IV. Tales from the Shadowlands....

[Headshot]

Part 1 – The White Tower

Rufus strode along the dimly lit parapet. The night was cold about him. It had been drizzling for most of the day, and the air was still thick with moisture. And it was awash in the scents of moist earth and vegetation. The parapet skirted the edge of the First Tier: the ‘Garden Tier’. On one side of the parapet was a drop into darkness; hundreds of feet to the land below. But on the other side, just a short drop below him was the carefully maintained gardens of the alchemists, and the air was a tangle of smells from it: damp manure mixed with the fragrances of exotic plants brought back from the four corners of terra. Some of these plants were found nowhere else, the last of vanishing species. For this was the White Tower of Hoeth, the most ancient repository of knowledge known to Elf or Man. Buried within the heart of the hidden country of Ulthuan, it was the source of secrets, the font of wizardly power, and the seat of learning for the country of the ‘High Elves’.

Still, rare the plants may be, they still stunk, Rufus thought, and clutched his robes about him more tightly as he hurried, trying vainly to turn back the chill and moisture.

The ‘High Elves’…. He knew that was what the other races called them. The men. The goblinkin. The dwarfs. But he didn’t feel very lofty right then. Just cold. And irritated. He was tired he knew. With his free hand he rubbed at his face and eyes. He had spent much of yesterday and the day before with the Watch, which offered little time to rest. Just thinking about those exhausting hours standing upon the parapets of the Tower filled his limbs with a bone-chilling weariness. Even now, a short distance away he could see others in the same predicament: members of a Watch patrol, clustered about a magical silver-white orb that cast dim light. A handful of Levy, and a sole Swordmaster, the elite guard and military arm of the magelords of the tower, stood stolidly together, all of them with their eyes fixed upon the earth below the Tower, and the woodlands that surrounded it. In the dimness Rufus could just barely make out more of the silver-white orbs scattered amongst the trees; placed there by the wizard masters of Hoeth. They created a play of light and shadow among the trees.

And amidst that gloom the watchers’ weary eyes searched for the nightstalkers. The enemies from the North had grown bold, and had been known to alight even in Saphery, the once inviolate inner kingdom of Ulthuan. Born upon wings of ebony and leather, they would set down in the wild spots of the country and wait. Biding their time for ambush and terror.

Ulthuan was a country at war. Had been for as long as Rufus had been alive. And more and more the resources of the Tower had been called upon to serve in the armies of the Regent. Worse, the once crowded classrooms and dormitory halls were beginning to empty. The Tower was slowly - inexorably it seemed - emptying of life. The silver that once flowed to its coffers was drying up, and with it the new blood seeking wisdom and learning.

The thought made Rufus grimace. He clutched a folio of papers more closely to his chest. As few as the elves of the Tower now were, there were many that did not think he belonged there. And today…. today made him agree with them.

His grimace deepened as he passed through the Tier’s gate and into the interior of the Tower. Beyond lay the Great Hall: a vast chamber that stretched the girth of the massive alabaster structure, so vast that even under the blazing light of day one could barely see the far side of the space. Now it was the witching hour, and the room was like a starry night: a darkness that was only penetrated here and there by flickering lights. White and silver magelight, mingled with the sputtering crimson of the more mundane variety.

Despite the hour the room was not completely abandoned. Among the lights in ones, twos or threes, sat hunched groups of students, staring at tomes, or in huddled conversation. Once or twice Rufus could hear the sound of soft laughter. That was the way of things. Even in these trying times students still found mirth and levity. And why shouldn’t we? Rufus pondered. It was all we know, this war. Peace was the fantasy. A story from the elders.

His eyes wandered over to one of the larger groups of students, mostly young elf maidens, clustered about Trian. Of course, he moaned inside.

Trian was older than he, by nearly a century. A senior student who was finishing a thesis on some sort of metaphysical problem. All of the teachers seemed to love it, and him. And worse than that, he was a tall and handsome lord from Chrace, the wild highlands of the north of Ulthuan. (Even now he wore a rugged northern shoulder cape, trimmed in white fur, to ward off the evening’s chill.) And though unlike most of his fair countrymen, his long braided hair was a deep ebony in color, he shared the athleticism and broad-shouldered power of the highlanders. He was a star of the Tower: a champion not only in his magical studies but an outstanding pupil in the Swordmaster gymnasium.

It was all so galling, Rufus thought, as one of the lord’s admirers ran her fingers along the young elf’s cape. He was tall and strong. Rufus was reed thin and weak. True he had the white blonde hair of his mother’s people in Saphery; but his hair was always a tangle, and he was forever brushing it out of his eyes. And it was just as likely to have chalk dust or charcoal pieces stuck in it, as not.

Sigh. And worse, he hadn’t an ounce of magical talent. The one thing that Saphery was famous for, and the gift had completely skipped him. It must have been a surprise to his mother. And he suspected, a disappointment. Though she never said so. Still for a magelord of the Tower to have an offspring with no magical ability whatsoever….

He sought stimulus outside himself to thwart the sour turn of his thoughts. And as was his custom his eyes wandered over to the north wall of the Hall. There, bathed in magical amber light, were the banners of the lords of Ulthuan. The heraldry of the mighty Ulthuan nation on display, kept from the Beginning, the very dawn of the country out of the mists of myth and legends, the banners themselves were guarded and passed down within the Tower, as a record, a testament, a memento…. So that… it wouldn’t be forgotten.

But what wouldn’t be forgotten?? He pondered. Every new student had the history drilled into them upon arrival at the Tower. It was one of the easy parts of the yearly exams, the essay on the banners. Every year, halls full of eager young elves would scribble platitudes about the banners as testaments, and ‘never forgetting’. And yet now that he thought about it – not for the first time – he wasn’t sure what they, or he, had been talking about.

His eyes scanned along the wall once more. There he could see the Dragon iconography of the Thirteen Lords of Caledor, the burning mountain lands of the South, where the great wyrms slept until one of the Old Lords called them forth to battle. And next to them the horse-banners of the Riders of Ellyrion; a full score in all, one for each of the original camps of that nomadic people, now the Great Houses of that kingdom.

But those things were just details. What really drew his eyes was the beyond. The blank spot. The empty space amongst the banners. There the wall was bare, unadorned; just plaster and mortar, shocking in its banality. No banner hung there. And yet… the space of it was such that there seemed to have been room for one once. On either side were banners from the lords of Ulthuan’s kingdoms. Why that one place along the row should be bare, he could never fathom.

