Arren Illiathan: The Coward

"Bastard!"

Alia slammed her fist into the desk, sending paper flying in all directions whilst spilling a bottle of tarlike ink.

"That selfish piece of---"

What was he?

 

A piece of what? Goblin shit? Troll bugger? She had no words left to describe him. He'd been gone for over a month now, but her return voyage had been long delayed as excursions at sea often are. A few weeks ago she had discovered his absence from Andmar, from their family home. However, today she finally took it upon herself to do the job she'd been neglecting. She gathered up the scattered papers from about the floor and reorganized them. He had left everything so neat, with notes on wehere to pick up. Such a strange man...could they possibly be related? Everybody in the family acted on impulse, with pride and passion for their family, but Arren...coward. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her brother now. Unable to face his own sister. Unable to face his family, or what was left, unable to face who he was and who he had become. 

He was hands down the greatest hero she'd ever met in her entire life. When she was blind to the world and under the throws of love, he had killed the man who had intended to murder them and destroy their family. He had avenged Brennet's death in the face of a far superior opponent. He helped save Alk'Hara and Lionne when they were on the brink of destruction. Coward. Coward because he took no name, because he saw not what he had done, because she was sure that when he looked in the mirror he saw nothing. A shadow of a man. 

Arren had come back here to do his family's accounts, to arrange business and allow his parents peace while affording  Alia the opportunity to pursue her dreams of captaining the Couatl. Were it not for her, their parent's would have scarcely had any idea the dangers their son had faced to return home; to ensure that there was a home to return to. Now of course, he had fled it once again.  

She should have known better than to think he would be happy here. Perhaps he just needed time to reflect on what his life had become, but Alia had the feeling that he had avoided any thinking by burying his head in the ledgers of the family business. What an intolerably stubborn man. He was perhaps the most stubborn Illiathan since their line had begun. Perhaps that was what made him a great man. 

Whatever called him, it had to be greater than this. Greater than what she undertook when she accepted the title as captain of the Couatl. Time had numbed, at first, the hole in her heart, made when Arren had killed Meldin. She felt as though her brother were a murderer. A lie. The winter of Dornheim had changed her. That dagger wound in her chest had widened and deepened, and filled with something else. Wisdom perhaps. Perhaps love. Perhaps a void where romance had once dwelled. 

She knew one thing. When Arren returned, the world would have changed. She only hoped that if he needed her, she would have the strength to help him like he'd helped her, to stab his heart in order to save his life. For what is a hero without a shadow, what is a man without pride in his own name.

Illiathan.

Dawn of Discovery: Chapter 2 Intro - Leap of Faith

There are, in fact, despite some confusion, two kinds of darkness.

One is simple. The common association is the absence of light. Simple shadows, everywhere. Darkness as the deepest and most complete form of color. This term can be used in other ways, for example: to describe the soul of a wicked person. Or to represent a period of unconsciousness. Most scholars and professors of language will agree that darkness is a playful word, and in many ways poetic. But there is another kind of darkness, less objective.

Nothingness is the closest comparison. An absences of any visual or kinetic stimulants, as well as the absence of knowing what those things are, and what it is like to experience them. There are no emotions, matter, or memory. There is simply the endless probability of absolute inexperiencable emptiness. To step foot into this kind place (despite not being any place at all, in fact a total lack of borders and movement are part of the package), is forever. There is no coming back, since there is no time, it will never end.

There are only a few ways to "experience" this lack of experiences.

One is to be born. The moment a spirit and body become one, there is darkness.

One is to die. When your spirit leaves your body, there is darkness.

The last is to move your spirit from one body to another. To force it to travel into darkness.

Traveling between planes of existence is true darkness. Your body does not come with you. Some don't realize that part of dimensional travel. You see, you already exist in the plane you are traveling to. To have two identical souls on one plane of existence would shatter the foundation of that world. So souls travel, and your extra planar body is there waiting for you. No one is sure what happens to your original planar body while you leave, but it is "gone." Perhaps in a darkness of its own.

