time they Do It: identify and kiss each other’s scars in order to affirm the fact that they are here now together and Still Alive
Hassan, Farran, Anastasia, and Solomon
Ro’s 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th kids- 3rd litter
This is also the most Christmas-y thing I’m drawing this year. Part of the hellhound family and family shenanigans
Something my friend drew a while back for characters we kinda co-created. Anyway, in the spirit of the season, I wrote a tiny thingy based around this drawing.
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“You HEATHEN! Those are for SANTA!”
Malik nearly dropped his book. The scream of anger carried across the hall from the living room to his office, prompting him to set his reading material aside and investigate. At the center of the commotion was one of his elder sons, Farran. The stark-white albino teenager snarled at three of his siblings –the remainder of his quadruplets, Hassan, Ana, and Solomon— while clutching a tray of cookies.
“Oh no,” smirked Hassan, munching on a stolen cookie, “poor Santa.”
Farran’s lips curled up further, his fangs bared, pulling the tray away. Ana and Solomon seemed to either not care he was angered, or at least not take it seriously, and snatched their own spoils while Farran’s anger was directed at Hassan. His glare snapped to the two of them as he heard them bite down, accompanied by a growl that Malik knew was not just frustration.
Thankfully, Farran, protective of his baking as he was, was mature enough to walk away, even if it was…more of a stomp than a walk.
“Damn it!” he shouted, storming back to the kitchen.
The three of them snickered at his outrage, munching down on the rest of their cookies. Malik cut their celebration short with a firm but controlled knock against the wall, pulling all their attention to the doorframe.
Each of them looked as though they wanted to scramble to their own defense, but no words came out.
“Would anyone like to explain themselves?”
Ana regained her composure first. “W-we were just messing with him a little, dad. Like, teasing.”
“Yes, I saw. Didn’t look as though he enjoyed it very much, did he?”
None of them spoke up.
“Did he?”
“No…sir,” mumbled Solomon.
Malak sighed. Every child of his was, in their own way, an adventure, and he wouldn’t trade any of the years he’d spent building his family for the world, but they had a knack for, even during the jolliest time of years, getting under each other’s skin.
“The four of you are fourteen now; I shouldn’t have to lecture you like this. When your brother tells you to leave his cookies –that he baked by himself—alone, you had better listen to him.”
“Yes, sir,” they all replied, eyes drifting to the floor.
He gave them one last, signature “disappointed dad” look, before turning back to the hallway, and heading to the kitchen. As he turned the corner at the intersection of the main hallways of their home’s first floor, he caught sight of parade of five little children, each with a sheet of construction paper as wide as they were tall, wandering out of the dining room and towards the kitchen as well.
The youngest quintuplets of the family, Vinny, Leon, Jasper, Belle, and the leader of their march, Inaya, halted at the sight of their father.
“Papa!” she chirped, and quickly presented her paper, followed by the others. They were each personally crafted signs for Santa, colored and pasted with glitter, stickers, and felt, thanking him for their presents.
“Look what we made!”
He made sure to show them that he was inspecting them with a keen eye by leaning in on each of them, rubbing his rough stubble and nodding to himself.
“Good work, all of you. Santa will love these, I know it.”
The five of them bounced in place, clearly swelling with pride.
“We have to show Farran!” Ina declared.
“Farran?”
“Yeah! He said that he would make Santa’s cookies for us this year, is he done?”
Malik patted her on the head.
“Not quite yet. Why don’t you go show Don your drawings? He should be upstairs in the game room. I’ll let you know when he’s done.”
“Okay!”
With the energy that only childhood could provide, they scampered off into the foyer and up the main stairway. Once he heard their tiny feet stomping up the stairs, he turned the corner and ventured into the kitchen. The tray of cookies, missing a few from his sibling’s theft, lay on the table, and his son stood at the sink, furiously scrubbing a mixing bowl.
Malik came and leaned against the counter, giving him his space, but making his presence known.
“Farran,” he said softly.
“Dad.” His voice was calmer, but still retained a quivering edge.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“Mm. You did a great job on the cookies. You’ve gotten much better this past year.”
“Thanks.”
Malik got the message; Farran wasn’t in the mood for any consolation. He elected instead to allow him to keep to himself in the kitchen for now, and let him calm down. As he pulled away from the counter, Farran sighed and let the bowl float down to the bottom of the sink.
“I’m sorry, dad. I didn’t mean to…you know…”
“I know,” he assured him, returning to his spot at the counter. He could see on his son’s face that his eyes were moist –not crying, but clearly frustrated to the point of an emotional rush.
“I just…Ina and Jasper and all them were really excited about Santa and stuff, and they asked me to bake him cookies. It reminded me when I was little like them and I was excited about that stuff, so…you know.”
Malik smiled, thinking back to the same thing. A little Farran tugging at his pant leg and demanding that papa teach him how to bake cookies for Santa Claus. Now here he was, years later, probably a better baker than his old man.
“I didn’t mean to get so angry, I…I guess I felt kind of stupid for being excited about…dumb kid stuff when Hassan and the others started poking fun at me, taking Santa’s cookies. I just want the runts to have fun while it lasts, and, like…I don’t know, it felt like I was a little kid again too, baking cookies for Santa…”
He stopped to wipe his eyes, and cleared his throat, turning away to dry his hands.
“Yeah, it…it sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
Malik came up next to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“It doesn’t sound stupid. You’re…growing up. You’re a teenager, it’s a complicated time for everyone; not an adult, not a kid. I’m proud of you, though, Farran. You’re being a good big brother, and you’re doing something that makes you happy at the same time.”
Farran clenched his jaw to keep from whimpering a bit as the moisture in his eyes welled back up.
“T-thanks, dad.”
“Do you want a hug?”
“I mean…I –sure, I guess, if you want one.”
Malik pulled him into a tight embrace, gently patting his back. Farran clutched back, and stayed that way for almost half a minute. Malik let him go when his grip loosened, and gave him a final ruffle of the hair.
“I think you should go set Santa’s cookies out. Your little brothers and sisters were asking about it, and we wouldn’t want him to go hungry on his big night, would we?”
Farran chuckled. “No, no we wouldn’t.”
With a renewed confidence, Farran took his tray from the table and headed back into the living room. Malik, not wanting to make him feel babied, didn’t follow directly, but observed from the doorframe back across from his office. Hassan, Ana and Solomon were still lounging on the couch, but all stood when Farran entered the room.
He eyed them warily as he set the tray on the coffee table and moved the cookies onto a festive holiday plate.
“Hey, uh, Farran,” spoke Hassan, rubbing the back of his neck. “We…we just wanted to say we’re, uh, sorry for earlier. We were kinda being jerks.”
“Yeah,” added Ana, “we should have asked permission. We’re sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m…sorry for flipping out.”
Solomon extended a closed fist out, and Hassan and Ana did the same.
“Still friends?” Solomon asked.
Farran glanced from the fists up to the three of them, and grinned a bit, before bumping his fist against theirs.
“Duh.”
Malik couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride in each of them. There were times, like just minutes ago, when he sincerely worried about his kids, but then there were moments like this, watching them pull together, that made those worries seem silly. Yep, they were a good bunch of kids, and they had each other. They were going to do just fine.
Short thing about a setting other than Aeosa. Not a story, more like an in-universe document. I like little pieces of lore-bits like that, so I thought it would be fun.
United Nations Defense Force
UNDF Central Command
Minuteman Contingency
Due to the continued UNDF military setbacks since the 2035 Incusion of Azaran Imperial forces, drastic military, economic, and political measures must be taken to ensure the safety and security of sovereign member nation-states. According to current logistical projections, the combat effectiveness of the United Nations Defense Force –all factors maintained at current levels— will be crippled beyond recovery within three years, at which point capitulation will be the only remaining option. In order to avert this outcome, the following steps must be taken:
Recruitment quantity must be increased by at least 125% to adequately replace lost human assets in the field. To this end, a global conscription will be enacted, coordinated on the national, regional, and local level. All medically approved citizens between the ages of 18-25, regardless of education or employment (unless otherwise detailed in the attached Military Service Exceptions Guide), will be required to complete a minimum two years of active military service, and a minimum five years of reserve service.