His feet carried him towards that spot on their own volition. He really should return to his little chamber and study the folios. But, maybe just a few minutes.

His unsteady gait brought him around the headmaster’s busts. Another grueling exercise in memorization for all the incoming students. Near the banners ran a row of stone depictions of all the high lord’s of the Tower dating back to its founding. Mighty names like Caledor the First, or Anurion the Green; elder elves carved in white marble, seeming for no other purpose than to intimidate the first years. Distracted again, Rufus drifted towards the end of the line. The blank space on the wall was just beyond that. But before he reached that point sat the bust of the last High Lord of the Tower, Teclis the Infirm. The emaciated visage of the magelord stared out into the dark chamber in inscrutable stone.

Another enigma. In Rufus’ childhood the mighty sorcerer had vanished. Gone from his home and chambers without a note, or any sign. He had simply disappeared with no trace of his circumstances, or intentions, whether good or ill. It had caused a great ruckus in the Tower. Faculty and lords arguing about whether the mighty wizard was truly gone, or simply visiting another plane of existence. But the uncertainty of the situation had meant paralysis within the institution. No one wanted to lay claim to the mantle of the great lord Teclis; he who had once stared down the Witch King of the North. And so, for some decades now the Tower had only an ‘acting headmaster’; a dutiful steward occupying the administration of the school’s affairs, all the while waiting for the return of the dread wizard lord, and his assumption of his rightful role.

And then Rufus tripped! Just like that he went careening forward as his feet fled from under him. He sprawled with his arms windmilling around him as he went face first into the stone headmaster. The plinth wobbled under the shock of his shoulder, and for a moment Rufus thought everything was alright; he wasn’t a very large elf after all. And then he heard the teeth-gritting crash of bust upon stone floor, and he knew he was in trouble.

Looking up he could see Trian’s table staring over at him. The girls were covering their mouths; some in shock, others laughing. The young lord’s compatriots were outright pointing and guffawing at Rufus’ prone form. But worst of all was the Chracian lord himself: eyes fixed upon Rufus, he shook his head in disgust.

***

[Elithmar]

Good to see you back, as ever.

The description at the start was very nicely done.

Could the gap be for Nagarythe? Not many people seem to like them these days. ^_^ Or in the future, where this would appear to be set...

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I didn't believe Cal, when he said even you were back. I hate it when Caledorians are right...

[Headshot]

The Chair recognizes the Gentlemen from Oz and Old York,

Yeah, I've been swamped for the past six months or so, but I have peeked into the forum a few times. Rod and Archer seem to be keeping everyone under control, and things appear to be more robust than ever. Especially here in the story section! Wow. I remember when I first came here there was nothing but spam and tumbleweeds! With only slight exaggeration. Still its amazing to see so many new people writing down their stories nowadays.

Anyways, sorry for the absence. Doctorate in hand, and no classes to teach for a couple of weeks, I felt the siren call to tell another story of misfits and intrigue!

Or in the future, where this would appear to be set...

Yes indeed this is the future. Call it an 'alternative history'. (Alternative future??) To GW canon. A kinda, 'what would Ulthuan be like if....' Still a lot of familiar faces will be popping up in the pages to come. Stay tuned!

headshot

[Prince of Spires]

I was already keeping an eye out for you here, after I saw you appear in other parts of the forum. Yes, the colonials still have everything under control (with some help from SA).

Congrats on the doctorate. What did you get it in?

Intriguing start. Curious to see where it is headed.

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

The Banners of famous houses are kept in the White Tower? Hhmm...
Teclis is missing, and what is Rufus doing in the tower if he can't use magic?
Have the Druchii invaded again?

[Aicanor]

...what is Rufus doing in the tower if he can't use magic?

He's going to find out where the missing banners are. At least that is my guess.

Now I know Christmas are here, Headshot! As always, it was a delight to read this. And of course, congratulations.

[Headshot]

The Chair recognizes the Colonial with dragon dung on his boots,

Hah, Rod! If you've been watching these pages for my return for even a few days, you knew before me! I thought I was done with the stories, and happy to leave my characters where they were at. And then this one popped into my head, making completely unreasonable demands upon my time. That and I have a little vacation time now, and the thought of all those afternoons at home.... Well, you know!

Ten years in the making, it's a doctorate of philosophy in philosophy (of a sort). Which seems totally redundant to me. (PM me if you want the details; I have to play coy here out of fear that some of my students might actually frequent these boards.) But yes, its official, you can call me Dr. Headshot now if you feel like it.

And to the lovely lady from Saphery,

Thank you! It's good to be back.

Headshot

[Elithmar]

Dr Headshot,

How can a chair recognise anything? It's an inanimate object!

Of course you wrote 'Chair', so it must be different.

EDIT: And I'm not from York, just Yorkshire!

[Headshot]

Part 2 – The Two Offices

“What am I going to do with you, Rufolius?”

Rufus winced inwardly at the use of his full name, though he was careful to keep his expression blank and his eyes fixed sheepishly on his toes. He had turned one hundred and one this spring – the mark of adulthood! – and yet every time he was in Master Falin’s office he felt like he was still in his nineties.

It didn’t help that Loremaster Falin was a hawk-nosed, ice-eyed windwalker from Tiranoc. There was a severity to the man that was palpable. As if the merest glimmer of a smile would completely shatter his visage and rain tiny pieces of the elder elf onto the floor.

That thought was actually quite graphic, and paused Rufus’ mental meanderings for a moment.

But Master Falin was obviously waiting for a response, so Rufus cleared his throat and mumbled, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Falin’s scowl only deepened. Being waken in the middle of the morning dark to deal with a clumsy apprentice appeared to do nothing to arouse charity in his breast.

“That is not acceptable,” the wizard snarled. He scowled a few more moments in silence, then sighed and asked. “What were you doing in the Great Hall at that hour anyways?”

Rufus wondered if he should tell the old wizard that he was making a secret midnight rendezvous with a young maiden. If nothing else, the shock might turn the master’s mood. But then again, who was he kidding? The chance of a midnight tryst involving him was as likely as snow on the Anvil of Vaul.

“I was getting readings from the alchemist’s annex,” he answered truthfully.

Master Falin’s scowl seemed to find new craggy depths in his face. “What is it this time? Curatives?”

“Ah, no, sir. Ummmm, law. On the King’s decrees to preserve the forests,” Rufus stumbled out.