Where'd my beard go?

As he stepped into the mirror Korick lost all sense of himself. He felt as if he was being pulled through a thick pudding. As the thick liquid of the mirror enveloped him his body gave way to his consciousnesses.Korick felt a                strange sense of strength being stripped of his earthly flesh. To be pure consciousnesses was a heady feeling, like being one big beard. The realm he traveled through was impossible to comprehend. The most he could see was a color, witch was strange having no eyes to see with. It was so intense that he couldn't focus on it simply let it flood through him. If he had to put a name to it he would have called it blurple... no greange, blaed? It was impossible to categorize. Just as he was coming to fully utilize his new "form" he came hurtling back to his body. He attempted to stand and instead a torrent of vomit came bursting from his very core. This is why dwarves didn't become mages.

On the back of a Mountain God

It was good to be out again, the chill mountain air flowing through his beard. A few weeks of this and he should be back at full strength again. Korrick glanced over at Arren pore boy looked as bad as he did and he probably hadn't done time in prison. Why a fine warrior like Arren would punish himself so was beyond him. Perhaps he and Arren would have to speak when they were next in town, some mead would do the bow good anyway. Idwel and Geldezar are just as he remembered them, in fact Geldezar seemed stronger. Not in body but in spirit, their was fire in his soul.

Dornhiem was a harsh land, almost as harsh as Remitex. The wind cut deep and the snow was hard as granite. He was glad to be hear again, the time they spent hear on the caravan was far to short. This land made a strong people and stronger mead! The rest of the Human lands could learn from these fine people. What other land could host creature as terrifying as the face worm or as pure as this mountain ape. No it was not an ape, this shaggy behemoth had a touch of the divine to him. Korrick could tell by them way Geldezar snuggled in its fur, like a babe with it's mum.

Korrick shook himself from his thoughts. Soon they would be entering the bastion of an ancient warrior order. Now was not the time for such day dreaming, their was bound to be killing to do and the proper mindset was necessary to keep ones self alive.

Geldazar: Cold and loving it

This was a strange place to Geldazar. The windswept peaks and and glacial crevasses of Dornheim were more unforgiving and deadly than any mountain lands the he had seen before. The needling climate threatened to bleed all life of its warmth. Compared with the enduring Alk'Haran desert of extremes and the lush verdant gallery of life that was the Free Isles, these mountains were the dreams of dead warlords, desolate and soulless. Geldazar could feel his spirits dropping as each passing minute of warmth was leached from his aching bones.

Yet, something still remained. Geldazar's heart continued to beat with the spark of some distant storm, rumbling in lands unknown. Geldeneir's mystery still riddled this land, filling each lurching snowbound step with wonder. Looking up from sore crusted bandages frozen to his face, Geldazar could see his companions trudging up the path ahead of him. Billowing steam clouds sprayed through a frozen waterfall beard glued to Korrick's face, his thick Dwarven leg trunks pumping through the heavy snow. Arren's armor creaked with each heavy breath taken through his chiseled nose, upon which his frost covered glasses perched stoicly, though rendered useless. And the enigmatic Idwel followed in the cleared trail, his mutable form now graced with the wizened features of old age. His strange powers did not die with the cold here, nor did the melancholy bravery of Arren, nor the indomitable guile of Korrick.

This gave Geldazar hope. Geldenier would not let him fall here. With her hope he would breath and continue on, blood unconquered from all that it faced, life pulsing beneath his skin. He would help his friends until the day the world was bathed in fire and all returned to nothing. Nothing would stop them, not drow nor dragons nor Dornish piles of frozen rock and snow.

Je suis la jeune fille

What is this huge beast. It reeked of nature's Od, and displayed that power so steadily and naturally around it as though the thing were a manifestation of nature itself. Idwel's mind was drawn back to the Free Isles, when they had chanced upon what could have been nothing less than a god of this world. That encounter had been much less personal and a great deal more distant though. Perhaps they were related in a way, or maybe it was nothing more than a shallow comparison of their bestial appearance and passive demeanor.