National and regional military personnel will be placed under the command of the UNDF. Units will be organized and temporarily registered as UNDF military assets, and all commanders will report to designation UNDF Regional Command Centers (RCC).
All medically approved citizens from the ages of 18-45 not already involved in active or reserve military service will be required to register as part of the newly formed Civil Combat Response Corp., and attend a two week long combat training course every six months. All registered citizens will be legally obligated to report to designated local rally points in the event of an emergency for suit-up and deployment. All CCRC assets will be placed under the authority of the appropriate UNDF RCC and on-site CO until the conclusion of the state of emergency.
In order to train this influx of recruits and civil guards, all non-classified, non-strategic essential military facilities will be repurposed or otherwise modified to support the housing and instruction of conscripts across all branches of service until such time that they are approved for combat deployment. This list of facilities includes national and regional military installations.
To meet the increased production demand, the UNDF will seize all major private sector assets which could feasibly be applied to the war-time supply chain. This list includes automotive and aircraft assembly facilities, drydocks, food production and packaging plants, energy production facilities, firearm manufacturers, clothing manufacturers, etc.
The management of corporate banks will be allocated to representatives of a UN Assembly of Global Commerce.
Mandatory civilian rationing of all non-essential goods and products.
The numbers are determinant. Logistic calculations indicate that the implementation of these policies, and a shift toward a long-term, total-war, military economy serve, by far, the best chance of ensuring continued effective resistance for the foreseeable future. It is recommended that soft roll-out of these procedures begin no later than the 30th of January, 2039, and that full implementation be under-way and established no later than March 15th of the same year.
Any significant delay beyond these dates are likely to result in diminished effect and less than optimal military efficiency.
Lt. General Martin Hayes
United Nations Defense Force Logistics Corp.
I’ll finish all these, even if I have to go into November (which is looking to be case.)
Anyway, day 20′s prompt was Saddest Backstory, and while I don’t think this is the saddest, it is sad, and I didn’t want to keep writing about the same characters over and over, so we’ll go somewhere we haven’t yet, and meet some of the Rangers of the Westwild Coast.
The Westwild Coast, the vast coastal jungle and swamp-land of southwest Aeosa, was one of the few regions in the world which still stubbornly held ancient secrets in the face of ever-expanding knowledge.
Within its deep and treacherous foliage and waters, lay a remote temple, standing proud among the shattered ruins of an ancient city, its name long forgotten, its inhabitants ages dead and passed. A temple devoted to the god of nature, and the hunt; Bakuna.
None trespassed within the Westwild. The jungle was his domain, and guarding it were his most loyal acolytes; the Rangers of the Westwild. Their numbers, their tactics, their names, all unknown to outsiders; some even doubted their existence.
But they were all too real. From all over Aeosa, from Yhorn to Nezerin they had come in one way or another, for one reason or another, to serve the reclusive god. Tasha Korva, a Yhornish woman who long ago ventured from her homeland to the south, had risen years ago to lead them, and she bore the scars of that struggle.
Her face and body bore the scars of both blade and claw; she had felled great beasts and fearsome warriors alike.
But as the captain of the Rangers looked down on their youngest comrade as he performed his morning drills with his bow, she thought of how he greatest deed may be what she had slain, but the seed she had planted.
It had been twelve years ago, in the dead of night. The Rangers were each attuned to the jungle, its ebbs and flows, the songs of the birds and howls of the wolves. Any disturbance was sensed, and she had felt it that night.
Her compatriots at her side, they became one with the shadows and the branches, and slipped through the darkness to investigate. It didn’t take them long to discover the camp fire, and the crowd around it.
Korva listened well as they crept closer.
Pirates. No, not just pirates, but merchants as well. Not uncommon that close to the Warlildru Sea; desperate mercantile crews would often flee ashore to the jungle in the hopes of avoiding capture or worse. She could sympathize with that.
The merchants were being held at the tips of swords. Ransom no doubt. Many gave up gold or jewels, others fabrics and spices. There was one man among them, though, with nothing. Nothing of worth or value to give them, and a boy clutching his pant-leg at his side. Korva took aim at the pirate collecting valuables, and would have shot him dead that very moment, had it not been for what the ragged man did next that took her aback.
He pushed the boy forward, offering him up in place of material goods. It was then that Korva was able to see him clearly in the moonlight. He was thin; sickeningly so, with bruises on his arms and face. The poor thing looked terrified, and immediately tried to return to what she assumed was his father, but he angrily slapped the boy aside, and pushed him back to the pirates, who seemed content enough with the offer.
Korva had no qualms, no regrets, when her arrow took flight and found the pirate’s neck. As he lay dying, choking on his own blood and the shaft of her missile, she had already struck down another target.
It was an abject slaughter. None of the pirates had even the chance to investigate where the arrows came from before they all lie dead on the sand. Only then did they emerge from the trees and the bushes, surrounding the trembling merchants.
They said nothing. There was nothing to say. A Ranger tossed them their gold and trinkets, while Korva approached the boy.
Despite being closer, he was somehow smaller than before, huddled on the ground. Shaking. Sobbing.
Yet the closer she came, the more the light of the full moon seemed to almost…intensify around him, until it was like a lance of light from the heavens pointing her to him. She had never seen such a thing before.
She looked up. The moon seemed larger and brighter than it had before.
Korva knew immediately it was a sign. A sign from Bakuna, who was master of the moon and whose arrows are said to have been crafted from its light.
She touched him with as much gentleness as she could muster, and his shivering stopped. She offered him her hand. He stared at her, eyes tired and filled with confusion, but he took it, and she helped him to her feet.
There was a shout. She didn’t even need to look to know it was his father. She didn’t remember what he said, but she did remember his screams after she anchored him down with an arrow through his foot. In the commotion, the Rangers, one by one, melded back into the night, Korva carrying the boy away.
He was a quiet one. Never spoke unless absolutely necessary, and tended to work alone if he could help it, but he would follow Korva around like a puppy. It took years before he trusted another Ranger, but under her tutelage he proved to be a prodigy with a bow, at one with the shadows, and in perfect synch with the beasts of the wild; it was as if he were born there.
There was no way for her to prove it, but she believed. She believed he was the one, the next of Bakuna’s champions.
He had come such a long way in such a short time. It wouldn’t be long before he surpassed her, she thought as she watched every arrow set free mark its target with machine-like efficiency. No, not long at all.
“What destiny has been set upon you, Demetrius Petrov?”
Day 19′s prompt was Headstrong. Grok was a tough as nails orc, and a good friend. Age does nothing to temper either of these traits, and even as a businessman, he isn’t afraid to crack heads.
The Laughing Imp tavern was the premier dive in the outer city of Tal’Kora. Established 210 NE, Grok Stoneshaker was both owner and proprietor; a new venture to fill the void as he retired from his adventuring. His body was aging, no longer swinging his hammer as hard or fast as he used to, no longer as swift of foot or quick of mind. As his hair grayed and his skin lost its deep green shade, he set his weapons aside in favor of mugs of ale and slabs of meat.
Every so often he’d get a fresh, young faced rookie adventurer come through. Grok liked to think of himself as a teacher, showing the new generations the ropes, give them a place to stay and food for their bellies.
And, of course, once in a blue moon, one of his customers would get just a little too mouthy, too handsy with his staff, and Grok would put his old muscles to work. Age might have kept him off the road, but no self-respecting orc would ever let their punching arm go soft.
As Grok polished a glass behind the front counter, one of his waitresses, Eressa, a half-elven maid, grumbled as she took a tray of food.
“Trouble, lass?”
She sighed. “Table closest to the hearth is getting…grabby. It’s the dwarf. Being so close to the ground makes flipping skirts easy, I suppose.”
“Hrm.”
He set down the glass onto the wood of the counter firmly, drawing the glance of everyone sitting at the bar. The regulars knew what it meant and turned their attention deeply toward their meals and drinks. Eressa moved to intercept her employer as he marched around the counter, tossing the rag over his shoulder.