“Law?” Falin raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Now you are studying law?” He gave a shake of his head. “How many is that now, Rufolius? What was it first? History? And then there was ‘human literature’. And after that weren’t there two semesters in ‘Lothernian contemporary theater’??”

Rufus flushed. It was true. He had changed his studies more times than he cared to admit in his decade-long apprenticeship at the Tower. It was just that… he would get bored. Not that he was a particularly apt student in any of the things he studied. He would begin with earnest, reading and reading. But then, invariably, his eyes would grow heavy, the class lectures would sound dull and leaden to his ears, and he would begin to wonder if that was all there was. To learning. To living. To being an Asur. And so he would…change. And try something new.

He felt ashamed now. All the other students had settled into something. Usually one of the wind’s of magic at this point, to specialize their training into mastery of the associated school. But even most of the non-magical students had found something to study. Geometry. Geography. Navigation. Something! But not him.

Twice he had thought to leave the Tower and seek his life outside its heavily guarded confines. But he knew that that would break his mother’s heart. And truth be told… he was a little afraid too. He didn’t know the world beyond the Tower; having spent the entirety of his childhood either within it, or in the family cottage that lay within its shadow. Leaving that would be….

He swallowed. “Yes sir,” he said, just to say something.

Falin was shaking his head. “Why law now? Whatever for? The country is at war child! We don’t need lawyers! We need soldiers and sailors!” He looked like he was about to add ‘and mages’ but bit the words after seeing who sat in front of him. Slowly with a heat in his voice, Falin continued. “You are an adult now, Rufolius. Or soon should be. It is time you learned to serve your King.”

Rufus almost spat out ‘what King’ but that would have him banished to Asuryan knows what awful place. Instead he quickly interjected, “But I do want to serve sir. I thought I could study law, and then apply to take the Warden training. They need a knowledge of law to do their duty!”

Falin inhaled sharply. “They also need a knowledge of swordplay and woodcraft as well. None of which you have shown any aptitude for, Rufolius! History, navigation, astronomy and star lore. There are many requirements for a Warden.” He shook his head again. “But that point is moot. We are talking about service. The laws are enforced by the Guard now. The Warden’s are a dying breed from a different age. You must focus on the practical!”

Which meant what? Rufus pondered inside. Having shown no aptitude for sword or spell, what service could he render to the Regent? It was true that he had received the training in the Levy that all of Ulthuan’s young males received: basic skills in spear and bow. And he was a halfway decent shot with the short bow favored by the mariners. (Though the longbow proved too much for his scrawny shoulders.) But still nothing that would allow him to be anything more than a body in the line.

And some part of him whispered, but isn’t that enough? But his heart and mind balked at that. He just wanted….wanted to find something that he was good at. That he was meant to do.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Falin said in a cold voice. “These things are now out of my hands, Rufolius.” Looking gravely at the young elf, the master intoned, “In the morning you are to report to the headmasters office. He will decide what to do with you.”

And the world seemed to fall out from under Rufus’ feet.

***

He was somewhere in the lofty cloud climes of the White Tower. A place Rufus had only the dimmest of memories. As a child climbing up long flights of steps, with skinned knees, but a smile on his face. He remembered once spying old Teclis working a spell in one of the master’s libraries. Occasionally he had played hide and seek here among the marble columns while he waited for his mother to finish a meeting. Those were happy memories, if distant.

Today, the white marble corridors were deserted of all but a few silent Swordmaster sentries. The air was still. And open. On both sides the corridor opened out onto vast balconies flooded with grey morning light. One side was blanketed with mist, as a slow rain-laden cloud drifted sluggishly past the Tower face.

At the end of the hall were the doors of the acting Headmaster’s office. White trees were etched in crystal upon the silver surfaces. Rufus reached the doorknockers, and…hesitated. He didn’t know what to do. He had thought to look for his mother. But no. That was pathetic. He would face this on his own. No matter the punishment.

Sigh. Maybe it is for the best. Maybe they’ll expel me. And the thought, as terrifying as it was, filled him with the calm of finality. At least it would be over.

He knocked. The door swung inward smoothly at the second rapping. Rufus hesitated once more, and then stepped into the room. He was immediately assaulted by the scent of pine: much of the office was filled with pots from which a strange, golden-limbed pine tree grew, making the room a tangle of glittering needles. Weaving his way through the nettles he saw a desk and made his way towards it.

And there was the headmaster: Tiralya the Wise, of Yvresse. If anything his nose was more beakish than Falin’s. But that was where the similarities ended. Tiralya was ancient. Truly ancient. Many said his birth was long ago in the second age. Some even older than that. But as an Asur he carried his years unlike the quickly decaying mortal races, his skin was smooth as alabaster, with a luster to match. As if he was actually carved from the stone. And his long silver hair hung with each thread perfectly in place. The pupils and irises of his eyes had long ago faded into the white sclera, leaving nothing but two almond shaped ivory orbs in his face.

He looked alien to the young elf, despite the fact that Rufus had been familiar with him for his entire life. At least he had seen him at the year-end dinners in the Great Hall. Now standing in front of him the boy couldn’t help but marvel at the passing of the years, and wondered what he would be like at a thousand. Or two thousand. Would he be the same person? Could he be?!

Would he even want to be?

His thoughts all a jumble, Rufus stood and pondered in front of the headmaster. And Tiralya merely sat at his desk, with a small smile carved upon his alabaster features, as he fiddled with a small bronze kettle to one side.

“Tea?” the ancient headmaster queried.

Rufus started out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“It’s made from a leaf of the Lost Colonies,” the headmaster explained, his face scarcely changing its appearance as he spoke. As if the words emerged more from thought than throat. “I still manage to keep a few stored away somewhere.”

“Ummmm. Thank you.” Rufus stood awkwardly shifting weight from foot to foot, until the headmaster inclined his head to the chair in front of him. The young elf took a seat. The headmaster carefully poured a small dollop from the kettle into a porcelain cup, and then just as carefully placed the cup on saucer in front of the boy. Then the headmaster, his own cup in hand, turned his chair and faced a nearby window. To that side of the Tower the morning sky seemed warm and clear, and a soft glow seeped into the room.

Rufus waited. And waited. The old elf simply continued to stare out the window, and the longer he did so the more statuesque he seemed. And then he would take a sip from his cup and the movement would seem startling. Rufus stomach squirmed, as he tried to think what to say.