On a more immediate note, why did this thing decide to help us. Did it have a purpose? Or is this just some random benevolent urge it couldn't suppress? And what's in this place? And why do I have a horrible feeling gnawing at the back of mind? And why am I asking myself so many questions?

Idwel stopped to take a breath and hobble his wildly running mind. He remembered that the best way to answer his questions was usually through action...

At The Heart of it All

 Somewhere at the heart of it all there has been a throne. It was built right after the old man died. Hah. Old man. No one else would dare refer to him as such. Then again, none would call him a backstabbing power monger either. No one would wish to see him bled dry for his betrayal. Everyone loved him.

Everything that was once golden here has been caked in decay. All the treasures, lush lands, and strength of spirit was killed. Stolen from him. He was getting quite old now, and it seemed revenge was all that was left in his heart. It could well be the one spark still keeping him alive. Funny how a long burning flame seemed to sum it all up.

His once golden gauntlet, now dark and tarnished, scraped against the arm of his high backed throne. His chamber was near empty, save for a few armed warriors. Their long beards hung to the floor. Long had their vigil been in guarding their master. There near lifeless formed turned in shock to see their King moving in his seat of power. How long had it been? Six hundred? Seven hundred years since last he spoke?

The sounds of his armor creaking reverberated through the high vaulted hall. Tattered rotting banners seemed to flap in an impossible breeze. The lines of near dead templars fell to their knees. They could hear the mountain come to life. Soon it would again shoot forth geysers of the earths blood. Red hot liquid fire would be seen in the sky for hundreds of miles in all directions. All would know the king was awake, and those who still feared him would come to his service. They would all come to his service.

For six hundred and forty years a plan had been forming. Powers had been gathered. This was his last chance at revenge. Ancient and unyielding, he rose to his feet, and spoke in the tongue of ancient men, fifteen words that would change history forever.

“If not can we have all that once ours was, take shall we all that isn't.”

Praises to Chimaus!

 All hail Chimaus the Eldest !

All glory to the Dragon King!

Arren Illiathan: I'm Sorry

My Dearest Alia,

Dornheim is colder than I had remembered, enough to chill my marrow were it not for the furs given to me by her people. As I walk the tundra and her vast ice fields, my feet tingle. You were not long from these cold shores before I took to them, by boots treading the soil of the same land which you graced not long before.

I am sorry. I'm sorry to have left you again, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be the brother you needed at the time you needed him. I wonder if he is dead. Who have I become? I have left on a quest to find a lost city, but for me, the quest is to find myself. I thought that I was righteous, and believed I was truly a hero, but what is a hero? I may have helped save the Ivors and Alk'Harans but in doing so, I feel I have lost those whom I love. Can you forgive me? I do not ask forgiveness for killing the man with whom you shared your heart. I cannot, to do so I should have lost myself, and forsaken your honor and the honor of our family. Can you forgive me for leaving when I should have stayed? Back when I fled the first time and now, for a second time. Can you forgive me for leaving the family in your hands, the work of our legacy while I seek myself? While I grasp for that intangible honor? What is honor if it has no legacy after I am dead, after our family line ends? I feel tied to it, and dearly wish to free myself from it. I only wish that there was some way to know that what I do is right.

I don't ask you to write back. I understand that silence is what I deserve, besides, I'm not sure whether post reaches where I shall go. However, please, please, convey my love to our family, at least what remains. You are all that I have. You are my honor and yours is the face I see when I lose my way. I love you with all of my heart,

Arren Illiathan, Brother

Arren blew into his hands, numb with cold. He could barely tell that he grasped the quill as he began replacing the contents of his letter box. He placed the quill back in the dark wood box with it's inks and sands, and then clumsily folded the paper with his blue tipped fingers. You can't write with gloves on. Not legibly at least, Arren lit the sealing wax from the box with one of his tinder twigs, they were precious and necessary to perform the ritual of transpondence, the one thing that kept him sane at times. Arren watched the flame spring to life on the small stick and let the fire burn the wax, dripping blue on the folded parchment. He let the fire burn until it scorched his fingertips, grateful for any warmth, in spite of the blisters it might cause. Quickly, before the wax hardened in the unearthly cold, he pressed his signet ring, the seal of the Illiathan family into the wax. A blue winged serpent wrapped about a bastard sword hissed at him, sealing the letter against all those who would wrongfully open it.