“No, boss, really, it’s fine. I’m a big girl, this isn’t my first—”
“Didn’t walk the breadth of the damn continent and sail the known seas to let no drunken fool disrespect my staff in me own bar. The rest of that patrons get a free round for the mess I’m likely to cause, go break out another cask, would ya lass?”
Eressa groaned and buried her face in her hand. The crowded bar parted around him as Grok approached the table with a dwarf and two humans. The dwarf was in the midst of a deep belly laugh, flagon of ale thrashing about, leaving a puddle on the floor around him.
They each stopped when they noticed the towering old orc standing over them.
“Well, you lads seem to be having just a grand time,” he said, his eyes passing over the three.
His compatriots seemed at least sober enough to be wary, but the dwarf just guffawed anew.
“Aye! Good drink! Warm fire! And bountiful maidens in easy reach, what more does a man need, eh?”
“I’m afraid all good things come to an end, friend. Maybe it’s different where you’re from, but here we keep our hands off the staff. I’ll give ya one chance to pay your tab and leave here peaceful-like.”
The dwarf slammed his flagon down onto the table, causing a hush to fall over the tavern.
“Whassat? Yer throwin’ payin’ customers out? Ya got all these lovely ladies and ye expect us not to—”
“Yes, I do. Pay your tab and leave.”
The surly man stood on his chair, still only reaching up to Grok’s chest.
“Well here’s what I gots to say to that, ye daft old fool!”
It was a sloppy punch, telegraphed a mile away. Grok made no move to step out of the way, and instead caught the punch, his hand dwarfing the fist. In retaliation, the orc brought his head crashing down, slamming it into the drunken slob’s. He tumbled back, flipping his chair over, and dropping to the floor.
Grok knelt down, and picked the dwarf up by his thick beard. He would have yelped in pain if he weren’t nearly unconscious.
“Always did like dwarves. All the facial hair makes em so easy to carry around.”
And so by his beard Grok carried him out, to the amusement of the more respectful customers, and flung him out into the street. His two compatriots had the good sense to be silent, and scampered out after him.
“Come back again, and all your faces’ll get nice and acquainted with my hammer!”
He slammed the door closed behind him, and then turned back to the rest of his patrons with a good-natured smile.
Day 18′s prompt was Kindhearted. Before Sariel, Mattias was Asa’s chosen champion, and he did all he could to live up to that title. Sometimes he dealt with the pressure better than others, but luckily he had friends around to support him.
The aftermath of a battle was, in some ways, worse than the battle itself. In the midst of the chaos, adrenaline pumps and your body and mind are worked into a fervor. There exists only the moment, no before and no after; only survival. It was when the after came that the barriers of instinct collapsed and the weight and emotion of it all came crashing down.
The dead were a sorrowful sight, but it was the dying, the helpless pleas and laments echoing out from the fields that haunted the dreams and waking hours of men alike.
The company of T’lia Elisar sat together, alive but weathered, trying to clear their blood and sweat under the setting sun of the battlefield, the heat of the arid north-east of Aeosa finally subsiding. It was a somber silence between them all. Victory had come, but at great cost on both sides. To the warriors of Nezerin, the soldiers of the empire to which T’lia had elected to render their aide, it was a night of celebration. After such a crushing blow, Drakenspire’s invasion had been halted before it began, and they were in position to move to occupy the lair of the Scaled-Kin and end the conflict swiftly.
That would come later. Now, they scoured the bodies, saving who they could, and ending who they couldn’t.
Emperor Duzura himself had come to them after the battle, coated in crimson and sweat and soot, and thanked them personally for their help. They each could see the weariness in his eyes, heard the stilted inflections, struggling to call what had occurred that day a victory. They mirrored his sentiments.
“Has anyone seen Mattias?” asked Sylven, breaking the silence.
“Out there again,” muttered Hurza, nodding further out toward the battlefield.
The light was quickly fading behind the horizon. Sylven stood from his seat.
“He shouldn’t be out there alone.”
The elf, not waiting for a reply, deftly weaved and bounded around the fallen as he searched for the smallest member of their party. Even a thief had respect for the dead.
Sylven heard him before he saw him, and followed the distant words. He recognized them, as he got closer.
They were the final rites of the living.
“…-in her presence, and be delivered unto her embrace on tides of calm waters. Beneath the light of all the stars shall ye live on, and in her grace may ye find comfort and sanctuary for ever and ever. By her love and mercy, I grant ye pardon from your sins, and salvation from your pain. Drift, now, my brother, gently to the heavens…”
Sylven watched, as he approached, Mattias use a glimmer of his divine power granted to him by his patron goddess to lull a bleeding and broken Scale-Kin to a deep and final sleep. They both stayed silent and still as the last breath left him.
“Come to lecture me, thief, for wasting my strength on the enemy?” he said, after a time.
Sylven took a few more steps, and sat next to him.
“A fair bit too winded for lectures today, my friend.”
Mattias, his strength ever-surprising for his size, neatly placed the Scale-kin’s hand over his stomach, leaving him more dignified than those he was surrounded by.
“There were many wounded today, I had not the strength left to save him. Only enough to ease his suffering.”
“Sometimes that’s all we can hope for.”
“I am the champion of the Life-Breather,” he hissed. “So many yet call out for help, and I cannot save them. Not enough of them. Not all of them.”
“You are a champion, but still only mortal.”
Sylven’s eyes turned to the rapidly darkening sky. The stars were just barely visible and the moon was already hanging high. It was such a contrast against the carnage below.
“Mattias…tell me about Asa. Her realm sounded lovely, from what I heard of it.”
A faint snort.
“It is a…a realm of starlight and waters. Flat shores and white beaches give way to crystalline water, purer than the crispest of mountain springs, and warm to the touch, healing all wounds and ails. Her citadel is of marble, glittering with silver, where her faithful live in bliss and plenty, celebrating forever.”
Sylven kept his eyes to the sky, letting his eyes drift from star to star, listening as Mattias spoke.
For a moment, just a brief sliver of a second, he swore he could see it. The moment passed, reality returned to him, and he looked back down to the slain Scale-Kin. Sylven placed a hand on one of its armored shoulders.
“Well…that doesn’t sound so bad to me, eh friend?”
With that, he stood up, and tapped the halfling’s shoulder.
“Come. You’ve been out here since the battle ended. You’re no good out here anymore; there are other healers and soldiers out in the field, you need rest, Mattias.”
He had already internally conceded that Sylven was right, but was clearly not pleased with the fact. He had the look of a man who still stood by determination alone, and would continue to do so unless he forced him back to camp. He followed Sylven’s lead as the sun was nearly gone.
“Perhaps there’s a decent man in you yet, thief.”
Sylven found it in him to laugh.
“I sincerely hope not, cleric, but then I fear you may be rubbing off on me.”
Day 16′s prompt is The Herald (or someone who brings forward the quest), so its back to Daarastil to check in with Sariel, the champion to-be of the goddess Asa.
Sariel was fifteen when she realized that she could speak to Asa. Since her earliest memories as a child, she had known very clearly that she was different, even from her parents. She looked different, acted different, she had abilities even the old priests and seers were astonished by, and whenever she was scared, or confused, she had felt a soothing voice in the back of her mind that quelled her doubts. It wasn’t until her teenage years that she was able to put it all together and realize that it was the Life-Breather herself whispering in her ear.
When she’d approached her parents about it, they made no secret that they had known from the start. It was frustrating to know that she’d been left in the dark all those years, left to wonder why she was so strange. More than that, though, it was a relief. A relief to understand that she wasn’t mad, or a freak, or an outsider. She was blessed. She was chosen.
Once all had been revealed, Asa too became more direct in her interactions with the young elven cleric. Where once it was only whispers, it eventually became complete conversations. She couldn’t control it at first; it was always done whenever Asa felt Sariel needed council, but as her training progressed, her skill in meditation and prayer increased, and with it, her communion with her patron goddess.