But as the minutes lengthened and it was clear that the headmaster was not going to say anything first, Rufus’ attention wandered. It was his first time here in this office. And it was filled with marvels. The golden pines for one. How could a tree, so like the pines of the northern highlands, be completely covered in shiny gold needles? And over there, next to a small fireplace, a stone with the imprint of a great eagle claw upon it. Those were creatures of legend now. The elders said they were seen scarce a century before, but no one had sighted one in his lifetime. And past that…maps! Oh how, Rufus loved maps. The way the lines squiggled and squirmed. And how they called up sea upon shore, mountain upon heath, with just a twist and a turn! And yet these maps were of places Rufus had never heard of! He did not recognize their contours or cities. Could they be…?

And over there, along one shelf, along a wall crowded with shelves upon shelves of books, he saw a small leather-bound tome, that somehow amongst all those innumerable books managed to stand out by its sheer inauspiciousness. How it was carefully laid upon its side instead of standing among its fellows. How it was tied by a bit of straw and string. It was too unadorned to be amongst the gold lettered tomes surrounding it.

“My journal,” Tiralya said, his pleasant face broadening with a larger smile. “There once was a time when the apprentices of the Tower were sent in their final year to serve in the armies of Ulthuan,” he explained. “Just a year of service until we would go our own way. Not like nowadays…. But I kept that journal over my year. And still revisit it from time to time. I like to remember… Of course, this was a very long time ago you would understand, and my memory is not what it once was,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

With his words the floodgates broke in Rufus chest. “I’m sorry, sir,” he gasped out. “I didn’t mean to damage the stone bust. It was an accident. Really!”

“We don’t need to talk about the real, Rufus,” Tiralya answered with the same benign expression. “I’m more interested in what brought you to Master Teclis in the first place. It couldn’t have been out of admiration for his visage. Even with all his magical ‘touch ups’, the young headmaster was quite an ugly elf.”

It was so unexpected a response that Rufus just stared for a long moment. What had Tiralya asked? Why come there?

“I was getting some writings from the annex…”

“So Master Falin informed me. But the headmasters’ busts are quite a ways away from either the annex or the dormitories.” Still that smile.

“I…” Rufus frowned. “I…” He thought long and hard about his footsteps. And then blurted out, “Why is that one spot bare among the wall of banners?”

Silence fell between them, and old Tiralya held his gaze for at least a half a minute. Rufus began to feel a cold sweat at the small of his back.

“Ah. That.” The headmaster finally said. He refilled their teacups, and began to sip again. As the seconds lengthened once more, Rufus began to think what an unfair conversation this was: all questions and no answers. Then finally, the ancient elf put the cup down and said:

“What do you know of Nagarythe?”

Rufus frowned at the second change in the conversation. Feeling a bit resentful, he still tried to harness his thoughts and answer.

“Ummmm….it was one of the ancient kingdoms. The traitor kingdom. Wasn’t it?”

“It was much more than that,” Tiralya answered with a sad expression. “Though I am not surprised by your ignorance. What with the history that is taught these days.”

Feeling slightly abashed, Rufus added. “It’s nothing but the Shadowlands nowadays.”

Tiralya nodded. “Yes it has been called the Shadowlands since the Sundering.”

Still frowning, Rufus asked, “But what does that have to do with the wall?” He thought some more. “Is the missing banner ancient Nagarythe?”

“Now that, that is not a question that can be easily answered,” Tiralya answered thoughtfully. “In fact, I don’t know if anyone knows the real answer.” The old elf was pensive now, drumming his fingers upon his desk as he thought. His eyes were fixed upon the wood, and it was clear to the boy that the loremaster was lost in some distant memories. Once more a silence fell that lengthened into minutes.

Then suddenly, the ancient wizard looked up, cheerful again. “Yes I do think that that is more than an answer.”

He looked at the boy as if waiting for something. Rufus frowned. “More than an answer?” he asked.

“Why yes. Things aren’t all answers and questions. Otherwise we would all be quite wasting our time here. No, that spot upon the wall is something else.”

“Something else?” Rufus gamely tried to keep up his end of the conversation.

“Yes!” A smile from the elder mage. “It calls for something else! Investigation. Inquiry! Field work!!”

“Field work?” Rufus blanched.

“Yes field work! The panacea for all of our books! It is the only way to find the meaning to your question, my boy!”

“That is,” the headmaster continued with a sly expression, “If you care to find the meaning at all.”

“I…” Rufus stammered. “I, I don’t know. Where would I even start?”

“Why Lothern, of course. At the Council Chamber of Princes! I can at least point you in the right direction,” Tiralya answered. “But the rest. The rest would be up to you. You will have to transform yourself into the most stalwart of bloodhounds! A tracker of no equal! To ferret out the light amongst this darkness. If any answer is to be found it is surely out there,” the ancient elf waved towards the window.

Rufus began to wonder at the headmaster’s sanity. Alone in this tall tower. Perhaps he had just…lost it.

Yet it didn’t seem he was being punished.

Or was he?!

Still what choice did he have? And the old master did seem enthused….

“When do I leave?” Rufus asked.

***

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

He is given his Quest, it was good to here from Tiralya, he is ancient now, so this must be set pretty far in the future. Makes me wonder what has happened to everyone else, and Ulthuan too.

[Malossar]

Excellent work as always Headshot! Its good to have you back writing!

I'm anxious to see how the story plays out in our post-apocalyptic ulthuan society!

Cal(or is it Mal?)

[Elithmar]

Have the Druchii invaded again? Like after the Sundering when the Druchii were still on Ulthuan too and there was constant warfare all through the reign of Caledor I. It will be interesting to find out.

I like Tiralya. He reminds me of a teacher from last year - he made us find things out for ourselves, instead of teaching us sometimes. Actually. I've never been able to work out if he actually thought we would learn better or if he as just lazy. Anyway, it helped me even if it didn't help the lazy ones in the class.

I should stop rambling now.

[Prince of Spires]

“It’s made from a leaf of the Lost Colonies,”

Lost colonies? My beautifull beaches. My cookies. My elf maidens...

As always, you paint a great picture. I love the atmosphere you create Keep it comming.

Hah, Rod! If you've been watching these pages for my return for even a few days, you knew before me! I thought I was done with the stories, and happy to leave my characters where they were at.

Of course, you should realise that you don't realy have a say in these matters. It's more to do with if the stories characters are done with you

Rod

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Exactly, you don't realise this yet, but your spare time exists to share your characters' stories...

[Headshot]

Hey Cal,

Don't worry everyone's (least!) favorite Caledorian is coming up!