"Come on Arren, we've rested long enough." Korrick said, waking him from his reverie. It was usually Arren who reminded the others to be on their way. He was the one who pressed foreword. Now he lingered. He wondered if the others noticed how deeply he questioned himself.

"One moment," Arren tucked the box into his backpack and grasped the letter. There was no post out here in this godless steppe, looking about, all he could see was snow and rock for miles, with no sign of civilization. Dornheim felt like the end of the world. He tucked the parchment into his shirt, beneath his armor, which still didn't fit the way it should, and kept it warm with the beating of his heart.

Some day all this searching would end. Some day, the name Illiathan would taste sweet on his tongue. But for now, all was ash. Ash as white as snow as the world kept burning down.

Communing

It was time to being again, the process always possessing the subtle changes that recurring dreams seem to have, clinging to its edges like wispy strands of a tattered intangible cloak. There is a robed figure, standing alone in the clearing of a dreamscape forest, trees barren and flickering like candles. Every sound is crisp as an icy breath. The long black fingers of trees creaking and scratching against each other, dry grass crumpling under foot, soft earth gently compressing with each step. As I approach the figure, he is outlined by a sharp white light, and my surroundings become blurry and distant. What little color was present before fades until there is nothing left but the deepest shadow or the brightest white light. I grab the figures shoulder and it turns to me.
A crow's face. Eyes unblinking as it stares back. It opens its beak, and a pure white fog begins to roll out of its mouth. It floats downward and curls along the ground and around my feet. Nine wings of black smoke unfold from the figure's back, stretching out to their fullest span. All around me, shapes begin to rise out of the fog. Animals, humans, monsters, nothing clearly defined, only vaguely recognizable. They all stand alert, featureless faces turned to me.
My mind empties itself of all thought, it feels like dying. Once I am empty, the figures all begin to walk towards me, and I can remember no more. Idwel's eyes flicked open, his crow, sitting in front of him, raised its head up to him and shook its feathers. They sat there in silence for another moment, before a thought shared itself between them.

Time to go.

Geldazar

The Oilstone mountains were home for a short time. Six months had past since Geldazar bid farewell to his friends and went up into their rarefied heights. Unoccupied caves were hard to come by in the area, but after searching for days he found a cold damp hole in the bottom of a crumbling cliff. More of an overhang than a cave, it suited his purposes. Alone, inside, he waited.


A healed world without wounds, iron rusts while hearts grow, golden red the sun blinks no eyes, darkness or light have no end here

Violent gifts from the Gods are given to them, when they tremble at the foot of the soft white calf, beckon forth the laughter when shown, it bleeds as they do and dies just the same

Do not deny them this, they gave it as a gift and asked nothing, they gave you salt they gave you sugar, fickle whims try to guide you to drink, but only the lion will drink such blood here.

Foreign shores will bear you now, stand up and see the land of the Gods, breathe the air and your heart moves the ground below, this is where you will make them notice, in this here, the divine mirror

Arren Illiathan:

Meldin crept through the dark cramped corridors of the Couatl. The ship was only a few days outside Andmar and Arren, his mark was still alive. He wasn't sure why he'd let the man live for so long, perhaps he had grown feelings for the man's sister, Alia. But the game had run it's course, Meldin's employers were near at hand and the warm promise of gold filled his stomach with a giddy glow. He fingered the dagger hidden in his sleeve, he'd just sharpened it, and the poison coating the blade made his skin tingle just thinking about it. Arren would die this night.