It was like having a second mother. No matter what she came to her for, there was always a soothing, maternal voice waiting to reply. Something she was in dire need of.
Within the inner sanctum, Sariel sat, on the eve of her journey to Elkora to prove her claim as the champion of the Queen of the Gods. She knelt, as she’d done so many times before, and began to clear her mind, so that she might call out to her deity.
“Asa? May we speak?”
The response was like a warm coastal breeze, even surrounded as she was by stone walls.
Always, my child. I sense your fears; you doubt you are worthy?
“I…doubt that I will be seen as worthy. You’ve given me so much, all for this. I don’t want to fail you, but I don’t feel ready.”
If they are truly faithful, they will see. If they do not, it changes nothing. I have spoken. I have made my choice. No mortal, not even my Prime Astra, can change that.
You are worthy, and you are ready. I will be with you.
Sariel let out a silent sigh of mild relief.
“I’m sorry for doubting you, and myself. It’s just so nerve-wracking, and I’m…not great in front of crowds,” she laughed meekly.
She could feel Asa laugh as well, deep in her mind. Just the sound made Sariel swell with happiness, even through her anxiety.
I remember. Your first time leading the temple in prayer was interesting to watch.
Sariel’s face became warm and tinged with red.
“Please don’t remind me.”
Sariel. I will not feed you falsehoods; the path you are set to walk will be long, and difficult, and very dangerous. If there were anyone else, I would spare you this, but there is not. But take heart, for you will never be alone; I will follow you wherever you go, and I will forever meet you in your prayers.
Wield my light, and show the world our strength.
She knew that Asa didn’t just speak of her trip to Elkora. She meant everything, her whole life, her future as champion. It was a mission that would never really be over until she finally passed on, and joined her goddess eternally. Was she ready? She still didn’t know, but in that moment at least, Asa’s words reached her, and even if she didn’t feel certainty, she did feel determination.
Determination not to fail, not to waste her gifts and the faith that was placed in her.
She would go to Elkora and show all those old scholars and clergy what serving Asa was all about. She’d make the whole world brighter, wherever she was meant to go. That was her mission as champion after all, and nothing was going to stop her.
Day 15 was The Most Forgotten. Once again, we hop over to east Aeosa, to the Akasha Desert.
Between the arid coast of Nezerin, and the grasslands of eastern Celym, lies the Akasha Desert. Tens of thousands of square miles of heat and sand stand between any traveler and civilization. Few are there who would dare call it home.
In the time of the allied kingdoms to the west, and the empire to the east, all that remained were scarce nomads, and intrepid merchants. If any great people had once called it home, they were long swept under the sand and forgotten. Only Drakenspire stood as a single bastion of civilization amid the sand, jealously guarding the rare oasis’ surrounding it.
But among these nomads, among the bravest of fortune seekers who had crossed the Akasha, there was a tale. A tale of the lost temple of Kleon.
It was said that once, the Timeless God, who stood with Asa and Sethis at the dawn of all being and shaped the universe, had a lone but grand temple somewhere in the Akasha. Many took it to be a tall-tale; the Akasha had been mapped long ago by Tal’Koran scholars. If there were a temple, it would have been found.
None could deny, however, the god’s silence. For centuries, since before the peoples of Aeosa had done away with the constants of war, and the absolute power of kings and emperors faded away into the New Era, the all-seeing god had gone quiet. No champions proclaimed, no new temples erected, no worshipers to sing his songs.
The most any had heard, were whispers and rumors of a great and mad sorcerer, adorned in the tattered yellow and white robes of Kleon’s faith, wandering Aeosa, muttering and jabbering to himself incessantly. He appeared in different places; Nezerin, Yhorn, Tal’Kora, Akrium, Daarastil, Ertia, sometimes only days apart, sometimes decades. His presence had been reported from the time of the elven empire, to only several years ago, and many days and years in-between.
Some say he is the lost champion of Kleon. Others, that he challenged the god, and brought ruin to his temple, having endless madness inflicted on him as punishment. Still others believe he is the lost god himself, wandering the mortal plane, struck by some terrible, otherworldly force. Most, though, believe him a legend. A story to be told around the fire of camps and the tables of taverns.
Many have tried to unravel the mystery of Kleon’s temple, the wandering sorcerer, and the silence of the god of time. None have uncovered the truth.
The answers, it seems, have been lost to sands of time.
Day 14 was Leader, so let’s travel to the eastern coast of Aeosa, across the Akasha Desert, to the Nezerin Empire.
A Walk Around Town
Years ago, the city had a different name. Most who remembered it were long gone, but Duzura remembered. Much like it, he too used to have a different name, and any who remembered it were long gone.
Today, his home was known as Nezerin, capital of the Nezerin Empire. The empire he’d built.
For just over two-hundred years, he’d ruled the entire east of Aeosa, from Drakenspire to the Ysar Cape. He’d led it through disasters and wars, and pulled it into a time of prosperity, making it the dominant power in the region. His people were well protected, well fed, and industrious.
He saw it every day. In the days before he had a throne and a crown, Duzura resented the wealthy and influential who holed up in their estates and hoarded their possessions. Now that he was wealthy and influential himself, even against the urging of his advisors, he liked to spend time among his people.
No guards, no aides, no crown, just him and the streets he grew up in. He bought from local shops, chatted with the citizenry, tried his hardest to let his people see that he cared.
Even after all these decades, he had to stop people from bowing to him in the street. There were some things about power he would never feel comfortable with. They would always insist, and Duzura would always say the same thing in response:
“Why bow to me, when you could stand with me?”
He truly believed that; bowing, to him, was an act of submission and fear. The Empire was built on the foundation of freedom from submission, to purge the corruption and slavery and constant warring rampant along the eastern coast. His greatest fear was becoming what he destroyed; these walks were to show them he was here for them, that he had built all of this for them.
Still, the anxiety lingered.
He was pulled from his thoughts as he felt a tug at his pants. He looked down, and was met with a young boy, probably not even ten, his hand clenched to Duzura’s pant-leg.
He knelt to meet the child at eye level.
“Hey there. Did you need something?”
“Are you the emperor?” he asked immediately.
Leave it to a kid to be the one to skip bowing and greetings, and get straight to the point.
“You got me.”
“Meshka!”
Both the boy and Duzura turned their heads to see a woman rushing over to them. She grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him close, dropping to her knees and hanging her head.
“I apologize, your excellency; he’s only a boy, he hasn’t yet learned proper respect. Please forgive him for bothering you.”
He raised his hand in a motion to calm her.
“He was only asking a question,” he reassured her. “I’m always happy to hear from the children of the empire. Meshka was it? What were you going to ask?”
Meshka looked to his mother cautiously, awaiting some sort of instruction. She simply nodded and loosened her grip. Now a bit more self-conscious, he avoided direct eye-contact.
“W-well…papa’s been gone a long time…I wanted to ask if you could send him home…”
“What does he do?”
Meshka’s mother chimed in.
“He is a soldier in the Imperial Army, stationed along the trade-route between the coast and Drakenspire, your grace. He serves the empire honorably, I assure you.”
Duzura sighed. “I see…”
After a moment’s contemplation, he placed his hand on the top of Meshka’s head and offered him a kind smile.
“It must be hard not having your father around. If I could bring him home to you, I would, but he has an important job to do that helps lots of people all over the empire.”
At this, Meshka became crestfallen.
“How old are you, Meshka?”
“…six,” he replied, fighting back a sniffle.
“Six. If you’ve been keeping with your schoolwork, you must be getting good with your letters and words then, right?”
He nodded.
“How about this. I might not be able to bring him home, but if you go home and work really hard on a letter to him, I’ll see to it personally that it gets delivered to him. We’ll bring a small piece of you to him; I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
Meshka seemed to be in deep thought about it, but eventually rubbed his eyes and nodded again. Duzura took a pin off his chest and placed it in the boy’s hand.
“Show this to a parcel-runner once your letter is ready, and they’ll bring it to me. I’ll make sure it finds its way to your father.”
“Okay. I can do that, sir.”