Lost colonies? My beautifull beaches. My cookies. My elf maidens...

And don't worry about this either. We are far from done with those tropical elves. Mwahahaha!

Exactly, you don't realise this yet, but your spare time exists to share your characters' stories...

Sad, but true. I'm starting to feel the slave to those tyrannical elves! Any time I think, 'I'll just lie down on the couch, enjoy a book or some TV'. No! Those elves say, 'there are stories to write!'

[Elithmar]

You are their biographer, what do you expect?!

[Headshot]

Part 3 – The Sea of Dreams

A few days later Rufus found himself bouncing along in the back of a wagon under the midmorning sky. The road to the port town of Elith wasn’t far, and at one time had been well paved, but the years had seen decay set in: many of the road’s cobbles were cracked or missing, being used by the locals for hasty patches on house or barn, or even material for walls and bulwarks. That, and south Saphery’s infamous rainy season, meant that Rufus’ backside was paying the price as the wagon wheels seemed to find every divot or dimple in the road, and then send him shooting six inches upwards, and then crashing down on his tailbone.

He wasn’t alone at least. Sitting beside the driver was one young member of the Levy, clutching the wagon seat in one hand, and his spear in the other. Less than a league between Tower and Eltih, and still a guard was needed. The pastures and farmlands beyond the Tower gardens had been known to be attacked, so every passing wagon carried an escort. It was a grim reminder of the times. As if one was needed.

And in the back of the wagon sat two other students, both maidens in the robes of apprentices. Yet one looked miserable, the other, miraculously, slept, so Rufus kept to himself, trying to find his balance while desperately clutching to his staff.

It wasn’t a real staff, of course. Those were only given to apprentices on completion of their examinations. And it hardly qualified to be a staff in shape either: being just a piece of unadorned wood that barely came up to his shoulder. It was more like a glorified walking stick. Still his mother had given it to him that morning, and so he kept it close.

Strange. He had expected more fire from her. At least a shouting match or two; she certainly hadn’t shied away from letting him know her opinion in the past. Still when he had informed her of the headmaster’s decision she had stormed off to Tiralya’s office in a huff (and he didn’t envy the ancient elf lord one bit at that!), but the next time he had seen her she had seemed uncharacteristically resigned. Softened somehow. She had talked to him of everything but his trip. And then that morning, in the predawn light, she had left the Tower where she would undoubtedly be preparing to teach her morning classes, and had come outside to the foot of the stairs to give him a fierce hug, a new cloak, and the staff.

“It’s enchanted,” she had said. “Tap it thrice on the ground and it will give a light. Just…just in case you need it.” And then she had turned around, and walked swiftly back up the steps, not looking back.

It felt so strange. To see her departing like that, with nothing to say, or nothing to show. Watching her go like that, Rufus found it hard to remember her at all. Despite her being his constant companion throughout his life! It was like she was fading into oblivion as she climbed those steps. And he forced himself to remember her: the short golden hair, and sky blue eyes. A face crisscrossed with fine white scars. He had seen it almost every day of his life. Why did it now seem so alien?

Strange now. To think of those scars. He had never asked his mother where they came from. They had always been there. And it wasn’t unusual for the elders to bare the scars of battle. Many, if not most, did. So they were just familiar to him.

But now they seemed to be fading into memory.

The wagon reached the outskirts of Elith, and he drew his attention back to his surroundings. He had been here many times. It was the only town of note within a day’s journey of the Tower, and so had comprised the totality of his world beyond the Tower and its enchanted gardens and forests. Still, he had heard older student’s dismiss and lament the town. It was only a village they said; with nary two-dozen buildings to boast of, the town purely existed to serve the whim of the Tower. And as such, it existed really for the row of docks jutting out into the Sea of Dreams, and the trade in goods and people from the other kingdoms that the Tower still demanded. So apparently nothing special to the more worldly students from further afield. But for a young boy who had never been further, it seemed a metropolis. The warehouses, full of silks and cottons! The sailors, speaking all manner of the Asur tongue, some in dialects so thick he hadn’t a clue what they were saying! And then there was the lone tavern. A tall peaked building built in what one boy had told him was the ‘Cothique style’ (though he wasn’t sure what that meant), the building was called ‘The Lost Swan’, and in it Rufus had enjoyed warm cider on his rare free day on more than one occasion.

That thought motivated him to get out of the wagon when it shuddered to a halt. Maybe there would be time for one last sip before he found his vessel? Still as he politely waited for the two maidens to organize themselves and get off first, he saw out of the crowd of porters and sailors, Trian emerge, striding up to the wagon with purpose. The senior student was still dressed in robes of the Tower, yet over the robes he now wore a shirt of fine silver chain, and the round shield of the Northern highlands was strapped to his back, with a handaxe at his waist. That and the flowing cape of brown fur hung about his neck made him look more…Chracian!... than ever. He strode up to the young boy and girls and said simply:

“I am in charge. Follow me.” And then turned and strode determinedly through the crowds towards the dock.

So much for the cider, Rufus lamented, and then making sure his staff was still in hand, and his satchel with his few sundries was out of the cart, (He checked. And yes, he had forgotten it when he first got out.) turned to follow with the two girls leading.

At the head of the docks Trian led them to, a Guard stood, and Rufus felt a shiver go down his spine. The Guard was dressed in the full regalia of his office: the laminated white armor and crested helm, with the long scarlet cape depicting the Flames of the Asuryan. They were a silent, monastic order, who until a century before were scarce seen outside of the Shrine of Asuryan, the sacred isle dedicated to the most holy of holies. Then they had been only known to appear on a few scattered battlefields, in service to the Lords of Ulthuan, and as the most fearsome defenders of the Shrine itself. It was said that once an elf joined the Guard he went through a secret initiation, in which he bore witness to the Flame itself. Legend said the experience struck the elf dumb with visions of past and future; the terrible knowledge of what was combined with what will be, more than even Asur speech could bare.

But since the Regency they had become something more. Leaving the shrine in small numbers they had scattered about the southern lands as eyes and ears to the Phoenix. And enforcers. Theirs was the right and warrant to come into an elf’s home and accuse with eye and gesture. Always in silence. The terror of it: to have one of them come to your house, their fell eyes and terrifying visage beaming a guilt into your heart. For how could you not be guilty? They knew all that was and what would be! If you claimed your innocence, could it not be that the crime had not yet been committed? That the Guard in seeing what was to pass saw the stain of sins yet to be? And in the horror of the ongoing war the Regency clung to these enforcers, making sure that the people were well patrolled, and well watched.