He opened the door to the deck. Meldin had made sure to grease the hinges with lamp oil earlier in the evening while giving the crew a hand. After the death of Nerro, the rest of the crew had taken a liking to him, he caroused with the crew and being a particularly smart man, had picked up the trade of a sailor quite easily. Unfortunately, Arren seemed to have inherited the old captain's prejudices, but it didn't matter, for Meldin had done what he did best: won his way into the hearts of those around them, so that when the knife finally fell, he would be the last suspect.

The deck was completely empty, silent as the bottom of the sea, but below was filled with the sounds of snoring men and rum bottles clanking together with the gentle sway of the ship. Meldin looked up toward the aft of the ship and found what he expected: there was Arren, staring forward steering the ship. He looked like a statue, proudly steering the helm toward adventure, the great war hero preparing for his homecoming.

He resented the man. How could he have done what they said he did? Not what "they" said he did, but the people who were there: who saw him? Sure, he looked the part, strong physique and proud face with a clean manly moustache, but once he opened his mouth: soft spoken, bookish, sensitive and, well, boring...not to mention the spectacles. Even the men on the Couatl avoided him, said that he was the last boy in a litter of three, and might as well have been born a woman. But time seemed to have changed him. In truth Meldin feared the man; for often, such contradictions are dangerous. Meldin needed only to look at him self for affirmation: blood of the angels flowed in his veins, but his heart had rotted out.

"Good eve Meldin, slinking in the shadows?" No, he wasn't slinking, if he was, the blind bat never would have seen him.

"Ha! No friend Arren, couldn't sleep, too many sailors singing in their dreams."

"My sister's the worst of the lot, eh? I always knew she'd fit in with sailors." Arren smiled, attempting to hide his dislike. For all his prejudice the man seemed to try awfully hard at kindness. "Come up here then, I've mixed a drink the Alk'Harans call Kafeh, it'll make sure you see the sun rise." arren raised a spouted pot full of a dark liquid.

"Does it go well with rum?" Meldin produced a bottle from under his arm. He approached his prey and unstopped the bottle taking a long swig. This was how he preferred to work. Some people used stealth, he used deception, and alcohol, alcohol made it fun.

"I'll stick with the Kafeh." that's why he had to die. Men who don't drink can't be trusted. "So, you're from Andisine? What's your family name again, it seems to have eluded me."

"Leltrex, maybe you've heard of us? We own substantial land around Andisine." It was an easy lie, Danmerian nobility was so obscure after the mages took control.

"Funny, I would have thought medicine. I heard you took a particular interest in the health of the captain." Arren gave him a peculiar gaze.

"No, something I learned from my family's nurse, she taught me tenderness. A remarkable woman." What was he on about?

"I never thanked you for looking after Nerro, he was like a father to me. I was sad that I couldn't see him one last time. But he did write before he died."

"What?" he was right, this man wasn't to be trusted.

"Apparently he regained his wits somewhat before he fell into Gharlamaal's hands. The man wrote only a short letter, but it said enough." What was he getting at? What did the captain say?

"Oh? Say, I'll take some Kafeh, I don't think I'll sleep much tonight." He'd heard enough.

Arren was quick to oblige. and reached out with the pot, handing Meldin a tin mug. His hands were trembling, he reached for the cup and fumbled it, falling to the deck, it began to roll toward the edge of the ship.

"Shit!" Arren sprang for the tin cup, and Meldin sprang after, drawing the dagger from his sleeve. As Arren grasped the cup, Meldin plunged the blade down between his shoulder blades, but by some strange twist of luck the clumsy man was thrown off his feet by a jeer of the ship. Meldin stumbled too, but stayed afoot, unfortunately he was unable to hide the poisoned blade in time. Arren's gaze went up to him, and a look of complete realization crossed his face.

"I knew Vex would send his dogs." Arren growled. They sprang immediately for each other and like the meeting of two waves crashed, flesh against flesh. Meldin cut with his dagger and felt the pleasing sensation of success as it glided across flesh.