“Good. I look forward to passing it on. In the meantime, I’ll let you in on a little secret about me. When I was your age, I didn’t have any parents. I was all alone, looking after myself. Your papa might be far away, but you still have your mother. Stay close to her for me, and don’t make her worry too much, okay?”
“Yes, I promise!”
He gave the boy one last pat on the head before standing up. Meshka’s mother stood as well, much more at ease than she had been.
“Thank you, sincerely, your grace. We treasure your kindness.”
“I wouldn’t be much of an emperor without loyal troops like your husband supporting me,” Duzura chuckled. “It’s not much, but I hope it helps your family.”
She gave one last, much smaller bow, and shooed Meshka along with her. The boy waved goodbye, then disappeared in the crowd of the street.
Duzura watched them go, a smile plastered on his face.
I’m falling behind but I’m at least getting this out so I don’t drag too far behind.
Day 12 was Love Interest, so why not explore how we got the Aeosan god of love in the first place, huh?
Asa, the Star Mother, the Life-Breather, Mistress of the Seas, Bringer of Storms and Queen of the Gods, was born of the Great Light that brought into being all things. It is said she spent countless eons traversing the infant universe, and seeking beauty, crafted fiery jewels in the heavens which we call stars. But even surrounded by light and warmth, she was alone. In her loneliness, she searched the universe anew.
She was the goddess of beginnings, and all beginnings too have ends. Life cannot exist without death. Warmth without cold.
Sethis, the Life-Reaper, it is said, grew from the First Shadow, cast upon the appearance of the Great Light.
They were each other’s missing piece, the completion of a whole. Their existence was bound to one another, and together, alongside Kleon, the Timeless One, they went about crafting the planes of our world.
Asa brought forth the first simple life, and watched with wonder and happiness as it grew and learned. She watched it change itself, watched it become better and more marvelous, until it took the forms we know. The form of elf and human, dwarf and orc, and so on.
And with this new life, this life that could for the first time look upon their creator and know its beginnings and its purpose, came new great beings.
The first to awaken was Bakuna, The Tree-lord, Herald of Harvests, Master of the Hunt, and the Watchful Moon. From the world’s first tree he was born, and mastered the wilds and the plants of the lands. He walked forth and gave the gift of seeds to the small mortals, as well as the knowledge of the great beasts and how to hunt them. For this, he was given his place among the gods.
Next was Plathos, the Knowing Annals, the Lord of Stone, and the Wise Seer. From the first mountain, he was born of the immovable stone. To mortals, he gave the first languages, taught them to record their stories and histories, and showed them how to wield magic and to shape the stones to build great structures. For this, he was given his place among the gods.
Orinea awoke next, the Mistress of Fate, the Cast Die, and the Decadent Lady. Beneath the earth, a great and glittering metal was discovered and brought as an offering to Asa. As the light of the sun shone down on the metal, it warped and shaped itself into the form of a beautiful woman. It was Orinea who taught the mortals of beauty, and brought them great wealth in gold and luck, and it was her likeness that adorned the first coins. For this, she was given her place among the gods.
Last came Faraena, the Raging Fire, the Lady of War, the Honor-bound. As the mortals learned and changed, war came to them. Their knowledge of the stones and woods and metals of the world, their usage of the beasts and crops, their magic, their hunger for wealth and glittering gold, made possible the First War. The gods were horrified and heartbroken, none more-so than Asa. In the aftermath of a great battle, the blood of the fallen and the fire of cities came together and so born was Faraena.
It was she who established the rules of war. To spare the young, the old and the sick, to respect your opponent and grant your enemy mercy, to never soil your victory with slaughter, rape or slavery, and most of all, to march to war only if the cause be righteous; never for greed, nor lust, nor envy. To all those who denied her, to those who raped and slaughtered and made slaves of their brothers and sisters, who wallowed in greed and lust, she unleashed a curse of fire, and cleansed them from the land. It was she who brought laws and justice to mortals, and the passion to uphold them. For this, she was given her place among the gods.
In the aftermath of the First War, walking among the dead and tormented, it is said Asa wept for days, and her tears created the Lake Lihea, upon which her greatest temple today resides.
Seeing her weeping, Sethis too was brought to tears, and set forth to collect all the fallen souls. With every soul in his hands, he set about sorting the righteous from the wicked, and created two realms. For those of good heart, he crafted a paradise of warmth and crystal waters, a place of happiness. For the corrupt, he made a realm of hardship, where souls would be punished for their misdeeds until they repented.
When he showed her his work, Asa’s tears dried, and an age of fertility and plenty followed in the wake of her happiness, and for many years the world was at peace.
It was then that Asa took Sethis for her husband, seeing the kindness beneath the darkness of the god of death. Their union was a time of celebration in the heavens and across every plane of creation, and from life and death came the first new god in an age.
Day 11′s prompt is Siblings. Here we have a bit of lore about three of the most famous brothers in Aeosa’s history.
The Brothers Myren
Before the breaking of the elven empire into the Wards, before the unification of the human kingdoms united under the banner of Celym, or the emperor of Nezerin was even born, or T’lia Elisar first swung a sword, there were three brothers.
Three elven brothers of the Myren line, last princes of the empire. Each of these brothers had lain before them a grand destiny, and their names would live on through the ages.
The youngest brother, Oliar, was an arcane prodigy, a recognized master-spellcaster before he came of age. The spells he created, and wisdom he passed down would be the foundation of the library to eventually bear Plathos’ name in Tal’kora, and the Arcanum built in his honor there would be known to all who walked its halls as Oliar’s Sanctum. He would live many centuries, winning glory and prestige as a hero in the War of the Last King, and would go on to teach many of Aeosa’s finest mages and wizards.
The eldest brother, Erathon, took the throne of the empire with wisdom and a just heart. Under his rule, the era of elven authoritarian rule and absolute power came to an end, and the empire was restructured over many years into the four Wards known today. It was he who brokered peace with the dwarves of Irongate, long the empire’s bitter enemy, and ended the constant skirmishes between the south border and the human kingdoms.
It was wise Erathon, who, seeing the growing power of Tal’Kora and realizing he could no longer hold the city under his rule and pursue his reforms at the same time, granted the city its independence under the condition it too adopt a policy of popular rule. The people agreed. The king did not, and so the War of the Last King began, plunging the Idolen Peninsula into chaos. Erathon, with support from his new dwarven allies, rode north to strike a quick and decisive end to the conflict. It took a month of bitter fighting to achieve peace.
The last elven emperor is celebrated as a hero and icon across the elven wards, and is fondly remembered even in the holds of his former foes.
It was the middle brother, though, who was the greatest of his family.
Garrik Myren, a name synonymous with heroism and glory in battle. Garrik, with neither the throne to inherit nor the mind to compete with his younger brother, left home to travel the world. His deeds are chronicled in every language of the world, his feats remembered by old and young, and three separate cities in Aeosa bear his name. No beast could fell him, no villain best him, no army stop him.
That is, until his elder brother’s decision to let free Tal’kora.
As if all three brother’s fates were tied to this battle in the north, all three rode and met together for the final time. Erathon led his armies with valor, Oliar gave wise council and fell many terrible foes, but it was Garrik who met the Last King, Severn Zantiln, in mortal combat atop his citadel in what is now the Dread Bog to the east of the illustrious city, so twisted by the king’s daemonic sorcery as it was.
They fought for two days and two night, until finally, both struck the other with a fatal blow, and died. The gods, who looked on with great sorrow, felt it unjust that such a noble soul should perish against one so wicked.
It was decided that Garrik would not pass on, but was ascended, chosen to join the gods as one of their kin. The first mortal to achieve godhood. To this day, Garrik serves as the Watchman of Heroes, guiding the steps of those who would come after him, who sought to protect the weak and defend the world from evil. It is said when a true hero dies, they find their souls embraced by the Watchman, and brought to his halls, where they join the divine army of the gods, awaiting the mortal realm’s most dire hour.
Day 10′s prompt is Parents. To the north of Tal’Kora, across the Mirar Sea, lies the island-halidom of Yhorn. Not all is well in Yhorn, especially with the royal family.