Rufus had learned all this as he turned to law studies over the past year. Before the war, in the time of the past, the accused were brought by Wardens before the Lord’s council, there to have the Wardens and Seekers present the ‘truth, as best was known’, alongside the testimony of the peers of the castle or village, unto the council for a verdict to be reached. He knew it wasn’t a perfect system, but it was an ancient one, passed down in the kingdoms from a time from before Aenarion.

The War. The Regency. The Guard. Saw the end to that.

Knowing all this, and filled with the supernatural fear of the silent warrior, Rufus was careful to leave as much space as possible between him and the waiting watcher. Even Trian seemed to shy to one side as he made his way to the docks and the waiting ships beyond. They passed the sentinel with no incident (though Rufus was careful not to look in his face). And made to a ship at the end of the dock.

“The Sunrunner,” Trian explained. “She will carry us to Lothern.”

The others made their way up the gangplank without comment. Rufus hesitated. The thought struck him that as he set foot upon the plank that this was the furthest he had ever been in his life! To step foot upon the boat was to expand his horizons, to go further than he had ever been before. He wanted it. But in a mix of anxiety and excitement, he savored the moment.

Until Trian glared at him. Then he hurried onboard with the rest.

***

The Sunrunner was not much of a vessel really. A simple two-masted schooner with only space for a few at either end of deck. Still it was Rufus’ first time on anything larger than a rowboat, and he was surprisingly, enjoying it immensely. He had been afraid of sea sickness; having heard all about it from people at the Tower. But the first few hours out from Elith showed the going to be remarkably smooth and easy. That was mainly due to the glass-like quality of the Sea of Dreams.

The Sea of Dreams! How it had captivated him throughout his life! All those nights wandering up to the observatories in the upper reaches of the Tower, supposedly to study star alignments, but instead his eyes had ever wandered to the green and blue glow of the nearby sea. The instructors sometimes called it ‘sea luminescence’ and explained it had something to do with the tiny faeries that dwelt within. He knew nothing of that. All he did know was at night the sea would glow in a kaleidoscope of hues, ranging from deep mauve to cobalt blue. And never the same way twice! The patterns were always changing, always shifting from night to night, season to season. Travelers said that there was nowhere else upon terra to compare with it; only the skies before the northern Chaos Wastes even came close, one of his teachers had said. It was a marvel of the world.

Though during the day as the Sunrunner glided across its face, it remained just a deep azure blue, as placid as a pond, except in the white froth of their ship’s wake. Rufus found himself waiting on deck for the coming of the night. It was particularly cold up there; winter was soon approaching, and the breeze across the ocean came from the north and carried a sharp bitterness with it. Still below decks was the single woodstove with Trian and his glower, so Rufus waited all afternoon up above. Watching the water, the sea birds, and trying to delve its crystal depths for any of the life forms he had read about. The white whales, that were so rare that the sighting of one was once a century event. Or the golden eels; long enough to wrap themselves twice around a ship of the fleet. They supposedly glowed with their own light, that when made fierce could become painful and deadly in its intensity. Or the skyfish. Crystal like transparent fish that would come to the surface, and fly up to the clouds overhead, kissing the freshwater rain from the passing storms.

He saw none of this. The water was clear as ever, but empty. After a while he grew weary of scanning the depths and seeing only murk or sand, and instead passed his time tapping his staff to light. Then tapping it again to darkness.

Some time had passed as he idled doing that when he heard a woman’s voice say, “That is a nice enchantment. Did you do it?”

Rufus started and turned about. It was the maiden from the cart; the one who had been sleeping. She was studying his staff with curiosity, while rubbing at the back of her neck.

“Ah, hum. No,” Rufus admitted, trying to think what more to say.

“Wait. I’ve seen you around the tower. Of course. You are not an apprentice,” she said as she looked at him with bright silver eyes. “Your mother is….”

“Yes,” Rufus quickly agreed. He didn’t need to hear any more. He turned his attention back to the water, and trying to plumb its depths.

To his surprise the girl came and sat down beside him. They were quiet for a few long minutes. Rufus felt this was the closest he had ever sat next to a girl! And a senior apprentice at that. (Not counting that one time in the annex when seats were all taken for the visiting lecture. Then one senior girl had sat down so close to him, their thighs almost touched. He could smell the girl’s hair as it fell across his shoulder. He couldn’t remember anything from the lecture….) But this was different. There were other spaces on the deck, and the girl had actually decided to sit down with him!

Why? He tried to think of a reason. Then he tried to think of something to say. Neither came to him. So he just tried to sit very still, so as not to disturb the situation.

The sun was setting, and the sky was deepening into a burnished ochre. Suddenly the girl pointed upwards.

“You see that? That smudge upon the horizon?”

Rufus could barely make out what she was pointing at: a darkness along the line where sea and sky met. Like a shadow of stormclouds in the distance, except the dark did not move. “What is it?” he asked.

“The Isle of the Dead. The Vortex,” the girl answered. “Or what’s left of it. The abyss where all the excess magic of the world is drained away so that Chaos will not absorb this realm into its own. Well, at least that’s what most say. Trian doesn’t agree.” She shrugged. “Anyways, it is ancient magic.”

Rufus had read about it of course. He knew the stories by heart now. How that First Council had formed and sacrificed themselves to save Ulthuan, and all the world, from the Four Powers. It was one of those lessons that was repeated over and over at the Tower, and throughout the country. One of those most fundamental to learning about what it meant to be an Asur.

“Trian doesn’t agree?” The thought suddenly struck him.

“No, his thesis is on something related to that and the White Wind. I don’t understand it. You’ll have to ask him about it.” The girl finished with another shrug, and turned back to gaze at the far darkness. A minute passed.

“You know….” she said at last. “I always thought that the end of the world would come suddenly. A bright flash of flame and light. Something that would be quick, like lightning. And then over. That the End would be, and you would see it. And then it would be over.” She continued to stare out across the sea as she spoke. “I never thought that it would…linger. Like the death of an ancient. Just dying a bit at a time. Spots wilting….”

“I don’t understand,” Rufus answered after a moment.

“You don’t?” she looked at him. “You haven’t heard about the emptying of the land? There are places in the North that are barren now, where once Asur thrived. Wilderness in the east, where once there were settlements. And now the enemy controls so much, and we so little. Surely this is death by degrees? Watching ourselves. The land. Its creatures, just fade away.”