Arren's face went pale, the poison was quick to act. But his expression turned to a grimace as he drew the blade at his side. A gold curved dagger of Alk'Haran make. Suddenly his visage was turned to that of a wild beast, the poison didn't seem to matter, he lashed out with the furiosity of a raging hippopotamus and drove Meldin to the ground with enormous strength. Who was this man? He felt the dagger enter his own body and tear out, he felt his very life being sucked out with the removal of the blade. Arren stood over him, covered in blood, tiny cuts rending his flesh. This man was a monster worse than he. Then, suddenly as he had drawn the bejeweled dagger, he dropped it, and collapsed.

Meldin lay there bleeding out under the stars. He should have kept up the act. He should have married Alia and lived happily ever after. Perhaps he was in love after all? He'd never know. For the first time in his life, Meldin died.

_______________________________________________________

Arren set the letter down. He'd shown it to no one and had been holding it in the breast pocket of his jacket for nearly two weeks. Alia would be back soon, from her voyage to Dornheim. He'd barely talked to her since Meldin attacked him. She knew the truth of events, but the look in her eye when she had left showed that she blamed him.

After Alia had left, Arren was soon well enough to walk and took up his former place in the family. His parents were proud. He had scarce realized how much he missed them but there was something that lingered in his heart. At first he was happy to be a merchant's son again. Doing the books for the family, sorting out business and new cargo for the Couatl was a happier life than that of a warrior but he felt empty. When merchants came in from the docks he heard news of Alk'Hara and Lionne, he heard of strange doings and new heroes rising while he was here securing his familie's fortune. He though again of the look in his sister's eyes before she had left and knew what he had to do. He took a deep drink from the bottle of wine in the messy office where he had locked himself from the world and got out pen and paper.

The words spun as he wrote them, this being the last of a particularly potent vintage. He quickly finished the letter, got up and gathered his things. There were only a few items he needed and those were close at hand. Alia couldn't hate him any more than she did already, and the family would be better off in her hands. Arren had to flee.

Sister,

I must leave, my heart has left and I must find it, for without it I cannot bare your scorn. You know better than I what to do.

Love, Arren

Moss Beard

Korick Leaned back on his cot and began to to think of his time since he returned to Remitex. It had felt good to return, the familiar smells and sounds. The open skies of the Human lands had begun to feel oppressive, it was good to be home. He had lived off his savings long enough to case a couple of houses that would bank roll his later operations. From there he found a run down little shack that once held a smithy for his base of operations. He then began setting in place the network of connections needed to "acquire" an fence specialty goods. It had taken some time and a considerable amount of coin, but in a matter of weeks he was up an running. He had set in place the name of Moss Beard for his operations. That required a Little cosmetic change but such was the price of his profession.

After a couple of months he had group of thieves working under him, an impressive clientele and was living the high life. It was quite the set up he had, he used his lads for the more mundane Jobs an drops. While he himself took on the high end jobs, normally one thing a noble wanted from another or the planting incriminating evidence. All the while spending the rest of his time drinking and feasting, an then there were the lady's. That's where things went wrong.

Her name was Thay'eina. He had met her at one of his party's. She had long golden hair, deep emerald eyes and finely trimmed mutton chops. She was beautiful! He had sauntered up to her an introduced himself. Naturally she was flattered to meet the Mighty Moss Beard. They started off by a casual drinking contest, she could hold her liqur. It wasn't easy but he was able to beat her. his prize was a kiss. They shared tales of their lives and wondered the streets for hours. Naturaly I left some key details out. When he awoke it was in a soft bed with her worm body next t his. She leaned in and whispered in his ear "My husband will be home soon". That woke him like a thunder bolt. "Husband?!?" He started looking for his clothes. "Who exactly is he?" he said putting on his pants and boots. "Kroknar Doomgate" she said it so casually.

"Pisst Mossy got a letter for ya." Korik shook himself from his revere. "A letter you say." He waled over to Dimdle's smiling face and snatched it out of his hands. Hmm, a smile began to spread across Korik's face. It seems it was time for him to leave for another adventure. First problem first how to get out of this cell.

Introduction: Macinar Isles- Dawn of Discovery