A Shadow Over Yhorn
The old oak doors of the king’s study were thrown open, shattering the peaceful solitude of the lord of Yhorn’s private sanctum. The impact of the wood frame and metal handles against the weathered but sturdy stone of the castle walls echoed down the halls, giving many servants and attendants momentary pause. King Rhone de Lusia set down his tea and sighed. There was only one person in all the Halidom of Yhorn who would dare throw open his doors without invitation.
“Madness! Madness has struck you, father!”
Rhone waited as his furious son marched between him and his hearth. The metal chains and buckles which held fast rugged traveling gear and thick furs glimmered against the flames behind him. He looked as though he had barged right up from the harsh snowfall outside.
Crown Prince Craven de Lusia was by all accounts, the model Yhornishman. In hardships and dangers, he endured and persevered; his firm but fair hand toward both nobles and commoners had earned him much respect throughout the Halidom, if not adoration. Any other father would brim with pride at having sired such a stalwart man, any king comforted that his throne and crown would fall into such capable hands.
The king kept his composure in the face of such a display of disrespect.
“You disturb me in my most private of chambers, hurl insults at your own father after disappearing for days, and you call me mad-struck?”
Craven’s enraged expression remained.
“I’ve seen the temple, father! I’ve seen with my own eyes the blasphemy you’ve wrought! The bridge destroyed, the island defiled, the altar of the Lord of Winter defaced; what else could it be but insanity?”
“You still hold fast to the faith of the pretender-gods, my boy?” Rhone scoffed.
Ever since his youth, Craven had been obedient and pious, a true believer in the Aeosan gods and follower of the Life-reaper, Sethis. For generations, since the Halidom’s formation, the shadowed god of death and cold had been their chief deity. What other god would bless the souls of such a frigid and inhospitable island?
There was a reverence in Yhorn for the cold of winter, and the death that came with it; no other people had so embraced and made peace with their own mortality quite like the Yhornish. While so many of the mainlanders feared the Black God’s grip, the people of Yhorn called him friend, and in return, death became a part of them. Sethis brought to them the ancient art of necromancy, to make death their strength, so long as no Yhornish ever grew fool enough to try and cheat him of his prize.
The soul was to be kept pristine, untouched and pure. The body? The body was a temporary vessel. A box of meat. Once empty, it had other purposes.
Many called Yhorn backwards and barbaric for their unorthodox views on death, but it had kept their Halidom alive for over a century and a half. Craven knew this. His father seemed to have forgotten, poisoned by lies.
“I follow the true gods of this world, father. It was that woman, wasn’t it; she whispered her spell into your ear and ordered you to sack the temple.”
Rhone narrowed his eyes, staring his son down.
“Choose your words carefully, boy. I am your father, your king; none command me. Lady Victoria has shown me the truth. Pull from my eyes the veil of age-old dogma and revealed greater gods than the child usurpers the rest of the world has been fooled into revering.”
“She lies! She has filled your mind with fantasy and…and tall-tales! You are wiser than this father; I beg of you, turn back from this doomed course before it is too late. She means to bring you and your people to ruin. Already you have cut off trade and travel to the south, banished House Wolfram from our shores –our best defense against the orcs that roam our mountains— the temple is only the latest and most heinous of her manipulations, and I fear she is doing much worse behind your back.”
The king shot up from his chair and met Craven. The boy had grown tall, able to look his father eye-to-eye even as they both towered over six feet each.
“A doddering old fool, am I? Blind to the goings on within my own realm?” he sneered. “The south and their corrupt preachers are not welcome on these hallowed shores, nor are those cultish Wolframs, and the temple is a relic of a bygone era. Lady Victoria will help me lead this land to a shining future, an enlightened future. I had hoped you would be a part of that as well, but if you are too blinded by false faith then go! Rot in your precious temple for all that it be worth now.”
Rhone turned to sit once more in his chair, but Craven stepped forward to implore his father one last time.
“There are people going missing, father! Noble and common alike; they vanish without a trace, and all of them good and faithful to Sethis and the gods. There has been…there has been talk in the city…rumors from the mountain towns about strange, hooded figures riding deep into the forests. Cries and screams echoing in the distance and suddenly going silent. I plan to set out in the morrow to investigate.”
“You will do no such thing. You will remain here, in the castle, and cease this pointless interference.”
“Father, the people are scared! I—”
“I will hear no more of this!” Rhone shouted. “Impudent, faithless boy! Leave my sight!”
Craven stood rigid for a moment, seething in his helplessness, before giving his father a curt nod.
“As you wish, your grace.”
Not waiting for a response, the prince marched out of the study and down the hall. Clearly, he had been in error to attempt to appeal to his father’s sense. He was too far gone, too steeped in the witch’s venom. He would have to proceed with more caution; that mysterious woman from shores unknown would surely hear of his open suspicion from the king.
If Craven’s theory was correct, and he was certain it was, then his life was soon to be in danger. The castle was no longer safe, and neither would the city be.
He would have to leave that night.
How could he have let it come to this? To where he now feared his father would take his life? It had not always been this way. Craven could recall fondly the days of his childhood, looking up to his father as a symbol to all, the model of the man he wished to grow to be. All that was gone now.
A shadow had fallen over Yhorn.
A darkness, it seemed, only Craven now could lift. Resolute, he steeled himself for whatever he might find in the forests at the foot of the Yhornish mountains, and whatever measures he might be forced to take to ensure the survival of his home.
The day 9 prompt is Eye Candy, and instead of a person, I thought maybe a scenic location in Aeosa might be fun, so here’s some lore about Tal’Kora, the largest and richest city on the continent (and the first city I ever came up with for the setting).
Tal’kora was a city of fabulous wealth and trade, a place unlike any other in the known world. What started as a port-city claimed by the old elven empire on the Idolen Peninsula far to the north-west corner of Aeosa, had emerged over the centuries as an economic powerhouse. Such was its wealth that it was granted independence from the then rapidly transforming elven state, and effectively turned the Idolen region into a sovereign territory all its own.
From then on, its prominence only increased. It hosted a population more diverse than any other; every race that lived on Aeosa could find their kin somewhere in the city. With the vast trade network it had constructed with every major power on the continent, came knowledge. Tal’kora was the home of the largest library in the world, doubling as the holy city for the god of knowledge and wisdom, Plathos. As such, it was a destination for scholars, seers, clerics, scientists and magic practitioners.
Even the poorest districts in the outer city enjoyed a surprising level of comfort relative to other cities of its size and density. The inner districts of the city were some of the most opulent places one could visit. The roads were pathed with granite, the manors and estates constructed of stark white stone, emblazoned with silver, gold and ivory, the people adorned with exotic jewelry and fabrics from across the lands.
All of this, under the shade of six, mighty, ancient elven arch-trees who towered hundreds of feet into the air. Each trunk thick enough to house a roost of dragons, they housed some of the city’s most precious landmarks, such as the temple of Plathos and his library, the Tal’koran military academy, university, the Arcanum, as well as many luxurious apartments, guest houses, and restaurants, and whose branches were grown seamlessly together by the Treeweavers who had sung them into being, creating an elevated upper-level to the city where only the richest and most prominent public officials, merchants, military officers, and intellectuals lived amidst the council chambers, army citadel, and many other key governmental structures.
The landscape surrounding it only added to its beauty. To the east, a lush and thick forest painted the coastline in rich greenery. To the north-east and north-west, snow-capped mountains guarded the city, save for a small, natural port around which the north end of the city surrounds, leading out to the frigid but calm Mirar Sea. Finally, to the south and the east lay flat and fertile fields for those farmers who had learned how to properly work the land. Many prosperous villages and town dotted the countryside beyond Tal’kora, and who benefitted from the vast markets on which they could sell their harvests and local crafts.
The success of Tal’kora’s trade, however, had as much to do with the effort the people had put in to safeguard it, as it did with landscapes and geography. The capital of the Idolen did not rest on its laurels; where there is trade, there is crime.