“But aren’t we winning?” Rufus said with a frown.

“That’s what they tell us.” Another shrug. Silence again. Then suddenly the girl said, “Death. A few steps at a time.”

Rufus hadn’t imagined this conversation with a girl. Nothing like it! He was unsure what to say. Finally he latched onto the obvious. “I am Rufus,” he said.

“I know,” she said with a smile. Her silver white hair fell across her matching eyes, as she looked at him with a sly expression. “I am Molina.”

***

[Elithmar]

A regency and a secret police force of phoenix guards? What is this?!

If only the phoenix guards could speak, I'm sure they'd say "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!"


Interesting conversation at the end. Ulthan is slowly dying? Gulp.

Rufus reminds me of Tim, he's so awkward sometimes. ^_^

I wonder if they'll meet any of Elithmar's descendants in Lothern... ^_^

[Aicanor]

Creepy. This future certainly took a wrong turn somewhere...

And yes, the Elves are demanding whether you paint them or write about them. So many things to do and so little time.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Thought police... automatically made me remember 1984, made me shudder, and worry for Yvresse.

[Headshot]

Eerie timing Tiralya,

Yvresse comes up tomorrow.

headshot

[Larose]

Ooo neat take on future Ulthuan can't wait to read more! Welcome back headshot

[Elithmar]

It doesn't seem quite as bad a situation as in 1984, but it's getting there.

[Headshot]

Ladies and Gents of the forum,

I'll be traveling for the next little while, so I'm afraid that my attendance here will become a bit more sporadic. Still for any following these little tales of mine, I ask that you occasionally turn a watchful eye to these pages: the updates will come! I can promise you that nothing galls me quite like an incomplete story, so I will continue working. It just might take more time than usual.

Happy Holidays everyone!

Headshot

oh, and the requisite cliffhanger....

[Headshot]

Part 4 – The Sunrunner

When Rufus awoke the next morning it was dark in the little cabin he shared with Trian. He raised himself up on one elbow and peered out the tiny porthole above his bunk: outside was gray as rainclouds belched forth their contents on ship and sea. The Sea of Dreams was still smooth as glass, and as the rain fell it dappled the water like drops in a puddle. He could hear Trian talking with the sailors beyond the door in the ship’s main hold where the furnace lay. The thought of facing more of the older student’s glowering kept Rufus in bed. He pulled from his satchel one of the books he had packed – ‘Eatanian Jurisprudence – and spent the morning under the covers.

By noon, when Rufus made his way to the foredeck with his modest lunch of dried biscuits, the rain had stopped. The world was still gray though; a thick mist hovered about the top of the water, rising to half the height of the ship’s rail. And the wood, canvas, and ropework all about him was moist; he could feel the drips on the back of his neck where he sat. But Trian had come into the room and glowered, and so Rufus had fled his comfortable nook and moved to this corner on deck, out of the way of the few sailors at work. In a few minutes he was glad despite the cold and wet, as the silver haired Molina appeared on deck and drifted towards him.

“Good morning,” she greeted. “Or is it afternoon?”

Not being particularly well versed with words, or with talking with the fairer sex (besides his mother), Rufus nodded in reply. And after a moment of hesitation, offered one of his biscuits to the girl. She took it and sat down next to him. They nibbled in silence together for a minute, before Rufus felt he really should try to say something.

“I didn’t know that the headmaster had sent anyone else with me,” he said, half curious, half apologetically.

She looked at him perplexed for a moment. “Ah, no,” she answered. “I wasn’t sent with you. Neither was Acacia,” she pointed to the other girl, the miserable one, at the aft deck. “We are both in our final year. I’m heading to Lothern to receive my commission with the admiralty. I think only Trian was sent by the headmaster….”

“Ah,” Rufus answered. Maybe that would explain his glowers? If he had been hauled out of the Tower to babysit a junior student’s ‘fieldwork’…. Still Rufus was having his second conversation with Molina, and he didn’t want it to end quickly. He searched for something else to say.

“It must be hard to leave the Tower and join the Navy,” he said, after finally deciding on a topic. “Did you… did you at least get to see your family first?” he added after remembering how long and dangerous the service was in the fleet these days. Many apprentices served for decades or more before being able to return to Ulthuan. And with the war raging in the north, many more did not return at all. There were reports, scattered and unconfirmed, that there were press gangs about now, searching for ‘volunteers’ amongst the peasant villages of Caledor and Eataine.

“I am from Tor Yvresse,” she said simply. Rufus winced, and felt like he had put his foot firmly in his mouth.

Tor Yvresse. The forgotten city. Once the capitol of the kingdom of Yvresse, of the wooded hinterlands, and craggy coasts. The city had been lost in the magical mists of its own making for decades; over half a century. No ships dispatched, no caravan across the mountains, had been able to penetrate those mists and find the thousands of Asur believed to be trapped within. The kingdom itself had fallen into wasteland, with much under the dominion of goblin tribes, except in the far reaches of the north where the Alliance was firmly in control. For the Asur, the kingdom was now terra incognito; even avoiding the forces of the enemy, there still were the mists to contend with. Ships of the Admiralty steered well clear of the haunted coasts, going leagues out to sea, rather than risk their crews in those cursed waters.

Of course Molina couldn’t see her family. If she was from Tor Yvresse, Rufus thought, than everyone she knew – everyone she had grown up with – was…gone.

It made him feel cold inside. And he looked out of the corner of his eye at the girl beside him. She continued to nibble upon the biscuit with no change in expression.

Suddenly she raised her hand and pointed.

“Look,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “There past the mists. The rocky shore there. And those towers. That must be Tel Golgoth.”

Tel Golgoth! The cold inside Rufus turned to ice. Tel Golgoth, the prison of the Guard, was built on a small island south of the Shrine of Asuryan. Once a simple keep and lighthouse, the buildings had been expanded to become a full fortress-prison, of grey granite and white sandstone. He could see its foreboding walls clearly now: the squat overall structure of the place, pierced at all four corners by the tall lithe towers favored by the Asur. Inside he knew was a place of no hope…and mystery. For it was said that the Guard took their prisoners to Tel Golgoth. And afterwards…what became of them. No one knew. Not even in the White Tower. Most were afraid to ask; it was better to not attract the attention of the Guard, unless one wanted to risk arriving in Golgoth themselves.

Even the Sunrunner seemed skittish about the place, and kept far out to sea as it rounded the island; much farther than rocks or tides demanded.

They were turning south now, Rufus realized, as Golgoth moved to their wake. And the boy was not sorry to see it slip into invisibility behind them. Rufus’ knowledge of maps told him that they must be making their final approach towards the Straits, and Lothern, the capital of Ulthuan. He said as much to Molina.

“Yes. With good wind and tide, we’ll be there by morning’s light. And then…I am off to sea,” she said with a sad smile. “And you…?”

“I…ummmm. To the Council Chambers. I guess. I’m not sure…but that is what the headmaster said.”

The girl nodded, her eyes still to the south, and the sea….

***

“Rufus, look!” Molina whispered harshly in his ear. He had buried his nose in his book, as the afternoon sun waned, and the crew had begun to light lamps about the ship deck.

Rufus followed her finger, and gasped. “Is that?!”

“A white whale!” she whispered fiercely. And it was! Rufus could scarce believe his eyes. Some few hundred yards off the port bow they could see the mighty beast cutting its way through the briny mist. It’s ivory hide, and pair of spiraling horns unmistakable. The beast was massive! Twice the length of the Runner; if it was of a mind it could easily swamp the vessel. But fortunately, all the stories he had ever read about the whales agreed on two things: that they were very, very rare, and just as peaceful.

“I don’t believe it,” Molina said with tears in her eyes.

Rufus nodded in agreement. It was gorgeous. Even in the night shrouded mists the creature seemed to carry a luminosity of its own, pale and wan, like the harvest moon. Its back was crusted with barnacles and growths – and Rufus looked carefully at these, for some stories told of little cities built upon the backs of the whales by the water sprites, that would travel the ocean currents, like floating island communities. But try as he might he couldn’t make out any watchtowers, beacons, or clockworks amongst the growth – just rough coral and mollusks.

Still the creature as it breached and waved its ram-like horns in the air was something of majesty. The crew too, seemed to have caught their breath and all were stopping what they were doing in a hush to watch the leviathan make its way towards the Sea of Dusk.

“Sill alive. Still alive,” Molina said quietly with a smile. “I can’t believe I lived to see one!” Rufus nodded, still in shock.

The elves of the Sunrunner watched the creature for a long half hour, until the beast finally slipped from sight. Rufus was even unaware of the growing cold as the night darkened. He was so focused on the beast, and the thought of the girl’s warmth beside him, he didn’t care if ice started to form on deck. As the whale’s tail disappeared into the mist, he turned to Molina and started to say.

Suddenly there was a shriek. And the girl was gone!

Rufus stared blankly at the spot she had been. Then cast about him dumbly. What was going on?

More shrieks pierced the air, and then –

“Nightstalkers!!!” one of the crew cried in terror.

Among the shrieks of crew he could hear it now: the beat of leather wings, and the cry of rapacious hunters in the night sky above. Staring up in terror, all Rufus could make out were dark patches among the black clouds overhead, swimming through them like sharks through surf.

There was another scream and one of the sailors from the rigging disappeared! The others were running about, grabbing at bows fastened upon rail and bulwark. One was passing out spears.

“To arms! To arms!” the young captain was shouting, as he pushed past Rufus and began to slam a piece of heavy timber upon the forecastle rail. It was a Falcon Claw; a bolt thrower just longer than an Asur arm, it was a third the size of one of the mighty Eagle Claws of the fleet. The captain was hurriedly fixing it to a post on the rail near Rufus. “Damn those beasts! Damn them! So close to port and home!” the captain was muttering fearfully as he worked to set the contraption.

“Rufus!!” It was Trian. The young Chracian lord had emerged from below deck, axe in hand. “Get below! Now!!”

Rufus nodded, and staggered to his feet, clutching his book in one hand and his mother’s staff in the other. The captain was cranking at the Falcon, swearing, and sweating.

Like lightning, a gout of flame emerged from the night above! The flame enveloped one mast, turning its canvas into a burning pillar. Elves screamed, and Rufus saw one flaming figure fling itself into the ocean. Rufus tossed himself down upon the deck once more.

“Witch!! Witch!!” the cry went up.


“No!” the captain gasped, still cocking the thrower. “Curse the Caledorian who ever woke the drakes!!” he moaned. And Rufus could see it: looking overhead swimming through the clouds alongside the nightstalkers, like a great white shark among the slender reef fins of its lesser brethren, the scaly black hide of a northern Drake made its way over the vessel. Fire emerged from its twisted jaws, and the port rail turned into an inferno.

“Rufus!! Now!!” Trian called frantically.

The elf staggered to his feet, and turned, and then suddenly felt the deck leave him along with a piercing agony in his shoulders. There was darkness about him, except for below: the Sunrunner, illuminated in the flames of its own death, was growing smaller. Leather wings beat about his head, and Rufus looked in horror at the taloned claws fixed into his shoulders. Blood was surging down his arms and chest.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. The pain and panic was so severe. He could see little, and he felt like death itself, alone in the darkness. But the staff was still in his right hand! In blind terror he lashed about with the thing. Striking upwards at wing and arm as much as he could. His blows were feeble though, and seemed to do no more than annoy the creature.

Until the third blow landed. And then the tip of the staff burst into white light. There was a startled squawk from the monster, and Rufus felt himself plummeting.

The sea, cold as ice embraced him. He gasped and spat, and kicked below him fighting for air. At last a breath reached his lungs, and the darkness was pierced by a distant flickering light.

Small in the distance, Rufus could hear Trian’s voice emerge. “Avert your eyes!!” And then there was a blinding white light that flooded sea and sky; for just a moment, everything was embraced in the flash, like a thunderstrike.

And then, darkness took him…

***

[Aicanor]

And what a cliffhanger it is. You really have to get back to the story as soon as possible, or Rufus will be completely drowned...

Happy Holidays to you as well!

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

The Tor lost, the country in ruins, so sad T_T

[Malossar]

Glad i could awake those problems for you...

~Mal

Edit: I'm still unsure why everyone hates us caledorians! Especially Malossar! There's nothing wrong with a little rivalry between Val and Mal These pompous Eatainians and those grim brooding Yrvessians need to mind their business and leaving the fighting to the Shadowlands and the noble houses of Caledor

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

There has been much cooperation between Yvresse and Caledor. Both of the Yvressi Phoenix Kings were represented on the field of battle by Caledorian Generals. I'm not one to allow others to fight my battles, but if I was to choose a Champion I would steal you away from Imrik in a Heartbeat.