Luckily, the wealth it had accrued was used protecting its borders and shipping lanes, both over the seas and land. A navy and standing army, as well as a well-trained domestic guard, and a keen intelligence gathering force were utilized to fend off any who would disrupt commerce and threaten the citizenry within its borders.
While not the largest military, those who serve the banner of Tal’kora enjoy some of the most advanced weaponry and armor available, thanks to the dedication of the Arcanum. Even the lowliest guard is given moderately enchanted armor and a silvered sword, while the soldiers proper are well-protected from magical as well as physical attack, and are able to give just as much in return. The four captains of each division, the Master of Ships, Master of the Guard, Master of War, and Master of Shadows, are titles handed down to only the most exceptional warriors among the upper ranks, and in recent decades, the crowning jewel of Tal’koran might became the Supreme Commander of these four captains, General T’lia Elisar.
The Golden Lady. The Tyrant Killer. The Wolf Slayer. Fiends-bane. The Tamer of Dragons. Her very presence in the city was a deterrent to all but the most foolish of interlopers, and a rallying cry of pride among the common peoples and the elite alike.
Truly, Tal’kora is a city upon a hill. A society whose prosperity has thus far been without end, and is in the midst of a seemingly eternal golden age.
Work kicked my ass this weekend so I’m gonna skip over day 7 for now and come back to it later.
Anyway, Day 8 was The Voice of Reason. Hurza Khur-zan occasionally has to put Mattias and Sylven in their place.
A thief and a champion of Asa walk into a bar.
Hurza Khur-zan would implore you to stop her if you’d heard that one before. What to most would be an absurd joke was her daily life.
Elisar had gathered quite the disparate rabble around her. A bafoonish bard of the Celym countryside, a banished orc warrior of Dragon’s Knife, a Yhornish nobleman with a penchant for hunting fiends, herself, a sorceress of Steelhorn, a place that scoffed at magic like a cheap parlor trick, and then there were the men of the hour.
“Would you rather we starve ourselves? We’re a bit strapped for coin lately, if you haven’t noticed. He was a spice merchant, believe me, he won’t miss a few dozen drenalli. I know the type. Besides, do you think he accrued such wealthy by being virtuous?”
The halfling slammed his palm down onto the tavern table, glaring up at the slender elven thief.
“That’s hardly the point! Have you no principles?”
“Of course, my principles are simply a bit more material than yours.”
Mattias’ face was red with frustration, and so it went. Every chance they had, the two would clash their wits; occasionally it was amusing, mostly it was tiresome. Such was the inevitable outcome when the holiest man in the Star Mother’s faith was placed side-by-side with a master criminal like Sylven. Asa was a deity of law and order, and only the most dire and extreme of circumstances warranted their circumvention, to speak nothing of outright disregard.
Sylven lived to disregard the law. His faith in the governance and justness of institutions and systems had faded long ago, if he ever had any to begin with.
A man of absolute restraint and a man of absolute freedom in constant struggle. Of all the squabbling in their group, theirs was the worst and most frequent.
“Your irreverence for the pillars of law that hold the societies of the world aloft will be a black mark on this stalwart company!”
“I don’t seem to remember you throwing such a huff when we plundered the lair of that dragon along the Sturga a year back,” Sylven retorted.
Mattias began to fume, seeming to Hurza like a kettle nearing a boil.
“That was different! The treasure was ancient, its rightful owners long since claimed by time! Dragons are vile creatures at any rate, avatars of greed. Such wealth should not be in their claws.”
Sylven leaned toward his dwarven companion.
“See, Hurza, how his virtues twist to suit the narrative? What else is to be expected of the religious elite.”
Hurza sighed and ran her fingers through the haggard scruff growing along her chin and cheeks. She feared her hair would go grey from their antics.
She shushed Mattias before he could explode out a response.
“Will you two stop bickering like school-children?”
“But—” they both started simultaneously.
“No. No buts. Mattias, we all grow tired of your pompous, self-righteous speeches. You are a symbol, not a standard; if we could all live so virtuously without a care, the world would be merrier place, I’m sure, but reality does not always allow for the most righteous of courses to be taken, and not everyone agrees with the law. I suggest you come to grips with that.”
She turned to Sylven.
“And you. How fragile and insecure must you be, I wonder, to constantly feel the need to taunt and demean your own traveling companion? Your petulant, immature frustration with anyone who has achieved even a mild amount of success in life is pathetic. You mask it as wit and justice, but we can all plainly see how base your true motivations are.
Your arguments are pointless and irritating to everyone around you. If you insist on carrying on with your temper-tantrums, then kindly lock yourselves in the tavern cellar where your whining will at least leave the adults in peace.”
To punctuate her verbal dressing down of both men, she took a generous sip of her ale. Neither of them said anything, and instead just looked down at the table.
Hurza set her tankard down, and glanced between them. Perhaps she’d been…a bit too harsh.
“You would do well to understand the other’s way of thinking, is what I’m driving at. You’re both so secure in your assurance that the other is wrong. I don’t suppose it occurred to either of you that the other may have a very good reason for thinking the way they do, hm?”
They both shook their heads.
“Well, that seems a constructive place to start. I’m going to refill my ale; you two are going to sit here and have a calm, civilized chat. If I come back to any raised voices, I’ll toss you down the cellar stairs myself and throw away the key. Understood?”
Day 6 is Anti-hero. Here we have a bit about the well-meaning thief of T’lia’s old band of adventurers, Sylven.
A King of Thieves
The kingdoms of Celym were home to no shortage of large, wonderous cities. As the single largest unified state on Aeosa, it was the most populous, the wealthiest, and the most rampantly corrupt place on the mainland continent. From the lowly bureaucrats and guardsmen, to the great Council of Kings, everyone had a price, and no place was this more true than the dark heart of Celym, the City of Kings, Akrium.
Sylven was one of those rare elves who was born and raised outside the wards. The elves of the Plains Ward, more than any of the elven Wards, danced around a tense relationship with Celym. There was always a resource or land dispute to resolve; an ancient and uniquely nomadic culture among the elves, clashing with this upstart modern unification of powerful kingdom, barely beyond its second century of existence.
Sylven’s parents had come to Akrium out of necessity. Their clan had long since splintered and fallen apart, well before he was even born; Celym was the only place they could go to eke out a living. Growing up poor in a huge city meant he’d been uneducated most his life, but even as a child he was overflowing with practical knowledge. Not just the ability to cook or weave, but more advantageous skills.
Like Lying.
There was little you couldn’t do with some quick hands and some well-constructed lies, and Sylven was good at it, and only got better with time. Good enough that those who’d turned lying into a profession took notice.
These days the name of the old syndicates and gangs of thieves and cutthroats that plagued the city were barely whispers and footnotes. In their place, there was only one, monolithic criminal empire that controlled almost any large scale illegal operation on Akrium.
The Midnight Hands.
Sylven was a wealthy man. He left Akrium as a skilled but ultimately anonymous thief to fall in with T’lia Elisar, and returned decades later as a battle-hardened master of both blade and charm, but also with something more important. Ideals. He had seen first-hand that a difference could start with one person, and that difference could help people.
It had been a long time since Sylven had been on an honest to gods heist, he was far too important to risk on any but the most vital operations. Still, he couldn’t help but occasionally hit the streets.
The wealthy had learned long ago not to broadcast themselves outdoors. Gone were the days when the nobles and powerful merchants would flaunt their jewelry and flash their gold freely. Now they dressed plainly, trying to blend into the crowd, but they could never hide their sense of superiority and disdain for the lower class. It came so naturally to the old money especially that they didn’t even know they had to hide it.
It was one of the oldest tricks in the book for urban pick-pocketing. In a crowded city street, it wasn’t out of place to bump into people occasionally, and you could disappear into the mass of passerbys with no trouble. So easy a kid could do it, and they frequently did.
Sylven just looked down and “accidently” nudged shoulders with the aging old codger he’d set his sights on. They would grumble and complain of course, but Sylven already had a hand on their coin pouch. Tied right to the waist, typical. It was a simple task, slipping it free.
It quick squeeze between two people, a turn down a side-street, and he was away scot free.
Now the only question left was where he would leave it. He hadn’t any destination in mind; it was a crime of passion, in a way. Sneaking off to the north-bound central street, his eyes lay on the city’s temple to Asa, and his thoughts suddenly went to his late friend Mattias. A holy man of holy men, that one; he believed in the Star Mother’s mercy with all he had.
Damn, nostalgia was hitting him. Oh well, the halfling wouldn’t have approved of his thievery, but maybe some generous charity would placate his no doubt frowning soul.
He found himself climbing the stairs to the temple for the first time in many years, and quietly poured the coins into the collection box. The priest tending the desk was stunned into silence.
“Meals for the poor tonight?” he asked.
He nodded silently.
“Cook them something nice, won’t you?”
Just as quickly as he had emerged from the flow of the crowd, he sauntered back down the stairs, and was absorbed back in, and vanished like a ghost.
Day 5 of the challenge was Comedic Relief. Watch as the great bard Owen of the Silver Strings brings a laugh to his tired and sour companions.
Music’s Greatest Foe
The downpour of rain threatened to flood the streams flowing through the Rykon, forcing the party of seven up to higher ground. The hillsides were slick with mud, and those of them weighed down with heavy armor had to be hauled up by another of their companions. The intensity of the wind and lightning necessitated more sturdy shelter than the thick oaks and pine surrounding them.
An outcropping of stone near the crest of the hill just barely fit them all beneath, and finally there was a moment of respite.
One of the party, an orc adorned in furs and necklaces of fangs and talons, snorted in frustration as he threw off his mud-soaked boots.
“Three days this damned rain has plagued us! Bandits, tyrants, wyverns and devils, all we’ve slain, and I swear by the spirits this rain will be the end of us at this rat!”
“Settle, Grok,” sighed the elf behind him. “Hyperbole and exaggeration aren’t exactly helping, save your energy.”
“Hrm. Easy for you to be so calm, Sylven. Damn elves and their light feet.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to generalize,” he said, nodding back toward the rest of their party. Specifically, to their valiant leader, currently being hoisted up the hill by a stout dwarven woman and male human, all three of them covered up to their knees and elbows in mud and grime.
“Need you any help?” the orc offered.
The human shook his head. “Just a few more steps.”
“This is why you shouldn’t live in your armor, T’lia,” counseled their dwarven companion.
“Wise advice as always,” the armored elf sighed. Her steel helm obscured most of her face, but they could all plainly see the usually well-composed and charismatic leader had been struck with a fair bit of embarrassment at her poor judgement.
The human male huffed under the strain of the heavy armor’s weight.
“Hurza, might we admonish our glorious commander after we’ve sat down?”
“No one likes a crybaby, Wolfram.”
Waddling past them was one even shorter than even Hurza, splashed almost head to toe in muck due to his height. Leaping beneath he cover of the outcropping, he immediately began trying to clean himself to little avail.
“I hope this is just a natural storm, and none of you have done anything more blasphemous than usual as of late,” the halfling grumbled. “I’ll warn you that Asa can be quite terrifying when angered.”
“Mattias, I thought we’d lost you under all that mud,” Sylven chuckled. “Seems you’ve gained an inch or two at least.”
“Have your laugh, thief.”
“I shall.”
A metallic thunk drew everyone’s attention. T’lia was finally sat down, and with her, her two compatriots collapsed to the ground as well. The elf removed her helmet, shaking out her lustrous golden hair, the trademark of any full-blooded forest-folk. Hers was so iconic in fact that it was the basis for one of her many titles across the land given to her by the various storytellers and bards.
Speaking of which, there was yet one of their companions still unaccounted for.
Another hit the ground, this time more of a dull and wet plop against the dirt. Before all of them was a soaked, half-elven bard, clutching his lute for dear life.
“Owen…of the Silver-str…strings has re-rejoined you…all…!” he announced from the ground between labored breaths.
“I’m fine…no…no need to wo-worry!”
Grok let out another snort. “Don’t fret, we weren’t.”
The beleaguered bard was left to his own devices there on the floor as the rest of the group tiredly made what camp they could. It consisted mostly of bed-rolls cramped together and a carefully tended magical fire under Hurza’s care.
The sopping wet and stained clothes were stripped away to keep from catching a chill, leaving the fire and their bed-rolls their only significant source of warmth against the wind. They each encircled it, clutching their blankets close.
Owen, finally dumping the last of the water out of his lute, wedged himself in where he could.
“Well, friends, it seems this weather and soggy earth has left us all in rather rotten spirits. As your bard, it seems my duty and purpose to bring smiles and merriment to this sordid lot. Have you any requests?”
Silas sighed, leaning against T’lia’s much larger frame.
“You’ve sung and chatted nearly non-stop since we left Ursius. Still your catalogue of bawdy jingles remains unexhausted?”
“Tsk, tsk,” Owen shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect such a glum fellow like yourself to know, Sir Wolfram, but a truly excellent bard must always have three things on their person for any occasion; a twinkle in their eye, a song in their heart, and a trick up their sleeve. Fortunately for you all, I am not only excellent, but astounding.”
“Debatable,” shot Sylven.
“Such biting words from you all. I’m wounded.”
“If you have a song in mind,” spoke T’lia, cutting in before the argument brewing escalated into something worse, “then sing your piece, Owen. I just ask it not be too loud; I don’t think anyone is in the mood for a tune best saved for the hearth of a tavern.”
“That is certainly a concession I can make, my lady.”
Owen took a moment to tune his lute, before settling into a comfortable playing position. He began strumming a soft and steady melody, with a much needed upbeat and lighthearted tone.
“This was composed some years ago by an acquantence of mine, when we were both playing the circuit in Akrium. It never fails to get a laugh, and it goes a little something like this…”
Oh, he’s got no brains, he’s got no tact
Wouldn’t know a good tune if it bit em on the ass
The women all jeer, out the door he goes,
Here’s a hint! his name starts with an O-!
Say it with me now, it’s Owen Silver-strings!
Yes!
Owen Silver-strings!
He’s got to go!
Owen Silver-strings!
Out his ass he blows!
Owen Silver-strings!
Hey don’t ye know?
Owen Silver-strings!
He’s music’s greatest foe!
When the boo’s sound off and patrons leave,
When hearth goes cold and the casks all leak,
You can bet one thing, one thing for sure,
It’s Owen Silver-strings darkening your door!
The self-deprecating humor and the jaunty tune continued for another minute or two, during which everyone had a few laughs at their foolish bard’s expense. Owen was used to people laughing as much at him as with him, but it still felt good to bring cheer to all the tired faces around him.
As the night pressed on, one-by-one the party bid their good-nights and settled in for sleep. By midnight, only Owen and T’lia remained awake. The bard had taken his spot near the edge of the camp, and contented himself by watching and listening to the storm.
“That was a very nasty song you sung about yourself,” said T’lia, carefully making her way to sit next to him.
Owen shrugged. “It’s just a song.”
“Did someone really write that about you?”
“Of course not, you think any rival bard had the nerves of steel required to mock the greatest minstrel in Celym? I made it up on the spot.”
T’lia leaned back in shock.
“On the spot? Just like that?”
“I told you. A bard must always have a twinkle in their eye, a song in their heart, and a trick up their sleeve. It’s the only way to make it in a profession like mine.”
“I suppose.”
“Shall I give you a bit of bard-ly wisdom, lady Elisar?”
She nodded. “Please.”
“No one lives forever, so don’t take life too seriously. It’s a game we’re all destined to lose in the end, so you may as well find what makes you laugh, and laugh at it, even if that thing is yourself from time to time. And if it makes other people laugh as well? All the better. I’m a damn fool, I know it, but being a damn fool is great fun, and if I’m lucky enough to die a fool, then I can die smiling. That’s the best way to live, I think.”
T’lia looked at Owen, and for a few moments her expression was one of genuine admiration.
“Well, you’re the wisest fool I’ve ever met.”
“I’m a man of great contradiction. You should rest, my lad. The Greywald Mountains are still a ways off; it’s a long march to Irongate.”
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